Rest in peace

I've attended more than my fair share of funeral home visitations and services lately. We Americans have sanitized the ritual to the point where you'd never know that grief was the common denominator of the participants. Of course, I'd be appalled if I ever walked into a funeral home and was greeted by wails and hair pulling; but I'm just as appalled by the calm, teary smiles, hugs, handshakes, and barely audible condolences.

The only funeral I ever attended that seemed real was when one of my African-American students died from leukemia at the age of 18. Reggie had been sick for months, doing that yo-yo recovery thing so many cancer patients experience. His family was large with many siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. A gifted athlete and class clown, Reggie was popular with the kids and teachers at school. That added another element of drama. Finally, he was taken to Children's Hospital for the last time. All of us, relatives, teachers, friends, waited for the end. Late one afternoon Reggie's cousin, Michael, burst into the library and yelled, "Reggie's gone!" He was out the door and down the hall before I could catch him, a dark, long limbed blur in an orange jersey, crying uncontrollably. Michael's despair broke my heart as much as losing Reggie.

Several faculty members, including the principal, attended the funeral. It was standing room only in the little Baptist church. Brothers, sisters, cousins, and in-laws sat in the choir section facing the congregation. There was no turning away from all that emotion.

The emotional scale ran the gamut from screams and fainting by Reggie's mother to songs and jubilation for his departure to the heavenly shores of salvation. We were up, then down, an emotional roller coaster. It was noisy and exhausting but, oddly satisfying. I left the church tired and sad and happy. That funeral allowed me to celebrate a happy kid and be grateful for the time I knew him but mourn openly that he died prematurely.

Monitor and Adjust

I really hate it when my plans for the day get derailed. On Wednesday and Friday mornings I drive golf carts at Garvan Woodland Gardens from 9:00 am to 1:30 pm, period. It's what I do, what I plan for; but not today, not this Wednesday. Today I had to make a flying run to Little Rock to Lenscrafters.

I was heading out to the Garden but before I did, I wanted to clean my glasses. I set my purse on the table and took off my glasses. While I was wiping the lens with the cleaning cloth, the left ear piece broke loose from the frames. There I stood, ear piece in one hand, the lenses in the other. Shit! Without the glasses I couldn't even see how bad it was. Was it unscrewed or was it broken off?

I perched the glasses on my nose with the one good ear piece and headed for Wal-Mart, our modern day fix-all place. The vision center wasn't open yet. Great! I had a deadline here. I knocked on the window and the ladies came out to see what I needed. They told me what I didn't want to hear. The piece was broken off from the frames and it wasn't fixable. Shit!

Okay, I'd just have to get new frames. I head down Central, my glasses hanging on by one ear. The vision center by Kroger isn't open. Okay, I'll go a little farther, down to the mall. Nothing opens in the mall until 10:00 am! What's wrong with everybody? I've done a half day's work by 10:00 in the morning! It doesn't matter anyway. The two girls lounging in the vision center, waiting for the magic moment to open, tell me that they send everything out. It would be 7 to 10 days before I'd get my glasses back. That is unacceptable.

What to do? First, I call Garvan Gardens and tell them I'll be a no show today. I can't do much of anything without my glasses. Then, I remember Lenscrafters. I have a faint recollection about a warranty and figure it's worth a call. Eureka! Not only are my glasses covered by a warranty, my frames are still in stock. All I have to do is go to Little Rock and they'll fix me up.

An hour later I'm striding through Park Plaza Mall, wearing an old pair of prescription sunglasses I found in my glove compartment, looking for Lenscrafters. The young man took one look and knew I was the lady with the broken Anne Klein frames. He's already pulled the replacement frames out and had them ready. I handed over my broken glasses and in 10 minutes or less he handed me a brand new pair. Wow! A quick swipe of my debit card and I'm back in business. I'm already here, the day is shot, might as well shop. Barnes & Noble - Here I come!

Barbie's Battalion of Chemo Fairies

I endured chemo from January 2000 to May 2002. It was a miserable period for me, my family, and my friends. Debbie worked 24/7 to keep me infection free and as healthy as possible. The outpatient thing didn't work for me. Instead, I went to the med center for a week at a time for around the clock IV drips. The rotation was three weeks out, one week in. The boredom of this ritual was more debilitating than the toxins. I had lots of company and tried to keep myself occupied but there's only so much you can do hooked to an IV pole and feeling like road kill.

My family, professional boredom busters, brought me books, games, puzzles, anything to help keep my spirits up. We don't go in for depression so I didn't recognize the signs when it started. I was crying more than usual and I complained to the doctor that maybe my hormones should be checked. She looked at me like I was crazy. Her response? "Of course you're crying! You're depressed. Who wouldn't be?" That's when she prescribed my happy pill and my mood elevated; better living through chemistry.

Better than the Zoloft, Buddy organized Barbie's Battalion of Chemo Fairies. Once again, his pictures flew to my rescue. He developed a series of hilarious, physically imposing fairies who had specific assignments designed to keep me healthy and entertained. His mind went into overdrive as he brought Chemoflage, Chemo No-No, Sue Moe Fokes, Kemo Kazzi, and Chemo Miranda to life. He drew 100 of them; all in color and all with a personal description of her duties in the battalion!

Behind my back, Buddy had Mom and Debbie give him a list of 100 people he could use as sponsors for the fairies. Close friends, work colleagues, special students, and even pets found their names on the fairy cards.

The first ones came in the mail, anonymously, like I wouldn't recognize that style. When that became unwieldy and the fairies took on a life of their own, helpful family members dropped them off in the mailbox. It became the highlight of my days to find a fairy in the mailbox.

The next logical step was to find a place to display them. Naturally, Buddy had that covered too. Debbie and I had a room in the house designated to keeping me healthy. I had a CVL (central venous line) that provided a straight shot into my veins for any medicines or toxic substances. The CVL sight is a breeding ground for infection and infection will kill a chemo patient before cancer will, so it's imperative that this sight be maintained in as sterile environment as possible. Buddy's idea was to station the battalion in this room where so much of the actual fighting took place. With push pins and a yard stick he set to work lining the fairy cards across the wall I faced while Debbie maintained my CVL. This maintenance was daily and a constant concern so I faced the fairies often.

The fairies marched from the mailbox to their battle stations in my war room. Buddy was a man on a mission. Word got out and people dropped in to see the fairies and to see if they'd made the sponsor list. Every week the battalion grew in size and strength; they became part of the family, the landscape of our home. They were in truth my warriors, a tangible expression of the love and support that surrounded me and kept me moving forward. They made me laugh and reminded me of hundreds of reasons I couldn't give up.

In May 2002 it was determined that all the chemo I'd taken hadn't done a thing to eradicate the cancer in my jaw. I would have the tumor surgically removed the first week in June. For a long time the fairies continued to guard me from the wall in our war room. We'd lost that battle but I was optimistic about the next one.

Five years later my fairies are always with me. I have the originals stored in a box and they live under my bed. I have the book that Buddy put together for me so they are portable and accessible when I need a lift or reminder of how far I've come. He picked out 20 fairies and had them made into a huge poster that hangs on my bedroom wall. The fairies aren't pictures. They are an outward and visible sign of the love and connection I share with my brother.

My Buddy, my pal

If you haven't checked out my brother, Gary's, website, you should. It's http://www.simmonsart.com/. All my life I've watched him draw. It was just what he did, all the time and anywhere. He drew on church bulletins, napkins, scraps of paper, any surface that would hold an image. When he was a teenager I wanted a clown painted on my bedroom wall and Mom let him do it. My friend Roger saw my clown and wanted Dennis the Menace on his wall. His Mom let Buddy, my nickname for Gary, do that for him. When it was time to repaint our bedrooms our Moms taped around the clown and Dennis and didn't paint over them. Buddy painted a naked mermaid mural over the toilet in the bathroom when the rest of the family was gone one weekend. Imagine Jessica Rabbit with a shiny green mermaid tail and naked boobs under the sea with seahorses and tropical fish and bubbles. This will be a theme that repeats itself as he evolves from fledgling artist to the real deal. We left Cahokia in 1961 and I've often wondered how much primer it took for the next residents to cover our family art.

Sometime in the 1950s Dad bought a Jeep-like vehicle similar to our modern SUVs. Buddy was a teenager and he dubbed it the Kidney Buster because it rode rough. By then I guess he'd developed a passion for roadrunners because he painted them all over it. We all loved the roadrunner cartoons and thought riding around in the Kidney Buster was a blast. He even carried the roadrunner theme over to our club house on the lake in southern Illinois. I think there was at least one roadrunner on every pane of glass in the building, inside and out.

So many of my childhood memories are linked to Buddy's drawing. He had a small statue of the Venus de Milo that he used for a model for years. He drew pieces of her over and over, rarely drawing the entire figure. He drew her hands, her eyes, her feet, her breast, the drape, all the while explaining to me who she was, why she was important, where she came from. In 1983 I went to Paris and I visited the Louvre. I walked into the room where the actual Venus de Milo stood and had a melt down. I cried and cried and scared the Japanese tourists who were trying to take her picture. She was so beautiful and I felt so connected to her because Buddy and I had studied her, bit by bit, when I was a little kid.

I'm amazed and delighted on a regular basis by what new and wonderful works are created by his pen or brush, or in many instances, both at once. His style is unique and easily recognizable. He has a fan base and is a local celebrity, respected in the art world. I tease him sometimes about how far he's come from roadrunners and clowns, and how much his mermaid renderings have improved. But the truth is, I am so proud of him. If given the chance to pick a big brother from all the brothers on the planet I'd pick him.

Thinking of you

I'm not a naturally thoughtful or nurturing person. I don't mean I'm thoughtless. I just mean I'm not one of those women who send cards or take casseroles to friends in distress. I might buy the cards of solace or encouragement, I might even buy the ingredients for the casserole, but I lack follow through. I have tried on countless occasions to correct this behavior but improvement is always short lived. I just don't have it.

Over the years I have received countless numbers of these thoughtful gestures. I receive cards on a regular basis from Paige, who just wants me to know I'm in her thoughts. I get phone calls from Caroline and Dottie to say they are thinking about me. My Mom sends notes to people to offer consolation or praise. Barbara Moore shows up with food at the drop of a hat. How are they different from me?

I've concluded that I'm emotionally wired more like a man than a woman. It's not that I don't think about other people, I do. I'm just not good at expressing it. I'm a little self-conscious about approaching people in distress. I say I don't want to intrude but that's lame. I'm just not good at it. I have other talents, I'm not hopeless, but I'll never be the lady on the step with the meat tray or the chicken noodle casserole for the post funeral luncheon. That's just not who I am.

C-O-K-E

I'm a self-confessed word nerd. The way letters join to make words that are then connected into sentences that convey thought is a source of fascination for me. I don't really remember learning to read but I vividly remember the day that the veil was lifted.

I was maybe 3 or 4 years old. I have a brother and sister respectively 10 and 9 years older than I am. It was the early 1950s, when Coke was a beverage, not an accessory. The 6.5 ounce bottles cost 5 or 10 cents apiece. A Coke was a treat, like a candy bar or cookies so my brother and sister were required to check with Mom before helping themselves. Back in the dinosaur days, when moms monitored what their children drank and ate, this was a common practice. Being a little kid I didn't drink much Coke. It was loaded with sugar and caffeine and not recommended for children. To keep me from setting up a howl my brother and sister spelled out their request. "Mom? Can we have a C-O-K-E?" If the answer was yes they went to the refrigerator and took out one of the heavy green bottles. Unaware, they were practicing the successful Sesame Street philosophy of teaching: repetition + association = comprehension.

With that word I was launched. My brother, a born teacher, understood the significance of the event and ran with it. There was no holding us back. Every object had a set of corresponding letters and I performed like a trained seal. I give him credit for encouraging me to learn, learn, learn. When I started school I was ahead in the word department. Buddy, my brother, had already taught me the alphabet and how certain combinations of letters made different sounds. I was ready to read and impatiently sailed through the Dick, Jane, Sally, and Spot series.

Fortunately, my family puts a high value on literacy. We were expected to read, for instruction and for pleasure. My parents modeled the behavior by reading to relax before going to sleep at night. Like good children we copied the behavior. I remember begging for 5 more minutes with the light on to finish a page or a chapter. It's such a habit that I feel funny if I go to sleep without reading at least a couple of pages. I don't go anywhere without a book. Words are my connection with the universe.

Head over heels

My clumsiness is legendary. I've tried to blame it on chemo but that only works with people I've met since 2000. Everyone else knows better. I walk into walls, trip over curbs and fall up steps. It's not that I'm uncoordinated, at least not in the regular sense. It's because my feet and my head get out of sync. I'm the poster child for "can't walk and chew gum at the same time." I should be accompanied by a laugh track.

For example, one Sunday afternoon I fell into the BFI garbage bin. Debbie and I were working in the yard and I went to get the garbage can. Like all commercial garbage containers, it had wheels and a hinged lid. The lid hung open on the handle side. I tipped the can back to push it into the yard but didn't notice that the lid was dangling right in front of my feet. Talking a blue streak and rolling the can, I marched right up the lid. When the weight distribution was just right the can tipped and I fell in, head first. I never saw it coming but Debbie did. I cussed and thrashed until I got the can to fall on its side. Scrambling out, I looked for Debbie. I heard her before I saw her. With the neck of her t-shirt over her mouth she was trying not to laugh but failing miserably. If I had been hurt she couldn't have helped me. Then I cracked up. I've always been my own best audience and that was a fall worthy of Carol Burnett, one for the archives.

I take solace in the fact that BFI warns its customers not to roll their cans with the lids open. It's printed on the side if I had only stopped to read it.

It was just my imagination

The lake is hypnotic. I've been here since 2005 and I can't stop looking at it. I wait for the new to wear off, but it doesn't. I go to the kitchen, intent on some task, and realize I'm standing at the door, staring outside. I sit down to watch television but wind up with my back to it, gazing out the window. I get up early so I can watch the sun rise and don't go to bed until I find the moon, shining off the water. Seasons and the weather conditions don't matter. Each one only adds to the magic. From minute to minute, the surface changes. Fog creates a surreal atmosphere. Viking ships with huge, square sails come into sight as the fog lifts. Dragons, with wings spread and necks stretched, soar over the water and break out of the fog. Fishing boats battle the wind and rain as they fight to stay upright, their sails soaked and battered. Young couples in love, dressed in turn of the 20th century costumes, row across the glassy surface to an island where they spread a plaid blanket, unload their split oak picnic baskets, and flirt outrageously but never step out of bounds. I'm 17 and fearless, skiing behind a chartreuse metal flake speed boat with a Chevy engine, daring the driver to go faster as I jump the wake and show off for my friends. I don't want to miss anything so I watch.

Tiptoe Through the Tulips

I wish I'd paid more attention to my science classes in school. If I had, I wouldn't have let both of the obese guests sit on the backseat together. Somehow, one of them would have had to squeeze in up front with me. But we all know about hind sight.

It's tulip time at the Garden and we had a steady stream of visitors Saturday morning in spite of the sporadic rain showers. The rain had knocked off many of the tulip blossoms and parts of the path were muddy. Volunteer cart drivers were instructed to run an alternate path to avoid the long brick hill that is slippery when it's wet. I ride my brakes down this hill on a dry, sunny day so I was glad to skip it. There are only two other inclines and I've never had trouble going up either, even when the ground is damp, until Saturday.

Physics being what it is you can imagine what happened when I started up the hill with all the weight in the back of the cart. Granted, my passengers were very large but I had driven this route dozens of times with heavy guests with no problems. This time proved to be the exception. As I started up the hill both front wheels raised off the ground and we began to slip sideways and backwards. I put both feet on the brake. I felt the cart not only slide, but start to tip. Maybe a little louder than necessary I declared, "We've got a big problem!" This was a gross understatement given the circumstances. In the nick of time, the couple scrambled off the cart. The wheels fell back to the ground and the cart stopped sliding. Embarrassed, we took a few seconds to consider the gravity of our situation, pun intended. We assured one another that all were safe and I drove several yards up the hill while the riders walked. It was hard for them. If they'd been able to walk they wouldn't have been riding. When they reached me they climbed back onto the backseat and we continued our ride. I knew the rest of the path was level so I didn't see any reason to redistribute the weight at that point.

Finally, we looped back around to the visitor center. We politely bid one another good-bye. They went one way and I went another. None of us commented on our close call. I watched them lumber away, thinking how bear like they walked, how uncomfortable they looked.

Next time I see fat people paying for a cart ride, I'm heading for the bathroom.

We are family

I have been blessed with an inordinate amount of good luck. It scares me sometimes. My Mom and Dad are still with us and continue to live in their own home about 30 minutes away from me. My only sister lives an hour away, my youngest brother and his family are 30 minutes up the road, and two of my brothers live right here in Hot Springs. More amazing than anything....we get along. I don't mean it's a constant love fest. After all, we're brothers and sisters. But in the grand scheme of things it is good.

I'm surprised by the number of people I meet who have no contact with siblings or parents. It's natural to experience irritations and disappointments from family members but that's no reason to shut them out. If anything, the opposite should be true. All people are flawed but when those people share the same DNA allowances have to be made. The five of us don't agree on everything but that's beside the point. We shared the same womb and we're stuck with each other. No one else can make that claim. That fact alone makes us unique in the universe.

While I might have entertained a few fantasies about being an only child when I was little, I wouldn't trade one of my siblings. Our ages span 20 years so our parents accumulated the wisdom of the ages. They were and still are, a cool headed and united pair. They raised us as a team and taught us to look out for one another. We're still doing it and I expect we always will.