Biker Mom

The place where I grew up was a fairly large small town. It was big enough to have a Northside and a Southside, three high schools, two hospitals, and two or three drive-in movies. But it was small enough that, like the weather, everybody's business was a favorite topic of discussion.
There were also lots of churches. The ones downtown were big and imposing with four sets of double doors to greet you at the entrances, and large sanctuaries warmed by filtered light beckoning you inside. And though the hallways were rather dreary and the ceilings so high they disappeared into dark shadows, they were friendly places on Sunday mornings because almost everyone knew everybody's name.
My scant memories of our church would fill only a small collection plate. I sang in the children's choir until it wasn't cool to do so, I went to a few youth group meetings, and about the time I was twelve or thirteen I began attending classes taught by our minister preparing us for something called "baptism." I distinctly remember following the minister into the darkened sanctuary with five or six other kids and politely listening to him explain the symbols hidden like Easter eggs in the ceiling plaster, in the wall hangings and even in designs on the carpet.
"And so, when you enter church, before the organist begins to play, take time to consider these symbols and what they mean," he said quietly, as if we had just joined an exclusive club, and he'd shared the secrets behind the password.
I went home thinking about what he said, and I was puzzled. I'd never seen the adults praying or quietly contemplating anything before church began. Most grown-ups
at our church occupied the time before the organist's crescendos by whispering hellos to each other. There were also compliments on new outfits, acknowledgements of awards won by a son or daughter, and questions about the previous day's golf game. Sometimes, slipped in between these warm and gracious exchanges, there were other whispered offerings, usually accompanied by a raised eyebrow, about the hat that no-one-in-their-right-mind-should-wear, the couple recently divorced, the kid who got kicked off the football team for drinking, or a girl who had dropped out of school because she was...you know.... No, no one who sat around me contemplated the meaning of the lily design in the rug or the crown on the plastered pillar near the altar. Before the minister walked down the aisle to raise his arms towards heaven signaling us all to stand and sing the invitation to worship, the weekly news had to be disseminated.
Each Sunday morning, while gossip and rumors buzzed above our heads in that hallowed space, one family sat silently and apart from the rest. They arrived early and, if my memory serves me right, sat in the third pew on the main floor. Even the kids seem to be pondering the meaning of that large cream-colored room, and the two-paged Sunday morning's agenda. I remember them distinctly because one time in the unday morning buzz I'd heard that they'd arrived on a motorcycle. Motorcycle? They must be very poor, I'd deduced. While the dad always drove, the mother and kids piled into a side car, whatever that was. This deemed them a little weird. And, according to that buzz, the mother didn't shave her legs. Maybe, I thought, she couldn't afford a Lady Schick, like my mother's which was kept under the bathroom sink. The pink one that I wasn't allowed to use as yet.
I sure felt sorry for those kids to have parents that stood out and were different from the rest. I was glad that my family was fairly normal. My mother was very pretty, and she always dressed sharp. I was proud of her except when she talked too loud to her friends before church. Of course Dad had stopped coming to church with us when the grocery store he managed began staying open on Sundays, so he couldn't embarrass me. That didn't come until a few years later, when he'd come home from work after having a few too many beers. But the kids in that motorcycle family never seemed self conscious, even if they were too poor to have a car.
I recently learned that the mother, the one who never shaved her legs, had died. She was 90 years old. I also learned that they weren't poor; the dad, who had died ten years before, had owned a small Harley Davidson store in my hometown. Though not rich, they lived comfortably although they were years before their time. I wished the Dad could see the size and popularity of a Harley store these days.
And I've thought alot about their oldest kid, the one who was in my high school class, who went to Viet Nam and got shot in the face. At a class reunion a few years ago, everyone was talking about him, saying how cool he was. At first, I thought it was because of his injury and the fact that he had seen a lot of action in Nam. But after talking to him for a short time I realized it wasn't that. He possessed a calmness, an authenticity that people noticed. He still flew helicopters, for a hospital critical care unit. He loved sailing, and when describing the feel of the boat in full sail as it raced over water, his voice got soft and wavy.
His mother's obituary said that she'd never stopped questioning theology. It said that she went to that church faithfully every Sunday yet was always checking out books from the church library, especially ones on the topic of the sermon.
I've been wondering what it was she found in those books that gave her enough answers to come back each Sunday. I never found any answers, and once I'd started questioning, I just stopped going.

Whose Schematic?

Mother's subtle reminder,
"Listen to that voice inside,"
Not just empty words passed
Down through generatons.

To quote a Gaelic theologian,
"An unseen life that dreams us"
Ensures the litte voice
Is more than just our own.

It is Providence, "our life's companion,"
We may choose to bring along
To find our true path
And to create order out of chaos.

The ingredient missing is trust.
Trust in that voice.
Trust the music you make
Is as valid as the music you hear.

I've always known this,
Deep inside, but not til
I read words black on white
Did it surface as tangible.

To admit the tangible also is theologic,
The hardest jump of all,
But to practice the preached,
I must trust that leap...of faith.

Family Fun

Who’s big idea was this anyway? How can eight adults and four babies fit into a three-bedroom cottage? The location, Narragansett, Rhode Island, may have been perfect for a first annual Memorial Day Family Weekend, but the size was a challenge. Were we motivated enough, flexible and laid back enough, compassionate enough to deal with midnight crying, diaper disposing, and overlapping parenting modes? I guess so, cause we did it.
First of the all the cottage had only one bathroom. “Be gentle on the septic tank,” requested Leah, the person who was renting the place through craigslist.com. Fortunately everyone cooperated by following our little post’em notes on the bathroom wall above toilet and above the sink… “don’t flush if it’s yellow.”t
Secondly, the sleeping arrangement had to be creative. The grandparents volunteered to sacrifice beds for sleeping bags. Our tent, the cottage annex, was set up in the back yard and although we could still hear babies stirring in the middle of the night, a few pieces of Kleenex strategically placed in ears muffled most sounds. The two couples with one child got a bedroom each with room for the Pack and Plays, and the couple with two babies got the smaller bedroom just for the kids. The plan was to have their parents sleep on the sofa bed. But SURPRISE, the sofa bed was sans bed! So the poor parents had to sleep on a couch and a single fold out bed in the living room. After that they sort of played musical beds.
Scheduling naptimes was serendipitous. One thing the babies all had in common was that they were early risers. So by nine o’clock ten month-old Meredith was ready for her nap. Then a little later eight month-old Noa was ready for her morning nap. Rami , 2, and Pablo, 1 1/2, took their naps in the afternoon but sometimes had to be coaxed or taken on walks to the playground before they’d close their little eyes. Meredith and Noa took second naps that would sometime last until five o’clock…or not. There was no guarantee.
Bedtime wasn’t too bad because lots of fresh air puts everyone to sleep. Just ask the grandparents. Unfortunately, little Noa started getting sick the second day and she was just plain uncomfortable when lying down. After all the kids finally went to sleep, the adults could party. This usually lasted about thirty minutes. Except for the first night when we stayed up past midnight because of late arrivals from the New Hampshire and New York groups, we started yawning around ten pm. We did manage to play seven rounds of one game of dominoes the last night.
The other popular game this weekend besides bubble blowing, ball throwing, hammock swinging and diaper changing was bocci ball. Dan and Erica brought their set and almost everyone got into a game. If you’ve played bocci ball you know that you are throwing very hard softball-sized balls. This meant that all toddlers had to be constantly distracted and babies were mostly napping or in their strollers. I looked at Alyson who was smiling hugely. “You’ve always craved this, haven’t you?” I asked her, staring at her goofy grin. “Yeah, just being in the back yard playing games , drinking a beer while the barbeque is smokin’ away is my idea of a great time,” she answered.
And the Weber grill was constantly going. Leo fixed brats the first night. Dan, Nir and Whitey coordinated the cooking of barbequed chicken and veggie kabobs the second night. They had so much chicken that third night we reheated it and fixed potato packets to grill. Our last night Leo did an amazing grill job on a leg of lamb, with a couple of lamb chops thrown in for good measure and another chicken breast for an early dinner before Dan and Erica had to leave for Concord. Our only food disappointment was the take-out from the famous Iggy’s. The chowder was so-so, the clams a little rubbery, and the French fries were dull. Am I a Pacific Northwest Chowder snob now? But the fried fish was great and something called a Quahog (sort of a poor man’s stuffed Geoduk, a large Seattle clam) had mixed reviews. At $2.25 I thought it was the best thing we ordered.
The other weekend game was the “Isn’t it Great!” contest. Everyone made predictions how many times we would hear this famous Leo phrase. Of course, once people entered the contest, they tried to throw it by spouting the phrase enough times to get to their numbers . Synonyms for “great” didn’t count so we heard a lot of “isn’t this special,” “this is super,” “awesome,” “wow, that was a unbelievable poop!”. (The later comment was heard coming from a diaper-changing parent.) In the end, Nir won with Erica coming in a close second. We tried to give bags of trash as the first prize, since there was no trash service, but the winner declined. The runner up got empty beer bottles and cans to take home to recycle.
Was there anything about the first annual family Memorial Day weekend that we would change? Well first of all, everyone voted that there would definitely be a second annual weekend but with some differences. The biggest change would be a larger place with two bathrooms. Fortunately for us this year, four of the twelve people were in diapers!