Dissertation Blues

One of my students called me from Chicago tonight, crying.

"Dr. H, I can't focus on my research analysis. I just can't make myself do it any more."

She is overwhelmed: family members have come forward as victims of crime. Her brother had unexpected open heart surgery and on the way to visit him, her grandmother had a massive heart attack and died. My dear student is working with traumatized children for her internship--a very emotionally expensive endeavor.

No wonder she can't focus on her dissertation.

There is something about writing a dissertation that people don't understand unless they have been down that road themselves. When you are analyzing research data and trying to write about it, you have to isolate yourself from everyone and everything else--to completely immerse yourself in your data so you can write what is necessary and expected. It is a very difficult process. I remember having to do it when I was a newlywed. Sam would be in the other room, handsome, delightfully available, interested in me. And there I was, two weeks after saying "I do," locked into the study hammering away on the computer for hours at a time.

"Honey," I'd yell through the door.

"Yes?"

"Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Will you be there in 20 minutes?"

"Yes....why?"

"Because I'm coming out of here in 20 minutes to take a break."

"Yipee!!!"

Bless his heart, he never complained that I was holed up in there for most of the first two months of our marriage. I hated it. But the more time I spent alone in there, the sooner I'd be done. Until I was done, I was doomed to be alone with columns of numbers and the frustration that my dissertation chair expected me to make yet another set of revisions. I could hardly stand it. For someone like me who doesn't struggle with writing, it wasn't such a terrible experience. But for some people who have trouble putting sentences together or who can hardly understand the statistical analyses they are reporting, it is painful.

My student is exhausted, overwhelmed, and fearful of how I will view her if she takes some time off to get her feet back under her. This is a very familiar concern to me. Another of my students is trying to time her dissertation defense to be held the week before she is due to have her baby. Yet another student is trying to work around his wife's medical residency. They're all tired and frustrated. They hate going off by themselves, getting a babysitter in some cases, and confining themselves to the library, study, or computer lab.

For some reason, students think that they're supposed to love the entire process and that if they admit that it's hard to manage the process, the faculty will think they're not worthy somehow. Well, it's not true. When I tell them that they'll hate the last couple months of the process, that they'll become angry at me and resentful of my request for revisions, they relax. A little bit. But it's really not over until it's over.

I imagine that writing a dissertation is like having a child somewhat. Days of anticipation, fantasizing about how life will be when it is done and how you will enjoy the fruit of your labor for the rest of your life, how your life will be better somehow, and the things you will get to do. But before it is over, you have to work at it in ways that are painful.
It reminds me of what Paul said in Romans, that "all creation groans and waits for the redemption of our bodies." So did I, writing my dissertation. So do my students.

So I'm thinking about several stalwart souls today, in the throes of writing, analyzing, trying to conceptualize what they are doing, looking forward to the day when they will be finished. In the meantime, she is doing what she has to, just to survive. My student is one woman whom I will be happy to call my colleague. She's almost there.

Change in the air

It is a Monday morning at 8:55. We are standing in front of the bank in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, waiting for the doors to open. It is Mother and me, and she is holding baby brother, who is asleep. Next to the door, off to one side, is a Black woman with several small children. They are quietly peering out from behind her. Everyone in their group looks apologetic.

There are several people waiting to get inside and conduct their financial transactions. I eye the children with the woman, interested as all children are, in others their age.

The doors open and we walk inside. Several White folks walk right up to the teller's windows. The Black woman and her children sit off to one side on a wooden bench. It is only then that we can see she is pregnant. Mother motions for her to go ahead of her. Mother always had painful varicose veins during pregnancy and knew how uncomfortable it was to stand for any length of time. Let this woman go ahead and go home to get off her feet.

The woman smiles sadly and shakes her head, "no." The teller glares at Mother and says, a little too loudly, "What do you want here?" Mother deposits Daddy's check and turns to leave. She smiles again at the woman on the bench, waiting for all the White people to be served first. The lady looks down at her hands. Her little ones are sitting next to her, a little too quietly for small children. No kids should be so self conscious that they squelch the happy abandon that comes with being naive observers of the world.

The teller yells coarsely across the bank lobby to the woman, "What's your business, now?"

We leave the bank and Mother is angry.

"Mommy, why did that lady have to wait?"

There's a question that has rung in my head for decades and caused me to feel guilty for being the member of a group who so persecuted another group.

You see, whatever happens to one group in society has implications for other groups in society as well.

It is like having a child with cystic fibrosis in the family. The entire family reacts to it, and the emotional and psychological symptoms are not limited to the ill child. The illness becomes something that the family organizes their activities and emotions around. Parents worry that they will overlook symptoms of a relapse. Children worry that they will play too roughly and cause the child to become ill again. They worry that their sibling will die if they say mean things to her. They wonder why she gets all the attention and their accomplishments and needs are overlooked so many times. The parents wonder if anyone notices how hard they are working to preserve her life, and are grateful that the other children do not require the level of intervention that she does. The marriage can become neglected as they focus on the endless round of postural drainage,nebulizer treatments and trips to the E.R. Yes, everyone is affected in such a family.

The Civil Rights Movement affected us all, too, whether or not we were from the North or South, or were Black or White. There is nothing in my White experience that can compare with the hatred I witnessed in the South towards Blacks during those, and subsequent years. I have rarely ever been in a position where I was discriminated against or felt like an unwelcome minority. But I was affected by the weekly horror of seeing hideous acts that were flashed across our television, by hearing people--Christians--refer to Blacks by a variety of cruel and prejudiced terms, by seeing pictures of the waterhoses turned on defenseless people, hearing adult men and women screaming epithets at a little Black girl who only wanted to go to school. My parents' outrage and commentary about what was happening was unrelenting while we lived in the South. That stays with a person and plays out in interesting ways over life. The Black students relegated to the back rows of classrooms, who tried to maintain their dignity whilst nothing else in their surroundings supported that, parents who had to be denigrated and humiliated in front of their own children--these crimes are seared into my mind's eye. Even though the abuse didn't happen to me or people who look like me. We all still are still paying for it.

Yesterday was a historic day in America. We don't know what President Obama will do, how he will manage the impossible economic problems we face in this country, or how he will be able to keep his sense of ethics in the face of pressure from all sides and the lure of being at the top. But yesterday was one step toward the healing of this enormous wound our country has sustained. I cried as I watched him take the oath and heard Aretha Franklin singing where decades ago, she would not have been allowed to linger because of her skin color. Seeing the tears of so many in the crowd, and noticing that enthusiasm was expressed by people of all races, it seemed that over the course of a few hours something shifted. Unfinished business for victims and observers of the Civil Rights struggle came one step closer to resolution. It's not done, but I, along with many others in this country, slept a little better with last night.

I only hope that pregnant woman in the bank was able to witness the innauguration yesterday.

God bless our country.

Junk

This week I have been trying to get caught up around the house with the multitude of chores that have been put off for months. It's a great feeling to go through boxes of saved stuff and sort it out. That's what I've been doing for the last couple days. Beside being more organized now, it has been therapeutic. I can't work in a mess, and if I can't find belongings that are packed away, I feel out of sorts. So everything has been pulled out of the garage and the McGee's closet that has developed where we hang our coats has been emptied and turned into an orderly and proper coat closet.

It's amazing to have so much junk to store. Stepdaughter #1, who has moved in with us, has boxes of stuff from her dormitory room that got pushed up against a wall in the garage. It is right next to the stack of containers from Stepdaughter #2, who is teaching in Micronesia this year. Goodness knows she must have been in a real hurry when she threw her belongings into these plastic containers, because there is no rhyme or reason to how things are put in there. Then I have quite a few boxes of Mother's things that I'm storing: my father's bagpipes, her sewing notions, canning jars without number, my grandfather's concertina and nostalgic items galore. There is a big box of papers, TV cables and phone cords--all sorts of odd things--that Sam brought into this marriage. And of course, my stuff is out there, too, carefully packed and stored.

A few weeks ago I put up shelves in the study closet. Now we can store all sorts of things in there that were "stored" on the floor or in boxes for the last several months. I have more shelves to go up in the garage, and have put in big hooks to hang the bikes from the ceiling. I've got to figure out how to store my kayak in such a way that it doesn't get dented and is up out of the way.

I came across a couple boxes of china and antique pieces that were given me by my mother when I packed up her home last year. It all went up into my cupboards after a good washing. I'm delighted to have the little parfait glasses that my parents served us poached eggs in when were were kids. We only got to eat out of them on the Sabbath. It was one of my parents' ways to make the day special for us. Then there is a jelly jar of Nana's. She used to keep strawberry jam in it. And the cobalt Fiestaware platters and saucers Mother bought for me over the years are here, too.

I had a dream last night that there was a major earthquake and all my good Villeroy & Boch china that I bought in Germany crashed out of the cupboards onto the floor. So did my Fiestaware, my antique glass dishes, my crystal goblets, and all the cups and glass plates. But Sam and I were alive and well, delighted that we had survived and only our dishes perished. (Interesting dream too, after going to bed with PTSD remnants in my head!)

Looking over everything that we own, I have to remember that none of this will go with me into the next life. It is just junk: stuff, miscellaneous to what really matters. This is a particularly salient thought these days, as I have learned that a friend has advanced inflammatory breast cancer (IBC) and she is very frightened by this aggressive disease. She told me about it before she shared her diagnosis with her children over the weekend, so the burden of knowing was great and caused me to wake up during the night several times to pray for her. I know it is possible to defeat IBC, but the survival rate at five years is not very high. I'm really concerned about my friend and she is scared to death because she feels that life as she knows it is over. It will be a round of chemotherapy followed by a mastectomy, followed by radiation and other procedures.

Is my stuff really all that important? I've been throwing out and giving away everything that I haven't used in a year (except my dishes, of course). My junk really does not matter. What I do with it and how I feel about it does matter. But what matters more is how I treat people and how robust my relationships are with them. What will people remember about me after I'm gone? I hope it's not just my things. Sitting here in the disaray of half-packed boxes, stuff everywhere, (and I'm supposed to be at work all this week) it's good to remember that what a person is, is much more important than what a person has.
But since I do have all this, it needs to be put in order. I'm reaching for a big black plastic trash bag...

Meeting Myself: Coming and Going

Sam and I are in bed on a morning when it is late and we have slept in. He is lying with his hands behind his head and is looking up at the ceiling. He is sleepy-eyed and precious looking. I roll over toward him and gaze at him, admiring his classic profile and feeling fortunate that I married a good looking man.
"Honey, what are you thinking about?" I ask, eager for a soulful exchange that will unite our hearts during this luxurious, semi-drowsy moment in time. (violins, please).
Sam looks at me curiously. "What am I thinking about?"
I nod, looking at him with unveiled adoration, waiting for this man whom I love to share the depths of his soul with me, withholding nothing.
"Nothing. I just woke up" He looks at me, knowing that this is not what I want to hear.
"Nothing? How can you think about nothing?"
He sighs. "Well, that's what I'm thinking about. Nothing."
If he can't engage with me about his thoughts, at least I can get him to talk to me about something.
"Well, what are you feeling then?"
He suddenly sounds weary. "Nothing!" He regards me suspiciously. "Why do you have to ask me these kinds of questions?"
"Well, I just want to know you inside and out." I feel deflated and disappointed.
"Oh please!" Sam sighs, gets out of bed and stalks off into the bathroom to take a shower. "I don't lay around thinking and feeling stuff all the time." The shower faucett goes on and he steps inside.
I feel tears forming in my eyes, but I should know better because this has happened many times. Sam is a very concrete thinker and does not find it particularly stimulating to try to articulate his inner experience. The more I ask ethereal questions, the more ridiculous they seem. When we were dating he could string out some pretty compelling romantic remarks, but it is just not his preferred way of relating.

Nor is it easy for a number of men, I'm learning.

Friday I worked with a couple who came into the therapy room and sat at opposite ends of the couch. She was sitting forward with her fingers laced around her crossed legs. Her brow was furrowed in a frown and she had tears in her eyes. He sat there, slouched back into the cushions, grinning at me, his arms and legs akimbo, his hair brushed to a point in the front (good grief, where did this style come from?) And guess what their great disagreement was? She pours out her heart to him when they lie down to sleep and asks him what he thinks. He tells her that she is "over-thinking again" and drifts off to sleep. So she stomps out of bed and down the stairs to watch TV until her indignation is spent. When she returns to bed, his blissful sleep is disturbed and he decides that this is a good time for a romp. She is livid and he can't figure out what he did wrong. So they have an awful fight and he sleeps on the couch.
"I must be clueless," he states. She shoots an evil look his way.
"I mean," he continues, "I know she wants something from me and I sit there trying to figure out what it is, knowing that I'm not going to be able to come up with it. So I make jokes or sing my school song to her: "Rah-rah-rah for the Delta Phi Ki Guys!""
I'm dying to laugh. "And how does that go over?"
She makes a disdainful sound. He looks down.
"Not good" they say in unison.
He is clueless. And so is she.
So we work it out that there is room for both of their perspectives and realities, but that since their relationship requires some sort of understanding, there are things they both need to do in order to respond appropriately to the needs of the other. She will cut out the cock-eyed, continual questions, and he will validate her feelings without having to have the same experience as she does. But, but, but....I can hear you saying. There is more to the story, but this was the bottom line for numerous reasons that can't be elucidated here.
I left that session shaking my head. It was awfully close to home.

I remember one morning getting in an argument with Sam about leaving dirty dishes in the sink. It drives me crazy to have yucky, smeary dishes with those awful smells sitting in the sink over night or all day while we're at work. It will attract ants. And since I do much of the yard work, I expected Sam to do much of the inside work. I don't think we ever talked about it, but I found myself getting really angry one morning as we were about to dash out of the house. I drove to work, consumed with passion about this.

My first session of the day was with a couple who were angry with one another because of the unspoken expectations they had of each other around housework. I mentally put my own unresolved housework argument from the morning on a shelf in the back of my head, and started delving into this couple's concerns. Yes, she was a stay-at-home mom who had a babysitter every day for four hours so she could have some time for herself. Yes, he worked 50 hours a week at a very demanding job and was the sole provider for the family. She told him that if she could just stay home from work, she would take responsibility for the house cleaning and management. That suited them both just fine. Until she got tired of it and changed the rules, unbeknownst to him. We had to sort that one out and it took over an hour to look at all of the old stories of offenses both had committed around this issue, and the secret motives that had become apparent through innumerable acts and words over the years. We renegotiated how the household duties would be done, noting that marriage contracts change over time and must be frequently revisited. I was particularly shocked to find myself supporting this man in his request not to have to put the dishes in the dishwasher. She thought that would be fine, after I helped make a case for him. He would however, keep the bathroom sinks clean--a major triumph for her.

So I limped out of the therapy room that day, shaking my head and wondering what I would be faced with in subsequent sessions. In fact, it was a 24-year-old girl who doesn't like her stepparent and secretly wishes that her parents would get back together again. Even though she knows it will not happen. Even though the divorce happened six years ago. "I would never choose to be related to that [stepmother] but I have to have a relationship with her...It sucks."

I am always amazed how therapist's own private behaviors, feelings, and thoughts can rise up and obscure the clients whom we are serving if we're not careful and scrupulous in our dealings. I bracket off my own experience so it won't interfere with my therapy, but I remain aware of my experience while I watch it wrestled over between my clients. Such lovely work, this. Real incentive to pay attention to my own issues and take care of them elsewhere. It's amazing how we are all part of the fabric of humanity, every one of us. So I'm grateful that these things are very familiar to me, and wonder what part of my life will be trotted out in the therapy room for me to dance with this week.

Wierd Turn of Events

Well, today was the culmination of an odd sequence of events. For weeks I've been preparing a mixed quartet and a trio of women to perform an evensong vespers at church. We have practiced a number of shape note hymns from The Sacred Harp (the quartet), and some wonderful Bach trios and duets. I have been very much looking forward to this because I haven't really sung seriously for many years. However, amazingly, person by person, my group became ill. First it was the contralto whose voice became spindly and wheezy as she was fighting the flu. Then down went the tenor. I told him that he was getting sick, but he didn't believe me. The next day he called with a really awful gurgly, rough voice to tell me that indeed he was ill. Thursday night the soprano called me to say that she had nothing left and was going to bed. There was no way she could sing. I was glad because my head started to feel like it would blow off my shoulders: a sure sign that I had a low grade fever. Only one person, our stalwart bass, is not ill. The rest of us are under the weather. We cancelled our concert and minutemen from the church put together a variety musical program in our stead.

I'm just as happy, sitting up in bed with my flannel duvet over me, all cuddly, and me looking out the window up at the snow covered mountains with the reflection of the sun going down leaving hues of purple across them. (I may be slowed down, but not so slowed that I can't create a noble run-on sentence...)

It was a fitful sleep last night, Sam up and down with coughing, and me aching all over and uncomfortable. At one point I got up and wandered through the house, hoping that I could tire myself enough to go back to sleep. Heaving myself back under the down comforter, I drew up my knees just as Sam jacknifed in bed, resulting in a resounding crack as our knees struck straight on. I should have a beautiful bruise there in the next couple days. But for now, I am content to leaf through magazines, reading and looking at pictures. It is all this tired brain can do today.

And I am grateful that this sickness "is not unto death," and that I'm still full of beans and not completely dragged out. The absent appetite, languid spineless feeling, and headache will all pass away, leaving me with gratefulness that I can still get up and do the things I want to do.

Just not now.

Enough already

These bad dates could go on and on. I'm finding that as I write my interest in them is waning. Maybe these few examples will suffice. On to other things!

Bad Dates: Wipe My Weeping Eyes

Pierre was a husky blue-eyed blond attorney whom I thought was just about right for me. We met on an afternoon hike in the nearby mountains, and he seemed to enjoy my sense of humor as well as my looks. He was just a little taller than I was, and he had a barrel chest and big mustache. And the way he looked at me sometimes left me weak in the knees. Even though he was heavier than anyone I'd ever considered dating before. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I wasn't dating him--yet.

Pierre asked me to go with him to an early dinner one day, and wondered if I'd meet him at his apartment. Of course, since he lived rather close to me. When I got there I asked if I could please wash my hands--I'd put gas in the car. In his bathroom, there was hair everywhere. It was between 3-4 inches long and it was in the bathtub, on the floor, in the sink, and over the back of the toilet. I wondered how long it had been since the bathroom had been cleaned. But then, I noticed hair all over the place in that apartment. They must have a dog.

We drove up to the mountains to have dinner at Laws, a landmark mom-and-pop restaurant that serves fresh apple pie made from the surrounding apple orchard. It was wonderful. Walking out of the restaurant, something fell out of an overhanging tree and went down Pierre's neck. "Yikes! Can you get whatever that is down the back of my neck?" he asked, leaning forward and pulling the neck of his shirt back for me to reach in.

Suddenly, I realized why there had been hair all over his bathroom. It was his hair. He had hair about four inches long all over his back. Withdrawing my hand quickly, I tried not to act too shocked. Oh well...you can't get everything you want in a man, I thought. He's hairy but he'd be a great provider and family man.

Driving home, Pierre told me that he had tickets to the Hollywood Bowl and if I would just make our dinner, he would know how I cooked, and he would also be happy to be in my company. How nifty--two birds with one stone. He cautioned me that he didn't like swiss chard, but that garlic was his favorite food. In fact, he showed me several heads of garlic and a garlic press that he carried in the trunk of his car just in case he ate at a restaurant that didn't have enough garlic in the food. The message came through clearly: make something with lots of garlic in it. Not exactly fare for a romantic dinner, but I'd do it.

I don't remember exactly everything that I cooked up for that next Saturday night, but I cooked up a storm. I even took pieces of my good china and goblets for our use. He was delighted. Our supper began with cream of garlic soup, french bread, butter, and sparkling cider. Pierre was utterly taken with the soup and finished it off. Wow. He would have really horrible breath after that.

Then we wrapped up the dishes and went down to our box seats near the front of the stage. It was an all Mozart concert and we were both thrilled. I noticed that Pierre leaned into me as we listened to the music--he didn't hold my hand, but to feel him right up next to me was very exciting. I wished the concert would go on and on. Pierre was delightful company, chatting between numbers, making witty comments, and being a very attentive date. Maybe this was going to go somewhere.

At the end of the concert, people came streaming out of the arena and headed toward their cars, boxing in our car. We could only sit there, waiting to be able to get out. Pierre put in a cassette of Handel's Messiah so we could listen to something while we sat there. We listened to almost the entire tape before we were able to creep out of there at about 5 m.p.h.

As we pulled onto the freeway at 12:30 that night, Pierre turned over the cassette and asked if I minded that we listen to it on the way home instead of talk. He must really love that music. "Of course, Pierre."

We drove for miles listening to the familiar music. "He Shall Purify," "And the Glory of the Lord," etc. Finally, I asked, "Does listening to music like this help you stay awake?" He nodded, soberly. "Are you sleepy then?"

He shook his head, no.

That was strange. He didn't seem like he wanted to speak.

Just then, the Hallelujah chorus started. He turned up the volume and settled back into his seat with a very somber expression on his face. I listened for a moment and started to very quietly hum. Pierre sniffled. He had tears coming down his face!

"Oh my goodness, Pierre, what is wrong? Why are you crying?"

He shook his head as if to say, "don't ask" and made no reply. Yet he continued to cry. These were not tears of joy. "Are you okay?" He was clearly upset about something but it was quickly clear that he was resolute about not wanting to talk to me. I handed him a tissue and he blew his nose, steering the car with the other hand. He turned up the music and continued to cry and drive, all the way home. We had nothing to say when he dropped me off. Pierre still refused to speak to me, and I was baffled about why he was crying with such sadness. But there he was, red-eyed, crying, all the way home.

As we pulled up into my driveway, I thanked him for the wonderful concert and for his company. He nodded mutely, and stayed in the car while I struggled getting out the box with my china and the leftovers in it. Pierre waved half-heartedly at me from behind the steering wheel, and backed out of the driveway. I climbed the stairs to my apartment and went to bed. There was something very wierd going on, but I doubted that I would ever get to the bottom of it.

I still haven't.

I ran into Pierre and his wife at a friend's house a few years later. He took me aside and told me how hurt he had been that I had not returned his calls after our wonderful date. He was his old charming self again, even though he kidded and joked with me and not his own wife. She was a very pretty and very pregnant girl, about 10 years his junior. I just remember him as a Jekyl and Hyde personality. Who knows what he would have done on subsequent dates?

What in the world?

Another dodged bullet.

Bad Dates: Loose Cannon

I was a young 25-year old nurse, still hurting from a recent breakup. No one would be interested in me, and I had what I thought was pretty good proof: my fiance had broken up with me because I would hold him back from meeting his life goals. So I was young, attractive, footloose and demoralized.

Trying to help me get over my wounded feelings, my charge nurse invited me to help her paint her new home on the day I was to have gotten married. I went, just to keep from moping. I didn't know that they had invited Sol, a single dentist friend of her new husband. Little did I know that he was awfully handsome and that he was on the make. Only a few strokes of my paint roller and we were laughing, talking, and eyeing one another. He certainly took my breath away. He wore white coveralls without a shirt, and he was tan and had a great body.

The afternoon went by very quickly and ended with an invitation to dinner. Sol said he'd come to pick me up at 6:00, and wouldn't I like to go down to the beach to eat? I was thrilled. I looked down out of my window at 6:05 just to see him walking up the driveway, pulling his shirt on over his bronze chest. I almost fell out the window.

We went off to Newport Beach where we had a sumptious supper overlooking the ocean. Sol turned out to be quite devout--speaking about his Christian experience in detail, hoping to go off on a mission to a remote part of the world, and quoting scriptures to make his point. In my naive, heartbroken state, he looked pretty good. Especially after my fiance had not been able to live according to his stated convictions. I was smitten.

Sol asked me if I wanted to walk on the beach after dinner. What could be more romantic? Since I thought love happened like it did in the movies--30 minutes or less, and in one evening--this guy seemed like Prince Charming. We strolled down onto the beach and sat in the sand to watch the sun go down. It was chilly and he snuggled against me while he asked me about my life and smiled broadly at me in that man-of-the-world way that such older-and-wiser men did. He acted just a little bit oddly, because as I was talking, I noticed that he started to seem a bit distracted. He stopped listening and looking at me as we sat there. He was looking around over his shoulder at the houses on the edge of the beach. Squirming and looking in all directions. It had gotten dark and chilly. He still was wearing a shirt that was open at the throat--a little more undone than when we started out onto the beach.

I fell quiet as Sol stared off into space. He made a few summary comments and I suggested that we start home. It would take a good hour to get back. We slipped off the lifeguard platform where we'd been sitting, and started walking down the beach toward the car. As we walked, I was responding to a question he asked, and suddenly realized that he wasn't walking with me. Turning around, I saw Sol crouched down on the sand lighting a match to something.
"What are you doing?" I mouthed, just as he rushed toward me yelling, "Run!"
His eyes were twinkling but there was real urgency in his shout. I turned and fled just as the sky lit up behind us with a series of firecracker explosions. Big ones. Brightly colored, very visible, very illegal firecrackers. I fled, yelling back at Sol, "We could get in big trouble for this. Cut it out!" I am very conventional and conservative when it comes to observing the law and conventional rules about behavior. It seems narcissistic and disrespectful to do things like jay walk or drive 80 miles per hour in a 60 mph zone. So what he was doing, and in a state with such high fire risks, was both inconsiderate and foolhardy.

Instead of paying attention to my terror, Sol stooped to light another volley of firecrackers. Feeling like I was on the lam, I raced off the beach and up to his parked car just as the firecrackers went off--a whole string of brightly colored arching explosions, whistling through the air before it shook the ground with noise. Sol was nowhere to be seen and I was standing in the street next to an empty car, in an unknown area of a big town, after dark. It didn't occur to me that I could have gone inside and called a taxi. It seemed like my my only option was to lean against the car and look toward the ocean. Somewhere in the distance a siren could be heard coming our way. Great. Now I would be arrested for this kook whose behavior implicated me.

I had no idea what was going through this miscreant's mind, but I had had enough. For all his religious talk, he was a nut, and I knew that God wanted the fruits of the Spirit, not religious nuts. After what seemed like an eternity, Sol suddenly appeared and jumped into the car.
"Let's get home!"
Off we went, back to town. He had no explanation about why he had done that, and he wouldn't talk about it even. It was as if it had never happened. But he did tell me that he thought I was lovely, and couldn't he come up to my place for tea when we got back to town?

He got his tea that night, but nothing else. The gall of someone who thought he could act so irresponsibly and still expect me to want him.
Sol called a couple weeks later and told me how much he'd like to see me again. But not feeling up to being put in a dangerous position again, and acutely disappointed that he didn't seem to have his head screwed on straight, never returned his calls.
Another missed bullet.

Bad Dates II--Mr. HaySeed

Found here

I should have known something was afoot when my German professor called one Wednesday night after class and asked me if I would be willing to go on a blind date with a visiting student. "He's very musical, and I thought that since you aren't dating anyone, maybe you could encourage him to come to college here." Musical--how nice! Well, as I wrote in the last post, the guys weren't asking out the girls so I might as well go out with someone.
"Sure."

The plan was for him to pick me up at the dorm and we'd go over to the college auditorium to see a play. Then we'd go to Newton's in town for an ice cream afterward. Dr. B and her husband would join us so it wouldn't be awkward. I had nothing to lose. I just had to show up.

Saturday evening found me rushing back to the dorm after being out on a walk with a guy who I was truly interested in. He dropped me off and I ran into the lobby. What I saw should have prompted me to keep running right through the lobby and out the back door. There saw Charlie (let's call him that), sitting on the couch, legs akimbo, waiting for me. He had wild blond curly hair that hadn't been combed for awhile and he was wearing a bright red plaid hunting jacket over jeans tucked into galoshes. There was straw on the bottom of one boot.

"Hi, Charlie, I'm Barbara" I announced, reaching to shake his hand. "I have to change my clothes and I'll be right with you." He started to follow me down the hall. The desk monitor told him that he had to wait in the lobby. Oh dear. She later told me that he had wandered into the dorm through a back door and since he didn't know where he was in the building, he walked toward voices that came from a room with a door ajar. He knocked on the half open door and peered in. Girls screamed and pillows flew. They were lying around half dressed on their beds talking. Someone shooed him out and directed him to the lobby.

We hurried on over to the auditorium. The play was about to start. It was "Death in the Cathedral," which is a very meaningful and ponderous work. We were the last to be seated. As we hurried in to the FRONT ROW, it felt like everyone was looking at us and whispering, "Is that Barbara's boyfriend? Is he the reason that she isn't dating anyone here?"

I soon realized that Charlie couldn't follow the plot of the play. I was having a difficult time what with the old English language. It was way over his head and being in his company made me so distracted that I could hardly concentrate on what was happening. He leaned into me at one point and in a stage whisper asked loudly, "Do you get the gist of this?" I motioned for him to be quiet and told him I'd explain it at the intermission. He seemed satisfied with that and stared up into the rafters over the stage, and gawked around at the walls and at other people. Another time he asked loudly, "Do you follow this?" I cringed and made a face to show that I was having a hard time.

Dr. B and her husband were nice enough. They had saved our seats for us right in the front row, and thankfully, at the intermission they chatted with Charlie so I didn't have the whole burden of keeping things going. He didn't seem very bright or conversational. So I talked with Dr. B awhile, who directed me back to Charlie. "Charlie is very musical, Barbara. Charlie, tell Barbara about your musical interests." He smiled a toothy grin and said quite loudly, "I play the gittar. I strum it like a cowboy do." Oh good. And such an eloquent description, too. Musical, indeed.

We got through the intermission somehow. To put it simply and as kindly as possible, Charlie had almost no social graces and was in awe of his surroundings. He was truly "country come to town." I don't say that in a mean way. It was a fact that punctuated his comments that evening. But at my ripe age of 18, I was mortified and fearful of identification through association. It was going to be a long evening.

After the play finished, which I didn't enjoy at all, we loaded up into Dr. B's car and drove over to Newton's. This was the local Saturday night hangout for students at our college. Everyone who was anyone on campus showed up there, and that night was no exception. We walked through the door at 10:40 and were shown to a table on an elevation up above some of the other tables--right where everyone could see us together. Horrors! I thought I could probably survive having an ice cream and then get home and away from this guy. But no. He ordered a steak dinner, much to the dismay of the waiter. "We close in 20 minutes, sir" he said plaintively. Charlie replied, "Well if I'm in a restaurant, I want a meal." And that was the end of the discussion. The waiter slunk off into the kitchen and we sat there looking at one another. I was plum finished with small talk. This was back in the day when I was so reserved and had such an awful time talking to people I didn't know, that I was in knots inside. I ordered a Sprite and began sipping it quietly.

Charlie furrowed his brows, looked right at me and out of the blue, loudly announced, "Your lips are chapped!" People at the surrounding table looked our way questioningly.
I slid down into my chair. "Yes, I think they are," I said quietly, smiling at him with a please-be-quiet pleading look.
He was not to be deterred. "You should do what we do to them cows when they get chapped tits" he bellowed. At the word tits, heads all around us jerked our direction. Someone dropped a fork in shock. My face turned deep red. He continued, "We just take some of that Raleigh Salve and just slap it across their tits and they heal up in no time." He made a sweeping slap motion with his left hand and knocked his napkin onto the floor.
Scooping it up, he remarked, "There's no need at all for chapped tits or chapped lips." He smiled smugly, realizing that he had almost just made a rhyme. Dr. B's husband was looking at his hands in his lap. Dr. B looked apoplectic and I was aghast. "Charlie," she said quietly, "Tell Barbara a bit about your church up North."
Without missing a beat, he launched into a loud monologue about the membership and composition of his congregation. I hardly remember another thing about being in Newton's, except how happy I was to be leaving. We left with Charlis smacking his lips. He had eaten his steak dinner in 20 minutes (we didn't leave until 11:30) and we were on our way to drop me off at the dorm.

Uh oh--the dorm. That was where all the couples were saying goodnight on the steps and up against the porch railings. Many were making out as if it were the last night of their lives. If he got any ideas or even laid a hand on me I'd spit bullets. Soon we were making our way up to the dormitory. He surveyed all the heavily breathing couples writhing against the porch pillars, standing in front of me with his hands in his pockets. What would he do?

It never dawned on me that I could just say goodbye and walk inside. But to his credit, he was a gentleman. He reached forward to shake my hand and with his trumpet-like voice announced, "It was great to make your acquaintance, Barbara." The heavy breathing stopped and several sets of eyes looked our way.
"Thank you, Charlie." And I hurried inside.

That was truly an awful date: Charlie with who knows what stuck to the bottom of his boot, looking like was going hunting, and me dressed to the nines in a nice dress and high heels. Bless his heart--he just didn't know how to conduct himself and probably had never been in a setting where he could have learned how to behave socially. He reminded me of Gomer Pyle except his accent was decidedly different. Gawlee!

The next year, our small sextet singing group traveled up to his church to give a concert. There sat Charlie, waving at me from the third row, proudly sitting in the church next to his grandparents. The British guy who stood next to me in the group teased me all afternoon about Charlie after he saw him looking appreciatively at me and pointing me out to his grandparents.

After church there was a potluck before our concert. Apparently, his grandparents had brought their own lunch but didn't join the potluck for some reason. Charlie invited me out to the car where they were sitting, eating sandwiches. He introduced me and they were very quiet and stoic. Almost suspicious of me. Maybe to them I looked like a hussie in my ankle length singing dress. Who knows. Charlie didn't seem to mind. "Want a tomato?" he asked, handing me an enormous Beefsteak tomato that he could hardly hold in one hand. How on earth could I eat it and not get it all over my dress? I wondered. I politely declined and commented on what a nice tomato it was. "It shore is," he agreed. Biting into it like an apple, tomato juice and seeds sprayed in all directions. He hung his head over the ditch and let the juice drip off his chin. It just seemed to typify everything about Charlie, as good intentioned as he was. I excused myself and got back into the church.

I've thought about Charlie several times over the years. He was probably a very decent young man without any social opportunities. He could have been a late bloomer--later than I was. He could have turned out to be a True Blue kind of man: dedicated, honest, hard-working, loyal. Maybe he thought I was uppity or cold. In fact, I felt wretched being around him. As many teenagers, I didn't know how to let him be Charlie, and focus on being Barbara.

So I wish this dear earnest young man the best and hope his life has been a happy one. I think of him every time my lips become chapped.
Does anyone have any Raleigh Salve?