She Could Have Been Me; the Driver

A couple of weeks ago, I was returning home from a late trip to the grocery store, and I hit a cat.

One moment I was passing under the green light, listening to K's tantrum in her car seat. There was a sudden flash of tan reflecting in my right headlight, and two thumps. I didn't know what I hit. I pulled over to the side of the road, and the cars that were behind me passed. Sillouetted against the headlights was a small lump in the road.

Poor thing, I thought. I didn't know what to do. One doesn't call 9-1-1 over an animal, I knew. I couldn't just leave K alone, but I couldn't just leave this animal either. I picked up my cell phone and tried to call my husband. Maybe he would know what I should do. He didn't answer. Mom once had a cat; I tried her number. No answer.

And then, the poor thing raised its head.

Another driver pulled over, and went to the cat. I jumped out of the van, hurrying over. "I hit it," I cried. "What is it?"

He came toward me. "It's a cat," he said. "I laid it over there on the ground." (Yes, getting it out of the road made sense.) This man, Tom, and I spent a couple of hours trying to take care of this poor cat. Eventually, he took it with him, to take to the Humane Society the next day (because I am allergic to cats, and he has one,) and then remembered that OSU has a veterinary school. He called the next morning and told me that he took the cat there, and they said they would take care of it.

But you see, this isn't about the cat. It started with the cat, but it isn't about that.

I am still a bit of a wreck about the cat. I cried when one of the neighborhood cats ran from my porch one morning. It wasn't even similar; this cat had no tail, and totally different coloring. But I hit a cat, and will never know whether it survived the night.

It happened so fast, and I couldn't help but think of the way my daughter tried to run away from me in the parking lot that evening, not wanting to go home. I thought of my sister's little boy, three months older than K, who darted out of the house so fast that his father had to run full speed after him to keep him out of the street. What if, instead of a cat, I'd hit a toddler with an escape fetish? How would I live with myself?

The next day, I drove past the school where a crossing guard gave her life to save a child last year. I sobbed at the memory of that story. I know the child was badly injured but survived thanks to her sacrifice. I wonder how he is doing now?

How did the driver go on, with the guilt of knowing he had taken an innocent life? How would I?

A few more days flashed by. I was hurrying home to meet the first bus, which brings my 12-year-old R home from school. The road I drove is one I use frequently. There is an overpass over railroad tracks, then the road goes under the freeway, with a fairly sharp left turn just past the bridge. The road is marked 50 MPH. On the stretch on the other side of the turn, I rarely drive 50. There are several businesses, a smattering of homes, and railroad tracks, all of which seem to require more attention than I can give at that speed.

This particular day, as I round the bend, I am surprised to find a school bus there, lights flashing. I've noticed the homes in this area, but never thought about them holding school age children. I shudder, thinking how glad I am that our family doesn't live on such a busy, fast road. I wish this bit of road was marked a little slower, to help protect those families.

I drove this stretch of road twice, that other night, with the cat. The cat that could have been a child.

More days flash by. K has a morning appointment, and I am rushing to get her there. I turn onto the stretch of road, and go over the tracks, only to see emergency lights up ahead. A little closer, and I see that the road is blocked. I use a driveway to turn around, wondering what happened. The mental image of the school bus flashes in my mind. NO, I tell it. I won't accept that concept.

I don't know whether more days flash by, but it seems like the next morning, ten-year-old C is hit by a car, and killed, on that stretch of road. He was waiting for the bus, crossed the road to chase geese, we are told, and then turned around to cross back to home. The woman who drove the SUV wasn't charged legally. She wasn't breaking the law; she simply didn't have the chance to stop.

She could have been me.

She Could Have Been Me; the Mother

This afternoon, my ten-year-old son and I went to a mortuary together. One of his classmates was hit by a car last week and died, and we went to show support for his family, and for B to say goodbye.

The loss of this young child has been deeply painful to me. I don't believe I ever met him, but I've taken his death in a deeply personal way. I don't begin to suppose that my assumed pain has come anywhere near the real agony suffered by his family. This is one time, however, that I wish my vivid imagination would focus on a fantasy with less realism.

From the moment B came home with the note from his principal, the day of the accident, I have had sobbing bouts of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I. C was ten, like my son; waiting for the bus, like my son does. They sat at the same table in their fifth grade class. The family recently moved here; admittedly, it has been three and a half years for us, but we, too, are transplants. Their home is not far from mine; I pass it several times each week.

C had a mother, someone who adored him, and dreamed for him. Someone like me.

One afternoon I hurried home to meet the buses of my children. The stretch of road I drove has an overpass over railroad tracks, then goes under a freeway overpass, and takes a fairly sharp turn just on the other side. The speed limit is 50. I've always had a hard time maintaining that speed after the turn, as the businesses, smattering of houses, and train tracks on the other side seem to beg for a little more attention. This day, I came around the corner to find a school bus stopped, lights flashing. I was surprised. I knew there were homes here, but it never occurred to me that there were school age children living in those homes. I shuddered, thinking how glad I was that I didn't have children catching a bus here.

I was hurrying somewhere the following morning, and found the road blocked with emergency vehicles. As I used a driveway to turn around, I thought again about the school bus. No, the thought was too horrible to complete. I had the radio on, and nothing had been said on the news about an accident, so this must be something else. Maybe someone just took the curve too fast. (I never found out what happened.)

Then last Tuesday afternoon. My precious B came home from school, gave me the letter from his principal, and went quietly to do his homework. I felt the air sucked out of the room. Blinking back tears, I asked him if he knew C. "He was in my class," he said. "He sat at my table." I asked him if he was okay. He shrugged, his mouth twitched. He "mmMMmm"ed the way he always does, instead of articulating "I don't know." He went back to his homework.

I thought of B running to his bus stop every morning. He crosses our street, then turns and crosses another. He makes a token look for traffic, but certainly not the careful "look both ways" I tried to instill in him as a toddler. He runs, though it is only seven minutes before his scheduled bus time. Our road is one of the main thoroughfares in the neighborhood, and people rushing to work often drive a little faster than the posted 25 MPH as they pass my house. In my mind I see him darting out in front of someone fiddling with their radio, or positioning their coffee cup, or... or...

It could have been me, the mother dabbing tears from her eyes with the ear of a teddy bear, her left hand resting on the still head of her son's body. "I'm sorry, " she whispered to him, " I know you never like to see me cry." It could have been B lying there, his body doll-like, bruises showing behind thick mortician's makeup. His mother showed us his school picture, "What he really looked like," she said, smiling through her agony. Tears flooded from my eyes; I could not hold them back. She could have been me.

I was the lucky one, watching as my son used his best handwriting to sign the guest book, and then ducked out into the sunshined immortality of his youth again. I got to hold his hand as we crossed the street together, and help him excitedly gather a pinecone and berries for his seed collection for school. Eventually the pain of this moment will fade for me, and I will go back to nagging and scolding my 10 year old. Will she imagine, then, what it is like to be me?

One Bertie Botts Every Flavor Bean

Something small and brown caught my eye as I sat on my couch one day this week. My first thought was SPIDER! Then BEETLE. Then... Is that a jelly bean?

It was a jelly bean, medium brown with darker brown spots. I thought as I picked it up, If I didn't know better, I'd think it was a Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean. I knew better, because we hadn't had them in the house since... well, it was not long after we moved here, 3 years ago, and why would it have suddenly appeared on the couch after so long? Impossible.

I rolled it over in my hand, and there it was, not totally readable but easily interpretable as that little "Bertie Botts" logo.

So, what flavor is it? I mean, I've tried some of those odd flavors that weren't all that bad. Black pepper, as I recall, was actually quite delectable. But other flavors were disgustingly accurate, such as ear wax. Vomit was utterly nauseating, if that isn't redundant to say.

It has been three days now, and no one is interested in tasting it to see what dangerous concoction it is that suddenly appeared on my couch. I'm pretty sure it is dirt. Wanna try it and find out?

Sorry, Chicken Little, We Should Have Listened

I bottle up my political views most of the time, but every now and then they start screaming to get out. Here comes one, now.

Chicken Little sacrificed himself in an effort to get the word out, warning his neighbors of serious danger. His sincerity won over a few of his neighbors, who joined him in the valiant march to alert his governmental officials. Depending on the version you read, he is either devoured by a predator who pretends to take his side, or he reaches the ear of the government officials, who decide that they know better than Chicken Little -- he is, after all, only a common flightless bird. Either way, the reporters who tell the story paint Chicken Little and his followers as idiots.

Prior to the signing of this STINKING healthcare law, there were common men (and women) screaming all over the country that it was a disaster waiting to happen. But the Democrats sang, "Oh, no, sillies! The sky isn't going to fall; we're going to have a nationwide apple orchard, and everyone will have their fill!" And the liberals and the media rang their little Pavlovian bells, pointing fingers and saying, "Look at silly Chicken Little!" Some who wavered on whether to go along with it were promised extra trees in their districts in return for their support.

Now, here we are a couple weeks in, and it seems like every day another little piece of sky hits someone on the head. The media keeps trying to tell us it doesn't portend anything serious -- you don't want to be so naive as to follow Chicken Little, do you? -- but people are noticing that when the government says, "It was just an apple!" there aren't always any apple trees around.

And you know, it won't be long before people start to realize that the wonderful nationwide apple orchard is planted with only crabapples. (I think Congress may be starting to realize it themselves, now that it looks like they've managed to unwittingly eliminate their own Unlimited Apple Pie for Life program.)

I just pray we get this sucker repealed and quickly.

Another 10 Minute Writing attempt

The screen door banged shut when I came in from the back yard. I don't know why I was out there, perhaps to look at the magnolia tree. I noticed today that the top buds were looking purplish, instead of the fuzzy green of the earliest spring. It is exciting to think that the new growing season is upon us. There are tulips in the front yard again, and the very first blooms have already disappeared. In fact, they disappeared rather quickly, and without fading, so I wonder whether someone admired them a little much and removed them when I wasn't looking. That wouldn't be hard to do, as I rarely even look out the front of the house. The windows on that side are all covered by sheers, and whenever I touch them I think of my mother telling me not to touch the sheers, as they will get dirty and they are a pain to wash. It is too hard to see anything through them, and so I look out into the back yard instead, which currently is in the early spring flood stage. At least so far this year, we've not had ducks swimming in the flooded yard. The first year we were here, I looked out back and there were two or three of them swimming on the lawn. We really need to unplug that drain Jim says is back there.

I love to see the flowers but I don't do much for them. I have noticed that there is new growth on my rose bushes, and I am excited to see what they will do this year. Last spring I trimmed them back before they started to come to life, and this year I didn't; it will be interesting to see if they do better or worse than last year. The fact is, I am a garden numbskull. I don't know what the flowers need or don't need, and I don't really make the effort to find out. I don't even know what I have. I mean, there are some tulips out there, and last year I thought I had a few... stalled out, can't think what they are... buttercups? I think that is the name. Yeah, I'm going with it. No buttercups popped up this year, or at least they haven't bloomed yet. Which is odd, I think, because don't the buttercups usually open up first?

My first little flower looked like a lovely short purple tulip, and soon a second bud opened near the first. There was a tiny little yellow flower a couple of feet away from the purple flower, and all three are now gone. It is odd that they just vanished. There are still leaves from the purple one so maybe it will grow back next year. I didn't plant any of these things, so they are all bonus flowers to me. I didn't earn any of them.

The magnolia tree is definitely the crown of the yard. I love it when it blooms. Katie's bedroom has the only upstairs window that looks out over the back yard, so I call it her magnolia tree. It has the loveliest purple and lavender blooms, and the groundhogs like to eat any of them that grow low enough for them to reach. The tree is so pretty when the blooms are out, and then the leaves come on before all the flowers are gone, and it is even prettier. It seems that it blooms again in the fall, which I find particularly nice.

Write a little every day...

I think every well-known author who has ever given an interview directed toward wannabe writers, like me, has advised, "You need to write a little bit every day." The difference between a dream of being a writer, and a goal to become one, is probably that very thing. I am still a dreamer.

There is a commercial for AARP right now with a bunch of "older" people talking about things they want to do "when I grow up." I have rolled my eyes at this commercial a number of times, thinking that waiting until they are "grown up" to start working toward these dreams is such a bad idea. And then I remember that last year, my birthyear fit in the "if you were born between __ and __, you qualify for such and such senior life insurance..." And I too am still dreaming, not taking serious action toward making my dream come true.

For that matter, my daughter seems to be making more progress toward it than I am. She writes a little every time she gets her hands on a writing utensil: a little on her brothers' homework, on her own books, on her clothing and skin, on the walls, the fireplace, the furniture... Perhaps my little girl will be published before I am!