Joe started Wednesday Night Tap classes again.  This is the sound we hear in our house over, and over, and over again.

I have a visceral reaction whenever I hear news about cancer.  My first reaction is typically, “Son of a bitch.”  I’m practiced at keeping these angry thoughts to myself.  I don’t have the guts to say them out loud.  Instead, I share “polite company” thoughts, “I’m thinking about you.”

My mom would tell me to let the anger out.  She battled cancer twice.  She beat it the first time for 15 years.  The second go ’round was just too hard.  But, she was matter of fact both times.  “I’m going to fight it ’til I can’t.”  And, that’s what she did.

I should have learned through these experiences to let my visceral feelings out.  My mom always told people, “I need your prayers and I’ll take your swear words, too.  Both are right at the top of my mind.”

My cousin Nancy has no problem expressing her thoughts on the subject of cancer.  She’s battled it, too.  I’ll never forget her visit to mom’s hospital room the second time around.  The first words out of her mouth as she walked through the hospital door were, “That f***ing bastard.  Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!!!”  This outburst was followed by a long embrace I imagine only two cancer survivors would understand.

So, I’ve said more than my share of swear words the past few days.  And, I’m saying prayers, too.

But, as we’re all tightening our belts for the moment, now may be the best time to think through how we manage surplus.  Better times will return.  And, we need to prepare for the good times just as we should have prepared for the bad times we’re experiencing.

Why do we need to prepare for good times?  Because, quite frankly, we Americans (and purpose other societies, too) aren’t very good at dealing with a surplus.

Prior to the Great Recession, household income (adjusted for inflation) for most Americans rose gradually, with a few dips here and there, for more than forty years.  Much of the gains were made because the percentage of people living in two income households has increased.  More than forty percent of households have two wage earners.

Did we save the extra money being earned by the extra household wage earner? No.  We expanded our lifestyles to use up both incomes and then some.  Government statistics show that personal saving rates have steadily declined and consumer debt has ballooned over the past four decades.

We’re spending this money on things that past generations never imagined.  For instance, we buy bigger and bigger homes.  The average home size in the United States was just under 2,500 square feet in 2009 (down from the peak reached in 2007) compared to just under 1,700 square feet in 1973 according to Census Bureau data.  During the same period, the number of people living in each house decreased from just over three people per home to around two and one-half.

An abundance of food is another surplus we’ve bungled.  The U.S. Department of Agriculture reports that Americans spend far less on food (in home and at restaurants) in recent years than in 1970.  Americans spent about fourteen percent of their disposable income on all food in 1970.  We spend less than ten percent of disposable income in 2008.

And, we’re getting a lot more calories for our buck.  We eat meals today that are thirty percent larger than a typical meal thirty years ago.  We’ve increased our portions to fill the standard dinner plate that has grown from nine to twelve inches since 1960.  That’s one reason, according to a June, 21 NBC Nightly News report, an astounding seventy percent of Americans are overweight.  The average American today is nearly thirty pounds heavier than the typical American was in 1960.

We don’t seem to know what to do with a surplus of time, either.  Americans work (paid work, including commute, plus household chores) about eight hours less per week than forty years ago, according to a report produced by the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston.  What do we do with that time?  Young parents shuttle their children to and from abundance of activities.  But, most of us just watch T.V.  About half the extra liesure hours are devoted to this past time.

We don’t spend our time with family, friends or communities.  Robert Putnam, author of Bowling Alone, has documented that there has been more than a fifty percent drop in attendance at civic clubs, more than a forty percent decline in family dinners, and more than a thirty percent drop in getting together with friends.

Americans attend church more regularly than citizens of all but one G-20 nation, according to World Values Survey.  Yet, we don’t seem to learn the lessons we’re taught while sitting in the pews.

One of my children’s favorite Bible stories is Joseph and the Coat of Many Colors.  One of the lessons we learn from this Old Testament parable is the critical need to plan ahead.  Joseph helped save Egypt from famine by persuading Pharaoh to store surplus food during seven years of bountiful harvests.  When seven years of drought set in, the nation lived off its stores.

The current edition of Time Magazine, The Broken States of America, documents the pitfalls a society must confront when there is a lack of looking ahead.  During the go-go 1990s, state governments across the nation cut taxes and increased services.  Common sense says that’s a formula that won’t work long.  Now, states can’t afford the services which their voters are reluctant to give up — and may need more than ever.

A popular mantra is, “Live like there is no tomorrow.”  The idea is to make the most of each day because death may cheat us of another.  I understand the sentiment.  My parents both died young, which makes me want to maximize my experiences.

But, my hope is the Great Recession will teach us to take a long view and to restore reasonable limits to our bad habits of devouring abundance.  We must do a better job of learning to manage the surpluses of time, money and food (among others) we’ve been blessed to have in a nation that enjoys more wealth than any society in history.

Sometimes the best made plans don’t play out the way we imagine.  Joni is working at Alpine Clinical Research Center.  She is supervising an asthma or heart study.  I don’t remember which.  Probably a heart study because she has to be on call.  If a patient comes in to the emergency room and is eligible for the study, the call nurse has to go to administer the study drug as soon as possible.  It’s Joni’s turn to carry the pager.

I get up early to finish carry the junk — a.ka. garage sale items — from the basement to the garage.  It’s about 6:30 a.m.  Our signs along Moorehead Avenue advertise a start time of 7:00 a.m.  I can already hear people talking outside our garage door.  These are the hard core garage salers.  These are the people that like to ask questions about the junk that’s for sale and then negotiate over a price.  They are exactly the kind of people I want to avoid at any costs.  I can imagine few things less appealing than talking to strangers about how much I want for something I’d just as soon throw in the trash.

Joni brings me a cup of coffee.  Just as she hands me the cup I hear the pager alarm.  She sets down her cup of coffee.  Checks the LCD screen.  Looks at me with regret on her face.  She doesn’t even have to say the words, “I’ve got to go.”

What now!?!  There must be fifteen or twenty people gathered outside our garage door already.  A couple have peaked over our back fence and asked if they could come in early.  The door is scheduled to go up in just ten minutes.  Meantime, Joni’s already gone.  This is my worst nightmare.

I think fast.  I need someone’s help.  There is only one person who I imagine is up for the job.

Most people who know me know that I’m a strong introvert.  It takes energy for me to meet new people.  I’m not particularly good at small talk.  It’s a skill I need to practice.

That’s why it can be uncomfortable for me to take Emma to stores or parks on my own.  Emma’s not an introvert.  She likes to talk to everyone.  She’ll call toward anyone who’s within twenty feet, “Hi.  How are you?”

We went to Sears just the day before.  Emma was riding on my shoulders.  She talked to every person who passed us in the aisle.  “Hi,” she’d say.  “We’re shopping,” in case someone didn’t realize that on their own.

It’s cute when a two year old calls out friendly greetings to complete strangers in a store (at what age does that stop being cute and start being strange).  Sometimes the strangers are so enamored with the child they stop to chat for a while.  I’m fine with that.  Except, when a stranger stops to talk to Emma they usually talk to me, too.  Ugh!

Now don’t get me wrong.  I like people all right.  It’s just that I’m shy and, often, in too much of a hurry.  When I’m in a store, I want to get in get out business done.  If I want to chat, I’d rather invite friends to the house or go to theirs.

I stood in the garage — alone — like a deer looking in headlights when the idea came to me.  This is a perfect job for Emma!  She loves to talk to strangers.  And, she’s not a bad negotiator either.

It was nearly 7:00 a.m.  I ran back in the house.  We had parked Emma in front of the baby sitter that no self respecting parents speaks of out loud — the television.  I picked her up and whisked her toward the garage.  On the way, I explained what I needed her to do, “Just say, ‘Hi,’ tell them how much things cost.  I’ll be right behind you if you need help.”

I set Emma down in the garage and pushed the button to raise the door.  People came flooding in before it was halfway up.  My plan worked like a charm.

“Hi, I’m Emma.  These are some old clothes.  Would you like to buy them?  We have candles over here.  My mom really likes those candles but we don’t need them anymore.”

*    *

Circa summer 1999

Waiting for word on how Pappa’s doing at the hospital (he’s okay).

Joni, Ada Grace, Joe, Betty and John

Joni, Betty, Joe and Ada Grace ran the Mother’s Day Title IX 9.9k.  John was there for the pictures.  Ada ran the whole way (except for water breaks) in her first attempt at this distance.  Joe ran a PR of 47:24.  Joni and Betty had a lot of fun.

I enjoy my work with the Orange County Register, the Arizona Republic and now the St. Louis Post Dispatch.  For the past three years, I spend two to three days a week training reporters on new approaches to frame stories, do interviews and source stories.  It’s the travel that is getting me down.

I’m on the road ten to twelve days per month.  It wasn’t a big deal before Emma was born.  But, It’s a lot harder to maintain marital bliss when you leave your wife, who has a full time job, with a six-month old who sleeps only three or four hours a night.

The night I’m having is becoming far too routine.  My flight was delayed by two hours.  I set my bag and briefcase down at the check in desk of the Hilton.  Not all my synapsis are firing as I glance at the clock behind the desk and read 12:30 a.m.  Ugh!  I have to meet the editor at 7:00 a.m.

I mutter an inaudible, “Thank you,” and take the key card from the clerk.  I turn to pick up my bags.  They aren’t there.  I have a moment of panic as I do a three-sixty scanning the area.  Then, I see a woman bell hop, holding my bags, a bright smile on her face, motioning toward the elevators.

“How was your trip,” she calls to me in a singsong voice that matches neither the early hour nor my mood.

“I can take my own bags,” I say in reply.

“I don’t have anything better to do,” she says cheerfully.  She turns and walks toward the elevators.  I have no choice except to follow.

“Boy it’s late,” she says as if it’s news to me.  “Are you tired?”

“Hmph,” I mumble.  I hope a non-reply will end the idle chit chat.  But, she will not be brought down by my foul mood.

“Do you like to travel,” she asks.

“It’s okay,” I say looking down at my feet.

“I’ve never been on a plane,” she comments.  “Do you like to fly?”

“It’s fine,” I say not trying to mask my disinterest.

“I’d like to go to California.  I hear it’s nice there.  What’s your favorite place to visit?”

This is turning into an introvert’s nightmare.  Dog tired.  A complete stranger peppering me with questions.  Nowhere to escape.

“I dunno.”

“Have you been to California?”

“Yea,” I say walking quickly from the elevator.  I want to find my room.  Open the door.  Get my bags (why didn’t I hold onto them).  And, be alone.

More questions drift down the hall behind me.  I don’t attempt to make out the words.  I try the key card three ways in my haste before the mechanism clicks and I open the door.  She walks in behind me, without being asked, to set the bags on the dresser top by the T.V.  I’m almost free, I think as I search for a tip.

“What brings you to St. Louis,” I hear her ask for what may be a second time.

“Umm… business,” I reply.

“Oh, that’s good.  Who are you working for?”

Why do I only have a twenty, I ask myself concentrating on my wallet.  “The uh… The St. Louis Post Dispatch.”

Silence.

I’m startled by the non reply.  I look up.  Her smile is gone.  She looks toward the floor.  Her shoulders sag.

I want desperately to be alone.  But, I feel a strange obligation to learn why her demeanor changed so suddenly, so completely.  I couldn’t face people in the newsroom tomorrow without learning why the words “St. Louis Post Dispatch” sucked the happiness out of this nightshift bell hop.

“You don’t like the Post-Dispatch,” I ask cautiously.

“No,” is all she says still looking toward the floor.

“Why not,” I ask trying to look her in the eye.

“They wrote something bad about my son,” she replies softly.

Do I want to ask more, I wonder to myself.  My mind says, end the conversation here or you’ll never get to bed.  This conversation could go places I don’t want to go.  My gut says, find out what is going on.  “What did they write,” I ask.

“He was killed by a cop.  They said it was justified,” she responds in a whisper. “They just told the police’s side of the story. They never talked to me.”

I am fully engaged now.  All feelings of exhaustion are gone.

“Why did they say it was justified?”

“The police said he was just a gang banger,” she says with palpable anger in her voice.  “They said it was justified that he got shot since he’s in a gang.  But, they never even asked me,” she repeated for a second time.

I’m not sure if I want to stir up more anger but I continue anyway, “Who didn’t ask you?”

“The newspaper. They just put in the paper what the police told them to say.”

“Why did you want the paper to talk to you?”

“I want them to hear my side of the story,” she says looking up with fire in her eyes.

I feel a need to diffuse the tension.  Perhaps I’ve taken the conversation too far.  And, at the same time, curiosity has taken control.  I kick into interviewing mode.  “You know,” I start slowly. “I hear people complain that newspaper reporters harass people when they’re grieving.  Someone’s son gets killed.  Within minutes, reporters are banging on the family’s door wanting an interview.”

“People tell me reporters should just leave the family alone.  Give them space.  Don’t bother them during a difficult time.  Maybe, the Post-Dispatch was trying to give you a little space.  What do you think of that?”

“Maybe,” she says with soft skepticism in her voice.  She looks past me toward the open door.  “I think they only want to talk to the cops.”  Her voice is reflective now, “They should have talked to me.”

I try to match her tone, “What did you want them to know?”

Our eyes meet for the first time.  “My baby died that night.”  Strength returning to her voice she adds, “I wanted them to know that a mother lost her baby.”

There is silence in the room.  I have nothing left to ask.  She has nothing more to say.  I hand her a five dollar bill I managed to find in my wallet.  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.

She nods.  Walks out the door closing it gently behind her.  Just before the door shuts she calls back through the door, “Have a good time in St. Louis.”

*     *     *

I will long remember the St. Louis mother who I met in the summer of 1998.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers.

*     *     *

John Creighton  can be found on Twitter @johncr8on and on Facebook.

Photo credit: Kabils (Flickr) ]]> http://johncr8on.com/dispatches/a-mothers-child/feed/ 1 http://johncr8on.com/snapshots/the-orange-ten-speed-and-pepper/ http://johncr8on.com/snapshots/the-orange-ten-speed-and-pepper/#comments Mon, 03 May 2010 03:46:50 +0000 John Creighton http://johncr8on.com/?p=584 I coveted the orange ten speed at Ace Hardware for months.  It’s small for a road bike.  In fact, I’ve never seen a ten speed bike that is so small.  But, I’m small too — no way around that.  It fits me perfectly.

I feel a burst of pride each time I look at the bike parked by the steps to our front door.  It took me most of the summer to save enough lawn mowing money to pay for it in full.  I begged my parents to make me a loan but Mom said, “No!”  I had to pay for the bike myself.  She has the idea that I don’t take good enough care of the bike I already have — or had until just a few days ago.

The prospect of owning that orange bike is the first thing that’s really ever motivated me to keep up with my lawn mowing jobs.  Well, Mom motivates me.  Nags more like.  Every morning she makes statements in the form of a question, “Aren’t you supposed to mow Mrs. Pratts lawn today.”  No wonder she’s so good at Jeopardy.

She hasn’t had to remind me this summer.  I want the money.  I mow Pearl Pratt and Jimmy Greason — the live across the street and next door — on one day.  Mrs. Pratt likes me to mow her lawn first so I don’t bring weed seeds over.  Mrs. Hayes at Henneberger Apartments and Mrs. Henneberger — who both live near Paul’s house — are another day’s work.  Mrs. Wolf by the high school and my parents’ lawn I do on separate days.

I average about five dollars a lawn.  But, it’s not all profit.  Mom has this idea that I need to learn to manage my own business.  She charges me for gas, oil, plastic bags and rent to use the lawn mower.  She even charges me that stuff when I mow her lawn.  I don’t like it but I have no choice except to pay.  She makes me record all my revenues and expenses.  I have to show her my ledger about every two weeks.

I’m able to pick up a few extra dollars during harvest.  The older boys who drive combines or wheat trucks need someone to sub for them while they’re out in the fields.  It’s those harvest lawns that help put me over the top.

I ride every night before and after supper when I finally own the bike.  The best time to ride is between eight at night and the ten o’clock whistle when I’m required to go home.  The downtown streets are mostly empty this time of day.  All the stores are closed.

I made a circuit from my house, west on State Street, through the State Bank drive through, across the alley, wrong way through the Farmers’ Bank drive through, right on Fourth Street, right on Main, right on Fifth Street, through the parking area by Dunker’s Radio & TV, across State Street, through Currier Drug’s parking lot, east up the alley, right on Fifth, around the Christian Church, north on Sixth Street and back to my house.  I log my times in a notebook each night — when I remember; I’m not nearly as disciplined as my dad.

The joy I feel about my bike is tempered by the mood in the house.  Our dog Pepper has been missing for more than a week.

We have two miniature schnauzers.  Gruffy is the oldest.  Pepper joined the household a few years later.  We thought Gruffy might like a companion.  Alec and I are getting older and Gruffy spends a lot of time in our house all alone.  We didn’t want him to be lonely.

Only thing is, we never consulted Gruffy.  From the moment Dad set Pepper down in our dining room, he was in love with Gruffy.  Pepper followed Gruffy everywhere he went nipping at his heals, nosing him to play.  Gruffy couldn’t stand Pepper.  Four or five years later, Gruffy’s feelings have not changed.  We are all sad Pepper is lost.  Gruffy couldn’t be more delighted.

It’s getting dark a bit early tonight.  A thunderstorm is rolling in.  I love the smell of the cool air just before a storm.  I just hope it doesn’t start to rain soon.  I’m doing a full town loop on my bike.  I start going north from the high school to Highway 36, west to Highway 25, then south to the street just past Courts of Praise (I can never remember its name), back north along Second or Third (I like to ride by the pool), then back up State Street to the high school.

I’m just about to the swimming pool, checking the cross streets, when I see a small grey dog running toward Fourth Street at full speed.  It’s Pepper!  I change course immediately.  I can imagine being welcomed home a hero by my family if I can catch Pepper and carry him through the door.

I peddle harder than I ever remember.  In a matter of seconds, I’m on Pepper’s tail.  He does that sideways jump the way dogs do when they’re running and spooked. He’s not excited to see me at all.  He’s scared.  We’re almost to Fifth Street by now.  Rather turning left toward our house, he kicks it in another gear and heads back south.

“Pepper,” I yell over and over, “Come back.”  Each time I call out his name he seems to go a little faster — away from me.  It doesn’t occur to me to end the chase.  It doesn’t cross my mind that he may have found his own way home.  I try to ride faster, too.

Pepper beat me to the edge of town by a good ten yards and darts under the barb wire fence and into the pasture filled with soap weed.  I jump off my bike barely slowing down.  I struggle through the fence and begin to run.  I only go a few strides.  I’m winded and Pepper is still going full speed.  He runs without looking back over a hill into a draw.

My images of being a hero are erased by fear.  What will my family say when I tell them this news?  I blew it.  Should I even tell them, I wonder?  The six blocks back to my house are the longest I’ve ever rode.