Mortification

I was in high school when I decided to keep track of how often I embarrassed myself. After a year of tallying, the average was at least once a week. Tactlessness, ignorance, misunderstandings, and misconceptions hounded me in my interactions with everyone—friends and family, classmates and strangers; but I figured that my options were to never step outside my front door, or to accept the awkwardness and do the best I could. 

The other day I embarrassed myself in the worst way, and it happened because of balloon pants. For those who don’t know, balloon pants are baggy and gathered into a cuff at the ankle. Mine are a lovely buff, soft faux suede. I’m very fond of them. The cuffs drape beautifully over my black boots—oh, and I’m fond of them, too. I made the pants, and the fabric was a joy to work with. 

So, Easter Sunday. The service is over. I float on a lofty cloud, spiritually refreshed, taking comfort in the fact that, for a time at least, I’m in a state of sanctity. The priest gave a good sermon and I want to tell him so. I like it when others tell me I did well, so I figure other people like it to. 

He stands outside the door of the narthex, on the top step, a short man with warm twinkling eyes, wishing his congregants well as they depart. Then, as is the way of things, people move to the side and laugh and talk amongst themselves. The sky is the brightest blue and the air is crisp with a hint of warmth. Spring’s been late in coming this year and I’m pleased to welcome it. 

When I stand before our priest, I say, “Hey, Dave, good sermon.” That’s all, just a simple compliment from behind my mask. And I move on—only the heel of my beloved boot catches in the gathers of my beloved pants as I step away. 

Gravity takes me. 

Falling down a couple of stairs in front of a crowd of proper churchgoers is humiliating, but even more humiliating is what I shout as I’m helplessly falling, which is “SHIT!”

A woman rushes to help me to my feet.

“Please tell me no one heard that,” I plead as I scramble to a squatting position and push myself up with my rear end looming largely. 

“What?” she asks as she supports my upper arm. “Did you curse? No, I certainly didn’t hear it.”

What a kind woman. 

Oh dear. All eyes are on me. Mouths are frozen in horrified gasps. I’ll be getting dubious looks and people will be asking if I’m okay for months. 

Mortifying, yes, but as I said, I’ve been embarrassing myself once a week for my whole life. I’m used to it.  

More significant than my pride is the spiritual aspect. Church. I go, I pray, and I ask forgiveness for all the stupid or thoughtless things I’ve done; and I recognize how I’m lacking in absolutely every area—then I’m absolved and I take communion and for a brief time I’m in a state of holiness that feels pretty wonderful.  

But it never takes more than a few seconds for me to tumble from my divine plain. An erroneous chord from the organist or a piercing note from a choir member will stir my critical nature and, without thought, I’ll send a nasty glare toward the choir. Or the man in the pew behind me will sneeze on my neck, which is disgusting and rude, and will cause me to hope that horrible things befall him. 

Shouting shit outside the church on Easter morning isn’t the first time I’ve done something appallingly irreverent. 

Once in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, at what is celebrated as the manger where Christ was born, I spit out a loud, “Dammit!” when I couldn’t get the camera to work. Right there, in one of the most holy places in the world. Though, really—and here I rationalize—how can we know for sure that it was exactly the square meter on this whole planet where a baby was born two thousand years ago? 

I’d gone to Jerusalem with a couple of friends and David had given me his ridiculously complicated camera, merrily telling me to bring back lots of pictures. There had been devout pilgrims there! People solemnly milling around in states of saintly euphoria! What kind of monster cusses beside the manger? 

Mortification. God forgives me, but the trouble is forgiving myself. I should’ve learned to control my tongue by now, but I obviously haven’t. 

And to this day I disdain cameras. Oh, my phone camera has its uses—like if I want to remember a measurement or a brand name, I can take a quick picture. But as to stopping life in order to commemorate a moment, I never do it. 

Balloon pants, black boots with a high heel. What was I thinking? How silly, how shallow. Vanity and style have no place in church. What will I do with my balloon pants?

Not nearly as cute on the hanger as when I’m wearing them. But you get the idea.

How Great Thou Art

When my sister, Resi, and I were children, maybe nine and ten years old, my mother would take us to see our grandmother in the nursing home every Saturday afternoon. Located just behind the skating rink at Tenth and Georgia, Hillhaven was a stinky and depressing place, the hallways lined with women worn out and discarded, weak, permanently bruised, slumped in wheelchairs, desperate for the energy we brought with us, and envious of my grandmother because she had regular visitors. 

Resi was a good sport about going, but I resented the imposition. Even then I was selfish with my time. My sister was patient with the women who droned on forever about their ailments; and she wasn’t disturbed by the bags beneath their eyes that had been subjected to gravity for so long that their lower lids drooped until the pinks were showing; nor was she repulsed by the massive pores of their large honking noses. 

There was a piano in the visitors’ parlor and Resi was always glad to play for them—whatever classical piece she was working on, but also songs from their childhoods; and after she finished showing off and they all went on and on about how talented she was, she would play hymns while the two of us harmonized. Oh, we knew all the oldies—Amazing Grace, It is Well, When I Survey the Wondrous Cross, In the Garden, The Old Rugged Cross.

We always started with my grandmother’s favorite—How Great Thou Art. Do you know it? The first stanza—O Lord My God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds Thy hands have made. I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, Thy power throughout the universe displayed. 

It’s a perfect hymn on every level—the melody and lyrics complement one another, and the words relate all one needs to know about the immensity of God. Every time I hear it I’m reminded of times when I felt close to my sister and had a small part in brightening someone’s day. Also, it brings to mind my grandmother, who loved my sister but didn’t like me much; probably because I told her at some point that she smelled funny; or she suspected that I tried to get away with sneaking cookies and making rude faces, which I did, because I could, because she was blind.  

So onward: David and I visited the Grand Canyon this past week and that first verse of How Great Thou Art popped into my mind because if that magnificent work of earth-art isn’t a display of God’s power, I can’t imagine what is. Of course the recollection of the hymn made me nostalgic and a bit teary-eyed because the planet offers so much that is huge and wondrous, and by comparison we are insignificant and helpless and fleeting and at times tawdry. Also, I’ll take a second to discuss the modern overuse of the word awesome. The Grand Canyon is awesome. A new pair of shoes is not. 

Because we drove, two days there, two days back, through Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, on highways bordered by abandoned homes and barns with caved-in roofs; gas stations with boarded up doors and old-style rusted pumps out front; falling-down barber shops behind faded signs; bedraggled drive-in movie screens hanging from their frames; derelict trains frozen on tracks and covered with graffiti—I couldn’t help but contrast God’s projects with the puny projects of mankind. And viewing all of these unsightly and forsaken structures, all I could think was that there should be a law. When you build a house you should be responsible for it, not just leave it behind to become uglier and uglier in a place where people have no choice but to look at it. Anyway, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say we saw two hundred of these ramshackle buildings that had at one time served a purpose but are now a blight on the landscape given to us by God.  

Following these thoughts in a logical sequence, I’m forced to contemplate the money I’ve spent and the distances I’ve traveled in order to view other old structures, worn down remnants of past civilizations—the ancient cities of Petra and Jerash in Jordan, the temples of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, The Valley of the Kings in Luxor and the pyramids of Giza, the sleeping remains of Pompeii, and every holy site in Jerusalem. And in all these locations if you stand still and listen, you can hear the wind carrying stories of the people who once lived there, which deity they worshipped, what they ate, whom they loved, and how they disposed of their dead. 

At what point does a splintering shack become a notable ruin? Who decides? Rick Steves? Eugene Fodor? Regardless, I don’t think tourists are going to be flocking to the southcentral states to take pictures of the crumbling hovels along the highways any time soon. 

As to the Grand Canyon, any human words I could use to describe it have already been used. If you haven’t been there I would strongly suggest you make the effort, even if you live on the other side of the world. A feature so breathtakingly beautiful and vast has a way of lending perspective, which everyone needs from time to time. 

Happy Easter! 

And it goes on and on and on. . .

Because you haven’t seen me in a while. Not as thin as I was before the pandemic.

Between Lubbock and Sweetwater, one of too many.

Things My Father Told Me

My father’s birthday was last month. As he’s been gone a while, the date usually slips by without my notice, but when I glanced at my calendar and realized it was his birthday, well, he’s been ambling around in my head ever since. 

I’ve communicated some unpleasant truths about him in the past. He was bipolar and often went weeks without talking to any of us. He had a prevailing personality and when he was in one of his moods, darkness permeated the whole house. We walked on tiptoe and whispered. We certainly never laughed aloud. We never knew what started the silence or what would bring it to an end.  

However, by definition bipolar means there’s a flipside; and when considering the implications of the day of his birth, my thoughts turned to all the fun he brought to my childhood. During the good times he was the most charming man in the world. He whistled classical melodies and recited poetry and, because of his booming accent and sense of humor, was idolized by the neighborhood kids. He mispronounced and misused words ironically. He always held my hand when we were out and about. And his name for me was Vagabond, which I thought was hilarious; and in the end it proved to be true. 

Because he’d known desperate hunger during and after the war, his peaceful place was the grocery store. He never ceased to be amazed by the fully stocked shelves. Walking the aisles and shaking his head in wonder, he’d declare, “There’s enough for everybody. This is the greatest country in the world.”

But mainly what I recall are his outlandish notions about things that were otherwise unexceptional. Often without foundation, and always delivered with emphatic certainty, here are a few of his inexplicable ideas:

“Do never salt onions.” My sister and I took this to mean that if you’re eating something that calls for salt—a chopped tomato, for instance—you should put the salt on the tomato before adding the onion. We struggled with the paradox. Salt getting on the onion was inevitable—so what was the point? Also, was this a universal imperative or did it apply only to Haenisches? Who came up with this rule? At any rate, Daddy said don’t salt onions, so I don’t do it. 

Another of his peculiarities was his fondness for socks. This came to light when he and I were running errands in his truck while having a discussion about the latest style, which was wearing athletic shoes without socks.

“Momma says it’s okay,” I told him.

“Your mother was raised by poor country people who couldn’t afford to keep their six kids in socks.”

“Everybody’s doing it.” 

“Never will a child of mine go sockless,” he said. 

As usual, I took his attitude to reflect that of all Germans; and from this I construed that the whole country had a bizarre affection for socks. 

His dictum about preparedness still makes me chuckle—and I have no idea where it’s from or how it originated: 

“Always carry at least five dollars in case the dog pees on you.” 

Adjusting for inflation, I always have a twenty in my purse. One never knows when the peeing dog will come. 

With three daughters to mold, he recited irrevocable philosophies concerning female grooming—for example, makeup was only for women who needed to conceal horrible skin. And coloring your hair was trashy, as were pierced ears and bright nail polish. Also, he didn’t approve of women shaving their legs. I tried it in my early teens and, due to blood loss, came to share his disdain, which is why I put the razor away forever. Don’t get grossed out. Some people are hairier than others and I’ve always thought the gold sprinkles on my legs were lovely. 

The opinion that caused the greatest unease was his pronouncement about breasts, which was that if your boobs are big enough to hold a pencil in place beneath them, then they’re too big. How disheartening. I could work with or around all his other eccentric decrees, but there was simply nothing to be done about the boobs. 

So here’s a fact all fathers of daughters need to know: If you want to make your little girl self-conscious for her whole lifetime, harp on something about her anatomy that simply can’t be changed. 

Another trait of Daddy’s was that he had no tolerance for inanity. There were TV shows I wasn’t allowed to watch because he deemed them stupid. Remember these? Man from Uncle, Gilligan’s Island, The Monkees; oh, and most especially Hogan’s Heroes, which he understandably found offensive. 

“No German is as stupid as they are in that show,” is what he said. I never doubted that he was right. 

His impatience with stupidity is summed up in this oft repeated and rather snide aphorism—and this I’ve heard from others, not just him: 

“Show me someone who smiles all the time and I’ll show you the village idiot.”

“It’s a cruel and judgmental thing to say,” from David, who has an aversion to negativity and enjoys it when people smile.

“But it’s true,” I defend. “Only a fool walks around happy all day every day.”

“You don’t believe in happiness?”

I close my eyes and channel my father, who had a foot planted on both sides of the emotional spectrum. Even during the happiest times he recognized that meeting responsibilities with a serious mind is an indication of a life well lived—and smiling for no reason isn’t. 

Thanks for the memories, Hans Georg Haenisch. I’ve enjoyed remembering your upside.

Taken at our wedding, this is, sadly, the only picture I have of my father.

Freeziness and Outages

I sleep beneath four blankets while wearing two pairs of socks and thermal underwear beneath a sweatshirt and sweatpants. 

The electricity was off when we went to bed. It’s off at five when I wake up, though I imagine it was on periodically during the night. It comes back on at six-thirty and then goes off again at eight. 

“That’s an hour and a half,” from David, who’s trying to get a handle on the situation. “That means it’ll come back on at nine-thirty.”

“What makes you think so?” I ask, dismayed by his inadequate data.  

“The grid’s on a timer.” 

Ah, the grid. Spoken with authority, but I’m not buying it. 

“It’s random,” I tell him. “There’s no timer. That’s why they’re called rolling power outages—rolling, as in bumping along without control.”

And random is exactly what it is—half an hour off, one hour on, forty-five minutes off, two hours on. How can I get through the day if I don’t know when I can watch television or sew? If this goes on much longer there will be tears.    

David’s keeping a meticulous record of the ons and offs, striving to find predictability, though my theory of arbitrarianism is proved again and again. 

In addition to all this discomfort and inconvenience, though we were warned that this weather was coming, I didn’t plan ahead, so we don’t have enough food in the house. I’m incapable of buying more than a few items at a time. My excuse is that during my formative early adulthood I carried a basket to the shops daily and bought eggs at the egg store, vegetables at the produce store, and meat at the butcher’s. I even bought my basket at the basket store. I still shop in quick raids, only grabbing a day’s necessities at a time. 

So to the grocery store we go. The streets are dangerously icy, which draws unrelenting driving advice from David, who prefers to be driven, while, at the same time, is unable to tolerate not being in control of the damn car. 

Oh no. There’s a line of people outside the store waiting to be allowed in. It’s seventeen degrees out here and the queue stretches from the door, along the length of the front sidewalk, and around the corner at the side of the building. When twenty people exit, a red-shirted monitor invites twenty people in. We join the line and huddle and shiver along with everybody else.

Masks, some. Coats, some. Lots of camouflage. Country grammar. Racial diversity, not at all. It’s Marble Falls—heavy white people as far as the eye can see. 

The woman in front of us has two children—a seven-year-old and a toddler. The kids wear coats, no hats or gloves. They jump all over the place and the mother’s wearing herself out trying to keep them under control. She envisioned a quick run inside to get a case of water, but now she and her kids are freezing and it looks like she’s going to be late to wherever it is she needs to be. She borrows a phone from the woman in front of her. I listen to the call.

“I ain’t gonna be there when I said. Ain’t no water in the hotel, so I had to stop by the store. No power neither.” She listens for a few seconds, then says, “I love you, too.”

She returns the borrowed phone with a “thanks.” 

To my surprise, David’s not the only one who’s certain that there’s a mighty guru in charge of the mythical grid. Everybody around us trusts that someone with knowledge is making wise decisions for the whole area. 

“I’m sure they’re doing what they have to do,” the woman who loaned the phone states with inflexible certainty.

“There’s definitely a plan,” from the man in front of her. 

“These electricity folks know what they’re doing,” from the mother of two. 

Where is this faith coming from? Well, I guess if I’ve learned one thing in the last four years it’s that people lack wisdom when it comes to who or what they believe in. 

David joins in. There’s nothing he enjoys more than a conversation with strangers.

“It runs in hour-and-a-half cycles,” he tells them with conviction, adding, “There’s a grid.”

A store employee comes out and shouts this announcement: “Sorry for the delay! Because of the power outages we all have to wait while the cash registers reboot.”

We all, he says; as though he’s standing out here with us. He goes back inside. And now there’s something else to grouse about. 

“You’d think a grocery store would have a generator,” from the woman in front of the woman in front of us.  

“How long does it take for cash registers to reboot?” the man behind us wants to know. 

Thirty minutes later we’re allowed into the store. 

“Get enough food for five days,” David tells me. “We don’t want to have to do this again tomorrow.”

Food to last five days? That’s never going to happen. Aside from my inability to shop in volume, I never think that far ahead. How will I know today what I’ll want for dinner tomorrow? Also, going to the grocery store is about all there is to do in Marble Falls. 

Poor David. It must be hell to put up with my quirks.

This was a beautiful tree. I’m afraid David is going to have to re-landscape the whole front of the house after this.

Dilly hates this.