Four Crying Out Loud

My father used to have great bonfire parties in October.  In the months leading up to them, he would spend loads of time gathering old brush, fallen limbs, and dried leaves to add to the mountain he was assembling in his field. All of his friends looked forward to it, mostly because he was such an excellent host. On this night, his dining room table transformed into a buffet of appetizers, chips and dips. And his porch boasted several galvanized tubs complete with a sea of chilled craft beers just begging to be sampled. His friends, many of whom he had known since childhood, spent the evening mingling about, laughing, and drinking, their faces warm and glowing from the fire, and probably a little from the alcohol, too. When my son was three, he attended his first bonfire party. I took great care in ensuring that I was outfitting him with a true bonfire "look". I bought him bibbed overalls, a thermal shirt, and hiking boots. So many of my dad's friends were going to...

Our son, Holden, recently signed up for a lifeguard course.  I was certain that the amount of hours he would have to commit to the course would turn him away.  Not to mention that it was being held during the most glorious weekend weather we'd had in months.  From 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. each day, his mind was not on Instagram or You Tube video of BMX stunts. No, there was no time for that.  He had to be hyper-focused on compressions and breaths and making sure he called out the "tweet-tweet-tweet" of the whistle during his drowning victim scenarios. Each evening, Holden came home exhausted.  We watched him use just enough energy to eat dinner and share a little bit about that day's lesson.  He was showered and nestled in his covers earlier than in his toddler years.  Part of us felt badly for him.  He was missing movie nights, favorite restaurant breakfasts, and the spring-like weather.  He would mention it in passing, "It sucks that I can't be r...

Six months ago, our four person family was living in a one bedroom apartment.  We had been there for a year, waiting for our home to sell and to find and purchase a new one.  We celebrated every miserable holiday inside those walls.  Our bedroom was the dining room.  Our children shared a bedroom, my son sleeping on an army cot to save space.  We ate on tv trays.  We could hear every step that the neighbors upstairs took.  We heard every cry  and every argument within their family.  And they heard ours.  It was dismal.  Hands down, it was the lowest point of our lives. I don't think a day went by that we did not feel sorry for ourselves.  Poor us.  We don't deserve this.  We are so  above this.  What the hell are we doing in Section 8 housing?  I remember asking myself, "What have we become?"    I had so much anger toward God.  Driving in my car I would look up and cry out, "Why...

You startled me.  When I turned to walk up the parking garage stairway and saw you lying over in the corner, you startled me.  You didn't mean to, I know.  It's just that I'm not used to seeing anything over in that corner of the Washington Park Garage , let alone a body.   I took a few steps forward and my hand took hold of the stair rail as if to begin my ascent.  But I couldn't.  I had to pause for a moment to get a good look at you.  You were lying on your stomach, using your bag as a pillow.  My body took a chill when I thought of yours pressed against the cold, cold concrete.  Your coat was decorated with black scuff marks, dirt, and stains.  It wasn't a proper winter coat. As one would do for a cranky toddler, I began to rummage through my purse looking for something, anything, to give you.  I cupped the contents of the bottom of my purse for anything packaged, edible.  I sifted through the lip gloss, ...

My son, Holden, wanted rid of his prohibition haircut. We were in Cincinnati's Clifton neighborhood. It was late. The salons were closed.  I knew there was a small barber shop a few blocks down the street so my daughter, son and I set out to find it. It was still open.  We walked inside to find three black men cutting three black men's hair. There were two tv's blaring the Emanuel AME church massacre.  There were three black men, staring at us, with electric razors suddenly paused in mid air. It was like we were a record on a player and someone had just lifted the needle. We didn't belong and I recognized that right away. I wanted to turn Holden by his shoulders straight back out the way we came but that thought was interrupted by one of the barbers. "Can I help you?" he said. I tried to think up a lie. Ask where the nearest ATM is, ask if they had seen my lost puppy, ask if they could give me directions to the nearest white place. But I didn't lie. "...

A two foot tall snowman had been assembled on the lawn in front of our new apartment complex.  It even had a carrot for a nose.  It was the first thing we all noticed as we pulled up to the place.  The reviews of the apartment complex spoke of prostitutes frequenting there.  For a split second, I imagined a scantily-clad woman in fishnets and stilettos, placing the carrot into Frosty's head with her fuzzy-gloved hand.  My daughter quickly broke that thought by shouting loudly, "Maybe kids live here!"  I explained that this complex is comprised mostly of University of Cincinnati students, kids in college.  "Oh." she said. She held the door for us as we were moving the last of the large pieces of furniture into the apartment.  When my daughter passed by her, I noticed that they were the same height.  The two girls smiled at one another briefly.  She was quiet, hadn't lost any teeth, and was Asian.  She was on her way to th...

For as long as I can remember, he called me “Mudpie”.   To him, it was a term of endearment.   I always thought it sounded slighting, but never let on.   After he and my mother divorced, he took me for day visits one weekend out of the month.   We went to the mall, a restaurant, or to the art museum.   In the car, he would slap my knee, squeeze and say “Whad’ya know, Mudpie?”   He seemed delighted in the smallest details of my stories.   I mean, I could tell him that I found a red rock that writes, and he would exclaim “How interesting!”   The gifts always came as soon as he started the car.   I sat poised as he would reach into the pocket of his jacket and pull out a small token of some sort.   It was always a surprise.   It may have been a die cut set of Alice in Wonderland stationary or an antique gold metal razor case with a note tucked inside.   The gifts were never predictable, but always anticipated. He was a han...