Bianco Chapter 2

The Funeral

When we got back to the house with the mail, Zooley - my super annoying, "I'm so-much-more-mature-than-you" big sister - was hysterical.  She opened the door for us and, with mascara that she wasn't allowed to wear running down her face - she cry-stuttered:

"B-b--b-b" and then she grabbed my mom and cried in that way that teenage girls do.

My mom, with one hand still on the stroller, stroked her hair and said "Oh honey, I'm sure it's not so bad.  What happened?  Is it a boy?"

Zooley tried to answer and then just burried her head in my mom's shoulder again and started sobbing hysterically.  Iris, who had been chewing happily on the hair of one of Zooley's old Barbie dolls, looked back and forth from my mom and Zooley, and then she started to cry too.

Girls.

Mom pushed the stroller in over the doorstoop and, with her stroller hand, she pulled the door shut behind us all.  Still holding Zooley, she motioned to me to grab the Kleenex.  I rolled my eyes, but I grabbed the box and bought it over.

"Zoo, Zoo . . ." Mom said, "What on earth could possibly be that bad?"

After a few more dramatic cries and a big nose blow that I should have recorded on my phone, Zooley sat down in the chair and weakly stammered:

"Bart, oh poor B-b-b-art . . ." before burying her head in her hands.

I don't know what came over me.  Maybe it was the way Zooley called me Pipsqueak at the rec department in front of 6 foot tall girl-bully Stacey Jernigan, or maybe it was the fact that Bartholomew ate my gerbil Hank last year, or maybe it was just a combo of the sun and the talking sparrow, but before I could stop myself I blurted out:

"Bartholomew is dead."

Zooley pulled her head out of her hands and just stared at me, mom said "Oh honey!", and Iris began to cry in earnest.  I decided it was time to jet.

"Going over to Sam's!" I called over my shoulder as I pulled at the still moist door handle.

I was 2.2 seconds from freedom when Zooley said: "'You're not going to come to the funeral?"

I paused for a milisecond too long, and Mom said: "Bianco, I think you should stay here to support your sister."

I groaned.  I was so close!

Twenty minutes later, instead of playing Madden with Sam, I found myself in the McGruder's back yard discussing "arrangments" for an old, fat, mean cat.  Mom had given me several I-mean-business looks, so I was trying to appear respectful, but . . . the truth was: I did not think I was going to miss Bartholomew very much.

It's not that I don't like animals.  I have a boxer named Greg, and we are TIGHT.  I mean, he is the ONLY creature on the planet who knows that I wet the bed last Fourth of July (Give a guy some respect! We went to Taco Bell and got to mix our own sodas!).  Greg is awesome.  And I really liked Hank too.  He was a very cute little gerbil and seemed to really like my original rendition of Weezer's Sweater Song (my dad has super excellent taste in old music).

But Bartholomew???  Bartholomew is . . . err, was . . . a different story.

For starters, I am allergic to cats.  Everyone in my family knows this, but they STILL let him in our house.  And that cat made it his job to be everywhere that I was.  I found Bartholomew hair on my pillow, on my clothes, even in the shower.

Also, he was not very nice.  This wasn't the cute little kitty that comes arches its back on your leg and purrs for you to scratch his ears.  This was deamon kitty.  He was a scratcher, and a biter - and HE ATE MY GERBIL.

Finally, Bartholomew wasn't even our cat, but he was always at our place, begging for handouts.  He especially liked my fruit roll ups, and sometimes batted them right out of my hand.  Cats aren't even supposed to like people food!

So, I wasn't altogether sad that we woudn't be seeing Bartholomew anymore, but everyone else sure was. I don't know what Mr. McGruder does during the day, but on the weekend he makes money by playing some bagpipes he inherited from his dad at rich people weddings.  After a proper burial spot was chosen under the old oak tree, Mr. McGruder busted out the bagpipes and played the loudest, saddest song I'd ever heard.  Then Zooley recited some poem she knew from school, and Iris insisted that the Barbie whose hair she had been chewing earlier be buried next to the box containing Bartholomew.  Ms. McGruder said some prayer about cats going to heaven, and Zooley began to cry again.  My mom put a comforting arm around her.  I wiped some sweat off of my lip and tried to look solemn, which wasn't too hard since I had a headache from the bagpipes.

With a ceremonial salute, Mr. McGruder picked up the shovel, and was about to drop the first clod of dirt over Bartholomew's box when Iris, who had wandered closer to the MacGruder's porch, screamed.  Mr. McGruder dropped the shovel, dirt went flying through the air, and everyone ran to Iris.  We got there just in time to see the long black tail of a snake slither under the porch.

My mom grabbed Iris, tears running down her ashen face, and everyone gathered close - making sure that she was just scared and not bitten.  Mrs. McGruder was already on the phone, asking the operator for the number of an exterminator.  Mr. McGruder was peering under the porch where the snake disappeared, his bare legs sticking out underneath his ceremonial kilt, and Zooley - only Zooley - was wandering back to the soon-to-be cat cemetary under the oak tree.  She bent on her knees near the still-open grave and - after rubbing her eyes twice - called back to the group in a hollow, deadpan voice:

"He's gone."

As everyone ran back to the grave to see for themselves the vacant hole, I watched a sparrow hop from the tree to the nearby fence, and I thought I heard a quiet call:

Be-ware, be-ware, be-ware the night.  Barthomew is de-ead!

Bianco: The Beginning

Chapter 1:  The Warning

On the day that my neighbor's cat, Bartholomew, died, the sparrow told me first.

I was trudging up the hill from the mailbox with my mom, bouncing a basketball beside me as I walked.  I looked up just as we passed the "Summit Lane" road sign and saw the sparrow sitting there, right above the "i" --- exactly where he always was.

"Hello Sparrow," I said, just like I had for as long as I could remember.

 I turned the basketball on my hand, ready to bounce it again, when I heard it:

"Bart . . . Bart . . . Bartholmew is de -ead, de-ead, de-ead." 

I jerked my head up and looked wildly around, left and right, to see who was talking.  My mom was pushing my little sister Iris in the stroller.  Mom's face was red and sweaty, and the only thing she seemed concerned about was getting up the hill.  It was pretty obvious that she didn't say it.

I took off my favorite Chicago Bears hat and rubbed my ear to make sure that I wasn't hearing things, and then I heard the sparrow whistle.  I looked directly at him and - sure enough - he sang:

"Be - ware, ware, ware:  Barthomew is de-ead, de-ead, de-ead."

"Are you talking?" I said - stupidly, because I had just seen him talking.  The bird cocked his head and stared at me, and so I asked him again:

"Hey - are you talking to me?" 

My mom, now half way up the hill, turned and looked at me, sweat running down her nose:

"Bianco, who are you talking to?"

The bird whistled again and then - just as plain as day - he winked at me. 

"Bianco - I'm asking you a question!  Who are you talking to?"  My mom asked-ordered.

"Ummm - no one."  I mumbled, not about to tell her I was talking to a winking bird.  She already thought I made up enough stuff.

"Ok - well, catch up.  We'll wait on you,"  she said.

I took one last look at the sparrow, and he looked back at me.  I began to run to catch up to Mom and Iris, and I heard one last warning as I jogged up the hill:

"Be-ware, be-ware, be-ware the night!  Bartholomew is dead!"

Uphill Climb

Some days
Some weeks
Some years
It is all uphill
on a sputtering
volcano
without
any shoes.

At first
Days,
Weeks,
Years
Like that
Are mostly O.K.

"I'm learning a lot!"
You say,
optimistically -
sure that everything
will work out
in the end.

And then,
you get tired
of all this learning.
You just want
things to be like
they were . . .
never mind that you
didn't like the way things were
when you were there.

So you get angry.
You pout and kick and
scream and stomp
and wonder
"Why am I here?"
You start sentences
in your head like:
"If God really loved me . . ."
And then you stop the
blasphemy - but you
kind of wonder.

Then you realize that your
attitude is all wrong.
God does love you!
He wants something
better for you then you could have
planned for yourself.
That's why you are
going through all of this!
So - you make up your
mind to blaze forward
harder, braver, with more
effort and enthusiasm.
God must want you here, right?
I mean - you're here.  So this must
be the right place.  Right?

You get up in the morning
and you chant "Persevere!
Persevere!  Persevere!"
You drink your morning coffee
Your lunch coffee
Your 4 pm coffee
And your 6 pm diet coke
And you play your
"Eye of the Tiger"
- or whatever -
to give you something
to jitter to in your car.
You think great thoughts
in the shower
and at 4 am (when you are still awake
because of all that coffee)
and you are sure that
great things are
coming . . .
just around the corner.

Soon you are tired
and dehydrated
and dangerously hopeful -
and you make
a big leap,
a grand gesture,
a "Watch my perseverance
pay off!"
kind of move,
and - you fall
splickity splat flat
on your wide-eyed
face.

And you are so tired
so very, very tired
that you cry!
Right there
in front of God
and everybody (which
includes your boss
and a couple of those skeptical men
who make jokes about hormonal
women).
You replace your coffee breaks with tears
And you feel real good and sorry for yourself.
I mean, you've done everything you could do,
right?

And then you hear:
Be Still
And you think:
It can't be that simple, right?
I've been optimistic,
and mad,
and patient,
and hopeful,
and depressed.
Now you want me
to just be still?

So you try.
You try really hard.
But you're not very good at being still!
You're better at walking
uphill
on a sputtering volcano
without any shoes.

But - out of options,
you take a seat
Right where you are.
You look at the terrain
You've covered,
At the lessons you've learned,
at the hopes you've hoped
At the dreams you've dashed
And - with no other plan -
You cling to faith
And pray it intercedes.

Enough

New International Version (©1984)
"It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery."  Galations 5:1

My 18 year old cousin is a beauty:

Long blonde hair, athletic body, a smile that sparkles.
She is ornamented in a GAP top, designer jeans, shoes meant to be rugged that probably cost a fortune.

I have not seen her in months, and as we catch up she talks with me in an unfamiliar cadence, something borrowed from her friends or a movie or maybe a celebrity on tv. 

I follow her on Facebook and know about her life from her pictures and her posts.  It's a good life.  She is a sports star, a popular girl; she has had many cute boyfriends.   I am happy for her.  Any-age-teen can be rough, but it doesn't look so bad for her.  She's one of the lucky ones that has emerged on her feet. 

As we chat, I wait for the jealousy to seep in.  My own adolescence was a far cry from hers, and I am accustomed to envy on behalf of my awkward past.  I wait for it . . . but it doesn't come.  Instead,  a new thought surprises me, a splash of cold water to the soul:  I realize as we talk that I want more for her, so much more for her.

It's hard to articulate, and it sounds like judgment.  At first it feels that way too.  I barely know her.  Should I assume that she is shallow and lacking because she seems to be navigating high school with ease?  That's not really what I meant.

My reaction to her coolness is visceral but not malicious or condemning.  I know - intuitively if not personally - that my cousin has great worth wholly apart from her facade.  And what I desire is for her to know it too.  I ache to free her from the cultural constraints that demean her unwitting soul, to show her that she is enough.  Period.  And yet I sit silent.  It will be years before she is ready for my sermon.  The trouble with refinement is that it requires passing through the fire.  As all who have gone before have witnessed, no lecture or textbook can substitute for the kiln of life. 

So although I cannot save her grief, my observations reflect a plank in my own eye with which I must reckon.  How many times recently have I pled with my Father to accessorize my life with success and railed against him when he withheld?  As I think over the nature my prayers from the last few months, I am humbled by the simple realization that my Father wants more for me than my requests.  I ask for things to bolster my value; enhance my sense of self-worth.  Benevolently, my Father withholds.  It is only as I quiet my rebellion and accept my circumstance that I can hear him whisper - softly and gently - that with Him and to Him, I am enough.  Period. 

Thank you, Oh God, for the freeing of my soul!

Sunday Best

It is 8:05 am, and my son is rubbing his eyes.  He doesn't usually nap this early.  In fact, some mornings, he doesn't nap at all anymore.  We just finished a family breakfast of pancakes and fruit, and the carbs must be doing him in.  I dab at his banana-caked face with a paper towel and hastily make plans that will enable us to get to early (a.k.a. less-crowded nursery) church.

"Ok," I say to Theo, "You get the pork in the crock pot for small group tonight and jump in the shower, and I'll take care of the baby.  When you're ready, I'll shower."

My husband, who is gathering the plates and picking up a sippy cup off the ground, says, "New plan.  I'll take care of the pork, you take care of the baby.  Then you shower and get ready, and we'll swap."

I smile.  He knows me well, and he must really want to get to church on time.

I grab Collin and head upstairs for a diaper change.  On the way up, I start to hear the whiny, "I'm tired" cry.

"Can you grab me a warm bottle?" I call as I round the corner to the nursery.

A few minutes later, a sleep sacked Collin is sitting in my lap, bottle in hand.  His piano CD, which he has listened to at nap time and bed time almost every day since he was born, is playing.  He is pretending like he isn't tired, but every thirty seconds or so he lays his head against my chest.  I close my eyes, hoping it will encourage him to do likewise.  I feel little fingers in my nose, then on my teeth, then against my cheek.  I try not to smile as I take his hand and hold it gentle-firm in my hand.  He begins to relax against me, and - after a few minutes - I peek to see if he is still awake.  He is, but he is staring blankly at the curtains and sucking furiously on his pacifier.  A few more minutes pass, and he is out.

His right arm is tucked under my left arm and his body is stretched out horizontally across my lap until his legs fall off the end.  I can remember a time - not so very long ago - when his whole body fit between my arms.  Last night, I showed him a picture of himself at that stage.  I pointed to the picture to practice his name and said, "Col-lin."

He smiled, clapped his hands and says "Ba-by?!"

You're still my baby! I wanted to say.  But, instead, with feigned enthusiasm, I said, "That's right, it's a baby!," and I put him down on the ground, on two feet, so he could tot away.

My time rocking him to sleep is limited.  Most days, he can't get comfortable on me.  Right now is an exception, and I am soaking it up.  I know I need to get a move on it so we can get to church, and I promise myself I will -- in just 2 more minutes.

In the meantime, I finger his curls and think of his grandmother saying, "He is the only Lu with curly hair!"   I find the little patch of auburn - his "mommy stripe" - in his otherwise dark hair and I lift it up, thinking of how much I love every little hair on his head.

My two minutes are up and I move my hands to lift him to the crib, but there is something so special about this fleeting moment that I pause.  I know that I am making a decision between going to church with dirty hair or clean, but I am now mommy-drunk with love for this baby.  I relax my grip and settle back into the rocker.

As I listen to his rhythmic breath, I find myself wondering if God cares whether I am fixed up for church.  It seems disrespectful to show up half-dirty week after week, but things like this always seem to interfere.  My tired thoughts begin to wonder, and I find myself hypothesizing about whether Jesus would go to church with dirty hair if he was a woman in the Bible-belt South. (I didn't promise that this was going to be scholarly!).

As soon as I think the question, I know the answer.  If it meant that he got to hold on and love one of his precious children (including me!) for an extra thirty minutes, of course he would chose the dirty hair!  He endured humiliation, shame, and death so that he could save us at our worst.  A sacrificed shower seems rather minor . . .

Once again, motherhood has pointed me up.  Thanks be to God!

Growing Up in Georgia 4-H

A speech for the Whitfield County 4-H Club.

                Throughout the years, I have been asked to defend Georgia 4-H in many different situations.  From college friends who thought of it as a hick organization to state legislators who have asked me if the program is still relevant in a time of budget cuts, I have had many chances to give a list of bullet points describing the value of the program.  I have always struggled in these conversations and situations because 4-H has had such a tremendous impact on my life that it is hard to summarize in 30 seconds.  Often, after listing a few attributes such as 4-H’s ability to develop leaders and its ability to educate youth in non-traditional settings, I conclude by saying something that sounds cliché like:  4-H has made the person I am today.  Most people don’t give me an opportunity to explain what I mean by that, but I’d like to take the next few minutes to share my story with you.

                I grew up in Claxton, Georgia on a farm.  My grandparents lived right down the road from me, and I spent countless hours at their house snooping through their closets and drawers to find out more about my dad and how he grew up.  One day, when I was tall enough to see it, I found a closet shelf full of trophies.  Nana explained that the trophies were my dad’s old 4-H awards from steer shows and project achievement.  She told me all about the projects he participated in while he was in 4-H.  It sounded like so much fun!  I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to participate. 

                In fifth grade, 4-H became even more attractive.  My dad came up with the great idea that summer to put my older sister, younger brother, and me out in peanut fields every morning to weed these terrible things called citrens out of the peanuts by hand.  Every day for about 4 hours, we literally crawled through peanut fields doing this.  He paid us $2.00 an hour, but he wouldn’t let us spend the money because he said we needed to save up.   I truly hated this job!

                During the third week in June 1992, I got a break from peanut weeding to go to 4-H camp.  It was nothing short of magical!  For a whole week, I got to go swimming, canoeing, learn archery, and meet friends from all over the state.  It was one of the most wonderful experiences in my life.  After camp, I wrote a letter to my cabin’s counselor, Mac Gunnels, thanking him and all of the other counselors for such a wonderful week.  Would you believe it?  He wrote back!  He told me that he read my letter to all of the counselors at camp and that it made them cry.  That was amazing to me and was probably the very first time that I learned that something I said or wrote could have a truly positive impact on others.  He asked me to keep in touch and let him know about my future 4-H experiences.   I did.  Through most of middle school and a little of high school, I stayed in touch.  In 6^th grade, I told him about my decision to accept Christ, and he celebrated with me with the nicest letter.   During times in high school when so many of my friends made fun of that decision and what it represented, I thought of his support and how nice it was to know that someone I looked up to supported my decision.

                As you can imagine, I continued to do everything I could in 4-H because (1) it got me off the farm; and (2) it continued to expose me to the most wonderful people and experiences.   Our county agents, Mike Dollar and Tonya Beasley, seemed to ALWAYS have time for me – no matter how busy they were.  They would let me sit in their office and talk with them, often well past 5 o’clock, about whatever was on my mind.  Now – years later – I don’t remember much about the conversations, but I do remember the amazing investment in time that they gave me.  In fact, when I was making my most recent career transition, it was my county agents that I thought most often about.   I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I knew who I wanted to be like.  Because of their patience and positive support, they were names that came up most often to the top of my list.

                4-H gave me wonderful opportunities to explore things that I thought I was interested in.  In middle school, I just knew I wanted to be a veterinarian.  I asked my dad to help me with my projects on dog care and swine, and he did more than that.  One Saturday morning, he came to the house and told me to hop in the truck.  He drove over to a lot on the farm where people were staring at a poor cow that was obviously in distress.    My dad explained that she was trying to deliver twins that were co-joined at the head, and he told me to pay attention to the vet that was helping her.  Two minutes later, I was back in the truck, white as a sheet.  Without any college loans to pay back, I knew that I needed to change my future career path.  I attribute that experience fully to my involvement in 4-H and the conversations that my dad and I had as a result of that involvement. 

                After the cow incident, I switched my project to public speaking.  I spent the next several years giving speeches – first in my community, and then all over the state.  You have no idea how valuable those experiences were - and continue to be - to me.   During my third year in law school, I did an externship with a local attorney named John Williams.  As part of the externship, I tagged along with him to courthouses all over eastern Virginia.  One day, he asked me if I wanted to defend a client in a criminal trial.  Thinking I would have plenty of time to prepare with him, I said, “Sure!”

  He smiled at me and asked, “Can you be ready to go in thirty minutes?”

Let me tell you, I was scared out of my mind.  A real trial, impacting real people, in a real courtroom looks very different when you are a third year, inexperienced law student than it does when you are watching it on tv.  I walked to the client room where I was to meet the defendant for the first time, and I thought about running back to John and telling him that I just couldn’t do it.  But – at that very moment – I thought about all the times I had done public speeches in 4-H when I was scared, and I realized that if I could do that then that I could handle this case now.  I walked through the door, met my client, and conducted my very first trial that afternoon.

If you participate in enough 4-H activities, you eventually end up with friends all over the state.  I am proud to say that Keri Gandy Hobbs, who I met when we were hanging up our officer candidate signs at the Canteen at Rock Eagle in 7^th grade, Leigh Varnadoe, who I went on a leadership tour of Georgia with as a tenth grader, Kelle Spencer Ashley, who I was a counselor with at Rock Eagle, and Marcy McElveen Pugliese, who was my best Evans County 4-H friend, just threw me a baby shower last year.  Emily Howard Watson, who I planned meetings with as a fellow Jr. Board officer in middle school, now participates with me in meetings as a co-worker at the Archway Partnership at the University of Georgia.  And – to name drop a little – Jennifer Nettles, who is the principal singer in Sugerland, was my cabin’s “Milk Mama” at Rock Eagle in 7^th grade.*  With the exception of Marcy - all of these people lived hours away from me, but we were able to grow up together because of our experiences in Georgia 4-H.

I could go on for hours about my experiences in 4-H and still not be able to fully recount the profound impact it has had on my life.  As I mentioned at the outset, it has made me the person I am today in so many different ways.  And – lucky for me - my story isn’t over yet.  As my life progresses, I look forward to adding onto my story and onto this speech.  But - tonight, I look forward to learning a little about your stories and seeing how 4-H is making a difference in your life too.  Congratulations on your awards and good luck as you daily try to make the best even better.

* To be completely honest, Jennifer Nettles would have no idea who I am today.  However, we did speak one time when she told me I couldn't change out of wet socks at camp because I needed to get to a dance at the rec hall.  Fortunately, Mr. Dollar intervened and let me change my socks anyway.  At any rate, it is cool that I had one brush with someone soon-to-be famous.     

                 

                 

Mood Killer

It is an ice cream for dinner kind of day.

You know, the "why don't you take the minutes" and "could you get me some more sweet tea?"

statement-not-really-question kind of day.

A I'll-sit-in-the-spare-room-on-the-old-blue-couch-and-write-poetry kind of day.

A worse-than-6th-grade-with-unshaven-legs-in-shorts-season-kind of day.

Just thinking about this day makes my eyes water and my dog inch closer in concern.

And then ---

     my better half arrives to tempt me off the old blue couch with tidings of dinner.

I scowl at his nerve.  I'm having a pity party, for Pete's sake!

Just as a tear threatens to snake down my nose, he lifts his arms into the air and begins to flap

them in war eagle fashion.  He brings his face down close to mine and stares at me with patient

brown eyes.  I want to maintain my frown but my resolve melts as I stare back and comprehend the goofy blessing of this husband of mine.  

Stubborn, I reject his dinner and he goes downstairs as I try to continue my doom-and-gloom poetry, but all I can think of is how lucky I am and how good dinner smells.  

He reappears and tells me that he is going to eat it all himself, and I realize that I must return the favor and prevent him from self-sabotage.  After all, it is time for dessert. 

Happy Times

A very good day
is on its way
to nodding off
. . . But not me.

For the first time
Neither workout
 ------ nor wine!
Is lulling me to sleep.

What should I do?
With this new
Burst of energy?

I'd like to write
(I have time tonight!)
But my inspiration
Is rather weak

I tell my spouse
I'm without a doubt
In need of a
Poetic Muse

Without a hint of a flirt
He whips off his shirt
And grins from
Cheek to cheek.

When its all said and done
This poem's for fun
And not
Its artistic merit

But . . . who cares?
Its a vehicle to share
A fun night with
my family.