Please visit me at anniemaier.wordpress.com and wordjunkies.wordpress.com (no 2!)

Thank you!

Annie M

Okay, it’s not the next day. Still, I have more to say on the subject.

Anyway, when I told Mom Uncle Richard was in town, she reacted with simultaneous joy and anger. How wonderful! Why hadn’t he called her himself?

I decided to ignore the anger for the time being, figuring it wouldn’t help at that point to remind her the state of her relationships with her siblings. Instead, I focused on the joy. We (I) called Uncle Richard and told him yes, his sister would love to see him – and then I handed her the phone.

To say I will never understand my mom is probably an understatement, but after five years, she greeted her brother as if they’d talked yesterday. They laughed, they joked, they bonded – while I sat contemplating the fact that despite my love for everyone involved, I was an outsider. The go between. When they finished a few minutes later, she hung up.

“So,” I asked, “are you going to see him?”

“Sure.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, he’s going to call later.”

Now, call me crazy, but if it had been my brother, I’d have been at his hotel 10 minutes after hanging up. But then, I’ve never gone five weeks without talking to Eric, much less 5 years.

“Do you want to go now?” I prodded.

“No. He’s here for a week.”

Alrighty then.

Two days later, Uncle Richard called me again.

“So kid, where the hell is you mother?”

“I don’t know. At home? Why?”

“I’ve been trying to call her for two days, and she hasn’t answered her phone.”

See, that’s another thing about my mom, she doesn’t answer her phone. I promised Uncle Richard I would track her down and hung up. The great thing about Mama is that she only doesn’t answer when she knows the person calling. Strangers she’ll talk to anytime. So when I can’t get in touch with her on my cell phone, I cheat, calling her from my home phone – a number she never uses and so doesn’t recognize. It works every time.

A few minutes later, I was back on the phone with my uncle, determined to get him and my mom together before the week was up. It took a few more calls and 12 hours for everyone to think things over (What things, I wondered. Why couldn’t this be simple?), but the next morning, I picked up mom and we headed over to meet Uncle Richard.

We planned to have lunch at Showmars, not fine dining, but friendly and within walking distance of UR’s hotel. Mom and I pulled in as he was walking down the street. He’s had two heart surgeries since I’ve seen him, and I couldn’t help but notice how tired and drawn he looked. Mom, who hasn’t seen him in years, was equally surprised, but true to her nature couldn’t admit why. Instead, she covered her real concern and absence in his life with a triviality.

“Oh!” she said. “He’s bald! I don’t like that.”

“He’s not bald, Mama.”

“He looks bald.”

“Nope.”

“He looks older.”

“Five years and two heart surgeries will do that to you.”

“Two heart surgeries?”

I ignored this plea of ignorance, hopping out of the car. After hellos and hugs had been traded, we headed in for lunch. Looking around at the spare restaurant – the billboard, counter and waiting cashiers – Uncle Richard said “What the hell kind of joint is this?”

He had chosen it, on the advice of his wife, my Aunt Judy, so I didn’t want to say anything disparaging. “Um, well, it’s nice enough.”

“Really? I try not to eat in places where you line up like cattle to order.”

“Oh. Would you like to go somewhere else?”

“No, no. You said your mama likes it, that’s good enough for me.”

So, up to the counter we went. Mom ordered her usual fish, I ordered a vegetable pita and Uncle Richard – he ordered a Jack Daniels. And this is when I remembered just how eccentric the Shirleys can be. How loud, and wild, and unruly. When the girl told him they didn’t have alcohol, Uncle Dick said, “No problem, I’m not suppose to drink anyway.” I exhaled. Then he looked at her partner, a young man of about 20, and said. “What about you? She says I can’t buy a drink, but you must have a joint you want to sell.” 

In a second, I flashed back, remembering my cousin’s high school graduation. The party was at a nice hotel and everyone was on their best behavior. Until that is, my grandmother, Nanny Shirley, tried to sell my cousin’s friends drugs from her coat pocket. ”Want to buy some coke,” she kept asking. To this day, I have no idea whether she really had any, but with Nanny, nothing was impossible. As I had then, I simply smiled - and tried to act like everyone went to Showmars to buy pot. Fortunately, the kid behind the counter took it well, saying only “Huh, I wish.” We got our food and sat down.

When I was little, Uncle Richard was the only one of Mom’s siblings who would drop by unannounced. He’d bring his guitar and he and Mom would sit at the kitchen table talking and singing for hours. One of my fondest memories is falling asleep to the sound of their murmured voices and music. It was great to have him in Charlotte, to see him and Mom laughing and happy. As happens, their talk turned to the past. All three of my uncles served in the military –  Uncle Richard and Uncle Wesley in the Army, the youngest (my uncle Baba, or Rodney) in the Navy. For hours that afternoon, Uncle Dick talked about the years they spent in the service, including time in Vietnam.

I won’t go into the details, but I will say, this is what I love about lazy lunches with family. Back when I was a kid, no one much talked about the war or my uncles’ time in the service. The sum of what I knew was that Uncle Wesley and Uncle Richard got out as soon as they could, while Uncle Baba made it his carrier, spending 25+ years on various submarines, travelling all over the world, and getting married in Korea. As I sat listening to Uncle Richard’s anecdotes, each one sprinkled with hilarity, profanity and wisdom, I saw a side of him I had never seen before. His love for life and for his brothers was palpable.

As he ran down a list of the countries he had been to, I asked him if he was glad he had joined the service.

“You know, I am. I was just a dumb shit from Capital Heights. I’d never been outside a paper bag before then.”

And so it went. I knew I had hours of work ahead of me, but I couldn’t bring myself to end the afternoon. Instead, I sat quietly in that orange vinyl booth, absorbing the rhythm and solace of my childhood, happy to have even a small faction of my family together again.

My uncle called me last week. I haven’t spoken to him in a year and a half, not because anyone was angry, but because the last time I called I had to tell him his sister (my Aunt Nokie) had passed away. He took the news very hard and I managed to forget that death and sadness weren’t my personal responsibilty. As a result, we haven’t spoken since. (He doesn’t call me, as it is a personal rule of his not to call anyone younger than him. This is entirely in keeping with the fact that he is a Shirley (my mom’s family) and Shirleys are nothing if not eccentric (Hey Oot! My sweet pea! My sunshine! My bundle of energy and light). It’s one of the reasons I love them. It’s also one of the reasons they make me crazy.)

My mom has a rule of her own. She doesn’t call (visit, speak to) anyone named Shirley. No siblings, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, etc… She talks to my brother and I, sporadically (I think because we’re technically Rizzos), and her granddaughters. Period. This has been a recurring theme in her life, but this time it’s been about five years since she’s conversed with her family. A few years ago, I decided it made no sense for me to  follow suit, and so I try to keep tabs on everyone (except My Uncle Baba in California. I’ve only seen him about a dozen times in my life, and while I love him, I don’t know him. This makes me sad, but I haven’t the wherewithall to remedy it.). Nonetheless, we still manage to lose touch from time to time.

I’ve always felt the absence of my family. My father (even when he was alive), my mom, my brother. My dad was an only child, and because of a deep and abiding rift in his extended family, I’ve never known any of my Rizzo relatives. Some of them came to my wedding, but they were there more for my dad, and I’ve not seen them since. (I did have a very close relationship with his mom and aunt. They died in 1984 and 1992.) Mom’s family – her mother, six siblings and their many children - are the only extended family I’ve ever had. Because they were in and out of our lives,  I often went huge lengths of time without seeing or hearing from them.

So I was both elated and alarmed to hear Uncle Richard on the other end of the line. He sounded great, though, hailing me as he always has - ”What’s up, Lucy Brown?” (I’ve no idea why he calls me this, except that all Shirleys have at least five nicknames. Not counting the names I’ve been given by Eric and Dad, I am or have in my life been Louie, Lurch, Loo Loo, Me Ooch and Ewtie Pewtie – that last one even has a song. I’ve also been known as Pumkin, but this doesn’t count as I think every child in America spends some time under that moniker. Uncle Richard is, however, the only one to use Lucy Brown. He somehow escaped the nickname curse – I think because he had the misfortune of spending the first half of his life as Dickie.) Anyway - what was up was that my aunt and uncle were going to be in Charlotte for a few days and wanted to see my mom. I don’t mind being the go-between. I have in fact been pleading with my mother to talk to Uncle Richard for years. But I was terrified of having to confront her yet again with him waiting down the street to find out if she would see him. How in the hell, I wondered would I tell him if she refused? 

At this point in the story, I realize I have far more to say about all of this than I thought. I have reams of homework waiting for me, so the rest of this story will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, I will say – Mom didn’t refuse. She acted like I had lost my mind for thinking she would. For about the zillionth time in our relationship, I almost fainted with relief, realizing that I had once again misread my mother’s complex and ever changing mind.  

As for the first - school is everything I’d hoped it would be plus about 100 things more. I’ve already learned more about the craft of writing in three weeks than I’ve learned in three years of reading books, attending workshops and going to conferences. That’s not to detract from the other things - they’ve been wonderful as well. But I’ve wanted this for so long – to have it turn out as great as it has is amazing. I’ve wanted other things in my life equally, but then gotten them only to think – hmmm, what was that all about? Or even worse, to think GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS!! (For those of you who know me, think Connecticut. Those of you who don’t, think Connecticut – cold, lonely, setting sun at 4pm, freezing in winter, gray in summer, and when the sun does come out the humidity is 100% and the black flies are frenzied! Not my favorite place to live.) School is different. It’s demanding, challenging, in my face confrontation of 90% of what I know. About writing yes, but also about politics and activism and me. Looking back on November and December, I can only smile, knowing I chose well. I may be in the early stages, and things may not always seem so rosy (talk to me when my thesis is coming due… AHHHhhhhhh!) but I don’t think so. I feel the rightness in my bones. I go to sleep exhausted, my eyes red and bleary, too tired to read more than a few paragraphs of my bedside book, and I sleep like the dead. This is a good thing. 

Add to this pleasure the absolute joy of coming home from my last trip to Maryland feeling good instead of sad. I can’t explain this, except to say two things were different about this trip. One, I got to spend a day with Lauren all to myself – a treat almost unheard of lately. We slept late, went to DC, had lunch at a perfect, bustling, loud, sunny, tasty, French Bistro, perused the stacks and stacks of books at her favorite used book store (Capital Hill Books – it is amazing!), sat in a coffee shop talking about life and love and dreams and words, and then went home to make dinner for the family. It was a perfect day. Just as good, we had spent the day before with Eric and his family celebrating his 50th birthday. And again, I had them all to myself! (Really, I’m not a selfish person, but it really is a lovely gift to get to have the people we love all to our selves now and then.) We spent the day just talking. The tv was on, but no one was really watching, instead we were laughing at Charlie, talking about life and celebrating Eric. And that felt so good. Riding the train home that Tuesday gave me plenty of time to bask in how fortunate I was to have such a family, such a life. A few days later, there were emails in my inbox from two of my nieces – one Rizzo and one Maier. The Maier niece is eleven and writes short, breathless bursts with random punctuation and lots of questions (“I guess ok well I have to go. How was your weekend?? Did you have fun?? Where are you right now?? I’m home and I’m about to do the dishes I think. (BYE)!!!!) The Rizzo niece is 20, studies poetry and writing and wants to study at Oxford this summer. Despite being brilliant and beautiful and all grown up, she still calls me “Auntie Annie.” I could just weep. A good weep, that is.

And then there’s this blog. Some members of my critique group and I were talking about how lonely it can get out here. You type, type away and when you press enter your words fall like weak neurons unable to make the next synapse down down into the abyss. It’s very disconcerting. I do have a few readers, though (like Romper Room: “I see Lauren and Russ and Jerry. And there’s Maureen, and look, is that Caity? Hello my friends!) and as Lauren says if you’re going to have a blog it comes with some responsibility to visit now and then. So here’s my thought. Even if all I post is some discussion from class, I’m going to aim at once a week. Daily is ridiculous. I don’t have that kind of time, and I certainly don’t lead the kind of life that would make that worthwhile for anyone happening upon 2wordjunkies. It’ll be fun. A challenge!

The general consensus in the media and around the web is that 2009 ended not a moment too soon. Being on the cusp of a new age (Aquarius), seems to have unglued not only our culture at large – beginning with the spectacular crash of our economy – but also any number of my friends. I am, it seems, on the lucky side. No illnesses, physical disasters or emotional meltdowns befell me. There were a few close calls, owing more to my general lack of human engagement than to any one occurrence, but nothing lasting and/or insurmountable. Beginning with Obama’s inauguration in January, my 2009 was a reasonable success, filled with the usual amount of upheaval and promise.

 Now it’s 2010. We’ve survived the waning darkness and are about to embark on a new decade. I’ve never been much for making resolutions, being of the belief that transformation can begin at any time, and have not made any plans for sweeping change in my life. I have goals, of course, and ambitions for my present and future. I want to be a better person – more compassionate, more aware, more present – and I want to do well in grad school. I’d like to write more, say more and maybe even publish more. I don’t plan on gaining any weight, nor losing any – though I wouldn’t complain. Getting my arms straight up over my head in yoga would be a bonus. Discovering the cause for the pain in my shoulder would engender a level ecstasy heretofore unheard of. But I’m not holding my breath. And money… I don’t believe in money – which might explain why I don’t actually have much of my own – but maybe there’s a “regular” job in my future. Who knows?

 These are not resolutions, however. They’re intentions. Some I know I will accomplish, others I’m not so sure. (Writing and school are, barring any unexpected brain hemorrhages, within my control. My shoulder, on the other hand, is up to some illusive combination of culprits and cures, including but limited to the gods of aging bodies, my chiropractor, my yoga teacher, my commitment to Qi Gong and exercise and the amount of time I spend hunched over my computer.) I’m not putting myself on a deadline, and I’m not promising anyone, including me, progress. I’ll just take it a moment at a time, doing what I can where I can and accepting the rest. My body is a remarkable tool, letting me know when I can rest and when I need to do more. If I remember to listen, it’ll be a great year.  If not, well…

As for waiting – there’s been no word from Naropa. Registration starts today, but I can’t access their web-reg until they issue me an ID and password, which they won’t do until Wednesday. Classes begin on Monday and I have no books, no classes, no way to move forward. I’m doing everything I can to breathe through this delay, trying to trust the process and not question why in the hell they’d make me wait until Wednesday to register for classes while telling me I’ll be screwed if the ones I need are full. Ah! An opportunity - my first of 2010.  Breathing in, breathing out. In… Out…

Happy New Year!

My number one follower, advisor and critic assures me that no one will ever read my blog if I’m not more consistent.  Part of me agrees -hibernation isn’t all that exciting after all, in bears or in blogs. And anyway, what kind of writer am I if I allow a lack of inspiration to affect motivation? But see, that’s where another part of me disagrees. I could show up day after day, writing with or without direction – but isn’t that what a journal is for? And who in their right mind would want to read such drivel? There might be a pithy observation from time to time, maybe even a juicy bit of personal confession, but for the most part, my internal musings are pretty lame. So, I’m torn. (This isn’t an unusual state for my brain to be in; I spend way more time going back and forth with the voices in my head than I do conversing with live people.) To daily blog or not to daily blog?

Anyway – onward. The holidays are over. Cards have been sent, gifts have been opened, food and alcohol have been consumed. Lauren is back in Maryland, my husband is back at work and I am back in front of the page. And what conjurings appear this 28th day of December? Well, yesterday was my birthday. Though I no longer count the years, I still enjoy the bit about presents and cake. I won’t go into the whole boring spiel about close-to-Christmas birthdays. Suffice it to say it is all true. Growing up, my parents generally marked the occasion of my birth with a Christmas present, wrapped in Christmas paper and handed over on Christmas day. As an adult, things don’t always feel so different. One year, my husband, daughter and I were on vacation and forgot the day entirely. When AOL reminded us, (“Hello Annie! Happy Birthday!”) Billy ran out and bought me a Ho-ho and stuck a match in it. They had to sing really fast to avoid setting the hotel room on fire. Yesterday was better. We went to lunch at my favorite place (Intermezzo in Charlotte.) and then saw a movie. There was no cake (no one understood why the idea of sticking a candle in a three-day old Christmas cupcake upset me), but there were presents, and my daughter, for the first time ever, picked out a card just from her! Nice touch that. Plus, I think she reminded my brother because he remembered for the first time in years. Which is all to say – it’s not the birthday that matters, it’s feeling like people care. 

Which brings me to distant longings. Lauren was able to come home for Christmas – the first time she’s been here in close to a year. We had a wonderful time, baking and shopping with my mom, baking and laughing, baking and talking about life. The only downside was not being in Maryland. This wasn’t so bad in itself - Maryland is a bit frightening at any time of year, but especially in December when the sky is a sloping gray and the air is either cold and dry or cold and sodden. What was bad was not being with the rest of our family. Particularly my family. My brother and I have always been close in the way of the troubled children born to troubled parents. Although Eric isn’t one to call or write or even talk to me when I’m in the same room, he is the only other person in this life who can understand my childhood. Nearly two years separate us, but in many ways I feel we are twins. Not in looks – Eric favors the Rizzos while I am Shirley through and through - or temperament. And certainly not in ambition, but in something deeper. Something I can’t even begin to explain. Just hearing his voice can lift, or shatter, my day. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of miles between us – mentally, physically, philosophically. Staying close, loving someone despite distance, is damned difficult. Particularly when that someone would rather kiss a snake than pick up the telephone. I keep at it not only because he is my brother, but also because I have a guilty conscience. Eric has Parkinson’s. I should be there, but I’m not. I’m here where life is sunnier, warmer and easier than it ever was in Maryland.

In Honor of Joe Rizzo (December 6, 1936 – May 27, 2005)

Yesterday was my father’s birthday. I still miss him, but I’m glad he’s at peace, whatever that looks like. Sadness comes and goes, along with my notions of death. Mostly, I invision him as floating around with me – little particles dispersed in the eternity of air and earth and water that surrounds us all. As comforting as that idea is, the whole invisible thing is a drag. I wish I could see him if even for a moment, to make sure he is okay and that he could hear me when I talk. And if he could, what would I tell him? How much I love him, of course. But that’s an involuntary reflex generated by loss. One thing my father never had cause to doubt was the love of his children. (If I couldn’t sit here and know I did everything I could to communicate my love to my father, I would never accomplish another thing. I would be too busy consuming and being consumed by remorse. Not being a huge fan of regret, I try to keep that in mind.)

So, what would I say?

 I would tell him that life is short. That blood pressure is still undervalued and Rizzos are not inherently unlucky. I would tell him he deserved every bit of love he received in this life, and more. That death isn’t, I hope, as bad as he expected. That Lauren and Cat and Bon are doing great; Eric less so. Mama is Mama – that shouldn’t surprise him, and hopefully my saying so would no longer anger him. Finally, I would tell him happiness is not impossible.

My dad was a silent man, though, in the manner of those uncomfortable in their own skin. We share that, and the sharing made conversation between us sporadic and trivial. I don’t imagine he would care much for post mortem postulations any more than he did pre-death small talk. In my dreams, whenever he reappears, healthy and unchanged, it’s always with an air of nonchalance. No one comments on his long absence or on his former illness. It’s not that I don’t recognize both, I just decide to leave well enough alone. “He’s back,” I think, and that is enough. Sometimes, at the end of the dream, he gets sick again. Sometimes I realize I am dreaming and that he is dead. Even then, I don’t comment, I just watch to see how he takes the transformation. He doesn’t usually take it well. Neither do I. In this life, my waking life, any words would depend on time and circumstance. If we had a few days I’d say too little; a few minutes and I’d most assuredly say too much. Caught unaware – Daddy, hey, what are you doing here? – there’s a good possibility that I wouldn’t say anything of consequence. So, how’s it going? See anyone you know floating around the universe? If, implausibly, death had changed him, made him relaxed and confident, I’d let him take the lead.

But maybe none of that is important.

Maybe all I would really need to tell him is Happy Birthday, Pate. Hope you’re enjoying the afterlife. 

Being in Maryland this past week, I was reminded of two things: how much I miss my family and friends and how depressing I find the area of my birth. Prince Georges County is perhaps the most misbegotten stretch of suburban decay in all of America. Buildings sag and crack, cars rust and whine, roads heave and buckle, strip malls fade and eventually fall down only to be replaced by newer, no less decrepit generations. And everywhere you look people appear stricken. miniature mirrors reflecting their inanimate surroundings - mothers frown in line at the grocery store with raw-faced toddlers at their sides; men idle on sidewalks and at gas stations, arms and faces as slack as forgotten laundry; students, city workers and tourists watch for trains with heads bent low over damp newspapers and battered cell phones. Overhead, the sun refuses to shine, hung low in a sky laden with sadness and unshed snow.

And yet, it is home.

Although I don’t actually like Maryland, I’m comfortable there in a way I’ve not been able to replicate since leaving in 1995. I’m not sure, and it would take hours of therapy I can’t afford to find out, but I think this has more to do with my present life than my past. Although not rural, my current house in Fort Mill, South Carolina is miles from any type of excitement. My neighbors, all younger, perkier and blonder than I’ll ever be, have toddlers and responsibilities I can barely remember much less relate to. We speak, but superficially. Friendship is, it seems, out. For entertainment, I drive half an hour to meet other writers, go to the movies and take piano lessons in Charlotte. Yoga is twenty minutes away, as is Qi Gong and the nearest coffee shop – which because I can’t stand the silence of an empty house, is where I work. About the only thing I do that doesn’t burn half a tank of gas is cook, garden and play Super Mario.

Maryland is different. I was born there, went to school there, worked got married had a child lived there for 32 years. In addition to my brother Eric and his family, my aunt and uncle are there, as are my cousins, neices, sisters-in-law and several good friends. I still go back to my old job, drive by my old house, buy soap at the Smile Herb Shop and eat barbeque at Red Hot and Blue. Although the area is depressing – it’s in a way I’m familiar with. A Rizzo/Shirley relatives-living-in-trailors sort of way. That’s where the past comes in. My father (a Rizzo) was a hard-working man of great compassion and lousy judgement. He was also the most unlucky person I’ve ever known, starting with the day he was born as an only child to parents obsessed with children and ending the day he died a wrenching, painful death. Still, my brother is a close second. In spite of being warm, funny and smart – he never found his niche and so he flounders. As he stumbles about looking for a purpose in this world, drunk drivers smash into his car, termites infest his termite-proofed house and strays from three neighborhoods down limp to his door bearing diseases and kittens and begging for food. His wife and kids love him, but it seems to be against their better judgment.

In an attempt to explain and thus refute his many misfortunes, Eric developed a theory about fate based upon a trio of dots. There are, in this theory, three levels of luck in the world, all with a corresponding dot. Red signifies really good luck, the kind associated with fame, fortune and a good chin. Tan signifies reasonable luck, insuring that the bearer will land a decent job, marry well and sire/birth talented though not exceptional children. Black dots, Rizzo dots, signify horrible luck – leading to dead-end jobs, various forms of mental illness and/or jail. According to Eric, all Rizzos labor beneath the black dot. Although no Rizzo can aspire to a red dot, they can – as I did – marry one and thus attain tan status, increasing the likelihood that drunk-drivers, termites and starving kittens will pass them by.

Eric’s theory has, over the years, proved remarkably reliable, one might even say self-fulfilling, with the only exceptions being our children – all of whom have genes only lightly tainted by the stigma of the black dot. Eric’s oldest daughter is brilliant, with a Phd in molecular, biological, cellular something. His youngest is a gifted and determined writer. And my daughter, a lighting technician for Wooly Mammoth Theatre in DC, graduated from college and immediately ensconced herself in a profession she loves. That all three struggle mightily with the whole social thing is simply proof of their ancestry.

Perhaps my dottage (not to be confused with my dotage) is enough to explain the nearly unrecognizable lack of self-consciousness I enjoy in my hometown. We’re all misfits in this life – normal being no more than a out-dated, poorly defined word – but as with everything, there are degrees of deviation. Fleeing Maryland so long ago, I thought to leave the gloom behind. I don’t know, though. In trying to understand my love/hate relationship with the place I still call “home,”  I can’t help recalling the words of a friend, who once cautioned me against the lure and promise of escape.

“Just remember,” he said, “you can take the girl out of PG County, but you can never take PG County out of the girl.”

As much as the idea disturbs me – I think he might have been right.

“What’s that?”

“Can I pray with you?”

Damn! Why couldn’t he have said pray for you? Even before I gave up on religion, praying wasn’t something I did with anyone.

“Would that be okay?”

I nodded, once again aware of the passing cars.

He lowered his cross. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

At his tone, which clearly said he would understand if I refused, my hesitation vanished. This was Jesus after all and a little more human (some would say divine) interaction is something we could all benefit from. “Absolutely.”

“Can I ask your name?”

“Annie.”

Without moving any closer, he placed his left thumb on my forehead and began praying. “Lord, please look down on your daughter Annie. Bless her, take care of her, take care of her family. Thank you for sending her to me today. Enter her heart, let her know your love.”

At first, my thoughts were clear, because every one of my senses were singing with self-consciousness. As he kept going, however, I lost track of his words. My heart rate slowed and I quit thinking about what Mom or anyone else might think about this impromptu blessing.

He finished, once again lifting the cross and whispering amen. 

We stood quiet for a moment and then he thanked me. Turning to go, I asked his name.

“Me?” I thought for a moment he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “I’m a John.”

“A” John. How was that different from plain John? I had no idea, but clearly there was some distinction. No matter. I held out my hand, saying, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, John.” And because he knew I was sincere he grasped my palm, holding it for what would have seemed, in the real world, a breath too long. 

“Take care, Annie.”  

“You, too.”

Climbing back into my car, I felt my face flaming. Forestalling Mom’s questions, I handed her the ten dollars, tossing the groceries into the back seat.

“Didn’t he want it?” she asked.

“No.”

“No? What kind of a nut is he?”

“He’s not a nut,” I replied. “He’s a John.”

Or so he said. I’m thinking he was a Jesus.