Two Bucks Worth

What can you get for two bucks these days?

Not much, I think. Well, I used to think that. The coffee I like is more than two bucks, except for the cup of Americano when I’m trying to cut back on calories, but not the taste and caffeine of a dark roast. And, two bucks for a tip for lunch is pretty much the norm. The Sunday paper is two bucks now, at the grocery store. But, even the two buck Chuck wine at Trader Joe’s is really a buck or two more now for a bottle of cheap red. The good stuff in life usually costs a lot more.

Today, I was visiting my buddy at the youth prison. He was telling me of one of the inmates, I’ll call him Joe. It seems Joe hasn’t gotten a visit from family for the last four years, and hasn’t seen his son for all that time. The son’s birthday is coming up and he wants to send his son a photo of himself. And, the son is old enough now that he probably is a little curious about who dad is. Joe wants to let his son know that he cares about him, and wants him to remember who he is. A photo is probably the least of what a dad can send his son on a birthday.

Pretty tame stuff, you’d think. Even though this is prison and every guy here is a sex offender, it seems like pretty common sense, decent stuff. People just trying to be people, and live decent lives.

And, Joe wanted to send his mom a photo, too, just to say hi, and let her know he cares about her, and is really a part of the family. Most moms I know are really proud to show off the photos of their kids, not to mention grandkids.

But, the photos cost two bucks in prison. I’ve spent that, a couple of times, so the guy I’m mentoring can have a picture of me and him together. And, I keep those photos around, too, on the mantel, with all the other family pictures. He’s part of the family now, and a photo on the mantel just is a nice way of saying that. When people see his picture, I brag about him, and let them know I’m proud of the guy. He does that, too, with his bunk mates in his unit. I’m part of the normal part of his life.

Joe doesn’t have any money, though. He makes a big 25 cents an hour working in the canteen at the prison, but he spends all of that to help new inmates when they first arrive, buying them a few necessities, and a few snacks, making them feel welcome. At the end of the month, he’s broke, and won’t ever save up any of his wages to buy something nice for himself. I’m sure there’s some pretty sad reasons for all of that.

I guess other inmates pick on him a bit, because he doesn’t quite fit in and keeps to himself. And, I can see some pretty deep pain in his eyes, even though we’ve never talked, beyond taking orders for snacks and coffee at the canteen.

My buddy asks me if I could spare two bucks for Joe today. It would be a nice thing. Yeah, and I think I could afford that, and spend money so a dad can send his son a picture of himself for the son’s birthday.

So, we go to the canteen, right at closing time, and I ask Joe what he needs to get the pictures taken.

“Oh, nothing. I’m fine, sir.”

Yeah, right. You’re not fine and I’m already digging out the two bucks from my wallet so Joe can get a few photos taken, and send them off to his son and his mom.

Joe looks down at the ground, still mumbling that he’s fine and doesn’t need anything, including a couple of bucks from a guy who shows up on visiting days for a couple of hours, and occasionally buys sodas for all of the canteen crew.

The rest of the room falls silent, his co workers and the guard obviously knowing the story about Joe and his money and him wanting to connect with his son.

I put my two bucks down on the counter, and the silence deepens. I glance at a big burly guy, a guy who looks like he ought to be a lineman on some college football team, and I see a tear roll down his cheek. Joe is looking down at the floor, and I don’t dare say anything more to him, as he’d probably burst into tears. And, if he started, the whole room would be crying.

My buddy and I slip out the door, not saying a word, and not daring to look at each other. We’ve done something good here today, and nothing we could say now would make it any better.

Joe will get his picture taken today, and will get something mailed off to his son and his mom this week. He’ll feel good about himself, for reaching out to his family and letting them know he cares.

And, I’ll keep knowing that I’ve spent the best two bucks I’ve spent in a long, long time. I know now what two bucks can buy these days.

Neal Lemery 9/25/2011

To Forget

The list of things to forget
brought me to remember what I’d lost
and not wanted to find ever again --
to pains and aches and broken hearts
of long ago and yesterday,
all coming back.

To write it down becomes remembrance--
I try mourning, again.
The obituary
falling out of the old Bible
old and tattered, brings fresh tears.

In trying to forget, I remember again
the joys and smiles and songs well sung.
Those notes dull the pain
of what I came here to forget, but
need to remember
once again.

9/17/2011

My Aunt Was The First Buddhist In Beaver

The ship’s clock struck the hour
me on the needlepointed settee waiting
for the water to boil, orange spice tea
in delicate Chinese porcelain.

She was busy in the kitchen, finding cookies
and flower painted plates and tiny spoons
while I petted her cat, and read
the Saturday Review article she’d wanted me to see.

Next to the big dictionary on its own special table,
and her reading glasses on a long gold string,
fresh flowers from her garden
shaded the sun from Neruda’s poems.

Only the river’s quiet flow filled the house she had built by her own hand
until she came back, everything on a tray--
now we could finally talk.

Fifty years later, I open her spiritual diary
and sip orange spice tea in a delicate cup
waiting for the clock to strike the hour
and finally understand her.

9/17/2011

On the Road in Tonopah

It was on the road to Tonopah that I first knew I’d only be here once, maybe twice and I’d never be a Nevadan. Land is cheap here, and there’s lots of deserted houses to buy. Still, I didn’t think I’d be in the market. And it wasn’t just the miles of empty desert that had got me thinking that way.

The road wandered east, then north, then east, even though the signs said we were going south, promising Las Vegas in 250, then 150 miles. The hot September sun kept us warm, and maybe a bit disoriented, as we roared along the desert roads. Back a hundred miles, we went through a national forest, and once in a while, there were some scraggly dried up Joshua trees. National forest, huh? Or was that a joke of the Nevada highway department, keeping us entertained as we loped over ridge after ridge of basalt and colored rocks, and flat alkali flats, shimmering in the midday sun. Or, maybe this was just the great Nevada vortex, and we’d never escape, and never be found again.

If I’d been a pioneer here, on the way to California, I’d have died on the alkali flats on the other side of the ridge, my bones bleaching white in the summer sun, or maybe I’d have frozen to death on a cold winter night when only the coyotes howled against the moon, looking for a bite to eat. I’d have been that big bite, alright.

We rolled into Tonopah, looking for some food. We could have stayed at the Clown Motel in town but Vegas was where we were wanting to be. The big four story brick Mizpah Hotel was closed, in about 1960 it seemed, named after the big, and now closed silver mine that had made the town. Closed seemed the operative word of the year here, and maybe for the entire 21st century, as we headed down the main drag, looking for anything alive. Even the few pickups parked on the edge of the street looked tired and old.

I’d read that Tonopah got its big start when its founder was out in the desert looking for his ass,
and found a pile of silver ore, along with his long lost donkey. Tonopah wasn’t the ass’ name, but I like that for an animal name. I guess it means hidden spring, and given the absence of anything growing here, the name seems to fit.

Now the big attraction is the nearly bombing range, and the mountain where some folks want to bury all the country’s nuclear waste, and the tourists stopping by, thinking they’d missed the sign to Vegas, or Reno, or even Winnemucca, or maybe even their ass.

Our bellies empty, we were nearly through this town last really alive in the 20s, or maybe the 50s, which century we weren’t too sure. And the Clown Motel still didn’t make us change our mind about dinner on the Strip in Vegas Town.

The only place alive was Mickie D’s, Tonopah style. Not even a Safeway was around, or anything looking like a cafe. The golden arches clashed with the aquamarine tile trim, but we went in anyway, our empty bellies leading the way. Sunburned cowboys nursing their Friday night going to town hangovers had taken over the booths. The only folks in line were tourists like us, wanting only a little food so we could get back on the road and head out of town faster than we headed in.

A few blocks away, the high school gym wall was all painted up, a tough looking miner kind of guy, evil in his eye, looked over the town. He was the town mascot, and their claim to fame.
“Home of the Muckers” the letters blazed.

In my home town, we were the Cheesemakers, also known as the Mooks, the last syllable of our town’s own Indian name. There was another town, in Wisconsin, and they were “Cheesemakers”, too. But, we were the only “Mooks”. “Mooks” was bad enough, I’d thought, especially after listening to all the would be poets find their rhymes at all the high school games, until I heard of the Muckers. Not much challenge there for Nevada poets in waiting. No wonder there wasn’t much business at the Clown Motel, or anyplace else around here.

The clerk kept asking us if we wanted to eat in or have our grub to go. After the fourth parley, my buddy got a little firm with her, and asked for some bags. She finally figured it out, and we got back in the car, eager to hit the road, but more eager to just leave the town to the Muckers.

The Old Tree

As the tree grew, the new leaves in spring brought us hope. Its leafy branches in summer brought us its cool shade, a place to talk in the heat of the afternoon, as we sipped ice tea and lazed in the hot days. In the fall, its colorful leaves reminded us of the cycle of life and brought more beauty to our lives. When winter came, the bare limbs provided rough bark support for the flakes of sparkling snow on crisp days.

Over the years, the tree grew big and strong, and we took its presence in the yard for granted. Kids played noisily under its branches, and brought their friends. All too soon, they grew up and moved away. As the years passed, they’d come back, spouses and kids in tow, and children’s laughter was again heard under its spreading limbs.

As with us all, the tree grew old, losing a bit of its strength. One bitter day, a big storm cracked its trunk clear to the ground, and it was time to cut it down. Suddenly, that space in the yard no longer was filled with summer shade, or the maze of limbs sprinkled with the spring green of new leaves, or the orange and red fire of autumn.

Its thick trunk and fat limbs soon turned into a big pile of firewood, that warmed me as I split and stacked the seasoned hard wood. We were warmed again as the stove crackled and popped, during the depths of many a winter gale and early mornings, when my breath would turn white as I stood near the snowy flat top of the stump, my eye still seeing its tall, proud form.

I sat by the stump of the old tree one spring day, a new sapling in my hand, ready to plant. We needed a new tree there, in that corner of the yard, for the summer shade, and the colorful leaves in the fall, a place where kids could play and laugh. The yard seemed empty without a tree, in all its growing, in its presence in our lives.

Like many things in life, we didn’t really see the tree until it was gone, its silent place in our lives now missed, like the sound of children’s laughter after they’re grown.

I noticed the rings in the wood of the old tree stump. In counting the rings, I could tell its age, and remembered the events of our lives. And, in the counting, I saw that the big growth in the tree was in the spring and summer, when sun and warmth and water were plentiful. The thin, hard wood of the tree, its real strength, had come in the seeming deadness of the winter, when the storms and snows and freezing nights raged, when all seemed silent and lost.

As with new saplings and old wood, strength comes both in the flexibility of new growth, and the storm tested wood added in the height of a dark, cold winter.

8/29/2011

The Friendship Bracelet

“The ultimate lesson all of us have to learn is unconditional love, which includes not only others but ourselves as well.”
--- Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

Every time I visit my young man in prison, he teaches me something new.

Last week, he brought out several strands of yarn, which he had already braided into the beginnings of a friendship bracelet. He explained that he had chosen the red, white, and blue yarn for me, because he knew I was patriotic.

Carefully, he measured my wrist with the yarn, and set off to resume his braiding and tying. As we talked about his week, and his struggles with his family, and conflict with another guy in his unit, his fingers deftly braided and knotted.

He’d been thinking about our relationship, and how he had struggled with accepting a good male role model in his life, and being able to talk about his feelings and emotions with someone who’s supporting him in all that struggle. He’s figured out he can let his guard down around me, and with himself, as he names his feelings and thoughts, and now has the tools to sort through the garbage in his basement, and find some order and contentment.

He’s been wrestling with his anger, and how it has come to the surface at unexpected moments, in unexpected ways. A few days ago, he cried and wept most of the day, his emotions raw and fiery. He couldn’t shut and lock up the door to his basement, and life was messy, with conflicting emotions, feelings, and doubts.

“Who am I?” he wondered, in the midst of his tears and heartache.

The day led him into a walkabout, and the question changed to “what am I?”

The tears washed away some of the grime, and a lot of the feelings of shame and guilt, and he could see, finally, how he had grown, how he had gained the tools to sort through the garbage in the basement, and start filling up the dumpster. He gained some perspective, and could see how he’d changed.

His frenzy of braiding and knotting picked up, as he told me of his journey, his walkabout, and what he had been learning.

A staff member came by, and sat with us for a while. He’d been there for my pal, the day he cried a lot, and had helped him find his way, and sort through all the conflicting flotsam and jetsam that had cluttered up his thinking.

“We only offer tools for your toolbox here,” he said. “It is up to you to pick the right tool, and build your own house.”

My buddy nodded, a tear rolling down his cheek. He took a deep breath and let it out, his shoulders easing a bit, as a smile lit up his face.

Yes, he can see that, the wisdom of the man’s two sentences.

“Yes, my tool box has some nice tools now. And, I know how to use them.”

He didn’t speak, but we could see those words in his face, his fingers still moving in the rhythm of the braiding and knot tying. He was growing up, and he was taking care of business.

He finished my bracelet in silence. The minutes passed, and we both sat there, just taking in what had been said, and taking time to recognize where he’d been and how far he’d come, in these last eight months.

We don’t often have much silence in our visits. Twenty years of not being listened to, not being respected, and not being valued had built up a giant reservoir of experiences, and feelings, and comments. And, the eight months of sitting at this table was all about listening to him find the space where he could grow, finally, and speak his mind.

Oh, and anger. It was the elephant in the room today, and he had been able to see that, and call the elephant what it really was. Being able to speak its name was a big step for him, and he’d been able to do just that, and start becoming free.

The bracelet was finished now, and he tied it around my wrist.

“There, I finally gave you something back, for all that you’ve given me,” he said, a big grin splashed across his face.

Giving It A Name

“If you don’t have a word for it, you can’t talk about it.”

The sentence struck deep into my soul, as I munched my sandwich, listening to the meeting’s keynote speaker.

She was talking about sexual violence, how even the professionals in the field can’t seem to always communicate well with each other. She had a point, and gave us some good examples. The woman next to me, the director of a women’s shelter in Portland, agreed. She, too, found the sentence an eye opener.

My sister in law had written about the idea, trying to wrap her head around the experience she had with a young couple. She manages a cemetery and they wanted to find a plot for their young son. My sister in law asked them for the name of the funeral home and said she needed a copy of the death certificate.

When the couple tearfully told her they had suffered a miscarriage, and they just wanted a quiet place for their son, so they could come visit him, she broke down and cried with them, discovering that we need a word for some feelings, some experiences. Our world leaves some pretty important life changing experiences unnamed.

I visit a young man in prison. He’s there for seven years and he’s half way through. He’s been labeled as a sex offender, but he’s so much more than that. His upbringing, or, more accurately, the lack of it, and his life has cut him off from healthy emotions. He’s working hard to figure out his place in the world, and how to be a man. In the last six months, he’s learned a lot of new vocabulary. Using words to describe emotions is new to him, and he’s moving into a new world.

He cries more now, when we talk, digging deep inside of himself, and talking about the past, and how he’s feeling inside today. This is scary stuff, and he’s discovering new words to help him say what is really going on inside of himself these days. The new words in his vocabulary are letting him do some healthy pruning in his life, and looking at his past with some new tools. The new growth in his soul fits him well, and he’s starting to use his big smile.

I’m thinking of my prison buddy, and my sister in law, as the speaker brings me back into the room, asking us if our culture has a word for the woman who miscarries. Is she “mother”? How does she see herself now, a woman who was pregnant but now is not, and has no baby in her arms to share with the world?

The lady next to me at the meeting ponders out loud, “What about a woman who’s had an abortion? Do we have a word for that experience?”

The room of a hundred people, people caring enough about sexual violence, rape, and exploitation of people in intimate relationships, people who have traveled hundreds of miles on a beautiful August day, to sit in a room and wrestle with this topic, is abuzz. The speaker has stirred us up, challenging us to think about the words we use, and the words we don’t have, as we go about this important work.

If we, the professionals, the movers and shakers in this movement, can’t find the words, and if we struggle to find the words just to communicate with each other, perhaps we need to take a look at how we listen to our clients, and all the other people we deal with as we go about our work?

When I get home that night, I open my fat Oxford dictionary, the only book in the house that takes up an entire shelf, and look for the word “mother”. Yeah, she’s right, the scholarly description doesn’t really cover the experience of a miscarriage. Or, the scared young woman who ponders an abortion. My mental list of wordless experiences grows.

How can I describe something in my life, the experience, the angst, the doubt, the pain, if we don’t have words for what it is?

If we name it, we can describe it, we can call it out of the shadows of our nightmares, and give it recognition, give it identity. Yes, that is what this feeling is. Yes, that is what this experience is.

And, now that it has a name, we can deal with it. We have to deal with it.

It has a name.