Cowboys in McDonald's

Yesterday I drove Northwest into cattle country to do a memorial service for one of our former hospice patients named Oscar. The service was at the nursing home where he spent the last years of his life. Up front the family placed a cowboy hat and boots on a table next to a picture of Oscar, because he was an "ol' cowboy" at heart. He'd ridden in rodeos, worked on ranches in the area, and one family member even told me that he'd ridden horses with John Wayne there in Northern Nebraska. But, she told me, John Wayne was just another guy to Oscar. "He rode pretty good," Oscar'd said about John Wayne.

The chapel of the nursing home was packed with people. Most of Oscar's family was gone, but even living in a nursing home, he'd managed to make a lot of friends who loved to listen to his stories. John Denver sang out of the CD player as the people gathered. The congregation was made up of people dressed in suits and ties, others in blue jeans and work shirts, a kid slouched in the front row with a heavy metal T-shirt on and a oversized cap pulled down over his face and long hair. There were people in wheelchairs who didn't look long for this world, and a woman who was hard of hearing who said really loudly in the middle of the opening prayer, "Where's my glasses? Someone stole my glasses!"

A nurse sang a song as an offering to Oscar, a rendition of the "Old Rugged Cross." She sang from the back of the room so no one could see her because she's really shy. But her voice rang out clear and beautiful, sounding as if it were a recording of Patsy Cline. Later she blushed and thanked me when I told her what a beautiful singer she was.

Afterwards, we all gathered in the dining room and ate cookies. People I'd never met approached me and told me I did a good job, and then told me their own Oscar stories. He was quite the character. Loved a good joke and a tall tale. Loved his fast cars and fast horses. He was, someone said, "one of the last true cowboys." Others asked me if I was related to the Rush's in Western Nebraska, and I'm asked this a lot, so I said no, probably not, that my husband's "people" are from Pennsylvania.

After we left, Sarah and I stopped at the local McDonald's-- the one where just last week a man had shot himself in the head in the parking lot. As we waited in line, a weather-beaten old man approached me, wearing cowboy boots and jeans and a large belt buckle, and he, too, asked me if I was related to the Rushs he knew. When he found out we were from "back East" he said he'd been stationed at Fort Monmouth during the Vietnam War.

"Wow," I said, that' right outside of Red Bank, where I grew up!"

"Yeah, I know Red Bank. Shoot. Don't you miss them hoagies?" he laughed.

He invited us to sit down with him, and after we got our drinks, we did. We talked about the beach at Asbury Park and that he'd heard that Ed McMahon owned some property there. We talked about how you just can't get a real hoagie in the Midwest, that Subway is a poor imitation, and about how crowded it is back there. We talked about the cost of living , and how sad it is that old people can't generally stay in their own homes in Jersey like out here because you can't count on your neighbors. He told me stories of being in the military but clammed up when he said that he finally got shipped out to Vietnam. Apparently he didn't want to talk about that.

"It was just nasty out there," was all he said about that.

A woman came over and asked him for his newspaper. She looked at me and said, "I've known Bob all his life," as if I'd asked. He talked about Oscar and how impressed he was at how many friends Oscar still had. "He was quite a guy," Bob said, shaking his head. He used a lot of four letter words, and it was refreshing to me that someone didn't apologize for swearing around me.

Finally, I decided it was time to get back on the road, we had a long drive back home. Bob waved us off, "Nice talkin' to you," he said, and went back to reading his newspaper.

Sarah got in the car and said, "I love Nebraska!" And we drove home through the rolling hills of Northern Nebraska, slowing down for the towns along the way with populations of 150 or less. We looked out at the herds of cows grazing in the barren fields and the endless horizon of prairie and cornfields still waiting for spring planting. We chuckled about ol' Bob in McDonald's. how cool it was that he'd been to my hometown in Jersey, and wondered if Oscar had really known John Wayne.

Yeah, I love Nebraska too.

The Man In Black

Today is Johnny Cash's birthday. He would have been 78 today. Sarah and I are really into our music and the ones who gave it to us, so today Johnny's music is playing non-stop on the Ipod thingy. We do that for Michael Jackson and Elvis Presley on their respective birthdays. Oh yeah, and I'm wearing black today.

My Mom is from Mississippi, so despite migrating North to New Jersey by way of Kentucky with my British father, she lost her accent, but not her love of country music. I grew up hearing country music on our little white kitchen transistor radio. It was always playing, as far as I remember. When I was 9 years old, I saw the movie, "The Gospel Road" at our church. It was a very-70s movie narrated and produced by Johnny Cash on the life of Jesus. I loved it! I fell in love with that blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus, as well as with Johnny Cash. I never got to see him in concert, but I saved up and bought some of his albums and listened to them religiously. I appreciated his struggles-- I struggled a lot myself. I loved his honesty and real-ness. He loved Jesus and God, but he was a rough guy who had a lot of demons that hounded him. I think his struggles with addiction and all that came with that, made him much more compassionate to those who lived on the hard-living side of life. So I grew up learning about Jesus in Church, yes, but always with Johnny's music in the background, reminding me to love everybody and to give them a break. To look for the light in the eyes of someone who hides it pretty well, and especially in those who you'd never see in church. I could relate to his theology, and it seemed to be pretty in line with Jesus. I think Jesus is a Johnny fan. How could he not be?

Another thing I like about Johnny Cash is that he was just a regular guy, and he didn't get off on success, in fact, he was kind of embarrassed by it. He just wanted to sing and play music. He got dumped by his record label because he wasn't producing at the level they wanted, so he knew betrayal. He knew about not fitting in, and he certainly didn't rise to the status quo. He didn't like people using people.

I listen to his music to be with a friend I never met. I've always loved Cash and deeply respected him. I don't know how heaven is set up-- if you get to meet all these people who were celebrities in their former lives. I'd like to think that Elvis and Johnny are jammin' with Jesus and letting anyone who wants to sit and listen. I guess we'll have to wait and see, huh?

Elvis Is In the Building

he pretends to be
Someone Else
for a living
slicked-back hair
jumpsuits open
down to this belly button
"thank you,
thankyouverymuch"

old women swoon
decorated in Fan Club buttons
screaming, pleading
arms reached out
for a touch, a kiss
a drop of sweat

it's like watching the dead
come back to life
that unspoken fantasy
of getting to see
your beloved
in the flesh
one more time
to touch dreams
and aching memories

my daughter loves him
because she loves
who he pretends to be
a man who never lived
in her lifetime
but whose spirit
ignites her senses
whose music
feeds her heart with joy
whose brokenness
ignites her compassion

for a couple of hours
she gets to step out
of time
that so often breaks our hearts
she gets to dance
on the wings of spirit
and imagine her beloved
her angel
seeing her with physicality
and receiving
her adoration.

pmr

Pigeons on Route 30

in the middle
of town
driving my car
I'm enticed
out of my brooding
by the sychronized flying
of pigeons

first assembled in line
on the roof
of the Lutheran Church
and suddenly
seemingly by command
they take off
soaring and diving
swooping and backstroking
in formation
as if they'd been rehearsing
for weeks
anticipating this
late afternoon performance

I smile
I can't help it
I lean forward
to look again
not one of them
misses a beat
and in a choreographed finale
they soar in an arc
to land on the roof
of the church
where they started
out of breath
I am sure
but elated
by their Olympic display.

pmr

The Three Stooges

When Sarah was a little girl, we started thinking she ought to have a pet. At first we thought a hamster would be nice, but really, what can you do with a hamster? We'd already gotten a fish tank and that was kind of peaceful, situated as it was in my office in the basement, but again, fish are slimy and very impersonal. Plus it always made me nervous when they started swimming on their sides. Death and dying was a constant companion when it came to fish, and I didn't want to introduce too much trauma in young Sarah's life.

One Halloween night, we went to Mr. Blakeslee's house for treats. Mr. Blakeslee taught Sarah swimming lessons in the summer, and he always showed up at the door on Halloween with a funny costume. That particular Halloween night in 2001, while Mr. Blakeslee was making faces at Sarah from behind a goofy mask, his wife came out with a small caramel-colored kitten and tried to put it into Sarah's plastic pumpkin. Hello? Was this within the normal etiquette of trick or treating? Sarah's little blue eyes brightened up, but fortunately the kitten would have nothing to do with being crammed into a plastic pumpkin and he flexed his little kitten toes so the claws came out. We all laughed nervously.

We went home and talked about it, and we called Mrs. Blakeslee and said we decided to take the kitten. When I went to pick it up, the nervous little ninny climbed up my chest and over my shoulder, digging his young, sharp claws into my skin, hanging upside down, his claws like those mountain climber's hooks sunk into my flesh. When Mr. Blakeslee pulled him off of me, I had long, red, itchy welts. This was not starting off well.

But Sarah named him Carmel, for his color. Carmel hid behin the washing machine for weeks, trembling in the dark, his eyes glowing like he was posessed, hissing when we tried to pry him out with a broom. He did come out when we weren't looking, for a bite to eat and to use the litter box. But I swear that cat has some sort of nervous tic, you have to be careful not to startle him or he might become catatonic. No pun intended.

A year later, Sarah's piano teacher died suddenly. It was Sarah's first experience with death and grief. The teache had had four large cats, one of whom would walk across the piano keys when Sarah was trying to play. The others just decorated the couch. Larry and I decided that it might help Sarah through this loss to adopt one of the cats. So that's how we got Scooter, a beautiful black Persian with flourescent greenish yellow eyes. When we brought home 6 year old Scooter, he stayed hidden behind the piano for weeks. We knew his owner had treated him and his housemates to tuna water, so we tried using that to coax him out from behind the piano. We even played him CDs of classical piano music to comfort him in his loss. Nothing worked. Meanwhile, Mr. Blakeslee informed us that Carmel's mother had another litter (that woman got around!) and asked if we'd be interested. At first, of course, we said no. But one day Sarah was over at their house being babysat by Mr. Blakeslee's daughter, and when we came to pick her up, we saw the litter. Sarah fell in love with a tiny, fluffy gray kitten that fit into the palm of Larry's hand. When she showed him to me, I melted. We brought him home, and I got to name him. We'd all read the Harry Potter books with great intensity by then, and so I named the kitten Dobby, after the house elf in the Potter books.

After awhile, Scooter was curious about this tiny kitten and came out from behind the piano to check him out. Carmel seemed to sense that this tiny gray furball was his relation, because he took it upon himself to protect him. He curled his body around his little half-brother when they took their naps. He was always there by Dobby, like a protective big brother. We took pictures.

Though Scooter came out and showed himself, he would not get too close. He'd come up on the couch to be petted, but only on his terms. He would sit a whole cushion away and you had to stretch your arm out to pet him. He refused to get any closer, much less come up on anyone's lap.

Then that awful night that I opened a window to air out the bedroom, let a little fresh air in, not realizing there was no screen in the window. Scooter and Dobby both bolted for the window and jumped out into the backyard. Larry and I found them under the deck and laid in the grass doing all we could to coax them out and back into the house. I was heartbroken. We left food on the porch, hoping to grab them when they ate. Dobby was out there a week before Larry was able to grab him at the cat food dish. But Scooter wouldn't be caught. He was out there three weeks and we'd begun to give up on getting him back. Finally one night, the babysitter grabbed him and held on despite his protesting back claws and devil-like screeches. I hadn't warmed up to Scooter at that point-- I took it a little personally that he wouldn't accept us.

But after he came home-- or was dragged home, rather-- he changed. He was suddenly very affectionate! He crawled up on our laps and let us pet him. He started nudging our hands, insisting on being petted on the head. He hung out with Dobby and Carmel, snuggled up to their bodies for group naps.

Since then, we've put them through four moves, one of those moves being across country from Pennsylvania to Nebraska. That was not pretty. We thought Nervous Ninny Carmel would never recover from that 3-day car trip in the cat carrier. He sat completely still in the back of the carrier, staring. He didn't eat, he didn't drink, he didn't poop. While the other two meowed constantly, moaning, wailing, Carmel seemed--dare I say it again-- catatonic. By the end of the trip, Scooter and Dobby had litter and poop and pee all mangled up in their fur, cat food all over their cages, mixed up with the catfood, even though we cleaned them out every day of the trip. it was like they just threw royal hissy fits like spoiled little girls. But Carmel just froze. We occasionally put a finger in front of his nose to see if he was still breathing.

Now we're in our last house, we hope, in their lifetimes. For all the trauma they've apparently suffered, they seem to be adjusting. Carmel's still a bit nervous, but if you accept him as he is and just wait, he'll come and curl up on your lap and let you pet him. He comes to you on his terms. Dobby is our cuddler. He sleeps with me, gives me chest massages (or breast exams?), nuzzles my face when I'm trying to read, or curls up behind my knees when I'm sleeping. Scooter, well, he has a problem. He suffers from addiction. Every once in awhile, we hear him begin to howl mournfully. When it first started, we were alarmed that maybe he was sick or had a bellyache. But when he starts to howl, we check on him, and sure enough, he emerges with a pen in his mouth. I don't know if he gets high off the ink smell or what. But he just howls when he has one between his teeth. Every once in awhile, we've learned it's best to move the couch, because that's where he keeps his stash. He also has a thing for bathroom cups. Sometimes we hear an echo in his howling, and we know he's got a cup between his teeth. But we started finding bathroom cups all over the house, behind the couch, under the recliner, in the laundry room.

But they're family. They make us laugh, they snuggle up to us when we're having a bad day, and Dobby in partcular makes me feel like I'm the most wonderful human in the world. We've been through a lot together. We have stories on them to embarrass their girlfriends if they ever had any, and they won't because of course they're inside cats. Scooter is 14 now, and I sometimes worry about him. He can sleep so soundly and still that I often nudge him to make sure he's still breathing. Other times when he's sleeping at the foot of the bed I can hear him snoring, and it's almost as loud as Larry's snoring. I get tired of picking up Dixie cups and searching for lost pens. But I love them, they're my boys. Losing one of them would be like losing a family member-- I hate to think of it. They've wrapped their furry paws around my heart. So I forgive them when they throw up on one of the new rugs, or leave traces of cat litter on the coffee table, or leave tumbleweeds of black, gray or caramel colored fur floating along the floorboards. They keep my feet warm at night, they comfort me and love me when the world is cold, and they remind me that this is home, and everything will be alright-- as long as we're together.