Jacob Street’s Blog

A dear wise friend told me this weekend to get my panties out of a wad. Now I have told her in the past to get her own panties out of a wad so I genuinely appreciate the reciprocity. It is not easy to tell me what to do. I admire anyone who makes the attempt. If a stubborn gene is to be located one day from some curious scientist it will look like this:

Oh sure- all cute and cuddly, but don’t let those brown eyes fool you- the heart and head of a mule.

So, I took my dear friend’s advice and metaphorically plucked the panties out of my butt (hey I was at home- I go commando) and thought about my good day. I helped Nicholas with a book report and I sang at the top of my lungs. I folded and put away all my laundry except for the three socks that were still mocking me. I opened all the windows and doors and let the fresh autumn air swirl around my house.

Nicholas wanted to listen to Kate Rusby on the way to school this morning. I can comply easily since one of her albums is usually already in the cd player. “I want the song that talks about the bells.” I knew which one that was since it may be my all time favorite Kate Rusby song. It’s called Wandering Soul and for some crazy reason just seems to nestle in my heart and remind me of a few things I often need to hear. Go figure.

“Mom, this school is so right for me. I love it here. And I’m not afraid anymore.”

Sometimes I fancy myself the teacher. But so often it is everyone teaching me.

xo

Wandering Soul – Kate Rusby (Lyrics)

Source: www.youtube.com

Mom, has Daddy ever gotten a rabies shot?

Oh God. GiGi control the impulse…

Little Angel GiGi on GiGi’s  left shoulder, “Tell him the truth, don’t be mean.”

Little Devil GiGi on GiGi’s right shoulder, “Say it. You know you you want to. Yes Nicholas Daddy had to get a rabies shot when he married…”

STOP! I am now grinding my teeth and about to hyperventilate by suppressing a whopper of a joke.

No, Nick Daddy has never needed to get a rabies shot.

Ok, I did the right thing. Now I am going to flick that little devil away from me.

Mom, I think he has had a rabies shot.

Nick, Daddy has never needed a rabies shot because he has never been bitten by a rabid animal.

So many possible jokes and no one around to accept the punchlines.

Has he ever had a techno-shot?’

Ok now I can laugh.

It’s a tetanus shot honey, and yes he has had a tetanus shot (and I hope it hurt)

Have you had one?

Yes.

Does it hurt?

Yeah it hurts. They inject right into the muscle so your arm hurts a lot.

A lot? As much as a bee sting?

Oh more than that. Tetanus shots really smart.

Have I had one?

Yes, when you were a baby.

Will I need one again?

Yes- at some point.

Geez Mom, you’re really scaring me since they hurt that bad.

I’m just being honest with you Nick.

Mom, sometimes you are just a little too honest.

Nick, you are not the first person to accuse me of that. A change ain’t gonna happen.

I really don’t like to not help someone. It goes against my grain. It goes against how I was raised and it goes against how I am raising my son.

Almost daily I am asked by the homeless people around my office for food and money, usually just money. I always explain that I am sorry, but I never carry cash on me and that I can’t help them that way. If I have food on me I always offer it, but it is always turned down. This is actually kind of a comfort zone for me. I understand it…I get it.

Last night I stopped at a gas station on West End near Publix. A man approached my car and said “excuse me ma’am.” He was maybe late fifties, dressed nicely in a shirt and tweed jacket, but a little shabby. He said he just left his cardiac appointment at St. Thomas and he left his credit card with his daughter and his fuel pump broke and could I lend him $12.50 and he would mail it back to me. I told him that I was sorry, but I didn’t have $12.50 (an odd amount) to give him. He showed me a grubby driver’s license in his wallet I suppose as proof that he was legit. I said sorry again and walked away to begin pumping my gas. I watched him approach other people and he didn’t seem to have much success.

I really despise the fact that people are out there being creepy and pulling scams and saying they want money for food, but more than likely they was money for alcohol. I hate being suspicious and less than generous. these feelings are not the place I want my humanity to be.

I remember one summer a man approached my parents who were sitting on their front porch. He said he tried to go to the church up the street to ask for money to get a bus ticket to Pittsburgh, but no one was there. He had just come from the interstate where he had been hitchhiking, but was left at that exit still needing ride. He didn’t ask my parents for money directly, but asked if there were any chores around the house that he could do to earn the money. My dad pointed out some yard work that he could do and this man earned the money from my parents for a bus ticket to Pittsburgh. And if I know my mom he walked away with a sandwich and some fruit.

Another time my parents were in Pittsburgh for the day and were sitting by the fountain at Point State Park enjoying a picnic and admiring the convergence of the three rivers. Again, a man approached them and asked for money for food. My parents said they had no money, but he was welcome to sit with them and share their lunch, which he did. The three of them ate lunch, enjoyed the view and went their separate ways.

This is how I was taught.

This is how I want to live.

I know that I have to protect myself and my son. I don’t like being in the position to choose between kindness and safety.

A couple years ago I was driving down West End toward Belle Meade and I saw three somewhat elderly ladies standing on a corner, holding a map that was blowing in the wind and looking fairly lost. Tourists. Easy to spot. I pulled into the parking lot they were walking across and stopped to ask them if they were indeed lost. And they were. Their stupid bus driver told them the Belle Meade Mansion was a walkable distance from the corner of West End and White Bridge. Old ladies? No sidewalks? I told them I would love to give them a lift and explained I wasn’t a serial killer. “See, I have a booster seat in my car. I promise I am nice.” They were lovely. They chatted up a storm and said they were from Monterey, California and I needed to come visit them. When I dropped them at their destination I gave them my card and said to call my cell if they needed a lift back to their hotel, but they assured me they would have a ride. These ladies hugged and kissed me and told me I was a good girl.

And I felt good, not so much for my good deed, but because I knew I did exactly what my parents would have done.

I just have to keep remembering these things. 

Mom, isn’t vacuuming just for women?

Ok, now picture red lasers, daggers, icepicks, flaming torches in place of my eyes…

Now picture the horror in Nick’s eyes…

What did I say? What did I do wrong?

Mmmm, I’m happy.

Why are you so happy? Because you have a tummy full of Chicken Allosaurus?

No, because I’m with my Mom.

Mom, how did Daddy propose to you?

We were at Susan’s farmhouse in Morgantown, WV and he asked me in the living room.

Oh.

Why do you want to know.

Just want to know.

******

Mom, who was your first date?

His name was Tony and he had red hair.

How old were you?

I was in grade school, but I guess it wasn’t really a date. We just hung out at Bubby and PeePaw’s house.

When was your first real date?

I guess I was a junior in high school.

Oh that’s sad.

This is what I need- pity from my son about my dating history. 

******

Mom, if we ever get a dog I am going to name it Pooka Jones.

Why Pooka Jones?

I don’t know, I just think it sounds cool.

It’s a really good name Nick.

I could almost be convinced to get a dog just so its name could be Pooka Jones. Ok, no dog, but a dog named Pooka Jones just mysteriously appeared in my novel.

******

Mom, my nose is constipated.

What else can I say to this?

******

This is what happens when I watch football with my son.

“Mom, what’s E.D.?”

Yeah, I saw this one waltzing down Main Street…

Without missing a beat I said, “It is a medical problem grown up men have with their penises.”

No response. Silence.

Where’s the next question?

No more questions.

I guess even little boys can be silenced at the mere mention of a penis problem.

I have the best friends in the whole world.  They feed me, clothe me, watch my kid, make me laugh, encourage me, support me, love on me and make me feel that I am always ok. And they introduce my son to Nashville Predators cheerleaders.  Who could want anything more!!!

Love you guys!

Oh West Virginia…

My trip up in back in the span of less than twenty four hours was tiring and arduous at best. As soon as I cross the river into Ohio (I usually say Ohio while yawning, oops sorry Suzanne) I know I have four hours of flatness or as FH used to say, “Land of the Flying Trailer.” But after all that a few mountains will populatate the horizon and I know I am close to home, well, former home.

The drive to take Mama Bear back home was fun and fairly carefree. I listened to a football game during most of my Ohio drive, but went on a rant when one of the announcers used the word unique incorrectly. My mom wanted to know why I felt so strongly about this and I explained how you can’t qualify unique.

“What does it matter?” my mom asked.

“It matters!” I roared. “I love the English language and this schmuck can’t even use the word unique correctly and he’s speaking to a lot of listeners.”

Rant. Rant. Rant.

My mom rolled her eyes. “Well, I am sure there’s something I do. What do I say incorrectly?”

Without hesitation I answer, “you use double negatives sometimes.”

“What?”

“Double negatives”

“Give me an example.”

“I can’t think of one right now, but I am sure you will say one. I’ll point it out then.”

“Ok, Miss English Major, that’s enough.”

We roll into Wheeling before sunset and there are three deer in the front yard to greet us. Brazen beasts. They don’t even flinch. Within fifteen minutes I learned that Mrs. A across the street left in an ambulance the night before because her new hip popped out and Jimmy’s oldest two are now in high school and Delma’s house finally has a good renter.

I took my mom grocery shopping to get her stalked up before I left and this was like pulling teeth.

“I only need a chicken and some milk.

“Mom, you have to have more than chicken and milk.”

It was difficult, but I managed to fill up half the cart. As I made my way back to produce for the fifth time because she needed a cabbage for soup I ran into a friend from high school. We hadn’t seen each other in about twenty years. She was a class clown and very quirky and funny. On this night she looked tired, gaunt, maybe a bit careworn. We chatted a little and her face fell when I told her my dad passed away three years ago.

“Mine died four years ago”, she said. 

 That made me feel sad because I remembered tons of meals in her father’s restaurant, especially the crispest french fries smothered in awesome gravy.

As my mom and I were driving back to her house, car sufficiently loaded with groceries, we talked a little about my friend I saw.

“She had a lot of wrinkles around her eyes. And she looked really thin and tired.”

A little silence.

“I mean we are the same age. I hope I don’t look like that.” I leaned over and pointed to my eyes. “Look I don’t have any wrinkles. Even the Kathys have wrinkles.”

My mom frowned a bit and said, “Well, they’re skinny.”

ZING.

Did you all get that??

Let me repeat in case you missed that…

“They’re skinny.”

“Oh thanks Mom. I guess my fat plumps out any wrinkles I might have.”

“No that’s not what  I meant. That didn’t come out right.”

“Uh huh.”

A typical visit to my mom’s house now requires me to load up on stuff she wants to get rid of. Grandpa’s little plant stand. Check. Grandma’s pearl and crystal necklace. Check. First holy communion plaque.

Wait.

“I don’t want this.”

“Yes you do. It’s from your first holy communion.”

I know what its from. I don’t want it.”

“Here, you need to take this.” She hands me a rather badly hand-painted (by me) plaster face of Mary.

“I don’t want that.”

“You need to hang this above your bed.”

“You have got to be kidding?? Yeah, it should go really well with my framed African prints.”

“Here, what about this?” Mom lifts up a little miniature ceramic basket and vase the color of dust.

“That is so ugly. I don’t want that.”

“But it belonged to Grandma Rose.”

“Oh then I REALLY don’t want it. I have not one sentimental cell in my body for Grandpa Rose.”

“Oh, Janet Ann.”

I received the full name head on. Fine. She was not the nicest of grandmothers. I don’t need the reminder.

My mom now hands me a little cut crystal toothpick holder.

“You’ll want this. It belonged to Grandma Stefani.”

“This was Grandma’s?” I was dubious, skeptical. Something was fishy.

“”Yes.” There it was- the shiftiness in the eyes, the little sideways look as if that would prevent me from detecting the lie.

“You’re lying”, I flung at my mother.

“No I am not.” The gaze shifted to the other side.

“Mom, I could always tell when you and Daddy were lying to me.”

My Dad would look you straight in the eye and tell the fib, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. Mom did the sideways dance.

“I don’t want the toothpick holder.”

“Here, you have to take this Santa Claus. I already told Nicholas he could have.”

“Mom you have to stop telling Nick all the stuff you are going to give him. Now I have to schlep this giant Santa back and figure out where to store it.”

Exasperation. I tried to hide it, but Mom outsmarted me and made me put it in my car.

In my car on the trip back to Nashville I managed to bring:

Three GIANT bags of clothes my brother and sister-in-law gave me to distribute to refugees.

A large wooden rocking chair.

A huge Santa dressed in red velvet splendor.

Six of Grandma Stefani’s wine glasses.

The coin collection my dad started for Nicholas.

A plant stand.

A necklace.

A pile of new books for Nick

And one back that managed to travel without the slightest of muscle spasms (yes, that is me knocking on wood).

Love West Virginia. Love Wheeling. Love my mom.

Really love being back here. My home.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that home is really in me and with Nick, and it’s not really a place.

I live on Love Circle. First of all the name is totally cool, or as my old college roommate stated so eloquently- “How Groovy.” And the houses are cool. I like that the yards are a little messy and overgrown unlike the horticulturally manicured properties of other neighborhoods. I like things a little messy, a little asymetrical, a little worn. I warn people of my drive- it’s kind of like Dr. Seuss meets The Silence of the Lambs. My front steps are wobbly and dangerously loose. The ivy curls around the trees, the porch, the swing like the tentacled vines in the movie Jumanji. My sweet little micro-neighborhood is generally quiet except for the occasional nasty blue jay vs. squirrel skirmish and in the fall when the monkey balls plummet from the sky and land on my roof.  My windows stick and my wood floors slope in unexpected spots. My pipes rattle and it costs a fortune to heat. I LOVE IT.

Ok, so here is the big exception…the anomaly…someone in this neighborhood thinks they are just a wee bit more important than the rest of the folks around here. A certain Mr. Country Music Star needed to build a really big building down the street. Before I moved into my cozy little house, I believe my neighbors fought to have him NOT build in that location.

Why?

Because Mr. Self-Important Country Music Star needed to have a multi-story  monstrosity to stroke his obviously over-inflated,  I am so RICH and important ego. Who cares if it impedes the view of the neighborhood and of the city of the folks who have lived here for years and are actual living, breathing, loving people who call this street their home. Fuck ‘em I can almost hear his narcisistic one-celled voice state.

It IS a monstrosity. It is huge and it is ugly. It doesn’t begin to fit into the eclectic messiness and hominess that is Love Circle. It is hideous. I feel really bad for the neighbors who live down the street and have to look at it everyday. At least I don’t have to see it, but I am sorely aware of its existence.

The noise.

I constantly hear all the trucks back and forth, back and forth carrying their ugly gray cement to plop another ugly load on top of that ugly gray building. Cars that don’t belong on this street (yeah I know- it’s a public street) line each side and I can imagine that sometimes it is hard for a neighbor to find a parking spot. I tire of the construction noise.

So is all this worth it to you Mr. Oh So Important Country Music Star?? Do the people on this street mean so little to you? Well, the answer to that is obvious. People like you make me sad.  I know, you obey the laws, you don’t murder people, but you do steal and stealing is one of the worst crimes imaginable because it covers so much ground. You have stolen a bit of the sancutuary these folks have created for themselves. Shame on you.