Mrs. Fitz's Story Emporium

My baby boomhood coincided with the ranch-house boom. Ours, on Sunnyside, was built on a vacant lot among older tall homes. These jutted and strutted in tudor and colonial style. The upstart ranches that snuck in during the 1950s were intruders, keeping their roof lines low so few would notice they had got in.

My horizontally inclined house sat between two dimples of grass, like a smile. It had a front porch and front door and front yard, these used primarily to stage Easter morning photos of family in new hats and pressed suits.

Going behind my house held a hint of adventure, what with the neighbors property being less than 8 feet behind ours. I wished our neighbors, the Lawrences, had been more dramatic because I could have heard them easily from my bedroom window, say if anger erupted at dinnertime. It didn’t. In retrospect, if we could hear Lawrence goings-on, then the Lawrences were equally capable of hearing our goings-on. This is not a pleasant thought.

On the up side, Mr. Lawrence knew how to make his pack of Camel cigarettes smoke. Specifically, he could make the camel on the front of the package emit smoke. My two brothers and I figured him famous for this, though he really was humble about it.

On this August Saturday, finally, the surge to enjoy Chicago summer while it lasts, has lapsed into simply enjoying summer. Things are lax.

In a sandy bunker at the Diversey Harbor driving range, the Golf 101 insructor who has been right so far, says the way out of the sand trap is to NOT hit the ball. Instead, whack the sand, hoist divots aloft to coax the ball, nudge that orb up up and away.

It works. Who knew?

Later, I’m visiting with Joanie, my Mom-in-law, who likes visitors very very much but can’t remember she does. In her 90-ish year, why should she? So, she finds spoons to cut our coffeecake and we wander around her wars, widowhood, worries and whimsy with which she has spent her life.

She doesn’t know these things the same way, yet she knows them. We dig around near memories but not right on top of them; deep, deep, deep but just outside here and now. We gentle the sand around her memories. We strike somewhere generally near the core of her so that Joanie can loft into today, pop right out of the bunker onto the green.

It works. who knew?

There are at least two distinctions between a sin and a crime.

1. A crime is quantitative. A sin is qualitative.

Say somebody, such as an ex-governor of a Midwestern state, is on trial for, say, corruption. In order for this to go anywhere, we have to prove he commited a crime, an act that is a no-no according to law. If we can’t come up with the evidence, there is no conviction. Finito. No crime=No bad.
Sensing, feeling, believing, KNOWING he did wrong is the sin part. Sin=bad.

2. A crime is destrucive. A sin is self-destructive.

My first sin occurred when I was 8 years old, one year into the age of reason, defined by Catholics as age 7, a magic moment when a child knows right from wrong.
Therefore, I could sin. I did.
I visited the house of Anita, a girl my age. Her house smelled like onions and tomatoes cooking, which probably were. Moments in, temptation swooped me into its bear hug. She had a dollhouse and, get this, her doll house had FURNITURE. Teeny sofas, stoves and what not. AND, here is where the heartpounding desire got the best of me…there was a weeny Blessed Virgin Mary statue the size of a safety pin. She was creamy white plastic, arms flared from her sides slightly and palms open, like she was ready to lift her end of furniture. A just-my-size icon.
I took it. Pocketed it. STOLE it.
Technically, that was a crime. But it was more. It was a sin. I know this by the effect, not the consequence. The effect. Instantly.
If a soul can crumble, mine did. I could not look at Anita, nor speak, nor anything but get out of that house, weeny Mary pulsing in my pocket. Nothing didn’t ache, except my hands, which were clenched into numb.
I found a way to put it back simply because I couldn’t live that way. If it were only a crime, that would have fixed it. It was a sin because putting it back didn’t fix me. That takes longer.

Why is it that all images of our founding fathers depict men without humor? They don’t look like they lost their best friends. They look like men who never, ever had friends. A bunch of grumps. No grins.

I understand capturing these manic guys on canvas must have been a challenge, what with George Washington misplacing and then losing Manhattan, Ben Franklin wooing anyone French, and Tom Jefferson jealously seething about Alexander Hamilton.

However, smiling was NOT outlawed in the colonies. Maybe if smiling had been outlawed, we’d have seen a few from these nah-nah-na-nah-na guys who found the time to create a government and waggle the end product at the King across the sea.

Some part of this must have been FUN. It must have been. It should have been. Was it?

I’d like to recommend several brand new professions, based on living long enough to feel the lack thereof.

1. The Unplanned coordinator.
This is the chirpy optimist to call when you are between things there is no plan for. An in-betweener expert. Handy when you are just about to lose a job, just about to make an idiot of yourself in public…or maybe right after you did, when you are strarting to be treated like a patient because you are sick and everyone forgets who you were when you weren’t.

2. The Collegialist.
This is the language expert who deletes from your phrase book sentences you will never, ever need and should not, really, even think about.
Ireland? Delete “Where can I get a beer?”
Russia? Delete “Do you know where I can get a fake passport?”
Middle East and surrounding environs? Delete “Your daughter is gorgeous. I’d like to take her out sometime.”

3. The Rememberer.
I didn’t think of this one. Author Anne Tyler did in her funny book titled “Noah’s Compass.” This person attaches him/her self to another as a kind of human rolodex of information the client has long since forgotten but still needs to know, such as where they are supposed to be today, the name of the person they are speaking with, which shoes require socks and which look downright idiotic with them.

4. The Sin Catcher.
There is some historical precedent for this one, guardian angels come to mind. but here, I suggest a more hands on approach. This professional doesn’t simply remind you to be good. He/she intervenes to see to it. They make it impossible for you to lie, cheat, steal, covet, manipulate, act irresponsibly, hurt other people and be mean. I don’t know how this would work, exactly; and. come to think of it, I doubt it would pay very well, what with there being so much return on investment to sin.

If you like to write and don’t know what to write, consider forms. Following are 222 forms that can nicely house your words:

letter-opinion-editorial-column-white paper-story-feature-news flash-commentary-advertisement-argument-Q&A-FAQ-novel-short-story-essay-memo-texting-sexting-tweet-textbook-resume-vitae-list-itinerary-sermon-stage play-screenplay-note-fairy tale-legend-saga-epic-press release-poem-joke-catalog-diatribe-how-to-proposal-grant-contract-comedy-tragedy-invitation-guidebook-mystery-thriller-travelogue-critique-description-analysis-overview-law-ruling-annual report-book report-lesson-curriculum and curricula-strategic plan-budget-skit-apology-rules-memoir-recipe-reply-treatise-postcard-want ad-commercial-policy statement-encyclopedia-children’s story-limerick-rhyme-haiku-love letter-scene-slice of life-synopsis-manual-directions-explanation-schedule-Gant chart-forecast-prediction-timeline-history-biography-autobiography-deed-inventory-partnership agreement-acknowledgment-think piece-story prompt-sequence-sequel-trilogy-psychological profile-summary-order-rebuttal-investigative report-invoice-blog-presentation-powerpoint-speech-accolade-folktale-fable-anthology-drama-decree-diagram-problem statement-process-chart-check-sidebar-prayer-psalm-quote-record-diary-journal-directions-tort-plot summary-soap opera-storyline-headline-caption-signature-bill of rights-policy-program-passage-label-Email-documentary-docudrama-quiz-test design-test-application-cover letter-spec sheet-outline-rubric-assessment-cartoon-musical score-sheet music-tribute-RSVP-business plan-blueprint-story board-contact list-address book-recommendation-blurb-public service announcement-experiment-hypothesis-mission statement-pro vitae sua-prescription-account-acceptance speech-interim report-state of the union-appeal-conviction-verdict-training manual-game plan-prologue-preview-epilogue-teaser-inscription-obituary-Web page design-graph-database-spreadsheet-banner-menu-introduction-research paper-term paper-review-dialogue-index-table of contents-ticket-lease-lyric-license-diploma-commandments-constitution-graffiti-atlas-cartoon-preamble-poem.

Among the women of my tribe, many habitating the eastern border of Berwyn, Illinois, in the 1920-30ish and beyond time, Auntie Girlie was remarkable for her height, what there was of it, about 4 feet and maybe 10 inches. She was short. Shortie. And, she had this head of white hair that looked like a frosted muffin plunked upon her head. And, she was TAN. Not chicago-sometimes-for-a-brief-summer tan. She was bronzed, toasty-baked tan, like she worked in fields, which she did not.

She was among my great aunts and she was. great. She moved to California when I was growing into the curious years of age 11 or so. This, the remotest, and most idyllic place most of my kin would only dream of. Aunt Girlie being in California was all that was needed. I needn’t go there; but the fact she did was honorable, a brush with the exotic, sexy.

Not that she, or my other aunties would think that, I don’t think. Holiness held sway over sexy. That is why, I think, that Auntie Girlie paled in comparison to Auntie May, if presence is what you go by. Auntie May had an abundance of presence, though delicate in type with the thinnest of braided bun cuddled at the base of her neck. Her bun was the color of egg yolks.

She prayed, a rosary sliding through her fingers absently, familiarly, most of the time. This marked her presence. She sort of rustled, which was the sound of the rosary beads, heralding an aura she was within, as if she connected directly upward, to the community of holy dead people the rest of us didn’t have a prayer of becoming neighbors with.

There are lots of reasons folks don’t write. Lack of talent isn’t one of them.

Reason #4 Why Folks Don’t Write: It’s something you must do with yourself.

I don’t mean writing about yourself. That is a journal.

I don’t mean writing to yourself. That is reflection.

I don’t mean writing at yourself. That is analysis.

I don’t mean writing with disregard of audience. That is isolation.

I don’t mean writing to tout yourself. That is promotion.

I don’t mean writing with yourself as subject. That is narcissism.

I don’t mean writing with disregard of getting fame and/or fortune. That is dumb.

I mean be the craftsman of your self, or “selves” if you are a person who chops up feelings, thoughts, memories and behaviors into separate chunks.

I mean writing with the person you woke up being today. Write that. No one else can.

Here is a conversation between a Mom in the hospital recovering from a stroke and her daughter, visiting her:

Look at that face.

What face, Mom? It’s just you and me here.

That face. Look at him. He will just stand there and look at me. I’m in pain. I am lost. He is indifferent, like always.

Mom, Dad isn’t here. That’s just his coat hung on a hanger on a wall hook.

I was wondering why he seemed more personable all of a sudden.

Mr. Johns’ face now holds more memory of who he was when he a child, fat-faced and grinny. More of who he was then is clearer to those who see him now.

The deepening of years on his face don’t broadcast age as much as suggest, like folds in a velvet curtain, very cool drama within.

Whatever scary moments, harsh reprimands, moments of glory he has lived certainly haven’t done him in. If anything, he looks sincerely delighted with himself. Maybe he’s just surprised he has made it this far.

Maybe we should be, too.