Phoebe Kate

Someone notable (who, of course, I can’t remember) said something to the effect that the whole truth will never be told except posthumously or anonymously. 

I was reminded of that quote recently while chatting with a friend of mine. Baptized as an infant and raised nominally Catholic, she has now decided in midlife to become a full-fledged, holy card-carrying, rosary-packing, Miraculous Medal-wearing RC.  She’s been meeting with her parish priest and will shortly go through the Confirmation ceremony.  However, prior to that, she’s got to confess to that priest all the sins she can remember over the past 30-odd years.  Now, this lady’s led a reasonably good and decent life so she probably doesn’t have anything particular horrendous or hair-raising to admit to.  However, when I remarked that to her, there was a long silence over the phone and then she said, “Well, I have stolen property in my possession.” 

Seems that her brother worked in a jewelry store a few years back and, being a bit short of bucks for gift-giving occasions, swiped a couple of nice pieces for her.  We’re not talking Tiffany’s here — probably the total loss to the store in question was in the low three figures.  She wears the jewelry every day, however, and knowingly accepting ill-gotten gain is definitely a violation of the Seventh Commandment so she’s got to ‘fess up.

She didn’t sound overly thrilled with the prospect and I didn’t pursue it any further with her, but it got me thinking.  The problem is not with the admission of guilt per se, but what form the restitution will take.  Will the priest insist she return the merchandise to the store, even though she is not the one who stole it?  Will the store manager believe her when she says it wasn’t she who swiped it?  Could she just send them an envelope of fifty dollar bills instead?  Or will the cosmic scales of eternal justice be restored to balance if she donates an equivalent or greater amount to charity?  How far will she have to go to expiate the transgression, I wonder?

And she may well be wondering likewise, I suspect.  I admire her enormously for taking this particular leap of faith.  Although I’d like to think so, I’m not entirely sure I could be so courageous in a similar situation.  Honesty is probably the best policy, but it seems to me sometimes like leaping off a precipice with no parachute.

Godspeed and safe landing, my dear friend.

–phoebe kate       

As a little kid, I misunderstood a great deal of what I heard in church.  As a result, I knew God’s first name and what His profession was because the Lord’s Prayer said:  “Our Father Who does art in heaven, Harold be Thy name.”  I liked to draw, too, so I thought Harold sounded like a pretty cool and fun guy.  Thanks to that same prayer, I found out where He bought groceries when not busy at his heavenly easel: “Give us this day our deli bread,” which made me happy because I loved Kaiser rolls.  The next sentence informed me that garbage, for some reason, had to be forgiven:  “Forgive us our trash passes as we forgive those who pass trash against us.”  (Actually, if you think about it for a moment, that verges on profound.  Aren’t gossip, slander, insensitive or unfair criticisms and mean remarks the things that hurt us most and are among the hardest to forgive?) 

My arcane religious knowledge extended to the Mother of God, too.  I discovered what her favorite food was and that she had a bad boo-boo because the Hail Mary went:  “Hail Mary, full of grapes, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy wound, Jesus.”  Well, she was full of grace and it was a womb not a wound, but it made sense to me nonetheless. And in the 23rd Psalm, I got a heads up that I was being stalked by a weird mother and daughter:  “Shirley Goodnest and Marcy shall follow you all the days of your life.”  The idea creeped me out but let’s face it, it’s never too early to learn street smarts if your future is in dicey metropolises.   Hey, at least I can give the police the names of the perpetrators when they finally corner me in one of life’s dark alleys.

–phoebe kate

“The grass is always greener after you’re gone.” –Davio Bianco

My son Davio & Co. just moved here from Miami.  Davio had only lived in South Florida a couple years and was glad to say adios to it.  His step-daughter Jocelyn had lived there all her 11 years and was eager to vamos.  His fiancee Aura had lived there 15 years and while she was more than ready for a change in venue, from time to time she understandably waxes nostalgic about the old stomping ground. 

The other day, a combination of homesickness, hassles of relocation and a general feeling of disorientation got to her.  “Miami was my life…” she remarked with the Little Lost Puppy look.  Davio reminded her of why she decided to leave: the outrageous cost of housing and groceries, the traffic gridlock that makes a 5-minute jaunt to the local supermarket take an hour, the one-pileup-per-minute madness of I-95, the rude people, the unsafe streets, the polluted air, the oppressive heat and humidity, her deadend job, the dearth of good employment opportunities for ambitious people and the reality that Miami is in no way a family-friendly environment.

Places always seem so much better in retrospect.  I should know — I’ve moved on an average of every 2 years for the last 3 decades.  I lived on the central coast of CA and pine away for Big Sur and the spectacular scenery, forgetting how violently allergic I was to everything that grew there.  I miss the crisp autumns in New Hampshire with its brilliant foliage, neon blue skies and aphrodisiacal scent of apples, pine forest and wood fires.  I have to be reminded about the 30-below zero winters, the annual snowfall which exceeded the height of our roof and frostbitten toes and fingers.  I lived in NYC and remember only the glitz of 5-star dining, Fifth Avenue shopping and cosmopolitan culture.  I’ve conveniently managed to expunge from my mind the need to have 3 police locks and 2 deadbolts on my apartment door and the many times I lost my cash to muggers or got flashed by perverts wearing black raincoats and nothing else.  I often remark how I want to return to New Orleans, ignoring the fact that more Katrinas are a sad inevitability.

My grandmother always said, “You take your good times with you wherever you go.”  Hey, if I can have fun in my little town of Hog Wallow NC, I can have fun anywhere.

–phoebe kate

The last time I got up at the crack of dawn and made breakfast for a schoolkid was in May 2006.  My daughter was in her senior year of high school and the morning routine didn’t so much amount to feeding her but dragging her out of bed.  On her final day of classes, as I made her a cup of tea and hollered at her for the 18th time to GET UP, I remember thinking, This is the last time I’ll ever do this. 

Ha.

This morning, I hauled my carcass out of bed at 6:15 instead of 9:30, popped some Pillsbury cinnamon buns in the oven to bake and got my 11-year-old step-granddaughter up for her first day of school in NC.  What an odd but pleasantly familiar feeling…like stepping through a time portal and finding myself back in any one of the 24 years when I performed the School Morning Samba with my own three offspring.   Now, I can hardly wait for 3 p.m.  Dispensing the milk and cookies.  Hearing all about how the first day went.  Helping with homework. 

I am finally beginning to understand why people go ga-ga over their grandchildren.  It really is more fun the second time around.        

–phoebe kate

Okay, I think we’ve decided on the perfect Christmas gift for our middle son who’s 22 and a Politics major.  We’re going to buy him a small country to rule.  They sell those on e-Bay, don’t they?

The dear boy takes over wherever he is.  It’s not a bad quality, believe me.  It is, for the most part, a very beneficial thing.  It will certainly serve him very well in the field he’s selected.  But we’re never quite prepared for it when he comes home.

“Mom, the cats have fleas.  Look at the flea dirt in their fur.  You should have taken care of this a long time ago.”  (Reply: I will as soon as I don’t have a house full of demanding people.)

“Mom, how long have you had this deli turkey?  I don’t see a date on it.  You should keep track of these things.”  (Reply: I bought it 3 days ago.  Smell it.)

“Mom, the clean towels smell funny.  You pack the washer too full.  Did you remember to wash them on hot and use a fabric softener?”  (Reply: If you don’t like the way the unpaid laundress around here does the laundry, you can do it yourself.) 

“Mom, how long have you had this jar of mayonnaise?  I remember it from last summer.”  (Reply:  I buy the same mayonnaise twice a month.  That’s why you remember a similar jar from last summer.)

“Mom, the last time I was here I told you it was imperative you send out my dry cleaning so it was ready for me now.”  (Reply: We can take it to the Sunshine Cleaners today and have it back tomorrow.  Soon enough?)

“Mom, you need to get a better computer.  Yours is too slow.”  (Reply:  When I have a grand to spare, I certainly will.  Until then, don’t download 17 songs at the same time while chatting on AOL and IM with 10 Windows open for research on Dewey for your American Philosophy paper, please.)

Bless his heart, he’s a wonderful kid and a terrific friend and a hell of a lot of fun.  But please, if anyone knows of a needy country up for grabs, let me know.  He’ll have it shaped up and productive in a week.  Guaranteed.

–phoebe kate