HAPPY TEARS

          I should call yesterday The Day of Happy Tears.  First, in my adult writing class many of the pieces made me cry, not just because the stories were sad and touching but because the writing was so good. I particularly love to see these writers grow and learn from each other.        The assignment was based on Edward Hirsch’s poem “Second Story Warehouse.” I used this before and was inspired to write about my first real job at Charlie’s Girls in 1968.  I love the way Hirsch says, “Come with me . . .” and takes us on a visual tour, describing the warehouse and the people he worked with. For me it immediately brought back that long skinny showroom in the California Clothing Mart and I could smell the sickly sweet perfume my boss had me rub on the telephone with a ball of cotton. 

          It was fascinating to hear how my students got their first jobs, as children or teens, in the nineteen thirties through the sixties, and not just what they did but what they learned from them. The happiest part of my life is being able to help people – adults and kids alike – release their stories.

          Then, in the evening, sitting on the couch with my cat, watching Dancing with the Stars, I was emotional again. When I see Ricky Lake’s wide eyes taking in the judges comments, J.R. gallantly leading Karina around the dance floor, Nancy Grace’s tiny fifty-year old-feet kicking and flicking – I fill up with pride for their achievements, and the tears flow again. I guess I’m just too damn empathetic!

          It’s always been easier for me to cry over something I watch on TV, or read, than to cry over problems in my own life. Mostly I go round and round, thinking of all the possibilities that lie ahead, particularly now when I’ll be making a trip to Los Angeles next week to move my mother from rehab into a nicer facility.

          I don’t feel sad about the state of my mother.  She spent the first eighty-five years of her life doing pretty much exactly what she wanted.

True, the last few years of my father’s life were harder for her – she became his caregiver. But we, the family, hoped that after he passed she would have more time for herself, but he lived so long – he was just shy of ninety-four when he died on St. Patrick’s day in 2010 – that by then Mother was ninety and her own health was fragile.

          Even in the midst of turmoil, part of me stands back and surveys the situation.  It’s so strange that some people live long happy lives, while others are struck down in their youth or live their lives in misery.  When I look at the entire planet and realize what a privileged life I and those I know have led, I can only be grateful and remind myself to appreciate every moment that I am free to choose what and when to eat, that I can get up and walk whenever I want, that I can run of political office, for goodness sake.

          Which reminds me – this weekend I’ve invited Kathy Glass, a Houston attorney who ran for governor last year, to speak on the principals and polities of the Libertarian Party.  I have no idea how many people will show up.  Unfortunately this coincides with a book signing event hosted by my writing instructor at the Dietert Center. I’ll ask her if she’d mind displaying my books . . .on Sunday I host the third monthly meeting of Hill Country Poets. Monday: board meeting for Friends of the Library; the last session of my ten-week writing class, then we’ll go out to lunch. (When I return from my trip, I’ll teach from home until February, when I’ll offer a series of different classes at Club Ed.) The last session of my kids’ class is next Wednesday – then off to L.A. to see my mother, niece, a few friends, breathe in the ocean air, and return to my stimulating, always interesting life in Texas.