The Abundant Pantry

I live in a tiny Victorian, built in the 1870's. It's a sweet little house and I loved it as soon as I saw it. Actually, the proper term is a poor man's Victorian, meaning it has some of the features of those lavish older homes with elaborate scrolled woodwork and porches and brightly painted.

My home is not elaborate at all. There is a front porch, four rooms, a bathroom, a room where I work on my computer, and a pantry. The pantry is larger than my computer room. The pantry is larger than my back deck. I love my pantry. I store all my staples out there, as well as pots and pans and appliances that are too large or too plentiful to fit inside the cabinets of my eat-in kitchen.

Earl, my Ole Sweetie-Pi, was in the pantry, looking for a can of tomato soup. I keep them more or less neatly stacked on one particular shelf, with like flavors stacked together so that I can tell at a glance what I have on hand. "Do you know you're almost out of tomato soup?" he yells to me as I stand at the island, stirring up a batch of cookies.

"No, I'll put it on the grocery list."

"Do you know you have two jars of mayonnaise out here?"

"Yes," I said, continuing to stir.

"We have a case of stewed tomatoes and a case of diced tomatoes. Look at all the different flours you have, and 20 pounds of sugar! Are we expecting a shortage?"

"It could happen," I said, stopping to sample the batter.

"Why do you need four different kinds of fruit juice?" he pressed.

"Why do you need 100 model train engines and a storage unit full of freight cars?"

Silence. "All I'm saying is that you have a lot of duplicates out here." He came out of the pantry with two soups, a minestrone and a tomato garden. He likes to combine soups to create his own recipe. "Who are the cookies for?"

"Work. It's nice to have a little treat."

My orange tabby, Buster, came by and rubbed around my legs, which is his way of softening me up for treats from the table, the counter, or wherever food and I might be.

Earl dourly studies him. "You're always making treats for work. Buster's getting fat."

Buster was a throw-away cat that we picked out for free from our local veterinarian's. "Buster was abandoned and probably forced to garbage picked before he came here; he knows what it's like to be thin and hungry. He much prefers being fat and happy." I look into those pleading green eyes, weaken, and give him a gob of cookie dough. It is gobbled in a nanosecond. "I know how he feels."

Earl took a pot down from the pot rack that is over my head and poured his two-ingredient secret recipe into it and lighted the stove.

"Do you know what cornstarch pudding is?" I asked him. He shook his head no. I am not surprised. Our backgrounds are very different. He grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth, doted upon by a household of women, pampered, indulged. His youth was spent squandering dreams. I am not much better for him, I fear. I indulge him, too; it's part of what I want for myself so I give it to others.

"So what is it?" he says. His back is turned away from he as he twirls the spoon in crazy circles.

"It's an old fashioned pudding, made with cornstarch. Not very flavorful if I recall correctly. I can still remember Mother standing at the wood stove, stirring cornstarch pudding in an old dented aluminum soup pot."

"So it's dessert."

"I think it's intended to be dessert; for us that would be our entire meal. A bowl of it. Three times a day."

He stopped stirring to turn and look at me. "You're kidding. I thought your father worked."

"He worked and then he drank all his money; he earned it and he could spend it however he wanted. He liked to show off to his buddies at the bar just what a great guy he was and spent all his money on them, trying to buy their approval and friendship. Mother would take the loose change from his pants pocket, buy a box of cornstarch and a gallon of milk, and that was what we had to live on." I shook my head at the irony. "He used to be proud, and actually brag, that Mother lived on a dime."

Earl tried to absorb the image and the feelings. "Must have been tough."

"Oh, I don't know. Remember how you told me you didn't know you were rich? Well, I didn't know we were poor. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to be hungry all the time. I don't know when I first discovered that people actually ate whole meals. Probably from going to visit my grandmother. She'd go all out with biscuits, chicken fricassee, mashed potatoes, cake, whatever I wanted. And I promised myself that when I grew up, I would not ever be hungry again, and if I had it in my power, I would not let others be hungry either. I always want to have food to share." Buster yowled plaintively at me. I gave him a small gob of cookie dough (I am concerned about overfeeding him). I'll share my food, even if it's just with a fat orange cat.

A Ride Uptown

My youngest brother, Grant, is very attached to our mother and he extends great kindnesses, far more than I do. Our relationship with her is individual and distinctly different, resulting in our different views on her as a mother. Irregardless, the one thing he and I agree on is our mother's lack of a social filter, that quality that prohibits you from saying outrageous (even if they are true) observations.

Some of her forthrightness is attributable to having an English-speaking family and a society of friends who were rough in nature and language. There was certainly little elegance or eloquence in manner or speech, and when you mix that someone who elicits only the bare bones of a foreign language, you're up against some pretty stark and startling conversation.

Everyone who knows her has been on the receiving end of one of her truths. We've learned to laugh it off, but when we introduce someone new to her, (say a new boyfriend or girlfriend) we always start with a warning, "Brace yourself, don't be hurt, don't be angry. She's going to say whatever is on her heart, whether you want to hear it or not. She doesn't mean to be hurtful..."

Mother is 81 years old, lives independently in a senior housing community. She's irascible and strong-willed. When she needs something done she will just casually toss out, "I need to have the air conditioner put in and go to the bank." Long silence. "It would be nice to have the air conditioner put in; I suppose I could ask one of the old men here to do it for me but they're not so good anymore. Can't count on them; they don't move too hot. I'll just sit in this hot apartment until one of them can come." Long silence while she waits for the guilt to seep in.

And my dear brother, with his friend, Paula, volunteered to drive the 150 miles to put in her air conditioner and take her to the bank. There are a number of two story brick buildings in her complex and after driving around a bit, my brother was able to find a parking space close to her building; the plan was they'd help her get her outside with her walker, go and get the car, and come back around to get her, take her uptown to do her chores, go back home.

Grant dropped Paula off at my mother's building while he parked the car. As he was walking up the sidewalk, an elderly lady approached him. "Are you the one going uptown?"

"Yes," he said hesitantly. He did not know this woman.

"You're here to see your mother?" He nodded. "She said you'd take me uptown. I need to go to the grocery store."

Grant, irked at being a chauffeur, but not wanting to embarrass Mother by refusing her friend a promised ride, helped the old woman into the front seat of his car, explained he'd be right back. The old woman shuffled in and sat comfortably while he went to escort Mother to the sidewalk and bring the car around. He rolled the windows down so she wouldn't suffocate in the car as she waited.

The old lady was still in the front seat, politely waiting. Paula and Grant helped my mother into the back seat. She is round as a strawberry barrel and weighs about as much. She is stiff with arthritis, but is determined to go. She grunts heavily as she sits, all smiles and gushing with delight at the thought of a car ride. Paula took the seat beside her. My mother, oblivious to the fourth person in the car, said "I want to go to the bank. Do you know how to get there?" Grant assured her that he did and the four of them set off.

It's a short ride made interminable by my mother who focused her entire attention on Paula, filling the silence with chatter about the "old people" known only by her who lived in her complex. As Grant later told the story, Mother continued roughshod over any interjections the old woman offered, not unusual as my mother will be heard, waving away any interruptions to her stories. Mother thought she was conversing with Paula the entire time. As they neared the shopping mall, the old woman said, "I want to go to the grocery store." Grant pulled into the Shaw's parking lot.

Mother in the backseat said, "Why are you here? I told you I wanted to go to the bank!" She was thoroughly miffed at his memory lapse. "The bank is not here!"

"I know, Mom," Grant says patiently. "Your friend wants to go to the grocery store. I thought I'd drop her off here, we'd go to the bank, and swing back and get her."

And that was the first moment Mother saw the old woman. She stared in amazement at the back of the woman's head until the old woman turned around. A staring contest ensured, broken by my mother. "Who the hell are you?" Mother fiercely inquired.

"I live in the same complex as you; I need to go to the grocery store."

Grant, alarmed, "You don't know this woman? She said she was a friend of yours."

"No, I don't know this old woman! She's just some crazy old bat getting in your car. She's an old fool!" (Pronounced Old Foo by my mother, the worst insult imaginable.) "What are you doing letting that Old Foo in your car? Why do you want to take her to the grocery store when I need to get to the bank!"

Quick glances were exchanged between Grant and Paula as their panic deepened. Now what? "We still have plenty of time to get to the bank." Looking at the now so-named Old Foo, "Look, we can't just leave you here. I'll take Mother to the bank and we'll come back and take you home, okay?"

It all worked out, of course. Mother was able to get to the bank on time, the old woman who wandered haplessly into their lives was delivered to her front doorstep. As Grant related the story to me in agonizing detail, I laughed and laughed. I laughed until I cried. It could only happen to him.

Several weeks later, I was uptown, coming out the RiteAid, of one of our little city's drugstores, a scruffy man, smelling of old cigarettes and sweat looked me up and down. He was leaning against the building, leg bent at the knee, foot pressed against the wall. I pretended not to see him. "Hey!" he yelled at me. I stopped, weighed the fight or flight response in me. "You going uptown? I need a ride."

I thought of Grant, smirked on the inside of myself. "No. Sorry. Going in the complete opposite direction."

Do Pets Have Souls?

These are three of the five fur babies that we had. The one with his back to us is Longfellow, the black and white is Molly (Molli-licious!) and my orange tabby, Buster Crabbe.

It's Longfellow, my silky as ribbon, sweet-natured, form-fitting, Bengal, I wanted to post about; he was struck and killed by a passing motorist this past week.

This question has been asked many times before, and brilliant theologians who studied The Word and quote Scripture will unequivocally say no, only humans have souls.

But still I wonder. Our other cats bring in the occasional mouse or snake (EEKS!!). This past autumn I watched Longfellow sort through a pile of autumn leaves. He found one the one that he wanted and brought it into the house and presented his precious prize to me. And this winter he found a child's lost blue mitten and sat on the deck railing, holding the mitten in his mouth, amber eyes peering into the kitchen window,willing me to turn around and see him, waiting patiently to be let in. At night, he was my snuggle kitty. He would curl into a tight silken ball in the crook of my neck, singing his lullaby in deep contentment, velvet nose in my ear, body vibrating with his song, until we both fell asleep.

The last time I saw him, he was was leaping through one of my straggly flower beds, chasing a yellow butterfly, oblivious to the world around him, only knowing that the butterfly might be the finest treasure yet.

Suffer the Children; Send Them to Me

Let me begin with a bit of a brag.

My youngest niece just graduated from college this past weekend with a double major, nutrition and communication. She worked full time and went to college full time the five years she attended school. She is the first student in four years from her college to be accepted in an dietary internship at a prestigious Boston hospital. Her long-term goal is to be a food writer! She confided to me that I inspired her when I used to let her help me in the kitchen and didn't get angry when she made a mess; instead we cleaned up and made it fun. Can you believe that? That has to be one of the top ten compliments I have ever received.

Earlier this year, my oldest niece received her masters in pharmaceutical research. While she was an undergraduate she won first place in a national science contest and later went on to win third place internationally. She was the first in the history of our family to acquire a four-year degree, but to obtain a Masters is downright unknown. Currently she's working on finding a cure for Alzheimer's disease.

These young women did not achieve such excellence by accident. They had a tremendous amount of love and encouragement and support from their both parents, even when their mom and dad were no longer married to each other. When the days seemed endless and their goals unattainable, my brother would say, "Look how far you've come and achieved so far! When you were in high school, did you ever envision you'd come as far as you have? You can do this! Concentrate on today and do well today, tomorrow will take care of itself. Get help if you need it and don't be embarrassed to ask for it. Don't feel bad about asking for help; feel good that you know that you need it and you get it."

I am so terribly proud of them. When they were still in high school, I asked them individually if they had a boyfriend. My oldest niece, Hilli (BeanBag) was clearly put out by the question. "Aunt Kathi," she sniffed with all the confidence and arrogance of a fully informed teenager, "there will be no time for boys. I will have my education and my career first and then there will be time for boys. Boys are a distraction; they keep you from achieving your goals!"

Laura, on the other hand, half-heartedly gave me the same statement; perhaps it was wisdom their parents had instilled in her and her sister and she was still attempting to adopt it as her own. I heard the pause. She leaned deep into me, peering seriously into my eyes, and said, "Aunt Kathi, can we talk about boys?"

****************

I have a former coworker whose daughter, Vicki, was dating a man who had sole custody of his young three children from a previous relationship. The children were beautiful, well mannered, and adoring of their dad and Vicki. They were the kind of little ones who would be welcomed anywhere. As time progressed and it seemed apparent that their adult relationship was leading toward commitment, I was happy for all as they looked like a loving family unit. Then one day my coworker, in describing the children, referred to them as 'pseudo grandchildren.' Then she went on to say how her daughter was looking forward to having her own children and being a 'real' mom. And she was looking forward to being a 'real' grandmother.

I could not contain the reverberation that shook within me. "I think your daughter has 'real' children to love and she is a 'real' mother to them."

My coworker scowled defensively. "It's just different to have your own, ones that you bore. They're yours. If you had children, you'd know what I mean."

Possession and ownership. Objects d' art. Mine, mine, mine. Yours. Mine.

Thank you, God, that I don't have children, for now I can love them all equally, without prejudice.

****************

A couple of weeks ago, my Sweetie-Pi and I were sitting at our kitchen table, eating a simple lunch. Earl looked past me and stared out the front window. "Somebody's sitting on our retaining wall," he said. "Probably just a hiker who needed to stop for a quick rest." We munched quietly and I forgot about the person on the retaining wall. "The person's still out there," he said.

I put my sandwich down. "I'll go see if they need help. If not, I'll scare them away. For all we know they could be plotting to steal our irises that we have planted," I teased. I found my shoes and walked down the grassy knoll that is our lawn. An ash-blonde head slightly turned to the sound of my footsteps, and I was surprised to see the profile of a young girl, around ten I guessed. "Hi, are you okay?"

A rapid nod of the head dissolved to a a slow shake. "No, not really," she mumbled into her chest.

"Are you hurt?" Alarm set in and I wished I had brought my cell phone so I could've called for an ambulance or the police.

"No." She looked up at me, golden eyes filled with an uncertainty beyond her years, and then back down at her bare dangling feet. She hugged herself against the cool spring air, goose pimples dotting her arms.

Silence as I thought about what to say next. "Are you running away from home?"

A noncommittal shrug. A tentative nod. "Sort of."

"Oh, I see. Well, that's a pretty big decision. Things must be pretty tough at home. Would you like me to sit with you for a while so you can talk about it?"

"If you want to." Her voice was whispery soft, the invitation hidden in her despair.

"I do." I came around and sat beside her and for the first time had a good look at her and she studied me out of the corner of her eye. She had a spray of freckles across the top of her cheekbones. Her long hair blew into her face, hiding her expression from me.

"So, do you want to tell me why you've decided to run away from home?"

"Because my mother yells at me. She's always yelling at me and I'm afraid of her."

My heart seized at the word 'afraid.' "Did she hurt you?"

Shrug. "No, she just yells all the time and swears at me and calls me names, hurts my feelings."

I could feel my jaw tighten and the words choking in my throat. "Well...I don't think it's right that a person gets yelled at or sworn or called names. That doesn't seem like the right thing to do. It would certainly hurt my feelings if someone treated me like that, too."

More silence as each weighed what to say. "She's not my real mother. She's my foster mother." She turned away from me, ashamed. "I can't live with my real mother right now." She slunk further into her humiliation. "I was on the trampoline and my foster brother bounced me off and I fell off and hit the ground. And then she came out and started yelling and swearing."

I asked this brave little girl what her name was, and she told me, Lena. "Lena, I have to be honest here; I'm at a loss for words. I never had my own children, so I don't know what to say, but I can speak from some life experience." I plucked a cream colored daffodil with a coral center from my border and gave it to her.

"Life is not fair. In just the little time I've spent with you, I can tell that you are good and bright and smart, and yet you are given a difficult life." Lena nodded. "I'm sure that your mother wishes that she could be with you and that you could be with her." More nods. "From the sounds of it, your mother made some poor decisions and choices that are keeping you apart." Unspilled tears and thin lips.

"I'm sorry that has happened, Lena, and I'm sorry that your difficult life is part of the consequence of someone else's actions. One of the things we have to learn as we are growing up is that life is full of choices. Do you go left or do you go right, do you pay attention in school, do you say no to the pressures of your friends who may be offering something that could hurt you or your future. Lena, some choices are hard and will require you to be very strong and sometimes if means you may be alone. What I have learned is that there are all kinds of prisons, Lena. There are ones that the courts put us in because we didn't obey the laws, and the ones that we put ourselves in, maybe because of our attitude and maybe because of our poor decisions. Right now you have a hard life, and being a "kid" (we both chuckled at that) means that your life is not really your own now and that you are largely dependent on the goodwill of others. But you do have a job and that job is to be the best kid possible, to get a good education, obey the law. Eventually, you will find a freedom that you never knew existed. Does that make sense to you?" Nod.

"The other thing I've learned as I've gotten older is that what we learn as children and the experiences we have make up part of who we are as adults. You have learned that you don't like yelling and swearing, right?"

"I hate it! When I am around little kids, I never swear and yell at them!! I never get mad at them. I want to hug them! When I grow up I want to work with kids."

"See, you have already learned something that will make you as wonderful an adult as you are as a young person now."

I was missing the mark, and I knew it. She did come to my retaining wall to hear this. "Lena, sometimes people yell at us because they were afraid for us, and that is how they express their fear, through anger. Anger may be the only emotion they are comfortable showing. Maybe she was never shown how not to be appear angry when she's really just concerned for you. Have you tried telling your foster mother that you are sorry for scaring her and upsetting her and that next time you'll be more careful?"

Lena smiled brightly as the idea grew in her mind. "No, I never have! I didn't even think of it!"

"Hmmmm. Well maybe it would be a good thing to say to her and see how it goes?" I smiled in self-admonishment. Forty-five minutes later I finally hit upon what she needed to hear from me. I talked too much; listened too little.

"Yes, I will do that!"

I noticed the goose pimples had multiplied on her arms. "Want a jacket?" She nodded yes. As it happened I had a zip-up, sweat shirt type jacket from my thinner years that I had just washed and was going to give away. It had been on a hook, hanging in front of a window in the back set of the car. When I handed it to Lena, it was still hot from sitting in the sun. She slipped it on, wrapped it tightly around her to absorbing all its warm. "You don't have to bring it back. It's yours."

"Thank you. This is nice!"

"All set to go home?"

"Yes, I am going home now." She picked up the daffodil that was bent from being twirled in her hands and looked down the street in the direction of her home with her "not real" mother. She set off; her bare feet crunched and swished the sand that had remained on the shoulders from last year's winter, the too cool spring breeze blowing the hair back from her face, her eyes ahead, full of resolve, not turning to wave good-bye. I watched until I could neither see nor hear her anymore.

Journey well, little Lena. Go build some mountains.

Perfect Clarity

In putting these stories on the Internet I realize that I am also sharing with the unknown multitudes whose life experiences and learning are vastly different than mine, but that's okay. I hope that those who may come here will find something valuable that they can take with them.

So now the difficult part for me. I am keenly aware that my spiritual experiences that I share may sound fictional and dramatic. I can not tell you why they happened to me, I only know that they did. I know that I do not have them the same way anymore. I think it was the absolute childlike faith, the unquestioning belief, that made them possible.

My grandmother was devout. She read the Bible every day; she prayed every night. She didn't eat meat on Fridays; never went to church with her head uncovered. Many of the books that she gave me and read to me were children's Bible stories. She talked to me of God and Angels and Heaven. She was the one who taught me the prayer, "Now I lay me down to sleep...."

When I was old enough, I was allowed to stay overnight and some weekends with my grandparents. On warm summer days Gram and I would lie on a blanket on the grassy knoll at the back of her tiny two-room house. Grasshoppers and crickets would leap on us; bees buzzed about the Indian paint brushes, wild daisies and brown-eyed Susans. We would look up at the blue sky and white fluffy clouds and see if we could see Heaven beyond the clouds, because that's where Heaven is. At home my mother was silent with her own sadness; my father bellowed his anger at everything. My grandmother was the only one who talked to me.

One summer day, a neighbor of my parents, Mrs. McLaughlin dropped by invited my mother and us kids to join her and her children at a local beach. My mother cannot swim but she craved the companionship of other women and to leave a forlorn house. She eagerly accepted, packing up a quick picnic and me and my younger brother.

I remember my mother wearing a two piece polka dot swimming suit. It looked like the package of Wonder Bread, white with yellow, red and blue polka dots. I loved it. I thought she looked beautiful in it, and she looked so happy talking with Mrs. McLaughlin, thoroughly engaged in her conversation.

I wandered away, at first only wading in the cool water. I wiggled and dug my toes in the cold wet sand. I could see other children and adults swimming. I could see my mother, face turned away from me, head thrown back in laughter.

I waded deeper. The water was soft, beckoning, inviting me to chase it. A ribbon of water rippled past me and I could not resist and I followed. Water rushed into my ears, filling my head with its roaring. I opened my mouth but I could not scream. I looked up through the water, and the sun and sky waved and danced, but could not claw to the top. The light dazzled and fragmented all around me. Bubbles burst. I looked through the water and saw myself floating and struggling for the surface. I was wearing a blue bathing suit.

How could this be, I wondered? How could I see myself struggling to find the surface? I looked towards the beach where my mother sat, hugging her knees to her. The air was crystal clear and pure, the day shone brighter than it ever had, I did not need air to breath, but I was alive and had knowledge of my surroundings and the people there. My visual perception was so sharp it almost hurt to look; I could see my mother. I could hear her words. It was as if I were standing beside her only I was midair, floating, looking down and out, unafraid, curious. Perfect clarify of vision and hearing but not understanding.

A shout. I saw Mrs. McLaughlin spring into the water. Blackness. I was on the beach. Mrs. McLaughlin gave me mouth-to-mouth until I was awake, dazed, but still not afraid.

I cannot remember my mother's exact words to Mrs McLaughlin, but she laughed and thanked her for jumping in to get me. She seemed untroubled by the incident, more disturbed by the commotion I caused, and returned to her conversation.

I went back to the water's edge and waded some more. The water warm and inviting, but this time I did not listen to its lulling song.

Mrs. McLaughlin never invited us again to join her at the beach.

*********

Many years later, my husband of barely ten years, lay in bed, paralyzed from the neck down from a freak accident in the home. Tubes were running everywhere, machines were tracking all his impulses. He was dying. We were both fighting it.

Dr. Choi patted my shoulder. "Mrs. Shields, your husband is brain dead. It's only the machines that give the illusion of life. If I turn them off, he will stop breathing." In demonstration, he turned them off, the chest rises and falls stopped; I gasped in horror and abject denial, and the machines were turned back on. "You must think about removing the machines."

I could not think! I would not think. Only days ago we clung to ever fading hope, we held hands, and I made every promise to God that I could think of. "Take me," I begged in prayer.

Daniel awoke, saw me, smiled. "You are my favorite wife, " he mouthed over the respirator tubes. I was is third wife.

"You're my favorite husband," I quipped, having been only married to him.

He smiled wearily; blue eyes flickered, lids heavy with the effects of drugs. "I want you to know that life with you was never boring. Even being mad at you was never boring."

"Me, too. I was never bored either."

"I want you to get married again."

"No," I said too firmly. "I will not marry again after you."

He looked sad. "Was it that bad? Being married to me?" A long gasp of air.

I clutched his hand in panic. "No, I only wanted to be married once in this life, and I married you. There will not be any others."

He closed his eyes, as if in thought. "I hope you change your mind. You should not be alone."

Alone I made the decision to turn off the respirators. Alone I accepted the responsibility for never seeing him breath again. Alone the hope was extinguished.

My mother went with me that last night. The doctors felt I should have someone with me as I sat and waited and watched and held to desperate, desperate hope. My mother was silent with me, speaking only to the medical staff as they drifted in and out, She reported my emotional status, "She's doing fine." "She's holding up." Then more silence as she sat.

I recalled that moment on the beach when I was a mere child filled with faith. I knew what awaited him: perfect clarity, vision, understanding where the skies were bluer and the sun shone brighter and the clouds were whiter; he would float, like a feather in the breeze, the quadriplegia only a memory.

I knew all these things, and I still wished he were with me.

I have a distinct recollection of being only thought, no form. I wonder if this is what the new age folks mean when they say we are a perfect thought in Divine Mind.