First Skirmish

I was 7 and she was fourteen, and I was madly in love.

Being what it is, memory doesn’t always follow a linear narrative, so the movies in my head are fragmentary bits and pieces, a patchwork quilt of happy, smiling pictures that still warms my heart now, almost fifty years later.

She sat in the back of the school bus. I was in the front, where the little kids were supposed to be.

But she crooked a finger at me, invited me back with a big smile, her long blonde hair caught and pulled by the wind of an open window, dust billowing around us as we roared headlong down a rural gravel road. Me, swaying along down the aisle like a sailor on a ship at sea—landing in her arms (Big hug!!!).

She let me sit beside her and I told her about a kid who brought his dog to school (She got a kick out of the story). About my dad’s hernia operation (That story—not so much). I told her what I wanted to be when I grew up (an animal doctor).

She told me she wanted to be a princess.

One day she got off the bus early and forgot her math book, a heavy tome covered in brown paper with a big, blue B painted on the front (B for Bloomfield. Go Bees!).

Panic! I called to the driver, made him stop, then hurled myself out the door with her book, waving wildly, shouting, yelling.

She was so grateful, she kissed my cheek.

Swoon!

Because we were neighbors, I saw her one day fly past in a blue car with some other girl. And she was laughing.

She was always laughing and smiling.

But in my mind—if not in reality—that was the car that took her away.

Took her away from all of us. Forever.

To this day, I don’t like blue cars.

They put a memorial plaque up in the band room to remember her. I didn’t see it until I arrived on the high-school scene six or seven years later. The memorial brought back all the memories and I’ve carried them with me all these decades.

When I passed her in age, I remember thinking I was finally old enough to take her to the movies.

In my thirties, I thought about her one day—and realized I was old enough to be her dad.

Typing this, now, I could be her grandpa.

And she’s still back there in time, ageless, laughing and smiling with peace symbols embroidered on her jeans and a necklace of beads around her neck.

And part of me is still there too, ripped up by the roots and left like dried flowers pressed in a book with a big blue B on the cover.

Tonight, I’m thinking about what’s left behind.

And who.

Mama’s stare is so hard, so consistent, and so filled with disgust, I struggle not to turn away.
But I keep my eyes level, my unaccepted hand out, my backbone straight.
I’m trembling inside.
“Happy Birthday, Mom,” I say, thankful in that awful spotlight to know Tilda isn’t my mother.
Her daughter-in-law, my friend Jean, puts a gentle hand on the old lady’s shoulder.
“Rich is saying hey to you, mom,” she says.
Tilda holds me with her eyes, doesn’t miss a beat. The battle-scarred she-wolf glaring at a scrawny pup.
“I know,” says Tilda.
I don’t even rate a sneer.
“She’s just mad Fred isn’t here,” whispers my wife, Gina, and it breaks the tension enough for me to make a hasty escape toward the gift table where I toss down the birthday card I carry.
Gina gets us some punch.
Fred, our basset hound, is part of the reason Mama Tilda doesn’t like me. (A recent incident involving a rain-drenched Fred, Mama trying to nap in Jean’s recliner, and a lot of slobber.)
The other reason is that I’m a long-haired hippie freak.
I know this because one afternoon after walking Fred past Jean’s house, my friend shared her mom-in-law’s frank judgement.
“She’s from a different time,” said Jean. “She worked in the mills her entire life. She’s a hard woman who doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”
So, going into the birthday part, I knew the part I played.
But in the near-decade we’ve lived in South Carolina, Jean has become family. And Jean’s family, too is dear to us.
Sipping my glass of bland pink punch, I look across the room at Mama in her chair, stoically accepting her guests, greeting each of them with not much more joy than she showed me.
She’s a hard woman. And I wonder about her.
When we leave, I don’t say good-bye.
And then, one bright Sunday morning, I’m standing in the open narthex of a historic church as the congregation flows past, moving outside where they’ll shake the minister’s hand and greet the noon hour.
Gina and I are picking Jean up for lunch after the service, and we arranged to meet her here in the front of the church.
While we smile and nod, and greet a few people we know, I spot Mama Tilda, doddering toward me.
I can’t tell if she’s seen me.
She’s resplendent in a soft orange dress, tasteful gold earrings, and a freshly colored pile of thick-sprayed hair.
An old man greets her with a smile and, incredibly, she smiles back.
I’ve never seen Tilda smile.
Even now, it’s not much. Sort of an anemic tic of the cheek. But it’s there.
And the sparkle in her eyes can’t be denied.
This is Tilda in her element. With her people.
And her soft, parchment thin hands, knobby from decades of work and thick with veins gently accept the greetings offered to her. She holds hands with the man, his wife. She bends to touch the chin of a toddler. She coos over a newborn babe.
And then she’s beside me, looking straight into my eyes.
“Good morning, Tilda,” I say.
She nods, turns away. We’d both like to be somewhere else, but we’re trapped by a new wave of chatty, back-slapping parishioners heading for the exit at glacial speed.
“Nice day,” I offer, just for something to say.
Tilda nods. Which is some progress.
And then she cocks her head and her eyes light up with emotion.
She puts her hand gently on my arm, and when she speaks, her voice is warm like I’ve never heard it.
“I’d like to show you our upper room,” she says, and moves backwards toward an open door I hadn’t noticed before.
Again she touches me, then gives me a mischievous wink and crooks her finger for me to follow.
Away from the crown, beside an open stairway, Tilda is suddenly all sweetness and light.
“You’ll find a lot of joy in our upper room.”
Not being a religious person, and certainly not a Methodist, I’ve never been in the church before.
Or alone with Tilda for that matter.
“Discipline too,” she says. “I can show it to you,” she flashes me a genuine gold-crowned smile. “If you’d like.”
Swallowing hard, I don’t know what to say.
Tilda’s warm hand of friendship—of joy in the upper room!—rests on my arm.
Her smile is contagious.
Alluring.
She really is a beautiful woman.
The upper room awaits!
“Your wife will enjoy it too,” says Tilda.
Now I’m really sweating.
And she steps toward me.
Reaches around my back.
“Mama?”
Tilda picks up a paper pamphlet from a pile on the polished table there.
She holds it in front of my face, a thin newsprint booklet bound with two staples. A photo of a stained glass window on the cover, a series of Bible verses and commentary inside. The cover is emblazoned with the tract’s title.
The Upper Room.
“Read this devotional every morning when you get up, and each night before bed.”
“Joy?” I say.
Tilda pats my arm. “And discipline,” she says.
Then she moves deliberately back to the crowd.
As I watch, she turns back once. “Share it with your dog, too,” she says.
And she gives me that hard stare I’ll always remember.
And wonder about.

Newly wed, living in Laramie, Wyoming.

And we’re getting to know the neighbors in our apartment complex.

There’s the young couple that graduated with my cousins from Sioux City East.

And a Mormon couple who cook outside on the deck.

There’s a strange single guy we simply call “CIA” because we know he’s a spy.

And then there’s the family in the corner with three kids who become our best friends.

The oldest girl, who is six, comes over to our apartment daily. Rather than knock on the door, she stands at the screen door, points a demanding finger, and announces her intention: “In!”

And we let her, often followed by brother and sister, in to share afternoon cookies or a slurp of soda.

When she falls out of her bunk bed, and breaks her arm, I draw a Snoopy on the cast.

During the Fourth of July, she sits on Gina’s lap.

Fast forward 17 years.

The little girl is getting married, and she invites our not-quite two year-old son to be her ring bearer.

It’s a Scottish themed wedding, and Wyatt gets to wear a kilt.

Splendid!

Great-grandma Hattie is of Irish descent, so we secure the McFarlane tartan.

The boy accomplishes his task in grand fashion and we never tire of saying we’ve finally discovered what real men wear beneath their kilts: Pull-Ups!

Fast forward 12 years.

The married girl, who no longer lives in Laramie, has kids of her own.

The oldest is soon closing in on the age that his mom was when we met her.

And our son is in high school and—if he gets married at the same age she did—could conceivably ask our friend’s daughter to be a flower girl in his wedding.

And the wheel of life goes on.

And the generations pass.

Around and around.

In 1986, I went to college in Nebraska. Hair hung past my shoulders, and I dressed like a member of Bon Jovi. Torn denim and black parachute pants. White Reeboks and bandanas tied around my right leg.

I wasn’t too street-smart, with only a vague sense that those bandanas—especially the wrong colors—might get me shot in certain Omaha neighborhoods.

But, I was more than a half-hour away from those places, living on campus at a rural liberal arts school.

I had no worries. I knew my neighborhood.

Right?!?

It’s here that situational awareness comes in.

My friends Marc MacYoung and Stephen Browne have written a lot about what that phrase means—and doesn’t mean.

How far does your awareness spread? How much do you know about—not just the situation—but the environment overall? The comings and goings of people? Who is routinely present, and who shouldn’t be there. How people talk, act, and dress.

One night after midnight I took a stroll through the campus center and startled the portly old custodian working there.

Most of us students had seen him around, short, grim, and meticulous in his cleaning. He didn’t speak much English. Some people said he came from Eastern Europe.

Paul jumped a foot in the air when he saw me come up behind him in the dark.

I smiled reassuringly. “Hey, man. It’s okay.”

He shook his head angrily. “Not okay,” he mumbled, backing away from me.

I smiled again. “My name’s Rich,” I said.

He turned his back on me and resumed mopping.

I tried one more time to be friendly. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Not scared of you, criminal,” he said, under his breath.

Criminal?

“Hey, no. I’m a student here.”

Then Paul turned and looked straight into my eyes. A hard look. A look that wasn’t about to take any shit.

He pointed at the red and white bandanas tied around my leg.

“You are a criminal. You wear rags each day. Different color. Different number.”

I was slow to catch on.

“Yeah? So?”

“You let your friends know about the drugs that way,” he said. “What you got for them?”

“You mean like some sort of signal?”

He shrugged. “Criminal,” he said, and turned back to his mop.

So maybe I didn’t know my neighbors as well as I thought I did.

It never dawned on me that anybody on our campus wouldn’t know the bandanas around my leg were just a goofy affectation.

I was just a kid, trying to find my way.

And my friend Paul was a recent immigrant.

Also trying to find his way.

What for me was glam-rock fashion, was for him a literal red flag.

I sat down on a bench and watched him work. When he was done, I bought him a soda from the machine, and we shared a drink and talked.

That night, I got to know my neighborhood a little better.

That night, the world started to expand.