Joan Bauer's Journal

Merry, Merry

    My email is clogged with last minute offers from companies who swore up and down that their free shipping ended at midnight last night, but now they've reconsidered.  My house is a mess and in four hours it cannot be a mess -- it cannot.

    I'm not sure about this one present I bought. I hope the gift card I got for another doesn't seem impersonal.  I was at a store where a salesperson wanted to take the sweaters I had gathered and put them at the register, and I said no -- I'm not sure I want them, but this store is filled with desperate shoppers and someone might take them and then where will I be?  My To Do list with the vast number of things that will not get done has Ha Ha!!  written across it. I didn't bake this year -- I feel bad about that.  And, really, I shouldn't be writing this blog because I have to get one more gift.

    My heart is racing as I rush through the world. I love this time of year.  I love Nat King Cole singing in the stores and the Salvation Army ringing the bells, I love the wrapping, and I actually learned that it is possible to wrap a gift when you have misplaced all four pairs of your scissors.  You use a steak knife, and, depending on your personality, your teeth. I mean, who knew?

    It's Christmas -- the lights are on, the grace is amazing, the chorus of angels is singing.

    Merry, Merry Christmas, friends!

    May the Light of this season warm your hearts and shine bright in the year to come.  

Father's Day: Episode 1 "The Gerbil"

I was looking under my couch trying to find my glasses, when I remembered a time, maybe 25 years ago, when my daughter's gerbil Lassie escaped. We'd looked everywhere for this rodent to no avail and Jean had left for first grade in tears.  

"If you find her, you'll call the school, right?"  I promised I would.  Jean sniffed, "Because she's little and can't fight back."  

I stepped over the lettuce I'd put on the floor as gerbil bait and looked at my husband who was lying miserably on the couch.  The day before he'd had his tonsils removed and you know how these things go.  It occurred to me that Lassie might be holding out for the good stuff. I added endive to the lettuce on the floor and heard scuffling under the couch my poor husband was on.  I knelt by the couch, looked underneath, peered into little gerbil eyes and actually said, "I've got endive."  Lassie considered this, then scurried out.  I tried to grab her and missed, but Evan, thinking quickly, scooped her up.  Lassie, thinking quickly, bit Evan's thumb through to the bone, causing Evan to shriek in pain, his tonsillectomy so wretchedly raw. Into the cage Lassie went with the endive as Evan flopped on the couch holding his throat.  I called the school and in one of the great moments of education the principal got on the loudspeaker and announced to every classroom K to 5:  "Jean Bauer, your father has found your gerbil."  

You can't ask for more than that from your elementary school, or from a father for that matter.  Happy Father's Day, Evan!  You always get the job done.  

A Different Mothers Day

I’m in Chicago, it’s Mother’s Day weekend.  I won’t be with my husband and daughter on Sunday, and my mom died a few years ago, I’m here for auditions for the reading of SQUASHED The Musical, the most fun new venture -- a musical of my first novel, SQUASHED, the book that got me started in YA, the book I wrote after a car accident, neurosurgery, pain, and absolute despair.  I didn’t know what I was doing writing that first story! I’d never written a novel, I hurt like crazy, I was unsure, but my character Ellie Morgan -- she was sure.  I heard her voice, I let her show me, I gave myself to her story, and let her quest to grow the biggest pumpkin in Iowa be my quest for doing something big and bold.  SQUASHED was wonderfully reviewed, and now it’s got a new voice, a musical voice, and I’ve found my music after all these years.

I was surrounded by serious music growing up -- my mom was a jazz pianist -- that woman could swing. She had such a gift, such a love for it.  My sisters and I danced around the dining room table as Mom played.  I’m convinced there’s a great jazz band up in heaven.  I played the flute and Mom and I would play duets -- some of my best memories were standing at the piano doing that.  And here I am with this musical in the works and she’s not here.  It’s the one hole in the show.  I know, she’s in the soil of it, I know she handed me her love of music like a baton.  She told me to study the piano -- I didn’t listen -- why didn’t I?  But I’m listening now -- I need to get better on the piano, so much better, but every now and then I’ll play a deep bluesy chord and I know that my mom played that chord with everything she had.  

It’s easy to hold back on trying something bold and new -- oh, I’m too old, or too busy, or not old enough, or whatever.  For years I had carpel tunnel and couldn’t play an instrument, but those days are over, and when the stirrings came a few years ago to start writing songs, I could hear the melodies in my head, and I stepped out, so cautiously at first.  I found the nerve to sing one of those songs for a musician friend.  I waited for his eyes to glaze over, but they didn’t.  I waited for him to back out of the room when the song was over.  He didn’t do that either.  He encouraged me.  Keep going, keep at it, you’ve got something.  We need encouragers in our lives!  My husband, my greatest encourager, wouldn’t let me quit.  Keep going.  Okay!  I felt bolder and now here I am about to listen to singers audition for the SQUASHED reading with my collaborator, Jeff Bouthiette, head of Second City’s music training program. We wrote this show together.  

I can see my mother grinning, pounding out the beat with her mighty left foot, giving herself to the music.  You’ve got to give yourself to a thing, and let all it is and all you can bring to it come out.

How very cool to have a mother who taught me that.

This Week, Mom

I started crying for no apparent reason yesterday.  Was it the mess in the kitchen?  Not enough to warrant tears. Was it was concern about someone I love? I didn't think so. But of course, it was Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, the week my mom and I shared more uniquely than any other.  She died a few years ago, and there's something about this time when the shadows of the years, and the decapitated chocolate rabbits, and the awful Easter hats, and the music, the glorious music seem to come and sit with me, just like my mother would sit at the piano and I would grab my flute and we would play Easter hymns together.   

I found a tiny painted box that she'd kept in her dressing table -- in it are odd buttons she'd been meaning to sew back on.  The things we mean to do.  It's good if they can be contained in a small, painted box -- we know where they are at least -- when they're all over the map of our lives, we try to grab at them, but there isn't time to do it all, to have it all, to sew it all back on. 

This week, Mom, I remember your beauty, I remember how whenever I would start a new novel you would pick up the phone and ask, "What are you going to do to the mother this time?" I remember your brilliance as a jazz pianist, you could have gone pro, but you became a teacher to take care of us.  I remember how you went back to grad school to get your masters degree and sat near the piano and did your homework wearing earplugs.  I remember how you celebrated the seasons, no matter what, and how Easter was your most happy day.   

I suppose every button has a story, every Easter egg that has been lost for years and suddenly appears behind the sofa has a tale to tell of overcoming, I suppose that no one can tell the full story about one's  mother, we never get it all. How could we?  But this I know -- it is a colossal blessing to be the child of a survivor who struggled with everything she had to become a prevailer.  This week, Mom, I'm particularly remembering that.  

 

Perishable. Please Open Immediately.

Life's like that, the little moments that we need to open right away, or they'll be gone, the things we need to say now, the small moments of care, the mighty acts of courage.   A phone call with a friend, a longer chat than usual with a neighbor, snatching a moment with someone you love instead of picking up a room, I keep trying to make things perfect, but things are never perfect, especially rooms, but to stop and connect is the right thing.  Open immediately.  

The news of the day, well, it's going to get old, we need to understand the world we're in, the day we find ourselves, and think about this crazy planet and what we can do to extend ourselves to other people.  I've procrastinated on something for so long it's embarrassing, it's past the perishable stage, but I'm going to do it anyway.  Not just to get it off my list, but because I want to, I care about this person.  What do we want to do?  And if we don't act, will it be lost forever, or get brown spots, or turn to smelly mush?  

Please open immediately: the gift of this day, the moment by moment opportunities, even the things we don't want to do, sometimes doing them opens another door and it frees us up.  So much is perishable, a look at the news reminds us that.  So, open to the end of the year and bring into the new year all that is required.  May we forget and forgive, count our blessings and name them one by one.  May we open the box of 2013 with all the hope we can muster, the gift of a new year, a new beginning.  May we hug a child, rub a puppy's tummy, and look for the moments fleeing by, grab them like the string of a wonderful kite and let them catch the wind.  I've never once gotten a kite into the air, but in my mind, it's up there, flying.  Happy New Year!

Keeping Thanksgiving

The turkey is gone, the carcass has been made into soup, Black Friday is history, and maybe the spirit of Thanksgiving feels like it's wearing thin.  Keeping Thanksgiving is a lot like keeping a friend's place in line.  You guard it. Very deliberately... 

Each day, no kidding, no exception.  No matter what's going on, how you feel, what new hassle has come your way, stand up and announce something you're thankful for.  Write it down, put it in a box (I love boxes), and maybe even pat the box when you do it.  Find a child -- this might not be difficult if you have children.  Say to the child, "What are you thankful for?" The child might shout, "My Mega Bloks Halo Warthog." This is valid.  Write it down, put it in the box. And you now have another thing to be thankful for -- there is yet no Ultra Supreme Mega Halo Warthog that, say, glows in the dark.  If you are in a child-free zone, pull out your inner child -- you know, the one you used to be.  Ah now, you might not have had a conversation with that child in some time.  Think about what you might have said at age 6 or 9 or 12  when asked, "What are you grateful for?"  The young you shouts, "Chocolate!"   

See, some things never change.  Have some chocolate, don't put it in the box. 

Keeping is a great word, a word we all think we know, and then somebody, like a writer, looks it up.  Keep means to preserve; to maintain; to take care of.  And we need to do that with thanksgiving, not just the day, but the attitude, it needs help beyond what a Mega Bloks Halo Warthog could ever provide. It needs to be guarded and tended and preserved.  After Thanksgiving, I was interviewed on radio station KFBK, Sacramento's #1 news station.  I talked about maintaining thankfulness and the anchor Tim Lantz asked me a great question:  What do people do who just don't feel thankful?  I said, "Think about a time when you were thankful.  Try to take some steps to get back there again."  That's preserving the memory, I think.  I've continued to ponder the question in these complicated days when so many are hurting.  

What are we thankful for?  It's a great question to pose to your family (all ages) and friends.  Their answers might surprise you, inspire you.  Write them down, put them in your box. You might find that you run out of boxes.  I hope that you do.  If that's the case, just write it all on your heart and keep thanksgiving alive. 

**My new novel, Almost Home, is about holding onto thankfulness no matter what. 

 

 

The Grind

Years ago my daughter had a rock polishing set. We put the rocks in a canister, plugged it in, and it would turn them over and over, endlessly and loudly. The worst part was that the process took two weeks (not mentioned in the ad campaign) -- two weeks of incessant grinding.  After a few days of this, I was becoming a desperate person. We put the machine in the basement, but I could still hear the grind. We finally put it in the garage, covered it with something large to dull the noise, and let it go to it's heart's content. At the end of two weeks the rocks were smooth. 

It makes me think about tough times -- the kind that grind on and on. Frustration builds, the pain gets louder, it seems like nothing is happening -- surely, the process is just there to make us crazy. But there is smoothing going on, too; there is change happening, if we are patient enough to wait out the process. And all of that makes me think about love -- not the Valentine variety with hearts and chocolate. But the kind of love that grows between people in hard times. True love takes time to get polished. I don't think Hallmark wants us to think about that this week, although there's something to be said for a Valentine that reads:  THIS HAS BEEN A LONG, LOUSY MONTH, BUT I STILL LOVE YOU. And so, I wish you much love this year -- the kind that's made more beautiful by the ever-present grind.  

Making New

I don't have a to do list for the new year, I have a want to list. 

For 2010 I want to learn to make things new.  I want a freshness in this year that I've not had for a while.  I want to look at old things in new ways.  I want to believe in new ways, write in new ways.  Be a friend in new ways, and be smart enough to know what needs to be thrown away.  I keep shoving stuff in my closet, telling myself I need it.  I'm not sure I do.  Things, at least some of them, feel like a leash to me.  I remembered this particularly today when I took my dog Max to the park, unclasped his leash, and watched him roll and play with the other dogs.  I want to give myself some off leash time in 2010.  

It's snowing in Brooklyn -- the right way to end a year and begin a new one. Let it snow over 2009 and into 2010.  Let the freshness fall, let it all be made new.  Amid the sorrows and joys of this year -- and both of them have been deep -- I want to make a new way and travel it.  

Here's to 2010.  May our hearts be refreshed and our dreams renewed.  Happy New Year! 

Come Closer

Put down your load.  If it's anything like mine,

It's all the gifts you need to buy,

all the cards you should have written,  

all the cookies you've consumed,

all the things you meant to do.  

Put them down.  It's okay.  

Come closer to Christmas.

Put down your guilt about not being perfect

and getting sucked into the hype 

that siphons out the joy.  

The more you buy the more you save.

Not exactly -- the more you buy the more you buy.

Just for a minute let that go.  

Come closer to Christmas.

Pull down your walls.  If they're like mine

they keep you locked inside.

Open the doors, let the fresh wind come.

In light and joy a babe was born.  

It's so simple that we miss it.

May we stop today and listen to the whisper.

Come closer to Christmas.

The Shower Curtain

Philadelphia. Spring, 2007. I stood in the bath center of a large department store -- I don't remember which one. I'd been given an important shopping task. My mission was to buy a shower curtain and towels for my father-in-law's new bathroom. This might not sound like a big deal, but you have to understand, my father-in-law, E. Steven Bauer, was a very big deal. He was a retired pharmaceutical executive, a pharmacist, a man who led the team that brought the first local production of antibiotics to India and Pakistan in the early 1950's. He built the factories, rode in a a Jeep wearing a pith helmet, and oversaw the inoculation of thousands of people, thereby saving countless lives. He could converse in seven languages and was a gourmet chef -- witty, urbane, intelligent, and charming. And I am telling you, none of the shower curtains I was looking at was suitable. Not one.

I went to another large department store that looked exactly like the department store I had just been in. I marched to their bath section, picturing Steven flying around the globe, making a difference. I looked at their shower curtains, nixed the Tweety and Sylvester, pushed past the one covered by large yellow fish, stood stunned before the one with "Peek-a-boo" written across it. I looked for someone to help me, but large department stores never have actual people working in them.  Tweed, I thought. Steven loves tweed.  here were no tweed shower curtains. You'd think tweed would have occurred, at the very least, to Ralph Lauren.  

Blue, I thought. He likes blue. There was baby blue, metallic blue, sky blue, no Steven blue. I went to another store, finally found a employee, and blurted, "I need a very significant shower curtain." I found it -- non-fussy with vertical brown, blue, and cream stripes. I picked out brown towels -- lush, though purposeful. Steven nodded when he saw what I'd chosen. I put them in his bathroom. "Very nice," he said, and that was that.  

I was remembering this last week as I sat in his bathroom, crying. Steven passed away on Saturday, November 14th, after a wretched parade of injuries and illnesses took their final toll. I knew him for twenty-eight years. He never made small talk; he was ethical to his core; he possessed deep wells of courage; and he loved my apple pie. This Thanksgiving, as our family gathers in Philadelphia, the joy of knowing him and the pain of losing him will be deep.  Dear God, how he will be missed.