Monday, March 21, 2011
Opening the van door while turning my phone alerts to silence, in anticipation of church, I'd barely lifted one foot up, in my careful maneuvering to get into the vehicle without further injuring my cracked ribs, everyone was dressed and ready, when a fistfight broke out at that moment over absolutely nothing.
I turned around, forgetting my ribs, ready to pull 'em apart, a reflex action honed by many years of practice in action but Chuy got there first. Again this was about nothing. Nothing at all. Just overflowing aggression issues that exploded instantaneously, leaving me to wonder how on earth they'll ever survive in the real world without me refereeing constantly.
I bribed the least angry one to just let it go, "I'll reward you for this later, I promise," and as easy as that, the conflagration was finished. A couple of heavy breathing guys getting in the van for a very quiet four minute ride to church.
Holy Cow! Can't we just all get along?
I sat on the back row, as I usually do, but with a painful realization that folks coming in tend to either hug, pat me on the back, or touch me in some form or another. Hey. we're Southern, that's what we do.
I did however eventually manage to make it out of the building without further damage to my skeletal structure, returning home to an afternoon of laundry and a meltdown by JoJo just because his behavior was corrected by me when he hit someone. He stormed off down the hall, threatening to run away and raise himself, because I'm just too mean, as are school staff and police officers.
I informed him that I'd press charges if he left our property without permission. He got a grip.
I did laundry. And more laundry. I've still been thinking about my friend, a former jogger, now in a wheelchair, and I can't begin to tell you how ashamed I feel of myself for my whining about the monumentally pisspoor behaviors around me. I truly value good health and the physical ability to do all of this work.
But goodness knows I'll be griping again soon enough, forgetting this momentary resolve.
Gina's been saving us her coffee grounds and other kitchen refuse, wanting to minimize her own trash output, having watched me make compost for her 20 years of knowing me, knowing of its value to the earth. She's a tiny woman with a tiny amount of vegetative matter, but Honey, it adds up, this she and I know. Oddly enough, it makes us both giddily happy.
Both Sarah and Yolie's families have compost piles as well. Friday night, Tony, Nando and I worked on ours, building an extension out of cinder blocks for starting a new pile, knowing the oldest pile is ready to be spread on the gardens, the second pile still steeping in its own juices, percolating for a late season feeding. I usually put a shovelful in planting holes, knowing it'll nourish the plants all season long, or just sidedress each plant.
Sunday's become her day to drop it off, check on everyone, pay a visit, her sunshiny self a blessing.
Jonathan's sitting on the sofa glowering at me, calling me stupid, refusing school, having already missed the bus on purpose. My blood pressure is rising, I'm so sick of these crazy behaviors, and look at me, already griping about them.
But who lives like this?
It's this abnormality that makes me nutso, the work is doable, the mental health issues are staggeringly resistant to any resources at all.
Jesse's pictured here in a beautiful New York setting, "It's still cold," he'd texted, born in South Texas, raised in Georgia, upstate New York's weather has got to be a challenge. At least it's scenic there.
I'm taking Chuy to an orthopedic doctor to check out his previous injuries incurred while doing elaborate park cores, then hopefully finding time to finish planting cole crops before our summer heat settles in on us all.
So for a more normal life perspective, Sarah blogged...