What Kind of World Is This? Part 1

A woman I know was in See's candy shop two days ago. Lots of people were there at the time, so there was a wait. Behind her, a mother and her son, about 7, and her daughter, about 5, were talking about what kind of lollipop to get. Both children decided on root beer. The mother held a 1/2-pound prepacked box of chocolates.

The woman said, "Go ahead of me; you already know what you want."
"Oh, no," said the mom, "thanks, but it's fine."

Just then the boy went over to the glassed-in cases of candy, came back, and said, "I changed my mind. I want a key lime truffle."

"Good choice," said the woman. Then followed a short explication to the boy by the woman and the mother about key limes: where they come from--hence their name--how small they are, how many are needed to make something from the juice, and so on.

The little boy went back and saw the bon bons and thought he might like one of those but then said, "No, I'm going the stick with what I said."

"The root beer lollipop?" asked the woman.
"No, the key lime truffle."

Then it was the woman's turn. She selected a few pieces, paid, and pulled out a $10 bill, slid it surreptitiously to the cashier and said, "See that?"
"Yes," she said.
"Put in on . . . " and she tipped her head in the direction of the young family. Then she left.

Today, two days after the candy incident, the woman I know took herself to sushi lunch.

Side bar: Don't get the idea this woman goes out to lunch and for candy every day of the week. She doesn't. Not even one time every week. But this day she had suffered through a mammogram and decided sushi was in order.

She ate her sushi lunch--a bento box, actually--and was still eating when the waitress brought the bill. When she had finished her sushi, she took out her credit card and went up to pay.

The waitress handed back the card and waved the woman off. "No," she said. "Your lunch is paid for."
"What?"
"Yes. The couple who just left bought your lunch."
"They did?"
"Yes, they're regulars of mine."
"Well," said the woman, quite stunned, "how wonderful. Thank you."

So now what do you make of that?

Something to think about

My friend's mother died early last Wednesday morning. Down in Ogden, Utah. My friend was there several days, had a good visit with her mother, told her she loved her, and came home Tuesday night to receive the next day's early morning call.

The visit was a good one, a time--for just the two of them--before her mother left this earth, a time she will always be glad for.

And while I call her my friend, which she is, I learned of this through another friend, one a bit closer. So this report came to me only today. I'm feeling sad for my friend, of course. But just now I'm thinking of something my friend said about this last visit with her mother.

"I was never her favorite, but I was the one who was there to tell her how much I loved her."

And I'm sure she felt that she spoke for others in the family, about the love.

But it's the other part I've been thinking about. "Not my mother's favorite." I tried to say that about myself--I was never my mother's favorite--but I couldn't say it. I wondered if I could say I was my mother's favorite. Or was it Janeen or Lucile or Sterling or Bill?

But here's the thing. I absolutely do not know. Which means, at least to me, that my mother didn't pick one of us as a favorite.

So here is what I believe. We were all her favorites, her real favorites, every last one of us five children. We were her favorite people on earth.

I'm sure of it.

To Each Her Own

Just back from visiting my friend Neide in the hospital--back surgery.

She told me about her student this semester, a woman in her 30s, wanting, says Neide, to be in her 20s like most of the class.

Cute, long curly hair, as in kinky curly, petite, but apparently lacking somewhere--like the good sense area. On the day of an important presentation to the class--and Neide said twice it was an important presentation--she came wearing what Neide called funky jeans, not particularly good looking, just funky and kind of dirty, and an ultra tight t-shirt with these words across the front: I'm a Hot Chick.

Made me laugh.

Also made me think of my t-shirt. Not ultra tight but I wouldn't wear it to an important presentation, if I ever were to make such a one.

My shirt is a tasteful black with these words in bright blue/green: Geezer Bait.

Yes, I have worn it in public. Three times. Well, maybe only twice. But I like it.

About My Dad - It's Father's Day, After All

Born October 30, 1891 in Manti, Sanpete County, Utah, to William Jedediah and Margaret Kirk Brimley. That's my dad.

Wilford Charles Brimley. It's a good name, I think. I remember no shortening of his name. My mother always called him Wilford. I can hear her now calling to him.

At his tallest, he was 5'6" and that's not tall. I never knew him slender, never knew him with a full head of hair, although I'm sure he had one at some time.

My dad was a no nonsense kind of man, a get down to it and get it done man, a hard worker--or so I believe. Not that I would have noticed such qualities when I was a child. Except, I think I noticed the no nonsense part. Maybe I was too much about nonsense.

We were not close. My Aunt Allie says he was hard to get to know, hard to get close to. And yet my two sisters--one the oldest in the family, the other the baby--say they were close to him.

Both were Daddy's girls. I was not.

Here's my poem on the subject.

Daddy's Girl

In that window-walled

square room of yours

you play a fast clack clack song

on the L. C. Smith black keys.

Seated you are my height--

I can see the window's shine

on your head, my voice can speak

straight into your ear.

You do not look up

or stop your fingers

while I tell my wishes.

I think you must hear me.

In the flowered chair,

you hold my sister on your lap

as rain slaps the street outside

and runs down our long hill.

The lamp throws a yellow light

around you, yellows your head,

your teeth, your tongue as you laugh,

saying funny names, made up words

whose meaning I guess at.

You touch her hair, her face,

call her china doll.

It's an old poem. But I have written more charitably about him since and confessed an affection for him, an appreciation for him.

Does that mean I love him? I think so.

I know my mother did.

Back where I shouldn't go

Back at DK's Donuts yesterday. Don't say it.

This time what I found remarkable--hence I am remarking about it--was inside the shop. Ready for this?

A dozen very large maple bars with two strips of bacon on each.

Turned my stomach.

Yes, I know, some in our family have already mentioned this taste treat, even provided pictures. But it's different when you see it close up. Then you know it's real, and you wonder why the case was still full of them at 3 in the afternoon. Well, you don't wonder. What you really wonder is who buys them? who eats them?

I don't feel well anyway.

Pan Handle

DK's Donuts sits on the corner of 13th and State. It's a small shop, but it seemed to be right in my way as I drove home after returning Caroline to her home last Friday, so, yes, I went in.

Generally, I stay out of places like that, but that day I stepped in and bought an old fashioned buttermilk bar. Oh my, they are good, and very full of everything I should not eat. But, hey.

I was the only customer that afternoon, and my car the only one parked outside.

When I went out to my car, carrying my bag of donut, I saw a man crouched by the large gray garbage can which stood against the building. It startled me to see someone there. He did not look good, as you can imagine.

If I had not looked directly at him, I might have passed and gotten into my car without this incident continuing. But I was looking directly at him. You know, eye contact. And so he spoke to me, which also startled me. "Excuse me ma'am, but do you have any change?"

It doesn't take long to think something like this through, to figure what he wants your money for, to think of giving him your donut and to reject that idea because it was the last buttermilk bar--really, I thought that--or to decide if you will give him some money or not. So only a second or so passed before I responded, "Well, yes, I do." Which meant--to me--that I would give him some money. Perhaps it meant that to him, but he continued, saying something like, "I really need it." And by now he was on his feet.

I opened my wallet and put my fingers on the two dollars I had--certainly not my last two dollars--and asked, "And what do you need it for?"

"I want to go to Burger King and get something to eat." And there is a Burger King about four blocks further on down State Street. So it could have been true.

I cannot say that I believed him, but I was going to give him the two dollars anyway. I said, "Well, it's only two dollars." And he said, "That's all I need." And I said, "Do the people in there (the donut shop) know you're out here doing this?"

"No, I don't think so, or they'd make me leave."

"Yes, they would."

I gave him the money and he headed off down the alley--yes, in the direction of the Burger King--thanking me over and over again.

Of course, I don't know where he ended up. I know this: he looked, as they say, down and out and quite hopeless.

I have thought of him, of this moment in the grand scheme of things. Certainly it is no big thing.

I do not give money to all people who want it, hardly ever to the ones holding signs, occupying many of our city's street corners. I always think about it, but sometimes I can't stop my car. Sometimes I do a little bit of judging--sorry--and just decide not to. Like if the person is smoking, I think about how much cigarettes cost and think he might have spent whatever money he got on the food his sign says he needs.

Sometimes I just think you can't trust anyone. Seems quite heartless as I write it.

You have, no doubt, seen the people with their signs and their belongings on the ground beside them. The signs, they say many things, you know. Like, lost my job, or family of five, or have diabetes, or need help and God bless. And so on.

Seldom do we encounter, here in Boise, the direct and personal appeal of the man last Friday. I do not say a person should give money. We do have several shelters here in town where homeless people can stay and be fed. And I do not say a person should not give.

I am saying I gave the man a little money. That doesn't mean I'm a fool or a saint. It just means I did it.