Love is a Voice

I have always wanted to begin a children's book with the following opening line: Love is a voice and a presence in burrow darkness. I first read the quote in a book entitled Sea Birds of the World, text by Ronald Lockley. The quote refers to the bonding which occurs between birds during both mating and parenting seasons. I have read so many books about migratory birds, and I am amazed that a "voice" can be so unique that it is completely distinct among all other voices. According to the book, the sea bird "species is monogamous and usually a pair will remain faithful to each other as long as both shall live. This faithfulness is the result - as it often is in man - of establishing a partnership at the breeding site and successfully raising progeny together....The pair-bond is renewed and maintained at the nest in several stereotyped ways, but principally by individual voice recognition....Love, for these birds, is a voice and a presence in burrow darkness."

Anyone who has ever read a book on writing or attended a writing conference has been exhorted, trained and drilled to find his or her "unique voice." A writer's voice is what distinguishes them from among the thousands of clamoring, chattering, obscure writers in the world. If that voice is authentic or patent enough, then the writer moves from desiring to be heard to desiring to be read. When I become captivated by a certain author, I actually long for his or her next book to be published. Written words simply lay flat on any manuscript page; however, when the writer has a "voice", there is a presence that draws the reader in - almost like time spent with an intimate companion.

I have taken pictures of thousands of shore birds on the beach and have listened to their repetitive calls. Their squawks, chacks, quacks, grunts, chickerings, coos, cries and caws sound like a chorus of indiscriminate gibberish to me, and yet, to the right bird, love is a voice. One morning, I heard a mourning dove cooing outside the upstairs window of my daughter's condo. The dove continued the persistent early morning song, which sounded so forlorn and longing. I decided to raise the blinds, grab my camera and take a picture. Actually, I took several.

The first dove cooing outside my window.

The surprising arrival of the second dove.

Time spent catching up and cooing

...and kissing

...and snuggling

...and more cooing.

Then, the first dove flew away...

and the second dove seemed cooingly content.

Before I read that banding studies have proven that 90 percent of migratory birds are monogamous, a friend of mine told me that doves pair for life. This past week, I have been thinking about love and bonding and life partners. Within a few days of each other, my oldest daughter's first love and my son's first love became engaged to other people. Although both siblings have remained friends with their former companions, the coincidence of the engagements made for some interesting family conversation.

What is even more synchronous is a trip that Aimee and Matt have been planning for weeks. Aimee invited Matt to take a weekend vacation and attend a conference championship football game with her. She and her sister had gone to New York early this year, and it was Matt's turn. The trip seemed out-of-the-blue and unexpected, but every detail fell right into place. I wonder. At a time when they both may be questioning their "voice recognition skills" or the trademark of their own "voice", nothing soothes the wandering soul like a long migratory flight and an afternoon of college football.

Dianne ; )

Life Mapping with Matt

My kids grew up with a Spiegel catalog in their hands. They would literally fight over it when it came in the mail. Not because they were super-materialistic kids, but because they loved to play paper dolls; except their form of paper dolls was not like that of most children. My three small kids (from ages four and five until they were teenagers) created their grown-up lives with catalogs. They began the mapping out process in their individual bedrooms and sometimes they covered the entire house with their selected pages of living. The technique was simple. They foraged through the pages of Spiegel, Lands End, Eddie Bauer, Ballard Designs and any other home or clothing mail-order catalog that wound up in our mailbox. They chose living room furniture, kitchen dishes, holiday decorations, family members (husband, wife, son and daughter - sometimes grandma, aunt, cousin, etc.), clothing, bedding, and essentially everything you needed to have a perfect paper life.

When they found something they wanted, they slapped the page fast and hard, and shouted, "I Want That!" Quickness was absolutely key to getting what you wanted, like a fast-paced game of cards. Then, they tore out the pages or cut specific images and meticulously placed them all over the floor - leaving only a pathway to walk. Finally, they rummaged through my magazines to find expensive cars, adorable pets and any other aspect of their paper lives that the catalogs did not provide. The process took all day. Once they finished creating their paper worlds, they always called me to come and view the periodical depictions of their perfect lives. It was absolutely amazing! I have always wanted it to be a "today's big story", but I never knew how to "picture book" such a complicated process.

This past weekend, my grown-up son and I spent Saturday in the capital city of our state. Our agenda was simple - visit the Amtrak station to plan a family trip. Once we received all of the information and toured the station, we decided to enjoy a cup of pumpkin spice coffee, walk around the nearly deserted downtown streets and enjoy the fall day. He had been looking at lofts and condos online that he wanted to see in person, and I had brought my camera...so we began an afternoon adventure. As we started looking at the various buildings, shops, architecture and restaurants, I experienced a process that I had encountered before. Matt was mapping out a life - not a paper one, but a real one. He was beginning his selection process, and I was simply invited to view some of his choices. The grown-up boy was saying, "I want that and I want that!"

What better place to begin a journey than the train station!

Love repeated patterns...

and architectural details...

and lots of color...

and the state's perfect tour guide!

Love the tile and the building!

Love fire escapes...

big clocks...

and coffee shops!

One of Matt's aspiration addresses is the Electric 308 Building... (I love this picture because you can see the building name and number in the background!)

or the Plaza... (I love this picture - reminds me of an opitical illusion.)

or maybe the most important address in the state!

Love things that come in threes...

and iconic eateries...

and restaurants that are closed for the day...

and restaurants that are getting ready to open!

Need new shoes for the journey...

and a one very old phone booth!

A view from the bottom...

and the top (thanks to a sweet gentleman at the Capitol Towers Building!)...

...and maybe, one day, from a window.

TODAY'S BIG STORY: A rare mail-order catalog perfect day with my favorite grown-up son.

Dianne ; )

One Bad Call

"We come from a long line of over-reactors." I love that line from Father of the Bride, as George Banks (played by Steve Martin) is trying to explain the irrational behavior of his side of the family and of his soon-to-be married daughter to his soon-to-be son-in-law. I absolutely identify with my own personal history of irrational behavior, and I completely relate to his explanation of that over-reacting side of a family.

I am a nuclear-reactor. I am even reading a book at this moment entitled A New Guide to Rational Living. The authors, Drs. Albert Ellis and Robert A. Harper, suggest that we reason or think ourselves out of emotional outbursts and neurotic behavior. They recommend using words such as unfortunate, disappointed and irritated instead of my personal favorites - horrible, awful and terrible! They also propose that we deprogandize our stories or situations. I am really trying to practice logic and reason as a means of finding balance in situations and circumstances, but as a storyteller, propaganda is life! The more emotional the story, the better the plot! The more neurotic the behavior, the more memorable the characters!

No where is that more clearly illustrated than little league baseball! I am now at the point in my life where I can be truly embarrassed for my children and how I behaved when they played team sports. No one could convince me otherwise at the time. Only now, when I look at those videos and hear my loud mouth above everyone else, am I thoroughly convinced that George Banks doesn't hold a candle to me. All I have to do is look up the thesaurus synonyms for irrational, and I totally belong somewhere in the word group. Total Chernobyl!

Of course, my softball daughters and my baseball son pretty much knew what to expect from me. They were familiar with my multiple personalities on the ball field - from supportive mother to little league terrorist. Somehow, they continued to love me in spite of my behavior - stories which are still told in little league and family circles twenty years later.

TODAY'S BIG STORY: There is nothing like a big sports story, and today was one of the biggest. We played a team for the district championship, and the weight of the win rested squarely on Matt's shoulders. He was the last batter, and he did not swing at pitch that was clearly a dirt ball. We lost the game by one run. Of course, they had home field advantage and the umpire advantage as they were all clearly cheaters! I was so mad and furious that I did not recognize myself. But what hurt me worse than the loss was when I saw my own young daughter behaving just like me - screaming at the umpire and the opposing team. The only person that really mattered or needed our support was Matt; but, sometimes the sensational headline-making story becomes more important than one very important person at the center of it all.

ONE BAD CALL

Only one decision could have changed the way

everything turned out that day.

It was the Championship Game on Field # 3;

the final inning, and the win up to me.

We had one last chance,

and I was up to bat.

I am eight-years-old, and my name is Matt.

First pitch – STRIKE ONE!

I swung and missed.

Second pitch – STRIKE TWO.

I fouled to first.

Third pitch – low ball in the dirt.

STRIKE THREE! YOU’RE OUT!

I threw my bat on the ground!

I took off my helmet and threw it down!

I lifted my head and looked all around.

Hey! No way! This is not fair!

And then – right then –

one word boomed out into the air!

CHEEEEETAHHHHS!

Not one thing in that ballpark was the way it use to be!

Suddenly, I didn’t recognize anyone looking at me!

Nothing was the way I remembered it at all –

everything had changed with that one bad call!

My mom had stretched her scaly neck over the fence,

and smoke was coming out her ears.

She was a fire-breathing dragon

with piggy-nostrils all flared and red eyes filled with tears.

Dad, my assistant coach, had turned into a ferocious grizzly bear,

pacing back and forth in front of the caged den of cubs,

where there used to be a dugout filled with fourteen subs.

Dad was growling and howling and beating his hairy chest!

I didn’t know what to do!

Then I looked at our scorekeeper,

who was a big green cockatoo!

I heard her shriek with a voice like a bird,

over and over again, the same four words!

“Bad Call! Bad Call!

Dirt Ball! Dirt Ball!

Bad Call! Bad Call!

Dirt Ball! Dirt Ball!”

Our fans thundered like a herd of stomping wildebeest,

and the other team’s fans were heckling hyenas,

or that's what I saw, at least!

Inside the other dugout were monkeys swinging in a cage,

screaming and scratching and pointing in rage!

Then, out on the field stood two coaches – Oh no! What next?

My favorite little league coach was a tyrannosaurus rex!

He pounded toward the umpire who made the bad call.

He never said a word, but his look said it all.

The other team’s coach was a bouncing kangaroo.

His son, the pitcher, was sitting in his pouch,

jumping up and down like kangaroos do.

I turned around behind me and looked the umpire in the eye.

He took off his head gear, and I let out a sigh.

He was still human,

and fortunately, so was I.

He started it all with one bad call,

and I knew there was just one thing I could do.

Next year, I would hit that ball long and hard

(I might even go yard!)

on strike number two!

Dianne B. McLaurin. Copyright, 1993.

It's so funny how irrational behavior works. Years later, my face still turns red when I think about that day. I still feel the embarrassment over the rants and tantrums of that raving lunatic like the game happened yesterday. I can't remember details, but I can physically feel the emotion. How absolutely incredible is that? In the book A New Guide to Rational Living, a first century philosopher Epictetus is quoted as saying, "Men feel disturbed not by things, but by the views they take of them." Also quoted is William Shakespeare in Hamlet, "There exists nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so."

Everybody gets one bad call, sometimes one per day. Just remember, we all come from a long line of humans.

Dianne ; )