In Remembrance - Margie Boulware, 2006

My friend Margie died in the spring. I find myself thinking of her this time of year.

Mother called me when Margie died. As chance would have it, I had left the cell phone in the car, vital piece of technology that it is. I listened to the message the next morning. When she said she had something to tell me, but didn’t want to say over the phone, I knew someone had died.

Dad answered when I called, so he was the one who told me. “Laura, Mrs. Margie died.”

I was surprised. Things like that are supposed to happen of course, but sometime in the future, when you’re expecting it. She had been in my thoughts recently. As I was looking through some old Christmas cards, I realized that both my mother and Mrs. Margie had sent me a card with a polar bear on the front in the same year. I laughed when I realized that they’d both been on such a similar wavelength. And with that came the thought that on my next vacation to Savannah I needed to devise a way to sneak over to Okatie for a visit.

I remember the last time I dropped by on my way home from the Savannah Irish festival in February. Ann was there, and I didn’t have long to stay, but a visit to the area wasn’t right without a hello to Mrs. Margie. And as usual she’d been full of plans. She was a little thinner and a little slower in her steps maybe, but she was the same vital, interesting person I’d always loved. It is difficult to grasp that she is gone. That will take some getting used to.

When mother told me the circumstances of her death, I said, “Well mother, if you could choose how you would die, I think that’s what you’d pick.” Mrs. Margie wasn’t a person for nonsense, so it struck me as particularly appropriate that in one breath she was here, and then a few breaths later she was not.

The Margie I knew had an open door policy with me. And she really seemed to love listening to any nonsense that came out of my mouth on any given day and at any time I wished to share it. Since I was a kid, I tried not to let on how important that was to me. Growing up, you can be really dumb sometimes.

But I loved being in that house in front of the fire or sitting at the kitchen table and talking for hours about nothing special. I spent more time talking to Mrs. Margie than I spent with my own grandmother, who thought I was too quiet and bookish “just like” my mother. I don’t know that I had more in common with her, but with her I came fresh and without that genetic baggage that comes with being “just like” someone you raised. And her gift was to listen to me chatter on like I was just the smartest, most fascinating person she ever knew, when I was really just a loner and a kid. I in turn thought she hung the moon. Really.

I always kept an eye out for her truck on Camp St. Mary’s road because I knew she’d wave if she saw me. Being on the river was always better if we managed to spot her in the boat or fishing on the dock with her mother. And there always seemed to be at least one excuse to turn down the dirt road leading to the Boulware Place, so that I could pick up our conversation where we left off.

And I can remember vividly that when I got my college acceptance letter, and no one else was home, my first thought was to walk straight from the mailbox in front of my house over to tell Margie, because I knew she wouldn’t mind one bit. That’s the best kind of adult there is.

I regret that these are the kinds of things you always save up to say about someone after they’re gone. I think about all the good it would do just to have it all said while everyone is alive and healthy and can still appreciate the heart that went into saying it. What I hope is that through all the chattering I did back then, by the fireplace or out in the barn or at the kitchen table or in that hulk of a truck or out in the boat on the water, that she knew already that she was the best kind of adult a kid could have as a friend. I will miss her.

--Laura

On spring

Oh, I'm gonna fry you up. I've got your eggs and bacon right here, baby!

Her voice was terse with another of the many threats she'd made today. I walked to the end of my house quietly and tilted my head around the corner so I could watch her unobserved.

Mama Rose is my friend's mother. She's 75-years old. With one hand gloved and the other bare, she was stooped over my bed of Irises, pulling at a weed while striking it with an evil looking machete.

Not my machete. She'd brought it from home. It's her favorite tool. When I could coax her to put it down, she'd help me pull weeds from the flower bed in front, replacing the weeds with cypress mulch. Unlike me, yard work was something she'd rather do than just about anything. At the end of our first day together, she left her machete and work shoes, so in her words, she'd have to come back for them tomorrow.

She called the next morning at 7:30. She'd been up since 6. Her daughter and I say she's crazy. It's the good crazy though, not Power-of-Attorney crazy.

She lends just the right spirit to spring yard work. I love spring and I'll tell you why. There's a crazy kind of risk in it.

When I started the working in the yard earlier in the week, I was going solo. It was warm outside and sunny. I burned fallen limbs, I cut grass and I pulled honeysuckle vines. When I came inside that night, I had a light sunburn. I invited Mama Rose over the next day because I felt behind the season already and knew I needed help.

The next day, the picture changed. The skies were overcast. A light drizzle coated my burn pile. But the weather was fine for listening to stories from my companion.

I say, don't tell me not to do something, just tell me why I shouldn't do it.

I played along. Don't do it because your mother told you not to and you'd get a whipping.

Shoo. A whipping only lasts a minute. Did I ever tell you how I started a fire with a match and a rock?

And the next day the picture had changed again. Tornadoes came through during the night, passing just south of us but still setting off the county warning sirens. I savored my coffee the next morning, waiting for the weather to clear. Finally, I drove through the fog to pick up Mama Rose again.

Look how many churches there are between your house and ours. Don't you know people just keep building all these churches to have more ways to make money off Our Lord? It's just disgusting.

When Mama Rose's New Orleans accent wraps around this word, I believe even those who don't understand English can get the meaning from her inflection.

DEEZ-GUS-TIN, baby.

Three days. Three kinds of weather. By Friday, I realized my yard work wasn't going to be finished by the end of my vacation. And I realized I wasn't behind the season at all.

I also realized that if I gave Mama Rose cuttings from my flower beds, she'd have something to plant at her house, and I'd get a day off.

There are plenty of lessons to take from spring. They repeat every year and every year they feel new because I've changed from this time last year.

First, I hear change is inevitable. People can pretend that change doesn't happen, but they are just denying the reality of spring, which comes each year with wind and sun and tantalizing activity. My yard is in bad shape because I ignored it two springs in a row. Ignoring it didn't stop spring's invitation from reaching me, nor did it stop weeds from overtaking my flowers. This week I tugged weeds out of my yard, revealing all the lovely flowers underneath. I could almost hear them beginning to breathe again.

Change is dirty. I can't pull weeds or dig soil without getting dirty. In fact, digging is best done when it's been raining, making the ground soft enough to release the weeds and soft enough to mess up my shoes. Participating in spring means making messes and cleaning them up. Not getting dirty means letting messes creep up unplanned but never quite unexpected. You can retreat from that, or you can get in the thick of things. It's okay to choose retreat sometimes. I've chosen it in the past. But the task isn't mysterious or insurmountable. Pull the weeds and toss them out. Leave the rest.

Spring also teaches me that the right tools can make a difference. Recently a friend did repairs for me and in the process put a slash in the finger of his pigskin gloves. We didn't throw them away and after he left I found them tucked away in a utility drawer. I'd never worn pigskin before, but I tried them this week, and I have to tell you, they are the most comfortable gloves I've ever worn. They saved me blisters from the rake and cuts from the thorn bushes. I'd have never justified the expense of fancy gloves for garden work if my friend hadn't left the pair. That's a good friend.

Which is another thing about spring, if only for this year's lesson. I learned that accepting help from friends enriches me in ways pride can't. It may go against my upbringing to ask for help cleaning up a mess I made through my own neglect, but none of my friends saw it that way, so I decided to stop seeing it that way myself. I discovered that I got a lot more done when I did. Mama Rose may not have done any heavy lifting in my yard this week, but she was so determined that she inspired all my heavy lifting. Meanwhile, instead of focusing on what hasn't been completed, being with her let me focus on our accomplishments. I enjoyed the yard through her eyes, like a parent appreciating their child's first snowfall.

When the rain finally moved us to pack up our tools for the day, we stood under the carport, reluctant to go inside. I brought the dogs in from the backyard to play at our feet.

This cold weather has got to go. Mother Nature will take care of it.

Not Jesus? I asked quietly, concentrating more on the rain and the streams of yellow pollen flowing down my driveway.

Sometimes he holds out too long. Mother Nature knows when enough is enough.

She sent the rain then, to tell us we're done for today.

Are you tired, darlin'? I could hear the smile in her voice.

Yes, I am. You whupped my butt, old woman. She took this as high praise.

We only have two hands, darlin'. If we did it all today, what would we do tomorrow?

I will get a call on Sunday. You can take that to the bank. My legs and low back are so stiff I have to sit funny as I write this. But I'm looking forward to the call.

The risk that comes with this yard work is that high winds would damage what we'd done. Or that frost would kill the new seedlings we'd put down in hopes of having vegetables this summer.

Or that personally I'd get tired of the effort, that something new would come to upset my applecart and distract me. Two years ago it had been my mother's bypass surgery and months of recovery. I didn't have any energy left for risky behavior those days.

But I like spring, and I'll tell you why. There's hope in it. And that's something I'm planting this year.

--Laura Burke

On dreadful parties

Recently I was at a party with a friend. Most of the people were strangers, in and of itself not a bad thing.

The party was a bit of a train wreck.

There were good things, don't get me wrong. The house was lovely and the reason for the get-together was wonderful. After lots of hard work, a friend is going to become a teacher. She looked great that night, and really happy. So we got together with great food and plenty of beer and enjoyed her generous hospitality.

That was the good part.

And at first blush, the fact that so many were single was also good news. As the beer flowed however, it became obvious that I was surrounded by walking wounded.

Divorced singles outnumbered those who'd never been married almost two to one. And before you comment, this is not a rant about divorcees. I have a number of divorced friends, so let me compare. My friend Stacy wants to recover from her divorce, not just to move on to another prospective relationship, but sincere recovery. She has confidence that she can and will, and that she deserves to find a partner.

Therefore, I think she really has recovered. While she may be lonely at times, she has patience that a person who also wants to be her partner will enter her life. She's even willing to put some effort into that person when they show interest in her. She projects confidence. It is something you can't fake, at least not for long.

But there is the fake confidence. It is a brash kind of loud, tough confidence that sounds intimidating and a little sexy when people are sober. The mask then begins to slip when people are drunk.

As the party wore on, the false confidence began to slip away on these who were in the walking wounded category. What began to show was their deep loneliness. They were people who have settled. By settling, I mean they've not found someone they can share intimacy and partnership with, so they've decided that sex purely for physical closeness is enough. "Just sex" has an allure to it, but watching these people, I realize they aren't happy with the consequences.

What are the consequences? Well, from my perspective, they've put a price on their happiness, and it's been set lower than it should be. They've advertised the price to the public in hopes of getting a buyer. Well, maybe a renter.

Because of that, hooking up doesn't end up feeling all that glamorous. Well okay, it just doesn't look all that glamorous to me. It doesn't even seem to bring much pleasure.

I spent an evening with those people. I felt smothered by their sadness.

But that wasn't all. There were also the ones who didn't even pretend to be confident. In fact, they carried their loneliness around like a badge. One man was in the MIDDLE of a divorce. Right in the middle. All he could talk about was the Soon-to-be-ex-wife (STBX). He had two children, but he seemed much more concerned this evening with how miserable he was.

Strangely, he felt he could solve this by developing, in short order, a "relationship" with a woman. "Friends with Benefits." He polled the assembled womanhood in the room. How does that even work these days? Do you think I'm ready for such a relationship? I haven't gotten sex in so long.

I thought you said you'd slept with your STBX two weeks ago, I offered. He grimaced, but ignored me. What is your opinion on Friends with Benefits, he asked me.

No sex is free, I answered.

This was roundly rejected by the others. If there's an agreement between consenting adults, they reasoned, what is the problem?

It doesn't come without a price, I say.

How many times do you lie to yourself that sex is all you need? And then, when you know you want more, what do you say to convince yourself that you like the person enough to make a relationship out of what began as just sex?

I didn't win anyone over to the idea of befriending someone prior to sleeping with them. Several were too busy looking like heat-seeking missiles for sex and comfort.

So what had I been looking for? I had gone there thinking I was looking for the same. I realized I wasn't. I was looking for a friend. Hopefully someone who'd become my best friend. I rode home that night with Stacy, who unfortunately isn't a boy.

That party was depressing, I said out loud. She agreed with me. I found myself wondering how many of those people had best friends somewhere who were lonely because those people had settled for less. For comfort that was temporary, and happiness what wasn't all that happy.

I felt bad for us all.

--Laura Burke

On Instant Gratification

On instant gratification, originally uploaded by lalapapawawa.

I think one of the biggest enemies to the human condition is the lure of instant gratification.

I see the signs of this where I work. I've been with the same company for 13 years, and in that time I've witnessed the shift from quality to productivity firsthand. People haven't changed, but what we're expected to accomplish - and how quickly we're expected to accomplish it - has changed. Dramatically. Profoundly. Has it made us better or faster? Well, yes and no.

As a company, we process lots of work. Our productivity scores reflect this. Every morning, I receive an email from my supervisor listing me, along with all the other designers in the company, showing how many hours of work I processed yesterday and how many hours she's assigned me for today. This way, we all get to compare each other's productivity, just to see how we stack up.

What this doesn't tell you is how often we've had to email someone people with questions because they handed out instructions they hadn't bothered to understand themselves. It doesn't tell you how many "reworks" we had to make because someone really didn't bother to explain what they wanted.

In other words, the wheels of productivity are turning along happily, but the belt that drives the engine is slipping. The wheel is technology. The belt is the employee. And the employee is on information overload, expected to keep up with changing technology, corporate downsizing, stagnant wages and increased productivity demands.

All owing to that lure of instant gratification. Faster, more and sooner. Now, please.

What does this do to us, over time? Does it change who we are? Does it change how we think? Does it change the value we place on relationships when everyone, including ourselves, is this expendable?

I think it does. You can see so many examples. People really aren't all that different than they were fifty years ago. But our toys have gotten faster and stronger and in some ways more powerful, so the damage they can do has become greater and more costly. And the unforeseen byproduct of demanding this shift in the marketplace has been a change in the way people treat each other at home.

Let's face it, instant gratification is a shortcut. We have always been enticed by shortcuts. But they often spell failure. Do you want instant wealth? Buy into this moneymaking scheme. Do you want quick weight loss? Pay for this surgery. Do you want to dull the pain inside you? Take this pill, have a drink. Are you lonely, needing to feel connected to someone? Sexual passion will make you feel desirable again.

Any gardener will tell you that if you don't prepare the soil properly, plants may spring up quickly, but at the first sign of bad weather, they die. Their root structure, the part which keeps them nourished and healthy, never had the time to develop. And while they look good on the surface, the story beneath the surface is very different. Those plants aren't going to make it; they aren't going to produce a good harvest.

And just so, the bubble will burst on the moneymaking scheme. The person who lost all that weight will have developed little discipline to keep it off over time. The pills and the drink will be used frequently enough to affect other areas of your life. And the sexual passion will do little to lead you to real intimacy with your partner, where you can depend on them without feeling weak, or speak to them honestly about the hidden places in your heart.

Wow, no wonder people are so depressed and dissatisfied. How would we be otherwise? We've been so betrayed by this pipe dream. You too can have it all! Trust us!

What a crock.

Think about this for a minute. When we seek instant gratification, what are we actually asking for anyway?

Think about those emails you get everyday at work. How many do you delete unread? How many do you scan? How many do you take the time to read for comprehension? My guess would be very few.

So why do we use the same behavior at home, skimming over the details of our lives? What does it gain? When we don't take the time to process our feelings, deal with old hurts, listen to our hearts and build our connections to each other, aren't we treating our own lives with the same disregard? What is the impact of this but shallow, dishonest connections with your own insides and shallow, dishonest connections with others?

So goes instant gratification. Quick fix. Long term failure. It acts like an illicit drug, providing temporary relief without nourishment.

A friend of mine once asked me what I wanted for myself and my future. The temptation in me was to outline a five- or ten-year plan that went something like: career advancement, get the house finished to my liking, love, marriage, family, etc. But when I really thought about it, I realized that none of those things really summed up what I wanted for myself.

I want my actions and my lifestyle to reflect my beliefs. I want to act on my beliefs more often. That's what I said to him. Because I felt then and now that actions speak louder than words.

I tell that story because identifying the ills of instant gratification doesn't correct them. I can't change the corporate culture in which I work. So here's the thing. If I dislike the failures which accompany a life seeking instant gratification, complaining about my company isn't going to accomplish much. But resisting the lure of this pattern myself may just accomplish a lot.

And the only way to avoid the pattern is to allow myself some time. Not a timetable, but time - to stop skimming through my life and start listening to my own feelings and desires so that I understand them.

Because if I prefer intimate relationships to idealized fantasies, I should learn to be healthy for myself and the people in my life. I should also seek honest relationships, and not just something to solve the problem of loneliness. No single person - friend or lover - should bear the pressure of being my everything. I can be a better friend than that. A better partner. A better lover. And so can anyone else.

With time.

Time is something I'm learning to appreciate. It's my new weapon against past mistakes. And future ones.

--Laura