Authors: Lisa Samson
Club Sandwich (35 page)
I beg to differ, but I only say, “You’re right.” I’m not up to a brouhaha today.
“You going in to the restaurant?”
“No, the boys have it under control, and Mom refuses to go back to the day-care place. Luckily there was a thirty-day trial period that ends tomorrow. She’s in her room watching a soap.”
“Where’s Trixie?”
“In there with her. Did I tell you she’s finally potty-trained?”
“You must be thrilled.”
“You have no idea.”
“What do you have going this afternoon?”
“Mom’s got a test over near St. Joe’s.”
“I’ll take her.”
“Really? Thanks.”
“Marcus just has to know he’s not all I’ve got going.”
Hey, whatever her reason for doing this, I’ll take it. “How’s the campaign?”
“Fine. Lots of bucks coming his way. It’s been busy, and it’s only March. I don’t know what it’s going to be like come September.”
“Well, I’ll be home during the day. Come by whenever you like. Coffeepot’s always on.”
“I may just take you up on that.”
Finding the female heroes of Baltimore County? Piece of cake. Mitch paved the way with this newsletter. I’m always talking to cool women. But this one came to me by another channel.
Women Wonders
, Column 1
by Ivy Starling-Schneider
Mrs. Geneva Parker, born in 1930, whirls through life with the joy of a child. In her tiny home in Essex, she’s raised ten children, six of them her own offspring, three brothers, and finally her sister, Elaine. Her parents died when she was sixteen. Forty foster children have since passed through her little cottage as well, mostly newborns, older children occasionally.
“I think newborns are better than candy! Sweeter. And let’s face it, you don’t want to kiss a peppermint drop! Of course some of those babies stayed on a little longer, and we had us a good time.”
Geneva has directly impacted the lives of over fifty children. I had the privilege of sitting with her in the VFW hall up in Bel Air, where several of her biological children now live. Called the Geneva Summit, it hosted over a hundred people devouring pit beef and bay wings, drinking Coors or Cokes, laughing and kissing the cheek of the woman who held loving court in an easy chair set up by the water fountain.
The stories would take an entire issue of this paper to tell, probably more, but when I asked Geneva to name one thing she did that gave these children stability, her reply surprised all of us.
“Roller skating. No one left my house without knowing how to cross over at the curve, skate backward, and do a decent doubles skate.”
How did that make a difference?
“If you can keep your feet beneath you wearing wheels and traveling on a slick wooden floor, you can keep your feet beneath you anywhere.”
More memories flowed from those standing around. They recounted times when Geneva took them skating, held their hands, lifted them up when they fell, kissed their hurts with tenderness. “Now get right back in there and try again!” she always said, according to Leon, one of the foster children, now thirty-five and a paramedic. Helping professions abound in the legacy of Geneva Parker: a doctor, four teachers, a handful of physical therapists, a social worker, even the town barber, who assures me his chair is a place of refuge.
“We wouldn’t be where we are today without this woman,” more than one of her kids said. And looking at this kind-faced lady who still pats cheeks and hands, it’s clear the truth has been spoken.
Bada-bing, bada-boom
. I send the column off with the file of pictures I shot at that sweet reunion. Oh man, I like this so much better. It isn’t about me now. Not even remotely!
I found Geneva through Dani. She went to school with one of Geneva’s foster kids and was over there all the time herself. At the last meeting of Club Sandwich, at which Kirsten was a big hit, Dani told us, “This lady, Geneva Parker, was my saving grace. My mom never has been well, and those afternoons I sat with Geneva, looking at old picture albums or watching a soap … I realize now that’s what kept me going.”
“So your mother’s always been ill?”
“Not physically, like now. But mentally.”
“I had no idea!” Debbie.
“Yeah, it was pretty bad sometimes.”
Krystal leaned forward. “Did she drink?”
“Yeah. Although I didn’t realize it until I was older.”
“Self-medicating.” Krystal. “I see it all the time at church.”
“Where’s your dad in all this?” I asked.
“He died last year. They were both older when they had me. He was a great man, though. Unskilled, worked several jobs to keep food on the table. Unfortunately, that left my mom to me, and it wasn’t long before the roles reversed.”
“How old were you when that happened?” Brenda.
“About nine, I guess.”
Debbie shook her head. “Tell me why life is so sad.”
I had the pat Christian answer, but that night it didn’t seem to apply.
But sometimes, like now, sitting at my kitchen table, Old Barbara fired up, writing about Geneva, a beam of light shines. If there were no pain, there would be no place for the Genevas of this world to work, to succor and heal and distribute the loving mercy God so longs to give us.
There’d be no doctors or nurses, no ministers, no social workers, no rescue-mission workers. We’d be missing a large bolt in the cloth of living, and we’d not be wise, for there’d be no lessons from which to learn.
M
y agent sounds doubtful. “They were pretty adamant about a male protagonist.”
“But think Angie Dickenson, or
Charlie’s Angels
. Okay, maybe
Charlie’s Angels
isn’t a good idea. But how about the
NYPD Blue
girls? They’re realistically sexy and as good as any man.”
“You may have to forgo the whole unwanted pregnancy angle.”
“How about she already has a kid? She really needs to have a great reason to want to get this guy out of the way. And it would appeal to female audiences that way as well.”
“That could work.”
“Well, anyway, let me know. And if you can get me a couple of extra weeks on the deadline, that would be good.”
“I’ll feel them out. They may not schedule you for editing until after your manuscript arrives. It might be flexible.”
“Thanks.”
Man, I hope she’s right. Just over a hundred pages in, Jane’s doing some serious damage. If I was that Maximilian dude, I’d be shaking in my Tony Lama alligator boots.
Well, money’s not bad right now. At least there’s that. Between Rusty’s salary and mine, we’re doing better than we ever have. Brett
and I put our foot down with Brian and told him, as financial partners in the epitome venture, we voted to keep the blue plate specials. He cussed us out, big surprise there. For the life of me, I can’t figure him out. Been through rehab, two DUIs, and still nothing’s his fault. At least he comes over to visit Mom more. But he left that Bible on my kitchen counter. I cried, not because he’s not reading anymore, but because I failed to love him as I should. I think Dani makes him visit, because she comes with him and sits in my kitchen, and we chat.
I make her a cup of Irish breakfast tea tonight because it’s Saint Paddy’s Day. She accepts it like it’s the Holy Grail or something.
I’m learning a lot through Dani. I was raised to judge people by their outward appearance. We had true hippie leftovers around in those days, not the neohippies of these days. The grownups quoted the it’s-a-shame-for-a-man-to-have-long-hair verse with more regularity than the ocean waves. So let me digress: how does that verse sit in the same book with John the Baptist and Samson? I’d like an explanation. Anyway, we’d almost cross to the far sidewalk rather than be sullied by a brush of the sleeve with someone “like that.”
But Dani’s a decent, loving human being. She cares deeply for and about her mother and her daughter and even Brian, setting herself aside. She gives far more than could ever be repaid, and she doesn’t complain half so much as I do. Dani lives the Golden Rule far more faithfully than a lot of other Christians I know. In her, the healing hands of Jesus do their work. Maybe she learned that from Geneva. And so I’m thinking God’s busy using people cast aside by the religious establishment, and it’s time I get with the program. So she wears tight jeans and goes to bars. So what? What good are skirts and teetotaling in the fortress when a world is crying out for meaning and a little TLC?
I squeeze her hand. “Glad you all could come over tonight.”
“Yeah, well it’s better than being at the bars with all that green beer. Brian wouldn’t do well there at all.”
Rosa and Trixie giggle over something Brian’s doing out in the living room. When the boy’s on, he’s really on. His deep laughter mingles with their baby voices.
“How’s he doing with his addiction?”
“Hasn’t had a drop as far as I know. We’re together quite a bit now.”
I sit down opposite her at the table. “Dani, I feel like I’ve gotten to know you on a whole new level with Club Sandwich and everything. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, I love my brother. I don’t like him very much these days, to be honest, but he is my brother. And I’ve got to admit I’ve failed him in some ways. But do you really know what you’re getting into with him?”
She nods. “I’ve been around, Ivy. You know that.”
“He’s an alcoholic.”
“Yeah. I’m used to alcoholics.”
“He may never change.”
“I don’t expect him to.”
“Then why?”
She shrugs. “We all have our issues, Ivy. I’ve been a giver so long, I guess I don’t want the pressure of being a taker.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, you of all people should understand. What’s the difference between a man being out at the bars every night or singing? He’s gone all the same, right?”
“Right. You’re absolutely right.”
That stinks.
“How’s your daughter?”
Her demeanor flowers. “Oh, she’s great. Just great.”
“Is she in day care?”
She shakes her head. “No. My grandmother watches her.”
“Your grandmother’s still alive?”
“Yep. Dad’s mom.”
“Thank God for her.”
She lifts her teacup to her mouth, “That’s what I say,” and takes a sip.
Reuben and I wander the halls of a small Presbyterian school near Bel Air. Along the wide main corridor, bright and clean, children’s coats and backpacks line up in a pliable row on their hooks. Laughter bursts from the third-grade room, and I peer inside. The teacher, middle-aged and more animated than any Warner Brothers character I’ve ever seen, spreads her arms wide, then talks about the Greeks and the Olympic Games. A little boy wearing oversize spectacles raises his hand. “Is it true they were naked?”
“Oh yes. And no girls allowed.”
“All right!” he says.
“My boys would have loved that.” Her smile bestows something good upon him.
A blond, curly-headed girl forgets to lower her raised hand. “You should see my little brother. He’s always running around naked.”
The class laughs.
The principal, Mr. Brandon, hurries us along with a laugh. “Classical education at its finest.”