Onions Make Me Cry

Chopping onions makes me cry. So does reading your comments from yesterday, but in the good way. The REALLY good way. Thank you to each of each, especially Go Mama, who left her first note.

I've read blogs where people wonder if blog relationships are real. I've never doubted it, for some reason. And this morning, I can literally feel you (as Go Mama says) at my back, holding faith for me. My gratitude is just as real, just as tangible.

Writing the first scene from LOTO yesterday left me jubliant. I did my allotted 1700 words and more. Time slipped away while I sat in the red leather chair facing the pond. Marvin and the pin duck floated by, even came up on the bank below the windows for a bit. I sat there, lost in the memories I was describing and the feeling of writing in this way, the way I've longed to try for such a very, very long time.

Wasn't going to post yesterday's writing, but the comments changed my mind. You'll find it below. But first, a couple of pictures from Halloween. It was the best Halloween I've had since the kids were little and we danced through the neighborhood together, bewitched, bothered and bewildered by the mysteries of the night.






Layers of the Onion


No God damn reason for this. None at all. Panting and fuming, I ran down the Gold Concourse at the Minneapolis airport. We weren’t even having sex. I was watching him clean his closet, for God’s sake.

I was late, late for a very important date. Important to me, anyway: a weekend home with my folks. Time to rest and relax and have someone cook my meals and cater to my whims for a couple of days. Heaven on the half shell.

And now, instead of a little R&R, I was being treated to the interminable run to the very last gate—Of course it would be the very last gate—of the longest concourse in the airport. My trusty canvas and leather backpack from Eddie Bauer and my favorite black duffle bag seemed light when I threw them into the car, but they got heavier and more awkward with every step. Halfway down the concourse I switched the bags from one hand to the other, but all I got for my trouble was bruises on the other leg, too.

Travelers streamed past me, some clearly travel worn, some excited, some Minnesota-winter pale and others burned and peeling. All of them seemed to be moving slowly and taking up much more room than necessary or polite. I didn’t exactly run over anyone, but I did find myself muttering “Excuse me,” over and over.

When I decided to run home to Mom and Dad, I didn’t intend to run so literally.

Finally, finally, I cruised up to the gate the baggage agent had directed me to, and flopped my ticket on the counter. My backpack slipped off my shoulders and down my arms, landing at my feet with a thwack. Damn! Wonder what just broke in there?

When I finally glanced at the gate agent, it was clear the news was not good.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We announced a gate change about 20 minutes ago. This flight is departing from the Gate 18A on the Green Concourse. In 7 minutes,” the man said.

“But the guy at the baggage counter told me to come here. Look, he even wrote it down,” I wailed.

“Again, I’m sorry. He made a mistake.” Firm, practiced politeness.

I grabbed my ticket, gathered my bags and took off running again, my leather heels clacking in concert with my bags banging against each other and my legs.

“I’ll get a cart to take you, Ma’am,” called the agent.

“Tell him I’ll met him somewhere along the concourse,” I yelled over my shoulder. No time to waste waiting.

When the cart approached me about 200 yards down the concourse, I jumped in front of it and yelled, “I’m your girl. Let’s go.” The driver pulled a Uie and I swung into the seat beside him while the cart was still moving.

“In a hurry, I take it,” he said.

“Yes, and it’s my own damn fault. Don’t run anyone down getting there, but let’s make time,” I replied.

“Hang on,” was all he said.

Hang on. That’s all I can do: Hang on til I can get to Mom and Dad’s. What the hell was I thinking this morning?

As usual, Spencer and I had waked up early and made slow, elegant love in the dawning light. The door to his little deck was cracked open despite the cold, and through it we could hear the wind ruffling the leaves of the giant oak trees in his back yard, dogs barking, and an early morning train rumbling by. Actually, those were the background noises we could have heard that morning or any other in Spencer’s neighborhood, and for all I know, he did hear them. All I heard was the beating of my heart and his, the slight rasp of his morning beard on my skin, and the endearing little ummmm, ummmm, ummmmm noises he made when we kissed or touched intimately.

After, we showered and I climbed back into his bed while he rustled up some breakfast. Toasted bagels and fresh fruit, sliced and artistically arranged on small plates, one for each of us. We balanced our plates and coffee mugs in our laps and read the Minneapolis Star Tribune, sharing favorite sections and occasional comments. Our ability to be quiet together, to be essentially alone even when we were in the same room, was one of the things I loved most about our relationship.

It didn’t hurt that our circadian rhythms were well matched, as were our politics, our spiritual views, and our love for our respective children. It also didn’t hurt that Spencer was 6’2” and gorgeous. A marathon runner at 49, his waist tapered to a shapely butt and his sturdy legs rippled with muscles, but it was his chest that got me every time. Broad, tan shoulders, sculpted biceps, and just the right amount of golden hair scattered across the center. Young girls may fall for naked chests these days, but give me a man with some hair, some texture to him. Give me this man, every time.

After we finished our breakfast and the newspaper, we started to get dressed for the drive to the airport. When Spencer reached into his closet for a shirt and a pair of jeans, clothes tumbled down from every which direction, onto his head and his feet. With the kind of snarl that was typical whenever “housekeeping stuff” was required, he sorted through the things that fell and began a half-hearted attempt at organization. I watched from my place in the center of the bed, fascinated by the way his muscles moved as he bent and stretched.

And that’s why I had to run through this damn airport. Cause I couldn’t make myself move when he was standing there naked, waiting to be adored.

I did adore him, and he knew it. Especially that morning when he glanced into the mirrored closet doors and caught me watching him. I’m not saying he exactly preened after that, but neither did he shy away from showing me his hard won physique. And right now, the only things that adoration was getting me were a stitch in my side, pains in my shoulders, and a headache that could set Chicago on fire.

The screech of the cart’s brakes told me that we’d arrived at the gate. I jumped out, thanked the driver, and dashed to the counter. Again, one look told me the news was not good.

“I’m supposed to be on Flight 2596 to Kansas City,” I said.

“We’ve been paging you since you checked in up front. You didn’t answer,” said a lovely young woman dressed in a Northwest uniform. As she talked, her jaunty little red-and-white scarf bobbled up and down.

“The guy at the baggage counter sent me to Gate 24A,” I explained.

“That’s why you didn’t answer the page. You were on the wrong concourse.” The young woman’s shoulders were squared and up near her earlobes. She seemed prepared for trouble. “I’m really sorry, but the flight couldn’t wait any longer. They just pushed off,”

“Of course they did,” I said, irritation plain in my voice.

I took a beat and repeated, “Of course they did.” But this time, I meant it sincerely. An entire plane full of people could not and should not have been delayed because I couldn’t get my sorry butt in gear. They had places to go, people to see. And they’d made the effort to be on time. There truly was no reason for me to hold them up.

“Thank you for trying. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you all. Everyone’s been very kind.” A couple of deep breaths. Now that nothing more could be done, the tension drained out of me and I leaned against the counter.

“What do I do now?” I asked.

“We have another flight leaving for Kansas City at 2:30pm. Would you like a seat on that flight?” she asked.

“Is there one available? Holy Smokes, what’s that going to cost me?”

The agent smiled conspiratorially and said, “Yes, there is a seat. And you were so close, it doesn’t have to cost you a thing. If I just push the right buttons,” she punched the keyboard with a flourish, “it’s all under control.”

“Gosh, thank you. That’s so kind,” I stammered. “Wow. How nice.”

As the agent continued the process of getting me on the next plane to KC, I stepped away from the counter to call my folks. The airport was so far from their home in eastern Jackson County that they typically left for the airport just about the same time I got airborne. I’d have to hurry to catch them. I pulled out my AT&T calling card and grabbed a seat at a pay phone. By the time I got through punching all the required numbers and the phone started ringing, I was almost sure I’d missed them.

In this, at least, luck was on my side. After six or eight rings, my dad answered.

“Hey, Dad. I’m so glad I caught you.”

“Are...you ...all... right? We were...just...getting...in the car...to come get...you at the...airport,” he said. It took a while for him to get through those two simple sentences, punctuated as they were, by the gasping breaths that accompanied any exertion on his part. Dad had had parts of both lungs removed decades earlier. Those surgeries in combination with his addiction to cigarettes and exposure to coal dust and chemicals had left him with serious respiratory problems.

“I’m fine. Just stupid this morning. I missed the plane.”

“Oh, honey. We were so looking forward to seeing you,” Dad said. Disappointment dripped from his voice.

“You will, Dad. You will,” I assured him. “I’ve got a seat on the next plane. I’ll in Kansas City by 3:40 or 4:00 this afternoon.”

“You’re sure...everything’s...okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Satisfied that all was well, Dad said good-bye and went to fetch Mom from the car. They’d have a quiet day and be at the airport when I got there.

Returning to the counter, I found the smiling agent putting the finishing touches on my new tickets.

“Catch em, did you?” she asked.

“Yes, thanks. I got lucky.”

As I said the word lucky, it dawned on me that I had, indeed, gotten lucky in many ways that morning. There was the obvious way, with Spencer. Then there was the kind gate agent who had called me a cart, sparing me a heart attack mid-concourse. The lovely young woman handing me my ticket had taken pity on me and found a way around charging me for the flight change. I reached my folks, so no one was waiting on me or worried about me.

All in all, things simply weren’t that bad. I could buy a book and a bottle of water, and spend a little quiet time, even if it was in the middle of a crowded airport.

5 hours all to myself. 5 whole hours with no one yelling or demanding attention or pushing my buttons. Not bad. Not bad at all.