Six Miracles of the Past Year

1. No one I love has fallen off their respsective wagons, although the roads they ride are rough and they have sometimes had to hold on to the someone else’s hand to stay inside.  Thank God for wagons, and for hands to keep you inside when you feel you’re about to be tossed to the side of the road.
2. There are the twin miracles of new friends who bring fresh ideas and ways of seeing things, and old friends who managed to endure my nuttiness for yet another year.
3. No one can ever again say, “A black man will never be president of the United States.”  And, while that doesn’t fix everything, it sure is a big move in the right direction.  (Although I don’t know what to make of this Rick Warren thing, and can’t help wondering if someone isn’t trying to fool me into believing that bigotry isn’t something we can overcome, but something we have to endure.  But not this year; this year I have hope, and I’m not giving it up that easily!)
4. Love.
5. There has been death, but in each death there has been solice and everyone who has been left behind has found a way to carry on.  It didn’t always look like this would be true; the people I love are amazingly resilient, spirited people and I am blessed to know them.
6. In spite of eight very bad years, it seems the world has not lost it’s willingness to forgive us, if we turn things around.  And it seems like maybe we do have a national conscience.  People are eating local, going green, and thinking about what they consume.  We have questioned the wisdom of going to war, and once again decided that we do not want to be a warlike people.  Maybe there is hope for us after all.

Liquor is Quicker…

 

Stadium Spirits, Huntington WV

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am spending most of my semester break working with my father in a liquor store in my home town.  The reasons for this vary by audience.  My father thinks I need the money.  My husband believes that I’m just trying to help out my father.  Both are right, of course, although both would deny needing my help so have to frame things the way that they have.  

The work is simple; aside from stocking shelves a few bottles at a time because I am not strong enough to lift the cases of liquor, I mostly dust or stand behind the counter watching yet another CSI or Law and Order marathon on cable.  Some days, I barely earn the minimum wage this job pays.  

Still, there are complexities.  I bristle at being spoken to rudely by underaged would-be customers; I want to say “Hey, kiddo, in real life I’m one of your instructors.”  (Although, of course, I’m not.  They go to Marshall; I am at WVU.)  A few old friends have come in to buy wine, and I find myself explaining, right off the bat, that I am here to help my father–completely leaving out the and we could use the extra money bit.  I walk a fine line with my father’s boss.  I am aware that I shouldn’t be too “uppity,” but it’s been a long time since I played the game of Yes, Boss.  I’m not good at it, and I am afraid it will reflect badly on my father, that it will seem like I’ve gotten above my raising.

I am uncomfortable selling blunt wraps–pre-rolled papers in flavors like Wet Mango, Purple Haze, and Krypto (this last, I think, is for rolling marijuana-flavored marijuana)– to the students and younger townies.  I want to lecture them, instead, on the both the dangers of drugs in general and the travesty of hiding the taste of good weed behind Jolly Rancher flavored papers.  I do neither.  Instead, I smile at everyone, make eye contact, call customers “sir” and “ma’am” even when they are young enough to be my children, and keep my tongue-clucking to myself.  

Most of the lessons I’ve had to learn this year have been about keeping my big mouth shut.  This is just another of those.  The Universe is not a subtle teacher, and I think it’s finally starting to sink in.