Chicken Soup for the God Mother's Soul

I’m not really sure about what the title “god mother” means, but it’s a title that was given to me twenty some years ago. Along with that title came a “god son,” and every now and then I’ve played the “god mother” card, all in good humor of course, just to get him to do what I knew he should or should not be doing. For instance, about ten years ago I was sitting having lunch in our local pub and observed some young boys across the street pelting cars with small berries that they had plucked from the nearby trees. One of my friends said, “Isn’t that Kyle over there?” Suddenly my “god-motherly” instincts took over and I marched across the street to have a stern conversation. He was pretty surprised and decided to move his mischief down a block, away from my watchful eye and my amused friends.

That type of behavior has followed Kyle to the present time. It is endearing to some, amusing to others, and definitely annoying to law enforcement. For instance, this past April, while returning to Charlevoix for his sister’s wedding, he and his best friend decided that a jump from the bridge into the frigid waters of the Lake Michigan Channel at 1:00 in the morning was an appropriate activity. Oh yes, and a day or so later, my own sons encouraged him to scale the wall of the castle during the wedding reception while wearing a tuxedo. They chronicled the event with photos of him sitting in the turret like a smug Rapunzel.

Yes Kyle has done his share of mischief and has approached life with an intensity unlike I’ve ever seen in a child/man. He is impossible to ignore—even if you want to. He’s been a pretty amazing athlete; wearing his heart on his sleeve and often using some rather unorthodox moves. I remember a football game when he kicked the ball in the opening kick off, ran down field and tackled the guy who caught it. He’s also had his share of broken bones, sprains, dislocations, and always lots of blood. I think he has splinted some of his own broken bones and has allowed others to super glue his flesh when stitches were indicated. I’ve also observed the removal of warts with a propane torch.

Kyle has a pretty good job right now—one that’s well suited to his personality. He manages a jewelry store and does a mighty fine job of it. He’s moving right on up in the company. A little while ago, he attended a jewelry convention on the east coast. I understand it was a pretty high class affair calling for formal attire and refined behavior. The store managers received several gifts at this convention, one of them a diamond pendant.

When Kyle was on his way home, he found himself seated next to a middle-aged woman whose husband was seated several rows behind him in the plane. They struck up a conversation and formed a friendship during the flight. When Kyle told her what he did for a living, the woman told him that her husband didn’t buy her jewelry because it wasn’t important to him. She made it clear that he was a wonderful person and had been a good husband for 30 years, but didn’t believe that gifts of jewelry were necessary.

When they landed Kyle was introduced to the woman’s husband and, as she left to retrieve their luggage, Kyle did something heroic; he gave the pendant to the man with these instructions, “give this to your wife because she deserves it.” He then was able to observe (from a distance) the touching moment between husband and wife that followed.

Kyle listened to his heart that day. His wife would have liked the necklace, his mother would have been happy to own it, his sister would have worn it with pride and his god mother would have treasured it. But Kyle gave it to the right woman that day.

Kyle makes sure that some of the events of his life have storybook endings. He has turned out to be a fine man and his parents should be very proud—they’ve raised him well. But the story brought tears to my eye, a softness in my heart, and just a wee smidgen of god-motherly pride.

W.W.A.D. - What Would Annie Do?

“The holidays are over, people!” she said as she snatched up the cute little metal Christmas trees off of our desks and placed them in the closet. And just like that she was gone. Annie—office organizer extraordinaire! I’m wearing an imaginary bracelet these days that says W.W.A.D.—“what would Annie do?”

It started out with an old dot matrix printer, a fax machine with a roll of thermal paper, an electric type-writer, boxes of financial records dating back to the seventies and lots of dust. These were all housed in the dreaded “back room” right next to our office at the township.

No one in the office was willing to tackle that room, so we hired Annie. Annie came with glowing recommendations, a three-ring binder full of governmental laws pertaining to township records tucked in clear plastic sleeves and a bizarre excitement to undertake the task at hand.

Several mornings a week, we’d hear Annie back there thumping and moving and sneezing from the dust. After a few months of work, many full shredding containers and lots of laughs over outdated equipment, Annie has re-emerged and the room has been transformed to a tidy, well-labeled source of history. It’s amazing what a few boxes, markers, and labels can accomplish in the hands of a determined organizer.

You’d think that we’d let her go now that her job is finished, but . . . no. Annie has uncovered more—we’ve allowed her to peek into a few closets within our office and have seen her eyes light up. Suddenly our supplies are organized and accessible. We no longer have ink cartridges for non-existent printers, envelopes are all in one spot and she’s uncovered a ten-year supply of jumbo paper clips.

And now . . . well now I’m getting kind of nervous. I think she might be working her way over to my desk and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I tend to work in chaos and, even though I believe in the old adage that “a messy desk is a sign of a creative mind,” the truth is I don’t really like working in a mess and creativity is not exactly a requirement for a township treasurer. So . . . it’s decision time—do I let Annie help me with a task that’s pretty daunting or do I try to get myself organized before she gets to my corner? Trying to stay a step ahead of her is my current plan.

But that’s not the only place I need help. Annie has inspired me to begin the de-crappification of my house. A few years ago I asked my daughter to help me organize my photos since I was “a little behind.” She loaded several boxes into her car and returned them as a Christmas gift—sixteen tidy albums full of pictures!

So now I’ve been inspired to do more. The old phrase, “how do you eat an elephant?—one bite at a time” has kind of been our motto at home. Collecting all of my spare yarn and knitting needles from various spots in the house and boxing them up—one bite of the elephant. Throwing away long-expired medications, sun tan lotions and supplies from a dog who hasn’t lived here in four years—another bite of the elephant. Faded wrapping paper, crushed bows, Easter basket grass, knotted curling ribbon, dried out ink pens, ridiculous items that make me shake my head—they’ve hit the trash bag.

Other things aren’t so easy. So much stuff—so much sentimental value—so many memories. But I can’t keep it all. The gift is in the realization that there’s a lot of people and a lot of love in my life. I just can’t keep every candle, every teddy bear and every piece of jewelry. Nor can I keep every letter and every card; and if I were to start re-reading them, I’d lose courage and hang on.

This is going to take a while and it’s quite exhausting, but I’m determined. That elephant is not staying around forever. That huge stack of music will get organized. Junk will be destroyed and the yard sale will happen. I’m taking one bite at a time. Bottom line—that’s what Annie would do and she gave me the courage to pick up the spoon.