May 4, 2008

This Is The House That Mark Built

Posted by Mark Trost under August 2007 | Tags: , , , , , |
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I stood in the middle of the aisle of a Target store last week and I felt my heart shatter. It broke into pieces. My sister selected a baby shower gift and we celebrated the sizes of the items. We cooed over the caps. I held up the shoes. My brother rattled the teething rings. And then my heart stopped.

Now - just to make things clear, I created no scene. As surprising as this may seem to someone who reads what I write yet doesn’t see when I’m seen, I rarely express emotions. Well, now I should clarify that statement. I express emotions that don’t elicit an echo. I laughed. I smile. I share joy.

But I don’t cry. I don’t whimper. I don’t reflect my regrets. I think it asks too much of a companion if I express an emotion that human decency demands he must address. I don’t expect my friend to console me. And I don’t expect him to listen. If I need advice, I’ll seek a collar. When I need a shoulder to cry on, I’ll seek a kleenex. I’ll leave my friends dry. Those who I hold closest to my heart know that I’m silent when I’m stunned and whisper when I’m worried. My throat is as dry as my cheeks.

And I don’t like watching expressed emotions. I’m a pull-yourself-together kind of guy. I see the expression of emotions as a selfish act that makes the situation about the expressing and not the pressing issue. I deal with the issue when it needs to be addressed. And I’ll come undone when the deeds are done and I am alone and I’m unneeded.

So I think: don’t stand there and cry. Tell me why you’re crying so that I can deal with the cause and not be concerned with the tears. When the dam breaks I won’t give a damn about the water on your cheeks. Why stop a trickle when our feet are flooded? And while your eyes are clouded with tears, how can you see the reality? The words “Misty water colored memories” make terrific lyrics. Yet moist mementos suck in a scrapbook. I’m Irish. I was raised in a “get your shit together” and “straighten up your face” sort of family. The Irish feel it. We just don’t feel we need to throw it at your feet for your feast.

So my heart broke. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t shed a tear. But I didn’t inhale a breath for a beat or two. It hurt too much to heave. I’ll never have a child. The thoughts thrashed my chest. I appraised in a flash. What have I built? I couldn’t find a task I could tick. I’ve built nothing. I surmised. I’m no link in a lineage. The mood was festive around me so I suppressed my thoughts and I contained and I continued their mood. Yet it’s dogged my mood for a week and a bit. What have I built? What good have I done?

Yesterday I volunteered at the hospital. There’s a woman who passes. Most tasks are beyond her grasp. But she knows kindness when it’s expressed and joy when it’s shared. She stops in the hall and waves her hello. She shares a smile full of warmth and humanity. I don’t know if anyone is as happy that I live on earth as she is that I exist. And I don’t know if anyone loves me as much as she loves me. Yesterday she smiled her hello and she waved. I looked in her eyes and I tried to catch my breath. So I straightened my face and I moistened my lips and I whispered, “Hey kiddo. My name is Mark. What’s yours?” and I added a new brick in the house that I’m building.

 

August 8, 2007

© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost
 

May 3, 2008

Mornings Don’t Have To Be Mournings

Posted by Mark Trost under September 2007 | Tags: , , , , , |
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Ok so I was awake at 4:20 this morning and I listened to the radio as I decided whether I wanted to drag my ass out of bed and work. And while I’m stretched out and I worked a couple of emails, I heard Marvin Gaye’s and Tammi Terrell’s version of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and I thought how much I enjoy a good duet.

And then I got up and I began to work and I spun the tunes and I heard Frank Sinatra’s and Sammy Davis, Jr.’s “Me And My Shadow” and I remembered when I used to turn on the radio and I heard people actually sing. People ask me if I ever listen to contemporary music. Well sure I do - but not first thing in the morning. I can’t take that much hate before I have something on my stomach.

While I raised my nephews, I noticed that their moods reflected the music I played in the morning. If I played rock music they became aggressive and argumentative. If I played the rat pack or that era’s singers, then the boys would cheerfully sing along. So I went to a second hand music store and I bought an assortment of albums (not CDs. I couldn’t afford CDs) from a variety of genres.

I bought classic country and show tunes. I bought soundtracks and singers. I bought Hank Williams and Judy Garland and Edith Piaf and Nat King Cole and Dean Martin and Patsy Cline and Burl Ives and Disney soundtracks. I played them all. They learned all the standards and all the show tunes. There’s just something cheerful about watching a seven year old hold his toothbrush in his hand as he marches to “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien!” I chuckled when I saw my 17 year old singing “Oh What A Beautiful Morning” while he wore his uniform from the Academy. And then in the evening they listened to contemporary tunes on their radios.

You know … I learned that if I hurried a child in the morning and offered him arguments and aggressions then we were all going to have an unpleasant day. And the world is hard enough during adolescence. Why make controversy where none needs to exist? I wanted to provide a peaceful foundation. My parents provided one for me.

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day but not merely for nutrition. It’s the time when a family reaches its fruition. You fill his stomach with good nutrition. You fill his mind with noble aspirations. You fill his heart with authentic affection. And you start that process at the beginning of each day. How is your son supposed to take that much hate from the world before he’s had something on his stomach?

 

September 17, 2007

© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost
 

May 3, 2008

What’s In Store For Our Society - I Went Grocery Shopping Today.

Posted by Mark Trost under November 2007 | Tags: , , , , |
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The first time she twirled and thumped my leg I dismissed her actions and stepped back a pace. The second time she twirled and struck me, I saw her aim. Her mother stood near the register and pretended she hadn’t noticed her darling as she screamed and tossed herself.

“Don’t let her hit me again,” I said.

Her mother glanced over to me, “Excuse me?”

“I said don’t let her hit me again.” I reiterated. Her daughter’s monosyllabic modulations masked my monotonically mentioned words.

The mother rolled her eyes and bent near her precious. “He doesn’t like to be touched,” she advised her four year old. She spoke the words as if having an aversion to assault was abnormal.

“No, I don’t like to be hit,” I reproved. I started to admonish her and educate her about the appropriate behavior of children in a civilized society and the rules of personal space, but I saw she was beyond reason. Anyone who would deem it socially acceptable to allow her child to stand in a public space and strike strangers is beyond social skills. And anyone who would judge it unreasonable to prevent a child from striking out is beyond cognitive skills.

I don’t understand why parents self-deceive. No one is amused by an out of control child. No one. Not even the ones who had the satiation of procreation. If this mother thought her daughter was so delightful, then why did she feign obliviousness instead of standing beside her offspring and offering her applause? Oh that’s right. It’s easier to ignore than to instruct and it’s easier to medicate than to educate. Society would rather provide a pill than give guidelines. The child crossed the line. The mother was out of line. And I got out of the line and went to another cashier. My God, we’re at the end of the line. Aren’t we?

November 14, 2007

© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost
 

May 2, 2008

Never Too Booked To Share A Happy Meal

Posted by Mark Trost under January 2008 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
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I sat sprawled over the table. I had a laptop above my knees, a Diet Coke within my reach, a pile of pages that I felt bound to read, a sack of chips that included one I had placed on my shoulder, and a pair of bifocals that I had removed so that I could read. I looked up from my task and peered over the screen at a small face. “Hi!” she charmed.

“Hey kiddo,” I replaced my glasses on my face. “Where’s your dad?” She pointed to a path. Children often feel that gesticulating replaces annotating. I don’t think it’s sloth; I think it’s simplicity. They don’t have to excuse an expression they feel they must express. “Did you find a book you want to check out?” I inquired. She lifted her Hello Kitty case and I assumed her assent. I looked up as her father approached her back. “Why the hell are you following me?” I laughed as we shook hands. “Just because you have her with you doesn’t make your actions less suspicious. You so need to take a class on surveillance.”

“We came to get a book,” he said as he patted her back into a seat at the other side of my table. “What are you doing?” I filled him in on my news. He started rifling through my artifacts as she glanced through her book. He lifted a stack of compact discs from the piled. “Alanis Morissette, Shangri-Las, Sarah McLachlan, Annie Lennox, Joss Stone,” he cleared his throat, “Mark, um … are you an angry lesbian?” He peered at his peer.

“Ok … first, be glad Sweet Pea is sitting beside you because I’m omitting maybe eight really good words I don’t want her to hear.” We laughed. “Would you believe I am working on a piece chronicling the evolution of women’s aural expressions of hostility? I’m calling it, “Leading the pack – from menstrual cycle to motor cycle to recycle.”

“The hell you are!” he chortled.

“Ok, really I’m just a lesbian,” I conceded while chuckling.

“Me too,” he giggled. “I’m thinking there’s a support group somewhere.”

“Yeah man, it’s called a locker room!” We were getting a bit too lively for a library. “Let’s go eat,” I said as I packed up and packed it in. “You guys have plans?”

“Ok, but no more fighting with Emily over the toys in her lunch,” he scolded, “you negate all my lessons on sharing.” We laughed as the library doors slid closed. I always have a happy meal when I share it with my buddy.

January 16, 2008

© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost
 

April 30, 2008

After School Special

Posted by Mark Trost under April 2008 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , |
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He stood in a stupor on a stoop outside the bar. A cigarette dangled over the corner of a bloated cheek. His arm dangled to the height of her hand. His head hung over the curves of his chubby chin. His gut hung over his hips. He’d be hung over in the morning.

She hung onto his hand as she tottered and twisted in his grasp. Her parochial pleats twisted as she swayed her shoulders and tapped her toes to a silent beat. Her sock slid down a shin. Her Mary Janes needed a shine. Her pixied hair dangled over her brow. She was browbeaten by blusters of wind.

She was killing time. He was killing her.

 
 
April 29, 2008
© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost