Smile, If You Want To - A True Story

"Do you have current ID?" the bank employee asked. I whipped out my driver's license...the one with the "good" picture of me, so good I actually enjoyed slapping it down on counters when asked.

It was a confident, smiling picture, taken eight years ago on a day that I had picked. I was dressed smartly, new haircut, makeup applied tastefully, a day frozen in time, and of course… eight years ago.

The employee frowned. "Uh, did you realize your license has expired?" he carefully asked. "What? No, I am sure it is ok. I haven't received any notices in the mail. Maybe the update sticker came off?"
He handed it back. The date indicated I had been blissfully driving around for the last five months with an expired license.

"I am sorry, but I cannot proceed with this transaction until you return with a valid and current form of government ID. Do you have a current passport?"
"Yes I do", I said, "I will return with it today."

I left the bank hoping I could remember where we were currently storing our passports. I have a history of coming up with yet "better" places to store such documents, and then forgetting where that "better" place was.

I hurried home, now aware of every car that looked remotely like a police car, wondering how I had ever managed to drive around so confidently for the last five months while harboring such a secret.

After successfully finding my passport, I thought the best course of action would be to go directly to the DMV and take care of this matter, lest I get pulled over during this brief criminal career.

It would, of course, mean a trip to the local Department of Motor Vehicles office (DMV), fortunately only a few blocks away, but still one of the most dreaded, yet fascinating places one could spend their afternoon. I say “afternoon,” since I had by now given up any hope of returning to my office.

As I walked into our home, one glance in the entryway mirror told me that any new photos at the DMV would not be the picture of eight years ago. Not only was I eight years older, I also needed a haircut, and a nasty fever blister was in “full bloom” on my upper lip.

There was no time to reapply makeup, and my face bore the markings of an already long day, a day probably not made lighter by an unexpected Friday afternoon trip to the DMV.

No longer a novice at these things, I armed myself with the local daily paper and the Wall Street Journal. Reading would help pass the time and avoid the awkwardness of sitting in those hard little plastic chairs, staring at the people across the aisle, such as an overly tattooed couple talking trivial matters on their cell phones.

The long line at the “take a number” machine was my first clue that this was going to be a special day at the DMV.
Passing up the express line set up for simpler transactions, I graciously waited to take a number in the longer line. Settling in with my papers, I noted about twenty numbers ahead of me.

When the 50s started to be called I “tuned in” for mine. Number 49 responded, number 50, no response....I waited for 52...half poised to rise..."number 53?"

I could not believe my ears! What are the chances that in the last twenty numbers, MINE was the one that was skipped?

Number 53 responded before I could object.

I walked up behind person 53 waiving my 52 and was told that I would have to take my “problem” to the receptionist, (the one who supervised the little number machine with the long line.)

I walked directly to the front of the line. The receptionist instructed me to stand right beside the machine while she yelled out my number between directing other “newbies” to either the fast lane or the little machine spitting out the magic numbers.

Standing there, in front of everyone with someone repeatedly calling out my “number”, I half expected someone to come up and inspect my teeth, or kick my shins for bone strength. That badly needed haircut would have helped, and I don't sleep as well as I did eight years ago. My value was ebbing away by the minute!

Finally, one of the “window” people took pity on me and called me over. Filling out the preliminary paperwork from my passport and social security card, she kindly explained how the state's little reminder postcards sometimes get lost in the mail or people toss them accidentally. I was starting to feel like this was all going to end well, when she pushed my paperwork toward me, directed me to go to the end of the counter, place my paperwork on the top of the pile, and be seated, again.

Confident that I was surely now close to the end, I obediently placed two of the three documents in this world that define I exist (at least legally), on top of a fairly short pile of papers, and then reseated myself in another hard, plastic chair.

A man with a broken nose glared across from me. His face told a story his mouth needn't tell. Eyes simmered with aggravation as he looked from me to the person now being served at the new window, the one talking on her cell phone, while the DMV woman calmly filled out paperwork.

Cell Phone girl continued to talk on her phone for many more minutes, the DMV woman remained nonplussed, evidently determined to keep everyone in order, no matter what the wait.

Broken Nose however, was getting red in the face, his breathing getting noticeably shallower. I hid behind my paper afraid to engage him, quite sure now that the only thing holding him from attacking us all was likely a recent prison release that might be at stake should he misbehave.

Finally, Cell Phone girl finished her business. We all breathed a sigh of relief as DMV woman slowly lifted the pile of paper work, papers that held the key to the rest of our afternoon. Broken Nose let out an exasperated breath, but at least he was breathing again.

Newspaper forgotten now, we all watched DMV woman with renewed hope. However, instead of taking the next person's paperwork, she begin laying out all the documents in a line on her desk, PRE-processing everyone’s forms; ripping, stapling, and finally reorganizing the pile while we all watched in helpless frustration.

By now, everything DMV woman did held us in some kind of victim’s fascination.
When she finally called the first of us forward all I could think of was "get this over with...gotta get out of here before Broken Nose or someone like him goes postal!"

Things were moving along now. Broken Nose leaned forward, ready to leap in the air at the call of his name. Now he was at the window, I was next, things were looking up.

"Linda" she said. At first I looked around me, unaware there was yet another person ahead of me. "Linda" she said more loudly. Then I remembered. She was calling out my "legal" name, not the shortened "Lin" I have responded to for more years than "Linda" ever saw. I hurried forward, cramming newspapers under my arm.

Looking over my documents again, she motioned for me to sit down in the photo chair. "Do we really have to take another picture?" I petitioned. "Can't you just put a new sticker on the back?” "Nope, gotta have a new picture every eight years now. Smile if you want to, look right there at that little blue button."

Flash! went the light in my eyes. She looked at her computer screen, a frown now breaking her stony face. "Sit back a little this time, and tilt your head more this way" she motioned. "Smile if ya want to." she said.

Remembering some of the foolish, almost evil grins that have been documented on other legal documents, I quickly made the decision that a clear-eyed, lips-slightly-parted look might be a more credible photo. My face was catching up with this idea when, FLASH! went the camera again.

Her eyes focused in close to her computer screen. I searched her face for any feedback. A smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. It was the first smile I had seen in all the time we had watched her work. It was not a good kind of smile. Trepidation gripped me, no one else had made her smile!

Her printer began to click, click. She ripped the paper triumphantly and handed me a photocopy of what would soon be on my most primary piece of ID.

I recoiled at the face on the paper. It could have been on any post office wall or police station. Limp hair framed a haggard face. Surprised eyes hung over a droopy mouth. The fever blister looked suspiciously like some kind of meth addict's lesion.

I stared in horror at the visage. "This is terrible picture.” I cried.
Can you take another one?" She stepped back, her eyes boring into mine, the evil smile getting more comfortable now in its place. "Sure honey, IF you want to get back in that line and pay $27".

I looked back at her, she was obviously enjoying this. Was this her idea of a good moment in her small, sad, little world? I stared hard into her face until her smile gave way to uneasiness. The smile began to melt some. I wanted her to feel the uncertainty.

When I was sure I had given her back some of her own medicine, I smiled. Leaning forward I said, "Well, it's not a beauty contest now is it?" and walked away, grateful that Broken Nose's picture was probably better than mine.

In the car I studied the haggard woman in the picture, wondering if the fresh face I saw in my own mirror most mornings was some kind of self deception.

Maybe I had a second life at night, walking the streets in some kind of unconscious state, more dead than alive. I took a deep breath, at least I was alive. I had survived the DMV for another eight years, and had the ugly proof in my wallet.

Timmy, We Hardlly Knew Ye by Lin Willett

It was one of those slow summer Sunday afternoons. Our newly wedded daughter Bethany and her best friend Gitta were hanging out with us for the afternoon since Beth’s new husband Will was out of town for the week.

The two girls were stretched out, relaxing in the family room. Rod and I had just climbed the stairs to our room, looking forward to some reading, perhaps even a catnap that comes so easily when a warm Oregon breeze curls through the window and caresses your face.

The mood was quickly broken by Bethany’s call, “Dad, come quick!” The tone of her voice clearly conveying a note of urgency that indicated immanent crisis, such as when a total stranger forces his way through your front door, only to sprawl on your entryway in a puddle of his own blood.

Heart racing, I followed Rod down the stairs expecting the worst but knowing we had no choice but to face whatever lay ahead and do whatever we could to help.

We looked where the two girls were pointing. There in the middle of the hardwood floor a tiny little pink fleshed creature bathed in the afternoon light of the patio doors, writhing about on his back, making squeaking noises much too loud for his size.

Our grey tabby cat Tofie had just brought in a baby something, and dropped it, meowing loudly to get the girls’ attention.
Rod picked it up and carried it out to the raised wall, placing it among the flowers and strode back in.

“What did you do with it?” I asked. He told me where he had put it.
With the little cries echoing in my head I went out to see the hairless body lying in the cold wet soil, lifting its head feebly, eyes sealed tight yet searching with all its might for whatever comfort it had so recently known. Thrust into a world of cold bright lights and sounds, it struggled against massive odds to find again that warm secure place, its cries now weaker, mouth gaping, it seemed to be losing hope as the cold earth sucked out what little warmth remained in its body.

I haven’t had a lot of luck saving the little creatures brought in by the cat. Be it fledgling bird or baby rodent, pretty much any creature the cat brings to your attention to is going to die soon, if not from obvious puncture wounds, then internal bleeding.

My code of ethics is that I can give them a peaceful, un-tortured death, so I scooped up the creature, found a little cardboard box and some tissue, put him in it, and left him out in the garage to die in peace. I assured the girls that I would check on him, but his chances were not good. Before bed I looked again and was relieved to see him lying there on the tissue motionless. I looked for respirations but the little body was stone still. I thought, “as peaceful a death as could be under the circumstances.” I told the girls of his demise. We all slept better knowing he died with some sense of dignity and comfort.

The next morning on my way to get into the car for work, I thought I would dispose of the body. I opened the box to verify the death, knowing now that the body would be stiff and cold, easier to dispose of in that state, the delicate little features frozen, limbs contorted and bent.
I was startled to see the little limbs move ever so slowly. Somehow the creature had made it through the night without heat or food. Upon opening the box, his hope seemed to renew and he struggled to crawl toward me. Call it maternal instinct, but this “baby” was struggling to live like any other little creature. The drive to live was still beating in a heart that refused to give up if there was someone or something that might lend it what it needed, it would still grasp at that survival. A weak cry escaped from the little pink mouth, perfectly formed pink lips parted with each peep.
Its sheer drive to live demanded something of me.

Now what!? How do you save a baby mouse? If you succeed, what do you do with a mouse? I went on to work trying to decide what to do.
His chances weren’t good even with my best efforts, and if he did survive, then what? A pet mouse in the house of empty nesters? Maybe my son in law Will would take him for his 2nd and 3rd grade class room next fall. Perhaps I could get him well enough to be on his own and let him go in the field at the end of the street. Maybe it would give him the fighting chance that some awful circumstance had cheated him of.

I still thought he would probably die, but the girls and I did some research on the internet and found out that baby rodents can be fed diluted infant formula. The trick is getting it down them. Gitta and I went to the pet store later in the day and bought a tiny bottle but the nipple was too big. I knew I had a pointed syringe for dental care that might allow me to administer tiny drops. Bethany ordered supplies, she even had some tiny nipples over-nighted in her zeal. This mouse had allies!

Yet, I still kept thinking, “why?” We set traps for the adult mice, we have cats to keep down the rodent population. How could I justify trying to save a mouse even if it was a baby? The girls were persistent. Rod was doubtful, but he has lived with us long enough to know better than to try and talk us out of such crusades once the cause has possessed us--in this case a tiny, hairless, cause who would need a name if we were to give ourselves to him. Timmy.


And so the daunting task began. The first hurdle was how to keep him in his bed between feedings. After finding him outside his basket lying cold and still on tables and tile counters between feedings, I finally commandeered a teeth whitening box with plastic ends that fit securely, cutting air holes in the top and side, then adding soft flannel and cotton in the bottom. This kept the little bugger in but I soon realized that much like a preemie baby, these little mammals have no way to keep their body temperature stable without the aggregate warmth of the bigger mother and siblings to snuggle with. Even secured in his box, his body temperature would plunge between feedings and I would have to warm him up before he had the strength or energy for food. Any heat source I put near him had to be ever so gentle with the option of him getting away from it should it be too warm.

The first couple of rice and bean bags I warmed in the microwave oven overwhelmed him and sent him into some kind of seizure-like activity, even though by human standards they were just cozy. I knew it was just right when after a feeding, he would go over to the warm side of his box and curl up in a tight little “c’ shape against the warmth and go right to sleep…the only problem being that the warmth would not last until the next feeding.

The internet said not only would he need small feedings (define small?) as often as every 2 -3hrs, but also I would have to stimulate him to relieve himself of waste before each feeding by stroking his genitalia as many mother mammals do by licking their young.

At first we thought maybe this was some kind of sick joke but other websites verified this so I settled on q tips and warm water for this task and usually had a little success, (again define success on a creature so tiny!)

The feedings themselves were tedious. The pointed syringe worked the best but did not lend itself to being very gentle on the tiny pink lips which eagerly mouthed the hard tip but with no strength to suck out the milk. Even the slightest push on the plunger would strangle him. Once or twice the formula would come back out his nostrils as I struggled to hold him just firmly enough to direct the milk in his mouth while not injuring him.

You would think that between being alternately chilled to the bone and sometimes “water boarded” that the little blind creature would hide anytime I came near, so it was to my surprise after a few feedings to find him sitting up, waiting quietly for me to open his box lid, and then quickly scrambling up my hand and rooting at the base of my fingers for something to suckle.

It became apparent after a while that he had learned to discern my voice and anticipate the opening of his little habitat. You could almost see a quiet “intelligence” as he waited for that lid to come off and fingers to descend for a gentle lift to yet another massage and chow time.

My friend Carol happened to be over that week and after hearing I was feeding a baby mouse she wanted to see him. I opened his box and gently extended my fingertips. They were met with tiny pink skinned “hands” that grabbed on for a skitter up.

I just caught the look of alarm that passed over my friend’s face, maybe a slight recoil of her body when it occurred to me that I had just let a mouse run up my hand--a mouse that in a few hours had sprouted a silky grey velvet coat just like the creatures that despite their size and lack of malice, often put us women into a screaming panic, causing us to climb chairs or find any higher ground until we are sure the “threat” is dealt with.

I thought, “What has changed? Why is it ok for THIS mouse to run up my hand but any other mouse would have run ME up a chair?
I studied Carol…who had stepped back a bit….eyeing the mouse with less curiosity now and more fear….suddenly I realized the power such creatures give boys who use their familiarity with outdoor insects and reptiles to torment and overpower girls.

Carol was poising herself now to make a run for it should I lose control of Timmy, her eyes fixed on his silky grey body while her peripheral vision searched for higher ground or doorways should this “villain” escape my grasp.

How had this happened?…one moment I am the hysterical woman running from one of the most helpless creatures that God created, yet now, at this season, acting as a surrogate mother?

I realized that the difference was two things: empathy and familiarity.

Empathy had captured me in the first place when he was crying, cold, lost, and helpless, in a world that I knew would show him no kindness or mercy, rather pitiless torture--torture that would cause him to welcome death. A death that would come not at his command, but when cruelty was done with him and he had served the purpose of whatever predator or element claimed him first.

Something in our human psyche abhors that aspect of life here on earth…each of us seeing ourselves or those we care about often the victim of this “fallen” version of what God originally created to work in harmony and beauty.

Familiarity was more gradual…a learned thing that happens as we “get close” to that which we fear, close enough to see the perfections of God’s design and the similarities we share.

As I would feed him, I would marvel at his perfectly formed pink lips and tiny red tongue. I didn’t need a magnifying glass to know that every feature of his body, including his internal organs were just as complicated and amazing as my own. I watched in fascination how he would stop feeding to wipe a droplet of milk from his face, smoothing each whisker, eyes still sealed tight. After feeding, the little pink hands and opposing thumb would carefully groom his face and head, smoothing each silky facial hair.



Thus began a difficult responsibility of feeding an orphaned infant that desperately needed the twenty four hour attention, feeding, and warmth of his better suited mammal mother, but who now had transferred that dependency to me…an intelligent and sympathetic human, but one lacking the facilities to meet the needs of even such a humble yet marvelous creature.

The 2 am and 5 am feedings began to wear on me. I would stumble out of bed at the sound of the alarm and become irritated, but compassion would fill me as I reached in and felt how lethargic and cool his little body had become.

I railed at myself inwardly for not being able to come up with a more consistent temperature for his environment which would have almost necessitated putting him against my own skin. I knew that if I ever succumbed to that measure I would have to admit that I had indeed become some kind of dreaded “rat woman” who kept vermin alive between her breasts. I vowed to never cross that line!

Then a few nights later it happened. I stumbled into the bathroom in the wee hours. His cool body was outside the protective bedding as usual, but this time as I warmed him in my hand he didn’t respond as before. He lifted his head weakly towards the syringe but not with the same vigor. I thought if I could just get a little down him and warm him up, maybe he was just sleepy like me.

The next feeding I knew something was wrong. He had no energy at all.
In vain I drizzled the milk in his mouth only to have it come out his nose.
A fear and actual grief gripped my chest…not unlike the kind that happens when you realize that important people in your life are slipping away and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

There is something humbling about such times, whether the loss be a human or animal. It is the moment you realize that you and often no one else can stop the cascading effects of death.
It is the panic of feeling somehow responsible for a death, or the empty ache of being helpless to prevent it.

I cannot truly compare this humble rodent’s demise to the death of my two brothers or any of the four parents we recently lost in just one 7 year period.
Yet, as I watched the soft little chest struggle to expand, my own recently buried helplessness and panic tore through my chest, snapping free all the emotional bandages that held at bay the raw pain of attending a loved one’s death. Once again I was watching someone or something dear fall through thin air from a cliff’s edge after desperately trying to pull them back to safety.

I could not run away from those feelings as long as I held such a poignant reminder so I sat up in bed during those wee hours, unable to toss aside my little patient to suffer those last throes of death without warmth and touch.

Tears coursed down my cheeks as I watched the life ebb out of his delicate little body, gently warmed and protected by the inside of my hand.
Long before the light of morning his body cooled, little feet drooped at the joints, the delicate mouth hung open and I knew he was gone.

In that moment, one little baby mouse seemed to represent all the anguish in this world that we cannot prevent; all the orphans who will never know the intended nurturing of a caring parent, and all those we will love and lose in spite of our best determination and undying love for them.

Morning came as it always does…rested, joyful, and naive of the anguishes of the night it relieves.
I looked over at the box that I knew now held just another cold, stiff, rodent….the kind people shake from a trap into the garbage as quickly as possible, most not looking too closely.

But I had learned from this little creature and invested so much! How is it that “small” makes creatures more disposable? I could not bring myself to toss such a beautiful creature into last week’s moldy food scraps.

People chided me about this, hiding their smiles behind their fingers while pretending to sympathize with my dilemma, eyes darting from me to the other person as if to say, “Let’s just humor her, she obviously is taking this seriously.”

I asked them if they would toss a beloved pet such as a kitty or puppy in the garbage can so easily, remembering how this little animal shared all the endearing physical qualities of both species, but then we don’t usually get that close to mice do we?

I thought of how soldiers are taught to see the enemy they must fight and overcome as less than human….ugly words like “Japs,” or “Krauts” allow us to somehow deem other humans and races as more deserving to die.
What we cannot tolerate we must demonize, unless we are forced to look close--close enough to see the same blue eyes and blond hair…or watch an enemy mother or father playing and protecting their young just like we do.

Looking closely with open eyes would break down walls of rationalization and make the necessary need to defend family and country an agonizing task. We avoid the agony by not looking too closely.

This same thinking has now insisted we tolerate the killing and disposal of our own children. Even perfectly formed infants with God-given intelligence and futures are snuffed out without recrimination, as long as they are small enough, as long as we don’t look at them very closely, they too can be thrown into a garbage can. Put the lid on quickly so you don’t see their humanity and our own barbarism!

With all Timmy had taught me, he was still just a mouse…now a dead one. I found some cotton and put the mouse on it in a little clear plastic box.
Husband Rod typed a little epithet, “Timmy, we hardly knew ye” on the side, probably more out of respect for my efforts and affection for the little thing than humor.

Those less acquainted with the journey always make more light of its hardships. So many laughed and made light of the little clear box and its gentle contents except daughter Bethany and her friend Gitta who wept with me a little that day, not because one little mouse had died but because life is so fragile and we are so helpless in the end to stop suffering, natural death, and victimization….and so few take the time to look closely at what they fear.

Rice and Beans month day 8

I have a whole new way of cooking now...with jasmine rice precooked and beans cooked up and rinsed in the frig, who needs fast food! We add vegies, fruit, and tea. Mostly try to stick to it for our evening meal but not bad for breakfast we have found. This is the NEW fast food and it's healthy and cheap...plus others will not go hungry because of those who participate in this exercise of simplicty and sharing out of our excess.

Go to www.eatriceandbeans.com for more info.
an outreach of Lahash.net a local Portland Or ministry partnering with east africans helping east africans orphans and widows.

Here is my newest recipe shared by my friend Charlotte who lived in Turkey. I can't wait to try it. Notice the dried mint!


Turkish Red Lentil Soup
1 TBSP. butter or olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced or 1 tsp. dried minced garlic, or 1/8 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. ground coriander
2 TBSP. tomato paste
8 cups low-fat vegetable or beef stock
1 cup red lentils
¼ cup short-grain rice
1 dried red pepper (optional) or ½ tsp. ground red pepper
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. pepper
½ tsp. dried mint
1 lemon, cut into wedges

Method:
1. In a Dutch oven (or pan with a heavy bottom), warm butter or olive oil over medium heat.
2. Add onion and sauté for 5 to 10 minutes, or until onion is translucent.
3. Stir in garlic, cumin and coriander and cook for 1 to 2 minutes.
4. Add tomato paste, stock, lentils, rice, and red pepper (if desired). Stir to combine.
5. Bring soup to a boil, cover pan, and reduce heat to a simmer.
6. Cook for about 30 to 40 minutes, stirring occasionally so it doesn’t burn. A kettle with a heavy bottom reduces possible scorching, too.
7. When lentils and rice are tender and soup has thickened, add salt, pepper and dried mint. If desired, serve hot with lemon wedges.
Preparation time: 5 minutes. Cooking time: 1 hour. Serves 4

Eat Pray Love the book

While reading this book, I'm struck by the selfishness and lack of commitment from this woman of privilege.
I can't relate to her willingness to sacrifice the most important relationships in life for yet more romps and paid vacations of temporary happiness.

How can you "find yourself "at the expense of hard working people in other countries, people who have to prepare the food you eat and wash your dirty dishes. What you find is your stunted, adolescent self, not an adult.

All that said, her writing is excellent and you can't help but enjoy the book.
Such transparency is risky but makes the book "real", it also reveals our insides and makes us vulnerable to others and hopefully exposes our true motives.

It is certainly a cheap vicarous vacation for the reader.
As an ESL teacher I appreciate her love and discipline to learn a foreign lanuguage.

In the end we all have to grow up, wash the dishes, spend ourselves for others, and learn to make God our steering wheel instead of our spare tire.
"You will know the truth and the truth will set you free" Free of self?