Possum Soul/From the Bottom of the Bin

We're at the bottom of the bin, yes we possum are. Sometimes this bothers us, sometimes not. If I can borrow the royal (or insane) "we," I'll talk possum to you. I've been slogging away out here, serving the muse to the best of my ability, writing, and "scribbling, bibbling," as Amadeus had it, for many years now. My life feels like the movie 9-5, as others, newer to the game, vault over my back and climb the ladder to glory. I, instead, scuttle about in your moon lit backyard and hope that some drunken late night kid driver doesn't run me over, just for laughs.

Sometimes the past is larger than the future. This is happening to my cohort right about now. We were born just before the "baby boom," which has been following us around on big loud feet ever since we saw the light of day. At first, we were remarkable, because we were the tail end of the "baby bust." Depression and a World War had left children scarce on the ground, but then, suddenly, we were a cool rarity no longer simply because we were young children. I remember this feeling of sinking popularity, so can relate to old Hollywood actors whose glory days have come and gone.  By the fifties, everybody had a hoard of little brothers and sisters, except of course for me, the lonely only. I early learned that a mysterious Something called The RH factor had removed that possibility, though I'm not entirely certain either parent was interested in more than the one semi-obligatory child.

Sometimes the past is larger than the future. Very long ago--oh, eons--we marsupials were forerunners of that wildly successful line of placental mammals who have taken over this planet. We possum, parent tribe, alone remain in the West, tenderly snuffling about in hedges for bugs. slugs and worms and the lump of cassarole the old woman next door so thoughtfully threw out. We also like persimmon trees, grapes, berries, and fallen fruit in orchards. Sour or slimy or sweet, it's all grist to the old mill. Maybe, after the killer apes have finally blown themselves to smithereens, a few of us, the ancient possum, will still be shuffling about, nosing quietly through the ruins of what is so saucily termed "civilization."




~~Juliet Waldron

http://cronehenge.blogspot.com
http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldron

A Birthday Memory

My oldest was born in the summer of ’65. We were living in a basement apartment in Allston, outside Boston. I had hand-me-down pregnancy clothes from Aunt Judy, the 50’s kind, with floppy tops and belly cut outs. My mother-in-law helped too, whipping up shifts on her Singer. Those were the days! I didn’t go to a doctor until 6 months in, and what we could afford was the Boston Lying-in clinic. I rode there on the bus every few weeks, answered questions that were part of a long-term survey, and saw a group of young doctors and nurses—a different set every of time.

It was the hottest spring in 90 years, super oppressive for this country girl. It was also the spring of the Boston Strangler, and a pregnant 19 year old in the basement apartment alone in a strange city felt pretty anxious sometimes. My husband worked at a bank running an IBM 1401 mini-computer, one of those new gizmos that were being bought by businesses everywhere. We were both hoping to return to college in the fall, but didn’t actually have a clue about how.

For the day I went into labor, we put aside taxi fare. I packed a bag. However, as the due date approached my hands, feet, legs and face swelled, and my B.P. soared. The clinic staff said this was “toxemia,” which I looked up in my bible, Dr. Guttmacher’s "Pregnancy & Childbirth." Two days later, I collected my suitcase, caught the bus and rode to the hospital. The whole thing seemed, after all those movies with hysteria, hot water and ripping petticoats, an anti-climax.

They never gave me the drug, though, as I obligingly went into labor after the embarrassing prep that was de rigeur for OB in those days. Husbands were not welcome, either, so mine stayed at work. Natural Childbirth – I might have been poor and young, but I was not uneducated – “Only works for European women, who are so much stronger than American women.” (I’m quoting the supervising Obstetrician I’d asked.) Because this was my first, the staff pretty much ignored me until a nurse noticed the top of my son’s head. Hospital rules required anesthesia, in this case a saddle block, but it was given so late it didn’t take until well after he was born.

Baby arrived to thrill a room full of neophyte students. He was seriously pissed off about the rude ejection. Quickly, though, he stopped crying, and began to gaze around wide-eyed with a “Where the HELL Am I NOW?!” look on his face.

A stout, gray nurse approached with a needle, but I had the La Leche League handbook memorized.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Just to dry up your milk, Honey.”

“No thank-you. I’m going to nurse my baby.”

“You’ll be sorry!” Her lips set in a grim line. She checked the chart, too, even argued a little with the resident, before she went away.

Later, I talked to my husband on a phone at the nurses’ station. Visiting hours were over. He would be allowed to see us tomorrow afternoon.

The family survived all this long ago hospital rigamarole. My son grew up, got married, and had a lovely daughter of his own who is now in college.

This all happened a very long time ago, but when his birthday rolls around every year, I still think about it. I guess that's a Mom Thing.