Out of the foxhole

Written for MacKenzie Jill Sauer's graduation, June 9, 2013

Out of the Foxhole

You’ve grown up, Little Girl
Eighteen years old and graduated
Ready to strike out on your own
Off into the great big world

Of course, you’ll take us with you
When a family tells stories around a table for two hours
stopping only at the relentless, nagging clock
then they are a part of you
just as you are a part of them

Yet, despite our closeness—or, perhaps, because of it—
you feel you’ve missed out on certain things, don’t you?
I’ve read your looks
Decoded your comments:

Other families stay in hotels
Drive cars that don’t break down
Watch cable television
Play video games
Luxuriate in air conditioning
Other families’ homes remain clean and disinfected
When there’s a renovation to be done, a hired crew comes in and
POOF!
like magic, other families’ problems disappear

At times, it must have seemed as if
we were living in a foxhole
Not that there were bullets flying outside
rather booming, violent capitalism—and we seemed dug in against it
Cold in winter
Hot in summer
Dirty
Always under construction

Was it real, or imagined?
I mean, our lifestyle was, for the most part, self-imposed
So was the conflict mere fantasy?
Principles that didn’t translate to realty?
Could we have lived like other families?

I don’t know
I tried to live in violent capitalism for a while
Talk about a fantasy world!
SUV’s and malls and homes with climate control
Numbers, most with dollar signs, quantifying
every aspect and value of life . . .
It could be claimed we were escaping from reality
I would claim we were escaping to it

It sure felt real, didn’t it?
The work
The doing without
The struggles
The tears

But difficulties tell only part of our story in the foxhole
We laughed, didn’t we?
How we laughed!
And when we danced!
Oh, my, chicks and ducks and geese better scurry!
When we danced,
we REALLY danced!

I’d wrap you in my arms

and swing; Your legs, so far from the floor,
became helicopter blades
And we both were lifted up
Floating in time and space
Around and around and around . . .

That damn clock. It says it’s time for you to go
Well, you’re ready
Your legs reach all the way to the ground
You’ve got a map and a mind full of ideas
So much road ahead of you!
You get to choose your destination, your battles
That’s as it should be,
and you leave the foxhole with my blessing

But in your journey, I ask you this:
Once in a while, shut off the air conditioning
Open a window
Don’t fear dirt
Talk with honesty even if the topic is gritty
Tell stories
Laugh
Do lots of laughing

And when you dance,
REALLY dance!

Grow up, little girl, and I will tell you stories

Written as a newspaper column celebrating MacKenzie Jill Sauer's birth. Ran in Evening Star  of Auburn, IN, Jan. 2, 1995.

Grow up, little girl, and I will tell you stories

            Our little girl came to us at 12:26 a.m. Monday. She arrived quietly, with wide-open eyes.

            MacKenzie Jill Sauer.

            Wrapped tightly in a blanket, a pointed hospital cap on her head, she looked like one of Santa’s helpers baked inside a holiday loaf of bread. No need to hush her, but I spoke to her still, and she listened as if kaleidoscope-colored clowns dance from my mouth.

            Grow up, little girl, and I will tell you stories!

            I will tell of the night a woman mistook labor pains for sauerkraut gas, and bore her child on a bathroom floor. The woman’s husband cut the cord and wrapped the baby in the only cloth nearby—his pajama bottoms. He ran to the neighbor next door, the neighbor with the telephone, the widow-woman neighbor. The husband awoke the neighbor with his urgent knock, breathlessly requested she call a doctor, and this is what the widow-neighbor said:

            “Mr. Sauer, you haven’t any pants on.”

            That’s your great-grandfather Philipp, his wife Louise, and the story of your Grandpa Richard’s birth.

            I will tell of the afternoons, the endless afternoons, when two boys shot baskets on a dirt court at a netless rim on a wooden pole. They both played for the same imaginary team and no imaginary opponent could stop them. The taller boy, the one with hair like a summer sun and legs longer than long, would provide mock radio play-by-play descriptions. The shorter, stockier boy couldn’t move as smoothly, but became enchanted with trying over and over again. And both boys would score a dozen, two dozen winning shots in one endless afternoon.

            That’s your Uncle Thom and I.

            I will tell you of the time a baby boy—a sweet little peanut like you—grew strong and long and loved for 20 days. Then a virus stole his life. I will tell you how 100 colored balloons accompanied the baby boy to heaven, and how the skies gasped and writhed and wept at his burial.

            That’s the story of your cousin, Ryan.

            I will tell how your great-great grandfather Wasbotten preached Norwegian to an American congregation—and lost his minister’s job because of it; and how your great grandfather Sauer came from Germany to America as a grown man, and found himself lost and alone and miserable in the middle of a Cleveland bridge on a New Year’s Eve.

            I will tell how your Grandma Barb drew lines on a milk jugs to stretch a teacher husband’s salary thin enough to feed six kids; and how your Great Aunt Glee and Great Uncle Jack rode life like a roller-coaster, arms high and still reaching, and how we shook our heads and wondered—why were they the ones to go too soon?

            I will tell how your Mommy cried as she married your Daddy until the pastor--“Uncle” Bob—offered to wipe her nose with his minister’s stole, and the congregation laughed. I will tell how your Aunt Jill (the one you’re named after!) went to California to be a TV star, and how your Mommy and I flicked the video-cassette remote fast as a flyswatter to catch a glimpse of her hair or hand or legs 2,000 miles away.

            I will tell how your Uncle Joel and I competed in everything—including whose child would be born first. And how I won with you. Oh, I really won with you.

            And then, little Miss Mackenzie, I will predict how you will supply chapters to our family history—chapters funny, profound and sad. And I’ll never tire of reminding you how much joy you’ve added already.

            Grow up, little girl, not fast or soon, but strong and kind. Then sit by my side, quietly, with your wide-open eyes.

            I have so many stories to tell you!