Jen Lindgren-Brown's Blog

Today is, or would have been, my grandfather’s 78thbirthday and I wanted to take this time to celebrate him and share some thoughts. He passed long enough ago that he never met his great-granddaughters face to face- never saw tragedy fall on his beloved Manhattan- never aged enough to feel the impact of our country’s increasing inability to care for one another… and he would have had great words to share about it all.

I miss these words and opinions and I wish beyond most wishes that I could share more conversations with him. He had an uncanny ability to see great things in the world- to understand people and separate the struggles life delivers from the potential within. He believed people deserved the right to build their best life and understood the balance between helping others and others helping themselves. He taught me to respect human error and forgive it, within reason and that it is imperative to take the time to understand an individual’s history and how the paths we are each on need a combination of external guidance and internal motivation. Internal motivation was the key to his lessons– He would say we are only as strong and capable as we allow ourselves to be… that though it is easier to roll over or bury our heads, to accept the days and circumstances of life as they come and live as a victim, what benefit is there in that? What quality exists in our days without appreciation and the continued drive to make these days the best they can be?He also knew that many people lacked these abilities, or had experienced such a high degree of struggle or turmoil in life that desperation and fear took over judgment and that was where the external guidance and understanding came in. He felt that it was our obligation to help, not do for, but assist, respect and support.   He worked the greater part of his life at a youth development center helping kids overcome their own histories and push to achieve beyond society’s expectations. He worked to restore or establish their self-respect and helped them fight against stereotypes- against assumptions- against obstacles. He helped many and they went on to help many more. My grandfather knew without question that we are all flawed in some natural, human way but believed in the good that lives within each of us. He was not ignorant to evils in the world but felt that the light, the positive, could carry greater power and made his decisions bearing in mind that far more benefit can come from positive thought for self and others.

I think, on some level, he carried personal guilt of the decisions and directions of his own earlier days and worked to make amends, to make a difference and to provide hope where such levels of desperation overshadowed all else.   Through acknowledging his own faults and working to find his place, his direction- he reached out and helped. Saw people for who they wanted to become and worked with them to achieve change. He understood we as a society hold all the tools to repair ourselves if we can only take the steps and time to do so.  Sometimes I think it is easy to forget we are all in this life together. We get caught up in our own struggles, frustrations and ambitions and lose sight of the fact that there are others who are going through the same. It is days like today, when the thoughts and memories of my grandfather are so strong, that I am reminded of one of my most important responsibilities as a member of our human society. We could all use help, hope, respect and understanding and I want to be sure the days of my life are spent providing these things and teaching my daughter to do the same. There are too many amazing folks out there for us to not all work together to make greater things happen.

This is a bit of a bedtime story for grown-ups...    

Mable Clyde woke in her cozy old bed, it was Hate the World Monday and she covered her head.
Quite forgetting her mantra from the evening before,
she grunted and pounded her alarm to the floor.

In nine minutes time it sounded again, with a violent and biting monotonous tone.
Momentary relief for Mable’s frail brain
found it muffled, top-side-down on a robe.

But psychotically crafted alarm clocks crescendo full bore so Mable reached and she patted from mattress to floor.
She grasped it and cursed it and squeezed out its last buzz
then stomped to the bathroom door. 

Things did not improve as Mable rushed through her day trying to play corporate in an ethical way.
She questioned as instructed by those who instruct-
but the questions she questioned were inappropriate.

So she found herself frustrated with what she should do but she doubted her ability to find something new.
In only one day Sunday’s optimism was gone
and she trudged home resenting her position as pawn.  

Two different Tuesdays and two interviews both filled with the same patronizing howdy-dee-do.
One said, “Thank you for your time and for your motivation.
You do have experience and enthu—siasm,
but for someone that holds your current position    
this is not at all the typical progression,
what I mean is to say it’d be quite the promotion!”

At this Ms. Clyde envisioned smashing her head and wished for a lolli-pop and a pat on the head
instead of a grammatical abomination telling her why
this position was some unobtainable prize.

Instead she smiled and thanked him for taking the time, said she appreciated his advice on her corporate climb.
She shook hands with more oomph than he had put in
and acknowledged her knowledge of his embarrassed chagrin.

The other provided a bit more to her credit, at least taking time to mention she had a right to present it,
“Your ideas are certainty enlightening, and you’ve invested your time
focusing on the highly favorable aspects we find…

“Oh groan,” Mable thought, “Here comes the script- I’ve lost another one to locked-in-a-box politics.
I’ve got to get out, I can’t do anything here!”
Mable stood and she smiled and her intentions were clear.

And again she found home this time curled in a quilt then wasted a Wednesday surrounded by the self pity she built.
She grumbled that the world had turned crazy, lazy and mean
and hypocritically admitted that she found it obscene.

But this was not the type of person she thought she’d become, all cloistered, defeated, despondent and dumb.
In her heart raged a demon of great diffidence
and she feared it succeeded in stifling her sense.       

With gritted teeth Mable glared into the mirror- her own angry face with a flicker of fear.
She felt her heart burn and the reflection felt double-
she pounded the counter and pushed down her trouble.

Then straightened to standing as she pulled at her hair, she pushed at her head until clarity got there.
When the simplest inkling of inspiration set in,
Mable smiled and sighed and allowed a small grin to escape,

it had been hidden, locked tight- the solution was there, it has to be, right?
The solution to relief from this mundane existence,
this soul-sucking funk, this rot on your ass persistence of procrastination
and abusive self-reflection…

Mable looked into her eyes and had to take action. She solicited an untapped selection of brain
and her exhausted reflection did much of the same-
she drew another deep breath and shuddered and sighed,
she’d need to wake up tomorrow and find Mable Clyde.

With clear-headed ambition and a stern look in the mirror she concentrated hard until her old Sunday mantra was clear.
She prepared herself right with a voice strong and steady,
“Good night, Sweet Pea”. She said, “Dream Big and wake up ready.”

Three weeks of Thursdays and only one of them rough saw Mable Clyde ready and emotionally tough-
she woke up each day and remembered her name,
she recalled some old faces and she let go of her shame.

Mable folded her quilt for her old snuggly cat and put on her boots and a snazzy new hat.
She found nice conversations and danced in the street
thankful for the freedom to follow her feet.

She started to listen beyond the same walls And sought out a profession where she could stand tall
Then found the right fit far away from the greed
and worked with a diligence to help small business succeed.

By the time each next Friday came Mable Clyde’s way something wonderful happened on each glorious day -
weekend or weekday, vacations or not,
good days, bad days, cold days and hot-
all of the days in Mable Clyde’s life,
were just that, all days in her life she could count.

And counting is one thing but to add living is better when living has loving, has laughter, has letters.
So Mable dreamed big all the nights of her days
in her cozy old bed in cozy old ways.

She woke through the seasons prepared for the weather taking time for Orion or to study a feather.
She woke from big dreams for family and dear friends,
remembering always to say thanks for that first waking breath.

My husband recently decided I should be into basketball. It's a surprisingly common opinion among family, friends and complete strangers because I stand at (a quarter inch shy of) six feet.  I am not now, nor have I ever been aware that height comes with, not only unquestionable basketball playing ability, but an obligation to participate in the sport. Truth is, I've never played- I guess I'm a rebel or this is what some of my earlier teachers may have meant by not achieving full potential. Now, I've done the required dribbling drills and free throws my 80s public education required of me, but that's where I left it. Too much thud-thudding and shrill sneaker squeaks in an acoustically unfriendly environment. No thank you. But, why let my personal feelings be the end of it? Not when I'm as tall as I am and I have a spouse who likes the sport as much as he does. Never mind my complete lack of interestin the 20+ years we've known each other. Why all of a sudden? Why is basketball now a great activity for us to not only play together, but to watch as a family...? Why deprive our tall daughter the opportunity to play just because I never did is his strongest argument to date. So, why the heck not... let's give it a whirl.  This is how my basketball education began and ended in under a week:  1. I bought a pink women's ball. If this education and activity is really to better my understanding and interest and provide tutelage to my daughter, why should we not use a pink women's ball? Apparently this was wrong. All I have to say is, if one loves basketball so much, why don't they have their own standard color man-sized ball already so the presence of said pink ball would not be so offensive?
2. I threw in some hope. I nailed the label the court diagram. Without help. This may have sent mix messages that I was interested in learning and lead to the downfall of the overall plan. In my defense, it was a bit like a test, so I did my best. I think a bit more encouragement and a bit less overall surprise would have benefitted the continuation of the plan more effectively. 3. I did not take our "play around" time in the park seriously. I was just trying to figure out who passed to whom and when. It seems there are base rules and court etiquette that should be followed even when one is just trying to wrap their heads around the fact that they are on a basketball court to begin with. It guess there is no giggling in basketball.  4. I was not serious enough about mastering play formation. When it was decided I needed a more tactical understanding before taking it back to the court, I laughed too much through my tutorial of the rules and strategies of the game. But, really, this is the visual- I find it hard to believe anyone could interpret this, let alone keep a straight face during the design phase.  All that said, take heart as another sport’s season begins! Though your television may be monopolized, you can still catch up on reading- or writing- over the sounds of couch-side coaching. At least hockey is back…

I recently started flipping pennies.  This is to say when I see a tales up penny on the ground, you know, these faceless pennies known for their unlucky properties, I flip it over and leave the suddenly lucky heads up penny on the ground to be later discovered by someone who may see it, pick it up and add a little luck to their day.
Hopefully by doing so I am not causing some kind of luck disturbance in the world or altering the lucky benefits of these coins in comparison to their counterparts that naturally fall heads up. My intentions are pure. I just think the world could benefit from this overwhelming untapped luck potential.
It's just that, well, sometimes people need a little help finding something lucky or positive about their day. If we go around snatching up all the heads up pennies while leaving the tales up ones behind, eventually all we'll have is a bunch of bad luck piled all around and a bunch of humans who don't understand they can be part of the solution to sort it all out.
So, maybe we can spread the luck. If you see a tales up penny, flip it and help someone else find a lucky day. Who knows, one day maybe it'll be you who needs a little extra luck and it will be nice to know someone else flipped a penny for you.

So, I think it is peculiar how people on couches can find a connection with people on TV. It’s strange. It’s strange because the people on the couch do not know the people on the TV nor will they likely ever meet, have the opportunity to chat and spend the time to get to know each other.
Even so, I reluctantly admit I am one of these couch people. I can't help it. Sometimes they are in my living room and chatting in a way that makes sense to me or I've been affected by the things they've done or created. I've asked myself the hypothetical question of who I'd be interested in meeting and talking with should the opportunity present itself. Being a new blogger, I'm going for the light-hearted five-person sit and chat scenario rather than one involving the heaping pile of serious issues and realities worth discussing... Perhaps another day. Anyway, here’s my list, in no particular order:
Christina Applegate – I found we shared similar opinions and emotions to the dancers and choreographed pieces on So You Think You Can Dance. I enjoy dance quite profoundly but it is not a passion I share with anyone in my life and I think it would be wonderful to sit and talk with someone who reacts to dance the way I do.
Cheryl Henson – I believe that The Muppets and Creatures of Jim Henson were a significant part of the village of individuals who raised me. I would love to thank her and her family for the amazing gifts they’ve given.
Stephen King – I evolved as a writer in my appreciation of Mr. King’s ability to choose and distribute his words. Writers are fun to talk with and it could be a potentially enjoyable conversation.
Daniel Tosh – He makes me laugh and I’m curious if my understanding of his humor is what I think it is.
Ellen DeGeneres – I think her energy and the sincerity she expresses are beautiful and feel it would be quite nice to share a conversation.
There are many other conversations I believe would be interesting to share, so don’t be offended if you are a well-known person and not listed above. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll meet someday and share words as people do.     

I read a great list on buzzfeed.com titled 16 Things That Happen When You Become An Actual Adult. Granted the intention of the piece was focused on financial stability, but it got me thinking... Based on some of the attributes mentioned, it seems I'm still far from achieving this particular life goal- to be an adult. To help comfort myself during this time, I thought it might be fun to make my own list of the reasons why I am far, far from becoming an "actual adult" - While I'm super excited for those who have managed to make this impressive transformation, perhaps there are other overgrown children like me out there who lack the ability to properly grow up and don't mind so much.

15 Things That Let Others Know You Haven't Grown Up Yet

1) You enjoy coloring with crayons and "arts and crafts time" can still be used as a method of entertaining you so you don't get out of hand.

2) You prefer riding a bike to driving a car.

3) You have little trouble falling asleep... unless you are really excited.

4) You believe - without question- that The Muppets and Beings born at Jim Henson's Creature Shop are real.

5) You save money in a plastic jar for special things you want to buy.

6) With the exception of items given to you by parents and grandparents, ALL of your jewelry is either sterling silver or plastic. The really good pieces are both.

7) You sing aloud often and talk to yourself on a regular basis. Sometimes you sing the conversations you have with yourself because once you start, you can't stop.

8) Snow makes you happy

9) You don't think it's odd when people of the same gender or of different races kiss each other because you just think it's nice to see humans who are happy.

10) You'd rather play and laugh with your friends then discuss stock options, consumer reports or politics.

11) You need to be reminded on a regular basis that it's not always appropriate to answer all questions with complete honesty and the word "tact" is used a lot during the lectures.

12) You spend more time in the ocean than you do on the beach.

13) You enjoy smiling at and talking to strangers even though you've been told it's dangerous.

14) You believe that a bad day can be made better with a hug, comfy jammies and maybe some ice cream.

15) Not only do your children want to spend time with you but they surprise you every day by how amazing they are despite having you as a parent.

So- the start of football season has arrived and I say “yay!” with a mixture of genuine excitement and anticipated rage. Excitement because I enjoy football—but I also know that the start of football begins as the hunt for playoff baseball heats up, creating a season filled with repetitive sports radio and its offspring, overspill guy-talk.
 I enjoy overspill guy-talk. It’s entertaining for a few hours stretched out through the year. It provides interesting insight on the deepest desires of men and the significant simultaneous degree of envy, love and hatred they hold in their hearts for people and events that have little to no actual connection to their own wellbeing. It’s, well its mind-blowing to me.  I do specify men here, but acknowledge the few exceptionally well versed and passionate women so their feelings won’t be hurt. Don’t get me wrong, I’m completely down with girl power in every respect but I do hold the personal opinion that there are a rare few women who successfully hold the complete and equal ability to throw down sports talk. It’s impressive to watch. Makes me a little jealous, but they’re a bit like unicorns so it feels right to be in complete awe of them.  Now, I enjoy sports. 4 ½ of the men in my life and possibly 5 of the women think I’m reasonably athletic. I spent 30 of my 37 years learning and loving baseball and I broke the noses of two people playing soccer. I can’t do anything impressive yet, but I feel like a powerful beast when I rock strength and conditioning at Dynamic but I am not capable of participating in this type of conversation.  Surprising, since I provided those exceptional arguments to provide my credentials but, truth is, I’m primarily an observer. I know this of myself without question. I prefer my public sports talk and observations to be limited to small knowledge pops here and there. I also know that though I certainly have the mental ability to understand the finer details of these games, I am not capable of gathering enough motivation to do so to a degree required to meaningfully participate in the overspill.  Knowledge pops work well for me. I got to know one of my greatest friends discussing the ground rule double. Just a fun fact. 
But tonight I’m typing and he’s, flip, flip, flipping between games and prepping. I love the safety, so it’s fun we’ve made it back to football. Yay, Seattle! I did hear all night that every pitcher who faces him should try to hit Ortiz. I think it’s hilarious and wonderful how fantastic his night has been. Maybe that’s the reason I should refrain from sports talk?

Trying to finish a manuscript can be a bit overwhelming, especially when we writers also want to dedicate our fulls selves to family, friends, self and, for those of you like me, to our full time non-writing related day jobs! This multi-tasking leads to a degree of identity crisis and can be a bit overwhelming! Now, add to that the additional time needed to manage websites, check in on Facebook, manage a blog (I use these examples with the shame brought about by not tending to these items as closely as they probably require) and jot down those untimely little inspired idea gifts our brain splutters out at the most inopportune moments (all I have to say is when the bright people who create Dragon software design Naturally Thinking... sign me up!)... well, the seemingly insurmountable tasks can battle against us and cause the ever dreaded WRITER'S BLOCK!!!
So, my advice is this... Take a breath, take a break and walk away from pens and paper and electronics to give yourself time to celebrate what you've accomplished! There is nothing quite like reconnecting with the big world outside to awaken the muse and charge ahead! This is not just for writers! Everyone needs a moment to reset, reconnect and remember why we have the passions we have and why we do what we do. The fresh perspective you bring back when you return will make all the difference.
In an attempt to take my own advice I recently attended a social gathering for NH writers. Though I enjoy a good pot luck once in awhile, I was a bit apprehensive about going. The questions raced and panic set in...I don't know anyone...what will we talk about...what if...what if...what if...?? But, it was amazing. It was like finding a new little home full of folks who share my interests and passions and it provided the reset I needed. It was great to talk, to use my speaking voice, to learn about other people and the amazing things they do. Plus, I found being out in the world helps both fuse and diminish the identity crisis so that mother, wife, writer, office manager and all the other parts of me find their place to co-exist peacefully. 
Why am I mentioning this? Perhaps to set an example, or be the first volunteer to try something new. Explore your world. Visit the website (link below!) of two of the new friends I met and dance through your kitchen with your family and/or friends as you make delicious food to share. Roast the perfect marshmallow and share it with someone who has never had the patience to do so and watch how happy they are when they eat it. Observe and interact. Your stories and your moments will be a bit better. Take your life and your days seriously and enjoy the folks you meet...face to face...out in this beautiful world!
 
Visit www.nofretcooking.com and enjoy amazing recipes and the original, delightful music to accompany you as you prepare!

"I'd like to get paid for talking."
            "Fantastic, honey. Get paid by the word and we can jump a couple tax brackets." My husband is hilarious.
            I respond with a somewhat playful, albeit slightly derisive chuckled snort and fling a small amount of pancake batter in his direction. He gives it an exaggerated side chop, small globules of batter splatter his hand and sleeve.
Ahhh! Breakfast for dinner! That budgetary savior at week's end masquerading pending poverty as cool themed dinner ideas!
            "Seriously.” I bring it back around with a sly smile. “I think I could make it work.  Like a motivational speaker. I could help. There must be other people out there like me."
            Another derisive snort, this time from him. The hubs thinks I lack compassion. "Scary thought." He begins to chuckle, the effort stymied by another well aimed thwaap!My stifled laughter at the batter across his hat, ear and sideburn support his argument. Truth be told, I only lack compassion with him because he’s a bit of a diva and needs to toughen up.
            He does have cause, I suppose, to doubt my credentials as a motivational speaker. A particular fact that I will refuse to confirm for him should the occasion arise. I'm a basket case, but I think I am a basket case on the verge of better things. I inhale quickly to adjust to the pressure change and pull a napkin from the pouch of my sweatshirt. He is trying to shift to his serious you’ve gone too far, I have batter on my face look but fails, the smirk winning over his lips. I silently smooch the smirk and return to my task. He watches quietly as I flip a pad of butter to the skillet, trapping it with the corner of my spatula. I write messages in butter around the surface until I run out of room, opaque streaks swirled and sizzling.
            I feel his chin rest on my shoulder before his sugary whisper registers in my ear. "What motivational theory would you share?" His arms wrap around me as if I am a puppet and he begins to scoop batter onto the skillet, making oblong, wavy shapes. Against my back I feel the vibration of his self-satisfied giggle tremble in his core.
            I closed my eyes and smiled, letting my body lean into his. "Maybe advice for navigating pivotal moments, and how to learn from and push forward when you lose your way.” He is laughing harder now, though working hard to hide it. Nevertheless, I push on because I’m passionate. “Maybe I’d appeal to people right on the cusp of getting it together but in danger of becoming a sack of poo so they’d need some motivation to keep the dream alive."
            "Great title." His laughter is now unleashed and we are both leaning and laughing.
            My husband knows that I flop between either considering myself on the cusp of getting it together or as a sack of poo. It is the delight of existing in this paycheck to paycheck roller coaster realm. The delicate balance of attempting to be an inspiring and loving mother, supportive wife and self-sustained child of far more successful parents while constantly living with the knowledge that more could always be done, patience can always be greater, sarcasm always less. We settle our laughter. "I'd probably think of a better name." I clasp my hands behind his back as he continues to pour oddly shaped batter and flip pancakes, occasionally using his hands to rub my face or tap batter on my nose.
The hubs reaches for a plate to stack the ready pancakes and calls to the offspring. He shouts it this way, "Hey, offspring! Hot food!" and flips me around and kisses my forehead to the sounds of squeaking sneakers. "Give it a shot, hon. People will watch anything on-line these days. Start something that way. Who knows? You could develop a following." He dips me, somewhat awkwardly, and looks over my head toward the entrance of the kitchen. "Girl child!" He exclaims, catapulting me back to the pancakes and engulfing our daughter in his arms. She squirms and screeches shrill four-year-old giggles and wiggles her way out of his arms, firmly attaching herself to my leg. Her small painted fingers slyly reach up, snatch a pancake off the plate and dash out of the room to giggles rejuvenated.
            The boy child arrives to give a status report. "Nor has a pancake in the hallway." He proclaims. At seven, he is the informative man of the house, certainly more aware of the state of things than my husband or I could dream to become. His attentiveness to details makes us better parents.
            "Do you want a pancake in the hallway too?" I ask, holding out the plate to him.
            He laughs at my ridiculousness the way my father does though without entirely dismissing the possibility. Nor returns with lightning speed and thieves another pancake, running away again, her maniacal laughter echoing in our small kitchen. This uncivilized behavior seems to settle matters for Finn, who compromises his obvious desire to do something as unconventional as eat in the hallway by taking two pancakes on a plate and rushing from the room before the option to do so no longer exists.
            "Are we picnicking in the hall too?"
            "I suppose we could picnic anywhere." I reply as the pancake plate is again ravaged by the girl.
            "No discipline today? Just beast children running rampant through the house?"
            "Only one beast. The boy child is civil." I respond with underlying defensiveness.
            "'Cause he's like dad."
            "If you mean my dad, then yes, he is. If you are suggesting Finn is like you then I am amazed by your ability to say such wildly insane things with a straight face." I serve a plate of pancakes and hand them to my husband before preparing my own. "We have combined our powers in the creation of the girl. Thankfully the boy takes after our folks." As if on cue, Finn reappears, the mirror image of his father's younger self, holding his empty plate before him.
            "Ready for more, buddy?"
            "Why are the shapes funny?"
            "You didn't like them?"
            "I did. My pancake looked like a snake. Nor is eating on the toilet."
            Beastly fun has reached its threshold and the natives have gone too far with the lack of boundaries. I set my plate on the counter and leave the room to seek out the offender. When I reach the bathroom, door open wide to the world, I discover my daughter, singing loudly between bites of pancake astride the toilet, her feet swinging in rhythm to her song.
            "How are you planning to wipe and wash, my sweet?"
            Nor smiles at me through a hole in her pancake. "I'm gonna finish my pancake before I wipe, Mama."
            "Oh, of course, silly me." I fold my arms and lean against the door jam. "Probably not the best idea to eat on the toilet in the future though. You don't want to munch on poop germs."
            She releases her maniac's giggle again and shoves the pancake into her mouth before batting at the paper like a kitten at play. She balls far too much in her tiny fist.
            "Trying to wipe a river, are you?" I ask as I reduce her ration of toilet paper, returning the surplus to the top of the roll. "A couple squares will do the job, Love. Are you finished eating?" She nods vigorously. "Okay, strip then. Time for a bath."
            With nakedness achieved in record time, Nor is off again, reports of her condition bellowed in the voice Finn reserves for situations he feels are most offensive. I draw the bath water, using the remains of my body wash to make bubbles before Nor is delivered to the bathroom on the shoulders of her father.
            "The boy still seems clean." He says as he places a pink duck on his head and kneels beside the tub.
            "Scrubbed him down myself last night," I boast.
            Nor laughs again as she reaches for the pink duck, leaving a collection of bubbles in its place. I walk from the bathroom as the bubble facials began, remembering that I still have an uneaten plate of pancakes somewhere. Forgetting the thought that I wanted to become a motivational speaker.

Meredith sat on a torn faux leather chair in the small bullet-proof staff office of the youth development center. She tapped her toe on the floor and propelled herself around in slow circles, clutching her swimsuit and taking time to look out the large clear wall-like windows into the corridors beyond. She caught spinning glimpses of staff rushing about, pausing to share a word or read a posted notice.  Colorful posters with big, bright words, “Respect!” and “Believe in You!” whirled like vertical rainbows over the painted pale yellow brick walls. Blurs of color spin, spinning by.
Sharp rapid knocking reverberated through the room and startled Meredith from her colorful observations. She dragged her heels around the chair and came to rest facing the small window cut into the top third of the heavy door. Her grandfather stood, peering through the window, stooped and grinning. He tapped his watch and held up his open hand, mouthing, “five minutes” before pointing toward the stairs. Meredith nodded her understanding and waved enthusiastically. When her grandfather withdrew from the door, she stuck her head through the shoulder straps of her swimsuit, letting it hang to her lap, before resuming her spinning. She saw a blur of her grandfather’s tall figure springing up the industrial stairs two at a time.
Meredith counted to sixty. She counted again and once more before halting the chair and tap, tap, tapped her toes on the floor. A line of teenage girls bounded down the stairs and lined up outside the office door. Meredith recognized Dawna, a friend of her grandfather who, like he, was one of the counselors at the center. As she called out the girl’s names she walked along the line, marking the paper on her clipboard as she did so. When she completed her list, Dawna glanced into the office and smiled before walking to the door.
“Hello, sweet girl. I heard a rumor you’re joining us today.” She said as she opened the door. Dawna laughed as she nodded toward the swimsuit. “It is swim day after all.” She laughed again.  “I see you’re ready to go?” Meredith nodded and stood up, reaching for her duffel bag as she did so. “Well, you’re growin’ like a weed.” Dawna said as she bent toward the small girl, holding out a solitary arm provide a quick half-hug while keeping her eyes on the line of teenagers shuffling in the hall.
Meredith followed her out of the office and wiggled her fingers in greeting to the girls she recognized as she took her assigned spot on the blue plastic chair near the door. Dawna stood at an angle facing the line and began to recite the rules. Meredith had memorized the rules and she tapped her toes together in unison with Dawna’s words. “You have all earned the privilege to swim today.” With each emphasized word Meredith held her big toes together and flexed her ankles to the sky like she did while stretching in ballet class. “You will walk to the recreation building in an orderly fashion with Frank and Tanya. You will have one hour in the pool. I will meet you at the end of one hour to escort you to the locker room where you will have fifteenminutes to shower and change.” Meredith could never understand why Dawna thought it was important to specify shower. What else would those silly teenager do after their swim time?
Meredith did not join the girls in the locker room when their swim time was over and that was perfectly fine with her. Though she enjoyed swimming with them, they taught her how to do flips and took turns throwing her high into the sky over their shoulders where she’d splash to the water at all sorts of angles, she liked most the time spent in the pool after they left. When Dawna and Tanya brought the girls to change, Meredith and her grandfather had the pool to themselves. He was the lifeguard and did not swim while everyone was in the pool, but as soon as the last girl walked out of the pool room, he would race Meredith to the diving board. If he won, an event that rarely happened since Meredith began waiting at the ladder closest to the board as the girls exited the pool, he would bound down the board with his long-legged stride and dive, high and arched into the depths of the pool where Meredith would meet him as he surfaced. When she won, however, he would use his same long-legged stride to jump high off the board, but these times launching Meredith from his shoulders. Together they would plunge deep through the water and meet face to face as they kicked to the surface. Then they would swim and dive and float. He would time how long she could tread water and after she practiced her crawl he would let her use his mask and snorkel. Oh, his mask and snorkel were her favorites.
It was her grandfather’s mask and snorkel she thought of as Meredith pulled the body of her swimsuit over her mouth and nose as she sat in her blue plastic chair and waited. She pretended to spit into the mask and rub it around with water to help keep the fog out. She peered up as the girls shifted where they stood, some mumbling to others, some grinning and giggling. Dawna, who missed very little, walked briskly to the offending girls. “Miss Grant, Miss Williams, have you decided to pass on today’s activity?”
Meredith paused in her imaginary preparation and leaned over in her chair to watch the reaction of the two girls, who lowered and shook their heads. Meredith did not like it when the girls got in trouble right before they were ready to leave. Sometimes she would whisper to them to behave so they wouldn’t have time out and could go swim. Sometimes they wouldn’t listen but usually they would smile at her and they would behave.
A rage-filled angry screech sounded overhead and was followed by a collection of the swear words Meredith knew but wasn’t allowed to say. The yelling and screeching was followed by a thud and a clang and a stinging, scraping sound. “Help here.” Meredith recognized her grandfather’s calm deep voice. She heard pounding footsteps above and the line of girls before her shifted like anxious horses as three more staff members bounded passed and up the stairs.
 “Girls to the dining room.” Dawna stated firmly. “Now, please.” She added when her original request received no response. Dawna followed the small crowd down the hall to the left of the foyer. “Terry,” she called as she disappeared from Meredith’s view. “Terry, take the girls into the dining room. Frank has an incident upstairs.”
The last of the girls disappeared around the corner, each taking time to crane their necks in an attempt to glimpse the action occurring above. The shuffling sound of their feet was drowned out by the continued screams and raised voices above. The sounds of the commotion intensified. Meredith inched her chair in quick short bursts closer to the base of the stairs. She could hear her grandfather’s voice. It did not sound quite the same as she was accustomed to.
Meredith held the yellow duffle bag to her chest but something hard made it difficult to hold tightly. She opened the bag to reveal her grandfather’s mask and snorkel. Another loud call accompanied by quick footsteps sounded from above. Dawna appeared and charged up the stairs without pausing to address the five-year-old girl sitting on a plastic chair, clutching a yellow duffle bag and wearing a large black dive mask and snorkel with a blue swimsuit around her neck.