Madness

Plus a poem by Mike

My March has been a yo-yo. Some might call it madness.

It began with a quilt retreat. A couple dozen women bonding over batting sandwiched between fabric we cut and sew until they are works of art given to our friends and family for warmth and decoration.

After having my first two babies 13 months apart, my mother told me to take a class. Any class. Something that forced me to get out of my house. The only class that fit my husband’s schedule and our budget was a four week quilting class offered through UW’s Memorial Union mini courses. I hadn’t touched a sewing machine since 6th grade.

Twenty nine years and two machines later I’ve lost track of how many quilts and friends I’ve made.

Four patch made from fabric Jenna brought me from a trip to Spain.

Many of us only find time to sew at quilt retreat twice a year. We make the most of our minutes. Others sew all year long and could fill a gallery with their creations.

I only see most of these women at quilt retreat, but once our sewing machines are plugged in, the conversations and laughter pick up where we left off. Quilt blocks lying on the ping pong table seeking the best arrangement, draw admiration, friendly advice, which can be taken or not, and always more laughter. I feel so lucky to be included in these weekends.

But coming home meant dental work followed by a nasty cold.

My teeth never hurt. Until that biannual appointment misnomered a cleaning. They poke and prod as if trying to find fortune, but only send zings down my spine.

”Do your teeth hurt? Any problems?”

They carry on a full conversation pretending you are participating in the dialogue. Meanwhile, gloved fingers and pickaxes are treating your mouth as the next frontier. Searching for treasure, but the only treasure you can find is when you are told you don’t have to return for six months.

Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash

The more likely scenario is they tell you to return next week, and again two weeks later.

Not wanting to be paralyzed by the fear of the return visit I pretend it doesn’t exist. Until the day arrives and I can no longer pretend.

After hanging up my coat I sit with my book. A good book. One I wouldn’t mind reading cover to cover in the moderately comfortable chair. But there is a reason they call this crown temporary and time is up. It needs to be replaced with the permanent one. More poking, jabbing and the blast of air on my tooth nub so it is clean and dry when the permanent crown is cemented in place. That puff of air hits my tooth, shoots down my spine making my hair stand on edge. The happiest place to leave is the dentist office carrying the little card that says I don’t need to return until late summer, months and months away.

Everyone in town is sick or just got over being sick. My voodoo of four vitamin C tablets every morning and night is no match for this virus. You know that feeling when you are hot and cold all at once and sleep is your only desire? Yeah, that one.

When Joe was in elementary school he described it like this: my blankets made me hot and mad so I threw them across the room. But then I was freezing and too weak to go get them. Consuming his wisdom I kept a pile of quilts and sweaters within reach to put them on and shed them as necessary.

My fever finally broke and I woke up to this poem from my son Mike on his 23rd birthday:

March
A Poem by Mikey Rottier 

Basketball in the morning 
Basketball at night 

Basketball all day 
Until I lose my sight 

One possession at a time 
All march long 

My heart is happy 
When I hear that song 

Dananananananana nananana nanananananananananana

It all begins right around my Birthday
And ends just a few weeks before Earthday 

Enjoy your March 
I know I will 

Cheers will be heard 
Sauces may spill 

But one things for sure
March is a thrill

As soon as he could write, Mike started keeping stats on any and all sporting events: Packers and Brewers he watched with his Dad, his sister’s soccer games, Badger basketball we watched as a family. At a Brewer game a stranger asked, “What is that little fellow doing with the big binder?”

For years we went to Aunt Pat and Uncle Dick’s for Thanksgiving where a football game was always on TV. Shy, little Mike would stand mute in front of Uncle Dick offering his binder. Uncle Dick, an interested fan, would flip through, but all of his comments and questions were met with Mike nodding and not saying a word.

Every birthday, Mike received a ball. How many basketballs does one guy really need?

Now Mike’s living his dream covering high school sports for a small town that still prints a weekly newspaper. And he actually talks while interviewing coaches and athletes.

To celebrate his birthday Mike wanted to gather with his siblings and in-laws to fill out NCAA brackets. My husband started having our five kids fill out brackets in an effort to get them to watch sports with him. The tradition continues. The actuary analyzes the statistics. Those who don’t follow basketball choose alphabetically. My basketball loving kids use a combination of knowledge and favorite players.

Me. I’m all heart. Every year the Wisconsin Badgers will be my pick for winning the whole thing. My final four will be made up of Big Ten teams. OG Big Ten. None of the west coast teams with their beautiful weather. The Big Ten should be the states ignored by the coasts. The ones who endure blizzards and tornadoes while hoping for an early spring and long fall.

Just this week we had seventy degrees one day, thunderstorms and tornado watches the next and an actual blizzard over the weekend.

We live the madness.

*****

I get lots of rejection letters, but March 15th I got a yes instead of a no. Look for my poem in Wisconsin Writers Association’s latest edition of Creative Wisconsin Magazine available on amazon: https://a.co/d/05Apqd6U