My Declaration of Independence

I want to:

**Smell stargazer lilies and carnations and roses instead of automobile exhaust fumes and unwashed bodies of poor homeless and helpless people wandering the streets downtown.

**Leisurely stroll the grounds at Lady Bird’s Wildflower center or the Natural Gardner, watching butterflies flit from bush to bush, both of us aimless in our destinations, not continue to stumble along broken concrete sidewalks or be bound by the clock on the wall or the one wound around my wrist, hurrying to get nowhere fast.

**Read, read, read - endlessly enchanting, rich novels or cheap, silly, frou-frou magazines of my own choosing, whenever and as long as I’d like, not have to read or watch depressing news, which never seems to change, and which I cannot do anything about anyway.

**Have dinner or tea and crumpets with friends whose company delights me and who honestly really like me, not have to endure another bad hotel meal with hordes of people whom I barely know and who could not care less about me after I leave their sight or they realize I can’t do anything more for them.

**Drive a borrowed Maserati - really fast! - on a winding Italian road - just once - not have to worry over my sensible, paid-for, ten-year-old Toyota Camry, which may decide to conk out on me at any moment no matter how much I’ve spent trying to maintain it.

**Ride horseback on a beautiful beach somewhere at sunset. Or just be on a beach somewhere - anywhere! - with my toes digging into the wet sand as I amble along, looking for shells and sea glass, listening to seagulls calling above me and smelling the salty air and feeling comforting, wet waves lapping up to greet me.

**Go to sappy chick flicks and cry shamelessly and eat as much buttered popcorn as I want and not have to share it with anybody.

**Love to be loved, truly loved by my own big, strong, selfless, teddy bear of a man, with a heart of gold and no addictions other than to me, and no other agenda in his brain or in his pants.

**See my grandsons with big, happy smiles on their shiny young faces and know they have enough food to eat and are reasonably happy, safe and secure, not worry about their mental state over their parents imminent divorce and whether or not my daughter will be able to pay her bills and feed them.

**Have friends and associates of every color and creed, any and all political persuasions, with whom I can talk freely and express our varied, different views without vitriol and bias and hate and cynicism, or someone having to be all Right or all Left or all Wrong.

**Travel the country in a nice, comfortable little RV, visiting my friends along the way and making new ones, visiting national and state parks and staying in campgrounds, sitting by a campfire under the stars, wrapped in a quilt and sipping brandy.

**Be guiltlessly proud of my country and not hear negative remarks being made by her own citizens or those abroad who do not have any idea of what it means to be an American. I’d like to know that the taxes I have paid will go for good purpose, not another useless war in an ungrateful foreign country, or to bail out a company that should never have been in business in the first place, especially when I might need that money to bail out myself or my own family.

**Be able to retire on what little money I do have and take care of myself, go to the doctor when I need to and not have to rely on the charity of others. But I’d like to know that true charity does exist, just for it’s own sake, not the tax break it will provide.

**Never have to pay taxes again. But I’d also like to live forever, and that ain’t going to happen either.

Mother's Day Tribute

An excerpt from my book, "There was a Little Girl," the chapter titled, "Yankee Gal"....a short tribute to my mother, Catherine Schwobel Lewis.

Some of my fondest memories of my mother were the times she and I attended plays or performances together after I was an adult. My father was never much for that sort of thing, so I was glad to fill in and escort my mother to these events.

Once, because of my marketing position at RepublicBank, I was able to procure a couple of tickets to see a ballet featuring Mikhail Baryshnikov. We attended the performance at the University of Texas’ Performing Arts Center and were invited backstage for the party afterwards. Baryshnikov walked within arms’ distance from my mother. She was as thrilled as a little girl at Christmas and I’ll never forget the look of joy on her face. She was in heaven.

Another memorable performance was A Streetcar Named Desire at St. Edwards University Theater in the Round. I had asked for front row seats so Mom could hear. Jim Smith (of Rich Man, Poor Man television fame) starred as a very muscular, sexy Stanley. In one scene, Stella served him dinner in the kitchen. There were real pork chops, mashed potatoes and black-eyed peas on the plates. We could actually smell the food we were so close. Boy, did it smell tasty! In this particular scene, Stanley proceeded to have one of his temper tantrums and threw his plate. We got black-eyed peas in our laps and hair. Again, the look on Mom’s face was priceless.

When I took Mom to the Paramount Theater to see the play Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, I thought I had made a big mistake when the curtains went up. The opening scene was a pretty graphic depiction of all the goings on at the famed Chicken Ranch along with all alot of hootin’ and hollerin’ and dancing. Even I was a little shocked. I glanced over at Mom who had a dazed and confused look on her face. Fortunately, she got into the spirit of the raucous play and we ended up having a great time.

There is not a day that goes by that I don't miss my mother - and she's been gone for over 20 years now. Ours was a complicated, sometimes difficult, relationship - aren't they all? Yet I'd give everything I own for one more play with her...one more conversation...one more head full of black-eyed peas.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.

Mystery Man

Austin has got its fair share of seemingly homeless folks all over town, but especially in the downtown area where services and handouts are more accessible for them.

And, as much as most of us would like to think we are open-minded, generous, more inclusive and/or liberal in our views of this sociological situation of homelessness, when it comes down to it, we probably don’t really want to be bothered. Especially when that homeless person is in our face begging for pocket change for some bogus reason when we are just trying to walk to our car after a long day at the office. Or when that homeless person’s lack of personal hygiene makes it impossible to be in their vicinity without our gag reflex kicking into gear. Oh, we might make an anonymous contribution to our favorite charity, but we’d prefer not to get personally involved.

Let’s face it, we would all rather not see or have to deal with this blight on society. We cannot help but make judgments about why and how “these people” managed to find themselves in these unfortunate circumstances. Though we really don’t know…we’re just making assumptions…because of course, we probably haven’t had an actual conversation with any of these homeless folks to find out what happened in their lives to cause them to sleep on iron benches on downtown sidewalks and urinate in hidden corners for lack of a proper toilet. Yet, if we’re honest, we have to admit that the majority of Americans, ourselves included, are just a few paychecks away from being in the same scary situation. It could happen to any of us - even if we’re not a derelict, a psych case or a hopeless alcoholic.

There is one particular middle-aged gentleman I see almost everyday, sitting alone on one of those iron benches near my office, who does not seem to fit any of the aforementioned categories. This mystery man is not harassing anyone for change, nor is he a stumbling drunk. He seems pretty clean, even well-kept, and though he’s not dressed in Abercrombie & Fitch, his clothes are not tattered or shabby. He is pretty thin - I’ve also never seen him eat or drink anything - and his skin is weathered from being outside every day. He just sits there, doing crossword puzzles, hour after hour, with his well-worn backpack at his feet. Occasionally, I think he works Sodoku puzzles. Sometimes, he’s just basking in the sunshine. But he is always alone; I’ve never seen him even speak to another human being. I assume he’s homeless, but I don’t know for sure. Again, I’m making assumptions based on what I see. Why else would anyone be hanging around downtown, if they don’t have a job there, day after day, just sitting on a bench? Doesn’t he have a home to go to?

Often I’ve been tempted to stop and sit quietly next to him on the bench and have even fantasized about engaging him in conversation, to learn his story, to let him know someone cares. If it were me, sitting on that bench, I’d want someone to talk to me.

But he is not me. And that would be too presumptuous of me. I definitely don’t want to intrude on his space or frighten him or embarrass him. What if it’s the only place where he feels OK about himself? Or where he feels safe in his own private inner world? I tell myself that I can’t take the chance of ruining that for him.

On the other hand, what if he is waiting for someone to just talk to him - to simply recognize his existence? Then it would seem I am the one who is derelict, if I don’t do or say something.

Maybe I will - someday.