It came out of nowhere. Weirdly, William had fallen asleep in my arms, but otherwise he looked fine, so I laid him down for an early nap. It was snowing outside, the start of our promised new and improved blizzard, with the snow from the last one not yet melted.
I was startled when I heard the strange gurgling coming from the bedroom–unearthly noises, ones I’ve unfortunately heard before. I rushed in and there was William, rolling under a blanket, eyes rolled back and white as the snow falling in the window frame. His muscles fired oddly, his fist clenched, slobber bubbling at his mouth.
Panic is a strange thing; it comes on steadily, surely, when your child is not right and beyond your reach. Billy had left his cellphone and was unreachable, but the pediatrician’s answering service called back.
–It could be another febrile seizure, the doctor said. But if he didn’t appear feverish, it could be a sign of meningitis or something worse. Take him to the emergency room.
I didn’t want to call an ambulance, but that’s just what I did after no one else answered their phone. It was slippery out, and I knew I couldn’t drive. In anticipation of the storm, my car was parked at the top of the long gravel drive, blocking any entry. William kept twittering, murmuring, not in full seizure, but not himself either. I was terrified to try to wake him. What if he didn’t wake? I packed a bag of odd things; put on my snow boots; wrapped William in a gray blanket. I left a scrawled note for Billy. I started up the long gravel drive, crunchy with snow.
That was a very long and surreal walk up our gravel driveway. William woke and looked at me with his fierce gaze, as if to say , Why are we even out here, Mama?—him reading the looks of panic and containment fighting on my face. William was not well and it was my responsibility—mine alone at the moment—to make him right again, and that felt like a terrible weight. My arms ached with it. The yard had a dreamlike quality, snow clinging to the branches and some already fallen, littering the white. I stopped under some pine boughs, my arms trembling. Then I looked up, saw the red shininess by the mailbox, a fire truck slowing. I have never in my whole life been so glad to see the paramedics, broad strong men, rushing down toward me in the snow.
About 5 percent of children under 5 years old have fever related febrile seizures. William’s turned out to be just this, again. In most cases, children outgrow these and have no symptoms later in life. Thanks to EMS and the kind folks at Martha Jefferson. Thanks for all yours warm thoughts. You can read more about febrile seizures here.
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Usually the snow seems light and luminous, like a fresh start. But this snowstorm has a weird foreboding feeling attached to it, with all those early weather reports, and the long lines at the Food Lion, with only the last cart left for me. Back at home, the sky is gray and heavy and it feels like maybe it will just keep snowing. Like the snow might pile up on past our door frame, then the pipes will freeze, and the power and phone lines will snap in the wind.
I know in my heart of hearts that eventually it will stop. The sun will come out, cold and faraway at first, but not too far in the future it will be warm and wet and green as springtime. It’s amazing how many things I take for granted, like spring or a clear view of the sky.
But right now, looking out of the picture window, I can’t help but wonder: what if it just keeps snowing? What if the snow is a consequence, or a punishment, or just a plain new fact? What if it the sky stays white and blank and unblinking, sifting shimmery whiteness?
What would we do then?
On a lighter note: Will’s first try at skiing during our last snow.
video by Billy
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And then, Mama, my boy William says, the plane is like crashing in the water, but then it swoops up, all the way to the moon.
With this, he flies his lego creation by me, guiding it out toward the lamp. Stories like this one spill from William now, strung together like patchwork quilts, odd patches, unexpected combinations.
I feel the same when I re-read a story I’ve written. Months passed and I wonder where those particular characters came from. They may have started with real life: a sliver of conversation overhead or an image. (Like that beautiful morbidly obese black girl, 8 years old, who always waves at me from 1st street). But in the stories, they inevitably become something different. Something I myself could have never imagined.
Maybe there’s stream of songs from which artists scoop, or sip, or siphon. It would be fast moving, a million unsong songs rushing past. And the painter, the singers, the poet, the musician, well she’s just the one curious enough to stand there by the water, struggling to decipher those odd high notes, brazen enough to plunge herself fingers into the wet dark cold.
Photo by Billy
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LEGACY, part 2
Just click to listen.
This is the second installment of the short story, ‘Legacy.’ For most adults, listening is a different way of experiencing stories or, and for me it a new way to deliver them—although William, at three years old, quite recommends this method.
I’ll keep adding new episodes weekly. If you sneak a listen, I’d love to hear what you think!
Note: you can listen to the other sequenced installments by selecting the ‘podcast’ category on this blog, or subscribe to the feed on I-tunes here.
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Every time I turn on the radio lately, I hear worrisome news, news that makes me want to switch it off again.
How hordes are suffering among rubble, and elsewhere, others are recklessly lashing out.
I hear about the many ways our economy is flailing; how the social systems that support us are strained or bankrupt; how the natural ones stressed to an unprecedented point.
And as of this month, according to the the supreme court, corporate money equals free speech, so I expect the next election cycle to be particularly cacophonous, with no one much listening, and nothing much getting done.
Then randomly I came across an image of one of those body scans—the kind they now take of you at airport security, after you’ve put your shoes and your plastic bag of toiletries in those dull gray bins. I’d never seen an image from the scans before. It was a woman, gray and translucent. And she looked so naked there, so alone, so exposed with her hands thrown up in quiet surrender.
And I thought, This an image of our times.
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What would you like to be remembered for? Which things do you embellish, edit, or try to forgot altogether?
These are some of the questions I considered when writing the short story Legacy, The first story in The One You Can remember. It introduces the unifying event of the collection: the disappearance of eighth grader Sara Parson, and follows Principal Markus Jackson as he comes to term with this loss.
You can listen to the first installment of this story below, or subscribe to the feed on I-tunes here (or search for ‘Jocelyns Stories’). I’ll be adding new installments weekly and would be super grateful to any who comments or rates it on I-tunes! Let me know what you think!!!
Just click to listen.
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Billy’s top tips on how to look great on a photo-shoot, plus William in costume, and the new jingle! Pass it on.
Video by Billy Hunt Photography and Friends.
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This is what happen when Billy and William go to the toy store unsupervised :)
video by billy
Also, check out saucy true stories told by local folks at Secretly Y’all.
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Grandma and William, by Papa Johnson
—Tomorrow, I tell William, Is a holiday: Martin Luther King Jr day.
—Who’s he? William asks.
—A man. A great man, I say.
—But why does he have a day, Williams wants to know.
I tell our boy that Dr. King was part of a struggle for fairness. A struggle in America that has made our small, diverse family possible: Me, Billy, and William—black, white, and the best of both.
But to try to describe a recent world where such revolution was even needed, is strange and difficult, like trying to put a bad dream into words. ‘Grandma and papa’s world’ I call it, a world of protests, marches, bloodshed, and the legacy of actual human slavery colored normal life in this country. Telling that truth to a child for the first time, well it gives a parent pause. And yet this is the plain truth of history: dig deep enough and soon you unearth something unseemly or obscene.
But then, too , there is Dr. King and that speech on the mall, which I let William watch on YouTube. He leaned into my chest and listened, totally enthralled, even if he didn’t understand every word. He could see the crowds of people, hear that voice, wavering but full of righteousness. Striving for right.
Striving to make this a day where I’d even need to explain those times to my biracial boy.
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