Mom Always Like You Best

There's a place in town called Simons. A great early morning hangout for healthy foods, good coffee and it just happens to be on the way to work. I sat at the bar, ready to spread out, read the paper and drink my steaming cup of coffee when a man came and sat in the chair right next to me. I'm thinking how rude of him to take up the space I had reserved for my newspaper.

"Here you go Mr. Smothers" the waitress handed him his regular shot of wheat grass. pause. Oh my gosh. I am sitting next to Dick Smothers. The Smother's Brothers. Not the yo yo man, but the man who always thought his mom liked his brother best. I am calmly sipping my coffee thinking how do I get in to a conversation with him. He took off some bicycle gloves so i quickly said "so, you rode your bike here?" "No, I just wear them to protect my hands. I'm getting old", and then I start telling him how I would need pads for my elbows. It seems I am having a hard time getting thru doorways. We kidded and joked and he looked at me and said "Do I know you?", "No," I said, " but now you do, I am Judy Robertson." to which he replied, "I am Dick Smothers"

We shared stories of growing up in Calif. He in Redondo Beach, I in Ventura. I told him how I missed the foothills of Calif, and he told me how content he was in Sarasota. It was such a fun meeting over coffee.

I told my husband all about it, and he said "Are you going to die, you keep meeting famous people" I'm not sure what the correlation is with meeting famous people and death. I'm just going to enjoy this fabulous ride called life.

Motorcycle Man

Florida gets a bad rap sometimes with all the seniors here. The stories of their driving abilities are what helps redirect a boring g dinner conversation into a time of belly laughs. I've seen uturns that end up on sidewalks. I had one lady stop in the middle of a very well know road, get out of her car, come to my window and say "I think I'm lost". Its those kind of events that used to make me worry about my elderly folks. My folks are gone now, so thats one less thing I have to worry about. One day I was sitting at a traffic light, and I saw a car going down the sidewalk. Granted it was a wide sidewalk, but there he was, as happy as could be.

As I was running errands this morning a man in a beautiful 3 wheel harley, bright blue cruised by. I did notice he was quit elderly, and I thought that this was sure an upgrade from a 3-wheeled bicycle. I had warm fuzzy thoughts towards him. Go Grandpa. Go. When I finally caught up to him, there on the back, strapped on his matching blue luggage case, that only the finest harleys have when tricked out was his walker. Not just any kind. It was the kind with shocks and handbrakes.

I hope when I am old I can go cruisin just like grandpa.

Confessions of a Bipolar Tennis Player

I just don't understand how I can go out and play the tennis game of my life one day, and the next day look like I've never picked up a racquet. I just don't understand how I can serve 3 sets without a double fault, and in a tie breaker, can't even hit the ball over the net, let alone get it in the box.

When I was young, my nerves could face any competitive enemy, stare them in the eye and never break a sweat. Now, menopause has somehow sucked that out of me, and my sweats break out in the middle of the night, and to my dismay....in the middle of a match. My limbs shake and my mind travels around the world, and reminds me of all the faults I've ever had. The voice that I've always been able to quiet is screaming now, and I can't silence it.

I think I might be bipolar.

It happened yesterday. A great first set. Won 6-0. Then I hit a forehand out. "Big deal" you say. In my head I hear "Well, its all over now, there goes the set" So I resorted to finding my long lost, two hits ago, rhythm. I bounce the ball three times before serving, hoping a bit of obsessive compulsive behavior would somehow set me right. I just got bored. I tried grunting on my serve. I just got a sore throat.

We lost the second set. No suprise here, saw it coming on the second point. We were in the tie breaker, and then I double faulted twice....in a row....our two point lead was now tied. "Oh God", I'm praying now..."please don't let me serve again". These things attached to my shoulder were now rubber. The smooth strokes were karate chops.... my turn came to serve again, as I was thinking how could God abandoned me in a time like this. I passed my partner and whispered "Watch for the dink." I resorted to survival. Get that damn ball over the net! Dink one, and we got the point. I lined up for the next point thinking "I'm groveling and I don't care? Dink. Ace.

I wish I could say we won....but we didn't. I walked away wondering how these two people came to inhabit my body. The self assured athlete and the wimp.

I kept thinking of calling my shrink and begging for an emergency session. Instead I called a fellow tennis player, shrink, she works with the kids at Bolletierri and whined. She being of the positive essence, gave me great encouragement. When I get to feeling like quitting she reassured me that its just temporary. I keep her messages on my phone for 911 emergency tennis help.

I think I might be bipolar.

Today I played the tennis game of my life. I served well, I moved like one hot momma. I just waited for the opponents to drill me one at the net. I got most of them, and my reflexes were as good as any 20 year old. My forehand blasted crosscourt winners. I felt like I was a kid again, staring down the enemy. The wimpy voice that tried to yell at me was silenced.

I did find a key today to help me get back on track. I found myself sitting down on the bench during the change overs. Never did that before. I don't need to rest. Let's play ball, has always been my motto. Now, the menopausal momma wants to rest her weary bones, just for a second, before she jumps up to face the enemy in her head one more time.

We won, my partner and I. 6-4, 6-1.



Judy Robertson

Letter FROM Billie Jean King

I had hoped I'd get a reply from BJK. Every day I would look in my email box, and made sure when I emptied my email trash, it wouldn't be there. What a suprise when I opened this a few days ago...

Hello Judy. Thank you for the email you sent below. I was very touched by your kind words. I am glad to hear that you have enjoyed the sport of tennis over the years! I will keep my eyes open for a near "look-alike" and please stop me to say hello if our paths ever cross.

Best wishes and always remember to go for it!!

Billie Jean King

open letter to Billie Jean King

I hope this letter reaches you, through all the emails, phone calls, and daily memos. I just wanted to say thank you for all your given to me personally as a woman, and a tennis player.

I even think my dear mother would thank you. She listened to the endless sound of tennis balls hitting our garage door, as I stood in the gutter, and blasted my serve just like I saw you do so many times on TV. I mimicked every move. I would pick a spot and try to hit it over and over again. The returning ball was my constant opponent, so I never lacked for a rally. I don't recall ever doing this after my dad came home from work. I think after a long day at the Chevron service station, he was tired, and wanted to enjoy his easy chair, can of beer, and the evening news. It wasn't the case with our next door neighbor. The back door would open, as they would plead for me to stop. I just changed locations, and found a wall in the alley to continue my match.

I played when I was a kid in Southern Calif, in the 60s. I learned on the public courts, and every summer would sign up for every session. I played all the local tournaments, and won, not only in my division, but as I played up. An eight year old, beating the 16 year olds was a victory for me, and devastated the older kids. I listened in on my friends private lessons from the pros, and immediately put into practice what I heard. Even today, I listen in on the pros at my tennis club and smile. It takes me way back, to when I was just a kid, wanting someone...anyone to discovery me...and give me a chance in the big leagues.

I became too cool for tennis during my teen years....the lack of opportunity for women to compete was replace by wanting to fit in with my peers. I even tried to hide my tennis tan...I was the only one with white feet! But not now! I wear my tennis tan proudly. My white feet are a testament to the pure joy I have on the clay courts. I play on lots of teams, and take lessons from the pros. I pronounce to my family, every time there is a tennis tournament on TV that the HD set is mine! No Sponge Bob Square Pants this week!

I know you have received many deserving awards. My gosh, the mecca of tennis is named after you. But I want to stand and applaud you, for giving this young kid a vision for greatness and a reason to hit thousands of tennis balls on every wall in Ventura. I am 54 now, and I have people stop me often and say "you have such a classic style of tennis...you play like Billie Jean"...or they say..."you look like someone..." "yes, yes, I know. I look like Billie Jean". I live in Sarasota Florida. Martina lives here, and I often see her eating at Simons, a local hangout. One day we passed each other at the exit. She did a double take, looking at me. I let her have her privacy, but what I really wanted to say was "Yes, yes, I look like Billie Jean!"

The other day I was filling out one of those online question/answer survey. Who would you like to meet....no hesitation here - Billie Jean.

If your ever in Sarasota Florida, Please stop by. I know a few walls, that could use a match or two.

Art with Ann.

Artist & Friend.

My mom lost my dad and her best friend within months of each other. I think she missed Norma more than my dad. Over the next year, when my mom was feeling down, and lonely she would ask me "Where do I find another best friend at my age?" Mom was 83. I told her she probably would never have another best friend like Norma. They come once in a lifetime, but that there where many other people that could be her friend. I volunteered wholeheartedly. I wasn't exactly what she was looking for, but we made it work. Sadly, she died earlier this year, and I lost my best friend.

I've realized that people come and go, and lives are touched and smiles and tears are shared along the way. I just never know when a friend will show up, and take a hold of my heart. I had just become a volunteer for Tidewell Hospice. I do all sort of things, like delivering medicines and dressing up as a clown and visiting nursing homes. A request came in for someone to visit an older lady once a week and paint with her. She was an artist. My hand shot up....pick me, I thought. I'm an artist. She would be my first client. I could do this.

An so one Friday, I met Anne and my heart melted. Many Friday afternoons are spent doing watercolors, as I watch her finish painting after painting. My one watercolor a week, can't keep up with what she produces. We talk endlessly about the beauty and gift of not only being an artist, but the gift of life. There is a moment in creating, that the world stand stills and you enter the "zone". Its a marvelous moment. Each week I watch Anne as she enters that world, and watch her work. Her hand is so steady, as she chooses the next color and brushes in the details. Its thrilling to watch. We critique each others work, and talk about colors and composition. She knows when a painting isn't quite done, as she "putskies" around with it, until we both say "it is finished".

"Anne, I think we should have an art show of your work. Would you like to do that?" Her eyes brightened, and I started planning. We worked for weeks, finishing up paintings, making sure we had enough. The date is set. Its coming up in a couple of weeks. Brushstrokes. Art by Anne Krum, Centenarian.

I just never know when a friend will show up in my life. Anne and I have become friends. We are both artists. She is still full of life, her mind is crystal clear, her hands are steady, and she is 103.

Judy Robertson
Sarasota, Fl
8.21.07

Final Trip Home

Since three yesterday afternoon, my mom had been failing fast. My travels home were filled with delays. I had plane flights canceled and even left a day later. We got turned around in LA on the way home, and it took us 45 minutes longer that usual. My siblings kept telling my mom that I was almost there. They even had a laptop computer to show her my flight pattern. "She's over Texas now, hang in there mom...she's landing...she driving...she's just around the corner."

I walked into my mom's room yesterday to a scene I always knew would happen, but tried to will away. My whole family was surrounding my mom, as she rested in the hospital bed that was delivered that day. Her breathing was slow, her eyes glazed. "Please God, I cried, let me have just a moment with her" I took her hands in mine, and whispered her name. "Mommy", I said. "I'm here...I love you" Her eyes focused for a moment and she puckered to kiss me. "My Judy" she said, and then tried to utter words that I couldn't understand, but knew they meant "I love you" "Mom, I'm so glad you have you teeth in" and she chuckled. and I knew she heard me.

When my dad died 14 months ago, his roommate died without his teeth in. He was alone. My dad had his teeth and looked so much better. The scene haunts me to this day, that man dying alone without his teeth. Its one of the reasons I became a volunteer for hospice. No one should die alone. My mom and I had a running joke about her teeth, I made her promise me that when she died she would have them in. She did, and it was the most beautiful chuckle I ever heard.

I slept in her room last night to the sound of her snoring. My sister came to check on her, and listened to both of us snoring together. Every time I woke up, I listened. The noise that drove me nuts as a kid was heavenly. I knew she was breathing.

At 11:10am today, my mom died at home. Away from the hospitals we all hated. Away from machines and tubes. She got her wish, and we were all there. Her kids, her grandkids, her dog. The absence in my life seems unbearable. She was my biggest fan. She was an artist, a plumber, a builder, and computer geek and her love of tennis never wained. She raised 5 kids who loved her dearly. About 2 weeks before she died, she told me of a dream that she just didn't want to end. She was healthy and played the tennis game of her life.

I'm sure right now, she's trying to get a game together. Oh, how I"ll miss her.

Letter to an Exchange Student

I have a friend, Maggie who is an exchange student in Belgium . I've know her since she was justs a little girl. She grew up with my kids. We are like family. She is also, one incredible young lady who will go on to change the world. Here is a letter I sent to her, on one of her low days.

Hi Maggie,

Well, I just happened to be staying in your room on the "I almost blew up the house, while Travis watched TV" episode.
Yes, it could have been a disaster, but the house was spared, and I don't think Travis lost too many brain cels. We did go to change the batteries in the smoke alarms, and found out that the alarm for carbon minoxide didn't even have a battery in it!!! The house is well aired out, though, and you know how much your mom loves the outdoors!

I woke up and read your email, while laying (lying) I never know which lay to use, in bed----on my Treo phone. It was an effort on that 2 in screen, but I did it.

Don't worry about fooling us with your cultured, artsy side. Those of us who know you realize this is a ploy to get out of the house, and into the throngs of people. They might be strangers, but I'm sure you can feel like you aren't a "trapped teenager" Think of Harry Potter in his closet, and then you won't feel so bad! We all know you are a TV junkie, and love to be on the computer.

About your re-entry into America! Mothers have to say it will all be fine....its written in our genetic code, that is released at the moment the child is birthed and cries for the first time. Everyone thinks the cry is for joy. I for a fact, know that what the child is screaming while taking its first breath is "Will it be ok? I wanna go back to where its safe, and I'm protected" We, as the birthing vessels always shout "It's ok, It will be fine" and under our breath so no one can hear us quietly say "No way in hell, will I let you back in. Your on your own, baby!"

I spent a few years away as a missionary. The thought of home was always a comfort. Somethings were always constant for me. My parents, my siblings. I knew I was part of a family, no matter how weird they are. It was home. But when I came back, everything looked just a bit different. They didn't change, I did. They still loved me, but the skin I wore when I left, was tight and even though it had my name on it, it didn't fit right. I imagine it will be like that for you.

You will be back, and there will be lots of partys and hugs, and everyone will want to hear ALL about your adventure. It will be wonderful, and you will be the queen bee. But the hard part, will be after they stop asking...its like post partum depression, I think. Your left holding the baby. That's when you TAKE A BIG BREATHE, and let it all out. Your friends, and family all love you, and you will just have to find your next adventure. I'm glad you have school in Austin coming up. I love that town. How can anyone study there, and not spend every hour partying, is beyond me. (ask your parents)

So in summary, my friend
1. Your house still stands
2. Its hard to read your long emails on a Treo phone
3. You have not fooled us with your artsy adventures
4. Mothers have to say "it will all be fine"
5. You need a new outfit, in the "I'm more of an adult" size
6. The queen returns
7. Friends will always be there for you
8. Watch out world, here she comes - that's you Maggie, that's you!

love
Judy

ps....Buster still thinks he's starving, and no one will feed him enough!

I'm Going to Paint, Dammit!

I met a lady yesterday, who is a graphic artist, and a painter. She was so inspirational to me. She has a little cottage in her back yard, that she goes and paints. No computer or cell phone allowed.

I was jealous.

I talked with my artist friend (that I traveled to Italy with) who was on her way to New Zealand for 3 weeks, to vacation and gather reference for paintings. She told me about her warehouse space in Santa Fe. A place for her to get messy and do her art. All the other studios around her are filled with artists. A real community.

I was really jealous.

so....

I went out to home depot yesterday, and bought supplies to make these boxes. Kinda like a shadow box, that when you are done, there is no need for a frame (which costs more than the painting these days. Good framing is expensive.)

I talked with two other friends....one a financial analyst, and another a photographer. Speak it out to the universe, they keep saying. Manifest it. Speak it out to God, I keep saying. So I am speaking it out. I want to paint. I want my own space. I want to be surrounded by a community of artists. I want a space with no computers or cell phones. I want to not worry about money. I just want to create. I want to give back.....

so....

here i go. Dammit, I've got to start sometime.

Live a Little

"You need to live a little. You need to roll down the windows and stick your head out! You're going to regret it someday, Mom. You just need to loosen up"

I'm a child of the 60's. I used to wear flowers in my hair, and march for peace. I wore tie dye, and beads, and hip huggers and wide belts. I was part of Earth Day, when the earth didn't get much notice. Live a little? I went to Europe with a backpack. I slept in youth hostels and carried my guitar so I could strum and sing on the streets. I was cool then!

Now, I'm a mom. Granted, I spike my hair, and have a nose ring, but I am still a mom. I take my daughter shopping so she can buy tie dye, beads and hip huggers with wide belts. She plays the guitar. She is cool, and I need to loosen up.

I'm not sure where all the years have gone, and how I lost my coolness. Maybe its when I birthed my children, and became responsible. Maybe its when I took my daughter shopping and she didn't like anything I choose. She was 2. I lost some of it, when my kids wanted to sleep in fancy hotels, and I wanted to go camping. I lost even more of it when I got a mortgage on a house, which meant I had to work and pay the bills. It takes a certain kind of seriousness to handle this life I've created. I think I lost most of it, when my dad died, and my mom got diagnosed with cancer....again. The thought of being an orphan scares me, even if I am an adult.

So I'm trying to become more cool. I've got a myspace account. For a few days I was a 17 year old, single, and not interest in children. I'm not sure how those adjectives got attached to my account, but it was disturbing to my daughter when she read "not interested in children." I changed it to be who I am. 53 years old, married with kids.

I will roll down those windows and stick my head out one of these days. Right now, its about 100 degrees outside. I will wait for a cooler day.

CLOWNING AROUND TOWN

Click on title above to go to my new project. Painting a 6 foot clown for Tidewell Hospice & Palliative Care here in Sarasota. All clowns will be auctioned off to raise money for the children's services. It's a great fun project. Join me as I create my clown.

Link: http://web.mac.com/judyrobertson/iWeb/Clowns/Welcome.html

What I've Learned From Trees.

With coffee in hand, I sat as a bump on a log in the middle of Brown County State Park, near Nashville Indiana and listened to the stirrings of a new day. It is moments like this, that helps me shed all the clutter of daily life, and I can take on the issue of the world around me. Trees. Big trees. How would I paint them? What color what I put on my palette? They're everywhere... it shouldn't be hard. Years ago, I signed up for a plein air art class with my friend Linda. Part of plein air painting is standing out in the forest and try to see the trees. My trees were blobs on the canvas. Linda did a much better job of capturing the essence of them. I gave up on trees, and she went on and became a very successful painter.

I haven't thought about trees much lately, until I had a conversation last week, with an art teacher from high school. It was art teachers that changed my life growing up. I found acceptance in those classes. Annette was the best. Not much older than her students, she opened the world and accepted us for who we were. And, she saw something in me, when all I could see was depression and not fitting in. There was a small band of us, that naturally gravitated towards each other. Our artist souls were beckoning to each other, when words couldn't be found. Our creative projects became home for us, as we fed the essence of our being.

Annette talked about taking an art class and learning how to paint trees. I smiled thinking of my blobs. "The teacher keeps commenting on how I well I can capture the essence of trees"

I found the secret this morning to painting trees. Its not all the greens, and browns to brush on the canvas. Its the light coming thru that give the contrast. I don't think I had enough in my life years ago to see the light coming thru the branches. I only saw the blobs of my life. They all blended together. Linda, could see it. Her life growing up was such a struggle of conflicts and contrasts. Mine was ordinary. It wasn't until later, when life forced me into the hard parts, and the joy of discovery, that the contrast started to become clearer to me. I can see the light now thru the branches. I can see how to paint those trees. Linda found it right away. Annette is discovering it now.

Its time, to pick up that paint brush again, and paint those trees.

Bad Memories

I've never had a bad experience with ice cream. It's the one food group that is on the top of my food pyramid. Ice cream does not feed my body, except to add poundage, but it certainly feeds my soul. There are flavors I prefer, but none that I hate enough to turn down. Homemade vanilla is tops! You can always judge how good all the flavors of a brand are, by tasting the basics - vanilla.

I can't say the same for pizza. I can remember coming down with the flu after eatting pizza. It's a bad memory. I don't need to go into the details, except to say, it's not a warm, fuzzy memory. But I can remember all the times as a child of making homeade ice cream, with lots of eggs, and fresh peaches or strawberries. Being one of five kids, brought out the best and worst of us, when it came to ice cream. Fighting over who got to turn the handle first, and who got tired of doing it brings a smile to my face even today. As it got harder to turn the crank, our anticipation grew, as we wondered who would get that first taste and declare it the best ever! We'd eat the ice cream in bowls and then fight over who got to lick the paddles, and then fought over who got to scrape the inside of the frosty container.

Our backyard was full of fruit trees and a strawberry patch. Nothing better than waking up in the morning, and picking peaches and strawberries to add to my cereal. 2x4 boards when jimmied under the weakest branches of the peach tree that strained to hold up all the ripening fruit. Our afternoons of playing outside always included snacks at the peach tree as we grabbed one, on our dash through the yard. The fuzz was wiped on our clothes, and the juice dripped all over our faces.

I don't think I've ever turned down a bowl of ice cream. It just doesn't seem right to say no. I can say no to most everything else.

My favorite place to eat ice cream is around the kitchen table. Forget the fancy dining room. Ice cream needs a homey setting. Ice cream doesn't need the trappings of a fancy restaurant or dining room. Ice cream speaks for itself.
Each bite reminds me how much I love ice cream, and floods me with the memories and innocence of being a kid again, watching and waiting for that first bite.

categories: Humor_

Norma

Best friends. I'm convinced that throughout our lifetime, we get just a few "best" friends. They are the ones that go way back in our life. They know our history, because they've been so much a part of it. New friends take a bit of breaking in. It takes time to go over everything to get them up to speed. I've had that same feeling when going to see a new therapist. It took 2 sessions just to get the history of my life out in an understandable timeline sort of fashion. And then years to figure out what happened.

Norma is the reason my mom is still alive. During the darkest days of my mom's life, she always had Norma to talk to. Lunch. Every Thursday. They were both accomplished artists. I have such vivid memories of going to art shows, and seeing my mom's art up on one wall, and then seeing Norma's on another.

My mom just lost her best friend Norma. They have been friends forever. I never had a real aunt, but Norma was everything a real aunt could be. She has become part of our verbal history in our family. Whenever there was any sort of event or celebration, Norma just had to be told. Many, many times at the end of my phone conversations with my mom, I would say "Make sure Norma knows". I will miss her.

Norma. My mom's best friend, and my hero!

Hospice Reject!

Hospice Reject!
Originally uploaded by jrdesigns.

Empty the Trash!

There's nothing quite as intriguing as that little trash can icon on my computer desktop. Its sits there quietly, filling up day by day. The last time I checked I had about 800 pieces of trash. I hesitate to empty it. There have been days, I have dug through that trash, looking for a file, or a note I didn't think I needed anymore. I had to confirm an appointment yesterday, and I couldn't find the email reply. I, in my cleaning mood, emptied my trash.

I do the same thing in my office. There sits my rubbermaid trash can. Full. I don't think it holds 800 pieces, but it does hold a lot. And I can recount the many times, I've had to dig in it, looking for some note I wrote myself. I'm a graphic artist. Filing away information in folders does not work for me. Out of site, out of mind. Can't find it. Piles are different that trash. I know what's in my piles most of the time.

I use my trash can also as a tabletop to hold important papers, as I sit at my computer and design intricate brochures for million dollar corporate clients. Haven't lost anything, yet. Another reason, not to empty the trash.

I opened the door to my teenage daughters room. I can't find the trash can. I think her whole room is one. It took my breathe away, and I slowly closed the door and backed away. My son's room is no different. My husbands trash can is the top of his dresser. Its also the place spare change gets tossed. He empties that trash can about twice a year, or when things start falling off the edges. Even my dog, Zoe gets into the trash. She has a different motive though, she is looking for food. She is quite clever in pulling over the metal heavy-duty-dog-proof-trash can. If there is even a little bit of the liner showing, she grips it with her teeth and down it goes. Now, I've never actually seen her do this. I'm just imagining her mischief when I am away. I end up cleaning up after her. I don't mind her mess as much. She's a dog, and lacks opposable thumbs. My family doesn't believe in emptying their trash and they do have opposable thumbs.

Then there's my friend Bernice. I am teaching her how to use a computer. I think she asks me more questions about that icon, than anything else. I have spent some time in her home. And when she needs to find something, she goes to the file, and gets it. Amazing! And it doesn't matter how many times I tell her that she will never fill up that trash can, she insists on opening it, looking inside and throwing things away. She wants to see that empty trash can icon. I sometimes wish I was more like Bernice. But then, when I need to dig through my trash looking for something important, it would be gone.

Six Months Left

What would you do if you only had six months to live? I've asked my kids this in the past. "We'd travel the world and see all sorts of new things." My daughter I'm sure would have on her list "shop til you drop", and my son would make a pilgrimage to Xbox kingdom to play unlimited video games. They are both teenagers, and their lives seem to point inward. I think I would travel to see all my friends and tell them how much they meant to me.

My friend Connie, just got the terrible news from her doctor. Six months. Cancer. Lung. I cried for a week just thinking about it. I can now talk with her without a kleenex, but the tears are just below the surface. I got on my scooter the other day, and went and visited her and her husband. I got the grand tour of their lovely home, and we stopped by each picture, as I heard the history of how so many people all over the country are related to them. Some by blood, but so many others by friendship.

She told me of all the people that are coming to visit. I'm sure everyone of them will ask her how they can help, and they will leaved bless by her. I think Connie will be the one comforting all of us, as we see her health slip away. She is making sure her husband is well taken care of when she's gone. She's cleaning out closets, and replacing windows and doors. Her home will be just the way she likes it when she leaves.

I keep thinking if I knew the end was so near, if it would be a blessing or a curse. I've know people that have literally dropped dead on the spot. And I've know others that linger on. My dear friend Linda, who battled cancer, knew she only had a short time. She, like Connie, got everything taken care of. And that included her friends. She let us know that she was sad of course, but that heaven was just on the other side. I see Connie doing the same thing. I want so much to do something, and yet, everytime I talk with her, I am the one comforted. Comfort is the blessing part of this. Cancer is the curse.

I met her at the gym. The Early Birds are what we call ourselves. I'm the young one of the bunch. Every morning we exercise, and then meet for breakfast. We are a lively, unique bunch of people. And after Connie got the news from her doctor, there she was, not traveling the world to see exciting places, but with her friends, on the stationery bike, next to her husband Ken.

You are an amazing woman!
I will see you someday on the other side.

NOTE: 2 months later....I had breakfast with Connie this morning. The last time she saw her doctor, he was amazed that she was doing so well. She marched in there, and told him, that she didn't want any more predictions, he could keep that info to himself. She was going to wake up and live each day to the fullest.

ANOTHER NOTE: 6 months later....Connie just got kicked out of hospice! She is a walking miracle and still works out at the gym in the morning.

Buying Land in California

"We're going to go buy land" I told my friend on the phone. "We're looking for a place that would be easy to find, near the road. Shade is not important" My brother Chuck, and I were deciding on a place to bury my dad. The serious little lady from the cemetery, carrying her official notebook of available plots, gaves us the ok on potential places. I stood on one, while my brother was standing on the other. We had it narrowed down to two possiblities. "Hows this one" I shouted to him, as he stood on his plot nearby. "Its everything we want. Easy to find, near the road. One could actually just drive by and not get out of the car. We'll take it" The lady wrote the numbers down, and the deal was done.

There are so many details to dying. People say that the deceased are put to rest. I think the term "rest" should apply to those left behind, that have to decide all the details. My dad died of Alzheimer's and other complications. After he died, we rested. My mom, who cared for him for many many years is resting now. She no longer has to barricade herself in her bedroom at night. She no longer has to care for his every need. She misses him, and she's resting.

When I stood at the casket, and looked at my dad, I rested. I rested in the fact that the journey was over, and I was tired. Tired of seeing my dad go away, over and over again, never to come back whole. He was dressed in his pants with many pockets, his suspenders that had many notes from his family tucked beneath the elastic, and his tshirts. He did look asleep, kinda. The lipstick gave it away, that it really was just a body. My dad never wore lipstick. We had placed other sentimental items in the casket. A bottle of Heinz ketchup. A bottle of beer, vodka and orange juice. The most touching sight was all the notes. I wish I could have read them. I wish I could have peeked.

When my dad was lowered into his final "resting" place, someone noticed that the guy right next to him was a friend of his. A drinking friend from one of the local bars. Just like my dad, to be hanging out with his friends.

Breaking Point vs. Target

I always knew there was a point that I would snap. I didn't know where it was or what it would look like. You can only push me so far, I've always thought, and then look out. I've never reached that point in my life, although I've been pushed pretty hard in lots of directions. Until last week.

The day of my dad's funeral was full of sadness and tension in trying to get all the little details taken care of. There are so many decisions to be made when someone dies. They are laid to rest, for sure, while we scramble to get it all done. At least with weddings, you usually get months to plan. Funerals a few days, if your lucky. We actually had 6 days.

Deciding what to dress him in was easy. My mom, in her daze, suggested his suit. "Do you want us to bury you in a dress?" I asked with loving sarcasm. I've only seen my dad in a suit, and my mom in a dress maybe twice in my life. We buried him in his work pants with lots of pockets, a long sleeve t shirt, with another two t shirts over that. The suspenders finished it off. That's how my dad always looked.

I had met with the grieving ladies at the church rectory to pick out prayers for the mass. It was hard. I had to go generic. Faithful servant of the church just didn't fit my dad. He only went to major events, like baptisms, and weddings. He did volunteer at all the church BarBQs, and pancake breakfasts. I never knew you could add beer to any recipe. It sure made the pancakes fluffy.

We gathered photos for a remembrance table. I had a family portrait that I needed framed. The one I bought at Target was broken, so I asked my mom, if she would exchange it for a flawless one. She needed to get out of the house anyway, and welcomed the excuse to go for a drive. Twenty minutes later, I got a call. "They won't exchange the frame. I don't have the receipt" To which I replied "Where are you standing, right now" "Outside the door" she said. Poor mom. She's had such a tough week. "Don't move, I'll call you right back"

Just as I was dialing the store my son walked by. "You better keep going, you don't want to hear this" My blood was almost to the boiling point. "Customer Service please" I said is a very steady voice. "May I help you" the innocent little checker said. "My mom just tried to return a frame, and I don't understand why you didn't exchange it" "Store policy, we need a receipt" "May I please talk to the manager" I said with all the politeness my Catholic upbringing could muster. I was put on hold for a moment, while my mom was calling in on another line. "Hold tight mom, I'll be right back with you" Click, the manager answers the phone, to which I start screaming "My mother just tried to return a F%#$ing frame that was broken, I don't understand why you aren't exchanging it" "Store Policy" she said. "I don't care what the f%#$ing policy is. We are getting ready for a funeral, and I sent my poor mother on a errand to get her out of the house. What the hell is going on! "It's store policy" she started to say again. "Listen, I spend thousands of dollars in Target each year, I live in Florida. There has NEVER been a problem returning something. I'm not asking for money back! I just want you to exchange the F%#$ frame." By this time, any movement in the house stopped. People were not moving around. Silence. "I will never shop in Target again"..... I think I was breathing fire at this moment. "Will you let me finish? Please send your mother back in and we will make an exception." "It's safe to go back in now mom" People started moving around the house again.

I greeted her with a smile when she returned . "I think you need to wash my mouth out with soap", I said. I told her all about my outburst. She took one look at me, and we hi-fived each other.

The lovely Target frame now sits in her home, showcasing a portrait of our family.

Well, Get Going!

Dec. 13, 2005

"It's time", the hospice angle/nurse said. "It's time to call your family and get them here." My head exploded at he rush of adreline. I think I'm having a stroke. I paced and took deep breathes, just trying to get some oxygen to my brain. The drill that my brothers and sisters and I discussed fell to the wayside, as I tried to dial my brother's cel phone. My hands shook, and I couldn't even see the numbers. "I've got to call my brother Chuck", I said over and over as I frantically tried to hit the right numbers. "It's time." The words were hardly understandable with choking voice.

The hospice angle/nurse was the calming voice in all this. My dad just got moved from the hospital to the hospice facility. She took one look at him, and knew the time was near. In fifteen minutes, my mom, siblings and all the grandkids were there. We surrounded his bed, and told him how much we'd miss him, that it was time to go, and that we loved him. The doctor arrived and told us what to expect. "24-48 hours" he said. He would be given medicine to ease the gurgling sounds of his breathing. Morphine for the pain. My poor dad. His battle with alzheimers, was coming to an end.

It was only three weeks before this, that he shuffled over to my sister's house. "Come sit with me, I have to tell you something." He had been telling everyone he saw, that he had to tell them something, but his words were jumbled and no one knew exactly what he wanted to say. Except this day, clarity visited him for a moment. "My brain is dead. My words don't work. my legs don't work. We have room here for everyone." and then he clapped his hands together like a plane taking off.. He spoke of a ring, and them he pointed to his heart..."but its still ticking". He got up and walked off.

When I visited him at Thanksgiving, we took a walk. He kept stopping and telling me he had something to tell me. The words were not there, as with my sister. But I understood. I told him I would keep the secret, whatever it was.

The week after Thanksgiving, the violent man that possess my dad's body lost control. The next day he was in a home for alzheimer's patients. He was dangerous to himself and my mom. He threatened her with a plastic knife, a banana, and then tried to choke her. For 11 days he was in a home. He refused food, and drink and all meds. No one could get near him. No one could touch him. He was checking out. And we let him.

My dad had a 3 day stay at the hospital before he was transported to a hospice care facility. That's when I arrived from out of state. He never regained consciousness. He never spoke again with words. "Its ok to go, Dad." I whispered over and over again. "We'll be ok. We'll miss you, but we'll be ok." I stroked his hair, like I did when I was a child. Even in the midst of dying, treasured memories brought my soul relief.

I had my hand on my dad's wrist and felt his pulse, as the life slowly ebbed from his body. I felt each beat of his heart. Not a struggling heart, but one that just slowed down. We had expected him to last the night. My mom went home to rest for awhile. His doctor even made the comment to my brother David "So, your spending the night" His nurse came by, loving on my dad, and telling him how special he was and that she would miss the dance he always did when he greeted her in the office. My dad loved to flirt and she knew it. It was a touching sight.

Then my niece said "there is no color in his lips" My dad was leaving. Quick, go get mom, as someone dashed home. By now the pulse in his arm could not be felt. I had one hand on his chest, and my fingertips on his neck. The hand on his chest was loving him, but my fingertips would know when he was gone. Please, my soul was screaming, please, don't die before my mom gets here. Please, don't let her feel guilty about this. Please, hold on. And then his heart slowed.. and slowed. The door opened and my mom walked in – my dad had one beat left of his tired heart, and he was gone.

Everyone was there. His wife of 57 years. All five of his kids. Many of his grandchildren, and a few close friends. We all made our peace with the man that gave us life, as we watched his life end.

For the past 10 years, whenever I would visit, I would say goodbye, and hope it wasn't the last time I would see him. This past Thanksgiving I wondered the same thing. The last words I ever heard my dad say to me was "Well, get going". I think what he was trying to tell everyone at Thanksgiving, was that he was going. He said it with words, jumbled and clear. He said it with his actions when her refused to eat and take his medicine. He said it over and over.

I'm going now, dad. I'm going.