Dec. 13, 2005
My dad, Wade died. He was surrounded by his family. We loved him, and bid him farewell. He will be missed. His stories will live on.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Friday, December 02, 2005
My Name is Wade
"My name is Wade. That's me. I'm getting old and I'm dead. My mind is gone and I can't talk. My legs don't work." He points to his heart and says "It's still ticking"
He told this to my sister this last week. He had something very important to tell her, he said, and he wanted her to sit closer to him. Then he shuffles slowly next door to his own house. He never goes to my sister's house even though its nearby.
Last week, he was on a mission. I think he might have known somehow what the next week might bring. It's the only time I've ever heard him talk about his Alzheimer's. When I was visiting there for Thanksgiving, we took a walk down the street that he has lived on for 45 years. As we started, he took a not-so-quick detour to the side of the house, where he took a leak. "Don't tell that woman there, what I'm doing" My mom stood on the porch, wondering what was going on, and me waving to her to stay put. I didn't want anything to upset my dad. He was going to tell me something important. It seems he was telling lots of people important things. The words were not clear, like what he told my sister. The look in his eye, I'm sure was the same. I listened, and loved him, and told him that his secret was safe with me. I had him look at my face, and pantomined zipping my lips shut. He understood, I think.
Alzheimer's. He's in the final stage. For the past week, he has been roaming at night, and been abusive to my mom. In the morning she found the kitchen in a mess. The cupboards had been rearranged, and all the silverware scattered on the table. One night my dad woke her up threatening her with a plastic knife. She had to barricade herself in her room for several nights. Other times, papers were scattered. One by one, things have disappeared, only to be found by chance later in a drawer. Knobs have been removed off the stove, sharp objects hiddened. He has successfully put on his shirts as pants. I don't know how long it takes him to do this, in the middle of the night, but he does. The first time it happened, my mom looked up and tried to remember if he owned a pair of red pants, and soon discovered it was a shirt. He's tried to turn on the water with spoons in his hands. He screams that no one ever feeds him, when he's just ate. The wastebasket has become his favorite place to pee. And he swears someone is splashing water all over his pants everytime he goes to the bathroom.
And then he totally lost it. He started throwing objects off the piano. Little bronze sculptures, that were gifts he bought for my mom, and photos of his family went flying. My mom called my brother to come help. Its the first time he's had to be restrained, and my brother held him tight, and tried to get him to calm down. I think it was just too much for my dad. He fell, and couldn't get up. His legs that have carried him for so many years, just couldn't hold him up any more. He words are totally gone.
"My name is Wade. That's me. I'm getting old and I'm dead. My mind is gone and I can't talk. My legs don't work." He points to his heart and says "It's still ticking"
The following day, my family placed him in a nursing home.
PS. The shock for us was far greater than what my dad could comprehend. He is settling in his new home, and is up a bit and shuffling around. Even some of his words have returned. My mom is still crying. We are sad, yes, but my dear mom will finally get some rest, and visit often. It will take some time for her to adjust too. All the fights they've had will fade, and the strain of her caring for him has lifted.
He told this to my sister this last week. He had something very important to tell her, he said, and he wanted her to sit closer to him. Then he shuffles slowly next door to his own house. He never goes to my sister's house even though its nearby.
Last week, he was on a mission. I think he might have known somehow what the next week might bring. It's the only time I've ever heard him talk about his Alzheimer's. When I was visiting there for Thanksgiving, we took a walk down the street that he has lived on for 45 years. As we started, he took a not-so-quick detour to the side of the house, where he took a leak. "Don't tell that woman there, what I'm doing" My mom stood on the porch, wondering what was going on, and me waving to her to stay put. I didn't want anything to upset my dad. He was going to tell me something important. It seems he was telling lots of people important things. The words were not clear, like what he told my sister. The look in his eye, I'm sure was the same. I listened, and loved him, and told him that his secret was safe with me. I had him look at my face, and pantomined zipping my lips shut. He understood, I think.
Alzheimer's. He's in the final stage. For the past week, he has been roaming at night, and been abusive to my mom. In the morning she found the kitchen in a mess. The cupboards had been rearranged, and all the silverware scattered on the table. One night my dad woke her up threatening her with a plastic knife. She had to barricade herself in her room for several nights. Other times, papers were scattered. One by one, things have disappeared, only to be found by chance later in a drawer. Knobs have been removed off the stove, sharp objects hiddened. He has successfully put on his shirts as pants. I don't know how long it takes him to do this, in the middle of the night, but he does. The first time it happened, my mom looked up and tried to remember if he owned a pair of red pants, and soon discovered it was a shirt. He's tried to turn on the water with spoons in his hands. He screams that no one ever feeds him, when he's just ate. The wastebasket has become his favorite place to pee. And he swears someone is splashing water all over his pants everytime he goes to the bathroom.
And then he totally lost it. He started throwing objects off the piano. Little bronze sculptures, that were gifts he bought for my mom, and photos of his family went flying. My mom called my brother to come help. Its the first time he's had to be restrained, and my brother held him tight, and tried to get him to calm down. I think it was just too much for my dad. He fell, and couldn't get up. His legs that have carried him for so many years, just couldn't hold him up any more. He words are totally gone.
"My name is Wade. That's me. I'm getting old and I'm dead. My mind is gone and I can't talk. My legs don't work." He points to his heart and says "It's still ticking"
The following day, my family placed him in a nursing home.
PS. The shock for us was far greater than what my dad could comprehend. He is settling in his new home, and is up a bit and shuffling around. Even some of his words have returned. My mom is still crying. We are sad, yes, but my dear mom will finally get some rest, and visit often. It will take some time for her to adjust too. All the fights they've had will fade, and the strain of her caring for him has lifted.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Thanksgiving Day Chatter
It wasn't until my dad got Alzheimers that I started talking to him. I was too busy growing up with interests and friends of my own. He was also the kind of dad that was either at work or at the bar at night. I know very little about him. I know he was born in Minnestoa, and has some half siblings, but other than that, he just never told me much, nor did I ask.
Now,we sit and talk for hours. We talk about Alaska, where I was born, and we talk about when we lived at the beach, and how he wished he bought a house down there. He had the money, I am now told, lots of it. He can't figure out why he didn't. We talk about all the new construction around town, as we go on our daily drive. Same route, same places, same buildings. The streets are busier this week. Cars are full of people trying to get ready for the holidays. My dad keeps commenting about how many horses are on the roads now. Lots of them. Yesterday, the sun was in our eyes, so I had to do some creative right turns to see the most of our regular route. We talk lots about the Navy, and his time serving his country. In fact, he shows me his uniform, and pictures all the time, just in case I forget.
The best place for our talks is around the kitchen table. He always sits in his regular seat and I've changed locations of my seat. I'm actually sitting in my older brother's spot. The sun would be in his eyes, if I sat in my chair on the other side of the table. He was telling me yesterday, about people that are trying to rob him of his money. Its very important for me to watch, he says, and to tell him immediately if I see anyone back there. We talked for over an hour about our strategy for keeping his money safe, and keeping the bad guys away. He sees everything, he tells me.
I also try to eat with him. I need to slow down though. I'm putting on weight eating hamburgers and milk shakes. I can't recall all the benefits of a Wendy's hamburger, plain, ketchup only, but I sure come up with positive things to say, when I eat with my dad. "Isn't this great Dad" and "Its my favorite" Sometimes he agrees, and takes a few bites. Sometimes he doesn't like it and spits it on the table. It reminds me of feeding my son when he was a baby. He spit out everything that didn't agree with him. I'm glad my dad still likes peas.
I wish I really could understand what he is saying. His words are all jumbled and mixed up. Some of the words aren't even real words you would find in the dictionary. I can find them in my heart, and I do get that translation. Sit with me. Talk with me. Let me see your smile. Let me know I am safe and you will take care of me. I think that might be what the robbers are all about. If they indeed took all his money, who would take care of him?
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. We will all gather at my brothers. There will be about 35 of us. I wlll look around and see all the faces, young and old, and know it all started with my mom and dad. He doesn't know our names, he can't remember that we are his. He will cry I'm sure. His heart will tell him that somehow he is connected to all of us, even if his brain won't let him anymore.
Now,we sit and talk for hours. We talk about Alaska, where I was born, and we talk about when we lived at the beach, and how he wished he bought a house down there. He had the money, I am now told, lots of it. He can't figure out why he didn't. We talk about all the new construction around town, as we go on our daily drive. Same route, same places, same buildings. The streets are busier this week. Cars are full of people trying to get ready for the holidays. My dad keeps commenting about how many horses are on the roads now. Lots of them. Yesterday, the sun was in our eyes, so I had to do some creative right turns to see the most of our regular route. We talk lots about the Navy, and his time serving his country. In fact, he shows me his uniform, and pictures all the time, just in case I forget.
The best place for our talks is around the kitchen table. He always sits in his regular seat and I've changed locations of my seat. I'm actually sitting in my older brother's spot. The sun would be in his eyes, if I sat in my chair on the other side of the table. He was telling me yesterday, about people that are trying to rob him of his money. Its very important for me to watch, he says, and to tell him immediately if I see anyone back there. We talked for over an hour about our strategy for keeping his money safe, and keeping the bad guys away. He sees everything, he tells me.
I also try to eat with him. I need to slow down though. I'm putting on weight eating hamburgers and milk shakes. I can't recall all the benefits of a Wendy's hamburger, plain, ketchup only, but I sure come up with positive things to say, when I eat with my dad. "Isn't this great Dad" and "Its my favorite" Sometimes he agrees, and takes a few bites. Sometimes he doesn't like it and spits it on the table. It reminds me of feeding my son when he was a baby. He spit out everything that didn't agree with him. I'm glad my dad still likes peas.
I wish I really could understand what he is saying. His words are all jumbled and mixed up. Some of the words aren't even real words you would find in the dictionary. I can find them in my heart, and I do get that translation. Sit with me. Talk with me. Let me see your smile. Let me know I am safe and you will take care of me. I think that might be what the robbers are all about. If they indeed took all his money, who would take care of him?
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. We will all gather at my brothers. There will be about 35 of us. I wlll look around and see all the faces, young and old, and know it all started with my mom and dad. He doesn't know our names, he can't remember that we are his. He will cry I'm sure. His heart will tell him that somehow he is connected to all of us, even if his brain won't let him anymore.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
The Secret Hiding Place
Even though I was the second one born into a family of 5 kids, it always felt crowded. Home base was a small new development in Southern Calif, surrounded by fruit orchards and tomato fields. My dad was a mechanic, and my mom an artist. There were 5 of us, in a 3 bedroom duplex, one full bath, and one/half bath. There was no separate dining room, or living room. The small kitchen was also the place where we ate around a formica table. The hallway that I used to run down and skid with my socks on, was an endless place of delight. I learned to climb the walls by putting one foot on one wall, the other foot on the wall directly across and climb. I could do this in doorways too. It was also the place of terror at night, when I had to walk down the corridor to my room. Ghosts and monsters would surely jump out at any minute to drag me to my death. I saw enough TV to know these things were true. I didn't sleep well in my bed. I knew that if I stretched out my legs to the end, wild German Shepherd dogs would eat my toes. I could never sleep with my back to the door. I still can't. I need to be able to see what is coming at me. Real or imaginative.
When my littlest sister was born, I was 13. There were 2 boys and 2 girls. My parents announced at dinner one night, that there would be one more soon. We immediately had a family meeting to discuss and vote on the name. We got our heads together and decided Zorro would be a fitting name to our new sibling. We also knew that the next addition would either go in the boys room or the girls room. We were already crowded, and there seemed to be little room for another. The baby, whatever it was, would spend the first month, not in a bassinet in my parents room, but in a pulled out drawer, lined with towels. I thought it was quite clever. Even though we never closed the drawer, I'm sure there were moments in the middle of the night, that we wanted too. A girl was born, and in our room she went.
There was so much daily activity and not a moments peace. There was also not a place to call my own. Even the bathroom was shared, or at least someone standing at the door needing to use it. Mornings were always a race to see who could get there first. I was laying in bed one night, back to the wall, legs pulled up, and decided I needed a place to call my own. I noticed a baseboard beside my bed, and thought "A secret hideaway". I took a small knife, and started sawing. Each night, when everyone was asleep, I sawed away with my dull dinner knife. Eventually, I broke through. Mission accomplished. I then constructed a small box to insert in the opening. My very own space. I put all my treasures in there. The ones that I didn't want anyone to know about.
20 years later, my folks were remodeling the room that had been vacated by all three girls. The bunk bed came down, and it was then that they discovered my secret hiding place. I got a call one night from my sisters and parents. They were all laughing at the discovery. "Was it mine?" they asked. I had forgotten about it for many many years. A moment of panic hit, as I tried to remember what I might have put in there. Some secret note...Maybe a stolen cigarette or two. No, just a empty box full of childhood memories.
In the midst of the overcrowded family, I carved out a place all my own. It was small, and hidden, but it was mine. Now as an adult, I have a nice home and in it aroom to call my own. I don't share it with the kids or even my husband. I want it to my mine alone. There is also, I think, places in each of our hearts that are not only hidden, but private. Its the part of us, that takes care of ourselves. Its the place that says that no matter what happens, I can find the place to find strength, and hope filled with whatever I need at the time. I'm glad that when my family found my hidden box it was empty. I know what was in it, all along. Me.
When my littlest sister was born, I was 13. There were 2 boys and 2 girls. My parents announced at dinner one night, that there would be one more soon. We immediately had a family meeting to discuss and vote on the name. We got our heads together and decided Zorro would be a fitting name to our new sibling. We also knew that the next addition would either go in the boys room or the girls room. We were already crowded, and there seemed to be little room for another. The baby, whatever it was, would spend the first month, not in a bassinet in my parents room, but in a pulled out drawer, lined with towels. I thought it was quite clever. Even though we never closed the drawer, I'm sure there were moments in the middle of the night, that we wanted too. A girl was born, and in our room she went.
There was so much daily activity and not a moments peace. There was also not a place to call my own. Even the bathroom was shared, or at least someone standing at the door needing to use it. Mornings were always a race to see who could get there first. I was laying in bed one night, back to the wall, legs pulled up, and decided I needed a place to call my own. I noticed a baseboard beside my bed, and thought "A secret hideaway". I took a small knife, and started sawing. Each night, when everyone was asleep, I sawed away with my dull dinner knife. Eventually, I broke through. Mission accomplished. I then constructed a small box to insert in the opening. My very own space. I put all my treasures in there. The ones that I didn't want anyone to know about.
20 years later, my folks were remodeling the room that had been vacated by all three girls. The bunk bed came down, and it was then that they discovered my secret hiding place. I got a call one night from my sisters and parents. They were all laughing at the discovery. "Was it mine?" they asked. I had forgotten about it for many many years. A moment of panic hit, as I tried to remember what I might have put in there. Some secret note...Maybe a stolen cigarette or two. No, just a empty box full of childhood memories.
In the midst of the overcrowded family, I carved out a place all my own. It was small, and hidden, but it was mine. Now as an adult, I have a nice home and in it aroom to call my own. I don't share it with the kids or even my husband. I want it to my mine alone. There is also, I think, places in each of our hearts that are not only hidden, but private. Its the part of us, that takes care of ourselves. Its the place that says that no matter what happens, I can find the place to find strength, and hope filled with whatever I need at the time. I'm glad that when my family found my hidden box it was empty. I know what was in it, all along. Me.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Play Your Game!
Bleachers are usually not where you'll find me. Most of the time, I'm the one on the courts, running around, hitting the ball. These last two weeks, it just worked out where I was the spectator, cheering my team on to victory. It's given me a new perspective on the game of tennis. My 18 year old spirit body wants to dash quickly on the court, when in reality, my 52 year old body moves pretty slow. It doesn't feel like it when I play, but after watching my teammates, I know I'm the same speed. Its ok if I play others in my own age group. It becomes a problem when I play and an 18 year old with matching spirit and body. They not only look better, with they smooth skin, and flat tummies, but their knees don't creek when they walk.
I play with lots of enthusiasm, but also with lots of years behind me. Wisdom carries such things as, "Who's picking up the kids?" and "What am I going to cook for dinner?" Score is 40-15. "I wonder how my dad is doing in Calif?" Game, set. That's alot to handle while playing a match. That's why I have my partner keep score, and just point me in the right direction.
I found myself clapping today as each side made fabulous shots. The babes were playing the Grandmas, and the Grandmas almost won, until the babes started to play their game. They were aggressive, and charged, and looked really good in their outfits. I want to always play my game. In tennis, and in life. It's being honest and having integrity. It's giving it my all, and doing my best. In making dinner, it's trying to get all the food groups in one sitting. Planning, having a strategy, and a back up plan. So I forgot an important ingredient for the main dish. So, I gave away a point in a tie-breaker! It all works out in the end.
So, Go Team. Play your game!!!
I play with lots of enthusiasm, but also with lots of years behind me. Wisdom carries such things as, "Who's picking up the kids?" and "What am I going to cook for dinner?" Score is 40-15. "I wonder how my dad is doing in Calif?" Game, set. That's alot to handle while playing a match. That's why I have my partner keep score, and just point me in the right direction.
I found myself clapping today as each side made fabulous shots. The babes were playing the Grandmas, and the Grandmas almost won, until the babes started to play their game. They were aggressive, and charged, and looked really good in their outfits. I want to always play my game. In tennis, and in life. It's being honest and having integrity. It's giving it my all, and doing my best. In making dinner, it's trying to get all the food groups in one sitting. Planning, having a strategy, and a back up plan. So I forgot an important ingredient for the main dish. So, I gave away a point in a tie-breaker! It all works out in the end.
So, Go Team. Play your game!!!
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Hugging the Enemy
We just survived hurricane Wilma's fury. Over and over again, nature has battered our poor state of Florida. We mop up, pick up debris and face the next day. Sunshine and clear skies always follow Mother Nature. Today, was no different. Our tennis match went on as if nothing happened. It was a bit more breezy as the outer bands moved through. The billowing white clouds was our backdrop for our rival tennis match across town.
Linda and I were talking strategy as we walked to the battlefield - court No. 4. We are competitive players...nice to be around, but we both have killer instincts. It must be because we come from large families, and we had to make our mark early in life, before the siblings swallowed up all the attention. Linda found her limelight with words used with great pageantry. I used yoyos, tennis and any kind of competition. We smile and joke, but we both hate to lose.
We decided to start the game aggressively to throw them off. I met the enemy and watched as Linda hugged one of the players. How can this be? I am thinking about destroying them with a slice serve, and she is hugging. I never asked her if it was some new strategy we hadn't discussed. It certainly was a new approach. Hug them then hit the ball at them. I've never seen Agassi hug, or even Nadal, until after the last point. There are a few I'd like to hug. I could hug Nadal before and after the set. The same with Roger Federer. I'm sure all the guys would want to hug Maria Sharapova.
We didn't win today. We were both a bit off. Hugging. I need to practice that more. Until then - no more hugging the enemy unless we both agree beforehand.
Linda and I were talking strategy as we walked to the battlefield - court No. 4. We are competitive players...nice to be around, but we both have killer instincts. It must be because we come from large families, and we had to make our mark early in life, before the siblings swallowed up all the attention. Linda found her limelight with words used with great pageantry. I used yoyos, tennis and any kind of competition. We smile and joke, but we both hate to lose.
We decided to start the game aggressively to throw them off. I met the enemy and watched as Linda hugged one of the players. How can this be? I am thinking about destroying them with a slice serve, and she is hugging. I never asked her if it was some new strategy we hadn't discussed. It certainly was a new approach. Hug them then hit the ball at them. I've never seen Agassi hug, or even Nadal, until after the last point. There are a few I'd like to hug. I could hug Nadal before and after the set. The same with Roger Federer. I'm sure all the guys would want to hug Maria Sharapova.
We didn't win today. We were both a bit off. Hugging. I need to practice that more. Until then - no more hugging the enemy unless we both agree beforehand.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Leaf Peepers and Snowbirds
You can feel it in the air and see it starting to change. Fall. When the weather finally cools off, and the sweaters come out. I can always tell when my favorite time of year is slowly arriving.
I notice it first in the number of out-of-state license plates. Then the traffic on the main roads start to fill up, and more time is needed to get across town. I notice it in the lines at restaurants. Up north, they are called "leaf peepers". Down here in Florida, we call them "snowbirds". The annual migration of the "northerners" to our warm climate.
My kids and I play our annual game of "how many states will we see". We see lots of New York plates and you can always hear them in restaurants. There is no denying that accent. Most of them are vertically challenged. Maybe that is why they speak with such big voices...so they aren't overlooked. Michigan is well represented, and so are most of the northeastern states. We see a few Californians every year, but not many. They have their own coast. I grew up there. Florida has better weather overall. We don't have fog in the weather sense of the word. We have "foggy" snowbirds though. They make u turns, or stop in the middle of the road, no matter if its safe or not. They will slow down to look at road signs. I've seen them drive on sidewalks, and do some of the craziest things. They like to drive really fast on the freeway. Pileups on freeways caused by fog is a very serious situation in California. Pileup from snowbirds in Florida are also tragic. Sometimes, I have forewarning when a potential accident is about to happen. Snowbirds, bless their short little hearts, can hardly see over the steering wheel. When driving behind them, the car looks like its driving itself. My mother is short, and she uses a pillow to sit on. Kinda like a senior booster seat. She lives in California and when its foggy, she stays home.
The best license plates to see are from far away. Canada and Mexico are fun to spot. The grand prize goes to Hawaii, with a close second Alaska. I can understand why someone would want to come here for the winter if they lived in Alaska. But Hawaii? Paradise? It must be because all the snowbirds that don't come to Florida, go to Hawaii. Or maybe they can blend in better there.
The peepers see leaves of change - orange, red, and brown. It is breathtaking. We see changes of grey, with very large cars. That also takes our breath away. Change is always a good thing, I think. Keeps all of us on our toes.
I notice it first in the number of out-of-state license plates. Then the traffic on the main roads start to fill up, and more time is needed to get across town. I notice it in the lines at restaurants. Up north, they are called "leaf peepers". Down here in Florida, we call them "snowbirds". The annual migration of the "northerners" to our warm climate.
My kids and I play our annual game of "how many states will we see". We see lots of New York plates and you can always hear them in restaurants. There is no denying that accent. Most of them are vertically challenged. Maybe that is why they speak with such big voices...so they aren't overlooked. Michigan is well represented, and so are most of the northeastern states. We see a few Californians every year, but not many. They have their own coast. I grew up there. Florida has better weather overall. We don't have fog in the weather sense of the word. We have "foggy" snowbirds though. They make u turns, or stop in the middle of the road, no matter if its safe or not. They will slow down to look at road signs. I've seen them drive on sidewalks, and do some of the craziest things. They like to drive really fast on the freeway. Pileups on freeways caused by fog is a very serious situation in California. Pileup from snowbirds in Florida are also tragic. Sometimes, I have forewarning when a potential accident is about to happen. Snowbirds, bless their short little hearts, can hardly see over the steering wheel. When driving behind them, the car looks like its driving itself. My mother is short, and she uses a pillow to sit on. Kinda like a senior booster seat. She lives in California and when its foggy, she stays home.
The best license plates to see are from far away. Canada and Mexico are fun to spot. The grand prize goes to Hawaii, with a close second Alaska. I can understand why someone would want to come here for the winter if they lived in Alaska. But Hawaii? Paradise? It must be because all the snowbirds that don't come to Florida, go to Hawaii. Or maybe they can blend in better there.
The peepers see leaves of change - orange, red, and brown. It is breathtaking. We see changes of grey, with very large cars. That also takes our breath away. Change is always a good thing, I think. Keeps all of us on our toes.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Trick or Treat
Every Halloween, I think of Linda. It's been almost 20 years since I said goodby to her. I remember thinking then "Please don't die on Halloween!" What I really was saying was "Please don't die!" She died the day before the goblins and the ghosts knocked on the door. She laid in the bedroom, slowly leaving earth while making her way to heaven.
I hope that everyone could meet someone like Linda. Her eyes sparkled, and her laugh was healing. She and her family took me in for a little over a year, while I tried to figure out my life. Many, many nights we would sit on the kitchen counter and talk. While the family slept, our late night pajama parties gave me a place to learn how to be. Batting my eyelids, was her favorite lesson. She had picked out a handsome guy for me, and was convinced if I flirted with him I would soon be his wife. I was able to keep up with him on the tennis court, but batting my eyes did not come naturally. It looked more like "a bug in my eye" than love's invitation. He found someone else. I still have not learned that lesson. My teenage daughter has learned it well. She is beautiful, and voluptuous, and can bat an eye. Even my son can do it....how I found a husband without batting is amazing. I caught his eye by being assertive and asking why women were not invited on a backpacking trip. That, and the navy blue shorts I was wearing worked wonders for me.
I never, ever heard Linda complain. Ever. She accepted what life brought her, with a faith that God would always be there. When she found out that the cancer in her brain was not going to go away, she started making plans. She planned her funeral, her gravestone, the pallbearers, the songs. She went thru her private correspondence and tossed everything that might hurt someone, someday. She was leaving earth with no regrets. She told me once, that she asked God to let her live long enough to see her kids grown. I think she knew that her life here was not going to be a long one. Her kids are grown now with kids of their own. I see Linda in their faces. I see Linda in her daughter. I see Linda in her son. I see Linda in my life, in the way I treat others. I feel guilty when I complain.
I will never forget sitting at her feet, by her favorite chair with a blanket over her lap. I knew by looking at her, it wouldn't be long. She was tired. Her words had become jumbled and didn't make sense. In perfect English she said "I want to share with you something I've never told anyone." I looked in her eyes, trying not to cry, and for ten minutes listened to her pour out her heart. She was relieved when she finished. I did not look away for an instant. I was given such a huge, priceless gift. "Thank you for sharing that with me Linda". I did not understand one jumbled word.
I miss you Linda. I still do.
I hope that everyone could meet someone like Linda. Her eyes sparkled, and her laugh was healing. She and her family took me in for a little over a year, while I tried to figure out my life. Many, many nights we would sit on the kitchen counter and talk. While the family slept, our late night pajama parties gave me a place to learn how to be. Batting my eyelids, was her favorite lesson. She had picked out a handsome guy for me, and was convinced if I flirted with him I would soon be his wife. I was able to keep up with him on the tennis court, but batting my eyes did not come naturally. It looked more like "a bug in my eye" than love's invitation. He found someone else. I still have not learned that lesson. My teenage daughter has learned it well. She is beautiful, and voluptuous, and can bat an eye. Even my son can do it....how I found a husband without batting is amazing. I caught his eye by being assertive and asking why women were not invited on a backpacking trip. That, and the navy blue shorts I was wearing worked wonders for me.
I never, ever heard Linda complain. Ever. She accepted what life brought her, with a faith that God would always be there. When she found out that the cancer in her brain was not going to go away, she started making plans. She planned her funeral, her gravestone, the pallbearers, the songs. She went thru her private correspondence and tossed everything that might hurt someone, someday. She was leaving earth with no regrets. She told me once, that she asked God to let her live long enough to see her kids grown. I think she knew that her life here was not going to be a long one. Her kids are grown now with kids of their own. I see Linda in their faces. I see Linda in her daughter. I see Linda in her son. I see Linda in my life, in the way I treat others. I feel guilty when I complain.
I will never forget sitting at her feet, by her favorite chair with a blanket over her lap. I knew by looking at her, it wouldn't be long. She was tired. Her words had become jumbled and didn't make sense. In perfect English she said "I want to share with you something I've never told anyone." I looked in her eyes, trying not to cry, and for ten minutes listened to her pour out her heart. She was relieved when she finished. I did not look away for an instant. I was given such a huge, priceless gift. "Thank you for sharing that with me Linda". I did not understand one jumbled word.
I miss you Linda. I still do.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Pass the Ketchup, Please.
When my kids were infants I used to wonder what in the world they were thinking about. As their language started to form, and words were uttered I was delighted in their new found connection with the world. Tantrums and crying were just another way of expressing their frustrations and needs. The terrible two's made way for the three's and four's. Now I am in the teen's with my kids. It's basically the same tantrums and frustrations, it's just that we now look eyeball to eyeball, not in opinion always, but in physical standoffs. These last years, I have figured out the terrible two's. My dad is 88 now, and acting like a two year old. He has Alzheimer's. I am watching the clock go back, as he is loosing it all, sometime in little bits and sometimes in big chunks.
I remember hearing my kids make silly and absurd comments and laughing at them. "how cute and clever" I said often. When my frail dad looks at me and says "who in the hell are you" its not so cute or funny. The flashcards I used to show the kids to help them learn what things are called, are useful now. At breakfast the other day, he couldn't figure out what was missing on his plate. It was flat, and brown. We used the menu like a flashcard, and discovered the word he always knew, was lost. Bacon. The hardest "lost word" was ketchup. Ketchup and my dad, have always gone hand in hand. Its really how my mom and dad met, many years ago. Over a bottle of ketchup. In a mess hall of 1500 men eating a holiday dinner of ham and the trimmings, only one guy asked for ketchup. The staff, led by my mom, paraded down the aisle with a huge commercial tin of ketchup, held high on a tray. She put it down in front of my dad. Five kids later... every night, at 5:15pm exactly, my dad was home from work. At 5:30pm he was surrounded by two boys and three girls, waiting to eat dinner. We all had our favorite seats. My place was next to him. In fun, we would always dip our meat in his ketchup. He would go on and on, about who stole his favorite food, to the giggles of his mischievous kids. He just looks at the bottle now. That brings tears to my eyes.
I used to help my kids get dressed in their silly, not matching outfits. It was what they wanted, and I wasn't going to go to fashion war over it. My dad forgets what a shirt is, and how to put it on. Sometimes its backwards. It doesn't really matter. It certainly isn't cause for a fight. I've had to let go of the dad I once knew, and am getting to know the dad he is becoming. Its hard though, as he changes minute by minute.
My childhood home was a neighborhood urban legend growing up. It was where friends would stop by, just to see what my family was "in to". We had welding tanks, and pottery kilns. We had workbenches with balsa wood airplanes, and train boards. We had racing pigeons, and a mean duck that never quacked. My mom got Chester to eat the slugs, when all Chester wanted was our barefoot toes. Now, friends want to see the booby trap my dad set up to keep robbers away from his tools. Its a brick that sits up high, and when the drawer is open it falls and crushes anything in its way. He is quite sure that his grandson is the robber.
We ate lunch recently at Frosty Freeze, a special old hangout of my family. My dad was convinced that the gathering lunch crowd of day laborers thought we were movie stars. It was a moment of pretend that made him feel important. In my rush to grow and mature, I've forgotten how to pretend. He just reminded me again of the magic of being anyone you want to be.
My dad is in the terrible two's now. He has tantrums and throws food. He refuses to eat, doesn't want to use the toilet, or take care of himself. For any parent, we remember that stage. I just never expected to see it again. His life is rewinding, back and back, as I watch it all in reverse.
Now...would you please pass the ketchup?......I need it for my ham!
I remember hearing my kids make silly and absurd comments and laughing at them. "how cute and clever" I said often. When my frail dad looks at me and says "who in the hell are you" its not so cute or funny. The flashcards I used to show the kids to help them learn what things are called, are useful now. At breakfast the other day, he couldn't figure out what was missing on his plate. It was flat, and brown. We used the menu like a flashcard, and discovered the word he always knew, was lost. Bacon. The hardest "lost word" was ketchup. Ketchup and my dad, have always gone hand in hand. Its really how my mom and dad met, many years ago. Over a bottle of ketchup. In a mess hall of 1500 men eating a holiday dinner of ham and the trimmings, only one guy asked for ketchup. The staff, led by my mom, paraded down the aisle with a huge commercial tin of ketchup, held high on a tray. She put it down in front of my dad. Five kids later... every night, at 5:15pm exactly, my dad was home from work. At 5:30pm he was surrounded by two boys and three girls, waiting to eat dinner. We all had our favorite seats. My place was next to him. In fun, we would always dip our meat in his ketchup. He would go on and on, about who stole his favorite food, to the giggles of his mischievous kids. He just looks at the bottle now. That brings tears to my eyes.
I used to help my kids get dressed in their silly, not matching outfits. It was what they wanted, and I wasn't going to go to fashion war over it. My dad forgets what a shirt is, and how to put it on. Sometimes its backwards. It doesn't really matter. It certainly isn't cause for a fight. I've had to let go of the dad I once knew, and am getting to know the dad he is becoming. Its hard though, as he changes minute by minute.
My childhood home was a neighborhood urban legend growing up. It was where friends would stop by, just to see what my family was "in to". We had welding tanks, and pottery kilns. We had workbenches with balsa wood airplanes, and train boards. We had racing pigeons, and a mean duck that never quacked. My mom got Chester to eat the slugs, when all Chester wanted was our barefoot toes. Now, friends want to see the booby trap my dad set up to keep robbers away from his tools. Its a brick that sits up high, and when the drawer is open it falls and crushes anything in its way. He is quite sure that his grandson is the robber.
We ate lunch recently at Frosty Freeze, a special old hangout of my family. My dad was convinced that the gathering lunch crowd of day laborers thought we were movie stars. It was a moment of pretend that made him feel important. In my rush to grow and mature, I've forgotten how to pretend. He just reminded me again of the magic of being anyone you want to be.
My dad is in the terrible two's now. He has tantrums and throws food. He refuses to eat, doesn't want to use the toilet, or take care of himself. For any parent, we remember that stage. I just never expected to see it again. His life is rewinding, back and back, as I watch it all in reverse.
Now...would you please pass the ketchup?......I need it for my ham!
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Love of Flying
I love airports! I love the adventure of leaving one place and arriving someplace else. It's like walking in the front door to have a meal or two with complete strangers and walking out the back door in a different part of the world. Lately though, the meals have dwindled to be peanuts or pretzels. Hard to share when they give you so little. Traveling to Europe though, I got a full meal. Its was a miniature version of what I can get at home. Lean Cruisine looks huge compared to the chicken something or other. I think its because they need to fit the meal, and a drink on a shelf that drops down from the seat in front, giving you hardly room to breathe. Its a real test of manners to slice meat and to eat with your elbows glued to your ribs. The rolls could be used as weapons if need be. But I don't complain much, and eat it all, while the guy next to me falls asleep and I need to get up and use the restroom. There's the "cough, cough" get his attention to get up move, and there's the "turn the light on and off" move also. Once, a man next to me fell asleep, and as much as I tried to ignore him, I couldn't... he slumped towards me and his head rested on my shoulder. I was frozen. I sat there for a few moments trying to figure out my next move when he started snoring. Before the drooling started I jostled in my seat and he woke up.
Still gives me nightmares and giggles.
Still gives me nightmares and giggles.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
I Am World Famous!
My image has traveled the globe. I am in photo albums around the world, in countries I can't even remember, let alone pronounce. I'm mostly in albums in Japan. If you look closely you can see me...there in the background. Sometimes I'm in front, as I walk in front of a group, not realizing they are posing for a picture. In major movies, they pay for extras to fill a shot. You don't get mentioned in the credits, but there is no denying your presence.
I thought a lot about this, while on my trip to Italy. Each tourist had a camera. Stopping and taking pictures was the norm. Even in the Sistine Chapel, where pictures are forbidden, I saw people snapping photos. Some were discreet, and others just let the flash go off. I saw a lot of camera phones there. You would think people would have a little more guilt being in God's chapel. I guess they weren't Catholic. Catholics know guilt better than most. I know, I felt it.
I spent 45 minutes climbing the steps inside the dome at St. Peter's Basilica. It was hot, and humid, and the steps narrowed as we made our ascent. I was in front of three teenage boys from Germany. We were almost at the top, when I stopped to take a break and turn around to see where I had come from. Just when my eyes focused, and my mouth fell opened, the flash of their camera went off. I wish I could see that photo. I'm sure it showed every nose hair I have, and cavities in my mouth. They laughed and so did I. I'm glad they live so far away.
When I got home, and looked at all 431 snapshots I took, I started looking in the background to see who was there. Japan was well represented, and so were Americans. Americans are easy to spot. Bright colors, white tennis shoes. The Japanese are usually in a tight group with someone holding a flag. I saw families dragging kids behind them, and groups of teenagers hanging out. I think its universal for teenagers to hang out. Here, it's at the mall. In Italy its at a fountain, or piazza.
Each person has a story. Some we know, but mostly not. In their small way, as an extra in my photo, they influence the composition. My favorite picture is of my friend Linda, in Florence, with the majesty of the cathedrals in the background, – a tourist walked by, in front, and made the most wonderful composition. I have no idea who she is, but thanks ...for the story. (See photo below.)
I thought a lot about this, while on my trip to Italy. Each tourist had a camera. Stopping and taking pictures was the norm. Even in the Sistine Chapel, where pictures are forbidden, I saw people snapping photos. Some were discreet, and others just let the flash go off. I saw a lot of camera phones there. You would think people would have a little more guilt being in God's chapel. I guess they weren't Catholic. Catholics know guilt better than most. I know, I felt it.
I spent 45 minutes climbing the steps inside the dome at St. Peter's Basilica. It was hot, and humid, and the steps narrowed as we made our ascent. I was in front of three teenage boys from Germany. We were almost at the top, when I stopped to take a break and turn around to see where I had come from. Just when my eyes focused, and my mouth fell opened, the flash of their camera went off. I wish I could see that photo. I'm sure it showed every nose hair I have, and cavities in my mouth. They laughed and so did I. I'm glad they live so far away.
When I got home, and looked at all 431 snapshots I took, I started looking in the background to see who was there. Japan was well represented, and so were Americans. Americans are easy to spot. Bright colors, white tennis shoes. The Japanese are usually in a tight group with someone holding a flag. I saw families dragging kids behind them, and groups of teenagers hanging out. I think its universal for teenagers to hang out. Here, it's at the mall. In Italy its at a fountain, or piazza.
Each person has a story. Some we know, but mostly not. In their small way, as an extra in my photo, they influence the composition. My favorite picture is of my friend Linda, in Florence, with the majesty of the cathedrals in the background, – a tourist walked by, in front, and made the most wonderful composition. I have no idea who she is, but thanks ...for the story. (See photo below.)
Monday, September 19, 2005
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Friday, September 16, 2005
Travel Tips
After spending two weeks in Italy, I have come up with my very own list of does and don't while traveling. I gleemed these from first hand experience, of watching loud obnoxious Americans in a foreign country. I tried to be invisible, and then tried to talk with a British accent. Didn't work. It's hard to hide an American anywhere. Here they are in no particular order.
1. You are the visitor. This is NOT the USA, so don't expect it to be. Imagine standing in your mother-in-laws house...would you criticize the food, the furnishings and the service? You would get the silent treatment for sure.
2. Smile alot.
3. Learn to talk with your hands...pointing left and right is universal. Be careful what finger you use.
4. Don't pack anything in your suitcase you couldn't just walk away from. Things do get lost.
5. Order food off the menu you can't pronounce. (see #3 for pointing directions)
6. Go down a road even if you don't know where it goes. The maps will drive you crazy anyway.
7. Keep smiling.
8. Wrinkles in clothes are ok. No clothes in some places are ok.
9. Board the correct train car, and look for your seat. There is a reason your ticket has numbers on them. It's easier than lugging luggage through cars looking for the right seat.
10. Buy small gifts to take back, especially flat ones. Chocolate always works.
11. Stop looking at the map and look around.
12. Taxis are a good thing. Especially when you are lost late at night. (see #16)
13. Eat at McDonalds at least once.
14. If you think your lost, you probably are. In fact, as soon as you get off the plane assume your are, until you board the plane to go home.
15. Keep medicines in your carry on. (see #4)
16. Take a business card or address of where you are staying. After a long day of walking around, you can hand it to the taxi driver to return you back to where you started. (see #12)
17. When walking, turn around and see where you've come from. The view is different. (see #11)
18. Don't be timid about asking directions, even if you can't speak the language. (see #7)
19. Always give your seat up to an older person...esp. a woman. Kindness is understood in all languages.
20. When crossing a busy street, shadow a local.
21. Do not buy souvenirs from a man with shifty eyes, holding a black folder with rolex watches for 19.95 euros.
22. Pat the dogs.
23. Eat grapes off the vine.
24. Bring postcards from your home city and write thank you notes.
25. Make copies of your passport and any credit cards and leave them at home. Also put a copy in your suitcase.
26. Take a first aid kit for every scenario. Even if you don't use them, someone else might need help.
27. When hand washing items and hanging them out to dry...make sure they don't blow away and end up on someone's roof...esp brightly colored undies.
28. If they indeed relocate, ignore them and buy more in the next town. (see #27)
29. Think of round-a-bouts as lazy susans. There is no need to exit until you are sure which way to go. Going round and round is no big deal.
30. When driving, know the signs for one way and do not enter.
31. Don't talk loudly. Americans are very loud.
32. Aways get to your accomodations in daylight.
33. Don't ever let the gas tank go below 1/2.
34. Take your phone and make sure its for international calling..... even if its for just an add on for one month
35. Take a watch with an alarm, and forget the travel kind. Learn how to use it before you leave.
36. Eat mexican food in a foreign land. It will surprise you to experience what they think is authentic.
37. Do not take books to read. They weigh a ton. Take magazines that you can toss out.
38. Buy a piece of original art from a local artist. Make sure it calls your name before you buy it.
39. Airports are a great place for last minute gifts.
40. If you've used an internet cafe change computer pin numbers and passwords when you return.
41. Do not wear new shoes. If you do, make sure your have bandages. (see #26)
42. Do not stand in an open piazza and talk bad about the surroundings (see #1)
43. Leave your address book at home and jot the info you need on a small piece of paper.
44. Bring a cheap rain poncho.
45. Do not drink carbonated drinks during the flight. The bubbles get into your intestines and expand.
46. If you are a woman take sanitary supplies, even if you think you are in menopause and don't need them. They are very hard to discribe or point to, when you can't speak the language.
47. Don't exchange all your foreign money when returning. When luggage is loaded, and you've passed the security screening, flights do get cancelled and you could be out of luck.
48. Better to be stuck in an airport than a dark hotel.
49. Touch ancient old buildings. They do speak to you.
50. Always travel with plenty of clean underwear. (see #27, 28, 46)
1. You are the visitor. This is NOT the USA, so don't expect it to be. Imagine standing in your mother-in-laws house...would you criticize the food, the furnishings and the service? You would get the silent treatment for sure.
2. Smile alot.
3. Learn to talk with your hands...pointing left and right is universal. Be careful what finger you use.
4. Don't pack anything in your suitcase you couldn't just walk away from. Things do get lost.
5. Order food off the menu you can't pronounce. (see #3 for pointing directions)
6. Go down a road even if you don't know where it goes. The maps will drive you crazy anyway.
7. Keep smiling.
8. Wrinkles in clothes are ok. No clothes in some places are ok.
9. Board the correct train car, and look for your seat. There is a reason your ticket has numbers on them. It's easier than lugging luggage through cars looking for the right seat.
10. Buy small gifts to take back, especially flat ones. Chocolate always works.
11. Stop looking at the map and look around.
12. Taxis are a good thing. Especially when you are lost late at night. (see #16)
13. Eat at McDonalds at least once.
14. If you think your lost, you probably are. In fact, as soon as you get off the plane assume your are, until you board the plane to go home.
15. Keep medicines in your carry on. (see #4)
16. Take a business card or address of where you are staying. After a long day of walking around, you can hand it to the taxi driver to return you back to where you started. (see #12)
17. When walking, turn around and see where you've come from. The view is different. (see #11)
18. Don't be timid about asking directions, even if you can't speak the language. (see #7)
19. Always give your seat up to an older person...esp. a woman. Kindness is understood in all languages.
20. When crossing a busy street, shadow a local.
21. Do not buy souvenirs from a man with shifty eyes, holding a black folder with rolex watches for 19.95 euros.
22. Pat the dogs.
23. Eat grapes off the vine.
24. Bring postcards from your home city and write thank you notes.
25. Make copies of your passport and any credit cards and leave them at home. Also put a copy in your suitcase.
26. Take a first aid kit for every scenario. Even if you don't use them, someone else might need help.
27. When hand washing items and hanging them out to dry...make sure they don't blow away and end up on someone's roof...esp brightly colored undies.
28. If they indeed relocate, ignore them and buy more in the next town. (see #27)
29. Think of round-a-bouts as lazy susans. There is no need to exit until you are sure which way to go. Going round and round is no big deal.
30. When driving, know the signs for one way and do not enter.
31. Don't talk loudly. Americans are very loud.
32. Aways get to your accomodations in daylight.
33. Don't ever let the gas tank go below 1/2.
34. Take your phone and make sure its for international calling..... even if its for just an add on for one month
35. Take a watch with an alarm, and forget the travel kind. Learn how to use it before you leave.
36. Eat mexican food in a foreign land. It will surprise you to experience what they think is authentic.
37. Do not take books to read. They weigh a ton. Take magazines that you can toss out.
38. Buy a piece of original art from a local artist. Make sure it calls your name before you buy it.
39. Airports are a great place for last minute gifts.
40. If you've used an internet cafe change computer pin numbers and passwords when you return.
41. Do not wear new shoes. If you do, make sure your have bandages. (see #26)
42. Do not stand in an open piazza and talk bad about the surroundings (see #1)
43. Leave your address book at home and jot the info you need on a small piece of paper.
44. Bring a cheap rain poncho.
45. Do not drink carbonated drinks during the flight. The bubbles get into your intestines and expand.
46. If you are a woman take sanitary supplies, even if you think you are in menopause and don't need them. They are very hard to discribe or point to, when you can't speak the language.
47. Don't exchange all your foreign money when returning. When luggage is loaded, and you've passed the security screening, flights do get cancelled and you could be out of luck.
48. Better to be stuck in an airport than a dark hotel.
49. Touch ancient old buildings. They do speak to you.
50. Always travel with plenty of clean underwear. (see #27, 28, 46)
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
It only takes a spark, to get a fire going.....
Going to Rome and visiting the Vatican, is like mecca for catholics. It's where the Pope is. It's where thousands of believers gather to get a glimpse of him when he appears in front of the little window, or when he drives by in his popemobile. I saw neither. This is catechism 101 in real time, with nuns and brothers walking everywhere. I felt like I was on a pilgrimage, even though I hadn't really given it much of a thought before I got there. I got caught up in the hugeness of the basilica, and the inspiration of the art. The Sistine Chapel is hard to describe. My forefinger hasn't quite straighten out, since seeing the scene of God's finger touching man's. All I have to say is the words "Sistine Chapel" and my forefinger starts to bend.
I was on a mission of sorts. I wanted to light a candle, and say a prayer for all my friends and family. I was taught as a child that lighting one and saying a prayer would reduce the time spent in purgatory, and they would get to heaven sooner. I don't believe that. I just wanted to stand as close as I could to heaven, the same place that the pope stands in, so my prayers would go straight to the top...right to St. Peter. I was in his house. I was thinking of my prayers, the same time I was looking for the candles. I saw the flickering lights near a side chapel that glowed with the light coming through ancient stain glass windows. I reached into my pocket to pull out a few euros, when I just stopped. All prayers ceased at this time. All thoughts of the expressway to the pearly gates stopped. The candles that were to carry my deepest prayers to heaven were electric light bulbs. How could this be! I was in the pope's home church. I was in the heart of all Catholicism, and there were no wax candles!
I did not pray for my family or my friends. I had a few choice words with those standing around me. Not religious talk, but honest straightforward grunts. I was not a happy camper! And even though I don't go to catholic church anymore, I felt betrayed a bit.
A few days later, I was in another Italian town, another ancient catholic church, and more ancient stain glass windows> And there were waxed candles. There were about 10 unlit candles amongst many that formed a circle, in tiered layers. I put my euros in, lit my candle and moved it to the top row. Just in case. I wanted my prayers to go straight to St. Peter. Yes. Amen.
I was on a mission of sorts. I wanted to light a candle, and say a prayer for all my friends and family. I was taught as a child that lighting one and saying a prayer would reduce the time spent in purgatory, and they would get to heaven sooner. I don't believe that. I just wanted to stand as close as I could to heaven, the same place that the pope stands in, so my prayers would go straight to the top...right to St. Peter. I was in his house. I was thinking of my prayers, the same time I was looking for the candles. I saw the flickering lights near a side chapel that glowed with the light coming through ancient stain glass windows. I reached into my pocket to pull out a few euros, when I just stopped. All prayers ceased at this time. All thoughts of the expressway to the pearly gates stopped. The candles that were to carry my deepest prayers to heaven were electric light bulbs. How could this be! I was in the pope's home church. I was in the heart of all Catholicism, and there were no wax candles!
I did not pray for my family or my friends. I had a few choice words with those standing around me. Not religious talk, but honest straightforward grunts. I was not a happy camper! And even though I don't go to catholic church anymore, I felt betrayed a bit.
A few days later, I was in another Italian town, another ancient catholic church, and more ancient stain glass windows> And there were waxed candles. There were about 10 unlit candles amongst many that formed a circle, in tiered layers. I put my euros in, lit my candle and moved it to the top row. Just in case. I wanted my prayers to go straight to St. Peter. Yes. Amen.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Just Penciled In
Finally. My trip to Italy has begun. I'm buckled in, and imagining the wonderful sights I will see. The passport I held in my hand fell open, and I saw the photo of myself, that looks nothing like me anymore.
I had prepared well, and left copies of documents with others in case something tragic happened while out of the country. In the space for emergency contact, I had written in pencil my dad's name and phone number. I had to erase it and put someone else's name there. It was a sad moment, to realize if someone called him, he wouldn't know who they were talking about. The name of his eldest daughter was lost, as has the names of his 5 kids.
Now, if you asked him about "that nice lady that lives far away" they would get a reply. If you asked him about "that guy that lives in a different country", he would say he knows me. We are one in the same. His mind tells him he doesn't have kids, we know better. He has 5. We have been renamed. Even my mom has been renamed. She gets called the names of my dads female friends. She is kind. She answers to all of them.
My oldest brother Chuck is now "my very good friend that likes me", that is, if he stops and speaks to my dad. If he just walks by without a word, then he is "that guy that doesn't like me"
My younger brother David is the "guy with the three dogs, and my very favorite man". I think he only has 2 dogs, but that's beside the point.
Karen, my younger sister is the "lady next door amd does my hair". That's easy for him, she literally lives next door and she does indeed cut his hair.
Lori, the youngest is the "blonde bomber" She's also been called "fat". My sister is no way fat. She is beautiful, and has long blonde hair. She is also his favorite.
Somedays when we visit, he doesn't even recognize those terms, or our faces. After a family gathering of about 20 people, I talked to him on the phone. "Yes, I had a great time" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "These people were so nice, but I have no idea who they are." I'm glad someone in my family remembers who we are, while my dad is on his own trip...out of the country.
I had prepared well, and left copies of documents with others in case something tragic happened while out of the country. In the space for emergency contact, I had written in pencil my dad's name and phone number. I had to erase it and put someone else's name there. It was a sad moment, to realize if someone called him, he wouldn't know who they were talking about. The name of his eldest daughter was lost, as has the names of his 5 kids.
Now, if you asked him about "that nice lady that lives far away" they would get a reply. If you asked him about "that guy that lives in a different country", he would say he knows me. We are one in the same. His mind tells him he doesn't have kids, we know better. He has 5. We have been renamed. Even my mom has been renamed. She gets called the names of my dads female friends. She is kind. She answers to all of them.
My oldest brother Chuck is now "my very good friend that likes me", that is, if he stops and speaks to my dad. If he just walks by without a word, then he is "that guy that doesn't like me"
My younger brother David is the "guy with the three dogs, and my very favorite man". I think he only has 2 dogs, but that's beside the point.
Karen, my younger sister is the "lady next door amd does my hair". That's easy for him, she literally lives next door and she does indeed cut his hair.
Lori, the youngest is the "blonde bomber" She's also been called "fat". My sister is no way fat. She is beautiful, and has long blonde hair. She is also his favorite.
Somedays when we visit, he doesn't even recognize those terms, or our faces. After a family gathering of about 20 people, I talked to him on the phone. "Yes, I had a great time" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "These people were so nice, but I have no idea who they are." I'm glad someone in my family remembers who we are, while my dad is on his own trip...out of the country.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Don't Misinterpret My Kindness For Weakness
Have you ever just heard something that you just had to stop and listen? And you knew your life had changed direction a bit.
Happened on the tennis court. In the midst of an intense rally, Linda punched the ball for a winning point. The moment she said those words, I knew I would learn a lot from this woman. For years I was kind and weak. Life has toughened me up a bit. I'm still kind, but certainly not weak!
We are playing doubles together, learning how to ebb and flow, holding back and going for the juggler. The strategy is so different than playing singles. I've always been a singles player. Its hard for me to rely and trust someone. I'd either win or lose on my own shots. It can be a lonely game. No one to share in the highs and lows. But not doubles. There is a constant chatter of encouragement and strategy that feeds my competitive nature and nourishes my need to share what I do with someone.
With laughter and joy we are becoming friends and a winning team.
Thanks Punch!
Happened on the tennis court. In the midst of an intense rally, Linda punched the ball for a winning point. The moment she said those words, I knew I would learn a lot from this woman. For years I was kind and weak. Life has toughened me up a bit. I'm still kind, but certainly not weak!
We are playing doubles together, learning how to ebb and flow, holding back and going for the juggler. The strategy is so different than playing singles. I've always been a singles player. Its hard for me to rely and trust someone. I'd either win or lose on my own shots. It can be a lonely game. No one to share in the highs and lows. But not doubles. There is a constant chatter of encouragement and strategy that feeds my competitive nature and nourishes my need to share what I do with someone.
With laughter and joy we are becoming friends and a winning team.
Thanks Punch!
The 50's Style
I loved turning 50. I loved all the celebrating and the fuss. It was my day, and I embraced it with everything in my being. Trying to dress like a mature person is another matter. I just can't seem to find a style that portrays the new me. If I just go with comfort, then the discussions ends right here - jeans. I'm trying to come in to the new me with an artistic flair, with classiness and edginess. I wish clothing store layouts were different....I can wander in the Misses section, find things in the Junior area, and sneak into the Plus aisles. I wish it was Artsy, Classic, Comfort, Snooty, Anything Denim. Then break it down by decades. It would help. I wouldn't have to wonder if I looked good in low cut butt crack jeans, and cropped tops.
I'm taking a trip overseas soon. I'm going to a foreign country where no one knows me, and I want to dress wild and artsy. To the department store I went, with my teenage daughter. She has a wonderful sense of style. It helps being a size one, and no stretch marks, and a bottom that hasn't gone south.
We combed the sales rack with diligence and determination. I would hold up something, and I would know in an instant if it was a keeper or not, by the look on her face. "This is great, but not for you" "Do you think I would look good in this?" "Step away from it mom, no way." "Mom, you've got to try this...even if its a size 6" Yeah right. We got the biggest dressing room to hold our armload of potential "looks". She layed them out, and started handing them to me. Some worked, others we had a good laugh. I needed help getting out of the size six. An hour went by, and we narrowed it down to three great "new look" outfits. As the clerk was ringing it all up, my daughter, who has helped me find a new style that won't embarrass her if we are seen in public together, sighs, "I need some chocolate" Now, that is a seasoned shopper.
I'm taking a trip overseas soon. I'm going to a foreign country where no one knows me, and I want to dress wild and artsy. To the department store I went, with my teenage daughter. She has a wonderful sense of style. It helps being a size one, and no stretch marks, and a bottom that hasn't gone south.
We combed the sales rack with diligence and determination. I would hold up something, and I would know in an instant if it was a keeper or not, by the look on her face. "This is great, but not for you" "Do you think I would look good in this?" "Step away from it mom, no way." "Mom, you've got to try this...even if its a size 6" Yeah right. We got the biggest dressing room to hold our armload of potential "looks". She layed them out, and started handing them to me. Some worked, others we had a good laugh. I needed help getting out of the size six. An hour went by, and we narrowed it down to three great "new look" outfits. As the clerk was ringing it all up, my daughter, who has helped me find a new style that won't embarrass her if we are seen in public together, sighs, "I need some chocolate" Now, that is a seasoned shopper.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Cross My Heart
God did not bless me with big boobs. He has blessed me in many other ways, but mammaries are not one of them (or two of them for that matter). Cross your heart, was as a child, making a promise. I promise to say the truth. Why a bra was named for such a truthful expression is beyond me. Cross your heart for an uplifting look, or cross your heart, padded and they appear bigger. That's not telling the truth. We would cross our hearts, and hope to die if we lied.
"Be your own ideal. Cross Your Heart's signature criss-cross lift elevates you and your self-image, with beautiful shaping that's still true to you. For a flattering, confident silhouette that keeps you looking your best. Watch out, World." —Playtex
My first bra was a "Cross Your Heart". It did not elevate my self image, or make me feel like I was looking my best. Watch out, World. I was a young girl, with this elastic contraption strapped to my chest. I could hardly raise my arms, let alone breathe deeply. I don't think it fit, but I never said anything.
My daughter wore her first bra to second grade. I mentioned it to the teacher in case there was a problem. Her body didn't need one, but her wanting to be a big girl did. God has blessed her now, in ways He didn't bless me.
I enjoy watching her in cheerleading. It is a new way for her to elevate her self image. Mine, on the other hand, got lost temporarily in the parent seating area. I turned to the lady on my right. We exchanged names and nicetees. The small waisted woman with long blonde hair was very blessed. I don't think my God blessed her, I think that she paid someone for her blessings. The lady on my left was blessed the same. Even the owner of the place was blessed. Their bottled blonde hair was no match for my natural gray/white. I tried not to stare, or even laugh at the comical scene. I kept wondering if they could raise their arms, and still breathe.
That's the truth....honest....cross my heart.
"Be your own ideal. Cross Your Heart's signature criss-cross lift elevates you and your self-image, with beautiful shaping that's still true to you. For a flattering, confident silhouette that keeps you looking your best. Watch out, World." —Playtex
My first bra was a "Cross Your Heart". It did not elevate my self image, or make me feel like I was looking my best. Watch out, World. I was a young girl, with this elastic contraption strapped to my chest. I could hardly raise my arms, let alone breathe deeply. I don't think it fit, but I never said anything.
My daughter wore her first bra to second grade. I mentioned it to the teacher in case there was a problem. Her body didn't need one, but her wanting to be a big girl did. God has blessed her now, in ways He didn't bless me.
I enjoy watching her in cheerleading. It is a new way for her to elevate her self image. Mine, on the other hand, got lost temporarily in the parent seating area. I turned to the lady on my right. We exchanged names and nicetees. The small waisted woman with long blonde hair was very blessed. I don't think my God blessed her, I think that she paid someone for her blessings. The lady on my left was blessed the same. Even the owner of the place was blessed. Their bottled blonde hair was no match for my natural gray/white. I tried not to stare, or even laugh at the comical scene. I kept wondering if they could raise their arms, and still breathe.
That's the truth....honest....cross my heart.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
The Cane
I've decided if I ever come to the point in my life, that I need a cane, it would not be just an ordinary, Walmart variety. I would have to paint it, decorate it, do whatever I could to make it a part of me. Maybe even find a stick, and carve my initials in it. If I could figure out how to put blinking lights on it, I would. I would decorate it with the seasons, and celebrate each spring with a new color scheme.
My dad has come to the point in his life that he will need a cane. He is loosing his ability to do even the simplest tasks. The bracelet on his wrist, given to him by his kids for father's day, has his name and where to return him, if he gets lost. At first he was thrilled, and then he wanted it off. No one could figure it out for him. No one knew how. The one good thing about his Alzheimers- he forgets quickly and moves on. Now he is limping and he looks like he might fall at any moment. He can't tell us if something hurts, and my mom doesn't know if he has gout, or he needs a cane.
We all use canes everyday. The physical ones are easy to spot. The people that walk with me every day, are the canes I carry with me now, until the day comes, and I get my glue gun out and start decorating one. I have friend canes, and family canes. I have dog canes and food canes. Anything I lean on becomes a cane. I used to have a huge Starbucks cane, and then one day, two weeks ago, I woke up and the thought of drinking coffee, turned my stomach. I don't use that cane anymore. It's the stranger cane, that I find most interesting. It's that brief moment during the day, when someone, whose name I don't even know, does something that touches my spirit, and helps me. They'll never know, they were a cane.
I saw two elderly ladies the other day, walking arm in arm. Something tells me, that if they walked unattached, they would be wobbly. They were each others cane. I have many elderly friends and their spirit and wisdom, playfulness and grumpiness are wonderful canes. Their canes come out to help them recover from their latest illness, and then tossed aside as they get their strength back.
I'm going to see my dad in a few months. I think he'll will be walking with a cane. He will be surrounded by his family of canes, and I'm going to put my name on his. Right below his initials, carved deeply in my heart.
My dad has come to the point in his life that he will need a cane. He is loosing his ability to do even the simplest tasks. The bracelet on his wrist, given to him by his kids for father's day, has his name and where to return him, if he gets lost. At first he was thrilled, and then he wanted it off. No one could figure it out for him. No one knew how. The one good thing about his Alzheimers- he forgets quickly and moves on. Now he is limping and he looks like he might fall at any moment. He can't tell us if something hurts, and my mom doesn't know if he has gout, or he needs a cane.
We all use canes everyday. The physical ones are easy to spot. The people that walk with me every day, are the canes I carry with me now, until the day comes, and I get my glue gun out and start decorating one. I have friend canes, and family canes. I have dog canes and food canes. Anything I lean on becomes a cane. I used to have a huge Starbucks cane, and then one day, two weeks ago, I woke up and the thought of drinking coffee, turned my stomach. I don't use that cane anymore. It's the stranger cane, that I find most interesting. It's that brief moment during the day, when someone, whose name I don't even know, does something that touches my spirit, and helps me. They'll never know, they were a cane.
I saw two elderly ladies the other day, walking arm in arm. Something tells me, that if they walked unattached, they would be wobbly. They were each others cane. I have many elderly friends and their spirit and wisdom, playfulness and grumpiness are wonderful canes. Their canes come out to help them recover from their latest illness, and then tossed aside as they get their strength back.
I'm going to see my dad in a few months. I think he'll will be walking with a cane. He will be surrounded by his family of canes, and I'm going to put my name on his. Right below his initials, carved deeply in my heart.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Dark Rimmed Glasses
You are what you wear! I've learned how to get a bit of edge when I go on the tennis court. A killer outfit. It goes with a killer attittude and a killer serve. Somehow strutting helps and bouncing a ball. A good pair of dark rimmed glasses helps to hide the nervousness, and frustration. They are also good at hiding tears. These are the behind the scenes lessons that I have learned in life. Look better than you are. Look the part. When I first got invited to play tennis after many years of "doing other things", I just had to have the right outfit. There was no way I was going to show up in something that would not bolster my flimsy self confidence. It didn't matter that my timing was off, and I hit everything out. At least I looked good hitting it out.
I stood in a pool today talking with a dear friend. No killer outfits, just our swimsuits. Can't hide much there. He's my friend, and a therapist. He told me about a time when he tried to look the part of a really smart shrink - the three piece dark suit, power tie, wing tips. Even a pair of dark rimmed glasses! When his daughter was young, she overheard him on the phone with a client. "Daddy, you were using your doctor's voice" It was a turning point for him to be just who is he is.
I went to the theatre the other day, and a whole busload of ladies showed up wearing purple dresses with red hats. I like that poem "When I am old, I will wear purple" I read it many years ago when I was younger. I sent it to my mother, with a photo of herself that I had retouched and made her shirt purple. But I think their missing the point. The point is not being like everyone else, and being comfortable in your own skin, not looking like 100 other old ladies. There is a whole industry of "Red Hat" paraphernalia. So much for being unique!
Now, when I hit the tennis courts, my outfits don't quite match. The blues are a bit off, and I don't really care. I'm more concerned with how my timing is that day, and if the serves are going in. My game is back, and my confidence is soaring. I exited the pool with much to think about. I said goodby and as I glanced back, I noticed that he was wearing dark rimmed glasses.
I stood in a pool today talking with a dear friend. No killer outfits, just our swimsuits. Can't hide much there. He's my friend, and a therapist. He told me about a time when he tried to look the part of a really smart shrink - the three piece dark suit, power tie, wing tips. Even a pair of dark rimmed glasses! When his daughter was young, she overheard him on the phone with a client. "Daddy, you were using your doctor's voice" It was a turning point for him to be just who is he is.
I went to the theatre the other day, and a whole busload of ladies showed up wearing purple dresses with red hats. I like that poem "When I am old, I will wear purple" I read it many years ago when I was younger. I sent it to my mother, with a photo of herself that I had retouched and made her shirt purple. But I think their missing the point. The point is not being like everyone else, and being comfortable in your own skin, not looking like 100 other old ladies. There is a whole industry of "Red Hat" paraphernalia. So much for being unique!
Now, when I hit the tennis courts, my outfits don't quite match. The blues are a bit off, and I don't really care. I'm more concerned with how my timing is that day, and if the serves are going in. My game is back, and my confidence is soaring. I exited the pool with much to think about. I said goodby and as I glanced back, I noticed that he was wearing dark rimmed glasses.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
March of the Penguins
I never wanted to visit Antarctica until today. I sat in the movie theatre in awe watching what I thought at first were very tall creatures, only to find out, after the credits, they are only knee high. What an incredible story of survival. I loved watching them walk single file through the harshest of weather conditions. I loved watching them find a mate and bond, even if it was just for one year. I loved how they carry their young on the tops of their feet to protect them from the elements. But I especially love how the male penguin carries the egg while mom walks to find food. That's my kind of guy. They were constantly sharing the responsiblities of bringing a life into this world. That's how it should be. I'm blessed. I found a guy who wasn't afraid to change diapers, or to have baby spit up end up in his mouth. I found a guy who didn't mind that I took off for a week's vacation in Hawaii with some girl friends, and left him to care for two kids...one being just 6 months old. I figured I birthed the baby...I needed a break. Looking back, I was really doing the "penguin" thing. Going off for some rest and letting dad take over for awhile.
I've had a few penguin role models in my life. In fact, my teachers were penquins. At least that's what we called them in Catholic school. Sister Mary Clarence was the best role model. She was tall and lanky, ruddy skin, buck teeth and spit when she talked. She wore all black and white. She even waddled. And because I lived only 5 houses away from the convent and the school, I could see the nuns line up and waddle in formation back and forth to school and church. Sometimes they took walks in our neighborhood. Always in pairs....just like in the movie.
I've had a few penguin role models in my life. In fact, my teachers were penquins. At least that's what we called them in Catholic school. Sister Mary Clarence was the best role model. She was tall and lanky, ruddy skin, buck teeth and spit when she talked. She wore all black and white. She even waddled. And because I lived only 5 houses away from the convent and the school, I could see the nuns line up and waddle in formation back and forth to school and church. Sometimes they took walks in our neighborhood. Always in pairs....just like in the movie.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Grunting
What is it about tennis and grunting? Why do top athletes have to grunt so loud. Its quite disturbing. I can take once or twice, but every hit? I grew up in the old fashion tennis way. Proper white attire, proper manners. I was almost British in my demeanor. My shot selection was limited, but effective. Hit it in!
I can think of a few times that I would want to grunt, like stubbing my toe, or lifting something too heavy. Pigs grunt from just being alive. I wouldn't call tennis players pigs, but if I were to pass an open field and listen I might mistaken the sounds on the court for a farmyard.
It would make it a bit easier to take, if the pro grunters were ugly. But they aren't and they are seen on the covers of all the latest magazines. I think the headlines should read "She grunts like a pig and makes millions"
I was playing doubles the other day, and for the life of me, couldn't get my serve in. My timing was off. My opponents, who by the way were beautiful and could be on a magazine cover, were killing me with their serve, and grunting. So I started timidly to grunt. It took a bit of timing. I'd hit the ball, and then grunt. Or I'd grunt and then hit the ball. I felt like a pig trying to find her voice. And then it happened. I tossed the ball, grunted in perfect unison with hitting it, and it went in.
I'm a firm believer in grunting now. I don't know why or how it works, but it does. And I don't care who is listening.
The other day I had a match with a woman who whistled to herself as she prepared to hit the ball. I know for a fact, that I cannot whistle and grunt at the same time.
I can think of a few times that I would want to grunt, like stubbing my toe, or lifting something too heavy. Pigs grunt from just being alive. I wouldn't call tennis players pigs, but if I were to pass an open field and listen I might mistaken the sounds on the court for a farmyard.
It would make it a bit easier to take, if the pro grunters were ugly. But they aren't and they are seen on the covers of all the latest magazines. I think the headlines should read "She grunts like a pig and makes millions"
I was playing doubles the other day, and for the life of me, couldn't get my serve in. My timing was off. My opponents, who by the way were beautiful and could be on a magazine cover, were killing me with their serve, and grunting. So I started timidly to grunt. It took a bit of timing. I'd hit the ball, and then grunt. Or I'd grunt and then hit the ball. I felt like a pig trying to find her voice. And then it happened. I tossed the ball, grunted in perfect unison with hitting it, and it went in.
I'm a firm believer in grunting now. I don't know why or how it works, but it does. And I don't care who is listening.
The other day I had a match with a woman who whistled to herself as she prepared to hit the ball. I know for a fact, that I cannot whistle and grunt at the same time.
He Said My Name
For a brief moment, the cloudiness of my father's alzheimers cleared, and I heard words that haven't been spoken in years. "Hi Judy!" he said in the midst of sounds and words that made no sense. It didn't matter that my mom told him that I was on the phone. It didn't matter that it was repeated over and over again, before the receiver was handed to him. He actually held that thought long enough to repeat it. In the midst of our brief conversation, he mentioned both sisters by name. Then he was gone. The clouds came back, and the darkness of such a horrible disease took over. He's leaving us all, moment by moment, as we sit and watch, and try to be patient and do what's right.
He has brought out the best and worst of my family these past few years. My mom, who is the real hero in all this, is struggling to wear her halo proudly, when what she really wants to do at times is ring his neck. Her daily dealings with him, in his confusion and outburst of anger have given her reasons to take daily walks to ease the pain. Her body is in great shape, even if her soul is worn out. I'm convinced she is next in line for sainthood....after the pope.
I don't know when it will all be over, but last night, I prayed that it would be soon.
He has brought out the best and worst of my family these past few years. My mom, who is the real hero in all this, is struggling to wear her halo proudly, when what she really wants to do at times is ring his neck. Her daily dealings with him, in his confusion and outburst of anger have given her reasons to take daily walks to ease the pain. Her body is in great shape, even if her soul is worn out. I'm convinced she is next in line for sainthood....after the pope.
I don't know when it will all be over, but last night, I prayed that it would be soon.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Love, Love
I love Tennis! I love the fact that the score begins with love on each side. The world would be a better place if everyone played tennis. Just think of it. Standing with someone you disagree with and having to say "love, love" and agree. Common ground. And when your opponent still hasn't scored, it's still love.
Tennis has lots of "nice" words.
Let -
the ball nicks the net on the serve and goes in. Go ahead, have another chance. Your first one didn't quite make it over the net, and you can try again.
Rally -
let's hit the ball back and forth over the net many times. A friendly exchange as I'm waiting for you too blow it. The trick here is to be patient.
Seeding -
getting ranked for a tournament. You don't want the best player playing the worst player. It puts the best players at opposite ends of the draw, to meet hopefully later. Gives the little guy a chance to feel important for awhile.
Sweet Spot -
magic area on my strings, when hit perfectly, makes the sweatest sound.
Deuce -
sounds like a dance move, but it just means we both have the same point score.
Advantage -
kind way to say, I am ahead of you by just one point. If I get the next point, I win the game.
When all the niceness wears off and nerves are on edge, attitudes begin to heat up. Sweat is on the brow. The terms in tennis seem to get a bit more aggressive.
Approach Shot -
I'm heading to the net, stopping half way there, and hitting the ball before it bounces. Hopefully it puts you off guard, as I make the kill shot and win the point.
There are some shots that just aren't very straightforward. Trick shots.
Slice -
I'm hitting just a part of the ball, which makes it spin and do all sorts of weird things, usually hugging the ground.
Topspin -
like a slice, but I'm hitting it to make the ball become a super ball.
Kicker -
type of serve where anything can happen. Surprise attack! It's on my list of things to learn. I keep hearing about it.
Choke -
when the easiest shot it the world comes my way, and I look like I've never played the game in my life.
Double Fault -
same as choke, but during a serve. For some reason, you get two chances to get the serve in. Second serve is usually wimpy.
Lob -
nothing more frustrating as the perfect lob over your head. You're at the net, ready to attack, and the opponent hits the ball over your head and it drops in near the baseline. Nothing more perfect, that hitting it over the opponents head to drop in near their baseline.
Poach -
a doubles play, when the net player sneaks over to the middle, and hits a winner. They are usually smiling. I don't trust these kind of players...they smile, then attack.
Rush the net -
I use this when I have no other option, and I just charge to scare the other guy. I usually lose the point and get hit with the ball. Its my "Braveheart" battle strategy.
Ace -
serving it so hard you can't even touch it. I love this shot. It makes me feel like I know what I'm doing.
Unforced Errors -
you get the point the easy way! I missed my shot.
And when the game is over, hands are shook. Great job! We'll battle another day and our games will start with love.
Tennis has lots of "nice" words.
Let -
the ball nicks the net on the serve and goes in. Go ahead, have another chance. Your first one didn't quite make it over the net, and you can try again.
Rally -
let's hit the ball back and forth over the net many times. A friendly exchange as I'm waiting for you too blow it. The trick here is to be patient.
Seeding -
getting ranked for a tournament. You don't want the best player playing the worst player. It puts the best players at opposite ends of the draw, to meet hopefully later. Gives the little guy a chance to feel important for awhile.
Sweet Spot -
magic area on my strings, when hit perfectly, makes the sweatest sound.
Deuce -
sounds like a dance move, but it just means we both have the same point score.
Advantage -
kind way to say, I am ahead of you by just one point. If I get the next point, I win the game.
When all the niceness wears off and nerves are on edge, attitudes begin to heat up. Sweat is on the brow. The terms in tennis seem to get a bit more aggressive.
Approach Shot -
I'm heading to the net, stopping half way there, and hitting the ball before it bounces. Hopefully it puts you off guard, as I make the kill shot and win the point.
There are some shots that just aren't very straightforward. Trick shots.
Slice -
I'm hitting just a part of the ball, which makes it spin and do all sorts of weird things, usually hugging the ground.
Topspin -
like a slice, but I'm hitting it to make the ball become a super ball.
Kicker -
type of serve where anything can happen. Surprise attack! It's on my list of things to learn. I keep hearing about it.
Choke -
when the easiest shot it the world comes my way, and I look like I've never played the game in my life.
Double Fault -
same as choke, but during a serve. For some reason, you get two chances to get the serve in. Second serve is usually wimpy.
Lob -
nothing more frustrating as the perfect lob over your head. You're at the net, ready to attack, and the opponent hits the ball over your head and it drops in near the baseline. Nothing more perfect, that hitting it over the opponents head to drop in near their baseline.
Poach -
a doubles play, when the net player sneaks over to the middle, and hits a winner. They are usually smiling. I don't trust these kind of players...they smile, then attack.
Rush the net -
I use this when I have no other option, and I just charge to scare the other guy. I usually lose the point and get hit with the ball. Its my "Braveheart" battle strategy.
Ace -
serving it so hard you can't even touch it. I love this shot. It makes me feel like I know what I'm doing.
Unforced Errors -
you get the point the easy way! I missed my shot.
And when the game is over, hands are shook. Great job! We'll battle another day and our games will start with love.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Mothers
We all have one, some have two or more. Mother, Mother-in-law, step-mother...and the grandest of all - grandmother.
Some mothers are still alive, others have gone on, and live in the hearts of their kids. Some become mothers at an early age, others later in life. Some are mothers of babies, others have kittens and puppies.
I like my mother.
I was the second baby of five. She did a good job, I think, although there were times we didn't like each other. Mothers can take it. I know. I'm a mother now of two. There are days I sit and marvel at the two beings I helped create. Then there are days that I hardly recognize them in their adolescent stretching of their wings.
I hear my mother every day. I hear her in the tone of voice I use with my kids to clean their rooms, or to pick up after themselves. I hear her when I tell them to eat their vegetables, or to brush their teeth. I hear her when we talk on the phone, and catch up the little things of life.
Now I'm starting to see her everywhere. I see my mother when I look in the mirror and see my graying hair. The wrinkles on my face have formed through the years. I think they are genetically linked to her. The road maps on our faces are the same. When I prepare dinner, I see my mother's hands. Mine are shaped just like hers.
I hope my kids can see and hear me the rest of their lives. Just like I see my mother.
Some mothers are still alive, others have gone on, and live in the hearts of their kids. Some become mothers at an early age, others later in life. Some are mothers of babies, others have kittens and puppies.
I like my mother.
I was the second baby of five. She did a good job, I think, although there were times we didn't like each other. Mothers can take it. I know. I'm a mother now of two. There are days I sit and marvel at the two beings I helped create. Then there are days that I hardly recognize them in their adolescent stretching of their wings.
I hear my mother every day. I hear her in the tone of voice I use with my kids to clean their rooms, or to pick up after themselves. I hear her when I tell them to eat their vegetables, or to brush their teeth. I hear her when we talk on the phone, and catch up the little things of life.
Now I'm starting to see her everywhere. I see my mother when I look in the mirror and see my graying hair. The wrinkles on my face have formed through the years. I think they are genetically linked to her. The road maps on our faces are the same. When I prepare dinner, I see my mother's hands. Mine are shaped just like hers.
I hope my kids can see and hear me the rest of their lives. Just like I see my mother.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Together Again, Yet Worlds Apart
Lindale Texas
Together again, yet worlds apart. The life of my long time friend Dawn and I took such very different directions. Her the whole world. Mine, the person next to me.
I met Dawn years ago when hippies and bell bottoms were in, and the Jesus People combed the streets of Southern California. Our common friends brought us together to work in the media department for a large missionary group. Late nights that blended into early mornings were spent publishing the next magazine, or newsletter that had to hit the streets. We worked sided by side with high energy and a common goal. Our enthusiasm for communication, and love of an adventure, started in Calif and took us eventually to to set up an international media department in East Texas.
We shared motherhood with an abandoned demon possessed cat that wandered into our lives at an old beat up gas station in Abilene Texas. Our caravan of huge Ryder trucks carrying all of our printing presses, supplies and personal belongings had stopped there to try and resurrect my old VW beatle. It just couldn't make it any further east, even though it was being towed. The VW was left behind, and Kitty Rat joined our family.
We lived in a rat infested building while we patched the roof and the floors to start a school. It was such hard work, but we didn't care. When it rained outside, it rained inside. The symphony of water dripping into buckets, were only temporary. We were determined to change the world, but first we needed to change our surroundings. We did it with bright colored paints, and the company of many others.
Summertime heat in Texas can be brutal. On one of our work breaks we drove cross country in Dawn's VW to Calif. The car ran just fine, but had no air conditioning, With Kitty Rat, and litter box on the back floor board, we endured the scorching sun until heat exhaustion took over and we started singing theme songs from Disney movies. I never knew the mirages that appeared in the desert could be so funny.
And then a man came by recruiting people to join him in the far east. Dawn went and I stayed. She worked in refuge camps - I in a bookstore. She talked to people in China - I talked to people in East Texas. Her journey took her to Hong Kong where she lived for many years. I settled in North Texas to go to school. She had the world as her family, I married and had two kids.
Then we both crashed.
Dawn crashed on the rocks of Hawaii. My life was falling apart in Texas.
Her busy life took its toll and she needed to rest and restore. I just needed to get out of a bad situation. In both of our lives, in completely different lands, we had reached similar ground. We were both looking up.
Now we are together again, for a short time. Time has passed but not our friendship. We are sharing stories and our lives with the common friends that brought us together 30 years ago. Their three sons, boys that we have seen born and raised, are now gathered with wives and children of their own.
Dawn is still roaming the world. Her life touches thousands. I'm still walking along with one or two. I've always thought my calling was to walk along side one person at a time. She trains leaders of the world. I walk with atheists. We both reflect our father's love. To all the ends of both our worlds.
Together again, yet worlds apart. The life of my long time friend Dawn and I took such very different directions. Her the whole world. Mine, the person next to me.
I met Dawn years ago when hippies and bell bottoms were in, and the Jesus People combed the streets of Southern California. Our common friends brought us together to work in the media department for a large missionary group. Late nights that blended into early mornings were spent publishing the next magazine, or newsletter that had to hit the streets. We worked sided by side with high energy and a common goal. Our enthusiasm for communication, and love of an adventure, started in Calif and took us eventually to to set up an international media department in East Texas.
We shared motherhood with an abandoned demon possessed cat that wandered into our lives at an old beat up gas station in Abilene Texas. Our caravan of huge Ryder trucks carrying all of our printing presses, supplies and personal belongings had stopped there to try and resurrect my old VW beatle. It just couldn't make it any further east, even though it was being towed. The VW was left behind, and Kitty Rat joined our family.
We lived in a rat infested building while we patched the roof and the floors to start a school. It was such hard work, but we didn't care. When it rained outside, it rained inside. The symphony of water dripping into buckets, were only temporary. We were determined to change the world, but first we needed to change our surroundings. We did it with bright colored paints, and the company of many others.
Summertime heat in Texas can be brutal. On one of our work breaks we drove cross country in Dawn's VW to Calif. The car ran just fine, but had no air conditioning, With Kitty Rat, and litter box on the back floor board, we endured the scorching sun until heat exhaustion took over and we started singing theme songs from Disney movies. I never knew the mirages that appeared in the desert could be so funny.
And then a man came by recruiting people to join him in the far east. Dawn went and I stayed. She worked in refuge camps - I in a bookstore. She talked to people in China - I talked to people in East Texas. Her journey took her to Hong Kong where she lived for many years. I settled in North Texas to go to school. She had the world as her family, I married and had two kids.
Then we both crashed.
Dawn crashed on the rocks of Hawaii. My life was falling apart in Texas.
Her busy life took its toll and she needed to rest and restore. I just needed to get out of a bad situation. In both of our lives, in completely different lands, we had reached similar ground. We were both looking up.
Now we are together again, for a short time. Time has passed but not our friendship. We are sharing stories and our lives with the common friends that brought us together 30 years ago. Their three sons, boys that we have seen born and raised, are now gathered with wives and children of their own.
Dawn is still roaming the world. Her life touches thousands. I'm still walking along with one or two. I've always thought my calling was to walk along side one person at a time. She trains leaders of the world. I walk with atheists. We both reflect our father's love. To all the ends of both our worlds.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Elderly Neighbor
I meet her every morning at the gym. Just as the sun is beginning the day, Connie arrives with her husband of many years. I used to see her on the weight machines, and we would stop and greet each other with a smile and a bit of gossip. Who was at the gym, and who was sleeping in? Her husband Kenny, a former boxer, is keeping his youthful physique by lifting weights and riding the bikes. His eyes are always twinkling.
She hasn't been on the exercise floor lately. A bit of trouble with her hips. So she sits with her paper, at a table reserved for the early birds. Her stories are endless, her face lined with years of living, are beautiful. I learned so much about her, in between searching for the letters to fill the crossword puzzle. The pain of great loss in the early years of their marriage. Her willingness to help others. A cook beyond compare.
This morning, our laughter shook the rafters. Her story of cooking for an elderly neighbor almost knocked me off my chair. "Connie," I roared. "Your elderly neighbor? How old is she?" Connie got the joke and joined in the fun. "
Connie is one of the youngest 88 years old friends I have.
She hasn't been on the exercise floor lately. A bit of trouble with her hips. So she sits with her paper, at a table reserved for the early birds. Her stories are endless, her face lined with years of living, are beautiful. I learned so much about her, in between searching for the letters to fill the crossword puzzle. The pain of great loss in the early years of their marriage. Her willingness to help others. A cook beyond compare.
This morning, our laughter shook the rafters. Her story of cooking for an elderly neighbor almost knocked me off my chair. "Connie," I roared. "Your elderly neighbor? How old is she?" Connie got the joke and joined in the fun. "
Connie is one of the youngest 88 years old friends I have.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
My Life as a Verb
It was in the 7th grade that I finally understood what a verb was. "An action word" said Sister Mary Jose. For all my six previous years of parochial school, English was my worst subject. I just didn't get it. When I was called on in class, I would just guess at the answer. I rarely raised my hand. All those parts of the speech: verbs, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions - what was I suppose to do with them? And getting the subject and the verb to match! I was more interested in diagramming sentences....even at an very early age I was an artist. I liked dissecting the sentences with all those diagonal lines. Spelling was easy if the word looked right. So I thought I couldn't do it. At least, I couldn't do it according to the parochial curriculum.
And then one day, I started writing. The words moved and flowed, and the stories came together. My fingers danced on the keyboard. All the events of my life that needed to be told were bottled up in my soul, and then they just came gushing out. Not always in complete sentences. Sometime with misspelled words. I don't always get my quotation marks in the right spot. But the dangling participles that have been hanging on the tip of my tongue for so long, have finally found their homepage.
And then one day, I started writing. The words moved and flowed, and the stories came together. My fingers danced on the keyboard. All the events of my life that needed to be told were bottled up in my soul, and then they just came gushing out. Not always in complete sentences. Sometime with misspelled words. I don't always get my quotation marks in the right spot. But the dangling participles that have been hanging on the tip of my tongue for so long, have finally found their homepage.
Home Visit
I lay in bed listening to the day begin. It's been thirty years since I lived here, before the call of the world took me out of my home with adolescent fervor. The sounds really haven't changed much.
I grew up in a house that backed up onto an alley, which backed up onto a huge field, where the neighborhood gang of kids played late into the night, or until the street lights came on. We dug holes, covered them up with branches and twigs to capture any trespassers. Our dirt clod fights took place on this open field. Soon the bulldozers came, and replaced our battlefield with a modern post office. Their boxy vehicles, with the steering wheel on the wrong side, were lined up in rows. Five days a week, I would listen to the carriers as they loaded up their trucks for daily deliveries. For eight hours every day the parking lot was empty, and we had our field back.
Saturday the front office was open, but the trucks weren't used, and our desire to perfect our baseball throw got the best of my younger brother and I. With gloves and baseball in hand, we hit the field....the postoffice field and started throwing between trucks. Our accuracy was perfected and our confidence grew...until one wayward ball went crashing thru the windshield. The sound of broken glass, not only ended our perfect inning, but shattered our young consciences. We froze. We stared at each other. With gloves hanging sadly by our sides, we slowly walked to the front door and stood in line behind customers buying stamps. What a sight we must have been! Two barefoot kids with baseball gloves looking scared to death.
"Uh, Mister" I stammered. My little brother lost his voice and stood right by my side. "We were playing catch in the back, and we accidently broke a window." The man without a smile, in a government issued uniform, stood behind a tall counter looking down at us through reading glasses that perched on the tip of his nose. "We're really sorry, and we would be glad to pay for it." A slight curve formed on the outer corners of his mouth. "Name please. Both your names. Phone Number. What's your parents name." I answered all the questions, and the last thing I heard him say was "I will need to call your parents."
I don't remember ever playing there again. We found a safer place in the field next door, before the office building went up.
It was also the place my older brother used to hang dummies from the branches of tall trees to scare passing motorists. When the post office was closed, and the trucks were not used, you could hear the sound of a tennis ball hitting the brick wall over and over again. The perfect backboard for a future Billie Jean.
I grew up in a house that backed up onto an alley, which backed up onto a huge field, where the neighborhood gang of kids played late into the night, or until the street lights came on. We dug holes, covered them up with branches and twigs to capture any trespassers. Our dirt clod fights took place on this open field. Soon the bulldozers came, and replaced our battlefield with a modern post office. Their boxy vehicles, with the steering wheel on the wrong side, were lined up in rows. Five days a week, I would listen to the carriers as they loaded up their trucks for daily deliveries. For eight hours every day the parking lot was empty, and we had our field back.
Saturday the front office was open, but the trucks weren't used, and our desire to perfect our baseball throw got the best of my younger brother and I. With gloves and baseball in hand, we hit the field....the postoffice field and started throwing between trucks. Our accuracy was perfected and our confidence grew...until one wayward ball went crashing thru the windshield. The sound of broken glass, not only ended our perfect inning, but shattered our young consciences. We froze. We stared at each other. With gloves hanging sadly by our sides, we slowly walked to the front door and stood in line behind customers buying stamps. What a sight we must have been! Two barefoot kids with baseball gloves looking scared to death.
"Uh, Mister" I stammered. My little brother lost his voice and stood right by my side. "We were playing catch in the back, and we accidently broke a window." The man without a smile, in a government issued uniform, stood behind a tall counter looking down at us through reading glasses that perched on the tip of his nose. "We're really sorry, and we would be glad to pay for it." A slight curve formed on the outer corners of his mouth. "Name please. Both your names. Phone Number. What's your parents name." I answered all the questions, and the last thing I heard him say was "I will need to call your parents."
I don't remember ever playing there again. We found a safer place in the field next door, before the office building went up.
It was also the place my older brother used to hang dummies from the branches of tall trees to scare passing motorists. When the post office was closed, and the trucks were not used, you could hear the sound of a tennis ball hitting the brick wall over and over again. The perfect backboard for a future Billie Jean.
Monday, April 04, 2005
I Remember When....
I knew I was getting old when the all too familiar smell of my childhood hangout no longer existed. It's my story of "I remember when", like my folks used to tell me:
I remember when I walked through ice and snow to go to school.
I remember when I used to steal rides on the back of the ice truck.
I remember wringing the heads of chickens and then eating them for dinner.
I remember the depression, I remember the war.
I remember when there was no TV and we gathered around the radio for entertainment.
My list of "I remember whens" are less dramatic:
I remember when we went to the movies for double features - two movies PLUS a cartoon, no previews.
I remember when the Helms bakery truck would announce its weekly arrival in our neighborhood with its distinguished tooting horn. I would stand behind the truck as the driver opened up the long wooden drawers filled with donuts of every kind. Sugar donuts - my favorite!
I remember being awaken by the clinking of the glass milk bottles when the milkman delivered them to our back door, before the sun ever came up.
I remember the smell of where my dad worked. Benson's Garage was just a 5 minute ride on my bike, past my friends houses, past the hospital, next to the liquor store. I love the smell of car grease....it takes me back to when I would watch my dad work on cars. He wore coveralls that were stained with the grease of daily jobs. His name was embroidered above his chest pocket.
I begged to be taught how the engine worked. I love the gears and all the parts. He kept a pail of kerosene next to his work bench, where greasy carburetors soaked to be taken apart and cleaned. All those parts, and he knew how it all went back together again. When there was an odd tapping of the engine, my dad would take a long screwdriver, place the tip end on the offending piece of metal, and the handle on his ear. I loved going on test drives with my dad, as he listened to the sound of the engine, as if he was a conductor of a great musical piece.
I took my new computerized car in to get checked the other day. It wasn't sounding right. I knew the sound of what it should be. I was listening. The receptionist led me to the back, in her clean nicely dressed clothes, thru a waiting room with gourmet coffees and filtered water bottles. Neat air conditioned offices lined the hallway on either side. I was "allowed" out back, to a roped off area to see the "shop". It was so clean. Cars were lined up in straight rows. There were no smells. There were no buckets to hold parts. There were no men in greasy coveralls, when at the end of the day, would scrape the grease from under their fingernails. Instead there were cars hooked to computers trying to diagnose the problem. It was state-of-the-art. The latest. It stank. Not with something my nose could pick up, but what my heart was left with–Nothing.
I remember when there no such thing as a computer, and people figured it all out, by listening.
I remember when I walked through ice and snow to go to school.
I remember when I used to steal rides on the back of the ice truck.
I remember wringing the heads of chickens and then eating them for dinner.
I remember the depression, I remember the war.
I remember when there was no TV and we gathered around the radio for entertainment.
My list of "I remember whens" are less dramatic:
I remember when we went to the movies for double features - two movies PLUS a cartoon, no previews.
I remember when the Helms bakery truck would announce its weekly arrival in our neighborhood with its distinguished tooting horn. I would stand behind the truck as the driver opened up the long wooden drawers filled with donuts of every kind. Sugar donuts - my favorite!
I remember being awaken by the clinking of the glass milk bottles when the milkman delivered them to our back door, before the sun ever came up.
I remember the smell of where my dad worked. Benson's Garage was just a 5 minute ride on my bike, past my friends houses, past the hospital, next to the liquor store. I love the smell of car grease....it takes me back to when I would watch my dad work on cars. He wore coveralls that were stained with the grease of daily jobs. His name was embroidered above his chest pocket.
I begged to be taught how the engine worked. I love the gears and all the parts. He kept a pail of kerosene next to his work bench, where greasy carburetors soaked to be taken apart and cleaned. All those parts, and he knew how it all went back together again. When there was an odd tapping of the engine, my dad would take a long screwdriver, place the tip end on the offending piece of metal, and the handle on his ear. I loved going on test drives with my dad, as he listened to the sound of the engine, as if he was a conductor of a great musical piece.
I took my new computerized car in to get checked the other day. It wasn't sounding right. I knew the sound of what it should be. I was listening. The receptionist led me to the back, in her clean nicely dressed clothes, thru a waiting room with gourmet coffees and filtered water bottles. Neat air conditioned offices lined the hallway on either side. I was "allowed" out back, to a roped off area to see the "shop". It was so clean. Cars were lined up in straight rows. There were no smells. There were no buckets to hold parts. There were no men in greasy coveralls, when at the end of the day, would scrape the grease from under their fingernails. Instead there were cars hooked to computers trying to diagnose the problem. It was state-of-the-art. The latest. It stank. Not with something my nose could pick up, but what my heart was left with–Nothing.
I remember when there no such thing as a computer, and people figured it all out, by listening.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Going for it!
Looking down at my bruised, bloodied knees I sigh. While lunging for the tennis ball, my feet just couldn't keep up with my enthusiasm, and I fell. My brand new shirt was now stained with the dust of the clay court. I wiped the dirt off my perspiring skin, and the gravel from my palms. I'm not sure if we won the point, but it was certainly worth it.
I can recount the adventures I had as a kid, by the scars and the chipped tooth I still wear on my body. The chip on my front tooth, which I never had fixed, is from the time I was racing the guys in the neighboorhood on my Schwinn Sting Ray, ladies edition,with a banana seat, around a tight corner out of the alley. I was in the lead. First one home was the winner! Last one was a rotten egg.
I didn't see the loose gravel on the road, as my back tire skidded out from under me. I lost control and I came tumbling down, mostly on my face....mostly on my two front teeth. There was concern that I would lose them, but I didn't. Neither did I lose the story of why I have the chip.
The scars on my knees were from endless adventures in the neighborhood. Before the shopping center came, and the construction on all the new homes, our house was surrounded by orchards of various fruit, and tomato fields. Great places to fight the enemy, with endless supply of ammo.
I like my scars and imperfections. I like my white hair. It would be a shame to have todays lasers blast my skin to make it smooth again and dyes to cover my hair. It would be blasting out my past, as if it never happened. I don't want my skin pulled tight, or my chipped tooth fixed, or my boobs enlarged. It took all this time to become who I am. It would be a shame to lose all that history.
I can recount the adventures I had as a kid, by the scars and the chipped tooth I still wear on my body. The chip on my front tooth, which I never had fixed, is from the time I was racing the guys in the neighboorhood on my Schwinn Sting Ray, ladies edition,with a banana seat, around a tight corner out of the alley. I was in the lead. First one home was the winner! Last one was a rotten egg.
I didn't see the loose gravel on the road, as my back tire skidded out from under me. I lost control and I came tumbling down, mostly on my face....mostly on my two front teeth. There was concern that I would lose them, but I didn't. Neither did I lose the story of why I have the chip.
The scars on my knees were from endless adventures in the neighborhood. Before the shopping center came, and the construction on all the new homes, our house was surrounded by orchards of various fruit, and tomato fields. Great places to fight the enemy, with endless supply of ammo.
I like my scars and imperfections. I like my white hair. It would be a shame to have todays lasers blast my skin to make it smooth again and dyes to cover my hair. It would be blasting out my past, as if it never happened. I don't want my skin pulled tight, or my chipped tooth fixed, or my boobs enlarged. It took all this time to become who I am. It would be a shame to lose all that history.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Pepper Steak
Last night my older brother Chuck and wife Kathy took me out to dinner at a fine restaurant by the ocean. We had to wait about an hour to be seated so we wandered around looking in art galleries and walked on the boardwalk. The smell of the sea, and the sound of the crashing waves were nice. I love the smell of salt air and the sound of the surf. In the near distance is the pier, where many early mornings Chuck and I would ride our bikes to fish.
As we ate we talked about growing up, and how different our perspectives were for being raised in the same house. Chuck remembers the silent treatment... I remember the yelling. He remembers a dad that would never do anything with him... I remember a dad who was always doing something with him in the Boy Scouts. "Do you remember the pepper steak dad used to make?" My glands started salivating at the mention of the words. "Yes, that was the best tasting meal I ever ate." "Do you think Mom still has the recipe?" I've looked for it and can't find it. We both knew exactly where the recipe was kept. That space is now filled with candy bars and treats.
It wasn't often that we had company over. I think it happened 2 or 3 times, but when it did, we had pepper steak. It was an all-day ordeal as my dad would prepare the 2-inch thick slab of beef and marinated it for hours. It sat on the counter, in an aluminum pan. The smell was something that tortured us with anticipation. The baked potatoes, wrapped in mud, in the coals waited until the steak was done, as we gathered to eat. What a meal!!!
This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and this alien that has the name Dad attached to him. "Mom, do you remember the pepper steak Dad used to make?" "No, she said... I don't like beef." "You don't remember? Oh my gosh, Chuck and I were just talking about it last night. Do you have the recipe?" "I don't know.... but you can look." "It was a newspaper clipping that Dad used to keep right here in the space." So I started through the books, not really thinking I would find it. I flipped open Betty Crocker, and The Joy of Cooking.... nothing. I picked up an old yellowed barbecue cookbook and opened the cover. There, in the inside flap, my dad had hand-written the whole thing, and a few pages back, the newspaper clipping fell out. I just won the lottery.
I'm all excited now, and my dad is looking at me. "Dad, do you remember cooking outside?" He didn't and I went on and on about how good it was. I read him the ingredients. "I did that? How long ago was that?" "Many, many years ago." He started touching the page that had his writing on it. He wanted to put his name on it, and I told him his name was written all over it. Every time I laid the newspaper clipping on top of his writing, he moved it off. He didn't want himself covered up. "I think I need to take this out and put it with my pictures." He is looking at the shrine on top of the TV that displays pictures of himself from years past. My mom raised her voice. "No, it is not going on the TV. It is not a memory." "But, Mom, it is... and he remembers." "If you put it there, I will take it down." So it is not going up on the shrine, but I get to take the original newspaper recipe home with me. I've made a copy and put it back in the book, in case my dad goes looking for it. And the cookbook will go to my brother Chuck.
As we ate we talked about growing up, and how different our perspectives were for being raised in the same house. Chuck remembers the silent treatment... I remember the yelling. He remembers a dad that would never do anything with him... I remember a dad who was always doing something with him in the Boy Scouts. "Do you remember the pepper steak dad used to make?" My glands started salivating at the mention of the words. "Yes, that was the best tasting meal I ever ate." "Do you think Mom still has the recipe?" I've looked for it and can't find it. We both knew exactly where the recipe was kept. That space is now filled with candy bars and treats.
It wasn't often that we had company over. I think it happened 2 or 3 times, but when it did, we had pepper steak. It was an all-day ordeal as my dad would prepare the 2-inch thick slab of beef and marinated it for hours. It sat on the counter, in an aluminum pan. The smell was something that tortured us with anticipation. The baked potatoes, wrapped in mud, in the coals waited until the steak was done, as we gathered to eat. What a meal!!!
This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and this alien that has the name Dad attached to him. "Mom, do you remember the pepper steak Dad used to make?" "No, she said... I don't like beef." "You don't remember? Oh my gosh, Chuck and I were just talking about it last night. Do you have the recipe?" "I don't know.... but you can look." "It was a newspaper clipping that Dad used to keep right here in the space." So I started through the books, not really thinking I would find it. I flipped open Betty Crocker, and The Joy of Cooking.... nothing. I picked up an old yellowed barbecue cookbook and opened the cover. There, in the inside flap, my dad had hand-written the whole thing, and a few pages back, the newspaper clipping fell out. I just won the lottery.
I'm all excited now, and my dad is looking at me. "Dad, do you remember cooking outside?" He didn't and I went on and on about how good it was. I read him the ingredients. "I did that? How long ago was that?" "Many, many years ago." He started touching the page that had his writing on it. He wanted to put his name on it, and I told him his name was written all over it. Every time I laid the newspaper clipping on top of his writing, he moved it off. He didn't want himself covered up. "I think I need to take this out and put it with my pictures." He is looking at the shrine on top of the TV that displays pictures of himself from years past. My mom raised her voice. "No, it is not going on the TV. It is not a memory." "But, Mom, it is... and he remembers." "If you put it there, I will take it down." So it is not going up on the shrine, but I get to take the original newspaper recipe home with me. I've made a copy and put it back in the book, in case my dad goes looking for it. And the cookbook will go to my brother Chuck.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Happy Meal
The well dressed man sat across from me in the crowded LA airport waiting area. The drone of humanity moving from one terminal to another was contrasted with the loud announcements of airline departures, boarding and lost people meeting other lost people in designated places. I love airports. Such a variety of cultures and nations. He was dressed in the typical Dallas style-leather jacket, cowboy boots. Such a symbol of Americana.
It was breakfast time, as he opened his McDonalds sack. Another symbol of America. Golden arches. He unwrapped his Egg McMuffin, opened his orange juice, and slowly without anyone noticing empty a bit of spirit into his juice. I smiled. Happy Meal.
It was breakfast time, as he opened his McDonalds sack. Another symbol of America. Golden arches. He unwrapped his Egg McMuffin, opened his orange juice, and slowly without anyone noticing empty a bit of spirit into his juice. I smiled. Happy Meal.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Menopause......So
so
my mother went thru the same thing
our paths now somehow joined
except she disappeared then
and wanted to die
and I was to blame
so
its time for the next phase of life.
when my body starts to slow down
and the eggs that it has so faithfully produce
shrivel up and die
I'm not to blame
so
the flashes of heat
from the inside
that warms my being, and wets my brow
reminds me
that life is constantly changing
so
my friends laugh at me
they have been thru it
others have paved the way
since the beginning of time
so
there's noone to blame.
my mother went thru the same thing
our paths now somehow joined
except she disappeared then
and wanted to die
and I was to blame
so
its time for the next phase of life.
when my body starts to slow down
and the eggs that it has so faithfully produce
shrivel up and die
I'm not to blame
so
the flashes of heat
from the inside
that warms my being, and wets my brow
reminds me
that life is constantly changing
so
my friends laugh at me
they have been thru it
others have paved the way
since the beginning of time
so
there's noone to blame.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
earlybirds
My day starts at the gym, working out with friends. Then we gather at different restaurant tables around town to eat. Daily they amaze me and daily they show me the way to a life full of energy, love and sharing...no matter what the age.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
My First Love
I found my childhood dream, tucked away in a closet gathering dust. The grip was worn, not only from years of sweat and use, but age had taken the shine off the leather surface. The strings that once were so tight that I could hear musical notes when the ball was bounced on it, were broken. The only possession of my youth, that will bring tears to my eyes. My tennis racket.
Hours were spent at the Thrifty's drug store, in the sporting goods aisle. I would hold the tennis rackets and dream of greatness. Then I would jump on my bike and ride to the courts to play tennis late into the afternoon. It became my place, the place I could dance on the hard courts. Fellow tennis players of all ages became my friends.
I entered all the local tournaments and I managed to win my share - winning in divisions much older than me. Some of my friends had private lessons. PRIVATE LESSON! Oh, how I begged my mom for them. It just wasn't to be. So I would sit on the bench, watch and listen to the instruction, then dash to a side court and practice what was taught. I was the most attentive sideline student out there. And when I played tournaments, and a new coach was around, I played even harder, hoping and praying to be "discovered". I still remember one coach say of my playing "She has great concentration. She has good hands and a light touch".
My friends had the fancy tennis outfits. I had hand me downs. They had the pretty skirts, I wore shorts. What I lacked in proper tennis attire, I made up with a killer serve.
My dreams of Wimbledon faded, and so did my tennis fervor. It has always been in my mind to come back to my first love. To the place I remember. So when my friend called to play tennis at a country club my heart lept. I went out and bought a fancy tennis outfit. I went out and got the latest racket. I am coming back 40 years later. And tomorrow, I'm going to take a tennis lesson. On the court. With a pro.
Not on the sidelines.
Hours were spent at the Thrifty's drug store, in the sporting goods aisle. I would hold the tennis rackets and dream of greatness. Then I would jump on my bike and ride to the courts to play tennis late into the afternoon. It became my place, the place I could dance on the hard courts. Fellow tennis players of all ages became my friends.
I entered all the local tournaments and I managed to win my share - winning in divisions much older than me. Some of my friends had private lessons. PRIVATE LESSON! Oh, how I begged my mom for them. It just wasn't to be. So I would sit on the bench, watch and listen to the instruction, then dash to a side court and practice what was taught. I was the most attentive sideline student out there. And when I played tournaments, and a new coach was around, I played even harder, hoping and praying to be "discovered". I still remember one coach say of my playing "She has great concentration. She has good hands and a light touch".
My friends had the fancy tennis outfits. I had hand me downs. They had the pretty skirts, I wore shorts. What I lacked in proper tennis attire, I made up with a killer serve.
My dreams of Wimbledon faded, and so did my tennis fervor. It has always been in my mind to come back to my first love. To the place I remember. So when my friend called to play tennis at a country club my heart lept. I went out and bought a fancy tennis outfit. I went out and got the latest racket. I am coming back 40 years later. And tomorrow, I'm going to take a tennis lesson. On the court. With a pro.
Not on the sidelines.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Pictures Hung Askew
I've walked thru the front door of my childhood home many times and I've seen it thru many eyes. Childhood eyes that were high enough to see through the mailbox cutout in the door. Adolescent eyes that finally where able to see in and out of the little window on the top half of the door. I've noticed the change. Now with my adult eyes, I open the door and announce my arrival. I walk passed familiar scenes that have greeted me for 50 years. The paintings that hung on the left wall, were done years ago by my mother. Her art has always cover the walls. They remind me that the artistic talent I carry around in my soul, was created in the womb of my mother.
The scene has changed recently, and not in small ways. My dad has taken down some of the all too familiar paintings, and nailed an old black and white portrait of himself from his younger years, with stoic photos of his mother on the left, and his father on the right. These are not hung on a nail with a wire. They are pounded securely to the wall with large construction type of nails. Those pictures aren't going anywhere soon. Reminds me of photos hung in popular restaurants, where they can't possibly be stolen. The fireplace that has the african masks lined up, now displays my dad's navy uniform, also pounded securely to the bricks and his name is visible on the inside collar. The top of the TV, that was a showcase for small pieces of art and sculpture, now has my dad's passport, and any other photo document that bears his face. These reminders of who he was are all askew kinda like my dad. He's nailing his life to the wall. His photos tell me where he's come from, and what he has done in his life. He doesn't want to loose himself. I'm sure there was a time where he realized he was loosing his memory. I've never heard him speak of it with his words. But his actions speak so much louder. Don't forget where I've come from. Don't forget who I am. Don't let me get lost . That's why he's nailing his life on the wall. So his kids and family won't forget. So he can have some tangible reminder of who he is. Every time I visit, and walk in the door, I stop and look and listen to him tell me all over again who those people are and who that guy is in the middle.. It doesn't matter if it was 30 minutes ago. I stop and listen. I won't forget you dad. I won't. And those nail holes on the wall? Someday when you are gone, someone will probably want to fill and covered them up. But I won't be the one to do that. Not me. I will carry those holes in my heart always.
The scene has changed recently, and not in small ways. My dad has taken down some of the all too familiar paintings, and nailed an old black and white portrait of himself from his younger years, with stoic photos of his mother on the left, and his father on the right. These are not hung on a nail with a wire. They are pounded securely to the wall with large construction type of nails. Those pictures aren't going anywhere soon. Reminds me of photos hung in popular restaurants, where they can't possibly be stolen. The fireplace that has the african masks lined up, now displays my dad's navy uniform, also pounded securely to the bricks and his name is visible on the inside collar. The top of the TV, that was a showcase for small pieces of art and sculpture, now has my dad's passport, and any other photo document that bears his face. These reminders of who he was are all askew kinda like my dad. He's nailing his life to the wall. His photos tell me where he's come from, and what he has done in his life. He doesn't want to loose himself. I'm sure there was a time where he realized he was loosing his memory. I've never heard him speak of it with his words. But his actions speak so much louder. Don't forget where I've come from. Don't forget who I am. Don't let me get lost . That's why he's nailing his life on the wall. So his kids and family won't forget. So he can have some tangible reminder of who he is. Every time I visit, and walk in the door, I stop and look and listen to him tell me all over again who those people are and who that guy is in the middle.. It doesn't matter if it was 30 minutes ago. I stop and listen. I won't forget you dad. I won't. And those nail holes on the wall? Someday when you are gone, someone will probably want to fill and covered them up. But I won't be the one to do that. Not me. I will carry those holes in my heart always.
Dad
Wade, sitting in front of his life from long ago. Navy uniform, ribbons and certificates, wearing a florida hurricane tshirt, given to me by a dear, dear friend in Florida, and passed along to him He's always liked tshirts.
See story above.
See story above.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
studio at siesta key
A space for my creative side. A small art studio tucked away at siesta key, where it is a short walk to one of the prettiest beaches in the world. I share this with another artist. It truly is a haven away from my "other" life.
Friday, January 14, 2005
judymarathon
I did it!!! After 8 months of hard work and training, I joined 24,000 other runners as we all ran...one step at a time.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Zoe
yes, she does look cute! And she got on the kitchen counter, got a bagel and was sitting innocently on the couch. She thought I wouldn't notice what she was about to bury...later that day, I found the bagel....under my pillow. She is definitely possessed.
In the company of women
I sit, surround by you, Women. Some of you I know, and others I don't. We are joined by the fact we all have body parts named the same. Some of you have lost some of them, a breast, maybe two. Surgeries have removed some of what we have in common.
I am not afraid of you, and for once, I'm not comparing. We are all together, and I can feel the bond, even though I do not know your stories...or your names.
And I look around, and our eyes make contact, and I sigh. "Where have you been my whole life? Have I not noticed? Have I not cared? I crave being with you. I long for shared stories, of rebirth. of struggles and triumph.
we are in each others company. we are each other.
and for that I sigh a big - - - - - y e s
I am not afraid of you, and for once, I'm not comparing. We are all together, and I can feel the bond, even though I do not know your stories...or your names.
And I look around, and our eyes make contact, and I sigh. "Where have you been my whole life? Have I not noticed? Have I not cared? I crave being with you. I long for shared stories, of rebirth. of struggles and triumph.
we are in each others company. we are each other.
and for that I sigh a big - - - - - y e s
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Rear View Mirror
I'm a firm believer in looking ahead, and not looking back. There is something optimistic about the future and all that is ahead. But these last few days events have made me stop and think that it is good to glance back once in awhile.
I was driving down a well-traveled road, minding my own business. I was in that space where time stands still, and I was moving and flowing with the traffic. I'm always checking my mirrors to see what is going on. I live in a tourist town, and the visiting snow birds puts all of us here in high alert. It is not unusual to see cars doing U-turns and ending up on the sidewalk or people stopping in traffic, to ask directions. My kids call elderly drivers "q-tips", because all you can see is the white tops of their heads. These sweet sweet grandparents we all love become lethal on streets far from their familiar surroundings.
So, I'm slowing down at a stop light and I glanced in my mirror. A woman was wiping tears from her face. She was crying! Now, I have had many good cries in the privacy of my auto. I've always assumed that it was a place I could let it all out, and bother no one, or have anyone bother me. I drove on with one eye on the road ahead, and one eye watching her. She turned later and took her tears down another road.
I stop at the next light and looked in my mirror, and there is another lady wiping away her sorrow. Two different people. Two completely random ladies, with their own random story. I wanted to stop my car, right there in traffic, I wanted to make a U-turn and end up on a sidewalk, just so I could say to either one of them "Why are you crying? Is there anything I can do for you?" I left them with their tears, and the privacy of their autos.
Today, I looked in my rear view mirror, and a lady was holding a hand towel on her right eye. There is so much to see, looking forward, in my rear view mirror.
I was driving down a well-traveled road, minding my own business. I was in that space where time stands still, and I was moving and flowing with the traffic. I'm always checking my mirrors to see what is going on. I live in a tourist town, and the visiting snow birds puts all of us here in high alert. It is not unusual to see cars doing U-turns and ending up on the sidewalk or people stopping in traffic, to ask directions. My kids call elderly drivers "q-tips", because all you can see is the white tops of their heads. These sweet sweet grandparents we all love become lethal on streets far from their familiar surroundings.
So, I'm slowing down at a stop light and I glanced in my mirror. A woman was wiping tears from her face. She was crying! Now, I have had many good cries in the privacy of my auto. I've always assumed that it was a place I could let it all out, and bother no one, or have anyone bother me. I drove on with one eye on the road ahead, and one eye watching her. She turned later and took her tears down another road.
I stop at the next light and looked in my mirror, and there is another lady wiping away her sorrow. Two different people. Two completely random ladies, with their own random story. I wanted to stop my car, right there in traffic, I wanted to make a U-turn and end up on a sidewalk, just so I could say to either one of them "Why are you crying? Is there anything I can do for you?" I left them with their tears, and the privacy of their autos.
Today, I looked in my rear view mirror, and a lady was holding a hand towel on her right eye. There is so much to see, looking forward, in my rear view mirror.
Monday, January 03, 2005
How's The Weather and Other Ways To Say I Love You
There are many ways to say I love you. Some people say it with roses. Some with candy. The most common way is just to say it "I love You" Then there is the way my dad has said it for as long as I can remember.
"How's the weather?"
Our phone conversations through the years have always been the same.
"Hi, It's good to hear from you.
How's the weather?"
I come to realize that what he's really saying in
"Hi, It's good to hear from you.
I love you."
Words that have been hard for my dad to form with his lips, have been spoken in other ways. I don't know if its because of his generation, or his upbringing. I don't remember him saying I love you to anyone much, until old age set in, and his alzheimer's stripped him of the reason why he won't say it. He says it now, "I love you a big bunch." My dad has always like bunches....bunches of tools, bunches of buddys to hang out with at the bars, bunches of orchids, bunches of kids he had.
I like how's the weather? It covers all of lifes journey.
How's the weather? How's your life...how are the kids...how is your health... It's much easier to talk about the weather and its storms than what is really happening.
In years past, I've always filled him in on the tornadoes of Texas and how close they were to where I lived. Hurricanes are harder to describe to him now. His memory is failing and he doesn't have the words to ask about hurricanes. I showed him a picture of the hurricanes covering the state of Florida, where I now live. In years past, we would have talked on and on about how could three hurricanes hit in one month. He didn't remember I moved there.
He has for years told me, when the weather gets better he'd come for a visit. Maybe he knows of some turmoil either side of the airport. Maybe he is waiting for life to clear up a bit, so he can come in for a smooth landing.
Sometimes when I call him, I beat him to the punch, and I'd ask him how's the weather on his end. I don't do it anymore, It changes the rhythm of our conversation. It takes away the chance for him to reach out to me.
He hardly knows my name anymore. I'm the nice lady that lives across the country. but so far, he continues to ask about the weather....and everytime he does..I smile. How's the weather? Fine Dad...just fine.
"How's the weather?"
Our phone conversations through the years have always been the same.
"Hi, It's good to hear from you.
How's the weather?"
I come to realize that what he's really saying in
"Hi, It's good to hear from you.
I love you."
Words that have been hard for my dad to form with his lips, have been spoken in other ways. I don't know if its because of his generation, or his upbringing. I don't remember him saying I love you to anyone much, until old age set in, and his alzheimer's stripped him of the reason why he won't say it. He says it now, "I love you a big bunch." My dad has always like bunches....bunches of tools, bunches of buddys to hang out with at the bars, bunches of orchids, bunches of kids he had.
I like how's the weather? It covers all of lifes journey.
How's the weather? How's your life...how are the kids...how is your health... It's much easier to talk about the weather and its storms than what is really happening.
In years past, I've always filled him in on the tornadoes of Texas and how close they were to where I lived. Hurricanes are harder to describe to him now. His memory is failing and he doesn't have the words to ask about hurricanes. I showed him a picture of the hurricanes covering the state of Florida, where I now live. In years past, we would have talked on and on about how could three hurricanes hit in one month. He didn't remember I moved there.
He has for years told me, when the weather gets better he'd come for a visit. Maybe he knows of some turmoil either side of the airport. Maybe he is waiting for life to clear up a bit, so he can come in for a smooth landing.
Sometimes when I call him, I beat him to the punch, and I'd ask him how's the weather on his end. I don't do it anymore, It changes the rhythm of our conversation. It takes away the chance for him to reach out to me.
He hardly knows my name anymore. I'm the nice lady that lives across the country. but so far, he continues to ask about the weather....and everytime he does..I smile. How's the weather? Fine Dad...just fine.
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