Bad Memories

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

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

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

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

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

categories: Humor_

Norma

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

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

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

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

Hospice Reject!

Hospice Reject!
Originally uploaded by jrdesigns.

Empty the Trash!

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

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

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

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

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

Six Months Left

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buying Land in California

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

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

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

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

Breaking Point vs. Target

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, Get Going!

Dec. 13, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Farewell, Dad

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.

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.

My Dad
Originally uploaded by jrdesigns.

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.

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.

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!!!

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.

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.

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.

Enjoy My Trip

Click on the title, and it will take you to my photo album

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!

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.