My Circular Taste

I have to begin this post with a remembrance from my earlier years listening to my dad's preference in music on the radio. Most of the stations that played big bands, also played Easy Listening or Pop as well. This is where I heard Steve and Edie Gormet, Frank Sinatra and Jack Jones among others. As I got older I found I liked listening to this music more than the 70's stuff most of my generation listened to, therefore, I kept it hidden. I played it in the car when no one was watching-er-listening. But I knew the songs so well from having heard them so many times that I would sing along with the singer. Some of the songs were what people term as "standards". Songs like Blue Moon sung by Mel Torme or I've Got You Under My Skin by Frank Sinatra. I say "by" meaning, the vocalizations most identified with the song. They didn't write them, they just made them hugely famous by singing them. So we come to some other songs which entered my brain for one reason or another and stuck there. They weren't wildly popular, probably. Songs like "Who Can I Turn To," with Sammy Davis, Jr. singing it or "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" with Tony Bennett. Something about those songs stayed with me. So, anyways, one of those stayed-with-me-songs was one called "She Loves Me" and I think I originally heard some woman sing it--can't quite recall who--but the lyrics were witty and catchy. They faded into the background and I would it hear it once in a blue moon, but nothing too much on the radar. Then I heard the Jack Jones version and I loved it right away. His voice and the lyrics were great! But of course, no one played it very much, so when it came on the radio I wouldn't remember how much I liked it until I couldn't get it out of my head for three or four days.

Now we fast forward to a few months ago. I was purchasing a CD of Jack Jones songs because I still do like his voice, his phrasing and his eyes are really great, too! And on the CD I purchased was a song called, "She Loves Me." I have pretty good recall on those older songs, but I thought this one was some smarmy something or other and ignored it until I was tooling along in the car listening when it came on and I felt like I found an old friend. I played it numerous times in a row after that to refresh my memory of the lyrics I found so enchanting. Unfortunately, whilst refreshing my memory, it stayed running through my head repeatedly, so I needed to do something with it to make it go away. I decided that I would look up the lyricist for the song--not really something you can do on internet too well if someone recently released a song of the same or very similar name and all it wants to do is give you hits on the newer versions. I typed and retyped and revised and circumvented as best I could and finally found what I was looking for on Wikipedia--sort of. I found the guys' name, but the entry mentioned that the song actually came from a musical done in 1963 from a book entitled, Parfumerie written in Hungary.

I need to digress a moment here and tell you something else. I like old movies, too. And I watched one entitled, "In The Good Old Summertime" with Van Johnson and Judy Garland and was instantly entranced. I found out it was a remake of the movie, "Shop Around the Corner." I have since learned that "You've Got Mail" with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks is a remake of that film essentially. I watched "Shop Around the Corner," one Saturday when it was on some obscure movie channel. I decided that I would like to have the whole trilogy as it were: I now own the Judy Garland/Van Johnson and the Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan one. I just need to purchase the other one.

So we come back to my looking at the Wikipedia write up of "She Loves Me" and what I find out is that the Hungarian play turned into the musical is the same story line as the above movies. All the same. And the music is from the musical.

I think this proves that I really don't have taste all over the map, I have really only one thing I love and that is this story, told over and over and over again. How depressing. I thought I was discerning. Here I find out, I'm not so much.

The words to the song, by the way are this (the song has kind of a bossa nova beat the Jones sings it):

Well! Well! Well! Well! Well!
Well! Well! Well! Well! Well!
Will wonders never cease?
I didn't like her!
I didn't like her!
I couldn't stand her
I couldn't stand her!
I wouldn't have her!
I never knew her,
But now I do!
And I could...
And I would...
And I know...

She loves me
And to my amazement
I love it knowing that she loves me
She loves me,
True, she doesn't show it
How could she,
When she doesn't know it.
Yesterday she loathed me, bah!
Now today she likes me, ah!
And tomorrow, tomorrow...
AAAAAAAAAAAh!

My teeth ache from the urge to kiss her
I'm speechless for I mustn't tell her
It's wrong now, but it won't be long now
Before my love discovers
That she and I are lovers
Imagine how surprised she's bound to be,
She loves meeeeeeeeeee!

I love her, isn't that a wonder?
I wonder why I didn't want her.
I want her, that's the thing that matters,
And matters are improving daily.

Yesterday I loathed her, bah!
Now today I love her, ah!
And tomorrow, tomorrow...
AAAAAAAAAAAh!

I'm tingling such delicious tingle,
I'm trembling, what the hell does that mean?
I'm freezing that's because it's cold out.
But still I'm incandescent
And like some adolescent
I'd like to stroll on ev'ry wall I see
She loves me!
She loves meeeeeeeee!

Just as a sidelight, another song in that musical (which had a revival in 1993, I think) is the song, "Will He Like Me," which Barbra Steisand made so wonderfully. See? I just like the same thing, I just didn't know it!

Music For Me

I am writing about music I like today because my children and husband don't like the same stuff I do and I feel left out. What I really feel though, is superior. Because what I like are things with melodies, and strings and flow and balance. What I do not like are things that are either screaming or incoherent babble. And screeching guitars, gotta say, I really detest screeching guitars. Actually screeching anything are pretty much something I don't like. The word makes my hearing aids tingle. The actual sound is much, too much for me.

But to continue. I went to visit my mother and stepdad today. We went out to breakfast, a very unusual event. I am still working and they aren't. But I have some days to burn before I lose them, so I took off and went to see them for a couple of hours. In the process of getting to their house I have noticed that the music that accompanies me is music that I can't hear on the radio anymore. Of course, if I had that satellite radio thingee, I might still be able to find a station, but I don't want to listen to all that talking and commercials and things. I want to hear what I like. And what I like isn't played anymore on the stations in my area. I like Sammy Davis, Jr. and Steve and Edie Gormet, Jack Jones and Frank Sinatra. I have a pretty good catalog of Gershwin, Porter and Berlin in my head. Lots of lyrics, too. Sung by those guys and some gals who used to perform on my father's radio stations. I have CDs, too. Lots of Frank. Just a few of the others. I put on whatever my particular favorite is for the day, and drive the next 45 minutes or so either listening or singing along--depending on my mood. Sometimes I skip around on an album, sometimes I play 'em straight through.

Some of the songs I realize are real relics of the past. Some of them make me cringe in their "political uncorrectness" these days. But hey, when they came out, they were very popular. And singable. And I got to thinking--what will my generation dance to at their children's weddings? If they take dancing lessons, they aren't learning to dance to "My Sweet Embraceable You" are they? Or are they? The music of the 70's was a rebellion of their parents music. I understand. But their parents music--okay--my parent's music is good for what it's called, "Easy Listening." There isn't any subliminal message underneath. It smooth and easy and not too demanding. Will I dance to Inna Gotta Davita or however it's spelled at my daughter's wedding? Geez! I hope not. And if that means I have to take dancing lessons with the hubby while listening to Frank or Sammy, then bring it on! He won't be thrilled, I'm sure, but I will be.

I remember reading a book one time and it said that this music I am referring to is, "the music of the ages." Like it lasts forever. It feels that way to me. Like it lasts forever. It brings me back to childhood and makes me wish that some of that "rosy glow" still existed. And so I listen to that music most of the time. I like the Beatles, the Stones, the Beach Boys and lots of other bands from the 70's. but I love those crooners of the past more than any other kind of music.

I intend to blog more about this kind of music and the songs. But I'm gonna go do the dishes now and get ready for my husband to come home from work. The dinner will be on the table (or at least the table will be set) and I'm glad that I can re-create that little bit of time in our house this evening.

Schools

The insistent ringing
The bleating bell
The constant chatter of the office.

The unfinished story, anecdote, sentence
Hangs for hours in the air
To be snagged in the off moment and half-finished
While the parents parade on and on.

With the snacks and lunches and the backpacks
Forgotten in the car, on the bench, in the front room
With stories of their delightful children and their
Endearing ways too numerous to mention.
Or their sad lamentations of forgetfulness
Of the parents of course, never the children.
Ruefully smiling, acknowledging that of course, it was
The children, but they're not to blame.

And the phone again rings and rings
Of children sick, or just simply staying home
Or the questions of safety duty, lunch duty, lunch selections,
Time of after school activities, during lunch activities and
The amount of time needed to get them to CCD.

The teachers are asking for their renewed schedule
their forgotten duties, their students home phone numbers.
And are we ordering out today? How much is that? What time will it arrive?
And are the pickles on the side?

The children stream into the nurses' office with
Lost and loose teeth, bloody noses, bruised skin and egos.
Parading past with assistants who need copies and schedules, too.

Did I miss this? Yes, surprisingly I did. As I trudge
Up the steps once again, as I did 7 plus years ago
Carrying papers, news, help and a smile or two.
But I will be denied it once again apparently.
Moving on to older students who don't need you to care
Just to make sure you don't get in their way.
Who will mow you down with a brief nod in your direction
Which is supposed to suffice for an apology.
They won't need the parents satellites as much, but they will
Need texting priviledges. They won't need a hug, but they
Would like it if you knew the answer to number 4 on the Math Quiz.

How different will it be, I wonder.
How much will be the same? Starting again and yet not.
I wonder. I wonder.

Happy Brother's Day

I want to write about my brothers. Not just because I love them, as I hope they are aware. I want you to know something about them because they are wonderful men and the world would be less if they were not here.

My older brother shares an awful lot of things with me in terms of hearing deficiencies, tastes in books, slow but determined understanding of a problem and dry humor. He is kind. His writing style is packed. Packed with eloquent descriptions and touching humaneness. He wanders about here and there in his writings, but I can follow his tracks and not get lost in the prose. His love and kindnesses flow through his life, his writing and his laughter. I am always enriched with his conversations which are never enough and his e-mails which are infrequent due to his busy schedules.

My younger brother shares a lot of things with me too. We are the two younger siblings, the "sweetie twins" dubbed by the older pair. Partners in play and laughter, we can find joy in music, books, buildings, flowers and each other. He hasn't had much time lately to get to the sweet spot of joy, but he knows its there in his undulating laugh and that sparkle in his "dad" laden eyes. His creativity and vision is so impressive to me. He may not write for a living(although he could--he is excellent with words), but the eloquence he uses with lines and angles speaks entire libraries. He is also full of love and kindness and compassion. We don't talk much either, he is so very busy treading these days. But when we do, we are sitting out back of the old house once again, watching clouds and making observations and I'm home again.

I spoke with them both yesterday--a very rare occurrence and I was reminded that though we share roots and a past, we also have a friendship in the present and future. There are so many strands of our lives which intertwine with each other, that make each other more than what we would be alone. I could not be who I am with others without my brothers. And I think that is a very good thing.

So Happy Brother's Day, guys. Love ya.

Happy Birthday

It's not my birthday. I'm sure it's somebody's birthday somewhere, but not mine. I was thinking of birthdays today though as the youngest will be celebrating 23 years of existence next week. I was thinking of birthdays past, both mine and the children's.

Remember how it was for your birthday? The excitement of, the anticipation of, the list-making, plan making, totally involvement of the birthday. Some birthdays were bigger than others. Not necessarily the age, but the experience. The "wish list" for your birthday was excelled only by the ginormous list you made for Christmas. There were always the exotic requests (gold earrings? cowboy boots?)alongside the "sure to receives" like underwear or socks. Somewhere in between was the reality.

In our house as a child, you got to have your choice for dinner and dessert. I remember the dessert part most. Chocolate cake with vanilla icing? Vanilla cake with chocolate icing? Mint chocolate chip ice cream? You name it, it was yours.

I tried to hold onto that tradition with our children as long as I could, but the allure of "eating out" overtook us. Alas, we go out to eat either due to my culinary skills (or lack of) or the excitement of the varied menu, never available no matter how many times you asked.

Birthdays were made for dreaming. They made you think bigger, older, more grandiose dreams than the everyday ones. Maybe this year you would go horseback riding? Or the party could be somewhere other than your house (now I know that today, the party is almost ALWAYS someplace other than your house, but in the Old Days, they were never anywhere else.) Maybe you would get money to buy the newest record, or a new outfit or that boy you liked would give you a ring! The possibilities were endless.

I still look forward to birthdays, because I still wish on them like the candles on the cake. But I wish for different things now: happiness for my children, long life for my siblings and mother, health for my husband. It's still fun to dream.

So Happy Birthday to you!

Being of two minds

The ambivalence of the season following the season is confusing
Would the Wise Men have stopped to converse with us about our confusion?
The "Thank God its over" conundrum with the "It's over already?"
The pinging of the evergreen needles is counterpointed with the ticking of the clock
The false candles in the window reminding us of the need for light at 4:30
The sweets festooning the dining room table are far outweighed at the scales in the bathroom
Red and green poinsettias stand amidst the other greenery
Ostentatiously preening in the window as the philodendron snickers silently,
"It won't be long," it whispers, "you'll be just green like the rest of us."
The fireplace, never used except during this time of year, goes dormant, sullenly
hoarding it's heaped up piles of ashes for another winter.
The wreaths on the door, the festive flag flapping on the winter breeze, even the electric wooden tree, painted to resemble the evergreen in the corner will all soon fold themselves up for a long winter's nap.
The bareness of the walls, floors and doors a testament to the fleeting of seasons and the march of the hours.
Are you sad or glad it's done? It's hard to say, being of two minds.

Frosted Pindowanes

The words to holiday songs are one of the reasons I sing them, even though I have been informed by numerous friends (and family, too) that I'm off key. I really do love to sing songs at this time of the year. When I hear the words to "I'll Be Home for Christmas", it reminds me of my father who said the servicemen hated this song when they were overseas in WWII because they knew they wouldn't be. The words to "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" seem like they are fine and upbeat until you hear the haunting melody which tells you that perhaps the singer isn't so thrilled with the holiday this year. The Chipmunks sang a variety of songs from a few albums, but "Hang Up Your Stocking" is the one that makes me think of my older brother, bobbing his head along to the chorus. My daughter makes a mix CD every year of Christmas songs for me and this year in the collection was "Do You Hear What I Hear?" sung by a male group interspersed with Baba O'Reilly. It was fantastic! I've played that over and over until my husband shuffles quietly out of the room, mumbling something.

Before my daughter made mix CDs though, I made a couple myself. The one that seems to be the family staple (or the one they either love or detest the most, I suppose) has a compilation of some standard favorites sung by Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Johnny Mathis and the Muppets (from a Muppet Christmas Carol). It is the one I hide after the holidays so that I can bring it out around November each year and play it repeatedly before the new CD is received. I can sing along to every single one of those songs. A few years ago, I added a song to the repertoire, "Christmas Stays The Same." It was a version sung by Linda Eder-I think that's how you spell her name. And when I finally learned the lyrics, I decided that this was my new favorite Christmas song.

Here are the words:

Santa Claus and mistletoe,
Carols by the fire
Send a card and spread a little Christmas cheer.
Silent night, a fall of snow
Listen to the choir,
Everyone is happy that it's here.
For we all remember, some past December
Of tinsel and holly and people we love.
Put the angel on the tree then enjoy the view.
Wait until the children are asleep and then
Put together all the toys,
Hide a gift or two
Wishing you were just a kid again.
For we all remember, some past December
Of train sets that whistled and dolls we could name.
Oh the years may change
But Christmas stays the same.
Turkey and gravy,
Hams full of honey
Cousins you see once a year,
Fathers who scold you,
Then slip you some money
And roofs full of tiny reindeer.
Yes we all remember some past December;
Of grandmas and kitchens with kettles aflame.
Oh the years may change
But Christmas stays the same

Of course the music is lilting and wonderful and I get all misted up at the last, "Yes, we all remember some past December," because each and every time I remember all those Christmases ago, from long past and recent past and they blend together in one giant Christmas carol. It's sung in harmony and slightly off key, but it couldn't be any more beautiful than the angels that first Christmas in my mind.

Its That Time of Year

I awoke this morning, the first day of the New Year, in pretty much the same funk I've woken up to for the last umpty-ump years. This year was just slightly, well, funkier. The house is still festive--can't take down the Nativity scene until at least the Wise Men make their entrance. And the stockings are still hung by the chimney with care. But Santa has come and gone and so have the children.

And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The house is so quiet. The cat is sleeping--well there's really nothing noteworthy there, the cat is always sleeping. The gifts have all been put away. The good china is back in the hutch until the next family event. There are scads of cookies still to be eaten, candy in the candy dish and gift breads still on the counter in the kitchen. There are empty boxes still on the hearth from the youngest. He took the contents and left too quickly to my mind, to go back to warmer climes, chummier company, and a schedule in retail that forbids family time. Oh, that was so unfair of me, I think. By now, if he and his sister were still under the roof, most of the goodies would be gone, consumed by the constantly grazing hordes that come with those two. I look around at the snowmen decorations, the angels, the little stuffed teddy bears I put in some people's stockings and think to myself that even though I knew it would be over sooner this year, I didn't really know it. But now I do. I'm re-reading about 4 books at once, playing more inane computer games and putzing around the house trying to stay away from the West Wing collection that someone loaned me so I won't stay wrapped up in the blanket all day, feeling fuzzy and not of this world. I probably need to get back to work so I can stop thinking. But what can I do to stop feeling? That my friend is what makes it the hardest time of the year.

Well it finally stopped

After 30 hours of continuous snow, it has finally stopped. There is at least 20 inches on the ground. 20 inches of white stuff. We no longer have cheap labor as both children have moved out. Its up to the hubby and I to blaze a trail to the shed and get the shovels. And start digging. Because of the sheer volume of the stuff, you have to shovel layers. So you are essentially shoveling three times in one spot before reaching the ground level. We are not young anymore. And we definitely are no longer in shape (shape being a relative term--I for example am sort of round--that's a shape, isn't it--but I digress).

We do have a small version of a snow blower. We hadn't used it for a couple of years, so getting it to start was a gamble. After much blowing and blustering both by man and machine, it sputtered to a start. It worked on the driveway which was a blessing. The drive is not paved, it's lined with red stones and it is very long, seemingly more so with all that snow! It was used as well to clear the walkways, which I had already cleared with the handy dandy shovel, the one which holds onto the snow every 4th shovelful, so you have to bang it to release the hold, then re-shovel it back up again. It would have been entertaining, except I was too tired by then to be amused. I went around whacking the bushes to remove the snow which threatened to snap off the branches. Amusing sidelight--the next door neighbor is fanatical about leaves on her lawn; even blows them in the dark--by whacking the shrubbery, I loosed some leaves onto her pristine white yard. I anticipate the leaf blower will be whipped out posthaste to eliminate the offending debris.

Our neighbor on the other side has one of those industrial strength snow-blowers. The kind that can pick up and throw snowmen before they have a chance to retaliate. He is a considerate and kind man, helping out the neighbors all around. He has offered to help us clear our drive, but the results of the last effort--flinging red stones causing all to take cover under the bushes out front, he does not offer to help us out with the driveway. Instead, he has that cheap labor I mentioned before, children, come over and work on the ice encrusted sidewalk in front of our house, where the snowplow has filled in the nice pathway made by my trusty shovel. I offer them hot chocolate and cookies, since I have no money, I couldn't get to the bank. They smile politely and keep shoveling. I bet they complain to their dad when they get done.

When the sun finally goes down at the end of the day, my husband and I and the heating pad are happily ensconced on the couch, watching football. The Christmas lights the neighbors have put about look wonderful on the snow. I really do like snow to look at. Just not to shovel. Happy Holidays.

The End of the Day

It's technically the end of the day for me. 9:30 at night signifies that its time for "sleepertowns" as Jim would say. I begin the routine of answering last minute e-mails, putting away things standing longingly on the side of the sink which have dried and I've ignored, I perhaps play one more game of computer solitaire hoping to beat it this time. My eyes get droopy and my hearing aids come out (hope nobody calls I want to talk to).

But tonight there is a sense of anticipation before going to bed. Tomorrow is predicted a HUGE snowstorm. I have milk, eggs and bread in the house and I have no where to go tomorrow. I'm looking forward to a day of baking and decorating and doing all the holiday things I can't do during the week after work, 'cause I'm too tired.

So I'm not real tired right now, I'm looking forward to the snow and the wind. Of course, when I have to go out and help shovel the 3 mile driveway, I will not be quite so excited. But right now, before it actually begins to snow I feel a small excitement building. It's probably a hold over from my childhood days. I wonder if the meteorologists are exaggerating as they tend to do. I wonder if I'll be able to teach my class on Sunday. I wonder how it will look and sound and feel. When it snows its so restful and quiet. For a person who wears hearing aids to say it's quiet, well, then it must be quiet. But there is a hushed kind of breathing the snow has, that I just love.

A snow day before Christmas. I'm really looking forward to waking up tomorrow.

Girl on a sidewalk

Out of the corner of my eye
I saw a shape on the sidewalk
Because it was not something that belonged there
I stopped
As did another.

The shape was a young lady,
Laid out by a bicycle fall
Her backpack flung off to the side
The bike lounging lazily on its side near her

She was wearing red pants
Blood red, but not hers-blood that is
And they were short, too short for the cooler weather
She didn't appear to be shaken or scared

The other lady who stopped and I hoovered around her
Without touching--I work in a school, I know what I can and cannot do
As she picked herself up and accepted our
Mother-like admonishments: are you alright? are you hurt? can you walk?

She was almost serene in her re-assembly of stuff
The only give away, the bright red flush to her cheeks
And I wondered, since I didn't see it, did she really fall?
Or was this some experiment to see if someone would notice?
The other woman offered to drive her home, but she politely refused
Even though, she told us, she lived quite a ways away.

She got back on the bike and began to pedal stoically on
Without a backward glance to the would-be rescurers
Her pony tail bouncing at each crack in the sidewalk.
We looked at each other, the woman and I and I could see her question, too.
Did she fall? Was she running away and stopped to rest? Was she trying
to see if anyone cared that a young lady off her bike in red pants would lay on
the cold sidewalk on a winter afternoon?
I wondered as I drove on and I still do, sketching scenarios of the whys and
wherefores.

the dentist in your mind

Okay, I don't like going to the dentist. He isn't a bad man. He goes out of his way to be gentle and speak gently to me. He knows I have sensitive teeth, so he makes sure I have enough numbing agent in my mouth before he even attempts to drill anything. He is really a great guy. His son has joined him in the practice and from what I can tell he is also gentle and kind, although kind of young.

Ah, but the anticipation is always worse than the actual event. I imagine all sorts of horrors: he'll have a substitute there and they won't have read what a fanatical, whimpering bowl of jello I am and will say, "Novocaine? No one uses that stuff anymore!" and commence drilling; he will look inside my mouth and tell me that the entire right side of my face will collapse unless I remove all of the teeth there--okay that actually wouldn't be so bad, they at least knock you out for that; the scenarios are endless. They all end up with me whimpering in the chair and begging to be left alone. I prolong any visit as long as possible. Even if a tooth is bothering me. I just know he'll find something that has to be taken care of that day and it will NOT be a good thing.

I used to go to a dentist who would give me laughing gas before even coming at me with the Novocaine. THAT'S how nervous I was. They don't do that anymore. I did however see one ad in a local paper. The guy was advertising that he guarantees no pain while he works on you. I was wondering how he could say that? What does he do? Hit you over the head with a bat before he begins? But no, that would be painful. Maybe he gives you whatever the oral surgeon gives you to knock you out, so you don't care what he does with your mouth. I kind of like that idea. I think I'll bring it up to my current dentist the next time I see him...in another couple of years...you know, when I can no longer put it off.

a question of light

I'm sitting on the bed around 9:30 at night and the quirky lights have just gone out up stairs. But the light over the pillow is still on. It illuminates the left side of my face and causes a reflection on the screen of the laptop I'm writing on. It is the reflection that got my attention this evening.

I have always thought that I was not vain. Until I colored my hair to cover the gray. And started applying make-up a little more than haphazardly. When my reflection is seen this evening, the lines around my mouth and onto my cheek are in more vivid detail than perhaps I'd like. I can see the fine fuzz of hair on my face--it gives my left side a sort of silvery cast. I got thinking about our ancient ancestors and when the facial hair began to disappear, did they miss it? I'm wearing my old roundish glasses and I realize I'm looking at my mother's face as much as my own. I have always thought my ears too big and in this half-light the lobes of them loom large under the fringe of my short hair. I read somewhere that your ears continue to grow all your life. Yikes! By the time I'm 80, I'll have elephant ears, flapping along with my jowls and loose upper arms. I could be a one man band in my declining years.

I realize the lines radiating from my mouth are "laugh lines" and they resemble my Dad. Not too much of my outward self resembles him. It isn't a bad legacy I guess. I cannot see the whole of my face, I don't like looking at it that much anyway and avoid it except for the make-up, hair routine in the morning. I don't hate my face, I just don't pay much attention to it after primping it for the day. But the half shadow makes me look a lot more serious--except for the laugh lines. I look tired I think. My eyelids are sort of droopy, maybe I'm trying to look interesting for this piece? No, I'm just tired.

That small group of hair at my temple which never seems to do what I want them to do are flipping out horizontally again. When I wake up in the morning, they are almost determined to be doing anything but what the other hairs are doing. They are my defiant streak I guess.

I keep going back to the lines on my cheek. They are deeper, more etched. Some would say it gives my face character. I just think they are part of a canvas that each day I paint over without obliterating them. Not that I'm trying to, really. But I don't go out of my way to point them out either. And so to bed. Time for another night of observations to go the way of the quirky lights. Over and dark.

And the good news is...

I got an e-mail from a really wonderful friend--kind, funny, so compassionate it makes your teeth ache--that she has been asked to write a book. Now, I know she likes to write, but doesn't really do much of it at all. And I'm sure she can string her thoughts, words and deeds together in a coherent and probably moving tome. But let me remind you of this--someone ASKED her to write this book.

Here I am slogging away for months at a time, refining, refining, touching up, throwing out lines after lines, pages after pages in the hope that someday I can submit either one of two stories to be published and ... someone has asked her to write.

To be fair, I haven't got the "low-down" yet on what the topic is and whom it was that asked her. She so excited I could hear her voice go up a couple of octaves just from reading the e-mail. I'm going to call her tomorrow and find out the details.

But just for now...someone asked her to write a book. I'll be a better Christian about this later I think.

the driving experience

I have noticed a new experience while driving. It may be that it was in existence for a while, but I have seen it more and more lately and its sort of disturbing. It goes like this: you are in a line of traffic that just made it through a light, so everyone is feeling pretty good about themselves. There's probably about 10 to 15 cars who are tooling down the road, when a gap develops between say the third and six cars. It's a wide enough gap that if someone was going to enter the traffic, they could do it, but they would have to gun it to make sure the next guy didn't try to speed up to close the gap. What happens though is this--a car approaching a stop sign from a side street, see the gap and decides, oh, hell why stop? and cruises right into the gap of traffic without missing a beat (or creating an accident). Technically speaking the driver hasn't hurt anyone. They have essentially merged into ongoing traffic. But the stop sign is there for a reason, isn't it? They totally ignore the stop and keep cruising. The one time I saw someone do this, I was sure they didn't even ponder the traffic coming their way in the lane closest to them, they just saw that gap and went for it! I don't know why this disturbs me so much, but it does. I feel like it's going to end badly for someone and I'm hoping that someone isn't me. Part of me wishes I could have flashing lights attached to the car so that when someone does do this, I could scare them enough that they wouldn't do it again. But really, is it possible to scare people that badly? I mean how many drive while talking on the phone or texting. No one is that scared anymore. Fear factor alone keeps me from doing stupid stuff. But that doesn't seem to be a deterrent any more...whine, whine, whine. I'm getting old and I hear myself. Ewww.

how did we ever get along?

It became apparent two days ago that the microwave was broken. It doesn't heat. The light goes on, the turntable goes 'round, but the heat ain't there (does this sound like anyone you know?). Anyway, there are several points to make about this particular piece of machinery.

We installed this one ourselves. Well, sort of. When our daughter was still in residence after college she had a bunch of friends come over frequently and the gender of the friends were male. They would yuck it up on the porch watching TV, trading work stories and getting increasingly louder as the evening wore on. My husband, never one to ignore a gift horse (or a room full of young males who could probably lift more than he alone) enlisted their help in getting the microwave in place. I should point out that this is a "range top model" which means it is anchored above the top of the stove and has a vent fan attached. It was a heavy son-of-a-gun and I knew I wasn't going to lift it. So he and the "boys" got the thing in place and he secured it. It was hilarious and interesting to watch their interactions as they worked together. If we have to get rid of the thing now that it isn't working, I will be sorry to part with the memories.

The second thing occurred to me quite by surprise. I haven't cooked vegetables on the top of a stove for a very long time. How long you may ask? I really can't remember. In our first home we had a microwave. This is where I learned how to cook, mixing this and that, timing this and that. And the humming, ding of the microwave was the barometer of finished vegetables. I got out a pack of frozen corn last night and had to read the directions for how to cook on the top of the stove! Of course, I had to find my glasses first, then write down the salient points because the sieve-like appendage of a brain I have doesn't retain anything for two minutes. I had to find a pen that would write. I had to find a piece of paper that didn't have anything already written on it. I had to put the corn back in the freezer while I searched for all these things. What an ordeal! By the time I figured everything out, it was about 20 minutes later. No wonder the microwave is a time saving device. It probably doesn't cook anything any faster, but you don't have to go through all this crap to just cook stuff.

So a repair man or perhaps woman will come out Wednesday to either fix it or tell us to get a new one. My husband says that we can get a small counter top model for a relatively cheap price. But the monster above the stove-top cooks things so much faster than one of the little models. We have to decide what we want to do. I'm looking to get a new one, personally. Maybe one that will install itself. But I'm not that hopeful. I'll let you know what happens. Just listen for the ding.

The mail as a microcism: Discuss

When I get home from work, especially in the months of November and December I let out the cat and try to grab all the mail from the little red mailbox attached to the wall next to the front door. I say try to grab because during these months the mail box is stuffed with catalogs, flyers, junk mail and more catalogs. 'Tis the season you know. All this stuff. Who buys all this stuff? From weird little photo holders to Hans Solo in Carbonite as a desk. I really can't imagine who buys this stuff. The Sharper Image is always entertaining, but the Orvis catalog? Not so much. The really amusing thing, though is how my husband plunks them on the table to peruse after dinner. He excitedly points out the more bizarre and outlandish items, trying to goad me into either thinking he really is excited about the items or that this is something that we really can't do without. This never really works, but I give him points for sincerity.

There are people who buy this stuff, right? I mean they don't just make these catalogs to peruse. People with money to burn (who are they?) must sometimes purchase stuff out of there, right? I just don't know anybody that does.

Now I'm not talking about the "mainstream" catalogs, like L.L. Bean or even the Current Catalog which has stationery and stamps and even checkbooks for crying out loud. These are what I would call normal things. No, the over-the-top catalogs are the ones I'm talking about. They're entertaining, sure, but really besides Donald Trump, who has the money for this stuff?

Maybe someday when I win the lottery and don't know what to do with all my millions, I'll consent to buy my son that Hans Solo desk, but maybe I'll invest instead in a new larger mailbox and keep myself entertained for the rest of the holiday season.

Gifts

Every once in a while someone gets it right. I don't get another candle, or trinket for the china cabinet. Every now and then I get--tickets to a show. I wanted to see White Christmas last year in the worst way. But it just didn't work out. I love the movie, but the stage show added some Irving Berlin to jazz it up and well, I just love Irving Berlin anything. My husband bought us tickets to see it. For this year. Right after Thanksgiving. He knows I'll be sad this year. The youngest won't be home for either Thanksgiving or Christmas since he's working retail this year. And I get teary eyed just thinking about it. So I got this great gift. It will be just the thing.

But really the best gift was my husband. The man upstairs sleeping right now. He was sort of grouchy when he went to bed. He's tired. He went for a HUGE bike ride with his brother today and he's very tired. But even though he's tired and a little grumpy, he's still the best thing that ever happened to me. He shows me that I'm lovable. He shows me that there are worst things in life than a bad day. He stands with me in our sorrow and grief and mourning over the children moving on, even though that's what they're supposed to do. He likes my cooking--can't figure that out--I'm mediocre at best. He laughs at the same things I do (mostly) and understands those things that made me mad, even though they don't make him mad. He does not show physical affection in public, but once in a while, if I take his hand, he'll squeeze it just to prove he could do it if he wanted to--he just doesn't want to. I'm a better grown-up with him than without him. I'm a better person with him than without him. Yup, he's the best thing I ever got. Thank the good Lord.

When the whole wide world is fast asleep

I used to wonder what it would be like to wander around during the night. I mean I'm basically a chicken, so going for a walk in the dark is not something I do on purpose. When I have to go out to close the garage doors after dark, I find myself hurrying. I live in suburbia for heaven's sake. What's going to get me? But I still think about it every now and then, walking around in the dark. What would it be like to not be afraid or to be so used to it that it didn't bother me any more. What kinds of people are comfortable in the dark? Policemen have to be I guess. And nightwatchmen. Security guards. People who stock shelves in stores are used to it I suppose. If you had to take a walk around your neighborhood in the dark, late at night, would you get freaked out? Some neighborhoods would--Camden for instance. Or some of those small little towns in the middle of the Pines. With the dogs barking in the distance and the rustling of leaves and twigs breaking (the Jersey Devil is out there, I just know it!) I'm going to do it, one night, I think. I'll take my husband along for protection. And a big honking flashlight that will last for a bazillion hours. Maybe over Christmas break. You know look at the decorations, get frostbite, who knows maybe meet a Hadrosaurus in the bargain. You never know what you'll see or hear. But I'll have to work up to it. Maybe next year.

In The Wee Small Hours

I love the above song for so many reasons. But I'm quoting tonight on it because I got to thinking about those hours in the night. The ones where you wake up after being asleep for a short amount of time and you cannot turn off the synapses for whatever reason and you find yourself staring at the tv or computer screen for hours on end without feeling the least bit sleepy. Or the evenings when you know you should be getting sleepy, tired, whatever you want to call it and well, you just aren't. You pick up a book that in the past has put you to sleep within an hour and suddenly it seems pretty interesting. You try playing countless games of computer solitaire and since you're winning so handily so frequently, you suddenly don't feel like stopping. The funny thing is, you know you'll pay for this in the morning. Monday morning rolls around and you're functioning on 2 hours of sleep and you know by noon you're gonna be mush. But you just can't stop, you just can't relax, you just can't stop thinking.

In the middle of the night is when I find I miss people the most. I used to ache for my dad in the middle of the night. I miss my kids then and my brothers. I see my sister with some regularity, so I don't find I miss her much--is that bad? I even dredge up folks that I haven't seen for umpty ump years, wondering where they are, what they are doing and do they ever think of me? And if they do, is it good?

The problem with those wee small hours is you pack a lot of what-ifs, do-overs, and I-can't-believe-I-said/did/thought that. It's not usually good reflections in the middle of the night. It's usually, for me anyway, regrets and remorse. I'm whining aren't I? Well, it is after all, the middle of the night. And no one is up to hear me.

Halloween from the past

I'd like to reminisce for just a moment about the Halloween's of my past. I really don't remember the costumes too much, although I recall quite clearly going out as a "hobo"--a politically incorrect term if ever there was one. I remember the hauls of enormous amounts of candy we would bring home, usually in a pillowcase of all things (because a bag would break and the pillow case was cooler). The mounds of candy on the living room floor staggered the imagination. Because there are 4 siblings in our family, we would spend hours, even days swapping back and forth for our favorite candies. And nary an x-rayed thought crossed our minds (even after the razor-blade-in-the-apple scare).

But what I remember most was the lady with the fountain in her house. You had to make sure you allotted enough time to go to her house, you see, because you didn't get candy, you got to go into her house and look for pennies. That's right! She opened her doors to a few kids at a time, and you rooted through the house for all the pennies you could get. The concept staggers the mind today! You would no more open your house to a bunch of kids you didn't know today than jump out of the third story window (and you wouldn't do that without making sure all the doors were locked first). Picture if you will, scores of children dressed up in made at home costumes from clowns to ballerinas to doctors to "hobos", going from one house to the next down a nice suburban block. They all troop to each house, go up the long sidewalks to the front steps, ring the bell and when the householder opens the door, they all yell, "Trick or Treat!" The adult (and sometimes the older sibling who no longer does this, but eats the candy just the same) brings out the "full size candy bars!!!" for all and the kids say thanks and troop over to the next house. But as you get to this one block you notice the kids are lined up outside of a small bungalow type home. There are enormous boulders set in stone on the facade of the place and a porch that seems dark, yet inviting on the front of the house. The kids are giggling, and excited, not just by the day, but by the fact that they are going to be NEXT! The older woman opens her front door and a bunch of laughing kids clamber down her front steps you think, comparing notes about the amount of money they found in her house. She allows the next few kids inside and they begin their earnest search. Only the ground floor rooms are part of the search--not the bathroom--this was the 60's after all. You wandered around looking shyly at first when she tells you to look under things and around things you become a little bolder. It's about then that you hear the sound of water and you wonder if she has left the water running in the kitchen sink. You're following the noise when you suddenly look up and see a small pond at the back of her house and IT'S INSIDE THE HOUSE. Now this is the sixties, I'll reiterate, so they didn't have those small ponds they have now with little kitschy waterfalls. This was a pond in her house with all these plants around it, so it looked like it was outside! Only it was inside. And there was water flowing down into the pond but it didn't overflow! Unheard of! It was so magical that you forgot to look for any more pennies! You were amazed. And then your time was up and you had to go outside and you were talking with all the kids who had been in her house with you and while the kids in line outside thought you were discussing the money you found, you were actually discussing the amazing waterfall and pond inside this woman's house!

I don't remember much else, but I recall that trip inside vividly. I remember when our parents would drive by the back of her house I would strain to see the jungle growing at the back window which signified the location of the pond. I remember never going back to look for pennies again. But I will always remember that waterfall in her house. And that magical Halloween.

One of those days

I'm having one of those days. Things aren't really wrong, just off kilter. I'm afraid if I get too close to something sharp I could do some serious physical damage to myself, not on purpose mind you, but well, I just wouldn't be able to stop the knife from dropping into my toe or something of that ilk. I put on a striped shirt this morning and decided to wear one of my colorful sweater vests which proclaim the season. But it felt like the striped shirt clashed, so I changed the shirt for my old- reliable-button-down-plain-blouse that goes with everything as it has a non-descript color. I got to work and realized it had a hole in the armpit. That's okay, I'm not raising my hand for anything, but still, it was annoying. Every time I started to try and tame the beast of the data base that requires feeding constantly at work, the phone would ring, the door would buzz, a kid would come in to see the nurse, a teacher would come in and need something right away. I couldn't accomplish anything today. I started getting cranky around lunchtime and stayed that way until the end of the day. I left work, ran to the drug store, ran to the grocery store and ran home thinking I should make this really good dinner. But by the time I got home I didn't have enough time to make it. I know each day is different, so tomorrow will probably be much better. But I'd really like to just try and forget today if possible.

A Liddle Code in the node

I remember getting colds as a child quite frequently. They involved really sore throats and lots and lots of tissues. This was before Puffs, too. You had to be made of stern stuff to wait out a cold. It seemed to last forever (like waiting for Christmas only not as good). And while everyone around you was sniffling and sneezing and wiping their noses on their sleeves, you were vainly trying to not get pink eye to compound the already grotesque stuff coming out of your face. But when I was a child someone cared if I was sick. Someone (read mom) gave me chicken soup, and read to me and allowed me to cuddle up in her lap and even nap in the afternoons. It's no wonder I was always staying home "sick". It was a great place to be. Safe and warm.

But I'm an adult now. I have 120 sick days accumulated because no one takes care of me anymore. I take care of myself and it just isn't as nice and warm as someone doing it for you. Trust me on this. I stayed home today and tried to veg out. But it didn't work. I realized that if I didn't empty the dishwasher, no one would. If I didn't make the bed no one would. And if I took a nap in the afternoon...I would be up until 3:00 in the morning and no better than I was this morning when I decided to make it 119 days. I miss that being tended to. No one does that for adults anymore. What would happen if we instituted the "Rent a mom" program and for a small fee you could have someone...a motherly type (oh, don't get all Gloria Steinham on me...you know what I mean) who would rub your head and feed you chicken soup. How much would you pay. Yeah, I wouldn't pay for that either. It sounds creepy writing it down, but i thought it had potential when I started. Oh, well. I'll just get another hot lemonade and watch some more old movies. Maybe it wasn't such a wasted day after all.

Sunday Shopping redefined

We just got back from the grocery store. Sunday's we usually hit the store before the Eagle's game comes on. It used to be a small thing to go to the grocery store, get stuff for the week and come home, veg out for a while then turn on the game. However, we have a "mega" store now...a Wegmans. For those who are Northern East Coast challenged, this translates to "OHMIGOD look at the fruit/vegetable/prepared foods selection in this place!" This also translates to a major pain for those who want to go to a store, get in and get out. Because Sunday has become the day to gather at Wegman's and see and be seen. There are people collecting in the bread section talking about the previous evening entertainments. There are people in the deli aisle talking about what the kid's schools are doing this week (overheard one conversation in passing, "I think I'll just eat out of the car, it's easier". I do NOT want to know). People in the prepared food aisle were wondering what to eat while watching the game, what to eat while watching the later game, what to have for lunch--before the game. And the people in the fruit and veggie aisle, were just looking self-righteous and smug. It's bewildering and somewhat annoying to have to run the gamut of shopping carts, screaming children, pushy adults and people who seemed to have wandered off the street and are wondering what this place is. I just wanna get my stuff and get out, for crying out loud! The parking lot is huge, and is filled to the gills with everyone in the immediate 15 mile radius. You park in the out reaches of Mongolia, trudge to the store, fight tooth and cart for what you need, come out feeling shell shocked and abused, only to realize you have to trudge back to Outer Mongolia to schlep all your stuff to your car. While you place your beloved "reusable" bags in your car, someone is waiting right behind you to take your space because there are no other spaces.

So maybe my husband and I will have to rethink our Sundays. Perhaps we'll go to the grocery store the evening before. This is a good strategy, except the shelves are not fully stocked because "Sunday's coming", so not only are there ample parking spaces, there is ample shelf with spaces. Flip a coin.

Don't know the answer yet, but let's just say it's a work in progress.

The love of words

So I went to this eyeglass place to get new glasses. There are all sorts of side stories I could give to this: the fact that the glasses weren't really needed as the eyes hadn't changed that much, the fact that the young man trying to help me find frames that weren't the usual huge ovals I've become accustomed to--I've grown accustomed to her frames--, the fact that by the time I'd picked out the frames it was later in the afternoon than I hoped and dinner looked to be a rather slap/dash affair again and to top it off I got a flat tire on the way home...yes, ignoring all these wonderful and enlightening side stories that I might at some time pick up and run with the thing that really made me smile today was the wallpaper at the eyeglass store. I was sitting there waiting for the young man to type/compute and figure out how much these specs were going to run me when I noticed the wallpaper. It was full of words. And not just any words, but words related to seeing, looking, peering...oh, it was amazing! The light blue words marched across the wall with all manner of nuanced meaning from blush (as in the first blush of spring) to gleam to peruse to, well, you get the idea. I wanted that wallpaper in my house! Especially in the living room where I sit and read. In my usual way, I began to peruse if it would come in different colors, then different fonts (hmm, I thought, Courier would look just like a typewriter--wouldn't that be a hoot!). By the time I left the store, I was humming to myself and quite pleased that maybe I could indeed find this somewhere in a wallpaper store and buy it for myself. Unfortunately, all those other things happened and I forgot all about it until just now, at 10:30 at night, when I'm too tired to even look it up on the internet. But tomorrow, well, it is after all, another day (as Scarlet was wont to say).

the past is past

I don't like it when I hear people say, "the past is past" or today is for the living as if those events and people who came before had no say in the present. That's doo-doo. Everyone's past is sculpted, shaped and molded by the past that came before. Would Hitler have become what he was without Germany going through what it did before he even came on the scene? I think not.

Dwelling on the past is probably not the best thing one can do, but seeing it again is not such a bad idea. What is that quote, "those who ignore history, tend to repeat it?". That's probably not the quote exactly but the sentiment is the same. How can I hope to go forward if I cannot respect where I came from? My sense of self was shaped from my parents, my grandparents, other family members, my friends, my not-friends and those quirky satellite-people who I've met over the years.

One thing that I've dragged along with me all those years is my faith. I learned about it from our parents. I learned that you could sleep in church during the sermon, but don't let anyone see you do it. I learned that fidgeting in the pew was not the proper way to behave and that the songs that were in the red book were there probably 500 years ago and sung in probably the same way. But I also learned that Christianity is community. People caring for each other, when maybe you don't even like each other is what faith and belief in a higher power is what life and existence are supposed to be about. Watching my mother do something as charitable as listening to my Aunt Alice tell the same story for the 50th time without interrupting and saying, "Yes, you said that before," was a lesson that I haven't forgotten even now, when I wished I had. Seeing my dad go over to a friends' house and help them build a deck or rebuild a kitchen (while neglecting what needed to be done at our house) may not have been the best example of caring and giving, but it showed me how generous he was for others. Going to committee meetings seems tedious, but I saw both of our parents do that to show their support and concern for the "work of the church". I learned it wasn't just about the offering on Sunday, but the offering of the self in other places at other times.

Sometimes I watch my children and wonder what they have taken from their views of my husband and I. He stayed home while I went to church, every Sunday, went to Sunday School every Sunday, taught Sunday School every Sunday. They don't go to church and don't seem to miss it at all. Is this a lack of communication? A lack of my influence or simply something they don't think they need to drag along with them? I don't know. And I can't make them take it with them. As much as I wish I could.

so the past which helped to shape me, is not necessarily helping to shape my children. But they'll know I am Christian, I hope by my actions like my parents before me. Maybe that's enough.

Just wondering

So here's the thing about getting older...you are are reminded sometimes delicately, sometimes not that you need to get "check ups" on certain things. You need to get mammograms, colonscopys, ears, eyes and well, in general your body checked on a periodic basis when you reach say 50 or so. I just came back from an eye exam. The doctor proclaimed that my eyes were in excellent condition (except for the tri-focals, which seems a contradiction in terms, but I digress). I'm supposed to go ever 2 years. So if I'm not having trouble with my eyes, why do I have to keep going back every two years? I'm sure he has a perfectly valid reason, maybe his kids aren't done college yet. Oh, that was unfair. I happen to know that all of his kids have graduated and are working at various and sundry jobs. But really. If every time I go to the doctor I'm told, everything looks good, why am I going back?

A couple of years ago a mammogram found a cyst in my breast. After much weeping, wailing and wringing of hands I was wheeled into pre-op only to have the junior surgeon poke a hole in said cyst and deflate it. I was extremely appreciative. But for the next two years I went ever 3 months to have my breasts examined. This was outof pocket money, not insurance covered. There was never another cyst, lump or suspicious whatevers. I know I am lucky and I'm not making light, honest. But for crying out loud--every three months, $95 to a doctor to tell me that everything is fine and good? I'm just not sure the preventative visit was worth it. So I stopped going every three months. I make an appointment after having a mammogram, but no follow ups after that. If nothing shows on the mammo, then nothing she does to me in the office is gonna make a difference. Trust me on this.

The eye doctor gave me a new presecription for my glasses. It's a slightly stronger one. Can I read without it? Absolutely! But this is where the doctors get you...if you don't go for a follow up...what if something is wrong? What if just this ONE TIME you don't go, that one disease is there the next time and it could have been taken care of sooner if you hadn't dissed the doctor's office. What if? What if?

So I guess I'll keep going back and getting looked at in the hopes that I'll be able to spit in the doctor's eye when I'm 80.

If an ant, walking along in a forest

...falls over a log, do the rest of the ants just walk over him? The answer is probably yes. Or they may grab and eat him for not keeping in step. Or they may shove him out of the way, thereby making it impossible for him to ever rejoin the colony as if they can't smell the trail they can't get back. And why you may ask am I thinking of ants? They're all over my kitchen counter! Okay, not that many. But I came home to their meandering scurrying and while mashing them into the counter tops before cleaning the trail away with cleanser, I began to think about where they were coming in and how they managed to find the counter and YEE Gods! they were even on the stove top!

I was in a cleaning frenzy no longer thinking of their little antennae waving about trying to find each other. No ant was safe. I even started picking them up and feeding them to the fish! I know it was cruel, but the fish did look hungry and he hadn't eaten since this morning, so I thought, why not?

And so then after all that, I began to think of all the Nature shows I watched about ants and the above leapt into mind. So now you know.

Thinking through Sundays

One of the best/worst things about Sundays is this: when attending church in the morning, if I haven't sent my inner editor off to buy coffee, we listen to the sermon with a jaded eye and critical ear. This Sunday the inner editor didn't want coffee and couldn't be enticed with doughnuts either, so it stayed with me throughout the service. It was a bad service to stay with me. It was critical of the fact that the organist was on vacation again, so the service was accompanied by the guitar-playing pastor, who has a lovely voice and is an accomplished player of the guitar, but when juggling the service around the music, well, it just seems like a bit much.

The real inner complaining came about though during the sermon. The gospel reading on which the sermon stood, had to do with a man who was deaf and Jesus healed him of both his deafness and speech impediment. And see I'm deaf. Okay, if I wasn't wearing the hearing aids I probably could have still heard most of the sermon. But see, I don't like it when the pastor who hears pretty well speaks to the masses about these healings and makes it sound so, well, euphemistic. See, the inner editor wanted to say out loud...the man in the reading wasn't not comprehending what Jesus was doing, he was physically not able to hear. He wasn't stupid or misguided, he COULDN'T HEAR. Preachers twist those words of the gospel so everyone can be included. But not everyone is included in the physically disabled world. Couldn't we have a sermon that says, look there are those in the world who are disabled, who can't hear, or see or speak and Jesus might have healed a very few, but there were and indeed still more others who aren't healed this way. What happens to them? How do we heal them? Do we keep do this interpretation of disability that essentially says we're all disabled when we aren't? I don't want to stand on the soapbox and beat this, but it's true. The man was unable to hear or speak because of his physical inability to do it. NOT because we are all unable to hear, but because HE couldn't hear. Do you see the distinction? Do I want people to see me or understand me only because of this disability? No. Do I want them to understand that it does place me in a different place because of it? I think sometimes the answer is yes. I am not in the same "hearing" place as you are. I believe I perceive things differently because of that disability. Don't encompass all with the blanket, "we all don't hear" because that just isn't true. It glosses over my pain and makes others not aware of it.

Am I wallowing in my inability to hear? Well, maybe sometimes i am. But I think in this case today, I am not. I want people to understand the uniqueness of the position people with disabilities are in. I want them to see that we are yes, all people of God, but we are all not the same. It's nice to encompass all in the love of God, but can we please not say that we are all "blind" or "deaf"? Because in the physical world we all live in, that just isn't true. I almost feel militaristic in my disability right now. I am standing up for my right to be recognized as not being whole in the purest sense. And that's where someone has to reach me. Not in my mind's eye but in my real out of focus vision. Not in my "listening" but in my ability to distinguish a b as in boy to a d as in David. If I were to share this with Pastor, would he feel I was being nit-picky? Maybe. But I do feel somewhat justified in my righteous indignation. I am deaf. Not healed, not yet, anyway. Can you tell me what Jesus is saying to me now, without spitting in my ear?

The past revisited

Okay, so I haven't done this for 7 years. What did I expect? Well, I expected to feel a little more in control (of course I would expect that, given me!). Then I expected to feel like I belonged...so much for that. Then I expected to be needed. These are universal themes for the likes of me. Unfortunately, they should not be employed at all times and in all situations. I didn't totally suck today. But I wasn't exactly on "my game" whatever the hell my game is supposed to be. It will get better. I know it will. However, I'm left to stare at the screen or the mirror and wonder a few things.

How did I get older and why isn't this second nature to me. See above first line.

None of the parents looked even remotely familiar. Again see above first line.

I probably should've/could've taken a refresher...no, make that taken a NEW course in the data base they are using. Never had to do the stuff before I had to do today. See first question three lines up.

Well, as Scarlett used to say, "tomorrow is another day." Or was that the Monkees? Whatever...

Transitions

The "new" job starts on Monday. It's in quotes because really it's my old job only I'm going to be doing it at two locations. But this time as a perk I will have benefits, vacations and representation by the union (Dad would be so pleased).

The biggest problem with going from one job to another though is this: what do you do with all the sh*t you've accumulated while at this location? I'm not a particularly neat person, but I know where stuff is. It probably doesn't look like I do, based on the condition of paperwork, but as God is my witness, if you ask me for something I can usually put my hand on it, if not immediately, then at least within an hour or so.

I was given about a week and a half to empty my desk of all this detritus. A week and a half people. In the course of this time, my own particular boss did little, if any relenting to my duties. I was expected to fit in all the things she was giving me at the same time I was tidying up for the next schmo. Well, guess what? It isn't done. It won't be done. I'm considering coming back into the office on Sunday to try and at least sort out some piles so whomever comes looking for something will have a geographic region to start with. I can't tell you how annoyed this makes me. I was beginning to make some headway at the beginning of the week, but then the meetings my boss was attending were deemed not important for her attendance, so she came back to give me more stuff to do before I left. Stuff that was essentially divvied up to my co-workers on Tuesday. Has anyone asked me how to do any of those things I'm currently taking care of? NOPE. Has anyone offered to help take something off my plate? NOPE. So is this going to get done by tomorrow? NOPE.

It's just this kind of thing that makes me crazy. I want to be able to leave one place in a reasonable semblance of order so no one can come looking for me to ask, "where's this?" or "how did you do so-and-so?" I'm going to be relearning a new job, I don't want to be saddled with having to do someone else's job as well as my own. But I fear that is what will happen. And the two new bosses will think that I'm hopeless as I left so much at loose ends. Except I was trying to tie them up. But couldn't. So now, I'm tied up in knots about these strings and the puppet pulling them is out of town for the weekend! AAARRGGHH!

Summer to Autumn

There is a quality of the light as the summer winds down. When you either go to school or work on the school's schedule you begin to notice the sun's comings and goings. This morning was an autumn morning. It was already 80 degrees outside with the humidity sticking to the air in great globules. But in the air conditioned sanctuary of home, the light coming over the trees told me autumn is on the way. Summer seems to gush out between peeking fingers of houses, trees, clouds. But autumn sort of slides across the horizon and slowly comes up out of the ground, like waking up. Summer is boisterous, noisy, clambering and exuberant. Autumn is contemplative and almost shy. With the job change this year I will go back into the rhythm of an elementary school. The cadence of the days, the children growing before your very eyes like pumpkin vines. They will probably make me yearn for the days when my own children were in school, with the drama and excitement and the new experiences along the way. But Autumn is a time of yearning as well. A time to stop and watch the roses grown brown on the vine instead of smelling them. A time of watching and waiting for winter. I have written about Autumn before, its coming and going. But this year when the light is slower and different, I wonder, what will things be like? What will the year bring? I never really appreciate or even like summer much, it's too, well, too much. But autumn and I get along just fine. Perhaps it's because my birthday is in autumn? I think though that the rhythm of the season is what appeals to me. We slow down and look at things differently in autumn. We understand each other.

The Job

This post is gonna be a pisser to write. The reason is two fold. One, hubby and I didn't sleep well last night and lest you think you're gonna read something juicy and lurid, forget it. We didn't sleep as we kept waking each other up. Because each of us was thinking about my job which is the same "pain in the ass" thing I've had for the last 7 years, 7 months. The boss called me in yesterday to explain that I would now be doing a different job. The new job is similar to the job I left before I had this PIA job. I liked it a lot, but the pay was low and the hours were short. And no benefits. Ya gotta have benefits if your husband doesn't have any. So I left it for a longer hour, better paying, benefit producing job. And my boss is telling me that I will be working essentially at the old job, but at two different locations.

I wish I could say I was thrilled. I'm older now. Nine years older. I don't know/think I'm going to be as good at this as I was before. I'm slower off the starting gate and my stride is more sedate (okay it's an analogy, but it works...ugh, sorry). And I wasn't warned that my current job was in any jeopardy of changing. It was a complete surprise to be told, oh by the way in two weeks you'll be doing a new job which is essentially your old job, at two places.

I don't know why I'm not ecstatic. But I'm not. I'm still feeling kind of put out. I told hubby that if people see me back at my former location, they'll think I did something wrong and got demoted. He says what do you care what people think. Yeah, I think, what do other people have to do with this? Except I will care that they think I screwed up. I will be concerned that the new bosses will be watching me to see what I could possibly have done wrong to get moved to this new set of circumstances. I feel like I'll be under scrutiny for something I didn't do.

I have to clean up my desk, my act and my attitude in two weeks. I'm working on it!

Betwict and Amongst

One of the things I most often DON'T post about is my faith. I guess because I'm ambivalent about how people will perceive what I believe and of course, I don't want to offend. But I made an observation today and I feel the need to write about it.

One of the biggest tenets of Christian faith is that being in "community" is what makes being a follower, truly a follower. You can have faith as small as a mustard seed, but the community of faith is the watering and nurturing needed to get that plant going. Many people may not understand that basic premise. Christianity seems to be for the singular, believing, Bible thumping sinner who will work out his or her salvation through the individual and God. And no one else need apply. But truly Christianity is for the group. This was brought home to me in several ways.

I attend church by myself most Sundays. This is not a "pity me" statement. It is a fact brought about by the moving on of children and the steadfast husband of the "see ya when ya get home" religion. The people at the congregation I attend have developed their own theories of me, I'm sure. It doesn't matter. I am an accepted member of the congregation, having attended there for almost 30 years. They are my brothers and sisters as surely as the siblings I lived with in that small town next to the Delaware. They have watched my skits, my announcements and even a sermon and heard my questions, fears and beliefs sounded loud and clear through all these things.

But they are not in my presence the rest of the week. I do not have them with me when my waspish tongue lashes out at the laziness of a co-worker. When my temper is frayed by the uncaring community of people at my place of business when they trample on someone else's right to do things because it doesn't fit in with their ideas. And they are definitely not with me when I use my sarcasm as a cutting tool for the perceived fools of the public who don't see things my way. I think if my brothers and sisters in Christ saw me during the week they a)would claim they didn't know me and b)disown me from the family of Christ. And therein lies the problem.

Because they aren't with me everyday, I see things differently. I feel cut off and separate from Christ. I allow the world's treasures to obliterate the treasures of heaven. My eye on the prize is one of acceptance of the world and it's jewels. My husband doesn't seem to care how sarcastic I can be (unless it's unleashed on him). My children think my anecdotes about my co-workers are funny especially when I can show them in a darker light than my own.

I come to church the following Sunday filled with self-loathing and with disgust at another week gone by where the teachings of the "Ultimate Teacher" have gone unheeded by me. I grovel at his feet, promise to try and do better and find that by Monday afternoon, I'm going to hell in a hand basket once again.

And yet, I know that the lens of Christ is with me still. I know that if I were to ask for help in all this there are those who would walk beside me. They cannot be with me at home and in the workplace, but they are with me in e-mail. And only a phone call away from being by my side. Yea, though I walk through the valley of self-importance at the cost of all others, they are with me. They are like a rod and a staff, to poke, prod and sometimes drag me off the path I seem determined to follow. My siblings in the Lord are still with me, even though they are not.

This past Sunday I was wallowing in self-pity. I don't like sitting by myself in the pew. I don't like being the only believer in my home. I don't like not being able to discuss things of religious importance with anyone unless I have to go out to find them. After taking communion I was sitting in the pew, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a woman who is suffering mightily with cancer. She is courageous in her battle and even at her age, she is determined to keep going. She smiled at me and grasped my hand as she unsteadily made her way up the pew to take the bread and wine. She smiled at me. Her hands were cool and not terribly strong, but she took my hands in hers and was glad to see me. She was glad to see me. I still get choked up by this. I don't know why she would be glad to see me. I certainly wasn't glad to BE me. But she shared a piece of herself with me on her way to taste and see the Lord our God. We are one in the body, we are one in the blood. That's from a hymn or song I know. If it weren't for the people of the congregation I am part of, I'm not sure I'd be part of anything. There is certainly something more worthwhile in this fellowship than any other committee I might have been on for the PTA!

I don't deserve her smile. I don't deserve the Lord's gift of grace either, but thank the good Lord above it is given to me and all I have to do is reach out and be received amongst. Amen

The frustrations of not being independently wealthy

The above title leapt fully formed into mind today because I was at work today. It wasn't a strenuous day, not particularly busy, nor too many cantankerous callers either. But I was at work. I wasn't writing, or painting or sewing or gardening or even sitting around picking my scabs. I was in a place of employment for 7.5 hours. I begrudge every minute of it. The slow slog to the desk. The mind numbing waiting for the computer to boot up. The tediousness of getting up and copying something or faxing something or taking something upstairs to make sure it's supposed to go upstairs. When God told Adam it would be mandatory for the rest of his life (and subsequently all our lives) that we would live by the sweat of our brow, did it include typing, faxing, stapling, filing? Thanks a lot, Adam! Geez! You couldn't stay away from one f*cking fruit tree???

Our lives pass us by as the sun moves across the window shades during the day. We witness the green leaves rustling, turning to brown leaves shuddering, then the bare branches scraping the window panes, then the green shoots forming and the leaves again. One season following another, per Tevye. But I'm not singing and I'm not feeling charitable either.

Visiting old friends

I went to bed last night, but wasn't tired. I was reaching around this kind of headboard/tower/sock holder thingee next to the bed, looking for something to read in my lazy way, reaching without really looking at what I was doing, when my hand grasped a paperback. It was sort of like Russian Roulette without the blood. I pulled the book out and figured whatever it was I would begin to read it, even if I didn't like it that much. I have to admit, I have a few books that I really don't like all that much, but I don't get rid of them. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I think if I get rid of it, I'll be intrigued by the title (which is why I bought it in the first place), I'll buy it again. Of course, this happens already, since I can't remember what I bought and have no list...do people make lists of the books they own? Anyway, I digress...

I pulled out the book and lo and behold it was one of the books by Robert Fulghum. The "Kindergarten" one. The one that started his whole prowess of publishing. And I remembered. I loved reading these. I mean really loved them. He made me feel like he knew me and could tell me anything. He made me feel like I could write just like him and maybe even get published like him. He made me dream and wish and laugh out loud and feel melancholy and all those things. He is not Tolstoy or D.H. Lawrence or William Faulkner. He is honest and upbeat (most of the time) and I could read all his books at once and never get tired of his musings. They're just like my musings, only he's a man, older, and he's done more stuff than me. Okay, maybe my thoughts aren't just like his, but geez he puts thoughts together in such a lovely melodic way that I get hooked every time.

I stopped reading him after he published a collection of things that other people had said and I thought, "I don't want to read this compiliation, I was to read his thoughts." It was the same disgruntlement I felt when I read Stephen King's Misery and thought he was poking his fans in a not very nice way.

But it was lovely to visit again. I read a few pages and was chuckling then chortling when my husband rolled over and said, "are you going to bed tonight?"

I turned out the light, still thinking of his observations on leftover meatloaf and how an ancient tribe yells at trees to make them fall down (and they do!). It was like coming home from a friends and thinking about the shared memories you have. It was lovely. I think I'll visit again tonight, only maybe a little earlier, so as not to disturb those trying to sleep.

Summer vacation

For some time now, we have not taken a vacation at home. Everytime we had vacation time to use, we went somewhere. Down the shore for a week, to California to visit the youngest. But we never stayed at home. This year we stayed home. This year we decided that since the youngest was coming home for the Dad's birthday, then staying home was a good idea. It has been eye opening in a way. The husband has gotten all sorts of miscellaneous chores and projects done, that I frankly didn't know needed to be done. He bustled from sun-up to sun-down. I on the other hand, took a vacation.

Before the younger got home, I had scrubbed and polished and straightened with a verve bordering on, well, the husband's. But I have not done much of anything since the beginning of the vacation. I have re-read parts of books that are my favorite (The Once and Future King, Winter's Tale, some romances which just grab you around the heart and pull). I sat for 2 1/2 hours with the son watching West Side Story, a musical he has never seen. I'm considering painting my toenails. I've stared for long periods of time at the clouds and the small patch of milkweed I grow in the off chance some poor misguided monarch butterfly will find it (one did! and I scared it away in my exuberance). I have even sat and petted the cat for a while-- an unheard of occurance. It has been blissfully quiet and peaceful. And I find that I catch up on my dreams when this happens. I dream of learning to play the piano again, of learning to speak in sign language (perhaps for future use), of learning to shoot a gun just for the experience of doing it. I find myself wanted to sew again, hand sew or do cross stitch--I even went so far as to buy something to make for my mother. Vacations remind me that life is full of other things than the computer, the phone, filing, writing notes, answering questions about things that don't relate directly to real life, just life in the employment world. I like me better during vacation. I like what I do better. I like the way I am with the world and my God better. Is everyone like that on vacation, I wonder? The stay at home vacations where you aren't rushing to Mt. Rushmore or scrambling to get in line for the 30 second roller coaster, those things are not really a vacation. They are filling in the full life you had in another location. It feels like a vacation because you are looking at something else with the same pointed intensity as what you look at when at work. But it feels different.

This vacation feels very different. It is easier. Nicer to be home. I think I'm going to stop writing now and do my nails...maybe even my toenails and watch the clouds for a while longer. See you soon.

Writing and time

I write when I get home from work. That is the best time, when I know I won't be disturbed or the phone will ring. But lately, there is so much to do at this time. Running to the store, running to the cleaners. running to get money from the ATM so I can run and do something else. I hardly have time to sit and read let alone write.

My inner editor is telling me that if it was all that important I'd just let the other go and come home and write. But if I die a flabby old lady, it's becuase I didn't go to the gym to try and not become the couch potato I'm so prone to be. And if I get cardiac arrest from eating all the shit left over in the freezer from when the kids were home, because I didn't go to the store and buy more healthful stuff, then I can't write then either.

Prioritize! Yes, that's the word. But the problem is this, writing is not the priority it could be. Oh, I love to sit and tap away. I love to read what others write on their blogs. But have to? Well, not really. I fantasize about what I will write on my short stories, but when I get home I find the trash men have once again sabotaged the trash can and the wheels are broken off again. I find that the plants outside which should be soaked to the skin by now are believe it or not at your own peril--bone dry and wilting. And since the sun made an appearance for the first time in two whole weeks, I sat outside and got some much needed Vitamin D. And read some more of Harry Potter to refresh my memory for the movie coming out.

Was this busy work? Was I ignoring the writing time. Yep. But I've stopped feeling so bad about it. I feel bad about enough things (thank you mother--I learned from the best). I don't need to feel bad about not feeding this particular child. However, I do need to be mindful. Of this particular child. When I let it go too long, I feel bad and moody and unfulfilled. So balance is the key.

Acquaintances and pals

I got an e-mail from church today telling me that Fred had died. I knew Fred for a long time. He was one of the first people I met at the church I attend. He wasn't the loudest, the showiest, the most flamboyant or even stand-out-ish person you ever met. He would say things softly, almost under his breath. They were usually quite witty things and I enjoyed it when I could hear them (which later on wasn't very often). He was devoted to his church and his wife. I admired his devotion to those things. And I genuinely liked him.

When I got the e-mail, I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. He had been sick, really sick for a while. And I knew I would hear about it soon. But it hit me hard. Because I was going to send him a card. Just a note, really. Letting him know I was thinking of him, praying for him, wishing him well. But I never got around to it. I would come home from church after hearing his condition and think, "I'm gonna sit right down and send him a card." But I would forget, get busy, get distracted. And now I can't do it. I can't tell him I thought of him at different times of the day and night. Of how I hoped he was at least comfortable. Of how I missed our sly comments about the service and what went on with people behind the scenes. I missed my chance.

Of course, then I go on to berating myself that this isn't about me! His death will hardly impact me at all in the everyday sense. It isn't like he was my best friend or something and doesn't his family deserve to be considered instead of this pious, why-didn't-I-do-this-thing tirade. But grief is all about personal stuff, so maybe i'm not beyond redemption in this. Grief is all about your own personal reaction to the fact that a person who was living and breathing and walking around and somehow or other was part of your sphere, either in the peripheries or in the center is not going to be there any more. And you can wish that you let them know you cared, but really, if you didn't let them know before this, what's the point now? And sorrow only let's you borrow from it's well for a little while, before, it slaps you on the hand and says, that's enough now, move along (in it's best Obi Wan Kenobe voice).

So I wrote this down for Fred. Because I will miss him during the odd hours of the day and night. I will miss his presence in the back pew on the left.

Friends and Lovers, Barb S

I have this quirky friend. Well, truth be told, I have a bunch of quirky friends being somewhat of that ilk myself. However, this friend is the one I'm focusing on at the moment. She writes her "holiday" letter of family news in June, sometimes July, sometimes May. Whenever I get this letter, I rip it open right away. It is ALWAYS entertaining and informative. Full of introspection and gleeful observations. Full of quotes from some famous (and not so famous) authors. Full of her. During the Christmas holidays when everyone else is penning these litanies of how wonderful their children are and what they have accomplished (going to Harvard on a full scholarship while finding a cure for cancer!), I find myself frequently less than enthused reading about them. It's not that I don't wish them well, or even that I don't appreciate the wonderfulness of their life, those letters always seem more to me like boasting. Or being a show-off. Or mushing your face in their accomplishments. I know in my heart they aren't doing that, it just feels like it.

But this friend, well her letters are full of her joy and her news. and I cherish them. I don't see her very much anymore. She doesn't live that far away. In fact, she works right across the school lot from my office. But our lives don't intersect like they once did. At least twice a week.

She is the director of a Nursery School. Not the more prestigious (snooty) one, the fun, full, wonderfully joyous one my kids attended. I loved her conversations caught in the hallways. I loved spending time with her in the classroom while she talked to the kids. I loved her presentations to the parents. And I adore her ability to listen to anything you might blurt out. She listens to kids like that too. She is funny. And so empathic she takes it to a new level. And wise.

When my children were preschool aged, we would sit and talk while they were attending school. I knew she had work to do, but she never rushed me, never made me feel like what I had to say was trivial. She'd look you right in the eye, too. None of that looking at your feet stuff or checking out the wall hangings. Uh-uh. She is intent in hearing you and listens for the nuances you didn't even know you were making. Some of the parents didn't like her presentations...thought they were too rambling or full of idealized scenarios--but they were magic to me and my soul. They made me feel like parenting wasn't as scary as it sometimes felt. She made me a better mom. She wasn't trying to, she was a signpost, a marker. She had problems with her own kids, but she never made you think you're neurosis was trivial compared to hers. It's weird when I see her now, in passing. We never seem to have time to share. But when my husband was out of work for a while, I found my way to her office at the pre-school and she listened once again as if we hadn't parted company so many years ago.

One of the ways I keep in touch with people is with e-mail. It's easy and I'm usually at the computer, so it's convenient too. I had her e-mail address, but I lost it. I saw her about a year ago and she gave it to me again, but again, I can't find it. Maybe my communication with her can't be quick or uncomplicated. Maybe we were meant to share letters like those long ago pen-pal days of my youth.

Whatever. I will always love her dearly and cherish her "Holiday" Greetings received in June, July or whenever the spirit hits her. And I hope she keeps sending them.

Nature's sense of humor

The place I live is surrounded with large, old trees. But it's not just the fact that the trees are large and old, they are sycamores. If you know anything of this deciduous tree's habits, you will know that these trees are well, full of debris. Constantly. They have bark which flakes off in huge sheets, usually when the weather is particularly hot (not encouraging you to go and pick up after them in this kind of weather). They have little brittle branches throughout the systems which constantly litter the lawn, like little bones. They have seed balls which are about 2 inches in diameter that when the seeds are finally done flying around, the little core ball is hard as a rock and is excellent for throwing by mean little boys. But the more difficult thing to gauge about these trees are the huge limbs which have no rhyme or reason for suddenly breaking off. I understand the dead branches. I'm not surprised by them. But the seemingly healthy ones that crack loud as a gunshot and are full of beautiful green leaves. (The better to catch the breeze my dear) They suddenly just, well fall off. Almost always landing in the middle of the street, close to some poor little kid who just rounded second base and was sprinting to third when it seems that half a tree leaps out to grab him lest he head for home in the impromptu game of kickball. I keep trying to figure out of the "founding fathers" of our hometown had a sense of humor, knowing the nature of these trees or they had no idea and it was just a surprise to be savored by the poor schmucks living 200 years later.

When one of these is outside your house and you witness the limb being held by the wires which lead to your house, you can't help but be a little concerned. Will the electricity go out? Will the phones be dead? Will it satrt a fire? Whose idea were these damn trees anyway? And the list goes on.

We pay pretty hefty taxes in this little hub or a hometown, so I called the Public Works department. The lady who answered, didn't seem concerned. "What was your address again?" she asked, twice between the smack of chewing gum. I can see her now, after hanging up the phone and writing the numbers backwards. But that's probably okay. There's probably a dead limb outside of that house too!

June 4, 1988

Of course I would write about today. It has been a very long time and yet I remember snatches of the day very clearly. Was the really the first time we were all together without our spouses in one place as adults? It seems to me it was. I remember the false alarm...do you remember that? When he began the morphine and was hallucinating and waving his arms, mom was really freaked out and called Pastor Immendorf. Dad woke up with Pastor standing over him and asked, "What the hell are you doing here?"

The actual day was sunny and warm. I remember Stevie was sitting on top of the picnic table when Mike came around the corner of the house. I knew it wasn't good, but OH, I was so glad it was Mike that came. I think he came because I was out at the store and he probably called and he didn't want to leave a message, so he just came and got me. I remember arguing around the dinner table about whether to have a viewing or not as Dad didn't like them. But he was first, last and always a Mason, and they did a service at the funeral home, so that answered that question pretty quick. I didn't watch Steve Lankanau take Dad away,did any of us? But the night of the viewing there were so many people! Even Cotter the old "hell raiser". I remember reading at the funeral service. And the reception afterwards in the parish hall of the church where we sat and talked and laughed with the Pennells! Talk about bizarre!

And a week after he died, I came in the backdoor of my house and his smell was there....the smell of him after coming home from work. I was bewildered and sort of creeped out for a minute. But then, I thought he had stopped by to see the kids one last time and how could that bother me?

John's right. I don't think of him every day. Many days go by with nary a thought of him. But just now at the end of May, beginning of June which has always heralded much fun and laughter for our family (due to birthdays by the hundreds and anniversaries and even Memorial Day)it's like we all turn and look towards our old homestead and think and remember. We stop for just a few minutes maybe more often than before and our hearts thud a little harder in our chests and our throats get a little tight and we even sometimes still weep on June 4. But it's okay, because we are doing this together even though we aren't standing right next to each other. And I know in one way or another I will hear from all of you and that will make it all right.

the phone

For reasons too numerous and somewhat bizarre to mention the phones in our house are a unique group. They are all interconnected somehow or other with each other, except for the lone ranger on the porch. This phone is a throw back. Back to the time when you could pick up any extension in the house and listen in to a conversation, or could pick up the phone from upstairs and the person downstairs could hang up and you could still talk to the person who called. But in another way entirely, it's this really up to date phone too. Okay up to date by my standards anyway. Because you can see who is calling or even who called that day. And if you answered the other elitist phones, the lone ranger doesn't know that and records their number as well. It's nifty. I may not remember so and so's phone number, they didn't leave a message but they told me they called. I just go to the porch and scan through all the recent numbers and viola or however that French phrase is spelled--there it is! I can also find out those pesky charities that aren't really charities phone numbers. I've been tempted to call the number back, but then I don't like confrontation really, so never mind.

The other thing about the phone on the porch is that the poor thing has no place to hang its--well--self. The cord doesn't quite stretch to the little tables near the couch. So it sits, slumps actually, on the radiator next to the window. It can look out, a perk none of the other phones can do. And on a nice day, when the window is open a breeze ruffles through and caresses it's handset. But some days I think it looks somehow forlorn, sitting all askew on the radiator.

And another thing about this phone is the ability to hear on it better than any of the other pieces of plastic in the house. HA! You thought I was going to curse, didn't you? Well, I almost did. But this rebel without a seat is handy for listening to my son far away, my sister not as far away and alas, those pesky not quite for real charities I mentioned before. I like this phone's rugged individuality. I wish the rest of the phones in the house would take it's example. But they are hopelessly enslaved by the master of the house, who has tinkered with their wires.

Most days I sit on the porch at the end of the day either reading, writing or watching TV waiting for my husband to call and let me know he would like a ride home from the train station. I try to answer on this phone as much as possible. Who wouldn't like to hear better? And knowing the physical impossibility of that idea, who wouldn't want to be on the one piece of equipment that makes you feel like it really is a possibility?

So I write about the phone on the radiator today as I wait for the master of the phones to call. Ring on oh faithful servant, ring on!