Just Wondering

A friend of mine was feeling blue recently. Her husband (swine that I feel he is) left her for another, younger of course, what a cliche, woman. She was married to this guy for at least 25 years. They had 3 children. She was feeling blue because she finds that she wakes up every day and still thinks of him first thing before she gets up. Old, even bad, habits are hard to break--especially after 25 or so years. I told her that of course. And that he wasn't worth the tears, the anguish, but definitely still worth the anger. I love my friend very much and think she is a great person. What he has done to her--and in some ways continues to do to her--is shameful and hurtful.

So what I was thinking after the righteous indignation of her feeling bad wore off later in the day was this: does he still think of her like that? What does a cuckold think of his previous wife? Oh, I know the excitement and newness of the new relationship is still glowing it's fresh face. I know that he has moved on and is trying to push my friend into doing that as well (sell the house, sell the business, get rid of the past). But does he remember the good days at all? Does he remember how it was when it was just he two of them? Or even how it was when their kids were still small and the house was a hub of activity? Does he feel remorse? At all? And the new wife? Does she get what he has done to the former life? Does she wonder if she will wake up and find him not there in 20 years or so? Is he untrustworthy because he left once and so he might do it again? I have no way of knowing. And it's really just conjecture at this point that they even give a moment's thought to the past. Who am I to judge?

But I'm not judging necessarily. I'm wondering. Pondering, if you will. I see my friend struggle some days and wonder how can someone just walk away from someone else after all those years and not wonder about the other person? How can someone just shut down those feelings? Its a mystery to me. One I hope never to experience. But still I wonder.

the mind on hold

I've been playing a lot of mindless video games lately. Ones that involved catapulting penguins, sling-shooting strange birds at pigs and knocking zombies down to size with sunshine and plants. I can play these things either on my computer or my phone. I'm not sure that is a good thing, but there it is. I start with the idea that I will, you know, just putz around on them for a bit. Pick off a pig here and there. Or destroy one level of zombies before I take out the trash or put a load of clothes in the washer. Just a real quick game. And suddenly it's two hours later and I haven't quite got the angle on the bird crashing or the new zombie level has more determined and huge zombies and the lure of mowin' 'em down is just well addicting. So yes, it's sometimes two hours later! I could have read something for heavens sake! I'm not sure if this new state of affairs is better than mindless channel surfing or not. I used to be so smug when I knew that others were staring with glazed eyes at the TV. But I'm pretty sure my eyes look just as glazed (or is that crazed?) while concentrating on these stupid games. And in the back of my mind I'm contemplating getting the newest edition of whatever these things are. Spending money I don't have for mindless gaming. My smugness fades into the sunset with the pigs and birds. I'm doomed.

Sunshine Moments

I came home yesterday with a headache. I was grumpy, irritable, and in a funk. I had been pushed and pulled at work every which way and I am not very agile, so it was uncomfortable to say the least. There were ten different jobs that needed to be done "right now" and so the ten other jobs that were on the plate, didn't get done because of the hurry-up-and-do-now things. Very unsatisfying. Now in the backyard of our house there is a small patch of what most people would call weeds. I know better. They are milkweed plants and I put them there specifically for Monarch butterflies to find in their journey north. One year and one year only, there were a lot of them. Lots of caterpillars, lots of chrysalis' too. But since then, nothing. I've seen a monarch skip by occasionally, but they obviously didn't think my small patch worthy or big enough or whatever butterflies think and ignored my meager efforts. And so I came home sad, tired, angry at the world and its circumstances and sat in the car for a few minutes staring at nothing wishing that I could have stayed in bed with the covers pulled over my head. And then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I am not a butterfly specialist so I don't know the difference between a Monarch or a Viceroy butterfly--so I really am not sure, even now what I was seeing. They have very similar markings. But there as I finally focused on what was there on the periphery were two butterflies swooping and dancing among the milkweed. They looked like Monarchs. They flitted and flirted with the leaves (the blossoms are gone by now) stopping for a few second here and there. I have no idea if they laid eggs on the leaves (which are their favorite food). But, oh, suddenly the day wasn't such a waste of breath. Suddenly, I knew there was someone who was paying attention to my little patch of hopefulness. I stood outside the car and watched them skip and prance among the greenery and I looked heavenward and said, "Oh, Lord, thank you so much for butterflies." It's too early to tell if there will be caterpillars. But it's never to late to say thank you to the Creator for the blessings of a day which seemed like one long endless no but which ended with a blessed yes.

You did what?

A friend of mine, who is just as sarcastic, just as guilt ridden about things, just as neurotic about self as I went sky diving. WHAT? She went sky diving. She jumped out of a plane, rode the wind and pulled the ripcord to safely land. Safely land, I repeat. She is coming over today to show me pictures of the experience. She said on the phone the adventure was "really cool". OMG. I cannot imagine nor do I want to either. Standing on the top floor of the Chrysler building, I had to step towards the center of the floor. I'm sure the picturesque view of all those ant-like people down below was exquisite. But not for me. It's beyond my comprehension how someone does this--either thing, look down from high heights or sky dive. And I have a pretty vivid imagination! Beyond my comprehension. My anxiety level rises just thinking about it. When we were in sunny CA visiting the son, hubby and I took an excursion to the "Hollywood" sign. It is nestled up in the hills overlooking the valley and the Griffith Observatory. There is a relatively wide path to go up for those who are not adverse to hiking a practically vertical walk. The problem starts when the left hand side of this wide walk-way is observed. You see, it drops off rather sharply to the valley below. And there is no railing to keep you from dropping off. On the right-hand side of the walk is scrubby vegetation and dirt hills. The problem with that is the occasional sign which states you need to watch out for rattlesnakes, scorpions and mountain lions. MOUNTAIN LIONS!!!! So as we walked up the steep slope, I was forced to make sure I was walking in the dead center of the path. Certain falling down death on the left. Certain slow painful death on the right. You choose. When we came down from the walk I collapsed into the car, my knees like Jello. Maybe I could do that walk again, maybe. But maybe not. So I do safe stuff. Read. Write blogs. Walk around the neighborhood and admire the nice flat landscape around me. That's what I do.

Bugs, part 2

I found this on the garage today. It looks like a leaf doesn't it? But it's a moth. He's been sitting there since this morning. Just sitting right there under all those hungry birds' beaks. Which is, I suppose why he's been sitting there as opposed to making a break for it.

There are over 160,000 kinds of moths according to good ol' Wikipedia. Ten times more species than butterflies (my mother's personal favorite). I have heard them described as teddy bears with wings by Robert Fulghum. A bother to those who know that they lay eggs on plants and the larvae chew away until they become moths and the cycle goes around ad nauseum. I remember once as a kid finding this incredibly huge caterpillar, green with little spikes on its body. It broke a couple of sticks before I could actually move it. It evolved into a Cecropia moth-a huge brown thing that was as big as my hand. We caught a Luna moth once also. That delicate mint green moth again nearly as big as my hand. I always feel kind of sorry for the poor suckers though. Destined to fly towards the outside lights and smash themselves repeatedly on the glass. Sometimes getting caught in the spider web surrounding the light (oh, they are so clever and devious, aren't they?). I knew someone who didn't like moths because they "grabbed" you with their spiky little legs. They grabbed you? I've never seen a moth big enough to grab me, and the tiny little things on their legs which enable them to cling to sides of buildings don't hurt. I was baffled by her disgust, but I don't think everyone feels the same about spiders as I do either. To each his own in the bug world I guess. Anyway, take a moment to look up moths sometimes and you'll be amazed at their variations and coloration. They are amazing at camouflage and just as amazing standing out in a crowd. I'm just saying...

Bugs, part I

Bugs and I have an interesting relationship. The crawling kind of beetle, the undulating caterpillar, the moth or butterfly, even the ant I've sat and watched practically my whole life. I've read up on lots of kinds of creepy, crawlies. Some things would probably have been better if I'd never read them. But isn't that true of most things we read? But I can't seem to make my piece with a couple of bugs. One of them I know why and one I don't, not really anyway. The first kind of bug that I just really don't like much are spiders. I know, I know. Poor maligned eight legged creatures. I realize how beneficial they are. I've read plenty of things about them to underscore their importance in the "cycle of life". But really, I just can't like them. I just can't. If they are in my house, they should know better. Because I will not be kind to them there. Squishing is the order of the day. And I don't really care how little they are. Of course, if they have the audacity to be huge, then well, the arsenal comes out and the only survivor (at least so far anyway) is me. They move too fast. Have two extra legs for running and those eyes. Ewww. And on close ups? They're hairy, all of them. Nope, I'm not gonna be their best friend. Sorry. I'm pretty sure the reason I don't like them is because our mother was totally freaked out by them, like screaming in the other room, freaked out. So I figure I come by this prejudice honestly. And really, a lot of other people shudder when the discussion of spiders comes up. So I'm not alone. But the other bug which, er-um, bugs me? That would be bees. Now probably the reason they bother me is because I know they sting. Simply put, if it's going to hurt you, you probably don't really want to be good friends with them either. But I used to be pretty irrational about them as well. I recall one time riding in the back seat of the family sedan on the way to Grandma's house. A bumble bee flew in the back window and went down the front of my blouse. I screamed bloody murder! My mother thought I had lost a limb or something as she careened to the side of the road. Traumatized--truly shaken I was. Another time I was leaving a friends house and walking home when I noticed something on my pant leg. I looked down and a (you guessed it) bumble bee was walking up my leg. I was frozen on the spot. It wasn't until it had walked up to the middle of my t-shirt that I could force myself to flick the shirt, where the bee flung itself off and flew away without a thought in the world about the horrified, catatonic child standing on the side of the road. When I see bees zooming around the ground while at a stop light, I close the windows. I don't care how hot you get, they are not coming in to get me. I can feel the panic rising when I see them harmlessly gathering nectar from the clover in the yard. Bees. Another shudder racks the body. I don't believe my fear was passed down from anyone like the spiders thing. I just know they terrify me and I don't want to be anywhere near them. Even the hives behind glass that you can watch their industriousness. Not me, no sir. Be as busy as you want...just leave me alone! I will be posting in the next few weeks about bugs, but these two just happen to be on my list today. In the meantime, if you are a beekeeper or an arachnid-file, just keep your hobbies to yourself and I'll keep the flyswatter away from you.

"Toothiness"

So I don't really like the dentist. And my dentist is a nice guy too! So is his son who has gone into practice with him. They are both very nice guys. Like to laugh. Always trying to make sure you're comfortable, even if they think you are the biggest baby they have ever met, they do not let you know they think that. But I don't like the dentist anyway. I don't know if its related to some deep dark secret in my past or what, but if I have to go, even to get my teeth cleaned, I'm reluctant, hesitant, and willing to be led astray before embarking. I bring this up because I've been spending a lot of time with the dentist the last few weeks. It kind of began before that about 8 months ago when I completed getting a root canal and cap. I thought I would be through seeing both the endodontist (who is a very nice man as well, soft spoken, plays classical music) and the regular dentist for quite a while. Only the occasional stops to get the teeth scraped, gums gouged, you know that kind of thing. But it didn't work out that way. It began innocently enough with a hike. Hubby and I like to take hikes in the state in which we live (no, not the state of confusion, focus people!). We find these trails that are secluded and beautiful within driving distance and spend our afternoons clomping around in our hiking boots watching the locals dive for cover as we come over a ridge. Sometimes the animals run away, too. But I digress. We had found a nice little trail near the Princeton area, had traveled on it and walked into the beautiful town of Princeton for a bite to eat. Hiking is thirsty work, but you can get hungry, too. We found a great place to eat and settled down to watch people and nosh. They brought this delicious soup to the table, potato, leek and blue cheese soup. I'm telling you it was ambrosia for the tongue. It was also very hot, which was fine because the weather was still early spring-nippy. But as I slurped the soup, the heat caused one of the back teeth to well, cry out, is the best way I can describe it. Now, if you've never had a tooth cry out, you're fortunate. There is nothing like the throbbing insistence of a tooth-ache. Trust me on this. It robs you of all coherent thought, except how much this sucker hurts. I tried to be stoic so Hubby wouldn't realize anything was wrong. But he can read me like a book and besides I was wincing every time I swallowed a mouthful. By the time we got home, my head was pounding, not just the tooth. But I took some pain relievers and they relieved my pain (isn't modern medicine wonderful) and tried not to think of the tooth. The thing is, I could avoid having pain if I a) chewed on the other side of my mouth and b) if everything was the temperature of oatmeal which had been sitting out for about an hour. Not too cold, not too warm, but just right. Nothing is ever that temperature for long, so I was constantly adjusting the temperature of hot tea with ice cubes and yogurt with the microwave. You get the idea. I kept thinking that it was the tooth that had received the root canal. But having a root canal means the nerve is gone which is the thing which cries out. I even looked up if it was possible that a root canal didn't "take", you know, like the color on your roots don't take in your hair when you reach a certain age. Anyway, the endodontist who did the work on me before is a very well respected and careful doctor. So I couldn't just say he did a lousy job. But man, that tooth was annoying. So finally, I couldn't stand it any more and went to the dentist. I told him that the tooth that had the root canal was bothering me. Or at least I thought it was that tooth. He smiled in his soothing way and said, it couldn't be that tooth as there was nothing left inside it to feel pain. And then he told me, "let's just see which tooth it might be." As I said before I don't like going to the dentist. When he suggested that we would find out which tooth it was, I don't know what I thought he would do. What he did do was take some kind of metal implement, spray something on it to give it arctic coldness and proceed to touch my back teeth with this. He lingered on the tooth with the cap, telling me what he was doing so I would know that it couldn't be that tooth. Yeah okay, so you were right, I thought. And then he touched the one next to it. After prying my fingers from his wrist, he smiled a little more defensively and said, "Well it's the one right next to that capped one." I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be glad I had the general area down or just be grateful he wasn't using that instrument of torture anywhere else in my mouth. It is now 3 months later. I had to chew on the left side of my mouth for all that time. He referred me to the nice endodontist who played Mozart and spoke softly (a problem for me as he wore a mask also and I wear hearing aids and couldn't read his lips, but we managed), we did another root canal and I now have a new cap next to the other one. But I swear, as God is my witness, I'm not going through this again for a very long time. If I have a toothache, I'm going to suppress it with drugs and bite leather belts or whatever else I have to do. And if it means adding ice to my tea, well, Goldilocks, look out! It's gonna have to be just right for some time.

Moodish Posting

I'm grumpy today. And grousing about everything. To get the true picture of my grumbling mood, you would only need to see where I'm writing this post. I'm on the porch with the cat. Yes, that cat. She is stretched out on the rug to the right of the couch without a care in the world. She has trailed food all over the floor out here. But it bothers her not one whit. Why, if she bothers me so much am I sitting here then? Well, the side porch which she has been delegated to due to her unpredictable toiletry habits is the only place where I can sit comfortably with an open window and a ceiling fan. I could sit at the kitchen table and have done so on occasion. But I needed to slouch today and this couch is perfect for that. I won't be able to slouch in it much longer though. We have a new sofa on order, something well made and not as, well, slouchy. Which my back and my husband's back will truly appreciate. But in a bad mood, slouching is so much better on this piece of furniture. Should you ask me why I'm so grumpy today, I wouldn't be able to tell you. Nothing cataclysmic happened at work. No screaming parents, scheming students, annoyed administrators. Nope, nothing. But things just feel off today. As if the universe is wobbling slightly off kilter and no one notices but me. Maybe its because our neighbors moved and the new people are puttering around changing things. Maybe because the other neighbors across the street are moving as well and their entrepreneurial offspring will be leaving the street bereft without the permanent lemonade stand erected every other week to supplement their television watching addiction (cable costs quite a lot). Maybe it's because the neighbor on the other side, can't quite bring herself to run the leaf blower until 6:00 every night as we sit down to eat and I'm kind of sick of closing the window to drown out the sound. When I force myself to stop and listen, the birds are singing. The planes are droning overhead. There is a slight breeze shushing through the leaves. The sun has decided to come out after myriads of days hiding behind monstrous gray billows. But the cat is now noticing me and meowing in that quavering voice of hers which drives me to distraction. And I'm left trying to find some contentment and failing miserably. I have nothing to complain about, but I'm doing it anyway. Shame on me. Oh, good, now I can feel guilty as well as grumpy. I'll try working this out, but in the meantime, you should go read someone else's post.

Ma

This one will take me a while to work through. Mother's Day is coming up. Our mom is 80. She looks pretty good I think. She doesn't think so. She told our sister that if she had known she would've looked this way she would have shot herself a long time ago. Pause for that to sink in, please. Her brother is younger than her. He's looking old, but not in a bad way. They are the last of their family. I don't try to figure out their dynamics anymore. I learned that it is not really my place to figure it out and they seem pretty comfortable with things as they are. Why mess? Mom never seems to change. There was a time when she had an edge to things she said, at least I felt that way. She seems mellower now--towards me, towards life, who knows. I know she enjoys when the family gets together immensely. She may not hear everything, but she looks from face to face at people's expressions and reactions and can glean pretty much the gist of the conversation from that, I gather. I often wonder what she is thinking as she watches us talk and laugh and argue. I couldn't ask her as she wouldn't tell me the truth. She'd tell me what I wanted to hear. That's the problem, if there is any, with mom. There are schematics to her inner workings, but she doesn't really let anyone in to read them. Sometimes I'm pretty adept at reading the "signs" as we seem to think along the same lines. But sometimes she seems like an alien being I've known all my life and still can't quite fathom. I guess to a degree we're all like that. No one can know all our thoughts, except the ones we chose to share with others. But there are times when she says things in a certain way, phrases things with a certain pitch, that I would give my last dollar to find out exactly what was behind the words or even the jutted jaw. I know we sound alike, even dress alike sometimes. We, however, are not like the Patty Duke show. I'm younger and think differently about some things. I like the fact that my mother and I are alike. And sometimes, I think it must give my husband pause to think that this is the way I will be several years from now. I like that too! She is so generous. Her cup overflows with tenderness for her family. And her husband's family as well. And her friends. Sometimes, not as much anymore, but still sometimes she wears herself out caring for others. Because of the health issues she has, and really for someone her age there aren't THAT many things wrong, she simply cannot do the same things she did before. I'm pretty sure that bothers her. But again, I can't ask. See the paragraph above. She is quick to defend her grandchildren. She is a fierce protector of her home, her husband, her dog and her children, not necessarily in that order. Her faith is rock solid. She has a devotion time every morning, a discipline I've yet to conquer. When I have a need to discuss spiritual matters, she is who I go to. And she talks as an equal to me. She doesn't pontificate. I wouldn't talk to her if she did. She analyzes, ruminates, questions and laughs at the absurdity of Christianity and her fellow followers. But she never condescends which is why is such a great teacher both of bible studies and conversation. She is a good role model. She is not a saint, she's more like an angel. Angels are messengers from God. Yeah, mom is like that. She is human, not above making mistakes and being cranky. But on the whole, she is the one I'd want to go to and see no matter what or when. I can't imagine what life would have been like without her. Happy Mother's Day Ma!

Life in the Slow Lane

I imagine the song for this being somewhat sluggish as opposed to the driving beat of the "Life in the Fast Lane". The slow lane is for those of us who want to stop the world and get off, and meander through the woods looking at wild flowers. The slow lane is for those of us who wander through Wal-Mart not only looking at the bargains, but the bargain hunters who are almost as entertaining as the bargains! The slow lane if for those who start walking down the street in the direction of the shopping district and end up on some back street marveling at the way the azaleas are blooming already and in such magnificent shades of magenta! In short, the slow lane is for those who have time to appreciate things around them without whizzing through while on the way to soccer practice or piano lessons. Of course, the slow lane can be for those who are taking piano lessons at an advanced age and finding it more fun to figure out how to play Mairse Doats instead of Chopin's something or other. It might sounds as though I'm retired, but I'm not. Though I would like to be. But I'm just observing how sometimes life in the slow lane has it advantages. It's harder to get riled up over something when you take your time to think about it instead of just reacting. It's easier to smile at little kids who are carrying on to beat the band, then grumbling about the noise they're making when you take time to consider that they won't be doing this forever. I'm not at the point yet, where the slow lane has taken over my thinking. But it's creeping up on me and I like that in a way. I find I have time to savor things when I really take the time to do so. When I'm conscious of deciding to slow down, I think I feel better about things. So I'm going to try and do that more. Because life in the slow lane is surely gonna make my day!

Fixing the World

I get emails once in a while from various and sundry resources that claim they have the answer to the world's problems. Whether it's the economy of the United States, the civil unrest in Spain or the global warming melting the polar ice caps, someone has the answer. And yet, and yet...we are still in the mess we're in. The US hasn't solved their "universal health care problem", Iran is still contemplating blowing up the world yet still remaining true to it's Islam tenets (how does that work?), and the mess in Afghanistan isn't getting any less complicated. I sometimes wish the world was like a snow-globe. You could shake it a few times and the stuff inside would resettle into something else. How do we fix all that is wrong? And is the world a worse place than it was a decade ago or does it just seem that way? Was the world even 30 or 50 years ago such a mixed up mess? I don't know. And I don't know how to fix it either. Pundits with plausible ideas spew out nightly their wisdom. But why isn't anyone really doing anything to "right the wrongs" or "bridge the gap" or whatever euphemism you happen to like? And where does it end? Does it end with a new administration? With a new dictator? With a new guru? Even a new religion? Pondering these things maker me feel helpless and a little hopeless too, if you want to know. Who do you listen to? Who is right? I'm not the most well-read person about politics and world situations but do I have to be? Is there someone who is well-read enough to actually DO something? The rhetoric during a political campaign is useless. People spouting they will do this and they will do that...I don't think we can bank on them doing any of those things in reality. So what do we do? What can we do? I don't have the answer (not that I expected to have one), but it's kind of depressing that no one else does either. I'm just saying...

The jellybean lure

Every Easter someone (usually me, but not always!) puts together an Easter basket full of chocolate, marshmallow chicks, malted milk eggs and jelly beans. The fake grass which is put in the basket hides the jelly beans pretty effectively until most of the other stuff is gone. Then the little egg shaped jellies sit and call to you as you walk through the room where they nest. I've always loved the yellow and orange ones, though the green ones will do in a pinch. And I don't particularly like the spiced ones, though I realize there are those who are appalled by this. I looked around on the internet regarding the origins of the candy. Apparently, no one knows the exact origin. Something about Turkish Taffy and Jordan almonds all mixed up somehow or other. There is a mention of them as early as the US Civil War! But it wasn't until the 1970's that the Herman Goelitz Candy Company began to flavor the little beans exotically that these treats became gourmet attention getters. They were the ones who came up with pina colada, toasted coconut and other such flavors. I still prefer the old stand-bys like lemon, orange and cherry. But what do I know? I loved in the Harry Potter books, Bertie Botts had "every flavor beans" like ear wax and vomit! They apparently are so popular at Easter because of the shape of them and the fact that they are brightly colored, rendering them perfect for finding in the fake grass of an unsuspecting basket. The problem is that they are small and so you can eat like a million of them before you realize it and they are probably rotting your teeth even as you munch your 600th. Most of the time candy is big enough so that you've eaten one and you think, "whoa, if I keep this up I'll need two seats in an airplane". But the jelly bean is insidious in it's size. You walk past the basket and grab a couple. You realize, "hey, that was pretty good!" and the next time you walk past, you find yourself looking for all the yellow ones (or orange or green or if you are like my dad the black licorish ones). And the next thing you know you are standing at the table, searching for all the single color ones you have latched onto and you've completed your mission and you now have a sugar buzz and need to go out and run around the block for a while as you work it off. Of course, you don't do that. Instead you walk into the living room and crash out asleep on the couch as your body tries to balance out the sugar content in your system. When you wake up you feel like you have a hangover and you grope your way to the kitchen, only to see the basket out of the corner of your eye and you begin wondering if you got all the yellow ones (or green or red or, well,you get the idea). If you have enough will power you will not go and check, but if not you wander back to the basket and cycle repeats itself. I have considered throwing the basket out, so the temptation won't be so great. But the idea of throwing away food is repellent to me and why waste a perfectly good jelly bean? And so I can hear it in the dining room, on the table, whispering my name in a low monotonous tone. There still might be some yellow ones left. Or maybe orange. Or even green in a pinch.

The Flowers of Spring...NOT

Okay, I like to garden. I have some quirky things in the garden I plant (poinsettia's from last Christmas come to mind), but I like it and it suits me. I don't go at it full tilt all the time. Hence the weeds and funny looking thingees that grow in between the hyacinths and daffodils. But on the whole, I like to be out digging around. In the early months of the summer, I usually spend a bundle at a couple of local garden centers and grab a mish-mosh of plants to put in containers on the deck. It's the only place where the sunlight seems to concentrate, so it's more a garden in pots than in the ground. But last year, ah, last year...I read this article that explained how you could plant a whole batch of tulips in a small area and the colors would be gorgeous and concentrated in this one small spot. I was thrilled! This was it! My place to really go wild! I followed the instructions to the letter, weeding, mulching, fertilizing, chasing away squirrels, tending, talking to them, chasing away more squirrels. And lo and behold, it was so! A lovely batch of spring green beauties sprouted, waving their bulbous heads and bursting into fabulous color! Oh, it was beautiful! The neighbors were impressed with my display and to tell the truth, so was I! It is now Spring again. Tulips bloom again and again, right? So I wasn't quite as diligent as last year. But we had a mild winter. Not too much frost. Hardly any snow. The green shoots pushed their way up into the bright sunlight. I waited for the brilliant display to begin. And waited. And waited. The daffodils are already spent. The forsythia is more green than yellow by now. But not one tulip has graced a stalk. Not a one. No color. Except spring green. Not a single bloom. How can this be? Every time I back out of the driveway, they wave mockingly at me. See? They seem to say, we're still here, but we're all the same color this year! Oh, where did I go wrong? I'll have to research this phenomenon on internet. It's almost Easter and no tulips. Heavy sigh.

The Dance

Do you remember going to dances when you were in middle school? It seems Middle America has been waltzing with this "rite of passage" for a very long time. I was thinking about going to dances in the sixth, seventh and eighth grades the other day as the burb was having a dance at the Middle school. I pondered my own children's experiences but then I thought of my own and I couldn't get the thought out of my head. I remember getting ready the day of, deciding what to wear. In those "olden times" you got dressed up to go to a dance--like in a dress. It was important to look older, I recall. Flat shoes just wouldn't do, and always stockings. Of course this was before pantyhose, so the requisite armored undergarments were necessary. The hair had to be Just Right. Not too long, but definitely not short either. It had to be unfettered also. No ponytails, no upsweeps. Down and as straight as you could get it. But all that was the preliminaries. At the dance the girls stood on one side of the gym and the boys on the opposite. Certain girls were allowed to mingle, but they had certain words attached to them too (fast, easy and trash spring to mind). The boy always asked the girl to dance. This dancing was the old fashioned kind too. Box step, I think it was. One foot forward, one to the side, one back, one to the other side. You didn't travel much and there wasn't much call to talk as you were concentrating on either leading (if you were the boy) or following (if you were the girl). This was right before the Beatles music brought with it the idea that dancing could be done independently, gyrating across the floor without any seeming partners. Your right hand was on the boy's shoulder, your left in his hand. There was usually quite a distance between your bodies as you began your box-stepping. I remember one of the fast girls and her boyfriend went by the guy I was dancing with and they yelled, "Hey, want a ruler to make sure you're far enough apart?" They shuffled off, hanging on each other, snickering. We danced to songs like, "Blue Velvet" or "You Belong to Me" trying not to read too much into your partner's semi-embrace, but hoping it meant that they liked you at least a little. There was a lot of nervous laughter at least on the girls side of the gym. And the guys side seemed to be a lot of pushing, shoving and guffawing. And when the night was over and the moms and dads picked the kids up at the end, you frequently had something to write about in your diary. A long time has passed since I was at a dance. I'm sure the music is different and the gyrations are more pronounced. But I'll bet the butterflies in the stomach are still there. The jostling around on the side of the dance floor. Wondering if you'll get to dance with that cute guy or not. Some things probably never change.

It's just a little pinch...

The above is what almost any doctor will tell you before they plunge a needle into your skin. Whether it's for an antibiotic or Novocain, they preface the pain you'll feel later with the anticipation of the short pain you'll feel when the needle punctures your skin. And, in their defense it usually is just a little pin prick, hardly worth mentioning. I think they say it so you'll be prepared instead of flinching and causing them to tear a hole in your arm, mouth or wherever the "pinch" will be placed. I heard this little phrase this morning as I went to a dermatologist to get a small cyst removed from my face. She gave me three "little pinches" above my left eye in anticipation of the cut and subsequent digging in my face to get this small growth out. And it was small, really. It felt big when I touched it above my eye, but in retrospect it was less than a centimeter around and sort of a brownish-lumpy looking thing. The numbing agent she gave me is beginning to wear off now and the dull ache that I feel in my forehead is probably a foreshadowing of a long night to come. But this piece of me that I didn't want there is gone, anyway. I had two moles removed last summer. They weren't grotesquely evident to anyone, even to me really. But the location of them was troublesome when wearing a necklace and the one on my back sometimes would get irritated by my clothing. The dermatologist assured me that they weren't cancerous or anything, but I got to thinking then as I am thinking again today of why I went to the trouble of being punctured and prodded. Why not leave well enough alone? The moles have been with me since, well, childhood, I guess. Most of the time I didn't think about them. The lump underneath my eyebrow was just sort of there suddenly, but it didn't hurt. So why the removal? I don't know honestly. I don't really think it's vanity, although I've fooled myself about that enough to believe that I'm not (for those who have trouble following that statement it means I don't think I'm vain, but I know I really am!). The lump under the brow was removed because I secretly thought it might have been something bad and if I ignored it, it would become larger and more arrogant. But the moles were, well, I guess I just figured I had good insurance, so why not make sure they weren't anything bad and have them removed. Of course the "bad" is cancer. The specter of cancer lurks in my mind many times. It's a shadow cast behind family and friends. I've lost people I've really loved and admired to that big "C" and I don't want that disease to think it has a chance to become my new best friend because I've overlooked something. So here I sit on the couch, blogging away, as the numbness wears off and the day wears on. Thinking of this and that and waiting for the next dosage of Extra Strength Tylenol. Fending off thoughts of what it could have been and knowing that I'm okay. And hoping you're the same.

Moonrakers

While hubby and I were perusing the local paper the other night we became aware that the house we first lived in together was on the market. Yep, the first house we fixed up, re-wired, painted, papered and had our first child in was for sale. The owners who are selling it obviously have done some work since we lived there. The ad states it has an eat in kitchen. The little galley kitchen we used barely had room to turn around in, so obviously it has been upgraded. I have dreamed of that house repeatedly. In those dreams it is still the cute little place where I learned to be a wife, then a mommy. In the dreams though, I am always leaving it for somewhere. I don't know what that means in "dream speak". I don't think I care really. Our daughter laughingly said we should buy it and thereby come full circle. And so help me, I thought, maybe that was a good idea. But hubby and I, if we ever move, want something on one floor. Something that as the little old people we are becoming can stay in and not worry about climbing onto the roof of the porch to fix it or climbing into the attic to find out what was leaking into the kitchen. So practicality has been our motto; if we ever move. Still it was fun to reminisce about the ol' homestead. And think what life was like then and how it has become now. The sale sign is gone now and I'm sure some young couple has begun their new life there. I wish them luck and happiness. Something the house seemed to bring to us. We've been to Moonrakers and we've moved on.

Greenery

We attended the Flower Show yesterday, hubby and I. The theme this year was Hawaii. There were hundreds and hundreds of orchids everywhere! I love to look at orchids. I've only got one in the house and it seems to be growing well--oh, I shouldn't have said that, now it'll probably die. Anyway, I love admiring the varieties of orchids and well, really, any type of flower. Squinting closely at the way the coloring seems to follow the veins in the petals, admiring the graceful arch of leaves, checking out the way the roots either push up from the dirt to get a better sky view or humbly remain hidden in the dark recesses of the loamy soil, I really do enjoy studying plants. As we wandered the aisles and elbowed our way into the display areas, I was again amazed at the variety of say, tulips or daffodils. The seemingly endless array of orchids. The subtle nuances of the various ferns in the judging areas. Of course, I looked at the blue ribbons and thought to myself, hey my "insert-plant-name-here" is just as good looking as that, I could have won! But the difference between the people who entered their plants and I (besides the fact that they entered and I didn't) is that they care about winning the ribbon. Whereas I just like to have them inhabit my space with me. I love the way the poinsettias are still blooming in March in the front window of the living room. I appreciate the green accents in the sun porch in the corner, even if I can't remember the names of the plants. The african violets on the windowsill are my way of greeting the morning, even when I can make myself wake up enough to say hello to the hubby. Outside, the weather has been relatively warm for a winter in Zone 7, and the daffodils and crocuses are confused and coming up a little early to greet the season. I like their ambition. I like the splash of color before everyone else gets into the act of dressing up in their greenery. I restrained myself at the Flower Show. I bought two small plants to add to my collection. I would have loved to have purchased so many others. But we needed to ride home on the train and lugging a wheel barrow full of posies was not really what I wanted to do. But still, I took a few pictures with my phone and I'll be able to revisit the blooms if I choose. Which isn't as good as having them here with me, but it will have to do until next time.

She Walks in Beauty with the groceries

Beauty is for looking at
No matter what others say.
If the visage is not beautiful
They will not be looking your way.
Trust me on this.

The beauty of today is slim and straight
And hardly any curves
Unless you are selling underwear
With wings attached.
Trust me on this.

Skin is flawless
Lips are full-ish
Lashes are grotesquely long-ish
And hair is flowing, flowing
Past the shoulders in lustrous waves
Of rippling brown (no longer blonde-mostly)
Trust me on this.

And those of us who are
Or never have been willowy
Our hair is short, our stature shorter
Our underwear white and serviceable
Without wings or even possibly lace
Watch in haunted shadows
The passing of those long, cool drinks of water
Sometimes with a lump of envy
Sometimes with a note of irony
And mostly with a wonder, what if
Trust me on this.

We populate the daytime
With mini-vans
Small economy cars full of groceries
And love and angst
And fierce pride in our broods
We do not pout, nor whine, or expect roses
Or even dinner out (except maybe once a year).
We are real, those without the visual beauty
And we are beautiful to one another
We recognize each other
Even if not in some man’s fantasy.
Trust me on this.

It's Stupid to Get Mad, But...

I consider myself okay with computers. I know how to do certain things and in turn certain things get done for me. It's a basic premise, one that I'm comfortable with from day to day. Ah, but there are those days. I decided to be lazy and instead of sitting at my desktop, I decided to use my laptop which I hadn't powered up for a little while. I briefly recall that hubby had it upstairs tinkering about a week ago, but I didn't think anything of it. Until I tried to get on it. It is not connected to the wireless in the house...hunh? How could it not be connected to the wireless? It doesn't have to be plugged in, right? It just has to have the proper little code to work...right? And then I remembered. He moved the wireless router. We live in a brick house. The poor little laptop is lost within the walls of the dead space between brick and mortar. I have to change my location. It took me 40 minutes, I'm sorry to admit, to remember he told me this. I sent him a text message before I remembered with a snarky, sarcastic tone. Forty minutes of swearing, mumbling, yelling at the screen and then finally powering off to remember this little tidbit of info.

I'm on the desktop now. Breathing deeply and trying to remain calm. But it was just one of those days.

Good Ol' Music

I know I've written about this before, but it bears a repeating, sort of. I love music that my father loved. My hubby found on Pandora, a succession of songs which I have to admit made me dance about the kitchen with a goofy smile on my face. I knew most of the lyrics, could guess most of the singers, and even knew their phrasing! It was great! Because it's just he and I, during dinner we are usually serenaded with classical. It's soothing, sometimes I recognize the music, sometimes I don't. But after our respective busy days, it's nice to listen to soothing melodies.

But since the radio station went off the air that I used to listen to with this kind of music, I don't get the variety anymore. My own personal playlists are heavy on the Sinatra, Bennett and not too much else. It was wonderful to hear Ella, Jimmy Durante, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr. and even Bobby Darin. I asked him to leave it on just a little longer as I cleaned up the kitchen. They even played, "In the Mood" by Glen Miller! Oh, it was marvelous. I finished cleaning up, and just sat in the chair in the kitchen with that small smile remembering all the times I must have heard The Lady is a Tramp, As Time Goes By, and oh, I don't know, hundreds of others all those years in the car singing along.

It was superb! I'm sure my husband, who by the way retreated to his lair upstairs, could do without my out of tune warbling. But it restored me for the evening. And reminded me that my memory is just fine for these songs. I swear I have so many memorized, it's a wonder I can remember everything else. Which I would like to believe is the reason I can't remember everything else.

Anyway, I'm singing along now and hope to continue for a little while yet. I'll catch up with you all later...after hours...maybe at a quarter to three. If you don't get that reference well then, nevermind.

The Passage of Time

I visited my nephew's grave today. His birthday was February 3 and I just thought to go over and see where it was, the new headstone, well, whatever. It was cold and blustery there. The cars were whizzing by on the highway and the side streets, people hurriedly going about their business on a Saturday. I looked down and thought of him.

I remembered my sister, upon hearing of his death, say, "Oh, that's just so unfair." And she was right. It was. And still is. I am not unknowing about the world, I am aware that life can be unfair. I know that people die all the time in accidents and even because bad people make choices that affect innocent people. I read the paper. I watch the news, only not so much anymore. I don't like the news. All that death on purpose makes me uneasy. And sad.

He should have been around to witness all the wonderful things going on with his family this year, the weddings, the new baby, even the usual birthdays. I do not want to hear someone say, "he is with you in spirit," right now. Maybe he is, but he isn't here in person is he? And that's what I miss, what I'm thinking of, not the ethereal "other"; the here and now. He is not in the here and now with us.

Life changes so quickly. And goes on. I said to my husband, "life still goes on," knowing that it wasn't a breaking news bulletin. Just a realization. Life progresses without us when we cease to be. In the play Our Town, the character Emily has died and is counseled by the people on the hill who have gone on before her. But the stage manager tries to answer the question she asks about realizing how life is going on all around us, "every, every minute." Do they realize, she asks? And he says honestly, no. Maybe some, poets he mentions, but most of us see the time we are living in at this moment as just the second leading up the next second to the next minute, hour, day, week, month, and year. The slip stream of time blurs by our eyes so fast, that we weren't even sure we saw it. And then when someone slips out of the stream, we notice the vacancy, but the current takes us past and the vacuum is gone, until the next time we take a minute to see it. And so I stood in the blustery gloom and stared at the stone with his name on it, trying to fill the void for just a few minutes.

Happy Birthday John, wherever you are.

Christmas Time is Here

The above is the first line from the skating scene song in "A Charlie Brown Christmas". It's sort of obvious, but with the shushing of the drum beat in the background, it's sort of like underneath stuff too. On the surface there is that hubbub and rushing and baking and cleaning and laughing at stupid old songs. But I've noticed that many columnists point to the season as being-well-less than stellar for them. They aren't hearing the undertones. They lament that it's too full of things, too full of getting, not enough of giving, yada, yada, yada (as the Seinfeld gang would say).

And I for one would like to post that I give all those uber-cool guys the raspberries. Excuse me if your Christmas is commercial, gimme, over the top greedy. I'm sorry for you, really. I probably don't give as much to charity as I could. I probably don't remember the poor and homeless as much as I should either--although I'd like to think I got a few brownie points for some of the stuff I DID remember. But almost to a one, every person I know thinks Christmas is pretty wonderful and happy and full of good things. We adore giving just the "right thing" to people in our family (and sometimes they aren't even related!). We laugh at antics of Christmas past. We relish the time given to us because it is given to everyone and you can either be glad about it or complain. I read far too many columns from some high-brow snooty people about how Christmas is just for the people with money. But I still believe Christmas is in the heart, not the pocketbook. I see lots more smiley faces, lots more letting into traffic, lots more "no you go ahead" in the checkout lines at the grocery store. I'm sorry they don't see this Christmas that I see. I wish they could. I wish everyone could see the light which shines over all darkness and illuminates the spirit. Oh, how I wish Scrooge wasn't such a hero before he gets changed.

So I'm not cool again this year. I am hopelessly in love with the season, my family and friends and how they celebrate it and I hope the same for those curmudgeons grousing about their houses in their bathrooms today.

Merry Christmas, God Bless us EVERYONE!

People and Their Dogs

Okay, I don't own a dog. I used to share ownership of lots of dogs at various and sundry stages of my life, but I no longer own one and probably have forgotten many of the things associated with owning or even taking care of one. But one of the things I know that is supposed to happen with a dog is a walk. It's universal like a remote control (unless you live in my house in which there are several remote controls for the same thing, but I digress). So you walk the dog, probably poopy scoop after them and both of you get your exercise and everybody's happy--mostly.

I have seen the scenario I'm about to describe to you for at least 3 nights now, when I go to pick up hubby at the train station and I don't understand it. I imagine what it means, I try to logically figure it out, but alas, I'm at a loss. Dispassionately, the scene looks like this: a women is holding, no make that restraining her snarling, barking German Shepherd who is carrying on in the direction of a man who is either standing on a porch or the front yard of what I assume to be his own house. He isn't moving, isn't taunting the dog. He is either standing with his hands on his hips staring at this excited beast or looking relatively unconcerned with his hands hanging down at his side. He isn't approaching the woman and her dog. He isn't even conversing as far as I can tell with either of them. He's just standing there. And she isn't reprimanding the dog for these shenanigans either, she is simply holding him and letting him "express himself" at this man's expense. It's such a bizarre tableau. What is going on? Does he know them both and teases the dog regularly and this is their "playing"? Does she dislike the man and this is the only way she can be sure he knows it? I have no clue. So what do you think?

Company again

We are hosting company this weekend. Yes, the family just got done being together, but this group is made up of our daughters friends. They are coming together to look at dresses for the upcoming wedding. Deciding on what to wear, the color, the style, the logistics. They like each other (a blessing, I'll admit) and they are a fun bunch to talk with. They are staying for a couple of days. We are spending an inordinate amount of time around the kitchen table laughing and eating. The ebb and flow of conversation is different that when the family was here, but the current is fine to jump into once in a while and observe the rest of the time.

I'm cleaning up again and dusting and straightening. The house hasn't been this organized in I don't know how long. It's amazing really. I'll need to take some time off before the next round at Christmas.

But I like it! and I like having them around. See you when I get done doing another round of dishes!

Ah, yes, the family

We are getting together this weekend. A whole lot of family. All sides. They are coming from all over, too! And this time it's a happy occasion, a celebration of a milestone birthday. There are plans already made, plans in the making and contingency plans for the plans that don't work out. It will be raucous, noisy fun when we all assemble and I'm really quite excited about the whole thing. I love it when all the siblings get together with their spouses. I love it when those who aren't actually related by blood or marriage cram themselves and those who are blood relatives into a space and laugh and talk and laugh some more. Sometimes, as I told my sister recently, I wish I could hear better. But really, it's so great to go from group to group, catching pieces of conversation here and there, sliding into a joke with this crowd and delving into the philosophical question with that assembly. Re-telling the same family stories, even though everyone has heard them twenty-five times is still a tradition. And amidst all that, we really like each other. Oh, sometimes we lose patience with one or another. Sometimes we get angry over something someone says or does, but mostly I would say we really enjoy our company.

I like it when everyone has left, too and you can re-think things over. Replay the laughter and conversations in your mind and file it away for some long afternoon when maybe it seems colder and darker outside than normal.

I know this post sounds really "Pollyanna-ish", but I make no apologies. We're getting together this weekend and its a happy occasion.

An American Tune

I really love music. Not all kinds I know. But I love it when a tune I know sneaks up behind me and taps me on the head and I whirl around and recognize it suddenly. I was in church this morning--where I am most Sunday mornings and as we ambled our way along the liturgy and readings a song arose in mid-service. Mostly when I don't recognize a song as one from the random memory, I listen to a verse or two before joining in, trying to categorize it, see if indeed I'd heard it before somewhere else. This has happened a few times with hymns in the past and I'm always pleasantly surprised when I do know the song.

Anyway, while listening to the melody during the second verse of this second hymn, it seemed to me that I knew this song but not from church. I looked down at the teeny-weeny notes which shows the person who wrote the lyrics and the music. The music was done by Bach. Well, that didn't help me much. I mean I like Bach, I guess when I recognize it, but I usually hum Beethoven in a pinch. But I just knew this music. I could feel the synapses pushing stuff aside, shuffling, shuffling and suddenly I had it! I had Paul Simon's American Tune! Okay, it didn't match exactly, but it was there, right there! And I was amazed!

An American Tune is one of those songs that gets stuck in my head for long periods at a time and here there it was! A mosh up of Bach! I went to our wise and wonderful music director after church and explained my excitement at recognizing a tune in an unfamiliar place. He was trying to figure the melody out from American Tune, but he couldn't quite remember how it went so he asked me to e-mail him the song so he could hear it.

Okay, so this is where some people will turn off the post...because the version I remembered most was not the Paul Simon version, but the Starland Vocal Band version. It was sung acappella with beautiful harmonies and it was just my favorite song for a very long time. So I found this version and after playing it about 100 times just to hear it again, I sent it off to the music director. I'm not sure if he's appalled that I sent this instead of the other. I haven't heard back from him yet.

But I love this...the fact that I was actually listening to something written a long time ago and never even knew it!

The Meaning of the Date

For most Americans, this Sunday is an anniversary of a horrific event 10 years ago. Even though life has gone on and people live their lives in pretty much the same way, it's still something in the collective American memories of 9/11 which rush back, asking, "What were you doing when?"

But the significance of this date has taken on a new meaning for our family. A tragedy last year swamped our emotions, flooded our consciousness and pushed the national mourning to the recesses of our minds. We are remembering a different scenario than most this Sunday. We are asking ourselves, "where were you when you got the call?" We, too have moved on with our lives, pretty much the same way. But the hollowness in the corner of our heart is still there and is still somewhat fresh. It still hurts. It catches us unaware when we are going about our lives. It robs us of breath sometimes with its jagged edge of memory. It stings with the thoughts of what those loved ones won't be sharing with us: the new baby, the new engagements, the laughter of coming together. And it's more personal than watching the images of those buildings crumbling to the ground. We thought we were lucky then because we didn't lose anyone in that calamity. But we lost them years later on essentially the same day.

So we are mourning again, in a way taking comfort that the nation is mourning along side of us for a different reason. There is a comfort in a way of all those people feeling sad, even thought they aren't aware of our own personal sadness. But we are sorrowful in a way that the nation isn't. Eventually we'll heal and it won't be as sore as it is now, just like the nation. But we aren't there yet. It takes time.

After She's Gone

I kept thinking that it seemed wrong to sleep through the storm last night. That “trusting” the devices that will alert us of problems will continue to work seemed sort of naïve. I lay awake for some time next to the snoring spouse, watching the trees bend to and fro with the weight of wind and rain bowing their backs. We’re fine this morning. There wasn’t even a power outage, which is something of a surprise in the bubble. Usually the random thunder storm causes the power to blink owlishly. But not for the hurricane of 2011! The Bubble is intact. There were a few leaks of water. Several hundred twigs lying lifeless on the lawn. Watery graves for thousands of ants, sow bugs and seed pods of the nearby ash tree. The aftermath is forlorn and solemn. And the world seems somehow quieter, having escaped the wrath of Mother Nature, there are no cars zooming to get to wherever it is they go. There aren’t any people patrolling the streets yet, like they do after a snow storm, checking to see if they can shovel or not. Only the shushing of the wind, only the dripping of the water out of the gutters, only the groaning of the ancient trees.

Good bye Irene

The hurricane moved through last night
It’s path hurling wind and water
In the murky light of the street lamps
Against the house

It seemed wrong to sleep
During this furor
But sleep we did, in the
Air conditioned comfort that
Blissfully secured us
The bricks and mortar
Pushing the tempest back
Outside where it belongs

Most of our trees are still standing
Still being bent by the aftershocks
Of the storm that was
Their twigs strewn about like autumn leaves
Abandoned because of their size
Or weight or both

Life goes on,
The wind whispers still
Water collects in puddles in
The gutters and driveways
Remnants of nature
Spent fury during the night.

Plans and more plans

Things have been a little busy in the neighborhood bubble lately. Of course, these things are only related to me, therefore I'm more conscious of them than say the neighbors across the street or even across the far end of the bubble. Our daughter has become engaged to be married and the wheel of planning has begun to turn. You must pick a date, preferably not when one of your friends is doing the same thing. You have to decide on a place, see the same "peferably" mentioned above. And there begins to be a sense of reality as these things get filled into the calendar. You find things out about about your child that you thought you knew, but didn't really. They aren't important things necessarily. Things like the dance they will be dancing to will not be either a singer nor song you have ever heard of before. Although I will admit the song is beautiful and haunting. You will suddenly become aware of stores you didn't notice around you before. Specifically bridal salons. Those stores were there before, for quite some time, they just had some nebulous name to go along with their nebulous purpose. But now, ah, we know what the name means and that it does indeed have a purpose. The bridal magazines in the stores which before were just in the peripheral vision of the magazine rack, now grab your eye. And you realize you don't know what your daughter will pick for her gown, her colors or her theme. And yes, you need to have a theme and no, it won't be "look I"m getting married." It's educational this process. And not particularly frightening, not yet anyway. I have been assured by several friends who recently did this, that it will become increasingly frightening, annoying, time-consuming and breath taking (in many ways) and sometimes all at once. I think I'm ready for this. Our daughter is worth the fuss and hullabaloo. Her fiance is a rock-steady young man and not prone to hysterics or demands, which I'm sure will be a blessing as time goes by.

And so I am busy. And she is busy. Her father and fiance are standing next to us and listening. Which is what we both need right now, I guess. And we need a new calendar for the dates. It's getting busy in the bubble. And it's exciting as well.

Of Long Distance Phone calls

I got a phone call at work today from Kate Middleton. Honest! That's what she told me her name was and she had a wonderful British accent and everything! But I just knew it wasn't the princess or duchess or whatever her title is since the wedding. And some lackey would have called for her anyway, even if it had been her. But for just a minute, I thought, OH!

The real reason she called was that apparently the old high school in which I work was once the site of a house in which her relative resided. She was looking for a picture of it. We have loads of old pictures on the wall of graduating classes that go back to the Stone Age, I think. But no photos of a house. We even have aerial views of the building as it was expanded and enlarged (you'll notice I didn't mention upgraded). But no residence. I told her I had a book at home, something about historic houses or some such thing. But I couldn't remember the title exactly nor even the contents come to that. So I gave her my home e-mail and asked her to write me a message and I would reply with whatever information I could find. Alas, I came home, pulled out the beautiful coffee table book I was thinking of and the house wasn't even mentioned. Her relative however at one time owned a "shop" downtown. And I could locate his name in some dreary write up about the historic businesses of the town.

I opened my e-mail, but she hadn't written to me. I was disappointed. Kate Middleton, writing to me! My brush with fame was short-lived. I wanted to tell her to tell the prince I said hi! But as I said, she wasn't the princess or the duchess or whatever. So it's a moot point.

At the Shore

We are on vacation, the family and I. The immediate family is here, day in and day out, laughing, arguing, laughing some more. It's a good and marvelous thing. One I've missed for a while. But isn't vacation supposed to be a balm to the soul?

Anyway, the place we rented, and if you don't know this about renting at the shore--you go down in the depths of winter looking for a place you might like in the swelter of summer--doesn't have central air conditioning and we are in the midst of one of the hottest summers on record. We thought the place looked original and quaint. And it did and it is. But on those 100+ days, a little better than window units would have been helpful. The breeze is jumping today,though, and the humidity is low, so it's a good place. Yesterday at the sandy gateway to the ocean, the breezes blew, the sun, when it peeked out of the clouds was hot and the water was cool enough to make you suck in your stomach, not to impress anyone, but because the initial shock felt great if surprising. I sat on my beach chair and opening my senses to what I could smell and hear and these are my observations. The smell of sunscreen is no longer fruit scented. When did that happen? But the ocean still smells salty, of course. The sounds though, well, it's different now with hearing aids. I leaned my head back on the chair, closed my eyes and really listened. The roar of the ocean waves rumbles through everything. The laughing gulls pierce the air with their insolent cries. I can't distinguish conversations anymore, just register the fact that people are talking around me. Which doesn't bother me all that much. I don't need to hear the family drama or teen angst taking place next to me. But oh, the joy to hear the casual conversation between the brother and sister in our family who are separated by a continent, that would be wonderful. As well as the funny observations from the daughter's boyfriend or hubby. I really don't miss being able to submerge myself under the waves, I never was one much for that, but I have to be careful how wet I get or decide simply to cool off and leave the "ears" back on the blanket, swathed in cotton and plastic, lest they got sand in their mechanisms. It's just not worth it, so getting wet from the waist down it is, so I can hear calls to me to turn around to get my picture taken or listen as the lady next to me tells of the visit of the dolphins on the one day I didn't go to the beach.

It's a different experience this year. One I'm grateful for and dubious of at the same time. But all the same, we are here, at the shore.

Pictures and Rainy days

I had a great time with my sister today. We shopped and ate our lunch out and laughed and talked. Over lunch she brought out an old photo album she found in the back of her closet. It was an amusing bunch of pictures, some of our parents, some of her husband's parents, some of my wedding shower and rehearsal dinner. Were we really that young looking! And my son has an uncanny resemblance to our younger brother. And my youngest nephew looks amazingly like his father from all those years ago. We were laughing and remembering and suddenly I turned the page and there was a picture of my sister in law with our nephew, my husband's and mine. He was only one year old the year we got married. He light blond hair cut close to his head, he was peering up warily at the photographer.

That nephew passed away this past September. In a senseless way. I don't think of him everyday anymore as I did when it first happened. And my sister felt bad when I saw the picture and got all teary eyed. But suddenly all the little thoughts of him rushed back at me, how it wasn't fair that he wasn't here anymore. That his parents shouldn't have to feel this awful all the time. That his brother and sister shouldn't have to wish he was here for her baby or his engagement.

the world still turns every day. Some wise woman recently said, "the sun comes up and it doesn't care whether I acknowledge it or not." One day moves into the next with either blessed consistency or callow disregard depending on your perspective. Our milestones come and go whether we acknowledge them or not. Maybe its the melancholy of the rainy day, but it seems harsh that he isn't here to see the sun or the rain, the dew on the grass or the moonlight through the trees. It seems like he should have those days and someone older, much older who has seen his share of sunsets and rainbows can have those taken away. But who am I to decide I guess. So I reflect on the pictures and his life, while the rain patters on the leaves outside. Remembering.

Militant Pedestrians

I can't remember if I've posted on this previously or not. But if I have, it bears repeating. I understand pedestrians have the right of way at all times. Truly I do. I know what it's like to wait and wait and wait on the curb while the hustle and bustle of lines of traffic backed up to kingdom come traverse in front of a person. I don't like it either. When the light finally changes, I'm almost euphoric getting to my destination. However, I know what it's like driving trying to get from point A to point B, especially in New Jersey. Especially around 4:30, 5:00 pm. I know how annoying it is for three light changes to take place before you even get to the intersection. So in light of those opposite considerations, can we take a moment here to be rational? If you step off a curb in front of someone who has waited two or three light changes to simply get to the line of traffic which waits on the other side, could you please do it with the green with you? Preferably when that nice flashing neutered person gives you the example of being able to walk at that time? The people who simply step off the curb knowing full well, you will have to jam on the brakes and sit in the middle of an intersection while they stroll, amble and converse with themselves (or perhaps it's on headphones and I just can't tell?) make me crazy. Nine times out of ten they look smug. They look like they want you to hit them so then can sue you for everything you've got and your mother besides. Why? What does this get you? I really want to understand as it makes no sense to me. The ones that really make my eyebrows jump to my hairline are the moms with strollers! Really? Are you really gonna put your precious child to the test of whether the next guys brakes work or not? You're gonna walk out boldly with your child in your probably collapsible mechanism and play chicken with the next driver? I don't understand them even more. I've seen jogging moms with strollers dart out from the curb, looking at the driver as if to say, "Hey, I have a right!" And of course, they are right, they do have the "right" to get rolled over but hey, think about the kids, okay? New Jersey drivers have enough attitude for half the East Coast, are you sure you want to challenge one with your offspring? It's just mystifying to me. Most times it's moms, occasionally dads try it, but they never look militant. Almost always they look apologetic. For them I'm willing to shrug and remember when my children were small and I needed to get home quickly. But the moms that just step out? Well, let's just say I hope in my current frame of mind, I certainly hope they're wearing lots of padding.

Exercising My Weather Options

So, I needed to make sure I got more exercise. I had read the obits recently and a guy who was a local barber died and he was my age. I have no idea whether he was more active than I was, but I was willing to bet he was. Most people are more active than I am. Even pandas seem more active, but I digress.

I drove home from work during lunch and thought, I know I'll walk back to work. Then after work I can walk home and get two bouts of activity in one day! I should be able to reward myself with some chocolate for that, or something. I ate a nutritious lunch and locked the house and car and began my walk back. It started out sunny. The weather wasn't too hot, nor too cold. I set a brisk pace and was back to work in no time. I noticed however, after getting back to work, that the sun was no longer shining as brightly. I got busy doing what I do and when it became evident that it was time to leave, I logged off the ol' computer and looked out the window. It looked dark. And it wasn't because I had stayed later. It looked like it was going to rain. Of course, the day I decided I need the exercise, it decides to rain. Well, I thought, there's no use putting it off, I better get started.

It's a curious thing about me as I age. There were things I did as a younger person that seemed fun and exhilarating. But when I contemplate doing them now, they don't seem so carefree. In fact, they sound downright unappealing. Walking in the rain was probably fun and even romantic in my younger years. But now? Not so much. I packed an umbrella in my back pack and began the relatively short walk home. It was still very cloudy and looked like the rain would begin any minute. I started walking faster. My walk home is through a residential area, full of mature trees which would keep light pattering rain off me. Of course, in my current frame of mind, all I could think was that those mature trees also beckoned lightening. Why I would think of this while trekking through the neighborhood, I have no idea, but it took root in my brain and would not leave. I began to walk faster, except I was running out of breath and I didn't want to have a heart attack on the way home. Of course, then that thought took root in my brain and as the palpitations began I decided I needed to slow down and enjoy the scenery and forget worrying so much. It did indeed begin to rain, just a few drops here and there. I opened the umbrella and looked slightly ridiculous I'm sure as the sidewalk wasn't even wet from the drops yet. I put it back in the backpack and soldiered on. It was about a block from the house I began to hear thunder. Now I have to admit that I don't usually hear thunder too much. With my hearing, the rumbling is just too low and it isn't until the storm is right on top of me that I can hear it (but really by then I'm feeling the tremors and seeing the flashes of light). So I began to pick up the pace a little more. After all, if Mother Nature decides to flick her wrist in my direction, I'm under all these trees and they would probably tumble down on top of me. By the time I reached the street I live on, I was running, umbrella tucked under my armpit, backpack slapping my back. I got home before the deluge--which didn't happen by the way. It sort of rumbled it's way off and that was the end of it. But I was safe and sound. I intend to have a large bowl of ice cream this evening to congratulate me for my new exercise regime!

Is That the Only Thing Wrong?

I noticed something today of which I'm not particularly proud. Because of my hearing disability I don't seem to be particularly kind to others with disabilities. I've been in close proximity lately with a young lady with Down's syndrome. She is eager to help out in the office and is generally congenial. But, I cannot for the life of me understand what she is saying. It doesn't matter if my hearing aids are turned up or re-tuned or anything. I simply cannot understand what she is saying. So therefore, I appear rude to her, I'm sure. I'm brusque when she asks me a simple question (of course, I assume it's simple--she could be asking me the square root of something--I have no idea). I avoid running into her if I can help it. I can't tell if this is because I don't want the aggravation of asking her multiple times to repeat what she just said, or if it's because I really don't know if it would embarrass her more than me. I just don't want the hassle. Eww! Did you hear that? See what I mean? I wouldn't begin to know how to explain this to her. And I'm not sure she would "get it" anyway. So instead, I cower behind my desk or rush out of the room if I know she is coming in, so I don't have to deal with it. Not too sensitive, hunh?

I really don't know what the answer to this is, do I have to explain to her that I cannot hear her and would she shout from then on, obliterating any hope of understanding her? Do I keep doing what I'm doing? She will not be working during the summer I don't think, which I believe is a blessing for me as I will be in the office alone with her and I don't think I could manage. Ah, phooey. I guess I'm supposed to learn something from this, but the message is all garbled anyway.

To Denny

People come and go in our lives all the time. Some people spend a lot of time in our face and we wish they didn't. Some people spend very little time with us and it never feels like it's enough. There are people who are blessings without so much as a religious icon in their vicinity. They are spiritual beings, they bring light and smiles. They bring soft comfort and warm companionship. They bring a feeling of peace and understanding. They don't say the benediction out loud, but whisper it in your ear through their words of encouragement and thoughtfulness. And when they leave us, we are grateful that we knew them and feel privileged to have been part of their circle. They don't necessarily profess to be Christians or Muslims or Jews. But their profound example of love shared with others is all you need to be aware of their spirituality, their connection with something bigger than them or you. It is always, always a pleasure to be with them and you walk away saying to yourself, I want to be more like that.

The biggest problem with knowing someone like this, is that usually you think there is plenty of time to tell them how special they are, how nice it is to be with them, how grateful you are for their presence. And then they are gone and you never did get to tell them. And so not only do you mourn the loss of this person, you mourn the missed chance to make sure they knew just how good they were, how important they were to others and how much you will miss seeing them.

Short Story, Long

I got my wedding ring cut off my finger today. That's the short version. And here's the longer version.

About a year ago I went to an area jewelry store to look at their beautiful collection of "sparklies". Sparklies are their gemstones set in earrings, necklaces and especially rings. I never realized what a fan of rings I was until I could afford to buy one or two (or even have them given to me!). Now I peruse their jewelry cases and marvel at the gems set in all kinds of gold, platinum and other precious metals and think, "gee, can I afford that?" There was a ring which caught my eye then but I put off even thinking about it because it was very expensive--at least to my standards. I looked in other jewelry stores and chain stores for something similar, but could never find one that made my eyes sparkle the way that one did. And so when I sauntered in recently to that local store, I had decided to pay for the ring over time because, well, I could afford to do that. I felt somewhat guilty. You know, that nagging feeling in the back of your mind that you could use the money for something pedestrian, like some new gadget for the kitchen or something philanthropic like sending a donation to the starving people of--well-wherever people are starving. But I overcame that sense of guilt and picked out my ring. Over the next few weeks I would stroll downtown and put money down on this marvelous piece of jewelry and anticipated when I would actually be able to size it and wear it. It was something to look forward to, like a vacation without the packing.

And so the day came when I put down the final amount. The owner came over to size the ring and lo and behold! it was the right size! It was fated to be mine, I thought. We chatted about this and that, jewelry and things when he noticed my engagement and wedding rings. Asking me where I purchased them, I relayed the info and he looked at the rings consideringly. Hmmm, I thought. What's he looking at? So, not one to be coy, especially with a person to whom I just paid a lot of money, I asked. He asked in return, how long had I been wearing the rings? Thirty-three years I replied proudly. He then informed me that the diamond of the engagement ring was still beautiful, but the prongs holding it were not going to last forever and probably needed to be tipped. Next time you're downtown, he suggested, I should come in, take the ring off and have him work on it for me. He could tip and re-size it all at once. I guess I never thought about my engagement ring that much. It occasionally slides around on my finger in cold weather or when I've spent too much time on the computer and my fingers lose their circulation (hey, it happens). But on the whole it doesn't really come off my finger much. But to tell the truth now that I was thinking about it, it was a little snug. He suggested I dip my finger in cold water and put dish-washing liquid on it make the removal easier. Okay, I thought, I can do that. But then he asked when the last time I took off my wedding band. My wedding band? I never take off my wedding band. Hmm, he said. I looked at it for a while and realized, if I wanted to take it off, I wouldn't be able to. My pudgy finger wouldn't allow it. No amount of dish detergent was gonna get that sucker off. I frowned. He looked at me.

"So what if I don't take it off? How bad could it be?" I told him in my best defensive manner. He indicated some ominous warning about how I'd be sorry if I wasn't able to get it off. I thanked him, took my new purchase and left the store thinking. At home later that night, I told hubby about the conversation. He thought the guy at the jewelry store had a point. "You'll probably have to get it cut off" he said. CUT OFF!
My ring?? But that is indeed what had to happen. I went back to the jewelry store, but they directed me to the firehouse. The EMT on duty wasn't surprised by my request. I guess he's seen a lot of stuff and this was pretty mundane to him. He took me into a resting ambulance, asked me to sit down and brought out the "ring cutter." The handy little device hooks under the band and the little screw cutter thingee essentially saws through the band. It took some prying and pulling to get it off, but eventually it was there in the palm of my hand instead of my third finger left hand where it had been placed 32 years, 9 months and change ago. I thanked the young man and left the firehouse.

On the way back to the car I began to get all teary. Which was ridiculous of course. I was still married to my marvelous hubby. The only thing different was the fact that the ring wasn't on my finger any more, it was in my pocket. But I began to think of all the things that that little piece of jewelry means to me: the years of little side jokes and remarks, the years of little children and grown up children, the laughter, the anger, the bad backs, bad hair and bad breath of all those years. All wrapped up in a little band of gold. And I realized, no amount of sparklies could replace that simple little band and all it has meant to me. What a revelation. Especially after spending all that money on the other ring!

So, am I taking the new ring back? Nope. I still love how it sparkles and shines. But I will be taking my wedding band and engagement ring to the jeweler who will re-size them for me. And then I will put them back on the finger they belong from the hubby I belong with as well.

She's Here With Me

The swish of the brown (reddish highlights?) curls
And the plop on the sofa
She announces herself
As if she needed to.
She is there always with me.

Her calls cap off the laughter
Or the drama we no longer have
At mealtimes or even between times
Until she enters calling for the cat
And perching on the radiator.

She culls the latest video
For the laugh of the week
The most bizarre download
The most dazzling spectacle
And brings us into her light
As she calls us from our computers
And books.

She is with me always,
In the mornings, in the evenings
in the long afternoon hours
No longer waiting for the crunch of
the car on the stones in the driveway
Heralding the swish of the brown hair (with reddish highlights?)
And the plop on the sofa.

Tulips on the Windowsill

There are two bunches of them
Tulips, I mean
Swaying in the afternoon breeze.
They came to let me know
He is thinking of me
Across the miles
Across the years.
They were tightly closed when they arrived.
Buffered against the elements by cardboard
And careful packing.
But today they are gradually opening
Letting in the light
Letting in the warm breeze.

They make me think of him,
The tulips, I mean.
As a baby he was tightly wrapped
And as he grew he opened
His thoughts, emotions, and yes, tantrums.
And then he began to close slightly,
Like the tulips at night
Closing their petals against the evening air
And the dark.
He would close those glimpses into
His emotions and thoughts,
Making his own night.
Protecting him from the elements
Toughening him to the outside.

But now, as the years pass
He opens slightly again.
In passing glimpses, in slow head nods
In small smiles.
It takes a week to see him again as he
Was before and
Then he is gone again
As the petals fall off the tulips
And lay on the windowsill.
Reminding me still of him.

Pets or Something Like Them

I don't know what it is about pets. Why do we have them? What Neanderthal thought up the idea of bringing the dog in the cave first? Or who thought of the idea first to bring the cat into the home or decided to have a bunny for a friend rather than Sunday dinner?

Pets get in the way almost always. They shed. They make pulls in your sweaters. They leave trails of water and food all over the place. You have to clean up after them in one way or another. Depending on the type, they either love you, tolerate you or cower from you except when you feed them. They almost always take up space, time and energy and when a person gets older none of these are things are easily given up. So why exactly do so many people have pets? When pets eventually get old, you have to decide their quality of life for them as they are unable to articulate this for themselves. And you end up feeling guilty and horrid if you have to put them to sleep because it's such a burden to take care of them anymore. They cost money, too. Veterinarian bills are not cheap. And if you don't register your pet, at least in our town, and the powers that be find out about it, you can be fined. And if their shots aren't up to date, you can be fined for that as well. I'm just not sure I understand why pets are so important.

Growing up in our house we always had a dog of some kind. I don't recall particularly caring for them much. I fed them once in a while. I played with them occasionally. But they were on the periphery of my life, not the center piece. We had cats, too. They were amusing, but again, not something I remember taking responsibility for very much.

When I grew up and married and moved away from home, my husband, a true lover of cats convinced me that having a cat was a good thing. And two cats would keep each other company. Until they got old. And someone had to take care of their messes and their bad health. And eventually someone (how did I get nominated?) had to take them to the vet to be put to sleep. I cried over them, but my husband was much more sad than I. And then, we got two more cats because we had kids and they needed to learn how to take care of pets, right? And now we are down to one cat. And she is old and making messes and you can see where this is going, can't you? Especially since the children are grown and living away from home. And it becomes hard to do this. And I don't really want to anymore.

And so, gazing out the window on the back yard at the old cat laying on the stone driveway, I wonder. Why do we have pets? And I still don't have an answer.

Spring is here

I always appreciate when Spring arrives. The problem in our "neck of the woods" with it is that Spring seems to blast through in a week or so and the hot furnace of summer blows in before you're ready. Here you are walking down the street marveling at the daffodils nodding their heads in greeting, smelling the heavy perfume of the hyacinths, appreciating the pink cherry blossoms when "BLAMO" the next day is eighty degrees and you haven't put away your sweaters and have no idea where your short sleeves shirts are hiding. I could ask for a few weeks just to appreciate the fact that the snow is finally gone and that I don't actually have to hunt up a pair of gloves just to go out to close the garage door. Just a little time to savor the light jacket wearing, the fresh breeze in your face, the pungent smell of the Bradford pears (okay, I'd be fine without that particular harbinger of Spring-but you get the idea).

So whom do you petition? I have no idea. But it's a lovely dream.

Birds of the air

I've been contemplating birds lately. When my hubby placed a bird feeder outside of our kitchen window where we eat, I at first thought it was a bad idea. Because there are a bank of windows, I thought our movements would keep the birds away. But apparently we aren't as frightening as I supposed and the brown sparrows, black-capped chick-a-dees and garden variety finches that frequent the columnar breakfast bar seem undeterred by our paper reading or breakfast eating. The startling red of the cardinal surprises me sometimes. And the raucous blue jays who really are too big for the feeder, but muscle their way in anyway, are the ones that start the precarious thing swaying in the breeze. A few weeks ago the feeder was suddenly empty and we wondered what happened. It was then we saw a hawk on the branches outside the other window. He was rather large, but beautiful in his plumage as he looked left and right for the feast that had been there not five minutes before. He flew off, looking I'm sure for easier prey, but it was astonishing to see him so close to the window as we observed him.

We had a visit from 3 wild turkeys the other Saturday. They strutted through the ivy in the back of our yard and flew over the fences which separate one domain from another. I was so excited I ran out the back door with a camera only to discover they were directly in the line of the sun and all my pictures showed lots of washed out something or others. I loved them as well, watching them pump their neck and heads as they grandly walked from place to place. They didn't gobble. At least I didn't hear them. The only sound was their feathers rustling and their feet shuffling through the underbrush. I really hadn't realized how big they were until one, trying to decide whether to fly over the fence or simply walk back where it came from came right towards me. I think my squeal startled him as much as me and he bustled off in a flurry of wings and ungainly feet.

But the birds that, for some reason have had the most impact for me were the pelicans. I really never analyzed why these birds get to me the way they do. They are ungainly on land, waddling about with their overlarge bills clacking. But in flight and on the water they are graceful and elegant. When I watched the movie, Jurassic Park, at the end as the helicopter swept away the survivors, Dr. Grant looks over the ocean and sees a flock of pelicans majestically flying over the water and John Williams music sweeps to a crescendo reminding us that birds are the dinosaurs of our time. They look almost reptilian when observed close up. But that beautiful music swept me away with their flight as I watched (and subsequent times thereafter). I saw pelicans for the first time in person when I was in California during a writer's conference. We went to a small place in Malibu for dinner one night and crossed the Pacific Coastal Highway to get to the ocean. As we stood there, watching the waves meander in, watching the light mellow over the Pacific, a flock flew low over the water. It was just breath-taking. They soared so effortlessly. They are large birds, but in flight they dance on the wind as if they weighed no more than one of their feathers.

Just recently I was in South Carolina. I was there on vacation, but initially it was hard to relax. My siblings and I went to the beach on the second day we were there. I am not a beach person and probably never will be. But the wind was blowing gently, it was warm and I was with people who love me no matter what (a comfort I don't always have). As we walked along the sand, two of us dressed for the warm weather, two of us looking as though we belonged in the cooler regions, I looked over to the horizon. I could see two pelicans bobbing gently along on the tide. Later we watched as they dove headlong into the waves to catch their lunch. I was so filled with the wonder of the place then, of the love for my family, of the good graces of the world around me, I cried. Not great sobbing gulps, but tears nonetheless. I think the tears were of the joy at being in the world, of being able to be away from the things that so often make me tired and sad, of being able to thank God for the amazing blessing I have in my life.

And all because of some birds.

The Spring Inside

Inside of me there is Spring.
The wind is howling and threatening
To wipe the new buds off the trees.
But inside, the daffodils are blooming
And the hyacinths are nodding their
Many bloomed bodies
And the dogwoods are unfurling
While soaking up the sun.

It's supposed to snow and rain tomorrow
In late March no less, snow.
But inside of me the sun is warming
My innards like a lizard n a rock
And the perennials are poking up
Through the moist soil for a peek at the world
They haven't seen since last Spring.

My family has brought Spring to me.
By being there and listening and laughing
And not judging or criticizing or berating.
But just being there to feed the soul like
The Spring sun, which is residing inside me
This day.

In Love

It's the first day of Spring today. Time when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of...baseball or March Madness. But it is during Spring that I most think of romantic love and all that it encompasses. I don't know why this is. Something about the sap running through the trees probably (and yes, I meant the pun). But always, always I think of love and it's permutations. What it is and what it can be. What the real and the imagined is like.

I have always thought that there must be something to the stuff of movies. How could that wonderful thing of love portrayed in endless movies, only exist there? It must be real, right? The Rosie O'Donnell movie line I most remember from Sleepless in Seattle is, when speaking to Meg Ryan about what love means to Meg she says: "you want to be in love in a movie." Which I thought a priceless line as that is exactly what was going on in the movie. But it's true, also. I've always wanted to be in love, like in the movies. And fortunately or unfortunately, I've wished this for my daughter as well. I want her to have fireworks and excitement, but I also want her to have something truer than a Saturday night, too. Something stable and lasting but romantic, too. The fairy tale. But with her responsible for her end of the bargain too. Not just something that falls into her lap and she has no input. But something to hold onto in the dark watches of the night.

And so love and Spring are on my mind today. And it's raining. I wonder what that means?

Hurry Up, I'm Waiting

I’m impatient
For the world to be going on
For the phone to ring when they say it should
For the clock to move, when it seems to stall

I’m impatient for the doctor in the waiting room
The dentist in the waiting room
And the little Asian lady
To be done with the nails in front of me
“How long could it possibly take?”

The computer is so slow
The laptop even slower
The cell phone takes forever
To dial and texting
Is as bad as mailing.

I’m impatient for the week to start
For the week to end
For the theater tickets to be made real
The nice dinner to be seated
The conversation to flow

And when those things don’t happen
According to plan
I’m impatient to be done with them
And moving on to the next thing on the calendar
Marked in red, sometimes underlined.

Hurry up, I’m waiting, used to be the refrain
For a children’s card game we played.
But now the reality of life intrudes
And it’s the refrain of a life spent rushing
And waiting, in toe tapping angst.

I’m impatient.

The Rythym of Life

I had the opportunity to walk around the burb today about the time the students got out of school. They were walking in lumps and clumps along the sidewalks, laughing, poking each other, and some were seriously considering some post or tweet or whatever was on one of their high-tech phones. I looked at my watch and realized that with my being away from my desk today, I had lost track of the time. And then I thought of something else. There was a time when I made sure I was home, in the house at this time of day. I did this for something like 12 years, give or take a day. I was home when the kids came home. The cycle of their days were the same every school day of the year. I thought, when I was in this cycle, that these days would never end. Some days it was tedious, when I knew I had other things to do and couldn't do them until someone got home. Some days I knew it would be interesting, I knew that one of the kids would tell me how their project was received, their report was graded or just the latest news of the school. But those days are a long way away now. And the end of the school day passes by with hardly a blink. I know school day is over when I have to pay more attention to the hordes of children trying to cross the same street I am trying to cross in my car. I notice suddenly, it seems there is more noise outside the window of my living room as they chatter and scream and yell on their travels back to the house.

And suddenly the silence of the house muffles all the outside noises. And the cat and I are alone again, contemplating the quiet.