...because I can't juggle cats.
In all seriousness, this question has been popping up a lot lately.
"Why do you do it? What's it all about, this blogging thing?"
"WHY?"
It doesn't bring me money, or fame, or even a large amount of notice. My reader base is small, my subjects range from the inane to the personal. Some may even say I'm somewhat "glurgy". Mostly, my blog is words, ideas, pictures in my head that need a way out, or the filing cabinet that is the contents of my brain will topple over, spilling out all it's misfiled information onto my cerebral cortex, where they will short out my neural pathways, causing a fire.
Spontaneous combustion is never a good thing.
In other words, blogging is an outlet, somewhat artistic since I take a thought and flesh it out, like dabbing on details to a painting or adding a few spices here and there to a stew. I may take liberties, but not in a James Frey kind of way. My blogging is more literary (I dare say) that an "Oh, by the way, I bought a new pair of Jimmy Choos today" fashion.
See what I did there? I took liberty in that last sentence because me in a pair of Jimmy Choos would be like me laid up in the hospital in a body cast. No, wait, that is exactly what me in a pair of Jimmy Choos would be like because that would be the end result.
So, short of said money-fame-notoriety, I do get something out of blogging. It's the little kid in me, stomping my feet, sticking out my lower lip and demanding, "Look at ME!"
You are looking, aren't you?
Also, it possibly may be little baby steps towards a writing career. At this rate, I'll be that ninety year old lady just publishing her first book. But that way, maybe the editors will be kind to me.
*This is number 87 in a series of "Why I Blog" post, which may or may not have 86 previous entries.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Heart and Soul
I was thinking about the house, the one I grew up in, and the fact that soon it will no longer be "mine" in any sense. Many times I have gone over there when my dad was away for the summer, just to look around. There are a lot of memories in the house I would recall as I haunted the rooms. Some were mere shadows, others were as clear as a photograph.
Memories of Christmas and birthdays were clear and crisp and good. Mom liked to see our faces as we opened presents and soaked in the appreciation we showed her. Vacations were also a joy. We usually went to historical places like Boston or places of natural beauty like Niagara Falls. There was no knowledge or wonder in theme parks. We also spent time in Wisconsin many summers to visit with my dad's family. Leaving my home back then, just for a few weeks made me sad as I imagined the house empty, its large glass paned eyes watching us drive away. I would lie in the back seat, hiding my tears from my sister. I didn't want her to know that I cried for the lonely house. It seemed such a silly thing to do, but I could not help myself. The empty house looked melancholy.
See, I felt that the house had a presence, a soul. It was more than wood and glass and limestone. We even believed it to be haunted. Or maybe it was a playful little sprite who shone lights in the darkened attic, or made sounds of footsteps walking up and down the wooden stairs. Most likely it was just the fact the house was built in 1900, and its old bones were creaking, though the lights I could never explain. I have come to realize that the presence in the house wasn't ghosts, or sprites, or the soul of the house itself. It was the family who resided in it. It was us. The fact was made painfully clear, the first Christmas spent without my mom. The house echoed, even though it held our remaining family. My sister and I had left years earlier, but always returned for the Holidays and other family events. When we came back, it was if the house kept a place for us, and we slipped right in, like slipping on a well-worn kid glove. Our absence was temporary, and somehow the house knew that. Death, though, left not only an absence, but a deafening silence, never to be quieted, never to be appeased.
My dad is finally moving from the home I've known all my life, from it's converted coal room in the basement where his wine bubbled away, to the cluttered attic two stories above. As I walk around his new house, the house right next door to mine, I unlock the back door and walk into the kitchen where boxes of his kitchen supplies are stacked on the counters, one thought wafts through my mind.
"Welcome home".
For a house is just four walls, a floor and a roof. A home is much more.
Someday, the house I have known for over forty years will be sold and the new inhabitants, perhaps a family, will fill its rooms with bits and pieces of their lives. Maybe the ghost or the house sprite will entertain them with flashing lights in the attic and tease them with footfalls on the staircase. I am sure I will drive by and look to see how the old place is holding up. Will I feel a tug, a pang in my heart, a rash desire to run up on the porch and ring the doorbell, ask if I can have a glass of lemonade? Or will I just drive on by?
I will go to the place here my adult life resides. I will kiss my husband on the cheek, walk next door and have a beer with my dad, and go on the computer and find a silly cat picture to forward to my sister. I'll call my one daughter in Nebraska, and joke with my younger daughter who is still in school. I will hug my dogs and ruffle the bed-head fur of the cat. I will look fondly at the photo of my mom, the one I took one summer in the gazebo and realize that my mom is still here. For me, I have discovered, home is the people who inhabit your heart, not the structure that keeps the outside at bay.
Memories of Christmas and birthdays were clear and crisp and good. Mom liked to see our faces as we opened presents and soaked in the appreciation we showed her. Vacations were also a joy. We usually went to historical places like Boston or places of natural beauty like Niagara Falls. There was no knowledge or wonder in theme parks. We also spent time in Wisconsin many summers to visit with my dad's family. Leaving my home back then, just for a few weeks made me sad as I imagined the house empty, its large glass paned eyes watching us drive away. I would lie in the back seat, hiding my tears from my sister. I didn't want her to know that I cried for the lonely house. It seemed such a silly thing to do, but I could not help myself. The empty house looked melancholy.
See, I felt that the house had a presence, a soul. It was more than wood and glass and limestone. We even believed it to be haunted. Or maybe it was a playful little sprite who shone lights in the darkened attic, or made sounds of footsteps walking up and down the wooden stairs. Most likely it was just the fact the house was built in 1900, and its old bones were creaking, though the lights I could never explain. I have come to realize that the presence in the house wasn't ghosts, or sprites, or the soul of the house itself. It was the family who resided in it. It was us. The fact was made painfully clear, the first Christmas spent without my mom. The house echoed, even though it held our remaining family. My sister and I had left years earlier, but always returned for the Holidays and other family events. When we came back, it was if the house kept a place for us, and we slipped right in, like slipping on a well-worn kid glove. Our absence was temporary, and somehow the house knew that. Death, though, left not only an absence, but a deafening silence, never to be quieted, never to be appeased.
My dad is finally moving from the home I've known all my life, from it's converted coal room in the basement where his wine bubbled away, to the cluttered attic two stories above. As I walk around his new house, the house right next door to mine, I unlock the back door and walk into the kitchen where boxes of his kitchen supplies are stacked on the counters, one thought wafts through my mind.
"Welcome home".
For a house is just four walls, a floor and a roof. A home is much more.
Someday, the house I have known for over forty years will be sold and the new inhabitants, perhaps a family, will fill its rooms with bits and pieces of their lives. Maybe the ghost or the house sprite will entertain them with flashing lights in the attic and tease them with footfalls on the staircase. I am sure I will drive by and look to see how the old place is holding up. Will I feel a tug, a pang in my heart, a rash desire to run up on the porch and ring the doorbell, ask if I can have a glass of lemonade? Or will I just drive on by?
I will go to the place here my adult life resides. I will kiss my husband on the cheek, walk next door and have a beer with my dad, and go on the computer and find a silly cat picture to forward to my sister. I'll call my one daughter in Nebraska, and joke with my younger daughter who is still in school. I will hug my dogs and ruffle the bed-head fur of the cat. I will look fondly at the photo of my mom, the one I took one summer in the gazebo and realize that my mom is still here. For me, I have discovered, home is the people who inhabit your heart, not the structure that keeps the outside at bay.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Collections
My mother was a collector. She loved old jewelry, mostly old pins, which she would wear with great panache on coats, blouses, and even the occasional sweatshirt. There was hardly a day when she would leave the house when she wasn't wearing a large sash pin, or a small cluster of scatter pins. One of my last memories of mom was helping her pick out which one of her Christmas pins she would wear on the day she never lived to see.
In preparing to empty the house, which is somewhat like preparing to eat a herd of elephants, let alone one, with the help of my dear aunt and uncle, we bagged and inventoried her pins for auction.
We have counted over one thousand pieces of jewelry as of yesterday.
My mom never impulsively bought anything, for the most part. To think that over the years she inspected each and every piece she acquired is boggling. I can imagine her, standing in front of a glass case in some antique store, holding a pin or brooch that caught her eye. Not only would she examine the piece, turning it around in her hands, looking for hallmarks, noting the style of clasp which was a good indicator of age, she would envision where she would wear said pin; would it look nice on that denim blazer hanging in the back closet? The one that she planned to wear when the leaves turned the same amber shade as the stone in the piece in her hands?
She would then look at the price tag, question whether or not to but the item, as to which my dad would say to her, "Buy it." Dad would have never told her otherwise. Trite as it sounds, if my mom would have asked for the Moon, my dad would have found a way to give it to her.
This happened over a thousand times. I'm not even counting the other collections...the art deco jewelry caskets, the Nippon, the milk glass, the platters...
I have talked amongst family and friends, the torn feelings over dispatching with these items, how in some way we are selling pieces of my mom. Family member and close friends have been able to take some pieces home, pieces that spoke to them in some way. I have more than a few myself. Every time I hold them in my hands, I think about how my mom held them in hers, imagining the compliments she would gather like yet another collection.
But, practicality wins over sentimentalism, and as each piece of jewelry gets tucked inside a cardboard box, I imagine I am releasing a bit of my mom, for as much as she personified the jewelry she purchased, she was and is far more than a sum of all her things.
In preparing to empty the house, which is somewhat like preparing to eat a herd of elephants, let alone one, with the help of my dear aunt and uncle, we bagged and inventoried her pins for auction.
We have counted over one thousand pieces of jewelry as of yesterday.
My mom never impulsively bought anything, for the most part. To think that over the years she inspected each and every piece she acquired is boggling. I can imagine her, standing in front of a glass case in some antique store, holding a pin or brooch that caught her eye. Not only would she examine the piece, turning it around in her hands, looking for hallmarks, noting the style of clasp which was a good indicator of age, she would envision where she would wear said pin; would it look nice on that denim blazer hanging in the back closet? The one that she planned to wear when the leaves turned the same amber shade as the stone in the piece in her hands?
She would then look at the price tag, question whether or not to but the item, as to which my dad would say to her, "Buy it." Dad would have never told her otherwise. Trite as it sounds, if my mom would have asked for the Moon, my dad would have found a way to give it to her.
This happened over a thousand times. I'm not even counting the other collections...the art deco jewelry caskets, the Nippon, the milk glass, the platters...
I have talked amongst family and friends, the torn feelings over dispatching with these items, how in some way we are selling pieces of my mom. Family member and close friends have been able to take some pieces home, pieces that spoke to them in some way. I have more than a few myself. Every time I hold them in my hands, I think about how my mom held them in hers, imagining the compliments she would gather like yet another collection.
But, practicality wins over sentimentalism, and as each piece of jewelry gets tucked inside a cardboard box, I imagine I am releasing a bit of my mom, for as much as she personified the jewelry she purchased, she was and is far more than a sum of all her things.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Traveling Show
The husband calmly walks around the motor home, the one with the curtains drawn closed across the windsheild. Shirtless, and still wearing the same jeans from yesterday, his fifty-something torso is sagging over his belt and the sun shines off his tanned bald pate. He tucks his head inside a storage compartment and pulls out the tow bar so he can prepare to hook his car to the back of larger vehicle. He looks as he is preparing to leave after spending only one night in a campground nestled among the landscape of rolling hills.
The light sound of crunching gravel catches his ear and he looks over his shoulder. Obviously uninterested by what is causing the sound, he sets the tow bar down along side the car and continues back to the storage compartment to fetch more tools. The wife, also in her fifties is dressed in the pastel shades of one much younger; a pair of crisp cotton shorts and a matching blouse. Her honey colored hair is caught up in a lacy white ribbon. The ribbon floats behind her as she hurries towards the campsite. The wife's arms are reaching out in surprise, then they convey a question. As her feet touch the grassy carpet, she falls to her bare knees, hands coming together, culminating in a plea. Her husband glances toward her dispassionately as he prepares to attach the tow bar to the car's frame.
The wife, still in a position of prayer, cries to her husband. She tells him to only take the car. Leave her behind with the motor home. Unmoved by her lamentations, he walks towards the back of the car and pops the trunk, retrieving more tools. The husband looks toward her, shaking his head, smirking at her request. She finally rises from her supplication and wearily sits down on the picnic bench, placing her head in her hands. She looks at him beseechingly, wisps of hair coming loose from the child-like bow. Through tears she cries that she is having fun, that she hasn't enjoyed herself in years, and now he wants to leave. Don't take my vacation away, she implores. The husband says something to the woman, his face dark with fury. The woman leaps from the bench and runs to the door of the house on wheels, appearing to clench the hem of a skirt as if fleeing some hideous insect. Left in the wake of sobs and tears, the husband walks over to the tow bar laying on the ground and replaces it back in the storage container. He gathers his tools and sets them back in the trunk of the car. After closing the trunk lid, he proceeds to open the door to the motor home, and as if it were just another day in July, steps inside and closes the door behind him. Silence swallows up the dramatic scene and replaces it with the wind blowing through the willows, sparrows darting through the pristine blue sky.
From my darkened vantage point, I am left to gaze at the drawn curtains of the motor home. I feel like I have been watching a stage play, full of tumult and turmoil. Will there be a second act, or was this merely a one-act production, I wonder. Will the troupe set up stage in the next town, the next state? As I am left with fingers grasping the cliff's edge, I am haunted by the image of a woman in pink praying to her god who gives and takes away as easily as sparrows catch gnats on the fly. What haunts me more is my shameful reaction to the tableau.
"Woman, have some pride!"
The light sound of crunching gravel catches his ear and he looks over his shoulder. Obviously uninterested by what is causing the sound, he sets the tow bar down along side the car and continues back to the storage compartment to fetch more tools. The wife, also in her fifties is dressed in the pastel shades of one much younger; a pair of crisp cotton shorts and a matching blouse. Her honey colored hair is caught up in a lacy white ribbon. The ribbon floats behind her as she hurries towards the campsite. The wife's arms are reaching out in surprise, then they convey a question. As her feet touch the grassy carpet, she falls to her bare knees, hands coming together, culminating in a plea. Her husband glances toward her dispassionately as he prepares to attach the tow bar to the car's frame.
The wife, still in a position of prayer, cries to her husband. She tells him to only take the car. Leave her behind with the motor home. Unmoved by her lamentations, he walks towards the back of the car and pops the trunk, retrieving more tools. The husband looks toward her, shaking his head, smirking at her request. She finally rises from her supplication and wearily sits down on the picnic bench, placing her head in her hands. She looks at him beseechingly, wisps of hair coming loose from the child-like bow. Through tears she cries that she is having fun, that she hasn't enjoyed herself in years, and now he wants to leave. Don't take my vacation away, she implores. The husband says something to the woman, his face dark with fury. The woman leaps from the bench and runs to the door of the house on wheels, appearing to clench the hem of a skirt as if fleeing some hideous insect. Left in the wake of sobs and tears, the husband walks over to the tow bar laying on the ground and replaces it back in the storage container. He gathers his tools and sets them back in the trunk of the car. After closing the trunk lid, he proceeds to open the door to the motor home, and as if it were just another day in July, steps inside and closes the door behind him. Silence swallows up the dramatic scene and replaces it with the wind blowing through the willows, sparrows darting through the pristine blue sky.
From my darkened vantage point, I am left to gaze at the drawn curtains of the motor home. I feel like I have been watching a stage play, full of tumult and turmoil. Will there be a second act, or was this merely a one-act production, I wonder. Will the troupe set up stage in the next town, the next state? As I am left with fingers grasping the cliff's edge, I am haunted by the image of a woman in pink praying to her god who gives and takes away as easily as sparrows catch gnats on the fly. What haunts me more is my shameful reaction to the tableau.
"Woman, have some pride!"
Monday, June 8, 2009
Internal Dialogue
I mentioned way back in time on this blog that I had started taking Paxil for depression, and as a result, I felt that it had really dampened my ability to write. Talking this over to one of my aunts over breakfast the other day, she asked, "Is it worth it?"
I have really given that question a lot of thought.
I would say if I were an author, one who made a life from writing, then unequivocally no. Definitely not worth not being depressed if a paycheck or a publisher were in play. Obviously in my case, that isn't the case. I'm just a lowly blogger in a sea of many other bloggers in the vast water-covered world that is the Internet.
Recently, I was reading an article on the Internet which asked the question, "Where does your blogging voice come from?" Which of course I then asked myself,
"Lisa, where does your blogging voice come from?" Quickly the answer came..."From my internal dialogue, of course."
And, of course, it was my internal dialogue that came up with the answer. The one that was always there...when I'm depressed, when I'm feeling neutral. When I'm drunk. When I'm sober. It's always there. It's there when I am singing made up lyrics to the songs playing on my iPod. It's there when I'm sitting outside, watching the birds and bunnies in my yard. It's even there when I'm falling asleep at night.
Although I will not ever share those here.
Anti-depressants never shut off the my internal dialogue, I've discovered. If anything, they may have shut down that part in my brain that feels the need to exclaim on a public forum, "Hey, there's bunnies in my yard! I wish you were here to see them with me!"
Because, isn't that what a blog is about? Inviting *you* to see what I see? Feel what I feel? Even if it's only one person who happens to stumble by?
And, yes, the bunnies are really cute! One is digging in the clover...
I have really given that question a lot of thought.
I would say if I were an author, one who made a life from writing, then unequivocally no. Definitely not worth not being depressed if a paycheck or a publisher were in play. Obviously in my case, that isn't the case. I'm just a lowly blogger in a sea of many other bloggers in the vast water-covered world that is the Internet.
Recently, I was reading an article on the Internet which asked the question, "Where does your blogging voice come from?" Which of course I then asked myself,
"Lisa, where does your blogging voice come from?" Quickly the answer came..."From my internal dialogue, of course."
And, of course, it was my internal dialogue that came up with the answer. The one that was always there...when I'm depressed, when I'm feeling neutral. When I'm drunk. When I'm sober. It's always there. It's there when I am singing made up lyrics to the songs playing on my iPod. It's there when I'm sitting outside, watching the birds and bunnies in my yard. It's even there when I'm falling asleep at night.
Although I will not ever share those here.
Anti-depressants never shut off the my internal dialogue, I've discovered. If anything, they may have shut down that part in my brain that feels the need to exclaim on a public forum, "Hey, there's bunnies in my yard! I wish you were here to see them with me!"
Because, isn't that what a blog is about? Inviting *you* to see what I see? Feel what I feel? Even if it's only one person who happens to stumble by?
And, yes, the bunnies are really cute! One is digging in the clover...
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Be Careful What You Ask For...
I've been asking my youngest to start a Blog. Well, she did today, I guess as a Mother's Day Present. A twisted, warped Mother's Day present.
I present to the blogging world, my kid.
http://www.captainbond.blogspot.com/
Actually, this is one of the most delightful Mother's Day presents I have ever recieved. Thanks, Rachel!
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I present to the blogging world, my kid.
http://www.captainbond.blogspot.com/
Actually, this is one of the most delightful Mother's Day presents I have ever recieved. Thanks, Rachel!
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I needed a new laptop. Being very impressed with the free customer service my oldest received when her laptop BSoD'ed three days after the warranty expired, I ordered myself the same brand, you know, the one that starts with a "Dell".
I know I am not the best typist in the world, but I do know when I am not causing the cursor to appear somewhere else in a document I am attempting to type, like I sent it through some short-term memory time warp. Due to the fact that I so hate/loathe/despise to talk to Tech-Lack-Of-Support, I emailed Dell and am waiting with baited breath for a reply. Since Google is my friend, and conferring with my brother-in-law, I have determined that this brand of laptop has had issues with wonky keyboards in the past (go Google "wonky keyboards"and Dell will most likely come up in the top ten search replies).
So, we shall see what transpires. By the way, I've had to retrieve my cursor at least fifteen times while typing this post.
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My sister tells me one needs to be very specific when asking the Universe for something. Perhaps I should request a codicil.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
A Child's Bouquet
When Spring came to my childhood home and May finally appeared, our yard became flush with violets. Islands of purple amidst a green grass sea. Blooms bowing slightly on long stems. Along side the stone foundation sprouted clumps of Lily of the Valleys, the small white, perfectly formed bells hung like fragrant dewdrops from the strong green reeds. Nature worked Her magic by placing these two flowers to bloom at just the right time in the life of a child. Simple flowers that grew in such a way that they could be easily plucked by little hands. Violets, so vibrant in color, so subtle of scent. Lily of the Valleys, simply white, but complex in perfume and quietly exquisite in formation. Flowers in perfect balance, joined together at the right time to make a delicate child's bouquet...a tussy-mussy to be excitedly given as a token of love.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Are you sure typing when the easier, I mean when they, and and I mean when being that that that that the audit deduct up to if?
Technology is wonderful, if not funny in a "pull-your-hair-out-by-the-roots" kind of way. My new computer has voice recognition, where you can dictate emails, documents, and whatnot. It's not perfect, though, although I am sure the computer would blame my voice and lack of diction for any and all mistakes. So I thought I would dictate a blog entry without adjusting for what the computer thinks I am saying, just to showcase how wonderful and helpful this this may be in my life.
I thought this would be a good program for my daughter to use in writing reports. My dad would find it convenient in reading emails because e really hates to type. I think he would find it frustrating bill, I know I do because the computer thinks when I say the word told, it types of other words, such as bill, and told. Maybe I have a speech impediment where I had difficulties with mike T ages, like Cindy Brady did. So if my daughter were to use speech recognition in writing reports for school, at which sure hope she would perforated before handing in the finished product, or what she thought she said, was a really what she meant to say. Or type. I don't think that blame Nina the speech recognition program would be a good enough excuse. Next paragraph
The commands are hard to pick up on two. Although you can say anything you want and Dick station, you have to tell the computer what to do in a Pacific way for the computer to understand what you wanted to do. Spelling is project early selling, as I tried to spell out an e-mail address. My father's e-mail Eddie ended up being "jay Len Kelly a at hotmail that com". It's just far easier to point and click, then to scream at the computer, quotation mark De Ahmed that's not what I meant to say!!! Quotation mark.
I also don't like the idea that the computer is listening to me all the time. I'm sure won't be long or it will start ignoring me all the time, or look at me with this compassion eight digital eyes, wandering, what the hell are you talking about?
I'm also discovering that my strengths do not live in speaking, or as I feel far more confident writing of my ideas and thoughts. It feels like having writer's block of them Alf. Besides, I feel incredibly ridiculous speaking two and inanimate object. Almost like sitting in a shrinks office… Like, what am I supposed to say?
And heaven forbid if the dogs were to bark, for the clockwork turn to tactic to chime, or if the TV were on that debt that.
So I guess this whole speech recognition thing really doesn't make life easier unless I want to talk three words at a time, very slowly, with dictation soul crisp and clean, I could Cleve through paper. But even that has its flaws.
I kind of liked that "soul crisp and clean" line, though. I wished I would have come up with that one.
I thought this would be a good program for my daughter to use in writing reports. My dad would find it convenient in reading emails because e really hates to type. I think he would find it frustrating bill, I know I do because the computer thinks when I say the word told, it types of other words, such as bill, and told. Maybe I have a speech impediment where I had difficulties with mike T ages, like Cindy Brady did. So if my daughter were to use speech recognition in writing reports for school, at which sure hope she would perforated before handing in the finished product, or what she thought she said, was a really what she meant to say. Or type. I don't think that blame Nina the speech recognition program would be a good enough excuse. Next paragraph
The commands are hard to pick up on two. Although you can say anything you want and Dick station, you have to tell the computer what to do in a Pacific way for the computer to understand what you wanted to do. Spelling is project early selling, as I tried to spell out an e-mail address. My father's e-mail Eddie ended up being "jay Len Kelly a at hotmail that com". It's just far easier to point and click, then to scream at the computer, quotation mark De Ahmed that's not what I meant to say!!! Quotation mark.
I also don't like the idea that the computer is listening to me all the time. I'm sure won't be long or it will start ignoring me all the time, or look at me with this compassion eight digital eyes, wandering, what the hell are you talking about?
I'm also discovering that my strengths do not live in speaking, or as I feel far more confident writing of my ideas and thoughts. It feels like having writer's block of them Alf. Besides, I feel incredibly ridiculous speaking two and inanimate object. Almost like sitting in a shrinks office… Like, what am I supposed to say?
And heaven forbid if the dogs were to bark, for the clockwork turn to tactic to chime, or if the TV were on that debt that.
So I guess this whole speech recognition thing really doesn't make life easier unless I want to talk three words at a time, very slowly, with dictation soul crisp and clean, I could Cleve through paper. But even that has its flaws.
I kind of liked that "soul crisp and clean" line, though. I wished I would have come up with that one.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Fashion-not-sa
Out of sheer boredom the other day, I picked up a copy of a woman's fashion magazine so I would have something to read as I waited in the school parking lot for my daughter.
It took me all of five pages to realize why I quit reading womans fashion magazines. But, because of aforementioned sheer boredom, I continued to read on...or at least look at the pictures.
The magazine showed me clothes I could never wear, jewelery I had no place to wear, shoes I had no business to wear if I wanted to walk without the aid of a cane. Make-up in colors that did not occur naturally on a human being...eye shadows in shades of decay, blushes in tones of the other side of severe sunburn. Lips tinted in the same hues of blues I had last seen gracing a stiff laying in Ducky's morgue on NCIS. Why was I still flipping through the pages of this rag?
I found a perfume sample towards the middle that smelled nice, and gave myself a paper cut when I tried to rub the scented page across my wrist.
The last time I attempted make-up, I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand. I gave up lipstick years ago after the my dog rearranged my upper lip. Blush...who needs it when one has Rosacea? Hair styles? My hair is giving up on that one all on it's own every time I watch it sluice down the shower drain like black and white blood from the movie Psycho.
Dressing up? I wore sneakers to my sister's wedding. My heels have not been elevated since the Stacked-Heel Sandal Incident of '02. It is very difficult to appear sober to a group of high-brows leaving a wine and food pairing dinner that one is not inebriated as one is trying not fall off her heels.
So, I have established that fashion mags speak to me no longer. But, there are alternatives for the almost 50 female set, full of articles that sing, "Yes, you CAN be flirty, feminine, fun, even as your body falls into the disarray and disrepair of decrepitude.
And who do I find gracing the cover of such magazine? Sally Field. Perky Senior Citizen Extraordinaire. Former Gidget and Ex Flying Nun. Ageless Freak Of Nature. She poses on the cover, sitting like a pretzel, beaming as if too say, "Look at me! I can still bend at the knees and look fashionable doing so!"
I give up. I think I'll stick to Field and Stream. At least I can still fish.
It took me all of five pages to realize why I quit reading womans fashion magazines. But, because of aforementioned sheer boredom, I continued to read on...or at least look at the pictures.
The magazine showed me clothes I could never wear, jewelery I had no place to wear, shoes I had no business to wear if I wanted to walk without the aid of a cane. Make-up in colors that did not occur naturally on a human being...eye shadows in shades of decay, blushes in tones of the other side of severe sunburn. Lips tinted in the same hues of blues I had last seen gracing a stiff laying in Ducky's morgue on NCIS. Why was I still flipping through the pages of this rag?
I found a perfume sample towards the middle that smelled nice, and gave myself a paper cut when I tried to rub the scented page across my wrist.
The last time I attempted make-up, I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand. I gave up lipstick years ago after the my dog rearranged my upper lip. Blush...who needs it when one has Rosacea? Hair styles? My hair is giving up on that one all on it's own every time I watch it sluice down the shower drain like black and white blood from the movie Psycho.
Dressing up? I wore sneakers to my sister's wedding. My heels have not been elevated since the Stacked-Heel Sandal Incident of '02. It is very difficult to appear sober to a group of high-brows leaving a wine and food pairing dinner that one is not inebriated as one is trying not fall off her heels.
So, I have established that fashion mags speak to me no longer. But, there are alternatives for the almost 50 female set, full of articles that sing, "Yes, you CAN be flirty, feminine, fun, even as your body falls into the disarray and disrepair of decrepitude.
And who do I find gracing the cover of such magazine? Sally Field. Perky Senior Citizen Extraordinaire. Former Gidget and Ex Flying Nun. Ageless Freak Of Nature. She poses on the cover, sitting like a pretzel, beaming as if too say, "Look at me! I can still bend at the knees and look fashionable doing so!"
I give up. I think I'll stick to Field and Stream. At least I can still fish.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Benched
When the trees turn green and the wind blows warmly down the river valley, I will most likely find myself back to this place.
I have sat at this bench many times, for many reasons. Reflection, boredom, escape. I've sat, watching fishermen situated under the bridge, hoping for the big Walleye. Maybe they sit in their boats for the same reason I sit at this park bench, using a fishing pole as a prop so as to not seem purposeless.
I watch as barges float by, impossibly silent and serene. They look unoccupied, save a solitary figure walking against the flow of the river as he makes his way to the cabin. He looks like he is going nowhere, as if he is strolling in the opposite direction on an automatic walkway. I figure it probably isn't a very good idea to jump up and down in one place on a moving barge, especially if standing by a large object. Would they fall over it or crash into it on the way down?
I have sat at this bench a few times, daring myself not to leave the bench until way after sundown. Maybe a argument or a bruised ego found me here, and this bench is as far away as I will come to ever running away from home. The chill of the coming evening and the sting of mosquitoes, plunging their needles into my skin tells me my passive-aggressive nature will not win out.
I am always alone at this park bench, except for the constant companion of high frequency ringing in my ears, not unlike the sound of the mosquitoes zeroing in to steal my blood. The river draws me in, not physically, but emotionally. It is the ultimate "road not taken". I watch the river forever flowing within the boundaries of its shores until it finds freedom in the wide expanse of the oceans.
In comparison to the river, I am a mere creek, twisting its way out of existence before it can ever merge with the sea.
Monday, February 23, 2009
In the name of pride.
I noticed that my youngest daughter was unusably quiet this weekend and was not her normal quirky self. Knowing what time of year it was, I had my druthers as to what the culprit was. So seeing that I had her full and undivided attention in the van this morning, heading for school, I asked her if she tried her best on her essay paper, which is her second attempt.
"Mom, I enjoy essay writing", she cried, "and I wanted to be able to express myself the best that I could. But the paper I was going to write I can't anymore because it ended up so big of a project I would have never gotten it done, so now I'm writing a new one so I can hand it in, so the teacher doesn't think I'm a slacker. It'll be late, but I don't care."
To do this, she has put her other classes in jeopardy.
I tried to explain to her that there will be other times in life where she can express herself outside of the confines of the Department of Education's layout for high school English essay papers. It isn't worth failing the rest of her classes for this one paper. Her English teacher isn't going to care that she didn't give up...he will just count the paper null and void because she turned the paper in late. Again.
"I just want to do something I can be proud of", my daughter sniffed, as she exited the van.
"I'm proud of you." I replied from the recesses of my heart.
I don't think that counts though.
"Mom, I enjoy essay writing", she cried, "and I wanted to be able to express myself the best that I could. But the paper I was going to write I can't anymore because it ended up so big of a project I would have never gotten it done, so now I'm writing a new one so I can hand it in, so the teacher doesn't think I'm a slacker. It'll be late, but I don't care."
To do this, she has put her other classes in jeopardy.
I tried to explain to her that there will be other times in life where she can express herself outside of the confines of the Department of Education's layout for high school English essay papers. It isn't worth failing the rest of her classes for this one paper. Her English teacher isn't going to care that she didn't give up...he will just count the paper null and void because she turned the paper in late. Again.
"I just want to do something I can be proud of", my daughter sniffed, as she exited the van.
"I'm proud of you." I replied from the recesses of my heart.
I don't think that counts though.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
And she's gone.
Last week, my daughter and son-in-law finally started married life together in another state after six months of separation. She called me to tell me about the duplex they are renting. "It has a dishwasher!!!" she excitedly pointed out to me. I am so glad for her husband, since the girl couldn't hand wash a dish to save even my life.
She called me while she was cooking her first dinner in their new lodgings, sounding as giddy as a toddler with a new Easy Bake Oven. She asks me how much is two-thirds of a cup. She senses my confusion and explains that she forgot to buy measuring cups when they went grocery shopping to set up their pantry.
She calls me every morning with a cheery "Good Morning", which is bizarre since she isn't a "morning person". While at home, I was lucky if I got a grumpy mumbled imitation of the greeting.
She calls me while she's shopping at the BX.
She calls me as she's driving through town.
She Calls Me. All. The. Time.
She's five-hundred miles away, yet I feel she is still here with all the phone calls.
I am so incredibly lucky.
She called me while she was cooking her first dinner in their new lodgings, sounding as giddy as a toddler with a new Easy Bake Oven. She asks me how much is two-thirds of a cup. She senses my confusion and explains that she forgot to buy measuring cups when they went grocery shopping to set up their pantry.
She calls me every morning with a cheery "Good Morning", which is bizarre since she isn't a "morning person". While at home, I was lucky if I got a grumpy mumbled imitation of the greeting.
She calls me while she's shopping at the BX.
She calls me as she's driving through town.
She Calls Me. All. The. Time.
She's five-hundred miles away, yet I feel she is still here with all the phone calls.
I am so incredibly lucky.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Dashboard Moments
Since I live a whole block too close to my daughter's school, and her unwavering fear of acquiring a driver's license (not like I am in a huge hurry for her to be driving anyway), I take her to and from every day. I'm not complaining mind you...we spend the time talking about everything from political issues to the upcoming Star Trek movie and how it better not end up full of fail, as she puts it.
One day I decided to stash a camera in my purse, just in case I might see something interesting while I was out and about. Sitting at a stoplight, first at the line, I thought I would snap a picture and try an experiment where I would post the resulting snapshots under the heading of "Dashboard Moments", and tell a story about what I viewed at that particular intersection.
So, without further ado (or adon't), here is my first installment.
The Green Mill Fire Aftermath
One day I decided to stash a camera in my purse, just in case I might see something interesting while I was out and about. Sitting at a stoplight, first at the line, I thought I would snap a picture and try an experiment where I would post the resulting snapshots under the heading of "Dashboard Moments", and tell a story about what I viewed at that particular intersection.
So, without further ado (or adon't), here is my first installment.
***
The Green Mill Fire AftermathMost anyone who grew up in my town or surrounding area (you know who you are) probably ate at this restaurant which was at the corner of Columbus and Madison Streets. It was one of the longest running restaurants in Ottawa. My family and I ate there at least once a month when I was a child. I remember a man named Nick, who would meet my parents at the door, and welcome them with a flourish of , "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Leach! Your booth is open towards the back. Your lovely family can take a seat and your waitress will be with you very soon."
He actually knew my parents by name! We had our "regular booth"! I felt very special as he would escort us to our seats and hand us our menus. The booths were slightly worn down by years of patrons, and I had to sit on my feet to reach the table top comfortably. I remember that there was an unsaid rule that moms and dads ordered from one side of the menu where the steaks and seafood dwelled, and children ordered from the other side of the menu where the hot dogs, hamburgers and fish sandwiches lurked. I asked one day why I couldn't order a steak.
"Well, you are too young cut your own steak. Your Father ends up cutting it for you, and by the time he is done, his food is cold. It's not fair. When you are able to cut your own steak, you can order one."
Mom was right. It wasn't fair that my dad would have to eat cold steak, so I settled for a fish sandwich. Sometimes I would plead that I was "old enough" to cut my own steak, but after a few failed tries, my dad would set off to work, making sure my steak was cut in small enough pieces where I couldn't choke while eating. Dad would then start cutting into his cooled off steak and I would feel a twinge of guilt. If I was well behaved, didn't order steak, ate my dinner and didn't fight with my sister, I would get to order dessert. It was usually rice pudding with cream and cinnamon. I loved the candied orange pieces that hid among the creamy comfort of the pudding. I thought of them as little gems I had to dig for.
The Green Mill changed hands few times through the years, and I had always thought about stopping in for a bite, to see if I could transport myself in time where a cheery and graicous man named Nick would make me feel like I had the most important family in the world. But I never did, because reality is never as bright and shiny as the memory of a child.
He actually knew my parents by name! We had our "regular booth"! I felt very special as he would escort us to our seats and hand us our menus. The booths were slightly worn down by years of patrons, and I had to sit on my feet to reach the table top comfortably. I remember that there was an unsaid rule that moms and dads ordered from one side of the menu where the steaks and seafood dwelled, and children ordered from the other side of the menu where the hot dogs, hamburgers and fish sandwiches lurked. I asked one day why I couldn't order a steak.
"Well, you are too young cut your own steak. Your Father ends up cutting it for you, and by the time he is done, his food is cold. It's not fair. When you are able to cut your own steak, you can order one."
Mom was right. It wasn't fair that my dad would have to eat cold steak, so I settled for a fish sandwich. Sometimes I would plead that I was "old enough" to cut my own steak, but after a few failed tries, my dad would set off to work, making sure my steak was cut in small enough pieces where I couldn't choke while eating. Dad would then start cutting into his cooled off steak and I would feel a twinge of guilt. If I was well behaved, didn't order steak, ate my dinner and didn't fight with my sister, I would get to order dessert. It was usually rice pudding with cream and cinnamon. I loved the candied orange pieces that hid among the creamy comfort of the pudding. I thought of them as little gems I had to dig for.
The Green Mill changed hands few times through the years, and I had always thought about stopping in for a bite, to see if I could transport myself in time where a cheery and graicous man named Nick would make me feel like I had the most important family in the world. But I never did, because reality is never as bright and shiny as the memory of a child.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Winter Pallor, or, "A Paler Shade of White".
I stumble out of my warm bed to be welcomed by the chilly morning air. I assume it's morning. My alarm clock reads 6:01 am, but the sun has other plans as it still is hiding below my horizon. I turn on the bathroom light and scowl at my reflection in the mirror, my skin's shade of white echoing the color of last night's dusting of snow.
I blame it on the lights above the bathroom sink...
Okay, enough of the poetic monologue...I am so frickin' sick of winter! It's yet another morning of single digit f*ckitude. This is the Winter of my discontent.
But, then, when have I ever been content with Winter?
***
***
In other personal news, because isn't that what a blog is supposed to be about? Personal stuff? My daughter's cat Valhalla, the cat who wasn't there, is now a permanent fixture on my living room chair. She has finally decided that there is more to the house than the upstairs bedroom. Val has bravely ventured downstairs, took on the corgis and won for now. There is a detente at the moment, sporadically broken by one of the corgis venturing too near Val's bunker on one of the dining room chairs, resulting in a barrage of hissing, barking, yelping, and bruised doggy egos.
"Mom, she isn't rubbing against your leg, she backing up against your leg", Rachel explains drolly, as only Rachel can. "She's in heat. Again."
Nothing like being reminded of the *feline birds and bees by my younger daughter. Gawd, I feel so used.
And she is such an affectionate cat! Look at her rub up against my leg, meowing sweetly...awww!
"Mom, she isn't rubbing against your leg, she backing up against your leg", Rachel explains drolly, as only Rachel can. "She's in heat. Again."
Nothing like being reminded of the *feline birds and bees by my younger daughter. Gawd, I feel so used.
***
My son-in-law has graduated from his IT classes at the AF base in Biloxi, and is now home for few weeks, working in the local recruiter's office, shanghi-ing signing up potential recruits. In the first year my daughter and her husband have been married, they have lived apart. They will be moving to Nebraska and finally be starting their married live together. May reality slap them upside the head gently. Please.
So, in about a month, be prepared to read a weepy, glurgy post about mommies letting their daughters fly from the nest and all that while Perry Como sings "Turn Around" in the background. Hell, she flew from the nest years ago. At least she thought she did in her sixteen-year-old-I-know-it-all mind that prematurely reared it's head at age seven.
I knew enough not to let go back then. Hopefully I'll know enough to do so when the time comes.
I knew enough not to let go back then. Hopefully I'll know enough to do so when the time comes.
*Yes, the cat is going to be fixed.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Divisive Benediction?
It's a somewhat disturbing day when I agree somewhat with Glenn Beck.
Part of President Obama's message has been one of ending the divisive rhetoric and actions that has plagued this country for the past eight years. The "either/or" mentality of the the Era of W. The reaching across the aisles, figuratively and literally.
The act of the majority of this country, voting for a man that came from stock outside of White Bread America, showed that we too, wanted an end to the madness, and that we could expand our minds beyond the idea that someone too young, too foreign of a name, too black could lead a Nation.
So, was there any room for Reverend Joseph Lowery's benediction? In a time when President Obama, in his now famous keynote speech the the Democratic National Convention of 2004, invoked a different America with these words:
Thought provoking, or ill-timed rhetoric? It probably depends on what side of the fence one is, a fence I thought President Obama sought to tear down...all fences...racial, political, spiritual.
I realize that this is a major time in history for African Americans, more so possibly for those who crawled through the trenches of racial discrimination so many years ago. Those who walked with MLK, those who saw him stuck down amidst his mountainous climb. The Little Rock Nine, children who simply wanted to go to school, who found the Arkansas National Gaurd blocking their way. The Tuskeegee Airmen who fought so bravely during WWII for this country, only to come home to find that they were still directed to take the back entrance.
So, I see where the good Reverend is coming from, but remember, it's a major time for us all. A time where we are beginning to judge a person by his words and deeds, and not by words that describe his appearance.
Part of President Obama's message has been one of ending the divisive rhetoric and actions that has plagued this country for the past eight years. The "either/or" mentality of the the Era of W. The reaching across the aisles, figuratively and literally.
The act of the majority of this country, voting for a man that came from stock outside of White Bread America, showed that we too, wanted an end to the madness, and that we could expand our minds beyond the idea that someone too young, too foreign of a name, too black could lead a Nation.
So, was there any room for Reverend Joseph Lowery's benediction? In a time when President Obama, in his now famous keynote speech the the Democratic National Convention of 2004, invoked a different America with these words:
"We ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to give back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man, and when white will embrace what is right."
Thought provoking, or ill-timed rhetoric? It probably depends on what side of the fence one is, a fence I thought President Obama sought to tear down...all fences...racial, political, spiritual.
I realize that this is a major time in history for African Americans, more so possibly for those who crawled through the trenches of racial discrimination so many years ago. Those who walked with MLK, those who saw him stuck down amidst his mountainous climb. The Little Rock Nine, children who simply wanted to go to school, who found the Arkansas National Gaurd blocking their way. The Tuskeegee Airmen who fought so bravely during WWII for this country, only to come home to find that they were still directed to take the back entrance.
So, I see where the good Reverend is coming from, but remember, it's a major time for us all. A time where we are beginning to judge a person by his words and deeds, and not by words that describe his appearance.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Bricks
Just a short post. I'm helping to spread this through the blogosphere. Take a moment to visit this blog created to help a fellow blogger after a fire totally destroyed his home January 4th.
http://www.habitatfortravis.blogspot.com/
http://www.habitatfortravis.blogspot.com/
A Quiet Existence
I'm still living at my dad's house as he recuperates from open heart surgery and a mild TIA he suffered the first week home, which was most likely the scariest moment in my life to witness. But it has left no shadow in its wake, thankfully, except for the lasting image in my mind, looking into my dad's blue-gray eyes, fearfully realizing that for a few agonizing minutes, he was not there, for the glitch occurring in his brain.
In the almost three weeks I've been here, I've discovered quiet existence. At times I feel I am in a monastery, as we sit monk-like, just being. Simple housework has become zen-like, along with observing the minutiae of daily life. I note the patterns in the carpeting the vacuum cleaner leaves behind. I inhale the scent of freshly dried laundry, wondering why my clothes at home don't smell the same as I make a mental note to pick up Dad's choice of laundry soap. I reminisce as I see Mom in almost every corner of the house though her collections of antiques and scattered snapshots depicting happier, healthier times. Dad occasionally notices the wind playing with the tree tops, commenting that the weather is changing. We both lightly laugh at the cat's antics as she randomly bats at a fake furry mouse, then darts away from it as if it suddenly became real. Sometimes we banter back and forth over some news item, snickering at the state of Illinois politics. I ask him if he wants lunch, or if wants to take yet another handful of medication as my throat closes at the thought.
The passage of time is marked with the emptying of Dad's compartmentalized medicine organizer, as if it were a calendar.
We sit together in this large house, silently, not because we have nothing to say to each other, but because we don't have to, if we choose.
This time spent in this house, with my dad, reminded me of his quiet acceptance. Life is what it is. Move on the best you can because another day is just waiting on the other side of the hemisphere. My dad could howl at the moon, curse at the harsh light of day. Who knows, he may in solitude. He may not. I do know my dad is anxious to get some semblance of his life pre-surgery returned to him. He is itching to be able to drive wherever and whenever, or be able to push himself out of his chair using his arms. I bet he's waiting for the day when he owns the t.v. remote again (he has relinquished it to me for some reason), when he can belch without apology...who knows, walk around the house sans clothing. He knows, though, that going on and on about what he can't do isn't going to make the day when he can arrive sooner.
I am going to have to return to my home soon. Back to my hyper corgis, the cat who isn't there, my too-small rooms stuffed with too much, well, stuff. Back to my daughter and her off-kilter humor that sometimes needs to be reigned in. Home to the other quiet man in my life, one who for whatever reason is not totally comfortable with lingering silence.
But, if I have learned anything living with my dad for this span of time, I have rediscovered that quiet place within me that can exist outside solitude. When the corgis bark and yip at imaginary sheep, or when my daughter channels Robin Williams, Jim Carrey and Stephen Colbert at the same time, or when my husband waxes unpoetical about glass manufacturing operations...all of the above usually happening simultaneously, I'll have somewhere to go.
In the almost three weeks I've been here, I've discovered quiet existence. At times I feel I am in a monastery, as we sit monk-like, just being. Simple housework has become zen-like, along with observing the minutiae of daily life. I note the patterns in the carpeting the vacuum cleaner leaves behind. I inhale the scent of freshly dried laundry, wondering why my clothes at home don't smell the same as I make a mental note to pick up Dad's choice of laundry soap. I reminisce as I see Mom in almost every corner of the house though her collections of antiques and scattered snapshots depicting happier, healthier times. Dad occasionally notices the wind playing with the tree tops, commenting that the weather is changing. We both lightly laugh at the cat's antics as she randomly bats at a fake furry mouse, then darts away from it as if it suddenly became real. Sometimes we banter back and forth over some news item, snickering at the state of Illinois politics. I ask him if he wants lunch, or if wants to take yet another handful of medication as my throat closes at the thought.
The passage of time is marked with the emptying of Dad's compartmentalized medicine organizer, as if it were a calendar.
We sit together in this large house, silently, not because we have nothing to say to each other, but because we don't have to, if we choose.
This time spent in this house, with my dad, reminded me of his quiet acceptance. Life is what it is. Move on the best you can because another day is just waiting on the other side of the hemisphere. My dad could howl at the moon, curse at the harsh light of day. Who knows, he may in solitude. He may not. I do know my dad is anxious to get some semblance of his life pre-surgery returned to him. He is itching to be able to drive wherever and whenever, or be able to push himself out of his chair using his arms. I bet he's waiting for the day when he owns the t.v. remote again (he has relinquished it to me for some reason), when he can belch without apology...who knows, walk around the house sans clothing. He knows, though, that going on and on about what he can't do isn't going to make the day when he can arrive sooner.
I am going to have to return to my home soon. Back to my hyper corgis, the cat who isn't there, my too-small rooms stuffed with too much, well, stuff. Back to my daughter and her off-kilter humor that sometimes needs to be reigned in. Home to the other quiet man in my life, one who for whatever reason is not totally comfortable with lingering silence.
But, if I have learned anything living with my dad for this span of time, I have rediscovered that quiet place within me that can exist outside solitude. When the corgis bark and yip at imaginary sheep, or when my daughter channels Robin Williams, Jim Carrey and Stephen Colbert at the same time, or when my husband waxes unpoetical about glass manufacturing operations...all of the above usually happening simultaneously, I'll have somewhere to go.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Happy New Year
My wishes for you and yours this New Year...Smiles and laughter.
Silly moments.
Quiet interludes.
Many hugs.
Health.
Dreams come true and wishes fulfilled.
Peaceful sleep and mornings filled with hopeful anticipation.
Epiphanies.
Good friends, good times, good food and good spirits.
A love which no words can describe its depths.
Simple things made profound by appreciation.
A well lived year.
Make it a good one.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas, however that term holds meaning for you, and Happy Holidays.
I am finding my day away from my family this year. They are only a few minutes down the road, but it is still "away". My eldest daughter has a new family and new traditions to celebrate the day this year, as this is her first Christmas as a young married woman. My youngest, at sixteen is at home with my husband, I am sure playing Half-Life on her new Xbox, wearing her vintage-style motorcycle goggles, rainbow toe socks on her feet, courtesy of what she found under the tree yesterday.
I guess at sixteen, one can be flexible on which day to open presents.
I was not there to witness the unwrapping, as I am hovering over my dad for the next two weeks as he recuperates from open heart surgery. I have a feeling that he'll soon tire of me and kick me out, which is a good thing. He is doing amazingly well. Dad is navigating stairs and doing most routines on his own. When one thinks of the process of open heart surgery, being placed on a heart-lung bypass machine, having parts replaced and plumbing re-routed, keeping the body oxygenated while the heart is temporally turned off until it is zapped back into service...it almost makes the mechanics of the body, well, mechanical. Simple. But as we all know, the body is more complex than that.
So, my Christmas Day is spent back in my childhood home, waking up in my childhood bed. The bed is shorter than I remember, the room my bed now resides in smaller. The night-time sounds are the same, though. The expansion and contraction of the one-hundred year old home are the same as they were when I was a child, only this time I know they are not sounds of secret monsters in my closet or under my bed. The smells are the same, scents that evoke memories spanning forty years. Memories of those no longer inhabiting this space. Memories of my mom.
I awoke early this morning, and still in my jammies snuck downstairs, not to see a Christmas tree and a pile of presents, but to see my Dad, sitting in his easy chair, a cup of coffee on his side table.
"Good morning," he greeted me.
It was the best Christmas present I could have ever received.
I am finding my day away from my family this year. They are only a few minutes down the road, but it is still "away". My eldest daughter has a new family and new traditions to celebrate the day this year, as this is her first Christmas as a young married woman. My youngest, at sixteen is at home with my husband, I am sure playing Half-Life on her new Xbox, wearing her vintage-style motorcycle goggles, rainbow toe socks on her feet, courtesy of what she found under the tree yesterday.
I guess at sixteen, one can be flexible on which day to open presents.
I was not there to witness the unwrapping, as I am hovering over my dad for the next two weeks as he recuperates from open heart surgery. I have a feeling that he'll soon tire of me and kick me out, which is a good thing. He is doing amazingly well. Dad is navigating stairs and doing most routines on his own. When one thinks of the process of open heart surgery, being placed on a heart-lung bypass machine, having parts replaced and plumbing re-routed, keeping the body oxygenated while the heart is temporally turned off until it is zapped back into service...it almost makes the mechanics of the body, well, mechanical. Simple. But as we all know, the body is more complex than that.
So, my Christmas Day is spent back in my childhood home, waking up in my childhood bed. The bed is shorter than I remember, the room my bed now resides in smaller. The night-time sounds are the same, though. The expansion and contraction of the one-hundred year old home are the same as they were when I was a child, only this time I know they are not sounds of secret monsters in my closet or under my bed. The smells are the same, scents that evoke memories spanning forty years. Memories of those no longer inhabiting this space. Memories of my mom.
I awoke early this morning, and still in my jammies snuck downstairs, not to see a Christmas tree and a pile of presents, but to see my Dad, sitting in his easy chair, a cup of coffee on his side table.
"Good morning," he greeted me.
It was the best Christmas present I could have ever received.
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