What's It Gonna Be

To my dear sweet niece,

At twenty I married your mother’s brother; he liked to hang with the guys at the bar, so I went to the library because I like to read. We were young and in love so we picnicked and made love in the woods, but twenty years later, I’d say,

 “Wanna go to the movies; come on, let’s go.”

“Nah, I don’t want to go,” meant an evening watching TV.

If I wanted to go to the movies, I should go to the movies, so I said,

“I’m going to the movies; you want to come?”

He replied with his usual,

“Nah,” not missing a step towards the family room sofa.

Never had I gone to the movies alone; I held the notion that we should do things together, but had to honor that if he didn’t want to go, it was his right, so when I opened the front door, with my heart pounding, I called,

“See ya later.”

Looking back, I wonder why all the drama; the thought of being a married woman alone in a movie theater upset me, but determined to for once do what I wanted to do even if he didn’t, I left.

I remember my fingers being all sweaty, wanting to sob, but being me, I thought, fuck him and started the car, threw it into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Before I could get into forward gear the front door opened; he threw his shirt on while heading to the car.

“Yeah, a movie sounds good,” 

was all he said in his best nonchalant, cool dude style.

Honey, I don’t know anyone’s life but my own, but I have learned to love and value myself enough to do what pleases me.

Your mom and her brother were tight; she’d tell me stories of things she and her brother did. Oh, my, your family had love.

I remember you with long blond hair and bangs; it seems you were one of the taller kids. What a sweet girl, I thought, you took after your mom.

This much I know; a man who loves you may not go to the ballet with you, but he’ll join you on things he likes because he wants to be with you.

The times I went to things without him, surprisingly, I’d come home smiling. Learning I could have a good time alone helped me get out on my own after he passed.

With or without the love of my life, I must try to enjoy my life or be a miserable old bitch; what’s it gonna be, honey?

A Tale of Two Men

Today look to see a young man in a wheelchair, his face contorted with anger ranting at another man speaking to his mom in Spanish in San Juan airport of all places.

The hellfire torture a person feels over the loss of mobility can only be inadequately imagined, my heart felt for this soul, so I watched him rave a second time. Nothing justifies his behavior to people who were minding their own business, but my heart hurts for him none the less.

Only those who have lost a limb or mobility have any idea of how this young man hurts over the life that might have been his or what he could have done. You’re right; it’s no excuse for bad behavior, if you watch it again it’s a cry for help.

Look in the ranting man’s face; do you see rage? You’re speaking Spanish in the airport is getting on my last nerve rage?

Picture the scene that set the rage monster off, a mom chatting with and cooing over her fit and fine young military son in a way Latina women have of adoring their sons. Looking whole and wonderful her son reflected her adoration, and in hellfire, he sat dwelling on his loss; you can say, how sad or man up, but neither change that this man needs help and more compassion than he showed.

The raging man in a wheelchair may be the focus of this story, but on the flip side, we have a young man who I’d like to recognize for his cool and appropriate behavior. Way to go!!

The young man off camera spoke in reasonable tones telling him he too was military; he was talking to his mom who spoke Spanish, hoping for the angry man to empathize. Blessed are the peacemakers. 

Take a Look

Old age, the new frontier of my life, I didn’t believe I’d live this long. With this coming birthday there is no politely thinking of myself as older, but somehow still hip or cool; I’m an old lady.

Goodbye days of admiring glances as I walk past; hello, nobody notices. I’m just another granny weaving my way through the crowd.

My brief escape to Condado and beyond gave me another glimpse into life alone and on the go. In this part of the story, I dined on the beach, straining to hear snatches of conversation, but couldn’t.

A repeating loud, phony laugh regularly caught my attention. Bitterness dripped from the edges of each ha-hah-hah and each time three. I heard the call for help from the next table, a family gathering of a man and a woman with offspring’s young families all dressed to the teeth, a fine legacy to be sure.

The family, the picture of success made me doubt the hollow laugh could come from there. I searched the water for cruise ship lights. Ha-hah-hah, there it came again a plaintive howl.

Affluent young locals laughed near the bar, while families or couples chatted at tables, some body language better than others; I saw no one who went with the lonely laugh.

Caught in mid-laugh, I saw from a wide open mouth, dry sound ejected; only the corners of his eyes confirmed the sadness, the remainder of his countenance radiated pride.

I sent a flicker of light in his direction as I wished to God for more nights with my honey.

A nearby couple caught my eye, you know the ones so into themselves that any contact invading their energy, they suffer. The waiter after receiving the order from the man in his fifties, who immediately turned his full attention to his lady, seemed stunned to be so completely shut out, so quickly; it was fun to see.

In restaurants, we commonly see people’s energy entwine creating a cocoon or you see the ones glancing about the room hoping for someone to relate to other than present company. I have never seen a couple create an energy vortex that looked like a black in a restaurant before; have you?

Soft light, club jazz, the hum of conversation, I scan the scene for clothes I like; a beautiful dress or a well-draped man demands notice. Simple outfits, the woman in black pants and an olive loose knit sweater and the equally lean man in shades of khaki, attracted my attention about two o’clock in my sight line.

The calamari melted on my tongue, the party of one at my table blissed out; I hate it when older people grunt when the food is good, but I’m afraid I may have.

I glanced at two o’clock which went dark, like black hole dark in a circle just big enough for them. This disconcerted me, but another piece of calamari calmed me down. The waiter walked past their table with the order; no energy called to him.

I trained in some soft tissue energy methods, which is why I can sometimes see or feel the energy. That’s pretty weird at first, for a long time I thought it had bullshit written all over it, and then, I felt it.

I’m not some crazy old lady telling you that these were aliens; no human couple I know could pull the light in around themselves achieving that level of privacy in public.

Believe me, I don’t want to be telling you that folks from far-far-away dined with me on Saturday, but unless technology exists to build personal walls what else could it be?

Am I crazy? This question surfaces now and again, but I don’t believe so; in less than a decade I lost my husband, business, nest egg, best friends, and now I’m an old lady. It wouldn’t be an understatement to say I’ve been through a lot, but healing.

Regular exercise and frequent travel feel positive; I mean I’m still fat and sad, but not as much. That’s way better than I felt before and I have hopes and goals again, so I believe in my mental health. Of course, side effects can be a bitch, so judge for yourself.

What seems nuts to me is taking away the needs of the poor for the wants of the rich.  How many human beings can look at another who hasn’t harmed you and say, die? People who become rich frequently give back; it’s the human thing to do.

Without someone to stir the pot I find people to be kind. Is it crazy to question those with the unfair advantage, who treat us as the next old tail they want to eat? Or is greed just another substance abuse?

With a short life expectancy enjoying my day became personal. Working people paid into the Social Security Fund, which is one of our best benefits for this time of life.

Am I crazy to believe that the aberrant elite controlling our planet aren’t like the rest of us because they’re not from here? It’s easier to believe I’m bat shit bonkers than that aliens have quietly invaded us. What do we do?

I mean, if they’re in a position of absolute power and they don’t like us, we’re screwed. We need to know who we’re dealing with before we don’t like the terms of engagement.

We should have evolved beyond oppressed masses and pagan parties at the top. Greed beyond the boundaries of satisfaction is not healthy or normal, like schoolboys running through a store grabbing. That’s the same shit that got us in trouble around 2008; we’re falling for it again. Doesn’t that seem too stupid to be real?

When times are good as they are now for the rich, people have fun, maybe, do something good for the community; who continues to plunder with full coffers? I’m not saying all greedy bastards are aliens, but something’s not right.

    

My Angel

Dearest Sister,

Very happy you’re better. Please, be healthy! I need you in my life. We cling to each other as girls in a raft.

To be with you again soaking up your loving care, I can’t wait. Last I saw you was during the worse time of my life. I never could look at life without my husband; you made me feel safe and not alone. It felt like the first growth of life after devastation.

How many times in a lifetime do you recognize a soul mate across a room crowded or otherwise? And, yet, there we were.

Can we doubt God has a plan? You were the angel whose caring reminded me that God cares. Your presence united us; being mad with God doesn’t feel nice.

I miss our conversations and am eager to get to know your country better. Who am I kidding? I can’t wait to hear the jazz, while I hear music I visit my happy place.

Two lifelong dog lovers attending an international FCI dog show; I shiver with delight; can’t wait. To stay with you until the book expo in January would be unfair, so we’ll limit my stay; you say how long. Between now and then I’ll be budgeting.

An unscrupulous company has been burrowing into my checking account, almost caused a huge problem when I was in New Orleans. I bought something on the internet, a cosmetic company began sending and charging for cosmetics that went to my post office box. The purchase as understood by me was a one time deal and I’ll let you know if I want more.

On my trip to New Orleans I encountered difficulty, of course, I budget for some but stood at the counter with not enough in my account to work already done. By the grace of God, I had just enough cash on me to cover. I don’t normally carry more than a twenty or two. My heart beat crazy counting.

I’m too old for this stress. I’m going to the bank to find out how to stop this. Nothing I saw on the cosmetics company website lead me to believe we had an ongoing relationship. I’ll bet this happens frequently. This seems like a sharp business practice, huh!

I could have been so screwed because big business didn’t play fair again. I’ve had a hard time since my return home; health comes with nourishment and exercise. As long as my government doesn’t default on me, I can handle my life.

When you’re up for it please send the correct name of the dog show and dates, town, etc. And the same for the jazz fest. Costs.

Let’s pray we’re not too old for fun; huh, Sister! 

What If

Can you be alone? They say it’s a test of one’s maturity. In the case of humans by mature do we just mean overripe?

During my forty-five year marriage, I found myself wanting to be alone at times, but never desired it as a chronic condition.

Lovely people live in my life for whom I feel varying degrees of connectedness. Only a few ever make it to the inner circle of trust status. I mean how many people do you meet whose company you enjoy enough to want to repeat the experience? Very sweet people don’t always have enough in common with me for the encounter to be more than a pleasant blip on my day. God bless them all.

Can people go mad living alone? Does spending too much time encourage eccentric behavior? We all have some things in common, but then our proclivities jump into hyperspace in a million directions. If we don’t have a companion to bounce things off, does the mind gallop far off in search of feedback?

Without that inner circle family of closeness, the strength of your center battles for survival until tempered or you go crazy, which is a scientific term for can’t handle it.

I see signs that cause me to believe aliens are influencing life on this planet. It makes me feel like I’ve gone electric boogaloo, but when I’m alone in public I see people focused on each other.

That seems right, huh? Moms and dads observe and react to active offspring, lovers coo, and cuddle or huff and fume; it’s all fun to watch, but I’m apart enough to notice what goes on in the space between people. Sometimes it looks like pixie dust; isn’t that nuts? Other times I see what looks like heat waves. Yeah, I know what visual effects go with low blood sugar; this isn’t that.

At my age all of this could be neurological, but what if it's not? Most of us believe that we’re not the only life in the universe. I mean, what if we just haven’t recognized their tracks in the snow or in the sky?

Wouldn’t an advanced race have improved stealthy observation and maybe travel to our planet over time? Could the gods that watched Rome be observing us in super stealth mode?

Being alone shifted my perception to the spaces in between us; there I see the anomalies or maybe I having a mini-stroke. If I’m being honest I have to own that possibility.

Rather than hang out with my mouth open, I look for effect. What’s different? Call me crazy, but people seemed more hostile. Sometimes I’ve felt it myself, suddenly I felt agitated, like don’t piss me off bitch. Without a nearby bitch, I thought low blood sugar; I’ve been there. When dark chocolate doesn’t help you’ve got to wonder, que pasa.

These little blips happen so fast like little tectonic shifts in the tropics frequently go unnoticed.

And then, maybe, my brain has ripened into mush; quien sabe?

Family

This morning my almost ancient aunt told me, “You were so brave; I’d put you on the back of my Standardbred mare and we’d be off. Cars would pull along side us to see the horse and the cute three-year-old in my lap. You loved it; do you remember?”

She sighed; I could hear her smile. Anita was but a teenage girl when we first met and I was just a baby, her big brother’s first born.

New Orleans, at least where grandpa and dad’s sisters lived, allowed horses, chickens, goats, and miscellaneous farm animals.

“Every time I saw you; you wanted to go riding. You were the bravest little girl.”

What I do remember is my mother being fit to be tied by some of the things young auntie did with me. Anita was daring, the way teenagers are daring; who better for a little girl to imprint on?

The time she spent with me creating memories is the currency of our long lasting relationship. I adored being with this warm Southern woman; still, do. 

Remembering New Orleans

MY annual trek to New Orleans begins to occupy my mind. City Park where I spent much time as a kid will be one the first places where I’ll return to sit under ancient live oaks remembering a grandmother, aunts, and uncles sharing family times in the beautiful park.

One family picnic under the live oaks still vivid I sat at the table across from my Uncle Lou and Aunt Margaret with potato salad and chicken on my plate.

“How do ya like yur chicken?” Uncle Lou asked in his deep Southern drawl. I loved my Uncle Lou as much as I did my daddy. Lean and fit with premature salt and pepper hair and twinkling blue eyes, he charmed everyone.

“Good chicken, Uncle Lou,” I replied with a big smile for my favorite uncle.

“Y’all like that chicken? It’s good, yeah?” He waited for my vigorous nod of approval.

“Ya remember the baby chicks y’all got for Easter?”

No reply; I didn’t remember.

“Ya don’t remember the colored chicks grandpaw gave you and your brother for Easter?”

Oh, yeah, I remembered how we and our cousins were given these colored chicks that the boys chased around the yard and after my little brother stepped on his, it ran with its head hanging down before it died and the adults gathered up the rest and put them away.

I shook my head; I remembered the Easter chicks, which felt kind of weird, but I didn’t know why. I wasn’t much more than eight.  

“Patty, how do you like your chick?”

I hadn’t seen the chick since Easter, so I looked as confused as I felt. I didn’t want to look stupid in front of my Uncle Lou. I didn’t understand a thing about the stress I felt and now the rest of the table had picked up on the conversation so all the adults were looking at me. City Park one the scenes of my early epic I don’t want to be in the spotlight moments, one of those moments when you just don’t get it.

“Patty, that’s yur Easter chick; how ya like it?”

Uncle Lou seemed to be so pleased to tell me. I looked at the tender thigh on my plate; my eyes felt like they popped out of my head, tears flew along with me from the table to the car where I sat bawling until my mother brought me back to the table to finish my plate.

Life’s teachable moments seldom went smoothly, but that’s how it goes. After lunch my dad and uncle to the kids off to explore the park, where I learned to never ever go near a gray goose nest again.

Memory in the Moss

Way back in the 1950’s, when Morgus the Magnificent entertained young and old, an eight year old white girl lived on Grand Route St. John in New Orleans.  Some days her next door neighbor and best friend couldn’t come out to play with her. She wandered down the block in search of something to do.

Two boys about her age tossed a ball; before long the little girl tossed the ball with them. They played tag, and then hide-n-seek. The threesome met regularly after that, playing hard, climbing trees, fighting vampires or the civil war. With an accent from Chicago, she invariably represented the North. Two boys against one younger girl wasn’t much of a fight, so the black boy fought on North with her. The little white boy always got to be the Confederate General.

The Confederate General could beat the other boy or the little girl, but the two together creamed the general’s behind, who was then called in to cleanup. The other two played catch before sitting on his grandma’s porch to cool off.

A couple of his aunties and some cousins surrounded this tiny, tiny lady whose ebony skin looked like worn out shoe leather. Who was the tiny old lady they seemed so fascinated with, the little girl wondered.

“Girl, your folks know where y’at?” The old woman looked directly into the girl’s eyes.

“Yes, Maam!”  The girl looked down at the ground. Her mother knew she was on the block; that was good enough.

The withered woman with the softest voice asked questions, teased and joked with the other women on the porch, while one of the aunts painted her miniature French poodle’s toenails bright red. Soon the little girl was dipping the brush into the paint.

“Who is that old lady,” the girl asked her newest friend, the young woman with the dog.

“That’s my great-great grandma,” she said in between puffing air on her black poodle’s crimson toenails. She stuck a paw in the girl’s face. “Blow!” She laughed, and then placed her index finger to her lips, “Ssshh, listen to mah-mau.”

“The mastuh give this house to mah granddaddy; I remember the mastuh from when I was a little girl. Granddaddy say he a good man. He give him this here house and always treat him fair.

Others say time not much more different from when we was slaves.”

The frail woman, who seemed small to an eight year old, raised her wrists, showing hands with knuckles so huge it looked like they hurt.  She shrugged and motioned towards the little white girl.

“I picking cotton before I hur age. This mah house.” Her head nodding as she turned to take in her house.

The eight year old white girl excused herself, telling the elderly lady,”It was nice to meet you; thank you, Maam.”

She skipped home, thinking this lady she just met was someone very special. All through dinner she tingled with excitement; after doing dishes and taking a bath, she could lay on the floor in the dark with her little brother listening to Morgus, the Magnificent on the transistor radio.

Open Letter to My Niece

To my niece,

I am so glad that you write to me. I think we’re having a hard time of it. You must miss Tim and I know I miss Kirt. If I don’t constantly push myself to go out, to be social; I won’t.

The old lady rocking on the porch holds a lifetime of limits in her lap. We’re the common folk of the planet, not children of the rich or famous. The struggles of our lives are written in our bodies.

Your Uncle Kirt used to say, “Every time I see a can of Bush Beans my knees hurt.” Did your mom pick for them? I thought she did. Kirt had a special way about him; his sister adored him, and he her. I didn’t see your mom a real lot, but there was always an easy way between us, when we did.

You were twelve when you first stood out to me. I thought you were smart and had beautiful penmanship; tall and thin with long blonde hair didn’t hurt either.

When I think about my life there’s two ways I can go on it, first, the way I grew up thinking about things, which is I could have done more, had more, been more, in short, what was wrong with it. Mostly, I am just tickled at what a great life I’ve had, hard as shit but worth everyday.

On the porch is not bad or sitting under a tree contemplating passes a day just fine, but last month I pushed myself to go to nighttime jazz concert by myself. At first I felt so scared; it’s not as if my Spanish is good.  I got lost on the way and cursed myself for going, but give me live jazz music for a fine evening and you’ll see a smile into the next day! It was worth it.

Dear niece I don’t know what gives you pleasure, what gives you a big smile, but we need to put doses of it in our lives regularly!

It hurt me to read that you felt like a worthless lump. I’ve been there; it’s not good. HATED IT!!

For me exercise, getting out listening to music, travel, and friends, oh, don’t let me forget being an animal advocate is everything.  It’s not what I had, but there is joy in it.  

Please, do something good for yourself today!

xoxo

Happy Mother's Day to Moms of a Lesser Model

Mother, my mother, this drizzly May morning set aside to honor women, whose uterus has produced, calls me to ponder you.

The duty call made at eight on Saturday, not too late, just in time to say,

 “Happy mother’s day; enjoy your day. You sound tired; I’ll let you go.”

You must have done something right; after all, I still call.

Over the years and beyond the tears we know each other very little and love even less. One of the few stories you ever told me of your life was the one during the Great Depression about getting relief shoes, the girls at school teasing you, and how you would polish those shoes. You hated what you had because it wasn’t enough.

Your mother, my nana, a young widow, dragged her gimpy leg to work as a Walgreen’s waitress in Chicago’s Loop to support her five children. That had to be depressing.

Nana told me her childhood stories of cold Michigan winters, hanging noodles indoors on a clothes line attached at one end to a big stone fireplace in the center of the house, the dishes she learned to cook at her mother’s side.  Nana was the most fervent Catholic I have ever known; she gave definition to the word innocent. 

As the daughter of a deceased Chicago Detective Captain, my mother must have had many eyes on her behavior; until she went to San Francisco to meet the marine she married in WWII.

In all of my years I’ve never met another policeman’s wife as naïve as my nana, but during an emergency, like the time I cut my thumb on a butcher knife while drying dishes, she did what had to be done without histrionics, simply matter of fact. A family crisis with yelling and screaming she endured by sitting small and sweet with a dazed expression. Nana never talked about pain or suffering.

Mother never shared more than a detail here or there. She seemed to fear her older brother, Henry, but handsome younger brother, Bobby had her heart.

The Great Depression and World War II must own many screwed up lives; certainly, yours, my mother, is one. The Great Recession has gratuitously given me plenty to be pissed about, so mother I have more empathy than I ever cared to have.  

Because of you I’ve endured great physical and emotional pain, but I absorbed it; all of the family’s rage is dissolved. I let it go.

When you search your body for the pain of a daughter’s anger, mine won’t be there. I’ve struggled to understand and forgive you for most of my adult life. To say the least, you weren’t the mom they write sonnets for, but given your circumstances I believe; well, we do what we do.

To my Grandma, my dad’s mom, Happy Mother’s Day! You are the best!!

To Nana, I loved your stories; thanks for sharing about our family. You are so special.

Aunt Margaret, I know it comes as a shot we’re not as great as we think we are, but please know that you inspired me to greatness. You’ll always be great in my life.

Mom, you had a hard life; mine turned out so much better.

Thanks, I mean that.

God loves us all!! Hip-hip-hooray, have a good day!

      

Bye Bye, Brother, Bye Bye

Two years after the best in my life left, I’m discarding the negative. To jerk the umbilicus out of my gut caused me pain until the small sigh of relief.

The other love of my life my baby brother, so handsome and charming when you wanted to be, but more often moody and impossible to please. This one excelled in zingers designed to hurt; undermining my self-confidence or embarrassing me puffed you up with bonus points.

Hurting me you did for sport. Why? Kirt thought you just never out grew childhood behavior. Kirt made me see that giving it right back didn’t make me feel better. The whole time I was with that man, all we ever did was to try to help you. Loving you as I did prevented me from hurling the zingers back, seeing you screw your life up, while ridiculing me pushed Kirt to the point of anger. My lovely man, who did so much for you. And, stupid, he didn’t do it because you were so great; he did it because he loved me.

Kirt and I were active, upstanding, respected members of the community. When we took you out to dinner in the local diner, did you think talking loudly about your sordid experiences in prison demeaned us? Did ordering my employees around, telling them to get me right away or get you a cup of coffee, make them think less of us?

You’d come to our celebrations to act mean and angry; verbally abusing your son at one party until one of my guests wanted to take you out back to have a good talk on behavior.

Kirt knew that I wanted to hear what was happening with my brother, but would be out of sorts for days after you came to visit, so he’d visit with you for hours, while you told your tale of current woe for hours. And you had no clue when he’d had it with you, and told you off.

Yes, brother Bill, you were a pain in his ass. He always thought you were a spoiled brat, but he lived under my dictum: love me, love my family.

Mom sent you to live with us, when we first got married. Before you arrived, we were having sex all over the house. Do you think he was jumping through hoops happy to see you every night?

We were so proud when you did the one bit of self-improvement in your life with that truck driving course you took. We knew how many experienced truckers were out of work at the time, but you did something in a positive direction.

Kirt used all of his influence in the company, a union shop with no lay-offs, when your only driving experience was hauling horseshit from the track to the mushroom farm. He vouched for you; and how did you repay Kirt?

When a truck driver puts a tractor and a trailer together, it’s the driver’s responsibility, yours! The company had the coupling tested who was at fault came up in the resulting lawsuits.  Come on, how f’ing stupid are you?

Brother Bill came to our house to tell Kirt how he was going to burn down the shop where they worked, when Brother Bill was fired for the carelessness that caused that accident. Kirt loved hearing how you planned to torch his place of employment, as you raged.

With as much pleasure as you too in trying to embarrass me in later years, you’ll get a charge out of the years of company Christmas parties, when the guys would line up to dance with me, so they could tell how terrific Kirt was and what an asshole my brother was. All the stories they told of how you could watch a man bust his balls without lifting a finger to help.

My favorite part of these stories were how good my honey was. I listened to them and thanked them for sharing. Lastly I reminded them that I picked my husband, not my brother.

I assume it was the last time you were arrested, the time shortly before we left for Puerto Rico, he rode with you from our home in Yorkville to western Iowa, where you had to go to court. He listened to you whine all the way out there, as he sat in sheer agony. The judge saw my husband’s pain. Lucky for you he thought he was your father and gave you leniency.

Do you know how much money we ante-ed up for lawyers and bail for you? It never occurred to you to pay it back or say thanks.  

And believe it or not, we had other things we could have done with the thousands that went to your defense.

The one time he ever called on you for anything; you wouldn’t do it.

“Call your sister; she’s upset. I can’t get her to calm down; talk to her.”

You laughingly told him to tell me to get another house and refused. I’ll bet you were surprised when he came unglued after a lifetime of tolerating you.

Yes, Brother Bill, you were a pain in his ass. And just to inform you that you showing your ass to people I knew only made you look bad.  

In the two years he’s been gone you haven’t had the decency to call me or send a card saying, sorry for your loss.

Goodbye, Bill, so long. I love the baby brother you were; the man you’ve become, well, I’d rather not bother.

Mommy Issues Need to be Over

 Catharsis, that’s what I need, a good f’ing enema. Shit my guts out and let the stink fall where it may.

Whatever I put my thoughts or energy into becomes the most important item of my day. Shopping or taking care of the dogs momentarily takes it out of my mind, but sooner or later I get back to it.

How do you multi-task doing wonderful, positive things, while pondering why your mother didn’t love you? So maybe, it’s time to spill my guts and get it out of my system.

Mommy, I remember when I was four I did something that made you very angry. So scared by your wrath I ran around the dining room table to escape, but you cornered me by the china hutch and kicked the sick out of me; until my head throbbed. You instilled fear.

At five I failed a lesson of focus and pay attention. It was the fourth of July, fireworks popped up and down the block. You wanted to be nice to me. The sparkler held firmly in my hand, as you lit the little grey stick, moved ever so slightly, when the folks across the street lit off a firecracker.

The flash of the stick in my hand struck my mother on the thumb. Her shriek scared me witless; I just stood there with my mouth open, holding that stupid sparkler.

The ember died; I stood on the porch and cried, knowing something bad was going to follow. I expected to get hit, but now, I realize your hand hurt too much.  Scared and waiting, I stood in the corner on the porch; until finally, you came out carrying a suitcase.

“You don’t love me. You burned me. I packed your stuff; get out!”

At first I was just happy not to get hit. She closed the door behind her as she went back in the house. The tiny joy of escaping a beating became lost in a sea of despair. I don’t know how long I stood there crying, but cried it out.

A five year old standing on the porch knowing, you’re not welcome, inside feels alone deep in the little soul. I did not know what to do. Terrified, abandoned, I dragged my suitcase down the street to the corner before mommy came to get me.

This isn’t going to be a laundry list of what the woman has done to me.

I feel sorry for you, Evelyn, whatever made you so wicked to me, must have been hell, but you have continued to not love me throughout my life. Why did you hate me?

Loving you, but being forbidden to touch you or hug you, hurt.

When we can’t love, we’re defective somehow. I know you’re capable of love. Without a broken wing I can’t seem to connect with you, and I’m tired of trying.

We bonded over the deaths of our husbands. It was swell; once over the cold war began again. Mom, I don’t like this game; I quit.

At your age, sooner or later God or the devil is going to be reaching out for you, so I’ll just say good luck, thanks for the womb.

Widowed Twenty-three Months

On Sunday June 14^th Kirt will have been gone twenty-three months. Making peace with his loss little by little. I try to push start the process every chance I get, but it doesn’t work like that.

After a year and a half of steady crying, oppressive sadness came as a welcome relief; until that time at twenty months when I got sick and tired of hating life without Kirt, of wondering if I would be anyone without my husband.

Occasionally in this procession my heart strings would zing for some silly old thing, mostly for the dogs in play or full moon over the lake, a rainbow.

Long talks with my creator have replaced time listening to the flotsam of life, aka the news. I’m getting to peace with my loss, but this detent comes with temper tantrums the likes of which I’ve never, no seldom experienced. There’s a dark facet of me that wants to hold on to the anger, the hate this loss has opened me to. The first year I was absolutely pissed that God would take him from me. One of my life lessons is to learn how to let go; imagine that.

I’m learning to do some little something for myself and the dogs. We play ball as the sun goes down. Even my older hunters, who are no longer thrilled by the ball, mill around and chase each other. It’s our family time.

Going to the gym makes a big difference; after years of sitting around, pushing my muscles, getting them to hurt feels alive. I’m still a fatty, but not as much. I don’t care; the important thing is I can carry a fifty pound sack of dog food. The vote on that item’s importance in this house was unanimous.

Until today I’ve worn mostly black, not so much as a symbol of mourning, which it was, but the one color I’ve avoided most of my life became my color, as dark as my mood.

Today, when I met my friend for sushi lunch, my shorts were red, green, white, and blue plaid with a white tee shirt. I haven’t been able to stand wearing white, since Kirt died.

I wore white shorts on my birthday, which morning from hell describes the start of the day. Once calmed, the day blossomed into a nice lunch at the San Juan Harbor before dropping my friend on the big ferry.

It’s weird how the color of my clothes reflects my interior color. All my oranges, pinks, aquas have languished on the rack. They never looked or felt right. I wish to be ready to reclaim them and the hues of feeling they represent.

Pushing only gives me a rebound backslide, so I’m learning to be gentle with my expectations for myself. This sounds so f’ing bullshit, but I swear it’s not.

I’m seriously committed to having a happy, pleased with myself, contented life again. Who I am didn’t disappear; the context of my life has changed. Alone is the new game. Now, that it’s no longer strange, I can do this.

The emotional backslide I had on my birthday took me by surprise. I rushed through my morning chores, missed my leisurely coffee, didn’t play with the dogs, just fed them and threw them back in the house to hurry to my friend’s house, so we could make it to San Juan between twelve thirty and one to have lunch with another friend.

When I arrived at my friend’s house, my adrenaline flowed; I could not calm down. I rushed around her house huffing because she was so unhurried, while I felt all giddy-yap. I had to give myself a timeout in private to settle. I could see I bugged her and we were basically on time we were not going to be late unless something else happened, so I was too tightly wound up and I knew it; it was ugly.

My usual reaction to stress is I can do nothing; I’m useless. I hate that I can’t maintain focus; that was always a strength. Now, I just go brain dead, duh. Before Kirt died I was taking some classes on Coursera, which kept my mind healthy when his amputation challenges came along. I stayed up late in the night with my Coursera classes and now I just can’t get into them as much as I want to. It’s stuff like this that was never part of my life. The discipline I always brought fails me.

What keeps hitting me is that I need to be gentle with myself, patient, and God, don’t forbid kind. I am enjoying life again.

Time Marches, Change Happens

Working through the problems of the day may have opened my life to new possibilities. When the problem of the day is that somebody beat your dog in the middle of the night, probably on your property, that problem needs careful scrutiny.  

Sister of my heart, Adrienne has asked me to move in with her and her husband. My friends tell me I should go.

Jazz radio and the dogs to hang around with has become comfortable. I’m usually self-motivating, but since Kirt died my get up and go is a shadow on the horizon. My focus, lost to the lazy, hazy days of mourning, only spurts very other something or other.

My free ranging critters will need regular runs along the beach, if they are to live in small space. Playing with the dogs, that’s something I no longer do much. Play is good for the soul. I shall play again.

Darling Dominic, the new boy in my life, the brilliant Border Collie, took the position at my side. The other dogs and even the cat accepted him there. Training this love sponge will be fun. He’s rather willful, so lessons in manners are ongoing.

San Juan holds many options for entertainment. Live jazz in old San Juan on a sultry summer’s night, sitting down wind of a spouting fountain, those are the little things I could enjoy.

If I don’t strive for what I want, it will never happen. Here I’m not striving; I’m treading time.

Leaving the last home I shared with Kirt is unsettling. I don’t know if I can do it. For now, I’m going to look at it, as a change of scene short term. This is my home. I’ve never given up my home easily; not sure if that’s good or bad.

Chicken shit here is going to put her toes on the beach and in the world. God will take me, when it’s my time; meanwhile, I need to put on some big girl panties.

  

Best Advice

I’ve screamed and cried, and then languished for twenty months, sharing my pain in my blog and online in Daily Strength Widow/Widowers’ Support Group.

“I don’t know who I am without him,” was my big lament.

A widow in the group told me,

“Be kind to yourself; treat yourself well each day.”

Meditating on that opened a most pleasant way of thinking for me in my time of crisis.

Lavender soap and body oil replaced sales brands in my bath. Modest luxuries I used as part of daily rituals made me feel better about myself, when I really didn't give a shit about mush.

Movies were replaced by boat rides to restaurants overlooking a tropical lake,

and then I spent some extraordinary time in Louisiana with my Aunt Margaret before she died this last November. We bonded in ways I never expected; nor would her sister or my cousins believe.

If it’s meant for you, God stick’s it right in your arms. God gave me a sister of the heart in Cuba, who for three weeks treated me like precious cargo. She showed me what is felt like to be loved by a sister.

In one of God’s truly mysterious ways, I met another sister of the heart in New Orleans; how I met her is another story, but soon Lt. Linda and I will be paling around the Crescent City.

Thanks for the advice on Daily Strength! I need all the positive I can get in my life. Healing after losing the love of my life is hard.

Kirt had my heart; the pieces of my heart need to find places to love and be loved now that I am accepting his death. Yes, there’s still hesitation, but no longer raw pain. I’ll call that well improved.