Senior Lady Dating Manifesto

I'm looking for someone to spend a pleasant day with, who has a zest for life. We don't have forever; each day needs to have a little sparkle. Do you spoil yourself?

My day begins with thanks for another chance and a stretch to bring my soul back into the body followed immediately by coffee. Two hours later coffee and I are on the internet before I head for the gym. My days are lovely, my roads wind through tropical forests with sheer facing rock walls before showing me the ocean.

A handsome man to look into my eyes, who enjoys my wit and finds me attractive spells a fine afternoon, but a man with humor and candor makes a day too short.

The laundrymen listing all they have and what their friends have from the moment we meet are in the top five of those to avoid; what do I care? I’m not a young chick in nesting mode.

An interesting attractive man may command my attention for a while, but drone on and on without wondering about the woman you’re with becomes too braggadocio for my taste; I’m not a chick just out of the nest.

When your stories match his, you feel like you’ve met a male kindred spirit. You could do a freaking happy dance because you’re sharing your stories with someone who has the same sense of adventure. Little by little you question, disbelief dampens the flames of desire. Ladies, you know how deflating a liar is, right.

A man with a passion for almost anything, I prefer to the guy who lists his assets, upon deciding that those assets should be enough to attract you slides rather rapidly into fault finding, a constant complainer. Yuck.

I’ve had real love and I’ve had forever, at least forty-five years of it. As I recall, we built that a day at a time.

A man who loves his job can tell me stories about something I don’t understand; I’ll ask questions while admiring the twinkle in his eyes as he speaks, but he must ask about me. I don’t spew or interrupt a man waxing eloquent on himself. A man who doesn’t ask about the woman he’s with doesn’t care who you are; screw that and bye-bye.

A lively conversation, friendly banter and a bit of innuendo don’t mean a thing, but time well spent; I could enjoy that, but too many woe-be-gone faces want to tell me their problems. They remind me of a very talented woman who applied for a job as my secretary. I was liking her for the job, told her I’d call her, and on the way out the door she said, “I suffer from melancholia.”

Companions, partners, or mates should bring us up; some days we struggle to enjoy our day. Before we’ll help each other; we must care. Time well spent together brings that, so don’t tell me about forever; let’s just make a beautiful day and see what happens.

By the way, I’m a spoiler; do you know what that is?

It’s a woman who when she’s happy, she spoils you silly.  

Next Trip

What’s next? When living in a time suspended between past and future, planning a new adventure beats the hell out of dwelling on how much I miss my honey, so what’s next? 

An adventure frequently includes some peril such as the distinct possible of being alone on a boat dock late at night and the cell phone battery dead due to all the pictures you took. It happened to me last January in St. Thomas, but rather than that scenario I hopped into a private car with people I’d never seen before. My heart beat fast and I kept wiping moist fingertips on my pants. Fear  gave way to euphoria when I recognized the light in the distance as my hotel. The lines of waiting cabs left before I caught the ferry from Water Island, where I sat less than six feet away from a piano being played by Julian Gargiulo. The stars were out metaphorically; it drizzled sporadically during my time between heaven and earth, a surrealistic evening absolutely worth the peril.  

Memories give the heft to your soul, most of mine are of evenings enjoyed with my husband. That night, I thought about a Tennessee Williams play in which in the movie version Elizabeth Taylor belts out, “Maggie, the cat, is ALIVE! I’M ALIVE!” We were kindred spirits in that burst of joy  of life. Welcome to a positive, no wonderful memory during my time alone.

If only I could write a story to entice you to come along for the ride, I’d be a good writer, but I’m having enough difficulty in becoming the responsible  adult again. I just want to run away and play. The list of I shoulds grows but I get to prioritize. This could be fun.

Cuba calls me back. My sister from another life lives there. We met in  Trinidad in 2013. Have you ever had an energy connection with someone across a crowded room? This could have been a scene in the movie, Cloud Atlas, with Hallie Berry and Tom Hanks. Of all the people currently on the planet, two of  my best are in Cuba. 

In what Kirt would call, “One of your but firsts,” I want to attend another writers conference and spend more time in Florida. Old dude chic resonated on the Gulf Coast last year during my trip to Orlando from New Orleans. It’s funny that in my twenties I had a fantasy about driving Florida alone in my TR6; come to think about that car would still be fine for the drive if I can still drive stick. 

The hunt for an affordable airfare or what free music offerings are in the area begins my planning stage. This time the search includes writers’ workshops and conferences. Maybe its all in my head, but I think my writing gets better after a little effort. 

The Trip

A month long trip should return with showers of stories, but I don’t care to reminisce. A storage locker of memorabilia made for melancholy days of remembering what my life once was. 

I was young. I was strong. I was smart. None of which I am any longer. No boo-hoo, to be on the downhill side of life I find is becoming acceptable. The skills I brought to my life mute with each year after bringing me through challenging  productive years. 

Boxes of letters from grateful clients praising how well their dog was doing after sessions with me bring a smile before dumping them in the trash. Stacks of winning dog show ribbons must go; what good are they? I’m on the letting go side of life. 

Kirt’s things give me grief, the man had a tool for everything. A gift of a few to a neighbor man where I stayed made another man happy. He, in turn, supplied us with boiled crab on the weekend. Oh, joy.

Tasty cracklins congealed in the arteries of my brain on the Sunday a  friend and I drove part of the Natchez Trace. Just think, a store dedicated to cracklins; I’m so glad I don’t live in that neighborhood. 

We toured old Southern graveyards with sections dedicated to Confederacy soldiers and others filled with the area’s landed gentry, fenced in crypts with ornate ironwork. Guardian angels open hands and wings to a loved one in the grave and in the middle of it all, sat a huge chunk of marble. The shiny surface with a simple cut edge demanded my attention. Looking up the hill in the afternoon light I shaded my eyes to see the name and dates on the tombstone. The sun ducked behind a cloud, in large letters one word appeared; DICK. My palms got sweaty. My eyes crossed. Good heavens, this is where the Dicks are buried. I’m ever so grateful to not be in the section where the Bitches are buried. 

The French Quarter, the Monteleone Hotel, and the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival deliver the people watching, the conversation eavesdropping I enjoy. Every writer yearns to introduce us to interesting or memorable characters, so there we were facing a crusty on old Southerner dripping with the nuance of place, who told us about the people populating his novels, one of which had won a Pulitzer. The other men wanted to be him, and, well, what woman isn’t enamored by a fine Southern man? Speaking of fine men, the ever charming Dick Cavett captivated the crowd; who with a brain doesn’t love him?

There’s an art to being alone in a crowd happily; moving to the beat of the music during the French Quarter Fest puts a smile on the face that others respond to, so I have thousands of momentary friends. Music, food, and a Chinese massage made my day. I've overdosed on people, most wonderful and charming, just too many, so return to a life with more solitude brings balance. 

Lightning and thunder lace the afternoon showers with special effects. I’m convinced more than ever that we’ve been invaded by an alien being or energy. Saw the signs, but they’re subliminal; how many of us catch the obvious let alone the obscured? This force affects people in odd ways. The stories make us shake our heads uncomprehending. You hear a story, but don’t realize the importance until later which makes putting these odd events together to form some sort of a picture difficult. Who knows; I could just be getting senile.   

  

What Should We Do?

The cats out of the bag, aliens arrived in January, but with the new president and all, few have noticed. Indescribable beings are among us observing. We’re seldom aware that something is different, amiss, so we keep talking and ignoring the signals.

What do they want? Who can tell? Is this a collective hallucination? It could be.

Reports of earthquakes in areas with no increase in seismic activity or the feeling of your eyes being jerked back and forth were the first anyone noticed the anomaly. It still feels weird trying to tell you about it. I mean who believes old ladies? After all, everybody knows we go crazy after a certain age. For me it was thirteen, but anyway something is out of place after one of these events. The last time on my porch I saw a big yellow clay pot. Dang if that didn’t make me happy; I couldn’t believe my good fortune and then I looked again, strange stuff, right?

I feel compelled, but I’m scared to tell all I know. This was just the beginning; other things that happened make you want to scratch your head and say, “Huh?” Just as these events got my attention, well, things got spooky. Now, I’ve been known to scare myself into a rapid pulse and sweaty fingers, but this wasn’t it. I’m like in a trance observing this. No, I can’t tell you. Sorry.

Friends?

My life has developed a fairly even pace. Tears are no longer a regular part of the program and after a lifetime of being half of a we, I’m comfortable enough going alone.

A widower once told me to strive towards contentment. I’m pleased with the life I’ve led, so now that time has eased the pain of my loss, I am content or as content as an old overachiever ever gets.

With my wonderful Aunt Margaret gone I have less in Louisiana to share warm feelings. Ever since I left New Orleans at the age of twelve, I’ve wanted to return to live at least part of the year. Until I’m ready to move I hope to develop a cadre of friends.

The first couple of weeks with you were awesome. I can’t thank you enough; that time was a gift to my spirit. We obviously weren’t meant to live in close proximity, but when treated to small doses of each other it would be good?

Yes, it’s all about friends. Into my life many lovely people have come and gone; I’ve been blessed. Some of my favorite people shared a mutual interest or passion, which for me has always had something to do with dogs.

In this new phase of life, I’m exploring possibilities. I see the last quarter of my life as empty pages waiting to compliment an interesting life.

I’ve learned that a fine acquaintance becomes a friend after the first altercation/disagreement. My gratitude for allowing me your sofa and into your life is enormous; you always were a good guy in my book. I hope you remember the good times as well as I do.

In two weeks I’ll be having oysters in Amite with Margaret’s sister, and then the Tennessee Williams, which comes before the French Quarter Fest. I love New Orleans. Bookstores, blues, jazz, writers’ groups, and City Park, I can’t wait. Perhaps you’ll meet me for coffee?

Bad Back Getting Better

To rid myself of back pain, that’s what I want. Let’s face it; you know it hurts when all you want to do is lay in bed. Contrary to my negative self-image, I’m not a lazy person.

In my fifties, I practically ran my business from my water bed. Without pain pills, I never would have been able to show my dogs to a win. Over a lifetime injuries large and small accumulate in the body. A little ouch here, a little ouch there bones record, giving us bone spurs and arthritis later.

Medical doctors gave me pain pills. Osteopathic doctors and soft tissue therapy helped bit by bit; oh, I best not forget my wonderful acupuncturist without whom I might not be walking.

From a young age an iron worker built like a body builder beat me regularly; being in car accidents, thrown by horses, and other adventures added more than a fair share. Life is a participation sport; you’re going to take some licks.

In my fifties I felt old, ancient; I didn’t know how my aunt then in her seventies could go on weekend trail rides. Strong pain medication fortified me on the few short rides I did.

In my fifties and envisioning a time in assisted living or a nursing home felt bitter. Hated it! Fifty, you could call that my decade of surgeries; after the last, I wasn’t healing. My darling, the man with debilitating pain took such good care of me.

I have read that if your grip is so weak you can’t open a water bottle, you’re at risk of a heart attack. Arthritis in my hands prevented me from bottle opening. The statement made me think the end is near.

Here’s where sing halleluiah enters the picture for me; since exercising for the last four years back pain that had once crippled me becomes less all the time. As muscles tighten holding my fat stuff in a better position, I hurt less.

At times I’d given up and quit only to return to exercise when it hurt more. To exercise after my husband died demanded every bit of will I had left. So much of me wanted to say, “F--- it.”

What does a never give up person do when they get old?

You marshal on as you learned to throughout your life.

So now under flesh that shakes like Jello, I have some solid muscle. Approaching seventy feeling way better than fifty is fantastic. When you tame a pain that medicated with strong pain relievers slows to a four level into three aspirins will cover stronger pain, you can cope with it just fine. Decreasing the jiggle may be a never ending journey, but who cares? I can carry a bag of dog food in the house without hurting. 

Remembering When

At the lowest point in my life point in my life when I needed to find my way, an almost stranger volunteered to let me stay on his sofa. I thanked the kind heart and thought about it.

From First Communion at Holy Rosary to the last cup of coffee at the Morning Call in City Park I needed New Orleans to heal my spirit. At my home in Puerto Rico I l languished; I needed to hear the trumpet play with young musicians practicing on Popp’s Band Stand.

Expecting to stay on the sofa in a cozy one bedroom apartment with an almost stranger for three months could be considered crazy. New Orleans held a collage of family memories from a time before I married. Watching horses run in the morning at the Fairgrounds, could there be a better way to spend a morning on summer vacation? I had to touch base with memories connecting me to my life before my husband.

The first night on the man’s sofa had me like a cat on a hot tin roof but became comfortable. I enjoyed hearing a masculine Southern voice and he enjoyed talking; we were off to the races. We spent a day naming hit records from the sixties; neither one of us would quit. My host tended to be competitive, which challenged me even in the depths of my lethargy. We laughed; it surprised me that I could have a good time with a strange man.

We spent too much time together becoming familiar too quickly. I don’t mean physically familiar; he was a gentleman. By our senior years, we come with some rough edges as well as lovely smoothies.

Jazz, the Blues, poetry readings, writers’ clubs, and festivals filled our time together; we laughed a lot. He loved to read to me what he’d just finished writing at two am; oddly, I enjoyed his enthusiasm and didn’t mind hearing, “Oh, you’re awake; let me read this to you.”

Our friction points could have been doused had distance been available. In the end, he thought I was calling him as he put it, a bad boy. Not at all, he’s too damn old to be called a boy, a bad man he’s definitely not; his intentions were good. We were not meant to spend three months with me on his couch, but sincerely, thanks for trying.

My husband had died a scant ten months before I arrived at your door. You have no idea how insane being alive without my soulmate felt or how much I just wanted to die. This great time for me to be in New Orleans was not a good time to flirt with getting close.

Given a different set of circumstances, I believe we could have become good friends. We could sign a non-aggression agreement in blood; what do you say? 

Love Affair With Parks

Sitting in a shady city park with statues, and flowers, and people passing, I resonate with peace and excitement at the same time; how delicious!

I remember having lunch in a small park in downtown Chicago when I worked in the Loop. The stress and boredom of meaningless job drained into the trees. As teenagers, we’re required to hold at least one job we hate; right?

From the age of eight when I first saw Spanish moss hanging from ancient live oak trees, I fell in love with City Park in New Orleans, which remains on the top of my list.

The tree lined park, Plaza Antonia Quinones can be proud of its beauty with a fountain and a stage for horns from the San Juan Philharmonic playing tonight.

Havana’s wonderfully ornate light poles delighted me as I strolled with my dearest friend through the park in the shade of overwhelming statues adorning Cuban government buildings. Horse drawn carriages offering tours were under scrutiny by my brave animal advocate friend.

She boldly strode up to a man whose horse kept licking its lips. “Go immediately to a water trough; your horse needs water.”

Have you ever seen a senior lady with her back up? She radiated command. Those ladies who have ever gotten their backs up know what it’s like to be so filled with moral outrage your eyes are bloodshot. The water station was visible from where we stood. The man dutifully complied.

Havana also had beautiful horses and carriages. I insisted on riding with a handsome dappled gray. What is it with women and beautiful horses? My heart skips that beat, sweet!

Where ever I go I spend time in local parks; only one gave me bad vibes. I left quickly. On the island I call home watching loving families play in the parks and on the beaches remains a great time soaking up vibes.

Memory took me down many paths in many parks. Considering how important parks have been in my life I pray that people running the world realize how important they are to my stability.  

Weirdo

If the awkward silence in this room gets any louder I going to have to turn down off hearing aide, once said laughter and witticisms follow. The person who diffuses tension in the room, that’s me.

I make goo-goo faces at babies. I smile and nod at people passing by; I am a weirdo.

I love what God has made. Where I live reminds me each day; this is a beautiful valley.  

I don’t understand perfection, but there’s good and bad in all of us to varying degrees. Beauty in each of us is in the eyes; it’s a spark in which souls unite and then depart. When I see that beauty in someone’s eyes I feel my soul’s been given treasure.

Do you know how many dead eyes I peer into before the treasure?

Some days not many, people are better than popular opinion. In people I find good; I told you I was a weirdo. ;)

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.

Just Singing the Blues

In that stage grief between mourning and hope, I toss sometimes mourning and other times pleased to be alive. Let go of the past; that’s what people say. How do I let go of the best of my life?

For all the fun things he was there, loving me. I miss being loved more than anything. I never thought about loving myself. Most days I didn’t think about liking myself preferring always to focus on my shortcomings.

How do I let go of the person who loved me the most? I can’t, so I have to hold him in my heart and continue because I still have purpose in this life. Frequently, I wish my life came with a how-to manual. I struggle with damn near everything; probably that’s just me. Being with Kirt made even challenges fun, we loved life together.

I’m not sure how to go on, but three and a half years later it would seem that I’m doing so, however poorly. So this is what it means to be on the downhill slide of life with losses everywhere and days numbered. Ok, that sucks; now what?

I’m thinking New Orleans, jazz, road trip down the gulf coast of Florida, and a whole mess of oysters. What do you say?

Healthy Routine or Good Times

Been a goodish girl for days and this arthritis still beating my butt; how long does it take for inflammation to exit the body?

During exercise I felt the endorphin rush; I’m such a fool to discontinue what allows me to hurt less. DUH!!

How quickly I let my healthy routine slide surprises me. For those few days I wanted to indulge in dark chocolate and fun, to be a bad girl. I can picture my mother saying, “See what happens.”

I remember my husband tossing his healthy routine for more good food than he should have been eating. He lost a toe over it.

Exercising through arthritis pain hurts, so I seldom get carried away exercising like a mad woman. The last three days are an exception because it felt so good to be back.

Spoke with my mom who is going to be ninety-four on Friday, the thirteenth. I wished her happy birthday and thanked her for the genes. That I’d be pleased to take after her amused both of us which made an ironic moment we appreciated, damn few of those in a lifetime.

It’s time to go get a replacement part for my rooftop water tank or go to the gym. Perhaps, I shouldn’t exercise four days in a row after being off two weeks, but I need an endorphin rush and dark chocolate cake is out of the question. Mmmm, I shouldn’t think about that too long.

Enjoy your day.

Sugar Rush

Sugar, so sweet and delectable steered my holiday awry. Sugar, so tasty on the tip of the tongue carried mouths through foul odiferous words laying waste to friendship’s fleeting greeting.

Holiday ranking Happy Halloween at the top with sweet rewards based on the number of doors knocked would spawn a lifetime overachiever; who knew?

Change coasting on sedentary years informs senior bodies of the future. Take heed; don’t be stupid, but alas it’s inevitable.

My sugar tooth fairy flew in on Delta. Where’s the desert menu? Got to run; let’s go! Where’s the bakery? I haven’t seen any bakeries. Oh, would you look at that! It’s time for coffee and.

Let’s go; let’s go.

Here I am dark and rich; you know you want me. Dribbles on my lips gave me away; what could I say?

Dark chocolate led me down the path to pain and suffering.

Dark chocolate cake, please! I’d like a brownie.

And on the third day like a lump I laid unable to move complements of pain in ankles, knees, hips, and back. A new, never before discovered pain in my right shoulder stabbed the center of the joint as I heard the words Merry Christmas. WTF, what have I done to myself? My middle finger knuckle hurts.

New Year’s resolution: self-control. Is sixty-eight too late?

What DID I Do This Year

Last Christmas strolling El Conde in the Colonial Zone of Santo Domingo, while peering in shop windows a tall dark-haired woman approached my companion and me. “You’re American; I heard you speaking English. I want to talk to someone who speaks English,” a woman blurted out in a moderately thick Serbian accent.

Seriously, I looked around for Alan Funt Jr. and the Candid Camera crew. We went for coffee, no joke, and then went to the caves, and shopped in the Mercado; the trip ended with a new friend, Olivera from Michigan.

Christmas in the Caribbean, my new holiday tradition will take us to the San Juan this year. Most months I listen to live jazz in Old San Juan, so I seldom get lost anymore. Olivera will dash through the snow at Detroit AirPort to join me for a balmy Christmas. With arthritis, I don’t ever want to see a white Christmas again or I never, ever want to see a white Christmas again; which is more emphatic?

If someone asked what happened this year, I couldn’t tell them without evidence, so I went through my pictures. 

Start the year in the Dominican Republic, in spring the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival

and the French Quarter Fest in New Orleans, and back to the Dominican in November.

It disappoints me so; that I’ve bitched my way through what by looking at the photos was a great year. All year I’ve listened to quality live music for little or nothing; I’m very pleased about that.

Driving the gulf coast of Florida on the way to Orlando, the sand whipped across the road reminding me of white outs in winter snows. The best oysters I’ve had all year came there; during that meal, I started thinking how I could live in Florida if I didn’t go back to New Orleans.

A week from today is Christmas; I’ll be doing as much freebie stuff as possible since I already spent this month’s allowance on my first outing in 2017. 

We Change

People say that we don’t change, but I’m here to tell you we do. During my teens and twenties, it seemed to me that I observed more, knew more and understood more than most people around me. I was known to be smart. Now, I know I’m just a dummy with an ego.

Knowing this frees me from effort to save face. Before I realized this I thought I just had a fuck you attitude. Grief, a realm of its own, forced me into new behavior. I hadn’t been this angry or sworn this much since the terrible teens.

To top it all off I’m a Type A personality who ran out of gas. In my deepest depression, I made shorter lists; column A: go to movies and gym, column B: research methods of suicide.

I made goals to travel, to exercise and to explore the island. In some ways I haven’t changed; throughout my life, I’ve made lists and set goals. In those dark years after Kirt’s death, I didn’t recognize myself without his light shining on me and reflecting mine back. The little old list maker planned her way to a new life. Hah!

Trouble is in my head I’m surrounded by burned out shells and broken branches. To do all the right things, the things you hope will cheer you and soothe that screaming ass pain doesn’t get great results in the presence of overwhelming loss. It makes me think about holistic healing that heals precious bit by bit.

Recently, I read something by a man within hand grenade range of my age; in this piece, he congratulated himself for his wisdom, maturity, and courage. He saw himself as a role model; his friends heartily agreed.

Could this have possibly made me feel any more fucked up? I know nothing; I question everything. Everything dear disappeared; nobody knows my name.

Remember Janis Joplin belting out, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose;” why not, huh?

Culture Divergence

Culture or what my mind refers to as things other people do differently than what I do. Culturally differences can be as domestic as Catholic bingo versus Baptist picnics.

I’ve only understood culture on the broadest most superficial level. For me, it was one of those things I could see, but not truly identify, like an ethereal spirit.

Finally, I had an aha moment explaining why understanding came so slowly and uncomfortably; I thought of culture as what others do. What did I bring to the table? Some days people love me and other days I feel friction. What is it about me on those days?

In today’s climate, it’s all too easy to chalk it off to so and so just doesn’t like Americans or white people. And while I see a difference lately, I prefer to change what I can to minimize stress points.

In the Caribbean cultures I’ve met so far, one common thing is greeting ritual. “Good day, how are you?” Question and reply come before what you want. On a good day, I enjoy that, which is generally on my popular days.

On a bad day, I have no patience for all these good day rituals, I want to get in, get it over, and get out; that’s my American culture, which I won’t diminish by saying, or lack thereof. We may be brash, but we’ve always been good-hearted.

Putting on a good face helps, but many operate on the energetic level where they’re reacting to energy output. When you blast someone with hurry-hurry energy, push back occurs.

And sometimes I get so excited about a new experience, and then I see in some faces that their culture is more restrained. Write this down, no happy dancing after sixty-five.

On the First Morning

This morning I woke up thinking myself one of the coolest old ladies on the planet! Hah!! That’s never happened before.

The Dominican Jazz Fest is next week. I leave in four days, so raise the roof; Caribbean jazz here I come, and in the VIP seats no less.

The coastline road from the airport to Santo Domingo whispers wanton words seducing travelers to stop, have a drink or a meal on the shore. So far in my world travels, this is one of my favorite drives from an airport. It relaxes me and I only come from the next island.

Learning to see what my husband saw in me for forty-five years is finally wiping out the way my parents saw me, which was as a kid needing to be beat at least three times a week.

My memories with my husband are largely us going and doing. He loved my adventurous spirit; his soul soared with me. My soul still soars with enjoyment of enthralling music.

Time to pack the suitcase; what shall I wear? Tee shirts, the proof of previous fests and hence coolness must be washed.

And then, I must go to the gym so my back and knees don’t stiffen or refuse to budge. 

Carry on Jazz

If you can’t be decent to me, you can’t be near me. I hold my comrades to that minimum level of behavior. Beyond that I’ve been entertained by an array of craziness; sometimes not so entertained.

When someone, who knows your weaknesses, strikes in that tender zone, they intend to hurt, which in my book makes it malicious. I could tell how it made me feel, be clear about the pain caused, question why you wanted to hurt me, but maliciously causing pain isn’t an oops; it’s a scary character flaw which  repeats the behavior loop.

Being separated from the person you spend the most time with and have a ton of fun is not an easy thing to do; a surgical approach avoids an ample amount of drama. I hate how loud people get, myself included.

We haven’t spoken since the incident. The only contact, a text:

Are you mad at me?

Reply: Yes.

It seems this is the type of drama where in each side plays out a list of grievances or worse yet, say things in a competition to hurt the most. Oh, goodie, I think I’ll pass. Perhaps we’ve simply had enough of each other. Goodbye. 

We spent a considerable amount of time together each week, so the first felt like withdrawal. Wednesdays were fun; that’s pretty much why I didn’t understand her behavior on Thursday, but anyway the test of my readiness to be alone comes next week, big time.

I may be crazy; this may be too much for a senior lady alone, but the music calls. The Dominican Jazz Fest begins in the capital city, Santo Domingo; my hotel is a ten minute walk to the venue. What’s the best way to return to the hotel at the end of the evening?

Alone, I’ll miss the “what shall we do” discussion, but this is a bucket list trip. It’s on!

After a night of jazz in the Colonial Zone on the south coast, I’ll drive across the island ending up in Cabarete. Each night a different view, I thought it a ballsy trip for two senior ladies. I didn’t plan to do this trip alone; that’s a real adventure. Yikes!!

Let’s be real; I’m a fat old lady, alone. Of course, I’m scared. Many times I felt afraid when I first came to Puerto Rico. The fear I owned; across this island people have been kind, so when I went to the Dominican Republic, I felt comfortable, and a large contingency of police to protect the tourists made me feel safe.

Alone, this trip is scary for me, but listening to good music takes me to a happy place. I’m going. Please, pray for me. 

Life Lessons

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. About three years ago, shortly after my husband died, we were introduced.

Widows know each others’ pain; it’s something we just have to live through or not. People who haven’t had this loss hide behind a wall of words telling you how you should feel or even better how your husband would want you to feel. Well intended people can make you crazy in your grief.

“You feel how you feel. You can’t push it. You can’t change it. You just have to accept it. It hurts.” She identified with the experience. 

An obviously wounded woman spoke the truth. We bonded in our grief. We gave each other moral support to make the best of the days we shared. Lost in Puerto Rico with two senior ladies could be the title of our early adventures. In the depths of my mourning, I learned to laugh again.

Have you ever met someone fun? I enjoyed her quixotic changes of topic. It taught me to be flexible. I can be rigid. And, oh, my, she bathed in the center of attention! I was the Martin to her Lewis; we laughed through many experiences.

First, I love myself; teacher set the example. No matter what the topic her sentence always began with I. After a while I found that annoying, but realized she struggles also, so accept a friend as she came. Later it crossed my mind that I should find what my husband found lovable in me. 

For three years this soul has been my closest friend, whom I love dearly. There is so much I admire about her. We had some great fun together. This time in my life was better for you being in it; gracias. I wish you all the best. It hurts to say, “Goodbye!”

The only thing that would grieve me more is to again be subjected to the hateful speech hurled at me on Thursday. That was the meanest I’ve ever seen you do. You wanted to hurt me; why?

Doesn’t matter because you did it; you hurt me so badly that we’re done. Is that what you wanted?

Give me Thanksgiving Dinner for one.

Love Letter to My Husband

My honey, my husband, forty months ago you died. The bitter Sunday I lost you grieves me; we could be smiling and laughing still. We always did whether times were good or hard. We found something to smile about; didn’t we!

You gifted me with the sweetest soul I ever knew. Losing you cracked my hard case into pieces. Putting me back together, without your physical presence to give comfort, piece by piece has been my dark night of the soul, and a job far from done.

Since 1988 you lived with pain no one would want to imagine, but you found joy in the day. You always had something kind to say; that was your way.

As the famous Joseph Campbell taught, most people go to the right, the main stream route and a few take the path to the left. It’s a shady dirt road through a forest, and then a ridge with rocks and ocean vistas as far as the eye can see. Alone it’s just me; I’d so much rather it be we, but the path to the left suits me, as it did you.

You valued me way more than I valued myself; what did you see in me I often wondered. Everyone or most everyone, who met you, fell in love with you. All the women who sought you out drove me nuts, and yet, I wasn’t jealous. You loved me.

Alone, I’d rather be than with energy draining strangers, who showed up this day to tell me all their woes. I struggle to see the good some days, but don’t wish to share with someone who doesn’t care. They don’t want to hear me, so why should I indulge their whines?

The travel we planned, I’m doing for us. Although we never spoke of Cuba, I’ve been there. Two kindred spirits live near Havana, you would love them as I do. There is love in my life.

You know how hard I always worked and tried; those days are gone. Even my workouts at the gym are no harder than I’ll allow, but I continue to go and do. That’s where the fun is; right? 

The road less traveled, that freaking lonely road without you is still worth the trip my love. Life is a gift to honor, but I’ll miss you every step.