Just Another Pint

Tired of sad and lonely, tired of depressed; want to make it go away. My love left an ache that just doesn't quit, not one little bit. I loved my life with my honey; we were both assholes from time to time, but other times we clicked along beautifully. We were the average people of this planet in love; because of love, I believe in God. Love takes a hard day’s work and transforms it into a gift for someone more important, yeah, someone more important than you.

Do you know how many people haven’t felt that? People tell me to let go of the past so I can enjoy my now, but I cling to the time when love lived in my life. Now, too many angry people want to hurt each other; who wants to go near?

Place, the other great character in any story needs to provide for the plot. I live on a tropical island bitching about being sad and lonely; why don’t I move? Where would I go?

July, the month my honey died, proves painful annually; the month of widowhood picks the scab off wounds not healed. In July lifting weights only hurts, I feel inches away from crying, but it’s my job to make myself feel better. All I can say is repeated applications of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia and hot fudge topping does wonders after four years. 

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?

Life's Questions and Lessons

We think; we wonder why we’re here or why this or that happened in childhood. Every age challenges us to grow or decline. Pain, suffering, joy, and happiness color our lives.

Each unique journey weaves in and out with others creating the cacophony of our cultures. When life becomes too painful some reach for booze or drugs, some become mean, others turn to religion. We all have a personal solution; even helplessness is a way of dealing with harsh reality.

In one of the neighborhoods I lived in as a young adult, “Take it easy” or “Don’t work too hard,” people said frequently. Their mantra reflected how they limited themselves; from the south side of Chicago, many had never even ventured into the Loop.

Being a driven soul, I bristled at this advice; being young I argued for my opinion as a better way not yet realizing what mental masturbation means.

Over the years we’re exposed to an amazing amount of energy that we absorb and reflect or deflect; through personal choice, we create who we are. Looking back on a life, wondering how well it served my soul, I’m kinder about my mistakes than when I was young.

Not judging others, do we find that difficult? Come on, don’t add lying. Whether we find them wonderful or awful, we judge. Superior or inferior, we see ourselves in that linear way or safe versus frightening; we find valid reasons for judgment.

In my twenties, I doubted that God exists. If you created us couldn’t you take better care of your creations? Who are you kidding? You created everything; that means you created evil. That’s no kind of god I could wrap my head around, so one day for no reason there was this big bang.

Many nights under the stars with cold wind on my face put my thoughts in a different order to glimpse how complex life is and that order began with God. The understanding I have gives me respect for all life whether I like them or not.

How we live now creates our heaven or hell, so it’s not a stretch to think we’re creating our future (life) according to the law of karma.

So now I’m wondering, how do I best set myself up for my next existence? If this life could be a bank account of knowledge I could send to myself, what wisdom would I impart? What questions should a soul preparing for life ask?

Wouldn’t it be nice to know how we pick our families? How many misplaced zygotes are there? Why was I one? Or was I?

And thanks for this life; it’ been a trip.

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.  

Happy Birthday

Released from a life of regular beatings at eighteen, I wanted the pain to stop. Welcome to adulthood, you’re out of the house. With other teens, I celebrated by drinking and drugging.

Nobody will ever hit me again, my fiery resolve reverberated in every cell; I still feel the resolve, but minus fire. The law was finally on my side, I had recourse if my father hit me again.

That should have felt better, but it didn’t because every hit on my baby body stored a rotten energy ready to rebound in fury. I could have been beaten into submission, but I drew a defiant resolve to survive.

The hurt and betrayal a child feels at the hands of parents tilts how you feel about the world. I believed everyone would hurt me sooner or later. Of course, that’s true, but there are limits and we can all be assholes at one time or another, but pretty much we can forgive and move on in different directions or make up.

Lucky for me, I met a man who loved me truly, held on tight and never let go. I wish life would have been simple; no, actually dealing with childhood issues became the foundation of my adult dysfunctions. S.N.A.F.U.

I’d pedal upstream like crazy, trying to bring positive things into my life only to be pulled under. I developed a hyper-spastic duodenum; that’s part of my small intestine. Life swung back and forth between good and horseshit. Did I get better?

Oh, hell no, by twenty-five, I had what they called a nervous breakdown. The out of control feeling that goes with falling apart made me think I was losing my mind. Thinking about going insane really made me crazy if you know what I mean.

In a nervous breakdown, days end by crying yourself to an exhausted sleep only to awaken to more crying. Pull it together to go to work, cry on the drive to the office, check face in the mirror before exiting the vehicle, and life goes on like normal. I remember how miserable I felt and only knew worse the day my husband died.

He told me straight out that he didn’t understand people who treated their children like that, but he held me through many tears. With him, I learned to appreciate the beauty in even a bad day.

Life punches and jabs, but then there are the moments with your head in someone’s lap and they’re stroking your face. To appreciate the strokes, I’ve had to give up focusing on the jabs. Do you have any idea how long that takes? I’ll let you know when I arrive.

Joy inhabits a day focused on even the smallest positive details; eventually, it overrides the pain. That may be one of the biggest lessons of my life; it’s a favorite. I like healing a lot.

Today, San Juan here I come with plans to go to a dog show. It’s funny but, when I told a friend at the gym, she rolled her eyes to say, “Who would want to do that?”

I would to celebrate my birthday. For years I didn’t celebrate; how sad is it when your birthday doesn’t make you happy? I hear it from others all the time, so it’s not just me.

During his life, I treated my husband to dinner or parties and gave the best gifts, including our first Rottweiler; or we went to a resort. Good God, I love that man.

Since his passing, my goal is to love myself as well as I loved him.

A lifetime of repairing self-worth follows a shamed child. What I’ve done in my lifetime says who I am; wow, who’d have thought it? I’m proud of me. Happy birthday.

Act Three

I am a Plebeian woman in many a marketplace examining the wares. Being of humble means I look much and purchase little. As I go I look into eyes and see the world; many souls look back, sharing their truths in a passing moment. I see hurt, love, and humanity, as well as, shame inflicted, but mostly not deserved.

I am proud of my cast, commonplace people, the salt on our table. During my productive age, I seldom looked directly into eyes; I didn’t trust, nor wanted to learn their secrets, or them to see my shame.

When you begin with little or nothing you have a plan and stay focused to get something. I believed in business old school, which meant doing my best each day, having integrity. I worked hard and managed to live a life that pleased me. I was blessed by opportunity.

Most of us don’t want to rule the world, just let me do something I can be proud of at the end of the day; it doesn’t matter what. My husband was proud to be a truck driver. He held respect within his company and his boss trusted him. As a Teamster in 705, he played his part in life, as I did as his wife.

The curtain rises on my third act: old age alone. Compliments of unscrupulous bankers, one of my least favorite presidents, and bad timing I have nothing, but thanks to Social Security am able to survive.

Ever wonder if walking off into the sunset means we die together? It didn’t; here I am. Does it matter? Why am I still here?

Act three, old and alone, who wants to see that? But wait a minute, each day holds promise, maybe not like my younger years, none the less, I see a beautiful sunrise and feel the arms of God under stars.

On the internet, I read inspired words from poets responding to their call and see what talented artists produce. I live on a tropical island, driving roads canopied with orange, purple, and white flowers in trees with trunks so wide I can but wonder what changes they’ve seen.

Enjoy the day, each day, one day in the not too distant future will be my last; this much I know. Those I loved, the comfort I strove for is gone, but there is so much value in the humble. I’m blessed when the bones don’t ache.

Travel alone I never thought I could, but adventure need not include tachycardia. Planning, budgeting, and learning about a destination give as much pleasure as the trip, well almost. So often I hit the financial wall with no way written all over it; my challenge to take a break, do something else, and come back with fresh eyes relishes the moment when doable pops into view.

Europe in 2018 what a dream I have for my third act; what do you think, a little Spain and, of course, some Italy?

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! 

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.   

  

When Good Things Happen

Have you noticed the weird ways we react to things? When something extraordinarily good would happen to my mom, like the time I gave her a new car, she got a headache. The headache seemed to come regularly with good news.
My brother appeared to blow it off as nothing or just another day that could go sour at any moment. I get so excited you’d think cotton candy was just rated as a low calorie health food.
Reacting strangely to good news surprises me more than how we react to bad news. Bad news or a negative encounter feels like a heavy hand on my head; I can’t wait to shake it off. Learning some techniques on how to shake it off more effectively would help. My ritual of mentally saying, WTF and rolling my eyes to heaven works until something really gets me, and then, I could use a better plan.
I hated to find myself in full blown pissed mode because I could say some hurtful things without a thought. I hate hurting people even when in y opinion they deserve it. I hate how mean that makes me feel.
Now I hate letting myself get pissed because it raises my blood pressure; it’s not good for me.
How long will this last? How can I escape this negativity? Can we make this okay?
Have you ever had a ton of fun friend, who said demeaning things to you? Or made you feel inadequate?
I had a friend who would call me a bitch for the slightest provocation; for example, if I didn’t want to see the movie she wanted, she’d call me bitch.  At first, I ignored it thinking she was taking her frustrations out on me and would get over it. I told her I didn’t like and asked her to stop, but she didn’t.
People’s temper triggers should be respected unless the provoker really wants war because that’s what happens or the provoked wimps out. I don’t like who I can become when angry, so my answer to fun, but abusive people is always, “Goodbye.”
Some people love bickering, saying snippy things and crying to high heaven when war words are returned. Maybe all the evil that gets tossed around in sport soaks into our souls so we act all goofy when truly good things happen; what do you think?

Strange Vibrations

We’re living at an exciting time; yes, I said exciting, not stressful, although that’s true also. We talk about energy vibrations and how things resonate and recently I’ve read a number of articles about how even miles away separated cells vibrate the same. This lends credence to intuitive health modalities I’ve studied and I find that truly exciting.

Holistic healers speak about intention, to focus in your mind the desired outcome. I never bought into that part, preferring to focus on the mechanics of what I was doing. As happens from time to time, I was wrong.

Intention energy created the universe and I was too stupid to pick up on its importance. They say we co-create our world with God through our intentions; yet, at this old age, I’m only now acquiring the habit of asking what outcome I want with things I’m doing. So often I simply find myself doing, proving once again that it’s never too late for a duh moment.

It shocks me how often an old lady can feel like a little girl, but when I contemplate what it means to be an energetic being, I get so excited and vibrate so rapidly I can’t stand it; I have to give myself a time out to calm down.

Perhaps this is why I’m able to see these anomalous energy shifts happening on the planet. I think its aliens, but honestly, I don’t know. Other than the shimmering, we have men and dogs behaving differently.

Other women have reported men behaving strangely, but most of the time that’s just men for you or women’s perception.

Dogs either like you or don’t; they’re not the type to love you one day and bark wildly at you the next.

At first I found these reality blips scary, and then annoying, but I began to notice, well, like I said, men and dogs behaving differently.

One woman said the cow would no longer let her husband milk it and her husband seemed subdued. I couldn’t get her to elaborate. She had the same apprehensive vibe I’ve had for a while now.

Part of the trouble is that if you ask women if they’ve noticed men acting strangely, they want to tell you about what he’s done in the relationship. I could be wrong, but I tend to discount that.

The guys at my gym seem the same, except for one. For months he ignored me, looked right through me. At the gym I stay focused on my workout, so ignoring him was easy, but if you make eye contact with me, I’m going to smile, at least; that’s who I am.

The other day he walked up to me with the bearing of someone who had something to tell. “Did you hear what happened to our friend?” “What friend?” I asked incredulously to this seeming opening to a confidence.

“You know,” he motioned to the counter by the door; his actions indicated pain or difficulty in getting it out.

“She was in a horrible car accident.”  He seemed to be having a terrible time.

“Is she alive?”

I like this woman, so became concerned.

“Oh, no, she’s alive,” he said with relief washing his face.

“Is she alright; how badly was she hurt?” I wanted to know.

“She broke her nose, has two black eyes and bruised her right arm,” he reported before adding, “There was a horse in the accident, too, and he pissed all over her.”

Huh? I couldn’t wrap my head around this new information; how could a woman in her SUV be pissed on by a horse?

Before I could formulate a sensible question the woman in question walked through the door beautifully coiffed and made up wearing a brand new exercise outfit, not what you’d expect from a woman just in an accident.

Could this be an example of this aberrant behavior observed in men? Who knows? Men saying weird shit seems normal actually.

 

Becoming the Old Girl

We made each other laugh and shared stories; wherever we were, we were home as long as we were together. I loved my life with him, loved being with him.
Adjusting to being single, that’s an adjustment! Without your other half life loses that cheery glow of sharing. At a time in your life when you’ve lost the people close to you, who cared about what you said or thought, you can end up depressed because nobody gives a damn. People who you can connect with remain on the planet, but you don’t know them.
Want to hear something funny? Recently people have asked if I’ve re-married, yet. It hasn’t quite been four years and casually people have said, “You married again?” The first time someone asked, I felt my eyes pop out of my head. What!!!
I suppose what amuses me the most about that question is that to other people finding a mate, someone to meld with just happens.
If the truth be told, I would enjoy a flirtation, maybe even a kiss, but by our senior years men and women have been so beat up by each other that damaged in transit is stamped on foreheads.
My journey without my husband has become about self-discovery. To do something until I say that I don’t want to do it anymore, put it down and try something else to see if it pleases will surprise you with the number of things quickly discarded.
Contrary to what I was taught as a child, you don’t have to stick with something if you don’t want to; knowing that gives me freedom.
Losing my inner circle within a few years has painfully given me the freedom to explore more life choices if I have the courage and will. As the years march, I no longer feel required to have either courage or will, but life is more interesting with I find.
Transitioning to retirement, old age feels like from toddler to child or teenager to adult; I’ve skinned my knees. Hated it, but here I am no longer a wife, a business woman, and on and on; I’m the not so little old lady wondering what I want to do. Who’s scared?
We are what we do, so I’m not too much at this stage. In the almost four years of widowhood, I’ve exercised at the gym the most. A sadness overcomes me when I think about all the wonderful food I no longer eat; utter desperation, all those poor baby things and I know I’ll break all the rules when I hit New Orleans, so hush.
Live music coaxes me out of the house and I’ve planned trips around music I wanted to hear, so I’m a live music fan, willing to travel. This is new!
Travel to me encompasses more than the new and wonderful sites; peeking at people’s lives in different places fascinates me. Sometimes I have to get a grip on my energy; I get excited like a puppy wagging its tail. It’s embarrassing to be the just too happy to be here senior lady.
I have some old friends and some new friends, so I am social, but I don’t feel needy for companionship. That’s huge for me.
Sometimes this self-discovery journey makes me feel like a kid. I’m the old girl.

Home

I’m just a lonely widow past my productive prime living on an island where I don’t speak the language and have no family ties to the community. Why do I stay here?
It’s warm and beautiful; that’s enough for me. I can’t sell my house; three out of four houses up the road sit vacant and decaying. Maybe when they institute a real estate tax, people barely hanging on will leave. Sad because Puerto Rico grew a warm, loving culture that isn’t the same when Puerto Ricans come back from the states after generations they’re American just like the rest of us, which isn’t bad; it’s different.
What’s the value of living in a melting pot, if you don’t understand your ingredients? It’s like cooking; when I have a sniffing relationship with my vegetables and so forth, I appreciate the flavor when I’m done so much more. Too bad I’m not a good cook, I love to eat and travel.
Where ever I’ve been, I found people to be rather nice; even thieves and murders have charming moments. Mostly, I try to leave it up to God and the courts to decide what’s wrong.
One thing I’ve learned over and over is the value of not judging; being as it’s so difficult not to, I’ll call it a work in progress.
I value my belief that a higher power, a first cause, an intention evolved ahead of everything else; we came from the pleasure of that, which we call God. To my way of thinking to devalue another being in my mind devalues my thoughts of God; I found that profoundly disrespectful.
Looking at whomever I meet as God’s creation, a manifestation of God, that’s become a preoccupation because I love what I find so much of the time I pity the souls who are unable to connect. I adore nodding, smiling, and saying, “Hello.” To me, that connects with a lovely bit of God energy.
People talk about the power of positivity; a smile, a nod, and a greeting do we get a more basic positive exchange than that? We don’t because there’s a dark energy crossing the planet, but I don’t want to discuss that today.
I’m going back to New Orleans, home to the happiest years of my childhood, where I’ve returned throughout my life. New Orleans does weird really well and I’m a fan of weird. The local vibe being a familiar song feels comfortable like a big leather chair.
The loss of my husband depleted my positive energy. I can only handle so much of other peoples’ negative vibes before I need to rush to my corner, where I can see miles of green and blue beauty that God placed before us for our enjoyment.
That’s why Puerto Rico is my home.

Get Over It While We Can

Whites are racist. Blacks are thugs. Orientals are smart but untrustworthy. “I’d like to slap the next white woman I hear saying black lives matter,” the black celebrity said. Do we hear ourselves? And yet we say that God created us all.

Who are you? What are you? With pride and defiance, we cling to our myths of greatness, of why we’re better than you.

Paint all whites with the brush of white privilege to demean their successes or suffering, to say,”We’ve had it worse” brings out the poor me in every hardship case, so the argument becomes who has it worse. Is the goal to claim the title of who had it worse?

Poor whites for too long have comforted themselves by looking down on the “niggers,” while rich people refer to us all as the great unwashed. Arrogance and pride rule our dealings with others, whether we believe ourselves better or don’t want to be seen as less.

When I was a kid I couldn’t figure out who I was or where I fit in since most of my friends were Irish or Italian or Polish; plus in New Orleans, there was always an assortment of black people around. I, on the other hand, am a mixed breed of Irish, Hungarian, Austrian (although we refer to ourselves as German, we’re from the same town as Hitler) and as it turns out my orphan grandmother from upper New York state was French and American Indian. Everybody has a culture except a mix breed; that’s how it seemed to me.

Under the watchful eyes of my German grandfather on Sundays, the family gathered to eat, play games, help out as needed, or just hang together. I learned to ride a bicycle in front of grandparents, aunt and uncles, and cousins. Family love and camaraderie interrupted by a move to Chicago didn’t give me time enough to absorb it as part of my culture.

By contrast, my mom’s family seemed a scrappy lot who didn’t really like each other, so I began to focus on my friends’ families.

Every group of people doing the same daily routines as everybody else put their own spin on it. From cooking to mealtime rituals our little differences imprint who we are in a way that fascinates me still.

According to folks I’ve known, I’ve been a Jewish want to be and a black want to be, as well as East Indian and Latin. Who you are, is of great interest to me. By learning about others it helps me put into perspective who I am.

Dining in a humble home in Appalachia, eating home grown vegetables and the steer that grew in the back yard gave me as much pleasure as any formal dinner by a famous chef. In either event, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Haven’t we all been to parties where someone spouts, “When I look at you I don’t see black;” this being one of the most well-intended bits of sophistry I’ve ever heard. Yes, this is a friend, a wonderful person you see; blah, blah, blah.

How can you say that you don’t see this woman’s beautiful ebony skin? Yes, they’re black, or brown, or red; there’s beauty in all.

Here’s the deal; we’d better start embracing the little differences between earthlings. Aliens are coming to rape and impregnate our men. No earthling squabble is going matter. 

Shall We Continue

Anyone who tells you being old is a state of mind isn’t yet old enough to know. At best we have aches and pains to deal with, at worst its terminal illness and death; that’s our reality.

Yesterday was my husband’s birthday; he would have been seventy-four. He turned seventy on his last live birthday; his friend, Pablo threw a fine party for him. It pleases me to remember how happy my darling was that day.

At ninety-four, my mom is healthy enough that she’s optimistically reaching for one hundred. A happy dotage living among her offspring; can you picture all the happy old bubbies/abuelas in the world? We love them. They gave shape to the character of our generation. My mom was a child of the Great Depression whose pain I could see clearly when she told stories of relief shoes and food lines.

If we were to pick a favorite, most instrumental woman in our life, mine would be my father’s sister, my aunt Margaret, who at eighty-eight begged me to help her die. I turned cold when I heard her ask. In one of my more selfish moments, I told her I couldn’t jeopardize my soul by such an act and how she could do it by herself if that was her true intention; she never did, but ten months later God took her.

At some point for all of us, the end will be the option. Deal with it or be a big pussy about it, nothing changes.

All I know is that if this is to be my last sunset, I don’t want to be in the house watching TV. To look at someone, smile, and be happy compensates for enduring many aches. To say, thank you for the small things people do for me gives me pleasure.

Blessed with the time to contemplate how others have helped me or been kind, I find myself extraordinarily grateful.

Until unable, I shall as we said in the late seventies or maybe early eighties, keep on truckin!

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?