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?

Always, My Love

“Get over it,”

some have had the guts to say.

“Move along with your life,”

others counsel.

“He’d want you to be happy,”

A few console.

Fourth anniversary here in a bit

I miss being your wife

The showers of love poems

Sweet and sappy

People who like me, a small council

But no one on Earth to touch my soul

Alone, no you to hold my hand

Sampling life’s wares

Many shores to meander

Sunsets seen with toes in sand

Postcards wishing you were there

Always, my love

Hello Mary

Early in the morning, gray-filtered into the valley, light showed up later, about when Mary made morning coffee. With no rush to hurry her about her day, Mary looked past the trees to the fluffy white clouds in the sky lost in thought until she smelled the coffee.

Coffee, chocolate, bread, Mary thought she must have always liked those, but wondered; that’s all she does is wonder.

She felt as if she’d been dropped into a stranger’s life; nothing felt familiar. People spoke to her as if in the middle of a conversation, but she didn’t know them or what they were talking about, it frightened her.

“You’re high. You’ve been drinking. You’ll be fine in the morning. It was a great party. Goodnight, Mary.”

And with that, there was Mary, alone in the night with no memory of a moment before. She sat on the porch staring at Orion’s Belt, saw a shooting star, and then coqui-coqui, coqui-coqui caught her attention until she found a tiny frog that made the sound. It’s odd how faced with something monumental a person will focus on something inconsequential.

Utterly confused, Mary wandered into the living room and down the hall to a bedroom where she dropped onto a bed and sobbed herself to sleep

Nobody needed to tell Mary to go to the bathroom in the morning, but she started at the mirror. “Who is this woman?” She stared at the face not knowing who stared back. “I need help,” she mumbled.

“Who am I? What am I doing here?”

Mary raced out the door to find out. A couple of dogs greeted her warmly. A rich texture of green overwhelmed her eyes.

“Oh, my, it’s beautiful, “ she thought as she looked across the valley.

Just then she saw an older lady walking on the road. Mary scrambled down the driveway determined to find out what was going on.

“Hello,” she called.

The woman walked into a yard across the street; the gate swung closed and locked behind her. She turned to Mary.

“Buen dia. Como esta? Todo bien? Todo bien.” She said, smiled and walked into her house; the door closed.

Mary stopped at the bottom of the driveway. “Huh?”

“What was that? Where am I?”

“God help me.”

She searched the dense green foliage and found colorful houses peeking out; a couple of dogs barked. Cows on a hillside munched and a car went down a road. Mary retreated to the bedroom, where she tried to calm down enough to think; mercifully she fell asleep, only waking after dark.

A dome of sparkling lights set in dark blue ink reflected the twinkling lights of in the bowl of a valley. Tired of the terror, the befuddlement of her situation, Mary sat forbidding herself to think. She stared at clusters of stars when one shot across the sky. “Like me,” she thought and began wondering again.

The next morning the phone rang, caller ID read: Miranda.

“Hello,” Mary answered.

“Hey, Colt’s having a party tomorrow night, wanted you to come. Stop by my house. We’ll walk over together. Bye.”

Mary stood looking at the phone in her hand; what just happened? Miranda sounded friendly perhaps she could help, but then Mary got lost in the pictures on the walls, each one seemed to tell a different tale and one picture looked like the woman in the mirror, not her.

The woman looked happy in the picture, so did the man with her, even the dog with them looked happy. 

Who was looking for her?

Mary examined the cell phone, surprised at how easily she navigated from contact list to the internet and the treasure trove of information, messaging.

With a little information, she calmed out of bonkers insanity, moving into sweaty fingers scared where she spends part of each day despite feeling that she landed in someone’s nice little life.  

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.   

  

Post Trip Blues

We were going to weather every storm and enjoy every sunset together. Before that horrid day in July of 2013, I hadn’t thought about life without him more that briefly; I couldn’t contemplate being without my honey. 

So often one person in a relationship cares more than the other. Sometimes people take turns, but when you get it right and you both care it’s beautiful. For the rest of my life I may never have that beauty again; why wouldn’t I be sad?  

I hate being sad, during the last three years I’ve traveled to Costa Rica, Cuba, Trinidad, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans, and Orlando; all were fantastic. Living on a lush tropical island poses no hardship, so why do I think of these last years as miserable? 

Accepting my new reality is another one of those sheer cliffs to be climbed. After three years some would say not a new reality, but to me as yet unacceptable. I have a reputation for being stubborn. 

Perhaps I’m feeling post trip blues because for a month living in St. Rose, Louisiana I lived more in the moment and thought of Kirt less. 

The artwork collected at auctions with the passion of a zealot lays on the floor waiting to be re-framed. Pray, God, I live long enough to see pretty pictures on my concrete walls.  

My overall mental health can easily be identified by what I’m wearing. Days in my honey’s 1990’s cotton pants mean moody or who gives a shit.Positive days wear a new outfit and makeup. And, Friends, if there ever were an age for makeup I have surely found it. 

Would that I was an old soul with wisdom seeping out my pores, but my soul is young; I make mistakes. 

So much to see, and go, and do beg me to come and play, but a to the bone budget demands frugality. Discipline is difficult in a poor me frame of mind, but if I 

want another adventure, I’d better kiss it hello. 

Speaking of frames I lost the nails and eye hooks; I’d better learn those words in Spanish before shopping. 

Yes, it’s the post trip blues, just selecting a potential next trip has me feeling a tad perkier or maybe it’s fresh air after the rain. Today is a friend’s birthday; happy birthday, Gloria! 

We’re going for decadent chocolate cake before I hit the gym. 

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.

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?

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!

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.