My third annual college sorority reunion is this weekend. We waited thirty years before we organized our first get-together in 2008, at which time we vowed to meet every year, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of this sooner.
Aside from the obvious (getting to see old friends), the magic of the weekend is the transformation of fifty-something year old women into eighteen year old college coeds. Who wouldn’t want to be eighteen again for a weekend? But, alas, we are not eighteen. We are grown women with families and jobs and responsibilities. We have aging and infirm parents, we have unrelenting job schedules, we have children and husbands depending on us, and a plethora of other demands on our time.
Sadly, there will be some friends unable to attend this year, but there is next year, and the year after, and so on. We are a determined group of women; determined to stand by our friends through illness or loss, through injury or a son’s deployment, and even through death. We will buoy each other’s spirits as we face whatever life has to throw at us, knowing that we will have next year.
So, to my friends who cannot make it this weekend – know that you will be with us in our hearts. We will raise a glass to you, we will miss you, and we will see you next year.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Health Care
I’m not feeling well today. What became of the old practice, written about in Jane Austen novels, and seen in old 1940s movies, of sending people away to the country or seaside to convalesce? I am in dire need of a “rest.” I promise if sent away for “my health” I would do nothing but watch the tide come in. I wonder if there is any way I can get this old practice into a healthcare plan. I am certain my HMO wouldn’t go for it. Bother.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
About that Hall Closet
I just looked back through my blog to see when I last wrote about the hall closet – it was May 20th. I have slowly been organizing books in the new library, the former hall closet, and even more slowly trying to deal with all of the other “stuff” that once called the hall closet home. You may recall that when my husband decided to transform the closet into a library for me he moved everything (everything!) into Daughter #1’s bedroom, which is now our guest room. I have been procrastinating, as usual, and haven’t really found a new home for much of the “stuff.”
One of the big problems, aside from the sheer quantity, is the sentimental value attached to so much of the crap I own. There have been days when I really-truly wanted to tackle the job, but all I could do was stand in the doorway and stare at the boxes of my mother’s china, my husband’s grandmother’s crystal, and other assorted heirlooms. But, horrors, we are having guests! One week from tomorrow I will have actual houseguests, who will expect to sleep in an actual guest room. My procrastinating days are over. Today I made a dent in the “stuff.”
I opened one box to discover a zillion (okay, maybe 25) milk glass punch cups, each carefully wrapped in white packing paper. These belonged to my mother and they go with the milk glass punch bowl I remember so well from my childhood. But, where is the punch bowl? Since my lack of memory cells is well documented, I called my sister to see if she recalled where the punch bowl was relegated after Mother died. Nope, she had no idea. After discussing, at length, the insanity of keeping a zillion milk glass punch cups which I will never use (I’m sure I would still never use them even if I had the punchbowl!), she gave me permission to get rid of the punch cups. What a feeling that permission gave me. Knowing she saw the absurdity of hanging on to the cups just for sentimental reasons, and validating my desire to ditch them was a wonderful gift from my sweet sister, a gift which takes up no space in my closet or home.
But then I brought up Mother’s milk glass pitcher and goblets. When my sister “aahed” and said, “Oh, I remember those always being on the hutch in the dining room,” I knew I would be keeping them. The punch cups were not on display for the duration of our parents’ married lives.
But there was still the dilemma of what to do with boxes and boxes of “heirlooms.” I am rather proud of myself for coming up with an ingenious solution to my storage problem. The boxes are an eyesore – ugly grocery and liquor boxes with yellowed masking tape holding them together, there is no way I can put them back into my newly painted library and there is nowhere else to store them. Keeping them in the guest room is no longer an option. The solution:
I selected several rolls of nice wrapping paper that coordinate with the new paint color and I am wrapping all of the heirlooms. I am even putting gift tags on them, labeling the contents of each box. I have effectively solved my storage problem and I’ve also had a really good laugh, thinking about the day when my daughters or grandchildren discover the “presents” I have left them. Then it will be their problem to decide whether or not to get rid of the family heirlooms. Maybe milk glass will see a resurgence in popularity or be worth something by then.
One of the big problems, aside from the sheer quantity, is the sentimental value attached to so much of the crap I own. There have been days when I really-truly wanted to tackle the job, but all I could do was stand in the doorway and stare at the boxes of my mother’s china, my husband’s grandmother’s crystal, and other assorted heirlooms. But, horrors, we are having guests! One week from tomorrow I will have actual houseguests, who will expect to sleep in an actual guest room. My procrastinating days are over. Today I made a dent in the “stuff.”
I opened one box to discover a zillion (okay, maybe 25) milk glass punch cups, each carefully wrapped in white packing paper. These belonged to my mother and they go with the milk glass punch bowl I remember so well from my childhood. But, where is the punch bowl? Since my lack of memory cells is well documented, I called my sister to see if she recalled where the punch bowl was relegated after Mother died. Nope, she had no idea. After discussing, at length, the insanity of keeping a zillion milk glass punch cups which I will never use (I’m sure I would still never use them even if I had the punchbowl!), she gave me permission to get rid of the punch cups. What a feeling that permission gave me. Knowing she saw the absurdity of hanging on to the cups just for sentimental reasons, and validating my desire to ditch them was a wonderful gift from my sweet sister, a gift which takes up no space in my closet or home.
But then I brought up Mother’s milk glass pitcher and goblets. When my sister “aahed” and said, “Oh, I remember those always being on the hutch in the dining room,” I knew I would be keeping them. The punch cups were not on display for the duration of our parents’ married lives.
But there was still the dilemma of what to do with boxes and boxes of “heirlooms.” I am rather proud of myself for coming up with an ingenious solution to my storage problem. The boxes are an eyesore – ugly grocery and liquor boxes with yellowed masking tape holding them together, there is no way I can put them back into my newly painted library and there is nowhere else to store them. Keeping them in the guest room is no longer an option. The solution:
I selected several rolls of nice wrapping paper that coordinate with the new paint color and I am wrapping all of the heirlooms. I am even putting gift tags on them, labeling the contents of each box. I have effectively solved my storage problem and I’ve also had a really good laugh, thinking about the day when my daughters or grandchildren discover the “presents” I have left them. Then it will be their problem to decide whether or not to get rid of the family heirlooms. Maybe milk glass will see a resurgence in popularity or be worth something by then.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Donna
I received the news today.
How can it be?
We were eighteen.
Your white-blonde hair,
your Virginia Slims cigarettes.
You were a wounded bird even then.
Oh, the fun we had.
Products of a southern upbringing,
yours more southern than mine,
complete with a propensity for the “unique.”
Dear God, you were unique.
We shared more than the south.
Our best friend, Kat,
and double dates.
We shared late night confessions,
you introduced me to your demons.
We were sisters.
Truth be told,
we lost you long ago.
We lost you, you lost us.
I hear Don gave you your world back,
a family (what we tried to give you),
surely better than those college boys.
Your laughter, your life, your light
all gone. All hidden forever,
behind the smoke of your Virginia Slims,
your blonde hair, your fractured beauty.
Southern Comfort, empty now,
but not our hearts.
We hold you dear,
like that long, long road a winding
that we’ve heard about.
We will see you again,
raise a glass, laugh.
We love you, Trixie.
How can it be?
We were eighteen.
Your white-blonde hair,
your Virginia Slims cigarettes.
You were a wounded bird even then.
Oh, the fun we had.
Products of a southern upbringing,
yours more southern than mine,
complete with a propensity for the “unique.”
Dear God, you were unique.
We shared more than the south.
Our best friend, Kat,
and double dates.
We shared late night confessions,
you introduced me to your demons.
We were sisters.
Truth be told,
we lost you long ago.
We lost you, you lost us.
I hear Don gave you your world back,
a family (what we tried to give you),
surely better than those college boys.
Your laughter, your life, your light
all gone. All hidden forever,
behind the smoke of your Virginia Slims,
your blonde hair, your fractured beauty.
Southern Comfort, empty now,
but not our hearts.
We hold you dear,
like that long, long road a winding
that we’ve heard about.
We will see you again,
raise a glass, laugh.
We love you, Trixie.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Happy Birthday Mom
Today would have been my mother’s 77th birthday. It is difficult to believe she has been gone for 20 years. It is difficult to believe she died at age 57. I am almost that age and I feel that my life is just beginning. There is a world of adventure and fun I am still looking forward to.
The catch-phrase these days is “bucket list.” I don’t have a bucket list. What I do have is a very vivid imagination. I see myself, one day, as a very old woman (my maternal grandmother is 103, surely I have some of her longevity genes swimming around somewhere in my body). I see myself surrounded by family – children, grands and greats. And, I’m still destined to live in a quaint, secluded beach house on a beautiful shoreline.
The things my mother missed I will get to experience for both of us. Retirement – days with my husband, traveling to all of those places. Doing all of those things that were postponed because raising children took priority. I will read all of the books she never got to. I will tend the garden she never saw. I will see my grandchildren born, graduate from college, marry, and present me with great-grandchildren.
I will one day bury my grandmother, and one day, when I am very, very old, and have lived a long full life, my children and grandchildren will spread my ashes along my favorite stretch of beach and remark what a full life I was fortunate to lead.
I’ll do it for us both, Mom. Happy birthday.
The catch-phrase these days is “bucket list.” I don’t have a bucket list. What I do have is a very vivid imagination. I see myself, one day, as a very old woman (my maternal grandmother is 103, surely I have some of her longevity genes swimming around somewhere in my body). I see myself surrounded by family – children, grands and greats. And, I’m still destined to live in a quaint, secluded beach house on a beautiful shoreline.
The things my mother missed I will get to experience for both of us. Retirement – days with my husband, traveling to all of those places. Doing all of those things that were postponed because raising children took priority. I will read all of the books she never got to. I will tend the garden she never saw. I will see my grandchildren born, graduate from college, marry, and present me with great-grandchildren.
I will one day bury my grandmother, and one day, when I am very, very old, and have lived a long full life, my children and grandchildren will spread my ashes along my favorite stretch of beach and remark what a full life I was fortunate to lead.
I’ll do it for us both, Mom. Happy birthday.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Oh, The Places I'll Go
Where do you go, or what do you do to hide from the world, to hide from your life? Do you turn off the phone, the computer, draw the curtains, ignore the doorbell, or leave town? Perhaps you send the kids to Nana’s, tell your husband to go play golf while you schedule a pedicure or go shopping?
I have several ploys. I hide in my garden – if it’s not too hot (and if there are not too many mosquitoes). Or, I might cook – if I have someone to clean up behind me. Retail therapy sometimes works, but really, I don’t need a thing. My favorite escape is a book, but, for reasons which I can trace back to my early childhood, I usually feel guilty when I hide away in a good read. Today the planets must be in alignment, because, as the Magic Eight Ball from my youth would indicate from its little triangle floating in that orb of black liquid, “all signs point to yes.” I’m at the lake cabin where there are no household chores to be performed and it is overcast and rainy. In other words – it is a perfect day to stay in my pajamas and hide out in a book. No guilt! There is absolutely nothing else I should/could be doing.
For the rest of today, and perhaps for the remainder of the holiday weekend (the weather forecast is calling for more of the same) I am on vacation from my life. I love the magic of books. Who will I be, where will I go? Alice McDermott’s bigamist’s daughter, or in Clifton, Arizona in 1904 witnessing the great orphan abduction or maybe in Carson McCullers’ south losing myself in her short stories? My destinations are endless as I sit on the couch, watching the rain bounce off of the deck, with books spread around me like alternate universes awaiting exploration.
I’m off, safe travels to me. I’ll be in touch when I return.
I have several ploys. I hide in my garden – if it’s not too hot (and if there are not too many mosquitoes). Or, I might cook – if I have someone to clean up behind me. Retail therapy sometimes works, but really, I don’t need a thing. My favorite escape is a book, but, for reasons which I can trace back to my early childhood, I usually feel guilty when I hide away in a good read. Today the planets must be in alignment, because, as the Magic Eight Ball from my youth would indicate from its little triangle floating in that orb of black liquid, “all signs point to yes.” I’m at the lake cabin where there are no household chores to be performed and it is overcast and rainy. In other words – it is a perfect day to stay in my pajamas and hide out in a book. No guilt! There is absolutely nothing else I should/could be doing.
For the rest of today, and perhaps for the remainder of the holiday weekend (the weather forecast is calling for more of the same) I am on vacation from my life. I love the magic of books. Who will I be, where will I go? Alice McDermott’s bigamist’s daughter, or in Clifton, Arizona in 1904 witnessing the great orphan abduction or maybe in Carson McCullers’ south losing myself in her short stories? My destinations are endless as I sit on the couch, watching the rain bounce off of the deck, with books spread around me like alternate universes awaiting exploration.
I’m off, safe travels to me. I’ll be in touch when I return.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
