A Mini Mystery

            

I am a street walker. Ha – bet I got your attention with that! I mean to say, I walk quite a bit along the streets of my neighborhood. I walk my dogs almost every day, and then, because I have a very old dog who cannot walk too far, I walk myself. I like to vary my route, walking some days on the east/west running streets and other days on the north/south running streets. Some days I get really crazy and combine the two. I often walk down streets I’ve never walked before. It is fun to check out others’ homes and gardens and front door color choices.

            

There is a very curious thing that I have seen on every walk I have taken for the three plus years I have lived here. On random streets throughout my neighborhood I see small empty plastic liquor bottles; the little ones you would get on a commercial airline. At first I thought nothing of it; perhaps it was just something that spilled from someone’s household trash. But I began to notice that as soon as the old bottles were flattened by someone’s car tire new bottles show up. And not just one bottle occasionally. I see several bottles scattered along different streets every day.

The brands and types of liquor vary also. I have seen vanilla vodka, Captain Morgan, tequila, Bacardi rum, bourbon, and various flavors of schnapps, just to name a few. I am stymied by this. Who is driving or walking through my neighborhood taking shots of alcohol from teeny tiny bottles? Is it a bored housewife? (I swear it isn’t me!) A teenager? Someone’s housekeeper walking to and from the bus stop? A businessman or woman on his/her way to work every morning? One of the many dog walkers in the neighborhood? The mail carrier?

Perhaps I should begin documenting where I find the bottles and map it out. I could enlist the other neighborhood street walkers, I mean walkers, to help me unravel the mystery. I can see it now. A bunch of middle aged women in trench coats with binoculars and walkie-talkies tailing suspicious looking characters (aka the school crossing guards, the teachers from the elementary school, etc.).

I’ll report back if this mystery is ever solved. In the meantime I should probably get a life.

Post Birthday Blog

            I did it. I survived the fifty-seventh year. That may not sound like much, but for me it was a big deal. Fifty-seven was sort of a curse that I tried my best to turn around. I think I succeeded. I also think my mother would be proud of me, and that’s an important part of the success. Mom didn’t get her fifty-seventh year, so I tried to live mine in the best way I could as a tribute to her.

            I had twelve big goals. I hit most of them, got close on a few, and will continue working on others. It dawned on me about three months in that I had started something that is unending. Once you make a vow to intentionally live your best year, how can you stop? It’s not like I don’t want my fifty-eighth year to be just as good, or better. I can’t just say, “Yep, fifty-seven was awesome. Now I’ll have a mediocre year.”

            It has been fun congratulating myself on my success. It has been even more fun to have friends and family congratulate me on my success. But really – didn’t I just do what should be done? Have we become so complacent as to think doing one’s best is out of the ordinary?

            The past year proved to be more than just living my best life. It was a year-long therapy session. I became extremely introspective and somewhat withdrawn. I noticed that in order to make the changes I wanted to make I had to spend quite a bit of time with me; serious time. I learned a lot. I hope I will remember it always.

            Now I’m living my fifty-eighth year. It will be even better than fifty-seven. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Can’t believe I didn’t know that. Or, maybe I knew and just forgot. 

Forage

for·age

fôrij,ˈfärij

verb

1.

(of a person or animal) search widely for food or provisions.

"gulls are equipped by nature to forage for food"

noun

1.

bulky food such as grass or hay for horses and cattle; fodder.

2.

a wide search over an area in order to obtain something, especially food or provisions.

"the nightly forage produces things that can be sold"

The most important words in today’s blog are: forage, pecan pie, and Scott.

This is why:

Forage – Newton had his apple and I had a pecan. The pecan didn’t literally fall on my head, but close. A pecan fell near me as I was on my morning walk a couple of weeks ago and I had my own eureka moment. There are millions, or maybe almost one hundred pecan trees in my neighborhood. Everyday I step on and over pecans. Why not gather them (forage)?

Pecan Pie – This traditional Thanksgiving dessert is a staple on my table come the fourth Thursday in November. I make it from my mother’s recipe. Why not use pecans foraged from my neighborhood?

Scott: My daughter’s partner whom I love dearly. His favorite pie is pecan, not Key Lime. (Which is a much easier pie to make, just sayin’.)

How to Forage for Pecans

As I have begun picking up pecans on my morning walks I have come up with some rules, or suggestions for foraging.

1. Know your trees. Oak trees drop acorns. Pecan trees drop pecans. There is a big difference. My dogs will eat acorns, but they will eat anything. I have never heard of an acorn pie. Now surely someone will comment that acorn pies are considered a delicacy in some parts of the world (Appalachia?).
2. Limit your foraging to the pecans which have fallen in the street or other public area. Do not pick pecans from lawns of private homes. That would be trespassing and stealing.
3. Wear pants or a jacket with deep pockets.  
4. The best pecans come from the trees located in the greenest lawns. The people who tend their lawns also tend their trees, ergo better pecans.
5. It is okay to shell and eat the pecans as you gather them. I do not recommend this to anyone with a manicure.
6. Opt for groups of multiple pecans versus the solo nut. This limits the number of times you have to bend over. You will thank me for this in the morning.
7. Avoid the houses with multiple cats in the front yard. They like that pecan leaf litter next to the curb for a reason.
8. If squirrels start following you, run like hell.

Good luck on your pecan hunting.

Oh crap, I forgot that the next task is to shell them. 

Halloween

Happy Halloween! What fun that it lands on a Friday this year. I miss the excitement of having young children on Halloween. It was always such a special time. Weeks of planning would go into what to wear. We were not big on purchasing costumes, with the exception of the Ninja Turtle foam shell and cheap nylon mask Carol Ann had to have one year. Typically we dug through the dress-up suitcase, a huge brown leather valise, probably purchased at a garage sale, full of old prom and bridesmaid dresses, high heels, purses, shawls and jewelry with a few tiaras thrown in for good measure. After the homemade red dotted swiss clown costume was retired, Courtney liked to be either a witch or a gypsy. One year she went to a party as a witch with green skin, a fake hooked rubber nose complete with wart, and in lieu of a broom carried my old Hoover vacuum. She was a hit.

Carol Ann wore the same clown costume but once she outgrew it she was a bit more “out there” in her costume choices. There was the Ninja Turtle year, but it was followed by the classic Bride of the Energizer Bunny. This ensemble included a peach colored bridesmaid’s dress pinned and stitched to somewhat fit her, or at least ensure she didn’t trip over it, a wedding veil and a toy drum. When I tried do dissuade her from carrying the drum I was told it was the integral part of the costume. My child. That imagination and creativity served her well in her teen years when coming up with ways to sneak out of the house.

I always tried to make Halloween special. I decorated the house and cooked special dinners which were consumed in record time so trick-or-treating could commence. My “specialty” for years was a meal consisting of hamburger patties with melted jack-o-lantern shaped cheese slices and ghost toast, bread cut with a ghost shaped cookie cutter, buttered and toasted under the broiler. Gourmet fare to be sure.

We always carved pumpkins to display on the front porch and they were usually rotted heaps of orange gunk before October 31^st. My girls both excelled, with a slight bit of help from parents, at the elementary school annual pumpkin decorating contest. Some of the award winning designs included Marge Simpson, Mrs. Potts and Chip (from Beauty and the Beast), Cinderella’s coach – complete with Barbie dressed in her finest ball gown, and Raggedy Ann. We took this contest a little too seriously.

My husband Frank and Uncle Steve were in charge of seeing the children safely through the neighborhood to beg for candy, I mean, trick-or-treat. I stayed home to answer our doorbell and pass out treats to little monsters and ballerinas and ghouls. At the end of the evening sacks full of candy were dumped on the floor and the hauls compared by the girls and inspected by the paranoid mother. The oddest thing ever garnered was a plastic container of McDonald’s pancake syrup. Seriously. When the girls were finally asleep I would help myself to mini Snickers bars and small yellow packages of peanut M&Ms. Yum.

Perhaps the best Halloween ever was the year Carol Ann was released from the hospital with Dr. Boris’ permission to go trick-or-treating. She was three years old and we had just spent ten days in Pediatric ICU battling spinal meningitis, which we thought would take her from us. We went from a healthy child with the sniffles to almost losing her within the span of a few hours. Even after we were told she would survive we still faced the possibility of brain damage or loss of sight and/or hearing. Leaving the hospital with a healthy child was a miracle. Participating in our Halloween celebration a few days later was the normalcy that helped to get our traumatized family back on track. There’s not been a Halloween since that I don’t recall that episode in our lives and give thanks for my beautiful, perfect daughter.

Happy Halloween. 

A Sober Year

I am so close, I feel like I can write this now without jinxing myself. On November 9, 2013 I celebrated my fifty-seventh birthday. I drank wine with dinner and more wine at my favorite wine bar. Then I stopped drinking. My goal of having a sober year will come to fruition in just a few days. I had many reasons for doing this, but I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be. I never thought about what I would learn from a sober year. These are some of the lessons:

• I’m not an alcoholic. I do not have a physical dependency on alcohol.
• It is a habit. One that can be broken or replaced.
• I will drink after my year of sobriety is over. I will drink differently than I did before. I will not drink alone. I will not reward myself with alcohol or use it as an emotional crutch.
• The second bottle is never a good idea. I can drink one glass of wine or one mixed drink. (Learning this lesson will be ongoing once I drink again.)
• Everyone else drinks too much. It is amazing to me how much my friends and family drink when I’m not drinking with them. I know, I know – I drank as much, if not more, but seeing it from a sober perspective is eye-opening. I need to remember this lesson.
• Drunk is not pretty.
• I remember things when I’m not drinking. I want to remember things.
• There are lots of hours in the evening in which to do stuff. Who knew one could be so productive without happy hour?
• I can survive family reunions, sorority reunions, parties, vacations, etc. without alcohol.
• I do not need to drink in order to be fun, interesting, outgoing, or fabulous.
• I have saved quite a bit of money.
• Everyone loves a designated driver.
• I DID NOT lose any weight when I quit drinking. As far as I’m concerned that is a myth made up by skinny, sanctimonious people who secretly hate alcohol.
• I am sure I am healthier for not drinking. They even came out with a statement that drinking red wine isn’t as good for you as they once touted. Bummer.
• I think I look better. My skin seems clearer, my eyes brighter.
• I do miss it. I love the smell of red wine. I love the relaxing feeling that sipping on an alcoholic beverage brings on.
• Drinking is not indicative of a glamorous lifestyle.
• It’s easier to get out of bed in the mornings.
• I no longer have to wonder if my sinus headaches are hangovers.
• I really do enjoy club soda with lime and it still looks like I’m having an adult beverage.
• A sober year allowed me to get to know myself – the real me.
• A sober year allowed me to face my new reality. I’ve had big life changes in the past five years and I am learning to live and love my new life.
• Wow, my husband must really love me! He loves the party girl he married (and scraped off of the floor many times); he loves the sober woman I’m learning to be.
• A sober year is great fodder for a book. Look for 57, A Memoir coming soon.

Being Brave

I admire bravery. I’ve written about it before, but today it is again much on my mind after spending the weekend with some amazingly brave women. I strive towards bravery. Some days just getting out of bed requires all of the bravery I can muster. Other days bring other challenges. It takes bravery to have minority political beliefs in an overwhelmingly red state, it takes bravery to stand up to ignorance and small minds, it takes bravery just to be me.

I’ve been pretty brave this year. One morning I heeded the words in this quote: “Actually, I just woke up one day and decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore, or ever again. So I changed. Just like that.” It sounds funny to say a quote changed my life, but it kept popping up in odd places and resonating with me. So I changed. Not quite “just like that.” I am a work in progress. It takes bravery. The women I spent the weekend with raised the bar on this whole bravery thing. I am so fortunate to have them in my life, as friends and mentors. I am humbled by their bravery.
 

One friend is a fearless traveler. When her sons were young she loaded them in the car and set off across the country. Later she traveled across Europe with them. More recently she hiked Salcantay Mountain pass in Peru onto the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, dragging me along with her. She is heading to Australia next. She also went back to school for a second degree and began a new career at a time when others were retiring. She is brave.

Another of my weekend companions was brave to haul a 28-foot Airstream trailer through Houston and across the state of Texas to join us. I could never do that. It saps my bravery reserves just to drive to my sister’s house in Houston. This friend has also been brave enough to choose love in spite of social mores and political and religious dogma being against her. That’s brave.

It takes bravery to run a business and be assertive in our male dominated society. That’s what another of my friends does. It took bravery to silence the voice of her mother and others that told her she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t capable enough and make the leap to greatness.

The youngest woman in our group this weekend is perhaps facing the biggest challenge of all. She is a new mother. That calls for a lot of bravery. Raising a child, standing up for the child, doing what is right by the child is a difficult job. It takes more bravery than anyone realizes to be a mom.

I wonder what bravery this baby girl will be called upon to exhibit in her lifetime. Will the bravery of those who came before make it easier for her? Are we, with our brave acts, somehow paving the way? Of course we are, just as the bravery of the millions of women who came before us has done. I can only hope her journey is smoother.

I will continue to be brave. There’s still quite a bit to do. I am a work in progress. We all are. 

On the Road Again

I was home for two days before packing and heading out on another adventure. One of the goals of my 57^th year is to spend more time with family and friends. This is an easy goal, except for the travel. This time I am driving. I’ve had more than my share of delayed flights and gate changes to last a while, at least until December when I travel back to New York for the birth of my grandson.

I enjoy driving. I enjoy the solitude of the west Texas roads. I do not like driving in big city traffic. I’ve lived in small towns my entire adult life and am not accustomed to the energy of city highways and byways. Nor do I want to be. Give me a flat stretch of lonely highway any day.

Lately I’ve had to share these roads with “oilfield traffic.” That means dually pick-up trucks driven by good-ole-boys and semis hauling water and fossil fuel to and from the fracking fields of the Texas oil boom towns. Every day I hear news of grisly wrecks caused by the increased traffic. It concerns me; all of it. The environmental and personal safety issues have encroached upon my small town lifestyle.

I want to shout, “Get off of my road.” My road? Really? I’ll take a deep breath, grip the steering wheel a little tighter, slow down and learn to share the road. Sharing the blame for the rape of the land isn’t something I’m willing to do. The boom will end someday. The resources will be tapped, gone forever. We will have to find other sources. Perhaps the roads will once again become desolate, dotted only by wind turbines. One can hope.

Joe

I’m thinking a lot about siblings today. I am grateful for mine. This year I made a promise to myself to appreciate them more, to see them more often, to call. I am guilty of letting life get in the way of my good intentions, paving the road to hell.

I am nine years older than my baby brother. That is quite a distance when you think about it. I was riding the school bus to elementary school when he was born. I was in junior high when he began kindergarten. I was away at college when he got his first pimple. I was married with a child before he graduated from high school.

He was always Baby Joe. I remember well his childhood imaginary friends, Johnny Bangus and Johnny Thompson. I see him with his stuffed teddy bear, Charlie Baby-o, more clearly than I see him as he was in college.

Years passed, he grew up, he married, he became a father. Who do I see today? I see a good man in every respect, a good husband, a good parent, a good provider, a good brother.

He is also one of the luckiest people I know. I accuse him of this often. My siblings and I tease him about it. It’s as if he got all of the luck genes delegated to our family.

When I was almost twenty-three and Joe was just thirteen our middle brother died in a motorcycle accident. I was five-hundred miles away, but Joe was at home to bear witness to our parents’ grief, and suffer his own. I often wonder if this shaped him into the man he is today. Did he strive harder to please our parents or would he have been who he is regardless?

The more I think about my little brother I realize luck isn’t something one is born with – you make your own. Joe certainly has. He has worked hard, planned well, and, yes, maybe had a wee bit of good fortune along the way.

I am very proud of the man he has become, but I can’t help but occasionally still picture him dragging Charlie Baby-o through our childhood home while making grand plans with his imaginary friends.

I love you Joe. 

Nine Eleven

“Where were you on 9-11?” I’ve seen that question multiple times today on social media. This is my generation’s version of, “Where were you when Kennedy was shot?”

I don’t really have a memory of where I was when President Kennedy was assassinated, but I’ve been told I was in the car with my parents and siblings in Dallas making the trip home from visiting our grandparents in east Texas. I can imagine my father frustrated by the traffic, but this is probably just imagination. I make things up for sport.

I do, however, remember vividly the morning of 9-11. My husband traveled for his work at that time and was out of town. I had been away from the house. When I returned home the answering machine was blinking with multiple messages all asking if Frank was okay. I was panicked. Why would all of our friends and relatives be asking this question? Finally one of the messages told me to turn on the television. I did, and didn’t turn it off for days. My husband was fine. His plane was immediately grounded, he was able to rent a car and drive home. That’s my 9-11 story; at least part of it.

The rest of the story isn’t about where we were. The real story is about what happened to our nation on that horrible morning thirteen years ago. We lost our innocence. We lost the way of life we had grown to expect and rely on. We realized we were vulnerable. This realization didn’t hit me until a few weeks later. My memory of 9-11 isn’t centered on my answering machine and television. When I remember 9-11 I remember my first post 9-11 flight a few weeks later. After going through the newly established security checkpoint I locked myself in a bathroom stall and sobbed.

It took going to an airport for a flight for me to see firsthand what we really lost. The seriousness of the ticket agents, leaving my luggage unlocked to be inspected, going to the gate by myself instead of my husband accompanying me and waiting with me until I boarded, and being patted down before being allowed to board the plane. All of this while National Guardsmen stood by with huge guns. Where was I? Is this American? My airport experience is an analogy for life in the United States after September 11, 2001.

They say Americans are resilient, that we all rallied and came together as a nation. We did, but we also gave up part of who we were and we will never get that back.

My memories and feelings about that day are paltry in comparison to what others suffered. Those who lost everything, those who were there, those who responded. All we can do is remember who we once were and move forward. Be kind. Be tolerant. Love.

Labor Day

Twenty-one years ago Labor Day weekend I met my big brother and his family for the first time. The brother I learned of at my mother’s death bed at an in-patient hospice facility in Houston. Lung cancer is not pretty. Her suffering was too prolonged, she wouldn’t let go. All that Lifetime-Movie-Channel-give-the-dying-permission-to-leave is bullshit. It didn’t work. A weary nurse told us she’d seen patients hang on because of “an unresolved life conflict.” Again I thought bullshit. But, it was true. A baby, a boy, born in 1953, before she met my father, was given up for adoption. “We will find him,” my sister and I promised our comatose mother. Did she hear us? She passed a few days later.

We found him, rather, my husband, Frank, found him. I think he felt a bond to him when he learned their birthdays were back to back. The only information we had was the date of birth, the hospital where he was born, and that my mother had named him John Anthony. We also learned that my mother and my Aunt Mary, upon learning my husband's date of birth and convoluted family history, grilled him mercilessly when I first brought him home to meet the family. Their worst nightmare: Was I engaged to marry my brother? Their furtive interrogation proved not.

Two years after my mother’s death my husband handed me a yellow legal pad with the information that led to my brother. I was ecstatic. I was also scared and nervous. Is this really him? Does he want to be found? Will he like us? Will we like him? I locked myself in the bathroom and dialed the number.  On the third try, in a voice not my own, I said to the woman who answered, “I have reason to believe your husband is my half-brother.” Then screams, all I heard on the other end of the telephone line were screams followed by “Oh, my God. Oh, my God, he’s going to be so happy.”

That’s how it began. Days later, on Labor Day weekend, John Anthony and family flew from California to Texas. My Daddy, who hadn’t even known we were searching for my mother’s son, was so happy he picked up the tab on everyone’s flights for this first reunion. What a time we had. I met them at the airport with a bouquet of blue balloons, one proclaiming “It’s a Boy.” Everyone at the gate assumed we had adopted a baby arriving on that flight. Word of the real story circulated and when John appeared he was met with applause. I couldn’t stop hugging him or touching him. I had to make sure he was real.

The first stop we made was at the home of our grandmother, our mother’s mother. John knocked on her door and when she opened she said, “I always knew this day would come, that one day you would knock on my door.”

I still find it heartbreaking that John never met our mother or that our mother never met her firstborn son. We inundated him with family over the next few days. My father, my younger siblings and their families arrived the next day, followed by an assortment of aunts, uncles and cousins all eager to meet and welcome our new family member.

Labor Day will always be a special holiday for me, unique in my interpretation of it. My mother labored to bring a child into the world at a time when “un-wed mothers” were a pariah, especially in the Irish Catholic culture in which she was raised. Knowing my mother, I am certain she labored everyday of the rest of her life thinking of him, wondering how and where he was. Hoping, yet also fearing, that he might one day knock at her door. And laboring to keep it all a secret from the children she raised with my father. My father, bless him, knew about John since before he married my mother. To him it was something in the past, once confessed never mentioned.

Twenty-one years after our first meeting my brother is as much a part of our lives as if we’d been raised together from birth. He’s simply my brother. I love him, he loves me. We have a history now, a bond that siblings share. It’s hard to imagine a time that he wasn’t a part of my world.

To me Labor Day is more like Christmas. I got the gift that truly never stops giving, this unforeseen gift bestowed as my mother left us. A gift I never got to thank her for, but I like to think she knows. 

Owning a Pet

         When I saw Dixie it was love at first sight. Getting a dog was not a decision I made lightly. My husband’s mantra had long been, “When the kids are grown and the pets are dead…” The kids were grown and our cat of nearly 19 years had been gone for a couple of years when I began to get the itch for another pet. I started trolling the Humane Society and no-kill animal shelter websites. I knew I wanted a medium size dog, not a puppy, and one already housetrained. When I saw Dixie’s photo I made arrangements to visit her at her foster home. “I’m just going to look,” I told my husband.

            I parked in the drive of the big farm house and watched as a black and white mostly Border Collie wearing a red bandana on her neck descended the front porch steps like a debutante. She paused at the bottom and lifted her paw to shake hands with me. That was it. Dixie got her forever home that day and I learned what it meant to lose your heart to an animal. I also learned what it meant to be a responsible pet owner.

            Some people might say my dogs are spoiled. Chloe, our second black and white mostly Border Collie, joined our family a few years after Dixie. They live in the house. They have soft beds and a big fenced yard to romp in. I buy them the best dog food and give them treats when they do something good like wag their tail or look at me with their big brown eyes. They are micro-chipped, have all their jewelry (tags), and see the vet regularly for required shots and check-ups. I give them heartworm, flea and tick prevention every month. They see the groomer for baths regularly and are brushed and ‘furminated’ almost daily. When I go out of town my husband comes home from work to give them their outdoor potty breaks and when we are both travelling they have a wonderful place to board.

            In return I get total devotion and unconditional love. I’m the hands-down winner in this arrangement.

            This morning as we were finishing our walk I spied two dogs on the loose at the end of the block. I promptly turned around to avoid them, but before I could escape one was on us. A pit bull mix. I’m not breed-bashing here, that’s just what it was. I screamed forcefully, “NO,” as I tried to pull my dogs away from the attacking animal. I had a combined one-hundred pounds of protection at the end of my leashes and I’m certain they would have died before they let the dog get to me.

            I am thankful for the kindness of strangers. A man in a red pickup truck stopped and ran the dogs off. My dogs and I made fast for home. I mouthed thank you and waved as the man drove away. What might have happened had he not appeared out of nowhere?

            My dogs were not hurt. I was not hurt, physically. The attack occurred hours ago and I have not stopped shaking. I can’t speak of it without crying. 

            Animal Control was notified and responded promptly. The dogs have not been found. Are they still out there or did they find their way back home? I’m afraid to leave my house.

            I don’t blame the dogs. I feel sorry for them. If they are picked up (and I hope they are, because they are obviously dangerous) they will probably be put down at the city animal shelter. Is that a harsher alternative to living with an irresponsible owner? I’m not sure.

            In a perfect world all pets would be loved and cared for. In a perfect world I wouldn’t be afraid to leave my house because of someone’s irresponsibility.

            I’m sure I’ll get over it in a few days. I’m going to buy pepper spray to protect myself and my dogs should anything like this ever happen again. But what about the dogs no one is protecting? What is to become of them? How sad.

The Reunion

When I was a child I idolized my mother’s nine brothers and sisters; I still do. Some of my earliest memories are of being put to bed at my grandmother’s house while the adults stayed up late, sitting around the oak kitchen table, drinking highballs, smoking cigarettes, telling tales, and laughing. As I got older I listened to their stories, memorized them, and this became my family lore.

The aunts and uncles held sway for many years. They continued to add to the lore. Many moved away. All had their own families. Yet they still congregated around my grandmother’s kitchen table whenever they could. Weddings, funerals, and illnesses all brought them home. I was fortunate to live in the same town as my grandmother from the time I was a junior in college until her death nearly thirty-five years later. This meant I was always around for the family gatherings and reunions, something I took for granted until I didn’t have it anymore.

It was three years since my grandmother was laid to rest, our last family reunion until we did it again last week. Many months in the planning we convened in Austin, Texas and made new memories and new stories. The aunts and uncles range in age from sixty to eighty. They still hold sway. My generation, or rather my first cousins, (I hesitate to call us a generation as we range in age from 21 to 60) and I have our own families now and are spread even farther across the country. But like our parents, we have always made family a priority and gather whenever we can.

There are thirty-four first cousins. I know them all. We have kept the bond that was created many years ago at that kitchen table. My grandmother was fond of quoting Tennyson and one of her favorite quotes was, “Our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow for ever and for ever.” It was amazing to see the rolling echoes at the reunion.

There are fifty-two second cousins. My daughters know them all. They also know the lore, the stories that connect us and make us who we are. My two year old granddaughter was at this reunion. She is in the next tier of cousins, I think they are called third cousins, but at this point who really cares – we are all just cousins. There are just eight in this group, so far. She doesn’t know them all yet, but she will. And the stories, she will know them too. I will teach her. And one day, when I am gone, she will make sure our echoes continue to roll from soul to soul, and grow for ever and for ever. That’s what we do. 

57

Last month I made a post on my social media page that caused quite the buzz among my friends. I posted that I had hit the sixth month mark in my year of sobriety. I tried to word it carefully so that no one would get the idea that I was a recovering alcoholic, but being the excellent writer that I am – most everyone got the wrong idea. I immediately received a phone call from Tim in Oregon asking me what was going on. I got well-meaning replies on Facebook, and lots of cyber high-fives and encouragement to take it one day at a time. Thank you everyone. But, just so you know, I’m not an alcoholic, recovering or otherwise.

I turned fifty-seven on November 9, 2013 and pledged to live a sober year in honor of my mother who died at age fifty-seven. She died of lung cancer, not alcoholism as some of you inferred. Giving up alcohol is only one of the things I am doing this year. My intent is to live my very best year, a year I am living not only for me, but also for my mother who didn’t get to have her fifty-seventh year.

I came up with this idea shortly before the birthday I had been dreading since 1991. It is easy to attach a stigma to an age or a date. It is common knowledge in my family that fifty-seven is not a good year. My grandfather, my mother, and my uncle all died at that age. Did I think I would also die? Not the sane, rational part of me, but yet the trepidation was there. I knew it was inevitable to turn fifty-seven and I did not want to have a shitty year, so I came up with the idea to turn things around and have the best possible year.

How does one live their best year? Good question. In my attempt to figure this out I went away to a Women’s Retreat at a Buddhist Monastery in California. Among the redwoods I began to formulate my plan. I made a list of things important to me. I made a to-do list that very much resembled the New Year’s resolutions I make every year. Then I came home, turned fifty-seven, and tried to put it all into action.

How am I doing? Another good question. I have been sober for seven months and one day. At the end of the year I intend to celebrate with an extremely good glass of red wine. I am learning lessons about how and why and when and where to drink. I don’t think I have or had a problem with alcohol, but I think I might have had I not taken this year to come to terms with it.

The second item on my live-my-best-year list is to spend more time with family. I am happy to report that I am succeeding at this also. I have had long trips to New York to see my oldest daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter. I have made several trips to see my youngest daughter in Lubbock. I attended a family wedding. I had a fabulous paternal cousin reunion in Tyler in April. Next week I am spending a week at the beach with extended family followed by a huge family reunion in Austin. I know my mother would be proud. No one loved a family gathering more than she.

As to the other items on the list – they are works in progress. I review the list periodically and take baby steps. I am having a great year and when I turn fifty-eight I intend to have another great year. This is quite catching. Thank you Mother for continuing to inspire and influence me. This year is for you and I am enjoying it immensely.  

Walking the Dogs

There is something meditative about my morning walk with the dogs. Chloe, the younger with her black and white Border Collie markings and her greyhound body, pulling at the leash in my right hand and Dixie, the elder, with her white ruff giving her the regal look of an Edwardian dowager queen, lagging behind at my heels pulling on my left arm, I’m sure I resemble one of those rubber stretch-man toys. But I’ve grown accustomed to the gait. Slower as we process through the neighborhood, the flip-flap of my Teva sandals (lesbian shoes my daughters say, but I counter the effect with hot pink toenail polish) on the pavement putting me in a trance.

What do I think about on these walks? I wish I knew. I’m sure there is something great going on in my brain. Big ideas, entire book plots, house remodeling plans, blueprints for a better world, but I remember nothing by the time I arrive home and unleash the dogs.

We are all hot and tired and sweaty and thirsty. The dogs lap greedily at their water bowls. I pour another cup of coffee. I am calm. I am relaxed. I am ready to face my day. And I just might recall one of my brilliant thoughts, if I’m lucky.