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.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
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.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The First Tomato
Hallelujah, tomato season has officially begun at my house. The fist tomato of the season is a cause for celebration and the ceremonial eating of the tomato. With great fanfare the tomato was sliced, positioned on toasted whole wheat bread slathered with mayonnaise, a little sea salt, and fresh cracked black pepper. Let the eating commence.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Coke and Kumbaya
This blog entry is in no way meant to support the Coca Cola Company, but I have to say, I think they were on to something with their “I’d like to buy the world a Coke” advertising campaign. I am growing so tired and frustrated and sad by all of the negativity in the world, and especially here in the good old U. S. of A. The blatant disrespect for our Country’s leaders, the hate-mongering, the thinly-veiled bigotry, and outright meanness is, to borrow a circa 1970 phrase, “really bringing me down, man.”
In the 1970s, when my siblings and I were teens and not getting along, the threat my mother made was, “I’m going to make you kids hold hands and sing Kumbaya.” She never actually followed through with the “punishment,” but we got her point and understood she meant for us to remember we loved each other and it was high time we started acting like it.
Buying the world a Coke is the same concept. Why can’t we all just get along, hold hands, drink a Coke (or beverage of your choice), and sing Kumbaya? In my opinion, that sounds wonderful. I can almost hear the birds chirping and see the butterflies and bunnies in this new, magical existence. But, sadly, there will always be those who are too mean and/or narrow-minded to offer their fellow man a Coke (or a glass of water). Too bad my mom is no longer with us. She’d tell them to hold hands and sing, and this time she’d probably follow through with her threat.
In the 1970s, when my siblings and I were teens and not getting along, the threat my mother made was, “I’m going to make you kids hold hands and sing Kumbaya.” She never actually followed through with the “punishment,” but we got her point and understood she meant for us to remember we loved each other and it was high time we started acting like it.
Buying the world a Coke is the same concept. Why can’t we all just get along, hold hands, drink a Coke (or beverage of your choice), and sing Kumbaya? In my opinion, that sounds wonderful. I can almost hear the birds chirping and see the butterflies and bunnies in this new, magical existence. But, sadly, there will always be those who are too mean and/or narrow-minded to offer their fellow man a Coke (or a glass of water). Too bad my mom is no longer with us. She’d tell them to hold hands and sing, and this time she’d probably follow through with her threat.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Father's Day
Father’s Day and Mother’s Day are bittersweet for me since my parents are no longer living. I had the good fortune to be born into a loving family, with parents who nurtured and encouraged me in everything I did. I had the double good fortune to marry a man who continued the love, nurturing and encouragement with me and with our two daughters. I don’t forget for one minute how lucky I am.
In honor of all of the fathers and in memory of my father, I am sharing one of my favorite stories about my dad.
Winter Coat
When I was a child my mother had agoraphobia. A little fact I didn’t become aware of until I was an adult and one of my aunts mentioned it matter-of-factly in a passing conversation. Well now, that certainly explained some things – like why she rarely left the house. I just thought it was normal for my father to do the grocery shopping and take us to the mall to buy school clothes. Mother’s phobia was not too severe, because she attended Mass every Sunday with the family, and would go out with my father. I think she was just anxious about venturing out on her own with four children in a big, unfamiliar city.
One year, when it was time for me to have a new winter coat (I’m sure my arms were at least four inches too long for the sleeves on the current one), my father took me downtown to a big department store to shop. This was unheard of. We lived in the suburbs and shopped at the mall. I had never even been downtown, that involved driving on the freeways, a task that my mother couldn’t comprehend. The freeways were my daddy’s domain. He rose early every morning and carpooled to the office with other men from his company. But unheard of or not, here we were on a Saturday morning making the trek downtown to buy me a winter coat, just me and Dad.
I have no recollection of the department store or even of selecting and purchasing the coat, a camel colored wool, which I still have. My memory of that day is of driving down the skyscraper-shaded streets of downtown, passing a huge public transportation bus and of seeing an old, sad, rheumy-eyed gentleman in a dark, too large suit, searching his palm for change to board the bus. That image has stayed with me as long as my camel-colored coat. It was, and is the saddest image I have ever seen in my life. That elderly man reached out and grabbed my heart. I hurt for him because he was alone, I wanted to help him select the right coins and take his arm and gently help him onto the bus. I wanted to sit with him and make sure he got to his destination. I looked at my father to see if he had seen the old man. Daddy was waiting for the light to turn green, but I know he noticed because the old man, in his dark suit, white shirt and fedora, could have been my father’s father, my grandfather. In an instant we drove past him and all that was left was his sad image permanently etched on my heart.
That event was over forty years ago. Mother is gone, Daddy followed her two years later, but the man from the bus stop is still here, along with my memories of my father who never let on that it was out of the ordinary to take me shopping for a winter coat.
In honor of all of the fathers and in memory of my father, I am sharing one of my favorite stories about my dad.
Winter Coat
When I was a child my mother had agoraphobia. A little fact I didn’t become aware of until I was an adult and one of my aunts mentioned it matter-of-factly in a passing conversation. Well now, that certainly explained some things – like why she rarely left the house. I just thought it was normal for my father to do the grocery shopping and take us to the mall to buy school clothes. Mother’s phobia was not too severe, because she attended Mass every Sunday with the family, and would go out with my father. I think she was just anxious about venturing out on her own with four children in a big, unfamiliar city.
One year, when it was time for me to have a new winter coat (I’m sure my arms were at least four inches too long for the sleeves on the current one), my father took me downtown to a big department store to shop. This was unheard of. We lived in the suburbs and shopped at the mall. I had never even been downtown, that involved driving on the freeways, a task that my mother couldn’t comprehend. The freeways were my daddy’s domain. He rose early every morning and carpooled to the office with other men from his company. But unheard of or not, here we were on a Saturday morning making the trek downtown to buy me a winter coat, just me and Dad.
I have no recollection of the department store or even of selecting and purchasing the coat, a camel colored wool, which I still have. My memory of that day is of driving down the skyscraper-shaded streets of downtown, passing a huge public transportation bus and of seeing an old, sad, rheumy-eyed gentleman in a dark, too large suit, searching his palm for change to board the bus. That image has stayed with me as long as my camel-colored coat. It was, and is the saddest image I have ever seen in my life. That elderly man reached out and grabbed my heart. I hurt for him because he was alone, I wanted to help him select the right coins and take his arm and gently help him onto the bus. I wanted to sit with him and make sure he got to his destination. I looked at my father to see if he had seen the old man. Daddy was waiting for the light to turn green, but I know he noticed because the old man, in his dark suit, white shirt and fedora, could have been my father’s father, my grandfather. In an instant we drove past him and all that was left was his sad image permanently etched on my heart.
That event was over forty years ago. Mother is gone, Daddy followed her two years later, but the man from the bus stop is still here, along with my memories of my father who never let on that it was out of the ordinary to take me shopping for a winter coat.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Gimcrackery
gimcrackery n 1: ornamental objects of no great value [syn: folderal, falderol, frill, gimcrackery, gimcrack, nonsense, trumpery]
The word above is from today’s “Do I Really Want to Increase My Vocabulary” Blog http://doireallywanttoincreasemyvocabulary.blogspot.com/2010/06/gimcrackery.html
I decided to write this blog about gimcrackery because a friend of mine, after his first visit to my home, was shocked by the amount of gimcrackery I own.
The following day he emailed me this:
A.Word.A.Day
with Anu Garg
congeries
PRONUNCIATION:
(kon-JEER-eez, KON-juh-reez)
MEANING:
noun: A collection of miscellaneous things.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin congeries (heap), from congerere (to heap up), from con- (with) + gerere (to carry).
USAGE:
"What an unsightly congeries of mismatched assets the McGuinty government seems to have in mind."
In the same email he requested the web address for my “congeries” blog. I gave him the website of this dear blog and I haven’t heard from him since. This leads me to believe he is either (a) still reading about all of my stuff/gimcrackery/congeries, or (b) he is horrified and has decided he no longer wants to associate with me. Oh, well – back to purging my gimcrackery, or at least writing about it.
The word above is from today’s “Do I Really Want to Increase My Vocabulary” Blog http://doireallywanttoincreasemyvocabulary.blogspot.com/2010/06/gimcrackery.html
I decided to write this blog about gimcrackery because a friend of mine, after his first visit to my home, was shocked by the amount of gimcrackery I own.
The following day he emailed me this:
A.Word.A.Day
with Anu Garg
congeries
PRONUNCIATION:
(kon-JEER-eez, KON-juh-reez)
MEANING:
noun: A collection of miscellaneous things.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin congeries (heap), from congerere (to heap up), from con- (with) + gerere (to carry).
USAGE:
"What an unsightly congeries of mismatched assets the McGuinty government seems to have in mind."
In the same email he requested the web address for my “congeries” blog. I gave him the website of this dear blog and I haven’t heard from him since. This leads me to believe he is either (a) still reading about all of my stuff/gimcrackery/congeries, or (b) he is horrified and has decided he no longer wants to associate with me. Oh, well – back to purging my gimcrackery, or at least writing about it.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Excuses, excuses!
I have not blogged in a while because I have been very busy at work and at home working in my garden. You can see from the picture below that I have quite a bit of activity going on in my raised bed and in my container garden.
But the really exciting news is - I now have a chandelier in my garden! I am certain this will make everything grow much better.
I'll let you know.
But the really exciting news is - I now have a chandelier in my garden! I am certain this will make everything grow much better.
I'll let you know.
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