Smiling Eyes

The eyes have been called " a window to the soul".   We see truth or lies, happiness and sorrow in those orbs.

My eyes are my best feature, or so I've been told.  Mellowing from the chocolate brown of my youth, they have become a soft hazel rimmed with amber.  Some say my eyes twinkle. It is likely the new cataract lenses.  Then again, maybe not.

My vision is another matter.  I have been legally blind without my glasses since my twenties; fortunately, good eye doctors have been able to give me near normal eyesight with corrective lenses.  The thick spectacles have been the first thing I donned and the last thing I've doffed since I was eight.  I tried wearing contacts in my twenties, no-line bifocals (ah, vanity) in my forties.  The diabetes, diagnosed in the 1990's, took its toll in my fifties.

What began as a simple eye exam has since become a source of constant worry and prayer, in spite of outward confidence.  Straight lines have bends and breaks; the printed word does not flow, but has blind spots and folds in each sentence.  I suspected macular degeneration, a disease that afflicted my mother.  Not so, says the doc.  It was retinal hemorrhage, probably aggravated by diabetes.  Two tears in one eye, one in the other.  I was sent to a specialist.

The eye surgeon verified the diagnosis and added something else--cataracts were forming.  No wonder I couldn't drive at night anymore!  Plagued by "halos" and blind spots, with crooked lines and waxed-paper sight, it's a miracle I could drive at all.  Less than a year later, they were ready to be removed.  I was petrified.

The surgery itself went well. The second eye was postponed twice due to more bleeding, and I lived with several kinds of eye drops and lop-sided vision for many weeks.

Now I have something else still.  Streaks of light, like a laser beam, followed by a sharp pain come from nowhere.  This is an "ocular migraine", rarely followed by a headache. The Vaseline-like film continues on mostly my left eye, this due to something he called "pavement scarring" at the surgical site.  This will have  to be removed by laser.  There is still more bleeding.  He said I should be aware of the "veil effect" where it looks like a curtain in front of my eyes.

I value my sight more than any other of my senses.  I love to read, blog and play Scrabble.  I like to look in peoples' eyes when we talk.  I like the sky and the lake and the view from the rest stop on I-86.  I want to see colors and flowers and the faces of my grandchildren.  Losing my eyesight scares me more than losing my life.

So far, I have almost full vision.  Modern medicine and the skill of my eye surgeon will help me to keep it as long as possible.  My blood sugar is under good control, which helps.  Macular degeneration hangs over me like the Sword of Damocles.  I take in every sight, relishing each one and committing  it to memory.

The love of my life has eyes that have crinkles from years of smiling.  The color chameleons with the brightness of joy and darkens like Lake Erie in November when he is miffed.  They change with the hue of his shirt and the mood of the moment.

Not being able to look in those eyes again is the most terrifying thought of all.

Mustached Mama

I have a mustache.  I am not proud of it.  It isn't black, nor is it too thick.  A swipe of a razor, or a dab of Nair occasionally,  does the trick.  Like strays on my eyebrows, it is merely an annoyance.

Grandma D lived at Benetwood, a senior community in the semi-wilds of Harborcreek, PA.  I vividly  remember the day she had a falling-out with a friend. Through clenched teeth she said, "You ever tell anyone about this, and I'll tell them all you've got a mustache!"  Shocking, especially since my German-ancestored Grandma sported a cursed one of her own.

The mustache was brought to the forefront not by my husband (who, if he had even noticed it, never commented), nor by any of my friends, some of whom had their own.  No, my less-than-diplomatic sons mentioned the fact that Mom needed a shave.  I, frankly, never paid attention.

I studied my face closely after listening to the sniggers of my boys, and sure enough, there they were. A few silky hairs, not bad, just enough to screech at 150 decibels, "MENOPAUSAL WOMAN HERE!" My hubby's razor lay on the sink.  Scrape!  Mercifully, I did not compound the trauma by cutting myself and have to resort to wearing tissue on my face.  At least the hirsute lip was clean.  A little make-up and I was once again all woman, younger for having lost the five o'clock shadow.

Since that fateful day I check carefully each and every morning.  I've no desire to have a client call me "mister".  In case I should lapse, I've taken to wearing lower-cut blouses and bigger earrings, darker eyeliner and extra mascara.  My boys will never have to point out a hair on my chin or growing from my ears.

I am woman. Hear me roar.

My Aura Is Grey

A chance remark brought me here.

I am just beginning a four-week relaxation therapy class. It is designed to put my chakra in order, to turn my aura in to one of cerulean instead of puce. It is a good day for it. I am wound up tighter than a mainspring today.

Take that any way you choose.

My nerves are on edge, my body is craving sweets. My environment is making me tense (it's the pack-rat thing), the weather is NOT cooperating. I feel like I will explode at the first person who says the wrong thing. Poor Steve. How likely husbands (or wives, or S.O.'s) are the first to get in the way of our wrath! I have already surpassed my self-imposed caffeine limit of the day. I WILL NOT turn to alcohol (bad for the eyes, I found out. Another blog awaits.). Sugar is a no-no. Hence, therapy.

Whether I will become a believer or not, I have yet to find out. Of course, you, my readers,  will be the first to know.

Norma is a person who oozes a quiet kind of energy. The fact that she is teaching this class is not lost on me. She and I connected immediately, with me sensing her need to recover from her mother's passing and her sensing my need for healing. She is full of life-affirming personality, talking so fast sometimes that she can make you dizzy, yet with a spirit that reaches out compassionately. I am happy to call her "friend".  Today I need her expertise.

Right now, I am so tense that my skin itches. My car needs hundreds of unavailable dollars to be fixed. The laundry needs done, supper to be cooked, stuff for lunches to be purchased. I feel like shoving my head into a pillow and screaming.   I think I might need to throw things. Or to throw things OUT. 

This is the out-of-control side of me that I hate. I want to be lovable,  pleasant, and happy all the time (not possible, I know that). I want to be beautiful, admired, calm and intelligent; I want to be loved by all who meet me.  I want my energy and faith and love to be contagious. I want to be remembered as kind and thoughtful. I want hundreds of people to call me "friend' on Facebook and in life.   There I go again--I want, I want.

The relaxation class is another step toward the new me.  I hope it will give me insight into my own consciousness, as well as those around me. I hope it will teach me to be true to what I am,  and not what others think I should be.

Mainsprings run  mechanical things, like watches. If they are tight, they are efficient. Too tight, they freeze up or snap, and are  no good to anyone. Too loose, they don't work at all.

I am aiming for a happy medium. And a much bluer aura.

Look Out, Punxy Phil!

More snow. Geez.

Stupid groundhog. Early spring. HAH!

I should be on the road right now, heading to Meadville or Hamburg or some other city an hour or two away. Instead I am parked in my LaZ Boy, electric blanket cranked up to ten, sipping cup number 2 of Folgers. The gale is howling, another 5 to 10 predicted on top of the ten or so inches that is heaped on my front lawn. It rained yesterday, so the streets are slick with ice, rutted snow and the inevitable potholes of February.

Husband says it is too nasty to go anywhere. He should know. It took him 45 minutes to come 11  miles home this morning. My dog, a hundred pounds of husky (maybe malamute) and Shepard (just a guess) did his thing, banged furiously on the door, vowed to learn to use the indoor facilities and is now curled up on the couch, tail covering his nose. We're all sick of it.

As blizzards go, this one is a doozy, though I have seen worse. The pellets pummeling the storm door, the steps that will have to be shoveled for the mailman, the sidewalk that was clean yesterday--been there, done that.

I have an AWD, a fairly large SUV that takes winter in stride for the most part. It's the other guy. The one in the mini-Cooper or the minuscule Kia who has to be there RIGHT NOW. Or worse, the Avalanche or Escalade who feels invincible in the snow-packed terrain, driving at warp speed to get where?

Later, after the plows venture onto our oft-neglected side street, I will attempt to go earn a few bucks more in my paycheck. I will gripe the whole time. I am fed up with my pink fur coat, the thermal-lined driving gloves, boots and socks and all the other paraphernalia of winter. I long for barely-there tank tops, sun-blessed peaches and strappy sandals. I want to complain about the heat for a change.

Work be damned. I'm going to Punxy to make mincemeat out of that groundhog.

Reasons? Or Excuses?

If Jesus said, "Come follow me?" would you go? Or would you say, "Later, Lord.  First, I have to clean the basement. I have no vacation time from my job, and I have to raise some cash.  Besides, who will take care of my dog?"

A friend asks you to come visit, or go out to dinner or for coffee.  Do you find time? Or are you always too busy? If not now, when?

Is this the beginning of the end of a friendship? When will you find time? You will find the time to go to the funeral, or at least to buy a card. Your friend won't need you then.  The time is NOW. Have you so many who love you that you can afford to lose even one?

Opportunities we miss are unlikely to come to come along again. The boy who asked you out and you said no. The woman who offered you a job that you turned down. The invitation to learn to ski, or sail on the ocean, that you were too busy to try. The person who said he or she loved you, and you didn't take the time to get to know them. The friend who made you so angry that you could not forgive and begin again.  In the real world, there is no instant replay.

Some things have to be put off for practical reasons, like my trip to visit southern friends. Money, time (the lack of both) and responsibilities at home all play a legitimate part. It isn't that we don't WANT to follow our hearts, or follow Christ, for that matter.Sometimes they aren't excuses, but REASONS.

One more thing I am learning as I grow and change is that I have to learn to recognize which opportunities are one-timers, and which will be around in another year. Which friendships will stand the test of time, and which will quickly fade if not nourished?

Am I ready to follow my heart, or to follow Jesus, as the case may be? Am I going to jump off the deep end and grasp at anything and everything? Or use my common sense and S-L-O-W  D-O-W-N?

That's one I have to think about.

The Bugaboo

I feel fat. Not as fat as a few months ago, but still fat.

Being overweight has always been a major bugaboo for me, save a few years--gratefully--in high school.

As a small child, until junior high, poundage never bothered me. I was raised in a family where size didn't matter and I suffered no self-image issues nor prejudice from friends. I had a good life, with lots of friends and childish confidence that sustained me. That is, it did until I entered Wilson Junior High.

Those years of 7th and 8th grade were tolerable only because I was in a special group of students (section 7-3 and 8-4 if I recall correctly) who were selected for their brains, and we all knew it. Traveling from French lab to modern math to algebra together for most of three years, we got to know each other as people, not bodies. A salesman even then, I laughed and pretended my way through school. While boys noticed other girls blossoming, I was fading into the woodwork.

The summer I turned 14 was a changing point. Left on my own, I liked to experiment with cooking on the charcoal grill I had salvaged and sprayed with engine paint. I got the worst imaginable case of food poisoning. Virtually bedridden for nine days, I lost a lot of weight. Mercifully, my best friend Linda kept me company between fits of puking. Best friendships can only tolerate so much.

By the time school started that fall, I was wearing a size 7 or 9, a far cry from the...ahh..larger size I had worn the previous year. With a new haircut and a new wardrobe (I exchanged virtually everything Mom had bought me) I was ready, or so I thought. I was so traumatized by those first two years, that I withdrew into a shell. When I was asked to the ninth grade dinner dance--by three different boys--I turned them all down, finally saying  "yes" to number four. I was glad I went. It was magical.

Throughout high school I stayed pretty slim, topping the scales at about 118. I didn't think my legs would pass muster, so I wasn't a twirler. I didn't think I was cute enough to be a cheerleader. I didn't even try. I skated along with B's when I could have had A's if I had studied. The one place I fit in was as a copywriter on the yearbook staff. Otherwise, I tended to ignore some of those I remembered from grade school, thinking they might not remember me. I didn't realize then that they might have felt the same way. How many friendships were lost?

That "remember me?' issue still remains, but I am trying to overcome it. Surprisingly, I got a boost from an unexpected source. Someone I met on a blind date and went out with exactly ONCE, remembered me. Imagine that. I am trying to reconnect, trying to make new friends, trying to use my studies of body language and my years in sales to help me along.

The pounds are still there, though slowly dissipating. The mousy brown--sometimes blond, sometimes red--hair is now a fortunately soft silver. I'm beginning to feel whole again, finding out that most people really don't care about your weight, but about your inner being. Besides, my legs aren't so bad after all, and the twinkle in my eye isn't only because of the cataract lenses.

With apologies to Virginia Slims--I'm not getting older (well, maybe a little), I'm getting better.

More Than Nail Polish

I haven't known Sue and Gracie very long.

They came into my life as the result of breaking three fingernails in one day. Eyeing my mutilated tips with disgust, I checked in to Sue's All About Nails for a makeover. What I gained from that encounter was the first time in my life that I didn't have to hide my hands. I also added several new women and a man to my growing list of acquaintances who are rapidly becoming friends. I am blessed.

There is Sue, a two-weeks-my senior nail tech whose skill at interpreting each break or chip astounds me. "You! You've been texting! I can tell by the way your thumbnail looks!" Yes, she will rant about the careless way I treat my precious new manicure, but she will fix it so I am a happy camper. Sue may appear to be all business, but I have seen her excitement over simple pleasures, her love of music and her pride in her family.

There is Gracie, a delicate Vietnamese flower of a girl, whose gentle hands and artistry with the polish can turn my nails into a canvas. Sometimes I ask her to design my nails for a holiday; soon I will have them done again with flowers and sparkles just because the attention hound in me likes it. When fingernail art can make you beam, you know she's got it right.

There is Sue's husband, a charmer who seems to think he is in charge (silly man) when we ladies all know it is Sue. There is Cindy and her daughter, and recently retired Joanie. I have come to expect to see them on payday Saturdays. When I miss them, something is missing from my week. Sue will come on my whitewater rafting trip; Cindy prefers warm showers to a drenching dunking in the icy Ohiopyle. We'll work on Joanie next.

I believe that small things like a smile, a compliment or a broken nail can bond people like  nothing else can. Who knows if a chance meeting in the nail salon, the grocery store or on Facebook  is the beginning of a lifetime friendship, a spark of love, a passing moment? If we don't take the time to find out--what then? In ten years, I will be seventy. Will I be just ten years older or ten years happier?

I'm aiming for the happier. Every person I meet from here on will be a part of that.

My Milque-Toast Rant

I feel like ranting, with apologies to John who owns the ranting blog, Talking to Myself.  Ask me. I'm sure he will share. By the way, love the new car, John.

I am trying to be a good little girl. At  almost sixty and weighing more than I should (you didn't think I'd tell, did you? Come on, now!) it's a little late.

I am trying to be a person of faith, trying to be nice to people I meet, trying to right any wrongs. I want to be healthier, but I ate cold pizza for breakfast.  I snapped at my dog when he shook snow all over me and shed on my black sweatpants.  The dishes are still in the sink because Hubby didn't do them. Will I leave them till he gets home in the a.m.? Probably.  There is a load of clothes in the washer. Will I dry them tonight? Probably not. Then there is that (insert groan and expletive here) basement.  This is not the side of me I want my friends to know.

I want, I want, I want. Sometimes I get sick of hearing myself. I want another coat just like my pink fur one (in case it wears out). I want jewelry, not expensive stuff, just flashy.  I want to be thinner. I want to go places, see people and do things. I want to lose the fears and the self-centeredness that lives in me. I want a classic car, or three. I want my home spotless and my grandkids to idolize me. I want every person I meet to want to know me because they think I'm funny or smart, beautiful to look at, kind-hearted and sexy as all get-out. I want the friends with whom I have had a falling-out in the past to know that I am truly sorry; I ask their forgiveness. I want to be loved by all.

I don't expect much, do I?

This  blogging is good for me. I get to think about things I haven't thought about in decades. I get to speak my mind, or try my hand at fiction. Some people thought TO BE OR NOT TO BE was really ME, in the throes of contemplating suicide. Trust me, I love life far too much. I don't know where that came from. You will see a soon-to-be published story about a rejected woman who is contemplating murder. No, I am not a killer. It is the freedom to be all of these different personalities that I find so exciting.

I am me. I can be lovable and charming, warm and affectionate, happy and funny. Encounter me when I am fully caffeinated and you will notice I am pushy, too talkative and even annoying. Fill me with Lambrusco or gin and tonic--I will be sweet and mellow. Walk with me, dance with me...I become thoughtful and romantic.When I ask questions, I demand answers. If I offend you, I want you to tell me so I can make it all better. I will stand up for what I believe, but I will respect your point of view. I am gentle, but hurt my loved one and I am Mama Grizzly.

I believe everyone has the same rights and freedoms in the U.S. of A. I believe we should use those rights to better ourselves, not expecting anyone else to take care of us. Unfortunately, life has twists and turns. Some have more, some less. Deal with it. I believe in God. If you don't, well, that's up to you. I also like mushroom enchiladas with guacamole salad. To each his own. How boring the world would be if we were all the same.

What can you expect from my blog? Fact and fiction. Honesty and opinion. Maybe a little sarcasm, certainly some mush.  A little humor, or my idea of it. I want you to like me--heck, I want EVERYBODY to like me! If you don't, then you don't know what you are missing.

So there it is, my rant of the day.  Pretty milque-toast stuff. I never expect to win a Pulitzer.

Hell, why not?

Funny Bunnies

Linda and I met when she was three and I was four. My grandparents had insisted that Mom and Dad buy the house next door to them, the middle one of three on East 20th Street. Facing them, Grandma and Grandpa lived on the right, and Linda's family on the left.

On the other side, Grandpa had an empty city lot where he grew enough vegetables to feed the neighbors. Linda and I were given a plot next to the garage where we tried growing things, like the beets we sold to White's Market for dimes--big bucks for a six-year-old in 1957! Grandpa made sure there were tomato plants within our reach--luscious little yellow globes that we loved warm from the vine. Potatoes, too, and we rummaged in the dirt during the harvest, munching on tiny new potatoes with the fragrant soil still clinging to them. Yum!

Linda and I lived quite literally eight feet apart. We would talk from our upstairs windows, and rigged a basket with pulleys to send things to each other. When I wanted to play, there was no need to use a phone, just, "HEY! LIN-DAAH!!" from the front walk. We played games in our joint driveway, we harassed her sisters mercilessly together; we cooked on the big old grill (I got food poisoning) and waded in the pool. We had a talcum powder fight at her house--why her mother didn't kill us, I don't know. We tried our hand at candy-making (had to throw out the pan and all from one batch), pulling taffy and making fudge, What a good life! What a great friendship!

 Jane was the third member of our trio. She lived in a perfect big grey house behind me. ("HEY! JAN-EEEE!")  A hole in the neighbor's fence provided easy access to Linda's backyard.  Jane was the first to get a REAL Barbie doll. AND Ken. Once we tried to make dinner to surprise her folks. The spaghetti was like glue and the Jello mold melted, but at least we gave it a shot. We often played in the corner field with other neighborhood kids, Mike and Mike, Debbie and Debbie, Judy and Robert, Russell, Mary and Ricky and so many more. One day we were playing "Statue", whirling till we were dizzy. Jane fell and broke her collarbone. Jane hurt, but I wonder if she knew even then that her friends were hurting for her?

Despite marriages and kids and grandkids, death of our parents, moving closer and moving away, here we are again. We had a saying back then when we had a disagreement--"let's be funny bunnies!" It meant forgive and forget, let's play together and start over. We're too good as friends to be anything else.

Fifty-odd years later. Has it been that long? The bond is still there. The talk remains. The games have changed. We are all good cooks these days. The memories are intact, secrets still safe. Some of the gang has reconnected (Hi, Mike!), some are not to be found. Our paths have crossed again, and this time there will be no sidetracking.

Hey! Lin-daah! Hey! Jan-eee! Don't you wish everybody could be Funny Bunnies?

Yes, I Have Changed

A woman I don't know well, yet choose to call "friend",  said to me today, "You have really changed."

I took no offense, not knowing if she meant in a good way or a bad one.  After all, she wasn't aware of my existence a year ago. I prefer to call it positive.

Several months ago, I ran into a former classmate who said I looked "frumpy" compared to the "me" in high school.  Some time after that, another called me "stunning". Which is me?  Another friend told me this past Friday that I had a twinkle in my eyes. I told him it was the cataract lenses, but I knew what he meant. He's right.

Watching my mother deteriorate from the beautiful, fun, vibrant woman she was, and finally die as a shell of herself, affected me more deeply than I realized. When I could at last cry for her I knew that I had to live while I was able. That was almost nine months ago.  I have become a different person.


Several people and events have facilitated the change. I am more emotional, to be sure, but that is not surprising since it was bottled up for so long. My clothes have changed; I sport a new haircut and new fingernails. My bucket list is no longer a figment of my imagination, but is published for all to see and remind me of its content. The basement is still a mass of confusion, but I am working on it. I am renewing old friendships and building new ones.

NEW. Did you notice how many times that word cropped up? That is what the past few months have been to me. A new lease on life, a new outlook, new adventures, new friendships, new experiences. new methods of communicating, new faith, new health and a new outlook on what comes next.

I am happy, more happy than I have been in years. I am more willing to try out new things and new experiences. I have lost some of the old fears. I am more confident in my abilities. I recognize my gifts  and am trying to overcome the leftover inadequacies. I am a different woman than I was a year ago.

Yes, Cindy, I really have changed.

I'm Cold!

It got up to 59 degrees today. Now it has dropped to 40-something and still dropping. I started the day in a skirt, the first one I have worn in months; high heels, the first time without boots since December and a sweater instead of my pink fur coat (no animals died or dyed for the coat!). No gloves. No socks. I felt even lighter than the 20- odd pounds I have lost.

Tonight I sit in my LaZ-Boy, the sweater still wrapped around me. I have an electric throw turned up to ten. Socks on my feet. I am sick of being cold.

I keep thinking about moving south, trading the snow and ice (or in today's case, mud) for sandy beaches and constant sunshine. My old friend Beth could show me how to live on the coast, or Randy could show me around Miami. Tim could teach me the joys of beach living, or Cora and Sue could help me learn my way around Atlanta. Jj would take me into San Francisco, and Diane would make me feel at home in Cocoa.... There are any number of places where it isn't raining or snowing.  I just live somewhere where it may do it all in one day.

I can't go, not permanently anyway. I would miss my dog, my kids, my grandkids. I would miss the way the ice sparkles when it clings to every twig in winter and the way the snow crunches when it is 15 degrees. I would miss the first crocus of spring, the mosquito-free May and the concord grapes that only Erie County, Pennsylvania can grow. I would like to visit those other places--swim with the dolphins, visit Daytona and the Golden Gate, go out on the ocean in a sailboat. Most of them are on my Bucket List (see blog story!).

Erie, PA has been my home always. I can't imagine living anywhere else. I will turn up the heat, put on my gloves and boots and two pairs of socks and wait sullenly for our too-short summer.

I am still cold.

To Be Or Not To Be?

I sat at my desk, contemplating the array of pharmaceuticals in front of me.  There was a syringe full of insulin, far more than the 15 Units I required. There was other medicine for my blood sugar, one for my heart, another for blood pressure.  There was aspirin and Vicodin, and a few Coumadin pinched from a relative's cabinet. Next to them was a fifth of cheap gin--no need to waste the Tangueray--and a jug of wine.

The idea of being or not being, as the case may be, was not a frightening one as it played across my mind. Visions of the after-life did not include the depths of Hell, merely greener pastures and buildings faced with opal and pearl.  I imagined music--the sweet strings of a harp, the moan of a saxophone, the chirp of a piccolo, the simple melody of a piano. Peace and sunshine, a gentle warm breeze. The white sand of a beach at midnight under a full moon and bouquets of blooms never seen before by mortals.

My mind flashed to the day-to-day. Never enough money, a job I barely tolerated at best. A body that would never satisfy me, no matter how much weight I lose, nor how fit I become. An aching tooth, painful muscles, blurred vision. There was never enough love to make me content. There was too much clutter in my old-fashioned house that I couldn't throw away. The question was no longer to be or not to be? but, why bother being?

I dumped out a few of each pill, lining them up according to size, making sure they were arranged in symetrical columns in agreement with my perfectionist nature. The syringes, one with insulin and one with air, lay next to them. Lastly I poured  three fingers of gin--no, four--and a tumbler of wine.  I took a long drink and refilled the glass.

A soft whine made me jump. My big old mutt had  put his heavy paw in my lap, then rested his chin on my knee. Another plaintive whine escaped him. His mellow brown eyes seemed to take in the sight of the meds on the table. He looked at them, then he looked right into my soul and gave a gentle "woof".

In that instant, from the eyes of a mongrel of dubious parentage, I saw true,  unconditional love. Eyes that didn't care if I was rich or poor, thin or fat, a red-head or grey-haired. They didn't care that I couldn't sing a note, or that I could screw up the drawing of a stick-man. He loved ME.  The answer to the question became, TO BE.

I tossed Rocky a piece of bologna, a Reese cup miniature and his favorite kind of rawhide. I hugged him until he tried to wriggle from my grasp, laughing and crying as he shook himself free,

Thanks, Mutt, for saving my life.

Three Syllables That Change Lives

Forgiveness. Tolerance. Acceptance. Three syllables each. Simple concepts.

Humans have been given free will. Why do we use that free will to selectively choose the virtues we want to espouse, rather than embrace and try to achieve them all?

We choose to be generous with our friends, yet mingy with our families. We go to church Sunday mornings and gamble recklessly Sunday night. We forgive a stranger who spills a drink on us, yet our own children we call "clumsy".

We have friends that were once close, but something caused a rift. Do we tell them what the problem is? No, we hit "delete" and remove them from our lives. With our spouses, we walk away and then simmer.

Someone--a friend, a stranger, a person with whom we have had a falling-out; someone who doesn't fit in to the plans we have made-- expresses affection for us, or presents us with an unexpected gift. Do we politely acknowledge? Or do we avoid facing it all together? Do we graciously answer sincerely asked questions, or do we get angry and intolerant, or just ignore them? We just keep hoping it will all go away. It probably will, but first it needs to be looked at with open eyes, an open mind and an open heart.

Tolerance, acceptance and forgiveness are hard sometimes. Losing a friend or family member is harder.

Part of my "turning it over to God" was to ask Him to teach me tolerance, acceptance and forgiveness. It is very difficult with some people.  I accept that it will take a lifetime of learning, but if I can make a difference in even ONE person's life, it will be worth it.

Christmas Cookies and the Pig

Let me tell you a story about Christmas Cookies, a laso ahpso, three cats and a pig. Not one of the kids -- a real pig.

We had a scheme, Jo and I. She insists it was my idea to this day. I say it was hers. We would run a classified ad and then we would bake and sell Christmas cookies. How hard could it be?

We met at her house, clearing the premises of husband, kids, dog and cats. Miss Pig remained. A Vietnamese potbelly pig of considerable girth, Miss Pig sat and coolly waited for a mishandled morsel to fall her way. Alas, none did, and she snorted in obvious disgust as she went hunting for a snack. Miss Pig had a penchant for fresh veggies, and not in her own dish, mind you. She had learned to help herself from the Frigidaire crisper, then close the door behind her. Pausing, she would settle her heavy head on my feet and munch her way through her carrot, then contentedly continue her foraging with my shoelaces. One does not discipline a hundred pound pig.

The cats were amazing creatures. One of them, a rescue, was so frightened of her own shadow she would barely leave her carrier, save to sit on the windowsill and watch the squirrels in the pines. Another, Stash ( a regal Siamese who was plainly of royal heritage) issued orders to his minions in a demanding "meow". Annie was fondly known as "liquid cat".  Imagine a black beanbag. Drape her across your shoulders or hang her over a ladder-back chair and Annie would go with the flow.

But what brought us together was the cookies. Hundreds of dozens of cutouts, hermits and tea cakes. You want it, we made it. Never burned not one. Trays and trays of cookies with icing and sprinkles. Obscene anatonomically correct gingerbread boys when we had too many martinis, lacy filigrees when we felt ambitious. We gained a few pounds and never made a nickel, but we bonded like gorilla glue.

Next year, we said, we would start earlier and freeze some. Next year never came. Life got in the way.

The husband has passed on, the kids grew up and are still friends with my boys. The cats and Maxie the laso are well-remembered.  Miss Pig grew to a hefty 300 or so pounds and spent her many remaining years on a farm near Sherman, NY.

Here's to you, my friend, and to all the cookies that were, are and might have been.

And to Miss Pig--you have no idea how close you came to becoming a pork chop.

Love of My Life, Thiz Iz for You

If you can stand one more mushy true-love story, this is it. Then it's on to Christmas Cookies and the Pig.

The love of my life. Those are the only words to describe this man.

Tall enough, muscular enough, with eyes that can be warm enough to melt a glacier or so cold they could freeze the Sahara. Sweet, thoughtful and HOT one minute, the next he is as stubborn as a mule in a mud pit. He is unique.

The Romance countries have a word for it, though it escapes me now. Loosely translated, it means, "Thunderbolt". the feeling of suddenly knowing, I mean KNOWING, that this is the person you want for a life mate. A simple hug can mean fireworks; no, make that a hydrogen bomb. A speck of time can be replayed over and over in your mind, added to with every encounter, till his presence fills your soul. A cup of coffee can be just coffee some days; on others it can be the start of an adventure. He becomes your hero.

We disagree on politics, his views being far-flung from my leave-me-alone-and-legalize-the-pot philosophy. We both believe in God. we both have certain standards we choose to live by. We both have flaws.

I have become strong-willed and aggressive in some ways in my almost-senior years. I am still a spoiled brat, expecting my own way and usually getting it. I like soft, silky clothes and costume jewelry, gin and tonic and endless hugs. He likes politics and football and beer, and could care less about my blog. He has been places, though travel is not his thing; I have been to Pittsburgh. We both love lightning and the lake when it is rough; we love the still of the lagoons. We like walks at Wintergreen and the bluffs at Rodderick Preserve. We prefer meat from Wegman's instead of the barrel of a rifle.

We know some things about each other that no one else knows. I have seen him come to tears over the loss of a beloved pet; he has heard me whine about day-to-day frustrations. He is my friend, my counselor. He can be encouraging, or a taskmaster. Sometimes I want to shake him and say, "LISTEN TO ME, JUST FOR A MINUTE!"

It takes intelligence, faith and an open heart to accept the Thunderbolt. All I know is, it happened. It hasn't gone away. It isn't infatuation, it isn't sex, it isn't we'll-stay-together-for-the-kids.

You're the love of my life. Don't you forget it.

First Blush

I was ten.

The school district had changed the borders again, and I found myself back at Burton School. New friends, all the others left behind. For a chubby girl who was used to having lots of friends, it was quite a change. I didn't like it.

But then there was Miss Peters. No MS in those days. She seemed kind, and she seemed to understand what it meant to be the new kid. Right away I felt like her pet. For a spoiled brat like me, it was the only place to be. Even when I had to stay late to finish my work, it was ok because it seemed the same ones always stayed, too, and three of them were BOYS. Even though I was always a little shy, I also knew I liked BOYS, and was never much of a tomboy.

One day, Billy had finished first and had gone home. In a few minutes he came running back in the classroom, screeching , "Waldo, your house! It's ON FIRE!!" We all ran to the windows and sure enough, smoke and flames were roaring from Roger Young, the housing project (originally army barracks) across from the school. I remember Waldo (Walter) staring, tears streaming down his face, the rest of us and Miss Peters trying to console him, yet too terrified to move. Someone came to get Waldo eventually. None of us ever forgot that day.

I remember most of my classmates. A few I used to run into occasionally. A couple have passed on, some moved away, others I have looked for but cannot find. Then there was Randy. Ah, yes, Randy. William, actually, but I never one time ever heard him called that.

Randy was cute, with a winning smile that melted my fifth-grade heart. He would walk me home sometimes, and we would laugh and joke as only innocent ten-year-olds can do. I still remember the gift he gave me that Christmas, a pink-and-blue flowered china set for my dresser. Years later I realized his mom probably picked it out, but I loved it anyway, right to the moment when the dog broke the last piece. I cried for days. Randy had a little mop of a dog, Liebchen, which he said meant "little darling".
We lost touch when his family moved. Years later, he dated my best friend and fixed me up with his friend Jeff for one memorable afternoon at the beach. By then Randy and I had become more brother-sister, a comfortable place to be. Jeff? Oh, that was doomed from the start, and I doubt he would even remember me. But Randy?  I found him again, though the first blush has gone. He is still someone I will never forget.

Happy Valentine Day, Randy.

The Bucket List

Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. An unlikely pair to inspire anyone to decisive action, yet I sat mesmerized, watching The Bucket List over and over.

This is what is missing! I need a list of things I want to do before I die. If not now, when?

I began with a list of the things I used to love--the sweet taste of cotton candy, blood oranges, fresh figs. All the things I loved as a child, a teen, a young adult before the realities of raising a family (apologies to my sons. I love you.) and paying bills set in. I had forgotten how exhilarating it was to watch the lightening and the waves crashing on the breakwaters of Lake Erie, the glassy smoothness of the bay in summer, or riding my bike around and around the block when I was only ten or so. What was more fun than a vanilla phosphate at Eckerd's soda fountain? Or playing old records? Or Waldameer Amusement Park (no admittance fee!) any time? And dancing..how I loved to dance.

So the Bucket List began with a chance remark about kayaking in the lagoons. I can do this. My son has a kayak. He can teach me. My walking at the Y turned into strength-training my upper body to be able to handle the paddling. Someone at the Y suggested whitewater rafting, a sport I love to watch.  Now, in the company of other women of a certain age, there will be a trip to the Ohiopyle to go rafting. Yes, I am scared spitless.

Although blessed with pretty good skin, I have this chin I just hate looking at. Add a chin lift and maybe some lipo to the list. I vowed never, ever to leave the house without sunscreen.  Vanity, thy name is Marilyn.

Spoiled brat that I am, I added a bicycle to tour the beach; a classic car--or three (pink '58 Caddy, '70 Chevelle SS--red and a '56 T-bird in chrome pink with wire wheels)--to drive on Sunday afternoons. I want to go out in a sailboat and a hot air balloon, take a road trip to visit friends and family, go on an Alaskan cruise and visit a tropical paradise.

The list is growing with people I want to see and places to go, things to do and challenges to confront. I will have to live 40 more years to do it all. Where will I be in 40 years if I don't do them? Just older, not more fulfilled.

I want it all, and I want it now, not when the weather is better or when the paperwork is done, or the basement is cleaned out. Now.

Welcome to my world, or part of it anyway.

Welcome to the ruminations and meanderings of my almost-senior mind. Laugh, cry and think with me; get angry if you must. Some of you will find yourselves in these pages. If you do, it is because you have created a special memory. If you don't, well, you just might see yourself someday. I just haven't gotten to you yet.

When my Mom died this past Memorial Day weekend, something happened to me inside besides the anger at her death and the sorrow that has followed. Out of the manure of depression grew a new sense of being. Emotions I had not had for years came welling up. I began to think of myself not as another slightly frumpy hausfrau but as a beautiful, vibrant, intelligent woman with a gift.

Grandma Hess used to tell me when I was oh, maybe ten or so, that I had the gift of healing. Maybe I do; not of the physical body, but of the essence. I am learning to recognize that I can touch people with my words--strangers and friends alike. I have a gift for talking to others in a grocery store, like to the woman who admired my pink fur coat and ended up telling me of her car accident a year ago (was scalped, had 37 fractures,internal injuries and survived). Or to the fellow at the Y who has told me his adventures since he retired. It comes easily, and it is helping me to become the person I want to be.

My job is mostly solitary. I work with a wonderful team, but rarely see them. Those I meet daily I am trying to sell, or point out the flaws that affect their businesses. I've been feeling isolated.

I joined the Y mainly as a safe place to walk. What I found was a slew of acquaintances who are rapidly becoming friends. In addition to becoming more physically fit, there is a human element involved that I can't explain. I like it.

I joined a church. I knew that I needed spiritual guidance and the fellowship of other believers. The warmth at Messiah Lutheran has lifted me beyond all expectations. I am beginning to feel whole.

You won't find much political rhetoric on these pages. I respect the values of my ultra-Conservative husband and friends, my Socialist Scrabble buddy and the Liberal leanings of my best friend from high school. Me? Guess you could call me sort of a Stossel Libertarian--the teach-a-man-to-fish philosophy; leave me alone and let me do or die without your interference, thank you.

As for religion, I am a Christian and try to live that way. Whether you are a Believer or not; a Catholic or Protestant, a Buddhist or Jewish--that is yours to hold on to. I, for one, do not believe we are the result of some primordial pea soup. I personally believe this amazing world was created. I will not foist my religion on you, but I will not deny myself the right to express it. Recently I turned my whole life--the friendships, the family, finances, the clutter--all of it--over to my God to take care of it. I've always been a "fixer". I can't do it any more.

To all of you, whether family or friend, acquaintance or stranger--I hope my words will touch you. May they make you laugh or cry or think. If there is any among you whom I have hurt or wronged, made angry or sad or frightened in any way--I am sorry, and I ask your forgiveness that we might begin again. I really am a nice person when you get to know me.

These pages are dedicated to you.