Good secrets, bad secrets. We teach this to our children when they are very young.
Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. Unfortunately too true.
You have secrets, even if you don't realize it. You have secret shame, or secret thoughts. You don't tell anyone because it is a guilty pleasure, or just plain guilt. There are things you don't want to share with anyone, things you see no need to share and things you should forever keep to yourself.
Some of our secrets cost us love or friendship, marriage, our job or even our lives or our freedom. They turn us into someone we don't recognize because we won't face them. Some secrets make us smile, like the secret crush on the boy next door or the stash of chocolate we nibble on when alone. Some make us cry, so we push them into the filing cabinets of our brains.
No one person knows all our secrets. We play the role of being open and honest with our siblings or our spouses or our best friend or our therapist. We share a little bit with her, a little bit with him, but always, always there is that little bit we keep to ourselves. It's part of being human, I guess.
Is keeping secrets the same as living a lie? No, not always. There are some things so private that sharing them would be a mistake. There are some things that feel right and you want to share them but you don't understand what the outcome will be. There are things that should be left unsaid, never to be shared with anyone.
I shared a secret with a friend of many years. It was a mistake. I should have kept my mouth shut. It put a strain on our friendship that will never be repaired. I have apologized over and over, but it doesn't seem to matter. Someday I hope the friendship can be mended.
I know another friend's secret. I will never tell, because it would hurt a lot of people. I found out by accident; the friend is unaware that I know. I would die before I would tell.
Yesterday I told my biggest secret to my oldest friend. I know it is safe with her. It had affected me, her, us, for many years. It was a burden I carried. Afterwards, I felt bad that I had given her a portion of my burden to struggle with. I feel lighter now, and I hope I haven't given her any of my pain to bear. Still, she is the most loving and forgiving, non-judgemental person I have ever known. We'll be OK.
There is much to do in the next couple of weeks. Turning sixty is a big deal for me. I want to celebrate this new decade in a special way. I want to be free of the guilt I have over people I might have mistreated. I want forgiveness for my actions that may have offended anyone. I want to celebrate with faith, truthfulness and the simple joy of being alive. I want to give a portion of the love I have been given to my friends, to strangers and to myself. (The irony is not lost on me--if I don't love me, no one else will either.)
Good secrets, bad secrets. Some to keep, some to share, some best discarded. All to learn from.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Reality Check
We have new neighbors, originally from the Ukraine. Nalia can't be said to be perky, but she seems nice, friendly and above all, industrious. She and her mother Nina moved to this great land of ours eight years ago for reasons I can only guess. What I do know is that her mother wished for a real house to live n, not an apartment. That wish was granted last fall.
Nina wanted to have room for the flowers she loved as well as the food she needed, so the plain front lawn has become a perennial showpiece. Nalia has taken the flowers and entwined them with paths of white stone, accented with figures of gnomes and bunnies. She's not a landscape architect, not a horticulturalist--just a very hard worker. It is so beautiful, you have to stop and stare.
"Would you like to see the back?" she queried. Of course! and I was led into the most productive city-lot garden I have seen since Grandpa D had his on Twentieth Street. The previous folks had left behind an old wood deck. Nalia dismantled it piece by piece and repurposed the wood into raised box gardens. Each box has potatoes or tomatoes, berries (five kinds), celery, eggplants or one of four varieties of squash--or herbs, or cucumbers, or who knows what else. Nina tends to them while Nalia works, then Nalia comes home and begins her part. Nina uses no chemicals, just rainwater and her own seventy-something hands. There will be enough food to last them until next year's harvest.
Nina speaks little English, but Nalia translates. She is proud of her garden, as she has every right to be.
I suppose it has to do with life in the Ukraine, learning at a young age that you have to be self-sufficient to live. In our spoiled, abundant land we rarely have to learn that lesson. While Nalia works two jobs, takes care of her aging mother and tends the flowers, I am complaining about the cost of food and gas. While Nina cares for the house and vegetables, I complain about the dusting I hate to do and the basement from Hades.
I am reminded of both my grandfathers with their gardens, one simple and one elaborate. They had plenty for us, and always some to share. I am reminded of the families on Nineteenth Street with their block of garden plots by the railroad tracks. Everybody did their share of the work, everybody took their share of the harvest.
Today? We want, we take, we buy. We are too busy. We have forgotten how to be industrious in our hypocritical society. Too many of us are dependent on hand-outs instead of attempting to make our own way. We see so much every day at every store. We get upset when we can't find exactly the right color or flavor.
The self-sufficiency of my neighbors, my grandfathers and the people of Nineteenth Street make me ashamed of my self-indulgence. My idea of self-sufficiency is to drive to the supermarket and pay for it all by myself.
Will I change? Unlikely. I am just another spoiled American.
Nina wanted to have room for the flowers she loved as well as the food she needed, so the plain front lawn has become a perennial showpiece. Nalia has taken the flowers and entwined them with paths of white stone, accented with figures of gnomes and bunnies. She's not a landscape architect, not a horticulturalist--just a very hard worker. It is so beautiful, you have to stop and stare.
"Would you like to see the back?" she queried. Of course! and I was led into the most productive city-lot garden I have seen since Grandpa D had his on Twentieth Street. The previous folks had left behind an old wood deck. Nalia dismantled it piece by piece and repurposed the wood into raised box gardens. Each box has potatoes or tomatoes, berries (five kinds), celery, eggplants or one of four varieties of squash--or herbs, or cucumbers, or who knows what else. Nina tends to them while Nalia works, then Nalia comes home and begins her part. Nina uses no chemicals, just rainwater and her own seventy-something hands. There will be enough food to last them until next year's harvest.
Nina speaks little English, but Nalia translates. She is proud of her garden, as she has every right to be.
I suppose it has to do with life in the Ukraine, learning at a young age that you have to be self-sufficient to live. In our spoiled, abundant land we rarely have to learn that lesson. While Nalia works two jobs, takes care of her aging mother and tends the flowers, I am complaining about the cost of food and gas. While Nina cares for the house and vegetables, I complain about the dusting I hate to do and the basement from Hades.
I am reminded of both my grandfathers with their gardens, one simple and one elaborate. They had plenty for us, and always some to share. I am reminded of the families on Nineteenth Street with their block of garden plots by the railroad tracks. Everybody did their share of the work, everybody took their share of the harvest.
Today? We want, we take, we buy. We are too busy. We have forgotten how to be industrious in our hypocritical society. Too many of us are dependent on hand-outs instead of attempting to make our own way. We see so much every day at every store. We get upset when we can't find exactly the right color or flavor.
The self-sufficiency of my neighbors, my grandfathers and the people of Nineteenth Street make me ashamed of my self-indulgence. My idea of self-sufficiency is to drive to the supermarket and pay for it all by myself.
Will I change? Unlikely. I am just another spoiled American.
I Sream, You Scream
Not in this house, you don't--but that's another topic. I am referring to the dessert of presidents and kings, of all of us great and small, those who have a palette for the finer tastes and those who do not. Drum roll, please, or perhaps a choir of angelic voices.....
Ice Cream
You know my staples--chocolate, peanut butter and coffee. But with the heat and golden sunlight of summer, as well as the occasional hot flash (when, dear God, do these END???) I need ice cream daily.
It's no wonder my diet stalls. I have worked peanut butter and a square of eighty-five per cent cacao into my plan, no problem, and still lose about a half pound most weeks. Then the weather finally warmed to the eighties. Yes, I am lapping up the heat. As one who usually prefers the sixties in life and temperature, this is a miracle of sorts.
This year is different in many ways. I am relishing every minute, including heat. Eighty-two, however, sent me to checking out my stash in the freezer--frozen Italian Ice, freezer pops, sugar-free fudge bars and a half gallon of cheap Neapolitan (minus most of the strawberry).
Ice cream and its cousins take care of heat in more ways than one. It's medicinal, you understand.
I've been very antsy lately. I'm tired of my sciatica preventing me from white watering and protesting when I try to work out at the gym. I'm sick of driving over a hundred miles a day for work. I'm tired of always having to postpone my dreams now that I know where my heart lies. I don't smoke and despite my bravado, I ordinarily drink only on occasional weekends. So, I guess I need a vice. I choose ice cream. Sue me.
By the time I am on my second Italian Ice or fudge pop, the hot flash cools to a gentle warm breeze. My temper loses its bite to the cool, creamy confection. My nerves calm as soon as the frozen chocolate tangles with my taste buds.
At lunchtime my standard fare of tuna, crackers, yogurt and fruit aren't especially appealing, so I take the drive-through. For a buck and change, I slurp up 120 calories of frozen yogurt. It isn't Ben and Jerry's, but it works.
How many of the world's ills could be resolved if leaders would share a banana split? Sounds simplistic, but how can anyone stay angry while his mouth is full of pineapple syrup and crushed nuts? Wrap your tongue around the whipped cream and you'll see what I mean.
Surely God was smiling when the first man sweetened his snowball with maple syrup. He must have chuckled when man (or more likely woman) found a way to fold fruit and nuts into frozen cream. He probably rolled on the clouds when somebody plopped it into a cone. Now they get it! I'm sure He roared.
As I write I am working on the strawberry section of the Neapolitan.. There were a few berries left, and I added them, too. It is soft, like when I used to stir it into mush as a kid. I had almost forgotten this little indulgence. It makes me laugh out loud at the sheer pleasure of it.
I feel so much better. My body is cool, my temperament has calmed. Tomorrow I will park farther from my account or walk a little farther at the Y. Maybe I'll ride an extra mile on the recumbent bike, or try to get the hang of the elliptical.
One way or another, my diet will include ice cream.
Ice Cream
You know my staples--chocolate, peanut butter and coffee. But with the heat and golden sunlight of summer, as well as the occasional hot flash (when, dear God, do these END???) I need ice cream daily.
It's no wonder my diet stalls. I have worked peanut butter and a square of eighty-five per cent cacao into my plan, no problem, and still lose about a half pound most weeks. Then the weather finally warmed to the eighties. Yes, I am lapping up the heat. As one who usually prefers the sixties in life and temperature, this is a miracle of sorts.
This year is different in many ways. I am relishing every minute, including heat. Eighty-two, however, sent me to checking out my stash in the freezer--frozen Italian Ice, freezer pops, sugar-free fudge bars and a half gallon of cheap Neapolitan (minus most of the strawberry).
Ice cream and its cousins take care of heat in more ways than one. It's medicinal, you understand.
I've been very antsy lately. I'm tired of my sciatica preventing me from white watering and protesting when I try to work out at the gym. I'm sick of driving over a hundred miles a day for work. I'm tired of always having to postpone my dreams now that I know where my heart lies. I don't smoke and despite my bravado, I ordinarily drink only on occasional weekends. So, I guess I need a vice. I choose ice cream. Sue me.
By the time I am on my second Italian Ice or fudge pop, the hot flash cools to a gentle warm breeze. My temper loses its bite to the cool, creamy confection. My nerves calm as soon as the frozen chocolate tangles with my taste buds.
At lunchtime my standard fare of tuna, crackers, yogurt and fruit aren't especially appealing, so I take the drive-through. For a buck and change, I slurp up 120 calories of frozen yogurt. It isn't Ben and Jerry's, but it works.
How many of the world's ills could be resolved if leaders would share a banana split? Sounds simplistic, but how can anyone stay angry while his mouth is full of pineapple syrup and crushed nuts? Wrap your tongue around the whipped cream and you'll see what I mean.
Surely God was smiling when the first man sweetened his snowball with maple syrup. He must have chuckled when man (or more likely woman) found a way to fold fruit and nuts into frozen cream. He probably rolled on the clouds when somebody plopped it into a cone. Now they get it! I'm sure He roared.
As I write I am working on the strawberry section of the Neapolitan.. There were a few berries left, and I added them, too. It is soft, like when I used to stir it into mush as a kid. I had almost forgotten this little indulgence. It makes me laugh out loud at the sheer pleasure of it.
I feel so much better. My body is cool, my temperament has calmed. Tomorrow I will park farther from my account or walk a little farther at the Y. Maybe I'll ride an extra mile on the recumbent bike, or try to get the hang of the elliptical.
One way or another, my diet will include ice cream.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Blue Hair
My tresses are naturally silver. They are not your average grey. They are not the baby blond of my infancy, nor the bottle-induced auburn of some of my teen years. It has not been yellowed with chemicals nor age. I wouldn't trade it for any other color.
The other day, however, I noticed it looked a bit tarnished. I remembered my mother buying a shampoo especially designed to remove the yellow from white or grey hair, Silver Fox by name. If she used it too often, her hair turned a pale shade of lavender. Well, surely technology has worked on that, right? Silver Fox isn't on the market anymore, but I did find a special shampoo for grey hair that made the same claims.
I usually lather my short hair twice, once for the hair and once or the scalp. I was a little put-off by the deep purple of the shampoo, but that's just marketing, right? So I toweled it dry as usual, ran a brush through and left it wet with a hint of spray as I always do. My husband, bleary-eyed from working all night, said only, "Have a good day, Honey."
I tossed my bags in the back and adjusted the seat as I always have to do when someone else drives my car. I turned the key, found my favorite oldies station on the radio. Buckling my seat belt, I did a last minute check in the mirror.
The face that looked back was mine, OK. The flawless make-up gave it a healthy glow. The eyes were mine, too, and simple gold hoops adorned my ears. I pulled the silver curl down on my forehead....and it wasn't silver. It was pale lilac. It must be the light...no, it's purple. I had visions of people thinking I was in costume, or that I was really OLD. I would have to be careful of my driving and parking, or they would call me a "blue hair". If I tried to flirt, I would be called a cougar. I could not go out in public like this!
Well, thank goodness I don't have to punch a time clock. I flew back into the house to the strains of, "Whaja forget this time?" and went straight to the bathroom sink. Grabbing my trusty VO5, I washed my hair three times before I was satisfied. I have to say, it was very, very shiny and showed no tinge of blue.
Some of the ladies I meet each day don't seem to mind their hair color, be it grey, blond, brown, blue or black as pitch. I, as you have surmised, am a little vain. Give me silver any day.
The other day, however, I noticed it looked a bit tarnished. I remembered my mother buying a shampoo especially designed to remove the yellow from white or grey hair, Silver Fox by name. If she used it too often, her hair turned a pale shade of lavender. Well, surely technology has worked on that, right? Silver Fox isn't on the market anymore, but I did find a special shampoo for grey hair that made the same claims.
I usually lather my short hair twice, once for the hair and once or the scalp. I was a little put-off by the deep purple of the shampoo, but that's just marketing, right? So I toweled it dry as usual, ran a brush through and left it wet with a hint of spray as I always do. My husband, bleary-eyed from working all night, said only, "Have a good day, Honey."
I tossed my bags in the back and adjusted the seat as I always have to do when someone else drives my car. I turned the key, found my favorite oldies station on the radio. Buckling my seat belt, I did a last minute check in the mirror.
The face that looked back was mine, OK. The flawless make-up gave it a healthy glow. The eyes were mine, too, and simple gold hoops adorned my ears. I pulled the silver curl down on my forehead....and it wasn't silver. It was pale lilac. It must be the light...no, it's purple. I had visions of people thinking I was in costume, or that I was really OLD. I would have to be careful of my driving and parking, or they would call me a "blue hair". If I tried to flirt, I would be called a cougar. I could not go out in public like this!
Well, thank goodness I don't have to punch a time clock. I flew back into the house to the strains of, "Whaja forget this time?" and went straight to the bathroom sink. Grabbing my trusty VO5, I washed my hair three times before I was satisfied. I have to say, it was very, very shiny and showed no tinge of blue.
Some of the ladies I meet each day don't seem to mind their hair color, be it grey, blond, brown, blue or black as pitch. I, as you have surmised, am a little vain. Give me silver any day.
Fantasy
As children we had our dolls and toy cars (I also had an orange steam shovel). We made up wonderful games. The vacant lot by our house on Twentieth Street became a jungle or a playground, a circus or a ball field. It would take my fingers and toes, and yours, too, to count all our friends who came to play with us. Some were constant companions, others had aunts or grandparents who lived in the neighborhood, still others were school chums from a couple of blocks away. The joy and innocence of childhood! How I wish it could remain forever.
My bedroom had a small closet like most WWII era homes. They were not noted for being spacious! It served its purpose, however, and another--the closet had a teeny door, way in the back. I suppose it was to reach pipes or something, but not then. I knew it opened the door to a magical kingdom, a land of fantasy--and it was all mine.
I would be in bed, trying to listen for the trains, or for the music at the Spot Cafe on the next corner when my mind would wander to the little door. In my dream state, I would open it and enter a land of wonder.
There was a huge round bed with brass rails and a fancy brass headboard. On it was a fluffy pink comforter covered with lilacs in white and lavender and edged in tatted lace like Grandma used to make. It sat under a tree with pink and white blossoms and was surrounded by fragrant flowers in yellow, red and white. A path covered in sparkly white stones led to a tiny bridge that arched over a little creek. The water was so clear, and tasted cool and sweet. Tiny little fish swam in the creek, all of them gold and silver and blue.
Across the bridge was a pasture where all kinds of animals grazed peacefully--tigers and deer, ponies, angora kittens and big furry dogs. There were birds, too, and butterflies. Music was playing, but I couldn't tell you the genre. The field was littered with flowers of every color, and tall trees with leaves of red, orange and gold.
Under each tree was a treasure chest, like a pirate's chest from the movies. Each held something different. One was filled with gaudy jewelry of rubies, sapphires and emeralds set in gold; another held dolls in bridal gowns and teddy bears in tuxedos. Yet another had cones of cotton candy and sticky peppermints.
I had only to close my eyes, and I was wearing a frothy white dress, crystal slippers and a tiara that glittered with diamonds. I was no longer the little girl from Twentieth Street, I was queen of my own land. In my fantasy world, I was incredibly beautiful. I sang and danced and rolled in flower petals till at last I slept...
As I grew, the fantasies changed. I thought about the house I would live in, the man I would marry, the children I would bear. I made up stories about them, but only in my head, never on paper. Maybe I should do that someday.
No matter how I try to describe my dream world, the words are inadequate. It is impossible to describe a child's dreams. I say "white", but not the flat white of chalk; a gleaming, brilliant white of stardust and sunlight. Blue cannot adequately describe the morning sky in summer, nor can pink describe the clouds at sunset. The music was not rock, nor classical, but a blend of angel voices, the strings of a harp, the twang of a guitar and the harmony of an accordion.
It's been many years since I was in that bedroom with the secret door. I wonder if the new owners even know it is there, or where it leads. To some folks, a house is only a place to eat supper and sleep.
Today our world is so concentrated on reality that we have forgotten how to play and how to live in make-believe. The little doors lead to circuit breakers or pipes instead of a treasure. The floors have dog's muddy footprints instead of gold dust; the laundry is work uniforms and underclothes instead of silky ruffles. I have research to do, and paperwork to file, customers to see and grocery shopping to do. All of these take precedence over my fantasies. I am an adult now, with responsibilities.
Wait a minute.
I am an adult. I will still be an adult tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. There will still be laundry to do and paperwork to file.
Today and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, I am going to take time to dream. I will visit my fantasy world again, this time through the little door of my mind. It will be my place of escape.
It will be my very own fantasy.
My bedroom had a small closet like most WWII era homes. They were not noted for being spacious! It served its purpose, however, and another--the closet had a teeny door, way in the back. I suppose it was to reach pipes or something, but not then. I knew it opened the door to a magical kingdom, a land of fantasy--and it was all mine.
I would be in bed, trying to listen for the trains, or for the music at the Spot Cafe on the next corner when my mind would wander to the little door. In my dream state, I would open it and enter a land of wonder.
There was a huge round bed with brass rails and a fancy brass headboard. On it was a fluffy pink comforter covered with lilacs in white and lavender and edged in tatted lace like Grandma used to make. It sat under a tree with pink and white blossoms and was surrounded by fragrant flowers in yellow, red and white. A path covered in sparkly white stones led to a tiny bridge that arched over a little creek. The water was so clear, and tasted cool and sweet. Tiny little fish swam in the creek, all of them gold and silver and blue.
Across the bridge was a pasture where all kinds of animals grazed peacefully--tigers and deer, ponies, angora kittens and big furry dogs. There were birds, too, and butterflies. Music was playing, but I couldn't tell you the genre. The field was littered with flowers of every color, and tall trees with leaves of red, orange and gold.
Under each tree was a treasure chest, like a pirate's chest from the movies. Each held something different. One was filled with gaudy jewelry of rubies, sapphires and emeralds set in gold; another held dolls in bridal gowns and teddy bears in tuxedos. Yet another had cones of cotton candy and sticky peppermints.
I had only to close my eyes, and I was wearing a frothy white dress, crystal slippers and a tiara that glittered with diamonds. I was no longer the little girl from Twentieth Street, I was queen of my own land. In my fantasy world, I was incredibly beautiful. I sang and danced and rolled in flower petals till at last I slept...
As I grew, the fantasies changed. I thought about the house I would live in, the man I would marry, the children I would bear. I made up stories about them, but only in my head, never on paper. Maybe I should do that someday.
No matter how I try to describe my dream world, the words are inadequate. It is impossible to describe a child's dreams. I say "white", but not the flat white of chalk; a gleaming, brilliant white of stardust and sunlight. Blue cannot adequately describe the morning sky in summer, nor can pink describe the clouds at sunset. The music was not rock, nor classical, but a blend of angel voices, the strings of a harp, the twang of a guitar and the harmony of an accordion.
It's been many years since I was in that bedroom with the secret door. I wonder if the new owners even know it is there, or where it leads. To some folks, a house is only a place to eat supper and sleep.
Today our world is so concentrated on reality that we have forgotten how to play and how to live in make-believe. The little doors lead to circuit breakers or pipes instead of a treasure. The floors have dog's muddy footprints instead of gold dust; the laundry is work uniforms and underclothes instead of silky ruffles. I have research to do, and paperwork to file, customers to see and grocery shopping to do. All of these take precedence over my fantasies. I am an adult now, with responsibilities.
Wait a minute.
I am an adult. I will still be an adult tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. There will still be laundry to do and paperwork to file.
Today and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, I am going to take time to dream. I will visit my fantasy world again, this time through the little door of my mind. It will be my place of escape.
It will be my very own fantasy.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Brick #1 Iz Grey
The kid was building with Legos. His mom said it looked like modern art, and it needed a simple name, like "Brick #1 is grey."
What a great title!
Black and white isn't much fun. So many things are in shades of grey depending on the surrounding circumstances. Would you kill? No, of course not...but wait....hurt one of my loved ones, especially my grandchildren...watch how fast that answer changes. Do you lie? No, I don't think so. Didn't you just say that dress doesn't make her look fat when really it makes her look like a Sumo wrestler? Ah, when it comes to self-preservation, the rules change.
If I hold in my manicured fingers information that will hurt someone, do I give it up? I'm not talking legal issues here, just moral ones. What if it will cause more harm than good? If someone shares an unwanted memory, am I obliged to listen? If someone is critical of a loved one, how far will I go to keep peace?
The "me" I have found is a peaceful one. I have decided to surround myself only with those people and things that I enjoy having in my presence. I will fill my mind with happy thoughts and images. Sounds child-like, doesn't it? There's a lot to be said for the innocence of childhood.
I can't have back my youth. I don't really want it, I guess. But I would like the have back the innocence of childhood. I'd like to have the uncomplicated faith of a child. I'd like to look at everything new, like my granddaughter does, without preconceived notions. I'd like some of my friendships to start fresh, as they were at the beginning. I want all the guilt of ice cream and cotton candy absolved.
If I could go back to childhood, I often said that I'd like to go back knowing what I know now...but I have re-thought that. Shades of grey and colors are so much more interesting than black and white. They give life to a sterile world. I wouldn't want to know what I know now. I'd want to start from scratch, without ideas of how anything should be. I'd like to look at everything new, as a child does, and build it again, block by block.
The first one is grey.
What a great title!
Black and white isn't much fun. So many things are in shades of grey depending on the surrounding circumstances. Would you kill? No, of course not...but wait....hurt one of my loved ones, especially my grandchildren...watch how fast that answer changes. Do you lie? No, I don't think so. Didn't you just say that dress doesn't make her look fat when really it makes her look like a Sumo wrestler? Ah, when it comes to self-preservation, the rules change.
If I hold in my manicured fingers information that will hurt someone, do I give it up? I'm not talking legal issues here, just moral ones. What if it will cause more harm than good? If someone shares an unwanted memory, am I obliged to listen? If someone is critical of a loved one, how far will I go to keep peace?
The "me" I have found is a peaceful one. I have decided to surround myself only with those people and things that I enjoy having in my presence. I will fill my mind with happy thoughts and images. Sounds child-like, doesn't it? There's a lot to be said for the innocence of childhood.
I can't have back my youth. I don't really want it, I guess. But I would like the have back the innocence of childhood. I'd like to have the uncomplicated faith of a child. I'd like to look at everything new, like my granddaughter does, without preconceived notions. I'd like some of my friendships to start fresh, as they were at the beginning. I want all the guilt of ice cream and cotton candy absolved.
If I could go back to childhood, I often said that I'd like to go back knowing what I know now...but I have re-thought that. Shades of grey and colors are so much more interesting than black and white. They give life to a sterile world. I wouldn't want to know what I know now. I'd want to start from scratch, without ideas of how anything should be. I'd like to look at everything new, as a child does, and build it again, block by block.
The first one is grey.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Hess Lodge
Today my grandparent's camp in Duhring, PA came to mind. There is a bushel of memories from the camp, too many for a simple essay. I'll settle for describing it and let your imagination do the rest.
The camp was built in 1933 from an old barn that Grandpa had torn down and moved--plank by plank--to Forest County. He officially named it "Hess Lodge", and for many years a wood-burned plaque bore the name and hung outside the front door. When I was about eleven, I informed Grandpa Ernie that it should be "HESS'S". Too many S's, he said, and "Hess Lodge" it remained. Most folks around there called it "Ernie's Place".
Hess Lodge was two stories high with barnboard siding and a green shingled roof. Grandpa built awnings over the front and back in preparation for the porches. (I used to call them "yawnings".) The first floor had two big rooms--a kitchen that eventually had running water and propane, and could seat a dozen with room to spare was at the back. The other side was a living room with an eisen-glassed pot belly stove, a floor-model radio, two pull-out sofas and a a huge library table. Upstairs were two bedrooms, each with two double beds and a chamber pot (look it up.). The beds were topped with feather-filled pads and feather-filled quilts that Grandma, and maybe Great-Grandma had made.
Grandpa had added porches made of two-by-fours and plywood and painted them a dull grey. Wicker chairs, a glider and old kitchen chairs served us well as we would sit and watch thunderstorms move into the valley.
Behind the camp was a deep pit, fifty feet across and at least twenty feet deep. Previous lessees (nobody could own the property there; it was leased from the state) had allowed gravel to be dug from it. It was never filled in, and neighbors tended to use it to get rid of their trash. Bears loved it. What treasures might still be buried there?
Along one side of the camp was an abandoned railroad track. As girls Mom and Aunt Marje would hop the train, or watch for the CCC boys to come riding in for treats at Grandma's table. They took care of Grandma during the week when she would often be there alone, doing routine chores and keeping the grass cut. Then they went back to the camp on Government Road where they lived. Many a time we followed that track to the swimming hole in one direction, or the swinging bridge in the other.
On the other side, down a steep embankment, was the "crick"--Spring Creek by name, trout heaven. Following the creek downstream took you to the same swinging bridge, a treacherous-looking wood and rope contraption that we ran across without fear. The other direction led to the swimming hole near Summer's place, home of kids and snapping turtles.
Out in the front yard was a huge stump. I'm not really sure of it's origin--it was never a tree in my lifetime. It must have been really big, the stump being at least eight feet across. Happy hours with my dolls and tree frogs, feeding birds and watching chipmunks and the occasional snake...what a life it was.
I remember every blade of grass at Hess Lodge. I remember the cool, clear water of the spring that supplied us, the sweetness of wild berries, the smell of the pines. I recall vividly the salamanders that hid under the porch and the sandbox that Grandpa brought into the living room when it rained. I remember the neighbors showing up as soon as Grandma or Aunt Marjie took a cake from the oven. I remember the dark green black-out shades from WWII that graced the windows. I remember the day my Dad chased a bear through the woods in his Jeep, and tagging along when he hunted rattlesnakes at the Gravel Pit. Looking for deer was a nightly ritual at Watson Farm or Pigeon, always ending with ice cream from Ridgeway or Marienville. Not a cone, no sirree. The half gallon was opened into a brick, sliced and stacked in our bowls, worked at by the four or five of us until nothing remained. Always Neapolitan. I got the strawberry.
And who could forget the bats! Nestled in a valley, the big trees made an excellent home for flying rodents. One night, Linda and I were minding our own business when the bat whooshed through. "GRANDPA!" we screeched, and in he came with his broom to down the bat. We couldn't find the carcass in the dim light and slept restlessly. It the morning, there it was, right beside Linda's shoe.
The camp has been remodeled into a house; the people who shared the cake at Grandma's table are gone. The memories, however, are etched there when I close my eyes.
I've become more sentimental of late, clinging to those days. I wonder what happened to Gary(was it Young or Youngberg?), the boy next door, or Vince from Youngstown? Or Betty with the black and white poodles? I wonder if the current owners are as happy there as we were?
Memories might be God's way of teaching us to appreciate what we have, or maybe they are just a pleasant way to spend an evening.
The camp was built in 1933 from an old barn that Grandpa had torn down and moved--plank by plank--to Forest County. He officially named it "Hess Lodge", and for many years a wood-burned plaque bore the name and hung outside the front door. When I was about eleven, I informed Grandpa Ernie that it should be "HESS'S". Too many S's, he said, and "Hess Lodge" it remained. Most folks around there called it "Ernie's Place".
Hess Lodge was two stories high with barnboard siding and a green shingled roof. Grandpa built awnings over the front and back in preparation for the porches. (I used to call them "yawnings".) The first floor had two big rooms--a kitchen that eventually had running water and propane, and could seat a dozen with room to spare was at the back. The other side was a living room with an eisen-glassed pot belly stove, a floor-model radio, two pull-out sofas and a a huge library table. Upstairs were two bedrooms, each with two double beds and a chamber pot (look it up.). The beds were topped with feather-filled pads and feather-filled quilts that Grandma, and maybe Great-Grandma had made.
Grandpa had added porches made of two-by-fours and plywood and painted them a dull grey. Wicker chairs, a glider and old kitchen chairs served us well as we would sit and watch thunderstorms move into the valley.
Behind the camp was a deep pit, fifty feet across and at least twenty feet deep. Previous lessees (nobody could own the property there; it was leased from the state) had allowed gravel to be dug from it. It was never filled in, and neighbors tended to use it to get rid of their trash. Bears loved it. What treasures might still be buried there?
Along one side of the camp was an abandoned railroad track. As girls Mom and Aunt Marje would hop the train, or watch for the CCC boys to come riding in for treats at Grandma's table. They took care of Grandma during the week when she would often be there alone, doing routine chores and keeping the grass cut. Then they went back to the camp on Government Road where they lived. Many a time we followed that track to the swimming hole in one direction, or the swinging bridge in the other.
On the other side, down a steep embankment, was the "crick"--Spring Creek by name, trout heaven. Following the creek downstream took you to the same swinging bridge, a treacherous-looking wood and rope contraption that we ran across without fear. The other direction led to the swimming hole near Summer's place, home of kids and snapping turtles.
Out in the front yard was a huge stump. I'm not really sure of it's origin--it was never a tree in my lifetime. It must have been really big, the stump being at least eight feet across. Happy hours with my dolls and tree frogs, feeding birds and watching chipmunks and the occasional snake...what a life it was.
I remember every blade of grass at Hess Lodge. I remember the cool, clear water of the spring that supplied us, the sweetness of wild berries, the smell of the pines. I recall vividly the salamanders that hid under the porch and the sandbox that Grandpa brought into the living room when it rained. I remember the neighbors showing up as soon as Grandma or Aunt Marjie took a cake from the oven. I remember the dark green black-out shades from WWII that graced the windows. I remember the day my Dad chased a bear through the woods in his Jeep, and tagging along when he hunted rattlesnakes at the Gravel Pit. Looking for deer was a nightly ritual at Watson Farm or Pigeon, always ending with ice cream from Ridgeway or Marienville. Not a cone, no sirree. The half gallon was opened into a brick, sliced and stacked in our bowls, worked at by the four or five of us until nothing remained. Always Neapolitan. I got the strawberry.
And who could forget the bats! Nestled in a valley, the big trees made an excellent home for flying rodents. One night, Linda and I were minding our own business when the bat whooshed through. "GRANDPA!" we screeched, and in he came with his broom to down the bat. We couldn't find the carcass in the dim light and slept restlessly. It the morning, there it was, right beside Linda's shoe.
The camp has been remodeled into a house; the people who shared the cake at Grandma's table are gone. The memories, however, are etched there when I close my eyes.
I've become more sentimental of late, clinging to those days. I wonder what happened to Gary(was it Young or Youngberg?), the boy next door, or Vince from Youngstown? Or Betty with the black and white poodles? I wonder if the current owners are as happy there as we were?
Memories might be God's way of teaching us to appreciate what we have, or maybe they are just a pleasant way to spend an evening.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Bookends
Old friends, bookends.
Old friends are the ones who keep you standing tall when you slouch. They came along in the beginning, and God willing, they will be there at the end. In between are many chapters. Sometimes years of pages get ripped out. It doesn't matter to an old friend They paste the pictures together, fill in the empty paragraphs, start a new book.
An old friend will listen to your complaints and give you advice before you ask. You don't mind, because your old friend knows you and knows your needs. An old friend knew you when you were really you, before time took its toll and before you lost yourself. They remind you of days at the Plaza, pampas grass, buttons and Barbie dolls.
Old friends let you talk about anything on your mind. You can discuss religion and politics, money and relationships without fear because to your old friend it's just a piece of who you are, not your essence. Your old friend has seen you without make-up and doesn't run away screaming in fright. Your old friend will bring you a Coke if you ask, and even if you don't. Old friends remember that you like rhubarb.and don't want oysters on the menu; they will give you peanut butter before you ask and not put jelly on it unless it is peach or apricot preserves. Your old friend doesn't care if you weigh more than you did, if you are balding or wrinkled. Old friends are glad to have you around, and your physical appearance and props don't matter.
Your old friend rejoices when you are happy or when you have found out something new about yourself. Your old friend cries for you when you are sad, hugs you when you need one, makes you walk when you want to sit in front of the TV because it's better for you. Old friends finish your sentences because they know what you were going to say. They gently chastise you if you can't tell the difference between cherry and strawberry Kool Aid, but it is with a laugh, not a snarl.
Old friends can be trusted with your life and your secrets. They know when you are lying to them and will gently guide you to the truth. They will lead you to God because they love you; they will keep you in their prayers because they genuinely care, but they won't insist that you share their faith or be ousted from their lives.
Today I counted how many friends from other days have come back into my life in the last year. Some I have known for more than fifty-five of my nearly sixty years. Some I have known more than forty. Amazing, since I am only sixteen (Celsius). Some I knew well back then, others were on the periphery. I lost count. In today's throw-away society I am truly blessed.
There are still some who are missing. I hope to find them someday, before the books tumble to the floor and the powers that be decide to toss them in the trash. There are still some missing pages, even whole chapters. I will find more of my old friends, watch and see.
Old friends are the ones who keep you standing tall when you slouch. They came along in the beginning, and God willing, they will be there at the end. In between are many chapters. Sometimes years of pages get ripped out. It doesn't matter to an old friend They paste the pictures together, fill in the empty paragraphs, start a new book.
An old friend will listen to your complaints and give you advice before you ask. You don't mind, because your old friend knows you and knows your needs. An old friend knew you when you were really you, before time took its toll and before you lost yourself. They remind you of days at the Plaza, pampas grass, buttons and Barbie dolls.
Old friends let you talk about anything on your mind. You can discuss religion and politics, money and relationships without fear because to your old friend it's just a piece of who you are, not your essence. Your old friend has seen you without make-up and doesn't run away screaming in fright. Your old friend will bring you a Coke if you ask, and even if you don't. Old friends remember that you like rhubarb.and don't want oysters on the menu; they will give you peanut butter before you ask and not put jelly on it unless it is peach or apricot preserves. Your old friend doesn't care if you weigh more than you did, if you are balding or wrinkled. Old friends are glad to have you around, and your physical appearance and props don't matter.
Your old friend rejoices when you are happy or when you have found out something new about yourself. Your old friend cries for you when you are sad, hugs you when you need one, makes you walk when you want to sit in front of the TV because it's better for you. Old friends finish your sentences because they know what you were going to say. They gently chastise you if you can't tell the difference between cherry and strawberry Kool Aid, but it is with a laugh, not a snarl.
Old friends can be trusted with your life and your secrets. They know when you are lying to them and will gently guide you to the truth. They will lead you to God because they love you; they will keep you in their prayers because they genuinely care, but they won't insist that you share their faith or be ousted from their lives.
Today I counted how many friends from other days have come back into my life in the last year. Some I have known for more than fifty-five of my nearly sixty years. Some I have known more than forty. Amazing, since I am only sixteen (Celsius). Some I knew well back then, others were on the periphery. I lost count. In today's throw-away society I am truly blessed.
There are still some who are missing. I hope to find them someday, before the books tumble to the floor and the powers that be decide to toss them in the trash. There are still some missing pages, even whole chapters. I will find more of my old friends, watch and see.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Not Alone Anymore
I don't know when it started, or why. I developed an insane fear of being alone. I don't mean the mornings Hubby went fishing, or the nights in a hotel in Pittsburgh. I mean really alone.
My parents were loving, giving people, like their parents and for generations before. Even Grandma D, who was known for her...uh...ways...was capable of love and thoughtfulness. Never, not once, did I feel unloved as a child.
Something changed. I was no longer the carefree kid who felt special, but the care-less person who felt the world owed her. I felt like I was doing all the giving and none of the getting. I didn't see myself that way, of course. I was the victim. I was the one being rejected without knowing why. I saw this cool, confident woman--and I was her, as long as things went as I expected them to. My way or the highway. It's incredible that our marriage survived those years. I was capable of unselfish love when it came to my boys, so I wasn't hopeless. There were times that I didn't like them much, but I always loved them.
Let's be truthful, much as it pains me to admit this for anyone to see. I was a selfish, spoiled brat. I look back now and every day I think of someone else I need to approach for forgiveness for my selfish ways. I look back to see the anger directed at my husband, the ignoring of old friends, the people I have only recently realized that I used for my own benefit. I have a lot of making up to do.
I once felt tired all the time, drained of energy and lacking any sort of emotion. If I received a rare compliment, I did not believe it. I was used up. I had given all I could.
I was right, you know. I was empty because I had refused to accept being refilled. I made excuses for not seeing my friends, I had reasons for my failures. The friends gradually drifted away. I left my church. I slipped into a polyester pants suit and a pony tail. On a good day, I was surly. On a bad day, well, you don't want to know. No wonder I became afraid of being alone. I was driving away the very people I wanted near me!
They weren't going to change.
It had to be me. Lord, I prayed, change me.
A series of events came into being. It began with a couple of emails when Mom died. It continued with its ups and downs for the past year. Fortunately, most of those to whom I have reached out have reached out to me, too. They welcomed me back into their lives without questioning what had happened along the way. They filled the empty me with self-less caring.
The outpouring goodness of my friends, my church, the YMCA, the patience of my husband--I have allowed these to fill me to overflowing. I get so excited that with some I have become overbearing. Sorry, but I am filled at last and I have to share it.
I am not perfect. I don't have to be. I can make room for the material "I wants". I can have my chocolate and peanut butter; I can drink my gin and dance all night. I still demand attention. I still feel fat. I will still put on an extra coat of Great Lash, pull my silver curl down on my forehead and wear my outrageous flirty earrings. They are just props.
God, let my words touch one person, one time, and make a difference in a life. I want to give back a portion of what has been given to me. Show me those I have wronged. Bring back into my life those who are estranged. Touch those who don't believe and give them belief. Take those who are afraid of being alone and give them companionship. Fill me with so much love and kindness that it spills over into those who need it more than I do.
I have found the real me. I like her. I will never be alone again.
My parents were loving, giving people, like their parents and for generations before. Even Grandma D, who was known for her...uh...ways...was capable of love and thoughtfulness. Never, not once, did I feel unloved as a child.
Something changed. I was no longer the carefree kid who felt special, but the care-less person who felt the world owed her. I felt like I was doing all the giving and none of the getting. I didn't see myself that way, of course. I was the victim. I was the one being rejected without knowing why. I saw this cool, confident woman--and I was her, as long as things went as I expected them to. My way or the highway. It's incredible that our marriage survived those years. I was capable of unselfish love when it came to my boys, so I wasn't hopeless. There were times that I didn't like them much, but I always loved them.
Let's be truthful, much as it pains me to admit this for anyone to see. I was a selfish, spoiled brat. I look back now and every day I think of someone else I need to approach for forgiveness for my selfish ways. I look back to see the anger directed at my husband, the ignoring of old friends, the people I have only recently realized that I used for my own benefit. I have a lot of making up to do.
I once felt tired all the time, drained of energy and lacking any sort of emotion. If I received a rare compliment, I did not believe it. I was used up. I had given all I could.
I was right, you know. I was empty because I had refused to accept being refilled. I made excuses for not seeing my friends, I had reasons for my failures. The friends gradually drifted away. I left my church. I slipped into a polyester pants suit and a pony tail. On a good day, I was surly. On a bad day, well, you don't want to know. No wonder I became afraid of being alone. I was driving away the very people I wanted near me!
They weren't going to change.
It had to be me. Lord, I prayed, change me.
A series of events came into being. It began with a couple of emails when Mom died. It continued with its ups and downs for the past year. Fortunately, most of those to whom I have reached out have reached out to me, too. They welcomed me back into their lives without questioning what had happened along the way. They filled the empty me with self-less caring.
The outpouring goodness of my friends, my church, the YMCA, the patience of my husband--I have allowed these to fill me to overflowing. I get so excited that with some I have become overbearing. Sorry, but I am filled at last and I have to share it.
I am not perfect. I don't have to be. I can make room for the material "I wants". I can have my chocolate and peanut butter; I can drink my gin and dance all night. I still demand attention. I still feel fat. I will still put on an extra coat of Great Lash, pull my silver curl down on my forehead and wear my outrageous flirty earrings. They are just props.
God, let my words touch one person, one time, and make a difference in a life. I want to give back a portion of what has been given to me. Show me those I have wronged. Bring back into my life those who are estranged. Touch those who don't believe and give them belief. Take those who are afraid of being alone and give them companionship. Fill me with so much love and kindness that it spills over into those who need it more than I do.
I have found the real me. I like her. I will never be alone again.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Pampas Grass
After Grandpa D passed away the summer I was nine, Grandma lost interest in the city-lot garden that Grandpa had faithfully tended. Instead, she would keep a few tomatoes and peppers and the rhubarb, of course; her perennials would stay, and the rest would be planted with grass for Dad to mow. When she suggested a hedgerow along the front walk for privacy, Dad was, shall we say, upset. And who the H*** is going to trim those! said he.
Grandma gave in, first time ever, I think, and planted pampas grass.
If you've never been introduced, perhaps it is time. Also known as "cut grass", pampas has a sticky silver vein in the middle of each blade. Touching it, hiding in it, God forbid chewing on it like a hayseed (yes, one of my stupid boyfriends tried that) results in sharp paper-like cuts that don't just hurt, they sting. All of us kids kept the Eckerd's Pharmacy in business with the sales of Mercurochrome and iodine, Our orange-stained skin was testimony to the power of pampas.
The pampas migrated to gram's house on Twentieth Street and to ours next door. From there, my aunt moved it to Parade Street. I'm surprised the entire east side wasn't dressed in pampas grass.
I remember playing "jungle" in that grass, "hide and seek" and other childhood games. Any kid from Twentieth Street will remember that row of grass. I was never afraid to walk after dark down by that lot. No one but us kids would ever hide out in it. We would fight over who had to retrieve the birdie from its depths, and no one wanted to run in that direction during a rousing game of "Red Rover".
The only good thing I can say is it had interesting golden-brown feathery fronds near the end of summer. Even after I was married and left Twentieth Street forever, I still cut those fuzzy fronds from our house or Aunt Marje's and put them in wildflower bouquets. I guess they reminded me of growing up.
When I cover my eyes and think of pampas grass, I see us as we were then, sitting behind those big bushes. We were playing, eating Popsicles from White's Market--the kind you could break in half to share; we were drinking Kool Aid--red, with REAL sugar. We were whacking a croquet ball, or pretending we were soldiers. So many memories!
Memories like the pampas grass can be triggered by a chance remark, like when Michael reminded me of it. Sometimes it is a smell--I always think of Linda's Mom when I smell Oreo cookies. The old Perry Plaza brings back memories of youth, Walczak Park brings many more. I try to remember only the good parts and to keep the sad ones at bay.
I laid in bed last night after I wrote this first draft, wondering what will bring on the next barrage of memories. Who'd have thought that this time it would be pampas grass?
Grandma gave in, first time ever, I think, and planted pampas grass.
If you've never been introduced, perhaps it is time. Also known as "cut grass", pampas has a sticky silver vein in the middle of each blade. Touching it, hiding in it, God forbid chewing on it like a hayseed (yes, one of my stupid boyfriends tried that) results in sharp paper-like cuts that don't just hurt, they sting. All of us kids kept the Eckerd's Pharmacy in business with the sales of Mercurochrome and iodine, Our orange-stained skin was testimony to the power of pampas.
The pampas migrated to gram's house on Twentieth Street and to ours next door. From there, my aunt moved it to Parade Street. I'm surprised the entire east side wasn't dressed in pampas grass.
I remember playing "jungle" in that grass, "hide and seek" and other childhood games. Any kid from Twentieth Street will remember that row of grass. I was never afraid to walk after dark down by that lot. No one but us kids would ever hide out in it. We would fight over who had to retrieve the birdie from its depths, and no one wanted to run in that direction during a rousing game of "Red Rover".
The only good thing I can say is it had interesting golden-brown feathery fronds near the end of summer. Even after I was married and left Twentieth Street forever, I still cut those fuzzy fronds from our house or Aunt Marje's and put them in wildflower bouquets. I guess they reminded me of growing up.
When I cover my eyes and think of pampas grass, I see us as we were then, sitting behind those big bushes. We were playing, eating Popsicles from White's Market--the kind you could break in half to share; we were drinking Kool Aid--red, with REAL sugar. We were whacking a croquet ball, or pretending we were soldiers. So many memories!
Memories like the pampas grass can be triggered by a chance remark, like when Michael reminded me of it. Sometimes it is a smell--I always think of Linda's Mom when I smell Oreo cookies. The old Perry Plaza brings back memories of youth, Walczak Park brings many more. I try to remember only the good parts and to keep the sad ones at bay.
I laid in bed last night after I wrote this first draft, wondering what will bring on the next barrage of memories. Who'd have thought that this time it would be pampas grass?
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Hero
There is a person on the outskirts of my life who I privately call "hero". Why I chose that euphemism, or who it is doesn't matter. What does matter is that a couple of chance encounters helped to change my life.
I said I would tell you about some of those "chance" meetings. This is the first.
It began as a ritual of sorts. I was new to Facebook and spent some evenings tracking down my past--childhood chums, high school mates, friends with whom I had lost touch. My mother had passed away, friends had moved out of town. My job had left me feeling isolated. Depressed and lonely, feeling fat and non-descript, I sought sympathy and a reason for being. Yes, I have my husband, my beloved children and grandchildren, but their lives belonged to them, not to me.
When I came across the old friend's name, I did not expect to be remembered. I clicked on "add a friend" and was surprised and delighted when "of course I remember you!" was the response. The messages after that were fun and hope-building, the words meant to be encouraging and flattering.
"I like the way you write," began one note. "What is your goal?" said another, each followed by rah-rah enthusiasm and heartening compliments. "Embrace what you want." Each of these things had been said before, but I wasn't ready then to listen. This time, I was ready to take charge.
I began to walk again at my friend's suggestion, increasing my speed and mileage every week. When it got too cold and dark it was suggested I join the Y. I did, and it is among the best decisions I ever made. I am more limber, a bit trimmer and much stronger than I have been in decades.
When one has friends who are people of faith, one is drawn to have more faith. My belief in God went from doubt to absolute. I joined a church where I felt at home, mostly because my hero had faith and I wanted it too.
When I looked in the mirror and saw what I had let myself become, I no longer wondered why I had no confidence in myself as a woman or as a person. I began to change my dress, my attitude, my way of thinking. The simple words, "you're pretty and good-natured" stayed in my head. Maybe, just maybe, I am.
Eventually, the comments about my writing took hold, too. Along with the encouragement of my hero came the inspiration of other friends, and some instruction on how to build a blog. In February, my long-held dream of being a writer took root.
Hero, you know who you are. You helped me to begin a whole new chapter in my life. I don't know where you are now, nor if you will ever read this. I hope to see you someday to show you what you, and others like you, have done to give me the confidence to face new challenges, and to leave behind the self-centered person I was not long ago. I owe what I am becoming to those friends who were once forgotten, or misplaced, and are now a part of my life.
All it took was a chance meeting, one minute of billions in a lifetime. Five little words, "of course I remember you", and I was on my way.
Thanks, hero.
I said I would tell you about some of those "chance" meetings. This is the first.
It began as a ritual of sorts. I was new to Facebook and spent some evenings tracking down my past--childhood chums, high school mates, friends with whom I had lost touch. My mother had passed away, friends had moved out of town. My job had left me feeling isolated. Depressed and lonely, feeling fat and non-descript, I sought sympathy and a reason for being. Yes, I have my husband, my beloved children and grandchildren, but their lives belonged to them, not to me.
When I came across the old friend's name, I did not expect to be remembered. I clicked on "add a friend" and was surprised and delighted when "of course I remember you!" was the response. The messages after that were fun and hope-building, the words meant to be encouraging and flattering.
"I like the way you write," began one note. "What is your goal?" said another, each followed by rah-rah enthusiasm and heartening compliments. "Embrace what you want." Each of these things had been said before, but I wasn't ready then to listen. This time, I was ready to take charge.
I began to walk again at my friend's suggestion, increasing my speed and mileage every week. When it got too cold and dark it was suggested I join the Y. I did, and it is among the best decisions I ever made. I am more limber, a bit trimmer and much stronger than I have been in decades.
When one has friends who are people of faith, one is drawn to have more faith. My belief in God went from doubt to absolute. I joined a church where I felt at home, mostly because my hero had faith and I wanted it too.
When I looked in the mirror and saw what I had let myself become, I no longer wondered why I had no confidence in myself as a woman or as a person. I began to change my dress, my attitude, my way of thinking. The simple words, "you're pretty and good-natured" stayed in my head. Maybe, just maybe, I am.
Eventually, the comments about my writing took hold, too. Along with the encouragement of my hero came the inspiration of other friends, and some instruction on how to build a blog. In February, my long-held dream of being a writer took root.
Hero, you know who you are. You helped me to begin a whole new chapter in my life. I don't know where you are now, nor if you will ever read this. I hope to see you someday to show you what you, and others like you, have done to give me the confidence to face new challenges, and to leave behind the self-centered person I was not long ago. I owe what I am becoming to those friends who were once forgotten, or misplaced, and are now a part of my life.
All it took was a chance meeting, one minute of billions in a lifetime. Five little words, "of course I remember you", and I was on my way.
Thanks, hero.
A Reason for Linda
Today I met Linda.
I had seen her at church but there had never been more than the passing nod of being one in the faith. Today, however, my ears perked up when I heard the word "retirement" (2 years,25 days). I interjected myself into the conversation. Sorry about that.
At coffee hour I approached Linda and asked what her plans were. "Writing," said she, and the bond was instant. I get excited when anybody mentions writing. I told her how easy it is to start a blog, how it lets you write on any subject until you find a niche. She is far more accomplished than I, having already published, and is willing to research a long article. You know me--meandering without focus sometimes, starting on one subject and roaming to another.
The thing is, we have the same goal in mind--to touch someone with our words--one person, one time; to tell another that he or she is not alone, to make a difference. We shared something else, too--goosebumps. There we were--virtual strangers with the same thought.
We agree that there is a reason why we met. As surely as I know that this church--the building, the people, the pastor and the doctrine--was destined to become my home, I know that Linda was made known to me not by coincidence, but by design. We may never share a shopping trip or a barbecue, but who knows? We have found a common ground in our words. She feels, as I do, that sharing the dream and writing it down will keep it alive.
As I told her about my plans for a children's book, I realized that while I have not trashed the idea, I have not embraced it either. I have a few ideas and a character in mind, but nothing on paper. Speaking my dream aloud makes me aware that I can't just talk about it anymore. I need to move ahead. It's another thing for which I pray for guidance.
The anticipation of this friendship that may bloom excites me. Someone with whom to share a dream! It may continue over coffee at church or a private message on Facebook, or as a lifelong gift. Who knows? How it turns out is up to God. I only know that there was a reason for Linda to come into my life now, today, in a large way or a small one. He has spent this past year or so building a support system for me and giving me the opportunity to make a difference to someone else. I see it now where I missed it before, too selfish to think I could be a vessel for the love of God or the food someone might need for spiritual nourishment.
There are no "chance meetings". I have met, over the past year, wonderful people. Some are agnostic, some atheist. Some have no self-esteem at all. Some are depressed or suffer a moral dilemma, some have heartache. Some stubbornly resist friendship for their own reasons. These are the folks God put in my path. They are supposed to touch me in some way and I am here to touch them.
When I put down my pen today, it will be only hours before I hear from one of them. Really? they will say. You pray for me?
Yes, I do, every day. Like Linda, my new friend-to-be and Linda whom I have known fifty-odd years, you did not come into my life by coincidence. You will be in my prayers until that reason becomes known to me and is fulfilled. Coincidence? No. Sometime I will tell you about how other "chance" meetings have changed my life.
I am neither a psychic nor a prophet. I am not a professional writer, nor a psychologist. God, however, has seen fit to show me why I exist. There's a reason for Linda, and there's a reason for you.
I had seen her at church but there had never been more than the passing nod of being one in the faith. Today, however, my ears perked up when I heard the word "retirement" (2 years,25 days). I interjected myself into the conversation. Sorry about that.
At coffee hour I approached Linda and asked what her plans were. "Writing," said she, and the bond was instant. I get excited when anybody mentions writing. I told her how easy it is to start a blog, how it lets you write on any subject until you find a niche. She is far more accomplished than I, having already published, and is willing to research a long article. You know me--meandering without focus sometimes, starting on one subject and roaming to another.
The thing is, we have the same goal in mind--to touch someone with our words--one person, one time; to tell another that he or she is not alone, to make a difference. We shared something else, too--goosebumps. There we were--virtual strangers with the same thought.
We agree that there is a reason why we met. As surely as I know that this church--the building, the people, the pastor and the doctrine--was destined to become my home, I know that Linda was made known to me not by coincidence, but by design. We may never share a shopping trip or a barbecue, but who knows? We have found a common ground in our words. She feels, as I do, that sharing the dream and writing it down will keep it alive.
As I told her about my plans for a children's book, I realized that while I have not trashed the idea, I have not embraced it either. I have a few ideas and a character in mind, but nothing on paper. Speaking my dream aloud makes me aware that I can't just talk about it anymore. I need to move ahead. It's another thing for which I pray for guidance.
The anticipation of this friendship that may bloom excites me. Someone with whom to share a dream! It may continue over coffee at church or a private message on Facebook, or as a lifelong gift. Who knows? How it turns out is up to God. I only know that there was a reason for Linda to come into my life now, today, in a large way or a small one. He has spent this past year or so building a support system for me and giving me the opportunity to make a difference to someone else. I see it now where I missed it before, too selfish to think I could be a vessel for the love of God or the food someone might need for spiritual nourishment.
There are no "chance meetings". I have met, over the past year, wonderful people. Some are agnostic, some atheist. Some have no self-esteem at all. Some are depressed or suffer a moral dilemma, some have heartache. Some stubbornly resist friendship for their own reasons. These are the folks God put in my path. They are supposed to touch me in some way and I am here to touch them.
When I put down my pen today, it will be only hours before I hear from one of them. Really? they will say. You pray for me?
Yes, I do, every day. Like Linda, my new friend-to-be and Linda whom I have known fifty-odd years, you did not come into my life by coincidence. You will be in my prayers until that reason becomes known to me and is fulfilled. Coincidence? No. Sometime I will tell you about how other "chance" meetings have changed my life.
I am neither a psychic nor a prophet. I am not a professional writer, nor a psychologist. God, however, has seen fit to show me why I exist. There's a reason for Linda, and there's a reason for you.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Witch of Warfel Avenue
It has been a good many years since I remembered the witch. It's funny, isn't it, how memories are triggered? I started writing this a couple of days ago, actually on a completely different subject. I was remembering the kids in the neighborhood, and one stuck in my mind. I could see his face and his house, but his name wouldn't come to mind. As I opened a forward from a friend, there it was! Synchronicity?
Anyway, back to the witch. When we were kids, we spent lots of time going 'round and 'round the block. After all, Jane and Judy and our common crush, Alex, lived on the other side. My dad's garage was still there, even though Dad had sold it. The new owner, a family friend, pumped up our bike tires. White's Market and McCrillis' Red and White were there, too, and we made regular stops for penny candy and Popsicles.
Rarely--very rarely--did we venture around the corner from White's Market onto Warfel Avenue. Warfel wasn't a bad street. Max's junkyard was on one side, and the Star Club where my mom and dad met. The other side had a row of pretty WWII houses with petunias in their porch boxes and neat shrubbery in their yards. There was nothing to fear, except that one house.
The house itself was not intimidating. It was bigger than Jane's, but with the same grey siding. It didn't have a porch like Linda's or mine, nor did it have the bright white trim of Michael's. The front lawn was small and weedy, poorly manicured but not a jungle, either. No, the house was like a hundred others. It was the crone inside whom we feared. She was reputed to be a witch.
Never having met her, I can't say this for sure. All I know is that word got around. I heard rumors of the spells she cast on those who trespassed, and about the evil glares she gave the neighbors. I wasn't afraid of her, not me. My grandmother (the truth hurts, Grandma) could fell any mere mortal with a glare of her own. Nope, I wasn't scared of a witch, not me. But just to be safe, I went the other way to Dolores' house or to the Perry Plaza. No sense asking for trouble.
I never found out if the witch used lizard tongues or spider eggs to make her potions. I don't know if it is true that the boy who peed on her shrubs disappeared. I heard she turned boys into toads and girls into cats. It did seem that there was an overabundance of strays some summers, and I never did hear from Valerie or Debbie...I thought they had moved...
As I grew, I realized she was just a woman in her dotage. Perhaps the fear she instilled was a hobby to keep her privacy intact. The glare might have been a glass eye (Grandma's wasn't). She might have been lonely. I wish I had been the brave kid, taken her a rosebud and said hello.
The witch of Warfel Avenue popped into my head for no good reason. It made me wonder what else is hiding in the recesses of my mind. I expect to open Facebook someday and find a long-buried image of an old friend, or maybe I will run into someone at one of the places I work. I hope they will recognize me and say hello without fear. Tiny things can trigger remembrances.
Don't be afraid to speak! I'm not the witch of Warfel Avenue, just Marilyn.
Anyway, back to the witch. When we were kids, we spent lots of time going 'round and 'round the block. After all, Jane and Judy and our common crush, Alex, lived on the other side. My dad's garage was still there, even though Dad had sold it. The new owner, a family friend, pumped up our bike tires. White's Market and McCrillis' Red and White were there, too, and we made regular stops for penny candy and Popsicles.
Rarely--very rarely--did we venture around the corner from White's Market onto Warfel Avenue. Warfel wasn't a bad street. Max's junkyard was on one side, and the Star Club where my mom and dad met. The other side had a row of pretty WWII houses with petunias in their porch boxes and neat shrubbery in their yards. There was nothing to fear, except that one house.
The house itself was not intimidating. It was bigger than Jane's, but with the same grey siding. It didn't have a porch like Linda's or mine, nor did it have the bright white trim of Michael's. The front lawn was small and weedy, poorly manicured but not a jungle, either. No, the house was like a hundred others. It was the crone inside whom we feared. She was reputed to be a witch.
Never having met her, I can't say this for sure. All I know is that word got around. I heard rumors of the spells she cast on those who trespassed, and about the evil glares she gave the neighbors. I wasn't afraid of her, not me. My grandmother (the truth hurts, Grandma) could fell any mere mortal with a glare of her own. Nope, I wasn't scared of a witch, not me. But just to be safe, I went the other way to Dolores' house or to the Perry Plaza. No sense asking for trouble.
I never found out if the witch used lizard tongues or spider eggs to make her potions. I don't know if it is true that the boy who peed on her shrubs disappeared. I heard she turned boys into toads and girls into cats. It did seem that there was an overabundance of strays some summers, and I never did hear from Valerie or Debbie...I thought they had moved...
As I grew, I realized she was just a woman in her dotage. Perhaps the fear she instilled was a hobby to keep her privacy intact. The glare might have been a glass eye (Grandma's wasn't). She might have been lonely. I wish I had been the brave kid, taken her a rosebud and said hello.
The witch of Warfel Avenue popped into my head for no good reason. It made me wonder what else is hiding in the recesses of my mind. I expect to open Facebook someday and find a long-buried image of an old friend, or maybe I will run into someone at one of the places I work. I hope they will recognize me and say hello without fear. Tiny things can trigger remembrances.
Don't be afraid to speak! I'm not the witch of Warfel Avenue, just Marilyn.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Drive-Ins
From the day I was born, I went to drive-in movies. Mom and Dad loved them. We would take a blanket and bug spray and a pillow for me plus a few favorite toys. It was a ritual when I was young. We'd go out to eat someplace (no Mc Donald's back then)-- the Spaghetti Shoppe maybe, or Jimmy's Dinor. We'd go to the drive-in at Lawrence Park, or the Lakeview. Dad always bought a big popcorn. He would sing army songs and some others that drove my very young mind bonkers.
"one night I saw upon a stair a little man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today. Oh, how I wish he'd go away!"
Mom liked "Detour" and would belt it out embarrassingly loud. Neither of them had a singing voice, but we had fun. Of all the wonderful qualities I could have inherited, I inherited their voices.
Later on, it was Aunt Marjie and Uncle Don who would tote me along to the drive-in, usually accompanied by a ride around the beach to look for deer and a stop at Baskin and Robbins 33 Flavors. They were always afraid we would starve or something, because they brought coolers of pop, sandwiches , chips and fruit. And, of course, bug spray and a blanket. When my children were small, they came, too, crowded in Uncle Don's Plymouth Fury with the usual snacks.
Back then, the cars were rarely air conditioned, and those suckers got HOT. Add to that the speakers which fit over the car window that you couldn't close. The mosquitoes smelled blood and sweat, OK, and we were molested the entire movie. Someday I will tell you about my friend Jane driving off with the speaker still attached...yes, she still has the speaker.
I stopped watching movies at the drive-ins when I was about sixteen. I didn't say we stopped GOING to drive-ins, just that the movies were no longer as interesting as the other forms of...entertainment. (It was years later that I finally saw the ending of "Rosemary's Baby" and "The Graduate".) I do remember seeing "Night of the Living Dead" with cousin Frank and his girl Winnie, and me and future hubby in the back seat. Came intermission, and Hubby-to-be walked Winnie to the rest rooms. That movie gave me the creepies (still does). Frank, ever the pain in the butt comedian, slid his hand over the back seat, complete with sound effects, grabbing my hair with a "MOOOOHAHAHAHA" and bursting into peals of laughter when I hit him over the head with my empty pop cup and screamed bloody murder.
There were lots of other movies, though I couldn't tell you the names. I knew enough about them to relate the plot to my not-so-dumb parents the next day.
Some of the kids, too poor or too cheap to pay for tickets would hide in the trunk of their daddy's Chevy, or cover with blankets in the station wagon. We'd congregate at the snack bar, or huddle in the dark shadows. Running across the front of the snack bar meant your silhouette would show up on the big cement-block screen---Oh, the things we saw! We played like children at the playground, scarfed down a gallon of REAL soda--no diet stuff--and a bucket of popcorn with REAL butter. We steamed the windows, only occasionally coming up for air. Drive-ins weren't only made for watching movies. The back rows were made for romance and adventure.
Sometimes I miss the drive-in movies. After being married for forty years, and with bucket seats and center consoles (unheard of in the '60's), they don't hold the same magic. Friends no longer need to hide in trunks. The drive-ins on Iroquois Avenue are gone anyway, as is the Peninsula Drive-in. A few still remain. Today, the movies come with the comfort of my LaZ Boy, a glass of wine and no mosquitoes.
At sixty, if I am going to PAY for a movie, I am going to WATCH it, or at least TiVo it for later.
Remember when Life, weekends and relationships were fun? Yes, my friend, I do.
"one night I saw upon a stair a little man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today. Oh, how I wish he'd go away!"
Mom liked "Detour" and would belt it out embarrassingly loud. Neither of them had a singing voice, but we had fun. Of all the wonderful qualities I could have inherited, I inherited their voices.
Later on, it was Aunt Marjie and Uncle Don who would tote me along to the drive-in, usually accompanied by a ride around the beach to look for deer and a stop at Baskin and Robbins 33 Flavors. They were always afraid we would starve or something, because they brought coolers of pop, sandwiches , chips and fruit. And, of course, bug spray and a blanket. When my children were small, they came, too, crowded in Uncle Don's Plymouth Fury with the usual snacks.
Back then, the cars were rarely air conditioned, and those suckers got HOT. Add to that the speakers which fit over the car window that you couldn't close. The mosquitoes smelled blood and sweat, OK, and we were molested the entire movie. Someday I will tell you about my friend Jane driving off with the speaker still attached...yes, she still has the speaker.
I stopped watching movies at the drive-ins when I was about sixteen. I didn't say we stopped GOING to drive-ins, just that the movies were no longer as interesting as the other forms of...entertainment. (It was years later that I finally saw the ending of "Rosemary's Baby" and "The Graduate".) I do remember seeing "Night of the Living Dead" with cousin Frank and his girl Winnie, and me and future hubby in the back seat. Came intermission, and Hubby-to-be walked Winnie to the rest rooms. That movie gave me the creepies (still does). Frank, ever the pain in the butt comedian, slid his hand over the back seat, complete with sound effects, grabbing my hair with a "MOOOOHAHAHAHA" and bursting into peals of laughter when I hit him over the head with my empty pop cup and screamed bloody murder.
There were lots of other movies, though I couldn't tell you the names. I knew enough about them to relate the plot to my not-so-dumb parents the next day.
Some of the kids, too poor or too cheap to pay for tickets would hide in the trunk of their daddy's Chevy, or cover with blankets in the station wagon. We'd congregate at the snack bar, or huddle in the dark shadows. Running across the front of the snack bar meant your silhouette would show up on the big cement-block screen---Oh, the things we saw! We played like children at the playground, scarfed down a gallon of REAL soda--no diet stuff--and a bucket of popcorn with REAL butter. We steamed the windows, only occasionally coming up for air. Drive-ins weren't only made for watching movies. The back rows were made for romance and adventure.
Sometimes I miss the drive-in movies. After being married for forty years, and with bucket seats and center consoles (unheard of in the '60's), they don't hold the same magic. Friends no longer need to hide in trunks. The drive-ins on Iroquois Avenue are gone anyway, as is the Peninsula Drive-in. A few still remain. Today, the movies come with the comfort of my LaZ Boy, a glass of wine and no mosquitoes.
At sixty, if I am going to PAY for a movie, I am going to WATCH it, or at least TiVo it for later.
Remember when Life, weekends and relationships were fun? Yes, my friend, I do.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Q and A
There are a few points of reference I tend to use in assessing my life in general and my re-birth in particular. One of them is my high school days, another is my mother's passing last year.
There have always been people, then and now, who have brought out the best in me. With them I've felt free to speak my mind, to share dreams and joys, to be honest with my innermost feelings. Others leave me shy and tongue-tied. There are those who I barely knew back then, but talk to on a regular basis today. There are those to whom I never speak, and I'm not sure why.
In the past year or so I have lost a lot of the shyness that plagued me much of my life. Maybe shyness is the wrong word. It's been more of a reticence, a fear of standing up for myself, a fear of offending. Today I will demand answers to questions that a few years ago I would not have asked. I'm filled with an overwhelming need to show the intense love that has been building up inside. Some find that intimidating. I don't mean to scare anyone. I don't mean to appear pushy or eccentric. I just want to know the answers.
For so long I was afraid of what others thought of me. I was the biggest people-pleaser around--never make waves. No more. I am learning to ask for what I need. I may not always get it, but I expect a response to my queries, be it positive or negative. Ignoring me won't make me go away, it will only intensify my need for answers.
I've been praying a lot lately, not for the material things I used to think nothing of asking from God. Instead I have been praying for strength to endure (not for patience), the ability to use my words to touch one person's life, one time; enough faith to bring those I care about to believe in His word instead of rejecting Him. The selfishness that was once my mantra, my raison d'etre, has mellowed quite a bit. Oh, I still get the "I wants", but, as a trusted friend said to me, I need to look more closely at the "I haves".
I spent some time with one of my friends of many years who doesn't believe I was ever shy or needy. Well, that's because I trusted her completely, then and now, to see the real me. She knows my best and my worst, my truth and my failures, my secret desires and my supreme lack of self-image. She is there, no matter what. We didn't talk for a lot of years--not out of anger; some of it, maybe all of it resulted from my own self-centeredness. Whatever it was, we have picked up where we left off. I am so grateful for her and my other friends that have reappeared from my past. They remind me not so much of who I was, but of who I am becoming. They keep me grounded, but let me fly. They give me answers before I ask the questions.
It doesn't matter where I am these days. I may be working at a Walmart or shopping for groceries at Wegman's. I could be checking out people on Facebook. I may be refilling my soul with the wonderment that is Lake Erie, or visiting my parents' final home. It might be the evening ritual at the Eastside YMCA, the co-op on Tuesday or the coffee shop on Thursday morning. I am always looking for the one person or the many with whom I have failed. I want to tell him--her--them--that I have changed, please forgive me. I will not be too shy to ask the questions.
All I want these days is an answer.
There have always been people, then and now, who have brought out the best in me. With them I've felt free to speak my mind, to share dreams and joys, to be honest with my innermost feelings. Others leave me shy and tongue-tied. There are those who I barely knew back then, but talk to on a regular basis today. There are those to whom I never speak, and I'm not sure why.
In the past year or so I have lost a lot of the shyness that plagued me much of my life. Maybe shyness is the wrong word. It's been more of a reticence, a fear of standing up for myself, a fear of offending. Today I will demand answers to questions that a few years ago I would not have asked. I'm filled with an overwhelming need to show the intense love that has been building up inside. Some find that intimidating. I don't mean to scare anyone. I don't mean to appear pushy or eccentric. I just want to know the answers.
For so long I was afraid of what others thought of me. I was the biggest people-pleaser around--never make waves. No more. I am learning to ask for what I need. I may not always get it, but I expect a response to my queries, be it positive or negative. Ignoring me won't make me go away, it will only intensify my need for answers.
I've been praying a lot lately, not for the material things I used to think nothing of asking from God. Instead I have been praying for strength to endure (not for patience), the ability to use my words to touch one person's life, one time; enough faith to bring those I care about to believe in His word instead of rejecting Him. The selfishness that was once my mantra, my raison d'etre, has mellowed quite a bit. Oh, I still get the "I wants", but, as a trusted friend said to me, I need to look more closely at the "I haves".
I spent some time with one of my friends of many years who doesn't believe I was ever shy or needy. Well, that's because I trusted her completely, then and now, to see the real me. She knows my best and my worst, my truth and my failures, my secret desires and my supreme lack of self-image. She is there, no matter what. We didn't talk for a lot of years--not out of anger; some of it, maybe all of it resulted from my own self-centeredness. Whatever it was, we have picked up where we left off. I am so grateful for her and my other friends that have reappeared from my past. They remind me not so much of who I was, but of who I am becoming. They keep me grounded, but let me fly. They give me answers before I ask the questions.
It doesn't matter where I am these days. I may be working at a Walmart or shopping for groceries at Wegman's. I could be checking out people on Facebook. I may be refilling my soul with the wonderment that is Lake Erie, or visiting my parents' final home. It might be the evening ritual at the Eastside YMCA, the co-op on Tuesday or the coffee shop on Thursday morning. I am always looking for the one person or the many with whom I have failed. I want to tell him--her--them--that I have changed, please forgive me. I will not be too shy to ask the questions.
All I want these days is an answer.
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