Was yesterday really that different from today?
When I woke up yesterday morning I did what I do every morning. I stretched and yawned. I disturbed a grouchy growling dog as I got out of bed and slipped into my sparkly purple slippers.
As I passed by the faded, used to be white, little swivel club chair that we picked up at an auction 15 years ago, I lightly brushed Joe's gray and black scarf, which is now permanently draped over the back of the chair.
I scuffed my way into the kitchen, filled the teapot and waited for it to sing its one note teapot song.
While I waited for my tea to brew, Trader Joe's decaf green, I settled into my fireside easy chair and browsed around on Facebook and Instagram. I skimmed through my e-junk-mail, deleting practically everything along the way.
After tea, for me and coffee for Ross,we fed, watered and walked Rico.
Then, we went out for a bite to eat. I smiled and said thank-you to the woman who held the door for us.
After breakfast, we did a little Costco shopping. Customers were noticeably grouchy in the warehouse. There was a lot of impatient huffing and puffing. I heard a passing comment about "those people being so rude". I'm not sure if she was referring to a specific segment of the population or just the couple with the three rambunctious children.
One woman was darting in and out of the cart traffic muttering about how everyone should obey the aisle rules and "stay to the right!"
I was happy with the purchase of my large, gorgeous, fresh pine smelling $15.99 Christmas wreath, but I was glad to get out of the madding Costo crowd.
When we got home I passed the rest of the day with my knitting and catching up with Jen on an hour long phone call. Ross read through his 12 inch high pile of magazines and watched some History Channel or PBS WWII thing.
Oh, there are some slight variations to the way we spend our yesterdays. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday I go to an Aerobics class. Some days we have appointments, sadly these days mostly medical. We might attend a weekly or monthly community social group meeting. There are occasional family visits or a rare get-a-way, but mostly our yesterdays are day in and day out reliably, peaceful routine days.
Today, though, is not the same as all of the other days. Today will always be different. It won’t ever be peaceful or reliably routine.
Today, I lingered in our darkened bedroom, uninterested in Trader Joe’s green decaf.
I briefly tried to talk myself into going to the Monday Aerobics class, saying, “But you’ll feel better. You know you always do.”
I knew, though, that there was no way I could muster a polite thank-you to the woman holding the door for me. I did not want to have to make my mouth curl into a smile, a smile I did not feel. I’m sure my arm would feel much too heavy to raise and my hand too clenched to be able to manage a cheerful wave to my Aerobic’s classmates.
No, today is the day, this fifth, 5th of December day, that I find the courage to rip off the bandaid of polite smiles and cheerful waves and expose the raw wound of my grief.
I will sit and stare out at the grayness of the day and feel all of the aches of my heartbreak.
I will wonder why it happened. I will question how it could be. I will shake my head in disbelief that he is gone.
I know I will never understand, for there cannot be any acceptable explanation.
After five years, the pain has not lessened. It's just that on all of the other routine and peaceful yesterdays, I have become more skilled at hiding the ache and suppressing the screams.
Joseph Christopher Deak, died on December 5th, 2011 of stage IV colon cancer. He was 36 years old. I am his mother.
Monday, December 5, 2016
Sunday, November 6, 2016
What I Did With My Extra Hour Today
Oh my, it's been too long since I've paid attention to you. October got away from me without a single post. For me, writing is like exercising. If I am not disciplined and diligent, I get lazier and lazier to the point of inertia.
Since we turned the clocks back this morning, I have this extra hour to spend, so here I am.
I am sitting in my lazy chair, the one I mold into when I'm obsessively knitting, just one more row, just one more row. Before I know it, it’s too late to go to my aerobics class. Inertia.
My lazy chair is a well-worn high back wing. It's in front of the fireplace in our living/family room. Although this morning there is a little nip in the air, it’s not chilly enough for a fire.
Our fall weather has been perfect. Cool mornings followed by cozy sun-warmed afternoons.
I am wrapped up in my soft fluffy red robe. My knees are propped up to provide a lap for my laptop.
My Contigo tea mug with the blue top is tucked into the corner of the chair. It's filled with "Relaxing Honey Vanilla Bliss" by Teekanne Herbal Wellness Teas.
Now and then I take a thoughtful sip pondering what the heck I am going to write about. As I sip and ponder, I gaze out the front door sidelight windows, hypnotized by the gentle swaying of brilliant ruby and gold maple leaves.
I must admit I am doing more gazing than writing.
Ross is in the kitchen fighting with Rico. It's medicine time. "There's no biting!" Ross admonishes.
Pretty soon I will have to move to the kitchen. Rico won't eat his food unless I am sitting at the kitchen table. It's one of his quirks.
Lately, I've been doing a lot of knitting. Truth is, knitting is and has been a big part of my life. For me, I suppose it's similar to blogging. It satisfies a creative need. Many times it has been an emotional support for me. Like bloggers, knitters also have a supportive community. I am a member of a website called Ravelry.
Ravelry is a place for knitters, crocheters, designers, spinners, weavers and dyers to keep track of their yarn, tools, project and pattern information, and look to others for ideas and inspiration.
Wow, huh? Over six million knitters and crocheters.
Now, within the knitting community, there are the knitting podcasters. They are also a tight-knit community.
I have become obsessed with watching knitting podcasts. There are hundreds and hundreds of them on YouTube. I find it interesting that they all follow the exact same format. I wonder why that is.
Anyway, I fantasize about doing one myself. Then, I wonder why I want to do one. Hmmm, lots of introspection surrounds that question.
Perhaps I feel that venturing into the knitting podcast world would provide the same comradery for me that being part of my bloggy family has.
You see no one close to me is a knitter. None of my sisters knit. My daughter doesn't. I tried teaching my granddaughter but she's into other things, which I thoroughly understand.
Actually, my knitting companion happens to be Ross. He encourages me by oohing and aahing about my latest projects. He is genuinely interested, but he refuses to learn how to knit!
I do belong to the needlecraft group in our community. They are a great bunch of friendly and welcoming women. They all do beautiful work. Even though I am around the same age as most of them, they are of a different knitting generation than the Ravelry and Knitting Podcast folks. By that I mean they are used to doing things the way they always did and seem to be hesitant to try new things. Which is okay.
But, not only do I want to talk about what I'm working on, I also want to learn about the newest techniques, where to find the finest hand dyed yarn, and what the latest designs are.
That's what the knitting podcasters do. I guess that's what I want to do.
Okay, I have to come clean, I, well Ross and I, do have experience with podcasting. Our "show" is called Sundays With Lynda & Ross. It is mainly entertainment. Since we don't have a lot of viewers, it mostly for our own amusement. And perhaps our great-grandchildren might come across our videos one day.
But, to go solo with a podcast, For this shy introvert, though, it might be a stretch, a real reach outside of my comfort zone. If I can summon up the courage, I'll let you know.
Anyway, my free hour is up. I think I'll get dressed and instead of gazing out the window, I'll step outside the door.
By the way, I realized something just now, I missed you! :)
Since we turned the clocks back this morning, I have this extra hour to spend, so here I am.
I am sitting in my lazy chair, the one I mold into when I'm obsessively knitting, just one more row, just one more row. Before I know it, it’s too late to go to my aerobics class. Inertia.My lazy chair is a well-worn high back wing. It's in front of the fireplace in our living/family room. Although this morning there is a little nip in the air, it’s not chilly enough for a fire.
Our fall weather has been perfect. Cool mornings followed by cozy sun-warmed afternoons.
I am wrapped up in my soft fluffy red robe. My knees are propped up to provide a lap for my laptop.My Contigo tea mug with the blue top is tucked into the corner of the chair. It's filled with "Relaxing Honey Vanilla Bliss" by Teekanne Herbal Wellness Teas.
Now and then I take a thoughtful sip pondering what the heck I am going to write about. As I sip and ponder, I gaze out the front door sidelight windows, hypnotized by the gentle swaying of brilliant ruby and gold maple leaves.
I must admit I am doing more gazing than writing.Ross is in the kitchen fighting with Rico. It's medicine time. "There's no biting!" Ross admonishes.
Pretty soon I will have to move to the kitchen. Rico won't eat his food unless I am sitting at the kitchen table. It's one of his quirks.
Lately, I've been doing a lot of knitting. Truth is, knitting is and has been a big part of my life. For me, I suppose it's similar to blogging. It satisfies a creative need. Many times it has been an emotional support for me. Like bloggers, knitters also have a supportive community. I am a member of a website called Ravelry.
Ravelry is a place for knitters, crocheters, designers, spinners, weavers and dyers to keep track of their yarn, tools, project and pattern information, and look to others for ideas and inspiration.
Ravelry has 6,597,646 registered users. 981,114 Ravelers have been active during the last 30 days.
Wow, huh? Over six million knitters and crocheters.
Now, within the knitting community, there are the knitting podcasters. They are also a tight-knit community.
I have become obsessed with watching knitting podcasts. There are hundreds and hundreds of them on YouTube. I find it interesting that they all follow the exact same format. I wonder why that is.
Anyway, I fantasize about doing one myself. Then, I wonder why I want to do one. Hmmm, lots of introspection surrounds that question.
Perhaps I feel that venturing into the knitting podcast world would provide the same comradery for me that being part of my bloggy family has.
You see no one close to me is a knitter. None of my sisters knit. My daughter doesn't. I tried teaching my granddaughter but she's into other things, which I thoroughly understand.
Actually, my knitting companion happens to be Ross. He encourages me by oohing and aahing about my latest projects. He is genuinely interested, but he refuses to learn how to knit!
I do belong to the needlecraft group in our community. They are a great bunch of friendly and welcoming women. They all do beautiful work. Even though I am around the same age as most of them, they are of a different knitting generation than the Ravelry and Knitting Podcast folks. By that I mean they are used to doing things the way they always did and seem to be hesitant to try new things. Which is okay.
But, not only do I want to talk about what I'm working on, I also want to learn about the newest techniques, where to find the finest hand dyed yarn, and what the latest designs are.
That's what the knitting podcasters do. I guess that's what I want to do.
Okay, I have to come clean, I, well Ross and I, do have experience with podcasting. Our "show" is called Sundays With Lynda & Ross. It is mainly entertainment. Since we don't have a lot of viewers, it mostly for our own amusement. And perhaps our great-grandchildren might come across our videos one day.
But, to go solo with a podcast, For this shy introvert, though, it might be a stretch, a real reach outside of my comfort zone. If I can summon up the courage, I'll let you know.
Anyway, my free hour is up. I think I'll get dressed and instead of gazing out the window, I'll step outside the door.
By the way, I realized something just now, I missed you! :)
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Tears Falling On The Feathery Fringe of His Black & Gray Scarf
Ten years ago, to give as Christmas presents, I ordered tee shirts and scarves, custom embroidered in red, white and green lettering with "Christmas 2006 Proud Member of Priscilla's Clan".Priscilla is my mom.
We gave each of her children, sons and daughters-in-law, grandchildren, and step grandchildren one or another of the embroidered items. I think I remember Mom being surprised about the whole thing.
Last night Anne asked me if I'd like the "Priscilla's Clan" tee shirt, the one I gave to Joe that Christmas 10 years ago.
"Oh yes," I said.
"You know I had to empty the attic because I was having some work done," she explained.
"I had boxes of Joe's clothes stored there. They're downstairs for now. There are other things if you want to...," her voice trailed off.
I hesitated for a minute, trying to emotionally remove myself from what she was asking.
She got up to head to the basement. She turned towards me with a hesitancy of her own.
Unspoken words floated through the air between us.
I followed her, distracted by her red strappy heels as she carefully made her way down the steps.
The boxes were stacked, one on top of another. Clear plastic ones, with colorful tops.
The kids were down there playing. Domani chattering away with his cousins.
I would glance at the boxes, then look away towards Domani, smiling at his antics.
Now, as I try to recall what I was feeling, I have an image of myself, alone, sitting on the floor, as I carefully take out each piece of him one by one, hold each one next to me in an embrace, not wanting to let go.
I remember the last night I was with him. We were all there. All of us who achingly loved Joe, none of us, not one of wanting to let him go.
I will always regret that I didn't have my alone time with him that night. Perhaps I thought I would have more time. He promised me that, you know.
Now, as she and I were focused on the boxes, but not really on the boxes, I felt awkward. I think she sensed that I might want to look through the boxes. She took the top off of one. My eyes were instantly drawn to feathery halos of soft gray fingers of fringe laying somewhere near the bottom of the box.
She began to gently lift the rows of neatly folded items, looking for the Priscilla shirt.
She found it and handed it to me. I took it and held it close.
She told me that she had already picked out a group of his tee's. She was going to have a quilt made for Domani.
I liked that idea very much and told her that.
She was about to put the lid back on the box. "If there's anything else..."
I asked if she knew about a scarf that I had made for Joe, all the while knowing that it was the one down at the bottom of the box. The one that the halo of gray fringe was attached to. But I didn't want to intrude. Funny, now that I think about it. How reserved I am. How reserved Joe was. Too polite to ask, "Would it be okay?"
She said she didn't recall. I slowly reached into the box and pulled out the gray and black scarf, the one with the feathery fringe.
"Yes, this is the one," I said.
I remembered the last time I saw him wearing the scarf. He walked into the room and I immediately noticed he was wearing the scarf. It made me happy. He wore it around it neck, hanging down loosely, making a fashion statement. He was cool that way. I believe it was at Domani's first birthday party. The only birthday party Joe would get to spend with his son.
But now, I began to cry, softly at first. She came to me comforting me with a hug, tears falling on the scarf and the Priscilla shirt that we held between us close to our hearts.
Domani stopped playing. His little face became flushed. "What's the matter?" he wanted to know.
"Grandma is just sad," she said. She leaned down next to him and whispered something to him.
"You understand, don't you?" Anne said to him.
He looked at his mother, then at me and solemnly nodded.
Monday, August 29, 2016
Notes and Notables and a Rico Update
Notes and Notables
Ross and I had stuff going on the past few weeks and the stuff will continue into the next couple of weeks.
Some of it is hum-drum, some not, but all noteworthy. At least I think so. And since it's my blog I guess I get to decide.
So, the painter, after a 6-week delay due to a family thing (his family) will start painting our house on September 19th. Last week we went to the paint store and picked up a half dozen quart cans of various paint colors. We currently have patches of paint samples on our walls all throughout the house. We probably started applying the patches of paint too early because the more I look at the decisions I've made the less I like them.
Picking colors for an entire house is hard!
In June of this year, our area was hit with a hail storm. A few weeks ago we noticed some of our neighbors were having their roofs replaced. At first, we didn’t think anything of it. The houses are in our community are starting to age. The older ones were built about 20 years ago.
Ross stopped to talk to one of those neighbors and found out that their roof was damaged during the hail storm. We decided we should have someone check ours. Apparently, according to the roofer, our roof has storm damage. We contacted our insurance company. The adjuster came out last week. Now we are waiting to see if our insurance will pay for a new roof.
Okay, this one isn't so hum-drum and in fact, it was quite scary. Ross spent a good part of his early days outdoors, life guarding in the summer and skiing in the winter. He admits that he was never diligent about applying sun block. Last month he noticed a few suspicious looking areas on his skin. He went to a dermatologist who removed and tested several spots.
One of the tests came back positive for squamous cell carcinoma. On Thursday Ross had surgery to have it removed. The doctor also took out part of the area around the original spot and had that tested. That result was negative and the doctor said it is unlikely to recur. Whew!
Last week I met my long time friend, Cathy for breakfast. Cathy and I have known each other for 60 years. Although we only meet every couple of years, we have managed to keep up with each other's lives.
A few days after our meeting, I received a thank-you note in the mail, my actual mailbox! I don't remember the last time I received something in my actual mailbox that wasn't a bill or an advertisement. It was a nice surprise.
"I know we'll continue to keep in touch and am truly happy that our friendship has remained steadfast all these years and will continue to do so."
How lovely is that!
Last weekend Ross went up to his hometown, which is about 100 miles from here, to attend a 55th high school reunion committee meeting.
After the meeting, one of his classmates took him aside and told him how much she enjoyed reading my blog.
That next day I received a note from Kathy (yes another Kathy). Even though this was an electronic note, it was just as much of a nice surprise.
"Hi Lynda, I asked Ross to tell you but wanted to let you know myself that you are an amazing writer. I don't follow blogs or do much on the internet but I read some of your blog and was blown away by it. Keep it up. You have a real gift."
Wow, Kathy, I am shyly and humbly appreciative. Makes me want to resurrect "Me and Marymae".
Yesterday we had what we hope to be the start of a regular thing. A once a month Sunday dinner with the family. We all have busy lives. Well okay, Ross and I not so much. After all, we are retired. But making time, like we did yesterday, was a special treat.
Up and coming:
Perhaps a new season of “Sundays with Lynda and Ross”. Maybe after Labor Day.
Ross' 55th high school reunion is at the end of September. I'm not sure I will accompany him. I haven't decided yet. But most likely not.
Last week we found out that a favorite aunt, my mother's sister, is ill. She is in our thoughts. I hope to get over to see her this week.
Speaking of Rico, he continues to have sleeping issues but at least not every night. Although, one of those nights was last night. It’s one of the reasons I had time this morning to write this post. Since I was up with Rico at 3:00 a.m., I overslept and missed my 8:30 aerobics class.
I feel, at this point, it seems that Rico still enjoys hanging out with us and...well it’s hard for me to think of the alternative.
So that's it for now. In my next post, I am going to address how I feel about Facebook and the way it has changed so much in the last couple of years.
I am also going to talk about my addiction to YouTube podcasts, knitting podcasts in particular, and why it has started to become a very expensive hobby habit.
Ross and I had stuff going on the past few weeks and the stuff will continue into the next couple of weeks.
Some of it is hum-drum, some not, but all noteworthy. At least I think so. And since it's my blog I guess I get to decide.
So, the painter, after a 6-week delay due to a family thing (his family) will start painting our house on September 19th. Last week we went to the paint store and picked up a half dozen quart cans of various paint colors. We currently have patches of paint samples on our walls all throughout the house. We probably started applying the patches of paint too early because the more I look at the decisions I've made the less I like them.Picking colors for an entire house is hard!
In June of this year, our area was hit with a hail storm. A few weeks ago we noticed some of our neighbors were having their roofs replaced. At first, we didn’t think anything of it. The houses are in our community are starting to age. The older ones were built about 20 years ago.
Ross stopped to talk to one of those neighbors and found out that their roof was damaged during the hail storm. We decided we should have someone check ours. Apparently, according to the roofer, our roof has storm damage. We contacted our insurance company. The adjuster came out last week. Now we are waiting to see if our insurance will pay for a new roof. Okay, this one isn't so hum-drum and in fact, it was quite scary. Ross spent a good part of his early days outdoors, life guarding in the summer and skiing in the winter. He admits that he was never diligent about applying sun block. Last month he noticed a few suspicious looking areas on his skin. He went to a dermatologist who removed and tested several spots.
One of the tests came back positive for squamous cell carcinoma. On Thursday Ross had surgery to have it removed. The doctor also took out part of the area around the original spot and had that tested. That result was negative and the doctor said it is unlikely to recur. Whew!
Last week I met my long time friend, Cathy for breakfast. Cathy and I have known each other for 60 years. Although we only meet every couple of years, we have managed to keep up with each other's lives.
A few days after our meeting, I received a thank-you note in the mail, my actual mailbox! I don't remember the last time I received something in my actual mailbox that wasn't a bill or an advertisement. It was a nice surprise.
"I know we'll continue to keep in touch and am truly happy that our friendship has remained steadfast all these years and will continue to do so."
How lovely is that!
Last weekend Ross went up to his hometown, which is about 100 miles from here, to attend a 55th high school reunion committee meeting.
After the meeting, one of his classmates took him aside and told him how much she enjoyed reading my blog.
That next day I received a note from Kathy (yes another Kathy). Even though this was an electronic note, it was just as much of a nice surprise.
"Hi Lynda, I asked Ross to tell you but wanted to let you know myself that you are an amazing writer. I don't follow blogs or do much on the internet but I read some of your blog and was blown away by it. Keep it up. You have a real gift."
Wow, Kathy, I am shyly and humbly appreciative. Makes me want to resurrect "Me and Marymae".
Yesterday we had what we hope to be the start of a regular thing. A once a month Sunday dinner with the family. We all have busy lives. Well okay, Ross and I not so much. After all, we are retired. But making time, like we did yesterday, was a special treat.
Up and coming:
Perhaps a new season of “Sundays with Lynda and Ross”. Maybe after Labor Day.
Ross' 55th high school reunion is at the end of September. I'm not sure I will accompany him. I haven't decided yet. But most likely not.
Last week we found out that a favorite aunt, my mother's sister, is ill. She is in our thoughts. I hope to get over to see her this week.
Also, we are planning a long overdue visit to see Ross' sister Joan. Maybe in October. That might depend on how Rico is doing.
Speaking of Rico, he continues to have sleeping issues but at least not every night. Although, one of those nights was last night. It’s one of the reasons I had time this morning to write this post. Since I was up with Rico at 3:00 a.m., I overslept and missed my 8:30 aerobics class.
I feel, at this point, it seems that Rico still enjoys hanging out with us and...well it’s hard for me to think of the alternative.
So that's it for now. In my next post, I am going to address how I feel about Facebook and the way it has changed so much in the last couple of years.
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| Legacy Fiber Artz - Etsy |
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| Toad Hollow |
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Poor Old Dude
This week has been challenging, to say the least. We have definitely experienced the dog days of August. And I'm not just talking about the two straight weeks of 90+ degree weather. I'm not quite sure who has been challenged the most, though. It's a toss up for sure. But since this is my blog, I'll grouchily say me.
Our first encounter with him was about 15 years ago. Well, let me back up a few months prior to our first meeting.
I was newly single at the time and suffering from empty nest syndrome.
I began thinking about getting a puppy. I saw an ad in the paper for "Breeder's Assoc-America".
"Breeders Association of America,Inc is a licensed kennel providing purebred and designer mixed breed puppies. Our vet checked puppies come from professional breeders from all over the country. With boarding services, dog training and our in kennel boutique. We have it all for you and your new puppy!"
Sounds pretty reputable, doesn't it?
I won't go into details, but I didn't have a good experience with them. The puppy I bought from them died within a week. It was very sad. I paid $1200 for the little guy, he was a Maltese. Luckily, NJ has a lemon law and after quite a hassle with Breeders Assoc. I was able to get my money back.
About a week later, I saw an ad from a private breeder.
He was born on a farm. As we drove down the winding driveway, we passed a couple of kids out in the field riding racing tractors. A little girl with pigtails and bare feet, perched on a sturdy branch of an old oak tree, waved as we went by.
After we parked and got out of the car, the owner, and her husband came off the front porch of their house to greet us.
She told us about the two puppies she had available. One was a little girl, about 10 weeks old. The other was a boy about 12 weeks old.
The woman told us that the boy's mother had died after chewing through the electrical cord of the heating pad they had put in her bed to keep her newborn puppies warm. Aww, I thought, how sad, an orphan.
The girl, she said, was very docile. The boy was not.
As we walked over to the pen to see the puppies, the woman pointed to a clump of trees a few yards away from the house and said, "Oh, there's Sadie, coming for her afternoon visit. Would you like to meet her?"
As it turned out, Sadie was a deer. We were pretty amazed that we were able to actually walk up to her and pet her.
When we got to the pen the boy immediately came up to us, jumping up, spinning around, tail wagging, and of course barking. Something he still does, by the way, each time I come home.
The girl was shy and stayed her distance.
The woman opened the gate to the pen and the boy came running out. The girl had to be coaxed.
The boy started nipping at the girl. She ran, to get away from him, I suspect. He chased her.
The woman tried to convince us to take both of them. And if we had, it would have been about $300 cheaper than what we paid for the one puppy from Breeders Assoc.
Anyway, I guess he, the boy, grabbed my heart right away.
Rico and I and Rico and we (me and Ross) have had quite a life together. He’s traveled with us to Florida and upstate New York.
He loved Joe. Joe would puppy sit for us when we vacationed and couldn't take him with us.
All of the grandkids have had their special times with him, each wanting to take a turn with the leash, "Can I walk him, Grandma?"
Rico just celebrated his 15th birthday.
He's an old ornery guy now and is suffering from a variety of old guy maladies. Arthritis being the main issue.
Up until a few years ago, Rico would lead the way on our walks. Today, he walks a few steps, usually behind us and will stop to rest under the first shady spot he comes to. He used to bark at cars and other dogs on our walks. Now he can't see or hear them.
I have to help him up and down the curbs.
About four days ago he started to become restless at night. He sleeps with us in our bed. He falls asleep and then about two hours later he wakes up, walks over to the edge of the bed and whines. He can't get down by himself. The first night he did this, I got up and let him outside, thinking he must have to go.
Afterwards, I put him back on the bed and he began to pace. Ross got up and at 3:00 a.m. took him out for a walk. And so began our challenging week.
After the second night of this up and down and not sleeping we took him to the Vet. The Doc checked him out and speculated that his bones may be aching. "He's very healthy for an old dude," the Doc said, after doing a blood test.
Since his kidneys and liver functions are excellent, the Vet prescribed an anti-inflammatory medicine for him which we were to give him two hours before bedtime.
That was two days ago. The medicine didn't help.
Ross and I are now walking around like Zombies. We're so tired. Probably me more so, since Ross seems to be able to sleep more soundly than me.
Rico, on the other hand, sleeps all day!
Someone suggested Benadryl. We tried that last night and it seemed to make him worse. He was up from 1:00 a.m. until about 4:00. Me too.
This morning I had the crazy thought that maybe I should sleep during the day with him. Silliness!
I'm at my wits end trying to figure out what's wrong with our boy and what we can do to help him.
Have you ever had this type of experience? I sure would appreciate any advice.
I have begun to wonder if Rico’s behavior is a preview of what our old dude and dudette future will be like.
Maybe we should book that trip today, Ross!
She told us about the two puppies she had available. One was a little girl, about 10 weeks old. The other was a boy about 12 weeks old.
The woman told us that the boy's mother had died after chewing through the electrical cord of the heating pad they had put in her bed to keep her newborn puppies warm. Aww, I thought, how sad, an orphan.
The girl, she said, was very docile. The boy was not.
As we walked over to the pen to see the puppies, the woman pointed to a clump of trees a few yards away from the house and said, "Oh, there's Sadie, coming for her afternoon visit. Would you like to meet her?"
As it turned out, Sadie was a deer. We were pretty amazed that we were able to actually walk up to her and pet her.
When we got to the pen the boy immediately came up to us, jumping up, spinning around, tail wagging, and of course barking. Something he still does, by the way, each time I come home.
The girl was shy and stayed her distance.
The woman opened the gate to the pen and the boy came running out. The girl had to be coaxed.
The boy started nipping at the girl. She ran, to get away from him, I suspect. He chased her.
The woman tried to convince us to take both of them. And if we had, it would have been about $300 cheaper than what we paid for the one puppy from Breeders Assoc.
Anyway, I guess he, the boy, grabbed my heart right away.
Rico and I and Rico and we (me and Ross) have had quite a life together. He’s traveled with us to Florida and upstate New York.
He loved Joe. Joe would puppy sit for us when we vacationed and couldn't take him with us.
Rico just celebrated his 15th birthday.
He's an old ornery guy now and is suffering from a variety of old guy maladies. Arthritis being the main issue.
Up until a few years ago, Rico would lead the way on our walks. Today, he walks a few steps, usually behind us and will stop to rest under the first shady spot he comes to. He used to bark at cars and other dogs on our walks. Now he can't see or hear them.
I have to help him up and down the curbs.
About four days ago he started to become restless at night. He sleeps with us in our bed. He falls asleep and then about two hours later he wakes up, walks over to the edge of the bed and whines. He can't get down by himself. The first night he did this, I got up and let him outside, thinking he must have to go.
Afterwards, I put him back on the bed and he began to pace. Ross got up and at 3:00 a.m. took him out for a walk. And so began our challenging week.
After the second night of this up and down and not sleeping we took him to the Vet. The Doc checked him out and speculated that his bones may be aching. "He's very healthy for an old dude," the Doc said, after doing a blood test.
Since his kidneys and liver functions are excellent, the Vet prescribed an anti-inflammatory medicine for him which we were to give him two hours before bedtime.
That was two days ago. The medicine didn't help.
Ross and I are now walking around like Zombies. We're so tired. Probably me more so, since Ross seems to be able to sleep more soundly than me.
Rico, on the other hand, sleeps all day!
Someone suggested Benadryl. We tried that last night and it seemed to make him worse. He was up from 1:00 a.m. until about 4:00. Me too.
This morning I had the crazy thought that maybe I should sleep during the day with him. Silliness!
I'm at my wits end trying to figure out what's wrong with our boy and what we can do to help him.
Have you ever had this type of experience? I sure would appreciate any advice.
I have begun to wonder if Rico’s behavior is a preview of what our old dude and dudette future will be like.
Maybe we should book that trip today, Ross!
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Part Six of “Me and Marymae"
This is part six of my story "Me and Marymae". If you want to refresh your memory or if you have not yet read the first five parts, click on the tab at the top of my blog (underneath the photo) titled "Me and Marymae". All six parts are included there.
(6)
I stammered, "Junie, I...uh...well..."
"Well, what?" Junie demanded.
"Marymae and I have spent a good deal of time together lately."
"And?" Junie persisted.
"She was beginning to open up to me. I'm afraid I may have frightened her off." I said softly.
"Don't be ridiculous!" June admonished.
"Come on, you have to admit, she was a little eccentric," Junie said. "Remember how she used to walk around her house three times. Every morning at exactly the same time, she would walk around her house. Three times!"
"What was that all about?" Junie squinched up her eyes and looked at me. "I suppose you know why she did that, too!" she exclaimed.
I looked away because, in fact, I did know.
I convinced Junie to go back to her house and make the phone call to the police department to report seeing the car that was parked in front of Marymae's house the night that she went missing.
I needed time to think.
During one of our talks, Marymae told me about the why of the "three times around the house" ritual.
It all had to do with the package she gave me the last time I saw her.
"Can you hold this for me?" she asked as she handed me a...
Handed me a what? What would Marymae have handed me?
Marymae was a ghostly figure without bones or flesh. She was only a whisper of a woman.
Oh, sure I could conjure her up, give her a face with the bluest of eyes, and snow white hair, but actually, she was the one who frightened me. I had to make her disappear. She was beginning to reveal too much.
Perhaps, it was a bit foolish of me, but I thought, this time, I might have been able to have a complete and intimate relationship with someone like Marymae. I fantasized about how I would nurture her, tend to her needs, care for her until she trusted me with her entire being.
I imagined a conversation that I might have with Terry Gross during an NPR interview on "Fresh Air".
"I loved Marymae. I cared for her, cared about her. She was strong, yet vulnerable. I cried when I found out...Well, I don't want to give anything away," Terry would say.
"Was she based on a particular person?" she'd ask.
"Well, Terry, isn't there a little of Marymae in all of us?" I would answer.
Dr. Thomas would have a field day with that one, I thought.
"Marymae may have buried her treasures, but you have the key," Dr. Thomas would say in her best non-threatening therapist voice.
Frustrated, I clicked on the "Me and Marymae" file and dragged it over to the wastebasket where it would unsteadily teeter on top of a virtual reality trash pile of other unfinished stories including the "Red Sweater Serial".
Lovey bounded down the stairs. She stopped at the front door, barking and running around in circles, her tail furiously wagging back and forth.
"Okay, okay, Lovely. Let's see who it is," said Fiona as clicked on the porch light and peered out the side window.
A shadowy figure stood there, under a black umbrella, his or her face barely visible. It was a dark and stormy night.
(6)
I stammered, "Junie, I...uh...well..."
"Well, what?" Junie demanded.
"Marymae and I have spent a good deal of time together lately."
"And?" Junie persisted.
"She was beginning to open up to me. I'm afraid I may have frightened her off." I said softly.
"Don't be ridiculous!" June admonished.
"Come on, you have to admit, she was a little eccentric," Junie said. "Remember how she used to walk around her house three times. Every morning at exactly the same time, she would walk around her house. Three times!"
"What was that all about?" Junie squinched up her eyes and looked at me. "I suppose you know why she did that, too!" she exclaimed.
I looked away because, in fact, I did know.
I convinced Junie to go back to her house and make the phone call to the police department to report seeing the car that was parked in front of Marymae's house the night that she went missing.
I needed time to think.
During one of our talks, Marymae told me about the why of the "three times around the house" ritual.
It all had to do with the package she gave me the last time I saw her.
"Can you hold this for me?" she asked as she handed me a...
Handed me a what? What would Marymae have handed me?
Marymae was a ghostly figure without bones or flesh. She was only a whisper of a woman.
Oh, sure I could conjure her up, give her a face with the bluest of eyes, and snow white hair, but actually, she was the one who frightened me. I had to make her disappear. She was beginning to reveal too much.
Perhaps, it was a bit foolish of me, but I thought, this time, I might have been able to have a complete and intimate relationship with someone like Marymae. I fantasized about how I would nurture her, tend to her needs, care for her until she trusted me with her entire being.
I imagined a conversation that I might have with Terry Gross during an NPR interview on "Fresh Air".
"I loved Marymae. I cared for her, cared about her. She was strong, yet vulnerable. I cried when I found out...Well, I don't want to give anything away," Terry would say.
"Was she based on a particular person?" she'd ask.
"Well, Terry, isn't there a little of Marymae in all of us?" I would answer.
Dr. Thomas would have a field day with that one, I thought.
"Marymae may have buried her treasures, but you have the key," Dr. Thomas would say in her best non-threatening therapist voice.
Frustrated, I clicked on the "Me and Marymae" file and dragged it over to the wastebasket where it would unsteadily teeter on top of a virtual reality trash pile of other unfinished stories including the "Red Sweater Serial".
Lovey bounded down the stairs. She stopped at the front door, barking and running around in circles, her tail furiously wagging back and forth.
"Okay, okay, Lovely. Let's see who it is," said Fiona as clicked on the porch light and peered out the side window.
A shadowy figure stood there, under a black umbrella, his or her face barely visible. It was a dark and stormy night.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
What Do You Know? Part 5 of Me and Marymae
This is part five of my story "Me and Marymae". If you want to refresh your memory or if you have not yet read the first four parts, click on the tab at the top of my blog (underneath the photo) titled "Me and Marymae". All five parts are included there.
(5)
Marymae missed our next meeting. She called to tell me that Cray wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be going to camp that day. I wondered, though, if she felt she was beginning to reveal too much, not only of her story but also of herself.
As I was passing Marymae's house the next day, on my morning walk with Sunnydog, I saw Junie outside watering her flowers. She called to me, "Come on over. Have a cup of tea."
Junie was a nice woman and a good friend. But I was sure she was going to have a million questions about me and Marymae. I hesitated for a few seconds trying to decide if I was prepared to be barraged and if I would be able to avoid answering her probing questions.
"Hey, Junie," I called over to her. "Maybe later on in the week, okay?"
I waved and hurriedly passed by.
When I got back to my house, I picked up the local newspaper off the stoop and as usual I had to coax Sunnydog into the house with his favorite banana and peanut butter biscuit. He would have preferred staying outside, sitting in the cool grass, head moving from side to side, hoping to catch a whiff of passersby, both human and non.
As I waited for the kettle to whistle, I sat at the kitchen table and leafed through the newspaper skimming articles, noting the ones I would want to read in depth later on. When I got to page six, my heart nearly stopped. There was a photo of Marymae with a caption which read: "Have you seen this woman?" The article went on to say, that a local woman and her grandchild had gone missing. I was stunned. Apparently, Marymae's son had reported her missing.
"If you have any information which might lead to the whereabouts of Marymae Silverio and her granddaughter Cray Silverio, please call this missing persons hotline number, 555-5675."
I did have information. But, should I call the number? I didn't know what to do. I had promised Marymae that I would keep her secret. And then there was the package she gave me to hold for her.
The tea kettle began to whistle while at the same time I heard a banging on my door and someone calling my name. I turned off the kettle and ran to open the door. It was Junie, frantically waving a newspaper back and forth.
She could barely get the words out. "Did you see this?" she said breathlessly.
Her face was flushed and I thought she might pass out. "I saw the car! I saw the car!"
"Junie," I said. "Calm down. Come here. Sit." I put my hands on her shoulders, gently guided her over to a chair.
"Take a deep breath," I said. "That's it let it out slowly. I'm going to pour you a nice cup of tea and then you can tell me what you are going on about."
After Junie took a couple of sips of her tea, she began to regain her composure. She told me how two nights ago she had a terrible headache and couldn't sleep. "That's why I was up in the middle of the night looking out my bedroom window," she said. "You know it faces the street."
"Our bedroom was bathed in moonlight," she went on. You know with the full moon."
"There was a car parked in Marymae's driveway," she continued.
"I didn't think much about it. It was just something I noticed. You know, like something out of place. The next morning it was gone. Again, I didn't think much about it, until I saw the paper just now."
"Do you think I should call the number?" she asked.
"I think we both should," I replied.
Junie stared at me with a puzzled expression. "What do you know?" she asked. "What in the world do you know?"
What I know is that I can't wait to find out what she knows. How about you?
(5)
Marymae missed our next meeting. She called to tell me that Cray wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be going to camp that day. I wondered, though, if she felt she was beginning to reveal too much, not only of her story but also of herself.
As I was passing Marymae's house the next day, on my morning walk with Sunnydog, I saw Junie outside watering her flowers. She called to me, "Come on over. Have a cup of tea."
Junie was a nice woman and a good friend. But I was sure she was going to have a million questions about me and Marymae. I hesitated for a few seconds trying to decide if I was prepared to be barraged and if I would be able to avoid answering her probing questions.
"Hey, Junie," I called over to her. "Maybe later on in the week, okay?"
I waved and hurriedly passed by.
When I got back to my house, I picked up the local newspaper off the stoop and as usual I had to coax Sunnydog into the house with his favorite banana and peanut butter biscuit. He would have preferred staying outside, sitting in the cool grass, head moving from side to side, hoping to catch a whiff of passersby, both human and non.
As I waited for the kettle to whistle, I sat at the kitchen table and leafed through the newspaper skimming articles, noting the ones I would want to read in depth later on. When I got to page six, my heart nearly stopped. There was a photo of Marymae with a caption which read: "Have you seen this woman?" The article went on to say, that a local woman and her grandchild had gone missing. I was stunned. Apparently, Marymae's son had reported her missing.
"If you have any information which might lead to the whereabouts of Marymae Silverio and her granddaughter Cray Silverio, please call this missing persons hotline number, 555-5675."
I did have information. But, should I call the number? I didn't know what to do. I had promised Marymae that I would keep her secret. And then there was the package she gave me to hold for her.
The tea kettle began to whistle while at the same time I heard a banging on my door and someone calling my name. I turned off the kettle and ran to open the door. It was Junie, frantically waving a newspaper back and forth.
She could barely get the words out. "Did you see this?" she said breathlessly.
Her face was flushed and I thought she might pass out. "I saw the car! I saw the car!"
"Junie," I said. "Calm down. Come here. Sit." I put my hands on her shoulders, gently guided her over to a chair.
"Take a deep breath," I said. "That's it let it out slowly. I'm going to pour you a nice cup of tea and then you can tell me what you are going on about."
After Junie took a couple of sips of her tea, she began to regain her composure. She told me how two nights ago she had a terrible headache and couldn't sleep. "That's why I was up in the middle of the night looking out my bedroom window," she said. "You know it faces the street."
"Our bedroom was bathed in moonlight," she went on. You know with the full moon."
"There was a car parked in Marymae's driveway," she continued.
"I didn't think much about it. It was just something I noticed. You know, like something out of place. The next morning it was gone. Again, I didn't think much about it, until I saw the paper just now."
"Do you think I should call the number?" she asked.
"I think we both should," I replied.
Junie stared at me with a puzzled expression. "What do you know?" she asked. "What in the world do you know?"
What I know is that I can't wait to find out what she knows. How about you?
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Last Weekend I Danced Like It Was 1969
So last weekend Ross and I attended a function at our clubhouse. It was called "A Summer Boardwalk Rock and Roll Party". The flyer promised we would "Dance, sing or just shake our groove thing".
There would be pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers, hot pretzels and ice cream sandwiches. Oh, and boxes of Crackerjacks on every table.
By the way, the "Prize Inside" a Crackerjacks box is now a small piece of paper with a digital code. None of us at the table, (all seniors) knew exactly what we were supposed to do with this piece of paper.
There would be pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers, hot pretzels and ice cream sandwiches. Oh, and boxes of Crackerjacks on every table.
By the way, the "Prize Inside" a Crackerjacks box is now a small piece of paper with a digital code. None of us at the table, (all seniors) knew exactly what we were supposed to do with this piece of paper.
After doing a little research, I discovered that in order to find out what your prize is you have to: Download an app, which will allow you to scan the sticker that you found inside the Cracker Jack box. The scan will access a "baseball-inspired mobile digital experiences."
Whatever that means.
When we first moved into this Active Adult community Ross and I attended club house functions a few times a year.
Actually, I distinctly remember the first one we went to. The experience was quite jolting. It was a similar type of affair, with food and dancing. It kind of reminded me of a wedding which might have been held at a VFW hall. You know, hand made decorations, a local band, round tables for eight, with plastic table clothes. By the way, you usually have the best times at those weddings, don't you?
Okay, so the jolt for me, attending my virgin Active Adult Community club house dance, was that as I sat there glancing around the room, observing the other participants, I felt an overwhelming sense of melancholy. At first, I was puzzled.
The atmosphere was certainly festive. The room was full of party sounds, peppy dance music, laughter, people shouting greetings to one another. So why was I feeling a little less than jolly?
I slowly realized where my feeling of sadness was coming from.
It's a little difficult to explain, actually. I sort of felt as though I was having a back to the future experience.
Does that make sense? It was as if I was that sixteen-year-old girl, at a school dance, having a premonition of what all of my friends would look like 50 years later.
Although I was on the dance floor dancing like it was 1969, the white-haired, no longer thin as a rail woman staring back at me from my reflection in the darkened ballroom window was a startling reminder of this rude incongruity between my older body and young at heart soul.
For a great many and various reasons, The Boardwalk Party dance this past weekend was the first one we have attended in quite a while.
As I glanced around the room I smiled at the couple who obviously had taken dance lessons 30 years ago and had perfected the fox trot. I giggled at the big guy in his Hawaiian shirt trying to get under the limbo stick. "How low can you go?" I was reminded that women will dance with each other in pairs or groups of three, four and five.
The band was great, the music was loud. It was nearly impossible to have a conversation. Ross leaned over and to get close to my ear, "Let me know if you want to get up to dance," he shouted. He apparently had noticed my feet tapping to the beat.
"Nah, I don't feel much like dancing," I said as I felt the melancholy begin to settle in. This time, my sadness was more complicated.
Then I felt a tug on my arm. I turned around to see a dear friend smiling down at me, motioning me to get up, "Come on," she said. She guided me over to where another dear friend was waiting for me.
The three of us had formed a bond about two years ago under the most difficult of times.
With wide grins pasted on our faces, we began to move in time to "Ride Sally Ride". Our heads bopped, our fingers snapped and our arms moved back and forth, up and down.
As the melconcoholy slowly melted away, I felt my sixteen year old spirit twirl me around and around.
The atmosphere was certainly festive. The room was full of party sounds, peppy dance music, laughter, people shouting greetings to one another. So why was I feeling a little less than jolly?
I slowly realized where my feeling of sadness was coming from.
It's a little difficult to explain, actually. I sort of felt as though I was having a back to the future experience.
Does that make sense? It was as if I was that sixteen-year-old girl, at a school dance, having a premonition of what all of my friends would look like 50 years later.
Although I was on the dance floor dancing like it was 1969, the white-haired, no longer thin as a rail woman staring back at me from my reflection in the darkened ballroom window was a startling reminder of this rude incongruity between my older body and young at heart soul.
For a great many and various reasons, The Boardwalk Party dance this past weekend was the first one we have attended in quite a while.
As I glanced around the room I smiled at the couple who obviously had taken dance lessons 30 years ago and had perfected the fox trot. I giggled at the big guy in his Hawaiian shirt trying to get under the limbo stick. "How low can you go?" I was reminded that women will dance with each other in pairs or groups of three, four and five.
The band was great, the music was loud. It was nearly impossible to have a conversation. Ross leaned over and to get close to my ear, "Let me know if you want to get up to dance," he shouted. He apparently had noticed my feet tapping to the beat.
"Nah, I don't feel much like dancing," I said as I felt the melancholy begin to settle in. This time, my sadness was more complicated.
Then I felt a tug on my arm. I turned around to see a dear friend smiling down at me, motioning me to get up, "Come on," she said. She guided me over to where another dear friend was waiting for me.
The three of us had formed a bond about two years ago under the most difficult of times.
With wide grins pasted on our faces, we began to move in time to "Ride Sally Ride". Our heads bopped, our fingers snapped and our arms moved back and forth, up and down.
As the melconcoholy slowly melted away, I felt my sixteen year old spirit twirl me around and around.
Sunday, June 19, 2016
There’s More to The Story of Marymae
(1)
Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs. She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow. Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark.
We didn't stop to speak. In fact, there wasn't even a shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood. She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley. Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore. That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything. She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood. No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her, knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window. It's three times around the house. Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop. She was barefoot, no pink crocs. Her head was down, cradled in her arms. Her hair hung loose falling down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her. "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me. For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying. But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen. I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft, "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
(2)
Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk. Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up. He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes. She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door. Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the squeak of a door opening. I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog, she wasn't outside. I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a small compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes. It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion. Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie. "Bad idea. No. Nope. Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together when she interrupted me.
"Oops, gotta go. The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say goodbye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself. Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang. I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the front door side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door. "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon. The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs.
"This is Cray," Marymae said. "She's my son Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.
(3)
Without thinking, I put an arm around Marymae's shoulder and ushered her into the kitchen.
"Sit down," I said, pointing at the table. "I'll make us some tea."
She settled Cray down in the chair next to her.
"Cray, Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?" I asked.
The little girl turned towards her grandmother. "Can I?" She asked.
"May I?" Marymae corrected the child and then nodded.
I put the kettle on and then poured a tall glass of cold milk.
As I busied myself with the drinks I began chattering. I do that when I get nervous.
"It's a beautiful day today, isn't it? Green tea okay? Cray, how about a chocolate chip cookie?"
After getting everything onto the table, I sat down and poured tea for Marymae and me.
Cray made slurping noises as she drank her milk through a straw. After a few sips, she took a tiny bite out of the cookie.
She was a stunning looking child. She had her grandmother's bluest of blue eyes. Her hair was light, almost white, like cornsilk. I thought Marymae's hair was probably that exact color when she was Cray's age.
Still nervously chattering, I asked Cray how old she was, what grade she was in, what she liked to do. The standard questions one would ask a little girl.
Cray obediently and politely answered each question.
"I am eight and a half years old." She said. I'm going into the third grade in September."
She told me that she liked to read and climb trees.
Her grandmother glanced sideways at Cray when she talked about climbing trees.
"Grandma doesn't like me to do that," she said. "You know climb trees."
After Cray finished her milk and cookie, I asked her if she would like to explore the toy room.
That's what I call one of the spare bedrooms in my house. It's the room I keep all of the toys in for when my own grandchildren come to visit.
Cray looked at Marymae. "Is it okay?" she asked.
Marymae nodded and softly said yes.
Come on Cray, I took her by the hand and led her into the toy room.
When I came back into the kitchen Marymae's head was bowed, her hands were wrapped around her mug and she was staring into her tea.
"Marymae, I can see you are upset," I said. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"
She looked up at me and said, "You have such kind eyes," as if seeing me for the first time.
"I suppose I should start from the beginning," she sighed and then began to talk. Her eyes had a far-a-away look as if she were reliving each moment. I hardly uttered a word during it, holding my breath for fear that she might suddenly realize that I was in the room.
"I ran away from home when I was 14 years old. Well, actually Charlie's father and I ran away together. Paul was older than me. He was eighteen at the time. We were in love. You know teenage love can be blinding. I certainly was blinded by Paul.
My, he was handsome. Tall, well built. Paul's father, Enrico, ran a steady handy man business. Paul and his two older brothers helped out.
Enrico insisted Paul was to be the first in the family to go to college. Paul was smart and athletic. He had earned a full four-year academic scholarship and he made the baseball team.
We met the summer before he was to start his freshman year at an out of state university. He was helping his father and brothers install a new roof on our home.
I know that it is cliche to say that it was love at first sight, but that's what it was.
I clearly remember that very first time.
I was sitting in the back yard on the old wooden swing. Hmm, I haven't thought about that swing in a long time. My dad made it. He saw an ad in a magazine. "Build it yourself" the ad read. He sent away for the plans and it took him practically all summer to build the swing.
Anyway, Paul came into the backyard to get a ladder. We each saw each other at the exact same moment."
Marymae stopped talking and sat there smiling slightly.
Just then we heard a crash and then a scream, "Grandma, Grandma," cried Cray.
(4)
She was sitting on the floor, both hands holding onto her right ankle, a chair on its side next to her. The little girl was crying, saying "Ow, ow, it hurts, Grandma, it hurts. I want my daddy."
Puzzles and games were strewn all over the floor of the closet. Marymae kneeled down next to Cray.
She gently took Cray's hands away to looked at the child's foot. "It's going to be okay, Cray. It's alright, it's okay."
I ran to get an ice pack.
When I came back into the room, Marymae was sitting on the edge of the bed with her granddaughter cradled in her arms.
I handed her the ice pack and asked, "Is she okay?"
"She'll be fine," Marymae said. "Remember how she told you she likes to climb? Well, apparently there was a puzzle on the top shelf that she wanted to play with. I'd better get her home. I'm sorry about the mess. "
"No problem," I said. "You go, take care of Cray. I'm always here if you want to talk."
Over the next four weeks, Marymae came by on Tuesdays and Thursdays after she took Cray to summer day camp.
Each time she came she told me a little more of her story.
"Well, Paul and I did run away together that summer. We didn't get very far, though. We had no car. We hitchhiked and caught a ride over to the next town. Between the two of us, we had $23.00. I'm not sure who chickened out first, or I should say who came to their senses first, but Paul called his father from the corner phone booth to come get us.
My parents were furious, I was grounded for a week and forbidden to see Paul. But of course, over the summer, we did see each other as often as we could manage.
In August, Paul went away to school as planned and I started high school in September. At first, we wrote every day and called each other on the weekends. He told me about the parties he went to, the football games and how hard college was. By the end of the first semester, though, his letters were fewer and he usually had to cut our phone conversations short because he was getting ready to go somewhere or he had baseball practice or had to study."
"I think you can guess how the rest of the story went," she said.
"About a month before he was to come home for the summer, I got a 'Dear Marymae letter'. I was heartbroken and moped around the entire summer. But young life goes on.
He never knew about the baby boy I had to give up for adoption. "
Although I tried to remain expressionless, I'm sure my eyebrows raised a little when Marymae casually mentioned a baby. Or at first, it seemed a casual mention to me. But I could see the pain in her face, the tears gathering in her eyes.
She looked at her watch. "Oh, my I have to get going," she said.
I could tell that she actually didn't really "have to get going" but I knew that she needed a break before she continued on with her story.
:)
Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs. She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow. Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark.
We didn't stop to speak. In fact, there wasn't even a shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood. She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley. Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore. That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything. She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood. No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her, knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window. It's three times around the house. Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop. She was barefoot, no pink crocs. Her head was down, cradled in her arms. Her hair hung loose falling down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her. "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me. For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying. But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen. I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft, "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
(2)
Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk. Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up. He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes. She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door. Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the squeak of a door opening. I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog, she wasn't outside. I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a small compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes. It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion. Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie. "Bad idea. No. Nope. Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together when she interrupted me.
"Oops, gotta go. The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say goodbye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself. Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang. I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the front door side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door. "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon. The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs.
"This is Cray," Marymae said. "She's my son Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.
(3)
Without thinking, I put an arm around Marymae's shoulder and ushered her into the kitchen.
"Sit down," I said, pointing at the table. "I'll make us some tea."
She settled Cray down in the chair next to her.
"Cray, Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?" I asked.
The little girl turned towards her grandmother. "Can I?" She asked.
"May I?" Marymae corrected the child and then nodded.
I put the kettle on and then poured a tall glass of cold milk.
As I busied myself with the drinks I began chattering. I do that when I get nervous.
"It's a beautiful day today, isn't it? Green tea okay? Cray, how about a chocolate chip cookie?"
After getting everything onto the table, I sat down and poured tea for Marymae and me.
Cray made slurping noises as she drank her milk through a straw. After a few sips, she took a tiny bite out of the cookie.
She was a stunning looking child. She had her grandmother's bluest of blue eyes. Her hair was light, almost white, like cornsilk. I thought Marymae's hair was probably that exact color when she was Cray's age.
Still nervously chattering, I asked Cray how old she was, what grade she was in, what she liked to do. The standard questions one would ask a little girl.
Cray obediently and politely answered each question.
"I am eight and a half years old." She said. I'm going into the third grade in September."
She told me that she liked to read and climb trees.
Her grandmother glanced sideways at Cray when she talked about climbing trees.
"Grandma doesn't like me to do that," she said. "You know climb trees."
After Cray finished her milk and cookie, I asked her if she would like to explore the toy room.
That's what I call one of the spare bedrooms in my house. It's the room I keep all of the toys in for when my own grandchildren come to visit.
Cray looked at Marymae. "Is it okay?" she asked.
Marymae nodded and softly said yes.
Come on Cray, I took her by the hand and led her into the toy room.
When I came back into the kitchen Marymae's head was bowed, her hands were wrapped around her mug and she was staring into her tea.
"Marymae, I can see you are upset," I said. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"
She looked up at me and said, "You have such kind eyes," as if seeing me for the first time.
"I suppose I should start from the beginning," she sighed and then began to talk. Her eyes had a far-a-away look as if she were reliving each moment. I hardly uttered a word during it, holding my breath for fear that she might suddenly realize that I was in the room.
"I ran away from home when I was 14 years old. Well, actually Charlie's father and I ran away together. Paul was older than me. He was eighteen at the time. We were in love. You know teenage love can be blinding. I certainly was blinded by Paul.
My, he was handsome. Tall, well built. Paul's father, Enrico, ran a steady handy man business. Paul and his two older brothers helped out.
Enrico insisted Paul was to be the first in the family to go to college. Paul was smart and athletic. He had earned a full four-year academic scholarship and he made the baseball team.
We met the summer before he was to start his freshman year at an out of state university. He was helping his father and brothers install a new roof on our home.
I know that it is cliche to say that it was love at first sight, but that's what it was.
I clearly remember that very first time.
I was sitting in the back yard on the old wooden swing. Hmm, I haven't thought about that swing in a long time. My dad made it. He saw an ad in a magazine. "Build it yourself" the ad read. He sent away for the plans and it took him practically all summer to build the swing.
Anyway, Paul came into the backyard to get a ladder. We each saw each other at the exact same moment."
Marymae stopped talking and sat there smiling slightly.
Just then we heard a crash and then a scream, "Grandma, Grandma," cried Cray.
(4)
She was sitting on the floor, both hands holding onto her right ankle, a chair on its side next to her. The little girl was crying, saying "Ow, ow, it hurts, Grandma, it hurts. I want my daddy."
Puzzles and games were strewn all over the floor of the closet. Marymae kneeled down next to Cray.
She gently took Cray's hands away to looked at the child's foot. "It's going to be okay, Cray. It's alright, it's okay."
I ran to get an ice pack.
When I came back into the room, Marymae was sitting on the edge of the bed with her granddaughter cradled in her arms.
I handed her the ice pack and asked, "Is she okay?"
"She'll be fine," Marymae said. "Remember how she told you she likes to climb? Well, apparently there was a puzzle on the top shelf that she wanted to play with. I'd better get her home. I'm sorry about the mess. "
"No problem," I said. "You go, take care of Cray. I'm always here if you want to talk."
Over the next four weeks, Marymae came by on Tuesdays and Thursdays after she took Cray to summer day camp.
Each time she came she told me a little more of her story.
"Well, Paul and I did run away together that summer. We didn't get very far, though. We had no car. We hitchhiked and caught a ride over to the next town. Between the two of us, we had $23.00. I'm not sure who chickened out first, or I should say who came to their senses first, but Paul called his father from the corner phone booth to come get us.
My parents were furious, I was grounded for a week and forbidden to see Paul. But of course, over the summer, we did see each other as often as we could manage.
In August, Paul went away to school as planned and I started high school in September. At first, we wrote every day and called each other on the weekends. He told me about the parties he went to, the football games and how hard college was. By the end of the first semester, though, his letters were fewer and he usually had to cut our phone conversations short because he was getting ready to go somewhere or he had baseball practice or had to study."
"I think you can guess how the rest of the story went," she said.
"About a month before he was to come home for the summer, I got a 'Dear Marymae letter'. I was heartbroken and moped around the entire summer. But young life goes on.
He never knew about the baby boy I had to give up for adoption. "
Although I tried to remain expressionless, I'm sure my eyebrows raised a little when Marymae casually mentioned a baby. Or at first, it seemed a casual mention to me. But I could see the pain in her face, the tears gathering in her eyes.
She looked at her watch. "Oh, my I have to get going," she said.
I could tell that she actually didn't really "have to get going" but I knew that she needed a break before she continued on with her story.
:)
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
How Are You Doing, Really Doing?
It's been a while since someone asked me, "How are you doing?" I don't mean the rhetorical "How are you doing"? No, not the one that has become more of a greeting which most people respond to by saying, "Fine and you?"
Oh, sure there is always that person who takes the question at face value and proceeds to explain at length and in detail how they are doing. But most of us understand what response is expected.
For a short time after my son passed away, I was asked the question quite often. At that time, I think most who asked me how I was doing were ready with an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on and a hug.
It's been over 4 years since Joe passed away and I rarely get asked, "How are you doing, really doing?"
It seems that acknowledgment of my grief has been relegated to his birthday, the anniversary of his death and holidays, especially mother's day.
I guess most folks assume I am "Fine thank you," especially when they see my cheery Facebook posts or watch me smiling and joking on our "Sundays with Lynda & Ross podcasts.
And to tell you the truth if someone were to ask me, "How are you doing, really doing?" I don't think I would be able to truthfully answer because, you see, it's been awhile since I've had the courage to ask myself that question.
Oh, sure there is always that person who takes the question at face value and proceeds to explain at length and in detail how they are doing. But most of us understand what response is expected.
For a short time after my son passed away, I was asked the question quite often. At that time, I think most who asked me how I was doing were ready with an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on and a hug.
It's been over 4 years since Joe passed away and I rarely get asked, "How are you doing, really doing?"
It seems that acknowledgment of my grief has been relegated to his birthday, the anniversary of his death and holidays, especially mother's day.
I guess most folks assume I am "Fine thank you," especially when they see my cheery Facebook posts or watch me smiling and joking on our "Sundays with Lynda & Ross podcasts.
And to tell you the truth if someone were to ask me, "How are you doing, really doing?" I don't think I would be able to truthfully answer because, you see, it's been awhile since I've had the courage to ask myself that question.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
This Is What Happened Next - The Story of Me and Marymae
(1)
Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs. She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow. Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark.
We didn't stop to speak. In fact, there wasn't even a shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood. She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley. Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore. That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything. She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood. No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her, knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window. It's three times around the house. Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop. She was barefoot, no pink crocs. Her head was down, cradled in her arms. Her hair hung loose falling down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her. "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me. For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying. But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen. I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft, "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
(2)
Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk. Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up. He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes. She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door. Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the squeak of a door opening. I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog, she wasn't outside. I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a small compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes. It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion. Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie. "Bad idea. No. Nope. Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together when she interrupted me.
"Oops, gotta go. The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say goodbye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself. Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang. I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the front door side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door. "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon. The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs.
"This is Cray," Marymae said. "She's my son Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.
(3)
Without thinking, I put an arm around Marymae's shoulder and ushered her into the kitchen.
"Sit down," I said, pointing at the table. "I'll make us some tea."
She settled Cray down in the chair next to her.
"Cray, Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?" I asked.
The little girl turned towards her grandmother. "Can I?" She asked.
"May I?" Marymae corrected the child and then nodded.
I put the kettle on and then poured a tall glass of cold milk.
As I busied myself with the drinks I began chattering. I do that when I get nervous.
"It's a beautiful day today, isn't it? Green tea okay? Cray, how about a chocolate chip cookie?"
After getting everything onto the table, I sat down and poured tea for Marymae and me.
Cray made slurping noises as she drank her milk through a straw. After a few sips, she took a tiny bite out of the cookie.
She was a stunning looking child. She had her grandmother's bluest of blue eyes. Her hair was light, almost white, like cornsilk. I thought Marymae's hair was probably that exact color when she was Cray's age.
Still nervously chattering, I asked Cray how old she was, what grade she was in, what she liked to do. The standard questions one would ask a little girl.
Cray obediently and politely answered each question.
"I am eight and a half years old." She said. I'm going into the third grade in September."
She told me that she liked to read and climb trees.
Her grandmother glanced sideways at Cray when she talked about climbing trees.
"Grandma doesn't like me to do that," she said. "You know climb trees."
After Cray finished her milk and cookie, I asked her if she would like to explore the toy room.
That's what I call one of the spare bedrooms in my house. It's the room I keep all of the toys in for when my own grandchildren come to visit.
Cray looked at Marymae. "Is it okay?" she asked.
Marymae nodded and softly said yes.
Come on Cray, I took her by the hand and led her into the toy room.
When I came back into the kitchen Marymae's head was bowed, her hands were wrapped around her mug and she was staring into her tea.
"Marymae, I can see you are upset," I said. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"
She looked up at me and said, "You have such kind eyes," as if seeing me for the first time.
"I suppose I should start from the beginning," she sighed and then began to talk. Her eyes had a far-a-away look as if she were reliving each moment. I hardly uttered a word during it, holding my breath for fear that she might suddenly realize that I was in the room.
"I ran away from home when I was 14 years old. Well actually Charlie's father and I ran away together. Paul was older than me. He was eighteen at the time. We were in love. You know teenage love can be blinding. I certainly was blinded by Paul.
My, he was handsome. Tall, well built. Paul's father Enrico ran a steady handy man business. Paul and his two older brothers helped out.
Enrico insisted Paul was to be the first in the family to go to college. Paul was smart and athletic. He had earned a full four year academic scholarship and he made the baseball team.
We met the summer before he was to start his freshman year at an out of state university. He was helping his father and brothers install a new roof on our home.
I know that it is cliche to say that it was love at first sight, but that's what it was.
I clearly remember that very first time.
I was sitting in the back yard on the old wooden swing. Hmm, I haven't thought about that swing in a long time. My dad made it. He saw an ad in a magazine. "Build it yourself" the ad read. He sent away for the plans and it took him practically all summer to build the swing.
Anyway, Paul came into the backyard to get a ladder. We each saw each other at the exact same moment."
Marymae stopped talking and sat there smililng slightly.
Just then we heard a crash and then a scream, "Grandma, grandma," cried Cray.
Do you want to know the rest of Marymae's story?
Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs. She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow. Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark.
We didn't stop to speak. In fact, there wasn't even a shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood. She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley. Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore. That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything. She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood. No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her, knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window. It's three times around the house. Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop. She was barefoot, no pink crocs. Her head was down, cradled in her arms. Her hair hung loose falling down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her. "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me. For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying. But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen. I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft, "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
(2)
Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk. Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up. He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes. She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door. Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the squeak of a door opening. I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog, she wasn't outside. I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a small compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes. It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion. Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie. "Bad idea. No. Nope. Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together when she interrupted me.
"Oops, gotta go. The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say goodbye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself. Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang. I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the front door side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door. "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon. The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs.
"This is Cray," Marymae said. "She's my son Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.
(3)
Without thinking, I put an arm around Marymae's shoulder and ushered her into the kitchen.
"Sit down," I said, pointing at the table. "I'll make us some tea."
She settled Cray down in the chair next to her.
"Cray, Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?" I asked.
The little girl turned towards her grandmother. "Can I?" She asked.
"May I?" Marymae corrected the child and then nodded.
I put the kettle on and then poured a tall glass of cold milk.
As I busied myself with the drinks I began chattering. I do that when I get nervous.
"It's a beautiful day today, isn't it? Green tea okay? Cray, how about a chocolate chip cookie?"
After getting everything onto the table, I sat down and poured tea for Marymae and me.
Cray made slurping noises as she drank her milk through a straw. After a few sips, she took a tiny bite out of the cookie.
She was a stunning looking child. She had her grandmother's bluest of blue eyes. Her hair was light, almost white, like cornsilk. I thought Marymae's hair was probably that exact color when she was Cray's age.
Still nervously chattering, I asked Cray how old she was, what grade she was in, what she liked to do. The standard questions one would ask a little girl.
Cray obediently and politely answered each question.
"I am eight and a half years old." She said. I'm going into the third grade in September."
She told me that she liked to read and climb trees.
Her grandmother glanced sideways at Cray when she talked about climbing trees.
"Grandma doesn't like me to do that," she said. "You know climb trees."
After Cray finished her milk and cookie, I asked her if she would like to explore the toy room.
That's what I call one of the spare bedrooms in my house. It's the room I keep all of the toys in for when my own grandchildren come to visit.
Cray looked at Marymae. "Is it okay?" she asked.
Marymae nodded and softly said yes.
Come on Cray, I took her by the hand and led her into the toy room.
When I came back into the kitchen Marymae's head was bowed, her hands were wrapped around her mug and she was staring into her tea.
"Marymae, I can see you are upset," I said. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"
She looked up at me and said, "You have such kind eyes," as if seeing me for the first time.
"I suppose I should start from the beginning," she sighed and then began to talk. Her eyes had a far-a-away look as if she were reliving each moment. I hardly uttered a word during it, holding my breath for fear that she might suddenly realize that I was in the room.
"I ran away from home when I was 14 years old. Well actually Charlie's father and I ran away together. Paul was older than me. He was eighteen at the time. We were in love. You know teenage love can be blinding. I certainly was blinded by Paul.
My, he was handsome. Tall, well built. Paul's father Enrico ran a steady handy man business. Paul and his two older brothers helped out.
Enrico insisted Paul was to be the first in the family to go to college. Paul was smart and athletic. He had earned a full four year academic scholarship and he made the baseball team.
We met the summer before he was to start his freshman year at an out of state university. He was helping his father and brothers install a new roof on our home.
I know that it is cliche to say that it was love at first sight, but that's what it was.
I clearly remember that very first time.
I was sitting in the back yard on the old wooden swing. Hmm, I haven't thought about that swing in a long time. My dad made it. He saw an ad in a magazine. "Build it yourself" the ad read. He sent away for the plans and it took him practically all summer to build the swing.
Anyway, Paul came into the backyard to get a ladder. We each saw each other at the exact same moment."
Marymae stopped talking and sat there smililng slightly.
Just then we heard a crash and then a scream, "Grandma, grandma," cried Cray.
Do you want to know the rest of Marymae's story?
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
No, Not Mañana
It's Tuesday. Tuesday is the regular day I post on my blog. Actually, this post makes it two Tuesdays in a row, so I would say that makes it regular.
I've been having a lot of fun with our YouTube podcast, called "Sundays With Lynda & Ross". In case you missed the latest episode, you can find episode 8 here.
Ross and I do not take this podcast or ourselves seriously. No, not at all.
For me, although the filming is enjoyable and I get a kick out of watching us on "TV", I find the process of editing and enhancing the video to be a creative endeavor. I discovered a good amount of free downloadable background music available on YouTube. Another toy for me to play with.
Temporarily my iMac is set up in my dining room. I call it the studio.
It takes me hours to process the film and it doesn't always go smoothly.
For instance yesterday, I started working on the raw footage at around 3:00 in the afternoon. We usually record for over an hour and I've been steadily trying to get the finished video down to under 20 minutes. So most of what we record winds up, as they say, on the cutting room floor.
Anyway, yesterday evening at about 8:30, after 5-1/2 hours of working on the video, I was ready to begin the export from iMovie to a file on my hard drive. I clicked on the export button and got an error message. A vague error message at that. I was very upset and extremely frustrated.
Ross heard my "oh, no!" He told me to close up shop. "Work on it tomorrow," he said.
But I couldn't let it go. Why? Because that's the way I am. I can be a bit obsessive, especially when there is a puzzle to solve.
I won't go into the gory details, but suffice it say, I didn't give up until I fixed it. That was at 1:30 a.m.
As I said to Ross this morning, I wouldn't have been able to sleep if I hadn't gotten it to work.
By the way, this latest video is under 10 minutes, <patting myself on the back>.
I've been having a lot of fun with our YouTube podcast, called "Sundays With Lynda & Ross". In case you missed the latest episode, you can find episode 8 here.
Ross and I do not take this podcast or ourselves seriously. No, not at all.
For me, although the filming is enjoyable and I get a kick out of watching us on "TV", I find the process of editing and enhancing the video to be a creative endeavor. I discovered a good amount of free downloadable background music available on YouTube. Another toy for me to play with.
Temporarily my iMac is set up in my dining room. I call it the studio.
It takes me hours to process the film and it doesn't always go smoothly.
For instance yesterday, I started working on the raw footage at around 3:00 in the afternoon. We usually record for over an hour and I've been steadily trying to get the finished video down to under 20 minutes. So most of what we record winds up, as they say, on the cutting room floor.
Anyway, yesterday evening at about 8:30, after 5-1/2 hours of working on the video, I was ready to begin the export from iMovie to a file on my hard drive. I clicked on the export button and got an error message. A vague error message at that. I was very upset and extremely frustrated.
Ross heard my "oh, no!" He told me to close up shop. "Work on it tomorrow," he said.
But I couldn't let it go. Why? Because that's the way I am. I can be a bit obsessive, especially when there is a puzzle to solve.
I won't go into the gory details, but suffice it say, I didn't give up until I fixed it. That was at 1:30 a.m.
As I said to Ross this morning, I wouldn't have been able to sleep if I hadn't gotten it to work.
By the way, this latest video is under 10 minutes, <patting myself on the back>.
Friday, June 3, 2016
Continuing on - And Then… The Story of Me and Marymae
Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs. She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow. Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark.
We didn't stop to speak. In fact, there wasn't even a shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood. She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley. Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore. That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything. She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood. No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her, knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window. It's three times around the house. Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop. She was barefoot, no pink crocs. Her head was down, cradled in her arms. Her hair was loose hanging down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her. "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me. For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying. But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen. I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft, "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk. Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up. He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes. She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door. Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the sqeak of a door opening. I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog, she wasn't outside. I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a little compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes. It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion. Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie. "Bad idea. No. Nope. Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together, when she interruppted me.
"Oops, gotta go. The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say good-bye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself. Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang. I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the frontdoor side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door. "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon. The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs. She had the bluest of eyes.
"This is Cray," Marymae said. "She's my son, Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.
Should I go on?
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark.
We didn't stop to speak. In fact, there wasn't even a shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood. She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley. Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore. That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything. She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood. No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her, knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window. It's three times around the house. Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop. She was barefoot, no pink crocs. Her head was down, cradled in her arms. Her hair was loose hanging down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her. "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me. For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying. But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen. I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft, "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk. Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up. He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes. She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door. Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the sqeak of a door opening. I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog, she wasn't outside. I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a little compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes. It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion. Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie. "Bad idea. No. Nope. Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together, when she interruppted me.
"Oops, gotta go. The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say good-bye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself. Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang. I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the frontdoor side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door. "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon. The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs. She had the bluest of eyes.
"This is Cray," Marymae said. "She's my son, Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.
Should I go on?
Thursday, June 2, 2016
The Story of Me and Marymae
Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs. She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow. Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked the dog.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house.
We didn't stop to speak. In fact, there wasn't even a shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood. She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley. Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore. That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything. She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood. No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her, knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window. It's three times around the house. Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop. She was barefoot, no pink crocs. Her head was down, cradled in her arms. Her hair was loose hanging down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her. "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me. For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying. But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen. I wondered why I'd never noticed that before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft, "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
To be continued?
Every morning at 6:00, I walked the dog.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house.
We didn't stop to speak. In fact, there wasn't even a shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood. She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley. Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore. That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything. She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood. No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her, knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window. It's three times around the house. Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop. She was barefoot, no pink crocs. Her head was down, cradled in her arms. Her hair was loose hanging down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her. "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me. For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying. But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen. I wondered why I'd never noticed that before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft, "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
To be continued?
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