Do you believe in ghosts?
With me, it's not so much believing as it is not being able to deny their existence.
I have seen and heard and even, once, touched them; what I can't figure out is, "Why me?"
I don't have any other claims to the supernatural: I'm not prescient or clairvoyant; I can't read palms, cards, or tea leaves; I don't have visions. But I do have ghosts.
The first one was my mother. I awoke one night to see her half-body hovering over my bed (I know this sounds crazy but it really happened)taking pictures of Tom who lay beside me. I was sceptical, figured it was a dream, but it felt so REAL. I pinched myself to be certain I was awake!? I was. Strangely, although I was sure it was my mother, the ghost looked nothing like her. Mom was classically American Indian with high cheekbones, flashing dark eyes, black hair and dark complexion; this woman was almost cherubic with blond hair and pink cheeks yet I felt certain who she was.
I only saw the top of her body; she was wearing a perfectly pink angora short-sleeved sweater.
I can hear you scoffing!
When she disappeared I woke Tom up excitedly and told him what I'd seen. He scoffed too and said it had to have been a dream. I came down from the high and had to agree. It couldn't have really happened the way I thought it did??
Morning came and the first thing I did was check the place I'd pinched myself. Sure enough, there was a bruise.
I went upstairs to wake my three daughters, they were 2-3-4 years old then, and as soon as I said, "Good morning," my middle daughter sat straight up in her bed. That surprised me immediately because usually Beckie was my little slug.
"Is she still here," she asked all a-flutter.
"Is who here, Beck?"
"The PINK LADY!! She said she would stay."
Our house in Detroit's East English Village was haunted with at least three ghosts who talked to us. My eldest daughter, Amy, was the first to broach the subject. She was living with us as an adult having returned to MI after teaching in FL for a number of years and asked if anyone besides her ever heard 'a voice' calling our names. She had; it happened more than once that she would hear her name called clear as a bell, would answer and get up to welcome whomever "it" was only to find no one there!?
At that point none of the rest of us had heard any such thing.
But after Amy left the voice started calling out to me, then to Tom, and finally to my youngest daughter Suzy. It was a friendly young adult man we heard.
Then a young woman started calling out to Tom. I did finally hear her too but for awhile she only spoke to him.
The first time my granddaughter Olivia slept over I heard a child call out to both of us.
The voices were pleasant but always held a question in their timbre.
Then a REALLY weird thing happened. Tom and I were in Florida visiting friends over Easter break when Suzy called with this story:
She was home sick from work. Had a horrible flu bug with a high temperature, chills, vomiting, the dire rear.... As she lay in bed a presence hovered over her rendering it impossible to move. It was an amorphous dark blob, like having a cloud inches from her face. Even though she was literally paralyzed she felt no fear. She watched the presence pass over her whole body very slowly from head to toe then disappear. Once gone, she could move again and, sitting up, realized her flu was gone as well! She went from being sick as the proverbial dog to feeling entirely A-OK!?
I too saw that presence late one night in our bedroom. I got up to use the lav and as I came around the end of the bed I literally ran smack dab into it! I jumped back like I'd touched fire though the cloud-like blob was cold as ice!? "What the f--- was THAT?" I shouted aloud and when I did it evaporated into thin air.
There are other examples like the ghosts sabotaging the sale of our home the first time we offered it, Amy's wedding pictures clearly showing two ghosts sharing the altar with her and Bill at their wedding, ghosts in the pictures at Tom's mother's 80th AND 90th birthday parties, ghosts in my classroom pictures from Highland Park and East Catholic High School....
When we finally decided to move to Florida and tried a second time to sell our house we assured the ghosts they were welcome to come to Florida with us. This time there were no other-worldly impediments to the sale and here we are.
We've been in this house for three and a half years, ghost-less. BUT, and there's always that big but, last night someone called out to me and it wasn't Suzy or her fiance Thom.
They're baaacckkkkk.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday Supper
Pot roast.
Makes you feel good just reading those words, doesn't it?
Would you believe that when I was a little girl my mother told me only poor people ate pot roast??! She really did, but, well... I also told you that she was an alcoholic and, therefore, one might correctly assume, not always in her right mind.
The first meal Tom's mother cooked for me was the aforementioned. At 17, I was shocked but tried not to show it on my face. Two bites were enough to tell me that Mom was obviously crazed; this was Good Stuff.
I'm loling as I write because, at that first meal on Farm Brook in Detroit, two bites were truly all I got to eat. Dinner at Tom's was quite different from dinner at my house. In the amount of time it generally took my family to politely pass the food around the table while everyone filled their plates, Tom's was entirely done!
It was like eating with Speedy Gonzales and family!?
When I saw his mom start clearing her plate and his sister's too I figured the right thing would be to stop eating so I did.
It was the best two-bite meal I ever had!
At home, there were usually six of us dining and EVERYONE had to tell a story about something interesting or funny they had learned or something that happened to them during the day. If you claimed 'nothing happened' then my dad would insist you chronicle the precise progression of your day starting with "the alarm clock rang at 6:48AM" and ending with "I sat down for dinner at "6:30PM."
Six people each recounting a diverting anecdote, everyone responding to it, questions asked and answered for clarification purposes... dinner was never shorter than an hour in length.
I didn't have a stopwatch so I can't give you a precise number of minutes First Dinner at Tom's took but I think "seven" would probably be a safe guess.
Since that first, albeit brief, introduction to pot roast I have always been a fan.
It's the perfect meal, is it not, on a cold day, a wet day or just simply Sunday?
It's the best of all the Diner Food we serve regularly. Spaghetti falls into that category as does meatloaf, kielbasa and sauerkraut, cheeseburgers, Coney dogs, mac and cheese.
Who doesn't like diner food?? It's hot and satisfying, full of flavor, kind to the pocketbook and universally enjoyed.
It's mmm mmm good, Mom's bias notwithstanding.
Makes you feel good just reading those words, doesn't it?
Would you believe that when I was a little girl my mother told me only poor people ate pot roast??! She really did, but, well... I also told you that she was an alcoholic and, therefore, one might correctly assume, not always in her right mind.
The first meal Tom's mother cooked for me was the aforementioned. At 17, I was shocked but tried not to show it on my face. Two bites were enough to tell me that Mom was obviously crazed; this was Good Stuff.
I'm loling as I write because, at that first meal on Farm Brook in Detroit, two bites were truly all I got to eat. Dinner at Tom's was quite different from dinner at my house. In the amount of time it generally took my family to politely pass the food around the table while everyone filled their plates, Tom's was entirely done!
It was like eating with Speedy Gonzales and family!?
When I saw his mom start clearing her plate and his sister's too I figured the right thing would be to stop eating so I did.
It was the best two-bite meal I ever had!
At home, there were usually six of us dining and EVERYONE had to tell a story about something interesting or funny they had learned or something that happened to them during the day. If you claimed 'nothing happened' then my dad would insist you chronicle the precise progression of your day starting with "the alarm clock rang at 6:48AM" and ending with "I sat down for dinner at "6:30PM."
Six people each recounting a diverting anecdote, everyone responding to it, questions asked and answered for clarification purposes... dinner was never shorter than an hour in length.
I didn't have a stopwatch so I can't give you a precise number of minutes First Dinner at Tom's took but I think "seven" would probably be a safe guess.
Since that first, albeit brief, introduction to pot roast I have always been a fan.
It's the perfect meal, is it not, on a cold day, a wet day or just simply Sunday?
It's the best of all the Diner Food we serve regularly. Spaghetti falls into that category as does meatloaf, kielbasa and sauerkraut, cheeseburgers, Coney dogs, mac and cheese.
Who doesn't like diner food?? It's hot and satisfying, full of flavor, kind to the pocketbook and universally enjoyed.
It's mmm mmm good, Mom's bias notwithstanding.
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Widow Judy and Friend
The Widow Judy took off on her own today!
I've been wanting to go to the John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art and just sort of hang out there. It's a lovely venue - 66 acres in toto - with one of the top 20 art museums in the U.S., a circus museum, the Ca d'Zan (KAH duh zahn) mansion which was the Ringling's home in Sarasota, a couple of education centers, the Florida State University Center For The Performing Arts, and lots of gardens for sitting and contemplating one's navel.
I bought an associate membership so now I can go as often as I like!
Because the campus is hugh they have a dozen or so oversized golf carts to tote you from one area to the next. I REALLY like that even if the drivers tend to be loquacious and madmen besides. I don't know how fast the carts actually go but on all the twisty paths it feels almost dangerous!
I like a little danger with my art.
I've been there three or four times in the past but always with other people; going alone made it an adventure for me. No one knew what I was up to... not even me... and I could take as much time as I liked with the life-sized naked statues in the courtyard!! Tom's been gone for two months now and, frankly, I have been missing seeing a naked man.
I got the recorded casette but gave up on it after Gallery Nine. It was just too sensitive for me to operate and, also, I didn't actually care all that much what other people had to say about the art collection. Like many people, I don't know a lot about art but I know what I like and that was enough for me for now.
The museum itself is very lovely, very impressive. So is the collection. I could sit in any of the gallery rooms and simply 'be' quite happily. I don't paint but I would like to. My sister Karen and I planned to take art lessons together when we retired but she up and died at 45 leaving me, now, to my own devices.
There are lots of natural outdoor areas perfect for sketching. I'm thinking I might just get a pad and some soft pencils, sit myself down and see what happens. One of the drivers, not Stan, told me HE started art classes when he retired four years ago....
If I could live at the Ca d'Zan, I would. You've probably seen it yourself and never even knew it because it's been featured as a locale in a goodly number of movies. The Ringlings supposedly built it in the Venetian Gothic style having loved homes they'd seen in their travels on the Continent but to me it's less Venetian and more North African influenced. There are spires and domes and porticos and all manner of arches; the colors are hot and strange and sun-baked; the windows are squares of pastel-hued glass that make everyone look harlequinesque as they pass by; the ceilings are a miracle of inventiveness and have unique pictures encompassed within, many circus-inspired.
Altogether it's a strange and wonderful place.
I sat on the vast marble terrace this afternoon and enjoyed the view without and within. There are 25-30 umbrella tables out there each with 4-6 heavy armchairs; I took just one chair for myself and turned it so that I was looking at the house enjoying the architecture and watching the people and their outfits add diamond pastel squares when they walked by the windows (so amusing!). I was giggling to myself because I was sure the people inside had no idea they were clowns when something very strange happened. It was a windy day and the terrace is directly on the water so it was even blowier there than elsewhere in Sarasota. One chair, ONE CHAIR of all the hundred plus on the patio, spontaneously moved crosswise for probably 50 feet until it came to rest directly beside mine. I reached out and patted it saying, "Hi, Tom. Glad you could be here with me." Then I turned both chairs to face the water view and just sat there for a few minutes being still. It was a moment.
That was my signal to Say Goodnight Gracie so I headed around to the front and rode back to the entrance with "John" behind the wheel. He was chatting and I know I answered him and smiled while he talked but I have no idea what he said or what I said. I was thinking about Tom and his being with me on my adventure. It was very nice having a pal there after all.
I've been wanting to go to the John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art and just sort of hang out there. It's a lovely venue - 66 acres in toto - with one of the top 20 art museums in the U.S., a circus museum, the Ca d'Zan (KAH duh zahn) mansion which was the Ringling's home in Sarasota, a couple of education centers, the Florida State University Center For The Performing Arts, and lots of gardens for sitting and contemplating one's navel.
I bought an associate membership so now I can go as often as I like!
Because the campus is hugh they have a dozen or so oversized golf carts to tote you from one area to the next. I REALLY like that even if the drivers tend to be loquacious and madmen besides. I don't know how fast the carts actually go but on all the twisty paths it feels almost dangerous!
I like a little danger with my art.
I've been there three or four times in the past but always with other people; going alone made it an adventure for me. No one knew what I was up to... not even me... and I could take as much time as I liked with the life-sized naked statues in the courtyard!! Tom's been gone for two months now and, frankly, I have been missing seeing a naked man.
I got the recorded casette but gave up on it after Gallery Nine. It was just too sensitive for me to operate and, also, I didn't actually care all that much what other people had to say about the art collection. Like many people, I don't know a lot about art but I know what I like and that was enough for me for now.
The museum itself is very lovely, very impressive. So is the collection. I could sit in any of the gallery rooms and simply 'be' quite happily. I don't paint but I would like to. My sister Karen and I planned to take art lessons together when we retired but she up and died at 45 leaving me, now, to my own devices.
There are lots of natural outdoor areas perfect for sketching. I'm thinking I might just get a pad and some soft pencils, sit myself down and see what happens. One of the drivers, not Stan, told me HE started art classes when he retired four years ago....
If I could live at the Ca d'Zan, I would. You've probably seen it yourself and never even knew it because it's been featured as a locale in a goodly number of movies. The Ringlings supposedly built it in the Venetian Gothic style having loved homes they'd seen in their travels on the Continent but to me it's less Venetian and more North African influenced. There are spires and domes and porticos and all manner of arches; the colors are hot and strange and sun-baked; the windows are squares of pastel-hued glass that make everyone look harlequinesque as they pass by; the ceilings are a miracle of inventiveness and have unique pictures encompassed within, many circus-inspired.
Altogether it's a strange and wonderful place.
I sat on the vast marble terrace this afternoon and enjoyed the view without and within. There are 25-30 umbrella tables out there each with 4-6 heavy armchairs; I took just one chair for myself and turned it so that I was looking at the house enjoying the architecture and watching the people and their outfits add diamond pastel squares when they walked by the windows (so amusing!). I was giggling to myself because I was sure the people inside had no idea they were clowns when something very strange happened. It was a windy day and the terrace is directly on the water so it was even blowier there than elsewhere in Sarasota. One chair, ONE CHAIR of all the hundred plus on the patio, spontaneously moved crosswise for probably 50 feet until it came to rest directly beside mine. I reached out and patted it saying, "Hi, Tom. Glad you could be here with me." Then I turned both chairs to face the water view and just sat there for a few minutes being still. It was a moment.
That was my signal to Say Goodnight Gracie so I headed around to the front and rode back to the entrance with "John" behind the wheel. He was chatting and I know I answered him and smiled while he talked but I have no idea what he said or what I said. I was thinking about Tom and his being with me on my adventure. It was very nice having a pal there after all.
FEEDJIT
I'm totally fascinated by this "Feedjit" live traffic feed on the blog.
It's so cool to see people come in and out in real time!
Some of the places listed I recognize as towns of relatives and friends but there are a whole bunch of others signing on from places I have never been and where I know not a soul!?
How did these people find The Widow Judy and what are they thinking as they read about me and mine?
I would love to know the answers to those questions.
So... if you've never met me but are reading this would you please leave a note in the comments when you're ready to clue me in as to who you are, how you came to find the blog and what keeps you coming back?
You can remain anonymous if you like but if you are comfortable telling me about yourself that would be fine too.
I really appreciate that there are people out there who want to read the blog, both the ones I know and the ones I don't. Please keep on coming back and - next time - bring your friends!
It's so cool to see people come in and out in real time!
Some of the places listed I recognize as towns of relatives and friends but there are a whole bunch of others signing on from places I have never been and where I know not a soul!?
How did these people find The Widow Judy and what are they thinking as they read about me and mine?
I would love to know the answers to those questions.
So... if you've never met me but are reading this would you please leave a note in the comments when you're ready to clue me in as to who you are, how you came to find the blog and what keeps you coming back?
You can remain anonymous if you like but if you are comfortable telling me about yourself that would be fine too.
I really appreciate that there are people out there who want to read the blog, both the ones I know and the ones I don't. Please keep on coming back and - next time - bring your friends!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
How The Mighty Have Fallen
Scrabble is my game.
That makes sense because I love words and writing and correct spelling... all that makes me happy-in-my-face.
Suddenly, however, my upstart daughters and nieces are challenging me!? IN MY WIDOWHOOD!? What is wrong with this picture?
They apparently didn't get the memo saying you're supposed to be kind to those who have faced traumatic loss; not ONE of them will give me any quarter whatsoever.
I know the why of it - I wouldn't give THEM a break either - but that is so not the point! Am I not suffering? Am I not pathetic? Do I not deserve a break??
Yet they persist in improving. It's not right.
I'm flummoxed by this turn of events. I created these monsters and now they're turning on me. We all share this deep pool of competitive spirit and -damn 'em-they're drinking from my well and sucking it dry!
My father lived and taught the words of Vince Lombardi - that winning wasn't the best thing it was the ONLY thing - before Vince ever made them famous. I bought that philosophy hook, line and sinker; until now, however, I've never seen this obsessive "need to win" in the next generation. I thought I had effectively ameliorated that less-than-sterling aspect of being a Davidge amongst my darling girls but - clearly - genes will out.
Why now? Why Scrabble?
Why couldn't they have used their powers for good and climbed a corporate ladder or built a better mousetrap instead of usurping my hard-won crown?
Ingrates, that's what they are. I taught them everything they know and now they're using it against me.
That's just mean.
Sure, I'm down now but they better watch their backs. The Widow Judy is fighting hard and will reclaim that #1 ranking on Facebook! Watch and learn, girls; watch and learn. There's life in this old dog yet.
That makes sense because I love words and writing and correct spelling... all that makes me happy-in-my-face.
Suddenly, however, my upstart daughters and nieces are challenging me!? IN MY WIDOWHOOD!? What is wrong with this picture?
They apparently didn't get the memo saying you're supposed to be kind to those who have faced traumatic loss; not ONE of them will give me any quarter whatsoever.
I know the why of it - I wouldn't give THEM a break either - but that is so not the point! Am I not suffering? Am I not pathetic? Do I not deserve a break??
Yet they persist in improving. It's not right.
I'm flummoxed by this turn of events. I created these monsters and now they're turning on me. We all share this deep pool of competitive spirit and -damn 'em-they're drinking from my well and sucking it dry!
My father lived and taught the words of Vince Lombardi - that winning wasn't the best thing it was the ONLY thing - before Vince ever made them famous. I bought that philosophy hook, line and sinker; until now, however, I've never seen this obsessive "need to win" in the next generation. I thought I had effectively ameliorated that less-than-sterling aspect of being a Davidge amongst my darling girls but - clearly - genes will out.
Why now? Why Scrabble?
Why couldn't they have used their powers for good and climbed a corporate ladder or built a better mousetrap instead of usurping my hard-won crown?
Ingrates, that's what they are. I taught them everything they know and now they're using it against me.
That's just mean.
Sure, I'm down now but they better watch their backs. The Widow Judy is fighting hard and will reclaim that #1 ranking on Facebook! Watch and learn, girls; watch and learn. There's life in this old dog yet.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Ready, Set, Go!
Well...
I'm in my bathing suit, got my beach hat on AND my Jellies. All I have to do is simply bring my book out to the lanai and sit in the sun or - maybe, even - drive to the beach and sit by the water's edge.
WHY IS THIS SO HARD?
Haven't been on the lanai yet that I haven't burst into tears; that's just so silly.
When you live in southwest Florida the pool and the beach aren't optional they are de rigeur!
Some self-talk is in order. I can do it, there's no doubt about that. But I seem to be caught somewhere between the moon and New York City every time I make a plan to 'git 'er done'.
Any little diversion will do to send me off in another direction. So far today I've used dusting, arranging my shoes by color and style in the closet, chatting on Facebook and playing Scrabble there.
Blogging is my Last Ditch. When I'm done here I'm really truly going to face my devil and do what sunlovers do: sit in the sun!
My poor tan is a mottled mess and really needs work. My beachbag is organized to within an inch of its life. "Twilight" is a fun and compelling read. The floppy hat will hide my tears from prying eyes. It's a gorgeous day.
I'm ready.
Just one more deep breath, Judy. You can do it! You WANT to do it!
The rest of your life is right out there waiting for you.
Aye, there's the rub.
I'm in my bathing suit, got my beach hat on AND my Jellies. All I have to do is simply bring my book out to the lanai and sit in the sun or - maybe, even - drive to the beach and sit by the water's edge.
WHY IS THIS SO HARD?
Haven't been on the lanai yet that I haven't burst into tears; that's just so silly.
When you live in southwest Florida the pool and the beach aren't optional they are de rigeur!
Some self-talk is in order. I can do it, there's no doubt about that. But I seem to be caught somewhere between the moon and New York City every time I make a plan to 'git 'er done'.
Any little diversion will do to send me off in another direction. So far today I've used dusting, arranging my shoes by color and style in the closet, chatting on Facebook and playing Scrabble there.
Blogging is my Last Ditch. When I'm done here I'm really truly going to face my devil and do what sunlovers do: sit in the sun!
My poor tan is a mottled mess and really needs work. My beachbag is organized to within an inch of its life. "Twilight" is a fun and compelling read. The floppy hat will hide my tears from prying eyes. It's a gorgeous day.
I'm ready.
Just one more deep breath, Judy. You can do it! You WANT to do it!
The rest of your life is right out there waiting for you.
Aye, there's the rub.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sibling Rivalry
My goofy sister was over yesterday and I was reminded... again... of just how long a memory sibling rivalry has.
My parents had children in two sets; my sister Marietta and brother Jim were born and had established what they thought were comfortable lives eight and seven years before I came along. My little sister Karen followed me by two and a half years.
Apparently and persistently, it seems, I was the fly in the ointment.
We were raised in two different families simultaneously if either or both of our childhood memories are correct. I remember a father who mentored me to be smart, independent, clear-thinking and logical; hers was a harsh task-master who would brook no sass and gave no quarter. HER mother was loving and caring, kept a fine house, laughed a lot and enjoyed life; mine was an alcoholic.
Eight years of changes over time allow both these perceptions to be valid.
Still, my sister - with humor but truly - blames me for being born AFTER my father evolved.
There was never any question who ruled the Davidge roost: Dad. He said, "Jump," and we'd all say, "How high?" The difference is that my brother and sister followed directions to the letter so they could avoid punishment; Karen and I did it just to please.
Physical punishment was the norm in the late forties and early fifties. Sonny saw the belt regularly and Toot too took a few whacks over time; Dad never touched either Ki or me.
Somehow, this is my fault.
It's also my fault that I was a sickly child and was catered to whenever I'd get the vapors, that I got privileges earlier than she had, that Dad allowed me more latitude in negotiating with him than she had known, and that it was assumed I would go to college but she would go to secretarial school.
Toot was born with beautiful platinum hair and eyes of such an unusual and changing color they could mesmerize; I, however, was called "Judy the Beauty".
It won't surprise anyone to know we didn't really become friends till we were both adults!? But best friends we are and have been, now, for forty years. Still, these old jealousies come out at the oddest moments. They're always there, lurking. We are way way way beyond our childhood and still they intrude.
The playing field has absolutely been leveled. We're both old, both overweight, both jowly, both too often under the weather, and we each have lost more than one step intellectually.
It's not my fault I'm still eight years younger, is it?
My parents had children in two sets; my sister Marietta and brother Jim were born and had established what they thought were comfortable lives eight and seven years before I came along. My little sister Karen followed me by two and a half years.
Apparently and persistently, it seems, I was the fly in the ointment.
We were raised in two different families simultaneously if either or both of our childhood memories are correct. I remember a father who mentored me to be smart, independent, clear-thinking and logical; hers was a harsh task-master who would brook no sass and gave no quarter. HER mother was loving and caring, kept a fine house, laughed a lot and enjoyed life; mine was an alcoholic.
Eight years of changes over time allow both these perceptions to be valid.
Still, my sister - with humor but truly - blames me for being born AFTER my father evolved.
There was never any question who ruled the Davidge roost: Dad. He said, "Jump," and we'd all say, "How high?" The difference is that my brother and sister followed directions to the letter so they could avoid punishment; Karen and I did it just to please.
Physical punishment was the norm in the late forties and early fifties. Sonny saw the belt regularly and Toot too took a few whacks over time; Dad never touched either Ki or me.
Somehow, this is my fault.
It's also my fault that I was a sickly child and was catered to whenever I'd get the vapors, that I got privileges earlier than she had, that Dad allowed me more latitude in negotiating with him than she had known, and that it was assumed I would go to college but she would go to secretarial school.
Toot was born with beautiful platinum hair and eyes of such an unusual and changing color they could mesmerize; I, however, was called "Judy the Beauty".
It won't surprise anyone to know we didn't really become friends till we were both adults!? But best friends we are and have been, now, for forty years. Still, these old jealousies come out at the oddest moments. They're always there, lurking. We are way way way beyond our childhood and still they intrude.
The playing field has absolutely been leveled. We're both old, both overweight, both jowly, both too often under the weather, and we each have lost more than one step intellectually.
It's not my fault I'm still eight years younger, is it?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Home
Why on God's good earth did it take me until I was sixty years old to find "home"?
Being a kid in Massachusetts felt right to me but then my father went on the fast track with Shell Oil and that made us nomads, picking up and wandering every couple three years 'till graduation from MSU when marriage, then, grounded me for good-and-nearly-ever in Detroit and environs.
I was always a fish out of water there.
I remember the first weekend after Tom and I moved into married housing at State I asked him if we could "go for a ride" on Sunday.
"A ride," he asked, incredulous?
"Yes. You know, just get in the car and see where it takes us," I answered naively.
The look on his face totally told me he had no concept of what I meant. "We can just drive till we find an historic spot and explore it," I said.
"Judy, the only historic thing around here is the expressway???"
I was flabbergasted. In Massachusetts my dad took us all for a ride almost every Sunday and, there, you couldn't throw a dead cat but you'd happen onto a historic marker of some ilk!?
I should have known right then; I should have advocated more strongly for relocation after graduation. But I didn't. I was a dutiful wife and wanted my husband to be happy so Detroit was where we landed. We were happy there, love will find a way, but - oh - in retrospect, how much lovlier it would have been to spend our time together somewhere else. Somewhere pretty with lots of sunshine and blue skies and warm breezes. Somewhere with palm trees and a white sand beach.
Somewhere you could take a ride....
My plane landed this morning in Tampa about 9:30 on my return from Active Duty with the grands in Berkley and Grosse Pointe, Michigan. From the moment I stepped out of the terminal I felt like I was home: the sun, the breeze, Tampa Bay so blue and welcoming, pelicans swooping by us on the Howard Franklin and the Sunshine Skyway bridges. Even the hugh outlet mall in Ellenton called my name as we flew past heading south on I-75.
By the time we got to Clark Road in Sarasota my whole body breathed a sigh of relief.
It was a really RAGGED sigh because the asthma I brought back with me as a parting gift from the State of Michigan persists but I don't even care. Tomorrow I'll see darling darling Doctor Eva Berkes and she'll help me get rid of it, I'm sure.
Coming into our driveway tears got in my eyes reminding me that even paradise is imperfect here on earth but, Lord, how thankful I am to be in this space.
I'm home.
Being a kid in Massachusetts felt right to me but then my father went on the fast track with Shell Oil and that made us nomads, picking up and wandering every couple three years 'till graduation from MSU when marriage, then, grounded me for good-and-nearly-ever in Detroit and environs.
I was always a fish out of water there.
I remember the first weekend after Tom and I moved into married housing at State I asked him if we could "go for a ride" on Sunday.
"A ride," he asked, incredulous?
"Yes. You know, just get in the car and see where it takes us," I answered naively.
The look on his face totally told me he had no concept of what I meant. "We can just drive till we find an historic spot and explore it," I said.
"Judy, the only historic thing around here is the expressway???"
I was flabbergasted. In Massachusetts my dad took us all for a ride almost every Sunday and, there, you couldn't throw a dead cat but you'd happen onto a historic marker of some ilk!?
I should have known right then; I should have advocated more strongly for relocation after graduation. But I didn't. I was a dutiful wife and wanted my husband to be happy so Detroit was where we landed. We were happy there, love will find a way, but - oh - in retrospect, how much lovlier it would have been to spend our time together somewhere else. Somewhere pretty with lots of sunshine and blue skies and warm breezes. Somewhere with palm trees and a white sand beach.
Somewhere you could take a ride....
My plane landed this morning in Tampa about 9:30 on my return from Active Duty with the grands in Berkley and Grosse Pointe, Michigan. From the moment I stepped out of the terminal I felt like I was home: the sun, the breeze, Tampa Bay so blue and welcoming, pelicans swooping by us on the Howard Franklin and the Sunshine Skyway bridges. Even the hugh outlet mall in Ellenton called my name as we flew past heading south on I-75.
By the time we got to Clark Road in Sarasota my whole body breathed a sigh of relief.
It was a really RAGGED sigh because the asthma I brought back with me as a parting gift from the State of Michigan persists but I don't even care. Tomorrow I'll see darling darling Doctor Eva Berkes and she'll help me get rid of it, I'm sure.
Coming into our driveway tears got in my eyes reminding me that even paradise is imperfect here on earth but, Lord, how thankful I am to be in this space.
I'm home.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Best Laid Plans...
I can't believe I've flown to Michigan to help out my daughter and the grands but I am quickly becoming the problem and not the solution.
That sucks, big time.
I got adult onset asthma in my middle thirties. Went through a whole winter of one bronchial infection after another; eventually the wheezing started. At first I thought of it as an interesting phenomenon because the sounds emanating from my lungs were so many and varied but the progression to , "Hey, I can't BREATHE here," came all too fast.
That lead me to an allergist who, after a series of skin tests, declared I was suddenly allergic to just about everything under the sun including almost all the food I thought of as... nourishment.
So, from age 34 to 60 I spent a good deal of time is various states of distress from allergies and asthma. At least five episodes were seriously life-threatening but I had a wonderful doctor, Jim Clinton, who actually drove me from his office to the hospital himself no less than twice!?
That's unheard of but it's true.
In 2004 Dr. Clinton put me on a combination of Singulair and Advair. Suddenly my symptoms lessened until they were really no longer a concern. It was a breakthrough and I appreciated every breath I took.
When I moved to Florida in August of 2005 a miracle happened. My asthma disappeared completely. Poof!!? I still continued taking Singulair and Advair but for two years I never once had an asthma episode of any kind.
Then, however, I developed a chronic sinus infection. Some sporadic wheezing eventually began to occur; that finally lead me to an ENT specialist and, through him, an allergist.
I've been taking shots for Florida allergens hoping to stave off the dramatic episodes I too often had in Michigan.
I had barely stepped off the plane at Detroit Metro last Thursday when I started losing my voice. By Friday wheezing came into the picture. It worsened and I had to see an urgent care physician on Monday. He gave me all the prescriptions I thought I might need and even a script for a new nebulizer, mine being in Florida.
I have it all: Singulair, Advair, a weeks worth of declining doses of Prednisone, albuterol for the nebulizer, a rescue inhaler, and my allergy medication - Allegra D.
I fear it may not be enough.
Beckie and Dan get home from the international wind energy conference in the south of France late Saturday afternoon; Gret has three, count 'em three state final Mite League ice hockey games in Fraser Friday and Saturday afternoon with Grandma supposedly playing the role of Head Cheerleader??
I've got the urgent care physician back on my agenda for tomorrow hoping he'll throw some bigger and better steroids at me. A shot of Prednisone, maybe, as well.
I was scheduled to be in Michigan 'till the 27th but now I'm thinking HOME is where the heart is - and maybe working lungs as well. I'll try and change my ticket for a Sunday departure and head back where the molds and mites and trees have been kinder than these upstart Michigan varieties.
Keep your fingers crossed I get there without a stay at St John's Hospital. At this point I wouldn't call it a lock.
That sucks, big time.
I got adult onset asthma in my middle thirties. Went through a whole winter of one bronchial infection after another; eventually the wheezing started. At first I thought of it as an interesting phenomenon because the sounds emanating from my lungs were so many and varied but the progression to , "Hey, I can't BREATHE here," came all too fast.
That lead me to an allergist who, after a series of skin tests, declared I was suddenly allergic to just about everything under the sun including almost all the food I thought of as... nourishment.
So, from age 34 to 60 I spent a good deal of time is various states of distress from allergies and asthma. At least five episodes were seriously life-threatening but I had a wonderful doctor, Jim Clinton, who actually drove me from his office to the hospital himself no less than twice!?
That's unheard of but it's true.
In 2004 Dr. Clinton put me on a combination of Singulair and Advair. Suddenly my symptoms lessened until they were really no longer a concern. It was a breakthrough and I appreciated every breath I took.
When I moved to Florida in August of 2005 a miracle happened. My asthma disappeared completely. Poof!!? I still continued taking Singulair and Advair but for two years I never once had an asthma episode of any kind.
Then, however, I developed a chronic sinus infection. Some sporadic wheezing eventually began to occur; that finally lead me to an ENT specialist and, through him, an allergist.
I've been taking shots for Florida allergens hoping to stave off the dramatic episodes I too often had in Michigan.
I had barely stepped off the plane at Detroit Metro last Thursday when I started losing my voice. By Friday wheezing came into the picture. It worsened and I had to see an urgent care physician on Monday. He gave me all the prescriptions I thought I might need and even a script for a new nebulizer, mine being in Florida.
I have it all: Singulair, Advair, a weeks worth of declining doses of Prednisone, albuterol for the nebulizer, a rescue inhaler, and my allergy medication - Allegra D.
I fear it may not be enough.
Beckie and Dan get home from the international wind energy conference in the south of France late Saturday afternoon; Gret has three, count 'em three state final Mite League ice hockey games in Fraser Friday and Saturday afternoon with Grandma supposedly playing the role of Head Cheerleader??
I've got the urgent care physician back on my agenda for tomorrow hoping he'll throw some bigger and better steroids at me. A shot of Prednisone, maybe, as well.
I was scheduled to be in Michigan 'till the 27th but now I'm thinking HOME is where the heart is - and maybe working lungs as well. I'll try and change my ticket for a Sunday departure and head back where the molds and mites and trees have been kinder than these upstart Michigan varieties.
Keep your fingers crossed I get there without a stay at St John's Hospital. At this point I wouldn't call it a lock.
Quandry Time
I've discovered the quandry in blogging: How Much Can You Safely Say About The People In Your Life Without Risking Their Feelings??
My family is probably a lot like your own, imperfect, but one you'd never swap for anyone else's. Am I right or am I right?
Until now we've pretty much sailed through life with minimal problems, actually, so that might distinguish us somewhat from the fray, I suppose.
Currently, we're looking at our first divorce situation with my eldest daughter... I'm not finding that to be much fun but it's out of my hands and I trust my daughter's usual common sense and my grandchildren's ability to perceive correctly what is and isn't true in life so I think they'll all come through it with minimal initial damage and, in time, may all, in fact, be the better for it.
My niece, who's like a daughter to me, has one autistic son and another who isn't; this is challenging every day in ever way. I think I can share her name with you without fear of recrimination because she also writes a blog which, believe me, any of you facing or knowing others who face the challenge of having special needs children WILL want to see: www.Sneathenfamily.blogspot.com. She's a terrific writer as well as completely crazed like her aunt who loves her.
(What's really going to irk me to no end is that, now, all of you reading MY blog will go on to embrace HERS and then she'll have more 'followers' than I do! That will be truly infuriating.... I'm only at 8 and have an eventual goal of 100!?? Is that too much to ask?????)
Two of my other near-relatives are currently facing the loss of loved ones and those stories would rip your heart out but do I have the right or the privilege of telling you their tales? I'm just not sure I do.
What is the protocol?? I'd appreciate some input from those of you who are actively involved in my life as to whether or not you're willing to see your name in print here. And I'd also like to know from those of you I've never met but seem to enjoy reading what is said here - how much of me and mine is ENOUGH ALREADY!??
Hope to hear from you on this ASAP. I promise... I'll pay just as much attention to your preferences as I ever have. LOL.
My family is probably a lot like your own, imperfect, but one you'd never swap for anyone else's. Am I right or am I right?
Until now we've pretty much sailed through life with minimal problems, actually, so that might distinguish us somewhat from the fray, I suppose.
Currently, we're looking at our first divorce situation with my eldest daughter... I'm not finding that to be much fun but it's out of my hands and I trust my daughter's usual common sense and my grandchildren's ability to perceive correctly what is and isn't true in life so I think they'll all come through it with minimal initial damage and, in time, may all, in fact, be the better for it.
My niece, who's like a daughter to me, has one autistic son and another who isn't; this is challenging every day in ever way. I think I can share her name with you without fear of recrimination because she also writes a blog which, believe me, any of you facing or knowing others who face the challenge of having special needs children WILL want to see: www.Sneathenfamily.blogspot.com. She's a terrific writer as well as completely crazed like her aunt who loves her.
(What's really going to irk me to no end is that, now, all of you reading MY blog will go on to embrace HERS and then she'll have more 'followers' than I do! That will be truly infuriating.... I'm only at 8 and have an eventual goal of 100!?? Is that too much to ask?????)
Two of my other near-relatives are currently facing the loss of loved ones and those stories would rip your heart out but do I have the right or the privilege of telling you their tales? I'm just not sure I do.
What is the protocol?? I'd appreciate some input from those of you who are actively involved in my life as to whether or not you're willing to see your name in print here. And I'd also like to know from those of you I've never met but seem to enjoy reading what is said here - how much of me and mine is ENOUGH ALREADY!??
Hope to hear from you on this ASAP. I promise... I'll pay just as much attention to your preferences as I ever have. LOL.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Come Back, Jack!
How is it possible to lose something you had in your hand only 24 hours ago when it has no legs and cannot walk away?
I have been reading and re-reading and re-re-reading the same Jack Reacher novel since before Tom died. That was January 24, 2009, in case you've lost track of the time sequencing.
For weeks after he passed I would bring the book with me to my tub - I'm a tub reader - basically, all my books are completely water-soaked and have expanded over time to twice their normal volume??
I would ease slowly into the super-heated water, lay my head against the shell-shaped plastic pillow, and open the book, again, to the same exact page. I'd read a couple paragraphs and realize I had simply not absorbed enough to warrant turning the page.
And so I'd start again from the top.
This went on for quite awhile and yet I never once considered abandoning the book and moving on to another.
Over time I started to move forward again and when I flew to Detroit for my stint with the grands I polished off 80-90 pages between naps. I've read a few pages every night I've been in Berkley too. Until tonight. Tonight the book is gone; it has disappeared.
I asked Gret and Reece about it. They had no idea at all what I was even referring to let alone any concept of where the book might be. Still, they helped me look. We searched the playroom first since that's where I'm sleeping and where the book was last night. They asked about the title and I couldn't tell them?!?? Not that it mattered, the book simply wasn't where it ought to have been.
We combed through every room of the house. It's not here.
Is this simple absentmindedness or a message from beyond?
Is it time to move on?
Should I, once and for all, let Jack go? He'll get the bad guys with or without me; he always does. Maybe a better book is waiting for me and my hanging onto the old one is holding me as well as him back....
The answer's in my heart: nope. It's not time yet to let him go. He's mine and I'm his till this dance is done.
I'm going to start again at the beginning; he simply can't be gone.
I have been reading and re-reading and re-re-reading the same Jack Reacher novel since before Tom died. That was January 24, 2009, in case you've lost track of the time sequencing.
For weeks after he passed I would bring the book with me to my tub - I'm a tub reader - basically, all my books are completely water-soaked and have expanded over time to twice their normal volume??
I would ease slowly into the super-heated water, lay my head against the shell-shaped plastic pillow, and open the book, again, to the same exact page. I'd read a couple paragraphs and realize I had simply not absorbed enough to warrant turning the page.
And so I'd start again from the top.
This went on for quite awhile and yet I never once considered abandoning the book and moving on to another.
Over time I started to move forward again and when I flew to Detroit for my stint with the grands I polished off 80-90 pages between naps. I've read a few pages every night I've been in Berkley too. Until tonight. Tonight the book is gone; it has disappeared.
I asked Gret and Reece about it. They had no idea at all what I was even referring to let alone any concept of where the book might be. Still, they helped me look. We searched the playroom first since that's where I'm sleeping and where the book was last night. They asked about the title and I couldn't tell them?!?? Not that it mattered, the book simply wasn't where it ought to have been.
We combed through every room of the house. It's not here.
Is this simple absentmindedness or a message from beyond?
Is it time to move on?
Should I, once and for all, let Jack go? He'll get the bad guys with or without me; he always does. Maybe a better book is waiting for me and my hanging onto the old one is holding me as well as him back....
The answer's in my heart: nope. It's not time yet to let him go. He's mine and I'm his till this dance is done.
I'm going to start again at the beginning; he simply can't be gone.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Help!! The State of Michigan Is Trying To Kill Me!
I have had a love/hate relationship with the state of Michigan since I was a child.
Not every year - thank God - but too MANY years of my childhood I was dragged to Mount Pleasant from whatever other state was my home at the time. My grandparents were the original Odd Couple; they couldn't live together and they couldn't live apart!? They were married, divorced, each married someone else, divorced THEM and then remarried one another.
The ultimate irony was that, even after their re-marriage they lived separately; my grandma lived in the town of MP while my grampa lived at Coldwater Lake. He would come into town once a week for "lunch", euphemistically speaking, get some supplies and head back to the lake before dark.
Gram I loved but Grampa was an unpleasant sort of cold fish. The cottage was a nightmare to me (damp, cold, musty) as was the lake (mucky bottom, lots of tangled weeds). I kept my head in a book the whole miserable time I spent there and could only dream of escape.
Eventually my father was transferred to Grand Rapids where I finished the last five months of high school before going on to Michigan State. LOVED MSU and found Tom there; he was born and bred in Detroit AND he was a Taurus so there was never any question that's where he wanted to live when we both finished school.
I knew there were other much lovlier environs than Farm Brook and Chandler Park Drive "out there" and suggested we investigate some alternatives but it soon became clear to me Detroit would be my home.
Have you BEEN THERE???
Pretty, picturesque, scenic it is not.
It's a grid of streets running N/S and E/W with very little to be recommended regardless of the direction you take.
No one was ever happier to retire to Florida than I! Palm trees, blue skies, endless sunny days... these are not a part of the Michigan scenario.
I'm back here for 15 days to take care of and love my family still living in the area. They are the ONLY thing that could ever drag me back here!
And I'm pretty sure now that Michigan feels as negatively about ME as I do about IT!?
I think it's trying to kill me.
Less than 24 hours after I arrived I starting losing my voice. On day two I started wheezing. I haven't wheezed at night like this in almost four years!?? Those of you with asthma know that when you can hear yourself rattle breathing in AND breathing out you're probably in trouble.
That's me right now.
It makes sleeping an impossibility which is so not a good thing when Grandma is in charge of multiple young children over multiple days!!
I called my allergist in Sarasota this morning and she couldn't prescribe over the phone without seeing/hearing me up close and personal so an Urgent Care facility
is in my near future. I'm hoping for scripts for Prednisone and a new breathing machine with lots of albuterol to ease my symptoms.
Keep your fingers crossed. I beat this rotten state before and I think I can do it again.
I think I can... I think I can... I think I can....
Not every year - thank God - but too MANY years of my childhood I was dragged to Mount Pleasant from whatever other state was my home at the time. My grandparents were the original Odd Couple; they couldn't live together and they couldn't live apart!? They were married, divorced, each married someone else, divorced THEM and then remarried one another.
The ultimate irony was that, even after their re-marriage they lived separately; my grandma lived in the town of MP while my grampa lived at Coldwater Lake. He would come into town once a week for "lunch", euphemistically speaking, get some supplies and head back to the lake before dark.
Gram I loved but Grampa was an unpleasant sort of cold fish. The cottage was a nightmare to me (damp, cold, musty) as was the lake (mucky bottom, lots of tangled weeds). I kept my head in a book the whole miserable time I spent there and could only dream of escape.
Eventually my father was transferred to Grand Rapids where I finished the last five months of high school before going on to Michigan State. LOVED MSU and found Tom there; he was born and bred in Detroit AND he was a Taurus so there was never any question that's where he wanted to live when we both finished school.
I knew there were other much lovlier environs than Farm Brook and Chandler Park Drive "out there" and suggested we investigate some alternatives but it soon became clear to me Detroit would be my home.
Have you BEEN THERE???
Pretty, picturesque, scenic it is not.
It's a grid of streets running N/S and E/W with very little to be recommended regardless of the direction you take.
No one was ever happier to retire to Florida than I! Palm trees, blue skies, endless sunny days... these are not a part of the Michigan scenario.
I'm back here for 15 days to take care of and love my family still living in the area. They are the ONLY thing that could ever drag me back here!
And I'm pretty sure now that Michigan feels as negatively about ME as I do about IT!?
I think it's trying to kill me.
Less than 24 hours after I arrived I starting losing my voice. On day two I started wheezing. I haven't wheezed at night like this in almost four years!?? Those of you with asthma know that when you can hear yourself rattle breathing in AND breathing out you're probably in trouble.
That's me right now.
It makes sleeping an impossibility which is so not a good thing when Grandma is in charge of multiple young children over multiple days!!
I called my allergist in Sarasota this morning and she couldn't prescribe over the phone without seeing/hearing me up close and personal so an Urgent Care facility
is in my near future. I'm hoping for scripts for Prednisone and a new breathing machine with lots of albuterol to ease my symptoms.
Keep your fingers crossed. I beat this rotten state before and I think I can do it again.
I think I can... I think I can... I think I can....
Friday, March 13, 2009
The Tax Man Cometh
This is so hard for me.
Taxes have been a cross every year of my marriage. Money, the having and handling of same, was NOT a strong point with Tom and/or with me. If there was a stupid way to do anything regarding money... that's what we generally did.
But, for whatever reason, Tom thought doing the taxes was Man's Work so every year he set about figuring out what was what and I would cringe in a corner 'till he was done. Truth is, I never had an ounce - not even a whit - of confidence in his 'goes-intos'.
There has never been a year, EVER, that we got a refund. That doesn't make sense. And, beyond that, we always had to pay!!? Ridiculous amounts of money some years (too MANY years!), lesser amounts others but we always ended up in the red According To Tom.
I so wanted to call in a professional but it would have crushed him had he known my true feelings so I let it roll and quietly shook my head year after year after year.
Well... he's dead and H and R Block got the chance to step up.
I went to the local mall and brought my trusty shoebox full of Important Crap. Envelopes I'd never looked in but which said, "Important Tax Documents Inside", some insurance stuff, the paperwork from our new car... I don't know what-all but it's what I had and so it went.
The main thing for you to know is that I WENT. I took charge. I sat right there beside the tax guy while he opened every envelope, separated the wheat from the chaff, asked me questions I didn't want to answer, typed in numbers I didn't want to see.... The desire for flight was raging in my chest all the while I answered politely or joked with him as he worked.
Ironically, I did NOT get the brightest bulb H and R Block had to offer. He was inept at using the computer, had to consistently re-type EVERYTHING he entered, and when he thought he was done no less that 15 error screens popped up necessitating going backwards again and again and again till they were finally eliminated and we saw the finished product.
That's when I burst into tears.
It was seeing Tom's name there at the top of the form all so officially linked to mine and to our life in paradise.
Gone. What a bummer.
THEN, clearly adding insult to injury, the bottom line said I owed $230.00. I had to laugh; at least Tom was vindicated - he's not doing the math and still money is owed!!?
Whatever.
It cost $160.00 for the doing but (and there's always that Big But!) for $30.00 more I could buy INSURANCE against any mistakes made by my trusty H and R Block guy whom I didn't trust at all so of course I scarfed that right up!!
$190.00. And me, virgin no more.
Taxes have been a cross every year of my marriage. Money, the having and handling of same, was NOT a strong point with Tom and/or with me. If there was a stupid way to do anything regarding money... that's what we generally did.
But, for whatever reason, Tom thought doing the taxes was Man's Work so every year he set about figuring out what was what and I would cringe in a corner 'till he was done. Truth is, I never had an ounce - not even a whit - of confidence in his 'goes-intos'.
There has never been a year, EVER, that we got a refund. That doesn't make sense. And, beyond that, we always had to pay!!? Ridiculous amounts of money some years (too MANY years!), lesser amounts others but we always ended up in the red According To Tom.
I so wanted to call in a professional but it would have crushed him had he known my true feelings so I let it roll and quietly shook my head year after year after year.
Well... he's dead and H and R Block got the chance to step up.
I went to the local mall and brought my trusty shoebox full of Important Crap. Envelopes I'd never looked in but which said, "Important Tax Documents Inside", some insurance stuff, the paperwork from our new car... I don't know what-all but it's what I had and so it went.
The main thing for you to know is that I WENT. I took charge. I sat right there beside the tax guy while he opened every envelope, separated the wheat from the chaff, asked me questions I didn't want to answer, typed in numbers I didn't want to see.... The desire for flight was raging in my chest all the while I answered politely or joked with him as he worked.
Ironically, I did NOT get the brightest bulb H and R Block had to offer. He was inept at using the computer, had to consistently re-type EVERYTHING he entered, and when he thought he was done no less that 15 error screens popped up necessitating going backwards again and again and again till they were finally eliminated and we saw the finished product.
That's when I burst into tears.
It was seeing Tom's name there at the top of the form all so officially linked to mine and to our life in paradise.
Gone. What a bummer.
THEN, clearly adding insult to injury, the bottom line said I owed $230.00. I had to laugh; at least Tom was vindicated - he's not doing the math and still money is owed!!?
Whatever.
It cost $160.00 for the doing but (and there's always that Big But!) for $30.00 more I could buy INSURANCE against any mistakes made by my trusty H and R Block guy whom I didn't trust at all so of course I scarfed that right up!!
$190.00. And me, virgin no more.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Beauty and the Beach
My niece, her daughter and four of their nearest and dearest friends are here in Sarasota on spring break. I have custody of the darling college girls - Kelsey, Kassie, and Heather.
They are, all three, OMG pretty and what fun it is to remember through their eyes what it is to be 19.
Siesta Beach on the Key is reknown as one of the top 5 beaches in the world: gorgeous white powdery sand, clear blue water from here to Texas, an excellent refreshment stand, volleyball nets, a play area for the children, umbrellas for rent, blue skies, white clouds, Calypso music and breaching dolphins.
It's all good.
But it's especially fun when the beach is peopled with hardbodies rather than our regular population of oldsters!
The father of my friend Terry Dussel Pratt had a place down here for a long time and he took many years' worth of hysterical film footage of, basically, old women bending over at the beach. It never failed to make me laugh even long before I, myself, became worthy fodder for his film footage.
(Try saying that really fast 5 times!?)
The truth is, Sarasota is a retirement town. Sure we have our fair share of families with children of all ages but if you're at the beach on a weekday what you're going to see are people over 65.
That's hardly ever pretty....
Spring break marks the exception that proves the rule.
From early March to mid-April our beach is young again and it is such a pleasure to see that. The nice thing is that almost everyone college age and younger is here visiting a relative so we don't get that wild thing going like they do in a lot of other spring break destination beaches. Kids can still hook up but when it's under the watchful eyes of grandparents or aunts and uncles, "lust", while present, remains somewhat refined. You can drink at Siesta but rarely do you see an obnoxious drunk. Bathing suits are tasteful and they remain not just ON but hooked and/or tied.
I'm really sorry for Tom that he's missing this. He did so enjoy a good ogle!
Let me just say this - Wish You Were Here!!
They are, all three, OMG pretty and what fun it is to remember through their eyes what it is to be 19.
Siesta Beach on the Key is reknown as one of the top 5 beaches in the world: gorgeous white powdery sand, clear blue water from here to Texas, an excellent refreshment stand, volleyball nets, a play area for the children, umbrellas for rent, blue skies, white clouds, Calypso music and breaching dolphins.
It's all good.
But it's especially fun when the beach is peopled with hardbodies rather than our regular population of oldsters!
The father of my friend Terry Dussel Pratt had a place down here for a long time and he took many years' worth of hysterical film footage of, basically, old women bending over at the beach. It never failed to make me laugh even long before I, myself, became worthy fodder for his film footage.
(Try saying that really fast 5 times!?)
The truth is, Sarasota is a retirement town. Sure we have our fair share of families with children of all ages but if you're at the beach on a weekday what you're going to see are people over 65.
That's hardly ever pretty....
Spring break marks the exception that proves the rule.
From early March to mid-April our beach is young again and it is such a pleasure to see that. The nice thing is that almost everyone college age and younger is here visiting a relative so we don't get that wild thing going like they do in a lot of other spring break destination beaches. Kids can still hook up but when it's under the watchful eyes of grandparents or aunts and uncles, "lust", while present, remains somewhat refined. You can drink at Siesta but rarely do you see an obnoxious drunk. Bathing suits are tasteful and they remain not just ON but hooked and/or tied.
I'm really sorry for Tom that he's missing this. He did so enjoy a good ogle!
Let me just say this - Wish You Were Here!!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Mighty Mites
We are a hockey family.
One of the first things Tom did when we started dating was take me down to the old Olympia Stadium in Detroit. Even then, 46 years ago, that section of Detroit was intimidating - at least to a princess from Grand Rapids. The lot we parked in was blocks from the entrance and half the streetlights were not functioning. Police cars buzzed by in swarms. Panhandlers begged for money as we ran the gauntlet to the doors.
Once inside though, it was magic! Lights, noise, music, carnival food smells... then the players took the ice. From our seats in the nosebleed section they looked like gladiators - warriors - and that wasn't far from the truth.
Minimal padding, no helmets, they flew at one another which was amazing to me because they were on ice!? I couldn't imagine being strong enough and graceful enough to fly from one end of the rink to the other, pound the Bad Guys as you passed them, AND move the puck into scoring contention. Plus, they were always sopping blood off the ice and - frankly - I have always liked a little blood in my sports.
An added perk was the popcorn. I never had better than they served at the old Olympia.
Now that I'm older and wiser I'm grateful that the league has demanded more safety precautions for the players; with my grandsons, I'm happy to see them well-padded, wearing helmets, blood-on-the-ice being a thing of the past.
Yup, Gret (named for the Great Gretzky!), is a Mite.
He just finished his first regular season. The Rangers from Berkley, MI, won, outright, their first tournament earlier this year and placed second within their division only yesterday!!
The trophy for "Runner-Up" was damned impressive. HUGH.
Two weeks from now they'll be in the state tournament and I'll be in MI then to see it! Can hardly wait!! I'll be the chubette with the big box of lotiony Puffs, you can bet on that. I'm sure there have been plenty of - I use the term loosely - Hockey Widows before me who've watched the game and cheered through tears but I can pretty well guarantee I'll make my mark as The Happiest Sad Grandma ever.
Go, Gret! Go, Rangers!!
One of the first things Tom did when we started dating was take me down to the old Olympia Stadium in Detroit. Even then, 46 years ago, that section of Detroit was intimidating - at least to a princess from Grand Rapids. The lot we parked in was blocks from the entrance and half the streetlights were not functioning. Police cars buzzed by in swarms. Panhandlers begged for money as we ran the gauntlet to the doors.
Once inside though, it was magic! Lights, noise, music, carnival food smells... then the players took the ice. From our seats in the nosebleed section they looked like gladiators - warriors - and that wasn't far from the truth.
Minimal padding, no helmets, they flew at one another which was amazing to me because they were on ice!? I couldn't imagine being strong enough and graceful enough to fly from one end of the rink to the other, pound the Bad Guys as you passed them, AND move the puck into scoring contention. Plus, they were always sopping blood off the ice and - frankly - I have always liked a little blood in my sports.
An added perk was the popcorn. I never had better than they served at the old Olympia.
Now that I'm older and wiser I'm grateful that the league has demanded more safety precautions for the players; with my grandsons, I'm happy to see them well-padded, wearing helmets, blood-on-the-ice being a thing of the past.
Yup, Gret (named for the Great Gretzky!), is a Mite.
He just finished his first regular season. The Rangers from Berkley, MI, won, outright, their first tournament earlier this year and placed second within their division only yesterday!!
The trophy for "Runner-Up" was damned impressive. HUGH.
Two weeks from now they'll be in the state tournament and I'll be in MI then to see it! Can hardly wait!! I'll be the chubette with the big box of lotiony Puffs, you can bet on that. I'm sure there have been plenty of - I use the term loosely - Hockey Widows before me who've watched the game and cheered through tears but I can pretty well guarantee I'll make my mark as The Happiest Sad Grandma ever.
Go, Gret! Go, Rangers!!
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Charis
I went to pick up my niece Kyle from TPA a few months ago and when I did she had two strangers in tow, a very good-looking couple who happened to be her seatmates on the flight from Hartford. They were all very very happy... and by that I mean tipsy. Clearly, the flight had been a blast for all three of them! They talked, they laughed, they told stories, they had a drink or two (or four!)and became Best Friends.
"Aunt JUDY," they greeted me loudly and with hugs - Kyle had apparently told them 'stories' about me...? (I hate it when that happens.)
They had exchanged numbers and addresses and promised faithfully that, should time and space permit, they would absolutely get together and a have a lot more Big Fun in their Tampa hot tub!!
I hooted because, in all my years of flying, I have never once been seated beside someone who wanted to make me their new best friend!?
Until Charis.
She had the window seat on the ride back to Sarasota from Detroit after Tom's funeral; I had the center seat. There was a very large man on the aisle but he had a pair of earplugs and his computer playing a New Comedians show and since we weren't, he was clearly prepared to tune us out.
She was a darling girl, younger than my own daughters but still a grownup. She was flying to Sarasota looking for a job so she could move from Wisconsin and fill her life with sunshine.
How exciting! Her plans were entirely diverting - allowing me, for two and a half hours, to completely avoid thinking about the fact I'd just cremated my husband.
Well... not completely... but almost.
She was familiar with the territory, had a grandmother who lived on Siesta Key and had been down a number of times. In Wisconsin she had a job she didn't love and weather she was ready to bag, big-time.
How could I not encourage her?? I'm an AQUARIAN; we have answers upon answers for all and any questions ever posed.
We exchanged numbers and I asked her to keep me posted about her progress on the job search.
We played phone tag a couple times that week but were never able to work out a face-to-face; BUT, by gosh, she called this week and said, "I'm here!"
She did it! She tied up loose ends in Appleton, bought herself a brandy-new car and was by-gosh here and ready to start her new life.
We got together for lunch yesterday and she told me the whole story. I'll suffice it to say there were roadblocks but she was determined and she made it happen. In this most horrible of economies she's already got a part-time evening job which includes housing and she's interviewing during the days to find a permanent position doing something she expects to love.
Ah, youth! She's cute as a button, free as a breeze, lives in paradise, and has at least one new friend!! Life is good.
Yes, it is. It most definitely is.
And it was good for me to be reminded of that.
"Aunt JUDY," they greeted me loudly and with hugs - Kyle had apparently told them 'stories' about me...? (I hate it when that happens.)
They had exchanged numbers and addresses and promised faithfully that, should time and space permit, they would absolutely get together and a have a lot more Big Fun in their Tampa hot tub!!
I hooted because, in all my years of flying, I have never once been seated beside someone who wanted to make me their new best friend!?
Until Charis.
She had the window seat on the ride back to Sarasota from Detroit after Tom's funeral; I had the center seat. There was a very large man on the aisle but he had a pair of earplugs and his computer playing a New Comedians show and since we weren't, he was clearly prepared to tune us out.
She was a darling girl, younger than my own daughters but still a grownup. She was flying to Sarasota looking for a job so she could move from Wisconsin and fill her life with sunshine.
How exciting! Her plans were entirely diverting - allowing me, for two and a half hours, to completely avoid thinking about the fact I'd just cremated my husband.
Well... not completely... but almost.
She was familiar with the territory, had a grandmother who lived on Siesta Key and had been down a number of times. In Wisconsin she had a job she didn't love and weather she was ready to bag, big-time.
How could I not encourage her?? I'm an AQUARIAN; we have answers upon answers for all and any questions ever posed.
We exchanged numbers and I asked her to keep me posted about her progress on the job search.
We played phone tag a couple times that week but were never able to work out a face-to-face; BUT, by gosh, she called this week and said, "I'm here!"
She did it! She tied up loose ends in Appleton, bought herself a brandy-new car and was by-gosh here and ready to start her new life.
We got together for lunch yesterday and she told me the whole story. I'll suffice it to say there were roadblocks but she was determined and she made it happen. In this most horrible of economies she's already got a part-time evening job which includes housing and she's interviewing during the days to find a permanent position doing something she expects to love.
Ah, youth! She's cute as a button, free as a breeze, lives in paradise, and has at least one new friend!! Life is good.
Yes, it is. It most definitely is.
And it was good for me to be reminded of that.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
What, Me, Manic?
You are going to truly shake your heads at this statement but... I am SO HAPPY having reclaimed all the household jobs that Tom took over when he retired!
Frankly, I'm surprised to be saying it.
The house looks totally fabulous and that makes me feel very very good. You could open any cupboard or closet door, any drawer and know precisely what was to be found within.
I HAVE PUT MY HOUSE IN ORDER! Yahoo!!
There's something so comforting about a tidy space. I'm not talking OCD or anything even close to that; in fact, the angel food cupcakes I made this morning and frosted are still sitting out on a kitchen counter willy-nilly and that counter has not been washed down since the job was finished either!?
(I probably should get to that though when I'm done here....)
Well, maybe I'm a little obsessive but in a totally good way. (lol) It's part of the grieving process, I believe, to make things your own, right? That I have done.
Our hugh walk-in closet in the master suite is mine-all-mine and brother does it look good! Every matching hanger goes in the same direction, my shoes are arranged by season and color, my blouses are hung together by fabric type, my skirts are separated from my pants and the pants are further arranged by length starting with shorts and going through Capri pants to ankle length.
It's maahvelous!!
Oops - I said "our". I should have said "my" because there is no 'our' any more it's just me madly going through the house trying to make everything perfect.
OK. That DOES sound obsessive now that I read it in black and white.
But I really do like having the little things back again in my life: dusting, vacuuming, Windexing, clearing out the dishwasher, doing the laundry, scrubbing the bathroom. Once Tom retired he did these things in lieu of me because I was still teaching. The last couple of years I taught, after the doctrine of No Child Left Behind was instituted and made success nearly impossible for at-risk schools, I appreciated being able to just walk in the door at night and gather strength again for the next day.
When we moved to Florida he still predominated in doing the housework but I pitched in whenever I saw something that needed doing. Still... I always felt like I was usurping his domain.
Well, that's no longer true, is it?? Now it's all mine. All the work, all the shopping, all the cooking, all the accounts - ALL MINE.
What hath God wrought?
Frankly, I'm surprised to be saying it.
The house looks totally fabulous and that makes me feel very very good. You could open any cupboard or closet door, any drawer and know precisely what was to be found within.
I HAVE PUT MY HOUSE IN ORDER! Yahoo!!
There's something so comforting about a tidy space. I'm not talking OCD or anything even close to that; in fact, the angel food cupcakes I made this morning and frosted are still sitting out on a kitchen counter willy-nilly and that counter has not been washed down since the job was finished either!?
(I probably should get to that though when I'm done here....)
Well, maybe I'm a little obsessive but in a totally good way. (lol) It's part of the grieving process, I believe, to make things your own, right? That I have done.
Our hugh walk-in closet in the master suite is mine-all-mine and brother does it look good! Every matching hanger goes in the same direction, my shoes are arranged by season and color, my blouses are hung together by fabric type, my skirts are separated from my pants and the pants are further arranged by length starting with shorts and going through Capri pants to ankle length.
It's maahvelous!!
Oops - I said "our". I should have said "my" because there is no 'our' any more it's just me madly going through the house trying to make everything perfect.
OK. That DOES sound obsessive now that I read it in black and white.
But I really do like having the little things back again in my life: dusting, vacuuming, Windexing, clearing out the dishwasher, doing the laundry, scrubbing the bathroom. Once Tom retired he did these things in lieu of me because I was still teaching. The last couple of years I taught, after the doctrine of No Child Left Behind was instituted and made success nearly impossible for at-risk schools, I appreciated being able to just walk in the door at night and gather strength again for the next day.
When we moved to Florida he still predominated in doing the housework but I pitched in whenever I saw something that needed doing. Still... I always felt like I was usurping his domain.
Well, that's no longer true, is it?? Now it's all mine. All the work, all the shopping, all the cooking, all the accounts - ALL MINE.
What hath God wrought?
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
"Good" Grief
Last night I went to the alternate group grief session at Tidewell Hospice in Sarasota. Tidewell is a premier hospice provider which we used last year when my mother-in-law "failed to thrive" after multiple hip surgeries and therapy attempts.
That's a story for another day.
Tidewell served her and us for the last few months of her life and was a tremendous help.
They offer grief counselling for free to anyone in the community whether your loved one had been in hospice care or not.
This meeting was much larger than the Wednesday one of last week; there had to be 30ish people in attendance.
Everyone had the opportunity to introduce him/herself and tell a little bit about their loss and what they hoped to get out of the session. Only one other woman had lost her spouse suddenly; everyone else had been in hospice care for some amount of time.
Though each story was very personal and individual there were certain threads that ran through all of them. This was not a surprise to me! It only makes sense that losing a loved one would leave you feeling alienated, fearful, sad beyond belief, angry, and - the one most relevant to me - unable to believe the death actually occurred.
My head knows, yes, that Tom is dead, but my heart is slower to accept that truth. It's not that I expect his return (he was great but he wasn't God, after all!?), it's just that I am stupefied he's gone. For him to have been so active, so vital and then to be felled so quickly and without a whimper still has me shaking my head.
And missing him!
I expect that will go on for the rest of my life....
But what I came away with last night was that I do not need grief counseling, personally. I have let Tom go and truly believe he is now where he is meant to be and so am I. The Lord called him for reasons I do not know or understand but call him He did and that's an accepted truth in my mind.
I am moving forward, fearful or not, and have confidence I will be able to do the things I must to continue having a full and joyful life. I expect to cry but more than that I expect to laugh and take heart from the love all around me.
In truth, I feel so blessed having had Tom in my life for 47 years. I consider myself LUCKY even despite the loss!!
And I'm excited about the adventure of being alone. I never expected it, never made a contingency plan for it, never even saw it as a possibility but here it is and it has to be dealt with. My answer is to confront it boldly.
Bring it on!!
I feel ready, willing, and able to proceed with my life.
And so I shall. Tales will continue to be told of The Widow Judy. Stay tuned!!
That's a story for another day.
Tidewell served her and us for the last few months of her life and was a tremendous help.
They offer grief counselling for free to anyone in the community whether your loved one had been in hospice care or not.
This meeting was much larger than the Wednesday one of last week; there had to be 30ish people in attendance.
Everyone had the opportunity to introduce him/herself and tell a little bit about their loss and what they hoped to get out of the session. Only one other woman had lost her spouse suddenly; everyone else had been in hospice care for some amount of time.
Though each story was very personal and individual there were certain threads that ran through all of them. This was not a surprise to me! It only makes sense that losing a loved one would leave you feeling alienated, fearful, sad beyond belief, angry, and - the one most relevant to me - unable to believe the death actually occurred.
My head knows, yes, that Tom is dead, but my heart is slower to accept that truth. It's not that I expect his return (he was great but he wasn't God, after all!?), it's just that I am stupefied he's gone. For him to have been so active, so vital and then to be felled so quickly and without a whimper still has me shaking my head.
And missing him!
I expect that will go on for the rest of my life....
But what I came away with last night was that I do not need grief counseling, personally. I have let Tom go and truly believe he is now where he is meant to be and so am I. The Lord called him for reasons I do not know or understand but call him He did and that's an accepted truth in my mind.
I am moving forward, fearful or not, and have confidence I will be able to do the things I must to continue having a full and joyful life. I expect to cry but more than that I expect to laugh and take heart from the love all around me.
In truth, I feel so blessed having had Tom in my life for 47 years. I consider myself LUCKY even despite the loss!!
And I'm excited about the adventure of being alone. I never expected it, never made a contingency plan for it, never even saw it as a possibility but here it is and it has to be dealt with. My answer is to confront it boldly.
Bring it on!!
I feel ready, willing, and able to proceed with my life.
And so I shall. Tales will continue to be told of The Widow Judy. Stay tuned!!
Monday, March 2, 2009
Curves
I am trying to psych myself up to go to Curves. For the uninitiated, that's an exercise parlor for women only.
I say "parlor" and not "gym" because, honestly, the exercise equipment employed there is not anything like you'll find at Gold's.
The basic premise, for me anyway, is that doing SOMETHING is better than doing nothing; Curves is the only exercise program I've ever followed that I can do and not injure myself.
I'm an unfortunate combination of completely unathletic and highly competitive??? Those two qualities do NOT serve me well when I try a more strenuous kind of exercise program so, for me, Curves is it.
It's a girlie place; this I know because most ladies come in to exercise wearing their street clothes and never work up a sweat! So... it's easy to go directly from exercising to having lunch with friends!
LOL. What could be better than THAT!?
The set-up includes 15-16 pieces of equipment which they claim, done in rotation, will exercise all major body parts. These are alternated with aerobic stands so you can get some cardio as well.
But not me. I skip all the aerobic crap and just do the machines 'as are'.
There's a disembodied voice over the intercom that tells you when to move from one piece of equipment to the next and you keep doing this for half an hour three times a week at least.
BUT (and there's always that Big But!?) I refuse to LISTEN to the voice and, instead, follow my OWN program whereby I just keep trying to up the number of reps I'm doing and/or speed up the implementation of same.
Therein lies the rub.
The Curves I'm going to now has way too many women there all the time!?? I've tried early, late, and most times in between and - darn it all - the people there are doing the Real Program!? Somebody's always RIGHT THERE while I'm still trying to Do Better on any given machine. It's very frustrating for me!!
(Yes, I do see the irony. I'M the one NOT doing the program, ergo, I'm sure the other ladies are equally or maybe even more frustrated with ME!? Moving on....)
The truth is I HATE the going but I do like being there. It is very difficult for me to make myself drive the car over there but once I'm in the door I rather enjoy challenging myself, quietly, from machine to machine.
Most of the ladies are my age or older which makes it very easy to delude myself, during that half-hour period, that I am doing GREAT!! I can honestly say that I perform harder than a lot of the other women I see around me mindlessly following that voice.
To be fair, though, there are women my daughters' ages who sometimes happen into Curves while I am there and I can't hold a candle to them. That's OK. I can forgive that because this next generation of women has been so much smarter than mine. They have exercised throughout their whole lives and have long since understood the benefit of it where I am only just now realizing that doing something is better than doing nothing if you want your joints and muscles to continue working reasonably.
So I innore them and let them do their own thing while I do mine.
My program may not be the Curves model but it works for me. The voice be damned!
I say "parlor" and not "gym" because, honestly, the exercise equipment employed there is not anything like you'll find at Gold's.
The basic premise, for me anyway, is that doing SOMETHING is better than doing nothing; Curves is the only exercise program I've ever followed that I can do and not injure myself.
I'm an unfortunate combination of completely unathletic and highly competitive??? Those two qualities do NOT serve me well when I try a more strenuous kind of exercise program so, for me, Curves is it.
It's a girlie place; this I know because most ladies come in to exercise wearing their street clothes and never work up a sweat! So... it's easy to go directly from exercising to having lunch with friends!
LOL. What could be better than THAT!?
The set-up includes 15-16 pieces of equipment which they claim, done in rotation, will exercise all major body parts. These are alternated with aerobic stands so you can get some cardio as well.
But not me. I skip all the aerobic crap and just do the machines 'as are'.
There's a disembodied voice over the intercom that tells you when to move from one piece of equipment to the next and you keep doing this for half an hour three times a week at least.
BUT (and there's always that Big But!?) I refuse to LISTEN to the voice and, instead, follow my OWN program whereby I just keep trying to up the number of reps I'm doing and/or speed up the implementation of same.
Therein lies the rub.
The Curves I'm going to now has way too many women there all the time!?? I've tried early, late, and most times in between and - darn it all - the people there are doing the Real Program!? Somebody's always RIGHT THERE while I'm still trying to Do Better on any given machine. It's very frustrating for me!!
(Yes, I do see the irony. I'M the one NOT doing the program, ergo, I'm sure the other ladies are equally or maybe even more frustrated with ME!? Moving on....)
The truth is I HATE the going but I do like being there. It is very difficult for me to make myself drive the car over there but once I'm in the door I rather enjoy challenging myself, quietly, from machine to machine.
Most of the ladies are my age or older which makes it very easy to delude myself, during that half-hour period, that I am doing GREAT!! I can honestly say that I perform harder than a lot of the other women I see around me mindlessly following that voice.
To be fair, though, there are women my daughters' ages who sometimes happen into Curves while I am there and I can't hold a candle to them. That's OK. I can forgive that because this next generation of women has been so much smarter than mine. They have exercised throughout their whole lives and have long since understood the benefit of it where I am only just now realizing that doing something is better than doing nothing if you want your joints and muscles to continue working reasonably.
So I innore them and let them do their own thing while I do mine.
My program may not be the Curves model but it works for me. The voice be damned!
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Stan
A long time ago, nineteen or twenty years in fact, my sister-in-law Sharon brought me to a house party where a psychic was doing readings. At that time Sharon was deep in study herself regarding astrology, Tarot, things of that nature....
At first I was uncomfortable with the concept; then I was - lol - HORRIFIED when I would pick up any of her astrology books, turn to the section on Aquarius, and totally see myself on every page in every word. I wanted it to be off the wall
w-r-o-n-g so I could talk her down from the ledge but how could I when the whole Aquarius 'thing' was, by definition, ME?
So I opened my mind just a little.
I can't remember the psychic's name but we all were called in one at a time and got a personal consultation.
I was sceptical but considered it diverting; we'd all agreed to talk about the things she said/we said and compare notes later.
She even put the whole reading on cassette tape so we would have it verbatim.
The first thing she asked me almost as soon as I walked into the room and we'd said hello was, "Who's Jim?"
I was a little startled because I have a father Jim, a brother Jim, two nephews named Jim... and she pulled THAT NAME out of a hat!? I said there were lots and lots of Jims in my family and she looked at me a little pissily and said, flatly, "OK. Which one's DEAD?"
"That would be my father," I replied and she then proceeded to describe my dad physically to a 'T'. Like Melinda Gordon, she passed information from him to me; it was strange but I did feel comforted at the same time.
We probably spent 20 minutes together and the reason I bring this up NOW is that she told me, in the course of the interview, that I would not be living my whole life with my current husband. I would find someone new, someone who would take care of me very very well (I liked the sound of that even THEN!) and his name was Stan.
STAN?! I have been acquainted only once in my 64 years with anyone named Stan and ours was the most passing of relationships, I assure you.
Well... where the heck is my Stan NOW???
I told my daughters this story right after we left the Florida mortuary the day after Tom died - we were all a little punchy then anyway. They immediately got into it and suggested a number of different ways I might test out this "Theory of Stan". We got hysterical laughing about all the places I could go, things I could do to begin the search for My Man Stan!
I have to say this psychic was right about a lot of things that night. To a person we all agreed much of what she'd said about our lives-to-date was uncannily true.
Could there be a Stan waiting for me just around the corner??
Lord, I hope so. "Let's have at him!," I say!
At first I was uncomfortable with the concept; then I was - lol - HORRIFIED when I would pick up any of her astrology books, turn to the section on Aquarius, and totally see myself on every page in every word. I wanted it to be off the wall
w-r-o-n-g so I could talk her down from the ledge but how could I when the whole Aquarius 'thing' was, by definition, ME?
So I opened my mind just a little.
I can't remember the psychic's name but we all were called in one at a time and got a personal consultation.
I was sceptical but considered it diverting; we'd all agreed to talk about the things she said/we said and compare notes later.
She even put the whole reading on cassette tape so we would have it verbatim.
The first thing she asked me almost as soon as I walked into the room and we'd said hello was, "Who's Jim?"
I was a little startled because I have a father Jim, a brother Jim, two nephews named Jim... and she pulled THAT NAME out of a hat!? I said there were lots and lots of Jims in my family and she looked at me a little pissily and said, flatly, "OK. Which one's DEAD?"
"That would be my father," I replied and she then proceeded to describe my dad physically to a 'T'. Like Melinda Gordon, she passed information from him to me; it was strange but I did feel comforted at the same time.
We probably spent 20 minutes together and the reason I bring this up NOW is that she told me, in the course of the interview, that I would not be living my whole life with my current husband. I would find someone new, someone who would take care of me very very well (I liked the sound of that even THEN!) and his name was Stan.
STAN?! I have been acquainted only once in my 64 years with anyone named Stan and ours was the most passing of relationships, I assure you.
Well... where the heck is my Stan NOW???
I told my daughters this story right after we left the Florida mortuary the day after Tom died - we were all a little punchy then anyway. They immediately got into it and suggested a number of different ways I might test out this "Theory of Stan". We got hysterical laughing about all the places I could go, things I could do to begin the search for My Man Stan!
I have to say this psychic was right about a lot of things that night. To a person we all agreed much of what she'd said about our lives-to-date was uncannily true.
Could there be a Stan waiting for me just around the corner??
Lord, I hope so. "Let's have at him!," I say!
"And the greatest of these..."
I met Tom at Michigan State University in November of 1962 not much more than a month after I started my first term there. He had the candy job of sitting in the cafeteria lobby and checking every girl in West Wilson Hall through the breakfast, lunch or dinner line.
What a luck-out!?
It was his nose that lead to our introduction. I was seated with my roomates and a few guys from East Wilson at lunchtime on the 29th when one of them began mocking THEIR roomate's hugh probocis. I couldn't imagine that this... feature... could be so prominent on a person I passed by at least once a day five times a week since school began and I'd never even noticed it OR him so I left the table and went to the doors, opened them and checked him out.
Seeing me, he turned; I raised my eyebrows and said, "I don't think your nose is THAT big...," shut the doors and resumed my seat.
When he went off duty he scanned the room, found our table and joined us. The seat next to me was fortuitously vacant. While the group of us were chatting I fiddled with my Grand Rapids Ottawa Hills class ring, twirling it until - at one point - it clattered to the table. He swooped it up, put it on his little finger and said,
"Now we're going steady."
I rolled my eyes, giggled, and said, "Sure. Why not?"
We made a date, being steadies and all, to study together that night. We did. Well, in truth, I TRIED to study and he did his best to subvert my concentration by drawing alternately humorous and obscene cartoons (which I considered charming, unique and just a little strange) in the margin of my ATL book. Before we parted company I asked him to please give me back my ring.
"No!" he protested. "I meant it. We're really going steady now."
And he kissed me.
That was it. In fact, when I wrote my sister to tell her about my new boyfriend I even referred to him as, "This-is-it-Tom"!
As it turns out, 'charming, unique and just-a-little-strange' were the three best qualities I could've ever chosen in a mate. Over our 47 years together, sure, there were OTHER qualities I wouldn't have minded seeing in him - ambition comes to mind as does being task-oriented and RICH - but for the long haul being eternally likeable and funny, one-of-a-kind, and slightly offbeat served us very well.
Turns out he was also true-blue, a terrific dad and unfailingly supportive which didn't hurt!
47 is a lot of years to be happy every day, to love one another literally and figuratively, to be in sync mentally and emotionally. Even knowing what I know now, that 47 was our Magic Number and it was not enough, anyone I loved would still be lucky to find a partner who weathered those finite years so well as we.
I have no idea what will happen in my life as it unfolds henceforward but I know that what I had makes whatever WILL BE entirely OK.
You heard it here: life's all about the loving so rejoice and be glad. I do and I WILL even if... sometimes... tears get in my eyes.
What a luck-out!?
It was his nose that lead to our introduction. I was seated with my roomates and a few guys from East Wilson at lunchtime on the 29th when one of them began mocking THEIR roomate's hugh probocis. I couldn't imagine that this... feature... could be so prominent on a person I passed by at least once a day five times a week since school began and I'd never even noticed it OR him so I left the table and went to the doors, opened them and checked him out.
Seeing me, he turned; I raised my eyebrows and said, "I don't think your nose is THAT big...," shut the doors and resumed my seat.
When he went off duty he scanned the room, found our table and joined us. The seat next to me was fortuitously vacant. While the group of us were chatting I fiddled with my Grand Rapids Ottawa Hills class ring, twirling it until - at one point - it clattered to the table. He swooped it up, put it on his little finger and said,
"Now we're going steady."
I rolled my eyes, giggled, and said, "Sure. Why not?"
We made a date, being steadies and all, to study together that night. We did. Well, in truth, I TRIED to study and he did his best to subvert my concentration by drawing alternately humorous and obscene cartoons (which I considered charming, unique and just a little strange) in the margin of my ATL book. Before we parted company I asked him to please give me back my ring.
"No!" he protested. "I meant it. We're really going steady now."
And he kissed me.
That was it. In fact, when I wrote my sister to tell her about my new boyfriend I even referred to him as, "This-is-it-Tom"!
As it turns out, 'charming, unique and just-a-little-strange' were the three best qualities I could've ever chosen in a mate. Over our 47 years together, sure, there were OTHER qualities I wouldn't have minded seeing in him - ambition comes to mind as does being task-oriented and RICH - but for the long haul being eternally likeable and funny, one-of-a-kind, and slightly offbeat served us very well.
Turns out he was also true-blue, a terrific dad and unfailingly supportive which didn't hurt!
47 is a lot of years to be happy every day, to love one another literally and figuratively, to be in sync mentally and emotionally. Even knowing what I know now, that 47 was our Magic Number and it was not enough, anyone I loved would still be lucky to find a partner who weathered those finite years so well as we.
I have no idea what will happen in my life as it unfolds henceforward but I know that what I had makes whatever WILL BE entirely OK.
You heard it here: life's all about the loving so rejoice and be glad. I do and I WILL even if... sometimes... tears get in my eyes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
