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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
