Camera Obscura

"God Bless the Child"

2012-01-20T18:15:00.000-05:00

But more importantly...

Bless the parent of the strong willed child…for he shallhave no peace.

Double that to 2 toddlers barely a year apart and he shallalso get no rest.

Pray not for patience…for in doing so one receives challengeto build that patience.

Ask the universe instead for mental quickness to outwit the littlebeggars…

…and 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

The rowdy, rambunctious tag team of Thing 1 and Thing 2,currently in residence at now quite aptly named Casa de Chaos, spend theabundance of their day in one state of agitation or another; singly and intandem. (They even wake up agitated) Beleaguereddad struggles to maintain composure and not give in to the urge to grab theduct tape, box them up and ship them COD to Abu Dabi. (He is a good young manwho stepped up and in to accept the responsibility and consequences of, as heputs it, “being young and stooopid.”)

Much of the drama is the simple, normal, undaunted, lazerbean focus toddler quest for freedom. Add the chaotic and, until now, unstable prior living arrangements andyou have the recipe for atomic level explosion. (Duck and cover.) One hopes the new living arrangementenables all to come to feel a sense ofhaven here…a sense of…home.

During the rare and all too fleeting moments of abundant joyin life a toddler has, it is a pleasure to see the world through their eager, inexperiencedeyes. There is nothing in the world like a child’s unvarnished curiosity aboutEVERYTHING. That is until the reality of life smacks them like a brick burstingthe bubble and respite is sought in the small corner of peace in our bedroomcum sitting room…though the door to said room must now be locked due to a lackof understanding boundaries on the part of 2 year old Thing 1. (He’ll learn.)

Having taken them in rather than see them parceled out andsingly passed around from one reluctant relative or another, we volunteered forthis gig. And, while I am not sorry we have done so…I do find my tired self questioningmy sanity in thinking that us old farts have the stamina to go the distance.

This was not part of the original design in the 2 year plantoward giving up the stay-put life in favor of that of the gypsy. It is,howsumever, that which we have voluntarily immersed ourselves during thetransition between working and not.

Still….there is that moment when one opens the front door aftera long day at the office and those weewicked monsters, with joy radiating from their grubby little faces, squeal in unabasheddelight….”Nanaaaaaaaa!!!” Wrapped intheir small, but dirty, embrace it is all somehow worth the chaos that reigns withinthese four walls.

Their zest for life is boundless.

But…one is still grateful for a locked door.

And, 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

In the meantime....Eva Cassidy sings "God Bless the Child"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U8E2gNf7QDE&feature=fvwrel

You Were a Good Dog, Charlie Brown

2011-11-18T07:26:00.000-05:00

Good-by…Charlie Brown Dog

As I reflect on saying “good-bye” to Charlie, I find a small patch of peace in the space between “too soon” and “too long”. The disease has done the work for me in assuaging the guilt I have felt while he was still feeling well despite the predetermined ending of this chapter of his life. Having let him go now relieves him of his discomfort and preserves memories of him mostly whole and healthy. To do otherwise, is unkind to a small creature who has cheerfully and unabashedly given loyalty and love beyond without guile or measure.

The young man I work with suggested I consider that my allotted time with Charlie is complete and that he will now be with Jim who has missed out on a shade over 9 years with him. It’s a comforting thought in a time of many tough ones to imagine the two bounding around the universe in search of adventures to share together.

This poem was found while looking for something to ease my heart on this last day of days.

The Power of the Dog
Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
But when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie–
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumor, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find–it’s your own affair
But . . . you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will
When the whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone wherever it goes–for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ‘em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long
So why in Heaven (before we are there!)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Rest In Peace, my loyal loving canine companion.

I will remember you with tears for the leaving and smiles for the years and the memories.

You were a good dog, Charlie Brown.

You will not be forgotten.

2011-11-16T08:26:00.000-05:00

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

The time has come… The little voice whispers “no more” as simple things become increasingly difficult for my furry friend.

Time in love and kindness before the every day life becomes unmanagable for him. Time before the memories are tainted by the relentless march of the demon within.

No more camping trips, sunset walks by the lake, wading in the stream or gingerly picking his way through snow left by the odd winter storm.

No more little brown dog snarfing the kitchen floor for snacks or sitting, chin on my knee, silently anticipating any stray crumb that might “fall” from my plate.

No backward glance out the front door each morning waiting for Handyman to follow so that business can be done.

No more warm fuzzy body curled by my bed when I get up in the dark or squirming his way onto my lap in a needy moment.

Surgery bought time…time to think, digest and accept…time to remember… time to make new memories to be held in the days ahead

The beast has won.

Friday will be Charlie’s final trip to his vet-doc.

I will hold him as he passes from this world into whatever comes next. I will cry at the loss of him in my life. And I will be grateful for the steadfast companionship of that rambunctious little brown creature that has been my friend, travel buddy, silent therapist and crying towel since Jim bought him for me for Valentine’s Day 14 years ago.

I will remember him with love.

Coorie Doon *

2011-11-08T18:01:00.000-05:00

Fall, with its brilliant changling leaves and green apple sweet-tart crispness to the evening and pre-dawn air, brings a sense of “coorie doon” to my soul. A settling in of the bones for a time when the nights are long, cold and best passed under the warmth of a soft comforter. A time for reflection of days past and those to come.

As I watch my Charlie Dog, I know the dark moment will too soon arrive when I have to let him go…to send him out of my physical life. This cancer is a death sentence for him with the timing being unknown and unwillingly orchestrated by me. There is no reprieve…no miracle spontaneous cure…not even a remission. And, yet he eats, sleeps, runs the yard, lolls in the grass, begs for treats, snarfs the floor for abandoned morsels and for all the world looks to be a healthy older dog. Inside the beast eats its way across his mouth and tongue.

I do not look inside. I know what lives there. It returned too quickly and viscously even after his very capable vet’s best to remove the festering beast. Instead I clean the wound and attempt to exert some control over the incessant licking that is the only indication of the pain he feels. (The vet was called today for meds…I am unwilling let him go yet.) I take him camping where he enjoys the new scents and attention paid by people unable to guess his breed (Boykin Spaniel).

Unaware of the monster within, Charlie is full of life. He is a cheerful dog…much like the stereotypical drunken Irishman with that ear-to-ear grin and bubbly boyish charm. He bounds up the steps, wiggles from head to toe when I come home, oft times getting so excited he has to bark to release the energy, and begs unashamedly for any crumb I am willing to drop or hand him.

Charlie’s unabashed enjoyment of rolling in the grass…and thereby attaching any loose flotsam from the yard to his curly fur…makes me laugh. I have a vivid memory of him, staples still attached from back surgery, flipping over in the grass, rolling and twisting with what appeared to me to be a look of pure bliss. He is the first dog I’ve owned to exhibit this behavior; having seen it before only from horses in their pastures.

Charlie brings me joy and I will miss that and selfishly cling to his life for just a while longer.

In the end, I will have to do what is best for my four-legged, furry friend and companion of the last 14 years.

I just can’t do it today.

Today, I will coorie doon with him in the old feather comforter he loves, rub his curly head and remember days spent in the sun. I don't know what he thinks...I just hope he knows he's loved.

*Scot’s for snuggle down.

Life Ain't Fair

2011-10-02T15:53:00.000-04:00

Truth is that I have not for any number of recent years harbored the misplaced illusion that life is fair. Indeed, I have taught my children and grand that it is, in fact, most decidedly NOT.

Life is good; life is bad. It is happy; it is sad. As the saying goes “some days you eat the bear; some days the bear eats you.” Ups and downs, it is what it is and we do our best to play the hand it deals us with varying degrees of success.

And yet, just as when Jim died, I find myself railing at the fates that bring me once again to a point of staring death square in its relentless, unyielding, unbending maw.

It is not for myself that I mentally scream and shove my fists at the heavens in Scarlett O’Hara fashion this time, but for my furry companion of the last 13 years, my Boykin Spaniel, Charlie Brown Dog.

Charlie was a Valentine’s gift from my late husband, my crying towel and constant companion after Jim’s death. He has seen me through grief and my tango with Cancer almost 2 years ago. I have coaxed him back to health after surgery to remove a damaged vertebra and refuse the lower portion of his spine. Though he often walks like a drunken sailor, I am beyond grateful for the skill of the vet who facilitated the return of the use of his rear limbs. He can run, wallow in the grass, snarf up every crumb that lands on the floor, loll around like a goof and take care of his own business without outside assistance. We are kindred.

Now he faces his own near certain dance with that bloated, evil toad Cancer. A vicious, sickly sweet smelling, coal tarred tumor grows inside the floor of his mouth. While not yet definitely diagnosed as cancer, his capable and compassionate vet will remove the tumor, biopsy the tissue so we do know for sure what we are dealing with and sew him back up. He will have quality of life again. Cancer or not, the prognosis is that it will more likely grow back than not.

This path was chosen for my 13 year old furry friend rather than subject him to the rigors of the excellent oncology vet we are fortunate enough to have one town over, who would remove both the tumor and his lower jaw as well as recommend reconstructive surgery even so there is a greater than 90% chance it will recurr. This same clinic performed his spinal surgery 6 years ago. Also discounted was merely addressing the symptoms with antibiotics and steroids for the remainder of his days. Neither choice was palatable nor in the best health interest to Charlie.

His vet agrees that palliative care is the kindest option for my aged, four-legged friend. It Royally SUX in the worst way…big, sweaty, hairy donkey balls, as my son would say. I don’t have to like it (and I don’t), but I can live with this path…it is what is best for my sweet, wussy dog…and… in the end…me.

It is harsh to my soul to know the end game remains the same and that the time will come sooner than later that I have to make another choice for Charlie. My reality is that Charlie will not adventure with us when we leave the stay put life. He will, howsumever, have what ever time is left to us as a happy, relatively healthy, camp dog on our weekend jaunts as long as he is able.

So….here’s to you…Charlie Brown Dog…and to life as good as it gets for as long as we get it.

It's Just a Truck

2011-08-02T19:44:00.000-04:00

First, let me say with all my heart...I'm grateful beyond words that my Grand and her BF are only nursing minor wounds and the man who hit her only had minor injuries.

Let me also say...it's just a truck...metal and rubber...it's just a thing...beyond repair, but still an object with no feelings.

She called me first...we had no reception where we were...I didn't hear the call until this evening...crying that she was sorry...about the truck. My son finally got through to tell me first off that she was OK, but that he thought the truck was wiped. Later, when I figured she had calmed a bit (and we had driven up the dirt road where we could get reception) she kept apologizing about the truck....Papa's truck. She was sorry.

All the way down the mountain I told myself it was just a truck...metal and rubber...I was fine because she was fine...

Which was all well and truly said until we pulled into the drive.

And there she sat...twisted and broken...and then so was I.

I could not stop the tears...tears of anger at the man who caused my Grand the terror of living through a wreck...tears of joy that she was only minorly bruised...and tears of anguish that his truck...his baby...sits in a warped heap in my yard as a reminder of one more stinkin' loss.

In the end...it's a truck...another something will appear at some later date and what remains will be pictures and memories.

For the moment...it's another stab in the heart to move through...another ending.

Sometimes shit happens and life, for a moment, stinks all over again.

Farewell Papa's truck.

Life Questions

2011-07-22T20:10:00.000-04:00

My Tennessee friend has made me think yet again. She often does that when she is also thinking.

So…here are her questions and my answers for those who give one what I think and feel about them.

"You make me think about how one thing changes your life. Small or large, good or bad; one thing changes your life. Of course we all know that but one thing can change it for the better too. I remember the time when it was get up and get the day over with, now it is get up and fire up the day. Bring on the crazy, silly, boring, angry, happy, scared. Bring it. Because this is all I get.

So I guess this is calling you out and I hope you don't mind and I know if you do mind you'll ignore me. I know we talked during the surgery and after but looking back what were you thinking, in the part of your brain that wasn't dealing with the big C, surgery, healing, options? "

It’s all we get….but it’s what we do with what we get that’s the important thing. I can fold ‘em or I can play ‘em…but unlike the song, I cannot, in good conscience and honor to Jim, hold ‘em.

“You are keeping your house as a base, right? Is this going to be travel all the time or travel/home/travel/home? You know you have a resting stop in Tennessee.”

For a time…It won’t sell as fast as we want to leave and there’s fiddley bits yet to make it more sellable (without over doing). So…initially it may be road/home/road…etc., especially since we promised family we would be on the East Coast for holidays. And, thank you…there’s a big map dot on your river bend. (Among sundry other generous souls who have offered same.)

“Were you happy with how your life was?” Yes…and No…I was happy, but there were things about me that I didn’t seem to be able to divorce myself from repeating.

“Did you change?” No…I’m still the same old rotten, crazy me…and yes…because there were things I needed to release from having power over me.

“I know the travel plans were set before the DX, did the plans give you a focus or make you angry?” Both. First, I was angry out of fear the dream would be taken away. Then the relief that replaced both the anger and fear strengthened my determination to make it sooner than later. I am very focused on that goal. Every day is another day closer to making the dream truth rather than phantasy.

“Did it make you harder or softer?” Again…a bit of both. The softer is not easy to define…except that I think I do a better job of softening my reaction to others actions. With a few exceptions. Which is where the harder comes in. There are certain aspects of my life in which others keep trying to put/keep me in a certain box. I have broken that box and built my own. What I do or don’t do…I do because I wish to do it not because I’m either hounded or guilted into doing so. It’s been challenging for the folks involved to accept this new me and move along in their own lives. It’s been hard to step back…but necessary if they were going to grow, too.

“Did it bring worry or resolve?” Yes. Worry that I had waited too long and my life might end on an entirely different calendar than the one I had filled in. Worry that he might miss a cell and it would come back. For a time after Jim died life meant less than nothing to me. Death’s Dagger on my personal doorstep made me realize I placed more value on others lives than my own. Suddenly, there was sharp edge endangering my life and I realized that I was not done with it. There were things I wanted to do, places to see, people to spend time with and I wanted very much to keep it. I won’t say I never worry that it will come back. It can and it might not have the same outcome as it tends to be vicious on return. But, I am resolved that it will not prevent me from LIVING my life NOW. I can’t bet my present on a future that may not happen.

“I don't think you are ever the same after that, who do you like better pre or post Josie?”

Agreed. I don’t think you can stare Death in the face without blinking. While I was pretty content with the Josie that was or was still becoming; those things mentioned in the above answers kept me from being totally at peace with myself. The post Josie has grown up (without losing that curious and eager inner child), let go and moved forward in a more positive way. (Although a few in my life think I’ve become a real royal pain inna arse bee-yatch.) The post Josie is stronger and more determined that life is short, precious and needs to be grabbed with both hands and lived. (Time McGraw’s song “Live Like You Were Dying” comes to mind.)

“Seems we wait for things to be perfect before we put plans into motion then something comes along to show us nothing is ever perfect, life will never fall into place, questions remain unanswered, options will all present problems so when do you say enough and act?”

No…Life is never perfect. It does not wait for you to get around to living it…it moves whether we do or not. It changes on a dime and throw punches when you are not looking. Facing Jim’s death brought things into a certain focus. The possibility of my own really opened my eyes to the fact that I can’t wait for life to be perfect or I’ll always be waiting.

I am a sandwich child. On one slice, I have a frail elderly parent whose is in the late December of her life. On the other is a grown child in crisis more often than not who is finally, but stubbornly and unwillingly, learning to deal with a world where this Mom says “No,” or “Yes” on her own terms (Hard for both of us…but necessary). Handyman has a frail, elderly mother also in the late years of her life. If our mothers die while we’re on the road, we’ll come home. If they become something else before we leave, we’ll consider whether we need to postpone or take shorter trips.

The grown child…well…if it’s major…of course I’ll be there. But she doesn’t believe that yet and keeps trying to put me back in my old box with the strings, chains and locks. She needs to find her own place in life and step forward into it. Tethered to me she will not do so. Loosed from the bonds she has forged for herself, she will even if she falls a time or two first. Without the weakness of falling we cannot appreciate the strength of walking.

My son is working to find his place. Testing waters and making plans. Some he gets to incorporate into the Now, while others continue to percolate for a spell. But, he is constantly moving in that forward direction even when there is a side track or two. Given that he was once the boy who gave me most concern, he has grown into the man walking his own path with a certain sense of hard earned confidence. He gets my itchy feet and shares the malady inherited from my frustrated gypsy soul dad.

My grand is my major concern. She is young…looking for direction…has needs. I can put my plans temporarily on hold or modify them. I can be her roots but I cannot be her wings. Those she has to find on her own; test them and fill them with the rarified and exhilarating air of living.

The roots of my own life can be scarred, but not broken…I have found through Jim’s death that they run deep and they run strong even when hacked and scarred by grief…time and distance will not change that. Wings, howsumever, have a certain fragility in that if they are not used they become withered and useless...dreams of what might have been. I’m not willing to let them wither nor am I willing to look back and say “shoulda, woulda, coulda.”

I have given my life for my children and my parents…even my job…some have taken more than their share…but, I allowed that and will no longer beat myself up for it. I lost a love that was immeasurable and most surprisingly gained another that has been an equal treasure. We share life, we share sorrow, we share joy and we share love. That’s pretty amazing when you consider that I thought my life would remain solo.

Time does not wait long for you to make up your mind…it will turn and change when you are not looking. It is time to look beyond “one day,” take those wings, open them to the winds and soar…that I also have a partner eager and willing to fly along is an unexpected and precious gift. (The unasked question is “yes” both of us have agreed that if solo is the course presented, the one left behind will still take it.)

As hard as I tried not to go on and on and on and…etc…apparently I don’t know how. So…that…for what it’s worth…is now that.

Family Man

2011-05-24T23:12:00.001-04:00

9 years today. You'd think I have run out of things to say.

Apparently not.

May 24, 2002.

Jim died as he lived….a family man.

The final 7 years of his life were spent making memories…particularly with our young grand daughter after his first 2 heart attacks. He said he wanted her to always remember she was loved. She has.

His last week was spent making roadworthy a pop-up camper that spent a number of years living abandoned in a field that someone had given my daughter and her then fiancé. The plan was a family camping trip Memorial Day weekend to end his week of vacation before returning to work.

His final moments were spent thinking of others, killing the snake that in the end killed him so that the children who played in our yard would not be endangered by it. At that point he did not know the snake that slithered from beneath the axle and across his hand had, in truth, bitten him and assumed the nitroglycerin would do it’s magic and he’d soon feel better.

The last seconds of his life he looked into his son’s eyes and heard the final words to pass his ears…”I love you, Dad.”

In the space between heartbeats…he was gone.

He was my husband, lover and best friend; father to our children and Papa to his beloved grand. My life changed the day he walked into it and changed again when he left it.

33 years from day one to day last…a lifetime of memories. 9 years…another lifetime without him. I will always love him and I will always miss him.

From Craig Campbell "Family Man" Lyrics

“They're a world my world revolves around
My sacred piece of solid ground
The flesh and bone that gives me strength to stand
They are a fire in my driving on
The drive behind my coming home
The living, breathing, reason that I am
A family man

What keeps me keeping the faith
What makes me believe I can
Family man

There's a fire in my driving on
The drive behind my coming home
The living, breathing, reason that I am
A family man.”

Today, I think and remember all that he was to all of us who were graced to have him in their lives and how his legacy lives on in the children we created together and the grand who was the light of his life. We were blessed and we are grateful.

To my Family Man…Jim Ingle – 12/3/1950 – 05/24/2002….you are loved and forever remembered. Your life does, after all, mean more than your death.

Family Man Video

The Magic of Ordinary Days *

2011-03-10T06:58:00.000-05:00

Most people recognize days that are extraordinary either in their goodness or equal awfulness. They stand out as amazing in their impact or depressing in their having been survived yet again. They are stamped in the memory…burned in the brain.

But, what about ordinary days?

You know…the ones where you get up and you feel Ok, havva cuppa, pet the dog, go to work and it’s…eh…neither good nor bad…just another work day. You come home, have supper, maybe watch the telly a bit and then toddle off to bed. Perhaps you went shopping, stopped at the library, had lunch with a friend or walked the dog after supper.

One of those days you’d note in your diary with nothing much more than “it was Wednesday and nothing bad happened.”

There is magic in those days…those moments of no particular import…magic in that they happen at all, let alone rather regularly if you look on a year’s worth of them. They flow one into the other until you glance backward and realize a number of them have gone by almost invisible in their having passed.

When Jim died I thought for certain that every day following “that” day would rotate in equal measures of pain, sorrow and disbelief. It was simply unimaginable that a day…a moment even…would disappear almost unnoticed…and that I would find comfort in the retrospect of it.

Truth is that an inordinate number had gone by before I noticed that I wasn’t immeasurably miserable every freaking day. To be sure, there were stand out days in which I felt, saw or touched life with a sense of I AM going to survive this and I WILL be happy again…eventually. But, the equal truth is that they were hard to come by in the beginning.

It is those unremarkable days that segue us from one day of import to another. It is the unnoticed days that allow us to draw in rest, relax and rejuvenate our hearts and souls. It is those ho-hum days that allow us to have special, memory invoking or making moments to savor at a later time.

Here’s to the magic of ordinary days.

* from the 2005 Hallmark movie of the same name.

SNOW DAYS

2011-01-11T09:57:00.001-05:00

We got SNOW.

Beautiful, downy soft, powdered SNOW yesterday.

It has been years....Prince Regent was in grade school....since we had a snow like this.

It's been gorgeous to watch, though treacherous this morning as the scraped roads have turned to ice and the yards have a thick glaze on them.

Snow Days used to be ones full of kids...mine and most of the neighborhood...soggy gloves, coats and hats, boots strewn across the entryway, hot chocolate, grilled cheese and the sound of the same gloves, coats and hats thumping in the dryer.

It is quiet in this neighborhood now as most of the kids have grown and left the neighborhood. What few remain play on different streets now.

I realized yesterday as I sat by the window sipping my hot chocolate, wrapped in the soft silence watching the flakes gently coat the landscape as the cardinals played under the lone pokeberry bush overlooked in the fall clean-up that I missed the chaos and cacophony of children coming and going....reddened noses and cheeks punctuated by squeals of laughter across the yard. Even the dogs remained inside except for necessary trips outside.

I wasn't so much sad as reflective of the changes life brings us and smiled in the memories of days gone by. I thought of my widowed Tennessee friend who couldn't wait for her 16 year old son to wake up so they could go outside and play. She hates the cold, but she has found joy in bundling up and going outside rather than staying inside and whining about being cold. I admire this woman. I have watched her grow from frightened to fearless. I also love this woman. When I have fallen back she has helped pull me up just by her example as well as the occasional “get yer head out of yer ass” when I also needed that. She has told me it was OK to be weak and scared went cancer reared its ugly head, though she remained steadfast that the ugly toad would be beaten. It was and I’m glad she was there when the armor threatened to crack. But, I digress.

Eventually, Mr. Man went outside to finally have the chance to use that huge snow shovel he brought from NJ when he moved to NC and then here. I teased him about that. Now, I'm grateful he has it. Funny about stuff like that. As I watched him work I was struck by what a gift it is to have him here to share this part of our lives.

Some enterprising young man later in the afternoon got out on his bobcat and plowed all the roads here in our little ignored by the state and county subdivision. While it rather ruined the pristine look of the land, it will most certainly melt faster once we are above freezing again. Dunno who it was. He never stopped, never asked for money, just up and down and up and down until it ended up a pretty nice scrape job. Bless him for that.

Tomorrow it will be back to the world of work and chaos of a different sort.

Snow Days aren't the same, but then neither is my life.

Still….it was a good day.

The Birthday that Was

2010-12-21T22:31:00.000-05:00

Turning 60 was and wasn’t a big deal. I’ve spoken of that already….but have just a mite more to say.

Itza milestone, yet not in the same way it was a decade ago. 60 is now considered middle aged…having been 50…I don’t mind 60 is middle aged…I rather like imagining myself with 20 or so more years of actively living life in me. (though, I do clearly remember a not so long ago where that was not true.).

My mother is 81, and while admittedly more frail than a year ago, still going strong. Women on my mom’s side have always lived into their 80’s and beyond. Realistically, I can expect pretty much the same barring the universe having other ideas. (which would, clearly, not mirror my own.)

What struck me more about this birthday was the tenor of the cards I received from my grown children. The same smart aleckiness on the outside with more unexpectedly introspective thought inside than is their usual greeting card fare:

“Six-OH!! I can only hope that when I turn 60 that I can say that I have as much fun & adventure as you have had and are still having. You haven’t lost that sense of wonder & whimsy – I don’t think you ever will.” From my normally reticent 30 year old son. Thank you son. I think neither will you.

“Happy Birthday to my “hippie” mom. I thought of those patched up jeans you used to love to wear when I was a kid. They seemed to symbolize that bit of conventional rebellion you posses. Always something to add a “twist” to any outfit. Maybe a splash of color with your purple socks. You taught me to look at the world open and positively. All things are possible. The world wouldn’t be so colorful without you!!” From my 38 year old daughter. Ahem…’scuse me a sec…sniff, sniff…sumfin inna my eye.

Parents often wonder the impact they’ve had on their children. Mine could not have given me better gifts than their view of what the world looks like to them through my eyes.

In the years that have passed since Jim died in 2002, I have been challenged to consider how my actions have colored their own world. That they can still see some of that old me in the new one gives me hope that I have not done so badly in showing them that life is still life even through the life altering loss of their father in all our lives.

What ever happens next, my children have given me a beautiful gift in their words and I take some comfort in knowing I may have actually done good after all.

To life and love and laughter.

The Walrus & the Carpenter

2010-12-10T22:42:00.000-05:00

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings.” Alice in Wonderland

This particular verse from Alice has always spoken to me in times of reflection or change…it seemed appropriate to where I’ve been these last 2 weeks as I’ve been mentally walkabout sifting through thoughts, holding memories, wading back in time and touching places dear to my heart.

The time from Thanksgiving through pretty much past Christmas Day has power over me in that it brings back the year we met, shared 6 day apart birthdays, fell in love and began to make our plans for the day our lives would be lived as a couple. Thanksgiving 1969…I opened the front door to the next page of my life, which changed the instant I looked into those electric blue eyes and I never looked back until the day he died in May 2002.

I suppose my turning 60 yesterday and his being forever 51 had some small measure of responsibility for bringing on the thoughts more deeply than usual. Not so much that the number of my age is the cause…it’s a number and I have a wonderful role model in my 81 year old mother for why age and how you feel about it is often a matter of the mind…a number that represents the passage of time on this planet. It had more to do, I think with the fact that he will not see any of these years nor those to come.

Speaking to a dear friend, I told her that he was, at 51, in that place in his life where he was so content and comfortable in himself and in his own skin that he made others feel that way in theirs as well. I envy that a bit as I still, sometimes, feel alien in my own shell. Could he speak to me today, I think he would tell me, that all is as it is supposed to be and that his time had come to move on to what ever was next in this universe for him. He would tell me that life is out there and that I should reach out and grab it with both hands. That there is still magic and wonder to be experienced if I will let it be so. At least, it’s what I choose to believe.

8 ½ years now, I have been widowed…it once colored every aspect of my life…still does many. My children have flown the nest, making lives, mistakes and successes just as they should. And, though my grand still needs me for another year or so, it is time to figure out the next pages of this book and where the adventure goes from here. Time to make plans and dream dreams. That I get to do this with another heart once wounded as mine, feeling loved and being cherish, is a gift I never expected to share again. Once in this lifetime was something…but…twice…is…well…something spectacularly else.

I believe Jim would be happy Handyman and I managed to find each other in this oh, so crazy and jumbled universe by way of widowhood and WN. I know he believed that people can brought together though it seems they never should have met. He saw my graduation picture so many years ago…before he ever met me and 3,000 miles across the country from where I was…and told a friend “that’s the girl I’m going to marry.” I have to believe so too…I dreamed of him all through my childhood and teen aged years… a nebulous sort of shadowed being that filled my dreams at night…and never had the dream again the day I opened that front door…almost as if I’d dreamed him into life.

My Handyman was met on a whim of a trip to a meeting of also widowed in January, 2004. He touched a chord that drew us into a long distance friendship that changed to something else entirely the next time we met some months later. He took my hand to help me from the car, the electricity thrummed my skin and…oh, shit…I wuz 55 and gone again just as if I was 18. 6 years later, we are loving the life we are creating together and look forward to as many years as we are gifted to be together.

This year’s light melancholy has served well in reminding me of the joy of my past life and that of this current life. I am blessed to have both. All in all not such a bad ending to a 60^th birthday rumination.

OOOPS

2010-11-17T21:28:00.000-05:00

Huh.

It wuz a bug...a glitch...a hic-cup...a burp...

In other words, FB screwed up...

Again.

Go figure.

And, just like the IRS and errant philandering BF's, no apology either.

Just...woot...and it wuz back again.

All in all, I admit I'm glad....I sorta missed it even so it was only for a day.

(I'm still not exactly kosher on the name, but....)

So...Hello, again FB...wanna wonder how long till the next glitch.

And, the universe moves on.

Pa rum pa pa pum.

One Year

2010-11-16T12:43:00.000-05:00

"One year. 365 days. 8760 hours. 525600 seconds. Time, my friend, sweet sweet time." from my TN friend. Thank you.

As today passes I was looking for a way to celebrate the one year mark of my cancer surgery wondering is it the date or is it the day? WTH…it’s my life…so I’ll just celebrate period. Thank you all for having been there from A to Z.

As it turns out, the universe has given me a gift of sorts of its own.

I have been a naughty girl, I knowingly did not abide by FB’s naming rules, got caught and find myself sent to “banned camp” as of this morning. Since I’m not willing to jump through their little hoop of sending them a digital copy of a government issued ID, I will not be begging to be unbanned.

Some will say why did I join in the first place when I knew the rules and purposely tried to circumvent them. Good question with no good answer beyond that I wanted some small measure of anonymity in such a global setting, it initially allowed me to do so and so I did. They caught up with it and that’s that. I will miss it, but not enough to give blood, pee inna cup or send them my driver’s license. After all the hoo-haa about information gathering issues FB has been having do I believe that there’s no way it would get loose out there? Huh…notta chance.

This is as good an excuse as any to make the time to do work at my blog, which has been more or less cast aside like yesterday rubbish out of pure laziness more than lack of material. Thus, like the mythical Phoenix, Camera Obscura will rise from its neglected ashes and find writing life again.

Bowing to the FB gods, I say…fare ye well FB…it’s been fun and I’ll see ya somewhere in the slipstream. (My TN friend says her coolness factore just went up cuz she knows a REAL person banned by FB....this is why she's my friend...luv u gurl.)

Not bad work for a chilly, grey, rainy toos-day morning in mid-November.

"Live like you were dyin"....Tim McGraw

Happy Anniversary

2010-07-30T23:57:00.001-04:00

"And this journey that we're on,

How far we've come,

I celebrate every moment.

And when you say you love me

That's all you have to say."

Josh Groban - "When You Say You Love Me."

Today marks 6 years with a man who has been a special gift on this journey to wholeness.

Thank you for your love, your care, your humor and your steadfastness in this in this life we share heart to heart.

I love you.

2010-05-24T19:06:00.000-04:00

"The Heart Remembers

The fires of youth may die away and sink to crimson embers. . . . The high romantic dreams may vanish --- But the heart remembers.

The heart remembers everything; the buried past is there. The rapture of loves first delight; the joy and the despair. The faces and the friendships and the names of long ago --- Lie beneath a drift of years like leaves beneath the snow.

The sorrows and the happiness --- Gay June and grey Decembers. The music fades, the roses perish. . . . But the heart remembers.

~ Patience Strong 1945 "

8 years.

Today I remember the man and the legacy he left.

I am a better person for having know him.

Jim Ingle...I will remember and love you always.

Happy Birthday, Jim

2009-12-03T12:11:00.001-05:00

December 3, 1950...you were born.

December 3, 1969...the first of what was to be 32 birthdays together...age 19 to age 51.

December 3, 2009...the 8th one without you.

Happy Birthday Sweetheart...you will be forever 51.

I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

December 3, 1950 ~ May 24, 2002

Update

2009-12-01T18:10:00.001-05:00

Today is 14 days since surgery.

It's been an up and down number of days since the allergy to the percocet showed itself Tuesday a week ago. Going cold turkey with nothing but ibuprofen for pain relieve was a little daunting, but it and the heating pad got me through the worst of it. Ridding myself of the allergy effects was something else. It finally took mega doses of benadryl assisted by the ibuprofen for me to quit scratching like a mangy dog. Still a few itchies if I get too warm, but since I'm mostly cold these days that doesn't happen too often.

The surgical staples came out yesterday and the results of ALL of the pathology tests were negative. What a relief. I didn't realize until the Doc said the words how much I had been dreading the test results.

His only area of concern had to do with the fact the cancer was more than halfway through the uterine muscle. There is no evidence that it breached the muscle to go elsewhere, but he gave me the option to have preventative radiation in the pelvic area. He recommended that I do some online research and talk to people who have and have not had the additional radiation; both for possible side effects and reasons to or not to do so myself. I go back in 2 weeks for a follow-up pelvic exam and we will talk some more about my thoughts on preventative radiation.

All in all I am feeling much better, particularly since I'm not being pinched by the darn staples every time I move. Yay...freedom.

Now I can begin walking more than just around the house and work to rebuild my muscle strength. I'm starting slow, so nobunny worry that I'm gonna do too much. Besides I have 4 watch dogs right here in the house making sure I behave.

Come spring we'll be camping and kayaking again.

2 months after diagnosis I am officially a cancer survivor...I stand amazed and grateful.

Hello...My Name is....

2009-11-25T23:54:00.003-05:00

Pain...

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I met pain today.

Oh, I’ve met it before to be sure…much of it recently.

Today was PAIN.

Pure, primal, soul deep, dark, roiling, bone scraping, grab you by the collar, teeth rattling, if you think… move…breathe…I WILL kill you…unadulterated…PAIN.

And, all I could do was lay flat, still, jaw clamped unthinking through the vortex until it spat me out the other side tired, sore and wondering WTF.

Before THIS pain, I only thought I knew what pain meant. I am left humbled before that pain and respectful of those who endure it over a long haul.

The Chinese have a saying that pain is weakness leaving your body…must be one helluva lot of weakness living in there.

Tomorrow’s another day.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

It dropped in for another round this morning…not as long, nor quite as hard, nor so deep…just a reminder I suppose that some weakness remains.

We'll try again tomorrow,

More Thoughts from the Other Side of the Knife...

2009-11-23T18:42:00.001-05:00

WARNING: TMI to follow…if yer not interested my current fascination with the workings…or in this case…NOT workings…of my body parts…stop reading now.
That having been said; one should not abuse a perfectly good and innocent cup of coffee in such a way, but I was in pain, so I did and it worked. And, I felt like my two year old “in-training” Grand Daughter, wondering “Hello…so I made in the potty… now, where’s my prize?”

OK…so, in a way, I got my prize; but you know what I mean.

Hey…I warned you.

I also have a not so pretty red rash, finally receding hives and the what remains of an irritating itch caused by an ALLERGIC REACTION TO THE EFFEN PERCOCET!!!

(No, Herr Doktor….Morphine doesn’t work and the patient is allergic to Percoset. What’s left?” OY)

Which is why yesterday, while not the worst day in the world, was also not the greatest day...going cold turkey off the stuff and all. Yowzers, Bat Man.

During the whole deal, the crazy thought would casually flit across my mind that maybe…just maybe…I could take one or ½ of one…just to get me through the rough patches, yanno, cuz they DID work as pain killers.

Somebunny, slap me….the stuff gives me hives and makes me itch…even my blinkin’ eyelids itched…am I nuckin’ futz?

Imagine, if you will, that I was really hooked on those things. (after 3 days, prolly, not, but my mind went there anyway.) What then? “Please, Handyman….just one?” You can use your imagination for the rest.

Sheez, lew-eeze.

So…it’s strictly ibuprofen for the duration.

Sneezing.

Welll…I hope not do to THAT again for a number of weeks. Nor coughing unexpectedly, neither, thank you very much. OUCH!!!!

Laughing.

OK...it hurts some…but, it also feels good. Does that make me masochistic???

What ever.

Laughing’s good.

Walking straight up and down is good.

Sitting more or less upright is good.

Sleeping on my side is very good.

Food is getting better. Fruit is wonderful. And, the chocolate someone from TN sent me is MAH-VEL-US!!!! (said in a high pitched sing-song voice)

So, all in all, and given the alternative…Life’s not so terribly terrible.

And, it could always definitely be worse.

Notes from the Other Side of the Knife...

2009-11-21T12:25:00.004-05:00

1. Staples are stoopid sutures...they hurt and Doctors shouldn't do them. (That or they should HAVE them and then they wouldn't DO them.)

2. Morphine doesn't always work. (Atavan, howsumever, keeps you from stroking out when the morphine doesn't work, your blood pressure shoots up and you get all twisted out of your sheets about it.) Just ask me.

3. Percocet does...but it makes me itch.

4. Hospital food isn't...food, that is. I don't know what is IS. But, food...it's not.

5. The staff was wonderful...all the way to the lady who came in and cheerfully...really...mopped my floor every morning.

6. I don't want to be a recovery room nurse. If I said out loud what was going through my head when she asked me a) Mrs. xxxx? What is your name. (George Washington, of course) b) Mrs. xxx? What is your birthday? (Yesterday) c) Mrs. xxx? Do you know why you are here? (Don't YOU?) d) Mrs. xxx...you need to breathe (No...I think I can probably not.) See what I mean? I don't know that I DID say what was in my head, but, I'd take money that there are people who do.

7. It is apparently unusual to pee 2 litres worth of liquid in the magic hat in the toilet bowl over night. I'f I had known that I'm sure I could have arranged to put some of it on the floor where I thought it was going any way. I mean, really, I walked in there under my own steam and without rining the bell. You'd think I could pee as much as I wanted.

8. Passing gas at will is not one of my gifts. Right now I wish it was. Ugh.

9. The Doc and his Resident (female) were cool...I actually like them...my purple hair didn't bug them and they thought my "fight like a girl" tee shirt and sock monkey jammy pants were alright.

10. I'm grateful for my life...my family...my friends...my Handyman...especially my Handyman...Thank You....I did not do this alone.

Today's Program...

2009-11-17T05:11:00.001-05:00

is brought to you by the letter "S".

"S" is for surgeon whose hands will remove that fat, festering toad squatting in my southern hemisphere.

All prep is done...liquids drunk, Fleet's fleeted, hairs tipped in power points of brilliant Eggplant purple and all that jazz.

Here's to you Doctor, sir, to the return of health to this aging frame, to the man who shares my heart, to the friends and family who love me...

to...

Life.

Uterus Cakes....

2009-11-12T23:27:00.002-05:00

Really....my son sent me this link this morning. Couldn't decide at first if it was an "ewwwwww" moment or an I wish I'd thought of that when I was having my "Farewell to Josie's Uterus" ta-kill-ya shots.

Uterus Cakes (click link)

OK...so actually eating it might be a mite..uhm..weird...

But...

Then again...

Very weirdly apropos, neh?

Eat the cancer that eats you?

OK...Maybe not.

Pain Killers, Heating Pads and Stock in Kimberly-Clark

2009-11-12T10:40:00.000-05:00

My friends, the first two and wishing I had the last.

If I thought I had to deal with this much longer, I'm not sure I would.

That's not meant to be arrogant or funny or dark humor...I have a much clearer picture of why some folks opt out and a sincere respect for those women (and men) who deal with cancer and it's attendant issues over the long haul.

Immawuss and freely admit so...waiting for the pain meds to kick in as I was wrapped around the heating pad was interminable...I found myself thinking I would vote for legalization of marijuana for medical use inna heartbeat. Maybe California isn't completely whacked after all.

Who'da ever thunk a person would welcome going under the knife to have body parts purposely ripped out?

Only 5 more sleeps.

Sorry this is not one of my "stand and deliver" posts...how arrogant wuz that anywayz? Last night sucked.

Today's another day...I'll find my Qi and punch the lights out of that fat toady bastard festering in my lower parts.

And...the Winner Is...

2009-11-06T17:50:00.001-05:00

May I have the envelope, please?

Literally.

It came in an envelope.

"We are pleased"...blah, blah..."assist you with"...more blah, blah..."please call us for the particulars".

What ever hue grateful is....color me that.

Meeting Liz…

2009-11-05T17:49:00.001-05:00

The Universe delights itself in reminding me what a schmuck I can be…it must…I give it ample opportunity.

Having a momentary “feel sorry for me” moment after filling out yet another huge pile of “please pick me” paper work and lamenting on how hard it is to ask for help, the diminutive, bubbly sprite before me says “I know…I’ve been where you are.”

Looking at this petite imp with a personality as buoyant as a brightly colored helium balloon, I give what I know must be a “sure…what do you know” look.

Then she tells me what she knows…and I am truly humbled.

At 40 she is an 8 ½ year widow. Not quite 32 when she was left with 2 boys to raise…2 and 6 when their dad died…with no skill beyond being a full time mom and wife as they had married just out of high school.

Liz…petite, perky, beautiful little Liz…has gone back to school, gotten a degree, continued to raise her sons and…as if that is not enough for the Universe…has survived Uterine Cancer while she was at it.

(I am woman…hear me roar)

We speak then as comrades in arms…sharing secrets only those who are widowed know…secrets survivors know.

Survivors…survivors, by god.

We talk some more.

In the end she thanks ME for the opportunity to talk, what a pleasure it is to meet me and how much she hopes they can find a sponsor because I need to survive, too. For my kids, my grand, my mom…for my Handyman.

(Dammit woman…don’t make me cry.)

Cheez lew-eeze.

Here’s to Liz…to her spirit…her spunk…and the lesson she taught me yesterday.

To Liz...

Long may her Qi shine.

Farewell My Lovely

2009-10-28T22:38:00.003-04:00

Scheduling today...surgery is tentatively set for Nov. 12...radical hysterectomy...it all comes out.

The biopsy showed Grade 2 cells...middle of the road, but my uterus is a bit bigger than a baseball. Further review will tell whether the new surgeon thinks robotic surgery is feasible. The current oncologist admits he doesn't have enough experience to feel comfortable trying to remove one that big with the DiVinci robot at the cancer center. I appreciate his candor.

I have an elevated level in the blood test, but he's not sure that it's not caused by the fibroids. It does tell him he needs to check the pelvic lymph nodes closely upon surgery. Since staging will not be done until then, I just have to wait and see what turns up.

Still...my mental image is that the surgery will remove everything and all will be well.

Pride Goeth Before the Paperwork

2009-10-26T19:05:00.001-04:00

Think not?

Bare your financial soul and odd-ball family dynamics to a non-profit seeking assistance with mega-medical expenses when health-care insurance is beyond your reach and you can’t afford all of the out-of-pocket charges on your own despite the fact that you show up at work every dang day.

Please don’t get me wrong.

IF they choose me (pick me…pick me) I will be grateful beyond words…beyond pride quite bluntly.

Yet…it has taken an emotional toll to gather it all up and put it all out there for non-profit scrutiny.

Is it 5 o’clock yet?

I needa margarita…or…some JD onna rox…or a massage…or…

A hug.

Here's one to Pride...

Another to paperwork...

And, last, but damned not least...

A huge one to Life.

The Dark Path

2009-10-25T17:07:00.000-04:00

They sneak in, yanno.

The dark things you stuff behind the sofa when you're awake and keeping yourself busy.

The OMG's...the "what if I waited too long's"...the "I don't wanna do this" thoughts that tickle the mind at night.

Gotta keep a lid onnit...hold it in...stuff it down.

Can't let them be afraid...the family...they worry enough already.

(Crap...didn't I do this once already when Jim died????)

sonofabitch.

It's OK...it'll be OK.

Oncology doc and my research say it's treatable...curable...rip the bastard out and all will be well.

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

To life.

A Womb with a View

2009-10-20T23:33:00.001-04:00

Ultra-sound tomorrow.

Oncologist needs to see how big the garage door needs to be and whether it will be robots or fingertips deposing the toad king from the throne.

They're also gonna poke me and take a few million blood samples.

Wheeeee...I get to be a pin cushion.

Ain't life a kick inna pants.

That's Life

2009-10-19T20:04:00.002-04:00

That's life

I tell ya, I can't deny it,

I thought of quitting baby,

But my heart just ain't gonna buy it.

And if I didn't think it was worth one single try,

I'd jump right on a big bird and then I'd fly

(Frank Sinatra)

So, it's done...told my kids...they took it 'bout as I expected...some tears...some hugs...they need time to process this. DD told the GrandMonkey. My Handyman has 2 more of the 3 to tell.

Myself...I'm emotionally wiped...telling people...staying up beat...walking the walk and talking the talk...I'm just plain tired and I've only been at this for 6 days.

How do they do it? Those who have a long forecast before them.

Hell...I'm whinin' 'about the 2 pills I have to take...one big ass vitamin (pre-natal because the oncologist says they're better) and the blood pressure meds (cuz he won't operate until it comes down). There's also the analgesics for "discomfort", but those are PRN at appropriate intervals. What if I had handfuls of them?

Got one of those 7 day pill box thingies as a reward for being a big girl and taking my flue/pneumonia shots like a trooper. (that damned pneumonia shot made my arm sore clear up to my neck...whine...whine...whine...I'll have a little cheez with that please) Open I took them...closed I didn't. Geez.

OK...I'm just tired...I feel like crap...tomorrow will be better with some sleep and the reduced stress of having told those who need to be told.

It's life, yanno?

2009-10-18T10:24:00.000-04:00

Day 5 begins with anxiety.

Today I tell my chidren...I seriously don't want to do this...they've been through enough losing their dad...despite my plan to outlive the cancer, they cannot hlep but go there even if its for just the briefest moment...I hate putting them through the stress.

I can only hope that as they see that I am confident as to the path and the outcome, they will also relax and be reassured.

The harder parts of this journey is telling those who care and the financial fallout fromt treatment. Because I have some small means of self-payment, I qualify for no financial assistance.

Survival of this cancer is still likely to leave my offspring saddled with unpaid medicals bills 20 years from now since my plan is is to live a long life beyond the removal of this festering bastard from my body.

Alas, it is yet another of those thing that is what it is.

I can waste my time and energy fretting or I can hitch up my boots, put on my big girl panties and get on with living life.

I choose life.

Hey Now Here We Go

2009-10-17T23:52:00.001-04:00

And it's hey now here we go

D-J don't you play nothing slow

Keep those girls out on the floor

Gotta make 'em wanna come back for more.

Been here since the sun went down

Be here when it comes back around

Worked all week it's time to play

Gonna get a little bit sideways...

(Dierks Bently ~ Sideways)

Children's Charities Cancer Research and Treatment Center.

That's what it says on the building.

The waiting room though is filled with adults...I am not in the children's section...I say thank the stars for that for the kids...it's enough THEY have to deal with their own cancer...they don't need to see adults with it.

There's the elderly man in the golf cap with no hair beneath; the woman my mother's age with small tufts of hair here and there; most heart capturing of all...the beautiful young woman/girl with the bright red scarf artfully wrapped around her head...

It was clear to me that I was "different".

My own cancer has, most likely, a prognosis entirely unlike theirs.

Uterine cancer is typcially confined by the boundaries of the uterus. In it's design to protect the baby growing within, it also defines the boundaries for the cancer doing the same.

As I begin my own journey on this path, I get to have a white knight who goes in to forcefully remove the bumpy arsed toad squatting within its cocooning walls..to rip the evil bastard from the castle and save the damsel in distress.

And as relieved as I am for myself, I cannot help but wonder at the long term for each of these other folks passing through the doors of the building marked Children's Charitites Cancer Research and Treatment Center.

It is humbling.

I wish them life.

Flutterby's

2009-10-16T09:06:00.003-04:00

Day 4 begins with flutterbys and nothing in the pot or on the pad.

WTH? For week upon week it's like the great flood and now...nothing...nada...zip...zilch...zero.

I'm nervous, but not afraid.

They've already given me the answer.

Today is a matter of stage and degree...along with the ever so popular joy of the feet in the air thingy. Geez...I guess I'm gonna hafta get used to that. UGH.

What I need to know next is what they're going to do to evict the evil squattor taking up residence down south.

Soooo....the Handyman and I will together do the do, spend time by the river and have dinner with friends.

What happens next is what happens next.

To Life.

In Other News

2009-10-15T23:27:00.003-04:00

Day 3 and H1N1 has come to Casa del Outlaw.

DD's BF's little girl.

It's official.

What else could I do?

She couldn't go back to mommy's...there's a 6 week old baby there.

He had no where to take her other than his alky dad's place.

I don't think so.

What was I to say...."I'm sorry....I have cancer...I can't take the risk"...that's not exactly the way I planned on letting them know.

Besides...I'm not on chemo...there's been no radiation done to attack my immune system...I haven't even had my first oncology consult yet. (that's tomorrow)

With care it should be fine...other than UC I'm healthy...in fact, I've felt better today than I have in 2 weeks.

On the other hand...I'm having issues with food.

Tastes like dog food or cardboard.

WTF is up with that?

Nerves I reckon.

Maybe after tomorrow.

I can't NOT think about it...eff it all...it's always there skulking about and peering around corners.

Cancer.

Bastard.

My tikki friend says it's all that bitch Eve's fault. (that made me laugh)

She also says she's a praying woman, that she has praying wimmin friends and that her daddy always said praying wimmin get the job done.

Damn you, woman, for making me cry.

Thank you for being my friend...you lift me up when I can't and boot kick me inna arse when I need it. You know where the deepest wells are, you'd beat the bastard that hurt me and you'd sit in jail with me if I get caught.

Can't ask for better than that.

To friends in low places.

The Only Easy Day is Yesterday...

2009-10-14T23:27:00.004-04:00

"Life is not complicated and it is not fair, Randy Pausch might have said. It's just hard sometimes." from the Washington Post.

Randy Pausch I am not...

...no last lecture

...no million $ book deal

...no TV interview with a famous journalist...

Only me...no role model for the masses (I'd screw up the job anyway)...just me...

Josie...

Trying to figure out how to do this with some small sense of spirit and grace.

Grace.

Not a word normally associated with me.

Bull inna china shop...yeah...not grace.

Truth is I only know one way to do this.

Stand and deliver.

Highwayman, pistols raised, boots in the mud, standing staunch before the demon that would drag him down.

What the hell do I know?

It's only day 2.

Who knows how I will feel on day 22...222...or 2222.

But, I intend to stand for them all.

Mother took the news quietly, tears in her eyes. What a damn thing to have to tell your 80 year old mother.

Asked a few questions.

Wanted to know what I thought my attitude was going to be.

"I'm sad, Mom, but I'm not afraid and I'm not freaking out."

What good would it do anyway?

Won't change what is.

I can only wait, find out what the facts are and work from there.

This type of cancer...

cancer...

(ugly word no matter how many time you type it)

is generally, successfully treatable.

There is always...hope.

And, so it goes...

2009-10-13T23:54:00.003-04:00

Things change...the world turns on a dime...as does the flavor of this blog.

I did not expect today to be the day.

8:15 am - The Phone

"Dr. W. is in the office today. He'd like to talk to you about your pathology."

Pathology...

Not Lab Results...

Pathology.

8:40 - On the Road

To work.

I need to work...refocus my energy.

"Que Sera' Sera' "

3:30 pm - The Waiting Room

In a room full of pregnant women I sit...waiting the verdict of last week's biopsies. (A story for another day.)

My mind tries to breach the thinly veneered dam...damn...dam...erected to contain thoughts that threaten to crack it's walls if not held back.

What will he say?

How will I react?

What is...is...and...so...I wait.

4:00 pm - The Anteroom

Blood pressure too high...201 over something...warning, danger, will robinson...up almost 60 points from last week.

4:23 pm (I looked) - Diagnosis

"I'm afraid it's not good news."

Uterine Cancer.

Nope...not good at all.

"No doubt."

I cried a little...I cannot change what is.

Specialist...he's on of the best (aren't they all?)...appointment...Friday.

5:00 - Detour

Picked up dog's meds.

Such a mundane task on a day the world turns sideways.

5:30 - The Handyman

Welcome home hug...sweet.

Coffee...hot.

"Sit down."

Words are hard.

I cry a little...he's been through this before...unsucessfully.

Sigh.

He'll go to the oncologist (I don't want one of those, thank you) with me.

He loves me.

I think he'd go to the ends of the earth for me...

It's humbling...it's...it just is.

The kids will wait until I (we) know what I'm (we're) dealing with.

Mother I will have to tell tomorrow.

Sigh.

11:52 pm - Time for Bed

Thus ends my first day as a cancer survivor.

Love Remembers

2008-12-02T23:38:00.006-05:00

December 3, 1950

The youngest of 4 boys, Jim grew up in a time and place where life on cotton mill wages was all he knew. Times were tough, but, he learned that family meant more than money. He was taught that people had value not because of what they had, but how they lived their lives. His father showed rather than told…he lived what he what he preached to his son.

That legacy lived on in the man I came to know as friend, lover, husband and grandfather. He was not perfect, but he never expected more of others than he was willing to give of himself.

From the Chorus of Alan Jackson’s “Small Town Southern Man”:

And he bowed his head to Jesus

And he stood for Uncle Sam

And he only loved one woman

(He) was always proud of what he had

He said his greatest contribution

Is the ones you leave behind

Raised on the ways and gentle kindness

Of a small town Southern man

(Raised on the ways and gentle kindness)

(Of a small town Southern man)
http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnlvdXR1YmUuY29tL3dhdGNoP3Y9VVVoYXFVSEdlUVU

Happy Birthday to my own small town Southern man…you will always be loved.

Spirals

2008-06-24T21:44:00.004-04:00

More challenging than anticipated and aided by external forces, this year’s remembrance time took me to that dark place I do not care to go. While the bottom seems not so far as it once did, the struggle to regain balance has been tiring both to me and the dear man who shares this new life. Bless him for his patience with my mood.

Rather than go on about conjectures, why’s, wherefore’s, etc…this just sort of bubbled up today.

I’ve not written poetry in quite some time. I’m not entirely sure this qualifies now. It has no title, but the graphic comes from a book I’ve read.

spirals within
spirals
within spirals
curling, twisting
one
upon the other

whirlpools
drawing
down into
darkness
To hell
and back

time over time
war weary
battle honed
still they pull
and twist

writhing snakes
coiled within coils
slithering,
twisting
hissing

calling
down
deep
into mysts
of time
and
memory past

sunlit mornings
ebon nights
dreams
unbidden
in unguarded sleep

unsparing
The road
To light
And color

twisted path
rutted stone
tangled vine
trip
and scrape
the wound
open wide

bone and sinew
thread and needle
whip gaping edges
tight
against the flow

fire, ember
ash, flame
lightning flash
sulphured air

tremble
stirring life
where none should grow
phoenix rises
wings widespread

talons flared
grasping sky
past darkness
loosed

Grief
fallen
broken, charred
clay bits
zephyred dust

waiting only
dark spirals of
sorrow’s rain
born again
to battle light.

I Remember

2008-06-07T14:58:00.003-04:00

May 24, 2002.

Etched forever.

May 24, 2008.

6 years.

Always loved...Always remembered.

What else is there to say?

Forever 51

2007-12-03T18:00:00.000-05:00

I got to spend 32 of those 51 with you.

It wasn't enough, but I'm grateful beyond measure to have had them.

Happy Birthday, darlin'.

I'll always love you and I will always miss you.

You will remain as last I saw you...forever 51.

All Hallow's Eve

2007-10-31T22:53:00.000-04:00

Halloween.

His favorite.

Memories of how he'd take the week off the decorate the yard.

I didn't even light a pumpkin this year.

I miss him and how Halloween used to be, feel and taste.

Is there a Bah Humbug for Halloween?

Brick Walls, Gnats and Gratitude.

2007-10-05T19:40:00.000-04:00

What does one have to do with the other?

See that picture?

Pretty much my week.

Brick walls…everywhere…pounding my head…turning me sideways…drowning me in their persistent chomping at my nerves.

Nothing earth shattering…just a plethora of irksome annoyances likely to be as costly as they have been nagginly irritating, monotonously sleep robbing and emotionally draining.

Vehicles in need of expensive repairs…yes…vehicles…plural...family member in minor crisis…conundrums to be solved...nerves rattling...stuff…yanno...LIFE. Gnats fractiously swarming my eyes, nose and brain cells.

Then...as I jockeyed traffic for my position on the off-ramp to work late in the week...it hit me...I have a job...one that I wasn’t looking for when the universe brought it to my door. I get paid for doing something I don’t mind doing with people I don’t mind being around. I have a skill they need and the physical ability to show up every day, do my thing and then go home. Though I’ll never get rich from my labors, if I’m diligent in how I pick each tiny pest from my shirt, I can both help who needs helping and take care of my own nettlesome little gnats to boot.

Gratitude...I need to practice gratitude.

Things could be a lot worse.

Unwritten

2007-08-24T10:00:00.000-04:00

"Unwritten"
Natasha Bedingfield

I am unwritten, can't read my mind, I'm undefined
I'm just beginning, the pen's in my hand, ending unplanned
I break tradition, sometimes my tries, are outside the lines
We've been conditioned to not make mistakes, but I can't live that way

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find

Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in

No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken

Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten.
Flip the page to the next chapter that is the book of my life… empty…nada…nothing…a blank canvas waiting for the next stroke of fate’s pen.

Exciting.

Scary.

Yet…is it fate or the more purposeful plodding forward that will determine the tone of the scribblings placed there by the muses of the future?

What do I want my life to say about me…the woman who inhabits these bits of bone and skin…the being who takes up such an infinitesimal space in this magnificent, boundless universe?

Once upon not so long ago I did not care. It made not one whit of difference to me what the pages of my life might read. Jim’s death robbed me of the willfulness to chart my own map and I became nothing more than a bit of flotsam in the current of life.

Healing took time. Wallowing in pain, sorrow and self pity I buried that willful, outlaw child I once was among my husband’s ashes. Yet…somewhere deep within the scarred shell she clung to the small bit of hope that dimly lit the cavern in which she was entombed.

Without looking back into my journal I cannot say exactly when the shell began to crack. I do recall writing that I had to find a way to make Jim’s life mean more than his death. Jim loved life…I’ve written that many times in the last 5 years. Three heart attacks could not dampen his enthusiasm for this world and the people in it. How could I…out of my own love for him…do any less?

You’ve read my words in this blog…you know how I have struggled with finding balance…serenity…peace…and joy again. I still struggle at times.

The one thing I know for certain is that I do not want to look back on those pages and wish I had written something else.

Having said all that, I find I find myself still searching for the key to living a more creative life. Call it inertia…lack of motivation…plain old laziness…I have not taken one creative step forward in weeks. So many things pique my curiosity…photography…wire jewelry…simple mosaics…all of which I have some rudimentary knowledge but would like to learn more…perhaps even enough to make a humble, part-time living.

What is it that holds me back? How is it that I don’t seem to push myself beyond the basic research into classes that will teach me what I want to learn? Where is the stumbling block?

You will be surprised…maybe…that in the examination I admitted the answer lies within myself.

Fear…yes…fear…as much of succeeding as failing.

Now how whacked is that?

Time for one of those boot kicks I’m so famous for giving to others.

No more excuses.

No more “one day when I have time”….

I am now financially committed to 12 weeks of classes on jewelry making through the art school at our little Podunk art museum here in town.

Stay tuned for Chapter 2.

Keeper of the Memories

2007-07-31T15:20:00.001-04:00

36 years

37 ½ if you start from the day we met.

Keeper of the Memories. The family historian.

It’s my job now to remember all the special days and keep them in my heart. No one reminds me...no one shares their own memories of those days special to the two of us unless I ask. It’s not so much they don’t remember or that they think it will hurt ME to remember them…it hurts them.

Don’t mistake that I am upset about that. I knew when he died it would come to me to remember and think upon them. Mine to look at the memories as if opening a treasured photo album and pour over the pages of our life together.

36 years. A lifetime as the clock ticks. An instant in the mind.

Two opposite and vivid memories stick in my mind from that day.

My father had started a fight with the Best Man, who in the end, only stuck around for the wedding and then left. I was furious with my dad as the processional started….right up until I looked at Jim’s face.

He stood smiling at the head of the aisle I was about to walk. Waiting for me at the other end, just as I imagine him doing now.

I clearly recall thinking…”this is it…this is the day I begin my life as me and our lives as us.” (along with “I can’t wait to get this man”…meaning my dad…”off my arm.”)

No nerves.

No fear.

Only joyous anticipation of the years we would spend together.

I regret not one day of it.

Through the good, the bad, the magical and the mundane I have not a single regret save the one that involves not having had enough time with him.

This is my 6th anniversary without him. While there is a sadness for what is lost, there is a fuller measure of great joy for the time we were gifted to have together.

He was a good man.

I would not have missed this dance for anything in this world.

Happy Anniversary, Jim.

Unexpected Anniversary

2007-07-30T14:41:00.001-04:00

When Jim died I never expected nor dreamed I would want to be in a relationship again at my age.

Sometimes the universe has other ideas.

Today marks 3 years for the Handyman and I.

When first we met I had no idea love would come rushing in the door while I was busy looking elsewhere. At that point I had come to a place where being ME was beginning to feel very OK. I thought my life was headed in a different direction. (not the first time I have been deluded by that though, BTW) Then you casually took my hand to help me from that van and I realized I was headed somewhere else. I neither expected nor anticipated finding love again along this path.

Throughout these 3 years we have laughed, danced, dared to love, argued, adventured and worked our way together into a very comfortable space...like a favorite well worn sweater or comfy quilt. You are my friend as well as lover and partner and I am grateful for the gift.

I have learned a lot from you in processing my own thoughts about how we got here, looking at the world through a different lens and keeping my life in the here and now.

We have been through some interesting times between your children and mine. Blending them into a family is still a work in progress, but not one fraught with the angst that so many others of our kind have and still face. I am grateful that their wishes for our combined happiness have come to outweigh any concerns they may have had about it not being their respective parent who got to spend this fall and winter of our lives together.

I look forward with gladness in my heart to whatever future is meant to be between us on the rest of this journey.

I wrote these words not long before we made our relationship permanent 3 years ago. They are as true today as they were then.

I will be a rock for you to lean on

When times are hard and your heart is sad.

I will be a refuge from the storms

That life and past sorrows bring

In the course of the day.

My arms will hold you without reservation

And keep you safe and warm

When nights are cold and deep.

I give you my love without strings or walls

To keep within your heart

For the length of our days together.

I give you all freely and without doubt

To treasure and keep as you will.

I will regret nothing, for the choice is mine

To keep my heart or give it away

I choose to give it to you.

Thank you for the gifts you bring to my life. I will savour the love and companionship we share for what ever time the universe graces to give us.

Happy Anniversary.

Echos of the Past

2007-07-05T09:46:00.001-04:00

4th of July

Independence Day

Families, food and fireworks

Nostalgia

A scrapbook collage piecing the present with the past.

Vignettes highlighting my Handyman playing ping-pong with my nephew’s young children…too young to remember Jim…side by side with memories of Jim laughing with my nephew and his friends 4th of July’s long past.

Scenes set with Himself chatting with Grandmonkey’s first real boyfriend introduced to the family in the time honored tradition of a holiday get together superimposed over Jim and our daughter’s first.

Images of the Handyman and my brother-in-law, heads bent towards each other across the patio table, deep in conversation etched beside the recall of Jim and Bruce on the deck smoking and talking.

Driving home through the night was as if entering a tunnel of time slicing through sights, sounds and smells of July evenings long ago. Children’s laughter as they scamper through the darkness lit by sparklers stinging their hands. Sulphur from the last of the fireworks sending bursts of starlight into the night sky commingled with scent of hot dogs, hamburgers and watermelon hanging gently on the summer air. Barbeque grills dimly glowing from the lingering embers of the day’s cooking…a flip book turned backwards to be viewed in reverse.

I’d be lying if I said there was not a mist to my eyes in the remembrance… a gentle, aching tug at my heart for all that is gone. Yet, there is a comforting gratitude for the love surrounding that past life that also hugs this present life…a solace in the replay and digesting of the truth that life continues a well worn path even through the tragedies of our hearts.

Remembering a time not so long past when it was not so, I am thankful for the memories of a love stored among the treasured relics within my heart and grateful for that which remains to be written.

“My cup runneth over.” (Gena Rowlands…Hope Floats)

Lessons Learned

2007-06-14T16:08:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was our son’s birthday.

27

Gack.

When did THAT happen?

I had lunch with him today. I love having lunch with my son. He’s great fun to be around. He likes to laugh just like his dad. Life surrounds him. We talk of so many things including his life plans.

We spoke of his dad and how hard this 5 year thing seems to be…like constantly being poked by the Grief Monster with a pointy little stick.. (Daughter has said the same thing.)

We spoke of the lesson’s we’ve learned on this journey. Amazingly his are really no different than mine.

We decided:

Life’s short.
Death sux.
Tears are cleansing.
People matter.
Family is important.
Love lives on.
Laughter is healing.
Joy is there if you look for it. (this one takes time)

I will never take any of those things for granted ever again should I live to be 100. (which is a distinct possibility considering the longevity of my maternal genes.)

We made wonderful kids together. I’m glad they’re more like their Dad than me. He was a good man.

I miss him.

Beyond the Ridge

2007-06-11T09:44:00.001-04:00

I swear I don't know where these are coming from.

Have I turned another corner, but am not yet aware of what it is?

Who knows.

Here's today's:

Beyond the Ridge
I wait just beyond the ridge for you

No matter where you tread

I’ve already been there

A step ahead to check the way

This road is long, filled with snags

To trip and cause you pain

Curved and winding, steep and jagged

To steal your breath away

Many feet have trod this path

This one so rocky and steep

Many tears have washed these stones

Same as the ones you weep

You are not alone along the way

For many walk here as you do

Seeking peace for a heart tired and sore

Company as the journey continues on

I do not leave a visible path

The way must be your own

And I will be there when at last

You find your way back home

Always

2007-06-10T13:35:00.001-04:00

Poetry has come to me since Jim's death almost exclusively when I have been feeling sorrowful.

What I wrote today has come from a place not so dark and not from my own point of view. I find myself surprised.

Always

I am as I always was
Near unto your heart
Behind the chair
My hand on your shoulder
As always I was in life

I am as I always was
Loving you dear and true
Though my body left this place
My spirit is always within you.

I am as I always was
Your harbor in the storm
My light within in yours
To guide your path to mine

I am as I always will be
Alive within your dreams
Warm, breathing, strong
Holding you as you sleep

I am as I always will was
Are and will be
The compass to your ship
Upon this turbulent sea

Fear not losing your way
To land on stranger shores
My light lives within you still
To find the place where you will stand
Afraid to live no more.

Ruminations on 5 Years

2007-05-23T23:57:00.001-04:00

May 24, 2007.

5 years today.

How did I get here?

Once upon a time I could not imagine 5 minutes without him let alone 5 years. Yet, today, I am grateful…for his life…for mine…for the ones we shared together.

5 years.

And, I am still standing.

His memory in my soul is as fresh as it was the day we met.

He survived 3 heart attacks only to be taken by the living thing he feared most in this world…

A snake.

He would find a darkly humorous irony in that.

5 years.

I still miss him more than there are words to express.

His own words, written at the death of his cousin/friend almost a year before his own, not found until at least a year after, live with all the other cherished memories of the man who touched my heart:

"Here is my wish for the family ~ Each morning as you look into the mirror may you see him looking back at you, for he is a part of each of you. Each night just as you drift off to sleep may you feel a gentle kiss on your forehead. May you feel his hand on your shoulder urging you on in life until the time he can hold you once again in his arms."

To my Jim…December 3, 1950 ~ May 24, 2002.

I will always love you and I will always miss you…you remain the better part of me.

Reality

2007-04-09T13:02:00.001-04:00

Daily Horoscope for Sagittarius

It may seem like the firm foundation that you have been seeking is very close, even if it's still just out of reach. You nostalgically long for a lost certainty that could guide you through the choices ahead. But your potential growth may depend on your flexibility and your willingness to let go of your dream for stability. Be open to fulfillment in the present moment and not in some distant future. Monday, April 9, 2007

Yanno…it’s really inconvenient when my horror scope gets into the crevasses of my mind and ferrets out where my fears live. Even more inconvenient when it prints it out there in black and white making me look at it.

Since the world turned upside down almost 5 years ago a sense of firm foundation is something I have struggled find.

I liked my old life, dammit.

It was good…it was bad…it was fun...it was a pain…it was normal...it was crazy…but beneath it all was the foundation of me and him…him and me…Jim and Jo…Jo and Jim.

When Jim died, I felt as if what kept me stable had been vaporized from beneath the house that was our lives.

Despite my own frugality and eventual sound handling of ¼ of the salary I was used to living on…I lived in fear of making an economical mistake of such a catastrophic nature to land me on the streets with no home and no way of caring for myself. (Stephen King is alive, well and living comfortably in the confines of the sumtimes useless gray matter passing itself off as my brain.)

I used to tease my younger sister of being so tight with a dollar that it wouldn’t pass through an opening the width of a baby’s hair. I’ve come to regret that teasing with the unwelcome reality that I now emotionally live where she did for so many years as a single parent.

As much as I fancy myself a free spirited, fly by the seat of my pants, grab the brass ring kinda woman…there is also a sort of sea anchor behind me. While I continue to refuse to miss out on the joy that can be found in this altered life, I still struggle with the balance of living with abandon in the here and now and concern for being able to take care of myself in the nebulousness of time.

There is no longer the innocent, blind trust that there will always be someone there to catch me when I fall.

Welcome to Reality.

Happy Birthday, Lover

2007-03-29T13:55:00.000-04:00

3 years ago you took my hand and haven’t let go since.

How do I tell you how much your presence in my life means?

How do I tell you the depth my love for you reaches into my heart?

How do I tell you how grateful I am for the joy you add to my day?
Your voice, your laugh, your smile, your soft blue eyes…they all speak to me each time I see you.

Perhaps these words will do.

Click the link below for the song:

Everything I Do: "1. (Everything I Do) I Do For You - Bryan Adams
"

I love you.

Evolution?

2007-03-24T13:01:00.001-04:00

It has to be one of the great ironies of my life that my husband had to die for me to get what he tried to teach me for the entire breadth of our marriage…

I am a person, complete and whole unto myself…

Loving and caring for another person in your life is a compliment to the person you are…not the completion of it.

After 5 years without him in mine…I finally understand.

Sometimes I am such a slow witted, dumb fuck.

Memories

2007-02-28T13:34:00.000-05:00

In the back of a dark closet a memory patiently slept for me to rediscover and unzip its contents this morning....

My wedding dress...

Sitting on the floor fingering the aging lace on the simple, high bodiced, oh-so 70's A-line dress my dearest aunt so lovingly made for me to wear that stereotypically sunny, Southern California Saturday afternoon, July 31, 1971 came flooding back as if it were yesterday...

sights…

smells...

sounds...

feelings...

memories...

such loving memories...

so many folks now gone who shared that day with us…

not the least of those the man for whom the reason existed...

and memories of another day nearly 31 years later for which he was also the reason…

memories…

20 years old...

I thought I knew so much about life back then...

sigh

So long ago and yet…

still…

yesterday…

The lessons learned since that day.

And, yet to not know the more to life at all.

Standing in the sunlight of those precious memories…I miss him.

The Way We Were (Barbra Streisand)

Mem'ries,
Like the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories
Of the way we were

Scattered pictures,
Of the smiles we left behind
Smiles we gave to one another
For the way we were

Can it be that it was all so simple then?
Or has time re-written every line?
If we had the chance to do it all again
Tell me, would we? could we?

Mem'ries, may be beautiful and yet
What's too painful to remember
We simply choose to forget

So it's the laughter
We will remember
Whenever we remember...
The way we were...
The way we were...

I'll never forget.

Phases

2007-02-16T15:23:00.001-05:00

Phases…I’m going through them again. Full moon…waning to the unseen New Moon…waxing again to that which is full.

Serenity flees when I don’t feel well. Unsettled and mentally disorganized.

I swear that little “germ” was driving a half-trac…all over my bones.

I hate being sick…it makes me whiny, wimpy and weepy…brings back shadows lurking behind unseen corners.

Even so…the visit is short…stronger for every fall back into the grey mists of memories, I look for that well worn path and come right again…or as right as I’m going to get at any rate.

Searching Rhapsody for some Outlaw Music to bring some bounce to my step…there it was…

A file named…

Grief Music

aka Music to Cry By…

aka Songs for Dark Nights of the Soul…

Guaranteed to drag me into the black, oily bog of the swamp of death’s misery much the same as an alligator submersing its prey into the watery deep until rot and bloat soften it for razor sharp teeth tearing into bits of edible fodder.

(sigh)

No need to open it…I know what’s in there:

I Grieve – Peter Gabriel
Angel – Sarah MacLachlan
I Miss My Friend – Daryl Worley
Grace of God – Keith Urban
You’re Still You – Josh Groban
To Where You Are – Josh Groban
Remember When It Rained – Josh Groban
Chances Are – Bob Seger
Against the Wind – Bob Seger
Ventura Highway - America

The list goes on…so many more…many, many more…

Hours of music for one demented enough to listen to them on purpose.

I was…I did…hour after hour…tear after tear.

Ending with the one whose video is guaranteed to put me on the floor:

Probably Wouldn’t Be This Way – Leann Rimes

I probably wouldn't be this way
I probably wouldn't hurt so bad
I never pictured every minute without you in it
Oh you left so fast
Sometimes I see you standing there
Sometimes I feel an angel's touch
Sometimes I feel that I'm so lucky to have had the chance to love this much
God gave me a moment's grace
Cause if I'd never seen your face
I probably wouldn't be this way

Somehow feeling the pain helped me feel the love. I needed it to be connected to him in a way I could not seem to feel otherwise; swallowed in memories of a past gone in the space between heartbeats with no thought of a future in sight.

Looking back from the vantage of almost 5 years, I can only wonder how much mental health was truly found in those purposeful sojourns down that hall of horrors. Why did I feel the need to subject myself to the self-flagelation of that masochism when I was already haunted by the sheer absence of his presence in this house, in my heart, in my soul…in my life…at every turn.

Madness.

Pure…simple…grieving madness.

That folder has not been opened in well over a year…mayhap even two. I don’t feel that tug…the need to deliberately drag myself down that dark road…more to the truth of it…I don’t WANT to visit that place any more…there is nothing living in that place..

His life…his love…his essence…live right here…inside me.

I could toss it…but, don’t.

Yet, just like that cedar chest full of memories I know it’s there. In some shadowy and twisted manor I am comforted by thought that I can go to either if I am yet again willingly decided to torture myself.

It is fact that…

Life will never be the same.

I will grieve his loss the rest of my life. Yes...grieve...actively missing his physical presence here with me. Actively learning to live without him in my living, breathing world.

I am not the woman now I was then.

It is also fact that I live…I breathe in rejuvenating, living air…life has color, texture, richness to it once more…I’ve even allowed myself the daft decadence of thumbing my nose in death’s maleficent face and loving again.

I WILL survive…I DO survive.

All because he loved life…saw purpose in experiencing joy…loved me...and I loved him… always will.

Perhaps it’s time to make a file called Songs That Make Me Smile.

In the mean time I’m listening to Gretchen Wilson, Bonnie Raitt, Bonnie Tyler, Annie Lennox, Emmy Lou Harris and every other strong minded, outlaw woman I can manage to find in my Rhapsody files.

(image courtesy of Royalty Free Images)

Christmas 2006

2006-12-25T02:01:00.000-05:00

As gift of love is to be shared, I take what I learned from one who loved life, his family and me and share it with another heart as wounded as mine.

I am grateful for the love of my past life and for the love of the life I now share with my Handyman.

And, so, I march on...me and my drum...pa rum pa pa pum.

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.

Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum.

Happy Birthday,,,

2006-12-09T08:32:00.000-05:00

…to me.

56 today.

See I had this long, thoughtful post planned out. Talk about where I am in my life and how I feel about it…the things I appreciate from an altered view.

Yada, yada, blah, blah…etcetera, etcetera.

Waking up in the wee hours before light thought of tinting the sky…this is what I found from my Handyman.

(Plus cards from the dogs and George Kitty. How cool izzat?)

Screw the grown up stuff…

I’m gonna go play…

feed the inner child he so obviously knows is there.

Boo-Yeah.

I’ll catch y’all later.

Happy Birthday to meeeeeee.

Justice

2006-12-04T10:28:00.000-05:00

July 31, 1995…My anniversary…forever etched into my heart as the day a beautiful soul was so heartlessly and brutally removed from this world.

After 11 years, 4 months, 29 days, a two day jury trial and 20 minutes of deliberation there is finally justice for her.

Justice for two now almost grown children who spent those years without their mother.

Justice for the husband who lived under the microscope of suspicion.

Justice for the parents who lost their only daughter.

Justice for the friends who can no longer laugh with her.

Only 17 when he committed the crime, he will not face the death penalty. Life imprisonment with possible parole in 20 years (universe forbid)

And, yet he is also implicated in the disappearance of his former fiancé 4 years ago. She looks remarkably like my friend.

Should the investigation proceed to a point where he is put on trial and found guilty the penalty could change.

What is the value of his also losing his life?

It will not bring either Dana or Heather back.

It will not change the years each family has mourned the loss of their loved one.

A life for a life?

Is it justice?

Is it too easy a sentence?

Living the remainder of his years locked away from the world…his life…his own children…would that not be a more hellish punishment? Equal to that of those who have suffered for Dana’s death.

He’s lived with his actions as a free man for over 11 years; making a life for himself; starting a family. Will it make a difference behind bars?

What is the greater justice…for Dana…her children…her husband…her family…her friends?

I don't know.

What ever the justice truly is - may she finally rest in peace.

Reframing Life

2006-11-15T13:18:00.000-05:00

You’d think with change being the single most constant in the first 20 years of my life I’d be used to it. Growing up a Military Brat change was inevitable. I was a living Joseph’s coat of many colors. Just as I’d get used to one spot Uncle Sam would request our presence in another.

That pattern continued even after Dad retired. He simply had itchy feet and by the time we settled in a west coast beach town in 7th grade I’d changed schools 14 times…revisiting some more than once.

In soon to be 56 years, I’ve worn the changing frames of daughter...student...friend...wife...mother...grandmother...widow.

Change.

You’d think I’d be used to it.

But, no.

Change throws me into a temper not unlike that of a toddler forced to go to bed. Or a teen being told, “No. You may NOT have the keys to the car.”

My travels on this grief journey have been much the same…fought tooth and nail, stumbled through as the bull in the china shop with “NO, NO…I will NOT go!!” being wailed at every turn.

I have not gone “gentle into that good night”. (Dylan Thomas)

I’ve not been full of grace and charm.

Not the genteel woman wearing her grief softly as though looking through gauzy curtains.

Not for me the internal examination of whether I am doing things in the right order or according to some predetermined plan for the widowed. After my embarrassing realization at the one year mark that things did not become “all better” because of a number, I truly realized what a lonely, rocky path this is.

Had I known then what I know now I’d not have been so arrogant to think I could do this trip alone. I’d have eaten that humble pie sooner and asked for help. This is damn hard work and doing it alone sux big hairy donkey balls, as my son puts it.

I have fought that demon called Grief. Lost numerous battles with the many headed monster with the attendant emotional scars to prove it. Won a few…enough to remain standing…bruised but not beaten. Hidden away in both an emotional cave and within the cocoon of alcohol only to discover…”Damn...He’s still DEAD and I’m still HERE.”

Slow to learn the lesson.

Slow to realize with finality that here is where I am and that my railing against the world and my miniscule place innit will not change one damn thing.

I do not wallow in the sorrow any longer. The shadow of Death remains, but I am no longer cowed by it.

I AM changed. I am NOT who I used to be.

Unwillingly changed by the passage of 4 years, some months and several days…here I stand wearing yet another frame to my life…a window upon a world I’ve had no idea how to survive except that written above. I may not be proud of each step I have taken to get here, but I AM proud that I am still standing and that I can look back on a life full of more smiles than tears.

I AM a survivor.

And, I will NOT “go gentle into that good night”

The poem:

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT (Dylan Thomas)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

(This post was prompted by a conversation with a group of creative people whom I’ve come to greatly admire for their view on the world. Thank you for the inspiration.)

Daddy's Hands*

2006-10-04T12:28:00.001-04:00

Daddy’s hands were soft and kind when I was crying
Daddy’s hands were hard as steel when I’d done wrong,
Daddy’s hands weren’t always gentle,
But I’ve come to understand,
There was always love in daddy’s hands.
(*Daddy's Hands by Holly Dunn)

My Handyman has hands like that. So, did my Jim and so did my Granddad.

As I watched his hands work to put together this wagon for his firstborn grandchild’s first birthday, I could not help but think of the other two strong men in my life and the chorus of that song.

Roughened by years of working with wood, he yet has a gentle touch with all he meets. How fortunate are the people in this man’s life.

And, how grateful I am that he is in mine.

(Thank you to My Handyman allowing me to photograph his hands while at work.)

Daddy’s Girl…

2006-09-14T22:54:00.001-04:00

was born at this moment...10:36 pm…34 years ago today.

Coming from a family of brothers only, he was besotted from the instant she rolled her eyes around to catch his face in her baby vision. Theirs was a precious love affair from day one to day last.

5 birthdays have passed without him to tell how much he loved and was proud of his girl.

Today…I cried like I have not cried in a long time for all that he has missed and all that his girl continues to miss without him here to love and guide her even as a young adult raising Papa’s girl on her own…but…that’s another story.

Happy Birthday, baby girl…I love you and I wish I could give you your old world back again.

The Fire Within

2006-09-12T15:44:00.001-04:00

Truth be told, I thought of Bob Seger's "Fire Down Below", but this piece is about the synchronicity of the fire within a piece of jewlery called Dichroic Glass purchased at a street fair and the fire within a person's soul.
This piece spoke to me and captured what I believe is the fire that lives within me...or at least that I hope to nurture within.

Fire… we’re all born with it. The unbridled curiosity to see, taste, touch, hear smell…explore…everything in the universe.

"There are seven lost secret fascinations and abilities:
~ animals can talk;
~ your favorite blanket is woven from a fabric so mighty, that once pulled over your head, it becomes an impenetrable force field;
~ nothing is too heavy to lift with the aid of a cape;
~ your hand, held forefinger out and thumb up, actually fires bullets;
~ jumping from any height with an umbrella is completely safe;
~ monsters exist and can be both seen an done battle with;
and the greatest, most special and regrettable loss of all…
~ the ability to fly."
(Older Mike in 1992 movie Radio Flyer)

Born in 1950 and living in a time before television became entertainment…I believed those things.

Somewhere in the time of aging…I lost them. Or, perhaps more correctly, evolved them into a different set of fascinations and abilities. Mother says I’ve always marched to the beat of a different drummer….pa rum pa pa pum.

Even through the dark grey days of early mourning the fire smoldered within waiting for that first Phoenix Moment to let me know it was still there. Little clues and nudges snuck in here and there in form of little people dragging me into their world of magic and unbounded energy. Or the gift of a crystal rainbow painting my room with the literal multi-faceted play of light and color as the sun moved across the sky.

Until, finally, I stand at a point where a piece of fused glass can speak to me on a level that reflects the fire that still lives within this aging carapace.

And, just because it's now stuck in my head:

The Fire Down Below

Here comes old rosie shes looking mighty fine Here comes hot nancy shes steppin right on time There go the street lights bringin on the night Here come the men faces hidden from the light All through the shadows they come and they go With only one thing in common They got the fire down below (Words and Music by Bob Seger)

(All pictures taken by and property of Outlaw Photography)

The Other Side of Midnight

2006-09-10T10:35:00.000-04:00

Between the moon and sun lie the hours before the first glimmerings of dawn as the full moon sweeps across the sky bathing it with the waning glow of her light in the dying night. She wraps it tenderly and gently, as a mother, enfolding all of creation in her loving embrace.
Slowly, her light releases it’s hold on the dark revealing gold, and rose, and violet against the steely blue tones of first light. She is the Mistress of Re-birth…the other side of midnight.

The Other Side of Midnight

Nothing here, I'll look again
Another place, in darker light
Take a walk to journey's end
The other side of midnight.

Keep the watch, to count the hours
And hold the hands before they move,
Forever stare, from the dark black Tower
The other side of midnight.

Something sad, beyond my mind
I cannot hear, as silence roars
The madmen scream, "Who cannot find
The other side of midnight?"

Crossing o'er, the madness comes
The chaos loud, in frantic fear;
Forever means no time at all . . . .
The other side of midnight.

—Robert William McCallum (c) 1986, Dunipace, Stirlingshire, Scotland

Though I’m sure he shared it with me, I don’t recall now what my friend had in mind when he wrote this song. I know when I first laid eyes on it I was in one of those long dark nights of the soul after my husband’s death. He knew the depth of my sorrow and shared the words with me in silent understanding of my overwhelming pain. A kindred spirit. One lost soul touching another.

In the moving years since, I have come from that infernal place to one where the cycle of the night more accurately reflects where I am…a rebirth of each day and another chance to begin again this awkward path from dark to light. Once it seemed only the path to more darkness and the achingly lonely anguish that tore at my bones. The other side of midnight now leads to light, color and whimsy.
Yes, I still fall…landing on bruised and scarred knees. Yet, not as hard nor as far. I know now, with the passage of time, that it will hurt like hell…but, it WILL pass. And, I know I have connected fellow travelers still there for me to lean upon when those dark nights come again.

I am grateful for that gift of kindred as I have walked those dimly lit hours between the moon and the sun. Without them to bolster my own stubborn unwillingness to let the demon win I am not sure where my soul would live. It would survive…as it has done other marked events in my life…but would it really live? To my eternal gratitude I do not have to answer that question.

(All photos taken by and property of Outlaw Photography)

In Search of Serenity

2006-08-31T14:33:00.001-04:00

The definition of Serenity: the quality or state of being serene.

Now that was helpful.

Not.

Definition of Serene: clear and free of storms or unpleasant change.

Synonyms: calm, tranquil, placid, peaceful.

Hmmm.

I don’t think so.

Jangled, disconnected, out of synch with myself, unable to sleep and frantically in search of something approaching serenity a little creative therapy seemed in order.

But, what to do at 3 ayem?

Some inexpensive glass bottles from the Wally World Clearance aisle, a coil of copper wire, a handful of glass beads, a tube of adhere to anything cement, a few sticky fingers and several hours later this would be the result.
Colors counterpoint to a gray mood and shifting emotions.

Sigh.

This too shall pass.

Fear

2006-08-30T19:18:00.001-04:00

The Serenity I crave escapes me today…nebulous…just fingertips out of reach.

4 years, 3 months, 6 days and 3 hours. The fear still lives with me. Beneath the surface a giant tentacled sea monster waiting for me to lose my focus so it can ensnare me in is oily embrace.

Fear.

Such a waste of psychic energy.

Still...I will not let it defeat me.

So much for which to feel grateful in this life.

Back straight, fists clenched, jaw set; I continue.

Honor his life...his love…treasure the past…fight the fear…live.

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
(The Bene Gesserit Litany against Fear. Pg 19 of Dune )

It’s not quite accurate.

I live…hope endures…love remains.

But, I need a friggen' hug.

What a bloomin' whiner.

Light and Shadow

2006-08-10T13:50:00.000-04:00

Yanno...the rising sun feels different in the morning sky....mayhap has been for a few days now but I have failed to previously note it. I HAVE, howsumever, noticed the sunsets slightly altered in hue the last 2 nights that they could be seen. Whether the heat recedes or no the impending change of season is in the light and burgeoning restlessness creeping into my soul.
From my east facing window I can note the change in angle as the seasons rotate back and forth. Amazing how a few degrees make such a difference in the way the shadows play across the opposing wall. Not unlike the subtle changes that take place within each of us on this path that modifies the way we view not only the world at large, but ourselves as well. And, the seasonal beginnings and endings do not necessarily agree with man's calendar but follow their own course...as do we.
The rising sun hits the new arbor at the corner now rather than more towards center. Perhaps a sort of symbolism of my own slightly off center feelings in recent days.
Morning ambers skiddle across the leaves turning them a mellower shade of green and highlighting the Morning Glories in Rose’s Garden in muted golden tones rather than the usual rose-gold of mid-summer. The light shimmers altered through the dew that covers everything on my trek outdoors to photograph my perceived camera obscura view.
Dunno why I decided to remark on that this morning. Perhaps it's the subtle itching in my head and bones that something feels afoot. Restlessness, perhaps. Despite my attachment to home there are times itchy feet and the gypsy longing to wander come out. This, I think, is a genetic gift/curse from Dad and goes far to explain my father's need to move even after his stint with that traveling troupe known as the Army was done with him.

And, yet the dichotomy is that I have planted myself on this particular little plot for over 30 years. Roots. Someplace solid once the thirst for adventure has been quenched for a time.

Roots are good...my children have them. I never had them as a child…roots. By the time I’d taken hold somewhere we were gone again…even after Dad left the military. Outwardly confident, melting into the framework quickly; while inwardly feeling out of step and fearing I’d be found out as a fraud.Despite my urge to roam I need them...roots…solid…grounding...safe...faithfully awaiting the return of this seasonal and, oft times, only imaginary wanderer.

I don’t know the point of this ruminating. It was in my head. Crazy stuff up there sometimes. Which leads me to a thought for another day….

(All photos poperty of Outlaw Photography)

Blurred Vision

2006-08-07T16:27:00.000-04:00

Taking this picture last week was supposed to chronicle the latest redesign project at La Casa de Demolition. What happened as I peered through the view finder watching the light play through the plastic dust curtain blowing softly in the breeze of the ceiling fan was not what I expected.

Suddenly, it seemed a metaphor to this journey called Grief.

I saw the sledge hammer as death itself having smashed my life to bits as represented by the shards…large and small...of sheet rock ripped from the closet framing littering the floor at my feet. To my eyes the frosted images of light that filtered through the plastic seemed to speak of the way in which my vision was fogged as I struggled to make sense of a world that was totally alien even in its familiarity.

Thinking on this, I pored through the myriad of folders full of pictures I’ve taken since beginning the rugged trek on this path 4 years ago. Surprised at the result, I found that I could attach a metaphor to widowed life to many that flicked before me on the screen.
My beloved and often fog shrouded Blue Ridge Mountains became the clouded vision I had of a world that seemed to be filled with one barely climbable mountain after another. The view was so vague I could not see my way out of the grey.
Always a water person, the river falls became the harsh reality of facing the daunting maelstrom in a canoe with neither paddle nor rudder to steer my way. I was at the mercy of my grief, never knowing which way it would turn or if it would drown me in its turbulence.
The waves crashing against the rocks near the shore morphed into the pain of being beaten and bloodied by the Grief Monster only to be left in a mangled heap upon the jagged reef begging for peace and mercy each time I fought to find my way out of the anguish that threatened to drown me.
A small cave in the beautiful New Mexico mountains of the Jemez came to represent that dark black hole into which I fell time after time struggling to live with the memories of a beloved life past and learning to survive in the hated present alone.

The ever present distance path seemed filled with roots and stones alive with the intent purpose of bringing to me to my knees as I stumbled ever forward in a world I came to despise.
Over time the world righted itself and became filled with light and color again…slowly at first…then gaining momentum…until I could appreciate the sight and smell of the wildness of the roses in my untended garden. Yet, another metaphor relating to my untended life.
I may often still stumble bruising my heart along the way, but no longer am I filled with dread and fear of the unknown waters that spread before me. Survival is instinct…one I have in more abundance than I ever imagined possible. Still, I know I did not get here alone. Along with my own dogged, though often halting, plodding forward, Jim’s love for me and life itself, kind friends and even strangers have given hand in helping me find my own strength to carry forward what he shared with me and even take the scary step to share it again with another wounded heart like mine.

What a surreal journey this continues to be.

Oh…Brave new world, indeed. As my dear New Mexico by way of Scotland friend would say.

Pictures have long been a means to add expression to my writing, but never quite in the way it did beginning with that photograph I took last week.

(All photos property of Outlaw Photography)

A River Runs Through It*

2006-07-23T15:21:00.001-04:00

"Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters."

Norman Maclean

As I took these pictures onna warm day in June, I thought of the peace I felt standing under the canopy of trees that shaded the ruins of the old mill by this spot on the small creek at my feet.

As I looked at the covered bridge a number of yards away I could almost hear the clatter of hooves and creak of wooden wheels as the wagons loaded with grain were brought across to be milled into flour or grits. Peace has often been challenging to find on the journey along this path called widowhood. Occasionally, it is still transitory and elusive.

Listening as the water rushed across the stones, I remembered times past when I was dead certain I could not possibly breathe one more moment without Jim in my life. I often felt as crushed as the grains being transformed into fine powder by the massive grindstones of the mill.

Staring down the dark expanse of the bridge’s interior I was reminded of how my grief often felt as if I were in a tunnel which had no end. Plodding blindly forward, I eventually came to the place that always appears in a tunnel where a small light can be seen. Slowly, the constant constriction of my throat from stifling the near animal angst I felt seemed to ease slightly and I felt as if I could walk on without stumbling so much. Stepping gingerly again into the light my eyes needed time to adjust to the new surroundings as I finally emerged on what now seems like the other side of this grief and my acceptance of the new and radically altered life I never asked for appeared on the other side.

Just as the road from the fields to the mill is often long and full of ruts, so has the journey down this long dark tunnel of grief been. I have been transformed same as the grain into something different from where I started.

Yet, through all the darkness, pain and tears, a river of life and love, though changed beyond measure, has tumbled along beside me. It will abide so long as I breathe upon this earth ever reshaping me as the stones of the mill relentlessly grind the farmer’s grains into dust.

The peace may sometimes yet fade and be hard to regain as certain days come and go throughout my life. However, the river of Jim’s love will always run through me as I walk the redesigned path carved from the grief that once enveloped me day and night.

*Title borrowed from the book by Norman Maclean

A Single Memory

2006-05-24T23:50:00.000-04:00

A single memory
I hold close as a dream
shape-shifting the dark:
an intensity of ocean,
a memory of water
this green.

From “A Green Glass Bowl” by Antonia Clark

The Guardian of the Garden, my friend says holds all our memories safe within her globe available for retrieval by those who left them there.

The stones around the Butterfly Garden are in remembrance of all of you who follow the same path as I. Monarchs were everywhere dancing in the warm mountain air teasing us with their antics, but declining to light long enough take their picture. Flighty lot those Monarchs.
Outlaw’s Garden…well…who needs an explanation of that…wild child all over the place just like me…she as well.

We are kindred, she and I…my friend…another with fire within her soul and an outlaw’s take on life. She is such a special gift. She loved my husband I think almost as much as I and mourns his loss in equal measure.
Her sense of humor, offbeat as mine, set the tone for the day when she popped the lid on the marble urn and said “Hi, Jim. Want some coffee?”

He would have loved that and would smile that we giggled our way through the garden spots she chose. A last bit she saved to take up to the hidden waterfall to spread among the fern, hosta and liriope growing there.
She said she was honored to have a bit of him in her gardens and tend to the stones we left in memory of y’all.

It was a day filled with hugs, smiles, laughter and easy memories.

All in all it was a good day.

(All pictures taken by me with Handyman's Olympus digi-cam at Melrose Junction, Saluda Mt., NC 5-24-2006)

2006-05-24T00:15:00.000-04:00

"Not A Day Goes By"

Got a picture of you I carry in my heart
Close my eyes to see it when the world gets dark

Got a memory of you I carry in my soul
I wrap it close around me when the nights get cold

If you asked me how I'm doin' I'd say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind

Minutes turn to hours, and the hours to days
Seems it's been forever that I've felt this way

Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you're still with me it's true

Somehow you remain locked so deep inside
Baby, baby, oh baby, not a day goes by.

Lonestar

To anyone who knew Jim, this picture is exactly how they’d think of him…ball cap, coffee cup and smoke in hand and a smile on his face.

May 24, 2002 - 4 years today - 4 years too long.

In honor of the man who made me laugh, made me cry, loved me like crazy for over 30 years then died.

It was not long enough.

I am grateful for his easy laughter, his gentle ways, his crooked smile, his passion for life, his love for me.

Jim Ingle ~ December 3, 1950 - May 24, 2002 Always loved…always remembered.

*From the song by Lonestar.

Full Moon on Broken Water

2006-05-21T17:22:00.000-04:00

It rained all day, blustery and raw…abysmal for mid-May on the NC coast. Not having seen sunrise, sunset was also looming as a bust. The only saving grace was the room being on the top floor so that the waves could be viewed from horizon to shore.

Angry and sickly gray-green it was still balm to my soul to stand on the balcony, close my eyes and listen to the music I hear in the sound of the of the wave breaking the crest and rolling to the beach.

For a fire sign I seem to have an abundant partiality to water. Particularly moving water…the more movement the better. This gray day’s waves doubtless barely topped 5 feet. Yet, they harnessed enough of the storm’s discordance to seep into my head and vibrate there.

Big wave action is preferable...like those I grew up with on Southern California’s beaches…sometimes topping 15 feet even without a storm to push them. Perhaps I find their cacophony as counterpoint to the thoughts often noisily rolling through the gray matter squishing about in the hollows of my cranial cavity.

Throughout the evening the storm lingered. Sometimes nearby. Sometimes out on the horizon dancing through the clouds like lights on spaceships from Close Encounters. Always booming and echoing across the now darkened sky.

There is nothing as beautiful to me as a night storm across the ocean’s horizon. It appears almost primal…often reminding me of a friend’s full moon drummings…a pulse beat both audible and visible.

Retiring to the symphony of wavecrash in my ears I awoke in the wee hours to the gift of the full moon reflecting off the now much stilled waters. The music subtle and almost muted in harmony with the silver strands glimmering in the moon’s light.

Mayhap it was the change in tempo that woke me. I remained sleepless staring across the gently undulating sea from the balcony until daylight crept into the easternmost corner of the horizon.

My mind and heart have been somewhat unsettled with the impending anniversary of Jim’s death. Mesmerized by movement and sound my mind traveled back and forth across this widow’s path I have traveled. Yet, not for myself did the tears fall this time. They fell for the finality of loss for my children and my grand…the man who loved them never to be in their lives again while they have so much yet ahead of them. I thought of my peers in places both early and matured in their grief and for those yet to come as life moves ever forward in its endless circle of birth, living and dying.

In analyzing my own journey I realize I have not so suddenly come to that place where my memories bring me more joy than sadness. But, I also feel as if I have not really lived that life…that it was somehow something of a phantasy. A friend recently said she felt that the longer the time since her spouse had died the more she felt as if it were a dream. I can relate to that. He will always be in my heart…yet…I feel further and further away from him with each year that passes. Still, the thought does not distress me as it once might have…it was a pleasant dream which I was glad to have had…I have memories of a man who loved me unconditionally for over 30 years of my life…a treasure none can plunder.

We who are widowed are the broken waters awaiting the full moon’s grace to heal us and bless us with a sense of peace. That full moon on that particular night was a gift from the universe to let me know that while I still walk this path, I am more whole than I have been in almost 4 years. I am grateful for that and I am grateful for having had Jim in my life.

(The photo at the top of the page was taken by me at Ocean Isle Beach in NC over this past weekend.)

Under Construction

2006-04-20T08:52:00.000-04:00

(Updated 4-26-2006)

I love neat and tidy gardens.

I really do.

Other people's neat and tidy gardens.

Mine is not and I think is not meant to be.

It has rather become a reflection of the chaos that often lives inside myself. One month short of 4 years on this journey I often still feel as if I am under construction or perhaps some sort of permanent emotional fog.Or is it the evolution of an eclectically creative and scattered mind?

Still…the gift of the tiny rose from Rose’s Garden was a welcome bit of unexpected early spring serendipity.

Some days I hardly recognize myself and I wonder who I will be in another 4 years????

I wonder would he recognize and love the woman who is and continues to become as he did the one who was in the imagined happenstance that I saw him again on this earth?

But...that is food for another post.

In the meantime, I reckon I'll be like my clumsy Charlie Dawg rooting around among the wild blackberries out in the back 40.

Should I be plagued by the desire for order...I can just look across the fence into Old MacDonald's well tamed parcel of real estate. (He's the only person I know who would neatly groom goat and bunny poop)

(All photos taken by me withing the last 7 days using either my Nikon pocket camera or himself's Sony big-boy digi-cams.)

This Old Truck

2006-03-15T10:09:00.000-05:00

“Big ol' truck
10 feet tall and 10 feet wide
It's a big ol' truck
Here she come again, man”

(Toby Keith – Big Old Truck)

It's done...truck is mine legal as well as physical.

They wouldn’t let the old tag stay on the truck. But, the DMV gal is also widowed so let me keep it rather than turn it in.

It’s a piece of tin. Metal with paint, number and letters on it. Why obsess over such a small thing when I know truck will either be farmed out or traded in sooner rather than later?

Who knows why we do these things?

Reckon I'll just tuck it under the seat for a spell...talisman I s’pose.

Not sad...just sentimental. Yanno?

There was no doubt that truck was his. He fell in love with her the minute he yanked opened the door and his rump hit the seat. Sat behind the wheel and fell in love with a truck. Little boy with stars in his eyes.

Had to have it.

Men are funny that way.

“4 wheel drive”, he said, “perfect for the roads on the mountain up at Boy Scout Camp.” (Uh, huh.)

“Jump seats for the Grandmonkey”, he continued hopefully. (OK)

“Big enough bed to haul stuff” (Yup)

“Trailer hitch for pulling a pop-up” (Another new toy)

“4 wheel drive,” he repeated going for the deal clincher, “No more worries about me on the road for a call out in bad weather.” (Right…one of my least favorite things about his working for a utility company)

Oh, yeah…he test drove a few more attempting to convince me he was making comparison studies. I let him think I bought into his little charade.

Yeah, right…I knew from day one and that first starry eyed look we’d be driving that truck home.

A few days and a bit of negotiating later she sat in our drive.

Within a week he had his first ding innit.

Twinkling blue eyes and lopsided grin he snickered “I broke her in today” and pointed out an odd wedge shaped dent in the tail gate.

“Light post. Couldn’t quite tell where the back of the truck was.” (Yup)

First of many.

He had fun in that truck…WE had fun in that truck. There was no road he would not try. Bumping over dirt roads, plowing through mud, sliding on sand…she was his favorite toy.

Then he died and truck was mine.

His scent…his touch…his music permeated her interior. In the beginning I could still catch just the faintest whiff of his Swisher Sweets Little Cigars and almost feel his hands over mine on the steering wheel. Driving down the road I often felt the touch of his fingers on my free hand or his knee pressed against mine as it would be when I drove with him beside me in the passenger seat.

The radio, however, remained silent for 6 months after my first outing alone and tears blinded me to the point of having to pull over and compose myself. Our station…our songs…his songs…the tears would have watered the desert. Even without the music I shed enough tears to fill a pond. The odd song or de-ja-vu moment can still cause my eyes to mist over and my heart to give the odd thump. Yet, I feel safe within the confines of the metal and the memories.

So…there she is…thousands of miles on the engine, multitudes of on and off road adventures beneath her frame and a million tears later…she’s sits in the drive…his truck…my truck...waiting for the next adventure.

I love driving her as much as he did.

A Rose Among the Ruins

2006-02-16T13:36:00.000-05:00

Sumtimes the universe gives me a gift I ill deserve.

2 1/2 years I've let Rose's Garden tend itself; so named January 6, 2001 in honor of my late next door neighbor who enjoyed from her front window the roses in my little garden when she felt too ill to sit outdoors for a closer look. She always wanted me to plant more; so, after her death I did just that and named it after her.

Rose's Garden was my salvation when Jim died in 2002. Midnight raids to pull weeds by lantern's light when I could not sleep. Railing...and wailing…to the heavens how unfair it all was. It did not mind the splash of salted tears as the weeds were pulled in vicious attempts to beat GM into submission.

As a final reward that year it gifted me with a single coral colored rose huddled next to the mulch on a chilled November afternoon long past bloom time on a day when I was heartsore and weary of the path I walked. It seemed a sign from Jim and Rose that I should, at least for that day, appreciate the gift of life.

It was beautiful then.

Not so now.

It is a wild tumble of weeds and interloping saplings from years of neglect. What seemed so hantingly extraordinary in the ice of December seemed suddenly shabby and sad in the brilliance of February’s sun.

This morning as warmth crept into this sunny day on my return mission from life in the fast lane, I could not bear to see that wildness and began tearing through the weeds and trimming the saplings till I can get a saw in there and hack them to the ground.

Suddenly….nestled deep in the weeds and saplings, I literally stumbled upon sprouts growing from beneath the dead canes of my once beautiful English and Old World roses. All gone natural, I reckon, back to the stock root.

Rosa rugosa’s…wild…rugged…tenacious…outlaws.

Even so...a rose is a rose is a rose.

And, there they are; evidence that life goes on even amid the ruins of death: The circle of life right in my front yard. How can I ignore the rebirth fighting to emerge from those dead canes? Just as we who are left behind battle to breathe, scrabble to find life among the ashes and at some point thrive again, I reckon I must answer the call to bring Rose’s Garden back to life.

After 2 ½ hours I've made bare a dent in the jungle and twill likely take me all spring and summer to tame Rose's now wild garden.

Still…begun I have.

To be continued…

Regarding Winter

2006-02-02T17:26:00.000-05:00

Groundhog Day ain’t no big deal here in the South where winters can be as warm as spring in Florida and springs as cold as winter in Wisconsin.
Ol’ Puxatawny wouldn’t ‘a seen his shadow in these parts today.

Wouldn’t have mattered much anyway. Down here we have our own predictors of spring’s imminence.

One haunts the deep swamps and dark backwaters of our coastal low country.

I’m talkin’ alligators, here.

Gators to most of us who’ve been down south long enough for a bit of y’all to creep into our speech pattern.

See, gators are cold blooded…so, if it’s cold outside so is he and he’s gonna stay someplace warm. But, when the sun warms the breeze and knocks the chill out of the water he’ll be out lookin’ for a snack or two and maybe even some excitement to his otherwise boring love life.

What with the forsythia already bloomed and azaleas peeking color in places like Charleston, Summerville and Hilton Head, Mr. Gator is pretty sure spring has sprung and out sunning himself waiting for Mz. Right Now to come along.

Now, up here in mountainous country, we look to the trees and under dead leaves for Wooly Worms.Yup, wooly worms…fuzzy little caterpillars with alternating brown and black stripes. Legend says the black stripes represent cold wintry weather and the brown signify milder temps.

According to Mrs. Simmons’ kindergarten class, their little wooly worm, Walter, prophesied a cold start to mellow in the middle and then depart in a blast of icy fury. So far, Walter’s been right on target with November’s ice storm and temps recently so warm things are greening up way too soon. Folks are out tending gardens that are bound to freeze when that blast hits and farmers are hoping the peach buds stay tight for another month or so.

Now, what do you reckon does all that have to do with this old Outlaw?

Well…I look for turtles.

Yeah…turtles…more to the point Box Turtles. They’re none too smart about sunning in the road. Sadly, their lifespan is often cut short from bein’ run over by Bubba in his old pickup truck. But, they recognize a warm day when they feel it. But, today’s a glum, rainy day; hence, they’re tucked into their little waterproof shells burrowed down in their snug little dens dug into root hollows below the frost line.

In true terrapin fashion, I’ve done the same.

My friend Frances’ passing has touched memories I just didn’t expect and led me down a road where what WAS fogs what IS with what will no more BE.

I can be happy for her...she had a long, interesting, happy though widowed life.

Still…

I can't reconcile the same with Jim’s so suddenly and dramatically cut short before I was ready to even think about moving through the rest of my life without him beside me. (As if there is ever such a time.)

I don’t get me. I mean…he died…I shattered into a million pieces…I worked hard to put myself mostly back together once more…I’m at a place where I'm OK...most days excellent, even. Smiling, laughing and having a good life are all visible on my plate again.

Yet, the old nightmares began their replay robbing me of precious sleep and leaving me either cross or pensively silent. After nearly 4 years at this, I'm not knocked flat…this is a temporary state of mind…it WILL pass. I'm just blue and not cheerful company right now…could I escape my own presence I would…I have no patience with the woman staring back in the mirror.

(sigh)

Where’s them barn boots? Reckon it’s time to yank me head outta me arse and kick some sense into my ownself and live up to my nickname.

In Memory of my Friend

2006-01-26T10:34:00.000-05:00

This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it. Psalms 118 Verse 24

These words Frances spoke to the assemblage of women the morning of our first meeting. They were her typical opening statement as she gave the short devotional that was always part of the creative activity program I attended weekly with my mother at her church. These same words were repeated without fail as Frances began and ended each day in prayer and meditation with her Lord.

Short in stature, but big in heart Frances became both my friend and mentor in the following 10 years. To say she touched my life in a special way only begins to cover the impact she had upon me with her grace, spirit, compassion and sheer joy of living life no matter the challenges that befell.

Widowed at 39 and left to raise her 2 daughters alone on her pay from her job as cashier at the local A&P, she never complained about her fate. She “carried on” as she put it. Frances never remarried, focusing instead on her job as a mother and her unflagging ministry to others, whom she said had needs greater than her own. Always with a ready smile and loving heart Frances tended to the spirit of others with the same fervor she tended to her own.

Yet, her true touch upon my life came at the death of my own husband in 2002. Through cards, letters, phone calls and face to face chats she encouraged me to look at the gifts I had been given in the loving relationship with my husband, his tender care of our children and the number of years we were graced to share together. She reminded me that I honored my husband in living life with the same spirit he did. She coached me to “carry on” though my heart was broken into pieces. My ears were not always open to her words in the beginning but the loving hugs that came with the chats were eagerly accepted and appreciated. When ever I think of someone I would care to emulate in my own journey on this path, Frances is always first to come to mind.

Today my emotional state slides between my sadness at the loss of my friend and the joy I know she felt at her own passing. Her girls were with her and said that Frances died in silent peace with that sweet slight smile she had when she knew a secret. My life and widowed journey has been blessed by the gift of friendship, time and compassion given so graciously by this special woman. I will miss her yet; I honor her joy in living life, her steadfast faith and her dying grace.

What follows below are edited excerpts of the obituary written by her son-in-law that conveys in better words than mine the impact this tiny, spirited, feisty blue-eyed woman had during her 95 years on this planet.

I am a better person for having known her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Frances Wood Rice

UPSTATE, SC-- Frances Wood Rice went to meet her Savior and Lord on Monday, January 23, 2006. She was the beloved wife of the late Lewis Mulloy Rice and the devoted mother of two daughters, two beloved sons-in-law, adored grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and friend to the multitude of souls she touched in her lifetime.

A native of Cherokee County, SC and a 66-year resident of this city, Frances was the last surviving member of the Raymouth and ShadeWood family and was the fifth of the 12 children in her family. She was born on January 6, 1911.

A widow for 56 years, Frances built her life around her faith in Christ and her love for her family. Each child, grandchild, or great-grandchild knew that he or she was of unmeasured worth in Grandmothers eyes, and for her family there was nothing that she would not do. She was always there for every one of us. When her eyesight failed, her hearing was poor, and aging’s aches and pains kept her at home more than she liked, each child was lifted up in prayer every day and was never out of her thoughts or her heart.

For 66 years Frances was an active member of First Baptist Church and remained so until her death. Over the years she served as a President of the Young-at-Heart, Yesterdays Teens, and her Sunday School Class, the Friendship Class. She loved the church and the people in it. Countless afternoons were spent on the road because the joy of her life lay in visiting and ministering to the sick, to shut-ins, or to those who needed comfort. She gave herself away as a friend to all who needed a friend, usually appearing at their doors with a loaf of homemade bread.

Frances retired from the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company as Head Bookkeeper in 1978, having worked with the company for 30+ years. It’s true that she enjoyed her job, but she enjoyed retirement even more. For many years after retirement she hosted Granny’s Dreams, an annual craft bazaar at her home, selling items that she had sewn, knitted, stenciled, or crafted in various ways. These sales were attended by hundreds of people in the Upstate area, and her family served as her support staff for the day.

A lifelong knitter, Frances taught knitting classes at First Baptist Church’s Activity Day and was Activity Day’s first Director in 1978. She also developed a cap ministry after her retirement. She knitted hundreds of toboggans and sent them worldwide to mission fields as far away as Alaska, Croatia, Australia, and to places closer to home--Connie Maxwell Children’s Home in Greenwood and the Shriner’s Hospital in Greenville. She also completed about 150 tiny red caps donated to newborns at the Regional Medical Center.

Although her worldly goods were few, Frances was one of the wealthiest women in town because she spent her life laying up treasures in Heaven. Our family rejoices today in the knowledge that unquestionably she is seated at the feast table of the King.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rest in peace, my friend. I will miss you greatly.

Christmas in Dixie

2006-01-11T10:53:00.000-05:00

It wasn’t quite snowing in the pines as in the Alabama song, but it was still a typically Southern Christmas with too much food, giggling kids, waggle tailed dogs and wrapping paper all over the floor.

Holidays have been something to be endured since Jim’s death in 2002…kept mostly because of our sweet, young grand and grown children. But, they have not been something to which I looked forward. Getting trapped in old memories took the color out of the present. While I could find some pleasure in spending the time with my family and friends, the celebrations were viewed as if through a frosted lens.

Somewhere between the melancholy of October and Thanksgiving I found myself looking forward to the thought of the light, color and confusion reigning in this old house again. Renovations were almost to a point that guests could be comfortable and only the undone fine finishing might be noticed upon close scrutiny.

For the first time in years even before Jim’s death I looked forward to the shopping and bustle of getting things done. There were some challenges along the way, but it really all began with little Cindy Lou Who and How the Grinch Stole Christmas and that unexpected Dickensonian day trip to Biltmore House. Keeping her little cartoon spirit in my head and heart kept me from losing my own when road blocks jumped up and threatened to derail my refound joy in all the bustle, planning, decorating, shopping, cooking and wrapping that makes the holiday what it is.

Even the frantic Trading Spaces drive to complete the challenge fraught wall unit project had an element of happiness in it. The day and a half long plumbing emergency that cropped up requiring a complete toilet replacement the day before and of Christmas was a bit more daunting…yet…somehow…it all came together.

Traditional is neither a word that one would normally use to describe the Outlaw household…nor her family, for that matter. Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner in the standard holiday tradition is an uncommon happening and is usually preceded by “let’s do something different and have turkey for Thanksgiving.” Therefore, the choice of lasagna, cheese and garlic biscuits, salad, carrot cake and home-made cheese cake were not seen as odd. (Go figure) What mattered was that there was food and lots of it.

As family and friends trickled in to a total of 13 (never an unlucky number since our son’s birth on a Friday 13th 25 years ago) this 1100 square foot cracker box of a brick ranch echoed with laughter, light and the sound of little feet and skittering paws across the newly refinished wood floors. Even the rain and cool temperatures could not dampen the spirit that seeped in from the very walls and settled in each person present. Jim’s presence was felt by me all day…I know he was smiling and I know he is happy that I am standing in the sunlight with feet planted beneath me again.

This place is hard fought and won for me. There have been moments in the last 3 ½ years that I have been certain I would finally flounder for the last time. I am a stubborn woman; I know no path other than straight through an obstacle. That stubbornness, Jim’s unconditional and abiding love, that of family and a very special group of widowed friends have been my lifeline throughout this journey.

My Handyman coming into my life at a time when I was finding solid ground is a gift I never expected. And, while perhaps farfetched, my reward for making it to a place where I can find both joy in what I had for over 30 years, what is now and what is to be for the time we are allowed to spend together. I am a most lucky and grateful woman to have experienced such wonderful love twice in my lifetime.

As I sit finishing this, looking at the yet to be dismantled trappings and listening to the rain drum the metal roof of this house, the memory of this season that sticks is the picture in my mind of my Handyman and Jim’s precious grand dress our homely, hastily purchased for $1 at Lowe’s the day before, “Frazer” fir on Christmas Eve. One - tall, almost olive skinned, blue eyed, gray headed with nearly full Santa beard and low toned voice gently guiding the other - dark eyed, dark haired, fair skinned and girly, pre-teen voice - to the perfect spot for each chosen ornament. I watched as the two worked side by side to take that wiggly trunked tree and turn it into the sparkling wonder before me now.
It is the first she has made with The Handyman that has no connection to her past. She and her Papa never decorated a tree together. She and I always rushed to have done all but the lights as a surprise upon his return home from work. (It was also the bane of my holiday season that we fought nearly every year over those blasted lights and is food for a story of its own.) This is a memory just for her and the new grandfather in her life. I wonder will it mean the same to her from the retrospective of years as it is to me now.

It is time to undress Frazer, put away the ornaments and give him his tenure as sanctuary for the birds, chipmunks and rabbits that inhabit the back yard. In a matter of months Frazer will compost and be gone having fulfilled his destined life cycle. Yet, he will remain a memory to treasure.

It’s late, I know. Christmas and New Year’s are fading into the past. But…Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from one down here in Dixie who is grateful and content for what she had and what she has. May we all have enough. As an aside: This cut crystal ornament is one of 6 that hung on Frazer in honor of my also widowed friends who have meant so much to me. They were purchased in Charlotte, NC 2 years ago on a magical day spent with a freshly widowed new friend. This is the first year they graced a tree. Randy...thank you for everything.

Womb with a View

2006-01-10T09:57:00.000-05:00

When choosing a title for this I thought about how this house has always been a coccoon, womb of sorts, sheltering me from the storms of the outside world and for the last 3 1/2 years a haven in my grief.

Yet all I have to do is look out any door or window and life is right there waiting for me to take part. As the seasons and weather change, the sun rises and sets it all metamorphs into something else, yet still remains eternally the same little world. I can chart the changes in my own life against the changing lanscape outside these four welcoming walls and be a a photo-journalist in my own back yard, so to speak.

Between the Handyman’s wonderful “Big Boy” (don’t do it) Sony digi-cam with the powerful zooooooooooooom (you went there didn’t you?) and my new, very small…pocket sized even…lightweight Nikon with much less zoom (shame one you...you’re still there aren't you?) I am shooting everything in sight. (Some very good…some very NOT)

So, while I compile my digital photo albums, descriptions AND continuing fodder for this blog I’ll leave you for the nonce with a view out the westside door (that would be Old MacDonald’s little red barn in the background of the first) and southside yard of La Casa Hacienda del Outlaw as the sun bounced off the landscape and then hid behind the lowering cloud cover this morning.

(And, doncha English majors just love a big, old run-on sentence like that? Heh heh heh.)

This last picture is zooooomed and taken across my little valley of Bubba da Bull's stomping grounds. Now, Senor Bubba da Bull deserves a story of his own in a later chapter of life in this little blue collar subdivision plunked down in the middle of an old cow farm in the foothills of lower Podunk, SC. So stay tuned.

Next thing I'm gonna do is remove that darned ugly date stamp from the digi-cam...it's annoying.

Happy Birthday Blues

2005-12-08T11:51:00.001-05:00

Happy Birthday Blues

In and out and on and on
Everybody goes
And where the fun with finally stops
Everybody knows
Girls it's me and you
Doing what we do
Just one way to lose
Those happy birthday blues

B.B. King, 1979

Tomorrow is my birthday…and I have the blues.

I don’t hate my birthday, but I never liked it very much as a child. It wasn’t until Jim came along that birthdays became special.

Being born in December is challenging for a kid. People tell you “oh…we didn’t make a big deal about your birthday because Christmas is coming up and that will be really special for you.”

Well….NO.

My birthday was special to ME.

I was another year older. Typically, I was at least half an inch taller than the year before. (Although, Mom does go on about the year I grew 4 inches from September to April.) And, certainly I was more mature. More grown up. All of my friends had big parties with a houseful of kids and presents. (OK…maybe not more mature…I admit it…I was jealous)

What I got was “we’ll just do this low-key” this year. And a card with $5 inside - $2 until I turned 10. (Although, I do recall that when I turned 16 I remember feeling very grown up when my mom’s sister giving me a beautiful crystal necklace that I passed on to my daughter at her 16th.)

Sharing the month with my 4 years and 10 days younger sister’s birthday, we often had joint parties…which by my early teen years truly sucked having to share with “little kids” as part of the party.

Humbug.

I’m whining here and I know it. But, that’s what happens when you get the birthday blues.

What I really wanted as a child (and a young teen) was a CELEBRATION. Something really fine that said “you are SPECIAL and we are so glad you are our daughter”.

But, the truth is that I wasn’t born into that kind of family nor did we have that kind of money. Birthdays were low-key because money was tight and my mother and dad thought Christmas was more important. (Not that we observed a particularly religious form of the holiday being semi-heathen and all.)

Hallmark birthdays…13, 16, 18, 21 were marked much the same as any other birthday my sister and I celebrated. (Well…21 was spectacular in that I had the mumps for the third time in my life on that birthday. That one definitely sticks out.)

As I got older, I didn’t…and don’t…mind birthdays being low-key. In fact, I prefer them that way. I’ve never fretted over turning 30, 40, 50. And that, in part, is due to my childhood. So, it’s not all bad.

Turning 55 is no big emotional deal. Anything that gets you a discount at some restaurants and drug stores can’t be all bad.

Other than being widowed, I have quite enjoyed these early 50’s. I’m old enough that I don’t care what the younger generation…or many others for that matter…think of my way of life. There are a few aches and pains, a certain dimming of the memory. And, we won’t even discuss my wrinkles, gray hair and ample caboose. Yet…all in all, I feel good and I don’t mind being the age I am. (Mentally, I’m much younger anyway…just a kid, in fact.)

Still…birthdays without Jim are anticlimactic. There were but 6 days between our ages and birthdays and usually celebrated the closest weekend between. We were together from our 19th birthdays through our 51st…all of our adult lives. I miss him and miss going to that special restaurant with the melt in your mouth steaks and prime rib. I miss the little nothing gifts that were, nonetheless, special for having remembered a thing mentioned months before. I miss snuggling next him on the couch with a cup of coffee examining the previous year and our hopes for the next. I miss the handmade cards our children gave us during their growing up and no money of their own years. I miss life the way it was back then. Frankly…I miss the me that was up until 3 ½ years ago.

Yet…the Handyman is a special gift in this second life. I know that as we spend more birthdays together I will develop the same sense of comfort in sharing them with him. He is a good and gentle man who loves me deeply and I know I am blessed that we found each other.

We will make new memories to add to those precious ones of the past. We will make a new restaurant our special birthday place. We’ll share those special little nothing birthday gifts with each other. (I’m listening to the early gift of the Celtic Woman CD he surprised me with as I write this.) And, we can snuggle on the couch reflecting the year just past and those we hope to have.

But…I still have the birthday blues.

Indelible

2005-12-03T07:28:00.000-05:00

From Miriam-Webster:

Main Entry: in·del·i·ble
Pronunciation: in-'de-l&-b& l
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English indelyble, from Medieval Latin indelibilis, alteration of Latin indelebilis, from in- + del Ere to delete

1 a : that which cannot be removed, washed away, or erased
b : making marks that cannot easily be removed

As dawn takes up her brush to paint the morning sky I quietly celebrate the 1950 birth of the man who so lightly and lovingly rests within the memories of my heart. No big fanfare, no family dinner celebration, no special memorial ceremony to remind me of one who lives inside each breath I take. Just a quiet, personal remembrance of the fiercely gentle soul who touched my life from the day of our meeting in my doorway November 1969 to that late May afternoon in 2002.

Just as my life was forever changed when he walked into it, so was it changed when he so unwillingly left it. And, yet, his mark will forever be etched within my heart, soul and the life I live today.

Laughter came easy to him. As did treating people as he wished to be treated…influence from his father from the stories I’ve heard. In our growing up as a young married couple I watched this shy, almost backward southern boy metamorphose into a man so comfortable within his own skin he easily made others comfortable in theirs. People opened up to him; shared thoughts they kept from others knowing he never made judgment either on their words or on their lives.

Was he perfect? No. He was human, flawed and could aggravate me to my soul. He loved practical jokes, fireworks, family and friends. He left the toilet seat up, socks on the floor and his tools everywhere. His skill at procrastination was legendary within the family. (We were given an hour’s lead time on any family gathering.) He started a fight the night he proposed to prove the point you could be mad as hell and still love someone like crazy.

What I know of unconditional love…both given and received…comes from his example. What I know of the joy of life through even darkest times comes from the manner in which he lived every single day I knew him.

He was a gift…both a pearl beyond price and a diamond in the rough honed brightly through our time together. I will forever be touched by his presence. I carry him with me as I march forward in this new life I have unwillingly been handed.

Indelible.

Happy Birthday, darlin’.