In Retrospect

Pondering the past sometimes requires the reluctant relinquishing of fairytales hopes, of assessing things just as they are, instead of holding onto dreams of what might have been, what could have been with just a little more…something. Different timing, different clothing, different scent, different….

I made a list of all the good things that happened this year. I don’t think of it as things happening to me, simply things that happened in my life, around my life. I don’t believe in things happening to particular people, things simply happen. The list was lengthy. I smiled in my gratitude when I got to the end. The list did not come to me sequentially, it came in a rather haphazard order, which surprised me. Not even in order of significance, although perhaps I should look more closely at the order, there may be clues of inner conflicts.

And of course, seeker of balance that I am, I made a list of the bad things that happened. As fate would have it, the list was exactly equal. Some things appeared on both lists. Funny how that works. I haven’t expanded on any of the things on either list, simply listed them. I have blogged about each and every item which appears on the list, and no, I didn’t cheat and go back to my blog listing to get the items, they just appeared from inside my head.

The other night, as I am wont to do on occasion, I looked up and saw a star, closed my eyes and made a wish. I always make the same wish. I smiled as my lips stopped moving and the wish was complete. I opened my eyes and the star was gone. My eyes widened. The star had moved. It was still moving. It wasn’t a star after all.

I had wished on an airplane.

Story of my life.

May all of the bad in your life be balanced by the good.
May your heart be open to the possibility that within every bad thing is the potential for life lesson learning.
May all of your wishes be propelled forward with the swiftness of a jet airplane.
May the glass always be overflowing.

Good

I wrote my first full length novel
I started my blog
I bonded with my writing group
I spent the whole year being a single parent, and I have learned to love it.
I had a whole year with my spectacularly beautiful fishpond
I grew beautiful flowers
I took my boys on a cruise to a foreign country
I spent a week at a convent on a retreat in Kentucky
I have many new clients
I have an incredibly wonderful and great staff
I have made many new friends
I went on 53 first dates in 2005
I bought a new (to me, anyway) car

Bad

A tree fell on my shed, scaring the shit out of me.
My sweet, wonderful, faithful, perpetually happy, four legged best friend, Copper died
My father didn’t die
My mother’s leg was amputated.
I had my first bout with illness in seven years, swollen ear, which was treated and healed.
I was lonely
I went on 53 first dates in 2005
I had multiple plumbing problems, which brought out the helpless Betty I don’t like.
I said too many goodbyes to people I wanted to know better
I caused too many hurt feelings of people I didn’t want to know better
I had way too many beginnings and endings
I lost two of my favorite clients
I was involved in a car accident

Everything a Mother Could Want

I woke up Wednesday morning feeling woozy. My ear was tender, but that was nothing unusual, and usually goes away after a few hours. I met Jennifer for breakfast and noticed that a spot the size of a quarter was puffy right next to my left ear. “Outer ear infection” Jennifer said, knowingly.

I got home, called the doctor, made an appointment for 4:15 that afternoon. The swelling continued. I went into the office, dressed in my ratty sweatpants, an old sweatshirt and dirty tennis shoes. I was hoping to go for a walk around the hills by my office, but by the time I got there, my ear was really hurting. I took my temperature…I was running a fever! Not a high one, but I never get sick. I reviewed the audits I promised to review before I left for Christmas, checked some email, headed out the door to see the doctor. The woman at the desk asked to see my insurance card. I told her that I have a $500 deductible, and this was my first trip in to see the doctor in 2005, so…. She didn’t look up, stamped “SELF PAY” on the form and instructed me to follow the nurse.

The nurse took my temperature, blood pressure, pulse, and inquired into the purpose of my visit. I showed her my swelling by the minute ear, she nodded and disappeared. A few minutes later, the doctor showed up. He took one look at my ear, grabbed the ear scope, jabbed it in my ear, pronounced his diagnosis, and shuffled around finding me samples of the antibiotic he wanted me to take. He gave me a five day supply. I ruefully accepted them, wanting to protest, wanting to assure him that I am capable of paying for a prescription, but it’s Christmas. He saw a woman dressed in clean, but very shabby clothes, with self pay stamped on her medical form and he wanted to do a good deed. I decided to let him.

Clutching my gift of life saving drugs, I took my Self Pay stamped form to the receptionist, and she reviewed my charges. She looked up at me, touseled hair, no make up, ratty sweatshirt, and noted the Self Pay on my form. She turned to her colleague. “We give a 20% discount to self pay patients, don’t we?” Her colleague looked up at me and smiled and nodding her agreement. I wanted to argue with them. I wanted to inform them that my income was more than sufficient to pay what ever the charge is, I simply had a $500 deductible and am abnormally healthy, not having spent a dime on healthcare all year.

I didn’t. I smiled. I gratefully accepted the 20% discount and wondered to myself if the insurance companies knew about this discount, and what they thought of it. It didn’t make sense to me. Didn’t it all come from the same place in the end? Granted, insurance companies negotiate for lower prices for certain procedures, so perhaps they want to pass the same savings on to people out of the insurance loop. I can’t help but think that if the doctors would just charge the same thing, regardless, wouldn’t we all be better off?

I went home, took the antibiotics, took some ibuprophin and informed my sons that they were on their own for dinner. I went to bed. I woke up at 6:00, took another dose of antibiotics and went back to bed. I woke up at 9:00. The entire left side of my face was swollen. The quarter sized patch had extended up and around my ear, fanning out across my face, reaching for the space between my eyebrow and my eyelid, circling my ear, and fingering it’s way down the side of my neck. I was alarmed. I called the doctor. I got the nurse. I explained to her that the infection had spread and that it was perilously close to my brain, and I kinda needed my brain. She told me that the antibiotic takes 48 hours to kick in, that I should stay calm, and if I’m not better by Saturday, I should come back in to see the doctor. Saturday. It’s Thursday. What if I’m dead by Saturday? How will I get in to see the doctor if I’m already dead???!!!

The next day, the swelling was almost gone. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I took my boys to church Christmas Eve. We all sat together in the last row. We held our candles high while everyone sang Silent Night, and I sent yet another prayer up to the heavens thanking the universe for my beautiful boys.

I had to wake my children at 10:00am on Christmas morning. Christmas is a little different at my house. Starting when my children were very small, we devised ways to make Christmas last all day. First off, everyone got 8 hours of sleep. Children were not to get out of bed until after they had been in bed for 8 hours. My children were all really good sleepers from the time they were 6 weeks old, so that was no hardship for my boys. After they got up, they had to get dressed and eat breakfast before gift opening began. I wanted healthy food in their bellies before they were bombarded by all the candy Santa leaves in their stockings.

We opened gifts for about fifteen minutes, then we took a break. This year, Greg suggested that it was time for a break…and he hadn’t even opened his biggest gift, an electric guitar with all the fixings, which he was saving for last. Anticipation is something to be savored. We put away the gifts we didn’t want to play with immediately, we played with the items that simply couldn’t wait for attention. An hour or so later, we opened some more gifts. Later we did stockings. We opened our last gifts at home around 1:00pm.

A funny thing about family traditions. I tried to explain our system to a friend. He listened patiently. After I finished telling him, he asked, “Do your children have to salute you?” Not immediately getting the joke, I gushed on, “Oh, yes, they love it. It’s makes the whole process last longer….why, we open Christmas gifts all day!”

Then I got the joke.

My cheeks pinked a bit.

Perhaps to an outsider, it might sound controlling. It doesn’t feel that way. There’s no arguing about it. If Kevin pleaded to open just one more gift before a break, he could. In fact, if my children asked to not take a break, we wouldn’t.

Funny thing about family traditions, though. We’ve been doing Christmas this way for 14 years now….ever since Scott was 3. After a fifteen minute flurry of wrapping paper, receiving Christmas gifts beyond my childhood’s wildest imaginings, he turned and looked expectantly around. “Is that all?” he asked innocently.

The next year, the new family tradition began of taking periodic breaks…of taking the time to savor each gift, to acknowledge the giver of the gift, and to play with the gift before the next package stole the stage. Once it became a tradition, our children bought into it, bragged about it to their friends, told them how their Christmas lasts all day long.

No saluting required…except for the salutes we give each other in appreciation of each other’s presents…and presence.

We ate dinner, we toasted each other with sparkling grape juice, we visited my mother in the nursing home, taking her a plate of fillet mignon, mashed potatoes, asparagus and an artichoke. Lo and behold, my mother had gifts for my children under her tree, too. Wonder how that happened…..(g)

This was my first Christmas, since I was sixteen years old, that I didn’t exchange gifts with a lover. I had pondered that thought in the days leading up to Christmas, wondered how that would color the day for me. It simply was not an issue.

When the day was over and we were all nestled on the couch watching Miracle on 34th Street, I thought back over the day. The boys had spent 3 hours over at their father’s apartment. I had spent that time baking pecan pies for the nurses at my mother’s nursing home. My boys had each, individually, unprompted, thanked me for Christmas, thanked me for being their mom, told me that they had had the best Christmas ever.

Grateful children. Healthy children. A back to healthy ear. How could I ask for more?

Comfort and Joy

Driving home from Christmas with Robert on Thursday, I heard Pachelbel Canon in D on the radio, with lyrics sung by some boys’ choir. I didn’t know Pachelbel had words. I always thought that particular piece of music was too beautiful for words. Some music is like that.

It isn’t often that music moves me to tears. Oh, I cry when certain songs come on because they remind me of someone, or because the story told in the song is sad, but it is only on very rare occasions that I am moved to tears by the shear beauty of the notes in and of themselves. I heard that song as part of homework for an Arts and Ideas class I took to fulfill my humanities requirement at Manchester College. It was the year I lived in the dorm, the class started at 8:00am.

I got a D in that class. The only class I ever in my whole life got a D in.

I could kick myself now for not paying more attention. Many kids, who have parents interested in the arts, are exposed to classical music, renaissance paintings, and Shakespearean plays from a young age. They take music lessons and ballet and learn about the masters by osmosis. I had none of that growing up. I am disappointed that the ignorance of my youth did not give me the incentive to drag myself out of bed and pay attention in that class.

I fell in love with Pachelbel during that semester, and began an affair of sorts with Mozart as well. What I learned in that class has impacted my soul more than probably any other class I ever took in college, despite getting a D.

With tears streaming down my face, puffy with a nasty outer ear infection, now under control, thank God, the Christmas spirit found its way into my heart, onto my smile, and it hasn’t wavered since.

I have a whole list of things to write about, and hopefully, during my week off this week, I will. My Christmas spirit story couldn’t wait, though.

Wishing all of my cyber friends a smile full of good wishes, eyes lit with joy, and stockings filled with your hearts’ desire.

Treasures, Part Three

It's Friday, and I promised you the next installmant of my story, Treasures. If you are just now finding my blog, go here and read part One, first, and here, to read part Two, second. Here is the last installment.

Enjoy.

Treasures, Part Three

The transgression of September 12, 1944….described in my letter to you…that must be the letter that was Returned to Sender. Mike rummaged through the letters again. He had jumbled them a bit in his eagerness to get through them all. Here it was. Addressed to Jeremy Proctor, dated December 12, 1944….three months to the day after the “transgression”. He hesitated. The letter had never been opened. This was serious business here. What kind of karma would he be disturbing by opening this letter, by sending these words out into the universe, by giving them a voice by virtue of reading them? He would know. Someone else, other than Anita would know the truth about Emily. Curiosity battled with compassion in his mind and in his heart. Curiosity won the argument, throwing out the logic that if Anita really never wanted anyone to know, she would not have kept the letter. Ah, the lengths our minds will go to justify our actions. Mike pulled out his pocket knife and slid the blade under the flap of the envelope. He pulled out two sheets of fine stationary, yellowed with age, bearing the monogram ARF. Anita Renee Fitzgerald. He opened the letter.

December 12, 1944

Dearest Jeremy,

How do I begin? How do I tell you this news with only the vehicle of pen and paper to soften the blows that I wield with my words? My darling Jeremy, keeper of my heart, something terrible has happened, something I did not plan, could have never wished for, and cannot explain or excuse. I don’t know how else to say this other than to come right out and let the words fly around the paper.

On September 12, I received your letter telling me of your transfer away from the safety of the training base in Ireland to the battlefield in Africa. I was distraught with worry. I went to work and was sitting at my desk at the end of the day, reading your letter again, crying, and my boss noticed my tears. I don’t think you ever met my boss, Mr. Ray Hansen, but he had always been kind to me. He is married, has three children, his family goes to my church, which is where I met him and how I got my job as his assistant. Because I was so obviously distraught, he offered me some brandy, which he keeps in his office. I accepted.

I sat on the couch in his office and drank the brandy which tasted better than anything I had ever tasted before in my life. I had been crying the entire day, hadn’t been able to eat anything and the brandy was so smooth going down. He offered me another one, and he got one for himself. He asked me what was wrong and I told him about your letter. He talked about his guilt for not being able to go to the war, but his football injury in high school had prompted the army to reject his application. He sat next to me, and put his arm around me and I cried and cried on his shoulder. I drank more brandy, so did he and when he kissed me, I cried even harder. My shame is as deep as the ocean that separates us, Jeremy, but I’m pregnant. From that one encounter. The one, the only time I have sex and I am pregnant.

I quit my job the next day, without explanation. I have not, and will not tell him about the position in which I find myself. I hope I can find another job soon, but the prospects don’t look good. I beg for your forgiveness and cannot tell you how sorry I am to have hurt you, to have hurt us and the dreams we had. I understand completely if you can never see me again, if the sight of me sickens you. I can assure you that the mirror is no longer a friend of mine.

I don’t know if you can believe me, but I love you, now and forever, and should you find it in your heart to forgive me, I will never, ever betray your trust again.

With all my love,

Anita

Mike put the letter down, taking it all in. He pondered Anita’s dilemma. The year was 1944, it’s not like she could have gotten an abortion. She could have kept the news to herself, put the baby up for adoption, and hoped that Jeremy didn’t come home from the war before June. But what a thing to hope for. Hope for continued killing? Hope for a longer war? And how could she ever live with a secret like that wedged between them? He nodded his head. She did the right thing. Even if he never read the letter, she did the right thing. After awhile, I’m sure she was able to look in the mirror again, knowing that although she was ashamed of what happened, she wasn’t ashamed of the truth. He picked up the bills of sale for the ornaments and put them in order. The first one sold for $100 in 1945. The second one sold for $1,000 in 1946. The third one sold for $5,000, then the fourth one jumped to $15,000. As the ornaments became more popular and the demand for them rose, the price expanded exponentially. The tenth one sold for $100,000 in 1954 and the eleventh one sold for $400,000, a fortune in just about any circle, in 1955. Someone upstairs must have been pleased with those ornaments. Someone upstairs must have wanted Anita to do well, must have wanted to take care of her, must have wanted to help her. Yep, someone upstairs must have forgiven her.

Mike picked up the Mother and Child piece, held it in his hands. How much more beautiful it seemed now, coupled with the history behind it. Made of pure ivory, the carvings intricate and detailed. He took his treasure into the house and sat down at the computer. He typed “The Ivories” into the computer to see what he could find out about the other eleven pieces out there. 325 entries showed up on his screen. He scanned the listing on the first page, clicking on one titled “The Original Ivories”. The text gave a brief history and then listed the last known sales price for each of the eleven original ivory ornaments. The last one was sold to the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2000 for $1,675,000. Mike knocked his chair over in his haste to get to his feet. OHMIGOD!!! This piece, in a cigar box on his table, wrapped in sixty year old newspaper was probably worth in excess of $2,000,000. Right there, sitting on his dining room table was $2,000,000. And he had paid $1 for the whole box. Hell, the letters, the bills of sale, the Journal, they were all probably worth a fortune, too.

Over the next two weeks, Mike did some research. He discovered that the other eleven pieces of “The Ivories” were all at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, some on loan, still owned by collectors. He rented a safe deposit box and put the Madonna and Child, still in its cigar box, inside for safe keeping. He called Gibson Greeting cards to find out how badly they might want to make a mold for the twelfth piece of “The Ivories”. It seemed that they wanted that twelfth piece pretty badly. He contacted Doris at Attics and Sellers to find out whose estate sold him the box. The estate belonged to Emily Hanover, who died on November 2, 2004. She had never married and had left no children. All of the proceeds of the estate sale were being donated to charity. It seemed that the Madonna & Child was his, fair and square. No family members to tangle with, no guilt at not giving it back to its rightful owners. It seemed that indeed, he was the rightful owner. He left for Memphis, to visit his mother and his sister for Thanksgiving, still not knowing what he was going to do.

Traditionally, he left for Memphis on Sunday and came home on Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. He enjoyed the camaraderie of cooking with Dora, his sister, and visiting with his mother and his 92 year old grandmother, who still lived alone just a block down the street. Their conversations were lively and varied, discussing music, politics, and unforgettable quips from his Grandmother, the latest one being “I wouldn’t have a man if he was covered in chocolate!” which came as a retort after Mike, fending off questions about his own lack luster love life, inquired after his Grandmother’s suitors. Someday, he was going to write a book about the wonderfully wise and witty words that came out of his grandmother’s mouth, but if he did, he better hurry. She wasn’t getting any younger.

Much as he enjoyed the company of these women in his family, after five days, he was usually ready for his own company again. This year, he decided to stay an extra day to help Dora put up the Christmas tree. His mom was not feeling well, and Dora didn’t want to do it by herself. Mike loved decorating the tree and this year, especially, he wanted a good look at “The Ivories”. He had told no one, no neighbors, no friends, no co-workers, no family about the Madonna and Child. He couldn’t tell anyone until he had made a decision about his treasure.

The Ivories were just as he remembered them. The gleam of the porcelain was beautiful and the intricate carvings were visible, but were softer in the porcelain than in the original Ivory pieces. Mike had spent hours pouring over pictures of the pieces in books and on the internet. As he hung the ornaments on the tree, admiring the fine detail work, thinking about Jeremy painstakingly carving them in the desert, holding Anita close in his heart each moment of each cut through the ivory, he began to develop a plan. Perhaps a trip to visit his nephew Joey in New York was in order.

Joey was waiting for him in baggage claim at LaGuardia. About the same height as Mike, with the same coarse black hair, without the salt, of course, and the same brown eyes, Mike smiled at his nephew, figuring that this was just about as close to a son as he would ever get, or ever wanted to get for that matter. He was already glad he came.

“Heeeey, Mike! Good to see you!” They clapped each other on the back, what men call hugs, and stood back grinning at each other.

“Joey Bowey! Good to see you! So you like living in this hellhole you call New York?”

“Hell hole! Its better than that country bumpkin town you call home. Cincinnati! Known for its racism, its sexism, its stand against pornography, I’m sorry Mike, but I could never live in a city that called Playboy pornography.”

Mike laughed outright, which he almost never did. “You’ve got a point, my friend. Sometimes I don’t know why I stay in that city, except I do have a really cool job.”

Mike’s single, oversized suitcase arrived and they wheeled it outside to catch a cab.

“You’re here until Monday? Just a long weekend? What’s on your itinerary? I cleared my schedule, cancelled three dates with three different women, I’ll have you know. Hey! I could call one of them back, see if she has a friend, we could hit the town, show you a really good time!” Joey leaned back in the cab, sighing happily.

“Nah. Thanks anyway, big guy, but I’m taking a break on that front for now. I have some business to attend to, won’t take long, something I need to see at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but other than that, I just want to do some Christmas shopping and hang with you, drink some scotch, maybe bourbon and coke, and contemplate my future. How’s that sound?”

Joey rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Mike. Its your holiday.”

Before he knew it, Mike was back on the plane, headed to Cincinnati. He buckled his seatbelt and leaned his head against the window. What a weekend. He had gone to the museum, seen “The Ivories” upclose and personal, although he couldn’t touch them. They were as beautiful as he had imagined. Eleven of them. It being the holiday season, the display was busy. They were showcased behind a wall of glass, each of them nestled on a bed of black velvet. He had stood back and watched as people would come up to the display and audibly gasp when they saw the first one. There was something about them, some mystical quality that drew one in, that held one in a cocoon of peace, just for a moment. Mike could tell that he wasn’t alone in that feeling, that others had similar reactions. He had felt it when he had first held the Madonna and Child in his hand, and he had felt it again in the presence of these other eleven as well.

The next morning, before leaving for work, he called a lawyer friend of his and made an appointment for 4:30 that afternoon. He had figured out a solution. That afternoon, he sat across the desk from Jordan Wilson, Esquire, and they mapped out a plan.

The morning of Christmas Eve found Mike at the airport, once again, headed back to Memphis. He had not spent Christmas in Memphis for over ten years, and this was his third trip back in less than three months. He carried a small suitcase this time, which he stowed carefully at his feet, not trusting the overhead compartments. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and he hoped no one else could hear it. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but it was hard to keep the anticipation, the anxiety and the fear from showing. He hoped he knew what he was doing.

Christmas dawned bright and beautiful, a dusting of snow covered the lawn and sidewalk out of the window of the guest bedroom of his mother’s house. Mike yawned a wide and cavernous yawn and reached over to scratch behind the ears of Buster, his sister’s black and gray tabby cat, who had also chosen to sleep in the guest bed on Christmas Eve. Mike smugly assumed that his cat charisma was universal as Buster purred his appreciation of Mike’s ministrations. Buster’s thinking was slightly different, however as he commented in cat language, “That’s right, big boy. You keep up that scratching. It’s the least you can do for sleeping in MY bed last night.”

Mike could hear his sister and mother making breakfast preparations in the kitchen and he swung himself out of bed. He quickly showered and dressed and bolted down his breakfast, wanting to get the gift giving underway. His nervousness showed and his mother looked at him quizzically. Mike simply smiled and said, “Can we start now??!!”

“Not til your Grandmother arrives. Goodness, Mike, you’d think you were ten again. You think Santa has brought something extra special for you this year?”

Luckily, Mike’s Grandmother arrived a few minutes later and they all assembled in front of the tree. The usual gifts were opened and exclaimed over, Mike keeping the gifts he had brought close by, saving them for last. His heart beating fast, he tried to figure out in his head how to do this. He started speaking. The room quieted. He distributed his gifts, wrapped in gold paper and tied with a red ribbon, and asked that they not open the gifts until he finished telling them a story. The four members of his family looked at one another and down at the gifts in their laps, shrugged their shoulders and smiled their assent to Mike. He told them about the yard sales he goes to every Saturday, almost without fail. He told them about the Beatles Butcher album he found and how that treasure had made all those Saturday’s worthwhile. He read them the inscription he wrote to keep with the framed album. Then he told them about Emily Hanover’s estate sale, about finding the box, about buying the box for a dollar. He asked Dora to open her gift, which was the letters from Jeremy to Anita. He then asked his grandmother to open her gift, which was Anita’s Journal. He then asked Joey to open his gift, which was the contract with Gibson Greeting documenting the terms of the agreement to allow them to make a mold for the twelfth ornament, giving Joey 10% of the sales. Tears were streaming down his mother’s face as he smiled at her, and she opened her gift, which was the Mother and Child ornament.


Merry Christmas every one.

Bummer Dude

Can it really get any worse?

I need to be careful asking that question. It can ALWAYS get worse, but it is most likely to get better. That’s what I always tell myself. I’m having a pity party for myself tonight. Anyone want to join me?

It’s been a hell of a week. I was talking on the phone to the Wedding Guy last week, when Scott rushed in my closet.

“Mom, come quick! Its an emergency!”

I got off the phone quickly and ran to the bathroom. Water was shooting from the back of the toilet tank clear up to the ceiling. There was about an inch and a half of water coving the bathroom floor, feeling it’s way across the carpet in the hallway. I stood there in shock for a moment, just a moment, mind you, and then swung into action. Oblivious to the icy water raining down, I turned off the water valve under the toilet tank. I barked out orders to my boys to grab some mops and towels and I grabbed the snow shovel. Snow shovel, you ask? Yes, it worked very well scooping up a large amount of water and depositing it back into the toilet. I called my plumber. I haven’t heard from him. It’s busy this time of year. I’m sure I’m looking at a couple hundred…literally down the toilet.

Now my boys are sharing my bathroom.

And they have terrible aim.

Yuck.

I finally got around to getting my car in for an oil change. After a lovely lunch with my staff at Jean-Robert’s Pigalls, one of my staff readied to drop me off at the mechanic’s. There he was, outside inspecting my car. Anne quickly rolled down her window and said, “hey, handsome.” He’s her mechanic, too.

Any wonder that I have a flirty staff?

Tony smiled at us and came over to lean against the driver’s side door. “Elizabeth, you need new tires.”

Tony is Portuguese and refuses to call me Betty. “Betty!” He spits out. “No! You don’t fit “Betty”, you are Elizabeth.” And he held his head up regally, sweeping the air gracefully with his hand.

Whatever.

My car was ready the next day. I drove my mother’s junker to work, and tried to find someone to give me a ride to the mechanic’s shop to avoid walking there in the rain..and ice. Jennifer didn’t answer, Kim didn’t answer, Anne didn’t answer. I broke down and called Mickey. He didn’t answer either. I walked up in the rain.

Tony chastised me. “Elizabeth, we would have come to pick you up. Next time, if you don’t call, we aren’t going to give you your car.”

And then of course, I paid my $600 repair bill.

I didn’t feel like Elizabeth last week. Or today either, for that matter.

Today. Sigh.

I met my old lover on the street last night,
he seemed so glad to see me, I just smiled.
And we talked about some old times,
and we drank ourselves some beers
Still crazy after all these years.
-Paul Simon

That’s all I’m going to say. He reads my blog, and hates it when I write about him. So, I won’t.

I went to a dinner meeting for one of the not-for-profit boards I work with. Great group of men. All African American. Mostly middle aged, devoted husbands, hard workers, happy men, at least around me, they are. The president of the board stood up every time I did, pulled out my chair, entertained me during dinner. It was so sweet. These men that I meet with once a year, gentlemenly in their behaviour. I know why chivalry was invented...to make women feel taken care of. I'm sure it had other purposes, too...perhaps to encourage helplessness in women. Any man that has ever met me knows that helpless isn't in my vocabulary.

I feel helpless right now.

As I was driving home, Scott called me in a panic.

“Mom! I think a pipe exploded in your bathroom!” I was only a minute away, so I flew out of my car. I could hear the sound of rushing water from the driveway. Scary sound. It seemed to be coming from the garage. I opened the door, and a waterfall was pouring from the ceiling. I tried to stay calm. I went to the shutoff valve for the main water supply and tried to turn it. It spun uselessly. I found the phone book. I dialed the plumber, my hands trembling. I got his answering machine. I called Jennifer’s house. She has a husband who is an engineer. No answer. I called my handyman. He’s out shopping. I thought about calling Mickey. I just couldn’t. Sometimes, it sucks to have an old lover seven blocks away. It’s too tempting to ask for help at times like this.

I tried to think. I tried to quell the fear I felt bubbling up my spine. I wanted to be strong. I didn’t want to be afraid. I am fearless, remember? My boys were looking at me for direction.

Sometimes, it really sucks to be single.

I went out to the garage. I looked a little more closely. The water was actually gushing from a hole in the pipe, visible from the door. I again braved the icy cold and stuck my finger into the hole in the pipe, showering my new brown silk suit, but stopping the water. Scott, Greg, Kevin and Cameron were all watching from the door.

“Wow, Mom. Just like Superman.”

I looked up to search for sarcasm in my son’s face but I just see grudging admiration.

The water found another opening and shot out in renewed vengeance. I saw a valve just below the pipe and I pushed it down. The water stopped.

The immediate problem was solved. I was sopping wet. I changed my clothes, ordered pizza, and drove my son to a friend’s house. On the way home, the tears came; the tears of frustration, of fear, of exhaustion. I haven’t cried for so long, I can’t remember the last time. It felt good to have some release.

The bevy is comprised of single moms, raising kids by ourselves, some have help from ex husbands, but they all know what I’m talking about. My friend Robert carries his family on the strength of his shoulders, alone. The burden of responsibility sometimes feels unbearable. Buck up, we must, though, because unlike our ex’s, we really don’t have a choice.

My boys will remember the strength of their mother. They will remember that I didn’t panic, that I stayed calm, that I fixed it. I hope they felt a little safer after watching the drama unfold.

My ear hurts, my shoulders ache, the glands under my chin seem to be swollen and hurt when I touch them. I think I might be coming down with something. Must be all those cold showers.

Don’t ever announce to the universe that you never get sick, that you haven’t been sick since November of 1998.

I held back my tears until I was alone.

Which is exactly how I feel.

Maybe even a little afraid.

There, I admit it.

Maybe I’m not so strong, after all.

Aftermath

Mid life romance has its fringe benefits, as I try to remind myself with each carefully placed band aid stretched across the quadrants of my quivering heart. Granted, long-term love, with its comfort and connection and completeness, is something to which I aspire. Once in awhile, however, I am reminded that there is an upside to my single status as well.

Once in awhile, I spend the evening with a man who captivates me. The room disappears when we converse, my eyes drift to the movement of his mouth while he tells me stories of the intricacies of his work, and I wonder how those lips will feel when they finally land next to mine. I watch his hands move in the telling of his tale and I imagine those hands cupping my breasts, pulling me closer, imagine skin against skin and hot breath on my neck. His eyes light up as his story nears a climactic conclusion and I consider the oaths he would utter were our conversation in a more convivial setting.

When we are finally alone, his lips burn their trail across my memory. I live the Buddhist philosophy of living in the moment and I savor, I savor, I savor.

When the kissing I was expecting concludes, when I’m away and back in my usual life, when my libido is again under wraps, my assortment of asexual hats ready for wear, when I’m back to being Mom, Boss, Female Friend, I take out those moments and I polish them to a vibrant sheen. I turn them over in my mind, buffing the burning hot montage, reliving the electrical charge.

For a day, I do this. When sleep comes fitfully after an evening such as this, my dreams are an encore of those shining moments. After a day, the memory fades. The moments pale. The past claims the luster and eventually packs it away like Christmas ornaments. There the memories stay…still there, ready to shine again the next time the phone rings.

And it’s him.

Ode to Brian

Ode to Brian…

On your 46th birthday.

Match.com can’t be gone
Far into the frigid night
Retrospect or circumspect
Is it left or is it right?

Baseball stories found their glories
By way of the internet
The blogosphere was founded here
How quickly we forget.

Beaucoup taco, the bevy debacle
Was more than he could stand
Back to Dallas he scampered, Cincinnati unhampered
By heartstrings plucked by hand.

Tall and strong, you can’t go wrong
Brian is one of a kind.
We hope you are happy, although this is sappy,
In faith, a love benign.

For the rest of Brian’s bevy of blogger beauties’ Ode to Brian, please visit the following sites:

Life With Gina
Pollyblog
Bluegrass and Broken Hearts

Treasures, Part Two

It's Friday, and I promised you the next installmant of my story, Treasures. If you are just now finding my blog, go here and read part One, first. I will post the last installment next Friday.

Enjoy.

Treasures, Part Two

The letters were arranged sequentially, Mike started to read.

July 5, 1943

My Dearest Anita,

The balmy summer winds here in Ireland do little to warm my heart, which can only be warmed by the soft touch of your hand, the fire in your eyes, the warmth of your smile. I miss you, Anita, and though it has only been two weeks since I held you in my arms, it feels like years.

We are training new soldiers here in Ireland, training young men to go fight for freedom over in France and Germany. How many will survive, I have no idea, but with each new face that crosses my kitchen, I scan for hope, scan for purpose, scan for signs that this life will last through the next year. I am only a cook, serving time in relative safety compared to what the men I feed are facing. They are here for only a few short weeks, then off they go to the battle fields, while here I sit with my peeled potatoes. I don’t want to go to battle, despite the envy I sometimes feel for the men who have the courage to serve this noble cause, to lay down their lives to ensure freedom for the world. There are terrible reports we are hearing from Germany. Reports of atrocities so horrible, I cannot believe that they are true, but even if the reports have a modicum of truth to them, the devastation is severe.

Instead of preparing for battle, I prepare potatoes. Every day. Day in and day out, and potatoes are plentiful here in Ireland. I have started carving shapes out of them, much to the amusement of my fellow kitchen cronies. Elephants are easy, tigers a bit more tedious, but amusing nonetheless. The others say I have a talent for this and while it does give me great satisfaction, it does not seem to be a likely career path.

Paper is in short supply, so I am conserving my words so that I can write more often. Please know that even if my words are short, my feelings and affection know no bounds and I hold you in my heart every minute of every day.

With all my love,

Jeremy

August 17, 1943

My Dearest Anita,

Five weeks since my last letter, but with paper in such short supply, I feel guilty even using as little as I do. There are so many men here with wives and children, wives who are giving birth even as we speak, giving sons and daughters to men who may very well never look into the eyes of their offspring. It is no excuse, I know, but I have found another outlet for outpouring my affection for you rather that using pen and paper. My sweet Anita, I cannot wait to show you my handiwork. I have discovered my calling! It is not soap or candles like the rest of my family, although soap and candles may be a good medium through which to display this talent of mine. I am carving things every spare moment I have! I have given up on potatoes and have been using wood with astonishing results. The other men are begging me to carve things for their sweethearts and I am doing the best I can to keep up with their requests…in between peeling potatoes, of course. I’ll not tell you what I am making for you, as I am working on something very special. I tease you, I know, telling you now, but my sweet, you will not feast your eyes on my masterpiece until Christmas, but I wanted you to know that every time I hold a piece of wood in my hand, I imagine holding your hand in mine. I smooth the wood to match the softness of your cheek. I sand the surface to the sleekness of your skin. With each stroke of the wood, I hold your image close.

My culinary skills are improving, although we have meager means with which to create. The men don’t complain much, at least not about the food. Mail day is such a big deal here. I thank you, Anita, for ensuring my joy each and every time the postman calls. You are diligent in your efforts to raise my spirits. I assure you, my sweet, if my letters are not as frequent as yours, it is not due to my affections faltering, but instead due to my passions exploding within the depths of the wood instead of spilling onto the pages. Please understand and forgive me.

With all my love,

Jeremy

Mike read the lyrical words, marveling at the creativity and spirit of this artist he was coming to know. He scanned the next few letters, reading as Jeremy described the progression of his work with wood, his reflections of the lives of the men around him, his inner conflict of serving in a supporting rather than active role in the war raging next door. He described the artifacts he carved for his friends, his joy in discovering this talent he had, and the process he went through in channeling his inspiration through his hands and into the wood.

December 5, 1943

My Dearest Anita,

Enclosed, my darling, is my Christmas gift to you. It is the embodiment of my hopes and desires, my dreams for our future together. It is carved from one piece of wood, no glue, no pieces, one branch of life to symbolize the connection I feel to you and to our place together in the world. This piece is something of a miracle, my darling, as I could afford no room for error. One wrong flick of my wrist and the piece would have been ruined, as I needed it to be complete within a single block of wood. I shouldn’t have worried, a hand other than my own guided my efforts. I am pleased with this work and I hope you are, too. As I am sure you have figured out, this is our house, our trees, our dog, our children, and our bodies entwined in embrace on the flower lined walkway stretching from our front porch to the street. No gingerbread house have I made, but a sturdy house of solid oak, to stand the test of time. I have sanded and polished and laquered until my hands are permanently colored to match my masterpiece. Accept this gift, my darling Anita as a testament of my love for you, as a symbol of what lies ahead for the two of us, together.

With all my love,

Jeremy

Mike put down the letters, stood up and stretched. He wondered about this carving Jeremy had just described. He didn’t remember ever hearing about it, didn’t remember seeing it at the estate sale, but a fire began a slow burn inside him. He wanted to find the carving, wanted to see for himself the first masterpiece of the creator of The Ivories. He had no idea where to start. He figured a good place would be to look for clues in the box, but first, he wanted to finish the letters. The letter dated September 1, 1944 explained The Ivories.

My Dearest Anita,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you. I have hesitated writing this letter until I was able to give you certain specifics about what lies ahead of me, not wanting to leave you wondering. I am now in Africa, having received orders to report for duty 45 days ago. I leave my post as a cook in Ireland, and head for the battle fields of Ethiopia. The desert is a stark contrast to the green of Ireland, and the dark people quite different from the fair skinned lads I had grown to know and love so well. I am still cooking, but have been assigned night patrols, and depending on how the African campaign goes, there is the possibility that I will see battle first hand.

All is not bad news, though. I was able to barter some of my wood carvings for several beautiful blocks of Ivory, which I have found to be an excellent medium for my work. My hands were made to mold this material, to bring it to life once again. My joy in discovering this outlet for my talent is only dimly tarnished by the increased risk accompanying my change in duties. Be not afraid, my sweet, as I feel no fear of battle. I feel your loving presence protecting me, and I will be diligent in my efforts to keep myself safe. Returning to the comfort of your arms is not negotiable, and in that belief, I am steadfast.

With all my love,

Jeremy

He read all the letters, finishing with the last letter from Jeremy to Anita, the letter that accompanied The Ivories on their journey from Africa to America.

December 12, 1944

My Dearest Anita,

This letter accompanies my Christmas gift to you, or gifts I should say, as there are twelve of them. Here in Africa, where the night sky is so close to the heavens that witnessed the birth of Christ, carvings of the nativity seemed to be the appropriate gift for you this year. I loved every moment of every carving, knowing that one day, these creations would rest in your hands. I imagined you caressing them, holding them close to your cheek, breathing life into them just as your memory breathes life into me each morning. Hang these ornaments on your tree, sweet Anita, hang them and think of me. Pray that I will be home to share the joy of Christmas with you next year.

There is an uneasiness amongst the servicemen here. Tempers flare over the most minor of infractions. Mortar fire can be heard in the distance almost 24 hours a day. It wears on one’s soul, grates through the mildest of dispositions leaving surly and sour words in its wake, not to mention the occasional blackened eye. It is only here, on these pages that I dare voice my fear, unveil the chinks in my courageous façade. I speak to my fellow soldiers about hope, about survival, about holding onto an image to keep their fear in check, and I suggest that they hold onto an image such as yours. It is the beautiful future with you that I know awaits me that will keep me alive. How could I ever succumb to death when life holds such promise?

With all my love,

Jeremy

If the letters weren’t so sappy, Mike might have cried. The sentiment was sweet, but jeez, what was wrong with this guy? Ok, maybe he was an artist, with an artists’ sensitive heart, but obviously, this guy needed to play more basketball. Ok, so maybe he got choked up a bit reading them, but he figured that was just because his Mom’s name was Anita, too. He thought briefly that perhaps he was just envious because he was jealous of the depth of love that Jeremy expressed for Anita, and he hoped to feel love like that again. Nah. He liked his life just as it was. He rummaged through the box, looking more carefully at the papers on the top. They appeared to be bills of sale, eleven of them; four to Gibson Greetings, four to Hallmark, three to American Greetings. A contract from Hallmark was also amongst the papers, with a type written narrative attached.

Artist: Jeremy Proctor was born on December 12, 1919 to Charles and Elizabeth Proctor. They had no other children. Jeremy died during battle in Africa on December 23, 1944. The Ivories were a Christmas gift from Jeremy to his fiancé, Anita Fitzgerald.

Mike’s brow furrowed in question. He stood up again and stretched. He hobbled into his house, his knees betraying his age after having sat cross legged for the past two hours reading Jeremy’s letters. He grabbed a beer and headed back outside. He knew all this stuff about Jeremy, the little narrative was attached to every ornament ever sold. He probably could have recited it by heart, as every year, when he helped his mother pack the ornaments away in their original boxes, which she saved, of course, he reread the inscription. This discovery of his was simply amazing. He was just thinking about this woman, this Anita Fitzgerald, this heartless woman who sold a dead man’s loving gifts, when his eyes fell on the book of medicinal herbs. Incongruous to the other contents of the box, he curiously picked it up and opened the cover. The dust cover fell back, revealing a plain black binding, Journal etched in gold letters about a third of the way down. He opened it up and began to read.

December 23, 1945

My Dearest Jeremy,

Should I say Dear Diary? The sound is so sterile and impersonal, when the person I talk to, the person I dream with, the person to whom I would address anything I would write here, would be you. So I shall write to you, here in this book. I shall send out into the universe my thoughts of you and my musings about my life, what should have been our life together.

I know you are dead, a thought that I forget for three seconds every morning when I wake up, bittersweet as those three seconds are. For three seconds I awake to the hope of holding you again, only to be reminded that I will never again feel the safety of your arms as reality’s ugly head snuggles up against me and I remember. I have struggled over the past year, struggles like I could never have predicted in my cocoon of sheltered existence up to a year ago. You died a year ago. I know this in my head, but my heart struggles every morning to accept this. So much has happened. The baby was born on June 1st of last year, and is the only joy I have in my life now, mixed blessing that she is. Can I ever express to you my sorrow, my shame for how she came into existence? I tried in my letter to you, which came back unopened. I realized when that letter was returned to me, a few days after I received news of your death, that this burden of guilt was mine alone to bear, that I would never receive the balm of your forgiveness. I have struggled to find a way to carry this burden, to shoulder it alone and keep it from the shoulders of my beautiful daughter. I have decided that the best way is to keep this journal, to write to you of my troubles, to give you the gift of my confidences, keeping that burden away from my daughter and the others who are helping me, in their own way, travel down this road I’ve chosen.

First, I will once again ask for the forgiveness you can never give me, both for the transgression of September 12, 1944 and for the transgression I undertook two weeks ago. The transgression of September 12, 1944 I described in my letter to you, the other I will confess to you here. In order for you to understand how I made the decision I did, please bear with me, but I must describe to you the events of the past year leading up to December 12, 1945.

Oh, Jeremy, how can I describe the devastation and despair I felt when I received the news of the battlefield casualties on December 23rd of last year? How can they call them casualties? There was nothing casual about the grief I felt, that I still feel. I cried so hard for so long, a part of me hoped to die, too, hoped to relieve myself of the burden of the baby I carried inside me. When the news came, I had just made plans to move, away from the people who knew me, away from my family. I knew I had to escape before my pregnancy became obvious. I moved up to Lima, not far, but far enough that if no one saw me for a year or two, and I came home later with a baby in tow, I could evade most of the questions. I do hope to go home again someday, but for now, Lima is ok.

The baby was born on June 1st of this past year. She was robust and healthy right from the start, with my brown hair and green eyes. She has a happy disposition and is easy to comfort. Financially, it has been a struggle. I have only recently found a job, and a woman in the apartment downstairs from me has agreed to watch Emily. I named her Emily….after no one in particular, I just liked the name. I thought it sounded like a happy name, and this child is not going to have it easy. I have told my neighbors that my husband was killed in the war, pretending that you actually became my husband, pretending that the baby is yours. Can you forgive me those lies? I changed my name to Hanover…Anita Hanover…so that one day, I can go home and hold my head up. I trust that you love me enough to understand, but truthfully, Jeremy, I don’t know what else to do. I could give her up, let another family love her, but oh, once I looked into her eyes, once I held her, smelled her, I couldn’t give her up, especially with you gone.

My meager savings lasted us through the end of October. My job starts at the beginning of the year…I will be packing boxes of soap for your family, yes Jeremy, I’ll be working for Proctor & Gamble. November’s rent was due, the baby was hungry and that was before I found out that I had a job. Sweetheart, I was at the department store and I saw the Christmas ornaments on display, ones that pale in comparison to the beauty of the creations you sent to me. I had a glimmer of a thought. I had twelve of those ornaments. Surely I could part with one, just one, to be able to stay in my snug apartment with the baby. I called my brother, who works for Gibson Greeting Cards, as you know. They have expanded into making Christmas ornaments, and he had been moved to tears by the beauty of the ornaments you sent me last Christmas. I called him and asked for his help. Lo and behold, Gibson paid $100 for the one with the shepherds. It paid my rent for November and December and left a little over to buy my baby a pretty dress and a few toys and books for Christmas. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for giving me the means to help my baby. I hold you in my arms as I sleep every night, and most nights, I can feel your presence with me, too. I feel in my heart that you have forgiven me, I just need to convince my head of it.

With all my love,

Anita

Mike scanned the rest of the pages. There was a lengthy entry each year on December 23rd, with the last entry on December 23, 1978. It appeared that Anita had sold an ornament each year, and in penance, had written to Jeremy, expressing her remorse, asking his forgiveness for parting with yet another of his creations. Wait a second. She had sold eleven ornaments, but the last entry was in 1978. He counted the years on his hands. The eleventh ornament would have been sold in 1955. She kept writing to him for twenty three more years. His brow furrowed again. Why didn’t she sell the twelfth ornament? He flipped back to December 23, 1955.

My Dearest Jeremy,

How is it possible that I can still feel your presence? On a crisp, winter moonlit night, I can sometimes feel your arms wrapped around me, keeping me warm or on a sunny spring day, I will be planting flowers and catch a whiff of your aftershave lotion. How is that possible? I have not seen you for over twelve years, but I still think of you constantly. I have been unable to allow any other men into my life, though in the early years, several tried, and gave up. I have a happy life, for the most part. I wonder at the coldness of my heart when it comes to other men. Sometimes, at church on holidays, or at a restaurant, I will see couples together, laughing, holding hands, and I am wistful for what should have been with us, but for the most part, I am content. Perhaps one is only allowed one true love in one lifetime, and I have had mine. Perhaps I should count my blessings because many people go through life without ever having experienced a love such as ours.

I sold the eleventh, and last, ornament two weeks ago. I won’t sell the twelfth ornament. I will keep it only for myself. It is wrapped in the newspaper from the day I learned that you had died. I am storing it in a box in the cellar, along with the documentation of the sale of the others and your letters, in case something happens to me and Emily might need authentication for the final ornament. She knows nothing of these ornaments, she is too young to ask questions about where the money has come from. The last ornament sold for $400,000. I need no more money. I have purchased this lovely home, back in Cincinnati, paid for it outright. I have a college fund set up for Emily. I have invested as much as I could in low risk stocks, and the dividends and interest I receive on those investments is enough for me to live on and be able to stay home and be a good mother to Emily. I have the life I always dreamed of having with one major exception. I have you only at night in my dreams. I have no one to share coffee with in the morning, or to help with the yard work. I have no one to rave over my baking or to ask what they want for dinner or to share a drink with in the evening. On the other hand, I’m not complaining. I don’t have anyone because I choose to not have anyone. I could never replace the love I feel for you, and still feel from you.

I broke down and got a dog this year, a male dog. He is a good companion, and I feel safer at night with him sleeping right outside my door. Emily loves him and is learning valuable lessons in responsibility in taking care of him. He lies at my feet while I listen to the radio at night, or watch this new thing called television. Its amazing, Jeremy, the technology they have come up with in the last decade. This television is like going to the movies, except the screen in right in your living room. The send the images out like radio waves. I don’t understand it and I don’t try to, but I do enjoy the company it brings me in the evenings, especially after Emily has gone to bed, but before sleep will come and bring you to me.

I will keep writing to you, Jeremy, even though I will no longer be telling you of the sales of your beautiful ornaments. Oh, Jeremy, if you could only know how famous those ornaments have become. I insisted that the world know the truth about them, even though I hated risking that Emily might also discern the truth. I tried to be very careful, and so far, have been successful. The world knows about you, but doesn’t have any idea about me. That is just as I wanted it. I want the world to know about your genius, your artistry. I want them to talk about the great artist, Jeremy Proctor, for generations to come. I want them to make suppositions about your life, about your personality, about your hopes and dreams, and more than anything, I want them to mourn your death and the loss to the world that went with that death. I have become such a pacifist. You would be dismayed at the fervor which I feel in regards to my abhorrence of war. Unfortunately, I do not have the courage to do much except send money to the churches who actively work to stop the fighting over in Korea. Emily’s well being is always at the forefront of my activities, and this is not a good time to be disagreeing with the government.

Santa Claus comes in a few days, and my little girl will be very pleased, as she is every year, thanks to you. I don’t live extravagantly; I am frugal when it comes to every day decisions. We don’t take exotic vacations or drive expensive cars, but at Christmas, I do go a bit overboard. I know that I can’t make up for a father in her life, but I do what I can. As I say to you every year, I hold you close in my heart every minute of every day, and I thank you for your continued spiritual presence in my life.

With all my love,

Anita

Mike rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Ah, so she wasn’t greedy. She held onto the last one because she simply didn’t need the money it would bring. He liked this lady better with every letter he read. I wonder why she doesn’t talk more about Emily, describe what she looks like, the clothes she wears, the books she reads, the toys she likes. If it were my kid, I’d want to know that stuff. It suddenly occurred to Mike that it couldn’t be Jeremy’s child. She hadn’t seen Jeremy since July 1943 and Emily was born in June 1945, almost two years later. It wasn’t Jeremy’s kid! How could he have missed that?! He turned back to her first journal entry, reading again:

First, I will once again ask for the forgiveness you can never give me, both for the transgression of September 12, 1944 and for the transgression I undertook two weeks ago. The transgression of September 12, 1944 I described in my letter to you, the other I will confess to you here.


The transgression of September 12, 1944….described in my letter to you…that must be the letter that was Returned to Sender. Mike rummaged through the letters again. He had jumbled them a bit in his eagerness to get through them all. Here it was. Addressed to Jeremy Proctor, dated December 12, 1944….three months to the day after the “transgression”. He hesitated. The letter had never been opened. This was serious business here. What kind of karma would he be disturbing by opening this letter, by sending these words out into the universe, by giving them a voice by virtue of reading them? He would know. Someone else, other than Anita would know the truth about Emily. Curiosity battled with compassion in his mind and in his heart. Curiosity won the argument, throwing out the logic that if Anita really never wanted anyone to know, she would not have kept the letter. Ah, the lengths our minds will go to justify our actions. Mike pulled out his pocket knife and slid the blade under the flap of the envelope. He pulled out two sheets of fine stationary, yellowed with age, bearing the monogram ARF. Anita Renee Fitzgerald. He opened the letter.

Five Things You Don't Know About Me

That’s a tough order, I’ve already bared so much on my blog. When I first got the tag from Dick the Boomer, I laughed out loud. Dick, honey, I’m already at the tail end of my blogosphere striptease, so there’s not a whole lot more to disrobe.

On the other hand, let it not be said the Betty ever refuses a worthy challenge, so here it is, five things that I’m pretty sure blog readers don’t know about me:

1. I have only been engaged once. I’ve only been close to engaged once.

2. I buy myself jewelry. Men have given me earrings and a pearl necklace (no really, the kind you buy at the jewelry store). All of my other jewelry I bought for myself.

3. I type on a computer in my closet. I’m a closeted blogger. Of course, it’s a rather big closet.

4. I had all three of my children by C-Section…I’ve never actually experienced traditional childbirth. They put in a zipper after the first one. Just kidding.

5. If I had it to do over again, I would have gone to NYC and taken a stab at Broadway.

Not much, but then, the contents of Betty’s head has already been spilled across your computers, even these five probably don’t come as a big surprise.

Who to tag?

Ramblin’Girl
Figleaf
Robert
Polly (I’ll leave the rest of the bevy for you to tag)
Yoda

Wedding Crasher

I love weddings. I always have. I went to my first wedding when I was in the sixth grade. A neighbor girl and classmate of my oldest sister got married in our church, my sister took me with her to the wedding. I’d seen weddings on television and movies and had read about them in Harlequin Romances. I was an early reader of romance novels, but this was my first witness of the wedding ritual. I vowed to have a beautiful wedding of my own, one day, complete with white gown and veil, handsome groom in a ruffled tux, cake and punch and pastel mints.

I have been a bride only once (perhaps once was enough), a bride’s maid or matron of honor six times. For awhile, weddings were a regular part of my social calendar. After I hit my mid thirties, wedding celebrations slowed. All of my siblings, all of my cousins, all of my close friends were married off, and stayed that way, for the most part.

Prior to last Saturday, I hadn’t been to a wedding since 2001 when I went with Jeff. This was my very first wedding without a date. I had debated taking a date with me…#48 had expressed some interest in Saturday night, but something whispered in my ear that I should go to this wedding alone. Far be it from me to ignore mysterious ear whisperings.

The writing teacher from my summer convent retreats had found the man of her dreams after following my suggestion to place a personal ad on Yahoo. Although I didn’t know her well, she invited me anyway, ascribing to me a modicum of responsibility for her impending wedded bliss. I eagerly accepted her invitation. After all, I love weddings.

I safely stowed her wedding invitation, complete with driving directions to the church and to the reception, in the middle drawer of my desk. I anticipated the nuptials eagerly, conspiring with a friend to give the bride a wedding night at the Vernon Manor Hotel, despite the fact that her invitation specified “no gifts”. I was not raised to attend a wedding empty handed. I was sympathetic to her lack of need of mixers, toasters and hand towels, but a night at the Vernon Manor? Any loving couple could appreciate that.

The week of the wedding approached. I bought a new dress with matching shoes; purple velvet with a scoop neck, a tight bodice, a full flaring skirt and sweetly feminine embroidery around the neck. I left during the snowstorm on Thursday, and stayed home to supervise my unruly boys when Friday turned into a snow day, and no school. Saturday morning, I realized that I didn’t have my directions to the church, and looked up Quaker meeting houses on the internet. I found the address of the church closest to where my friend lived, checked their online calendar and sure enough, a wedding was scheduled on Saturday for 4:00pm, matching the date and time in my palm pilot.

I arrived at the wedding 10 minutes early, unheard of for me, as any of my friends can attest. I smiled at the pacifist bumper stickers abounding in the parking lot as I found my way into the church. I seated myself in the back row, surveying the other guests, not finding any familiar faces. I shrugged off my initial concern as I barely knew the bride and had only met the groom once. I knew that they both had extensive families, and mostly likely had a circle of friends outside the span of my own. I sat back and admired the simple sanctuary, the flowers, the holiday decorations. I looked up, when someone announced that they were going to get started, and realized that not only did I not recognize any of the guests, I didn’t know the bride and groom, either.

I hurried out of the church, clip clopped my way through the parking lot, trying not to run and risk twisting my ankle. I really didn’t want to miss the wedding. Something was nagging at me not to give up and go home, that I really needed to be at that wedding. I drove to my office, picked up the directions, pointed my car towards the Quaker meeting house in Indian Hill (who knew?!) and prayed for green lights and light traffic.

I found the church, tip toeing to the coat rack. Silence permeated the simple structure. Owen and Pauletta sat together at the front of the church. I immediately saw dozens of people I knew from the writing group Pauletta and I shared. I slipped into the last pew, currently occupied by one person, sitting at the other end, and bowed my head. Within a few minutes, the minister started the Quaker tradition of sharing stories of the bride and groom. The choir sang, “All God’s Critters Have a Place in the Choir” announcing that the lyrics could be found in the program.

I didn’t have a program. I looked around. No programs to be seen. I glanced at the person also occupying the last pew, noticing the program in his hands.

His hands.

The person sitting next to me was a man.

The person sitting next to me was a man sitting by himself.

At a wedding.

By himself.

Hmmm.

I looked from his hands to the cloth of his suit. Nice suit. His gray wool coat was draped over the back of the pew. My eyes moved from the program in his strong, masculine looking hands, up his arm, his neck, his salt and pepper hair…mostly pepper, by the way, to his face, and into gentle eyes smiling from a very handsome face. My heart leaped up into my throat. He offered me the program.

“I forgot my glasses, so this is useless to me. You may use it, if you want.”

I smiled my thanks, resisting the impulse to fan my face. I quickly looked to see if gold glinted on the third finger of his left hand, but I was too late, his hand was hidden. Throughout the rest of the ceremony, I stole quick glances at him. Oh, my, he was handsome, but not too pretty. About my age, I guessed. He shifted his hand and I caught a glimpse of gold, slumping back in disappointment for 10 seconds, until I peeked again and realized that the gold was on his pinkie, not his ring finger. I furrowed my brow in puzzlement. Why would a man go to a wedding without his wife?

In the Quaker tradition, all guests at the wedding sign the marriage certificate, uniting the man and woman in matrimony. Owen and Pauletta began with their families at the front of the church, and shared good wishes with each guest as they released the rows to go sign the certificate, operating just the opposite of a receiving line. I looked at the man sitting next to me. It was going to be a long wait, seated in the back of the church as we were. Brazen Betty battled with the shy and demure one. Guess which one won?

“So how do you know Pauletta and Owen?” I asked.

“I worked on a special project with Owen for several months in Warsaw, Indiana.” He smiled at me.

“Are you staying for the party?” I continued.

“Of course. Are you?” He cocked his head and smiled again.

“Of course.” My laugh tinkled out through the church. “Do you know anyone else here?”

“Not a soul.”

I smiled and offered my hand.

“Hi, I’m Betty.”

“Nice to meet you, Betty, I’m Gary. He took my hand in his, holding it for just a moment.

“Warsaw, Indiana. I grew up in North Manchester.” I smiled bigger this time.

“No kidding?! I know where that is.”

“Oh, yeah, when I was a teenager, Warsaw was where we went if we wanted to see a movie. No movie theaters in North Manchester.”

He looked at me in interest. I lowered my lashes, coyly looking back up. Brazen Betty took a hasty retreat and demure Betty took over. I hugged Pauletta, watched as Owen greeted Gary with great affection, and I headed for the door, my heart thumping.

This is the part of the dating game that always confuses me. Being born one of those women who has never known her place, I often bumble through this initial dance. Is he interested? Is he married? Am I interested? Wasn’t I going to take a break from dating? I pondered these questions as I arrived at the reception. I spotted the coat rack behind the food line and decided that the most efficient way for me to hang up my coat was to head right on through the buffet. I could take care of both at once. I emerged from the potluck buffet with just the right amount of food, my coat safely ensconced on a hanger, and looked for a place to sit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gary scanning the crowd. His face lit up when he saw me and he gestured me over. I navigated my plate and the crowd and found myself standing next to him. A wave of shyness overtook me and I examined the tips of my shoes.

“Hi Betty. Where are you sitting?”

“I…I haven’t found a place yet.” I stammered.

“I’m sitting here where my coat is,” he gestured towards the gray wool coat draped over the back of a chair. “Would you like to sit with me?”

I raised my eyes to his. Gosh, he’s cute. I nodded my head and slid into the chair next to his coat. Gary headed to the buffet line. I played with my napkin for a moment, wondering if it would be rude to start eating without him. I glanced at the other’s sharing the table, who were digging into their food with gusto. I shrugged my shoulders and picked up my fork.

We talked through dinner. We talked through cake. We talked through the throwing of the bouquet. We talked through the dancing. We took turns refilling each other’s wine glass. At one point, after my third glass of merlot, I looked at him and Brazen Betty said, “I’m dying to find out what it’s like to kiss you.” I wondered to myself if I just thought it or if I really said it out loud.

He looked fondly into my eyes, smiling, catching a strand of my hair between his forefinger and thumb. I assumed he didn’t hear me. We continued talking. The crowd thinned out. He leaned over and whispered into my ear, “I think it’s time to go downstairs and satisfy that kissing curiosity.”

My heart thumped in my chest. A first kiss. I love first kisses. I rose to my feet, touching his hand. He rose. I turned for the door. He followed. I carefully descended the marble stairs, clutching the hand rail, the now four glasses of wine racing towards the top of my head. At the bottom of the steps were a series of open doors. I glanced into one, then another, settling on the darkened conference room. I lead the way into the room and turned. He pulled me into his arms and his lips descended on mine.

No, ladies and gentlemen, this is not a fictional account. This is not an excerpt from my next romance novel. This is the way it actually happened. No internet dating ad, no bar scene, no artificial setting. I kissed a guy I met at a wedding. Romantic things really do happen to me.

Of course, there’s a down side. He lives in Columbus. He has a consulting job that will keep him in Columbus until March, but then, it could take him anywhere.

It’s unlikely that he will become a permanent part of my life, but I’m thinking he’s got all the markings for getting through those first ten dates.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

Midwest Winter Wonderland

Sometimes you get the lighting just right.

Treasures Part One

A short story. Written last year. I will post one third today, the next third next Friday, and the last third as a gift to you on the Friday before Christmas. Enjoy.

Treasures Part One

A soft breeze nuzzled his face, tickling his chin, as a slow sunbeam traveled its way up the wall. He opened his eyes and yawned, a wide, cavernous yawn, running his hand through his coarse, black hair. He glanced at the clock. Seven o’clock on an unseasonably warm Saturday morning in November. He lay there for a moment, contemplating his day. Kellen, his male, Mainecoon feline companion slanted his eyes towards Mike and stretched his soft gray and black paws towards him, purring as Mike’s hand caressed the long silky fur of the cat’s back. “Good morning, kittyboy,” Mike crooned, appreciating the cat’s company. He woke up without human companionship a lot, lately, and that was ok. His common law wife of fifteen years had left a year and a half ago, and six months later, he had sought companionship with another woman, but that had ended about a month ago. He wanted love in his life, but he was going to take his time finding it. He was in no hurry. He liked his solitude, knew how to entertain himself, and for right now, Kellen was perfect company. But he wasn’t much help with this woody that awakened with him each morning. He did miss help with that. Sighing he swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his red, plaid pajamas and padded down to the kitchen, put on the coffee and retrieved the newspaper from the front lawn.

He started with the sports page, perusing the scores from the night before, reviewing the trades, the picks, the sports gossip. High school sports didn’t interest him much, and that was mostly what occupied the Saturday sports section. He scanned the front page, read Dear Abby, chuckled at the comics and then dove into his favorite Saturday morning activity. Yard sales. He pulled the pen from the bedside table and circled the promising ones. Slim pickings today, only about five that piqued his interest. He had been doing yard sales for years, he knew how to spot the ones worthy of his time. He had no kids, so advertisements for game systems or baby clothes held no interest to him. He loved fishing, yard tools, music from his childhood, kitchen gadgets and oriental rugs. He collected old compasses and radios. Advertisements for those items would guarantee a place on his Saturday itinerary.

He puttered for a few minutes in his kitchen, securing biscuits and sausage and coffee. He brushed his teeth, quickly showered, pulled on a worn and friendly pair of jeans and a well loved sweatshirt, checked his pockets for cash, headed out the door and climbed into Blueboy, his blue green Ford Ranger pickup, the perfect vehicle for yard sales. It was 7:52am.

The first stop was an estate sale. He stood in line to get his number at eight, knowing that he could easily hit two more yard sales during the purgatory between getting a number at 8:00am until the doors opened at 9:00am. Things went fast at yard sales, even faster at estate sales where there are actually high quality items. The folks getting rid of stuff at yard sales and moving sales keep the best stuff for themselves, moving it with their families to the new house or condo, but estate sales, those owners were dead. They didn’t need the white table linens and second set of silver anymore. Oh, sure, many times the children got the really good stuff, but by the time most of the old folks died, their children had already downsized into condos, or had tastes very different from their parents. Grandchildren typically wanted nothing to do with old stuff, no matter how good it was. They wanted cold, hard cash, and estate sales provided lots of that.

Mike headed to his next stop. The owner, a seasoned purveyor of used goods, greeted him with a smile and ran a nonstop commentary about the items for sale as Mike surveyed the bounty. He tried to barter for the cast iron corn muffin mold his grandmother had requested for Christmas, but the owner wanted too much. Afterall, Mike had seen countless of these before, and even had one in his basement if he couldn’t find another one. He left with his funds still intact and headed to the next one. A moving sale. He parked his truck in the grass and breathed in the warm air. An elderly man puttered by the garage, situated about 30 feet behind the house. His white haired wife was assisting a customer on the porch. Mike headed to the garage. Every imaginable tool was neatly displayed, although most lacked price tags. A pile of stickers lay on a table, premarked with prices in ascending order. 25 cents. 50 cents. A dollar. Two dollars. Three dollars. It was evident that the owner had no difficulty displaying his possessions, but was hard pressed to put a price on them.

Fishing equipment caught his attention and Mike stroked a pole. “How much for the rod and reel?”

“Oh, how does a dollar sound?” the old man gazed approvingly at the pole in Mike’s hand.

Mike’s eyes widened, but he kept his surprise to himself. Hmmm. There was a bunch of good fishing shit here! He examined another pole and two tackle boxes, all with good stuff in them. He put them aside in a pile. “How long have you lived here?” he inquired of the old man.

“Since 1937” came the reply. “Yep, I was born here. Course, the house I was born in used to be right there,” pointing to the well tended lawn, “but we tore it down when we built the new house,” nodding towards the trim little white house up the drive. “We’re movin’ to Florida. One of my kids is takin’ over this place. Makes it easier to go, I’ll tell ya, knowing the old homestead is staying in the family.”

Mike nodded his agreement, smiling at the old man. “How much for the rest of that stuff?” indicating his pile of fishing treasures.

“Oh, lets see. Whatcha got there. Two tackle boxes, a fly fishing set, couple rods, an extra reel, how about five bucks for the entire kit and caboodle?”

“Sold.” Mike’s eyes gleamed with excitement. This was what he went to yard sales for. The thrill of victory, the satisfaction of giving a worthy home to this man’s treasures while securing countless hours of fun for himself for half the price of a movie ticket. He bought an unopened bag of fertilizer for two dollars, and a mantis tiller for $25…a major investment for a yard sale purchase. He wandered up to the porch. The old man’s wife was in charge up here. She had snow white hair, a full face of makeup with bright red lipstick even though it was barely past eight thirty in the morning. A bit incongruous with the earthy old man in the back, but Mike knew first hand that people change as they grow older. Lucky people change together. Stubborn people stay together regardless of how they change.

Finding nothing of interest besides some old woolen socks, he headed back to the estate sale with fifteen minutes to spare. The house was packed when he got there. His attention was immediately captured by the numerous oriental rugs strewn about on the dining room floor, one large one with a price tag of $1,000. He pulled back the corner, noting the name of the city where it was made and the tight knots dotting the back of the rug. Well worn but of very high quality, he tried to imagine this rug in his living room. Colors were right. He liked the geometric patterns. Maybe. He investigated the rest of the house. Silver service and fine china. A box of maps from travels as far away as Taiwan and as close as Kentucky. White table linens. Colorful clothing to fit a slight, older female figure. Costume jewelry. Pots and pans and kitchen utensils. Collectibles from Africa and Eastern Asia. A five foot Norfolk pine. He went down to the basement. Christmas decorations. A very old, well used rocking horse. A smaller, apartment size freezer and matching refrigerator. He peered into a cubbyhole. A large, black trunk with a complex latch. He opened the trunk, enjoying the musky smell of age. At the bottom of the trunk was a newspaper from May 28, 1977. He tried to remember where he was at that time, a year after graduating from high school, he would have been 19, working for Federal Express before it was the huge corporation it is now, living in his first apartment. Behind the trunk was a wooden box, covered with dust, a very old Proctor & Gamble logo announcing their soap and candle collection barely visible. He moved behind the trunk to open the box. Old, yellowed papers, an election button proclaiming Adlai Stevenson as the candidate of choice, some letters tied together with a red ribbon, a book on growing medicinal herbs. He liked the box. He worked for Proctor & Gamble and already had a few of these boxes, but none as old as this one. He took it upstairs.

“Hey Doris, how much for this old box?” He greeted the owner of Attics and Sellers, a frequently used organizer of estate sales. Mike had met her many times and they were on a first name basis.

“Mike! Nice to see you. Hmmm. No price on it?”

“Nah, I found it in a cubbyhole in the basement and I like the box. I need one for my ever expanding CD collection. I’ve already filled two just like this.” He grinned his toothy grin.

“Oh, hell, Mike, it looks like a buck to me.”

“You got it.” He peeled a dollar from his pocket. “I’ll come back later to dicker with you about that rug. I like it. But its priced too high and you know it.”

Doris laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “You never know, Mike, you never know.”

“You got that right!” Mike waved to Sally, the other owner of Attics and Sellers and hauled his booty out to his truck. Wow. He’d done well today. He’d spent less than $10 if you didn’t count the Mantis tiller (hell those things run over $200 if you buy them new) and had several treasures to enjoy when he got home. He made a few stops on his way home, stocking up on beer and bourbon and coke at the Cork & Bottle, picking up some meat for dinner at Findlay Market and grabbing some veggies at Country Fresh. He carefully backed the truck into his long driveway. He was home for the day. It was barely noon. A long, leisurely Saturday stretched before him. He was set for food and drink and a modicum of entertainment as he explored his recently purchased treasures. He popped a beer, stoked the fire on his grill, threw on a couple sausages and set to work examining his new possessions.

The tackle box held a myriad of fishing lures, hooks ranging from tiny brass ones used to catch sunnies to large, game fish hooks Mike was pretty sure he’d NEVER get a chance to use. Bobbers of every kind greeted him as well as sinkers of various weights. A small box held several spools of fishing line, all different gauge; a veritable fisherman’s treasure chest. Mike sighed in satisfaction. He emptied the box, cleaned it thoroughly, and carefully organized all of its parts into an orderly array. He placed the fishing poles along side his others, counting them. He was now the proud owner of seven fishing poles. One for each day of the week, should he choose.

He pulled the dusty old box from the estate sale off his truck and hunkered down to examine its contents. Just as he remembered, the stack of letters was on top, other papers and the herb book pillowed beneath. He pulled out the letters, setting them aside, lifting the papers out carefully. Another box, about the size of a cigar box, lay beneath the papers. Mike frowned. What’s this? He lifted the smaller box out, set it on the garage floor and cautiously lifted the lid. His eyes widened and he stumbled backwards.

Inside, nestled in a crinkled and yellowed newspaper from January 10, 1944, was an exquisitely hand carved Madonna and Child ivory Christmas ornament. Mike was very familiar with these ornaments. They were called “The Ivories”. A man from Cincinnati had made them as a gift for his fiancé, but he had died during World War II. Eleven of them had made their way into the hands of collectors, but the twelfth one had never been found. Eleven of them had become models for Hallmark and Gibson and American Greeting cards, who created molds from the originals and cast them in alabaster and plastic for those on a budget, and in porcelain for those willing to spend a bit more, selling them by the hundreds of thousands. They were as much a part of Christmas as the star on top of the tree. Almost every American family…and much of Europe…had at least one of the beautiful Christmas ornaments on their tree, some had all eleven. Mike’s own mother had a complete set, a porcelain set, that she had painstakingly saved for, buying one each year after Mike’s father left. It was her gift to herself, as she no longer had a husband to buy gifts for her. She would wrap them up each year in gold paper, tied with a real red ribbon and place it under the tree. On Christmas morning, just after breakfast, she would open her treasure and ceremonially hang the ornament, using the red ribbon from the package. Mike remembered the tradition, had looked forward to it each year, watching his mother’s joyful but wistful face, admiring the delicate features of the figures, glad that she had found this way to make herself happy. She had purchased the last one the year Mike left home at the age of 21. After Mike left home, he had started a new tradition for his mother. Every year, he bought her a dated Christmas ornament, something beautiful and extravagant, something to treasure, wrapped in gold paper and tied with a real red ribbon. Twenty five years later, there was no longer room for glass balls or other anonymous ornaments, there was only room for the individually chosen ornaments, those carefully selected ones with specific memories attached to them.

Mike pondered the ivory ornament in front of him, trying to remember the sister ornaments that would shortly adorn his mother’s Christmas tree. The original ornaments had all been made of ivory, hand carved scenes from the biblical story of Christmas. They were the twelve characters from the Nativity scene….Each of the three wise men, the shepherds, the animals in the stable, the innkeeper and his wife, the angels, the star, Joseph, the donkey Mary had ridden into Bethlehem, the manger and lastly, though never known for sure until now, the Madonna and Child. Mike had read the story several times as a kid. Several books had been written about the artist, Jeremy Proctor. He was a distant relative of the famous Cincinnati Proctor family, but had not shared in their financial good fortune. He was an only child, a miracle son born to parents in their forties, both of whom had died while he was in high school. He had been stationed in Africa during World War II, had carved the ornaments for his fiancé who he had planned to marry as soon as he got home from the war. He had sent the ornaments to her for Christmas, 1944, and had been killed in battle a few days later. Like Mozart, scholars had wondered what those beautiful hands could have created had he lived long enough to fulfill his legacy. His gift was obvious. The carved ornaments were each works of art unto themselves, each of them having become artifacts in their own right; the collection being treasured as it was, without the two main characters.

Mike picked up the piece, noting the weight of the ivory, inspecting the detailed carvings, the joy in the face of the mother, the quiet slumber of the child, the peace that emanated from the block of bone in his hand. For a long time, he just sat there, holding the piece. He felt his feet go numb finally, and regretfully, he placed the piece back in the box and stood up, stomping the blood back into his toes. He surveyed the box, his eyes lighting on the stack of letters tied up in a red ribbon. His heart thudded so loudly he could hear it as well as feel it. It couldn’t be. No.

He reached into the box and picked up the letters. He untied the faded red ribbon and found seventeen letters spanning eighteen months, each addressed to Anita Fitzgerald, 1431 Maple Avenue, Cincinnati, Ohio from Sgt. Jeremy Proctor APO Box 171215, New York, New York. All overseas military mail went through a post office in New York City. One envelope was different. Mike picked it up and turned it over. It was from Anita to Jeremy, postmarked December 12, 1944, and it was date stamped “Return to Sender”on December 29, 1944.

The letters were arranged sequentially, Mike started to read.

How Much to Have You Do This at MY HOUSE??

Check out this cool website. For those of you who live near Cincinnati, you can go see this guy in Mason, on Winding Creek Court.

Man Decks House With Synchronized Lights

MASON, Ohio (AP) - Some people at Christmas time are content to deck their homes with evergreen wreaths and holly, and maybe a few strings of lights made to look like glimmering icicles. Not Carson Williams.
He spends nearly two months hooking up 25,000 lights, then programs them to dance to Christmas music.

Hundreds of cars drive by his house north of Cincinnati every night to see the display, which also is posted on several Internet sites.

"So far, everyone's been really courteous," Williams said on NBC's "Today" show Monday. "I told the neighbors, I told the sheriff, if they get any complaints, I'll shut it down, because the neighbors are more important to me than the Christmas lights. I do the Christmas lights for myself."

This is the third year Williams has assembled the display, which grows every year. He said he merely built on a suggestion from his wife, Sherry.

"She wanted some lights on the house, and I work with computers, so I said, 'There's got to be a way to control it with computers,"' Williams said.

He explored the Web and found examples of other synchronized displays. It takes him about an hour to program each minute of the display, which flashes to music by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

That doesn't mean neighbors have to listen to the sound track repeat itself all night.

"The sound, we actually broadcast on a low FM transmitter, so there's actually no sound in the neighborhood," said Williams, an electrical engineer with Cincinnati Bell Technology Solutions.

A sign tells passers-by where to tune to listen, and Williams often stays outside for hours at a time chatting with visitors and directing traffic.

"We've had no problems," said Dave Hare, who lives across the street.

But the first year, it took some explaining.

"We called it the psycho house," said Hare's wife, Michelle. "It was just weird random flashes. Then, he told us about the radio station and it was great."

One Blade Short of a Sharp Edge

I’ve been a bad girl. I have been on two more first dates. They were both scheduled before the 50th date, which was rather spontaneous, so I felt obliged to fulfill my social obligations, this being the holiday season and all that. #51 was nothing special to write about…not bad, not good, we hugged and went our separate ways. But #52, that one was worth writing about.

Jason sent a very long email to me on Match.com. It was obviously cut and pasted from a standard letter, and reiterated everything that was in his profile. He assured me that he had a great sense of humor, many and varied interests, and that he was new to Cincinnati. He was only 33 years old, but he was a CPA, and I had never been out with another CPA, so I wrote back. We exchanged phone numbers. We traded phone calls. I was skeptical about his voice, I hear a lot in people’s voices. Finally, we connected on the telephone…in the waiting room of Jewish Hospital as I was sitting with my siblings while my mother’s left leg was being amputated. I answered the phone and he immediately began asking me questions about my body. I described my body as “curvy” on Match.com, what exactly did that mean? I tried to explain to him where I was. He understood completely. I was simply to answer yes or no if he named my bra size….

Being a kind hearted soul, I didn’t tell him to get lost on the spot. I simply ignored his phone calls. God, I hate it when guys do that. To counter that, I try very hard to not call men. If they are interested, they will call me. In a moment of weakness one day when I was stuck in traffic, I took one of his calls. He talked me into meeting him for lunch. A few days later, I realized that I had a schedule conflict, and called him to reschedule. On the day of our lunch date, he calls to reschedule. I didn’t call him back. I decided that the universe did not mean for us to meet, so what was the point of belaboring the issue. I ignored his repeated phone calls.

When a guy ignores my phone calls, it never gets to the repeated point. If I call, and the guy doesn’t call back, unless I am in an OCD moment (and that has happened) and I am already hopelessly in love with the man, I don’t call back. Ever. For men, apparently, if a woman ignores his phone calls, that must mean she didn’t get the message he left. For this guy, it was definitely a challenge. He called again and again. Not in a pesky sort of way, but every four or five days, I’d get a message in the same monotone voice that I now came to recognize.

One evening, as I sat at my computer reading blogs, the phone rang, with no caller ID. I answered. It was Jason. He asked me if I got his messages. I admitted that I had. He chastised me for not calling him back. I told him it was because I wasn’t interested. He demanded a reason. I told him he was too young, was still in the phase where a perfect body was out of proportion in importance, and I wasn’t interested is wrestling with his ideals on physicality.

To make a long story short, he convinced me to have a drink with him.

I met him at Don Pablos at 8:30. I was five minutes late…I’m always five minutes late, and he was eagerly surveying the faces of each and every customer. I saw him before he saw me. I caught his eye and smiled at him. His face visibly fell. This guy should never try for a career in gambling. I could see the cut and run conflict on his face. He took out his cell phone, gazing longingly at it, wishing that he had prearranged a getaway plan. I almost laughed out loud, he was so obvious in his misery. He was so hoping for a MILF, and what he got….was me. I watched his shoulders slump in submission to his fate, and reluctantly, he allowed the waitress to lead us to a table.

Being the social creature that I am, I bravely put on my best face, continued to smile winningly at him, gave him the benefit of the doubt and attempted conversation. He gave me guttural replies. I looked at him for a second. I looked at his dark, shiny hair, not a trace of gray, flipped back and secured with hair spray. I noted that while he was handsome in a very traditional way, there was no life in his eyes, no glimmer of humor hiding in the corners of his smile, and I noted that he had a rather protruding belly. Guess what, mister, you are no Mr. Universe either. I sat back in silence.

This has only happened to me once before…a guy takes one look, can’t find an escape route, and sulks in silence for the obligatory 45 minutes. The last time, I rehearsed my stand up comic routine and forced him to enjoy himself. This time, I said a silent, FUCK YOU, and decided I wasn’t going to fight this battle.

After a few minutes, he realized that things really weren’t going well. He looked up from his menu, I smiled a knowing smile at him, he put his menu down and sighed.

With a great deal of effort, he asked, “What tv shows do you watch.”

I replied, “I don’t watch much tv, but I do like House and Grey’s Anatomy. How about you?”

He rattled off three shows for every night of the week. My eyes widened in surprise. This guy obviously didn’t get out much.

Then the grilling starts.

“What’s your favorite song?”

“Precious & Few.”

“What’s your favorite band?”

“Chicago.”

“What is the last concert you attended?”

“Adrian Martin.”

“What’s the first concert you attended?”

“Eagles”

I start to tell him about the Eagles concert and he interrupts me.

“What is your favorite movie?”

“Of all time?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Yes, of course of all time, what’s your favorite movie?” He asks again in growing impatience.

“Gone with the Wind.”

“That’s the longest movie of all time,” he snarls. “Who’s your favorite actor?”

“Hugh Grant.”

“Who’s your favorite actress?”

“I like Renee Zelwegger…and Julia Roberts.”

“What was the last movie you saw?”

“Walk the Line.”

He pauses to take a breath.

“And you?” I ask sweetly.

“Me?” He looks confused.

“What’s your favorite song?”

“Hungry Like the Wolf.”

“What’s your favorite band?”

“Bon Jovi.”

“What is the last concert you attended?”

“Billy Joel.”

“What’s the first concert you attended?”

“Van Halen.”

“What is your favorite movie?”

“I have so many favorites, I couldn’t possibly pick one.”

“Try.” I stare intently at him. Two can play this game.

“To Catch a Thief.” He gulps and looks down at his watch.

“Who’s your favorite actor?”

“Tom Hanks.”

“Who’s your favorite actress?”

“Cameron Diaz.”

“What was the last movie you saw?”

“Cinderella Man. That was when I had a buy two get seven free.” He has a smug look on his face, so I ask the obvious.

“What’s a buy two get seven free? I’ve never heard of it.”

“You buy one ticket, then you just go see five other movies. Then, the next day, you buy another ticket, then you go see two other movies.”

“Wow!” I exclaim. “How long were you at the theatre?”

He chuckles. “I have no idea. I just know that my eyesight was blurry, I couldn’t hear, and my neck hurt.”

I cocked my head. “Did you have company with you for those movies?”

He shook his head.

Figures, I smirk to myself. What a pompous ass, not to mention, thief.

“No woman has that kind of stamina.” He says in self defense.

I smile benignly. I can’t imagine this man ever knowing what a woman with stamina is capable of.

We finish our drinks and head for our cars. Ironically, we had parked right next to each other. With no further ado, I wave goodbye, hop in my car and drive off.

When I get home, there are two emails awaiting me. Not from date #52, but from #48…the musician.

I smile my thanks to the universe.

Note: Once again, the title comes from a folk singer whose work I admire. Nanci Griffith can be found here. www.nancigriffith.com