Hobby Time

“Hi, Mom!” my cheery greeting lit up my mother’s face as I strode into her room at Maple Knoll, the nursing facility she now calls home.

“Hi, Loretto!” I called to her roommate. I’m an equal opportunity source of cheerfulness.

“Hello, Betty Sunshine,” Lorretto chirped to me. She is 86 years old, has never had a cavity and brushes her teeth to edge of their lives. She always asks God to bless me when I visit and I think she enjoys my company as much as my mother does.

I went over to Mom, gave her a peck on the cheek, pulling the chair closer to her bedside. “Do you want coffee?” I asked.

I always have coffee when I visit my mother. It makes it seem like more of a social visit than an obligation, and my mother seems to enjoy the camaraderie of the coffee as well.

“Sure, I’ll have some,” she smiled back at me, my cheerful contagion making it’s mark.

When I returned with two steaming mugs, my mother was working on her “book”, the collection of facts she has accumulated over the past five years, detailing the lives of the people in her life who have died, including, in large part, the movie stars she ogles nightly on Turner Movie Classics. The stars of those shows have become some of her best friends, such good company they have been for her in the lonely hours she spent in her apartment and now in her hospital bed.

Her book is handwritten, including date of death, cause of death, place of death, birthdate, marriages, number of children, movie credits, television appearances, and any other interesting fact my mother considers worthy of recording. My mother frequently asks me to bring her supplies for her hobby. Her last grocery list included paper hole reinforcements, labels for the section dividers and a new 1 ½ inch three ring binder.

As I sat down, I glanced at the page she was working on, and saw Lauren Bacall’s name.

“Mom, Lauren Bacall isn’t dead yet.”

“Well, she will be one day, and I’m trying to do these alphabetically.” She replied matter of factly.

Ohmigod, I thought to myself. I’m afraid to look at any of the other pages in her book. I might find my own name…

The Greening

I included this in my story about the magical flowers, which I wrote two years ago, but with the greening upon us again, it bears repeating.

It starts with the grass in March. Tiny shoots poking out of brown and lifeless refuse from last year’s lawn. Dandelions sprout talons, arching towards my tulips. The spring bulbs peak their green toes out of the ground, like a reticent swimmer, testing the water. The green moves to the bushes, the smaller ones first, sprouting leaves surrounding budding flowers. It comes quietly, on cat feet, tiptoeing from March into April. Seemingly overnight, the new green growth spreads like cartoon color across the earth’s palette, rising up the stately trees, misty green at first, deepening to darker hues like lovers learning more and liking more about each other. I watch for the greening each year, anticipating it like Christmas, watching carefully in my commute as the green grows and spreads, engulfing the trees, the bushes, the weedy patch behind the fish pond in my back yard. My drive home every day on Burns Avenue displays a canopy of trees. The homes are well kept, spring flowers abounding in the manicured lawns. Once the green starts, pale and hesitant, you have to be diligent in your awareness or you will miss the process. The buds open and sprout, growing steadily, gaining steam, giving over to leaves bursting forth. A few days after the greening starts, its done. The canopy is complete, a solid hue of deep, green; the green of growth, of life, of hope.

Almost Paris (Part Four)

The next morning, she made the coffee, carrying steaming mugs into the bedroom. They sat in a companionable silence as they both contemplated the remaining hours of their weekend getaway. He made breakfast while she showered. She did the dishes while he packed.

She took a second cup of coffee and parked herself on the sofa, admiring the morning sunlight glittering on the lake like loose diamonds on a jeweler’s shelf. She had so enjoyed this cabin in the woods, by the lake. She had explored the shore, leaves crackling under her tennis shoes, finding stone stair steps winding around the yard. Terraced gardens of spring bulbs and wild flowers abounded in the grassless lawn, an unknown pink flower already waving in the wind with the snow drops sprinkled about like candy confetti on a cake. Inside, windows opened on every side, giving an unblemished panorama of lake and forest and friends across the way. The light pine paneling and hardwood floors lent a casual comfort to the furniture fashioned from bark covered boughs, and topped with puffy white cushions. It was a lived in cabin, warm and inviting. Its owner was a friend of his, away for a week in Florida with her parents. She had left a lovely note, a book of Irish poems, and an Irish bear to greet them when they arrived on St. Patrick’s Day.

It was disconcerting, at the end of the weekend, to be so familiar with the everyday things of a stranger, regardless of the closeness of the relationship the friend had with him. She wondered about the friend, whose books occupied at least six different bookcases, covering a broad range of nonfiction. She preferred novels, stories of people she invited into her consciousness, if only for a few hours. Self-help books didn’t attract her, as they did the owner of the cabin. She gazed at the pictures keeping guard on the library table, a handsome brother who had died suddenly, a young daughter (no longer so young). Native American artifacts dotted the tables and walls, as did religious images and a cross combining Christian culture and Native American art.

In the half bath, as she made her final pit stop before the journey home, she read the framed poem* over the toilet reservoir. She’d read the poem before but these lines caught her this time:

Oh, I have had my moments
And if I had it to do over again, I'd have more of them.
In fact, I'd try to have nothing else.
Just moments, one after another.
Instead of living so many years ahead each day.

They loaded the car, and climbed the steep gravel grade out of the driveway, turning the car West as they headed for the rendezvous point and the car she had parked just 41 hours before. They chatted a bit, discussed their respective plans for the rest of the day. She read from a book of bawdy jokes and they spent the rest of the journey laughing. She fought melancholy thoughts, knowing that the time would come later for those, time when she was alone, but while she was with him, she wanted to laugh.

They pulled into the BP station, and there was her car, just where she left it. He put the car in park and leaned back in his seat for a moment, looking at her. Her hand was on the door and she caught his eye and smiled, biting her lower lip to keep it’s trembling to herself. She hated goodbyes. Before he could say anything, she whipped open the door and started chattering as she moved her stuff out of his backseat and into the trunk of her car. She HATED goodbyes.

She opened her car door, turning to trade cheery waves, but he was right there, pulling her into his arms. He held her, and held her, and held her, and she hugged him back, pulling back when she thought he was done, and hugging him again when she realized he wasn’t. She hated goodbyes, especially this one.

Finally, he let her go. She got in her car, a finger wave to him, a fitting finish to match her first sighting of him two days before. She pointed her car south and didn’t look back. She patted herself on the back for her dry eyes, although the lip quivering had given her quite a scare a few moments before.

The dry eyes lasted for at least fifteen miles, when a tear unexpectedly leaked out of her left eye. Giving an imaginary slap alongside her head, she began the lecture to herself.

“You knew it was just for a weekend. Come on. Can’t you just appreciate the time you spent at the cabin just as it was? Must you always think of what you can’t have, rather than the beauty of what you just experienced? He lives two hours away, his work situation is tenuous, he could be moved anywhere, and he probably will be. His obligations extend long and far to people and places that will never include you. You should feel lucky, because at least he has always been honest with you. Accept the weekend for what it was, for the beautiful moments that you now have to treasure and enjoy for the rest of your life. Think of the poem, girl, and get a grip.”

She thought of the Buddhist Principle that accompanies her signature on her emails.

“In the end, these things matter the most:
How fully did you live,
How well did you love,
How deeply did you learn to let go.”

Ok, in relation to the weekend, how fully did you live?

Check.

How well did you love?

Double check. (lascivious grin)

How deeply did you learn to let go?

Silence

Come on, girl, after all you’ve been through, you should be getting good at this. How deeply did you learn to let go?

Sigh.

She thought of Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart who would always have Paris. She wouldn’t have Paris, not with him, anyway, maybe not with any man. But she’d always have Hocking Hills, and that was almost Paris.

The End

*framed poem over the toilet reservoir:

I'd Pick More Daisies

By Nadine Stair, age 85

If I had my life to live over,
I'd try to make more mistakes next time.
I would relax. I would limber up.
I would be sillier than I have on this trip.
I would be crazier. I would be less hygienic.
I would take more chances, I would take more trips.
I would climb more mountains, swim more rivers,
and watch more sunsets.
I would burn more gasoline. I would eat more ice cream and less beans.
I would have more actual troubles and fewer imaginary ones.
You see, I am one of those people who lives
prophylactically and sensibly and sanely,
hour after hour, day after day.

Oh, I have had my moments
And if I had it to do over again, I'd have more of them.
In fact, I'd try to have nothing else.
Just moments, one after another.
Instead of living so many years ahead each day.
I have been one of those people who never go anywhere
without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a gargle, a
raincoat, and a parachute.

If I had to do it over again, I would go places and do things.
I'd travel lighter than I have.
If I had my life to live over, I would start barefooted
earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall.
I would play hooky more. I wouldn't make such good grades
except by accident.
I would ride on merry-go-rounds.

I'd pick more daisies!

Almost Paris (Part Three)

They made dinner together that evening, he grilled the steaks, she steamed the asparagus and cooked the pasta. They sipped Merlot and giggled about their hike. After the dishes were done, they shucked their clothes and climbed into the steamy confines of the outdoor Jacuzzi. The water was perfect, warm and inviting, not too hot. The water enveloped their bare skin like a toasty blanket. He had slid back the lid of the hot tub so that it created a slight canopy over the back edge, giving a cozy feel, but not blocking the view of the stars sparkling in the inky sky above.

They played around with the jets, finding just the right spot to massage the aching muscles from their hike, lifting pink toes in the air so they could watch the water swirl around them. She leaned back in a relaxed position, glancing down at her right breast, bobbing in the breeze.

“Check it out, my right breast is as perky and upright as a sixteen year old’s. Kinda cool, considering that I feel sort of sixteenish at the moment.” She playfully pinched his butt as he leaned over to check the water temperature gauge. “But the left one, of course, is sulking, as usual. My breasts have never been symmetrical.”

“Really…hmmm, let me see….” He moved to the opposite side of the hot tub to more clearly assess the situation. She smiled, stretched her arms out to either side, and gave him a very clear view….well, as clear as he could get with the water swirling and foaming around them.

He cocked his head to one side, “Huh. I think you are right. I hadn’t noticed before, but they are….different from the other. Not symmetrical.”

She grinned. “Yeah, the left one has always been a slacker. Even with breast feeding, the right one was much better at rising to the occasion than the left one, just like now in the hot tub.”

He laughed, sliding back across the hot tub, cupping them both in his hands and soundly kissing her. “I don’t care if they are different, or how much milk they produced or didn’t produce. I like them both.”

He settled back down next to her, under the canopy, and they silently watched the sky above, each lost for a few minutes in their own thoughts. She told herself to memorize this moment, to remember the configuration of the jeweled sky above her, to remember the wispy steam swirling around her, to remember the warmth she felt surrounding her, surrounding her body, submerged in the warm water, surrounding her spirit in the springtime beauty, and surrounding her heart. These moments, she knew, were few and far between, and needed to be savored, slowly savored like the rich chocolate they had indulged on their hike.

She glanced over at him, and remembered that he chewed his chocolate, while she let hers melt in her mouth. It was unlikely that he was savoring anything other than the uninhibited sight of her nakedness, and the delights that undoubtedly awaited him once they were back inside the house. She laughed.

“What’s so funny?” he asked with a smile. “Share the joke with me.”

She stood up in steam, the water streaming from her body, posing for just a moment, then grabbing her towel, hung conveniently on the hot tub lid. “I was just reminding myself that you are a man.”

With that, she climbed out of the tub, wrapping the towel around her, knowing that the left cheek of her bottom was exposed, and sauntered into the cabin. “I’ll be in the shower”, she called back to him. Water splashed behind her as he hurried to catch up.

Almost Paris (Part Two)

She woke to the smell of coffee, stretched like a cat, and smiled to herself. She loved coffee made by someone else. Donning her purple satin nightshirt, she padded into the kitchen and hugged him from behind.

“Phantom of the Opera, or Serene?” he asked as he poured steaming black liquid into a coffee cup, two others standing at the ready, once she answered.

“Oh, Phantom of the Opera, of course. It’s my favorite.” She added milk and sipped in silence, watching the sunlight streaming on the lake in front of her. A gaggle of geese honked their greetings as they glided across the peaceful expanse, splashing slightly as they landed. She sighed in contentment.

She felt his eyes on her as she made an unhurried breakfast of eggs, sausage and English muffins, his fingers lacing hers as they sat down to eat. He got up and nuzzled her neck on the way to the coffee pot.

They discussed their day, planning a hiking adventure, readying the hot tub for their use when they got back. She packed a lunch of turkey and cheese sandwiches, an apple, some Dove chocolate and two bottles of beer. They garnered a map and set off for an adventure.

They wound their way around the hills, driving slowly, watching for deer, noting the green creeping up the hillsides and beginning to burst from the branches of the trees. A few wildflowers greeted them, softly waving their feathery features. She was confident that she could keep up with her veteran hiking partner. After all, she had been spending countless hours with Larry the Elliptical, setting the resistance higher and higher as her lung capacity expanded. She was up for this.

They mounted the stairs and began their ascent. He moved quickly and confidently. She matched his stride. One flight, two flights, three flights, four. Her breathing resembled that of the pervert that occasionally calls at 2:00am. She looked up, he was moving lithely forward, steady paced, determined.

He called back to her, “You ok?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. There was no room in her chest to formulate a response. All the air she had was tied up in keeping her breathing, which came more rapidly with each step. The landing appeared in her vision, but he was moving on up the next set of stairs. Damn! She couldn’t wimp out! Not her! She swore at Larry, feeling decidedly let down by his lackluster performance at preparing her for this.

She looked up again. He was a full flight of stairs ahead of her, climbing higher and higher, one foot in front of the other, steadily ascending. “Not much farther”, he called back to her.

My God, he can still talk! He must be some kind of machine! She thought to herself as her breath came in huge gulping gasps. Then she remembered the previous few hours and smiled to herself. That stamina is good for many things, and she damn well wasn’t about to complain.

She didn’t stop. She followed him right up to the top of the stairs. The path was still an incline, and her breathing didn’t return to normal for several speechless minutes as they navigated the last hundred feet before they hit the rim trail, which was relatively flat.

Finally, she gasped through broken breaths, “Ohmigod. I wasn’t prepared for that. I thought I was, but damn, Larry let me down.”

“Ah, well, she can talk now, that’s a good sign.” He affectionately rubbed her arm as they continued upward.

“Yeah, well,” she said, still breathing between each word. “Don’t count your blessings yet, you might not like what I say.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “It’s important to make a determined effort at first, get the blood flowing, opens up the arteries, expands your lungs, makes the rest of the hike a piece of cake.”

Her breathing was coming a bit easier now. She could say three words between breaths. They were still going up hill, but only slightly, and they were nearing a clearing of the trees. Open air beckoned them above, the other side of the hills visible through the pines. His breathing remained steady and sure.

She asked him about his ankle, concern catching her voice, having watched him carefully secure it prior to their hike, telling her the tale of a previous hike with a painful conclusion. He replied that his ankle was just a little sore.

“Wimp.” She muttered playfully.

He laughed. "What did you say?"

Her chin rose a centimeter in impish defiance. "I said, 'Wimp'"

He doubled over laughing. "That's what I thought you said."

She grinned and marched off, the trail winding and narrow, but as he had said, a piece of cake after the initial uphill battle.

“Wow.” She stood entranced at the edge of a shear cliff. A panorama of beauty, still barren of nature’s new spring line, was spectacular in the display of undisturbed serenity before them. The trail bobbed and weaved close to the edge of the hillside (hence the name “Rim Trail”), deep, deep crevices accompanied by tiny streams of runoff. She stopped to look at each one, carefully peering through the rocks, to discern the depth of the divide. It took her breath away, which had just returned to normal.

“The water does that, one tiny little trickle at a time. A lesson in patience, of the cumulative effects of tiny actions. I’d love to show this to my boys. It’s easy to get discouraged with the results of just a few days, or weeks, or months or years. This is proof positive that persistence pays off, can move mountains….literally.”

He nodded his agreement, standing close, his hand on the small of her back. She liked that he wanted to touch her, to maintain that physical connection. She smiled to herself. She found herself doing that all day, smiling to herself as they dangled their legs over the edge of a rock as they sat in the sun with their lunch, as he pointed out the hawks circling above, as he instinctively offered his hand across a muddy puddle. She watched him smile, too, as she chose the path across the fallen log instead of the wooden bridge, as her eyes widened and she clapped her hands in delight at the waterfall roaring 50 feet below them, as she lovingly touched the silky newness of the tiny buds adorning the forest trees.

For a moment, she allowed a very inner part of her to nestle up next to him.

Almost Paris (Part One)

She hustled her ten year old out the door, waving goodbye to her oldest son, left lounging on the couch. Her middle son had called requesting money for the weekend, and she remembered, just as she got in the car, that she had promised to leave a $20 under his pillow. Climbing back out, she hurried inside, one more wave to Sam, and she was on the road. She glanced at the dashboard clock. She was an hour late. He was already there, waiting for her. He had been waiting for an hour already. Her foot pushed the pedal a little closer to the floor.

Hugging her youngest, she watched as he trudged up the two flights of stairs, knocked on his father’s door, and turned to wave goodbye. All children safely accounted for, youngest at his dad’s, parents of friends of the older two affirming their consent to harboring them for the weekend. She was a free bird.

She headed her car north, adjusting her cruise control to a comfortable 70….no make that 75 mph. Traffic was light, but she was feeling bad about being so late. She eyed her cell phone. She should call him to tell him where she was, give him the revised estimated time of arrival.

“Hey sweetie, I’m about 15 minutes north of Kings Island,” she lied as she passed the theme park. Now why did she do that? Why would she tell such a silly fib. It’s not like he wasn’t going to figure it out when she arrived in half an hour instead of the 15 she was estimating as they chatted.

“What’s your mile marker?”, he asked her, breathless with anticipation, not a hint of impatience in his voice. The marker flashed 30.

“46,” she lied again. What was wrong with her??!! What if he asked her what took her so long, what would she say? Traffic? Doubtful, as he was sitting at the intersection of 35 and 71 and would be perfectly able to discern the amount of traffic on the road for himself.

“I’m going to park at the truck stop. Look for me in the front row. I’ll try to save a space for you.”

“Ok. See you soon.”

He called 15 minutes later. Of course he did. She was supposed to be there by now.

“Are you having trouble finding me?”

“Um, not yet. I’m not quite to the intersection yet.”

“Ok,” he said, cheerfully. “I think I’m going to move over by the BP station. It’s a little less crowded over there.”

He sure doesn’t sound pissed, she thought to herself. If it was me, I bet I’d be pissed. She had told him she’d be there at 6:30, and she didn’t get Cary dropped off until then. Now it was a quarter after seven and she still had 15 minutes to go.

Her stomach started doing gymnastics as she passed the mile marker noting only 10 miles to go. Then five miles. She had been talking to this man for three months, had had a few dates with him, but this was a weekend away. 48 hours with one person. In a small cabin. What if she snored?

Of course she would snore. She always snores. She wakes her self up with her loud snoring sometimes. She sighed. Nothing she could do about that now.

The intersection loomed ahead. She scanned the parking lots for a BP gas station. A&W Rootbeer, TacoBell, KFC, Wendy’s, Marathon, Sunoco, TA truck stop, where the heck was the BP? She turned her car around. Ah. There it was.

She snaked down the row of parked cars. Gray Ford Escape, Wyoming license plates, there he was. She smiled and did a little finger wave to him. Damn he looked good. Sometimes, when the weeks went by between visits, she forgot how handsome he was. She pulled into the last spot at the end, fumbled with her keys, and her Norah Jones cd, and her cell phone, jumbling them in her arms as she attempted to pop the hood to her trunk.

“Let me help you with those.” A deep voice murmured softly above her. She looked up into blues eyes, crinkled in concert with his smile. She stood and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Securing her weekend wear in the back seat of his Escape, locking her car with a flick of her wrist, buckling her seat belt, she leaned back in the soft cushions and turned to study the man next to her. He started to put the car into gear, but she stopped him with touch of her hand on his arm and a slow smile. Wordlessly, she leaned a tiny bit forward and he chuckled low, pulling the parking brake, then pulling her into his arms.

Three minutes later, they were on their way. They stopped at a grocery store for weekend provisions, and she handed him a tissue as they climbed from the car. He looked at her quizzically, recognition flooding his face when she murmured, “I like that shade on me, but it’s definitely the wrong color for your skin tone.”

Two hours and two wrong turns later, they pulled into the driveway. A three quarter moon lit their path. The lake loomed dark and still in front of them. The quiet was deafening. They carried in the groceries, and she set about preparing a light dinner as he brought in the rest of their belongings. They sipped cosmopolitans and munched apples and barbeque sandwiches. She did the dishes while he put clean sheets on the huge king sized bed. Settling in front of the television, he picked up the channel changer and she laughed. Arching her eyebrows, she smiled and shook her head, taking a manicured finger, and tracing the outline of his mouth.

“I think it’s time to be naked between those sheets.”

The channel changer thudded to the floor.

Dreaming

Last night, I dreamed that I was at a hotel, in the restaurant, making out with the restaurant attendant, a very handsome dude, who I had never met before. We were doing some serious making out while I waited for my breakfast to arrive. After it arrived, I kept kissing my friend and had to fight with the waitress to keep her from taking my eggs and toast away, cold as they were, I still intended on eating them. I left the hotel and ended up in a college dorm room hanging out with some people I supposedly knew. I left with the intention of walking home, which was a very long way away. By this time, the the cute waiter had disappeared. I walked and walked, and found myself in the middle of nowhere, feeling something suspiciously like fear. I eventually found my way back to civilization, but discovered that I was back at the college, that I had simply made one big circle and was no where closer to home than when I had first set out.

Where’s a pair of ruby slippers when you need them?

My college is in my hometown, which might be explainable because I've spent so much time home for funerals over the past month. Making out with the waiter might be explained because I am going away this weekend with The Wedding Guy. (happy dance). I am very much looking forward to seeing him, and I am pretty sure I will be doing a lot of kissing this weekend.

And heaven knows, I know that there is no place like home. With all the deaths in my family over the past month, there’s no question that I have that priority straight in my head.

A weekend away with the Wedding Guy. He is taking me to a cabin in Hocking Hills. I haven’t done anything remotely close to this since 2001. I asked him what I should bring and he suggested comfortable clothing and hiking boots. I wrote back to him and told him I was bringing the following:

A sexy nightie or two. My playful dice. Dr. Ruth's game of good sex. A bottle of smelly lotion. Some candles. A little chocolate. A bottle of wine. Lip balm. Norah Jones.

Oh, and hiking boots....

It turns out I lost Dr. Ruth’s game of good sex in the divorce. Oh well, I’m sure board games are the last thing on the Wedding Guy’s mind.

I’m having trouble thinking of anything but this upcoming weekend. I wonder what I will dream about when I get back….

Leftovers

I can still smell it. The perfume lingers even now, the sauce long since packaged away in the freezer, a small portion saved for tonight’s dinner. In honor of the beginning of the Soprano’s sixth season, I made pasta sauce last night, simmering the tomatoes and garlic and onions and celery and carrots and spices grown in my garden last summer, dried in my kitchen last fall. I use Mickey’s recipe, and every time I make pasta sauce, I think of him and smile. Same with the pesto recipe. Leftover lessons from old lovers.

Every time I listen to music on my computer, I smile at the thought of the sweet man in Florida who introduced me to most of the artists on my playlists, singer songwriters I’d have never heard of if not for the influence of this particular man. Leftover lessons from old lovers.

I padded around my garden yesterday afternoon, my leather soled feet sinking slightly in soggy soil. The spring bulbs are up all over, the crocus already showing their bright purple and yellow colors, the daffodils preparing to disrobe. My garden was created in the summer of 2001, with help from the man who helped heal my crushed and broken heart and spirit. Leftover lessons from old lovers.

I think of these men and I wonder…I wonder what lessons I left behind. What residual effects of Betty give these men cause for pause and a smile?

Conflict Resolution

Last night, I dreamed that I had solved the crisis in the Middle East. I dreamed that I had come up with a solution, had implemented my solution, and had single handedly done what hundreds of Miss America contestants had failed to do, I had brought about….world peace.

My solution to the problems in the Middle East was simple. I would write a children’s book, sell it for $25 per book, use the proceeds to purchase the Palestinian land, then sell it to…ok, I’ve been up for two hours now and the details are getting fuzzy. I would sell the Palestinian land to someone, who would pay a very good price for it, and I would divide the proceeds of the sale of the land between the Israelis and the Palestinians…and all would be happy.

As I write this, I wonder, if all that was of concern was money, why not just donate the proceeds from the sale of the books? But in retrospect, it is clear that purchase of the land was imperative in order to take ownership of the land in dispute out of the picture. But….if ownership of the land was disputed to start with, who would have had the power to sell it?

Such a tricky issue. In the dream, the conflict was resolved peacefully. In fact, the only conflict in my dream was discussing the contents of the children’s book with my ten year old, who was insistent that I have a fighting scene in the book.

Perhaps that is the real lesson in the dream. Conflict is part of life. Better to embrace it and accept it than try to avoid it. Where two or more are gathered, indeed, there is love, but there is also conflict.

I saw a friend of mine at the gym yesterday. Once, we were best friends, but she doesn’t speak to me anymore. I’m not sure exactly why, but I think it had something to do with me yelling at her. This was during the whole blog invasion of privacy controversy. I don’t think she liked the yelling part. Anyway, I saw her out of the corner of my eye as I passed from the weight room to the aerobic room. I didn’t speak, I’m not certain that she even saw me. When I came out, she was gone.

I think she was hiding in the bathroom. She hates conflict.

I miss my friend. I miss talking to her. I miss her energy and creativity and I miss her neurotic ways, which are endearing, when you come right down to it. But…I believe in standing up for oneself, and I stood up for what I believed to be an important aspect of my art when she insisted that I do whatever needed to be done to avoid conflict. Conflict isn’t fun, but it’s a necessary part of life, otherwise, one lives in constant fear.

When I was just out of college, I lived by myself in a ground floor apartment in my hometown of North Manchester, Indiana, population 7,000 when the college was in session. I was looking for a job in accounting, was trying to figure out what the next step was in my life’s journey. In the meantime, I was still a PBS (professional bedpan slinger) at Peabody Home. I worked 3-11, and after work, I would sprawl out on my couch and read from an almost complete set of law books that my sister’s husband had found on his garbage route. This activity served two purposes. I was still considering law school, and the books put me to sleep like nothing else could. Reading those books was a surefire way to talk myself out of law school and get some much needed rest at the same time.

One evening, I came home from work, shucked my white nurse’s uniform, donned my almost threadbare from use nightgown featuring Sleepy of the seven dwarfs faded in his glory across my abdomen, used my fuzzy aquamarine bathrobe as a blanket, and promptly fell asleep reading on my couch, all the lights in my apartment ablaze.

I woke up because I couldn’t breathe. Curiosity got the best of me and I opened my eyes. I couldn’t breathe because a man’s hands were around my neck. As awareness permeated my senses, time slowed to a crawl. A man stood before me (I can see him as clearly now as if it had happened last night instead of 24 years ago), his face swathed in a black ski mask. I remember thinking that I needed to memorize everything I possibly could…double edged sword, the memorizing ability. He was dressed in a brown ski jacket and brown ski pants. He had a black belt with a silver buckle. He told me to do exactly as he instructed or he would kill me. He said that he had a toothpick in his pocket and he would use it to kill me if I didn’t do exactly as he said. I remember thinking to myself, “yeah, right, mister. What can you do to me with a toothpick.”

Silly girl. He had a knife, called an Arkansas Toothpick, and he had used it to cut my screen to get in.

He instructed me to take off my clothes. I indicated to him that I couldn’t move, because I couldn’t breathe, so he took his hands off my throat, and reached for his belt buckle. Have you ever had those dreams where you want to scream, but you can’t? I don’t have those dreams. I know I can scream, because as soon as he took his hands off my throat I screamed as loud as I possibly could. I have a very healthy set of lungs on me, developed while calling hogs on my Uncle Hayden’s pig farm the summer between second and third grade. I have volume, and I used it.

He didn’t like it so much that I screamed. After all, he had instructed me to take off my clothes, not scream to high heavens. He grabbed my head, threw me the other way across the couch and fell on top of me. It was obvious now what his intentions were (duh!) and I decided that if a man was going to rape me, I damn well was going to know who did it. The only way I was going to know that, was if I pulled off his ski mask. So I did. He was grabbing my breasts and I was grabbing the back edge of his ski mask.

Funny. He didn’t much want me to know who he was. It was obvious that he didn’t know me, because he seemed pretty sure that I would just give up and do what he wanted. He was totally caught off guard by both the screaming and the ski mask thing. Anyone who knows me, knows that this girl would never go down without a fight.

When I tugged at his ski mask, he got scared. He grabbed his face, which I never saw, and ran out of my apartment through the window, the same way he came in. I called the police, then I called my mother. The police got there first. I slept at my mom’s house that night, went down to the police station the next day, did a sketch of him as best I could, seeing as my intruder was wearing a ski mask, and filed my report. The next day, the newspaper printed my name, my address, described my story, stated that I had seen my attacker and could identify him…all without ever speaking directly to me. The guy was still on the loose.

I moved in with my sister the next day…in Dayton, Ohio. No way I was going to stick around and see if the guy wanted a second chance. I moved to Dayton, Ohio, got a job in accounting, met the father of my children, and took a giant leap towards my future.

After the experiences I’ve had in my life, growing up the youngest of five, my asshole father trying his damnedest to break my spirit, but not succeeding, the rape attempt, the whole divorce mess and the gut wrenching reasons behind my divorce, conflict is not something I savor, but it is certainly not something I go out of my way to avoid. I try to teach my children that conflict has its place and that there are good ways and bad ways to try to resolve it. I try to show them the good ways.

I let the wiseguys from the Sopranos show them the bad ways.

I can’t wait for the season opener tonight on HBO. Don’t call me from 9:00-10:00pm. I won’t be answering my phone.

Is Love Overrated?

I was talking on the phone the other day with a friend, a married friend who is going through a crisis, and I am his confidante, the one person in the world he can talk to about his issues. I’ve never met my friend, never exchanged an email with him, I have no idea where he even lives, or even what part of the country, all I’ve ever done is talk on the phone with him, and he always calls me.

No, I am not secretly running a phone sex business.

I am a friend. Sexual subjects come up at times, and we talk about them, however. He is happily married, and the sexual subjects we discuss are never about the two of us, or even the two of them, the sexual subjects usually surround the beauty of sex.

My friend confided in me that his wife has been waking him up in the middle of the night for oh so delightful fun. I reminisced to myself, when he casually mentioned this recent surge of sexuality in their romantic life and I sighed. I remember middle of the night sex. I remember middle of the night sex, preceded by going to sleep sex, proceeded by wake up it’s morning sex. It wasn’t that long ago, I’m not talking twenty years ago, I’m talking….jeez, how long has it been?

I get teary eyed if I think too long on this subject. I equate sex with love. I admit it. To think about how long it has been since I’ve had a regular sexual relationship, means I have to think about how long it has been since I’ve been in love, and been loved in return. It’s been a long time.

If I ask the question, Is Love Overrated, I am also asking if sex is over rated. For anyone who knows me, if I ask the question, Is Love Overrated, am I not actually just recreating the classic “sour grapes” scenario? I asked the question, Is Love Overrated when my future romantic possibilities looked most particularly bleak. As you all know, if you announce to the universe that you plan on embarking purposefully in any particular direction, the first thing she will do is plant her foot, or more specifically, in my case, a particularly handsome and quite masculine foot, directly in my path.

She does this for two reasons. First of all, her sense of humor is legendary. I’m sure she is snorting her guffaws as we speak, hand over her shaking belly, as I ponder my dilemma. Second, she needed to remind me, once again, that I am really not in charge here. She is. She is reminding me that I just need to relax, stop planning my future like it really is all about me, and just let her do her job, let her unfold the universe, not me.

Sigh.

I thought it would be such a growth opportunity.

As for the question….Love (like sex) is only over rated in two circumstances: 1) If you don’t have it, and 2) If you have had it for so long that you forget what it’s like to live without it.

Day Five

I’ve been sick now for five days. I think that’s a record for me, if you don’t count the week I took off one September after my heart got broken…but that was years and years ago. I watched four hours of television last night. In a row. Two episodes of Everyone Loves Raymond, two episodes of Friends, then I watched House, and lastly, Boston Legal. Four hours is waaayyyy too much tv.

I read a Janet Evanovich novel on Sunday. I went to Half Price Books and bought four of them. I liked it. Stephanie Plum is a no nonsense kinda independent girl with a nitwit mother and an off the wall grandmother. My kind of trio.

Nothing else earth shattering going on. Oh, just when I announce that I’m no longer dating, there’s this flurry of activity in my email box and on my cell phone. Such is life. I haven’t decided what I will do yet. This Saturday, I’m going to a Muse concert with my buddy Robert and his fiancé Melanie. This Sunday is my Sun Magazine discussion group. I love my discussion group. There is something connective about sharing thoughts on something you’ve all read and enjoyed. Makes me want to join a book club.

My parting thought….Is Love Over rated?

I’ll ponder that and answer it another day.

Sick Day

I’m sick today. I’ve been sick all weekend. I’m running a fever, my chest hurts, by body aches, my nose is running, I’ve got a hacking cough and I can’t seem to find enough blankets or sweatshirts to keep me warm. I shivered under my covers all night last night, didn’t get any sleep. This is the first time I’ve been sick since November 1998, the first time I’ve been sick as a single person.

It sucks.

I wanted someone to put another warm blanket on me last night. I didn’t get to sleep until almost 2:00am, woke up at 3:00am, shivering, and couldn’t go back to sleep. I needed to pull myself out of bed and grab the two blankets I used while I was reading in the chair under my skylight, but I was just too weak to do that. I thought about how wonderful it would be to have someone to get the blankets for me, to not be shivering alone.

If I had a daughter, I could have asked her to pamper me. Heaven knows I did some of that for my mom when I was a teenager. My boys are not into pampering their mother. Perhaps because they’ve never had to because I just don’t get sick. Last time I was sick, their dad lived here. He wasn’t that big on pampering me, either, but he would have gotten me a blanket. I guess I’m just not the sort of woman people pamper.

I have stopped dating. All three men whose company I was considering have fizzled, and it’s just as well. I need some time without heart angst. I’m taking the rest of the year off. I’ve decided that if I meet someone in the meantime, I will tell him that I am looking forward to a romantic date on New Year’s Eve, but otherwise and until then, I’m only interested in friendships.

Easy for me to say now when I can’t even consider kissing someone because I can’t breathe through my nose.

I’m serious, though. Time off would be good. I know that I can get used to being alone if I just allow myself the chance to be alone. I don’t mean sleeping alone. I mean learning how to be alone in my heart. I mean learning how to live without thoughts of this potential boyfriend or that potential mate. I want to be comfortable just being with Betty.

I feel myself growing in the right direction.

I’m going back to bed now. I got my own blankets, thank you very much.

Oh, and last night at the Oscars? Can I pick ‘em or what. I’m glad Ang Lee won best director, but as long as either Crash or Brokeback won, I was gonna be happy. The cowboy ditty was cute, but I could see how it could have pissed some people off.

We all just need to lighten up about the whole gay thing. Unless you are fighting those urges, it should be irrelevant to your life. Live and let live. Don’t give me the pedophile bullshit. There are a whole lot more heterosexual perverts out there than gay ones. The percentages actually mirror the general population. If you are going to deny access to children based on sexual orientation, you better start looking at the heterosexual men moreso than the gays.

I speak from experience.

Where did that come from? Must be this fevered fog enveloping my brain.

A Love That Will Never Grow Old

No one will ever make a movie about the great love story in North Manchester, Indiana. No one will vie for leading roles, no camera crews will fill the beds of the Fruitt Basket Inn. No academy awards will go to the cast and crew.

The love story came to an end very early in the morning yesterday at Peabody Retirement Home. Uncle Hayden, husband to my Aunt Mary, died…25 days after his wife of 69 years. They just couldn’t keep living without the other.

They met in the hospital. Uncle Hayden had undergone minor surgery, Aunt Mary was his nurse. He was short and funny. She was tall and stern, with the corners of her mouth always quivering with suppressed laughter. She was the straight man to his comic genius. He made everyone laugh. She tolerated his antics with gentle humor. He used to say he married my Aunt Mary because he was short and he wanted six foot tall sons, which he got twofold in my tall and handsome cousins, Jim and John.

I stayed with them on their hog farm for two weeks the summer between second and third grade. My parents took my brother fishing and farmed their four girls out to my aunt and to her newly married son, parents of a brand new baby boy. I followed Uncle Hayden everywhere, begging to throw the corn to the pigs, to help with watering the pregnant sows, to hold the tiny piglets. With a straight face, he offered me nails when I insisted on “helping” him repair a broken wooden gate.

“Here, you need some iron. On the farm, we eat nails for iron.”

I stared at him in disbelief, holding the nails out in front of me, rust coloring my fingers.

“Really? You eat these?”

“Yeppurs. A few after breakfast, couple more before dinner. Keeps the blood strong.”
He turned away at that point, the straps of his overalls trembling as he tried to hide his laughter from me.

“Oh, Uncle Hayden!!” I stomped my foot in righteous indignation at having been duped, once again.

He touseled my head, giving into the guffaws that always followed his practical jokes. “Had you going there, didn’t I, girlie?”

As I grew up, I watched Uncle Hayden and Aunt Mary. He was always respectful to her. She was always respectful to him. As we sat around their dinner table, they would tell smiling stories of each other’s antics, Uncle Hayden proudly pronouncing her as the world’s greatest cook, Aunt Mary quietly confirming the acquisition of another farm.

Their love story was not unblemished, as no love story ever is. Tragedy struck, in the most vicious way possible, when their tow headed two year old first born son was stricken with Meningitis before the discovery of antibiotics. He died within days. The sorrow never quite left either of their faces. It sat in the corner of their kitchen, despite three more beautiful children, countless grand children and great grandchildren and a successful farming operation. Every great love story has it’s price.

I sat with my mother as I told her of her sister’s passing and she cried. Aunt Mary was one of the most capable and able bodied people I had ever known. She carried her burdens with grace and dignity, the embodiment of reliable. She was up and about, caring for her husband until the day she died, which happened in her sleep shortly after her 94th birthday. Uncle Hayden had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years before and was only remotely aware of his wife’s passing. Through her tears, my mother mumbled about such a sad end to their love story. I gently chastised her.

“Mom, what are you saying? It’s the perfect end. Aunt Mary went first. She died in her sleep at the ripe old age of 94! She lived long enough to see her children grow up and retire. She saw her grandchildren have children. Uncle Hayden didn’t suffer at her passing because he didn’t even know she was gone. Cry for your own pain, your own loss, Mom, but Aunt Mary and Uncle Hayden don’t need your tears. They each lived a blessed life with their one, true love. Who could ask for more than that?”

It turns out, I was wrong. Of course Uncle Hayden knew his wife was gone. That realization may have come out garbled through the haze of Alzheimer’s, but he knew. He knew. It took him 25 days to get there, but he accomplished his task.

Today, I raise my glass to my Aunt Mary and Uncle Hayden, one of the greatest love stories I have ever born witness. Their’s was a love that will never grow old.