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Skiing Fast and Slow


OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAUnlike my husband, I am not a morning person. He jumps from bed, showers, dresses and heads out the door on a run.  The whole time contemplating his goals for the day, and, all this completed with a smile on his face.

I, in turn, do not wake up and leap from bed humming tunes and exclaiming what a wonderful day it is.  I wake up slowly, first one eye, then the other.  I roll over a few more times relishing the notion of going back to sleep.  Everything I want to complete that day does not come roaring to my conscious forcing me awake.  Instead, I rise slowly, sit on the edge of the bed, stretch and then with an arthritic wobble head into the bathroom.  While waiting for the water to warm up I stand in a daze, trying to clear my head.  When the flow becomes tepid, I ritualistically wash my face and brush my teeth. This task accomplished, I grab my robe and head downstairs using the handrails as guides.  As I trip over the cats I mumble good morning to them and impatiently wait for the coffee to brew.  Then, with mug in hand, I sit down, read the paper and watch the news.  I hatch.

My husband is also a rabid skier.  He is the kind of person, who puts the deck furniture away in September in anticipation of the ski season.  Best to be prepared and not waste a weekend working around the house when one could be on the slopes. Because of his passion, he taught our daughters to ski.  So well in fact, that they became alpine racers.   Ski team practice can start as early as 7:00 am.  In the winter this means the whole morning routine is a struggle in the dark.  You drive to the mountain in the dark, try to find coffee in the dark and wait for the attendants to let the racers on the lifts early, in the dark. To any normal person this is a very sadistic approach to skiing.

For nine years, every weekend in the winter I was forced to become a morning person.  Before daylight I was thrown from my bed by the screaming alarm.  With the cozy smell of wood smoke coaxing me back to sleep, I hurriedly brushed my teeth and washed my face, the whole time contemplating about what to pack for lunch.  Next, I scrambled to the kitchen, dug the food out of the cupboards and refrigerator and hurled it into the cooler.  At the same time, my husband tossed breakfast on the table and the girls choked it down while struggling into their tight, long underwear.  As the family hustled for the door and into the frigid Adirondack winter air, I flung clothing into my ski bag, while listening to the weather man describe wind chill temperatures.  Consequently, on ski mornings, I became a mad woman with an agenda.

At our home mountain, Gore, my husband and I have season’s passes.  We often ski in groups with other racer parents.  Many of them are fanatical, just like my husband.  As the sun begins to rise over the mountain, spreading light across the groomed hill, the extreme skiers rush into the lodge, gulping down their coffee as they apply layers of clothing.  With concentration they bend over and strain to buckle up their boots. The atmosphere is very businesslike, no joking.   The mantra is, boots, skis, poles you really don’t need anything else.   With military precision the group rushes out the door, racing each other to the lift.  Heaven forbid they are not on the first gondola ride up and achieve first tracks on the run down.  In the almost empty lodge, a draft of frosty air glides in through the swinging doors and lazily wraps itself around those left inside.

I often do not make this initial run.  After all I am hatching.  I sip my coffee, pick through my clothing and decide how many pieces I want to wear.  I chat with the others left behind as we casually make our way to the lift and get in line with, gasp, non season ticket holders who probably slept pass 6:00am.    My unhurried friends and I ride to the top of the mountain anticipating finding the early crew.  As we travel on the lift we look at the trails below us searching for familiar colored coats.  When we ski down the trails we expectantly look up hoping to see a recognizable face as the chair lift travels over us.   Despite our best efforts we never catch up with the first trackers group.  We are content, skiing at our slower pace, but we have spent a couple of years wondering how the two groups could ski the same trails and never even catch a glimpse of each other.

One bitter cold day, we coffee sippers, decided to go in to the lodge at the top of the mountain. To our astonishment, there sat the first trackers in a large cluster warming their toes and having a snack discussing the morning’s early runs.  We had finally found them in the place we never would have thought to look. They had been here, in this toasty room, with a roaring fireplace and hot chocolate, on those frigid mornings we skied looking for them.  In amazement, we discovered, the first trackers would take a few fast; get on the mountain before anyone else runs, but after that, they always took a 10:00 am break.  This was why, our second out the door, unhurried group, could never find them.  My friends and I would ski run after run thinking we were the slackers.  Only at lunch would we take a break.  We would come in exhausted and freezing, mistakenly assuming the others had been on the slopes all morning like us.  They would come in, a few minutes later laughing, not breathing hard, and very relaxed.  It was disconcerting wondering how the first trackers spent all that time on the slopes but somehow did not look as tired as we did.   Now the truth was out.  Suddenly, I was no longer feeling guilty for taking my time at the break of day.  I simply had a different approach to the whole morning and skiing business.

My daughters have both moved on to college.  They no longer ski race.  My husband and I are not compelled by a schedule to be at the mountain.  But it is already December.  The days are short, the nights long.  Coldness lurks around the corner.  The deck furniture has long since been put away.  My husband has the skis waxed and ready.  Lately, I have been contemplating the idea that all ski lifts should open at 10:00 am.  Then the first trackers and the coffee sippers could all head to the lift together and get that first run at a decent hour.

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Heroes Big and Small


Recently, I watched an episode of Glee (yes, I’m a big fan) where the song Heroes (David Bowie) was sung.  The whole episode was loosely based on the idea that some of the characters had started a club of super heroes.  It turns out they were not super, but heroes never the less.  While listening to the song, preformed by Blaine Anderson (Darren Criss) and Sam Evans (Chord Overstreet) I began to think of the many heroes I know and I realized, I can identify many.  I know of women who have lost children or husbands and yet kept their families together; others who battle cancer and keep a sense of wonder for this world.  Parents who watched a child slowly recover from a horrendous accident.  In my mind these people are all heroes.  But, specifically, I want to talk about an incident that happened recently.

I have a friend with a critically ill husband.  Doctors, even after 4 years, have not been able to determine why he can no longer walk, talk, and is continually dizzy.  He has gone from an over six-foot man who loved his boat, his sports car, work, friends and his family, to being confined to a wheel chair and his recliner, unable to participate in life.  My friend is her husband’s full time care giver.  In my mind she is a hero to him and her children.  Her life is difficult; she struggles to remain positive, to not lose patience, to not cry all day.  In turn, my friend has her hero, her mother.  My friend’s mother moved from her home to live with her daughter and provide support, help when she can and companionship.

As far as I can determine heroes come in all shapes and sizes.  Their accomplishments can be big, as in saving someone from a burning building.  These are the heroes we hear about and rightly so.  But, most heroes perform small tasks.  They provide hugs, a meal, an ear to listen, and a shoulder to cry on.  They may run errands or cut the grass because they notice it needs to be done.    I know how important these small gestures can be.  I relied on my heroes many times as I struggled through my journey with my mother and her slide into dementia.

Last night I was given the opportunity to become a super hero.  My friend’s beloved cat escaped from her house.  Scotch is a cat with a big personality and he provides his hero work of fun, silliness and fur therapy in a house missing most of these qualities.  My friend texted a note of panic about her cat’s disappearance.   I called her and heard the alarm in her voice and immediately my inner super hero could be heard saying,

“I’m on my way.  We’ll find him.”

I grabbed my daughter from her room and together we jumped into our super heroes’ car and sped out of the driveway.  But, before we could even make it past the neighborhood entrance my friend called again.

“Scotch is home.” She said with a catch in her voice.

“Do you still need me to come down?”

“No, I’m fine,… well actually can you come and have a glass of wine with me?”

And so, I took my daughter home, left my super human powers of cat recovery there and drove to my friend’s house.  We talked about Scotch and how bad he was that night for normally being such a good kitty.  How he had scared us.  She cried a little remembering how desperate she felt with the thought of losing the joy her cat brings her.  My friend and I shared our wine; she took big gulps of air  to calm herself, trying to regain the control she tenuously holds onto.  I was glad I got to be, if not her superhero, her small hero for a while.

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Thanksgivings Past and Present


Thanksgiving is a favorite holiday with my family.  We love to cook.  Cooking, to me, is a release of my pent-up creativity.  I spend hours thinking of the menu and the recipes; combing cooking magazines and websites.  But, somehow, I always return to our traditional menu for the big holiday.

I would have to say my favorite time during Thanksgiving Day is being in the kitchen with my daughters.  Both of them have picked up my love for cooking and it is a common bond we share.  Some families discuss politics, some sports, my daughters and I talk recipes.   It brings me great pleasure to watch as they find a new recipe and tweak it to make it their own.  Cooking together is a tradition that goes back to my mother and me side by side in the kitchen.   One of my first memories is standing on a chair, stirring tomato soup, as my mother made grilled cheese sandwiches for the family.  It is no wonder that combination is still one of my favorite comfort foods.

My mother was an amazing cook.  Many times, when money was scarce she could still make an incredible pot of chicken noodle soup or my favorite, beef vegetable.  Her forte was fried chicken or round steak with heaping batches of mashed potatoes oozing butter.  Later in life, when I tried to duplicate her recipes for the chicken and steak, I realized she pretty much deep-fried them in butter.  No wonder they tasted so good.  It took me many years to modify her dishes to more healthy servings.  Still, from my mother I learned a love of creating in the kitchen.  The joy it brings to serve a nutritious, delicious, meal to family and friends.  The feeling of giving a part of yourself; a creation sent from the heart.

This is my first Thanksgiving without my mother’s physical presence here on earth.  I say it that way because my mother passed away last February of dementia.   However, for the last few years she was alive she did not truly participate in the rituals of the holiday.  The final time she came to my house for the big meal, she was anxious about not being in the routine of her assisted living home.  She did not enjoy the loud laughter of the many guests and family that mingled throughout the kitchen and family room.  She would not take her eyes off me because my face was the only one she recognized.  Just as we were carving the turkey and placing the food on the table, she demanded to be taken home.  No attempts at persuading her otherwise worked.  So we wrapped the turkey in foil, placed dishes back in the oven and my daughter and her cousin drove Mom home while the remainder of us waited with another glass of wine.  As my mother walked out the door, I felt in my being she would not spend another holiday with me in my home.  It was too much for her.

There is sadness in knowing she and my father are no longer with me.  Thanksgiving 2000 was the last time both my parents were at my house.  Dad passed away the following February.   In my mind I remember the holiday as being perfect and that is the way I like to leave it.  Mom watched as I bustled around the kitchen, Dad helped set the table and clean up.  The ritualistic routines Mom and I had established so many years before in my mother’s kitchen became mine.  That final holiday together Mom and Dad were content to pass on the family traditions to me and my budding family.  And so, I hope that with this Thanksgiving and many more to come I will be able to establish old and new traditions with my girls and create perfect memories.

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Water and other essentials of life


My cat, Chattimec, loves his water filtered, with ice.  He sits outside the door of the room his dish is in and patiently waits until I notice him. When I do observe him, I coo and praise him while I refill his water dish.  Chatty enjoys the ice cubes and laps until his thirst is quenched.    Getting his fill of water is something my cat has been able to do all of his life.  Yes, Chattimec is a spoilt, suburban pet.
Lately, however, this ritual of ours has been making me think.  I live in upstate New York.  Just outside of the chaos left behind by the Super Storm Sandy.  I am mesmerized by the news, watching familiar and unfamiliar places float across my TV screen.  The destruction is unfathomable.  So it is, when I give my cat his chilled drink, my thoughts focus on those who are struggling to obtain water and other supplies essential to daily life.
On different social media sites I have read and I have seen on the news, the generosity of the citizens of these United States.  Those far away are sending what they can.  Others are volunteering their time and helping to clean up the mess.  Some, living in the midst of the catastrophe are organizing drives.  They are delivering food, clothing, medical supplies and water to their neighbors who were left with less than them.  Help, slow at times, is getting through to those who need it.
In our country many of us enjoy having our basic needs met every day, without question.   Our homes have running water, heat, and beds to sleep in.  Most of us have access to all and possibly more food than we could need.   When a disaster, such as Sandy, occurs, the generosity of my fellow countrymen always amazes me.  We see the suffering and respond.  We understand the lack of a home, clothing, food and water must be met with money, donations, and volunteers to rebuild, clothe and feed.  Americans don’t like the images flashed before them in pictures and on the news of some of their fellow countrymen and community hurting.  Thus, the response is always generous, beautiful and heartwarming.
I know that eventually, and it will seem like an eternity to those trapped inside the destruction of Sandy, order will return to that part of our country. We, as a nation have been through this before and so we know how to go about rebuilding.  Streets will be cleared, homes will be repaired, schools will be back in session and businesses will reopen.   Water once again will flow freely through pipes and into houses and apartment buildings.  Food will be found in groceries and on the shelves in people’s home.   The volunteers will return to their lives, the donations will stop.  The giving community of my fellow citizens will go back to the routines of their everyday lives.
This leads me to my next thought, as my mind wanders through these scenarios, and I set my cat’s dish down on the floor.    The reality of having water when it is needed or wanted makes me think about those who live in countries where water has never flown freely.  Where just having a drink of clean water is a novelty.  I think about those in the world who have never slept in a bed or even for that matter, had a home.  I am reminded, occasionally, with commercials of starving children of just how dire some situations are.  Consequently, for several years, I have put my money where my mouth is, and donated monthly through Childfund (www.Childfund.org) to a child in need in this country.
It would be a lesson well learned, if we Americans don’t forget the horror of the visions we see of the disaster known as Sandy; the scenes of fellow humans going without the basics of life.   I hope that we can take the generosity we display to our fellow countrymen and extend it to those in need elsewhere in our bigger community of the world.

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A Dolphin Dream


I woke in the middle of a restless night thinking someone was shining a light in my eyes.  I sat up in the unfamiliar room and looked around only to find the moon sending a greeting through the open window.  I rolled over with a smile on my face and fell back asleep, knowing, I was in Hawaii.

I had come on a mission of love with my sisters Roxann and Rhonda.  Rhonda has Multiple Myeloma.  During her over five year struggle with this cancer she has been my inspiration; not only because Rhonda remains positive, but more importantly, she has led me in a new direction spiritually.   Rhonda often visualized swimming with wild dolphins during her treatments.  Roxann and I wanted to make her dream a reality.

The next morning, I awoke and stumbled half asleep out into the living room and gasped: The view!  There, spread out in front of me was the ocean, a teal blue.  We were told it is called Kona Blue, named after this portion of the coast of the Big Island. None of the other islands or coasts in Hawaii has this stunning blue water.   Some distance out, catching waves, I saw surfers.  More inland, hidden behind a row of lava rocks that produced a bay, were swimmers and snorkelers.   Our apartment, for the next few days, sat above the scene of a beach known for great snorkeling and sea turtles.  To the back of our abode, was lush greenery climbing the hills made of lava, interspersed with homes that dotted the landscape as the ocean floor rose out of the sea and rushed up to the top of a mountain covered in mist.  Brewing Kona coffee, I intended to enjoy the sights all morning while I sipped and talked with my sisters.  We had a day to adjust to the time change and find our way around.  Tomorrow was our big day, the dolphin swim.

We awoke at six in the morning while the moon was still handing the sky over to the sun.  It was Halloween and we would be wearing masks, snorkeling masks.  This was our big day, swimming with the dolphins in the Kona Blue Ocean.  We headed to Honokohau Harbor and Marina to catch our boat.  Once there, we met Captain Derek, a native to the island, and our swim guide Beth Ann.  Fortunately for us, we were the only three passengers, giving us a private excursion.  We boarded the vessel, left the marina and traveled north.  Along with our guide, the three of us opted to sit in the front.  Beth Ann was getting to know us and pointing out scenery when, to our surprise, Captain Derek slowed the craft.  He called out.

“Manta Ray at ten o’clock.”

We all looked up to see twenty to thirty Manta Rays swimming in a school.  They glided gracefully in the clear water as a hawk might when soaring on warm air currents.  They were magnificent, dark brown in color with white bellies.  Most had wing spans of three to four feet.  Derek said he recognized this school, as they were the ones he often led people to on a night swim.  It was a rare treat to see them in the morning.  He and Beth Ann told us that each Ray had unique spots on their belly which identified them and so, they called them by name.  We lingered there enjoying the cool breeze, warm sun and the manta’s company.  Later, Rhonda recounted.

“When I saw the Manta Ray that is when my heart started to open up and it just kept opening wider and wider all day.”

Eventually, after both the humans and manta had their fill of being social the mantas began to swim away and we moved on in search of dolphins.

As our boat cruised along the beautiful coast, sometimes black lava, sometimes greenery and palm trees, Captain Derek spotted a small pod of dolphins and we ferried toward them.  As we traveled Beth Ann instructed us on how to get into and out of the boat and the technique of using snorkel gear.  Coming upon the pod we traveled with the dolphins for a while, getting acquainted.  They were very friendly and soon swam just off the bow of our boat.  They proudly showed off their babies, who frolicked by soaring ahead and jumping in the air.  These were spinner dolphins, and, like humans learning to walk, these babies were learning to spin.  Smaller in size than other dolphins, they were grey in color.  Yet, as they glided through the sea, their coloring seemed to change from silver grey to blue grey to grey with hints of brown.

“Are you ready to swim?” Beth Ann asked.

My sisters and I could hardly contain our enthusiasm as we all nodded in unison, “Yes.”

Derek maneuvered the vessel past the pod, turning around so that the dolphins would be swimming directly toward the back of the boat, where we, snorkel and fins donned, would get into the water.  As she slid into the warm, salty sea trying not to disturb the dolphins, Beth Ann yelled “follow me.”  And we did.  One by one we all quietly followed suit and slid into the water as instructed.  I marveled at the warmth.  The swells hit me in the face and lifted my body up and down. Unaccustomed to a mask and snorkel, I struggled to calm my breathing.  I worried sea waves would crash down my snorkel causing me to swallow the salty stream.  Then, as if by magic, there, directly below me were the dolphins.  I heard them call to one another.  I completely forgot about my discomfort with the snorkel as six dolphins appeared.   I lost all thought of swimming and remained motionless so I did not disturb the incredible scene below me.  The ocean was remarkably clear and I watched as the dolphins swam around each other, then rose from their depth right in front of me to surface.  We all swam together, dolphin and humans.  They played around us and did not seem to be disturbed by our presence.  It was very calming and I was in awe. Beautiful, majestic, mesmerizing, awesome, I can’t find the correct word; in fact there may not be words to describe the sight of the dolphins.  We had feelings of comfort, wonder, amazement, all words lacking in description as the dolphins surrounded us.

Eventually, the pod moved on and we were left breathless, bobbing and smiling in the ocean swells, trying not to swallow salt water as we yanked the snorkels from our mouths and repeated over and over “that was amazing!”

All three of us climbed the ladder back into the boat and Beth Ann served us fresh Hawaiian fruit and bottled water.  But we were too wild-eyed with excitement to enjoy the taste.  As Captain Derek searched for more dolphins we went to the bow of the boat.

“There, off to the left, at two o’clock.”

We spotted another pod swimming alongside the craft a few feet out and suddenly they were at the front of the boat playing with us.  As Rhonda leaned over the bow, only two or three feet from the swimming dolphins she could feel the spray from their blowholes.

“It hit me in the face, but strangely, I was not bothered by that.”  She later said, with a laugh.

After a while, the pod swam off but one dolphin remained behind.  Even Derek and Beth Ann found it hard to explain.  She wanted us to follow her.  At one point she came to a stop directly in front of the boat.

“Please keep coming,” she seemed to say.

So we did.  We had already swum two times with the dolphins but by following this dolphin we got one last chance.  Captain Derek positioned the boat so that two separate small pods would swim directly towards us.  As we once again slid into the water, the dolphins were very close, only two to three feet away.  The dolphin, who had led us, swam calmly beside Rhonda.  An emotional connection was made between the two as Rhonda looked into her kind eyes.

“I began to cry at that point, but it is difficult with a mask on.”  Rhonda recounted later.

During the swim, I was trying to take pictures with an underwater camera and lost sight of people and dolphins.   I raised my head up to look around; I heard Captain Derek yell and point frantically.

“What?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant.  I put my head back in the water thinking the pod must be below me.  With amazing speed and grace a dolphin sailed right past me.  He was only about two feet away and looked at me as he raced by.  I felt he nodded “hello.”  In an instant he was gone and I jumped to the surface, yelling “awesome.”  Captain Derek, sitting on the back of the boat, was joyous.  He was talking excitedly.

“Did you see how close he was?”

One by one, my sisters and our guide popped their heads up.  We were all chattering with excitement, not truly listening to each other, but exclaiming over and over our astonishment as we climbed back on board.  As Rhonda, Roxann and I sat on the back of the boat heading toward shore I felt a glow rise in me.  I looked at Roxann and enjoyed the glance of acknowledgement she gave me.  We had been successful in our mission to bring Rhonda her dream.  The smile of joy and the tears of gratitude on Rhonda’s face were contagious and the three of us joined hands in silent sisterhood.  With the wind whipping my hair as it dried into a sea salt mess and my face turning red from the sun, I smiled with a prayer of gratitude for such a glorious day.

 

 

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The Oldest Generation


As I was tooling around yesterday in the car, flitting here and there, a song I had not heard before came on the radio.  According to the DJ it was a new song by Jason Mraz, 93,000,000 miles.  I like many of his songs and this one caught my attention.
The lyrics contain the following:

oh my beautiful mother
She told me, “Son in life you’re gonna go far, and if you do it right you’ll love where you are
Just know, that wherever you go, you can always come home”

Much to my surprise, my eyes welled with tears and my throat constricted as I started to cry.  Because, it hit me, I can’t go home.  My mother passed away last February and my father passed away, on the same day 11 years before that.  In reality, I am “the Home.”  I am the parent now, the oldest generation.  There is no one I can go home to when I need that reassuring hug from mom or dad.  No one to consult for advice.  No one to remember me as a child.  No parent to share holidays with.  No one to visit and find sitting in the small home I grew up in that always felt like it hugged me as I walked in the door.
Being the oldest generation is a huge responsibility; one that my parents and generations before them endured.  Some with grace, others struggling through their whole lives.  As the oldest parent, you are shouldered with the duty of being the consultant.  The keeper of family lore.  The one who remains calm and in control in a crisis, so that others can look to you for their strength.  That is a lot to take on, even at 54 years old.  I know I can do all of these life requirements and more, after all I have been doing many of them for years.  It just makes me sad.  I never realized how much I enjoyed the comfort of knowing mom and dad were always there for me if I needed them.  And I miss that.

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Over indulged? I think not.


I celebrated my 54th birthday yesterday.   October 21, 2012.  I reveal my age for several reasons.  One, I am proud to say that as a 50 something woman, I am still learning and growing.  A part of life which I believe should never stop.  Two, I have never been afraid or ashamed of my age.  Yes, I admit that there were and are times in my life in which I was shocked by my accumulation of years.  But, most of all I am proud of the way I am turning out.  At this stage in my life and maybe it is because of age, I like who I am.  I hope I have many years left in which to continue to grow into the person I want to be.
Therefore, I believe in celebrating birthdays.  I enjoy being the center of attention.   Lavished with Happy Birthday wishes by cards, the internet, face to face, I will take them anyway the good intentions come.  As we women toil along in our lives there are many times we can feel invisible.  Our children and husbands have come to expect the big and small gestures we do for them.  Right now in my life, I do a lot of my work from home.  The commute to my home office, in a converted bedroom, is very short.  Because of this and also the fact that, I was a stay at home Mom for many years, my family assumes that I will do all of the grocery shopping, errand running and general house maintenance.  On the days when I do travel with my other job to local schools, for The Scotia-Glenville Traveling Museum, the assumptions are still the same.  I don’t mind being the person who is in charge of these matters, what does bother me is the fact it is all assumed and never appreciated.
Every year, as my birthday approaches, I don’t hesitate to remind my family of the upcoming day.  I have no intention of being a martyr and secretly hoping for a celebration, but not getting what I want or perhaps need.  And, my family, over time, has learned to do the day big.  On different years, my birthday has turned into more than a day.  It has spread itself out to include perhaps the weekend or even week.  This year, since my birthday fell on Sunday, I took advantage of the whole weekend.  On Saturday I watched Purdue play football. (Once again struggling to remain part of the faithful with the ending score).  My husband took me out to dinner that evening.  Sunday, my family surprised me with an amazing, over the top brunch, in Saratoga Springs.  Then Paul and drove to the Adirondacks to pick up our season passes at Gore Mountain and just enjoy one of our favorite areas.  It was all about me and I loved it.  No regrets, no worries about anyone else.  Only thoughts of, what I wanted.
All woman should have a few days every year where they are the center of attention.  A day where they are not invisible.  A day when all of the acknowledgments, that should be said daily, are said with sincerity and love.  Yesterday was my day.

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Court Date


I have been working on editing my upcoming book, A Slow Slide into Nothing.  Below is an excerpt about an experience Mom and I had together.

    Finally, the day arrived for Mom and me to sit before a judge and for her to explain her concerns.  The small judge’s chamber was filled with lawyers.  There was my lawyer, Mom’s lawyer, the lawyer appointed as her guardian by the courts, the judge and the court recorder.  I was nervous because Mom had been running late when I arrived to pick her up and then was too tired to dress herself.   I ended up having to put her socks and shoes on her.  I had felt rushed, knowing it was my responsibility to get us both before the judge on time.  We sat down; the judge looked at both of us solemnly.

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An excerpt from my upcoming book


In a few short hours, it became apparent that Mom was far worse than I had thought.  When she had mentioned on the phone she couldn’t pack her suitcase I assumed, it was not that she couldn’t but that she didn’t want to.  I quickly realized she didn’t have the stamina, or the power to decide what to pack.  Our past phone conversations raced through my mind, and I concluded she must have been lying to me about her lifestyle. I attributed her condition to depression about my father’s death and her forced retirement after losing her re-election as city court judge.    Instead of haunting familiar places and reminiscing, I spent four days visiting Mom’s doctors, getting her car in working order, throwing out rancid food and packing.  Mom sat on her bed and weakly told me which clothing she might want to pack.  Most of her clothes were not clean, so I stuffed them in a suitcase knowing I would need to do laundry once we returned to my house.    Just going through her medication was over-whelming.  There were many duplicate prescriptions, some unopened bottles; others were empty with no replacement for them.   I was frustrated trying to decide what prescriptions Mom actually needed to take and why.

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Reunion


This weekend I am missing my high school reunion in Wabash, Indiana.  It would have been nice to go, but the cards just didn’t play out.  Reunions often remind me of a few lines from the movie The Big Chill.

“Wrong, a long time ago we knew each other for a short period of time; you don’t know anything about me. It was easy back then. No one had a cushier berth than we did. It’s not surprising our friendship could survive that. It’s only out there in the real world that it gets tough.”

That thought stayed with me.  For many years I pondered it.  My final conclusion, the lines do contain some truth, but the idea behind the lines, that we take nothing from those short friendships, is wrong.  I grew up in Wabash, a place I lived until I left for college.  My family, my friends, the circumstances of what took place while I lived there, that town formed the basis of who I am today.  True, I did only know some of those people a short time.  But, I believe even short meetings with a person serve a purpose.  We learn from each other, the learning experience can be good or it can be negative.  But, we still hopefully, learn from it.

As in my case I moved on.  The friends I knew in high school, I truly do not know anymore.  I do know their memories and the laughs and fun we had.  I do remember the angst of those teenage years.  All memories that contributed to the adult I grew into.

Life is a journey we travel.  I have journeyed far from my small town of birth.  I have traveled through college, and young adulthood; marriage, and babies that grew to toddlers, troublesome teenagers and finally amazing adults.  I have looked back on lessons I learned from my parents that took the years of my own children to realize.  I have made many friends and kept only a few for life.  Some people come into our lives for a short while and we should not regret when it is time to move from that friendship, its purpose being served.  Still, we can hold fast to the memories.

So, this weekend I will be thinking of my friends from my childhood and teen years.  I wish them all well.  I hope they have attained happiness and contentment in their lives, as I have.