Baggage

We thought we were prepared. My Grandmother was a victim of Alzheimer’s for five long years. She’d been moved from assisted living to the nursing home after it was decided she needed additional care. Now the time had come for us to say our final goodbyes. The family visited the night before she passed; sitting around telling stories to the empty shell of a woman we loved.

We hated the disease, hated that it had taken everything away from her. The laugh, the importance of family, the strange dance she did when you left her house, and the wonderful food she prepared.

Her own home had been sold years earlier to pay for the needed move to the assisted living facility. The precious keepsakes she’d collected over the years found homes with various members of the family. Antiques were divided up and what was left over went to auction. She had enough to live the rest of her days with the best possible care.

On the day she died, my mother was tending to the necessary tasks associated with the death of a loved one. I offered to go to the nursing home and collect Gram’s belongings, hoping to ease her burden.

As I entered the building, several of the aides came up to talk to me about my Grandmother. They’d known her since she first came to the facility and couldn’t help but share stories about her wonderful spirit. One laughed, mentioning that on Wednesday mornings Grams was the first in line for her weekly hair appointment and perm. She was always a strong woman with strong opinions, but even that was something the nurses would smile at and gently shake their heads.

I walked into her empty room. The bedclothes had been washed and placed in a large black trash bag. Her clothes and toiletries were carefully tucked into her battered light blue suitcase. I looked around the room. This was all that was left.

A lifetime put into a trash bag and a suitcase.

Tears stung my eyes as I lifted the containers to leave. An aide stepped in to see if she could help. I held up the luggage and said, “No, I’ve got it. This is all that’s left.”

“And her spirit.”

“Her spirit?” I asked.

“These are just things,” she said, pointing to the bags. “Her spirit, your memories. Those are the important things that will be with you for a lifetime.”

The bags felt lighter as I left. The woman was right, these were just things. What my Grandmother had left us was worth more than anything one could buy, worth more than earthly goods.

When I got home I walked in and my family asked, “Is that all there is?”

And I answered, “No, not at all.”

We Are Family

It started out like any other family, for lack of better word, feud. There were no Hatfield and McCoy shootings, just a common agreement that certain members of the family did not get along and therefore stopped speaking. The problem was the dispute, as with most quarrels, had innocent victims.

This is my story.

My Grandmother was a strong willed person who liked controlling situations. No one knows the whole story, but she and my Aunt had a falling out that would never be rectified in this lifetime. Members of the family were forced to choose sides and in the end my mother lost her sister.

Over the years when I came home I would ask where my cousins were. I was told they had moved out of state and no one in the family knew where. I take responsibility for not pursuing their whereabouts, but I was raising kids and on our trips to Ohio attempting to juggle the parent and In-law visits with equal time.

But I missed my cousin. He was one of my best friends growing up. He was an usher at my wedding. He was a big burly football player from the neighboring city, but one of the sweetest men I ever met.

For years, I felt the hole left in my heart from his absence.

Then last year I was cruising some social networks and found his wife’s page. I contacted them and we caught up, as much as one can, on Facebook. Then we realized we were going to be in Ohio at the same time. Plans were made.

I was like a kid waiting for Christmas morning. I was to meet them at five at a favorite pizza place. Life happened and they were held up. I had to pick my Mom up at seven so our time was limited. I began to worry that I’d miss seeing them. Then the call came. We’d meet at a Starbucks between the two cities.

I sat waiting in anticipation. Wondering, hoping that the reunion would be all I expected. He walked through the doors and I started crying. I grabbed him and hugged, not the least bit embarrassed as other patrons looked on. I met his kids. I embraced his wife. We sat and talked. Neither of us understood the dispute, what had caused it, what had kept it going all these years.

All I knew is that because of a quarrel that was completely out of our control, we had missed being a part of each other’s lives.

I don’t see him or talk to him every day. But there is something there, some small part in my heart that has been opened. And it feels wonderful.

What Should I Say

I was talking to a friend the other day that had recently lost her mother. She kept saying, “It just feels weird, I can’t explain the feeling.”

I knew exactly what she was talking about. Sixteen years ago I lost my Dad. He was the hero you read about, the guy that stands up for injustice and believed in helping those less fortunate. He had a good time wherever he went and I felt pride when people would say, you look just like your mom but act just like your dad. He wasn’t perfect, he was human.

But when he died I remember walking around and the strangest feeling would come over me. Then one day I realized how it felt. It was as if something had been amputated. A limb had been snatched from somewhere deep in my being. I’d feel it there at brief moments, possibly like an amputee might still feel their missing appendage. But then it would be gone.

I tried to explain this feeling to my friend and a look of understanding crept across her face. “People,” she said, “kept telling me it was a blessing as Mother had Alzheimer’s. But losing her feels like anything but a blessing.”

Maybe it was because of all my years working at a Ronald McDonald type house. I sat with a Mother during organ donation procedure before taking her child off life support. I helped plan a funeral for an infant and sat with parents while we waited for oncology reports. People don’t want to hear, it was a blessing or that it was God’s plan. They want to hear that you’re sorry and understand, but mostly they want to tell you about their loved one, share experiences and memories.

So I sat with my friend as she reminisced. I told her you will always miss that part of your life. I talk to Dad every day, usually when I’m out in the yard or doing some home improvement activity. When I see something he would love, an incredible sunset or just beautiful wildflowers by the side of the road. It helps keep him in the special little place in my heart, tucked in safe and sound, protected from the pain. He’s my biggest fan and most brilliant critic. And he is always with me.

Yummmmmmmm Remember

There are certain foods that when I taste them bring up an overwhelming sense of nostalgia.

No Bake Cookies… No Bake Cookies were a rainy day treat. Days when you were stuck inside and your mom thought the best way to keep the youngsters busy was by spending time in the kitchen. Up on the chair we would go. Mom at the stove cooking the gooey chocolate base while teaching us lessons in fractions and measuring. Licking the peanut butter off the spoon. Watching as she cooked the gooey mixture on the stove then dropped those chewy, chocolaty, oatmeal morsels onto the counter. All the while four sets of eyes locked were on, waiting for the delicious cookie to cool and harden. A cold glass of milk and a couple cookies could make any day special

Every time I make the cookies the memories flood back.

You all know it, the smells and tastes that can set the memory part of your brain spinning out of control. My mother-in-law use to make this recipe with round steak smothered in green peppers, tomatoes and brown gravy. Every time I make it the house overflows with this amazing smell. At least one of the members of the family remark on Gram’s steak recipe as the aroma permeates the air.

But it’s not just the smells and tastes. When Kirk’s mother passed away no one wanted her iron skillets. I grabbed them up and every time I cook in them (so far) the meal has turned out wonderful. My Sheppard’s Pie tastes better, the pepper and steak smells better, and the feeling I get when I use the pan is like a soft cloud that settles down over my shoulder. It’s a fog like effect that allows me glimpses back through the years. Glimpses of moments when I remember seeing the pan in the oven with sweet potatoes for a Thanksgiving dinner or with the bottom covered with bacon grease waiting the frying of eggs for breakfast. It’s the wonderful memories and many incredible meals that are part of the simple piece of iron.

Memories in smells and tastes. Not pictures to look at, but moments treasured throughout a lifetime.

Those Were the Days

Once when I was little I spent two weeks at my Grandparents farm in Southern Ohio. I loved it there. I would get up early and head out to the hills, exploring all the caves and hollows in the area. A couple times we got lost, but always ended up on some road that would eventually lead us home. Back then no one worried about us being out on our own for hours on end. The only thing we were told to watch out for was Copperheads. And to be quite honest I never saw a single one in the thirty some years I visited. Oh, we saw our share of Rat snakes, they were huge and Grandpa Blake had killed one that made its way into the cellar. I didn’t travel to the cellar too much after that story.

So I was staying at the farm and when we were out exploring I stepped on a thorn. It was embedded deep under the skin. I made it back to the house, probably owing and oohing along the way to let the cousins know just how much pain I was in. Grandma got out her needle to remove the culprit. The largest portion came out but the tip broke off inside.

“We should take her to the Doctor,” one of the cousins said.

I didn’t want to go to the doctor. I’d recently had stitches in my hand from falling into a bush while jumping in a large box, I know, explains so much. So the doctor was out of the question.

“No,” Grandma Blake said, “we’ll just put some milk bread on it.”

Wait, milk bread?

Everyone gathered round while she soaked a piece of white yeast bread in milk. The she put the bread on my foot and wrapped it in a piece of white cloth. We played a competitive game of 500 Rummy and had a snack of coke and potato chips then off to bed. Grandma had me keep the bandage on overnight.

The next morning I limped down to the kitchen and Grandma lovingly removed the wrapping. There, stuck in the center of the bread was the tip of the thorn. The spot where the dark piece had been lodged was clean and clear.

It was my first look at some of the old fashioned remedies that have been around forever. My other Grandmother, Sally swore by vinegar. We would stop by to visit and there was always a gallon jug by her chair. She explained that it was the only thing that worked on her arthritis so she rubbed it on her joints. She said it always made her feel better, but I always suspected it was the Highball made from Echo Springs and Diet Fresca that made the real difference. But she swore by vinegar with the passion that the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding swore by Windex.

Some other home remedies I’ve come across through my investigations:

1. Gargle with warm salted water for sore throat.

2. Meat tenderizer for jelly fish stings.

3. Egg White facial.

4. WD40 spray on aching joints…I know but my niece swears it works.

5. To stop bleeding from a cut, put it in flour to act as a clotting agent.

How about you? Do you have any home remedies to share?

Google It

You’re sitting at the table with the family, trying to remember what actor starred in what movie, and five iPhones come out. (Well, 4 iPhones and one Android…my son doesn’t do Apple.) It’s a race to see who can google the information the quickest.

I personally miss the old days. The days where you would play the "guessing game." Throwing the names and movies back and forth until someone, anyone would come up with the answer. It went like this.

"You know, that guy...the one with the mustache."
“He was in the movie with Nicolas Cage where he was a ghost guy.”

“Ghost rider.”

“Yeah. He played the ghost from the Old West.”

“And he was in the reindeer movie.”

“Rudolph?”

“No, the other reindeer.”

“Dasher, Dancer, Prancer…”

“That’s it. Prancer.”

"Is he married to the lady that was in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

“I think so, what was her name?”

“Something Ross.”

“Katherine.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Is it Sam Ellison?”

“No, but I think that’s close.”

“Elliott, Sam Elliott.”

By now the conversation has hit frenzy. Names and words flying through the air like Nic Cage on the bike in Ghost Rider. I loved it. Getting from point A to point B, everyone getting involved in the chase.

But, now, in two pushes of a button we get Sam Elliott.

Where’s the fun? I remember once we couldn’t come up with the answer and I woke up at two in the morning and yelled “Yentl!!” Kirk didn’t even wake up. But I knew that I had come up with the answer. It was as if I’d won an Olympic Race. Smiling to myself, I rolled over and tried to sleep. But the joy was almost too much to let me sink back into slumber.

Soon, we won’t even need to utilize what little part of the brain we operate on. We’ll merely push a button. But I guarantee the feeling that comes with finding the answer hidden in the recess of your mind will never be replaced by any device. So put them away. Use that brain. Expand that knowledge, because eventually you’ll turn fifty and won’t remember... wait, where was I?

(FYI..I would never forget who Sam Elliott is, it was just an example.)

Everything Old is New Again

Bazooka Bubble Gum, Twizzlers, Dots, Candy Necklaces, Pixie Sticks, Neccos, Bull’s Eyes, Chico Sticks, Candy Buttons, and Rock Candy on a stick. If you are my age, you will recognize these as the piece de resistance from any little league stand throughout the nation. You remember...little league, Saturday afternoons, downtown ball fields? The parents would give us a quarter and we would head to the stand and pick out our favorites. Hours later, the stickiness of left over red licorice shoelaces outlined our lips, we’d head home for dinner and bed, knowing full well that the next week we would do the whole thing over again.

I came from a small town. Every Saturday, the fields behind Jefferson Elementary would be overrun with little leaguers, decked out in their official team colors, running the grounds like ants poked in a nest. Constantly moving, they would warm up in preparation for battle.

The parents and siblings would haul chairs and blankets out from the back of the family station wagon. Coolers with drinks and sandwiches were placed on the corner of the blanket, marking the spot where the family would spend the afternoon. Extended family members would show up as smoke from the hamburgers and hotdogs at the concession stand would waft through the grounds, reminding the kids that it was quarter time.

We would all converge. Even though it was the same candy every week, we would stand there like pirates looking over their bounty. We all tried to ensure that we got as much bang for our bucks as possible. One time, I thought getting ten fireballs for a nickel was a great buy. Then I ate the first one; let’s just say fireball was an appropriate name for the candy. My face turned red and tears ran down my face. Lucky for me I had a Dad who always said, “The hotter the food the better.” He bought the fireballs and I headed to the stand for a Snow cone to tame the heat. I got what we called a "suicide cone," covered in every color and flavor, a perfect cure for the intense heat that was burning my taste buds. To this day if someone is eating a Fireball the smell will cause my eyes and mouth to water.

The ball field was also located right next to Dairy Queen. If you were smart enough or had the ability to hold back a nickel from the concession stand, you could get a junior vanilla, chocolate or swirl cone. Most of my friends went with the swirl, but I have always been a vanilla girl and still am to this day.

With the whole world talking about childhood obesity, I find it interesting that we would scarf down all that candy and ice cream and still stay healthy. Maybe it was because we were allowed to eat the bad things that one day only. Soda was a special treat we got on Friday night when we had pizza. Candy was allowed only on Saturday at the park. We also spent most of our free time riding bikes around town, hanging at the pool in summer, playing tag or hide and seek. We were constantly in motion, not sitting in front of a computer where our only friend is the avatar we have created in our image to fight the battle looming on the set in front of us.

Maybe that’s what made the Saturday concession stand so special. We weren’t permitted candy during the week. It was the one day we were allowed to travel outside the rules and fill up with the abundance of sugary sweets. It made us appreciate the moments even more. As for the mathematical implications...when you’re trying to get as much of the sugary treasure as possible you learn to budget accordingly. It was a lesson learned early in life, and the best tasting lesson ever.

Where?

Recently I traveled to my home town of Gahanna, Ohio. I was born in Columbus but besides those first few days in the hospital I spent my childhood in a town that had been home to generations of Blake’s and Graumlich's. My Grandfather was one of the first constables and the other started the fire dept. Both my parents were well known throughout the community and my brothers, sister and I knew better than to come on the radar by doing anything wrong. The whole town knew who we were and what we were up to ALL THE TIME!!! It led us to be either

a. Very good

or

b. Very sneaky

I’d like to think we straddled the fence most of the time. Meaning, we were very good except for those few times we got caught.

Then thirty years ago when my husband and I got married he took a job in Florida and we have lived down south ever since. Yearly we make the trek back home to visit family, brothers and sisters who still live in the area and my Mom. My Father passed away as did my husband’s parents; we cherish the time spent with our remaining parent.

The problem lies in the fact that everything has changed in the small hometown I remember. I grew up knowing how to get around town by landmarks that are no longer at hand. Gone are the large family farms that gave way to housing developments. More than once I’ve been lost on some back road trying to recognize one small thing from the past. Occasionally I notice they have named a development after the previous owners of the family farm. Smith Acres or Rodebaugh Ranches. It helps a little, “Oh this must be where the Smith’s use to live”, but mostly if I have to leave the downtown area I’m lost.

It seems to frustrate the people who live around here. The ones that have seen the change take place gradually, watched as the sprawl took in those beautiful old family farms. But I still see the place through the eyes of a young woman from thirty years ago. When I had to find a soccer field last week that was located in a development they built around the beautiful pond in the woods where we use to ice skate, well let’s just say I had to stop and ask for directions not once, but twice. (This is for you Connie, tell Stan I asked for direction.) Nothing looked familiar. I could have been in a completely different town in a completely different state. Places, like life, change. I guess it’s just up to us to try to make the necessary adjustments.

I Blame Norman Rockwell

That’s right. I’m calling Norman Rockwell out.

He’s the man who painted the iconic pictures that told the world how families should look for the holidays. He showed them dressed in their Sunday best surrounded by extended family, all smiling as they sit around the Thanksgiving table while Grandpa cuts the turkey.

Don’t get me wrong, I love his paintings. But they do set everyone up for disappointment. Has anyone ever duplicated the scene in “Thanksgiving Day”?

I have memories of going to Grandpa and Grandma’s farm when I was young and everyone sitting around the table while Grandpa carved the turkey. And with my other Grandparents (we were a family that did the every other year thing) we did indeed dress in our Sunday best and cram into the formal dining room for Thanksgiving.

But in this day and age, we’re lucky if everyone can even make it home for the holidays. The world has become such a small place. Back in my youth, you were supposed to grow up, get married and move down the street. Now, I have friends who have kids that are teaching in Japan, working with the Peace Corps in Africa and basically spread across the continental United States. And with businesses open the Friday after Thanksgiving it gets harder and harder to get home for that one day.

My kids all work in the service industry and this year my son has to be at work at three a.m. for Black Friday. The youngest is a waitress and will be working a double on the day after and the middle child’s office is open and she needs to be there for her usual eight hours. I’ve planned dinner at one so they can all get to bed early. Last year, I had Thanksgiving on the Sunday before. It seemed easier for them all to take a whole day off and not be stressed, because for me Thanksgiving is about the family coming together more than the actual day. Not the forced making time, the juggling of the when and where, that causes the holiday to become a have too, not a want too.

Families have changed since that picture was painted. The image spoke to a time when the nuclear family, a mother, father and their children was the norm. Now families are made up of so many different and wonderful factions. If I could paint a Thanksgiving picture, it would be of a group of people, all sizes and shapes, all colors, all the many different parts that make up a modern family. They would be holding hands around the table, young and old alike celebrating just being together, just sharing in the moment. And isn’t that how it should be?

Not MY Drama Mama

I don’t remember my life being as filled with Drama as the kids today. Again it could be because I had three kids to take care of and a house to run by the time I was 27 so the only drama in my life came from the soap , Days of Our Lives. But it seems that every time I talk to one of my kids, or my friends tell me about their kids, there is always some kind of drama. It could be as simple as being slighted about a party invite or as important as a job change. I don’t remember calling my Mom or Dad about life changes, but it seems the generation we raised comes to us for guidance on so many issues.

The older I get the less I enjoy those moments. I worry that if I help them make a decision it will be the wrong one and I’ll feel guilty for my part. Now it could be that when I was twenty-two, my husband and I moved twelve hundred miles away from family and friends. We had only each other to depend on. There was no one to run to when we needed to make the big decisions. I don’t remember dwelling on decisions for too long. It was called life and one was just a passenger on the ride.

“What do you mean you’re pregnant?” One of life’s better surprises.

“What do you mean you overdrew the checking account?” So began the years of Wendy being banned from the checkbook.

“Why are the lights out? What do you mean you forgot to pay the bill?” Seriously the bill and check are lying right there but I was out of stamps.

“You shot a rod in your engine? How about putting oil in the car once in a while?”

One of my all time favorites, phone rings and I hear my husband’s voice on the phone, “Honey, I’m going to be a little late.”

I hear women screaming in the background, “It’s going to blow.”

“What’s going on?” I said, more than a little concerned by the screaming women.

“Your car is on fire in the parking lot.” My husband said, so matter-of-factly that the words didn’t match the situation

“What?”

“Listen I got to go, the fire department’s here.” A dial tone starts buzzing an obvious sign he’s left me hanging to tend to more pressing matters.

I get the story later. My husband was driving my car that day as I took the good car to haul the kids for their annual Doctors appointment. He was driving home from work when the car started smoking, so he pulled in to a Denny’s parking lot. He went in to use the payphone, (again we were around before cells) and when he glanced around the restaurant, customers and staff alike were diving behind counters and under tables. One woman was pointing out the front window and when my husband turned he saw flames shooting out from under the hood of our car. Thus the phone call and visit from the fire dept. The car was totaled and the insurance company gave us twelve hundred dollars. We thought we were loaded until we starting looking for a new car. Let’s just say we were a one car family for quite a while.

During these trying times I came up with a policy I still live by today. If the problem is something I’ll still be dealing with in say a year, it’s a real problem. But on the other hand if it’s something that I won’t even remember in a year, then it needs to be tucked away nicely in that chest in the attic. There it will become one of those random stories we occasionally take out and tell to the children to prove that no matter how bad things get life goes on.

Change will do you good...or not.

My husband recently celebrated his twenty year anniversary at work. Before that he worked for a public accounting firm for thirteen years. I bring this up because our generation is known for staying put. Not me, but that’s because I went back to work at various times throughout the years to help financially when needed. My husband and I decided when we had a family that we’d do without in order for me to stay home. So, I took jobs while the kids were in school, selling unfinished furniture, managing a Wendy’s, working the desk at a health club and, well, the list is just too long. But it seems our children's generation is constantly moving from job to job.

Phone rings. “I’m thinking about taking my life in a different direction.” “Yeah,” I answer. I have to think, does the person want me to:
a. Really discuss this issue honestly and tell them my true feelings on the subject.
b. Sit and listen in silence as they bounce the ideas off me, adding only the occasional uh-huh, yeah, I see…or
c. Be the cheerleader… Agree to anything they say because they’re mind is already made up and they just called for confirmation that their decision is the right one. Sometimes it’s exhausting just trying to decipher what they need. “Yeah, I’m kind of tired of all the bullshit at work so I’m thinking about going back to school.” “Um sounds good.” Still unsure about which route to take I hang back to assure myself I’m following the right script.

“What do you think?”

“What do I really think?”

“Yeah, of course, why else do you think I called?”

I dive in head first, “Do you know what you want to do?” “Maybe education, I like teaching kids to do stuff.” “There’s a lot more to teaching. I mean you need to be committed to being with kid’s day in and day out. And it’s not like the old days. Now there’s so much paper work and don’t get me started on the whole teaching to the test stuff.” “So you think I shouldn’t be a teacher?” “That’s not what I said. Maybe you should talk to your cousin Frank. He’s a teacher. He might be able to help you out.” “But you sound like you don’t think it’s a good idea.” Time to change tactics…. “Um, I don’t know, what do you think?” “I think it might be fun, to make a difference.” “Yeah, I see your point.” “Good, well I’m going over to the college to see what I need to do to get my teaching credentials.” “Sounds good. You know honey; you can do anything you put your mind to.” “Yeah, thanks for the talk.”

Two weeks later after I’ve worried about the costs of the kid going back to school, if they would be happy in the teaching profession, discussing it with my husband, my friends and my mother, I carefully broach the subject. “So how did the meeting with the college go?” “What meeting?” A look of confusion crosses their face. “About going back to school to get your teaching certificate?” “What?” “You called,” I start. “Oh that. That was just an idea I had. I changed my mind. I’m still thinking about changing jobs, but I don’t want to do anything until I’m sure.” “Sure about what?” “About what to do.” B. uh huh… C. you can do anything… usually they really, and I mean really don’t want A

.

Where Did You Come From (Or it’s all a matter of perception)

Last year my husband had a reunion of sorts. We were in Ohio for a family gathering and we got together with a group of accountants he’d started out with thirty years ago. And although I went to every softball game, basketball game, and social gathering back then, I was busy having babies. I was tired and possibly not the most receptive to the single men and women and the bar scene they frequented after every game. But I tried. It wasn’t that I didn’t fit in, but these were all professionals and while they were talking about who was making partner, I was just happy I wasn’t leaking breast milk. Imagine my surprise when two of the women began reminiscing with me about the great parties back in the good old days. Maybe they didn’t realize that I wasn’t really a big part of the party scene, or maybe they were just including me in the conversation to be nice. But one of them said something that made me smile. She was talking about the people that had moved on and not made it back for the get together. Many in that profession are moved to other states or even countries when they are promoted.

So this woman says, “God, do you remember that one wife that was always hauling those two kids with her? I remember thinking how horrible it must be to have to drag kids everywhere.”

The other woman took over. “Yeah, I was here when she was pregnant. We were all in our softball uniforms and there she was out to here.” She motioned with her hand and if I had been that big I would have weighed over two hundred pounds. Wait. When I was pregnant, I did.

Here was my dilemma. Do I nod my head? Be the nice one and let on like I’m remembering the same thing? Or do I call them on it? Let them know that back then I was taking care of two babies while my husband was working 800 hours overtime for the good of the company. Trying my best to put on makeup and make it to the game and share in his down time from a high pressure job. Sometimes I would cry on the way to the game because it was just so hard to get two kids and myself ready while trying to look good. Then, standing there next to these petite, professional, single women who had no cares in the world but to be cute and clever, I would question my self-worth. These women spent long days with my husband before he came home to a tired, crazy, emotional female.

So I stood there, listening to them describe the young me and for a moment the feelings I had back then came flowing over me.

“What was her name?” One of the women said.

“It was me,” I said, a note of pride in my voice.

“No, it couldn’t have been you.”

“I’m pretty sure; I was the only one in the group with kids. And I was out to here.” I exaggerated the berth. “Do you have kids?” I asked trying to turn the conversation.

“Yeah, two teenage boys,” the first woman answered.

“How nice,” I said. “Mine are in their late twenties, out on their own and doing wonderfully. We’re very proud, and just think you were there when they were babies. Amazing.”

My husband walked up and put his arm around my waist. “What are you three talking about?”

“The good old days,” I smiled, realizing that was just what they were. Because whenever my wonderful husband wasn’t in the field he would run over and lift our son onto his shoulders, or carry our baby daughter around to show her off to all his coworkers. He’d sit next to me on the blanket and talk and laugh with me and the kids while the others were drinking beer and partying. Then, when they all went to the bar, we would drive to the Dairy Queen and splurge on a banana split, his side chocolate fudge, my side strawberry, with marshmallow dividing the two.

I wish I could have thanked those women for reminding me that for all my insecurities about them back then, I wouldn’t have changed my life for theirs for one moment.

Yeah. I liked the story the first hundred times you told it!!

The one problem with surrounding yourself with the same friends for years is that you have heard all of their stories and they have heard all of yours. When we get together with the family for reunions or holidays the same stories were heard over and over again. “Remember when Wendy was jumping around in that box and fell into the bush out back? She had to have eight stitches. Doc Stratton stitched her up at his office downtown. His office had that crazy sailfish on the wall...the one that had the eye that followed you wherever you sat?”Another relative would chime in. “Then there was the time she and her friend Cathy snuck out of the house to go to a party. What were they, thirteen? Boy, she was grounded for a year!”

These stories not only get told over and over, but they often take on a new and better twist. “Daddy had to rush her to Doc’s because she was bleeding like crazy. What was it, thirty stitches?”You come to expect the stories from family. They saw you through all of the strange boys you dated, like the one that would run up and down the street in front of your house for over an hour, but never come in. Or the one your sister dated that would never come up to the house. The horn of the car would blow and she’d be gone. We still tease her about that..was there ever really was a guy?

Your family has seen you through the clothes of the sixties; the miniskirts, large bell-bottoms and gauze. The seventies with the halters, silk shirts and maxi dresses and those platform shoes. Then the eighties... well, I spent most of the early eighties in Maternity wear. But even that isn’t sacred. “Do you remember how huge you got with the second baby? I mean HUGE.” I HAVE to listen with family. It’s what we do. We sit around the kitchen table eating Massey’s and reminiscing. The memories and stories are who we are.But with friends we know we can look at each other and smile and simply say, “That’s a good story, I enjoyed it the first hundred times you told it.”-Wendy

Dogone

So the kids are grown and out on their own. You have the freedom to be having sex anywhere you want and anytime you want, but you notice a noise at the foot of the bed. It’s the dog, the one that your youngest child convinced you to get when the former family pet died. Your daughter was eighteen at the time and heading off to college, but you’d always had a dog and this one was the cutest thing. You get the dog and a year later your baby’s off to college but the dog is still there. Now you have the vet bills and the boarding bills (because you want to travel) and you have to walk, feed, and play with the dog. Don’t get me wrong, we love our dog. In fact if my husband had to choose between the dog and some members of the family (me included) the dog would be the hands down winner.

A year ago when our daughter got her own place, I suggested she take the dog to live with her. After all it was her that wanted the dog initially. You would have thought I had murdered someone. My husband wouldn’t speak to me for days. But I’m the one home with the dog day in and day out. I’m the one that makes all the plans for boarding and grooming and I’m the one the dog hates when he gets a shot or I leave him at the kennel. And, honestly, the dog is kind of neurotic. When we leave him at the kennel, it takes a couple weeks for him to become socialized back into the group. We finally reached an agreement that when we travel one of the kids takes the dog to their home so he isn’t left at the kennel. The way I figure if I travel enough they’ll have him as much as I do. See win, win.

To Gray Or Not To Gray

Many women my age have started that age-old battle between grey or not to grey. It really isn’t a battle, more like a war. Here’s how it goes for me. The roots of my hair started going gray about the time I turned 45. The rest of my hair was a wonderful shade called Mahogany, with caramel highlights. (My hair has always been a mousy brown so I started coloring it in my teens and have no idea what the actual color is). But I noticed that as the hair grew out these strands of gray started to emerge from the base. I would style my hair a little differently in order to make the color last a few extra weeks. When I turned fifty, I made the decision to give up the fight and go gray. I went to the hair stylist and had my hair cut back to where the gray ended. Now my hair was gray and an inch long all over. I loved the short hair. My hair has always been naturally curly and I could just finger toss it and go. But suddenly I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. As it grew out, I felt like I was suddenly looking like that sweet old grandmother down the street. The one that wears the housedress all day and has her hair pulled back in a bun.

Now, don’t go all, “I have grey hair and I love it. How dare you judge me?” I’m not. If you’re happy with your hair go for it. For me it just wasn’t the right time. But what to do? The upkeep on the darker hair was time consuming as well as costly. So I set up an appointment with a new hair specialist. "Specialist" means that instead of my usual forty-five dollars for cut and color, this one was a hundred and twenty-five. I guess if you put specialist on the end you can triple the money. But I digress. I went to the new stylist and she suggested that we go lighter with highlights so the gray might blend in. I’ll try anything once. She did her magic and when she turned me to look into the mirror I was overwhelmed with the results. She’d lightened, trimmed and straightened the whole mess and I looked amazing. How could I tell? Well, if you look in the mirror and don’t grimace, it’s a good thing. When I walked into the house after the appointment my husband said, “You look incredible.” Then he proceeded to wrap his arms around me for a little snuggle. The best praise ever. Someday I think I might try the gray again. But for now I’m a happy fifty something blond. Who knew?

Speaking of my husband and snuggling, there's the issue of sex. That’s right... sex. It really is better after fifty. For one thing, the hot flashes and the night sweats that accompanied the transition from 40 to 50, that soaked your nightshirt, sheets, and blankets and left a pool of water under your bed have stopped. The crazy ass mood swings that said oh, I want you, followed by don’t touch me, have ceased. Nothing sexy about those. There are no kids to interrupt so the word spontaneity is back in the bedroom. And finally (drum roll) if you’re like me and past menopause, there is no chance of getting pregnant.

My husband and I started our family early and rounded out the family with our third child when we were 27. Nowadays, many people don’t start their families until their thirties or early forties. You people don’t know what you’re missing.

There is nothing like that Sunday morning snuggle. You get up, have your coffee, read the paper and then the glance comes from across the room. Four hours later, much spent cuddling and talking; you get out of bed relaxed and ready to take on the day.

And it’s not just on the home front. Since we are traveling more we can experience this wonderful new freedom in many exotic places. That said I still don’t want the housekeeping staff to know what goes on so I keep my nice clean towel handy. There is nothing as romantic as when your husband takes you by the hand and leads you to a romantic place and you say, “Wait I have to get the towel.”
Now that I’ve grossed out my kids and possibly my mother with this topic, I’ll move on.

I blame Tiger Woods for my new haircut.

I tend to get overly emotional about things. Here's the problem. I am the eternal optimist. That's right. I trust. It started with John Edwards. I believed in him, I spoke up for him, and when the news hit, I defended him. "Come on...There's no way those rag mags are telling the truth. Did you see him standing beside his wife? They're Kirk and I, childhood sweethearts that stuck together through thick or thin, good times and bad." I was convinced it was a right wing conspiracy to bring down a good man. WRONG!!! You think I'd learn. Next, there was the kid in the balloon. Again, I imagined the kid had been so upset that he caused the situation of the balloon getting away that he'd hidden from the family, scaring those poor parents, while the world watched. But no, the people involved had conspired to use the child to get on a, wait for it, reality show. I put the event behind me and refused to be one of those people that only saw the worst in people.

BUT THEN TIGER!!!! For years we've known about pro athletes and their voracious need for living life outside the moral compasses. Kobe, Norman, Daly, ARod, we read the stories and watched the dramas unfold. But Tiger was different. He led us to believe that he was a good man. The champion, the NIKE man. People complained about his attitude early in his career. I said, "He's so young, give him time." Or "It's not arrogance, it's confidence." I've seen the man up close. I've watched him interact with his family, and if what I saw was an act then give the man the Oscar.

I don't hold these men up to higher standards because they are in the public eye. They are human, they have the right to screw up just like any of us. But I do hold them to the same standards of all humans,"TREAT OTHERS AS YOU YOURSELF WANT TO BE TREATED" and "LOVE YOUR FAMILY ABOVE ALL OTHERS."

Now on to the haircut. I was pissed. I'd again told everyone I knew that it was the media that takes a little thing like a car accident and makes it news. I blame the whole world who seems to put these people up on pedestals but revels in their downfall. People who smugly say, "I always knew..."

SO... I was getting a hair trim the day the ninth lovely young lady that thought it was okay to have sex with a married man and then grab those fifteen minutes appeared on scene. As I sat in the chair, I told Allison I need a change. I needed to leave the store different than when I came in. I needed a drastic change to set my spirt right.

Hair grows back right? It looks okay, and it will take some time, but in a few months it'll be back to normal. Right?

I'll still look for the good in people and I'll still be shocked and disappointed. But it's the only way I know how to be true to myself. I look for the good and I still believe there's more good in people than we hear. It's just not news.

One last thing...I was at a tournament in Louisville Kentucky and was watching Justin Leonard putt. A young woman next to me was talking and I overheard her say to her friend that he was hot...First Justin is adorable, but hot??? Anyway I leaned over and pointed out his new bride who was walking along the ropes. "Too bad," I said, "You just missed out, he's married."
The woman looked over at my daughter and I and said, "I'd still do him."

Two points...

First, women need to protect and support other women. Rockers, men in sports, in fact any famous or for that matter non famous person who is married, that's a hands off, back off and find your own..

Secondly, our girls need to be taught self esteem. Having sex with someone famous doesn't benefit the woman on any level.

I think that's it for today, but instead of a blog I think you got a rant!!!!!