Cudda

There she sat.  I called her “she” because I considered her to be an extension of myself.

She was a 1972 Plymouth Barracuda, Moss Green with a black leather top.  It was my dad’s dream car that he had bought to drive when he gave my sister and me his old 1968 Chevy II after we had successfully obtained our drivers licenses.  The Chevy II was a tank.  A tan, squared up, four door piece of machinery whose only job was to protect us in our early days behind the wheel. 

But I wanted the power.  I wanted the speed.  And I was the bad one.

I would wait until my sister would ask to use the car on a Friday night before stating that I too had plans and needed wheels. 

“Okay you can have the Barracuda, just be careful.”

“Careful, sure.  You know me, always careful.”

Friday night, Headly Road.  We would all meet and race; the guy with the GTO, the guy with the Pontiac 2x2 and even the guy with the souped up Volkswagen.

Looking back I can’t get over the chances I took on the dangerous winding roads.  I just knew I loved the speed.  I lived for the exhilarating feel of the force that threw you left to right as you took the corners, perilously close to the deep ditches that ran alongside the narrow country roads. 

There were a few minor collisions between some of the other vehicles, but I was lucky enough to come away unscathed.  The worst that happened to me was one winter’s night when I was running against my friend in his Pontiac 2x2.  I knew I didn’t stand a chance, he was fast and a little crazy.  When I pulled his name, I knew I would sit back and race just for the fun of it.  No expectations. 

The road had been salted and was nice and dry.  I sat revving my motor beside the Pontiac, waiting until we got the all clear from the guys that stood along the road at half mile intervals.  The flag flew and we were off.  Tires screeching, the smell of rubber burning mixed with the stench of exhaust fumes. 

It was all going well.  He was ahead by two car lengths at the first bend.  As I came out of the turn my wheels skidded on the salt that had accumulated by the edge of the road.  As abruptly as my tires had slid they just as suddenly caught in the gravel throwing the car into the ditch.  Slushy snow and mud flew over the front of the sleek car.  The exact moment of the loss of control remains a blur to this day but my seat belt held me securely in place.  I sat stunned for a few moments.   Friends ran to my car. 

“Are you okay?”

“Holy shit!”

I heard the mumbling s of my friends but still wasn't piecing it together.

I got out of the car and sat on the ground.  My friend Scott walked around the car.  “No damage.  Just a bunch of mud and grass smashed up in the front fender.

Did I think about the possible outcome of being injured?  Did I worry about my own safety? 

No. I was worried that I had wrecked my Dad’s car and I was going to get killed when I got home.

I pulled myself together, helped pull the car out of the ditch with my friend’s truck and went to his house to hose down the car, wiping off any remnants of the dirt and debris.  There was only a small scratch in the chrome on the front bumper. 

For years after it wasn’t the danger or the wreck that would bother me.   I would see that little scratch and it was a constant reminder that I had let my father down.   

Time Keeps on Slipping...

           My husband and I just took a 17 day vacation to my childhood home in Ohio. While there, Kirk played in a three day member guest golf tournament with his brother Scott, brother-in-law Doug and friend Brian.  

          The first week was a whirlwind of family gatherings, shopping and relaxing by the pool. 

          The second week, my Mom and I attended the Ohio State Fair, went to a concert on the river and watched Fire on the Water.  We went to the small town of Utica for peaches, had dinner and lunch at several new restaurants, visited with every family member in town and attended Sunday church services. 

         It was a lovely, typical vacation spent at the home of my youth.

         Halfway through, things changed.  I was reading the paper and saw that a classmate had died.  I’d met up with her recently at a reunion of sorts and she was smiling and laughing with the rest of us.  Her demise had been quick and heartbreaking. 

         Once again, I was hit with the reality that the time we have on earth is fleeting.  I was happy I had seen her in May, but wondered how someone could be there one minute and gone the next.  As I was dealing with this unexpected loss the news came that we had lost a family member in a very tragic way. 

          Both were around my same age.  Both enjoyed life and were loved by their families.

          So, I question.  Sitting in the chair at the service for my family member, I kept looking around, wondering what we were doing here.  How could we lose someone so young?

          I didn’t question when my 99 year old Grandmother passed.  She’d survived breast cancer and lived with diabetes.  Her last months were spent in a nursing home and she hated lying in a bed hooked up to machines.  I understand that.

          But the shock of these two losses still haunts me. 

          It makes me want to spend a little more time with family.  Doing things I love.  Write a little more.  Garden a little more.  Buy that Jeep I want, no matter how impractical.  Take those trips, walk the dog, hug everyone.  Stop spending my time worrying about things I can’t change and putting time into things I can.  Say yes instead of no.  Yes, I will go to that concert, even though I hate crowds.  Yes, I will meet you for lunch or dinner even though I don’t feel like going out. 

         If I see someone that needs help and think I should step up and help them, instead of waiting for someone else to step up, I will move.  I will be a better me.  Patient with my family and friends and letting all the insignificant disputes fall by the wayside. 

         I want to celebrate this life and hope that someday, someone will say, “She lived a splendid life and had no regrets.”

Carnival

A short story I wrote recently...................

The clanging of the gears sliding through the complex contraption screech as they rub metal on metal.  I glance up at the mammoth amusement ride they call The Monster. 

The man running the machine nods in my direction.  “You’re next.  Just stand on the platform and sit back when the seat swings forward.”

My five-year-old daughter stands next to me on her tiptoes, arms reaching towards the sky.  “Momma, I want to go this high.”

We step on the platform as the scoop like chair sweeps us off our feet.  As we sail past, the man reaches over and locks the bar in place as we make the turn heading upward.  My daughter keeps her hands in the air.  I grip tightly to the bar and close my eyes.

The large wheel starts and stops as he locks other riders firmly in place.  Finally, we begin our trip.  Up and up, round and round.  I look out over the festive scene below.  Bright lights, a myriad of brilliant colors dot the scenery.  The aroma of popcorn, mixed with the burnt sugar smell of cotton candy wafts through the air. 

Below us, a man shouts at carnival goers as they walk passed. “Guess your age, guess your weight.”

In the background bells ring, horns blare.

The seat we are riding in stops abruptly at the top.  It swings in the air, finally settling in position high above the chaos below.  My daughter leans forward, causing the bucket to sway.  She wants to experience the view by looking straight down.  I grab the back of her pants as she leans farther forward, the bar digging into her tiny stomach below the Hello Kitty tee. 

“Sit back,” I yell above the machine and the chorus of noise from the carnival below.

My daughter looks back at me over her shoulder, “I’m not scared.”

“It’s dangerous,” I plead. “Please sit back.”

She sits back, smiles up at me and then pats my hand.  “I’m okay, Momma. Don’t be afraid.”

Thirteen years later. 

Two weeks ago, my daughter graduated from high school.  Due to an early admission to college she is packed and ready to drive with her best friend the four hours to her dormitory.

We stand in the drive.  My husband is snapping pictures for her memory book I started when she was born.

I hug her close.

“It’s okay, Mom.  I’m not scared.”

“It’s just dangerous out there.”  I hold her close, imagining that if I don’t let go, she can’t move on.

“I’m not five.”

As I let her go, I want to tell her that to me she will always be that five-year-old, staring down from the top of the Ferris wheel, unafraid.  I want to tell her that her independence and fearlessness scares the hell out of me.  I want her to know that no matter where she goes or what she does, she will always be that small child reaching for the sky and my love and my fears will always be with her.

You Clean, I Clean

I call it the Bum clean effect and it goes like this. You are walking by a side table and notice there is some dust on the picture frame. You pick up said frame and give it a quick polish on your back side. You know you’ve done it. It’s one of those cleaning secrets no one talks about.

There are other variations of this cleaning process.

One I call the I already have on an old flannel shirt, why not use the sleeve to wipe down the dresser as I walk by.

Another I call the I’m on my way to the laundry room and have an old sock, why not stick it on your hand and wipe down that mirror in the hallway.

These are not things I have always done. They are the little shortcuts I have come up with over the years to allow me those few extra moments of down time I so deserve.

If I had to walk all the way up to the closet where I keep my cleaning products, then to the laundry room for my cleaning towels, I would waste around ten minutes I could be writing, gardening or reading.

I figure if I add up my bum cleaning, flannel shirt wiping, old sock shinning minutes, I have probably saved almost a week of extra free time.

Again I say…it’s the little things.

It Was Wonderful to See You!

It was the fourth of three outfits I’d tried on.

“That’s cute,” my mom said.

“I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

She smiled.

“Should I wear my hair straight? Or curly?”

“Curly,” Mom said. 

“I wish I didn’t have to wear these damn glasses.”

“I’m sure most people your age have them.”

Outfit on, hair and make-up done.  One last check of Facebook on my friend Mel’s page to make sure the event was still on, then head out to the impromptu class reunion.

I walked in not knowing what to expect.  It had been over 35 years since I had last seen many of the people who had RSVP’d to the event.    I stepped up to the bar and looked around and recognized NO ONE!!! 

“Are you with the class reunion?” The bartender asked.

“Yeah,” I replied, ready to turn and run.

“They are on the other side.”

A deep breath escapes my body.  I round the bar and there they are, the faces from my past.  We’ve changed, but in their eyes I see the boys and girls of my youth.

I make the rounds.  I hear the stories; the marriages, the kids, the divorces and the deaths.  We reminisce about the good times and the bad.  We talk about the classmates we’ve lost, all too young.

Each person had a story, the story of their life.  Each was unique, but there was always that underlying similarity.  We’d grown older.  We’d lived our lives.  We’d struggled, we’d failed, we’d succeeded and we’d survived. 

It was wonderful catching up, but so hard to get around to everyone.  My best friend from childhood was there with her new husband, as was my favorite cousin who was a year behind me all through school.  Close friends and passing acquaintances filled the outdoor area.  

Someone thought to bring a yearbook and a couple of times I had to put the name to the face from the pages of the chronicles of our youth.

Laughter filled the night as we reminisced about our past and chatted about our future. 

It was late when I got home after dropping two of the girl’s at their hotel. 

“So did you have fun?” A voice came from the darkness of my mother’s room.

“I did,” I said.  “You know how sometimes you don’t see someone for years and then when you get together it feels like yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“That’s how it was.”

I’m so glad we took the opportunity to gather together. 

Life is short and every aspect of our life is important. 

We can’t have a future without celebrating our past.

 So, to all my friends that came out, it was wonderful seeing you and let’s not make it so long between get-together’s.  

Does It Have To Be Either Or ???

I have been reading lately about the stay at home Mom vs. the working Mom. Since I’ve been both I felt I might be able to help with the discussion.   

Both are hard work. 

When the kids were little, I stayed home and it was like I was a freaking day camp counselor.  Monday was library story hour, Tuesdays and Thursdays we’d head to the pool for swim lessons, Wednesday was Dreher Zoo for kids’ days and Fridays we went to the beach.  Occasionally we would head out to one of the many parks in the area and have a picnic. 

We’d head home for lunch and the kids would nap while I did the needed house work.  My sister once gave me a plaque that said, ‘My house is clean enough to be healthy, but dirty enough to be happy.’  Then came play time. Daniel would play computer games and the girls usually played dress up or Barbie.  At 4:00, I would start supper.  I always had family dinners at 5:30 just like Mom.  I loved those times, with Kirk listening as the kids told about their day.

As each kid went off to school, the schedules changed a little, but it was basically busy mornings and working afternoons.  I got involved in PTA, was a room Mom, and volunteered for field tips.  It was my job.  I didn’t get performance assessments, I didn’t get raises or bonuses, but I got hugs and kisses and I was there to kiss boo boos and hug hurts away.

When the kids went to middle school, I went to work.  I worked at a Barnes and Noble in the morning so I would be home in the afternoon for dinner and bedtime.  The juggling involved was sometimes overwhelming.  Get home, make dinner, spend time with family while doing household chores, read the kids a book before bed and then hugs and kisses before falling into my own bed, completely exhausted.

High school came and they needed me less so I took a job at an unfurnished furniture store.  It was small and family run; I felt it was a great fit.  I still rushed out the door at 4 to be home in time for dinner and evenings with family.  With an early quitting time, I was able to make the tennis matches, drama productions and softball games followed by family dinner at the local sports bar.

When the older kids went to college, I quit working and decided to volunteer at Quantum House in West Palm Beach.  It is much like a Ronald McDonald House, where families stay while their children are hospitalized.  I was there for six months when they offered me a job.  And I loved it.  Helping families in need somehow fulfilled that part of being a Mother that I missed.  I set the routine.  Sundays I would cook meals for the week.  Spaghetti sauce and stews would be put into the freezer.  Laundry, ironing and outfits were hung for the week. 

Then we lost four children in one month.  They ranged in age from 2 to 16 years of age.  I would come home crying.  By this time each of our kids had graduated from college and Kirk said we didn’t need the extra money so if I wanted to stay home we’d be okay.  I thought long and hard before deciding to once again work at home. 

Someone once asked me what I do all day.    I say I write every morning and then I make sure everything is taken care of so when Kirk gets home we can just enjoy our life.  Lawn care, deliveries, dinner, laundry, family gatherings, and a whole assortment of jobs and chores make up my day. 

I have lived both sides of this issue and each is equally hard.  We women live with enough guilt about our decisions to have to defend them constantly to the press, to our families and to each other.  We need to support one another, stop pointing fingers, and stop reading those ridiculous studies that say one way is better than the other. 

 Maybe the men who execute these studies should take the money they invested in them and divide it up among women with families so they can take a two week all expenses paid vacation. It would be a better use of the money, because seriously we women don’t care; we are all working and are just too damn tired.

It’s the Little Things

A few weeks ago I wrote a blog about all those singular moments that make up a life time.  The birth of your children, marriage, or losing a parent.  When you look back over your life these are the things that jump out, they are like the peaks on an echocardiogram…straight line, blip, straight line, blip. 

But recently on one long drive from my home in South Florida to my mother’s home in Ohio I came across some events that made me realize, sometimes it’s the little things.

It started when I was driving the first leg of my journey from West Palm to Greensboro to meet Kirk at the Georgia house.  (I drove up a couple days early and he flew in later.  It saves on his vacation days and hey, it works). 

 I decided to take the back roads up through northern Florida and southern Georgia.  Me, Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw, Rascal Flatts and various other country friends.  My boys and I were cruising up 441 and I drove by acres of tobacco fields.  But there, right in the middle of the sea of green was about an acre of sunflowers.  They were tall and as the bright afternoon sun hit the yellow of the flowers, a brilliant glow reflected off.  It was an amazing sight.  I pulled my car over and sat and enjoyed the wonderful gift. 

A few hours later I made the final turn towards the lake.  I came up over a ridge and looked out over the vast rolling hills that lay in the valley below me.  The sun was on the horizon and there was a light mist rising from the trees.  Again I pulled over and just sat, enjoying the beauty that nature provides.  

A couple days later, Kirk and I were sitting on the back deck, watching a heard of deer cross the golf course behind the cottage and stroll down to a small clover field just at the edge of the woods.  We sat watching, quietly enjoying the view when a humming bird flew up next to where we were sitting and fluttered stationary for what seemed like twenty seconds.

On my trip from Georgia to Ohio I saw acres of farmland, farmers out on tractors, working their fields.  I saw a horse running full out across a pasture, the wind blowing it’s mane up in the air.   I giggled like a school girl imaging it’s joy at just running free.

As I turned into my old neighborhood, I saw my parents home, the one we’ve lived in for over 57 years.  The familiarity always makes me stop and smile. 

I sat by my father’s grave and chatted for awhile.

And as I got into the car to drive the 18 hours back home, I was excited about what wonderful sights I might see and I realized sometimes it’s the little things that make up a lifetime.