Most likely you followed the link from my first, fifth or fourteenth page of Random Thoughts stories. Here are some more, and I hope these are just as amusing and thought provoking. And, as always, your comments are appreciated.
Love. One of those unspeakable four letter words. I started a piece on hate not too long ago, right after the events of September 11. Hate is a much more offensive four letter word, and I will try to finish that Random Thought as the complement to this one. Maybe when we're young, our parents should wash our mouths out with soap for saying it. Because no one can really describe it and it means something different to each person. But without love, would life be worth living?
Over my 50 years on this earth, I've loved many people. My parents, brother and other family members when I was young. I can't remember the number of all the boys in junior and senior high school I thought I was in love with. Sometimes I stayed in love with them for a day, sometimes a week. Sometimes, even longer. Most of them didn't know I existed, much less I loved them. And of course, it wasn't love. It was a silly, teenage crush. I think I really did love Jeff, though he never loved me back. Possibly Ken and Frank, who were my two serious high school romances.
In college, I loved John. He loved with me too, and he was the one to take my virginity. Hard to believe at the start of 1970, I was 20 years old and still a virgin, but I was. We lasted several months, and he bought me a beautiful necklace, that I still have and wear on occasion. He dumped me for my girlfriend, Lynne (I wrote a story about that, called Betrayal) on Valentine's Day, 1971. After that, Fred and I got together, fell in love and were married in October of 1972. I'm not exactly sure when we fell out of love, but it was a gradual and painful process.
The first real love I think I ever felt was when they gave me my newborn daughter to hold. Being pregnant is an incredible experience. To spend nine months creating a life inside your body, from two cells, is just impossible to believe, yet it happens. All the time. But when I looked into Evelyn's eyes, touched her, bonded with her, then I knew what love was. I fell in pure, undying, immediate love. Only with my children have I known what pure love is. I was fortunate to experience that love three times.
People also say they love things. You can love your car. You can love a certain kind of food, sport, flower, a song, a poem. You can love whatever. Personally, I don't believe you can truly love things, but I could be wrong. Things can usually be replaced, unlike people. They don't mean love in the true sense of the word. They like these things a lot, but most people are casual with words and tend to exaggerate.
Back to people love. You can love someone, yet not be in love with them. Once I was in love with someone, so much it hurt to think about it. But he didn't love me back, and I am trying to accept this and move forward. He'll probably be the last man I ever am IN love with, as he had every quality I was looking for in a man. I haven't spoken to him since January of this year, and I doubt I ever will again. But I know I will never forget him and probably never stop loving him.
There's a line from one of my favorite movies, Fools Rush In, that I believe is relevant. Love is a gift, not an obligation. Isabel says it to Alex after she finds out he's been lying to her, again. Eventually, he realizes this, they get back together and the movie has a happy ending. If only giving love and having it returned were that easy in the real world. Perhaps I need to send him a copy of that movie.
I haven't given up on love, however. I do think, it's given up on me.
© 28 September, 2001I made plans to go to the Courthouse Square this morning with Barbara. She said there was an antique show there, but when we met, she wasn't so sure it was there. She had to drive by the Square to get to our meeting place. There weren't many people at the Square, and it didn't look like antiques.
She wanted to drive, so I got in her car and we headed down Gurley Street. This is the street that the Monday Club does trash pick up on, as part of our conservation project. We saw a sign promoting the Quester's Sale at the Smoki Museum, but we could do that later. As we drove up to the Square, Barb thought she saw a man in a boy scout uniform. Sure enough, it was some sort of scouting event. No antiques. Then she realized that today was the 29th, and the antique show was supposed to be the 30th. We weren't going to let that little mistake ruin our day!
We drove out to one of the Monday Club member's home, to drop off some papers for her. I'd never been down that particular street, and it was almost like being in the woods. You'd never believe you were five minutes from downtown Prescott. There were large granite rocks all around, and tall pine trees. I wanted to go in and see her house, because she's fairly well off and I'm sure she has gorgeous things. Her front door was hand carved with a native American design. No one answered the door when we rang the bell, so we continued on, trying to salvage our morning outing.
Our next stop was at the Prescott Fine Arts office. Barb wanted to buy tickets for tonight's performance of Born Yesterday. The office wasn't open till 11 a.m. and it was only 10:30. We had seen a sign for the Quester's Sale at the Smoki Museum. It was just a few blocks away, so we drove over there.
There are two major museums in town, Sharlot Hall Museum is the more famous one. They have several restored homes on their grounds, including John C. Fremont's home. The Bashford House is a beautifully restored Victorian where offices and their gift shop are located. The Smoki is in a house made by Native American Indians. It's stone and rock and very old. The sale was located in a building made of the same materials next door. We went there first.
I'd never heard of the Quester's. Out on the porch, flowers and plants were for sale. Barb is a big gardener, knows all about plants and belongs to a garden club. I know nothing about them except they're pretty and I can tell a rose from a tulip. Once inside, we looked over the items for sale. One room was for their antiques, the other more like a garage sale. Up the three stairs we went to the good stuff. I wasn't too impressed and didn't buy anything. In the other room, was more stuff. But there were also several craft people. One lady made beaded necklaces with little purses on the end. One lady made stuff out of broken dishes. I did end up buying some earrings by a woman, much younger than me, whose name was Sharon. I thought Sharon was a dead name, but she makes beautiful earrings.
Barb took another look at the flowers, and I suggested we go over to the Smoki Museum, because admission was free. I'd never been there, and I was curious. There were displays of native American pottery, baskets, tools and other items. Lots of arrowheads. We looked at the old photographs of the Hopi, Navajo and other tribes. One was captioned, Navajo Prisoners. We learned that the women did most of the building of the houses, like the one we were now in.
A young man with Down's Syndrome, named Kenneth came up to Barb. I'm not sure how the conversation got started, but it turned out today was his birthday, so we sang happy birthday to him. He said he loved Barb, and that she was his mom. She pointed out to him that she was a grandmother, so he said she was his favorite grandma. He gave her a big kiss on the cheek before he left the museum.
We spent some time looking at the Kachina dolls. I'd never really given them any thought, but looking at this display, I became quite enamored of them. There are over 250 of them, each for a different purpose. I particularly liked the Squash one and the Left handed one. The most famous are Kokopelli, the Sun Kachina, the Mudheads and the Owl. I want all of them. Instead I settled for two postcards with pictures of some of them. Barb said she'd loan me her book on them for now. The last thing I need to do is collect something else.
As Barbara was dropping me off at my car, we decided to try again tomorrow to go to the antique show. I have to go to Costco first thing to get the cake and other things for Monday's meeting, take them to the Clubhouse, and we can again meet there. Today was a beautiful day spent with a beautiful friend, who teaches me so much every time we're together.
© 29 September, 2001My love of cooking began at my grandmother's side. My grandparents moved in with my mother, brother and me when I was around 6, shortly after my father died. My grandma Anna took over all the cooking and cleaning for my mom. I don't remember my grandma ever using a cookbook. All her recipes were in her head. Some were written down, and I have a few of those. I don't prepare those recipes just for myself, but it's comforting to know I have them. My favorite and my children's is still her macaroni and cheese, the ideal comfort food. I know how to make that from memory, like she did.
When we moved out to California when I was twelve, my mom had to cook for us. My grandparents stayed back in Chicago. I don't remember much about my mom's cooking, except for one dish. She used to make spaghetti, because it was cheap and filling and could be stretched to last another meal. My boyfriend in high school, Frank, loved her spaghetti. I don't think there was anything special about it, but for some reason he loved it.
I forget what the first cookbook I ever bought was, but my guess it was the Settlement Cookbook, which I still have. My mother had that one, so when I got married, it seemed like the one to start out with. I now have over one thousand cookbooks. Enough for anyone, right? Nope. I went through a dry spell in my collecting, but because of ebay, I now collect cookbooks again.
I was a food and nutrition major in college, but except for cooking for my family, I never really used the knowledge I learned. My favorite cookbooks are community cookbooks, mostly from Junior Leagues. There used to be a store in Minneapolis that sold League cookbooks from all over the country, and I'd buy them there. And there was also a store in Memphis that did the same. At one time, it was my goal to have a book from every state. I'm pretty close to that goal.
After a while, it got very confusing to find a recipe I liked. Which one of the books did it come from? I got a file box and index cards and would keep a record of the recipes my family liked. My daughter told me not too long ago, she was looking through that box, trying to find a recipe for chicken to fix for dinner. Unfortunately, most of my favorite cookbooks are packed away, waiting to be shipped one day, out to me. So, like me, she created her own recipe. I no longer follow a recipe to the letter, and I'm glad she learned she could experiment, too.
There is one cookbook that I was actually involved in getting published. It was the Memphis Symphony League cookbook. Because of ebay, I now own it. There is my name, under committee members. We left Memphis in 1988 before the book was published and sold in stores. I'd looked for it at various shops, but community cookbooks became unprofitable for small stores in the 1990's. And the big chain bookstores seldom carried any, either. That's when my interest in collecting waned.
The therapist I was seeing before the divorce actually gave me some good advice. Not about how to take care of myself, but how to start packing. She suggested I start with twenty-five cookbooks I couldn't live without, and pack those. Then if there were still more, to pack another twenty-five. When I moved to Maine, I did take a few cookbooks with me. I'm not sure why, just that I needed something to convince me I was still me. I bought one Maine community cookbook, but it didn't stir the desire to start collecting again.
It was my friend, Harold, who got me started on ebay. He's a chef in Portland, Oregon, and collects more stuff than I do. One day he pointed out a cookbook on ebay he was interested in. That did it. I have probably bought 50 cookbooks since that day. And I still seldom use them, but I like reading them. The title of one cookbook caught my attention. It's called the Frog Commissary cookbook. Never heard of it before, but it is (was?) a restaurant in Philadelphia. I put it on the items I was watching list, and was shocked to see the price skyrocket. That first one went for over $50! So then I looked out for it. The most recent one sold for $76!! What was so great about this book? I didn't want to spend that kind of money to find out, so I checked the library. I now have in my possession a copy of the book, for free. I've looked through it and decided it's not worth that kind of money. There are some interesting recipes, which I plan to copy and I did try one this morning. Italian scrambled eggs with proscuitto and asparagus. I changed the recipe a bit to fit what ingredients I had in the house, and it was quite tasty. But not worth $76.
I wonder what cookbook the mailman will bring me today. Seems like almost every day Bob knocks on my door with another book. Opening a cookbook is like entering a new world, filled with surprises. These kind of surprises I like.
© 6 October, 2001Once again, I hear thunder off in the distance. I heard it yesterday, and the weather report said it rained down in Phoenix. It's partly cloudy here, but it's not going to rain. I went to the window, and try to see when the dark clouds are, but I don't see them. So where is the thunder coming from? Time to step outside. Over there, to the north are the dark clouds. It's probably raining in Sedona. If it were night time, I'd be able to see the lightning across the sky.
It's amazing what I can hear from up here. The main highway is a mile away, and there isn't much traffic that comes this far up Sunrise. A car on my cul de sac usually gets my attention. There are only five houses and I know all the cars that belong to those houses, so a visiting one stands out. Most of the time though, it's quiet outside. I've gotten to appreciate the quiet over time.
At night, I quite often hear the coyotes. It's still nice enough to leave the windows open at night, though in a few weeks, they'll have to be shut. Most of the insects are gone now, so I no longer hear them. I can't say I miss them. I will miss having the windows open though, and the heater on. It gets pretty chilly up here at night in autumn and winter.
All houses make strange noises. They settle. They creak. I have gotten used to those noises. There was one noise, however, that when I first moved in here, truly did startle me. I have plastic sky lights in the bathrooms. One morning I awoke to something that sounded like a woodpecker, but more insistent. Louder. Was something trying to get into the house? I tried not to panic, and I looked at my cat. She was calm, so I decided danger was not too imminent. I walked around my bedroom, trying to determine where this noise was coming from. I entered the master bath, and it was louder there. I looked up, and there was this bird, hopping around on the sky light. I breathed a big sigh of relief and now when I hear that noise, I stay calm.
I miss the sounds of trains. There are no railroad tracks in Prescott at all. I didn't realize that when I moved here. The year we lived in Santa Margarita, outside of Atascadero, California, the main line of the Southern Pacific was across the street. I got to like the sound of trains and find them comforting.
If it were still monsoon season, hearing thunder would not surprise me. I heard it just about every day. But it ended well over a month ago. The rain is leftover from a hurricane or tropical storm that was off Baja California. The forecast says rain on Tuesday.
You can hear the wind up here too. Really. Because it's so damn quiet. Plus the trees around the house bend and rustle in the wind. And there are wind chimes outside the windows. But even without that, you can still hear the wind up here. The phone seldom rings, and it is considered odd to talk to yourself. I do sometimes, and I suppose I am odd. Sometimes the only sound is the tap taps of my keyboard or the meows of my cat. I'd love to find someone to make the quiet go away, even though I'm sure I could still hear the thunder off in the distance.
© 6 October, 2001This morning I awoke to a loud clap of thunder. It had been raining when I fell asleep, and was still when I got up in the middle of the night. So I wasn't surprised it was raining in the morning. It's like fall arrived in an instant. No more shorts and tank tops, bring out the flannel shirts. The rain has now stopped, though it's still cloudy. I can't hear the clouds. It's quiet now, again.
© 7 October, 2001Last week, my picture was in the newspaper. I knew it was going to be taken, because the photographer called me and asked for directions to the Monday Club. On October 1st, we had a celebration honoring our most famous member, Jerri Wagner. We named the main room of our building in her honor. She was a past Monday Club president, past Arizona state GFWC president and past international GFWC president. Not to mention she was the first female mayor of Prescott. My accomplishments will never come close to hers, even if I lived to be 500 years old.
When the photographer arrived, most of the members and guests were already there, mingling. All the past and current big shots of the AZ-GFWC were invited and many attended. It's not that long a drive from Phoenix, but a few came from further away. I was trying to show Jerri the cake we had bought for refreshments when the man arrived. He decided to take a picture of Jerri and I holding the cake, which read, We Love You, Jerri. I suggested he take the picture near the portrait and plaque we'd hung to officially dedicate the room. I was overruled and the picture was of us, holding the cake.
The event was quite special, and even the newly elected mayor of Prescott attended. Those who spoke had fond remembrances of Jerri and the way she affected their lives. Her three daughters were in attendance, too. There was a proclamation saying the week of October 1st through the 8th was Jerri Wagner week. At the end, Jerri presented the Monday Club with a beautiful silver coffee and tea service. I closed the event with the invitation to everyone to partake in refreshments.
I don't subscribe to the local newspaper. I know I should, but I just don't. My picture has been in the paper several times before because of different activites I am involved with here in Prescott. On those occasions, I have gotten copies of those from people I know, and don't really think much about it after the event.
This time, however, all these different people came up to me in the past week, and told me they'd seen my picture in the newspaper. Or they had cut it out to give to me. This is a small town and an event like this would make the paper. I was surprised and somewhat embarrassed though, that so many people commented on it to me. I guess I should take it as a compliment, and proof that I have become a part of this community. Now if I could only take a decent picture.
© 14 October, 2001What are the odds that I'd meet one woman named Gladys this week? Pretty slim, since that's a fairly uncommon name. What are the odds I met two women named Gladys this week? One hundred per cent, much to my amazement. Both speakers I was fortunate enough to hear this week have the first name of Gladys. How's that for coincidence?
The first lady spoke to the Monday Club. She is regional director of the Red Cross and maybe late-fifties. She was a fill in since our scheduled speaker backed out the week before with no explanation. At our Board meeting, someone had suggested we invite someone from the Red Cross to speak, what with the current world situation and all. My ever efficient second vice president, Hedi, went right to work and filled the vacancy with Gladys. She was interesting, except talking from a rote speech about the Red Cross in general, so I interrupted her (she did say if we had questions, we should ask them while she was speaking) and wanted to know what we could do now. We were hoping for a simple answer like make bandages or knit socks. But alas, there was no simple answer
The other lady spoke to the Democratic Women, and she's a pilot and part owner of a flight training school here, and she spoke about expanding our airport. First let me explain why I attend the Democratic Women meetings. I suppose I am a Democrat, but they meet at the Outback Steakhouse. If they ever change their meeting location, they won't be seeing my smiling face anymore. When she arrived, she sat down at the empty space at the table I was seated at, and she listened somewhat attentively to the rest of the meeting. When she got up, I used that time to scoot out and go to the ladies room, so I missed part of the introduction. I did hear that she was being elected into some Women's Hall of Fame.
I already knew the Prescott airport was the second busiest in Arizona. She said we were the 7th largest in the country in something. I asked her during lunch what she meant, but she replied in a technical answer I didn't understand, but I just nodded my head, rather than look stupid. The airport wants to expand the main runway so that regional jets can land here. These could take us to places like Los Angeles, Salt Lake City or Denver. Someone in the group asked, what about Las Vegas? Right now there are only propeller planes that fly to Phoenix and Kingman. I thought she was very interesting and did enjoy being able to question her further during lunch. She did a good job of convincing the audience that the airport did need to be expanded.
The only other Gladys I knew personally was an older woman in Minneapolis. She was probably in her seventies then and she fit what you'd think a Gladys should be. Kind of like that neighbor woman on the television show, Bewitched, which is to say obnoxious. When Gladys opened her mouth, the sound that came out made nails scratching on a chalkboard sound like music. She belittled her husband all the time and we all wondered how he could stand it. I could go on more about her, but I will spare us all. She was not a pleasant person but she definitely to me, was a Gladys.
The first time I heard the name Gladys was when I was a child, though I don't recall in what context. It was one of those old fashioned names that to me, were rather comical. Minerva, Gertrude and Beulah were in the same category. They seldom failed to make me laugh. Only Gladys however, could be said separately, Glad ys. Glad Ass who was then turned into Happy Butt. I know you're all smiling remembering the first time you heard the name, got to say out loud a bad word.
I have no more meetings this week, so I won't be meeting another Gladys. If I did, and the speaker was named Gladys, I'd go out and buy a lottery ticket. Those kinds of odds are just too high to not take a chance. I'll probably not meet another Gladys for years. Two out of three isn't that bad. Better not to push my luck on meeting the fourth.
© 18 October, 2001The day was perfect as if it were specially ordered out of a catalog. Not hot and not cold. A beautiful blue sky without a cloud anywhere. Eight of us from the neighborhood singles group met at the Clubhouse to car pool out to Clarkdale and take the four hour excursion on the Verde Canyon Railroad. I love trains and had been looking forward to this day since it was planned. I ended up riding with Jack, George and Amy. Harry had his harem of Sonja, Patricia and Louise. Our group took the windy route over the mountain through Jerome. The other group went the boring way out on the freeway. We picked a meeting place and off we went.
Jack picked an Anne Murray tape to listen to, but is was mostly background noise. We kept up a pretty good conversation the entire way. Then Jack said he heard a clicking noise, so we turned Anne down, and it seemed to be in this tape player. We switched to Johnny Cash, and it didn't seem like the noise was there anymore. At least for a while, then it got louder and more annoying. It almost sounded like the keys were hitting the dashboard, but it wasn't that. Was Jack's car going to fall apart on us?
It was a refreshing change not to have to drive and I spent considerable time just looking out the window. I love taking highway 89A up to Jerome. We go to an elevation of over 7,000 feet and have some incredible views. Especially the one when you first see the Verde Valley and the beginning of the Red Rocks. While driving through Jerome, Amy and George exchanged memories of a restaurant that used to be there, called the House of Joy. It originally was a brothel. At one time, Jerome was the third largest town in Arizona.
We arrived at the meeting place first. It was the outlet store for a line of women's clothing, called Alfredo's Wife. I suggested we might as well go inside and look around while we waited. I was tempted to buy a skirt, but talked myself out of it. When the other group met us, we had to decide where to eat. As we were leaving, we saw a woman bringing in food to the store, so we asked her where it was from. George opened his window and she gave us the name of the restaurant and location. We all decided to try it, but first to go over to the train station and pick up our tickets. They had said we needed to be at the train station an hour before the train left, but we figured if we already had our tickets, we could show up only a half hour early. The reason they want you there so early is to look and hopefully buy in their gift shop.
When George closed the window, the rubber casing that made the seal came loose. He tried to push it back in with little success, so now we had this clicking noise and the whistle of the wind. When George and Sonja went in to get the tickets, Jack fixed the window a little better than George had done. We teased Jack about how we were ruining his car and how we hoped it would make it home.
Lunch was good. The place was a fairly new Mexican restaurant, without a beer license, which did not sit well with the men. I know Amy and I weren't going to let Jack drink and then drive us back over the mountain road. The last time I had been in Cottonwood for lunch, we went to the Sizzler, which was next door to this Mexican place, so I was able to direct Jack on how to get there. Why are men always surprised when a woman knows the directions to someplace? We paid our checks and off we went back to Clarkdale. It's a quaint little town that was full of antique shops. I made a mental note to go back there and wander around the stores.
Our car was named the Cottonwood and was near the back of the train. George had all our tickets and started off towards that direction without even looking back to see if anyone was following him. Harry and his women had stopped in the depot to use the restroom, but George knew they would find him to get their tickets. We had reserved our seats a few weeks earlier and since we were a good-sized group, we had seats reserved for us in the front of the car. Amy took a window seat as did I. George sat next to me, and soon we were off and moving. The hostess of our car introduced herself and talked about the snack bar. Then the host for the observation car gave us the rules for being on that, and as soon as they said we could, we all went outside.
The train slowly runs along the Verde River, which isn't much of a river anymore. Too many dry seasons lately. However, it formed quite a spectacular canyon over time that was what you really came to view. There was a man giving a narration over a loud speaker who pointed out different things and gave us some history and geology of the area. He pointed out Sycamore Canyon when we crossed that. We learned about the mining that used to be done and was the reason the line was built. We saw some eagle nests. We saw layers of rock that were the same as those at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, yet these were some 4000 feet high. For a while, I watched the river and wished it had more water in it and some fish. The sun kept us warm and outdoors for the entire ride out. A big deal was made out of going through a dynamited tunnel and some people even took flash pictures of it. Finally the first half of the trip was over.
The terminus of the ride is at Perkinsville. It's not much of a town, though we were informed it was used in the filming of How The West was Won. The depot there probably had been newly painted and had the name of the fake town on it. They even built a water tower to destroy for the movie, but that scene was edited out. The engines go up on a track along side the train to what is now the end of the train, and back we go on another two hour journey. This time, most of our group came inside. We turned the seats around to remain facing forward, though it might have been more fun to sit facing each other while we talked. The only excitement on the way back was when everyone stood up and began peering out the window. There are lots of bald eagles in that area from December through March, but we were lucky enough to see one soaring in the bright blue sky.
The scenery of the high cliffs and rock formations disappeared as we came back to Clarksdale. We disembarked and all the women on the entire train got in line for the restrooms. The gift shop was open for our last minute impulse buying. Everyone in our group was able to resist. Back in the cars for the drive home, same seats, just like when we were in school. The conversation again was lively, and the time passed quickly.
When we got back to the Clubhouse to get our own cars and head home, it was dark. We had seen a beautiful sunset coming into Prescott Valley just a few minutes earlier. The other group had gotten there first so we didn't get to say goodbye to them. It was a beautiful day on an old train with gorgeous scenery, and good company. It'll be a day I remember for a long time.
© 16 November, 2001It had been happening longer than just the past week, but I didn't really notice it. In this past week things are getting out of control. I feel tears welling in my eyes all the time. Maybe it's partly due to September 11, when everyone's sense of equilibrium was shattered. Maybe it's part I am slowing crumbling inside. I don't know.
Last Sunday, I was driving out to the Veteran's Hospital, for the annual Veteran's Day parade. This is my third year of helping other Monday Club members sell doughnuts as a fundraiser for the VA. This year, driving in, the cars all had flags on them. The music on the radio affects me more too, and I forget what was playing, but I felt very close to tears. I fought them back and got to the VA, parked and walked along the old streets of what was originally Fort Whipple.
The day was starting off beautifully with the sun rising high up into the blue sky. It was going to get warm early. I noticed the soldiers standing guard in front of our flag. I'd learned in past years that they stand there, motionless, for fifteen minute shifts for a 24 hour period. Even through the chill of the night, they keep their vigilant watch. That morning, as our troops were fighting in Afghanistan, I thought this could be some of the easier tasks they face.
I wanted to be patriotic, but the only thing I owned that was red, white and blue was a USA hockey jersey. I wore a long sleeved shirt underneath, but within minutes, I was ready to take it off. I used the excuse of wanting to look at the bake sale to go to the other building where the restrooms were. There was nothing special at the bake sale, which was disappointing, because I like to buy something to support the work they do there.. I walked back over to our table, carrying my shirt, which went in a corner next to the purses. By then, everyone was there. Anamarye was there when I got there. But Jean, Barbara, Carolita and Sue were there now, too. We had 15 boxes of doughnuts to sell, along with coffee and hot chocolate.
The crowds were slow in arriving, and the donuts were starting to melt in the heat of the sun. I was in charge of the money, while Barb and Carolita serve the chosen doughnuts and Sue and Jean took care of the hot beverages. Anamarye helped out where needed. Music blared from overhead speakers, patriotic songs that in these times make you proud. Slowly, the boxes of doughnuts dwindled down as the start of the parade neared. When the parade started, we had a little over two dozen left, but we forgot that and just wanted to watch the parade.
Most of the people watching were vets, some with the names of their divisions on their hats or clothing. A few were in wheel chairs. The children were warm and restless, waiting. Finally the ceremonies got underway. I almost started crying during the Pledge of Allegiance but was just choked up near the end. Veterans from World War II in vintage cars. Pretty girls on horseback. Shriners in their little cars. Girl scout and boy scout troops. High school bands. And the entire time I fought back the tears. At one point, I looked over at Barbara, and she too, was trying to keep control. I thought, good, it isn't just me, I'm not going totally crazy. I managed to get through the parade without shedding a tear. I must have been saving them all for the rest of day and week.
I started crying on the walk back to my car. I was thinking of all those young men and women in uniform, and what might happen to them. I was thinking of my children, the two living who think this is all the patriotism is nonsense, and the one who doesn't have to worry about anything anymore. Thank goodness for sunglasses.
Tuesday was the next day the tears took control from me. I had to go to urgent care and first they appeared when I was filling out the registration forms. They were pretty thorough, and it was when I had to check if I had lost a child, they started gathering. Then I had to write down cancer, and I grabbed a tissue and wiped my eyes. I calmed down, and waited till I was called. It was just for the preliminaries; blood pressure check, temperature, height and weight. My blood pressure was high, but I attributed that to stress. Then she asked me some of what was on the chart. Why didn't she just look? Anyone in my family have heart disease, diabetes, cancer. I said my son died of cancer as the tears just ran down my cheeks. Get a grip on yourself, I commanded myself. I did, until a father and his son, about 10, though he might have been older came in. There was something wrong with the boy, he walked funny and had a strange look on his face. They sat right across from me. I tried to smile at him, but all I could think of is how I wished Greg were still here, even if he was terribly deformed or damaged. The tissue box was next to me and I used quite a few, trying to not think of all the times I sat with Greg in doctor's office waiting rooms. They were called for vitals, and while they were in the other room, and elderly woman took their place. When they came back out to wait, they sat further away from me, which helped a little. It was getting annoyed at how long it was taking and thinking about just leaving, when I was called. I got through the exam fine, but when I left, again those damn tears started.
On Friday was the worst though. I didn't know the people in the waiting room, so what they wondered and thought about me didn't matter. It was in my YLI class that I again lost control of my emotions. I am taking a class on jumpstarting your creativity. It's been a lot of fun and I've felt it worthwhile. The first exercise we did was fun. The next activity though, threw me for a loop. We were to take the phrase, life is like a something, and make metaphors from that. The suggested ones were like a bagel, a grapefruit, a poker game, a jigsaw puzzle, a banana and last you could come up with your own. This was the day I wrote about what I should do next with my life. My emotions were still tender from that but I started the exercise never expecting it to overtake me like it did. We had done the bagel one as a group, so it was life is like a grapefruit. I wrote divided into different sections that equal a whole, and it's sour unless that you add sugar. I'm sure it was that one. I contined and wrote life is like a poker game…. You can only partially change the hand you're dealt. There they went. Slowly at first. Just one, as I wrote ….lying with a straight face only lasts so long. On to life is like a jigsaw puzzle… lots of pieces together. Ok, that was good. Then its hard to complete when you lose a piece. The closest thing to a tissue I had was a napkin, so that came out and I attempted to wipe the tears away. No one noticed me since we were all involved in creating own metaphors. Life is like a banana kind of stumped me, but I came up with it's like days bunched together but taken one at a time. For my own, I used a line from a song, that I used almost four years ago when Greg's cancer was back. Life is a highway…with bumps in the road. There was no stopping the tears now, even though it was time to read ours aloud.
There were some really clever ones. Life is like a bagel, filled with texture and taste that gets better with a spicy companion. Hmm. Life is like a banana, you unpeel it to solve your problems. Life is like a dog's breakfast, it never changes. When it was my turn, I mumbled out, I pass. I wasn't ashamed at my metaphors, I just knew I couldn't read them aloud and stay in control. I considered having the woman sitting next to me read them for me, but we just moved on. Finally we were done, and class was over. Immediately, the women in the class that I know well came over to me to comfort me. They had been in the class with me last session, where we all shared many private and personal things. Sue wanted to be sure I was ok, and I said yes. The rest of the group probably wondered what was wrong with her? Walking out, the facilitator asked me if somehow she'd offended me. I explained what had upset me, but not all of it. I was really thinking life is about over for me, life sucks, life just ain't worth it. Once again, I cried all the way home. This was really getting annoying.
I've noticed other littler incidents where they just overwhelmed me. Reading my book this afternoon, when the woman died. When I was in the hardware store and I only had to buy two, not three, stocking stuffers. Songs I listen to, over and over again, because they Greg's favorites. Talking to friends on the phone. The worst was, when one of the Phoenix Coyotes scored his first NHL goal in 151 games. Am I going crazy? Will I start crying over nothing at any moment? Am I totally out of control? I wish I knew. I really wish I knew.
© 18 November, 2001There are more stories I have written to read. Please remember these are my original stories and thoughts, and to copy or otherwise use them without my permission is a copyright violation. I would love to hear your random thoughts on any of these stories.