The Barefoot Kitchen Witch

A Heartfelt Thank You

Yesterday my husband was on his way to play at a wedding in Bristol, RI.  Barbara, the flute player, was driving.

As they drove through Warren, the town you go through on the way to Bristol, Bill heard a loud crack and saw a tree - a whole tree - start to topple over from the other side of the street, just up ahead.  He had time to yell "Tree!" and Barbara slammed on the brakes, and the entire tree (it cracked at the base of the trunk) fell straight across the road and crashed down on the hood of the car they were in.

The car was severely injured.

Amazingly, fortunately, thankgodfully, Bill and Barbara were not.

The police gave them a ride to the wedding, where they played the ceremony as scheduled.

I had been at the kids' swim class and just happened to check my cell phone - the phone was on vibrate, but I wouldn't have heard it ring in there anyway - it's so loud.  I saw there was a message left a few minutes ago from Bill, and I listened to it and called him back and at that point they were still waiting for their ride to the wedding, so I said as soon as the kids were done I'd switch vehicles and come get them.

I mostly just wanted to yank the kids out of the water and go, but there was really no need, so I sat and watched them distractedly.

Then we zipped home, got into the truck (which has more room in between the two booster seats than my car does) and headed east.

If they'd sped up instead of slamming on the brakes, the tree might have landed on their heads. 

I kept trying not to picture that scenario. 

I finally reached the spot where Bill was waiting for me.  Barbara's husband was coming to get her, so once Bill got in the car we headed home. 

We drove by the spot where the tree had been.  There was a pickup truck and a couple guys sawing up the last of the trunk, but you could see the jagged part where the tree just split and toppled over.  And we could see the diseased and hollow inside of the trunk.  It was inevitable that the tree would fall at some point. 

Anyway, we got home and had pizza and chips and guacamole, and Joe came over and Bill put the last coat of polyurethane down and Joe saw how it was done, and then we packed up and headed to Joe's house for our last night of exile from the house.

Today we are home.

And we're all here.

And I am very, very grateful.

Today we bring all the pets home.  And we're also going fishing.  Running errands.  Getting dropcloths and paint.  Ziploc bags so I can freeze the chicken stock I made the other day.

Normal, everyday, unexciting stuff.

Which is good.

Much Needed

I had one of those mornings today.

One of those "what the hell am I doing???" mornings.

One of those mornings where I am grabbed around the neck by the fear that I've made the wrong decisions...the wrong choices...that I've wasted time...that I'm going nowhere...that I'm well on my way to becoming a failure as a person.

Not as a mother. 

But as me.  Whoever that's supposed to be.

I'm working on it. 

But anyway, I gave myself a few short reminders.  Things to think about. 

Like...

"Look neither to the right nor to the left."

I have no idea if that's a real quote from somewhere.

But basically, it's my way of reminding myself not to check on anyone else's progress and just to focus on my own.  Not to compare myself - and find myself lacking in the process.  But just to keep going forward.

And another one...

"Just do something."

That one used to be the slogan I borrowed from Nike - "Just do it." 

But IT can be daunting, because it's ALL of IT.

And that's a big bite.

And so rather than paralyzing myself with the order to JUST DO IT, I am trying to keep myself going by just doing SOMETHING toward that IT.  Each day.

Even when I'm overflowing with doubt and self criticism.  And, you know, fear. 

And so I resolved to do something today.

I was in the kitchen - my office, sort of - checking email and other blogs.

And - entirely by surprise - I came across this post on Red Pony Farm.

Entirely by surprise.

I stared at the screen and felt my heart and spirit lift a bit. 

I SO needed that today.  So very much.

Thank you, Edna Leigh Libby, for writing that kind post.

It helped me today.   

Elbows In

Today is my Dad's birthday - Happy Birthday, Dad!

I've mentioned this before, but my father is a photographer (retired) and he is responsible (or at fault) for putting a loaded camera in my hands at a young age and letting me loose on the neighborhood.

It was one of those boxy little cameras that used a flash cube...I shot the roll of black and white film in a matter of oh, seconds, probably, and went back to the basement door in our kitchen and called down to him "Now what?"

He stuck his head out of the darkroom and answered "You're done already?"

And I haven't changed a whole lot since then.  Too bad the digital age hadn't hit yet - my parents probably could have bought a summer home in the mountains with the money they'd have saved on film and flash cubes.

But then, if it had been the digital age, I would never have learned how to process a roll of film - including how to load that roll of film in complete darkness, just by touch.  I would never have learned to print contact sheets, with all my little images in nearly-neat rows on a single 8 x 10 sheet.  I would never have encountered the pure magic of printing a picture and watching the paper as it rested in the developer tray, waiting, rocking the tray gently, practically coaxing the hidden image to slowly appear.  My picture.  That I took.  And processed.  And printed.  Myself.

So in honor of my father, and to give him a good laugh as well, probably, here are a few old pictures I dug out, pictures I took (as evidenced by every single flaw you can see).

This is our back deck, and in the back you can see the grill...and in front of that - some buckets, and some little tiny blurry things.  Those are some of my little plastic farm animals and my little tiny Fisher Price people.  Note the...well, the blurriness, and the crookedness...it was ART.

Next up, my younger sister.  Even then she was interested in karate...that must be some sort of kata she's doing.  And of course, THAT would explain the blur of the picture.  Nothing to do with me.

That's the vegetable garden behind her.

Since I'd mastered black and white so handily, I was quickly promoted to color....

I specialized in group photos of both people and animals.  Here's a shot I took in our kitchen (see the wallpaper in the back?  I love that wallpaper.  I wish I had some.  Just to look at.  All different kinds of flowers all over it.  Sigh.).  Note how EVEN THEN, I was rather, um, overly organized, and if you look closely, not only are all the animals grouped by species, but also by color.  Especially over there on the right.  I don't even know what all the little black and blue and red things are, but at least they are grouped by color.  Very important on a farm.  And see the happy Fisher Price family in front.  Not dead center - no, it's a much more visually interesting image BECAUSE they are off center.  I was quite the prodigy. 

The one good thing (well, one of so many) about this shot, is that it's not as blurry as the previous two.  Clearly, I was improving.  I remember my father's mantra - "keep your elbows in" - keep them tucked against your body, to steady the camera.  If you can keep yourself still, even in the middle of a strong wind, the picture will be the better for it. 

I could go on and enlarge that to mean something more universal, but I've got to get the kids ready for school, so I'll leave that up to anyone else reading this.

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Dad.  I'm keeping my elbows in!

Love,

Jayne

Icy Wonderland

A few pictures I shot this morning...

 

Of course, after prowling around the front yard and then skipping any shots in the back yard because the sun wasn't up enough, I stepped on the pavement just before the back stairs and felt my left foot slip forward and then my right (because I wasn't looking down, I was looking all around for more glimmering ice on the trees) and I nearly went over backwards.  I mention this mostly for my sister, who will appreciate the humor in the near fall and awkward recovery.  And would appreciate the humor even if I did fall over and crack my skull on the driveway.

Yay! No School Today!

Snow snow snow!!!

I'm so goofy, I know.

The snow began around here somewhere between one and three-thirty in the morning.  Bill got the call last night (he's a teacher) that there would be no school today, and when I checked the no school listings on the local news, just about every school in the state is closed.  So no school for Alex, either.  And since I'm currently not employed, I don't have to dig out the driveway and creep in to work.  YAY FOR ME, TOO!

It's the wet kind of snow that sticks to everything - and consequently, it's a winter wonderland outside.  It's also perfect snowman-making weather, igloo-making weather, snowball fight weather....

Yay!

My Kids, on a recent spring-like day

Yesterday's Morning Sky

Who spilled the pink?

Morning Sky in Narragansett

Went down to visit my sister this morning...took a bit of a detour and shot a few pictures...

To see them all, you can go here.

Because Getting Help is Not a Sign of Failure

It is a sign of strength.

An enormous thank you to Heather for writing this post and many others like it.

She says it all perfectly.  Go read it.

Glisten

Last night's rain became this morning's ice.  After Bill left for work I went outside and took a few pictures...and then after I brought Alex to kindergarten and Julia to daycare, I brought the car seats back to the house so Bill could pick up the kids later, and then I slid around on the icy driveway and slipped on the frosted grass in the back yard to explore and capture more of this "wintery fairyland..." 

What Resonates

When I wrote this post last week, I mainly just wrote it for myself as a way of tying some experiences together, and for my mother, whose father I'd written about in the post.  Many (well, many for my blog) people have commented on this post, and I am glad it has touched people. 

And then this morning I read this writer's post about a similar, but also very different, experience.  I thank her for sharing her story.  Go read for yourselves....

Always

This post is for my Mom, in a way.  It's her birthday today.  She's always been a wonderful mother, except for that time when we were little and she told us we could eat AS MUCH CANDY as we wanted.  That frightened me.  But apart from that...she's done a damn fine job.  From her I've inherited a love of books, and of cooking, and of music, and, hopefully, decent mothering abilities.  Time will tell.

Happy Birthday, Mom.  Mind how you go....Love, Jayne

Not long after my mom's father passed away, after the funeral was over, and we were supposed to start to "get back to normal", I was in my old bed at my parents' house, and I dreamt of him. 

In this dream, I was sitting on a bench in a park - I don't know where, I didn't recognize it.  And he, Grandad, came over and sat beside me.  He didn't look like he had looked toward the end - tired and gaunt and shrunken and sharply angled.  Instead, he was tall and healthy and hearty - full of "vim, vigour and vitality" as he used to say.  He looked as he had when I was younger, when I looked up at him always in awe and admiration and love and a huge desire to be with him all the time. 

I was so blessed with the lives of all of my grandparents when I was a child.  I knew each of them. I have separate and distinct memories of them.  My dad's parents moved to Arizona when I was nearly 4, and they came east once more when I was in the 6th grade.  I never saw my paternal  grandfather - Grandpa - again, but I did see my grandmother shortly after Grandpa passed away - Dad and I flew out to California, where they had moved, and we visited and I met other family members for the first time.

My mother's parents were constants in my young life, especially after I turned 7 and my grandfather had retired and the two of them moved up to Rhode Island and into a house on the same block as ours.  I was 22 when my grandfather passed away - so that's a huge chunk of my life with him in it.

Anyway. 

There I was on the park bench, and him sitting beside me.  And he was wearing a thin maroon windbreaker sort of jacket.  He used to walk down to Healy's News Store on Sunday mornings to get the paper.  He'd pick up two and drop one off at my parents' house before going home.  I can see him coming around the corner of Main street, newspapers rolled and tucked under an arm.... 

He walked at a purposeful, destination-bound pace.  He neither sauntered nor meandered, and I think this was true in most aspects of his life.  I remember sleeping over at my grandparents' house and wanting to get up to get the paper with him.  I knew I had to be up and ready to go on time, so I slept in my clothes, just to make sure he wouldn't leave without me.  I was young and small; he was larger than life.

When he sat down on the bench beside me, he spoke to me in his strong, London-laced voice.

And he said "I always love you."

It was a strange phrase.  Not "I will" or "I have...loved..." - but more of an "I do...."  Not "when I was alive" or "looking down from wherever I am now" - no - it was a constant, uninterrupted thing.

I woke up in tears. 

Days later, back at the house I shared with some college friends in CT, I told one of them - the one with the most religious upbringing - about the dream and asked if he believed that the dead can visit us in our sleep.  It had been so real...I could recall the feel of cool nylon jacket on my palms and fingers as I clung to him in a hug.  He felt solid.

My friend said no, something like that was more likely the work of the devil.

And since I had no way to prove otherwise, I let the subject drop.  With him.  But I didn't agree.  How could that dream be an evil thing?  How?  If anything, it was...uplifting, and joyous, and beautiful.  I didn't discuss it again.  But I still think my dear, wonderful friend was full of crap that day.

Someone larger than life leaves a huge gap in the lives of his family when he is physically no longer present.  The fallout, I think, has never stopped, though the vibrations have softened.  We all handle things differently.  Sometimes wisely, sometimes not.  Regardless, time continues on, oblivious.

I don't visit the grave where both my grandparents now lay.  Well, the physical part of them.  I don't really think they are there.  I think my grandfather, wherever he is, continues to move purposefully and with some destination in mind.  I think he visits libraries, and opera houses, and small amateur boxing clubs where the fighters are there to fight and not just for spectacle or ear-biting. 

For a long time, I kept the green vinyl recliner that had been his.  I actually had it before he died - my grandmother or my mother or someone wanted to get him a new chair.  I couldn't bear the thought of them throwing this chair away, so I claimed it. He'd had the chair when they lived in New Jersey.  When we went down there to visit, my sister and I would sit on his lap on that chair, listening to the soundtracks of "Oliver!" and "My Fair Lady." 

The chair smelled faintly of pipe tobacco.  Borkum-Riff Whiskey blend.  It came in a black and white and silver tin, and there were tall-masted sailing ships on the top and sides.  Even when the chair was no longer in his house, when he hadn't smoked a pipe in many years, especially since the heart attack, I could, if I pressed my face against the vinyl in just the right spot, still smell the tobacco.  I inhaled it like a drug. 

My husband and I have now lived in our house for just over 6 years now.  The whole house had been refurbished before we bought it - so much of it was like new.  It smelled of paint for months.

A couple of times, upstairs here, I have caught a whiff of that pipe tobacco smoke.  Unannounced, unexpected, unexplained.  (I don't have the chair any more.)  I wondered at first if maybe someone in a nearby house was smoking that same pipe tobacco, and that the wind had carried a bit of it in through an open bedroom window.

But I have dismissed that idea.  It didn't last long enough to have come from anywhere outside.  There was no more of it than a fleeting olefactory glimpse.  It was an eye blink of a smell.  There and gone.  But definitely there.

So he has stopped by, I believe, to check in on things.  And I'm sorry the books aren't in better rows, spines flush with the edge of the shelf.  And that I sometimes dog-ear the pages.  But I don't think it matters much.  I think so many of the things that matter to us on a daily basis, things we worry about and obsess about and torture ourselves with and bury - as if that will make it go away when all it does is hide if for a while - I think they don't really matter at all.  They just keep us busy.  And moving.  And distracted.  And we do them anyway.  Because we must do things.

Monday night - two nights ago - I was watching TV with my husband.  The program he had been watching ended, and I took up the remote and began to scroll through the programming guide to see what else was on.  I  am weird like this: no matter what channel we are on, I need to scroll to channel 2 - to the beginning - and proceed from there.  So I did, paging back from wherever we had been until I reached the beginning.  And there, on channel 2 - "Carreras, Domingo and Pavarotti in Concert."  I hit the info button - it was the 1990 concert in Rome.  I hit "Select" and settled in for the night.

My grandfather died in 1988 - two years before the concert took place.  I'm sure he was there, floating above in the night sky, eyes closed, index fingers twitching, perhaps, as he conducted along with Zubin Mehta.   He would do that.

I know the whole concert by heart.  I know some of the songs in Italian, or French, German, Spanish...and what I don't know that way, I "know" phonetically.  I even sing along with the orchestra.  I'm sure I'm quite annoying to be around, but I don't particularly care.

I thought about my grandfather while I watched and sang in my chair.  I thought about my Mom, his only child, and wondered if she knew this was on, and if she was watching.  The holiday season is tough on her, I know.  But then, the season is tough on so many people who have lost loved ones and must celebrate without them in a chair at the dinner table. 

I sat there and kind of waited to feel tearful.  I really did.  I waited for emotion to well up in me, perhaps while Domingo sang "e lucevan le stelle", and pour from my eyes.  I waited to feel them sting a bit, and for my nose to feel prickly as it does when I'm going to cry.  But none of that happened.  I just listened, and sang along softly, and groaned and rolled my eyes whenever the program was interrupted because the public television station was in the middle of their fundraising.  And I got annoyed with this one woman who kept pronouncing Pavarotti "pavarot-tay" - what is that?  Get over yourself dear, you sound ridiculous.

And while there was singing, I also wondered if, maybe, I might suddenly smell some pipe tobacco.  Of course that's asking a lot, I know.  He could be watching this from anywhere.  Actually, he could be hanging out with Luciano instead, discussing other great tenors of the past and which arias were their favorites.  But still...I wanted something to happen.   

I've been watching Lisa Williams / Life Among the Dead.  I thing she's fabulous.  First - because she seems genuine.  And because she's got a great smile and funky hair and a cute little blond son and an English accent.  And because I have always been interested in the other side.  And according to Lisa, yes, they do communicate - though not always in the ways you expect them to.  So you have to be open to it, in whatever way it comes.

Well, I sniffed the air - quietly, so my husband wouldn't wonder what my problem was - on and off for a while.  Nothing.  I physically tensed as I tried REALLY HARD to - I don't know - squeeze pipe smoke from thin air through sheer force of will.  Didn't work.   

During one of the breaks, when the smiling, unblinking, fund-raising folk returned, waving CDs and DVDs, I went upstairs to move our son out of our bed and into his own.  He falls asleep on our bed because if both kids go to bed in the room they share, neither one falls asleep.  So this is how we're doing this for now.  It can't go on forever.  My son is five and a half, and growing taller by the minute, it seems.  It's a production picking him up off of the bed - sound asleep, so he weighs twice what he weighs when he's awake.  I lean in and hug him to me and then bend my knees a bit and lean backward to shift his weight onto me instead of the bed, and then straighten up so I don't fall over backwards.  I lug him as gently as I can from our room down the short hall to the kids' bedroom, trying not to whack one of his dangling legs against the door frame in the process.  Then I heave him up so he's somehow horizontal in my arms and then gently - in theory - set him down on the bed.  Cover him with the sheet and blanket and comforter, kiss him on the cheek, whisper "I love you" in his ear.  Sometimes he stays right where I put him, other times he sits up and slowly lays back down against the pillow, rearranging himself into a more comfortable position than the one I dumped him in, or he sometimes  mumbles or babbles in his sleep. 

So I got him settled in and whispered "I love you" and kissed him and was on my way toward the door when he spoke - perfectly clearly, as if he was awake, except that his eyes were closed.

And he said "I always love you."

I was so focused on not waking him or his sister up that what he said didn't really hit me until I was sitting on the couch watching the last portion of the concert, where all three tenors are on stage for that one grand and glorious and fun medly of opera and musical theatre and folk songs. 

And then I suddenly thought - huh?  What did he say? 

He said "I always love you." 

Not "I will..." or "I have .... loved..."  - future or past...

It was more like "I do" - something constant, in the present - in the ever-present tense.  The always.

And I watched the remainder of that concert lying on the couch, snuggled under a blanket, smiling.  I felt...happy.  I didn't feel sad at all.  My nose refused to prickle; my eyes would not cry. 

And - that's a good thing, I think. 

I don't believe we are supposed to cry forever.  I think we are supposed to live our lives - really live them - not wasting a single moment if possible.  I think that is the best way to honor those we have lost.  "Every day an adventure," as Grandad was wont to say.  Our time here is precious.  It's wrong to waste a minute of it.  I think we are supposed to love and cherish those around us - hug our loved ones tightly - and work hard and play hard and laugh and yes, remember, and move purposefully toward our destinations, wherever and whatever they may be.

Sure, maybe my son saying what he said, that way, that night, was a coincidence. 

But I don't believe in coincidences.

I do, however, believe love is endless.

Always.

 

What Matters

Today I was told - in a "you can't handle the truth" sort of way - that I don't know what matters.  This was in the midst of an argument, disagreement, unpleasant conversation - call it what you will.  It went back and forth a couple times.  I know what matters.  No, you don't.  Yes, I do.

No resolution to something like that. 

But how can there be?  The same things matter to many people, but our lists are not identical.  These things that matter are not listed in the exact same order for each of us.  And there may be things on my list that aren't on yours.

So what was the point of that?  I think it was to try to put me in my place or something. 
Some way to end my side of things.  Because what do I know?  It's not like I'm an adult, or have worked for more than half my life, or gone away and lived in other states, or done dumb things and had to fix them, or am a wife or a mother...oh, wait - actually, I am an adult, I have worked for way more than half my life, I've lived in other places, I've done dumb things, I've had to fix them, I'm a wife, and I'm a mother. 

I think maybe I have some inkling of what matters.

So please don't try to insist otherwise. 

Because actually, I've done a lot of thinking about what matters.  What matters to me. 
What do I fight for, fight against, or fight not to react to?  How much of me am I willing to set aside in order to keep the peace, or make someone else happy, or make something easier for someone else?

Some of those are no-brainers.  My children - I would fight for them - to the death.  Of course.  I have set aside some of myself, especially when they were infants and so very dependant on me.  That's part of the deal.  You choose to bring them into the world, then you have an obligation to put them first.  I do things to keep the peace here, or to make the kids happy, or make things a bit easier for them sometimes. 

But I've been learning - and I say it that way because it is a class I still attend - I've been learning that I also have to feel the same way about myself.  I have to fight for me, too.  I have to sometimes choose not to set myself aside.  I have to consciously put me first, do things to make me happy, do things to make my own way easier.  It's not easy.  It's hard to retrain yourself.  But...I'm learning that I need to.

And what about that stuff I said - what do I fight against?  What do I fight to not react to?  (Okay, yes, that's weirdly phrased - sorry.)  I'm trying not to get sucked into old patterns, old toxic patterns that swirl around me in a familiar way.  They beckon - they say come on, it's so much easier to just drop it and play along.  Again.  And again.  But I'm not so gullible any more.  And I'm tired of old patterns.  I am sad about it, too, because there are other patterns, woven in, that are not so unpleasant, that represent the good parts of it all...but I know I can always hang on to those memories.  I don't have to keep getting sucked into the vortex.

I don't want to fight against stuff.  At least, not the same old never-changing stuff.  I'm tired of it.  It never seems to end.  Fine.  I am leaving the field.  I don't want to play any more.  I don't need to.  It won't help you, it won't help me. 

In fact, the only one who can help me is me.  The only one who can help you is you.  So let's just focus on what we can fix, and step away from what we can't.

Serenity.  Courage.  Wisdom.

My sister-in-law, Diane, passed away at the end of April this year.  Her husband is one of my husband's older brothers.  I think I've mentioned before, there is a large age difference between Bill and his two older brothers. 

She was 53.  She had cancer.  For the second time.  Long before I knew Bill or his family, she fought - and beat - breast cancer.  She had two young children and she didn't have time to die - she had kids to raise. 

This time, it was in her bones.  She didn't know it was cancer at first - she thought it was a recurring back problem and that she needed to go see a chiropractor.  But that didn't fix it.  And so 4 years ago, when my son was just over a year old, she found out that she had another battle to fight.  Her kids were older, but still.  She had plenty of reasons to live. 

So she fought.  Hard.  And her numbers went up and down, and treatment after treatment was tried, different drugs, different therapies, different everything.  She was tired, she was ill, she was weak, she was uncomfortable...but she was alive.

She had good periods, and bad.  And eventually fewer good periods.  She couldn't come up to visit when she wanted to - she had to be careful of catching colds with her immune system so beat up, so she couldn't fly.  And she couldn't sit in the same position comfortably for a thousand mile drive. 

A couple years ago, two years ago right about now, actually, Bill's brother called to tell us the cancer had gone to her liver, and the doctors were only giving her about another month.  A few days later we were all on a plane - Bill and I and the two kids.  It was, shall we say, an adventure traveling on a plane with a one year old and a three year old.  But we booked a nonstop flight and that helped.  While we were there, we cooked and the kids were cute and entertaining, and we just...we were there.  For about a week.  Diane's dark hair was very short - growing back from all the chemo.  She looked yellowish.  But she hung out with everyone as much as she could, and she enjoyed, I think, our visit. 

And she didn't die a month later.  Or a month after that.  I sort of felt like a big fraud for taking a week off during our busy season, but really, that's what the doctors had said.  But they don't know everything, apparently.

But this time, it was different.  The cancer had spread to her brain.  Apparently she'd been behaving strangely, and so they took a look...and that's what they found.  And that was that.  It was strange.  Dead end.  Pardon the pun.  Though Diane would have appreciated it.  But no one would operate - she was too weak.  And there was really nothing else that could be done.  Again - her body was worn out from all the fighting.

We were told she had about two weeks left. 

So Diane decided she wanted to go home.  Hospice was called in, a bed was set up in what had been the dining room, so she could look out on the lanai and the pool and the canal beyond.  The breezes - when there were any - could blow in, and when she felt up to it, she could hang out with family out at one of the poolside tables. 

Family and friends started to arrive.  She wanted to be surrounded by family and friends, love and laughter. 

Bill had a tough week, work-wise.  So many obligations that week, and with Diane's previous fake-out, wasn't there the possibility...? 

We do what we have to do, what we can do.  We can look back and think maybe we would have done it differently, but at the time, we don't have the whole picture to contemplate. So I said, at first, let's all go at the end of the week.  She wants to see the kids - they'd cheer and distract everyone, and we can all go together.

And then I changed my mind.  My gut said - Go.  My gut is more reliable than I used to give it credit for.  I have learned.  So I booked a flight for myself.  I flew down early early on a Monday, and flew back home the following morning.  Whirlwind tour.  But my gut was insistant.

I don't love to fly.  I like to go places, so I fly if that's how I have to get there.  And so I flew.  The flight down was uneventful and on time.  My brother-in-law and my niece met me at the airport and we went to pick up some food for that night's barbecue.  Lots of people coming - lots of people to feed.

I was not expecting Diane to look as she did.  I don't know what I was expecting, but I had nothing in my mind except how she looked the last time we were there.  So I was expecting little or no hair, poor skin color, weakness...but it was all rather vague in my mind. 

She was in the bedroom when I arrived, and came out, supported by a friend.  She saw me and her eyes brightened and she gave me a huge smile and we hugged for a long time.  She was so thin.  So...gaunt.  Diane had never been skinny in the time I'd known her.  She'd had a kind of round face...but the only thing round about her at this point was her stomach, swollen from all the fluid build-up. 

She reminded me, kind of, of a baby bird.  But a baby bird with really great hair.  I know this sounds inane, but her hair was dark and wavy in a sort of 1940's movie star sort of way.  Strangely, she looked kind of stunning.  And she was there.  Diane looked out from those dark eyes and her smile was her smile.  Her voice was her voice...She was in there.  She moved slowly, she tired easily, but she was there.

And soon there were friends and family members - those who could get there or who had already been staying there since she came home - gathered around the house and outside...food cooking, appetizery things to pick at.  People talking, laughing, drinking wine or beer or whatever.  A gathering.

And Diane sat out there on the lanai with everyone, and talked and laughed, and rubbed aloe on her grown-up son's sunburnt arms.  While she had been fighting cancer over these past few years, he had been back and forth to Iraq, a Loadmaster in the Air Guard.  He survived, and is home for good now, hopefully.  Her boy, home, safe. 

Her daughter has grown up a lot in the past several years, too.  I watched her discussing meds with the visiting nurse earlier that day, and she was on top of everything.  It was she, the daughter, who insisted that, besides family and friends, there needed to be flowers.  So there were.  Big clusters of them in tall glass vases.

As the night went on, and the sky grew darker, Diane became tired and was helped back to bed.  I watched from outside as my brother in law sat with her, his head down at times, holding her hand.  One by one, people went home or to bed.  Plans were made for those of us who needed to fly out the next day...

I sat with Diane for a bit in the dark.  She was sleeping.  I had brought a mess of pictures of the kids and told her Bill and all of us would be back down in a few days.  Her eyes had widened.  She thought Bill was coming the next day. 

While I sat there, in the dark, and watched her sleep, I finally cried.  I hadn't yet.  It hadn't hit me.  Diane's sister saw me and came over and hugged me. 

My brother in law drove me to the airport very early the next morning.  I made sure he had my cell phone number...just in case. 

The first leg of the flight home was fine, but the second leg was turbulent and did I mention I really don't LOVE to fly?  That's sort of code for, I am terrified of the plane plummeting from the sky and of being awake and aware of every second of my own terror as I hurtle toward a fiery or watery death (depending on what I'm flying over when we go down.)  I think it's partly a control thing, too.  Some other person is driving.  I don't do well in the back seat.  I need to see where we're going.

So we landed; I had managed not to vomit or lose my mind or cry or scream hysterically or otherwise behave like a nut job.  Then, still in my wild panic attack, I couldn't find my car in the parking garage and wandered like a mentally ill homeless chick around and around the levels, clicking the little button on my key in an attempt to get my car to stand up and wave and call "Over here, you ninny!"  Finally, I found the car.  I got in and hugged the steering wheel and was actually shaking.  I also hadn't eaten much, so my blood sugar level was probably in the negative numbers.

Anyway, I got home.  Finally.  And I called work and said I'd be in around 2:00 for a few hours.  And then I turned my cell phone back on.  And there was a message.  From my brother in law.  And he said the nurse had been there that morning and not to schedule a flight back down because Diane might not last more than another day or so. 

I just bawled.  I dropped down to the floor in my kitchen alone and sobbed.  It all was there, barely under the surface, and this message opened the floodgates.  I didn't want to hear that, I wanted Bill to get there in time, I wanted her to get to see the kids, why didn't I bring the kids with me, why didn't I go sooner, why why why?  It spiraled into other spheres - more and more things bottled up, old patterns I spoke of somewhat cryptically earlier in this post, painful relationships, someone I love who believes she is in control but just isn't, and it terrifies me that it's going to kill her, and my panic attack on the plane, and thank God and my gut that I just decided to GO when I did, and it's not fair, it's not fair... and all of it, all of it, all of it - out of my hands.  I can't cure Diane.  I can't change a person's behavior, and I can't fly the damn plane.  All of it spilled out in ugly sobs.

And then I called my sister and she listened to me and said all the right things - as she usually does - and I calmed down.

Bill flew down on Thursday that week.  He wanted to go for his brother, for his niece and nephew...not solely to see Diane.  His flight was due to land around ten at night.  I was waiting up, watching something, when Bob called.  It was a little after 8:30.  Diane had passed away at 8:25.

I'm stopping that story there.  It don't feel like going on about the rest of it.  But I had to write about it because I am changed as a result of the whole experience. 

It was funny, in a way, that I was told today that I don't know what matters.  Because I've spent an awful lot of time in these past several months thinking precisely about what matters.  What matters to me.  And about life.  And how precious each moment is, and how foolish it is to waste it, or destroy it.  On the one hand, one woman who fought like a tiger for every extra minute she could get.  And on the other, a woman who at times seems to be throwing so much of it away.  And me, there, angry about both situations.  And sad.  And aware that how I live and what I do with my time here is up to me.  I don't want to waste it.  I don't want to waste me.  I don't want to get to the end of my road - whenever it jumps up in my face - and realize that I had wasted too much of my time, or too much of myself. 

And so.  Some things.  I hate my job.  Or, rather, it is a very bad fit.  I'm good at it - well, no, I used to be good at it.  But I'm fried.  I'm just worn out.  I am drained.  And there is nothing fulfilling in it.  I make a nice paycheck.  But I feel like I'm dying inside every day there. 

I need to get out.  I know this.  I need to do something creative that engages my mind and makes me feel alive and awake and excited to face the challenges.  I also need to work for me.  I can't do corporate any more.  I can't.  I know that sounds selfish, maybe, or overly dramatic, or whatever.  Sure you can, just go to work and do your job.  Zillions of people do it every day.  Back during the depression we were happy to have any kind of work.  And so on.  You have to do what's best for your family.  You know, with the mortgage and all that other stuff.

But is it best for my family if I'm miserable and crabby and tense and angry so much?  I don't really think it is.  I don't think it's good for my kids to see me hating my job.  And you know what?  I can't fake it any more.  I can't just suck it up and slap a smile on my face.  I don't have a very convincing fake smile.  I can't even pretend any more anyway.  The only time I can kind of manage it is when I am dropping my kids off at daycare and they don't want me to go to work, and I tell them, sometimes we do things because we have to do them, not because we want to.  And I want to throw up.  Because I don't want them to believe me.  I want them to pursue things that are challenging and fulfilling and sure, difficult and sure they'll second guess themselves, but I want them to go after what they want in life, and not just do what they are told they should do. 

That make any sense?

My dad is retired, but he was self-employed as a photographer and while he wasn't a millionaire or even close, he usually seemed to be happy about his work.  Maybe not every single second.  Maybe not every single aspect of it.  But for the most part, it was a good fit.

I have a pair of shoes that fit me perfectly.  I've replaced the heels because I wore them down.  Now the sole is peeling off the left one and my big toe is finally pushing a hole through the leather on the right one.  But I still wear them.  Because they fit me.  I don't get blisters and my toes don't feel cramped in there.  They fit. 

That's what I'm looking for.  A better fit.

A friend of mine at work has a friend who takes a lot of pictures and started selling them here and there.  She had a booth at a small art fair a few weeks ago, and we went to it, just so I could see her work.  And she's really good.  We talked a bit, and it was funny how similar some of her pictures are to some of mine.  We live in the same part of the country, we see the same flowers, the same skies, some of the same scenes.  She did pretty well - sold some pictures and had orders placed for others. 

It was another gigantic kick in the pants for me.

Oh, yeah, and I forgot this one.  On June 6th I bought the local paper.  Maybe it was a Wednesday and I got it for the food section.  I don't remember.  But I looked at my horoscope.  And here's what it said:

"If you still aren't doing what you love for money, the risk to your well-being is becoming much too important to ignore."

Really.  That's what it says.  I know for sure because I cut it out and it's taped to my laptop, right there where I can see it.  I don't read my horoscope every day - but once in a while I'll look.  And this was just too on the money to ignore.

So there's all of that.  And what's that got to do with anything? 

Well, I'm giving it a shot.  And to get started, I've opened a little shop on CafePress.  I'm still getting things organized, still wiping the dust off the shelves and deciding how to merchandise everything...heh heh.  But anyway.  That's what I'm doing. 

Because I need to do something that is me.  I need a better fit. I've had enough of blisters on my heels.  I need - ha ha - I need to fly my own damn plane. 

Okay, enough of the goofy analogies.  It's getting late, I'm tired, and my left pinkie is going numb. 

Diane, you were a big sister to me.  And you are a big part of the reason I decided to do something ELSE instead of deciding to just sit around and continue to be miserable at a job I don't like.  So thank you for this very necessary push in a new direction.  And if I fall flat on my face, I'll blame you.  Just kidding.

 

   

 

My Weekend

It is just after ten pm as I begin to type this.  I won't type for long - it's already late and I need to get to bed soon...

But I just want to say - this has been a lovely weekend.  I was going to say perfect - but nothing is perfect.  But still - this came close. 

For one thing, we had no - absolutely no - obligations. 

For another thing, I just bought a new 55-200mm telephoto zoom lens for my camer and I'm happier than the proverbial kid (or my husband) in a candy store.

And so this is what we did this weekend:

On Saturday we took the kids to the zoo.  We get a family membership each year now, and it's well worth it.  Not only did I go with the new lens on my camera, but I also got the kids each a disposable camera so they could take their own pictures. 

I taught them how to use the cameras the night before, so they were rarin' to go once we got to the zoo and I handed them their equipment.  They each took several pictures before we even got past the ticket takers.  Julia shot some lovely images of my lower body (thank you, daughter) and a nice one of Bill's sneakers.  Hee hee hee...I think I had more fun watching them than they had taking pictures.  They were so serious about it. 

Here's Julia pointing to the baby giraffe.  The baby was born on May 5th - he's adorable...

Isn't he?

Alex...hanging out near the farm animals....

They ran out of film about halfway through the trip.  Alex was pretty upset, but I told him he could tell me what he wanted me to take pictures of and I'd do it for him.  Julia just chose not to believe me - that she could press that button all she wanted but it wouldn't take any more pictures.  She insisted on hanging on to it a while longer.  At some point she finally surrendered it.

We were there for about two hours.  In addition to the baby giraffe, there were three baby emus as well - they were born a couple months ago, I think.  Here there are...

After the zoo, we went out to eat, and then went home. 

We dropped off the kids' cameras and basically hung out for a while...I picked up the pictures later that afternoon and had a grand old time looking at their work.  I'll scan some of those pictures in this week - they are priceless.  I put them into two photo albums and had them tell me about each picture...typed up their words and inserted them into the sleeves that faced each picture (so left page had text, right page had picture)...so now they each have a chronicle of that day.

That night Bill put the kids to bed so I could soak in the tub.

Today - well, since it's getting late, I'll just jump to afternoon.  We took the kids fishing at a pond down the road.  Alex has learned to cast and Julia knows ow to reel, at least.  In fact, today, Alex was more interested in dancing around in the sand than he was in waiting for the fish to bite.  He just wanted to cast the worm out and reel it in.  Julia, however, was pretty patient and reeled in three or four sunfish mostly on her own.

That's my girl!

And after that, we stopped to get ice cream on the way home.

That's my boy!

A weekend of simple pleasures. 

Damn near perfect.