SOAKING UP THE SUN AND HAVING FUN!

Sitting here at the beach surrounded by the sounds of the young ones screaming in delight over the ocean waves and the sea gulls dive bombing them as they throw the bits of bread up in the air, I realize that as much as I love the community that I live in, I miss the joyous noise of the youth.  

I am reminded about a conversation I had once with Uncle Bob and Uncle Ed (my husband’s uncles) and we talked about why they don’t like attending senior-type activities or hanging around with just seniors.  

“You never get off the subject of how someone’s poop is doing,” said Uncle Ed.  

“Yes, and all they seem to be able to talk about is what pills they are taking and why”, chimed in Uncle Bob.  “Besides,” Uncle Bob continued, “when you hang around old people you act old, and when you hang around young people, you act young.”

I felt that today.  It is not that I’m running up and down the beach like I am an 8 year old.  It is the energy that one feeds off of when one hangs around these young people. It is both exhilarating and exhausting at the same time.

Am I tired at the end of the day?  You bet.  Do I sleep soundly?  Double bet!  But I love the laughter, silliness, and the pure joy of just being in the moment. 

So far at the sea, we have experienced some firsts.  My son, digging in the sand with the kids, dug up a conch shell and it was still alive.  I had never seen one of those before except in seaside gift shops.  Then four of the adults went up in a para sail and had a blast.  When the rest of the guys get down here we hope to do it again…at least those who didn’t go will go, we cannot avoid their enthusiasm for the event and want some of that good stuff for ourselves!

I am looking forward to the rest of the week, being surrounded by the energy of the young ones, crashing into bed at night with the pure exhaustion from the happiness experienced of spending time with the family at the seashore.  Life does not get any better than this!

PS:  So far we have not lost anyone anywhere….but the week is young!

OH CHINCOTEAGUE, HOW YOU CHANGED ME

As I sit here excitedly anticipating spending the week down at the shore with my whole gang, I find myself recalling the times we visited the shore as a young family. We would travel to the shore, leaving by 5 in the morning, having breakfast, spend the day on the beach, use the public showers to clean the sand off our bodies, walk the board walk, have dinner and return home by late evening.  

I loved the ocean.  The smell would put a smile on my face as we entered the causeways when the sea air would fill the car.  Growing up in the midwest with small lakes at our feet and Lake Michigan at our door, was not unloveable, but the ocean, oh that ocean.  The power, the smell…the sand.

I loved it until one summer during the Pony Penning at Chincoteague, Virginia.  The ocean had become my favorite vacation spot, (although my husband could of easily given up the sand part).  Friends of ours had a cabin on the bay side in Chincoteague and the only time they did not want to be there was during the Pony Penning so they shared it with us.  It was a memorable trip with stories that we share over and over again, even today.

The first discovery was the mosquito.  They were so thick I believed they could carry us away.  Getting into the cottage was a delicate dance of run for your life while protecting the sanctity of the inner cottage.  Pat went into the cottage, making sure he was in the right position to open the door at just the right moment, not allowing for any mosquitoes to come into the cottage.  I would stay in the van, giving last minute instructions of how to run for your life into the house without getting bit.  On your mark…..get set….go!  Open the door, push a kid out, slam the door, watch kid run to the house, Pat open the door, grab the kid while slamming the door.  Take a deep breath.

Okay, kid number two!  Same routine.  On your mark…get set…go!  Open the door, push the kid out, slam the door, watch kid run to the house, Pat open the door, grab the kid while slamming the door.  Take a deep breath.

Four times doing this before all were safe into the sanctity of the cottage.  We checked around for any mosquito that may have found it’s way in and then inhaled.  We are safe!

In the sunshine we were okay.  Apparently mosquitoes didn’t like sun, but under a shade tree?  Look out!

We discovered at Chincoteague that our younger son had a sleep walking problem.  The cottage was tiny.  A small kitchen, a living room with a pull out bed, and a front porch.  It was located beside the bay in a residential community.  Except for a bar down the street it was very quiet.  We put the kids to sleep in the living room and Pat and I made a bed out on the front porch.  Locking the doors and settling in we believed nothing could go wrong.  

About 12:30 a.m. my husband jumped up suddenly (I didn’t hear anything so his movement startled me), and he went around the house checking things out.  Coming back through the living area where the kids were sleeping he counted heads.  One was missing.  Suddenly he called out Aaron’s name.  No response.  I jumped up and joined in the chorus of yelling out for Aaron.

Outside panic gripped me further as we walked around shouting out his name realizing how close we were to the bay.  

“Aaron!!”, we shouted.

Nothing…silence.

“Aaron!!” once again with more panic filling the name with each call.

Nothing.

“A A R O N”, I shouted as loud and long as I could.

From off in a distance I heard a soft muffled voice come back to me, “What?”

“A A R O N”, I screamed not sure if what I heard was anything.

“What?” came once again.

I ran to the front of the cottage and there 1 1/2 blocks down the street was my younger son, walking in the black of night in just his underwear.  We soon learned that he often would sleep walk if he had to go to the bathroom.  From that night on we barricaded the back kitchen door as if we were under attack.

The next day, with all our little chicks in tact, we decided before going to the beach to take them to the gift shop to pick up a little something they might like.  Spending time in there with the kids was fun and we had some very silly times.  Getting back into the van, heading on down the road, each kid called out for their present not wanting to wait until we got back to the cottage.  I should say all of them called out but one.  You guessed it.  Aaron.  Turns out he was not in the van, so we quickly turned around and drove the longest mile I have ever driven.  When we pulled into the parking lot, there he was standing in the door way with his hand on his hips.  

“Oh Aaron, were you scared when you couldn't find us?” I cried as I scooped him up into my arms.  

“No,” he said calmly, “I knew you’d be back to get me!”

OMG, this trip was turning out to be one of either we were very lucky or there was a message we were not paying attention to.  But the worst was yet to come.

On the beach the final day at Chincoteague, we were all enjoying the day.  Pat was sitting at the shore line with the little ones while Damian, my oldest and I were out to our waist floating up and then down with each incoming wave.  We were having a great time as long as my feet would touch bottom once the wave passed.

Then it happened.  The wave came in and took Damian and me out.  Our feet could not touch bottom and we both suddenly found ourselves doggy paddling to nowhere.  Pat noticed that something was not right but was stuck on shore with the welfare of the little ones in his hands.  The life guard noticed us about the same time and started to grab his floater and run toward us when suddenly the water drew from the beach, lifted Damian and I up higher and threw us to the shore.  Swallowing water and eating sand we made it back to the shore but as I pulled myself out of the water the top of my bathing suit was at my waist and I was bleeding on my chest where it had scraped against the bottom.

From this moment on, Damian and I have a great deal of respect for the power of the ocean.  Today I won’t go in past my shins.  It does not stop me from enjoying the sounds and the smell and those early morning walks along the waters edge before the world gets up and starts their day all over again.  

I know this coming week with my children and grandchildren will charge up my lonely tanks so life won’t feel so empty enabling me to float through the rest of the summer knowing I have a wonderful, loving family.

RANDOM THOUGHTS OF AN OLD PERSON

Sitting outdoors with the morning song of birds, the sparkle of rain and dew on the bushes from last nights rain, and random thoughts racing through my head, I decided to write them down and see where they take me.  Some will refer to this as “string of consciousness writing.”  One does this when you have lots of time on your hands.  Today, I at least have this morning and it is beautiful.  I can feel the humidity building so I know this breeze and comfort will be fleeting at best…just as in life the good moments come and go.

A person cannot reach my age and not carry a fair amount of pain and sorrow on their shoulders.  I look around at the faces of those in my community, some who have twenty years on me, and watch them carefully as I look to get a clue on how to live beyond those painful moments.  

What makes some in life carry the ability to just throw off those moments and move on, while others will carry them every day, every hour, every second into their living, forever being a victim.  There must be comfort there but for the life of me I cannot figure out what it is.  Pain is not something I want to deal with every day.  

I love to surround myself by those who laugh, love, and live with gusto.  

Someone I know, commented on something I wrote and said they believed it showed that I have a controlling personality.  I can only conclude it is that they do not know me well, because if there is something I’m not, it is controlling.  In this time of my life I feel a freedom to live in ways I have not had before.  I am lucky enough to still have my health, and my ability is still there to fill me with a desire to explore this world and what it still has to offer me.

I have one daughter, who a friend once described,”is you Marlene, unleashed.”  I have come to believe that more and more as she is temporarily with me.  Oh she is smarter than me…she is smarter than a lot of people I know.  But our spirit is the same.  She carries that gusto for life and no matter what it has thrown at her, she pushes onward.  She, like me, will take some time to process the hurt, but she like me, does not enjoy the dwelling at the place of pain, so she will reach up and out.

We decided to go on a spontaneous adventure together.  She has an abundant of flyer miles, so we are taking a quick trip to the Grand Canyon.  Two nights and three days…a whirlwind of a trip I know, but I like the spontaneity of it.  I will tell you that I will enjoy the whole journey and the sights of the Grand Canyon will be the frosting on the cake!!

I love spontaneous moments.  You don’t have to spend energy planning for something that may or may not work out.  You just pick up and step out and move forward.  Whatever happens, happens…you didn’t plan on anything anyway.  

Now if I could just find a way to deal with that deepest of human needs…to be loved and wanted…then I could truly find a way to enjoy completely what these twilight days of my life bring me.  Until then, I’ll take those moments that put a smile on my face and enjoy them to the best of my ability.

Time to put some music on and dance!

WONDERING ABOUT WANDERING

I have a high school classmate of mine that is traveling the four corners of the US on motorcycle by himself.  I am impressed by his journey and the people he has met.  He has stopped to visit family, friends, and old classmates like myself along the way.  

It has me thinking, about how I would enjoy a driving trip across the US.  I have not seen the Rocky Mountains, the Grand Canyon, the North West or New England, places I very much want to experience firsthand.  The problem is traveling alone.  My kids have shared concerns about the idea of me being alone on the road.  I read my classmates blog (http://www.john-lomax.blogspot.com/?m=1) and wonder about the differences between a man and a woman in their spirit of adventure.

I mean, he would of liked to have had travel partners, but did not stop when he realized it was only going to be him.  So I ask, why does it appear more comfortable for a man than a woman to travel alone?  

I have checked out travel sites for women traveling alone, but they are women, signing up for a tour group and that is not the same thing as being out there all by yourself, following your nose.

One of the greatest pleasures I had as a young women, was my three day vacations when I worked for the Navy.  I would get up on a Friday, using a spinner, spin to pick out a direction, and then plan a trip heading out to wherever eight hours of driving would take me.  I then found a place to stay, and the next day would explore the area and return home that Sunday.  It was the some of the best experiences of my life!

My last blog brought out a suggestion from a distinct cousin’s of my husband, that I think about an RV.  He said he and his wife have been doing this for four years now and have met some great people and made friends with many of them.

Now there is an adventure…blogging my way across America as an old person!  Ummm…thinking. 

MAYBE A DOG WILL DO!

Just over a year after Pat died, a friend of mine signed me up on one of those online dating sites.  I have not written about that experience but as life is settling down and I find I am having thoughts about how nice it would be to have a “friend” to do things with, I am thinking about the dating site again.  I mean how else does one meet anyone these days?

But going on a dating site is an adventure in pure craziness.  First how is one suppose to feel about having a line-up of over 100 men look at your profile and just pass you by.  I mean really, 100 men and not one is interested in me?  Boy that is not good for an ego.  I keep thinking of the conversation I had with my doctor when he asked if I was dating yet?  

“I think about it,” I said, “but when I see myself naked in the mirror I think—not yet.”  

“Have you checked out the guy sitting across the table from you?” he asked.  “He is no better.”

True, but that even makes the fact that so many can pass me by without an inquiry even worse.

Then I get excited because I finally get a message from an “admirer” and get told by him before two messages pass between us that he is in love with me and cannot wait to meet me but he is out of the country on business.  I immediately smell a rat.  I know my writing may at times seem interesting but how can you fall in love with “Hi, my name is…” is just a sign of pure desperation or a scam.  Neither is welcome!

I have seen three different men since Pat died.  The first acquaintance was short because I felt like I was cheating.  A sure sign I was not ready for the dating scene.

The second was too young.  Period.

The third man I saw, was very nice and felt very comfortable but I soon realized I was not ready to give up the freedom to do what I wanted when I wanted and he was very vocal about wanting more from me than that.  Carrying for a sick husband for 13 years will do that to you….the freedom to come and go still tastes sweet.  

I am asking myself what is it that I am really looking for?  Truth?  I have no idea. It would be nice to find that someone who would enjoy a show now and then.  It would be fun to have a travel partner.  I have a desire to drive back roads to somewhere just for shits and giggles…going alone at my age is not smart these days.  Have not found a lady friend with that kind of spirit for adventure so I am open to anyone!  Umm....I wonder if a large dog would be good?  

Gee, now that I think about it a large dog would be good…he would gladly go where I wanted to go and not complain.  He would be thrilled to see me whenever I was with him and not complain if I was gone too long—okay he may pee on the floor but that is what paper towels and disinfectant are for.  He would protect me if I was in danger.  I wouldn’t have to cook because he would eat prepared food once a day.  And in the winter when it is cold, he would let me stick my cold feet under his warm belly and he would not complain.  Yep—maybe a dog would do.

THE ART OF AGING

I have written a letter to my future self.  Before I share it, let me give you some background.  

I live in a 55 plus community.  It is a wonderful place to live, especially at this time of my life.  A tapestry of experiences bring a richness to living not seen outside.  It is a window to the future too and can be both exhilarating and scary at the same time.  Exhilarating because I have watched those who live life to the absolute fullest—until their body gives up—and they can be in their 90’s!  And I have also observed those who are in their 60’s retire and give up living until the end of their time comes—much sooner than later.

I have witnessed how the art of aging, done right, is filled with determination, dedication, curiosity, attitude and gratitude.  This is how I hope to continue my days in this last stage of my life.  But I have also witnessed first hand when someone, who no matter what, is never satisfied with what life has put on the table and consequently makes all those around them miserable too.

Today, I find myself in a situation where knowing this person for 40 years now (she is 88), is the crankiest person I have ever known.  Her husband died 5 years ago.  Our husbands rode to work together, bonding like a father to a son, and through that, I got to know his wife.  Twenty years difference in age did not make us close friends, but close enough to stay in touch over the years.  Although he had children by a first marriage, she had none, and the relationship with his children was strained at best.  So as she found herself alone, widowed, with only a niece to help her, Pat and I gave her as much time as we could (I should say I could).   Before Pat died, he acknowledged that she was a tough cookie, but he always had a soft spot in his heart for her (and her towards him) and asked that I continue to keep an eye out for her.

So here I am.  Trying to deal with a person who is so paranoid that I have been accused of stealing a can of mushroom soup, her box of tissues, a bottle of wine, and pictures of her childhood.  No amount of assurance calms these accusations.  I make her a meal…she is never thankful but will always tell me what she didn’t like about it…so I don’t do that anymore.

Her memory is not what it use to be, so getting things mixed up and confused in time and issues is a routine today.  No amount of gentle persuasion can convince her that she is wrong, only accusations that I am calling her crazy.

I have never been a fighter, but she and I have had a few and I go away hating myself for allowing it to take place and at the same time feeling so frustrated because I worry about her well being and know the danger she puts herself into by her behaviors and choices.  

I know there is nothing I can do.  When she falls again…and I can no longer get into her house because she has taken the keys away from me and her niece to keep people from stealing from her…we will just have to break the door down and she will have to pay to get it fixed.  Nothing I can do.

When she overdoses on her medications (which she has done) there is nothing I can do because no amount of organization or laying them out helps because she cannot seem to follow the Monday, Tuesday….labels.  It confuses her she says.  I have told her niece if she overdoses, she overdoses…there is nothing I can do.

We have talked to her doctor to see what help he can give for us, and he says, at this time, there is nothing he can do.

My frustration level is high enough at this time, that I am putting more time between visits and hope, if she gets into a situation she will call, and if not, there is nothing I can do about it. 

In sharing this with friends, I have heard other horror stories about others who have reached old age and gotten out of touch with reality.  The pattern seems the same with those that find themselves in this situation.  On the other hand I have a neighbor who is also 88 and is the kindest, most considerate person I have ever known, and the smallest act of kindness toward her, finds oneself on the receiving end of a great amount of generosity.

With me being alone, knowing that my day will come when my age and sensibilities are challenged I decided to write myself the following letter.  

Dear Future Marlene,

If you are reading this, then one of your children, their spouses, or grandchildren (who all love you very much) have come to you to say one of the following:

It is time Mom that you give up driving….

it is time Mom that you get help…

it is time Mom that you move in with…

it is time Mom that you move to….

You have to know and believe this is being done with love in their heart and concern for your well being.  Do not, under any circumstances give them a hard time.  Put a smile on your face, be gracious and thankful that they still love you enough to care!  If you approach this with a kind and grateful heart, they will continue to visit with you and look out for you.  If you become a cranky old bitch they will be glad to just put you away.

So smile kid…it only will get better from here!

Love

Your past self.

PS:  If you think this is not so….just remember how you have felt taking care of your lovable cranky friend.

***********

My children know where this letter is and when they should tell me to go read it.

So I go on living, with a prayer that I will age gracefully with determination, dedication, curiosity, attitude and gratitude.

Amen.

WHAT IS MY REASON?

In my youth, Hope was the reason I started my day.

Hope for a brighter future propelled me forward.

Hope is why I went to work every day.

Hope is why I made plans for a future.
Hope brought me joy.

Hope got me involved with life and living.

Hope was my reason for breathing.

Hope was my reason for everything.

Then I met Pat.

He became the reason I started my day.

He was the reason I went to work.

He became my reason for living.

He was my reason for moving forward.

He was my reason for laughing, loving and doing.

He was my reason for making plans for the future.
He brought me joy.

He was my reason for everything.

Then came the children.

They too became my reason I started my day.

Children were my reason for getting up.

Children were my reason I went to work every day.

They were my reason for getting involved with life.

Children were my reason for joy.

Children were my reason for making plans for the future.

Children and Pat were my reason for everything.

Then the children moved on with lives of their own.
My reason for motherhood went when the youngest left our home.

Pat, again, was my reason for getting up every day.

He was my reason for giving, doing, loving and laughing.

He was the reason I made plans for the future.
He was the reason for the joy in my life.

He was my reason for everything.

Now he is gone.

The children have moved on.

Hope can be hard to see.

So I find myself asking, what is my reason today?  

What reason do I get up?

What reason do I go to work?

What reason do I look forward to a future?
What reasons do I search for joy in my life?

What reason do I do anything?

If I spend my days looking back, 

then I am unable to see a future, 

except for growing old alone.  

I don’t like that thought.  

There must be a reason.  

I’m still searching.  

Who knows, maybe there is still Hope.

I read this to my daughter and she said, "Mom, I have an answer for you."

"You do?" I asked.  "What is your answer?"

"You, Mom are the reason", she said.  "Simply you."

I'm still thinking on this one.  Don't know if I am enough.  I want it to be...

SERVICE? YOU WANT SERVICE?

I just read somewhere that we have become a nation of service industries, not manufacturing.  It got me to thinking.  (Now this is where my age is really going to show.)  

Remember when on an elevator there was a person who sat on a stool and would ask what floor and then push the button?  On the way to your floor you could even have a conversation about your final destination and he/she would send you out the elevator, pointing the way.  Today you cram in like cattle and hope that when you call out your floor someone will reach over and push the button needed.  If not, then you have to push through and do it yourself.  

Filling up with gas has sure changed from when I only paid 29 cents a gallon.  While filling up with gas, you would get your windows washed, your oil checked and even at times the air in your tires checked.  Today getting gas can be a challenge, especially with arthritic hands.  Have you ever been dressed up for a fancy evening only to discover that you are low on gas, so you stop on the way to the event to fill up and accidentally get gas on your hands.  Now instead of smelling like the $75.00 perfume you are wearing, you smell like Rosie the Riveter just after work!

And the department stores—even the high-end ones—are nothing more than abandoned warehouses.  Ever go in one and need help finding something?  You spend 20 minutes walking up and down the isles searching for anyone who may look like they work there.  You call out, “Hello, can anyone help me?”  And people turn and shake their heads in acknowledgement  that it is awful there are not more people to help.  It seems like the only people that are there are the ones who stand behind a counter to take your money, and even finding a staffed counter can be a challenge.  It makes me wonder sometime how people get arrested for shoplifting.  I mean, who is there to catch them?

This reminds me of Pat’s Grandmother, Muddy.  She was a very proper Irish women who always  lived life with great protocol and dignity.  Tables always had linen on them, along with her crystal salt and pepper shakers, cloth napkins, and proper glasses.  Before I came into the family, she would call down to Heckler’s grocery store in Harleysville and place her food order.  It would be delivered by the afternoon of her call.  After her husband died, she moved in with her daughter and her daughter would shop for the family.  She went over 75 years never having shopped in a modern day grocery store.  Eventually she moved into a senior retirement apartment.  I’ll never forget how appalled she was the first time I took her to the grocery store.  She stood in the isle and kept muttering, “Why I never….”  Once we got to the checkout she looked at me and asked, 

“What are we doing now?”  

“We have to pay”, I said.

“Blessed by the name of Jesus,” she said crossing her chest, “I feel like they are treating us like cattle in a chute.”

She was so appalled by this event, that she never stepped into a modern day grocery store again, all the while sharing with anyone who would listen, how awful people are being treated in the grocery stores these days.

It seems to me, that in days long gone, when one went about ones daily living, there was always a helping hand or two to get you where you wanted to be.  Today, I find I can wander aimlessly from place to place and never hear the words, “Can I help you?”

Oh, where has all the real “service” gone?

DO NOT CALL LIST, WHERE ARE YOU?

I have been wondering lately about the “Do Not Call List”.  It is not working anymore—at least not at my house.  It is just wrong that my life can be interrupted anytime by anyone.  These calls  have the knack of coming at an inconvenient time (although for these calls there is no convent time).  I will just step up on the ladder, reach for the bulb and the phone will ring.  Down the ladder I come, search for the phone, find it,  only to discover it is a telemarketer or some stupid survey.  

Over the years I have had my fun with these unwelcome callers.  My favorite call came repeatedly from Olean Mills, a photography company that would call and offer you a free 8x10 photo of your family—no obligations, no sitting fee, just “let us take your family picture and you get the free 8x10 photo." One day, after saying no a dozen times and the caller insisting that she wanted to give me my free 8x10 of the family, I finally said, “Look, you don’t understand.  I never take pictures of my family.”

“But why?”, she asked.  

“”Because all my kids are ugly and I don’t want to upset them by taking their picture.”  

The gasp on the other end has given me many a chuckle over the years as I recalled this conversation.

I have tried different tactics over the years with these phone calls in hopes that they would leave me alone. 

I have this one company that would call 2 or 3 times a day.  After numerous times of asking that my number be taken off their list only to have them call me again, I  decided to respond to their calls by saying the same thing over and over to them when they would call.   “I’m sorry would you repeat that?”, then they would start all over again with their speech.  Once they got to the same spot, I would say again, “I’m sorry, would you please repeat that?”  I would repeat this until they hung up on me.

Once when a call came in from an “unknown” caller, I answered in a loud shouting voice, “HELLO.”  They would start talking and I would interrupt with “HELLO”, once again very loud.  I would repeat that until they too would hang up.

I’ve begun to weigh in on their sympathies.  The telemarketer will call and start their speech.  I would stop them with, “I’m sorry, but I have just been told I only have a short time to live.”  After stumbling over their words they would hang up.  In a couple of instances I have noticed that they don’t call me anymore.

When I’m involved with something and my annoyance level is high, I just answer the phone with, “The bitch is dead.  Don’t call any more”, and hang up.

Tonight someone sent me the following:  Getting tired of the phone calls from "Unknown" or "Blocked". Well the next time you get one, pick up the phone and answer in a whisper, "It's done, but there is blood everywhere." Then hang up.

You can bet I’ll be using this one!

A SPECIAL ANNIVERSARY

The first dance on the first day
of the rest of our life.

It is forty-eight years since that June of 1966 when I worked at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center in Waukegan, Illinois.  It was an exciting time for me in my life.  I was feeling very independent and free as a young adult.  Working on the Navy base had it’s privileges and I enjoyed the worldly feeling of working on the base.  I didn’t know it at the time, but it also would bring a life changing event to me.

On the first day I worked at the base I was working with a young Lieutenant, who upon observing a young women strolling down the street, cigarette hanging out of her mouth, pants a bit tight, he made a comment that forever affected my time at the base.  “See that girl,” he said turning toward me, “50,000 men on this base have not seen a women since they entered bootcamp and once out, one of them will be desperate enough to ask her out and she will think she is hot stuff.”  I decided at that moment that I would not be her…no interest in the sea of men that surrounded me.

Instead, I filled my time volunteering at the hospital, helping the guys that had returned from Vietnam with their broken bodies.  Our American Legion in Fox Lake, Illinois held an open event for the guys from the hospital every Saturday.  Buses would bring them to the Legion for a day of R&R.  An open bar, boat rides offered by the locals, barbecue on the lawn and ending with a dance with an invitation to the local young women to come and dance with those that could.

My role at the Legion was to make sure everyone was involved and not being isolated in a corner.  This time is filled with fond memories.  Purpose…in giving of ones self without expectations…to give comfort and aid just because it was needed.  Yes, these were moments I enjoyed.  And who knew that by the end of this month I would meet and fall in love with the man who would carry me in his heart for his remaining days.  

I hear some say, “Oh I wish I could have my childhood back!”  Not me—I would take life in June 1966 and relive the next fourth-five years and not change a thing.

REMOVING MY ROSE COLORED GLASSES

For the last three days, I’ve been at my son and daughter-in-law’s home watching the four grandkids while my son and his wife enjoy a couple of days together celebrating their 20 years of marriage.

I found myself laughing at the memories of my own life raising four kids.  Being here it is interesting to see how deep my rose colored glasses are when I look back on those days.

Here, I am reminded of how sleep deprived I was.  Getting kids to bed and up at 5:15 a.m. to prepare for their early bus pickup I wonder how they keep their energy with the schedule that they follow. I must say, these four are very independent.  They suddenly disappear to bed at night and getting up has been without a hassle.  I just stayed out of their way and let them do their thing.

Of course that means after they have left for school, I have to go around and put things away, pick up wet towels, close open cabinet doors, clean up the dishes and generally pick up after the tornado passed through.  Yes I remember these kind of days well.

Pat’s grandmother and I use to talk about the differences of motherhood in her time (the early 20’s and 30’s) and our time.  She often said that she wouldn’t trade what she had raising her three sons for what we have as young mothers of today.  “You may have all the great tools to lighten the load, but I had helping hands,” she said.  Her mother and aunt lived next door and  were always there helping to keep an eye on the boys, or help scrub the clothes on wash day.  She was surrounded by conversation and companionship.  “You guys are alone in your journey”, she remarked.  And it is true.

I was a counselor for nursing mothers for nine years and learned quickly how unprepared many of us were in dealing with the addition of infants to our family.  We didn’t grow up surrounded by young families and new babies so for many of us the only image of motherhood and newborns is the commercialized view we see in the ads on TV.  The reality of the crying baby and the messy diapers left many struggling with the stress.

My oldest was 4 1/2 when my 4th child was born. I often felt alone and overwhelmed, especially when Pat was working 16 hours a day at his job. 

So what makes these times seem so wonderful and finding me wishing I could be back in those moments, even when I’m reminded by these past couple of days how tough it can be?  It is the sense of belonging, being needed and living a life with purpose.  That is what I miss.  

No amount of friends can fulfill the role of purpose.  Finding myself alone at the end of the day, is still the hardest part of this new life I am living. Yet, when my son and his wife return I will gladly return to the quiet of my bed and sleep a deep sound sleep and enjoy it all!  It seems I don’t have the energy for so much purpose!

SEXUAL ASSULT HAS IT'S PRIVILEGES?

WARNING:  I am angry as I write this post and as a result it is raw and uncensored due to the subject matter.  Read or don’t read…it is totally up to you. 

I am a person who likes to read both sides of the political spectrum so that I can understand more fully the issues that we face today.  George Will is a commentator that I have long followed because he is well thought of as a conservative reporter.  But I read a piece of his where he asserts that 1 in 5 college women who experience sexual assault have a “coveted status.”  

Here is his exact quote.  “They are learning that when they say campus victimizations are ubiquitous ("micro-aggressions," often not discernible to the untutored eye, are everywhere), and that when they make victimhood a coveted status that confers privileges, victims proliferate.”

I have now put George Will in the category of asshole!  

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and have spent much of my early life becoming a survivor and not remaining a victim.  I don’t plan on sharing details here, but for years in search of myself I have shared my story—not to be the privileged victim Mr. Will describes, but to learn how to live despite all the crap that had happened.  I learned not keeping secrets empowers the one who was the victim and by sharing my story it has helped me heal and also shows other victims that one can survive with the truth out in the open.

The attitude that has prevailed toward women and children who finally find the courage to come forward and say, “I have been hurt”, does as much if not more damage to the person who was victimized.  From personal stories of people I have met, to victims of the Priests of the Catholic church, to Sandusky at Penn State, I hear the roar of the defenders of the people accused and my heart breaks for the person who found the courage to speak out.

I have found no special privilege that Mr. Will described, not unless you call childhood isolation a privilege.  Growing up with few friends, being a loner, depression, self loathing and abandonment by family (who could not believe my story), and self loathing because I was made to feel somehow responsible for what had happened.  (Of course I don’t know many children at age 5 to 15 who have that much control in their life.)  It took a long time for me to overcome my “privileges” as Mr. Will described.  

I was so convinced that I was not worthy of anything good in life when I was a young women, that when my husband proposed to me I responded by saying, “You won’t love me when you know the truth about who I am.”  I then proceeded, for the first time in my life, to tell him my story in order to convince him to go back to Pennsylvania without me.  After listening to me tell him the “whole” truth of my experience, he looked me in the face and said, “that is horrible and I am sorry you had to go through that, but what has that got to do with me loving you.  My feelings for you have not changed.”  

For the first time in my life, there was a separation of who I was from what happened to me.  That Mr. Will, came from love, not privilege.  

I pray every day that the world measures it’s words carefully when faced with a person of courage, and trust me, it takes courage to speak the truth of sexual assault.  It takes courage because of people like Mr. Will who believe that there are privileges to being a victim and people who support Mr. Sandusky or the Catholic Church, by saying the victims are only looking for money, or notoriety.  

One more thing Mr. Will, victims proliferate because there are jerks out there who continue to abuse their power.  I believe the number of victims have always been there, but sexual abuse has most always been kept a family secret.  

I salute the heroes who have found the courage to speak up. Until we do, too many will continue to think we are seeking privileges…in the end we are all just seeking peace.

THE BEAUTY OF AGING

Having a sense of humor is a prerequisite for aging, because without it, you might as well cash in the chips right now.  The three days I spent at Sea Isle with my friends was a great observation on how to laugh at ourselves.  There is something wonderful about aging with humor.  Oh I know, we all hear how tough it can be…and it can.  We all know those whose loneliness is so overwhelming that all they do is complain but do not have the spunk to get up and walk away from it.  So many of us find ourselves alone and don’t enjoy it and that is true too.

But aging, and what happens to us and our bodies can, with the right frame of spirit, fill us with much laughter.  If you are a woman, you most likely have spent much of your life obsessing over body image.  I know I have.  In fifth grade, my report card shows me at 1/2 inch off my adult height and 155 lbs, a weight I carried until the pregnancy of my first child.  Yet in childhood, I never felt pretty—only fat because I was bigger than others in my class.  My eighth grade autograph book has comments from fellow students which read, “fatty, fatty, two by four, can’t get through the kitchen door…”, which only reinforced my own negative self image.  But age, ah, the blessed age…fills me with permission to just enjoy the day as I am without worrying about how thin or beautiful I am.  Instead, I just have fun, laugh and most likely  pee myself!

The body does fail us as we age, but our mind can show us the way to prevail through any embarrassing moment.  The ladies who spent the three days at Sea Isle ranged in age from early 60’s to mid 70’s.  As “older” woman (notice I did not use the word elderly), we tend to lose our pucker power.  After a delightful lunch, we started out on the promenade of shops when one of us let go of a bit of gas.  Well, maybe more than a bit…more like the air escaping from a balloon blown up (a BIG balloon) and let go…you know that slapping sound of the two sides smacking together!  We were prepared to continue our stroll as if nothing took place but the party in question turned and apologized—first to the right, then the left and then behind her.  We all lost control of ourselves and started laughing and when turning around noticed a man we just passed on a bench, had joined us in our uncontrollable laughter…all the while we continued to try and move on down the road, some of us having to squeeze tight to keep from any more embarrassing moments to occur.  A block later, you could still hear us laughing and trying to walk at the same time.

It reminded me of a time when my daughter and I attended a reading at the Pearl Buck House in Perkasie.  A high-priced ticketed event with David and Julie Eisenhower hosting,  Joliene and I felt a little out of our league.  As we got out of our car, we noticed a couple of “older” women, dressed in their fur and diamonds heading out ahead of us.  While strolling behind them on the walk, we began to giggle as every step the fur clad women took, was accompanied by a letting go of gas…each step…was poot…poot…poot… a sound that at once let me know I no longer felt out of place in this very prestigious setting.

Prior to my gallbladder surgery, every meal would and could fill me with gas.  I sometimes would try and hide the fact that it was happening by hiccoughing or sneezing at the same time, causing my kids to refer to these moments as “hic-hachoo-farts”.  No amount of distracting noise could hide the facts of my embarrassment.  

Yes, on many levels I do love aging because when embarrassing things do happen, I just laugh and say, “You know—I am an old person!”  

I AM ONE LUCKY LADY!

A lot has happened in the week since my hot air balloon ride.  To start, I escaped a serious car accident, spent 3 days with an incredible group of ladies at Sea Isle, created art with Flo, an amazing art teacher and friend, and went to a sweet 16 birthday party for my twin grandchildren.

All in all, I am one lucky woman!  On my way to Sea Isle, driving my convertible 65-70 mph on an 8 lane highway, I was suddenly filled with the thought that I should pull over, put my convertible top up as I didn’t feel safe on a highway filled with many trucks and thoughts of something flying up and hitting me in the head.  At the moment these thoughts filled me, I suddenly was looking at a black mass of tire retread from the tractor trailer that was up ahead and to my right.  With no time to react to the first hit, all I could do was take the punch from the black mass and hope for the best.  I was lucky in that it hit me square in the center bumper of the car, slapping it hard, cracking the bumper in half and snapping the underside engine protector.  

Immediately another small piece broke up and tumbled over me as I ducked into the steering wheel, tapping the gas to push me hopefully past it before it landed on my head, only to have it land in the back seat of my car.

As I glanced into the rear view mirror, I noticed all the cars behind me had backed down enough to allow me to get over to the shoulder of the road.  A man in a pick-up truck pulled in behind me to check if I was okay.

“Shook up”, I said, “but okay.”

“In case you don’t know it,” he responded, “you are one lucky woman.  I thought you were going to bite it.”

I didn’t have time to think that, except I did find myself saying, “I hope my kids all know how much I love them.”

I sat for a minute while the kind gentlemen walked around my car to check for damage.  

“You should be able to drive,” he said.  

“I have AAA so if I have a problem I can call them, “ I replied and thanked him very much for his time and thoughtful stop.

I started out and felt no issues with the car so I continued on to Sea Isle.  

Feeling grateful and very very lucky, I spent the next three days with four very grand ladies who can only be described as young at heart.    

THE RIDE OF MY LIFE!

Talk is cheap.  It is when you talk a good game, but don’t act out on it.  I always talked about how I wanted to experience a hot air balloon ride.  We once lived in Quakertown, next to the Quakertown airport, and the hot air balloons would take off regularly and fly over our yard.  Each and every time, even when our dog would drag me across our lawn in reaction to the swish of the flame as it ascended high into the sky, I loved it!

The kids and I would sometimes travel through the woods to watch them inflate and take off, one at a time, in a glorious display of color and excitement.  Yep, I wanted to go up.  BUT—I was afraid.  The height you know.  I’ve stood on the edge of tall buildings and felt my legs get weak and the stomach churn.

So came Christmas, and my daughter blessed me with a gift of a hot air balloon ride.  All at once I was thrilled and scared at the same time.  I mean have you seen a gondola?  It is only waist high!  There are no parachutes if you get in trouble and now and then you hear of a tragedy that gives one pause before undertaking such an adventure.

So here it is, Spring and I kept looking at the ticket for my ride.  I decided it was now or never.  I picked up the phone, called and made arrangements.  My first scheduled time was Saturday morning at 6:00 a.m.  I got a phone call the day before to cancel due to a tear in the balloon.  

“That’s a good idea,” I said.  

Another call later to invite me for a Sunday, 6:00 p.m. ride.  “Meet us at Holicong Park,” said Neil the chase captain.  

It was on.  Oh boy, I hope I don’t embarrass myself by getting sick or turning chicken, I thought.  

My daughter followed me over to the site and we met the team, Pilot Tony, and a couple who like me, had never been in a balloon before.

As Tony stood there, giving us instructions on what to expect and what to do, we listened intently with nervous anticipation.

“The landing,” he said, “can be a bit tough.  Sometimes we may bounce, hit a couple of tree tops, and even tip on our side, but just follow my instructions and you’ll be alright. Just before we land,” he continued, “bend your knees to allow for cushion in the landing.  To not do that could cause you to experience a broken ankle or leg.” 

So taking off is a breeze and landing a challenge.  Okay, I thought, let’s go with it!

We walked over to the balloon where it was being laid out and readied to be filled with air.  As it blew up the knots in my stomach grew tighter and tighter…what happens if I can’t get my legs over the basket.  There is no door to get in.  You have to lift your leg high as the back of a chair and climb in.  No stepping stool, no ladder, just me lifting this leg over the basket and hoisting myself in.  “God, I wish I were in better shape,” I thought.  This is going to be a disaster.  I am going to embarrass myself by not being able to get into the balloon.  Oh well, it was a nice try I thought laughing my nervous laugh.

The fan began to blow the air and with surprising speed the balloon began to take shape.  Soon the pilot was on his knees in the basket with the flame heating the air, lifting the balloon to an upright position.  The pilot turned to us and said, okay, get in as quick as you can.  I went first.  I put my foot in the slot on the side, pulled myself up, and got the first leg in the basket.  My other leg though needed help.  With a tug and a helping hand they lifted my leg over and I was in.  

Oh my God, I thought…this is it.  The wide grin on my face concealed the fear of anticipation that enveloped me.  Soon all three of us were in the gondola and the pilot began pulsing the flame to heat the air in the balloon.  And before I could change my mind we were rising up into the air.

“Look to your left”, the pilot said, “and you can see the skyline of Philadelphia.  The awe and wonder that filled that moment settled me right down and the fear left me as quickly as we rose the 800 feet up into the air.  

The perspective of looking down over the beautiful landscape that is Bucks County, was breathtaking.  There are few words that can describe the view or the feeling that surrounded me.  The ride was without fear the moment we left the ground.  The beauty of the landscape will forever fill me as my memory of this day lives inside me.  If you have not gone up in one…do it.  It was a thrill and something I would do again in a flash.

Thank you Joliene for the ride of my life!