Lady in Red

WHY ME?

    I don’t want to write a story.  It will take too much of my time; time I could spend thinking and dreaming about Jack and our wedding in Hawaii in October.  It all still seems like a dream to me and will probably continue to feel like a dream, even when we are standing barefoot on the beach pledging our love to one another.  Sometimes I feel like I’m watching a romantic movie, or reading a romance novel, it’s all very surreal at my age. 

         I still can’t resist asking God every once in a while, “Why Me?”  How can I possibly deserve this man and all this happiness?  Who deserves two incredible romances in one lifetime, when there are some people who never even get one?  I know it’s not a matter of deserving really, but I still feel guilty.  As I see it, I have already lived the perfect love story once.  What more could a woman ask for than to be cherished and adored for 45 years of her life by an incredible man?  You all know that story of course since I’ve been writing about this man for the last couple of years.  And yet somehow God has seen fit to bless me again.  This time with Jack.  He is a man of such integrity, honesty, charm and strength, that I have to wonder if I am up to the task of being his helpmate, but I’ve decided to give it all I’ve got.

         I started writing the next chapter in the life of Jack and LoRee, and I realized that I have been holding back from fully embracing the joy of this relationship for fear it might blow up in my face.  From the very beginning this relationship has been “fairytaleish” (not a word I know) and I keep telling myself, “He may be your Prince Charming, but you ain’t no princess honey”.  There was a time when I actually thought I was Cinderella, but I soon found out I was more like one of the ugly step-sisters, selfish and entitled.  Every time I tell someone about our plans, I feel like I’m talking about someone else.  Surely this can’t be happening to me. 

    I thought by now surely I had outgrown my feelings of not being worthy of this kind of love, but it seems some old wounds never completely heal.  Maybe that’s God’s way of reminding me that I’m still, after all, only human and capable of being extremely selfish at times.  The difference this time around, as opposed to when I was younger, is that I am able to look at myself more honestly now.  I can recognize and assess my faults, and put them into perspective sooner rather than later.  We need to be reminded every once in a while that we are mortal in order to keep our feet on the ground and keep from hurting those we love.  I also have the assurance that if I ask for God’s wisdom to make this partnership everything He wants it to be, He will gladly grant me that wisdom.

    So, as we approach our “HWD” (Hawaiian Wedding day), I find myself getting more and more excited and less and less anxious.  I have a knowing in my heart, put there by God I’m sure, that I am suppose to be with this man.  The fears, questions and concerns have been replaced with a wonderful sense of peace and assurance that God is part of this relationship and He will always be there for us.

    I’m so happy I embarrass myself sometimes with my almost constant silly grin, especially in public places.  In the market sometimes I find myself stopping in front of men’s toiletries, smiling and swaying back and forth and thinking to myself, “Pretty soon those bottles or cans will be sitting on my bathroom counter”.  It’s amazing the little things you miss as a person living alone, that you never even realized you missed.  Jack has left a few items in my closet that he will be taking with him to Hawaii when he returns and I love opening my closet door and seeing his slacks and shirt hanging there.  Now I have the pleasure of cleaning out my closet and chest of drawers and getting rid of some of my clothes and shoes.  “Wait”, I thought to myself, “did I really just say that?  Ms. Clothes Horse herself is happy to be cutting down on her wardrobe?  Well there you have it, she must be in love”.  However, cleaning out my closet was painless this time, because it meant Jack’s clothes would be coming to stay and not just visit anymore. 

    Something else I realized today is that I don’t just miss Jack anymore, I long for him.  I’ve never really given the difference between missing and longing much thought.  You can miss someone because they are not physically in your presence, as I miss my daughters or grandchildren sometimes.  But I think to long for someone means there is a yearning in your soul so strong that it is almost physically painful to be apart.  A yearning to touch, hear and see that someone, because only then do you feel that all is right with the world.  Only then do you feel safe and secure because the two halves have become a whole once again.  Feeling whole is a gift from God I think. 

    So once again I ask God, why me?  The answer is simple and always the same, “Because I love you and I want the best for you.  You are my child after all”.  All I can say is AMEN and HALLEUJAH and thank you Daddy! 

9/4/11

 

HEARTBEAT

            I had loved him for forty-six years and on December 9, 2003 when his heart stopped beating and I watched his heart monitor flat-line, I felt as though my heart had stopped beating.  For almost seven and a half years now I have had trouble finding my heartbeat.  When I put the palm of my hand on my chest I am unable to detect a heartbeat.  In fact, I now have to take medication because I have an irregular heartbeat.  I know there were times I wished my heart would stop beating, as the grief of losing my love and best friend was almost more than I could bear.  It was as though half my heart died that day and I had decided I would probably live with half a heart for the rest of my life.

            Oh the half that is left continues beating of course, because there are children to love and grandchildren to love and nurture and, along with God’s love, that half is filled to capacity.  But there is a phantom ache where the other half used to be.  Is this anatomically possible you ask?  No.  But I’m convinced that it is psychologically possible.

            And then one day, not too long ago, I began to hear the faint echo of a second heartbeat.  What is happening I wondered?  I had learned to recognize when my heart rhythm was going south on me and I needed to take more medication and that wasn’t what was happening.  The echo heartbeat was softer and was just a split-second behind the stronger beat and almost felt like it was trying to catch up with the stronger heartbeat.

            You see about three months ago I had the good fortune of being introduced, via the Internet, by one of my sons-in-law, to a gentleman by the name of Jack.  Jack had lost his wife, of almost 38 years, to cancer five years prior and had been living with half a heart also.  Unfortunately, Jack lives in Colorado and I live in California, small matter to Jack.  After talking endlessly via e-mail and the telephone for a month, Jack headed West to find out if the pictures I had sent him were recent or ten years old.  He discovered upon his arrival in California that the pictures had not been “photo-shopped” and I had not fudged on details like my age.  Jack was suspect as he had the unfortunate experience of corresponding with some women “on line” who were less than truthful in the past.  He had to see for himself if I might be the one he had only hoped to find to heal his heart.  For two days we talked and laughed and enjoyed each others company.  I found out rather quickly that falling in love at 70 is much sweeter than falling in lust at 19, although I can’t rule out the lust part entirely.  It’s just at our age you can tell the difference sooner and you are a lot more honest about it.  By the time Jack left to return to Colorado, my heartbeat had recognized his and the echo heartbeat I had been hearing grew stronger.  Jack however, was a bit overwhelmed by the whole experience and thought perhaps he had been struck by lightening, or at the very least was coming down with the flu.  On his eleven-hour drive home he kept telling himself to “snap out of it Jack, it doesn’t happen this fast.”  But he could not deny what his heart was confirming for long.

            One month later, Jack decided to fly to California to see if what he had felt for this woman was real.  This time he stayed for a week.  Oh yeah, it was real all right.  The longer we talked and shared our hearts and heartaches, the stronger my second heartbeat became.  By the end of that week, I could no longer hear the echo of the second heartbeat because it had eagerly joined the stronger beat and they became a whole heartbeat once again.  It must be true, because everyone I know says I am glowing and the only explanation I can come up with is that it is due to the increased blood flow produced by my newly healed heart. 

            I cannot speak for Jack’s heart, but on his last trip to California he proposed and bought me a gorgeous diamond engagement ring.  Jack and I believe that God, in His infinite wisdom, brought us together to combine our two broken hearts and create a whole new heart as we become one in Him in October.

            We also believe that the “Loves of our Life” are applauding from heaven as they commend our decision to live life to the fullest as long as the Lord allows.

8/1/11         

 

IN THE COOL, COOL, COOL OF THE EVENING

    She stepped out onto the balcony to cool off because the room was stuffy.  It was humid in the Caribbean this time of year and she never liked air conditioning, so she opted for the tropical breeze coming off the water.  Her red silk robe clung to her body as the breeze held it against her.  It almost felt cool as the breeze caressed her moist skin.  It was a sensual and exhilarating feeling, a welcome sensation she hadn’t experienced for many years.

    She looked up at the almost full moon now and sparkling stars and asked herself if she was dreaming.  “Can this be real?” she thought.  For so many years she had kept this dream hidden in her heart not daring to believe that it could ever come true.  “Was she really cruising to the Bahamas with the man she loved?”

    Fate sure had played a trick on her.  In spite of the fact that this “heart-dream” had lingered for years in the back of her mind, she had reconciled herself to a solitary life.  She had convinced herself that she was fine alone, after all, she had her children and their families close and she was very involved in her work and social activities.  In fact, she was so busy she had convinced herself that she probably wouldn’t be able to make room for a man in her life anyway.

    She was older now and she was certain romance just wasn’t going to present itself as it did when she was younger.  But she hadn’t counted on fate, as some people would call it.  However, she had a better explanation for what happened than that; she called it “God’s Amazing Plan”.  God must love her a lot more than she could ever have imagined to give her such a magnificent gift at this stage in her life.

    As she stood on the balcony outside their stateroom in the balmy air she was twenty again and in love as though it were the first time.  As she closed her eyes to take in the moment, she felt his arms encircle her waist from behind and gently pull her close to his body.  He took her breath away as he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “How are you this evening Mrs. Smith?”  She wasn’t dreaming, he was real and her dream had come true.  As she leaned into his embrace she looked up and whispered so only God could hear, “Thank you God, I’ll take good care of him, I promise”. 

6/9/11  

 

BAGEL ME

    I was having breakfast, a cheese bagel and orange juice, minding my own business at my favorite bagel shop this morning.  I had picked a window table in the corner looking out to the trees, grass and parking lot since I was alone and wanted to read my book while I ate.  The sun was just breaking through and the day was shaping up to be a pretty nice one and then it happened.

    At first there was just one and then two and then a whole flock began descending on the bagel shop.  One of the strange things about them was that you usually only saw them on the weekends.  It was uncanny how much they all resembled each other, colorful from head to toe.  Most had long skinny legs, no rear ends and very strange looking heads.  They actually looked top heavy.  Their heads were rounded in front, but came to a point in the back.  Another similarity was that none of them had feathers.  Some had hair, but no feathers.  In fact, their bodies were quite smooth and shinny.

    They all seemed to have the same gait as they closed in on the bagel shop and then I realized it was because of their feet.  Their toes went up in the front, which threw them back on their heels so they had to pick their knees up in an exaggerated manner to keep from toppling backwards.  This was not an easy feat to accomplish since they all appeared to be on the mature side.  I couldn’t help but notice they were all males, because their male parts were displayed in a manner that could not be ignored.  I almost felt assaulted as they strutted past the window and I would have been, except they seemed absolutely oblivious to the fact that they gave the appearance of being naked even though they were clothed.

    I have often asked myself, when happening upon such a group, what causes older men to want to dress up like elves and peddle their skinny little asses all over town?  Have they no pride at all?  Do they really think they look attractive in their skin-tight jumpsuits and pointed hats?  I’m sorry, but when I’m eating I really don’t want to see a troop of elves parading around with their manhood packaged in rainbow colors and prominently displayed.  I felt especially sorry for the poor teenage girls sitting outside the bagel shop who almost fell on the ground laughing while trying to hide their embarrassment.

    What happened to the “indecent exposure” law I asked myself?  Just because it’s wrapped in brightly colored jersey fabric doesn’t mean it’s not indecent.  I’m just saying.  I’m so thankful that my father or husband never got the urge to dress up like an elf and go bicycle riding around our neighborhood with their manhood displayed.  What was wrong with blue jeans and a t-shirt as appropriate cycling attire?  Now that was sexy.  I have yet to hear a woman exclaim, “Wow, is he hot!” as she watched one of these funny little fellows pass by.  Someone please tell them to stop now before it’s too late.  Surely the restaurants lose business when they appear.  Who can eat while watching such a display of body parts?

    Somebody stop me before I knock one of them off his perch and drag him home for dinner.

6/20/11

 

JACK, CHAPTER TWO

    He wants to meet me.  He’s driving to California from Colorado next week.  We’re down to two days until “J” day.  I can’t eat, can’t sleep and can just barely breathe.  Good thing he’s a retired fireman because I’m going to need CPR by the time he arrives.  Seriously?  You would think a woman of my age and experience would be able to handle a new man in her life with a little more finesse.  NOT!

    We’ve been talking on the telephone every day for the past month, sometimes twice a day and he e-mails me every morning.  We’ve covered almost every subject two grown people can and I haven’t scared him off yet.  Lord, help me.

    It’s Monday, one day to “J” day and Jack is on the road.  He thinks he could get here by 6:00 p.m.   We are supposed to have breakfast together on Tuesday morning.  Monday night I’m lying on the couch watching the news and it dawns on me that he might come straight to my house if he gets in early enough.  I fly off the couch and rush into my closet to figure out what to wear.  I get dressed…black silk blouse, cami underneath and black jeans.  No, that won’t do, the blouse is cut too low, and I don’t want him to think I’m trying to be sexy at my age.  I finally decide on a black scoop necked t-shirt.  Yes, that’s more conservative.  Check my hair, brush my teeth, freshen-up my makeup.  Good thing I did all that because he just called and wants to stop by for a few minutes.  He said, “I think we will both sleep better tonight if we at least meet.”

    “I think you’re right,” I replied.  I hang up the phone and head for the bathroom.  I think I’m going to throw up I’m so nervous.   No, I guess not this time.

    I’m trying to play a game on my computer, this always makes the time go by faster, but my hand is so moist from nerves I can hardly stand to touch the mouse.  “WHAT’S THAT”? I say to myself as I jump in the chair and almost go over backwards.  “It’s the doorbell dummy.  Go answer the door.”  But, what if he’s disappointed and he can’t figure out a graceful way to get out of coming in?  What if I’m disappointed?  Will I be able to keep my composure?  But then again, how could I be disappointed?  I’ve seen recent pictures of him and my heart melted when I saw his sweet smile.  I’ve been talking to him for four weeks by telephone and e-mail.  He hasn’t said one thing that gave me pause or struck fear in my heart.  How could I not like this guy?  The question is, will he like me?  I’m not that adorable 19-year-old blonde who caught my husband’s eye so many years ago you know.  Will my smile and blue eyes be enough to get him past the wrinkles and the white hair?  

    Okay enough already; open the damn door.  Deep breath, you can do this, one, two, three, here goes nothing.  Oh God, please don’t let me have a stroke before I get this door open. I turn the lock, push down on the handle and pull the door open and let out a sigh of relief.  Thank you God, he’s as adorable in person as he was in his picture.

    Jack steps inside, looks me straight in the eye and says, “Well, you certainly were worth the trip”.  He couldn’t have said anything more perfect.  I relaxed and gave him a hug.  We sat and talked for about half an hour and then he left to go get some rest after his eleven-hour drive here.

    The next morning Jack arrives early for our breakfast date and when I opened the door (thank goodness I was ready except for my lipstick) I couldn’t see his face because it was hidden behind one dozen of the most beautiful red roses I’ve ever seen.  Now I’m beginning to wonder if I’m dreaming, or if this guy is for real.

    “J” day was everything I hoped for and more.  The day was warm and sunny with a slight breeze, a day made for falling in love.  We walked and talked and sat and talked and decided this could be the start of something big.  The next day we did the same thing.  I introduced him to my three daughters, we watched a movie at my house and then we had dinner by the ocean.  We walked the pier, held hands and talked about our dreams.  We connected on a level I never thought possible so early in the relationship.  It’s much more fun falling in love at this age than it was at seventeen.  No pretense, no games, just hearts opened wide.  Of course it’s a whole different ball game when you feel God has brought you together rather than the Internet or some fluke.  When God does it, He does it right.

    He left Thursday morning and I miss him already.  I wonder how that is possible after only two day with this man.  Now the doubts begin, did I do and say the right things?  Did I say too much?  Did I say enough?  I hate this part.  Will he feel the same way about me that I feel about him and if he does, where do we go from here?  Guess I’ll have to leave that up to God and Jack.  I’ll have to take a back seat now and watch God work his magic.  I still can’t sleep and I’ve lost six pounds. 

    I guess I must have done something right, (either that or God blinded the man) because he called to let me know that he has his tickets to come back and see me next month.  YES, now I can sleep at least.  I still can’t eat because my insides feel like I just dropped from 30,000 feet to 10,000 feet in an airplane, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

GET A GRIP

    Okay, I’m trying my best to come up with a story.  I’ve been sitting here for about an hour now.  I write a few lines and then I call someone.  I write a few more lines and then I check my email to see if he has sent me another email yet.  I write a few more lines and then I check on the computer to see how much it would cost to fly from Santa Ana to Denver, Colorado.  We could even meet in Las Vegas if he wanted to, that appears to be about half way for both of us.  “What a dufus you are, I tell myself.  What kind of talk is that for a seventy-year old woman?  Like your kids would stand still for that.”

    For heaven’s sake you’ve only talked to the guy twice and emailed him a half a dozen times.  You’re not 16 you know.  I know that, but he has such a kind, warm, friendly face.  The minute I opened his email and enlarged the picture, I thought to myself, “I want to know that face”. 

    I’ve been telling my girls now for the last seven years, that for me to be interested in a guy I would have to see the zest for life dancing in his eyes.  The look that says, “What can I do next? Where can I go next?  Let’s go, I don’t have a lot of time to waste”.  You don’t see that a lot.  Next time you are out in public take a good look around at the faces and see how many look like they are enjoying life.  So many men my age have given up on life.  I guess they think because they’re not young, virile dudes anymore, that there isn’t much to live for.  I’m not a dude so I really don’t know what they are thinking, but that’s the feeling I get from some of the old dudes I do know.  That attitude shows up big time in their eyes and on their faces.

    But I just knew in my heart if I ever saw that look, I would recognize it immediately and I did, it was all over his picture he sent me.  And now I can’t think of much else.  Unfortunately, he lives in Colorado.  My son-in-law and the daughter of the Colorado dude brought us together via email.  They thought we would have a lot in common and we do.  He has been a widower for five years and I a widow for seven years.  Usually widowers, even the older ones, are not single for long.  From all I’ve read it appears most widowers remarry within a year of their loss.  I would be interested in knowing why that is, of course I have my own opinion, but I could be all wet too.

    Anyway, here I sit waiting for a phone call like a lovesick teenager.  I’m not saying I’m in love, I’m just saying he stirs something in me that hasn’t been stirred for some time.  I hope he is the one God has been saving me for, ya’ just never know.  After the four “W’s”, (the wrestler, the weirdo, the whiner and the warlock) I decided to swear off men, but I may just have to eat those words.  This next “W” could be a winner.

    Okay, I’m still trying to get this darn story written, but I can’t seem to maintain my concentration.  I go do some washing and then I think about him.  Then I sit down here and try to write, about him.  Then I watch some T.V. and think about him.   Do I really want to do this to myself?  Do I really want to open myself up to this again?  It’s been a long time since I cared for a man in a romantic way and as I sit here wondering if he will call or email, I realize I’m already invested in this relationship.   Is this what I really want?  Do I want to feel that ache in the pit of my stomach wondering if he will call again.  Do I really want to take the chance of getting hurt?  I’ve protected myself so well these last seven years I don’t know if I have the emotional strength to allow myself to become vulnerable again.

    Life is so much simpler without the burden of trying to make a relationship work, but then I think about all the love I would have missed out on if I had not loved my husband with every ounce of my being.  Was the pain more intense when he left because the love was more intense?  Absolutely!  Was it worth it?  Absolutely!  I guess I have my answer.  His name is Jack by the way and I did get another e-mail.

THE SOFT-SPOKEN STRANGER

    It had rained during the night and was still wet, but the sun was trying to break through.  I finished my breakfast and sat starring out my sliding glass doors at my azaleas.  “I’m bored”, I thought.  Then I heard it, the majestic blast of a train whistle in the distance.  I love the sound of train whistles, they take me back to my childhood.  We lived about a block from the train tracks and I would lie in bed at night and make up stories about where each train was going.  Then a little voice in my head said, “Go find out where this one is going.  Dare you!”  “Okay, I will”, I said out loud to an empty room.

    I got dressed and headed for the Amtrak station.  I stood in front of the train schedule board and perused my options.  Hmmmm, Los Angeles?  No.  Santa Barbara?  Yes, I love Santa Barbara.  I’ll walk on the beach, have lunch on the pier, watch the sea otters play, eat some fresh caramel corn and then watch the sunset before heading home.  I giggled and thought, “That should take a good healthy bite out of my boredom.” 

    I felt like a little kid again as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I waited for the train.  I even waved at the engineer as the train pulled into the station and he actually waved back.  He was probably thinking, “Poor old lonely broad, I better wave back or she might jump in front of the train”.  Little did he know that I was ten again and on an adventure.

    I climbed aboard the car that came to rest in front of me and immediately bounded up the steps to the second level.  I wanted to be as high as possible to enjoy the view.  Since it had just rained I knew the view of the ocean would be spectacular.  The train whistle blew, the conductor announced our departure and the train began its silent slither down the track.  I hadn’t been on a train for a long time and it surprised me that they don’t go, “clickity-clack, clickity-clack”, anymore.  They glide down the smooth rails like they are on ice, except for the occasional thump, thump when they cross an intersecting street. 

    The soft swaying of the car could have easily lulled me to sleep if it weren’t for the man I noticed sitting across the aisle.  His seat was slightly ahead of mine and he was sitting in the seat next to the window, with the seat closest to me holding some of his belongings.  I noticed him because he was working a crossword puzzle.  I love crossword puzzles and wished I had thought about bringing one with me and then I remembered that I get motion sickness if I try to read in a car or on a train.  The back of the seat next to this man was pulled slightly forward so that most of his face was obscured from my vision.  But, I could see he was clean-shaven, appeared to be clean and nicely, but modestly, dressed.  He had a full head of wavy, grey/black, neatly combed, hair.

    I let my eyes slowly wander back to the scenery now flying by the window.  I turned my head back to look down the isle at a lighted sign on the wall of the train, which read “En route to San Francisco”.   I thought, “It better stop in Santa Barbara first or I’m in trouble.”  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the gentleman I noticed earlier turn his head and look in my direction.  No one was sitting next to me so I suspected he might be looking at me.  I looked down and closed my eyes for a few seconds and then looked back up and again I could see the man turn to look in my direction.  This time I turned to see if he really was looking at me and as our eyes met he said, “Where are you going?”

    He startled me at first, but not wanting to appear rude I said, “Santa Barbara.”

    “Do you have friends there?” he inquired.

    Now I don’t normally engage strange men in conversation, but his eyes were kind and his voice was soft, almost soothing and so I answered, really without hesitation, “No, just going for the day to do a little sightseeing.”   He smiled.  I smiled back and asked, “Where are you headed?”

    “I don’t know”, came the unexpected reply.

    “You don’t know? Where are you from?”

    “Prison, thirty-four years”, he stated, in a matter-of-fact manner.  I thought, “Did I hear him right?  Did he just say prison?  Oh my gosh, now what do I do?”  I tried my best not to look alarmed, but I think he could tell I was shocked by his answer.  I cannot explain the next sentence that flew out of my mouth before I could capture it.

    “Oh, why were you there?”  Did I really want to know?  “Get up, run, do something,” I told myself, but my body remained motionless in my seat.

    “I killed a man, he raped my daughter and I killed him”, he said as he folded up his crossword puzzle and stuffed in his bag.

    “Oh my gosh, I can’t say that I blame you.”

    “Yeh, but I was wrong”, he said in an almost monotone voice.

    “I don’t know”, I said as I shook my head. “That’s a tough one”.  I was at a loss for words for a few seconds and then said, “This must be very hard for you after all those years, I mean with all the changes that have taken place.”

    “Yah, I’ve heard about the phones and all that stuff.”  I assumed he meant cell phones.  All of a sudden I realized I wasn’t afraid of this man.  My mind said I probably should be, but all I wanted to do was try and help him in some way.  “You’re an idiot,” I told myself.  You’re a female alone on a train, your family would have a fit if they knew you were talking to a man just out of prison.  But for whatever reason I found myself wanting to know more about this soft-spoken, brown-eyed father.

    I wanted to know where his daughter was now and if she was okay?  How had she reacted to her father taking the life of her assailant?  Was he married? Did his wife wait for him?  Was he going to be okay?

    “Santa Barbara”, the conductor called out, breaking the awkward silence.  But wait, I have to know the answers.  But then the voice of wisdom that comes with age grabbed hold of me and shouted, “Get off the train”, drowning out the cries of my heart to stay and try to help this gentle man in some way.

    “This is where I get off”, I said as I gathered my things and stood up.

    “Oh, of course, I didn’t mean to hold you up.”  He extended his hand and as I extended mine he took it in his large, calloused hand, looked straight into my heart and said, “Thank you for caring, it was very kind of you.”  Don’t do it, don’t say it, the little voice in my head kept repeating.  “Don’t say, get off with me and have lunch and we can talk some more”.  In the back of my mind I was asking myself how I would explain this to my children.  Worse yet, maybe my instincts about the soft-spoken stranger were completely wrong and he wasn’t what he seemed and my family lost me to some stranger on a train for reasons they would never know.  Can’t do that to them, can’t do that to myself, I decided as I stepped off the train.  Yes, that was the wise thing to do.  I felt relieved, but as I turned to watch the train pull away from the platform, the soft-spoken stranger was standing in front of me. 

3/7/11                          

 

WHO DONE IT?

    Okay, I guess I’m just going to have to give up.  It just isn’t going to happen.  They say (whoever they is), that “What goes around comes around”, but I don’t think it’s going to this time.  No one can say I haven’t tried.  I’ve done everything I can think of to bring it back and encourage others to bring it back, but it’s looking pretty hopeless.

     I guess I was just lucky to have been born in the forties because it was rampant then, especially in Hollywood.  Why is this generation so opposed to it anyway?  I’d just like to know who done it?  Who murdered it? Actually, I think I know who done it.  I think the women’s lib movement done it. 

     If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m talking about glamour and class.  As I look back I guess it all started, with me anyway, with my paper dolls and movies.  When I was a little girl glamour was something to be envied and sought after.  We were in awe of the movie stars with their beaded gowns and furs.  I had Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth paper dolls and I dressed them in elegant ball gowns, or beautiful suits with furs and hats and gloves and dreamed about the day I would be able to dress like them.  Then of course there were women like Doris Day, Grace Kelly and Eva Gardner in the movies who made little girls like me want to grow up and be glamorous. 

     Even the men were glamorous then, with their suits and ties, fedoras and dress overcoats.  Obviously, the working class folks didn’t dress like movie stars all the time, but when they went to dinner or a play, or even church, they dressed like they were somebody.  The coat may have been purchased at Penney’s instead of Saks, but with the right accessories they still looked and felt special.  Doesn’t anybody want to feel special anymore?

     I may be wrong, but it seems to me that when ladies dressed like ladies, they acted like ladies and were treated like ladies. Unfortunately, along with the death of class and glamour, manners and chivalry went out the window.

     Whose idea was it to stop wearing hats anyway?  I love hats.  Hats can make you feel mysterious, glamorous, flirty and fun.  And who doesn’t like a man in a hat?  Come on now, you know you do.  If not, why do women go gaga over men in uniforms or cowboy hats, etc.?  Why do men love baseball caps so much and now insist on wearing them everywhere they go including out to dinner?  I’m just saying.

    I guess I was just born a little too late.  I find myself longing for the days when a man would either take his hat off in the presence of a lady or at least tip his brim to her.  I know, I know, I’m a hopeless romantic, but I’m not going to apologize.  I also know my age is showing, but if I live to be a hundred I will never wear my pajamas to the market, holey jeans to dinner or Ugg boots to a wedding.

    Ah, weddings.  Weddings and cruise ships were the last holdouts for dignity and style in fashion, until about a decade ago. Those were places it was still appropriate, and sometimes required, to wear formal attire.  You could actually wear a darling “Pillbox” hat to a wedding and not feel like a freak. Now, anything goes.  You can’t even have a “Come as you are” party anymore because everyone does that anyway.

    I guess I will just continue to be that overdressed lady everyone talks about for the rest of my life.  But then again, I guess I could be accused of worse things. 

2/28/11

 

ARMS

         Aren’t arms just the neatest things? 

         This thought occurred to me the other day as I watched one of my sons-in-law slip his arm around my daughter’s shoulders just to let her know he was enjoying her nearness.  I gotta’ tell ya’ that warms the cockles of a mother’s heart.  From the time we are laid in our mother’s arms when we first enter this crazy world, until we leave this world and walk straight into the arms of our Lord, arms play an important role in our lives.

         I’m not talking about the practical things that arms do so much, like making it possible to work, or bring groceries home from the store or get dressed, or eat or even drive a car.  Obviously, if God hadn’t given us arms we would be in dire straits.  However, there are those who have overcome the need for arms and out of necessity have learned to use their legs and feet in their place.  Of course arms, like most other things in life, can be used to harm ones self and/or others.  Such is the case when a soldier must bear arms to insure freedom and save lives.  It goes without saying that arms can be tools of destruction, but I’m talking about the emotional needs that only arms understand.

        Think about it for a minute, arms can comfort, protect, shield, defend, praise, warm, guide, convey love, save, show pride, express gratitude, heal, welcome, accept, etc.

         Just this week I had the opportunity to raise my arms in praise to the Lord in church, shout for joy with wildly waving arms when my grandson made a three-point basket and clap, hug and sing happy birthday to my oldest daughter. 

        Now hugs, that’s a whole other blessing.  Who can live without hugs?  I know I can’t.  I had the honor of comforting a friend in my arms who had lost her mother this week.  I got to gather my granddaughters into my arms for some much needed hugs.  I was able to hug one of my best friends out of gratitude for her generosity to my family.

        Before my husband died I can remember so vividly my favorite part of the day, which was when I slipped into bed and cuddled up close to him.  He always had his arm raised for me to snuggle under.  I would place my right shoulder under his raised arm, tuck my right arm down his left side, place my head on his chest and drape my left arm over his mid-section.  Then I would give a big sigh and relax in his arms.  I never felt more secure, more loved or more at peace than at that moment.  I guess you could call that an enigma of sorts.  How is it I felt so safe and secure there, when in actuality my husband, who was so physically damaged from arthritis, could not have protected me from much of anything.  I guess it was enough to know that he would have died trying if it came down to it and that kind of love made me feel secure. 

        

I believe how we use our arms in life will determine what kind of life we have.  We can choose to keep our arms crossed in front of us to protect ourselves from letting anyone or anything into our life that we fear may cause us some emotional pain, or we can accept life with open arms and embrace all God has for us.  Personally, I choose to keep my arms wide open, because even though I sometimes allow things or people into my life that may hurt me, at the same time I don’t miss out on the blessings God has for me because of fear.  It may be true that if we keep our arms clasped tightly around our own bodies we won’t have to give things we don’t want to give, or do things we don’t want to do, but closed arms cannot receive either.  Open arms are one of the most powerful emotional tools we possess.  Open arms can open a heart, change a heart, cheer a heart or even heal a heart.  My mother always used to say, “Cold hands, warm heart”.  I like to say, “Open arms, open heart”.

2/7/11

 

HOW TO RUIN AN OTHERWISE BEAUTIFUL AFTERNOON

    Have to get this off my chest.  I went to a funeral today.  Peculiar ritual I think.  Fortunately for me the deceased was just an acquaintance, which allowed me the opportunity to set back and observe, since I was not emotionally invested.  I realized as I sat there that I had a lot of questions. 

    Why do most people go to funerals anyway?  Why are some people absolutely opposed to going to funerals?   Why do some people insist on an “open casket” funeral service?  Are there really people who enjoy looking at dead people?  Why do people do that to their friends and family, have a “viewing” that is?   “Guess what everybody, we’re having a party over at the funeral home.  Everyone come on over and stand around and look at the dead person”.   They don’t even have the decency to serve alcohol.  I’m sorry, but it’s all I can do to keep from laughing when someone walks up to a casket and says, “Oh, doesn’t he/she look natural, they did such a good job?”  I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen a corpse yet that looked alive and natural.  I hope no one says that about me when I’m dead, because that would mean in real life I looked like a corpse.  Of course they won’t have the opportunity to say that about me because I’m going to be cremated.  That’s right, I said cremated.  Why is it people have such a fit when you tell them you are going to have your dead body burned, but they have no qualms about someone being thrown into the sea for the sea animals to eat.  Nor do they mind being put in a box under ground where critters can get to them.  I’m sorry, but I have claustrophobia and they are not putting me in a box in the ground.  Besides, I’m allergic to the fabric they use in the caskets. 

    The eulogy was okay in spite of the fact that the priest didn’t even know the guy, (which is often the case) but he kept calling him Bobby, which is what his family and friends called him.  "Bobby was a good guy.  Bobby was a lot of fun", etc.  At least he called him by the correct name. 

    After the service the funeral directors did one of the worst things I think I’ve ever seen done at a funeral service.  They started at the back of the church and row-by-row they had everyone walk to the front of the church, and either hug or collapse sobbing on the widow.  She remained seated the entire time and had to reach up to hug everyone while they buried her nose in their armpits, smeared her makeup on their shoulders and mashed her hair down with their hands.  Then they were supposed to walk to the casket and pay their respects.  Sorry again, but I thought you went to the funeral to pay your respects to the living who are mourning the loss of their loved one.  Very view people paid their respects.  I guess along with me they realized he wasn’t going to hear them.  Why on earth would they put the new widow through such an excruciating experience?  Shouldn’t the family have been led out first and greeted outside, or at the reception?

    Since I was sitting towards the front of the church I also had the opportunity to observe everyone else as they filed passed.  I couldn’t help thinking, “times have really changed.”  I now know that I truly am living in the wrong era.  Once again I was overdressed.  There was a time when people attending a funeral wore dark colors out of respect for the sadness of the occasion.  No bright colors, or sequins or party dresses.  Oops, did I say dresses?  Actually I was wearing one of the four dresses at the funeral, sorry, five if you count the widow.   There was every kind of apparel represented there that you could imagine, save bathing suits.  There were levis, sequins, rhinestones, bedroom slippers, sport shirts and sweats with a few sports jackets thrown in for good measure.  It rather reminded me of a Salvation Army soup kitchen.

    As I gave the widow a cheek-to-cheek hug it was all I could do to keep from grabbing her hand and pulling her to freedom, but my upbringing prevailed and I whispered, “Hang in There”.  I know her well enough to know that she appreciated the comment.  She knows I’ve been there and done that.  All things aside, this was just the tip of the iceberg.  I will watch out for her in the coming weeks, that’s when things will get tough.  Only another widow can understand the loneliness.

    There was one bright spot in the whole affair.  Did I mention that I saw Elvis there?  Well at least what I think he would have looked like at the age of 65.  Thank you very much, thank you very much!

1/17/11