Hi all,
I get it–you need to know how the story about Sophie ends.
FYI–my writing style is a type some people call organic–the story writes itself. Once I have an idea and start writing, the characters and situations lead the way. That’s what happened with Sophie.
So, now that I know–I can write it. Stay tuned.
Hello !
This post is a little different than some of the earlier ones. I don’t usually write poems. Especially because I never like the end product. But this reads a little like prose and it does fit into the category of musings…
Thanks for indulging me.
Kathy
Friend
Friend, be my friend forever. Be my soul mate and my blood sister.
Understand me–for I need care, and especially love.
Laugh at my jokes, marvel at my talents, and listen to my woes.
Be kind and be patient. Forgive my transgressions because I am so human.
Friend, let me be part of your life.
Then we can share joy, and laughter, and even sorrow with one another.
We will make a journey into one another¾
across time and place, in the here and now,
and in all of our tomorrows.
Then we will be forever friends.
I feel like my emotions have been on an out-of-control roller coaster ride this week.
My week started with a celebration—my brother Brian was ordained as a Methodist Elder. This is a major milestone in his life—it seals his commitment to the ministry he has chosen. The ceremony itself was a joyous celebration of the presence of God in our lives. And the next day, Saturday, it was a celebration of family highlighted by affection, sharing, music and, of course wonderful food. The congregation my brother ministers provide another tribute on the Sunday after his ordination—which added a loving and public dimension to this event.
Then we received the news that my Aunt Virginia had died. It came in the form of a text message from another brother who was unable to attend the ordination.
And then my roller coaster ride began.
How can joy be intertwined with grief? How do we celebrate one event and mourn the other—all in the same moment in time?
We go from joy to sorrow back to joy—often within moments. And yet, we make sense all of this and continue despite the way our lives sometimes seem like a riotous amusement park ride.
We sort out the feelings and sometimes even compartmentalize them to allow us to continue to function.
Sorrow can color our lives sometimes for years, but yet we soldier on, facing each day with great courage.
Finally we realize that joy is transient and that we must delight in those moments and hold them dear to our hearts—living them over again and again. Ultimately we come to know that to understand joy, we must embrace life’s sorrow.
And bravely, we get back in line for the roller coaster of life, throw caution to the wind, throw our arms up in the air… and ride.
My Aunt Virginia died. She was my godmother,was a constant in my life and, at times, my surrogate mom.
She made the worst oatmeal and the best Rocky Road fudge. She was known for being no-nonsense and
strict, but loving. A devoutly religious woman, she attended Mass every day.
Aunt Virginia and my Mom grew up together, attended the same high school and then married the handsome and intelligent Joyce brothers. They were bonded from the earliest days of their lives.
Right after WWII, the whole Joyce clan all lived together in a two story frame house at 95 McKinley Parkway
in Buffalo. The household included my grandparents, my parents, my Aunt Virginia and her husband, Uncle Bob, Uncle Bam and his wife, Aunt Janet and a teenaged kid brother, Jack. Eventually my brother Michael and I were born into this household.
There are pictures my Dad took of all of them arrayed around an oval dining room table, an extended family sharing an evening meal. My Mom and my Aunt often told stories of those days.
Eventually the brothers all bought their own homes and moved their respective families out of McKinley Parkway.
But they often recalled those days with a wistful nostalgia.
Aunt Virginia was the only one left of this generation of my family—everyone else had preceded her in death. She buried many important people in her life: her mother and three step mothers,her brother, her father, her husband, dear friends, Aunt Janet and Uncle Bam,the kid brother, Uncle Jack and his wife, Aunt Noel, my Mom and Dad and finally her own daughter. My cousin Nancy was only 60 years old when she died from
breast cancer. Virginia was stoic through all this loss. And that’s what I think allowed her to carry on.
Lately, she has been confined to a nursing home—a good one where she was well cared for and cherished. I visited her there the last time I was back in Buffalo. I saw a mere shell of the vibrant woman
she had been.
When I spoke with my cousin Peter after his mother’s death, he said that he and his sister felt that their mother
had been caught in a loop of the movie, “Ground Hog Day”, where every day was aclone of the day before, but meaningless.
I have to agree with them.
There does come a time when death is a friend, and the passage from this life to the next one is welcome. So,
that’s where I take my solace—my aunt was ready to die. Her life on earth had come to an end and she was ready to join the “95 McKinley” gang around the dinner table in heaven.
Longing feels like loss, but is
hopeful for restitution…for rebirth… for renewal. Loss leaves a void, one that
seems to beg to be filled, but how? How do you bridge the void?
New ideas, new friends, reinventing
yourself? Just keep busy, the mantra plays over and over in my head…just keep
busy… it helps to mask the feelings of loss. Where does busy-ness overwhelm one
and make one long even more for what is lost?
I long for so much: for peace, and
virtue and common courtesy. But in my heart I long the most for what is lost
from my life—the closeness, the physical proximity to my family, my parents,
long dead, and sisters and brothers scattered like clouds across a perfect
October sky.
I long for the childhood days in my parents’ home,
Even though those were complicated days: Too many people, too little space, big
egos, discord (at times), hilarity at others and anger, laughter, fun, grief,
religion, love, hate, discord and peace— family.
Strange to think that the very technology we all embraced from the very beginning has built barriers between
us. How many times can a person call an anonymous answering machine, and have a conversation? How many e-mails lost in cyberspace does it take to finally break down any sense of belonging? For every step forward, it feels like we have lost some big part of ourselves, the very essence of who we were and are.
So I long for intimacy, closeness, togetherness, for belonging and involvement–even though it’s messy, and complicated.
I long for them, for their presence.
I long to love them as the truly complicated, bigger than life people they are.
I long for the gift of family.
The car races along the patent leather- like streets as the mellow Jazz tunes waft from the radio. I hug the door, staring straight ahead. Earlier I had been shocked to hear a Beatles tune played as part of the play list on the “Cool Jazz” station we have tuned in.
We are headed to a party; some friends are celebrating forty years of marriage. An amazing milestone!
I try to remember us forty years ago—young, and attractive. I open the vanity mirror on the back of the visor, flipping the light on as my husband zips along, cursing the other drivers who, according to him, are all idiots. I pull a pinch of skin on my jaw line, smoothing out the fine lines and wrinkles that have made their home along my mouth. “What do ya’ think? Would I look better with a face lift?” I ask, knowing fully well I would never subject myself to that invasion.
I had resolved a few years back when I stopped coloring my hair to its more youthful deep sable color, to age gracefully. Age gracefully, h-m-m, I wonder, does that have to mean looking old? I look again in the small mirror. Not too bad—yet!
I remember when I was in my early twenties, when my generation, the legendary Baby Boomers, first began to flex their muscles, at Woodstock, at peace rallies, pushing our free love, anything goes philosophy to the forefront. For better or for worse, we have changed society. I recall recent conversations with my daughter discussing how young women now know so little of the struggle for Women’s Rights.
“Do you remember Ruth Anne, the teacher I was friends with back home? You know it weird to think that she was discouraged from being a doctor by her professors at the college. That wouldn’t happen now,” I say.
“And your point is?”
“Well, it’s just strange to realize how much everything has changed since we were young.”
The rain has let up as we pull up to the multi-storied hotel. I wonder why our friends always want to go to buffet restaurants, as if they have to get their money’s worth by having more food to choose from than can possibly be sampled. What’s next, Early Bird Specials?
I dread stepping down onto the pavement, knowing that my knee is so unpredictable. Will it hold out this time, I wonder, as I gingerly emerge from the car. My knee has decided to act normal today. Hooray!
The gleamimg glass revolving door leads to a glittery lobby. We enter the fairy land this hotel has created for the convention guests it caters to. Ahead of us is a marble lobby, decorated with expensive Oriental carpets, chairs upholstered in mauve and pink, with asymmetrically curved backs. To the right of the smoky black mirrored piano bar is a large tropical themed pool.
I have no desire to stay here for a romantic weekend like I might have when I was younger. And as far as paying to go to a resort, well now I live in a resort—an active adult community. We spend our days trying to choose from an array of activities and our evenings going to dinner with friends. I live in a paradise, one without kids, where I can go to a quiet restaurant, and swim in pools sans babies and splashing ten year olds. And although I enjoy my adult oriented life, I have to admit that romance now is a lot different than it was years ago. Now it’s romantic if it doesn’t involve any little pills and special lotions.
We find our friends, and exchanging hugs and quick kisses on the cheek, congratulate Cathy and Bob on their aniversary. Jokes are made about how difficult marriage is— but how wonderful it is to have a shared history, companionship, and support as we age.
Age! Yikes!
A young couple is in the restaurant, trying to convince their squirmy two-year old to sit and enjoy her food. Each parent takes a turn, trying to find something to amuse their young child, to no avail. I look at the parents, their smooth unlined faces beautiful the way young people are—and I feel a pang of jealousy. The image of a handsome fully -accredited plastic surgeon wielding his scalpel above me as I drift off to sleep pops into my head.
I turn to my husband. “How do I look?”I ask.
“Very nice, is that a new outfit?” he replies. Well, I’ll have to be content with that; it’s the most I’ll get out of him.
Eventually the thirty-something mom picks up her fussy baby, and struggles to leave the restaurant gracefully. The dad packs up the food they couldn’t eat, pays the bill, and hurries to the door.
Yeah, youth. Looks like fun on TV, but the reality can be very different.
Later as we leave the hotel, I turn to look at my husband.
We have shared a lifetime together, all the anger, pain, hurt, joy, happiness, and success that are the hallmarks of a marriage. He pulls the car out into the traffic, just as the sunset blazes across the sky, filling the horizon with lavender, pink and gold.
A song drifts out of the radio, a familiar tune, “love is lovelier….love, like youth is wasted on the young.” I hum along, as I smile a little crinkled smile.
My daughter Brenda Glascott, Ph.D.
I recently returned from a visit with my only child, my daughter Brenda, who lives across the continent from me in California.
We spent a lot of time sitting and talking, time that was precious for us all. We talked about a range of topics and reminisced a little.
One night, as my husband and I drove back to our hotel, it occurred to me that visiting our daughter always makes me feel proud of her. I see a very competent young woman who is intellectually curious, who cares about the students she teaches, and who works hard all the time. Seeing her in the cozy home she and her partner have created, I realize how well she copes with many challenges. I know that we are fortunate to have a daughter like Brenda, one who is independent, true to herself and passionate about life.
The last afternoon we spent together, she asked a question that caught me unaware.
“Do you tell your friends that you are proud of me?” she asked.
It made me think—having a child with a doctorate isn’t something that you can work into everyday conversation.
“Oh, did I mention that my daughter’s Ph.D. is in English?” isn’t a conversation starter.
And it’s really hard to pull out photos of her degree hanging on the wall of her office that overlooks the San Bernardino Mountains. Showing people photos of her teaching a graduate level composition class doesn’t have the same cachet as photos of the adorable grandchild taking his/her first step.
In addition to that, I make a point of not bragging about my family—although I could very easily.
Brenda’s question made me think.
I read an article a few years ago about adult children in therapy. These adults were trying to resolve their feelings about whether or not their parents really loved them. Imagine a man or woman into their senior years wondering, did my parents love me? It seemed very sad.
So, I have always made it a point to tell my daughter that I love her—as does her father. It is part of our conversation. And we mean those words.
But now I wonder if I ever told her in a concrete way, that yes, I am proud of her.
So this is for Brenda.
I am proud of my daughter Brenda and all that she has accomplished in her life. I am proud to be her mother. And I am blessed to have her in my life.
“Love like youth is wasted on the young.”
(Love is Lovelier the Second Time Around)
Like most people in my generation, the renowned Baby Boomers, I don’t feel old. Could I say then, that I think that youth could be overrated? And that there is a value in being seasoned, wise, even experienced?
Sometimes I feel jealous of youth, of the smooth unlined faces, the sheer beauty of young people, and especially of the young bodies that don’t hurt like mine often does.
Being young again—what a frightening thought! Would I really want to try to figure it all out again? What will I be…who will I marry…will I marry…who am I?
I hate the way youth is used to sell everything from cars to cigarettes. It speaks to me of our culture’s love affair with youth. And it really annoys me that most ads featuring people in my age range promote products like adult diapers, pain medications and fiber. Or conversely, they feature older people who are obviously made to look younger and almost maniacally happy as they dance the night away.
The scariest ideas? The never ending desire to look younger: Botox, Lasik, liposuction, words that didn’t exist when we were children are part of everyday speech now.
Now that I’ve matured to the “Cool Jazz” radio station, I think that I have embraced aging, with all of its unknowns: aches, pains, and losses. What I want most now in this third age is the freedom to pursue interests I’ve put on hold in the past, to spend time with interesting people, and to age gracefully. And I truly believe that anything is possible. I can develop latent talents and enjoy finding out who I am now. Yes, I can redefine myself.
I intend to surround myself with other Baby Boomers who feel like I do. And to embark with them on this are great adventure called aging.
