Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

So is love.

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I've always been one of those kids who ran everywhere, and the evidence of my travels showed on my body.

Falling face forward on the sidewalk resulted in bloody palms, scraped elbows and legs that looked like they were dipped in barbeque sauce. They always looked burned red or rubbed raw. Scabs would pepper my shins and kneecaps, even my rear end would have road rash. I would sit where I landed, still and silent, for just a moment, to do a body check. Everything still worked, so I laughed at myself, brushed my legs off, and ran off to do it all again the next day.

As I got older, my love affair with the absurd knew no bounds. Tripping up the staircase as I tried to scale them two by two inevitably ended with knocking my cheekbones against the padded rungs or splitting my lip. My daily taste of salty blood on my tongue when I chomped on it whenever I tripped. I began to miss that afternoon snack after a while.

I never broke a bone, never chipped a tooth. I never had stitches, but the black and blue marks were a game in themselves. I delighted in the different shades of yellow, purple and green the contusions would fade into surrounding the brown of my freckles. Burn marks on my forearms foretold the coming of the holidays, as I always forgot to use a potholder to pull out the oven rack.

I was a klutz.

As time went on, I realized I needed to slow down, take time to smell the proverbial roses before I pierced my fingers on the thorns while inhaling. It was for the grace of God that I hadn't gotten myself killed, falling out of trees while climbing them with my kids, or rolling down snow hills as I lost my grip on the sled and bailed. It was amazing that I bled more than they did.

Suddenly I was a real grown up when my kids started to fall prey to the klutz gene I feared they had inherited from me. No one broke a bone, but they had their share of stitches. Dog bites, teeth knocked out from sports or kissing the sidewalk became the order of the day. Nothing life threathening but annoyances of life seemed to multliply daily.

Today I am a mature woman with 8 stitches across my right knee cap. The result of a early evening walk, some how I ended up face down in the gravel of the driveway across from our house. Walking the dogs with my beloved, it was as if suddenly I was 10 years old again.

It was so weird he said solemnly. One minute you were up, talking to me, and then you were down. Weird.

I sat where I landed, still and silent, for just a moment, to do a body check. Everything still worked, so I laughed at myself, brushed my legs off, and ran off to do it all again the next day.

I think we need to go to the hospital he said with a grin as the blood dripped down my ripped pants leg, the whole in my jeans growing brighter and brighter.   The fireman was in business.   

Except for the stitches, it was just like the good old days.

Posted by eloveman at 05:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Gaspar was the wisest animal in the land of Doolittle.

He stood tall, even for a Goose. His long, strong neck was the focal point for any eye who dared to confront or argue with his opinion. Although kind in nature, his word was unilaterally the law of the land, and the animals in the kingdom relied upon his wisdom and common sense to guide them through any disaster or calamity of the day.

It was in matters of the heart, however, where Gaspar did excell. His no nonsense approach to love seemed to be correct in its outcome time after time.

There were several stone jars lined up across the top of his mahagoney desk, with removable stoppers. No one dared to remove the stoppers whilst Gaspar was out of the room. They knew these jars were sacred and assisted him in his decision making and counsel. The jars were labeled with different words across the front, on either side of the bottle.

The lovelorn or the unlovable were all welcome to his study. They would approach him as he sat at his great desk, located in the Castle in the Cove by the Great Lake. His windows were always open, as was his door. He enjoyed listening to the sounds of the waves of the sea, and drank in the saltwater smells of the ocean.

It was a bright fall morning when Gaspar was approached by the lovely gazelle, Galena.

Galena was heartbroken, as she had recently been forced to part with her beloved, Laronious. Laronious had been summoned back to the land of his origin, the tiny Hamlet of Waldorth. He did not ask Galena to travel with him, nor to visit him when he got there.

Gaspar was expecting this visit from Galena, for in addition to his vast knowledge in matters of the heart, he was also endowed with the gift of prophesy. He was aware she was in great pain and thirsting for answers.

He knew, also, that he would not be able to spare her any further anguish.

Knocking on the heavy wooden door, she was bid entrance and shown where to sit. Gaspar smiled at her kindly as she sat upon the stool at the foot of the great desk. She looked at his lined face and up into his soft orange eyes, heavy lidded and worn, as if they carried the burdens of many a tattered soul or damaged heart. Which of course, they had.

He smiled again, this time wider and showing his yellowed teeth, sharp and long, but not menancing, as she positioned herself on the stool.

"Hello, Galena" he said. It was a quiet morning and his voice was deep and soothing, his speech slow and measured.

"Dear daughter, Galena" he began.  "I know why you are here."

She looked at him closer, unable to speak and her eyes beginning to fill with tears. Gazelles are not easily moved to show their emotions, but it was clear this one was in utter misery.

"My heart......" she stammered

"Yes, your heart....."

"My heart, it is so broken...." she whispered, tears beginning to fall upon the bib of her dress. She did not care to wipe them.

"....... and I cannot understand......."

".....And you want to know why?"  He finished for her.

".....You want to know why."

"Yes!" she pleaded angrily.

"I do not understand how one could love another so much, yet make the decision to travel long distances away from the one that loves them. Why would he leave me here without telling me what his heart spoke, what feelings flowed through his veins? Our hearts have merely winked at each other, yet I know we were meant to be together. I need to know more. Please help me."

Gaspar stood up and removed one of the stoppers from the jar labeled Compassion.

He ran the end of the stopper under long bill, as if to smell it. It was a pleasant smell, similar to lilacs and heather.

He did not speak, merely looked at Galena intently, before moving on.

He then removed the stopper from a jar labeled Valor. He ran it again under his goose bill, slowly back and forth. He closed his eyes and murmered some words Galena hadn't remembered hearing before. It was the aroma of coffee beans ad fresh mowed grass.

He then took a third stopper from another jar, and closing his eyes picked up the jar itself and inhaled. The bottle was labeled Humor. The smell was of bright orange pumpkins and apples, a soothing smell and the familiarity of Autumn.

Galena watched all of this while waiting patiently for what Gaspar would tell her. She knew that he would help her, but was afraid of what she might hear.

The wise Goose turned his back to her then and faced the bookcase aligning the wall behind him. He absently read some of the book titles, giving Galena time to absorb what he was about to reveal to her.

"Dear daughter, Galena" he said finally.

"What I must tell you now will cause you great distress, and I know that, but tell you I must.

Your brave Laronious has been wounded in battle, for it is war to which he has been summoned."

Galena's surprise caught in her throat, unaware he had been involved in the fight against the rebels of Draconille.

"He could not bear to tell you..." he continued, "... as he knew you did not take well to conflict."

He paused to look Galena in the eye.

"You are a worrier, aren't you?" a small smile spreading across his lips.

She remembered how Laronious would tease her as she admonished him as he ran off to fight another enemy in the woods. 

"Be careful!" she would cry and his reply was always the same.

"Careful is not a word known to Gazelles!" He would gallop off after throwing her a kiss. In spite of her fear, Galena smiled with the memory.

"He was wounded in the fight against the fire and will not last the night" he finished.

"You must go to him and pledge your love, as this will seal your commitment to each other to last throughout eternity. When your souls return to this realm, they will recognize each other and be united forever.

Go now daughter and find your true love to tell him what is known to both your hearts. It must be said aloud."

So Galena travelled the long distance to Draconville, flying without relief and determined to arrive before dusk. It was nightfall when she found her beloved Laronious. He was laboring for breath having been injured by the heavy flames and unable to breath without great effort.

"I love you" she whispered in his ear as she wrapped her arms around his tattered breastplate, darkened by the smoke of battle and the wear of death. He didn't have much time.

"Forgive me for holding these words too close to my heart that my lips could not speak them."

Laronious opened his eyes for the last time to gaze upon his beloved Galena, their faces touching forehead to forehead, and their hearts breaking, unable to fathom the thought of them breaking any deeper.

"You are my beloved" he whispered, "...and I will adore you always."

He closed his eyes then, and she kissed them gently, knowing she would never gaze upon them in this manner again.

Galena lived forty more years as is typical for Gazelles. She did not love another in all that time, instead devoting her life to the service of others, especially children of mothers or fathers killed during a hunt, or lost in battle.

As she lay on her death bed, she motioned to the great goose Gaspar who had come to visit her one last time.

What will we be united as? her eyes pleading with him as she lay withering away. How will I know him and will he know me?

"Your hearts will wink at each other once again" he answered kindly as she drew her last breath.

"You will know him" he smiled.

"You will know him."

He looked through the window out at the sea, where he watched as the souls of Galena and Laronious met in the night sky amongst the stars and the moon.

Together at last, having told each other what was truly in their hearts, it is was never known to what form that were united, but they were forever entwined. Their hearts had found each other and winked, as the Great Gaspar had predicted, never to be alone again.

Posted by eloveman at 09:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The last time I saw my youngest daughter in her element was September. Flying down to catch up with new developments and adventures in her life, I couldn't help but compare the circumstances with those of four years ago.

She's survived some nasty people and even nastier situations. But has also made some real friends and lasting relationships.

Like any trip somewhere else, we spent the time shopping, eating and meeting people from all across the USA, and from across the pond as well.

This visit has spawned a new creativity in me, and I will tell you about the people I've met - the firefighters from New Orleans, the IT person from Ireland, the woman from New Jersey, the businessman from France who bakes the most delicious danish, and a young girl from India whose family wove the sandals we bought for a $1.00.

They are all part of a great solid quilt of personalities which blankets this great city that truly does NOT sleep, and I will tell you about them. 

Soon.   Have a great Memorial Day holiday.

Posted by eloveman at 07:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Unfortunately, I was Communion Girl from Hell.

I could never do the decants the way they were supposed to be recited. I kept mixing up the Our Father and the Hail Mary and the Glory Be. For every ten Hail Marys, you’re supposed to say one Our Father, to break up the set. Or maybe it’s the monotony. You move your finger from one bead to the next, a mental count to help you keep track.

I kept loosing count and was a mental case. I kept forgetting what number Hail Mary I was on, and then have to start all over.

I finally gave up and would wrap them around the dog’s neck, a holy dog collar.

My Irish grandmother, Bingo Mary, would have a stroke. “God help us, Patsy” she’d scream, “She’s at it again! Get the dog before he eats the Sacred Heart of Jesus!!” and she and my mother would go tearing after the poodle.

I have quite a nice collection of rosary beads at this stage in my life. I receive them as gifts, as tokens of love from people who travel to Medgigori and Spain. Fancy, plain, plastic, I have every color imaginable. Someone even gave me a set suitable for the blind. I wonder if they were trying to tell me something.

Every time I pray the rosary now, I think of Bingo Mary. I still lose track and I still get mixed up. But I know she’s up there, smiling down at me and watching.

Knowing I still wish I could find a dog.

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FROM THE DOOLITTLE CHRONICLES......

Posted by eloveman at 05:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Where am I? Oh yeah, the water ......I thought before fully awakening.

This was it. This is what I came here for.  To see a new day as it opened itself up to me, parading sparkling diamonds on the water, a favorite phrase of a friend of mine.

 XXXXXXXXXXX

Five years later, they are just as spectacular.

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I remember her staying up late at night, listening to the snip of the scissors on the tissue paper patterns and the fabric laid out on the kitchen table, the whirr of the Singer. In the morning there would be more skirts, more pillow covers, more home made stuff. I wanted none of it.

“Why can’t you buy me a dress” I would whine.

“Why do you have to make all this stuff, its so stupid. I don’t want it.”

Thanks for being my mom.

Posted by eloveman at 05:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

One of the great but simple joys we share is truly simple.
 
Walking.
 
Either alone, or with the dogs, or together, it is something done most every day, weather permitting.  It's good exercise for us and very cathartic.
 
It's a time when we can both talk non stop to share what's on own mind.
 
Or it can be a time of silence, where one doesn't have to worry the other is thinking whats wrong she nots not talking?
 
More is said at those times than not, without ever opening our mouths.
 
Besides being blessed by having the Lake in front yard, there are acres and acres of open land.  Peppered with apple orchards, the aroma in the fall is breathtakinginly pungent with the smell of ripe apples and burning wood.   The summer breezes  blow sweet flower fragrances through the house, and the winter winds greet us with the intensity of long held lust.
 
But this is Spring, and Spring brings its own rewards.
 
Mud.
 
Mud is everywhere, preparing the way for green grass and tulips, softening the rough edges of the lake made raw by the ice.  
 
Mud.
 
There is a pair of boots I wear only for these walks, which become more like treks, the first time we start on our journey.  Special too, is the jacket I don when the air is still chilled but the sun is warming as we gear up.  His navy pea coat, blue with red arm stripes, fashioned especially for me.  Cut and tailored, it is the coat I go walking in with him, and the coat which the dogs seem to think its okay to jump up on to steal a kiss, whenever they think I'm not looking. 
 
It is.  For whenever I look down and see the caked mud remnants on my coat sleeves, or smack mud encrusted boots together before I enter the house, I am reminded of a another time, not so long ago.
 
"Here ma, try this" says a little voice, full of mischevious undertone.
 

"What is it?"  I ask, playing along.

It is a ritual that began when they could first put shovel to dirt in their own little backyards, so long ago.
 
"It's a pie!"  the littlest will laugh, unable to stand the suspense, not having learned yet how to play along.
 
I open my mouth wide to let in the dirty spoonful of wet mud, fashioned on plates they sneaked from the kitchen.   China plates that were to be used only a holidays, used now to present their greatest culinary creation.  Offerings of love on a chilly Spring afternoon.
 

"No!!"  they laugh in unison, saving me from the concoction. 

"They're mud!  Mud pies!"  and they run off laughing, china dishes held securely in their grasp, heading back to the mud hole beneath the giant oak tree they always played under.
 
Walking with my beloved, I spy the mud pushed up against a barn.   I walk up and and scoop up a piece, flattening it between my gloved hands. 
 
It feels just like I remember.
 
"Here...." I say offering it to him.   "Take a bite."
 
He smiles while opening his mouth wide. 
 
Because he knows.
 
About the mud pies on china.
 
And I say another prayer once more, giving thanks for the blessings.   

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Living on the Lake brings with it knowledge I never thought I would have.

People that live near, on, or in bodies of water seem to have a venacular all their own. Phrases and sayings once sounding so foreign, now roll off my tongue as well. I am able to participate in conversation surrounding the lake and understand the shorthand associated with it, anticipating and  descibing it's many moods.

My teenage years were formed along the Long Island Sound. My first boyfriend had a small dingy, and we spend many a Saturday morning clamming. Casting the net or a small metal box, we would sit for hours talking, only to interrupt our heartfelt discussions quickly and adeptly. He would stand to dump the prizes onto the deck and sort them for good clams, throwing the smaller ones back. Little necks or Quahogs, they were mixed in with other sea life, and once in a while he would retrieve a crab or two. He would stash it in the plastic bucket filled with ice and save it for later. By noontime, the ice melted and appetites ravenous, we would sit on the shore and wait for our friends to join us on the beach.

Years went by and my only exposure to the water was when I visited Cape Cod every fall with my older, married girlfriends. The northeasterners were a hardy bunch, and the I felt a kinship with the woman there who had never left the island.

Their faces weatherbeaten and ruddy, there was a strong and confident air about them that spoke of many harsh seasons on the water. Not only survived but celebrated, their eyes spoke of a life triumphant and without regret.

I wanted that life, but never knew it would be years more before I saw it.

Science plays a part in the language of life on the lake, more so than any weather forcast could predict. When the lake "turns over" and the bath water become a frigid 40 degrees in a twenty four hour time span, you begin to realize that the waves have a mind of their own. Sand dunes not visible from the shore, become walking byways from one risen pile to another. Seaweed may rise to top one day, coating the rocks with a sticky green film, only to be washed away another day later, shells and rock formations newly deposited along the shore.

It's God's great washing machine, the rinse cycle a reminder that everything which seems cloudy and tinted will one day be rinsed crisp and clean again, like whites sheets hanging on a clothes line.

Continuing the cycle, day after day, year after year. I know that I will witness it again and again as we enter into our twilight years together.

I will be the old woman on the Lake, the one who sits on the rocks, letting the cold water run between my toes. My face will be lined and my hair will be white, my eyes still the brillant blue that drew him to me in the first place.

It will be my Lake, and I will be hers. Forever more. Because it is where I was meant to be.

Posted by eloveman at 08:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I love flowers.

The arrival of spring brings out the romantic in me, as I am sure it does in many people.

I love the changes in season, and the memories it provokes as each day is turned over like the proverbial new leaf are a wonderful reminder of where I came from and who I turned out to be.
 
My mother always grew roses, giant bushes full of magnificent colors and smells that lined the backyard fence with their beauteous bounty of fragrances.  I was never able to grow them, for they required a certain patience that I did not yet possess at such a young age.
 
High school brought the occasional boyfriend to the front door, and it was a big deal to get a handful of roses from a new suitor.  According to my father, it was a good gauge of how much the young man liked me and how honorable were his intentions.  It became the measuring tool for other relationships as I grew older and more selective.
 
The pages of times turned by at a pace even I wasn’t prepared for, but even the peppering of roses I received through out the years was a fond reminder of my daddy’s yardstick of commitment. 
 
Dating again after so many years of being married, it was a wonderful treat to be receiving flowers again.    Out came the yardstick, but not even my dad would have been prepared for the offerings of love I received one summer evening.
 
A third or fourth date, it was the dawning of the realization that this relationship was different; this one could be serious and warranted more time spent together.  We had so much in common, half the time we didn’t have to even speak.   So in tune were our hearts that I knew it was for real when he silently presented me with a gift.
 
Immersed in the sunset, I hadn’t noticed his fingers busily folding a paper napkin every which way.   Just having finished a light supper out on the deck of a restaurant near the water, the wonder of the moment was magical. 
 
The simplest of gestures of love, he presented me with two paper roses.  It’s simple beauty took my breath away.
 
On the day of our wedding, neighbors came bearing rose bushes to be planted along side the arbor where we stood to be married.  
 
I didn’t need to plant them to bear beautiful blooms.
 
They bloomed right in the pots, today and every day since. 
 
A blessed testament to the power of love that will bloom when you least expect it.

Posted by eloveman at 05:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

  Living out here on the Great Lake has been quite an adjustment in lifestyle and expectation.  Some changes are easy, some a little more difficult to maneuver. 
 
None are life threathening, just a rearrangment of routine. 
 
I find it akin to untucking a cotton shirt thats been stuffed in your jeans at the waistline.  A little letting go, making a little more room to breathe, a sense of freedom one is not used to.
 
You don't have to walk around with your stomach held in around here.
 
One of the things I've had to get used to is you can't just hop in the car to get something.  Everything is somewhere else, and the somewhere else takes twenty minutes to get to in either direction.
 
But thats okay too, because the view to somewhere else is spectacular.
 
Also changing for me is that I don't miss the television.  Who needs Survivor when I can witness it in my own backyard.
 
I've always loved the sounds of Loons, a relative of the duck, a different fowl all together.   I would hear them every now and then on trips to the Adirondecks, and would listen for them intently.  They were a comfort and a reminder of a quieter time, when my children were young and I was a new mother.
 

According to some Indian legends, the call of the Loon meant impending death.  I find that hard to believe.  It is such a different sound, but doesn't sound very threathening.  To me, anway.

I sit now in the dark, with candles lit and his arm around my shoulder, listening for them.  I can hear them amongst the cacophany of the crickets, who sound like birds tweeting, the loudest bugs I've ever heard!
 
They call out in the darkness, as if to say Hello, whooooo, whoooo........ 
 
There's a woman here who lives on the Lake and has been here for most of her life, most of her seventy plus years.   I met her one day on my daily walk with Riley, and we struck up a conversation.
 
About loons.    She loves the loons as much as I do, in fact she collects them.
 
But they have a special significance to her, even more so than to me.
 
I like to think they are my husband calling good night to me, she said one early evening as she was closing up the house for the night.  He's been gone many years now, but he always kissed me goodnight.  I miss that.
 
I blinked back my tears, for my acceptance speech to join him here in fact included those very words.
 
"......always kiss me goodnight."
 
Here's to we Loon Ladies and our never ending quest for romance.
 

May we always receive our kiss goodnight.

Posted by eloveman at 08:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"Change is always powerful.  Let your hook be always cast.  In the pool where you least expect it will be a fish.”
 
A few summers ago I helped out a friend, spending most mornings in her little country shop down near The Point.  I didn’t have a job and was distraught over not having the income I was used to seeing in my bank account.  It helped to keep my mind off such things that in the long run, I have realized are not that important.
 
It was during that time when things were slow, that I had I the opportunity to peruse the small library she had created.  Shelves filled with cookbooks, books on weaving and decorating, it was a hodgepodge of simple ways to make a room cozy and welcoming.   How to make a house a home.
 
One of the books I came upon was a small book of quotes, and I read the one above with great interest.  So many things jumped out at me, it was as if I was meant to read that book at that moment.
 
Change is always powerful.   Boy do I ever know that to be true!  Even when you don’t want change and try to withstand it with all your might, it just has a way of steamrolling right over your intentions.  Whether it be your health, your lifestyle, your job or your situation in general; if things are meant to change, they will. 
 
Let your hook always be cast.  That statement says to me that even though some change is inevitable, there are things you can do about the change after the fact.  If you don’t like what has changed and want it to reflect something different, keep your pole in the water with your hook ready to snag whatever it is you want in your life.   You are the one holding the pole – no one can hold it for you, and no one can dictate what you use for bait.
 
In the pool where you least expect it will be a fish.  It comes down to choices. 
 
What is it you want in a “fish?”  What is the final outcome you expect from all the mornings of casting your pole and baiting the waters?  What is it that you want from the pool of life that is yours for the taking?   Can you stay in the boat whilst the water is tossing you back and forth, the waves trying to wash you overboard, whether it be a small dingy or a spacious yacht?  The waves make no exceptions to what they consider a challenge. 
 
I am constantly tooling and retooling the situations and choices in my life to reflect the best of what I know I can be.  Sadly, at times it turns out that I have made the wrong decision, and am forced to go back out on the Lake and cast again.
 
But sometimes, just sometimes, I get it right.  I will continue to sit in the boat, not safely on the shore, and cast right along with the rest of those who are excited by life and the changes each and every day brings to us.
 
I hope that you do the same.

Posted by eloveman at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"Come on! Let's go! We'll be late!"

Such were the words invariably yelled towards my mother's direction everytime we had to go shopping for school clothes.  Or any kind of shopping for anything, for that matter.

Always in a hurry; always yelling.  Always frustrated.  Anyone who is a parent knows the worst thing to come across during the day is a frustrated teenage girl.

It's a wonder I didn't end up with an ulcer or a nervous breakdown. Or give one to anyone else.

An internal clock ticking the minutes away in my mind, I was forever planning and scheduling. Every minute that got away, was another minute wasted.

"Will you slow down?" she would reply calmly.

"What is the hurry? The clothes/makeup/jewelery will still be there when we get there..." she'd say smiling, substituting whatever material object I just HAD to have at that moment.

Slowly and deliberately she would meander down to the kitchen. Standing at the stove she would make herself her morning tea, while the face of her apoplectic daughter twitched and watched, trying to sit quietly. Every cell in my body exploded with impatience.

I was always racing, my heart pounding with excitment at the thought of having something to do and somewhere to go.

It was a characteristic that overcame any other in my personality. As I got older, it was clear this nervous energy could be used as an accelerant, a means to distinguish my self from my peers. If you wanted something done quickly, give to me. I was a voracious reader, and this was light years before the internet. If you needed something researched, give it to me and I would find it quickly.

If you wanted something organized, however, give it to someone else. That took too much time.

As the years went by and children became part of the landscape, I began to notice something. I was missing out on the best part of having children - watching them grow.

It is a slow process that pays no mind to schedules, routines or deadlines. Along the same lines as watching paint dry and pots boil, it didn't take long for me to raise up my head and look behind.

I realized I had to stop moving so quickly and let them catch up with me.

Gone were the lists of people to visit, places to go, tasks to accomplish. The floor wasn't washed every other day, and the furniture became so dusty you could write your request for dinner across the dining room buffet.

I began telling them made up stories, and each adventure added another character as the years went by, as another child entered the family.

It was the best time of my life, and I shake my head from side to side when I think of how I very nearly missed it all.

"Come on, Mom! Lets's go! We'll be late!" my twenty-something daughter yelled to me on an afternoon, not much different from this one. She had been in the car with it running in the driveway, alerting me to the time.

"I'm coming..."  I answered softly, smiling as I shut off the computer.

"The makeup/jewelery/clothes will still be there when we get there. What's your hurry?"

I looked around at my sparkling kitchen, for now I have more time to do less. I take a picture in my mind of the matching dishclothes and placemats so part of the landscape now. The refrigerator boasts of colorful pictures drawn by the hands of my loving grandchildren, as well as the neighbor's children.

"I'm coming" I repeated with just a wisp of sadness, closing the front door behind me. 

"What's your hurry?"

Posted by eloveman at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Dreams are a funny thing, especially when they belong to someone else.
 
I have always been a performer in one way or another.  Whether it be from the pulpit or at a seminar, I have never been afraid to speak in public. 
 
Truth is, I love the spotlight.  I am the perennial ham and my friends forgive me for it. I love a good laugh, and when the joke is on me, I laugh the loudest.
 
Of course, there is a time and a place for everything.  But that didn’t stop me from being the class clown, the jokester, or being “just plain silly” as my father would say.
 
Hogging the spotlight sometimes interfered with my schoolwork, and that was not a good thing.  Auditions and play rehearsals always seem to get in the way of homework.  To be precise, my math studies.
 
Multiplication tables, in particular.
 
My father was determined I would learn them.  He bought flash cards, and we would spend hours trying to get those sequences into my head.
 
Not very practical, and frustrating for all involved.  My sisters and brother would go running for cover every time they say the box of cardboard squares come out of the dining room dresser drawer. 
 
We discovered that I am not a visual person, that I learn better by rote.  The only way I could learn them was to repeat them, over and over, much like learning the lines in a play.
 
Or a comedy routine.
 
Sitting at the dinner table, I would have a mouthful of mashed potatoes when my father would yell out “6 times 4!”  He was relentless, and he went through every table from 1-12 until I was correct.  My sisters told me years later they learned them vicariously through me.
 
“24!”  Yes!  Got it right, that way I knew I would only have about 10 more outbursts during the night.   He would be in the middle of a conversation with my mother, and then suddenly turn towards me and yell “7 times 5!”
 
Talking on the phones with my best friend, Ilene, I would get pulled aside and his big smiling face with assault me, a burning cigarette stick stuck in the side of his mouth  like a maniacal Popeye.
 
“What’s 2 time 9?”  and he wouldn’t let me finish the conversation until I answered.
 
“18”, and then I returned my attention to the task at hand, listening to the latest lament about a boy, wondering if her father was as goofy.  I already knew the answer.  Probably not. 
 
Brushing my teeth before bed, he stuck his head in the bathroom – “9 times 9!”
 
“81”, I answered as I spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink.
 
It’s a great memory.
 
My husband/partner wrote most of our material when we performed together, although I am able to get in a few laughs on my own here and there; he orchestrates the ebb and flow of the words, creates the mood and the comeback lines for me.  I am the proverbial straight man and zig to his every zag.
 
We are a good team.
 
I laugh when I get a comment now and then that “I’ve seen your act and it stinks” because truth be known, we haven’t done the act in over 2 years.  We’ve been concentrating on other things, testing the waters of new life decisions, specifically for me the emergence of a writing career.
 
The time will come again when we will face the spotlight together.   We continually write jokes and laugh at everyday situations, always on the lookout for the absurd and the ridiculous.  People prove it to us everyday.  
 
So it is not a surprise that he will turn to me when I have a mouthful of mashed potatoes and say “Why do you need all those shoes?”  an opening line to a great joke.
 
I’ll be calm and collected, for I know the jokes by heart. 
 
Just like my multiplication tables.
 
 

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FACE IN THE MIRROR

When you look in the mirror
What do you see
Is the face the same face
That's looking back at me?

Is your heart full of love or
Revenge at its core
Is your soul filled with remorse
Or planning galore

Can you honestly say that your soul has repent
Has the depth of your sorrow truly been spent
Or is this just a joke and you think you are free
When you look in the mirror,what do you see

The eyes alone betray if it's you
Or it's me.....

THE MIRROR OF TRUTH

Assuming that you know what's best
It tends to make me trust you less
For you've no clue friend, not a one
The depth of damage you have done
For friendship starts without a line
Drawn in the sand or for to find
The way to know if hearts are true
Is to be open past the view

With smug filled eyes and mouth so crooked
Into the mirror your heart must looked
It will not fool or maxim withhold
It's truth is brilliant, pure and bold
There is no warning needed here 
My soul is clean, my conscience clear
Into the freedom I have found 
Bright eyed and determined I will abound

My ship is ready I'm at her helm
There is no chance to overwhelm
Your warnings are unjustifed
Just a glimpse of wounded pride
Into the mirror look one more time
To really see what you will find
Your observation is wrong again
And just my pity to you I send

With just blue eyes I will forgive
As one who sins just as we live
All those who hoist their hearts to mock
Too late, the ship has left the dock
A journey which you can not take
The glassy mirror is now the lake
The parting words have been foretold
The truth is brilliant, pure and bold

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I didn’t know her very well.  In fact, we had only been in each other’s company twice, and the first time was right before my wedding day.   I think had I met her earlier in our lives we would have been good friends.   Fun loving and adventurous, Shirley’s heart was almost as big as she was.  It was getting close enough to hear it’s beating that proved to be a little trickier than anticipated.

She was smaller than small, tinier than a 14 year old boy.   Her voice was deep and gravelly, the true sign of a smoker, and the aroma of tobacco smoke permeated everything she wore, even defying the perfectly coiffed hairdo.  Eyes steely blue and determined, I had come across this personality before – it was my father all over again, a gentle soul who loved cigarettes and would not stop smoking, even though they knew the risks were great.

She was my husband’s stepmother, and even though they had not spoken for a while, it was a grand homecoming when he called to tell her he was getting married “right in the middle of the pig roast….” She laughed and said she would be there, as his joy was contagious.  Youth, misunderstanding and anguish sometimes stand in the way of forming deeper relationships, this was a perfect opportunity for the both of them to connect again.

After the first wedding visit, she was coerced into coming back out “to the country” and to enjoy the summer breezes wafting off the Lake.  It was a pleasurable visit and a lot of memories were discussed, escapades of my husband’s youth made live, all new to me and a fond reminiscence for them.  The quiet of the day, with only the sounds of the waves in the background, our friendship was cemented.  Our eyes locked and the unspoken message was heard loud and clear:  We are all right, all of us.  We are all right.

Shirley loved costume jewelry and was quite an avid television and internet shopper.  She especially liked cubic zirconium, as the illusion of diamonds and gems fascinated her.  I had mentioned I was still waiting for my diamond engagement ring, but technically I shouldn’t expect one because my beloved has never really “asked” me to marry him.  He gave me instead a three diamond tiered necklace on our first Christmas, to mark our time together murmuring “…for yesterday, today and tomorrow” in my ear as he fastened the clasp around my neck.  

Shirley laughed and said “Well, I don’t see why not; you’re pretty engaging.” and she guffawed loudly at her own joke, with her deep, throaty laugh, while taking another puff of her Lucky Strikes.  Some how we ended up married, but I never did really expect a diamond ring, but that doesn’t stop me from ribbing him with the notion now and then.

Lung cancer comes hard and quick, and when the diagnosis is made there isn’t a lot time to think about it.  Such as it was for Shirley, who chose not to share the sentence with anyone. 

Diagnosed in November, she was gone in April. 

Upon distributing her belongings between her other children and my husband, we came upon her special box of jewelry.  A veritable treasure chest of jewels, it contained dozens and dozens of earring and watches, necklaces and pins, purchased and admired over the years. 

Opening up the last of the boxes, I saw her trove of rings; sparkling diamonds and rubies, colorful jade and glass.  To the untrained eye, they looked as real as any gems unearthed from a jeweler’s case.   I went through them, one by one, imaging her joy and appreciating the beauty she must have felt when trying them on.   I closed the lid when I was finished, moving to other areas of the house to see what I could do to help.

Imagine my surprise when I turned to find her daughter-in-law, smiling a sad smile of acceptance and resolve, handing to me the jewelry box of gemstones. 

“Take them” she said in a voice that offered no negotiation. 

“She would have wanted you to have them.”

The weather for this week is bleak and dreary.  A winter’s storm watch predicted in the midst of April blossoms seems abnormal and almost cruel.  But while I sit at the kitchen table and organize my newfound treasures, I am oblivious to the starkness of this cold and wet Sunday afternoon.

The sparkling diamonds are a testament to the beauty of one’s imagination and the healing power of acceptance.  I will wear them proudly, one by one as the occasion permits. 

If asked when I came into such an inheritance of cash to be able to afford such a dazzling array of gems, I will smile and raise my eyes to heaven, knowing she is watching and smiling herself.  

No one need know they are not the real things.  To Shirley, they were as real as any diamonds found off the coast of Africa; her spirit of the gemstones will shine on forever brightly on me.

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There they were again, singing.

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I have always loved being a Mother.

I think its the only thing I ever really wanted to be. It's why I've always had a hard time trying to carve out a career. I already had one and didn't realize it.

When I was 8 years old, I already knew. I had it all planned that I was going to have 10 childen, a nanny, and live in a big house in the country on a hill. I had no idea what kind of a husband I would marry, and as I got older, I realized I should have thought that piece through a little better. Never got the nanny, either. But no matter. I knew I would have those kids, somehow, someday. I never looked pregnant from the rear, and I always got a kick out of people's reaction at the mall as they walked around me. Seeing their expression on their faces as they passed by us, my brood in tow with big belly leading, we would always laugh. My neighbors used to say I was like a bear in hibernation, disappearing in the Fall, to emerge in the Spring with a new cub, and ready to do it again.

Although my methods may not have always gelled with how other people would do it, I know that I was, and still am, a very good mother. Proud to be a card carrying member, I have made many mistakes, none life threatening. Motherhood makes you put yourself outside oneself. You are the last to eat and the first to get up from the table. Motherhood teaches you endurance and trusting your gut, holding on to stubborness when you know you are right. It teaches you to be strong. You learn how to become deaf in one ear, blind in one eye, but aware of everything. You lose your voice from screaming, but can yell the loudest when your child needs help.

My kids have all had their share of stitches, sprained limbs, and bumps on the head. Thankfully, no broken bones, but there have been some scary dog bites.

I have been a mother through different stages in my life. A mother at 21 years old is far different than being a mother at 30, and even more different than being a step mother. I'm now a nana/mother to a child born too soon, but loved and cherished just the same. The basic instinct of mothering never goes away.

I have the scars and the lines to prove my admittance into the Motherhood Union. Lines across my forehead from worrying about missed curfews, and laugh lines around my mouth from the wonderful practical jokes my kids have played. Phone calls in the middle of the night to please come get me ma, I drank too much, I'm sorry, I wear them like medals, my badges of honor, loosing a battle but winning a war. I can cover the gray hair with a trip to the hairdresser, I can tuck in my tummy with control top pantyhose. I would never think of using botox to ease the lines on my face. Some scars are on the inside, words said in anger, decisions made in haste. But they are few and not worth agonizing over. They are yesterday, a step on the rung to maturity for all of us, a climb we have taken together.

Mothering comes easily to me, a natural reaction like sneezing or laughing. Little kids in the pews like a hug from me at the sign of peace at church, they know I am somebody's mother and enjoy the heartfelt squeeze I give them. I remember my kids' friends when they were little, now towering over me. The priests have always referred to me as Mother D. Does this mean we have to call you Mother L now they asked at one staff meeting.

No. I know I will always be Mama Dillio to all of them, no matter how many name changes or styles I may try to adapt. That's all right. I know who I am.

Other mothers may have tried to make me feel inferior, focusing in on mistakes made or errors in judgment. No matter. I don't have to answer to them. I'm not perfect and I don't expect anyone else to be. I forgive myself.

If there are words of wisdom I could impart today, they would be this. You are a mother, but you are not perfect. If you've done something that you wish you hadn't, forgive yourself. They won't take away the union card. The other mother's, the one's who think they are perfect, have a rude awakening coming someday.

They are human. Just like the rest of us.

Happy and Blessed Mother's Day to all the Mothers, whether you gave birth to your child or not. To those of you who have lost their Mothers, I hope this day is not too painful for you. I wish you peace and serenity in the knowledge your Mother watches over you still, even though she is not visible. You carry her forever in your heart and will see her again someday.

May the Lord continue to bless you with good judgment, good spirit, a sense of humor, patience and childlike wonder at seeing the world through your children's eyes.

It's the best job in the world. I thank God everyday that he hired me.

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Another beautiful Spring morning, not a cloud in the sky as the sun hangs lazily over the lake.   The air is cooler than the past week, but clear and crisp, beckoning new adventures just over the horizon.

Even amidst such beauty, however, there can be tinges of sadness.  Seeping through the morning like the tears on my neighbor’s cheeks came the news of what every pet owner dreads.  I learned today was the day they were putting down their faithful dog, William.

Just like the name, he is one of those unique canines who defied description.   A mutt did not adequately classify him, as he was a regal mix of Spaniel and Border Collie.  Like the Prince who bears the same name, he held his head high, walking royally down the lane to greet us upon our first meeting. 

Moving to the neighborhood a little over 2 years ago, he was alone during the day as his older brother had recently passed away.  No young pup himself,  William stayed in the house while his caretakers were at work.  In his younger days, he used to go with his Master, sitting at his feet while the man tended to the tasks at hand.

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Friday night and dinner was chicken smothered with tomatoes and cheese, and a side of fettucini alfredo.  The wine was chilled and the evening was warm.
 
Then the beeper/pager went off - his, not mine.  Mine is to alert me to a crisis at work.
 
When his beeper goes off, it means there's a fire.
 
Out the door he bounds, jumping in to the red truck with the blue light on top and away he goes.
 
I wonder if I will ever see him again.  That's the life of a fireman and a fireman's wife.  
 
New rules.  “Kiss me before you leave, even if it's just in the air.”
 
Me and the dogs and the dinner and the wine.
 
I sat at the table for just a moment longer, enjoying the quiet and saying a little prayer he would be all right.
 
I don't know what made me look up, but I did. 
 
Out the window to see the most magnificent sunset I have ever seen.
 
I ran to get the camera took some pictures, when I heard him behind me.
 
“False alarm…” he said, relieved.  As was I.
 
“Look” I said, pointing outside the window.
 
“Yes” he answered, shaking his head. 
 
“Magnificent, isn't it?  People were pulled over in their cars, light bulbs flashing to take these pictures. 
 
I was coming to get you,”  he said.
 
“You don't see this in the city” and we both smiled.
 
A beautiful reminder that everything is going to be all right.  

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 After leaving my son's house and visiting with our new grandson, my beloved and I left in our separate cars to make our way home.  Having both arrived from different locations, we had visited with Aunt Marion in the nursing home first, then stopped by my son’s house for a quick peek at the baby.

Soon the cell phone in the side pocket of my handbag will ring and it will be him.  I have learned to remove it from the side pocket when I leave work and place it on the passenger seat beside me as I pull out of the parking lot and drive into traffic.  That is how sure I am that he will call.  Even though technically it is against the law in New York to chat on the cell phone while driving, I find it less hazardous to have it at arms reach rather than having to fumble around for it.  

Most of the times it’s just to chat, to find out how my day went, or what he accomplished that day.  He is still the ultimate list maker, even though he is supposed to be on sabbatical for the summer. 
 

At first I was annoyed at the daily calls because I felt he was checking up on me, or just trying to control the day.  But then I remembered my Mom and Dad and how they used to communicate.

It was in the early 1970’s and the CB Radio was all the rage.  Used mainly for truckers, a few enlightened folks had them installed in their vehicles.   They gave themselves cute call names, “handles” if you were really into it.

It was also during this time that my mother opened her own shop, an artist’s dream come true, the reward for having put her career on the back burner and raise a family.  Although my father had a 9-5 job in the city, he would join her on the weekends when her shop was the busiest.  My mother and father did everything together, so making money was no different.  It was as if they were mowing the lawn together; just another list of things to get done that day.

Sometimes during the summer months I would travel to the shop with her,  not really my idea of a good time.  It was more of a punishment, to have to be with the customers instead of hanging out with my friends.  Luckily she had another daughter who loved doing that, and pretty soon I was set free.

But sometimes on a Saturday afternoon in winter, when it got dark at 4:30 p.m. and we hadn’t locked the doors til 6pm, I think it was good for me to be with my mother so she wouldn’t have to make the 20 minute drive alone.

But she wasn’t alone – not really.
 

“Niner, niner, are you there, Patsy?” the CB speaker would squawk, and she would look over at me, a big smile on her face.  It was my father, calling out to her.

“Niner, niner, a big howdy do to you, Patsy here” she would reply in her best truckereeze and wink at me.

I would roll my eyes. 

“You just left each other!”  I would moan, not understanding what the big deal was.

“Is that the whiner in the front seat I’m hearing, ten four?” he would reply and I would groan all the louder.

“YOU GUYS ARE SO WEIRD!” I would scream back to the speaker, still clutched in my mother’s hand, while she commandeered the steering wheel with her left.

“That would be our oldest, the big mouth, niner-niner, ten four” and she would laugh, sticking her tongue out at me, and amused at her own creativity.  

By this time I had been bored to tears, and closed my sixteen year old eyes to see if it would make the drive home go any quicker.  It didn’t.

But I could listen to them as they would joke back and forth, his green army jeep in front of us, while we trailed behind in the old blue station wagon, passing the street lights as we got closer to the Long Island Expressway.   

Talking about what they wanted for dinner, and what they were going to do the next day, I can hear those conversations in the back of my mind. 

Realizing it was how they said they loved each other, I smile guiltily now as I have my own CB conversations in my own car, these many years later.

“So I’ll see you home then, Sweetie?”  he asks as I am readying to turn on to the highway, he having made sure the roads were safe and we would be home together once again.

“That’s a big ten four niner, niner”  and I laugh as I explain my memory of them, always ending their conversations the same way.

“That’s a big ten-four, niner niner.  Over and out.”

Over and out. 

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One of the most frustrating aspects of being a parent, in my view, is NOT saying the right thing.

How many times have we wished that we had a nickel for every lecture we’ve given or answer that didn’t change, no matter how many times the question was asked? 

How many nights have been spent tossing and turning, scenarios replayed in our minds in response to the day’s activities?  Opportunities to teach and to advise wasted, moments that could have been used as learning tools, squandered. 
 

Sometimes we are made to feel that we know nothing about anything, and even less about something.  We are inadequate and incompetent,  useless and worthless, if success is measured by the responses we receive or affirmation acclaimed.
 

But all is not lost.  For life itself is the greatest teacher, the best opponent your child will encounter.  Whether they be 9 years old or 19; 29 or 59 it is a tireless adversary.  Life is both the great equalizer and clarifier; it will state in an instant what you have been trying to pound into their heads since they were a thought in your mind.

We love them, we nurture them and we try with all our heart to teach them. 
 

Sometimes they just won’t hear it.  You can not save them from heartache.

Our children are part of us, but are NOT us; only mere extensions of what we want to be.  Saying I told you so won’t give you credence or verification. 
 

Silence says volumes; the best overture of love is obvious.  

Never saying I told you so is underestimated.

When your heart is heavy and you feel there is nothing left to say, then that indeed is the answer. 

Sometimes saying nothing is the best and most loved filled thing of all.  

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I wrote this story in December of 2003.  I was astounded at the response, especially from the readers who were connected/related to the subject and had seen the story online.  It reminds me over and over just how closely connected we are. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When I was in my thirties and my children were still young, our house was on the bus line. It was a perfect arrangement. The woman who watched my babies came to the house at 7:00 a.m. I always felt better about this because I didn't have to wake them up and take them out of their warm beds so early in the morning. Any mother can attest these days how hard it is to get everyone going and playing beat the clock, beat the traffic, and trying not to beat ourselves up in the process. It made for a much more peaceful atmosphere to kiss them good bye in the early morning hours and let them sleep just alittle longer. My husband and I were happy with the arrangement.

Free of having to lug baby paraphenalia into a car and deposit crying faces at a dark building first thing in the morning, I was able to grab a quick cup of coffee before I went outside to wait for the bus. I was especially fortunate in the winter time, because I could see the bus coming from my enclosed front porch. Spying it down the street, I could down the last drops of my drink and run out the door.

It was a routine that I was able to keep for close to five years. The bus drivers rarely changed routes and so they became accustomed to my rhythms. There were times they would even lay on the horn if I wasn't standing out there. It was comforting to hear when I was home sick in bed (which was rare) and I let them know once I was on the mend. Any planned vacation time had to include informing them as well. It was a nice feeling to know I was missed.

As with the routine of going to work everyday, recognizing the same familiar faces sitting on the bus was also a comfort. Everyone seemed to sit in the same seat everyday, and newcomers were acknowledged and welcomed into the fold. My seat was on the left, about six rows back, and always on the aisle. My fellow seat buddy was already there, having gotten on about four stops ahead of me.

He was an older man, about 55 years old at that time. Dressed in a suit, he always held his brief case on his lap, like a table. His face was kind, his smile shy.

He always read paperback novels, most often of the likes of John Grisham, or "Red October" and spy genre. There wasn't much conversation between us, except to say good morning or how are you today. That was all right with me, I was usually mentally preparing myself for the onslaught of paperwork connected with a trial I was working on with the attorney of record that year, or going over a shopping list in my head. It was an arrangement that suited us both, falling into the routine of our mornings.

As the years went by, I did find out little bits of information from time to time. He was a supervisor at the telephone company. He wasn't very happy there, said it was very stressful and was looking forward to retirement, even though it was still ten years away. I would show him pictures of my kids, mostly at holidays. He would just smile and put his head back in the book when things started to get too personal.

One spring morning it dawned on me that my bus buddy hadn't been to work in a few days. I wanted to ask the bus driver if he had seen him, but a shocking realization hit me. I never knew his name. He was just the guy with the book that sat with me, a comforting presence like a warm blanket on a cold morning.

Thoughts flew in my head. Was he transferred? Did he finally quit? Fired?

Did the stress finally kill him?

A year went by, and I didn't see my bus buddy. I thought perhaps the latter was true, because I thought I would have seen him downtown at lunchtimes. I never saw him.

My dream of moving off the bus line came to fruition, and we were able to move to the big house, same house I would have to give up many years later. Moving to the big house meant having a car, buying more furniture, having less time. My life wasn't as simple as when all I had to do was kiss my babies goodbye in the morning. I stopped taking the bus and could drive them to school. Another routine had begun. Several years went by. As I drove to work and passed by the old bus stop, I thought I would see flashes of him, but could never be sure.

As is the tradition in my neighborhood, there are summer block parties. The biggest one is organized in August by a few energetic neighbors. Collection of funds and picinic tables ends with a September celebration. There are recipe contests, volleyball games on front lawns, horse shoe tournaments in backyards, and music blaring everywhere. Everyone brings a dish to pass, and it is a wonderful time. I have very dear memories of that time, a closeness still with most of the neighbors even though I have moved again.

I was walking toward the gathering place for all the food, when I spied an older couple walking towards me, bowl of potato salad in hand. My eyes hadn't quite focused on the man and woman, but there was something about the man's demeanor that was familiar to me, a way he held his head. He was looking at me intently. As we walked closer towards each other, my eyes popped and my heart jumped! It was him, my bus buddy! He was running towards me now, his wife and my husband watching, staring in disbelief. We were laughing and yelling "Its you! It's you!"

Like a scene from a movie, he laid his bowl of potato salad on the ground and scooped me up in his arms, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"I thought you were dead!" was the first thing that sprang from my mouth.

"Nope" he smiled. "Just retired. I came into work one day and they had handed me my pink slip. I was so mortified that I couldn't tell you that last afternoon we were sitting together. But how wonderful to see you again!"

After witnessing the heartfelt reunion, introductions were made to our respective spouses who were as curious as the other on lookers of the scene. We updated everyone of our history together and how sweet it was to see each other again.

He lived three houses down from me and I never knew it.

Sadly, he died unexpectedly three years later, the victim of a weak heart. At his funeral, a grieving wife and mother of five adult children would recount how she came home one afternoon to see him with his head laid down on his desk, as if napping. She told us about his life, how he was a friend to all, a quiet engager.

The church was filled to the brim at his funeral as his kindness was legendary. It was at that time I finally learned his full name.

His name was John. But to me, he will always be my bus buddy.

© 2003 Eileen Loveman

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2003

The morning dark and quiet deep
I watch new babies as they sleep
The sun not quite above the cloud
The din of snoring strong and loud

The smell of toast and butter rounds
There are no other pressing sounds
Where there was once a hole to fill
Now sunlight dances on hearts so still

All souls are full of love and peace
All arms are strong, no need to speak
No more to wander, nor to roam

Forever quiet, peaceful home

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Welcome!  This website is the fulfillment of a dream, a way to share my musings with you, dear reader.  It is also a place to read my various newspaper articles, purchase copies of my books, as well as the CD recordings of my radio show "Emeline."  It has been a year in the making.

I began writing on-line five years ago, after discovering an aspiring writers website called writersontheloose.com.   I list the address here because a great many of my earlier stories and newspaper articles appear there, and it was just too time consuming to move them all to this site.  I made many friends on the WOTL site, and they have become real friends in reality as well. 

Please bear with me as I work out the glitches on this new website, for I am sure there will be some.  For example, when you read a column, it appears the easiest way to return to the home page is by using the back arrow.  

I also like to post photographs that may go with a story, but am learning sometimes they are too large.  Oh, I also like to use those silly emoticons, so get used to seeing them here and there  All pictures have been snapped by me, unless otherwise noted.

Please comment if you feel so moved, whether it be constructive critism or if you just feel the need to respond.  

I have the capability to answer any questions or comments if I feel the need.   You do not need to post your email address or real name if you don't want to.  I do, however, reserve the right to delete comments that are ignorant.

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Posted by eloveman at 05:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was growing up on Long Island, most everybody's father had a two-hour, one-way drive to work.  A lot of my friend's dad's worked either right downtown or the surrounding areas, like Brooklyn, Queens, Flatbush or Jamaica.  He talked about traffic on the LIE (Long Island Expressway) and the fact that sometimes he had to stop at the local tavern so that he could wait out the bottle necks.  My mother used to smile whenever she heard that one, for the bottlenecks weren't just on the road.
 
As I got older and entered the workplace myself, it was expected that I wouldn't have to travel so far to earn a living.   Living in the suburbs, the farms were disappearing and housing developments or tract homes took their place.  Shopping centers (the term Mall hadn't been invented yet) and surrounding complexes were the first bane of the Mom and Pop stores that were slowing fading from the landscape.  Doctors offices and lawyers co-ops were taking shape, as were clinics and superduper supermarkets.
 
When I finally did get a grown up, full time job with health benefits and pension rights, I didn't have to travel very far, perhaps ten minutes away.   It was a trend that was soon to follow me wherever I went.
 
Adept at finding housing in the most convenient area, it almost determined where I would work, rather than where I would live.   Up until a few weeks ago, my residence was within five minutes walking distance to one of the churches.  The other two churches were also walkable, but only unless I was ambitious.   But if I lost my car, I wouldn't lose my job.
 
So it was with a wry smile that I responded to that wonderful question with, you want me to move where and drive for how long? 
 
A dilemma at best, for I loved the man, and I loved the job. 
 
On it's face, it looked like I was sacrificing a lot to live the life I wanted to embrace.  It meant getting up two hours earlier than I usually did, and driving for an hour if I obeyed the speed limit.
 
But the reward was to watch the sun come up over the Lake, the Great Ontario.  As we sat on the porch, hot coffee in our gloved hands, it was a marvel to behold.  Even in the dead of winter I wouldn't trade that view for anything.
 
Returning home in the evening was still another exercise in timing.  Although traffic paled in comparison to the days of my Dad on the LIE, a bottleneck now and then would make me smile as I heard him in my head.  I wish there was a place I could pull over and wait it out. 
 
But the reward for the drive home is one of the reasons why I am here.
 
There are two ways to travel from the City to the Country and then back again.  One way is to take a straight run from the bridge, a stretch of highway that goes for 101 miles.  It runs parallel with the Lake, but you can't see the Lake, it's way too far in and blocked by the trees, invisible during Spring and Summer.   Standard highway speed limits run from 55 to 65 miles per hour, and you can get here to there in the blink of an eye, without smelling the air or hearing the waves.
 
The other way is to turn left as soon as you cross over the Bridge from the mainland, to run right along the Lake.
 
That is only the first part of the reward, however.
 
It took a while for me to do the latter, for I was fearful of getting  lost.  Directionally challenged, I knew I would do better just taking the straight South to North stretch, and turning left at the last moment closest to the entrance to the Lake where "our" house is. 

Through white outs and snow drifts, snow storms and ice melts,  I braved the miles and drove.  Slowly when I had to, stopping when I needed, and arriving when I was supposed to.   
 
I thought of my father often during these winter treks, and wondered how he did it all those years, close to thirty.   It wasn't until the snow started to melt that I began to understand why.
 
For when the air started to turn warmer and the buds began to pop on the trees, I turned left. 
 
I had entered another world, another realm of existence.  This world had apple trees and cherry blossoms, green grass and corn stalks.  Up and down hills and valleys, twists and turns, the speed limits would vary between 30 miles per hour and 55.  Ducks and geese would cross the road, and every now and then a deer would poke its face out of the bushes. 
 
For a city girl, this was fairy land.
 
The Lake is my constant companion as I travel the extra miles it takes me to get there, home to him and my place beside him. 
 
But the very best part and the reason why we are both here is the view that greets me everytime I come or I go from where I started.
 
There's a bend in the road, a crook in the landscape that is breathtaking.  When the wind is moving, the waves crash up against the
rocks, it is the first thing I see when I straighten back out again.  Coming over the hill and down into the valley, it is magnificent view that hits you instantly and takes you somewhere else.  We might as well be living in Maine or Cape Cod, for the air is heavy with moisture and the smells are laden with flowers and salty freshness.  The sun glistens on the water, sparkling diamonds as far as the eye can see.
 
It is the announcement to me that I am close to home, and a poignant reminder as to why I am here. 
 
Views like this are gifts from God.  I met the one he gave it to, and he shared it with me.
 
So I will drive and drive, for as long as I can, as long as I have the strength and the will, and my eyes will behold the beauty that awaits me every morning as I leave, and every evening as I return.
 
As I turn left, a make a small salute to my Dad, as he travels the route with me.
 
The bend in the road to home.  To him, and to the Lake.
 
 

Posted by eloveman at 08:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by eloveman at 07:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

I never tire of Spring and the rebirth it signifies.

My old tree, the beautiful watching willow, is back again in full force and in all its magnificence.
 
Standing tall, it has seen its share of storms and blizzards, as well as hot sun bursts and pelting rains.
 
But it stands ever ready, holding its ground, as a reminder.
 
No matter what trials it endures or tests it is given, it always passes, never failing. 
 
It does what it does best.
 
It just is.

Posted by eloveman at 12:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)