Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

For all intents and purposes, it seems I began my life and settled it all within the contents of a suitcase.
 
I’ve written about it before, both metaphorically and literally.    I called it "The Purple Suitcase", and it was mainly a compilation of my thoughts, with the pollyana happy ending that my true love would know enough to tell me to put it away, my need to question and search was over.  I had not yet met Stephen.
 
Purchased in 1972, to begin what I thought was going to be the first of many traveling adventures, it was the first thing I packed when I eloped.
 
Several years later, it is what I used to take what was of value with me to travel across the country, another grand adventure to my 22 year old mind.
 
The following year I moved to Philadelphia for a job, young son and purple suitcase in tow.  It soon became the kitchen table in a one bedroom apartment, where we ate our breakfast and planned our days.  He to daycare and I to work, it was a grim reminder that all adventures are not necessarily of the pleasant kind.  But I was young and had the wanderlust, so it’s effects didn’t appear until years later.
 
Twenty five years past and it stood in the corner of the basement of a high priced colonial house, soon to be dug out again to hold all that was dear to me.  I was alone this time, and it faced me, silent and empty, waiting for me to decide what was important and what was not.
 
I took it with me, but it was empty.
 
It’s final destination was to the place where I am now, the final lap in a journey of a lifetime spent searching and wandering.   Of course it was filled with what was true and good, mostly the memories of my children, adults now with suitcases of their own.
 
Which is what this column is really about. 
 
They’ve all packed their suitcases in their own way and in their own time; it is the natural progression of things.  But for the one whose journey had been interrupted, it was a tearful and joyous occasion to be packing at all.
 

My youngest daughter Mary left for New York City, to finish college and to continue the final chapter of the story she has written, although only the beginning of her newest adventure.

“Come and see what I bought” she said to me, a sad smile on her face as I walked in to her room for the last time.   Her back to the window, she stepped aside to show me the item she had purchased to take her to her new life and forever severing her dependence on me.
 
A purple suitcase.
 
We looked at each other, eyes locked and the unspoken words hanging in the air like dew on the flowers.  All the harsh words and the teenage fights melted away as the sun rose behind us and we watched its ascension over the lake.
 
She was leaving for good this time, and would not be coming back as the same person.  Her purple suitcase would be filled with her own memories, both the good and the bad, taking her where she needed to be.
 
It was empty.  But I don’t think it will stay that way for long.   
 
 
 

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A young woman came to my door the other night. She was a student at a prestigious music school downtown and invited me to come see her perform.

I didn't recognize her at first, and was surprised a stranger would be so insistent on my watching her performance. But she said she knew me, remembered me from somewhere else. She said I used to see her and her sister at church when they were very little, maybe 4 and 5 years old.

They and their parents would sit in the last pew, slowly moving closer towards the altar to hear the sermon. It's a trick that preachers use sometimes, to get the congregation to move up or sit closer together. They make believe they are speaking as loud as they can, so you have to move up, or you don't hear the bible reflections for that day. They always wore matching little girl dresses, were very shy and hardly said a word.

After about a year or two, I didn't see the two little sisters anymore. I heard they had moved, but I didn't know where.

Turns out, it was down the street from where I have now relocated. She and her sister had become concert violinists at the tender ages of 16 and 17.

As I studied the face of this tall, dark haired teenager standing at my front door, my eyes widened when I finally recognized her. A smile lit her face and she was truly breathtaking. What a lovely one she had become, I thought to myself. What a beautiful woman she will be. It was wonderful to see her again.

We talked a little while about her sister and her family, how she had progressed over the years, and how much she loved playing the violin. I wondered how she recognized me. It had been a long time, and I know that I don't look the same. Her parents and I were just acquaintances, waving hello as we went our separate ways after Mass.

I always had a handful of kids surrounding me and it seemed I was always moving. As if she had read my mind, she told me that she remembered me because of my laugh. She was walking by the house one snowy afternoon as my sons and I were moving some boxes into the house. I slipped on some ice with a box in my hand, and fell headfirst into a snow bank.

After the initial shock wore off and everyone knew I was all right, I just sat there in the snow and howled. It was a loud and unpretentious laugh, quite undignified, almost a scream, a relief from the stress of the day. The same laugh she heard at church socials, coffee hours and pot luck dinners many years before. She remembered me as the lady who was always happy.

I gave up long ago apologizing for the booming and boisterous guffaw that I emit when I find something funny. A cross between a bull horn and an explosion, it's almost worse if I try to suppress it, because my sputtering makes me want to laugh louder, like milk coming out of my nose. I've gotten dirty looks, looks of disgust, and snooty glances. I've also made others laugh when I let loose, and both groups of people are fine with me. I never work up to it with a cute giggle, I just let 'er rip.

That's how God made me. After I wrote the check for my ticket and she left with the promise that I would see them perform, I thought about her parting comment to me. "It was always nice to see you" she said. "You seemed to be so glad to see me." I didn't realize it until she said those words to me. I always was happy to see her.

But I also realized the power adults have over the children in their lives and what kids keep inside them. Children remember the off handed comments, the criticisms and the short tempered responses when we are sick, frustrated or just tired.

They remember the tight lipped "no!" and the sternness of "not now" when they want just a little more of your time. They remember it all. I was fortunate that she always seemed to "hear" me on a good day. I'm grateful for that. Even though my not so good days were few and far between, I did have them. I still guffaw and fire away when things are funny, still sputter and curse when things don't go my way. But, in my contact with children now, I am choosing to be much more aware of how I treat them. After all, its what they'll remember about me when I'm gone.

How will you be remembered?

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From 2003
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I love to cook.

So did my ex-husband, and his desire to cook for a living is probably one of the reasons we are apart now.  I never felt at home in my own kitchen.   He was good at it, but so was I. 

A grand and spacious room, with wood cabinets everywhere and enough counter space to feed an army, I would attempt to make it mine by bringing my own creations into the fold.  Pots and pans of the finest make, utensils and machines everywhere, ready to be used for feasts and banquets.  A "Butler's Pantry" hosted yet more dishes and urns and glasss ware. 

As a young bride, I had my own Irish culture to share, but was anxious to learn his.  No one would teach me their recipes, handed down from family to family, begrudingly shared with me.  How else will our daughter learn your history, your culture? I used to plead - show me how to make this and after badgering I would be shown.  Once.  One year I received a tin full of hand written recipes - each card had one crucial ingredient missing. 

I learned how to cook Italian from the chefs on t.v., not by the one I was married to.  Nothing was ever done quite right, could have cooked a little longer, needed more salt, you used too much sugar.  Along with everything else that was wrong with me, so was always something I cooked.  There, I fixed it for you, he would smirk.  So I stopped.  I stopped doing a lot of things.

I am in a much smaller kitchen now, an 1/8 of the grand size I used to get lost in.  It is compact, new and efficient, the design of a bachelor and someone who didn't entertain or cook for many very often.  A sailor's galley, it is reminiscent of how he thought his life would be. 

Let me cook for you, he said, and he wanted to so I let him.  But there came a time where I wanted to do for him.

Nervous and anxious, I made what I made best, and it was excellent.  Slowly but surely, I got comfortable in the kitchen again, creating small feasts and small treats, baby steps similar to the steps I had taken with my new life. 

Even my children were surprised.  When did you learn how to make this?  they would ask.  Have you been practicing?  What is this called, I didn't know you could cook so good! 

Nothing new.  It was always inside me.  He invited it out again.

My kitchen is now cozy and warm, inviting and homey.  I feel more at home here than I ever did in the mansion.  But I've come to realize the reason behind my serenity now in this room where much love is shared, in the form of sauteeing, baking and blanching.   

It is appreciated.  Sincere and heartfelt appreciation goes a long way. 

I don't intend to spend my life in the kitchen, and neither does he. 

But it's nice to be able to visit there once in a while.

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From last year at this time....

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It was hot.

It was the kind of hot where when you look at the blacktop on the road, the air rising above it is wavy and mysterious, as if some kind of magic spell was being cast.

In a way, it was.

Those kind of hot summer days bring back lots of wonderful memories and paving the way for newer ones.   Even though I have traded the blacktopped walkways of my memories for the cool patches of farmland, there are times when the two will collide.

Growing up in white suburbia on the east end of Long Island (read wealthy) I was surrounded by an eclectic mix of kids with pedigrees a mile long and names to match.  There were tennis lessons, music lessons and trips abroad, with clothes and attitudes to match.   Birthday parties were catered, as were bar mitzvahs and any other celebrations one could think of.  One friend got a role on Broadway when we graduated high school; another a choice place at Julliard.

Then there was me.

Somehow my parents ended up in the middle of this monetary melting pot, as my father was an executive and my mother an artist.    I knew the talk and could walk the path, but wasn’t sure if I wanted to go down the road of success in quite this fashion.

But even though there were differences in perceived life styles and the trappings that go with it, we all had one thing in common.

We all loved a parade. 
 

My mind’s eye see the thin bent old man, who was at every parade, carnival, festival or other community event, taking pictures with his unwieldy contraption of a camera, lights popping and batteries clicking away.  He seemed to be everywhere then, and I learned later that he was a reporter for Newsday, the newest newspaper in town.   He lugged that big black monstrosity with him as if it was part of his body; a giant white light bulb appearing as if it was a third eye.

It is the season of parades, as all the surrounding towns and hamlets have their own fire departments and ambulance corps.  The quietest group of good Samaritans, they are there when you need them and silent when you do not.   Beginning in May and ending around Labor Day, the weekends are filled with festivals, parties and family functions that make the catered birthday parties of my youth a pale comparison.

So it was with a love filled heart that I stood on the sidelines once again, watching my beloved in his crisp uniform, standing proud with his brothers/sisters in arms, as they marched through the sweltering heat of the sun yesterday.  It was a hot one for western New York, but everyone anticipated the wall of heat that we knew was heading our way.  

The sights and sounds were reminiscent of those times on Long Island, as well as the newer ones spent here on the Lake.  Our town had its annual Homecoming Celebration, but there was another parade in a nearby town as well this bright Saturday morning.   As a reporter, I was assigned to cover the parade and take as many pictures as I could.   I smiled as I remembered the big black monstrosity as I clicked away on my digital camera, moments before snug and secure in my purse.

Parades bring out the best in people, young and old.  The patriotic and the quiet, the young and the old, everyone loves a parade.   Men in old army uniforms stand on the sidewalk, hands to their temples in a permanent salute of solidarity and respect.   They did it back then; they do it now.

But most of all, looking into the eyes of the one I love, having walked 5 miles in the hot sun of a Saturday afternoon, as I offer him a beer and a kiss, and just a touch of awe to witness this month after month, year after year.

Driving home in the early evening, exhausted and drenched with sweat, I offer a prayer of thanksgiving, to be able to see it and to never grow complacent, for it never to become “just a parade.”

It is the summer of summers, with many more to come. 

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Sitting atop the railings that surround the front porch are flower boxes, five to be exact.  Deep and long, they are white and have held many different variety of flowers.  Over the years there have been petunias, marigolds, daisies and even hot peppers, because they were colorful.  Mostly annuals, for the perennials are planted beneath the windows, and along the fence leading to the world outside.  
 
One of the things I do to relax after working all day in the city is to water all my flowers, a job I take very seriously.   For it has taken quite a long time for me to develop any kind of green thumb, and I am very proud of what I have produced.  
 
It has been hot here on the lake these passed few days, and I have to take extra care to make sure they get a good drink of water.   As I pass the watering can over the drooping petals, I am reminded of how these blooms are both hardy and delicate at the same time. 
 

It took a while to figure out the right mixture of food and sunlight, placing a particular type of flower in the right pot, with the correct amount of soil.  Where one species may bloom beautifully, another might wither and struggle to survive.  They bring to mind memories of my babies and how I had to learn to listen to their signals as well.  Every flower is different, as is every child, even though they may have the same parents.  In one situation where a child may flourish, it is not the same for another.

How hard it is to be a parent sometimes.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to water them and just sit back to watch them grow?  
 
Even though life isn’t as easy as that, it is wonderful to have been the nurturer and watch your creation take hold, becoming the beautiful bloom of blossoms they are now.   Flowers have no such mindset, and children have no yardstick of how great they can become.

It is up to us to water them and place them in the right light.  May we always take that job seriously, in order to produce the handful of blooms we know they can be.

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This month marks the second year of my appearances with Mom’s Club International, a supportive club for mothers who make the monumental decision to stay home and raise their children themselves. 
 
Started in the early 1980’s by a California mother of two who was sick of the depiction by society of the “stay at home mother” as someone who was uneducated, needy and out of the loop, the concept was embraced whole heartedly by intelligent and caring women all over the world, not just the United States.   Organized in groups of not more than 50, these women are brought together by a common goal – the love of children and the connection we all have as women who put their family first.  
 
This doesn’t mean they are self sacrificing martyrs who have no outlets or interests outside their brood, especially since there are more often than not more than one sibling in their unit.  It is an opportunity to have their children learn socialization skills and to form friendships in time of stress and anxiety for the mother’s themselves; learning what not to do as well as what to do, and how to handle it all.
 
My Mom’s Club gigs are always enlightening and informative, and I’m usually the one getting educated.  I’ve learned a few things during these “visits”, for that’s what I market them as.  I perform in groups of between 15-50 and what I do is tell them how I did it – I claim from the beginning that I am not a licensed therapist or have a degree in child psychology, and that I’ve never been a teacher or a camp counselor.  
 
But I AM a Mom, and that gives me full authority over what I say and how I tell them.  Which is always in joke form and lessons learned through essays.
 
This last visit was as wonderful for me as the first one.  It’s a time of uncertainty for some of these mothers, as well as bewilderment and concern.  I have walked the same trails, survived the same peaks and valleys, so I know of what I speak. 
 
They laughed at the right time, and cried at the right time too, for I tell them stories and read from my books when appropriate.
 
I had a wonderful time this visit, mostly because the poignancy for me was that I couldn’t find the place for an hour.  It was at a church, and I was about ready to give up when I looked up to see the road I was to follow. 
 
“Someone must need to hear me”, I thought to myself, as I thanked God for setting me on the right path once again.
 
I think she did.
 
Thank you to all the women of the Clarkson/Hamlin Mom’s Club.  It was a great experience to meet you and the others.  Thanks for letting me visit with you. 
 

You have the hardest and the best job in the world. 

You are the mother.
 

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From July 2004 -

Just as I had believed, God will take care of me.
 
My own position as a Pastoral Business Manager being restructured, I viewed it accordingly as a time to re-evaluate and think about other ways thats I could fulfill my baptismal call.  The Lord was surely tapping me on the shoulder once again, pointing to another direction. 
 
Called again to journey to a different place and leave my comfort zone,  I am beckoned to seek out different job opportunities that have recently come my way.
 
“We'll pray on it” he advised and I agreed.  Prayer is the only way to stay in communication with the Creator, and I thankful to live in a house were it is encouraged, and not just another chore to be tended to on Sunday.
 
I have been praying for wisdom.  Wisdom to know what position will be right for me, and not be led purely by the monetary reward. Remaining realistic, but not to be motivated by greed.  One is as rich as they allow themselves to be, if they trust in God.
 
The little country church by the lake that I now attend on Sundays, is a wonderful reminder of this sentiment.
 
Years ago, I used to argue with a Sister of St. Joseph about the decorating of the altar for Mass.  Aware of my love of flowers and greenery, I would allow the parishioners to purchase expensive stems and arrangements for placement on the altar for Sunday and daily Mass. 
 
We would always dicker back and forth, with “No!  That's too much” and “Sister, we need to glorify God and beautify the Altar as our gift to the Lord! “  

Always compromising, the display always looked a little less fancy than I would have liked, a little more than what she wanted.
 
The little country church by the lake never got into those discussions, I have found.  New to the area, I don't speak much to people, rather, I want to experience them rather than them learning about me just yet.   
 
I am always surprised by the eye opening lessons the Lord teaches me.  In an area that boasts a combination of farmers, migrant workers, and houses valued at $500,000 and up, I viewed a wonderful treat this Sunday morning.
 
For there up on the altar, in two small glass vases on either side of the bible, stood Hollyhocks. 
 
Plain and simple Hollyhocks, they stood proud and dignified upon the bedrock of my belief.
 
So much was said in the placement of those simple flowers, I wonder if the liturgy person who placed them realized the power they had.  For God doesn't care how much you have, how you look or how smart you think you are. 
 
What he looks for is your placement.  What do you bring to the Altar, and what gifts of the spirit do you place upon it?
 
Pray for me as I discern what the next step should be.  If I am disappointed in any way, I will know in my heart it was not meant for me to have.
 
For now, I will ponder the Hollyhocks on the Altar.  A gift to the Lord, to me and to us all.       
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
 
I am now a Deacon.  God sure has a sense of humor.

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I had some scheduled time off this morning and was able to finish up an errand earlier than I thought. Being it was a beautiful and hot summer morning, I decided to head for the beach at Lake Ontario. I have a lawn chair and a blanket that I keep stashed in the trunk of my car. Depending on my mood, I will use one or the other.

As I carried my lawn chair under one arm and sandals in the other hand, I saw all the mothers with young children who had the very same idea. They were all headed for the lake's rim, to sit in their chair or lay out their blanket, and enjoy the first genuine days of summer.

I thought about how my children used to love to come to the beach when they were smaller. I tried to take them at least a couple of times during the summer, not really able to get off of work too much to take them everyday. Sometimes the baby sitter would take them, but I would worry the whole day knowing they were there without me.

My toes securely dug into the sand, I sat legs outstretched, in my summer cotton shift, no stockings and no shoes. It was glorious to feel the warmth of the sun on my legs an on my arms. My vision spied to the right of me a ship sailing off the horizon, heading towards other places. Kids were slowly edging out further and further in the water towards the boat, some bravely taking steps by themselves, others clinging to their mother's hands, some with arms festooned around their waists. Some mothers on the beach would guard their little ones from afar, their eyes never leaving the path of their explorers. At the sound of "Mommy!" fifteen heads turn towards the water in unison. Inevitably it is only to "watch me, watch me, Mommy!"

Sea gulls fly overhead and they sing as they go by. A little girl sings a made up song about Ontario Beach, "OnTArio, OntarIO", an emphasis on different syllables every time she sings it.

The ship is now directly in front of my vision out to sea. A woman crosses in front of me, walking with a cane. In the sand and in this heat, the joy shows on her face as she smiles when she crosses in front of me. Because she can.

I notice that several mothers have ventured farther out now, allowing their children to inch out as well, a little space at a time. Some more adventurous than others only needing to have their mother close by. Some still clinging, and pleading, "Don't let go Ma, please don't let go."

The mantra arises a catch in my throat, for my youngest is fighting me with all her might right now. She is in crisis and will not allow me to hold her. As much as she repels me, the stronger and more determined I become. Her words have become like acid, hurled at my face to cause pain and anger. But I am steely. I am her mother. She tries harder still to see if I will lessen my grip on her, daring me to let go for just a moment, to become disoriented.

I do not.

I can not.

She is my child.

The ship has now passed to the left of me, headed towards other destinations, it's arrival the culmination of a great journey.

I know you are terrified, my dear daughter. I will be strong for you. I will never let go, Moogie. We will make this journey together. Hold on to me until this storm passes.

My allotted time has passed and it is time for me to pack up my chair and go. I look out towards the ocean now, the ship out of my sight. But still in my heart.

I am your mother. I will never let go.

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Sunday was Father's Day, and we spent it together, just the two of us, enjoying the sunshine and cool breezes off the lake. 
"We want to do something for him..." the two sons who live local said, now fathers in their own right.  "But the timing just isn't good, and my car is in the shop....."  

My father will be gone five years this coming February, and I wrote this shortly after he passed.  Since Father's Day is this Sunday, I thought it appropriate to run it again.  Happy Father's Day, Dad.  We all miss you.  

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Since my father passed away two days ago, I have had time to think about my relationship with him over the past few years. It seems my dad and I never saw eye to eye on anything. We didn't have the same politics, we didn't agree on religion, and we certainly never talked about sex, except for him to tell me that I shouldn't have any. In fact the only thing we agreed on was that we loved to laugh and tell jokes.

One thing I am sure of, however, is that he loved me, and that I loved him. He was my daddy.

I am the oldest of six. When I was little, one of the ways my dad showed my mom how much he loved her was to let her sleep late on Saturday morning. He would make breakfast. Eggs over easy, bacon and toast, with a side of hash browns with onions, I have never been able to duplicate the recipe. He could whip up french toast, sausages and pancakes with the ease and finesse of any chef, and not spill a drop, not drop a dish.

My father had a lot of different interests, many diverse talents and hobbies. But to me, the thing he did best of all was make mashed potatoes. Creamy and light, whipped high with Land 'o Lakes salted butter and whole milk, it was something we had every night with dinner, seven days a week. We never tired of it.

I realized in the plane over Chicago on the way to his funeral that was how my dad said goodbye to me, the last time I spent time alone with him and visited. My folks live in Texas.

Living in western New York and away from everyone, I didn't start travelling until very recently, as I didn't leave my own family much, and airline tickets were too expensive. Now that I'm older and my kids are grown it has become a priority in my life to visit my siblings, who live all over this great country.

It was the last trip to Texas in September, where we all gathered to visit with each other. I was being chauffeured around to visit my brother's new house, when I thought about how my father's condition had deteriorated from when I had seen him two years earlier. He sat at the kitchen counter most of the day, watching tv, reading, or looking out the window. He sat there, alternating between his "breathing machine" (nebulizer) and smoking a cigarette. He rarely went out anymore, and was resigned to spend his days in this peaceful prison he had created for himself. Dying from emphysema, he had accepted his fate, a slave to his addiction, and was content to live out his last days in this way. He would sit there, patiently waiting, until my mother came home from work. Then she would cook dinner and they would share the rest of the evening together.

One morning, it was decided we were all going to my brother's house for dinner. As the day wore on, I started to feel a little queasy. "Oops" they told me after a while, "Your stomach might be upset from the tap water, just drink the water out of this store bought jug. Sorry! We forgot to tell you that might happen." In all the excitment they forgot to mention it, something about too much chlorine in the water, but by that time it was too late. I spent most of the afternoon in the lavatory and was not feeling up to par for a dinner party. My stomach was raw and all I wanted to do was lay on the couch and sip some hot tea.

I begged off. "I'll stay here with Dad", I volunteered. "We'll watch t.v." , as if this was a new activity for him. He just smiled.

After the 6:00 p.m. news was over, he looked down from his perch at the counter and said to me "Hungry, kid?" He called everyone "kid", even his own mother when she was alive. "How 'bout some mashed potatoes?" "Sure", I told him, "I'll make them, you stay put." Having made them since I was a kid and watching his technique, I could prepare them with my eyes closed.

So I took out the potato peeler and began to peel what must have been my nine millionth potato, having carried on the tradition with my own family. Potatoes every night, except when we had pasta. I was an Irish girl who had married an Italian, after all.

I cut them in quarters the way I always had, but he pointed out to me know they were too big. "A little smaller" he directed from his command post. "Measure the milk" as I began to ready the hand mixer. "Let me cut the butter" he added, "because you never put in enough."

Before I knew it, he was up off his stool and standing right next to me at the stove, his frustration getting the best of him. "You can beat them with the mixer as I add the milk" he instructed. So I stood there, standing at the stove like I had a hundred times before, and I waited as he poured the milk. Standing next to me, I suddenly realized that my dad was now as short as me, having shrunk several inches over the years. He seemed to realize it too, as our eyes met in an instant, with the recognition of the loss of his stature. "Hey shorty" he smirked, the twinkle in his eyes still sharp, "go sit down." So I did.

As he folded in the last chunks of butter into the pot, he absent mindedly hummed a tune that I couldn't place the name of, but remembered from my childhood.

As is the tradition, he removed the beaters from the handmixer. In our family, the cook gets the first lick of mashed potatoes off the beaters, presumably to taste and see if it needs any more salt. But we all knew it was because they tasted so good and he couldn't resist.

He handed me the other beater, and we clicked them together like wine glasses at the conclusion of a toast announced at a fancy dinner. He looked at me and said "you first."

So I did, and they were as I remembered. Delicious and potatoey with just the right mix of butter and salt. Sitting at the kitchen counter, we ate the whole pot, just me and my dad. He hummed that song every now and then. After a while, I was humming along.

I've thought about that moment alot since September, and the significance of it. The turn of events that led me to stay home with him that night. The song that I couldn't remember the name of, but recognized so quickly. It wasn't until much later I realized the song he was humming was "Goodnight, Irene," but he always changed the name to "Eileen". He made the mashed potatoes because he knew that I loved them, and he knew that was all he had left to give me. I am so grateful to God for giving me that brief, silly moment with him. It was a wonderful gift I will remember always.

I know that he has shared himself with my sisters and brother in ways that are special just to them. I know that he said goodbye to my mother, the love of his life for 50 years, four months and 16 days, in a way that will warm her heart and keep her going. But I will be forever thankful that I had that night in the kitchen with my dad, eating mashed potatoes out of a pot and humming "Goodnight, Eileen"

Goodnight, Daddy. Rest in peace.

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From The Doolittle Chronicles

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Vespertine was a ladybug who desperately wanted to be noticed.

She wore high black stiletto heels most of the time, as an attempt to make herself appear somewhat taller and perhaps more authorative when she walked. Slim and petite as most ladybugs are, she knew she was also a source of good fortune to those around her.

Unfortunately, to be of any luck to those who truly needed it, she had to find them first.

Vespertine had no sense of direction. She couldn't find her way out of a paper bag. Her habit of getting lost was legendary among the animals of the Kingdom of Doolittle, and it seemed to get worse every time she ventured out.

How many times in a day DO you turn around, Vespertine? they would ask not unkindly.

The little ladybug would just smile and batt her little ladybug eyelashes. She was not against laughing at herself, for what she lacked in stature and navigational skills, she abounded with in that of humility.

Although directionally challenged, Vespertine didn't let that flaw stop her from travelling to the outskirts of the kingdom and beyond. She was an adventurer at heart and an explorer by nature.

Vespertine knew it was her destiny to become famous someday. But how did one achieve fame when they stood only several millimeters tall?

Running in her high heels as fast as her little ladybug legs could carry her, she often became so consumed by the task at hand she forgot that she could arrive at her destination so much sooner if she would just remember to fly! A simple fact was that she would sometimes run so fast, she would fall down, skinning her knees and ripping her pantyhose. It was only then she would remember to spread her silvery wings and flutter off to where she needed to be.

It was sometime the simplicity of things that were the hardest for her to see.

She was scurrying down the lakeshore one afternoon when she came upon Boyette, sitting among the rocks. She was shaking her head slowly back and forth, her gaze towards the path worn in the sand by Turtle Dave.

Vespertine landed on the small shale beside Boyette and crossed her dainty ladybug legs.

What is it? she asked quizzically, also looking towards the indentation of the sand.

Tsk, tsk she murmured. That dumb turtle, she said absentmindedly. She had not noticed Vespertine.

Why doesn't he ask Romaine to be his true love, everyone knows how crazy they are about each other! and she slowly got up on her thick bunny legs to hop away.

Romaine? Said Vespertine. He still hasn't said anything to Romaine? How could that be?

I don't know, she said simply, now seeing the pretty bug for the first time. She began to hop away slowly, but then stopped in mid air, turning her head back around to face her.

Somebody should go put a bug in his ear, and with that she turned around again, hopping into the tall grass along the side of the shoreline.

Vespertine smiled.

To be continued....................

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Happy 5th Birthday, Riles :)

Written in 2003.  Happy Birthday, Riley!  

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My favorite time of year will soon be here.

Autumn. Fall.  Back to school.

Since my children are older, I no longer have to do the school shopping thing.  Getting the supplies list in the mail always brought a bittersweet feeling to me, knowing the years were ticking by and I would soon not have to do this.  No more school uniforms, no more school jackets and winter coats.  No more cheerleading, hocky practice, or school plays. 

Instead I have made friends with a dog, an animal that thinks it's a child.  I have never been one to have much use for dogs, I was always much more a cat person.  This dog smiles at me when I give it a dog biscuit, laughs when I hug it tight around its neck, and sneaks a doggie kiss across my face.  He weighs more than me, is as tall as me should he stand all the way up.  He will lay down at my feet and sit next to me on a couch when it is chilly.  I think he likes me.   But he doesn't go to school, doesn't need a book bag.  He could probably learn to read if I taught him.

So I revel instead in the children that come to the Catholic School that is under my financial tutlege.  I see them every year, bright little faces full of promise and fear.  They are my children now.  I will share my excitment with them.   I am the blonde lady at the front door, saying hello and welcoming them in.

This is also the time where my emotions get a real workout.  It's the time when you can smell the fireplaces in the evening air, the sense of rustling leaves in the trees, and the sound of the geese honking goodbye as they fly south over my head.  I look up and they always wave to me.

My heart was too heavy, my hands too full at this time last year to wave back to them.  This year I will be able to cup hands to my mouth and yell "Hello! Have a good trip and hurry back soon!" 

My heart is light and airy, my mind is clear and vibrant, my eyes wide and bright.

God sent me a friend.

Because my pockets are full of dog biscuits.   

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I start every morning by reading the obituaries.
 
Now, you may think this is a depressing way to start the day, but it isn’t.  It became part of my routine when I was the Church Lady, to make sure the newspaper had gotten the information correct; spelling the decedent’s name right, the time of the funeral Mass, etc.
 
One of the ways to guard against becoming maudlin was to inject a little humor into the event, as it is with many of the tasks clergy face.
 

“Are you in there?” Father would ask me, referring to the list of the dearly departed. 

I scoured the paper while sitting at the kitchen table in the rectory, oblivious to the activity around me.  There were several priests living there back then; I felt like I was a special member of the boys club.   The housekeeper had left a hot pot of coffee on the counter top.  The brick building was old and drafty, built in 1899, just like the church it was attached to.  My office was down the hall, a few doors down from the rear entrance of the church.  Many a late evening I would hear the choir practicing for Sunday's service.  I never kept the radio on.   

“Not today” I shot back, draining the last few drops of my coffee. 

The cup was an old piece from a long forgotten china set, most likely donated by a relative of the congregation who had lost a member.   Many of the gatherings after the Mass were held in the parlor, and sometimes they just left everything there, too sad to bring back home with them the reminder the one they loved was no longer there.
 

“Then it’s a good day” he’d smile, putting on his clerical color, the white tab surrounded by all that black.  

Then he would give me a tap on the shoulder and head out to whatever destination God had planned for him that day.
 
Old habits die hard.  Nowadays I look at the obituaries to see if there are any of my old parishioners listed.  The three churches I used to manage have closed, consolidated with the oldest and largest of them all.  I’ve been gone close to 5 years now, but it seems an eternity.   The Bishop is still going strong, as are most of the priests that I served with.  Except for one that has died and another who has Alzheimer’s, I see them from time to time, and we give each other a wink and a nod.   Reassigned to churches still close enough to drive to, I see them now and then, but mostly at funerals.
 
There have been several deaths among the throngs of parishioners that used to gather at holiday times, the one time those who had fallen away would attempt to reconnect most likely at Easter.  It would force a moment of clarity for them that would behoove attendance for a few more Sunday’s, inevitably dropping out of sight until Christmas.   Most of the time, however, they would come back when they were frightened or in need of help.   A family member had become ill, or guidance needed in a decision.   Whatever their need, they were always welcomed back into the fold until whatever prayer was fulfilled.
 
These days, I am struck by the number of younger deaths; I had not noticed them before.  Perhaps it is because I am older that I can relate to their passing.   It is not unusual to read of a 47 year old man, steamrolled by a heart attack, or a 51 year old woman’s brave battle with breast cancer.  
 
We really never know when our time will come or by what method our Father will choose to call us home.   The longer I live, the more grateful I become every day, mindful of what my reason for being is intended for.
 
I read the obituaries these days via my computer screen, a task which before took time and effort, now ever more efficient.  I click up and down, easily navigating through the names to see if there are any I recognize or remember.
 

 “Are you in there?” my beloved asks me as he puts his coat on to head out to whatever destination God has for him today.  

Kissing me on the top of the head, he waits for a reply.
 
“Nope.  Not today” I answer.  “It’s a good day.”
 

It is. 

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The month of June brings graduations, weddings, and Father’s Day. It is also the month of dance recitals, and for the uninitiated, it can be a time of nostalgia, family fun and excitement.
 
And horror. 
 
As I sat in the school auditorium where I had sat so many years before, I settled into my seat to watch my granddaughter, the child of my son, who also sat back into his chair.  He had no idea what to expect, and I wanted to prepare him.
 
Then I thought about the times he and his brothers tortured me while we sat watching his sister perform.  I thought I’d wait and revel in the sweet revenge I was about to experience.
 
It seems like only yesterday I was shepherding my youngest daughter to dance class, an exercise is discipline and routine for her; a time of blessed silence for me.  
 
From the time she could walk on her own, every Saturday morning she would bound out to the car, the sound of jiggling of tap shoes and satiny ballet slippers rustling against the dance bag slung over her shoulder.   White tights or black leg warmers rolled up inside, they cushioned her water bottle and towels.  In winter snows and spring rain, autumn hail and summer heat, we would travel the distance to learn the next step of the many routines she would learn and eventually perform at her “recital.”  
 
Costumes were usually hand made in the beginning, until you progressed into the serious side of dance and performing.  Then you were destined to become a bumblebee, Princess (Fairy or Indian, depending on the season) wood nymph or jazz icon.  And everywhere the eye could see, the prerequisite for any aspiring ballerina:  sequins. These required store bought costumes.
 
Chubby girls were kept in the back of the lineup: the facts of life are hard on preteen girls, and they learned quickly that to be out in front you have to be slender.     In a class predominant with heavier girls, routines became top heavy with hand movements and clapping, while the slender sisters were taught to gyrate and kick high, with hands on hips.
 
Music in those days was anything from Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty and Moonlight Sonata to trendy Bee Gees, Leo Sayer and Air Supply.  One was in quite the risqué class if the music was by Madonna.   They also got to wear “stage makeup”; in reality, a slathering of red lipstick and blue eye shadow smeared over prepubescent eyelids.
 

It was on hot sunny Sunday such as this past weekend that it all came back to me.  Recitals started at 1:00 pm and ended at 8:00 pm, and all the girls were expected to remain to perform in the finale.   Three uninterested brothers and a sister made for a very long day.

Maybe.
 

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Another beautiful Autumn morning, much warmer than normal.

The lake is calm and serene, mirrored glass looking back at me as I gaze into the peacefulness.

My son has come home, although I am not foolish enough to think it will be for very long. I think in time as linear lines, moments of history that I will be able to go back and hold in my hand when I am a very old woman. I have such moments with all my children, and I know there will be many more to share.

The Creator has fashioned me after a rock; perhaps this the reason I am drawn to them, and the women down the lane paints them for me. She too must recognize the obvious - the only way to kill me is to crush me. Otherwise, the jagged edges from being thrown will, over time, soften with wear becoming smooth to the touch and shiny to behold. I expect when he is finished with me I will be a diamond.

As my children grew and moved away from me, I was thankful for the freedom brought with that act. I was content to have them come for Sunday dinners, sitting around the table laughing and remembering when they were younger. They began telling me things they couldn't tell me before. What they did and how they knew they would have been in trouble. Nothing monumental or illegal; just silly things or adventurous that they knew would make a mother's heart pound with worry. The feeling of little fingers wrapped around mine as they clasped my hand as we crossed a busy street has never left me. The memory of sweet kisses on my cheek and grubby arms around my neck is as fresh as yesterday.

Often times we would telephone the ones who lived too far to travel often, sometimes to verify such adventures, or just to hear their voices. It very seldom led to an argument or a negative response. Sibling rivalry as is was, there was always an attempt to do one better than the other.

I came to the realization that I have raised good citizens and responsible, healthful adults. I have been put on this earth to be a mother, something I always knew I was going to be. I taught them to be proud of themselves and each other, to look out for one another and to always defend them if they are in trouble.

It is now second nature to them.

I also came to the conclusion that I could relive those feelings with my furry four legged children. A different kind of training needed, but the basics are the same. They want to love you, just like your children. They want to feel needed, just like children. Although it may be the kind of children some may ever have, the feelings they provoke are real and intense. They are my babies. I wouldn't say that I love them more than my human offspring, but they are a close second. My beloved and I are teaching them to take care of each other and to look out for one another

As I wake to wet kisses on my cheeks and let them out for their morning run, I am reminded of mornings long past. Instead of crunchy cereal and milk in bowls for breakfast, I fill the shiny bowls on the floor with crunchy dog food and water. Their eyes still say the same thing.

Thanks, Mom.

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As our two year wedding anniversary is approaching quickly [and they said it wouldn't last] I thought it would be appropriate to repost this column written days before the wedding.  It still fits today.  Thanks, T.

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The internet is a fascinating tool that can be used for as many and diverse purposes as there are search engines. One can locate any available service at their fingertips, order merchandise in an instant. It is a never ending fountain of information of any conceivable topic, and can connect people by virtue of learning about them without ever seeing their face; people who will become more than just modern day pen pals.

But it is in areas of the heart where it can be the most surprising.

Having joined a website for aspiring writers, I was particularly struck by the writing of another. She was a mother with a large brood of kids, just like me. Her prose on understanding how an object ordinary could be so extraordinary was not lost on me. In fact, it was a godsend.

In the day to day bustle of life, raising a family and having a job to go to every morning, the obvious simpleness of the routine and mundane can be a welcome reminder, a contant source of constancy and reassurance.

She wrote about an ordinary bowl, how it is constantly moved from table to counter and back again. It was and continues to be an extraordinary piece. I printed it out and it hangs near my desk, the edges of the paper now beginning to show its age and curling up ever so slightly.

I read it whenever I am feeling overwhelmed with the worldly committments I have made and the need for release is calling hard. It is the only thing that can restore me, somedays.

She had sent a picture of herself and her family many months before; it was nice to put a face with a name. She lived too far away to be able to come for a visit.

Physicial challenges were also laid upon her in later years, but she was never one to run from adversity, of any sort. This woman was a fighter who always came out on top.

My beloved walked into the house after a day of fire training school, a yearly class for firefighters. Down on their hands and knees, they crawl around for hours through man made situations to fight the hot beast that will take a life without batting an eyelash. He is dirty and tired, but glad to be home.

He spied the gift on our kitchen table, surrounded by the wrapping paper and wedding card wishing us well.

A wedding present! I said and I kissed his cheek as he lifted his head up to look at it closer.

He looked at it once again, before engulfing me completely.

Exactly. Our very own Ordinary Bowl, to fill up with different pieces of our lives together, as well as fruit or papers or to just leave empty.

But whether full or barren, it stands as a reminder of the goodness of people and the desire to do nice things, simply out of the goodness of their heart.

A thoughtful gift from a very thoughtful friend. Our own Ordinary Bowl.

Thank you, Teresea.   I will try very hard to fill it only with good things.

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Another reminder of the blessings in my life and another chance for another wonderful day to play in the sun.  Some one was buried today, their snow playing days over.

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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 tiered REAL diamond 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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  “Let me know you’re there….”

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Nightfall came early now, as the clocks had been turned back to start the season.  Moonlit walkways revealed themselves to the pedestrian sooner than the sunsplashed avenues one was familiar with earlier in the season.

It was Autumn. And it was time for Vidalia's brothers and sisters to start falling away.

Soon Vidalia knew it would be her time too.

She flew along, landing on various surfaces, stopping a moment to stretch her legs. Never liting too long on one particular place, for she was well aware she was not well liked by many.  Her life span was short as it was, and so she did not take care to make too many friends or develop deep relationships.

Vidalia never quite figured out what her purpose in life was. She knew she was put on the earth for a reason, but didn't quite grasp the significance until after she was gone, a mere rememberance of a summer's day.

They travelled in packs, most of them looking out for one another, instinctively hovering over the small ones, those whose wings had not developed and were forced to squirm amongst each other. One by one, their wings did sprout and they quickly flew to wherever the scent of the day directed them. They flew great distances in a short period of time, for they were always hungry and always amorous. Whether they were flying to meet their true love or land on a basket of apple blossoms, they achieved their task with great determination and perseverance.

I spoke to Vidalia as she had reached the final leg of her journey, arriving after many days of non stop flying and amorous adventure. She had landed on my bare leg and was washing her face, looking up at me with a satisfied smile and a knowing sense of accomplishment. She knew her end was near and she finally knew what she had to do.

"My brothers and sisters have fallen away", she started.

"Yes, I know" I replied alittle uneasy.

I knew very well how soon her end would be arriving, although I did not know by what method would cause her demise.

Up on the horizon I spied Riley's dad coming towards me with two cups of steaming hot coffee wrapped in a kitchen towel, one of our rituals to end a beautiful fall evening. He saw me sitting on the rock near my favorite spot on the waterfront, and motioned with his head to make room on the rock for him. He had not heard my conversation with Vidalia.

"Do you have any regrets, dear Vidalia?" I asked her solemnly as she made herself comfortable for her final journey.

Vidalia looked at me with peace and contentment shining through her eyes, and let out just the teeniest sound of a forlorn sigh.

"None, Emeline" she answered.

"Although I would like to share with you the secrets of the universe if you have the time. The answers are shared between mother and daughter from generation to generation, and to be shared only with a human deemed worthy of receiving such information."

"What?" I sat up astounded.  "You have figured out the meaning of life? The answer to all the great questions asked by the Masters? Shakespeare, Rodan, Ovid!"

"Yes, I have spoken to them all, and  I am ready to share it all with you, are you ready to receive it?"

"You have spoken with Isaac Newton, Galelio, Michelangelo?"

She nodded.

"Madam Curie, Jonas Salk?"  I could not believe what I was hearing! 

"All the great questions, whether they be politics, science, music, literature.  I have had great debates with the likes of any of those learned people." 

"So I ask you again, Emeline.  Are you ready to receive the answers to questions which have been asked for centuries?"  

"Yes! Yes! Honey!" I called to Rileys Dad

"Come here and listen to this!  You won't believe it!!!" 

"What?"  he answered calmly, bringing the towel he had wrapped the hot mugs of coffee.

"Listen to this, its absolutely astounding, you won't believe........."

"Hold still" he said suddenly and slapped the towel upon my knee, killing Vidalia instantly.

"Damn fly" he muttered.

"You were saying?"

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