Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

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Posted by eloveman at 09:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

An old friend was over for dinner last night.

Someone with whom I had a falling out several years ago.

We both said some pretty harsh things to each other, words that can never be taken back; statements played over in over in our minds that bring both guilt and sadness.

As I packed the lunch sack for my beloved this early a.m., I thought about how simple it was to forgive, once the initial offereing was made.   Watching the sunset as his truck drove away, I was reminded again of how simple life can really be.  We humans tend to muck things up with so much extra window dressing.   All we really need do is clear our minds of the nonsense and concentrate on what we really see, not just what we want to see.

Sometimes the view is cloudy and overcast.  At other times, it is crystal clear, 

Who approached who?  Who held out their hand first in offering forgiveness?  I really can't remember, it was if we did it simultaneously.    I know that true forgiveness is worthless unless there is repentance offered up as well.

Forgive me it was said simply.

And we did. 

It can be as simple as that.

Posted by eloveman at 08:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday was my father's birthday;  he would have been 77 years old.  He died February 17, 2004 and his passing effected all of us in different ways.  I wrote about it in "Mashed Potato Daddy" and repost it every now and then when I am missing him.  He had moved my mother and three of my siblings down to Houston, Texas in the early 80's when I moved to Rochester, NY with my family.  We only got to see each other every few years, but we always kept in touch as best we could. 

My father had a running joke that he was having so many children he had to number them.  I was referred to as "Number One" way before Captain Picard told his officer to "make it so......"

I called my mother yesterday to see how she was doing and the conversation always starts the same: 

"Who is this?"

"Number One" 

"Oh, you all sound the same...." 

and then we laughed and continue our visit.   

As our conversation came to a close and we thought about my father, she wistfully wondered out loud....."I wonder how he's doing......"

This morning I received an email from my mother......

I wouldn't doubt that for a moment, Mom.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Posted by eloveman at 11:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

  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 sounding so foreign to me once, now roll off my tongue as well.   I am able to participate in conversation surrounding the lake and understand the shorthand associated with it, in order to descibe its 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 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 repeated 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 07:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

  Every now and then our walks take us down to the Lake and amongst the other people that live there.
 
Some are visitors, setting down root for the season.  Summer cottages groaning with arms and legs, and the walls bursting with the laughter of little kids and young adults, all wishing they could live there year round, and not have to go back to work or school when the leaves begin to fall.
 
Amongst late afternoon card games of gin rummy and euchre played by adults, the kids run around with the dogs, in and out of the lake.  The screened back door slams with each entry and exit from the cottages quiet only for an hour or so when Mom calls for Dinner! 
 
One of our walks this wet summer evening led us to a fellow I had never met before. He is an avid caretaker for his own summer company, birds named Purple Martins.  Migrating from Toronto to Brazil, they stop at his nesting area to refuel and also spend their summer.  A summer vacation for the Purple Martins, they know where to go, for they return every year to this gentlemen's sparse but efficient abode.
 
When I first spied the accomodations, I thought they were some kind of high tech computer equipment or a radar tracking system.  Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear to see they were modern looking birdhouses, or nesting gourds as he called them.  Some he ordered online, others are natural gourds, painted the same beige color of the modern ones.  
 
"They are a facinating speciman" he lectured as we stood there, mouth agape at all the birds returning en masse.  It was feeding time. 
 
"If you happen to see a fledgling on the ground, just pick it up and put it over there" he continued, pointing to a feeding station.  Two levels of flat brown platforms, they were full of seeds.  

"The others will take care of it as if it were there own."
 
I thought this odd, as others birds abhor human contact.  In fact, if you touch a fallen baby blue jay, the mother will abandon it, once she smells the scent of a human upon it.
 
"True" he said.  "But not the Purple Martins."
 
What a world it would be, I thought, if we all just took care of one another. 
 
It was getting late, time for us to get home.  The bugs would soon be biting and we wanted to get back home to our deck to watch the sunset.
 
I realized that I never got his name.  So I shall call him Martin.
 
Martin Purple Martins. 

Posted by eloveman at 06:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It may also happen, from time to time, this guest in our life is not welcome or even recognizable. No where is this more evident than in the case of people who are on the fringe of society. Men and women who don't satisfy the social norms of our world. The people who we deem have a loose wire, a screw loose. One sandwich short of a picnic. Not quite certifiable to be committed, they move freely among us, part of a "club" that society has labeled different.

To the less tolerant they are to be shunned, for they are tagged as dangerous, weird or untrustworthy. Most of them are harmless as lambs. Some are missing teeth or may have body odor. Sometimes their clothes don't match, attire being bought at the Salvation Army or borrowed out of someone's recycle bin. The majority of them do have jobs and pay rent somewhere, not homeless as one would think.

But are they crazy?

I have contact with them because of the line of work I am in. They are accepted at the place where everyone is welcome, where it doesn't matter what they smell like or what they wear. They are welcome because it is Church. It is part of my baptismal call to welcome them to the table.

My interactions with them can be on a daily basis or I may not see them for months.

I know one gentleman who looks like he fell off an oil tanker. But he writes the most beautiful devotional poetry to the Virgin Mary that I have ever read, it can bring tears to your eyes. He is a brilliant writer, creating prose of deep spiritual truths and timeless doctrine.

I will find beautiful litanies slid under my door sometime during the afternoon when I am engrossed in a budget or a difficult phone call. Read me it will say on a yellow sticky tab across the top. I take the time to read it, and my soul is immediately calmed. He waves to me outside my window as I contemplate the gift he has given me. A brief interlude from the storm, I am adrift on a sea of contentment until the phone rings again.

Another member of the "club" is a woman who can sing arias from La Boheme at the drop of a hat. Her voice is beautiful - sweet and soft and heavenly. She also wears evening gowns with felt pants to church. A little off, but is she crazy? Listen to what I just learned, honey, she will say to me in the parking lot as I try to hurry to my car, already late for an appointment. Her soothing voice reminds me of my own when I was a young mother, how I would respond to my children begging me to give them one more cookie before bedtime. She makes me stop to listen. The Readers Digest version lasting no more than a minute, Ok, I'm done now, thanks alot she'll announce and away she will go, adjusting her off the shoulder pink taffeta evening gown as she quickly scurries away.

A third card carrying "club" member is a young man who has to say everything three times. How are you How are you How are you, I am fine I am fine I am fine, Beautiful day today Beautiful day today Beautiful day today, but in a moment of clarity, he will announce only once I prayed for your son in the Navy today before he continues Gotta go now Gotta go now Gotta go now.

So my prayers are often filled with gratitude for the job that I have, to be able to sit with the club members. To share in their joy of what they created that day, listen to what they believe and what they fear. They don't look like the rest of us, but they have a serenity about them one can only hope to emulate. Does it come from the fact they are free because they are not like everyone else? Does it perpetuate itself as the further outside the fringe they venture?

Have you ever thought about why a person like this may have approached you, the great, why me? question in your head before they begin to talk?

I wear suits with matching shoes and handbag. But I also practice dance moves with refrigerator doors, and get out of my car at traffic lights to boogie when I am feeling in a silly mood or need to blow off steam.

Am I crazy? A club member in the making? Or am I blessed.

Or did I unknowingly bless someone by making them laugh to themselves

and thinking Will ya look at that crazy woman

One can only guess. Only he knows.

Posted by eloveman at 10:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I am the oldest of six.  The somewhat pressured place of alignment in any family is that of the first-born.  The first-born is the one Mom and Dad practice with.  The kid that usually gets nothing or everything because they are not sure where the boundaries are at that point.

They subsequently learn with the succession of siblings after that.  But for the time being, Number One is it.  Parenting then becomes a process of honing and retooling.

My father made the unfortunate mistake of numbering his kids.  From number one to the end, we all had a numeral attached to our moniker.

I was Number One way before Captain Picard starting ordering Will to make it so.

As they became more enlightened, my parents realized it wasn't too healthy to be calling their daughters by numbers, so they put their heads together to see if they could be more sensitive in their attempts to identifying us. 

So he decided to change the numbering system to that of what he felt was our most dominant traits.

To one sister, he labeled the "Smart" One.  Another was the "Big" One, because she stood head and shoulders above us.  My brother, the only boy, was aptly called the "Prince", a title he proudly wears to this day.  The shortest sister was called the "Pretty" One, because she was so small and dainty.   

As we grew older, we realized that we all shared the same traits as the other (except for the Prince, that is) and every now and then would challenge my dad on the titles he bestowed on us.   It was a household full of loud, staunchly independent voices, a room full of arms and legs and attitudes.  Although it was probably hell for my mother, when I look back I realize it was the one of the best parts of my life. 

And although we grew to adulthood no worse for wear with our respective labels, we realize that he truly knew what he was doing when he crowned us.

For I will forever be what he called me.  The title has made me what I am today;  able to handle anything and anyone, I am fearless and uninhibited when making my way in the world.   I don't care who knows it, and I wear it proudly like a prizefighter in the ring. 

I will forever be who he said I was.

The “Silly” One.

Posted by eloveman at 06:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Every time I feed the dogs, I think of Bingo Mary.

I've written about her before, but for those of you unfamiliar with her, she was my grandmother.

We called her Nana, but my father nicknamed her Bingo Mary, after her obsession with bingo.  My poor mother drove her to all the games in churches when I was a kid, and it used to annoy the hell out of him.  She moved in with us when her husband moved back to Ireland, she stating she wouldn't move back to the old country unless she was dead.  My father would have gladly arranged the trip.

There was no love lost between my dad and Bingo Mary.  She was always slipping us a dollar or two from her winnings, while he was intent on us earning our keep.

They tolerated each other, but barely.   It made for some pretty good memories, not withstanding some great stories as well.   She stood barely 5 feet tall but was a force to be reckoned with.

Bingo Mary, when she wasn't out playing for keeps, was an avid dog lover.  It would seem natural this adoration for the canine would have been in my blood, but I didn't realize it until years later.   She doted on a full size poodle named Pepe - french, but manly.  She said he came from royalty, his full title being Pepe LeMoco of the Cashba, or something like that.

He slowly became my little brother's dog, but the feeding of Pepe remained Bingo Mary's job til the day the dog died.   It was a ritual that we would miss once he was gone.

Even before we were finished with our dinner, the plates were given the once over by her.  Chicken was out because of the bones, but anything else was fair game.  Potatoes, spaghetti, corn, salad, you name it.

It was all going into Pepe's bowl. 

It drove my father nuts.  

She would plop his shiny clean dogdish on top of her plate, after having scraped the remains into it. 

You gonna eat that?  she'd say as you had the last forkful of rice steadily aimed at your mouth.

You want that? she'd ask as you were sliding the last of the peas on your knife.   We always gave up the last bits for Pepe.

Nowadays, when I sit and eat dinner I am always mindful of the two mouths that are at either side of my elbows.

You gonna eat that? one says to me with an eyebrow raised.

You want that? the other says as they inch closer to my plate.  

All I can do is look at them and smile. 

I know where Bingo Mary was coming from.

I just hope my father didn't find her on the other side.

Posted by eloveman at 08:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Sometimes I wake up with a word or a phrase streaming through my head, the last thread of a dream before I wake. Remnants of the last conscious thought before I fall off to sleep.

 

They are crystal clear, I understand exactly what is being said.

 

I tend to refer to them as little messages.

 

What do they mean? Don't know.

 

Where do they come from? Couldn't tell you.

 

I've learned to listen to them. They are not like voices in my head, I'm not crazy.

 

But they tell me to call someone who is in trouble.  I was just getting ready to call you!  they'd exclaim.  How did you know?

 

Sometimes they appear like random lights, like across the top of the buildings on Times Square in NYC, or stock price numbers like on Wall Street.

 

Take her to the doctor

 

Get in the car and just go there

 

Check the stove

 

I used to think I would remember the messages when I awoke in the morning.

 

But I never do.

 

So I've taken to writing them down. I keep a pad of paper beside my bed.

 

I read them when I wake, before the first sip of coffee, before I rise to check my email for the day.

 

Little messages. They mean something, but sometimes I can't figure them out. Where do they come from?

 

Who is whispering in my ear?

 

Angels?

 

My sister?

 

Bingo Mary?

 

My Dad?

 

I don't care who is helping me. But they are.

 

They are the full answers to the half a prayer I started before I drifted off.

 

Sometimes they are the answer to a question I have asked myself all day.

 

A final sentence in a poem I wanted to share, but wasn't ready to give birth to yet.

 

Ideas for stories usually start out with the title, previously flashed across my mind. 

 

Like this one.  Little Messages. 

 

I always listen.

 

Do you?

Posted by eloveman at 06:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I love shoes.

 

Of all the things that I could buy in this world, it always comes back to shoes.

 

It’s not an obsession or anything like that, but I seem to gravitate towards shoe stores no matter where I am.

 

They can be expensive from Bloomingdale’s or knock offs from Payless, it doesn't matter. The heel can be flat, or quarter inch, or hooker length, as my daughter calls them.

 

Suede loafers at J.C. Penny for the Fall, wood sandals by Candies in the Summer, leather sling backs by Highlights for the Spring. Then there are the special occasions, such as weddings or funerals that require studs or velvet, wherever a new dress was bought it just didn't seem right to wear "old" shoes with them.

 

My relationship with shoes began when I was thirteen years old. For many years previous my mother had taken my sisters and I to purchase white patent leather shoes to go with a new Easter Outfit. It was the only time I got new shoes, the other being School Shopping Day, where I would be the lucky recipient of Hush Puppies when they WEREN'T cool to go along with my plaid jumpers.  One time I snuck my tap shoes into my gym bag because I wanted to wear heels.  I must have been a sight click clacking down the street.  But I felt great. 

 

This year was different, however. It was as if a light had been turned on behind my eyes, all these beautiful objects of fashion sprung to life before me!  I couldn't believe the difference between the different manufacturers and the styles. It was nirvana. The smell of finely made shoes is intoxicating.

 

It was also the first time I was allowed to wear High Heels. A white patent leather shoes with a an ankle strap and quarter inch heel, I was forever hooked on what was the precursor to the Pump. It made me feel so grown up, so special.

 

I was a woman.

 

The only problem was that I was a clumsy woman.

 

My mother wouldn't let me get them unless I "broke them in." I think she just wanted me to practice walking in them so I wouldn't kill myself.

 

Now I can run the 100 yard dash in them, and have on a bet when I was 25. Having all those kids strengthened my ankles and tightened my calves. I could wear three inch heels to a dance and not feel a thing.

 

I know I'm going to end up as one of those old ladies who has lipstick on her teeth and a poodle by her side.

 

But, hey. I'll be wearing some great looking shoes as I drag that walker behind me.

 

Posted by eloveman at 07:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The sun was bright that Sunday morning, and I took a walk down to the lake in hopes of hearing the Choir of the Cove, singing and praising while greeting others whom they had missed.

Which of course, they were.

I was not disappointed. As I sat upon one of the giant boulders fashioned as an easy chair after centuries of pounding by the waves, I was mesmerized once again by the melodies of the inhabitants of Doolittle.

They were all there, a lovely morning punctuated by the soft and melodious praises of the choir. The soft soprano voice of Boyette, the deep and throaty alto of Tatiana. Gaspar held the bass line with his velvety crooning, while the crisp baritone of other animals sang the melody.

It was while walking back to the house I came upon creature I had not met before, a friendly and chipper bird with bright eyes and glistening feathers that shown in the sunlight.

Her name was Ruby Red and she was a bluejay.

A bluejay with the name of Ruby Red? I giggled slightly so as not to offend.

Yes she smiled back knowingly, for this was not a comment lost on her, she had heard it quite often.

Yes, she said again. My parents were color blind.

It required no further explanation and I didn't ask for one. I was happy to walk along the shore while listening to my new friend chitter away. Every now and then she would land on a tree and preen herself, picking some of the dust or mites that had landed on her deep blue coat. She was beautiful.

Does such beauty come with a price? I pondered. For there surely would be those who would be jealous of the soft and feathery creature. But what to do about it? After all, you do not get to choose how you look when you are born. Certainly one can enhance a particular feature, while downplaying perhaps less than attractive ones.

It is also easy to fall in love with one's own beauty, to feel blessed above others, simply because you were born a particular color.

Maybe Ruby Red's parents weren't so far off in their choice of names.

We can always change the way we look on the outside.

It's inside we should continually work on.

And maybe become a little color blind ourselves.

Posted by eloveman at 08:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I have always wanted to fly.
 
Not in an airplane. 
 
I mean fly.  Literally.
 
Spreading my arms out wide and feel feet leave the ground.  Terra firma beneath me no longer, the feeling of weightlessness and the rush of cool air through my lungs.   Looking at the tops of houses and trees, a sense of one with God and nature.
 
That’s what I imagine it would be like.
 
Never having the opportunity to pilot a single engine craft or even jump from one, the closest I come to it is driving.
 
I take a lot of good natured ribbing about my driving skills and my penchant for speeding.  Never having received a speeding ticket (until last week, that is, but that's another column) I love getting on the open road and just pushing the pedal down as far as it will go.
 
But I have found something that comes almost as close to flying.
 
Sitting next to him in the truck, I experience the thrill of flying without having to navigate.  
 
Out in the apple orchards there are miles and miles of nothing but trees.   They create their own mini highways that we can travel up and down, faster, faster and faster still!  I close my eyes and I can feel us leave the ground.  The wind whips through the open windows, blowing my hair in my eyes and taking my breath away. 
 
Every dip in the road makes us airborne for a few seconds and we brace ourselves for the landing.   The dust blows behind us as we enter each dirt road, ready to do it all over again.   Heaven on earth, I realize my childhood dream of flying. 
 
Yet another perk of living here in God's country, and enjoying life with the man God intended me to be with.
 
A simple thrill for a simple woman, I have learned to appreciate even the smallest of gifts.
 
Like flying.
 

Posted by eloveman at 02:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

As I sat on the deck of the open air bar last night, I closed my eyes and let the cool breeze of the Great Lake Ontario wash over me.

We have been waiting for this.

Everyone was. At this time last year, we were shivering in our cotton shirts, and the outdoor area wasn't even open. In fact, we didn't get to do this until Labor Day weekend, and by that time we didn't care if if it was only 75 degrees, at least it wasn't raining. Some of us had such a good time, we ended up dancing on the tables.

The place is a well known establishment, especially among the locals, of which now, I am one. Friday nights has a solo acoustic guitarist and singer who will sing any song you can throw at him, and adds his own two cents as well. He is outright obnoxious at times, but I suspect that is part of the act.

Request a song! he'll say from his makeshift stage in the corner of the outdoor area. He is several feet above the table and if one stood on the tables after eating, you would be eye to eye with him.

If I don't know it, I'll tell ya..... he says with bravado. .....and if I don't like it, I'll tell you I don't know it, so don't worry about it! and everyone laughs heartily.  A well oiled routine, it sounds new every time he says it.

A tanned muscular fellow with a long brown ponytail, I guess his age to be between late thirties and early forties. He obviously works outside, perhaps in construction or a fisherman. It doesn't matter. It's obvious that he loves what hes doing, and he is very good at it.

The next night he is back, but with his backup band. A drum machine, another electric guitar player and he really take it to the next level. It's about ten o'clock when the place really starts rocking, and the table dancing begins.

But tonight I am content to sit and listen to him flirt with some pretty girls sitting at the front tables, his winking eyes big enough for every one to see. He is having the time of his life.

As are we. No words are spoken, but we know what it all means. July is coming, and that is when we met.

It is when we all came together at WOTL and deep friendships began to develop. It was in July that we he asked me to marry him and this third season of Julys that we will wed.

This is our third summer together I murmur as we raise our Coronas for a toast.

To Julys he says simply and kisses my cheek gently. I will be the one driving home tonight.

Someone has the same idea we did.

To summer! someone yells out and raises his beer high.

To summer! we answer back

To many more Julys.

HAPPY FOURTH!

Posted by eloveman at 09:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Thanks to everyone who checks in here daily...see you back here July 9 - have a wonderful Fourth of July Holiday!

Posted by eloveman at 07:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)