Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

Traveling along wherever the winds of change have tossed me, the past few years have fast forwarded like flashes of lightening, illuminating certain events and situations with dreadful clarity.

My youngest son’s child and my fifth granchild will be a year old April 10.  He and his wife had a quiet marriage ceremony yesterday in a park, just the two of them and no one else but the birds, the squirrels and a chill in the air. 

I was devastated when they told me the news, but held fast to the fact that it wasn’t announced with anger or malice.  No one was invited, not me, his father, nor her parents or siblings.   No friends except a photographer who doubled as the witness to sign the papers with the judge.  They wanted it to be just the two of them and hoped we would all understand.  Eventually they would have a recommitment ceremony in the warmer weather and invite all the ones they loved.  But for now, it was personal and an event they didn’t want to share. 

I had always known these two would marry, even when I saw them together when they were in high school.  They fit well together and complimented each other’s nuances.   It reminded me and my first love, my high school sweetheart whom I married amid a swirl of excitement and adventure.  We had eloped to Maryland and got married by a Justice of the Peace, and no one was there, not my parents nor his. 

The irony has not been lost on me.

“You’re officially now a mother-in-law” he said over the phone, a peaceful cadence to his voice I had not heard before.

“I’ll be a good one” I said through tears, hoping he wouldn’t hear them.  “I know what NOT to do.”

“We took lots of pictures, Mom” she said taking the phone from him.

“Good” I smiled and realized I also had gained another daughter.   They were going to be fine.  We all were going to be fine.

Later, when my beloved called to tell me about another successful performance on the road, he stopped in mid sentence and asked how I was feeling.   I replied I was a little sad that I wasn’t able to be a part of it all, but in doing so, realized the decisions made had been a result of how they were raised.

I spent most of my adult life running from my family in some sort of semblance of independence;   I wanted to do things my way and never gave a thought as to other’s opinions or input.   I was the first born of the family, the oldest cousin and the one they all practiced on.    The result of this thinking was that I raised my children to be independent as well, and to challenge what they thought was not right for them, to go against the norm if they had to.   I always appreciated the fact that I became the touchstone for their lives, the anchor to which they were bound.  Although they still do things their own way, they check in with me to hear what they already know they are going to do.   

Luckily for me and my heart, my oldest is engaged and wants to have a traditional wedding in the summer of 2009, with bells and whistles and then some.

“You’re ok?”  He asked as we said our goodbyes. 

“Yes” I said, knowing that I really was.

“I saw the movie” he whispered softly before we bid goodnight.  “You know what you have to do.”

Smiling as I put the phone into its receiver, I remembered the movie and the lines he was quoting.  It was one of our favorites and summed up what we knew was meant to be.

The Field of Dreams.    At the end of the movie, when the ballplayers invite James Earl Jones out into the cornfield, Kevin Costner stops him to ask “Are you going to write about it?”

He answers softly, “I’m a writer.  That’s what I do.”

Life goes on.  

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I have a faded pink and white tablecloth used only on Easter Sunday, and has seen its share of holidays over the years.  I bought it new when I was newly wed and thought to myself “this should last a few years….”  Grounded in Easter bread crumbs, tomato sauce and red wine with dinner have graced it, as well as coffee rings and chocolate bunnies.  It has survived food fights (not the good kind) and little fingers smashing hidden peas under plates.  Yet it amazes me every time I take it from the linen closet, there are no tell tale remnants of such stains, and even the largest of marks have faded away over time.  There are few pieces of torn fabric only I can see, which would have no consequence to anyone else if they did notice it.  It was the Easter Tablecloth, and every thing was right with the world.  To my eyes, it was as clean as the cloth on the altar at church we attended those mornings when things were still black and white, Priests were sinless and families were intact.    It was reborn every year.
 
We never seem to celebrate a holiday on its actual date in my family, and Easter this year was no different.  The fact it came early made it especially tenuous for making travel plans, with snow still on the ground and icy window panes framing vibrant Easter flowers on the table.  Easter in March is like eating ice cream in a blizzard; it just seems to blend in.
 
Our dinner was on Saturday this year as traveling and work schedules made it so.  We all met at my house on the lake, my children, their children and me.   Our thoughts were with my beloved, who was working out of town.   He was missed.
 
A best friend of my sons’ also came out, always referred to as the fourth son, as well as a special friend of my daughter; driving up from Manhattan to “meet the mother” it was a time of excitement and curiosity and catching up.   Snuggling up with the grand kids, and documenting the first new steps of the baby, it was a cozy if somewhat snug afternoon of cooking and drinking and laughing in the kitchen.
 
I’ve often wondered if they would ever really forgive me for leaving their father, seemingly out of the blue to them, but a necessity for my survival.  It was a confusing time of anger, fear and resentment, with acceptance only coming in short bursts of reality; this is how it is now and how it is going to be.
 
The next few years I tried to make the holidays as familiar as I could, with the same traditions and routines which tied them to their old life, while accommodating someone else who stood beside me.    Things began to seem like they were in ‘the old days’, but not quite.  
 
Calling everyone to dinner, it was time to gather in the big room, with different furniture and different seating arrangements than that of their childhood.  The only thing familiar was the pink and white table cloth on the dining room table.
 
“This is our Easter Tablecloth” my daughter said to the one who makes her eyes shine and her smile as wide as her face will allow.   “We’ve had it forever and it still looks like new.  Its as if it is reborn every year.”
 
Yes, I thought to my self.  There are no tell tale remnants of such stains, and even the largest of marks have faded away over time. 

Every Easter Sunday, we are forgiven; we are reborn.
 
It was the Easter Tablecloth, and every thing was right with the world.

Even on a Saturday in March.
 
 
 
 
 

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Every Easter season my children and I have this little ritual.  It's called the Good Friday Bet, and it is simply this.

I bet them $10 that on every Good Friday, at 3:00 pm, it will rain.

The first time I bet them, the youngest three were third, fourth and fifth graders in Catholic School.  It was something unique and different, a minor change in the routine, a new game to play.   Their teachers got a kick out of it, and all eyes were on the sky when the time arrived.

Usually, I would lose.

I probably owe them about $10,000 each by now.    It was something they always forgot about until I would bring it up again, as soon as Lent started.

After a while they'd roll their eyes and say Okay mom, I'm in knowing they never had to pay, because the few times I did win, they offhandedly would remark "I'll owe ya", as in the many time I "owed" them.

The entrance of high school brought  a new dimension to the picture, for they were rebelling against more than just me and my beliefs.  Growing pains and questions galore, we didn't bet on Good Friday for several years.

Until one of my children when off to war. 

"I thought of you and the Good Friday Bet" he wrote me shortly after that Easter. 

"I guess I owe you some money.  Because it did rain here."

And thats what I wanted to impress on them all those years.  All the times when I would grin and say Yup, you won again, I owe ya.

I'd hope that they would one day get it.

It always rains on Good Friday at 3:00 pm somewhere.

Just as every Easter Sunday he rose again.

Keep the money, son.  I'll owe ya.

May you all have a happy and Blessed Easter.  Keep your eyes on the sky today.  It's blue and clear, the promise of a wonderful day ahead.

Here.

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Easter Sunday arrives early this year.  

Soon it will be time for me to make the Easter Bread, sweet and light, wrapped as a braided rope with painted Easter eggs baked within the folds of the dough.   It is a tradition that I began before my children were born, a recipe cut out of an old Good Housekeeping magazine, and duplicated many times over.   It took me years to perfect it;  and when I did,  it was something I couldn’t wait to show my children how to make.  I still have the receipe, yellowed with age and splattered with food coloring.

Even though we haven’t raised our mugs to St. Patrick’s yet, the stores are already in full swing.  Stocking the shelves with chocolate bunnies and yellow peeps, bags of yellow, green and pink grass, and every size Easter basket you can imagine.  It gives rise to some great memories. 

The department stores trot out little boy suits, complete with vest and jacket.  White lacy little girl Easter dresses and bonnets stand tall on racks, row after row of innocent femininity.  It seems like that is the only time little girls can still be dressed as such; there are no low rise jeans or clingy tops for wanna be Lolitas to be seen. 

I looked forward to these days, when my kids were little and still let me dress them.  The boys would wear matching sweaters and the girls frilly or flowery dresses.  Patten leather shoes and white socks, we were a picture right out of a JC Penny catalogue.  Of course, we couldn’t afford anything from JC Penny back then; it was all hand me down outfits from Easter’s past, cast offs from in-laws and near by consignment shops.  I didn’t care; they looked beautiful.

As my family grew and the funds got even tighter, I wanted to make sure the focus was where it was supposed to be.  Church was always a must back then, and the food after Mass on Easter Sunday was simple but traditional.  The Easter Bread in all its glory would be waiting there for us on the kitchen table, browned and crusty, yet sweet and moist.  There was always a big pot of tomato sauce bubbling on the stove, the house nearly groaning with smells of garlic and basil.  Meatball and sausage on the side, I had learned to make the sauce myself, and it annoyed the hell out of the Italian in laws who had refused to show me their recipes.  It was a “family secret” and apparently I wasn’t family enough.  Garlic and rosemary crusted lamb and roasted potatoes with a vegetable on the side completed the feast that I prepared the same way, every year.

Food has a way of drawing families together; and it can just as easily keep them apart.  I vowed that I wouldn’t let that aspect of my life interfere with the memories and traditions I wanted to pass on to my children.  So I created my own.  

I had already taught myself how to cook the Italian dishes I liked and that my children had devoured.  The Food Network was a newborn concept and was not the power house teacher of ideas it is today.  I learned watching a cooking show on public television.  My mentor and teacher was Biba Caggiano, a restaurateur and chef out of Sacremento, California,  and the Italian mother-in-law I wished I had been blessed with.

Of course, I would be told my dishes weren't good enough, or the right consistency.  But I knew they were.

Italian Easter Bread was one of the crowning glories of the season, and the in-laws were dead set against showing the recipe to an Irish girl.  My youngest daughter would beg her aunt and grandmother for them to show her how to make it, but they would never do it.  I realized years later it was because I was in the room.   I could never understand why they were so protective; don’t family traditions become traditions by passing them on?  With age brings wisdom, and I realized it was all about power and control, a sad fact that I accepted as their weaknesses very early on.

So I vowed to make sure my children knew the value of family recipes and sameness; the safety of routine and reliability.  To embrace a tradition and carry it forward, passing it to the next generation without price or restriction.   Sharing is the best gift of all.

These many years later my little boys and girls are grown men and women.  They come home every holiday when they can and break bread together, anticipating the arrival of the Easter bread in all its glory, waiting for them on the kitchen table.

I've cut all ties with the in-laws and all their "traditions" many years ago, and have married into an italian family that couldn't be more opposite.  They are what I had longed for and thought didn't exist.  They are the meaning of family.   My heart skipped a beat and my voice caught in my throat as my new sister in law welcomed me into the family with the question "Do you make Easter Bread?  What's your recipe, here's mine."

Instant messaging and email are the modern conveniences of staying in touch.  I had emailed my youngest daughter to share a heart warming moment I had experienced earlier with her brother.

“He wants me to show his girlfriend how to make Easter Bread” I typed in, realizing the seriousness of what I had just written. 

“She’s a keeper’ he had laughed, and wanted us to bond.  What better way, I thought, than sharing our recipes and love of traditions as a way to welcome her into the family.

“WHAT?” she messaged back in big bold letters.  “You can’t show her the recipe!  It’s a family secret!”

The words sat there silently on my monitor screen as I let the moment pass and for her to realize what she had just written.   It had the desired effect.

“Oh my God” she wrote quickly.  “How could I have said that!” and then went on to ask that I wait for her to come to visit and leaving her own home in New York City,  leaving the safety of her own kitchen and recipes that have traveled with her.

“Yes” I wrote back with a smile. 

“We will teach her together.”

Sharing is the best gift of all.

Happy Easter. 

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Part One

I love to get in the car and drive.

I could go for miles, sit for days behind the wheel. Taking in the sights and sounds and smells of little towns and hamlets, big city worries in my rear view mirror. It's a form of therapy that only cost me as much as the fuel to gas up my car.

I had received an invitation by a preacher in a church 30 miles away from my city home. She wanted me to listen to her preach the Gospel for Palm Sunday. She had discovered several of my essays and felt a particular connection with a few of my pieces. She asked would I give her permission to use various passages in the context of her homily? Her lenten message and prelude to the most holiest of weeks in the catholic faith, the Triuudium, the week before Easter. She felt my words would connect with her congregation.

I was thrilled beyond words that she wanted to quote me. I was honored and jumped at the chance to drive out to her little country church, thirty miles from my safe haven and from the people I knew. It combined two of my favorite things to do. The aforementioned driving and another hobby of sorts. Checking out other churches and faiths other than my own.

I look at other faiths from time to time just out of curiosity. It's not a time for comparison or one upmanship or to see which faith is "better." I view it, rather, as a new way to visit with God.

The other part of the fun is checking out other catholic churches purely for architectural and aesthetic reasons. I like to see how other communities "do it", as opposed to my own continuity. Again, not to compare, but to enjoy. I like to look at the various icons that particular community has chosen for worship and how they have adorned the altar, positioned the statues.

Someone used to tell me I could smell a Catholic Church ten miles away. They were amazed I could find these little sanctuaries set far back or in out of the way places, apart from main streets or highways. If they knew what my "secret" was, they would feel foolish indeed.

It's simple. Churches usually have a giant cross erected atop the highest steeple of the building. They were put there for a reason; for the faithful to be able to find it. All one needs to do is look to the horizon and you will see it. It will call to you and lead you towards it.

After filling the car up with gas, checking the road map and filling my thermos with coffee, I drove off to the highway to begin my trek. It was a beautiful, sunny, Spring morning, the first after a long, dark winter. It was 9:00 a.m. and the mass I wanted to attend didn't start until 11:30 a.m. Plenty of time to get lost in the journey and take in the aura of another place, where I envisioned time would be slower, roadways kinder, and space expansive.

I didn't know what to expect, unaware of what I would find.

Little did I know my journey would lead me to a place of peace and great joy.

Little did I know, I was heading home.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

TAKING THE CHANCE AND TURNING LEFT

Part Two

I had arrived at the little church earlier than I expected. Traffic was light and I had not gotten as lost as I thought I might, only making two wrong turns in the process.

Some street signs were missing, the residents there not needing the markings to take them on their frequent travels down familiar streets. They were on autopilot, unlike me, who have been lost most of the time.

I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and was in the middle of a field, with only some cows, ducks and two sheep to ask for directions. Not only was I no longer in Kansas, Dorothy, I was somewhere East of the Rockies.

Like my prayer so many times before, I asked God to please, set me on the right path. Literally. This time I really need the right road to get to where I need to go. My soul was calling to that little church, and to see the woman preacher who had felt the connection with my words to proclaim to her parishioners. It wasn't enough for her to tell me she was doing it. I had to hear it for myself.

I backtracked a few miles and came to a fork in the road. All roadways unmarked, I took the chance and turned left.

Success! I had found the connecting roadway and continued on. Going a few more miles and feeling I was getting closer to my destination, my eyes began to scan the horizon before me, looking for the tell tale cross.

My eyes found the crucifix to the east, a turn off from the highway. I stayed on the road, adjusting the radio, as the music was fading away. Within minutes, I was lost again, ending up on a dirt road.

What is it, Lord? What are you trying to tell me? Why I didn't just give up and go home, I'll never know. But I turned around, and found the right road by looking for the cross.

Down steep hills and brown fields, for the rains had not yet fed the greenery, I ventured further down to a small clearing, where I would clearly see the white of the steeple.

I had found the church.

Or had it found me?

********************************

It was nearly 10:30 a.m., an hour before the start of Mass. I pulled into the gravel parking lot, empty at this early hour. I drove to the furthest part of the lot and backed in. Turning the engine off, I sat back in my seat, unfastening my seat belt as I looked around me.

What a peaceful and sweet place, I thought. This was truly a respite for someone accustomed to the daily grind of doing the things that needed to be done. A woodpecker worked away on the tree behind me, his schizophrenic taptaptaptaptap a relaxing rhythm. I thought about the residents here and what led them to live here. How had they found it? It reminded me of the church I attended when I was a child.

The bells in the steeple began to toll the hour. Eleven o'clock, already?

A few cars began to pull into the parking lot, those obviously connected with the service. A woman driving a Range Rover parked a few spaces over from me and smiled, her eyes questioning what was I doing there? As she got out, she unloaded her equipment, a guitar and a canvas bag, marked with a G clef on one side, and sheet music on the other. Clearly the church musician. Focused, but in no particular hurry, her determination to begin her task was not slowed by noticing the blonde woman in the car. She probably thought I was a city slicker, a refugee who had ended up on the wrong path and ended up in an unknown town.

For I immediately surmised I was overdressed, and would look ostentatious with my blue suit, matching pumps and handbag. I would stick out like a sore thumb, taking the attention off the task at hand and putting it on myself, had I gotten out of the car. The church was small, and would groan to hold 60 people. This was a place that did not boast of material possessions. It didn't look like a struggling, poor city church. But they did not flaunt anything here. Just filled the building to the brim. Like when I was a kid.

"The service doesn't start until 11:30" she said, not looking at me. "Thank you. " I answered, smiling as humbly as I could behind the visor. "I wasn't quite sure where this church was, so I came alittle early. I'd like to sit out here alittle while, if that's ok".

"Sure" she answered sweetly, finally meeting my gaze. "I just wanted you to know that." With that, she went inside.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

THE SERVICE

Part Three

11:15 a.m. and the cars were beginning to arrive all at once, as if on cue and a gateway had been opened. They pulled into the gravel parking lot, filling in their predestined spaces, no white lines needed here. They glanced briefly my way, for this was a car that usually wasn't there. I was probably parked in someone's "space." There was an air of mystery beginning to develop and I decided I like the anonymity, enjoying the feeling of being a stranger in a new land, my own Jerusalem.

I began to hear faint singing in the background, traditional old hymns sung on this day, Palm Sunday, the time of the Passion readings. The parishioners had gathered outside to begin the procession into the church, after having received a palm which had just been blessed. It had begun.

Mothers and fathers with young children, young newlyweds, and grandparents stood in line, awaiting to process in. I was frozen in my seat, for suddenly I felt so out of place, so disconnected from the people in the church, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I couldn't get out of the car.

I watched as the Priest and a woman dressed in red led the congregation into the little church. I surmised she was the preacher who had invited me, but now was not the time to chat or small talk, or thanking her for inviting me.

I sat a few minutes more in the car, timing the space between the opening prayer and the readings. The reading of the Passion was long on this Sunday, as it is every year, and I knew I would have a little time to sit before the Preacher would begin her homily.

I walked up to the front door and realized I would not be able go in and sit down. The people were standing, every pew full, and the closest I could get was to the vestibule. The doors were closed and I could see her face through the little window in either swinging door that led inside. But I could hear her strong, clear voice, as if I was standing next to her.

In the beginning, she didn't see me. She read her homily, pausing at the places she wanted to make a point. She had begun by smiling and asking the question "Where do we go with this story?" and added her own interpretations.

When it came time to quote my words, she glimpsed my face in the window, our eyes locking for a brief moment. If she realized who I was, her face didn't show it, never stopping to proclaim my belief to the congregation and confirm everything I had written.

She understood what I was saying. She understood my passion about the Passion.

What a wonderful gift she had given me. As she read my name, tears gathered in my eyes. I began to feel the peace and the warmth I had felt when I first pulled into the gravel parking lot, remembering the church of my youth. I have come home, I thought. I am home.

As soon as she finished, I turned to leave. Still not realizing she had spied me, she walked through the swinging doors to find me turning the corner to head towards my car.

"Eileen?" She asked in a faint voice, as Mass was continuing, the communion rites being read.

I turned to face her and my smile was from east to west. "Thank you" I said, as I hugged her. "Thank you for sharing my heart."

"Thank you for writing it, and allowing me to proclaim it" she said. "You don't have to leave, you know, you can come back inside."

I know, I smiled. But not today. I will be back.

I will go back. I know now that I am welcome.

To the little Church in the country by the lake.

EPILOGUE

The town has grown and the Little Country Church was bursting at the seams - so it and another parish nearby combined their finances and spirits and built a much larger, more magnificent church in the center of the town. 

I have been to the bigger church and it is indeed beautiful, and one can see the love and thought that went into the planning of the new worship space.  I will most likely go there for Easter this year again.  But I will always hold dear the feeling I had as I spied the preacher through the doorway, and hearing her read my words, interwoven through hers. 

I am still passionate about the Passion. 

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The wind is roaring outside this morning as I sit by the window that looks out at the lake.  Our Lake; I can’t help but think of it in any other way now.

The waves are pounding the shoreline as if it’s the Pacific Ocean.  Loud and booming, I alternate between wonder and terror as I watch the whitecaps appear and then get swallowed up as they break on the sand.  Wonder at the immenseness of it all,  I love the sound. It lulls me to sleep on cold winter evenings when it’s just me and the dogs at home.   Oddly, the peace is mixed with terror if I think of how it could swallow me up if some freak of nature or God were to cause a tsunami.  I close my eyes tight and concentrate on the dogs, breathing in unison as they sleep unaffected and secure.  They are with Mommy, and its all they care about at that moment.

My beloved’s schedule and mine are different than when we first got together.  I used to joke that I had to marry him in order to date him, for our work life consumed most of our daily life together.  With my blessing, he finally retired to pursue his own dreams, and part of that dream involves travel.

The same happened for me a year later.  I “retired” from my job which consumed much of my life, so much so I became very ill twice in the same winter season.  First with shingles (albeit a mild case, it was a nuisance just the same) and bronchitis which blossomed into my first asthma attack.  It was a serious wake up call that I wasn’t ready to heed. 

I wrestled constantly with the notion of walking away from a terrific paying job.  It was realistic, but at what cost? I couldn’t write at night; I was exhausted after putting in 12 hour days, sometimes 7 days a week.  Church had become a distant memory, impossible to attend except for reading the scripture together on Sunday mornings on weeks I didn’t have to go in to the office.   I rarely saw my kids or the grandchildren, and my friends were nonexistent.  It wasn’t their fault – I simply didn’t have the energy to even pick up the phone.  Part of me felt very guilty, a feeling I was unable to shake or dismiss.  I needed an answer and concentrated on finding the positive in what I had done.  I had left so many other jobs in anger; this was so different.  I just didn’t want to do it anymore.

This week I was offered a rare treat, to participate in a church service celebrating The World Day of Prayer.  My attention was turned to the woman beside me who was assigned to read aloud the passage of scripture from Luke 10:38-42 .   I realized as she read my heart should be at rest, and once again, I was where I was supposed to be, exactly where God had placed me.  

My book sales are good, a fact I realize is part talent and mostly part luck, for I know that I write better every year than when I first began this journey of self discovery and bleeding all over the page.  I am finally purged and am ready to put to paper the real stories that live inside me and through me.  

Newspaper work has been good to me as well, and picking up additional jobs affords me the freedom I crave and need to be creative.  The best part is the recognition factor – someone recently asked for my autograph while we dined in a local restaurant; she had my book, and yes, she was over 50, but it doesn’t matter to me.  She was thrilled to meet me and I was thrilled to do what she asked.

Signing her book with my smiling face on the back cover, I turned to my beloved and knew that God or karma or somebody was trying to tell me something.     

As women we are constantly reminded of our duality and that there are choices we can make.  We can have it all, but not all at the same time.  I used to bemoan the fact that, although I was never sorry I had as many children as I did, I wished there was a way I could have pursued the dreams I had behind my eyes.  I learned years later that it was not planned for me that way, and I can appreciate the successes more now than I am older.  The story of Martha and Mary allows us to realize that we can be like, or indeed ought to be like, both of these women: we are to be, and to do.  

It’s taken me my whole life to finally figure that out.  I am so grateful I still have time to realize it.   I have no idea where I will finally be laid to rest; it is my hope that it will be in the cemetery down the road.  I can imagine us, my beloved and I, laying side by side as we watch the waves roll back and forth, the sounds lulling us eternally until we are ready to return for another adventure.

 38As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. 39She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to what he said. 40But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!"

 41"Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, 42but only one thing is needed.[a] Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her."

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I am notorious for overloading the washing machine. 
 
A throwback from the days when I had 4 sets of small shirts and tiny jeans, little sweat suits and tiny sweaters, I never took into consideration that the size of the clothes my children were wearing happened to be growing at the same rate they were.   The result was an inevitable rocking and rolling of an unbalanced hunk of metal walking out to my kitchen, and the wailing of my kids alerting me yet again with a chaotic “Mommeee!  The WASHER!” 
 
Every now and then I would call Sears and ask them to send someone out to replace the agitator head; but no one was more agitated more than I was.   Why couldn’t someone invent a washing machine that would expand another 5 or 6 inches all around when you needed it to?  Why is that socks and underwear had no problem, but sweaters always wound up wrung like a dish towel or wrapped around a pant leg like a psychotic maypole?
 
As the years went by and they started to do their own laundry,  I was much less inclined to overload the washer, simply because I was using it less and dry cleaning more.  My clothes always seemed to fit fine, no matter how much I stuffed them in there.  
 
So it was with a heavy heart when I heard my beloved rustling around in the laundry room the other day, sighing and humming, a sure sign he was figuring out how to ask me something without sounding accusing. 
 
“Sweetie?” he asked as I started to think about the last thing I washed in the machine.  My mind quickly went to the comforter and the dish towels and the extra pillow cases I threw in at the last minute……
 
“Have you been overloading the washing machine again?”  and I knew the hour of truth was upon us.  “The agitator doesn’t seem to be agitating…”
 
“Let’s call Martin and see what’s going on.” 
 
Holding my breath I later learned it was not the agitator gone bad, but the fact we have a water softener installed.  The salt from the system wears down the mechanisms and they simply rot away.
 
I had time to ponder all this as I sat in the Laundromat the other day, watching the clothes go round and round in the front loader.   My new washer won’t be in until Thursday.
 
I’m still thinking about that expandable washing machine I need to invent.  Lucky for me my dogs don’t wear sweaters. 

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The day started sunny and bright, but we knew the storm was coming our way.    The lake was calm, the waves on sabbatical for the moment.   Arrangements for the day were made, he going his way, I going mine. 
 
As I drove the distance to complete my first errand, it was obvious a lot of other people had the same idea.  The roads were busy with last minute shoppers to pick up supplies, to replenish and restock the cupboards of soups and gravies and sauces.  Macaroni and meat, chicken and salads, we were well stocked and prepared for whatever storm would come.   Birdseed and suet, bread crumbs and bread crusts, all ready and waiting for our friends both feathered and on four legs.   It is the end of February and one more month of winter at hand.  In western New York, the month of March comes in like the proverbial lion and goes out like a lamb.
 
The day passed easily with no veering off course, my destinations planned and completed, I headed back towards the lake and to home.  The air was getting cooler and the briskness of the temperature made itself known.  The waves were beginning to pick up steam, a soft roll that would eventually turn into a roar.
 
This is my favorite part of winter.  The roaring of the lake, the waves a loud and boisterous symphony in the background.  It lulls us to sleep and reminds me of one of my favorite John Lennon songs;   I would sing it to my children when they were babies, and I have sung it to sick puppies on the mend.
 
It goes perfectly with the setting sun over my winter horizon, and I am full of love and gratitude every time I hear both the waves in my mind and the memory of the song in my soul.
 
It is a song of love and promise for yet another day to do it all over again.  I pray that I never get tired of it.
 
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
 
 

Now’s the time to say good night

Good night, sleep tight
Soon the sun turns out it lights
Good night, sleep tight
 
Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you
 
Close your eyes and I’ll close mine
Good night, sleep tight
Soon the moon will shine its light
Good night, sleep tight
 
Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you
 
Close your eyes and I’ll close mine
Good night, sleep tight
Soon the stars will shine so bright
Good night, sleep tight
 
Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you
 
 
Good night,  February.
Good night.  

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