Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

Working for the Williamson Sun & Record as a reporter and columnist has been a great experience for me, one I hope to continue for a very long time.

It has given me priceless windows of exposure which benefit me in many different ways.  It helps me sell my books (another one out soon, look for it!) as well as welcoming me into the homes, if not kitchen tables and bathrooms of Wayne County.

Recognition, although miniscule in the big picture of life, was something I always wanted and strove hard to achieve. I wanted people to know me and to be interested in whatever I wrote, no matter what form.

Of all the places, however, that I DID NOT want to be recognized, was the Ontario Town Court. I had received a speeding ticket going west on Route 104, and the jurisdiction was Ontario’s.  [Side bar: that Route 104 is a killer, I never got a ticket until I moved here at age 50! Way to go, New York State Troopers! NOT!] 

I sent in the ticket and waited for the invoice for the fine. I never received one, and snarkily chalked it up to “Well, maybe they cut me a break – after all, I AM Eileen Loveman.” 

Foolish mortal that I am, I actually was surprised when I received a Notice of Suspension in the mail, because I hadn’t paid the fine.

Sheepishly approaching the counter of the clerk on Monday, I had hoped to pay my [ouch!] $150 fine and be done with it, and no one would be the wiser. 

But the Gods of Humility were no where to be seen that day.

“Hey!” said a smiling male face behind the counter.

“I know you! Aren’t you the woman who writes for the paper?”

Oh, Nooooo! 

Putting my head down and not making contact I answered softly “Ummmm, yes, I am.”

“Hey!” he said to a female co-worker and grabbed her by the elbow to get a good look at me.

“Look who it is! It’s that girl!” 

Another smiling face looked at me through the window.

“I read all your articles” she said while the man explained to yet another female co worker who doesn’t read me who I was, telling her about the dogs, the lake, and my beloved. He REALLY read me.

I realized then that I had to accept the fact I had to own up to my transgression, and accept the accolades, heartfelt and sincere.

Humbled and knocked down a few notches, I will be more mindful that my actions will precede me if I am not careful. They were good natured and served as a loving reminder that our lives touch others in ways we never dream of.

Thanks and a big grin to Ron, Nancy and Dawn.  You made my day.

But I hope I never see you again. At least, not in the courthouse.  

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We don’t usually get a lot of time to spend together because of work schedules, and this summer was no exception.  A sunny day with low humidity was the signal to do something we’ve always wanted to try.

We drove the 2.5 hours to Lilydale, a spiritualists colony inhabited with mediums and those who felt they had the gift of speaking to those who have gone over to the other side.

As in every profession, some were better than others. This was a totally new experience for me, and I was not sure what to expect. 

Would there be chanting? Smoke and mirrors? Costumes? 

Ending up on the doorstep of a world renowned medium, my beloved and I took turns sitting in the waiting room.  Each of us spent 30 minutes with a slender and soft spoken gentleman, a man reminiscent of a kindly shopkeeper in a Harry Potter movie, with a wise face and kind eyes.

He taped recorded our session so that we could remember what he said to each of us, and I was thankful he did.

The first person to “greet” me was Bingo Mary, my grandmother and nemesis in many of the tales about my family.

Bingo Mary was the first to recognize my penchant for story telling and bought me my first typewriter, a portable blue plastic one with white keys.

I was taken aback but not surprised to learn she and my dad are still arguing in the hereafter, talking about the direction my life is about to take. I just smiled. 

For as much as I complained about my grandmother when I was young, I have learned that I am just like her, much to my mother’s chagrin.

Between laughs and tearful moments, I was able to take away from the reading a better sense of where I came from and what I want to do. 

His parting words to me were uttered by Bingo Mary, a cryptic “….remember where it all started” referring to the summer of 1964, when I sat on her patio, teaching myself to type and creating a new world where ten year olds didn’t have to fit it with anyone. 

It doesn’t take a visit to the hereafter to know what you want to do here on earth.  But it was fun just the same.    

 

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The winds are rolling softly across the Lake this morning, at the end of what I was told happened to be a very rainy week.

Sitting in the sun baked backyard at my son’s house in Denver, I missed the sounds of the waves and the peacefulness of my house.  Although I loved being with him and his new family, there were times when I just wanted to close my eyes and be on the deck, listening the seagulls and the lapping against the rocks lining the shore. 

I had intended to write a column entitled “Why Can’t Jet Blue Get It Right?” when I realized that no one really wanted to listen to me complain about the delayed flights, the cancelled arrivals, the shoddy service and the arrogance of the flight crew.  We’ll get you there when we feel like it should be their motto, because the attitude dripped from every pore of their greasy haired and rumpled demeanor. 

I missed a book signing by two days, and missed spending my wedding anniversary with my husband – although we didn’t forget to celebrate when I returned, two days later than planned.  

As the flight finally made our way home from JFK Airport, I sat in my seat (24C) almost outside of the plane, and wondered how did this all come to be.  What should have been a 4 hour flight turned into a 16 hour one, with several drives back and forth to the airport over several days.  Even when we called to confirm the flight status, I’d arrive at the gate to learn it had been cancelled, moved to another gater or delayed, causing me to miss my connecting flight.  The next flight out, of course, would be full. 

We never used to hear about airline companies being so shoddily managed, with cancellations, delays, and arrogance abounding.  I could understand if it was the holiday season with endless feet of snow on the ground, but this was all happening in the middle of July!!! 

When did this start?  Was it the result of September 11th?  I can understand the delays in getting the checkpoints for security, but nearly 8 years later we haven’t figured that out yet?  Is it the bottom line, with the cost of fuel preventing the planes from taking off, or canceling the flights entirely if they aren’t at full capacity?   I remember one time in the 80’s there were four people on a plane, not including the flight crew.  That would never have happened today.

So I guess I will never get the true answer to the Jet Blue Debacle and Why They Can’t Get It Right.  All I know is that I am happy to be on my deck, drinking a hot cup of coffee and enjoying the sounds of the lake in the background. 

I had a terrific visit with my son and his family, visiting the Denver Zoo, touring down town and riding the light rail.  It was a wonderful feeling to see my boy and how happy he was, waiting for the right one at the right time.  My visit was marred by the ineptitude of Jet Blue, but will never overshadow the joy of being with the ones we love. 

We will be taking the train to my son’s wedding in April.  We might be traveling for a few days, but at least we’ll get there on time.

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I am in Denver this week, staying with my oldest son and his fiancé, a beautiful girl who has a daughter named Alyssa who is four years old today. 

Pretty as a little doll with long blonde hair, she is polite and self assured for such a young age.  I was amazed at her sense of confidence and intelligence, talking to me and telling me about her cats.  She is sitting on my lap as I write this column, referring to me as her “New York Nana” and how

glad she is to see me.

Also visiting this week is my son’s father, my first husband and high school sweetheart. We laughed as we all had dinner at our son’s restaurant, and spent some time catching up and talking about high school, and what we’ve been doing the last 30 years. Who needed a class reunion, when he could tell me everything I wanted to know about who did what and where they were? 

It was a relaxing and fun time, and I sat next to him as our son snapped a picture of us together.  I realized that he never had a picture of his parents standing in one place at the same time, for the marriage was over before it begun.  We were divorced by the time he was six months old, each of us marrying other spouses who loved him and called him their own.  I am sure the wedding photographs will be one for the books.

Walking to the car after a great dinner, my son and his fiancé, my new grand daughter, and my first husband with his girlfriend (“..this ones a keeper!” He laughed) we stopped to look at each other for just a moment.  I could tell by his face he wanted to say something, and I nodded in agreement.

“I wouldn’t have changed a thing” I said simply. 

"What was meant to be, was meant to be” and he gave me a big hug. 

Bitterness is an unwelcome visitor who doesn’t stay at my house very long. 

“Let’s go, New York Nana!” chirped the little voice behind me.  “Time to go home.”

We smiled as we each went to our cars, remembering the freshness and innocence of youth, the excitement of young love, and the realization that we had forgiven each other many times over.  We will spend the rest of our days as friends. 

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Every Sunday during the summer months, a few willing souls in the congregation plan an early morning outdoor worship service.  It is much more relaxed than the traditional service, and we can choose the music we want and the prayers to be prayed.   Out behind the church building is a plot of land designed to be secluded and private, way down in a gully surrounded by a forest on all three sides. 

Positioned amongst the beautiful garden of flowers and all forms of vegetations and under a canopy of trees, we stand beside a wooden cross hammered into the ground and before a makeshift wooden pulpit facing the congregation, who have brought their own lawn chairs on which to sit and listen.  Our own little amphitheatre, these hardy souls minister to the birds, the deer and each other for 8 weeks at 8:30 am.  After Labor Day and when the air turns cool, we return to the church for the “normal” indoor 10 AM service. 

But it is raining this Sunday morning, and we are forced to use the concrete slab of the pavilion, somewhat more sterile, but no less spiritual.  We all stand together and listen for a moment as we enjoy the rain and the cool breeze it brings before beginning the service, watching the rain cascade in sheets all around us.  It is more beautiful than we would have imagined and could not have planned it any better.   We thank God for the beautiful day, to be together, and for all the needed rain.

We both follow a book of prayers and the sermon we speak comes from each of our hearts.  Although the pavilion is only half full, it is still received with the spirit in which it is given. 

More often than not, my beloved and I worship from the backyard on our deck, overlooking the lake and reading from a scripture book.  But it is nice to be able to look into the faces of those whom we love and who revel in hearing the word of God read aloud.

The service is short, only 30 minutes long, especially since I forgot to include a scripture reading; but its just long enough to fill us all with we need and what we want to share with them.  The sermon is entitled “Helping Each Other Get to Heaven” and one of us cries as we tell our stories.

I thank God everyday for the life I have now, and look forward to every day thereafter, whether it be filled with cascading rain or abundant sunshine.  I remind myself yet again, to never take this for granted. 

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