I hate saying Goodbye

 

It's been a very stressful weekend for me. I really hate saying "goodbye" to the people I love.

The first "goodbye" was not a goodbye in the regular sense. A good friend, one of my church ladies that I had gotten close to, has Alzheimer's and is now in an assisted living facility. I'm lucky enough to be included on her visitor list (which is very limited, since she is easily agitated and gets very upset -- apparently a common reaction when you know you should recognize people and places but can't). When I first arrived, she didn't know who I was. But I was able to gently remind her of some of our fun times together, and we ended up having a great time together.

And it really was a great time together. We chatted about the things she remembered. We giggled over things we had done in the past. We made plans for future visits. And if some of the things that she remembered weren't quite right, if she mixed up people, or if there were moments that confused her -- we were able to find a way to accept it and laugh together about it.

It wasn't until I got home, after telling her goodbye and promising to come visit her again soon, that I cried. Because even though my friend is still there, and we can still laugh and have fun together, I can see that she is quickly leaving us (both mentally and physically) and the day is coming when "goodbye" really is "goodbye."

While I was still trying to accept my friend's condition, I received a message from an old friend and ex-sister-in-law. Sharon was letting me know that our very good friend had unexpectedly passed away on Saturday.

I still don't know what to say about this. It's been a while since I've talked with Pats, and even longer since I've seen her. But we had a friendship that time and distance didn't affect. I always knew she was there, and either one of us could pick up the phone and we'd start in the middle of the conversation just as if we had talked every day. I'm feeling very lost knowing that I don't have that safety net anymore.

Pats was my college roommate. She was the maid of honor when I got married. She was godmother to my firstborn. She was there when my marriage fell apart, helping to put me back together when I thought the world was ending. She was there to kick my butt when I was being an idiot, and to give me high-fives when I was celebrating. She was my best friend, even if time and distance kept us apart.

I hate having to say "goodbye."

Friday's Favorite - A Memory

I submitted my last essay for English Composition today, and I am so glad to be finished with that course. I thought it was coincidental that today's essay prompt went along with the Friday's Favorite theme:

What is your favorite childhood memory? Write a 500-word essay that explains why this memory is so special to you.

So I have decided to totally cheat, and post the essay I wrote. Please feel free to share your favorite childhood memory. (It doesn't have to be 500 words.)

In 1976, Hurricane Belle threatened the Jersey coast. I was 13 years old, and it was the first summer after my father left. My mother, younger sister, and I were still living in the same house, and we were still trying to figure out how things worked without my father around to take care of them. Even though there were lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins in the area (I have huge, close-knit family), my mother was determined to figure things out for herself.

When the warnings of a major storm could no longer be ignored, my mother pulled out the rickety old ladder, and attempted to replace the screens with the storm windows. It was my job to hang onto the ladder so that it wouldn’t wiggle in the wind and make her drop the glass. My sister was left to watch from the safety of the house. I remember learning several new words that day; words that I still have trouble crediting my mother with knowing.

Just about the time that we had finished, my grandmother called. Claiming that my grandfather was worried, Grandma made my mother promise to leave the house and go straight to their home where it would be safer. Apparently the fact that our house was several miles further inland had nothing to do with the relative safety of a newly-divorced woman and her children. Giving in, my mother loaded the two of us girls in the car and drove into the storm to my grandparents’ house.

Grandma was waiting for us when we arrived. We didn’t even have a chance to go inside before she was putting us back in the car for a quick road trip. Totally forgetting her worries about our safety, my grandmother drove us to the beach so that we could watch the storm. At one point we were stopped by a policeman who tried to persuade my grandmother that a mandatory evacuation of the coast meant that nobody was allowed to go to the beach. Quietly reaching over, Grandma pinched me. Then, pointing at my tears, she very calmly explained that we had forgotten my kitten. I’m sure that my pinch-induced tears immediately dried up at my wide-eyed astonishment at the news that I suddenly had a pet. But the policeman believed her, and my sister and I were able to watch Hurricane Belle toss the waves and sand until the pier was completely destroyed and the water was up at our feet. I can still picture the dark skies and the waves, and I remember hanging onto a lamp post as the wind picked up my feet. The drive back home, however, is a blur of flooded streets and further language lessons. My memory skips instead to being in my grandparents’ home, as the wind continued to shake the windows and we drank hot cocoa. I can still hear Grandma telling my mother, “Now, wasn’t that adventure worth it?”

For me, this story sums up the dynamics of my family. We cared about each other’s safety, even as we encouraged each other’s reckless insanity. And to answer my grandmother, yes, the adventure was worth it.

Today is a pink ruffles & butterflies type of a day!

Yesterday was blue?

When I was in high school, my grandmother fell in love with a book by new author Jean Auel. I think she read the book two or three times, then insisted I read it. Actually, she bought me a copy of The Clan of the Cave Bear because she didn't want to give me her copy.

Now you have to understand, this was unusual. Not that Gramma fell in love with a book. Previous to Clan of the Cave Bear, I remember Gramma insisting that I read James Michener, Pearl S. Buck, Erma Bombeck, and Roots. But she was always willing to give me her copy when she was finished, with the understanding that I was to pass it along to the next person in the family. So when she bought me my own copy of Clan of the Cave Bear, I knew it was a special book.

Over the years, I think I've read that book at least twenty times. Maybe more. I've read it enough that I can pick it up and open to any page, and know exactly what is going on. I can probably quote the next sentence, if I really put my mind to it.

As each of the sequels came out, Gramma and I would race to be the first one to read it so that we could spoil the plot for the other. (Me: Hey Gramma, did you know that Ayla...? Gramma's reply: Wait to you read how she ....!)

On top of all the wonderful memories the series brings to mind of my grandmother, I really love the books themselves, just for themselves. My daughter recently reread them (yes, I had insisted that she read them when she was in high school - it's a family tradition, after all) and she was totally embarrassed that any of us would have ever admitted to reading this level of literature. Since I routinely admit to reading Harlequin romances (hey, they're cheap junk food for the mind when you don't want to have to think!), I personally still love my Children of the Earth series.

So I was very excited when my daughter told me that Jean Auel was going to be at the Strand to sign her new book, The Land of Painted Caves. This is the last of the Earth Children series, and I really wanted to visit my daughter and meet Ms. Auel. Unfortunately, money and timing conspired against my making the trip.

Since I couldn't be there, and she knew how much it meant to me, my very wonderful daughter sent me this:

A copy of the first book in the series (since my copy mysteriously disappeared), and a copy of the new/last book.

BOTH of which have been signed by Jean Auel!

Guess what I'll be reading this week.

In Memory

Denise has moved the chair out from under us one last time, and she's probably looking down and giggling. She was like that, you know. Denise like to play silly practical jokes. One day she might rearrange the items on your desk. Another time she would hide your sweater. And each time, her laugh would give her away.

I only knew Denise for the last couple of years, when she came home to be with her sick father and ended up staying due to her own illness. But I've been hearing stories about her since I started working at the program, so I felt like I've known her all along.

I loved working with Denise. She was one of our best instructors because she saw the possibilities. One of her students is blind and deaf. From the time he arrived in the morning to the time he left for the day, Denise worked with him using Braille cards and raised letters and textures of all types. There was no sitting around, or even busy work. "Just because he can't see or hear is no excuse to treat him like he can't follow directions. I just have to make it so he can see or hear me. But he can do _____ (whatever the task for the day was)." Poor guy; I often wonder if he was relieved or disappointed when Denise got sick and he could start slacking off again.

Although Denise was determined when it came to her students, outside of her classroom she was vulnerable. She was overly trusting and sweet, and her search for love always ended with someone (usually Denise) getting hurt.

Because of her illness, her death didn't come as a surprise. It just came too soon.

Only 46 Days Until Christmas!

Growing up, this was a wonderful time of year. School had started in the beginning of fall. (Okay, I was weird, but I loved the school year.) We had Halloween to celebrate my birthday. Now we were into the full swing of the season, with family gatherings of cake and ice cream weekly. There were an awful lot of cousins, aunts and uncles, and most of them had been autumn babies. Thanksgiving was just a few weeks away, and then would come all the wonders of Christmas.

Each year, my grandmother would quietly take each of us kids aside and give us a coffee can of pennies. In a family of our size, there wasn't a lot of money. Especially since Grandpop's work, roofing, was seasonal in New Jersey. But Gramma would manage to set aside her pennies all year, saving enough to fill (at least partway) a coffee can for each of her grandkids. We would count out the change, sitting on the floor of her kitchen on Paynters Road. Then she'd take us shopping for our parents.

We'd go to the Laurelton Circle, which I remember as a flea market filled with wonderful dollar-store valuables. Would mom like a red vase with a silk flower? Or maybe she'd prefer a genuine fake-jade elephant. Gramma would let us buy whatever we wanted, and we would pay by carefully counting out the pennies from the can.

Afterwards, we'd wrap and label our gifts and leave them in Gramma's safekeeping until Christmas day. Some of us would spend the rest of the season giving hints of what we had bought. Some of us just forgot we had been shopping, and were as surprised on Christmas morning as the recipient.

I hope I can remember the joy of the penny jar as I shop this season.

(Eating cake and ice cream every weekend with the family would be nice, too.)

I have lost friends, some by death...other through sheer inability to cross the street. (Virginia Woolf)

It was a call from out the blue. Amazingly, in a recent conversation I had talked about losing touch through the years with even your best friends, and how much I regretted not making more of an effort to renew the lost friendships. As I was driving to mom's this afternoon, my best friend from college called.

We met freshman year, and immediately recognized each other as BFF. (Okay, we didn't call it that way back then, but we would have.) We used to take turns spending the weekends at each other's homes, and "shopping" from our moms' cupboards. I helped "dispose" of the illegal alcohol from her dorm room at the end of the semester. (But I had nothing to do with pulling the alarm.) We share memories of the Pacer, the diner, Deptford Mall, Aunt Ginny, and so much more. This is the friend who introduced me to my (ex)husband, and stood as my maid of honor at the wedding. I never imagined that there would be a part of my life she wasn't involved in, even if it was a long-distance part.

Somehow, though, we lost track. I got to visit her after the birth of her son, and that's the last time I saw her. (He's 12, now.) I'm not sure why we let so much time go by. Life, I guess. Or at least, we used life as an excuse.

We have a lot to catch up on. But that's the nice thing about true friendship. You can still be friends, even after all this time.

So now the question is: Where do I find Ronnie and Kathy?

The way we get to live forever is through memories stored in the hearts and souls of those whose lives we touch.

That's our soul print. It's our comfort, our emotional nourishment at the end of the day and the end of a life. How wonderful that they are called up at will and savored randomly. It seems to me we should spend our lives in a conscious state of creating these meaningful moments that live on. Memories matter. (Leeza Gibbons)

Our roofs are being repaired. That's a pretty straight-forward thing. Other than the inconvenience, of course. Such as waking up Saturday morning at 7 am to the sounds of pounding on the roof over our beds was not expected. Or having to park several blocks away because our road is blocked by the trucks holding the tiles.

I'm not really complaining. One of the things I haven't liked about living here (in my current townhouse) is that there is a good chance the clay roof tiles will fly off in a gust of wind (a frequent occurrence during hurricane season in Florida) and land through the windshield of my car. (The other thing I don't like about this place is the bugs, but that's a rant for another day.) Having the roofers around means that the tiles are going to stay up on the roof where they belong.

What I really wanted to talk about is how the sight, and the sounds, and especially the smell of the tar has brought back memories of my childhood. I love the smell of warm tar. My grandfather was a roofer. He was always bigger than life; a wonderfully gruff man in flannel shirts and heavy shoes who totally ruled the family (unless, of course, gramma was around). I remember playing in the warehouse, climbing the stacks of tar and searching for the elusive big-eared rabbit. That was grampop's threat to keep us out of the warehouse: a giant big-eared rabbit that would paddle us if caught...

Each memory brings another, and then another. Even though gramma and grampop are both gone now, I still picture them in my mind. And I still have stories to share with my children, until they finally beg for mercy, pleading that they've already heard this all before. I like to think that the kids will someday tell their children the same stories, or a version of them, and that gramma and grampop will live on.