Family and Home – Long walks and dark chocolate

Wish I was eating cake with you

August 18, 2014 6 Comments

After all these years, I can still see you standing there. You, in your blue jeans, with your unruly curls, your lipstick on, nails polished, smelling like Cinnabar.

It is hard for me to imagine that if you were still here, today you would be celebrating your 68th birthday. Time stands still and I remember you forever at 49.

Time hadn’t etched many lines in your face and your eyes were clear and bright. The hand that only ever got to feel Morgan, when she kicked in my 8 month pregnant belly, was steady and bore no signs of age spots. Before sickness took it’s toll, you were energetic and vivacious!

I don’t question why anymore, as I trust God’s timing in all things, but oh, mother, how I still miss you!

My heart still aches with grief sometimes and yes, the tears still fall, but not nearly as often. There are so many things I would love to be able to share with you and I can’t count the times I still desire your wise counsel and advice.

Until heaven, I must be content with memories, so I am eternally grateful and immensely blessed to have a million good ones with you.

Feeling highly favored to have called you mine,

Lisa

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: Family, gone too soon, missing you, Mom, Mother

Bag left behind

July 28, 2014 8 Comments

Yes, travelling is wonderful and it is a privilege, even when it is accompanied by work such as this one. My day began with the requirement to be up and at least moderately alert at 3:45am. Next there was the drive to the airport in the dark and fog, with less than perfect windshield wipers.

Once I get to the airport, park the car, take the shuttle, check the bag, go through security (where I was the lucky recipient of a shoe pass, i.e., I got to leave my flip flops on), I find myself at the gate. This is when I tend to relax a little from my travel anxiety.

This particular work-approved, cost effective itinerary had me going through Chicago, changing airlines and then on to Denver. It crossed my mind that changing airlines mid route might not fare well for my luggage, but I quickly dismissed the thought.

The first flight was uneventful. I even managed to doze off, which is rare for me because I am always mortified when I wake up to find that my mouth is hanging open. All I can think of is some teenager snapping a photo of the middle aged woman looking ridiculous, only to share on some social media site. Am I paranoid?

Of course I arrive in Chicago at the gate farthest from where I need to be, thus another shuttle and lots of walking and finally, we load up for my second flight. Embarrassingly, I sat in the window seat, when my ticket clearly indicated aisle, only to be chided by some man who was way too old for skinny jeans. Fine with me, I prefer the aisle.

Finally, we land in Denver and I go directly to the bathroom and then straight on to baggage claim. I watch all of the mostly black suitcases go around and around until there are only a few stragglers left. When it’s apparent that there is no more luggage to be found, I make my way to the baggage office to consult with the young man in uniform about the fate of my bag. He takes my information and with a few clicks on his keyboard tells me my bag is still in Chicago. Great. He promises he has located it and it will arrive on the next flight and be to my hotel as soon as possible. Knowing how this type of thing can go, I am skeptical and begin to worry if I will be wearing the same clothes tomorrow, riddled with airport germs.

Later, I unpack the bag of toiletry items, nicely provided by the front desk and logon to my computer to check status on my bag, which wasn’t good at the time. By the time I went to bed though, my last check showed that my bag would arrive at 9:30pm and be picked up by delivery truck and brought to my hotel.

I woke up with a start around 4:00am, after a nightmare about a hideous hairy, grey suitcase that uniformed airline employees kept insisting was mine. I screamed, “Nooooooo!!” over and over again to no avail.

When I woke up again around 5, a quick call to the front desk, relieved all of my fears. My bag had been delivered and they would be happy to run it right up. The world was right again. I had clean clothes, makeup and all the other necessities a girl wants.

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: air travel, lost luggage, luggage, suitcase, Travel

Dreading Saturdays

May 23, 2014 4 Comments

My first and last recital

Dreading Saturdays

It was 1975 and I was a mere 10 years old, so forgive me that I don’t recall all of the details. What I do remember is that after a conversation between my mother and grandmother, followed by whole-hearted agreement by my dad, it was settled. I was to begin piano lessons.

I was blessed with a family that showered me with praise and always had high expectations for my success, so I just assumed I would learn all my favorite songs quickly and figured I could count on even more of their attention which I coveted. Undoubtedly, my grandmother believed I could give even Mozart a run for his money. I can just hear her saying, “she’s a natural” and “listen to her play, she is gifted”. My grandmother, like many others, thought her grandchildren were the cutest, brightest most wonderful grandchildren ever born.

My lessons would be given by an elderly lady we shall call Mrs. W. who had taught many others in the community, including my uncle. I didn’t know much about her, but the adults in my family lavished praise on her teaching ability.

As with any “first”, I was both excited and a little nervous as my mother and I pulled up to the Community church where my lessons would be held. We entered using the back entrance and were greeted by Mrs. W. My first impression was that she was old and her perfume made my nose stuffy.

She looked different than my grandmothers as neither of them wore makeup and one never wore jewelry at all. Mrs. W. had carefully applied pink lipstick and I could see the powder dusted on her face. She had lots of brightly colored costume jewelry, which I would have loved to have tried on, but would never have thought of asking, not even after I knew her well.

My mother never stayed in the room with us for lessons. I don’t know if she ran errands or waited in the car, but I know she was always there when I was finished.

The first few lessons were tedious and had more to do with learning to read music than actually playing the piano. I remember drawing the notes on pre-printed pages. When I had a basic understanding, she let me begin to play.

After a while, the lessons were devoted to playing whatever Mrs. W. assigned. This is when I began to find her teaching tactics somewhat nerve-wracking. If I missed a note, she would rap my knuckles with a ruler. She was also a stickler about hand placement and countless times I had my hands pressed down firmly, a little too firmly, onto the correct keys. I don’t want to give the suggestion that I thought her cruel. She was just very strict and stern and wanted my completed undivided attention to detail.

I complained to my parents about Mrs. W’s method for correction but my whining didn’t garner much sympathy . My dad just said I needed to spend more time practicing.

This piano lesson idea was losing its appeal rather quickly. I didn’t want to give up play time or my beloved reading time for more practice. I didn’t enjoy it like everyone thought I should. I was also tired of having my Saturdays interrupted.

I pouted, pleaded and begged to quit, to no avail. Saturday mornings probably became just as tedious for my mom as I faked illness, and made other excuses to get out of going. When those plans failed, I moped around, with a long face, acting as though they were sending me off to some horrible fate.

My dad finally said if I would do my best and give it a fair shot, that if I still hated it after my first recital, I could quit. Ahh, a glimmer of hope. Now I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I was giddy the night of the recital, mostly because it would be my final one, but also because I was prepared and felt I would do well. I did my best and I could tell by their faces that my parents were very proud of me. Mrs. W. told them that I had potential, which served to encourage them in their wishes that I continue playing.

However, a promise is a promise and my dad kept his. I remember him pleading with me not to quit. My dad isn’t very talkative, but he gave it his best. After my decision was made, I felt relieved, yet sad for my dad. I can still remember that so clearly. I hated piano lessons more than I cared about his wishes. It took some of the joy from my release from captivity.

In retrospect, I made a silly, selfish choice; one that I have regretted many times. As I think back on those days, I know it was a sacrifice for them to spend money on lessons, especially when I gave up so easily. I am surprised that they allowed me to quit. After all, what does a 10 year old know?

It always amazes me how clearly I remember the times when I made the wrong decisions, especially when, in doing so, I hurt others. I guess that is a good thing, because if we forgot all the bad, we would just continue to repeat it. I think memories like this one caused me to look back and fully appreciate the opportunities I was given and the love that motivated them and I am thankful.

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: Music, parental love, piano lessons, Saturdays

Weekly Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections

March 29, 2014 3 Comments

This week the challenge was, “tell us how you fell in love with books and writing”

As for exactly when my love affair with books and writing started, I don’t remember. My earliest memories have me snuggled up in the lap of whatever adult I could cajole into reading to me. Thankfully, I was surrounded by them. I was also the firstborn child and first grandchild, so yes, they were quite willing.

The first thing I remember reading myself were the old “Dick and Jane” primers. One of my other early favorites was Amelia Bedelia which I loved to hear my granny read because she was very dramatic and made me feel like I knew the characters personally. Curious George and the man with the yellow hat took me on many adventures and Dr Seuss always made me smile.

When my brother, my sister and I were still quite young, my mother made what, in my opinion, was a glorious decision. She signed us up to receive Childcraft books! Oh, the thrill! They were to arrive monthly and at the end of our subscription, we would own a full set. We already received Highlights magazine, so the trips to the post office were going to become twice as exciting.

As I grew, it was Charlotte’s Web, all the Judy Blume books, Little Women, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, then Anne of Green Gables, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. There was Watership Down, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, Gulliver’s Travels and The Outsiders. Although I wasn’t as enamored with it then as I am now, I read the Bible frequently also. The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom and The Cross and the Switchblade by David Wilkerson were two books that touched my life deeply.

Reading was my favorite pastime and I was often called bookworm by my brother and sister who didn’t share my passion. My love for the written word inspired me to write as well. I still have the first story I remember writing; it was a short story about a family during colonial times and I believe it was an assignment for what was then called Social Studies.

I always kept a diary and keep a journal to this day. As life moved on, I failed to record as much and couldn’t seem to find the time to write, but it was always there, bubbling beneath the surface. I think we are all born with gifts and callings and it is our role as parents to encourage those gifts. As individuals, when they begin to resonate within us, we should introduce them to this world and practice them to perfection.

My writing resumed its former importance when my children arrived and I felt compelled to leave a record of things; something they could refer back to and remember me by. I treasure a book of poetry left to me by my mother. It shares a part of her that most didn’t know and when I read a selection, it is her voice I still hear. It brings me comfort, so I feel I can leave something similar for them.

Blogging began for me a little more than a year ago and originally was born out of a desire to become a better writer with the end goal of published inspirational fiction. As I see how much I have learned and grown in the past year, I am content to continue to stay on the same course until I am ready for bigger things. Maybe it will only serve as a journal of sorts for my children, but if I can occasionally even touch one person with my writing, by either causing them to think or reflect, or maybe feel better than they did before reading it, I will have accomplished something. To touch a life, even in a small way, really is a big thing.

Lastly, writing is just something I have to do. It doesn’t appear to be a choice. Sometimes it may seem buried in the chaos of this life, but there are days that I must write, or I feel like I will burst. I truly feel like reading and writing are both absolutes for me; they have been and will be a part of my life forever.

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: Amelia Bedelia, books for children, Creative writing, Curious George, dpchallenge, passionate about writing, reading, words, writing

Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names

March 25, 2014 4 Comments

This week’s challenge was to explore the power of names. My offering is a silly poem about all of my names and who uses them. Hope you enjoy!

My given name is Lisa which I’ve answered to since birth

My mom and dad selected whilst I still enlarged her girth

Although they thought it so unique, there are thousands with the same

But even though quite common, I rather like my name

The next name I remember, my sister gave to me

I guess Lisa was difficult so she settled on sissy

To this day she calls me sissy, and it always makes me grin

I guess it has the power to transport me way back when

My grandparents all called me sugar, which I thought was pretty sweet

My mom teased me with Liza Jane, I begged her, “don’t repeat!”

Granny Goff sometimes yelled Lee-Si-O when calling me inside

No one else used that name and for that I’m much obliged

The first time I heard mommy, my heart likely skipped a beat

Then there were days when mommy seemed to be stuck on repeat

My husband mostly calls me babe, or love, or just “my wife”

He’s careful, which is good because I am keeping him for life!

The only name that I’ve left out, I’ve struggled with til’ now

My youngest and her friends call me Moo. Yes! Just like a cow.

Actually, the names I’ve shared with you, the ones in lines above

Are fine with me because I know they’re spoken with true love

Filed Under: Family and Home, Poetry Tagged With: dpchallenge, names, poem, power of names, silly, weekly writing challenge

Weekly Writing Challenge: The Sound of Silence

February 17, 2014 2 Comments

The Weekly Writing Challenge was to take the theme of silence and explore it in your own way. I used a fictional story and I hope you enjoy!

Mr. Rogers yelled, “Silence!”, and then in a more subdued voice said, “I don’t want to hear one noise out of you until everyone has completed this assignment.”

As I hear the sound of a pencil case unzip and watch a well-manicured hand plundering around for the right #2, I smirk at his choice of words. The football player who had been leaning back in his chair picks that moment to let it slam to the floor so he can get busy. The sound is magnified in the hushed room. So much for silence.

Next, I hear pencils dragging across papers and tapping on desks and a student who suddenly reminds me of a beaver, is attempting to chew his in half.

More noise ensues as the instructor settles his large frame into his chair and rolls it under the opening in his desk. He toys with his watch for a moment, and then he turns his attention to the stack of papers on his left and begins shuffling through them. I’m still waiting for silence.

Someone is popping forbidden gum inside their mouth, a skill I have yet to master. The round, black rimmed, school issued clock ticks away noisily reminding us that time is running out. My own stomach growls loudly enough for me to try to quickly cover it up with a fake cough.

The instructor pulls open his squeaky right desk drawer and draws out the ever-present tin of altoids. He opens it, selects two, pops them in his moustache rimmed mouth and immediately begins crunching them. As I suspected, this action is indicative of his imminent stroll around the room to discourage would be cheaters.

Seemingly unaware of his approach, the girl in front of me begins humming and as he reaches her desk he raises his index finger to his nose, to dramatically shush her. Spittle flies everywhere and I think I see the white flecks of undissolved altoids too.

He repeats the command to silence and I am more certain than ever, that his wish will never be granted.

Soon, papers start shuffling and chairs slide back against the floor as the first students to finish begin turning in their short stories.

I look down at my paper, pleased that I have satisfied the requirement to spend the last half hour of class writing about silence. I title mine, “Silence is elusive” and turn it in.

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: dpchallenge, High school, noisy, quiet, silence, weekly writing challenge

Someone needs a Valentine

February 13, 2014 1 Comment

I love Valentine’s Day and I’m not the least bit ashamed to admit it. I have always been a sucker for anything heart shaped, although I’ve always wondered where the shape originated from, because it certainly isn’t the human heart. Add to that my adoration for chocolate and cards with loving sentiments, and I’m a goner.

Today I have perused a plethora of posts and blogs about the hatred of hearts and cupid and even love. That’s fine, I hate Halloween. I always thought it odd that parents would dress up their children in costumes and masks where they can’t maneuver around or see very well, and send them out in the dark to beg for free candy from strangers (yes I gave in too), but I digress.

Most of the Valentine’s Day haters have one thing in common; they are single. But, who says Valentine’s Day always has to be associated with “lovers”. Okay, I admit, it is a holiday about love and cupid and his arrows. For me personally, still in love with the man I married almost 21 years ago, it is a “lovers holiday”.

However, I also think it’s a great time to acknowledge other Valentines in your life. We always say, “don’t forget to hug your loved ones”, and “if you love someone, let them know”. Well, what an opportunity and the retail world is more than ready to help you find the right sentiment.

If you are feeling negative or cynical about hugs and kisses and all things smoochie, opt for celebrating with a friend, or a relative, or your kids! I have been told that I often look at the bright side of things, and I take it as a compliment, although sometimes I’m not sure it’s meant that way. In the spirit of looking at things from a “glass half full” perspective, I encourage you to try something new this year.

I assure you that if you choose Valentine’s Day to share a little love, whether it’s a box of chocolates, some flowers or even some of your precious time with someone you love, you will not regret it. It may even melt away some of your Valentine’s Day angst. I dare you ❤

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

C.S. Lewis

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: chocolate, cupid, Halloween, haters, hearts, love, Valentine's Day

Weekly Writing Challenge: Leave Your Shoes at the Door

February 2, 2014 4 Comments

The writing prompt at The Daily Post, said, “This week, we’re asking you to consider things from a different point of view — to walk a mile in someone’s shoes.” If I understood correctly, we are to write from the perspective of someone else. Here’s my attempt:

“Honk, honk, honnnnnnnkkkk”. The young man slowed as he came alongside and looked at me angrily and mouthed what appeared to be obscenities. He continued pressing his horn as he sped by me, my hands gripping the steering wheel securely at the 10 and 2, just like my dad taught me. Maybe I was going too slow, but better safe than sorry. The honking incident hadn’t done much in settling my nerves today.

Moments later, my blinker flashing, I carefully turned into the grocery store and found a spot up close. That walk isn’t as easy as it used to be and although I’m not ready for a handicapped space yet, the closer the better. Before I opened the door, I plundered in my pocketbook for an elusive tube of lipstick. I feel like I need some color, but I’m careful in my application. I don’t want to look like those old women who miss their lips and color outside of them.

Getting out of the car, I glance down at my Dr. Scholl’s walking shoes and have to remember to be thankful I can still walk instead of wishing I could still sport high heels without pain or injury.

Entering the store, I walk toward the long line of carts and immediately sense the impatience of the sharply dressed young lady behind me. She is obviously in a huge rush, so I hurry to get out of the way and feel grateful when the cart comes apart from the others easily and all the wheels work.

As others pile into the store, I again feel the pressure to move out of the way, to get through the front door and move to the side. Tears well up, as I realize I’m considered an obstacle or a bother once again. I long for my love, my soul mate to be here with me, by my side. His hand would always guide me and his presence gave me comfort.

In the aisle for baking goods, as I struggled to read the ingredients on a jar, another woman, this one large and more interested in talking on her cell phone, than paying attention, almost knocks me over. I overhear something about “the old fool” to her friend on the phone. I am older now, but I still have feelings and ears. What happened to respecting the elderly?

I look at the cases of water, and would love to get some, but I’m not sure I can grip and lift, and then I would have to also get it into the car, and then into the house. The cart is heavy even without the water, but I manage to get the few items I came for and make it to the check out.

The young man operating the register asks, “paper or plastic?” in a frustrated tone, like perhaps he’d already asked me before, so I answer him and begin to arrange my items on the belt.

Behind me, I notice a beautiful young woman, maybe barely in her twenties, wearing a big smile. She says, “Ma’m, could you use some help?” I looked at her with damp eyes, her kindness griping my heart. Before I could answer, she was at my side, unloading my groceries.

Her only purchase was a gallon of milk, so she quickly caught up with me before I made it to my car. She insisted on helping me put the groceries in my car, told me to have a nice day and carefully closed my door, when I got in. With that big smile and a little wave, she was gone.

This young lady had no way of knowing it, but this was my first shopping trip ever without my husband by my side. He passed away just last month and after all the affairs were settled and the family all back to their homes, I found myself alone, with empty cupboards.

My emotional state was fragile and this girl showed me attention, respect and kindness, asking for nothing in return. I felt the corners of my mouth turn up and into a genuine smile for the first time in a long time.

Filed Under: Family and Home, Inspirational Tagged With: aging gracefully, dpchallenge, getting older, Grief Loss and Bereavement, kindess, loss of spouse, love, love for people, respect

Weekly Photo Challenge: Object

January 31, 2014 2 Comments

Weekly Photo Challenge: Object

Believe it or not, this lonely little green plastic toy soldier has the power to induce blatant bawling in this nana. My one and only grandchild lives almost 13 hours away, so we don’t get to see her as much as we would like to. Her daddy is a U.S. Marine and they are stationed in New Orleans.

After a visit, when I know their departure is imminent, I search for anything and everything that might get left behind. This is a self-serving effort meant to spare me the tears when my emotions are finally back to normal and I find something she forgot. After one of their last visits though, I found these little guys all over the place. They were in my makeup, under the sofa, in the cabinets and even in one of my shoes. The memories rush back and the ache in my heart seems almost unbearable.

Yes, she has a huge chunk of my heart in Louisiana with her and all I have are memories until the next time.

Filed Under: Family and Home, Photography Tagged With: granddaughter, grandmother, missing, object, photography, toy soldier

Sleeping with the Enemy

January 27, 2014 6 Comments

Found on Pinterest, “original owner” unknown but will post if someone knows

When I was a little girl, I remember my Poppy dozing off in his recliner sometimes after he read the paper. He would snore and we would giggle. It was a comforting sound to me, but then again I wasn’t trying to sleep at the time. I was having a sleepover at Granny and Pops.

Fast forward forty years and I’m lying in bed next to the man I love oh so much and that same innocent snore has me feeling slightly homicidal.

First I try coughing or the really loud throat clearing noise, which will sometimes cause him to shift positions and cease for at least ten seconds. He sleeps with two pillows, so I try first gently, then like a maniac, adjusting them under his head. This might work another few seconds. Through the years, I have hit him (gently), plugged his nose (briefly) and woke him up completely.

While I lie there, I am always optimistic for the first 10 minutes that surely he will get it all out and I’ll doze off myself. That rarely happens. I end up gazing at the clock and re-calculating how many hours of sleep I have left before the alarm.

Before anyone begins to tout “breathe right strips”, we’ve tried them. If they worked, I would have bought stock in them. They were a complete failure. Then, there was the suggestion about advising my man to take an afternoon nap, as perhaps this would help him be more relaxed. No, that just gives me double the snoring.

I bought the almost seventy dollar mouthpiece and that seemed to work somewhat for a few months. He hates it and swears it will ruin his teeth, but he is kind enough to wear it at least three or four times per week. Alas, it seems to have lost its worth as well. He snores whether he wears it or not lately.

When I was a child, I never understood why older people had separate rooms and I always vowed and declared that would never happen to me and my husband. Well, I get it, now – I really do. I’m still confident that it won’t come to that, but it may require surgery on his part, or some very expensive ear plugs on mine.

So, if you have any suggestions, feel free to share.

Signed,

Sleepy in South Florida 😉