Goodbye, Hello

I hate to think this is turning into a death blog, but well, people keep dying. This one was not unexpected and you can read about my father in law’s passing over on the family blog. What I did not say there out of respect I will say here, but do not think me cold to speak the truth. It is what it is. Margaret said to my husband before we left, “I wish we had been closer,” meaning she wishes they had engendered love from my children instead of demanding it. My children so wanted to have grandparents nearby, but her experiences with them were mostly full of frustration and unpleasantness. They did not give the requisite unconditional love, that thing that comes from the heart with no boundaries as naturally as dew on summer mornings. When they were unhappy with the children they reduced the amount of money in their birthday cards or skipped sending them altogether. Not that money is important to children, but knowing that it was to them and that they used it as a weapon was unconscionable.

I am blessed with the ability to sleep under any circumstances, as is my oldest son, but for the other three in my family sleep is a fickle friend, never there when need is the greatest. The laughter from the kitchen at four this morning disturbed me only briefly. I know the girl felt guilty that she did not go to Roanoke more often, and that she was not there when her grandfather died. I know sleep would have been days in coming and she would have paced the floor sad and exhausted. I know that is why her on again, off again boyfriend’s car is parked in my driveway this morning. I know that is why my husband clung to me like the orphan child he is when he came to bed at 5.

I need to decide things today and somehow navigate this emotional time without upsetting anyone further. The funeral director called me this morning and asked what he should do. Pop requested that his body be given to science, but the man tells me as diplomatically as he can that they may not want this particular body. He will not know until Tuesday because of the holiday. If they will not take it, we must pay for cremation. I do not want to think it but I immediately remember the smell of death and regret that Pop died on a holiday weekend. I do not want to always be such a practical logical person, but reality assaults me.

I’m letting the house sleep this morning while I write. I have to work up an obit for the Richmond paper. I have to get pictures ready for the memorial service. I have people to call and other duties that I’m sure will fall to me because crisis is what I do best. Ironically the memorial service will probably be scheduled on the day my grandson is due to make an appearance. I’m hoping for some reason that the baby will hold off until the 12th, my father’s birthday, and also the day after we arrive in Seattle to meet him. I know I will forever juxtapose his beginning with Pop’s ending, the shadow of death falling across life, reminding us that we are only flesh and blood. But then, my girl came to me this morning and told me her dream yesterday, the one of Pop and his beloved wife Eva, her namesake. They were in an embrace, dancing endlessly, young and happy, smiling. I want to believe, oh how I want to believe.

The bear went over the mountain

As I walked up my husband was standing with his hands gripping a stretchy exercise cord. His face was twisted and contorted from the exertion and his body was dripping with sweat. Our daughter was encouraging him to “try just one more”. He looks up and verbalizes what he perceives as her imaginary thoughts,

"Note to self: Kill Dad today and Mom tomorrow."

Immediately the girl tosses back, "Have I mentioned that I would like for the two of you to get another life insurance policy?"

“Remember,” I told her, “If I die on that mountain tomorrow you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with my brother and my father's estate.”

There is a grim group sigh as we all agree that it’s not a good weekend to die. Secretly I think my husband is pleased that we included him in our visit to the shinny new west end gym, but he sure knows how to keep secrets well. Earlier he had looked puzzled when we took him to the indoor track that runs one fifth of a mile around the perimeter of the building, explaining how excited we were the first time we put foot on it.

“We ran around five times before we even thought about it,” I exclaim. The spongy circular surface with the white strips does not speak to his body or mind, so naturally our plans for a Sunday walk in the woods are entirely off his radar.

I am also a little skeptical of my girl's ambitious idea to make the sixteen mile circuit of Mount Marshall in a day, including the 5 hours it takes us to drive there and back. Turns out I had nothing to worry about. The frequent bear spotting kept our little feet moving along the path, singing at the top of our lungs to either announce ourselves or annoy them. The trail didn’t seem as difficult as my daughter’s usual choice, so I opened my mouth and said, “Hey, this seems like it’s going to be easy.” There is a brief pause and then I feel a sharp pain on the back of my leg. “Ouch!!” I yell, “Something bit me!” After we determine it is only a bee we giggle for a while at the irony. Fortunately I have no allergy to bee stings unlike my girl, and I am glad the insect picked me. I make a mental note to get an emergency kit in case we have such an occasion in the future.

I was trying to be positive because on our previous trips my whining has annoyed the girl. I say things like, "What do you mean this trail isn't on the map?" and "We forgot what?" along with the usual "I'm going to die in these woods and I'm never going to see my first grandchild." I just insert that one for dramatic effect as I only believed I was really going to die once, maybe twice on our trips. Now she has a vision of where we are going. I know that. Honestly, I trust her, I do. I just like thing like a little piece of paper highlighted with the exact road we're taking through the wilderness, especially when we're hopping over fresh bear poop every 20 feet.

I do settle down about five miles along, caught up in the inevitability and the mechanical effort of setting one foot in front of the other trying to catch up with her retreating backside. I tried walking in front for a while when her asthma started giving her trouble. I had just pulled off the hoodie that had previously been tied around my waist because I was sticky with sweat. The girl starts laughing and I turn and give her a "what" look. "Mom", she says, "Those new pants are completely see-through when they're wet. Nice pink thong." So I have just learned something about my new lightweight hiking pants, especially designed for hot summer on dusty trails and wet ass contests. Thank god I didn't buy the matching tee shirt.

The trail seems endless as I trudge along reveling in my pioneer pretensions. I realized years ago after my first 10 pound baby that I would have likely been a “died in childbirth” bleep on some obscure genealogy chart had I actually lived in those olden days. I do love getting back in touch with the natural world, but I occasionally glance down at my French manicure to assure myself that civilization still holds me firmly in it’s comfortable grip. “How much further,” I ask the girl with the excellent eyesight who is holding a piece of paper with obscure topographical swiggles. “Not far Mom,” she repeats with a forced enthusiasm. I keep my deep sigh internal this time. “Can we stop for water,” I know she hates to stop and I have put off asking until I become dehydrated and am feel the muscles of my calves begin to cramp. I sip the tepid liquid and eat a piece of the turkey jerky she offers to replace my electrolytes. “I was wrong about it being only 3 more miles,” she confides. It’s actually more like 6.” My face falls and she quickly adds, “…but it’s all downhill.”

Downhill proves to be the roughest part of the journey. The trail is beautiful, like a fairy tale with its archway of green trees, flowers blooming on both sides, and everywhere in this late August landscape are riots of brightly hued butterflies. As in all fairy tales there are as many dangers as delights. Our feet are blistered despite excellent precautions, and the loose rocks under our feet stab us with every step. She decides that it would be best to walk faster and get it over with. I curl my toes down into my shoes and slow down to soften the jolt against the ground. Finally the last trail marker tells us it is 6/10 miles to the trailhead. “Only three times around the track,” she says brightly.

I lose sight of her as she forges ahead and finally can no longer hear her hiking stick tapping against the uneven surface. Things move in the brush, birds mostly I think, and the noise of the forest changes from the bright chirp of early morning to the steady drone of late afternoon. I am concentrating on my feet when I hear her voice in the distance. “We’re here!” I look up and see familiar markers and then the parking lot where we left little red this morning. Then there stands my girl, most beautiful when she is triumphant, waving her hiking pole over her head. “Hey Mom, that was actually 18 miles, not 16. I read the map wrong.” Sigh.

IN REAL LIFE

A blond, a redhead, and ten thousand villages

First stop on our pub crawl

Sometimes, actually most times, truth is better than fiction. This has been my week to meet friends IRL. All I can say is I am not disappointed. M@ I do not want to cast aspersions on your reputation, but you were a perfect gentleman. I have no comments on your post about Saturday because some things should be left unspoken. Let’s just say I am always a lady in public and I had a wonderful time and so did my girl. I’m not saying I was drunk now, but the trip back home to Richmond has never been shorter. My daughter is a star and paid me back in gold for all the times I never criticized her for coming in late and smelling of booze.

WG, I knew we would connect, but our immediate simpatico surprised even me. You are lovely in every way and the time we spent together was as delightful as the bottle of wine we shared at Can-Can’s. I am looking forward to our next meeting. I have a confession however. When I dropped you off at your car I went back into ET’s for a piece of Tiramisu. I know, total indulgence, especially for someone who is working on taking off that last 10 pounds, but well, I had my reasons. Just know that the duck and Brie sandwich was my meal for the day and I will spend an extra hour at the gym tonight.

BTW, I am not wearing the same thing in both pictures. It’s just that 75 percent of my clothes are black. No, I am not depressed or Goth. I just look hot in black, don’t you think?

Redecorating, Does anyone speak Swedish?

I’m having an Ikea moment. My daughter and I spent considerable time there last weekend buying new stuff for the house. The smelly old sofa has been relegated to the computer room along with my husband’s big TV. No one is allowed in the new improved family room with food or drink, unless you’re a guest of course, and even then we’ll watch you carefully. I am resting in luxurious comfort on a new modern micro fiber sofa with my laptop perched where the manufacturer obviously intended it to be, in my lap. I hear the distant sound of Olympics from the other room but there is a tranquil clean feeling around me. No piles of newspapers, no plates, cans, or glasses, only peace and quiet and only a tiny bit of newly accumulated cat hair from the very fluffy cat lounging beside me. Oh well, can’t have everything.

I’m sharing this because I’m guessing that all of you think that when I don’t blog I’m up to mischief. Good guess, but this time I’m actually working. The house is coming together nicely, especially the lower floor where my daughter is making herself a grand space. She and the boy are calling it quits, although he doesn’t know it yet, and she is doing what she does to move on, redecorating. We all have our little vices. I will try to take pictures when it’s all accomplished.

Aside from the fact that I have so little time, I think I’m also suffering from Blog confusion. My two blogs, the one intended to be nice and the one that became naughty, have both blurred around the edges. Wordsonwater is still by and large nice, but in my most recent post I have made my sweet daughter in law feel bad about being so far away. With her being pregnant and all I didn’t actually know she had time to read it anymore, but she did and she made a comment that was almost as weepy as the original post. She sometimes reads this one too, and if she is, just let me say that I was being self indulgent and selfish to voice my feelings. I love her a lot and I miss her and my son, but most of all I hate that I’m going to miss the birth of my grandchild, his first smile, his first words. Regardless, I’m not sitting in Richmond twiddling my thumbs. Life is more than interesting and I have songs yet unsung.

My one regret about WordsonWaking is that the naughtiness has been sucked out of it. Now it is true that I started it as a weight loss blog, just for myself. The fact that it turned into something much more life altering than a diet is partially because of me and partially because of you, all of you, my close friends, those that stop by from time to time, those that read in secret, and those that only think they read in secret. I believe the first who found me made the most significant impact, but he only led me to a point, and then he wisely knew it was time to go. Witness will always be my knight in shinning armor, a man I love sight unseen. Others have taken his place as he grew and I grew, but well, I guess you never forget the first time.

Those of you who followed my “soap opera” (thanks for that perfect description M@) know the torment my soul went through during the year I spent taking off the weight, having the affair, and the on again, off again decision to leave my husband. I took your counsel so often when I had no one else to really turn to, no one who knew the whole story. When my husband discovered the man and my blog, I made the decision, right or wrong, to reconcile with him. For a long time after that I mourned the loss of my privacy. I still do sometimes, but I know it’s me, not him. I just need to be more honest and have the courage to say what I need to say. Perhaps it is not possible to be completely candid when you live with other people, but as Janis told us, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

So I’ve worked my way back around to my sofa in my beautiful home that is not perfect, but suits me. It is very like me with its eclectic blend of things, both modern and inherited. The old fashion values are still surprisingly a part of me, and like the Martha Washington desk and the brass lamp from the 1930’s, they have no problem coexisting with my square steel frame sofa, the angular cone shaped reading lamp, or my contemporary ideas. Sometimes I have a struggle with a piece of furniture or a concept that simply does not fit into the confines of my chosen lifestyle and I have to make a decision. Do I toss it, give it away it, move it, or decorate around it? I did all of those things this year and I will continue to do so as the need arises.

One of the things I am not willing to toss yet are my WOW blogs, neither of them. I thought long and hard of creating a new secret site, one that would be by invitation only, but my husband has a sixth sense about secrets. He folds his arms over his chest and stares at me silently, with questions in his eyes. Now he is settled into his own little cluttered space, and as much as he hates change, he will come to love the spot. He would like it better if it had no windows and stayed at a steady 60 degrees, but until we build that underground house he knows he must make some compromise.

Someday soon I’m going to figure out what I really want to say here, but until then you will have to tolerate wistful, something a new friend told me I do well. The corners of my mouth turned up immediately at his analysis of my character. He was right of course, and I wonder if it is a function of age or if it has always been in me. Perhaps growing up in a small town is what filled me with yearning for things I did not have, places I could go. I know it always drives my actions and my writing, my relationship with my children and my husband, even my taste in food, clothing, and shelter. It also keeps me feeling and thinking, and perhaps even looking like someone several decades younger than I am. It’s the thing in me that says “sure, let’s go” when someone, usually my daughter, suggests an outrageous adventure. Our next will be in DC this weekend. I’ll keep you posted.