Remembering Dad

Today would have been my dad's 89th birthday.  He was so dear to me.  He taught me how to drive, even though many of our lessons ended with me stomping home, him following me and yelling at me to get in the car, and then him pouring a stiff drink the moment he got in the door.  He taught me how to pray.  We were not raised in a religious home, but as a kid I decided I wanted to know how to pray, so he taught me, "Now I lay me down to sleep..."   People said I looked like him when I was a kid, but I never saw it.  He passed away in March 2004, and those were some very dark days.  Anyhow, today I'm sharing the eulogy I wrote for him those eight years ago.

Eulogy for my Father

I want to thank you all for coming here today to support my family and say goodbye to my father.

We each come with our special memories of a man we knew as a nature lover, dog lover, bird watcher, friend, neighbor, co-worker, veteran, cousin, uncle, husband, dad, and pop-pop. Many of you have been sharing your memories with us, and I’d like to tell you one of our family stories usually shared by the relatives each Christmas gathering at my parents’house. Mom and Dad met thanks to her brother Ralph. He took his sister out to a club one night, and it was then that Mom met the blond, blue-eyed gorgeous sailor from Toledo, Ohio. It was love at first sight, but Dad was definitely a catch that took some taming. Stories have it that Mom’s father, a Philadelphia cop, liked to stroke his gun while talking to Dad about his intentions towards my mother. They made a beautiful couple. I have their wedding picture on my desk at school. Once, one of my students asked me who those people were in the picture. I looked at him quizzically and he said, “You know – that lady from Gone With The Wind and that movie star.”

My parents would have been married fifty-seven years this April.

We remember what a handsome guy Dad was. What a funny guy he was. If he got tired on a shopping trip with Mom, he would quickly walk around the store and touch all the merchandise. “There,“he’d say to Mom. “I’ve touched everything for you. Let’s go.”

We remember Dad as a war veteran. He liked to remind us that he was there in Pearl Harbor at the beginning of World War II, and he was there at the end, as Japan surrendered. He was a modest war hero, one who didn’t talk about his service duty. But he proudly wore his Pearl Harbor Survivor hat wherever he went.

Neil Sardinas best summed up my Dad recently in a comment he made to my sister. I am paraphrasing, but he said that Dad was quite a guy…a tough guy, a war hero, but yet the kind of man who would let his daughters, Lien and Laurel, play hairdresser and put ribbons in his hair.

We will all carry our special memories of Dad in our hearts. But if we look carefully enough, we will see him in others.

If you look closely, you will see my Dad behind and beside my mother as he holds her up while she begins to independently care for her health needs. Stop by our house at 5:00 on Saturdays; he’ll be there watching the East Enders with Mom.

If you look at me, you’ll see him at my side as I scour the yard sales and flea markets looking for that piece of junk that is really a treasure. You’ll hear him in my jokes and wry comments, as we shared a similar sense of humor.

When we were little kids, my dad was a rough and tumble daddy. We’d crawl all over him and do somersaults on his stomach. All you have to do is look at my brother with Reba, and you will see my father.

My father will be hovering over my sister, watching over her and guiding her as she raises her daughter, Reba Jean.

Reba Jean. The light of our lives. My father’s special “Bao Bao,” his treasured granddaughter. Helen tells us that Reba’s first spoken word was Pop-Pop. And that was also the first word she learned to write.
 

Reba loved her Pop-Pop. This Christmas she gave Glenn a cap with the Chinese character for the word “hero” written on it. He was delighted with his gift. However, we all were touched when all on her own Reba threw herself into Dad’s arms and said,” You’re my hero, too.”

When Helen explained to Reba what had happened to Dad, she told her that Pop-Pop would always be in her heart. Reba thoughtfully digested that information, and then asked her Mom a bunch of questions on the drive over to Bubbe’s.

“Is Pop-Pop in my heart?”
“Yes Reba.”
“Is Pop-Pop in Mommy’s heart?”
“Yes Reba.”
“Is Pop-Pop in Bubbe’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in Uncle’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in Aunt Barbara’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in the Survivors heart?”

So there you have it. Dad hasn’t left us. He’s here. In our hearts.

Lucy the Wonder Dog

When I was younger, I used to pray for my Prince Charming to find me.  I was sometimes lonely, and I wanted a companion with whom I'd travel through life.  God answered my prayers, but not as I expected.  He sent me a dog.  Yea God! Good move on Your part.

Lucy Dogge was my first pet as an adult.  We met in Atlanta, Georgia.  My sister had a home there, and I flew down one day with an empty dog crate and every intention of filling it with a dog from the local pound. Helen and I spent an afternoon walking up and down the kennel.  Helen kept steering me to a sad looking beagle on his last days; but, sweet as he was, the beagle just didn't call my name.  She also kept steering me away from the filthy, scrawny, flea-infested grey poodle with pleading eyes. When I saw another visitor considering the poodle, I snapped up the card and Ladybird was mine. I promptly renamed her Lucy after my favorite comedienne and my favorite soap opera actress.

Lucy was a mess. Within twenty-four hours, she'd infested my sister's house with fleas.  I bathed her and thought she was bleeding because the bath water turned red from the Georgia clay caked in her fur.  She had to be spayed, and she was shaved at the vet's.  When they brought her out to me, I didn't recognize the bundle in the tech's arms.  "That's my dog?" I yelped. "What the heck did you do to her?"  She looked like a big naked rat. Helen and I drove the dogs back to Pennsylvania to visit their grandparents.  At every pit stop, folks would fawn over Helen's basset.  They'd look at mine and ask, "What is it?"

Eventually, Lucy got her cute back.  She wore ribbons in her hair making her ears look like ponytails.  She gladly dressed in costumes.  Kids came to the house at Halloween more excited about seeing Lucy in her costume than about the candy.  Everybody in my new neighborhood knew her and her mom.  One of the neighbor boys would knock on my door and ask if Lucy could come out and play.  He'd cuddle up with her on the steps and tell her all of his secrets. When his mom, who could see my steps from their house, called him home to dinner, he'd open the door and let her in.  My students frequently made me laugh when they used her as the main character in their creative writing stories. Lucy the Wonder Dog was quite a sleuth!  She loved to be outside, so she'd hold court on my steps and greet the world as it passed by our house.

Lucy's health was not the best.  Her first teeth cleaning resulted in her losing a bunch of teeth.  By the end of her days, she'd get pink bows in her hair to match the pink tongue hanging out of her mouth.  Helen once took my niece to a pig roast.  When Reba was gifted with a pig tooth, she said she was going to give it to Lucy because she didn't have many of her own teeth. My dog's back was bad, but my vet at the time took good care of her.  I will always be thankful for Dr. Thompson.  When I vacationed in Europe, my parents babysat the dog.  Her back went out.  Dr. Thompson stayed open so they could bring her down (an hour and a half drive), and he refused to charge them for the visit.  Despite her poor health, Lucy lived to be seventeen years old.  I will always believe the power of love sustained her.

I was with her when she took her final sleep.  My colleagues at work were as compassionate and caring as if I'd lost a human child.  My students were sad for me.  Some cried.  Many told me about their dead pets.  All of them treated me gently for days.  If you know middle school children, you know that good behavior does not come naturally to them. I was touched.

I didn't know if I'd ever be able to own another dog.  But two months later, I was looking at FARM's page of adoptable dogs.  I wanted one very different from my Lucy, so I wouldn't compare them.  Then, I spotted Trixie's picture.  She looked like she was smiling, so I decided she was smiling at me.  I brought her home, and she was, indeed, very different from little Lucy.

How different you ask?  Look for a future blog about Trixie the Demon Dog.  I will reveal her secrets then.

Things I Miss

Today was chilly and dreary.  I don't like this kind of weather.  Grey skies have depressed me for many years.  I can remember Labor Days when the weather was ugly, and I was desperate for that last burst of sunny freedom before school started.  I felt so cheated!  I love a cold, crisp, snowy winter day, as long as the sun is shining through the clouds.  When the snow turns to snain, and the world is a dirty black and white photograph, I feel morose.  So, on this first real taste of the approaching winter,  it's only natural that today has been a day to muse about what I miss.

Let's get the obvious out of the way.  I miss my parents, pets, and friends who have gone on to the next world. Every now and then I catch myself heading to the phone to call my mother.  She passed in 2007. I believe I will see them again.  But, in the meantime, I sure wouldn't mind getting a message or two from that Long Island Medium lady.

I miss acting in local theatrical productions.  I can't commit to the rehearsal schedule because of other things I have to do.  While watching the new movie version of Steel Magnolias, I was reminded of the year I played Ouiser at Cecil Community College.  My director, Al Herlinger, was the best I'd ever worked with.  I learned so much, loved all the people involved, and burst with pride at every performance.  I miss that feeling of belonging to an elite group of theatre people. I miss the creativity.  I miss the excuse to be manic, and have all hissy fits forgiven by other sensitive dramatic types.

I miss bouncing up and down steps.  I used to climb to the top of the observation tower at Valley Forge Park.  I danced down the stairs of the Capitol in Washington DC.  Now, I hold tight to the railing. I carefully take each step one at a time and irritate the hell out of the people behind me.  Just you wait, you young whippersnappers! Eventually, time will find you and kick you in the knees.

I miss being able to PAR-TAY!  I was once a party animal. The fun didn't start until I got there.  I'd dance and drink all night, or at least until the bars closed at 2:00.  I remember a party where I was kissed (quite passionately) by my college English professor. Yes, I kissed him back.  My dorm mates had blackmail material for months after that.  I remember a party where I fell asleep in a field after drinking boiler makers and smoking some funny stuff.  I was kicked out of the room I was renting after that one.  I remember a party at Millersville that had a row of us mooning another row of partiers across the lake. Once I was at a dance hall in Fallston where I had to dodge a fight and flying bar stools.  Some guy complimented my quick reaction; I told him I'd had practice as a middle school teacher.  Parties at Glen Rock were the best!  The faculty even gave me an award for my keen partying abilities (men's briefs with lots of ribbons and bows).  Such good times!! Key up Archie and Edith Bunker singing Those were the days....   Now when I go out to Happy Hour, I call it Happy Half Hour, and I'm usually in my pajamas by 8.

I miss dating.  It was so exciting to go out.  I could buy new clothes, new makeup, new perfume.  There were a lot of bad dates (subject for a later blog), but there were fabulous dates, and always the optimism and hope that this guy would be the one.  I do not date anymore. There aren't too many men my age interested in dating women their own age.  But lets face the real truth: the best single guys, the most fun single guys... well, those guys are gay.

I could go on (and maybe some day I will), but you get the picture. I miss my youth and the fun that went with it.  Until dementia hits, at least I have my memories.

The Book Thing

The other day my niece, Billie, looked over my shoulder and ordered a book from my Paperbackswap site.  Realizing I had but two credits left, I knew it was time for my semi-annual trip to Baltimore's The Book Thing.

The Book Thing began years ago when Russell, a bartender, overheard teachers complaining about the lack of supplies, especially books, at their school.  His campaign to gather books for them led to what exists now, a small warehouse in Baltimore filled with books.  Free books. Tons of free books.  You can find all kinds of books there.  Don't look for a Dewey Decimal arrangement, these books are loosely shelved by categories: fiction, government, music, health, history, and so on.  There are expensive coffee table books, out-of-print books, best sellers, self-published books, anything you want to read.  About the only type of book  that can be scarce is the children's book.  I don't know if they aren't donated, or if they're immediately snapped up.  When I was in Savannah, I was tempted to buy some "rare" and "out-of-print" Eugenia Price novels.  Between The Book Thing and Paperbackswap, I found all I need to get started exploring her novels about the places I fell in love with on my recent vacation.  The books are totally free, and when you take them, it is with the agreement that they stay free; no selling of these books is allowed.

Should you decide to visit, let me share a few hints to make your visit a little more pleasant. The Book Thing is only open on Saturday and Sunday from 9-6.  They are open EVERY Saturday and Sunday - they don't close for snow, rain, Christmas, Kwanza, or the Jewish holidays.  Parking can be tricky as the lot is small.  There's a nice little lot next to the building, and you may be tempted to park there.  Don't do it!  The signs say the owners will tow, and they mean it.  Make sure you've gone to the bathroom before starting out.  I once had to use the toilet there. I shudder at the memory.  It was filthy,  making the porta-potties at Woodstock look clean. Bring a sturdy tote bag.  You may think all you'll find is enough to carry in your arms.  Ha!  You'll see.  Dress for the weather.  If it's hot out, it's hot in the warehouse.  If it's cold out, it's cold in. These folks operate on a shoestring budget. Bring some books to donate if you can.

Today I swore I would not fill up my trunk.  I brought three tote bags and decided that when they were full, I would go home. HA!  I have no self-control.  After filling up and dumping the tote bags three times, my trunk was full, and I was ready to go home.  I found large print books for the senior center, lots of books to trade on Paperbackswap, books for friends, and yes, books to shove onto my already over-stuffed bookshelves.  All they ask in return is that you sign your name on a sheet of paper and write the number of books you've taken.  I never count my books.  I guesstimate 60-70, and believe-it-or not, there are people who take many more.  It's not greedy, it's expected.

I hope you book lovers take advantage of this great resource in Baltimore.  Someday you'll either thank me or cuss me for turning you on to The Book Thing. 

                                          The Book Thing
                                           3001 Vineyard Lane
                                           Baltimore, MD 21218
                                           410-662-5631

Breast Cancer Awareness Month

October is the month when all things turn pink as the media reminds us to be aware of this cancer that holds fearful women in its grips.  I don't need a special month because I am reminded every single day of the ugliness of this disease by the ones I've lost to it.  By my memories of them.  By the smiles of happier days seen in the old photographs as they are slowly starting to fade (the photos, not the smiles).  By the music I hear. They're always with me.  Especially you Nancy; I think of you every day.

Nancy was my college roommate.  We only roomed together for three semesters, but she was and always will be referred to as Nancymycollegeroomie.  I don't know how she lived with me that long.  I was such a slob, and my side of the room was always a cluttered pigsty.  She was a minimalist, a very neat minimalist.  I smoked. A lot.  Blue air breezed out of the room when either of us opened the door.  She didn't smoke (well, knowing what I now do about second hand smoke, I guess the poor girl did smoke), and she never once complained that I did.  So when she told me she'd be rooming with Bev the next year, I cried like she'd asked for a divorce.  It all worked out, though.  I became an RA (they have a room to themselves) and we lived on the same floor of our dorms until graduation.

We were on the same wavelength, often understanding each other without speaking the words.  One dark night on campus, we acted out an impromptu murder mystery, making it up as we went along.  The poor victim?  Bessie the Cow.  I guess you had to be there. We watched the same TV, the old black and white one in the dorm basement.  We cried when the service people and POWs came home from Vietnam.  We wore our matching Peter Pan slippers and sang and danced when Peter Pan was a "special viewing event" shown one evening around Easter.  I bet few of you even remember the black and white version starring Mary Martin.  The play ends with a touching scene, but the tears that well up in my eyes are not for the grownup Wendy, but for my Nancy who was not allowed to grow old.

We went our separate ways in adulthood, but she lived in the town next to my hometown so we regularly visited.  She took care of me during my recovery from a broken leg.  We knew I'd get better and she wouldn't; yet, she was a major part of my surviving those awful months. She also unknowingly helped me keep my problems in perspective. December 26 was always our day together.  We'd have dinner, maybe see a movie, and exchange gifts.  My favorite gift was the addition she made to my Santa collection, a Kwanza Santa.  Now, don't go thinking racist, think reality.  The celebration of Kwanza never included Santa Claus!  I don't know why KMart thought it should.  The gift went back and forth between us for years, but it was lost at the end.  Nancy was finally too sick to celebrate Christmas.

The call came from her sister a few days before I was due to return to my hometown for a visit anyway.  In complete denial, I told Donna I'd be there in a few days.  As I went through my chores, a voice spoke clearly to me and said, Go now.  I obeyed.  The family didn't seem surprised to see me at the door to her apartment that evening.  I brought her Christmas present, a soft colorful crocheted necklace that I put on her to brighten up all the white: the white sheets, the white blanket, her white tufts of hair, the white pillow, her pale still white face. We talked for hours; I talked and she listened.  At one point, her family even left to go out to dinner.  Finally, I knew it was time to go.  It was time for her family to surround her in love as she breathed her last. An hour or so after I left her home, she left too. 

I miss her all the time.  I have trouble understanding how such a kind and loving person was not needed here on earth to spread her love a little longer.  I have trouble understanding that she was my age, and that she died so young.  I have trouble understanding how one who was gentle and never hurt another living thing had to suffer so deeply.  Yes, I have trouble with all of it.

It's October!  Bring on the pumpkins, the black cats, scary masks, and  crazy costumes!  It's Halloween, one of Nancy's favorite holidays. Boo!!!

Homeownershit

I feel blessed to live in this country.  Because of my full time job and my full time frugality, I was able to become a single female homeowner.  When I bought my house, there were sections on the contract that I had to initial.  Those sections were marked "no husband."  I kid you not.  I was proud then to be doing this with no husband; but now-a-days, I have to admit, I'm jealous of you gals with hubbies.  Especially hubbies who are tall and can fix things!

I have so many things that need to be attended to in this twenty-four year old house of mine.  I can't open the window part of my screen door.  I'll bet a hubby could flip that thing up with one hand tied behind his back.  The wind caught that same door one day, and pulled hard on the frame.  I watch as the crack in the frame grows longer and deeper all the time.  Bet a husband could have repaired that door frame the day it happened.  And the hole that's been in the office window since a stone from the lawnmower ripped through the screen?  It taunts me every day. 

Not only am I not very strong, I'm short.  Five feet tall, that's it.  As a homeowner, my height is a handicap.  The filter for my air conditioning system is in the ceiling.  Even on a ladder, I need a tool to open it.  Usually, the door bangs down, shooting dust all over the hall and sometimes smacking me on the noggin.  When I remember to get the right sized filter, getting it situated correctly leaves me stretching, sweating, and dizzy.  The vents are in the ceiling, too.  I need to open and close them twice a year.  Once again , I can barely reach them while climbing up as far as I can on my ladder.  After many years of this, I decided last year just to leave them open.  I can see the heat escaping into those vents making the attic I never use cozy and warm each winter.  I, of course, am freezing. A husband who would be even two inches taller than I could do these chores in five minutes. 

I need to paint the house, but I can't get myself motivated to start.  All the up and down on the ladder tires me just thinking about it. It doesn't help that the last time I painted, I contracted a food poisoning so evil that the paint marks on the wall reflect the slap-dash job I struggled to finish before I died. I have heard that husbands like to paint. Oh, how I wish I had a paint happy hubby!

What really frustrates me right now is my garage door opener.  The night of the Reba McIntyre concert, there was a huge clap of thunder.  Most everybody in this area jumped at the sound.  The sensor on my door opener hasn't worked since.  Everybody had all kinds of advice for fixing the problem.  The most frequently given suggestion  was to unplug the opener, wait for twenty seconds, and replug it, therefore resetting the sensor.  I do it all the time with my computer.  But the garage door opener?  It is plugged in at the top of my garage.  Not only do I not own a ladder long enough, even if I had one, no way would I climb that high. I'll bet you girls with husbands don't even appreciate how you can leave the climbing and fixing to them.  Lucky, lucky you.

Sigh, I love my home. Really, I do.  But I sometimes wish it had come with a handy house husband. Heck, I'd be willing to enter into house fixing polygamy if I could get my bathroom recaulked. 

My First Love

Thought I was going to talk about boys, huh?  No way.  I learned at an early age what true love is.  Books.  I LOVE books.

I love to read.  Love it.  People think I was born with a book in my hand, but actually I began school as a struggling reader.  In my day, we learned sight words from the big book in the front of the room.  I sat in the back of the room, and I was very nearsighted.  So nearsighted that when we had our annual eye test at school, I would listen to the kids ahead of me, memorize what they said and pretend to read the eye chart.  So, rather than have my disability diagnosed, I struggled tremendously, and my mean second grade teacher just thought I was stupid and gave up on me. 

I remember a book all the kids were reading.  Finally, it was my turn to take it home!  I couldn't read it.  My dad tried to help me, but he got frustrated; and I remember lots of yelling and sobbing, some of it my dad's.  But I also remember the joy of reading my first story fluidly.  It was from the Dick and Jane readers (just google it, youngsters).  Sally had gotten lost.  When the policeman found her, he asked her name.  Of course, she said it was Sally.  When he asked her last name, she also replied Sally.  Sally Sally!  I thought that was the funniest story on earth and I read it to anybody who would listen.

 Eventually in third grade, I could no longer fudge the eye test.  I got my first pair of glasses, caught up with my reading class, and never looked back.

My mother used to get so annoyed with me;  she thought I read too much.  She'd tell me to go outside and play.  I'd sneak a book into the waistband of my shorts, and find a place where she couldn't see me.  I'd read all afternoon.  When a library opened up in the high school across the street from me, I was in heaven!  The librarian was a bit of a pain; she always thought she knew what I should read.  Eventually, I got cranky enough with her interference that she left me alone.  Heaven! Hardy Boys? Heck no.  Trixie Beldon?  Nancy Drew?  Oh yes!

The year I bought my house, I had no money for anything other than the basics.  But because I read, I was never without something to do.  Thank you public libraries!  I read 365 books that year.

Retirement has been a boon to my hobby.  How wonderful it is to read what I want, when I want, and as much as I want.  It's all about me and the book.  Authors are my heroes and I attend book signings every chance I get.  I was excited to meet Jean Auel and Debbie Macomber.  While on my recent vacation, I met a local author in a small bookstore and was thrilled to buy her book and have it personalized.  I treasure my autographed books.

I need to tell you about my favorite source for books.  Paperbackswap.com   I discovered this website years ago, and I love it.  I thought I'd use it to get rid of my excess books.  Ha!  I have a personal library now, a room overflowing with books, books, and more books.  As soon as I read one, I trade it back or pass it on. Yet, the To-Be-Read pile continues to explode.  I doubt I'll live long enough to read all my books.  Hopefully, there will be libraries in the next life!

In future blogs, I will recommend some of my favorite reads.  Maybe you'll share your faves with me.  I sure hope so.

I need to close because I hear someone calling my name.  What? What do you say?  Ok, Lisbeth Salander...I'm coming.  Stay out of that hornet's nest!