I'm sitting at the kitchen table as I write. The sun is shining and a gentle breeze is wafting through the open windows.
It is August in Maryland. What the hell is going on?
I don't understand this summer. I have not used the air conditioner for days at a time. If you know Maryland, that is not typical for the summer. Do you remember the Twilight Zone episode with the two women in an abandoned apartment building? The sun is melting them, water is rapidly disappearing, and they are sweating profusely as they fend off a crazed stranger willing to kill for a glass of pineapple juice. Now that's a pretty typical Maryland summer.
The grass is still green and lush. The produce this summer, while expensive, has been absolutely juicy. Just luscious! The sweetest peaches ever. The slurpiest cantaloupes. The most tender sweet corn. Bing cherries as big as prunes. It's a vegetarian's heaven.
Facebook friends fill their pages with descriptions of daytime bike rides, trail walks, and jogs. In July? In August? In Maryland? This time last year it sometimes felt too hot to leave the house to go to the pool.
What a blessing this summer has been, especially after such a brutal winter. And what a blessing it is to be retired and free to enjoy each day to the fullest.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Monday, August 11, 2014
The Unexpected End of a Life
The news today is heartbreaking. Robin Williams chose to end his life. Those of us who were his fans could hardly believe this information. There are so many rumors spread on the internet that many of my friends were actually waiting for the announcement that this was a hoax. It wasn't.
His isn't my first experience with suicide. My grandfather, a retired Philadelphia cop, ended his second wife's life and then took his own. I remember his death. I specifically remember being put to bed in my parents' bed because I was hysterical. However, I didn't know how he died until I was an adult. My family kept the details from me, the child, and then just never got around to telling me the truth. I was shocked when my mother told me the news she thought I had always known. It explained a lot.
Years ago, I had a wonderful pen pal named Keith. He lived in California, was about my age, and he loved to write. We wrote for years, joking about our miserable love lives, analyzing the world's problems, discussing books, movies, and TV shows. One day I was headed out to the mall for a serious shopping spree and the mail lady delivered a fat brown envelope with a familiar return address, but an unfamiliar name. In it was a heartbreaking letter from Keith's mother and all of the letters I'd ever written him. He had saved them. She thanked me for being such a good friend to him. I questioned what kind of a friend I was to not know, to not be able to help, to not be able to stop his suicide.
A friend from college, married with children. Gone. A young teacher I worked with. Gone. A friend from church. Gone. A young man from my early theatre days. Gone. Too many former students. Gone.
What is it that makes some of us fight to live while others give up? Why do some people realize they can get through the bad times, no matter how bad they are? It's not religion and it's not love, for I have known people who've had an abundance of God and family, but just couldn't survive their lives. What is it?
Who knows? Nobody really. Not even William Shakespeare who wrote many years ago about the struggle.
His isn't my first experience with suicide. My grandfather, a retired Philadelphia cop, ended his second wife's life and then took his own. I remember his death. I specifically remember being put to bed in my parents' bed because I was hysterical. However, I didn't know how he died until I was an adult. My family kept the details from me, the child, and then just never got around to telling me the truth. I was shocked when my mother told me the news she thought I had always known. It explained a lot.
Years ago, I had a wonderful pen pal named Keith. He lived in California, was about my age, and he loved to write. We wrote for years, joking about our miserable love lives, analyzing the world's problems, discussing books, movies, and TV shows. One day I was headed out to the mall for a serious shopping spree and the mail lady delivered a fat brown envelope with a familiar return address, but an unfamiliar name. In it was a heartbreaking letter from Keith's mother and all of the letters I'd ever written him. He had saved them. She thanked me for being such a good friend to him. I questioned what kind of a friend I was to not know, to not be able to help, to not be able to stop his suicide.
A friend from college, married with children. Gone. A young teacher I worked with. Gone. A friend from church. Gone. A young man from my early theatre days. Gone. Too many former students. Gone.
What is it that makes some of us fight to live while others give up? Why do some people realize they can get through the bad times, no matter how bad they are? It's not religion and it's not love, for I have known people who've had an abundance of God and family, but just couldn't survive their lives. What is it?
Who knows? Nobody really. Not even William Shakespeare who wrote many years ago about the struggle.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Kids and the Single Woman
Kids are exhausting.
That's probably a strange thing for a retired middle school teacher to say. I mean, after thirty years of seventh graders, that fact should be no surprise. But, I never had my own for 24/7. There's a difference.
For two weeks this summer, my tiny house held not only Trixie and me, but it was filled with two kids who were excited about attending horse camp. The first week I had both nieces with me. Two weeks later, Billie was back for camp with her BFF, Alex. I was up each day at 7:30 am fixing breakfast and packing lunch. I drove back and forth to camp for twenty to twenty-five minutes ten times a week. That's a lot of gas. I used even more gas to drive to our evening activities; heaven forbid these kids feed and entertain themselves. Another meal - exhausting! And the chatter!! Non-stop. I felt like I was cantering on Coco and Ariel.
Camp is over. The kids have finally all gone home. I should be resting and relaxing, but I can't. I'm restless. The house is too quiet. OMG. I miss them!
A day ago, I was ready to change my name and not tell anyone. Now, I miss hearing "Aunt Barb!" A day ago I was tired of fixing dinner. Now, I'm trying to figure out what to have and I'm too apathetic to do anything about it. I want to hear Alex exclaiming that my pasta is the best she's ever had. (My recipe? Tri-colored pasta and Hunt's spaghetti sauce sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.) I want Billie flipping out in joy because sloppy joes are on the menu with a side of Eastern shore cantaloupe. Yes, dinner was different a day ago.
No trip to horse camp is complete without dips in the pool. I had such fun with the girls at the swim club. When Reba and Billie were here, they got along well and we laughed a lot. I was so proud of them. They were well-behaved and appreciative. They made Baxter smile when they thanked him for cook-out night. I saw adults thank him, but no other kids. Mine made me proud; oh, but I said that already.
Yesterday, I took Alex and Billie to the pool cook-out. They gobbled their food and raved about how good it was. They thanked Baxter for cooking and me for taking them. But, they especially made me happy when one of the children asked to play with them. She is a shy girl, and I think she has some trouble making friends. Billie and Alex explained their game and she joined right in. They invited her to eat dinner with us, and she was happy for the invitation. When it was time to go, they walked over and hugged goodbye. That warmed my heart. What good, good kids.
Kids are exhausting. And exhilarating. I'm blessed to have two "daughters" that I keep at my sister's house (and my "almost" daughter who lives with her mom). I'm so glad they enjoy coming to Camp Aunt Barb once or twice a year. They give me an excuse to buy junk food. I'm on the go instead of on the couch. And for some reason, I sleep like a log when they're here.
Children make your life important. -- Erma Bombeck
That's probably a strange thing for a retired middle school teacher to say. I mean, after thirty years of seventh graders, that fact should be no surprise. But, I never had my own for 24/7. There's a difference.
For two weeks this summer, my tiny house held not only Trixie and me, but it was filled with two kids who were excited about attending horse camp. The first week I had both nieces with me. Two weeks later, Billie was back for camp with her BFF, Alex. I was up each day at 7:30 am fixing breakfast and packing lunch. I drove back and forth to camp for twenty to twenty-five minutes ten times a week. That's a lot of gas. I used even more gas to drive to our evening activities; heaven forbid these kids feed and entertain themselves. Another meal - exhausting! And the chatter!! Non-stop. I felt like I was cantering on Coco and Ariel.
Camp is over. The kids have finally all gone home. I should be resting and relaxing, but I can't. I'm restless. The house is too quiet. OMG. I miss them!
A day ago, I was ready to change my name and not tell anyone. Now, I miss hearing "Aunt Barb!" A day ago I was tired of fixing dinner. Now, I'm trying to figure out what to have and I'm too apathetic to do anything about it. I want to hear Alex exclaiming that my pasta is the best she's ever had. (My recipe? Tri-colored pasta and Hunt's spaghetti sauce sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.) I want Billie flipping out in joy because sloppy joes are on the menu with a side of Eastern shore cantaloupe. Yes, dinner was different a day ago.
No trip to horse camp is complete without dips in the pool. I had such fun with the girls at the swim club. When Reba and Billie were here, they got along well and we laughed a lot. I was so proud of them. They were well-behaved and appreciative. They made Baxter smile when they thanked him for cook-out night. I saw adults thank him, but no other kids. Mine made me proud; oh, but I said that already.
Yesterday, I took Alex and Billie to the pool cook-out. They gobbled their food and raved about how good it was. They thanked Baxter for cooking and me for taking them. But, they especially made me happy when one of the children asked to play with them. She is a shy girl, and I think she has some trouble making friends. Billie and Alex explained their game and she joined right in. They invited her to eat dinner with us, and she was happy for the invitation. When it was time to go, they walked over and hugged goodbye. That warmed my heart. What good, good kids.
Kids are exhausting. And exhilarating. I'm blessed to have two "daughters" that I keep at my sister's house (and my "almost" daughter who lives with her mom). I'm so glad they enjoy coming to Camp Aunt Barb once or twice a year. They give me an excuse to buy junk food. I'm on the go instead of on the couch. And for some reason, I sleep like a log when they're here.
Children make your life important. -- Erma Bombeck
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Independence Day
As a child, I looked forward to the 4th of July. My family's was the fifth house in a row of eleven houses. On that day, the neighborhood came out for a block party. The kiddy pools were filled for the kiddies, and the beer coolers were filled for the adults. The neighbors barbecued (with charcoal) and partied late into the night. I don't remember fireworks. We surely weren't driven to see any; the picnic tables and barbecues blocked the garages. And the adults were really happy plopped in their lawn chairs and downing their brews. We kids had ice cream, sparklers, "punks," and fireflies. It was a good time.
As an older teen and young adult, we had moved, and I don't remember much of a big deal being made about the holiday. Sometimes we went to a parade where Dad marched as a Pearl Harbor Survivor. Many times there were picnics with "The Survivors" that followed. Occasionally we'd hear of fireworks at Villanova University. Sometimes we went, most times we didn't.
And then I was hired to teach in Harford County and I was introduced to a Havre de Grace Fourth of July.
I belonged to the Tidewater Players, a local theatre group. Each year we built a float for the parade. I think the first one I worked on was Hello Dolly. We had a staircase from which Rita Hurst would descend wearing the magical red dress. There were five or six tea tables with handsome tuxedoed waiters bringing trays of champagne glasses to the beauties sitting at them and dressed in long dresses, hats, and elbow length white gloves. Those gloves looked great as we waved to the crowd. Songs from the musical played from the cab, and the crowd loved us. My favorite float was South Pacific. Rita and crew built a paper mache mountain. We had a keg and spigot with running water so Lilma could wash that man right outta her hair. We were dressed in Polynesian garb or sailor suits and the colorful float won a nice award. Harry Malin, our group's beloved founder, played a drunken sailor catching a nap in the dinghy. He was in his glory. Afterwards, we would picnic at Flossie and Harry's home. We'd watch the fireworks on Ernie M.'s boat. We'd hit the carnival, and round out the evening at an Aberdeen bar. Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end.
For the past thirteen years, my family has come from the Philadelphia area to give my sister's kids a real Havre de Grace Fourth ( or Fifth or Sixth depending upon the day the holiday falls) experience. They check in at the VanDiver Inn in Hdg. (One year I called my sister in a panic because I'd been to an event at the Inn and realized she probably hadn't made her reservations and it might have been too late. No problem. When Helen called John, her rooms had already been penciled in the reservation book.) The day before the event we have a real Maryland eating experience, crabs and chicken at the River Shack in Chestertown, MD. Our spot to watch the parade is guaranteed by the VanDiver. We like to sit on the porch for the great view, and because the fans blow and the food and drinks are close. Afterwards, we nap off our Sangrias or go to the pool. We'd then barbecue at Dee Ashby's house. We no longer barbecue; we order food from Pat's and let them deliver it so we don't have to deal with the traffic. (Smart move, huh?) We used to watch the fireworks at Dee's house, but the trees have grown too tall. Now we hike to the hospital parking lot and watch from the top level. Perfect view, and no fighting the traffic to get out of town. This year was an especially perfect holiday because the weather was crisp and cool; unheard of for HdG in July!
I hope you had a joyous time celebrating Independence Day. If you didn't, then next year you must plan a trip to Havre de Grace for a true small town USA flag waving celebration! Stop by the VanDiver Inn, and I'll treat you to a Sangria.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Who needs Vegas?
Yesterday while floating in the pool (before a child pooped in it and closed it for the rest of the day), a few of us were talking about dollar bills and the chat turned to male strippers. I chuckled recalling my favorite stripper story, so I decided to share it with you today.
Many years ago, it was a big occasion in Ceciltucky when the male strippers came to Port Deposit. They had been booted from Perryville and were homeless before the PD VFW offered the show a venue. It was a big event - lots of food and all the beer you could drink. Remember that beer detail, as it plays a big part in the events of the night.
Cheryl, Cindy, and I arrived hours before the show began because we wanted front row seats. We came armed with board games (these were the days before smart phones) and books to pass the time. The weather was iffy, and threats of a huge snowstorm kept a potentially huge audience at bay.
When the time arrived to start the event, the food was plentiful and lots and lots of beer was imbibed. Lots of beer. More beer than I could even contemplate drinking these days. The men danced. And stripped. And stripped - down to string bikinis. Oh my! We each had a favorite dancer and being in the front row, we were pulled on stage to dance with the guys. We kept our clothes on, thank you very much.
It began to snow. Heavily. Some of the women left. We just drank more beer and the strippers had to work all that much harder to make an honest night's wage.
There was lots of money to be had.
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At some point in the evening, the media was admitted to the VFW in order to report the story. When warned of their presence, many of the women scurried to the bathroom. Others hid their faces. But not me!!! Oh no! I had beer power! In front of the cameras, I hooted and hollered and waved a fistful of dollar bills. The cameraman loved me.
Eventually, the fun had to end. They ran out of beer. We ran out of dollar bills. The snow was treacherously covering the back roads. We said goodbye to our newly purchased buddies. And I sloppily said goodbye to my former students who had been just as surprised to see me as I had been to see them. We promised each other that what happened in Port stayed in Port. (For the record, I was not driving as a mini-blizzard had covered the roads and I was beyond buzzed.)
Picture this. The middle school. Monday morning. Homeroom. A student says, "Ms. S. My dad was watching the news Friday night. He told me you were on it!" I had previously prided myself on not lying to my students, but you can bet I told him that he must have seen somebody who looked like me. He believed me. Because we all know teachers have no life outside of the classroom.
Many years ago, it was a big occasion in Ceciltucky when the male strippers came to Port Deposit. They had been booted from Perryville and were homeless before the PD VFW offered the show a venue. It was a big event - lots of food and all the beer you could drink. Remember that beer detail, as it plays a big part in the events of the night.
Cheryl, Cindy, and I arrived hours before the show began because we wanted front row seats. We came armed with board games (these were the days before smart phones) and books to pass the time. The weather was iffy, and threats of a huge snowstorm kept a potentially huge audience at bay.
When the time arrived to start the event, the food was plentiful and lots and lots of beer was imbibed. Lots of beer. More beer than I could even contemplate drinking these days. The men danced. And stripped. And stripped - down to string bikinis. Oh my! We each had a favorite dancer and being in the front row, we were pulled on stage to dance with the guys. We kept our clothes on, thank you very much.
It began to snow. Heavily. Some of the women left. We just drank more beer and the strippers had to work all that much harder to make an honest night's wage.
There was lots of money to be had.
At some point in the evening, the media was admitted to the VFW in order to report the story. When warned of their presence, many of the women scurried to the bathroom. Others hid their faces. But not me!!! Oh no! I had beer power! In front of the cameras, I hooted and hollered and waved a fistful of dollar bills. The cameraman loved me.
Eventually, the fun had to end. They ran out of beer. We ran out of dollar bills. The snow was treacherously covering the back roads. We said goodbye to our newly purchased buddies. And I sloppily said goodbye to my former students who had been just as surprised to see me as I had been to see them. We promised each other that what happened in Port stayed in Port. (For the record, I was not driving as a mini-blizzard had covered the roads and I was beyond buzzed.)
Picture this. The middle school. Monday morning. Homeroom. A student says, "Ms. S. My dad was watching the news Friday night. He told me you were on it!" I had previously prided myself on not lying to my students, but you can bet I told him that he must have seen somebody who looked like me. He believed me. Because we all know teachers have no life outside of the classroom.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
The Passing of a Great Guy
I whined a little bit on Facebook that I'd drawn a blank on blog topics. A friend advised me to give it up and go out and have an experience. Well, I had one. I went to the funeral for a friend's husband. He died suddenly, unexpectedly, and harshly while they were vacationing for the weekend at their summer home. This kind of grief is so big that it's hard to breathe.
When did life shift so drastically? When did I stop going to weddings every month to now, when I seem to be attending funerals on a regular basis?
Today was brutal. Over 300 people formed lines as long as those in Disney World to greet the family and say a prayer for their husband, father, friend. Young children sobbed through the service because their Pop-pop wasn't going to play baseball with them anymore. Joyce, his wife and my elementary school friend of fifty-five years, stood with her grieving children for more than two hours greeting the mourners. I sat with my friends, so sad that we weren't celebrating a girls' weekend at this, our most recent gathering. Paul was a great guy, full of life! We met a year ago, but he knew me through Joyce and he treated me like a long-time friend.
Paul was a registered organ donor. We were given green rubber bracelets with the phrase Donate Life in English and Spanish. I have marked my license to indicate my willingness to donate any part of my body anybody could ever want after I'm gone. Hopefully, I expect to use it all up before I leave this Earth. Honestly, who knows if I will? I urge you to consider being an organ donor. None of us know when our time will end, but it would be a comfort to our loved ones if we could live on not only in their hearts and memories, but in the actual living body of someone once in need. There's tons of information on the internet to get you started.
The following quote reminded me of Paul, a man who both lived and loved life. He will be missed.
"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."
When did life shift so drastically? When did I stop going to weddings every month to now, when I seem to be attending funerals on a regular basis?
Today was brutal. Over 300 people formed lines as long as those in Disney World to greet the family and say a prayer for their husband, father, friend. Young children sobbed through the service because their Pop-pop wasn't going to play baseball with them anymore. Joyce, his wife and my elementary school friend of fifty-five years, stood with her grieving children for more than two hours greeting the mourners. I sat with my friends, so sad that we weren't celebrating a girls' weekend at this, our most recent gathering. Paul was a great guy, full of life! We met a year ago, but he knew me through Joyce and he treated me like a long-time friend.
Paul was a registered organ donor. We were given green rubber bracelets with the phrase Donate Life in English and Spanish. I have marked my license to indicate my willingness to donate any part of my body anybody could ever want after I'm gone. Hopefully, I expect to use it all up before I leave this Earth. Honestly, who knows if I will? I urge you to consider being an organ donor. None of us know when our time will end, but it would be a comfort to our loved ones if we could live on not only in their hearts and memories, but in the actual living body of someone once in need. There's tons of information on the internet to get you started.
The following quote reminded me of Paul, a man who both lived and loved life. He will be missed.
"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Dirty Laundry
There's an expression about not airing your dirty laundry in public. I'm not sure if people remember it. In fact, what I've witnessed leads me to wonder if that piece of sage advice is ever shared in modern families.
The things that make it to television shock me. I don't watch Tori Spelling's "reality" show, but a lot of others do; so, clips of it run constantly on the talk shows. Tori and her husband are in marriage counseling because he cheated on her. Rather than seek help privately, they have invited the cameras to their sessions and are putting it all out there for America to watch. This particular session was brutal - yelling, accusing, crying, snotty nose sobbing, whimpering, cringing. Well, I was cringing anyhow. Why are they doing this? The obvious answer is money, but how much is the going rate for selling your soul to the devil? or the television network? I have no hope for that marriage. If they really wanted to fix it, the healing process would be between them and their counselor. Not them and their counselor, their director, their producers, their sponsors, their nosy neighbors - all million of them peeking through Tori's virtual windows while sitting in front of their televisions chomping on popcorn.
Facebook drama is a phenomenon that puzzles me. Why would a person fight back and forth with family members on their pages for all of their "friends" to witness and offer opinions? Dr. Phil, another hotbed of dirty laundry flapping in the wind, hosts all kinds of people whose families are in crisis. Sooner or later, one of the members reveals the Facebook fight that became the snake pit of the family feud. No wonder people are such messes. They have all 200 of their most intimate friends telling them what to do. Do these Dr. Phil people go back to their communities as celebrities? Do they give autographs? Take selfies with their fans? Do these Facebook voyeurs turn the corner at the grocery store to avoid their "friends" in real life? Or do they block the produce aisle to discuss the daily drama?
No matter what you think of country music, listen to Miranda Lambert's Mama's Broken Heart.
i cut my bangs with some rusty kitchen scissors
i screamed his name til the neighbors called the cops
i numbed the pain at the expense of my liver
i don't know what i did next all i know, i couldn't stop
word got around to the barflies & the baptists
my mama's phone started ringin off the hook
i can hear her now sayin she ain't gonna have it
don't matter how you feel, it only matters how you look
go & fix your make up, girl it's just a break up
run & hide your crazy & start actin like a lady
cause i raised you better, gotta keep it together
even when you fall apart
If nobody in your family is going to warn you not to air your dirty laundry in public, let Miranda's mom and me be the first to do so. Consider it a public service announcement.
The things that make it to television shock me. I don't watch Tori Spelling's "reality" show, but a lot of others do; so, clips of it run constantly on the talk shows. Tori and her husband are in marriage counseling because he cheated on her. Rather than seek help privately, they have invited the cameras to their sessions and are putting it all out there for America to watch. This particular session was brutal - yelling, accusing, crying, snotty nose sobbing, whimpering, cringing. Well, I was cringing anyhow. Why are they doing this? The obvious answer is money, but how much is the going rate for selling your soul to the devil? or the television network? I have no hope for that marriage. If they really wanted to fix it, the healing process would be between them and their counselor. Not them and their counselor, their director, their producers, their sponsors, their nosy neighbors - all million of them peeking through Tori's virtual windows while sitting in front of their televisions chomping on popcorn.
Facebook drama is a phenomenon that puzzles me. Why would a person fight back and forth with family members on their pages for all of their "friends" to witness and offer opinions? Dr. Phil, another hotbed of dirty laundry flapping in the wind, hosts all kinds of people whose families are in crisis. Sooner or later, one of the members reveals the Facebook fight that became the snake pit of the family feud. No wonder people are such messes. They have all 200 of their most intimate friends telling them what to do. Do these Dr. Phil people go back to their communities as celebrities? Do they give autographs? Take selfies with their fans? Do these Facebook voyeurs turn the corner at the grocery store to avoid their "friends" in real life? Or do they block the produce aisle to discuss the daily drama?
No matter what you think of country music, listen to Miranda Lambert's Mama's Broken Heart.
i cut my bangs with some rusty kitchen scissors
i screamed his name til the neighbors called the cops
i numbed the pain at the expense of my liver
i don't know what i did next all i know, i couldn't stop
word got around to the barflies & the baptists
my mama's phone started ringin off the hook
i can hear her now sayin she ain't gonna have it
don't matter how you feel, it only matters how you look
go & fix your make up, girl it's just a break up
run & hide your crazy & start actin like a lady
cause i raised you better, gotta keep it together
even when you fall apart
If nobody in your family is going to warn you not to air your dirty laundry in public, let Miranda's mom and me be the first to do so. Consider it a public service announcement.
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