memories – Page 5 – Angel Wheeler

In Memory of My Dad #9

I love Saturdays for many reasons: sleeping past the alarm, lounging in comfy clothes, a slower pace, slowly enjoying a second cup of coffee; sometimes even a third. But right now in my life, I love Saturdays because it’s a day when I hear from my dad. His words, his stories, tell me more of his life I never knew. In case you’re wondering, I read it for the first time right along with you. I have a stack of typed stories and I pick the next one off the top and begin typing.

I dreamed of him last night, only the 3rd time since his passing. The dream is sketchy and choppy at best. I just know that he was back, only for a little while, and I got to tell him how much I love him and thank him before he left us again. It was a happy dream. I was a sad dream. I awoke longing to return. Somethings are impossible, aren’t they?

Have a nice Saturday, friends and I hope you enjoy the following story.

My uncle was my huntin’ and fishin’ buddy while I was growing up here in Eastern Oklahoma. He was also a good guy just to hang with on those soft summer evenings. He would tend his garden and smoke his pipe while I would just lay there in the grass swearing I could hear the grass growing.

Whenever he’d take me hunting or fishing, which was pretty often back in the days before the “touristas” discovered Eastern Oklahoma, you could spend an entire day and night on the upper Illinois and never be in danger of being run over by a canoe full of tourists, never seeing anyone but your neighbor fishing for his supper, life indeed was good.

He could pack a pretty good “jungle” lunch too. Sometimes it would consist of leftover “cathead” biscuits, slathered with French’s mustard and fried potatoes. Or a piece of rat cheese and all the saltine crackers you could eat, but when the fish stopped biting or the bee tree that we’d planned to rob became unfindable, that grub certainly hit the spot.

He also taught me about using a Dutch Oven. About using the coals from your burned down fire, spreading them across the top of the Dutch Oven so that you could cook or bake almost anything in one of the cast iron monsters.

He used to say, “If there’s anything that can’t be cooked in a Dutch Oven, I don’t know what it could be. And I sure don’t want anything to do with eating it, do you Bob?” He’d always say that just before taking up a big batch of fried potatoes and onions.

A Dutch Oven will accomplish things that an equal weight of lesser utensils will never get done. With a good one, you can bake bread or biscuits, cakes or cobblers. You can boil, bake or fry potatoes in one. Steaks, chops and roasts are a cinch in one while chicken can either be fried, roasted or baked in one, duck soup so to speak. You can build a great stew in one, make a delicious fish chowder, steam corn or make “bean hole beans” in one.

He was the best shot that I had ever seen, also the very best at fishing, hunting or reading sign and as a trapper he had no equal. I always wanted to grow up and be just like him. Still do.

He always said that the Dutch Oven should go down as one of the great inventions of man. Right up there with the axe handle and the clipper ship. I never knew what he meant by this saying, but I’ll agree with him on the Dutch Oven. If you find one at a yard sale, latch on to it.

As I grew older, he seemed to age a great deal and we hung around less and less often together. Eventually we’d only see each other once or twice a year and we’d set around talking hunting or fishing or the price of furs while he would put a slow smoking on that old briar of his. I feel bad now that I didn’t go visit him more after he was diagnosed with cancer, but I was already wrapped up in youthful endeavors such as fast cars and chasing skirts. I didn’t get out into the woods again for several years, shelving all the good things that I had learned from him.

The main thing I liked about my uncle was he would never talk down to a kid who wanted to know things like I did. When you get to being his age, you’ve already forgot more than most people will ever know and so you try to pass things along. It’s too bad I didn’t listen closer. He was a good friend and I’ll miss him….

Speaking of best friends and Dutch Ovens, my friend out West who knew that I was unequaled as a Dutch Oven cook, asked me to accompany him on an overnighter to this small island that set there in the middle of Lake Meredith. I already knew the guy was crazy because of the three tours he had pulled in the Nam.

“Don’t bring anything to eat, we’ll make do with things I picked up at the Army-Navy store. Be sure and leave that blankety-blanked Dutch Oven at home, too.” Sarge like traveling light.

Sarge welded for the same pipeline company that I worked for so he knew I had a brush-hog type of dog that went with me wherever I’d go. Looked like hell, but a real gentleman dog.

Sarge hauled me and Gus (the dog) out to this little remote spit of land in his flat bottomed boat and we pitched tents and prepared to settle in for the night. Sarge opened up a couple of industrial sized cans of this C-ration glop (no expiration date included) for supper, you never smelled anything so bad in your life.

The smell was so bad that we fed the first can of glop to my dog. He inhaled the whole can in a typical dog fashion and in two seconds was watching me and Sarge to see if we had more of the dreadful stuff.

We watched Gus for awhile to see if anything was going to happen to him. When he circled around a few times and curled himself by the fire and went to sleep, well that was good enough for me and Sarge. So we went after the remaining can with the same gusto. In all fairness to Sarge, it did taste better than it smelled and with a handful of Fritos, it wasn’t bad.

We had no sooner finished supper and were just breaking out the bottle of Wild Turkey, when Gus sprang to his feet and proceeded to yuk up the entire contents of his stomach. He followed this embarrassing performance by dry heaving for several minutes.

Sarge and I prepared ourselves for death. Botulism. Throughout the long night, it was hit the bottle and come up with a new diagnosis for every rumble and growl our stomachs made. It was the worst case of psychosomatic food poisoning that has ever been recorded.

Gus made us feel a little better in the morning by licking the empty C-ration cans for breakfast. Sarge and I decided to forego breakfast. It couldn’t have been the Wild Turkey, could it?

Copper the Bassett Hound

If I had my ‘druthers, I’d want a lazy, blue tick hound dog. I’d liketo sit in an old rocker on a wooden porch, shotgun over my knees, spitting tobacco juice off the porch without even turning my head with the old coon dog laying up beside me, swatting flies with his tail, twitching his ears when they bother him too much. If an old truck rumbles up wanting to trade possum skins, my old hound will sit up, lean his head back and let out a bay heard in the next county.

Yep, that’s what I’d wanted until I researched hound dogs and learned that with one shake of their heads they can sling slobber 20 to 30 feet. It was then I decided I didn’t have any use for a hound dog. I don’t even have a porch. Or tobacco.

I figured the next best thing to a coon dog was a Bassett Hound. I had my heart set on one of those. One day my niece and I went to the mall in the next big town. I parked at a store I never park near to enter. And lo and behold, just like it was meant to be, there was the Animal Rescue Society trying to adopt out their orphans. And just as if heaven arranged it, there was a Bassett Hound. The sweetest looking dog with the droopiest ears and the saddest eyes, and the waggiest tail, with the friendliest disposition. He pulled the person holding his leash towards us. It was destiny. The stars had aligned, the angels were singing, everything was perfect.

But I had my wits about me. The voice of my conscience told me I didn’t need another dog. I had Drew Miller. What if they didn’t get along? What if there was something bad wrong with this one?

While the voice of my niece begged, please, please auntie, please.

So I did what all great aunts do, I made a deal. Let’s go take care of our business, and if he’s still there when we leave, we’ll get him.

Normally Ashy is a shopaholic. Not this day. She was in the biggest dang hurry to get out of there. We walked to the exit, and as fate would have it, there was Copper the Bassett Hound still waiting on us.

I adopted the dog and he pulled me to the car, tail wagging. During the hour car ride home, he managed to get in the front seat and then he crawled in my lap. Aw, how sweet, I thought, until I couldn’t steer due to his enormous girth pressing against my belly and the steering wheel. I had to pull over to push him out of my lap. Ashy giggled from the backseat.

Copper turned out to be one of the worst dogs I have ever known. The most stubborn, bull-headed, tenacious, ill-mannered canine that has certainly ever crossed my threshold. If he could get out of the fence, he would. And he never looked back. The dog had no loyalty to me at all.

I found myself losing my temper more with this dog than I care to admit. I do not like to give dogs away, I believe if you have a dog, it is for better or worse. But Copper had to go. It was for his own good. After about a year, I found Copper a new home.

I gave Copper to a co-worker on a Friday. By Monday he had disappeared from there.

He was a dog of the open road. A Gypsy soul. A rambler. No strings to tie him down. No fences could cage him in.

Even though I hated his guts and lives, I hope wherever he is, he’s okay. Maybe he’s in Paris by now. Wearing French sunglasses and drinking vino at a bistro, ordering a’ la carte’ and eating a’ la’ mode, reading the paper wearing a beret. Perhaps someday I’ll receive a postcard, signed only with a paw print. I’ll consider it as a small thank you for rescuing him from a deadly fate.

C’est la vie!

In Memory of My Dad #8

Good Saturday morning friends,

The wind has laid, finally. I feel like I can breathe now. It really has battered us, our homes, our fences, our shingles. But today is a good day and I have a story from my dad for you.

Hanging with Watoshy, in ’95

Sitting there playing with my bacon and soft scrambled eggs ,my roomie’s voice came to me as if in a dream.

“So what do you guy’s talk about on your Wednesday night boy’s night out?’ She asked slowly sipping her cup of java.

That question is being posed by countless hundreds of thousands of wives in as many countries as there are wives to ask the thing.

My mind goes back to the night before. There are five or six guys sitting around a too-small table that is covered with beer steins and ashtrays so that you can’t get comfortable.

What do we talk about? Banal chatter. Inane conversation. Most of these conversations would put the proverbial fly on the wall to sleep faster than a shot of Ny-quil.

One member of our group is halfway in his cups and he is talking incessantly about making an eagle on the 4th hole at Crosswinds Golf Club. His audience, a male nurse, nods his head and pretends to listen intently.

Another member expounds on the relative merits in the difference between East coast women and their counterparts here in Oklahoma. The rest of us listen half heartedly and try to decide, should I have another beer now or wait five or six minutes.

Looks are deceiving. We aren’t just sitting here getting stupid. We are male bonding. Getting in touch with the inner man. Getting in touch with that beetle browed individual that lives in all of the male species. That Cro-Magnon type that laughs a loud, raucous laugh that predates the invention of the wheel. That huge, hairy-chested, callous, double hauled man who laughs in the face of danger.

I’ll call him Watoshy for the sake of conversation. Women don’t understand Watoshy, but then women aren’t supposed to understand. Women are here to jerk on that spade bit when Watoshy starts to roar. Women are here to help us up when we get to drunk to dance. Watoshy likes women, he just doesn’t bring one out with him every time he decides to go to Ned’s.

Anyway, it takes a lot to waken Watoshy. He lives in every man that you know. He is sleeping, just waiting to be awakened by some pointless male chatter, or by some sports activity such as a rousing game of eightball, or a spirited game of ping-pong. Maybe a night of poker playing or just a lot of beer drinking.

Suddenly one of our group says that he put his boss on a plane to Pittsburgh earlier that day, and now his boss wants him to work all weekend, uncompensated.

Watoshy stirs and grumbles in his sleep. An imperceptible moving of the shoulders goes ’round the table as we watch the speaker out of the corner of our eye, wondering how he will take this bit of news.

Beast that he is, Watoshy comes awake, shakes his head. He is hungry and begins to feed off this emotionally charged bit of information.

Another of our group says that he and his main squeeze, a buxom blonde named Stella, are no longer a twosome. Serious trouble. So we all make noises in support of him.

Watoshy is fully awake by now. He looks around the rapidly filling room, he has made male contact and Watoshy feels good.

Val springs for another round of brews. We all watch the last speaker, his face is white and his hands squeeze the now empty beer glass as he conveys this last bit of information.

Watoshy rises and makes a full circle of the room, stopping at a table filled with college men, he joins them in a rendition of an old drinking song.

Later…..much later, outside the lounge, my brother and a lifelong friend trade friendly insults and pummel each other around. Nothing is meant by it, it’s just Watoshy flexing his muscle knowing that he has the rest of the night and that it belongs to him.

“Remember those girls from college?” says one friend, “you could tell them anything and they’d believe it. I sure miss the seventy’s.”

“Yeah, they were gullible,” says my brother. “The military girls were my favorites though, talk about gullible.”

“Gullible girls,” someone ought to write a song about that.

“Worked half the time though,” says my brother with an evil grin.

I stared at the sky hoping to witness a supernova when I heard J.R. say why don’t we adjourn to his house for any unfinished business or an unopened bottle of Jim Beam.

Watoshy is feeling 18 and slim once again, and the mood is infectious as I hurry to my pick-up.

We’ll all feel bad in the morning, but what the heck. We’ll live. All of us. Besides, you gotta play hurt sometime.

Bob, on the left.

In Memory of My Dad #7–Golf

My dad was a golfer. There was usually a set of golf clubs in the back of his work truck, just in case. As a little girl I remember times when he’d suddenly remark, “Let’s go hit some golf balls.” Oh the joy I would feel. I was going to get to golf! So he’d grab his clubs and that handy little golf club picker-upper and we’d head to large park or walk across to the empty field across the street. I quickly learned I wasn’t there to golf with my dad, but I was sent to get the balls after he’d hit them. He’d holler at me, “There’s one to your left, or farther, go farther.” I never even got to swing the club.

Here’s a story written by my dad about golfing:

You may hear women complain of being a golf widow. Big Deal. It’s you the golfer who is hurting. It’s your hands that are numb and bleed at night, it’s your back that aches and twitches. Your legs are sore and your neck is sunburned almost black from hours of standing over the golf ball. You are in a mortal panic, it’s you who is one of the walking wounded.

When you play a good round of golf, you are deathly afraid that you can’t repeat the swing your next time out. When you play badly you think, “why couldn’t I have been born a mule, then I could get some use out of all this green grass.”

You say to yourself, “I don’t need this kind of suffering,” but you know that you’ll be back tomorrow and that’s what makes the wonderful world of golf so exasperating.

Golfers like to wear shirts with small animals emblazoned over the pockets. Penguins. Alligators. The small Polo horse and rider. I have many shirts with the alligator logo. Once playing in South Texas I hooked a ball far into the left rough. When I went into the jungle grass looking for the ball, I spied an alligator with a shirt that had a little golfer over the pocket. I don’t even think he was a member of the club either.

I used to play a pretty decent round of golf, but since having this stroke, anytime that I don’t fall out of the golf cart is a good round. I could play the game with a broom stick and a road apple now and still score as good.

You’ve got to look good to play the game halfway decent. I have a pair of green canvas golf shoes and an oversized Reebok Sweatshirt, and a pair of wide shorts that end just below the knee. Billy Brewski calls it my grunge look. I may play to a thirteen, but I look like a three out there.

Shoes are more important than “top of the line” golf clubs. Especially if you are just starting out in golf and walking a lot of holes. You need to invest in a good pair of golf shoes if you are going to take the game seriously. Cheap golf shoes have crippled more men than Madonna. I first started to play the game of golf with a pair of shoes bought from Sears-Roebuck. They were a putrid black and red check against a cream background. I liked to have crippled myself before investing wisely in a pair of Foot-Joys.

Better yet, take an already broken-in pair of shoes to the cobbler and have them converted into a pair of golf shoes. Say to the cobbler, “I’m giving these shoes to a friend, the lucky stiff. He don’t know how lucky he is getting to play golf everyday while I’m at work.” This may get you a price break from the cobbler. Now he may only charge you $17 instead of the $20 for the $9 job that he is doing on you and the golf shoes. Also you won’t feel so bad when you throw the shoes away and swear off the game for good after shooting a light running 85.

To have a good time on the golf course it is imperative that you get to the course bright and early. You can’t have much fun on the golf course at night, unless you are accompanied by a blonde and a blanket, and are waiting for a Drambuie front to move in. Of course this kind of stroking and putting isn’t recognized by the USGA.

The first order of business when you arrive at the course is to order a Slo-Gin fizz. This will steady your nerves and stop the churning of your stomach from the night before when you made the golfing date show up bright and early to have a good old-time. It will also help relieve the pressure on your sternum so you can make at least a partial shoulder turn without tearing something loose deep inside of you.

Next move. Find out who you made the golf date with the night before. Greet everyone you meet with a big smile and a huge “Hi there.” Soon you will see someone else with a puzzled look on his face, saying, “Hi there” to everyone he meets. It’s 8 to 5 this is who you made the date with the night before.

Get on the first tee and follow tradition, lie about how you are playing. Say “my handicap is a thirteen, but I’m playing to a nineteen.” Then the other golfer will tell a couple of lies himself and the games are ready to begin.

Forget about playing even close to your regular game. It’s the deal you make on the first tee that counts. Keep the bets small, never more than a $2 nassau. Then lose about $6 or $8 bucks maneuvering your opponent into the unenviable position of buying lunch. On a good day you can come out ahead by $8 or $10 using this ploy.

Advice is always prevalent on a golf course. The best I ever heard was when a guy came in after shooting about 150. He asked the members of his foursome what he should give his caddy following the round. “Your clubs,” was the answer he got.

So go on out on these unseemly warm days we are having. Remember these few rules and you’ll have a good time. And if that don’t work, say to heck with the USGA—-grab you a blonde and go at night.

In Memory of My Dad #6

It’s Saturday. Which means I’m thinking of my dad today.

He died on a Saturday.

My sister nailed it when she compared it to a new born’s age. You count every day of their life. Here in the beginning stages of my dad’s passing, and our grieving, we count each day too. It’s been 12 days, It’s been 18 days. We have now entered the week stage. Five weeks. Thirty-five days.

I have a storage building sitting in the backyard of my mother’s house. It was the very first thing I bought, outside of a car. My uncle owned and ran a portable building shop and he sold me a building for $600. I, being very young, but needing a place to store my stuff when I moved back in with my mother, paid him $50 a month for a year until it was paid for. Interest free.

My dad asked to store some boxes there once. The building just sits. No one ever adds to or takes away.

Today something compelled me to go to the building. I opened the heavy door, cautious of waspers that sometimes fly about. I pulled the heavy door open, stepped inside, and the Texas panhandle wind blew it shut, leaving me in the dark. Outside, I saw a rake lying near and propped it open. Inside were boxes from my highschool years, old clothes, a box of carebears from my childhood, an old couch and chair, a desk, and several boxes belonging to my dad.

They were labeled in his handwriting: Important papers, Colored Bottles and Teapots, and of course Books.

I love his handwriting. But more than that, I love his writing. His actual writing. So often the people who knew him and speak of him, talk about his words. Just today at my garage sale, an old co-worker of his spoke of how he could write and use words so well. I know that his special friend Jane fell in love with him through his commentaries in the local newspaper before she ever even met him.

Being a “writer” myself, I was thrilled when I opened a box and found his stories from his stint at the newspaper, and then I found a journal. A small, light green spiral bound Mead notebook. On the cover is printed in his hand NOTES #1 Journal. The inside cover reads in cursive The Journals of Bob, and printed on the back cover is The Journals of Robert lee—soldier, statesman, Author. My mom always cautioned me about keeping a journal. Others will someday read your innermost thoughts and feelings. I’m anxious to read this journal, but I’m also excited. I’ll hear from him again. His words will live on.

I do believe my dad lived longer than he ever thought possible. In the Important Papers box, there was a manilla envelope filled with printed computer articles with titles such as “Brain Basics: Preventing Stroke”, “Guidelines for Management of Ischemic Attacks”, “Practice Guidelines for Acute Stroke” that my sister had mailed him in 1998.

And written in his hand on the outside of the envelope in a red pen are these words:

In these, my final years, I believe in Love.

I also believe in Kindness, Tenderness and Mercy.

I believe in The goodness of mankind.

I above all believe in family.

I must never let my life be ruled by drink or drugs. I must never let my happiness depend on the thoughts, whims or demands of another person.

I swear that I will never forget the goodness of Truth and honesty. I will always remember the harshness of life…And, I will always know its warmth.

I have known its Love.

Bob

’98

55 years, and holdin’

2 or 3 strokes

Each Saturday after today, I’m going to share a story from my dad.

Until I run out of stories.

Or Saturdays, whichever comes first.

A Little Fruity

I walked down the hallways of my school today and the scent of strawberry shortcake assaulted my nose. Not that strawberry shortcake is a bad thing, quite the contrary. It wasn’t real strawberry shortcake however, someone was burning a candle, or had a smell-good of some sort in their room. The smell immediately took me back to my childhood home on Seminole Street and a doll I used to have.

It was a Lemon Meringue Doll from the Strawberry Shortcake Collection. The best part about this doll was when you squeezed her tummy a little burst of lemon scented air would escape from her mouth. I think my sister had a Strawberry Shortcake one. They claimed they were blowing you kisses. But I loved her. I squeezed her tummy and smelled her breath all day long.

Isn’t it funny how a smell can lift you from the place your standing (even when it’s outside the stinky restrooms of a schoolhouse) and plant you in a place you haven’t visited in years.

It’s like the pie my co-worker gave me a couple of weeks ago. It was a strawberry cream pie. I had never had strawberry cream pie. The minute I tasted it, my mind went a’whirlin’, trying to place the familiarity of the taste. I couldn’t quite find it, so I had another piece while I pondered. I was getting a little bit closer to solving the mystery, but I needed one more piece. Then I nailed it. It was exactly like a strawberry parfait from Kentucky Fried Chicken. You know the one with graham cracker crumbs in the bottom and then layered whip cream. Just to confirm, I had one more piece. Score on The Little Bucket Parfait. My dad used to always buy us those. He loved KFC. I prefer the lemon parfait. I think it has something to do with the sprinkles.

All good things must come to an end. Eventually the scent from Lemon Meringue’s breath wore out to just plain old air. What became of her, I don’t know. But I noticed she’s worth about $45-85 bucks today. Even the parfaits seem smaller to me now.

Nothing stays the same.

But today, I stood in the hallway of my school waiting on my boys to finish playing in the bathroom, and I spent a little time in a memory.

One memory led to another and then that one to another.

Then my mouth started watering.

And it hasn’t stopped.

In memory of my dad #5

As we packed up the house this past week, and walked out the door to spend the night in our new home, I looked around the rooms at the emptiness of them. The pictures were off the walls, the furniture had been carried out. There was nothing left except an old chair or two and a sack of trash here and there. The sun had set, the day was done, and we were exhausted.

Pausing at the door, I took a deep breath and told my husband, “I’m
sad. This is sad.” He sweetly replied, “Well we can bring sleeping
bags back and stay here. ” I giggled. “No, it’s not that. It’s just that there are lots of good memories here.”

Memories of birthdays, Christmases, celebrations of many kinds. There are memories of family, friends, snowed in days, and dog dribble.

And there are memories of my dad, who died barely 3 weeks ago. Those are the memories I don’t want to leave.

The house I’m moving from is the last place I saw him walk. That’s the last place I saw him alive. And it makes me sad.

I’m leaving that place. And it almost feels like I’m leaving him and his memories. I can still see him coming down the hall into the kitchen. I can hear the crinkling of the Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Package being peeled back. And then there he goes, back down the hallway to the bedroom with a handful of cookies in his big old paw of a hand.

Or I see him with his coffee cup struggling down the hallway, sloshing his coffee. My husband used to tell a joke about him. He’d say, “My father-in-law doesn’t drink coffee, he spills most of it.”

The last time he was here was at Thanksgiving. My sister insisted we watch a movie. He finally agreed, even though he’d already seen it. He laid on the floor with my sister and we laughed and laughed.

I sit in this house right now, the house I’m moving from. I don’t have internet at my new place yet, so I come here to blog. I’m alone in this quiet house, but if I sit real still, close my eyes, and listen hard, I can hear my dad. I hear him holler for me to come fix the TV in the bedroom because he’s pushed the wrong button on the remote, or figure out how to get to his email on the computer, or get his basket of pills out of his truck.

I see him laying on the end of the bed, on his stomach, snoring with the TV blaring when I come home from work. I only wish I could hear him snore one more time. Just one more. I wish I had more coffee spills to clean and TV remotes to fix.

But I can’t look back, I have to move forward.

I have new memories to make. New roads to travel.

I wish he was here to travel them with me. I wish we were making memories still. I want him to see my chicks. I want him to stay in my new house. We laid laminate flooring instead of carpet, simply for the ease of cleaning up coffee spills.

I’m moving ahead, but there will be times on my journey, I must pause to remember my dad.

Just for a moment, but not too long.
I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.

Kindred Spirits

Tonight I am dragging in after a wonderful visit with my old friend Erin, not old in terms of years of age, but old in regards to years of friendship. I hope you know the kind of friend; no matter the distance of time or miles that separates, we seem to begin right where we left off. Even if it was years before.

We went to supper and ironically ordered same entrée. As she was ordering, I was thinking, “That is exactly what I want too.” Afterwards we went to her little house and talked for hours. Literally for hours. We laughed and at times even teared up a bit. We talked about things of old and things of new. We talked about love and hate. About life, aging parents, death, and tragedy. We shared our hopes, our dreams, our hurts, our mistakes, and regrets. It was a breath of fresh air to me.

On Monday, a friend whom I have never done anything with, never shared a coke, or gone on a ride came to visit me. He is mostly an online friend, but true to the core. It’s the same situation. We realized we’d been sitting on the same couch cushion for hours just talking away. It’s as if someone just unzips your skin and reveals your soul, and there is a glimmer, a flicker of recognition in the other.

My husband says it’s not like me to talk so long, and I have to say there are just some people who I can chat ’em up with.

Although I can count the number of my friends on one hand, they are true blue. And no matter the time or distance that separate, we always remain.

So tonight, I lay my exhausted head down and count my blessings, my friends.

2 weeks—Memory of my dad #4

Today it has been two very fast weeks since my dad’s death. I’ve been doing okay, I really have. My loved ones (and his) have been grieving something fierce, and I’ve been worrying about myself because I seem to be living life just like before February 27th. I ponder if I’m giving myself time to grieve, if I’m dealing with this like I’m supposed to? Of course he’s the first thought I have when I open my eyes, even before I begin deciding what day it is, and he’s the last thought I have before I fall asleep where I long him to visit me in my dreams. He only has talked to me once in my dreams, and he told me he had to go alone, that was pretty much it. The rest of my dreams have been busy planning the funeral and such.

A few moments ago, I literally collapsed on the couch with exhaustion from packing, moving, and unpacking my home. My body is weary and my mind is exhausted, and my little niece who was busy cleaning out her clothes came into the room holding a tee-shirt her Grandpa had bought her. You know one of those “Someone who loves me very much went to blah blah blah and all they brought me was this lousy shirt.” Holding it against her chest, she said, “auntie, I have to save this even though it’s too small for me.” That’s when my eyes welled up and the hurt returned.

I know I’m going to have days like this. I know when my mind and body slow down enough, it will hit again. I’m thankful for my busy-ness right now.

Thursday I celebrated my birthday and that evening I blogged about my age, and the question of middle age.

Ironically here’s a story written by my dad on the same subject. Enjoy.

~Trying Not to be Caught in the Middle ~

“Good God, brother, you walk like an old man, what are you 54, 55 years old?” my brother groused as I creaked and groaned my way to my feet.

“Whatever it is, you’ll be there sooner than later,” I told him and made my way to the fridge for a refill. You’ve go t to give as good as you can take in this day. And I keep my needle honed for jibes such as these.

Middle age–why do they call it that? Because we often find ourselves in the middle. Too young to enjoy the quiet pleasures of the aged, but too old to handle the excitement of the young.

Some wise old sage (I think it was one of my friends) said, “Youth is wonderful, too bad it’s wasted on the young.” I concur. It’s too bad the young don’t possess some of the mellow qualities their elders have in abundance.

Three score and 10. that’s what we’re allotted, and if those figures are correct, then I’ve by-passed middle age and no one even told me I was ever there. Someone once wrote, “If you pass fifty, be on your guard against impulses, which if obeyed, can lead along a perfumed path to folly and incalculable risk.” The only impulse I suffer from is to take a nap in the afternoon, and the sooner after lunch, the better.

Having lead a rather active life between the years of one and fifty, and having acted on many impulses, I’m curious as to what the next few years might bring. Because if I’m going to make a fool of myself, at least I’d like the opportunity to pick my own gig. So I’ll play the proverbial grasshopper waiting for whatever.

Middle age, according to my calculations, is somewhere between 30 and 65. To the stripling of – say 16 – then thirty might be middle age. If you’re a geezer of 80, middle age could be 65 or 70. It’s all relative.

With the life expectancy being increased daily by the Abflex, people can expect to live to be a hundred by the next century. Then, by the simple ciphering of numbers, middle age will come at the relative young age of 50.

A friend recently told me, “I’m in the middle, I have too much energy to sit still and not enough energy to move about.” Then waxing philosophical he added, “You’re as old as you feel. That’s as plain as your face!”

“Don’t you mean, as plain as the nose on your face,” I asked.

“I said what I meant,” he added.

In respect to his age and mine, I didn’t pursue the matter any further.

So to those of us that have reached middle age, we may as well yield to it and become synchronized with the years. You can’t kid the calendar. Be prepared to agree with the fellow who insists that there must be some pleasure in senility. Maybe after all, age is just a mirage to those of us who no longer have youth in great abundance. But I’ll struggle, struggle against growing old. Because the longer I stay young, the shorter I’ll be old. Anyway you look at it, it’s time to take my nap.

Bob Briggs
August 17, 1996

Luck is a Ladybug

On Sunday we drove up to Tahlequah, Oklahoma for a sad occasion. A traveling companion joined us. No, it wasn’t my aunt or sister although they were both in the car.

It was this little spotted ladybug. We discovered her on the passenger window almost as soon as we left town. My first instinct was to let her go free, but I couldn’t roll down the window and allow her to escape for fear that the wind at its magnitude would kill her. Killing a ladybug is believed to be bad luck. I don’t really know if the wind whipping a ladybug out of a cracked window at 70 mph is considered murder, but I wasn’t risking it. So she stayed put and occasionally would fly from one side of my vehicle to the other.

Ladybugs are reported to be good fortune. Almost every culture in the world believes in the luck of the ladybug.

The legend of the ladybug from around the world:

In France, if a Ladybug landed on you, whatever ailment
you had would fly away with the Ladybug.
If the spots on the wings of a Ladybug are more than seven,
it’s a sign of coming famine. If less than seven, it means
you will have a good harvest.
In Brussels, the black spots on the back of a Ladybug indicate to the
person holding it how many children he/she will have.
In some Asian cultures, it is believed that the Ladybug understands
human language, and has been blessed by God, Himself.
During the Pioneer days, if a family found a Ladybug in their log cabin
during the winter, it was considered a “Good Omen”.
Folklore suggests if you catch a Ladybug in your home, count the number
of spots and that’s how many dollars you’ll soon find.

I hate to admit that I’m a tad bit superstitious. We let this ladybug ride with us for the duration of the trip. I figure if a ladybug brings a little luck, the longer she’s with you, the more luck you might receive.

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I have a memory of being a little girl when my sister and I discovered a lot of ladybugs. What is the proper term for a lot of ladybugs? A gaggle, a herd, a flock?

My sister and I loved the ladybugs and wanted to keep them, so we ripped off their little black wings from under their polka-dotted shell so they couldn’t fly away. We didn’t do it out of a mean spirit, just out of a desire to keep them. We wanted to love them, and hold them, and pet them. It’s a bit like Lenny in Of Mice and Men, who squeezed that puppy so much, he killed it out of love.

When we told my mom what we had done, she was appalled. I’ll never forget it. “How would you feel if someone pulled off your legs and you couldn’t go anywhere,” she guilted us. It worked. I feel bad about it to this day.

********

This particular ladybug journeyed with us 6 1/2 hours to a new land.

I hope she’s made new friends there.

And maybe she left a little luck behind for us.

‘Cause who couldn’t use a little luck?