Somebody Up There Needs Me

Up early.  Can't sleep.  Coffee is brewing (thank you, Tom).  Maggie Mae can't sleep either because she's seen my suitcase by the door, and she knows sumpins up.  We're going to Indy today because somebody up there needs me.

Check list for trip:

1.  Pack Jason's dinner for tonight in the cooler and put in trunk.
2.  Don't forget Julie's birthday present.
3.  Call Judy about building a bookshelf for her.
4.  Visit Mother everyday in the nursing home.
5.  Prepare Mother's taxes.
6.  Check with Amy to see if she needs me.
7.  Does Cathy need a tree cut down?
8.  What about Maggie?  Does she need anything?
9.  Can Harold use my help?
10.  Call Jason to let him know I'm coming to Indy.
11.  Change last sentence on yesterday's post to read:
     "I need to be needed, and I hope that's okay."

Letting Go

"It's a mother thing," Tom says in his attempt to rationalize my lingering concern over Jason's well-being.  By including me in with all of the other mothers in the whole wide world and Venus, he's telling me that, in the land of motherhood, my emotional hovering, my need to fix what is broken, my pain, disappointment, and sorrow that accompanies Jason's pain, disappointment and sorrow, my sleepless nights worrying, is perfectly normal. "The mother you were, and the mother you are is okay.  It's what mothers do."

"Not so fast!" some of my friends, family, ex-husband, and Jason's former teachers say.

"Is it true, Carol Louise, that you ran ahead of Jason so you could remove all obstacles in his path? That's not okay." 

"Well, let me think about that question.  It was oh so long ago, you know.  And my memory is not what it used to be.  Did I run?  Was that the question? No, but I jogged sometimes.  I played tennis.  Does that count?"

"Didn't you cater to your son? That's not okay."

"Uh, sorry.  Not sure I heard your question correctly.  Did I cater?  No, but my friend Judy was thinking about catering.  Could you have me confused with her?  And she's a runner, too."

"Jason is a grown man now and doing quite well on his own four hundred miles north of you. He doesn't need or want you to be concerned, anxious, or worried.  You don't need to fix anything.  You can relax, get some sleep.  Letting go is okay."

"Uh...uh...did you say something?  It's my hearing, you know.  Not so good anymore.  If you will excuse me, I'm busy and don't have time for your well meaning but unsolicited advice.  I'm packing to go to Indianapolis.  Jason needs me, and, by the way, that's okay."

Imagine That

On Jason's second birthday, I stood at the upstairs bathroom window and watched spring perform its magic in the barnyard and fields that surrounded our home. I opened the window to welcome the warm breeze and smell the freshly-plowed ground.  A row of red and yellow tulips lined up perfectly along a single rusty barbed wire that separated the barnyard from the field, and a dozen chickens pecked at the soft ground below me.

We had made it through another brutal winter in a house that was a hundred years old and broken down.  The cracks in the exterior walls were so big, snow would often times find its way inside.  When J.J. was home, he would keep the wood-burning stove red hot (an ability I never mastered), but during his absences, Jason and I were unbearably cold and rarely took off our coats.  With spring's arrival, hope returned, along with a resolve to "just hold on; all would be well."  

As I stood in the window and watched J.J. on his big red tractor planting soybeans in the back forty,  I thought about how much I loved my life, my husband, son and two step-daughters, Amy and Stacia, and, at that moment, I couldn't imagine life anywhere else but on the farm.

When Jason turned five, his memories of the farm had all but faded.  He was a city boy now and living in a house that was built in a day in a neighborhood that was built in a week.  The backyard could be mowed in five minutes, and if the next-door-neighbor fell out of bed, every house on the block shook.  J.J. was an every-other-weekend dad,  I worked full time and went to college part time, and when the babysitter said, "This is too hard. I quit!" my boy became a latch-key kid.  But Jason enjoyed his life on the cul-de-sac with his menagerie of friends and endless activities, and he couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

At the same time Jason was turning double digits, I was drawing up plans to enlarge our house by converting the garage into a "Jason Room." One construction project turned into another and soon I had our little brown house with yellow shutters exactly as I wanted it, and I couldn't imagine ever moving away from the southwest side of Indianapolis and my labor of love.

Some time during Jason's twenty-first year while he was still living in the little house on the cul-de-sac that I had made so comfortable he couldn't ever imagine leaving, ever, I sold the house and moved to Florida. Imagine that!

I Saw Jason Today

"That's my boy!" I yelled. "Oh my goodness!  That's Jason!" He was by himself outside the Racetrac gas station in Clayton, Georgia.  Tom, Maggie Mae, and I had gone to Clayton to eat at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants, Ishy's, and were heading back to Franklin when Tom noticed the gas warning light.

Tom was pumping gas and Maggie Mae was asleep on the center console, but as soon as I started yelling and pointing to Jason, she was on my lap with her head out the window.  "What? Where? Did someone say 'squirrel'?"  
I recognized him immediately.  What caught my attention was this blonde-haired little man trying to open the door to leave the gas station.  He was pushing and pushing when a bigger man came along and helped him out.  Jason looked up and gave the man a big smile, and that's when I noticed the missing front teeth.  Oh, my goodness!  That's Jason!  That's my boy.

He was wearing a yellow T-shirt, Wrangler jeans, and muddy white tennis shoes.  His hair was all tousled like he hadn't combed it in a week, and his face was smeared with something he'd just eaten.  I wanted to jump out of the truck and run to him and plant kisses all over his filthy face and hug his breath away, but instead I just sat motionless and looked back in time twenty-six years as my five-year-old Jason climbed up into the back seat of a Ford F350 Diesel truck and buckled himself in.

As the truck with my beautiful little boy was backing out of its parking spot, I saw my son again.  This time thirty-one year-old Jason was sitting in the driver's seat with five-year-old Jason sitting right behind him.  That's right!  I saw Jason twice today.  

Yep!  I'm crying.

(Written Sunday, March 17)

Too Much Mothering

She called to talk about Jason.  It wasn't the first time she would call and it wouldn't be the last.  At the time I was aggravated at my son's sixth grade teacher's parenting suggestions, and I didn't understand what she meant by "too much mothering."   What? Me? Mother Jason too much?  No way! Not possible!  Nope!  So, instead of telling her what I really thought about her unsolicited intrusion into Jason's and my life, I lied and told her I would consider her recommendations.  Then I hung up the phone and did Jason's homework.

When I was in my twenties, my doctor told me I'd never be able to have children, so when I discovered I was pregnant at thirty-four, I was ambivalent.  I had always wanted children, but my life, at the moment, wasn't suited for that responsibility.  Not everyone was happy about me being with child, especially my OBGYN who said, "WHAT?  You're too old to have children!!"  So, what's a pregnant old lady to do?  I had the baby, that's what.

I didn't think I was capable of loving another human being as much as I loved my newborn son.  My parenting strategy was simple.  I would raise my boy with equal doses of love and discipline.  When other parents were having difficulties with their obstreperous little brats, I would smile and walk right past them with my obedient child in tow.  I'd have him right where I wanted him, under my control, and  there would be no doubt in my smart little boy's mind who was the boss.

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha ha ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha

Okay, it's not that funny!  I'll admit it;  I might have been a bit naive about child rearing.  In retrospect, I realize that there could possibly be more to raising children than hugs and kisses and time outs.  But when I asked Jason recently what he thought of his upbringing, he told me it was great and he wouldn't have changed a thing.  Whenever we went out, he said, and when he saw other children having problems with their difficult parents, he would smile and walk right past them with his obedient mother in tow.  He had me right where he wanted me, under his control.  Have I mentioned that my son is really, really smart? He gets that from his dad.

Little Brown House with Yellow Shutters

For fifteen years, it was just Jason and me in the little brown house with yellow shutters.  When Jason was five, I bought the home on Old Mill Court to be closer to his babysitter, who lived three doors away.    Soon after we moved to the court, she quit, saying, "I can't do this anymore! It's waaay too hard!" Or something like that.

Raising Jason was hard.  I never intended to do it alone.  When I married his father, my plan was to have six kids, raise them all on the farm, and grow old surrounded by my large, loving family.  At thirty-five, I pictured myself at sixty with gray hair tied in a bun, wearing a loose-fitting Calico Prairie dress over my round, plump body, standing in our farmhouse kitchen baking chocolate chip cookies while three or four of my many grandbabies tugged at my dress.  "Nana, pick me up!"  "No, Nana, pick me up!" "I love you the most, Nana." "No, Nana.  I love you the most." Or something like that.

My plans fell apart the day the bank called, and what they had to say changed J.J.  Being a mother changed me.  We were different somehow, and not in a good way.  Farming was all J.J. knew, so when that was gone, he set about making a new path in a world not to his liking.  I was too preoccupied with the new love, love, love of my life to notice that our paths were separating and going in two different directions.  Then one day we looked at each other--two strangers--and said, "Where have you been?  I've just now noticed that you've been gone for a very long time."  Or something like that.

BACK TO THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE WITH YELLOW SHUTTERS

It wasn't a 160-acre farm with chickens, goats, sheep, horses, cows, hogs, and a dog named Laddie, but it was a home full of love and critters:  birds, fish, tarantulas, dogs, and cats.  Jason never got to grow up on the farm with five younger siblings, all fighting over who got to clean the hog pens, shovel horse poop, kill a chicken for Sunday dinner, milk the goats or spend sixteen hours a day working in the fields.  Instead he lived alone with a tiny old lady who lived in a little brown house with yellow shutters.  She colored over her gray hair, refused to wear frumpy prairie dresses, and shuttered at the thought of some rug rat calling her "Nana." Yep! Exactly like that.

The Sting That Binds

When thinking about a name for this post, I had several titles in mind.  "Love Hurts," or "The Masochist in Me," or "The Sadist in Him," or "I'm in a Bad Relationship...Oh, Well," but "The Sting That Binds" has a nice ring to it, so I'm sticking with the sting theme.

Something happened.  Who knows for certain what is was?  It was oh so long ago.  Maybe it was when I was five and playing doctor with the eight-year-old neighbor boy.  I was lying on the bed, stark naked with my life in the doctor's dirty little hands.  He said I needed a jambalaya vaccination or I would be dead within the hour, and then he left the room and never came back.  I waited and waited and waited.  Without him, my rescuer, I would die. Then Mother came into the room and screamed and screamed and fell on the floor and said, "OH, LORD, SAVE US FROM SIN! CAROL LOUISE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" and I knew then that the doctor had misled me, I wasn't dying of jambalaya fever, I was going to hell, and I desperately loved the boy next door.

Three years later I was in love again.  Charles was his name and he was ten.  My family had moved into a large, turn-of-the-century house that had been converted into multi-family apartments at 16th and Broadway, and my love interest lived right next door in a big two-story home his family shared with no one.  One day, while Charles was riding his bicycle back and forth on the sidewalk, I decided to test his love for me (he didn't even like me; he told me that many times, but I thought he was in denial), so I sat down in the middle of the sidewalk with my back to him and waited for my Prince Charming to rescue me from myself.  He never attempted to slow down.  The impact took my breath away, and as I lay on the sidewalk gasping for air, he calmly rode away.  Through the pain, I still loved him.

When people ask, "How long have you been dependent upon men?" I say, "How long have you been wearing Depends?" and it shuts them right up.  Well, really, that's kind of personal, don't you think?  Besides, who wants to admit that they 1) wear Depends, and 2) are dependent upon anything?  Although, I do like those thin mini pads, even though I don't need them, except when I sneeze or laugh or cough.  Where was I?  It's my memory, you know.  Not so good anymore.

Oh, I remember now.  Something happened long ago.  But what? What caused me to become dependent upon men and the pain that bound me to them?  For the record, I was never dependent upon men.  I just wanted (needed) a man to call my very own while I lived the life of an independent woman.  I needed to know that, at the end of a very busy day, my ticket would be validated, and only my man could do that for me.  Validation was the one thing I could not do for myself, so...

I picked men who did not appreciate my worth, my value, my capacity to love them as they had never been loved before, and asked them to do the impossible: validate me.  I accepted the indifference, distance, secrets, lies, disrespect, infidelities, and sick machinations.  I choose men who could not or would not love me like I deserved to be loved.  Then...

 ...along came Tom.

Simply Perfect

Yesterday was one of those days when, after reflecting back at the end of it, I just want to press pause and give gratitude for everything I have to be thankful for.  Life really is good.

After a long stretch of gray skies and bitter cold, the sun rose over Cowee Mountain and stayed the entire day, bringing our temperature up to sixty-four.  Simply perfect.  From our house, we can see the Little Tennessee River and the Nantahala mountain range, and when I stop long enough to absorb all of that beauty, I wonder why I don't do it more often.

The day started as it usually does.  Tom, dressed and ready to leave before the rooster crows, pulled back the down comforter to find my curled up, sleeping body so he could kiss me goodbye, Maggie, seizing an opportunity to get fed again--she was up earlier with Tom and he fed her, but she told me that he forgot; she lied--jumped on my now-exposed back and told me that she was starving, and if I didn't get out of bed and feed her right then, I would regret it.  She's always right about that, so I did as I was told.

I followed the wagging tail of a seven-pound Yorkie and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee (thank you, Tom) into the kitchen where I found a note in Maggie's bowl.  "If Maggie tells you I didn't feed her, she's lying" and an empty coffee cup on the counter (thank you, Tom).  As I was pouring Seattle's Best into the cup Tom left out for me, Maggie stood over her food bowl and waited and waited and waited.  I fed her.  Well, poor little thing was starving.

I spent my day running errands in Franklin (population: 3,500), stopping for lunch at our Amish Deli (best sandwiches in Macon County), working out at the gym, making my daily stop at Lowes, and visiting friends, Sue and Joe, at their incredible cabin that Joe and their son built.  Maggie went with me to town, and, except for when she tried to break through the car window to kill a Pit Bull sitting in the car next to ours at Lowes, she was simply perfect.

On my way home, Tom called from Asheville to ask if I'd like to have dinner with our friends, Ken and Laura, at Lulu's in Sylva.  I don't have to cook tonight? You betcha!  I dropped Maggie off at our house and drove over the Cowee Mountain to the next small town north of Franklin. Delicious meal! Wonderful friends! Great way to end the day. But wait!  There's more.

As Tom and I were driving back to Franklin, I turned on the radio, which is something I rarely do.  (I like being alone with my thoughts in a silent car.)  The night was pitch black, Tom and I were in separate cars but together in tandem, me first, then him.  There was no one else on the winding road (or so it seemed) except for me and my husband...this man I love so much that I can't imagine life without him, yet the day will come, one of us will be gone, I hope I go first--I think too much, turn up the radio--but right now we are alive, in love, and driving fast, but not too fast, taking the sharp turns with the finesse and precision of race car drivers (Tom was one).  Simply perfect.

I turned the radio up and...

Every long lost dream

led me to where you are.

Others who broke my heart,

they were like Northern Stars,

pointing me on my way into your loving arms

Rascal Flatts was singing our song.  It was all so magical.  As we turned on to the narrow mountain road that leads to our house, Tom passed me.  It occurred to me at that moment that I should have included my race car driver husband on the list of "cool" people I know.  He let me lead for most of the way and on the fourth turn, he passed me.

I pulled into our driveway as he was backing his truck up to the garage.  My husband is not only handsome, funny, and smart; he's also cool.  Then he climbed out of his truck and walked like a penguin to the garage.

Simply perfect!

I Will Never Own a Smart Phone

I knew she wouldn't answer.  While the phone was ringing I tried to remember the last time she had answered her cell phone when I called.  Months? Years? So, I left a long rambling message; a message (sprinkled with a naughty word or two or five) that I knew she wouldn't listen to.  Her preferred mode of communication now is texting, and if we are ever going to have a conversation again, it won't be the old-fashioned way: talking.

While I was in Indianapolis I bought an iPhone, which is no big deal to you, I'm sure.  (You were probably the first person in line to get a smart phone.  Admit it!  You were, weren't you? I thought so.)  But not me.  No way, Jose! Not happening!  Can't make me do it!  I have been grandstanding for years to anyone who would listen: "I will never own a smart phone."

I love my little, old flip phone.  No newfangled touchy feely screens, with colorful box icons that cause my eyes to cross, for me.  No apps to entice me to look at a calendar, pull up photos, take a picture, check the weather, write notes, send an email, find the closest Lithuanian restaurant within 50 miles, text, or search the Internet.  Nope! My flip phone is small, simple and easy.  Its job description is as follows: Place and receive calls, store messages, and fit in tiny pockets.  That's it!  

"But does it text?" My friends and family wanted to know.

"Well, I'm not sure.  I'll ask it,"  I responded as I pulled my little jewel of a phone out of my pocket.  I hit the number 3 one time for "D" and the number 6 three times for the "o" in "Do." My question was going to be "Do you text?" but my finger started to cramp unexpectedly, so I took that as a big fat NO! My phone does not text.

It was that dang texting--or lack of--that made me do it, and now that I own a smart phone, I don't know how I was able to function without it.  In the olden days, with my useless flip phone, I drove to town with both hands on the steering wheel and focused on my driving.  There was nothing else to do.  Nowadays, my options are limitless.  Want to see the latest posting on Facebook?  There's an app for that.  Need to send an email?  Check the pressure in my tires? Do my mother's taxes? Yep! Yep! Yep! App! App! App! Now the drive to town is an exercise in multi-tasking, and the time goes by so fast. But I would never text and drive.  That's illegal.

Texting has eliminated the need to talk, and I have never been fond of that activity. It's way too much work.  First, there's the breath you have to take before the first word is even uttered. Voice box, lips, tongue, and teeth are required for talking, and sometimes mine just want to be left alone.  But it's my brain that creates the most havoc when I communicate via the spoken word.  It doesn't want to be bothered, either.  It's usually late and then strolls in all cocky and arrogant after the naughty words are out of my mouth. "You need to think before you speak!" my brain chastises as if I have control over what I say.  

Before, during the dark ages of stupid flip phones, when I was at social events, I felt obligated to be, well, social.  To mingle and talk (you know how much I like to do that).  Now, with my constant companion by my side, everything has changed.  I nod my head at the appropriate time, laugh disingenuously at the jokes, and fake smile during conversations while texting, bidding on Ebay, and playing "Words With Friends" with Olga in Russia.   That's not rude, is it?  Nah!  I didn't think so.

Shame, Shame, Shame

There are a thousand and one reasons why I self-abuse.  What day is it?  Sunday?  Why am I sitting here at my computer when I should be in church?  Shame on me!  Did I visit Mother enough times at the nursing home when I was in Indy? How much is enough? Six hours a day, everyday, you say?  Uh, no. Shame on me. What is that in the sink?  Last night's dinner dishes? Naughty girl!  Why is there cotton candy behind the recliner in the family room? Excuse me? It's what? A dust ball the size of Donald Trump's hair? And, whose fault is that?  Mine? Well, of course it is.  Shame, shame, shame.

Tom and I brought my friend Margaret (Maggie) back to Cowee Mountain with us last Thursday.  I think she agreed to come because she wants to use this time alone with me to save me from myself.  I could be wrong about that, but she has been asking me a lot of therapy-ish questions like, "And how does that make you feel?" and "What are your thoughts about that?" and "Does that make you sad?" and "How do you want to pay for your session today?"  Okay, the last part is a lie, but you already knew that.

Maggie's a dietitian but she should be a psychologist because she has an uncanny way of looking beyond a person's facade, seeing the truth, and then applying common-sense logic to attack irrational thinking. Or maybe she just asks too many personal questions until the person she is trying to help breaks under the pressure.  But, I'm pretty strong.  I've had six decades to build this wall that protects me from people like her.  She'll never get in.  NEVER!

I Hate Facebook

I hate Facebook.  Well, I don't hate it; I just despise it immensely. Social networking sites and people like me don't mix well.  I'm not very social, and I don't have that many friends in real life.  But in my fake Facebook life,  I have seventy-seven.  I don't know most of them, though. Apparently, I went to kindergarten with sixty of them.  Some I met at Big Lots, Seven-Elevens, in elevators, doctors' offices and at stop lights.  All but one person on my friends' list approached me.  Some were wearing signs that read, "Will work for Facebook friends."

I don't know why I joined Facebook in the first place, but once I crossed the line and got a taste of voyeurism, I was hooked.  I now have 24/7 unlimited access to my loved ones' personal information that I would have otherwise had to discover through the rumor mill.

"Facebook can be detrimental to mental health." I saw that on Google, but I already knew it.  My mental health has suffered since joining Facebook. When I see everyone having so much fun without me, I feel left out, lonely and unloved.  Peggy and her friends are off in some farmer's field planting rutabaga.  Do I hear laughter?  I like rutabaga.  Amy and Eric are at a Jason Aldeen concert with thirty-six of their closest friends.  I like country music--the new country, not that old twangy stuff.  Oh, look!  There's beautiful Lynnette and handsome Richard.  He's in a tux and her gown is simply stunning.  They're having a wonderful time with their friends and friends of friends, just gadding about town.  I like gadding.

One day, while I was feeding my addiction by snooping around in Facebook, I noticed I was minus one friend.  Oh, no!  Someone had cut me from their friends' list.  But who? I checked the names and everyone was there, except for one.  So, I did the only thing I knew to do.  I Googled it.  And the answer was...

HELIO CASTRONEVES

I love Google.  Well, I don't love it; I just like it immensely.  Google has never failed to answer any of my questions.  "So, why did Helio Castroneves unfriend me on Facebook?" I asked Google again. "Because you're a nobody," Google responded without any regard for my feelings.  Since Google always offers more than one answer to a question, I scrolled down the list for a response less hurtful.  When I kept seeing chat room inquires that read, "Why would Helio Castroneves friend a nobody like Carol Louise on Facebook in the first place?" I called my sister Lynnette.

RINGA DING, DING.  RINGA DING, DING.

"Hi, Sissy." Lynnette answered on the first ring.

"Helio Castroneves unfriended me," I said, looking for sympathy and reassurance.

"Why would Helio Castroneves friend you in the first place?" she asked.

I hung up on her.  Do I look like Google?  I don't have all the answers.  Rick was my friend and a friend of a friend of a friend had friended Helio.  So I thought any friend of a friend of a friend of Rick's could also be my friend.  So I made the request and Helio clicked "ACCEPT" until, that is, he realized I was a nobody and cut me from his list.

After Helio's rejection and Lynnette's confirmation that I was, in fact, a nobody, I needed an outlet to express how cruel, unfair, and disappointing life can be, so I searched Google for an appropriate saying that would fit my particular life crisis.  Then I copied and pasted it on my Facebook wall.

Bad things do happen; how I respond to them defines

my character and the quality of my life.  I can choose

to sit in perpetual sadness, immobilized by the gravity

of my loss, or I can choose to rise from the pain and

treasure the most precious gift I have--memories of 

when Helio Castroneves was my friend on Facebook

until he realized I was a nobody and unfriended me.

                                                                  -Walter Anderson and me 

After I posted that on my wall, I went to bed, immobilized by the gravity of rejection,  and cried myself to sleep, because that defines who I am.  No.  Really, it does.

What Peggy Does

Last Tuesday I had lunch at Cafe Audrey at Fort Benjamin Harrison with Sharon and Peggy, two friends from high school.  Peggy found the cafe because scouting for great places to eat with her friends is what Peggy does.  It's not a job she dislikes.  She's rather fond of eating, as are most of us.  Desserts are my favorite things about eating. I can leap right over the entree and dive tongue first into a vat of dark chocolate.  My dessert at Audrey's was carrot cake but only because their chocolate vat was broken.

Keeping us connected and together is what Peggy does.  All two hundred-fifty of us.  If you are one of "us" and you think you can skip town and not tell anyone where you're going, think again.  Peggy will track you down. She's knows where your mother lives, and you know your mother could never keep a secret.

Making travel arrangements to go on a sun & fun-filled vacation? Not so fast. Organizing trips for us is what Peggy does.  Are you one of us?  No?  Are you sure?  Why are your eyeballs twitching?  Isn't twitching eyeballs a sign of lying?  Either you graduated from Lawrence Central in 1964 or you didn't.  If you did, then you're one of us and you're heading to Florida.  So pack your Depends, hair dye, and high blood pressure medicine and meet us at Peggy's house.  Why is your body twitching?  Isn't that a sign of anxiety?  Don't forget your Prosac.

Want to know what happened in the classrooms and hallways of Lawrence Central between 1960 and 1964.  Ask Peggy. Filling in the blanks is what Peggy does. There is nothing that girl does not remember.  We need her. It's that amazing brain of hers. Want to know who sat next to whom in homeroom class?  Who were our teachers and what did they teach? Who dated whom? Who got pregnant? Who went to college?  Who went to jail? What happened to those two gorgeous boys all the girls swooned over? Well,  funny you mention that.  They just tweeted Peggy this morning; they're out of the clink and they're going to Florida with us; they can't wait to model their new thongs on the beach.

Several years ago, when I asked for assistance for my mother who could no longer care for herself,  Peggy was the first friend to knock on our door to help because that's what Peggy does.

I thought I would write today's post about my dear friend Peggy because, well, that's what I do.

Explaining Bob

Since I wrote about him in yesterday's blog post, I feel I need to explain Bob. Bob is my brother.  Well, half of him anyway.  The other half does not belong to me.  I was in my mid-forties when I met him and his younger sister Janet at our father's funeral.   He was my 100% whole father, but 0% belonged to me.  Nada.  Zip. Nothing.  But you already know that story, so let's move on.

Bob is a great big brother even though he's three years younger than me.  I don't mean great big as in large (although he does like his fried chicken, gravy-soaked mashed potatoes, and apple pie a la mode).  I mean great as in exceptional, and I regret it took forty-five years, shattered secrets, and a death for us to find each other.

I liked Bob right away.  We were so much alike.  We shared the same interests. We finished each others sentences.  Our humor matched.  Both of us had sons named Jason.  We discovered that we had dated in high school, but we didn't go all the way.   Okay, that's a lie.  I was just testing to see if you were paying attention.  But, we could have.  How would we have known?  Okay, we had the same last name, so never mind.

My father loved Janet best.  At least that's what Bob said.  I wouldn't know.  I wasn't there.  My older sister Judy and I were hidden under layers of my father's lies and secrets.  But you already know that story, so let's move on.

Janet is hard not to love, so I don't...not love her, that is.  Growing up, she had always wanted a sister.  Little did she know that just six miles up the road, she had two.  

HOLD ON JUST ONE HALF-SIBLIN' PICKIN' MINUTE"!

Whole sister Judy was thrilled with the additions to our family, but explaining half-siblings Bob and Janet to half sister Lynnette (Mother's baby girl) proved to be a teeny weeny bit more difficult than I had expected.

RINGA, DING, DING!  RINGA, DING, DING!

"Hi, Sissy."  

"Guess what, Lynnette. I have another sister and brother.  Isn't that great?" 

Click. Buzzzzzzzzzzz.

Analogies

Their look is one of bewilderment or confusion or kinda like a deer caught in headwind.  When they start looking around the room to see if anyone else is understanding what I'm talking about, I will often times resort to analogies.  I love analogies, especially when I'm communicating with someone who is, well, not the brightest card in the deck.

Analogy

Making a comparison between two things (that

have something in common with each other) for

the purpose of clarity and to avoid any confusion 

caused by the inability of the communicator to

communicate effectively without using analogies.

                                                                         - Wikidikipedia 

My brother Bob uses analogies all the time.  But I think he just likes to hear himself talk.  Just kidding, Bob.   Don't be upset with me because I said you are enamored with hearing your own voice.   It was just a joke, Bob.  It's kinda like two comedians standing on a stage.  One is straight (I don't mean heterosexual; it's okay if the straight one is gay.)  The other has all of the funny lines.  In this case, Bob, you're the gay guy--I mean the straight guy.  And I'm the one with the funny lines, like "My brother Bob likes to hear himself talk."  Kinda like that, Bob.  It was a joke.  Okay, it wasn't funny.  It was just an analogy.

Jason likes to use analogies, too, but he saves them for conflict resolution.  At a tipping point in a disagreement (when he's losing ground) he'll dig deep into his "Gotta-Win-at-All-Costs" bag to find the perfect analogy to defeat his opponent.  Since he was fifteen, I've lost every argument I've had with my son.  Once he introduces the tie-breaking analogy, I'm defeated.  For example, last year when I was helping him paint his living room trim, he said I was using the wrong brush.  No. I. Was. Not! I said. Yes! Mom! You! Are! he shot back.  Without raising my voice or blood pressure, I reminded him that I had six decades of painting experience, and I did not need to be told how to paint trim. Disagreement over.  I won.  Not so fast, Miss Paint Expert!   It's kinda like this.  If you had a 6.7L power stroke V8 Turbo diesel Ford 250 truck, would you put bicycle tires on it or 12-16.5LT ribbed tread Goodyear with high traction?

I lost the argument. I was winning until Jason reached inside his "Gotta-Win-at-All-Costs" bag and pulled out that damn truck.  I was like a deer caught in headwind.  Confused.  Bewildered.  What did he just say?  It was obvious I was not the brightest card in the deck, so I turned in my 1/2" paint brush and headed over to the mall for a Frappuccino and Cinnabon.

I love analogies.

Nest for Old Birds

"Empty Nester" was the title of a magazine article I read last week, but I can't remember the name of the magazine or the author.  I also don't recall most of what I read, either.  It seems my memory these days is failing me, along with my ears, eyes, feet, back, bladder, and bones.

What I do remember about this lady's story is that she's exceedingly happy in her empty nest with just her husband and Pugglepoopee, their (Pug/Beagle/Poodle Pekingese mix) designer dog.  In this lady's world, all is well, nothing is amiss, the sun shines everyday, and the smell of Jasmine greets her every morning as she skips through the park that surrounds her life.  Skip, skip..skip, skip, skip. Nap.

The children are gone now, but does she worry about them?  Nah!  Withering family values, weird weather, wackos in Washington, worthless reality tv, wild-eyed, crazy foreign leaders with nuclear bombs don't concern her.  There is no place for them in her perfect little world.  She has her nest, her husband, Pugglepoopee, and the entire rest of the day to fill with, with...what was the question?  It's her memory.  Not so good anymore, but other than that tiny little teeny weeny thing and a few wrinkles and   a chicken-waddle neck,  life is wonderful.  No,  really it is.  Is it time for a nap yet?

While Happy Empty Nester is napping, I'd like to whisper to you why I'm bothered by her story.  She's lying to us.  Shhhhhhhh.  She doesn't know that we know she's lying,  so if it makes her feel better to pretend that all is well,  let's not spoil her illusion. 

Nap is over.  Now what?  Well, she could always clean the twigs and leaves again or maybe volunteer at the Nest for Old Birds, or she could write another article about how exceedingly happy she is in her empty nest.  That'll take a few hours and then it'll be time for a nap again.

Mother Likes Her Best

Lynnette came with a cake (chocolate with whipped-cream icing), and I brought the balloons (free at Party World because they said, "Happy New Year.")  It was Mother's ninety-first birthday this past week, and her tiny half-room at the nursing home in Greenfield, Indiana, was crowded with six visitors.

Of the family members there to celebrate her birthday, Mother was especially happy to see her last-born child, Lynnette (also known as "My Baby"). Regarding yours truly (also known as "Are You My Middle Daughter?" and "What's Your Name?"),  I had to remind Mother several times throughout our visit that I was there.

"Where's my baby? Where's my baby?" Mother asked when Lynnette stepped out of the room to take left-over cake to the nurses' station.

"She'll be right back, Mother," I said, "but I'm here, your middle daughter. Carol Louise."

"Where's my baby?  Where's my baby?"

"I'm here, Mama!" Lynnette said as she returned to the room licking icing off of her fingers.  Is it just me or does it sound a little baby-fied for a fifty-three-year-old woman to still call her mother "Mama"?  Okay, it's me.  Never mind then.

Lynnette is Mother's favorite, but I'm fine with it.  No.  Really, I am.  I was Dad's favorite, so it's only fair that Mother likes her best.

One Christmas I gave my stepdad (also known as "Dad") a $1.75 Farmer's Almanac, and Lynnette bought him an expensive Carhartt overcoat.  After he opened Lynnette's present, he said, "Look at what Carol Louise got me!  A Farmer's Almanac!"  Later that day, he handed the coat back to Lynnette and said, "Honey, I'll never wear this.  Why don't you return it and get your money back."  Lynnette tells that "Dad-Liked-You-Best" story all of the time.  Frankly, I'm a little tired of hearing it, and I'm pretty certain that, if I wanted to, I could tell a "Mother-Likes-Lynnette-Best" story.

I think I just did.