Raindrops on Labradors

I got to walk in the rain today. One of those beautiful light grayish skies and a cool breeze greeted me and my lab, Murphy, as we began our three mile walk. It wasn't raining when we left the house or I would have felt the head shaking of my husband behind me and heard the shouts of "get back here and wait for the rain to stop...you've had a cold all week!" You see he is one of those people that was raised with certain credos like "come in out of the rain" and "go to the basement when you see a tornado" (no matter how magnificent it looks from the dining room window) and "don't attempt to drive through the three foot tall snow drift in the middle of our lane in a car without AWD" (no matter how inviting the pristine snow and the primal urge to conquer a pile of anything is).
 Oh...I am certain I was given the same sort of advice but it was probably during one of those times when I was deep in conversation with Emily Dickinson and used my super powers to block out any other sound. So today, with a small threat of rain, we walked. I needed to walk. Due to this damnable cold I haven't been able to for a few days and it is the time of year that an inexplicable restlessness settles on my shoulders and I cannot shake it. A sort of unnerving that puts me into a full body clench and the only thing that helps are the walks and the silence. It was at the 1 1/2 mile mark when I turned to look back at the fields and do some stretches that I heard the first, small tap on the corn followed by more rhythmic tapping on the corn, Murphy and my head.  I took a deep breath and let my tears mingle with the rain on my cheeks and with each drop felt a little lighter. 
 I walked back slowly and with much less determination than usual, reveling in the sounds , the brilliant colors of fields in fall and the simple childish pleasure of walking in the rain. I have to confess that it is more than that for me, it is a reminder that even when I feel so small and alone, I am a part of something bigger, the rain nourishes my soul just as it nourishes the fields. 
I dripped through the house and into the bathroom to dry my hair. I took another deep breath, looked into the mirror and, just as the rain has brightened the beans and the mums, my eyes are a bit brighter and my cheeks a bit pinker...although that could be a fever, either way it's really pretty. 

Garage Sale Woes

This is for my friend Melanie and all of those other #garagesale warriors who have  spent the last month sorting, laundering, disinfecting and pricing. Carry on brave soldiers...carry on.

Today is our village garage sale. I hate garage sales. I neither like shopping or selling. I am always certain that my purchase was made driven by some primordial urge to get one over on my fellow man. It matters not that they indeed are the one's who set the asking price but in order for me to buy I must believe that they have simply overlooked the value of a small, slightly chipped, turban shrouded figurine with an "Occupied Japan" stamp on the bottom. Not that I would know the value of a small, slightly chipped...well, you get the idea. Mind you, I have never found anything at a garage sale, flea market or pawn shop that came close to resembling a cash cow. I know some people do. For instance, just recently some guy found an original copy of the Declaration of Independence at a second hand shop, paid five dollars for it, it's worth millions. That will never happen to me for two reasons; I have no idea what I am looking for and I refuse to pay five dollars for anything used!
I also hate being the seller. I never know what to ask and I am always certain it's not enough or it's too much. I don't know how to bargain effectively and quite frankly if someone just showed up and hauled it all away, I would be happy. But that, my friends, is not how the game is played.
I sit here surrounded by stuffed animals, dolls and odds and ends that my husband hauled home. He initially suggested that I sell them on e-bay. He was certain that cabbage patch dolls, beanie babies and a talking Alf would most likely make me enough money to retire on. He, of course, has never seen e-bay. I tried to sell a couple of things on the highly touted site and, quite frankly, it was a lot of work. I explained to him that each item had to be photographed in a flattering light and position, up-loaded, priced and then, if you were fortunate enough for someone to give you $2.00 for a "brown horse with yellow mane" beanie baby, you then had to package it and ship it. So when the village garage sale was announced, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to unload the tacky treasure that had taken up residence in my living room.
We arrived early, set up our tables and distributed our mostly beanie stuffed wares. A beautiful, spring day. Traffic began steadily flowing past approximately an hour later. Cars, trucks, SUV's, new and old cruising, slowing....not stopping.
Now, here is the truly surreal part, I begin to take it personally. I am angered that they don't even have the common courtesy to stop and dicker with me. How do they know that my stuff isn't worth looking at? How dare they assume that there isn't something on one of the two tables or the cracked slab concrete sidewalk that they don't need! if anyone of them was e-bay savvy they could give me fifty cents each for the beanie babies, sell them for two dollars and make quite a little profit! But that's okay...What are you looking at Grandma...either buy something or just keep moving!
Two little girls come by on tricycles and I tell them each to choose a doll to take home and love. Within thirty minutes there are, of course, a gaggle of little girls standing before me and, of course, each leaves with the free doll or stuffed animal of their choice because that's the kind of hard bargain drivers we are at this table.
Don't get me wrong. I understand. Hope springs eternal. One never knows when one might just come across, well hidden among the beanie babies and the hand woven multi-colored pot holders that Abby made at summer camp three years ago, an original copy of the Declaration of Independence.
Or maybe at a time when milk is $3.00 a gallon and it took $20.00 dollars worth of gas just to get here, a stack of slightly worn, $.50 each t-shirts just to get the kids through the summer, might just be as rewarding.

Evening Rose

EVENING ROSE

I recently told my dad about a situation that had upset me. No, angered me. "I'll think I'll just quit!" My dad's sage advice was "Don't go cutting off your nose to spite your face!" 
"I won't Dad." Funny thing, language. Colloquialisms. We all have them. My Dad is full of them passed on generationally. For instance, when I told my dad I was going to be paid for my writing, "Not much, Dad, but..." My Dad's reply, "Well, it's better than a sharp stick in the eye!" and judging from the scar on my father's cheek just below is left eye I suspect he knows of what he speaks.

Communication. It is a wonderful, maddening, confusing thing.

After a particularly frustrating conversation pock-marked with misunderstandings between myself and the parent of a student one late afternoon, I went home feeling a little down. I decided that a cheap glass of wine and a bubble bath might be "just the thing." I don't normally take bubble baths. A healthy dose of adult ADD doesn't generally allow for such a leisurely indulgence (waste of time). I searched through the back of the bathroom towel cabinet and found an old bottle of Evening rose foaming bubble bath. I blew the dust off of the lid and poured. I perched on the edge of the tub and watched the bubbles multiply and float. I entered gingerly and sank slowly. I closed my eyes and listened as James told me how he had returned to Carolina in his mind again and breathed deeply. Inhale red rose. Exhale blue mood. Inhale red rose. Exhale blue mood. I was surprised at how much I liked the fragrance. I had not really been around roses much other than the yearly trip to the botanical gardens or the floral section of my local Wal Mart. my mother had been allergic to roses so carnations were the flower of our house. Red tipped and, in later years, presented from an adoring grandson. I began to think about my mother. When she was twenty nine and we four, my two brothers, myself and my sister were small, she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. In the sixties this was a certain death sentence. We were not allowed to visit her in her hospital room but rather my father or grandparents would slowly drive past the hospital and point to the window beyond which she lay fighting. Then I remember quite vividly the afternoon that my father returned home with a single red rose my mother had sent for me to press in my bible.I did not understand why and it was not until years later that I realized the rose was to be a remembrance.

With the scent of Evening Rose still wafting about my damp hair and filling my nostrils, I suddenly opened my eyes, 'A single red rose." But wait a minute. That makes no sense. Why would my mother, who was incredibly allergic to roses, have had them in her hospital room and then....I realize. She wasn't. My mother was not allergic to roses. She didn't like having roses around because they smelled to her of pain and fear and baited breath death. It was easier to say "No thank you, I am allergic" to roses then to relate the tale of the battle she had waged on the fourth floor of a hospital. Much easier to say "No thanks." to a rose being offered then to explain that when death came to call that day in that tiny dark room she said "No thank you. Not today." 

I cry for a bit and I smile for a bit. Amazed that it took be forty years to figure it out and grateful for a husband who didn't pay attention when I said years ago "If you are going to buy me any body products for my birthday, don't get rose scented. I don't like the smell."

Epiphanies come in small doses and in strange places and occasionally from the bubbles brought forth from a dime store bottle of Evening Rose.

Communication. Language. It's amazing we understand each other at all. For instance, isn't it funny how a simple phrase like "Stop and smell the roses" can mean something so entirely different to each of us.

JON COLIN

Today is my son's birthday. He is twenty six. It is so very  hard to believe. I tried to think of something original to say about the passage of those twenty six years but all that comes to mind are the cliches about how quickly time flies and anyone who has a child knows that all too well. He and his brother, Kane, were my life and when the house was suddenly empty, I felt I was too but anyone who has experienced an empty nest knows that feeling as well. It is the human experience that we all share. Holding on and letting go. I am happy to say that I let go of two incredible people. Both wonderful men and fathers but of course it is my nature to think of all of things I should have done, said, been. I remember always thinking how lucky I was that I was not only given the gift of children but that over and above that I was allowed every day to spend part of it with two of the brightest, funniest, most caring people I had ever known....what are those odds? 
So, today, on your birthday, I would like to tell you that time does fly. That Rylan and Emmalynn will grow and leave before you have a chance to say enough I Love Yous. Before you think of saying everything that you think needs to be said. Life is fast and full and it just isn't possible to make every day special, to tell them how much they mean and how incredible they are...but do yourself a favor...try.

Love, mom

GRAY-ING PAINS

I noticed my first gray hair when I was 22. I  had finished my lunch break and was blotting fresh lipstick when I saw it shining there in my Clinique powder compact mirror. I ran my fingers through my hair and looked again, certain it was an errant thread or a misplaced streak of white out. But no...it remained, stubborn in it's need to be a part of the other  carefully coifed strands.
They began to multiply quite steadily thereafter and so began my long affair with Miss Clairol. Golden brown, light ash brown, light auburn, red (huge mistake), and a variety of brunettes. But as anyone of a certain age knows, they become even more stubborn. A flat refusal to soak in the color and, well, blend. 20 minutes, 30 minutes, even 40 minutes and still, bits of gray showing through. My hairdresser, Jeannette, suggested an overall coloring followed by high-lights that would help mask the intruders. It worked. But I began to tire of the whole process.
I remembered my mother who had finally given in to the grays and simply stopped coloring. I cited several actresses who had beautiful silver-ish locks and decided that, I too, would let it grow. I would become what I was. A 50 something grandmother. After all, there is no shame in aging gracefully...I refuse to have any "work"done so why force my hair to be something other than what it is supposed to be! 
I felt such freedom...such strength...such anticipation! I began to notice more and more women with gray and silver do's and I thought 'why hadn't I done this years ago?"
It was one morning aprox.eight weeks into the process that my husband, head tilted, slight frown said very matter-of-factly "the back of your head is completely gray."  "Yes, I know...I told you I was going to let my hair grow."  "But...it's gray." "Yes. What color did you think it was going to be? Maybe you thought that I had been hiding platinum blonde underneath the ash brown?"  He said nothing more (he's a smart man) but the moment he left I saw the sad truth in the bathroom mirror. The back of my head was, indeed, completely gray while the front had apparently not received the memo and was a strange sort of mottled color of brown, red, old blonde highlights and, of course, grey. My head resembled an aging, mangy calico cat.
I couldn't believe it! I cannot even begin to tell you how many miles I walk or how many boneless, skinless chicken breasts I have eaten and yet my cholesterol remains high. I changed my eating habits, exercise, and lifestyle and still I battle high blood pressure, but this...this particular betrayal was too much! Seriously? I can't even grow uniformly gray hair!!! Once again I had to face the cold hard facts. Gone were the long beautiful tresses of my youth and gone was the image of my new found self. Silver and glowing. 
I had no choice. I called Jeannette and made an appointment and she deftly colored the grays and left the high lights. We talked about a new hair style and I said that I would like to let it grow out a little. Jeannette knows me as well as she knows my hair and shows me how to style it while it is growing. She then places her hand on my shoulder and speaks carefully to my reflection "You are going to have to be a little patient."
Oh! I will... I think...maybe...at least for the next six weeks.

See ya Summer!

I no longer care for summer. There I've said it. I've tried but I find that for the last couple of years it has been simply a time of holding my breath and waiting for it to end. When I was a kid it was, of course, a wildly anticipated vacation. A respite from a hot 1960's classroom. A time to spend reading what I wanted instead what I was required to. In the '70s it was bikinis and basking in a mid-western sun slathered in iodine tinted baby oil trying to look as much like Farrah as we could. I love a tan. A real tan. Yes, I am aware of the repercussions... I read...but I still feel a little more alive when my skin has a peachy sort of glow, however, I must now admit that as I get older I have begun to notice that lying just beneath the glow are little brown spots and in certain areas rather large ummm splotch-iness which is really not the least bit attractive.
Never the less I, once again, filled the pool, bought the float and the suntan lotion with built in bronzer and faithfully climbed the ladder to spend an hour circling several days a week. I purchased three cute, summer dresses that were perfect for showing off a summer tan for those wonderful balmy evenings when we would venture into town to sit on a veranda or in a beer garden and sip margaritas or sweet wine. I even bought jewelry to complement each one; pink, yellow and blue baubles. I wore one of them...the pink one...once. We never sat on a veranda or even in a single beer garden this summer. 
As for the pool, there were a couple of days when I actually enjoyed it but, for the most part, it felt like a chore. The heat this summer, at an unbearable 110 for several days turned the pool into a large bath tub thereby offering no relief from July's burning rays. By August 1st I had had enough. I let the air out of the floats and packed the bathing suit and the bronzer away in zip lock baggies. 
The pool sits now, deserted except for the first leaves of fall floating in circles on top of the cool water. I say to myself that I will cover it for now and maybe, just maybe next year I will once again feel the spark of freedom summer once afforded and dive back in...but I know better. If I close my eyes I can still see me in my favorite bikini...white with black polka dots lying on a bath towel in the back yard of a tiny house on Lilac Lane. I can still hear the theme music and watch Farrah glowing and smiling, flipping those beautiful blonde tresses. 
But it is time to say goodbye...goodbye to the bikini, the tan,  Farrah and, lastly, the summer of my life.
Welcome fall...the best is yet to come.

Breast De-duction

Well it is that time of year again. Time for the annual "mommy parts" exams. So far so good but every year I am reminded of an exam that I had years ago. First I should say that there was a time when my weight was a problem...not being overweight, just imagining that I was. I was obsessed with a specific number and when the scale crept above it I became depressed and refused to eat. Then came the day when I looked at my boys and realized that being  healthy meant so much more than what a number or a reflection meant and so I changed my eating and exercising habits and threw the scale away...seriously...into the driveway!
When visiting the doctor I  covered my eyes and asked the nurse not to say the number aloud after being weighed...I simply did not want to revisit old habits. On one particular visit to my gynecologist I followed the routine...covered my eyes and asked the nurse not to tell me what the scale read. My doctor was not in he apparently had the nerve to leave and deliver a baby rather than see me so I saw the nurse practitioner. Exam over, I dressed and waited for my paperwork, instead the nurse entered the room and told me that the NP wanted to see me in her office. This can't be good. I sat in her whitewashed office nervously waiting, my pulse keeping time with the ticking of the clock that hung over her desk. Eventually she entered the room and took her seat, smiling sweetly.
"First," she said, "I want you to know that the exam was just fine and I don't suspect any problems however I did want to talk to you about your weight." Wait...what? "The nurse mentioned that you seem to be overly anxious about it and I think you should know that someone with breasts the size that yours are (big) is carrying around several extra pounds and of course that increases during times of the month."
Somewhere there is a little voice in my head that tells I am supposed to say something like Gosh Dr., thank you...I never thought of it like that. But that little voice never wins and instead I say without hesitation "You can just deduct body parts?" Her brow furrows and she cocks her head, puzzled. I can't stop myself and so "How much do you think my butt weighs?" Her eyes narrow as her brain scans the text books looking for this chapter: What to do when a patient questions your logic but apparently this particular situation isn't there. I, however, am on a roll. I raise my arm and point to that little bit of skin that has abandoned my elbow and begun to drift southward and I tug on it "I know this probably won't count for much but lets go ahead and deduct it too."  
A different sort of tight-lipped smile is now plastered on her reddening face. She stands and hands me the paperwork. "Please stop at the front desk on your way out."
I practically skip to the car. I leave feeling much lighter than when I entered and completely famished. As I eat a plate of super nachos and sip a glass of sangria I sketch on a cocktail napkin the design for a new t-shirt. It will of course read I Am Not Fat...I Just Have Big Boobs. 
I wonder if she'll want one.