Tags and Transitions

 

    For the past twenty years or so my end of the summer focus has been on readying my kids for their ride on the big yellow school bus. It seems like it was only a few moments ago that I pinned a manila tag to their clothing before they stepped on that bus for the first time.  The kindergarten kids were always identifiable by those tags.  The information contained on them; the child’s name, the teacher’s name, the bus route number and the bus stop location ensured that they would be returned to me at the end of the day.

 

  For the first week or so of school I would pin that tag to my child in a place of prominence.  Inevitably the day would come when my child would push back about wearing it.  After all they were grown up now and knew which bus to ride.  They protested.  I protested more.  In retrospect I wonder if those tags were more for the parent’s peace of mind than for the child’s wellbeing. That manila piece of paper had been my insurance policy.  I simply had to trust that my children would find their way home to me.  They did. 

 

 

  Parenting is hard work.  It requires an immense amount of patience and an equal amount of resolve.  When our children are placed in our arms we are smitten for life.  However, this object of my attention did not arrive with an instruction manual.  Parents are both overjoyed and overwhelmed with the required daily tasks. We breathe, dig deep and carry on.  Some days are easier than others.  And some days are just plain hard.

  Through the years the words “When is this ever going to end” became my mantra. While in the parenting trenches there have been many occasions where I have whispered, spoken and, yes screamed these words. 

   I remember dragging myself out of bed for those two and three o’clock in the morning feedings. They could have been times of quiet connection but exhausted I did my best to stay awake for the feeding and I wished my baby back to sleep.

    There were the countess diaper changes. My pocketbook begged for relief.  It seemed as if Pampers and Huggies had a direct pipeline to my bank account and a standing order to drain it. I thought my diaper days would never end. Eventually they did and the monetary change went virtually unnoticed. 

  So many nights I would lie beside my child to help them fall asleep and I too would end up visiting slumber town. During the night I would awake with a stiff neck and sore back and move to my bed. 

 Then there were the two a.m. visitors who tapped my shoulder until I awoke and said, “Mommy I’m scared”.   I would pull them into bed with me and bear the brunt of the wayward elbow to my chest, the arm across my head and the stray foot to my stomach.  When morning would arrive I would sneak out of bed exhausted from a night of little sleep. On occasion I would steal a few moments to marvel at their tiny cusped lips, their chest slowly rising and falling with each breath and their dimpled hands wrapped around their favorite stuffed animal.  And somehow those times ended too.

  As the years passed we moved onto bigger things.  Athletic competitions and academic pursuits consumed our lives.  I developed a severe case of bleacher butt from sitting in the stands.  We spent many a weekend on the road and most weeknights hurrying from one activity or school function. Whatever were my children’s interests, I encouraged them. 

  During those years I forged a kinship with that hamster that runs around on her wheel.  Both of us were in constant motion and neither of us seemed to be reaching our destination, wherever that was supposed to be.  I remember one Sunday afternoon when I was completing my routine of slicing and grilling vegetables to make sandwiches for my daughter’s lunch (she and cold cuts never formed a bond).   I would take an hour or so from my Sunday schedule to grill the vegetables for the week.  One particular Sunday I stood by the grill turning the vegetables to get the perfect grill marks and hoping that I did not drop them in between the grill grates. Frustrated and tired I repeated my saying of choice; “When is this ever going to end?”  And you know what? In a blink of an eye the end came. I found that my Sunday’s no longer required vegetable grilling duties.   

  My parent’s advice began whispering to me “Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.” 

   This summer has been different in many ways. Mother Nature decided to scale back on those hot and hazy days. Crazy and carefree times have been in short supply.  Summer in my family has been about milestones and movement.

  It began with my daughter finishing a long term substitute teaching job in her college town. With an expiring apartment lease in one town and a dream of settling in another she moved her belongings into a storage unit and headed off to her camp counseling job for the season.  In the midst of her summer position she interviewed for and secured a teaching job in the area of Virginia that she longed to be.  Instantly I became an apartment hunter and logistics specialist.  Thankfully, I Successfully completed my assignments.  My daughter finished her camp obligations on the 11^th of August and was settled and ready to begin her teacher training eight hours south of our New York home on the 14^th.  Whew!

  June my son graduated from high school. He attended his college orientation the first week of July.  My focus turned to graduation party planning, FAFSA forms and shopping for dorm room and school supplies.  Somehow from the clearness of the summer days and the coolness of the nights we reached the end of August.   Tomorrow is move in college move in day.

 

 

   Shortly the calendar will turn and we will be in the month of September. The big yellow school busses will resume their routes through the neighborhood.  For the first year in many I will not have a child boarding them. They have moved on.  Each is readying to write their own story and live into their reality.  I find myself wishing that I could pin that manila tag to them, the one that contains the instructions as to how to return them to me.  But I can’t. 

  Now I wear a tag but it is not visible.  It is etched upon my heart. The routing instructions have not changed from the ones that were printed on the tag and pinned to their shirts so many years ago.  No matter where their lives take them I trust that they know “home” is merely a thought away. My heart is always ready to meet them and my arms remain open and yearn to embrace them.  

 

Life's Wisdom

 

Today......

I realized that I have spent more days in anger than in peace.

I have allowed perfectly good moments slip away because they weren’t perfect.

I know I have been critical at times where comfort was needed.

I spent time wishing for thing that were neither important nor in my control.

I outwardly searched for happiness when all the time she was my mute companion just waiting for the moment when I allowed her to speak.

I have hurried past the blooming spring lilacs, turning my nose, not allowing myself a moment to embrace the scent their blissful perfume.

I have devoured a meal without savoring the richness of the flavors or acknowledging the loving hands that prepared it.

I have said no when I should have said yes.

I have said yes when I should have said no. My priorities were out of alignment.

However, for all of the times I have miss stepped, I have recovered, realigned and readjusted.

Believe it or not, yes, age is accompanied by many gifts, and they are welcomed.

Wisdom

Patience

Insight

Clarity

Comfort with yourself

And compassion for others

I now understand that sustenance comes not from how well we feed ourselves, but how well we feed others.

Today I watched a friend arrive at church. He was wheeled in, but not in a chair.

He arrived in a box draped with a cloth that spoke of his devotion.

Prayers were said, hymns were sung, stories were told, tears were shed and comfort was given.

Sadness and grief were so very prevalent, but so was deep love.

This story had a sad ending, as all of ours will.
 

I have been reminded to
 

Let go of the anger

Find the beauty

Open my heart
 

Trust my instincts
 

Slow down
 

Release judgment
 

Savor each day and embrace the journey.

The Flames of Life

Fulfillment requires two things.  First a deep desire and second the unbridled passion to make it happen.  One of my recent fulfilling life experiences evolved over a cup of coffee with a dear friend.

  I am fortunate to live just over a mile away from a woman who has rescued me in more ways that I can share.   If you examine our birth certificates she is nine years my senior.  According to her actions she is at least nine years my junior!  If the truth be told, I am happy living in the shadow of a junior who is really my senior.  She evokes uncontrollable laughter from me.  And through the years she has gently pointed out the simple joys in life when I did not believe any existed. 

  How, you ask?  Well, I have the toys to prove it!  They include a cherry red kayak, a pair of snow shoes with matching trekking poles and a sleeping bag that has a lifetime prepaid pass that entitles me to a bed where I can unfurl my sleeping bag in her pop up camper.

  Fran and I lived three townhouses away from one another in the late 1980’s.  It wasn’t until our toddling children wandered into one another’s yard in the early 1990’s that our friendship began.  With each flip of the calendar our connection grew. In recent years something shifted. The wander lust that our children had possessed in the 1990’s had now become part of our DNA.

  A few months ago while out for a Saturday morning walk I stopped at Fran’s for a cup of coffee and some conversation. Still in the throes of very cold and snowy winter our talk turned to sunshine, warmth, kayaking, camping and beaches.  Once again Fran shared her lifelong dream of having a campfire on the beach. That morning, along with the coffee, ideas and possibilities for adventure were brewing.

  “This year Michael and I have different spring breaks” Fran shared.  “I would love to go camping and find a place where I can have a campfire on the beach”.  “But the only place I have found is at the far end of Cape Cod and that is a five and a half hour ride.  That is too far to drive for a few days.”

  Her though pattern didn’t sit right with me. “Really, five and a half hours is too far to drive to live a dream?  How can you place limits on something that you have always wanted to do?  We have had this conversation many times before.  It is obviously something that you really wants, not to mention it is on my list too.”

  As I shared those thoughts I could sense a shift in Fran’s demeanor.  It was as if the sunshine was pushing through to burn off a heavy dense fog. With the thought clenched tightly within her heart her passion was like storm waters on the brink of bursting the dam.    Yup, I can sense it.  The trip was going to happen.

 So the campsite in Truro, MA was secured and the planning commenced.  There were three of us signed up for the adventure among the woods, wind, sand and surf!  Perfect!

  Within three hours of arrival camp was setup.  We began our exploration.  The first stop was the beach.  All it took was one breath of the briny ocean air and I was instantly at peace.  Next we visited the light house and we decided to watch the sun set and dine in Provincetown. It was a full Saturday but Sunday was the designated campfire on the beach day.

  The next morning after breakfast was cleaned up we ventured into town to secure our permit for the beach fire.  With the paper in hand and the instructions to call in for a final authorization between four and six o’clock (due to high winds) we headed out to explore the neighboring towns and beaches.

  We enjoyed our adventures and savored the laughter.  We did not rush the day but the thoughts of our planned evening activity burned within.  With each beach and bluff we visited not one of us uttered a word about the strong whipping winds.  Silently we all worried about the possibility of our dream being postponed.

   After an early dinner with fingers, toes and minds crossed the call was placed to the fire station. The camper canopy was flapping in the breeze the thumbs up sign was given! Yes, tonight desire and passion were going collide to fulfill a dream!

  It was one of those “ready, set, go” moments. The car was instantly packed with snacks, clothes, fire wood, chairs and whatever else we believed we were going to need.  Okay, we probably had half of the camp in tow but we didn’t want to forget anything. 

  Once at the beach giddy and gabbing we carried everything from the car (well, Fran threw the firewood down the dunes) to the beach and we selected a spot to set up camp. It was six o’clock the sun was just beginning its decent for the day.  The tides were gently and rhythmically rolling upon the shore and a sense of calm settled in.

  Fran dug a hole in the sand that would act as our fire pit.  The kindling was arranged in a teepee along with some dryer lint in a toilet paper holder as a homemade starting agent.  But as the daylight diminished for a short while so did out hopes.  The fire was giving us fits. It would ignite for a moment then go out.  It could have been the wind or it may have been the dampness but we weren’t going to be defeated. After lighting, relighting and realigning we tossed a store bought “fire starter” into the mix.  It was simply a reminder that life does not unfold to our predesigned plan.  We must be willing to shift our course. That fire starter did the trick.  It was the catalyst that ignited our dream.

       The fire was finally burning. The sun was setting in the west as the moon was rising in the east.  The blueness of the sky was deepening.

Soon dark blue melded in black.

Fran was holding one of her sneakers in her hand.  She shook it around and told each of us to select an item from within.  We protested.  Touching something that was in Fran shoe was a no-no.  But after much laughter and many protests we obliged.

  From that sneaker each of us selected a white circular shell; each shell was in a different place of its evolution.  Fran asked us to examine the shell and relate it to our life.  We were asked to those thoughts for later discussion.

  I looked at my shell. The tip of it was broken off but the spire in the center, its core, was still steadfast in its direction.  Hmmm, yes, I thought.  Some area of my life may be chipped but at my core I am still steadfast and strong.

  Our fire was burning wood at a pace faster than we had anticipated. Not wanting the evening to end too soon we each took turns scouring the beach and dunes for more wood.   As I wandered from the fire for my wood gathering mission I could hear my friends discussing life events, worthiness and perceptions.  I hesitated.  Should rejoin the group or should I walk away?  I opted to return.    

 As the fire heated up so did our conversation.  It would not be fair to share the details here.  Some things are bound to reside between friends, but suffice it to say you know the topics we touched upon, worthiness, acceptance, entitlement, connection, freedom and living a heartfelt life.  In the darkness that was graced by the moon light from above and the fire below we shared the scars that have been etched upon our souls. With each rolling wave each of us released a hurt, a disappointment or a fear.  On this evening Mother Nature not only held our hearts but refueled them.

 The clock was now nearing ten.  We knew our time on the beach with fire was drawing near.                           

 As required by the permit we brought a jug of water to cool the burning embers.   Fran opened the jar and poured the water on the burning embers. As the water met the smoldering fire remains a burst of scorching steam erupted. The loud sizzling and bold hissing was a dramatic crescendo accentuating the culmination of a perfect evening. As the elements intermingled and the melded entity rose above so did any heart heaviness that we had brought along with us.   

  For my friend this evening was a check mark engraved on her “bucket list” for me the check mark was etched on my “life list”.  I prefer to focus on the positive, living rather than the ending, dying.  As the fire waned we all sensed that it was time to go. It is usually at this moment of realization that the experience is approaching its end that I become sad that it is over.  However, on that night I did not feel sadness.  I was full with gratitude for every beautiful moment, each stiff breeze, rolling tide and grain of sand. More importantly I was thankful for my friends.  We shared our stuff, all of it, the giddy, the silly, the painful and most importantly, the heartfelt.  Like the flames we were burning to feel alive.

  When we returned to camp we found that the high winds that miraculously did not interfere with our campfire on the beach had dislodged the screened tent houses lead ropes.  Fran decided to tie the loosened ropes to an adjoining tree for the night.  As I held the screened tent and she tied the rope we were serenaded by a southing hooting.  It was a perfect ending to the night….. The wisdom that we had gathered at the beach was being reinforced from the wise owl perched above.  This is what we heard:

 

  Girlfriends connect with the very best in us and call us on the weight of our baggage.  They hold our hearts while we find our way and help us lighten our load.

  Pursue your dreams, don’t sit back and hope that they will materialize. Action creates reality.

  Meaningful experience materialized from connection not from material possessions or wealth.

  When you truly live in the present moment, time becomes expansive.

  Don’t put two quarters in the shower timer.  Six minutes is more than enough time to clean up.  The other six minutes you paid for simply pours down the drain.  It is a waste of time and resources.

  Most importantly, women need their girlfriends because they will be beside you as you chase your dreams.

 

  May you too have your “campfire on the beach”.

Mothers, Carnations and Glue

 

 On February 4^th the book “Glitter and Glue” by Kelly Corrigan was released.  I am a fan of memoirs. After reading Kelly’s book “The Middle Place” I was anxious to catch up with my new found friend. In the “Middle Place” Kelly shared her deep rooted, fun loving relationship with her Father and their shared battles with cancer.  It was a cruel twist of fate at the time in Kelly’s life where her biggest cheerleader, her Dad, joined her on the sidelines and they both solicited support.    I wondered what this “Glitter and Glue” journey was about.  During my lunch hour on release day I went to Barnes and Nobler to pick up a copy.

 Once the book was in my hands it became impossible to put it down.  As I finished one page and delved into the next I wanted to continue journeying along with Kelly. In “Glitter and Glue” Kelly delves into her relationship with her Mother and ultimately takes the reader to the same examination room with their own mother.  No matter your race, religion, ethnicity, hair color, political affiliation or choice of Starbucks coffee every single person on this planet has this in common, the seed of our being was planted, nurtured and developed within the womb of a woman.  This is the person who gave us life, the one that we call Mother. Sometimes the woman who delivered us into this world does not retain that designation. It may be the woman who wills us into her life, who has prayed us into her life, covets the title but ultimately the person who chooses to hold our heart wins the role.

  Kelly shares the story of her relationship with her Mother as a child, teen and young adult.   During those years she feels as if her Mother is much too ridged and serious.  She questions her Mother’s motives and decisions.  She wonders why her Mother is not as free willed as her biggest fan, her Dad. During each life experience she files way those seemingly insignificant and yet monumental moments with her Mother. She never fully understands the richness and depth of each one until she is faced with similar experiences.

  It is during a trip around the world in her early twenties that Kelly finds that she needs to find a source of income that will continue to fuel her quest.  In Australia she takes the job as a nanny. She is hired by a widower with two young children, a twenty something step son and an elderly father-in-law.  They all live on the same property but lead separate lives.  Each one is doing their best to navigate through the loss. It is during this time that Kelly comes to understand what a gift her Mother is. 

  As quirky as the title may seem, when you read the sentence that explains it, it makes perfect sense.  “Your Father is the glitter and I am the glue” was how Kelly’s Mom defined the family roles. When I read this it sang to me in volumes!  Mothers are the glue that keeps families together.  Mothers are the ones that we call when we need comfort, seek encouragement and yearn for a hug.  Much like glue their roles are solidified.  Our hearts are bound. Like dried glue Mothers may appear invisible or transparent. But they are always there, filling in the crevices, making sure things adhere whether you can see them or not.

  This book spoke to me for multiple reasons.  First for my relationship with my mother, second my relationship with my children and third my Mother’s relationship with her mother(s). 

  I have always wanted to be the kind of Mother mine is. When I was a child my Mom was the fun one, the cool one.  She would make my friends laugh but if they needed some comfort or advice she was there for that too.  She could be brutally honest and then wrap her arms around you and make you feel as if nothing would harm you. It is no wonder that people are naturally drawn to her strong and comforting spirit. 

  My Mother embraced the title and more significantly the role of mother seriously. Very, very seriously that is.  From a young age I understood the depth from which this evolved.  When my Mother was eight years old her Mother suddenly passed. With a shattered world and multiple loving relatives trying to reassemble the shards, my Mother slogged through her childhood.  If her life was a puzzle it would be defined by the one missing piece.  That would be the one that was to reside in the center. It is the piece from where all the others branched from and interlocked. It is the core, the center, the single one that provides stability.

   It wasn’t until I was well into my thirties that I learned that it was not just me who dreaded my eighth birthday and counted the days until I turned nine years old.  My three sisters did the same.  Secretly we all felt as if we made it past our eighth birthday and into our ninth year our Mother would be alive.  The curse would be broken. I am so happy to report that our childhood fear was just that, an unfounded fear.  Our Mother continued to make our favorite chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and pink writing for our birthdays.  She pressed our Easter dresses, curled our hair (yes with those pink rollers that dug into your scalp as you slept) shined our shoes, made our favorite meals helped us with our college applications, held us close, ran her fingers through our hair and wiped the tears from our eyes when our hearts broke and comforted our children when we ran out of energy to do so ourselves. 

 

  This past Mother’s Day my mother and I spent it the same way, in the car.  My daughter’s college graduation was on the Saturday before the holiday.  My parents made the six (well seven hour drive with traffic) to Virginia to share in her accomplishment.  I loved having my parents with me on that day.  Not just to share in my daughter’s achievements but also because they were unable to attend my college graduation.  Life sometimes deals us difficult blows and my parents were dealt one around the time I graduated from college.  If they could have been there they would have. So this was one of life’s truly circular moments.

  Later that day I called to see if my parents had arrived home and to wish my mother a happy Mother’s Day.  Even though we had spent the prior day together I was happy to hear my Mother’s voice on the other end of the telephone line.   After reliving the graduation ceremony and our travels we began talking about the significance of the day.  From the time I became a mother Mom always made sure that I knew that it was my day too and that I needed to enjoy it. I have always appreciated Mom’s wisdom and unselfish attitude about this day.

  As our conversation continued it turned to flowers, carnations, that is.  Unbeknownst to me when my Mother was a child on Mother’s Day you would wear a carnation on your lapel.  If your Mother was alive you wore a red one in her honor.  If your Mother was deceased you wore a white one. I had never known this and I could only imagine how pinning that white flower to her lapel marked my Mother in multiple ways.

 Kelly eloquently wraps up “Glitter and Glue” with the conclusion that when you no longer have your Mother in your life the game is forever changed.  From my experience as the child of a woman who lost her mother at a very young age I know this to be true.  For many years my Mother wore a white carnation on Mother’s Day, the color that signifies loss.  No, it was not a scarlet letter but one that was equally defining. A white carnation told the world that you did not have what they did. You were different.  However when I think about it wet glue is white and when it is dry it retains that color or turns opaque.  No wonder the carnation color that represented a deceased mother was white………whether you see her or not she is there, loving, securing and binding all of life’s most important connections.

 

Tuesday with Dot

 

  Have you ever prepared a meal with the intent of simply providing nourishment for your body but find that it nourished your soul exponentially?

  A couple of Sundays ago I made a beef stew. It was a six quart cast iron pot of goodness. The usual fare was involved; carrots, onions, peas, potatoes and marinated beef but this recipe also contained mushrooms, sundried tomatoes, garlic and rosemary!  As enjoyable as it was, I knew that my husband and I would never eat all of the leftovers.  Of course freezing them for future use is always an option. But I know myself.  Those containers with the remaining meals are safely tucked away for another day.   Somehow in my house they seem to find a long term or, okay, a retirement home in the back of the freezer. Usually they crystalize beyond recognition and ultimately end up in the garbage.  So I thought, why not share them with someone other than the garbage can.

  At first I thought I would give the leftovers to my parents.  But when I reviewed the list of ingredients I realized that at least three of them were on my Dad’s “do not consume list”!  The next person who crossed my mind is the Mother of a friend.  Through the daily news feed of Facebook I knew that this woman was suffering from a severe back ailment.  Each post screamed with her pain and discomfort. Maybe a little home cooking would lighten her load and brighten her day.

 In the few years that I have known Dot her whit is always sharp, her presence clear and her laughter abundant.  Actually, her family’s interactions always remind me of the television show “Everybody Loves Raymond”.  It is not as much the subject matter that draws the parallel but rather the constant good hearted jabbing that is always supported by an undercurrent of love.  I have witnessed this firsthand both in person and in the cyber world.  More often than not I find myself laughing out loud while I am in their company or reading their passionate and extremely humorous banter.

  With pain consuming her Dot’s presence in the cyber world had been diminished.  That night as I was cleaning the dishes and packing the leftover stew I sent Dot a message and offered to drop some by her place. She lives with her large tabby cat Pachelbel. As many talents that he may possess I know cooking is not one of them! I had remembered that in a Facebook post a week earlier Dot was thanking the people in her life for all they had done to help her during this difficult time.  Chauffeuring, grocery shopping and cleaning were all mentioned, but there was not one mention of cooking.  In response to the post I asked,

  “Who has the cooking covered?”

  Dot joking replied; “That would be you! I am awaiting a bowl of chicken noodle soup.”

  I didn’t have soup but I had stew and that would suffice.  We made plans for me to drop by her place on Tuesday during my lunch hour.  When I contacted her Dot was probably wondering “WT*?”.  We had met a few times, shared group meditation experiences, but this an unsolicited offer for sure.  I know Dot through her daughter.  Her daughter came into my life at a time when I realized that the way I have lived for forty plus years no longer brought me joy or peace.  Dot’s daughter is fifteen years my junior but she has been one of my greatest teachers.  Her daughter showed me how to settle my mind and connect with the peace that resides within.  As a professor of life she did not simply lecture about the ways to move to this place of comfort but she traveled along with me.  She was not immune to the pain of the journey actually she too was meandering along a similar river of self-discovery.  We opened the locks and shored the dams and sometimes we resided within the same muck! As time progressed and we arrived at the junction where the rivers intersect she chose to flow with one current and I the other.  I am forever grateful for her teachings and influence on my life. 

So why not share some beef stew with her Mother who was dealing with severe physical pain?  Dot left the front door unlocked for me. Getting up and down is not only time consuming for her but also painful.  I let myself in and was immediately greeted by Pachelbel the guard cat.  As I unpacked my gifts I was never out of his sight. 

 I sat on the couch.  Dot was in her motorized recliner, the kind that can be raised up or the back panel adjusted with the simple touch of a button on a keypad. Pachelbel the guard cat settled on a spot between us.  He was on the couch but close to Dot’s chair.  After a kiss and a hug the conversation began.  I asked how she was feeling and if there was anything that I could do to assist her. She asked about the recent camping adventure that I had posted on Facebook. Every five to ten minutes Dot tapped a button on her remote control and repositioned her chair in the attempt to alleviate her pain.

  Pachelbel allowed me to pet him.  With each stroke he kept me within his gaze.  Suddenly he lifted his paw, extended his claws and sucker “pawed” me with a left to my hand.  Dot yelled “Pachelbel!  Stop!”  I was fine, just a little swipe, but I received the message loud and clear.  He was watching me.  One wrong or hurtful move towards his companion and I would receive much worse!

 Our conversation flowed effortlessly.  There was not one moment of awkward silence.   I asked about her prognosis and treatment options. She listened as I chatted about a few recent life altering trips that I had taken.   We discussed the fears that we have when we meet the major junctures in life’s crossroads and the innate need that we have as women to nurture and renew ourselves. 

  Dot has lived within the comfortable confines of laughter for years but she has existed within hallows of pain for many more.  Before she had the chance to let go of his hand and allow him to board the kindergarten bus, she buried her third child.  It did not matter how deeply she loved him, how tightly she held him or how softly she sang him his favorite lullaby.  Her young son moved on.  She is no stranger to pain physical or emotional.  

  Our time together flew.  I was well over my allotted hour for lunch. I ration each of my vacation hours like a gallon of gas during the energy crisis of the 1970’s.  I’m always looking for the best and most economical use of the gallon or in this case the hour.  When I returned to work I was happy to deduct that extra hour from my bank of allotted vacation. I appeared on this woman’s doorstep with some leftover beef stew, a few books a plant and some chocolate but I left with a full heart.

 Several years back the author Mitch Ablom wrote the book “Tuesdays with Morrie”.   It told the story of the time he spent with his former college professor who was battling ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease).  As the Tuesday visits progressed Mitch realized that what began with his simple intent to assist his mentor became one of the greatest gifts he gave himself.  His story is plural.  He spent many Tuesdays with Morrie.  I spent one Tuesday with Dot but felt equally enriched by our visit.  I hope to spend a few more Tuesday’s in her company.  Maybe I’ll make that chicken noodle soup and stop by to see her again. 

 

“The most important thing in life is learn how to give out love, and to let it come in.”
― Mitch Albom, Tuesdays With Morrie

The Letter Never Written

Stepping Out…Thoughts about life, its stages, its changes and the next steps”, this is what inspired an accountant turned weekend word warrior to put the pen to paper or in the modern age, my fingers to the keyboard.  My intention was to share my thought and insights about life.    This blog was to be positive, upbeat and up lifting.  But this year I find myself writing more about death than life. Death, in a short time has knocked on my door more times than I ever wished it would, a cousin, a great aunt, and an aunt. I want to refuse to answer the call or open the door, but it is not my choice. When I recognize the sound, I listen, I respond. Another loss, this time it was an uncle.

   For so many reasons this one cut deep.

   My thoughts immediately returned to the conversation that I had with a friend March 22, 2010.  It was one day removed from my sister’s wedding.  My friend had asked me about the special occasion.  I shared the details about the warm spring day when my sister married her best friend of seventeen years.  I told her about the ceremony, their acute attention to every detail and the deep connection that had now become an official and registered bond, but I also shared regret.  The regret had nothing to do with my sister or the festivities.  It had to do with a letter I had been meaning to write but hadn’t yet…..and I am ashamed to say, I never did. 

  The afternoon of the wedding, while standing beside the dance floor I had a conversation with my Uncle.  My Father’s sister’s husband was far from an ordinary man.  Rather he was an extraordinary man on every front.  That day he looked good, healthy and he seemed happy.  He was wearing a perfectly pressed grey suit, light blue shirt, a keenly accessorized tie, impeccably polished brown shoes, his signature wire rimmed glasses and his always broad and welcoming smile.  I said to him “Uncle Bob you look great!  How are you feeling?”

 At this point my Uncle was fourteen years deep into his battle against lymphoma.  The cancer was attributed to his exposure to Agent Orange during his two tours during the Vietnam War.  In his continual optimistic attitude he said to me. “I have two good weeks a month and two bad ones.  But look at my beautiful wife” he motioned to my Aunt on the other side of the dance floor.  “How could I EVER leave her?

 

  That night three and a half years ago I shared with my friend that I had been meaning to write my Uncle, the retired decorated Marine Colonel, a letter.  Although in recently years we had not been intricately involved in one another’s lives I wanted him to know how he had and continued to inspire me.  I wanted to thank him for his service to our country, for his love, for his strength, for his devotion to humanity and the arts, for his love of fishing and family, his ability to share knowledge and interject a little wisdom along the way, and the uncanny ability he had of leading you in conversation to the solution of an issue or problem without you even realizing it….. And he made you believe that you had resolved it yourself!

  I had time, but I never wrote the letter.

  Several weeks ago I began receiving e-mails from my Mother about my Uncle.  He was back in the hospital.  His white blood cell counts were nonexistent. As each day progressed the health issues compounded. 

  A few Saturday’s ago while I was at a music street fair with a few friends I received the e-mail that the white flag of surrender had been raised.  The mission was not about winning the battle but rather about a peaceful retreat. It would be a matter of days until his tour was complete.

  It was at that moment an older couple took to the street and graced us with a beautifully performed waltz.  With tears brimming at the corners of my eyes I watched.  I imagined that it was my Uncle guiding his beautiful lifelong partner across the street in unison to the music. Even if it was only in my mind, on that day they shared a dance.

    The next evening after finishing washing the dinner dishes I went outside to sip some wine and enjoy the warm October evening.  A three quarter moon was making its accent. The stars speckled the darkness that blanketed the sky above and as I stood outside I became part of the calm.  But for no apparent reason, at that moment, I began sobbing.  Uncontrollable gut wrenching, high pitched searing sobs that seemed to appear from nowhere. It was in that moment I knew.  I simply knew that one of the brightest stars that had walked this earth had now taken his place above us.  I hadn’t received a telephone call or an e-mail.  I simply sensed that the world was darker.  A brilliant light had walked among us had been extinguished and now resided above. 

   The Marines call their best men to battle.   My Uncle’s final battle spanned seventeen years. The enemy would set up camp each time in another of his vital organs.  Each test would become more grueling than boot camp to an eighteen year old newbie. This Marine was a seventy five year old man deep within a seventeen year old war.   And on that night, finally, a truce was called.

 

  I traveled four hundred miles to attend his funeral.  It was the very least I could do and there was no place else that I wanted to be. It gnawed at me.  I never wrote him the letter that I had intended.  I never really told him how I felt about him.

  His funeral service took place in a small modern church perched high upon a hill that had wide open views of the rolling Virginia fields that were cast by the warmth of the red, orange and golden autumn hues.  Reverence was invoked as his oldest son stood at attention and saluted the casket in perfect form as it exited the church. 

  After the service we shared in a luncheon provided by the parishioners of the church.  Each one of my Uncle’s three children spoke of him.  Their emotion was real and raw.  It was heartfelt and truly captured their father’s essence.  I was so moved by each and every word but the story that his daughter shared conveyed her father’s purpose and his true spirit.

  She told the story of a former boyfriend’s job interview.  She conveyed that one of the questions this boyfriend was asked was “What would you like your tomb stone to say about you?”  My cousin responded to her boyfriend, “What do I care what is says about me.  I will be gone at that time.  It doesn’t matter.” 

  Little did she realize that her Dad, my Uncle, was within ear shot of this conversation. Not wanting to interfere he waited until later that night to reveal that he had overheard the conversation.  He told her.

 “It does matter what is written on your tomb stone.”

  Once again she replied “I will be gone, who cares what it says.”

  Her Dad said. “I want mine to say, “He made a difference.””

  Four simple words, but a life time of living and cultivating.

   For the past few weeks I have been mulling around these thoughts in my mind.  I didn’t nor couldn’t write anything about it.  Today I realized why.  It was because I had not yet made the connection.  This morning it became abundantly clear.  I had so wanted to share with my Uncle my thoughts about him.  I had beaten myself up about NOT doing so.  But what was it that I really needed to say?  He made a HUGE difference in this world and in my life.  I have never wanted to contradict his thoughts or wisdom, but the truth is that in the end, those words didn’t need to be engraved on a headstone. He etched them with his actions, words and commitment to the people he loved. His essence is engraved upon the countless hearts that he had touched every day of his life.

  Yes Uncle Bob, without a doubt I can say……”You made a difference!”  Semper Fi……Always faithful!