Irish eyes a-smilin’

Just about a week ago, my Mama Maggie gracefully and peacefully took her last breath and went home to God.

We are doing okay.  It was not unexpected.

More later.

Blueberry. A conversation with my Mama.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about this new technology I keep hearing people talk about? “

“Which one?   The Google one?   Buzz?”

“Um…no…I don’t think its Google… that Blue Berry?”
(she scrunches up her brow and does a little head shake)

“You mean like Cameron has?  His phone?  His Blackberry?
It’s Blackberry….not a Blueberry“
(I scrunch up my brow identically…and while I am mentally dreaming of pie….I start to detail the difference between a Blackberry, an Android and the iPhone)

She stops me mid-sentence. 
“No no.  It’s not a phone. But I don’t know why a phone has to do all those things.  Why can’t it just be a telephone.  I don’t want to text.  I don’t want to take pictures. I’m not downloading the top forty”

I try and repress my typical exasperation with this conversation…which we have had dozens of times. My response has been come a worn mantra. 
“They aren’t really telephones with special features you know.  They are handheld computers that you can ALSO get phone calls on”

Mama doesn’t  repress her exasperation as well.
“I’ve heard your argument before. A thousand times before.  But why can’t I just have a telephone?” 
I think because I embrace smartphone technology she holds me partially responsible.

”Well…You could get a Jitter-Bug telephone. 
Those are only phones.”
I’m smiling now…laughing quietly

”Those are for old people”
She’s ticked with me now
”Just tell me about the Blue Berry”

“I don;t think there is a Blue Berry”
I’m trying to figure this out
”Do you mean Blue Tooth?”

“Ummm….maybe. Blue Tooth.
That must be it. 
Yes.
What is the Blue Tooth?”

”Short distance radio wave transmission…it’s the technology which makes all the wireless earpieces work. Hands free cell phones”

”No…that’s not it…”

”Well…okay…then I’m not sure what you are talking about.”

”It is Blue…um…Blueberry….Bluetooth…Blue…something”
she’s totally exasperated now.

”Maybe it’d help if you told me what you are talking about.  Where did you hear about it?”

”Apparently all the DVD’s are obsolete now.  Just like all the VHS tapes we STILL have.  Now we have obsolete tapes and obsolete DVDs and two machines under the TV with the cable box.  Do we have to buy ANOTHER machine???”

Ahhhhh….finally, I have a lightbulb moment.

”You mean BluRay!!!”

whew!

Wordless Wednesday ~ great minds shod alike….

Wordless Wednesday ~ becoming 28 and 22

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cy Timmy….Cy

That ear to ear, goofy,grin girl is my daughter Rhiannon. She recently attended a philanthropic event where she was able to meet and hang out with some of her all time favorite people.

The boy she is with…won a little award today…for the second time in his young life.

Congrats Tim…very well deserved.

Looking at the sky on Friday ~ clearlake morn (15)

Time to play “Looking at the sky on Friday” with Tisha again…it’s fun to go over to her site, “Crazy Working Mom” and see what is going on with her.

Most of my sky pictures are in the evening…this one was taken in the early morning at Clearlake last month… while people were sleeping…and…

…while things were booting and steeping.
 

Thanks to Little Missy for having The Teamster and me up to the weekend with her Novio and his familia. 

letter box

I have finally taken possession of my letter box.

The letter box has been “mine” since January of 2001 although my Mama hasn’t been able to give it up to me until now. 


A small, shellacked wooden box, it’s brass hinges bent. The magenta satin lining, faded and stained, holding letters.

Handwritten letters, seventy years old. 
My grandmother’s wooden box.
My grandfather’s letters.

When the stroke took Gramma without warning, it was no surprise she had everything written out. She liked things to be as she wanted… she wouldn’t have left any detail to chance.  On different kinds of paper…in different colored inks.  Added to over the years as things occurred to her.  Which dress she wanted to be buried in…the hymns to be played and scriptures to be shared.  Her handwritten notes included a schedule and sequence of how she wanted her memorial service to be held.  It was followed to the letter… as best they could. Her list of pallbearers was outdated. It included two of her grandsons who had “preceded her in death,”…and the minister at Congress Street Methodist had long since retired…replaced by some new guy nobody knew.

There was a hodgepodge list of “who gets what”… a specific piece of jewelry for each of her granddaughters, a candy dish, a treasured bell, the collected Liberty Dollars by birth year. The Grands had never owned things that cost a great deal, but every item on her list held sentimental value.  One of the seemingly inconsequential items listed was a “wood box of letters” with “katherine” written next to it.

I didn’t know when Gramma decided the wood box of letters would come to me.  But I knew why.

It was way back, one of those rare summers when we went “home.”

Going home meant Lafayette, Indiana, although I had never actually lived there myself.  I clearly recall the crazy cross country Christmas trips with my cousins…nine or ten of us in the yellow Plymouth Fury station wagon…long before min-vans, childseats, SUVs, or seatbelt laws.  However, I have very few recollections of the two or three childhood summertimes in Indiana. They have been overshadowed by adult memories when most all of the trips were in June. I do remember making ice cream in an old, hand cranked freezer….watching thunderstorms and capturing lightening bugs…all that must have been summer.

I was a fairly social child…a bit of a clown. I got along okay with my cousins…but we lived thousands of miles apart…and our worlds had little in common. 

 
(I’m the only one looking at my Dad’s camera…
and apparently the the only one not wearing dressy shoes?)

Occasionally, I suffered from sensory overload when three dozen family members were under the same roof.  So every once in a while, I had to go hermit. It was one of these times I had snuck upstairs to be by myself.  The afternoon heat was oppressive in an old house with no air-conditioning.  I angled the room’s small electric fan and a second one I stole from the other bedroom, to blow on me.  Lying on my belly at the foot of the bed, I escaped into one of the books I had lugged cross country.

At some point I rolled over in exaggerated exasperation with the heat and humidity. Throwing my arms out and letting my head dangle off the side of the bed, I was looking up into the open closet. The different perspective revealed something I had never noticed before. On the left wall, hidden behind the hanging clothes, was another door. I jumped up to investigate.
Typical Indiana grandparent off season wardrobes hung in the closet…long, heavy wool coats, sweaters, and Papa’s winter work clothes reeking of moth balls.  It took two hands and all my little girl strength to shove the hangers over.  A whole pile of folded quilts were stacked on the floor…I drug them out into the room.  I had to reach up on my tippy toes to grab the bit of string attached to the bare light bulb.

The door was slightly smaller than normal.  Professionally framed with a turn latch. I opened it slowly, cringing when it creaked. I peaked inside and thrilled with my find. An ATTIC!!  A Secret Attic no less. I was very proud at the cleverness of my discovery.  I started to go inside but it was too dark,  I could see the space stretching out to the front eves of the house.  There were shadows of boxes and unrecognizable shapes balanced on two by fours.

I had long since graduated from Nancy Drew…but I’d learned a lot from that girl.  I needed a flashlight. And I needed to sneak it.  I shut the attic door and put the quilts back so no one would discover what I had found.  Turning off the light and closing the closet, I headed downstairs.  Neighbors, aunts, uncles and a dozen cousins, I was just one more kid in the mix. 

I strolled through the living room trying to appear innocent and bored…and as if not on a mission. I paused in the kitchen, watching the poker game.  There was always at least one table of cards underway. Even as a kid, if you weren’t dealt in… you were still interested in who was raking in the cash. On a really good day you could make four or five dollars. I stood at the table, watched the action and nodded wisely along with the play.  In truth, I was there to scope out the flashlight.  As I suspected, it was on the top of the fridge.  Even if I could reach it, someone would ask what I wanted it for.  No way could I climb up the stool without notice.  Especially considering Uncle Chuck was sitting on the stool at the time. 

Nonchalantly, I headed to the basement.  Stored there were toys, old prom dresses, and canned goods.  It had a laundry area and a moldy cinderblock shower.   In a separate room, behind the scary old boiler was my Papa’s tool bench.  I KNEW a flashlight would be down there that I could get my hands on unobserved.  My brother and some of my younger cousins were playing around at the foot of the stairs.  Thinking back now…it was probably harder to sneak anything past them than past the adults.

I worked my way through the maze of the basement, until I was in Papa’s work room.  It was officially off limits unless you had Papa with you…but the other kids were paying me no never mind.  A big black flashlight stood proudly on the far back corner of the work bench.  I grabbed it,  perplexed. I was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sneakers.  How could I smuggle this through the house ?  WWND? (What Would Nancy Do?)  I had to find something to carry up with me to hide the flashlight.  Something I was “allowed” to be carrying around…something no one would question. 

In the corner by the washing machine was a stack of old magazines, Good Housekeeping, RedBook, Ladies Home Journal, National Seed Corn. I held a few in my arm up against my chest, hiding the flashlight. Brilliant. I was able to retrace my steps without notice.  I was always reading.  I’d been known to get into trouble for reading too much. Me getting something to read was pretty common place.

Back upstairs I was quick to pull the pile of quilts out and reopen the hidden door. Armed with the flashlight I stepped carefully onto boards which had been laid across the rafters. I knew better than to step between the two by fours and fall through the ceiling into the living room.  I also knew to step quietly so those below me wouldn’t hear. There were boxes of old shoes and hats.  A couple full of books and magazines. Mostly old stuff in a home that would have never considered a garage sale. 

Everything had that film of dirty dust and cobwebby stickiness.  I was rummaging around none too carefully…digging through a bunch of old stuff when I found the wooden box. Kinda junky to my California eye…but interesting nonetheless. I pulled it out and opened the brass hasp.  Tucked inside were pages of lined paper folded up.  I couldn’t see well enough to read them… but I did recognize my grandfather’s handwriting. I lunge stepped back over the rafters and through the closet into the daylight. I sat indian style on the floor and gingerly opened up the letters.

Even so young, I immediately recognized the intimacy of Papa’s words. I instinctively knew reading them was wrong, but I couldn’t pull myself away.
 
 
Words of love and longing interspersed with the daily recollections of work and meals. 

Young husband and wife apart.  He in Indiana. Her in Tennessee with the babies as her mother was dying. He was struggling to find enough work to send her money for milk…and to repay the $25 loan for her emergency train ticket south.

                   (the old homeplace, Tazewell,Tennessee)

I read every page over and over.  I refolded each one and placed them back into the wooden box.  Not so junky to me now, I wrapped it up in an old woolen shirt and carefully put it back in a cardboard box. Out through the hidden doorway and into the closet, putting everything back to rights. I stowed the flashlight under the quilts for future use, and turned out the light.

Washing off the dust I was still immersed in the letters.  My preteen sensitivities to young love torn apart was off the charts. The thought of not having enough money to buy MILK, for crying out loud. The thought of my own Mama as a toddler, without milk. I couldn’t get out of my mind the raw, unsophisticated words of my lonely grandfather in his early twenties, struggling to be a man and take care of his family…and longing for his young wife.

(my Mama at the homeplace)

Back downstairs I sought out my Gramma.  She was sitting in her chair in the living room…holding court no doubt.  I just sat next to her, with her patting my arm, while she talked away. 

My Grandparents loved me to pieces…but I was third of thirteen grandchildren…and we lived the farthest away.  I always knew my other cousins were closer to our Grandparents…but at that moment I felt as if I shared a special secret with them. And I felt more than a little guilty for prying. I was raised to be honest…and to own up when you did something you shouldn’t have done.  Although inadvertently, I had violated their privacy and it was bothering me. And…I wanted to know more.  Part of me wanted to tell my Gramma I had read the letters to absolve my guilt…and part of me wanted to confess so she would tell me her side of the story. 

I waited until there was a lull, when we were just about alone, and told her I’d found the Secret Attic.  She said it was just full of old clothes and too dangerous to play in.  I probably gave her a “yeah whatEVer” response…I wasn’t one of the little kids after all and I knew what I was doing. And then…I told her I found her letter box. 

It took her a minute to realize what I was talking about. She was smiling and saying how long ago it all was. Chances are pretty good she was using words like “land sakes chile” and “heavens to goodness.”  I remember starting to cry and saying… “but you didn’t have any money to buy milk for the babies” and quoting other parts of the letters. 

She hugged me and told me to go get the box. I ran back upstairs and went though all the steps in record time.

It occurred to me I could get into some serious trouble from my own Mama or her sisters for my little escapade.  At home it would have been no problem…but it was a different gig in Indiana.  I had to abide by the rules my aunts and uncles imposed on my cousins. It would be another decade before I clued in on the reasons behind that family dynamic. 

Cradling the letter box with reverence, I walked directly to my Gramma.  She opened it gently and glanced through each page.  I had seen her cry before.  Waving as a car pulled away…when we were going home to California…or when they were going home to Indiana. 

But I had never sat next to her with tears in her eyes.

Her hand at her lips and nodding slowly she read through each page.  Halfway looking up she called out “Clyde…Clyde, come over here… look what this child’s found.”

 
I wished she’d hush up, but it was too late.  Papa came over and looked at the box, not immediately taking in the letters. “now where’d ya git that?”

My investigative pride won out over fear of punishment.  “I found the Secret Attic upstairs” I whispered, creating a little conspiracy.  “It’s okay….I didn’t tell anyone”  As if that would make it acceptable. I was without blame.  As if me traipsing through the attic was common place and  perfectly alright.

Papa just looked at me. 
A bit exasperated.  Not surprised.

I wasn’t their normal grandchild. It wasn’t about me really…it was more about how they felt about my Mama and what they thought about my father.  I know that now. Thirty years later, after Gramma passed I spent time in Indiana. We all did.  Then at the low point in my life, I went to Tennessee while Papa was there.  And he would come to California often.  During those times, he and I would talk about a great many things.

It only took a glance for Papa to recognize those letters.  He went from exasperated to annoyed to irritated in point-oh-one seconds. Uh Oh. Gramma handed one letter up to Papa.  Her face sweet…his face soft.  And I was crying again. 

 
He glanced at me embarrassed…not at my tears, but that I had read his words from so long ago.


I remember them talking to one another…but not what they were saying.  It was the murmurings of two longtime lovers and their remembrances.

It was amazing the three of us could sit there for so long uninterrupted. Or maybe it actually wasn’t as long as my memory reflects.  I don’t recall how the conversation ended.  Or what happened to the letter box after that.  I didn’t get into any trouble.  No one told my parents and neither of my aunts berated me. However, I was forbidden to go back into the attic. 


Well, sheesh. 



I knew they weren’t serious about THAT.

I snuck into the Secret Attic more than once over the next several days. Looking for more treasure. Imagining complicated episodes of family lore. I remember sporting an old fedora.  I wore it around one day…and eventually gave it up to my brother (who was ALWAYS wearing some sort of hat.)  My Dad asked where it came from.  I didn’t want to lie…but couldn’t confess the Secret Attic.  I told him I got it upstairs in a closet…and Papa snorted from across the room. I wasn’t fooling Papa, he knew where the hat came from.  But he didn’t rat me out to my father. 

At one point we spent a couple days at my cousins’ house. When we got back to The Grands’ I repeated my now familiar routine of shoving over the clothes and dragging out the quilts…..and…whoa!!   A shiny, brand new, brass latch with padlock had been recently installed on the door to my Secret Attic. I just stared. And then I smiled.  I had an idea.

It didn’t take much rummaging in my Gramma’s bathroom cabinet before I found the bobbie pins.  I would pick the lock of course.  I was on a roll...channeling Nancy.  Back upstairs I prepared my tool.  (meaning I pried open the bobbie pin and pulled off the rubber tips with my teeth.)

I twisted and tweaked the end of the bobbie pin in that lock.  I gently probed with one end and two.  I jammed it in and tried to force the padlock open.  I worked on it for almost an hour.  Nothin’.

Totally frustrated with failure I put everything back.  I stomped downstairs looking for my Grandfather.  In the kitchen getting coffee, he hardly looked up when I plopped onto a chair.  He asked me something and I ignored him…sitting with my arms tightly folded and glaring at him through squinted eyes.  My impression of “boy am I angry with you.”  He finally noticed my attitude, and picked up right away what was going on.  He had that smirk on his face.  He knew why I was bent out of shape and was right pleased with himself.  I just glared at him as he left the room, laughing.

Over the next few days I tried to return to my Secret Attic.  I kept going back, checking the door…still lamenting on being locked out. I poked around in drawers looking for the key to the padlock.  I examined both my Gramma’s and my Papa’s key rings…to no avail.

Belatedly, I realized the flashlight I had hidden in the quilts was missing.  I assumed Papa had found it and I went to the basement for confirmation.  Sigh. Sure enough…there it was, back in its place.   Messing with the stuff on Papa’s tool bench was a far greater crime than being in the attic. But he hadn’t even mentioned me swiping the flashlight.

Suddenly, I caught my breath. Adrenaline raced through my body.  There…all neatly lined up by type and size was his formidable collection of SCREWDRIVERS.  Everything clicked into place.  I closed my eyes picturing that blasted latch which had kept me from my haven. Guessing the size needed,  I grabbed a couple screwdrivers,  tucked them into my waistband and covered them up with my shirt.

I practically flew up from the basement, through the living room and on to the second floor.  If he had seen me, Papa would have known what I was up to.  Apparently he did not.  To this day, I remember the gleeful exhilaration as I removed the screws one by one.  I WAS IN.  HA!  One little brass latch was no match for ME…padlock or not!  It was all rather powerful.

I had to keep it secret this time. I was now violating actual mandate. I knew they thought it was a safety thing.  That I would get hurt…or cause damage.  I had been fortunate that my parents hadn’t become involved.  Papa had told me to stay out and I hadn’t.  He had spent money to buy a new latch and lock to keep me out.  I had now become disrespectful and disobedient. But even worse…I couldn’t tell anyone.  I was so very pleased with myself for getting back in.  And nobody else even knew.

I carefully timed my Secret Attic visits so they didn’t realize I was back in.  The Grands took a nap most afternoons, (that’s another story) so it was easy to schedule.  Sometimes I’d just sit and day dream.  Sometimes I’d eavesdrop on conversations below. Sometimes I’d bring in the flashlight and read my own books. Mostly I just took pleasure with being IN my Secret Attic.

Eventually it was time to go home to California.  I thought about reinstalling the latch. I wanted to claim my victory but was seriously concerned about punishment.  Not from my Gramma or Papa…I was worried my Dad would somehow get wind of my little adventure.  That would not be good.  My father demanded we act appropriately in my Grandparents’ home.  The opinion his inlaws had of his children was very important to my father.

The morning we left I came down to breakfast.  As usual Papa was at the stove making biscuits and gravy.  I went around the table, and surreptitiously left the brass latch, padlock, and all the screws on the counter next to the sink.  I sat down and watched my Papa cook. It was crowded in the kitchen.  More’n half dozen people…most of them talking at the same time. Not me. I just watched.  Wearing what we now call a wife beater…he was a man who never raised a hand to a woman or loved one.  Been in quite a few “scaps” as he called them… he had kicked ass.  He worked in construction at the time and had pretty buff arms and shoulders.  But there he was, like every other morning, cooking.

As he reached to the counter for another plate, Papa hesitated. I knew he’d seen my handiwork. He was back at the stove. I stared at him.  He turned with a full plate and looked me square in the eye.  I raised my eyebrows and had my own little smirk. He set the plate down in front of me with a big ole grin, and shook the spatula in my face.  He was laughing as he turned back to the stove.

We never talked about my ingenuity. But a year or two later, the next time I went “home” the door to my Secret Attic had been nailed shut.  Completely shut. A dozen or more nails all around the doorjam. Damn. It was a Christmas trip and the house was overflowing with family.  It took a while for me to have enough alone time to pull each nail out. But the hammer was easier to come by, being kept in the hall closet and all. I was disappointed the challenge seemed so simple.

          (again….I’m the only one looking at my Dad’s camera)

I only waited a day or two this time.  I put the nails in the same place by the sink at breakfast time…and he just stared at me and shook his head.  Later he took me aside and explained he nailed it up because my Gramma was afraid the “young ’ns” would go in and “git real hurt.”  My Gramma was a world class worrier. Personally, I doubted  anyone else would be so clever as to discover my Secret Attic….but, I promised not to let anyone know…and he left it at that.  My Gramma spoke to me too. She had imagined several disaster scenarios. Telling me how the old house wouldn’t support the weight of a bunch of kids playing around up there.  That was fine with me.  It made it MY Secret Attic all the more. 

I’d get asked, “what are you doing up there?” and I’d say “reading.”  It was true. No one ever asked “Where up there are you reading?” so I never had to lie.  I remember it being pretty cold in the Secret Attic that winter, so I wore my coat and brought in a quilt or two. There were a few new boxes of discarded dishes and clothing…but the letter box was no where to be found.

A couple years later when I went “home” the door to my Secret Attic was neither locked nor barricaded.  However, to my surprise the hideaway was completely empty.  No boxes or torn lampshades, even the planks across the two by fours had been removed.  The Grands had both retired and I realized they had cleaned out the closets, the basement and the Secret Attic.  But I was a teenager now…and not as enamored with the dark and dirty, musty attic.  It was transitional summer for me in a lot of ways.

My Gramma, Opal Lee would have been 91 today.

She passed in January of 2001. At the time, she had been married to my Papa for almost 67 years.

She left us a legacy of love and family, hundreds of pictures, and thousands of memories.

 
And she left me her Letter Box.

That’s my girl

This is from tonight’s San Francisco Giants’ game….sent to me from my daughter…

 
Can you see the board?  No? 
Let me close in on it for you….

You make your Mama proud!

the fathers

As I looked through these pictures I was struck how very little these men have in common…these men who play the role of “Father” in my life.

my own father
my grandfathers
my step father
and the fathers of my children

(please note:  even as a one year old my eyes automatically closed when the shutter opened.  )

I’m going to see my Father later this week for some paper signing.  It has been quite some time since we have been together.  For most of my life, family wisdom was that my sister is artistic, kind, and curly like our mother…and that I am our “father’s daughter. ”

I do carry my Father’s strong genetic imprint.  My countenance, my temperament and my talents come from him.  My brother and I both.  Ironically, it was in my Father’s grief-ignited breakdown 
to make our life situations identical, which resulted in our estrangement.

My childhood and teenage years were pretty great. I grew up in a wonderful home with many advantages.  Month long vacations to national parks and family events were a  priority. There was never any question that each of us would be sent to college.  And while it was a Father-mandated location… it was also a parental-funded education. My Father was a life long engineer…an intelligent and generous man.  There was never any doubt that he loved me, my brother, and my sister.

This is my first Fathers’ Day without a living Grandfather…and my Mama’s first Fathers’ Day without her Father. (funny guy below on the left) If you’ve been around here the past year you’ve read a few posts about the man he was and his legacy for our family.


I was named after my Father’s Father. (funny guy above on the right)  His first name was Clare…my middle name is Claire.  He taught me about the railroad…and how to fish. His example of love for my Grandmother taught me how a husband should be.  He was always trying to set me up with some young man in town. I haven’t posted about him much…he has been gone a long time now.  I will have to remedy this oversight.  
  
After church I met the fam and some friends for brunch at one of my StepFathers’s favorite hangouts… the restaurant at the local golf course.  They have great food…but the interior design is that of a 1970’s retirement home cafeteria. 

My StepFather hasn’t ever actually played golf.  But he does have some very specific restaurant criteria. He knows the guy who runs the place…so we always get seated no matter how crowded…they have a full bar…and “the waitresses have good breasts.” 

Little Missy and The Cub have each grown into pieces of their Father.  He still calls for advice or to lament over something one of the kids have going on.  I am the go-to-girl for medical issues, school, and affairs of the heart. He knows they both call me to help convince him to do something they want.  I’d like to think I play the role of advocate and peacemaker… but it is more accurate to think along the lines of a sneaky, double-crossing, secret agent. 

SugarCookie’s Father is the only man who convinced me to marry…and he was barely out of boyhood at the time.  We have been divorced for almost twenty years. We see each other at graduations, funerals, and when our daughter needs both of us.  My daughter is an awful lot like her Dad..which is mostly a good thing.  smile.  Thank God she takes after me where baseball is concerned (Go Giants!) I don’t know what I would do if I had given birth to a Dodger fan. He and I talk when there is something really good or really bad to discuss.  He is the father who made me a mother… and for that I am eternally grateful.

Wishing all of you Fathers a very Happy Day!

mothers' day (catching up part one)

Mother' Day was just about perfect. I picked Sugar Cookie up at the train station in the morning. Everyone who knows her knows she one of those Vera Bradley crazies. She generously initiated me into the club with a very cute bag in my favorite color combination...blue and brown.

We went to my folks where The Cub was waiting with a morning treat for me... a tomato bagel toasted with garlic herb cream cheese plus a Sobe. The three of us headed to church where we met Little Missy. Little Missy had a bouquet of tulips....she knows they are one of my all time favorite flowers. (part of the day is about me me me....laughing...)

At church the Mothers got special chocolates. The message included a list of eleven ways Mothers overdue things and make themselves tired and their kids annoyed. I was only guilty of four of the items...although one of them the kids triple checked. whatEVER.

After church we met up with Little Missy's novio and went to the cemetery. As most of you know...I gave birth to the Sugar Cookie...but Little Missy and The Cub are gifts. They lost their Mama to cancer when they were little and we always make a point to remember and honor her on this day. My folks have a whole row of Lily plants and we picked a bunch to put on Linda's headstone. They are Little Missy's favorite flower... she used it on her tattoo even...so she really likes to use them.

From there we went to O'Mei...a wonderful Chinese restaurant my Mama chose for brunch. There were seven of us...and we ordered eight dishes plus dumplings and rice. We ate it ALL.


I have some weird uncontrollable issue with camera flashes...we took about a dozen pictures....my eyes were closed in all of them.

We hung out with the folks for a while....and I decided to go back to The City with SugarCookie. Being a fellow Trekker she took her Mama to see Star Trek. OH WOW. It was wonderful. We loved it!! I know - I know not everyone does...but I'm even more of a JJ fan now than before. The movie gave this Picard fan a whole new appreciation for Kirk!

Live Long and Prosper.

Remembering Papa

My Grandfather would have been 94.  We are celebrating his birthday for the first time without him.  He had a long life…well lived…and well loved.

my morning cup…and Joe.

Those who have to spend time with me….by choice or by circumstance, tend to make sure that I have my coffee in the morning. 

The Teamster, who never touches the stuff, monitors my intake out of self preservation.  He has achieved expert status in the fine art and operation of the French Press.  He has the chemistry of grounds to water with sugar and coffeemate perfectly formulated.  Fortunately for me, years ago one of his ex-wives had already required he map out all available Peet’s locations.

Back in the day when we worked together, my dear friend Erika was known to interrupt midday meetings to deliver an additional cup o’ Peet’s with an add shot or two when she knew I had come into work early that day.  She certainly did not want to deal with a caffeine deprived katherine…or have to run interference for others who might have crossed my path in that state.

My home brew is typically extra strong Peet’s Sumatra. I don’t grind my own beans.  They are ground fresh when I buy them and a pound usually lasts me about nine days.  Besides…to get the true benefit of fresh, I would have to grind the beans in the morning….and that just ain’t gonna happen.

 
In the past, I have used this terrific Cuisinart coffeemaker with it’s special timer.  I’d get it all ready at night and set the timer for about five minutes before I woke up.  I like this coffeemaker so much I gave one to my folks. (they have never used the timer feature however….)





For a couple months, I had to share my morning cup with Joe.  My step dad, Joe. He is an Italian/Croatian curmudgeon who upon occasion is mistaken for Scotty (as in “Beam me up Scotty” ….which is rather convenient while waiting to be seated at a popular, crowded restaurant in The City…trust me.)

 














At the very least, Joe and I have one thing in common.  We both love my Mama very much. The rest of the time we just sorta nod at each other over the rim of a cocktail and have learned to get along pretty well.  The one thing that threatened the peace of the house was the making of coffee. 

Joe drinks this light brown water you could read the newspaper through.  He buys whatever brand of coffee is on sale. To my way of thinking…coffee is one of those “you get what you pay for” kind of deals.  And for me…taste matters. 

If Joe woke up first and made the coffee…I would have had to drink literally liters to consume enough…but since it tasted positively putrid I couldn’t even get a full cup down. I’d pour his into a carafe and make another batch…which of course…only I would drink.  This was deemed wasteful.  Sigh.

If I woke up first I’d make Sumatra you could stand a spoon up in. He would drink about half a cup and leave the house.  He started complaining about it destroying his stomach lining….and whatever else occurred to him in the heat of the moment. I pretty much ignored him.

I thought about putting the two coffeemakers side by side on the kitchen counter…and actually dug through the boxes to find mine.  I even considered setting mine up out in the garage.

One weekend after hearing the coffee debate for the umpteenth time, The Teamster looked at the two of us with an expression of:  “Just Shut up already”…

Out loud all he said was, 
“Ya know….I can solve this” 
 
And…he did. (sigh…my hero)

I now whip up my break of day nectar in my very own Peet’s French Press.  Sure, I have to boil water…and it isn’t waiting for me when I awaken. But hey… as long as I get decent, strong java…I am willing to compromise….a little….

Whew!  Peace in our time.

Forget Raymond….Everybody Loves Maggie

           Today is my Mama’s Birthday !

 
Lightening will strike if I mention which one.  She has always been the type to politely refuse to disclose her age. On the side chair sits her embroidered pillow which reads:

”Age is only a number….and mine is unlisted”

(the irony is for the past ten months, every time she sees a doctor, has a test or procedure performed, or even picks up a prescription the medical professional confirms her birthday.  Out loud.  So everyone can hear.  She gets oh-so-ticked-off.  And then she glares at me chuckling)

All my life my Mama has been surrounded by people who love her.  Family.  Friends.  Neighbors. Co-workers. Churchmates. Not so unusual until you take a look at the range of individuals.

PTA moms. Soccer Moms. Corporate Moms. Women who would never have a child of their own. There are pious believers…and those who refuse God.  Neighbors who can’t get along with anyone else but her. The preacher…and the members of the choir.  Drunks. Murderers. The Judge.  Sorority girls and Fraternity boys. Old. Young. Holy Rollers and Whores.  Blue collar, white collar, and the guy with pink lace on his panties. Red necks and no necks. Hillbillys. Captains of Industry, Rocket Scientists, and the guy who lives under the bridge with a blanket.

Everybody Loves Maggie.

           (the summer of sweet sixteen) 

While we have many things in common, and I have a wide range of friends…I do not take after my Mama so much. It has been said that I am my Father’s daughter. My temperament is not of mother born. (smile) There was a time that bothered me a great deal.  A time when I wanted to be the woman she is. But alas…heavy sigh…I am not. I am a smartass….and she is not.

I have been known to explain “I try to always be a good person. I may not always be a nice person…but I always try to be a good person” Mama and I learned to accept this a long time ago. (although there are a few dozen people who ardently wish I would be more like her.) 

 (maggie as a first born…and with her first born)

  (as the bride….and the mother of the bride.
Yes, it is the same dress…the first time she was married was on her 21st birthday….)


(I am the only woman I know who was able to be the Best Man at her own mother’s wedding) 

 
(Maggie and Shirley…BFF at 16 and 60)

There was a time a few months back, I wasn’t sure we’d get to this 5th of April with my Mama here on Earth.  And I wouldn’t be so foolish has to be certain of the next.  But today…I praise God for being able to celebrate this day with her.

(evidence that I have been a klutz my entire life)

This little one minute ditty is my first attempt at making a .wav file from photos.  No music or special effects.  This could get fun.

      Happy Birthday Mama….I love you….

dark driving ~ there

We left southern California in 1995.

Once I decided to leave, it took me a full year to disengage our lives before we could make good our escape.
My job and her schooling. 
Our friends and her family.

I never really liked it in southern California.

In 1976 I really liked Davis and Humbolt.
But I was given three choices. 
Palo Alto and live at home with the folks. 
Lafayette, Indiana and live with my grandparents. 
Los Angeles and live with strangers.

I loved my folks and my grandfolks....
but I was ready for strangers.
I relocated south.

I had wonderful friends and terrific experiences in southern California. Many of the happiest years of my life.
I went to school there.
I got married.
Established my career.
Had my baby.
Grew up.

I just never felt at home in southern California.

I left in 1995 and I have never gone back until this week.

I had a somewhat irrational concept of being taken back against my will...like Mikhail Baryshnikov in White Nights .  I had been vilified following my defection....and they have never quit their recruitment efforts for my daughter's return.

There have many opportunities to go back. I have always come up with really REALLY good reasons not to go.

This time....I couldn't not go.
For this...I had to go.

It was 17 hours of driving in a 29 hour time frame.
Mostly in the dark.
Nine hours there...eight hours back.
(I made the mistake of getting off the freeway for something yummy and got Lost in Long Beach on the way down...thank God for AAA.)

The six hours between Santa Cruz and Westwood are VERY familiar....I've made that run well over 50 times.

Watsonville, Castroville
Salinas, Soledad
King City, Paso Robles
Atascadero, San Luis Obispo
Pismo, Arroyo, Nipomo
Santa Maria
Gaviota, Goleta
Santa Barbara
and then home.

Former home rather.
Ventura County
San Fernando Valley
The 405 to Westwood.

Every exit evokes emotions.
Memories of people. Of places.
Waves of memories.
celebrations, schools, performances,
friends, colleagues, lovers, adversaries.
Good times and Great times... and the Getty.
I have not thought of these things in YEARS.
Dredged up from deep down.

It is dark and it is late.
I am tired. The coffee has made me wired.
I find that it is better to drive without sobbing.
My mind grasps my heart in a steel grip holding it in check.
I am by myself but I am not alone.

From 2:30 in the morning...until 2:30 in the afternoon.
I was actually back in southern California. 
The OC no less.

be good at life

Today we lost my sister-in-law Donna to GVHD.
Graft Verses Host Disease.


                         (Christmas 1981)

Donna leaves her husband, her twelve year old son, and her twin six year old daughters.  She is just a few months younger than I am.

She is my ex-husband's little sister...
aunt to my oldest daughter. 

She stood with me when I was married...
I stood with her when she was married.

A long time ago in a galaxy, far, far away... before I knew her brother, Donna and I met while she was a reporter for The Daily Bruin.  We became sorority sisters, and then sisters-in law. Donna grew up to become a formidable lawyer.  Our lives took us on different paths. I had not seen her in quite a while.

She was a devoted wife and loving mommy...
the fun, festive, perfect aunt, who knew what questions to ask.

Donna has been battling leukemia for a few years and last October had a Stem Cell Transplant... which seemed to be successful in that her bone marrow showed no signs of leukemia cells. But in the past week or so the transplanted cells realized they were in a genetically foreign body and attacked it.

The last eighteen months have been a time of loss for me.  I've written about my Grandfather. And of my Mama's own battle with cancer. But I haven't written of the others who have died. I haven't written about the inordinate number of people in my life....friends and family....who are literally fighting for their lives. 

In our tears tonight my daughter and I contemplated that we are not finished losing yet...and that being able to handle tragic death is not something we want to be good at.

We want to be good at LIFE.

A couple weeks ago Jazz left this following quote in a comment on Mimi's blog. It struck me and so I googled the quote...and found it originated in an article by Thomas Lynch from November 2000 in Esquire Magazine.  (this is exactly the kind of serendipity that makes me love the internet....the article is worth the read.)

"There's no easy way to do this.
So do it right:
weep, laugh, watch, pray, love,
live,  give thanks and praise;
comfort, mend, honor,
and remember."

I will always remember.
see ya on the other side....

the fam....

at the risk of becoming (oh horrors) a "mommy~blogger" here a couple pics of the family from my "49er Forever" pahtay.  I won't post pics of the other attendees out of respect for their personal privacy....smile.

sugarcookie...in control and in charge.  She made delicious hors d'oeuvres and my all time very favorite cake... Chocolate Nut Loaf (my Gramma's recipe.)

Little Missy wore red and gold...but with her beau being a Raider fan couldn't quite wear 49er gear.

 
The Bear Cub...who went out and bought a new shirt to wear cause he knew I'd notice....but neglected to actually read the invite which specified 49er Red and Gold. Probably the only family event I wouldn't complain about him wearing a jersey and he missed it....laughing.

My stepdad striking a pose...he brought out all of his Niner collector paraphernalia and autographed memorabilia. Way Cool.

 
My Mama...it was her first soiree in over six months.  She kept her bargain of not telling any katherine stories.  Praise God.

and of course....the photographer...a Ram fan...who had to chemically disinfect his body after wearing a 49er jersey...pobrecito....