What makes us say and do these things?

It was another day of belly laughing for me. My coworker and I had a two hour lunch with a dear friend. She is hysterically funny, has a wonderful and sometimes warped sense of humor. She is so fun to be with. She said she is concerned that on the verge of her fiftieth birthday, she just might be on the verge of menopause. "What ARE hot flashes? I don't think I've ever had one. Everything in the lady department seems to be regular. But I think it's menopause causing my erratic symptoms."

"Well, then, what are your symptoms?" we asked.

"This crazy snake lady comes out of my head, (she entwined her hands overhead like she was doing the Flamenco), wraps around anything or anyone that gets in my way and makes me say things I would never say. I am losing my filter."

It's excusbale, we told her. In fact, I read somewhere that elderly Native American women are forgiven all of their foibles. They can get away with saying anything after menopause.

"Since my husband lost his job, he tends bar sometimes at an upscale restaurant. I am not jealous. I knew he would be out late, so I went to bed. During the night I was awakened by our six year old who had climbed into bed with me, rolled over and plowed into my gut. When I sat up and looked at the clock, this snake-head lady erupted out of my head. I dialed my husband's cell phone. He answered after a few rings and sounded groggy (or drunk). I tore into him. "Do you know how unfair it is of you to make me worry like this? A phone call is all I ask for. There are only two places you could possibly be at this hour, either at a bar or at someone's house. It is 2:30 in the morning and all I want is the truth from you. Where the hell are you!"

Quietly, he replied, "In the other room, trying to sleep in our son's bed."

We were laughing so hard and loud, gasping for air. The manager at Panera Bread Company walked over to us, and when he saw that he did not have to dial 911 for three simultaneous chokers, he feigned interest in removing our dishes. I teach preschool, and I know the art of distraction vs. confrontation. I'm sure he would have urged us to take it down a notch or leave, except he caught a glimpse of the snakes unfurling from our peri-menopausal, smack-dab-in-the middle of menopause, and post-menopausal heads.

Care to share your embarrassing moment? Laughter is good for the system and soul.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. I consider my blog buddies a blessing. You don't know how much it means to me to find an inspirational post on your blog, a beautiful picture, a cartoon, an astute observation, a woo-hoo for your publishing accomplishments, or a humorous remark that breaks open my day with a smile.

I hear you when you're lonely, aching, suffering, or hurting for someone else. And, I send up a silent prayer for you. Today I thank you for signing on as a follower, (I'd hoped for 75 followers by Thanksgiving), for your comments, and just for being a reader. Blessings to you.

This year I will roast a turkey so that Bill and I can have leftovers, because what is Thanksgiving week without cold turkey and dressing and cranberries for breakfast the next three days? I am not preparing the family meal, but I did for years. The past few years I have encouraged my children to celebrate in spirit with me and Bill, and in person with their dad and his wife who live in the country. Used to be, all of the kids had to drive miles and miles to visit everyone, rush through a meal and head off to the next house. It was no fun for them or us. Now there are grown grandkids who have to trek around as well. I'll wait until Christmas for my turn. On that day, our house overflows and I am in my glory.

I wrote a couple of poems. One is sentimental. I was reflecting on a Thanksgiving when my parents were alive and we had little babies in the family. The other poem I wrote for a writer's guild open mike and is a bit risque, filled with innuendo. It is harmless. I was afraid that it would bomb when I read it, but the audience laughed loud and long.

#1
Thanksgiving Feast
A mouthful:
Toothless baby grins,
little kids with missing teeth, shoveling it in,
great grandparents nibbling with false teeth.
All of us devouring tastes, textures, smells, sounds and sights.
Me, bowing my head,
grateful, full, content, smiling.
Gobbling up four generations,
wishing this scrumptious moment could last
forever.

#2
Tomorrow, I have a date with Tom. His broad chest makes me smile.
I'm going to oil his skin and massage his pecs a while.
I'll get his juices flowing and really make him hot.
Then, I'm going to grab his giblets and cook them in my roasting pot.

Happy Thanksgiving

An autumn treasure

Years ago, a giant sugar maple tree, the focal point on our city block, towered over oaks, a sprinkling of pines and sycamores. That tree stood like a sentry between my brick house and my best friend’s bungalow. When Rose and I were young, we'd sit on the porch swing on warm autumn evenings and watch our small children frolic outdoors in the crimson red, brilliant gold and orange leaves. They took turns scraping metal rake tines across the sidewalk, and they belly laughed as they leaped off the steps and sunk into leaf piles.

Each autumn school day they scuffed their shoes through the fallen leaves, moist with morning dew. Rose and I gathered the most brilliant ones and we used them to decorate. By mid-November the kids joyously crunched and stomped and rustled through the faded brown decay beneath their feet.

Today, as I watch my grandchildren frolic in the fall leaves, reverie carries me back. I can almost see them. There goes my little girl, Tracey, walking up the block. She bends over and tugs her red knee socks up after tromping with her little brother, Jason, and her best friend, Denise, through the new fallen leaves. I remember their laughter as a wind gust loosens a few more leaves which dance upon their heads.

I see myself young, going next door to visit my best friend,Denise’s mom. Rose and I sip coffee, dunk a sweet roll, wonder about life, and predict when that last hanger-on at the top of the tree will let loose. We watch it for weeks. Just before Christmas I bundle up and hurry next door. Rose greets me with a warm chocolate chip cookie in hand. Her gaze drifts beyond me and she laughs aloud. “Look!” Together we catch a glimpse of the last leaf to fall. Satisfied, we settle in for our morning chat. Our conversations are serious, silly, soulful and sometimes sedate.

Twenty years we watched the seasons pass. Every spring we waited anxiously for the first buds to burst on the sugar maple tree. Its green canopy shaded us on hot summer days. We were awe-struck by its autumn finery. The tree’s annual life cycle represented another year of our friendship. Rose was like the last leaf to drop; she hung on as long as she could, but just before Thanksgiving, she lost her battle with cancer, at age 52.

At this time of year, I am reminded of the special time I spent with her in her last days as she fought to make it through one more Christmas, her favorite time of year. Before she died she gave me a handmade treasure. We sat in her yard and she pointed out brilliantly colored leaves she wanted. I ran to gather the selection, some before they hit the ground. She clutched them like a bouquet. She tired rapidly and wanted to go inside. She asked me to come back the next day.I did. She was so weak, she could hardly speak, but she presented me with ten pages of computer paper on which she had scotch taped the leaves in different patterns. "You like them?"
"I'll treasure them forever," I said, knowing that my forever and hers were so differen't. "I'll use them every year with my preschoolers," I promised.

Every autumn since her death I show them to my students and tell them about my friend. We guess how many are on each paper; we talk about the colors which are somewhat faded after 13 years, but still crisp and preserved in Contact paper.

Fall, with its early darkness and the impending date of my friend's death makes me feel melancholy, but there is a certain beauty to these days, as everything has a life cycle, leaves, flowers, people.

Rose sent me a gift from beyond too. I shall share it with you soon.

Now go tromp in some fall leaves.

Forever Letters, Forever Stamps

About Letter Writing
Published 3/09 Suburban Journals

Letters have been a life-line for my best friend and me for forty years. They bouyed our spirits and kept us emotionally afloat as we endured the crashing waves of life. Now, our letters are an anchor for my friend's receding mind.

Our friendship began when we were next door neighbors and wives of soldiers stationed in a remote Alaska town. We connected immediately. When it was time to return to our respective hometowns, we vowed to stay connected.

My heart skipped a beat each time the letter carrier deliverd a red and blue edged airmail envelope - it felt like my cherished friend in Boston was sitting in my kitchen. We shared the joys and frustrations of motherhood; we reared our children with swapped ideas and complaints, and we did it all through letter writing. Each ten page missive was like unburdening ourselves at the gossip fence. Although we were separated by fifteen hundred miles, we knew we had one another to lean on when we needed a boost or a kick in the pants.

As divorce loomed on my horizon, she was there to listen, respond and support me. When medical issues loomed on her horizon, she shocked me with an unexpected phone call. "Tumor. Brain. Malignant." I'm sure she said a host of other words, but those were all I heard. "So very-very sorry." I'm sure I said much more, but what I remember is we didn't cry. Verbal words of comfort failed me; all the while my mind was spinning a letter. When we hung up, I took pen in hand, poured out my love, encouragement and addressed our fears. I did this twice a week for the next three years, when her letters were sporadic or non-existent. Chemotherapy and radiation were her topics; teenaged children and daily living, mine.

Today her cancer is gone and so is her short-term memory. I write her weekly. She tells me her heart skips a beat when she sees a letter from me. Although she can not remember a moment ago, her long-term memory is intact. Every letter is a connection to days of long ago when we walked among the wildflowers clutching our swollen bellies, sharing hopes and dreams, wondering what it would be like to be a mother.
Forever more we will be two newlywed girls walking a dusty path towards yesterday in that remote Alaska town (Delta Junction).

As my friend drifts away, I vow that we will stay connected. As long as there are Forever stamps, I will forever write my friend a weekly letter.