A few of the simplest things

Isn't he a proud fellow? Hubby and I sat outside last evening and watched the cold front move in on a cloud bank. Fall weather is here. Those high 90's are finally gone.

 

The birds, bees and butterflies know change is in the air. We courted one another---this cardinal with his beautiful trill and I, with my poor excuse for a mimic whistle. 

 

Our purple and pink flowers are in full bloom attracting a hundred butterflies and bees. But as I came close to take a photo, they flew off.

 

It really is the the simple things in life, so close to nature, that make me feel the happiest.

Growing older, growing up.

Hodak's is the best little OLD chicken restaurant in town, so famous they scoff at advertising because there's usually a waiting line. It's a neighborhood icon in South St. Louis city. You never know who you will see when you go there.

Five couples: Pat & Phil, and also Ron & Betty were high school sweethearts who are still married after all these years. Bill & I are happy in our almost 20 year marriage; Ray & Jeri, and Chuck & Linda are in committed relationships.

We gathered for food, fun and fellowship. Those guys are sure showing their age, but we gals haven't changed a bit since high school.

As we rehashed old stories, we unearthed our histories. The longer we sat there laughing and sharing... the adults we are today became the high school kids we used to be in 1963. There was Chuck walking down the hallowed halls bucking authority with shoulder length hair. Ray the wise mouth, Phil the funny guy, Ron the party animal. Then there was  my poor hubby and Jeri who were outsiders trying to fit in. We girls had teased or flipped hair back then, and we had to have the lastest shoes and fashions. Prom queens and everything in between...we have evolved. We are comfortable in our own skin, wrinkled as it may be, and we wear comfortable shoes and fashions now.

Such talent and creativity at our table of ten: a famous woman artist, two successful musicians, a writer, someone who is making unique coffee tables that sell for thousand$, and a woman who was on the Price is Right recently and won a green Ninja motorcycle. It was delivered to her door in a Hollywood truck. Every single person in our group has made contributions to this world, their families, their work place. A few of us still work, while others prefer retirement.

More famous than we realize, our greatest accomplishments, cultivated in youth, attained as we grew older, are merely the things that make others awe. In our own families, we are all held in high etseem because of the simple things that make us unique to our loved ones: hugs, kind words and the advice and love we dispense across the generations, because some of us are still sandwiched.

As we swapped stories, I looked at each of us and realized that we are all stars, especially in the eyes of our next generation of little patience-testers. Some of my classmates yearn for grandchildren they probably will never have. Some of us worry enedlessly about the ones we do have.
As we hugged good-bye, we vowed to do it again, soon.

Growing older happens no matter how we try to stop the hands of time.

Growing up...sometimes it takes a lifetime.

We are getting there.

I witnessed a miracle!

I know, I know all about the HIPPA laws, patient privacy act and all that, but I have to shout it from the roof tops. My best and dearest friend of 45 years, Sheila, who lives outside Boston, had brain surgery last week.

Her mental and physical condition had been rapidly declining; her speech was slurred and her short term memory was nearly non-existent. She fell frequently, and although her husband wanted her at home, one of her doctors was pushing for a skilled nursing facility.

Twenty plus years ago she was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. She finally went into remission, but as a result she lost most of her short term memory. She began having seizures, so they put her on restricted fluids, and that broke my heart. As the years went by she got progressivley worse, and I didn't think she'd be with us much longer, as this summer she took to her bed and became weak.

A brain surgeon suggested at her annual appointment that her balance may improve if they put a shunt into her brain to divert fluid to her stomach. BUT, chances for improvement were 50/50. Prognosis was uncertain; success in days, months or perhaps up to five years, or not at all. There were no guarantees that she would even survive the surgery. She said she wanted it.

I worry-prayed all day of the scheduled surgery. Then I received an email from her husband: doctor called out on emergency. Surgery cancelled and rescheduled. Another week of pray, beg, worry.

A week after her surgery, I telephoned. Her voice was vibrant; she was alert, made sense. She told me about her new great-grandson, and we did something we haven't done in years, we laughed and laughed together.

It is a miracle. I am so relieved. I have been sending her a card or letter a week for years and years, talking about old times, because her long term memory is intact, I usually wrote about our days as neighbors in Alaska when our husbands were soldiers.

Her mobility is still impaired, she stumbles, but is getting stronger. Best of all, she came out of anesthesia sooner than expected and she began talking coherently, and she hasn't stopped since. I am so relieved, thankful and happy.  Praise God and the surgeons.

And now, the truth revealed...

My honey and I, seeking something fun to do on Saturday, drove into downtown St. Louis mid-morning for the Hispanic Festival.

We couldn't believe there were so many parking places available. We fed the meter by the Main Post Office and walked a couple blocks toward the array of parked emergency vehicles. The mister wondered why there were so many on display. I explained because they are a big attraction with little kids. There were only a few boooths set up, so we wandered over hoping to peruse the hispanic items. But, there weren't any crafts, serapes, or sombreros for sale. Firefighters manned the booths and handed out literature. Odd collaboration, I thought. We walked around and looked at the water rescue boat, the pumper trucks and every other kind of firefighting apparatus.

We had 45 minutes on the parking meter. It took us 15 minutes to realize that yes, we were on Market Street alright, but nowhere near Keiner Plaza --- six blocks up the road where the Hispanic Festival was in full swing. We were at a firefighters' festival. Lucy and Ricky!

On the way back to the car, (DENNIS is correct...do your research), I spied one of those Cheerio signs endorsed by Nelly, our home town rapper. Those posters are at every bus stop. I posed my honey in front of it. He WAS holding something between his legs, PEARL, you silly girl. He had a grip on his ball cap.

No we did not end up at the Hispanic Festival; we shot our wad of quarters in the first meter, and by noon it was unbearably hot, so we headed back home.

My writer friends, now go back and read my first sentence. I answered, the wh questions. When you pitch to an agent you have to be able to summarize succinctly. At a writer's conference one year, an agent said they know within the first or second sentence whether or not they are interested in your manuscript. Often they read no more then eight words, so you'd better set the scene right away.

Thank you all for playing. This was really fun. My honey hasn't seen my blog post yet, but when he wakes up I am going to start his day off with a laugh.

Now it's your turn; will you play my game?

Usually I am telling you the story. After looking at this photo, why don't YOU tell me what you think? A good writer answers the "Wh" questions: Who? What? Why? When? Where? 

Salt water, chlorinated water...ahhh water!

Impulse, urge, uninhibited, call it what you will...

This evening I was out in the driveway hand-washing my car. The water rushing over my feet felt wonderful. I sprayed my bare ankles, shins, knees; I was heading all the way to my head with that hose when the Bosnian neighbor man came out and looked at me curiously. I lowered the hose and my head and continued scrubbing the car. I was within a split second of dousing myself.

Funny, isn't it how we tame those impulses as we age? I think if we were having a downpour, I'd be out dancing in the rain about now. What is it about water that makes me feel like I am returning to primitive roots? That feeling overtakes me every time I am at the seashore.

I have to go wring out my Capris now.



 

If you really want to know...

I'm finally ready to step up and tell you all about stepping out last Friday. If any of you heard the rumor that I was in a cloud—not just on a cloud—it would be true.

You see, I went to the thrift shop to find boots to wear with my disco outfit for my meeting with Gloria Gaynor. I never wear boots, but these were my size, and despite the three inch high chunky heel, when I tugged those spandex boots on, they felt wonderful. I took them home, sprayed them with anti-fungal and walked around in them a while. No real pain. I was getting attached to my boots. Literally. My feet began to sweat and were stuck inside the boots. When I finally pried them off my tootsies, I knew right then and there I'd have to resort to my old high school trick of powdering my bare feet.

Ahhhh, that worked and felt so much better. I walked outside to get in my car, and with every step I took, I stomped out one powder cloud after another. The tops of my boots (across my foot) were white by the time I got in the car. I slid back out in my hooker-red outfit and clomped back into the house. I shook those boots upside down and sideways to get the baby powder out. I washed my feet and dried them. Eased my feet back in. Stepped lightly. No problem. Walked out on the concrete drive and pouff-pouff-pouff, those clouds were back. I ran back in and used a wet wash cloth to scrub those boots inside and out.

Tromped to the car. Relief. I felt self-assured when I got out at the Hilton downtown and strutted into the lobby. We sat a while. Then we four women headed to the ladies room up the hall and around the corner. Somehow all of that high stepping dislodged the clump of powder that must have been stuck in the toe section. Too late.

We were invited to the 17th floor and had to go right away.

I sat on the sofa next to Ms. Gloria Gaynor and felt the urge to tuck my feet. Then, I saw the tiny hole in my leggings! I'm sure she thought I was a poor old soul with those holey pants. She must have thought those boots were my winter shoes with salt stains on them. She was very gracious and didn't say a word.

On the way home, in the car, the other women kicked off their heels and sighed with relief. I was afraid I'd release a puff that couldn't be contained and we'd choke on that cloud... not to mention leaving my footprints on the car carpet, so I toughed it out.

Well, there you have it, another day in the life of Lucy. I mean, Linda.