Love at the Five and Dime

"We don't remember days, we remember moments."

~  Cesare Pavese  ~

Looking forward to a nice long weekend and I will be kicking it off by seeing one of my 

favorite musicians in Annapolis.  

Nanci Griffith

One of my her songs, "Love at the Five and Dime", takes me down memory lane and the Woolworth store in Muscatine, Iowa, a small river town 

that sits on the Mississippi.

My grandmother and I would frequent it during the hot summer months.

I have great memories of sitting at the counter at that five and dime store

and ordering ice cream sundaes! 

A rare treat for a farming family of modest means.

It's a beautiful song as well as delightful!

Hope you enjoy.

Love at the Five and Dime by Nanci Griffith

By the way,

what are you doing this weekend?  

Do share!

: : :

Lover's Leap Swinging Bridge of Iowa

This bridge does not swing above the jungles of South America
or over raging Colorado waters
it is a landmark in my small Iowa hometown, strung across a steep ravine
held together by cables, wires, and barrel staves
262 feet of wobbly suspension

when I was a young girl, it was a frightening encounter to cross
with its rotted planks and gaping holes
and I was sure I could fall through
though now I doubt it

it  would rock and roll under my feet as I walked across
older rambunctious cousins would swing it to and fro,
causing me to freeze in place,
clinging to its wire cable until they exhausted themselves
laughing

but I learned to wait them out, not giving in to their pleasure of stopping my trek
across
to the other side

because it was important to reach

as with all significant things in life
conquering the fear that can hold us in place
from reaching beyond what one thought possible

it was only a ravine
but it might as well have been a jungle or raging waters
underneath that bridge

and yet
I reached the other side
and looked back
and grinned
at those who thought I would never

cross over

Monday thoughts,
missing the mom gene

(Built in 1886, the Lover’s Leap Swinging Bridge is still there, waiting
for each soul
to cross to the other side)

Lost in the Land of Iowa

My father and mother

how I like to remember them
young with hope and wonder

before I was anything

she barely fifteen
and he twenty one
marry 

and like their parents

start a family 

in Cairo, Iowa

sons to farm the land
daughters to gather the eggs

me, 

 

in my father’s arms
first born


My father and mother
farmers
digging and plowing and planting
seed in the dark earth

season after season

life filled with rotated
soybeans
corn
and wheat
and the occasional
field of potatoes
plowed up
and exposed

along with innocence


My father and mother

 

how I remember them
a trip to Lake Tahoe
our first and last

ten years of marriage

soon
to be dissolved
and turned over
for a new season

a new family
stronger and sturdier
than the last

but the hope and wonder
has abandoned them

left somewhere back
in that small farming community
of Cairo, Iowa
when a fire stole their home

left with only the
charred remains of a life
to be started over again
but never the same

hope and wonder
disappeared
like all the other traces of their marriage

except for me

Still filled with hope and wonder,
missing the mom gene

Forever Changed

Memories come to us sometimes, not in full sentences, but in images or groups of words that hold more meaning than any other narrative.

These words today reflect a memory of when I was four and struck by a car.  I was crossing the blacktop road that sat in front of our small Iowa farmhouse.  My mother, who was only 15 when she married, was on the other side, gazing down the road as my father steered his tractor to a nearby pasture for spring plowing.

Me at age 4 in Cairo, Iowa

When I Reached for Your Hand

I should  have known
you could not be there

when I reached
for your hand

you had already left

freeing yourself
of me
dreaming of another place
and time

I wonder

did you ache 
for what you left behind

or yearn for what
may never come

when I reached for your hand
and it was gone

left alone
I was not afraid

to cross over
to you

on that bright warm
early spring day
with the damp dark earth

beckoning to be split open

from the cold metal
that would carve through
its soft underbelly

not afraid
to reach for you
to call to you

but you would not hear
my cry

you had already left
and went away
to another place
that I was not allowed
to follow

you with your lost
innocence and wonder
and dreams

never to be realized

unaware
of what was left behind

me

who was reaching out
for you to take my hand

me

who was taking
that step
closer
to you

to bring you back
from that place that
stole you
and
left me behind

I reached for your hand
but it was gone

I was unafraid

to cross over
to you

and my life was
forever changed.


missing the mom gene

Friend or Stranger Danger

Yesterday afternoon I thought I would hang out at Panera with the other laptop geeks, have some Orange Spice tea, grab a table in a dim lit corner with an outlet, and write.

Good plan.

Until.

The table next to me became occupied.

Like, Dude, there are 20 other open tables!

I knew she was trouble the moment she sat down and looked my way, pulling out her laptop.  I didn't catch watch she said.  I just smiled.  Sort of the way you do on a plane when the person takes the seat next to you and tries to start up a conversation.  You do a lot of nodding, smiling, returning to the book you have already placed in your lap, while remembering the most important rule.  No eye contact.

Dude, do you see that I do not want to chat.  I have very important work to do here.

The no eye contact rule did not work. 

Not

at

all.

She was one very determined lady.

And thus she began ....

Lives on the Jersey shore.  Can’t stand NYC any longer after 25 years.  Works in the medical field.  A consultant, a systems-something-or-other who would like to find full-time employment in something-or-other.  Grew up in the area.  Mother lives nearby.  Sister also.  Where do I live?  Is it nearby ?  Do I work?  What do I write?  Been published?  Why do I come here and work?  Panera is better than Starbucks.  Starbucks is too noisy. Do I like my iPad. Do I think it can replace my laptop?

Arrrrrghhhhhhh!

You get the idea.

By then my brain was screaming

Escape. Escape.

But there would be none.

There would be no escape.

Anxiety crept up into my chest, tightened around my throat, threatening to turn me into Cruella de Vil.

And thus the struggle.  What I really wanted to do was ignore her and be rude.  Because what if she was some sort of psycho-stalking-kind-of-crazy?

Or maybe.

She was just a nice person that if I gave her a chance, could be quite interesting.

I remember my sophomore year in college, a fellow female classmate began striking up conversations with me after English Lit.  For a long time, I tried to avoid her, racing out of class ahead of her, making excuses that I had to get to my lab.  There was nothing wrong with her.  I was just leery as to why she sought me out.  We had nothing in common.  No similar friends or activities. 

After several months of her continued pursuit, I started having coffee with her.  We started to hang out together and our relationship slowly developed into a close friendship that lasted for 20 years.

So while the Jersey lady continued to engage my reluctant self in her volley of chatter, I thought of my college friend.

But suddenly, she started to put her laptop away and stood up.  She was late picking someone up. 

I felt relieved. 

But I also wondered, did I miss a chance of making a new friend?  Or did I just avoid a Jersey Shore Snooki.

I wonder.

missing the mom gene (and sometimes the friend gene)

Chop Chop

I hate going to the hair salon. 

Finding a hairdresser is like ...
well, like gambling ...
spinning a roulette wheel 
betting at the race track
buying a lottery ticket

Rarely do I win, most times I loose.

Just too many bad bad memories as a child.

I have this sort of thick wavy curly hair that seems to have never been in style.

Except maybe when I was 3.

As far back as I can remember, we have constantly fought

My hair and I

Way too much trauma

and drama

when for picture day

in fourth grade

this was as good as it was going to get.

So sad.

Wish me luck today!

As Always,
Hairdresser Hater

missing the mom gene

When I Dreamed of Being a Horse

"Do not die before becoming the person you are meant to be. "

I found this in my notes and can’t attribute it to any one source.  But it made me pause.


When I was young, I wanted to be a horse. 

I played horses with my cousins probably from the age of 4 until I was around 8.

I know.

Pathetic.

But it was Iowa, before Star Wars, Darth Vader, Spiderman, and Ninja Turtles.

Summer evenings, my cousins and I would pretend to be horses, trotting, galloping and whinnying around the yard.  A herd of wild stallions. (But I was a GIRL stallion.)  One unlucky cousin would have to play the rancher, trying to catch us and lead us into an imaginary pen.

During cold Iowa winters, I would gallop through the house on my hands and knees with some little cousin running after to hop on my back and ride ‘em cowboy.

I would buck them off, too wild to be tamed and tackled.

I guess a little bit of that wild horse still lives within me.

Just a little.

Refusing to be tamed and tackled

into other’s ideas of who I should be or could be.

Instead ...

I will continue to grow into the woman I am meant to be.

Whoever that person is ...

because I have not met her yet.

Have you?

One day you're pushing and then .... poof, they're gone!

I can’t believe that my first born boy turns 40 today.  That’s right, 40 years ago I was in a delivery room during an Iowa snowstorm, laboring for 48 hours. 

Oh, yes, you heard that right.  LABORING!  48 HOURS!  Two DAYS!

I KNOW!  Who labors that long these days?  Moms would be lawyering up.  Dads would be suing for income losses. 

Prehistoric as it seems, it was not unusual in small Iowa hospital communities.  It was a time before birthing classes, epidurals, and fetal monitors became the norm.  It was a time that babies were swaddled so tight to be only briefly held before returning to the nursery.  It was a time husbands sat in waiting rooms, waiting.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had already had one day of beastly contractions and by the time I was heading into day two, I was being told to push.  PUSH?  PUSH WHAT?    (Remember, this was before birthing classes and Google.)

In my haze, I remember my doc telling my husband-at-the-time during my second day of NEVERENDING PAIN that “she thinks that baby is just gonna pop out by itself.” 

If only I could have gotten out of that bed, I would have POPPED his head RIGHT OFF.

Perhaps, doc ...  if you would have taken better stock of how BIG my baby was, and that it was my FIRST and that maybe being JUST 18, that MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, those combinations just might make my delivery a tad DIFFICULT!  

I had no clue how long this was going to go on.  Maybe days.  Years.  FOREVER!

This baby seemed to want to take his time coming into the world.  And why not?  He was going to be stuck through eternity with this country farm girl from the sticks ......  “no, no, no, not THAT woman.  Someone has made a mistake!  I want a different M-O-T-H-E-R!“ 

And then ... time to push.  I had no idea.  NO IDEA.  But my body did.  WE'RE THERE.

Once wheeled to the delivery room (WHAT in-room delivery?), and with the doc at the finish line, I hear the gush of water hitting the floor.

Doc: “I just broke your water. It shouldn’t be long now.”

And it wasn’t.  The urge to push was so beyond my control.  As if a Sigourney Weaver's alien had taken over my body and then .... a relief, a calm.  The head is out, the head is out!

Doc: “Stop pushing.”

HUH? HUHHHHH? WHAT?

Um, no. NO NO NO.

Doc: “You need to stop pushing for a moment.  The cord is around his neck three times. It will just take a second.”

THREE TIMES! My brain can’t focus.

I close my eyes, and freeze.  Be still, be perfectly STILL.

And then.

Doc: “Ok, one more push and we’re there.”

And we were.  INCREDIBLE.  All the pain and weight lifted away.

Doc:  “Whoa ... this is a big guy!”

Nurse:  “He must be 10 pounds.”

Doc:  “Betcha he’s easily 11.”

Nurse:  “I’ll take that bet.”

HEY! HEY!  HEEEYYYYY!  Quit all the jabber and bring me that baby!

He weighed 11 lbs and 3 oz., head temporarily bruised and misshapened, but totally healthy and strong from his arduous journey into the world.

Everyone in the hospital was talking about him.  He was almost twice the size of many of the other babies.  And I fell in love with him immediately.

With his thick red hair, Opey freckles and mercurial moods, he was his own man from the start.  Independent, reliable, disciplined and athletic, never one to fail at anything he set out to achieve. 

So now, 40 years later, through many hills and valleys of differences and expectations of each other, he is still as INCREDIBLE as he was from the first moment he arrived.

Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my baby, my own?
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young man going out of my door.

I want to take back those 40 years and do them all over again.  With only one exception.  To do them BETTER, MUCH MUCH BETTER this time around with the clock moving slowly so I can watch frame by frame all the moments of his life.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SON!

missing the mom gene

Where everybody knows your name

The 401 Diner, our favorite breakfast spot, closed its doors yesterday for the last time after being a fixture in our local neighborhood for the past 10 years.

It’s not like you could argue that it was the best breakfast place around.

But it was OUR place and it’s sad just the same.

With its old style ice cream bar counter with the swivel stools, usually with one that displayed a sign “Broken”.

With its homey blue leather booths and tables that occasionally were propped stable by customers with multiple folded paper napkins.

And a jukebox that would magically begin playing pop tunes from the 60’s including the Temptations, The Shondells, Sinatra and a little mix of Jimmy Buffett.  It was always a mystery as to when it would start up, but we would find ourselves inconspicuously lip syncing to the tunes.

The Professor and I were regulars every Saturday and Sunday mornings for the past five years.  No sooner would we seat ourselves at our regular table in the back, that Gina would greet us with our coffee and ask “The usual?”  I suppose if you’re Jerry Seinfeld, that must happen to you all the time.  But for us, this was OUR Cheers.  The place “where everybody knows your name.” 

The “usual” consisted of the same thing.  Me, always the Blueberry Pancake short stack.  The Professor ... Eggs Benedict WITHOUT the sauce. (I KNOW!  But he does try to watch his girlish figure which is unlike my ballooning menopausal waistline.)  We would leisurely read our Philly and NY Times newspapers long after our breakfast was over, only conscious to the crowd should our table be needed.  We had many long conversations over writing, politics, football, movies, books, actors, friends, possible new business ideas drawn on napkins.  It was a time to connect, to be present with each other before the day’s distractions were upon us.

I mourn the closing of the 401 Diner.  Not only for the friends who have lost their jobs, but also the ending of a special time for The Professor and myself. 

It is a reminder to me how we too often take for granted those around us.  How we expect they will be here today and the day after that, without much thought that they could suddenly be gone.

Time marching on.

I think I’ll give The Professor an extra hug this morning and tell him how much I appreciate him.

I hope not too far into the future we can find another “401 Diner” ... where everybody knows our name and asks “The usual?”

So long Evan, Chris, Gina, Julie, Sheila and Cathy,
Goodbye 401 Diner,

we will miss you,

missing the mom gene

2010 Sunshines, Coastlines & Wines ... A Year of Memories

Dedicated to Travis McGee, the Bestest Beagle

To You and Yours

the Best of the New Year

missing the mom gene

I'll take a Valium with that chair ...

Skiers recount 'scary' plunge from chair lift

This was headline news yesterday.

Not good news for a girl who has ski lift chair anxiety.  That would be me.  Huge huge HUGE anxiety!

The first time I skied, I was around 28 or so, freshly divorced and ready for adventures.  My boyfriend (bf) at the time had taken a job out in Boise, Idaho, and invited me out for a weekend of skiing.  I had never skied before, so I was up for it.  How hard could it be?

Boy, was I dopey.

It was Idaho, for god’s sake.  Mountains, big steep, freezing cold, snow covered mountains.  People can die on mountains, ski into trees, thank you Sonny Bono for that image.  Take a spill and have a brain bleed like Liam Neeson’s wife, Natasha Richardson.

But I was in lust ... anything and everything was possible in the world.

So I borrowed my girlfriends ski jacket (her size 6 ski pants were not meant for my size 12 bottom), hopped a plane and headed out west for my big adventure.

Now there were probably several signs that would have been alarming to me had I not been so gooey eyed over my bf.

Like arriving to the resort and being the only one in blue jeans.

Like spending only 30 minutes on the bunny slope, and 20 of those minutes trying to figure out how the heck you pull or pole yourself up once in a horizontal position.  (Oh, how you scoff, but it’s a whole other matter getting up from a horizontal position with 6 foot fiberglass planks on your feet.)

Like strangers giving me pointers on the bunny slope while my bf went off to do a couple of runs before we take the lift up TOGETHER.

Like not knowing the meaning of the Green circle, Blue square, and Black diamond symbols and totally trusting your bf when he says you are ready.

Did you know that there are reasons ski trails have names like Lazy Mary or Widow Maker.

Did you know that it is much easier to get ON a ski lift than it is to get OFF a ski lift.

And that one should wear special ski pants which are WATER proof so you don't freeze your ass off since you are going to be spending most of your time on it anyway.

See, didn’t I warn you earlier that I was dopey.

As I sat on the lift with the bf who had boosted my confidence that I was certainly ready to glide down the mountain with him, I started to feel this pinch of anxiety grow in my stomach about how one gets OFF the lift.  Oh, he gladly gave me instructions and I eagerly listened to each and every thing I should do as we approached.  But all I could see were the puffy coated people ahead of me easily gliding off the chair down the incline which looked MUCH larger than the bunny slope which I had just vacated.

I was gripped with fear!

What the hell was I doing here?

Tilt skis up, push off chair, bend knees slightly, keep poles close to body and glide down incline.

Or

Immediately fall to avoid incline only to be knocked in the head by the chair lift while taking out your bf.  (Oh, ye who had so much faith in me.)

Did you know they stop chair lifts when people fall?  Yep, they sure do!  Gave me time to pick up my wet bottomed ass and get out of the way.  That is, actually CRAWL out of the way.

Could I just pleeeeaaaase ride back down the mountain.  And then could you just pleeeeeeease stop when it’s my turn to get off.  Pleeeeeeease??

Nope, not going to happen.  Cause my bf was confident that I could ski down that mountain.  Down that Blue square symbol, intermediate mountain slope.

“Ready to go?”

I looked at him with less gooey eyes.

“I think you need to go on ahead.  It’s going to take me a little while to get down to the bottom.”

He paused before speaking.  The gooey eyes had turned into loathing ice crystals.

“Okay, if that’s what you want.  Meet you at the bottom.”

“I might be a while, so I’ll see you when I see you.”

And with that he slid over the edge and gracefully swished back and forth so easily in the packed powder.  At that point, if I had a javelin, I would have pitched it at him.

So there I was, alone, standing at the precipice of my demise, wet jeans and all.  Oh, I gave it my best.  I angled my skis to horizontally cross the trail only to have them plow into five foot snow banks from which I would have to pry them back out and do the same thing again in the opposite direction.  At this rate, I was covering about 10 feet of vertical slope every 10 minutes.

Off came the skis and I began walking down the mountain.  Have you ever walked down a mountain in ski boots?  Not fun.  Half way down was a lodge with a big roaring fireplace where I could again start feeling my half frozen legs.  A few hot rum drinks helped with that progress.

When I finally reached the bottom, I had also reached the end with that bf.  It was a long cold weekend before my Monday flight home.  And I’m not just talking about the weather.

Years later, when I met The Professor who was a big ski buff, I tried again.  Only this time, I had size 12 ski pants and a good coach.

I’ve been skiing now for 12 years, but my ski lift anxiety has never gone away and news stories like the one yesterday...

Well, let’s just say,

I’ll take a Valium with that lift ticket, thank you very much.

Yours truly,
missing the mom gene

Christmas Past and Present

In all my bah humbug holiday spirit, I’m going to miss my three oldest kids. 
 

Actually, they aren’t kids anymore.  All grown up with families of their own.
 
Scattered about the country.

Celebrating Christmas in their own homes.

Bah humbug.

They say that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I don’t know who “they” are, but I wonder.

My childhood holidays were spent in my grandparents farm house.  Most all family members were there, maybe with the exception of my cousins who lived in Nevada. I always thought there was something exotic and mysterious to have cousins who lived in another state so far away. 

Being in Iowa seemed small, safe, predictable.  Comforting to me as a child.  And crowded.  With my 23 cousins, plus or minus a few.

Our Christmas’ were loud, messy.  Filled with unrestrained chaos.  And fun.

Men at the card table playing Euchre, cigarette smoke curling up through the air, an uncle occasionally reaching out and grabbing some cousin sprinting by, ordering him to stop running.

Clinking and clattering kitchen sounds of women cooking in their flour smeared aprons, sauteing, whipping, slicing up the foods that we soon would devour.

Younger cousins fighting and bickering over what christmas songs they were going to sing for the unattentive adults.

Bored older cousins slumped on sofas looking through the stack of Life magazines, wishing they were anywhere but there.

Winter coats piled four feet high on my grandparent’s bed, inviting hide and seekers.

And the anticipation of the contents of the dozens and dozens and dozens of small, colorful packages filled with homemade gifts, mittens, socks, sweaters, Woolworth necklaces, dime store toys, scarves, cigars, meat and cheese gift baskets.

... feels like 3 lifetimes ago.

Sigh.

And yet the “more things change, the more they stay the same.”

The men no longer smoke but gather in living rooms to watch football games.

Bickering kids fight over which video game they are going to play.

Bored teens text their friends.

Women follow recipes on their IPads.

The same and yet

not the same

we are linked together

but oh 

so far apart

scattered across the 50 states, that no longer hold childhood mystery

The Holiday may be the same but the celebration with my family has changed. 

Bah humbug.

I miss it.

And I will miss these three kids this Holiday.

Best to you and yours,

missing the mom gene