Play a Train Song!

One of my favorite artists has this great story about this old guy who used to sit in the audience heckling bands for a train song. Ol' Skip would sit in a haze of Southern Comfort and smoke, yelling, "Play a train song!" Apparently, any band who's anybody knows a train song. Trains have always been a definitive reminder of who my dad was. Today I’m sharing my experience of going to visit my dad’s grave for the first time since I stood at it holding my mother's hand as a 4-year old. This is not so much sad as it is a collection of thoughts that remain with me as I exit the experience. Without further adieu, here is my poignant experience from this summer.

Today was historic for me. I know it won’t seem like it to most people, but today was a day I’ve waited for 35 years. I visited my dad today. His name was Thomas, called Tom by most. He died exactly 3 weeks before my 5^th birthday and one week after his 28th birthday. And my mom tells me the start of kindergarten and a birthday just before that kept the absence of my father from being a big deal to my childish brain. It’s funny. I have a handful of memories of my dad…and not one of them is a bad memory. He was a fun guy, though not around a lot. He worked hard, and I believe he played hard too. That dieselly smell from trains always reminds me of how he smelled when he came home from his day down at the roundhouse being a mechanic on trains. While most people complain because they have to wait for a train, I savor the moment, revelling in the clickety-clack of the cars on the track. It is my reminder from my dad that we should all slow down and smell the roses (or the diesel, for me)!

Sometimes he’d come home in the middle of the night still dressed in his train mechanic’s clothes, a little tipsy, and he’d call up the stairs for me and my brother to come down. He’d brought us ice cream!! Joy! I’m sure my mom gave him hell for that, but he’d insist on waking us up. And hey, what was the harm, we weren’t in school yet. ;) I can also remember a few times going down to the roundhouse with my mom. When we arrived and the door swung open to go in, I’d dash in ahead of my mom, see my big strong daddy, and run unabashed up to him. He always received me with open arms and swung me up for a hug. I have a vague recollection of my dad grinning broadly and the other guys smiling happily.

Good memories. Every last memory of my dad is a good one. I suppose that is the gift a daughter inherits in return for the heartbreak of not having that dad to chase off bad boys, ground her for coming home late, walk her down the aisle... And the memories are vivid. I’m thankful for the recollections. My older brother died 8 years after my father, and my younger brother was only 4 months old when his dad left this world. My mom doesn’t talk about him, so all I have is what is in my head. Yeah, I’m grateful.

I’ve wanted to visit my dad’s grave for a very long time. I asked my mother quite awhile ago where the cemetery was. I looked for it, thought I’d found it, and hunted the whole cemetery down only to be disappointed by the lack of a grave with my father’s name on it. Years passed with the thought still in my mind. My mom is funny about some stuff though, and talking about my dad has never been an open forum, so asking again was a precarious proposition. Sure, I wanted to see it, visit it, memorialize him, but I’m also very sure that we don’t need a public marker to visit in order to honor dads or brothers, moms or friends. I’m a believer in the everyday signs those who pass can and do give us to let us know they see what we are doing.

A case in point is about five years ago when I’d gone to see John Edwards (the famous psychic who connects with loved ones from the other side…and what he does is real folks—I shit you not). Anyway, I didn’t get a reading, but I know the reason I didn’t is because I’m not the kind of person who needs a reading to connect with loved ones on the other side, and there were many more needy people there than I. I was okay with the experience because it really is magical to witness the messages sent to people. On my way home, I had a great message from my dad anyway! Driving along the interstate well into the night, some radio call-in show had a guy raving about his daughters, “Blah, blah, blah…but I love them so much, and they are my whole world. So many people take so much for granted, so can you play a song for my beautiful daughters?” As the Joe Cocker song, “You Are So Beautiful” began to play, my one true sign as an enlightened adult who is aware of signs made a brilliant entrance. A shooting star so long and bright you couldn’t miss it shot across the black sky. I was moved to tears to hear that song and realize the shooting star came at that exact moment.

As I drove on, I began to question the meaning. I berated myself for believing in such coincidental things. I thought a long time on that star and that song. I said aloud, “If that is real, give me another sign so I know it’s you.” (I am a skeptic by nature, I guess). I drove silently, wondering about the validity, knowing there wouldn’t be another sign in the last hour and a half of my drive. Sheesh! What I’d forgotten was that there was a train track in a tiny town I had to travel through. By the time I’d arrived at the track, I was beyond tired, focusing furiously on the road ahead of me, and I’d forgotten the demand for proof of my father’s presence. When I crossed the track, something grabbed my attention and I looked to my left. A train sat unmoving not 50 yards down the track with its light beaming. There was an overpowering smell of diesel as though that train had been idling there for some time. What is so strange is that after so many miles of sleepy travel, that should have jolted me, but it didn’t. I looked calmly at the huge engine idling there so close to me, then realized my request had easily been handled. Guffaw one silly shooting star away, but not a train waiting for me in the middle of the night. Trains have always been a nudge from my dad. Nope, those were signs, sure as I’m sitting here.

END PART I

It was strange how I found out where my dad’s grave was. My friend whose boyfriend just died is buried in the same cemetery. Easy as pie, in relating my funeral trip to my mom, she said, “Oh, that’s where your dad is buried.” WHAT? I cannot believe I was there, and I didn’t know this information. Still, I had the information now! And, as luck would have it, I had another trip to Madison planned.

When the day arrived, my friend and I traveled to the cemetery separately since I was heading out of town right afterwards. We called it our trip to visit the Tom’s. (Her boyfriend was also named Tom). I was listening to a rock station on the way out, but they were playing crap, so I put it on an oldies station that always plays good stuff. There were a bunch of commercials, and it must have been divine intervention that kept me from changing the station in my impatience for good music. When the station resumed songs, it played a song that was special to my friend’s boyfriend who died. After that song ended and we were nearing the cemetery, a slow song started. When I realized it was Joe Cocker singing “You Are So Beautiful” I knew without question that my dad knew I was on my way. (Remember the message song from years before?) I fumbled around the car for the “Dad” wreath I’d bought just so I could hear the end of the song. After it ended, I got out and walked to Sandy and told her what had just happened. She held out her arms and exclaimed, "I have goosebumps!!"

Sandy sat at her Tom’s grave, and I wandered off toward where my mom told me my dad’s grave was. I was still wandering in the general vicinity when Sandy sauntered over to help look. The cemetery must direct people to the flat in-the-ground type of memorials because it is almost exclusively those kinds of headstones (most are metal, actually).

I had noticed in the course of my grave-gazing that many of these markers were very generic, and it made me sad to see these stark remembrances of a person’s life. It got me sort of depressed to see my dad’s bare memorial. We found his parents’ graves first, which are near, but not right next to his. I was glad to see they had a marker that was one for both of them. It held each of their names and a ribbon with flowers between them that read, “Together Forever.” It was nice. I was still anxious to find my dad’s though. I knew we were close to it, but Sandy went into the administration building to ask for a map. She came out and told me we were close to it; the lady at the desk told her it was very close to the building where we’d been looking.

Once again, it was Sandy who found our treasure. She yelled over to me, “Hey, I found it. It’s over here.” I turned to where she was, kind of excitedly, but also sort of apprehensively. Could I handle the loneliness of an old metal plaque with simply my father’s name, birth, and death on it?

As I neared her, she looked at me quizzically and asked, “Was he a train dude?” YESSSSS!!!! My spirit lifted right then and there. When I approached the site, I looked down at a beautiful dual toned metal marker that had not only my dad’s name, birth year, and death year, but also a train plaque embedded at the bottom, and entwined roses on the top curved corners. Whew. It was lovely. It had personality. I was touched that his grave showed some of who he was in this world. And since it was the second grave directly in front of the administration building, it was perhaps seen a bit more than others.

I set to work immediately putting the daisy wreath in place. I brushed off the freshly-mowed grass clippings from his marker, pulled the longer grass that crept over the sides out of reach of the mower blades that had so recently passed over it. I chatted with Sandy about my father’s passion for trains. He’d converted our very large basement into an incredible train village. Our entire basement had plywood to raise it up and create his expansive villages for his trains. It was elaborate in ways I cannot describe, but he powered the trains from a port in the very middle that held all of his controls.

Anyway, Sandy took her leave and I sat and pondered the life of the man whose name stared back at me. I thought about why he wasn’t here, and how much I’d missed not having my dad growing up. I got very sad. I got very proud. I wondered why I’d chosen to keep my married name after my divorce because I liked the sound of my ex-husband’s last name better than my dad’s. Suddenly, I wanted my father’s name back. His blood runs in my veins, and I’m sure I have traits that he had. I just don’t know which ones because I was too young to discern our similarities. I realized in those moments at my father’s grave, that I have loved my dad more than I’ve ever realized. I think I’ve squashed those feelings because I couldn’t have him here physically, but I love him, miss him, wish he’d been here so much longer than he was.

Something powerful moved me to trace my finger over the upraised letters of his name. I traced slowly. Great emotion bubbled up as I honored a man I hadn’t truly memorialized since his death. I became aware in that moment, for the first time, that I have a dad. Dad was only part of my vocabulary in a very distant way. My friends had dads, not me. It’s difficult to explain the clarity that being there brought me. I have a dad. It was the first time since I was a tiny 4-year old, that I felt sure and comforted that my dad is by my side, watching over me. I’m proud of who he was, even though I know he wasn’t perfect. In fact, his irresponsible behavior is probably what killed him. He fell asleep in a running car in our garage, and my mom found him in the morning poisoned by carbon monoxide. I don't think it was suicide as his death certificate states; I think it was poor judgment, tiredness, drunkenness. Did he overdo a belated birthday celebration with coworkers? Whatever put him in such a depleted state of mind, it was an unlucky twist of fate that cost him dearly. But then, I believe when it’s time, it’s time. Nothing was going to change that.

I thought about a lot of things as I hunched over his grave under a fully blossoming, brilliant white crab tree that day last week. I kept touching the metal, swiping at stray pieces of grass caught in the letters and numbers. I shook my head and laughed a little, asking him why he’d done that. I told him I missed him terribly growing up without him. I told him I was proud of him, and hoped that he was proud of me. And of course, I told him I was sorry it took me so long to get there. I think he understood. Hearing “the song” upon my entrance to the cemetery made it easy to know that everything was okay, and that he was glad I’d finally found him.

All is forgiven, all is well.

Being able to place a public sign of affection after 35 years was a spiritually-satisfying ceremony. I know there’s never been a “Dad” memorial laid at that grave. I feel a special new bond to my dad after doing that. I believe with my whole heart that he was there hearing every word I breathed that morning. I am calm and peaceful for having completed a journey I’ve wanted to for so many years. I’m also relieved to know where it is, exactly. I feel lucky to have a mom who put a special mark on his gravestone, knowing that someday his children would want to have that part of his personality shown to them in the last vestige of any physical proof of his existence. I am grateful for the experience last week in that cemetery overlooking the rolling hills and farmland.

Was he a train dude? Yes indeed he was.

Heh, You Don't Say

Last night I waited on a guy who turned 91 yesterday. Would you like to know what his infinite words of wisdom about life were to me? We all love those words to live by that the older lot can hand down, don't we? And I didn't ask him for his great secrets to life, he just doled them out, unsolicited.

Before I just hand out this secret o' life, I want you to meet this gentle soul who graced my world for a few moments of his birthday. He came in with his wife, who was quiet, but like him, stunningly adept and aware of her surroundings. They were joined by a son or daughter and his or her spouse. They ordered what they wanted, and when they were done, the 91-year old's wife said in her quiet manner, "I think he'd like mushrooms for his steak." I smiled and nodded, as everyone who ordered steak had declined my upsell suggestion. But a wife knows. And it was his birthday.

The birthday boy was chatty as he came into the dining room. His daughter (?) was adjusting his hearing aid as I greeted the table. As I poured water, she finished and took her seat, asking her father if that was better. Yes, but the background noise was loud. I took note and spoke more loudly so noone at the table would have to strain to hear the specials, the soup, the surprise of a free birthday dinner for Mister Ninety-One. After I'd finished my usual greeting and asked for a drink order, the gentleman piped up with, "No, we'll get drunk at home!" I laughed and nodded. He made me chuckle right away.

They were a lovely table, causing no problems whatsoever. Me and the other waitresses were not taxed at all on this quiet evening, and as it turned out this table would be my last of the night. With the boon of a Packer win and the suggestion from last night that if the Packers won, "we have to celebrate and have 20 drinks" the plan was to sit and relish our win, enjoy our friendships. And so it would be. But not before I learned the lesson of life from this man who has seen it all in over 90 years on this earth.

The old gent allowed the ladies to order first, maybe so he could steal the show by being last. When I got next to him for optimal hearing and conversation, he looked me straight in the eye and said, "If there's anything you want to know about being 90, you just ask me." I smiled at him and told him I would think about that opportunity. After he ordered his food, he spoke again about his age. I guess when you're 91, time is running short so you don't hesitate to speak your mind. I should have been thinking of some question I wanted a sage answer to instead of asking what sort of salad dressing the man would like.

It is sort of like somone saying to you, "If you could ask God "One Question" what would it be? No one is ready for a challenge like that. I mean, I should have had some unbelievable question for the man who offered to give an answer to any question I had about making it to 91-years old. I had nothing. I felt sort of shallow, not having something prepared for this moment of great revealing... And he could hear just fine. It wasn't like I'd have had to shout my question and hope he'd hear it. He answered each meal preparation question easily, not like an old fogey who needs a question repeated louder and louder until you are shouting your question at him. He was a-okay in the hearing and cognizance departments, in spite of all the fuss early on.

When the order was done, he looked at me and conveyed a serious demeanor. "Look here," he said, "there ain't nothing great about 90. Do stuff while you're young enough to do it because when you get to 90, there ain't nothin'." He looked only half-satisfied with that tidbit of insider information, so he continued, "And I haven't done anything to get here. I just put one foot in front of the other my whole life. There's no secret to being 90."

I felt sort of sad by that admission to the secrets of life. But he didn't seem like one of those sad old men. Hell, he still had a very lovely wife who as much there as he was. I don't know that many 90-year olds who still have their spouses here on this earth. I bet if it hadn't been an historic day (birthdays after 75 are historic, right?), he'd have been more jolly than he was. I bet on a normal Thursday he is the happiest guy in the world to be living with a woman who I'll wager has been his wife for more than 50 years!

He made me think, though. He still had a sparkle in his eye, despite his gloomy prediction that there is nothing going on when you are 91. Life is what we make it. I think that guy must have a pretty good attitude to be in such great mental and physical shape. I don't know the heartbreaks and hell he's been through in his life, but I sure would have loved to sit down with him and let him tell me some stories about the road to yesterday's birthday. He was cool, and my birthday wish for him is that he finds the excitement that makes him leap out of bed in the mornings, happy to be here another day.

Tidbits #3

This has been the week before vacation week. And we all know how those are. They go by too quickly in regard to getting ready, but far too slowly in awaiting the departure day. Still, I've gotten most of what I needed to get done, so it's going well. And truthfully, I don't go on hiatus until Wednesday so there's still time to finish those other 'To-Do' chores.

My pre-vacation ahhhhhh for the week was tanning for the first time since early spring when the temperature didn't get above 50 degrees. I'm not really tanning to acclimate myself to a beach or anything, it's more for looking good. I hate looking pasty, but I truly derive greater benefits from laying under those hot lights of the tanning bed. I get my much-needed sunlight vitamin. I have a great distaste for those individuals who bronze themselves like they've been on vacation for two weeks in mid-January, so you will never see me overly tan, but I do like the extra boost of color come those frigid months. Yes, a tanning bed is a cheap luxury I allow myself in the bleak confines of winter in Wisconsin.

I had a very funny experience this week. I had gone out to the front steps to "save" the potted flowers I had from the harsh weather. There were blooms on it, and I thought if brought it into my unheated entryway it would bloom and last a few more weeks. It's a big pot. There's been a few spiders in it over the summer. I am deathly afraid of spiders and will turn into a gyrating, screaming mess if one gets on me. So I checked it over before heaving it up to carry it around the house. Once I was relatively sure it was clear of spiders, I maneuvered it up, but away from my body. I turned around to take it quickly, in case there was a spider I didn't see who wouldn't enjoy the ride, rising within the plant. Directly after turning around to walk away from the front steps, I tripped on a little stump that has been there since the day I moved in. The big pot of flowers I had in my hands flew forward and immediately flipped upside down. I fell forward with absolutely no grace. Fortunately, I didn't hurt myself and noone witnessed my idiocy. The flowers were a little worse for the wear, but they have bloomed in spite of their momentary unpotting.

I picked up a few extra shifts this week to make up for the ones I had to give away next week. People are really something, ya know? I had a table of five who had a birthday in the group. The birthday gal was a sweet 80-year old who had no idea she could get dinner on us since it was her birthday. Now, I'm not obligated to relate this information when unknowing people walk through the door and start discussing their birthdays at the table, but because I'm a nice person, I usually do tell them. Her i.d. proved she was indeed a birthday girl, so I took her meal off of the bill. As so often is the case with these free birthday meals, the tip stunk. I got 5% of the pre-free meal bill's total. As a server, all you can do is shake your head and wonder what is wrong with these people. But then, I'm of the mind that if someone else is buying, my server is gonna love his/her tip because that's what I do when I'm out. How insane is it to leave a $3.00 tip when you've just gotten a $14.00 meal free?

Usually we are just glad to see the cheap diners who pull this undertipping stunt leave. These folks tried to do just that, but ran into some car trouble. They came back in looking for some help in the way of a ride home. I have no idea why the car wouldn't start, but apparently jumper cables or using a cell phone to call a tow truck wasn't an option for them?? No less than three of my coworkers stepped up to the plate to offer a ride for these shitty tippers. I felt bad for them, but I was still a little peeved that this grandmother's kids/grandkids had all but shut me out from a tip (my wage!) after some really great service. They got home in an Audi that one of our more affluently-married waitresses drives. The whole incident made me wonder even more about these people. Are they so inept at their lives that getting the car started and/or fixed didn't cross their minds? Like I said, I don't know what was wrong with their car. It just seems to me that asking for a ride should have been lower on the list of options.

Things that make you go, "Hmmmmm!"

I'm vacationing soon and not sure I will post anything. Likely, I will not. I plan on putting up the thought-provoking piece that was published before I go because that should give you something to chew on for the week of my absence. I'm sure that spending time in the airports of America will give me some material to write about upon my return. The rest of today will be devoted to football, laundry, then work again. Thank goodness our bye week is over! Spending the day in Chicago sure made the bye week easier to handle. Now back to our regularly scheduled football debacles....

Mister Moo's Neighborhood

A few people have asked how Mister Moo is doing, and I'm inclined to give him a blog all his own to explain. Let me assure all of those interested that Mister Moo is more than fine these days. In fact, I might describe him as downright silly! Yes, he's been giddy with life, as if he knows he escaped a death sentence. No kidding, folks, he is a firestorm of energy and life. And it thrills me everytime I see him enjoying his great world!

My heart is still all mushy where the little moo cow is concerned. I look at him and can't help but be grateful to see his little masked face staring happily back at me. He seems thankful too. I can't explain it. He just seems to understand that the horrible day he experienced was an evil necessity to restoring his good health. His fur is short, but filling in over the scar. He likes it when I pet him there too. I believe it's healing and is possibly just a bit itchy. The scar that remains is a testament to his bravery. What a trooper!

If we back up just a little, this started as the tiniest bump on his neck. I commissioned my neighbor who is a farmgirl to look at the spot. I so clearly remember her saying, "You've got nothing to worry about there." A few weeks passed with the little bump becoming just the eensiest bit larger, and Mister Moo becoming just a little bit less comfortable with anyone messing with it. I finally called the vet when the hard little callous wouldn't go away.

I really thought we'd just be zipping in to have a piece of a burr removed from under his skin by a lancing procedure. When Dr. G looked at the bump and palpated it, she looked confused. She drew some cells from it, a procedure that didn't seem to faze Mister Moo in the least. When she came back from the lab area after examining the slide, she knelt down to peer at Mister Moo who was cowering under a chair in the exam room. When she said, "those are some pretty unhappy cells," my heart fell.

She assured me that it was not a foreign object causing this lump, and that it would need to be surgically removed. And because of Mister Moo's age, he would need bloodwork to be sure he was healthy enough to undergo surgery. Thankfully, the tests she took that day all came back fine. Surgery was scheduled for the morning after a double shift for me (of course)! I got up early to have him to the vet by 7am. I had two offers from great people to take him so I could get ready for my day job without the added burden of a 50-mile roundtrip before my day began, but I couldn't convince myself that this was an acceptable mode of transporting my little dude to the scariest day of our lives together. So I forewent sleep and talked him into partaking in a prayer with me on the way down.

Leaving him, signing the papers, and giving my daytime phone number to the vet officials at the desk was beyond horrible. I had grave misgivings leaving him there. I was positive something awful was going to happen to him as they were operating. I'm not kidding when I tell you that I wished it was me who needed the surgery that day. I gave the "I know we aren't supposed to have cell phones" speech to all of my classes that day so I wouldn't have to deal with the chastising that would come with the ringing of my phone should my worst fear be realized. I ended every speech that day with, "Trust me, I don't want my phone to ring." Thank God, it never did.

I was still panicked driving back to pick him up after school. I was sure they would just give me the bad news when I arrived to retrieve Mister Moo. "I'm sorry, we lost him on the table." I'd be leaning against the high counter sobbing while they asked if I wanted them to cremate him... When I was getting out of my car to go in, I was sure the woman behind the counter had an "uh-oh" look on her face when she saw me. I didn't so much request my cat as I asked, "I'm here for Mister Moo?" The woman looked sentimentally at me and said, "Oh, Mister Moo." She walked to the back, but I wasn't sure if she was coming back with my cat or the vet who would tell me the horrid details of how he died.

When I saw her carrying my pet carrier with a black and white face peering out, I breathed for the first time that day. "You're so silly!" I thought to myself. Then, as I was cooing at him and reassuring him that we would go home now, he turned his head. It was all I could do to hold in an audible gasp when I got my first look at the wound. It actually looked like they had tried to saw his head off. I am not kidding about this!

It was very difficult to look at the surgical incision Dr. G put into him. She popped out to the front while I was paying my bill so I took the opportunity to ask her (I swear I even sounded calm!) how it had gone. She said it was a very deep and strange little tumor, but that she'd gotten it all. Good. She also told me that for a moment during the surgery, she thought I'd been right after all and there was a foreign object under his skin. Apparently this small bump had a stick-like stem in it that was buried deep into his shoulder blade. I listened intently to all she had to say. Interestingly, the $15.00 worth of pain meds that I'd opted for was actually given in the form of a shot while he was still under so I wouldn't have to try to jam any pills down his throat during his recuperation. Rock on solid there! They all gave him glowing reviews for being a perfect patient too. "We didn't even know he was here," they raved!

The last detail was to find out how long we'd have to wait for the results of the biopsy. A week to ten days was the answer. Ugh! It seemed like an awfully long time to wait for a biopsy, but there was no choice in the matter.

And so we left. They warned me that he might not be hungry for awhile, but my little guy wanted food the moment he was freed from his plastic prison with a handle. Of course I acquiesced. He drank water for a long time too. They said he may cough for a few days from the intubation of the anesthesia tube down his throat, but he never did. He was a brave soul in every way as he recovered. The saddest part of bringing him home was the shunning he received from the brother and sister who were not excited about his 'funny smell' and weird wound. I really think they perceived him to be the weak link. Others have told me this is normal behavior for animals, but I still scolded the two who rebuffed him so nastily. Poor Mister Moo just wanted to nuzzle Punkie and be welcomed home, but Punkin would have none of it. I think they still resent Mister Moo's odd scar and extra attention, but they have mostly accepted him back into the family.

Of course you all know by now that it wasn't cancer. We found out only five days after the surgery. Dr. G left a message on my answering machine that told me right away that Mister Moo's odd tumor had many strange results, but no cancer. She even surmised that it might have been a foreign object, after all. I could have called her back to find out more, but the Big C was definitively not present, and that is all that mattered to me. I should have had one last opportunity to see her for suture removal, but I did that myself to make it easier on Mister Moo. So the day we left the veterinarian clinic and the sun came out for the first time in days was the beginning of putting that day behind us.

For the most part, we are back on track. And as I've said, Mister Moo is very energetic and happy again (though he never lost his verve, even under the heavy sedation of that 3-day painkiller they injected into him). Mister Moo has always been laid back. He's the calming force in my life at home. His stoic demeanor during the ordeal that put me into such a panic speaks volumes about his character. I love watching him resuming his napping activities, his flagrant pushing of the water bowl to get the water spilled so he can lap it from the floor instead of the deep pool that lies in the bowl, and his usual greeting me at the door. Life is good in Mister Moo's neighborhood.

Tidbits #2

This week's winner for most annoying event goes to the lazy asshole at the hardware store who couldn't get off his duff to come over and actually help a customer. I'm standing in the plumbing aisle looking at these $10 kits for faucets thinking, "I was just figuring on buying a washer for the leaky faucet." As I'm pondering this and letting my eyes scan the entire wall for just washers, a kid from the yard walks by and asks if I need help. When I explain my confusion, he tells me that he's not familiar, but will get someone who can help me. Now, six feet from me I can hear this kid telling the wizard sitting on a stool behind a counter what I'm looking for. Rather than get up from his comfy perch, he just yells over to me that I'll need to know my faucet brand, then I can just use the chart by the stacked drawers full of washers. I quite seriously considered yelling back to him, "Are you fat???"

Let's just say that I won't be going in there again anytime soon. I'm going back to the friendly little corner hardware store that has the oldtimers and less convenient parking, thankyouverymuch.

My guilt trip for the week happened on Wednesday afternoon when my mom stopped by to say hello and pick up a dinner treat I made for her and my stepdad. Bear in mind that my mom sometimes get information she really shouldn't have courtesy of a coworker of mine at the restaurant who also moonlights as a housekeeper at my mom's workplace at a retreat center. And it's really not a secret that I'm trying to write more these days. But let me digress just a little and tell you that despite what I told you in a previous blog, I've been rather careful about who has the url to my meanderings. I have not shared it with anyone I work with because that would take away my freedom to rant and rail against "my" establishment and those housed therein. I have not given it to friends who might pick and poke at my embellishment tactics because, well....I wouldn't be able to ad lib like I do sometimes without someone calling me on the table for not presenting just the facts ma'am. And I sure as hell am not sharing it with my family, for if I did, I would feel awkward and aware of every small thing I divulge about my stupid life.

So when my mother asked me if I was sending my writing to anyone these days, I glazed over it with a "I'm just trying to write more regularly right now." But there was a look. It swept across her face for one brief second while she absorbed the blow of my not sharing my grave visit publication with her. I'll admit it made me a little sad for a moment. Only for a moment though, because the wave of guilt over the lying by omission that crashed over me after that made me step up and gasp for air. I immediately went about printing off my "Oh Marley" post for her to take along with the homemade grape jelly, beef stew, baking powder biscuits, and Tollhouse bars. Anything to avert the discussion of me being published! I guess it seems harsh that I've chosen not to share my published piece with my mom. Maybe it is. However, discussion about my father has never been an open forum, and I confront some of those demons in my journey to my father. I don't want to bare that much of myself to the woman who gave me life. I don't want her to have to accept that I know why my father died in our garage three weeks before my fifth birthday. And I don't want her to misconstrue my words about her.

So it's complicated, you see? And she's my hero so I can't disappoint her. I think if she "heard" the story from me it would hurt her. I'm guilty as charged, but only because I'm trying to protect her and me, and our relationship. And hey, ya know what? Maybe I'm being a little selfish too because I don't want to share my dad with her. I guess it doesn't matter. It was a deluxe guilt trip, complete with first class accomodations here in my head.

I had a great compliment this week when someone shared with me that another person asked him to describe me. He said he'd like my opinion on how he did. He told the person that I was "a big person in a little body." I think I like that.

I had a kind deed done unto me by a couple who waited and watched as I put air in my tires at the gas station. The wind blew one of the little caps away because I didn't hang onto it while I struggled with the hose, pressure guage, and awkward position of the tire stem. Though I did a quick search of the area, I couldn't find it. I pulled over to fill up my car and as I was getting out, the woman from the minivan came over and presented me with the little black cap, proudly announcing, "We found it!" I laughed and gave her a nod of appreciation. It's nice that strangers still help strangers sometimes, isn't it?

I watched the movie "Flight 93" this week. It was poignant. The movie makers did a great job of putting us in those seats with the passengers. I think it's good to reflect on the precariousness of our existence. I realized that the one person I would probably want to call is someone I wouldn't be able to call if I didn't have my cell phonebook available. How pathetic. I will memorize that number by the end of the weekend. We need to be more aware that the current goodbye we are delivering may well be the last goodbye we get.

I watched people greeting arrivals a few months ago at an airport. I was appalled at the disregard I witnessed. Obvious couples grunted and glanced at one another, almost angrily. If I ever get that indifferent to the people I claim to love more than anyone, please shoot me. How sad it made me to watch these families coming back together with such disinterest in one another.

I'm taking Sunday for a day away with friends! House of Blues and Chicago style pizza are on the agenda. It's a good way to start the week, don't you think?

It's Not Funny

Man! I don't know when it happened, but somewhere in the course of the last 10 years I became middle-aged. No, I'm not old. I am suffering those small aches and pains in a bigger way these days though. Dammit. The ironclad health I used to boast about has begun deceiving me when I'm not paying attention. Still, for the most part, I take my good health for granted even though I know I shouldn't. I mean, I eat well and I'm active so my body seems fit. I still do all the things I used to do with a fair amount of ease. It's the 'after' part that is making me groan.

Let's take my current middle-aged episode as our example. Last week I did chores outside in the bright sunshine in order to enjoy said sunshine. After the day that I raked, I noticed that my lower back was really strained. I felt like a dumbass. Did raking do this to me? I kept wondering just how old I was. And trust me, every step reminded me that I had, indeed, done something to my back. Argggh! I racked my brain trying to figure out something else that must have caused this other than raking. Sheesh! Raking couldn't do this, could it??

That question was answered today when I slapped on four more storm windows. It wasn't until I was at work tonight that I felt that familiar pull in my lower back again. Aha! I mused on why putting storm windows would burden my back so much. When I went through the motion in my head, it became abundantly clear how I'd ended up with the unhappy muscles. The storm window gets leaned against the house and I climb the ladder. Then I pull the storm window up and balance it on the ladder for a second before placing it carefully in the hollow of the window frame. Yep, that'll do it. Still, I could've done that motion one hundred times before it would have bothered me a decade ago. But no more. I have to be kinder to my 40-something body from here on out. I'll admit I didn't think I was overdoing it last week, or today for that matter.

There's other things too. I made a rich butter cream sauce for some ravioli last week which was very tasty! Unfortunately, at 2 am, my stomach was letting me know it was a bit too much for it to be okay with. I didn't get up or anything, but the digestion cramps were less than desirable just then. My eyelids also seem to have gathered a lot of extra skin in the last few years. Are my eye sockets shrinking? I mean, where are these layers of lid skin coming from, after all? And the gray hairs!! I can take just about anything middle age throws at me, but I am really tired of the wiry white hairs that boing out of the natural flow of my hair. Blondes have it a little easier than brunettes, so I'm not ungrateful for my light-colored tresses. I just don't understand why the gray hairs have to be so coarse and unruly.

The physical features that are going to hell are okay with me, actually. A bonus to getting old is that you care a whole lot less how people view you. If we are lucky, someone loves us anyway, and remembers us before all those old age indicators started to show. I think the one ache and pain that is my most constant reminder is my walking stance after a morning of a hectic night of waiting tables. I'm always surprised when I get out of bed with the full expectation of walking out to the kitchen to brew up some coffee and my body fails me just a little. My feet hurt, my knees ache, and coming to a complete standing position is not as easy as one would think it would be. Picture a bent over old person crossing the street, looking like each step is more difficult than the last. Except for me, I walk faster when I get out of bed and realize my muscles have somehow atrophied overnight. I don't know why. Maybe I think there are a certain number of steps I have to walk before that feeling leaves me, so if I go faster I'll be able to forget that's how I felt when I took those first 20 steps out of my bedroom.

No matter what my body decides to throw at me, I'm not leaving my youth without a fight. I'm gonna rake, throw on storm windows, paint house eaves, and mow the yard with a push mower until I'm 80 years old if I can! And one thing is for sure, I'm giving more and more respect to my elders who still do so many things without complaint. I know without a doubt that a lot of those old fogeys are hurting after a day with the grandkids or an afternoon helping their kids install a new floor. Give 'em your respect, people. They've earned it!

Tidbits

It's funny, since I've been blogging, I view my world in a slightly different skew. Everything is noteworthy, each action ponderous. I see flashes of brilliance in situations I never would have thought twice about before blogging (BB). In that vein, this blog thing is working exactly as I wanted it to. I've invited selected friends and online buddies to read. Well, no, that's not quite right. What I've done, is begged anyone who I think will listen, to pleeeeaaaase come and read my blog, make comments, keep me honest in my regular writing resolution. I know there's a few out there who watch for new blogs, and I appreciate their dilligence a great deal. :)

I will tell you what happens when you scrutinize every event in your day, deliberating on its blogworthiness. I get what I call "snippet blogs" that don't really earn their way into a complete blog where I can expound (exponentially) on a topic the way I love to dig in and examine every bit of the thing I want to share with my three readers. And so, I present to you three faithful readers, the first in what may become a series of numbered collections of my scattered thoughts from the week. Hey, maybe it will even become my Sunday tradition to share all of the little leftovers from the week on the weekend. Should I call them "Leftovers" or does "Tidbits" work better? See? It's all so indecisive in the blogger's world.

The thing that pissed me off most this week was a note that appeared on the bulletin board at work. Last weekend a coworker who was in an car accident pulled the "my back hurts soooo bad I can't finish the night" for the third weekend in a row. It's funny because her back was fine while she was waiting on tables and raking in the cash, but as the night wore down and there was only tedious sidework to be completed, her back was really acting up. Being an alpha in our pack of female-only waitstaff, I didn't let it slide. Of course, her ducking out affected me more than anyone else, since I was the one who would be picking up her slack. It was a matter of being in the wrong slot on the wrong Saturday night for me.

As a result of my diatribe to the shirker, our dining room manager felt compelled to put up a note condemming the behavior that "upset" our poor car accident victim. A note would have been totally acceptable if the behavior that upset her was caused by the entire staff. Considering it was only one person (ME!) who hurt her feelings, I felt that I should have been approached privately. I made a great ruckus to everyone I could get to listen, pointing out that the note on the bulletin board should have been addressed to "Suz" and not "Waitresses." I thought about confronting her with the reason behind a note since, if it had actually "come to her attention," she surely knew it was something that I had done, and not something which deemed a full scolding to the entire waitstaff (and in fact, visible to all of the kitchen staff). But then I decided that I didn't need to act bigger or better than her. If she was going to take the wimpy way out then I was going to let her be a coward.

I was tested yet again last night by her sugarcoated way of dealing with things. At the end of the night, with a great team on board, I was teasing a few of the girls who still had active tables that I was tired of tearing bread baskets down as I'd been doing it for (what seemed like) 20 minutes. It was a joking little banter that we were enjoying when our dining room manager walked over to me and said that it's okay if I run outside for a cigarette at the end of the night before we really start tackling our side work. I looked at her and told her that we were JOKING! She said she knew that, but she just wanted me to know that it is acceptable to go grab some nicotene on nights when I felt like I needed it as we neared the end of the shift.

I can only shake my head and laugh. That was the best that she could come up with for what she thought was my unacceptable behavior toward a waitress who isn't willing to pull her weight? It must be my nicotene withdrawal that would cause me to call someone on inappropriate work actions? I can only wonder if anyone filled her in on what the poor car wreck gal did with the rest of her Saturday night. I don't know, I guess I'm old because I thought if you were too sick to work, you wouldn't dash out of your place of employment to go plant your ass on a barstool. I stand behind my original scolding. If you aren't well enough to do the whole shift (after three weeks of pulling the same stunt) give up the shift and let someone who can do it show up in your place. Thankfully, that's the way it was this weekend. I hardly had to chastise anyone last night.

The best thing that happened to me this week is that I got published! Yeah! I knew it was coming, and I'd been looking forward to it for awhile, but seeing my piece in a little magazine was still pretty damn cool. I wrote a very raw, emotional account of visiting my father's grave. It was an amazing experience, and while the essay is not my best bit of writing, it is an expose' into my very core. I hope to polish it up and post it here one day, but not yet. I owe great thanks to a friend I've only met online, though I hope to meet her in person one day. I'm convinced that had my writing been sent in as a standalone piece, it would have had every chance to be filed under the "maybe" pile. My very generous friend sent it to the people she knew at the magazine because my written experience moved her, and seemed just the right thing for the quarterly publication it appeared in. And so it was that Tuesday I greeted a FedEx gal at the door. Apparently the old Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show's tune about "five copies for my mother" still holds true because that's just how many copies Isabelle sent me. Awesome!

The sun has been out every single day this week! For me, this is a boon. I'm prone to depression when the days get shorter and the sun hides behind clouds. I've come up with reasons to be outside all week, and am only slightly annoyed that I'll be sitting inside of the house this afternoon to watch what will probably be another sad exhibition of how poorly my team can execute a full 60 minute football game. Nonetheless, watch I will because I love me some Green Bay Packers!! Win, lose, or tie...I adore my team and will support them.

It's been a week of getting overdue chores done around the house for me. I've probably earned a little vegging out in front of the tube today. Still, I'll do some laundry, go through the stack of bills that need my attention, sneak in some productivity during the game. Only by doing this can I arrive at the end of my day feeling like it was worth my getting out of bed this morning. And so starts another week.

Oh, Marley!

My coworkers and I decided to form a book club since there are so many of us who enjoy reading. Our conversations often turn to books we are reading or would like to read. So, in the most haphazard of ways (despite our best efforts to make it fair and organized) we settled on Marley and Me as our first official book club book. And so it came to be that I foraged into the world of Marley. Those who have read Marley's account know that he's an oaf of a dog who doesn't think much past the very present situation in which he finds himself. He's destructive, funny, BIG, and tortuously lovable. John Grogan illustrates the devotion between animals and humans in his remarkable love story with Marley. One cannot help but adore the Labrador, and infuse the story with his own memories of pets from his own life.

The biography of Marley brings my own pets' immortality to the forefront, as if I needed a reminder after the last month. My middle child, as it were, had surgery for a small tumor on his neck three weeks ago. As luck would have it, the lump wasn't cancer. Friends and family cheered when the word was spread that Mister Moo did not have cancer. Those who know me, know that my pets are the children I never had. The relief that swept over the folks who followed the drama was palpable. My mother made the announcement at work to baffled coworkers, "Mister Moo doesn't have cancer." Confused looks asked quizzically, "Who the hell is Mister Moo?" My mother said simply, "My daughter's cat. Trust me, it's a good thing." Yeah. I'm devoted to these critters who have stood by my side through the death of my best friend, my divorce, my ill-fated cross-country move, and all of the other tedium I've survived. A few of my friends frowned upon my shelling out the bucks for a tumor removal on my pet. Pffft. Not having the surgery was not an option for my little Guernsey-colored pal.

Much like Grogan, I'm astounded that over a decade has come and gone so quickly as these little furballs have grown from tiny tothood to adolescence to adulthood and are quickly sliding into the geriatric stages of their lives. How could this happen? Punkin is roughly 13 years old. I adopted him several months after a move that saw each of my three cats run away, one at a time. I vowed not to have any pets for a long time after the devastation of losing three in such a short time. (I hoped against hope that they would show up at my old house, and my ex promised to tell me if they did. They never did). But Punkin showed up like a little tumbleweed of fur and cuteness, wanting someone to notice him, but scared of humans. After weeks of patient coaxing I was rewarded with his trust enough to latch onto him. I immediately grabbed him and ran for the house. Once inside, it was a done deal.

He's been a faithful companion, as well as a pain in my ass. He claws my head (ouch!) if I sleep too late for his liking, hogs the bed and demands to be plastered next to my stomach/chest area which makes me too hot many nights, and he loves the "in and out" game where he begs to go outside only to want to come back in. Once in, he will only wait a few minutes before he wants to repeat the pattern. And he always has to stare outside for a minute while I hold the door patiently before deciding if he actually wants to travel out or not. I play the "3-2-1" game with him then, counting down to zero slowly, then closing the door. I usually give him at least one more shot at winning the "3-2-1" game though. And when the evening feeding hour rolls around at 4pm sharp, he will actually come looking for me to yell at me if I've gotten carried away and forgotten the time. I do not know how my cats know the time, but trust me, they do!

And no matter where I am in the house, you will find him within feet of me. Seldom is the time that Punkin has found a place more comfortable than in the room where his momma is. He's sleeping just behind me as I type this, but the more normal case is that he's in my desk chair behind me, hogging it so that I have to sit on just the edge of it. I don't really remember when he took over, but I do know he's been in charge for quite some time now. While Punkie is a crotchety old man now, he's surely paid his dues. Unca Punk was what I called him during the years when I adopted expectant mother strays who would have kittens that I would litter train and give to good homes. He endured the beast of a cat who we inherited after my favorite neighbor died. The cat was cranky and when invited into our home, lashed out repeatedly at every pet we had at the time. He never did befriend any of my pets, but the cats and the dog were always congenial to the stranger who stayed with us until he had to be put down. Punkin (and Mister Moo too) moved more over the last decade with their indecisive (but well-intentioned) mother than any pet should be required to relocate. Two days in the car travelling cross-country is hard enough for people, but my champs were well-behaved, both on the way out and the way back one year later. I admit I have not been the best mother I could be to my furry charges, but they love me anyway. And I've always been grateful for that.

But Marley, as known through John Grogan's crafty storytelling, is a wonder among pets. He required unconditional love and devotion from his masters. Replacing shredded mattresses, repairing door frames that had been chewed in the panic of the impending storms, relenquishing one's pride for the insane antics your pet performs publicly....now this is the stuff of the human/animal bond. Sadly, our pets' capers live on in infamy far sooner than we want them to be mere memory. And as I come to the end of Marley's fantastic life, I ponder and worry again over the aging of my own pets. I know it's coming, just as John and Jenny Grogan saw Marley's end coming. Like them, I don't want to think on it. Punkin and Mister Moo are aging, sure, but they are in amazing physical health. I take little to no credit for that. I feed them mostly mid-grade quality food, some human food, a little canned food treat in the morning and evening, and a change of water once a day, but their good health is simply their own good fortune. They frolic and run as often as they can outside, and inside when it's rainy or cold. Punkin has been known to go on one of those all-out runs across the yard. When he reaches a tree, he claws furiously then looks around as though someone is after him, and whoops it up across the lawn again. It's hilarious! It's also comforting to see him still doing it at 13 years old.

But if I'm honest, he's shown those groggy signs of his mind betraying him at times. Once in awhile he wakes up looking bewildered by his surroundings. Sometimes, he moves achily through his morning choosing to nap on the bed rather than go out into the bright sunshine. Those moments of old age that show themselves are rare (thankfully), but they do serve as a timer to the brain that tries so desperately to stay away from the heart it's attached to. I don't want to think of life without my Bunkie. I've never had a cat this long. I simply don't know how to act in the face of his old age. I know someday I'll be digging a hole for my beloved orange fuzzball who made me laugh and gave me comfort beyond any of the friendships I have now. Most people think I'm nuts, but this old guy who gloms his claws into my head most mornings has been more of a friend than many I've had the displeasure of discovering are not so kind.

Marley's decline and inevitable death brought great poignancy to the Grogan's. Pets do that. We realize in the wake of their immortality that we too, are prone to sudden (and not so sudden) departures. I should know this, given all the human losses I've endured, but I'm still caught off guard when John Grogan points out that NONE OF US is afforded any protection against the unthinkable. I always wish that I was somehow more in tune with the frailty of human and pet life, but as much as I know it's a fleeting proposition, this thing we call life, there are times I still feel like a quaking child in a corner during a violent thunder storm. In the end we all walk in the valley of the shadow of death. I swear I will try to fear no evil. I will never keep a pet alive for my own sentiment, nor will I hasten to put one down. Pets are amazing in their ability to regroup and come back to us when we think all is lost. Marley did it. Mister Moo used up one of his nine lives last month. Punkin has used at least two that I know of, and I don't want to know the rest of the story....

The Marley's and the Punkin's of the world make our lives richer and more satisfying. And while we know that we will have to say goodbye to our pets, we also know that the time they are here with us will be something we wouldn't take back for all the riches in the world. I recommend pets. I also recommend John Grogan's book titled Marley and Me.

For Tony!

Dude, my Vega was cooooool!! Looked like this one, only white! 5-speed, little bucket seats, and a handy hatchback for shopping too! :D

So, ummmm, shut up!!! ;)