"Maggie May" Used to Echo In Our Family Basement

I stood in the basement of my childhood home. A couple of boxes of old Math Textbooks were all that was left. The circa 70's finished basement with its tiled floors and brown paneled walls complete with the must have built in bar was barren-much like my heart felt at that moment. Every last scrap of life built up year after year, milestone after milestone have been removed. God, it was like shoveling more dirt on the grave burying it for good. Stab. Man, it hit me in the heart how easily it all was tossed, cleared out. Wiped away like a dry eraser board went the tangible memories. My eyes started to burn and fill with my salty tears, first slowly and then in a rush. Damn. My siblings hauled it all out in no time at all and it felt, disrespectful. It felt like there was no moment to say, I don't know.... What would I want to say? It just felt so cold, callus, hardened how quickly our lives, remnants of our life became dust to sweep away on the cold basement floor.

I used to roller skate to Rod Stewart's "Maggie May" on the cold basement floor when it was gray concrete. My sister and her best friend's Barbie apartment complex was down there that they made piece by piece with every little miniature piece of furniture. In our teen years, my sister and I claimed the basement as our apartment. So, from childhood playground to sacred living space where the reverberating echoes of giggly laughter and serious conversations dissipated into the ether.

Deeper in the basement, the unfinished section where the oil burner was and my father's workbench stood loaded with old computers, typewriters that produced high school book reports, my mother's old Singer sewing machine that gave her such grief with the temperamental tension, tools, tools and more tools, coffee cans filled with nails and more old books....cleared away. Just like that, gone.

I remember the one and only time my father got mad at me. I was watching him work with a hot glue gun and a soldering iron at his workbench He was always fixing things himself. I was fascinated by it. He warned me not to touch it. What did I do? I touched it. I remember a good blister on my finger from it. This was the only time I can remember my father spanking me, one firm swat to the hiny.

My mother passed away in 2006 and my father, at 85 just last month. My sister, brother and I are moving swiftly in clearing the house readying it for sale. There is no time to process; there is no time to ease into the idea of saying good-bye to our childhood home; there is no time to digest that my father is not on this earth any longer. When I do have time to process it, I feel a punch in the gut pain.

I stood there in the basement, and I opened one of the math books. There was his beautiful swirly handwriting of his name and the name of his college. It must have been what he used to learn to be a math teacher at college. His large perfect cursive were the windows to his soul. Handwriting is full of personality and my father's large, precise, fancy script handwriting matched his fun, zesty and yet, attention to detail personality to a tee. I found among the boxed books my mother's nursing licenses, first her Licensed Practical Nurse and then, her Registered Nurse.  Damn. These were hard earned, something I didn't really appreciate until now. We were tossing it out. I kept those.

I know memories are not in things; they are in your heart and mind forever, but yeah, no. Memories are in one's life's work, the day to day planners with personal notes to oneself, a favorite shirt, a favorite mug, plate, bowl, the pens one wrote with, the music listened to, the books read, ...Memories are tangible.

My family house is now empty. I guess this is my ode to my family house. It wasn't always peaceful in that house, and as a matter of fact, there was quite a lot of pain and heart ache in that house. Yet, it was my house, the one I grew up in. I just didn't want it all dismissed so ...easily, irreverently. I respect the life lessons learned there and at the root of it all, love won the day. Love carried us all through, especially in my father's last dying days where us siblings who were distant and detached for so many years, finally got it together and found each other again when facing the foreignness of death.

So, I guess, now that I wrote this and gave my house its due, I can release all the physical tangible memories, ones that I didn't keep to the universe. I picture me holding a pearly white dove and tossing it upward watching its wings spread and flap toward the sky.

I feel peace like the sweet exhale you express when you clap close a favorite bedtime story leaving you feeling sleepy and satisfied as you kiss a child a good night's sleep.

Am I Being Punked? Is THAT What This Is????

Short tempered. Moody. Stressed. Teary. Disappointed. Lost…ugh. I swear a “dementor” was just here and sucked the joy right out of me leaving me feeling like a deflated balloon. I’m laying on my bed staring at the cobwebs of my ceiling asking myself, “What the hell am I doing with my life?” It hit me like someone threw a bucket of cold water on my face. Is this a cruel joke? Am I being punked? No. I sat up ramrod straight. I’ve realized to my utter horror that I am in the midst of…of…(I hate to say it)… A MIDLIFE CRISIS…DUH DUN. A Midlife Crisis. Huh. I never thought it would happen to me, a 40 something female who thought someday I would do something freaking special and touch many people’s lives. Nope. I’m not doing that, at least I don’t think so. What’s worse is that my feeling of dissatisfaction is rippling through my whole family’s life with my hideous short temper and mood swings. Add sweaty to that, and I think I hit on something else all together. Good God, what’s next? No! Please, no, not that! It could be…oh, just say it and get it over with…Menopause on top of a MidLife Crisis, a double whammy! That is harsh. We’re talking unfair, people. M&M’s, the chocolate kind, are delicious and pure bliss, this M&M is pure evil and simply unfair to womankind. It’s cruel. Time to Get A Grip…Get a Hold of Yourself! “Get off your pity pot,” Grandma Josie would say to me. Any brilliant ideas out there? I’m having trouble snapping out of it. Job dissatisfaction in an economic crisis does not beget hopefulness, but there are jobs. Obama says so. I do love to write and am pursuing the magazine market; there is that. As for menopause, I guess it’s time to see my doctor. (The idea of the cold stirrups, though I always wear a fresh pair of socks to shield the doctor of sweaty feet smell, but sorry poor doctor, I can’t wear a sock down there, so God bless him for diving in to my …nevermind.) The point? That annual visit is not pleasurable in the slightest. Yes, your uterus is getting bigger, your vagina is NOT getting tighter- “Would you like a device to exercise with?” Groan. Vagina weights. Am I being punked? How many calories will it burn? “Those spots are new…” Anyway, moving on and away from that. I’m not in it yet, but it’s definitely peri-menopausal – fun hormonal imbalances that keep this rollercoaster ride going. Up and then down. Up and then down. Don’t forget the water rides! That would be tears, in case you didn’t get it. I have a never-ending well. Well, I have terrible PMS and the bonus to menopause is that, I think, moods stabilize. God, please tell me this is true. There has to be some good out of menopause. But back to the Midlife Crisis. My sister’s comment to me was, “You are having your first? I’m on my 4th or 5th!” Nice. Well, Grandma Moses started her artistic career in her 70’s and now has her own museum about her life in Bennington, VT. She was a famous Americana artist that captured the simple moments of Vermont life through all of the seasons, like tapping Maple on the trees, apple picking, and cows and more cows poised on gorgeous green rolling pastures. I digress. The point is: it’s never to late to start something new, and at times you may feel that way, but you have to fight it with every fiber of your being and get out there! Do it! Start something…life is too short to hesitate. Thus, I started this blog for better or worse. At least it’s cathartic and healing in that way. I do feel inspired and a bit lighter. I may paint a cover of one of my Regency Romance Books…yeah, I just may do that! See ya! Peace….S.Sdh

If You Are Hit In The Head by The Gift Basket at Church, is it good luck?

This isn't by any means a "holy roller" blog, but I had a moment in church today, Psalm Sunday...hmmm, does that mean anything? Taking my father's advice, I went to church a little early so I could pray for guidance..."Help me, Jesus. Help me, Jesus. Oh, please help me, Jesus. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, God, Mom, Spirit Guides, anybody...I need some guidance with my life." Well, Father Lolake said, if you need help, don't be afraid to say, "Help Me, Jesus." So, I did. I actually said it outloud so make sure Jesus heard me. I'm pretty sure Jesus could hear telepathically, but I wasn't taking any chances today. Later in the mass... The usher comes down the aisle pew after pew, dipping his pole with a basket on the end into each pew, pushing it down, and then up and over to the next pew, again and again in a smooth fluid rhythm- until he gets to my row/pew. I'm in the last row and toss in my donation, he forgets to push the basket down the pew; the lady next to me had an envelope ready to toss in. The older usher with glasses like triple paned windows clonks me in the head as I turned to signal to him about the lady's envelope. Ow. "Good thing it's only a basket," I say not to make him feel bad. But it was a rather hard basket. How many times has this happened? Never, perhaps? Why did I get clonked today? Is this Jesus helping me? Is it some sort of good luck like stepping in dog doo? Can't say I ever experienced a surge of luck after stepping in dog .... Maybe it is a sign...it's going to be an interesting holy week. I think the week is rather symbolic for me...I could use a rebirth of sorts and now is the time. I have a lump on my head as a reminder. Jesus, it hurts. (Excuse me, Jesus...but I think even Jesus has a little sense of humor.)

The Resignation of a Co-Worker...

Just like that. It is done. I knew it was coming, was waiting for it.
Today was the day my co-worker secured her release. She resigned. My other co-worker, feeling so pumped up for her thought it was going to happen the other day, who declared the other day, “A Day of Infamy” with an ever so psyched fist pump, felt it, too, a bereft mood wash over her. There was no fist pumping going on today, “The Day of Infamy.” When she finished telling us of the nitty gritty details of her escape, we must have looked like two deer in the headlights that suddenly realized that we were about to be run over.
Do you know what we felt?
Loss.
We were feeling the imminent loss of a friend. She gave her notice and would be walking out of our office doors for the last time this Friday. Were we starting to do some sort of mourning today? You know we’ll keep in touch, so there won’t be any loss. Right? Uh huh. Do you know that I feel even with the best of intentions, office friendships, once out of the office sphere, slip away like a sailboat on a tow line drifting at sea farther and farther away until the tow line snaps for good. It’s truly hard to maintain; it takes effort and work. You have to admit “the office culture” is a weird one. It’s not binding no matter how bound together you think you are. You may go to the movies or out to a Mexican Restaurant as a group, it feels tight but it’s not that strong a hold. When you leave “the office,” (that sounds cult like) the odd relationship is over. Why? You lose the commonality that glued you together. You can’t do the communal “office whine.” When they are not there anymore, they are out of the loop, nothing to complain about and honestly, they really don’t care. I don’t blame them. Sadly, you may find out that Work was the only thing you had in common, thus with that key factor gone, it’s done. This all sounds so cold and depressing, but I do feel it’s true. There are exceptions, of course. But when life continues spinning somewhere else, it gets harder and harder to stay connected. Wo. I just had my “Ah ha!” moment. Stay Connected…duh. My blog is where we can easily stay connected among other avenues…but there it is. Click. Comment. Here we are.But back to the knock me on my butt realization.
Yes, a co-worker resigned today whose company I enjoyed where we laughed until we were wheezing with tears in our eyes. For a short while, we were thrown together in an unusual work situation, both of us so different, but for a brief moment our paths crossed and connected. In an up note, I do feel that our paths crossed for a reason and we somehow helped each other probably in ways we aren’t aware of. I’m glad our paths crossed and I am richer for it. –S. Sdh. I feel better now.
Aren’t you going to miss me, Janie?