A Few Flowers

I went to the cemetery today and left a small vase of carnations at Wayne's grave. Just a few flowers, but I liked how they looked there. Someone cares, they say. I care, they say.

Nine carnations, one for him, one for me, and one for each of our seven children. I went today because I feared tomorrow's weather. Not that we shouldn't expect rain every day these days. Like we've turned into Seattle or something. But today's rain waited for me.

The place looked very nice, and lots of other people had come to visit the graves that mean much to them.

I suppose I can say Wayne's grave means much to me. It is his last place on this earth.

I used to go often at first, to cry and to see that they kept the place the way I want it to look. I would speak to them if things didn't look right and thank them if they did.

Now I don't go often. Never know what to do when I'm there. Sure, I can talk to him, and I do. But beauty of the surroundings, the small stream right at the head of his grave, the trees--as pleasant as they all are--do not make me feel, what, comfortable? Maybe the word is glad. I do not feel glad when I'm there.

The other day I told Caroline that I'm her dad's mom. She knew that. And then she told me that her dad misses his daddy. That's what she said. I miss him, too.

Can I Do This?

When Wayne's parents died, he went down and helped clean out their things. Paul went with him. They brought back this and that. Some of it is still in use. Paul has a wall cupboard, and the dining room set has been to California and back and is now in Lola's house.

But many of those this-es and thats are in my garage.

For instance, my grandson Bryan was looking at a tool box the other day, and I'm pretty sure it belonged to Wayne's Grandpa Corkum. He's been dead for 60 years and probably got the tools in his early life. This should make clear the tool box is antique. Double that.

Took a while for Bryan to figure out how to close it once he got it open, and he said the tools inside were old. Yeah. Double that, too.

And there's a biggish clock that was broken all to pieces when it arrived here. I guess Wayne thought he might get it fixed.

Looks like it was once a fine looking clock, with its wood carved into ornate designs. Well, semi-ornate. It, with its pieces, are half in a white cardboard file box--the thing is too big for the box, and I don't have any way to know if all the pieces are in there.

There's other stuff, too. Like the tall, white, rolling, plastic thing with many drawers filled with some kind of tool-related material. Like the very old, rusted metal file cabinet. And like the first typewriter ever made, I think, in its wooden box.

I'm writing about this because I want to throw it all away. I mean, it's been a long time sitting just in my garage, let alone wherever it sat before that. And don't get any ideas about me taking the stuff to The Antiques Roadshow.

Yes, it was stuff once important to people who remain important. But the stuff does no good to anyone now, and it clutters my garage. (I can't help how that sounds.)

Yes, I want to throw it away, but here's the thing: It feels like I need someone's permission to do the throwing.

Is that stupid? Yeah, probably.

Just one of those things

I just now had one of those unexpected waves of sadness and disbelief sweep over me. Eight and a half years, and they still happen.

Out in the garage to get a loaf a bread, I closed the freezer door, heard a noise, looked around, and didn't see my husband. Of course. But for just that moment, I could not believe Wayne is gone from this place.

I went inside, locked the back door--which we never did--and could not believe Wayne will never be in this house again. Sometimes that just feels so wrong.

Don't worry. I'm okay.

May 18

Should I? Could I let this day pass without comment? Obviously I could not.

He "would be" 72. Such a phrase is usually followed by "if he had lived." Well, he did not live, so to me that means aging stopped for him eight and a half years ago.

I do not imagine him at 72. I see him always as he was in 2003, and, if I can, at a better time, before 2003. Not a good year, take it all around. I mean, some good things came to be. I'm sure of it. But how could I ever call it a good year? My husband died.

Before 2003, he was still handsome, still slender, still had some light and occasional twinkle in his eye. He was alive.

It becomes clear to me that I am thinking of him as he was shortly before he died. But there is a much longer past to view in my mind movies. Sometimes I do that.

Enough. Today is May 18, birthday of Wayne Gordon Schiess.

By the way, it's a waning gibbous moon today, 98% full.

Wayne Would Eat It, You Bet

The woman on the radio said, "We're compelled to give you Mommy's best recipe for bread and butter pudding, whether your Mommy has ever heard of it or not."

I suppose there are Mommies who have never heard of bread pudding, let alone made it. But that would not include my Mommy--whom I never called Mommy, by the way, and I wonder what might have happened if I had.

She made it--bread pudding. And we loved it, especially, I think, my dad.

I do know there are folks who have never eaten bread pudding and some who never would eat it. It's a custard, after all, and some people cannot "handle" custard. Too wiggly, too wobbly, can't stand the feel of it in the mouth. Or they don't like eggs. Or something.

I don't know if I've ever heard anyone say they don't like the taste of it. Maybe its custardy wobble has kept some from ever tasting it. For me, custard is one of this earth's heavenly things.

And I'm not kidding.

Oh well. To each his own (or "To Each Their Own," says Honda's commercial for its new Civic, which would keep me from buying that car if nothing else kept me from it.)

But this is about custard not cars.

When my mother came to visit, she might make us a bread pudding or maybe even a custard pie. Wayne was happy then. He loved pie. And he particularly liked my mother's custard pie. Of course, he wouldn't turn up his nose at her lemon meringue pie either.

Poor man, he, having married a non-pie-making woman. I did make bread pudding occasionally, but not what you'd call regularly. And he would, I believe, go to Chuck-A-Rama just so he could have the bread pudding for dessert.

That's pretty desperate.

I wonder, will there be custard in the resurrection? I hope so.

More than the moon

My friend Joe from my old Santa Monica neighborhood sent an email about the Fox Theater on Lincoln Blvd in Venice, California.

He had been to the Museum of Neon Art in downtown Los Angeles and there saw the bullnose of that theater's marquee. Hence his informative email.

For some reason, I'm glad somebody has kept that bullnose, a piece of history.

The Fox Theater opened in 1951, when I was 10 years old. I thought it a great thing. Instead of being downtown in Santa Monica, it was close, about 3/4 mile from my house. And instead of being down by the Ocean Park Pier--the Dome Theater and the Rosemary were there--where my mother did not want me going, for some reason, it was in a wide open bright neighborhood, right on Lincoln Blvd. I thought it might mean more movie-going for me. Besides, it was new, big, and spacious inside.

I don't know if it did mean more movie-going for me. Maybe, but I just don't remember. No doubt it was like most other things--would my mother let me go.

Truth is, I'm not sure I went there much until I had grown up some, and then, you know, I could go with friends or a boy friend.

Incidental fact: I do not remember ever sitting in a movie theater with my mother.

(My dad took Lucile and me to a drive-in theater once--at my mother's insistence--to see Bambi. When he discovered it was a cartoon, we left. Poor me and poor Lucile, but she probably doesn't remember.)

Joe says the Fox Venice was the last single theater built in our area. Soon TV began to cut into theater attendance, and, soon after that, multi-plex theaters started popping up.

When I was in Santa Monica, Fall of 2008, I drove past the Fox and saw that the marquee was gone and the theater had become a fleamarket/swap meet kind of place. Joe says this happened in 1988. Quite a come down, I'd say.

Joe has become the historian of our old neighborhood, notifying us of old houses made new and selling for millions. Not kidding. And keeping us up on what's going on, who's living and who isn't.

I like him for that.

By the way, the moon is 50% full. To me that would be a half moon. But no. My moon source calls it first quarter.

Life is Good

I have this pair of pants. They're old. I think they pre-date Wayne's death. I don't wear them, don't remember the last time I did. In fact, I was going to stick them in a bag for DI, but just didn't get around to it.

Yesterday I put them on. I do not know why. I must have decided not to care about how I looked. So I wore them all day.

But here's the fun part.

I found a ten-dollar bill in the pocket.

So I think this: I'll leave the money there, hang them up, and probably I'll forget about it. Then some long time from now I'll put them on and find the $10 again. And, of course, yippee!

But it's chancy. I may never put them on again.

Yes, this is my life. One must find pleasure where one can.