Here it is

What I'm about to write may seem obvious, but there are times when it ought to be said. That's what I think. So here it is.

I love my husband. I miss him very much. He was a good man. I would like to have him here again.

I dislike writing of him in past tense, as in he was a good man. In many ways he is still present tense.

I'm only human

Okay. I have to admit it. I haven't stopped feeling sorry for myself. Not entirely.

Today I'm feeling sorry for myself because of the raccoon. With good reason.

You should see what he's doing to my house.

This is no joke.

A Little Self-talk

It came to me recently that I feel sorry for myself. Certainly right now, when I'm coughing and snorting and dripping. But also just generally, most of the time. Why? I guess because I'm a widow. That is something I never wanted to be or planned on becoming. But I am it.

And because I'm getting old and nothing can stop that. Except death, which I don't want. But let's not get into that.

Sure, I laugh and joke. I certainly don't go around moping or weeping or hanging my head, but it's there, I think, always. Right beneath the surface of me.

It comes to me now that feeling sorry for myself is no way to live. No way to be happy. Yes, I'm living. But I bet it could be better. 

Well, let's begin now to quit the poor me that I sense when certain things come out of my mouth, and I realize, "Oh yeah. That's a bit of self-pity, even if it is under the surface." 

Yes, let's.

It's Axel's Day

Axel Brimley Schiess is four years old today.

Here are the two Axel stories Richard just told me. Perhaps they'll appear on Richard's Facebook, but I don't do Facebook, as you may know.


Story #1
Axel asked for mini pizza. Richard explained they were all gone. Axel said, "Here's how it works. If you want to go to the store and buy me mini pizzas, you leave home."

By the way, Axel was listening and corrected his dad in the telling. Richard said "you leave now." Axel said, "No dad. You leave home."

It's the "Here's how it works" part that gets me.

Story #2
The other day they drove to their mom's place of work. Richard parked his truck next to hers, and Penelope asked, "How come we always park here, next to Mom's truck?"  Axel said, "Because we love her. Duh."

Happy Birthday to a very smart boy. Good looking, too.

Basketball

My friend Toosje is Dutch. But that is not the point of the story. She is 82, and that is only peripherally important. Here is our recent conversation.

Toos: Tonight the Spurs are playing.
Me: Yeah, but I don't really care about that stuff anymore.
Toos: Well (which she pronounces Vell) I like the Spurs.
Me: I suppose I'd prefer the Spurs over the Heat.
Toos: I like them because they don't have tatoos.

That's good enough for me.

Small World and A Little Disgusting

Home from Curves, and guess what. The kid who searched for cigarette butts yesterday (See Carol's Corner ) was back today . . . with another kid . . . not looking for butts . . . the two of them carrying a large bucket or pan. 

So. Apparently, they work at Northern Lights, the cafe around the other corner from Curves. And how do I feel about that? Some kid who works at a food preparation place smokes other people's cigarette butts. He probably steps out back on his break to do just that. And Judy has invited me/any who would like to eat at Northern Lights next Wednesday. I'm not inclined towards it at this moment.

Someone said, "If we knew what went on at restaurants, we'd never eat out." Someone besides me. 

Someone else said, "Yeah. Don't ever send food back."

There you have it.

This Post, More Important Than It Appears, At Least to Me

Today is mammogram day. In fact, I'm about the leave for the happy place. I'll be back.
And this morning's song was What I Did For Love. From 3 a.m. until I left my house for the mammogram. Did I write about that? I often wake with a song in my head.

I'm back.
Side bar: the mammogram, the technician said it was good. I hope so. I'm a little worried because it didn't hurt as much this time. Still hated that exam, nurse Michelle putting her fingers all over my breasts, from every imaginable angle. Yes, I hate that part.

At the front desk, the young woman, Sarah, asked if my daughter Lola was still the emergency contact. Yes, I said. She said, "I love the name Lola." So do I, of course, so I told her a short version of how Lola got her name. Born on my mother's birthday, my mother Lola.

Then I began to wonder how my mother got her name. How did those two simple farm people from Bloomington, Idaho, find or know and settle on that name for their only child? Lola.  It was 1899, remember.

Side bar:  Samantha is my mother's middle name, for her mother Samantha.

I cannot know the answer about how they came up with Lola, but whatever it is, the event was fortuitous and blessed. These two girls named Lola--one my mother, one my daughter--are beloved and irreplaceable people in my life.

Side bar #3: My name is Alyce Carol. I am known by Carol. That is what my parents called me and that is my name by my choice. It is true that I was called Alyce from first grade through high school graduation. I had no difficulty knowing who I was and no problem with it, that is, after my initial objections in the first grade. But I was Carol at home, and I always knew I was Carol. Now, although I have nothing against the name Alyce, having given it lovingly to my daughter, I do not know myself by that name. It isn't me. It's Alyce.

Two Cents

When I was a kid soda pop came in glass bottles. Period. You paid a deposit on the bottle, 2 cents, and you could return the empty bottle and get your 2 cents back. That may not sound exciting now, but it was pretty good then--better than you're thinking. 

This was when I was 7 or 8 or 9. I could ride my bike to the little store on Hill Street, pay a nickel for a bottle of Dr Pepper, plus 2 cents, and a nickel for a small bag of Fritos, and be happy.

Besides, 3 cents would buy a popsicle--or you could get two popsicles for a nickel. So a 2-cent return on a pop bottle was a very good thing because it was rare when I didn't have even one penny or, as my mother would say, "one red cent."

By the way, Fudgesicles and Creamsicles were more expensive, a nickel each. But two returned bottles plus a penny could get you one. 

In 1957, before I was 17, the first aluminum cans of soda pop appeared. Handy, sure, but the taste was not as good as before. Truly. Which didn't stop anyone, apparently, from buying those cans of pop. I was no longer riding my bike to the corner store in 1957, don't even know what happened to that bike. And I can't report on my soda pop consumption in those days, except for the times Wayne, my boyfriend, and I went up to A&W for a hot dog and a root beer.

We did not have soda pop in the house at all times. Sunday's treat was my dad's homemade lemonade. But when we did drink pop, it was Hire's Root Beer, or Dad's Root Beer, 7up, or Canada Dry Ginger Ale, or maybe the rare Pepsi-Cola. They were the soft drinks we knew in the Brimley house. Plus my corner store Dr Pepper.

About me drinking Dr Pepper as a child. I didn't know it had caffeine. Don't even know if it was labeled as containing caffeine. I wasn't reading labels in those days.

It's Not Good News

Yesterday was to be the celebration of George Frideric Handel--his birth, his life, his music. The celebration has been held annually in his birthplace--Halle, or Halle an der Saale--for many, many years. 

But the celebration was cancelled because of the flooding in Europe, specifically for Halle, from the Saale river which runs through the town. That river has swollen to 26 feet above its highest mark. That's the highest it has been in 400 years.

The Saale is a tributary of the Elbe River, which is flooding, and Halle is only one of the hundreds of towns in Germany now flooded and threatened with ruin. 

In this country, tornadoes may have passed finally, but Hurricane Andrea has hit Florida and will travel up the east coast of the whole country to New England, dropping rain and hail and blowing devastation, too.

Here in Boise, things are quiet. It's finally hot.

Addendum June 7:  Andrea is a Tropical Storm, slightly weaker than a hurricane but still capable of much destruction. A tornado touched down in Gulf Port Florida yesterday, June 6. It's not over.

A Lesson from Life

Before I had children I knew how it would be. I would have much to teach and tell them, and they would always want to listen. You know, like, sit at my feet, maybe even adoringly.

That is not the way it happened.

First, they didn't sit at my feet adoringly and listen.  How could I have been so naive? So arrogant? It was certainly not the way I behaved towards my mother. Did I think I knew so much more than she did? 

Probably. Actually, of course.

I mean, don't we all have that period in our lives when we think we know everything? At least everything worth knowing.  And certainly we know more than our parents. Those poor old ignorant parents. How do they survive without our help?

Then we grow up.

Second, my children didn't listen. I know I'm repeating myself. It's on purpose.

Third, my feet were busy, not resting on the floor in front of a seated me.

Fourth, what, after all, did I know? What could I teach them? Something, I'm sure. But not as much as I thought. Having children taught me, and one thing I learned was that I didn't know as much as I thought I did. It's rough, but something we all need to learn, I suppose.

Fifth, we--our children included--learn more in those brief moments when teaching might not have been intended but when we see or hear something that goes right to where we need it to go. To the brain or to the heart.

Which does not mean we shouldn't try to tell them something now and then.

Sixth, I just didn't always know what to do, what to say, how to work through situations, how to help. I just didn't know.

I'm older now, but I wonder if I know yet. 

One thing I do know is that it's hard to be a parent. Hard and humbling.  But I think my children are doing pretty well at it. I take no credit for that.

This Day

Happy Anniversary to me, to us. I don't suppose my husband is celebrating somewhere. I'm not sure how these things work after death.

Fifty-one years. But don't get the wrong idea. I am not all that old.