Troubled Lives .... the fascination

Last night at 10:30PM I went online to check my email. The YAHOO page opened with a blaring headline. "Michael Jackson is dead."

Immediately - now "back page" news, Farrah Fawcett's courageous battle with cancer has ended. Her passing, all but obscured by the new headlines.

Oh wait - I almost forgot ! Ed McMahon died this week too. 30 years on TV - five days a week, sitting next to the infamous Johnny Carson, entertaining America. Now - his death also upstaged .. almost forgotten.

What makes the demise of one famous person more news worthy than others ? Just a week apart, Princess Diana's death pushed Mother Teresa's passing into obscurity. Elvis. Anna Nicole Smith. The Kennedy's. Now Michael Jackson. TROUBLED LIVES. Is that what fascinates us?

Troubled lives .... Di - the beautiful princess. Elvis - the incomparable icon. Anna Nicole Smith - blond pin-up girl...

And now you, Michael, Peter Pan. Have you finally found peace in Never Never Land?

Would you? Could you? DO YOU ?

Yesterday a friend and I were ending our visit wrapping up a conversation about a guy we know. Nice guy. Suddenly - out of the blue - my friend blurted "I would love to look through his medicine cabinet!" Being the comic she is, I asked "What would possess you say something like that?" Again she stunned me. "I love looking through people's private things when I have the chance." I stared at her, astonished...all the while making mental note that she has an 'emergency key' for my house.

I could not let this discussion end - I was spellbound.

"OK - please be a bit more specific about going thru people's private things ... because you are one of the last people I would suspect of that." She threw a mischievous look my way and said, "You know - medicine cabinets, mail, drawers ... just going thru 'things'." There was not an ounce of embarrassment in her voice - no apologetic tone ... nothing.

Her view on this could be made no clearer, we laughed at our polar views and bid our good-byes.

Throughout the day I asked other friends and co-workers which 'team' they were on with this issue. The results were divided. There were the snoopers who felt guilty about their need to be nosy; there were the snoopers who felt no remorse and thrived on the thrill of it; there were the 'would be' or 'potential' snoopers who had yet to muster the courage for fear of being caught; and then the last camp - the one I am in .."Why would I ever want to snoop? Who cares what lingers in other folk's homes?"

I wrapped up my research project by asking my friend, the one that started this fiasco, "Do you worry about people snooping in your house and going thru your things?" There was one more surprise in store for me with her answer .. "Oh - I have a satchel with me wherever I go and in it is all my private 'stuff,' and my papers, diaries and journals. I would become a laughing stock if anyone saw that stuff."

I am still fixated on this seemingly common practice of going thru the personal items of others. I cannot comprehend the pleasure or thrill or need, but that is me.

So, am I worried that my snooping friend has a key to my house. No.

If she found the need to 'browse thru my stuff' - then so be it. After all, whatever is found will be a disclosure of "the real me." And if you think about it ... I now have a better picture of "the real her" ... and I did not even have to snoop to find out.

Tomorrow .. a big step

Despite my brazen exterior, I WORRY what people think of me. We have all been told that people "like us for who we are." But who are we kidding? Even the best of friends have the 'sidebar' conversations that we all know about: "Did you see her ...?" "OMG! Did you notice her ...?" "What do you think about her...?"

Yup .. I worry about those conversations. But tomorrow is a new day and I intend to test the waters.

I am talking about me, my home. The reflection of who I am. Or is it?

Someone is coming to my home tomorrow. A fastidious 'neatnik' .. And THIS time ... I will not stay up all night obsessing about dust on the ceiling fans, the basket of dirty laundry in the laundry room, miscellaneous tossings in the garage and the coup de grâce .... my sewing room.

Coup de grâce: often used figuratively to describe the last of a series of events which brings about the end of some entity; can also refer to the final destruction of an already sinking ship.

BUT WILL IT BE THE END? The end of what ?

I rather doubt it.

Tomorrow will be different. My friend, the fastidious neatnik. My friend who I adore. Please see me for the person I am. Overlook the weeds in the flowerbeds; the dishes in the sink; the dust in the corners; and the sewing room has not one bare surface for all the fabric and half finished projects.





My friend ... think of me not as disorganized, but as the one who... loves laughter and would rather dress vodka bottles in blond wigs and fancy gowns; buys sunglasses and Visine to cure eyes blinded by yellow paint; makes gift baskets out of paint cans; sews capes for little boys so they "really can be" Spiderman; transforms a stray stack of photos into a nifty slideshow; buys Dunkin' Donuts gift cards so you are never without morning coffee; and as the friend * that friend, who, when your world is up-side-down * runs out for a steak with bleu cheese and a plate of "crisp" bacon .. because I long ONLY to see you smile.

My friend - too much time and energy and anger and hurt has been wasted on the unimportant. We shall cease to have the NEED to understand that which we may never.

I "WILL" whisk away the eggshells, so there is no need to ever tip-toe again. However, there may be dust, a basket of laundry or a mess in the garage.

BUT WILL IT BE THE END? The end of what ? Our friendship ?

I rather doubt it.





POSTSCRIPT: 9:40PM - Wednesday, June 24th: My fastidious neatnik friend came. Said "I cannot look at your sewing room!" But I am sure when I was away .. my sewing room was surveyed. And by all accounts .. we are still friends. And believe it or not ... I am comfortable that "I" have been exposed for the person I am.

Never underestimate ...

Text message; email; facebook; twitter; blog. Communication.

Today the telephone rang.
Silently to myself "I needed this call. I needed to hear this voice."

Never underestimate the impact of a telephone call. Pick-up the phone. Call someone .. for no reason. Never underestimate the power of your voice ~ to soothe ~ to comfort ~ to resolve.

Thank you for calling.

The making of "this day" ...

Year: 1910 ~ Spokane, Washington

"During a church sermon, which extolled maternal sacrifices made for children, Mrs. Sonora Smart Dodd realized that in her own family it had been her father, William Jackson Smart, a Civil War veteran, who had sacrificed-raising herself and five sons alone, following the early death of his wife in childbirth. For Mrs. Dodd, the hardships her father had endured on their eastern Washington farm called to mind the unsung feats of fathers everywhere.

At Mrs. Dodd's proposal, that same year, ministers in the town set June 19th as the day for Father's Day festivities. But the concept of Father's Day did not readily catch on for decades.

Many people attempted to secure official recognition for Father’s Day. One of the most notable efforts was made in 1957, by Senator Margaret Chase Smith, who wrote forcefully to Congress that "Either we honor both our parents, mother and father, or let us desist from honoring either one. But to single out just one of our two parents and omit the other is the most grievous insult imaginable."

Eventually, in 1972-sixty-two years after it was proposed-Father’s Day was permanently established by President Richard Nixon. Historians seeking an ancient precedent for an official Father’s Day observance have come up with only one: The Romans, every February, honored fathers-but only those deceased."

Happy Father's Day






http://www.ideafinder.com/guest/calendar/fathersday.htm

It is all about what you see ......

A few weeks ago, as I was driving to work, I saw an old wicker loveseat, set by the road, alone, patiently waiting for the trash man. Its age was apparent by the traces of black paint on the otherwise bare and faded wicker. The seat was tattered near the middle .. a spot that had clearly been someone's favorite resting place ... or worn thin by a cat's daily afternoon naps. The weariness of the piece conjured up numerous vignettes in my mind, each with a story. I longed for a place to put the loveseat so I could rescue it from its evident fate... but I had no such place. Reluctantly, I continued my drive to work ... while my mind persisted to linger with "my" treasure by the side of the road.

The next day, as always, I met my two friends for our early morning dog walk. The younger of the two gleefully started the conversation by telling us of an old wicker loveseat she had found sitting by the side of the road. She had driven by it three times the previous day, and decided if it was still there after she ran her errands, she was going to take it home. It was .. and she did. I then shared my encounter with it.

We both smiled. Me, because the wicker loveseat that had tugged at my heart as I drove by, now had a good home. My friend, because she knew there was no need to explain why a faded, tattered wicker loveseat, devoid of its original function, was now nestled and "protected" on her front porch.

Exactly when is my blogging time?

Have not forgotton to write a post ... I actually have 4 posts started in my EDIT file. Simply have yet to complete my thoughts ...

Stay tuned ... something will be awaiting the world tomorrow. I shall commit to a specific time of day to put my fingers to the keys (which in the old days was called "pen to paper")

Andrea

A closer look at trees and wood .... and the secrets they hold

The picture shows the grand canopy of trees over "Pirate's Island," a 2 acre mound of earth in the midst of flat neatly mown fields. No one can remember when the "mound" inherited the name of Pirate's Island or why. It is not an island, nor have there ever been pirates.

At the age of ten, I moved into a new home with my family. Pirate's Island was in our backyard, separated only by a deep gully, about 20 feet wide and "the path." I walked "the path" to school everyday, from fifth grade until I graduated high school... blazen orange in the Fall months; treacherous and slippery with ice and snow in the Winter; and lush green in the Spring and Summer. "The Path."

Life repeats itself. After almost four decades, several living in other states, I once again walk the path every day, but now with my dog. The trees are much taller and the undergrowth is much lusher. I look at the trees and ponder about what they have "seen" throughout the years. In early 70's, the trees watched John and his dog Ivy, walk to my house almost every day to visit my brother. John, my brother's friend, the guy who many years later would become my husband. Then, just last year, those same trees witnessed my father's last walk, with Spike and his last bike ride. Both on the day he died ... so suddenly, without warning. I have pondered about the many people those trees have seen come and go during those 40 years in between.


As I think about all these trees have "seen" .. I glance around my home. I see wood. Wood from trees. I look at the 1931 yellow pine hardwood floors that have been walked upon for more than 75 years. The trees from which they were crafted, lived and "viewed" life for many years prior to being planed into floor boards. Where did they "live" .. and what did they "see?"

My beloved antique oak sideboard. Much older than my floors. Did that tree possibly live in a forest ... and "see" nothing but other trees?

And what about my new hemlock front door ? Ummm...

It has been a several years since I started pondering about the wood that surrounds me. Mighty oaks, pines, maples, hemlocks and cherry....floors, furniture and doors. I now wonder about the stories that are forever etched in "the eyes" of each. The history. Each story ~ each person, as unique as the grain of the wood, continues to live on, their secrets never to be told.

Mikie ... a friendship that "just happened"

After my divorce in 2002, I bought a beautiful brick tudor home on water in Norfolk, VA. My home was eclipsed only by the one next door, a massive 3500 sq foot brick home with amazing detail, arched doors, coved ceilings, copper gutters and an acre yard shaded by giant trees and graced by grape arbors.

The house was owned by two old friends, George and Mikie. George is a homebody. Mikie, the proverbial gypsy, always traveling and visiting friends, would make an appearance on Norland Circle about once a month .... for a day or a week, before heading out again.

I lived on Norland Circle for 3 years. During that time, George and I would have our Saturday evening contest of who could manicaure their yard most perfectly (he usually won by just a blade of grass). It was a neighborhood joke.

George and I spent lazy hot afternoons sitting on his porch with ceiling fans gently moving the heavy, humid air. George served cold Diet Coke as I swung gently on the wooden bench swing, suspended on chains from the ceiling. George sat across from me on his wooden glider with his Diet Coke, smoking cigarettes - while always proclaiming "I should quit." His faithful dog Wheezie by his feet.

About once a month, Mikie, would stop by, check his mail, and stay for a "visit." He would tell of his latest adventures - Key West, New Jersey, or working on a friend's farm. The stillness of Norland Circle ended with Mikie's arrival. He was a ball of energy - never sat still.

The minute Mikie pulled in the driveway - he would get out of his car and clean and polish it - top to bottom. Then he would shower - and he and I would visit. George would disappear into the house with Wheezie and Mike and I would 'catch-up.'

This went on for three years. George and I always "hanging out" and Mikie making his appearances. In 2005 I decided it was time to move back up North to my hometown after a 24 year absence. When the SOLD sign went up on my house, George was beside himself .. Mikie chatted like always.

Two years after I moved, in 2007, George's beloved Wheezie died. All his friend's thought he would die right along with her ... from a broken heart. I contacted Mikie, via email, upon hearing of Wheezie's death - the first time I had ever contacted him despite having always had his phone number tucked in my wallet. I wanted to check up on how George was doing.

Something happened with that "first contact" ... that first email. Mikie and I were like two inseperable friends - torn apart and once again united.

Since that day in 2007 - that first email - Mikie and I have been in each other's lives on a daily basis. We help each other thru struggles, we laugh, we debate politics, he calls me "names" because I get emotional and hence "Outta control." Many a night I wake up and find myself holding the phone ... and I immediately know I have fallen asleep during one of our late night chats. Mike just hangs up knowing I have to be at work in the morning ... and figures we will finish the conversation some other time.

Mikie and I have only seen each other once since I left Virginia in 2005. He came to visit me in NY, for two days, arriving on June 13th 2008. He was restless - but we had a great time.

Mike and I always end our conversations, spats, debates and arguments with "I love you." Our friendship somehow "happened" when Wheezie died. Mikie is my rock when the world is crumbling and he is the person I share all my joys with.

I do not know if and when I will ever see Mikie again. But that is not important - he is in my life everyday.

This kind, brilliant man fills a void in my life that I never knew existed until that fateful email, when in his normal fashion, Mike "stopped in for a visit" ... but thank goodness ... this time he never left.

Life without a television .... unthinkable!

Oh my ... what a dilemma. I had to find a picture for my blog post, because I have no Television in my home to photograph. OK ..done.. found a picture to use.

Since January 2008, when I put a "FREE TO GOOD HOME" sign on my TV, life has changed a bit.

CHANGES IN MY LIFE SINCE THE DEPARTURE OF THE TELEVISION

#1 - I do not receive a $60+ bill in the mail each month for cable TV hook-up. Umm- that is nice.

#2 - I went to the public library to get a library card and was amazed at all new adventures at my fingertips. And I thought TV was expanding my horizons ..!

#3 - With no television - there are no advertisements to visually tap into my pocketbook. Today's advertisers are very seductive in their tactics ... but I must see the ads - which I can no longer do - so I spend MUCH less.

#4 - If I choose to watch a television show, I can view many shows online on my laptop. This is good, because I can watch TV shows on MY schedule, not that of the networks. And ... no ads.

#5 - Creativity. I always thought TV shows on HGTV and DIY channels, helped my creativity. They demonstrate so many wonderful ideas. The television is long gone. Now my creativity is MY creativity. Ideas, thought up in my own head, not borrowed.... from TV.

#6 - Sleep. No television means getting to bed instead of becoming engrossed in shows at all hours. This has resulted in a 'regular' heathy sleep pattern.

Life without a television is NOT so unthinkable .... it is rather nice.

The ABSTRACT of Control ....

Last night .....

At 7PM, the phone rang, it was my friend. Well, actually, he is my 'co-worker,' I must keep things in perspective. He sounded tired. He sounded defeated. His small son is ill, cancer, and the illness has control. Control of the family.

While talking, I heard the door in the background swing open, and the words, "He's bleeding." Followed by "I'll call you back."~~CLICK.
The illness, has 'entered' again, through the door in the background. I am thrust into the reality of their lives, held hostage. What is happening?

A half hour later, the phone rings and he says "Everything is under control." But it really isn't.

He always told me that I can accomplish anything I put my mind to, but we know that is not true anymore. His son's illness has changed my world. I cannot cure. I cannot take away fear. My band-aid is not big enough.

Recently, I hurt him. I secretly hoped he would push me away. I wanted to escape his world with "illness." Put it in a little compartment and lock it away. Then I could move on. Afterall, he is only my 'co-worker.' But why did I hurt him? I have control, the choice to walk away. He does not.

Just like "illness" - life is not tidy. He is my friend. Using words, like 'co-worker,' cannot alter that.

I am scared. Can I find the courage to walk this journey with my friend?

Yes, because in his eyes, I can accomplish anything I put my mind to.

Completely "Entangled".... well almost

It all started a year ago ... when a person I knew "just a bit" asked for my creative input on a project she was passionate about. I had lots of ideas about "my vision" for "her project" .. but reined in my exurberance, because afterall, it was her "passion," not mine.

Her passion is to educate women on the toxicity of products that are a part of our everyday life. Beauty products mostly. OK, sure I like being creative, I'll help. BUT I was hell bent that I was definitely not giving up my Lancome; Estee Lauder; and L'Oreal - those creamy great smelling miracles in a jar. And Clorox would remain my cleaner of choice !

This person, who I knew "just a bit" ~ listened to my ideas, mulled them, tossed most and used a few. But throughout the process, made me feel appreciated. Ahhh gee. So one day, when we were working on a display in Vermont, I wanted to express my appreciation and validate her hard work as she had validated mine. So, when she was not looking, I grabbed a few items off the display and purchased some of her "non-toxic" products. She noticed, but said little.

Armed with my grapefruit hand & body lotion; peppermint lip gloss, sweet orange lip gloss and face scrub, we bid our good-byes, and off we went in separate directions.

Once in the car, buckling up for my one hour trip home, I peeked in the earthy brown paper bag and pulled out the sweet orange lip gloss ... Now I could have dug through my purse to find my white tube (with gold embellishments) of Revlon lip enhancing - age-defying gloss, but this was more easily accessible. Open, apply ...oh my, that's great ... love the orange. Off I went.

Halfway home, stopped at a traffic light .. ummm .. that hint of orange was nice ... hurry before the light changes ... apply some more. Refreshing.

That evening, I tried the face scrub. Nice, not harsh. The next morning, the scent of grapefruit lingered after applying the light body lotion. Clearly, I was just being "ambushed" by the scents. The peppermint lip gloss seemed to make the freshness of squeaky clean teeth last just a little bit longer. Yeah, right ... OK, enough fuss.

Today, a year later, I have new convictions...new objectives. My armoire is full of beauty products that not only make me look good, they make me feel good. No Lancome, Estee Lauder, nor L'Oreal ...

My cleaning cabinet has a $5 bottle of Dr. Bronner's Sal Suds Cleaner. Certified Fair Trade, non toxic ... it cleans everything. Smells fresh too.

And last night ... I went online to put myself on the auto-delivery system for Green Mountain Fair Trade, Organic coffee ... Newman's Own. I cannot give up my coffee, but I can become a more conscious consumer.

That is how I became "entangled." The dictionary defines the word as ~Entangled (in/with): involved with something or someone in a way that makes it difficult to escape. The truth is, I don't want to "escape" the urge to persist with my new convictions and objectives.

I cannot claim to have reached the level termed "passion" for this development taking place in my life. I still have a secret vice ... which I have kept hidden until now. I still must paint my toenails red, (toxic red?) because it makes me feel good. My feet are one of the few parts of my body where the delicate structure of my bones is still evident thru the firm flesh (made firm by my Grapefruit lotion) ....

I paint my toes red in 'celebration' ... in 'celebration' of feeling good, and in 'celebration' about making wiser choices in my life!!

"My Drawer" ....

Upon my arrival home from work this evening - I meandered to my mailbox, absent-mindedly removing the contents. As I walked back towards the breezeway, my eyes fell on an envelope in my hand. A hand-written address - not typed. Postage stamps, not metered or Bulk Mail. Another entry for "my drawer."

Inside the envelope was a photograph of a three year old boy, Simon, and two paintings he created. My favorite of the two shown above on the left. The pieces are Simon's thank you for a day spent together at my house. New entries for "my drawer."

"My drawer"? Yes, "my drawer." I deeply treasure the cards and letters I receive in my mailbox. Now, even more so, since the evolution of the computer/email. Each piece is a labor of love. Evidence that someone has taken the time and thought to put pen to paper; to lick and to seal. Words of thanks, words of wishes, words of friendship, words of love, words of sorrow. A treasure that can be held .. as it was held by the person who sent it. A tangible message. Each as unique as the handwriting upon it.

The oldest entry in "my drawer" arrived in the mail 27 years ago, written on a 3 foot piece of adding machine tape. It provided a unique, vivid picture of the unique, vivid person who wrote it and sent it. It was a labor of love. The only other piece of mail I have from that person was in 1993, a postcard .. which he always referred to as "penny postcards" ... clearly a term from his youth.

Shown is a sampling of items, of mail, cards and letters, from "my drawer." My thanks to Eileen, Rose, Joyce, Maureen, Lucy, Kerri, Kathleen, Diane, Kevin, Lisa, Sharon, Minnie, Joe, Sandy, Alice and .... to all those in my life, past and present, who have taken the time to create an entry for "my drawer." You have given me a treasure. One I can hold. One that keeps memories alive. One I will keep for the rest of my days.

There is no picture of "my drawer," a long narrow wooden fixture in an antique piece of oak furniture. The narrow drawer, when open, fools the eyes into thinking there is little inside ... but nothing could be further from the truth.

Funerals, Family, ...and "making" Concrete

Today there was a funeral...which as we all know is like a wedding. People gather, people are reacquainted; people meet for the first time; new discoveries; news; hugs; tears; babies and wheelchairs .... good-byes.

Today there was a funeral. I was tired when I returned home this evening. I took a nap which turned into deep restful sleep ... until 11:56PM. I awoke with a start. OH NO ~~ it is almost midnight and there is no blog posting for today !! Not that the world is out there waiting with great anticipation about my latest views on life. I have yet to reach the stature of Paul Harvey and Andy Rooney.

At the funeral "after-party" ~ being pegged the 'instigator' (I prefer to be referred to as an INITIATOR) ~ I proposed that the 38 cousins have a reunion. No parents - no spouses - no kids - just cousins. It would be a first - hopefully the first of more than one. "But we don't know each other!" That's the point -

Kathleen suggested, before the cousin event, everyone will put one "unknown" fact/story about themselves in a jar. (Why a jar? - Why not a box? Umm - curious) As the pieces of paper are one by one removed and read ... a new world will unfold. It is called family. It is called life. We will find a common thread ..

The cousins present at the discussion have already set Bennington, Vermont as the place. That is the "birthplace" of the Roy family. Now we need a date -

It is after midnight now and I have written. Why did I have to write tonight ? Writing makes 'things' concrete. I want this commitment to get to know my cousins, to be in writing. To be concrete. I want it to happen. Because as with today's funeral .. a family member dies .. and unless the stories of life are told, are shared, before the final breath is taken, like the soul ~~ the stories will be taken away ... and they will be missed.

They will be missed.

"Who" is Durian ?

On May 16th, I noticed a comment on my "My One Word" post. WOW - someone is reading my blog ! Anxiously, I checked to see which of my friends was sending encouragement in my direction. Imagine my surprise to see the comment was from "Durian Guy - Malaysia" He said his one word would be "faith" and he ended with "Good Luck" as it was only my second day of blogging.

Curiousity got the best of me, so I started poking around. Turns out this Durian Guy IS in Malaysia - and also a new-comer to blogging on his spot "Durian talk ... spikes, smell and richness"

A visit to Durian's blog reveals a lively character who displays an excellent command of the written English language. His stories are animated and engaging - very tactile in that his words activate my senses as if I too were with him experiencing life. Ummm ...like eating "curry fish head" (oh my ..); playing golf while the sun pierces thru the skin like a thousand stinging bees (Malaysia is a tropical country near the equator); and the noise of children playing after school, their antics vividly described.

A few days ago another comment - this time on my "What Is In An Email Address?" post. "Durians is the King of all fruits.... and I like them very much....that's where it inspired me to use durianguy@hotmail.com"

Oh my ! My fellow blogger, who I had known as Durian, was suddenly nameless .. and actually a "fruit?"

Google search. YAHOO search. Malaysia - a gorgeous and culturally rich country in Southeast Asia ... is also a native country to durian.

From Wikipedia:
"Widely known and revered in southeast Asia as the "king of fruits", the durian is distinctive for its large size, unique odour, and formidable thorn-covered husk."

I now understand the 'nameless' blogger's blog ... spikes, smells and richness. But it seems the "SMELL" is the foremost characteristic of the 'durian' fruit.

Excerpts from Wikipedia:
In regard to the 'odour' of durian - westerners are quite graphic.
British novelist Anthony Burgess writes that eating durian is "like eating sweet raspberry blancmange in the lavatory."

Anthony Bourdain, chef, while a lover of durian, relates his encounter with the fruit as thus: "Its taste can only be described as...indescribable, something you will either love or despise. ...Your breath will smell as if you'd been French-kissing your dead grandmother."

Travel and food writer Richard Sterling says:“ ... its odor is best described as pig-shit, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock. It can be smelled from yards away.

So what have we learned today?
- Durian is a 'what', not a 'who'
- Durian is a fruit, not the name of my fellow blogger (who is now nameless)
- Durian is a fruit that elicits the use of many 'very descriptive' adjectives
- And, although I may never know the real name of Durian Guy - the nameless blogger, he has nonetheless enriched my life by expanding my world to the other side of the globe and "activated my senses."

....and I thank him