Glo Blog

If, way back long ago, I’d have given up I would miss out on these days of reflection.  I would not have been able to know, deep in the knowing, I got through it; in tact and whole- maybe even more so than I ever imagined.  Not that there weren’t any scars mind you.

Way back when, maybe even the first week of college, certainly the first semester when I was loving autumn but not my life in autumn.  When I was feeling lost in a sea of perfect girls, from perfect worlds, who had been on the perfect track to perfection.  I felt like the lost sock in a dryer of freshly laundered madras.  Anyway, somehow I landed in the threshold of an office outfitted with a beautiful big desk, making the woman sitting behind it appear even more petite than she was-an office cluttered with the droppings of somehow who very clearly loved adventure, learning and life.  I was standing in the midst of someone who would change my life forever and all I  could do was cry.

I am looking for Dr. Shearburn.  Dr. Dudley Shearburn.  ( a stodgy, pipe smoking old man, professorial looking in the same suit he wears everyday- a brown bag lunch even? with a thermos of black coffee-grading papers? )

Yes?  Dear?  The sound of southern, real southern,female, warm blanket southern from behind a stack of books.  Lots and lots of books.  There were books everywhere.  And art.  Lots of art of all kinds.

I was told, ( not now, you can’t cry now) to see Dr. Shearburn.  My advisor.  I am looking for Dr. Shearburn. ( I am quite certain if I am not pointed in the direction of where I am supposed to go, this poor women, with the warm blanket southern voice, is going to see me breakdown and sob.)

She stood up and walked from behind the desk-outfitted in colors and big jewelry.  Artsy jewelry.  She was alive.  Lively.  A little impish.  She sized me up in a second.

Uh huh.  What have we here?

Silence.

Sugah, I am Dr. Shearburn.  You are supposed to see me.  Warm blanket southern with as warm of a smile.

And that was that.

Let’s walk.

And for the next two hours we did.  Up and around a beautiful campus decked out in a stellar Piedmont North Carolina Fall.  Through the historic graveyards, past the bakery and up and down hills.  It was a walk ,to coin a phrase, to remember.  And I always have.

I cried.  Expressed my fear of being in a place where it appeared everyone else had it all figured out-and I was no where near the questions, never mind the answers. I hated my classes, hated feeling trapped and hated the fact we had to sing, yes, sing about virgin trees.  Yes.  Virgin trees.  Which were about the only things on campus NOT screwing around. Not that it bothered me.  Just seemed a little hypocritical, that’s all.

It seemed so easy for everyone else.  Prepared from years in a prep school or boarding school.  My learning curve was way off,well the curve.

Dr. Shearburn listened and walked.  Walked and listened. She would giggle.  She would nod from time to time, offer an insight here and there.  She held my hand, grabbed my shoulder, and called me sugah.  A lot.

It’s not fair I said.  It’s just  not fair.

She stopped walking-turned and looked at me, straight on with a smile and said:

Life is not fair.  Whoever told you life is fair?  Remove that word from your vocabulary.  Right here and now.  You get to choose. You get to reinvent.  You get to chart the course.  You get to get a life….and make it whatever you want.  But, life is not fair and it never will be.  So get over it and move on.

And that was that.

The next week, I changed some classes around, got a job off campus, and began the art of creating my life. It is advice that has never failed me.  Not once.  These are the words I share( quite often) with my daughter when she lets it be known that, indeed, life is not fair.

No, it is not. I tell her.  It never will be. But you get to create your own life-your own words for your own world.  You get to choose.

Dr. Shearburn stayed with me the entire four years of college life-and years later, she is with me as I reach milestones.  In life and in art.

 

  There, there.  It is all going to be alright.  It is all going to be alright.

Maybe.

You know what is wrong with you gal?

Well, as a matter of fact- I could go through a whole litney of what is wrong with me.  And then I start to cry-tears welling.  Holding back-not gonna do it.

Looky here gal, she said.

I did. Every inch of her life was right there on her face.  Not hidden, not smoothed out and inflated.  Life in every crease and crevice.  She earned every one.

You are looking for a there, there, she said.

  Your there, there.  Someone to come along and tap you gently on the shoulder, look you right in the eye, pull you close into a deep hug and whisper,

there,there. 

I cried even more.

She was right. 

The last four years have been an emotional boat load of heaves and ho’s.  From one destination to another-coming across things not on the map-circumstances that needed to be dealt with in the here and now-except the here and now kept going on and on so much I found myself lost in the sensation of any kind of feeling.Void.  There was no time.  The here and now was robbing me of the genuine- because everything was requiring me to participate on a level of  deep impact. I just kept moving.  I just keep moving.  It is the remedy.  It is the solution. It is what keeps me, oddly enough in the present.  How ironic.

If you are one of those women who is so inclined to fix, on all kinds of multi levels, and if you choose to see and be aware-I am not sure there will always be a there, there-waiting in the wings when you decide to slow down long enough.  Items don’t have to be checked off the list of life. Just about anything can wait-and your child will not dissolve into a heaping pile of emotional distress if you can not do everything-all the time.  Children need to know they are loved and safe. That covers a great deal.  Marriages require work and compromise and partners need to know they are loved and that they too are safe-even from things that have been there long before you ever entered the picture.  There, there’s are hard to come by these days.The there, theres in the every day are not where you think you will find them-but sometimes, on a day when the weight of the world is right there between my heart and soul and sleep has not been my friend-when circumstance is not working in my favor and my wish list is running longer than usual- I find my own there, there.  A whisper to  my self, filled with the knowing of self preservation and skill- with a solid hug of perseverance and the assurance that righteousness brings.

There,there.

This is how it started.  One day in late spring, 2007-my mother traveled up to New England to see my daughter play a flying monkey in a production of The Wizard of Oz.  My mother has traveled by herself for years-lived by herself for years.  She was always fond of getting up and going-by car-by plane-and a few times-by boat.  She loved to travel to see her children. And then her grandchildren.  And for the many years I lived in New York-my mother became part of the fabric  there as much as anything.  We had our rituals, our stomping grounds and she would always frequent the (many!) restaurants where I either waited tables or hosted.  She knew her way around the city and my neighborhood-and if she did not-she made the most of getting lost.  She would jsut stop and ask someone-anyone- to show her the way. But that was years ago.  Though even in recent years, she had no problem hoping on a plane to come visit me-or driving for several hours to visit my brothers. She knew how to find her way-my mom.  Even after the cancer.  She got up and went.  But that was then.

Don’t forget your phone mom. Don’t leave it in the charger.  You might need it if your flight is cancelled or delayed.

 Yes. It’s charging now, she said.  But I never use the darn thing anyway.

Mom, just bring your phone….  And call me at work if there is any trouble.  See you tomorrow.

And just like always, she complained about having to get up so early. “o’dark thirty” she would say.

And then the next day:

The phone kept ringing at work.  My phone was registering a number I did not recognize.  I went back to teaching-and the phone kept ringing.  On the fourth attempt, I answered.

Uh, hi, uh, is this Gloria?

Yes, this is Gloria.

You don’t know me, but I am here in Philadelphia with your mother.  She asked that I call.  She, uh, doesn’t have her phone- she , uh, left it in the charger.  Anyway, our flight to Providence was cancelled and , uh, your mom is here, with me.  She’s really frazzled..she seems disoriented.

  He sounded young.  Maybe they talked college basketball on the flight.  Maybe she just flat out introduced herself-full name and all- and then began a conversation about the many things she loved.

No,I’m not.  I heard her say in the background.  I am just fine.

Uh, he said, your mom wants to talk to you.

  Gloria I am fine.  I am fine!( in her everything is not alright voice but I am going to Pollyanna my way through this so you don’t think anything is wrong with me, because there is nothing wrong)

Well, it seems US Air has cancelled the flight so we are being rerouted and, well, no one can tell us when we will get to Providence, but we will at some point.

But mom ( as 15 kids with anger issues are staring at me).

I’m fine! , she said. I have a book. I always bring a book.  I don’t know this nice man’s name but he let me use his phone.  He has to go now. And that was that.

Dammit Pollyanna. 

Uh, should I call you when we know more, Uh, so you won’t worry about your mom?, the young man said.

What is your name?  How old are you? What do you do?  ( because I know my mother, and she never meets a stranger and within minutes said stranger will know too much and she will not care one bit…I mean, mom….she’s, well, she is just too trusting.

Information jotted down- I can’t get back to class because now I am distracted by how I going to get my mother from Philly to Providence-my mom-with no cell phone. I am on the phone to US Air at once-demanding-at once-and trying very hard to be nice because-someone once said to me to imagine rainbows shooting from your mouth when you are upset with the other person on the phone-especially when the other person is being difficult.

Could you, please( rainbow one) let me speak to a supervisor.  I have a problem.

How can I direct your problem?  (USAIR voice from somewhere in a call center)

Well, it involves a flight that was canceled-in Philly-without warning- and, well, my mother is stranded there-by herself…and I need to get her-

Flight number? ( call center voice interrupted)

Ummmm, I don’t know.  (rainbow #2)  Can you look it up by name?

I am not on the page.  (pause) Last name?

I gave the name-with a double shot of rainbow-because now I am thinking of too many things that are not making sense to me about mother.

Can you just tell me what time the flight is expected to leave, so I can be sure to meet my mother beca-

 Young man stuck in Philly with my mother dials in-I click over

Hey Glor!  We are going over to Gate 5- we should be in Providence at 4:45pm.  And this nice man let me use his phone.  I think he is a college student.  Very nice kid.  Yes, very nice.

and before I know it she hangs up the phone-

I click back over to US Air. We have been disconnected.

So much for spewing  fucking rainbows.

It’s the birthday blog.  A year in the life of.     In the George Bailey moments I visit from time to time…I go back to what it would be like if.  Don’t we all?  Even the people I would deem as content as could be- with all that is good and true in their lives- must have a reflective  thought or two and ponder a scenario the current life choice has pushed back into the recesses of that part of the brain that burys things that should,well, just be left in there-way in the back of the recesses of the brain.

Over coffee with a friend who seemingly is content began to cry when I asked how she was.  It was not a sob fest mind you, but that simple question brought about a stream of tears. 

“Oh my God,” she said, “I thought I had dealt with this…”

Not knowing if I said something wrong-as I am known to do at the mostly wrong of times, I sat there silent and watched as she wiped away tear after tear with her coffee stained napkin.

“I am having a hard time turning forty,” she said.  “I thought I would be further along than I am, I thought I would not be bogged down with the things I don’t really want to do that are getting in the way of things I want to.”

 I was silent.  She went on.

“For some reason, I thought I would be in a different place…..with a different set of rules. Not that I hate my life, I just thought it would be different at this point.”

 I was hesitant, but there is only so much silence one can offer sitting across a two top in a crowded coffee shop.

 Oh what the hell.

“When did you turn forty?”  I asked with an offering of a clean napkin.

“Almost a year ago.”  And then the tears again.  No sobs.  Sad tears.  Reflective tears.  Transitional tears.

I know them well.  Tears of the what if.  The reflective salty tears of not knowing where you really are-but knowing this ain’t it.  The determined tears of frustration when nothing is going right and you want so much for the wrong to be done with.  AND, you are not even sure what the right is.  But this ain’t it.  The tears of a woman who knows where she has been and is thank-ful for the road map and the miles that show.  Tears of knowing that reflect the purpose of a chosen path-and sometimes the lack of courage to take another. Tears of the unknown.  There is no Clarence who will swoop down and save us from drowning in the cold waters of what if.  There is no Kodachrome playback of what would be if we were not around.  There is no crystal ball eeking out a fuzzy picture of the future.  There are the footprints of surviving the past-of making the most of what is given.  These are the battle wounds of a warrioress- the tears of strength and determination.  The focus of knowing-regardless if the outcome is not clear or the end result not what we thought it was going to be.  These are the moments that play back on rewind and remind us we can, we have and we will continue to move.  Even if the transitions are hard.  Even if the future is fuzzy.  We will cry and hurt- and love and want more.  And we just might get it.

There he was.  Belly up in the bowl; with a smidgen of his new claw just forming.   Just as dead as dead could be.  So much for the shrimp pellets. 

Dreading the news I would have to share with my daughter- who was certain, Yoshi aka Bob the crayfish, was sure to live forever, we made a few stops on the way home from school.

And then:

Ava, I have some bad news to tell you.

Yeah, mom, what is it?

Yoshi is dead. 

Is Swimmy dead too?

Swimmy is the blue Beta fish who has been with us for two years now. He was in his own bowl, complete with a faux rock castle.

No, Swimmy is fine.  Swimmy is alive and swimming.

Oh.  Okay. 

And with a shrug of the shoulders, that was that.

The moral of the story?  There are more things I should shrug my shoulders at and get on with it.

You  know you are a mom when you roam the aisles of Pet Co looking for the right kind of seaweed to feed a temperamental one pinchered crayfish; rescued from the third grade-you purchase filtered water for the blue Beta fish, and unknowingly carry around shrimp pellets in your purse.  For three weeks.

This is a picture of a hormone.  This explains a lot.

It is no wonder we women are prone to hormonal unbalance.  Who wouldn’t be if one of these radioactive jellyfishlookingthingys was floating around reeking havoc on the days when everything else is going wrong?  Waiting for just the right time to go kaflooey.  Lying in wait to implode into a mishmash of pure t-hell.

Oh yeah.  That’s right.

Pure. T. Hell.

I never gave it much thought.  Never. I have never been adverse to aging. Though I vow to not go into it without a fight- I have accepted the process.  Sort of. I thought it would be something I would breeze through from here to there; always active I was- forever moving about-tinkering some would say.  I thought I would have no trouble with gravity-or body parts that slowly head south. But no. While I joke from time to time about that new piece of flesh on the back of my leg…yes, that one that used to be my perky marathons I have run and bikes I have peddled ass. Yes, that one that sprung back from birthing a baby.  But wait: 40 came and went and my ass still stayed. And yet, in these later years, there is goes,  sinking slowly no matter the amount of Lycra.

Once, and yes, it was only once for me- during the prep and pampering for swimsuit competition in the Miss. North Carolina pageant,circa 1984- I looked over and watched as Miss. Fayetteville grabbed a portion of her cheeky flesh( yes, that cheek ) and sprayed it with the same spray athletes use to grip the ball better. She “Firm Gripped” her butt to new heights-she lifted up her ass- sprayed it and it stuck.  Right there.  Right where she wanted it.  This was new to me-but darn if I did not meander over and ask for a spray myself.  Now firmly gripped in my fuchsia one piece-with matching sandals- and sure my ass was high and mighty,I arranged my sash just right and off I went. I was going to make my county proud I was.  The effects lasted only through the next shower-and there was something to be said for the  sticky residue. It lingered-but my butt fell back to where it was pre Firm Grip.   Where was I?  Oh, yes, hormones.  Oh these tangents of mine. Wait a minute.  I wonder where Miss. Fayetteville is now or for that matter, her butt?

And now- a thought will enter my mind and suddenly take leave. Or go off on these wild tangents pulling stories from very early on in my book of life. (See above) My sharp as a tack mind is being challenged by a hormonally unbalanced radioactive jelly fish.  My skin is dry-and so are my eyes-never mind the myopic view point.    There is a certain sort of sag that finds itself setting up shop on various parts of my face-and try as I may ( you should see my side of the medicine cabinet) the sag continues.  Don’t get me started on my hair. No, I will not be cutting it short.

My ability to multitask has taken up residence somewhere else- I strive now to just get a few things done-and not at the same time.  It is the midlife time of my life. Let me just relish in the things I can not remember anymore.  My fondness for flannel pajamas as day wear suits me just fine, drawstring please?

It is true what they say.  To my great dismay-it is hard to get up and go.  I hit it hard at the gym and then pay for it the next day in the oddest of places.  I recently discovered I can no longer do a rock star slide on a hard wood floor ( it’s a long story-ruined a great pair of stockings but it made a good memory) without severe damage. My right knee will never be the same.  Ever.

I get impatient.  Now, this is nothing new to anyone who really knows me -but my level of impatience has about a two minute window.  Throw in something I really don’t want to do and the window is gone.

I have no tolerance for stupid people.  Again, nothing new to anyone who really knows me-but I find it interesting to note the number of stupid people that seem to have been recently released onto the world is in direct proportion to my inability to tolerate them.  Mean people no longer have a chance with me.  I have morphed into a blundered version of Pollyanna and Alexis Carrington. One minute I am going to save the world and the next, well, let’s just say it is not attractive and I never knew flipping someone off could be so satisfying-even if said person did not catch sight of my bird.  I blast Ce-lo Green’s hit song on my iPod.  The unedited version. Yesssssssss.

AND I LIKE IT.  I really, really do.

I love that I love the word no now.

No.

Say it loud and proud.

No. No, I can not.  No, not at this time.  No. No. No. No. No.

And that is final.

I love my new found midlife sense of power.  It goes great with everything I own-and it only took me this long to find it.

Someone asked me how I got on the fast track to the life I am living.

Wait. What?

Fast track.  You know- the plan was all laid out, good family, good school, good job, good husband, good children…. and I just simply followed the plan.

Oh.

God no.

I got on one road and went as far as I could.  Got on another, took a short path-then took a long path-hit a roadblock, or ten, got on another road, made some pit stops, took a short cut, had to go back and do it again, took the road less traveled-many times (trust me) and here I am. I have been hurt, betrayed by friends and family, stuck it out, sucked it up, got it wrong, got it right, led astray, led away, dumped, doted on, figured it out, somehow, some way, by force, circumstance and the help of a pretty amazing mentor/therapist/friend.  So here I am. Stuck in the middle of this particular midlife mid point.  For me, there was no fast track.  Heck, I am still looking for a right turn-or at least, another one to take-here at this mid life-resting point.

Let’s see where this will go.

 

“Yea, I know he’s there and I don’t care,”

My daughter is not happy and does not care who knows it.  I fear we are on out last year of Santa manipulation-never mind the magic of the holiday……

She knows.  In fact, I think she has known since the second grade when the little brat with the green mohawk( in the middle of a New England November!) told her-and everyone else in the class one day at recess.

Miserable little shit.

So I try to extend the manipula……um, magic for one more year.

The other neighbor complained.  Renters.

At first, he thought the chickens were ours.  So in the driveway he pulls, in the company truck, no less, as we were just getting back from a nice lunch.

“Are those your chickens?”, he says.  He is a burly and rather large. man.  I get the idea the seat has a permanent dent and the springs are singing.  “My wife hates those chickens.”, he says out the window.   “They are shitt’in all over the place.”

“Nope”, my husband says, “not ours”  

Never mind the fact that one of those chickens, despite the obvious affection previously demonstrated for my beloved, had the nerve to , well, shit on his tractor seat.  His beloved tractor-defaced.  There are some rules that just should not be broken when it comes to tractors and chickens.  But even then, he liked having the hens coo and cluck behind him as he wandered.  Men.

“Well,” Mr. Burly says( he never bothered to introduced himself), “I just might have one for Thanksgiving if they don’t stop shitt’in all over our yard.  “Free range my ass.”

My daughter is laughing at this point.  No doubt the use of “shit” and “ass” got her going.

With that, burly man is out the drive way and onto the neighbors.  The ones who own the chickens. 

And then, no more chickens.  No more mornings with the hens.  No more free ranging from here to there, a scratching and a clawing at bugs. The dance is done.  Cooped up for good.  Huddled together, red feather to red feather. Nipped beak to nipped beak.

And we always thought it would  be the raccoons and coyotes to get to them first.

 

 

 

There.  It’s done.  Another Thanksgiving put to rest.  I am grateful.

Not that I am against holidays.

Ours was actually good.  Quiet.  Roaring fire, table set with something new, something old and my daughter ate something other than mac and cheese.  I’d call that a success.

But still.

No matter what, holidays seem to always set the family dysfunction dial on default.

Forget the years of therapy.  We always go back.

Our family is based on triangles.  I blame it on my mother-who got it from her mother. Is it a southern thing-we southern gals?  Triangulate and step back.  I have been trying, with some success, to step out of the triangle and be a circle.

Just be a circle.

But with the holidays the reset button is adjusted and with one phone call, the triangle is set in motion and before you know it, there we go again in the funk of conversation.

It goes something like this:

My father, who long ago divorced mom will call and say:

“Why hasn’t your brother called me?”  “I called him and he has not called me back.”

“I am sure he is busy dad.”  “Happy Thanksgiving”

“Oh, right.”  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Horseshit”, and then he is off on a tangent of things gone wrong in the center of his Universe.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love my father.  It’s been a long and expensive road to wind back to being in the same room with him.  But I did it.  And still I bob and weave when he says things without thinking. We fixed the triangle-morphed into somewhat of a circle.  A bouncing ball of boundaries.  It seems to work. Our father daughter dance is no longer full of one of us stepping on the other’s toes.

Invisible pink protective bubble goes up and I am my own person.  Not the 12 year old fighting for her identity.

“Just relax dad.” I feel so grown up now.  My own circle of a woman.

“He will call you when he has a moment.”  ” I am sure.”

I change the subject.  Something about tending to the turkey I have in the oven.

Then I call my mom, who despite no longer knowing what day it is, what time of  year it is, or anything beyond a five minute stretch of time, still knows how to triangulate with the greatest of ease.  God bless her.

“Happy Thanksgiving Mom.”

I just spent five days with her.  She is oblivious.

“Are you and the family coming here for Thanksgiving?”  Who is flying in and who needs to be picked up from the airport?’  ” When is everyone getting here and where is everyone going to sleep?”

“Mom”

There is silence.

And then she chimes in.  “I hope you don’t think I am cooking a turkey?”  ” I did not plan on cooking a turkey.”

There is silence.

“I make the best pecan pie you know?”

“Yes, mom, I know.”  “Dave is coming in for Thanksgiving….only Dave.”  ” There is plenty already cooked for Thanksgiving.”

There is plenty cooked because I could not bear for her ( or my brother for that matter) to not have the scent of something familiar wavering through the house.  On the day of thanks there needed to be the smells of home-only if it was to come from heat and serve.  There was a complete mini Thanksgiving meal all prepped and ready to go.  All her favorites.  Not that she would eat any of it-but it was there.  Never mind the pecan pie came baked fresh from Food Lion, there was pecan pie by damn.

“Oh.”  she says.

“Is he bringing Sam?”  She is off the turkey now and onto Sam, my brother’s dog.

“Yes, mom.”

“”Well, that’s good….. Sam and I will go for long walks on the beach and Dave can get some rest. He works so hard”

My mother has not been on the beach for nearly two years now.  Her beach.  She would walk for hours-and now the stretch of beach was like a danger zone-a place of no return.  Never mind the shells not to be discovered-she needed the comfort of something else now.  It seemed to be okay for her to sit and look at her beach,  her ocean, if only from the front deck.

And then, with the greatest of ease:

“Call you brothers and tell them…………”

And so the triangle begins.

“I love you mom.”  I say.  “Enjoy your Thanksgiving with Dave.”

There is pure joy in her voice.

“Dave is coming down for Thanksgiving?!”  she says.

“Yes mom, and he is bringing Sam.”

More joy from her end of the phone.

“You know, I wish your brother would find someone”

And then we are on the same conversation about how wonderful my brother Dave is( and, well, he is) and why he can’t find anyone.  She actually, at one point tried to fix him up with one of her aides-early on.  Sheila.  Or whatever her name was.  Turns out she had lots of names and was stealing all of mom’s medicines and slowly moving into mom’s house.  I knew something was up when Sheila, crazy Sheila-or whatever her real name was, called me to report on “our mom”.  I flew back down to North Carolina a day after that phone call-and the next day crazy Sheila was gone. As well as a month of all of mom’s meds, several pieces of clothing, a 24 pack of toilet paper ( really?)  a carton of cigarettes and what else I will  never know.

So much for background checks.

It never would have worked out with my brother Dave any way.  Crazy Sheila. Or whatever her real name was.

“I gotta go mom.”

We hang up and I call my brother Chris.  He does not answer the phone.  Either by choice or not, I am not sure.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”  I say and continue on before the beep.  ” Call Dad and don’t forget to call mom and….then, right there in my seconds or so of salutation, I feel the triangle closing in.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”   “I love you.”

And I leave it at that.

 

*this post is from last year.  My mom passed away in July.