Happy Day

I have a birthday coming up. This is a milestone birthday, of sorts. I love milestones. Milestones mean that something significant has happened. I think some people think of a birthday as a millstone. This stone isn't a burden to me because, unlike a lot of people I know, I’m excited to have birthdays. Fifty nine is my stone, the last stone in the sixth decade of my life.

 

I refuse to do a reflection of my life now because I have plenty of life yet to live. I do know that I have many things to be happy about. I know I've lived life as full as needed at the time. I know I have been a loyal and helpful friend. I don't lie. I've never stolen, except that time in fourth grade when my Mother caught me and I apologized. So never mind.

 

I've grabbed life when life, at the time, didn't want to be grabbed by me. I've snagged things that should not have been snagged, but I did and I lived. My birthday means that I will have another year to go places I've never been; have experiences that are still unknown. I'm excited. I cannot wait.

Death and Texas

When someone dies in this part of Texas, in small towns where everyone knows everyone, you show your love with food and time. You get the call that a loved one has passed and you run to the grocery store and stock up on food that can be frozen, saved for later, used for another time when grief takes over and the family just doesn’t need to cook. My friend, Glynnis, lost her husband of forever on Tuesday. He died at 2:45 and I was at their home by 3:30. I went there to listen, to help grieve.

David told his forever wife and favorite daughter on Saturday to go away from the hospital and not come back. He didn't want them to see him when the time came. I don't think I would have left, but he wasn't my Husband or Daddy. He was theirs. He will be cremated and his ashes will be spread onto the lake that he loved, as it should be. David was a strong man. He was the rock for his family. He will be missed terribly, but he will be remembered forever.

Yesterday, January 17th, he and Glynnis would have been married fifty years.

David and Resa

David was a take charge man. If there was an obstacle in his path, he figured a way to take a different route. He and his wife raised their granddaughter, Resa, when her own mother was unable.

 

Resa thrived under David's wing. She excelled in high school and received a free ride scholarship to college, where she graduated with high honors. After graduation, she got a job at a large, local bank. David could not have been more proud. She was the first of their clan to go to college.

 

Then David found an obstacle that would become more difficult to overcome. He was diagnosed with incurable pancreatic cancer. The doctors gave him nine months, at the most. But he knew he would beat it.

 

But that was not the last obstacle. Three months after his diagnosis, his beloved granddaughter was arrested and convicted of embezzlement. She was sentenced to twenty months in prison. Even though David's doctors had given up, he had not. He would see Resa free again.

 

On Tuesday, at 2:35 pm, David received a call from Resa. She was to be released on Thursday. David smiled and said "I love you, Darlin'". At 2:45, David passed away.

December in West Texas. Welcome, ya'll

 

Same location, 24 hour difference

 

 

 

Am I a writer?

Am I A Writer?

I once had a friend who is a writer. I never perceived myself as one, although he said I was. I thought of myself as more of a commentator, communicator, recapper. But reading his essays and stories inspire me. 

Sometimes I prefer reading to watching movies. When you watch a movie, you are the puppet of the cinematographer, the music composer, the set director, the actors. They decide what emotions you are going to examine. You experience their action, hear their sentiment, see their vision, listen to their words. They dictate what you will feel.

When you read a good writer, there is no scenery to be seen, no adagio or crescendo to hear to know when emotion should be felt. There are no faces seen for tears or smiles. There are only words. Words that summon all these emotions in your mind. Words that come from the pen of the wordsmith. 

A good writer will take you to a beach and you will taste the salt in the air and feel the sand beneath your feet. A good writer will suggest that there are no ghosts, but you will still see them. A good writer will have you see dripping moss from a tree. A good writer will bring you into his writer's mind and you will revel in it. A good writer will take you to the edge and back. 

My friend is such a writer.

Am I a writer?

Family, Death and a Wish

Family, Death and a Wish

I'm a baby boomer, born in 1955. One of the lucky bunch of boomers who were raised in a loving home, by parents who were married 50 plus years. My Daddy was a farmer, successful for the time. My maternal grandparents were also farmers and custom combiners, as were Aunt T and Uncle K. 

I was raised in the country, one quarter of a mile each way from my Grandparents, Aunt, Uncle and four cousins. I also had a beloved Aunt J, whom I'm named for, who lived in the Big City, 30 miles away, with my favorite Cousin P. Close family ties doesn't begin to describe our family. Holidays were spent together always, loving was big, as were spankings when a wayward child needed one.  We cousins always played with each other because the country road was our neighborhood, there were no others. 

We all learned to drive at young ages, driving grain trucks and pickup trucks up and down the turn rows. Playing hide and seek in cotton seed bins, riding ol Red Eye palomino around the farm. FAMILY, Family, family.

Then My Grandmommie died. She was 65. My Mother, who was the oldest of three sisters, found her. It seemed she had just laid down for a nap and never woke up. My Mother was devastated. Aunt J was devastated. Aunt T was devastated. Our FAMILY  was broken. 

My Mother was convinced she would also die at 65, just like Grandmommie. Why, I never learned. But she didn't. 

My Mother lived another thirteen years past age 65. At Christmastime. She died. She didn't just lay down to take a nap. My Daddy was devastated. Aunt J was devastated. Aunt T was devastated. I was devastated.  Our Family was broken some more. 

My Aunt J, whom I love without condition, was a pioneer. She moved away from the Big City to an even bigger  BIG CITY.  Twelve hundred miles away. She and Cousin P. Away from the Family. I moved there, too,  for part of my life. Maybe I was a pioneer, too. Moving away. Leaving from Family.

My beloved Aunt J lived another fifteen years past age 65.  After Christmastime. She died. She didn't just lay down to take a nap. Cousin P was devastated. Aunt T was devastated. I was devastated. Our family is dying.

My sweet Aunt T. She has lost her mother, her Sisters. She is sick. She is lonely. She is sad. She has a wish. She wishes she could just lay down and take a nap forever. 

I am devastated. 

Fantasy??

I had someone once ask me if I "indulge" in fantasies. Really? From the timbre of the voice asking the question, indulge had a negative meaning.  I always looked at the word "indulge" as a good thing. Not like bingeing, more like enjoying, savoring. Fantasies. Then I started wondering didn't everyone have them? If you do, do you view them as good, bad, indifferent, a natural part of life?

As children, I think most of us have them, whether they are understood as fantasies, pretending, or play like . . .

Did you play like when you climbed up a Pecan tree in your backyard and you thought you were Tarzan? Flying, hanging on the vines, living with animals?

 Or did you go swimming in a ditch and pretend you were a fish? Seeing other fish in the ocean and never wanting to go up for air?

Let's play like we're Indians and hunt for our food. Is that a rabbit there? Or just Moose, the cat?

When do pretend and play like change to fantasies? Or do they? What's the definition of being someone you're really not? Is that it? Are you not really you in pretend, or a different you? 

Are fantasies big people's "lets pretend"? 

When you're a big person and the fantasies become "Fantasies!", are they good? Are they fun? Should they be? 

If you're with a lover, is it good to have play like? To pretend? Personally, I think so. That's spiced, saucy, fun. 

If you're with a lover, is it good to have a fantasy? 

To me, fantasy is private,  clandestine, secret, hidden. Longing in the early morning hours. Touching. Making love with an unknown. 

What's the difference? Is there a difference? 

Lets play like . . .