Something or Other

Last week I heard someone say, "The days go slowly but the years go fast."

I thought if you said that to a young mother with kids at home, she would likely believe only the first part, especially on those hard, long days.

An older woman, whose children are gone, would know the truth of the second part, might remember only partially the first part, maybe even wish to have those slow long days back.

I remember my mother telling me to enjoy these days while my kids are young and at home. I was always busy, working hard, trying to keep up with everything and everyone--seven kids, remember, not to mention a husband. I thought she must have forgotten a lot. Some days, not all of them, mind you, just some days were hard.

The truth? I did not want her to say that to me. It just felt like criticism, disapproval, and I believed I was doing my best. Did I learn from that? What not to say to my children? I'd like to say, Of Course I did. But I likely didn't. Now I know the message was a true one--I should enjoy my children while I had them near.

Well, I did. But I still had a lot to do. All the time.

Whatever, as we say.

*     *     *

The Gordman's near my home is going out of business. I didn't shop there much but once bought a lamp for a decent price--yes, a cheap lamp. So yesterday I went, bought another cheap lamp, brought it home, put in a bulb, and guess what. It didn't work. I moved the lamp around through the air (as if that would help), fiddled with the cord, and got a flash of light. I turned it off then on again. Nothing. Again on and off, again the flicker. I checked the switch, the cord at the bottom, where it attaches to the lamp. No light.

I took it back, even though I had been told and had read All Sales Final. I thought surely they would take back a faulty (no good, not working) lamp. 

You guessed it. NO. Manager told me four times there was nothing he could do. I'm mad.

Just Thinking

90 is the new 70.

For many of you, that has no appeal. And, really, it's kind of a joke.

But that is what I thought as John Reed was telling me he'll soon be 90 and his tenor voice is not quite what it used to be. (Duh!) He wanted to sing in the choir, but didn't come to practice, so he called to tell me why and see if I would excuse him from singing. I surely will.

I assured him, we have four tenors now, so he's off any hook he had put himself on. He was relieved. So was I, if you want to know the truth.

This age thing. I have written about it more than a couple of times. And recently I wrote that contrary to what you might have heard all your life, age it is not entirely relative. Not entirely, but a little bit, because some days I'm not nearly as old as my numbers tell me. Others days, oh yeah, I'm old.

John is still physically able, still driving. Yes, I know. You're thinking you don't want to be on the same road he's driving. Whatever.

Here's what I'm thinking. Old people are getting younger. I know quite a few people in their 80s, three of my siblings among them. Still going strong. And one woman in my ward is 92. You can see her every Sunday at church.

I say good.

Just Another Question

I am standing on the front lawn across the walkway from the palm tree, holding my dog, Sweetiepie. I love her, and she knows it. She is gone now, long dead. It happened on a regular California beautiful day. We were playing with our dog in the backyard, my brother Sterling and I. One of us threw the ball across the street to the vacant lot so Sweetiepie would run and get it. No one had to tell her. She knew what to do. 

On her way back across the street, running to us with the ball in her mouth, she was hit by a car, and the man who drove it did not stop. He killed our dog, and didn't stop. I hated him as much as I loved her. We gathered her up watched her die in the backyard while we wept in sorrow and disbelief. And I am crying now as I read what I have written here.

This is not what I was going to write about but I couldn't help myself. I had to tell this part, maybe to show how much we loved her, how much I loved her. After 60 years I think of her and wonder what happened to that love. There was so much of it, and I still feel it. But Sweetiepie cannot feel it now. Can she? So what happens to it? Does it float in the air, waiting to be put onto or into something or someone else?

I am thinking not only about my dog, of course. She came to mind because Sterling told me again that he has that photograph of me holding her, and so I thought about all the love I have felt for those who are no longer here on earth. My mother, small bundle of energy and large intelligence, and about how much I loved her.  And my father, whom I loved more after he died than before, or I should say I recognized  the love I felt then, after he died.

And my husband, Wayne, who died much too soon. He was 63 and we were finally learning how to be married, because for us, we had to start getting old before we knew much. I'll speak for myself. I thought I knew a lot, but now I see more clearly--I didn't know much, not much at all. That is not what this is about either. It is about all that love, and I wonder where that love is now, my love for him. And what about his love for me?

And my friend Joyce. I loved her. Still do, I suppose, but she died and so I put the word in the past tense, loved. That's because I can't go visit her, which would show her that I love her.

I want to ask the same question. What has become of the all the love I felt and gave to them when they lived? Where is it now? Stuck inside me?

Does anyone know? Really know?

A Story, True Story Part 2

People write about these large events. I do not know if I wrote anything, so consumed I was with the event itself. And its very long aftermath. So I write from memory, and some things I have surely not remembered.

For instance, I don't remember what time of day it was when I went over to St Al's, following the ambulance as best I could, because I didn't know where the place was.  It was no longer early morning, and I am only assuming I took Alyce with me that first day. That first day . . . the first of many I would spend in the waiting room of the Critical Care Unit, waiting, yes, hoping I would be let in to see Wayne. There would be many other days, and for those I called upon a friend who had sung in the Women's Ensemble I directed for several years and who had moved to Boise, LaRae Hemenway. What a gift she gave me.

She had a life, you know, and we were not close friends, but she was a good friend. She kept Alyce while I was at the hospital. I would go to her house every few hours to feed my baby girl, then hurry back to St Al's. I probably asked how my baby behaved for LaRae. Pretty sure I always got a glowing report. Members of my ward, Caldwell 2nd, took Richard as the days went on, so that Grandma and Grandpa Schiess could also come to the hospital. People in the Ward also took meals to my family at home, hauled my children to the places they had to be, and just took care of things back in Caldwell so I could be in Boise every day. If I could remember exactly how many days, I would say so, but I know it was more than a few.

That's because Wayne was not awake. Still unconscious, in a coma, I believe they call it, although I never thought the word would apply to my husband. He lay in that hospital bed--and not peacefully. He thrashed and twisted and tried to pull out the tubes and IV lines attached to him. They tied him down, strapped him in, however you want to say it, to keep him from tearing those lines out and from pulling his gown up or off. Unconscious or not, he did not respond well to being tied down.

But until he woke up, he had to stay in that bed, restrained and hurt.

It was a serious head injury, the doctors told me, and they could not promise me anything about Wayne's future. I suppose it was possible that Wayne not come out of that coma, but thought he would. (I was young, remember, and I could not bear to think otherwise.) In the meantime, I went in when they let me looked at him. I probably spoke to him, which took courage. Try to imagine my fear. He wasn't quite like my husband.

I learned that he was not hurt in any other part of his body. That's good, I thought, now if he can just wake up, everything will be fine. I hoped. I prayed. I assumed. It had to be that way.