A walk in Tarheel country.

I’m visiting daughter #2 and her lovely teenage daughters.  Their husband/father is traveling.  He just left Kenya and is now on his way to India.  Even though I’m delighted to be here with them, my heart is heavy because another relative and her family are facing serious difficulties which I will not write about in this space.  The hardest part is that I can do nothing to make their road easier.  I went for a walk to look for beauty and to try to give myself a change-of-scenery shock treatment.  The first thing I noticed was this crocus, fooled into thinking it’s spring.

It’s a beautiful day in Chapel Hill and there are signs of early spring in all directions.  Hard to believe that they’re expecting snow starting around noon tomorrow.  Hopefully the temperature will not get cold enough to kill all the blossoms.  I’ll head for home early in order to avoid bad roads.  No snow predicted for my neighborhood.

If you’re a James Taylor fan you will recognize this street sign as the title of a JT song.  Actually  two North Carolina men–James Taylor and Reynolds Price combined their talent and wrote “Copperline.”  You know the smooth voice of Mr. Taylor but you may not know Mr. Price.  He was a professor at Duke University and writer extraordinaire.  His novels have entertained me for many years.  He was master of the written word and won awards for his writing.  Click here to learn more about Reynolds Price.

Apparently this little university town is friendly to Obama.  That makes me happy.  I spotted a black Volvo wearing this sticker on its side.  Obama took North Carolina in the last election.  I’m hoping we’ll be a blue state again in 2012.  Obviously the driver of this car hopes so too.

There’s a tiny park in the neighborhood with an old family cemetery.  The cemetery is surrounded by a stacked stone wall and was the burial ground for the Purefoy family.  The best I can tell the family was/is a prominent clan in this county.  I loved ambling through and reading the headstones.

As I was strolling past the shops in the neighborhood I spotted this t-shirt.  I must say that no one talks about this town without mentioning Carolina Tarheel basketball.  This is Coach Roy Williams pictured on the front of the shirt.  Since we’re in the Bible Belt, I find the message “Get Heeled” rather funny.

There were some humorous items inside the shop, too.

I love the piggies.

And the brilliant rooster.

I arrived home warmer than when I left and feeling a little less sad.  Pictured on the left is a trellis on the side of my daughter’s house.  Here it stands at attention waiting for a better day, a day of flowering transition.  Our family could use such a transition.  We’ll try to plant the seeds needed to accomplish a blossoming of better days.  We can do it.  We will do it.

Lonely and blue.

I couldn’t go to sleep last night. I got out of bed at 1:00 am. I hate when that happens. Most of the time these days (nights) I fall asleep fairly promptly after reading for a while. When my ex first left I would go for days without sleeping. My doctor looked at me with his most serious face and told me, “You have to sleep.” Then he told me all that would eventually go wrong if I didn’t start sleeping. He even pointed out that I was suffering from a broken heart and that I probably needed some help with the insomnia. I guess it’s good to remember that from time to time so that I can recognize how much better I am now. I have to say, though, that I still feel as if some evil spirit has me in its grip when I can’t go to sleep. Insomnia lies in wait to ambush me and remind me that I truly am alone, and sometimes very blue about it.

I suppose the good thing about living alone is that I can get up at any hour and do whatever I feel like doing without worrying about disturbing another poor soul. I got up and googled lonely. That’s how I found this lovely blue picture. Now I don’t know what you get when you google lonely but one thing that came up high on my screen was information from the Lonely Planet travel people. I think it makes perfect sense for Lonely Planet to appear but I was a bit disconcerted surprised when it pointed me specifically to Peru. Big Brother knows I’m going to Peru. Okay, okay, I know there isn’t really anything sinister about it. It’s simply the high-tech times in which we live. I remember a time when we had some semblance of privacy. Then again, maybe not. Maybe we just thought we did. I guess it’s not a problem unless I’m doing something I don’t want anyone to know about. I don’t think I am. Really.

I got a little nostalgic when a song from my teen years popped up. I hit the YouTube arrow and listened to Paul Anka singing “Lonely Boy.” I’m just a lonely boy, lonely and blue. I’m all alone with nothing to do. I’ve got everything you can think of. But all I want is someone to love. Substitute girl for boy and this is a perfect description of me. Well maybe not. I’m a long way from being a teenager and I’m not at all sure I want someone to love. Someone to like, maybe, a buddy, a pal, a friend. Someone to hang out with and do things and go places.

It’s nine o’clock and I think I should go to bed early tonight. Catch up on lost sleep. Oh! One more thing I found as I googled last night–Did you know that if I get too lonely, I can meet a lonely inmate online, male or female? I am excited silly to know that.

Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. My mom used to say that to me.

Who’s on first?

Have you ever explained something to someone and neither of you understood what the other was trying to say?  When no matter what you said you couldn’t make your message clear?  It becomes a comedy of errors sometimes and you just have to laugh about it.  Abbott and Costello did a skit called “Who’s on first?” in their 1945 movie The Naughty Nineties, which perfectly demonstrates what I’m talking about.  It gets funnier every time I hear it.  Click here if you’d like to watch the clip.  If you’re a baseball fan you’ll love this. It’s a classic.  And hilarious even if you’re not a fan.

I recently had a conversation with a woman at church.  We were making plans to combine the Portuguese and Spanish services on Sunday and I asked her a question about the order of songs in the service.  I usually create the schedule, with the help of the pastor, on Friday night at rehearsal.  This time a third party, M, had set up the schedule.  She didn’t understand what I was asking and I was clumsily trying to explain.  After a bit of incomplete/incompetent (on my part) dialogue, I looked at her and said, “I don’t understand.”  She replied just as simply, “What don’t you understand?”  Aaarrgghh!  Deadlock.  I’m laughing as I recall this incident.  As it turns out, it was my not understanding the Portuguese that was causing the problem.  I realized that after she went back to rehearsing her music and I was able to focus singly on what was in front of me.  As soon as I caught her eye, I gave her a thumbs up to let her know I had resolved my issue.  Fortunately we are both mature enough to realize it was no big deal.  Unfortunately, that’s not always the case.

On a more serious note, have you ever tried to communicate with someone who doesn’t want/refuses to communicate with you?  Well, I have and it isn’t pretty.  The last years of our marriage I begged D to talk to me.  He wouldn’t.  Or maybe he couldn’t.  I guess I’ll never know which but the one thing I do know clearly and without doubt–we weren’t talking.  And I know what I think–he had already removed himself from our marriage.  His mind, along with his conversation, was elsewhere.  Once communication has broken down, the door is wide open for miscommunication to occur.  One partner will take a word, a phrase, or even a small sentence and isolate it and obsess over it and make it into something much worse than it was ever intended to be.  It’s so sad when that happens because it’s proof that real interactive dialogue is gone and the relationship is taking a nose dive.

I remember one time when I knew we weren’t connecting with each other verbally, and  I decided I should write him a letter.  (Back in the early days of our courtship D would write me long, sweet letters.  I still have them.)  So I wrote him a letter explaining my feelings about something; I don’t remember what, but probably our inability to communicate.  I closed by saying that either he didn’t get it or he didn’t care.  I also told him I preferred to think it was the former.  After a slow and difficult separation and divorce, I finally had to acknowledge it was the latter.  He got it.

An aside:  If my sweet brother Jack were alive, he would be 71 today.  He hated sharing his birthday with Ronald Reagan.      I still miss him.

Lazy? Procrastinator? Lazy procrastinator?

I’m lazy.  But it’s the lazy people who invented the wheel and the bicycle because they didn’t like walking or carrying things. ~ Lech Walesa

This bike is a Schwinn Cruiser.  It’s available at Target.  When I recover from my trip to Peru, I think I would like one just like it.

I find it a bit puzzling that the quote above came from Lech Walesa.  He’s a Polish activist.  Since when was he ever lazy?  I wish his “lazy quote” made me feel better about myself but it doesn’t.  He may have had lazy moments but I would never think of applying the adjective to Mr. Walesa based on what I know about him.  His lifetime achievements are many.  I remember that he was constantly in world news in the 70s and 80s.  He was an electrician who became the first President of Poland.  Doesn’t sound very lazy, does he? (Learn more about him here.)

So…am I lazy?  I am, without a doubt, lazy about certain things.  Housekeeping is the bugaboo that constantly reminds me I’m a bit on the indolent side.  I get out the vacuum cleaner as seldom as possible.  I’m allergic to dust (really!) so I don’t like to stir it up.  My blinds haven’t been cleaned since the insurance company sent in a cleaning service after my floors had to be refinished.  That was about three years ago.

I would like to state here that I’m not a total slob.  I clean my kitchen sink and counter tops every morning.  I never told you I was unsanitary.  I also clean and sanitize the toilets and bathroom sinks on a regular basis.  I have some standards.  I even change my sheets from time to time.  Sheet changing makes me chuckle because it reminds me of a friend who, like me, is divorced and living alone.  She said one time that she sleeps on one side of her bed one week and the other side the next week.  That way she gets two weeks between linen changes.  Another friend and I snickered about that because we tend to get two weeks out of ours without switching sides.  Besides, I’m too much of a creature of habit to sleep on that other side.  I wouldn’t be able to read my Nook with the lamp on the wrong side.

At my age I don’t focus on my faults in order to denigrate myself.  Quite the opposite.  I simply like to be realistic about who I am.  And if I had enough money I would be totally comfortable with my inability to make myself do certain housecleaning chores.  I would hire a housekeeper once or twice a month to do the things I hate doing and get on with it.  But alas I cannot.  I have made a list of small goals to accomplish before I head out for my grand adventure and yes, the list includes the dusting and vacuuming.  I intend to come home to a clean house.

I acknowledge that the procrastinator in me is going to keep moving the undesirable jobs to the bottom of the list and I can rationalize why I should do that.  If I dust and vacuum too soon, everything will need more cleaning before I leave.  I can’t have that!  I have things to do, places to go, and people to see.  Important things, places, and people–to me anyway.  Last week, for example, I required most of the week to sew a beautiful, shiny, silky pink dress for my youngest granddaughter.  Then I had to go to her house and see how she liked her new frock.  She loved it.  She even found that she could get it on over her pajamas.  You see I have lots of important do, go, see items on my agenda.

And so back to my original question:  Am I lazy?  (Definition: disinclined to work)  Am I a procrastinator?  (Definition:  one who defers action)  Am I a lazy procrastinator?

What do you think?

Calista Gingrich’s hat, er…hair.

With this post I step outside my comfort zone.  I started this blog by writing about my divorce.  But hey! Wait a minute.  Maybe Calista is right down my alley.  She is after all a poster child for the American OW aka other woman.  When I first heard the news that Newt was going to run for president, I thought,  “Are you kidding?!”  Wasn’t he tarred and feathered a long time ago?  Left the city in shame.  Good luck with that, Newt.  I’m thinking about a snowball’s chance in hell.

As Newt’s publicity increased, I noticed that his third wife Calista was always by his side.  Was she afraid he would cut and run with number four?  So… her ubiquitousness (My spell check doesn’t like that word, but I do.) was the first thing I noticed about her, but once I started to pay attention and realize that The Lizard really would run, I began to notice she was wearing a hat.  Hmmm.  That’s  rather unusual at a political rally.  A baseball cap maybe, but a hat?  It is so unusual that one night during the  newscast I got really close to the TV (I don’t have a giant screen and my eyesight is not what it once was.), and I carefully scrutinized Calista’s hat.  Holy crap!  That little white feather on the left side wasn’t a feather.  It was her hair!  How does she do that?

Now that I know the truth I would like to ask some questions of Calista and/or her hairdresser:  Whose idea was the helmet?  Don’t you know that no one looks good in a helmet, not even football players.  I read somewhere on the internet that your hair must be colored every two weeks so the roots won’t show, and that the cost each time is at least $300.  Is that true?  I also read that your goal is that your hair look exactly the same at every public appearance.  Why?  If it’s ugly today, it will be just as ugly tomorrow.  And in order for it to always look the same, you would have to have a practically full-time hairdresser.  How much exactly is your hair costing you?  And wouldn’t you rather spend it at Tiffany & Co.?  If you didn’t spend so much money on your hair, you wouldn’t have to run up your charge account at that high-dollar store.  This question is for the hairdresser:  What kind of hair glue do you use to make that little hairy feather stay in place?  My bangs keep falling in my face.  And I’m thinking that stuff, whatever it is, would solve my problem.  On second thought, never mind.  I kinda like for my hair to move.

One last thing before I go, I saw a photo of you in a blue suit and you were wearing a very attractive necklace.  It looked like a David Yurman.  Was it?  I don’t think Tiffany carries DY.

My grandmother didn’t like me.

When I was born I had two grandmothers.  That’s true for most children, I suppose.  Unfortunately my mother’s mother (Ma, or as we say in the mountains, Maw) died when I was about six and a half.  Then, my mother’s father died a few months later on my seventh birthday.  I still feel sad for my mom that she lost both parents in less than six months.  I also think it was sad for me that this grandmother died when I was so young because she was the grandmother who liked me.  I would even go so far as to say she loved me.  I can still remember specific sweet gestures from her to me.  She told me stories.  I would put my head on her lap and she would gently smooth my hair off my face and tuck it behind my ear.  She taught me that if you don’t have your toothbrush with you, you can break a small twig off a birch tree and chew on it and it will clean your teeth and freshen your breath. She showed me the leaves and bark of the birch so I could recognize it.  She was a good grandma.

I remember that she had dizzy spells.  I think it may have been an inner ear problem but I don’t really know.  I don’t think there was anything wrong with her heart.  She died of cancer.  I remember her dizzy spells because when I would ask her to play Ring around the Rosie with me, she would say, “Oh, I can’t do that, Honey.  My head’s a-swimmin’”  I’m surprised to this day that I can remember her as well as I do since I was so young when she died.

So what about that other grandmother?  My dad’s mother.  She had six children–three girls and three boys.  I think I have figured out that she didn’t like my dad.  He was a hell-raiser in school.  I’ve heard some wild tales about his escapades.  He and his younger brother got in trouble often and my dad was always blamed, never his brother.  Dad’s perception was that he was a black sheep and Uncle R could do no wrong.  He went to his grave thinking that.  I think it did serious damage to his psyche.

I never have figured out why Mama W. didn’t like me.  I think my dad made her a grandmother before she wanted to be one because she taught us to call her Mama + our last name.  Maybe she was vain.  I don’t know.  I managed for most of my adult life to let it go (or so I thought).  But once I became a grandmother the old questions resurfaced.  Why didn’t she like ME?  She liked my brother and at least some of my sisters.  What was wrong with me?  I wasn’t a hell-raiser; I was quite the opposite.  I made good grades and I looked like a W with my blond hair and blue eyes.

I have nine grandchildren.  Each one is unique and marvelously lovable. Once I realized that my love for ALL my grandchildren was endless and totally unconditional, I became more puzzled than ever.  I know now, of course, that it wasn’t me.  It was something missing in her.  Before she died I came to feel some pity or sympathy or something for her but not enough to establish a relationship with her.  I didn’t see her the last twenty or so years of her life.  She lived to the ripe old age of 98 or 99.  Can’t remember exactly.

My takeaway from this sad grandmother/grandchild disconnect is this:  It is the grandparent’s responsibility to develop the relationship with her grandchild.  It can and should be a rich and rewarding experience.  It’s a natural bond and really doesn’t take much effort when your heart is in the right place.  Grammy is my favorite role so far.

Cell phones and their teenagers.

Parents buy cell phones for their teenagers because they want to be able to reach them at all times.  It makes parents believe that their youngsters will be safe.  If they are threatened in any way they can call a parent or a friend or the police.  And that’s why teenagers have cell phones.  Yeah, right.

Yesterday I took my fourteen-year-old granddaughter to lunch and to shop for her birthday.  I’m amazed that we ever communicated enough to make the date.  The night before I started by texting Ms MM.  As a rule, teenagers will respond to a text much more promptly than to a call.  Not so this time.  I talked with her mom and she told me that MM’s phone had problems and she could not text out.  And I suppose she didn’t bother checking her texts since she couldn’t text back.  My logical brain is telling me she could have called me but teens don’t really like to call.  I will give her this: if she had read the text, she would have called me.  She’s respectful that way toward her grammy.  In fact I would add that she’s generally respectful of others whether it’s her grandmother or not.

I had decided that I would have to talk to her another day and book a date for the weekend.  So I went to bed.  The next day around 11:00 I received a call from the beautiful Ms MM.  I knew immediately who was calling because my phone tells me the call is from Ms MM, my fave granddaughter.  I wonder who programmed that into my phone.  Giggle.  I also have a granddaughter A, my fave granddaughter.  (They’re almost the same age.)  So, back to this little story–MM was calling to ask if I could pick her up at a friend’s house and oh, by the way, could I also take another friend home.  And so I did.

MM and I then went to the mall, had lunch and shopped for her birthday.  She is  never at a loss for words and we had a great conversation while we were eating.  She explained to me  about her phone and all that is wrong with it.  About two years ago her dad bought her a much-begged-for iPhone and she had it only a few days when she left it lying on her dad’s car and forgot about it.  Dad didn’t know it was there.  He took off in the car and the rest is history–a smashed iPhone.  She was then given a discarded phone from some family member and now it’s about to bite the dust.  She can have a new phone when her two-year waiting period has elapsed.  It’s coming up soon.  Meantime she rides along with me and lovingly caresses my phone, and texts people.

I told her, with my tongue in my cheek, why she has a phone in the first place.  See first paragraph above.  It’s for my convenience and her parents’ convenience and texting her friends should be the last thing on her list.  At first she looked at me with those big brown eyes and nodded as if she agreed with me.  But when I told her the next time I couldn’t get an answer I would call the police and report her missing, she caught the twinkle in my eye and started to grin.  She told me, “That wouldn’t be too good.”

She’s a smart girl.  I bet she understood that it concerns her parents and me when we can’t reach her.