There are some things one should never do. Don't drive drunk. Don't go to bed angry. Don't shop when you're hungry. Well, this may be another one: Don't blog when you're tired. Let's see what happens if I do.
Because I got no sleep last night. None. Zero. Okay, maybe 20 minutes here and there, but no rest. I finally gave up at 5:30 and got out of bed, but I can't say I woke up, because I never really fell asleep in the first place.
Do I have a lot on my mind? No, not really. Too much sugar or caffeine during the day? Not at all.
So far my posts have been mostly about my mom and me. Apart from an occasional mention, I have allowed my husband to stay in the background. But sometimes he is a key player in my day, especially late at night. Minds out of the gutter, people! No, the problem is that my husband snores. And when he's tired, he really snores. In fact, the word "snore" just doesn't begin to describe it. I know that some of you girls can relate, but for those who have never experienced it -- and for me, since I just have to get it out -- here's what it's like.
It starts off slow, little snuffles. "Aww, he's really tired, poor thing," I used to think. If it were just this little rhythmic purr, I could sleep through it. But the sound never stays little. Not ever. It gets bigger, breath by breath, as he falls deeper into sleep. Soon he's snorting. Snarking. Honking. Like. A. Goose. A big one.
I can make it stop sometimes if I nudge just right, or turn him over. A well placed elbow can do the trick. But sometimes not.
Sometimes there's more. As the night wears on, the apnea sets in. The snoring gets louder, more forceful. Just about the time I want to wake him up, it magically stops. "Ahh, relief!," I used to think. Wrong! He's holding his breath. Or rather, somehow he's just not breathing. His chest continues to rise and falls, but the muscles are in spasm. No air goes in or out. This can go on for a minute or more. Then all of a sudden the body screams "AIR! I NEED AIR!" There's a sound like a snort, a gargle, a great, desperate, sucking inhalation, and he's breathing again. Then the snoring begins again, and the cycle repeats itself.
Sometimes there's kicking and jerking. Once or twice he's landed a heel to my shin and left a bruise. So when the movement begins, I'm awake and vigilant.
And sometimes there's the great gnashing of teeth. The snoring stops, and the grinding begins. The sound is something like fingernails on a blackboard, rhythmic and hard. Each chew is stronger than the last, til the jaws lock together and he holds his breath again. Nudging does nothing to break this cycle. Nothing works but to press my finger at the joint of his jaw. Of course, I have to be awake to do this.
By 5 or 6 o'clock the battle is usually over. He sleeps as peacefully as a baby. Just in time for me to get up and start my day.
Lately I've resorted to wearing earplugs. 34 decibel models. All I hear on a good night is the ringing in my own ears. But some nights -- last night -- the snoring bores right through. I may not be able to hear him speak. I can't hear my own alarm sometimes. But if Ed's really tired, I can hear that snoring.
So Ed, God bless you, I'm sorry, but I just have to "out" you here in public. After all, this is my blog, and sometimes I've just got to write it out. I love you, but some nights all I want is a room of my own.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Thanksgiving with the Fam
I knew last weekend that I was in trouble. I tried so hard to convince my mom that the Harp's grocery store Thanksgiving dinner deal was a good idea. It would make our Turkey Day gathering soooo much less stressful -- let them cook the bird, we supplement with some of our favorite side dishes. But Mom was adamant. "I know how to cook a turkey." And, "when my children come home for Thanksgiving, they expect to eat my cooking." Yeah, I knew I was in trouble.
So Tuesday while I was at work, I asked my husband Ed to sit down with my mom and see what she'd like to serve. They came up with a simple little menu: turkey, cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, homemade rolls, the usual things. Oh, and a ham -- my brother won't eat turkey. Then they started a shopping list - which included frosted mini-wheats (my brother's favorite cereal) and what I have come to call The Sacred Milk (for somewhere in Heaven it is written that this house shall never contain less than a gallon of milk). Tuesday evening Ed and I fleshed out the shopping list with ingredients needed for the dishes on the menu. And yesterday morning Ed did all the shopping.
Yes, he did ALL the shopping. He only called me at work maybe four times to confer about one thing or another. And each time I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for helping. Because while Mom knows how to cook a turkey, she's not good at shopping anymore, and she can't drive to the store anyway. Ed got home with the groceries around noon, just as Mom was getting out of bed. She met him in the kitchen, gave him a BIG hug, and told him she wouldn't trade him for any other son-in-law. And then she sat down to read the paper.
Now, MY plan was that some of the preliminary cooking could get done yesterday. Mom gets frantic some weeknights just thinking about "what to feed The Men," so I hoped to reduce her stress level by not having to prepare everything on Thanksgiving Day. On the menu I had written a "W" beside the things that could be prepared Wednesday - the ham, for instance, since the turkey needs to cook The Day Of. But when I got home from work last night, the house vibe was like any other night. Mom, Ed told me, was really looking forward to starting cooking "tomorrow." It would be so nice to have 2 days to get ready. "June," he said, "tomorrow is Thanksgiving." "No," she insisted, "tomorrow's Wednesday," and she held up the newspaper to him. "See, it's only Tuesday." He smiled and said, "Well, June, you've got some catching up to do! That's yesterday's paper. Here's today's." And he showed her the Wednesday paper. They had a good laugh together.
So last night after supper (pizza!), we cooked the cornbread for the dressing, and the ham and the succotash and the cranberries. Well really, I did the cooking and Mom supervised. She admitted with relief and a little sadness that she was glad we were starting early, because she just couldn't have done it all. "I don't know how long it's been since I've done a real Thanksgiving dinner." We talked to my sister, who was buying 3 dozen rolls at Sam's. She and her family will be here about 1:00 today (or maybe 3:00). We made plans to get up at 5:30 to start the turkey. Or rather, Ed joked that he and I would get up to witness Mom being out of bed before noon. And then we all fell into bed.
And now it's early Thanksgiving morning. My alarm went off and I woke up Ed. He roasts a beautiful turkey, basting and slow-cooking to crisp-skinned, Southern Living magazine perfection. We had agreed last night that we would just let Mom sleep and he would take care of the bird. So I came out to the kitchen to discover . . . that Mom was just going back to bed, having already put the turkey in the oven and the giblets on to boil! I don't know how she did it, getting up early - she doesn't have a clock - but she sure did it. And she did it her way: rub butter on the bird, sprinkle with pepper, wrap it in foil, and toss it in the oven. No roaster, no basting, no muss, no fuss. She said it may not be centerpiece-pretty, but it's the way her mother always did it, and it always comes out good. I told her it would be great, and that now I get to learn how she cooks a turkey. And with that, she headed back to bed for a few hours.
Later this morning we'll do the pies and the potatoes, the dressing and the salad. My brother will get up and watch TV in the living room. My husband will read the paper and chat with us while we cook. We'll call my daughter, who's spending the day with her partner's family elsewhere in the state. And when my sister arrives, we'll have dinner.
But for now the house is quiet, people and dogs and cats all asleep but for me. The sun's just up, the crows are cawing outside, and the occasional car drives by. It's Thanksgiving, and I am home to spend it with my mother for the first time in years. More than once today I'll think about my friends back in Brooklyn, all the holidays we've passed together, and for a moment that homesickness will well up inside me til I think I'll just burst. It will be an exhausting day, and I'll go to bed tonight with sore feet and knees. But I'm happy to be here. I'm happy I can help Mom have Thanksgiving with her kids. I wouldn't change a minute of it.
And so, my friends, may your day hold contentment, love, laughter, good food. May you enjoy your parades, your football games, and every other tradition that brings you joy. Cherish the day. Cherish your family and friends. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
So Tuesday while I was at work, I asked my husband Ed to sit down with my mom and see what she'd like to serve. They came up with a simple little menu: turkey, cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, homemade rolls, the usual things. Oh, and a ham -- my brother won't eat turkey. Then they started a shopping list - which included frosted mini-wheats (my brother's favorite cereal) and what I have come to call The Sacred Milk (for somewhere in Heaven it is written that this house shall never contain less than a gallon of milk). Tuesday evening Ed and I fleshed out the shopping list with ingredients needed for the dishes on the menu. And yesterday morning Ed did all the shopping.
Yes, he did ALL the shopping. He only called me at work maybe four times to confer about one thing or another. And each time I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for helping. Because while Mom knows how to cook a turkey, she's not good at shopping anymore, and she can't drive to the store anyway. Ed got home with the groceries around noon, just as Mom was getting out of bed. She met him in the kitchen, gave him a BIG hug, and told him she wouldn't trade him for any other son-in-law. And then she sat down to read the paper.
Now, MY plan was that some of the preliminary cooking could get done yesterday. Mom gets frantic some weeknights just thinking about "what to feed The Men," so I hoped to reduce her stress level by not having to prepare everything on Thanksgiving Day. On the menu I had written a "W" beside the things that could be prepared Wednesday - the ham, for instance, since the turkey needs to cook The Day Of. But when I got home from work last night, the house vibe was like any other night. Mom, Ed told me, was really looking forward to starting cooking "tomorrow." It would be so nice to have 2 days to get ready. "June," he said, "tomorrow is Thanksgiving." "No," she insisted, "tomorrow's Wednesday," and she held up the newspaper to him. "See, it's only Tuesday." He smiled and said, "Well, June, you've got some catching up to do! That's yesterday's paper. Here's today's." And he showed her the Wednesday paper. They had a good laugh together.
So last night after supper (pizza!), we cooked the cornbread for the dressing, and the ham and the succotash and the cranberries. Well really, I did the cooking and Mom supervised. She admitted with relief and a little sadness that she was glad we were starting early, because she just couldn't have done it all. "I don't know how long it's been since I've done a real Thanksgiving dinner." We talked to my sister, who was buying 3 dozen rolls at Sam's. She and her family will be here about 1:00 today (or maybe 3:00). We made plans to get up at 5:30 to start the turkey. Or rather, Ed joked that he and I would get up to witness Mom being out of bed before noon. And then we all fell into bed.
And now it's early Thanksgiving morning. My alarm went off and I woke up Ed. He roasts a beautiful turkey, basting and slow-cooking to crisp-skinned, Southern Living magazine perfection. We had agreed last night that we would just let Mom sleep and he would take care of the bird. So I came out to the kitchen to discover . . . that Mom was just going back to bed, having already put the turkey in the oven and the giblets on to boil! I don't know how she did it, getting up early - she doesn't have a clock - but she sure did it. And she did it her way: rub butter on the bird, sprinkle with pepper, wrap it in foil, and toss it in the oven. No roaster, no basting, no muss, no fuss. She said it may not be centerpiece-pretty, but it's the way her mother always did it, and it always comes out good. I told her it would be great, and that now I get to learn how she cooks a turkey. And with that, she headed back to bed for a few hours.
Later this morning we'll do the pies and the potatoes, the dressing and the salad. My brother will get up and watch TV in the living room. My husband will read the paper and chat with us while we cook. We'll call my daughter, who's spending the day with her partner's family elsewhere in the state. And when my sister arrives, we'll have dinner.
But for now the house is quiet, people and dogs and cats all asleep but for me. The sun's just up, the crows are cawing outside, and the occasional car drives by. It's Thanksgiving, and I am home to spend it with my mother for the first time in years. More than once today I'll think about my friends back in Brooklyn, all the holidays we've passed together, and for a moment that homesickness will well up inside me til I think I'll just burst. It will be an exhausting day, and I'll go to bed tonight with sore feet and knees. But I'm happy to be here. I'm happy I can help Mom have Thanksgiving with her kids. I wouldn't change a minute of it.
And so, my friends, may your day hold contentment, love, laughter, good food. May you enjoy your parades, your football games, and every other tradition that brings you joy. Cherish the day. Cherish your family and friends. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Happy birthday, Mom!
Happy birthday, Mom! Eighty-two years ago today, the little town of Centerville, Arkansas welcomed you and your twin brother into the world. (That's you on the left, you little cutie!) You've lived through world wars, depressions and boom times, heat, snow and tornadoes. You were high school valedictorian, filling your mind with beautiful poetry and prose and grammar. And you carry all that knowledge with you today even as you forget that you fed the dogs five minutes ago.
Life has thrown you more than your share of curveballs, but you just keep on making base hits. Yeah, I'm using a baseball analogy for you, even though you regularly declare it the most boring game in the world. Truth is, you never were much for sports, or any other entertainment, for that matter. Your life revolves around family and home and hard work. Feed everyone else before you take a bite. Do laundry after your children are in bed. Never spend a penny on yourself that could be spent on someone else instead.
You learned hard work from your mother, who was widowed at 42. She gave piano lessons, took in other people's washing, picked cotton in the Arkansas heat. While your little sister played on a blanket in the shade of a big tree, you worked alongside your mother. You still talk about how heavy that long towsack was as you dragged it down the rows of cotton, how sharp the cotton bolls were on your young fingers. Your grandparents helped all they could back then, but it was your mother who worked and worked. And when she took a job in the next county, you went with her. She took in boarders, walked clear across town every day to her job in the hospital, and still somehow got you kids through school.
Your brothers went to war, came home, and became a doctor and a lawyer. Your sister's husband became a real live rocket scientist. (Here you are all together - cute shoes!) And yours, a junior high teacher. No money there, but there was love, and I think you had some good years - until his heart attacks began. The first one hit when he was only 42 and you were 33, and I don't know how you dealt with the insecurity that created. But you worked and worried and raised your kids, and sometimes late at night we'd rush Daddy to the hospital. You lost him when you were only 53 - my age now - and I remember that even during the week of his funeral you were more concerned about everyone else's comfort than your own.
Your mother never remarried, and neither did you. Not even a date, ever. You took care of Grandma til she died. Lost your beloved twin in a car wreck, an event which nearly killed you with grief. You worked until you were 70. Your older brother, now 90, has been your rock. You helped your son buy the house where you both live. And now Ed and I are here to do what we can for both of you.
A couple of years ago when I began my journey back home to you, my goal was to be here in time to throw you a big 80th birthday party. I wanted to invite the whole family, have a big dinner somewhere, sing something for you with my brother and sister. That didn't happen. But tonight you and I are going out. We'll have an early dinner, then we've got tickets to the special 50th anniversary showing of "West Side Story" at the local multiplex. As usual, you're balking at going out - "Let's just stay home." "We have to fix The Men some supper." But I think we'll make it, and I'll do my best to see that you have fun, because that's why I'm here.
I love you, Mom. You're my inspiration, the strongest woman I know. Happy birthday to you, and maaanny mooooore!!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Me time
Ahh! It's almost 11 p.m. and I am enjoying a rare few minutes all to myself. Ed and my mother are chatting in the living room. My brother is in bed. The TV is off. And I have the bedroom all to myself. All alone in the evening -- what a treasure!
This summer I found that my best shot at solitude was early in the morning. I began getting up much earlier than I needed to just so I could sit quietly and think, ponder, plan. Okay, and obsess, worry and brood sometimes, depending on what was going on in my life at the time. But mostly I made healthy use of the time, reading my scriptures, praying, perhaps writing in my journal. Occasionally I was able to retire to my room early in the evening so I could listen to music and work on a sewing project. But now that my husband is here, I rarely have a room all to myself.
It's true that I came to Arkansas so that I could be available to my family. I am so happy I was here this summer to watch Caroline while Nikki and Nick both finished their respective degrees. I'm happy that I can take my mom shopping or out to eat, go get her hair cut, take her for long Sunday drives and drink milkshakes from Sonic. I'm really pleased that my husband and my brother get along, watch football together, talk about world affairs. Both of them have been too isolated. Both are benefiting from their genuine friendship. Each is doing what he can to help the other. When I think on all we are doing together here, I feel that Ed and I are making a difference, helping each other and my family to live more fulfilling lives.
Still, between family and work, shopping and chores, I have almost no time for myself. I miss walking home from the subway on a fine summer evening. I made it a point to soak up the sights and sounds of my neighborhood, the intriguing aromas wafting from kitchen windows along the way. I knew every garden, every dog and cat along the route. I savored the smell of the ocean or the rain. I even miss riding the subway. Freed from the cares of driving, I had time to read, listen to music, observe my fellow travelers, even take a quick nap. I wasn't alone on the subway or on the Brooklyn sidewalks - in fact, I would've been afraid if I had been alone - but it was acceptable to be separate and apart, to pretend that I was alone. Here, in this house that is now my home, I feel obligated to be engaged and involved, and I'm often end the day utterly exhausted. So I try to carve out some "me" time whenever I can.
There's always something useful I "should" be doing, but I'm trying to remember that I'm no good to anyone when I'm worn out, resentful and stressed. Me time is a necessity if I am to be the sweet jelly in the middle of the sandwich that is my family.
This summer I found that my best shot at solitude was early in the morning. I began getting up much earlier than I needed to just so I could sit quietly and think, ponder, plan. Okay, and obsess, worry and brood sometimes, depending on what was going on in my life at the time. But mostly I made healthy use of the time, reading my scriptures, praying, perhaps writing in my journal. Occasionally I was able to retire to my room early in the evening so I could listen to music and work on a sewing project. But now that my husband is here, I rarely have a room all to myself.
It's true that I came to Arkansas so that I could be available to my family. I am so happy I was here this summer to watch Caroline while Nikki and Nick both finished their respective degrees. I'm happy that I can take my mom shopping or out to eat, go get her hair cut, take her for long Sunday drives and drink milkshakes from Sonic. I'm really pleased that my husband and my brother get along, watch football together, talk about world affairs. Both of them have been too isolated. Both are benefiting from their genuine friendship. Each is doing what he can to help the other. When I think on all we are doing together here, I feel that Ed and I are making a difference, helping each other and my family to live more fulfilling lives.
Still, between family and work, shopping and chores, I have almost no time for myself. I miss walking home from the subway on a fine summer evening. I made it a point to soak up the sights and sounds of my neighborhood, the intriguing aromas wafting from kitchen windows along the way. I knew every garden, every dog and cat along the route. I savored the smell of the ocean or the rain. I even miss riding the subway. Freed from the cares of driving, I had time to read, listen to music, observe my fellow travelers, even take a quick nap. I wasn't alone on the subway or on the Brooklyn sidewalks - in fact, I would've been afraid if I had been alone - but it was acceptable to be separate and apart, to pretend that I was alone. Here, in this house that is now my home, I feel obligated to be engaged and involved, and I'm often end the day utterly exhausted. So I try to carve out some "me" time whenever I can.
There's always something useful I "should" be doing, but I'm trying to remember that I'm no good to anyone when I'm worn out, resentful and stressed. Me time is a necessity if I am to be the sweet jelly in the middle of the sandwich that is my family.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Homesick
Last night I took a few minutes to play around on Facebook while I watched TV with my mom. I came across some pictures posted by one of my friends back in New York and started showing them with Mom. Pictures of a going-away party for a young couple from the Chinese branch in Brooklyn. I showed them to Mom, telling her who was who, matching the children to their parents, telling her a little bit about them.
Mom has always been good at making me second-guess my decisions, or even my ability to make decisions. I really don't think she realizes this is what she's doing when she says "I know you miss your friends. Are you sure you don't regret coming home from New York?" In fact, she says it a lot, because she forgets that she just asked me a little while ago. So I get a lot of opportunities to assure her, and myself, that I'm happy with my decision, that I'm right where I want to be.
But of course I miss my friends! I regularly spent time with people from every corner of the world, and I will always cherish those friendships and the memories we made together.
I always wondered if I could learn a little Chinese (Mandarin or Cantonese - I knew speakers of both) to better communicate with the members of the Chinese Branch of my church in Brooklyn. I wanted to do it to show them how much I respect them for having the courage to come halfway around the world and carve out a life for their families while not speaking a word of English. But I never made the time to take a class. Still, I always looked forward to my visits to that Chinese Branch, where someone would always translate for me. Such delightful people, so kind to me and so eager to help me or teach me. It was one of these Chinese sisters who gave me an entire day of her time when I was packing up to move. She sorted the contents of my food storage pantry into 14 big boxes. I silently thank her every time I see those boxes.
I miss my beautiful Spanish-speaking friends, like Jose, who always smiles. He says that Spanish is the language of Heaven, we will all speak it one day. Consuelo, his wife, is the proudest, most devoted mother ever, and the finest friend.
I miss the delightful Caribbean people in Midwood, and their Relief Society president, Alice. She and her husband Frank live the Gospel like no one else I have ever known. I loved visiting that congregation because the women in Relief Society sang with such gusto, drowning me out entirely. That didn't happen in any other congregation in Brooklyn.
I miss my delightful Filipino family - for friends ARE family among Filipinos. Everyone seems to get a nickname. Mine is Momsy. Holidays won't be the same without karioke at the Soletas!
And of course in my own ward I had every nationality mixed together in one place. In my 14 years there I came to know people from Russia, Mongolia, Haiti, Hong Kong, Italy, Australia, Sierra Leone, Kenya, Puerto Rico and many other Caribbean islands, Belize, Peru, Ecuador, Argentina, El Salvador, and the equally foreign-to-me lands of California, Utah, Canada.
But that's not all. I worked each day with Jewish people from all over. More than a few had family members who were Holocaust survivors. Some were very secular, others very devout. Many had spent a year or more in Israel, spoke Hebrew and Yiddish, and happily educated me about the meaning and history of the Jewish holidays. I worked with Muslims and Buddhists, Catholics and Coptics, Greek and Russian Orthodox, and people who didn't feel the need of any higher power.
People think that New Yorkers are cold, unfriendly, distant, but I quickly learned that they are devoted friends, fiercely loyal, generous to a fault. A New York friend is a friend for life.
So yes, Mom, I do miss my friends and my adopted hometown. I'm doing my best to make my home in Arkansas, and I'm grateful for every day that I'm here with you. But I'm homesick. I find myself tearing up unexpectedly and more often than I'd like. I'm having trouble settling into my new church and job where almost everyone looks the same and sounds the same. I'm not as brave as my immigrant friends in New York who just dive in and make their way.
The lyrics to a hymn recently pulled me up short. Grief. "Jesus can heal my grief." That's what wrong with me, I am grieving! I couldn't sing anymore that morning. I stopped in mid-phrase so I wouldn't embarrass myself crying out loud. At least now I have a word for what I'm feeling. Why didn't I see it sooner? Grief has steps and phases. There's a process for moving through it and coming out better on the other side of it. I need to work on that and keep moving forward.
After all, I haven't lost my New York friends. I have Facebook and email and the phone, should I have a moment to make a call. So to all of you who read this - I love you, I miss you, but I'm okay and I'm where I need to be. I'm happy in the knowledge that you will go on being true New Yorkers, accepting and welcoming other people like me and becoming THEIR new friends for life. Thank you for enriching my life and teaching me so much about unconditional love and acceptance and what friendship is all about.
Mom has always been good at making me second-guess my decisions, or even my ability to make decisions. I really don't think she realizes this is what she's doing when she says "I know you miss your friends. Are you sure you don't regret coming home from New York?" In fact, she says it a lot, because she forgets that she just asked me a little while ago. So I get a lot of opportunities to assure her, and myself, that I'm happy with my decision, that I'm right where I want to be.
But of course I miss my friends! I regularly spent time with people from every corner of the world, and I will always cherish those friendships and the memories we made together.
I always wondered if I could learn a little Chinese (Mandarin or Cantonese - I knew speakers of both) to better communicate with the members of the Chinese Branch of my church in Brooklyn. I wanted to do it to show them how much I respect them for having the courage to come halfway around the world and carve out a life for their families while not speaking a word of English. But I never made the time to take a class. Still, I always looked forward to my visits to that Chinese Branch, where someone would always translate for me. Such delightful people, so kind to me and so eager to help me or teach me. It was one of these Chinese sisters who gave me an entire day of her time when I was packing up to move. She sorted the contents of my food storage pantry into 14 big boxes. I silently thank her every time I see those boxes.
I miss my beautiful Spanish-speaking friends, like Jose, who always smiles. He says that Spanish is the language of Heaven, we will all speak it one day. Consuelo, his wife, is the proudest, most devoted mother ever, and the finest friend.
I miss the delightful Caribbean people in Midwood, and their Relief Society president, Alice. She and her husband Frank live the Gospel like no one else I have ever known. I loved visiting that congregation because the women in Relief Society sang with such gusto, drowning me out entirely. That didn't happen in any other congregation in Brooklyn.
I miss my delightful Filipino family - for friends ARE family among Filipinos. Everyone seems to get a nickname. Mine is Momsy. Holidays won't be the same without karioke at the Soletas!
And of course in my own ward I had every nationality mixed together in one place. In my 14 years there I came to know people from Russia, Mongolia, Haiti, Hong Kong, Italy, Australia, Sierra Leone, Kenya, Puerto Rico and many other Caribbean islands, Belize, Peru, Ecuador, Argentina, El Salvador, and the equally foreign-to-me lands of California, Utah, Canada.
But that's not all. I worked each day with Jewish people from all over. More than a few had family members who were Holocaust survivors. Some were very secular, others very devout. Many had spent a year or more in Israel, spoke Hebrew and Yiddish, and happily educated me about the meaning and history of the Jewish holidays. I worked with Muslims and Buddhists, Catholics and Coptics, Greek and Russian Orthodox, and people who didn't feel the need of any higher power.
People think that New Yorkers are cold, unfriendly, distant, but I quickly learned that they are devoted friends, fiercely loyal, generous to a fault. A New York friend is a friend for life.
So yes, Mom, I do miss my friends and my adopted hometown. I'm doing my best to make my home in Arkansas, and I'm grateful for every day that I'm here with you. But I'm homesick. I find myself tearing up unexpectedly and more often than I'd like. I'm having trouble settling into my new church and job where almost everyone looks the same and sounds the same. I'm not as brave as my immigrant friends in New York who just dive in and make their way.
The lyrics to a hymn recently pulled me up short. Grief. "Jesus can heal my grief." That's what wrong with me, I am grieving! I couldn't sing anymore that morning. I stopped in mid-phrase so I wouldn't embarrass myself crying out loud. At least now I have a word for what I'm feeling. Why didn't I see it sooner? Grief has steps and phases. There's a process for moving through it and coming out better on the other side of it. I need to work on that and keep moving forward.
After all, I haven't lost my New York friends. I have Facebook and email and the phone, should I have a moment to make a call. So to all of you who read this - I love you, I miss you, but I'm okay and I'm where I need to be. I'm happy in the knowledge that you will go on being true New Yorkers, accepting and welcoming other people like me and becoming THEIR new friends for life. Thank you for enriching my life and teaching me so much about unconditional love and acceptance and what friendship is all about.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Last night I watched "Dancing With the Stars" with my mom. The theme for the evening was "my favorite year," and I was very touched by some of the dancers' presentations and stories. A couple even brought me to tears.
I awoke before the alarm went off this morning. As I lay there in the dark, my husband leaned up against me, my cats tucked in around my legs and feet, I realized I was wondering what MY favorite year has been. Surely there is a favorite among the 50-odd years I've passed through so far. These dancers could choose one, so surely I could too. I began sorting through my experiences.
Nancy Grace chose the year her children were born. Definitely a significant event. She chose that year even though she and one of the babies almost died at childbirth. What about the year my only child came along? I remember the ease of giving birth, the joy of meeting my daughter and watching her grow. I also well recall the unrelenting exhaustion as I learned to juggle work, school, marriage and motherhood, and the death of my father one month before my baby's first birthday. No, not my favorite year.
Okay, what about the year I got married? Either time? I was so happy planning my wedding to Mike. We were poor students, but I found just the right dress for next to nothing, designed my own invitations, and we had a lovely fall wedding at my parents' house on The Mountain with my best friend Elaine by my side, my cousin at the piano, our immediate families gathered round. By the end of that first year, though, I was convinced that God sent some people to Earth to be happy, and some to suffer, and I was among the latter. No, still not my favorite year.
I was more happy the day I married Ed. We didn't go to the expense of a family wedding - we'd both been married before, after all. Instead, we planned a fun weekend in Eureka Springs at an historic bed and breakfast. We were married by the owner of the vintage photography shop where we had our pictures made, each of us dressed in our lovely turn-of-the-century costumes. I will always carry that weekend in my heart. But maybe not that year, since I spent most of it locked in a bitter court battle with Mike for custody of our little girl. A year with good days, but probably not a favorite.
Right now I think my favorite year was my very first in New York. Ed found us the perfect little apartment in Brooklyn. For the first time in my life I wasn't worried about money - we both had good jobs. We went out every week, to museums, concerts, jazz bars, plays, Central Park. We ate breakfast every Saturday at a little neighborhood diner, discovered the myriad offerings of the street vendors in Manhattan. We quickly felt like New Yorkers. It had been traumatic to leave Arkansas. My daughter didn't want to come with us, preferring the familiarity of her little hometown in Arkansas, It broke my heart to leave her, but I looked forward to sharing the City with her when she visited. We wound up not having nearly enough of those visits, and I spent a small fortune periodically flying home to Arkansas to see her and everyone else. Which brings me back to the present...
Will this year turn out to be my favorite, when I look back on it somewhere down the road? I began it fretting over whether I would EVER get back to Arkansas to take care of my mother, be with my daughter, get to know my granddaughter. In every conversation with them I heard of another missed opportunity to be together. At the same time I was heartsick knowing that coming home to them would mean leaving my home in New York, the city and people I have come to love so much. Every day I struggled with the knowledge that gaining the one would mean giving up the other. So every day I found myself saying goodbye to something about the City, savoring, lingering over mundane experiences. Would this be my last walk in this park, down that street? My last smell of sea air, my last snowstorm? Will I ever see Lizzy the wild turkey in Battery Park again? Play with the Johnson triplets? Hug my friend Cherry, hear Pres. Nelson sing in church? Will this be the last time I have to drive around for half an hour looking for a place to park late at night? The last ride home in a livery car, tired from a late night at work but enthralled by the lights and sounds of the City? It's been such an emotional experience. Will this someday be my favorite year? Perhaps.
"Favorite" doesn't have to mean "most perfect." It's the best because something memorable happened, because I made a life-changing decision for all the right reasons. I'm spending time daily with my mother, seeing my daughter and granddaughter every week, and getting to know myself better in the process. It's been a very good year.
I awoke before the alarm went off this morning. As I lay there in the dark, my husband leaned up against me, my cats tucked in around my legs and feet, I realized I was wondering what MY favorite year has been. Surely there is a favorite among the 50-odd years I've passed through so far. These dancers could choose one, so surely I could too. I began sorting through my experiences.
Nancy Grace chose the year her children were born. Definitely a significant event. She chose that year even though she and one of the babies almost died at childbirth. What about the year my only child came along? I remember the ease of giving birth, the joy of meeting my daughter and watching her grow. I also well recall the unrelenting exhaustion as I learned to juggle work, school, marriage and motherhood, and the death of my father one month before my baby's first birthday. No, not my favorite year.
Okay, what about the year I got married? Either time? I was so happy planning my wedding to Mike. We were poor students, but I found just the right dress for next to nothing, designed my own invitations, and we had a lovely fall wedding at my parents' house on The Mountain with my best friend Elaine by my side, my cousin at the piano, our immediate families gathered round. By the end of that first year, though, I was convinced that God sent some people to Earth to be happy, and some to suffer, and I was among the latter. No, still not my favorite year.
I was more happy the day I married Ed. We didn't go to the expense of a family wedding - we'd both been married before, after all. Instead, we planned a fun weekend in Eureka Springs at an historic bed and breakfast. We were married by the owner of the vintage photography shop where we had our pictures made, each of us dressed in our lovely turn-of-the-century costumes. I will always carry that weekend in my heart. But maybe not that year, since I spent most of it locked in a bitter court battle with Mike for custody of our little girl. A year with good days, but probably not a favorite.
Right now I think my favorite year was my very first in New York. Ed found us the perfect little apartment in Brooklyn. For the first time in my life I wasn't worried about money - we both had good jobs. We went out every week, to museums, concerts, jazz bars, plays, Central Park. We ate breakfast every Saturday at a little neighborhood diner, discovered the myriad offerings of the street vendors in Manhattan. We quickly felt like New Yorkers. It had been traumatic to leave Arkansas. My daughter didn't want to come with us, preferring the familiarity of her little hometown in Arkansas, It broke my heart to leave her, but I looked forward to sharing the City with her when she visited. We wound up not having nearly enough of those visits, and I spent a small fortune periodically flying home to Arkansas to see her and everyone else. Which brings me back to the present...
Will this year turn out to be my favorite, when I look back on it somewhere down the road? I began it fretting over whether I would EVER get back to Arkansas to take care of my mother, be with my daughter, get to know my granddaughter. In every conversation with them I heard of another missed opportunity to be together. At the same time I was heartsick knowing that coming home to them would mean leaving my home in New York, the city and people I have come to love so much. Every day I struggled with the knowledge that gaining the one would mean giving up the other. So every day I found myself saying goodbye to something about the City, savoring, lingering over mundane experiences. Would this be my last walk in this park, down that street? My last smell of sea air, my last snowstorm? Will I ever see Lizzy the wild turkey in Battery Park again? Play with the Johnson triplets? Hug my friend Cherry, hear Pres. Nelson sing in church? Will this be the last time I have to drive around for half an hour looking for a place to park late at night? The last ride home in a livery car, tired from a late night at work but enthralled by the lights and sounds of the City? It's been such an emotional experience. Will this someday be my favorite year? Perhaps.
"Favorite" doesn't have to mean "most perfect." It's the best because something memorable happened, because I made a life-changing decision for all the right reasons. I'm spending time daily with my mother, seeing my daughter and granddaughter every week, and getting to know myself better in the process. It's been a very good year.
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