March 10th will be the first anniversary of my friend's death.  I've had her on my mind so much recently, so it seemed rather timely that I stumbled across this the other day.  I was out of town during Harriett's memorial service last year, but my husband attended and read this for me:

I met Harriett when I opened the Kolache Shop in 2003.  She always came in alone.  Didn't carry a purse, just a newspaper tucked under her arm.  She always placed the same order ... "Hot tea, please", dug in her pocket for the money, said "thank you", then found the most remote table where she would sit all alone sipping tea and reading her newspaper.  I guessed that she was in her 70s (I later found out she was in her 80s).  She was aloof, and we respected her desire for privacy so we never tried to initiate small talk.  Every day the same routine.  She always sat at the furthest table and would even take the furthest parking spot when it was available.

One day I walked out from the kitchen ... there happened to be only two customers in the shop.  One lady was a frequent customer, very chatty, an artist.  The other was the older lady who always drank hot tea and read her paper. The ladies were sitting at opposite ends of the small shop ... of course.  The artist was so talkative and outgoing; she had managed to engage the older lady in conversation.  I heard something about a farm.  I didn't want to intrude, but I said "Did I hear someone say they had a farm?"  She said, "Yes, I have a farm.  Why?  Are you wanting to buy one?"  I introduced myself and we started chatting.  I never noticed when the artist left the shop.  Harriett started talking and didn't stop for the next five years!

As I stood to leave Harriett's table that day I noticed that under her newspaper she had a baggy of animal crackers.  I jokingly asked why she was bringing contraband into my shop.  She quickly informed me, "I don't like that crap you make."  She later admitted she didn't know what kolaches were ... in time her daily routine included hot tea, soup and a kolache.

I don't even remember now how the friendship developed, but it just grew.  She told me many times that she never had a friend before.  She could never figure out why I chose to be her friend.  I responded by asking why she chose to be my friend ... she said "Oh, I just felt sorry for you!"

The shop just wasn't making it financially.  We let our customers know that we would be closing soon.  After closing for Thanksgiving, we never opened again.  In January it was very cold but the shop was packed with people there to buy our equipment at auction.  After the auction people gradually filtered out of the shop.  The auctioneer and his helpers loaded up their stuff and left.  I was left alone in the shop, sitting on a stool just waiting for people to come back for the last pieces.  I was surprised that I had managed to get through the day without crying, but I did feel very much alone at that moment.  Here came a car in the parking lot.  I sighed.  Great.  Someone doesn't realize that we're closed.  How embarrassing!  Then I looked again.  I recognized that big old Mercury.  It was Harriett's.  She came inside to see how things were going.  While she was there a man from the city came to turn off the electricity.  Harriett pulled up a stool and waited with me in the cold, dark shop until all the equipment was gone.  It was something my mother would have done for me.

After Harriett's first stroke I went by several evenings a week to help the family make sure she was eating, keeping her medications straight, etc.  We enjoyed going out to eat together.  Whenever I introduced her to my friends she welcomed them as if they were worthy just because they were my friends.

Harriett was independent, had spunk, was educated, and was not your typical little old lady.  She exhibited faith in me, encouraged me, challenged me, made me examine things differently, scolded me, laughed with me, cried with me.  She seemed intrigued at my ability to maintain a strong Christian faith when life had handed me some pretty big challenges.  We had many deep conversations.  She worried about what I told my family and friends about her.  She told me once "I know you pray for me!"  It was sort of an accusation.  I admitted it and asked if that bothered her.  She said no but she just wondered what I pray for.  I told her ... "for you to be free (of old baggage)... for you to have peace."  I wondered if she would ever understand what I couldn't explain.  The best I could do was to just be her friend and be grateful that she was mine.

She made me go with her to her 65th high school reunion.  She made me wear close-toed shoes, panty hose, and a dress.  She made me wash the car.  She didn't tell me what the occasion was until I went to pick her up.  It was fascinating to watch these people in their 80s with a shared past.  They greeted each other warmly, recalled old memories, took photographs, secretly compared themselves to the others to see who had held up the best, talked about whether or not they should try for a 70th reunion, recalled those classmates who had died, admitted they could no longer drive, talked about going off to war.  I had a great time ... except for the one lady who asked me if I graduated with them.  I was 54!  By the way, we decided Harriett had held up better than most of the people in the room.

Harriett loved my family and my friends ... which made me love her even more.  She proudly gave my granddaughter an upclose and personal visit with the cows on her property.  She went with me and my daughter to visit the American Printing House for the Blind in Louisville.  She encouraged my husband in his EBay business.  She endured a Pampered Chef party, participated in a baby shower for my daughter, watched and pondered The Passion of the Christ with us, let us give her a birthday party on her 83rd birthday.

Eventually Harriett had to move to an assisted living facility a couple of hours away, so I wasn't able to see her as often.  She suffered more strokes.

I visited Harriett three weeks before she died.  She was sleeping and I was unsure of her ability to respond.  Eventually she woke up ... I said "Hi, Harriett.  It's Cindy."  She turned her face towards me but didn't say anything.  I asked "Do you remember me?"  She paused and said "Well, hardly!  You haven't been here in so long!"  We laughed right out loud ... she was right.  That visit was a wonderful one.  At one point she got misty and told me that I came along at just the right time in her life.  I told her I felt the same way about her.

Harriett was a very good friend to me.  She often seemed disappointed that she hadn't "accomplished" anything in her life.  But like me, the people in this room would probably bed to differ.

I miss you, friend.

I ate half a pie today.

As family trees go I suppose mine is not that unique.  Some of the roots go very deep and provide the main support for the tree.  Some of the roots creep along the surface ... they aren't so involved, so intertwined with the others.  They kind of go their own way, but they're more vulnerable ... it's easier for them to be wounded by the elements to which they are exposed.  They don't merge into the intricate framework of the root system.  They're a part of the system but they're "apart."  When battling the elements they're having to bear the brunt of the storm all alone.  If only they could be part of the network.  Yes, it's crowded.  Yes, you give up some freedom or independence.  But the bonds forged can provide just the strength you need when the challenges come.

Red rover, red rover,
Let life come on over.

My writer's block often lasts for months at a time ... so when I stumbled across some old stuff in my former blog, it occurred to me I could post them here and trick you into thinking I had a new moment of inspiration.  Actually I wrote this two years ago.  In looking through my old writings it hit me that I'm like a broken record! Two years ago I was whining writing about the same topics that I whine write about now!!  But I digress ... really ...

I should have received a manual when I signed up for this life.  But no ... I had to wing it, fly by the seat of my pants in every area of my life.  I didn't have a clue when I was a kid or when I got married or when I had babies or when one of my babies was born with a disability or when I raised my kids or when I had to be an advocate for my children or when I had to deal with teenagers or aging parents or the death of my parents or ... Come to think of it, I had no formal training for anything life has thrown at me.

Now I find myself beginning to slow down and fall apart.  Often I am surprised by my own reflection in the mirror.  I don't know when this happened to me.  I was always able to eat whatever I wanted, never worried about exercise or pounds.  But a few years ago things started changing, rearranging, dropping, bulging.  Now I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror at the mall and don't realize for a minute that it's me!  It's an older woman, too heavy ... squatty, in fact ... with a neck that is thick and lined, hair with bad roots.  And good Lord, I'm wearing an outfit that looks like my mother!  Why, I remember only yesterday I was wearing spiky heels, formfitting clothes, short skirts ... now every chance I get I opt for pants to hide my swollen ankles, a t-shirt that hides my bulges, and clunky shoes that don't hurt ... better yet, no shoes at all.

Am I more aware of aging than my mother was or am I just more whiny about it than she was?  I don't remember her talking about every little ache or unbearable hot flashes, fretting about getting older or pondering her own mortality.  I just remember her having a ball in spite of it all.

Recently I saw a sign that read "Put on your big girl panties and deal with it."  Maybe that's what I need to do ... stop obsessing over the losses or worrying about tomorrow and just enjoy the moment.  'Scuse me, I need to go play now ... and I remember how, so I don't need no stinkin' manual!

 

 
                     1952                                                 2008

I got to spend time with my brother this past weekend.  He's always so much fun ... it doesn't matter how old we get to be, we automatically become kids again!  No one can make me laugh like he does. And he can still talk me into doing things I wouldn't normally do.  It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt!  And these days it doesn't take much for one of us to get hurt.  I don't know when I got this old ... I don't even recognize myself in this picture!

While shopping in a gift shop today I saw a plaque that read:

Inside every old person is a young person screaming "What the hell happened?"

It's true.

March 10th will be the first anniversary of my friend's death.  I've had her on my mind so much recently, so it seemed rather timely that I stumbled across this the other day.  I was out of town during Harriett's memorial service last year, but my husband attended and read this for me:

I met Harriett when I opened the Kolache Shop in 2003.  She always came in alone.  Didn't carry a purse, just a newspaper tucked under her arm.  She always placed the same order ... "Hot tea, please", dug in her pocket for the money, said "thank you", then found the most remote table where she would sit all alone sipping tea and reading her newspaper.  I guessed that she was in her 70s (I later found out she was in her 80s).  She was aloof, and we respected her desire for privacy so we never tried to initiate small talk.  Every day the same routine.  She always sat at the furthest table and would even take the furthest parking spot when it was available.

One day I walked out from the kitchen ... there happened to be only two customers in the shop.  One lady was a frequent customer, very chatty, an artist.  The other was the older lady who always drank hot tea and read her paper. The ladies were sitting at opposite ends of the small shop ... of course.  The artist was so talkative and outgoing; she had managed to engage the older lady in conversation.  I heard something about a farm.  I didn't want to intrude, but I said "Did I hear someone say they had a farm?"  She said, "Yes, I have a farm.  Why?  Are you wanting to buy one?"  I introduced myself and we started chatting.  I never noticed when the artist left the shop.  Harriett started talking and didn't stop for the next five years!

As I stood to leave Harriett's table that day I noticed that under her newspaper she had a baggy of animal crackers.  I jokingly asked why she was bringing contraband into my shop.  She quickly informed me, "I don't like that crap you make."  She later admitted she didn't know what kolaches were ... in time her daily routine included hot tea, soup and a kolache.

I don't even remember now how the friendship developed, but it just grew.  She told me many times that she never had a friend before.  She could never figure out why I chose to be her friend.  I responded by asking why she chose to be my friend ... she said "Oh, I just felt sorry for you!"

The shop just wasn't making it financially.  We let our customers know that we would be closing soon.  After closing for Thanksgiving, we never opened again.  In January it was very cold but the shop was packed with people there to buy our equipment at auction.  After the auction people gradually filtered out of the shop.  The auctioneer and his helpers loaded up their stuff and left.  I was left alone in the shop, sitting on a stool just waiting for people to come back for the last pieces.  I was surprised that I had managed to get through the day without crying, but I did feel very much alone at that moment.  Here came a car in the parking lot.  I sighed.  Great.  Someone doesn't realize that we're closed.  How embarrassing!  Then I looked again.  I recognized that big old Mercury.  It was Harriett's.  She came inside to see how things were going.  While she was there a man from the city came to turn off the electricity.  Harriett pulled up a stool and waited with me in the cold, dark shop until all the equipment was gone.  It was something my mother would have done for me.

After Harriett's first stroke I went by several evenings a week to help the family make sure she was eating, keeping her medications straight, etc.  We enjoyed going out to eat together.  Whenever I introduced her to my friends she welcomed them as if they were worthy just because they were my friends.

Harriett was independent, had spunk, was educated, and was not your typical little old lady.  She exhibited faith in me, encouraged me, challenged me, made me examine things differently, scolded me, laughed with me, cried with me.  She seemed intrigued at my ability to maintain a strong Christian faith when life had handed me some pretty big challenges.  We had many deep conversations.  She worried about what I told my family and friends about her.  She told me once "I know you pray for me!"  It was sort of an accusation.  I admitted it and asked if that bothered her.  She said no but she just wondered what I pray for.  I told her ... "for you to be free (of old baggage)... for you to have peace."  I wondered if she would ever understand what I couldn't explain.  The best I could do was to just be her friend and be grateful that she was mine.

She made me go with her to her 65th high school reunion.  She made me wear close-toed shoes, panty hose, and a dress.  She made me wash the car.  She didn't tell me what the occasion was until I went to pick her up.  It was fascinating to watch these people in their 80s with a shared past.  They greeted each other warmly, recalled old memories, took photographs, secretly compared themselves to the others to see who had held up the best, talked about whether or not they should try for a 70th reunion, recalled those classmates who had died, admitted they could no longer drive, talked about going off to war.  I had a great time ... except for the one lady who asked me if I graduated with them.  I was 54!  By the way, we decided Harriett had held up better than most of the people in the room.

Harriett loved my family and my friends ... which made me love her even more.  She proudly gave my granddaughter an upclose and personal visit with the cows on her property.  She went with me and my daughter to visit the American Printing House for the Blind in Louisville.  She encouraged my husband in his EBay business.  She endured a Pampered Chef party, participated in a baby shower for my daughter, watched and pondered The Passion of the Christ with us, let us give her a birthday party on her 83rd birthday.

Eventually Harriett had to move to an assisted living facility a couple of hours away, so I wasn't able to see her as often.  She suffered more strokes.

I visited Harriett three weeks before she died.  She was sleeping and I was unsure of her ability to respond.  Eventually she woke up ... I said "Hi, Harriett.  It's Cindy."  She turned her face towards me but didn't say anything.  I asked "Do you remember me?"  She paused and said "Well, hardly!  You haven't been here in so long!"  We laughed right out loud ... she was right.  That visit was a wonderful one.  At one point she got misty and told me that I came along at just the right time in her life.  I told her I felt the same way about her.

Harriett was a very good friend to me.  She often seemed disappointed that she hadn't "accomplished" anything in her life.  But like me, the people in this room would probably bed to differ.

I miss you, friend.

I ate half a pie today.

As family trees go I suppose mine is not that unique.  Some of the roots go very deep and provide the main support for the tree.  Some of the roots creep along the surface ... they aren't so involved, so intertwined with the others.  They kind of go their own way, but they're more vulnerable ... it's easier for them to be wounded by the elements to which they are exposed.  They don't merge into the intricate framework of the root system.  They're a part of the system but they're "apart."  When battling the elements they're having to bear the brunt of the storm all alone.  If only they could be part of the network.  Yes, it's crowded.  Yes, you give up some freedom or independence.  But the bonds forged can provide just the strength you need when the challenges come.

Red rover, red rover,
Let life come on over.

My writer's block often lasts for months at a time ... so when I stumbled across some old stuff in my former blog, it occurred to me I could post them here and trick you into thinking I had a new moment of inspiration.  Actually I wrote this two years ago.  In looking through my old writings it hit me that I'm like a broken record! Two years ago I was whining writing about the same topics that I whine write about now!!  But I digress ... really ...

I should have received a manual when I signed up for this life.  But no ... I had to wing it, fly by the seat of my pants in every area of my life.  I didn't have a clue when I was a kid or when I got married or when I had babies or when one of my babies was born with a disability or when I raised my kids or when I had to be an advocate for my children or when I had to deal with teenagers or aging parents or the death of my parents or ... Come to think of it, I had no formal training for anything life has thrown at me.

Now I find myself beginning to slow down and fall apart.  Often I am surprised by my own reflection in the mirror.  I don't know when this happened to me.  I was always able to eat whatever I wanted, never worried about exercise or pounds.  But a few years ago things started changing, rearranging, dropping, bulging.  Now I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror at the mall and don't realize for a minute that it's me!  It's an older woman, too heavy ... squatty, in fact ... with a neck that is thick and lined, hair with bad roots.  And good Lord, I'm wearing an outfit that looks like my mother!  Why, I remember only yesterday I was wearing spiky heels, formfitting clothes, short skirts ... now every chance I get I opt for pants to hide my swollen ankles, a t-shirt that hides my bulges, and clunky shoes that don't hurt ... better yet, no shoes at all.

Am I more aware of aging than my mother was or am I just more whiny about it than she was?  I don't remember her talking about every little ache or unbearable hot flashes, fretting about getting older or pondering her own mortality.  I just remember her having a ball in spite of it all.

Recently I saw a sign that read "Put on your big girl panties and deal with it."  Maybe that's what I need to do ... stop obsessing over the losses or worrying about tomorrow and just enjoy the moment.  'Scuse me, I need to go play now ... and I remember how, so I don't need no stinkin' manual!

 

March 10th will be the first anniversary of my friend's death.  I've had her on my mind so much recently, so it seemed rather timely that I stumbled across this the other day.  I was out of town during Harriett's memorial service last year, but my husband attended and read this for me:

I met Harriett when I opened the Kolache Shop in 2003.  She always came in alone.  Didn't carry a purse, just a newspaper tucked under her arm.  She always placed the same order ... "Hot tea, please", dug in her pocket for the money, said "thank you", then found the most remote table where she would sit all alone sipping tea and reading her newspaper.  I guessed that she was in her 70s (I later found out she was in her 80s).  She was aloof, and we respected her desire for privacy so we never tried to initiate small talk.  Every day the same routine.  She always sat at the furthest table and would even take the furthest parking spot when it was available.

One day I walked out from the kitchen ... there happened to be only two customers in the shop.  One lady was a frequent customer, very chatty, an artist.  The other was the older lady who always drank hot tea and read her paper. The ladies were sitting at opposite ends of the small shop ... of course.  The artist was so talkative and outgoing; she had managed to engage the older lady in conversation.  I heard something about a farm.  I didn't want to intrude, but I said "Did I hear someone say they had a farm?"  She said, "Yes, I have a farm.  Why?  Are you wanting to buy one?"  I introduced myself and we started chatting.  I never noticed when the artist left the shop.  Harriett started talking and didn't stop for the next five years!

As I stood to leave Harriett's table that day I noticed that under her newspaper she had a baggy of animal crackers.  I jokingly asked why she was bringing contraband into my shop.  She quickly informed me, "I don't like that crap you make."  She later admitted she didn't know what kolaches were ... in time her daily routine included hot tea, soup and a kolache.

I don't even remember now how the friendship developed, but it just grew.  She told me many times that she never had a friend before.  She could never figure out why I chose to be her friend.  I responded by asking why she chose to be my friend ... she said "Oh, I just felt sorry for you!"

The shop just wasn't making it financially.  We let our customers know that we would be closing soon.  After closing for Thanksgiving, we never opened again.  In January it was very cold but the shop was packed with people there to buy our equipment at auction.  After the auction people gradually filtered out of the shop.  The auctioneer and his helpers loaded up their stuff and left.  I was left alone in the shop, sitting on a stool just waiting for people to come back for the last pieces.  I was surprised that I had managed to get through the day without crying, but I did feel very much alone at that moment.  Here came a car in the parking lot.  I sighed.  Great.  Someone doesn't realize that we're closed.  How embarrassing!  Then I looked again.  I recognized that big old Mercury.  It was Harriett's.  She came inside to see how things were going.  While she was there a man from the city came to turn off the electricity.  Harriett pulled up a stool and waited with me in the cold, dark shop until all the equipment was gone.  It was something my mother would have done for me.

After Harriett's first stroke I went by several evenings a week to help the family make sure she was eating, keeping her medications straight, etc.  We enjoyed going out to eat together.  Whenever I introduced her to my friends she welcomed them as if they were worthy just because they were my friends.

Harriett was independent, had spunk, was educated, and was not your typical little old lady.  She exhibited faith in me, encouraged me, challenged me, made me examine things differently, scolded me, laughed with me, cried with me.  She seemed intrigued at my ability to maintain a strong Christian faith when life had handed me some pretty big challenges.  We had many deep conversations.  She worried about what I told my family and friends about her.  She told me once "I know you pray for me!"  It was sort of an accusation.  I admitted it and asked if that bothered her.  She said no but she just wondered what I pray for.  I told her ... "for you to be free (of old baggage)... for you to have peace."  I wondered if she would ever understand what I couldn't explain.  The best I could do was to just be her friend and be grateful that she was mine.

She made me go with her to her 65th high school reunion.  She made me wear close-toed shoes, panty hose, and a dress.  She made me wash the car.  She didn't tell me what the occasion was until I went to pick her up.  It was fascinating to watch these people in their 80s with a shared past.  They greeted each other warmly, recalled old memories, took photographs, secretly compared themselves to the others to see who had held up the best, talked about whether or not they should try for a 70th reunion, recalled those classmates who had died, admitted they could no longer drive, talked about going off to war.  I had a great time ... except for the one lady who asked me if I graduated with them.  I was 54!  By the way, we decided Harriett had held up better than most of the people in the room.

Harriett loved my family and my friends ... which made me love her even more.  She proudly gave my granddaughter an upclose and personal visit with the cows on her property.  She went with me and my daughter to visit the American Printing House for the Blind in Louisville.  She encouraged my husband in his EBay business.  She endured a Pampered Chef party, participated in a baby shower for my daughter, watched and pondered The Passion of the Christ with us, let us give her a birthday party on her 83rd birthday.

Eventually Harriett had to move to an assisted living facility a couple of hours away, so I wasn't able to see her as often.  She suffered more strokes.

I visited Harriett three weeks before she died.  She was sleeping and I was unsure of her ability to respond.  Eventually she woke up ... I said "Hi, Harriett.  It's Cindy."  She turned her face towards me but didn't say anything.  I asked "Do you remember me?"  She paused and said "Well, hardly!  You haven't been here in so long!"  We laughed right out loud ... she was right.  That visit was a wonderful one.  At one point she got misty and told me that I came along at just the right time in her life.  I told her I felt the same way about her.

Harriett was a very good friend to me.  She often seemed disappointed that she hadn't "accomplished" anything in her life.  But like me, the people in this room would probably bed to differ.

I miss you, friend.

I ate half a pie today.