Shut My Mouth

This is me in college. Apparently, I'm channelling Wild Bill. I have not done it well. I have not learned to shut my mouth.

Aging is supposed to bring wisdom. I'm definitely wiser but I'm also balancing when to tackle the issue and when to let it go.

I'm still learning that lesson.

Sloppy Drinkers

We all know them. It's the guy who'll slosh you with red wine when you're wearing a white linen blouse. It's the woman who will tell you every dirty detail of her sex life and then will be mortified the next day. It's the teenager who swears he or she has never touched a drop but spends an inordinate amount of time cleaning the car the next morning.

I am not passing judgement. Wild Bill taught me that drunk dialing is one of the most fun activities. I have done it. I usually call my mother and she is mortified. Like all activities, drunk dialing has some rules:

You must call someone you love. You must tell them over and over again that you love them.
You must call at a weird time. Waking them is preferable.
You must pass the phone around so they can talk to total strangers.

I don't do this any more. My mother is probably relieved.

But, I still live with a sloppy drinker. She wears a collar and embodies destruction on steroids. You won't find her with a glass of red wine but I highly recommend not wearing white or anything linen if you come to my house.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Are you singing yet?

"Sock it to me, sock it to me..."

I'm a voyeur. A few years ago, a friend of mine decided to change her life. In her terms, it meant no more bullsh** and I'm not going to do anything I don't want to do. I respected it but I also kind of brushed it off as a mid-life thing. As an outsider looking in, I remember thinking the people who give her the most problems and the most pleasure are the people she values most. She married one of them. She gave birth to a couple of them. One of them gave birth to her. You cannot control these relationships. I hate this expression but, they are what they are.

When the oldies moved in with us, the elephant in the room was the alpha male position. Hangdog was used to being the head of the household. So was Big Daddy. The Belle was used to doing things her way. So was I. We worked our way through the maze and usually found compromise.

As you know, I tend to tell my parents everything. I'm not sure this is normal. We disagree on many things but Aretha would be proud, we do it with respect. (Or we just hang up.)

I'm taking a lesson from my friend. You (my friends, my parents, my relatives, the children, the husband) can tell me anything and I will listen. I will try to learn and correct my faults. There's one caveat: Please speak to me with respect. For who I am and who I want to be. For what I've given you and what you've given me. Respect our history. Respect my phase in life and expect the same in return. Actually, demand it.

Mothers get a free pass on some of these things. Every once in a while, I try to dodge a question. There's a reason Wild Bill called her, "The Prosecutor." She will get it out of me. It takes about 20 seconds.

Aretha would be proud. All it takes is a little prodding...

"Just a little bit... Just a little bit."

With Abandon

Someone once said to me, "You are so lucky that your family knows how to laugh."

Laughter doesn't do it justice. It's shrieking. It's being doubled over in belly pain. It can often become a "Depends" moment.

Last weekend, we had a lovely dinner and then played cards with some relatives. The husband does a great impression of Aunt Ann. Patty's laugh is so contagious that I get the giggles just thinking about it. Aunt Judy's facial expressions crack me up. I would swear Wild Bill was in the room. Peggy can hoot and holler with the best of them and she would win. My mother and I could laugh watching paint dry.

Our men were there. They played some games with us and then watched tv. No offense to them but the girls had more fun.

I combed my hair for Uncle Harry. He griped about it anyway. Then, I beat him at cards.

We laugh out loud. We cry at funerals. Sometimes we cry for no reason other than it feels good to get it out. We're kind to each other and we forgive the occasional emotional outburst.

Actually, we embrace it.

The husband and his brothers had a running punchline during the Belle's and Hangdog's funerals. They would introduce themselves and then say, "I'm the emotional one." They were telling the truth and once again I realized why we fit.

15 Years of Care Giving

My mother had two sets of parents: her biological parents (crazy Grandma and Wild Bill) and an aunt and uncle (Bobbie and Pa) who raised her and her sisters. Grandma and Bobbie were sisters; Wild Bill and Pa were brothers. This happens more often than you think.

While the husband and his two brothers were at the funeral home making arrangements on Saturday, I was flying home from Florida. I was reminiscing about the last few years -- the good, bad and ugly. My parents picked me up at the airport and we talked about care giving. We shared memories about the oldies. We shared memories about my grandparents.

My mother reminded me of something I had forgotten or chose to block out. She was a caregiver to her four parents for 15 years. I say this tongue in cheek, but she always has and always will outdo me. I resigned myself to it years ago.

I miss Hangdog and the Belle with an ache I cannot describe. I'm grieving so I burst into tears over anything and everything. Then I get angry. Mostly, there's an emptiness.

But I cannot fathom doing it for 15 years.

Nervous Tics

The apple may fall a few generations from the tree but it's always there.

Wild Bill had this annoying tic of clamping his tongue between his teeth. I try to keep it private but yes, I do it. It helps me concentrate. Once I divulged this info to my parents, my father walked around doing an amazing imitation.

One of my friends splays her hand in front of her stomach or on her rear -- as if the world can't see what's behind the five fingers. It helps her feel covered. It's a tic.

Someone in this family turns every question back to the questioner. A tic perhaps?

Going Home

We referred to the Belle's funeral as her homecoming. Her heart and soul belonged to the people and the land of Mississippi. I don't know what I believe about the afterlife, i.e. what the deceased can see or experience of the rest of us still left on earth. I hope she could feel the love.

Yesterday, I went home. I haven't lived there for many years (or decades) but somehow, it's still home. That pesky guilt troll lands on my shoulder and reminds me that I don't go there enough. There is no excuse. But I've spent an awful lot of time with oldies issues.

We had a game day. I think it's called "The Joker" and I highly recommend it. It's a lot like Aggravation but you use playing cards and it's more strategic. My aunt, my parents and I played it for hours. I made lots of mistakes but the most horrible one was telling my father of my latest quirk. He made fun of me for the rest of the day. (Don't tell people your weaknesses.) I belly laughed. I avoided the biting dog and played with the fun one.

I grew up playing board games. I can still picture Wild Bill playing Aggravation or Yatzee with us and he would get irritated. I'm not sure if his frustration was in losing or the fact that my friend was eating all of his treats while we played. He used to ask her, "Do they feed you at home?" She would gigle and grab another handful.

Mental games are not my strength. With me, you will know where you stand. I would be horrible at Poker.

I think of myself as a non-competitive person but I wanted to win.

The laughter and memories give me strength. I walk in their door and feel my stress ease. I am home.

An Oldies Thing

There are certain things that I am convinced simply happen due to aging. I call them, "Oldies Things." Oldies things are not possessions; they are quirks and bizarre behaviors. I am comfortably settled in middle age but I watch and notice. I am developing some of these tics. Are you?

Here are a few I've noticed lately. And no, I will not tell you which ones I am also experiencing.

Wrapping everything in tissues, rubber bands, Ziploc bags or all of the above.
Repeating the same stories.
The daily diatribe about aches and pains.
Spending days on end without leaving home.
An insane focus on medications.
Constant discussions of bodily functions (and applause when the plumbing is working.)
A complete lack of interest in technological changes.
Routine. Routine. Routine.
The inability to remember your children, grandchildren, in-laws or siblings' names.
The inability to remember that a cell phone works differently than a land line.
Everyone and everything is involved in a conspiracy.
Food is the sole focus of the day.
Kids, dogs, drop-in guests make you crazy.
The weather channel and the Game Show Network are your favorites.
A never-ending compulsion with, "What's the date today AND what time is it?"
It's always cold.
Entitlements from everyone are expected: The government, children and more.

Just as I clamp my tongue between my teeth like Wild Bill, I catch myself wondering, "Is this my future?"

Wild Bill -- Part II

Last night, the huband was playing the piano and I was lying on the floor with the dog. She had a big whacker of a bone that collided with my eye. Nothing serious but I walked around with an ice bag in a cloth for an hour or so. I considered a piece of tape to put over my eye. Yep, for that time, I was Wild Bill.

Last week, I went to a movie with my mom and my aunt. Aunt Judy's sense of humor is amazing and contagious. She is a combination of Lucille Ball and Wild Bill.

On a recent night, the husband had a business dinner and other commitments. I spent lots of time on the phone. (Hello, Wild Bill.) He was a huge phone junkie -- or as my mother likes to point out, "He was a great drunk dialer." For the record, I was not drunk. But I do tend to spend a lot of time on the phone.

The dog does this weird thing with her tongue -- kind of lolling out sideways and it always reminds me of Wild Bill. He used to clamp his tongue between his teeth when he was thinking or concentrating on something.

I swear to you. I catch myself doing it everyday.

The Corn Dance

It's August in Indiana. Everything is about corn. If you've never had Indiana sweet corn roasted on a grill, (or Indiana tomatoes) your life is not complete.

When Wild Bill was still with us, he always managed to be at my parent's house during this season. Nick and Patsy hosted an annual corn roast for the neighborhood and he would ask, "When is the corn dance?" (In his defense, sometimes there was dancing.)

The corn dance was last weekend. I didn't attend but I was there in my mind.

Pa Comes to Visit

One of our bedrooms has served many purposes. It's been a guest room. It was the daughter's room for a short period while she was in law school. Now, it's the oldies' room.

For people living in that room, they can change it or decorate it to their heart's content. I have a few photos on the wall that have stayed ... until now.

There's a great photo of my grandfather (the sane one, not Wild Bill) that has been in there forever. He's in full military uniform. He's young. He's handsome.

I came home from a trip a few weeks ago and that photo was propped on my bedroom mantel. I didn't think much about it. Maybe Big Daddy moved it. Maybe it fell down and no one knew where to put it.

Tonight I was sitting on the patio with the mother-in-law. Out of the blue, she said, "That man hasn't been coming around anymore." I am totally clueless. Is it houseboy? Is it my father? Is she stroking? I took a deep breath and asked the dreaded question -- "What man?"

Her response was, "The man in the photo. He kept appearing in our room so I took the photo down and put it in your bedroom."

I choose to believe he was looking for me.

Reincarnation

I don't believe in reincarnation so this is a little bit of a fantasy.

Just like Wild Bill, my puppy has her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth at all times. Just like Wild Bill, she regularly runs away from home and always returns. Just like Wild Bill, she has one eye that waters nonstop.

Maybe it's the devil on my shoulder. Every once in a while, I whisper, "Hi Grandpa."