Missing Halloween

My neighborhood is filled with people similar to us -- empty nesters. Almost all the children of this small circle have grown. In our old house, we used to get oodles of trick-or-treaters. In this house, we usually get one or two.

We used to attend Halloween parties and/or golf outings. I can't count the many costumes I've made or adapted.

I miss Halloween. Maybe this year I'll don a hooded sweatshirt and sit at the kitchen table eating my bag of candy. I'll be Hangdog a/k/a the Unabomber.

Dogs and Cats

I have never owned a cat but I know lots of cat people. I have loved (from afar) some of my friends' cats. I am a dog person. My greatest act of defiance was to get my maniac dog even though the husband and Hangdog were firmly against it. I've never regretted it.

This is old but worth repeating. I have no idea who the author is or I would give him or her credit.

>DOG DIARY
>
> 8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
> 9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
> 9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
> 10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
> 12:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
> 1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
> 3:00 PM - Ran back and forth in the hall! My favorite thing!
> 5:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
> 7:00 PM - Got to play tug! My favorite thing!
> 8:00 PM - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
> 11:00 PM - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
>
> CAT DIARY
>
> Day 983 of my captivity.
>
> My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
> They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are
> fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the
> rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to
> keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of
> escape.
>
> In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
>
> Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their
> feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it
> clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made
> condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am.
> Bastards!
>
> They continue to pick me up and handle me, an obvious attempt to
> subvert me.
>
> There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was
> placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However,
> I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my
> confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what
> this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
>
> Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my
> tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try
> this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.
>
> I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and
> snitches.
>
> The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released -- and
> seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.
>
> Tonight I will again lie on their heads while they sleep and hope to
> smother them.

Give me a big ol' sloppy dog. I'll leave the litter box and the craftiness to the cat people.

Health Scares

I don't like health-related scares. I realize that is a ridiculous sentence -- no one does. Although, Hangdog used to love to dream up symptoms and find any excuse to go to the doctor or the emergency room. Some were real and some were imaginary but I often wondered if this is an old person's version of a social life.

The goldies weekend is in full swing and a lot of our questions seem to come back to health and body: ours, our spouses, our parents, etc. Some of our parents are alarmists, others are secret keepers until the crisis is over. My parents are not secret keepers but they often don't give me full disclosure. I see and talk to my parents A LOT more than the other girls. It's kind of hard for us to keep too much from each other.

But my parents also know, I go immediately to "Jump in and fix it" mode. If there's a medical issue at hand, I have my doctor on speed dial. I will call every person I know in the medical field. I will have a list of the best specialist and the quacks that you shouldn't take your bird to. And if it's necessary, I WILL get you in to see the right person. (I'm very polite about it.)

We're not obsessed with it but I admit to some comfort in knowing my body is not doing anything that they are not also experiencing. There's a sisterhood in knowing that they also lose sleep when their husband is stressed or their parents have a scare.

Plus, our wacky senses of humor come through. One of us can be describing some non-life- threatening but disgusting ailment or disease. Instead of getting somber and sympathetic, we tend to burst into laughter.

Every little bit helps.

Dads

The Captain had many reasons to be proud: WWII pilot, engineering career, an enduring marriage with a wife who adored him and more. I wish I had captured the gleam in his eyes when he spoke of his boys.

Today is Father’s Day and I am remembering the Captain/Hangdog/Unabomber. I’m thinking about last year and the absolute joy on his face when his sons or grandchildren called to acknowledge the holiday. We had a dinner, complete with three Roman generations of men. We’ll do the same today but there will be an empty chair.

My father did not get sons. He got stuck with me. Boy, have I put him through the wringer! Yet, he’s always made me feel like the smartest, the most talented daughter in the world.

We’ve all heard the stories and read the statistics. Children who grow up without a father are more likely to:

Abuse drugs and alcohol
Suffer in poverty
Drop out of school
Join a gang
Repeat the cycle

I’ve always heard that men want sons. It may be about carrying on the lineage and the family name. (You will have to kill me before I stop using the Riley name.)I watched this magician the other day. His trick was to put a bunch of people on a mat and then cover them in a bubble. I thought, “Hah! My dad has put me in a bubble for years.” One of his few quirks is when he’s mad or disappointed in me, he leaves it to my mother to tell me.

Here are a few things about my dad you may not know:

His childhood was beyond unfair. It makes me cry. He survived.

He describes his first date with my mother as, “Love at first sight.” I think they still like each other.

When my mother got bored with my ineptness, he continued to help me learn how to skip.

As an adult, I’ve never lived anywhere without my father painting, repairing, building.

His word is a bond. It’s ironclad. He’s the strongest (and I don’t mean just physical) person I know.

He doesn’t have to have the last word.

His quiet sense of humor is raw and hysterical.

His hearing may be diminished but he always hears us when we call.

He would get the certificate for “Best Eater.” He’s fun to cook for.

George Jones, George Strait, Willie Nelson and many other country singers will never know the passion of this fan. He forced me to listen to country music as a child and now I find myself comparing songs with him. Many of our father/daughter dates have been country music concerts.

Almost 45 years ago, Paul Riley met a little girl. She had colic and frog legs. She often spent time trying his patience. To this day, she takes him for granted. But, at least she knows it.

My father did not grow up with a great father. I did.

Six-Word Memoirs

On one of my many treks through the bookstore, I stumbled upon a little book, "Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure." This is from the introduction:

Legend has it that Ernest Hemmingway was once challenged to write a story in six words. Papa came back swinging with, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Some say he called it his best work. Others dismiss the anecdote as a literary folktale. Either way, the six-word story was born, and it's been popping around the writing world for years.

I'll share a few of my favorite six-word memoirs from the book:

Aging late bloomer yearns for do-over. Sydney Zvara
Thought long and hard. Got migraine. Lisa Levy
Wasn't born a redhead; fixed that. Andie Grace
Came, saw, conquered, had second thoughts. Harold Ramis
Followed rules, not dreams. Never again. Margaret Hellerstein

Of course, I had to play along. I wrote one for me:

You alone will not defeat me.

Then, I wrote another one:

Rose-tinted glasses color my world.

Then I wrote one about the husband:

Big ego might hide true pain.

On to the oldies. I started with the Belle:

My South is my perfect paradise.

And for Hangdog:

Looking for Belle. Now and forever.

I've written many more. What would yours be? It's a fun exercise but I must caution you, it's addictive.

Get that Needle Away from Me

The Belle was a nurse. Needles were a constant companion in her life. Her only fear of needles was that the incompetent nurse or tech would stab her repeatedly trying to find a viable vein. We used to joke that the only person we could trust was the nurse in our doctor's office. She was a miracle worker when it came to finding a vein for the Belle.

I'm thinking of the Belle today because it seems to be a medical week. A girlfriend had a procedure yesterday. When they use words like "punch" or "puncture," I want to run. She's brave and stuck it out. When they use the word "biopsy," I want to run like the wind.

I had a teensy procedure this morning. When I asked my doctor, "Will it hurt?" She said "Yes, but not much." If the Belle were here, she would've insisted on going with me and that's one more battle we would have endured.

Hangdog never went to the doctor without her at his side. Of course, he could not drive himself. Even if the husband or I took him, she went along.

Their dentist did this really cool thing. He would schedule side-by-side appointments so the Belle and the Captain could get their cleanings and exams at the same time. Isn't is nice when professional people are accommodating?

Our primary care physician (saint-in-training) would often examine them at home or fit them in for a last minute office visit. He also held our hands and guided us through the maze of hospitals, hospice, VA care, assisted living and more.

That little needle headed my way isn't quite the problem it used to be.

Hot and Cold

The oldies were always cold. I tried to be considerate but I could not handle the house at 80-plus degrees. That's probably how Hangdog became attached to the Unabomber costume -- he wasn't going to rob a bank; he was just trying to keep his ears warm.

I am always hot. Blame it on menopause or hormones run amok. I have slept on our patio with a damp sheet over me. If I'm not driving, I am probably the woman you see hanging her head out the window like a dog. Come to think of it, I've done that even when I am driving, I just try very hard to save it for stop signs.

The husband and I had criss-crossing schedules before I left for NY. One of our conversations (him at home; me in my hotel room) was about the temperature in the house. Oops, I forgot to tell him that I turned off the heat. April in Indiana can easily go from 80 degrees to 30 degrees. He was freezing.

I figure we get a few weeks in the spring and a few weeks in the fall where I don't need A/C or Heat. I throw open the windows and I love it, even when it messes with my allergies. This does not make me Al Gore. If I need to fire up a fireplace or the furnace, I'll do it.

Relationships are like this too. One person is hot when the other is cold. The trick is to keep your mouth shut and wait for the times when you both are comfortable.

What Time Is It?

My room in Manhattan is quite spacious, as New York hotel rooms go. I'm not one of those people who complains about hotel rooms. I need a clean bathroom, a semi-comfortable bed, a desk and a chair. I'm set.

As all semi-insomniacs know, we have a perverse need to know the time. If I wake at 2:00 AM, I will try to lull myself back to sleep. If I wake at 5:00 AM, the time it will take to get back to sleep isn't worth the effort. I'll just get up.

The clock in my room is very new age and probably expensive. You can play/charge/awake to your iPod. (I didn't bring mine.) But, it's bolted to the nightstand and faces the middle of the room rather than the bed. To see the time, I have to sit up, move over and practically get out of bed.

It never occurred to me to pack Hangdog's "ding" watch -- the one that loudly announces the time. Since we inherited it, I may make it a permanent part of my packing list.

Houseboy to the Rescue

Houseboy has come to my rescue more than once. Actually, more than I care to count.

When the oldies were with us, he dealt with many body function disasters. He never complained, even when Hangdog referred to him as "That man." He picked them up, took them places, ran errands for them and hauled many things up and down the stairs. After a major shopping trip, they would leave things in their trunk for him to unload. He installed lots of "must have" gizmos.

There's an Amish market near his home and he regularly brought them treats. Hangdog could not remember his name but he gobbled up the pastries.

I get teased for it but I admit, he does tons of things for me, like getting on ladders or toting things I cannot lift. He (and his crew) fight the weekly battle with the lawn. Or snow. Or storms.

This week, Houseboy and his wife are headed to a sunny destination to celebrate their 25th anniversary. I have witnessed them together and they are still madly in love. They have two children and their individual schedules are crazy. Yet, they stay connected. I don't think he's ever been in my home without talking to her and/or one of the children.

I tease him with the nickname "Houseboy." He's not a boy; He's a man. He's a man that I would be thrilled to see the baby emulate.

Work ethic. Kindness. Laughter. Loyalty. Family love. He's the poster child for all of these things. That's probably why I trust him with my dog and he has keys to my house.

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.

The Five-Second Rule

A recent study suggested that our society has become so germ phobic that we are actually harming our children. We need exposure to a certain amount of semi-harmless germs to allow our immune systems to effectively build up immunities to fight the bully ones. This is not a problem in my home.

It reminds me of mother stories. With the first child, everything is sterilized. By the third child, the instinct is to pick up the pacifier (or whatever) and blow on it. Then you just plop it back in the child's mouth.

One of my brothers-in-law told a story at the Belle's funeral. It was a homecoming celebration for his return from Vietnam. The Belle made his favorite, banana pudding. Hangdog snuck into it and somehow knocked the bowl to the floor. She scooped it up and picked out the pieces of glass. But when she served it, she warned her son, "Watch out for glass slivers."

I've never gone quite this far. But I did find myself crawling on the bathroom floor last night because I dropped my sinus medication. I found it. I took it.

Commuter Marriages

The oldies died when they were both 84-years old. If my math is correct, he retired roughly 30 years ago. Although the Belle continued to work for several years, the rest of their time was spent together. Once she took a weekend trip with her sisters but other than that, they did everything together.

If she didn't feel well, he stayed in bed next to her. If she had a hair appointment, he went with her. If she was frying up breakfast, lunch or dinner, he watched. Sometimes she would go into the baby's room to play cards on the computer or listen to music the baby had downloaded for her. Hangdog would follow behind and stretch out on the bed in that room. He had to be near her. Sometimes you could witness a flash of annoyance but for the most part, I think she considered it a compliment.

I, of course, cannot comprehend this. It's sweet to watch but if I were living it, I would have an immediate attack of claustrophobia. (Sometimes I'm obsessed with the clock and counting down the hours until he will leave. It's not lack of love; I just need my own time and space.)

We have reached the stage in life that most of our friends are empty nesters. After the initial shock and reality that your little chickens have actually flown the coop, people start to make decisions. Some travel more. Some decide they didn't really like each other after all and they get divorced. Others (who have the financial means to do so) invest in second and third homes.

I'm both intrigued by the thought and exhausted for those people who manage it.

Last night, the husband and I caught up with a friend for dinner. He wasn't alone because he's single; he's alone because his wife is in their Colorado home. He will join her this weekend. Their Indiana place is home base, probably because he can run his business and it's centrally located. Later, they'll go to their home in Florida. Do I sound jealous? (Maybe I am -- just a wee bit.)

More of my friends are choosing this option. My friend, Big S, spends the majority of the winter in her Arizona home. Her husband flies in every 10 days or so. Another friend spends her winters in Florida and her summers at her lake home. They also have a home in Indianapolis. She and her husband probably spend as much quality time together as the husband and I do.

Which saying is true? "Absence makes the heart grow fonder" or "Out of sight, out of mind." It's a little Pollyanna but I think it is the first expression.

Come On April

For various reasons, January, February and March are my least favorite months. The holidays are over and the cold grayness is not pleasant. Gloomy weather affects my mood plus, the husband goes stir crazy. He barks (at no one in particular) when it snows. He looks at his golf clubs with an adoration that is usually reserved (in normal people) for lovers and children. This is why we tend to travel as often as possible during the winter months.

This year I crossed the mental line from dislike to hate. The Belle died in January; Hangdog died in March.

I love April, although we get our fair share of rain and continued gray skies. April brings budding trees and early blooms. April brings my annual trek to a writer's conference in Manhattan.

Moods seems to improve in April. I know mine does.

Here's a dirty little secret. April brings the official beginning of the golf season. Lots of women I know groan and complain about the time their husbands spend playing golf (and/or cards.) There are no young children in this household and now there are no oldies so I am the polar opposite. During golf season, the husband is up with the sun and out the door. In the mean and nasty months, Saturday and Sunday mornings get on my nerves. He doesn't know what to do with himself. I suggest laundry or other household chores. He ignores me. He tries to practice new pieces on the piano ... over and over and over. He hovers, "What are you doing?" If he ventures into a project, I am summoned to give an opinion, fetch a hammer, etc.

Is this what retirement is like? If so, I'll pass. The Belle was extremely gracious to her husband but I also witnessed the many times that she wanted to be left alone. I still haven't decided if he was clueless or determined.

I prefer to have my own daily activities. Then during dinner or curling up at the end of the day, we get to have the interesting conversation, "How was your day?"

Why I live in Indiana

After Hangdog's funeral, my favorite cousin-in-law gave a small book to the husband. The title is "Why I live in Mississippi ... 101 Dang Good Reasons." The author is Ellen Patrick. It's a lively tribute to the south and I recommend it.

I won't give you 101 reasons why I live in Indiana, but I'll give you a few:

I was born and raised here.

My parents and friends are here.

The seasons change --we witness winter, spring, summer and fall.

The state fair.

Indiana corn and tomatoes.

Elvis performed his last concert here. (Don't tell me I have no southern connections!)

On national television we are portrayed as buffoons. It's my personal mission to correct this image.

We play Euchre.

College Basketball and Professional Football.

Did I mention corn and tomatoes?

We have multiple weirdos from our state: Michael Jackson and Jim Jones (don't drink the Kool-Aid) --just to name a couple.

Our baby senator (Dan Quayle) became Vice President. Potato or Potatoe?
Our baby governor (Evan Bayh) is now on the short list for possible vice presidential candidates.

Hoosier hospitality. It's not a myth.

The husband and I love to travel. I also like the feeling when I'm back home again in Indiana.

Will it Matter Next Year?

My father does an excellent job of keeping things in perspective. As I'm wailing and complaining, he will often ask me, "Will it matter or will you remember this problem next year?"

That's why I treasure his advice. He can separate the trivial stuff from the life altering experiences.

This is easier for men. Usually the even-keeled men have a hands-on woman sweeping up and dealing with the minutia. Hangdog was pretty low key in his old age. The Belle took care of the details.

But the philosophy still holds and I'm working on it. I don't see black and white. My perspectives change but there's a lot of gray. If life were a poll, I'd check "undecided" far too often.

Silver Linings -- A New Friendship

We buried the Belle and Hangdog within 60 days of each other. I still can't believe it.

As depressing as it is, there are times when I can take comfort in blessings. The oldies are no longer in pain or in peril. I believe they are together again.

Another personal blessing has been an unexpected friendship with my cousin-in-law. She's beautiful, talented and accomplished. She has the biggest heart of anyone I've met in years. She is extremely interesting and gracious enough to express interest in everyone else. She asked me repeatedly, "Are you ok?" I was afraid I was growing horns or something else so I ran to the restroom. No horns, just more wrinkles and frown lines.

This friendship is relatively new so I don't know all of her stories. I know she's experienced quite a bit of loss and she handles it with class. It's like I'm in kindergarten during story hour -- I am enthralled.

She also has a delightful and slightly devilish sense of humor. At Hangdog's funeral, she stood in front of the husband and me. Sharing memories of the oldies, she said, "They loved to come to my house because I would let her fry or cook whatever she wanted as long as she made me tomato gravy."

I definitely do not want the recipe for tomato gravy.

When I left Mississippi, she gave me a book, "Girlfriends are Forevah." I've always known that but I didn't expect to find a new girlfriend through this ordeal.

An added bonus is every time she says my name she sounds like the Belle.

The Spray Bottle

In my never-ending quest to control the maniac dog, I am open to any and all suggestions. I find her funny and delightful but apparently, I am the only one who holds this opinion.

I've tried the clicker, the whacker and the mean voice.

My mother suggested the spray bottle. I thought this was a little absurd since Labs love the water but as usual, my mother was right. Today was our first day with this experiment and she stopped jumping on people and counters within minutes. If I reach for the bottle, she becomes docile. Why didn't anyone tell me this secret?

Do you think this would've worked with the oldies? "Sit up, Hangdog or I'll spritz you!" Or, "If you fry one more thing in this kitchen, I'll blast you with my spray bottle!" We'll never know.

The only problem with the spray bottle plan is it has now become one more item attached to my person. Two pairs of glasses on my head or buried in my hair, cell phone clipped to a pocket, pen stuck behind the ear ... and now the spray bottle strung through a belt loop. I'm a freak but I'm prepared.

Entitled to a Vacation

"Cross check and call forward" is one of my favorite phrases. Lately, it hasn't been for happy occasions. I've been on more planes and in more rental cars than I care to count.

Yes, I'm being selfish. Go ahead. Label me. "She's an only child. She's used to getting her way." I'll laugh at that one all the way to the bank. Then I'll take my quarter and throw it at you.

My January escape is Phoenix. I didn't go. The Belle was ill and I wanted to be here. My next escape is Florida in March. I went, knowing Hangdog was facing surgery. I went knowing the husband was on the opposite coast. Then, I learned the brothers were coming in to support their father. I had two days in glorious sunshine before I cut my trip short due to his death.

The airlines must love me. I've paid to change flights and rearrange plans. Somehow, in the midst of these plans, I've missed my vacations.

When the Belle died, the husband and I schlepped Hangdog to Mississippi for the funeral. You cannot consider yourself a veteran traveler until you've arranged for wheelchairs and taken someone with a pacemaker through security. Twice we propped him at the gate and ran -- RAN! -- for a Bloody Mary.

This trip was just the two of us. No security snafus. No need to stop in the men's room nineteen times. However, we did deal with plane changes, missed connections, luggage due at another time, changing rental cars in a different city, tracking down luggage at 5:30 AM and more.

Hangdog took every offered item (useful or not) that he might be entitled to have. I have a sh** load of stuff in my basement to prove it.

Selfish Sheri wants a vacation.

Supplies are Dwindling

I've just done a visual sweep of the garage, pantry and basement. We are in trouble. We are down to:

2 lbs. of butter
72 Ziploc bags
150 trash bags
4 gigantic rolls of aluminum foil
18 bars of soap
2 rolls of paper towels

We have no eggs, no oatmeal and no grits. No longer are there 7 or 8 rolls of toilet paper in every bathroom. The Belle would take me aside for a little attitude adjustment and then she would prop Hangdog in the car and go shopping.

Ding -- Coming Home

We forgot the watch. We wanted to hit the button in his honor during our trip.

Today we had the funeral and burial service for the Captain, my beloved Hangdog. (You know how people put stupid nicknames in the obituaries? I had a temptation to put "Hangdog" in his but reason prevailed.)

He had, and now we have, the most obnoxious watch ever made. You push a button on the side and there's a very loud ding and then it announces the time. This could be a useful tool but when you're trapped in a car, a room or a city where he pushes the button every 60 seconds, it can get be bothersome.

It's Good Friday. I am a creature of habit. I should have attended services today with my friends. Instead, I am in a hotel in Mississippi. But, Good Friday services still happened.

I watched four brothers hold each other and share tears and memories. Good Friday. I watched grandsons serve as pallbearers and then toss frisbees and balls in the hotel parking lot. I watched several generations of the Belle's family come to honor her husband. Good Friday.

There's no need for any of these contraptions in heaven but I have this vision of him. He's hitting the button on the annoying watch and yelling, "Honey! Time for me to be home."