The Dance

Any joy or relief I used to find in music is temporarily on vacation. I can't enjoy music because every song and every artist evokes a memory. It's my own fault; I married a music man.

Of course, I enjoyed music long before I met him. But, when you are with a music man, it goes to new heights. You get absorbed in his knowledge. You associate songs (and especially lyrics) with happier times. You marvel at his mind and his talent. Happier times involve singing around the piano or dancing on the patio. You remember every concert, every dance, every quiet moment -- and what song was playing at the time.

My iPod hasn't been on in months. I have broken two nails jabbing the radio station buttons in the car. I turn it off but then the music in my head is worse than whatever they might play next.

I love country music and I thought I was safe with that. Unfortunately, they are playing Garth Brooks' "The Dance" a lot lately. This is a song the husband learned to play on the piano for me, even though he is not a fan of country music. It is sad and haunting. It is appropriate but we didn't know it at the time.

From The Dance:

And I, I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end, the way it all would go.
Our lives, are better left to chance.
I could've missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance.

A Closet Tale

This (of course) is not my actual closet. But it's pretty darn close. (I don't think I've ever taken a cake in there.) Cleaning it out was daunting.

When you have a large closet, it's very easy to fill. Clothing and accessories add up. Even though I'm not a shopper, I am also not very good at getting rid of things. The luxury of lots of space quickly became a dumping ground. Even I had to admit it was ridiculous. Tons of outdated clothing or items I would never wear again were squished against each other. Accessories and miles of shoes were on top of each other. Old business suits were neighbors with bad resort/vacation clothes. In the middle of the mess, I was able to identify a few items I actually wear.

Also, we used to keep boxed photos in the basement. After a pipe leak or some other disaster we re-boxed thousands of photos (without any organization or cleaning out the duplicates) and stored them in one of the guest room closets. When the Captain and the Belle moved in, we moved all of the boxes to my closet.

I also found miles of yarn and semi-completed knitting and crocheting projects. I rarely do either of these activities any more. And to top it off, excess wrapping paper, miscellaneous cards and ribbons, and wrapping supplies were crammed in a corner.

Sounds like a pretty picture, doesn't it?

I have completed about 90% of the clean up. Since I am emotionally attached to many items -- even ones I will never use or wear -- it has been difficult. I find myself thinking, "Oh, I wore that when we ..." At that moment, I want to hang on to it. Instead I am training myself to hang on to the memory.

Relatives and Memories

These are my grandparents, Bobbie and Pa. Those were my names for them and I miss them terribly. I think of them every day and now I think of them every time I walk into my mother's office where she keeps this photo on her desk. This photo was taken at my first wedding in 1984. They have both been gone for many years but they do live on in our hearts.

Today would've been Bobbie's birthday. I'm not big on visiting people's gravesites. I'd rather visit the memories in my mind. I can still picture her overly-stuffed house with a feast on the table for every holiday or family meal. I still don't understand how she managed it on her meager budget. I treasure every bowl or platter she gave me. For the rest of my life, any entertaining I do will include some of Bobbie's dishes. When dividing our household items, I have no interest (or moral right) to the silver we inherited from the Captain and the Belle. I will fight to the finish for my dimestore and garage sale glass items that my grandmother gave me with love.

On another note, we just concluded a visit with my aunt and her boyfriend. We only had a couple of days and they went way too fast. But, more memories were visited and more memories were made.

Christmas Musings

'Tis the season and all that. I've spent the season being even more reflective than usual. From the frivolous to the serious, here are a few of the things I've pondered:

The Tree
There is a fir/evergreen tree outside the bedroom window in my previous home. I could sit up in bed and view it. This would've been my 12th Christmas in that home and for a dozen years I have said to myself, "I should put lights on that tree so I could wake up to that vision." I never did it and now I wish I had.

Eyes are Everywhere
I was taught to look at the front and rear view of myself before I left the house. I'm sure this was intended to save me from some disaster like walking into a meeting with the back of my skirt tucked into my pantyhose. Everyone does not learn this lesson (or chooses not to heed it.) I listened to a solo last night by a young woman who truly has the voice of an angel but was dressed as if she were running late for a street-walking gig. Yes, I am showing my age but I am constantly amazed at young girls who flaunt their assets, including posting them for all the world to see, as their parents remain silent.

Eyes are also everywhere in terms of choices you make. You may be an adult and it may be your right to make your own decisions but I'm learning (better late than never) to stop and ask myself, "What do they see that I don't see and how does that reflect on my character?"

Never Underestimate Rice Krispie Treats
My mother and my sister spend countless hours making homemade candies for the holidays. They are always popular and I've eaten my fair share. But, sometimes you can also be a big hit, especially with children, with sticky, crunchy Rice Krispie treats. I made a batch, shaped it into a wreath and took it to a party. The kids ate it with gusto and it left more of the grown-up goodies for the adults.

Nobody Wants another Knickknack
Unless you are a serious collector of something, chances are you do not need or desire more stuff. (If you are a serious collector, chances are that most people cannot afford to add to your collection.) Unless someone requests something very specific, I try to buy only consumed or used and thrown away. I didn't buy gifts this year but I plan to keep this rule for future occasions. Most of us already have an embarrassing amount of unnecessary riches.

Necessary Riches
It's trite and sappy but the riches that fill my life (and hopefully yours) did not arrive via sleigh last night. They weren't slipped under the tree while we slept. They weren't purchased in any store. They were sleeping beside us or right down the hall. They were those we included in our Christmas Eve prayers. They were in the tears we shed for those we miss and in our hearts and we reflected on sweet memories.

Beware of Lifetime Movies
Substitute your favorite cable channel. You can lose an entire day if they run a marathon. Last Sunday, I started watching one Christmas movie on Lifetime and ended up watching four back to back. I have seen others do this with the True Crime channels especially if they're rerunning Cops.

Christmas Miracles
I believe they happen all year long.

Merry Christmas to all.

Miranda Rights

As careful as I am, somehow I still manage to annoy with my writing. There's a little secret part of me that revels in knowing that you might recognize yourself or pull up a memory.

This article was in one of my writer's magazines. To paraphrase: If we shared an experience, I'm allowed to write about it. If you told me about it, I'm allowed to write about it. If I overheard you talking about it, it's free game. Of course, this does not mean I can use your name.

But I am starting to make people nervous with my pen and cocktail napkin.

Moving

Some people love to move. They change houses or even cities on a whim. There's a purging of stuff and a fresh start that they enjoy.

I am not one of these people. I get ridiculously attached to trees and memories made within the bricks and mortar. My childhood home and neighborhood is still there and I like it that way.

My friend is moving and it's a mixed bag of feelings for her. It's a good decision but like me, she's clinging to the memories. I keep reminding her that she has the magic touch -- anywhere she lives will be a home filled with love.

And hopefully, lots of great memories in the making.

Where The Spirit Is

We buried the Belle in a small cemetery in Petal, MS. Many of her family members are buried there and Hangdog plans to be buried next to her. We will probably not make it to Petal on any kind of a regular basis but we respect their wishes.

I think the spirit is everywhere. It's in the places that are/were important to them. I am not one of those people who takes flowers and visits the grave site. There's nothing wrong with that but I prefer to honor those I've lost in the places that hold memories.

When my friend Patsy died, I was a pallbearer. I have never been back to her grave. But there's a bench (with her name and a quote) in the garden of the golf course she loved. It was a send-off gift from the girlfriends. I go there and speak to her. I feel her spirit and I relish the memories.

Another friend of ours died in a car accident a few years ago. The husband and I both wave when we drive by the site but I'm more reflective when I open the liquor cabinet and see his favorite rum. No one drinks it and no one ever will but I can't throw it away. I toast him and get lost in the past for a bit. I miss him and his spirit. He was a weird duck but as the husband says, "He was OUR weird duck."

Hangdog has lost his spirit. I don't know how to help. His spirit went with the Belle.

Some Tips about Dying

I'm learning a lot. Here are a few tips:

Die in the city where your burial plot is located.
Let people know your history, especially dates.
Let people know your wishes, i.e. service or no service, closed casket or open, religious preferences.
Let people know your songs or quotes or the bible passages you would like included, if any.
Let people know where the relevant papers are kept.
Let people know what you would like to be buried in.

Give people great memories, like this one of the Belle, in her kicky shoes, standing by the piano.

Holiday Pleasures

I didn't just get up on the wrong side of the bed today; I was cannon blasted into the dark side.

Then I went to get my roots touched up and was informed that my eyebrows are also sprouting gray hairs. Thankfully, I had not signed up for a bikini wax.

So, I decided to take a little time for myself. It's time to decorate for the holidays and my house is a jumble of boxes because I'm doing it in stages. The magic kicked in and my mood improved immensely.

I put my iPod on the holiday shuffle (lots of old favorites like Brenda Lee and Elvis) and started arranging decorations. Every item I unearthed is a memory. Many of my decorations were passed along from my parents so they were part of my childhood Christmas celebrations. Many others are gifts from aunts and friends. I know which ones are my favorites and the family's favorites.

I realized that the oldies have given away most, if not all, of their Christmas decorations.

All of a sudden, the mother-in-law (who felt crummy all day) is singing. Hangdog is talking about his childhood Christmas memories and songs he used to play on the accordion. I caught him singing too.

I'm a little too "good enough, it'll pass" kind of person. The mother-in-law is the extreme opposite. (You should watch us cook together.) I have this very dorky reindeer made out of some kind of fake plant. She insisted that he needed a red nose and some button eyes. Yes, we did it... using the glue gun, searching for buttons, making a red nose. No one will notice but it made her happy and it does look better.

Every year, I make a vow to decorate less. Every year, I break it.

Here's why. Those items I unpack and display represent everything I hold dear: the honor of celebrating Christmas, the memories of Christmas' past and the great pleasure I get in having people in this home. It may not be church but it's definitely fellowship. I packed my bad mood away and relished the time.

And we haven't even gotten to the tree.

Living Out Loud

Anna Quindlen, one of my favorite writers, had a column with the New York Times. Not just a little column... she won the Pulitzer Prize for writing about her life and her opinions.

Instead of resting on her laurels, she went on to write several fabulous (and haunting) novels. She also seems to be a pretty impressive mother of three children, politically active, supportive spouse of a busy man, etc. It's a good thing I'm a fan because it exhausts me to think about her life.

Her New York Times column, Life in the 30s, was "out there" for the time. It was raw and honest. It covered everything from her desire to have another baby to her feelings about religion to the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. That takes guts.

So I sit here in my little office, spouting memories and opinions to the world. I annoy people and they let me know. Some think I'm sugar-coating everything. Others think I'm harsh. I wish Anna Quindlen was my friend so I could call her and ask, "What about this?"

I'm guessing but here's what I think she would say: Write. Write with integrity and let the chips fall where they may.

What They Remember

A friend of mine and her family have been dealing with a health scare. Her mother-in-law had some obstruction in her colon or stomach. I know a much more detailed explanation but I'll leave it at that. This condition, life threatening, required surgery on an 86-year old (or so) woman. Did I mention that she also has a heart condition?

The good news is that she survived the surgery and is now actually thriving again. No one -- even the doctors -- expected this. The bad news is she doesn't remember a lot of the past few weeks. Her family has put endless miles on the cars to visit, consult with the doctors, hold her hand, take care of her dog, take care of her finances, etc. One of her grandchildren calls from Florida every day and asks, "Who visited today?" The answer is always, "No one."

I should be more sympathetic. Instead, I want to put on my t-shirt that says, "Been there; done that."

When we rescued the oldies two years ago, he had just come out of hip surgery and she was going through chemo. Hangdog went immediately to the Ortho rehab hospital. The husband visited twice a day, plus shopped for sweatsuits and other necessities. I visited. The baby visited. I took the mother-in-law to visit and wheeled her around because she was weak. He told us the other day that he was so lonely during that time because no one visited.

Other days, he doesn't remember all of the times he's been in the hospital since they've lived with us.

There's a reason they're good together. He remembers nothing. Her memory is frighteningly sharp.

Having a History

When the husband and I were dating, he said three things that really struck a chord with me. Two were the obvious, "I love you" and later, "Will you marry me?" The one that really got me early on was, "I can't wait until we have a history together." It implied long term. It suggested a future and an appreciation for making memories.

He got his wish. We have a history together. Boy, do we ever!

We have his history, including childhood and previous relationships. We have my history, also including childhood and relationships. We have two children who were not born of this union but in many ways are a product of this union. We have friends -- some he brought to the mix, some I brought to the mix, some we have met through our years together.

We have the oldies. (I'll bet that wasn't part of his making memories plan.)

Photos and (especially) music allow us to say, "Remember this?" Even articles of clothing can remind us of a special occasion.

We have rituals. Some are holiday traditions; others are just things we do, like the crossword. We have signals. Sometimes they're subtle like a raised eyebrow or a hand on the thigh. Others get a little more to the point. And a little louder.

The ability to judge someone's mood or pick the time for a tough conversation is a dance that's perfected over time. Knowing a spouse's hot buttons and choosing not to push them is a dance I'm still learning.

Smart people know if they're jumping into a feather bed or jumping into a volcano. Some of us just jump in.

For some people, having a history means comfort and complacence. I admit that our life together involves some of that. But, we're a little too high strung. Peaks and valleys.

Even in the valleys, I will sing along at the piano. Or, I will curl up and watch TV for a while. During the valleys, we tend to watch a lot of Court TV shows where one spouse tried to get away with killing the other.

I Want to Hold Your Hand

It's cold and flu season. According to the experts, the best way to protect yourself is constant hand-washing, get a flu shot and avoid hand-to-hand contact. I'm about as likely to do that as I am to sell a kidney on eBay.

Holding hands gives me comfort. It makes me feel loved and safe.

I've had doctor's appointments that frightened me. My mother or Mickey held my hand. I've had biopsies and minor surgeries. My parents or Big Sal held my hand. When I put my old dog to sleep, Abby held my hand. When Pam's daughter and the baby both headed off for college, we shared some laughs and tears. We held hands and walked down memory lane. I've been to funerals and memorials where I held hands with lots of people. It's comforting and I need it.

Cynthia has let me weep uncontrollably. She reaches for my hand.

Jan used to grab my hand in public. She knew I was horrified so she found this very funny. Today, I would find it an honor. She's held my hand through an awful lot of things in my life.

When the baby was little, we would kneel and say our prayers. I put my hands over his during this ritual. When we say grace in our home, we hold hands. When the husband and I go for a walk, we hold hands. Sometimes I watch my parents meander into a restaurant or some other function. They still hold hands. When I go to church with my parents, I hold their hands.

If I'm sharing a memory or a laugh with you, I will probably hold your hand. In some ways, it's complete intimacy. It's raw, honest and vulnerable. It says, "I trust you. I need you. Let's help each other."

Lots of other people have held my hand or let me reach for theirs. I remember. I'm going to get my flu shot tomorrow. But I won't stop holding hands.

While You Are Sleeping

Some people sleep all night -- you lucky people!

Here are some of the things I do while you are sleeping:

Say lots of prayers.
Wash a load of clothing and fold it.
Make writing or business notes.
Plan menus, even though I don't cook very often.
Fret and pace.
Watch episodes of I Love Lucy or The Andy Griffith Show.
Unload the dishwasher.
Re-read the last People Magazine.
Wake the dog up so we can both be miserably awake together.
Make to-do lists of things that will never get done.
Watch movies that I've seen over and over and over.
Go through emails and respond/delete.
Tackle the stack of mail and catalogs.
Sneak in the oldies' room to see if any new ghosts have come to visit.
Sit in the baby's room and wallow in the memories.
Call people who might be up. I know who you are.

Eventually, I crawl into bed and (as I'm told,) start to snore. It's the husband's time to get up and escape. I'll grab two hours and then get up to work out.

By the way, he paces and snores too.