This Land Is My Land...

September, for me, is a roller coaster of emotions; from the happiness of becoming a wife, the joyful memories of becoming a mother, to the heartbreak of losing a parent.

One more memorable event is held in the arms of September, and it came about in 1958 when a young husband, wife, their daughter and a pet parakeet set sail for the journey of their lifetime. Yes, you read it right, a parakeet! Saying goodbye to grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, teachers, school chums and your home is no easy task and I can only imagine how difficult it was for my parents, after all they were the adults. Boarding an ocean liner in Southampton, England…destination New York, America is something you never forget. (Cue Neil Diamond.)

Being just a youngster at the time, I never gave much thought to how much guts courage it took on my parent’s part, to basically and blindly face the unknown in a strange land. We had a sponsor family as that was required to immigrate, and I know my father spent hour upon hour completing paperwork, followed by trips to London and a meeting with the powers that determined if the Queen wanted to let you go American Consulate.

Four days into our Atlantic crossing, rumors circulated that our arrival would be delayed due to a hurricane that was causing problems in the shipping lanes. I was eleven years old, we didn’t have hurricanes in England, I was clueless, but not for long! Hurricane Helene, the strongest hurricane of the 1958 season, and our ship made contact somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Windows were broken, dishes were smashed, and bones were broken. My Mother, who hated water and ships to begin with, was terrified, I know how hard she tried to hide it but I can still remember the look on her face as the ship pitched and rolled through the stormy sea.

On the 30th of September, 1958, four days late, the SS Arosa Sky limped past the Statue of Liberty and slid into its berth in New York Harbor. We had arrived!

Fifty one years have passed since that young girl from England stood in awe of buildings that touched the sky and cars the size of buses. Well, at eleven they seemed that big! I have never returned to my homeland, I keep thinking I will visit someday but with each passing year, it seems less likely. I consider myself to be more of an American (a citizen for nearly 40 years) than a Brit but somewhere deep inside; my heart hums God Save the Queen now and then.

My parents were so proud to call the United States their home. I only wish they were still here to celebrate another anniversary.

In Memory

When I tell you that my Mother was a simple woman, I say that with highest respect. She didn’t hold a degree, or have a big career; in fact, she didn’t even have a driver’s license. Born in a small village in Cornwall, England, she left school at sixteen and went to work to help the family make ends meet.

As a young woman during World War II Mom, joined with her mother (my Grandmother), in helping refugees that were being evacuated from London.

During an outing in the early months of 1945 Mom, along with friends ‘bumped’ into a small group of Royal Air Force officers who were having a little R &R. One young man in particular caught her eye, or maybe she caught his eye, anyway…later that year they married.

My Mom was a devoted wife, a good mother and a wonderful homemaker. Despite the usual mother/daughter moments, we always resolved our differences and over the years became even closer. A lifetime of memories would fill volumes.

In her 50’s, Mom’s health became an issue, she developed diabetes, complicated by a pre-existing heart condition. Stabilized by medication, Mom went on with life, always giving and never complaining.

During the years that followed, I could see a decline in both of my parent’s health and eventually plans were put in place to have them live with us. It was during that planning time, in September of 1993, I was awakened by a very early morning phone call. Generally phone calls this early in the day were either a wrong number or bad news. This call was no exception, it was a call that broke my heart and changed my life. At the young age of 66, the woman that meant the world to me, my dear Mom had passed away. Her weakened heart had beat for a final time during her sleep.

There are not enough words to express how much I miss her and think of her every day; in her memory, I would like to share this poem.

If tears could build a stairway,
And memories were a lane,
I would walk right up to heaven
To bring you home again
No farewell words were spoken
No time to say goodbye
You were gone before I knew it
And only God knows why
My heart still aches in sadness
And secret tears still flow,
What it meant to lose you,
No one will ever know.

~Author Unknown

Live And Learn

I was reading a fellow blogger’s post this morning about him giving his lunch to a homeless man and it brought back a memory from years ago.

In fact, it was the summer of 1965; shortly after graduating from High School. I had secured a job with a Certified Public Account in Springfield, Massachusetts, whilst I decided what path I wanted to follow as a young woman. Several opportunities had been presented to me and I needed time to think!

Parking was always a problem in the downtown area, so ‘the boss’ had made arrangements for employees to park at a lot about a block away for a reasonable amount and without fear of the dreaded parking ticket. At the end of my very first day of work, I turned the corner headed for the parking lot when I was approached by a somewhat scruffy, middle-aged man, “Hi there Miss, would you have a dime for a cup of coffee?” He asked. Feeling a little nervous, I fumbled in my purse and handed him a quarter, and hurried along. “Bless you, Miss.” I heard him call after me. This ritual continued day after day for quite some time. Every day he got a quarter and every day I got blessed, sometimes when he looked particularly forlorn I would give him a bit more.

After a couple of months of supporting his ‘coffee habit’, as I handed over yet another coin, I asked him his name. “Charlie, you can call me Charlie.” He mumbled. Time passed and Charlie got his daily handout from me and heaven knows how many other passersby on that busy city street.

It was just before Thanksgiving and I remember it was extremely cold. The wind whipped around the buildings and hit with such gusto that your teeth would chatter. 5 o’clock came and headed for home, as I rounded the corner, I noticed that Charlie was not there. It was so bitterly cold that I was glad and hoped he had found a warm shelter. As I continued along, my eye caught sight of a really cool, shiny, baby blue and white 1955 Ford Fairlane parked at a meter; it looked like it had just come out of the showroom. I was almost level with it, when the passenger door opened and a familiar voice asked a very familiar question, “Hi, can you spare a dime for a cup of coffee?” It was Charlie. “It’s so damn cold today I sat in my car.” Once I picked my jaw up off the sidewalk, I asked, “This is your car?” He looked totally surprised that I was surprised “Yea, well I can’t walk from home every day, can I?”

Well to make a long story short, I learned through the grapevine that Charlie was a bum! He wasn’t poor, he wasn’t homeless, he lived in a nice house in a nearby town, owned a car and had a trust fund. He was a true lazy bum scam artist! After word got around, Charlie rode drove off into the sunset and was not seen again. Rumor has it that he was actually banned from the city, but that may just be an urban myth.

A Hairy Situation

The other day I got my hair trimmed and for a long as I can remember which is many, many years, I still have the same old question, "What does it take to get a good haircut?"

Now let’s figure this out…I’m sixty-two and if I don’t even count the first 20 years, that leaves 42 years which is the equivalent to 504 months, now say I got a haircut every 2 months that would equal 252 haircuts. Even though my average time between haircuts it about 6 weeks; let’s just round it off to 250 haircuts in the last 40 years. We won’t even talk about the first 20 years, and especially the first 10 when my dear mother used to cut my hair by put a bowl on my head! Out of those 250 haircuts, I can count the times that I have been really pleased on two hands!

I find it difficult to stay loyal to one beauty salon when I hate what they did to my hair! On the other hand when I find someone I’m pleased with, they seem to leave for greener pastures! So the search for ‘haircut happiness’ continues!

For at least the past 20 years, I’ve worn my hair fairly short, nothing complicated and I only have 3 basic hair cutting instructions…DON’T cut my bangs, DON’T cut my hair so far above my ear that it looks like a white wall and NO crew cuts! I don’t know how much clearer I can be!

Whether it’s a high end beauty parlor, a franchised clip joint or even a barber shop…nobody listens!

Is it just me? Do we share the same experiences? How about the men…are you happy with your haircuts? Are men more fussy about their hair than, let’s say, our Dads were?

I’ll leave you to ponder while I search for a hat!

Buckle Up!

The other day, I was talking with my friend’s mother, Irene, who is 92 and still drives. I don’t even remember how we got on the subject but suddenly we were having a discussion on older drivers.

Recently there has been a rash of elderly drivers crashing through grocery stores windows, a beauty parlor, Wal-Mart, a parking garage, and the list goes on. The majority of these drivers are well into their 80’s and the reason is always the same; they mistook the gas pedal for the brake.

I commented to Irene that this totally puzzles me, after all, chances are if you are driving when you are, say 85, you didn’t get your license last week, and have many years of driving under your belt; so how come all of a sudden a person doesn’t know the accelerator from the brake?

Being ever curious, the next time I got in my car; and while parked in the drive way and without turning the engine on, I played different scenarios in my head. I moved my right foot back and forth rapidly from the gas to the brake, gas to brake, brake to gas, all the while imagining I was pulling into a parking spot, backing up, or approaching a cross walk. I did my absolute best to confuse my foot but it just didn’t work. I hit the correct pedals each time!

Now I grant you that in twenty years, should I be blessed to live that long, the chances that my reflexes, agility and quick thinking are going to be the same as they are today are pretty slim, and I too stand the chance of sailing though the front window of my local 7-Eleven. However, before I end up next to the dairy case, I hope common sense would kick in, either my own, or a family member and say, “Sunny it’s time to turn in your keys!”

During the course of our conversation, Irene told me this joke and I’d like to share it with you. She is quite a woman for her age!

Two elderly women were out driving in a large car. Both could barely see over the dashboard. As they were cruising along they came to an intersection. The stoplight was red but they just went on through. The woman in the passenger seat thought to herself, "I must be losing it; I could have sworn we just went through a red light."

After a few more minutes they came to another intersection and the light was red again, and again they went right though. This time the woman in the passenger seat was almost sure that the light had been red but was really concerned that she was losing it.

She was getting nervous, and decided to pay very close attention to the road, and the next intersection to see what was going on. At the next intersection, sure enough, the light was definitely red and they went right through, she turned to the other woman and said, "Mildred! Don't you know we just ran three red lights in a row! You could have killed us!"

Mildred turned to her and said "Oh Damn! Am I driving?"

A Case Of The 'Cranks'

As a rule, I am not a cranky person, I don’t even like cranky people, but some rules are made to be broken and today I am cranky. I’m having one of those days where nothing is going right, and I’m sure you have them too.

My ‘cranks’ started when I in advertently overrode a photograph I was saving and ended up losing the first one completely!

Next, my printer has decided that it no longer wants to print. It’s one of those 3-way deals, fax, scanner and printer. Well it hasn’t worked right since I installed in on my husband’s computer and I know it has something to do with the drivers not being compatible with Vista. You would think that downloading new drivers would solve the problem…HA! Now I get a message that my computer and printer are not communicating! It popped a box on my screen with what I could try in order to resolve the problem; unplug USB from PC, unplug USB from printer, unplug printer from power, turn printer on, reboot PC, stand on one foot and whistle Dixie! Of course this has to happen right when I have a pile of things that need to be scanned and printed! And of course, it didn’t work!

Contributing to my irritable frame of mind is when I reached for something in the bathroom cupboard and noticed that the skin on my hand looks like crepe paper…what’s up with that?

Spending the past hour on the phone punching one for English, and two for non-existent customer service representatives, holding for eternity all whilst garbled music blasted my eardrums, certainly has not helped my mood.

Autumn is tapping on my window, enticing me to walk in the sunshine but I’m up to my ears in paperwork, computer woes and skin crinkling before my eyes!

Don’t you just love Mondays?

Today I Became A Mother...

Well not actually today! It 41 years ago today. Even after all these years, I remember the day so clearly, it was a Monday, 7:05 in the morning the first pang of labor, calling the doctor, suitcase in hand, heading for the hospital, and at 12:05 p.m., I became a proud Mom of a 7 pound 1 1/2 ounce, 21 inch baby boy. Ask me what I had to eat yesterday and I probably couldn’t tell you but 41 year old baby facts are never forgotten! Neither will the 5 hours of labor!

In 1968, hospitals had just started the practice of babies being taken care of by the mother, rather than being in a nursery all day. The nurses gave mini classes on how to bathe and change this tiny human that we suddenly had become totally responsible for. Hospital stays averaged a week and no baby left until it had reached a certain weight, and the cost was less than $300!

I remember holding my son, touching his soft cheek trying to absorb the fact that he was mine; it seemed a bit overwhelming and praying that I would be a good mom was a regular occurrence.

Total reality, however, didn’t hit until we brought our bundle of joy home. Oh my! What a set of lungs! Thank heavens for my own Mom who was my one woman support group. My son would cry, I’d rock him, sing to him, feed him, walk the floor for hours with him and he would still cry…my Mother would take him from me and he’d stop instantly. I swear that baby had an on and off switch!

Wow, that was so many years ago…and it’s been a long road with its share of sunshine and potholes, even a mountain now and then. This gray hair had to come from somewhere!

Someone once said, “Son, you outgrew my lap, but never my heart!”
Happy Birthday, Kiddo!

A Moving Experience

If I were to write a list of things I hate to do, without a doubt, moving would be number one, and tied for first place would be the packing and sorting involved in order to move!

When we moved from the Cape back to the mountains, I spent hour after hour wrapping dishes, glasses, knick knacks, pictures and heaven knows what else. I knew a lot of things would have to be stored, so being the annoyingly organized person that I am, everything was placed into plastic bins, (they work so much better than cardboard boxes), and carefully marked so that things would end up in the right place. It all ran pretty smoothly, until I got to the clothes in my closet!

Clearly it was time to stop procrastinating and thin out years of accumulated fashions. Well, I have to be honest, my clothes kind of took up more room than just my closet; somehow a few things had found their way into my husband’s closet and spilled over to the upstairs hall closet, oh and the guest room closet; I won’t mention the stuff packed away under the bed!

Now I just want to say that I don’t buy a lot of clothes, and I’m not a pack rat, I just have a hard time parting with certain things. I have my thin clothes, my not so thin clothes, my it might come back in fashion clothes, even my what was I thinking when I bought this clothes.

My strategy was simple, I’d make three piles; Keep, Donate and Toss. However, every time I handled a piece of clothing I started to think about where and why I had gotten it; clearly I was going to have to pick up the pace, if I wanted to move with the rest of the house. I revamped my strategy, anything size 6 or under, went to the donate pile. I glanced in the mirror; did I really fit into those? Now, on top of this horrible chore, I was depressed! Anything over size 14, went to the donate pile. I glanced in the mirror; did I really fit into those? I was feeling a little better! Once I got in the groove, it didn’t take too long to zip through the rest of the closet and on to the next.

When I reached the back of the hall closet, I found an old suitcase that I had all but forgotten about. As I carried it out and set it on the bed, I was trying to recall what I had put in it. My thumbs snapped the latches open and I lifted the lid…on top was the little, white, fluffy bunting that I brought my son home in, when he was born, almost forty-one years ago, a red velvet muff, that my Mom had made for me when I was just a little girl, an apron that I had made in sewing class when I was 6 years old, a blazer patch from Egg Packing School Elmhurst Private School, a dog collar and tags belonging to Whiskey, the first puppy I ever had in the United States, the lace covered Bible I carried at my first wedding. The rest of the contents became a blur through the tears welling in my eyes; this suitcase was a microcosm of my life. I closed the lid, put my ‘treasures’ in a safe place and returned to the chore of sorting clothes.

Maybe it’s my ‘old age’ that makes me hate moving as much as I do! Maybe it’s because when my Dad was in the RAF, from the time I was born until we came to America, we moved over sixteen times. Maybe I’ve lost my spirit of adventure! Maybe it’s because, last night, my husband asked me if I thought this house was too big for just the two of us. Maybe I should have gotten on that damn bus with Edith!

A Case Of Mistaken Identity

On the occasions that I have to go to the 'city' I combine several errands at once. The other day I had to go grocery shopping so I loaded Lucy into the car and headed off the mountain.

It was a glorious day, the sun was shining and not a cloud in the clear, blue sky. This was the kind of day my dear mother-in-law would call 'pristine'. Since it was such a lovely day, I decided to take a quick detour into Shelburne Falls and take a few pictures at the Bridge of Flowers.

The Bridge of Flowers is a big attraction and is on the itinerary of many tour bus companies, several of which cater to senior seasoned citizens. This day was no exception as the area was a sea of gray hair.

I parked the car, and grabbed my camera and told Lucy that I'd be right back. She is so used to me hopping in and out of the car to take pictures, that she just gives me that kind of 'here we go again' look.

As I made my way through the arch of roses at the entrance of the bridge, I was met with the most incredible display of flowers I think I have ever seen, it was absolutely breathtaking. A sprinkling of people wandered the pathway, oohing and aahing at the dinner plate sized Dahlias and the other magnificent blossoms; I may have oohed a couple of times myself!

Well, I had walked the span of he bridge taking hundreds many pictures along the way, and was now headed back in the direction of my car. The crowd had thinned down to about a half dozen people, one being a sweet, little lady furiously taking pictures with a bright yellow, disposable camera. As she zipped by me she smiled and said, "Edith, have you ever seen such flowers?" Edith? I chuckled to myself, I've been called many names but never Edith. A minute later, the lady passed me again almost at a jog, "I just can't believe all these flowers, I hope I don't run out of film!"

Almost back to the entrance, I stopped to take a final picture, as I knelt down to get a close shot, I felt a tap on my shoulder, actually it was more of a hard poke and I almost lost my balance. "Edith, you headed back to the bus? Tell the driver to wait up, there's a Gladiola with my name on it down the path." Before I could respond, even before I could get to my feet, she was gone, charging back across the bridge.

Of course I made the mistake of sharing my 'lady on the bridge' story with my husband, who now insists on calling me Edith. Grrrrr!