We took clockwise turns around the living room,
unwrapping in a slow savor ‘til almost noon,
when he arose,
rescued the bag of small russets from the pantry,
and with the brand new peeler he bought at Marshall’s
for just the occasion,
set to work skinning them in the sink,
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I remember we were sitting around the kitchen table … Mom, my older brother, I think my sister Missy was there, too. I may have still been in high school. Seventeen, maybe?
Mom was reading the local newspaper, and had flipped to the classifieds in the back where they parked the memorials. Where folks would send in pictures and tributes, often poems, always heartfelt, honoring the memory of loved ones in the wake, or on the anniversary, of their passing.
Mom found the idea of publishing these in the newspaper the funniest thing in the world.
Continue readingSo the day started with a trip to a doctor about this thing that has overstayed its welcome on my person, though I’ve given it several months to politely excuse itself (rude). When the doctor took a look at the thing, she pointed to these other things that were in the same general area code and asked me, “What about these?” In my head, I said something like, “Oh, those? Old friends of mine. Been around for a long time. Don’t worry about those. I’m here to talk about this relatively new thing.” She then broadly waved her hand. “These are all the same thing,” and then said the multi-syllable, multi-word medical term for the collective thing.
“Really?” I said, taken aback.
Continue readingGot to chat with my oldest sister yesterday morning … something we’ve been making more time for on our Saturdays the past few months. We’re not religious about it, but it’s something I think we’ve both grown to appreciate a lot (I know I have). We catch up on each other’s worlds and weeks, compare notes on what we’re both reading or watching, recent updates on our other siblings, our occasional health dust-ups, our erratic sleep habits, etc. Yesterday she mentioned looking into a volunteer program (she’s done a ton of volunteering over the past several years) that visits with veterans, just to listen and chat, and, if they’re up for it, to have them share their stories. I told her she’d be perfect for that program. She’s a veteran herself, having joined the marines out of high school, which to this day makes me so proud and in awe of her. And she’s always had a heart for spending time with older people. This past week she visited with the mom of one of her oldest friends to help with eye drops for cataracts. As has become part of our conversational ritual, I had a smile on my face by the time we said our good byes and I Love Yous.
I was running errands when she called me, and as we wrapped our conversation I pulled into a parking spot outside the tiny little coffee shop off North Main Street. I’ve been dropping in Saturday mornings for a here’s-to-the-weekend espresso, and the accompanying smile and kind word from whoever’s working behind the counter. When I walked in, an older gentleman with a Hemmingway beard was warming himself by the fire with a tall to-go cup of coffee. A shopping cart with his belongs sat next to him. After placing my order I sat down at the table across from where he was, taking the chair near the wall, putting the table and its other chair between us.
He let me know I could move his cart if it was in my way.
“Totally fine,” I said.
“I refer to it as my portable RV,” he said, with a soft laugh.
After a couple seconds, he added, “Sometimes in life it’s important to know how to improvise,” and, after a few more seconds, “One thing I’ve always believed is that you never stop learning, no matter how old you get.”
For the record I am awkward and awful at small talk in all its forms, and generally avoid it at all costs. So much so that in my prior visits to the coffee shop I’ve carried a book with me to fill the few minutes it takes for the barista to make my to go order. Yet ….
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I figured we had about an hour’s drive to make our 7:15 reservations.
I had the car out of the garage and air-condition-cooling by 6 p.m.
Married twenty-five years, she knows how much I hate to be late.
I hold the car door and she lowers herself into her seat … at promptly 6:35 p.m.
Married twenty-five years, I know she’s never ready on time.
She: Wait a minute. Forgot my cheaters. Can’t read the menu without ‘em.
I get back out to hold the door a second time, and give the bridge of my nose a deep tissue massage until she returns and floats once again into her seat.
As we pull out of the driveway, we Google Map our drive to check traffic.
ETA: 7:37 p.m.
My chest tightens.
“Don’t drive like a maniac or you’ll make me sick.”
Ah, the sweet nothings of anniversary date night.
Continue readingEver since Mom’s passing, whenever I find myself missing her, I walk my memory back to being nine years old and standing in our kitchen.
I was sad as hell.
The way you get when you’re nine and you have no one to play with on a school’s out, full summer sun, Mullen Street morning. The kind that, when you’re a kid, is just too good to let go to waste.
No Danny. No Jeff. No Jerry. No Amy. No Billy.
Not a single soul to pass ball with.
If you were nine in our neighborhood, this was a crime against humanity.
Standing in the kitchen, I made no secret of my discontent, moping around in all my misery.
Mom finally asked what was wrong, and I told her. She ran down the full roster of my friends. I shot down each one with a “Not home … not answering the phone … car’s not there ….”
Moved by equal parts not wanting to see me sad and finding me annoying AF, she disappeared into the dining room, opened the closet, and reappeared wearing a ball cap and holding Dad’s baseball glove.
“I’ll pass with you.”
This was not a solution to my problem.
For starters, she looked absurd.
This is the lamest idea ever, I remember thinking. I’d never seen Mom throw anything other than fits at my Dad.
That’s all right, I said.
“Come on, let’s go,” she persisted, popping the ball from her right hand into her gloved left.
No, really, I deflected.
This went on for a good couple minutes.
In recorded history, though, no one ever won a test of will against Maggie Riddell.
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Letters for Maggie 