Posted in Throwback Thursday

Schedule a play-date with your inner child

When I was young I could do backbends. I could stand on my hands. I could fall down, bounce back up and keep running. I could move a couch without wetting my pants.

It’s all too easy to come up with things I used to be able to but now can’t. Lately I’ve been trying to remember things I used to do and still can, but for some reason stopped. One day instead of hopping up on the bed to put on my socks, I sat on the floor like I did when I was a kid. The simple act created a small shift in attitude. What else can I still do?

  • Go outside barefootpexels-photo-634279.jpeg
  • Drink hot chocolate
  • Make clover necklaces
  • Watch tv with a blanket and a pillow on the floor
  • Squirt Hershey’s Syrup in my mouth
  • Picnic on a blanket
  • Color with crayons
  • Pick dandelions and put them in a vase
  • Stare up at the stars
  • Lay on my back and imagine shapes in the clouds
  • Make snow angels

Children have a way of keeping us young at heart. They encourage us to play and leave our cares behind. Playing with children allows us permission to indulge. But hey! When you were a kid, all you wanted to do is grow up so you could do whatever you want whenever you want. So if you want to act like a kid all by yourself, you get to do that.

What did you used to do that you still can if you wanted to? Go for it. I double dog dare you.

Your inner child is waiting.

Peace . . .




Posted in Throwback Thursday

A trip down Memory Line

My memory lane is a train track. You might say it’s more of a Memory Line than a Memory Lane. The tracks ran less than a block from my house. I can still remember the mournful cries of the whistles announcing their approach in and out of Minneapolis.

We spent hot summer days under trees on a piece of land we called we called the ditch. The ditch was as long as our neighborhood, 100 to 200 feet wide. It ran alongside the tracks, and despite how fearsome it sounds, was the perfect playground for my mates and me. We climbed trees, both upright and felled and made moguls for bicycles. And the trains rumbled by. Sometimes we’d race toward the tracks to see the engineer at his place in front. We’d pump our arms to see if he’d toot the whistle and jump for joy if he did.

Holly Shopping Center is still less than a mile from where I grew up, but several other of our hangouts are gone. We biked or walked, and always crossed the tracks to get anywhere. We played a game to see who could stare at the top of the cars the longest. As they flew by, the wind swooshed against our bodies, and the train seemed to be falling down on top of us. Our screams of delight rivaled the roar of the cars. And always at the end, there was the red caboose.

As a toddler, clean from the bath and dressed in flannel, I’d sit on my mother’s lap looking out at the moon from our big living room window. We snuggled and she bounced me on her lap. Sometimes she’d read The Little Engine That Could. One of the songs she sang was Little Red Caboose. We’d get to the end and I’d join in. “Little red caboose behind the train . . . toot, toot!”

On nights when sleep defied me, I’d wait in the darkness and listen. At night you could hear the trains from miles away, blowing their whistle at each crossing.

I still like to hear the reassuring rumble of a train from my bed. As the cars drift away . . . clickety, clickety, clickety . . . they pull me back to my childhood home, and deep into dreamland.

Peace . . .

Posted in Throwback Thursday

Uncommon courtesy

At the risk of sounding like a relic, I have to say that sometimes it seems like there is no such thing as common courtesy on the road anymore.  It use to be you could turn on your blinker, and people would make room for you to change lanes.  That’s right.  The blinker was like a request.  “May I come over?”  Then your buddy in the next lane would ease up on the accelerator just a little bit.  Not enough to make him late for work, but just enough to say, “Sure!  There’s room for both of us.”

When I learned to drive, I was instructed to go slowly in parking lots because people who were backing up didn’t necessarily see you. Then if you saw their white reverse lights, you stopped so they had time and space to back up. Nowadays, if you see someone backing up, the protocol seems to be to honk so they know you’re barreling through.

Yesterday I made the mistake (or was it?) of going out of turn at a 4-way stop. We’ve all been there. You think you’re next, but maybe someone else thinks their next. So I went. As I passed the woman who obviously thought she was next, she gave me a look of horror like I had threatened the lives of her children in the back seat.

Call me sensitive, but a middle finger, a honk or a dirty look, can ruin my day. I’d be willing to bet if you knew me, you wouldn’t want to ruin my day.

And you know what? Today in a parking lot I almost pulled out in front of an SUV due to a huge pile of snow blocking my view. I slammed on my brakes enough to skid a few feet. You know what the woman in the SUV did? She waved at me and smiled! And that simple act revived my faith in humanity.

Would you rather ruin someone’s day, or make the world a little better place to live? You have that power.

Peace . . .


Posted in Throwback Thursday

At least I’m shaven

What did you want to be when you grew up?  I wanted to be a flight attendant, a truck driver, a veterinarian and a teacher.  None of those things ever came to fruition, but I have never stopped wondering what I could be if I ever grew up.

Sometimes I imagine selling everything to move out to the country and live on a farm. I’d want to have cows and chickens and grow organic food and sell it to people who eat things like wheat grass and chia seeds.  I’d have a pasture and a horse, and a big enough yard that Sabbie could run for Frisbees without ripping up our small suburban lawn.  The nearest house would be a half mile away, and I’d call them neighbors.

When I told Bubba about this he called me a hippie.

Me:  I suppose I would have to stop shaving my legs.
Bubba:  I reckon.
Me:  Do you think I could keep shaving my pits, or would I have to let that go too?
Bubba:  I think that goes along with the gig.

There is always something to discourage me from my big ideas.  You can call me a pessimist. I say I’m a realist. A realist with smoothly shaven legs and pits.

Peace . . .


Posted in Throwback Thursday

Ode to an Ornament

UntitledLittle ornament, I sometimes think of you on the warmest days of summer, waiting silently and patient in your storage box of red. You quietly guard so many memories beneath your glassy wings.

The day we brought you home, my mom and me, we found you hanging from a needled branch on a department store christmas tree.  The music piped, the lights twinkled, and we saw you dangling there.  We laughed at your tiny feet, your silly eyes, and eggshell hat.  My mother said, “It looks so fragile, I don’t suppose it will last a year.  But it’s so silly I think we need to get it, don’t you?”  I emphatically agreed as the saleswoman wrapped each of the ornaments we had chosen in layers of tissue and placed them in a bag.

Every year as you emerged from your ball of crumpled paper, Mom would exclaim with delight that you had made it one more year. And every year so far, you have.  Do you remember the year we brought you up to the cabin in Wisconsin?  You swayed nervously on the feeble bough of a tree so small we tied it to the window to keep it standing.

You’ve survived toppling trees, wagging tails, and even curious toddlers. You’ve seen the birth of many grandchildren and even great-grandchildren.  You’ve seen tears of joy and laughter.  And you’ve seen the tears of remembrance.

You see, you never know when you’ll open a box and the thing you find most precious is broken beyond repair.  And everything it ever was will remain only in the heart of those who love it.

Thank you for reminding me, especially at this time of year, that life is fragile and fleeting and to cherish my loved ones with all my heart while they are within the reach of my loving arms.

Peace . . .

Posted in Throwback Thursday

The Hardest Gift 

We are now only one turkey dinner away from being launched into the official gift-giving season.  I know that sentence made you cringe. There’s all kinds of bad juju wrapped up in there.  It brings to mind long lines, empty wallets, and whiny kids waiting to sit on a strange man’s lap. Tell me, when else do we let that happen?

And there is the added stress of finding that one gift that will change someone’s life forever. I received one of those gifts the last year of my mother’s life. It was the hardest gift I’ve ever had to receive.

It was a pair theater tickets to the musical The King and I.  She loved the theater.  All four of my children had attended by the time they were six. She made sure of that.  We have a wonderful Children’s Theater in Minneapolis, and the productions are amazing.

The catch was that it was a pair of tickets for the both of us. This would, under normal circumstances, have issued no grief on either of our parts. But these were not normal circumstances. Since my mom’s stroke six months earlier, I had only taken her out once or twice.

At the risk of sounding shallow or selfish, I tell you I was afraid.  My mom had always taken me out to the theater. I followed her leads, and let her help me.  This was going to be very different. And it went beyond what I wanted to do or any fears I might have had. My mom wanted to go to the theater one more time. And she wanted to go with me.

When I showed up at her house, her live-in caregiver greeted me at the door.  Mom was wearing her prettiest black dress, though it hung lake drapery on her thin frame. She wore makeup and held a small black bag, the tickets tucked securely within.

I pulled up to the front of the theater, as she instructed, parking in front of the valet.  She pressed some bills in my hand, telling me to give them to him as a tip. The valet helped me unload and unfold the wheelchair. Leaning down, I wrapped my arms under hers, and around her back. I lifted her to her feet, supporting her while she shuffled to position herself in front of the chair.  The valet held the chair steady and, once seated, asked her if everything was okay. She nodded, and he grinned wide as I handed him the money she had provided.

I was walking a tightrope, balancing between helping my feeble mother and letting her help me, as it had always been — offering some small piece of normalcy in the otherwise implausible life she now lived. And yet, it was no act. This was her world, not mine. I needed her every bit as much as she needed me.

I followed her crooked finger, turning this way or that, past elegant ladies and handsome men. We took the elevator to an usher who directed us to one of the seats next to a bit of open floor where we parked and set the brake. It wasn’t long before the lights dimmed and I allowed the tears to swell in my eyes.

I was ashamed at my nervousness and astonished at my pride. Proud for facing my fear, for having her want to spend this precious time with me, and proud, as always, to be seen with her.

I’m not sure how she did it, perhaps by sheer will, but she made it to intermission without vomitting. You see, this is what really killed her. She kept very little food or drink down. Her voice was weak and coarse from the irritation of it. And she was slowly wasting away. But the fact is that the first half of the show was quite uneventful, aside from the magnificent story unfolding on stage.

We pushed out to the lobby, each ordering a glass of wine against my better judgement.  We exchanged small talk, and I made sure she was comfortable. Back in my seat, the alcohol calmed me and made me sleepy.

The man next to me leaned over me to ask my mother how she was enjoying the play. I will forever be in this nameless man’s debt. Perhaps he sensed my trepidation. Maybe he just wanted to make an old woman feel seen and heard. But his conversation brought me relief and I will always remember him.

The lights dimmed again, and the actors took the stage. I scarcely remember the production.  Each nerve in my spine stood rigid and ready, like taking a newborn home for the first night. I waited until it came. The retching. The straining. I held a bag with one hand while soothing her back with the other.  While I measured the distance to the door and which was the worst distraction to the audience, it stopped. I handed her tissues, and it was over, and the musical concluded in one grand finale.

Before we left the theater, we found a wheelchair-accessible restroom. I wheeled the chair in, locked it in place, and asked what she needed next. Mom assured me she would be fine, but that she would leave the door unlocked, “just in case.”  I paced outside like an expectant father, waiting and listening for what seemed too long a time. When at last she emerged smiling, she suggested we find dessert.

When the evening concluded, I left her in the capable hands of her caregiver. We kissed and hugged and exchanged thank yous. I imagine she slept well that night and awoke the next morning with a happy heart.

As for me, I haven’t been to the theater since, and when I do it will never be the same.  I am ashamed to admit the fear I felt. I hope I was able to hide it.  Yet she was my mother, and mothers have a way of knowing.

I’m not sure who received the greater gift that night, the giver or the recipient. And I can’t tell you whether the gift I received was the honor of having been chosen to receive it, ot the strength I found in carrying it out.  But I can tell you its greatness lies within the mystery.

Peace . . .