Fred's Pond

There were seven of us then and only two of them. We had a dream world if you ask me- attentive folks that really wanted kids and had a good time getting them along. One parent to give and one parent to temper, one to spend and one to thrift. I learned a lot of economy from this yin/yang pair and I must tell you about a particular lesson or Kasi will know. I just love me some Kasi so here comes a funny story: my mom put cloth diapers on my face. OH YES she did! Momma kept us warm and bundled us up before the hockey outings- she did a good job at that but I swear we were the only ones with cloth diapers for mufflers- scarves? All economy aside, it's not a lie that I no longer have friends from that time in my life. Now that's just funny.

The Car Wash

It's a Wednesday evening, and on the way home from work I fill up and take advantage of the car wash in the rear of the lot before heading home. A long hump day today... work more mundane than the meatloaf every Tuesday I knew growing up. The swashswashswash of the car wash's thick plasticky tenatacles lure me into staring blandly at a point beyond the steering wheel, spaced out and into a day long ago: I'm six years old now and the car has become Grandma's brown Fairlane. Solid and unadorned, the car is an unsure and alert area for me. I have learned to pay attention when you're with Grannie- maybe it's her palpable anxiety that I'm intuitive to, or her nack for talking to all the other drivers- something my Dad never does. Grannie's a two hands on the wheel at all times driver. We pull into the car wash and I know right away this is not going to work. The water begins to spray each side simultaineously and Grannie is looking out the rear view mirror then ducking low, chin first to peer deep through the windsheild into the daylight beyond. She is tapping the seat next to her rapidly with fingertips, and they stop intermittantly to a prayer's pause I cannot hear. "I don't think this is working right. Do you think the machine is going to hit the car?" The directional stop light near the exit of the car wash is clearly red and has STOP written there, but the gear changer on the steering column drops to D and we slip at first, then catch and lurch into the bright sun of a summer afternoon and the safety of a clear day. I feel sorry for Grannie and know she will never speak of this; just a bygone occurence that never meant anything. We don't speak of these things...
I recognize my own interior... wrappers on the floor mats and the GPS on the seat next to me. The swashswashswash is louder now and they are hitting the car really hard. "Hey!" They have smacked the window next to me violently and the car rocked to the side for a moment. I hear a poof, poof , POP and the bar holding the wax spray has bent and is aimed directly at the windsheild in front of my nose. Things have gone awry inside here and the entrance is closed with a garage door that will open automatically when the dryer is finished. A Camry blocks my rear. Another squeal of metal and another POP. The plasticky tentacles are neon green but there is a red fluid dripping from them and at first the effect is bright but the red hits the car windows and the bloody resemblance is beyond frightening. Am I my Grandmother after all? I drop the gear into D.

Writing can be so difficult... thinking of a clever story or twist of a wrist to share that will parellel your intellect.
I've been stuck a little... frightened to post something banal.
Looking back I realize I am not the kind to "wait & see" or think through all paths and consequences. Jump in and life will happen along the way. I'm a do-er: sometimes 8th grade level task achievement style, and sometimes an outreach and organizer style. I can do it.
So here we go- I'm dumping the fright and jumping into the banal and will blog away and maybe no one will listen.
As much a do-er as I am I have also been floundering with a career choice. I feel I can achieve more; I would like a challenge of a different color and for a year now the elusive "perfect position" has been my topic. I will create my own path and invision what I choose and be content to know that when the stars do align I will end my long nursing career in a truly useful and purposeful manner.

Men are from...

We went on a bike ride this early Spring weekend- the first hint of the summer to come. Warm days sprinkled with the scent of blossom- mmm....
A bike ride was in order to stir the blood after a winter's stillness. Our wheels of torture came out storage: I brushed my seat off with my palm and declared mine ready! My husband cannot do that. He cannot simply ride. First the air compressor was assembled and cleaned then our tires were checked. Oil and gears and wrenches and adjustments...
I went back into the house to get myself ready. Not to warm up the muscles, mind you... I took a long shower and shaved the accumulation of winter hair, clogging the drain. I softened my skin and scented it with freesia. A spring sweet blouse with strawberries, princess pouf sleeves and a brocade ribbon on the left shoulder blade was brought out: complimenting my petal pushers. I painted my toenails to match and found the perfect sandal. I came downstairs ready to decorate my bicycle with pansies from the garden.
"I thought we were biking!!" My husband's astonishment at seeing my efforts.
He was in ninja mode: full bike gear, helmut, mirrors, emergency kit, back up water, and locks.

We rode seven miles on the B&A trail: paved and suburban. It was as pleasant a day as anyone wanted and our styles may have looked opposite from afar, but from within and around the last twenty years we have managed to meld these styles into a freedom of no hands on the wheel and will continue to blend this mismatch until we die.

All she ever wanted

When I am anything less than happy I like to think that being alive, american, caucasian, & healthy are just about as good as it's gonna get so sit down and smile. This big world is so awful for so many so readjust your perspective and find gratefulness.
That does it everytime.

Lucky

When you are lucky enough, there are people who come your way that add depth and excitement and this will make you happy. We all, each of us every one, are in touch with humans throughout a spectrum but: when you are lucky enough there comes along a person and you want to spend all your ideas on them.
When I first became lucky it was not like infatuation, but I did think about them all day long and consider their opinion as I moved about my world. I wanted to learn more about the things they knew and thought up ways to make myself more interesting to them.
Then I settled down and settled in...
The best friend to be was the best me, and I could enter their realm quite satisfactorily without effort and the language that flowed was much more beautiful.
I am so very lucky to have a friend in you and look forward to all the regions we will travel together. I value our oneness.

First comes love, then comes marriage....

"I've never raised anything" I told him, so he let me have the puppy. A token perhaps, for the hand I provided in rearing his two sons.
So now I have Winslow, several books, and my first roll of paper towels in years. Such an innocent beginning for all of us. My border collie- Spot- was patient and playful. We layed on the floor and tossed, tugged, & toyed with a puppy that now ruled every room in the house. His ears smelled like cinnamon to me and the endearing habit of hiding his nose in any armpit, crotch, or knee fold made me feel motherly. "Awwww... puppy, snuggle on in here." Exuberantly, he ran toward any voice that called and instantly became the licking happiness that everybody loves. Simply adorable.
Winslow's beauty still illicits more comments than my sometimes shy self cares to respond to, and he still rules most rooms, but I have learned that raising something does not complete a person and that a puppy, no matter how incredibly cute, needs a firm momma first- and a ear scratching second. Hard to do when those eyes are glad you're home again...

Vein of My Existence
Sun shoots throughstark naked branches.The criss-crossed shadows explode below like swollen and varicosed veins painting the road.The path ahead of me is bloodshot at best.

by Anne Cunnigham

My Funny Valentine

When we were getting to know each other and first falling into the love of things we were quite poor. Our activities circled around one another and the small world of our tropical apartment. My lover made gifts to me of music. He would tenderly clean the album with just the right brush, adjust the stereo needle, careful place all the equipment in line, then proudly snuggle up for his reward for giving me such a beautiful gift. His most flourished display came on Valentine's Day when he played My Funny Valentine. Twenty years later we still wink across a crowded room when the song softly- barely audible- comes across speakers no longer his own and instantly makes us younger, hotter, and for that moment- alone in a tropical apartment kissing for only the one hundreth time.
For his birthday I am learning My Funny Valentine on my trumpet. This time I will play the music for him: coming from within my heart to his ears and on down, I hope, to that tender heart of my lover and my friend: my husband Jose.