Month: March 2022

“How about 20 minutes?” I asked after he told me we had to leave in 15.  He quickly replied, “Sure, 20 minutes” without pause.  This was the easiest negotiation I’d ever been in.  I had successfully bought myself extra time to drink more coffee to get wired.  I could down a lot of coffee with 5 extra minutes.   It was Sunday morning before church, and I needed to get caffeinated up to stay awake for the sermon.  I had almost proven, on a few occasions, that I could do this.  However, most times I would hang my head pretending to pray and get in some needed rest, eventually ending with snoring.  He would nudge me out of my sleep before the priest finished, and the others noticed.  Then it was time to stand.  And with a big “Amen” I sprung up and was back in the game.  No one the wiser.

We were lapsed Catholics who finally found our way back to the church.  It wasn’t one thing that brought us back, it was a lot of little things.  We found a priest we liked, we talked a lot about religion and virtues, and unlike many people, had fond memories of growing up in the Catholic faith.  We weren’t heathens per se, just void of a spiritual life for a while – basically taking an extended vacation from God.  We finally concluded that something was missing.  So, with a little commitment and repentance we became part of a parish.  Living together and being divorced were two strikes against us, but we didn’t care. Rules are in the eyes of the beholder.   In our mind, God is good and will accept us as we are.  Scripture can’t stop us.

Today I stayed awake for the Gospel, occasionally lowering my head down but not falling asleep.  He was proud of me.  It was both the extra coffee and my deep faith that kept me listening.  I looked over at his face as he stood next to me in his church clothes.  Remember those uncomfortable church clothes?  I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.  I don’t believe that God cares about what you wear.  The priest was in his finest robes but I would have listened to him if he was wearing a track suit (now I’m dating myself).  It’s not the clothes that make the man, even in church.

I had a cup of coffee when we got home, as he changed out of his Sunday best.   By now I was chipper and ready for the day.  I sat at my computer and started writing as I often do, while I thought about my faith.  I know it is true and good.  I believe we should all take care of each other, do unto others, and all that.  A faithful life is very simple and basic; not scary and overwhelming.  Show up, be compassionate, help others, be humble, always be generous, and above all (for me) drink coffee before church.

“He fell again” she slid in between telling me she didn’t have my cousin’s email and something about work.  The phone broke up a little, so all I heard was Dad at first, then she said, “He fell again.”  This was happening a lot lately, and I just hung my head and audibly exhaled.  His health was failing.  A few weeks ago, he fell and broke his ribs and hit his head, followed by a hospital stay.  He shuffles from room to room with his walker, as we follow behind ready to catch him, like an unsteady toddler.  His breathing is labored probably from years of smoking, even though he gave it up decades ago.  When he’s not sleeping, he’s watching TV, where he usually falls asleep. He doesn’t read anymore.  Dad is almost 85 years old and is as weak as a newborn.  He has shrunk to half the person he used to be, and his mind I am afraid won’t be far behind.  If he can hear you, you might be able to have conversation.  Screaming sometimes helps.

I never imagined Dad getting old.  In my mind, he would always be forty.  The guy who coached and umpired little league baseball, ice skated, took us out fishing, or just for ice cream.  Even though he worked more than one job, he always made time for the six of us.   He never brought in a lot of money, but we were fed.  Boys reigned supreme in our house, but he made it to every dance recital.  I’m sure it bored him to death.  His humor was his strong suit and he loved to tell jokes.   He would have the occasional beer and lie down at the end of the workday.  He had tight knit friends, who were loyal and devoted to him.   You could say by the way he lived that he was a real man’s man.

Our house was always in chaos with games, sports and fighting.  A lot of fighting.  You never wanted to get in trouble or Mom would say, “wait until your father comes home.”  Dad had a quick and angry temper that there was no escaping.  The boys bore the brunt of it.  However, between jobs, I can remember him emptying diaper pails, and vacuuming.  Anything to help my exhausted mother.  I can still remember them kissing and laughing in the kitchen when he got home from work.  He would often bring her fresh picked flowers from a field he was driving by.  He treated her like a princess, modeling what a man, a father and a husband should be like.  The first man I ever said “I love you” to.

My sister is caregiver, daughter and confidant now.  Mom and Dad moved in with her 3 years ago to help her with work and the care of her special needs daughter.  In turn, she would assist them with anything they needed as they grew older.  It was a good situation at first.  Dad was capable, and would feed the dogs, do some yard work and errands.  He and Mom would go out around town or to the casino.  He loved to play long cribbage games with the family after dinner, telling jokes while trying to beat Mom.  Then he slowly started to do less yard work, less cards, and stopped driving after some confusion and minor accidents.  Then the falling started.

I always greet Dad with a big hug, my arms around his bony body where he sits in his chair.  I never know when the last time I’ll hug him will be.  He is always happy to see me and tries to pep up like there’s nothing wrong.  But everything is wrong.  He is being stolen from us, like a kidnapping in the middle of the night. I can’t bare the thought of losing him.  I can see how sad Mom is in quiet moments, when she’s not giving him his pills.  She is a master at pretending that everything is ok.  My sister, the nurse, has come to terms with his frail condition.  She has a healthy outlook on life and death but understands that time is fleeting.

I pray when the time comes that he has a peaceful crossing.  I will be by his side, like he has been for me for almost 60 years.  Until then, life will go on, falls will happen, jokes will be made, baseball games will be watched, and cards will be played.  There will be a lot of hugs, sadness will not rule me.  We take care of each other and will be there to care for Dad.  His humor and wit will never go away.  We will carry his generous, loving, lingering soul with us for the rest of our days.

“You must be the TENANT” I sharply said, as I walked down the rickety steps that lead to the beach.  I was wearing a baseball cap with a pony tail, no makeup and cut off shorts.  Not my best look.  I was looking for my best friend, but she wasn’t there. And then, without missing a beat, he looked up from his book, and said dryly, “You must be the FRIEND.”  I noticed that he was very handsome and tan like the creamy color of calf leather.   He mimicked my tone perfectly, I guess to put us on even ground.  I think he was letting me know that two can play at this game.  I quickly measured him up before I reached the bottom of the stairs.  He sat crossed legged, in the warm afternoon sun with his chair unevenly dug into the sand.  He was relaxed with slightly slacked shoulders and resting arms. His thick black hair had small ridges, that looked like he had just ran his fingers through it. His good looks and quick wit piqued my interest. 

I stepped onto the beach as I asked where the “SS Minow” was, and he told me they went out about a half hour ago.  I grabbed the closest chair and set it down nearby, but not too close.  I quickly yanked my denim shorts up before I sat, hoping he didn’t see.  Then I covertly adjusted my bra strap that was falling down my arm, a little sticky with sweat.  His toothy grin was warm and comforting, like he was an old friend.  This lake beach was owned by my best friend.  She had an above the garage apartment, or as he called it the compartment.  He had recently separated from his wife and moved into the apartment, a tiny little paradise.  He found it online and was very lucky to get it.

I had heard a little bit about him from my friend which wasn’t exactly glowing.  She was leery of the tenant’s executive status, wondering why he would want a garage apartment.   He could live anywhere.  Little did he know, he had moved in above the party house, the place where everyone loudly gathered.  She mentioned, before I met him that he would often keep his distance, reading in the sun with a gin and tonic in his hand.  I assumed he was probably looking for a quiet life.  The “regulars” who came there would try to include him with little success.  He was friendly enough, but kept to himself. The typical raucous activities on the lake maybe intimidated him a little, which included a lot of drinking, partying and going out on drunk pontoon rides.  Not exactly peaceful.

And so, the conversation began.  He offered me a beer, as I stammered on about how I don’t drink beer, shifting back and forth.  “I really, it’s not, well I typically, oh OK” I said.   I’m a wine drinker, but for the sake of killing some time, I accepted the beer. Plus, he wasn’t tough to look at.  But that wasn’t the whole story.  I was beginning to be drawn more to the banter than his looks.  When the light shifted, we moved to the picnic table.  I pointed to his book, and said, “Buck a Book?” As he lifted the beers out of a soft sided cooler, he looked at me with a blank look, and said, “Yeah” with a grunt that resembled a laugh.  I could tell he didn’t know what I was talking about but answered me anyway.  He had a beat-up copy of “Trinity”, with a torn cover and yellowing pages.   He didn’t know I was referring to the chain store that used to sell dusty old books for a dollar.  It was kind of a slam, but he just kept the conversation going.

The pontoon boat was out for the better part of an hour.  The sun slowly moved making soft skewed shadows behind us.  Their absence gave us more time to talk.  We chatted excitedly about everything, almost talking over each other.  There was electricity between us.  And about hour into it, he declared, “you’re a good sparring partner.”  Was this an insult?  I had no idea what that meant.  Did I say something wrong?   I brushed it off, and continued to talk about myself, which I have a habit of doing. Eventually, I finished the warm, flat beer at the bottom of the bottle, and casually reached across the table for another, without asking.   I was curious what “sparring partner” meant, expecting it to be negative.  So, I asked him.  He explained that it referred to a person who could “keep up”, a high complement.  By this time I was determined to keep up.

The boat arrived back with a very rowdy crew.  I could hear the clamor of laughter and booming voices before the boat was visible.  By now the last rays of sun cast a dreamy filter over the lake like a watercolor painting.  I selfishly wished they would have stayed out longer.  “You’re finally here” my friend said angrily as she jumped off the parked boat onto the dock.  She handed me a bottle of wine, even though I had messed up their plans.  She was generous and loving below her sharp exterior.  I was known to be late most of the time which pissed her off, and it had been weeks since I had been to the lake.   They were sick of waiting for me that day and took the boat ride without me.  I wasn’t bothered though.  What a lucky break I thought.  I had been asking, and the universe answered.

He made it clear in his somewhat silent and aloof manner, that he was a free agent.  No commitments after a marriage that ended miserably, he confessed to my friend one day.  I told my friend about a week later that, “I think I fancy your tenant.”  She barked back at me, “You’re crazy. Stay away from him.”  She knew his situation brought a lot baggage, making him an undesirable catch. But, I wasn’t looking for anything serious like marriage for God’s sake!  My expectations were lower than that.  I had an ex-husband who was verbally abusive and mean, so I had some scar tissue too.

Here I was padded up, wanting to spar.  I couldn’t stop thinking about him after that day on the beach.  Over the weeks ahead, we carved out a friendship though.  It was through long marathon phone calls that we learned each other’s story.  We mutually provided much needed therapy, while exposing our hopes and dreams as almost strangers.  I could often hear the hard, cold ice clinking in his glass and long drags of his cigarette during our late-night confessions.  We would talk until the soft golden glow of dawn seeped into my kitchen window and the birds started chirping.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t falling in love.

We took it a step further and started dating, already knowing so much about each other.  The first date, I showed up with makeup, hair falling to my shoulders and a form fitting outfit.  He stopped in his tracks.  He always thought of me as the girl coming down the beach stairs with the cut off shorts and baseball cap, only that today I brought my “A” game. I suggested we go to Walden Pond.  The afternoon sun bounced off the pond, and the narrow dirt path wound along the water’s edge, opening up to spectacular views of the tree lined shore.  When I commented on how beautiful the trees were, all this Brooklyn boy said was, “I’ve seen a tree.”  OK. Then we came across Thoreau’s cabin in the woods.  I was impressed.  He said, “It’s a pile of rocks.”  Alright, it was a dusty scattered pile of gray rocks in a small pine knoll with a plaque next to it, which I thought made it look official.  You had to use your imagination.

Thankfully, the date got better from there, and I could feel myself falling deeper.  Something was shifting for me.  We continued dating over the next several months, seeing each other every chance we could.  However, it got weird for me because we weren’t exclusive, at least from his point.  I didn’t want to date anyone else.  He continued to have other relationships that I knew about, until I couldn’t take it any longer.  I finally got up the nerve to demand, “I can’t be one of many.  You have to choose them or me!” 

We were at the end of his driveway at dusk, after a long day on the lake, standing rigidly after the words fired from my mouth.  He slumped a little for a second, then shifted to the side.  I could tell this bothered him.  He had moved straight from his childhood home into a 24-year marriage, never exploring all of life’s possibilities.  He perceived lost time in his life that he wanted to explore, as he had said as much to me before. I didn’t want to be difficult, but for my own sake, I had to draw the line.  I’m usually an easy-going person, so it felt strange being in this stiff skin.  An awkward silence followed, as I could feel my eyes start to burn with tears.  I felt dizzy, and my mind raced.  I had some self-doubt.  Was I doing the right thing?  Am I going to lose him?  I silently wavered, momentarily wishing I could take it back, still half wanting to hear the answer. Then he looked down at his feet for a long moment and slowly looked up, staring directly into my teary eyes, and quietly said “OK” smiling as he reached out to hug me.

Twenty-five years later, we are still sparring and live together on this lake.  We are exclusive and happily in love.  We live in a cozy lake house at an inlet on the peninsula with our dog, surrounded by great friends and creating more warm memories.

Last Friday I gladly volunteered to accompany my almost 19 year old son Taki to the bus station, which would take him to the airport to catch a flight 4 hours later.   He wanted to drive his car, make his way with me in the passenger side.  He  pulled into the parking lot and parked the car.  I was surprised that he parked, assuming he would want to jump out of the car while it was still rolling as to avoid anyone witnessing him getting out of a car with his dear old Mom.  I imagined he would want to wait in the dark, cold, smoky tunnel shaped shelter on his own.  I asked, “ do you want me to wait until the bus comes?”  “Yes”. I silently coached myself –don’t blow it, be cool, be cool, don’t be that Mom “ Are you excited for your trip honey?  Oh my God, honey, really and what a dumb thing to ask AGAIN. Yes Mom (suspected eye roll).  He put on some music – loud – probably to avoid anymore mom questions.  He began telling me about this artist and how he will be going to their concert in Boston in a few weeks with his good friend Keiran.  I had a large proud lump in my chest but a smaller – harder-louder  lump in my throat.  I quickly said “cool” but the reel started to play in my mind- the show was called “things that can go wrong while traveling alone”  I told him again to be aware of his surroundings, drink plenty of water.  And it just started, a rapid fire of advice that I had already spewed upon him  over the past week.  I didn’t even take a breath.  He was looking at me with this gentle look on his face.  “Mom I know, I’ll be ok”  It’s not like this is his first trip.  He has been lucky enough to have traveled since he was a pre-teen.  Some trips on his own, some trips with me and some with his girlfriend.  He is a savvy traveler and a excellent travel companion.

The music was enjoyable, thumping and he sang along and then I spotted the bus, “It’s here.”    I stayed in the car and I watched him board.  Once he had made his way to his seat I pulled next to the bus shelter acting cool and collected, listening to my music turned up loud, thumping and singing full voice.   I  waited until the bus pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway.  He was off and I felt some relief – knowing he had been looking forward to this trip.  I am  happy that he has found love and joy in his life.  He is off on his journey, not needing me anymore but still letting me see him off. I looked out of this fast food /gas station/bus station parking lot and remembered how many times I had been there myself.  Picking someone up or dropping someone off, thinkin of the times I was the driver and my mother was in the passenger seat seeing me off to follow my heart.  This  place of transition and journeys beginnings and endings right here next to Burger King.  

I, of course was crying at this point, unable to see out of the windshield, glasses useless – I wiped my eyes and looked at the rear view mirror – and dangling from them were his tiny pair of adidas.  I had given him his first pair of sneakers to hang in his car when he got his license.  These tiny things  that I can remember putting on him before trekking to the the bus stop in Portland – on our way to the zoo, the Children’s museum, to the park for a playdate,  to Pioneer square to chase pigeons.   I gave him a solid pair of shoes, comfortable and supportive.  I tied them up tight to make sure he would be safe and keep from tripping.  He still tripped – usually over a rock or a curb – or his own feet.  Sometimes I caught him but not always.  

Back in the 80’s, I was trying to break into radio and worked at a small market station as an on-air talent while doing overnights for the AM station. I worked the midnight to 6am shift and I believe I even had one fan. His name was Don from Lawrence and he was an insomniac who stayed up all night listening to AM radio and drinking coffee; sometimes his wife would say hello from the background if she happened to wake up at 4 am in the morning. They were definitely an odd but harmless couple and since I was always alone in the building, at least there was someone who was listening and passed the time with his calls to the show.

I encouraged the station to hire my best friend from broadcasting school to cover the shift before mine, which aired the Casey Kasem weekly countdown. My friend Michelle was to be the board op person from 8pm to midnight every Saturday night right before my overnight shift.

We joked about the necessity of putting our time in a small market station north of Boston in order to break into radio and begin our lofty dreams of becoming almost famous. The station was in a seedy part of town, we were young, it was fun, and it was the eighties.

One weekend, Michelle begged me to cover her shift so she could go on a ski weekend. While I wasn’t looking forward to working straight through from 8pm to 6am, I reluctantly agreed to do this-once. At about 10:30pm, the buzzer rang from the downstairs door. I was the only person in the entire building on the top 4th floor with offices on the three floors below. I had total control of who entered the building to proceed to my floor since the other 3 floors had no access through the elevator. As I waited for the Casey Kasem feed to end, I answered the buzzer, only to hear our drivetime on-air personality named Joe Harvey at the door.

“Hey, its Joe Harvey, can you let me up?” My immediate response was, “Sure,” as my hand reached for the door release. Right at that moment with my finger on the button, something in my gut, that I cannot explain, whispered for me to stop and ask a question, “What are you doing here this late Joe?” “I forgot something, can you just let me in?” he seemed annoyed. And again, my finger went straight to the button on the wall to allow him in, and again something held me back.

“Joe, can you just humor me and walk out under the streetlight?” I laughed a little embarrassingly, “I just want to make sure….”

I ran to the 4th floor window, which I had the ability to slide open and looked out, fully expecting to see Joe Harvey walk out into the desolate street and appear under the street light just like I asked… but he never did. My eyes darted back to the front of the building directly below me and I could see a dark shadowy figure all dressed in black slowly walking away from the building.

Just to be sure I yelled, “Joe, are you there?” The only response I got was a very menacing reply that simply said, “Yoooo” in a deep male voice that actually sounded nothing like Joe Harvey after all. It scared me so much that I immediately ran into the studio and looked up Joe’s phone number to call his home. His mildly irritated wife informed me that they had been together all night and had just returned from a movie. My next call was to the police who promised to drive around the area for me but it still shook me to the core that I was so close to letting a strange man up into a dark unoccupied building while I was completely alone. Did he know there was a lone woman working and if so, how? Could it have been Don who I always thought harmless? So many thoughts.

After the weekend, I told my friend Michelle about the incident which took place on her shift and then a sickening realization came over both of us, when she screamed, “I would have let him in!! If I worked that night like I was supposed to, I definitely would have been intimidated, being the new employee, and I would not have questioned someone’s reason to possibly come back to retrieve something from work!!” I also believe she would have let that man in that night.

Was it a coincidence or something else as to why on that night she asked me to cover her shift and how could I explain that feeling that took over me to not open a door in a split second’s time. That was not the last time I probably escaped death but that is another story for another day. Always TRUST YOUR INTUITION!