Author: Jo Toale

Jo is a media professional working in Massachusetts. She is the founder of Dilettante life, and the co-host of the podcast Dipstitch (dipstitch.net, available on Spotify and Apple podcasts). She enjoys writing for Dilettante Life observing life and sharing experiences.
Life Topics

Advice to Myself

Jo Toale

I try to tame my wiry hair by running my shaking hand through it.  There’s no way to make sense of this mop.  Truthfully, I stopped trying a long time ago.  I’ve been gray since I was 50, over a half a century ago!  I have to chuckle because back then I felt old, having no idea.   I am alone in the world now.  My family is gone, my husband is gone, and I have only one child left who is in bad health. I brought him into the world when I was just 19 years old, and now he is about to turn 80 years old.  My other son died suddenly 20 years ago, but I cannot talk about it because it pierces my heart whenever I do.   I will put on some pink lipstick, as I’ve always done, and sit in my overstuffed floral chair by the bright window.  Lowering myself backward carefully with bended elbows, hands on each chair arm, I slowly shift myself into place.  Closing my eyes, I exhale a long breath.  Today, I want to re-visit my life, endearing experiences, tragic mistakes, and joyful moments.  See these ghosts that live with me in every breath.  Have a conversation with a person who will turn out to be me someday.  Advice after the fact and after a long time. Listen now.

You were careless and contrary.  Do you know how much trouble you could have gotten into?  You drove drunk in high school with a car full of friends.  You lived only for the moment, the party, the thrill.  Your Mom and Dad had guarded trust in you, and you stomped all over that.  They gave you the keys to their only car.  Were you unique in some way? Probably not.  Teenagers don’t anticipate or truly believe in consequences.  Punishment was like a far away shadow that doesn’t seem real, or really matter.  Ignore it and have a good time you thought.  So, what’s the problem?  Your actions put you in a place of depravity.  Be responsible and give yourself the grace that you owe yourself and others.

Have some self-respect and protect those you love. 


You were oblivious and self-destructive.  As you entered your twenties, you dated the wrong men.  They were frequently handsome, funny, and overwhelmingly selfish.  Craving the love you were missing in your life, you would often seek out carefree players.  This would only contribute to your lack of confidence.  You were very pretty, yes, and there was never a time you were without a companion.  You were strong in many ways, but inside very weak.  This downfall lead you down the wrong path as you weren’t being your true self.  Until you met a controlling man who made you feel special, at least for a while.  That marriage taught you so much.  His voice rang in your head for years after it was over, “You’re stupid, you’re ugly, you’re crazy.”  He was a monster.  You learned a lifetime of lessons.

Have self-worth and an undying spirit to fly anywhere you want.

 

You were inexperienced and ignorant.  Raising your children was a struggle as a single mother.  Making ends meet was very difficult.  Every day was a battle to keep your head above water, racing to work, and racing home.  They were brilliant children.  They loved to play and hike and explore.  We had so much fun together.  But, you weren’t perfect by a long shot, no parents are.  You would shout or lose patience without stopping to think.  Think about how this made them feel.  Punishing your son, and later finding out it was his father who told him to lie.  You were devastated.  It wasn’t his fault.  You were a young mother with little resources to offer, only a heart full of love.   Which is more than some parents have.  You were scattered and unfocused much of the time, juggling work, dating, and children.   Yes, you always put your kids first after sorting out other influences, other attractions.

Forgive yourself and others, focus on what’s important.

You were trusting and naive.  After years of failed relationships, you met the man of my dreams.  He checked all the boxes and then some.  There were no lessons to learn, and you seemed to have it all together.  But even a perfect situation deserved additional attention.  The scars from your marriage ran deep and you had to relearn critical nuances in communication.  He was loving and patient and brought out the best in you.  He would challenge you and make you look within yourself.  However, sometimes your baggage would disrupt an innocent conversation.  It could be tough to understand what something meant, and that was confusing.  You had never had a real partner before.  There was nothing I would change about this choice; he brought you the happiness you deserved for so long.  But, there was a learning curve where you needed to be more giving and open. Over time, you learned to dance together, feeding your emotions of joy through commitment.  We had a happy marriage.

Invest in those you love, be vulnerable and honest.

I start to nod off in my chair as the sun shifts to early evening.  There are more shadows in the room than light.  My thoughts fade in and out, as I remember the sweet smile of my husband, and the laughter of my children.  My heart aches for the happiness that spilled through my fingers, feeling grateful at the same time.  All these memories bring me to a place that is almost unfamiliar.  Time has dulled many details like the warmth of my parents’ hugs, the softness of my dog’s coat and the excitement of a first kiss.    All I have is this room, this chair and these memories.  This girl turned out okay without the guidance of an old woman.  A woman who unrealistically thinks her life could have skipped heartache and pain.  Emotions that helped build a foundation of who I would become, how I learned, and where I would go.  This “advice” I wanted to give doesn’t really matter.  It was her journey full of faults and mistakes that was predestined.  I needed to fall along the way to have the strength to turn my head toward the light.

Have an open heart and live a good life.

 

Life Topics

Winter’s End on the Lake

Jo Toale
The Lake in Winter (photo credit Eric Vickery)

 

The rough texture of the sun-soaked ice is deep shades of gray and white with small mounds of snow scattered, showing weeks of thawing, and freezing.  The lake’s surface transforms by the day as the Spring approaches.  Sometimes there is open water, then two days later its ice again, dashing my hopes of warmth.  Bright baby-blue skies with a few dabs of clouds and majestic pines lining the solid shore creates a collage of brilliance.  Long shadows and the bright glare bouncing off the lake can trick you into thinking it’s warm, as you gaze out the window.  But the wind!  Oh, the wind does not lie.  It howls like a hungry wolf, hunting for its next prey.   The trees shake angrily, and the one chair sits on the deck holding its ground until Spring.

It’s the coming end of Winter that brings promise.  However, late one night, the weather people excitedly announce a coming storm, as my eyes and the season begin to fade.  Tomorrow will be like a rebirth of a frigid December day.  A rerun of a Winter’s day when you hoped for snow for the holidays.  This time of year the alarm is futile, as the soft falling puffs are half melted before reaching the ground.   If the snow sticks to the few spots of uncovered grass and mud,  it will be short lived.  In two days it may be warm.  For now though, I’ll just imagine myself sitting by the fireplace, that we don’t have, thinking of Summer boat rides.  Maybe I’ll start to make plans with friends who have been in seasonal hiding, barricaded in their homes.  Because, if you dare have intentions in the dead of Winter, you’re an optimistic fool.  I’ve learned, as a New Englander, to have a respectful fear of a volatile Mother Nature. Hopefully she is starting to calm now.  Her last attack will be a roaring March storm with whipping winds to warn you she does not give up easily.

The beauty of Winter is undeniable.  The lake transforms, blanketing the water with solid rock of cold intentions.  It begs your eyes and mind to daydream. However, the dreadfully short days and long dark nights start to deplete my sanity.  But, soon all the birds will come back to sing their songs.  I will sit in the warm sun on the deck, in the lone deck chair that survived, staring at the twinkling ripples on the lake.  It always seems strange to me that people marvel when the nice days come, they’ve been here before.  The Spring always comes.  She usually appears out of nowhere, as I pray the latest storm will usher away the Winter for good.

Life Topics

I Won’t Bring My Black Dress

Jo Toale

My phone rang at 2:20am.  I had been working late, and just went to bed a half hour earlier.  My phone was in the kitchen as the ring tone repeatedly blasted.  I jumped out of bed, half asleep, and stumbled down the hall to try to answer it before the music stopped.  By the time I got there, it was silent.  I was too late.  Seconds later, Jamie’s bedside iPhone started to ring.  It had to be my sister.  She always tried his phone when I didn’t answer.  I rushed into the room as he was picking up the phone.  Standing next to the bed, I stared and listened to him. “Hi…oh, okay, hmmm, she’s right here” he said.

I grabbed the phone from his outstretched hand, urgently asking “What’s going on?” On the other end Susan managed to tell me through broken sobs and a shaky voice that Mom was at the hospital.  She explained that Mom was really sick, weak and vomiting.  She said her blood pressure was dangerously low.  Was this another heart attack?  If so, it would be her third one.  The ambulance came and brought her to the hospital.  All I could say was, “I’m on my way.”  I didn’t comment or ask any questions.  I simply repeated, “I’m on my way.”  That’s all Susan needed to hear.

Jamie immediately got out of bed and started to pack.  He didn’t ask me if I wanted him to go.  He instinctively knew that I needed the support.  We started running around the house packing our bags for a 2 to 3 day stay.  We had no idea what we were up against, but a couple of days seemed reasonable. The dog kept looking at us like he knew something was going on.  We gave him a treat to acknowledge he was there, but it sat in his bed as he stared at us.  I kept muttering “Don’t die Mom, please don’t die.”

We were like two Zombies as it took us a better part of an hour to pack.  Passing each other with check lists in our head, we crisscrossed rooms packing the essentials.  He looked at my tear-filled eyes and asked, “Are you packing any dress clothes.”  I was taken aback because I knew what he meant.  “No!” I answered.  This trip wasn’t going to end like that.  I almost went back to my closet, but decided NO.  This was reconnaissance not recovery.  I won’t bring my black dress, I told myself.  If I brought it, then the outcome might be different.  She’s not going to die.

We calmly started the 2 ½ hour trip in his truck with the luggage piled high in the back with our dog, McDermott.  It could have been any outing except it was 3:15 in the morning.  The dark cold winter roads with moonlit shadows seemed surreal.  We were both wide awake on adrenaline and anxiety.  He kept assuring me along the way that she would be OK.  He is my rock.  I noticed that he, thankfully, didn’t turn on the radio because I hate country music.  I would sporadically whimper and plead for her to make it.  We talked, we prayed, and we hoped for the best.  As the sky turned a light shade of gray I felt encouraged that the new day might bring good news.

Turning onto Susan’s street, I felt relieved to be there.  What was I going to find out?  Dan was called last night too, but his truck wasn’t in her driveway.  I found Susan in the kitchen feeling calmer and more collected than on the phone hours ago.  Mom was still in the emergency room she told me, and Dan was with her.  Susan had to get her daughter off to school, so I decided to go directly to the hospital, as Jamie layed down for a quick nap.  He wanted to go too, but I didn’t want to wake him.  It was best for me to face the situation myself.  So I put on my “big girl panties” and silently headed out.

Once I got the room number and visitor sticker from the front desk, I moved quickly down the hall to the double doors of the emergency room.  The security guard buzzed me through.  Counting rooms along the wall, I finally came to her room.  Moving the blue curtain behind the open door, I first saw Dan sitting by the bed.  I registered his signature gray beard and noticed his tired eyes.  Then I saw Mom.  I wanted to cry seeing proof that she was still with us.  However, she was somewhat uncomfortable, white as a bed sheet, and quietly moaning in pain.  She was gripping a barf bag, as she had been vomiting all night.  Nurses were in and out of the room checking machines and dispensing medicine through her IVs.  They were calm and efficient as we sat on the edge of our chairs hungry for more information.  Every so often Mom would open her eyes and talk to us.

It didn’t take long for me to acclimate to the severity of her condition.  The nurses explained that she did in fact have a heart attack because her enzymes were through the roof.  They were medicating her with blood thinners and other drugs I’ve never heard of.  At first the doctors were suspicious that she might also have a gallbladder condition because of her belly pain and were preparing for surgery.   But after a variety of tests that was eventually ruled out.  Slowly, as the day progressed, she started to perk up a little bit and have less discomfort.  Her color was coming back into her face and the nausea subsided.  She was starting to look like herself.

My Mom is a survivor.  Her family history has dealt her a bad hand.  I know her heart is not well, and it will never be well.  But this particular night, she battled through it.  We all did.  She always taught us to be tough and continues to show us. None of us are long for this world.  But personally, I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet and thankfully neither is she.

Life Topics

Sip Sip Knit

Jo Toale

I take notice of the different stitches that make up my sweater.  A rib stitch, garter, and purls.  I like to look at how things are made.  I want to know what someone had to do to create such a work of art.  It’s not hard for a knitter to create this sweater.  The stitches are quite simple.   However, the hard part is preparing, reading, and envisioning the final product.  It’s a labor consisting of countless hours of needlework and determination.

The gradient colors have both muted and bold tones.  A garment that can be worn with almost anything.  Careful thought must have gone into the sequence of events.  The rolled cuff, the high delicate neck and the short, abbreviated shrift. Almost too short to hide my ample belly.   I turn the cuff to see the wrong side as a contrast to the outside.  To see the stitches more defined, a mirror image.  It is soft and flexible, mimicking the outside perfectly.  I could wear it inside out if I wanted to.

Knitting is my passion, a place where I lose all sense of time.  My mind can wander a bit while I count rows and stitches. The exercise of deep thought and nimble finger work wipes the slate clean like a deep meditation.   You can see the work unfold into a fabric of delight.  Oh, it can be painstakingly tedious at times as you calculate how much more work needs to be done. However, the sense of accomplishment keeps you going until you pick up the needles again.

This art form requires a playful imagination.  From finding a pattern to picking your needles and yarn.  Yarn shopping for knitters is Nirvana.  We buy, buy, buy whether we need it or not.  Temptation has led me to a stockpiled, overflowing yarn stash.  There are so many options, textures, weight, and yardage.  How do you want the item to look?   How do you want it to feel?  I prefer natural fibers of Marino wool, alpaca or angora.   If matched right with the pattern, you’ll have complete success. That’s if you don’t drop stitches or miss an instruction.  And don’t get me started on colors, that’s a whole other funhouse.

My skill is ever evolving.  I try patterns that are more difficult to stretch my knowledge. I knit for self-satisfaction only.  I’m often asked to knit something for someone because they’ve liked what I made. I really don’t like doing that.  Mainly because I knit very slowly and only knit for myself or the occasional gift.  If I were to put a value on my time and effort, not to mention materials, no one would be able to afford my stuff.   But I do give in every so often to be nice.  Afterall, it’s easier the second time I create something I suppose.

It’s time to start planning the next project.  Maybe a sweater.  I will take out my tools and a glass of wine, and knit, knit, sip.  The night is young and there’s rows before I sleep, rows before I sleep.

 

Life Topics

Beth

Jo Toale

I was having trouble keeping up with him.  His gate was long and determined the way he plodded and leaned forward into the wind.  It was dark and frigid with just a hint of moonlight.  I remember this neighborhood; I could make out the house. We passed it without a thought.   I could only see the side of his face, as he would not look at me.  In the dark, I could tell his clothes were all black, as his coat blew back and forth.  I would sporadically glance over to try to detect some emotion.  There was nothing.  He stared straight ahead. I was desperate to know.  I was willing him to remember me and just answer my question.   But he had no interest in acknowledging me.

He was her father for God’s sake!  He owed it to me.  I loved her.  He looked 40 years younger than I remember him, with a chiseled weathered profile and dark eyes.  A younger man who I never knew. Why was he treating me like a stranger?  How many times had I had dinner at his house, or swam in his pool?
“Where is she,” I pleaded again?  He grunted and stared forward.  Did it pain him, or was I the thorn in his side?  I learned what happened to her months afterward, shocked to read about it.  She was the baby of the family, so I almost understood his stoic pained look.

We reached the end of the street.  The silence this time of night was both eerie and comforting.  He turned to face me, and without saying a word told me to stop following him.  He left me on this street, wanting me to find my own answers. I watched him disappear as he breached the hill on Hildreth Street. I had learned about his death in her obituary that I read 2 months ago.  He was also gone.  But all I wanted to do was talk to her one last time.

I turned around and headed straight for her house.  Her house was the nicest on the street, neat and white with a sprawling emerald lawn.  I slowly walked past Moran’s house, then the Markie’s house.  The next one was hers.   I so wanted it to be like when we were kids and would hang out together.  I didn’t want it to be weird that I was there in the middle of the night.  I made my way up the short dark driveway to the white kitchen door.  When I knocked, I wanted her to answer.  Instead, her mother opened the door like she was expecting me, dressed for Sunday afternoon tea.

In the corner of the room, stood Beth eating an apple.  “Beth,” I screamed.  We both started laughing for no reason.  “I loved you Beth,” I told her.  She just smiled.  I asked her what happened, but she didn’t answer me.  Memories flooded into my mind, like the time I got high at her house and was comatose on her couch.  Or the time we spent the day at her pool talking about boys all day.   Or the time we put shaving cream all over our basketball coach’s car.  Or the time I brought her home after a night of drinking and put her into bed with a glass of orange juice.  My judgement wasn’t always too good.

But, there was a whole lifetime I missed out on with her.  I wish I could have turned back time and had a hint of her adult life.   I wasn’t around when she got married or had kids.  I didn’t know what she did for a living, or any of the heartbreak she went through.  The obituary filled in some blanks, but it was just words.    Words that I should have lived along with her.  Held her hand during her illness or made her a casserole when she returned home.  Somehow, make up for all the years we lost touch.

When I woke up, all I could see in my mind was Beth laughing.  Her impish eyes sparkled with delight.  I loved her laugh.  I rolled over to see my husband sleeping soundly.   Taking a deep breath, I felt like I had some kind of pseudo-closure to my feelings of great loss.  The dream allowed me to see her and talk to her, to say goodbye; to apologize.   She was so incredibly important to me as I grew up.   I will always be thankful for her love and friendship.  It helped me become the person I am today.  I guess, maybe dreams can reunite us and bring us to a place of peace.  I feel like she will always be with me now.  I hope she forgives me for being absent from her all too short, beautiful life.

Life Topics

Thank You Kip

Jo Toale

I leaned across the table to grab his hand.  He had just told us another wonderful Tyke story and my heart was both melting and alive.  How precious to have such great memories of the child you lost.  A child who made it to adulthood but was taken too soon.  He showed no pain in his recollection, only compassion and love.  It was time I thought.  He has to write the screenplay.  The legacy must be told because this tender person grabbed life well before any of us understood what life was all about.  We would all be better people to learn from Tyke.  We would all be better.

 

I couldn’t get enough stories, as he glowed telling of a 12-year-old with great insight and candor.  It was like Tyke was an old soul knowing he wasn’t long for this crazy world.  He could see things no one else could see.  There was only so much time.  I only knew him through an article in the city paper, and his Dad’s stories.  But, oh, I wanted to know him.  I wanted his dad to bring him back to life somehow.

Francis Crowley the 4th was named Tyke.  I don’t know why his family named him that, but they did.  Only Kip could explain that.  I didn’t ask.  I did know, however, that he had a tremendous amount of adversity in his life between health issues and life issues.  Smart.  Yes, he was smart and accomplished only to be devastated with bad new and worse outcomes.

The mystery of Tyke absorbs me in a way I can’t explain.  Maybe because I am a mother who could not survive the death of a child.  I know I couldn’t.  Kip has not only survived but is comforted by a wealth of amazing memories.  I admire him for that.  I want him to share more because I think we all could learn from the words Tyke wanted to share.  He will continue to send messages to us from beyond, and I will continue to listen.  His book “Hungry for Air” is a promise he gave to us through himself and his wife.  I will read it cover to cover and discover things about him and his Dad that I never knew.

Thank you, Kip, for being a loving and sharing person, who opened up to us tonight to share a special place in your heart.  Most people wouldn’t do that.  I urge you to keep bringing up those memories for all of us to enjoy and endure.  He was obviously an amazing person who brought you joy and contentment into your life.  Please share that with us all so we can understand how to live our lives.  And, how to love ourselves and others.

Love you Kip.

Life Topics

The F Word

Jo Toale

Faith is a deep, devoted belief in something that can, often, be intangible.  In religion faith is the foundation of everything.  There is no proof that God exists.  The prayers and scripture could be viewed as hearsay lacking witness or data to back it up.  Faithful practice and spiritual renewal can nourish and strengthen a person. Without strong commitment and devout belief, you may not be able to be part of any religion.  Faith is usually taught at an early age and fostered throughout your life.  As you learn faith in God, you realize it’s not just a commodity of the holy.  Faith applies to all facets of our lives.

Richard Wilbur (1921-2017), the country’s second poet laureate wrote “One does not use poetry…to organize oneself and the world, until one’s world somehow gets out of hand.”  He went on to say, “I feel that the universe is full of glorious energy…and that the ultimate character of things is comely and good.  I am perfectly aware that I say this in the teeth of all sorts of contrary evidence, and that I must be basing it partly on temperament and partly on faith.”

Wilbur’s optimistic view of the world is refreshing, based on his positive and good attitude.  He had faith despite “contrary evidence”, or popular belief.  Wilbur basically tells us, “Call me crazy, but I believe in good even though the world is going to hell.”  Positivity, or just plain looking on the bright side, can be a precursor to having the faith that you need to carry on in the face of adversity.

Growing up, I had faith in my parents, knowing that I would be fed, clothed, and taken care of.  I felt secure and safe.  Mom and Dad had expectations of us and we didn’t want to disappoint.  Their commitment to the family and God was unwavering.  Yes, we were required to go to church and expected to have faith in God.  This was a long process of learning ceremonial rituals and prayers.
However, my parents and religion were just the start of my understanding of faith.

As a parent, I have great faith in my children, knowing that they will do the right thing, make good decisions, and be caring individuals.  They’re not perfect, but they know right from wrong.  I raised them with little religion, but taught them the importance of being dependable, accountable, and kind.  Their character was of great concern to me.  I took my responsibilities seriously, as I tried to build sensible boundaries, follow through with consequences, while leading by example.  Good intentions, right?  Well, I messed up over the years and wasn’t always a good role model.  They saw through my mistakes with love and compassion resulting in mutual faith in each other.

Mostly though, I have faith in myself.  I fall down, but always get back up.  I have faced challenges head on, maybe with slight hesitation.  Change or confrontation can be very difficult.  I remember many times telling myself, often out loud, “you got this, you can do it.”  And, there were times when I had to trust someone I didn’t fully have faith in.  In that case, I would take a leap as they say, and hope for the best.

As Paul wrote in the bible, Philippians 4:8,  “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”   

Yes!  Think about these important things because they will bring joy to your life.  Paul tried to open the minds of people in distress who needed to notice the important things, looking toward the Lord.  In addition, his message brings optimism and faith to those who were lost.  He asks them to think.  Open up your hearts to all that is beautiful.  Similarly, Wilbur’s secular viewpoint echoed Paul’s directive. He subtly admitted his naivete while expressing his feelings of faith in the goodness in the world.

Have a little faith, it’s a big world out there.  Enjoy all of it.

Life Topics

An Unlikely Friendship

Jo Toale

 

I could not stomach it any longer.  This marriage was making me physically and emotionally sick.  I never knew what I was up against from day to day.  Between the acrid verbal abuse, “why would you wear makeup, you’re so ugly anyway” and finally the threat of physical abuse there was no way to continue.  My life was a roller coaster controlled by his moods and behaviors. No one really knew what I was going through.  Although, I am pretty sure the kids knew.  They always know.  It was like I had a secret to tell, I wanted to blurt it out, but I didn’t have the guts to let on how miserable I was.  Deep down I wanted it to appear like we had a happy marriage, just pretend it was OK; until I couldn’t.  The last straw came when he called me a cunt in front of my children.  Through shock, disbelief, embarrassment, and rage, I balled up my right hand, reached back and swung.  I hit him square in the jaw and his 6’ 4” frame dropped to the floor.  I’m not proud of losing control but I was battered and defeated.  I then told the kids to get their jackets on, and “we are out of here.”  So, we left at night during a February snowstorm and never looked back.  It was the best decision of my life.

I eventually got on my feet after staying with my parents for 6 months.  They were incredibly supportive.  The divorce was a nightmare, of course, but not as bad as the marriage.  Slowly I gained mental strength and self-esteem.  He had me turned so inside out that it was hard for me to make simple decisions at first, and have the necessary confidence I needed to fully heal.  Thankfully that all changed. I took small yet bold steps to regain my life and get to a place of total independence.  I was no longer that woman who put up with his twisted views or gross negativity.  No one would ever step on me again.  No one.

As miracles would have it, he eventually remarried a few years later.  I wondered what kind of woman would fall for him.  And then I remembered how he could transform into a charming predator at will.  I naïvely and regrettably fell for that.  Maybe she was lured in unknowingly, or maybe she was as unbalanced as he was.  Either way, I was determined not to like her, and I didn’t.  Afterall, any friend of his was an enemy of mine. You are judged by the company you keep they say.  However, my life was in an upturn as I had met and fallen in love with my life partner.  The only thing I worried about was the time and influence she would have on my son.  Her character was a mystery to me, and I had deep concerns.

Eventually they had a child of their own, a baby girl.  I had to pretend that I cared about my son having a new sister so he would feel content and at ease.  He already had to put up with his father’s erratic behavior when he picked him up on weekends, shouting nonsense at me for no reason.  I didn’t want to add to my son’s stress by saying anything negative about his new sister, nor did I want to.  It turned out that he really liked his stepmother, without elaborating on it.  I think he didn’t want me to feel bad.  He also loved having a sister, he was no longer the baby in the family.  I had very little contact with the new wife, except for a few emotionally charged phone conversations.  She accused me of being “selfish” when discussing child support.  This woman was crazy.

Not surprisingly their marriage dissolved a few years later.  I wasn’t broken up about it.  Nobody could live with him.  Only now, not only a family was split up, but my son would also lose a sister that he loved.  Life continued with weekend visits from his father.  I didn’t give his situation a second thought, as it was none of my business.  However, I received a phone call a few years after the split up that changed my life.

My son’s estranged stepmother called me one winter day and asked if she could drop her daughter off to spend time with my son.  It was Thanksgiving.   At first, I was taken aback.  Afterall, here was this “crazy” woman asking me to entertain her daughter.  She was not family. What was I supposed to do?  I eventually agreed and talked to my partner.  He said, “why don’t you ask her to come along and join us too.  It’s such a long drive, why doesn’t she just stay.”  That was out of the question in my mind.  Why would I do that!  But the more I thought about it, I decided that it would be OK.  I would only have to put up with her for an afternoon if it made my son happy.  Not only did it make my son happy, but it was such a simple, yet brave, act of kindness on her part that I could not help but silently admire.  She decided to stay.

We eventually started seeing each other with and without the kids.  At first, I would tell my friends that I was hanging out with my Ex’s second ex-wife.  Then as time went on, I did not need to describe our situation.  There was no need.  We were becoming good friends on our own.  Her stories were my stories. Her life was my life.  We are kindred souls who have the same war stories, the same dreams and desires.  It was not all about the marriages.  Sure, we kibitzed about being married to him for a while, but then it turned into more; much much more.  If she never met my Ex then we would have never met.  And, thanks to her, our children will have a loving and solid relationship, growing up and growing old together.

I count her as one of my dearest friends.  We know what each other has been through and keenly understand it.  It’s mostly unspoken today.  Besides being a loving, patient, wonderful friend, she is my son’s mother as well.  Not a stepmother, a true and dedicated mother.  If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know if the kids would be in each other’s lives today.  If it wasn’t for her, I would have missed out on a “once in a lifetime” friendship.  I love her and will have her for the rest of my life, until death do us part.

 

Life Topics

An Accidental Guest

Jo Toale

I returned home after my early routine swim at the gym as the gray muted dawn was turning to daylight.  Although the leaves haven’t turned colors yet, the damp smell of rain and the scent of weathering leaves was in the air.  Closing the door gently, as not to wake my husband, I quietly stepped down into the entryway.  Taking off my shoes, I could feel the cold tile floor.  Autumn was slowly inching its way into the house.  I changed out of my swimsuit and hung the towel and suit in the only warm sliver of sunshine on the back deck.  It was time to start the day.

Walking into the kitchen, I noticed out the front window, a person taking a walk on my street.  She was above average height with flowing, below the shoulders, blonde hair covered with a baseball cap.  I stood for a moment registering that I might know her.  She had earbuds in, and her gait was long with a bit of a rhythmic lift.  I could tell she was listening to something upbeat.  Then, it hit me.  That’s Kate! I have a soft spot for Kate as her company always brings me to a place of comfort and delight.  Gosh, I haven’t seen her in such a long time I thought.  I had to invite her in.

I ran outside and caught her off guard.  Kate! I called from the end of the short driveway.  She realized it was me, and gave me a bright smile and a hello, as she removed her earbuds.   We are always happy to see each other.  Before she could say anything else, I said, “Come in for a cup of coffee.”  She quickened her pace, as she walked toward me, and said, “I would love to.”  No discussion, no place to go.  My heart soared.  It felt like “the old days” when people would just drop in for coffee, like Lucy and Ethel did.   No plans, just a spontaneous encounter.

Hugs and smiles and giddy thoughts danced inside the kitchen.  I learned she takes her coffee with milk, and don’t be stingy with the milk!  I, on the other hand, am a hardcore strong black coffee drinker.  She complimented my kitchen, and I showed her what knitting I was working on, as we slowly made our way toward the back door.  It was a sweatshirt-optional type of day before the bluster of cold winds or frost had arrived.  My husband sat in his chair in the corner of the yard where the sun shone brightly.  We moved outside toward the comfy seats under the small pavilion with a covered gas firepit.  It was shady, but still held some infused warmth of the sun and our friendship.

We laughed at our mothers, our antics and generally “talked treason” as the Irish say.  Kate is an academic, teacher, writer, poet, musician, and Fairy Queen.  She believes in magic, and she believes in herself.  I share her love of writing, poetry, and the Irish culture. In fact, she will soon be teaching the Irish language at Harvard.  Impressive.  Kate talked about the process of writing, as I confessed, I was writing a stalled memoir.  And, although she is a published poet, she has also recently finished writing a novel.  We enthusiastically encouraged each other’s creativity in following through on our beloved projects.  “I want to be a real writer” I said, and she told me I could do it.  I believe her.

The remains of my coffee were starting to get cold, as we talked about Irish musicians.  I should have offered her another cup, but she was starting to shift, as if to stand.  It was time to really start my day.  Getting up, she said, “It’s time to move on.”  I was slightly disappointed, as the time just flew by.  Enjoying simple moments with a friend can introduce you to aspects of yourself you may not see.  It’s like being in a foreign place and finding the only person who speaks your language. Then we walked toward the door, with a short stop to scratch my dog McDermott, then out to the driveway.  As we stood in the sun, we reiterated words of encouragement and support, as friends do.  Kate took her earbuds out of her pocket and held them in her hand.  We hugged and said goodbye.  The last thing I said was, “if you’re ever walking by, just give a knock to see if I’m home.”

Maybe I’ll see her again soon.

Life Topics

Sink or Swim

Jo Toale

5:50am.  I struggle to catch my breath when I reach the edge.  Lifting my head out of the water on the final stroke, I swallow a small amount of water and cough.  The powerful smell of chlorine tightens my chest and causes me to wheeze.  Is this supposed to be fun?  I momentarily watch the swimmers in the other lanes flutter kick and stretch moving through the water with grace and strength, lap after lap.   My style looks more like I’m trying to survive a shark attack, slapping my arms ahead and frantically kicking, an awkward ballet.

I always stop after a lap and take a moment, as I look down the lane to the opposite edge.  Not ready to swim again, I usually switch off swimming with a little water aerobics.  Then I prance across the pool, pumping my arms and lifting my knees.  I’m not exactly what you would call a “swimmer” because of my mental and physical situation.  Basically, I get bored very easily and my body doesn’t fight it.  If my mind says, “I’m done swimming” then we’re done swimming.  So, it’s always a game to keep my interest fresh by thinking positive thoughts and making positive strokes.

My post-menopausal body has not been good for me.  I stiffen up and ache when I sit too long, my hips are in agonizing pain when I walk.  I’ve gained over 100 pounds in the past 2 decades, have moderate hair loss, am a medicated depressive, have bad skin, and worse vision.  My body runs hot like a child with a modest temperature.  I’m never cold.  My only preference for exercise seems to be taking up swimming.  I’m at the point of sink or swim, because my options are limited and so are my hips.  I’d love to go for a long walk, but that’s not possible.  So here I am, fighting for small wins and trying to stay afloat, before the world wakes up.  At least, I’m rewarded with an adjacent hot tub to soak in after all my hard work.

6:20am.  I’ve been at this for a half hour and am ready to quit.  I need passionate motivation and a gallon of strong coffee.  I’ll change to the backstroke to relax a little as my eyes are fixed on the contours of the roof.   Less chance of swallowing water, while giving me a chance to think.   As I reach back, I take a deep breath in, kick, pull, glide.  Breath, reach, kick, glide.  My breath creates a calming rhythm.  I’m not worried about work, or anything else for that matter.  My breath lulls me to a state of contentment like I’m in another world, by myself.

I’m coming around to the idea of swimming.   Sure, my choices of activity are few, but these early mornings have worked out well.  Like Yoga, you get the benefit of exercise, but it also clears your mind.  The past few years have been rough on my body, as I am twice the person I used to be, while sluggish and sedimentary. However, taking baby strokes has been the answer.  Just dip into the pool and pull yourself to the other side.  Repeat.  It’s as simple as that.  You don’t have to look pretty doing it.  Just breath.