The Long Haul

This is the final post about mom's memorial lunch.  We asked dad beforehand if he wanted to speak and he said no.  That didn't surprise us.  Mom's loss has hit dad hard.  He's not much of a speech maker either, more a man of action.

Nobody sees the inside of a marriage quite like the kids.  It's part of being a family.  Both the good times and rough times.  I won't talk about the rough times other than to say what my parents taught me is you don't give up on your partner or your marriage.   People are flawed, be there for them because you ain't always a grand prize yourself.  A lesson that has allowed me to build my own loving marriage.

Mom had many major heart surgeries during her lifetime.  One or all of us were always there in the recovery as she woke up or very soon after. Everyone was always overjoyed that she had made it through one more time.  This last one was especially tough.  My mom was convinced she had pushed her luck one too many times.  She was convinced she would be put under and never wake up again. In the recovery room after that last surgery, as she came to my dad had stepped out for a minute.  She immediately started to ask for him insistently and wouldn't stop until he came back. He was back right away. She immediately calmed down as they held hands, then looked into each other's eyes with no words and finally hugged.  I'll never forget the look that passed between them.   I realized how deeply and profoundly they loved and relied on each other.  Before that moment I always put the "mom and dad" label on them when I thought of them.  In that moment I saw them as a "husband and a wife".

At the memorial lunch we asked dad again if he wanted to say anything, just to make sure he hadn't changed his mind.  He said this, and this only "Love like there's no tomorrow."

Alle Ist Gut

This is the last picture shared at Mom's lunch.  Chosen by my sister and followed by what she said.   The last sentence says it all.  Mom's last unprompted words.  I hope to pass from this world with as much dignity and self determination as my mother did.  She was an inspiration to me until her last breath.

I’ll never forget my mother’s heart surgeon telling her there was nothing else they could do for her. We knew then it was the beginning. She and I would talk about dying, questions like, does everyone get to a point that they know they are ready? Do I think she will get to see her father?

 We had many times this past year when we thought we would have to say goodbye. But she kept fighting. She wasn’t ready. She had more living to do. One thing she told me she wanted to do was see her great-grandchildren. In this picture you see the first time she got to meet her first great granddaughter, Claire.

Even though I wasn’t ready for her to go, in the end she made it very clear that she was. That comforts me so much to know she found out the answer to that question. As far as finding out if she will get to see her father, I can only believe she is with him now and I myself will learn the answer to that question one day.

I’ve heard people say to me recently, “She lives on in your heart.” My first reaction is to say so what, I don’t want her to live on there, I want her right here in the flesh. What good does living in my heart do? But I know in the days to come this will be what keeps me moving, going, living, growing.” Amongst many things in my heart will be what I learned from my mother.

I learned how to be a mother. I learned that the will to live is a powerful thing. That no matter how poor you are you can always be clean. To never buy clothing full price, always wait for it to go on sale. I learned how to fold fitted bed sheets, make a bed with hospital corners and keep a clean house. To always wear clothes that have been ironed. I learned that I am not a wonderful cook like my mother so marry someone who is. I learned how to make oxtail soup. I learned that how we treat people and what we do is more important than how we look, as she said, pretty is as pretty does. I learned that you can love your children equally. That you do anything for your family. I learned that being sick does not stop you. That if you truly want something you will do what it takes to achieve it. I learned not to whine. I learned that we don’t need religion to lead a spiritual life. I learned that there is no reason to apologize for being a strong willed, opinionated, fierce woman in this society. I learned how to be a Lauchstaedt woman. That you never hate people, only the devil hates. I learned that even though it is not cool, holding your mom’s hand while walking through the mall as a teenager is nice. To always have a good book to read. I learned that death can be a beautiful thing and you don’t have to say goodbye. I learned that everything is alright, as she told me that last night alles ist gut.

Have A Seat.

This is the third of four pictures my sister and I shared at Mom's memorial lunch.  To read my blog you would think I am overtaken by this grief.  It's not like that.  I laugh.  I socialize.  I have fun.  I don't dwell on my loss.  But every day, multiple times during the day, I see or hear something that reminds me of my mother and I am deeply sad.  I miss her. 

This picture should be a familiar one to anybody who visited the Wade household.  It’s my parents in their kitchen, sitting across their kitchen table from each.  This picture seems ordinary enough at first glance but to me this picture represents the constancy of my family’s love and support.    As we went through pictures to share today we were struck at how many of them were taken in this room with one or both my parents at this table. How many times have I sat at the table with them?  Good times and bad.  Laughing, arguing and just living life. 

When Erica was a little baby I took her to visit my mother.  As I carried her in her cloth baby carrier from the car one of the handles slipped from my gloved hand and Erica tumbled to the ground.  I quickly picked her up.  She was screeching at me angrily and had some scratches on her face.  I panicked and did the only thing I could think to do.  I rushed her into the house, holding her in front of me with two outstretched arms, yelling for my mother to help.  There she was sitting at the table.  I held Erica out to her saying “Is she okay?” over and over again.  My mother calmly took her, checked her over and told me everything was fine.  Only then could I stop panicking.

Many stories have played out at this table.  For my mother the last was this past Monday when she  chose to leave the hospital and come home.  When she was carried into the house she demanded to be taken to her kitchen table.  She sat at her side of the table long into the night, surrounded by the love of her family.  Determined to do things on her terms.  Strong until the end.       

Hug Me

Below is the second picture from my Mom's memorial.  Chosen by my sister Sabrina and followed by what she said.  Sabrina and I did not share beforehand what we would say at Mom's memorial.  I think hearing my sister's love and grief for our mother was one of the hardest things I dealt with that day.  My sister lives across the street from my parents.  She was there for Mom day in and day out.  My sister is a wonderful person.

How does a child sum up the life of a mother? Sweet, cuddly, mushy, charming, cute, these are not words to describe my mother. My mother was stoic, sedulous, proud, classy, and intelligent.

We did not hug much in our family. This never bothered me, though my sister and I made a conscious decision to start hugging more when we got together.  I didn’t need a hug to know my mother loved me. 

My mother’s hugs were when my mom would sit with me after bathtime and work the tangles out of my fine hair, letting me stay up past my bedtime with the family watching tv together as I very slowly sipped the glass of water I needed as if I’d been on a desert island for weeks, wrapping my sister and I up in blankets and her fur coat one winter night because the furnace had gone out, watching her work so hard to get a college degree even though she had been told by her teachers in Germany that she was not smart, coming to my house to clean it when I was a new mother, making oxtail soup every Christmas Eve even though it took all day and it was not my fathers’ favorite, letting me see her cry when she lost her own mother, calling me in my young adulthood when life got too busy to tell me she forgot what I looked like so I would go visit her, sitting with her countless times at the kitchen table and just talking, about anything and everything, making sure I learned about God and how to live a spiritual life that is not defined by religion, getting together for family dinner night, walking together with her hand holding the crook of my arm, letting me care for her as she became ill. 

These are some of the hugs my mother gave me.  

Determination

At Mom's memorial lunch my sister and I each chose two pictures that were special to us.  This is the first picture I shared and what I said about it.

I chose this picture because it reminds me how my mother’s determination and resolve has been an inspiration to me throughout my life.  This picture was taken in 1970, right after my mother returned from a long visit to Germany.    Before that trip she had reached a crossroad in her life.  She was restless and unhappy.  She loved her family and regretted none of her choices but she wanted something more than she had.  She wanted to go to college.  She wanted to be out in the world.  She wanted to shape her own destiny instead of being led by the circumstances in her life.  But there were obstacles.  Her own fear and self doubt.  Society’s expectation that being a housewife and mother should be enough for her.     Where would they get the money?  And the seemingly impossible logistics of going to school when she had two young children and a husband who traveled for work.   

I believe her trip to Germany was to take stock of where she came from before she stepped forward to create a new life.  I remember the adults in my life giving me vague answers about why my mother went away.   I remember how excited I was when I found out she was coming home.   This picture is the day she returned.  Even at my young age I realized when I saw her that there was something very different about her.  It wasn’t just her stylish new wardrobe and hairdo.  It was her resolve.  Here was a woman who had had taken charge and was going to get the things out of life that she wanted.  And she did.  She went to school, got a degree and then got a job.  She was outspoken and independent and she experienced life on her terms.  It was such an example to me throughout my life.  This was the moment my mother taught me the only thing that could stop me in life was myself.

Unmoored

My mother passed away on January 27th.  It was not unexpected but it was nevertheless a shock to lose someone so important in my life.  I feel like some of the glue in my life is gone and I need to work hard to keep all the pieces from floating away.

Every day I wake up and at some point within the first 5 minutes it hits me that my mother is dead.  And I think "Oh mother."   Because I miss her so.  I want her back.  I'll never have her back.

Over the next few posts I'll share the memories my sister and I shared at her memorial luncheon.

Opening

My father, sister and I thank you for joining us today to share memories of my mother Gisela.  Please bear with my sister and me if we cry a little bit while we’re up here speaking to you.  We’ll simply take a moment to collect ourselves and then carry on - like our mother taught us to do.

Many people use the word strong when they describe my mother.  She fought a hard battle against her body for most of her life. She faced those battles with a seemingly endless supply of courage and a desire to live the life she wanted in spite of her health.  It would appear to most people that her body won this battle in the end.  I tell you that it didn’t.  Her spirit was strong and noble and good and in the end it triumphed over her body as she controlled her own destiny until the very end, coming home to spend her last days surrounded by the love of her family.

My mother was more than strong.  She was curious and intelligent, always reading and learning.  A deep thinker, she loved carrying on long conversations and debates about a wide variety of topics.   If you wanted to debate her though,you had better be well prepared,.  If you weren't she'd eat you alive. 

Those closest to her know she also had a love of laughter and fun.  In so many of the pictures around this room she is laughing.  The best payoff for me when I told a funny story was her laughter.  When I could get her to laugh uncontrollably it was the best feeling in the world.   

My mother will always be a part of me.   I am comforted by the fact that so much of who she was carries on through her grandchildren.  She was so proud of them and I see so much of her in them.  A smart, funny and strong group of people.

Please know that she cared deeply about so many of you here.  In the last few months, as she talked about memories, so many of you came up.   You were an important part of her life and I know she’d be happy that you were here to honor those memories.  

I’d like to share a poem.  My mother had a special relationship with her father-in-law Marty.  They loved many of the same things.  This poem was one of them. 

Invictus

by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

That was my mother.

Shut My Mouth

I don't feel qualified to speak about what is going on in Ferguson.  I don't know what it's like to be targeted as suspicious simply because of the color of my skin.  I don't know what it's like to be pulled over by a police officer for no other reason than being who I am.

I don't like the police.  I don't know why.  I just know that they raise in me an instinctual distrust, a drawing in and at the same time a whole lot of defiance.  A luxury I'm afforded as a white female.  Wonder how brave I'd be if they pulled out their guns on me as I gave them my stoic, evil eyed stare and my smartass mouthiness.  Probably not very.

Saw a post of a friend of a facebook friend about Ferguson that made me just shake my head.  "Unlike them, we're civilized.  Get your gun and be prepared to shoot to kill those who would harm your life, family and property."  Oh the irony.

Couldn't Do It

Deleted my last post.  I'm actually ashamed of how sappy it was.  I can't explain why I lost the desire to blog.  At some point the ideas seemed forced and the entries dwindled.  Has my life become boring, over-examined, have I said all I have to say?  Maybe.

I know that part of it is I lost interest in posting anything related to my political viewpoint.  The more deep the divide between left and right has become the less sway I feel anything I have to say will hold.  The political discourse these days is brutal.  I read the comments of any story posted to any internet news source and it doesn't take long for me to be both sad and scared.  Sad that it to deteriorates into name calling almost immediately.  Scared of the extreme opinions of the right who seem to truly believe that our world is about to collapse because of our President's actions.  And there's no reasoning with them.  Facts are immaterial.  So in the face of that I guess I ended up at "Why bother?"

Well, I know why.  Because every single voice that stands in opposition of the madness will eventually drown them out, I hope.  So, you know what.  Don't send me your campaign literature where you call yourself a "Job creator."  To me that means you oppose raising the minimum wage, something that is long overdue.  Don't proudly proclaim that you support "Protecting Life."  That means you want to control what women do with their bodies.  And your 2nd amendment mantra about the right to protect yourself must surely have some boundaries.  Why not just let everybody have tanks, and missiles and grenades.   Hell, let's arm everyone to the teeth and let it all play out however it goes.  The innocents killed along the way are just the necessary collateral damage offered at the altar of "freedom".  Do you people hear yourselves?

Today I voted in the primary election.  Every Democrat ran uncontested because they have slim chance of being elected in this gerrymandered district.  They'll all be on the ballot in November, I'll vote for them then.  Today I hoped to vote for two Republicans to get them on the ballot.  The Republicans spots all had at least two candidates for each spot (except Governor and Senator).  Some of them are real crackpots.   My plan was to vote for two Republicans today.  Normally this is done to bring the nut job to the ballot in November and increase the Democrats' chances.  No, I wanted to keep the far right fringe as far away from the real ballot as I can.  A "normal" Republican would be refreshing for a change.  Sadly, in Michigan you can only vote all Republican or all Democrat and I couldn't bring myself to vote for Rick Snyder and Terry Lynn Land.  I'm keeping the faith that the Republicans in this district have some sense and don't vote for Kerry Bentovolio or Matthew Edwards.

Meddling Mother

My lovely Miss Erica, eldest child, only daughter and one of the absolute joys of my life is single again after only two years of marriage.  How that happened is not my tale to tell other than to say that this change was gut wrenching for all concerned, each in their own way.   My advice from the start has been to dust yourself off, learn the lessons you need to learn and move on.  Nothing else to do.  You can't change the past so it's wasted time to wish you could.

Now, about Mike Schramm.  I first heard him years ago on a podcast called Wow Insider.   It's about the World of Warcraft, a game which I love and play to this day.  At that time I was part of a raiding guild that spent a good deal of time trying to defeat digital "bosses".  It took coordinated effort and a dedication to achieving the goal.  I was mediocre at best but they needed me because I was a healer and not many people are willing to do such a thankless job.  I tried to improve by learning as much as I could about the game.  That's why I started listening to this podcast.

I liked Mike Schramm's style.  He is easygoing, smart, funny, eager to learn, open minded and not afraid to laugh at himself.  All good qualities in a person.  When he left that podcast and moved on to another I followed.  It was a different format, less formal but a lot of fun to listen to.

Then Mike took a trip to Europe and that's how I discovered his blog.  He's a really good writer, not surprising given the easy way he talks to his podcast audience.  His writing is the same.  At some point I facebook friended him.  His posts make me smile.  When I read and heard he was going to Berlin I messaged him some recommendations for his visit to one of my favorite cities.  He took my advice about a restaurant and I was thrilled to hear him actually mention it on his podcast.  Silly I know, but it was nice to have a semi-personal connection with someone whose work I admired.

Back to my daughter, at some point, during a discussion with her about plenty of fish in the sea I think I said something like "There are plenty of Mike Schramm's out there." She responded with a sigh and asked who Mike Schramm was.  I told her the tale I just told you and then suggested she FB friend him.  She did and she's noticed the same qualities I have, especially his great sense of humor.   I kept telling her I'd be happy to message him that if he liked my restaurant tip he would love the one about meeting my daughter. She absolutely forbade me from doing it.   Fine.

Then Mike started planning a driving trip out west.  He crowd funded his trip as a travel blog and I backed him.  My motive was to support and encourage a great writer.  I really enjoyed reading the blog posts from his European vacation.  I chose the level where I would receive a souvenir from his travels.  Then I received an email from Mike asking me to forward my request for a personal picture since I had qualified for that on top of my souvenir.  That's when the wheels started turning.

I requested the picture above and the affable Mike Schramm happily complied.  My daughter was mortified, well a little embarrassed at least. Maybe they won't ever have dinner but my message remains the same.... there are plenty of Mike Schramm's out there - fours on the four point scale..... smart, funny, handsome and tall..... .sorry, we're a tall family so it merits a point.

Raw

Words come hard when  you lose someone you cared about.  But I feel like they need to be said, or written.  Scott was one of the most genuine people I have ever met and also one of the most intense.  He was like a roller coaster, thrilling and scary and raw.  He died this week after a year long battle with cancer.  Sad.  But as he wrote to me once, "So long as your memories of me live so do I."

Scott was a music lover.  He loved all types of music and felt it in his soul.  To this day I've never seen someone get lost in the music like he did. I'll never forget the day we were riding in the car and heard on the radio that John Lennon had been shot.   He was heartbroken.  He felt it.  Music would never be the same and he knew it.  He was depressed for weeks.  Genuinely depressed.  That's what I mean about real.

He was a writer too, though he came late to it.  When he wrote from the heart that raw intensity of his came through.  I was lucky enough to read his writing over the last few years.  He brought tears to my eyes sometimes.  "I wonder when I die will I become a dream?"

Scott's roller coaster ride was one I couldn't take with him.  He and I broke up thirty years ago.  We both knew it wasn't going to work.  That doesn't diminish what we shared.  It also doesn't make our lives after each other any less meaningful.  He had an impact on who I am today and I can't change that.  Wouldn't want to.  When I have to steel myself to say what needs to be said to someone, no matter how hard, it's Scott behind me. He never cared what anybody thought..... anybody.  When I hear certain songs I hear him singing them, even today.

I wish him well on the journey he travels today.  I'm sure he's telling somebody what's what with a spark in his eye and with a heartfelt passion that is so real it's a wonder to behold.

Heedless of the Wind & Weather

Today I drove by the spot where I lived when my first child was born.  It was back in 1986.  So long ago I have a hard time remembering much from back then.  I do remember that the love for my new baby girl was immediate and complete.  I gazed upon that sweet little monkey face and hoped she would have a happy life.  I still do, every day.  She is a strong young woman who makes me proud.  She'll have her ups and her downs but she can get through most anything.

You never know how things are going to turn out.  You start down a path that you think could only lead to one place, then boom, you find yourself in a completely different spot.  Sometimes it's your own doing, sometimes not, but either way it can be a shock.  It's life though, isn't it?  Moving forward, adjusting, adapting, doing the best you can.  All while you have the time.  Because as we see every day, our time is finite.

Hug the people you love while you can and then eat, drink, and be merry.  Fortunately, tis the season for it.  

Artist

I had a conversation with my husband recently about music.  He and I like the same stuff for the most part.  He gets into the blues a little more than me.... I like it but it doesn't move me as much as Motown, for instance.  I was saying to him that there are just some artists that you can feel their heart and soul in the music.
They do it because they have to do it, not because of the latest deal they made.   The Stones, Beatles, Bowie, were my examples.  Then Bob Seger entered the debate.  Now, I have nothing against Seger.  He's good.  But I wouldn't put him in the same category as the three I just mentioned.   At some point he just started cranking them out.

The conversation came up after we had recently gone to Pine Knob to see the Winter brothers.  When you see Edgar Winter perform Frankenstein on stage you are watching someone who lives the music they play.  It was like watching a virtuoso.  He lived that performance.  Opening for him was Rick Derringer of Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo fame.  Rick also did Hang on Sloopy.  Both respectable songs.... but I'm telling you it just wasn't the same compared to what Edgar did on stage.

Realize the Dream

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. ~ William Shakespeare

I always have such grand plans.  It all works out beautifully in my head beforehand.  It's during the execution phase that things all start to fall to pieces.   As evidence I present the quilt I started working on 12 years ago.  It's nearly finished.  All I have to do is actually quilt the top part to a bottom part with some stuffing stuff in the center.  But the joining of the quilt pieces is a little sloppy so I lost my enthusiasm.  It doesn't match the beautiful quilt I had in my head.  So there my quilt sits in a corner of my craft room in a bag.

My craft room.  A whole room dedicated to the wondrous accomplishments I could achieve if only I would put my mind to it.   I have materials for scrapbooking, jewelry making, crocheting, magnet making and cross stitching.   Not to mention odds and ends I picked up with no purpose in mind other than some wonderfully crafty thing I could use them for with a little imagination. That room contains so many projects patiently waiting for me to come finish them.  Sad to say, most of them wait in vain.

In the days before the internet I could multi-task.  I'd crochet or cross stitch while watching TV.  Since the internet came along to feed my endlessly wandering mind I don't finish nearly as many things as I used to.

We have been asked to go to the annual Renaissance Festival with some good friends.  We went with them a few years ago.  They go all out and dress up.  They have costumes that they have slowly been adding to over the years.  It's awesome.  I've talked about getting a costume for the Renaissance Festival for years.  This year we're doing it.

Jim and I are going to be Vikings.  But not dime store Vikings with plastic horned helmets. If we're doing this we're doing it right.  I want to be as authentic as possible.  I discovered that Viking women wore apron dresses.  While researching this I came across several "easy" do-it-yourself" patterns for this dress.  You see where this is going don't you?   I decided to make my own dress, complete with the under kirtle.

I'm ashamed to admit that this blog post is being used as a stalling tactic.  Right now I'm in the sweet spot on this project.  I have the plan. I have the materials. I'm ready to begin.  In my head it's all still going to work out beautifully.  But the minute I start to put it all together, poof, the dream is gone.  I just hope the dress ends up being wearable.

Things to do.

I'm not a napper.  Not a regular one anyway.  My disdain for napping started when I was a child.   I was forced to nap, like every kid.  As I lay on my bed, wide awake, I felt powerless.  My parents controlled every aspect of my life, even my consciousness.  Don't they understand that I don't want to nap?   I'm not tired.  Finally, sleep would come and the next thing I knew my mother was shaking me awake saying "Get out of bed."  Really?  It was like some sort of sadistic game they played.  Go to sleep, wake up, go to sleep, wake up.  Alright already, I'm up!   What am I?  Your puppet?

Once I got older I took matters into my own hands.  Napping became an accidental affair.  If I happened to fall asleep while reading or watching TV, so be it.  It was rarely intentional.  Not only do I feel like I'm missing out on things while sleeping the day away, I just generally feel like crap after a nap.  My brain is foggy and I have no energy.    It ruins the rest of the day for me.

I realize I'm in the minority.  People love naps.  Some people say the word nap as though they were talking about orgasms. " I love naps."  "I couldn't live without my naps."   There are people I know who treat naps as ritual affairs. My mother did.  She took one every day.  Draw the drapes, shut the doors and everybody be quiet.  This felt like control to me too.  Shhhh, be quiet, I'm sleeping.  The world of the waking must stand still while I am napping.

Now that I'm not so young anymore my body is betraying me. Once again bowing to forces beyond my control.  I can no longer resist taking a nap here and there.  I don't like it but my body demands it.  Curse you naps.  Don't you know I have things to do?

Reason to Be Proud

There's a myth on the Lauchstaedt side of the family that mothers favor their sons above their daughters.  For at least the last four generations in my lifetime it seems to be true.  My great grandmother adored her son I am told and tolerated her daughter (my grandmother).  In turn my grandmother worshiped the ground that my Uncle Dieter walked upon.  The tradition passed on down to my aunts on that side of the family with all of their sons being placed on a pedestal.  I think it's less true of my generation but the propensity leads me to be careful about how much praise I heap upon my son.  Not to mention the fact that his sister, for reasons of her own, believes I was easier on him.


I confess my guilt on this last count.  I always saw my daughter as an extension of me.  There wasn't a lot of mystery with her, I usually knew where she was coming from.  I was once a girl, a teen and a young woman too.  I had felt the same feelings, had the same fears.  I spent most my time trying to help her avoid the mistakes I had made growing up.  But my son was always a complete and utter mystery to me.  Most of my time with him was spent trying to crack the code and figure him out.   Add to that the fact that I had to counteract his father being tougher on him than on our daughter and it ended up being a completely different mothering experience.   But they know that I love them both dearly and would do anything in the world for them.

All that seems like a long way to go just to share a video of my son's band but, like I said, I'm sensitive about over praising.  My son Wade has a great big heart, a good sense of humor and a healthy appreciation for a good practical joke.  I didn't realize he was a performer though until I saw him in a grade school show doing a dead-on impersonation of Michael Jackson, complete with the moonwalking.  I remember being impressed by not only his performance but also how at ease he seemed to be on stage.  Through the rest of his schooling he seemed to have an eye for art as well.  My husband, the vigilant one, made sure he took guitar lessons as he was growing up.  The guitar teacher said more than once that Wade had a knack for it.  I was certainly proud but tried to not get too over excited about it.  After all, if he were a prodigy we certainly would have known.

About a year ago Wade and some of his buddies started a band.  They practiced for the first few months in his girlfriend's barn.  As winter set in though it got to be too cold so he asked if they could practice in the basement.  Sure, why not.  The first thing I noticed is they sounded really good.  Then I realized I didn't recognize any of the songs.  I asked Wade about it and he said that was because he wrote them.  I flashed back to his Michael Jackson skit. Really?  You wrote that stuff.  Where did you get that talent?  They've been practicing here for several months and they have improved a lot.  The video clip below is three songs they played at an open mic night at the Tap Room in Ypsi.  Wade is up front and center playing guitar.  The enthusiastic fan is his girlfriend.  My favorite is the third song.  Am I gushing too much?

GFBT2012

Final countdown to the big trip.  We've been counting down since last September and finally it's upon us.  Together with our good friends/Vegas travel companions/wine buddies we booked something we call the GFBT-2012.  GFBT = Going for Broke Tour, so dubbed because it is a six day trip where we will compete to see if we spend more money on wine during our three days in Napa California or on gambling during our three days in Las Vegas.   It was a stroke of genius calling it the GFBT.  It's offered instant guidance on many key decisions 1) which car to rent, 2) which room at the Mirage to book,  3) drive from winery to winery or book a car and driver, 4) which restaurants to eat at.  Duh..... going for broke. 

This past weekend the four of us got together and over dinner and some nice wine, planned the details we don't want to leave to chance, (restaurants, wineries to visit).  The remnants are shown above.  I know it looks like a lot of wine but I'd like to add some perspective.  You should keep in mind that one bottle of wine is like drinking one and a half bottles of pop (750ml) and wine's better for you than pop. Plus it was a really long evening. Not the longest wine night but the wine to time ratio was within reason.

This trip couldn't come at a better time for me.  Going through some really tough stuff in the mother department, being one.... not having one (though with nods to my kids and apologies to my mother, I admit both can be challenging).  

Are you watching? Are you?

Watching a bit of the Oscars last night I was reminded how much I dislike Angelina Jolie.  There's another actress I dislike just as much, if not a wee bit more, Nicole Kidman.   I dislike these two so much I refuse to watch any of their movies. I've been trying to figure out exactly what it is about them I don't like. Since they both elicit a scowl and a slow shaking of my head I'm pretty sure it's for the same reason.

It's not the red hair.  I like plenty of red headed actresses. I'm not jealous of their current or former sexy husbands.  Though Tom and Brad are both very good looking, neither strikes me as particularly intelligent and that is a deal breaker in my book.  The girls are welcome to them.  It's not that they aren't good actresses. ( I refuse to call them actors. Get over it. Actress is a perfectly fine word.)   After some thought I finally figured it out.  It's how they carry themselves.  Every move seems orchestrated and mechanical.  They aren't genuine.  They seem to be pretending to be somebody they aren't.  All the while being overly interested in the reactions they get from people.  Like a little girl showing off to a table full of adults.  They have different styles though.  Angelina is the bad girl and Nicole is the good girl.

Angelina's little leg move at the Oscar's is a perfect example of her style.  She's always tries to be in your face and irreverent with her big pouty lips.  It just ends up being weird and uncomfortable.  In the beginning I liked her.  Then came the nonsense about kissing her brother. Plus the way that she and Billy Bob flaunted their sexuality in front of everybody really turned me off.  It seemed like such a show.  The last straw was when she stole Brad away from Jennifer.  Calm down.......  I know you can't steal anybody who doesn't want to be stolen but a decent woman doesn't mess with someone's husband, period.  Angelina just doesn't seem stable.  I'd bet money that one of these days she'll go mad in a very public way.  She'll just start cackling like a crazy she-devil and pulling her own hair out.

Nicole on the other hand puts on the demure, sweet and innocent act. She giggles a lot and bats her eyelashes. If it were in fashion to carry fans she would be seen holding one up to her face and fanning frantically, as if she had the vapors.  Underneath all that gentility though I get the feeling like she could turn on you for saying the wrong thing.  I can imagine her screeching before she goes off on a kicking-scratching-biting fit aimed at someone who's made her angry.   She reminds me of a lady Jim and I used to share a house with.  Sweet as brown sugar in front of others and then crazy as a loon when the visitors left.  you can see it in her eyes.  Tom knows what I'm talking about.

I consider myself lucky that neither of them chooses roles in comedy, science fiction, fantasy films or post apocalyptic films.  It would be quite the dilemma for me.  

Abuela

When I reached middle age I began to imagine myself as a grandmother.  I often wondered whether my grandchildren would love me as much as they would love their other grandmother.  I imagined this unknown rival for my grandchildren's affection as a petite, sweet woman.  Surely she would be all smiles and hugs and chocolate chip cookies, typical grandmother material.  How would I ever compete?  Me - towering over them with my pragmatism, sarcasm and biting wit.  

My own life experience should have made me realize these thoughts were ridiculous.  I was fortunate enough to get to know both my grandmothers.  I never compared the love I had for each of them.  I loved them equally but in different ways. 

My paternal grandmother was very involved in my life.  I saw her regularly until her death when I was 30 years old.  I knew her strengths and her weaknesses and loved her dearly.  She was an intelligent, beautiful woman who always managed to make me feel special.  My maternal grandmother lived in Germany.  I saw her rarely.  When I did see her I needed a translator because she didn't speak English and I didn't speak German.  Even so, I was captivated by her quiet, calm demeanor.  Her personal stories of WWII Germany were told in the most matter of fact way despite the horror she faced.  She was a strong, sensible woman who didn't let her difficult life diminish the joy she took in living.  

 Choosing which one I loved more would be preposterous. They were both a part of me and me of them.  It wasn't a contest.  

I met my daughter's mother-in-law at the wedding in October 2009.  She was sweet and kind and loving and tiny.  A strong contender for the affection of our future grandchildren. But instead of confirming my worst fears I suddenly realized that any thoughts of rivalry were complete and utter nonsense.  She and her husband seemed like family from the minute we met.  Such wonderful people.  My daughter couldn't have picked a better family to become a part of. How lucky my grandkids would be to have one big, loving family. I began to imagine the joy she and I would share, both being grandmothers to the same wonderful grandchildren.  

Sadly, this wonderful woman passed away last May.  I think about her often.  She was a special woman.  I feel ashamed now of my petty worries about who would be favorite.   I am overcome with sadness when I think about the loss her husband and sons must bear every day.  I am also deeply sad for the grandchildren who will never know her gentle kindness, her genuine warmth and her loving hugs.  They will have to rely on their father to tell them what a special person she was.   I would gladly play second fiddle to her if only it would bring her back.  All I'll be able to do though is give those grandkids an extra little squeeze from her every time I hug them, and I will.     

Be careful that your "Line in the Sand" isn't really drawn in cement.

Is your story about what a hardass you are so fragile that you are willing to ruin family relationships over it?  I guess they really weren't that important to you in the first place.  One after the other.

They Don't Wear Buttons

Monsters don't wear buttons.  It's in their best interest to blend in with the rest of us.  To look like the "nice guy next door",  "the faithful husband", or even "the well respected coach".  Sadly, the people who end up seeing  what lurks in a monster's heart are his victims.

We had a next door neighbor in the old neighborhood who was a monster.  At least his suicide leads me to believe the stories were true.  Having served time in prison for selling drugs I think he knew what was in store for him once his girlfriend called the police.  He had been messing around with her very young daughters.  Probably not a predator but a sick opportunist.  He slit his wrists while lying in a bathtub full of water.

I had lived next door to the man for 15 years and never would have suspected.  He seemed pretty harmless to me.  I guess to grown ups he was.

Creeps are different than monsters.  They're openly slimy.  Like the cashier at the grocery store who can't take his eyes off of the women's chests.  All the while he has a disgusting lecherous smile on his face.  Creeps are easy to avoid.  Just pick a different line.

But watch out for monsters.  Don't assume that the unthinkable is impossible.  That so and so would never do such and such.  That's what monsters want you to think.