A little red lobster

I love planning visits to see my six grandchildren, all of whom live a distance from me.  Yet, the whole time I am visiting, I am dreading the thought of when we will eventually have to say, "Goodbye."

The toughest ones to visit, out of the six, are the three in Colorado. I don't get out there as often as I do to visit the three in North Carolina as those can be a road trip for a long weekend,to catch a recital, holiday or birthday. Colorado takes planning, money and time.

My sweet six-year-old, Nina, is the eldest of the three Colorado girls and when I do get to visit there, she too is very aware that my visit will eventually come to an end. She is always drawing me a picture to take home with me "so I won't forget her." Yeah, like I ever could. On my last visit, she created a crayon drawing that was markedly improved from my last visit. She is staying in the lines so much better now. At home I have a huge folder filled with drawings from all of my grandkids. I can't wait for the day when I either give them back, or at least let them view my collection.

On this visit, I had just returned from a cruise to Nova Scotia, and while there I brought her back a stuffed lobster that was holding onto a smaller lobster.  When I gave it to her, I told her I liked to think that I was the big lobster and she was the little one. She loved it and slept with it each night of my visit. She called it, "Meema," her name for me. 

The thing that warmed my heart, yet broke it in two, was when she handed me the stuffed toy and asked me to separate the two lobsters. She explained that I should take the baby lobster home with me to remind me of her and, in turn, she would keep the big one(aka Meema)so we could be with each other all the time. As hard as I tried, I couldn't hold back the tears. I grabbed  her and the lobsters and held on as tightly as I dared. Part of me wanted to keep the two lobsters together, as they were meant to be - like the way I wanted to be with her, however, she insisted, so we got the scissors and I snipped just two little threads to separate them. We each took "the other," and made believe that they were talking to each other - puppet-like.  We laughed on the outside, but I knew we were each a little sad on the inside. 

The next evening, I left on a red-eye flight to NY. I crept into each of the kid's rooms to kiss their foreheads and take in my last deep breath of them (until my next visit). 

When I entered Nina's room, there she was, with "me" by her side, sleeping like an angel. My kiss lingered a second longer.

Packed in my carry-on bag was "her."  

I sat on the plane and made a fool out of myself, sobbing deeply with a little red lobster pressed to my face. I didn't care who saw me or what they thought. I could only think of what I was leaving behind.

So, a little red lobster sits on my desk.  A constant reminder that my Nina is with me every day, not only in my heart, but right in front of me. A constant, tangible reminder.

Some day, I will tell her that she never had to give me anything to remind me of her. I could never forget her; she is burned in my mind, my heart and my soul.

That little red lobster is so darn cute, just like my Nina.

Thank you, Nina, for being "you.”

"REVISED” 11/5/2024

Last year, the two lobsters were sewn back together. Nina, then 16, was ready to put Meema lobster away for safe keeping. She knew I’d always visit and never forget her. 

Some photos from our visits:

Animal Magnatism

I can remember every pet that ever loved me. I didn't pay a dime for any of my special friends, nor was I ever looking for a pet, they just somehow showed up at different times of my life. Each one has left a special mark in my heart and earned a spot in my mind forever. My first pet came into my life around 1958.....Lucky, the stray Heinz 57 mutt. As I wrote in a previous blog, he wandered into my life as an injured, lost soul and warmed up some really cold nights for me. Great dog.  

Buffy was next. He actually was my grandfather's dog and I got to name him and pretended that he was mine. He was a yellow lab mix and a stray as well. He was a super-smart dog and had eyes that led straight to his sweet soul. At night, he was supposed to sleep in the basement, buy my grandfather and I would sneak him upstairs to sleep in the living room.  My grandmother pretended not to notice.

My next pet was quite a story. I read about him on the front page of the local paper in Mt. Vernon, NY. The Daily Argus, way back in 1973.  It was the day after Christmas and he was found during a snowstorm, wavering from side to side of a double yellow line on Lincoln Avenue in Pelham, NY. Not a location that would ensure a long, healthy life for a puppy. A woman picked him up and brought him to her home. She was unable to keep him and had hoped the story in the paper would find his rightful owner.  I guess the "rightful" owner ended up being me, since no one claimed the poor boy. Ta-da!!! Sammy entered my life.  He was my buddy through the first 13 years of marriage and the birth of my two sons.  Sammy was the best dog ever.  He was protective, loving, and had a deep sense of understanding.  He had this uncanny sense of knowing whenever I was sad.  There were too many times when he would curl up next to me and lick away tears as they fell from my eyes.  He would lay a paw on my shoulder, as if to say, "I'm here."  He had "those eyes" too.  Those soul-searching eyes. 

The pal who followed Sammy was named Auggie, named after Auggie Doggie, the cartoon.  He was a full-bred beagle that was given away because he had a physical defect - a bend in his tail.  No good for a breeder, or to use as a show dog, but let me tell you, he was quite the entertainer.  He kept the family laughing at his antics, which included getting loose, stealing food and leaving the evidence on my front lawn.  He showed up  with various items, but the most memorable were the peach can stuck on his snout, a half-defrosted roast beef, a raw turkey neck, and various dishes that, at one time, held cat food. He ate anything and everything.  He got "skunked" a couple of times and actually let someone enter our home one night without so much as a raised eye lid.  I think he may have snored through it all.

The adventure that followed Auggie was the well-renowned, chick-magnet, collegiate and well-traveled "Tank."  So named by my son.  I called him "Mommy's baby," or "Tankie."  Tank lived in more places than my kids had at the time.  He spent a semester at Cobbleskill Community College, he hung out at Fulgum's Bar, sat in the front seat of a Jeep Wrangler while cruising around town and flashed "those eyes" at all the girls.  He also loved to sleep under the covers in my bed.  A wonderful foot warmer and friend. Everyone in our little town knew him. Tank lived to the ripe old age of 14!  He was well cared for and well loved by many right up to his last day.  He lived a most charmed life.

Bogey, although not technically mine, earned a spot on my list.  He helped me find the man I am about to marry.  It's too long a story to go into, but suffice it to say, that I agreed to a first date based on the fact that he had a Golden Retriever.  I figured that anyone who has a Golden, can't be that bad  Fast forward to today, as I count down the days to our wedding.  Bogey, although named for the golf term, was a true tennis fan.  He LOVED tennis balls and had to have TWO thrown out to him in the yard.  Not one.....it had to be two.  

He was a lover and a super spoiled sweetheart. It ended up that Bogey and Tank were the same age.  They were both gently sent to the gate within months of each other.  It was a tough time and I well up with tears to remember.  I choose to  remember them running, jumping, wagging their tails and chasing tennis balls.  

I will end this blog entry with my last pet........a black and white tuxedo cat, named Lucy.  To be continued...

Getting married again....

I remember a time when all I wanted was to get married, have two kids and live "happily ever after."  Well I did get married, at 18 years old, no less, and had my two kids.  Two great kids. Actually, they are men with families of their own now. The "happily ever after" didn't pan out, and the 38 year journey is one I wouldn't care to repeat, but the result of the union brought me more joy than words could ever express.  I don't want to come off sounding like the whole time being married was bad, because it wasn't. There were wonderful, happy moments of being new parents, watching them walk, talk and graduate high schools and colleges. Being young didn't factor into the divorce at all.  We were both very mature for our tender ages, but we started with nothing, grew into adults together, and then each  had different ideas of the definition of "happiness" was for that "ever after."

The time period during the divorce seemed endless, stressful, hateful, and utterly bitter-tasting.  I never thought I would make that same commitment again - ever.  Or as Taylor Swift said, "Never, ever, ever, ever."  However, a special individual dropped in my lap when I wasn't looking.  I was not especially thrilled at the timing, but I knew in my heart, that I would "never, ever, ever, ever" find a guy who would treat me like he did and make me feel how I waited a lifetime to feel - as though I was his #1.

This August, we are getting married.  After being together for 10 years, we have now decided to "make it legal."  Last week, we got our marriage license, yesterday, we picked out wedding bands.  We are getting closer and closer to the big day.  When the jeweler asked what we would like to have engraved on the rings, I knew immediately what I wanted mine to say -"#1."  With his wry sense of humor, my guy said, "I guess I'll  just have to be #2,: but of course, he ended up the same as me, since we both are each other's #1. 

For whoever reads this entry, I wish you the same feeling I was so fortunate to finally achieve - to find the person who makes you feel as if you are the most important thing in the universe to them.  It's a great feeling.  

Mama's Red Purse

This post begins with a small, red leather coin purse.  I found it the beginning of December 2001, quite unexpectedly.  It was a time in my life when I felt so scared, insecure and alone.  It was the major crossroad in my life when I chose to leave my husband of 28 years and attempt to survive on my own.  I had never lived alone before.  Well, there were many years, that in spite of being surrounded by people, I felt quite alone, yet I was never truly totally "responsible" for myself.

So, one evening, I sat on the floor of my tiny studio apartment, wondering how I was going to pay the next month's rent, never mind buy food or Christmas gifts, when I opened up my grandmother's old jewelry box.  I was crying and feeling very sorry for myself, but very grateful I remembered to take this box with me.  After my grandmother passed away, my grandfather kept this box, untouched on top of her dresser.  After he left his apartment, I took the box and held onto it for safe-keeping.  I opened it up and found a treasure-trove of religious articles, photos of all her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, rosary beads, a little statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and a small, red leather coin purse.  All my life I called my grandmother, "Mama," but pronounced it "Mumma."

I fingered the smooth leather and thought it was of a very nice quality, especially for my grandmother to have, since, according to her, she had "nothing of worth except her family."  I opened it up and as I peered inside, the contents it held blurred as my tears fell.  This little purse held three twenty dollar bills and a photo of my grandfather.  Here I had been, wondering how I was going to survive and feeling so alone when I realized my grandparents were beside me all along.  I truly believe my grandmother's spirit urged me on to make that momentous decision to start a new life, and here she was with a bit of salvation in the form of $60.

Eleven years have passed since I found that little red purse and I have borrowed from it many times.  I always paid her back.  Each time I open the purse, I see the photo of my grandfather and it reminds me that I am never alone.  My grandparents cared for me when I was young - I cared for them when they grew old - and now they are angels - watching over me.

Midge's Garden

Feverfew

A month ago, July 4, 2011, George and I spent most of the day preparing a garden bed for various plants, shrubs and flowers. The combination of the varieties I chose were inspired by my friend, Midge. Midge's garden is a well-established perennial haven full of color, birds, squirrels, chipmunks and a cat named Puffin. Planted in my garden today were the dark pink Spirea, lavender-flowering hostas, pink-spiked Astilbe, Coral Bells and Feverfew.

   Astilbe 
  Coral Bells

The Feverfew will be my favorite because it was given to me by Midge. When I visit Midge, I always admire the way her garden seems to naturally thrive as if everything just sprouted up on it's own accord. It doesn't looked like it was planned as much as it was just meant to "be." In Midge's garden, she has rose bushes that she named after the people who gave them to her. One is named after a handyman and one is named after her daughter, Suzie.

Now, I close my eyes and envision my garden resembling Midge's, but I'd never have the talent or time to accomplish what she so flawlessly has. I've had the opportunity to meander through her pachysandra lined paths, under the huge locust trees. past the bird feeders and wren house. It is peaceful and serene. I wonder how she felt when she was able to walk with ease through her yard and enjoy God's, and her, handiwork. Unfortunately, I know how she feels now that she can't.  Everytime I visit Midge, I learn something new about nature, life or how to gracefully live out the end of one's extremely talented life. 

Whenever I look at my garden, I will remember Midge. She was my inspiration for the planning portion and my renewed fervor for the beauty of nature. I have decided to dedicate my garden to Midge. It shall be called "Midge's Garden."

Rude Awakening

I had always wished for a daughter due to the fact that I lost my mother as such a young age. I guess I had wanted to recreate my childhood through my daughter and be the mother to her that I wished I had. The loss of my mother was a tragedy that scarred me, created a “line of demarcation” in my life, and is an event that I have allowed myself to never get over. 

For years I have been selfishly wrapped up in my needs and that ridiculous "want" of a daughter.  However, today, I had a “rude awakening” which made me stop short and look at the woman/mother I have become.  I realized that even though I did not have a daughter, I am the mother to my sons that I wished I had. If my mother had lived, she would have loved me as much as I love my boys. She had always selflessly given unconditional love to her children and I followed in the few footsteps she left behind. I don’t remember much about my mom, but do remember feeling her love. As one of Rascal Flatts’ song lyrics go, “Some of God’s greatest gifts, are unanswered prayers.”  It was probably best that I didn't have any daughters to try to replace that lost "relationship."  What I ended up with my sons are relationships forged over time, taking their natural course - a progression over time with love filling and overflowing, endlessly.  After I am gone, I hope the thing my sons remember most about me is the fact that they couldn't have been loved more. 

Spending time with the family

Today, Good Friday, I began to prepare for the large family gathering that I will be hosting this year.  I will be surrounded by family, friends and traditions based upon faith and love.  I know memories will be made and recorded through photos that will be taken on Sunday for those of us today to remember, but most importantly, so those of tomorrow can have the proof of Traditions!  Famiglia!  Carrying on legacies is a responsibility and by repeating certain traditions, we keep those we have loved and lost close at hand, as I witnessed today.  For the very first time, I decided to pull out a recipe that had been my grandmother's, but my mother inherited it and made it every Easter.  It is called Sweet Pie.  It is made with ricotta cheese, eggs, chocolate and maraschino cherries and baked in a pie crust.  I fondly remembered helping my mom make this pie.  My chore was to dice the cherries.  I also got to watch the pink mix master bowl spin around and around as it blended the cheese and eggs.  She skillfully made her own crust for the pie and rolled out the dough with ease.  She would have flour in her hair and on her forehead.

Today, as I worked in my kitchen, I could feel her presence all around me.  I felt as if gentle hands were guiding mine to cut up, mix up and blend it all just so.  I felt the presence of my grandmother, as well, helping me lift the heavy pink bowl to pour the batter into the pie plates.  Yup, the very same one my mother had used.  Everything on Easter Sunday will be loving prepared for my family just as I had been taught.  Life goes on, things change, we grow up, we grow old, we nurture and continue to show our love.  Some things will never change or be forgotten.  What a great day I had with my mom and grandmother today.  Tonight, I continue to scrub my fingers that were stained by the cherries and smile as I remember doing that many years ago too.  Today, it finally dawned on me why my mom gave me the job of cutting up the cherries! 

Sunday, I will sit back and watch my family enjoy what I have enjoyed for so many years: edible love!  Happy Easter.