November 9, 2017 – “Eat your crusts!”

        At church last night, I meet a gal that has been through cancer and is looking much better.   She no longer has the scarf covering her head as she now has almost a two-inch long growth of white hair and it is becoming on her.

        She asked, “I heard. How are you doing?”

        As I sat beside her, I pressed a smile and said softly, “I’m okay.”

        Her snappy come back was, “What’s the point of complaining about it, no one will listen.”

        It made me smile.  Her typical New York attitude lightened the mood.                          

        Just then, another church member, a retired nurse, came up behind the woman and started to fluff her new hair.  I listened as they chatted.

        “It is coming in curly.”   The surviving cancer patient said.

        Before I knew what was coming out of my mouth I said,

        “When I was a kid my Mom used to tell me ‘Eat your crusts or you won’t get curly hair.’ ”

        I continued, “The bratty kid I was then I’d always say, ‘I don’t want curly hair.'  I used to eat just the center out of the toast where the butter was and leave the rest.”

        Half a dozen women’s eyes were on me at that moment and there was apprehension on their faces watching how I was going to handle this sudden memory of my Mom.

        “It is coming in curly – you must be eating your crusts.”  I said.  

        “You were never a bratty kid,” the survivor replied.

        “Oh, yes I was . . .”  I trailed off. Looking around at the faces with the apprehension – what, were they expecting me to crumble and fall on the floor and wail and gnash my teeth and cry my guts out?   Everyone, why the look?  Aren’t I allowed my memories, uncensored?

* * * * *

        That was last night – it is now morning and I remembered what Mom said to me the day after I flew home for Dad’s funeral back in 2010.  Mom and I were finally alone as we were driving back from the finalization of his funeral arrangements.

        “He is everywhere.”  Mom said brightly.  She had reached out and was fingered something of Dad’s in the console tray between us in the car as I drove.  I knew what she meant.  Mom didn’t drive then, we were using Dad’s car.

        When we got back to the house, I hesitated before I sat in ‘his chair’, but then I settled in and enjoyed it knowing he had always sat there.

        Now, just looking around my computer desk, my Mom is visibly here with me as she always has been and always will be.  There is the overly ornate letter opener and magnifying glass I’d sent to her one Christmas with a little note. “Mom, if they don’t suit you, please send them back to me – don’t give them away.”

        They came back to me the next February with a little note saying, “You must have gotten these at that fancy jewelry store you took me to once.”

        I may have lived hundreds of miles away from Mom, but we were always together – we knew each other. She knew where I shopped as I had taken her around and introduced her to all the shopkeepers I trade with when she visited.

Mom did have curly hair – not the frizz type – but the plump curl type.  Over the years, she had love affairs and hate affairs with multiple hairdressers.  Some knew how to cut her hair and let the natural wavy curls be the focal point and then others wacked them off giving her desperate uncontrollable wisps.

My hair has just enough bounce and body without the misplaced curls or cowlicks. When I want curls, I use the hot rollers.

“Hey Mom, if I start eating my crusts do you think I’ll get curly hair now?”

       

       

November 1, 2017 – Prize Patrol notification  

        Normally I toss out every one of the Publishers Clearing House notifications.  However, the manila envelope of this one caught my attention as the postmark has a face front eagle against a waving flag background.  Of course, it was in black ink and is a presorted reduced rate postmark.  Enough said about that.  I often pause and admire good artwork – wherever it may show up.

        Every time I see a TV commercial for Publisher’s Clearing House where you see the thrilled winners I question out loud,

        “Where does the money come from?  Magazine subscriptions can’t generate that kind of money on a continuous basis – this has to be phony-baloney.”

        The letter was a one-page letter with no stickers to keep to verify a winning number or magazines to buy.  But, I must share it with you because it is the most amusing, no outrageous, advertising spin I have encountered to date.

        “. .. it is policy . . . not to provide any advance notice to our winners . . . .our commercials have featured the authentic moment when the Prize Patrol surprises winners for over 25 years.”

        Okay, they caught my naïve attention.

        “. . . however, this policy often leads to less than ideal circumstances . . . .  recent winner notifications have not lived up to our expectations. . . . some winners were overwhelmed . . . and were speechless.”

        I bold this next part for you:  “I hope you can understand that these types of reactions are not ideal for our TV commercials.”

        WHAT?  The next paragraph . . .   “In the event you are selected the winner, will you be fully prepared to give a “TV-worthy” winner reaction for the cameras?”

        OH MY . . . I am chuckling now.

        This reminded me of a scene out of Casablanca when the Germans were rolling in to Paris and Rick and Ilsa [Bogart and Bergman are the actors] and at a small café in the Montmartre. A shadow on the floor reflects the café sign “La Belle Aurore.” [In my opinion, one of the most outstanding visuals of all cinema.]    I apologize for the length of this insert – but do try to enjoy it.

CUT TO: 

INTERIOR of LA BELLE AURORE - AFTERNOON

A small cafe in the Montmartre. A shadow on the floor reflects
the cafe sign "La Belle Aurore."

Rick, at the bar, gets glasses and a bottle of champagne.

He walks over to Ilsa and Sam at the piano.

Sam plays "As Time Goes By."

Ilsa seems unnerved. There is evidently something on her
mind.

Rick pours the champagne. His manner is wry, but not the
bitter wryness we have seen in Casablanca.

RICK
Henri wants us to finish this bottle
and then three more. He says he'll
water his garden with champagne before
he'll let the Germans drink any of
it.

Sam looks at his glass.

SAM
This sort of takes the sting out of
being occupied, doesn't it, Mr.
Richard?

RICK
You said it!
(to Ilsa)
Here's looking at you, kid.

Suddenly a loudspeaker BLARES out something in German. Rick
and Ilsa look at each other, then hurry to the window.

RICK
My German's a little rusty.

ILSA
It's the Gestapo. They say they expect
to be in Paris tomorrow.

They are telling us how to act when they come marching in.

She smiles faintly.

ILSA
With the whole world crumbling, we
pick this time to fall in love.

RICK
Yeah. It's pretty bad timing. Where
were you, say, ten years ago?

ILSA
Ten years ago? Let's see...
(pause as she thinks
a bit)
...Yes. I was having a brace put on
my teeth. Where were you?

RICK
Looking for a job.

Ilsa looks at him tenderly. Rick takes her in his arms, and
kisses her hungrily. While they are locked in an embrace
they hear the dull BOOM of cannons.

ILSA
(frightened)
Was that cannon fire, or is it my
heart pounding?

RICK
(grimly)
Ah, that's the new German 77. And
judging by the sound, only about
thirty-five miles away.

Another BOOM from the cannons.

RICK
And getting closer every minute.
Here. Drink up. We'll never finish
the other three.

SAM
The Germans will be here pretty soon
now, and they'll come looking for
you. And don't forget there's a price
on your head.

Ilsa reacts to this worriedly.

RICK
I left a note in my apartment. They'll
know where to find me.

Ilsa looks at Rick.

ILSA
Strange. I know so very little about
you.

RICK
I know very little about you, just
the fact that you had your teeth
straightened.

He chuckles.

ILSA
But be serious, darling. You are in
danger and you must leave Paris.

RICK
No, no, no, no. We must leave.

ILSA
(seriously)
Yes, of course, we --

RICK
-- The train for Marseilles leaves
at five o'clock. I'll pick you up at
your hotel at four-thirty.

ILSA
(quickly)
No, no. Not at my hotel. I, uh, I
have things to do in the city before
I leave. I'll meet you at the station,
huh?

RICK
All right. At a quarter to five.
(a thought strikes
him)
Say, why don't we get married in
Marseilles?

Rick chuckles again.

ILSA
(evasively)
That's too far ahead to plan.

RICK
Yes, I guess it is a little too far
ahead. Well, let's see. What about
the engineer? Why can't he marry us
on the train?

ILSA
Oh, darling!

Suddenly Ilsa turns away and starts to cry.

RICK
Well, why not? The captain on a ship
can. It doesn't seem fair that...
Hey, hey, what's wrong, kid?

ILSA
I love you so much, and I hate this
war so much. Oh, it's a crazy world.
Anything can happen. If you shouldn't
get away, I mean, if, if something
should keep us apart, wherever they
put you and wherever I'll be, I want
you to know...

She can't go on. She lifts her face to his. He kisses her
gently.

ILSA
Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the
last time.

He looks into her eyes, then he does kiss her as though it
were going to be the last time.

Her hand falls to the table and knocks over a glass.

CUT TO:

        Sorry, I do give you too much Casablanca information – but that scene – the entire scene is so poignant; from the reflection of the café name on the floor in shadows to the ending of the knocked over glass on the table.  It is the meat and potatoes of the movie – Casablanca.

The line I was going for was:

They are telling us how to act when they come marching in.

         

        Now that the line has sunk in – let me refer back to the letter.

        November 1-2, I should receive a letter indicating I am eligible for this prize; December 20, the winner is selected and the prize patrol will start to make plans for their surprise visit. [Should be simple they can find me on GPS. I don’t actually live in no-wheres-ville; I only say that when I can’t find what I want in a local store.] THEN, on December 22, the prize patrol will knock on the winner’s door.

        “Should you be the winner, Dave Sayer will announce [you] as the winner of our “Turn Back Time” Prize: win-for-life payments for the past 10 years - - that’s $2.6 million at once plus $5,000 a week for Life.”

        “I hope that providing you with the above schedule . . . you can start to imagine how you would react if the prize patrol knocked on your door – would you give us the terrific winning  moment we’d be looking for?” [Bold enhanced by Moi.]

        You bet your very last magazine I could knock them dead with my over the top surprise and gush, scream, cry and even twirling dance around – which as my close friends know is not my real nature. But, hey, $2.6 million – I could turn into the best 30 seconds ever recorded for Publishers Clearing House.

        Now that I know I may have VIP visitors with a bag full of loot out on my front step with cameras rolling  . . . I will be doing ‘over-the-top’ decorating of my front door.

        This year I will make that huge greenery design on the front steps.  And, I will mark my calendar so that I get up extra early on December 22 – a Friday – and do my hair and makeup and get into some nice clothes – instead of flopping around in my pajamas and slippers cleaning the house until mid-morning.

        I need to start practicing my lines . . . how about:

        “Oh, how wonderful, with this unexpected winning I can now start that Fat woman’s pantyhose company and put all the fat women, including myself, to work here in this county that need jobs.  FAT WOMEN WILL RISE UP AND BE SUCCESSFUL ONCE THEY START WEARING MY FAT-WOMAN PANTYHOSE THAT ACTUALLY FITS THEM.  WITH MY HELP, FAT WOMEN WILL NO LONGER HAVE TO HIDE IN PANTS. THEY CAN AGAIN WEAR FEMININE DRESSES AND BE BEAUTIFUL AND FAT SHOWING THEIR SHAPELY LEGS.  THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!”

Blog Index - October 2017

October 19, 2017	Barbara St. John my Mom, 1924- 2017
October 22, 2017	The simplest of things still fascinate me.
October 23, 2017	This week will be an eternity for me.
October 26, 2017	The angels wept.

October 26, 2017 – The angels wept

        Last week, my brother and I planned and executed my Mom’s funeral.  Of course, in the height of the well-known New England Fall foliage – it rained all week, only clearing off into bright sunshine and royal blue sky the final day – the day I flew home.

        Arriving at the airport in Rhode Island, my brother drove North to Massachusetts and the misty rain tried its best to clear, yet it stayed dark and cloudy. I did catch welcomed glimpses of the yellow, gold, and red maples and the stunning yellow elms along the way when the sun valiantly tried to peak out between the dark heavy clouds that were skipping across the sky giving us intermittent rain.

But, if the sun had been out – the foliage would have been blinding – a welcomed blinding of the eyes for anyone who compares Fall foliage anywhere they currently live with where they were born and raised.  As usual, I feel New England’s fall foliage, even on off years, always wins out as the best ever show anywhere.

        Berlin is a quaint town and I actually think it will retain its quaintness.   I moved away over 40 years ago and it hasn’t changed very much.  No strip malls in the center of town yet, and Route 62 leads one from Clinton through Berlin and slips off to Hudson after it connects one to Route 495 that runs north and south.

        The common has a huge white clapped board church with green shutters and giant clock.  It is an incredible building built in the early 1800s and is well maintained and often the subject of a quintessential portrait by many who visit the area. Across the street is the General Store, with new tenants this year, which has remained the center of town’s small store for coffee, wicked-good sandwiches, and a convenient pickup of newspapers, milk and bread as it has for the last half century.

        Relating to the rain during the time I was up for my Mom’s funeral, I mentioned to my brother . . . “rain . . . it means the angels are weeping for Mom. Do you remember when Grampa Nixon died?  Gramma Nixon said, “The rain means the angels are weeping.”  I never forgot that moment. [I was 17 at the time.]  All the rest of Grampa’s funeral is a blur, but I never forgot that. And, come to think of it, I’ve been to more rainy funerals than sunny funerals – which is a good thing from where I see it.

        It rained the majority of the week and Mom was interned at The North Cemetery off Highland Street in Berlin, Mass., and now rests alongside her beloved husband of 63 years.

        I inherited many of my Mom’s historical books of the Worcester County, Massachusetts area.  Berlin is famous in the area for the 1812 Powder House Hill where the town’s people kept the gunpowder stores dry during the Revolutionary war.  A sketching of The Power House Hill has often been used on many items depicting Berlin, during my lifetime, and will probably continue to be so.

        I mentioned the “Friends of the Quaker’s cemetery” to my brother when we went back to check on the grave site after the funeral to see that it was “done right” as it should be.  He gave me a queer look and I guessed he didn’t know what I was referring to.

        Wouldn’t you just love to have one of those comic bubbles pop up when you get one of those looks and don’t know what it is . . .then you could just read the bubble and figure out someone’s reaction and move on.  I am still pondering it.  Did he not hear me?  Did he think I was mentally cracked? Or, was that look his, “Why that bit of useless information at this point?”  At the time, I brushed it off.

        When my parents bought the cemetery plot it was a private smile of theirs that they would be buried with the Quakers overlooking an old strawberry field.  I remembered their remarks as Dad drove down to the center of town to get bread, milk, and newspaper and then we drove up Highland Street.  He wanted me to see the new yew shrubs flanking the beautiful Sacred Heart etched pink head stone at the cemetery.  What I remember most that day was the newness of it and the “whispering” of the tall pines as a soft breeze ruffled their needles.  That section is surrounded by a stone wall typical of New England.  I thought it was a perfect setting.  Then, he drove back to the house via Randall Road with us in silent contemplation.

        I knew I wasn’t crazy remembering the Quaker connection and I was really disappointed at my last glance at the cemetery that the sign has “The North Cemetery” with no reference to Quakers – what a shame – some lost history there.

        So, it was delightful today when I was reading an historical book entitled: Towns of the Nashaway Plantation which was prepared by the Lancaster League of Historical Societies 1976, with copyright of 1976. The book traces the beginning of the large tract of Lancaster starting in 1653 and then covers the history of how Harvard, Bolton, Leominster, Sterling, Boxboro, Berlin, Boylston, West Boylston, Clinton and Hudson were carved out of the large tract into separate towns. [This dice-up of land is much like the county I live in now which ran from the Tennessee border to just about Charlotte, North Carolina.]

        Historian Barry W. Eager describes the cemetery connection as follows:

        “In his will, probated in 1867, Amos Wheeler bequeathed a half acre of land to the Bolton Monthly Meeting of Friends (Quakers).  This group counted nearly half of its members from Berlin.  Many of the Wheeler family were buried here.  In 1961, the Town was given title to this small burying ground on the west side of Highland Street near the Bolton line.  Now named the North cemetery, this has been increased in area by the purchase of neighboring land, providing a sizeable cemetery for the future. (4)”

        Footnote 4:  Berlin Town records. [Berlin was carved out of Bolton]

        So, thanks to Mr. Eager – I am not mentally cracked.   And, I can, without any hesitation or guilt, enjoy the quaintness of Mom and Dad both resting peacefully in a once known as Quaker cemetery in quaint Berlin.

October 23, 2017 – This week will be an eternity for me.

        As many of you know already, my Mom died last Thursday night and I have been coordinating a funeral from North Carolina that will take place in my hometown in Massachusetts.   I am down to only a few details and they might just wait until I get to Massachusetts tomorrow afternoon.

        Going through all the slips of paper and poems that Mom has sent to me over the years marked “keep for my funeral” – I found another poem by Grace E. Easley.  I am not sure where Mom clipped this poem from either, but it is faded and yellowed with age and I know the reason she sent it to me was to make certain I was not one of the folks with the narrow view of life making everyone including themselves miserable as described in the poem.

        I do remember at the time I was having trouble finding a job and I was turning into a curmudgeon in my telephone calls and letters and that wasn’t “her girl” or “my girl” as she called me affectionately.

        When Dad died in 2010, it created a sadness that has never fully lifted.  Christmas is no longer the same – there is no longer the yearly “hunt” for the newest aftershave that smelled like apple pie or pine tree forests to replenish his stock.  It took me three years before I could even look in the aftershave aisle without tearing up. What hurdles will now show up with Mom’s death? I am bracing myself for them as I know there will be many.

        The last several days I haven’t slept well and now the sadness of my Mom’s death is weighing on me.  I curled up in my husband’s arms last night and said,

        “There is really no one else now but you who really, really loves me.  With Dad and Mom both dead now, there is only your unconditional love.”

        He, of course, didn’t have the right words at that moment and later suggested I get pain killers or mind altering drugs to get through the funeral without having a heart attack.  Not what I wanted to hear, but he did understand my angst and conveyed his concerns as best he could. He is just not a wordsmith on demand.  

The love of my Dad and my Mom ran incredibly deep.  I never doubted their unshakable love all my life and now the fog of sadness is settling over me again and I am trying to be brave and put it into perspective that it, too, will lift eventually.  But, it never really lifted since Dad died.  I feel it has dimmed my soul.  Joy does not come easily now, I have to force it.  That shouldn’t be the way.

And, now . . . with Mom dying, I feel like the flame of my soul is flickering and sputtering.  And, as part of my makeup I am always competing with the whole world somehow.  My parents gave me that competitive spirit.  I always did things to obtain their praise and pride. I ask myself:

Who will I try to impress now?

Who will be proud of me now?

        Maybe my Mom knew I would need the following poem to snap me out of this, so I will re-read it often to give me solace.  I now share it with you.

Rainbows

By Grace E. Ensley

Some folks I know have narrow views of life that close them in.

And they continually await misfortune to begin.

They never see the sunshine, but they always find the rain.

They’ve frowned so much they can’t recall how laughter sounds again.

Instead of seeing each new day a bright and shining thing,

They face the dawn and wonder what new sorrow it will bring.

They squeeze out every ounce of joy, within the hearts of those

Who seek to cheer their lonely lives, Why? Only heaven knows.

They put a price on everything, and say that “nothing’s free”,

And end up being miserable as anyone can be.

They haven’t learned the secret that life is more than just

Accumulating lots of things, that fall apart with rust.

For life is more than gathering what someday we must leave,

Each one of us needs principles in which we can believe.

It’s not so much the getting, if we don’t know how to share.

For only love can turn the rain . . . To rainbows, everywhere.

October 22, 2017 – The simplest of things still fascinate me.

        It was an ordinary cleaning day where I put my mind on auto-pilot and go through the motions of cleaning the bathroom.

        Scrubbing the floor my shoulder inadvertently nudged the half-empty toilet tissue roll and it started to unroll.   I didn’t stop it expecting it to stop in a revolution or two or three. I simply sat back on my heels and watched it as I was in a daydream you get when you are thinking other things far away from where you are.   At first the plush two-ply rolled slowly then it speed up and the entire half roll ended up looped back and forth on the clean floor much like an oversized pasta noodle folding out of a pasta machine.

        First, I was amazed at the slowness then the speed. Then, I was actually delighted by the symmetry of the back and forth looping of the unrolled tissue on the floor.

        Often we have seen in toilet tissue commercials or comics about cats unrolling toilet tissue –but I’ve owned cats and only once I caught my little T.C. kitten “thinking about” the toilet tissue dangling and I grabbed him and kept the bathroom door closed during his kitten years.  So, I had never experienced the cat play with toilet tissue ending results.

        From one aspect, I’ve missed something – the cuteness of it and from another aspect the science behind the acceleration of slow rolling to suddenly fast rolling.  I wonder what scientific name they have for that -   does it fall under the laws of gravity or the laws of momentum or something.   Me, I was a poor student in science class, got the basics of why you add salt to ice in order to make it colder for the ice cream churn and something about the extra ions or molecules during a rainy day was supposed to assist your brain when taking tests. [I think that is an old wife’s tale though.]

        But it gave me a small respite to put things into perspective – this too, the little incident of the toilet tissue spilling off the roll onto the floor in such a way was interesting, eventful and in its own way soothing.

        The continuous laws of nature never end and never cease to surprise and, yes, delight me when witnessed quietly and unexpectedly.

        I’ll never look at a roll of toilet tissue the same way.  Who would have known something so simple could force me to sit and think this deeply and give my soul such needed refreshment.                                                

October 19, 2017 – Barbara St. John, my mom, 1924 to 10/19/2017

          I’ve been absent from my Blog for some time attending to life’s ups and downs. The first two full weeks of October, I drove up to Massachusetts and helped clean out Mom’s house with my brother, Ken.  Attic, house and basement.  I even did the “gardening” around the front yard in order to create a wonderful street appeal for the upcoming house sale.

          I am now a member of the “breaking up household of one’s parents” club and only those who have actually done such understand the process and overwhelming emotional toll it takes on you.   Flipping through wonderful old pictures found in desk drawers and fingering chipped china that was kept merely for sentimental reasons swamps one with unchecked emotions.

          Mom has been failing for some time and she was extremely frail.  She recognized me only in the mornings and then in the evening she asked my brother to bring back the “other” me.

          When I left her for the last time – about 10:00 a.m. on October 13, 2017, I hugged her good bye and said I was leaving for home.

          She said the most startling thing to me:

“The next time you see me, I’ll be in my box.”  She tipped her head coquettishly and smiled and there was a splendid lilt in her voice.

          It didn’t take me back as much as the thought was already in my mind.  My Mom always knew how to “upstage” any sweet parting over the years and this topped them all.

          “Yeah, Ma, I know.”  I whispered to her and smiled knowing that she was spot on as usual.  That is what she wanted and I knew she wouldn’t be with us much longer.   How soon, I didn’t know at the time.

          The evening of her death I had gone to ICC college for a cabaret review of  Gershwin.  I turned my phone off so as to not disturb the performance and missed the call from my husband letting me know that Mom had died quietly when she was being put to bed.

          One of the first songs of the evening was from Porgy & Bess, the one Mom loved so much of George Gershwin’s compositions.  Now that I think of it, it is sort of ironic that I thought of Mom during that entire song and how she would have loved to have heard her old favorite.  She would have sung along as she knew all the words. Me, I only knew half of them.  At the time, I didn’t know that she was probably taking her last breath.  But, later when I thought back at what I was doing at the time of her death, I realized the coincidence of it.  Maybe at the moment of her death her soul had fleeting come to me and she enjoyed her favorite song one more time with me.

          Long distance I have been planning the funeral with my brother, Ken.  I’ll fly up next week to attend.

          I had been praying for a quiet, no fanfare [hospital or nursing home, or pain] death for some time for my Mom because that is what she wished.

          She is at peace now.

          Mom, always the lady, knew when it was time to leave a party and she waltzed out of my life – right on her cue – as if she planned it that way.

          I will  share with you the poem she wants read at her funeral.

          Hopefully I can say it out loud without falling apart. We shall see.

          Me, I’m okay.  She will never be far from me because she is forever in my heart.  She had a wonderful life.  A life we will celebrate with friends and family next week.

A Talk with God

Today I had a talk with God,

Out in a field of goldenrod,

As grasses rippled in the wind,

Some things just needed saying then.

As blackbirds glistened ‘neath the sun,

My little sorrows one by one,

Stirred sleepy wings and flew from me,

Into God’s great infinity.

I walked beside a shallow creek,

And through the silence heard Him speak,

And once important things to me,

Seemed smaller than they used to be.

I sat beneath a shady oak,

Where dreams of long ago awoke,

And here within this quiet place,

I met my Maker face to face.

Through forest trail and underbrush,

I heard the plaintive hermit thrush,

Departing from the beaten track,

I got my lost perspective back.

Returning then from whence I came,

I knew my life was not the same,

Since I had talked awhile with God,

Out in the field of Goldenrod.

By Grace E. Easley