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The phrase “kitchen table issues “ is usually used in a political context, meaning issues that affect people in their daily lives. Sitting at the “table” is usually a white woman or white heterosexual couple, but maybe the rest of us won’t notice! The direction I’m going in is ”kitchen table issues” at our big table, in our house, on our farm in Iowa.

You have to have a big table to fit 13 children and 2 parents! It seemed like a football field or a boardroom table. It was rare that the table was not in use.  It was Grand Central Station, the command center for our family. Have to leave a note or check for someone? In prehistoric times, before cell phones, we could stick it in the clothes pin holder on the table. The table was where my parents read the daily and Sunday newspapers, and usually the papers remained there until  meal time. By laying it out on the table, you could see above the fold and below the fold at once and didn’t need long arms to hold it. Various family members would stop at the table, pick up a section to read, and sit for awhile. There were lots of  “Did you read that story about….?” The family that reads together at the kitchen table stays together.

The kitchen table was our game table and was the setting for many rowdy times! Card games, Yahtzee, Phase 10, dice games, you name it, were all played at the table, after the newspapers were removed of course. “ Anybody for a game of cards? It’s hard to think of that table without remembering all of the good times we had sitting around it trying to remember what’s trump? Some of my best memories of my Dad are set at the kitchen table. I “played” cards with my Dad and uncles as a little girl. I sat on my Dad’s lap and he picked a card out of his hand and told me to lay it on the pile. I often didn’t understand the good natured ribbing and laughing going on, but I knew I had a good, happy seat at the table. 

At least some of the time at big family gatherings, it was usually the men in the living room smoking cigars, and the ladies sitting at the kitchen table gossiping and discussing the issues of the day. As a girl, I  loved to sit at the table with my Mom and my aunts and Iisten to their lively discussions. I heard that the Catholic Church banned birth control pills, but my younger aunts said they were using them anyway. I heard about who was sick, who had babies and who liked to drink. I was especially excited when they disagreed about an issue and my Mom would end the discussion with some weak platitude about needing to sweep our side of the streets first, and everyone had to agree with that.   When I got old enough for a seat with the ladies at the kitchen  table, I was confrontational, and a know it all.  I missed the whole point of this gathering of women, which was to connect and be free to talk and be honest, without men in the circle and changing the equation.

Remember when you developed a roll of films and got photos that you could actually hold in your hand? My Mom had a big tin that held hundreds of photos before they were put in photo albums. If that tin came out to the table there was always filled seats around the table to look at the photos, identify people and tell stories about what was going on in the photo. The photos passed between hands at the table, and family history was passed around too. It was a low tech ancestory.com!

Weak coffee and good desserts set out on the table were part of many visits. Family members shared recipes for the desserts they brought. Time at the kitchen table was a recipe for sharing, connection  and love.

Remember those maps that say “You are here.”  This helps us get oriented, shows us where we are in context, so we can understand how the map is laid out. I’m that dot who can move this way or that way on the map. I’m just a dot and I feel lonely sometimes. This is hard for me to admit. Aren’t I too busy, involved or social to be lonely?  Weird people are lonely because they are unlikeable, nobody likes them.  People Iike me, right ? Right? It seems “ Home Alone” is  just a funny movie and a fun time for the main character, Kevin. Who has the time to miss family or feel lonely when  you are staying in deluxe hotel suites and fighting off bumbling burglars? Or can home alone carry some risks.? Even Kevin isn’t immune to loneliness.

According to the Surgeon General, America is experiencing an epidemic of loneliness. This is a health and social crisis not unlike the COVID Pandemic. In January, 2018, the U.K. named a Minister of Loneliness. It is unlikely the U.S.will create a cabinet post, Secretary of Loneliness, but the research from both countries shows that loneliness is a pervasive and costly social problem. I know it hurts to be lonely. As I have gotten older, and the U.S.population over 65 continues to increase, I’ve been thinking more about what is loneliness is. I’ve experienced my own health crisis recently and I became more isolated than usual. I  got up close and personal with loneliness and it is not my friend.  Social distancing makes sense in a pandemic, but not in everyday life. I need a hug and a handshake. A text or an email does not have skin on it. I need other humans around to help me remember what being human means. 

So and so is still living on her own at 90, isn’t that great? Maybe.  I don’t want a medal for living alone! My husband died and I am fortunate that I own my home and am able to care for myself. I also know that I am better mentally and physically if I am able to get out of the house every day and be with others. Too many sick days or snow days take their toll on my emotional well-being. Social isolation can be caused by where I and other seniors choose to live.  A majority of seniors want to stay in their homes as long as possible, but there is a risk to staying in our homes: social isolation.  When spouses , partners or long term friends pass away, staying in the home alone can be a liability. According to the experts, seniors who have the highest levels of loneliness and isolation more than double their odds of dying within six years. It turns out that loneliness can kill you. The health risks with experiencing chronic loneliness are equivalent to the risks of smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Loneliness is hazardous to your health.

I worry about solitary confinement on Main Street America. There has to be alternatives to single family homes for seniors or massive golden cages of Senior living and retirement villages. Apartment living, with buildings A to Z,  separated from the rest of society, is a recipe for loneliness. Loneliness is not only an affliction for seniors, it affects people in all age groups. I guess I’m saying we need to mix it up more in our housing choices and be more deliberate about addressing the human need to be with others of all ages. I don’t want to be totally independent,I want to be inter-dependent. I am able to recognize my own feelings of loneliness and admit I feel some shame about talking about it. The first step for addressing the loneliness epidemic is for our society to become aware of the problem. The surgeon General has just begun the dialogue about the prevalence of  loneliness. We need to keep talking about it, research it and develop and execute plans to bring people together.

I’m taking tiny steps to make connections with people and confront loneliness head on.  I take the time to chat with my neighbors, ask my favorite barista how they are doing, and feel good when they know my “usual”. I smile at others even when I feel like my face could crack! I believe in the adage “To have a friend, be a friend.” and I try to make this my practice. I make sure my friends know how much I treasure their friendship. I read recently that people aren’t hanging out as much. Maybe we could hang out.

I’m positive. Positive for Covid that is. I was starting to think that I was going to escape Covid after not contracting it for the 4 years it’s been out there. II took 3 tests  before I was convinced I was positive and the line showed up almost immediately on all 3. I had a couple of rough days last week, but I was prescribed Paxlovid because I’m older than dirt, so felt better quickly. This  last Wednesday I tested negative. Covid is in my rear view mirror for now. Speeding down my life path I’ve figured out that with Covid there is only before, during and after. When did I go from negative to positive and vice versa? There must be a viral tipping point and I don’t have a clue when and how it operates. I too have changed and been changed by mysterious forces and circumstances. There are no”rapid” tests to confirm whether or not I have learned what I needed to learn. Only time will tell if I have absorbed life’s lessons and will change my behavior.

There is a big difference between choosing to change and being forced to change, but being  forced to change narrows the options considerably. I prefer to set my own timeline -thank you very much! I chose to test for Covid, but I sure didn’t choose Covid. Others may choose not to test. I can’t do anything about that!  I chose to start smoking. How many times did I say “ I’m going to quit smoking.”, before I actually did?  I lost count. I really can’t explain what gave me the courage to finally stop smoking. I simply wanted to be a non- smoker more than I wanted to smoke.  I was ready, and though I  knew it would be painful, I knew it was worth it.   All my  previous attempts to quit helped me see where I had encountered speed bumps. My experiences with failing to quit smoking taught me a lot of what I needed to know to succeed at  quitting smoking. I learned why and how I failed!  “Don’t do this” was  how I got to “Do this” and becoming a non- smoker.

I learn from experience and my experience tells me that seeing how a dictionary defines a word helps me get the true meaning of a word and helps me write with understanding.

learn: to gain knowledge or skill by studying, practicing, being taught, or experiencing something b : to come to be able <learn to dance>
c : to come to realize <learned that honesty paid>

If I’m in a classroom and studying American History my teacher can give me a test to see what I have learned about this subject. If I have a good teacher and consistently  practice my guitar I can learn to play. In life, the “Been there, done that .” principle can be a very good teacher. When I have done this, or experienced that, this is what happened, and it’s likely to happen again. “But what if?” The  “But, what if?” principle Is where I have run into a lot of trouble in my life. I’ve often believed that I didn’t try hard enough, and  if I tried  “harder”, or I was different and better it would turn out differently. I didn’t learn from experience that wishful thinking  was not reality.  I failed that test many times.

Accumulating evidence and knowledge does not mean I will automatically act differently and make better decisions. Whats the tipping point ? Is it that last little bit of knowledge or experience that finally pushes me to change my behavior?  Ironically it was often when I “gave up”, that I was able to change. I made changes in my life and behavior only when I stopped trying to change others and circumstances and only focused on changing myself. Keeping an open mind and recognizing my blind spots can help me understand better, but understanding alone is not enough to make me change my behavior. The pain I know is better than the pain I might experience if I change my behavior. Pros and cons don’t mean much either. Still at some point I decide it hurts too much to stay the same. I don’t want to test positive for pain anymore.

Chico only weighed four pounds, but he was a force to be reckoned with. One misty, foggy morning my husband I were out for our daily early morning walk, and as we came around a corner in the trail we saw a little, cream colored cat walking on the trail. As we got closer we realized it was a dog, a very lonely looking, little, wet dog trudging along. He stopped, and we stopped as we eyed each other. He didn’t struggle when Roger bent over to pick him up. His tag said “Chico”, such a perfect name for a tiny chihuahua like dog. Someone had cared enough to put the tag on so we were sure someone was looking for him. After checking and asking around we saw no one who looked like Chico’s owner. Chico ended up at the Humane Society while they tried to reach his owner. I couldn’t get Chico out of my mind!  I called  the Humane Society every day asking if Chico’s owner had come to get him yet.  I just needed to know that Chico was safe again. While I was at work my husband made the daily call to check on Chico and when I got home I was surprised and so happy to find Chico in our living room. His owner had surrendered him and he was ours.  We were told Chico was probably 10 plus years old and we were determined to give him the best life possible for his remaining years. And we did. 

Chico ruled our house and Roger and I weren’t even ashamed to admit it. We could tuck him in our jackets when he got tired walking, or a big dog was threatening, but he loved to cover a lot of ground in the old stadium field. Soon Chico gained quite the following among the other dog walkers and our neighbors—he was a celebrity. A little guy with a big presence! We almost lost him when the vet discovered a large tumor in his abdominal area and we decided that we  would euthanize him if they found they could not remove the tumor. We waited and agonized, but finally heard from the vet that Chico was going to be ok. We were so relieved and realized how much Chico had stolen our hearts. Before we knew it, Chico was back to taking Roger and I for our walks and all was well in the neighborhood.

Soon he was galloping again. Yes,  Chico didn’t run like a dog, he galloped like a horse, and it was so fun to watch!  When he ran down the sidewalk our neighbors cheered him on. He watched people’s feet with his doggie radar and moved quickly, bouncing around, sidestepping and evading, just like the prize fighter he was.  Nobody stepped on Chico. His doggie bed was the size of a doll bed, but mostly he burrowed under the covers to the bottom of our bed and we had to dig him out in the morning. He was a great traveling companion and took some road trips with us. He liked to hike! I loved to give him a kiss on the top of his head so my lip gloss left him marked with my kiss. What can I say? Chico had me wrapped around his little paw.

But dogs don’t live forever and after a couple of years with us, Chico developed some heart problems. We willed him to keep on fighting, we begged for a few more years. He was tired and his heart was weak. With my lip print on his head he died peacefully in his sleep.  I missed him terribly, but I believed, and still do, that we were so blessed to find each other —it was meant to be. I’ve loved many dogs, but none as fiercely as I loved  Chico.  I cry, and I smile and laugh too, when I remember my little guy, my Chico .

Some rules of the road are very simple: red means stop and green means go, but a yellow light, proceed with caution, is not so simple. What does caution look like? Should I speed up to make the yellow light or should I slow down and stop? It’s a judgement call and we all know that our judgement is not always the best. . And then we have the other yellow on the road,  lines that tell us it’s ok to pass or not. A broken yellow line says that conditions may be right to pass but an  oncoming car means “no passing” no matter what the yellow lines say. I’m a long ways from the passing zones in rural Iowa. These days the yellow line I see most frequently  is the yellow line that marks the center of the walking/jogging track at the senior center. Slow moving traffic keep left, on the inside of the track, and passing is on the right, on the outside of the track, for the speedier contingent. This sounds simple, but there are always those walkers or joggers who are not paying attention or can’t read! I may be a guilty party. I know I can be distracted while driving and walking .

I could use some road signs or rules of the road as I navigate each day. Stop! Do not say that! Go! Keep moving and don’t isolate. The toughest is when I need a yellow approach and I haven’t a clue how to proceed, much less proceed with caution. Looking at the birdie over there I can miss the herd of elephants coming right at me.  First I have to be sure that I am the driver, I make the decisions and I’m in charge of the brakes, steering wheel and the accelerator. People-pleasing puts others in the driver’s seat and me in the back seat.  Are my eyes and mind open? A blind driver is surely a hazard, but when I choose to “See no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil.”, I am living blind. How many times have I said or heard, “Hey can’t you read the sign?”  Apparently not if my mind and eyes are closed! I’m not alone out here on the road of life and other drivers really complicate things.  I can’t control what others are up to and I can get angry when things are not going my way. I’m not in charge of the world or the road.  Sometimes I get road rage and really want to flip off my fellow drivers. I suspect I’m often part of the problem and not part of the solution.

Do my years and life experiences make me a better driver, or am I know-it-all who is definitely older and most likely slower?  Can both be true? “Been there, done that.” often works on the road and in life. I’ve experienced “this” before and I know what to do, but there are those times when I insist on repeating old behaviors because this time it’s different. It’s not. Roundabouts  are so much more efficient because traffic keeps moving and people get where they want to go —as long as everyone gets on and off the roundabout smoothly. How many times have I gone round and round unable to make a decision? Not good on roundabouts or in life. As I’ve gotten older I believe I’m more of a defensive driver and I’m also more defensive about protecting myself and my time. If the sign says, “Left lane closed ahead”, I don’t wait for the last few feet to merge right. This is one of my pet peeves—those who rush ahead and sit in the lane that’s closing so they can get ahead of other drivers because we have to let them in. This is BS. I plan ahead when I can. There may be shortcuts, but I can piss off my fellow travelers if I can’t show a little respect. 

There’s that little voice in my head that often tells me my truth and the best course for me. In the car, Siri is that little voice I listen to. She tells me how to get to my destination. Thank God for GPS!!  Even if I don’t know where I am going my car can tell me.  It’s pretty obvious how useful a GPS for life would be. I’m embarrassed to admit that I am less lonely and feel more secure when Siri is talking to me, telling me to turn right at the next light. See how seductive artificial intelligence can be? I trust Siri. If only she could answer some of my “big” questions.

My sense of  “self” has been nonsense for several months. I have been sick and scared and all of my energy has been focused inward.   No writing, no storytelling, just the need to protect myself and to sustain myself . Rest, try to eat, cry, beg for help while feeling unworthy of help . Waiting, a lot of waiting. Fear, a lot of fear. Now I’m starting to feel better and I know that writing is the key to re-inhabitating my life. My writing muscle has atrophied, it’s  stiff and weak. I’m telling myself, start slow, small steps, just get writing and remind myself that writing is one of the things I do that feels right to me. Fake it till you make it. I’ve spent months living in the land of “What if?” and today I’m beginning to ask “What now?” 

It’s simple really—begin again, renew, find the scattered pieces, old and new, and put together the ever changing puzzle of my life. I don’t get a do over to recover my “missing” months, i just need to sift thru them for pieces of pain and wisdom to keep and build on. What have I learned? The truth is that although I’ve always professed “ It’s ok to ask for help.”, I didn’t really believe that. The mountains I had to climb over were my feelings of pride and unworthiness to finally get the humility to squeak out the question “Can you help me?”.  I figured out that people aren’t mind readers and sometimes they are wanting to help, but simply don’t know what to do. Asking for help is really an act of bravery and often fear over-ruled my courage. There were times when I didn’t want to be alone and I asked family and friends to stay with me. I had to tell the voice that was telling me I didn’t deserve help to “Go to hell!”, and some other expletive deletives. What I’m telling myself when I talk to myself is often old propaganda, intended to bolster fear and unworthiness, both old friends of mine. I learned it was time to let some of my old friends behind and nurture the positive friends who sustained me and who I could sustain and nurture.

Getting old can bomb dreams into a million tiny pieces.  Illusions, delusions and dreams whither in the face of time passing. It’s not all bad news because one thing I found was a lot more clarity. “How important is it?” was a question I asked myself a lot and the answer was often “It doesn’t matter.” —and it didn’t . Order Thanksgiving dinner, make all Christmas gifts gift cards, dust around objects and DO sweep under the rug. Nobody suffered and no love was lost. My son finally won big at Zilch and that’s a great Christmas memory.  I am not going to live forever. Wow that’s a news flash right? When I hear that someone has died the first question I ask is “How old were they? Younger than me and I feel fear and dread.   I prefer the dead way older than me, 80’s and 90’s so I can think about how many years I have left. 

I notice more about my world. I stopped to watch a whirling funnel of leaves and thought about how many people just walked on by. The geese are really pretty funny to watch, such an attitude!  When I’m inside and it’s cold and the wind is blowing, it’s  warm and cozy because I am not homeless and I have 2 little doggies to cuddle up with. I guess noticing is how I get to gratitude. I don’t want anybody to tell me to be grateful, but a lot more gratitude would have eased some of the angst I’ve felt in the last few months.

Thank you seems like such a puny thing to say to my very special friend, M, who saved my ass in the last few months. Day and night, over and over she was the best friend I’ve ever had. I can’t possibly find the right words to say how very grateful I am that she did not run away. I was so sick of myself, I’m not sure how she did it. Thank you my friend.

It feels good to finish this mediocre post because I’m writing for my life.

I was a travelin’ woman last week. One morning I went for a walk in my sister’s neighborhood. The air smelled like Eau’ de  Cochon. Sounds really pretty, but it is French for the smell of pig shit! My sister has some porcine domiciles (pig barns) on their farm , which house some 4000 pigs when they are fully occupied. The air on that morning was more like a hint of pig so I actually found it comforting,  it was a smell from my childhood. The rub is, of course,  the excrement has to be hauled away and spread on the fields at some point.  Luckily, this is not a  weekly task. OMG, the smell  the next night was awful, burning and nauseating. The short run from the car to the house almost required a gas mask. The smell of money as Iowans say. If you survive it to collect your money! 

Did you know that smell is one of our most powerful senses and has a direct connection to the brain? Smells ignite powerful memories and influence our mood and behaviors.  My poor mother got a bottle of Evening in Paris every year for Christmas, because when we were kids that’s the only perfume Wessels Variety store stocked. Our Christmas shopping venues were very limited. It is featured in the American Museum of History so check it out. It was discontinued in 1969,  but I wish I had the bottle which was  a beautiful dark blue. I could find a place to display it in my home. Moms’ wore perfume and red lipstick so Evening in Paris it was. I wonder how much it cost then? A whiff of “Old Spice”and I’m with my Dad in a nano second. He’s holding my small hand in his large calloused hand and we’re walking along. I loved that scent and still do, it’s a classic.  I smell it with my heart.

Do young people today know the smell of pepto-bismal pink bubble gum or root beer barrels candy? I think they may be smell deprived, except of course for the smell of coffee. Now that’s a  smell that evokes strong positive feelings for most of us. We remember sitting with friends or family drinking coffee  or brewing a morning  cup at our campsite. Coffee shops thrive because coffee tastes great, but mainly because it’s an excuse to sit and talk. It’s a place where people congregate and share thoughts and feelings. There’s little distractions, it’s just coffee and us. People who say, “Why would I go out and get a cup of coffee when I can make one at home?” just don’t get it at all! I kinda feel sorry for them. In my opinion, if you put a good coffee shop in the middle of the dessert people would find it and hang out there. It seems coffee is a good excuse to come together and be human. We need help to do that in our world that seems so very random and often painful. Coffee shops and world peace! Now that’s a wonderful slogan.

Of course, there’s always those awful smells that bring us back to memories and places we may not want to be. If I catch a whiff of something that smells a bit like the bottle of mag citrate  used to do a colonoscopy prep, I’m immediately sick to my stomach and desperate to get away from it. A dirty diaper smell is not pleasant, but we are certainly encouraged to change it and make baby and others around more comfortable. We care for our fellow humans by keeping them clean when they can’t do it themselves. What’s that bad smell? The smell of “clean” ,like Lysol, is not exactly wonderful, but we like it a lot because it helps us get rid of bad smells. Bad smells give us a lot of information and can save our lives at times…the smell of gas, the smell of fire, a skunk, a stink bug…rotten eggs….sour milk and ad nauseum.  However, a bit of caution is needed so we don’t over- sanitize our world. We need to be exposed to some germs and we need smells for our noses to smell. The cloying scent of some smells, created  to cover-up natural smells, can be too smelly!

Pepe le Pew, a very cute cartoon skunk,  is one of my favorite characters from my childhood. He was French and liked to wrap females in his arms,profess his love for them by declaring “My Cherie” and trying to plant a big kiss on them. I was too young to know about sexual harrassment…. He smelled like a skunk so his paramours resisted him. It was kinda touching how oblivious he was.  So I’d like to remind you how important smells are and ask you, “ Do you smell that?” 

This week there was a blip on my medical radar. I didn’t see it coming, seemed like all of a sudden it was just there. I was tested in the ER for this and that and told to follow up with a specialist, because they felt they had ruled out life threatening  causes. But of course I could get hit by a bus, and that would really be a moot point. Now, I’m feeling much better physically, but I haven’t returned to my usual emotional equilibrium. I think being sick or injured uncovers a lot of fears and vulnerabilities, and there is nothing flattering or dignified about hospital gowns.

There is a silly song from Tiny Tim that was popular during my teen years, “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”.  It seems the tulips were overrun with thistles when I wasn’t  looking, but I’m looking now! I was scared when I wasn’t feeling well and shared this with my son. Isn’t it funny how women can be so good at giving comfort but not receiving it? It is still my job to be mothering I think. Not smothering-I remind myself. Feeling vulnerability is the most “honest” of feelings, but also the most frightening. What if I share vulnerability and I’m dismissed, laughed at or talked out of it. This wound is so deep and will get infected. Healing comes slowly if at all. It isn’t this bad is it? Yes, yes it is. For those who don’t know about wound care, it can seem counter intuitive at times. Wounds needs to be kept “open” until the infection is gone. A sterile tape is inserted to keep the wound from closing and to let the pus drain.  It is not pretty. Letting the wound close too soon risks the infection getting worse. For me, the real challenge is saying “I’m afraid” and not jumping in to discount myself. “It will be fine I’m sure, I’m just a baby” etc….closing myself up before the compassion can happen. 

Getting older means I need to exercise and build up my vulnerability and humility muscle. It’s likely I will  need more help from others, at least physically.  I hate this: “I can handle it, thank you very much.” I walk much more carefully so I don’t slip on the ice, I don’t attempt to move heavy boxes that I used to throw around, loaded with books no less. How old was he or she ? Often the first question I ask when I hear about someone’s death. When I’m not feeling “little” I’m feeling filled with rage. How could this be happening to me? How dare life treat me like this when I am the exception to the rule? The joke is on me!

I’ve written about resilience and I know this is a time when I need to rustle up some of my strengths and attitudes to stay vulnerable, but also practice good self-care. I can sit for a few minutes and meditate to slow my facing thoughts . This helps  my blood pressure and my emotional pressure too. I can ask my trusted friends and family to listen to me and let me express feelings that may not be so pretty. When someone says to me that they have had the same feelings I am validated, which is such an enemy to shame. It’s  self-compassion that will give me the space to be vulnerable. I can leave the wound open until the infection is gone.

Out there in the world I tend to try and “ Fake it until I make it.” I need to get thru the day so I reply “I’m fine” when people ask “How are you?” Maybe I can take a few more risks to be authentic without unloading or over-sharing. The next time Bob asks me “How are you?” I could answer “It’s been a struggle lately. Thank you for asking.”

When shit happens….

“I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don’t feel so bad”

My apologies to Julie Andrews for cherry-picking her lyrics, but it works for me. It’s the “ favorite things” helping her to feel better that I relate to. I have things that I love and  bring me comfort because they remind me of a positive memory or feeling. Although Inanimate  and non-living they seem human to me. My word-nerd self found that “personification” means attributing human characteristics to inanimate and non-living things. For example,  “ My car died.” and“ The dishes keep staring at me, begging me to wash them.” My Mom told me that when I couldn’t find a sock it “walked off”! Missing socks felt like a conspiracy to me. I was never good at playing hide and seek. One year for Halloween I sent my son out as the sock monster, with a hundred socks pinned all over him and a sign saying “ I have your missing sock.” I’m not sure he really got it, but I did.

The things I love aren’t antiques or valuable, but they are valuable to me and  seem human to me. My Pillsbury Doughboy is over 50 years old ( he’s as old as I am). I love him partly because of the commercial he starred in.  I remember when he was poked in his belly he had this sweet little laugh. When I see him on my windowsill, I also see my Mom kneading bread and smell the bread just out of the oven. I couldn’t wait to cut a thick slice, slather butter on it and watch it melt in. I could see,smell and taste the bread. I got a large wicker basket with a lid on it for my first dorm room, in 1970. It’s been a lot of places and seen a lot of things through the years. I still use it as a night stand and “home” is what it holds, no matter the geography. When I see it I know “I’m home. I don’t even know what’s in it now, but it doesn’t matter. I have a small figure sculpted  of nuts and bolts and he is holding a heavy metal heart. I like to think he’s offering his heart to me in case mine gets broken. He’s been with me for I don’t even know how long. He’s in a place where I see him a lot through out the day. I notice that I use the pronoun “he” when I talk about him and I guess it’s the nuts and bolt thing. I don’t know his gender at birth. My son came home from daycare 37 years ago with mama bear and Tyler-bear paper figures stapled together.  Now they are very faded but the staple still holds.  It’s the staple I love…it connects me to my son.

A penny for your thoughts? In my life it’s a dime for your thoughts. My late husband Roger had this weird thing about finding dimes. No other coins around it…just a single dime. When we were out walking he’d almost shove me out of the way to get to a dime he saw. We laughed about it and it became his thing. He made quite a pile of dimes. When he was dying I asked him to keep sending me dimes to let me know he was taking care of me. He hasn’t let me down yet. I get dimes from heaven. He leaves dimes for me everywhere. I remember one particular day I was anxious and grieving , and I parked in a big lot and opened my car door- and there on the concrete was a single dime. I thank him for each dime I find. Sometimes I joke with him and tell him inflation means he should leave me twenties. Not everyone believes that our loved ones communicate with us after death, but I believe.

I was really hoping that my date with BadBoy was going to be a lot of fun. I had dressed to impress.

hope\ˈhōp\

• : to want something to happen or be true and think that it could happen or be true

I was dressed early, so there was nothing to do but wait for him to come pick me up.

wait\ˈwāt\

• : to stay in a place until an expected event happens, until someone arrives, until it is your turn to do something, etc.
• : to remain in a state in which you expect or hope 

He was late, but he was BadBoy so I figured he was always late. I was patient and was escaping the heat of the day and sitting outside in the cooler night air. 

patient: able to remain calm and not become annoyed when waiting for a long time 

I waited and waited and began to get impatient, and irritated. He was probably drinking with his friends and decided to blow me off. My self-esteem took a nose dive.

im·pa·tient\(ˌ)im-ˈpā-shənt

• : not willing to wait for something or someone : not patient
• : showing that you do not want to wait : showing a lack of patience

I wanted to give up on the evening completely, but instead called a friend to vent and asked her to come pick me up. We’d  go to the dance sans BadBoy and have fun. I may have drank more than I should have.

give up: to cease doing or attempting something especially as an admission of defeat 

And through all that waiting here I am. I’m no longer that young woman with a shaky sense of self-worth who thinks waiting is what it’s all about.  I’m not waiting to do what I want to do. I sure as hell am not waiting at the pearly gates of heaven.  I’ll know when it’s my turn.