Life can be overwhelming - embracing my limits

Most of you who know me also know that realizing my limits isn't in my genetic makeup. I've never let anything get in the way of getting things done. I raised a son, while working full-time, volunteering for several organizations, making dinner every night for family meal-time, loving my husband, attending college, making many of my clothes, keeping up the yard and the house, etc. I didn't do anything that others didn't or don't do; I wasn't "Super Woman."

And I never seemed to be overwhelmed by any of it.

But today, I sure do seem to be a champion at making my life much more complicated than it has to be. Maybe most people do the same thing this time of year, but I seem to be that award recipient year-round.

What worked for me when I was 30-, 40- or even 50-years old, doesn't seem to work for me today; yet I can't seem to get that into my thick skull (or maybe I'm in deep denial).

I don't decorate the outside of my house in a very big way for Christmas, but I do have a tree for every room inside...a fully decorated, themed tree for each room, including the bathroom, as well as pine garland, lights and more. I used to be able to knock it out in a day and a half all by myself -- not any more.

I have home decorations for every holiday on the calendar -- Valentine's Day, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, Fourth of July - but when it comes to Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas, that's a different situation. I have so many decorations that I have to remove things from inside the house and store them in boxes in the garage to replace with holiday decorations.
I have huge collections of scary pumpkin-head dolls, autumn leaf plates, pumpkins enough to fill a patch, snowmen, enough cute hand-made reindeer that Santa would have a Plan B, C and D on Christmas Eve, hundreds of Santas, every kind and color of ornament, just in case I want an all white tree, or all red, or all Santa heads, or all ...
You get the picture.
And bags - holy goodness - what is my obsession with bags?

This is my collection of bags -- what the heck??

This is the year I've realized I'm led around by my nose by my decorations - just crazy.

Last year it was the emptiness left in my heart when my mother passed away that kept me from being able to truly embrace the holidays.
This year, it's still a matter of the heart -- atrial fibrillation -- that keeps me from having the energy to decorate, etc.
But it's much more than that. Don't get me wrong; I haven't become Scrooge. I love the holidays. However, nothing is the same as it used to be - nothing. So why do I have to make myself crazy stressing over whether or not I can decorate my home in order to enjoy the holidays? What's wrong with that picture? Everything!

Because I can't lift or climb right now, my fabulous husband has taken care of the successful partial decorating job this year. In so doing, I have realized my limits; not only today's limits, but the limits that will come in the future. Besides, would I rather be home decorating my house with 10 Christmas trees, or would I rather be out to dinner with my husband?

Everyone will be stunned, but next year, if it can't be done to the old standard - a day and a half - then it won't get done. Period.
A new leaf has been turned.

Some of my Santas strategically placed on top of our entertainment center by my wonderful husband.

I'm going to spend the first three months of 2014 going through my many boxes of holiday decorations. I'm going to purge and purge. I don't have to hold on to the item in order to hold on to the memory (as long as that dreaded disease doesn't rob me).

I love you, Mom and miss you bunches.

This little guy will make it to July

In Shel Silverstein's "Where the Sidewalk Ends," there is a story about a snowman who is determined to make it to July. Sweet story.

So, tonight I have a fun and easy Christmas craft to share with you -- inspired by that story and another blog I follow.
It's one of the first crafts I "pinned" to my "Christmas Inspirations" board on Pinterest, but I changed it up a little.

Speaking of Pinterest...when I first started using Pinterest, my mother was awed by it. Most of what I pinned at the time were crafting projects, DIY projects and recipes. I don't remember how many pins I had at the time, but my mother wanted to calculate approximately how long it would take me to complete every project I had pinned - allowing five-hours for each project.
She laughed so hard when she announced it would take me 18-years, 3-months and 16 days to complete what I had on my "to-do" list.


Well, here's what you'll need to make this adorable snowman:

White yarn, 20-gauge black wire, wire clippers, black buttons, sticky glue or hot glue gun, 2-inch wide ribbon of your choice and scissors.

I rolled up the yarn into three balls. One is about 5-inches in diameter, the next is about 4-inches in diameter and the third one is about 3-inches in diameter. I used a little blob of sticky glue to hold the end of the yarn in place.

Then I used the hot glue gun to glue all three of the balls together and to glue the buttons in place. This little snowman will not stand up on his own. You'll have to lean him against something.

Cut two pieces of the black wire into 18-inch lengths. Twist the wire forming the hand and arms of the snowman.

Then using the glue gun, put some glue on the end of the arm and stab it into the middle ball of yarn, about where the snowman's arms would be.

The snowman's hat is a tad more difficult. Start wrapping the black wire around something that is about 3 1/2-inches in diameter to form the brim. Wrap it about four or five times, then switch to something that is about 2-inches in diameter. Wrap it about eight times, then cut the wire and keep working with it until the hat holds its shape.

Tie a piece of ribbon around the snowman's neck for his scarf and you can call this project "done."
How cute is he?

*  Note -- The project I pinned to my Pinterest board was made using Styrofoam disks wrapped in the yarn, but I just thought the balls of yarn would be cuter.


Love you, Mom.
Thanksgiving will never be the same without you.

After Apple Picking

I have many, many memories of my mother, but not as many of my father. Perhaps it's because he's been gone longer. And, perhaps, because he was the one out of the house working when I was very young, and my mother was the one home with us, playing with us, teaching us.

One very vivid memory I have of Daddy is his constant craving for sweets (an unfortunate trait I inherited. You know how some people have a sweet tooth? Well, Dad and I have sweet teeth. ha ha) Specifically, my father loved his apple pie.

We had family dinner every single night, and my father always cleaned his plate then asked, "Julia, do we have apple pie tonight?"

More times than not, my mother had apple pie waiting for my dad. How cool is that?

Last year my friends who have property in Elijah, Georgia brought back a huge bag of apples for me and I made apple butter for any and all. In fact, I still have one last jar in my refrigerator. They did the same this year, delivering the apples to me about two weeks ago. This morning I thought I'd better do something with them before they spoil. I had wanted to be able to make all kinds of apple desserts for the coming holidays, but needed to get the apples cooked and preserved.

So, here's my recipe for preserving the apples, making freezable apple pie filling:

18-cups of thinly sliced apples
3-tblsp. lemon juice
4 1/2-cups white sugar
1-cup cornstarch
2-tsp. ground cinnamon
1-tsp. salt
1/4-tsp. ground nutmeg
10-cups water

I slice and peel my apples using my Pampered Chef Apple Corer/Peeler/Slicer. I love it!!
After the apples are sliced, put them in a very large bowl and toss the slices with the lemon juice - then set aside.

Fill a Dutch oven or great big pot with 10-cups of water over medium heat.( Remember, the pot has to be big enough to also fill with the 18-cups of apple slices.)

Combine the sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon, salt and nutmeg. Add the mixture to the water, stir well and bring it to a boil. Boil for two-minutes, stirring constantly - using a long handled spoon. (The cornstarch is going to thicken the mixture as it heats, so keep stirring.)

After the mixture has boiled for two-minutes, add the apples and return to a boil. Reduce the heat, cover and simmer until the apples are tender - about 6-8 minutes.
Cool for 30-minutes.

Ladle the apple-pie filling into freezer-friendly containers. Cool at room temperature no longer than  1 1/2-hours.  I put mine in the cheap containers you can get at any grocery store, but then I bag the container in a zipper plastic freezer bag to double seal it.
Seal and freeze.
This can be stored for up to 12-months.

I have enough apple pie filling to make at least five desserts.

My dad had a real gusto for eating his home-cooked meals, lovingly prepared every night by Mom. I love my memories of his appreciation for her cooking.

Thanksgiving 1973, Daddy enjoying the last bite of his slice of apple pie.

For you, Daddy!

Life is a Mosaic

Get over the idea that only children should spend their time in study.  Be a student so long as you still have something to learn, and this will mean all your life.  ~Henry L. Doherty

Have you ever had the experience of learning something new that sort of takes over your brain - your thinking patterns or how you actually see things?

For example:
My mother once told me that when she was learning how to sew, she actually sewed her dreams. She sewed peoples faces as she stood talking to them. She sewed the landscape of southern Illinois. In other words, she saw everything as pieces of fabric stitched together.
Can you imagine? You're looking someone square in the eye and all you can see are the stitches that are holding their baby blues in place?
We laughed so hard, but I actually understood what she was saying.

She shared that story with me when I was in high school and taking the mandatory typing class (which I hated and skipped most of the time, because - and I quote - "I am never going to be any one's secretary. I'm going to be an actress. I will never need this skill."). This was, of course, long before computers, cell phones and tablets. I had mentioned to Mom that learning how to type was driving me crazy, not only because I inherently hated it and what it stood for in my mind, but also because I typed everything out in my head; every single thing I said and was said to me, every sentence uttered on television and every song on the radio - it all had to be typed out in my mind before I could actually process it. It drove me crazy.

The same thing happened to me when I was learning how to decorate cakes. I had taken a Wilton cake decorating class back in the mid-1970s - before covering a cake in fondant was the norm. We used actual colored frosting, and everything I looked at was smeared in buttercream. I'm not kidding. From people's faces to the beautiful Fort Lauderdale Beach, it all presented a cake decorating opportunity. It was a much sweeter picture than looking at Frankenstein's head, don't you think? Still it was very distracting when I'd try to have a conversation with someone.

Believe it or not, I'm experiencing it all over, again. I've been working on a mosaic to donate to a local homeless center for an auction folks there are planning. They asked nine local and well-known artists  - and me - to re-purpose some items picked out from the center's thrift store. I laughed when they asked me to "join the fun," because I'm far from being an artist. But I love a challenge and, frankly, I prefer to be as busy as possible. So, I said, "Sure!"

I decided on the two-drawer night stand to update, and possibly make a buffet

platter using the chandelier. We'll see.

I picked out a two-drawer night stand, thinking all I'd do would be to repaint it. But I soon decided that I'd cover the top of it in a mosaic.
Now, be sure you understand this - I have never made a mosaic, and I'm no artist.

I started off sanding and repainting the nightstand, then drew my pattern on a piece of paper the same size as the top of it. I transferred my pattern to the wood top, cracked up some pieces of colored glass (supplied by a very good friend) and began gluing them in place (using Liquid Nails).

It started to take shape and that's when the "trouble" began. I'm sure it will stop in a few days, but right now, everything I look at is a mosaic. I can't look at anything without wondering what it would look like as a pattern for a mosaic or if it would make a good surface for one. I close my eyes and see a mosaic. Ha!

(By the way...once all the glass pieces were glued down, I grouted the top of the nightstand with sandless pre-made grout available at any home improvement store. I wiped off the excess and waited a day or two for it to completely dry. Then I cleaned all of the glass and sealed the grout.)

Back in high school, when I couldn't get the crazy keyboard off my mind, Mom convinced me that my problem of typing everything out in my head would soon go away and I'd be left with a skill that I'd use - even if I wasn't someone else's secretary. She convinced me to see it through; that deep down I knew it was the right thing to do to continue getting good grades. I guessed that, in other words, I really did care and wanted to be the best I could be, no matter what the subject was. She must have been right, because although I did skip at least 60-percent of my typing classes (truly, at least 60-percent), I still made straight As. (Not sure if that meant I was brilliant or if the teacher was stupid.)

The same held true for cake decorating. After weeks and weeks of imagining everything I looked at covered in frosting, I finally got past that. I wasn't half-bad at cake decorating; creating my sister's wedding cake (which to me was such an honor), as well as many others throughout the years.

I'm still not an artist, certainly no Italo Botti. But I am enjoying this new art form/craft and actually hope to have the time to do more. (I'm hoping I can bid on my beautiful nightstand.)

Lesson learned: Life is a mosaic of pleasure and pain. Grief is an interval between two moments of joy, and I'm beginning to see that second moment. Also, you're never too old to learn something new...now on to the chandelier makeover.

 

 

Love you, Mom. 

A 30-Day Slide into the Big Six-Oh!

Mother was a prudent woman. As a child growing up in a very frugal home, nothing went to waste.

There was a drawer in our kitchen that housed the dish towels and the used and folded pieces of aluminum foil (something that, for some reason, really bothered me, so I vowed there would be no small pieces of foil being saved in my home - ever.)
She rarely purchased "store-bought cookies," but if a recipe she was using called for just the yolk of an egg, then Mom saved the white until she had the time to make meringue. Then she'd put small spoon fulls of the meringue on top of saltine crackers, broil them for just a minute and that would be our afternoon treat. The opposite was also true of the yolk. If that was left over, she'd fry it up, put it between two pieces of bread, smother it in ketchup and send it to school with me as my lunch. Just plain horrible.
If she had any icing left over from one of her famous cakes, she'd smear it over a graham cracker, put another graham cracker over that and - voilà! - we'd have her version of sandwich cookies.

For the sake of being thrifty, my birthday was celebrated with my father's (I was born the day before his birthday), and since it was so close to Halloween, the decorations were never ordinary birthday hats and balloons - they were orange and black things that could be used, again, for Halloween.

So, although after living with us for more than 10-years she grew to understand my antics and - I think - oftentimes enjoyed them, I'm not sure how she'd take this whole idea of celebrating my birthday for 30-days. (Which, by the way, ends tomorrow.)

I'm not fond of the idea of turning 60. Yes, I know how lucky I am to be on this side of the ground, and yes, I know how blessed I am to have family and friends surrounding me everyday. But this is the year I've faced my mortality, and - well - you know.
So I came up with this fabulous idea of celebrating the slide into 60 for the 30-days prior. What fun it's been.

My dream of a husband has gone out of his way to think of me everyday for the past 29-days, bringing me everything from a package of Pop Rocks to a giant pumpkin that's so large and heavy I can't lift it to renting a limousine so my girl friends and I could go on a Girls' Night Out and more.

I'm not so sure Mother would approve of the expenditure; she'd have probably lifted an eyebrow. But, I also can't say that I care or that I'm regretful for the exuberance my husband has shown or even the over-indulgence of the past month. One thing I do know, Mom celebrated my birthday every year with just as much love in her heart for me as I have in mine for her. So maybe she would have enjoyed this, as well. Maybe she wouldn't have seen it as being wasteful.

I faintly remember my husband and some friends having a dinner party for me on my birthday last year -- just three weeks after Mother had passed away. But I was in a state of not being able to think for myself, and if you held a gun to my head today, I wouldn't be able to tell you who was there.

This year, things are different. I'm working hard to embrace my age, embrace the changes in my life, and embrace the memories. With that in mind, the countdown to turning 60 has actually been a year-long journey. It's not just been fun things that either I've done for myself or that my husband has done for me - it's been about the time we've spent together, talking, laughing and appreciating one another.

While my mother's extreme frugal ways did not rub off on me, some of her talent and her love for family did.

"Mother, thank you for having me. I miss sending you flowers on this day. Happy birthday!"
 

It's over - The last of the firsts

I was reading the Sports section of the newspaper the other day -- okay, not really reading it, but noticed a headline about a high school football game -- and it reminded me of when my son was in high school.
He didn't play football.
But he did play percussion in the marching band, specifically the snare - and his schedule was every bit as grueling as any player's on that football team.
I was a band parent - and every bit as loyal to my drummer as the mother who runs onto the field when her son the quarterback isn't properly guarded by the center.
Don't even try to come between a mother and her son. Right?

My husband and I didn't miss a single game or other performance of our Marching Jaguars. That Friday night ritual was a habit we enjoyed for four-years, and in the course of those years, we naturally became friends with many other band parent geeks.
At the first game at the start of my son's senior year, I turned to one of the other senior band member mothers (who was as emotional as I) and looked into her eyes - both of us crying - and said, "This is the last first game of the season we'll ever have."
We both laughed, knowing how silly that sounded, but also knowing how true it was.

It seems I've been faced with similar dilemmas ever since.
When my son went to college, I thought, "There won't be anymore first days of school. I won't be there for any of his firsts in college - his first all-nighter, his first hangover, his first induction into a fraternity."
When my father passed away, I experienced my first time not having someone to answer my every question. Growing up, and well into adulthood, my father answered all of my questions. No matter what it was, he always had an answer for everything. I never heard him say, "I don't know."
This past year, I have faced a multitude of firsts: the first time my birthday went by without even a phone call to or from my mother; my first holidays as an orphan; my first medical situation without her to talk to for strength; my first, my first, my first.
Of course, I'm not alone. Everyone who has experienced the loss of a loved one so dear has had to also experience all of the firsts that come with that first year.

But the good news is, they were all the last first times!
The unknown of all those firsts is now known. 

My friend who took me to lunch on the beach only weeks after Mother passed away, saw a person in need, hugged her with conversation, undivided time and sympathy - and she spoke the truth. She promised that I'd get through it, and although I didn't believe her at the time, I did make it through to the other side --- the last of all those firsts is now over. It feels like the time passed in the blink of an eye, yet it also feels like an eternity.

But the bottom line is that I did make it, and I never lost sight of how blessed I am, not even for a moment.

For those special moments...and we all have them.

For all of us, there are moments we'd like to have frozen in time. Maybe that special date with the one you ended up marrying, maybe the wedding, maybe the moment you saw your child for the first time. I could go on and on. For me, a story I'm going to share here today ranks way up there. It's a moment in time - a celebration of sorts - that I hope (and I say "hope" because of that dreadful Alzheimer's disease) will remain etched in my mind forever.

For nearly all of the celebrations in our lives as I was growing up, Mom made her fabulous, unlike any other meatloaf. Birthdays, good grades, choir concerts and other momentous occasions  were made even more special with Mom's home-cooked meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans. And if that meal was on the table, there was also a party goin' on in our mouths, because everyone in the family agreed that Mom's sweet meatloaf was the absolute best.

So, tonight, as I reflect on this past year, my husband and I are celebrating my mother's life with a special meal - her meatloaf. I haven't made it since before she passed away one year ago tomorrow.

Before I get out all the ingredients, I want to share a story that's been difficult for me to discuss. I hope you don't mind, but you'll understand why I need to share it today, and why I've chosen today to celebrate Mom and all she was and still is to me.

In the late afternoon on Sept. 25, as she was lying in her newly erected hospital bed (which she did not want brought in, and had to be convinced that it would be the best thing for her), I took her bag of cross-stitching to her. She had been in severe pain, and I thought I could help get her mind off of that and on to something more positive. I've mentioned in past posts that she cross-stitched ornaments for all of the girls in the family every year and gave them as gifts at Thanksgiving.

When I opened the bag and told her that I could only find three of her ornaments, there was an immediate change in her -- exactly at that moment -- a change that lasted about three hours. But in looking back, it seems like it was only minutes. She took the bag from me and began looking through it saying she had made more than that. She wanted out of bed and wanted to go into her living room and sit in her recliner.

I called my husband and brother in from the garage, granting Mom's wish, and we moved her into her living room. In the back of my mind - I knew what was happening. My mother was having what I call an awakening. She was completely pain free, spoke to my son on the phone for more than a half hour, went through all her cross-stitching instruction books and told me which ones she had made in past years and for whom, ate dinner with my husband, my brother and me, and tried to work a crossword puzzle.

Mother was filled with such happiness; the smile on her face went literally from ear to ear. She was more beautiful than I had ever seen her -- almost child-like. It was as if she was floating on Cloud Nine; glowing.

As we sat at the dinner table while she tried to work the crossword puzzle, I saw her eyelids getting heavy. I didn't want her to fall asleep, because I knew it would all end, so I did all I could to keep her awake. Finally, we had no choice but to move her back into her bed and then Mother and I started watching Dancing With The Stars on television. She commented how Kirstie Alley was her favorite competitor, but within moments, she fell asleep. About an hour later, she awoke in pain.

I won't go into all that happened during the rest of the night, because I am determined to celebrate and not mourn.

I am so blessed to have been a part of those three-hours with my mother in her euphoric state. It was nothing short of beautiful. I wish I could have frozen it in time.

And, how fitting that today our household is also celebrating another great moment - my husband is the winner of the coveted mirror ball trophy from our own version of the popular TV dance show - here called Dancing With Our PALs. It's an annual fundraiser for the local Police Athletic League and the children it serves. I truly wish my mother could have seen him dance his Paso Doble', Country Two-Step and Wobble; she'd have been both stunned and so very proud! (I guess this is what they call a full circle.)

So let's celebrate with Mom's Meatloaf:

 

For meatloaf:
1 lb. ground beef                         1 egg
1 tsp. salt                                     1/2 cup catsup
1 small onion, chopped               1 cup oats

Mix it all together and form a loaf.
Bake at 35-degrees in a covered baking dish for about one-hour, pouring sauce over the top of the meatloaf about 45-minutes into baking.

And now for the sauce:
1 cup catsup                                1/2 cup light brown sugar
2 tbsp. mustard

Mix all ingredients together.
Remove cover from baking meatloaf and pour sauce over meatloaf 45-minutes into baking. Continue baking for about 15-minutes at 350-degrees. (or until done)

Bon Appetit, Mom!

For dessert, I prepared a parfait of brownie bits and white chocolate pudding.

Yummy.

Tonight we celebrate my mother, her influence on me, her love for family, her culinary prowess, her appreciation for my husband, her Girl Scout leadership skills, her being the greatest grandmother on this earth, her smile - her life.

"Thank you, Mom, for giving me those three-ish hours to look back on with such happiness. I'm still trying to figure things out, Mom, but tomorrow I'll jump right in and do it all, again. I love you and miss you."

 

 

Mommyisms -- share yours

What is your earliest memory?
Mine is my third birthday, celebrated at our home in Mounds, Ill.
My grandmother (my mother's mother) and I were having a pretend tea party when suddenly I was picked up and put in my room. I didn't know it at the time, but my grandmother had suddenly died.

That's my earliest memory - not the best circumstances for a memory, but rather early just the same.

Then I have the memories of all the mommyisms.
You know...like the one I've shared in an earlier post, "You're going to do wonders and eat green cucumbers."
Or - "Put your sweater on. I'm cold!"

So, I've decided to devote this post to a few of those things my mother used to say to me -- things I'm sure your mothers have also said to you.

Mother hated to hear my younger sister and me whine and we weren't allowed to mope. Whatever the circumstances, we were expected to "dry it up." "Pick up your lip or some one's going to step on it." "Stop your crying, or I'll give you something to cry about!" she'd say. Naturally we didn't want that happening, because that would mean getting swatted with the dirty fly swatter. Yuck!

Mom also said, "You can get glad in the same pants you got mad in," and "The world doesn't owe you a living." So, I learned that the sooner I take responsibility for my actions, and figure out a plan for where I wanted to go, the better off I'd be.

Have you ever known anyone who jumped off a bridge? My nephew once did. He's one person who could answer, "Yes," to the age-old question, "If your friends jumped off the bridge, would you?"
Of course, when my mother would ask me that question, I wanted to ask "Who all is going? and What are they wearing?" But a level head prevailed, which kept me from actually being pushed off that bridge. As badly as I hated being left out of anything, many a time I did not participate in something because I knew she'd hear about it and I'd have to answer that question.

Mother also said, "There's no sense in crying over spilled milk." That's a lesson that, to this day, I still have not learned. I've just never been able to turn my emotions off and on like a water faucet -- though I sure wish I could.

As I look back and see how quickly the years passed, I think about all the lessons learned. My mother taught me that "into every life a little rain must fall, but if you have a good umbrella and a tube of red lipstick, you can get through anything." That's a life lesson that I hope I've passed on to my son (except for the red lipstick part).

Another memory I have is when I wanted to have my ears pierced. She said, "If God had wanted you to have holes in your ears, he would have put them there himself." Did I listen? No!
I got some ice, froze my earlobes one at a time and poked a dirty sewing needle and thread right through them. I was petrified when I couldn't get one of my ears to stop bleeding -- but that "don't cry over spilled milk" thing sure came in handy.

From my earliest memories, I knew that the same woman who tanned my hide with that dirty fly-swatter also had my back - always! She was proud of every one of my accomplishments; from learning how to play the flutophone in elementary school to becoming the editor of a social magazine and everything in-between. My proud mother would read excerpts from that weekly literary wonder to friends and family on the telephone. She kept copies in her bedside table, where they remain today.

I'll soon be 60 and in just 10 more days it will be a year since Mother passed away. The more things have changed, the more they have stayed the same. I love words, and my reason for writing hasn't varied - I need to tell the story. Unfortunately, without my mother's words of encouragement, I do feel stagnant at times.

My mother taught me by example just how important it is for my own son to know there is always someone there rooting for him, someone who loves him unconditionally.

Mom's been gone a year, and I still miss her so much. She was more than my mom, she was my best friend. We liked the same things: gardening, sewing, cooking and crafting. We shared everything, and I'm not sorry for one minute of it. Even though she's no longer here, the things we shared keep me going.

I love you, Mom, and miss you more and more everyday.

40 Years of Memories

Today begins our four-day celebration of our 40th wedding anniversary. Our son and his wife, as well as my younger sister, are coming to spend some of the weekend with us.
I can't believe 40-years has passed, doing so in the blink of an eye.

My parents made it to their 68th anniversary, with a party at the nursing home in which we had placed Daddy. He had Alzheimer's disease.( I hate that disease! I hate it!)
There are a lot of things Daddy didn't remember - like his home, his former friends from church who'd come to visit, how to read, how to work the remote control for his television, and many other simple things and processes we all take for granted on a daily basis - but as bad as it often was, and believe me - it was bad - whenever he'd see Mother walk in, his eyes would light up the room. He always knew her and knew she was his beautiful wife.

My husband and I have known each other since the fourth-grade when his family moved into the neighborhood that fed our elementary school. I was quite the goodie-two-shoes; never getting into any trouble at school. But one day, right after the teacher had just told all of us not to make a sound and just as we were about to take a spelling test, this little boy, with his too-big pants pulled way up over his waist tight with a skinny little belt that wrapped nearly twice around him, whispered something to me. And when I whispered back, I got caught!
I was "in trouble." Not him!
And remember when the teachers would brand you as a trouble-maker by writing your name in the upper left hand corner of the black board - for all the world to see that you were "bad?" That's what happened to me - my name went up on the black board!
I was devastated. But I was also angry with this kid.
By sixth-grade, though, we were friends, really close friends. So close, that we "went steady" during the last week of school, and played Spin-the-Bottle at a friend's party. I still have his I.D. bracelet that he gave me. I even wrote about him in my end-of-the-year autobiography, saying that my wish for my future was to be married to him.

We actually lost touch with each other in junior high and high school. By that, I mean that we didn't hang with the same crowd. We were always friendly with each other when passing in the hall, but our high school had nearly 5,000 students on three shifts, and we weren't on the same shift. He had his friends and I had mine.
Until college at Florida State University. When I sat down in my horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad geology class, there he was - a familiar face. The rest is - shall we say - history.

THEN

Picture taken in December of 1973, three months after we were married.

Neither my husband nor I were born with a silver spoon in our mouths.
But we often share this cute analogy of what we thought of each other's family.

My husband and his family are Jewish. In fact, we come from a predominately Jewish community in North Miami. Although my husband's mother was very fortunate enough to never have had to work a day in her life, his father was a hard working man, always hoping the next invention would be "the one" to take his family to new heights. In my little brain, I thought all Jews were wealthy. Period. All through school it just seemed to be that way, so I thought my husband's family was, as well.
 
Both of my parents worked at tough jobs nearly all their lives, and worked very hard for everything they had. Daddy loved to fish, so we had a boat while growing up in Miami. We lived on a slightly over-sized corner lot, and Dad built a large garage in the back for the boat and to use as his workshop. While I was in high school, Dad bought a pop-up camper, and when that turned out to be so much fun, he traded it in and bought a small RV.  With all the adult toys parked at our house, my husband thought my family was wealthy.

Ha ha - we both got fooled.

Of course, all that being said - I wouldn't change a thing. While having a sweet inheritance would have been nice, it's not everything.

NOW

Picture taken in March 2013

My parents experienced pain, anger, temptation, disappointment, health issues and financial crisis, but their marriage was also filled with love - for each other and for their family.
So, too, have my husband and I. And as we face retirement in a few short years, my prayer is that we also fill our remaining years together with love and laughter - aiming for 65-years of our own.

Happy anniversary, honey. It's been quite the ride, but it ain't over, yet.



Silly me. I never imagined you wouldn't be here to celebrate with us, Mom. I love you. I miss you.

Happy Birthday!!

Oh my God, Mom, I can't even find the words to tell you how much I miss you!

Happy birthday.
I love you!