Omit needless words

You know that I love Strunk and White and their seventeenth principle of composition: Omit needless words. Never was that principle better presented than by railroad crossing signs.

Stop. Look. Listen.

Always, for all things.

First

We have lots of firsts. Memories of many bury themselves deeply within our minds because they seem inconsequential to our daily lives, but there they stay. There must be some reason that the vestiges of those firsts remain in our memories—perhaps to aid us when we experience similar things in our lives, or maybe they dwell there simply to give us a smile on a winter’s night when an old friend pops up and says, “Remember?”

He is an old friend, and he did pop up a few nights ago on Facebook and said hello. He’s an important old friend, someone with whom I shared entry into the world of true romance.

We were seven. He is upper left; I am the blonde smack in the middle.

It was early fall and second grade had just begun. I had little interest in boys beyond how hard I could kick them in the shins when they got too close (yes, I was a bit of a terror), or which would play the best “Batman” on the playground to my “Catwoman.” Our Batman play involved a large, heavily rooted tree on the edge of the asphalt playground. We ran around and around the tree before taking off to the monkey bars that would, today, cause cardiac arrest for any observing safety inspectors. We would then return to the playground over a cracked and weed-infested concrete area with tall chain link fences at either end that was once a tennis court; our school had been a high school a decade before. After traversing the tennis court, the running around the tree began again. I am not sure how our play re-enacted the Batman show, but that was how it worked.

The boy that caught my attention was not a Batman. He stood off to the side, often staring at me, and I didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t come close enough to kick him, so he was a complete enigma.

He drew me away like no one has done since. How could one not investigate such a mystery?

When we recently chatted he casually mentioned being near “The Portables,” which were portable classrooms outside of the main school whose use was reserved for cool second graders, because who else was there in the Universe?

He mentioned the grass near The Portables as if it was just grass. It wasn’t. It was the grass of the kids who were separate from the rest for good reason—we were cool second graders with cool portables. There was a small hill of mown grass near The Portables on which only cool kids could sit (including some older student usurpers), and of those cool kids, only those who were romantically involved.

We had only the slightest idea of what romantic meant, but we were placed in a situation where we needed to learn quickly. If we had not, the older kids might have chased us off of our little hill of grass, and the weight of that embarrassment could not be borne.

I followed the boy with the brown-red hair to be near The Portables. I pretended I had a reason to be there and kicked other boys when necessary, to prove I had a reason. That boy with the brown-red hair had nothing to do with my being there. I didn’t like him at all. I went home and expounded on how I didn’t like him at all.

A couple of days ago when I mentioned his name to Grandma Beanie, her eyes lit up with recognition. She knew I didn’t like him at all. That is why we all remember his name forty five years later. He meant nothing. Nothing.

He meant everything, but it was a hard sell to get me to admit that when I was seven. I wasn’t going to like him, because that was not what self-respecting tomboys did. They didn’t like boys, not at all.

During the time I was not going to like him at all Grandpa John often said, “We are going to have a bunch of little Gooshwalls running around here.” The whole family teased me with that for years—no—decades. The last conversation I had with Johnny as he taught me to reload shotgun shells included hunting, field dressing game, baby powder and Gooshwalls.

My old friend will recognize that murdered name. I hope he will know that we all remember his real name and appreciate him. I hope he will understand that all of my family could not have recognized his name if I had not spoken of him constantly when I was a very romantic seven year old child.

He was my first.

He held my hand on the mown grass outside of The Portables when we seemingly had no idea of what romance was about. But we did know. We knew romance in its purest form. We knew it in the best form.

We didn’t have any Gooshwalls running around here, but we all have irreplaceable memories because of my dear old friend that said hello a few nights ago.

Thank you, Jerry. Thank you for then, and thank you for now.

She looked like a prizefighter

When Jenny was born she had a blocked tear duct that caused the tissue around her eye to be sightly swollen. Once the delivery room nurse added silver nitrate drops to her eyes as was customary to prevent eye infection in newborns, the swelling turned a shade of purple-blue that left Jenny looking as if she had just come from a boxing ring.

She looked that way for about a week, when a porcelain doll emerged from the prizefighter face and she was the most beautiful child I had ever seen. Her features were tiny and delicate. She seemed to be aware of her own beauty and cried sparingly so as not to scrunch up her lovely face unnecessarily. I appreciated that.

She was a delicate little thing (off and on, and we won’t discuss those early OFF periods) until she awoke on her third birthday and decided that she was henceforth to be, Jenny: HELLION. She was, for a while. She then discovered some wonderful girly thing and became a delicate flower once again.

Jenny’s transmogrifications kept me hopping for the next couple of decades. She was girly, she was hippie, she was Wicca aficionado, she was gymnast and swimmer, she was singer, she was black goth girl wannabe, she was drum circle didgeridoo player, she was hiker, camper, canoe and outdoor enthusiast, she was forklift driver. She didn’t only live life, she tasted it, drank it, she consumed it and left a slightly singed trail of her presence behind her.

She drove me out of my ever-loving mind.

I called her my tornado girl because she entered like a whirlwind and changed things all around her. She exhausted me, and I couldn’t have loved her more. I can’t love her more today.

She is now to be married and will soon have a baby. I hope her child drives her as nuts as she did me. It’s the best way to raise a new citizen; watch them grow, watch them fall, watch them soar, and then sit back and watch them settle. A brand new family will be born. It’s as amazing as the birth of one baby, and as exciting to observe.

Finally

It’s finally here and I am unsure how to feel. For 30 years I have thought that I would rejoice when justice was about to be served. One would think that we would all be happy when justice is about to be served, but I am still unsure.

One day you will see the advent of something for which you have waited most of your life. You know the struggle I have had with wanting something to happen to make it all stop, but not wanting or being able to be the one to assign guilt or sentence. My dreams (nightmares) have assigned enough.

It’s completely out of my hands, and the only thing I have left to do is watch and wait. While I wait I think about the past and how we have all been affected. I hope that justice is swift and fair because justice, in this case, is being measured for transgressions having nothing to do with any of us. How I wish we could have stopped that, somehow. I detest the idea that anyone else has been made to feel afraid.

I understand

I understand that folks are busy with life. It’s how things are. I wonder, however, what it would be like if people paid attention to those who will soon be leaving before they left, instead of telling their tale of woe at a funeral service.

I have been fortunate. I have had interactions with loved ones before they died, so I didn’t have to feel anything other than loss when they finally left our world. I wouldn’t give up those interactions for the world. I loved those people and was able to tell them so.

I also know that people receive far more in the way of commiseration if they have not been able to connect with loved ones before the inevitability of death. Announcing death or dying on Facebook has become a way to receive comment after comment stroking the same sore spots after seeing, or not seeing, those who are passing, and indeed, caring or not really caring at all. I think it’s a new fashion.

Such a shame.

My experiences with my mother over the past year have so affected me that I cannot understand missing out when things are tough. I can’t understand not reaching out for the person who gave me life or perpetuated my life in some way. I would not have missed a single moment. Beanie is as Beanie has always been—Mom, and I love her.

I am not sure how she imparted to me this deep love that I cannot leave behind as a nuisance, but I am grateful. We are both here, for now. We love. What a wonderful thing that is.

Getting hitched

Most girls have dreams about how their wedding will unfold. I wonder how many realize their dreams, and how many laugh at reality. I hope that the majority have a hearty laugh at the things that go wrong that can make weddings, and sometimes marriages, go absolutely right.

It’s a good time to talk about weddings because of Aunt Jenny’s pending nuptials, while leaving a few words for you to remember when your time comes.

The ability to laugh at ourselves is one of the most important skills we can learn. I call it a skill because it was a really tough lesson for me. I needed to learn to separate the funny parts of life from those critical to survival, take a good look at them, strive to understand them, and finally, laugh. Laughing at myself never became a natural response; I still need to evaluate and then laugh, but these days I laugh often.

Weddings are important, but not nearly as important as the marriages they celebrate. When you decide to embark on the journey of marriage, sweet girl, be honest with yourself. Once you are honest with yourself, be honest with your partner. Hide nothing. Love or do not love everything, and be honest about those things. We can love without loving every part of our partner. We can’t love without being honest about it. We can’t live that lie. It always comes up or out or falls on our head, while jeopardizing the most important relationship we will ever have.

I know these things because I lived them. Your Grandpa and I were not nearly as honest about things we did not like about each other as we should have been. Perhaps if we had been, we would have been able to keep our marriage together. I like to think that we could have.

Never forget that a broken relationship comes from the actions of all parties to the relationship. Your Grandpa and I were both wrong many different times and we didn’t fix it. We let things simmer. Don’t do that. Talk, argue, holler, and do it honestly. Do it with the love that we still had when we fell apart, but that we forgot to put into play.

Remember to laugh. We did laugh and, for that, I am proud of us.

The first laughs came from the day of the wedding itself. Too much was going on in town, and we knew that traffic would be a problem. President Ronald Reagan was going to be speaking at Notre Dame University Commencement the same morning as our wedding, so we tried to plan well. Grandpa Frank would be coming from the far south side of town to the far north of town, to a church near our house.

We had already faced difficulty with a church and a pastor to officiate, and were being married in a Protestant church, by a Presbyterian minister. We were okay with that. The minister was replacing the regular pastor that had had a heart attack just days before the wedding. The organist waited until the day of the wedding to become very ill, but the church found a replacement.

I was at home getting dressed and being nervous when Grandpa Frank arrived at the house. He went to change clothes and realized that his pants were not on the hanger with his shirt and jacket. He was always so organized and prepared that everyone was stunned. He hopped back into his 1970 Volkswagen van to make the ten mile trip back south, through Notre Dame traffic, to get his pants. I got myself dressed—there was no hair to be done; I had my regular pixie cut—while people were working on getting Grandma Cecelia and Dodie to the church. Everyone was in cars and took off for the church—early, even!

The one person they forgot, was me. I came downstairs and into the kitchen to—no one! The house was empty. I got into my Oldsmobile and drove to the church. Everyone was surprised when I arrived, because everyone thought someone else had me in their car.

Grandpa Frank made it back to the church in time (but close) for the ceremony. Just as we had wished, Grandpa John and Grandma Beanie walked down the aisle with me, and Grandpa Frank Sr. and his wife, Fran, walked down the aisle with Grandpa Frank. We lit two tapers from one unity candle.

Everyone looked wonderful and the ceremony was just as I had imagined it would be. My siblings were all in the wedding. I wanted it to be special and it was.

We laughed at the reception when the champagne cork worked itself out, slowly, during toasts, and then popped up and hit the ceiling, coming right back down on Aunt Linda’s head. We laughed about the day’s traffic and Grandpa Frank’s mad dash to get his missing pants. We laughed about the bride being the only one left without a ride to the wedding. We were giddy, as was our right on our special day. We celebrated until we just couldn’t move any longer, then made our way to Grandma Beanie’s home in our two vehicles—my Oldsmobile and Grandpa Frank’s VW van.

I arrived at the empty house first. The empty locked house. I had no purse and I was still in my wedding gown. There was a window that we all used when locked out, and I thought, why not? I did climb in through that window in my wedding dress and tumbled a bit into the living room. It was somehow fitting that this tomboy couldn’t remain a lady, even on her wedding day. We laughed at that, too.

Grandpa Frank arrived shortly after and we began to laugh at all of the crazy things that had happened on our way to marriage, things that helped to cement our bond.

We laughed. We should never have stopped.

A glass of whine

It has been almost two years since I decided to begin leaving a series of stories and life posts for you. The two-to-five year prognosis has come and gone; this is now almost year seven. It feels like year seven. Though I warned you I might whine a bit on this site, I have done that only one time. In this post I will try to not whine, and attempt to simply present information.

You saw at Thanksgiving that things are beginning to be a little difficult. The new regular oxygen saturation (pulse ox) is about 85%, dropping when I move around into the low 70% range. If I sit still it can go as high as 90%!

I won’t go into detail about other symptoms because that’s not fun to read. You have seen most of it – swelling here and pain there; gasping here and dizziness there; coughing here and general yuckiness there. I am still grinning and mostly bearing it, while continuing to wish that opiates were not on my allergy list.

I bought glucosamine lotion for Grandma Beanie’s arthritic knee that contains something called glucosamine sulfate potassium complex. In this particular preparation it apparently comes from shellfish, to which we all know that Grandma Beanie is highly allergic. Bah. It’s one of those times that one feels about as big as an ant. She didn’t use it because, unlike me, she read the ingredients. What a concept. It’s a good thing I bought capsaicin cream, too. She’s not allergic to chili peppers.

In other news, Jason sent me a link to the following video: A Defense of Comic Sans. I love it! But the video won’t convince me to use Comic Sans for anything, ever, never ever, never. Heh.