Where Does the Time Go?

Time Keeps on Slipping, by the Steve Miller Band.

It's amazing how fast time flies. One day, your youngest starts scool, the next, he or she is graduating high scool, if not college, leaving you to wonder, Where did the time go?

My mother's birthday was earlier this month. If she was still alive, she would have turned 95 this year. It doesn't seem that long since she turned 40, a few days after we arrived in Florida, a life-time ago.

Mom

We left Pittsford, New York, just outside Rochester, the last week in February 1971. Mom's map-reading skills were never that great; fortunately, mine are. We caravaned the first day with my uncle, who wanted to make sure we got a good start. Somehow, we ended up in Springfield, Massachusetts the first night, a side-trip of about 250 miles out of the way.

In the morning, Mom was sick with what turned out to be a life-long illness, though we didn't realize it at the time. We simply thought she was not doing well with the stress; she was moving half-way across the country with three kids, getting ready for a divorce, and about to hit 40, which, at the time, was a much bigger deal than it is now.

I was handed the keys to our Ford Station Wagon, reminded that I had my New York State learner's permit(!) and the ability to read a map, and told, "Get us to Grandma and Grandpa's place." Grandma and Grandpa lived in Kenneth City, a small city next to St. Petersburg on Florida's west coast. No problem!

Our uncle headed back to his place in New York, leaving us to head south caravan-free. Each morning of the trip, I would look over the map, figuring where we'd need to switch from I-95 to other roads so we could skirt different cities, seeing about where and when we could pull over for a break. It was during one of those breaks when I taught my sister how to read a map, over coffee (Mom and me), soda (my brother and sister) and whatever we felt like eating. She did fairly well, taking us only a couple of miles out of the way during a break in Pennsylvania. It turned out great, though: two or three miles off I-95, we went to turn arouond at a small diner and gift shop.

"Let's stop here to eat," Mom suggested. Good call, as my sister and I were able to pool our money for Mom's birthday gift. It was a speckled enamel tea pot, a one-of-a-kind gift that we thought was very cool. (No, we didn't give it to Mom right away; we waited until her birthday in Florida.)

A day or so later, we even spent the night in D.C., where a friend of mine, a surrogate older-brother, was going to school. He took us to dinner, then, after dropping Mom, my brother, and sister at the hotel, took me out to hang out for an hour or so.

After almost a week, we finally pulled into Grandma and Grandpa's Kenneth City appartment a day or so before Mom's birthday.

Grandma and Grandpa

The next day, Mom spent her 40th birthday in a nearby hospital emergency room. The doctors there were unable to discover what was wrong, and, after several hours, released her, telling her to rest, but come back if things didn't improve. Fortunately, things improved within a week or so, and we got on with the business of finding a house, getting us kids enrolled in school, and finding Mom a job.

Over the years, life ebbed and flowed with the usual ups and downs. I had already decided that I was goiong to leave Florida as soon as I was able to, while Mom and my sister and brother decided that they'd stay indefinitely. The irony is that after marrying my first step-dad, Bill, there was a move to Murray, Kentucky, where Bill was from. Later, my sister and her second husband moved to Colorado before landing on the West Coast. (My brother died 19 years ago, so there was no move for him.) I'm the one who remained in Florida...55 years after arriving.

Where does the time go?

Things Were Starting to Get Better, And Then...

I realize that it's been a while since I've posted. It's not that I meant to disappear for eight months (!), but as John Lennon once said, "Life is what happens to you while you are making other plans." I'd meant to write about the Christmas parade where I live being canceled last December because of the pandemic, and then having a very shortened version of it the following week, the advent of the COVID-19 vaccines that were pushed through, the slow openening up of life in general.

Of course, none of those posts happened. I'll have to post about those in the near future, along with photos (where applicable).

Things were starting to get better, for the most part. Maybe not great yet, but better than the past year, with all the mask-wearing,-social-distancing,-job-losses and stuff. There had been some hiccups along the way, but then, that's life, right?

Maybe an hour ago, I got a call from my cousin Charles. While we'd occasionally touch base of Facebook ("Happy Birthday!", "Merry Christmas!", that sort-of stuff), it had been a while since we'd spoken. In fact, I think that the last time I'd heard his voice was during my mom's memorial service.

Photos from Mom's memorial.

Charles, David, Tyson (behind Charles), Amy

Charles (waving), Chris, Tyson, David (waving), Amy

After a brief hello, Charlie informed me that his dad, my Uncle Dave, had passed away over the weekend...something about a fall, a trip to the hospital, but that there hadn't been much that could be done. He'd turned 93 in April, had been Mom's only sibling, three years Mom's senior.

Most of us are aware that our parents (if they're still alive) will die someday, as will we. But it's still a shock when it happens. Our parents were around since we were born, and, therefore, are going to be around forever, right?

We spoke for several minutes, reminiscing a little, talking about the shock of losing a parent, talking about how my aunt is holding up. (As well as can be expected, considering.) My aunt and uncle had been married 67 years, no small feat.

We talked a little longer...he caught me up on how his brother and sister were handling this, as well as some other cousins who live nearby.

With Dave's passing, his and Mom's generation (with the exception of my aunt) have gone on.

Mom, make sure you say "hi" to Dave.

Here are a few more photos from Mom's memorial.

Cooking

I was in a baking mood this afternoon, so I whipped up a couple of pies, two pumpkin, the third, a cranberry raisin concoction.

This last one was from a recipe my dad had sent me years ago. If I remember correctly, it was somewhere in the middle of a long letter he'd written while stranded on a train out of New York City back home to White Plains during a huge blizzard in February, 1977. He was getting his Master's at Union Theological Seminary, part of Columbia University, and had gone in that morning, only to discover that the blizzard had caused classes to be canceled. The letter was ten or twelve pages long, describing the train ride home, the other passengers, and more. If I remember, it was also in this letter that he described his classes, and one professor who made an impression on him as being especially intelligent and thought-provoking - a man Dad predicted would most likely go far. (The professor was Cornel West; Dad was right in his assessment.)

Getting back to the pies: Dad was a good cook. I take after him when it comes to cooking. He loved cooking, as do I. Dad got his love of cooking from his dad, my grandfather. When my dad's parents came to visit for the weekend, Mom knew better than to get in the kitchen to do more than the occasional meal, as well as washing dishes. Dad and Grandpa would each try to out-do the other when it came to cooking.

Mom's side of the family was also known for their exploits in the kitchen - but not the way Dad and Grandpa were. Mom's mom was a really good cook. Grandma could whip up a really good full dinner without a second thought. It was the rest of the family whose cooking skills were a little sketchy.

Now, don't get me wrong. Mom could cook up a good spaghetti sauce, a really good marshmallow-fruit salad, and other basic meals. But in her book of essays, titled The Color Chartreuse Etc., Mom mentions that her side of the family had questionable cooking skills. In the essay "Cooking Runs in The Family - But Not Far Enough!", she describes her dad's attempts at making oatmeal for Mom and my uncle when Grandma was sick. (Hint: It deals with breadcrumbs being stored in an oatmeal box.) In Grandpa's defense, his vision was a little less than stellar.

Whenever I cook certain recipes, I'm reminded of family members no longer around. The cranberry pie, hot chili, and French onion soup remind me of Dad; scrambled eggs with sour cream in it, Dad's Dad; Dad's Mom's mac and cheese; chocolate cream pie (the first time I made it, my brother was the only one who could stomach it; G. was brave!). Then there's my ex's chili, Mom's marshmallow - fruit salad - which also brings memories of the time Mom had gone out after fixing a ham and marshmallow - fruit salad, leaving my sister and me as the only ones eating (if I remember right, there was almost no salad left when Mom and G. got back to the house; A. and I did enjoy it, though!), and more: a veggie dish my daughter made for her family's first Thanksgiving here in Florida, lasagna (my oldest son comes to mind, as well as when I fix his BBQ Gluten recipe), my second husband, P., loving my spinach quiche (as a Marine, he showed that real men can love quiche!), and many other foods.

Originally, I'd planned to make several homemade soup recipes so I could photograph them for my food blog.

(Another memory - Mom made homemade soup maybe twice a month, serving it out of a huge white soup tureen, a large white soup ladle resting in a notch on the side. Dang, I loved those soups, and dearly miss Mom whenever I make homemade soup.)

But having made the pies is fine, too. The soups can wait until tomorrow.

I love cooking, and the memories it brings.

October Can Be a Little Tricky...

October has been a little rough the past few years.

Mind you, it hasn't been that way. But if you've read most of the posts in this blog, one from exactly three years ago (October 24, 2012; "Octobers Haven't Always Been Rough..."), you might remember that Octobers have been a little dicey over the past few years.

I still like October, for the most part: My birthday falls in October, as does Halloween; the weather starts to cool off a little (even in Florida - or maybe it just feels that way, since the heavy humidity of summer is gone); the holidays are right around the corner. Also, the local Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure happens at the beginning of the month, which is almost always a positive event, held with a party-ish flair. Good stuff.

But then there's the flip side: Nine years ago today, my late husband died. He's thought he'd never marry again after losing his previous wife to breast cancer. (This partly figures into why I started walking/running the first year the Tampa Bay Race for the Cure was held; that year, it was in April, with the subsequent races being held in October. Also, my dad - yes, my dad - was a breast cancer survivor, later losing his life to prostate cancer.) I had also sworn that I'd never get married. As I used to tell Kevin the cabbie, "If Mr. Right ever shows up, he'll have a heck of a time getting my attention!"

But when I first met Paul, I had a strange feeling we'd be seeing a lot more of each other. We married a little more than two years later. And then he died. We'd been married 3 weeks shy of our ninth anniversary. October 3 of this year, I'd officially been widowed exactly as long as we'd been married. That kind-of does a slight number on one's equilibrium.

Paul at Sawgrass Lake Park



So I took this month one day at a time. It was still a bit of a roller coaster month. On the third, my daughter, M.H., drove me to do the Race for the Cure. This year, it was held at night - not the best time of day for me (my night vision isn't the best). It was the first race since having a fairly major medical issue this past spring. On the way there, M.H. stated that she'd wait for me. Then, seeing the festivities, she decided to participate; I think she enjoyed it as much as I did, even if I did run out of steam before we crossed the finish line.

The next day, we went to Pinot's Palette in St. Petersburg (Fla). That day's class was a bit Van Gogh, with the Tardis from Dr. Who. Several hours later, we left with our paintings. Did we have a good time? Ooooh, yeah. Very relaxing, a lot of fun, and something to add a little color to our walls.

Today, we went drove to the University of South Florida St. Pete (USFSP), where the Tampa Bay Times Festival of Reading was being held. Only stayed for a little while, took some photos (which will be posted later), then came home. It was a much needed break and diversion.

One more week until October is over - along with passing out candy on Halloween. It may be do-able.

Mom's Eulogy...

It's never easy to lose a loved-one. If one lives long enough, one tends to lose too many loved-ones.

My mother died back in November. My sister and I are having her memorial today. I've been elected to give the eulogy.

We had planned to go out onto the beach to scatter a few of Mom's ashes. But unless the rain lets up, I don't see that happening. Such is life...and death.

In the meantime, here is the eulogy I plan to give:

'We're gathering today to remember a special person. Some of us remember her as Mom, Sis, Aunt J, Grandma, Maghee or friend. If we include all her names from her 83 years, she'd be J. D. H. S. C. S. Quite a mouthful of names, but then, she lived quite a life.

"J was born March 6, 1931, changing her only brother, Dave, from an only child to a big brother. From the stories Mom told over the years, Dave was her brother, friend, confidant, ruining her life – at least in her child's mind, when a stranger offered to take her picture in a secluded area, thus making her famous – to protecting her from that same stranger by calling her name as he searched for her to bring her home. There were numerous other stories she told us of her early life, many of which ended up in her book, The Color Chartreuse.

"She graduated from Penn Hall in 1950, then from St. Lawrence University in Canton, New York, in 1952. It was at St. Lawrence that Mom met Dad. The two married in November, 1952. Over the next few years, three children arrived – me (Robin), Amy Anne, and Gregory John. The stories each of us could tell...The move from New York to Connecticut, the blurbs in Readers' Digest – written about the funny things happening in her life and the lives of her children – and stories published in Yankee Magazine(one of which was published in Yankee's A Treasury of New England Short Stories ), then a move to Rochester, New York.

"In 1971, Mom and Dad split up, and Mom decided it was time to move to Florida to be near her parents. Nothing like a little stress in one's life: a cross-country move with three children, an impending divorce, and hitting 40 at a time when 40 was a lot older than it is now. After buying a house in the Tyrone area of St. Pete, Mom went to work for Guide Magazine, then held several teaching positions in the area, a job she'd held at various times in Connecticut and Rochester.

"It was while Mom was teaching that she met William C. They later married, and, after moving to Largo, the two started the small publishing company, publishing materials for teachers and adult-ed classes. While in Largo, they would frequently throw pizza parties for their grandchildren as the kids stuffed envelopes for Longmuir-Jones. Later, Mom and Bill moved to Murray, Kentucky, where Bill was from.

"Mom continued to write, and read several of her short essays on the local NPR radio station. Many of these essays also made it into The Color Chartreuse. While in Murray, Mom began painting again, something she had done while living in New York (before the move to Connecticut). She enjoyed painting immensely.

"Mom was widowed in 1997 with Bill's passing, and remained in Murray for several years, writing, meeting with friends, adopting the occasional stray dog and cat.

"Then Mom met another man, James S, about ten years older than she was. James brought her back to New York, then on to Allentown, where they remained for several years. James died shortly before Mom did.

"Even with everything that happened in Mom's life – a divorce, the death of two husbands, as well as the deaths of her parents and son, Greg, Mom still maintained a bit of an adventurous soul until the end, and had looked forward to a possible move to Oregon. That was not to be, though, and Mom passed away in November, 2014.

"Mom, you'll be missed, and remembered fondly."

Mom

I've been in kind-of a reflective mood the past few days. Friday was my mother's birthday; she would have been 84, had she lived. She died this past November, so this was the first of her birthdays since she died. It felt strange, wanting to call her to wish her Happy Birthday, and knowing that I couldn't. I felt as though her birthday should be commemorated somehow. In the days leading up to her birthday, I considered texting my sister and suggesting we both find a card Mom would have liked, then sending it to each other. Or maybe simply a text to each other on her birthday. I don't know...

In the end, I bought a cake mix and a can of frosting. It was a yellow cake and chocolate frosting, the type of cake Mom always baked me for my birthday. I figured I'd bake it Friday afternoon, but Friday got away from me, as did the weekend. Maybe tomorrow.

I brought a few things out to the recycling bin this evening, and thought back to when we moved to Florida, a life-time ago. We left upstate New York the last week of February on a day when the wind chill index made it feel like 40 below. Mom and Dad were getting divorced, which is seldom an easy thing. Mom had her brother, my Uncle D., accompany us in his car as far as Springfield, Massachusetts, a city that took us about 250 miles out of the way en route to Florida. Don't ask me why; the logic escapes me. Maybe it was the map-reading thing; maybe it was...well, who knows why.

The next day, Uncle D. headed back home to Aunt N., while Mom, my sister A. and our brother G. headed south. Mom had mentioned she felt horrible. She had debated whether to have us take her to the nearest hospital, but figured she had just enough money to get us to Florida without an extra stop. So she handed me the car keys and the map of the eastern U.S., reminded me that I had a New York state learner's permit, then told me to get us to St. Pete. Fortunately, I can read maps just fine, otherwise we might have ended up in Nome, Alaska. (Passing through customs twice, though - once going into Canada, once leaving - might have tipped me off.)

Mom seemed a little strange during the trip, but A. and I chalked it up to a combination of three major life changes: Mom was turning 40 (a big deal back when she hit 40), she was divorcing Dad, and we were moving a little more than 1,300 miles (and numerous states) away, more than 1500 miles, if you include the side-trip through Massachusetts. By the time we got to Grandma and Grandpa's the day before Mom's birthday, she was in bad shape. In fact, she spent most of her birthday in the nearest emergency room.

Finally, a week or so later, she started feeling better, more herself. It wasn't until years later, while in her early 50s and married to my first step-dad, that she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Apparently, when we'd thought was a bad case of what my younger two and I call the ditzy doodles on the trip was really her introduction to MS, which soon went into a long remission.

During the first month or so in Florida, we stayed with Mom's parents, who lived in an apartment on the second floor. Every evening, after dinner, I'd walk along the long attached balconies in front of the upper floor apartments, descend the stairs at the end of the building, then walk the second floor balcony on the building behind Grandma and Grandpa's, eventually ending up back where I'd started. The weather was exactly the way it is now: definitely warmer than upstate New York, while nowhere near as hot as it gets here during the summer. The air even smells fresh.Whenever the weather is like this in the evening, especially in March, I can't help but remember our first Florida March, and Mom's first Florida birthday. Now it's Mom's first birthday since she's been gone. And while our relationship had been difficult most of the past few decades (I'd always been a Daddy's girl), we'd slowly gotten somewhat closer, almost friendly the last couple of years. I miss her.

The cake gets baked tomorrow, even though it's a few days late. Happy Birthday, Mom.

Life Goes On...

Some years are better than others. I guess that's true for most of us. So far, this year seems to be possibly one of the more productive ones, which is nice, especially after last year. Last year was horrible: we lost several family members died; we had a hard time getting rid of what turned out to be the roommate from hell (yes, it was someone we had known for years); and, of course, the various odds and ends that make a life.

In July, my son-in-law died. While his health was not the greatest, his death was not expected. But considering the medical care he got - or, rather didn't get - he passed away. (Yes, he'd gone to the hospital, three times in his final ten days or so; the hospital totally dropped the ball. That's another story.) His mom had come down to see him in the hospital; fortunately, she got to see him before he died.

Then, over the next few months, my mother began to die in earnest. Her health, which hadn't been the greatest for years, began deteriorating rapidly. While my sister, A., still lived near me, we'd tried to get Mom and our second step-dad to move near us to make life easier, "just in case." Then my sister moved to Colorado, then literally across the country. We still tried getting Mom and step- to move here, but it wasn't happening.

A. flew back and forth to Mom's, reporting to me on what was happening. It wasn't pretty. There were assisted living facilities, skilled nursing facilities, the whole bit. Then step-dad had a stroke and, within a month, had died at his daughter's home. (Again, another story...) A. mentioned bringing Mom out to live near her. But Mom's health was too precarious.

"If you want to see Mom while she's alive, you'd better come soon," A. said during one phone call. Mom was days to weeks from dying. "I'll even pay for your airfare."

Unfortunately, I was in the middle of a crisis here at home. A friend had needed a temporary place to stay and I'd offered to let him rent a room temporarily; he overstayed by his welcome in short order. (Word of advice: if a person's family doesn't want that person moving in with them, that's not a good sign.) I finally had to go into bitch-mode to get him out, after he'd become increasingly unpleasant and verbally abusive. I couldn't fly out to see Mom, knowing that the now-ex-roommate was still there, giving my sons M. and J. all sorts of grief.

By mid-November, Mom and roommate were gone. While Mom's passing without having seen her hurt, at least A. and I knew she was no longer in pain, while ex-roomie's leaving was the definite high-point of the month.

Over the next few months, A. and I spoke a few times. We discovered one final Christmas present from Mom, which surprised both of us.

Now, with March of the new year here, things are looking up. Life, while far from perfect, is running a lot better than last year. While my "kids" (all adults) and I still have things to work through (this is, after all, real life; there are almost always bumps and uh-oh moments), we're hanging on.

Here's hoping for the rest of the year.

To Kill A Mockingbird

I'm a writer, and I'm also a reader. I feel that the two are strongly connected; most of the writers I know also read a lot. Some of us touch base periodically to get caught up on books, articles and stories we've read: "Just started reading..." "Oh, I read that last month. Loved it; couldn't put it down," or "I really couldn't get into to at all because...Finally had to put it down."

I've picked up several books - and enjoyed them - on the word of other writer/readers. I've also felt better knowing that someone else whose writing I enjoy and whose opinion on good books is similar to mine says that he or she really couldn't get into whatever book I found lacking.

Most of us have favorite books that we go back to time and again. One of my favorites is Harper Lee's classic, To Kill A Mockingbird. I just finished it again for the umpteenth time this morning. The copy I put back on one of my many bookshelves is easily the tenth (or more) copy I've owned; I tend to reread it until it falls apart. One copy that I'd bought did manage to get gift-wrapped and sent to my mom several Christmases ago; that one doesn't get added to the count.

"Thanks for sending To Kill A Mockingbird this year," Mom said when she called. It had been years since she'd read it, and had been meaning to pick up a copy. Several weeks later, she called to tell me it was better than she remembered. I'm always glad when the two of us agree on a book; reading is one of the loves she passed on to me.

One of the many things I frequently find interesting in Harper Lee's book is how she manages to tie Atticus Finch's thoughts on Mrs. Dubose's bravery at the end of Part I to the fight Atticus faces in Part II. While Mrs. Dubose's thoughts on Atticus's defending Tom Robinson are a reflection of many of the townspeople's sentiment - as well as the nation's sentiments on race during the 1930s, they are drastically different from Atticus Finch's sentiment, as well as that of several of the people who fit prominently in the book. Atticus Finch may have been appointed to defend Tom Robinson by the court; however, he intends to actually defend the innocent man.

But back to what Atticus says about Mrs. Dubose: After he returns from her house and tells Jem and Scout that Mrs. Dubose has died, he says that she was the "bravest person I know." Why? Jem wants to know. How can Atticus say this, when Mrs. Dubose held such different views from his own? It turned out that, while dying, she was addicted to morphine for the pain from her illness and she wanted to come off it before she died. Courage, to Atticus's way of thinking, isn't "'...a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do. Mrs. Dubose won, all ninety-eight pounds of her...She was the bravest person I know.'"

Before and during Tom Robinson's trial, Atticus tries his hardest to win Tom's freedom. Miss Maudie tells Jem and Scout afterwards that while the verdict was a foregone conclusion - the American South, 1930s, a black man's word against a white man's word - that Atticus was the only lawyer in the area who could keep a jury deliberating for as long as it did. Afterwards, Atticus intended to appeal the verdict. True, this may be something lawyers are supposed to do, but considering the time/place/race issue, many lawyers may not have pushed the issue. Atticus knew, going in, that it would be an up-hill battle, but he was even more courageous than he had given Mrs. Dubose credit for.

The ending - when Bob Ewell attempts to kill Jem and Scout, only to die by falling on his own knife as the reclusive Boo Radley rescues the children - is as moving as the rest of the book.

The somewhat battered copy is now back on the bookshelf, and will be retrieved in another year or so to be reread.