family

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Are you with the one you are meant to spend a lifetime with?

Rudy and I have been married for 27 years. I’d say long years, because some felt that way, but mostly the years have zoomed along quite rapidly. Through our many ups, and our many many downs, we have managed to hold our relationship together for the simple reason we have chosen to. Most importantly, for us anyway, is that we really really like each other. So much so that when something negative intervenes into our life we, like many couples, drudge through the hard times, always smiling at each other when all is said and done. I really like you, I will tell Rudy. And I really like you, he will respond. Or vice versa. Maybe he says it first, and I am the one to reply. Either way, we know we are each others person, the one you can count on, for better or worse.

Back in the early days of our I Do’s, my nephew John once mentioned something about how Rudy’s last name Romero, and my maiden name Palmer, had the same meaning. I listened and understood what he was saying, and over the years had thought about the alignment of the universe in our world, but I never delved into what he told me. Not completely. During any kind of conversation, when people, mostly women, would speak about surnames, married names, maiden names, and any other kind of name, I would think about what John had told me, but never divulge the information. I held onto it, because, oh my goodness, what if I misinterpreted what he meant. That I was completely wrong. How embarrassing would that be? And every time I thought I should to simply search the information myself, to gather the truth fully within me I was always at the wrong place, at the wrong time. I never ever thought about it when I was working on a computer, or browsing through words in a dictionary. No, ironically, I would think about our surnames in the middle of a conversation with others, never in a place where the internet was running hot.

Never until a few days ago, in our 27th year of marriage; twenty seven and one half to be exact. I must have been thinking about Rudy and I, and our relationship, and how we always seem to forge ahead, maintaining what’s most important. Simply the fact we are together. That we are lucky enough to enjoy each others company. I am sure that was the moment I finally remembered to compare our surnames. I quickly turned on my phone, clicked on the blue Dictionary icon, and plugged in Palmer and Romero.

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So, I finally confirmed that not only are Rudy and I meant to be together, but our names tell us so. And, well, it seems we’ve been on some type of religious, or better suited to us, a spiritual, journey – together.  Now, I can have an open conversation about our pilgrimage, a journey of our destiny. Yay!

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The Best Thing I Learned From My Mom

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One afternoon, not long after Rudy and I first met, we drove out to Los Angeles, to an old-fashioned house complete with antique furniture, old-time dishware, and original wooden floors. To the house where my mom was living, where she was caring for her aunt. Rudy remembers being very nervous about meeting my sweet mom for the first time, not sure what to expect. Not sure how his broken English would sound. After introductions, and an offering of cookies and coffee, my mom carefully began asking Rudy questions. Questions about his life growing up in Honduras and about why he came to the United States, by himself, at the tender age of nineteen. Rudy seemed to have forgotten that his speech sounded very foreign, as both he and my mom laughed throughout their gleeful conversation.

I watched with interest as my mom would look Rudy in the eye and ask a nonthreatening question, naturally providing a level of comfort for Rudy, who not too long before had been wringing his hands, feeling anxious. Rather, he felt comfortable, knowing my mom truly was interested in what he had to say, resulting in his talking much more than he expected. His fear had disappeared, replaced by animated stories. Simple everyday, growing-up stories. Question after question, and not once did Rudy feel that my mom was being nosy or overbearing. Like the way any mom might be when questioning the boy who is dating her daughter. She was simply interested in what he had to share.

I looked at my mom. Stared at her, a gentle smile on my face. It was then I realized that that’s how I am with people. I ask questions because I care, and I listen because I’m interested in what they have to say. The best thing I learned from my mom that day was how easy it is to communicate with others. To feel engaged, without being overbearing. I learned that if you show even a bit of interest in someone, look them in the eyes, truly listen to their words, and ask questions to allow them to expand on their previous response(s), people will talk.

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william

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     Bill, maybe 7-8 years old.                                                    A partial Bill, on the far left.

Four young kids. Three boys and a girl. Brothers and a sister. That’s who we were. Soaking up the sun for a week. Darkening our light-colored skin, naturally. We woke in the morning, ate a quick meal, and spent the day using our imagination. Exploring our sandy world. We’d walk up and down the beach, and occasionally stop to investigate a bunch of seaweed that had washed ashore. We’d take turns using the only boogie-board available to us, watching each other fall off, flipping into the crashing waves. And, building sand castles using small styrofoam cups was a must-do. So much happened throughout those long days. So much of not much.

William, who was never called that name, but was instead referred to as Bill, was the oldest at thirteen years old. My brother Christopher, nicknamed Kit, was somewhere in the eleven-age range. I was ten, and my youngest brother, Andy, was seven. At the day’s end, our aunt would call to us, having come down from her home on the hill, to come on in! to have dinner with her and our uncle. Suddenly realizing how hungry we felt, we’d run up the slight incline, rinse ourselves off with the hose in front of their long and narrow beach house, wrap a towel around our small frames, change into some dry clothes, and then sit at the dining room table for a home-cooked meal.

I remember it was Bill who smiled at me, made me feel better, when my aunt seemed mad when I wouldn’t eat the canned peaches she served for dessert. Cling peaches with a little whipping cream. I politely told her I don’t like peaches. Not even if it was candy. My aunt grunted when she took my dish away. Bill’s smile widened.

During those carefree days, those fun-in-the sun days, no one, not anyone, knew that six years later Bill would die in a car accident.

by

vital

gardener's sons

The gardener’s young son stood out in front of the house, trying with all his might to get his two year old brother into the burnt orange stroller.

Their mom had just dropped them off, so that, I suppose, she could get herself to a mandatory meeting, of some sort.

It took every bit of strength for the older boy to finally lock his wee brother inside the confines of the stroller’s padding. As he spun the stroller slowly around and around, his dad emerged from a side gate. He’d been in the backyard pruning some bushes, and waved, knowing that his boys were there waiting for him.

He walked into the street, crossing to the other side, heading for a neighboring house. The older boy sprinted after his dad, up the steep driveway, using the strength of his arms and legs to forge ahead, pushing the stroller and his brother up to the top. He stopped in front of the red brick porch steps, and pressed his foot down on the latch to lock the stroller in place. He sat there with his brother while his dad finished his gardening duties.

The vitality of their situation seemed predetermined. The need of a husband and wife to work together, to get things done.