relationships

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Wearing My Emotions

dads sweater:watch

After my dad passed away, years ago, my mom handed me the wool sweater he wore daily. For him, it was a source of warmth and comfort. “Do you think Rudy would like this?” she asked me. I was certain that Rudy would indeed like the sweater. What she may not have realized is that I loved it. Wanted it for myself. When I returned home later that day, I mentioned to Rudy that my mom thought he might like the sweater. He reached for it just as I stretched out my arm toward him, willing it over. He slipped one arm in, then the other, knowing immediately it was too snug for his comfort. “Ah, too bad,” I said. Yet, I was happy. That meant the Irish cardigan would belong solely to me.

I have always loved the fact that the sweater was not something that had been stashed away in a drawer back at my dad’s house, an old treasure or something; but rather a valuable piece of clothing that would be a part of my life, throughout my days. A reminder of my dad, a person I adored.

About a week later, I walked into my mom’s house wearing the sweater. “Well, it didn’t fit Rudy. So, I am going to keep it,” I said, big smile on my face. “Oh, I like it on you!” she stated. Then, she handed me a watch. The watch that had been given to my dad, as a retirement gift, from his position as a college professor. “Since you collect watches, I figured you’d like to add this to your collection.” She placed it in my open hand. An Omega. A watch that works with the rhythm of my pulse, keeping not only track of time, but the month and the date as well. I flipped it over. My dad’s name was inscribed on the back. “Thank you, Mom. I love it. Just like I love Dad’s sweater.” I hugged her small frame gently.

To this day, I wear both items. The watch regularly. The sweater a cold winter days. Both gently soothe the emotions of my heart.

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Huckleberry and Me

Long ago. I found a dog. A cute, little buff-colored Cocker Spaniel. Roaming around my neighborhood. Looking lost. Scared. And hungry. I picked him up. Oh so gently. And placed a bowl of water down, and some food. For him to drink from, and to nibble at. Then I made a sign, determined to find its owner, yet hoping no one would respond. Just so I could keep that sweet little pup. With me. Forever and ever.

Happily, for the Spaniel, someone called. Said they’d be right over. To pick up their beloved pup. And to thank me for taking care of him.

Well, right then and there, I decided I wanted a Cocker Spaniel of my own. To name. To feed. To care for. So I searched the papers. For dogs. And found someone selling buff-colored pups. Only six or so weeks old. So I called. To say I wanted one. But, they honestly told me that the dogs did not have papers proving they were a breed. And because of that, they were selling them for cheaper than cheap. Which I didn’t mind. About the papers. All I knew was that I wanted one. One of those Spaniels. One of those pups.

When the time was right, I picked one up, and brought it home to care for. And to love. And named him Huckleberry. Like Tom Sawyer’s friend.

huckleberry

Then one day, I moved. Moved far away. To an apartment where dogs weren’t allowed. So, I left him behind. Hoping he’d be okay. And he was. Until the day he was hit by a car. And taken to the vet. Who told me Huckleberry had been injured. That it was serious. And the best option was to put him down. To sleep. To euthanize him.

I went to see him. To say goodbye. I hugged him. Kissed him. Petted him, gently. And then  waited. Until I had to walk away. Sadly. With tears in my eyes.

I returned home. To my boyfriend. And fell into his arms. Crying like an unsoothable baby. Until I was all cried out. Then I began to talk. About Huckleberry. How I felt I had failed him. And swore I would never, ever get a dog again. Not until I was fully dedicated to caring for him.

In the end, I spoke about how special Huckleberry was. How sweet. And gentle. And how forever his name will remind me of a buff-colored Spaniel, from long ago.

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#tb, 4th of July, 2012

american flag

Independence Day.
A day to celebrate our freedom.
And to lavish the day with reds, whites, and blues.
To come together, with family and friends, spending the day relaxing, chatting, and eating.

A tradition.

A tradition our family has always embraced, year after year. Rudy at the helm, taking charge, making sure the constant rhythm of music was vibrating throughout, adding to the festive environment, enhancing energy, and conversations. He especially made sure bellies were full with good home-cooked food, and plenty of drink.

Yester-Year, on a particular 4th of July, our family was missing that tradition.

And it felt ironic.

roberto july 4 2012

I did chat, eat, and drink with Roberto, and laughed loudly as he ran around the pool waving the American flag, before he had to head off to his afternoon shift in a non-American restaurant. Brad had spent the night with a friend, then had made plans to celebrate with said friend on that 4th day. And Liz, well, she was socializing, kicking back in London, preparing for her long flight home.

There I sat. Independently. In California.
And there Rudy sat. Independently. In Arkansas.
Each of us doing our own thing.
I was reading, writing, and lazily watching TV.
While he made himself a meal, and lounged on the couch, entertained by sports.

Independence Day.
Yester-Year.
Was.
A day to be independent.
To lavish the day with self.
To be alone.
To gather one’s thoughts. And listen as fireworks explode skyward.
A reminder of our county’s independence.
Independence of being free.

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Boys Do Want to Dance With Me

me, freshman homecomingThere I was. A young girl. Wondering if any of those boys wandering around the halls of the high school were going to ask me to Homecoming. “Probably not,” I whispered to myself, head down. I walked outside, through the parking lot. I walked home. Within the week, I discovered something. One of those boys cruising along, walking from class to class noticed me. Had thought about me. And had wanted to ask me to the dance. And he did. Ask me. And I said “OK.” I didn’t mind that he was shorter than my average [girl] height. His glasses didn’t bother me either. What I did know what that he was kind. And polite. Not overbearing or pushy.

Within the following week, I discovered something else. Some more of those boys striding along, ambling through the corridors, also had intentions of asking me to the first formal dance of my freshman year. One. Two. Three. Four. Four more boys, which included the boy I was crushing on, and the one I adored in third grade. All four boys asked me on a date. To the dance. Each boy, at a different time, approached me. Quietly, sort of shyly. And each asked, “Would you like to go to Homecoming with me?” I smiled all four times. And, in my head, in my heart, I wished I could have said “Yes!” to each boy. But I didn’t. I had already told someone I’d go with him. Someone kind and polite. So I told each of those boys, the ones who asked me too late, “Sorry, but I have already been asked.” I lowered my head, feeling bad. Yet, feeling pretty happy. Realizing that I had had it wrong. Completely wrong. Boys did want to dance with me.

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Brick House

If your foundation is faulty, lacking attention, and unable to hold up the building blocks of a Brick House, hearty winds just might blow it away. If there are cracks in your foundation you can surmise that your home may simply waver, waiting for you to put some effort into fixing, repairing, willing your home to maintain its stance. But, the best house of all is one with a foundation that began as a solid, durable, unbreakable commitment, knowing you, and everyone else in your Brick House, will do everything to hold it in place, and that nothing can destroy what you’ve worked so hard to accomplish.

My family is my Brick House. At times it’s been faulty, some days our house has wavered, but mostly my family and I have been living on solid ground.  ∏

IMG_8755

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A Girl and her First (and last) Bottle of Wine

wine bottles

16. years. old.

Yep, sixteen is the age I was when I learned wine just didn’t work for me. You see I vomited, threw up, barfed after an afternoon of overindulging in drinking wine. At the beach. Under the hot sun. With my sixteen year old friend. We were having fun. Working on a tan. Well, she was. I was working on a sunburn. We were just lying there, on the Newport sand, on top of some colorful beach towels. Extra large. Lots of space. We talked. We laughed. We drank. Wine. Red wine. Without much food. My friend had a handle on it. Took it slow. Unlike me. I drank from that bottle as if I were drinking water. I didn’t know that I should slow down. That I would pay a price later. All I knew was that I was feeling pretty cool. Drinking wine. Underage.

When the upchucking and the hangover finally left. Left me alone. To have headache-free days. I knew that was it. I would never drink wine again. Couldn’t stand the smell, or the taste, of it. And all these years later. I still hate the smell and taste of wine. Don’t drink it. Not even when everyone else around me is enjoying a glass. All because I foolishly drank way too much wine when I was sixteen. Drank too much while simply having fun with my friend, at the beach, getting drunk.

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california weather = arkansas heat

brad AR 2012

today, on this stagnant CA day, a day weighed down by extreme heat

i was reminded of 2012

when brad and i took a walk, on a stagnant arkansas day, a day weighed down by extreme heat

when we were

red faced and sweating

trotting along, in plus 100 degrees, hiking up a trail, trudging down again

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Running on Empty

vw bug

Long ago, when Rudy and I first started our courtship, I did all the driving. For no other reason than Rudy did not have a car and I did. And honestly, I really didn’t mind. For me, any chance I could get to drive my very first bought it myself car, a yellow VW Bug, I took the opportunity to make use of the term Pedal-to-the-Metal.

In the midst of driving and dating, Rudy had asked me if I had twenty bucks he could borrow, which was one of the hardest things for him to request. He claimed he needed it to cover a few days before he was handed his weekly paycheck. And then he’d pay me back. I’m not sure he realized it, probably not, but my feelings for him deepened in that moment. I felt trusted. Someone he could rely on. So I simply smiled, hugged him, dug into my wallet, and pulled out a folded twenty dollar bill. Rudy quietly responded with something about how hard it was to even ask me, that he really appreciated my help, and all other manners of speech relating to him, a guy, asking me, a girl, his date, for money, something he never thought he’d ever need to do, and on and on. In the end, he said his thanks, and, well, he was humbled by my kindness. Then he hugged me.

Ironically, less than a week after Rudy had timidly asked me if he could borrow money, I timidly pretended that my Bug was capable of running on gas fumes.

You see, I was driving south on the 57 Freeway, in Orange County, CA, when I noticed that the Volkswagen’s gas gauge was lower than low. We were heading towards Rudy’s place, for a nightcap, you might say, when I nonchalantly mentioned I needed gas, or some such comment. “You want to stop, put gas in the car?” Rudy questioned. Well, now, even though I knew I should have right then and there, filled that tank up, I simply, quietly said, “No, it’s alright. I have enough to get me back home.” He questioned if I was sure. I said yes. And that was it. No more discussion.

Later, after I left, to return home, at about one ‘o clock in the morning, I was traveling north on the 57 when the VW gave out on me. That cute little car just could not move without fuel. I let the car cruise until it came to a complete stop, its nose barely reaching an off-ramp entrance. Cell phones were only used by the wealthy back then, and that wasn’t me, so I was stuck in the darkness of the evening. By myself. Until another car pulled up, a guy got out, and offered help, speaking into my barely cracked-open window. I politely said no thanks, and he left. Which left me to fend for myself. Which meant I had no other option – AAA wasn’t on my radar during those days – except to walk to the nearest gas station, and borrow a filled gas can. I then had to walk back the half mile to the Bug, dump the fuel in, then drive the fumed-up car back to the not very helpful attendant at the service station, where I preceded to fill the Volkswagen full. An hour or so later, I returned to the freeway, driving myself home.

Why I didn’t take Rudy’s suggestion that we get gas for the VW earlier in the evening? I don’t know. All I can say is that I felt just like he did when asking me for money. Timid. Awkward. Yet, unlike him, I couldn’t rise to the occasion and accept his help.

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Skyler

She’s been given the go-ahead
to freely explore outside
away from the confines of the house
where she’s been cooped up for months
waiting and waiting
for this day.

When she heard the tweet of a bird
she chased it
instinctively.

skyler

She was up high on the dividing wall
when she peered over
quietly gazing at the neighbor’s dog
wondering.

Curious.
Taking it all in.

Skyler stood there
soaking up the sun,
its warmth
and enjoying the freedom
of being free.

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profile profile

brad

A
profile
x-ray
of
Brad’s
teeth
also
captured
a
portion
of
his
skull
and
spinal
column.
*
Very
interesting,
and
rather
funny,
is
that
his
skin
covered
profile
pokes
out
from
behind
all
that
bone.