Growing up in the 60’s and 70’s

Lately, I’ve been a bit nostalgic. Perhaps it’s due to this free time we seem to have since, as my grandchildren say, “Earth is closed.” Or, maybe it’s because when senior citizen status is flashing its high-beams right in your face, it could maybe, possibly cause one to do some reflecting on one’s life.

Nevertheless, through my reflection, I’ve realized how very fortunate I was to have grown up in the 1960’s and 1970’s. It really was a great time to be a kid. We lived in a nice neighborhood where the streets were lined with little cape cod houses full of families and sidewalks around every block. We left our doors unlocked and the windows open, weather permitting.

Our school year started after Labor Day and then we were out for summer, I believe it was just before just after Memorial Day. Either way, we got a full three months for summer break every year. I walked to school from first grade through sixth. It was a block and a half from our go-past-the-stop-sign-then-it’s-the-seventh-house-on-the-right residence. Every day after school I’d rush home so I could watch the Patty Duke Show and Larry Smith’s puppet show, both mostly in black and white, if memory serves. Hattie the Witch was a funny puppet on Larry’s show. After my brief TV time, I’d head outside to ride my bike and/or see what my friends were doing until it was suppertime. Mom would cook supper every night and she was a good cook, too! My absolute favorites were her stew made with hamburger, and her pork chops which she breaded and fried in an electric skillet. None since have compared to my mother’s chops, but I’ve cooked her stew many, many times.

Mom would make chocolate chip cookies from scratch in that classic 60’s green pyrex bowl that was white on the inside, and when she wasn’t looking, my sister and I would sneak a finger full of that deliciousness and gobble it up, raw egg and all. I want to say that Mom caught us a time or two, lightly scolded us, and grinned to herself. Maybe. At least I don’t recall ever getting in trouble for it. Ha ha

Summertime was a fun time with lots of camping trips, swimming at the public pool which cost twenty-five cents, riding bikes, wading in the creek hunting for crawdads, and lemonade stands. I would eat breakfast and out the door I’d go. We didn’t have to be home until the street lights started to come on in the evening, or until Mom would ring that big cow bell summoning us home for supper. By the way, we grew up calling it supper, not dinner. I think dinner might be a southern thing. I dunno. Until I was in junior high school, our street dead-ended into a corn field. My friends and I would ride our bikes right between those tall corn stalks. It was a shortcut to our neighborhood park, which we frequented quite often. We’d come back to the house parched and drink cool water right from the garden hose. When he had a little money, we’d go to the King Kwik convenience store or Conrad’s (I believe it was a cigar shop) and buy candy. Or, we’d ride our bikes across town to Bo Bo’s for ice cream. Bo Bo’s was awesome! There they’d give you a little dish of ice cream, then it was your job to go down the line and add all the toppings you wanted, which for me was always hot fudge, peanuts and sprinkles. Nowadays, it’s a common thing, with all the frozen yogurt places, etc., to make your own ice cream sundae. But, back then, it was a super special treat. At night we’d catch lightning bugs, or hunt for nightcrawlers (big fat worms) with a flashlight. We’d often have sleepovers at each other’s houses and sometimes pop a tent right in our backyard.

The movie Now and Then is an excellent example of how it was back then, riding our bikes everywhere between our town and the next. I realize I’ve mentioned bike riding a lot, but we really did do it a lot, like nearly every day, all summer long. That 70’s Show is pretty accurate, too, with its portrayal of teenagers in the 70’s, although I caught a blooper in one episode. Kitty made reference to a movie that didn’t actually come out until the 80’s. Still, it’s a good example and reminds me a lot of my teen years and “cruising” the country roads with my group of friends, sometimes doing things teenagers ought not be doing, but…c’mon. It was the 70’s.

Yeah, the 60’s and 70’s — what a great time to be a kid!!

High hopes for a productive day

When I woke up this morning, I had such high hopes for a wonderfully productive day. As per usual, I started by brewing my one cup of coffee, placing it in the mug warmer on my desk and then I commenced to checking in with my Facebook friends. All pretty standard stuff when I don’t have to get up at 5:30 a.m. to go to work. Nice, peaceful morning. Ahh.

Before long, it was lunchtime and I made myself a keto pizza. It was delicious, but I only ate half of it. Then, I decided to go out into the big garage, where hubby was framing in his garage so it can be insulated and drywalled, to see if there was anything I could do to help him. There not being much I could do to help him in that department, he suggested that I start clearing out the storage space above his man cave. I decided to have a look since I hadn’t been up there yet this year. I climbed the steps to the storage area–the steps which have no railing for me grasp onto–and proceeded to grab every board along my path so I could go evaluate the job that lay ahead of me. And, what a ginormous job it would be to clear out the space. Wow! Our crap had literally multiplied when we weren’t looking. Where would I even throw the stuff that will be discarded? Should I throw it down below onto my hubby’s current workspace? I think not. There’s no empty space for anything up here, much less another pile. Heavy sigh. Feeling overwhelmed and totally defeated, I go back down the steps with no railing, again clinging onto anything I could along my path, and leave the garage.

Back into the house I go. I know, I’ll make our favorite desserts, I thought! We have two desserts which I make regularly– keto chocolate brownies and keto chocolate cheesecake, but now we have a newly added favorite–chocolate ice cream, also keto. All three of these desserts require baker’s chocolate which is very difficult for me to break into small pieces with my hands. A couple of months ago, I came up with a wonderful idea. Eureka!! I can use my marble rolling pin to help me break apart the chocolate. I laid the unopened box of baker’s chocolate along the crack between our stove and countertop. The stove is a bit taller than the counter, so it provides a perfect slope to the box of chocolate. Then I proceeded to whack it with the rolling pin in strategic places until the chocolate was in pieces. This method has worked absolutely fabulously every time and this time was no different. Then, I placed the rolling pin back on its designated hooks behind our stove.

Before long, the ice cream is in the freezer, to start its freezing process. The brownies are in the oven, doing their baking and now it’s time for the cheesecake. This dessert calls for two boxes of baker’s chocolate. I whack and whack that first box of chocolate into crumbles, set it aside and start with the second one–the last box of chocolate that I have to whack today–then, BAM!!!! I miss the chocolate and hit my thumb instead, successfully flattening it between the rolling pin and our stove! While screaming obscenities in my head and in near tears from the pain, yet not willing to let the sumbitchin rolling pin defeat me, I finished whacking the chocolate into pieces before I slammed that rolling pin into its designated hooks behind our stove, secretly hoping it would be impaled, and assessed my injury.

My poor thumb has a nice, purple bruise on it. It may be broken, but I think it’s only deeply bruised and equally humiliated. It’s a bit swollen and bending it is not an option at this point in time. It hurts to hold a plate, or my phone, and LORDY LORDY, I’ve got to pull up my panties one-handedly when I go to the bathroom. But, by golly, those desserts are all done and that there is proof that I really was wonderfully albeit painfully productive today!

Checking Dad’s email

This June, my father will have been gone for three years, and I am still checking his email every day. It’s 99.1% junk mail and I routinely delete all of them. However, he does receive a daily quote which includes a happy thought that I’ve rather grown to enjoy. I suppose I could sign up for it using my own email. Nah, this is more fun.

Today, I’m sharing the happy thought of the day with you all, one I’m sure most of you have heard, but it’s cute:

“I swallowed a bunch of scrabble tiles yesterday, and it gave me thesaurus throat. On top of that, my next trip to the bathroom could spell disaster.” I’d like to add that I really hope there is toilet paper available for that disaster!

Just a corny little funny for today’s blog. Until tomorrow…have a wonderful Friday evening.

For today’s blog, I thought I’d ask a question to the universe: Why do people argue over their opinions?

I have pondered this question numerous times and I’m convinced there is simply no answer to it. No one answer, anyway.

This may be a hot topic for many folks so I should note that comments to my posts are not automatically published on my blog page, I have to approve them first. Therefore, negative, hateful or angry political stances will not be approved. There is more than enough of that on the news and blathered throughout social media. My sole purpose for writing is to entertain, make you think, bring a smile to your face or laughter to your day, if only for a moment, not to argue and fight. Thank you.

An opinion is an individual thing, much like fingerprints, DNA, etc. Right? So, what is it that makes humans argue about it? Really? This guy says that chocolate is the best ice cream flavor and this guy says it’s rocky road. If we didn’t all have our own opinion, if there was only one opinion for all of us, what would that even look like? There would be one religion, one political party, one type of cereal, one type of hot sauce, one country, one type of car, one type of…everything! Hey, Hollywood! You should make a movie about that and title it, There’s Only One. I’d pay to see that.

We can’t keep screaming that we are all equal and should be treated as such when at the same time we’re all screaming about how different, or better than, we are when compared to others. It’s a constant tug-of-war. Buffalo Springfield’s song, Stop Children What’s that Sound says it best: “Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.” Think about that for a minute. This first guy is telling the second guy that he is wrong for feeling/believing the way he does and the second guy is saying the exact same thing right back to the first guy. It’s dizzying! Who’s right? Who’s wrong? It’s such a futile argument, yet so many people engage in it every single day. Don’t believe me? Log into facebook and feast your eyes.

With this COVID pandemic ruling our lives at present, there seems to be a constant barrage of one expert after another expressing his/her prediction, as if it is fact, regarding what will happen next, how many will die, and how it will ever go away. An expert opinion is still merely an opinion, is it not? No wonder people are anxious, restless and twitching!

Like I said, this is one of those questions which will not have one conclusive answer. Ever. That is, until the earth ends and then, at that point, we all will truly be equal. We’ll all be right. All the same. Equally extinct.

What are your favorite memories of your grandma?

This question is also from my niece. She’s so inquisitive!

I always felt I had only one grandparent, my father’s mother. My mother’s parents both died when I was very young, so of course I have no memory of them. My father’s parents divorced, possibly before I was born, and his mother remarried, so I never met my paternal grandfather either. That left me with one grandma, Isabella, and her second husband, Tom, who I swear was 95 years old every time we visited. I don’t recall having much interaction with him, only his presence in Grandma’s house and me sitting at the kitchen table watching him sprinkle vinegar on everything he ate. I guess it’s the only way he could taste his food? I don’t know. Grandpa Tom died when I was between 5 and 7 years old, maybe. I remember going to his funeral. Now, at that young age, I knew that people died, so I understood what was going on there. What I didn’t know was that when you go to a funeral, there is a dead body there and you get to look at it. When I caught a glimplse Grandpa Tom’s body lying in that casket, I froze in my tracks. I don’t remember anything else until after the funeral, back at Grandma’s house. I could see the sadness in her eyes and I said, “You miss him…don’t you?” She said, “No,” as tears soaked her cheeks.

My favorite memories of my Grandma are plentiful. She was a short and semi-round little Scottish woman, with long gray hair that almost reached the floor and she kept in a braided bun on the back of her head. She always wore a thin house dress and an apron which she kept damp by drying her hands on it. She lived in an old two-story, green house in a neighborhood very near railroad tracks, which were plentiful in Lima, Ohio. I remember it with all of my senses. The smell of her gas furnace as we entered the house along with the popping sound it made and the heat on my face when I stood close to it. The crackling of the old green linoleum when it was walked upon. The stairway in the middle of the house which seemed to ascend into darkness. I didn’t spend much time up there, there never seemed to be any lights on. The screened back door with the wooden frame that would smack the house any time we went through it. The arbor in the yard where grapes grew. The taste of her cabbage ham and potatoes dinners which I thought was the best stuff ever. I loved it when that was our dinner when we’d visit. Come to think of it, I don’t recall any other meals she prepared. I’m sure there were others, but I suppose we hold onto our favorite memories through the decades. Oh, how I miss that meal still today. Grandma died in 1976, the winter before my 15th birthday, and I still haven’t had cabbage, ham and potatoes. One person made it for me back in the 1980’s, and it tasted good (not like Grandma’s though), and for some reason, it came back up later that evening. I guess Grandma didn’t like me eating anyone else’s cooking but hers and I have not tried that again. The smell and warmth of her freshly baked scones. Truthfully, I wasn’t the biggest fan of those because they weren’t sweet enough for me. Though I wanted them to taste more like cookies or donuts and they were more like bread, I still ate them. Hearing the train whistles throughout the day and on special nights when we could stay a day or two. Sweet memories.

Grandma always had Tootsie pops in the bottom cabinets of her china hutch. I remember one time that I was upset with her — could’ve been because she wouldn’t give me a Tootsie pop before dinner. I have no idea now. But, I ran to the huge back room which was a bedroom and bathroom combined and always smelled of Dove face soap, then climbed up on the bed to sulk and feel sorry for myself. It wasn’t long before Grandma came to check on me, Tootsie pop in hand. She was a softy and gave in to my tantrum. She handed me that sucker and I felt so guilty for manipulating her with my spoiled brat behavior.

Grandma would just light up when we’d come to visit her and the first thing I would do when we’d get to her house was run inside and hug her tight. Then we would compare our heights to see how much I’d grown. I remember vividly the day that I finally exceeded her 4’10” stature, which didn’t take that much time, and I felt like a giant. I was probably ten or eleven years old.

In that tiny package was also a mighty temper. Grandma always sat in a wooden, black rocking chair which sits in our living room today. One summer, I got to spend a few weeks with her and my aunt. Grandma got really pissed off about something they were discussing and she was fuming, brows furrowed and cheeks bright red! I’d never seen her angry. Grandma was flat out done talking to my aunt and to prove it she gripped each of her rocking chair’s arm rests, lifted that chair up close to her bum and spun around like a top, effectively closing out my aunt with the back of her chair. It was a little bit frightening and hilarious at the same time.

Oh, a funny memory of Grandma comes to mind! She had a little patch of whiskers on each side of her mouth. On one of our visits, she was standing in the dining room with an electric razor, happily shaving those patches. It was so funny, and she thought it was the coolest invention ever. I can still see that big smile and her contorting her lips all around the razor to make sure she was thoroughly removing those pesky whiskers.

Like clockwork, when our visits came to a close and it was time for the 2-hour ride back home, Grandma would stand in the doorway of her house waving goodbye, tears streaming down her face, and wouldn’t stop waving until our car was out of her view. I would watch her every time, until I could see her no more. I felt so sad seeing her like that and hoped it wouldn’t be too long til we could go see her again.

My Grandma was like my own personal, human divining rod. No, she didn’t lead me to water, but she did lead me away from doing naughty things. When I would think about doing something bad, I would immediately think how it would make Grandma feel, and not wanting to disappoint her in any way, I wouldn’t do the bad thing I had been tempted to execute. I felt a great loss when she died that winter of 1976, and when I turned 15 that summer, all hell broke loose. It was like I had no one to be a good girl for any more. The very shy and quiet little me was a full-out rebellious unruly teenager — from hell. Yeah, I’m not going into all that in this post. It’s in my book.

It’s been 44 years, yet every time I hear train whistles, I’m transported back in time to Grandma’s house and for a moment, I’m filled with a warm sense of peace and love as though she’s hugging me from Heaven. I love that sound. I miss her hugs.

A question by one of our grandsons: What were you like as a kid?

As a child, I was extremely shy and very quiet. No, really. I was! I was so quiet in fact, my father would say, “She’s growing up and nobody’s noticing.” I loved playing with my small group of neighborhood friends, riding my bike or walking around the block with our basset hound named, Casper. Regardless of the weather, I wanted to be outside. Mom used to tell me, “You always liked bad weather.” It was true, too. If it was snowing, I was outside trying to build a snowman. If it was storming, I was on the front porch swing watching it. While I really liked playing with Barbie dolls and Dawn dolls (you may have to Google that one since they don’t make them any more), I equally enjoyed playing with my Hotwheels cars under our big tree in the backyard. I had that orange track and everything which I placed over rocks and logs to make ramps and hills. My favorite car was the Chevy Impala — that big ole boxy behemeth of an automobile. Not the Corvette. Not the Camaro. I preferred the big, old-lady sedan. Still do today! If memory serves, I believe it was green, Army green. I’ve not once in my life desired to own or even drive a sports car. My dream car is a red 2004 Jaguar. Don’t get excited, it’s a 4-door sedan.

Question 1 from my niece: What made you join the reserves (Army)?

Well, going into the military wasn’t a life goal, or even an inkling of an idea in my mind at all. When my first child was about 18 months old, my husband at the time was trying to get back into the army. He was only offered the same job he had when he was enlisted years before and was not interested in that option. He said to me, “Why don’t you see what they’ll give you.” Being super suggestible (which is what happens when you don’t know want you want to be when you grow up), I said, “Okay!” I went through the testing, physical, all that, then was offered my choice of 3 military occupational specialties (MOS). I chose Legal Clerk. After my training, I spent the remainder of my 3-year contract at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma where my second child was born. About a year after my discharge, I entered the reserves and stayed for nine years.

Question 2 from my niece: What made you choose nursing as your second career and go back to school later in life?

Again, just like the army, being a nurse wasn’t even on my radar as a career choice. I was a needle-phobe and couldn’t even stand the thought of blood, much less the sight of it. I was a legal secretary at the time having parlayed the military legal clerk job into a civilian one. One day, during an online chat with my favorite uncle, Apple Joe, he said, “You’d make a good nurse,” and “With your personality, you’d be a good nurse.” I told him he was nuts and we continued our chat. But, still being super-suggestible because I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, his words planted a seed in my mind and I got to thinking about actually working in the medical field. I chose to go to school for medical assisting because I thought perhaps there wouldn’t be so much blood and guts in that profession. Ahem! I earned my associate degree and worked for a cardiology office for a year or two until I got very bored. I really wanted to work in a hospital, not a clinic. So, that left one option: Go on to nursing school. That’s all I got to say about that.

Now, what else do you want to know? I’m all ears and keyboard!!

If you could give your younger self your best advice, what would you say?

While, I wouldn’t go back in time to change anything in this life because it may also change where I am today, that whole butterfly effect and all, if I had a new life in another time, I would say:

Save half of your money. I mean 50% of it. Even if your allowance is fifty cents per week like mine was as a child, save half of that, put it in your piggy bank and when the piggy bank is full, put that money in a bank account. When that bank account gets really fat, invest that money so it can continue to grow throughout your life. Now forget about that half. Use the other half of what you earn for what you want/need. If you start this young and stay with it, you’ll always have a growing stockpile of money as you get older, you will live comfortably within your means, and you will avoid unnecessary financial debt. Also, you’ll have one heck of a retirement and can travel the world, multiple times. Save 50%!

Don’t let the fear of embarrassment or failure stop you from doing the things that you feel in your heart you really want to do. Embarrassment lasts such a short time, but the wishing that you’d done something — for years thereafter — well, that’s sheer torture. Make that speech. Learn that dance. Ask that impossibly gorgeous girl/boy on a date! Whatever it is, just do it. Fear is the antidote for joy, squashing it like a bug. Someone once told me, “If you don’t take a chance, you won’t have one.” Very wise words. Take a chance! Just do it!!

You may as well make friends with your body and right now. Yeah, it may not be “perfect” like those anorexic supermodels, but it’s your body. It’s going to be with you your entire life. There are many things about your body that cannot be changed such as the shape of your feet and hands, the size of your skull, the color of your eyes (although you could wear colored contacts), along with many others. Learn to love and accept your body just as it is and see it for the vessel that it is — specially made for carrying your spirit around throughout this human experience. Make friends with your body!

If you can go to college right after high school for free, meaning via scholarship or your parents are willing to pay for it, go!! My parents offered to pay for me to go to college just before my high school graduation. I thought about it, but later told them, “I don’t even know what I would go to college for, so I don’t want to waste your money.” Mistake! If you don’t know what you want to do yet, go get some kind of basic degree which can be built upon later in life when you do make that decision. Go while you are young and your brain is used to learning on a daily basis. Go to college right out of high school!

Don’t argue with someone who compliments you in any way. The only acceptable response to a compliment is, “Thank you.” Don’t roll your eyes, or say things like, “Whatever” or “Yeah, right” or “I wish.” When you do that, you’re calling the person who complimented you a liar. They meant what they said and just because you don’t see it in yourself doesn’t mean that what they’ve said is false. Thanking someone for a compliment doesn’t mean you’re conceited, stuck up or have an inflated ego, not at all. It’s merely a common courtesy. Just say, “Thank you.”

Thank you for reading. Thank you my magical friend, Linda, for this question. Good night all.

“What was the hardest thing to handle in your life and how did you get thru it? Pretty soon you will regret asking me the question! LOL”

As per my request, I am receiving questions from you, my readers. Today’s blog subject comes to you via this question from a magical, extremely and lovingly persistent, encouraging, positive and sometimes irritatingly supportive (très pushy), and very dear friend of mine, Linda, who I’ve dubbed “My biggest cheerleader.” But, I love her and wouldn’t change a thing about her!! Well, except maybe her address. It’d be nice if we lived closer together. While this was not her first question, it is the one that lit up my keyboard today.

I’ll never regret asking you questions, Linda! The answer to this one is easy: Selling my childhood home. The house my parents lived in for 52 years. The house that was built in 1949, the year they were married. The only childhood home I remember, where we moved when I was four years old.

In 1987, I moved to Kentucky, 2 hours, and 15 minutes from my parents’ home. Since then, I made that 280-mile roundtrip drive more times than I could possibly count. The frequency of my visits increased over the years as my parents aged, of course. For every serious illness, every surgery, I would put my life on hold to take care of them, or stay in the hospital by their side, whatever they needed. I missed quite a bit of work over the years, and I would do it all again. I vowed never to put my parents in a home, and I kept that promise. I can be proud of that. It gives me some peace.

My mother died in October 2013 due to Parkinson’s complications, and my father died in June 2017 of interstitial lung disease. None of us expected Dad to last very long without his lovely bride. “Maybe six months” is what I predicted. He amazed us all and lasted 3 years and 8 months.

For six months after my father died, I continued to pay his bundled cable, internet, and telephone bill. It was silly, wasteful, and illogical. Every time I thought of discontinuing it, I felt like I was taking his entertainment and livelihood away from him, and that anguish was palpable and halting. It was almost a year later that I actually started working on cleaning out the house. Before that, I would drive up periodically just to check on it. I’d unlock the door that opens from the garage to the kitchen, step inside and smell that familiar smell of their home. Everything was so quiet. No news on the TV. No piano playing in the basement. Dad wasn’t in “the little room,” reading his email or listening to ragtime music with Kokie Poo, (Mom’s African Grey parrot), perched on the folding chair beside him. I’d always go right to my parents’ bedroom, open the door and look all around the room, which remained as Dad left it. I’d look at his dresser and the pictures on the wall. The bed where I used to kiss my parents good night during my visits years ago. Where I would tuck Dad in when he was all alone and finally stopped sleeping in the living room recliner. My chest would feel very heavy, and then I’d close the door and walk away. I simply could not disturb anything, not even the dust collecting on the furniture.

Everything happens for a reason. I’ve always believed that, but others do not. I mean it in the sense that every event in our lives is a stepping stone to the next event in our lives. Surely the non-believers can get on board with that description. The time to seriously work on cleaning out the house came when my niece’s home sold at an unprecedented speed. I was not ready. At all. Although I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, my brain told me it could take months or even years for their house to sell. Everything happens for a reason, remember. Having had some time to reflect on it, I would likely still be working on trying to start clearing out that house today if their home hadn’t sold so quickly. In the big scheme of things, the bandaid was ripped off, and I was left with nothing else to do but tend to the wound, get the job I was enlisted to perform done, and move on. My parents’ house was also saved from devastation. Every time I’d gone up to check on it, something else was broken or falling apart. The paneling was coming loose from the wall upstairs. The garage door was decaying, pieces on the garage floor. The house was experiencing some grieving of its own and needed a family to love it back to life again. I’m thankful to my niece and her family for doing just that. I wish I could have done a more thorough job of gutting the house for her, but at the time, what I did was my absolute best and all I could do.

I am still dealing with this, the hardest thing in my life for me to handle. We filled the sizeable Uhaul truck, packed to the gills with boxes full of my parents’ lives, and hauled it to our home in Kentucky. There, it was then transferred to one of our spare bedrooms — where it remains today. Oh, I’ve shuffled some boxes around and have emptied a couple of them. A couple I knew would be quick, easy, and not so sentimentally heart-wrenching. 

It’s been a year and a half since we drove that Uhaul away, and my heart still feels the same. My very sweet niece and her family have made their home in the house now. It’s very well taken care of, full of love, and I know my parents are smiling. That thought makes me smile, too. However, I still can’t bring myself to go see the house all different from how I remember it: The basement, which was their entertainment center. The two recliners positioned in the front of the TV with a large, brown braided rug on the floor. The fireplace with gas logs. The little black stool beside Dad’s chair where all the remotes lay in a row. I can still see him sitting there, selecting our movie for the night.  

The last movie Dad and I watched was Savannah Sunrise the day after Mom’s birthday in February 2017. I suppose he didn’t want to spend any more of her birthdays without her, so we didn’t watch any movies together for the rest of Dad’s life, which ended on June 27, 2017. The nappy brown blanket covering Dad’s recliner, along with a towel placed on the left armrest so Kokie Poo could sit with him and enjoy the nightly movies with us. The John Wayne blanket we’d given him for Christmas years before that he’d cover up with when the basement was chilly. Mom’s piano against the wall behind the recliners. The surround sound speaker taped to the steel pole by the stairs. The stairlift still attached and operational, collecting dust. Those and so many more memories.

Though I love the residents very much, and even though I know my parents lived their lives, their lives are done now. The house has become “the house my parents used to live in” instead of being “my parents’ house…” My logical brain understands that. My heart, however, just…can’t…see it looking differently. Not yet. Once again, I never ever could’ve imagined how emotionally difficult the task of being Executor would be for me, or how profoundly grief would’ve affected me. I’m not a very emotional person. I mean, I have emotions, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I don’t cry easily at all. Well, those AT&T commercials always made me tear up, but the tears don’t drip from my eyes. My heart is not on my sleeve, that’s for sure. I’m actually a little envious of those who can feel and freely express their heartbreaking emotions while they’re happening. But, that’s not me. I’m more of a get-the-job-done-and-be-sad-later kind of girl.

I have no idea when or if I will make that 2 hours and 15-minute drive again. Right now, today, the way I feel at this moment; honestly, it may be many more years. Yes, my parents’ gravesites are up there, wherein their ashes were placed in their urns and sealed inside their vaults, then buried beneath the soil. But that’s not where they are. They reside in my heart, and I can visit them there at any time. 

So, that is the hardest thing to handle in my life, and how did I get through it? The short answer is, “One day at a time.” The long and ongoing answer follows.

My parents entrusted me with the incredible duty of handling their estate. My father instilled in me, by his example, that you always do the right thing, no matter the cost, the inconvenience or sacrifice required. To the best of my ability, I followed my parents’ wishes as they were set out in writing and verbally expressed to me, regardless of my personal feelings about it. Regardless of others’ not liking certain aspects of it, I did the right thing as they set forth, period. I put my grieving on hold so that I could focus on carrying out the tasks I needed to complete. 

For several months after my Dad’s passing, I was in a funk, a state of limbo. I merely functioned on autopilot. I didn’t watch anything new on TV. I didn’t watch any movies because that reminded me so much of my time with Dad. I watched nothing but reruns of my favorite sitcoms, over and over. Sometimes, I would just sit in our living room in complete silence. I don’t recall if I did any kind of socializing during those months. I didn’t have any type of “meltdown,” as my friends and loved ones expected me to experience at any given moment. Like I was an emotional time-bomb waiting for 3, 2, 1 countdown. Honestly, I still really haven’t, not what I would consider a meltdown anyway. I feel sadness while missing my parents very much, and at times, I’ve had a little crying spell, but a meltdown, no. Maybe it won’t happen. It’s been almost three years since my father died, after all. It actually makes me feel like I’m a failure at grieving. I haven’t heard of anyone else having an experience like mine. 

I recently began talking to a therapist to work through my complicated grieving process (that’s what I call it) and to further heal the wounds of my past. Our first session was the get-to-know-each-other session. I told my therapist about my regrets regarding my parents’ deaths and how I didn’t feel my grief was progressing or even healthy. She asked me to share one of my self-disappointments with her, and I said, “I should’ve deep cleaned.” She looked at me blankly from my computer screen, you know, since we’re doing this social distancing thing. For a second or two, I thought my computer had frozen, but she was simply a little stunned and speechless. She said, “I’ve been doing this for a very long time, and this is the first time that someone said they should have deep cleaned.” That made me chuckle. 

As my “get through it” phase continues, I will certainly share my experiences with you. Through therapy, I learned that grief does not have an expiration date. There is no Best if expressed by date. It takes the time it takes, and that’s all there is to it. There’s no accelerator pedal, no fast forward button, no speed-grieving course. No one has the right to tell you, “Shouldn’t you be over that by now?” If someone asks that, they clearly have not experienced grief themselves or are stuck in their own state of denial. Grief is personal. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, although some methods could be more destructive than others. For me, one day at a time, I “get through it” a bit more.

It’s harder than I thought

Well, this 30-day challenge turned out to be a bit harder than I had envisioned when I laid down that gauntlet. What do you write about when you don’t know what to write about? I suppose Chuck Lorre faced this a time or two when writing his vanity cards that come up at the end of each Big Bang Theory episode (the best sitcom ever, by the way). I remember a few that were very short and one may even have said something to the tune of I got nuttin. Then I thought, if I want to be a professional writer, and I would absolutely love to write for a living, I need to be able to compose on command. Right? I mean like the editor comes to you and says, “Here’s your topic. Write!” Well, I’m used to writing when inspiration strikes. I’m basically a slave to my inspiration as it generally functions like a lightning bolt from the sky. I never know when or where it’s going to strike. Nevertheless, a promise is a promise and I shall persevere. With the Almighty as my witness, there will be 30 consecutive daily blog posts!

Therefore, my good readers — all 459,230 of you…ha ha! Okay, so, it’s more like 10-50 of you. But, hey. I dream big! My good readers, I welcome your suggestions on what to write about over the next 28 days. I’ve received one suggestion from a dear man whom I’ve had the privilege of caring for in his home while helping his dear wife. His is a suggestion that’s going to take me some thought, some serious thought, but I will post that blog with a beaming, pride-filled smile when I’ve got it composed.

Do you have any suggestions? Do you have questions or want my opinion on any topic in the world? Within reason, I will answer them. I mean, I’m not gonna answer questions about my personal (ahem) preferences or anything like that. Be cool.

I feel I’ve cheated you with this short blog. Like I was supposed to have written several paragraphs of such grandiose awesomeness that my readers (all 17 of them) would stand and applaud in unison after having read it. Alas, this shall remain a short entry — for today.

Suggestions? Questions? Anyone?

I have long felt that every tragedy, heartbreak or loss contains within itself a blessing and that “Something good will come from it.”  The old Every cloud has a silver lining thing.  I truly believe it.  Now, with this COVID-19 lockdown, quarantine, and don’t-you-dare-touch-your-face pandemic, my belief hasn’t changed.  Yes, it sucks not being able to go where we want to go — a movie, out to dinner, to our jobs, to dance class, to see other human beings in person, etc.  But, instead of viewing this as a punishment, sheer torture, or a cleverly plotted sinister plan against our country, maybe, just maybe, we can see it as a gift.  An opportunity to make new choices every day, choices that will enrich our lives.  Choices we will be proud we made when we look back on this lockdown years from now.  Just maybe.

We often say, “If I had time, I’d…” or “I don’t have time to…” Right? I think most of us have said that at least once in our lives, or perhaps even daily. If we are humbly honest with ourselves, we know that this excuse is a big fat lie. “I don’t have time to read.” Okay, but you didn’t miss a single episode of The Walking Dead? You binge-watched that “Tiger” show currently on Netflix? Did you spend hours on Facebook today or yesterday? I’m not downing people who watch a lot of TV. I’m just as guilty of indulging in that time-sucker myself. We have the time to do the things we think we should do, we simply choose to do those things that we want to do. We are, after all, merely humans.

I have been complying with the social distancing thing for a month now and I’ve realized just how much of that time I’ve wasted.  I could have sorted through the umpteen gazillion boxes I have sitting here just staring me in the face saying, “Start with me, I’m a small box!”  I could have written thousands more words in my book.  I could have posted a new blog every day, sharing something uplifting, funny or just plain silly to entertain and/or help others survive one more day of this madness.  There’s an idea!!  I could have been getting lots of dance practice or getting in shape with Zumba by watching Facebook or YouTube videos.  I didn’t do any of that.  There are countless things I could’ve done, but by my own choice, I did other things.  Time spent is gone.  We will never get it back.  

All we have is now — today — which brings me to the point of this blog post.  As of today, I am holding myself accountable for the way I choose to use this gift of time.  Therefore, starting today, I will post a daily blog for 30 days.  I’ll start with that and add other daily goals as we go along.  What will you choose to do differently with your gift of time?  I would love to hear about it.  

We are all in this together.