I have a pearl necklace…

I was reminded of my pearl necklace today as I was cleaning the lint from my clothes dryer.  As I pulled the small amount of fuzzy gray matter from the lent screen the thought of my beautiful pearl necklace came to mind and I smiled and then I laughed and then I came to sit down and write. 

My pearl necklace has become a very long one.  It can loop around my neck several times and still drape as gracefully as it should.  I should tell you that each pearl on this strand is perfect in its own right.  Steve selected each perfectly round smooth pearl and laid it carefully in front of me as I nodded in agreement with him. It was then strung into this amazing piece that I love to wear and often share.

I’ll begin with the lint pearl.  The first time Steve came to visit me in Midland I was pulling a load of clothes out of my dryer.  Without thinking, Steve casually pulled my lint drawer open with tug and out it came, so full of lint someone might have thought it was a small furry animal.  Pearl #1:  “Janet, do you ever clean out the lint?  Don’t you know that you should clean the lint, every time you dry your clothes?  Dryer lint is a major cause of house fires, please promise me you will never put in another load without first checking your lint screen.”  My strand of pearls began.

Many of my pearls were a fiery iridescent.  They dealt with changing the batteries on smoke alarms every year, carbon monoxide detectors in every home of each child, fire ladders in every upstairs bedroom and never leaving the house with the clothes dryer on.

Other pearls were a bit more significant.  They were greater in density, meaning they were made with a greater amount of calcium carbonate.  They were my safety pearls.  Lynn and Brooke were also given replicas of these pearls:  “Don’t drive down Orsinger  Road, it’s unsafe” (we soon renamed it Ted Bundy Lane).  “Be careful when you get out of the car in a big parking lot, you never know who might be waiting.”  There were quite a few “Ted Bundyish” pearls particularly for the girls.  

There were many driving pearls.  These were tolerated but not always among my favorites:  “Janet, you drive too aggressively, slow down, you didn’t look before changing lanes.”  Now as I’m driving, I love thinking of those pearls as they make me laugh because I know how very much love went into every one of them.

Some of the pearls Steve gave me, well I think they might never have quite made it on my strand.  I’ll call them my baroque pearls:  "Metamucil really taste good, once you get use to it, you should drink it first thing in the morning...it's a regulation thing." or “Don’t park in a parking lot where shopping carts can roll down and ding your car or where another car could ding your car.” then there was "Women and birthdays--why?  Men don't even know how old we are, nor do we care!" (That one was repeated monthly.)  “Always watch the checkers at the grocery store, inevitably they scan an item and it’s always an overcharge.”  Here's a pearl I never even considered:  “Why would you buy that?   Where in the world are you going to put it?” and last, but not least the dreaded pearl...“Janet, money lessons are a good thing, try to pay attention for just a little longer...Janet have I lost you?  I have lost you, haven’t I?”

Two days before Steve died we had a good day.  Bonnie was with us, we had finished dinner and Steve was lying on the sofa.  We were talking and laughing about some of these bits of "wisdom" that I had chosen to ignore over the years.  Steve, chuckled telling Bonnie, "Janet simply has a different view of life than I do."  I laughed back and asked, "Just what is my view and how is it so different from yours?'  Words were difficult for Steve now so he simply smiled, his eyes twinkled and he said, "My philosophy is sound and yours...is yours."  That being a pearl of its own, I went to him and wrapped myself around him.  I looked up at him and asked, "But you do so love me, don't you?"  Holding me gently he nodded and whispered, "More than anything."  "I love you more"  I said and I held him in my arms as tears ran down my face onto his chest.

The most valuable pearls I share readily and with great love because I feel there is such wisdom behind their luster they are called nacreous pearls.  I never take credit for picking these gemstones out because these are all hand picked by Steve and I love each one:  

“Unmet expectations in others will always disappoint you.”  

"Life is a lot like The Seinfeld series, if you pay attention every life relates to that episode somehow, some way."

“There is no condemnation of character, nor reason for feeling disappointed in a child’s behavior.  Rules are guidelines, if broken, follow through and consequences are certain to happen, but always with love."

“If you wake up in the middle of the night, you might as well go to the bathroom then.  Otherwise you will just wake up and have to go again later.”

Here’s one of my favorite pearls.  I have shared it with so many single younger friends, as have Brent and Brooke.  It is easy to pass by as it seems translucent, but it is really worth looking at:  “You either breakup or you get married.”

"I'll rub your foot if you rub mine."

“The ‘Black Book’ is the only way to handle financial issues with older children and teenagers.”  Explanation, instead of arguing over allowances, the need to buy clothes, money for entertainment...Steve set up a ledger book.  Each child had a generous allowance, the money was recorded in the Black Book.  If money was unspent by the end of the year Steve would add generous interest as incentive to save.  If consequences occurred (Brooke buying a European magazine for a Young Life trip and spending $10.50 on it without a second thought)...then amounts were deducted from the book.  It worked so well when Brooke went to college she didn’t want a checking account, she asked to have the Black Book method.

“Never let a time go by when you are speaking to your child that you don’t tell them that you love them, you are proud of them, you think they are amazing--never, no matter how old they become.”

“Always return phone calls.”

"It's always important to validate another's feelings, even if you disagree with them, they are still feelings and deserve to be acknowledged." 

“As your children grow into adults, they have choices.  They may choose to come visit us or they may choose to do something else.  It is up to us to make each visit special so they will always look forward to the time they spend with us.”

“Never buy anything you can’t afford.  Never owe credit.”  

“Never set the stage for your adult children to feel conflicted about visiting you.  They have many choices to make, family members to visit, vacations to take.  Always let them know that whenever they can come to see you...it is always the perfect time.”

“You should always have something you dream of owning, but never allow yourself to own it because once you buy it, your dream is gone.”

On dying:  "If I have never done anything well, I am going to make sure I die well."  That is the truest pearl I own.

My very favorite pearl, the mother of pearl, lies deep within the strand and stands out with a unique luster and translucence among all the others:  “Janet, you have made my life happier than I could have ever imagined.  What would I have done if I had never found you?”

I told you my strand is long and each pearl is unequalled.  As I rub my fingers around them I can feel the care and love Steve has for me and for his family as he was a giver. He was our caretaker and my pearls are a precious treasure that I can always share.

I have many more marvelous pearls on my strand, these were just a few that caught my eye today.  As I clasp them around my neck, they hold such value, they are irreplaceable and they lay right next to my heart.  

Here, borrow them if you wish, they are worth wearing.

On Being One...

I am no longer a couple.  No longer are there two of us, nor can I say, "both of us" or "ours".  I am now one.  I cannot classify myself as single, no that’s not me.  Single was me at age 38 after my divorce, then I was able to say I was a single person.  It wasn’t easy but it somehow seemed easier than saying “I’m divorced”.  Now is it easier for me to say, “I’m by myself” or “I’m alone” than call myself a widow?  I suppose I knew, but never realized there was such pain in being one.

Going to the grocery store is now a whole new experience.  Shopping for one is challenging.  Dated things expire more quickly than one person can use them.  Dairy products, orange juice, there’s always too much bread, why can’t I buy four pieces of bread like I can buy four pieces of fruit?   

Then there’s the background music that plays continually in HEB (San Antonio’s only grocery store--Really?!?!)  Songs like “Hello Again” by Neil Diamond or “You are the Sunshine of My Life” by Stevie Wonder.  Don’t they know their store is filled with widows and widowers walking through their aisles listening to every word of those beautiful songs?  Our hearts ache and rip just a little more with each note sung as we tighten the grip on our shopping carts and the food items blur through the tears slowly building in our eyes as we are driven to continue to walk up and down those long isles.

Dinner time...oh the dreaded sundown.  What does one cook for a person?  I have yet to solve this dilemma.  Do I cook?  Nah, too much trouble for one.  Do I eat take-out food, well sometimes, but that gets rather old?  Do I bring home extra food left over from lunch that I had with friends that day?  That’s the best so far.  Then there are those nights I simply open the frig and graze...for now this seems better than sitting at a table and having a meal by myself.

I have been so fortunate to have had many dinner invitations (this is NOT a plea for invitations, really!) with many of our (see I still can’t just call you my) couple friends.  Here’s the scenario, the three of us walk into a restaurant.  The host seats us at a tabletop for four, there are no three toppers.  The waiter comes up and usually looks at me and asks, “Will there be another joining us tonight?”  Knew it was coming.  The poor couple looks aghast and as I have learned to do, I place an entirely too large and uncomfortable smile on my face and quickly say, “No, just three thank you” with my voice squeaking two octaves higher than normal.  The waiter swiftly clears the fourth place setting and as Steve used to say, I know that waiter’s thinking, “Whoa, there’s a story here.”

That waiter would be right, there is a story here.  Steve always made me laugh when making that statement.  He would say it when a situation was a little unusual, or different from the norm, or when someone would say something quirky that caused you to wonder what in the world lead him to say such a thing?   It was then Steve’s eyes would grow large and round, his eyebrows would go up and with that dry, flat tone he would look straight at me and out would come…”Whoa, there’s a story here!”   

My story, is that I am one, alone not by choice but for reasons that will someday be made clear to me.  I can’t say I’m single because I’m not.  I still say "our home, our friends, our electric bill."  Once said I find myself backtracking, flustered, embarrassed saying, “I mean my home, my friends, my bills.”  There is no more ours, or is there?  

I find I still sleep on my side of our bed.  Steve’s side remains made, pillows in place and often I fill his side with whatever I’m reading or doing before going to sleep.  Turning out the lights right before going to sleep is the hardest part of the day for me.   It is here that I turn my thoughts to Steve.  Telling him I had wished for him that day.  That I wanted him with me when I played with our grandchildren.  It is in the dark when I tell him he was the best and I was so fortunate to have had him in my life.

Stop!  Rewind, strike through that last sentence.  You see, I decided soon after Steve’s death that I will never use the past tense when I speak of Steve.  I will always say I love Steve.  I will always feel he is the best husband in the world and that I am so blessed that I can love him all my life. I will always tell our children and grandchildren how proud he is of them and how much he loves them.  I want to always speak of Steve in the present, because of my faith Steve is simply on a different journey for now.  One day I know I will be with him again and it will be as if we had never parted.

So for now I am one.  I know there will be a time when I will grow more comfortable with that term.  I will learn to say my and mine instead of us and ours.  I am finding what it’s like to be one and while I have my moments...I also have my memories, a heart full of them.  Memories that will enable me to never be alone, memories that cause me to smile, to laugh out loud and to know that my life is full.  Memories that will and are enabling me to walk into the future knowing that being one is okay.  Knowing that in time I will find my way, my purpose in being one and I am waiting patiently for God to show me where that path will lead.

“The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As longs as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles.” 

― Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl

My Grandmother's Hands

Just a few evenings ago I was reading to Harper.  As she sat in my lap, my hands laid on top of the oversized book I read to her.  My concentration was in the words of the book, trying to allow my voice to emote the feelings of the characters and what they were saying and feeling.

It was a few minutes into reading that I felt Harper’s little fingers outlining the tops of my hands.  No longer did she seem as interested in what I was reading as she was in my hands...her grandmother’s hands.  Harper’s small fingers traced my thin skin, the veins that I suddenly noticed were beginning to show, the wrinkles and age spots that appeared overnight.  She was gentle, curious, memorizing these hands that she loved so much, yet whose hands were so different from her own, from her younger mother’s.  She said nothing, I kept reading but in my mind I remember that moment so poignantly.

I loved my grandmother, Minnie Momma, dearly.  If she were still alive today she would be around 125 years old, but even to my young mind’s eye Minnie Momma was always old.  She was a very poor woman and had nor needed little.  She grew up in the country in East Texas. Her mother died when she was 8 years old, her husband died at 42 of tuberculosis as did her eldest daughter about 10 years later.  Minnie had a tough life, she took care of the family farm and her younger daughters until moving to Houston.  Minnie never drove a car, never wore polish, never wore a bra...simply a full slip under her dresses.  She was a quiet woman, soft spoken and kind, but she had her faith and she had her opinions and she would speak her mind when the time was right.

As a small child I would spend a week at a time with Minnie Momma in her small unassuming home.  Oh how I loved it there.  She had no air conditioning instead open windows framed in crisp white crisscross organza curtains.  Big box fans blew the warm humid Houston air through her little home and living right by railroad tracks the sounds of slow moving trains and their long whistles continues to be soothe my soul.

I loved sitting in my grandmother’s lap snuggled beside her in her oversized rocker.  She would sing hymns, gently talk and read to me.  I strongly remember holding her hands in mine as I sat so placidly still.  

I remember her hands...her thin fragile skin, almost translucent.  I remember thinking how different, how special they were from anyone else’s hands.  The tips of her fingers, soft and pillowy, when I pressed their tips they would stay indented for just a moment too long.  She wore two small diamond rings on her wedding finger, they were loose and she would always twirl them unconsciously between her small delicate thumb and ring finger.  Why were my grandmother’s hands such an important part of my memory?  Why when Harper and I had our little exchange several days ago did it touch such a cord within me?  I began thinking of the significance of hands all that they can convey, all that they are capable of doing.  

For several years I took American Sign Language classes, thinking I might like to be an interpreter for the deaf.  I loved those classes.  I love that there is a beautiful, rich, complete, silent language that totally relies on ones hands for communication.  I’m still enthralled watching interpreters speak this wonderful language to the deaf, it is like watching a graceful ballerina’s feet describe music in an entirely different manner.

Hands convey love, they express directions, commands, enhance emotions. Hands are our tools, think of a world without hands...building, art, cooking, writing, hugging.  How important to a small child would a life be without guiding hands, loving hands, mentoring, teaching hands?  Hands are the part of the body that displays the greatest sense of touch they are how we reach out and seize and embrace life and all that is most precious to us.

Sadly there are also hands that cause harm.  Abusive hands, angry hitting, slapping, shoving hands.  Those are hands that cause such damage to our small fragile children, oh how we must guard our young ones, all of them, from hands of hate and anger.

When I think back and picture myself as that small little girl, sitting in my beloved grandmother’s lap, her voice has fallen silent in my mind and at times her face has become dim over the years but it’s her hands that are so vivid to me. I can see and feel Minnie Momma smoothing out my dress, running her soft gentle fingers through my hair, ever so gently caressing my shoulders, back and hands with hers.  It was here I felt peace, love, comfort.  It was her hands that gave me confidence that she would always do everything possible to protect and encourage me.  I will never forget my grandmother’s hands, they taught me much.  

I am a far cry from the humble unassuming woman that Minnie Momma was, but I pray that in my own way my grand children may find the same legacy she left me.  I pray that as Harper looked at my aging grandmother’s hands she felt all the love that I have in my heart for her.  

I know that as she grows older she will no longer have the desire she does now to crawl up in my lap and allow me to hold her, run my fingers through her curls, pass my hand up and down her little back nor play with my hands as she does now.  But perhaps someday in the far distant future, as she is holding one of her little grandchildren in her own lap she too will find the legacy that lies in the amazing warm and tender touch of a grandmother’s hands.

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.” Henri Nouwen

Psalm 90:17 “May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;

    establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands.”

I gave this entry to Brooke last week and she published it in Alamo City Mom Blog.  I asked her if I could share it here as well, so some of you may have already read this entry.
A little side note, I'm so proud of Brooke's new endeavor in starting this city wide blog for not only mom's but it's a great source for grand mommies as well .  A resource of what all San Antonio has to offer and a look at what a mom's life is like--uncensored.  Just thought I'd throw in a little advertising for the girl!!

My Heart has Room for More...

I think it was several weeks after Steve’s death that I began questioning my timing.  I was finding the house so empty, I was feeling the need for companionship of my own and felt a little sketchy about going on line, but knew people had and had good results in the past.

So I took a deep breath and I just dove in.  I signed up, filled out the 12 page questionnaire (no exaggeration) and hit enter.  It took several days for Tonya (the staff woman with the agency) to give me a call back.  After 30 more minutes of in depth questions she said she felt a match for me might be rather difficult considering my situation but, she would do her best.

You know it’s meant to be when you receive a call from Tonya less than 20 minutes later saying, “I found a match for you, I think it’s perfect!  Go on line and look at the picture I just sent.”  Not knowing Tonya, I still remained a little skeptical.  I pulled up the picture and oh, my heart melted...it was the huge brown eyes and long sandy blonde hair that got me.  

A little side note here, the first time I really met Steve, he was taking clothes out of his dryer.  Bos and I walked into his backdoor and our eyes met and as corny as it sounds, my heart literally skipped a beat.  I remember thinking, oh whoa what is this feeling?!?  Well, this recent photo encounter was not quite on the same level as seeing Steve but it made me realize my first impressions are spot on.

I fell in love right then looking at that sweet picture.  I called Tonya back and said, “I want her!”  That’s right her, oh didn‘t I mention I was looking for a rescue dog?  A Wheaton Terrier in particular. You know like the dog in “Annie"--Sandy.  I must admit I’m feeling a little like Little Orphan Annie right now and the thought of wrapping my arms around a “Sandy-like dog” just makes me want to start singing, “The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun!”   But, I had very specific expectations:  she had to be great with small children, good with other dogs, housebroken...no not a puppy, no I didn’t want siblings, no behavioral issues, just an older (like 4-5 year old) dog.  

Well, it turns out Lucy Bell a.k.a. Bella (Lucy comes from another long story about Steve that just wouldn’t translate here, but it’s worth naming a dog after) is 8 years old and will turn 9 on November 7^th...we will celebrate our November birthdays together--perfect.  I want this precious dog.  She came from a family that once divorced, the mom and child moved to a home without a yard and the dad had no time for Lucy Bell, thus deciding to give her up to S’Wheat Rescues.

The process of adopting a rescue dog is worse than adopting a large child.  I filled out the aforementioned online form on findapet.com.  Then Tonya called, from there the match was made. Tonya called 2 of my references, my vet, I had a home visit and paid $300 for an almost 9 year old dog that I had to drive to Dallas to pick up and sign a contract saying I will “love, honor and obey this dog until the day I die” or something to that effect.

Want this dog?  It is in my DNA.  Our family always has had dogs.  My earliest recollection was of our Welch Terrier, Tippy.  I would dress that poor sweet dog up in toddler clothes and make her walk around on her hind legs...she was my best friend (kind of pitiful really).  Then there was Tosha.  My eldest sister, Barbara was teaching school in Houston and brought home this fluffy little black mix puppy giving it to us, saying we needed to replace Tippy.  My mother said, she had just gone through a terrible time putting Tippy down and wanted NO MORE DOGS.   My father, (I have his DNA) couldn’t stand that Tosha was locked up all day in an apartment while my sister taught and apprehended the dog and she became ours.  Tosha would ride on the bow of our boat while my father would fish the day away.  

The Family with Tippy

Tippy

My Dad & Tosha at the Lake

We loved our dogs.  The day came when my mother had to put Tosha down and she was adamant...NO MORE DOGS.  So my father began collecting, rather fostering lake animals.  There was an old lab he named “Old Yeller” (never knew their real names).  My father would stand on the shore of our small lake and call to him and he would swim across to my dad and spend his days with him.  Then there was Blue (so black he was Blue), then there were a variety of kitties, and even some ducks that my father named and would call in the mornings so they could be fed.  

As an adult I have always had a dog or dogs, usually schnauzers.  When Steve and I finally put our last schnauzer down Steve said, “You can have me or a dog…”  We were traveling a great deal of the time then so I reluctantly agreed and Steve had that doggie door sealed before I could blink.

I went to Dallas on Sunday.  Spent the night with Bos and Robert.  Bos and I went to a vet in Highland Park to pick up my new ward.  We were issued back to an examining room to visit with the vet.  Dr. Smoctor entered asking if I had had a chance to go over “Bella’s”medical history...uh oh…”No, I wasn’t aware of any complications.”  Bos is starting to laugh as only Bos can.  

Dr. Smoctor ever so gently begins to tell me that Bella a.k.a. Lucy Bell has chronic allergies, seeping ear infections, that she is on steroids and anti-inflammatory meds and I will need to see my vet to check on what type of diet she will be needing.  Oh and she has numerous tumors that I might want to have biopsied for cancer.  I can’t even look at Bos at this point and she’s a huge dog-lover.  “Oh and the only other thing is that Bella has some real anxiety issues.”  End of Dr. Smoctor’s report.  

My throat becomes thick, I think in my heart “don’t ask, don’t ask” but I know in my head I have grandchildren that are too precious to me as I blurt out, “What exactly do anxiety issues look like in a dog?”  Well, in Bella’s case, because she was neglected she would dig her way out of penned confined places and run off...okay, no biting, I can do this, I can love this animal into being the animal she is meant to be!  As Dr. S. is walking out to get Bella she says in an extremely too calm voice, “Bella is a very fine dog...she just has special needs” she shuts the door.

I look at Bos and we both burst out laughing...this is what I really need right now, a dog with special needs?  We both know Steve is looking down at me and shaking his head saying, “Janet, Janet, Janet…”

In bounds Lucy Bell!  She prances up to me like she’s known me all her life.  She nuzzles into my face and I’m a goner, lumps, bumps and all.  Everyone says that 60 is the new 40, well in dog years I think 9 will certainly be the new 5.  I am Annie and Lucy Bell is Sandy and now we can sing, “When I’m stuck a day that’s gray and lonely, I just stick out my chin and grin and say, Oh the sun’ll come out tomorrow…!”

Lucy Bell and I made the drive home smooth as silk.  We went to see our vet today and she thinks her allergies were due to fleas!  She is on heartworm meds, flea/tick meds, fish oil and glucosamine chondroitin, which by the way so am I (the last 2).

We are home, we are happy and we will grow old together and love one another and be faithful to one another...and she better quit peeing on my carpet!  

Oh I’m glad my heart still has room for more.