How's Damar?

I never loved football.  I watched the Bills lose four Super Bowls in a row.  For one of them, I watched my brother throw a chair at a TV we'd rented for a Super Bowl party at the American Legion in North Collins.  He's since curbed his anger, I think. Maybe not in golf though.

For a while, I just stopped watching unless the Bills were on.  I recall the Bills playing Dallas one year when I was in my first marriage, and the game was on.  I promptly fell asleep, but woke to watch the Bills make a play and take the game. "Go Bills", I said.  My ex-husband was so mad - "They were losing the whole game!"

It's just what Bills fans do. Go Bills!  

For the past four years, I can't get enough of watching them and texting my friends "Woot! Woot!" when they make an unbelievable play.  Did you see the touchdown where Josh Allen basically jumped over a guy to get in the end zone?  Freaking awesome.

Last night's game was much different. I made Buffalo wings for dinner, and waited impatiently for the game to start, texting my friends to see if they were as psyched as I was.  They were.

Then Damar Hamlin got hit and went down. Everything stopped.  For me, for my friends - "This is scary and so sad."  Then we see Josh Allen's face, and the rest of the Bills players' faces; and the Bengals players' faces... "This is bad." Social media blew up. The announcers sat stunned. I cried.

Of course, millions of others cried and worried along with me.  The game was suspended. Okay. How's Damar? Time went by. "How's Damar?" The game was postponed. Good. How's Damar?  How many people am I echoing?

Then to watch the spirits soar, the goodness of mankind go at it and tackle it.  Prayers. Donations. Bengals fans and Bills fans holding hands and praying. Together.  Every NFL team commenting and sending goodness.

Politics wasn't part of the playing field. How's Damar?

Racism and hatred was thrown out.  How's Damar?

Please be well.

Bandits and Baiters

 

The thieves stole my mojo. It was here, inside me, for many years.  I’d call it up and it would sit on my shoulder and whisper words in my ear – words I could use to form sentences and thoughts that made sense. Sometimes it lay dormant, like, when the world was ending in 2020, and all I wanted to do was sit on the sofa and chew my fingernails down to the quick, panicking in a quiet kind of desperation.  But it came back for a short time. Enough for me to finish yet another draft of the book and send it out for editing, and produce yet another draft, and then another, and now I think I have a polished manuscript to send out. And send it out, I did.   But it wasn’t mojo pushing me to keep fixing it – it was my characters. They threw little hissy-fits every time I’d ignore them.

A mojo clone provided mumbo jumbo every once in a while on a Tuesday when I had my fiction writing class and needed a good scene to add to my dog story.  Then it went away, and I only had thoughts that produced dung-like quality.

The thieves stole my comfort too.  They stole my confidence. And my motivation. And my love for walking. Oh, and my collagen. They stole a lot of my collagen in exchange for a heat that boils me from the inside in a flash. 

“Youth and beauty are gone one day, no matter what you dream or do or say…” Heck of a line from Bob Seger.  His mojo was on that day, as was his pessimism.  But hey, you need pessimism to find sanguinity.

I suppose I write today because I woke before the dawn and walked the dog under the bright stars, the crescent moon shining a light on my path and thought, “Boy, do I love this time of day.” The morning, the quiet, the anticipation of experiencing something joyful. The hope, the gratitude, the promise.

The thieves may have stolen my mojo but I’m on a quest to get it back – today, I started looking on the hiking trails behind my house, tomorrow I’ll find another path, and maybe, if I’m lucky, it will jump in front of me, giggling, and then hop back on my shoulder so the thieves can look elsewhere. 

What a Gift

 It happens every time I make sauce.  I chop the onions and garlic, and the second I scrape them into the pot with the olive oil, I think of my dad.  He stands behind me as I stir them around and says "wait until the onions are clear, then you can add the tomatoes."  

It happens every time I roll the meatballs. I think of my Aunt Carolyn, and her telling me not to make them sinkers.

Today was the same. But today, I had another voice - a laugh actually, echoing in my head.  The laugh of my cousin Maryann.  I think it was last year, I posted on Facebook that I was making a pot of sauce with thirty meatballs.  She immediately texted me, and said, "oh, can I get some of your sauce and meatballs?"  The pot went from four cans of tomatoes to eight, and the meatballs doubled to sixty.  When it was done, she showed up with tupperware and took it home.  I got texts that entire evening thanking me.

I wish I could've done it again today, but Maryann died this summer.  A crushing loss for the family.

 I took Dovi to the dog park today, and there was a woman there, calling her dog. "Gracie, Gracie, come here."  I thought about my Gracie and how she would've hated the dog park.  She would've growled at every dog, and she wouldn't have left my side.

On the way home, I thought about Gracie, then about my sauce bubbling on the stove, and then saw my brother's face, then my dad's, then Maryann's, while the live version of Racing in the Street played in the background, and I cried. It was one of those hiccup-kind-of-cries where it comes out of nowhere, like a sneeze.  I wondered how many times it happens during the week, and how many times I stop immediately. Today, I didn't. I let the tears fall.

How amazing that a song, a pot of sauce, or a simple name can evoke such sharp images and memories. So sharp that they open your heart up, and you just feel it, you taste it, you smell it - you live it all over again.

What a gift.

We All Have It

The pain
The shame
The worry
The guilt
The sorrow
The want
The need
The desire
The joy
The laughter
The wonder
The lust
The regret

If only I had done this 

Or said that

Or been there

Or heard that

Or felt that

If only he or she had said this

Or done that

Or been there

Or heard that 

Or felt that

I wish...

I had said it differently

I believed in myself 

I always had a dog

I would’ve invested more

I prayed more

I doubted less

I knew then what I know now

Doesn’t matter. 

Now is now. 

No one is promised tomorrow

Waiting

 The pandemic gave us a lot of home-time back in 2020. We could paint our walls, learn new recipes, or write the great American novel.  We were home.  We dropped the commute to and from work, and we couldn't go out.

You'd think, at least for me, more would've been accomplished.  But I think the pandemic, at least for me, slowed everything down.  Now, in 2022, where the pandemic is mostly behind us, I'm still stuck, a little bit, in 2020.  Waiting.

Because that's what 2020 was. It was a waiting game.  When will the hospitalizations go down? When will the restaurants open? When will the mask mandate be lifted? When could I get a spa pedicure again? I think many of us thought that it would just automatically end in 2021.  New year, back to the ol' grind, vacation from this alternate reality was over.  But that didn't happen.  The pandemic stretched into 2021.

The waist band of my sweatpants expanded as well.  I blame some of it on the sedentary lifestyle that was imposed - nobody knew if Covid was airborne, or if it could be caught by touching a flower.  We didn't walk as much, at least I didn't, and I spent a lot of time biting my nails, watching the news, and waiting.

Today, after a really long day of work - I've been home since it all started in 2020 - I took my puppy for a walk.  While he sniffed trees and ate goose poop, I looked around.  It was a dreary day - cold & rainy.  No one was outside.  Cars lined up at the curb of the local pizza place, and Door Dashers dropped food off on door steps, but that's it.  No life outside.

As I walked, I wondered if they were all just waiting for something to click to make it all return to how life was before isolation and sedentariness kicked in.  Then I saw buds on the wet tree branches, and noticed the daffodil bulbs sticking up through the ground, and thought: another cycle begins.  The thing is, I don't think I've noticed buds on the trees or daffodil leaves since 2020! That's a shame, isn't it?

I had a slight epiphany and an even slighter understanding of my psyche.  

Life goes on.  

I've been waiting for life to resume and it's been happening all around me.

I'll keep waiting, but with a different perspective.  This time I'll wait to see the buds blossom and the daffodils bloom.  And I'll watch them grow, and try to enjoy their beauty without worrying about anything else, at least for that moment I see them. 

Like a Good Bourbon

 Today is my 50^th birthday.  The 1972 t-shirt I wear calls me an original, and proclaims I’ve aged with perfection.

I can’t argue with that.

I have aged with perfection. The kind of perfection that comes forth after many years of not knowing, and then finally, one day, maybe in your late 40s, like me, you come to understand that all those imperfect moments, those hellish battles, those unbelievable assholes, and those tender moments of sadness are what mold you.

The decade leading up to this one has been the best of my life. I met and married the love of my life.  He was on his own pyramid of awesomeness, and he asked me to join him and his children at the top.  I barely had to climb. And the summit gave me more family - Mom, sisters, brother, brother-in-law, nephews and one of the cutest nieces ever.  

How can I have so many new incredible nieces and nephews, when the ones I already had were incredible?  Magic and mystery, grace and beauty.

My children are everything. Growing human beings with thoughts and fears, wit, wisdom, and greatness all their own. They are each turning into something spectacular. I spin in the same orbit, and pick up speed, and I have aged with them. Magical perfection.

My family growing up: The simple dysfunction of the Fuzzy family (including the amazing brother-in-law and awesome sisters-in-law who didn't run away from the dysfunction) made me who I am; and I am happy to call my sister my best friend, along with my brothers. We’ve shared grief and consolation, laughter and pain. I cannot envision better companions for that journey. How we got through it, how we’re still getting through it used to be perplexing, but the answers are clear. We have each other.

Mom. . . she and Dad have a place in my heart that holds the key to all my happiness. 

I have about a dozen friends that I can call up at any time – day or night – and they will answer, and we will talk like not one day has passed – laughing, crying, or solving a crisis. I have that in my life.

I have a "Swat" team of cousins, cousins-in-law, 2nd, 3rd, once removed, etc. . . cousins.  Lots and lots of cousins whom I love and adore; and who share the same passion for food and laughter.

I have a network of writer friends that I cherish. Though I only know tidbits of their personal life, I have so much more because through their writing, I know their soul; and I’ve had the pleasure of sharing my soul with them.

This morning, I walked my new puppy, and the happiest dog I have ever known. (I had Gracie for many years, and because we were besties, I swear she brought me Dovi). She knew what I deserved. 

On my walk, I envisioned my dad walking beside me – I shared my thoughts with him about turning 50, still wanting to accomplish so much more – wanting to be a better daughter to Mom, a better sister to my siblings, a better friend, a better companion, a better mother. . .

“Just be.”

That’s what I heard as I looked up to the sky and watched a young hawk fly in circles above me.

And I know you'll take comfort in knowing you've been roundly blessed and cursed

But love is a power greater than death, just like the songs and stories told  

(Springsteen, Terry's Song)

John Milton (Paradise Lost), Bram Stoker (Dracula), Sue Monk Kidd (The Secret Life of Bees), and Anna Sewell (Black Beauty) were all over fifty when they published their first novel. When I turned forty, my wish was to find someone who loved me for me, for who I was and who I would become. Today, my wish is to publish as many books as I can write for the next 50 years.

I’ll end with this. . . Dolores O’Riordan, (who got me through college and law school), died in 2018 and would’ve been fifty in September 2021. She’s the lead singer of The Cranberries and walked with me and Dad today.  She had a lot to say. 

Too young, too proud, too foolish
Too young, too proud, too foolish

You ask a lot of questions
You have too much time on your hands
To hell with conclusions
Why should we make so many plans?

So you should come away with me
You should come away with me
You should have some faith in me

Tomorrow could be too late

I told you at the start – I’ve aged with perfection.

Happy 50^th, Dolores.  Sorry you didn’t make it, but glad you’re still so alive. . .

Yesterday, Tomorrow was Today

     I don't know why the title of this blog post keeps haunting my dreams.  I was speaking with my mother on the phone last week, and we were talking about what day of the week it is, and how, for the past couple of years, the days seem to blur together.  Working from home on a full-time basis for so long, has me wondering what day of the week it is too.  My poor mother has been cooped up in her house, listening to the news, watching re-runs of Andy Griffith, and sharpening colored pencils to use as she works through page after page in an adult coloring book for the past two years.

    "What day is today?"  My mother asked.

    "Sunday."

    "But the Bills played yesterday."

    "They did, it's playoffs, so they had the game on a Saturday.  They kicked the Patriot's ass."

    "Joshy..." My mother giggled.

    I laughed along with her.

    "So, yesterday, tomorrow was today."  My mother said.

    "Uh, yeah. Very philosophical of you, Mom."  We both laughed out loud.

    "So, what's today?" I asked playfully.

    "The day before tomorrow."  I thought she'd say Sunday, but she brilliantly kept it going, and laughed at her own humor.

    I'm not sure if there's a moral to the story or not, but yesterday, tomorrow was today, and now today is the day before tomorrow.  Maybe it's a statement on the now - today is today.  Today is tomorrow.

Go Bills!