Saturday is my day to run errands. I plot my route like an air traffic controller keeping in mind all of the different needs and details each stop requires along with one eye on gas usage. Going to the grocery store 99.9% of the time is my final destination before home.
Since Winn Dixie has great ground beef, prices, and gas rewards, I shop there. Winn Dixie has wider aisles and less tumult than Publix. The cement floor is homely and the clientele watch their pennies.
One of my hangups is I cannot grocery shop comfortably when a store is crowded. I get anxious to the point where I will forego picking up everything on my list just to get the hell out of there. The anxiety sometimes makes me feel like I can't breath so I will do the "Can I live without this item until I go again?" thing in my head. If I can, boom! It is added to my next grocery store list and I am released from the torture sooner rather than later.
Today there were very few people shopping and I was in my own little world of indecision as I stared at the meat prices matching up which of what was on sale and which of what was buy 1/get 1 free when I felt someone looking at me. I stood up and looked behind me to my right and saw a young woman maybe in her mid twenties. She had her straight light brown hair cut short and was pretty. Her left hand was bent at the wrist in an unnatural position and she held onto the cart with that along with her right hand. I noticed her stance was off kilter, too. I smiled at her and she smiled back. "Am I in your way," I asked. It wouldn't have surprised me if I was as I become oblivious to my surroundings when deep in thought. She replied, "No" clearly enough that I could understand her. That was the final clue that she probably had cerebral palsy or something similar. I smiled again and once again she smiled back but there was more that was unspoken. I was treating her as I would anyone else. I was showing her respect one person for another; I was not transmitting pity or averting my eyes.
There was an older woman about 6 feet away from the young lady looking at the cold food items and I figured it was her mother. She wore the same no-nonsense clothing and haircut. Even though they were not near each other or talking, I sensed a strong bond between them. As the daughter grew, the mother allowed her her own space. The mother had to decide a long time ago how she should behave when it came to caring for her child when she became an adult. By the way they both respected each other, it was clear they had worked out a healthy balance between hovering and independence.
I went back to concentrating on what I should buy and eventually we passed each other. I met the daughter's eyes one last time. After they both were behind me I turned around and saw that because her right leg was shorter than her left she walked on her tip-toes on her right foot.
There was something very beautiful about the young lady. Maybe I was seeing her soul as it touched my soul. To me she glided over the floor. I would have like to have talked to her. While the muscular dystrophy reeked havoc with her body, her spirit was not disfigured. It was gentle. In my mind I untwisted her limbs and unfroze her tongue.
Showing posts with label daughter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daughter. Show all posts
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Dad
My father was the best dancer. He loved playing his Big Band albums on the hulking stereo system that lived in the living room. He would grab me up and with patience and happiness he taught me how to be his dance partner.
I think he found freedom when he danced. To this day I am told by his friends from childhood what a great dancer he was. As a teenager, to me weddings meant more than a couple's nuptials. They were when my father and I could spread out on the huge wooden dance floor and have fun. I couldn't help but have a silly grin plastered on my face whenever we did that because he had one on his face, too. The last time we danced at a wedding he took my hand as we walked out onto the dance floor and cautioned me that he could probably safely only manage one dance. He had had a couple of heart attacks and heart surgery. He was outliving the doctor's predictions but he was feeling his physical limitations more acutely.
We got out on the floor and once again entered the world we created together with music and steps. I knew when to turn, when to look for his hand, what he would do next. The moments we danced together were golden. My best memories are of those times. I can still feel his cheek pressed against mine. I can still smell his cologne.
Being his daughter was not always easy so when, after not making it out of his last surgery in 1992, he passed on, I didn't cry.
He is buried very close to where I live. I drive past him every day commuting to and from work. When I think about it I wave and turn my head in his direction and say, "Hi, Dad!" This afternoon on my way to run errands, I visited his grave.
I parked, turned off the car, and reached for a stone of sorts that I had found at the beach a while back and was still located near the cup holder. I was getting choked up as I swung the car door open and got out. It had been a couple of years since I was last there and I meandered a bit as I headed in the direction I knew to be correct. Tears were running down my face as I looked and when I saw his name I started sobbing. As is Jewish custom, I crouched down and put the stone from the beach on his tombstone. The sobbing and the tears kept coming. Standing up, taking off my sunglasses, wiping my eyes, still crying. It took 22 years but finally the anger was gone. My heart could break for the father I lost way too soon.
I think he found freedom when he danced. To this day I am told by his friends from childhood what a great dancer he was. As a teenager, to me weddings meant more than a couple's nuptials. They were when my father and I could spread out on the huge wooden dance floor and have fun. I couldn't help but have a silly grin plastered on my face whenever we did that because he had one on his face, too. The last time we danced at a wedding he took my hand as we walked out onto the dance floor and cautioned me that he could probably safely only manage one dance. He had had a couple of heart attacks and heart surgery. He was outliving the doctor's predictions but he was feeling his physical limitations more acutely.
We got out on the floor and once again entered the world we created together with music and steps. I knew when to turn, when to look for his hand, what he would do next. The moments we danced together were golden. My best memories are of those times. I can still feel his cheek pressed against mine. I can still smell his cologne.
Being his daughter was not always easy so when, after not making it out of his last surgery in 1992, he passed on, I didn't cry.
He is buried very close to where I live. I drive past him every day commuting to and from work. When I think about it I wave and turn my head in his direction and say, "Hi, Dad!" This afternoon on my way to run errands, I visited his grave.
I parked, turned off the car, and reached for a stone of sorts that I had found at the beach a while back and was still located near the cup holder. I was getting choked up as I swung the car door open and got out. It had been a couple of years since I was last there and I meandered a bit as I headed in the direction I knew to be correct. Tears were running down my face as I looked and when I saw his name I started sobbing. As is Jewish custom, I crouched down and put the stone from the beach on his tombstone. The sobbing and the tears kept coming. Standing up, taking off my sunglasses, wiping my eyes, still crying. It took 22 years but finally the anger was gone. My heart could break for the father I lost way too soon.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Mom
My mother and I have not been close our whole lives. It isn't until the past year that we've found peace. There has always been some kind of weird behavior from my mother towards me that she has a hard time controlling. She has admitted to it on and off through the past 10 years most recently about three months ago. She has apologized to me again and again for "not being nice to me" and I know that a large part of it is that she feels that if she had loved me properly and treated me kindly I would not be in the position I am in now.
One of my earliest memories of my mother is when I was somewhere around 4 years old. I was in the front yard playing while she was taking a nap on the couch in the living room. This was the early '60s in a small town at a time when it was safe to let your kid do that. Being curious, I observed a bee a little too closely as it went about it's business in the bushes and I got stung. Crying, I ran into the house to my mother asking for solace and help. Instead I was told to go back outside and play. Everything was fine.
I no longer experience emotional pain when I recall this. With age comes acceptance plus my mother has apologized enough. She is 79 and I don't want her to be awash in guilt.
The position I am in now is I am making 36% less money in Florida than I did in Baltimore. I live in a house where 95% of the windows are painted shut and the ones that I can open don't stay open unless there is something propped up keeping them that way. There are termites and the bedroom carpeting, despite my vacuuming efforts, is a luxury spa for fleas. Since last fall my landlord has promised he will tent the house.
The appliances were new in the '70s except for the microwave that my landlord replaced last year.
Since the old one was part of a stove/oven/microwave combo, the new one sits on a table in the kitchen.
Because I left my abusive alcoholic ex-husband who wouldn't allow the 40 some odd potential buyers into the house I used to own to view it to make a possible $40,000 profit, I have been in the foreclosure process and have been notified I owe a lot of money despite the auctioning off of the house that was a couple thousand short of the asking price.
Getting back to my mother. I routinely call her on my drive home from work. It keeps me awake after a long day, the hour long drive seems shorter, and I can give her the time she wants. As we were talking yesterday afternoon, Poppy's allergies came up which was followed by the subject of fleas and termites. My mother with a voice choked with emotion said, "I can't believe a child of mine is living this way." I told her it was okay and I wasn't ashamed to live where I do. Of course I wish I was living somewhere nicer but in the end we all die and we can't take it with us. Whatever we do in our present lives will end and some day we will be back and I hope the next life, having learned what I have in this life, will be cushier.
I have lived through cancer and decisions I made hoping they would patch-up emotional wounds. I no longer raise my fists in response to fists being raised at me. I can admit to imperfection without losing my sense of self. I can cry without feeling less than. I can feel weak or strong without guilt and/or the sense that I am letting someone down or carrying them. The only expectations I aim to fulfill are my own; the ones I set for myself.
I love my mother and I accept her. She is not going to change and she loves me with all of her heart as best she can. I am going to enjoy and cherish her and sometimes grit my teeth because of her but I will do it until I don't have her anymore.
One of my earliest memories of my mother is when I was somewhere around 4 years old. I was in the front yard playing while she was taking a nap on the couch in the living room. This was the early '60s in a small town at a time when it was safe to let your kid do that. Being curious, I observed a bee a little too closely as it went about it's business in the bushes and I got stung. Crying, I ran into the house to my mother asking for solace and help. Instead I was told to go back outside and play. Everything was fine.
I no longer experience emotional pain when I recall this. With age comes acceptance plus my mother has apologized enough. She is 79 and I don't want her to be awash in guilt.
The position I am in now is I am making 36% less money in Florida than I did in Baltimore. I live in a house where 95% of the windows are painted shut and the ones that I can open don't stay open unless there is something propped up keeping them that way. There are termites and the bedroom carpeting, despite my vacuuming efforts, is a luxury spa for fleas. Since last fall my landlord has promised he will tent the house.
The appliances were new in the '70s except for the microwave that my landlord replaced last year.
Since the old one was part of a stove/oven/microwave combo, the new one sits on a table in the kitchen.
Because I left my abusive alcoholic ex-husband who wouldn't allow the 40 some odd potential buyers into the house I used to own to view it to make a possible $40,000 profit, I have been in the foreclosure process and have been notified I owe a lot of money despite the auctioning off of the house that was a couple thousand short of the asking price.
Getting back to my mother. I routinely call her on my drive home from work. It keeps me awake after a long day, the hour long drive seems shorter, and I can give her the time she wants. As we were talking yesterday afternoon, Poppy's allergies came up which was followed by the subject of fleas and termites. My mother with a voice choked with emotion said, "I can't believe a child of mine is living this way." I told her it was okay and I wasn't ashamed to live where I do. Of course I wish I was living somewhere nicer but in the end we all die and we can't take it with us. Whatever we do in our present lives will end and some day we will be back and I hope the next life, having learned what I have in this life, will be cushier.
I have lived through cancer and decisions I made hoping they would patch-up emotional wounds. I no longer raise my fists in response to fists being raised at me. I can admit to imperfection without losing my sense of self. I can cry without feeling less than. I can feel weak or strong without guilt and/or the sense that I am letting someone down or carrying them. The only expectations I aim to fulfill are my own; the ones I set for myself.
I love my mother and I accept her. She is not going to change and she loves me with all of her heart as best she can. I am going to enjoy and cherish her and sometimes grit my teeth because of her but I will do it until I don't have her anymore.
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