The class on Rainbows taught me that there is no pot of gold at the end of any rainbow. A case where too much information bursts a bubble. Thanks a lot.
The highly educated instructor explained that rainbows are round and have no end. His dazzling slides demonstrated this scientific fact.
I was glad that Des didn't hear this. At least I hope he didn't. You never know what gets around up there in yonder land.
Des loved to make rainbows with a garden hose when he sprinkled the lawn. He would call me to come out and see his marvel. Good thing he isn't around now or the water police would fine him for wasting water.
Since I am signed up for other classes besides the Rainbow class, I am getting worried. One class is about Fairy Tales and another about Country Music.
Fairy tales would be hard to dissect. We already know they aren't true. I never did believe that anyone climbed up Rapunzel's hair with or without hairspray
As for Country Music, that's about heart break and standing by your man. Heck that's a no brainer. Even Hillary stood by her man. And she was no Dolly Parton.
That brings me to another event I joined. Mended Hearts. I qualified because my heart was mended once with two stents in my major artery. I wonder if they can mend my heart that was broken when Des left our heavenly home to frolic with the angels up yonder. I bet he is still trying to make rainbows up there.
So Says Sassy
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Suicide Is a Family Affair
I was thirteen years old when my grandfather committed suicide. With all the publicity in recent days about Robin Williams final act, memories return about my grandfather, a morose Italian immigrantwho never truly adjusted to life in a Chicago neighborhood where family lived in and around him.
He called me occu de bugia. Eyes like a bug. They were brown like his. Pressed quarters in my hand and pinched my cheek. Who knew what demons rode his shoulders? His suicide caused a buzz in our neighborhood. It was messy, shooting hmself in the head with my father resting on the couch in the next room. Woke up screaming, relatives swarming down the stairs in the two flat grandpa owned. he lived alone, my grandmother had died a few years back. his 2 other sons overseas, in the army.
I wrote a short story about him when I became a writer, I called it Grandpa's Last Stand. Hard to understand his deep depression. No shrinks in those days to talk to, not much of a church goer, even though my grandmother went to mass daily. For years, I avoided the stairwell where his apartment was, the bullet hole still in the wall. Eerie.
My father brooded a lot, unable to overcome his gambling addiction. I knew he had a gun somewhere in our house in a new neighborhood. Fearful that he, too, would do this drastic deed. He never did. Just lost himself in long shots, beating himself up for his weaknesses, I loved him so much. Who knew his heart would do him in, a respectable way to go.
I think about Robbin Williams family now. I wonder if they worry about each other. About themselves.
Years ago,I suffered a deep depression. Fortunately, resources were available to help me through it,Mentors, counsellors, church, faith, meds that worked, And my unfailing sense of humor that crept back into my life.
We never know what others are grapling with, when kindness and love is all we can offer.
My guru visited me this week and had me write this sentence down and repeated it myself often. I share it here with you. "May I be forgiven for any harm I may have casused conciously or unconsciously." It resonates with me. It works if you work it.
So Says Sassy
He called me occu de bugia. Eyes like a bug. They were brown like his. Pressed quarters in my hand and pinched my cheek. Who knew what demons rode his shoulders? His suicide caused a buzz in our neighborhood. It was messy, shooting hmself in the head with my father resting on the couch in the next room. Woke up screaming, relatives swarming down the stairs in the two flat grandpa owned. he lived alone, my grandmother had died a few years back. his 2 other sons overseas, in the army.
I wrote a short story about him when I became a writer, I called it Grandpa's Last Stand. Hard to understand his deep depression. No shrinks in those days to talk to, not much of a church goer, even though my grandmother went to mass daily. For years, I avoided the stairwell where his apartment was, the bullet hole still in the wall. Eerie.
My father brooded a lot, unable to overcome his gambling addiction. I knew he had a gun somewhere in our house in a new neighborhood. Fearful that he, too, would do this drastic deed. He never did. Just lost himself in long shots, beating himself up for his weaknesses, I loved him so much. Who knew his heart would do him in, a respectable way to go.
I think about Robbin Williams family now. I wonder if they worry about each other. About themselves.
Years ago,I suffered a deep depression. Fortunately, resources were available to help me through it,Mentors, counsellors, church, faith, meds that worked, And my unfailing sense of humor that crept back into my life.
We never know what others are grapling with, when kindness and love is all we can offer.
My guru visited me this week and had me write this sentence down and repeated it myself often. I share it here with you. "May I be forgiven for any harm I may have casused conciously or unconsciously." It resonates with me. It works if you work it.
So Says Sassy
Saturday, August 9, 2014
The Finality of Loss
This is the witching hour. My eyes begin to smart around 5:30 p.m or 6 p.m. Vague sadness drifts over me. Des has been gone well over a year but missing him comes over me in waves. Grief, mourning whatever. A rose by any other name would sting as much.
Most of the time I go on with life in this new category of widow. Go to church, meet friends, laugh, write, read a ton of new books, visit one or another of the medical pros that keep me above the grass.
Manage to keep up with the onslaught of paper work, bills, ads,coupons, plea for money from a litany of charitable organizaions. I am tempted to cross out the name of the ones addressed to my husband and write forward to local cemetery. Haven't done it yet. Still might.
Tomato plants are growing in my back yard. Des is shocked, mouth agape. A play on words since he developed Agape Therapy, Greek work referencing love--the unconditional kind. Wrote books about it. gave them away, charging money was not his long suit. Good at giving it away.
I should have realized what I was getting into when he took away my credit cards during our brief dating days, paid off the balance of $700 - serious money in 1971- and declared over the years to everyone we knew that he bought me.
A few years ago, I put seven crisp one hundred dollar bills in an envelope, put it under the Christmas Tree and declared myself free. He just smirked and asked where the interest was. Did I mention that I miss him?
Just noticed that it is now past the witching hour and my weepy mood has passed. Will turn on the TV, laugh with the Golden Girls, warm up with the Walton Family...my rerun entertainment to chase away the blues. See you in the funny papers.
So says Sassy
des has been
Saturday, June 14, 2014
My Dad....DOB 3-1-1909..
Father's Day tomorrow stretches across time with no one to buy a card for or his favorite shaving lotion, Old Spice. My dad died at the age of 64 from heart problems that did him in.
Of course, a lifelong smoking habit didn't help. Neither did his gambling addiction that gave him an adrenal rush and a roller coaster ride of wins and losses.
I miss him and his fierce and partial love for me, his only child. I never doubted that.
He graduted from Lane Technical High School in Chicago, the only one of his siblings to do so. Smart, sly and cunning, the bookies in our neighborhood were his pals and downfalls. Everybody liked him, even my mom most of the time.
He was a master mechanic partial to Chrysler products. We always had a Dodge or DeSoto. Other makes were not mentioned.
He was my companion on long evenings when my mother worked the night shift on a factory assembly line. We sat by the radio and laughted at Fibber McGee and Molley, and were captivated by Mr. District Attorney and The Shadow Knows. He did crossword puzzles in ink.
Loved to barbecue chicken on a grill, boasted about his fig tree, fixed cars that lined up in our alley on Sundays, for friends and family. Protective of me, he greeted my dates with steely eyes and wasn't shy about mentioning his mafia connections.
Big hearted, affectionate,he beamed with pride at his two grandkids, David John and Judith Debra. Italian men were partial to the boys in those days, but he treated them as equals. Told Judith someday she would be princess in the Rose Parade. Slipped money to each of them with the warning not to tell grandma.
Called me up one day at my office--ironically I worked for the District Attorney--and said he was on a winning streak in Las Vegas. I said great, quit and go home. Nope he said, promising to give me 10 percent of his winnings.
Yeah, right, I thought.
He won $2000 and gave me $200.
In spite of money worries, he left my mom with the house intact, a car and money in the bank that she managed to squirrel away,
That was my dad, handsome, trim with a mustache, soulful brown eyes, and Clark Gable ears.
Love you, Dad,
Ann Marie
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Overdosed on the Waltons
Memorial Day was long so I fed my addiction. Not what you think. I never left the house. Non stop Waltons were on the Hallmark Channel. My vicarious family through the seventies,. No brainer to figure out why this only child would love a familyof eight siblings plus grandma and grandpa and parents who loved each other.
I did do a load of wash on occasion to stretch my legs and feed my hungry cats, checked the email, paid some bills. Since I gave up guilt for lent, I didn't have a twinge indulging my Walton marathon.
The day before David and Barbara barbecued in my back yard, hauling in all the burgers and fixings. A wonderful surprise to warm the cockles of my heart, whatever the heck cockles are. My other kids were up north and the great grandkids were frolicing up in San Luis Obispo with their parents.
Holidays are fraught with memories, sweet and bittersweet. Over the years, Des and I had picnics down at the Marina, our big brown van filled with food and family around to share the time. That Van carried us across the country to his New York family nearly every couple of years. Picnics back there took pl;ace by Zirkles' pond in Brocton. In fact, Joyce told me that is exactly what they did yesterday.
Come to think of it, I married into a big family, not unlike the Waltons. Des was the youngest of seven so I was enfolded into their warmth. His brotheer Dick, 13 years old, was a psuedo father to him Nieces still call me Aunt Ann. They scattered to nearby small towns, - Ripley, Westfield, Brocton, Jamestown. and across the state line to Erie,Pensylvania.
Last Fall we held a graveside service for Des in Ripley, had a memorial celebration at niece Trudi's diner (Meeders) and and wound up at a picnic at one of the nephew's barn..
I am ending this on a Walton family goodnight. Good night everbody, especially Des.
So Says Sassy
I did do a load of wash on occasion to stretch my legs and feed my hungry cats, checked the email, paid some bills. Since I gave up guilt for lent, I didn't have a twinge indulging my Walton marathon.
The day before David and Barbara barbecued in my back yard, hauling in all the burgers and fixings. A wonderful surprise to warm the cockles of my heart, whatever the heck cockles are. My other kids were up north and the great grandkids were frolicing up in San Luis Obispo with their parents.
Holidays are fraught with memories, sweet and bittersweet. Over the years, Des and I had picnics down at the Marina, our big brown van filled with food and family around to share the time. That Van carried us across the country to his New York family nearly every couple of years. Picnics back there took pl;ace by Zirkles' pond in Brocton. In fact, Joyce told me that is exactly what they did yesterday.
Come to think of it, I married into a big family, not unlike the Waltons. Des was the youngest of seven so I was enfolded into their warmth. His brotheer Dick, 13 years old, was a psuedo father to him Nieces still call me Aunt Ann. They scattered to nearby small towns, - Ripley, Westfield, Brocton, Jamestown. and across the state line to Erie,Pensylvania.
Last Fall we held a graveside service for Des in Ripley, had a memorial celebration at niece Trudi's diner (Meeders) and and wound up at a picnic at one of the nephew's barn..
I am ending this on a Walton family goodnight. Good night everbody, especially Des.
So Says Sassy
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Incognito
When a dermatologist decides to use liquid nitroglycerin on a portion of your face, it stings. Who knew it stung so much that you stifled a loud scream. Obviously,I, your local coward, was unprepared for pain. Remember me? I was the one who never got her ears pierced until age fifty.
Beyond the pain, the area has turned blushing red. Soon, it will blister and my eye will bulge. Not a pretty sight. Next, dead skin will flake away. Not to worry soothes said dermatologist. I will look normal in seven to ten days. See you on church. Maybe.
I checkedwith my live-in grandson, Andy and he predicted that things were going to get real ugly soon. His slogan is "keep it real." I should tell him that reality sucks . Grandmas shouldn't talk like that, but sassy ones do..
So here is my plea. Where does one get those hideous oversized visors that celebrities and other nefarious characters hide behind to avoid recognition? It is either that,or I will hide in plain sight at my humble abode until the mirror says it's okay to go out and about. By the way, the pierced ears have closed up again. Where can you buy those clip on earrings? Must be an oldies store around.
One positive note: I'll never get a facelift, tumy tuck or any thing painful. Reminds me of an old saying of husband Des when we discussed diets. "Costs just as much to bury a fat guy as a skinny one." That goes for ugly as well.
So Says Sassy
Beyond the pain, the area has turned blushing red. Soon, it will blister and my eye will bulge. Not a pretty sight. Next, dead skin will flake away. Not to worry soothes said dermatologist. I will look normal in seven to ten days. See you on church. Maybe.
I checkedwith my live-in grandson, Andy and he predicted that things were going to get real ugly soon. His slogan is "keep it real." I should tell him that reality sucks . Grandmas shouldn't talk like that, but sassy ones do..
So here is my plea. Where does one get those hideous oversized visors that celebrities and other nefarious characters hide behind to avoid recognition? It is either that,or I will hide in plain sight at my humble abode until the mirror says it's okay to go out and about. By the way, the pierced ears have closed up again. Where can you buy those clip on earrings? Must be an oldies store around.
One positive note: I'll never get a facelift, tumy tuck or any thing painful. Reminds me of an old saying of husband Des when we discussed diets. "Costs just as much to bury a fat guy as a skinny one." That goes for ugly as well.
So Says Sassy
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Mothers Revisited
My mother, Grace widowed for 15 years,died at the age of 79. She must have been lonely, living 60 miles away from me, her only child. She, of the flapper era, did Charleston steps in her small kitchen, neatness personified and never was able to tame my father's gambling addiction. We wondered if he would leave her penniless but her house was paid off and she said she said she was at peace.
When I became a widow over a year ago, only then did I realize how truly lonely she must have been. Good, now I have something else to feel guilty about. I do miss her Saturday morning phone calls especially after my father was gone. She did love to relate his defects. She recorded events in her life on a cassette and left them along with tapes of Elvis. She loved Elvis.
My grandmother, Josephine, became a widow in 1918 at the age of 28, left with four children and the job of burying her husband and infant son on the same week. Tough and strong, she came through Ellis Island at 15 with an uncle. I never knew why she left her family for this daring adventure.
I last saw her in a nursing home where she sang, My Bonny Lies Over The Ocean At 92, she was grateful that her, "Eyes lasted as long as" she did. She loved soap operas and let me know who was the bad lady.
When I think about these feisty women when Mother's Day approaches. How I would love to have one more visit with them, now that am 82 and relate to their traumas, their grit and especially their sassyness. Seems familiar. Would that I have their spunk and survivor skills.
By the way I enjoy night time soaps and play my Frank Sinatra CD's when I am lonely.
So saya Sassy
When I became a widow over a year ago, only then did I realize how truly lonely she must have been. Good, now I have something else to feel guilty about. I do miss her Saturday morning phone calls especially after my father was gone. She did love to relate his defects. She recorded events in her life on a cassette and left them along with tapes of Elvis. She loved Elvis.
My grandmother, Josephine, became a widow in 1918 at the age of 28, left with four children and the job of burying her husband and infant son on the same week. Tough and strong, she came through Ellis Island at 15 with an uncle. I never knew why she left her family for this daring adventure.
I last saw her in a nursing home where she sang, My Bonny Lies Over The Ocean At 92, she was grateful that her, "Eyes lasted as long as" she did. She loved soap operas and let me know who was the bad lady.
When I think about these feisty women when Mother's Day approaches. How I would love to have one more visit with them, now that am 82 and relate to their traumas, their grit and especially their sassyness. Seems familiar. Would that I have their spunk and survivor skills.
By the way I enjoy night time soaps and play my Frank Sinatra CD's when I am lonely.
So saya Sassy
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Time To Grow New Wings
I signed up for a new writers group that had a waiting list. I called to be put on the list. Turns out I am in, if I bring my own chair. Especially if I am short legged. Don't ask but shost did. I qualify so I am pushing myself out of my comfort zone to go. Keep tuned.
I need to find a 12 step program for the undisciplined. I'd start one myself, but then I would have to be there.
Been going back to LA Fitness to be tortured by a trainer twice a week. Erratically, at that. I am learning to dislike that old cliche, no pain-no gain. Why are cliches always true? Just wondering.
Wonder how come I spent 15 minutes looking foe my glasses the other day and happened to notice I was wearing them when I passed a mirror. But then I am always looking for things, especially keys, cell phone,or purse. You know that drill if you were born when dinasaurs roamed the earth. I wish I could attach my cell phone to these things All I would have to do is I call my cell phone from my land line and follow the sound.
Unfortunately, I have my cell phone listed on my iphone in the name of Des. So every time I run around looking for it, it tells me that Des called. That bums me out, but Des is probabiylaughing up there with his angel pals. Not fair.
Another cliche. Life is not fair, followed by what is, is. I have a great granddaughter in New York who happens to be named Isis. She really is what she is.
I am in avoidance mode with this blog. So many people I love are suffering health challenges, I had to get up off my prayer knees and distract mysef silly.
So Says Sassy
er
I need to find a 12 step program for the undisciplined. I'd start one myself, but then I would have to be there.
Been going back to LA Fitness to be tortured by a trainer twice a week. Erratically, at that. I am learning to dislike that old cliche, no pain-no gain. Why are cliches always true? Just wondering.
Wonder how come I spent 15 minutes looking foe my glasses the other day and happened to notice I was wearing them when I passed a mirror. But then I am always looking for things, especially keys, cell phone,or purse. You know that drill if you were born when dinasaurs roamed the earth. I wish I could attach my cell phone to these things All I would have to do is I call my cell phone from my land line and follow the sound.
Unfortunately, I have my cell phone listed on my iphone in the name of Des. So every time I run around looking for it, it tells me that Des called. That bums me out, but Des is probabiylaughing up there with his angel pals. Not fair.
Another cliche. Life is not fair, followed by what is, is. I have a great granddaughter in New York who happens to be named Isis. She really is what she is.
I am in avoidance mode with this blog. So many people I love are suffering health challenges, I had to get up off my prayer knees and distract mysef silly.
So Says Sassy
er
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Giving Up For Lent
In my childhood home, lent was a somber time. You had to give stuff up and then there was Good Friday where my mom wouldn't let me listen to the radio. Of course eating meat was not to cross our lips. Boy, was she ticked when the rules got changed somewhere along the line and it was allowed after all. Those were my Catholic years when we all knew which priest gave us th least penalties for our sins in the confessional.
I abandoned the Catholic crowd when I was 16 years old, but since then a priest recently scoffed and told me "once a Catholic, always a Catholic." I didn't debate it, but I still often make the sign of the cross when I am in need of instant help.
My latest adaption of the lenten practice of givng up something for lent is not something superficial like candy or R rated movies or burning the best seller, "Shades of Gray." After I read it, of course. I am giving up Guilt.
It came to mind at a recent Ash Wednesdat at church when we were asked three challenging questions and had to write our answers in our journals. The first question stoopped me in my tracks. "What is the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
Immediately I flashed back to the day I signed Des into Treacy Villa, a residential facility after trying to care for him during difficult months of his failing health physically and emotionally. It was heart wrenching and guilt was a monstor over whelming me. I lost my job. He was my job. I loved my job and him.
Two weeks later, he had a meltdown and they called the crisis team and took him to the local hospital, and I was left to find another place to take him. The new place was Mound down the road from the other place and it turned out be acceptable--but not home. I won't dramatize the following many months that guilt rode my shoulders on my drives to see him, eat with him, read to him, and sometimes laugh with him.
The staff was loving, he charmed them all but it wasn't home. As his health deteriorated, the dreaded phone call to me from the facility..."better get here and hurry." I called my friend Jan who insisted on driving me there. I call my family and Chuck our pastor, and we all got there in time. I was able to stroke his face, whisper in his ear, tell him private memories and assured him that he was going on a glorious journey to see his brother and other family members already waiting for him. He heard me. I could tell by the was his breath paused and then resumed when I stopped and then went on with promises I believed thanks to my faith, past and present.
Later that morning while I sat in the funeral home alone waiting for decisions to be made. My eyes closed, I saw Des and heard words I never expected - not audible but in my soul. He said, "You did the right thing." His last loving gift to me. I wish I could say that released my guilt immediately. I took many agonizing months, despite assurances of family, friends and counsellors.
But this is is, my lenten promise. I am giving up guilt for lent.
So says Sassy
I abandoned the Catholic crowd when I was 16 years old, but since then a priest recently scoffed and told me "once a Catholic, always a Catholic." I didn't debate it, but I still often make the sign of the cross when I am in need of instant help.
My latest adaption of the lenten practice of givng up something for lent is not something superficial like candy or R rated movies or burning the best seller, "Shades of Gray." After I read it, of course. I am giving up Guilt.
It came to mind at a recent Ash Wednesdat at church when we were asked three challenging questions and had to write our answers in our journals. The first question stoopped me in my tracks. "What is the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
Immediately I flashed back to the day I signed Des into Treacy Villa, a residential facility after trying to care for him during difficult months of his failing health physically and emotionally. It was heart wrenching and guilt was a monstor over whelming me. I lost my job. He was my job. I loved my job and him.
Two weeks later, he had a meltdown and they called the crisis team and took him to the local hospital, and I was left to find another place to take him. The new place was Mound down the road from the other place and it turned out be acceptable--but not home. I won't dramatize the following many months that guilt rode my shoulders on my drives to see him, eat with him, read to him, and sometimes laugh with him.
The staff was loving, he charmed them all but it wasn't home. As his health deteriorated, the dreaded phone call to me from the facility..."better get here and hurry." I called my friend Jan who insisted on driving me there. I call my family and Chuck our pastor, and we all got there in time. I was able to stroke his face, whisper in his ear, tell him private memories and assured him that he was going on a glorious journey to see his brother and other family members already waiting for him. He heard me. I could tell by the was his breath paused and then resumed when I stopped and then went on with promises I believed thanks to my faith, past and present.
Later that morning while I sat in the funeral home alone waiting for decisions to be made. My eyes closed, I saw Des and heard words I never expected - not audible but in my soul. He said, "You did the right thing." His last loving gift to me. I wish I could say that released my guilt immediately. I took many agonizing months, despite assurances of family, friends and counsellors.
But this is is, my lenten promise. I am giving up guilt for lent.
So says Sassy
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Now What?
I wonder who I am. Seriously. My driver's license tells my name, address, height and weight. yes brown. Hair - no longer brown. Height 2 inches shorter. Weight..top secret.
I used to be a wife. Thankfully I am still a mother, grandmother, great grandmother, mother-in-law and friend. I have all the creature comforts I need. My driver's license is still valid. My Toyota still hums along. So do my cats. But I am learning the difference between a solitary life and a lonely life.
I grew up as an only child. Talk about lonely. But I had friends and cousins and a close neighborhood made up of Irish and Italian immigrants and their kids and we all got along. My father, the gambler, held dice games in our basement and the local Irish cop next door managed to swing by to accept favors. The corner tavern was the place to get a bucket of beer and my maternal grandmother lived across the street from the house we lived in, owned by my paternal grandparents.
My parents argued over his gambling and the house became silent. I longed for a pet to cuddle but my mother was too fastidious to allow furry critters in the house. My parents loved me, were affectionate and kind but not so much with each other. It wa an uneasy childhood. I cherished my friends, my surrogate siblings.
Lonely is worse than just being alone, so Now What? Back to writing, journaling, blogging - all solitary pursuits. I socialize, belong to church groups, But there are periods when I miss Des so much, my eyes dampen, especially evenings when the house is quiet and my cats stare at me and we all wonder where that guy is, the one who gave great hugs, and loved us unconditionally.
I need to try new pursuits, distract me from the past, but still savor my memories---the good ones mostly. Never an outdoor gal, I contemplate the back yard with the swing Des built for me. Consider the octangular raised bed waiting to get attention. On my new to-do list, but hardly a bucket list.
About that bucket list, my dream to visit Italy someday is becoming more possible. I have perfect travel companions more than willing to go and July is the target month. If finances and decent health will make it so, I had better drag out my Italian Language books. My grandparents will be dancing in their graves. My Irish husband will raise a heavenly eyebrow. But he got to Ireland and kissed the barney stone. I may get to walk in Rome and get pinched by a roving Italian. Who Knows?
Certainly not Sassy
I used to be a wife. Thankfully I am still a mother, grandmother, great grandmother, mother-in-law and friend. I have all the creature comforts I need. My driver's license is still valid. My Toyota still hums along. So do my cats. But I am learning the difference between a solitary life and a lonely life.
I grew up as an only child. Talk about lonely. But I had friends and cousins and a close neighborhood made up of Irish and Italian immigrants and their kids and we all got along. My father, the gambler, held dice games in our basement and the local Irish cop next door managed to swing by to accept favors. The corner tavern was the place to get a bucket of beer and my maternal grandmother lived across the street from the house we lived in, owned by my paternal grandparents.
My parents argued over his gambling and the house became silent. I longed for a pet to cuddle but my mother was too fastidious to allow furry critters in the house. My parents loved me, were affectionate and kind but not so much with each other. It wa an uneasy childhood. I cherished my friends, my surrogate siblings.
Lonely is worse than just being alone, so Now What? Back to writing, journaling, blogging - all solitary pursuits. I socialize, belong to church groups, But there are periods when I miss Des so much, my eyes dampen, especially evenings when the house is quiet and my cats stare at me and we all wonder where that guy is, the one who gave great hugs, and loved us unconditionally.
I need to try new pursuits, distract me from the past, but still savor my memories---the good ones mostly. Never an outdoor gal, I contemplate the back yard with the swing Des built for me. Consider the octangular raised bed waiting to get attention. On my new to-do list, but hardly a bucket list.
About that bucket list, my dream to visit Italy someday is becoming more possible. I have perfect travel companions more than willing to go and July is the target month. If finances and decent health will make it so, I had better drag out my Italian Language books. My grandparents will be dancing in their graves. My Irish husband will raise a heavenly eyebrow. But he got to Ireland and kissed the barney stone. I may get to walk in Rome and get pinched by a roving Italian. Who Knows?
Certainly not Sassy
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