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  

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

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

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

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

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















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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