No "Live for the Moments", Please.

Sorry, but I'm not a "live for the moment" kind of guy.  I prefer the phrase "relax and enjoy the ride." 

To me, the phrase "live for the moment" (LFTM) means just sit there and enjoy the current view.  The day I hand over the keys to my childhood home to someone who doesn't love it as much as I did, now that will involve a LFTM.  I plan on standing for a minute in each room of the house and absorb the atmosphere.  Study the walls, the floors, the closets.   Relish in memories that occurred in each spot.

Personally, I want to limit the amount of LFTMs in my life.  Why just enjoy the view?  Why not be involved with the view?  Interact?  Play a part?  Relax and enjoy the ride sounds like you are actually moving towards something.  Not just stuck there on your a**.

George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Agatha Christie, Marie Curie, Helen Keller, Nat King Cole, Stephen King, FDR, JFK, MLK...  I wonder how many of these people "lived of the moment?"

Sara Perkins did.  Sara Perkins lived for the moment.   Are you saying "Who's Sara Perkins?"  If so, precisely my point.   Abraham Lincoln had a war to fight.  It involved planning, coordinating, praying, sweating, making tough decisions that would effect multitudes.  He wasn't sitting around enjoying the moment.   He worked hard.

I am a new writer and it's hard work.  With so much imagination in me, I worry I will not get it all written.   It's not just a career move, it's a creative outlet.  I struggle to find the right words.  There are times I just can't get to the computer fast enough to write.   I have been in the shower, overcome writer's block, dry off quickly, and race directly to the computer to write it.  Thank god the curtains were drawn.  No free shows for the neighbors!

My journey to becoming writer is a passionate one.  I want to write and publish.  I want my readers to come along with me and watch stories unfold.  This requires discipline and hard work.  Writing is hard.

I get tired of people telling me to "live for the moment."   From now on, when they do, I've decided to tell them to sit back and enjoy the view.  I'll drive.  I've got places to go, people to see, things to do.

CSM

One Place in My Memories

I like to visit places like antique shops, junk stores, and anyplace with rustic or well-loved artifacts from the past.  I love them because they remind me of places from my memories.

Dying when I was only a year old, I don't remember Grandpa Alford, but his garage full of stuff lingered and I remember going into it with my Grandma. 

My Grandpa Alford, also known as Dad Alford, was the kind of guy who wouldn't pass up a bent nail on the street.  He would pick it up and put it in his pocket to file later in the appropriate container in the garage.  He had an assortment of cans full of nails, screws, and scrap. Grandpa was a save-it-for-a-rainy-day kind of guy.

The "garage" was actually a former chicken coop moved from the farm.  A lean-to had been added later.  It was painted white with red trim, as I recall.  I may have to check out some old photographs to confirm the color scheme.   It wasn't really a garage, but more a workshop for Grandpa to hide in when my Grandma was on the war path.

Grandpa Alford grew up on a farm outside of Pendleton.   His father died when Grandpa was only six, leaving behind his widow, several children, and a farm.   The farm would eventually be lost during the early Depression years.  His mother moved from each of her children's home, eventually living with her daughter, Nancy.   My Grandpa left Indiana and headed west to North Dakota, where he would stay with his oldest brother, Duke, in a village called Denhoff.

I find it hard to imagine but my Grandpa worked on a cattle ranch as a ranch-hand.   Riding horses, herding cattle, farming...  I picture something romantic from the early 1930s, but ultimately I'm sure it was hard work.  I spent two weeks in North Dakota.  What a great state!   Rolling fields, winds sweeping across the plains, the waving wheat can sure smell sweet...  I couldn't do any better than Rodgers and Hammerstein.   I'm not sure they raise wheat in North Dakota.

While he was working there, on a autumn hayride, maybe during Halloween, my Grandpa meet my Grandma.   A few months later, they married.  My mother was born on that cattle ranch near Denhoff.   When she was six months old, the family came back to Pendleton to stay.  During the war years, he worked as a handy man and farmed.  I remember asking my Mother and Grandmother how they dealt with the Depression.   Both said they had no problems.  They had nothing to loose.   They kept a big garden, rented from family, and lived cheap.  As Mother said "We were poor but happy."  I love those words.

I think it was during the Depression years that my Grandpa, like many others who lived through them, collected stuff just in case they needed it later.  Use everything to its fullest.   A concept that eventually lead to a packed garage.  

So much stuff in that garage.  Parts and pieces of old cars, chipped dishes, rusty nails, old magazines, iron scraps, Maxwell House coffee tins, unidentified parts and pieces of wood, glass jars, a freezer housing Grandma's yeast rolls for Christmas, an old trunk with a heavy-duty comforter storied in it...

My Uncle and Aunt live in my Grandparents house now.   The garage is still there.
I loved going into that garage.  It was a cabinet of curiosities to be explored by a young kid.

What great memories I have...

CSM

You and Me Against the World

Helen Reddy singing:

"You and me against the world
Sometimes it feels like you and me against the world
When all the others turn their backs and walk away
You can count on me to stay..."

 

My Mother was always there for me.  When I was sick. When I was happy.  When I was sad.  The Christmases, the birthdays, the funerals...

 

When I posted the entry about being mad at myself and about just being myself, a kind friend sent me this amazing story.  I have abridged and edited it.  I cried after the first few lines and had to return to read the second half.  I cried some more before re-reading the entire message again.

 

Here it is:

 

"...just read your blog, and we both shed a few tears.  It's hard to be so honest, but you did it well.  I wanted you to hear a conversation I had with your mom right before I left.  It was a rainy day and I was the person in charge for the day.  You mom was working.  Somehow I ended up telling your mom I was gay.  She said, "my son is, too."  I asked how she had dealt with it, and she said, "I don't know how to talk to him, I don't know what to say."  I told her to let you know that she loved you.  She said," I hope he knows that."  I hope so, too.  She may not have helped you or talked to you, but in her own way she was supportive.  Thought you should know."

 

I find it hard to write, read, or re-read these words, mainly because my eyes are blurred by tears.  When I went to bed that night, I talked with my Mother well past midnight.   Somehow, I just knew she was there.   I laughed, cried, and smiled... but mainly cried.

 

Helen Reddy singing:
"You and me against the world
Sometimes it feels like you and me against the world
And for all the times we've cried
I always felt that God was on our side..."

 

When I was a kid, my Mother had "The Greatest Hits of Helen Reddy" album, which I now have.  I remember her playing it.  And this one song from the album sticks in my head until this very day as being our song -- my Mother's and mine. 

 

I listen to it differently now.  And I cry... This part of the lyrics has even more meaning now...

 

Helen Reddy singing:
"And when one of us is gone
And one is left alone to carry on
Then remembering will have to do
Our memories alone will get us through
Think about the days of me and you
Of you and me against the world"

 

I love you, Mama...

CSM

Staying in Place

The other day, I had a "come-to-Jesus" (CTJ) meeting.  As defined by me, it's a meeting where someone close to you confronts and threatens to beat the hell out of you. 

It's not important to go into the details about what we talked about.  It is, however, important to know this:  It takes a lot of love and care to have one of these meetings.  Between rounds of tears, various compliments, being told to just shut up and sit down, and for god's sake just anchor the damn boat, I began to face my demons and make some peace.

One important discovery during the meeting -- life is now different in ways I hadn't thought.   It all changed at 3:30 in the afternoon of April 15th, 2013.  I now have no reason to run away.  I realize now it was my parents I wanted to run away from.  Not that I hated them, but because I had a high level of fear of hurting them.  This all relates to the anger towards myself for not being who I am.  I didn't want them to see the real me.

Last week, I told three different people that I was "selling out" and "moving away" because "things just don't work out here for me."  These words were the main focal points of the conversations.

The most significant life-changing discovery from our CTJ meeting was that I no longer had to "sell out" and "move away" and should start believing that things would work out for me right here.  In other words, stop trying to run-away! Invest here.  And let yourself be invested.  Yes, it means settling, but it can be good settling.  I have friends here.  I have people who love me here.  I have a good job.  And I have reasonable goals.

We also talked about my travels over the past few years.  After each trip, I came back refreshed.  I had seen some other part of the world.   I had left my home only to realize it is home.  I haven't traveled in a while.  That's also part of the problem.  Easily fixed.

In hindsight, the words "selling out", "moving away", and "things just don't work out here for me" no longer served any purpose except one.  They served as my clues as to where I was in grief.  I had hit bottom.  Now, I would began to bounce back up.  The words are not new to me.  I've said them other times when I thought "I just can't do this anymore."  Dealing with both of my parent's sicknesses and saying goodbye, changes in my job, feeling lost or alone, and now saying goodbye to my childhood home.

The bottom line is, dear readers, I want to invest in you whether I know you or not.  Keep reading.  I know some posts are dull and boring, but I didn't promise you perfection.  And remember, this is my scratch pad for practice.  My books are the bigger goal.

And second, I would like to apologize to those people who listened to me go on about leaving and selling out.   It isn't happening.   I don't need to.  I hope you will invest in me as much as I have or want to invest in you.

CSM

On Being Mad at Myself For Wanting to Be Myself

I'm mad at myself.  

I'm so mad for not standing up more during the first half of my life and saying "I am who I am."  Part of my anger that I'm feeling towards my parents is really anger directed at myself for not being me, for standing up and saying "Hey!  I pay the bills in my house.  If you don't like it, too bad!"

The idea of "pleasing your parents" is a tough one to get over.  From my earliest days, I wanted my parents to be proud of me.  I lived the ideal of "pleasing my parents."  Graduating high school, going to college, getting a good job, getting married...  Wait.  Stop.  That's right. I can't get married in Indiana.  I guess Minnesota/New York/Massachusetts will be in my future... 

I wanted to please my parents...  even if it meant hiding a big part of my life from them.   My secret life.  Or at least I think it was a secret.  Please, every parent knows.

I remember my Father making comments, in reference to other people, "I don't care, I just don't want it in my face."   My Mother was quoted one time for saying "We're waiting for the other shoe to drop."  At first, I respected my Father's comment, but now all this time later, I realize what I gave up to "please my parents."

Damn!  I am so mad at myself.  

The bottom line is... It doesn't matter now.   They're gone and now they probably know, but it's still an important process for me.  That moment that you come out to your parents.   I denied myself that opportunity, mainly out of so much respect, but also out of so much fear.  I feared the possibilities.

Now that it's out there, I don't feel any different.  And I have no fear.  I'm not afraid anymore.  Yesterday is today and tomorrow will be today all over -- another thought for the therapist.

Then I stop and think...  They came from a different generation.  They had their secrets, too.  I'm sure there are ones we know nothing about.  But for me, this is one of those that I have to let out into the world. 

Sorry, but I just don't feel the need to please you two any more.  For the moment, I've got to please myself.  There's just no reason to have fear anymore.

CSM

One of the Grieving Stages

From what I've read, somewhere during the grieving process you experience... Anger!  Right on target! Oh yeah!  P.O.ed!  Hot under the collar!  Could spit nails! Can't see straight!  Fuming!

I got so damn mad the other day at both of my parents I could hardly concentrate.  It started out as a simple conversation with them in my head about some trivial found item that led to a three day rant and rave.  I was at my apartment where I did get somewhat vocal, but for the most part, it was in my head. 

Over the weekend, I did dish a little to my Sister.  Trying to hold it in, I found that I could no longer do so and started right after dinner.  We hadn't even left the restaurant yet.  She did get off easy.  I held most of it in and maintained a level head.  The next morning, I laid in bed and just went off again.

To be honest, I don't even remember what the found object was and how it set me off, but I knew that the "Anger" stage had arrived.

My Father had control issues.  He'd complain to my Mother about her books, then about her work, then about what she was cooking. Then he'd bitch about what was on TV.  Then he bitch about how my Brother never called.  Then about my Sister and her kids.  Then he'd bitch about my Mother again.  And God help you if you had to drive in the car with him!   I remember when my Mother stopped sitting in the front seat and made me sit up there.  Now I realized why.  Numerous times I missed the landscape because I had my eyes closed.   First, it was the other drivers going to fast... Oh great!  Now it's "someone's driving too slow."   He inherited this from his Mother.  The "fly-off-the-handle-get-mad-immediately" attitude.  Unlike my Mother who held her temper, but once she got there, you got out of her way!

Even from beyond the grave, my Father wanted to control.  I found out that he wanted us, meaning we three kids, to get along after he was gone.   Well, I'm sorry, but isn't going to happen.  My Sister and I will always be close.   Nothing will ever come between us.   Maybe a treat from Dairy Queen, but we'll survive.   If he really wanted us to get along, he and his siblings should have set the example.   I remember my Father complaining about my Aunt Carolyn calling and talking about stuff he couldn't have cared less about.  And as far as my Uncle Ron goes... HA!  I can't even remember the last time they talked on the phone.

My Father was the maddest man I ever knew.   He was always mad about something.

And yes, I love both my parents very deeply, but sometimes, they just make me so mad.

How funny... Here I am complaining about someone else's complaining.   I must have gotten it from my Father.

CSM

The Roughest Memory in My Room

My Mother died on July 2, 2008, about 3:30 in the morning.
  
About 3:00, I crawled into bed.  It felt like only a moment later when my Father came into my room. His exact words -- "I think she's gone." Five months of waiting, anxiety, fear, and desperation had brought us to this one moment in time.

It was pitch black outside. The house was still.  The lights dim.

My Mother was gone. 

I can still see her.  She laid on the twin bed we had brought in, making it easier on us to take care of her.   The cancer had taken its toll.  Her neck and chest all red and swollen.   Her skin pale.   She looked old, not like the young vibrant Mother I had once known.

That moment changed my life.  I didn't bother holding back.  I cried, slumped down on the floor right beside her.  I reached up to touch her arm.  To this day, I can still feel her arm.  It was ice cold.   What a horrific feeling to remember.  Not something I want to remember during that moment.

It was all over.  No more feeding tube.  No more coughing up phlegm.  No more bottles of liquid pain killer.   The anxiety of waiting for this moment ended.   

Seventy-three years accumulated to this final moment. 

July 2nd.  Two days before my birthday.

Funny how the Fates, God, Allah, whoever had planned it.  Thirty-eight years earlier plus two days, she said "Hello."   Thirty-eight years later minus two days, I said "Goodbye."

CSM