13 Is NOT An Unlucky Number

Well, we are at "Da beech" as my grandson calls it and it is pretty darn fabulous. I would show you, but my camera and my laptop had a disagreement and the laptop won. It spurned the advances of the camera and refused to allow any penetration whatsoever.

Get your mind out of the gutter.


We have two beach houses right on the Gulf of Mexico on Santa Rosa Island at Pensacola and the sand is sugar-white, the water is pale green and navy blue, the sky is a hard, bright azure and all is right with the world.

There are 13 of us here in the two beach houses. One house is light blue and one is pink. We are making frequent treks the few feet between the two houses to visit, eat and share the wi-fi connection. Last night, we had a big cookout and had wonderful steaks cooked on the grill and played a board game together after dinner.

As we played, I looked around at my mom, who was born in Pensacola and has been bringing us to the beach since I was a baby, and my sister and brother and all the kids and my little blonde grandson whose hair is turning blonder every day in the hot sun and thought "13 is not an unlucky number. It's a lucky number. The luckiest number IN THE WORLD."

One More Day

Have you heard that country song "One More Day", by Diamond Rio?



I just heard it on the radio today and it got me to thinkin'.



What if I had just one more day? What would I do?



I would want to see my friends one more time. I would like to go out to eat with them and sit around and talk and eat and drink lemon drops and laugh. And I would want to hug them and tell them I love them and I care so much about their lives and their health and their happiness. I think they know. I hope so. I would want to make sure.



I would want to spend time with my whole family. I would want to sit and laugh and talk and listen to my mom tell stories and enjoy all the girls being silly and talking a mile a minute. And tell my sister and my sister-in-law how much I value them and how they are my very best friends. I think they know. I hope so. I would want to make sure.



I would want to spend time with my immediate family. I would want to cook a meal they all like and make an ice cream pie and sit and eat and talk about books and movies and their lives and laugh out loud. I would want to tell my children and my son-in-law how much I love them and how they are the absolute center of my life and, without them, my life would be an empty, hollow and very lonely shell. And I would want to hold my grandson and kiss his soft blonde hair and read him a book and play with a ball with him because I know he loves that. And I would tell him how much I love him and how much he has enriched my life. I think they know. I hope so. I would want to make sure.



I would want to be with my husband in Alaska, because that is his absolute favorite place. We would be on the ship when we saw the whales because he was so excited his eyes were that sparkly blue they get and he was so glad he was there with me. And I would tell him that he is my very best friend and lover and I like being with him more than anyone in the world. I think he knows. I hope so. I would want to make sure.



I don't think one more day is going to be enough to do all that.

So, God willing. I hope I will have more than that.



One more day, one more time;

One more sunset, maybe I'd be satisfied;

But then again, I know what it would do;

Leave me wishing still for one more day with you.

Everything and Nothing

We went up north this weekend to Ohio for a family birthday party for my uncle, who was turning 80. There were seven brothers and three sisters in my dad's family, raised in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky with very little money and a whole lot of beans and cornbread. Three brothers and one sister are still with us.

My dad passed away last fall so it meant a lot to me to be able to see his brothers again. Tom and I rode up together and my mom came up with some other relatives, so I didn't see her until she walked into my uncle's house. In that roomful of relatives, we looked at each other and both began crying. I was shocked when my throat clenched up and I knew the tears were inevitable. I didn't expect it. I thought the crying for my dad was over. But something about seeing my ever-more fragile mother in company with the graying brothers just made my dad's death suddenly very real. Painfully real.

The brothers are really very wonderful people. They are generous, kind, very family oriented and great, funny storytellers. We sat all day and drank, and ate and just talked. Talked and talked and talked. And laughed and laughed. I laughed until I cried. But these were good tears.

My cousin Pam had told me the night before that my Uncle Bill had beginning dementia. She said in the half hour drive from the airport to their house, he had told the same story three times. He told me the same story a couple of times that night. And again the next day. That's OK. I'm just glad he is still here. He can tell me that story as many times as he wants.

We didn't really do much over the weekend.We really did nothing. But it meant everything.


"One who died is only a little ahead of the procession, all moving that way. When we round the corner we'll see him again. We have only lost him for a moment, because we fell behind stopping to tie a shoe-lace."
-J.M. Barrie

Just Not Quite Right

I looked over my blog posts last night to see which one I wanted to put up today. Shoes, clothes, earrings, trips, stories that make me look good? Stories that make me look bad? But in a way others can share. And maybe have a laugh with me. I hadn't quite decided.

Then kids died at Virginia Tech. Just going about their lives. Planning to grab a burger for lunch. To meet a friend to study later. To call mom when they got back to the dorm and wish her a happy birthday.

And none of my posts seemed quite...right. Quite...respectful.

I think I'll just meditate instead on my family and my friends. How much I love them. How lucky I am to have them. How life can change catastrophically in an instant, from one heartbeat to the next. From one indrawn breath to the next. I'll just take a moment.

How about if we take one together?

Godzilla Destroys Tokyo. Film at 11.

Godzilla visits our house every now and then. He is in the shape of a very small boy with spunsilk blonde hair and big blue eyes. He masquerades as our sweet, cuddlesome grandson whose chuckle can twist up our heart, but, yeah, he's really Godzilla. You know how in those old movies, Godzilla came striding through Tokyo, knocking over buildings and causing untold, rampant destruction? Yeah, that's Wesley. He can ransack a kitchen in two minutes. Strew toys everywhere in the living room in five. Trying to keep up with him is like trying to stuff a rabid squirrel in a tube sock. It's possible, but I don't recommend it.

But not only he is a mini-tornado, he is devious. DEVIOUS. He loves to play with the magnets I have on my refrigerator and dishwasher. He sticks and unsticks them (sticks and unsticks, sticks and unsticks - hey, he's 15 months old - this is high entertainment), holds them, chews on them, drops them into tupperware bowls. These are big magnets - I'm not about to let our precious boy choke on something. I have one magnet I really like. I had jokingly said I needed a sign for my dishwasher that said Clean/Dirty one time and my daughter found me a magnet that says that on the top and bottom - you just switch it around. Wesley LOVES that magnet. After he left the last time, as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I realized that magnet was missing. Hmph. The boy must have shoved it under the stove or refrigerator. Oh, well. I'll worry about that later. Right now, I need a nap.

The next time he came over, he went directly to a favorite cupboard in the kitchen. He opened it, looked over at me with a mischevious grin, and TOOK OUT THE MAGNET FROM WHERE HE HAD HIDDEN IT. He knew exactly where it was. He had put it there. He remembered. I'm calling MENSA today.

At least it wasn't the tv remote.

Ha ha ha ha ha Haaa. The living room is next!

Hangin' With My Peeps

So, I had lunch with my peeps yesterday. Maybe someone in their 50's shouldn't try to use slang like this, but I'm still cool. Or at least, I think I am. My daughter would not agree that I am cool by any stretch of the imagination. And when I say peeps, all I can really think of is that peep research web site that cracks me up every time I see it. Whew, enough links. I'm stressing myself out. And losing my train of thought. But that train gets derailed pretty often.

Anyway. I have lunch every month or so with my sister-in-law and our daughters. Often my mom comes and my sister when she is in town. We started this a couple of years ago so we could see other on a regular basis. I named it the SISters group, since we are sisters in spirit, even though we are all not real sisters. You know how they say you can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family? Well, I'm really lucky because I would choose these people for friends every time.

I am getting to the point here. I just had to have some build up. My sister-in-law and I have always been close. We have always lived physically close to each other and have been emotionally close, well, forever. I had one daughter and my sister-in-law (that crazy thing!) had three, so the four girls are as close as cousins can get. My husband and I also had a son, who we adore. But this post is about the girls. We took the kids everywhere when they were little. We basically had no money, so we took a picnic lunch and headed to the pool, the park, each other's house. We sat by the pool, chatting and counting the little seal-dark heads every few minutes. We took them to feed the ducks and pushed them on the swings and watched them grow. We took them to preschool together and watched them grow. We shopped for them at garage sales, let them play dress-up and watched them grow up. We enjoyed our children. We loved them. We experienced everything through their eyes.

What we never once thought about was that they would eventually grow up into women. Women we like, we admire, we enjoy spending time with. Both of us would rather do something with our daughters than with anyone else. None of them would consider moving anywhere that would be away from us. None would consider making a major decision without talking to us. Each of them calls us first when they have something to cry about or something to laugh about or something to celebrate.

We did the best we could with what we had. That meant no money but a whole lot of love.

Apparently, that was just the right combination. They are all wonderful women.

Laughing and Storytelling

My dad died in the fall. He got lung cancer and it swept through his body like some kind of virulent tsunami, sweeping through organs and seeping into his very bones.

He was a good man. A quiet, taciturn man. A strong, loving family man. My family is very lucky. We are really close. We laugh until we cry, we like to eat and we are big storytellers. When we tell a story, we want every single, last detail. My mom is the champion storyteller and Dad always sat back and let her tell the stories. About how they almost froze in Minneapolis because she had on a fur coat but just stockings on her legs. About how she got the worst sunburn of her life on a cloudy day. About not knowing how to make biscuits from scratch. He never said much. But he always listened to the rest of us. And he laughed when the rest of us laughed.

My mom came to take me to lunch one year for my birthday and she presented me with a card, after she had given me some gifts. "It's from your dad." she said. I was surprised to find a hundred dollar bill inside. My family was far from affluent when I was growing up. My dad was in the Marine Corps and, with four kids, things were tight. So I had never been given that amount of money for a gift. "He said it's for a coat. You said you needed a coat." I had said that. He had remembered. I bought a coat.

We liked to travel together as a family. We often went to Pensacola and rented a place right on the beach. Dad cracked us all up one year when we played Win, Lose or Draw. He kept adding sound effects to his drawings. We couldn't stop laughing long enough to make him stop.

One Thanksgiving, Dad stood up and tried to give a little speech about his feelings for his family. He started speaking but got so choked up he couldn't speak. He couldn't finish the speech. That was OK. We knew what he meant.

When he was in the hospital and the morphine was really strong and he was sleeping all the time, we were all there. One night we sat and told stories and laughed until we cried. I don't think we disturbed him. I think he enjoyed it.

I wasn't there when he died. I was pulling into the hospital parking lot with a big picnic basket full of food for the others who were on duty in the room. My cell phone rang and I knew.

After we had made all the arrangements, we all came back to my house. We ate all the food in the picnic basket. We told stories. And we laughed.

Dad would have approved.

The Wesley Waltz

I've always liked to dance. I danced in high school (Let's do the twist, the pony and the swim. Now, don't hurt that hip with the arthritis trying these today.) and in college and even took some modern dance classes as a college student. I danced at parties and discos (Oh, yeah, let's have a shout out for those who remember Stingle's in Chevy Chase and doing the bump!) and loved it. Tom and I still dance ocasionally. We go to parties where there is dancing and we dance when we go on cruises. But we have just recently discovered a new dance.

It's called the Wesley Waltz.

The Wesley Waltz is not hard to do. It does require patience, some dexterity and a grandchild. Or possibly your own child would do. It's best done in the kitchen on the linoleum. Here's the directions, for those of you who want to support me in starting a new dance craze.

The (insert any child's name here in place of Wesley) Wesley Waltz

1. Slide, slide slide your feet. (Slide because you don't want to step on the tupperware, pots, refrigerator magnets or water bottles Wes has scattered on the floor.)

2. Hop, hop, hop when you step on the sharp magnet because you forgot to slide.

3. Jump, jump, jump and grab the baby before he pulls the kitchen chair over.

4. Pirouette and slide the baby into the high chair.

5. Slide, slide, slide to get the cookies for the baby.

6. Do a lean and pick the baby from the high chair, toss him in the air and tickle him all in one smooth move.

7. Dip, dip, dip the baby and kiss his warm, sweet-smelling neck when his head falls back with belly laughs.

8. Slide, slide, slide in to the living room.

9. Flop, flop, flop in the chair. Now, rest.

Tom and I were dancing at a cook-out a couple of summers ago. It was a great location by a beautiful lake house and we were slow dancing on a patio to a romantic country song. I was in my bare feet and he was holding me close. We smiled at each other. The girl who was taking pictures snapped one of us, then leaned forward and whispered "Y'all are the happiest couple here." We smiled again, I leaned my head on his shoulder and he held me a little tighter. At the time, we thought that was a highlight. One of the best dances ever.

That was before we knew about the Wesley Waltz.

Going in the Hall

I've had to go in the hall from a hospital room twice in the last couple of years to cry a little and get control of myself. Both times, my beloved sister-in-law was there to hold me while I cried. Both times, went I went back, things began to get better. My father was bad. He was not going to ever get better. I had to go in the hall to deal with it. But he was not in pain, he was surrounded by loved ones and he slipped away peacefully. My daughter was in premature labor. They were concerned about her and the baby. She had pre-eclampsia and was put on magnesium which is a horrible, wonderful drug that helps but causes almost unendurable symptoms while doing so. I was losing control of my emotions, so I went in the hall. This was my baby, my girl, my blood, my bone, my life. I didn't know Wesley then. He was not the darling boy, the center of our lives, the chuckling, endearing center of our lives. I couldn't worry about him. It was all about my daughter, the baby I had birthed.

My sister-in-law was there. She held me for a while, both times. Then we went back in.

What do people do who have to go back in that room and get even worse news? That they and their loved ones have to endure more unendurable pain. That it will go on for a long time. That they may never get better. That their child may die. And they have nobody to hold them in the hall?

How do they stand it?

Love And Nicknames

My birthday was last weekend. Strange how birthdays change over the years, along with your priorities. I still like presents and cards (who doesn't?) but my priority is being with my family on my birthday. I just love to see them. My son and daughter have grown up into sweet, caring adults who still enjoy spending time with their parents. And my son-in-law has become such a part of the family that I can't imagine our family without him. Wes got to stay with his godmother since we were doing dinner and a movie and he's not quite ready for an outing that does not allow him to crawl on the floor.

Later in the evening, after everyone had gone home and it was just Tom and me, he gave me my present. My sweet, thoughtful, loving husband had given his pudgy, Weight Watchery wife - a Whitman's sampler.

To give him credit, I have always loved Whitman's Samplers. I LOVE that you can look on the top of the box and see what kind each one is - it's like a prize in every candy. And I did check the points and I can have two for three points. So, I'll just eat two and close the box. I think I can do it. I'm still in my determined dieter phase.

With the box was a card he had obviously spent some time picking out and had signed lovingly. But it wasn't the present or the card or even that he had signed it "I love you with all my heart, baby." that made it special. (Yes, he is pretty fabulous.) It was the fact that the card was addressed to Fran.

Now some of you are puzzled. You are well aware that my name is not Fran. No, it's not. But this is just one of the many, many nicknames my husband has for me. At Christmas time, under the tree, I have lots of presents from him. Each one has a different name on it. My children laugh every year as they hand out the presents labeled with some of these names.

Fran: Somehow, some of Tom's relatives got my name wrong and we were both too polite to correct them. So, I was Fran for a long time.

Bob: My kids called for me when they were sick with very stuffy noses. Mom became Bob.

Darnell: This is a good one. We had a limo driver pick us up at the airport in Seattle when we were on our way to Alaska. He stood there yelling for "Darnell". We looked at each other and said "Darnell? Darnell?" It turned out he was saying my name with a Middle Eastern accent. This was the same driver who drove approximately 204 miles an hour to get to our hotel. I hope he could get those indentations from our fingers out of his seats.

Fuzz: A bad perm. 'Nuff said.

There are actually more that I can't remember at this moment. But he can. He remembers every one. He labels my cards and gifts with different nicknames and calls me by those names with teasing affection. Someone told me once that a child who has a nickname is a child who is well loved.

If that is true, I am extremely well loved. And isn't that wonderful?

Slowly, Slowly, Slowly

I mistakenly thought I could get away with not wearing my retainers for several nights. I had braces put on my teeth as an adult. I had always hated my crooked teeth so, when I was in my late 40's and we had paid off braces for two kids, I had them put on. The didn't come off until I was 50, but I didn't care. I knew everyone was super-aware of my crooked teeth. In reality, nobody noticed them but me. I had to keep telling people that I got braces because of my crooked teeth. "Really? I never noticed." This is why people get Anorexia. They see a fat person in the mirror, no matter how thin they get. I saw nothing but my crooked teeth. People do notice how straight and white they are now, though. My hairdresser commented on them the other day. Of course, she does like a tip, but...

Anyway. I have to wear retainers every night to keep them straight. I got kind of casual about it just recently. I went one night. Then two. Then several. When I put them back in last night...ow. They kinda hurt. And this morning. Yeah, my teeth were sore. Apparently, as soon as the retainers are forgotten, my teeth make a valiant effort to return to their previously crooked state.

This is not something one could observe. It happens slowly, slowly, slowly. Like your hair turning gray. The leaves changing color on the trees. The years slipping away.

My daughter called last night to tell us Wes took his first steps. I rocked him to sleep when he was a newborn. Wasn't that just recently? I took him to the pool when he was a few months old and dipped him as he smiled. Wasn't that just recently? I watched him learn to smile, sit up, crawl, laugh out loud, eat pancakes and beat a spoon on the tupperware. Wasn't that just recently? He was bald, then he had some blond hair, then his hair was thick and soft, soft, soft when you buried your nose in it.

Time passes slowly, slowly, slowly. But Wes is walking.

And time is going too fast.