Call me sentimental, but Steve Jobs' death threw me. It's not like I didn't know it was coming. I'm surprised he lived as long as he did, given the severity of his long-standing illness. Recently, I was vaguely aware of his impending death, as I had seen touching political cartoons and web-postings about his final days at Apple.
I remember knowing about Steve when he was that handsome, long-haired college guy. I never met him, but for some reason, I wanted to read everything I could get my hands on regarding his life and what he was doing with technology. I admired his tenacity, his intuition, his creativity, and his ability to make me want to go buy everything Apple, even though I had no idea what I was going to do with it.
Our son, Blake, was in college in the mid-80's, majoring in computer science. This was about the time Jobs invented the NeXt computer, with a hefty price-tag of $10,000. Blake was entranced by it. He asked his dad and me if we would buy it for him. After we finished laughing at this ludicrous request, we replied that we appreciated his passion for it, but we would not be buying him one.
Undaunted, Blake went to the bank early Monday morning and borrowed $10,000 against his car, then salivated over his new dream machine when it arrived a few days later. We all know this was not a popular computer, but twenty-four years later, Blake still has his NeXt in its original packaging. I hope he can sell it for a fortune some day, then he will be laughing, too--all the way to the bank.
One year I sent Blake and his dad to the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas as their Christmas gift. They were both in nirvana, slurping up all the techno-info they could slurp. Multiple Jobs sightings made the experience even better.
When Blake graduated from the University of Kansas, we asked him what he wanted for a gift. "I want to go to California and attend Steve Jobs' Computer Camp," was his immediate answer. He probably had been dreaming about this for years, so we honored his request and off he went for another nirvantic experience.
Blake ended up with a job in the Silicon Valley soon after graduation and I made several trips to California to help him get settled. One sunny day, he took me sight-seeing in Palo Alto. One of these sights was Steve Jobs' house. I was delighted to see Steve playing in the front yard with his children. This affirmed something I had read about him. He had two loves: his work and his family.
Last Christmas, along with millions of other Steve Jobs fans, I wanted an iPad. I don't know why I wanted it or what I would do with it after I got it, but I didn't care. I'm still trying to figure that out almost a year later. Brilliant marketer, that Steve.
The day Jobs died, I felt a strange sense of loss. I knew someone to call who felt exactly like I did about Steve Jobs--my son, Blake. I needed to console and to be consoled by a person who cared as much as I did about a man I never knew, but one who had done so much for us.
"In honor of Steve Jobs, I think I'll go buy a new Apple computer," he said when I called him.
"And I--I think in honor of Steve Jobs, I will go buy a new Apple phone," I replied.
Steve Jobs really had a hold on us.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Friday, February 5, 2010
Grief Found Me
I've been wondering what's wrong with me lately. I've been weepy and that's not like me.
It all started when my chorus was singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" and my mother's face popped up in front of me. She was smiling. Her porcelain skin was shining; her long, black hair was in braids pinned across the top of her head in Norwegian style like her mother had worn hers. I stifled my tears, but could no longer sing. Luckily, it was our last number of the concert. That crying continued on into the next day. Here it was, 57 years later, and I was mourning my mother's death.
I've tried to analyze it. Back when my mother died in 1953, we didn't have any grief counselors. We didn't know the language of grieving. We didn't go to family counseling, nor to the Solace House to talk about our feelings with other kids who had experienced loss. We just sucked it up and trudged on, going about our business as if nothing had happened. All I knew at age eleven and just finishing the fifth grade, was that I needed my mother.
I also knew my dad needed me. There he was, forty-five years old, with four children ranging from 19 down to seven, faced with all the housework, cooking, and laundry, plus a business to run and a farm to keep up. Luckily, my grandmother lived four blocks away and could help out with alot of the domestic chores.
One thing she could not do was to braid my hair every morning. My mother was passing the tradition of Norwegian braids down to me and she had done the braiding before she died. Several neighbors said they would take turns doing it, but after a few weeks, this became a burden and it was decided that my hair needed to be cut.
The next Saturday morning found me at the beauty shop getting a hair-cut and a permanent. This was a huge rite of passage for me. It changed me from a little girl into a responsible young woman. Soon, I was inviting my friend, Martha Jill, over on Saturday mornings to help me clean house. We went from playing paperdolls to playing real house. We seemed to enjoy making the house look spic and span, but perhaps it was too much responsibility for pre-teens. I don't know. I think I lost a bit of my childhood in the process.
I guess grief finds us, regardless of when the loss occurred or what kind of grief it is. This I know for sure--there's no getting out of grief.
It all started when my chorus was singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" and my mother's face popped up in front of me. She was smiling. Her porcelain skin was shining; her long, black hair was in braids pinned across the top of her head in Norwegian style like her mother had worn hers. I stifled my tears, but could no longer sing. Luckily, it was our last number of the concert. That crying continued on into the next day. Here it was, 57 years later, and I was mourning my mother's death.
I've tried to analyze it. Back when my mother died in 1953, we didn't have any grief counselors. We didn't know the language of grieving. We didn't go to family counseling, nor to the Solace House to talk about our feelings with other kids who had experienced loss. We just sucked it up and trudged on, going about our business as if nothing had happened. All I knew at age eleven and just finishing the fifth grade, was that I needed my mother.
I also knew my dad needed me. There he was, forty-five years old, with four children ranging from 19 down to seven, faced with all the housework, cooking, and laundry, plus a business to run and a farm to keep up. Luckily, my grandmother lived four blocks away and could help out with alot of the domestic chores.
One thing she could not do was to braid my hair every morning. My mother was passing the tradition of Norwegian braids down to me and she had done the braiding before she died. Several neighbors said they would take turns doing it, but after a few weeks, this became a burden and it was decided that my hair needed to be cut.
The next Saturday morning found me at the beauty shop getting a hair-cut and a permanent. This was a huge rite of passage for me. It changed me from a little girl into a responsible young woman. Soon, I was inviting my friend, Martha Jill, over on Saturday mornings to help me clean house. We went from playing paperdolls to playing real house. We seemed to enjoy making the house look spic and span, but perhaps it was too much responsibility for pre-teens. I don't know. I think I lost a bit of my childhood in the process.
I guess grief finds us, regardless of when the loss occurred or what kind of grief it is. This I know for sure--there's no getting out of grief.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Detective Hippo
Yesterday put me into shock. It all started out innocently enough. I asked Patrick, my 80-year-old golf buddy who has cancer, if he would enjoy a cheeseburger and a chocolate malt. He was gleeful at the prospect, as he was so weak he could barely make it to the kitchen most of the time.
"I"ll be over between three and four o'clock on Friday with your dinner." I promised.
On Thursday afternoon, Patrick called to say that his nephew had made arrangements for him to live at the New Mark Care Center, but he would have to wait for a bed to open up. The only drawback was that he would have a roommate.
"I hope I get a woman," he quipped. Patrick has been a single guy his whole life, but he loves those women.
He went on to tell me the directions to New Mark, as well as the phone number there.
On Thursday evening, I was out to dinner with a friend and my cell phone rang. It was around 7:30. I looked at Caller ID and it was Patrick. I decided to call him back later when I got home and did not answer the call at the restaurant.
When I arrived back home, it was a cryptic message from Patrick: "Hi, Stephany. This is Pat. I'll be going to New Mark tomorrow........" Then nothng. It was unlike Patrick not to say more, as he is very talkative. His voice was strong on the message, but there was no good-by, no anything.
Friday morning, I called him to see if he was still at home. The line was busy. I called intermittently during the day, but it was still busy.
Friday afternoon, I drove to New Mark, expecting to find Patrick and was anticipating our usual banter. He was not there. The receptionist said they were expecting him around 3:30 p.m.
I drove to his house. Something wasn't right. His paper was still outside and I knew he was an avid newspaper reader. His car was parked outside, which it had not been the times I took him to his chemo treatments. All the drapes were drawn and there were no lights on in the house. I walked to the back of the house--same story. Dark and drapes closed. His phone was still busy.
Going to several neighbors houses, I asked if anyone had seen Patrick that day. No, they had not.
"Oh, just go on home and mind your own business." I told myself.
"No," said my intuition. "Something is wrong here. Call 911."
Two police officers arrived in their dark blue KCMO police cars. They checked the same things I did.
"We don't have enough evidence to break in," one of them said, "but we are going to call the fire department to bring a ladder. We'll go up on the deck and see if we can get in that way."
By this time, all the neighbors gathered. "I didn't see a light on in Patrick's kitchen this morning when I went to walk th dog at 7 a.m. He's usually sitting there reading his paper at that time," one of them volunteered.
Soon, the fire truck and another police vehicle arrived. Three police officers entered the house. I held my breath.
It was getting chilly and one of the neighbors invited me to stand in her kitchen and look out the window.
Soon, one of the police officers came to us. "He's dead," he said softly.
I sucked in a huge amount of air, stricken speechless by the news.
Then another officer came and wanted my ID. "He died on the bed with the phone in his hand."
Oh my God! He could have died while calling me. Patrick could have been dead since last evening. I didn't want to contemplate those emotional ramifications.
Pulling myself together even though I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I continued listening to the neighbors as they recounted stories about Patrick. "Let's all pool what we were going to have for dinner and have one big dinner together."
They asked me to join them and I did. What started out as a tragic event turned into a fun evening and I appreciated being included.
I'll always remember the day Patrick died. It's the same day my son, Trent, died. I didn't make it to the cemetery that day as planned. Life had other plans for me.
When I talked later with my friend, Susie, who had been at the restaurant with me when the call from Patrick came, she said, "Lets make a pact. Whenever we have friend in hospice and that friend calls us while we're at a restaurant, we answer the phone, no matter if it seems rude or not."
Good pact, Susie.
"I"ll be over between three and four o'clock on Friday with your dinner." I promised.
On Thursday afternoon, Patrick called to say that his nephew had made arrangements for him to live at the New Mark Care Center, but he would have to wait for a bed to open up. The only drawback was that he would have a roommate.
"I hope I get a woman," he quipped. Patrick has been a single guy his whole life, but he loves those women.
He went on to tell me the directions to New Mark, as well as the phone number there.
On Thursday evening, I was out to dinner with a friend and my cell phone rang. It was around 7:30. I looked at Caller ID and it was Patrick. I decided to call him back later when I got home and did not answer the call at the restaurant.
When I arrived back home, it was a cryptic message from Patrick: "Hi, Stephany. This is Pat. I'll be going to New Mark tomorrow........" Then nothng. It was unlike Patrick not to say more, as he is very talkative. His voice was strong on the message, but there was no good-by, no anything.
Friday morning, I called him to see if he was still at home. The line was busy. I called intermittently during the day, but it was still busy.
Friday afternoon, I drove to New Mark, expecting to find Patrick and was anticipating our usual banter. He was not there. The receptionist said they were expecting him around 3:30 p.m.
I drove to his house. Something wasn't right. His paper was still outside and I knew he was an avid newspaper reader. His car was parked outside, which it had not been the times I took him to his chemo treatments. All the drapes were drawn and there were no lights on in the house. I walked to the back of the house--same story. Dark and drapes closed. His phone was still busy.
Going to several neighbors houses, I asked if anyone had seen Patrick that day. No, they had not.
"Oh, just go on home and mind your own business." I told myself.
"No," said my intuition. "Something is wrong here. Call 911."
Two police officers arrived in their dark blue KCMO police cars. They checked the same things I did.
"We don't have enough evidence to break in," one of them said, "but we are going to call the fire department to bring a ladder. We'll go up on the deck and see if we can get in that way."
By this time, all the neighbors gathered. "I didn't see a light on in Patrick's kitchen this morning when I went to walk th dog at 7 a.m. He's usually sitting there reading his paper at that time," one of them volunteered.
Soon, the fire truck and another police vehicle arrived. Three police officers entered the house. I held my breath.
It was getting chilly and one of the neighbors invited me to stand in her kitchen and look out the window.
Soon, one of the police officers came to us. "He's dead," he said softly.
I sucked in a huge amount of air, stricken speechless by the news.
Then another officer came and wanted my ID. "He died on the bed with the phone in his hand."
Oh my God! He could have died while calling me. Patrick could have been dead since last evening. I didn't want to contemplate those emotional ramifications.
Pulling myself together even though I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I continued listening to the neighbors as they recounted stories about Patrick. "Let's all pool what we were going to have for dinner and have one big dinner together."
They asked me to join them and I did. What started out as a tragic event turned into a fun evening and I appreciated being included.
I'll always remember the day Patrick died. It's the same day my son, Trent, died. I didn't make it to the cemetery that day as planned. Life had other plans for me.
When I talked later with my friend, Susie, who had been at the restaurant with me when the call from Patrick came, she said, "Lets make a pact. Whenever we have friend in hospice and that friend calls us while we're at a restaurant, we answer the phone, no matter if it seems rude or not."
Good pact, Susie.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Greatest Job in the World
I have nearly worn myself to a nub this week. Why? I got the wild hare to apply for the greatest job in the world. If you don't know about this job, go to islandreefjob.com. In essence, the Australian tourism bureau is hiring a person for six months at a meager salary of $100,000 to do media relations for the islands outside the Great Barrier Reef. You get a 3-bedroom house, plus you have to do a bit of work, like go snorkeling, fishing, white-water rafting, biking, jet-skiing, etc., then write about your adventures in a blog. I think they invented this job for me.
E-mailing my friend, Judie, I asked her to help me create a 60-second video for the application. The video is supposed to be entertaining, while explaining why I am the ideal candidate for this job. Well, aren't I?
Judie is an expert on creating i-movies. She has a digital camera that is also a video camera, and she enthusiastically agreed to take on this project.
Here's the storyboard for the movie: a woman is looking at a pictorial travel atlas and happens upon photos of the Great Barrier Reef. She jumps out of her chair and starts pulling outfits from her suitcase that she could wear while doing the job.......all the while dreaming of being in Australia. She puts on her bikini, sun hat, and unfolds her hippo-playing-golf beach towel, ready to go white-water rafting. Then it is time to go hiking, so she dons her hiking boots and finds her walking stick. Next, she yearns to play golf and finds golf balls, a golf glove and golf attire in the suitcase. Biking is a favorite activity and she discovers a helmet, gloves, bike shorts, and a bandana in the suitcase. Tennis is next up, and she runs off to the court in a chic outfit. She can't wait to go horseback-riding, and just so happens to find a western hat, cowboy boots, and chaps in her suitcase. Finally, in order to relax after her long days of sports, she puts on a yoga outfit, grabs her mat, and is off to do yoga on the beach.
Cut back to the woman in the chair reading the travel atlas. Suddenly, she jumps up and starts packing the suitcase to go to Australia. Only problem is, her suitcase is bulging from all the sports gear she's taking. She tries to pack it down in fast forward. Frustrated, she starts throwing things out of the suitcase, again in fast forward. Finally, at the last second, she is able to close the suitcase, but most of the sports equipment is still on the bed.
Entertaining, shows why I would be good at the job, 57.8 seconds, and right down to the wire on the deadline.
Judie had the idea of the dream because she can make the movie look like clouds rolling in and out of the action. She also had the idea of playing the song, "Dreams", as in Dream, Dream, Baby....like I said, she's an expert.
We added a few action photos, filled in the application, and pushed the "Submit" button. By nightfall, I had confirmation from the tourism office that they had received my application and will be getting back to me by next week to say if the video has been approved to be published on their web-site.
Dum-de-dum-dum. Stay tuned!
E-mailing my friend, Judie, I asked her to help me create a 60-second video for the application. The video is supposed to be entertaining, while explaining why I am the ideal candidate for this job. Well, aren't I?
Judie is an expert on creating i-movies. She has a digital camera that is also a video camera, and she enthusiastically agreed to take on this project.
Here's the storyboard for the movie: a woman is looking at a pictorial travel atlas and happens upon photos of the Great Barrier Reef. She jumps out of her chair and starts pulling outfits from her suitcase that she could wear while doing the job.......all the while dreaming of being in Australia. She puts on her bikini, sun hat, and unfolds her hippo-playing-golf beach towel, ready to go white-water rafting. Then it is time to go hiking, so she dons her hiking boots and finds her walking stick. Next, she yearns to play golf and finds golf balls, a golf glove and golf attire in the suitcase. Biking is a favorite activity and she discovers a helmet, gloves, bike shorts, and a bandana in the suitcase. Tennis is next up, and she runs off to the court in a chic outfit. She can't wait to go horseback-riding, and just so happens to find a western hat, cowboy boots, and chaps in her suitcase. Finally, in order to relax after her long days of sports, she puts on a yoga outfit, grabs her mat, and is off to do yoga on the beach.
Cut back to the woman in the chair reading the travel atlas. Suddenly, she jumps up and starts packing the suitcase to go to Australia. Only problem is, her suitcase is bulging from all the sports gear she's taking. She tries to pack it down in fast forward. Frustrated, she starts throwing things out of the suitcase, again in fast forward. Finally, at the last second, she is able to close the suitcase, but most of the sports equipment is still on the bed.
Entertaining, shows why I would be good at the job, 57.8 seconds, and right down to the wire on the deadline.
Judie had the idea of the dream because she can make the movie look like clouds rolling in and out of the action. She also had the idea of playing the song, "Dreams", as in Dream, Dream, Baby....like I said, she's an expert.
We added a few action photos, filled in the application, and pushed the "Submit" button. By nightfall, I had confirmation from the tourism office that they had received my application and will be getting back to me by next week to say if the video has been approved to be published on their web-site.
Dum-de-dum-dum. Stay tuned!
Monday, February 18, 2008
nessun dorma! (never sleep, i think)
i wanted to do something for them for valentine's day, but i didn't want to make anything nor buy anything. they are my heroes and i wanted them to know how much i care.
letting that thought rest, as i was looking for my exercise dvd on february 13, i spotted a cd, "paul potts: one chance", which ashley gave me for christmas. using a knife to remove the plastic, i opened the cd and inserted it into the player. with the first note, i recognized paul potts as being the guy i had seen on the english version of american idol.
on june 7, 2007, paul potts strolled onto the audition stage of britain's got talent. he looked a fright, as if he had rolled out of bed, went out the door, and here he stood in rumpled clothes, hair sticking up, teeth sticking out--didn't look like much of a talent to simon cowell, who sneeringly asked him what he was going to do.
"opera", said paul.
"let's hear it", replied simon in a derisive tone of voice.
suddenly, out of the misshapen mouth of an employee at a mobile phone store, arose a magnificent version of puccni's "nessun dorma". at the conclusion of the aria, paul potts received a standing ovation from the audience of 2,000 people. even simon was grinning ear-to-ear.
as i listened to the cd, i knew this was my valentine to give. the next day, february 14, twelve residents of the new horizons assisted living center, plus ten of us from the plains/paradise united methodist church were seated together for our weekly hour of singing, laughing, joking, and story-telling. we sang five foot two, eyes of blue, down by the old mill stream, a tisket, a tasket, and several other songs with funny actions. cliff and harry accompanied us on their guitars. several of us told stories about being in the rain or in a hailstorm. as usual, jack, our 93-year-old songster, had entertained us with his good wit and a capella folk-songs.
it was close to the end of our hour, when cliff said, "stephany, do you have something for us?"
"yes," i said, as the director of the center inserted the paul potts cd into the machine and pressed the play button.
strains of nessun dorma filled the room, as each person felt their own emotions to the stirring rendition. as the aria ended, the door opened, as if on cue. five members of the sheltered workshop joyfully burst into the room, carrying a huge pink and red balloon bouquet for each resident.
we paused, held hands in a circle, and recited the lord's prayer. like i said, they're my heroes.
letting that thought rest, as i was looking for my exercise dvd on february 13, i spotted a cd, "paul potts: one chance", which ashley gave me for christmas. using a knife to remove the plastic, i opened the cd and inserted it into the player. with the first note, i recognized paul potts as being the guy i had seen on the english version of american idol.
on june 7, 2007, paul potts strolled onto the audition stage of britain's got talent. he looked a fright, as if he had rolled out of bed, went out the door, and here he stood in rumpled clothes, hair sticking up, teeth sticking out--didn't look like much of a talent to simon cowell, who sneeringly asked him what he was going to do.
"opera", said paul.
"let's hear it", replied simon in a derisive tone of voice.
suddenly, out of the misshapen mouth of an employee at a mobile phone store, arose a magnificent version of puccni's "nessun dorma". at the conclusion of the aria, paul potts received a standing ovation from the audience of 2,000 people. even simon was grinning ear-to-ear.
as i listened to the cd, i knew this was my valentine to give. the next day, february 14, twelve residents of the new horizons assisted living center, plus ten of us from the plains/paradise united methodist church were seated together for our weekly hour of singing, laughing, joking, and story-telling. we sang five foot two, eyes of blue, down by the old mill stream, a tisket, a tasket, and several other songs with funny actions. cliff and harry accompanied us on their guitars. several of us told stories about being in the rain or in a hailstorm. as usual, jack, our 93-year-old songster, had entertained us with his good wit and a capella folk-songs.
it was close to the end of our hour, when cliff said, "stephany, do you have something for us?"
"yes," i said, as the director of the center inserted the paul potts cd into the machine and pressed the play button.
strains of nessun dorma filled the room, as each person felt their own emotions to the stirring rendition. as the aria ended, the door opened, as if on cue. five members of the sheltered workshop joyfully burst into the room, carrying a huge pink and red balloon bouquet for each resident.
we paused, held hands in a circle, and recited the lord's prayer. like i said, they're my heroes.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
22 years later.....
She gave it to me for Christmas when she was 15. I don't recall asking for it, so she must have thought I needed it, the brown leather address book with gold lines running around the edges. It was an ordinary book, yet special because she gave it to me.
I think another part of the gift was for her to write all my addresses in it, because as I turn to the A section, I see Ashbill's TV Service, Dave & Jean Arnold, Doris Anderson, Roger Allenbrand, and Linda Affholder, all in her handwriting. Turning to the B's, I notice Helen Betts, Boschi Family, Blue Valley Schools, Dr. John Berry, Dermatologist, Blue Valley North, and Blue Valley High, again in her handwriting. Curious, I flip to the C's, and--nothing. She had good intentions, but some holiday vacation activity lured her away from the task.
Taking over the task, I completed the book in a few weeks, or so I thought. Little did I know it then, but that address book would chronicle our lives for the next twenty-two years.
Ten years after receiving my beloved address book, I realized I needed a new one, and during that time I bought several that ended up on a shelf. Two years ago, an address book caught my eye as I wandered through Border's. On the cover was a blonde bombshell from the 1930's. The title, "Born to Be Bad" was emblazoned in large letters on the front cover. Hidden in the bombshell's tresses were the tiny letters, Address Book.
"Now this is an address book I could like," I said to myself, as I purchased it without looking at the price. I took it home and stuck it in my closet, still in its sack.
The next year, I was getting more serious about my new address book. I took it out of its sack and vowed that whenever I received a new phone number or new address or made a new friend, I would write this information in the new book. I would do this with pencil, I vowed, so I could erase people who died, people who got married and needed to change pages because they had a different last name, or just plain eliminate people with whom I had lost contact over the years. It seemed like a workable plan.
Then my emotions took over. I didn't want to erase people who died. I wanted to remember them. I didn't want to forget about people I hadn't seen nor talked to for years. The people who got married were no problem. This emotional stall lasted another year.
This Christmas, when it was time to send out my Christmas cards and letter, I got tough with myself.
"Okay, whenever you write a card, simply write the address two times--once on the envelope and once in the new address book," I told myself. This actually worked, although I loved looking at all the people who died, people who had changed names, and people who no longer made the cut for Christmas cards, all in my old book. I realized that my old brown leather address book, now held together with packing tape on the outside and hole reinforcers on the inside, was a chronicle of my life and by eliminating it, I was moving on to a new life.
So, today, twenty-two years later, I closed the old brown address book for the last time. I can't bring myself to throw it away--not yet, at least. That will take more mental toughness than I possess right now. I'll still have it, but not be using it. I'll love it forever, that silly thing.
It's just one more reason I'll love Ashley forever for giving it to me.
I think another part of the gift was for her to write all my addresses in it, because as I turn to the A section, I see Ashbill's TV Service, Dave & Jean Arnold, Doris Anderson, Roger Allenbrand, and Linda Affholder, all in her handwriting. Turning to the B's, I notice Helen Betts, Boschi Family, Blue Valley Schools, Dr. John Berry, Dermatologist, Blue Valley North, and Blue Valley High, again in her handwriting. Curious, I flip to the C's, and--nothing. She had good intentions, but some holiday vacation activity lured her away from the task.
Taking over the task, I completed the book in a few weeks, or so I thought. Little did I know it then, but that address book would chronicle our lives for the next twenty-two years.
Ten years after receiving my beloved address book, I realized I needed a new one, and during that time I bought several that ended up on a shelf. Two years ago, an address book caught my eye as I wandered through Border's. On the cover was a blonde bombshell from the 1930's. The title, "Born to Be Bad" was emblazoned in large letters on the front cover. Hidden in the bombshell's tresses were the tiny letters, Address Book.
"Now this is an address book I could like," I said to myself, as I purchased it without looking at the price. I took it home and stuck it in my closet, still in its sack.
The next year, I was getting more serious about my new address book. I took it out of its sack and vowed that whenever I received a new phone number or new address or made a new friend, I would write this information in the new book. I would do this with pencil, I vowed, so I could erase people who died, people who got married and needed to change pages because they had a different last name, or just plain eliminate people with whom I had lost contact over the years. It seemed like a workable plan.
Then my emotions took over. I didn't want to erase people who died. I wanted to remember them. I didn't want to forget about people I hadn't seen nor talked to for years. The people who got married were no problem. This emotional stall lasted another year.
This Christmas, when it was time to send out my Christmas cards and letter, I got tough with myself.
"Okay, whenever you write a card, simply write the address two times--once on the envelope and once in the new address book," I told myself. This actually worked, although I loved looking at all the people who died, people who had changed names, and people who no longer made the cut for Christmas cards, all in my old book. I realized that my old brown leather address book, now held together with packing tape on the outside and hole reinforcers on the inside, was a chronicle of my life and by eliminating it, I was moving on to a new life.
So, today, twenty-two years later, I closed the old brown address book for the last time. I can't bring myself to throw it away--not yet, at least. That will take more mental toughness than I possess right now. I'll still have it, but not be using it. I'll love it forever, that silly thing.
It's just one more reason I'll love Ashley forever for giving it to me.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
no place like small town montana
i entered the clubhouse of the paradise united methodist church after an absence of four months and found instant warmth and welcome from the five women gathered there. dorothy had invited me to come help make gift bags for the residents of new horizons, the assisted living facility in wild horse plains, montana.
dorothy, betty, and charlotte had gone shopping a few days before to purchase the gift items; the others, judy, mary lou, and shirley were there, like me, to create the bags. dorothy handed me a white gift bag and told me to let my creative juices flow. wow! what fun!
she brought a boxful of sewing notions left over from projects in years past. others brought magic markers, colored pencils, and photos of the two churches in paradise and plains. shirley must have been a stamper in the past, because he brought christmas stamps and ink pads for us to use in decorating the bags. dorothy brought a hot glue gun to use in attaching the various colorful ribbons and balls to the bags.
dorothy had a list of the thirteen residents, and each of us personalized their christmas gift bags. after an hour, the bags were done. then came the fillings--candy, candy canes, an orange, an apple, a cross in your pocket card with a cross, and finally, a red-ribboned christmas bell. we left the red ribbon hanging out of each bag, anticipating how each person would pull that out of the bag first and put it around their neck.
i was saddened when i chose the names of the people for whom i wanted to make the bags, as i had my favorites every thursday when we went to new horizons to sing, talk, laugh,and reminisce.
"why isn't phyllis' name on the list?" i asked, remembering the small 94-year-old witty, bright woman who had captured my heart.
"phyllis died in october," answered judy. my heart sank. i was looking forward to seeing her most of all. i knew phyllis would be fine wherever she was, so i was sad only for myself and the others who will miss her.
soon, our job was completed. we cleaned up and departed for lunch at kathy's whistlestop cafe. we'll go to new horizons on thursday with the gift bags. we'll sing christmas carols accompanied by cliff on his guitar, joke, listen to each other's holiday memories, and i'll become attached to a new resident.
like i said, there's no place like small town montana.
dorothy, betty, and charlotte had gone shopping a few days before to purchase the gift items; the others, judy, mary lou, and shirley were there, like me, to create the bags. dorothy handed me a white gift bag and told me to let my creative juices flow. wow! what fun!
she brought a boxful of sewing notions left over from projects in years past. others brought magic markers, colored pencils, and photos of the two churches in paradise and plains. shirley must have been a stamper in the past, because he brought christmas stamps and ink pads for us to use in decorating the bags. dorothy brought a hot glue gun to use in attaching the various colorful ribbons and balls to the bags.
dorothy had a list of the thirteen residents, and each of us personalized their christmas gift bags. after an hour, the bags were done. then came the fillings--candy, candy canes, an orange, an apple, a cross in your pocket card with a cross, and finally, a red-ribboned christmas bell. we left the red ribbon hanging out of each bag, anticipating how each person would pull that out of the bag first and put it around their neck.
i was saddened when i chose the names of the people for whom i wanted to make the bags, as i had my favorites every thursday when we went to new horizons to sing, talk, laugh,and reminisce.
"why isn't phyllis' name on the list?" i asked, remembering the small 94-year-old witty, bright woman who had captured my heart.
"phyllis died in october," answered judy. my heart sank. i was looking forward to seeing her most of all. i knew phyllis would be fine wherever she was, so i was sad only for myself and the others who will miss her.
soon, our job was completed. we cleaned up and departed for lunch at kathy's whistlestop cafe. we'll go to new horizons on thursday with the gift bags. we'll sing christmas carols accompanied by cliff on his guitar, joke, listen to each other's holiday memories, and i'll become attached to a new resident.
like i said, there's no place like small town montana.
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