Another Version of Family II

Flo and Dorothy were best friends. Their mothers were friends, too. Naturally they raised their daughters to be best friends. Well, more like sisters.

When they were in their late 30s, they bought houses next to one another. They grocery shopped together, reprimanded their children together and, in the evenings, wandered over to one another’s houses in fluffy pink (Flo) or blue (Dorothy) bedroom slippers and wrappers (Southern-speak for “bathrobes”) to watch the 11:00 news and sip Bloody Marys together. Sometimes they’d sneak cigarettes together, too.

The children (there were 4: Amy, who was a few years older, Stephen, who was a few years younger, and The Girls - Junie and Connie - who were nearly the same age) never noticed they weren’t really related, since family isn’t always easy to define, even when there’s shared blood. They played and fought together, they went to school and church together and they just generally grew up – sure of their places in the world and in their momma’s hearts.

On summer evenings, the kids would all sneak outside in their jammies into the steamy southern night. Spotless peanut butter jars with holes punched in the lids by screwdrivers detained captive fireflies as they slowly blinked out. Too soon, Flo (or Dorothy) would call out, “Ok, kiddos, your time’s up. C’mon inside now.” “Come in and wash your feet off and run some cool water over your wrists. It’ll make you feel better.” “C’mon, now! It’s time for bed!”

In a pre-cell-phone-pre-teen world, The Girls strung shiny, scrubbed-clean tin cans on a clothesline cord across the lawn and into one another’s bedroom windows. “Hello! HELLO! Can you HEAR me?” Their giggles floated through the windows, but not through the cans. Later they snitched Stephen’s Cub Scout knife and snuck out behind the hedge to cut small slivers into each other’s fingers and press bleeding finger tips together, declaring themselves blood sisters. Sometimes they’d sneak cigarettes together, too.

Years of sultry summer nights turned into crisp autumns, frosty winters and hopeful pink springs. Flo had surgery on her blind eyes and Dorothy finally acquiesced to hearing aids for her deaf ears. The world and the children grew up, as children will, even in the south.

Flo and Dorothy are gone now, and are probably sitting on a pink heavenly cloud, wearing fluffy pink (Flo) or blue (Dorothy) slippers, sipping Bloody Marys and sneaking cigarettes as they watch their kiddos – and grandchildren – and great grandchildren – continue to grow. Still friends. Still family.

Iron Man

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage. ~ Lao Tzu

Love Games

We play this game, he and I. I think we both like it. Well, I do, anyway.

“I love you,” one of us will say.

“How much?”

The answers are never the same – it’s part of the game. Sometimes the answer is “As much as there is water on the planet” or “From here to Venus and back again.” Sometimes, when it’s my turn, (because I am a brat) I answer “3,052” or “7.5.”

“I love you.”

“Why?”

"Why not?"
“It’s chemical.”
“Because you’re cute.”
“Because you’re sexy.”
“Because you love me.”
“Because you tolerate me.”
“Because you’re a good cook.”
“Because I love the way I feel when I’m with you.”
“Good sex.” (Yep. We both really like that answer.)

I guess the truth is that I have no idea why he loves me. A mystery. I’m just glad he does. Really glad.

I don’t think I’ve ever given him the Real Answer. I feign indifference or befuddlement. “Because the dog likes you.” “Beats me. Just do.” But I know the answer. Right down to my toes, I know the answer.

He makes me feel as though I am his chosen one. After a lifetime of looking and disposing, the one he chooses is me. Me? Wow. It’s electric to be chosen and to be established as unique within the confines of a loving relationship. It’s addictive – this feeling that I am the center of his world. I am the sun. He revolves around me and basks in the light of my happiness.

I don’t think many women will find what I happily stumbled into, because so many men seem uniquely incapable of giving the two ingredients of chosen-ness – namely, primacy and exclusivity – to make a woman the one and the only. Funny that I never asked either from him, stuck as I was in my “me first” world and no longer able to believe in monogamy. A freely given gift.

I choose you, too. Over and over again. For all the days and nights of my life.

Happy Anniversary. Again. I love you. And I know why.

When I Die

When I die

Plant a tree close to me.

Hemlock, holly, buckthorn, oak –

it will not matter which,

when I seep through the earth

like slow rain sipped by roots

I’ll rise

skyward pulled into branches, into twigs,

I’ll feed unfolding leaves, I’ll flower,

fruit and fill with seed.

I’ll transpire

and with each green and glorious exhalation,

I’ll become

The air you breathe.

Aging

Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age. ~ Anaïs Nin

Happy Birthday to me!

To Flo & Dorothy with Love from Junie & Connie

"Your Mother is always with you. She's the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street. She's the smell of certain foods you remember, flowers you pick and the perfume she wore. She's the cool hand on your brow when you're not feeling well, she's your breath in the air on a cold winter's day. She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep, and the colors of a rainbow. She is Christmas morning. Your Mother lives inside your laughter. She's crystallized in every tear drop. A mother shows every emotion: happiness, sadness, fear, jealousy, love, hate, anger, helplessness, excitement, joy, sorrow...and all the while, hoping and praying you will only know the good feelings in life. She's the place you came from, your first home, and the map you follow with every step you take. She's your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy, but nothing on earth can separate you. Not time, not space, not even death." ~ written by Frank Ferreri upon the occasion of his Grandmother Flo's death.