Happy Birthday Dad!

Today my dad would have been 81. I say would have because he passed away 16 years ago this past June. So why remember his birthday? Because he was my father, my friend, my hero. Yep, that was my dad.

I can remember growing up and walking down the street with him holding on to his little finger. He'd take me fishing with him on Saturday mornings and oh how patient he was with me. Mom would pack me a little lunch and when that was gone it was time for me to go home. I never had the patience to just sit and wait for something to happen. But dad did. He'd cast his line into the water and then wait for that little tug that told him something was going to happen. I'd watch his face as he watched that line and when the right moment came (I never knew how he knew the moment had arrived) he'd jerk the rod with a snap and he'd begin to reel in the fish. He was a quiet man. But when he and the fish did battle, he'd get a smile on his face that was mixed with determination and the pleasure of the hunt. Sometimes he'd bring me to the rod right before the fish would go for the bait. He'd take my hands in his and help me snap the rod and reel the fish in. All the time talking to me, telling me what to do and letting me know it was my catch, my fish.

After we were done fishing we'd begin our walk home. But before going home we'd have to stop at the club and have a celebatory drink. Dad would lift me up on the stool next to him and I'd have my Coke and he'd have his usual boiler maker. Sometimes he'd let me have the very last drop from his glass. He'd wink at me and say, "Now don't tell mom." Me tell mom??? Never!! Why I would have stood in front of a moving train to protect him.

I remember Sunday mornings when dad would do the Sunday News crossword puzzle. He'd lay on the livingroom floor or sit at the kitchen table. In between solving the puzzle and reading the news he'd be making dinner. He was a great cook. I'd always be close by trying to see how he made things. When he knew I was looking he'd take a taste of whatever it was he was making and with great gusto and a smile leave out this long sigh of contentment. I knew then dinner would be great. But then peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches became food fit for a king when he made them.

Dad always had time to talk to me. He never said much. But when he spoke I listened. I trusted him in every way. He never left me know that I was overweight or had hair that was too straight and fine. With him I was a princess.

Time passed and I grew up. Our relaltionship changed as I entered my teen years. But dad was always there for me. I was busy trying to find my way around this new world of raging hormones and discovering a new me......the woman me. He never complained when the record player was too loud or my moods were like a roller coaster. I guess in some ways he stabalized me.

Then came the time I was all grown up and married. After three years of marriage and trying to get pregnant, the time came when I was to be a mother. Back then we didn't have the ultrasounds to let us know anything in advance. It was a surprise. For the life of me I couldn't think of a girl's name. I didn't want a girl so why think of a name for one. If it was a boy there would be no discussion as to what his name would be. He would be named after my father. The day came and my son was born. I was on cloud nine. He was born at 9:05 PM on a Friday night. The next day when visiting hours came mom and dad arrived. We all walked down to the nursery to see this 8# 14 oz. bouncing baby boy I gave birth to. Dad looked at him and I looked at dad. I said, "Dad, I'm naming him Joseph Michael after you. It's the only way I can tell you how much I love you." He just looked at me and smiled.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Mothers and Daughters

My mother says she doesn't understand me. I don't know why she would think that. To me I'm a pretty understandable person. Nothing hard or complicated about my personality whatsoever. Just the same, my mother says she doesn't know who I take after. And if it wasn't for the fact that I'm a spitting image of my father she'd think I had gotten switched at birth.

I have to admit that I'm just a tad bit of a rebel. Nothing real drastic. Just enough to let the world know that I'll not be conformed (at least totally). Take for instance when I turned 50. Now, for most women that would have been traumatic. Not for me. I looked 50 right in the eye and got my nose pierced. Since it was the big 5 0 I was celebrating I got the tiniest little diamond stud. It's so small you hardly know it's there till I turn a certain way and the light catches it. However, when I told my mother what I did her reaction was one of total horror and disbelief. You would have thought I had something the size of a door knocker hanging off my nose. For pity sake it's a diamond chip, not the Hope Diamond. Her reaction to my 50th birthday present to myself was totally inappropriate....in my estimation that is.

Then there was the time I got my first tattoo. If that didn't put her six feet down nothing would. Thank God she has a strong constitution. She just stood there giving me the hairy eyeball the way only a mother can, lowered her head ever so slightly and then just went "Hmph". Now you have to understand something about my mother. She has become a master of masters at non-verbal communication. She's always done her best disciplining with a look and a grunt that would send chills down my spine and cause the hair on my arms to stand at attention. As a child growing up under her gaze (no pun intended), I would often cry inside of myself at times of discipline, "For God's sake, mom, just hit me. It would hurt less then the hairy eyeball." By the way, I now have a total of three tattos all very discretely placed so as not to offend mother or anyone else.

I love my mother. She's good to me in more ways then I can count. I know I probably baffle her and she's learned to accept my little idiosyncracies over the years. We're always there for each other and I know that I can count on her and she can count on me. We're opposite in every way possible a mother and daughter could be. But in one way we are alike. And that is our love and respect for each other.

Oh, by the way. I don't think I'll tell her I just had my belly button pierced.

Martha Stewart I'm Not!

When I was younger I had a place for everything and everything was in it's place. I was a clean freak to the max. This was my idenity, my mark, my badge of courage so to speak.....this was my lot in life. Isn't that what women do? Isn't that what makes a happy home? Isn't that the oil that keeps the wheels of life running smoothly? Yes, I'm laughing too. So, by all means enjoy yourself.

I'm 58 now. A little more wisdom under my belt, a few more hard knocks of life bruises and I've come to a different conclusion. I don't live in a house any longer but in a third floor flat that was once the attic of an old house. Storage is at a minimum so everything doesn't have it's own place and surpriseing enough the world hasn't been tipped from it axis because of it. Of course I still clean. But if it doesn't get done on a daily basis. I won't die because of it. I've found out that if dishes remain in the sink overnight they will still be there in the morning.....and maybe that night as well. It's just not a big deal. Life is way too short to worry about a speck of dust or a dirty window. Catch up with it later.

There's a lot more to life then making sure every nook and cranny is free from dust mites. Let's face it, they were here before us. Let 'em live in peace I say. They don't bother me, I don't bother them. I want to take part in life as it's happening. Right now, right here. I don't want it to pass me by any longer. I want to live, I want to love, I want to laugh and, yes, even cry. I want to take a walk at the start of a snowfall and come back inside to a warm home and warm arms to hold me. I want to take the time to enjoy a beautiful sunrise or sunset and just sit in silence as I watch nature turning the clock of day. I want to take the time to look at all the beautiful Fall colors that will soon be arriving. What designer could outdo nature when she takes out her pallet of colors and sweeps it across the trees. What an array of spendor each tree is adorned with.

I applaud the Marth Stewart's of this world. We need them I suppose. But for me???? It just ain't that important.