Travels with Robbie

 Last weekend I loaded up the Soul with cans, bottles and Robbie and we set out across the desert to visit friends and family in SoCal. I stopped twice in Arizona to fill up with cheap(er) gas than what I knew awaited me at the California pumps. Five hours later Robbie and I parked on a street in our old Mentone neighborhood so Robbie could experience the grand treat of walking on green lawns with familiar bushes he could pee on.  I always forget what it smells and sounds like there after being in my sterile Arizona surroundings.  The first thing that hits you is the sounds of lawn mowers, yes, but mostly its the BIRDS I hear everywhere!  Bluebirds, meadowlarks, finches, red house sparrows, western blue jays, even wild parrots. I just think to myself, "I have missed you all so much!"

I stopped at our old neighbor's house to see if he was home.  He lost his son to pancreatic cancer also.  Gary and I moved out so fast, I never got a chance to say goodbye.  He is Chinese and grew unusual plants, always offering us things to try from his garden. He has a habit of not answering the door, so I don't know if he was really home because I got no response to my knock.  I should have called first.

Our next stop: the park Robbie and I walked past or into every weekday across from Crafton Elementary and very near our first home in Redlands.  Robbie does not tend to run off much.  He offered to pose without complaint for the picture in which you can see the mountains behind.  The largest peak is Big Bear, where the crazy cop killer was found inside the home that he shot himself in last week. Its about 38 miles from where Robbie sits.

After cashing in my collected cans and bottles at Stater Brothers, we continued on to- QDOBA!  Redlands has one, but there is none within driving distance to my Arizona home.  I had free chips and sauce on my Qdoba card awaiting me, so Robbie and I ate 'our' burrito and chips outside in the warm sunshine. Outdoor dining can't be beat. Gary and I took Robbie with us on his business trips so we always shared our Boston Market or In-n-Out lunches with him al fresco.

After lunch it was onward to Riverside to visit my cousin and his wife.  To get there from Redlands, the most direct route is south through San Timoteo Canyon.  I stopped along Sunset Drive overlooking the canyon to take this picture from the edge of the road.  Notice I said edge, and not side. There are small pullouts on the road which overlooks the beautiful hills, but no guard rails to keep you from dropping off  into the canyon.  Runners and bikers along this scenic drive share the road with cars at their own peril. The canyon is home to many very old groves on the bottom land.  The BNSF runs through the canyon alongside the cottonwood lined creek, and there are many horse properties tucked away in the coves of the hills.  In this picture you can see the other side of the canyon's hills in which the most beautiful county dump I've ever known is hidden.  I used to take our garbage there to avoid paying Waste Management's higher fees.  The view from the stinky landfill is spectacular!
Coming down the other side of the hills, you arrive in Moreno Valley on the 60, then into Riverside where Robbie and I spent a couple of hours visiting and were advised we have a place to stay whenever we want to come back.  Super!

The day ended at friends' homes in Ontario and then in Claremont, which is a gorgeous little city just inside the LA county line.  Whomever can call Claremont home considers themselves very lucky.

On Saturday, Robbie and I got up to walk in our old Eastvale neighborhood, the first home Robbie had after being adopted into the Hopper family. I picked up Farmer Boys for breakfast, a favorite breakfast place of Gary's and mine then I attended the monthly Young Onset Parkinson's Group meeting that Gary and I went to.  I thank Gary every day for getting me into this exclusive club of nice people who are now friends for (I hope) life. I don't know what we would have done without them.  They gave us so much support not only for Gary's Parkinson's trials, but during his cancer ordeal and treatments, and then his California memorial service. I cannot think of these nice people without thinking, THANK YOU for being there for us,  and now me.

Robbie was not feeling well during the trip.  Terrible bouts of sneezing racked his little body, and he wasn't eating well either.  Late afternoon, after eating  lunch at Bonnie's house in Ontario, I decided to get on the road to get home.

I could not leave California without one more stop at a great fruit stand near our old houses that sells the best of the best citrus in Redlands. That's saying a lot since Redlands has THEE best citrus in the world. There were 5 varieties of oranges so I picked some blood oranges and the best grapefruit variety called Oro Blanco.  White flesh and super sweet.  Better than your stinkin' Ruby Reds any day!  The man at the stand and I started talking about where I was from, etc etc.  He asked me why didn't I move back if I miss it so much-after all, I have friends nearby....   I told him I didn't know yet if the reason I wanted to move back so much was because I miss the place, or if I just miss MY LIFE there so much.  If I move back, Gary is still not there. The man ended up giving me the blood oranges for free. 

I walked Robbie one last time in another favorite area near Moore Middle School where Gary and I often walked.  Just a block off Gary Lane, the view from there is of the San Bernardino mountains to the north where the University of Redlands has its huge "R" cut into the mountain. I read that it is the largest university monogram in the U.S.
The late afternoon sun on my back was warm as we walked and as I looked out at the clear aired views, I said aloud,  "I miss you, Gary.  I just miss you sooo much."  It hurt to know I will never see that view with him again.

I decided on the way back to Arizona that it can be a goal to get back to Redlands.  As impractical as it may be, it can still be a goal, can't it?. There is just something about Redlands that I have never felt about any other place we ever lived.  It just feels like HOME.

Prose and Cons

Prose [prohz]  noun, adjective, verb, prosed, pros·ing.

1. the ordinary form of spoken or written language, without metrical structure, as distinguished from poetry or verse.

2. matter-of-fact, commonplace, or dull expression, quality, discourse, etc.

I always enjoyed writing when I was a student.  I also like some poetry. So if it makes sense, in addition to others' poetry, I've added some of my own to this blog, as in the entry titled,  Scrapbook. But for the most part, I think this blog and my writing in it would have to be more like the second definition of Prose seen above. This entry is an example of that.

For as long as I can remember, whenever I have had to make a decision, I picture in my mind a scale.  The kind I envision is the kind seen a lot on dining room tables in the 60's. Brass, with chains and usually filled with plastic grapes, both red and green that invariably needed dustin

So my mind picture of the scales, sans grapes, would be equal on each side when empty, but as I start placing the elements of the pro and the con items on each side of my decision, soon the side of the scale with the most items would drop to the bottom and the other lighter side would pop up. 

The best way to 'fill' each side of the question put to me was to make a list.  I'm guessing that most people do it this way.  The most recent time I used this method was December 2011 for, at the time, the question of Gary taking a job in Chicago.  Even if Gary had ended up with some treatable illness, it still did not make financial sense to move there after I got done researching all the costs and variables of moving and cost of living versus income.

Now I am thinking about moving again.  I am not to the point where I am making my list, because I have time to make this decision.  But in the past, when it came to moving, it seems to always have been me who initiated it. I always said that when the carpet started getting dirty, it was time to move.  Usually that meant moving every two years. 

I haven't been writing as prolifically on this blog the past couple of weeks because I've been writing and rewriting my resume to submit for each one of the various jobs I think I'd like.  I got some basic resume writing ideas from someone who is younger and who just can't understand why an elderly 55 year-old like me is not getting calls for interviews.  I go to the stores where I've applied and make a mental note of the employees who have been recently hired.  They all seem to be in their early 20's.  You can't prove ageism, but this smacks of it. 

So for the jobs I applied for that I know I am qualified to do, my decision to work has been made for me.

Is it fate? Maybe.  I planned to just work until I went up to Sioux Falls in the spring anyway.  Do these employers sense my lack of long term commitment?  I was only applying for part time, seasonal, temp jobs that pay minimum wage and no benefits.  Who'd have guessed these jobs are attracting so many applicants, but it appears that they are. 

I think about my situation and how it would be nice to have extra money, but the way I have decided to live allows me to exist on what I can safely withdraw from our investments.  Does it allow extravagances?  No Way! But that is not part of my plan anyway.

Also in the back of my head sits the decision of moving away from Arizona when my two years is up here, July 2014. My unwritten mental list has some pros for staying.  My wants for a different life elsewhere keep getting erased and rewritten. Nothing has made it to the scales to be weighed yet.

As for getting a job here or elsewhere, I am getting advice from people my age that I shouldn't feel obligated to work if I can afford to live without earned wages. One person told me I shouldn't care what people think.  Younger people are saying I'm lazy and I HAVE to get a job. But I seem to be in the wrong place or the wrong age to do that. I feel guilty for doing what I feel I need to do right now, which is working to slowly finish the house the way Gary and I wanted it and going to grief counseling sessions and classes. 

I wish I could say, as Scarlett O'Hara did, "Oh fiddle dee dee, I'll think about that tomorrow".

Valentines - Love = just another day

You've probably seen this one circulating around facebook or the internet.I like that Grinch because, these days, we think a lot alike!

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

 
Valentines Day wasn't a super big event for Gary and me in recent years.  Too much hype to buy stuff.  Neither of us bothered with gifts except for the first 10 or so years of our relationship.  And going out to a restaurant?  Fagetabahdit!  Crowds, to me, are not romantic in the least.

My first Valentines Day with Gary was my favorite. Gary gave me a very special gift of a sterling silver Swank chain bracelet that had the male/female symbols on it. I loved that bracelet and wore it a lot.  I lost it about three years later when I was working at the state fair for Northwestern Bell. I'm sure it was left at the house we stayed at in Huron.  Bummer. I really miss that bracelet and obviously still think about it today.

Valentines Day afterward meant cards, candy and the odd small gift.  I've still got a couple of the cards, but regret all those that I tossed.  The same goes for all the birthday cards I threw out. Again- bummer.  I wish I had kept more of them, but am glad for the ones I still have.

One of the Valentines cards that I did keep was one from me to Gary.  Its very ironic to me when I look at the card today after Gary is gone.  It is solid white, and the front has a small black line drawing of a little character with a devilish smile, peeking out from behind a tree.. He is holding the only colored object on the card, a bright red heart.  The wording on the front reads, "Being my Valentine won't kill you..."  Then inside, "Only the good die young!"  I signed it simply, Love, Marsha.  Cute at the time, but not very uplifting for me to read now.

I think the last year either Gary or I bought Valentine cards for each other was 2011. On some 'card occasions' Gary would surprise me by taking the trouble to stop and buy a card when I did not get one for him. Those were the cards that SHOULD have been kept for me to treasure in these years without Gary. 

A month ago, I decorated the outside of my house for Valentines Day much like I did last year at our house in Mentone.  Red geraniums in planters, little hearts stuck inside plants and two heart filled flags flapping in breeze.  The red heart shaped wreath hanging on the front door along with all the other pink and red accents makes the yard look merry and fun. I had most of the decorations already, so I put them out just like all the other years when I still had a love who shared my heart.

I don't think Thursday the 14th will be more difficult than any other day without Gary has been for me.  Since I never go out to eat, I won't be confronted with all the loving couples out there. Gary's last Valentine's Day of his life was full of worry about him losing weight, having liver disease and diabetes. His once mandatory trek to all the stores to buy half priced Valentine's candy on the 15th, was dampened by the uncertainty that he could even eat it or that it would make him feel sicker than he felt when he ate 'good food'.

Last year, our house's festive, hearty decor outside belied the foreboding feelings in our real hearts that something was very very wrong with Gary. They say, 'Trust your heart to lead the way'.  I sure wish our hearts had been able to help us out more than they did.

♥ Happy Valentine's Day Sweet Gary  ♥

Love Always,

Marsha

Scrapbook

My mind is like a scrapbook

With pages full of you

I gently touch its well worn contents

A life of mine and ours to view.

I linger at one remembrance

While others I must skip

Seen from the corner eye askance

For now, I let them slip.

These days the book lies open

Waiting to be added to

I'm collecting for the second half

The first part done, now starts part two.

~~~~~~~~~~~

My grandma was a scrapbook aficionado before it was cool.  When we were little, she would collect things that she loved and save them for us.  She'd find snippets of paper from books, magazines and newspapers, keep them and paste them into a blank scrapbook from Woolworths, Newberry's or 'K-Mark' .  I never appreciated her efforts, I'm sorry to say.  She presented me with my scrapbook very proudly with cut outs that she lovingly saved.  Lots of horses, of course, but also things that she liked about little girls, dolls and funny stories about animals.  Her own scrapbooks were more interesting to me, but still it was pretty much lost on me what she found so fascinating about collecting these things.

Scrapbooking has become so abstract.  The end product for modern scrapbooks is limited only by one's ability to pay for the most interesting precut stick-on Doo Dads that one can find at some mega craft store. Even the captions for photos can be purchased instead of printed with pen onto the page.

When grandma read something in her Work Basket or Wallace Farmer's magazines that she liked, she would grab the nearest shears and cut it out and put it in a drawer or stick it onto the refrigerator. She may have slipped it in between the glass and the edge of a picture frame where it would curl and yellow before it could be put onto the pulpy paper sheet of the large string bound square books she had.

Grandma was always on the lookout for things that interested her.  Recipes of course, but only the ones where she would write, "These Are Good" on the side and underline it.  She also saved and really appreciated poetry.  She would be so disappointed in today's newspapers which don't print anything remotely poetic or thoughtful the way they did throughout the 30's to the 70's.

I never realized it at the time(who does?), but my grandma really appreciated the arts and writing.  She encouraged me to draw because she liked it herself.  She was a gifted china painter, and she always had little ways of writing in cards with an extra flourish to our names and hers.

I think I started thinking about scrapbooks this afternoon because I spent some time talking to my brother-in-law today and going back in my memories of all the dogs he had.  He said "I didn't think that you would have remembered that one!" and "I didn't remember that until just now when you said that."
The little things we can remember as stories or tiny movies are pasted in our memories waiting to be opened and looked at over and over again.  Like scraps of newsprint, they yellow and curl and get pressed and wrinkled as more things are stuffed into our memory books. Some scraps are painstakingly brushed with paste all the way out to the edges, while others may get slapped in with a piece of scotch tape that comes off and gets put in the wrong place.

All of the things we saved are there whenever we want to retrieve them, though.  You have to first find the big square book that grandma started for you and you are still finishing. If you take the trouble to start looking through it, it can be a lot of fun and can make you feel a lot better about your day.
I never said it before to her, so now I will: Thank you Grandma, for starting my scrapbook for me and for helping me remember its the little things that are the most important.

Is Paradise really out there?

 

“Sometimes the hardest part isn’t letting go, but rather learning to start over”

~Nicole Sobon~

I want to share something that I've been thinking about and here is a song that says exactly what I mean.

When I first returned after Gary's memorials, I ran into an acquaintance whom I had met at the association dog park.  We had talked a few times and I knew she was a widow but didn't know for how long. She is now 59.  When I bumped into her again in November, I told her that Gary had died.  She had a surprising response after giving me her condolences,  "What are you going to do next?" She knew I have no ties here in Arizona and only moved here for Gary's treatment.

I mumbled something about money determining what I would do.  She looked at me almost impatiently, and said, "No, never mind that, that will take care of itself- what do you want to do next?"

She has been widowed for 10 years after her husband died suddenly at age 48 from a heart attack and she was 49.  She knows of what she speaks when she asks me what I want to do with my life now. She is doing what she found as her own path. She lives part time near Cancun, Mexico(she drives down there with just her dog) and part time here in my neighborhood.

A few weeks later, my new counselor asked me the same thing as one of the first questions he went over in getting to know me.  "Why are you still here?" he asked.  "What do you want to do?"  I thought, what's with these people?  The people online in Widows Village, the widow in HR at Gary's old company, and even the supervisor I had to talk to at Blue Cross/Blue Shield who I learned is a widow all ask the same thing, "What are you going to do?  What do you want to do?"  In a way, its very disconcerting to think I have a choice in this decision, because most people do not get the chance to wonder what they want to do next.  They are in their prescribed rut which has the same old familiar walls around their life they've been looking at for years. It can be comfortable or not, but its still a rut.

I know that quite a few of my former coworkers have experienced something close to this because after all the offices were closed by the company, they lost their jobs and have, or are, reinventing their lives. Most though, are anchored with a spouse's job and feelings to think about. They have family nearby that they cannot or will not move away from or houses that they can't sell and lose money on.

I don't have that situation. I could rent my home out and do alright. I could even sell it in a few months and probably not lose money because the market is getting better here. I am told now by my financial adviser that if I stay smart with money, I can live a conservatively comfortable life and still have some money to leave to our sons. I don't have to stay here.  I have nothing stopping me from dreaming of my next life.

Do you remember your dreams when you were a kid?  Do you remember summers sitting around with your friends and speculating with them about what you'd do if you had a hundred dollars or even a million dollars? What did you tell your friends you wanted to be when you grew up?

Here's my dream as a 10 year old:  I am an artist who lives with my rancher husband on a beautiful ranch in a western state like Montana, Wyoming or Colorado near the mountains.  I have a sweet horse that I can ride anytime I want.  I spend my time drawing and painting horses with the mountain scenery as a backdrop.  I get to be out in nature all day every day. I grow flowers and vegetables and am very happy because this is Paradise to me.

Ha Ha!, you laugh now of your goofy 10 year old self's dreams.  Life got in the way of Paradise.  That will never happen because of reality.  Maybe you think that 'someday' you will get to live a little part of your dream after you retire.  Maybe you hope that you and your loved one will get there together to share a modified Paradise. But maybe 'someday' doesn't come for you both together...

I could get there, but it would be alone now. Ironically, I could never have imagined having this option if Gary had lived. That makes me very sad.

What would you do next if you suddenly were given the chance to change your life right now and not in some foggy retirement future that you can only hope will happen? I'm not talking winning the lottery, but just getting another shot and taking that other fork in the road.

The people who ask me what I want to do are urging me to follow my dreams.  Can the 10 year old still inside me imagine Paradise the same way?  Its pretty cool to have a choice, but I feel I must be cautious despite what everyone tells me. So I waiver.  Do I dare dream of Paradise at all?  Would you? Do you?

Soft Days

In the widows community, I've learned some new expressions that are specific to widowhood only.  They 'get it' and 'we get it' is used a lot to convey the fact that no one other than a fellow widow understands what it is like to live in a widow's world.   Another expression is used when one is feeling overwhelmed with sadness or sees another suffering in some way, 'Soft Days'  Wishing someone or oneself a 'soft day' or wishing the collective group 'softer days' reminds us to have hope, to be kind to ourselves and to others.  It is the opposite of the hard edged feelings that we too often feel.

In February, I am going to attend a 6 week class called "Picking up the Pieces"  Even this reminds me of how being left alone after a spouse's death conveys broken shards and sharp pieces of a former life strewn about under our feet. Life is full of both hardness and softness, but we can't have just one, we need both.  Ever notice how puzzles, even the ones for children still all have some sharp corners to the pieces?  You can't have a puzzle with all soft, round pieces; it would not fit together as one complete picture. But sometimes we just want and need a softening of attitudes from others, we need the softness or comfort of someone who does not judge us when we are acting chaotic and nonsensical.

I am finding out who my friends are and are not. Many longer term widows warn us newbies that the friends who tell you to 'call if you need anything' at the funeral disappear.  Even long term friends of the person who died fade away inexplicably after they promised their friend that they would always take care of his wife after he is gone.  Families divide up and take sides against the widow. It can be a good time to rustle up some long buried grudges as an excuse to get the widow out of their lives.  Some family members quit trying to engage the widow despite what they promise her at the memorial service.  The effort it takes to include that 'extra' person is just a bother sometimes, so they quit calling and hope she forgets about them.  I've read a lot of terrible stuff dished out that widows may or may not be taking too personally.  But when the hole in her life is still raw and bleeding, its pretty tough not to feel even more bereft when these things happen.

This is when one needs a soft day or a bunch of soft days strung together.  Novacain for the soul.

I have some old friends who I am happy to say have resurfaced when I need them.  Thank goodness they have been available and make the effort to help, not with anything tangible, but by listening and trying to understand(even if they can't). Some of these people are my family, but they double as my friends, too.  I can write or call them and they know where I am coming from and are not afraid to hear about any subject.
I have some old friends who still reach out and won't let me languish in solitude.  There are newer friends who I am getting to know as a widow and they like me for who I am now, not for what I was as part of a couple.

I wanted to include this story of a horseshoe crab especially after my 'Ugliness' blog post from yesterday because reading these insightful books and passages like the one below helps me to not feel awful or hopeless.

It is true that like the crab on its back in the sand, I struggle to right myself; not that I know these days what being right side up will look like.  I had read that many many people will say they want to help, but there are also too many who, after a death, turn their backs on the survivor. I have experienced this already from some formerly near and dear.
But, because I have more people who want to help me than there are those who are out to hurt me, I am hopeful.

Thanks to all who give me soft days.

 This is from a book by Nancy Gingras titled, Walks on the Beach

Horseshoe Crab (Upside Down)
"I find him wiggling all his legs at the sky trying to grab at something - trying to turn his life somehow. I flip him over, set him free at the edge of the water. I'm amazed how quickly he moves on. It feels good to have helped him.
We all have hands that want to help us right our course. They come out of nowhere. One moment we're stuck  and vulnerable, then we're free. What seemed impossible suddenly seems doable. At a difficult time in my life, a teacher came to me and offered to read "whatever I wrote", a friend offered to be a partner in a venture, a stranger came up to me and said, "I read your book and it was important to me," a man told me he thought I was beautiful. They were all hands flipping me (the upside-down horseshoe crab) over and sending me on my way.
I have to learn this lesson: to accept the hands (visible and invisible) that reach for me, that give me new chances at life. And I have to learn never to underestimate my own hands and how they touch and change the world".