Fleeting Feelings-Memorable Moments

Love nourishes both today and all the moments of our tomorrows

~Deleta Avalon

[First published over two years ago. I'm moving it up the "blog ladder" because 81 years ago today, November 17, 1933 is when my parents married. They nourished each other with mutual love and respect for over 61 years, and nourished my brother and me from our births to their deaths. Dad died in 1994 and Mom died in 1998. I miss them both, every single day.]

There are times when my mother’s presence is so physically felt I am overcome with joy—then overwhelmed with sadness when I come out of reverie, back to the reality of a physical world in which she is no longer a part.

Shopping at a local grocery store two months ago, I reached into a refrigerated case for a carton of orange juice. A small, much older woman in front of me began to reach for a carton at the same time. She hesitated then drew her hand back. Her white hair, the slight hesitation, her body shape and size, were exactly those of my mother.

We were standing within six inches of each other. I had such a need, such a powerful and present need to put my arms around that woman, or at least touch her shoulder, give her a smile. Yet, I didn’t do that—I wish I had. Instead, with tears welling in my eyes, I moved away and continued shopping. I felt certain the woman would have accepted my touch and I hoped an opportunity such as that presented itself again—vowing I would not hold back.

However, almost the same situation arose last week and I did not touch this older woman either, nor did I speak to her. My eyes grew moist when she looked up at me, smiled and apologized for being in my way (of course, she wasn't).

My Dad's Dinner Table

All great change begins at the dinner table

~ Ronald Reagan

Every day my mother lovingly and carefully prepared three healthful and substantial meals for my father, my younger brother and me. Reading a post from September 21, 2010 on “Our Dinner Table," Delight in Losing Arguments, bounced me way back in time—decades back, in fact—to my family’s dinner table and something that usually occurred at each evening meal. 

This nightly “event” was my father’s seemingly unquenchable need to bring up some subject he knew would elicit groans and comments from my brother and me. “Daaaaad, that can’t be true.” “Who said?” “Where’d you read it?”

My recollection is that these “conversations” began when I was 11 or 12 years old and became a regular ritual at the dinner table. With no preamble, Dad would make some pronouncement to my younger brother and me which sounded blatantly outrageous.

         

Out-of-the-blue comments such as “…there’s a new sewing machine that darns socks,” or “…when you’re washing windows, use old newspapers to dry and polish them,” and “always use cold water to wash milk out of a glass” or he might come out with, define and spell, some silly sounding word we had never heard of. When his declaration ended, he would look down and resume eating his dinner.

         

Of course everyone knows socks have to be mended with something inside of them (Mom used an old light bulb), so how could a machine do that? Naturally, when he said to use old newspapers to polish the windows, we both felt our father just wanted to save money and recycle (a term not even used in those days, but we understood “reuse”).  We certainly knew he was simply being a hot-water-electricity-saving-cheapskate when he instructed us to use cold water to wash out a milk glass.

         

In every instance, my brother and I felt as though he was daring us to prove him wrong. We could not help ourselves—we countered him with disbelieving comments and flew to the nearby Collier’s encyclopedias or the dictionary in an attempt to invalidate what our father had said.

Even though loud arguments often ensued, this uproar and dissension over the spelling of words, understanding of philosophies, and interpretation of concepts or feasibility of inventions, never deteriorated into personal insults. 

Mom stayed on the sidelines as the contentiousness went on and we settled the question or, simply tired of arguing.  Only then did we continue our dinner.

Seasonal Reflection

Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, 

summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all. 

~Stanley Horowitz

The calendar tells us we are nearing the end of autumn, the third season of the year. That fall feeling still lingers in the air. Yellow, amber and red leaves flutter to the ground. It's cold and clear, yet blue skies are often partially occluded by varied tufts and wisps of gray clouds, harbingers of winter-to-come.  

How very easy it is to slip back in memory to a brisk, clear-skied autumn day in 1995. 

After driving my 80-year old mother through some particularly lovely areas of our town; after hearing her joyous comments about all the beauty we were seeing as we drove past old homes and established flower gardens; after a leisurely lunch, she was ready for an afternoon nap. 

As I began to turn the corner into her neighborhood, Mom looked to the right, commenting on an ancient bigleaf maple tree whose plate-sized leaves, now crisp and brittle and piled over a foot high, filled the entire area underneath the tree. 

Her voice came in a whispered rush: "Oh, how I wish I could scuffle in those leaves!" Hmmmm...the tree lived in a public park six feet away from the curb outlining the parking area. Her 4-wheeled walker lay in the trunk, ready for action. 

Turning the car around, I eased the tires over the slight curb and up to the edge of those enticing leaves. Gripping the handles of her walker, a childlike look of delight on her face, Mom slid her feet along and scuffled through the leaves. 

Those few moments were just about the best moments of the day

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace

As I have seen in one autumnal face.

~John Donne

Thinking about: How it might have been

The rules I chose to break; the instructions I should have followed; the higher education I could have pursued; the job I didn’t accept; the man I might have married; the life-style changes I could have made; the money I should have saved; the wiser parenting I should have done—periodically all these thoughts, and many more of the same ilk, wend through my mind. However, in each instance and at the time, I chose to do what seemed right.

It’s easy to think “it” might have been so much better if only life had given us a break (or a hint!) now and then or if only we’d known how “it” would eventually turn out.

Of course, that’s entirely a case of ruminating over personal choices in the past and often thinking the outcomes would have been oh, so much better, happier, easier, nicer, more comfortable if we’d chosen a different path.

Admittedly, the majority of these thoughts of mine are egocentric and selfish. In truth, I have no reason to believe my own life would have been any better had I made different choices; it might have been vastly disappointing.   

II

I’ve been thinking of three sets of friends who (and this is fact) have each lost a child within the past year. For the most part, these adult children exuded creativity, enthusiasm for life and love of family as well as intellectual and physical stamina.  

Grieving family and friends have every reason to harbor thoughts of “it might have been,” and “if only….” I certainly don’t consider these thoughts selfish or self-centered (in the way I view my own).

I imagine loved ones dwelling on potentials never met, roads never traveled and their own arms ever-aching for a hug, if only…

For all sad words of tongue and pen,

The saddest are these, 'It might have been'

~John Greenleaf Whittier

In the case of my friends and their losses, the words, “it might have been” are truly sad, anguished and haunting.

Pleonasm Prevention Society

I have made this letter a rather long one, only because

I didn't have the leisure to make it shorter.

~Blaise Pascal-1623-1662
French mathematician, physicist and philosopher

Totidem verbis, this post inaugurates the Pleonasm Prevention Society. The organization is open to all the redundant speakers out there; those of you who tend to use far too many words when writing or speaking.

If you are a reader who has been the recipient of any one of my wordy e-mails, you understand why I have signed on as the first member of this society.

Membership in the Pleonasm Prevention Society will be granted when you acknowledge your prolix ways and determine to pare your verbosity. It’s possible I will be the only member of PPS. It’s also possible I’ll never be able to live up to its stated membership criteria.

Of the many friends with whom I communicate via e-mail, there are only three or four who even come close to matching the length of my notes. Not surprisingly, those three (or four) all tell me they enjoy my extensive blathering, and I certainly savor reading the mail they send.

Lately I’ve been practicing a bit of verbal apery. Meaning, I attempt to truncate my written responses so that they more closely match any short, staccato notes received.

A few of the one or two line e-mails I’ve been receiving come from those who previously wrote much longer communications. It finally dawned on me: these are friends who are now using their smartphones—typing away on that minuscule keyboard, FYI-ing, OMG-ing, BTW-ing and LOL-ing, seldom do I receive TMI.   

More Thoughtfulness, Less Volume

A Portland attorney wrote a letter to the editor of the Wall Street Journal commenting on an article titled, "When the Boss Is a Screamer.” He makes a distinction between those who yell due to being emotionally unstable and those who yell to make a point.

As an example, he recalls when his commanding officer in the Navy screamed at him and he immediately “…got the message and it worked.”

The message might have also gotten through to him if it had been delivered with more thoughtfulness and less volume.

In my opinion, there are only a few valid reasons to yell: to warn others of impending danger, call for a wandering child or scream for help.

I have been on the receiving end of a screamer’s rant—it effectively closed my ears and my mind. In fact, when this has happened the result has been that I feel more empowered and consider the one yelling to be almost nullified.

The attorney ends his letter by stating, “There were many effective screamers when [he] started practicing law. However, the increase in female lawyers changed everything. Men yelled at each other and got over it. Women wouldn’t take it, wouldn’t forget it, and yelling proved so ineffective with them that male lawyers had to change their ways.”

I wonder if he knows just how telling these last words are. Because they are the final comments in his letter, we have no idea what he thinks of this turnaround. However, from his previous statement regarding his reaction to the commanding officer, my sense is he wishes the advent of more women in the profession had not forced the male lawyers “…to change their ways.”  

Most women will listen to calm reasoning and logical, back and forth discussion. We will not yield to someone whose only “weapon” is a thundering voice.

After reading this letter, I thought of the massive amount of political vitriol we’re bombarded with—the hateful and often untrue or taken-out-of-context broadcasts and broadsides which literally, and figuratively, scream at us.

Because facts are skewed and lies are strewn, I close my mind and my ears to all of this, no matter which “side” is doing the hollering. 

Instead, using some well-honed critical thinking skills, I listen to and read deftly and factually worded pieces regarding political issues. Admittedly, this process is more difficult than if I were simply a Gobemouche, believing whoever hollers the loudest. 

When you have the facts on your side, argue the facts.

When you have the law on your side, argue the law.

When you have neither, holler. 

~Al Gore

Words' Worth

A writer friend and I had dinner together Sunday evening—a mellow, slow, relaxing dinner, albeit in a busy, bustling restaurant. In the process of easy and light conversation, my friend said one of her old and dear acquaintances didn’t care to engage in small talk and refused to participate in such. As a result, once the deemed “important stuff” receives its coverage, long, uncomfortable silences always ensue. 

That comment sent us on a round of discussion about just what constituted “small talk,” and whether it had a place in otherwise intelligent conversations. Our conclusion: yes, small talk is an imperative part of civilized communication.

A casual nod of acknowledgment to those we meet as we move through the day, a “Hi, how are you doing?” or a few minutes of light conversation with a neighbor connect us to our world. That “small talk” is not small-minded talk.

Good friends certainly have every reason to engage in a smattering of small talk; catching up on the latest news in their lives and even a bit of that old “talk about the weather.” In congenial conversations, this talk is interspersed with other, deeper communication.

As with the comfortable satiation my friend and I received from our dinner, a minimal helping of small talk often serves to enhance meatier conversation.

All words are pegs to hang ideas on.

~Henry Ward Beecher-1813-1887 – American politician








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