A Rose and Nothing More

I found this rose pressed between the pages of my Impressionist Prints book, an enormous tomb, just right for pressing things. I had to get rid of my book and others like it because I am now moving again, getting rid of most of what I own, and that includes a lot of my pride too. But this post is about the flower.

I found a note I had left between the pages with the rose, scribbled in pencil: "from ----Valentines Day, 2000." My youngest was only 6 at the time. I was still a homemaker, so happy that I could be there for my kids, but always in a state of inexplicable uneasiness that left me sort of colorless, lifeless.  I wonder now if this was the last flower given to me by the ex. It was miraculously preserved, this twelve year old rose- the color true, the stem still graceful, albeit, a little brittle. 

I had no feelings toward this rose. I had no desire to stomp on it or grind it into bits. It did not coax a single tear from my eye. I don't even remember him giving it to me, although this note was telling me that he did. And its discovery did not churn out even a trickle of other unwanted memories.  I was merely surprised to find it. A neutral surprise. 

I studied it, admiring its form. It was a delicate curiosity.

In the end I did crumble the dear thing. Just a soft crumble, rolled between my palms, and brushed off into the trash can. It had to be. I am moving on and no longer have room for such things.

No Peeps This Year

                                                         
                                                                
     Another first here in the land of downsizing and downsizing and downsizing. No egghunts, no Easter baskets awaiting "the kiddies."  Friends have rolled their eyes at me for years because I still make my grown-up girls Easter baskets. But the truth is I love chicks and bunnies and flower seeds and flip flops and bubble gum and these always ended up in the baskets. Not to mention, I am extremely fond of the shape of eggs, simplicity at its finest, and brightly colored eggs are so easy on the eyes, aren't they? Not much to discern, interpret or understand.

     Easter baskets and the hunts that accompanied them, with eggs that used to be filled with quarters and chenille chicks and then later dollar bills and little nail polish bottles and lip gloss are now officially a thing of the past. I miss them. It has always been such fun, and it was a way to welcome Spring which meant that my favorite season,  summertime, was not all that far away. 

     So I guess it's goodbye to vinegar and egg dye on our fingers because everyone is too busy; good-bye to Peeps because everyone is watching their weight.  I guess in the morn it will be just me alone singing Eggbert the Easter Egg... Does anyone else in the world remember that song? I used to play it on a bright yellow thick vinyl record - a "78"  I think it was. And if you are old enough to remember these, then you are old enough to sing with me.  

     Please indulge a wrinkled girl, who is pining for Peeps and the blast of hyacinths in the air. This one has little hand gestures and faces that go with it. Ready? 

"Bunny Bunny Bunny You're so Funny, with your twitching nose...Bunny Bunny Bunny you're so funny from your head to your toes. Oh you pretty bunny may I come near? May I hold you and pet your ear? Oh you pretty bunny, I love you so. Stay with me, oh please don't go..."

Beneath This Tacky Tree

This is the first year, in the 32 years since I moved out of my parents' home that I do not have a real tree for Christmas. I know, I can hear the collective gasp, but it is a big change for us, and since change has visited my family all around and over and over again these past few years, it just seemed fitting.

Used to be that Christmas just wasn't Christmas until we picked out our big evergreen from the tree farm.  The joke in our family was that the tree had to call out to mom, it had to softly, sweetly, beg to be the one; "kill me, kill me," the tree would plead, telepathically of course.But, before saw ever touched trunk, I had the family hold hands while I sang, O Tannenbaum. Seriously, we did this.  When they were little, the kids sang along, when they got older they rolled their eyes, when they got even older they hid in nearby trees.

But some traditions must fall by the wayside. This is the first Christmas in many years without our  old pets. It is the third Christmas as a fractured family.  It is the first year out of the only home my girls have ever known. It just didn't feel right celebrating in the same manner. Where we are now, space is limited, hearts are healing and it was time for something different.

Different came by way of eBay. Our tree arrived a week after the highest bid, shipped promptly in a recycled brown box with our address written in black Sharpie. I was the winner of a vintage, bedraggled, shedding, aluminum beauty, just under six feet tall and just like the one I had when I was four years old.

It was actually fun for my daughters and me to separate the branches according to size and fit them into the ill-fitting holes. It was nice having the old ornaments we had collected over the years, showcased on the sparse, stiff limbs. And, guess what? It sparkles without any lights at all. The truly vintage electric color wheels that spin and change the tree different colors were also a hot item on eBay, but they were out of  our budget this year. I do remember sitting fascinated when I was a kid, watching the tree go from red to blue to yellow, while the little wheel went round and round. It was so high-tech back then but now seems sort of  homespun.

At the moment, it is a temporary home, where my girls and I find ourselves. It might be a long time before we have a home of our home again. But right now, this place feels heavenly and this cusp we are living on, where the last two of my chicks are poised for take off, is oh so precious to us. It is a girls place here, where pink reigns and silver bangles sit artfully by the kitchen sink. It is a place, decidedly feminine. Our place for now. But isn't everything, only for now?

Some day we, I mean I, (I will have to get used to saying "I") will have a house of my own again.  And when that time comes, the tacky aluminum tree will come along. It will share the space with a real tree and be a sparkling reminder of these often trying, oh-so-fleeting, good old days.

 

Smelling Time

So I have been thinking, since last we talked, about the sense of smell and the power of it. Right now, I am writing with a microwave-warmed lavender neck wrap tucked inside my hoodie. The lavender scent is lovely and I hope will help to transport me to sleep.  But that's a lot to ask of any flower, dried or fresh.  As much as I love lavender, my mother hates it. Hates it, hates it. Does a little foot stomp and asks for its immediate removal.  It seems when she was a little girl there was a woman at church, who always sat near her after bathing in gallons of lavender water. The long Mass was tough enough on itty bitty Margaret, but holding her nose for an hour and ten minutes every Sunday has apparently scarred her.  Eight decades later, she still has not forgiven lavender.

I also, right at this moment, am typing in between sips of jasmine tea.  I love this not so much for the taste, which is perfect, but more for the scent which rises, subtle and steamy from my Howdy from Texas!" mug.  I love this mug with bucking horse and cowgirl because it was an unexpected gift from my daughter when she returned from Dallas. Isn't it funny how good tea tastes even better from a great mug?

So the funny mug and jasmine are keeping me company tonight.  My love affair with jasmine began back in junior high with my discovery of Love's Sweet Musky Jasmine cologne. The little bottle with the purple plastic dome was a cousin to the equally sweet Love's Baby Soft , a baby- powder scented concoction. These little gift boxes beckoned, stacked deep and high at Christmastime in department stores in the early 70's. And a friend tells me they are back on the shelves again (maybe they never left, maybe I just stopped looking for them). But I remember them being packaged so cutely with a small cylinder of powder that no one ever seemed to use. I got one sweet set at Christmas and I had to make it last all the year through. I drove my first boyfriend crazy with that Loves Sweet Musky Jasmine and the only boyfriend I had after that too. My love of this cologne, started my obsession with all things jasmine: Twinings jasmine tea, essential jasmine oil to dab on the pulse points, quality jasmine incense, jasmine candles. Such was my love of jasmine, that my ex and I named our first dog after the scent, a buff- colored cocker spaniel. Jasmine, or Jessamine Sweet Thyme, as her papers read, the most beautiful dog that ever lived...

We adored that dog, and pampered her so, as do many pre-kid couples. I loved that she was ours; I loved her beautiful coat; I loved her name. Because of her, my love of  jasmine flourished and became more sophisticated as time went on, with my ex buying me more expensive jasmine-laced perfumes. I am so very happy that jasmine was not a casualty of his departure. So many things that I used to love ended up on the never -to- be- enjoyed- again list because of association with him, tainted and removed from life's pleasures since the divorce. But I think the scent of jasmine hung on because this scent was mine and truly mine, way before I ever met him. It has remained mine long after the last whiff of him was gone from my air space.

It is funny that I am now reminded of a certain former man in my life and this oddity: he had an almost complete absence of odor. The man didn't stink: not his feet, not his breath, not his armpits in August after cutting the grass. No smell, no soul? Who knows? But his hair did have a certain subtle something that was like home itself to me, for many, many years.

Let's talk instead about something pleasant. How about the smell of olive oil? I wonder if there are many other women for whom, an open bottle conjures up precious memories of their babies births. My midwives used it for a labor message to ease the passage of my wee ones into the world. Oh how I will never ever forget that immediate first kiss upon those salad- scented newborn heads!

Spaghetti always goes well with salad, and that leads me to the smell memory of my mother's best dish. For quite awhile when I wondered what my food-shunning toddler lived on, this was the only thing I could point to. Funny little creature she was. Funny little creature she still is now, my teenage doll baby with purple nails. And no matter how many years pass, I know the smell of nail polish will always have me turning my head, expecting to see her sitting there, plugged into her ipod, long after she has flown off to polish her nails in a home of her own.

That same funny girl will always have me wondering why a bag of newly opened potato chips smells the way it does. I will rerun the jokes and giggles my girls had over this, forever more whenever I open a bag of chips. And here is another smell mystery: why do all diner foyers smell like wet dogs? At least to me they do, and yet I have found not another soul to agree with me on this one.  But wet dogs are what I smell in any diner in any state when I first walk in. And of course the smell of wet dogs reminds me of my no- longer- with- us pups and how good they all were when bath time came around.  How they put up with us, those dogs who didn't care if they stunk, but respected the fact that we did. 

Some might argue that cigars stink too, but the smell always reminds me of back in the day when my dad smoked cheap cigars and I was allowed to walk across the street and actually buy them for him. I think they were about seventy-five cents for a pack of four, and while I was there I was always allowed to buy wax lips, or bubble gum, or little paper- tasting flying saucers with candy beads inside, all for a penny each. I would chew on the wax lips after making my father laugh and he would squint at the cigar smoke, deep in thought.

My then, indestructible dad, used to take us boating on the rare day he had off. And days off  usually smelled like gasoline.  I love the smell of gasoline. The pleasant association goes back to the days when my dad backed the trailer up to the Delaware river, and expertly released our boat into the dirty water. The anticipation of the day ahead was almost too much, as the boat's motor gurgled up gas fumes all around. Later in the warmth of dusk, that same scent would signal: "time to go home" and thoughts of clean, thin pj's and cool fresh sheets rose up on those same gas fumes.

But by far the best smell of childhood, above crayons, above the marvelous mapley mix of Maypo on a winter's morning, is vinyl.  The smell of fresh vinyl is really, truly the scent of a new doll on Christmas morning. Second to this, as one grew older, would be of course the smell of 45's all cozied up in their own little box with a handle.

Also in their own little box were pencils and erasers, full of promise on the first day of school. One whiff and I am right back at my wooden desk in Mrs. Girard's third grade class. Such is the smell of simpler times.

So I have to wonder, if smelling things can conjure up feelings of safety and simplicity, why then don't we use more smell therapy; beyond candles and incense and perfume and air fresheners and beyond the aromatherapy potions which are rosemary and lemon verbena, or tea tree and rose hips but never - erasers and pencils. Would purposely dabbling in the scents of yesterday, bring back some happiness from those simpler times?  Or would the effect be too bittersweet, creating an unsettling longing for those days.

No, I guess there will never be essence of gasoline or cigar smoke eau de toilette bottled on shelves, and for good reason, aside from no mass market appeal.  I think for a scent to work its magic, it has to sneak up on us. Surprise us. Like the smell of a new book and secrets not yet revealed, or hyacinths screaming, "It's Spring!" when walking through the doors of K-Mart. 

While most scents nudge, some indeed do shout. Not to be ignored, is the warning nature of  some smells. For smells also scream "Fire!" or to not drink that because it is "Sour!" or who left the burrito in the car, because it is "Rancid!" or stay away from that man, he is, "Odorless!" Well, that last one might belong solely to me.  But I think from now on I will treat my nose a little more nicely. I won't call it a beak; I will try to remember the sunblock and buy softer tissues. It has given me such pleasure over the years, and has left me with forever memories and even tried to warn me. Yep, I think I will fine-tune my sense of smell and heed all of the warnings, even the subtle ones. If I ever let another man into my life he better sweat his sensitivity from every pore. I want to be able to think good thoughts of him when I remember his smelly feet.  

It's the Turkey Talking

What I am offering here tonight is hardly original. In fact, I thought twice about this topic, since it seems we are always looking for the unique, the one that stands out.  But there is much to be said for the ordinary and these days I find myself much more interested in our commonality than in what sets us apart. Sure, I love unique art and beautiful writing that opens our eyes and inspires.  But, I also love that feeling of belonging, of being a part of a collective gathering of minds or hearts, like a major happening such as the Presidential election or maybe the Olympics, or big holidays. Which is why I am thinking turkey (even though I am a vegetarian) and about what I have to be thankful for. I think all of us have been assigned an essay like this at least 13 times in the course of growing up. I know I have and I am sure I have given thanks  more than once for my flower-power, banana seat sting-ray bike in fifth grade, or for LBJ -my childhood canary, or given thanks in the seventies, that my brother-in-law had made it back from Vietnam. And I have sent many a prayer of thanks heavenward in the time since then, but it has been a long, long time since I have actually written it down.

But this is an exercise that I need to do right about now, to keep the blues at bay. Not just because it is another holiday and any holiday post- divorce is difficult.  I need to do this because there are major worries presenting, big worries, like finding a home and employment, that are interfering with my gratitude and I just can't let that happen.

So with the inspiration of canned pumpkin, marshmallows and yams in full view, let's see how the worries hold up under the weight of these Thank-Yous.

• Today, right this minute I am thankful that my family is warm and fed and that we are together.

• I am thankful for my granddaughter who has shown me the redeeming qualities of Elmo; I am sorry I misjudged him.

• I am thankful for the mess that my daughters leave all over the house, shoes here- there-everywhere, make-up all over the sink and Pepsi cans on every table. Ordinarily, I am not thankful for this, but then I try to picture my life without this clutter, and it is orderly, but oh, it is no where near as colorful! So I ask that every time from now on, when I bend to pick up a wet towel, or gum wrapper or lonely sock, that I am reminded how my heart soars in the company of these radiant, funny beings and how gathering up bras and magazines and Chapstick is a small price to pay for this. This is truly soulful work, I mean this, I do, and I thank God for the privilege.  

• I am ever so thankful that at 54, I am still someone's little girl. My parents are 86 and 87 and my mom still likes to bring me a cup of tea and needs to know that I get home safely.  My dad, worries that I don't sleep. He loses sleep over my not sleeping, my daddy does. And sometimes he says the cutest things, which is always surprising because he is an old Marine, and cute isn't in his vocabulary. But cute he can be, like when he tries to fit himself in a slender, straight-back dining chair.  Evaluating the tight squeeze, he says softly, " There's too much Albert and not enough chair." How I will miss hearing him say things like this.

• I am also thankful for the tiny porcelain heart- shaped box that sits on my dresser. In it is a snippet of fur from both my 16 year old sweet dachshund, Sally and loyal 17 year old cock-a -poo, Chloe. Both dogs died less than 2 months ago. When my husband first left, and the world as I knew it was forever altered, there were nights when I thought I would surely die of loneliness, my daughters all out living their lives on those moments, and me alone in the house I shared with my him for almost three decades. That home echoed with the cruelty of recent times; it haunted me with happier moments. The dogs themselves were baffled and missed him too. Together we huddled on the couch, sometimes curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, and they tried as best they could to comfort - their presence all they could offer.  They would look at me, not the wallpaper, not the floor, but at me, as if to reassure that someone saw me, and that I was not forgotten. Their ears were often wet from my tears. They were two of the best friends I have ever had, and I am thankful for the time I had with them.

• Now might be a good time to talk about fun things to be thankful for and the list is really never-ending isn't it? Flip- top cans, and PAM, soft, fuzzy blankets, microwaveable neck wraps and incense and the convenience of shredded cheese. I am thankful for candles and the flicker of hope that they give, and Tootsie Pops because I like to chomp through them in 2 minutes flat. I am thankful for the moon and for the few kisses I've had under its watchful eye and when dreams allow, the kisses I might have one day again.   I'm thankful for YouTube and the company it keeps me when worries cause me to forget my gratitude and have me up at 3:00 AM. What would I do if I couldn't summon up Carol King and James Taylor and Jackson Browne looking just like they did back in '73?

But there will be no YouTubing tonight, even though it is late, because tonight, I am going to sleep and I am going to count my endless blessings to get there. Tonight I might even have sweet dreams, because gratitude is a heavy trip that can lighten any load, and tonight I am thankful that I remembered.