Dumpster Rat Has Nothing On Me

I have been making trips to the dumpster, throwing out - all through the night. The air is so warm and thick, it feels like velvet. It gives a false sense of safety, out here alone in a parking lot at 2:00 AM.

I carry a box, stuffed with a feather bed that has, at one time or another, kept all of us warm. Inside the box are photos, old, that no one wants. There too, are the three small pillows, hand sewn and embroidered with each of my girls' names. There is the big pot that offered batch after batch of vegetable soup, always eagerly received; and cup cake pans that once held ladybug treats for a classroom of first- graders.

I drop it all in the dumpster, the noise of the pot and pans, muffled by photos, feather

bed and tiny pillows. The history of my life, in a nondescript clankety- clank. I am dizzy from the heat, dizzy from fatigue, heartache.

I wobble a little, backward and look down, seeing that I have stepped on a stripped ear of corn. I think of the rat that had been dining before I interrupted.

 
"Is this your home?" I whisper into the dumpster where I know she is hiding, corn in her teeth.

There is a soft rustle, a burrowing down. Her answer. I imagine she has lived here all her life. And her mother before that and her mother before that...

"Lucky you," I tell the rat, meaning it.

I walk across the courtyard up the stairs, jealous of a rat, unseen. 

I curl up on the floor of my apartment, furniture all gone, knowing it is one of my last nights here. I am out of tears.

 I steer my thinking away from a decrepit car and a nowhere job. I let my mind wrap around my family, all that I have. I think of my parents, ancient and wonderful.  I see my dad's face, handsome still at 88, pride etched in every crease. I see my mom, and the softness in her gray eyes. My girls' bright smiles, sparkle at me, as if in a dream, but I know I am still awake; sleep doesn't come this easy. I reach for them and their genuine devotion. My grandbaby scampers by in these thoughts, wearing that look, that shows she knows it is her divine right to be adored. 

I am so tired. I find the thin blanket on the floor next to me. I pull it up to my shoulders, tuck it under my chin. It is familiar and welcoming and comfortable, like love itself. It is where I live. I have lived in love my entire life. Lucky me, so very lucky me. I rest my head on the one pillow that hasn't yet hit the dumpster. It is so soft; it cradles my head, like I am somebody.

Picking Up the Pieces

Some things are just so pretty. Aren't they?I bought this teacup for 20 cents at a thrift store about a year ago. Often, I had my morning coffee from it before work, admiring the size, the form, the violets, the way the light came through it, the way it fit perfectly in my hand, and how the gold rim inside, helped me feel a little important.

A month or so ago, it was precisely this admiration for this cup that prompted me to take its photo, perched, ever so perfectly on my tiny green table. Me being clumsy and all things impermanent, I thought, I might like to have a picture of it when it was gone. Maybe, I told myself, so as not to feel silly taking a picture of a cup, that I would some day learn to paint with watercolor and this might be my first subject.

Of course the cup broke; a casualty the other day, of the heavy tray from the grandbaby's highchair slipping off the counter and taking the cup with it. True to its image, it kept its dignity and didn't make a scene or even cry out when it broke. I was surprised to find it on the floor under the tray, in pretty pieces.

I saved the fragments of violets, where the cup one day, if I ever get the time, might find new life on a mosaic table top, or even as a pendent when I get better at my jewelry making. In fact it will give me more incentive to return to the creative things I love. When something is lost, something is found - I used to parrot this a lot once upon a time.  But the older I get, the more I get to live it, through monumental matters and in miniscule lessons, like the shattering of a perfect violet cup.

Just Wondering, Not Wallowing

"Do you promise to love, honor, cherish and protect her, forsaking all others and holding only unto her?"

Out of the above losses, I have of late begun to wonder what I miss the most. Certainly not the fidelity, because that was the easiest of the five pieces of that broken promise to recover from. I am not saying it is easy to learn that your trusted partner has betrayed you in that way. No, it guts one open, pretty nastily, and the wound stays raw for a long time. Sometimes it is just  merely a huge slip-up, a mid-life crisis, an incredible moment of weakness, drunkenness, insanity or whatever. Other times it is deliberately deceitful, and calculated and everlasting. My experience with this betrayal was the later. Still, I would have to say this wasn't the worst  promise, broken. 

     So out of the other four losses: What hurts the most? What is the hardest to heal from? All four were, I too lately discovered, only an illusion that I lived with, but even so, it was still a loss of what I thought I had.
   
      I sure do miss that sense of protection, that feeling of closing my eyes to sleep and knowing that if a brute broke into the house, my own man would fend him off, risking life and limb for his family. Or the notion of having a man protect me from treacherous traffic when my car breaks down, or defend my dignity at an inappropriate comment. Yea, I miss those scenarios or the illusion of them. But I got over that pretty quickly and really no longer get to be damsel in distress, ever... So what? 
     
     Next loss. I think I always knew I wasn't cherished. That would have been such a great thing to feel. To be cherished by a man. But as stupid as I was, I knew that wasn't there, so I guess I didn't lose even the illusion of that after all. 
   
       So what about love? Ouch, ouch and whoa, ouch.That loss or the loss of thinking I was loved, does take its toll, hobbles a soul for a long time. It was, still is, at times, hard to hold my head up, hard to brush the hair on that head and walk like a woman after that was pulled out from under me. Still, I limped away. I eventually stopped bleeding, except  occasionally, when the scab gets unexpectedly torn off. But I do carry the literal ache in my chest, everyday, just like anyone else who has lost in this way, but you get up and get going because, as hard as it is, we all know that there are way worse things to deal with. 
  
        So then it must be the honor, right? The worst loss? Not being respected, valued, held in high regard?  It sure does a lot to cripple the ego, to not be honored. It is a wonderful thing to feel like you are honored. That you are so special, so unique, so appreciated, so worth honoring...But if I am really honest, I think I knew all along I didn't have that either.
      So this morning's revelation is this: I miss having the belief that I was loved most of all - out of all the promises in that one enormous statement above. But more than that, much, much more than that I miss, not being able to offer those things to a man in my life. I miss the love, the honor and the way I cherished years upon years of layered memories, I miss protecting, verbally, emotionally, physically in the daily way that I did, the man in my life. Where, I would like to know from anyone who might be listening, does one put all that love, honor and need to cherish and protect? I am not talking about redirecting your love to your children or to those less fortunate in volunteer work or even keeping busy with what you love: your work, your art, a special cause. I am talking about the particular love between a man and woman and all the promises that go with it.  The loss of these leaves a gaping hole in the abandoned one's heart, but the burden of carrying around the unwanted gifts, and having no one to offer them to, I  think, is the worst of it all.
    
      So is the dumpee destined to lug around this load of goodies until love visits again? What if love never comes? Is the one left behind doomed to take all this good stuff to the grave? What have all  of our abandoned ancestors done with this left-over love? Does anyone have a secret to share? A chant? A spell? A recipe for releasing it into the universe, so it can rain down on the down-trodden, wrap around the lonely and cushion the steps of the newly love-hobbled?

It's Only Hardware

      

Worn smooth by all of us, coming home and leaving, coming home, leaving. Now, none of us cross this threshold any more to infuse the old house with laughter, reunited. I was tempted to take the doorknob with us, but it would have been disrespectful, wrong. 

So instead, I have this photo to remind me of bringing babies home for the first time, of little ones on tiptoe- opening that door with two hands, of teenagers letting it slam, of my mom and dad, visiting. That doorknob turned in trust and expectation, opening and closing our years.  To hold it was to hold home in my hand. Looking at it now - I see a blessed piece of hardware, I see the past and inevitable change, and I can see without a doubt, the patina of my heart.

               

      

Alive on Wednesday Morning

The morning, still dark, is enchanting.  It is 6:00 AM. I walked both my girls to their cars in the velvety mild of this wondrously warm January day.  There is something in the air, great happenings soon, both heart breaking and beautiful. I can feel it on my skin, I can hear a sweet mummer, close by. 

My muscles are alive with tender care given.  Yesterday I watched my Gumbygirl, grandbaby for about thirteen hours.  It is blessed time spent. It is also exhausting, as I swoop her in the air, wrestle when it comes time to change, crawl into play huts, push a toddler car and generally police everything that is a hazard to a 16 month old. And everything is a hazard. A fork is a deadly weapon. I hear the Jaws theme when I spy a Chapstick cap on the floor, diving for the choking hazard that she is drawn to like moth to flame. She is so quick. Leaving for a walk to soak up some of that glorious sun yesterday, we were met with a ten inch patch of snow, hanging on right outside the apartment door. "Ooooh!", the Gumbygirl said, eyeing the slush up like Hawaiian Ice.       " Snow!" I said, slipping my key into my pocket. In a micro second,  with one turbo swoop, she had a mouthful of the bedraggled stuff.  "Mmmmmm!"she said, brown eyes shining, shredded mulch hanging out her mouth, dirt smeared up her cheek, into her eyebrow.

When she leaves I am still in mode, still scanning, still on alert for a good two hours. These old bones are tired. But for some reason I just had to make my dad his favorite cornbread and rice pudding before I sat down. I knew I would be seeing him today; He is 88 and it's a small thing I can do for him. Moving out of my house had been so draining; and with this apartment kitchen, being all but nonexistent, I had sorely neglected him these past few months. As the cornbread baked and as I stirred the rice pudding, I called my mom to check in, like I do every night.  Usually when I ask how they are, I  hear, "Great, we're both fine." But last night's, response was, "Not so good."

It seems as though my dad's bones have worn away. Either disintegrating or cracking, or maybe worse, and he has extreme hip pain, has been in extreme pain, which he did not want to worry anyone with. I swear this big Marine of a man, is, among other reasons, staying alive so he can be certain that I am back on my feet. But this big Marine of a man is literally falling apart and even he cannot stop it.  It is happening, I know it is happening and although I looked the other way in the demise of my marriage, I will not turn away this time. I will find a way to see the sacred in this impending loss.  I will find a way to be of use to my dad, the only man, that may have ever loved me.

Incubating also, is the marriage of my daughter. The middle one: A chirpy bird of a girl. Happy, giving, a love- bug from day one. She is marrying a good man. If I personally had scoured the planet for her I could not have handpicked a more generous soul. 

Beginnings and endings are vibrating all around us. Molecules of each swirling all about, colliding, embracing. My dad is to give my daughter away at her wedding in a few months. All of us pray that he will be able to do that, and if he can will himself to do it, he will and if it is God's will that it does not happen, we will find a way to accept that too. 

If I perch and picture the rest of my life unfolding there is no doubt at all that it will continue to be punctuated with great loss, just like the rest of humanity's.  Up until a few years ago,  sorrow had not stopped that often at my door.  I am so very aware that I will come to know sorrow intimately from here on in. I will have to befriend her to survive, inviting her to tea with my good friends Grace and Love.  We will each drink from old china cups, each with a different pattern, hopefully mine will have sweet peas, or maybe forget -me- nots. All the cups will have a hairline crack or a smooth chip or two. We will sip our tea, looking over our steaming cups at each other- Sorrow, Grace, Love and me. We will see that we are each beautiful and here for one another.   

                                       

The Surprise of Older Eyes

When one of my daughters was learning to read, having graduated from her favorite One Fish Two Fish to books with plot, we stumbled on a wonderful little series of early readers about an old man and his cat, Mr. Putter and Tabby, by Cynthia Rylant.  I was thrilled to find such deceptively simple books that told a little story but showed great sensitivity as well.  In one of the books Mr. Putter is tenderly appreciating his garden, his cat, and life in general. There was a line, that has stayed delightfully with me, that went something like this: Mr. Putter was old and beautiful things meant more to him.  All these years later, I still smile at that gentle bit of information that the author passed on to young readers.  And so it is true with many of us who are fortunate enough to grow in grace with each passing year.

I began to be aware of this truth in my 40's, waiting for one of my high school aged kids to come out of school and realizing that every child that came out of the building was beautiful. Was it my need to update my corrective eye wear? The affluent community where orthodontics were a given, where dermatologists visits are routine as well as regular trips to the salon for perfect haircuts and even better highlighting? While these things were true, I knew it was something more.  I was appreciating their youth, seeing the beauty of it as I had never seen before. Their vulnerability, their humor, their cub-like behavior was oh- so- endearing.  Then not long after that, I found myself almost wonder-struck by a state- of- the art vending machine, all lit up and glowing yellow, with dancing M & M's, bright and vibrant, tumbling down its surface.  My kids thought I was nuts. Isn't that so pretty? I had gasped and they craned their necks to see what I was admiring. They thought I was on the decline.

If this was decline, then I accepted it gladly. I was happy that the world was holding more beauty as I grew older, because the sorrows were beginning to be felt all the more poignantly. Sadness was all around and so deeply felt. There was more crying over the news than in years previous, more empathy for others, than ever before, a gift in and of itself too. But, this balance- gift of aging, this ability to see beauty where before it was unapparent,  was most graciously received.

In more recent times, having had my heart broken open, my appreciation for all things, has been so magnified, that even I question whether this is normal. But guess what? If it's not, I don't care, because again, it is a benefit of heartache that I gather right up.  If I told you that there are times when I might linger a bit over a porcelain toothbrush holder, painted with images of wisteria, thinking such wordless grace as, "awww, our tooth brush holder", would you think I was crazy? Or would you understand my appreciation of it because it cradles an everyday object that is held in the precious hands of my girls?

If I can get sentimental over a tooth brush holder, just think how full I feel when my girls' laughter rises from the other room and drifts under my bedroom door. Think of my joy when one of them plops down beside me on the couch and drapes her legs over mine without a moment's hesitation - such familiarity, such complete acceptance, such a sacred moment. Ottoman mom.  How my heart leaps.

I have lost much in this restructuring of my life.  I have lost friends who were uncomfortable with divorce. We have lost  our home. I have lost my identity and any sense of security that I once had.  I have lost my trust that I placed in a man, and wonder if I can ever give it again.  But I have gained so very much too: everyday epiphanies, everyday moments of awe that I would not, could not ever trade back for the life I had before. 

And so it is with such gratitude, that I look positively toward the New Year, knowing full well that it will probably bring even greater losses. But it is true; gratitude is the road to joy, and what a precious mystery it is to have a heart, so joyously broken.

Hoping beautiful things mean more to all of us this year. Happy 2012.

Poets, Pups and Cheer-Me-Ups

Sometimes I crack myself up thinking about what a good catch I would be for some late fifty something or sixtyish man. I require so little, and the simplest things make me happy: the hum of a heater, good coffee, ephemera.... If only that old guy who walked right passed me and blatantly stared at my eighteen year old could see past my crows feet long enough to learn that I could bring him great joy by sharing my simple abundance. Mostly though, I just have this inner dialog for fun, since I have not yet even entertained the notion of dating again.

Today was one of those great days, where simple joys reign; A day when I hide from my inbox, lest anything (from the ex's lawyer) interfere with the gratitude that I feel. Two of my girls and I went out, like normal people, to eat and celebrate my college freshman's first semester - triumphant in grades and a promotion at work too! For the longest while we didn't dare eat out or buy a thing. We don't have cable TV, we wash out straws and don't buy paper towels because of the expense. This has become second nature to us, and being thrifty and creative at attaining life's little luxuries can be a satisfying accomplishment. But sometimes, just sometimes, one has to find the means to celebrate and participate in the normal activities that many (including me, in my past life) take for granted.

After dinner we made our yearly trek to Barnes and Noble for calendars and planners, now 50% off, even if the selection has dwindled. I do hope I will have something to write in my planner this year, besides meetings with lawyers. Maybe wonder of wonders I will be able to write in a schedule for a regular job.

Back home the girls and I tidied up the apartment, readying it for the busy start of the new year which will involve a fresh semester for my youngest and a marriage (wedding, yay!) for my middle daughter to a kind, caring, golden-retriever of a man, who is all smiles and all heart. God bless him. 

Right now, I sit in front of a Duraflame log (I told you it didn't take much to make me happy).  I have the best cup of coffee in a little birdie mug my daughter gave me for Christmas and have my feet propped up in lime green furry slippers (that look like Oscar the Grouch under black light), that the baby picked out herself. I am one happy woman. I survey this temporary home, this apartment of healing and I sigh. Literally, I sigh in contentment, and it has been a long, long time in coming. I know the New Year might have us packing up again and mooching on a  relative, but for now, just now, it is perfect.

I look over to the large marble heart that sits alone and stately on the mantle. I bought this soon after the world (as I knew it) imploded. This carved-stone heart,this thing, this material thing, that cost 15 dollars at Homegoods has the power to remind me of what my life has been about; regardless of manipulation and lies, regardless of abandonment and betrayal and attempts to define my contributions as worthless.

As simple as the symbol of a heart is, I still love it. I will always love the shape of it.  From the time my girls were little, they scoured beaches and mountainsides for stones in the shape of hearts for me.  My gaze drifts off to a table, an alter, where some of these stones huddle, lobe to lobe, energizing each other, showing solidarity. I am reminded of collecting one of them on a terrible, terrible day, the first Easter of my family's fracturing. My ex had one foot out the door, busy making plans to set up permanent living arrangements with his girlfriend. His girlfriend, how incongruous a word is that after you have trusted someone for almost 34 years? 

On this first Easter, I tried very hard not to let what happened effect whatever relationship there was with the girls and their father. I tried very hard. But they are young woman with eyes and hearts of their own. One cannot hurt one of us without the others reeling and aching too.  But still, the magnitude of what had happened had left us all in shock and reluctantly the girls went out to Easter dinner with their father.  I watched him arrive with Easter baskets filled with the best chocolates from Bayards, that I could not afford anymore. How odd  a sight, I thought, considering that I had been the only Easter bunny for 25 years. It was one of the hardest days of my life, watching the four of them walk out that door to my favorite restaurant and not being invited. Invited, another nonsensical word when one thinks of family.

Stunned, I did not know what to do with myself.  I couldn't remain in the house with those baskets mocking the life I had led.  So I piled up the dogs (my friends, my dear friends, now gone) into my little car and drove to the tiny lake, where my ex and I used to go for picnic dates, where I used to take my children when they were little to look at the ducks and hunt for frogs.  We walked together, my dogs and I for what seemed hours.  Violets were at my feet. How many hundreds of violets have the pudgy hands of my children handed to me? How many had my husband picked for me over the years?  Happy, intact families passed by, again and again. I could barely breath. 

I got back in the car, cried into my water bottle and shared the water and tears with the dogs. And I prayed. I prayed to find a way to go on. But after staring out the windshield of my car, waiting until I thought it was safe to go home, even if home didn't feel safe any more, my tears dried a little, my stomach whined for food and even a broken-hearted woman got bored. I found a Superfresh receipt and a sharpie in my handbag and scribbled this poem of hope, where I desperately tried to convince myself, that all would be well.

Easter Weekend 2009
I pick my own violets today,
scour the ground for heart-shaped rocks
with love abundant, still. 
Hope lies in the surprise of
purple in my path
and trust is small
and solid
as the stone 
in my hand.

Each day that has passed since the earthquake of my marriage, I have looked heartily for inspiration. I have made little journals of beautiful quotes, out of old little books, pasting old postcards on the pages or images of birds or butterflies from vintage field guides. These volumes feel sacred in my hands.  Some of them are riddled with pain and cry out with Psalms and prayers.  Others hold poetry and wisdom from Rumi, and Khalil Gibran, and Emerson and e.e. cummings... It was with a sense of serendipity that I pasted e.e. cummings' poem next to my Easter poem, the similarity striking, when I discovered it.

(I) came home 
with a smooth
round stone
as small 
as a world
and as large as
alone.
e.e. cummings

Of course my small poem pales in comparison, but tonight when I am feeling so grateful, it is nice to be reminded that surprises await us at every corner. It is comforting to know that a friend can be made when you least expect it, even when you meet on a dusty page and the common ground is a love of words and simple pleasures.

Merrily Single at Fifty-Four

There are days when I am glad to be free. It is exciting to be able to remember who I was before I was married. To excavate the artist within, long buried, is at times nothing less than thrilling. Less exciting, but still nice is not finding tighty-whities in my laundry, because in three decades I never could figure out how to fold them right. It is also reassuring to know that no meat lurks in my freezer, since now only we vegetarians reside here. But truthfully, there are days when being divorced and fifty-four is a pretty lonely place to be. And so it is at Christmas time.

When our family was completely intact, we loved Christmas so! There was abundance, there was joy, there was stress too, but oh how we all loved red and green.  My girls and I still do. We celebrate more simply these days and everything we touch and give and make is heartfelt. In the material world for us, "plenty" has made way for "precious"and that is a pretty good trade-off.

But there are those days, and today is one of them, when the stores are filled with older couples, heads together in thought - pondering slipper sizes or debating how many bags of pecans are needed for this year's pie. I turn away when I glimpse such intimacy or hear such sacred murmurings about the seemingly mundane.  I walk on wistfully to the next isle, forgetting my oatmeal, forgetting for a minute why I was at the store in the first place.

Later, I struggle up the long courtyard carrying the boxed Little Tykes car for my granddaughter that I struggled to afford, and it is heavier than it should be.  I come into an empty apartment, happy that I got this great toy for the little gumbygirl, and there is no one to ooh and ahhh over it with me.

I make a cup of coffee and sit down to feel sorry about this, and it occurs to me, that even when I was married, I rarely had someone to discuss slipper sizes with or even shop for pecans with, or at least I hadn't had for a very, very long time. And I realize that this loneliness I feel, is nothing new.  I think back to the days, where my footsteps were as heavy as my heart, dragging around that vague sense of being alone in a marriage that lasted for decades.

As I sit staring at our newly decorated, scrawny silver tree there is a small rejoicing over the realization, that it is far, far better to be by myself, then to live with someone and be utterly and truly alone. 

No great revelation here, I am sure, but sometimes things are so simple that we step right over them.  So I raise my coffee mug to simplicity and the genuine; to my beautiful girls and the love I have all around from them and their own new families. Alone, I celebrate this quiet, blissful reality. Sitting humbly before this artificial tree - put together limb by limb with love and gratitude, I am at this minute, merrily single at fifty-four.

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.