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Another Life

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Every time I travel with my husband, I end up creating a new life for us in my head. It doesn’t matter where we go; a quick getaway an hour from our home, or halfway across the globe, I always wonder what it would be like to live there. I don’t know if everyone does this, or if my imagination goes a little wild at times, but in the space of 5 minutes, I’ve created a whole new world in my head. It can be triggered by a charming piazza, a quaint library, a little hospital, or a homey restaurant that I can easily envision becoming “our place.” Anything that is familiar, but different; common-place, but new. This past weekend, on a spur of the moment road trip with my ever-ready travel buddy, I did it again.

It all started with a rainy day, a bustling bay on the banks of the St. Lawrence river, an enticing coffee shop with geraniums in a window box, and a few tables and chairs set cozily by a rain streaked picture window. My husband and I had just paid for our ferry tickets to see a castle on a heart-shaped island in the middle of the river. A tourist attraction, the story behind the castle is both romantic and tragic, and I was eager to see it for myself. It was raining hard when we left our motel, and I had given myself a mental pat on the back for remembering our rain coats. But now, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and my husband had shucked his off, while we strolled through the town looking for a place to get coffee and maybe a pastry while we waited for the ferry.

We wandered in through the open door of a tourist shop that sold t-shirts, hats and souvenirs, because it had a sign out front offering us coffee and warm cinnamon buns. Finding an empty spot at the window, we plunked down to while away the minutes until it was time to depart. Chatting about how good the cinnamon bun was, while watching the passers-by, some with rain coats, but most without, we both turned our heads when a heavyset elderly man, wearing stained Dickies work pants, and a baseball hat that had seen better days, sat down beside us. He joked with the college-aged girls manning the counter; clearly he was a regular. “Hi there!” he wheezed heartily in our direction, “where are you folks from?” We told him we lived about 450 miles away, in Maine. “Maine, huh?” he said remembering, his milky blue eyes smiling, “The wife and I used to like to go up there in the fall, sometimes clear up the coast.” My husband continued chatting with him conversationally, while my mind started to wander.

“What if we lived here?” I thought. “What if we were regulars at this cute little shop too? What if we often saw Bud (no idea what his name was, but Bud seemed appropriate) and knew the names of the girls behind the counter. What if I worked at that adorable hospital, right on the banks of the river? It doesn’t look too big, maybe just slightly bigger than the hospital where I work. I bet I would like it there. I could take patients for walks on the path that leads right from the hospital door, and goes along the river. Tiny could work anywhere; he’d probably find a job in a day. We’d live right in town, and walk everywhere. We could eat at that dockside restaurant that we went to last night, every week. And that ice cream place! that could be a problem… but at least I’d be walking a lot. We would definitely want to get a boat. I wonder where the nearest grocery store is, and a church…”

Suddenly I was brought to my senses by “Bud” who nudged my arm and smiled in a crinkly, way, “So, you two are going to Boldt castle? That used to be helluva good place to party, got my name written on one of them walls before they started restoring it.” he said giving me a conspiratorial wink, making me like him right then and there.”Yeah,” I thought, I could get used to this place, we could make it a home.” I smiled at my husband who was finishing his coffee, while talking to Bud about the proportions and dimensions of a cargo ship we had seen last night, and what kind of cargo it carried; the kinds of things that men say to each other that make me think that they are adorable, but also boring, allowing my mind to continue to create my new microcosm.

“Bud’s probably actually a millionaire, one of those really frugal ones, who wears the same thing everyday and has money squirreled away all over his crumbling old mansion. I bet his real name is something like, Robert Edward Worthington III, (the ridiculousness of creating a fake name, off of an already made up name, lost on me at the time, so caught up in this reverie was I), he never had any children and is lonely since his wife died and he stopped caring about his appearance. Tiny could help him out as a caretaker and I bet he would eventually leave his inheritance to him….”

Before my mind could venture any further, my cellphone binged; a text from my daughter. She was sending me a picture of our granddaughter, and I instantly switched gears. Chloe! Emily! Isaac! I would never leave them, and start a new life so far away from my heart’s delights. I sent back a heart Emoji, as my husband stood to clear the table of our cups and plates, while telling Bud that it had been nice talking to him. I gathered my backpack, and put it on over my pink raincoat, while my husband threw his yellow one over his arm.  I looked over my shoulder and waved a goodbye to Bud, who was already turning his attention away from us, toward a young couple sitting at another table.

We walked out of the shop and into the warm soupy air, turning in the direction of the water, our shuttle boat having just docked. I was feeling a little guilty, like I’d betrayed them all for even thinking about a new life, when suddenly, Tiny leaned over and said, “I could get used to this place.” I smiled, experiencing one of those rare moments of clarity that a new experience can sometimes bring….”This is why we travel,” I thought, “to physically escape our daily routine while absorbing new ideas, new people and new thoughts, and to store all these things up inside our memory banks so that we can make a mental withdrawal anytime our emotional wallet is empty. No need to feel guilty…Traveling sparks my imagination because I feel alive when I travel, and when I come back, I’ve fallen in love all over again with the life I’ve already made…at home.”

 

“To travel is to live.”   ~Hans Christian Anderson

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Age is Just a Number

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband turned 53 two days ago, and our daughter 27. They were born on the same day, and although my mother-in-law crowed at the time it was same hour, it turns out that was a bit of an exaggeration, according to his birth certificate. But, both were born in the wee hours of the morning, on August 19th, so that’s close enough. My mother-in-law’s amplifications notwithstanding, it is pretty cool that 50% of my little family was born on this day, and even more impressive is the attitude that my husband has about his age; which he basically ignores, or in the wise words of Mark Twain, “age is a case of mind over matter, if you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t get this attitude from his father. That man was one of those people who lamented constantly about being old when he was but a young pup of 60. I can say that he was young because after 3 decades of caring for the elderly, I really don’t consider anyone “old” until they are in their 90’s. Even then, there are still those vibrant nonagenarians, who although might move a little slower than they would like, have the mind and attitude of a young person, so to me they seem no older than 50. Conversely. I have seen people in their 40’s and 50’s, moan and carry on about being old (!?!?!), which tends to makes me agree with them. To be fair, some have serious mental and/or physical problems but I can’t help but wonder which came first, the ailment or the attitude?

I’ve decided that I want to be just like my husband’s uncle, whom I recently met, and instantly liked. He and Aunt Carolynn, are “snowbirds,” at least that’s what they are called in our area, which means they live in Florida, but spend summers up north, which in this case, is upstate New York along the St. Lawrence river. His only complaint about living in Florida is that there isn’t enough to do. He doesn’t mean recreationally, as no doubt there are a myriad of ways to relax, including  five hours long Bingo games, which Aunt Carolynn enjoys, but he eschews… “I can’t sit that long! I’m only good for about two hours.” He is talking about puttering around the house: fixing, repairing and maintaining a home inside and outside which are all things that have kept him active and fit as a fiddle. “I like to keep busy,” he explained, as we sat on the back deck, watching the ships cruise by on the river while enjoying a cup of coffee. I told him that I always ask my 90-year-old patients about their longevity secrets. Was it proper nutrition, working out, or maybe getting 8 hours of sleep every night that helped them live so long? Nope, they all have said the same thing…”I always kept busy.” That’s it. Not one of them said, “I took time to pamper myself,” or, “every day I would lie on the couch, watch The Price is Right, and eat potato chips.” Nope, according to these “old people,” all they did was keep moving. And so does Uncle Charlie, a man who, by his own admission, once smoked 3 packs of cigarettes a day, but now has a perpetual cup of coffee in his hand. “You traded in three packs, for three pots!” I joked with him.

I’m thankful to have many “busy” role models in my life. My stepfather Jake, who could easily be sidelined, as most are, by an advancing case of COPD, not to mention four prior heart attacks, always answers “excellent!” when asked how he is, and he never stops working. My mother too, a retired nurse, always keeps busy; swimming with her friends, going to prayer meetings most mornings, baking and puttering around the house (Mom! I know just what you’re going to say here…”Ohhh, I spend a lot of time reading on the couch, and I like to take a nap every afternoon.”…What she doesn’t realize is that if you were truly a lazy person, the whole day would be spent on leisure pursuits, not just a couple of hours in the afternoon). My husband too, always keeps moving. He is something of a natural due to the fact that he has ADHD, and restless leg syndrome, so awake and even sound asleep, he always moves. Anyone who lives with someone with ADHD, is well aware of the downfalls, but here is one of the benefits! He likes to work (by work, I mean carpentry, or any other physical task that involves a lot of swearing and sweating), hike, walk, climb, jump out of airplanes, kayak… basically anything that propels him forward, or in the case of skydiving, hurdles him downward. The proverb, “a rolling stone gathers no moss,” would be an accurate description of the way he lives his life, and maybe it is the same for those 90-year-old patients I’ve talked to, as well as Uncle Charlie, who will soon be an Octogenarian himself,  but I’m convinced it’s also a mental game as well.

I suppose you could argue that a busy person doesn’t have time to think about how old they are, and that is true, but what makes someone refuse to grow old gracefully, and instead choose to fight it every step of the way?  Maybe it’s a love of life, maybe it’s a positive attitude, or maybe it’s a stubborn streak, a refusal to give in, or give up. Either way, I’ve learned that if I’m going to ponder these mysteries, and other deeper philosophical subjects, I had better do it while I’m moving my body in some form or fashion. I want to be like Uncle Charlie when I grow up and say, as he did to me… “I went to a high school reunion recently, and it was just a bunch of old people.” I guess it’s really true that age is just a number, thank you for that reminder, Uncle Charlie, and thank you to my husband, that AARP card-carrying grandfather, who thinks, acts, and looks young; therefore he is young.

 

 

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Fight or Flight

Posted on by Susannah Warner

D1A62D9C-8964-4F5C-800E-D29DFBBAD4BDThere I was, innocently flipping the switch on my bedroom wall, reminiscing about the nice evening my husband and I had just had; riding bikes, watching the sun set over the river, watching a movie, my head in his lap so that he would play with my hair…When out of nowhere I felt a swoosh go right by my head, followed by flapping wings. My feet registered what was happening and started moving towards safety before my head did, my fight or flight instinct alive and well. Evidently, the flight aspect is my go-to when faced with what my body thought was grave danger. I screamed and ran, ducking at the same time as if under fire, to the bathroom, where I promptly slipped and fell, while trying to slam the door. After I assessed that I wasn’t seriously hurt, I opened the door a crack, to see a bat, frantically making a bee-line, or maybe a bat-line, for my head. I slammed the door shut, only to realize too late, that my phone was on my bed; I had no way to summon help.

“Wait, yes I do,” I thought, “I can open my window and yell to Tiny,” who was in the garage at the time. I’m not much of a yeller, so when that failed to elicit a response, I resorted to whistling, actually more of a high-pitched squeal until I saw a shadow and heard my husband say incredulously, as this is the first time I’ve summoned him with a whistle in 28 years, “Is that you Bugs? WHAT are you doing?” In a shaky voice, dripping with adrenaline and fear, I shouted to him, “I’m trapped!!” “Huh?” he said, struggling to reconcile the peaceful easiness of the night, with the note of hysteria in my voice. “I’m trapped!” I cried again, as my plight came out in a tumble of strung together words. “There’s-a-bat-in-our-room-and-I’m-stuck-in-the bathroom!!” And, just like any hero who is worth his salt would, he replied, “I’ll be right there!”

And he was, work gloves and an old flannel shirt on, a hat on his head, and a towel in his hands, as if he had a “bat disposal kit” at the ready, for just such an emergency. “C’mere, c’mon,” he cajoled the frenetic bat, while I peered through a slit in the door the width of a dime, and shouted unhelpful exclamatory remarks. “Get him! Get him! Oh, he’s terrible! I hate him!” “What?” he said, huge smile on his face. “He’s beautiful! Look at him!” ” I don’t want to look at him! I want him to go!” Just then, he lighted in the corner of the room, and my batman snuck up to him, covered him completely in the towel, and with a triumphant look towards the slit in the bathroom door, said “Don’t worry Bugs, I got him, you can come out!” Breathing a sigh of relief I emerged shakily from my hiding place, while he brought the bat outside and freed him.

It was at this point, I noticed that I had skinned my knee and bruised my thumb while I was fleeing. It made me think of how ridiculous I had just acted, especially considering that I am a nurse, and should be calm under pressure; and I am, but apparently not when frenzied, flying mammals are involved. I mentally added bats to my growing list of fears that I’m developing in my advancing years: surly dogs, mice, heights and now bats. I also realized that I am more of a runner than a fighter, and that conveniently my husband is a fighter. I don’t think this is just a gender thing, because I know for a fact that my own daughter is a fighter, something I learned quite by accident, when taking a walk with her when she was 16, and I cowardly jumped behind her when a German Shepard lunged at us. Using my own daughter as a human shield was not my proudest mom moment, but it did allow me to get a glimpse of her strength and fearlessness. “Get out of here! Go on home!” She demanded with such confidence and authority that the dog, who no doubt outweighed her, stopped in his tracks and slunk back to the decrepit, elderly house trailer he had attempted to defend.

Winged intruder gone, I conducted a thorough search of the bedroom for guano, then gratefully dropped into bed, but not without a wary, soured feeling which particularly distressed me as I had taken advantage of the beautiful day earlier, and washed and hung all the bedding out on the line. The sun-drenched, fresh smell I had been looking forward to all evening now felt tainted, but at least the bat was gone. “That was fun!” Tiny chuckled, reliving the moment with a smile on his face. When I didn’t respond, he looked at me and his expression softened, “I love that you were so afraid of that bat, it was very endearing.” I smiled at him, grateful that he relishes any opportunity protect me, even if it’s only from a bat. “Well, I love that you weren’t.” I said. So, content with our day, the fresh linen and each other, we slept.

 

 

 

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What’s For Dinner?

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’m not sure why I can’t decide what I want to eat. Maybe it’s from almost 27 years of being a mom. You know, like when the kids are little and your “meal” consists of toddler leftovers; three spaghetti strands (with no “red stuff because it’s yucky! only butter!”), a drying crust with a smear of peanut butter left on it, three bites of cold scrambled eggs, and a triangle of soggy toast…that kind of meal. The sad remains that you could not coax, or guilt, as my mother used to do -“there are starving children in Armenia!” – ( btw, I had to text my mother and ask which country was deemed the most appropriate to ship leftovers to for those poor kids in 1979, because I was thinking it was either China or Romania for some reason. I’m ashamed to admit that I had to google, “where is Armenia located?” after she promptly texted back the answer. It’s in Asia, in case you’re wondering too…), your child into consuming. So, you nourish yourself on what was left behind after declaring that they need to “take one more bite. ” This is a statement that I learned to regret when my then three-year old daughter would absolutely not take one more bite, and sat there, alternately crying and stamping her feet for over 30 minutes, until her father tried to intercede on her behalf, but seeing the grim set of my jaw, wisely determined that I would not give in, at which point he turned to our tiny tyrant and cajoled her into taking a little nibble. The story ends on a sour note in my mind, even 24 years later as I vividly recall her letting that “one bite” dribble down her chin, rather than swallow it, as she slid out of her booster seat and ran away. Clearly this was a power struggle and not about food at all, but at least I can console myself with the fact that she has turned into a strong, independent woman, which soothes my still ruffled feathers a little. But, I digress…

Obviously toddlers and pre-schoolers dictated my diet, but even when they were babies, and just starting to eat the oatmeal that comes in a box, I’d usually match every spoonful I fed them with two in my own mouth. Hey, don’t judge! It’s really good, and goes great with cold coffee. In more recent years, when my children were teenagers, they still called the sustenance shots; Pizza! McDonald’s! I just went with whatever everyone else wanted, hoping that I could find something I liked, or in the case of the fast food option, something with the least amount of guilt attached to it, and if nothing else, a bowl of cereal has always been my go-to, often eaten standing up by the sink, because why get comfortable when cereal takes like 10 seconds to eat?

But then they grew up, and my husband and I are left asking each other the same thing whenever we decide to eat out…”What do you feel like eating?” The response? If I am the one answering, I have a standard reply, “I don’t care, what do you want?” Except apparently I do care, I just don’t know that I do until he presents options that I find objectionable…

Husband: “Chinese?”

Me: “Nah, we just had Chinese, I can only eat that when I’m in the mood for it. ”

Husband: “Pizza?”

Me: “Ugh, I’m sick of pizza!”

Husband: “Big Mac?”

Me: *makes face while inwardly crushing on the “special sauce” …and those onions! How do they make them so tiny and yummy?!?* …”No.”

Husband: “Mexican?”

Me: “Alright, I’ll go, but I’m only going because all I really want is a margarita…and maybe just a bite off of yours.”

It sounds like I’m not very good at making decisions, but actually my job requires me to make decisions for 12+ hours a day, some that could be life or death, so I think its safe to say that on my days off, I succumb to a little “decision fatigue.” My husband seems to be used to my indecisiveness and since neither of us are very adventurous eaters, generally we agree on where to go. By not adventurous, I mean that we aren’t really fans of fruits and vegetables. I mean, I do love mashed potatoes, so much so, that my co-workers can vouch for the fact that I eat them every day at work in the hospital cafeteria, because the only thing I like better than institutional mashed potatoes, is institutional oatmeal. I also have corn on the cob once a year, when a local farm sells them, but I’ve been told by a dietitian where I work that they are starches and don’t really count and besides I think you are supposed to eat them like three times a day, not three times a year. I’ve also heard that potatoes are “nightshades” and therefore evil, but they don’t scare me.

My husband, for his part, eats more vegetables than I do, but never on a daily basis and certainly not the epic proportion that our daughter insisted on when she was little and inexplicably thought that peas were his favorite food. Every year, for years, for her “birthday dinner” and for her father’s as they share the same birthday, she would choose a “feast” (her term, not mine!) of steak, french fries, both liberally doused with ketchup, and “peas for Dad.” Poor Dad, who barely tolerates peas in a chicken pot-pie, had to choke down double portions, on his birthday no less, so as not to hurt her feelings.

In re-reading what I’ve written so far, it appears that what started out as a commentary on my indecisiveness regarding food choices, took a rather nasty veer towards the unsettling effect children can have on one’s ability to know your own mind. My husband and I sound like a couple of shell-shocked war survivors, trying to get a grip on our own lives, after 20 years were commandeered by little hands and big hearts. There is some truth to this, as any empty nester can tell you, and we wouldn’t change a thing. Especially since our “tiny tyrant” will be turning 27 in ten days, it actually was quite easy to decide on serving peas with her birthday meal.

Post Script: Upon reading this to my husband before posting, he blurted out… “I actually do like peas! Especially in potpie! I like they way they squish! It’s creamed corn I don’t like, but that’s ok, you can keep it that way, since it’s ‘loosely based’ on your life and apparently mine.” After I read that to him… “Jeez, you can’t say anything in this house!” Nope, not when you live with a blogger.

 

 

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In Sickness and in Health

Posted on by Susannah Warner

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“In sickness and in health,” is one of the phrases in traditional wedding vows, and one of the few that I remember. I don’t think about them much, but I live them every day. My husband is bipolar. He doesn’t just have bipolar, this part of who he is. Yesterday, overwhelmed, and distraught from a series of stressful events, my husband sent me the above message, called our adult children to say goodbye, and went into the woods with a loaded 9mm. Today, we went out to lunch, grocery shopped, and visited the chiropractor for a tune-up on his back. Does this sound unbelievable? If you are married to someone with bipolar it doesn’t. It’s real, it’s scary, and there is no cure. I vowed to live with him in sickness and in health, until death do us part. The problem is, death could have happened yesterday, it can happen today, and it can happen tomorrow.

Why doesn’t he take medication? He does. Why doesn’t he see a psychiatrist? He does. Why doesn’t he read the Bible, or go to church? He does both of those things, and he listens to worship music, and sermons on YouTube. His faith is very important to him, and has saved his life on more than one occasion. He is also diligent in making sure he gets enough sleep, lots of exercise and eats properly. He no longer drinks alcohol, consumes only minimal caffeine, and doesn’t drink from any aluminum cans, or use any product with aluminum in it, including certain toothpastes and deodorant because that affects his mood too. That’s how in-tuned to his body he is, how diligently we both monitor his moods. and how careful he is…but still the threat of suicide looms, as it did for his father for years, until he silenced that voice forever with a bullet to his head. “I can’t believe he held out that long,” my husband observed. He was 63 when he took his life.

“Selfish,” I’ve heard people say of those who commit suicide. The ignorance and judgement heaped on the head of those already suffering makes me sick; and so angry. They have no idea the struggle some people go through each and every day… it is truly a battle. They just get tired; tired of the mental anguish, whirlwind of thoughts they can’t escape, and the feeling like they are a disappointment and a burden. I don’t blame them at all, instead, I admire their tenacity and strength, because I’ve seen the mental fortitude that it takes to survive, over and over from my other half, my ride or die, my…Whoops, I was interrupted here, by an “up” husband, who came bouncing inside like an excited Tigger to ask me if I wanted to take the kayaks out on the river to watch the sunset. Of course I did, because this is the good side of his mood disorder; spontaneous, fun, creative and boundless energy are the good things, sadness, guilt and shame are the bad. The worst, is a mixture of the two; frenetic energy, coupled with hoplessness and total despair is the most dangerous of all, and that was the mood yesterday. But today, is an “up” day; because the darkness of yesterday’s battle is still lurking in the recesses of his mind, it makes him feel the lightness of today all the more.

There was a breeze on the river as we worked our way upstream. It wasn’t difficult, because we each had a good steady rhythm, even though we were traveling against the current. We paddled steadily for about 30 minutes, side by side, talking the whole way. I told him that I was writing about bipolar and about yesterday’s events. “Oh no,” he said, and when we got to point where we were ready to drift back, I pulled out my phone and read to him what I had written so far, right there in the middle of the river. “No, no way!” He said. “I don’t want anyone to know that!” I told him that I understood, but by hiding it, he was feeding into the social misconception of shame in mental illness, as if anyone would choose to be bipolar anymore than they would choose to have cancer. We verbally sparred for a few minutes; He, saying that he was ashamed and it would make him look weak; me, saying that this is the opposite of weak, and what if this could help someone who feels alone? We stopped talking about it for a few minutes as we continued to bob down the river, our oars in our laps, quietly admiring God’s artwork; the green of the trees lining the river, set against an azure blue sky; the reflection of both caught in the mirror of the stillness of the surface of the water. The sun slowly desended, leaving shadows on our faces, and a chill in the air, as we neared the boat landing, when he said, “I guess you can write about it.”  Now, I ask you is that weakness? Is that selfish? No, it is the epitome  of  courage and altruism. Mental illness is not for the weak, the strong survive, but the warriors thrive, and they are the only ones willing to expose themselves, and the demons they face, to help someone else. His generosity of spirit helps me to hang on, “for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

 

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Sweaters, Sweatshirts, and Scrunchies

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband is really very smart, so what I’m about to say should not be a measure of his intelligence. In fact, he’s the only person I know who skipped High School completely, but has a college degree. Well, actually he did attend two months at Lewiston High School, but due to some unfortunate circumstances, aka poor choices, which included, but were not limited to; fighting, drinking, skipping school, and, as the coup de grace, mistakenly blowing pot smoke in a gym teachers face, he found himself expelled from school. For my readers out-of-state, and outside of the U.S., know that Lewiston can be a rough little city, and as I’ve heard it referred to more than once as the “armpit of New England,” expulsion from a school like Lewiston High is no easy task, especially in 1979, when they actually had smoking sections for kids. Weedgate notwithstanding, my husband tackled some tough courses in college, and even though I am a nurse, I always ask him anatomy questions because I am the sort of person who studies to pass the test, and he is the sort of person who studies to learn. Kinesiology, Pathology, Neurology, he passed with ease, but Fashion 101, umm nope.

“I haven’t seen you wear a scrunchie lately,” he said to me last week. I laughed out loud, thinking he was kidding, then stopped when I realized that he was serious. Now, I actually do have a few velvet scrunchies tucked away, because although dated, they really are very comfortable and don’t tug at my hair, but I have not worn one out in public since 1992. I’m a little surprised that he knows what a scrunchie is in the first place, as I’ve had to educate him on the difference between a sweater and a sweatshirt on more than one occasion. If this seems incredible to you, my reader, consider this conversation between my son and my husband, two manly men, several years ago, and smartly preserved by me in my notes, to be used at a later date; this being the day.

Husband: “So, the difference between a skirt and a dress is the length…”

Son: “No, no, I’m pretty sure that a dress is a shirt and a skirt put together. ”

Husband: “Nooo, I think that a dress is below the knee, and a skirt is above the knee, and a dress zips in the back. ”

Son: “Mom? We’re waiting for your expert opinion…”

After I stopped laughing, and confirmed that the “Son” was correct, I asked them what the difference was between a sweater and a sweatshirt. A lively discussion ensued regarding hoods, zippers, pockets, buttons, pullovers and cardigans at which point my husband insisted that the only difference was that a sweater could be turned inside out (what the….????). This had me laughing even harder until I pushed the merriment too far, and asked if they knew the difference between leggings and tights. The “Son” left the room in disgust, while the “Husband” struggled to explain. “One of them has built-in socks, and the other doesn’t, I’m not sure which one though.”

If this all seems like a putdown, it assuredly is not. I actually find his lack of knowledge on the subject endearing. I know that for my part, his abundance of tools would be incredibly daunting to name, let alone use correctly, and I really have no desire to be educated on drill bits, screwdrivers, types of hammers and power tools. That is his world, and I love that he knows how these things work, and can use them to build a house or fix a faucet. I’m sure if he wanted to laugh, he could have me try to explain the difference between a hacksaw and a miter saw…”Umm, they both cut? But, the hacksaw is used for hacking at things? And probably the miter saw is for detail work? I guess?”

I’m wondering what my husband will think of this, as he is away camping for a few days, and I can’t get his opinion before I post it, as I usually do. But, if he were here, I would ask him if he could tell me what I am currently wearing on the lower half of my body. I’m pretty sure that he would not know that these are called yoga pants and that he would say something that makes me laugh, and quite possibly be used as fodder for future blogs. It’s just ust one of the many, many reasons that I love him.

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East to West “Empty Nest” is the Best

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I love my children. Let me just make that clear right off the bat. I loved it when they were babies and their eyes tracked me wherever I went. I loved it when they learned to walk and wobbled their way across the room, and lurched straight into my arms. I loved it when they were preschoolers and asked “why?” and followed me everywhere, even to the bathroom. I loved it when they were in school and brought their friends home, and I made meals for them, and they all slept over. I loved when they were in High School and I could chat and gossip with their friends, even when my kids were at work, or still sleeping, and I loved going to games, meets and competitions. I even loved crying secretly at their graduations, just as I cried openly the first time they climbed on the school bus. Those days are behind me now, and all I can say is…. “Thank God!!”

My husband and I are empty-nesters! Well, kind of; our adult son still lives at home, while he saves for a home of his own. But, he works a lot, and is often out with his friends, and he helps with the bills, so he feels more like a friendly boarder than our kid. A friendly boarder who just now while I’m typing away, sitting on a swing on our back deck, thoughtfully brought me a slice of pizza and a wad of paper towels to soak up the greasy goodness. Pizza that I did not have to buy, or even think about buying, because he takes care of his own meals. Plus he makes the coffee in the morning, does a lot of the yard work, and he watches Shameless, The Office and Seinfeld with me, so having him here is a pleasure.

This means that my husband and I are free to do whatever we want, when we want. I can’t tell you how fun that is! Maybe it’s because I’ve been at this Mother thing for a long time; almost 27 years actually. And since we watched our granddaughter while her mom was at work for the first four years of her life, we were tied down even after our own kids were adults. We loved that “job,” but now that she is old enough for school, we are officially retired from childcare and have her when we want, like grandparents do.

This newly found freedom has led to many adventures for us already. We’ve started to travel, real travel, which requires a passport and long arduous airplane rides. We go four-wheeling, kayaking, jeeping and walking on a daily basis, and plan adventures for our selves. like zip-lining and skydiving (He’s addicted, me…not so much!). On my days off, four a week for me, because I am a nurse, we go to bed when we want and get up when we want. We can take naps, and our housework is minimal because we have no more mini tornados leaving a trail of destruction. In short, life is good right now; easy, selfish and relatively carefree.

I can see why this might be hard for some people, women in particular I think, because our identities are so wrapped up in our children. We are “Mom,” and that’s how we think of ourselves.  I remember when my son went to kindergarten, those first few times of grocery shopping with out him, I felt so unmoored and anonymous. I had been taking a little one shopping with me for 11 years, actually my whole adult life, and without one or both of my children with me, I felt like a nobody; a nameless woman perusing the aisles. But, I got over that pretty quickly when I realized how fast I could get it done, and I spent far less without cute little faces  imploring me to buy sugary cereals for the prize inside (side note: what happened to the prizes in cereal anyway?).

Suddenly, being a mom was not first and foremost in my life. Being a mother has been my most important job, and the one I’m most proud of. I poured my heart and soul into my children. I spent all my free time with them when the were growing up, and I’m proud to say, for the most part I wouldn’t change a thing about the way I raised them. I remember even in my early 20’s thinking, “I don’t want to regret anything, and I don’t want them to ever wish that I would have spent more time with them.” I’m thankful that I had the wisdom at that young age to live for them, instead of for me, because now that they are adults, I can live for myself without guilt. And because my husband and I invested so much time into them when they were little, now they want to spend time with us, which is great. Except for sometimes, but that’s OK because believe me,  I have no qualms about saying, “your father and I want to be alone.” Woot! Woot!

 

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Betrayed(by this innocent looking feline)!

Posted on by Susannah Warner

E02532A0-2EA7-48AF-BDD8-734E10DFD935.jpegSo, this guy made an appearance today. No, he’s not a stray. He actually lived here for several years before he moved out of our respectable household last summer and in with who I can only assume is a no account tart. The kind of woman who does not buy Friskies, but “Fancy Feast” and probably puts it in a little glass bowl for him, the showoff. I wrongly assumed that this was a summer affair, and that when cool winds blew in the fall, “King Ralph” as we affectionately called him for his regal, and deliberate walk and obvious disdain for the frequent bickering and dramatics that come with having two female cats in the house, would return with his tail between his legs, the blinders having come off by then, and the Fancy Feast money having long since dried up. Alas, I was wrong, apparently she knows how to treat her king, and keep him healthy and well fed, because he seemed to be both when he stopped by for a visit this morning.

He sat hautily on the deck, looking into the livingroom and demanded to be let in, as one does, when one is king. Stopping momentarily for an obligatory pat from his loyal subject, while she exclaimed and fawned over him, he continued on to the food bowl, while his fan traipsed after him, snapping pictures like paparazzi. Finding only Meow Mix, and concluding that nothing had changed, he sauntered back out, completely ignoring the cry of disapointment from the human, and with an annoyed twitch of his tail, he was gone.

He has returned in a similar fashion about six times in the last year and is gone within minutes. There appears to be no love loss; just a quick “booty call”  for old times sake, and then, satisfied that he still has made the right choice, he returns to his new home and his new love, not a trace of wistfulness in his proud departure. If only he was the only feline to leave me, I might be able to bear it. However, some of my readers may remember that this has happened before, and the wound it left was far deeper. This is her story…

Her name was Mary, and she was as gentle as the name implied. She was pretty enough, but her confidence had eroded at an early age, when her four brothers and sisters, including an almost identical calico, had one by one, been plucked from their box, and taken away to new homes by smiling new parents. She thought her day would come, at least that’s what her mother told her, but it never did. The happy faces peering over the box, the sticky hands, smelling of chocolate, attached to little voices exclaiming, “I want that one, Mom” stopped when her last sibling, a precocious gray tiger was chosen. She had not been picked, and so, she stayed in the house where she was born. “At least my mother won’t leave me,” she thought. But, one morning her mother did not return from her hunting trip and she overheard the humans say, “It must have been that fox again.” Alone, in the world, except for the giant, furless humans, she became very fearful and sad, and spent many lonely hours in the picture window, looking at the huge world and feeling very sorry for herself.

The humans, especially the largest female one, spent a lot of time petting her and encouraging to sleep by her feet while she lay prostrate on the couch, reading a book. this was acceptable to Mary, and she grew to like and trust all the humans. The teenage female who always smelled like a horse was kind, and dragged a string for her to play with. The blonde male human, who was actually quite gentle even when his friends were around, would lift her up so that she could reach a fly. Even the largest male, who wore large clompy boots, did not mean any harm, and would often throw her pieces of ham while he was making a sandwich.

So, Mary grew to love her family, even though they had strange fur, and seemed to enjoy getting wet, and ate weird foods. She found she liked being the only feline, and spent hours hunting for them, which she deposited by the door every morning, even though they rarely appreciated her efforts and the large male human, often unceremoniously threw her hard-fought breakfast across the road by its tail. The years passed and so did the other felines that the humans insisted on bringing home. Mary did not care for kittens and refused to let other cats share her domain. Oh, she was smart enough to bide her time, and pretend to like and teach the kittens all that she knew, but really she was plotting their untimely demise. Three cats disappeared during Queen Mary’s reign. Dumb Mikey, the orange ball of fluff, Zipper, the hyper gray tiger and even Noah, as strong and tough as the neighborhood he came from, all disappeared. Mary, the sole survivor, a product of her traumatic childhood, had become “Bloody Mary,” and there seemed to be no end to her reign. Until Sam.

Sam was a scrappy black and white street tough, found by the now teenage blonde male, in the middle of the winter, down by the train tracks. The boy and his friends, wrapped the freezing kitten in his coat and carried her home. They pet her and fed her milk, and then they introduced her to Mary. Imagine Queen Mary’s surprise when this little ragged kitten hissed at her! Taken aback, and as any bully does when stood up to, she retreated. A new queen had arrived.

From that day on Mary was a different cat. She returned to her anxious and low self-esteem roots and was either outside, or when it was cold, sitting in the picture window, no doubt dreaming of her glory days. Sam grew bigger, stronger and tougher had earned herself the nickname, Sammy the Bull, due to her ruthless pursuit of rodents, birds and Mary. She hissed at her when she walked by, and chased her away from the food. Mary grew wan and sad, a shadow of her former self.

One day, the only female human in the house; the teenage one, having long since moved out after having her own litter of one, noticed that Mary did not return home for her treat, as she had every morning for eight years. She was worried, and she and “Boots” and the “blonde boy” looked and looked for her. They went up and down the street, fearing, but not really believing that she had been hit. They wondered if that old fox had gotten her, but no one believed that either, as Mary had outsmarted him twice before, even though it cost her a trip to Dr Wings and very nearly her tail. Her family knew she was smart and savvy even though lately she had not been herself. One day, the female human and Boots went for a walk, and suddenly, with a gasp, she saw her. There was Mary, looking at her from the neighbor’s picture window. Filled with jealousy (she), yet happy that she was alive (both), the humans went to talk to the neighbors. “Yes,” they said, “Xena” had come to their door a few weeks ago, and was a God-send, as their precious calico had recently died, and she was just what the old couple needed for company. Mary (Xena) was nowhere to be found during this exchange but no doubt breathed a sigh of relief when it was decided that she would be happiest there. And she was, although, sitting in the window, watching the female walk by, with a sad face every day was hard, her new life was everything she wanted. She was cherished, and coddled and the queen of her castle.

Two years passed; Sam grew, and when a tiger with double paws and a royal bearing came to live with them, she learned to accept “King Ralph.” They had a tacit understanding. She, that she was the boss. He, that he let her think that she was the boss.  The couple lived in peace and harmony until one day, the blonde boy’s birthday, a little white ball of ego and fur showed up as a present for him. The little kitten hissed at Sam and immediately an agreement was reached, They would share the house, and Ralph, for his part, decided to talk to Mary about how to find another family. Using his royal charms, he sweettalked himself into the arms of another, and the female was devastated to realize that she had been cheated on, again. Of even sadder note, not having seen Xena in the window for a while, she asked Boots to inquire after her at the neighbor’s house, whereupon he brought back the sad news that Xena had died in her sleep the month before, curled up on a bed. The old couple was devasted and so was I.

That is my story of betrayal and loss, and one that I have been reluctant to share, particularly since Sam and Ralph have been spotted together of late, and I fear that she may leave now too. Will I be left again and be forced to see scrappy Sam in another ladies picture window? I hope not, but I will not be bullied into buying Fancy Feast. If Purina isn’t good enough for her, well too bad. At least the King still visits.

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The author, in happier times, reading with Mary
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Sister

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

When I was 14, I had my first real boyfriend. I was a freshman in High School and he was a sophomore. We talked on the phone every night, a toll call (gasp!), and I wore his class ring, wrapped in string so that it wouldn’t fall off, on my right index finger. We only “went out” for a few months, but he was my first love, and when he broke up with me, and asked for his ring back, I was devastated. I never showed it at school, of course, but I cried at home every night for weeks. I didn’t want to eat, and although my mother knew why, and she said she was sorry about it, she also said that it was “puppy love,” and that I would get it over it. She didn’t mean to be unkind, she just didn’t know how much I was hurting, and as my parents long marriage met its demise a short time later, she really had “bigger fish to fry.” I remember feeling that no one understood, that no one had ever felt this way. But my oldest sister did, and she told me so when she came for a visit a short time later. She was 24 at the time, and well beyond the “puppy love” stage, but she didn’t dismiss my pain, and she didn’t ignore it,  She told me that she knew exactly how I felt, that no matter what anyone said, your first love is one of the strongest you will ever feel, and that although it would be difficult to believe, it would get better eventually. She had such compassion and kindness, that I believed her, as I always had, and she was right, as she always is.

I am the youngest of four girls, my oldest sister is ten years older than me. She was the first sister to hold me when I was a newborn right out of the hospital, and the last sister I texted while writing this, to clarify some facts. I’ve sought her counsel for many, many things over the years, and not just because she works at Princeton, graduated summa cum laude from Wellesley, and is just one of those people who you can never, ever stump no matter the question. She was my “google” way before the real google, and she’s the one we all vie for when we play a rousing family game of trivial pursuit. She’s also the one who promptly answers, when I text doozies like, “should I put quotations around a thought?” (however, please, please do not attribute any editing flaws to her, they are mine alone as I hate to keep asking her silly comma questions!!!), “who won Survivor Africa?”, and “why do the Brits not use ‘the’ before words like, hospital, university, and holiday?”  She knows everything I want to know and so much more, and yet she asks me things too.

After her first child was born, she called me and asked me for some advice. I no longer remember what she asked, but how clearly I remember how that felt. I was a teen mom, and at that time, my daughter was two, and I was struggling with vivid dreams of my High School classmates all jumping into a pool, while I looked on, unprepared and too afraid to take the leap. Even then, I knew that those anxiety dreams were not about swimming; they were about feeling left behind as a young mom making minimum wage while my friends went to college, which felt about as far away as the moon. The fact that my brilliant sister needed parenting advice from me bolstered my then sagging spirit.

Siblings give gifts to each other, without realizing it. These gifts are unbidden and develop over time. They are unwrapped slowly through the years, and last a lifetime. Some give patience, some tolerance, or acceptance and some give jealousy and pain. As the youngest, I received many gifts from my sisters; the one I received from my oldest sister was confidence. My thoughts, opinions and beliefs have always mattered to her, even though I am a generation younger. The age difference doesn’t matter so much now, but when you are 12, and your 22 year-old sibling has conversations with you like you are her intellectual equal, you grow up feeling like your thoughts matter, which is how the seeds of self-assurance are sown. She told me told me I could be the first woman President, or write a book, and because she was so smart I believed her; although I no longer want the former, the latter? Yeah, I kinda do.

A nature and nurture counterpart of sorts, siblings are the closest DNA match possible and have lived through most of the same home experiences. They “get” you in a way no one else can, even your spouse. A lifetime of inside jokes, movie quotes, fond and some not so fond memories are what we as sisters share. My sister and I lived in the same household together for only about eight years, but the gifts she gave me have lasted a lifetime. I’m so grateful for the big sister she is.

 

 

 

 

 

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Look up

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’d planned on having a cook-out, since it was such a beautiful day, and also hang out another load of laundry. I loaded the washer and turned the stove on to heat water to make pasta salad, then sat down to write. I had barely started, a nagging headache making it all but impossible to think, let alone write, when my husband breezed in, full of sunshine and good cheer. “I think I’ll take the wheeler out, but I’ll be back in time, to kayak with you at sunset,” he said, kissing my forehead.  I barely listened at first, but then looked up, and saw his excited face, along with the blue sky and cotton ball clouds over his shoulder, out the window. “I’ll go,” I said, shutting my laptop and turning off the now almost boiling water. He looked up in surprise, and said, “You want to? Great! I’d love to have you come!” We went into a familiar mode. I got changed into old jeans, anticipating a muddy ride and packed a backpack, which included more ibuprofen for my head. He loaded the truck and secured everything down.

And so, away we went, bumping along in the truck, causing my head to pound now, instead of just ache. Arriving at our drop off, he unloaded while I put the back pack on and started to regret the unfamiliar burst of spontaneity that made me blurt out that I’d come. “Really,” I thought, “I should have just stayed inside and wrote, that way I could lie down if my headache got worse.” Too late now, I gamely hopped on the back of the four-wheeler and we sped off, the wind in my face, my hat almost blowing off my head and tiny bug bullets pelting my cheeks. I smiled, I couldn’t help it. Being outside always makes me happy, but wind in my hair, sun on my back and a little jolt of dopamine always makes me laugh. And then there’s the smell.

Oh, how I love the smell of the Maine woods in June. It smells like hope and it is my very favorite smell. It cannot be bottled and it cannot be synthetically recreated. You have to get out there and experience it to know what I mean. It comes in wafts; sometimes you run into an invisible cloud of it, and then it is gone, only to return minutes later. Inhaling deeply, I realized the pain was gone; nature had cured my achy head, but it did something else too. Somewhere between leaping from rock to rock, listening to the water fall, and throwing my head back to admire the canopy made by the towering trees, I became thankful for looking up from my “work” to see what was waiting for me.

The first half of my life has been governed by rules, should’s and shouldn’ts and things that I have to do. While some of these things, like my job, will be necessary for a long time, that does not mean that I can’t just stop once and awhile and appreciate all that this world has to offer. God wants us to be happy, he loves to see us having fun and enjoying  the earth that he created just for us. I’m sure it makes him sad to see us inside on a beautiful day, following self-imposed rules about cleaning or other chores. These things have to be done, sure. but I think we need to cut ourselves a little slack once in a while and go out and have some fun. I’m planning on doing more and more of that with whatever time on this earth that I have been given. I know that I will never wish I’d spent more time at work, or cleaned my house more when I’m on my deathbed. I plan to make good use of my time here,by enjoying it with those I love. Sometimes you just have to look up, get up and enjoy life. For me, fun is exploring the woods of Maine and it’s also being on the water, which we did right after we were finished exploring.

The river was calm; not a ripple except for the occasional fish jumping, when we put our kayaks in, and paddled upriver. The calmness of the water, reflected how I felt; content, happy and serene, my headache just a memory. We stopped paddling after a while and tied our kayaks together. Leaning back, our oars at our sides, we allowed the current to let us drift back to the boat landing. We didn’t fight the direction, we just enjoyed the ride, the view and each other; and literally sailed off into the sunset.