Tee hee, it's a good thing you don't have to ante up a penny for my thoughts, because I have two for you today. :)
FIRST OF ALL, I am very excited about the documentary, MAKERS, that will air on most U.S. Public Broadcasting Stations tonight @ 8p.m. EDT. I was up late last night with a crabby little B3 who had been violated by vaccinations at his well baby check and was feeling blicky, and caught a little of bit of Charlie Rose's show which showed a little preview. I think it will be fascinating.
I was also fascinated by a couple of things Gloria Steinem, who was interviewed, along with Amy Richards, by Charlie, had to say. The first was that there is actually science out there that says how a country treats its female population, particularly its view on violence toward them, is the single best indicator of how a country will treat people in general in their dealings through warfare. When you really consider that, Young Lovers, that is some serious food for thought.
The second thing was that she said men who want children need to be doing at least half of the actual child rearing. Maybe even more, because, women give up almost a good year doing it all in the gestating and birthing process.
I think it helped that we started having our children quite young before our careers were really molded or our adult personalities were really set in stone. Also, BoyLovey, Axl, is a raging feminist in this area, so I'm lucky. But as our male friends, brothers and cousins get older and are starting families, we've seen a lot of "my career..." type comments as the lead into some pretty heady child care arguments. So, wow! Just WOW!!
The third thing is the thing I loved the most. She said the magical words, reproductive rights also mean the right for a women to have children as well as not. I LOVE THIS, YOUNG LOVERS. I love this. I am a woman who chose to have children. I feel it is one of the most worthwhile things I've done with my entire life. I also feel it is one THE most undervalued things in this world.
I'm not talking Pro Life vs. Pro Choice. That's a completely different thing. I'm talking about the sacrifices a woman makes to raise children. There's a serious gap in respect for intelligent young women who dedicate twenty to thirty years of their live to focusing primarily on the welfare and development of fledgling human beings. And there's certainly no fair financial compensation that equates a career in mothering to any other career of that time span. Ms. Steinem suggests maybe there should be.
Unfortunately, in my mind, that brought up the political debates of days of yore, when Dick Cheney promised compensation would come to mothers and fathers who stayed home with their children, and especially if those children achieved well in school... Uh, yeah... still waiting for that check, sir... but I digress...I mean, honestly if I had my way, there would be a remote village for child rearing where we could work at our own pace, free of persecution... yeah, it's a little like Brad Pitt's mindset in Fight Club..."the leather clothes you wear will last a lifetime"... LOL... seriously though, I am excited about this program!!
You can check the official trailer HERE. (Amy Richards has some interesting thoughts to share about today's women (and men), thinking they aren't/shouldn't/can't/aren't good enough to count themselves as feminists. I really think this program will be good for us all.)
NOW FOR MY SECOND THOUGHT OF THE DAY... Why do people always assume the worst about other people?
As you know, I had a major damage incident last week resulting temporary walking limitations. But life goes on, and I don't stay down for long. My Grammy will turn 86 this week and there was a big party in Chi-Town. So of course we loaded up the Blue-Bug-A- Bago and headed off. And of course SonnyBlue forgot his bathing suit. And of course, the hotel had a pool. Luckily there was a Target close by.
Now Sonny is becoming a man and can handle some purchasing on his own, but this was Chicago and it was late at night. So I decided to go in with him. I forgot the magical super duper cane back at the hotel, so I linked my arm in his for waddling support. He's a handsome young man of sixteen and I'm a handsome middle aged woman of 38, if I do say so myself, so I'm sure we do make a handsome pair. But I'm also pretty sure the leggings under the hippie skirt and fluffy moccasins that I was wearing over my giganto ankle wrappings were pretty good evidence of my elderly-ness. And of course any well bred son would escort his decrepit mom. We weren't hand in pocket for heaven's sake! ;) Well at least that's what a modest, small town, Mid West gal would think any way...
We didn't even get in the door, Young Lovers, before a man, who was smoking eight feet from the entrance, gave us a disparaging look and mumbled something less than complimentary about cougars. FOR REAL!! I should note that Sonny is a big fan of all things Cougar Wife related and thought this was just great. We had a good laugh and traveled on.
Cuing soundtrack... CLICK HERE ...
But it continued in the baby dept. We were picking up some extra swim diapers for B3 and found some little guy sized swim trunks, that would be great for him as he grows into next summer, on sale. So as we were making our selections, the SalesLady asked, "Have you folks already had your baby or are you expecting?"
I was incensed!! HORRIFIED. Sonny saw it as a way to practice his Improv skills and totally told that old biddy, with a completely straight face, that "our baby is a year old." AND THEN PROCEEDED TO SHOW HER PICTURES ON HIS PHONE.
For real.
I was never so relieved to get a check out counter in my life!
That is, until the cashier politely acknowledged me first, and then as he saw Sonny handing me a wad of bills to pay with (no pockets in the cripple hippie skirt...), he asked him if he'd like to open up a Target debit account. I wanted to scream, this boy is only sixteen years old!!!!!!!!!!! But Sonny wanted to continue play acting. He smiled and said, "No thanks, the little lady here, doesn't approve, do you, sweetheart?" And while I stood there hopelessly stunned at both of them, he continued, "No, she doesn't want to save fifteen percent," grinned at the guy and tugged my arm to lead me away.
Finally, there was an elderly lady sitting on a scooter at the exit door. She smiled widely as we stumbled by, and gave me a very knowing WINK. I don't know by this point, if she could tell I was just a fellow cripp out with my boy, or if she figured I still had IT and had landed myself the jackpot of young lovers/keepers... Maybe she was a feminist?????????? ;) Heck, why not? Sonny and I laughed all the way to the parking lot.
Embrace LIFE, Young Lovers. Even when people are assuming the worst. You might even have fun doing it.
P.S. Still waiting for a pair of little velvet shoes... gift cards hang in the balance... ;) Do it!!
<3FROM ME2U, LOVE, RALEY BLUE<3
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
I SWEAR I'M NOT HIGH...and a CONTEST!!!!
Well OK. Here we are again and welcome as always to AureliaBluesDayTuesday!!
So, a lot has happened over the past few days and I'm kinda lost. I had a little stumble/tumble down the front steps late Friday night and long story short, I'm down a knee and two ankles. Recovery is going well, but I simply had to stop those pain pills. Short on the pain and waayyyyyyyy too looooooooong on my brain. So, I'm DRIFTING...
It's funny because, short story long, when I went out, it was about 11pm and my GirLovey who had been babysitting B3 while the rest of the Blue Fam attended Sonny's performance in a play (which was part of an evening of student directed One Acts and was nothing short of fantastic), had just given me a lecture about taking better care of the knee that I'd strained sometime last week, as well as the dangers lurking in the city after dark. I'd laughed her off. She and I are both perpetual worriers so laughter is our cure. Otherwise we probably wouldn't leave our houses. Like EVER.
So imagine being face down in frozen frosty dirt writhing in pain and hearing, "F***this, I'm calling the cops!" And an engine revs menacingly. And then, "I've got my shotgun, don't come at me!" And then, a lithe little teen aged girl comes flittering across the brick streets of our quaint town of 500. She's sobbing like Cinderella at midnight. And there's a boy! He's screaming, "Julie, stop! I'm not high! I'M NOT HIGH!!!! I love you! I F***ING LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I SWEAR TO YOU, I'M NOT HIGH!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I'm going to leave out the part where they stood inches from my head and subsequently attached broken hefty bod, and had this little quarrel, only moving on when they happened to look down at me with the expression of finding poop on the sidewalk. But it does sorta bring me to the point of this blog. I AM NOT HIGH.
I don't think...
For one thing, I don't like to be out of control of my faculties, so I don't go there. For another, I'm allergic to most medications and alcohol. And I had a near fatal reaction to second hand MJ smoke in my teens, so I avoid it all. I only took the little pills to get over the hump and start walking again on Saturday so I wouldn't end up a total crip. (Sorry in advance to my girly, Laura, who is reading that word and cringing, and to anyone else who is offended by it. I have a handicap sticker in my own name. I can call myself whatever I like, thank you.)
Anyhoo. I can't focus for crapola today. Here's the rundown of what my day has been like:
B3 had a plastic Halloween skull in his bed when I woke up this morning. He sings and poops for an hour before he gets serious about wanting out of his crib. When I woke to his daily constitutional serenade, he waved the skull at me and said, "Dis is Yorick. Dat his nameses."
I wrapped my own ankles with stretchy sports tape. I wrapped my ankles with stretchy sports tape...
SEE??????? IT'S BAAAAAAAD, YOUNG LOVERS.
Then I got online to send/tweet/fb today's special music and opened up my bloggy page here on Blogger. Guess what? "My boyfriend's butt," are the biggest key words that bring people in to my blog for the eighth week in a row!! That's what. Took me forever to remember it might be because of THIS POST ...
Not to mention that when I youtubed this killer song by THE BOSS , a video about how to make LITTLE FELT SHOES popped up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OK, I swear I am not high. This is awesome. Check it out: http://youtu.be/krqVD7re2Bg
Yeah, I can't look away. As if I need any more diversions, today, lol. So here's my contest.
The first person to make me a little pair of felt shoes (any size... I'm actually a US women's 9/ men's 7....and I'd love to be able to wear them... just sayin'...) following this vid's general instructions, and then contact me by email at aurelia(underscore)blue(at)yahoo(dot com) offering to mail them to me, WINS. When I get them in my hot little hands, I will send this winner a 20$ gift card to your choice of either Amazon, Starbucks or McDonald's. Not to mention fame and immortality on this blog!! (Come on, you know you want to, don't be a hater/poeseur/scoffer. ;) )
I'm waiting! :) And as always, With LOTS of luvs:
<3 FROM ME2U, LOVE, RALEY BLUE <3
My boyfriend's butt
So, a lot has happened over the past few days and I'm kinda lost. I had a little stumble/tumble down the front steps late Friday night and long story short, I'm down a knee and two ankles. Recovery is going well, but I simply had to stop those pain pills. Short on the pain and waayyyyyyyy too looooooooong on my brain. So, I'm DRIFTING...
It's funny because, short story long, when I went out, it was about 11pm and my GirLovey who had been babysitting B3 while the rest of the Blue Fam attended Sonny's performance in a play (which was part of an evening of student directed One Acts and was nothing short of fantastic), had just given me a lecture about taking better care of the knee that I'd strained sometime last week, as well as the dangers lurking in the city after dark. I'd laughed her off. She and I are both perpetual worriers so laughter is our cure. Otherwise we probably wouldn't leave our houses. Like EVER.
So imagine being face down in frozen frosty dirt writhing in pain and hearing, "F***this, I'm calling the cops!" And an engine revs menacingly. And then, "I've got my shotgun, don't come at me!" And then, a lithe little teen aged girl comes flittering across the brick streets of our quaint town of 500. She's sobbing like Cinderella at midnight. And there's a boy! He's screaming, "Julie, stop! I'm not high! I'M NOT HIGH!!!! I love you! I F***ING LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I SWEAR TO YOU, I'M NOT HIGH!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I'm going to leave out the part where they stood inches from my head and subsequently attached broken hefty bod, and had this little quarrel, only moving on when they happened to look down at me with the expression of finding poop on the sidewalk. But it does sorta bring me to the point of this blog. I AM NOT HIGH.
I don't think...
For one thing, I don't like to be out of control of my faculties, so I don't go there. For another, I'm allergic to most medications and alcohol. And I had a near fatal reaction to second hand MJ smoke in my teens, so I avoid it all. I only took the little pills to get over the hump and start walking again on Saturday so I wouldn't end up a total crip. (Sorry in advance to my girly, Laura, who is reading that word and cringing, and to anyone else who is offended by it. I have a handicap sticker in my own name. I can call myself whatever I like, thank you.)
Anyhoo. I can't focus for crapola today. Here's the rundown of what my day has been like:
B3 had a plastic Halloween skull in his bed when I woke up this morning. He sings and poops for an hour before he gets serious about wanting out of his crib. When I woke to his daily constitutional serenade, he waved the skull at me and said, "Dis is Yorick. Dat his nameses."
I wrapped my own ankles with stretchy sports tape. I wrapped my ankles with stretchy sports tape...
SEE??????? IT'S BAAAAAAAD, YOUNG LOVERS.
Then I got online to send/tweet/fb today's special music and opened up my bloggy page here on Blogger. Guess what? "My boyfriend's butt," are the biggest key words that bring people in to my blog for the eighth week in a row!! That's what. Took me forever to remember it might be because of THIS POST ...
Not to mention that when I youtubed this killer song by THE BOSS , a video about how to make LITTLE FELT SHOES popped up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OK, I swear I am not high. This is awesome. Check it out: http://youtu.be/krqVD7re2Bg
Yeah, I can't look away. As if I need any more diversions, today, lol. So here's my contest.
The first person to make me a little pair of felt shoes (any size... I'm actually a US women's 9/ men's 7....and I'd love to be able to wear them... just sayin'...) following this vid's general instructions, and then contact me by email at aurelia(underscore)blue(at)yahoo(dot com) offering to mail them to me, WINS. When I get them in my hot little hands, I will send this winner a 20$ gift card to your choice of either Amazon, Starbucks or McDonald's. Not to mention fame and immortality on this blog!! (Come on, you know you want to, don't be a hater/poeseur/scoffer. ;) )
I'm waiting! :) And as always, With LOTS of luvs:
<3 FROM ME2U, LOVE, RALEY BLUE <3
My boyfriend's butt
Monday, February 11, 2013
DON'T STRESS OVER V-DAY, PLAY BIG 22 WITH RALEY BLUE
There's a lot of bullcrap about Valentine's Day out there...
You know stuff like Christians and greeting card companies made it up. "I shouldn't have to buy something just because a holiday tells me too. Why should I be punished for being single?"... blah, blah, f***ity blah...
I'm not even going to humor it.
Or respond.
I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you to all that I adore Valentine's Day. (I totally did change my background to pink this week.)
End of story on that one.
And I'm not going to do a traditional post on the subject today. If you are a From Me2U, Love, Raley Blue devotee, then you know all about the game BIG 3... or you can read up on it, HERE ...
Today we're going to play BIG 22 (why 22, you may ask? Well because that's how many I have and it's my blog and... well you get the picture... now don't be hatin'... ;) ... it's fun) ...with L<3VE SONGS!!
Now, now, don't groan. A person's taste in music tells you so much about them. Have you ever met anyone who didn't like music? No? Me neither. I've met people who don't like live music, or rap, or jazz, etc. But I think everyone likes some music. It's hard wired in us. Music has been a part of the culture of mankind and many other living beings since the dawn of time. So even if you don't have a valentine or the inclination to celebrate the love, I bet you can still have fun sharing the MUSICAL love. :) Let's give it a try. (I've linked all mine, so if you want to listen, just click on it!) And because it's fun to share, I'm going to give a few notes here and there about some of my favorites, because while you can learn a lot about someone from their favorite music, you can learn even more about them from their "reasons why"... have fun!
1. LOVE IS ALL AROUND ~The Trogs (I tell this story a lot across social media, so forgive me if you've heard this before... but growing up in the late '70, 80's and early 90's, my parents didn't allow me to listen to modern rock, heavy metal, etc. Basically because it, according to them, was "from *whispers* the devil!!" But strangely, anything I could find in their old albums or on the Oldies radio station was just fine. Go figure... The first time I ever heard this song, the base chords just cut right through my heart and I was smitten. The lyrics aren't bad either. Yes, I was that day dreamy little girl you're conjuring up in your mind. ;)
2.THEN YOU CAN TELL ME GOODBYE ~The Casinos Timeless, endless love, unless you don't want it... give it a try. And if it don't work out, then you can tell me goodbye...
3. WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN ~Percy Sledge This song is like church for me.
4. MAGGIE MAY ~Rod Stewart OK, I admit to loving the heck out of Rod Stewart in general, Young Lovers (you've seen my FB wall, lol), but I always crank this one and sing along. ALWAYS.
5. DON'T WANNA MISS A THING ~Aerosmith Crush on Liv, not withstanding, and my love of ARMAGEDDON, as well of course... oh it's just breathless, this song...
6. TAKE MY BREATH AWAY ~Berlin Talk about breathless! Crush on Kelly McGillis, Viper not blowing sunshine, and of course mad TOP GUN luvs in general, it's a song about connection. Deep, holy, emotional connection.
7. DONNA ~Richie Valens Ever hear the story behind it?
8. MAYBE IT WAS MEPHIS ~Pam Tillis Yep, from the two years I went Country. And yes, that was me dancing around my bedroom in front of the mirror singing into my hairbrush. ;)
9. ALWAYS ON MY MIND ~Elvis Presley Because we all f*** up sometimes, Young Lovers.
10. I DROVE ALL NIGHT ~Roy Orbison Ever done it? Enough said.
11. BEAUTIFUL ~James Blunt Because not all love is meant to be, Young Lovers. And that's OK.
12. WITH OR WITHOUT YOU ~U2 I write to it. I draw to it. I...
13. YOUNG TURKS ~Rod Stewart Totally would have done it myself, if my parents hadn't come around... still would today, even knowing all I know now...
14. HOT AND BOTHERED ~Cinderella I entered nursing school at age 18. I had to commute an hour and half each way, every day. I started early, like 4 o'clock early, and came home late. Like 11pm late, because I worked full time too. AxlBlue made me a collection of mix tapes of all the wonderful songs I'd missed in my sheltered youth to both educate my mind and keep me awake. This was the first one on Tunes II compiled by Axman Blue and was dedicated especially to me. Needless to say it got my blood pumping and spurred my gitRdone attitude each morning.
15. WHITE FLAG ~Dido Sometimes it's hard.
16. SK8ER BOI ~Avril Lavigne I loved a sk8er boi when I was young. ;)
17. FEEL AGAIN ~ One Republic ... million dollar phone...
18. GET ON YOUR BOOTS ~U2 Ok, I'm a total fangrllllllllllll...
19. COME AS YOU ARE ~Nirvana Awesome make-out song... I'm admitting nothing here ;)
20. BE MY BABY ~The Ronnettes "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."
21. ONE ~U2 Because, sometimes, there's nothing like love to leave lepers in your head...
22. and of course DON'T STOP BELIEVING ~Journey ...some of us were born to sing the BLUEs... I <3 AxlBlue and SonnyBoyBlue and KatBlue and PengBlue and BabyBoyBlue. :)
So, what are some of your favorites? Does love keep you believing? Or just give you lepers in your head? Share with me in the comments, pretty please?
Happy Valentine's Day, Young Lovers...
and as always...
<3 FROM ME2U, WITH LOVE, RALEY BLUE <3
You know stuff like Christians and greeting card companies made it up. "I shouldn't have to buy something just because a holiday tells me too. Why should I be punished for being single?"... blah, blah, f***ity blah...
I'm not even going to humor it.
Or respond.
I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you to all that I adore Valentine's Day. (I totally did change my background to pink this week.)
End of story on that one.
And I'm not going to do a traditional post on the subject today. If you are a From Me2U, Love, Raley Blue devotee, then you know all about the game BIG 3... or you can read up on it, HERE ...
Today we're going to play BIG 22 (why 22, you may ask? Well because that's how many I have and it's my blog and... well you get the picture... now don't be hatin'... ;) ... it's fun) ...with L<3VE SONGS!!
Now, now, don't groan. A person's taste in music tells you so much about them. Have you ever met anyone who didn't like music? No? Me neither. I've met people who don't like live music, or rap, or jazz, etc. But I think everyone likes some music. It's hard wired in us. Music has been a part of the culture of mankind and many other living beings since the dawn of time. So even if you don't have a valentine or the inclination to celebrate the love, I bet you can still have fun sharing the MUSICAL love. :) Let's give it a try. (I've linked all mine, so if you want to listen, just click on it!) And because it's fun to share, I'm going to give a few notes here and there about some of my favorites, because while you can learn a lot about someone from their favorite music, you can learn even more about them from their "reasons why"... have fun!
1. LOVE IS ALL AROUND ~The Trogs (I tell this story a lot across social media, so forgive me if you've heard this before... but growing up in the late '70, 80's and early 90's, my parents didn't allow me to listen to modern rock, heavy metal, etc. Basically because it, according to them, was "from *whispers* the devil!!" But strangely, anything I could find in their old albums or on the Oldies radio station was just fine. Go figure... The first time I ever heard this song, the base chords just cut right through my heart and I was smitten. The lyrics aren't bad either. Yes, I was that day dreamy little girl you're conjuring up in your mind. ;)
2.THEN YOU CAN TELL ME GOODBYE ~The Casinos Timeless, endless love, unless you don't want it... give it a try. And if it don't work out, then you can tell me goodbye...
3. WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN ~Percy Sledge This song is like church for me.
4. MAGGIE MAY ~Rod Stewart OK, I admit to loving the heck out of Rod Stewart in general, Young Lovers (you've seen my FB wall, lol), but I always crank this one and sing along. ALWAYS.
5. DON'T WANNA MISS A THING ~Aerosmith Crush on Liv, not withstanding, and my love of ARMAGEDDON, as well of course... oh it's just breathless, this song...
6. TAKE MY BREATH AWAY ~Berlin Talk about breathless! Crush on Kelly McGillis, Viper not blowing sunshine, and of course mad TOP GUN luvs in general, it's a song about connection. Deep, holy, emotional connection.
7. DONNA ~Richie Valens Ever hear the story behind it?
8. MAYBE IT WAS MEPHIS ~Pam Tillis Yep, from the two years I went Country. And yes, that was me dancing around my bedroom in front of the mirror singing into my hairbrush. ;)
9. ALWAYS ON MY MIND ~Elvis Presley Because we all f*** up sometimes, Young Lovers.
10. I DROVE ALL NIGHT ~Roy Orbison Ever done it? Enough said.
11. BEAUTIFUL ~James Blunt Because not all love is meant to be, Young Lovers. And that's OK.
12. WITH OR WITHOUT YOU ~U2 I write to it. I draw to it. I...
13. YOUNG TURKS ~Rod Stewart Totally would have done it myself, if my parents hadn't come around... still would today, even knowing all I know now...
14. HOT AND BOTHERED ~Cinderella I entered nursing school at age 18. I had to commute an hour and half each way, every day. I started early, like 4 o'clock early, and came home late. Like 11pm late, because I worked full time too. AxlBlue made me a collection of mix tapes of all the wonderful songs I'd missed in my sheltered youth to both educate my mind and keep me awake. This was the first one on Tunes II compiled by Axman Blue and was dedicated especially to me. Needless to say it got my blood pumping and spurred my gitRdone attitude each morning.
15. WHITE FLAG ~Dido Sometimes it's hard.
16. SK8ER BOI ~Avril Lavigne I loved a sk8er boi when I was young. ;)
17. FEEL AGAIN ~ One Republic ... million dollar phone...
18. GET ON YOUR BOOTS ~U2 Ok, I'm a total fangrllllllllllll...
19. COME AS YOU ARE ~Nirvana Awesome make-out song... I'm admitting nothing here ;)
20. BE MY BABY ~The Ronnettes "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."
21. ONE ~U2 Because, sometimes, there's nothing like love to leave lepers in your head...
22. and of course DON'T STOP BELIEVING ~Journey ...some of us were born to sing the BLUEs... I <3 AxlBlue and SonnyBoyBlue and KatBlue and PengBlue and BabyBoyBlue. :)
So, what are some of your favorites? Does love keep you believing? Or just give you lepers in your head? Share with me in the comments, pretty please?
Happy Valentine's Day, Young Lovers...
and as always...
<3 FROM ME2U, WITH LOVE, RALEY BLUE <3
Monday, February 4, 2013
RUE
RUE
Written by Aurelia Blue
A story about life among crossroads, elder love, weeds, hunger and regret…
I know exactly where the sidewalk ends. My mom used to dump my sister and me out at the one red light in town and scream, “Walk, fast!” as she drove on through the green to the only high school for fifty miles in any direction. She was chronically late for work, which meant we were chronically late for school.
In the early years, the sidewalk ended at Grant School for grades K through fourth, about one city block from that light and the almighty high school and its athletic teams that beat like the heart of the community sending it’s streets out like arteries. Later, in grades five through eight, the sidewalk ended at the middle school, just at the edge of an enormous field of goldenrod that bloomed early in the southern climate and held on until the first hard freeze. If there ever happened to be one. My best friend’s parents had a nursing home just beyond it, but in our small town of less than a thousand people, it was well known you didn’t take a step off the concrete path. The Boneyard Woods was across the street, and a girl had been murdered there. So we walked the avenue that was called McLeansboro Street, both ways, practically from birth to adulthood. And never deviated.
That was 24 years ago and times have changed although not the way we thought they would. We don’t drive rocket propelled hover-cars among other things. In fact the coal train still comes through twice a day, stopping cars for 45 minutes at a stretch. I consider hopping through the slow moving cars, like I did as a kid, as I stand here waiting near the end of McLeansboro just feet from the end of the concrete that leads to the middle school. But now that I have one of my own kids, the seven month old towhead my grandfather has never seen, in hand, I decide against it. Besides, I’ve been walking hard for twenty minutes from the other end of the street, I can use the break.
As I look across the street at the Boneyard Woods and try to make out the decayed relics of the brightly colored gypsy carts and the possible bones of a horse or two, just as I did as a kid, I am keenly aware that I am walking toward certain death. Just not my own. Well, not today anyway.
The train drags by enough to clear the tracks and I walk on. I pass the school and descend into the goldenrod field. My head immediately thickens with the old familiar itch and pain. I’ve lived away from it too long and have forgotten how it just strikes you. It’s the ragweed, actually. Ragweed grows intertwined with goldenrod here, hiding from it’s natural predators and feeding on the healing herb’s medicinal properties.
At the edge of the field, I reach the little painted red brick building. I swear to all that is holy, it looks the same way it did when I was a child and my friend’s father held tent revivals out back where he preached the old Baptist gospel. She and I used to run barefoot across the lawn and into the nursing home to soak up the coveted air conditioning, a rarity in those days, the nineteen eighties at that, and visit the olds. I am time warping toward the glass and screen door now, listening to the roar of the air compressors as they pump that cool air in. I do in fact covet that cool air with all my being as I shade my baby’s head from the harsh, noon, April day sun.
I hesitate for a moment, my hand poised on the cold metal door handle, thinking of my family, three other children two city blocks away at the other end of the street. I left them there in the new senior living apartments with my grandmother. Right now they are laughing and putting globs of snowy frosting on a lamb shaped cake and sprinkling it with coconut. Shaking yet more coconut in a Cool Whip container with green dye to make grass. Later they’ll hide jelly eggs in it. I had no energy for it this Easter Sunday, so I came three hundred miles home to let her take care of my children. And my husband, who is passed out on the bed in her room, as she reads The New Yorker out loud to him, just as she did to me when I was a teenager. I am so broken, I think to myself as I pull the door open to the relief of the cold air blowing out so forcefully it makes the baby giggle.
I don’t recognize anybody at the nurse’s desk, my friend’s family sold the home long ago. The young aid who leads me down the hall, keeps glancing back over her shoulder as if she’s shocked I really said the name I said. She sweeps into a dark room, flipping the switch.
“Ed, wake up, you have company,” she drawls out cheerfully as she opens the blinds.
“What is it, goddammitt!”
This is pretty much the only sentence he ever says. The aid looks at me as if she’s trying to assess whether or not I’ll freak out and burst into tears. After all, my dad’s only been here once since he was admitted and my grandmother doesn’t ever come. She’s finally freed in a f*cked up elder divorce that I foresee becoming very popular with the advent of centenarian life spans and Medicare funded senior living apartments. Who needs a piece of paper when you can take your money and go live on your own, as you please; a liberty this generation of women is only now getting the pleasure of living. I can’t blame her. But then I know not every family is full of love and joy in each other. I smile as I tell the little aid that I’m ok, she can leave us alone. She looks both relieved and surprised.
“Hey, Paps, it’s me, how are you?”
“Enhhh,” my grandfather says from under his blanket that he has pulled up over his head. He’s looked like this the last three times I’ve seen him, which amounts to once each spring. Three years ago he recognized me immediately. Last year, he only recognized my husband for the first hour before he realized he also knew the kids. Two hours later, he put his hand on my swelling belly, and instead of giving me his usual admonishment about letting myself go and getting too fat to keep a husband, he’d laughed.
Hell, we’d all had a good laugh that day. My poor stubborn grandparents who had nearly died when I told them I was going to marry my boyfriend when we were nineteen, and had only managed wan smiles at the news of each of my three pregnancies in the following five years, had laughed long an heartily at my perceived misfortune at conceiving so near midlife. They knew we’d all have to let go someday.
“I brought you my new baby,” I say now, checking his fingernails for feces and boogers. His hands seem clean. I’m pretty sure he is naked under the white sheet. He’s been naked the last three times I’ve seen him as well. I see living in "the home" hasn’t changed him much. So I tuck the sheet around his gaunt body as tightly as I can before laying the baby in the bed beside him, who immediately screeches with delight and paws at his great grandfather’s face.
“Well, try that on,” Paps says as he nuzzles the little wet face next to his, “I think it fits pretty good.”
“Yeah,” I say, sinking to the cool floor the way I did when I was young and visiting the olds, reaching up to take his hand.
He opens the cloudy, Good Eye, and gives me a watery searching stare. I smile back sweetly. Affectionately. Trying not to think this may be the last time we come even this far. Does he know me? Will he ever know me again? I don’t care. We have this moment.
“It’s Easter Sunday, Paps. It didn’t rain Friday. Think it will rain?”
This is code for, I love you, please talk to me, let me know you love me too.
He used to say, “Not until Saint Swithin’s Day,” which meant he loved me back.
Regret pierces my heart in the dead silence that follows. I want to curl up on the cool floor in the fetal position. I am so hungry for God to give me a sign. Anything to let me know He, at least, still hears me. Isn’t this why I came home?
Say something. Say anything. Say, rain, back to me, if you can’t say, Saint Swithin.
I regret all the trouble of my childhood. I regret not taking a stand when DNR and Power of Attorney letters were being bandied about. I regret three hundred miles in the night to be with what’s left of my family on Easter Sunday when there’s a perfectly good burned ham sitting on my in-laws table and colorful eggs in their yard right now.
“Hey, handsome!” Another jolly little aid swings into the room. “Is he talking to you?” She looks at me huddled on the floor still holding my grandfather’s unnaturally soft hand that I’ve only ever known to be calloused.
“A little, yeah,” I say with my best lying smile.
“Hey, handsome?” She sings, sugary, into his ear. “You have visitors.
Suddenly, Pap’s eyes light up and he smiles and says, “Oh! Good!”
The aid winks at me and walks out of the room.
Paps returns to me with the watery stare. I stand up and pick up the now sleeping baby.
“You tired, Paps? I’ll let you sleep. We’ll talk later,” I say, acutely aware that this is probably a lie. I won’t be back for another year. Will he even still be here?
I stand over him as he lays in the bed with his eyes closed now and stare at his shrinking body with all the longing a child ever had. Tears pricking at my eyelids, I know I need to walk away.
Gently, still cradling the baby, I lean over the bed rail and kiss the side of his head, right above the ear. I know he wont like it, but I have to do it anyway. I have to say goodbye. All roads end somewhere, right? Might as well be here. I will not cry. This is how the game is played.
“I thank you for that,” Paps says the instant my lips flutter away, “Do it again.”
“Okay,” I say through the smiles and tears. And I do. Do it again, as he drifts off in a peaceful sleep.
The walk back to other end of the street is hot and scratchy. Pollens are everywhere on the breeze as I pass Grant’s playground now littered with broken shells from the morning’s egg hunt.
I choke it all back as I enter the new Senior Living Center. The Golden Girls, as I call the other residents, are all gathered around my grandmother’s table, fawning over the lambie cake she taught me how to make and now my daughter’s have made for her. They nibble on the deviled red beat pickled eggs cut in tulip shapes that my son has made in just method, she taught my young hands to do years before. My grandmother sits, the belle of the ball, surrounded by her family and the traditional homemade goodies they’ve brought from afar. She’s alone here now, she doesn’t get to be queen often.
“Well, you done good,” she says, walking me to the door of the Center. “And to think how we fought when you were a child. It comforts me now to know you are a Believer, you know?”
“Yeah?” I take the panoramic photo of her farm house, the one built from her own design, with all its flowers and hummingbirds buzzing around it, from the basket on her walker. It is her parting gift to me. So I don’t forget my home.
“Yep.”
We hold hands for a long time as my husband loads all the kids and bags of diapers and Tupperware into the van. Finally we let go and I walk away, putting on my sunglasses so the kids wont see the tears threatening to run down my face.
She’s still standing there on the patio when my husband pulls around under the portico.
“I like the tinting on the back windows,” she says pointing to the van.
“Yeah, it’s good for the kids, especially without any air.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Keep them cool until the sun sets and the night air comes in.”
“Okay.” I smile.
“Okay.” She smiles.
We each blow a kiss as the van pulls away, back out onto the street that has two ends, one life, the other death, with all the regrets, weeds, people in different ages of distress and heroines in-between.
We will travel on.
Written by Aurelia Blue
A story about life among crossroads, elder love, weeds, hunger and regret…
I know exactly where the sidewalk ends. My mom used to dump my sister and me out at the one red light in town and scream, “Walk, fast!” as she drove on through the green to the only high school for fifty miles in any direction. She was chronically late for work, which meant we were chronically late for school.
In the early years, the sidewalk ended at Grant School for grades K through fourth, about one city block from that light and the almighty high school and its athletic teams that beat like the heart of the community sending it’s streets out like arteries. Later, in grades five through eight, the sidewalk ended at the middle school, just at the edge of an enormous field of goldenrod that bloomed early in the southern climate and held on until the first hard freeze. If there ever happened to be one. My best friend’s parents had a nursing home just beyond it, but in our small town of less than a thousand people, it was well known you didn’t take a step off the concrete path. The Boneyard Woods was across the street, and a girl had been murdered there. So we walked the avenue that was called McLeansboro Street, both ways, practically from birth to adulthood. And never deviated.
That was 24 years ago and times have changed although not the way we thought they would. We don’t drive rocket propelled hover-cars among other things. In fact the coal train still comes through twice a day, stopping cars for 45 minutes at a stretch. I consider hopping through the slow moving cars, like I did as a kid, as I stand here waiting near the end of McLeansboro just feet from the end of the concrete that leads to the middle school. But now that I have one of my own kids, the seven month old towhead my grandfather has never seen, in hand, I decide against it. Besides, I’ve been walking hard for twenty minutes from the other end of the street, I can use the break.
As I look across the street at the Boneyard Woods and try to make out the decayed relics of the brightly colored gypsy carts and the possible bones of a horse or two, just as I did as a kid, I am keenly aware that I am walking toward certain death. Just not my own. Well, not today anyway.
The train drags by enough to clear the tracks and I walk on. I pass the school and descend into the goldenrod field. My head immediately thickens with the old familiar itch and pain. I’ve lived away from it too long and have forgotten how it just strikes you. It’s the ragweed, actually. Ragweed grows intertwined with goldenrod here, hiding from it’s natural predators and feeding on the healing herb’s medicinal properties.
At the edge of the field, I reach the little painted red brick building. I swear to all that is holy, it looks the same way it did when I was a child and my friend’s father held tent revivals out back where he preached the old Baptist gospel. She and I used to run barefoot across the lawn and into the nursing home to soak up the coveted air conditioning, a rarity in those days, the nineteen eighties at that, and visit the olds. I am time warping toward the glass and screen door now, listening to the roar of the air compressors as they pump that cool air in. I do in fact covet that cool air with all my being as I shade my baby’s head from the harsh, noon, April day sun.
I hesitate for a moment, my hand poised on the cold metal door handle, thinking of my family, three other children two city blocks away at the other end of the street. I left them there in the new senior living apartments with my grandmother. Right now they are laughing and putting globs of snowy frosting on a lamb shaped cake and sprinkling it with coconut. Shaking yet more coconut in a Cool Whip container with green dye to make grass. Later they’ll hide jelly eggs in it. I had no energy for it this Easter Sunday, so I came three hundred miles home to let her take care of my children. And my husband, who is passed out on the bed in her room, as she reads The New Yorker out loud to him, just as she did to me when I was a teenager. I am so broken, I think to myself as I pull the door open to the relief of the cold air blowing out so forcefully it makes the baby giggle.
I don’t recognize anybody at the nurse’s desk, my friend’s family sold the home long ago. The young aid who leads me down the hall, keeps glancing back over her shoulder as if she’s shocked I really said the name I said. She sweeps into a dark room, flipping the switch.
“Ed, wake up, you have company,” she drawls out cheerfully as she opens the blinds.
“What is it, goddammitt!”
This is pretty much the only sentence he ever says. The aid looks at me as if she’s trying to assess whether or not I’ll freak out and burst into tears. After all, my dad’s only been here once since he was admitted and my grandmother doesn’t ever come. She’s finally freed in a f*cked up elder divorce that I foresee becoming very popular with the advent of centenarian life spans and Medicare funded senior living apartments. Who needs a piece of paper when you can take your money and go live on your own, as you please; a liberty this generation of women is only now getting the pleasure of living. I can’t blame her. But then I know not every family is full of love and joy in each other. I smile as I tell the little aid that I’m ok, she can leave us alone. She looks both relieved and surprised.
“Hey, Paps, it’s me, how are you?”
“Enhhh,” my grandfather says from under his blanket that he has pulled up over his head. He’s looked like this the last three times I’ve seen him, which amounts to once each spring. Three years ago he recognized me immediately. Last year, he only recognized my husband for the first hour before he realized he also knew the kids. Two hours later, he put his hand on my swelling belly, and instead of giving me his usual admonishment about letting myself go and getting too fat to keep a husband, he’d laughed.
Hell, we’d all had a good laugh that day. My poor stubborn grandparents who had nearly died when I told them I was going to marry my boyfriend when we were nineteen, and had only managed wan smiles at the news of each of my three pregnancies in the following five years, had laughed long an heartily at my perceived misfortune at conceiving so near midlife. They knew we’d all have to let go someday.
“I brought you my new baby,” I say now, checking his fingernails for feces and boogers. His hands seem clean. I’m pretty sure he is naked under the white sheet. He’s been naked the last three times I’ve seen him as well. I see living in "the home" hasn’t changed him much. So I tuck the sheet around his gaunt body as tightly as I can before laying the baby in the bed beside him, who immediately screeches with delight and paws at his great grandfather’s face.
“Well, try that on,” Paps says as he nuzzles the little wet face next to his, “I think it fits pretty good.”
“Yeah,” I say, sinking to the cool floor the way I did when I was young and visiting the olds, reaching up to take his hand.
He opens the cloudy, Good Eye, and gives me a watery searching stare. I smile back sweetly. Affectionately. Trying not to think this may be the last time we come even this far. Does he know me? Will he ever know me again? I don’t care. We have this moment.
“It’s Easter Sunday, Paps. It didn’t rain Friday. Think it will rain?”
This is code for, I love you, please talk to me, let me know you love me too.
He used to say, “Not until Saint Swithin’s Day,” which meant he loved me back.
Regret pierces my heart in the dead silence that follows. I want to curl up on the cool floor in the fetal position. I am so hungry for God to give me a sign. Anything to let me know He, at least, still hears me. Isn’t this why I came home?
Say something. Say anything. Say, rain, back to me, if you can’t say, Saint Swithin.
I regret all the trouble of my childhood. I regret not taking a stand when DNR and Power of Attorney letters were being bandied about. I regret three hundred miles in the night to be with what’s left of my family on Easter Sunday when there’s a perfectly good burned ham sitting on my in-laws table and colorful eggs in their yard right now.
“Hey, handsome!” Another jolly little aid swings into the room. “Is he talking to you?” She looks at me huddled on the floor still holding my grandfather’s unnaturally soft hand that I’ve only ever known to be calloused.
“A little, yeah,” I say with my best lying smile.
“Hey, handsome?” She sings, sugary, into his ear. “You have visitors.
Suddenly, Pap’s eyes light up and he smiles and says, “Oh! Good!”
The aid winks at me and walks out of the room.
Paps returns to me with the watery stare. I stand up and pick up the now sleeping baby.
“You tired, Paps? I’ll let you sleep. We’ll talk later,” I say, acutely aware that this is probably a lie. I won’t be back for another year. Will he even still be here?
I stand over him as he lays in the bed with his eyes closed now and stare at his shrinking body with all the longing a child ever had. Tears pricking at my eyelids, I know I need to walk away.
Gently, still cradling the baby, I lean over the bed rail and kiss the side of his head, right above the ear. I know he wont like it, but I have to do it anyway. I have to say goodbye. All roads end somewhere, right? Might as well be here. I will not cry. This is how the game is played.
“I thank you for that,” Paps says the instant my lips flutter away, “Do it again.”
“Okay,” I say through the smiles and tears. And I do. Do it again, as he drifts off in a peaceful sleep.
The walk back to other end of the street is hot and scratchy. Pollens are everywhere on the breeze as I pass Grant’s playground now littered with broken shells from the morning’s egg hunt.
I choke it all back as I enter the new Senior Living Center. The Golden Girls, as I call the other residents, are all gathered around my grandmother’s table, fawning over the lambie cake she taught me how to make and now my daughter’s have made for her. They nibble on the deviled red beat pickled eggs cut in tulip shapes that my son has made in just method, she taught my young hands to do years before. My grandmother sits, the belle of the ball, surrounded by her family and the traditional homemade goodies they’ve brought from afar. She’s alone here now, she doesn’t get to be queen often.
“Well, you done good,” she says, walking me to the door of the Center. “And to think how we fought when you were a child. It comforts me now to know you are a Believer, you know?”
“Yeah?” I take the panoramic photo of her farm house, the one built from her own design, with all its flowers and hummingbirds buzzing around it, from the basket on her walker. It is her parting gift to me. So I don’t forget my home.
“Yep.”
We hold hands for a long time as my husband loads all the kids and bags of diapers and Tupperware into the van. Finally we let go and I walk away, putting on my sunglasses so the kids wont see the tears threatening to run down my face.
She’s still standing there on the patio when my husband pulls around under the portico.
“I like the tinting on the back windows,” she says pointing to the van.
“Yeah, it’s good for the kids, especially without any air.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Keep them cool until the sun sets and the night air comes in.”
“Okay.” I smile.
“Okay.” She smiles.
We each blow a kiss as the van pulls away, back out onto the street that has two ends, one life, the other death, with all the regrets, weeds, people in different ages of distress and heroines in-between.
We will travel on.
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