A Spirit of Christmas Past

Alternate title: Ugly Sweater in the eye of the beholder

Lonnie Delopas rummaged through her carry-on looking for the earbuds she threw in there at the last minute. She would listen to music instead of trying to read. She had been on edge since she woke up this morning. She felt a difference in the energy around her. The overall volume in the airport terminal wasn’t any louder than usual, but the noise was causing her nerves to frazzle, and it was irritating.

Usually, a two-hour layover didn’t bother her, but at the moment she felt uneasy as if something big was about to happen. She hoped she would arrive safely and without incident to her destination. She had experienced this feeling before as a warning or déjà vu. She rechecked the weather status and listened for any cancelations or announcements of change. She was heading to the North East for an award and book signing. It was winter, just before Christmas, weather-wise, anything could happen. It felt strange to get back to the city where she grew up. When she first got the news, she thought: “Not a bad way to end the year;” but now, with the eeriness, she was feeling, she wasn’t so sure.

Lonnie finally fished her earbuds from the bottom of her bag, and as she sat up in her chair, she noticed a man walking at a fast pace toward Gate 19. The man was tall with thick salt and pepper hair that fell just over his ears and collar; a neatly groomed beard framed his face. He wore gunmetal square-aviator style Ray-Bans and a classic leather bomber jacket. He carried a large leather bag slung over his shoulder and finally having reached the Gate, he slowed down. He walked past Lonnie with the confidence of a man comfortable in his skin until he tripped of his own accord and almost fell at her feet. Without missing a beat, he stopped, smiled and asked: “Yeah, Is anyone sitting here?”

There was something very familiar about him. Lonnie watched him from the corner of her eye as the stranger relaxed in the seat next to her. She decided that the familiarity she found was his likeness to Andrea Bocelli. He was so close, she could smell his cologne mixed with the scent of his well-worn leather jacket. His long legs stretched out almost into her personal space, and she couldn’t help but notice his stylish dress boots. Lonnie regretted her decision to travel bundled up in comfortable, bulky layers for this trip. Suddenly, she was acutely conscious that her hair was having one of its unruly moments. Note to self, next time dress comfortable but trendy to announce that a successful creative soul has arrived. She silently snickered to herself that she even had these ideas. What was happening?

The Bocelli-look-alike was on the phone. His voice sounded familiar too, but Lonnie rationalized that she was, after all, headed to LaGuardia Airport and the familiarity she found in histone was nothing more than a strong Brooklyn accent. She had left many years ago; it seemed like another lifetime. She was a little sad that after all these years, it was no longer “home.” It was as if she were traveling to any other strange city around the country. Like herself, most of her close friends had moved away and lost touch over the years. Sadly some of her dearest friends had passed. Lonnie finally attributed her energy imbalance to nerves and nostalgia with thoughts of the “good old days.”

Lonnie couldn’t help overhearing that the stranger was back in town to see his parents for the holidays but arrived a few days early to meet colleagues at a new job “in the City.” It sounded like he was pressuring someone to make plans to meet up before he had to leave again. He’d be back the beginning of the year, but he needed to pack up and close on his house first. The person on the other line must have said something to make him burst out laughing, and with a mocking voice, he said“Tony, it’s not that easy… I love you, man!” With that, the sophisticated, fine-looking man sitting next to Lonnie couldn’t finish his sentence as he folded over in a fit of laughter. His arms were flailing, and his classy boots stomped the floor repeatedly.

Lonnie couldn’t help but turn to face him, and with his RayBans off, she noticed the big scar next to his left eye. It still looked as terrible as it did decades ago. “Tony?” she asked. “Tony Petronelli?” He stared at her, not recognizing her at first. “It’s me, Lonnie? Alondra Delopas.” She smiled. It was then that Anthony Laurence Petronelli recognized her. He remembered the warm smile that at once upon a time made him feel mushy and gooey inside. A mop of short, wild gray hair had replaced the long brown hair that smelled of lavender and roses when ran his fingers through it; but the lively brown eyes and smile were still the same. “Oh my GAWD!” he said as they hugged long and hard as old friends do.

They spent the two-hour layover catching up. Tony told her that stayed in New England after college, but his parents were still in the city. He kept up with friends each time he came to visit his family. He married had children, but once the kids were out of the house and on their own, he and his wife found they didn’t want to stay married. It was as simple as that. Since college, he worked for the same a tech-company with contracts all over the world. Tony recently took a position in the corporate office back home to be closer to his aging parents. Lonnie had also married with children. Her first husband died tragically at a young age and her second husband was a mistake. She had been teaching and writing for some time and was pleased to have a best seller in her hands finally.

Tony made plans to attend the book signing. Lonnie said it would be nice to have an old friend there for support. Her book was a Christmas story she told him, inspired in part by one of her favorite Christmas stories, O.Henry’s “Gift of the Magi,” and without warning, there in the middle of the busy airport terminal, the unthinkable happened! Tony brought up “The Sweater.”

One winter Lonnie bought a cranberry colored, 100% wool, alpine sweater at a specialty shop in the small city near her college. Her new best friend Bertie, Roberta Borkson, had taken her there. Bertie was an avid skier, and she was going to get a sweater for her boyfriend to wear on their ski trip over Christmas vacation. Lonnie went along and started having her own ideas about the beautiful sweaters she saw.

Lonnie and Tony met at a lodge in the Poconos Mountains two years earlier during a winter camp sponsored by a local youth organization. She noticed him on the first morning when she and her friends came in from a walk just as the snow started to get heavy. Tony was sitting quietly by the fireplace, with a mug of hot chocolate as he listened to a couple of friends getting agitated about football teams. The girls went straight to the fire to warm up which caused a distraction for the boys and their sports.

By dinner time, they were all old friends. They had been laughing, telling stories and playing table tennis as the time slipped away. Lonnie and Tony somehow always managed to end at the same table for meals, and on the bus ride home, he shyly asked if he could call her. The group was heading back to the Poconos during the Christmas break. Lonnie pictured Tony in his new alpine sweater by the fireplace and her in a beautiful knitted cream colored hat and scarf she had seen downtown.

Tony and Lonnie exchanged gifts as soon as she got home from school that year. Lonnie was pleased to find the beautiful soft cream-colored hat and scarf set. Tony started to open his with a great big smile, but as he parted the thin sheets of tissue paper, his smile appeared frozen. “Reindeer?” He asked. He could not hide his shock. There were indeed, gray reindeer parading in between oversized snowflakes across the top of the sweater from one shoulder to the other. It was apparent that he disliked the sweater. Lonnieoffered to return it, but Tony regained his composure and being the sweet young man that he was, nobly put it on to go out with friends that evening so as not to hurt Lonnie’s feelings.

The sweater was a hit among their friends, but not it a good way. One did not see many alpine sweaters with reindeer around the Bay Ridge neighborhood in Brooklyn, NY. There is a reason there are no scenes with Tony Manero dancing his Saturday Night Fever in a cranberry red alpine sweater with gray reindeer and snowflakes. It didn’t fit the character.

On that cold winter night in the early 1970s and during the trip to the mountains, their friends warned Lonnie that she would never live that one down. And so it was that fifty years later when fate serendipitously crossed the paths of these two senior citizens with teenage grandchildren of their own; Anthony Laurence Petronelli brought up the cranberry red alpine sweater with the gray reindeer. All they could do was try to stifle the laughter until their bellies hurt and the years seemed to melt away.

The photos used here are not my own; they were found online and “no copyright infringement is intended.”

Weeds and Flowers in our Life

As I mentioned the other day, I am doing an editing course right here on WordPress called “Writing: Shaping Your Story.” I have re-worked one of my most recent stories looking for an angle to develop a unique voice in telling stories of ordinary life. Enjoy.

Love who you are and what you are and what you do. Laugh at yourself and at life and nothing can touch you. Louise Hay from AZ quotes

The other morning I had one of those incidents where I had to laugh at myself or in spite of myself. I find I do it quite often these days; I believe it’s one of the perks brought on by aging and the wisdom of our years. I do think if you can’t laugh at yourself, maybe it’s time for soul-searching. No one is perfect, and if we can forgive ourselves for that, if we can be OK with our shortcomings, we become more tolerant of others.

I started my day, unlike other mornings. I had my mind set to do a little weeding in the yard. I’m house sitting while taking care of my daughter’s eighty-five-pound furbaby. She and her husband have their hands full with careers and a toddler size human baby, so I decided to make use of idle time and clean up the yard a bit before they got home. Nothing major, I’m not a gardener. I had a flower garden once which was mostly landscaped already when I bought the house. With minimal fuss, that garden managed to come back and thrive every year from spring through fall. These days I’m working on trying to get a potted orchid to flower again or at least to give me hope by staying alive.

I was up and dressed bright and early with my improvised gardening outfit. Yes, I needed a gardening outfit, like I use to have one for walking the dog or play clothes after school. I wore comfortable workout shorts, t-shirt, old sneakers-without socks and a safari hat. Perhaps I should have taken a selfie, but you can probably visualize the image. We live near the southernmost part of Florida and I wanted to get weeds out before the temperature became unbearable but I couldn’t find my daughter’s gardening gloves. I have allergies and an intense dislike for creepy crawly things, so I wasn’t going out there without gloves. What a dilemma! I was going to have to run to the store to pick up a pair of gardening gloves, but I was dressed for tropical weather gardening, not shopping. To quote the grown-up Christopher Robin, “What to do, what to do.”

Some may say my quandary was “just a girl thing” but to understand my problem; we’d have to go back to my family of origin where the mantra was “We may be poor, but we are proud!” Mom always made sure we were with hair combed, clean hands and nails, our clothes ironed with starch and our shoes polished. When we went to church on Sunday, she had to make sure that we looked ready to visit The King of Kings. She learned from her mother to check us out before we walked out of the door to make sure we were “presentable.”

My grandmother was an adorable, plump little woman. Over the years I’ve mentioned that someday I wanted to be a loveable, little old lady like her. (I’m practically there – wink). She wore her thinning white hair in a small bun at the nape of her neck. Her back slightly curved from years as a seamstress. In her late 70s, her alabaster skin was without blemish and smooth, and her eyes were a light turquoise green like the tranquil waters of the Caribbean Basin in the early morning. It had been just recently that my aunt had convinced her that she didn’t need to iron my grandfather’s boxers or her bed sheets because of the new permanent press fabrics. She still starched and pressed her house dresses and my grandfather’s white cotton shirts and khakis.

One summer when I was visiting, my grandmother asked me if I wanted to go to town for some shopping. She was walking to town and wanted some company. We were already in town, but she meant about a 20-minute walk to the stores on the main street, more if she saw friends along the way. I dressed quickly and waited for my grandmother on the porch. This was in the era before cell phones so to entertain myself in the meantime; I checked out the boy next door who was about my age and helping his dad bring things in from the truck. When I saw him, was glad to be feeling cute that day. Little did I know that years later, he would become my husband.

My grandmother, Mrs. Plumeria Martin-Ponte put one foot out on the porch, looked at me and stopped in her tracks. She looked up and down at me, and I noticed the tranquil waters in her eyes were starting to churn like angry waves before a storm. “Go in and change. I’m not taking you with me like that.” Period and end of the story were implied in her tone. Of course, I was young and feeling cute, so I needed to ask why: “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” At the time, I thought it was cool for a girl from the big city to wear overalls with a T-shirt and sneakers. My question triggered a lecture on the proper attire of lovely young ladies going into town. She didn’t want to hear what I did back home, so I went in and changed to a sundress, ladylike sandals and wore my long dark hair in a side braid.

Fast forward to 2018, and I’m standing at the doorway with my car keys in hand, ready to go to the Town Center in workout shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt, sneakers without socks and my wild hair particularly unruly this morning. I was just going to run in and out but what if I saw someone I knew? Well, I don’t know many people in this town, I thought as I encouraged myself. Besides Hollywood A-listers do it all the time, I just won’t take off my sunglasses! That’s when it happened; I laughed at myself for giving so much thought to explain my options as if to my grandmother.

As it turned out, once I was at the Town Center, I remembered a couple of other things I needed and made another stop. I was not just in and out at either store. I chatted with the clerks and a woman behind me in line. No one asked me why I was wearing comfortable workout shorts and sneakers without socks to the trendy Town Center.

At another point in my life, I probably wouldn’t have gone out, or if I had to, I would have changed to something more “presentable.” I realize though that if anyone passes judgment about me because of the clothes I wear, then they don’t value me for the person I am. I am beyond the point where I feel the need to prove my worth. I am what I am, and it is what it is.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” Wendy Mass, The Candymakers from Goodreads.

Since it’s my nature to ponder, I reflected on how time and again we judge others by their appearance. I often say that it seems like the experiences from our school years play out throughout our lives. We see the same behaviors at work or in social groups. Only the names and faces change. Naturally, whenever this topic crosses my mind, I am reminded of a young girl, a classmate from my middle and high school years, he name was Grace Fore.

I was an average kid. I managed to stay under the radar and out of trouble. I wasn’t especially popular but had friends from different groups that I had met through various activities like art electives, tutoring, orchestra, boosters, yearbook, and church.

Grace Fore was a loner. She was a good looking girl with her blonde hair and big, blue eyes, but something always looked “off” and not quite right. I didn’t know anything about her home life, but I knew she played the viola beautifully with sentimentality that it moved me. I remember that it was often apparent that she was trying to “fix” her appearance. The kids in school teased her when she tried a new hairstyle and her hair still looked disheveled or when she wore a misshapen dress that she made herself in sewing class. They called her Grace Forlorn. I never actually defended her, I usually just moved my friends along before the taunting got worse. I always wished I had been braver. Can’t help but wonder what it would be like in today’s social media era.

As the world turns, a few years ago, I received a Facebook friend request from Grace Fore with a simple question “Do you remember me?” “Of course,” I answered, “you played the viola beautifully. Do you still play?” She wrote to me about the difficult life she had growing up and how it turned out not much better as an adult. No, she didn’t continue playing, but she wished she had. And then she broke my heart when she said: “but you were always nice to me, and it meant so much.” I never really went out of my way to be nice to her, but I was taught to be kind and not do harm.

If she hadn’t reached out, I would have never known that one small kindness would mean so much after all these years and all she had been through. She unfriended me shortly after over differences in political ideology, but I’m glad we connected. It validated my core beliefs that I continue to develop through my life.

After driving back to my daughter’s house in this meditative state, I decided I needed a drink before I tackled the yard. It was the middle of the day in Florida with temperatures in the triple digits. I poured a tall glass of iced tea, put my feet up and stared out into the yard.

I remembered that in another life during the summer, I would frequently get small bouquets of yellow dandelions from my daughters. They would run into the house filled with love and anticipation. Despite my allergies, I would marvel with oohs and aahs as if they were a dozen long stem roses from a long lost lover and put them in small cups of water till they shriveled up. Sometimes they would bring them one by one, white and puffy so that we could make wishes together. As they blew around the backyard like snowflakes, I wondered how many more weeds I would have to deal with next time.

“Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.” Quote from Pinterest attributed to Eeyore.

What a perfect quote from Eeyore. Isn’t it the truth? Yes, dandelions are weeds, but they are bright yellow flowers and conduits for wishes. In the real world, we have found that they also have healing properties and are an excellent source of vitamins and minerals.

What great lessons we learn every day, I pondered as I continued sipping my cold drink. I shook my head in amazement and snickered to myself as I closed my eyes and decided I would start fresh tomorrow.

#Shaping your story – Week One

eXes and Woes

A to Z Challenge Letter X

eXes and Woes

Clotilde Delsapo looked at the caller I.D. on her cell phone. She didn’t usually pick-up when she didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was from her old hometown, so she did. “Hey, hellooo,” said the playful voice on the other end. “Hi, what’s up?” she responded tentatively. She knew who it was. The call was unexpected, but somehow she was not surprised. It had been about three years since their last conversation. At that time Laurence Olivier Madioti was getting ready to settle down again. It was always the same story, and she’d come to understand this was going to be the last phone call – for a while. “I’ve learned so much from the past. She and I have so much in common. She has wonderful qualities. I’ve good a good feeling about this.” To which Clotilde would politely reply, “Great news; All the best. Really hope it works out this time.”

Now, he was rambling about how difficult it had been to find Clotilde’s phone number again. He wanted her new address to send his recent book. He was looking to get her feedback. “It’s different from what I’ve written before. I think you’ll like it.” Clotilde hesitated but shrugged, sure why not she thought, and she answered without emotion. “1300 Mockingbird Road, Paradise, Florida.” To which he responded. “Great, I’m here for a graduation, but I’ll send it as soon as I get back.” After a bit more mindless chatter, he added that he was single again. “Let’s just say we had irreconcilable differences.” Clotilde didn’t bother to feign shock but replied. “Wow, too bad. Sorry to hear it.”

Today Laurence O. Madioti was calling after a third long-term relationship fell apart. It had been 13 years since they had gone their separate ways but each time a relationship had ended, he called with a similar story. “I think I made a mistake.” Each time it started to sound as if he had regretted that their liaison ended the way it did. She listened carefully, but the words she waited to hear didn’t come. After a while, they were just friends again, former colleagues shooting the breeze.

A couple of weeks later he had called her again to let her know he was heading home at the end of the week. “Why don’t you pack a bag and come with me for a bit. We always have a great time together.” She shook her head and laughed at him. “Some things never change” she gently chided. “I didn’t mean it like that. You sound like you need a vacation. You can stay at the guest house. There is a pool, and it’s walking distance to the beach.” She didn’t know why she didn’t just say no, that’s a bad idea. Why was she always careful not to hurt his feelings? Instead, she explained that she couldn’t leave now. “Sounds like a great place though.” She would let him know when she could visit; after all, they were still “friends.”

She didn’t know why they remained “friends” for all these years. Maybe it was something about forgiving those that wronged you, not because they deserve it, but because you deserve peace. It seemed to have worked. She was at peace, and hindsight gave her a better understanding of their past history.

They had met over thirty years ago when they worked at Allen, Bradford, and Jones. Together they led an up-and-coming team breaking barriers and maximizing productivity, making it one of the most successful teams in the company’s history. In the midst of success, as they say at Disney, there occurred a Tale as old as time, True as it can be, Barely even friends, Then somebody bends, Unexpectedly… Neither one remembered precisely when or why things changed between them, but they did. It became their secret for many years after.

Some time ago, Clotilde realized that she had finally reached a place where it didn’t hurt anymore. She accepted what she had known all along but had refused to let it surface to her conscious thoughts. She had misinterpreted that friendly relationship. It was as simple as that. She was able to close that chapter and look back at the story as if it were a bad rom-com. She felt relief, her spirit was light, and she was at peace with herself and the world.

Laurence O. was a great guy as far as “friends” go. He was giving, supportive and loyal. A person knew he could be counted on to always have your back in a troubling situation. He was smart, funny, articulate and cultured. He spoke four languages fluently, had traveled extensively and could recite poems and sonnets by heart. He wasn’t handsome in the usual way, but there was an attractive, confident air about him. Women and men both admired him. They considered themselves lucky to be counted among his friends.

One could also say that Laurence Olivier Madioti was an incurable romantic in a temperamental way. He was the personification of the ads found in the personals. He loved walking on a moonlit beach, and dinners by candlelight accompanied with good music at a fine restaurant. He was also an excellent cook and enjoyed entertaining at his place. He loved picnics, red roses, and fruity red wine. He was an expert at helping to release the tensions of the day whether with a shoulder massage or cuddling on the couch watching a silly romantic comedy.

Unfortunately, although he said he longed for a stable relationship, Laurence Madioti had been unable to transition to happily-ever-after. After the second post-break-up call, Clotilde had told him that it appeared that he was in love with the idea of LOVE, the conquest, and romance. He had studied the novels, memorized the poems and watched romantic movies. Others would say that once the thrill of the chase was gone and things started to feel mundane, Laurence would find the nearest exit. For all his intelligence and insight, a part of him expected that once he found “the one,” the stars would align and life would be perfect for all eternity.

In the weeks that followed the book’s arrival, Laurence O. continued to call or email regularly. They would talk about the book, politics, and weather. They didn’t take that walk down memory lane. Clotilde could hear the uncertainty in his conversations, sometimes overstepping the boundaries of friendship. She found it sad that sometimes it was as if they were strangers with very little in common after all these years. She wondered if he felt the same. She had thought to bring it up because she didn’t want to continue this shallow friendship.

Clotilde wished they were face to face. At some point, she began to feel awkward about the phone conversations or video calls. It was not the same something was lacking. She didn’t know what but could not speak her mind. She had decided to go to visit him to end this semblance of friendship but then thought better of it. What if she felt different when she saw him in person, after having him in her arms from the obligatory hug between friends? What if she got lost in his the dark pools in his eyes or felt faint from the smell of his skin next to hers? What if she was flooded with a rush of all the emotions she had managed to put away for so long. She didn’t want to muddy the waters. She would wait. If history repeats itself, he would soon be on the mend from the broken heart and would get too busy to call.

And so it was. The calls stopped abruptly, and after several weeks, Clotilde sent an email to confirm her hunch. “Yes, he said sheepishly. We are in the beginning stages, but I have a good feeling about this.” Clotilde politely responded “Great news; All the best. Really hope it works out this time.”

Willy-Nilly and Wocka-Wocka Letter W

If you’ve read my blog before, you know I am a Beginning Blogger. I started this blog Willy-Nilly, without direction or planning; haphazardly. I jumped into this A to Z Challenge without much understanding of the process, and in trying to meet the daily deadlines, I feel like my thoughts are all over the place. I am looking forward to completing this challenge, but I must admit, I’m proud that I’ve stayed in this long. I think the most difficult aspect is that I chose a very broad theme. Each day I wake up feeling like I’m on Sesame Street looking for the Letter of the Day. Then I rummage through those “snapshots” in my memory files to find a match.

This is my second time starting a blog but alas- my skills remain at entry level. Since I have a bit more time these days, I’ve also decided to dedicate some energy to setting up my page and getting to know what’s behind the screen. That’s where Fozzie Bear’s Wocka, Wocka comes in. Today I spent most of the morning in a cyber backroom, chatting with one of the Happiness Engineers at WordPress. Chatting is difficult when I don’t know the lingo, but the person on the other end was quite patient and answered all my questions. Most importantly the HE straightened out my domain issues which will make my blog easier to find and my behind the screen dashboard easier to manage.

At the end of the day, I feel a bit like Fozzie Bear. He tries so hard that his ineptness is endearing and we are all cheering for him waiting for the day he gets it right. Well, I don’t have a fan base yet, but my family has my back. I appreciate them for that. This song is exactly how I’ve been feeling. Dancing in the Dark.

Enjoy it with me.

A to Z challenge – About

Today, as I’ve started to feel human after a terrible allergic episode, I’m trying to engage in the A to Z Challenge that I signed up for last month. I’ve decided to keep it simple and start the Challenge with ABOUT and perhaps try to explain why I’ve decided to write a blog that seems to be about me.

I had been writing a blog with a running title of “Self-Censored/ A blog about me. Verbal snapshots of a simple life”. The other day I was discussing my blog with someone who asked, “why would you write a blog about yourself, it’s not like you are someone famous … You need to write about something that your reader will value and come back for …”. These were good points, so I took the information and filed it in my brain under “THINGS TO PONDER.” Here I am, trying to ponder as I participate in the A to Z challenge. Please join me.

Over the past few months, I finally had the chance to go through boxes of old photos and family memorabilia – which is probably why my allergies are out of control. The treasures I found prompted me to contact some people and take an opportunity to sit and talk. Some of these folks I’ve known all my life, some all of theirs, and others for at least a couple of decades. A constant theme in these conversations has been what was going on beyond the photo, beyond the eye of the camera.

It was in those memories that we learned things about each other that were hidden in plain sight. For example – who knew that you sang and played guitar on stage at a coffee house in New York City when you were in college? Or that you had looked up who Ty Cobb was and were proud to be part of the team, wear your uniform and play at those little league games that your Dad dragged you to each weekend. Who knew you didn’t really get lost on the subway that day when everyone was so worried – instead, you had a crazy adventure with friends. Who knew you stepped up to take care of the family dog and neighborhood strays when your older sister went off to college? Who knew that at age ten you already knew how to make something beautiful out of repurposed materials? Who knew that you always wanted to play the clarinet but when it was your turn to chose, the trumpet was the only instrument left, and yet you thoroughly enjoyed jammin’ with the band? Who knew all these things, these little sparks, you would carry in your heart alone until the time was right to shine?

I want my reader to feel a smile creep across the face as he or she joins me in the memory. Do you remember walking out of the comfort zone and then feeling ecstatic and relieved all at once. What a feeling to know you survived – you did it, and you enjoyed it! What if you haven’t yet? Well, why not. Tomorrow is another opportunity. What if you don’t have an experience readily available in your toolbox? I’m hoping you can borrow the energy from one of the stories I share.

I worked in a state-run system of human services for many years where I provided rehabilitative and supportive counseling for countless clients. Some didn’t have much of an opportunity to make happy memories, but somehow they knew there was something better, and that’s what kept them going. Some folks, knowing that they had nothing more to lose, took more chances. The strength and resilience I saw in these people were a blessing to my own life.

Those are the kind of stories I want to share – true stories of simple everyday people, putting one foot in front of the other walking the path before us. Few of us can skate through life on Easy Street. Most of us will follow the scenic route with all its twists and turns. Let’s take plenty “snapshots”.

The lovers, the dreamers and me

For this assignment, I try to conjure up a visual of who will read my blog- my audience. I’ve spent the past couple of days visiting other writers, looking at style and content while trying to imagine their respective audience. I find that there are some fabulous sites out there and I try not to be intimidated by the talent or expertise that I see. I know that I tend to enjoy sites that have a personal component even though it may be a business page. I decided to focus on MY passion – why am I writing? I’m writing to tell a story – simple as that.

Someday I may publish these writings for my granddaughters. However, I am envisioning my reader today, and that person looks something like me – in my soul. Regardless of gender, it will be someone who understands that there are great treasures in our simple moments. It’s not an original idea I understand. I’ve seen memes that say “we do not remember days, we remember moments.” or “Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” I’m sure you have too. I picture my reader as someone who just needs an interruption, a break from this crazy, fast and furious train ride that we call life. That someone is looking for a pause button– a quick light, read to go with a cup of coffee, hot tea or a glass of wine at the end of the day.

When I was a young adult, every weekend my siblings and I would take turns visiting our grandparents. During a difficult work week, I started to look forward to the day when I would drive my mother to her parents’ house – especially when my grandmother’s younger sister was in town. She was sassy, and her green eyes sparkled. She knew how to bring a blush of color to my mild and meek grandmother’s cheeks.

It was that time when people still sat on the front porch to talk and greet the neighbors as they walked by. We had an unspoken appointment with my mother’s sisters and every now once in a while one of my uncles or another cousin would join us. We would sit for hours and have a beverage with a delicious treat from our favorite bakery. My grandparents took turns with weekly news updates about the extended family which included anecdotes of comparable events of long ago and almost always ended with the question “What is the world coming to?” This simple statement would lead us down a crooked path filled with the twists and turns of current events and politics.

I came to treasure those afternoons filled with stories. I felt connected to the generations before me who had overcome hardships that I couldn’t even imagine and yet, they sang and laughed and wrote poems.

As I was thinking about the mood and the spirit of my blog, the melody of the “Rainbow Connection” kept playing in the background of my mind and I hummed along as I wrote.

…Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it
And look what it’s done so far
What’s so amazing
That keeps us star gazing
What so we think we might see

Someday we’ll find it
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me…

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/S2DTLbTQj0I

Alternate title: Ugly Sweater in the eye of the beholder

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