Rapier's Wit

Oh dear me! This week has been a smack in the head emotionally. Mother's Day is often such a struggle for me. On one hand, I am ecstatic to have a son who loves and respects me. He fills me with so much pride. On the other hand, losing my own mother in 1981causes me such emotional turmoil from time to time. Not often, but when it strikes it strikes hard. The other day on Facebook I shared that my final memory of my mother was that in the hospital where she spent her last days. She was ravaged with cancer and in dire pain even with pain medication. Toward the very end I wasn't permitted to visit her. However, the time I was allowed in her room she had pushed me away after I hugged her because I was hurting her. It isn't the memory I want to hold on to, but it is there. As her last child, the youngest of eight, there's no doubt she had her reasons. My siblings have assured me, while it wasn't what I wanted, it is what our mother felt was best for me ... or her. It ...

I grew up in a middle class neighborhood. Pretty much every one in upper Riverview, Kankakee, IL had similar upbringings. Our parents worked hard. We were disciplined ... not just by our own parents, but every parent on the block. In the evenings during the summer, teens would gather on the corner under a street light to just talk, laugh, flirt, etc... A lot of hopes and dreams were revealed under that street light. Most of the families were rooted in the area. Moving wasn't even considered. That being the case, we went to school together from kindergarten through graduating high school. Some friendships were maintained during that time while others were fond acquaintances. I think there was an unspoken bond and protective knee-jerk reaction despite distanced friendship. What always existed was a kinship. After graduation, as we often do, we separate and go about building new lives. It happens. Regardless of what was sworn in our yearbook entries to each other, those promises...

Dear Pixar: As always, I am behind on watching movies. Ever since my son hit puberty we aren't as prone to racing to the theater to see your movies. He's into fart humor flicks and action/adventures. So, this morning I was flipping through the 100s of channels offered up and stumbled upon your film BRAVE .  Since I had not seen it and nothing else piqued my interest, I opted to view. First off, let me applaud the design of the wild haired Merida. It's clear in the very beginning she is not the usual 'live in a shiny castle upon the hill' sort of princess. Secondly, it was refreshing that none of the first born males of the other clans were strapping, handsome warrior sorts with the heart of gold. You almost always throw some stud in the mix that the wild eyed princess fawns over completely losing sight of her identity. Again, thank you. Thirdly, encouragement from the father to remain independent reminds me a lot of my own relationship with my dad. My mom,...

The approach of Father's Day always gets me thinking. For one, it makes me miss my own father very much (he died in '99). That was the same year I went through my divorce. We were 800 miles away from the nearest family and I had to go through it without my rock, my father. You can tell me he was and always has been with me in spirit but those are just empty words when all one truly needs is to have the presence in human form of the embodiment of unconditional love. He wasn't a man of many words despite his articles in The Kankakee Journal's Voice of the People and other various publications. When it came to his kids, his thoughts were many, but his words profound and few. Our relationship hadn't always been ideal. As a little girl, I was undoubtedly his baby. The last born of the brood he had with my mother, he seemed determined to do right by me. We had a special bond. Then, when my mother passed away in '81, it was quickly severed and we hit years of rough...

April is Autism Awareness Month. My son has autism spectrum disorder / Asperger Syndrome. Giggling Mancub age 4.  I truly dislike tagging a label on him. To me, he is perfection. When someone pats me on the back for being a good mother I joke that God knew I'd be raising my son alone and provided me with a child who is easy to raise. When Mancub was in pre-school it was obvious he had issues not adhering to some guidelines. Quick change of schedule or altering the food menu would cause a melt down. He never had such tantrums when we were one on one so it made little sense to me. Then again, I am a creature of habit. It was rare for us to deviate. Once, he 'lost his mind' -- their words--  when they had to do self portraits and he colored his eyes green. His eyes are chocolate brown. The teacher argued with him that his eyes were not green. They had him look in a mirror to prove him wrong. He insisted that his eyes couldn't be brown because "Mommy has g...

When I find myself in times of trouble Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be . My mother's name was Mary. Whenever I heard this song as a kid I presumed everybody knew my mom was a great listener and giver of advice. As I grew up I realized that Paul was singing about a more widely known woman named Mary. The mother I spawned from passed away in June of 1981. Just when I was in dire need of matronly advice, she was gone due to the ravages of cancer. I was a confused teen on the cusp of finally being permitted to date. Sixteen was the age at which girls in our family were allowed to have a boyfriend. All I'd had were crazy crushes that were never realized due to the restrictions placed upon me. Still, having my mother tell me how to handle myself or get over the painful heartache of nonrecip...

For as far back as I can remember in my childhood we were told to stand up straight.  Our mother was a stickler for good posture.  At any given moment one of us would feel the pressure of her pointy finger in the middle of our backs instantly causing our shoulders to pull back as if they'd been tethered with a counter weight.  Her reason to me was that it would make me appear confident, thinner AND when I aged and got bigger boobs they'd seem less droopy.  Mom was right. Naturally. My own son hasn't been inflicted with my index finger.  As he set off for the bus this morning I called out to him, " Pull your shoulders back !"  Instantly, he did.  But it looked painfully unnatural.  His head was still cocked down like the dopey vulture from the cartoons.  " We'll work on fixing that. Have a great day !"  And he shuffled off surely releasing his posture to the slumpiness that screams Shaggy of Scooby Doo.  Poor posture isn't limi...

Ho, ho, ho, and falalalala abound no matter where I turn.  Santa made his arrival at the mall yesterday. I thought the old, jolly fat man wasn't allowed to make an appearance prior to Black Friday.  Economic strain has overridden tradition, I guess.  Christmas parades are commencing a week early, too. Once again my holiday equilibrium is thrown off. Growing up, our household traditions were upheld by Mom. We always turned to her to keep the season merry and bright.  When she passed away after a short battle with cancer, nothing was the same. It was enough to attempt to pull ourselves together emotionally let alone try to carry on the traditions that Mom made so perfect. Those traditions couldn't be carried out if she wasn't there to execute them. As I've matured and built a household of my own, I've been incapable of duplicating the spirit that Mom embodied.  When I was married and had a newborn child, the hope of creating our own traditions filled me with s...

Today is Saturday and next Saturday is Halloween.  I requested the day off.  It wasn't really necessary since my son is 15 and no longer dresses up and sets out as a beggar for the night pleading for candy.  Those days of knocking on doors and holding out your bag (in my case a pillow case) seem to be dwindling.  Because of the lack of porch stomping, costumed children I make certain to buy candy we like. Left overs must be pleasing. It's a shame that the children of today have to miss out on the random hijinx of days gone by.  Maybe I'm off base and the kids from less fortunate areas are taking a charter bus to the affluent neighborhoods.  I know we weren't above that.  We'd convince someone's parent or, more likely an older sibling who could drive, to take us out where it was rumored that full size candy bars were being handed out. The last year I took to the streets on October 31 was my 8th grade year.  I dressed as a girl from the '50s....

I heard the news while at work. I didn't cry nor did it feel the same way as when John Lennon was shot and killed. Heartbreak for the children didn't tug at me as it did with Princess Diana was tragically killed in a motor accident. It was as if a little piece of my childhood passed away. And for that, there is sadness. I've written before that the Jackson 5 helped shaped my personal love of music. It was Michael's "Look over your shoulder, honey!" that developed one of my earliest celebrity crushes. The color of his skin had no relevance. In my little girl mind, Michael was singing for me. I cut that record off the back of a Sugar Crisp cereal box. It was one in a series. It wobbled on the turntable, but oh how I loved that song. I would wait for that famous line to come on and sing right along. Innocence. Fast forward to my freshman year in high school. With time to kill in the afternoon a few of us are gathered around the piano that is on stage ...

When I was a wee little lass I had dreams. They weren't monumental nor were they about saving the world. There were no delusions of grandeur about impacting the world with my vocal prowess. With limited intelligence, there was never a chance I'd solve the universal questions. My average qualities kept me grounded. My parents never pushed me in any one direction. They hadn't mapped out my future. So, as I set out into adulthood, I wandered and just took a path that seemed comfortable. Sometimes that path was well tread upon. Periodically, I'd traverse the unknown and stumble upon disappointment and disillusionment. Always a lesson to be learned while taking the road less traveled. Never in my dreams as a little girl did I envision myself as a single mom. I dreamed of a lovely home complete with the dreamy husband. Then, my needle off the record moment occurred. Divorce, debt and disembowelment of dreams. No matter. My parents might have never given me distin...

Like 30 bajillion other people, I have become mildly addicted to Facebook . Go on and criticize. My friend Sherry thinks my "dicking around" on FB is the cause of my lapse in posting on my blog. There might be some validity in her statement, but not all is lost. No matter what excuse one uses for being on FB -- I'm reconnecting with long, lost friends; it's my family's way of communicating; inane quizzes created by barely literate people rock my world -- we're there and no one seems immune. Much to the dismay of the younger people who believe the world belongs to them and us old folk are just sitting around watching Murder She Wrote dvds and waiting to die, we are joining en masse. Get over yourselves. Without us, you wouldn't have a basement to live in, junior. I digress. One of the many applications available on Facebook is called Living Social . It should be called Living Social; Demented and Sad, but Social. What this app (it's how cool Face...

Sundays are my day for lazing about. I revel in not working. In my realm, Sunday is a day to relax or take on tasks around the house that aren't major feats. I go with the flow. The first day of the calendar week also reminds me of a time of watching movies on WGN Family Classics with Frasier Thomas. WCIA out of Champaign/Urbana always had some movie playing. This was long before movies were released to video. Channels were limited to maybe 12 stations. What I now know as FOX Broadcasting was WFLD back when I was a kid. Those were the stations I'd flip to and from on the rotary knob of our console television set. It was my mother who'd insist on us watching " Ma and Pa Kettle " in their various incarnations. I learned to love Blondie and Dagwood in all their black and white ditziness. Without a doubt, my sense of humor was shaped by those movies and my mother's influence. Of all the motion pictures that were part of my Sunday movie enjoyment, none brings me a ...

This is Royal Street in the Rain. Location: New Orleans. It's raining in Kankakee, Illinois. For some reason I am not upset by the lack of sunshine. I suppose it could be due to having to work. Rain drives the customers to the mall; customers who are willing to extend their financial limits in order to find refuge from rainy weather's blues. Upon viewing this photo I don't feel the blues. Even though the photographer probably heard such music being played somewhere on this narrow street. The bikes parked along the sidewalk reminds me of the numerous times my friends and I found ourselves caught in the rain. As kids, we'd stop, drop the two wheelers and seek shelter on someone's porch. It didn't seem to matter if we knew the residents or not. We'd wait for a break in the weather and commence to our childhood lallygagging ... finding the biggest puddle to ferociously peddle through. Nope. Summertime rain isn't pestering me today. I wish I had my blue and w...

There are times when I wish I could just go back to my childhood so I might figure out what the hell happened to make me such an attention starved adult. See that little girl in the swimsuit perched on the picnic table? That's me. A summer day in the late 60s. I have no recollection of that particular moment in my life. I'm guessing there were several splinters in my butt as a result of sitting on that weathered table. HA! I was number 8; the youngest daughter and baby of the family . Yesterday I was online talking to a friend, and he told me to stop being so high maintenance. Whaaaaa? Moi? I consider myself one of the least demanding women on the planet. What is undeniable is my need for attention and reassurance that I'm not being left to the cold winds of fickle people. Where does the root of that fear of being abandoned begin? I may not recall the day on the picnic table, but I have a distinct memory of my mom forgetting about me at lunch time in 1st grade. The elemen...