What I Learned Traveling tothe Grand Canyon 1

Greetings from St. Joseph Missouri ! We are heading west in the convertable. So far we have traveled about 1400 miles and we are still speaking to each other. I think we are, let me check.
Les: Roger?
Roger: What? I'm trying to read.
Les: Oops.
 Well maybe I shouldn't bother him now.

Anyhow mostly we are having fun, watching Ohio, Illinois, Indiana and Missouri roll by.  We looked at the land of Linclon and the land of Mark Twain.  We looked at an oplulent Frank Lloyd Wright house, and the little house that Abe Linclon owned, and even littler house that Mark Twain lived in in Hannibal.

We are going to find out about the pony express and Jesse James and Harry Truman,  tomorrow.

And we are finding out how to give each other space when we are in a small car and one room in a hotel. So far so good.

Sometimes its okay to chat and sometimes its okay to be quiet. And we have to invent ways to do that without bugging each other too much.

So . . .  here goes
Les: Roger?
Roger: Hmm?
Les: I love you.
Roger: I love you too, Babe.

That always works!

What I Learned

This blog is about what I learn, about what I welcome into my world.  Life lessons like: when I have the flu I eat chicken soup, doze in front of old movies on TCM, but mostly I’m sick until I’m better. 

Same as grief.

I’m sad until I’m not. First I’m debilitated by sadness.  A half-hour goes by and I’m amazed I’ve had the strength to breath that long. Slowly nanoseconds pass and I’m still on my feet. I function like a person with a cold. As my mother used to say, “she’s not running on all eight cylinders.” Too bad if anybody thinks I should or even I can. 

Eventually a year staggers by. I’m sad on all the firsts: first Christmas missing someone, my birthday, her birthday. Then the firsts are done with.  

Time begins again but I don’t let anybody lie to me by saying time heals all wounds. I don’t feel like an amputee anymore, but that’s because I’ve learned to adapt.  

I’m still sad when I need to be. I know what reminds me of the missing one, but I also know I’m better off letting the sad in for a day or two. It’s like housecleaning. I hate it but it’s good when it’s done.

Eventually ten years go by. I still want to call the missing one when something big happens. I find myself making a plan to talk to her later. 

Only it will be much later. I am God’s, and she is His. Later will be eternity. Where I won’t get the flu or deal with bouts of grief. Anymore. Forever!

What I Learned From Jeanne Valentiner

I learned a lot from Clara Louise Jeanne Valentiner.  I could blog for a lot of lessons. But here is one that I think is remarkable.

Ten years ago was almost a year after 9-11 and I was asked to read my 9-11 poem at WVIA, the radio station.

Too nervous to drive I asked my friend  Jeanne to drive me. She went to the station through Wilkes-Barre and my directions were thorugh Scranton so we got lost and arrived a half hour late.

I wanted to say something harsh to her, but a really loud calm voice in my head said,  "Which is more important? Your friendship or your stupid poem?" I was still upset we were late but I kept my mouth shut.

At the radio station we found out they were running a half hour late that day. So we were really right on time. I read my poem, while Jeanne kept the front office laughing at her charming stories.We went to lunch and laughed and had the best time ever. 

Early the next day I left for vacation.  When I called home Sept. 7, 2002, I found out that Jeanne had died Sept. 6.  If I had strained our relationship by yelling at her it would have stayed that way. I never had time to fix it. And I never needed too because for once in my life I kept my mouth shut.

I still miss my good friend Jeanne. I wanted to call her and tell her all about the wedding, Sammy dying, my latest literary rejection. I know I will see her someday, and it seems like a short time ago, when I read my stupid poem on the air.

What I Learned While Strolling With Anny

Anny has several colorful tattoos adoring her little white skin. As you walk toward her and she’s wearing a summer skirt, you notice a walrus face looking at you from her knee.  The walrus is melancholy, with a sweeping mustache. If he spoke he’d sound like Eeyore, the donkey from Winnie the Pooh. 

I think he’s a little scary with his big old tusks and greenish flippers adoring her knee cap, but my Aunt Charlotte, Anny’s great aunt, raves about him. She wants to see the Walrus every time she sees Anny. The Walrus tattoo honors one of Anny’s friends. And even looks a little like him.  

The other day we walked down a summer Scranton Street and Anny said, “They’re staring at my Walrus. That happens all the time.” Maybe they’re just looking at Anny’s pretty legs, or appreciating Walrus art.

And maybe If we all had tattoos nobody would look twice at anybody. Or everybody would and we’d all appreciate each others art work and be friendly.

I can hear you saying, “If we all had tattoos there’d be one person who didn’t and then we’d all stare at her.” And we just might.

 An extremely obese friend said, “Once at the mall two girls walked by me. Once they were past the first girl said, “If I ever get that fat, shoot me.”  Mega-unkind staring.  

So, how about this? If you see me out and about, and my hair is all wild and I’m wearing purple Chuck Taylor’s, grin as you stare. Be kind while you gawk at me, or Anny, or at anybody. And we’ll be kind as we grin and stare right back.