A Solid Sistahood

When I am with my good solid girlfriends -- women whom I have known for years and years and years -- I know I am blessed.

When we get together we may be going on about our children, our hair color, a new diet or some story we heard about on the news, but the under current of all of that warm wonderful and familiar chatter is the inner knowledge that we are sistas who have each other's backs and always will!

Through beautiful and great times, times of trauma and then those other ugly times when you need to just pull up your big girl pants and get on with your life as you heal and rebuild, my girlfriends have been there for me and I have been there for them.  Life is richer with my amazing friends for they are the glue that holds me together and in turn, I hope I do the same for them.

Whether you have girlfriends from childhood or adulthood or if you are extremely lucky you have a mix of friends from diffferent ages of your life, please read Ann Hood's compelling story recently published in PARADE magazine that takes us to her mother's house on a Friday night where a group of women known as "The Girls"  have gathered to play cards.

Photo: Tim Klein/Gallery Stock

Loyal, loud, tough-talking—these were friends impossible to replace.

The Girls
By Ann Hood

 

Every Friday night, they gathered at one of their houses in a cloud of cigarette smoke and Aqua Net. They came in twos or threes, dressed in velour sweat suits, skirts with matching sweaters, elastic-waist jeans, and shirts that said BEST MOM or DECK THE HALLS. In their hands: coffee cans filled with pennies that clanked as they walked. Some wore wigs, big bubbles of fake hair. Or wiglets or falls, bobby-pinned in place like the mantillas they wore to church on Sunday. There were 12 in all. The Dirty Dozen, they called themselves. But more often, they were just The Girls.

Most had grown up together in Natick, R.I., a small village in a small state. Their houses all sat within a mile of each other. Yet they arrived in station wagons, the ones they drove to and from school, the beach, and the park, overloaded with kids.

Their husbands were foremen in factories. Others worked on the army base or ran the produce department or the deli counter at the local store. One of The Girls—no one could remember how she came to join them—was married to a doctor. She wore a blond fall, cat-eye glasses, drank Chablis. She didn't fit in, really. The Girls married young and stayed married. This one had an affair and left town. Then they were 11 around the kitchen tables covered with plastic cloths.

My mother was part of this group. For as long as I can remember, Friday nights were sacred, hers. The hurried dinner—maybe tuna casserole, eggs in purgatory, fish and chips from the takeout place. Then her disappearance to get ready. She left my father in charge for the evening, which meant popcorn and Dr Pepper and staying up late. But never late enough for me to hear her come home.

Best was when it was my mother's turn to host. She began cooking on Wednesday. Marinating. Peeling. Simmering. Friday we were banished to the TV room so she could set up metal trays with small bowls of chips and dip, platters of cold cuts or fried chicken or meat loaf. Always a salad. Always cake or pie.

On my mother's nights, it was impossible to fall asleep. The excitement of The Girls, so many of them! All squeezed around our small table, laughing and smoking and playing poker. I would creep down the stairs and sit on the harvest gold carpet, listening. They shared worries: about husbands and children and money, always money because there was never enough. They told each other "I hate you" and "I love you" with equal passion and frequency. They were not like mothers on television. No, they were rough around the edges, high school dropouts, secretaries, and assembly-line workers. They spoke with a hard accent that dropped r's and added s's. Kmahts, they said, instead of Kmart. "Your deals" instead of "your deal."

Years of Friday nights passed. Three of The Girls moved away. Then cancer struck. Colon. Lung, twice. The Girls dwindled from 11 to eight to five. Alzheimer's dropped them to four. They broke hips and had cataract surgeries, knee replacements, and lumpectomies. Still, they met every Friday night.

After their families were grown, they took trips. To Atlantic City. To Foxwoods casino in Connecticut. Overnights and weekends and afternoons. They met for coffee and counted their pennies and planned more trips to more casinos.

Then one day, one of them was driving home from my mother's when she was hit broadside by a teenager in his brand-new car. She died instantly. That Friday was the first Friday that The Girls didn't play. The next week, another one was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer; she lived only four months.

Unsure how to help my mother heal, I signed us up for bridge classes with my 19-year-old son. I imagined finding a fourth player, setting a new routine. I imagined I could convince her that things weren't as bad as they seemed, even though I knew they were.

The day before the last class, the teacher announced that we were all bridge players now. "You can go home and teach your friends," he said triumphantly.

"My friends are all dead," my mother said softly.

I glanced over at her. She had turned her head so that no one could see her crying. How foolish I was to think that a new foursome, could replace The Girls. I realized in that moment that there are some things for which there are no substitutes. There are some things that we must mourn and cherish and say goodbye to.

Every so often now, on a Friday night, I drive to my mother's. I bring her treats that make her smile: a bouquet of zinnias, an apple pie warm from the oven, a bunch of flat-leaf parsley. I drink coffee with her and talk about things that don't matter. She'll look around the empty table and say, in a voice filled with wonder, "Just yesterday, we were all here playing cards." I take her hand, bent with arthritis, rough from hard work, and I hold on tight. Or as tight as I can before I let go.

Ann Hood's new novel, The Obituary Writer (W. W. Norton & Company), will be published this week.

I, Poet

When I was in high school, I used to write a lot of poetry.  I liked the deliberate way of choosing and using words and trying to find the right rhythm of each line.  I had a special notebook that I used to write down thoughts and words that I wanted to remember for images in future poems.

 

I even entered a poetry contest in high school and surprisingly one of my poems won and was published in a national anthology of high school poetry.  That was a confidence booster!

 

Then it was time to go to college.  My interests changed in college and poetry unfortunately fell by the wayside.  But since my husband died nine years ago, I have rediscovered poetry and its way of adding texture to my life.  Reading poetry is similiar to putting my foot on the brake of a speedy pace of life.  Reading and trying to write poetry slows me down and helps me shuffle through feelings and conflicts about what is going on in my life.  It is therapeutic for me.
 

Beach Grasses



In particular, in high school and also now, I am fascinated by Haiku, which is a very short form of Japanese poetry.  Traditional haiku consists of 17 on.  An on is similiar to a syllable but it is not really a syllable.  But there is a specific way of writing haiku, and when it is written correctly,  it is sparse and elegant.

 

I recently decided to try and write some haiku poems and I just finished one about my late husband.  My first attempts were really bad but I kept trying and once I learned to really focus on what it is I am trying to say, my poems improved. 

 

So here goes. . . this is a haiku poem I wrote about my late husband, T.O.:

 

New Jersey native

the moon and constellations

Party together.

 

 

Obviously, New Jersey native refers to the fact he was born in the Great State of New Jersey, a fact he put right out there for all to know.   The Moon and Constellations refers to his love of space and the exploration of it and as a first-class newspaper reporter he had the unique talent of taking complicated scientific concepts and distilling them down to make them interesting and understandable to nonscientific readers!  Party together says it all, for he was a very social man and loved hanging out and talking and listening to people of all ages.  He was definitely a people person!

 

I am once again taking great comfort in reading and writing poetry and perhaps will continue to share with you my poetry inspirations and work as they develop.  Try writing or reading poetry yourself.  You may find personal inspiration too!

 

Moving Day

I received a couple of texts over the weekend from a friend who lives in another city about how he now lives in a new place.

 

I didn't know he had moved from his home of almost 20 years so I was surprised by his news but I also knew that there was more to the story than just a regular heave-ho move from one place to another.

 

 

My friend lost his wife to cancer a number of years ago and she was a wonderful and talented person, but she also was the kind of person who kept everything.  She was not a hoarder but instead was a person who wanted to keep things so that she could pass these things along to other people because she knew that they would be perfect for someone else.  She kept all these things until she saw the person she had in mind or until she eventually got around to sending the item to the person.

 

This is why I knew that when my friend said he had just moved to a new apartment that it must have meant that he had come face to face with the dreaded day he had tried to put off for so long:  what to do with her possessions.

 

There are times when we all need to try and work through stuff by ourselves and then after a while of giving it our best shot, there comes a time when we need to talk to friends about what is going on.

 

And when what is going on is bad, I think the best thing to do is shut up and listen to the person who is going through a painful time. And listen. And listen some more until the person says they can't talk anymore and they have to get off the phone.

 

Which is what I did.

 

And I was happy to listen to him talk about the all of the tons of stuff he found and what he did with it.  I would go into more detail but this part is not my story to tell.

 

My part of the story is about the idea that even though you may not be in a crisis mode, it is always nice to have someone to reach out to.

 

To connect with someone else on a human level.  To be able to say this is what is happening to me and it sucks, big time!

 

To feel that another human being understands you and gets what you are going through.

 

To know that you are not alone.

 

And you never are either, my friends!!! Ever!!!!!

 

A Positive Saturday Morning

Happy to wake up to a beautiful Saturday morning. . . time to try and undo the knots and tension from the work week. . . Easing into the day by taking deep breaths, stretching and slowly going about my tasks.

Today I'm in search of a good solid positive vibe.  Last weekend it was all about inner beauty and the way we see our fabulous selves.  Let's also go for broke in the health department. 

One of the ways I take charge of my wellness is by wearing A LOT of sunscreen to protect my skin from the aging rays of the sun and also by drinking LOTS of water!

I'd love to hear how you accentuate your inner beauty and your precious wellness!

Texting, Texting, Texting

You can file today's post under the category of silly -- but true!

It's a slice of life that may be about to arrive in a community near you.

Seeing. Eye. People. 

That's right.  Seeing Eye People.

A Seeing Eye Person In Action

As in: hold on to me (a person, not a dog) and I will guide you and be your eyes while you continue to walk and text.

 

The idea of offering Seeing Eye People as a service is performed by Improv Everywhere & BuzzFeed as a bit of street comedy but it not that far fetched. 

Every day in DC, there is either someone texting and walking right into me or others or there is someone on a crowded sidewalk walking slowly and texting at the same time, gridlocking the pedestrian traffic.  Incidents of people texting and walking out into traffic and getting hit by cars, tripping and bumping in buildings and people has also skyrocketed across the U.S. 

 

My son just told me about this concept and I had to Google it right away to see what this whole thing was all about.  Watch it for yourself and see.  Please notice that the people who are walking and texting continue to text and walk  as though this is perfectly normal.  It's the reaction of other people watching that's so funny! 

 

Cheers!

 

 

Aer Lingus -- Take Us Away

Ireland's Scenic Coastline

You know when you discover something for yourself and you can't wait to share it with your friends?

Well, that's the way I feel about Ireland.

I haven't been back to Ireland for years but I will never forget the trip that I made with my husband.  Fantastic and magical from beginning to end.  I was very sad to leave.

And now one of my sisters and her husband are flying to Ireland today and I'm so envious!

 

I am also excited for them for I know that once they land in Dublin tomorrow they will forget about the daily grind of life here and fall into the more relaxed and civilized way of life in Ireland, marked by the most delicious brown bread in the whole wide world and the freshest salmon.  The Guinness and the Smithwick's tastes better in Ireland too!

I wish them a safe and romantic trip in the land of the green as they discover the incredible mix of history, beauty, creativity and Ireland's best resource: its people!  I don't think my sister and her husband will travel through Ireland as quickly as this video shows but I'm sure the scenic beauty will stay with you and them for a long time.  Watch and see:

Hey, hey! It's the month of May!

Love this silly and light poem! Celebrate May Day!

 

 

 

MAY

 

By Maurice Sendak
 

In May I think it truly best
 

to be a robin lightly dressed
 

concocting soup inside my nest
 

Mix it once, mix it twice,
 

mix that Chicken soup with rice.