Wood and Water

.

My mother always said my sister Satsu was like wood; as rooted to the earth as a sakura tree.

But she told me I was like water. Water can carve its way even through stone...and when trapped, water makes a new path...

Now I understood the thing I´d overlooked; the point wasn´t to become a geisha but to be one. To become a geisha...well, that was hardly a purpose in life. But to be a geisha... I could see it now as a stepping-stone to something else. After all, these are not the memoirs of an empress, nor of a queen. These are memoirs of another kind.

From: Memoirs of a Geisha

Loss

From Memories of a Geisha~~~

At the temple, there is a poem called "Loss", carved into the stone.

It has three words...but the poet has scratched them out.

You cannot read "Loss"... Only feel it.

The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves...

Until one day there are none.

No hopes.

Nothing remains.

Summer Swim Party

In college, my professor invited us all to his house for a barbecue, and swim. Our families were invited, too. We were thoroughly enjoying ourselves laughing about how Seymour's dog would eat fallen avocados from the tree. No wonder he was so fat and glossy!

Marissa, let out a scream and, stunned, I watched as she dove into the deep end of the pool where her toddler was quickly sinking to the bottom. We'd never heard a sound out of the child, no splashing, no crying out.

Call it Mother's Instinct that Marissa had looked up just at that moment. But call it Mother's Death Defying Heroism that she leaped into the pool and saved her drowning son.

As Marissa resurfaced wild eyed, with little Brian held high in her arms she choked "I can't swim!"

Fortunately, two others had jumped into the pool right behind her and were able to rescue them both.

I am reminded of this harrowing incident in my life by a drowning that occurred yesterday by the local news that seven people were rescued yesterday. Sadly one of them died.

Most of us probably think that when someone is drowning, they spend some time thrashing about in the water calling for help. But, as it was with little Brian, he quietly sunk. Simple as that. People don't always appear to be drowning when they are drowning.

As for Marissa and Brian? She had seen him just in time. The few seconds he was under the water was sufficient for him to have a bit of coughing and crying once out of the pool. No CPR was necessary. Just the same, we took them to the emergency room to make sure he was okay. Thankfully, he was.

A Thought on Writing

"For a writer, life is always too short to write.
I will just try my best during what remains of my life." 

~~~ Cao Yu 1910 - 1996

How to Make Mom's Potato Salad

She never measured so do what you like!

My Grandmother used to boil the potatoes whole and cut them after cooking. And I remember Mom doing it that way when I was very little, until one day she got frustrated with how long it took to get them to boil and how hot the kitchen got.

So... cut the potatoes into the size chunks you want to be eating.

Boil to well done, and drain.

Mom made them well done so that some of the potato would be mushy and mix in well with the mayo.

While potatoes are still hot and in the pan, pour pickle juice to soak into potatoes

(She used Dill pickle juice. She said this was the "secret" to her potato salad to have the pickle juice soaked into the potatoes. I know she meant more flavorful than other people's recipe, but she never would have said that.)

When potatoes have cooled down some but still a little warm, transfer to bowl and stir in celery seed and dill weed. It's called weed, but what is meant by that is, it's the green leafy part of the plant and not the dill seeds.

Let sit a little longer to let the spice flavors sink in, then add:
chopped celery
chopped pickles
chopped boiled egg
chopped cucumber, take out the seeds first.

Use sweet pickles or relish here to compliment the dill flavor. Use a LOT of celery so there will be a little crunch in the salad. Smoosh the yolks and sprinkle over the potatoes and stir in later with the mayonaise.

Add chopped or sliced black olives (if desired). Mom didn't always have them.

After having mixed in the above, add mayonaise, a little mustard to give it color, and black pepper.

(This is where I have changed the recipe. I use brown mustard that has the seeds in it, and I do it to add flavor and not just color.)

Smooth the now finished mixture to make flat across top of container.

Nice and neat, put a layer of sliced boiled egg and thinly sliced cucumber and decorate with some of the olives, to make it look pretty. Sprinkle liberally with paprika to finish the artistry.

Refrigerate AT LEAST an hour before chowing down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please note: Mom's name was Genevieve Borden Deane

If You Could See Me Now

Perhaps there is nothing supernatural about death.
Perhaps there is.

Some believe that when it is over, it is over. The body dies, there is nobody home.

Some believe that the soul or spirit of a person leaves the body and moves on to another place. Heaven, or the next life, or some ghostly realm or into the ether as molecules, or ???

Obviously, we don't have all the answers. For me, it comes down to personal choice of what I want to believe, regardless of what someone else tells me that I should believe based on their interpretations.

Found a website some time ago where a woman wrote a letter or poem to her sister. It is a Christian oriented site and it is beautifully done. The song accompanying it is, "If You Could See Me Now" by Kim Noblett, and the lyrics are the first part of the web page. The second part has a letter written to the caregiver of the woman who died (I think).

I like the part that says:

"Speak often to me, for I am just a whisper away and I will hear and answer you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dedicated to three beloved people who passed away last month, and their bereaved families.

One Step at a Time

One Step at a Time by Lenor Madruga Chappel

Lenor's story of living through extremely frightening circumstances is truly mouth dropping, amazing.

Not only did she face being diagnosed with a very rare bone cancer, chondrosarcoma, but the only effective treatment for her was a full amputation (hemipelvectomy) with surgical removal of her leg and a portion of her pelvis. During a time in my life when I was faced with the same diagnosis, and so discouraged,  I was given this book by my mother. It gave me the hope to carry on to realize a mother with children could not only survive, but thrive.

Lenor's story of how she dealt with her diagnosis, her surgical experience and her positive recovery is more than inspiring.

Though the diagnosis and surgical aspects of her story sound frightening, this book is not gory. It is uplifting and positive. It teaches by example how to get inner strength through such an incredibly devastating life circumstance. Even without facing such medical possibilities, this is a book for anyone to benefit from reading.

Can be purchased at iUniverse

Birthing Life

Sixty five years ago
in the darkness
I became aware
of a soft tangerine light
mesmerizing,
an increasing warmth
seeping around me
becoming hot, oppressive, 
squeezing like a vice grip
I wanted escape,
only to discover
I could not move.  
Paralyzed.
and a constant hammering,
vibrating which seemed
somehow reassuring.
Suddenly I was free.
The world was filled
with bright light
I was born.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Picture is my own digital artwork

What Inspires You?

"We are more than what we do, much more than what we accomplish, far more than what we possess."

~~~ William Arthur Ward 

 Grace Cathedral, San Francisco, California

Saying Good-Bye

I've noticed that even with those who have round the clock family members to sit with the dying, it occasionally occurs that the person dies when someone has momentarily stepped out of the room. I think the patient knows when it is time to go. Some psychologists say there are those who seem to hang on until no one is around as if they want to leave freely, without famly clinging to them, perhaps holding them back. They also say that a person will hang on for much longer than expected as though they have one last thing to do, one last person to kiss goodbye.


This is how it was with my father. All the family came in to see him. Dad's sons and daughters, the adult grandchildren, the great grandchildren, even the great great grandchildren. Dear friends came and some called.

My brothers and sister, my daughter and I had all taken turns being with him. That last night we all had said good night at different times. I was the last to leave. Except my sister, who stayed in the room in case Dad needed anything. She sat in the lazy boy chair right next to his bed with her feet up. Among all the family members, my sister was the one who had spent the most time tirelessly attending to Dad's needs. She was the most likely one to spend her nights there beside him. All he had to do was whisper and she was asking what he might want, even if she was in deep sleep she would hear him. Truly, a devoted daughter.

They say just before someone dies, their breathing changes and some unusual noises are produced, perhaps a snore or two. But, somehow, with my sister right there beside him,  Daddy quietly slipped away. To this day she wonders why she didn't hear him have those breath sounds. Maybe he just didn't want to disturb her and let her rest.

Cry Daddy

I started to cry while driving. I had no idea why. It wasn't just that sense of tears starting to spring that you can hold back with a tightening of the throat. No, this came from somewhere deep. Like a volcano wanting to break loose. Tears unbidden. Tears with plans of their own.

I knew I had to get off the road, avoid being a danger to others. I can drive while crying. I've done it before. Haven't we all? It wasn't even a matter of understanding why I felt so sad.

I pulled over right there and then. Not wanting to break down completely, looking around for tissues, I noticed in the rear view mirror, the sheriff.

Oh, %^*&!

Would I get a traffic ticket for having pulled over without a reason? I would soon find out. It was just beginning to sprinkle, when the officer came to my rider side door. I opened it so he could lean in.

He took one look at me, I noticed in his eyes a flicker of recognition. He knew instinctively this wasn't a stalled car problem. Maybe he was thinking, a crying woman, Oh %^*&!".

But he said with concern, "Are you all right, Ma'am?"

I didn't know what to say. (I just started crying for no reason, officer, over nothing?) No, I didn't say that. I lied. Okay, maybe not a full lie, a little white lie. I told him my father died last year... a bit of overwhelming grief struck me while driving... I thought it would be safer to pull over, calm down.

He said some comforting words, I forget what.
And to get me out of danger he followed me to the next exit.

Maybe it is true after all. Maybe I am missing my Father. He was 90 when he died five years ago. He was my best supporter, and loved to listen to me read anything I might have written. A letter, a poem, a story, a family memoir, one of my opinionated pieces or a story about my cats. He would have liked to know a caring cop had stopped to help his daughter. He would have understood how tears and sadness come from nowhere, with no known reason. He would have understood my white lie.

Daddy to the Rescue

I found my Dad’s stubbornness particularly irksome one Friday night after partying with friends until the wee hours.

Because of the bitter cold, my rattle-trap car was acting up worse than usual. and left me stranded on the icy expressway.

Eventually a car came along. I flagged it down and got a ride to a 24 hour coffee shop where I called home awakening my father from the only sleep he had received between two overtime shifts.

When Dad arrived I just wanted him to take me directly home. But, he informed me we were going back to get my car.

“It’s a piece of junk.” I said. “They can tow it away to the impound and keep it!”

“No. It is the principle of the thing. That automobile has served you and you have a responsibility to at least save it and.......”

“But, Dad,” I interrupted, “ We’re not talking about a living creature, here....”

“And...” He continued, “no daughter of mine is going to abandon a vehicle on the highway like trash, where somebody could get in an accident on account of it. Besides, it is against the law.  Where is your personal integrity?”

“My personal integrity?”  I sputtered  “It abandoned me about three hours ago when that stupid car abandoned me!”

But, I knew Dad was right. This time, I was the one being hard-headed.  He stood there grinning at me, already knowing I would give in.

“Keep your chin up. You can do this.” he reminded me.

Dad opened the hood and began troubleshooting.  I stood there shivering with the flashlight in my gloved hands as my father’s bare fingers worked over the carburetor.  Each time the wind howled, I whined.  “Just leave it, Dad.  I really don’t care!”  But, Dad cared very much and kept at it.

I wondered how he could tolerate the weather. I was bundled up. He wore his work jacket, no scarf for his neck, no hat to warm his bald head. As his face and ears turned red, tears formed in his eyes from the sting of the snow. He grabbed the hood of the car and pulled it down, grazing his forehead. He reached up with his chapped hands and wiped the blood on his sleeve.

He shouted, “Get in the car!”  I thought, finally, he is listening to reason, as I sauntered back toward his car.

“No, I mean your car! Get inside and turn the key!”

“Don’t you ever give up?” I shot back at him.

He looked directly at me. “Not on your life!”

I got in my car and turned the key. Lo and behold, that piece of junk started right up and purred.

Driving home I felt ashamed of myself and filled with love and a new found respect for my father’s determination and sacrifice.

I realized, I can succeed no matter what the odds because I inherited determination, not stubbornness, from my father.

And looking in the rear view mirror, I held my chin up, and was secure in the knowledge that Dad was right behind me in more ways than I had ever imagined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Photos are from family albums. The photo of my father wearing a goatee is one I took.

Rappers Rap Like It Is

This is a good way to encourage young ladies to handle those creepy guys who try to pick them up!



Girls can't resist Batman!

Created by some very talented friends.

My Daddy

He comes home

from work wearing

his gray striped overalls

covered with Vanadium dust.

I think he is the

President of the United States

I'm close. He is

the President of his Union

"Carry me. Carry me."

I whine and beg.

He's so tall,

when he lifts me up,

I can touch the sky.

Well, the ceiling, I mean.

And I can feel the place

where he fell through

one day, from the attic

as I sat in my high chair

just a moment before.

They tell me

I wasn't there,

That it happened

to my brother.

Perhaps I was there,

Waiting to be born.

From Depression to War, a Young Man's Transportation

The news says that Jimmy Dean, "Sausage King" has recently died. I'm sorry to hear it. I've always felt a connection to him, as well as Jimmy Dean, the movie actor. My Dad was known as Jimmy Dean, too. In fact, we used to joke that those other Jimmy Deans were impostors, as my father was the "Original Jimmy Dean". He was certainly older then they, having been born in 1915.

In my interview with Dad regarding automobiles in his life, I was surprised when he told me he got his first car at the age of fifteen in 1930.

He called it a Jalopy. With the help of his friends he combined parts of different junked cars in order to create one vehicle. Not too many kids can do that today. The cars that he used to do this were a '27 Ford Tudor, a '27 Ford Roadster, and a '24 Ford Coupe.

I am sorry now that I did not ask him some essential questions, but I didn't wish to interrupt his train of thought and the enjoyment he was having telling me about his car history.

I wish I had asked him if he was required to register his jalopy car as we would do today, and what model he claimed it to be. Certainly not a Ford Jalopy!

Photo on right is a 1933 Studebaker. 

His next car was purchased by my grandfather, Frank Dean the following year. It was a 1924 Dodge Coupe, which he returned to dealer as unsatisfactory. Even with a six year old used car back then, you could return your automobile! If only we could do that with the lemons we buy today! *Sigh*

From 1932 to 33 when Dad was 18, he said he had no car except a junked Studebaker President, which he worked on but never got running as High School was much more important to him. (Kudos, Dad!) In 1934, when he was 19, his father bought a 1932 Ford Sedan V-8 which was also returned to the dealer.

The following year Dad said he bought a '29 Chevrolet Tudor which was totally in his own name, truly a sign of his independence and first steps into being an adult. It lasted until 1939 when the car ended it's days with a broken rear axle. This occurred on Dad and Mom's honeymoon. They were headed to Niagara Falls from Port Allegany, Pennsylvania, a trip of about 160 miles. They made it as far as Olean, NY (30 mi.) and had to call my grandfather to come and retrieve them the next day after watching a movie and staying overnight at the Olean hotel. To hear Mom and Dad tell the story, it was quite an adventure.

The year my older brother was born, 1939, Dad bought a seven year old Ford Tudor V-8. Then in 1941 he bought a Ford V-60 HP right around the time Pearl Harbor was bombed.

"Pretty soon," Dad said, "it needed new tires. Because rubber was being rationed for the war, you couldn’t get tires anywhere unless you were working in the Defense Industry. I wasn't qualified at the time, so he returned the car to the dealer in and we went without  a car for a while.

In the winter of 1942 Dad moved to Niagara Falls for work in the defense industry at Bel Aircraft Corporation.  He bought a ’39 Studebaker, Champion for my mother, who traveled up from Port Allegany in the Studebaker to visit on weekends. Dad got a mid thirties Chevy for himself that he drove back and forth to work.

During the war years one could not buy a new car because of shortages. At the end of the war in 1945 one could only buy what was called a "new car" which had actually been manufactured in 1941.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: I took all pictures at the National Auto Museum in Reno, Nevada, USA, except the first one, a Roadster. The 1935 Chevy was taken by my older brother. I removed color to make them look like vintage photographs.