Honor Thy Father

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you SWEAR you could reach out and touch everything about it? Then you wake up the next day with a song that plays over and over again in your head?

That was me last night and, boy, was it a doozy. It involved baseball, Sidney Poitier and Heaven.

And it was wonderful.

To explain it, I would have to tell you more about my dad.

America’s Favorite Pastime - Baseball

My dad loved baseball. He played it growing up. He used to go to the ballfield with his friends or just play stickball in the street. And, from what he told me, he was pretty good at it. My dad took my brother to the original Shea Stadium in New York for a Mets game (something I am still envious of). He used to love the California Angels because Gene Autry, his favorite singing cowboy, was an owner. And, of course, living in Maine, he was a Red Sox fan. You would find my mom and dad glued to the tv when they played. They also watched the Little League World Series every year.

Sidney Poitier

Growing up, Saturday and Sunday afternoons were filled with my parents watching old movies. One of their favorites starred Sidney Poitier. ‘Lilies of the Field’ won him an Oscar for his portrayal of a handyman whose car breaks down at a small church somewhere in a western desert of the United States. The sisters who run the church hire him as a handyman and have him build a chapel: A chapel they had been praying for and he was the answer to their prayers…in more ways than one.

While giving them an English lesson (the sisters spoke broken English as they had been sent from Germany, Austria and Hungary), they sing a call and response hymn “Amen”. I used to sing that song around the house not knowing that, at that time, my parents gave me my first lesson in the Gospel.

The only thing I knew about God and Jesus was that Jesus was God’s son. The birth of Jesus with Mary and Joseph always came up around Christmastime. My parents had a small crèche they would set up. When we would watch ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ Linus would recite Luke 2: 8-14 from the Bible. It always made me cry yet I didn’t understand why. I never asked and no one ever told me.

Just a few short years before my dad’s passing, I asked him questions about his childhood. He told me how they went to church every Sunday, he sang in the choir and how the choirmaster took him under his wing and taught him to sing. He would then bring my dad around to area businesses and he would make a little money singing songs. The money helped his family. I had found a picture of his choirmaster and when I showed it to him, he couldn’t stop talking. So many memories flooded back to him. I wish I could have wrote them all down. I can only scribble so fast. But the time spent with him telling them was the best part.

Heaven

Although he never preached to us or spoke much about it, the Gospel was a part of his life. My parents had a huge gold-framed picture of Jesus on the wall and a statue of Mother Mary in the yard for their garden. One of the last things he said to me before he passed was “God bless that boy.”  He was referring to a photograph I showed him of my son, Anderson, wearing the tie he had specially made for him for Christmas and dad side by side in matching photos. Even though he could barely see at the end, he saw that picture when he held it up close and he teared up at the sight of it. In a shaky voice on shaky legs he said “God bless that boy.” That is something I’ll never forget.  And I am blessed to have that memory.

People, recently, have asked me personally “Why does God let things happen?” One person was referring to the murders of innocent people going on right now in Israel with their war. Another, why God would take their loved one from them and leave them so alone? Another, why would He let them die from Cancer?

I personally, believe that God doesn’t take people from us. He doesn’t strike people down with sickness. He doesn’t take their life. He is a loving and nurturing God. We were sent here to find our way back to Him. Terrible things happen in life. Heartbreaking, horrible and horrendous things. Some cannot be explained why. When a person dies, I truly believe Jesus and our Heaven Father are there to receive them. My nephew was gone from this Earth too soon but I know Heavenly Father was there to receive him when he arrived in Heaven. He also received my father with open arms. We are left here on Earth to deal with the aftermath. There is no time limit on grieving. Everyone grieves in their own way. While it may not look like I’m grieving, I am. The difference is I know they are together again and watching over us. They are happy. They are healthy. And they are perfect.

So with all this information you may wonder what “The Dream” was all about.

The Dream

It was so vivid. And it all makes so much sense when I think about.

I was walking up the steps through Fenway Park, something I have done many times, to seats along the 3^rd baseline. I could hear music coming from the tunnel. As I came closer the music got louder. When I finally reached the entrance the loudspeakers were blasting “Amen” from the movie. As I stepped closer to the front row I could see players in glowing white uniforms playing ball in the outfield. I watched and saw them throwing baseballs back and forth. One player broke from the team and trotted over to where I was standing. As he came closer it was hard to focus on him because he was so bright. He stopped just a few feet from me and after a few seconds I was able to see him clearly.

It was my dad.

Young, healthy, handsome. Just the way I thought he would be in Heaven.

In the ‘Field of Dreams’ movie, Kevin Costner said Heaven was Iowa. I think it’s Boston, now.

He was wearing a white Boston Red Sox hat but on his uniform above his left breast was a California Angels logo embroidered all in white.  He was tossing the ball in his glove over and over. I asked him “Dad, what’s going on?”

And he got this huge smile on his face. He turned and pointed his glove to the big screen. I looked up at it and there I was. I laughed and waved (Because who doesn’t do that when they see themselves on the big screen?) and said “Okay. What is happening?”

He gestured to me to look again and I did. The screen changed from my face to the words “Thank You” with God and Jesus on each side each giving me a thumbs up. The music got louder and he started to sing along with the song. He started backing away singing all the while and eventually turned and went back to his team.

I woke up to ‘Amen” in my head and it was so loud I googled the video of it and smiled. What a powerful and happy song that it.

What does it all mean?

After pondering all the things it COULD mean, all I can think of is this: I was honoring him. Not only him but my Heavenly Father as well. He was thanking me for believing in our Heavenly Father and his only begotten son, Jesus Christ. He was thanking for helping instill this knowledge in my son. He was thanking me for understanding why he is in Heaven. He was thanking me for not blaming him. He was thanking me for sharing the love my heavenly brother and father have for me.

There’s not a day that goes by I don’t think of my dad or get on my knees and pray for guidance and comfort in my life. A day I don’t ask my Heavenly Father to open the eyes of the ones that can’t see or refuse to see His love that is right there in front of them. A day I don’t thank Him for the wonderful life I have. It is because of His belief in me and my belief in Him that I can do the things I do, have the things I have, dream the dreams I dream. (Kind of like 1 Corinthians 13:7)

And that dream was the most precious one I could ever have.

 

June 21, 2023 - A New Adventure

It is a Wednesday and, finally, one without rain. It has been raining steadily for the past 2 weeks and this break of good fortune could not have come at a better time.

My aunt, Cherie, is flying in from Florida this evening for a surprise 80th birthday party for my mother this coming Saturday. I was supposed to bring my wheelchair-bound mother, Mary, to the Bangor International Airport to pick her up but her flight was delayed a few times. It was just over a year ago she flew in for my dad, her brother’s, funeral. The week she spent with my mother was full of hugs, tears, food and much laughter. Little Sister, as my mother calls her, had been missed in the last few decades. My parents did not travel. Rather, my father really wasn’t healthy enough to travel especially in the last ten years of his life. Heart attacks, RLS, high blood pressure…it would have been too hard on him.

My mother stayed with him, took care of him and catered to his every whim. His eyesight was steadily declining along with his weight and quality of life. I like to think now that he is free of pain looking down on us from on high with 20/20 vision.

During all 60 years they were together, my mother put my father first whether it was a television show or movie, what they ate for breakfast and dinner or who took the first shower. She did all the cooking and cleaning. In the last years she bathed him with sponge baths, cut his hair, kept his medications in order and put lotion on his dry skin. I was able to witness on more than one occasion after the lotion was well rubbed in to his hands the two meeting with a big kiss signaling the end of grooming before my mother would sit back in her wheelchair and my father back towards the kitchen table.

I miss that.

While it might not be the way of today, I try to emulate my mother in that regard. I do the cooking and cleaning in the home while my husband, Chad, takes care of the outside. He mows, weed whacks, snow blows, sprays for spiders and other bugs, keeps the cars maintained and, sometimes, will water my flowers. (I forget…a lot) He goes so far as to mow the two houses around ours as they are vacant and wants to make sure mice don’t start showing up on our doorstep. I often wonder if he would like to trade with me but I’m sure he thinks laundry is the deal breaker. I don’t blame him.

So why this little peek into my life right now?

You would think my posts on Facebook would be sufficient but those are mostly pictures of our children, posts of where my band is playing, our bass fishing happenings and cats. My cat, Charley, does make his fair share of appearances.

I do love cats.

Maybe this peek is because writing helps me put my feelings into words. I write all the time: Notes on scraps of paper, ideas on the back on an envelope, texts to myself, emails to myself so as not forget things to do, song lyrics in the middle of the night. All the time. I have notebooks lying around in every room of the house. There are so many thoughts in my head that I just need to get them out.

It could also come as I start back to school this Monday on my mother's actual 80th birthday. I have an Associate's Degree in Accounting but having a Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing and English would serve me better. My first step toward that goal is a bit intimidating but my parents always said I could do whatever I set my mind to. Actually, my dad said I had "It". My mom says I "step in it" each time something good happens to me. In reality, it's my choices that give me what I want...with a little help from God thrown in. He has a way of steering me in the right direction.

I, as my husband says, am animated. In my walk, talk, mannerisms, voice...I am a walking, talking, singing cartoon character. With this much enthusiasm inside it has to be brought out in a creative way.

It's best not to be creative with numbers. That can get you into heaps of trouble.

Learning how to be a better writer has always been a goal of mine. Here is to a new chapter in my Book of Life I am writing: A new day, a new story, a new ending and a new beginning.

Set The Hook

                   

Anyone who thinks fishing is easy has never fished with my husband, Chad.

When I grew up my dad took weekend trips to Florida to fish with friends and bring home coolers full of fish for my mother to clean and cook for a fish fry. Chad grew up fishing with his father. He told me stories of turning off a farmer's fence so they could cut across the field to get to the "good" fishing spot. Don't worry, they always turned it back on. His father used to say "I'll pay one of you boys $10 to pee on it." Neither Chad nor his brother, Nate, ever took the chance.

Fishing was all around me in pop culture. I watched Laura Ingalls with a pole and sourdough balls for bait on 'Little House on the Prairie'. My sisters told me how they were too scared to swim at the Milford, Connecticut beach for months because the fake blood used to film the bite scenes in 'Jaws' washed up on the shores when they filmed it in New York. And who could forget Norman and Ethel from 'On Golden Pond'?

Fishing was something I had always wanted to do but never had the opportunity to try.

I didn't pick up a fishing pole until I was around 20. My first catch was a three inch sunfish that I caught up in weeds. I couldn't even reel it in. I may have fished three times since then.

About three years ago, Chad said he wanted to find a canoe and start fishing again. We found one on Facebook Marketplace and we made plans for the weekend to go to Sibley Pond in Canaan. That morning, with no knowledge of how to fish, I wound up catching four bass. I thought to myself "This is so easy. You cast a line, reel it in and, lots of times, there will be a fish on the other end."

Little did I know how wrong that was.

That fall, I would find Chad in the living room watching YouTube channels of people fishing, giving tips and reeling in large bass. There were videos with reviews on poles, lures, worms and frogs. I admit it. I laughed. What can you REALLY learn from people who don't even live near you giving you tips on fishing with products that are probably too expensive to buy?

But over the winter...learn he did.

The next year we upgraded from a canoe to a Sundolphin boat. Ok, it's really a plastic dinghy that we found, again, on Marketplace. It's only eight feet long. There's not a lot of room but it does the trick. We have the system down on where the tackle box goes, the oar, life jackets and his four poles and my two. Chad added a trolling motor, some batteries and an anchor….we are able to fish all day. And everyday, Chad would reel in fish after fish while I would catch just a few.

I was getting better though. He showed me how to hold a bass when I caught one so I wouldn't hurt it. He showed me how to take the hook out (you have to push down with a jerk and it comes out) without using a pair of pliers. He showed me how to tie a hook on a line with a uni knot (you have to spit on it because if you tie it dry it will break). He showed me how to Texas rig my worms and crawfish.

He was showing me so many things that it was hard to remember them all. 

1. Spinner baits can navigate through most anything without getting hung up. 

2. Frogs are top water and you have to jerk them along to make them look like they're hopping. 

3. Crank baits have clear plastic lips on the front of the lure that make them sink. You can't use these in areas with vegetation. 

4. A lipless crank bait has two sets of treble hooks that can seriously injure you. Don't use these in vegetation either. 

5. A weedless jig, his least favorite lure, can be used just about anywhere. 

Those are just some of the things I do remember. It's the ones I forget about in the heat of the moment that frustrate me the most. For example:

1. When you catch your lure on a lily pad you have to push down on it to set it free. I, on the other hand, keep reeling and pulling which only makes it worse.

2. When you have a bass that catches you in the weeds, don't keep pulling because it will just break the line. You not only lose your lure...but you lose the lunker.

3. Wear polarized sunglasses. I always forget to grab them. By the time I remember, we are half way across the pond.

4. Look behind you before you cast. The other person's pole, line or the actual person could be there. If Chad had a nickle for every time I have almost hooked him, he could have bought a brand new bass boat…three times over.

And the biggest thing I forget:

He's been fishing for 40 years. I've been fishing for just under three. 

This year I decided to keep a rolling total of the number of bass we have both caught. A little competition makes things exciting. The tally at the present time is Chad 99, me 50.

That's right. He has (almost) twice the amount of bass as I do.

And it's frustrating!!!

Take today for instance. We headed out early and I was the first one with my line in the water. I had one on and totally didn't set the hook. What happens when you don't set the hook?

You lose your fish.

Approximately one minute after my screw up, Chad lands the first bass of the day. What runs through my mind? The same thing he tells me EVERY time we fish:

"Feel the tug. Let 'em take it. Set the hook."

He tells me this EVERY time. Not to belittle me but to remind me. Again.

After I lose my first fish, I take a deep breath and think od that for the rest of the day.

We came into a batch of lily pads and he put on a frog from a new package that came into the mail the day before. He casted and there was a huge fish that came out of the water right next to his lure. He reeled his line back in quickly and said "Watch this!" 

Sure enough he casted in the same spot. His arms were extended as he slowly reeled and he hesitated for a second. We could see the wake behind the frog. "Here she is!" And he yanked his line. That fish was hooked and he reeled her into the boat. 3.5 pounds of pre-spawn bass was scooped up by me in the net. 

And he did it over and over again.

It was like watching a how-to video in "reel" like. 

After seeing his success, I tried to emulate everything he did. 

And couldn't.

I wasn't frustrated…I was down right mad.

What was he doing that I wasn't? We had the same equipment, the same lure, the same spots. I couldn't understand.

I couldn't set the hook.

I'll admit it. I pouted.

A lot.

I caught a final one by trolling back to the truck. That doesn't count. In fact, our totals from today didn't make it on the board. He had probably 25-30 fish.

I had 4.

I was so upset with myself for catching only four fish in four hours.

Fishing takes knowledge. Fishing take finesse. Fishing takes patience. 

Fishing is hard.

I know I post pictures on Facebook and Instagram of the fish we catch. It IS fun (when you're landing them). What you DON'T see is the hard work that is put into catching them. 

• I have a new respect for fishing men and women. It's not just rippin' lips. Like any profession, it takes time, equipment, knowledge, practice and skill to become, not just good, but great. When someone with as much fishing knowledge as Chad has says something to you, you need to listen. They're not saying it to be a know-it-all. They do it to help you become a better fisher. So, we watch the YouTube videos together, pick up better equipment and try and get out in the dinghy more often. 

"Feel the tug. Let 'em take it. Set the hook."

Remember that.

Tight lines everyone. 

The Suit

Hanging on the wall of my parents home is a picture of my father, Raymond. My guess of his age in the photo is eighteen to nineteen years old. In our first home in Milford, Connecticut, the picture hung above a photograph of my parents dancing at a wedding. When we moved to Maine, it was placed in the same arrangement...just a different wall. The same as when my parents moved to Florida for a year then came back to Fairfield, Maine. Their last home is their current home. They’re number thirteen on a dead end street across from a cemetery. Some might find that a little creepy. I think it’s pretty funny, myself.

On Tuesday, my mother had a doctor’s appointment so I volunteered to stay with my father while my sister took mom to see her physician. It was routine stuff. It wouldn’t take long, they said. The roads had been cleared of the snow that had fallen overnight. Dad was always worried about all of us when the weather wasn’t sunny and 75. Come to think of it, he worries about us when it’s that nice out, too.

Dad and I made small talk about the stimulus package the government was looking to pass, the weather for the weekend and how my son, Anderson, was doing in school. I sat in my mom's chair and looked up at the wall of photographs. The one of my father was hanging below a sketch drawing of the church they were married in. He had mentioned to me about six months before that he wanted me to find a tie just like the one in the photo so he could give it to Anderson to wear to church. I looked all over. I scoured the internet, called department stores in Connecticut, to no avail. 

I asked my father “Dad, where did you get that tie?”

And the story began.

“I bought that tie. I bought the suit, too, with my own money.”

He went to tell me exactly how.

My father was thirteen years old in 1949. The family was very poor. There were five sons at that time before the two little sisters came along. The house on Madison Avenue in Bridgeport they grew up in is now a parking lot next to an ice cream shop. His father was a box nailer at the Bridgeport Brass Company. That company, years before my father and his father were born, is credited for spinning the copper wire that made the first long distance telephone line from New York City to Boston possible. His mother, with five boys, worked hard at being a mom. From the stories they have told me...she had her hands full.

On a late winter day his mother, Grace, brought home new clothes. They had saved enough to buy each of the rambunctious boys pants and shirts. They were growing like weeds and hand me downs only lasted so long. She presented my father, who was tall and very lean, a pair of knickers. In the 1940s, it was common for teenage boys to wear “short pants” or knickers. They came just below the knee and sometimes they fastened with a buckle. My father took one look and asked her to return them because he was NOT going to wear them. She wasn’t very happy about the response. They had spent their hard earned money on new clothes for their eldest son only to have them refused by him. His excuse? He wanted to wear pants. Long pants. 

She told him “If you want pants, buy them yourself.” Grace took him and the pants back to the store she had already come from and told the manager her son didn’t want them. The manager asked him “What do you want?” My father perused the clothing and his eyes landed on a suit.

The Suit.

“I want this.” His mother knew she couldn’t afford it and, once again, told him he would have to buy it himself. Raymond walked right up to the suit and looked at the manager and asked him “Will you please hold this suit for me? It may take me awhile to get the money but I will be back for it.” He picked up a tie and asked him to hold it as well. They left the store with no pants and no suit. However, he did leave with a determination and an idea.

Before it became cheaper to buy at grocery stores, milk was delivered in glass containers by the milkman. A man in a white suit and cap would travel by truck with hundreds of bottles of milk to deliver around the city. He would arrive in the early hours of the morning, go to the stoop of a home and pick up the empty containers. He would then leave fresh full bottles in their place. With five growing boys, the family went through a lot of milk. 

Raymond, being the go-getter he was, woke up early the next morning and greeted the milkman. He asked him if he could work for him to earn a few dollars a week. The milkman thought a moment and told him “Well, I would finish earlier every day. Why not?” So they made plans for the next morning for Ray to start delivering milk.

After a month it had turned to Spring and the earning was slow. It was getting closer to Easter and Ray wanted to be able to wear the suit to church on Easter Sunday. The grass had sprouted up so he took the family lawnmower and went around to the houses in their neighborhood and sometimes beyond. On the weekends he went door to door asking to mow lawns. The money started adding up but it still wasn’t enough. He didn’t think he would be able to purchase the suit in time. What could he do?

Go to his favorite uncle, of course.

Howard Holt was born Halvor Fostvet in Eydehamn, Norway. He came through Ellis Island on the ship Stravangerfjord in 1923. A master craftsman who built cabinets, tables, chairs, and even boats, Uncle Howie, as he was lovingly referred to, was a kind man. He and his wife, Dorothy, doted on children. They couldn’t have any of their own so they spoiled all of their nieces and nephews. I can say I was lucky enough to be spoiled by them as well. He was my godfather and I was his only godchild. Never a holiday went by without them sending me a card with a little something stuffed inside whether it be a two dollar bill or a bunch of stickers. When they would visit, a bag of candy was brought with them just for me. Their hugs were the biggest, the warmest and the longest.

After school, Ray went to visit Uncle Howie who was building another project in his workshop. He wasn’t at all surprised at his nephew’s unannounced visit. They lived less than four miles away. Ray would often take the half hour walk to see him and help him with whatever he was working on. It was with him my dad learned to make the cabinets in our home in Milford, put upstairs bathrooms in our homes in Fairfield. He even built a garage. We were always so amazed that he could do all these different things. When we asked where he learned how to do it all he would always answer “Uncle Howie”.

That day Ray started helping like he usually did and tried, as casually as a thirteen year old boy could, to slide into conversation that he was saving money for something special. Uncle Howie, who could read between the lines, mentioned that he could use an extra hand around the workshop. “Some jobs are just too big to handle alone.” Right away Ray asked if he could have the job. How could he say no to his favorite nephew?

In a matter of two months a young man went from having no job to having three all at once. Each day was closer to Easter and he wanted that suit in time. In the mornings he would deliver milk. After school he would mow lawns. In the evenings he would help his uncle.

The Saturday before Easter, Ray counted all his money and headed straight for the store. The tinkling of the bell went off and it announced to the manager the arrival of the young man with whom he made a deal with a few months prior.

“So, I suppose you’re here to pick up your suit.” said the manager.

“And tie.” Ray quipped.

“Hmmph,” was the manager’s response. He went out back and a few minutes later a large cardboard box tied with string was in the man’s hands. Ray counted out the bills and coins to the exact amount. When the manager was satisfied he rushed home to his room. There he untied the string and lifted the cover. It was just like he remembered: Navy blue with a matching tie with an embroidered cross. He resisted the urge to put it on right then and there. He didn’t want to risk a single wrinkle. He hung it in his closet to await the next morning. 

And what a morning it was. Easter Sunday was as big a deal then as it is now. Families getting ready to head to church would see a flurry of activity in order to get there on time. Can you imagine what my grandmother went through to have five boys clean, fed and in their Sunday best before it was time to leave? 

Things came to a standstill when my father walked into the room. There he was in his new suit and tie standing before his mother, father and four brothers. “Raymond! Where did you get that?” 

“You told me to buy it myself so I did.” He told them of everything he did and how much he had saved in order to wear the new suit special for Easter. His parents were so proud of what he had accomplished. His brothers, well, they’d rather wear the knickers.

St John’s Episcopal Church on Fairfield Avenue in Bridgeport was full that day. Each person sitting in the pews had a full view of the choir raising their voices to the Lord in song. In that choir was a tall, young man in a snappy new suit and a big smile on his face. Though no one’s smile could be bigger than the ones of the parents watching their son who had worked for months just to wear a new suit to Easter Sunday service.

Where is the suit now? My parents like to be prepared for everything and that includes the time they pass on. The suit is now in a box and is ready for when my father passes on. The suit he bought as a thirteen year old boy will be the suit he is buried in. 

And tie. Never forget the tie.

Queenie - The Dog Who Would Be Queen

 My mother, Mary, is one of eight children. For a family of ten all under one roof life on Prospect Street in Stamford, Connecticut, wasn’t easy. When I inquired where it was located she told me “the wrong side of the tracks”. I decided to take a look and, well, she was right: it wasn’t in the best part of town. My mother always said they didn’t have much but what they had was enough.

Still, life was good. My grandmother, Fanny, was a stay at home mom while my grandfather, Daniel, worked as a brakeman for the railroad. He assisted the conductor, switched tracks when necessary and applied the brakes to the train when needed. His job was especially important because he worked overnight. My grandparent’s lifestyle bled into my mother’s own adult life when she married my father. He was a night worker who drove trucks. 

When residing in the “bad part of town”, being a woman with eight children and not having your husband home at night in the 1940s was a potentially dangerous situation. Luckily, one day they brought home a new member of the family of the four-legged kind that would provide a little security to the household. 

Queenie was a female, smooth-haired, Whippett-Terrier mix. She was white with a black saddle and very lean. She quickly became the family’s best friend. My mother once said she bit Queenie and the dog bit her back. That’s what she got for biting a dog, she said. Grandmother Fanny felt much safer with a dog in the home. This way the dog could alert them to anything or anyone who shouldn’t be hanging around. She slept better at night because of it.

When my mother was about eight years old she remembers Fanny giving Daniel a kiss goodbye and closing the door as he went off to work with his lunchbox. That night everything was normal. Doors were locked, kids were in bed sleeping and Queenie was snoozing in the living room.

Around midnight a man who had a bit too much to drink (or as my mother said “he was loaded”) mistook their house as someone else’s he knew. Could have been his own. No one really knows for sure. He was pounding on the door. Queenie started barking. Fanny told the man to go away but he persisted. He was yelling for the door to be opened and pounding the door even harder. As you can imagine all nine residents were very frightened. So Fanny did what she thought best.

She opened the door and shouted “Get ‘em, Queenie!” and the dog went after the man!

She could see the man run away as fast as he could but Queenie chased him across the street then across the ball field (which is now the interstate). Fanny lost sight of her in the dark. She anxiously waited for the dog to return. The kids were worried she would never come back.

But come back she did.

With the seat of the man’s pants in her mouth!

That dog was heralded in the house that night as the true “queen” she was! “Good dog!” and “Yay Queenie!” were heard over and over as they petted her in gratitude for the tremendous deed she had done. She wasn’t sure what all the attention was about but she was certainly happy with all the love she was receiving. 

While my mother was at school the next day, Daniel returned from the night shift. Fanny told him what had happened. He couldn’t believe it! Who would have thought the little dog would be such a big protector. The man never returned and no one ever bothered their house again.

When Daddy Sang

 

I sat there and tried not to let the tears flow. I really did try…but in the end I lost the battle…again.

Bing Crosby put me over the edge.

On a Sunday afternoon while home with my husband and son, I had the urge to watch a movie from my childhood. I wasn’t born until the mid 1970s but I grew up on black and white musicals from the 1940s and 1950s that television would broadcast on Saturday and Sunday afternoons much to my parents liking. That, for us, was family time. Stars such as Jane Powell, Fred Astaire and Mario Lanza would come thru the speaker of our 1960s Sears floor model television while I lay on my stomach watching intently.

Was this what people did in real life? Walk around and burst into song? They did it so, naturally, I followed suit. The hallways of school, the grocery store, dancing down the street: there wasn’t a place I could hide my excitement for life.  I was like a human version of Linda on Bob’s Burgers. At least, that’s what my family says.

It’s true.

I can remember Debbie Reynolds telling (or singing) to Gene Kelly “Here we are: Sunset and Camden!” during Singin’ in the Rain. Now, being 46, I arrive at a destination to drop someone off I will sing the same thing. There’s not a lamppost I haven’t hung off of or a park bench I haven’t tapped my feet under as I sit. It was all so REAL growing up, I have made it part of my life…part of me.

Sometimes it embarrasses my husband or my son. They have become pretty used to it and have ignored my theatrics for the most part. There are those times though. There are things they just don’t understand. Once I am able to tell them why I do the things I do, they are able to see me in a totally different way and I think I come off as not so crazy once they do.

While sitting on the couch watching “Going My Way” starring Bing Crosby I knew the part was coming up. I certainly tried to hold myself together but the dam burst and there I was wiping away the tears on my shirt sleeve.

Elder Father Fitzgibbon (Barry Fitzgerald) had come in out of the rain late one night and was put straight to bed by house keeper Mrs. Carmody (EIly Malyon) and Father Chuck O’Malley (Bing Crosby). The subject came up where Father Fitzgibbon had not been home to Ireland in 45 years. He missed his 90 year old mother. He always said he would go home if the church’s problems were solved and there was someone there to take care of things while he went for a visit. To fight off a bit of chill, Father Fitzgibbon mentioned that hidden in the bookcase was a music box that held a decanter of whisky and two shot glasses. When the case was opened the old Irish tune of “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra” began to play and made Father Fitzgibbons think of home. After a quick drink, Father O’ Malley sings the elderly priest (almost) to sleep while singing along with the music box.

It’s at this point of the movie my husband and son look at me like I’m completely nuts. What on earth could possibly make me bawl? It wasn’t like we were all watching Marley and Me all over again.

When the movie was over and I could breathe through my nose again, I said to them there was a reason I was crying. I explained the vivid memories of when I was a little girl.

There wasn’t a song my father couldn’t sing or whistle for that matter. Hearing my father’s voice boom throughout the house with a song from Bing Crosby or Perry Como was a normal thing on a weekend. My mother would play the records while she cleaned and my father would sing along. His voice was truly amazing. He sounded just like the records and the men in the movies I had watched over and over. Sometimes he would sweep my mother off her feet and dance her around whatever room they were in and sing at the top of his lungs. It was like watching “The King & I” on a Broadway stage right in our very own living room.

Back in 1974, the year I was born, Hoffman Distillery bottled their whisky in decanters shaped like leprechauns. The alcohol would come out of their hats and they had a music box attached to the bottom. My parents owned two of them. One of the played “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” and the other “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra”. Being little and loving music, I would ask for them to play the music box of the latter. My father would sing along to that music box and, to this day, I can still hear his voice: Strong, deep and gentle. Bing Crosby had nothing on my dad.

Emphysema and COPD has silenced that beautiful singing voice. 65 years of smoking can do that to a person. He stopped smoking cold turkey six years ago after a heart attack scare. Doctors say he is with us now because he let go of that nasty vice. My mother followed suit a few years later. Each year, each DAY for that matter, that passes is another moment with them. I am so grateful.

My husband and son now know another little piece of why I am the way I am and do the things I do. If you see me in the grocery store dancing with my shopping cart or if I suddenly start singing my answers to your questions, you’ll now understand why.

It’s just me being me and thinking about my dad when he sang.

True Tales of a Talker #8: The Repeat Offender

Sometimes it’s fate. Sometimes it’s pure luck. But for whatever reason I get to speak to a certain representative at an insurance company that sure is a pleasure to talk to.

I started working at Maine Veterans’ Homes in January of 2015. I got off to a slow start; even thought I wanted to quit after the first three days until my husband told me to suck it up. No, really, he did. I came home crying thinking I couldn’t do this job and he asked me “Do you like what you do?” I told him yes. He said “Then don’t cry about it. Ask for help. Figure it out.” So, I pulled up my big girl undies and went to work with a new attitude the next day and have never looked back.

Over the first few months I got the hang of it and, you can ask my supervisor, I started cleaning up accounts like wildfire! I was doing my job and enjoying myself. I was calling insurance companies, demanding my claims process and the payments were coming in. I was even cleaning up the accounts of our other homes besides the one I was assigned to. The part of the job that took the most work and most of my time was Mainecare. There were plenty of accounts that had balances because of not having cost of care letters in the system. I would have to lug these giant binders out of a cupboard and go through them one by one to find them. If we didn’t have the correct ones, I would call or email the DHHS workers and ask for them. The claims that needed to be reprocessed or the questions I had on them would have to be called on.

That’s when I met HER.

When Theetra answers a call, she is happy and always willing to help. The first few phone calls I made to Mainecare she would answer. She was always so helpful and she knew who to ask or was able to decipher what either we or the system was doing wrong.  As we worked on the claims together we got to know each other too. In fact, I would go home from work and my stepdaughter, Jayden, would ask “Did you talk to Theetra today?” And I would say yes. When I told Theetra this it really made her day. Even now, she asks about Jayden and I ask about her daughter, Ella. Having little girls in our lives in another thing we get to share.

With the communication system they now have at Mainecare, they are able to see which workers are online and email them directly to find a quick answer. Often times if she can’t find the problem her coworker Bruce can. (I call him Mr. Bruce. He just sounds like a Mr. Bruce.) She gets the answer right away and I fix the claims and get them paid.

At the end of every phone call she expresses that it was wonderful to talk to me and I tell her the same. When you have a rapport with a person it shows and things get done.

So now, when I call Mainecare, and I hear the standard greeting ‘This is Theetra. How may I help you?” I respond “THEETRA!!!” And she says “Sharon! I was HOPING it was you! How are you, girl?”

And the call begins.