When I was little, my parents were good friends with another couple, Red and Kitty. Red and Kitty had kids the same age as my brother and me. We loved spending time with Eric and Donna (if you get these name references, you’re awesome, btw!), but they lived far away, or at least what seems far away when you’re little. Probably an hour/hour and a halfish. But when you are a small child, that distance might as well be across the planet.
Regardless, we were always excited to have visits. We took trips to hotels together. We played games and Barbie dolls together. We had a blast. But then, our visits just stopped and, although I’ve though about Eric and Donna a lot over the many years, I’d never really questioned it what happened. Not until this past October.
Husband and I were out with my parents and it dawned on me to ask …. whatever happened to……..? And, it turns out, Red and Kitty got a divorce. That’s why we stopped having our visits.
But, me being me, I did a little recon on social media and found Donna (and Eric) and decided to revisit the past. I sent her a message, asked her if her dad was Red, and went on to explain who I was. After a few days of back and forth, she offered to get together for a hike. Turns out, she lives less than 10 minutes from me!
We got together the next day for a little hike and catch up and we’ve been getting together for the past 5 months. We’ve played tennis, gone hiking, but mostly, we will have a meet at the end of the week and vent about our jobs over drinks (and sometimes food).
In fact, we had a get together a few night ago and four hours zipped by. We gab and gab and laugh and tell stories and try to remember our childhoods together. I have a ridiculously accurate memory and the more I tell her, the more she remembers “Oh my gosh” she’ll say; “I remember that!”
The other night she told me my initial message to her, asking if her dad was Red Foreman, she thought I was about to tell her I was her long-lost sibling from a sordid affair. She said once I explained to her who I was, she went right to her mother and Kitty said “oh yes, Donna, it’s legit. This is all true. You two were the best of friends and played together all the time.” I’m glad Kitty vouched for me.
Donna says Red thinks it’s a hoot that we’re back together and hanging out. Red and my parents still talk and see each other occasionally, so I’m waiting for the conversation they have over this reunion.
But that’s who I am.
Donna and I have plans to go ice skating and winery hopping soon and I can’t wait. And it turns out we have so many friends in common. I mean, who woulda thunk?
Every meet and greet we have is an adventure of sharing new and old stories and laughing our asses off…and sipping really good wine. A new old friend, she is. Like putting on a cozy old sweater and reliving it’s warmth and comfort.
August hits every year, and every year it’s as if Mother Nature flicks a switch and the air changes.
A week ago I was walking out in the mornings to humid air, already 20 degrees by 5am. This week’s mornings the air was a cool 8, 9, or 11 degrees when I walked out at the butt crack of dawn. It’s darker in the mornings too…the sun doesn’t rise as early, suddenly. And I feel lost in an early fall temperament.
When August hits like this, I am saddened; I hate the loss of summer so early. I fear that the days won’t be as hot and the sunshine won’t last, and it agonizes me to think that summer is over so quickly. It’s a jump to conclusion, I know. But it happens almost every year.
But then I get hit with days like yesterday and today – gorgeous sunshiney days with a sun so hot it beats down on my skin with a fierceness that feels like late July. Because, late July was just a week or two ago. And, although August feels different, the afternoons lazing on the beach or a deck still feel the same.
I remember summers of my childhood, when we played outside from dawn ’til dusk – from June thru September, feeling the hot air embrace us in a big hug, squeezing us so tight that the sweat glistened from our foreheads and salted our lips. But it feels different now. And maybe because I always yearn for the freedom of childhood, for the memories in the making, for the long day’s journey into night.
And once that morning air changes at the start of August, I know another summer is almost over, and it’s one more year I have not been able to go back to those “good ol’ days”. The summer air is not the only thing that changes as we move toward fall. And, I think back to just last year, with our Indian summer and how I rode into the autumn air with a thick heaviness on my soul.
I still have a month of August to enjoy. I have so much more sun to soak up and lakes to surf and beach sand to stick my toes into. I can think about cool breezes and changing leaves and pumpkins everywhere soon enough. I’ll let the ideas of October float out of my head and hang onto the threads of summer while they still dangle before me.
But I know it won’t last. And I know next year, at this same time, I will be right back here, dreading the oncoming of winter and losing the memories to be made.
It’s Boxing Day morning. I’ve been awake for hours. I never sleep anymore. I’m always waking when it’s still pitch dark outside, a side effect combination of going to the gym early, insomnia, and a mild depression. Awake, alert, and mindful of what’s in my head. I crawled out of bed a few hours ago while Husband slumbered and snored. The cat and I watched a Hallmark movie together, one that allowed tears to well in my eyes, until the Husband got up and we finished it together.
But in my solitude of the morning, I thought back to Christmases gone by; to the days when I was a kid and Christmas Day and Boxing Day were spent visiting family, traveling from house to house to house. We had grandparents and lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins on both sides. We made our rounds of visits, taking a toy or two with us, seeing what Santa brought everyone, snacking on treats, although my brother and I were usually gorged on chocolate or candy, and playing with the other kids. We’d often get home after dark, which, could have been 5pm or 11pm, have turkey dinner leftovers, and settle in for the night.
But, now that we’re grown, those visits have stopped. Yesterday, Husband and I lounged around after we opened gifts, we watched a movie, had a hot tub date, made food to take for Christmas dinner, and basically relaxed for a few hours before the chaos began.
Mid-afternoon, we headed to my parents’ home early to have Christmas with them and my brother’s family (aka opening presents) before we had our big Christmas dinner. The chaos is less and less as my nephews are getting older. I miss the days of them being itty bitty, running around with excitement and squealing with glee as I tickled them and tossed them in the air, or as they opened their gifts. Teenagers know no joy.
Instead of visits with oodles of family today on Boxing Day, here I am, writing my memoir, contemplating going to the gym, tidying up, and allowing myself to be somewhat lazy – for the time being.
It would seem that Spring has finally arrived here in Nova Scotia….although, earlier this week we were hit with a mild snowstorm, most of it has melted except for those places a little higher up. Those poor folks are still living in a winter wonderland. But right now, here in my backyard, it is a gorgeous sunny and warm afternoon. I’m lounging in capris and flip flops, and I’m basking in the sunny glow, while my old man neighbor across the field smokes pot and talks way too loud. Ahh….Spring.
I love these days. The light breeze and the start of May on the horizon. It brings me back to a time much better, much easier, much more calm. To childhood adventures and memories. To those days when life was just about living and playing. To a time when we weren’t waking up each morning to pandemic and isolation and killer viruses.
I grew up in rural Nova Scotia. Far away from city life and brick buildings in every direction, no matter where you turn. I grew up in a place surrounded by woods and foliage and adventure. We could ride our bikes or play in the woods on our land all day and not get bored, and not have to worry about much of anything.
When we were little, my mother would take my brother and me for little adventures…bike rides and walks in the woods. Each Spring she would guide us around the trees and the mossy mounds and let us pick May Flowers and Tea Leaves (if you chew them, they taste like spearmint, she would say). And we would find as many Lady Slippers as possible, but always she warned us not to pick them because they were becoming endangered.
Each year, with the discovery of the new season, the rebirth of the living land, I think back to those times. I look, everywhere I go, for Lady slippers and May Flowers and tea leaves. And I hang on tight to those memories of my childhood and try to forget about the moments I am in.
When I was 12, my brother and I joined a softball team. I was not overly athletic when I was little, but I was excited to join. After our first few practices, my friend Kim, who was staying at our place for a few days, tagged along to a practice. She decided to join the team too and it made for elation.
Our little team, the Boulders, was terrible. Oh my gosh, we were so bad. Not necessarily at the game, but we were a new team with no money, a weirdo for a coach, and our home field was nothing to write (home) about. I should also state that for the first few weeks I was sporting a cast on a broken left arm. And I’m super clumsy. So, I was determined not to get hit or re-injured. Kim always has said that I looked like a little ballerina out there…swinging the bat with one arm.
I was terrified of the ball too. I hated being stuck in right field, which I often was. Probably because most hits are center or to the left. Which, I was relieved for, but also terrified that the ball would come at me. But eventually, I got less scared, I got more aggressive (not a lot back then, but some), and my eventually my cast came off.
And as I improved, so did our team. Our community rallied around us and our field got some maintenance; our dugouts cleaned up, and we got a snack shack. AND eventually, we got team uniforms: Horrendous lime green tshirts and matching hats with our team name on them. They were so ugly, but we looked great as a team!
Honestly, I WISH we looked this good. (NOT US)
We started getting more spectators. We were invited to tournaments (most of I’m sure we lost – but maybe not). My skills improved and eventually I was moved out of right field and into centerfield *mic drop!*
We played through summer nights and in the rain and we played in the hottest of tournaments, having to have our parents drive us home in between games sometimes to shower or to at least get us out of the heat. Our little team was a family and we had so much fun. I loved our baseball team. We lasted two incredible seasons.
But by the time the third season rolled around, some of the team moved up to the next level because of age – including my brother and Kim. Gah! The whole point of our team was to be together and now we were breaking up.
So some of us moved up to another team, and some of us stayed behind to hold fort in our main team, with new players joining ranks. I stayed and I played. But it wasn’t the same. And by this time, I was good. I was a good hitter (well, definitely better than my casted ballerina days), and I was a great outfielder. And I had a mouth made for baseball. But it wasn’t the same.
I played that summer and that was it. I played on the girls’ team in high school for a minute and a half, but didn’t finish the season (helloo, social life), which I kind of regret. And there have been times I have wanted to join a team in my adult time, but just never bothered. Those days of playing ball in the summers with my friends were some of the best of childhood. And for that, I always keep my baseball mitt in my trunk, just in case someone, somewhere has a pick-up game going.
Each time I drive by our old field, it makes me sad. The field is overgrow, the snack shack and dugouts are caved in and decrepit, the mound is unseen, the fences falling down. Our home field has become a graveyard for our youth, and our memories of those glorious days are all we have left.
Still not us
There are no new teams. The children are busy playing online games or surfing Instagram. But me, I would never, in a million years, trade in those summer days with my friends under the hot sun, under the cool night skies, and on the green grass, swinging a bat and sliding into home.
When I was about 20 I dated a guy who was a complete ass. He was a full-on mama’s boy and a spoiled brat. Turns out that I actually couldn’t stand him (we didn’t date very long). He would get upset over the smallest things. One time he thought it would be a good idea to have a half-assed drag race. His grandfather had bought him a new sports car and I was driving a 1984 Chevy Blazer that would stall at right turns. But I floored that beast and smoked him. He was so pissed off at me that he wouldn’t speak to me for a few days. #mamasboy
One night, while waiting for him to arrive, I sat around watching Jeopardy. A few hours later, after he’d shown up and decided he didn’t want to go out, we spent the night in watching TV.
Via NBC
The same episode of Jeopardy came on another channel and I suggested we watch it. Of course, I’m an ass and never mentioned that I’d already watched it earlier. So, each and every time Alex Trebek would read the question (or, the answer), I would chime in early with the correct response. The guy was flabbergasted. He could not believe how smart I was. “How did you know the answer to that?”, “Wow! You’re really good at this!”, “You should apply to be on the show!! You would win!”
Yes….yes, I am brilliant, aren’t I.
Our dating relationship did not last that long and I’ve never told him the difference. My ’84 Blazer and my superintelligence were apparently just too much for him. :p
Oh what a weekend. As I mentioned in my last post, this weekend is the Annual Apple Blossom Festival in my neck of the woods. And, I can attest, it has been a fantastic weekend.
I’ve been really into beets lately, specifically, roasted beet salad (I’m eating some right now) and it got me to thinking back to when I was 14 or 15 when I’d read in a magazine that cutting a beet open and rubbing the juice on your lips would stain them perfectly.
Because, who wouldn’t want lips this gorgeous color?
My grandfather had a garden and one day sent home a small bunch of beets for me…for my lips.
And it worked! I was so excited slicing into that first beet. I mean, it didn’t look Revlon lips, but hey man, I can’t complain too much.
Nearly perfect
That is all. I just wanted you to know how I feel about beets. ❤
Ah beets…the prettiest colored root vegetable in the garden.
Winston died 4 weeks ago today. This morning, actually. And although I am still in full devastation mode, the days have been seemingly a teensy bit better. I can’t imagine I’ll ever get over this loss, but I’m managing.
The morning he died, we had a delivery to my office and one of the delivery men was my friend’s “little” brother. I say that but I suppose once you hit a certain age, you stop referring to people as little anything. I was surprised to see him because he is not our usual delivery person. But there were two of them so he might have been in training that morning.
My office door had been closed most of that day because I was bawling the entire day and just honestly didn’t feel like talking to anyone. But for some reason, my door was open when these guys came in. I think maybe someone had been in back with me checking on me. Little Brother and the other delivery guy popped around the corner to make their way downstairs and spotted me in my office….crying. I said hello, as one does, and they both stopped with sheer concern on their respective faces and asked if I was okay. My coworker announced the news that my Winston had just died that morning. They both expressed condolences, and Little Brother came right in and gave me a big hug. He started exclaiming to his colleague that “Sandy is the love of my life. I have loved her since I was 10 years old!”
Waiittt…..what?????
Apparently, I was Little Brother’s big crush. I had no idea. His sister and I were such good friend in high school and the years that followed and spent a lot of time at each other’s houses. How did I not know this? Maybe it’s because he was Little Brother. Just a cute little blond teddy bear that always says hi and hugs me through the years when we see each other. I never thought twice about it….
But would you look at that? I was someone else’s Jordan Catalano.
19 years ago today I was awoken in the earliest hours of the morning. My grandmother had died. She didn’t pass away. She didn’t move on. She died. Cancer took her from us. And in those moments, my family was broken. And we have never fully recovered.
We knew it was coming. But we were praying for a miracle. And maybe we got a miracle in some other way. But our miracle for her to be healed, although answered once before, was left undone this time.
My mom had stayed at the hospital that night and I remember the phone ringing and then my dad coming to wake me. We were going to say our final goodbyes before she was taken away.
That was the first time I’d ever seen my dad cry. My grandmother, my mom’s mom, my nanny, was our family matriarch. She was loved by everyone. She kept us all close and together. She had more spunk than you can ever imagine. She was our big solid rock in the center of our earth.
And then she was gone.
She had a smile that would light up a room. She was mischievous and funny and she loved jokes. She was the best hugger. She could kiss away any boo boo. She liked Clint Eastwood and Billy Ray Cyrus. (Who else’s nanny rode a moped??) I have told you before about Hitting the Family JackpotHitting the Family Jackpot and she was our number one prize.
And then she was gone.
Life has never been the same without her.
We were broken that day. Shattered in our hearts and in a way that we have not fully learned how to repair. But we have pulled together and are doing our best to get through until we meet her again.
I was sick a lot when I was little. I was in and out of the hospital – usually with pneumonia – and I missed out on a lot of things.
I remember one year I was supposed to go outdoors ice skating with my Brownies group. But I was sick again and not able to go.
I am pretty sure I whined about that excursion quite a bit because one weekend, right around Christmas, my dad packed me up and took me to a pond (just off the highway connector) so that I could skate. It wasn’t as much fun as being with a bunch of my Brownie friends, and we weren’t out for long, but I remember it well. I slid and slided and skated over that ice like I was a ballerina – even in my snowsuit (Nova Scotia winters are cold y’all) – the shine from the sun my spotlight. And then it was time to go.
And every time I pass that pond, usually with ducks sitting in it or cows grazing around it, I think of my skating excursion.
Sandy the Social Butterfly 