The kids were so excited to come home from school to find Scoot sitting on the porch. His backpack was on the floor, and he was practicing the chords for Folsom Prison Blues. Marianne managed to tear herself away long enough to let me know with the required after-school phone call to check in.
“Mom, guess what! Uncle Scoot is here! “
At that news, I wrapped the coiled cord of the business’s landline around my neck and pulled. I often did this as a joke to amuse my colleagues, but today? Today I did want to strangle myself.
I have perhaps twenty more years of life left in me. Maybe less. Maybe a lot less.
The years have been kind. The years have been brutal. I have experienced great joy as well as great sorrow. Through it all, I hoped for a tranquil journey. Through it all, tranquility has been elusive. Fleeting glimpses here and there. Moments of contentment were rare.
But I had hope. I believed in someday. If I were organized enough, if I worked hard, if I was a good person, if… if…if… all would be well. Life would be like boating on a placid sea with a colorful sail rippling in the gentle breeze of deep summer.
I handled the chaos. The stress. The upheaval.
I was often overwhelmed, but I continued moving forward. I tended to my child, who was and is the love of my life. I tended to my house. I tended the garden that brought me glimpses of tranquility when hummingbirds fed at the trumpet vine. I tended to my job. I was not so good at tending to my spouse. We divorced just shy of our twentieth anniversary.
These past twenty years as a divorced, perimenopausal woman have been chaotic and heartbreaking. I often quip that my New Year’s resolution is to be bored. I have been accused of being dramatic, but the drama invaded my life uninvited. I did not conjure it, nor did I encourage the spectacle.
When sent home to quarantine during the pandemic, I hoped for three weeks. Three weeks to hole up in my house and find my equanimity. Three weeks to figure out my life. Three weeks to decompress, regroup, and emerge again fortified and ready to take on the world.
The previous year had been eventful — much of it in not a good way. Still, there were things to celebrate. I turned 60, and my only child had a small destination wedding in Spain. I was the only person on my son’s guest list able to attend. His father had health issues, his grandmothers were too old to make the trip, and so on.
With some trepidation, I planned my first solo international vacation. I raided my 401K and gifted myself an epic two weeks on the island of Ibiza. It was my 60th birthday present to me. The expense was considerable. It was also my only child’s wedding. It was an escape from the stressfest that was my life, and I pulled out all the stops. Sixty! Who would have believed such a state was possible?
Stevie, bless her heart, would do anything for a marshmallow. If you could make her understand what you wanted, she would enthusiastically do it. For a miniature marshmallow. Cold fusion in her in water bowl? No problem. Come here now. With pleasure. Potty Outside. Well, maybe. That one was a little more difficult. Dachshunds are notoriously difficult to housetrain.
Stevie was short for Frauleinen Stephanie von Whomper. Yes Frauleinen. Leinen had been my married name. Dachshunds were originally bred in Germany. My ex-husband’s people were German. We thought we were so clever with that name.
Stevie was my son’s birthday gift one year.
An internet friend had come to our house to meet me for the first time. Negley was a story in herself, but we’ll save that for another time. She brought with her Whomper, her miniature dachshund.
Jeremy fell in love with Whomper. In all fairness, she was an incredible dog. It was Jeremy’s first experience with a dachshund. Whomper and Stevie both left an impression on his heart. It took us a few years, but we finally gave Jeremy a dachshund. He’s 40 now and has two dachshunds. He will never not have a dachshund.
My son might disagree, but Stevie was the best dachshund of all. We got her as an 8-week-old puppy, and I had to keep her hidden for almost three days. It was over a weekend, and I spent hours in the master bathroom sitting on the floor with a wiggly and tiny dachshund who was falling in love with me. And I her.
Shamelessly Stolen from Vintage Hawaii on Facebook
I’m standing on the boardwalk between teahouses, looking down at the koi glistening in the Honolulu sunset.
I am so thin that everyone thinks they’re being original by calling me Twiggy. This evening, we are celebrating my 8th birthday at the Pagoda Restaurant. August 3, 1967. We didn’t know it yet, but I would soon be diagnosed with a serious thyroid problem that was rare in kids.
There were not enough calories to keep me unhungry. I was never sated. Never full. My metabolism was always on overdrive due to my hyperactive thyroid.
My father, a career Marine, had been transferred to the Marine base in Kaneohe. We – my mother, brother, and I – joined him there in May. We also didn’t know it yet, but my father would soon ship out for another year in Vietnam. He had just gotten back from his first tour. By the time he left the Marine Corps, he had been through four combat tours.
But on the night of my 8th birthday, we stood on the boardwalk of the Floating Pagoda Restaurant waiting for a table to open. I was entranced by the fish, but hungry. As usual.
I think this was my first experience with fine dining. It’s the first one I can remember. The open-air restaurant was all white tablecloths, glistening china, and cold ice water in the first goblets I’d ever seen. The Asian waitresses wore exquisitely embroidered kimonos that gleamed in the light.
My father was finally back, and we were all together again. I was so very happy. I was a Daddy’s girl until the day he died at 79.
W. Va. Fur and Root 