I am not, by nature, a big cemetery goer.  While the Corporal Works of Mercy invite us to "visit the sick and bury the dead", nowhere is there anything about "visiting the dead" so I just tend not to do that, although I carry those I love and have lost with me all the time.  But when I was recently in Elmira, New York, I found myself drawn to the graveside of one of my favorite writers in the world, Samuel Langhorne Clemens, A.K.A. Mark Twain. 
Himself and I had just come from visiting the study Twain's sister-in-law had built on her property for him.  It's a glorified gazebo and now sits on the lawn at Elmira College and gives the local high school kids a job for the summer as they greet visitors and hand out pencils.  It was lovely, but it didn't move me the way his very simple burial place did.  While there is a large monument, erected by his one surviving child in memory of Twain and of her husband, the basic setting is very humble and sweet.  Twain lost two daughters and his beloved wife before his own death, and the inscriptions on their tombs, written by the heartbroken father, cut to my heart. 

Nestled in amount the trees with his girls by his side, he is just "Father" and all the hoopla about the amazing characters he created that have become part of the American fabric disappears.  I don't know what I was expecting, but the humility of the man, the solid grasp of what actually mattered has had me praying for his soul ever since.  I hope the reunion was a happy one and that his anger has been transformed into joy.  I only wish I had had the opportunity to buy the guy a beer and listen to him talk.  Well, maybe one of these days I'll get the chance yet.

It's one-thirty in the morning and I've just changed my Face Book address to Paris, France because, hey, why not?  Why do they need to know where I live?  And if I'm going to lie, I figure I should lie with style.

The coffee at lunch was a mistake.  At least the second (or was it third) cup certainly was, and I should know by now that I REALLY need to order de-caf.  I can't taste the difference anyway, so why do I put myself through this?  Some of us just never learn.  If the kids were still home I'd have plenty of company since they never sleep anyway.  The zombies stay up until what Uncle Jim used to charmingly call "sparrow fart" and I have no idea how they manage to maintain such good grades with the habits they have, but you can't argue with success.

This combination of exhaustion and hyper-activity is interesting.  I listen to the hum of the fan and wonder why it's not as soporific as I usually find it.  In fact, it's getting borderline annoying, but it's too warm to turn it off.  So I'll sit up long enough for the little blue Tylenol to kick in and count my blessings, which are myriad.  Meanwhile, "bon soir" from gay Paree....or is it "bon jour"?

I'm not coordinated or savvy enough to send vacation pictures from the road.  The fact that I own a GPS is nothing short of a miracle (Her name is Lavinia and she speaks with a British accent).  Then there's my paranoia about announcing to the world that my house is empty because I'm out on the road sending pictures of my vacation.  City Kid don't do that.  But now I can tell you there was a road trip worthy of Dorothy Lamour and Bob Hope (dating myself a bit here) and the boys are back at their respective schools.  The silence thunders in my ears.

First stop was Poughkeepsie, New York, where Son Number One figured out that he had given us the wrong day and he couldn't get the key to his room until the following day.  He coped.  Friends are wonderful and sometimes, so are crises.

Off to Manhattan for the remaining three of us and a trip to the Metropolitan Museum after strolling the streets of the Upper West Side for Hours and declaring gelatto supper.  There was a drive to Gettysburg so Himself could finally see the battlefield first hand.  On to Columbus,Ohio and an overnight stop at the rectory of the dear friend who married us, then on to Cleveland.
I've never been to Cleveland before and I needed to see Son Number Two's school.  Not bad.  Not bad at all, although the Rock and Roll hall of Fame was a bit of a letdown.  Two days there and a tearful farewell were followed by a drive to Elmira, New York, where Mark Twain wrote "Huckleberry Finn" and "Tom Sawyer" in what is basically a gazebo with a fireplace which was built for him by his sister-in-law as a study.  The trip to Twains' grave site was moving for me.  More on that later.
Seneca Falls was next, and although the work the women did to level the playing field was inspirational and impressive, the town was a bit "meh" as my son would say.  Another stop in Poughkeepsie with friends on the way home (and Son Number One and his Lady) and here we are.

It's been a long time since we've had a "vacation" and heaven knows I needed a break, but I'm still glad to be home and sleeping in my own bed.  Dorothy had it right; "There's no place like home," but I think returning to Kansas after Oz must have been tough.  I wonder if it was as quiet there as it is here.

It's been a week of milestones.  There have been birthdays, "last Tuesday with head on own pillow until Thanksgiving", first anniversary of a friend's death.  Summer is doing what summer does, slipping away like a ninja, and it's time to take the boys back to college.  The house will be less fun.  I'll get more sleep, and it might even be cleaner (not by much), but it's a poor trade for the energy they bring.  There aren't that many more summers when they'll want to come home.  Before I know it, the tuition traumas will be over and they'll be off living their own lives.  But before we get that far there is a road trip and some fun along the way.

This learning to let go is interesting.  I never thought I'd be able to manage it, but it grows out of the love I feel for them, out of my wanting what's best for them in the long run.  One by one my kitty claws are retracting and I'm accepting their choices, their absences, their (horrible) hours.  And it's not even a huge sacrifice on my part.  It just feels like "the next thing".  There is a selfish component in all this as well.  I'm still growing and learning and wanting to try new things.  Now I'll have some time to figure out which new things.

I've never seen Son Number Two's college, so that's going to be interesting.  The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame does not thrill me, but Himself is agog at the thought, so that's fine with me.  At this point I'm along for the ride and keeping my eyes and my heart wide open, memorizing every vanishing moment without being maudlin about it.  As you know, my motto is "Life is short, and so am I."  So pay attention.

Today my BFF since the age of 11 (which is more than twenty years, I will admit) and I celebrated our mutual birthdays together, as we do every year.  This year, however, she found this incredible little tea room in Walpole, Massachusetts called "Fancy That".  It's all bone china, tea cozies, delightful finger sandwiches and pastries, lovely Victorian this and that, and the nicest host and hostess I've come across in a long time.  There is even a picture of Queen Elizabeth II in the gift shop(pe).  I am in love with this place.

The  selection of teas was impressive, the food delicious, and the attention to detail mind-boggling.  Ladies, there are roses on the TP in the loo!  In this delightful, unhurried atmosphere, my friend and I caught up on our chaotic lives and didn't worry about anything or anyone for close to two hours.  I took away (well, I paid first....) a loaf of lemon poppy bread, a package of gorgeous paper napkins that can double as doilies for the center of the table, and a book of recipes for Welsh tea cakes.

A group of four young friends were in another room of the shop, all dressed up in outrageous shoes and hats and tea things.  They were college friends and adorable.  It was a first for them, too, and we all took snaps of one another.

Sometimes it's the little things that make a day; the diversion from the hum drum, the celebration of charm and elegance and grace.  Generation gap, my eye!  They were as into this whole scene as BFF and I.  So here's to civility and lace and doilies, to hats and bone china, calories and old friends, however long you've been old friends.  For some of us it just happens to be a bit longer than for others.

I woke at 5:30 without benefit of the alarm clock, which surprised me, considering I was at the subway at midnight picking up Son Number One after his shift ended.  The room was darker than I had expected it to be.  August is like that.  Daylight leaks out of the day like tea from a cracked mug.  The windows were open because the temperatures were cool overnight and it's always nice to get fresh air in the room and not depend on the fans or air conditioners to pull it in.  And then it hit me.  All I could hear was the hum of distant traffic.  Where are my birds?  They did it to me again!  They packed their birdie bags and slipped away when I wasn't paying attention.

It wouldn't have been a tearful goodbye.  I knew it was coming.  There are still a few sparrows and the odd robin who winters over.  Not all the birds are gone.  Why do I always feel guilty that I haven't paid close enough attention to their song?  In addition to the fact that daily exercise is a promise I make and break with depressing regularity, I find myself wishing I'd gotten up early every morning and gone for a walk just for the pleasure of the symphony we have access to for such a short time each year.  There are still heat waves ahead of us, I suspect.  It's only early August, after all.  But that beautiful background music is gone for another year and I'm missing it.  This is another reminder, as if I needed one, that the boys will be going back to school in less than two weeks and the house will be neater (some) and quieter (too much).  My heart aches just a little.

Before long the windows will be closed overnight and the traffic hum will be less noticeable, then there will be autumn winds, followed by snow, and before you know it, robin song again, because life goes by about that fast.  Next time I'll pay closer attention.  And maybe I'll stare at leaves and snowflakes a little closer this year, too.  But I'm already longing for spring.

Yesterday was my birthday and yes, I do remember when parties looked like that, but that wasn't mine.  It was a quiet day and started overcast, ending with sunshine, which was appropriate because that was more or less how I was feeling.  Himself went out running in the morning and had a headache for most of the rest of the day, Son Number One spent the day on the couch in his jammies, playing video games and watching Netflix, and Son Number Two was off to Comic Con with his peeps to partake in what I gather is sort of a holy nerd convention, but fun. I was fine with all that anyway.  I was busy pouting.
This was the first birthday I was missing my Mom and several friends.  There were cards in the mail, but some really significant ones were REALLY conspicuous by their absence and it hurt like hell.  For some stupid reason I had forgotten to brace myself for that.  Wouldn't you think I'd know how to do this by now?
As the day progressed I went out to lunch with a lovely friend whom I don't see very often and she surprised me by grabbing the check (we had promised to split it, since her birthday is not far off).  I sat on the front porch reading "The Mabinogion Trilogy" when I got home, the ancient folk tales of Wales.  Sounds boring, but some of that stuff gets pretty heated!  And weird!
Himself bought me gorgeous red roses and was going to make a wonderful dinner, but his headache was pounding so we ordered pizza instead, then I bought myself a bottle of sherry and we watched re-runs of "The West Wing" which are all new to me.  I have a dinner date from one son, and a very cool "Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty" tee shirt for those of you who know "The Big Bang Theory" from the other. And I remembered how blessed I am.
Facebook messages are too easy to be meaningful, but still over 110 people took the time to press a button and spare me a thought, which I appreciated.  And many of those people are actually friends in the true sense, and how much luckier can a girl - or an old lady - be?
So here's to the next year of overcoming obstacles and reminding myself that I am lucky, lucky, lucky and being open to the next great adventure, whatever God has lined up for me.  May I have the sense to recognize it for what it is: a gift.

As if I needed a reminder that my heritage is Irish and Canadian, this heat wave has really brought it home to me.  While some think my aversion to heat is age related, the truth is that I have vivid memories of sleepless nights when I was seven, long before I had heard the word "menopause" and also, not coincidentally, long before I owned my first air-conditioner.  To heck with the popes.  Let's canonize whoever invented THAT puppy.

Even as the sidewalks fry and the boys go off to their respective jobs for the summer, I can hear the first hum of "back to school" not far away and this year it is bringing more than the usual sense of dread.  The college financing in this country is insane, second only to our medical system, which is a raging disgrace.  Son Number One is half way through, but I have no idea if he'll make it the rest of the way or not at this rate.  Son Number Two has just begun.  It's a strange system when a parent feels like an out and out failure for not coming up with a quarter of a million dollars for a four-year education, but that's the way it is.  I console myself with our blessings.  I know people who have to come up with that much and more to pay for chemotherapy not covered by our ridiculous healthcare system.  There are people whose children are hooked on drugs and who have no future at all in front of them.  My boys are both smart and caring, healthy and resourceful.  We have so much for which to be grateful.  But in these days of trying to figure out how to make it all work out, it's not only the thermometer that's keeping me awake.

"God is never outdone in generosity," says Sister Miriam, and it has become my mantra.  Still, there are some days when I wonder if I did the right thing by giving up a good job and staying home for all those years while they were little.  Looking at them, I can't imagine how they could have turned out any better, but there's always that feeling that it's not enough.  So I'll buy a lottery ticket when Himself isn't looking (you have to give God room to perform a miracle now and then) and keep plugging away at the two jobs which don't amount to a third of what I used to make fifteen years ago, and figure it out one day at a time, like everyone else.  And I'll remember that while it's a hundred degrees here today, I'm not carrying a sixty-pound backpack through the desert.  Bless our soldiers and don't complain.  Things could always be a lot worse.

Turns out that steroids have a funny effect on me.  They are doing the job as far as reducing the swelling from the poison ivy, but I am as wired as if I had drunk five espressos just before bed.  Himself is breathing quietly, but it's too loud for me, and I could swear I hear the grass growing out there.  This is a lonely time of night (morning) when the world has turned the switch to "off" and mine is stuck in the "on" position.  The computer provides the only light on the lower floor of the house.  I have one of those nifty keyboards that lights up so I can see what I'm typing.  I know the light is the last thing I should be looking at before trying to sleep but company is company.

Or it could be the prospect of picking out my parents' headstone tomorrow that looms large over my bed, causing me to toss and turn and never find a comfortable spot.  It's been almost eight months since my mother's death, and over eighteen years since my father's.  She always used to say she couldn't rest until she had bought the marker for his grave.  I guess she stretched that excuse as far as she could make it go, because she was nearly ninety by the time she left and now it's up to me.  Cemeteries are funny places.  Some people make a ritual of visiting graves and tending flowers as one last "thing to do" for someone, and that's lovely.  It's just never been me.   To me that's like enshrining the cocoon when the butterfly has flown, or hanging onto the wrapper when the candy bar is gone.  That's not where I look for my loved ones.  Still, these things must be dealt with and here it is in my reluctant lap at last.  And all the silt of grief which has been gently drifting to the bottom to settle in a quiet pattern is about to be kicked up into a little maelstrom again.

Ah, the joys of summer.  For the first time in my life I am dealing with a case of poison ivy.  Oh, big deal, I know.  I mean I did do it up brown (wouldn't I just).  It's all infected and oozy and I'm on steroids and antibiotics.  Mood swings are a by-product of the first.  Be warned.  The itch is not as bad as many have experienced, and I have stopped popping the blisters like bubble wrap, so that's a good thing.  One does get tired of looking like a leper, however.

Outside of that I just continue to be amazed at how fast the summer is zooming by again.  Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Christmas.  That's pretty much it.  I have yet to put a toe in a pool, and that must be rectified soon.  We did spend four days in New York visiting dear friends.  It was the closest thing to a vacation I've had in ages.  I slept late every day, ate all the wrong foods, and went through two books like a hot knife through butter.  As always, from the minute we arrived the boys disappeared into the "man cave" with the big TV, air hockey table, ping pong table, and questionable movies.  They lay around on giant cushions in the dark for most of the day, having stayed up until zero-dark-thirty each night before.  We only see them at meal times when we visit.  But it's fun.  They used to have a pool, which was a welcome diversion and occasionally coaxed the boys out of the cave, but that got dismantled, and it was too hot to go outside to play Frisbee or anything else.  On the bright side, their dog stopped having a nervous breakdown every time we walked through the room.  Himself isn't fond of dogs to begin with, and that was too much for him to take.  They didn't make friends, but they both stopped growling.

That feeling of panic is just starting to set in.  That "What do I want to do this summer and how will I ever fit it all in?" hysteria has just begun to sing its siren song.  There's a feeling of obligation to get "out there" and "do something" while the weather is lovely.  There's an urgency to have fun.  The summers left when the boys will be sleeping on their own pillows are numbered, so each one has to be paid proper attention.  I know what I won't be doing out there.   Weeding.  And please pass the calamine lotion.

On this, the day after Canada Day, I will sing at the funeral of my 95 year old friend Annie, who hailed from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.  The wake was last night and I saw so many faces I haven't seen in more than 35 years.  How did we all get this old?  Most of the faces hadn't changed.  The two nuns are white, not gray now, but otherwise unchanged.  Aunt Isabel continues to exude joy and leave a trail of peace in her wake.  There were new faces (to me) as well.  My old "boyfriend", Annie's son, was standing with his two grown sons.  The kids I held in my arms are parents now.  Some of them are grandparents now.

Yesterday was also the birthday of my older brother.  He would have been 69 if he hadn't died at 22.  I wondered if he would have had gray hair or gone bald, how many barbecues we have missed at his house and how many children he would have had.  What would his wife have been like?  In this Year of The Big Losses nostalgia is creeping in, and I find myself aching for I know not what.

Tonight, however, there will be a dinner with "Uncle Vinny", an old friend (in both senses) and a joy.  He has driven to Boston from Ohio again (at age 82) and loves to see my kids, especially the one I named after him.  But first there's a funeral to attend on this gray day, and like it or not, it's time to face (and make) the music.

It's June, and as much as I'd love to sleep late this morning before going to Mass and then to work (again) the siren call of the birds forced me out of bed.  These are the days I love best of all the year.  The sultry hot days of summer hold absolutely no interest for me, and I am consulting with the Vatican about having the inventor of air-conditioning canonized.  But the mornings when the birds are doing their thing and the breeze is blowing and I'm parked with a cup of tea on the chair on my front porch and wondering if I should go get a jacket...sheer bliss!
There was a dream last night of a dear friend long gone, and it was so clear that it made me wonder if it were a "visit", so I've been puzzling out the images since I woke, and not making a lot of progress. Dreams like that put me in a strange space the next day.  I feel as though I have one foot in each world, and as I think about that phrase I realize that I spend a lot of time like that.  I feel the hidden presence of so many people.  They are no longer within hugging distance, yet they are there, popping into my consciousness at the strangest times and making themselves known.  Sometimes they feel so close I almost catch them in my peripheral vision, then the moment vanishes and the echo in my heart tells me that I'm alone again.
Still, this world, even with its gaping holes, is looking attractive this morning.  I'll throw the second load of wash in the machine and make myself breakfast while Himself runs twelve miles around the neighborhood.  And one of these days I'll re-join my Advance Team and the party will be glorious.
But first there is so much work still to do.

It's the first day of summer, and, as is our family tradition, we all get up at sparrow fart and drive to a place very appropriately named Nut Island to watch the sunrise on the longest day of the year.  Except this year we made some modifications.  Son Number Two is away for the week, so my wonderful father-in-law filled in.  And I stayed home in bed until 7, which was the smartest decision I've made in such a long time!  The three boys, Himself, his Dad, and Son Number Two, all went out to breakfast after viewing the sunrise over the water.  This is also a tradition.  I have been many times.  This picture came off the internet and has nothing to do with Nut Island, but trust me....it looks just like this.
A week of double shifts, working both jobs has left me feeling my age and a bit of someone else's.  Sleep was the wiser choice today.
Now it's time to get dressed and go to the office, where the coffee is free and the people are warm.  There will be more material for the book that provides the running commentary for my day,  and the voices in my head will keep me company on the subway.  They've already started whispering that the days will now start getting shorter.  I've already told them to shut up.

My relationship with my own dad was kind of complicated.  He had a temper and the other four would always push me forward (Number Four of five kids) whenever they wanted to go for an ice cream or go to the beach, because from about the age of three (or maybe it was from birth) I have always had this "Shirley Temple" thing going on about dealing with and winning over grouches.  My batting average wasn't bad.  I was also the "Number One Son" in that I was the one he taught to wallpaper and paint by standards that impress even my father-in-law to this day.  Dropping out of high school during the Depression to support his family, he still managed to teach himself electronics long before it was fashionable, and wound up working for American Science and Engineering in his later years, and he went to England, Russia, and China to present papers which I magically turned into English.  He was a Sonar Man in the Navy during WWII and my entire childhood is scored to the dot-dat-dit of Morse Code long into the night.  He was one smart dude.

He probably suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after the War, but of course, no one called it that back then, and he tended to take it out on those nearest and dearest, especially my younger brother, and although he never laid a hand on the girls, my poor brothers caught it in spades.  I'm not posting his picture on FaceBook today, although I loved him in my own way, but I married the person in the Universe as least like him as I could find.

Himself is the gentlest soul and the deepest.  I didn't know when we got married what kind of a father he would turn out to be.  We forgot to discuss minor stuff like "How many children do you want?" or "Are you a disciplinarian or a 'Let them do what they want!' kind of guy?"  But my boys and I got very lucky.  In over twenty years of marriage we might have had two arguments.  Maybe three.  These children grew up hearing their father say, "Thanks for ironing my shirt" and "Thanks for making dinner" every day.  They hear their parents say "I love you" several times a day.  Dad is the one they go running with, hike Mount Washington with, bike with.  He sets a wonderful example in staying healthy, as does his father, who is also one of the gems of the world.  Himself kisses his father whenever they part, so the boys do, too.  My favorite memory of Himself as a Dad is reading "Casey At the Bat" as a bedtime story to Son Number One on the day in second grade Little League Baseball when he made the last out that lost the game.  Himself got so choked up, lying on the bed between two little boys who were propped up on their elbows, that he couldn't finish, so Mom had to step in and read the end.  There were tears in Dad's eyes.  I thought I couldn't possibly love him more than at that moment.  I was wrong.  He continues to touch my heart in amazing ways.

So to all the fathers out there, whether it's biology or a kind and caring heart that gives you that title, enjoy your day.  "Uncles" count. So do priests, coaches, Scout leaders, and those teachers that change your life forever in the most wonderful ways that never make the papers.  This is your day, too.  And we couldn't do it without you.

The neighbors are out there power washing their deck.  It's noisy, but it's almost 11:30 on a Saturday morning, and really, good for them.  I, on the other hand, sit here surrounded by so many things to do that I am doing the square root of nothing, paralyzed by the overwhelming size of each task.  This is my first day off in quite a while, and it's a lovely morning.  The temptation to sit on the couch and catch up with the last season of "Desperate Housewives" is strong.  Equally strong is the desire to gather all the old magazines which are creating teetering piles, the "Oprahs" and the virginal "Writers' Digests", and drive over to my doctor's office, scattering them throughout the waiting rooms in the building. Or to take Mother's clothes out of the front hall closet and donate them to Morgan Memorial, giving us more room, and me another iota of closure.  Or to tackle the mountains of laundry, clean and otherwise, which are taking over my bedroom like some monster in a Grade D film.  At the very least I should go for a walk or cut the grass.  But plantar fasciitis is tuning up, and by the end of a five hour shift at the mall I'm walking with a cane, and I don't bloody feel like it.  So I'll set the timer on the stove and do fifteen minutes of something.  Anything.  But first I'll have my tea.  And maybe a biscuit.
The fact is, with all this lovely weather and a day to myself, I am down in the dumps.  Finally I have time to stop and think and breathe, and the Bogeyman has caught up with me.  Griefs which I thought were healing are not, and will not until I sit with them, listen to them, maybe write a poem about them, and move on.  I'm disappointed in myself that finally getting back into the work force hasn't produced the job of my dreams, but one part time job which I very much like, and one in retail, which I very  much don't.  And the excitement of re-inventing myself has become the resignation to another round of "Aw well, it's something," but I was hoping for so much more.
So it's tea and a biscuit and something for now.  Because at least that much I can still control.

It's been "One Of Those Weeks".  I've worked the office job from 10 to 3 Monday through Friday (after working at the boutique on Sunday) and then Thursday and Friday nights I worked at the boutique until 10.  Saturday I worked from 11 to 3:30, and today it's 2 to 7.  Son Number One's girlfriend arrived (love her!) on Saturday morning at 1AM and I am, quite frankly, a tad fatigued.  The grass is almost peeking in at the window sill and sobbing for attention.  It will wait a few hours, I'm sure.  Plantar fasciitis is tuning up for a symphony in my left heel.  For right now I am enjoying sitting still.  The torrential rains have left, and this Sunday morning the windows are open for a cool breeze and birdsong to start my day.  There is a book at my elbow which is singing its siren song, to which I have every intention of succumbing.  Give me a hot cup of tea and I shall rule the world.
I don't know what I did during the fourteen years I was lucky enough to be at home with my children.  It certainly wasn't housework.  They had their music lessons and sports, karate black belts and play dates.  My universe revolved around their schedules and that was our choice and our privilege.  Most people don't have the option of walking out on their careers and taking an orchestra seat at life.  Getting back into it (not a "career", but a "job") has been challenging.
So much of how we define ourselves involves how we make money.  At a party, when approached by a stranger and asked "Who are you?" the answer often is "I'm a doctor" or "I work in computers" or "I'm a cashier at Walmart and a pole dancer on weekends".  I was stuck for an answer for a while, feeling a little guilty that my life was mostly driving the car and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  There was the embarrassment of not making a paycheck, but also an embarrassment of riches.  I had time with my children.  My friend Flanagan (whom I miss with a white hot heat) would call many days and be the only adult I spoke to between the hours of 8AM and 7PM.  He would chide me to "Be a human being, not a human doing!" and remind me of how blessed I was to be in my situation.  He would repeat the importance of the airline safety drill of "putting on your own oxygen mask before trying to take care of everyone else".
While the children were in school I would visit with retired friends, and eventually, with my mother in her last years at the nursing home.  I was free to spoon feed her lunch and amuse her cohorts with a song or a borderline-appropriate joke or two.  I got to learn what really mattered.  After a year of emptying out my routines, children off to college, Mother and Flanagan and Webb passing away to where they don't need me, I'm filling up my life with other things.  But I have learned to appreciate the sheer luxury of sitting with a hot cup of tea and counting my blessings.  And on this sunny, bird-filled day, I gently remind you to stop and do the same.

A telephone call from abroad got me thinking this morning.  My friend Terry called from Wales and we were both missing our mutual friend, Jim.  Jim was a wonderful priest (as is Terry), and a character extraordinaire.  His brilliant mind, his rapier wit, his unexpected bursts of boyish glee added so much to our lives, and his absence is keenly felt.  Terry had just come back from some liturgical conference or other in Galway, and it was the first time he had had to attend something like this "on his tod" (or "flying solo" as I found out when I asked what the heck THAT meant).  The nature of mourning is that it doesn't happen all at once.  Just when you think you have the pain under control a word, a fleeting resemblance in a face, a song on the radio will tear the scab off the wound and start the bleeding anew.  Terry was reflecting on how much about the priesthood (and life) he had learned from Jim, and how much he misses his guidance. And then it dawned on both of us.  We are now the front line.

My mentor was a teacher at Girls' Latin School, Miss Reilly, who passed away a long time ago, but whose photograph sits in my living room next to the piano, nestled in with the pictures of some of my other friends who have left me "on my tod".  In fact, it was through Rosemary that I met Jim and Terry.  They were my inheritance, and much more valuable than anything else she might have left me in her will.  I talk to her when I'm in the garden.  Her garden was spectacular and immaculate.  Mine is a collection of weeds, but the ones with flowers on the end are welcome to stay.  I have grubs and overgrown grass, but I also have the odd tulip or jonquil which I actually planted.  Occasionally I do get out there on my hands and knees and start hacking away at the chaos and I talk to her.  "Rosemary, what the hell is THIS?  Is this a weed or a flower?  Do I prune the dead branch after the azalea has stopped blooming or can I do it before?  WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I NEED YOU?"  There is no answer. 

Terry and I have discovered that we are now "the grownups".  We are the "wisdom figures" who make the world seem (hah!) a safer place to the younger generation.  We have discovered the secret: grownups don't know nuthin.  The illusion of protection has been shattered.  We are now the ages of our mentors, our parents, our teachers when we thought they had all the answers.  What passed for peaceful surety has been unmasked as weary exhaustion brought on by decades of just coping with each disaster as it comes.  We're not calm and in control. We are tired and glad to be on the back nine of this golf course and heading for the club house.  But whatever you do, don't tell the kids.  Let them feel safe for a little while longer.

Both boys are sound asleep upstairs.  This is not surprising since they were both still awake at 3:30 this morning and tapping away on their computers when I made my usual trip down the hall.  What is there about college that turns otherwise normal people into zombies?
The living room (OK, "parlor" is what I usually call it) is awash in boxes, backpacks, and books.  This is on top of the usual chaos which I generate all by myself.  Still, it's lovely to have them home.  I miss them when they are gone.  This "mothering" thing has become a bit of a habit.  I now tell total strangers and co-workers to remember their sunblock or bring their umbrellas.  After more than twenty years, there is no "on-off" switch to throw, a concept which the boys just don't get, even though they now know all there is to know. 
So they sleep as Himself and I head out the door to work.  In a few weeks we will all be heading out to work....or we'd better be...and there won't be as much incentive to stay up all night chatting with friends in Nepal.  At some time or another the really important knowledge arrives that "sleep" is not only not the enemy, it's the prize.

I have spent the last few days feeling panic.  I tripped on the edge of the rug while holding my cup of tea.  It splashed.  My first thought was "How lucky that it went on the hardwood floor instead of on the rug!"  My second thought was "I FRIED MY COMPUTER!!!"  For two days I've been using the backup clunker.  Luckily my younger son is home and has never forgotten a password in his life.  It did the job, but I was listing in my mind all the pictures I never got around to backing up, all the word documents I needed to download and send as e-mail, and which existed nowhere else.
Meanwhile this jazzy new thing sat there open, drying out, mocking me with her blank screen, and I realized how addicted I've become to my morning ritual of checking Facebook, checking e-mail, writing the blog, and feeling connected to the world in general.

While ironing my husband's shirt this morning (don't gasp...people still do that sometimes) the thought occurred to me that there are probably a lot of really cool laptops in Oklahoma today that aren't working either.  I've got no complaints.  Still, it's nice to have Lavinia back with all her bells and whistles.  Yes.  I named my computer.  Are you really surprised?  My car, by the way, is Gandalf.

Sunday was a lovely day for a walk, and for the second year in a row I was blessed to share the walk with my friend Darlene and a small portion of her enormous fan club and wonderful family.  We have been friends since we met at freshman orientation at Emmanuel College when we were seventeen, which is more than a couple of years ago.
Darlene and I were both French majors, and while I continue to be fascinating at cocktail parties, she actually used her degree and became an astoundingly good teacher at Marshfield High School. She was the kind of teacher who is constantly met by former students with hugs and kisses and pictures of babies.  Darlene made and makes a difference.
Twenty-one years ago she had a brain aneurysm which nearly took her from us.  Her youngest child was four, and the other two not much older.  She had to learn to walk and talk again.  She had to leave teaching, and she can't drive anymore.  But I have heard Darlene say that it was the "best worst thing that ever happened".  I have never seen anyone who can find the joy and beauty in every moment faster than my friend.  She is so grateful to be alive.  Her phone messages begin with a chorus of "You Are My Sunshine" and if you get her answering machine you will find that her message ends in "Go, Red Sox! Go, Bruins!" or whatever team is in season.
In addition to being delightful company, Darlene fascinates me.  Before I had two jobs and was a little easier to pin down for lunch, I would kidnap her fairly often and we would sneak away for a Chinese feast or a glass of wine and "quelquechose" at the Bridgewaye on the water.  Often her speech is halting and slurred, but every now and then some neuron fires and she sounds just like she did in college.  I usually give her a signal  that "Elvis is back in the house" and we both marvel at how that happens.  We'll have to sneak a lunch around my weekends at the boutique soon.
Whenever we part there are, of course, hugs and kisses on cheeks, and she has a habit of tracing the sign of the cross on my back with her thumb, an extra blessing to go with me on my way.  I do it now, too and she laughs when she catches me at it.  Although I must say, knowing Darlene is as much blessing as most people need.

It's after seven and I should be making my lunch and figuring out what I'm wearing to work in an hour.  I need a shower and there is a list of bills that need paying today.  The trash also needs to go out.  But outside my window is this bird.  He sings above the roar of the large trucks and backhoes which are building a house down the street.  Once again I marvel at how vocal chords that tiny can make themselves known from so far away and over such a ruckus.  And while we're at it, how do they manage to look so comfortable on those telephone wires and what do they do in a storm? 
In any event, the sun is streaming through the lace curtains in the parlor (yes, I say "parlor") and making interesting patterns on the wall and floor.  Son Number Two is fast asleep in his room.  I am assuming he cleared a path to the bed.  Himself is out running on two good legs and enjoying the weather.  I am sipping tea and stalling the beginning of my day.  Morning is my time.  Every so often I give myself permission to just sit and enjoy it.
P.S.  "Bore da!" is "Good Morning" in Welsh, and my mind is wandering across the ocean this morning to my friends there, and one in particular whose vocal chords don't work as well as they used to courtesy of a bout with cancer.  She is a wonderful writer and a great soul.  Her beautiful blue eyes and pink cheeks shout "English Rose!" and so she is, but she's been transplanted to Wales, a lush and green country which I haven't visited in far too long.  Her warm and welcoming heart takes the edge off many a hurt for me, and even at this distance I can feel her hugs and prayers.  So "Bore da, Margaret" even if it's afternoon there and you're having your lunch. 

In the past week we have had one car accident (not me, and he's fine), one fall and broken hip (mother-in-law), one wedding anniversary (I worked until ten PM and that was the day Mom fell), and one Mother's Day (I worked on that one, too).  And just now I tried to download a picture of a black cloud, which I thought would make an appropriate illustration, but I couldn't figure out how to do that either.  On Monday my e-mail at work wouldn't play with me and my fax machine decided it wasn't in the mood to send or receive (I pulled the plug, which, as in so many technical things in life, solved that problem.  Well, you have to re-start it after that.)  All in all, I would rather have phoned it all in.

Life goes like that sometimes.  I will confess I think in the last year I've had rather a large chunk of unfortunate events and perhaps more than my share, but as Buddha would say, "Suck it up, Buttercup!"  Today is a new day and I get to go to an all day meeting where lunch will be provided.  Since I don't usually get lunch, that's a big deal.  I think I'll focus on that.  But I'll watch where I'm walking and hold the railing on the stairs.  Just in case.

Today is the day that Son Number Two arrives home after his first year of college.  Once again there will never be enough food in the house, there will always be someone staying up later than I do, and the mess will somehow expand exponentially.  I am so cool with that.
I hear my friends talk about how "disruptive" it is to have the kids home again, and I remember that from last year when Son Number One came back from his first year with All The Information In The Universe.  My ego remains intact, as does my devotion to these two chuckleheads.  Nothing makes Mama happier than having her babies back home, even if they've changed, even if it's only for a while, even if I know we'll be driving one another nuts by mid-July.  Having the chance to watch them up close instead of through social media is amazing.  It's the difference between being at a Rolling Stones concert in the third row and playing their music on your iPod.  They generate their own electricity and it's a rush to breathe the same air.
So while my 22nd wedding anniversary tomorrow won't be very romantic (I'm working from 5-10PM), my Mother's Day will rock.  The only thing nicer would be if both boys were home,  but I can be patient for another two weeks until Son Number One arrives.  Then I can ask him questions, because there are still a few things about the universe that I don't know.

The blur on the left (and you'll have to take my word for this) is my younger son.  He fences.  I'm not sure where this urge came from.  I think it was a test which I passed a few years ago when he was complaining about summer boredom while his older brother got to do "everything".  Tired of listening to this, as most mothers are all summer, I challenged him.  "So.  Tell me what you want to do, we'll do some research and see if we can make it happen."  The reply I got was "Archery or fencing!" and of the two, fencing usually happens indoors and I could drink coffee while he took lessons, so that won.
He was in a tournament with his college a while ago, and casually mentioned that they had gone to Notre Dame for the match or meet or game or whatever they call them.  Himself commented, "This is the first time one of my kids has been to a state I have never set a foot in!" My reaction was a little different.  I felt the distance.  I remember worrying about school bus trips when he was little.  Now he's fighting people with epees and sabers and he forgets to mention it.  While Son Number One sends pictures of huge rugby players about to pummel him, Son Number Two could have a great future with the CIA.  This guy tells me NOTHING.  King of the one word answer and the secret smile, he plays his cards very close to his vest.  He is totally charming, frighteningly bright, and quirky as all heck. If he got a 58% on his chemistry final, he figured, he would still get an A for the course.  He is also very handsome and has a smile that Crest should be paying huge bucks to feature, but it's hard to tell that from the above picture.
He has grown so much this first year in college, and not just in height.  I have never seen his school, although Himself took him and his friend there on the great "Junior Year Fact Gathering Mission", so I just put him on a plane and give him a kiss as he wanders back and forth across the country. 
Every time he flies there is a snowstorm, or he's ill, or there is some sort of drama.  I actually heard there will be a solar eclipse this Friday, so I know he's on his way.  This fascinating young man we somehow brought into being is destined for great things, and I am humbled at how much smarter and kinder and wiser he is than I was at that age, or now.  And I can't wait to see what happens next.

Yesterday started with a 7:30AM sad encounter with the scale at Weight Watchers.  Then I worked from 11-3  at "The Other Job", sang at the 4 o'clock Mass, sang at a 6 o'clock wedding, and ushered at a community theater which had an 8 o'clock curtain.  My age is showing, because I pretty much woke up dead this morning.  But the sand and grit and dust and general clutter of the house is getting to me, so before I go off to babysit my mother-in-law for a few hours I am using the vacuum as an excuse for not going for my walk.  There is a laundry thumping away downstairs, and I have actually managed to find the bed under Son Number Two's pile of "stuff" to the point where I can wash his winter sheets and put them away in favor of something lighter.  I am throwing open the windows, airing out the joint, and hoping to fill a trash bag in the next hour.
Facebook will have to wait.  I will not get a huge blessing or financial windfall because I won't be sharing the picture of the angel or of the cuddly kitten.  Don't care.  It will be such a delightful change of pace to walk on a floor that doesn't crunch!