Tag: life

The stuff that makes us whole

On By VievesVineIn Throwback2 Comments

(Throwback re-post by request)

Funny how just a smell, taste, sight, sound, or a place can land us in the middle of a memory.

The scent of homemade bread puts me back at the table in my grandmother’s kitchen. At the sight of a child clanging a triangle, I’m a second grader again in Miss Hatfield’s music class holding out my fist for her to rap my knuckles with a ruler—probably for talking.

Whenever I hear Three Dog Night belt, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog,” I’m back dancing with my friends on the hardwood floor of the school gymnasium. The smell of a fresh, plowed field sends me racing between rows of tall tobacco plants across the street from our house in Kentucky, the soft mud squishing beneath my bare feet.

But I’m carried back to two special moments every time I play the third hole on the golf course at the Bridgeport Country Club, and whenever I hear the 1960s hit “Moon River.”

The summer the doctors added the word “terminal” to his name, my father danced over the green on Number Three. It was one of those days the sun lures golfers away from their day jobs to play hooky on the long, lush fairways. Number Three is also a par three, and my drive that afternoon dropped in the sand trap just below the green. Social golfer that I am, I was thrilled to land a ball anywhere near the hole.

Dad chipped up onto the green and waited for me, his hand ready to pull the flag. I laughed when I saw him, hat askew, fingers tight around the pole. I grabbed my sand wedge and trudged over to the beach. I hoped to only whiff the shot once, but I made contact on my first try, hitting sand first, then the ball.

I climbed out of the trap as my ball hit the short grass with a soft thud. I stepped onto the green just in time to see it roll into the cup. Dad howled, kicked up his heels, and danced around the flag. Then he skipped over to me, looped his arm through mine, and swung me ‘round and ‘round across the green.

A few months later, I danced one final time with my dad. The last leaf sashayed to a ground gone cold. Women wrinkled their brows over their first ponderings of a fat turkey stuffed at both ends. Men pulled blaze orange off their cellar hooks and prepared their guns in time to inaugurate buck season. Children, eager eyes toward December, sharpened their pencils for letters to Santa.

Me? I was with my dad, just the two of us. We were taking a walk around the house when he looked up into my eyes and said, “You’re not supposed to be taller than me.”

It was true. Cancer had reduced his frame, once just shy of six feet, by pounding him into a 5’4” cell. But he smiled, slipped his right arm around my waist and clutched my shoulder for support with his left.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

Dad embraced me, pressed his cheek next to mine, and hummed the bars of Moon River. Our steps were small and cautious, but he did not let the disease that stole away his strength take the lead. My father held on to me, and I held on to the moment.

We live in the present, as we should, but our memories are gifts. They warm us, lift us, and instruct us. Memories are the insurance that keeps special moments and the people we hold dear alive within us. The past is filled with the stuff that makes us whole.

Coffee life

On By VievesVineIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

I parked myself in the courtyard of a coffee shop in what could be any college town in any state. Before long, a wisp of cigarette smoke found me and chased me inside to a tall top with a window view.

Secondhand smoke doesn’t bother everyone, but it squeezes my lungs and makes my chest rattle. I am a fan of breathing, but not of hearing every breath I take.

Both inside and out, everyone around me relished a mug of caffeinated or decaffeinated coffee or cappuccino, I sipped on an iced hot chocolate—good stuff. David Bowie sang “Let’s Dance” in the background followed by Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and other classic tunes.

I had dropped in during primetime for the college crowd. I was one in a minority of customers over 40 surrounded by students and young professionals. I kept my sunglasses over my eyes in an attempt to pass for a young professional, but my shades reduced my laptop’s screen to blurred images.

Forced to choose between sitting around trying to look young or getting some work accomplished, I removed my sunglasses. The only time I’m good at sitting and doing nothing is when I am asleep.

The majority of patrons who sat indoors and out in the courtyard either stared into their cellular devices or, like me, typed on laptops. One girl had a genuine textbook open on the table before her.

For those who are unfamiliar, a textbook is a scholarly, standalone, manuscript. Between its front and back covers are pages of instructional information. Textbooks are (or were) used as aids for teaching and learning by teachers and students.

My guess is that the girl with the textbook is on a medical track of some sort. Her book’s pages were filled with illustrations of human bones. It is my husband’s kind of book, not mine.

Five guys sitting around a tall top behind me enjoyed a lively conversation. They actually made eye contact as they talked and laughed.

Dressed in jeans and tee-shirts, their cellphones must have been tucked away, forgotten in their pockets. Not one of the five wore earbuds. The sound of their banter—uninterrupted by technology—was refreshing.

Across from the fun guys, a bulletin board filled with posters touted upcoming events. Headlines made with creative fonts publicized plays, bands, and openings for haunted houses.

One poster advertised a self-defense course and another promoted an event called “Oktoberfest in Song.” Next to “Oktoberfest” was a poster to remind me—like I needed reminding—that I was the literal definition of “one of these people is not like the others.” In large pink letters, its headline read: “Project Condom: Where Fashion Meets Sexual Health.”

Not kidding. I only wish I possessed the creativity to make this stuff up.

A poster with a deep purple background stood out on the crowded bulletin board. A set of jagged, colorful piano keys cascaded down its vertical length and ended at the words, “Keepin’ Jazz Alive.” It was the kind of poster that one might frame and hang on a wall in an office, study, or bedroom.

The jazz poster, I decided, was my favorite for two reasons: 1) The design was both appealing and clever.  2) I had no trouble understanding what the event was all about.

The bulletin board, jam-packed with notices in all sizes, colors, and fonts, reflected the varied interests of all who frequent coffeehouses: couples, students, young professionals, professors, tourists, businessmen and women, and retirees. In between the commas are any groups I left out.

The coffee I don’t drink is not what attracts me to coffee shops. Coffeehouses are where I watch all kinds of people and how they do life.

Oh, to be a kid again

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday LifeLeave a comment

Kids strive for independence. If you ask me, that philosophy is turned around and upside down.

Think about it.

A baby cries, and every adult within hearing range rushes to the crib or bassinet or wherever the infant’s parking spot happens to be at that moment.

“What’s the matter, sweet baby?”

“Ahhh, what is it, little one?”

“Do you need your diaper changed?”

“Are you hungry?”

It doesn’t take long. Babies figure out they have everyone at their beck and call. Once they do, they “work the system”—their wishes become the adults’ commands.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Children have personal full-time chefs. Not only do those chefs cook every meal, but they hand-deliver it to the table.

Oftentimes, the child doesn’t even have to pick up a fork. The chef will do that for him, wipe excess food away from the little one’s face, and clean up the kitchen afterward.

That same chef doubles as a chauffeur, which comes in handy when said child wants to veer from the routine and visit Chick-fil-A, Dairy Queen, or a pizza spot.  

Momma (or Poppa) chauffeur drives them everywhere—school, swim practice, football games, the movies, church youth group, the pool, birthday parties, the grandparents’ house, and more.

Momma and Poppa cover the gas and the car insurance. And Grandma’s house takes “beck and call” to a whole new level.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Adults run to wipe their noses at the hint of a sneeze. Children are held and cuddled and rocked at the whisper of a fever.

In truth, children are held and cuddled and rocked just because they are, well, children.

Adults buy all their clothes and wash them when required. Children don’t stress over what to wear; their adults choose their outfits for them.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Children get the coolest, fun-themed birthday parties thanks to the adults who plan and pay for the entire shebang.

Shebang. I have never, as in ever, typed that word, yet there it is—twice. I could have said “affair,” but shebang is much more fun.

But I digress….

Kids get imaginary friends, and everyone goes along with the idea. Well, not everyone.

When he was a toddler, my brother Gerald played with Davison Robbins day in and day out. We, his older siblings, came home from school each day and said, “Hey, what did you and Davison Robbins do today?” and “Did you and Davisson Robbins have fun today?”  

Our mother told us to stop “encouraging” the situation. We weren’t. Scout’s honor. We were jealous; we wanted a good pretend friend like Davison Robbins.

Kids have shoes that light up and can wear dress-up clothes and crowns anytime they desire. Their adults read to them, hear their prayers, and tuck them in.

Little ones have everyone coming and going at the snap of a finger when they make their first tactical error around two years of age.

That’s when the “do it myself” compulsion sneaks in and takes over. As soon as toddlers grasp the art of vocabulary, they repeat, “I can do it. I can do it” and “I want to do it myself. I want to do it myself.”

Big, as in HUGE, mistake.

Oh, for a good long while, the adults stand firm and insist on doing and helping and coddling. Eventually, though, the child wears them down. Eventually, the adult in charge sits back and says, “Ok. Sure. You do it.”

It starts with small tasks like putting on socks and shoes. Zipping. Buttoning.

Next thing you know, they’re wiping their own noses, driving their brothers and sisters to school, getting jobs, and buying their clothes. Next thing you know, the child who had the world at her feet is an adult.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Out of this world

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, PlacesLeave a comment

Maybe you’re an astronaut wannabe, someone whose dream has always been to fly into outer space. 

Maybe you want to do more than ride in a spaceship. You want to jog on the moon, Jupiter, Venus, or Mars.

But maybe, just maybe, time traveled faster than you ever dreamed, too fast to make those goals happen.

Don’t worry. You can go—when you’re dead.

But you need to make your “travel” plans sooner rather than later and have saved a whole lotta cash. 

Dead, you ask? 

Yes, dead, as in no longer walking, talking, and breathing here on Earth. Oh, and there is one additional stipulation: your remains must be cremated.

Then, and only then, can you—your ashes to be specific—fly into space. 

You can arrange to have your cremated remains launched into the cosmos—for a price. The cost ranges between $3500.00 and $13,000.00, depending on the type of service you choose for your final sendoff. 

Starting at the basement bargain price of $3500.00, you can find flights that allow your remains to experience zero gravity. They’re flown into space and then back to Earth. 

Or—for $5000—you could choose to have your remains orbit the Earth in a spacecraft.

On the downside, either of those choices leaves your breathing self an additional and difficult decision to make. What to do with the ashes after they return from such an amazing space odyssey?  What final resting place could top experiencing zero-gravity or orbiting the Earth?

If making difficult decisions is not your thing, up your budget to say $12,500.00 or $13,000.00. That kind of cash opens the door to a couple of otherworldly options.

  1. It will pay for the Moon to be the final resting place for your ashes.
  2. Or you can choose for your cremated remains to be sent on a permanent celestial voyage into deep space and the solar system.

There are really and truly companies that provide these kinds of journeys for cremated remains. Look them up.

If I were interested in this kind of star-studded send-off—I assure you I am not, but if I were—I would ask for proof before I swiped my card. 

“How will you verify my ashes have experienced zero-gravity, orbited the Earth, are on the moon, or are soaring around deep space?”

There’s no way they could prove any of the above to me. By the time the space death-odyssey company could provide evidence of my astronomic trip, I would be but a pile of ashes.  

I suppose the company would have to swear to my alive self that it would give my relatives airtight proof that my wishes were observed. On the other hand, if my loved ones didn’t pay for the service, I doubt they would care all that much.

We could ask Eugene Shoemaker if he thinks his ashes are really on the moon. But wait, we can’t. He’s dead. 

While people have had their ashes sent to the moon using private companies, Shoemaker was the first and only person to date to have his ashes purposefully buried on the moon. His cremated remains were launched into space in 1998 with NASA’s Lunar Prospector. 

Shoemaker was the founder of astrogeology. His cremated remains experienced the zenith of interstellar travel on the Mercedes-Benz of spaceships to honor his work on impact craters.

Good for him, but not for me. I’m not an astronaut wannabe. 

The closest my remains might get to space travel is if Gary has a portion of me launched in a firework. I like fireworks, but I’m not too sure I’d want to be a firework.

I’ll think I’ll keep my final wishes down to Earth. My soul won’t give a hoot about where my ashes wind up.

11:11

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life1 Comment

Consider 11:11 AM. Consider 11:11 PM. 

When I take a random glance at a clock, 11:11 is the time I see more than any other. Maybe, just maybe, 11:11 sticks easily in my head, making me believe my eyes land on it more.

I don’t think so. 

Why would 11:11 capture my attention any more than 3:33 or 2:22 or 5:55 or 10:10?

This 11:11 thing has gone on for years—and I do mean years. It’s happened so many times that, when I look at a clock or a watch and see 11:11, I look away, shake it off, and move on with my day or night—fast. 

If Gary is within earshot on those occasions, I say, “Make sure you check the time when I die. I bet I’ll take my last breath at 11:11.” 

He waves me away and laughs. He does that a lot.

If his eyes fell on 11:11 as often as my eyes do, he, too, might wonder if the number/time carries some kind of personal significance.

I recently checked the time as I readied for lunch date, and 11:11 tried stared me down.

I said to myself, “Self, I’ve got to get to the heart of this matter. What is the deal with 11:11?”

Most Americans recognize 11/11 (no AM or PM) as Armistice Day or Veterans Day or Remembrance Day.  At least I hope they do.

Friday, November 11, 1918, the armistice was signed that put an end to World War I. The cessation of combat took place the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.”

Those are some pretty significant 11s if you ask me. Maybe I’m drawn to 11:11 to remind me to appreciate what took place all those years ago, but even I know that’s a stretch.

Those who don’t immediately tie 11/11 to Veterans Day may say, “Are you talking about 9/11?”

I am not. That’s a day we all want to, but should never, forget.

After years of being haunted by 11:11—the time, I typed the following question into the search bar of my web browser: “What is the significance of 11:11 AM and 11:11 PM?”

I expected a lesson on how to read a clock or instructions asking me to be more specific.

Instead, a wealth of too much information populated the page. The Farmer’s Almanac popped up and mentioned Veterans Day, but it went on to say the time 11:11 is believed to bring good luck.

The article said, “You have probably heard the famous saying, ‘Make a wish when the clock shows 11:11!’ To some, this means more than a fun statement.”

Good luck? Make a wish?

Had I ever heard “the famous saying,” I would have spent a lot less time cringing and trying to erase those numbers from my mind.  Good luck tied to 11:11 was a brand-new concept for me.

I went on to learn that numerologists think November 11 at 11:11 is the luckiest wish-granting day and time of the year. And 11:11 AM or PM on any given day is considered the strongest time to make a wish and set a world-changing goal. 

Additional web pages took the symbolism of 11:11 deeper, as in way deep. The “special” time, both AM and PM, is also seen as “a powerful symbol of synchronicity, awakening, and alignment with the universe.”

When we catch 11:11 on the clock, we’re supposed to be mindful of our thoughts and intentions. Some contend that my 11:11 sightings are positive messages from the universe.

Hmmm…I’m not so sure. 

As far as I can tell, I’ve been wasting wishes on first stars and birthday candles when I should have been wishing on clocks. 

Who knew?

May 24th

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life, Friends & Family2 Comments

May 24th is a special day, not just for Gary and me, but for our family. Had it not been for what took place on May 24th, our three children wouldn’t be here.

In the absence of our children, the spouses of our two married kids would be committed to someone else. Or perhaps they would be single.

Without our children’s unions, our baby grands would not be crawling and toddling around and making us laugh over and over and over again.

On this May 24th, Gary and I are at the point in our lives when scrolling through documents to find our birth year could cause a thumb sprain. We have lived under the same roof waaayyyy longer than we lived with our parents. Together, we’ve written an insignificant history that means something to us.

May 24th may have meaning to various people for different reasons. On May 24, 1883, the architectural wonder called the Brooklyn Bridge opened, traversing the East River to connect Brooklyn to Manhattan.

Today, more than 100,000 vehicles, 4,000 pedestrians, and 2600 bicycles cross the bridge daily. I wonder how many singles would not have become couples had the Brooklyn Bridge not been constructed.

Bob Dylan was born May 24,1941 in Duluth, Minnesota. Had both sets of his grandparents decided not to emigrate to the United States (in 1902 and 1905), his parents probably would not have found each other.

Had that hypothetical situation played out in real life, Robert Allen Zimmerman, who became Bob Dylan, would not have been born. The music that wasn’t written by the Dylan who did not exist would not have inspired numerous musical artists then or now.

From a fan’s standpoint, think of a world without “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

On the flip side, R&B icon Tina Turner died at age 83 on May 24, 2023. The electric voice behind “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” “Private Dancer,” and “We Don’t Need Another Hero” entertained crowds for 65 years.

In 1938, on—you guessed it—May 24th, a patent was granted to Oklahoma lawyer/publisher Carl Magee for the first coin-operated parking meter. He came up with the idea after local merchants complained about the same cars monopolizing parking spaces day in and day out, causing low sales.

Magee was born on January 5, 1872, and I don’t wish it otherwise. But, gee, Magee, I wish he had invented something else.

On May 24th (1994), the four men responsible for bombing the World Trade Center were each sentenced to 240 years in prison. In 1830, the first line of the B&O Railroad opened.

Irish author William Trevor was born on May 24, 1928. Major League Baseball held its first night game in Cincinnati when the Reds beat the Phillies, 2-1 (1935).

Still, May 24th might just be another random day to you. But not to me.

May 24th is the day my dad walked me down the aisle and put my hand (and his trust) in Gary’s.

Gary could have let doubts, probably many, turn his car around. I could have swapped my heels for tennis shoes and sprinted out of the church.

But we showed up.

Had Gary and I not found our way to the Baptist Temple in Fairmont on that May 24th, 100 or so years ago, there would be no “us.”  Yes, there would still be a “he,” and I would be me. But trust me when I say, we’re much stronger, smarter, and way more fun as “we.”