Vanity Fall

Vanity Fall

May 11, 2009

                As I lazed all comfy under my bed covers, browsing through my newspaper, my morning coffee on the nightstand beside me, a notice under things To do caught my eye.

                Piano classes for beginners and intermediates were being held at Buhl Recreation Center.  Needing some motivation to return to my piano, I thought "Why not?"  I made the call, gave my name and phone number and signed up for the intermediate session.  On the appointed evening, I drove to the class, which I assumed was at the part rec center.  No one was there-lights were out.  Luckily, I had the article with me and called the phone number.

                "I'm sitting outside the building at the park and no one is here for the piano class."

                "Oh, it's at the Buhl Club."

                Since I am always painfully early for everything, I had plenty of time to drive to the Buhl Club, about two miles away.  I pulled the car into a spot in the parking lot, gathered my notebook and favorite pen, and excitedly walked inside the door and up to the desk.

                "I'm here for the piano class," I smiled.

                The receptionist looked at me rather surprised and after a minute quietly said, "That class is for ages 5 to 18."

                I had seen nothing in the article about an age limit.  All I could do was pull out my pride and walk out to my car.

                That episode reminded me of another experience I had years ago.  I was about seven months pregnant with my third child.  While shopping, I noticed a sign on the store counter advertising a contest that expectant mothers could enter.  I wrote my name and address on the ticket and dropped it in the box.  Several weeks later I got a call from the store notifying me I had won and they would deliver the prize that afternoon.  I don't remember what the prize was, but it didn't matter - I had won something!

                When the doorbell rang that afternoon, I was prepared and waddled to the door, my two small children beside me.  I smiled at the gentleman with the big package as I opened the door.  He hesitated a minute, looking at my two children.

                "Is this your first baby," he asked.

                "No, my third," I proudly answered.

                There was a moment of silence.

                "I'm so sorry.  This contest was for women expecting their first baby."

                "Oh you mean you won't give it to me?"

                "I'm so sorry."

                I watched as he turned and slowly walked down the front steps with the big package and on to his car.

                I believe my often-offended vanity seems to sometimes help keep me humble.

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Free Me From Clutter

FREE ME FROM CLUTTER

January 17, 2007

                I am cleaning.  Finally my mood is such that my arms agree with my mind and allow me to toss out unnecessary items I no longer need.  At least that is what I tell myself.

                I shred my late husband's return prescription labels to the VA, along with his chest x-ray from the hospital, and put his extra shoestrings for his favorite tennis shoes in the Goodwill bag.  I keep his favorite robe and the gray/black sport coat he looked so handsome in, plus some special mementos.

                Our den is filled with small metal cars and moving toys he loved.  There is a plaster cast of his hand showing his knuckle ball form, which an artist had made at an art show we attended years ago.  Several small airplanes hang from the ceiling.  When I mentioned I was going to take some of his toys down, my children quickly reprimanded me.  They like to see them where they are and jokingly tell me they have placed their names on the bottoms of their favorites.  I suspect they are not joking.

                From my closet I toss out twelve belts in various colors.  They will no longer embrace my waistline, so why should I dream?  I almost place my green sweatshirt in the bag, but no, when it's cold outside I sometimes slide it over my nightgown and wear it to bed.  Doesn't matter that I have eight others, I part with one of my good winter coats when I realize it was purchased when my 14-year-old grandson was born.  To me it is my new coat, even though I have several newer ones in my closet.

                I attempt to place my rose-colored Lands' End sweater in the bag.  It must be twenty years old.  But it is an unusual color, fits well and I still like it.  Lands' end sweaters are my favorites-they never pill up and last forever, as proven by me.  There are eleven of them in my drawer.  I ignore the fact that when a new addition is made to your wardrobe another should e permanently removed.

                My mother's elegant cream-colored rayon tablecloth goes back in my linen drawer.  It was large enough to cover her mahogany drop leaf table with three leaves inserted.  Years ago she had washed it and hung it outside to dry.  A neighborhood dog decided it looked pretty inviting and put his teeth in several places, making small holes.  My mother darned it with delicate interwoven threads, making it more unique.  Only I remember this.  Really, who will want it?  It stays.

                I eliminate some knickknacks from my basement storage room.  Vases go to a friend who does crafts.  My mothers' assortment of sherbet, wine, brandy, parfait glasses are brought up to decorate my already full china closet.

                There is a large box of picture frames under a table in the basement, plus two drawers full in my bureau upstairs.  I do counted cross-stitch and occasionally need a frame for my needlework.  But I haven't picked up my needle for crochet or embroidery for four years.

                Finding a shoe box of old candles, I intend to keep only the ones I use.  Definitely most of them need to go.  I sort them by color.  Looking at them in that order, I decided I will just get a larger box.  The empty brass wood box by the fireplace is perfect.  Out of sight.  I'll keep them all.

                Who will know that the delicate Royal Winton dish that is glued together in three-places held candy called chicken bones and sat on my grandmother's coffee table when I was little?  I know.

                I really am trying

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Home Town

HOME TOWN

June 8, 2009

            I love my small little town.  Almost everyone is your friend and knows your secrets-or think they do.  If not, they might make up and embellish the rest.  A recent incident in our post office might indicate our mentality.  A friend of mine, Ed, needed a passport.  He was told to get one at the post office.  He made an appointment.  He arrived at 1:45 thinking his appointment was at 2:00. He noticed there were no customers as he approached the counter.  The woman behind the counter informed him his appointment was at 3:00.  He noted the empty lobby, but did as he was told and returned at 3:00.  He had previously filled out the paperwork and handed it to her.  She asked for his drivers' license.  He lifted it out of his wallet and handed it to her.  She made a copy of it, asked him a few questions.  He paid the fee.  "Am I done?"

            "Yep, that's it."  This procedure took all of 5 minutes.  Good thing he had an appointment.  As he was leaving, a gentleman entered the lobby seeking information.  He said he and his wife were here from Germany and looking for a relative living in this area.  The postman said he didn't recognize the name.  Ed said, "I worked with a man by that name.  Come on out to my care.  I have a phone book there and I'll look it up for you."  They walked out to the car; Ed found the name and address.  He offered his cell phone to the man so he could call the number.  Ed was telling him how to get to the address and then said, "Look, follow me.  It will be easier."

            The other day I needed postage stamps.  I drove to the post office.

            "I need a book of stamps, please."

The postal clerk pulled out a sheet of stamps and handed it to me.  As he was scanning them and ringing them up, I glanced down at the stamps.  They were Homer Simpson stamps.  I started to say I wanted something else, but he was almost done and I decided "Oh well."  I got in my car and realized I had a sympathy card and a get well card to mail.  Homer Simpson seemed definitely not appropriate.  The next day I marched into the post office and exchanged them.  They were replaced with Forever stamps.

            I look forward to my next adventure in my small town.

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

The Proof is in the Picture

THE PROOF IS IN THE PICTURE

June 1, 2009

            Something was missing from the wall.  I sensed this as I walked through my laundry area.  A bare space had replaced a small black and white snapshot of my mother and father taken on their wedding day.  It showed my mother in her soft, dainty white gown and lovely floppy ruffle-brimmed hat.  My father wore white trousers and a dark jacket.  she had her arm slid through his, her hand relaxing on his arm.  Her other arm held a huge bouquet of flowers.  They were both smiling happily.

            Originally, the picture had been forgotten in my mother's photo album.  She preferred to keep it out of sight.  They were divorced several years after I was born.  He came to see us at our apartment when I was about five years old.  That is my only memory of him.

            Years later, I gradually asked questions about him.  My mother was always slow to respond, and I sensed anger inside her.  That is why their wedding picture was just part of a hidden page in her album.  But he was my father, and I needed to know more about him.

            After she passed away, I removed the snapshot from her album and pinned it on the wall of my laundry room along with some favorite family pictures.  I often stared at it and wondered why he was never a part of my life.  Why did he never seem to care about me?

            When I discovered the bare spot on the wall, I searched the area thoroughly, thinking it had fallen down.  No luck.  I remembered another copy somewhere in her loose photo box.  Happily, I found it, along with several other old photos.  One was my father holding me and smiling down at the baby in his arms.  I placed these in a little pile on my buffet, planning to frame them later.  When I showed them to a friend, the wedding picture was missing.  I know my mother was playing tricks on me.  I can hear her voice, "I told you to leave well enough alone."

            Meanwhile, I shall search for those two precious pictures, tenderly scold my mother and wonder about a part of my past that is forever lost to me.  But the pictures remain proof to me that I did have a father.

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Mirror Image

Mirror Image

March 17, 2008

            His red tank top partially covered the sweaty brown body hair curling on his back.    He wore beltless jean shorts and brown leather sandals.  His wife's white t-shirt carelessly hung over her navy shorts.  Her sandals were white.  They sat before me dressed for a day at the beach.  We were not at the beach.  We were in church.

            A trip to an airport recently proved that, as my husband would often say, some people's homes seem to be a mirror deprived.  I stood in the line with a young woman wearing her flannel pajama bottoms, which I noted seems to be quite common wearing apparel.  Her companion had on baggy sweats and dirty white tennis shoes.  Total comfort seems to override good taste.  Dress has a moral effect upon the conduct of mankind.  It is the table of your contents.

            Several years ago I prepared to attend my granddaughter's graduation from medical school.  I carefully selected an appropriate dress and shoes for this special occasion.  Not to worry.  The ladies in front of me wore jeans.  Ultra casual dress seems to be the common rule.

            While working in a doctor's office some time ago, I was impressed with an elderly woman who came for her appointment accompanied by her daughter.  It was obvious that the mother had taken great care to wear one of her better dresses and stockings.  She completed her outfit with a matching little hat.  She probably dressed with just as much care even going to the grocery store.  It was proper to her.

            I have read that dressing is an art, a means of self-expression.  It is a reflection of the respect you have for your body.  A simple necklace gives the impression that a person cares.  When one is neatly dressed, self-confidence seems to be boosted and good behavior follows naturally.

            Fetch me a mirror.

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Happiness

HAPPINESS

January 16, 2006

I woke up happy and for several seconds felt healthy and carefree.  In the lives of the saddest of us there are bright days when we feel we could take the world in our arms.  That was my feeling.  Then I felt guilt-how could I be happy?  I'm not ready.  I'm still mourning but the feeling stayed a while, and I knew my day would be good.

            What is happiness?  I shared my euphoric feeling with my son Kevin.  He believes happiness is what you feel when you are very young-before you have a thought process and are able to put words together.  It is a natural feeling and how you are supposed to feel.

            A baby cannot think in sentences and doesn't know true unhappiness.  He develops that as he ages.  Kevin gave as an example his one-year-old granddaughter, Emma.  He and his wife, Ellen, love to take her out to eat-they know she is the cutest baby in the restaurant.  He tells me her huge blue eyes evoke smiles and doting from all the waitresses (so they tell me).  Emma loves to look around at people and tries to get their attention.  She is especially drawn to other children and stares at them, smiles and makes little screaming noises until they look at her.

            Lately she has learned to look at them, say hi, raise her little hand and curl her fingers in a wave.  She is truly happy.  But as she gets older she will learn that she must face adversity to learn how to be happy.

            Happiness has many definitions-joy, delight, contentment and well-being.  Sometimes we have to look hard to find it.  Our park has a large white gazebo built on top of a small hill amid a field of grass.  The area surrounding the field is edged with trees donated in memory of departed loved ones.  A small bronze plaque noting the deceased's name is placed in front of each tree.  A beautiful rainbow of flowers circles the gazebo where walking stones form a random path.  As you step inside and turn, the overwhelming view seems to fly across the city of Sharon into the horizon beyond.  One day, my husband and I packed some sandwiches and sat in the gazebo in contended silence as we appreciated the solace of this quiet heaven.  Sometimes things are so beautiful you want to share them with everyone.

            Pieces of happiness are all around us.  We only need to open our eyes.

            (An aside-if I walked around with a cell phone I would miss many moments of happiness.)

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

A Little Thing

A LITTLE THING

(No date)

            He is a pro water skier.  His sponsor has sent him all over the world for tournaments.  He has endured many successes and some heartbreaking disappointments in his competitions.  But he knows this comes with the choice he has made in his life.  He is my grandson Billy.

            This time, he and his mother traveled to a tournament about three hours from his home.  The areas by the lakes are always filled with parents, friends and many fans.  Also, a food stand, plus kiosk to purchase promotional t-shirts and other small items related to water-skiing.

            He waited in the water behind the boat, stretches his trademark white headband over his hair and waits for his signal.  He has a good start but falls early in the run and therefore doesn't qualify for a last pass.  When this happens, his mother has learned to quietly wait in the car for him and not say anything.  There is nothing that will soothe him; he just has to suffer through the disappointed feeling and move on.  Usually, after an hour, the mod gently lifts, and he slowly berated himself.  He forgets the times he has been so successful.

            But now his head is up and he hops into the car beside her with a slight smile on his face.  She waits for him to speak.  He talks a little about the tournament.  He hesitates a minute then says, "I was getting out of the water and feeling so embarrassed and disappointed at how badly I did, and this little boy was waiting for me with a pen in his hand.  He asked me for my autograph and headband.  When I signed his paper and gave him my headband, he was so happy.  I thought, why should I complain.  I am doing what I love.  How can I be so selfish? "  Another minute passed and he quietly said, "I wish I had been nicer to him."

            That boy will never know how much he did for Billy that day.  Tremendous consequences come from little things - a chance word, a tap on the shoulder or a smile prove "there are no little things."

Gymbeaux Note:  It was from this one essay that I had the impulse to name this blog, "No Little Things".

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Senior Enthusiasm

SENIOR ENTHUSIASM

July 20, 2009

            I sat at the rehearsal with my box of tickets and moneybag.  My responsibility for the Senior Follies is to appear at the beginning of rehearsals to pass out tickets to each cast member.  After they sell them, the money is turned over to me to record.  I am enchanted by the devotion and energy the dancers and singers emote, so I frequently stay for the entire rehearsal.  Even a dancer's wrong step adds to the uniqueness of the show.

            Each year, the Follies seems to improve.  The theme this year is "Happy Days," with music and songs from the 60's and 70's.  The dancers proudly tap, jitterbug and do the Twist.

            As I watched, one of the dance ladies sat next to me.  She refused to reveal her age, but said she was 90+ years old.  She was a very tall, attractive, agile, gray haired woman and very outspoken.  She studied the dancers for a while, leaned over to me and, in her hard of hearing whisper, said, "Look at her dance.  She's not doing the Twist.  You're suppose to move your feet."

            One of the younger 50+ ladies mouthed to her, "You don't know everything."

            "What do you mean I don't know?" I learned the twist watching Chubby Checker.  Where do you come off telling me that?  You're just a newcomer.  I've been here a lot longer than you."

            "Everyone has their own way to twist," the 50+ answered and turned her head.

            I cringed and looked straight ahead as I attempted to look innocent as this exchange went on.

            The show rehearsal carried on, unaware of this drama.

            Several minutes later, 90+ again turned to me.  "That lady over there has been dancing for 5 years.  Wouldn't you think she would lose some weight?"

            I followed her eyes to a lovely 60+ over-weight woman, tapping and following everyone else perfectly.  She had a beautiful face and soft blue eyes.  Again I cringed.

            "You know, she has a terrible personality," 90+ loudly whispered again.  "When we get dressed for the show, she never talks to us.  Just stays on the other side of the dressing room and won't mingle at all."

            Cringe #3.  I took another look at this 60+ woman and imagined her in the dressing room, maybe embarrassed about her weight, hoping no one was watching her as she changed her clothes.  Possibly by talking, she felt attention would be drawn to her.  I saw a smile on her face as she danced.  She did not fit the picture 90+ painted.

            90+ left her chair to return to practice her number.  I smiled as she got in line, ready to prove her agility.

            I continued watching the show from my chair, tapping my feet and swinging my body to the tempo of the music.  Nothing is as contagious as enthusiasm.

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Nature's Way

Nature's Way

August 3, 2009

            The peaceful, rhythmic noise awakes me.  I think it is the sound of my ceiling fan but realize it is something else.  It is rain!  I close my eyes for a few moments as the rain plays its soft, pleasant tune.  I go to my back porch to just stand there to savor the feeling it gives me.  The singing of frequent rain sometimes suggests mournful music.

            I love a morning that seems to promise a full day of steady, beautiful rain.  It means I have no outside responsibilities.  I can wrap myself in anything I want to do.  It beckons a day of reading and catching up with myself.  I might sort the miscellaneous pile of papers by my computer just waiting for organization.  I can open my closet door and just stare inside for a few minutes.  Maybe I can sort my jewelry or start a Goodwill bag.  Maybe I can place my pictures into separate piles for my children.  I always stall at a box of my mother's old black and white pictures and lament the fact that there is no one here any longer to identify who some of these strangers are.  Maybe I can study them longer and find a resemblance to someone in my family.

            Recently, I received a forward on my email called "Rain."  It started with a view of about 60 people placed in rows on a stage.  There was silence.  Then the conductor waved to a small group as they raised their arms and softly clicked their fingers to the sound of starting rain.  Slowly, he led them all to a heavier rain as more fingers clicked.  This went on for about a minute-the sound of rain from the heavens, nature watering the earth.  Then spotlights flashed on and off as the clickers jumped on their bleachers, producing the sound of thunder to the occasional "lightening."  As the lights stopped the clicking gradually eased and slowed to soft calming end.  I played it again with my eyes closed and felt embraced by the illusory perfect rainfall.  Editor's Note.  The group is called Perpetuum Jazzile, singing Africa.  Great performance.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yjbpwlqp5Qw

            Now back to my morning.  Nature has started my day.  I will happily allow the remaining hours to let things just happen.   

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Sentimental Journey

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

July 5, 2009

            "Mom, what are we doing for Mike's big 50?" my daughter, Cindy, inquired.  She is the eldest of my 5 children, followed by 4 brothers.  On her 50th birthday several years ago, her brothers wanted to do something special for her.  They each wrote her a letter, sharing some of their memories with her, and included a few pictures.  Her brother Mike put everything together in an album.  It was quite touch and is deeply cherished.

            When Kevin turned 50, he and his family had just moved to Missouri.  Not long after this move, his wife, Ellen, was diagnosed with incurable brain cancer.  She spent her last months in a hospital bed in their living room.  She knew it would be her last birthday with him and, from her bed, planned a surprise for him and sought our help.  His favorite food had been Combine's pasta sauce and Yuengling beer.  Combines don't sell their sauce, but after we told them the circumstances, they graciously supplied us with several quarts.  We carefully wrapped the case of beer and sent it to Missouri.  We made him the traditional album, with letters and pictures.  Then we all flew there, with the album and sauce, to celebrate this happy/sad day with them.

            Now we needed something special for Mike.  Again we all wrote letters.  Cindy suggested the highlight might be a surprise tour through the Sharpsville Pierce Avenue home where they all grew up.  It was actually the original Murray homestead.  My husband was born there and grew up there with his 5 siblings.  The yard had several terraces which, I am told, were hand shoveled and formed by my husband's father.  The empty lot on the side of the house was a constant ball field for my husband in his youth, and again for my children.

            The present owners were very gracious about our intrusion, which had been planned several months before.  Walking up the front steps and onto our beloved porch was heart stopping.  Quite a few changes had been made, of course, and all for the better.  I did not see the flowered wallpaper now in the living room-I saw the pale green walls and my son Pat sitting in a slip-covered rocking chair, teasing our dog Mindy with pieces of his breakfast toast.  It had been a morning ritual.

            I did not see the newly varnished window seat in the dining room-I saw the faded wood and a black telephone sitting in one corner with the thin phone book underneath.  I saw the three large drawers under the large seat, one with coloring books, crayons and small toys, one with winter gloves and scarves and one with household supplies.

            I did not see the empty view from the kitchen window.  I saw the large spreading tree, now gone, with perfect branches, one of my sons sitting peacefully on the lowest.  I saw the large, L-shaped sandbox built by my husband, where my children played for hours, their bare feet hidden in the sand.  I saw my wonderful, now deceased, neighbor, Mrs. Gory, standing by her back door holding a loaf of her freshly made bread for us, waiting for one of my sons.

            I did not see the curtain covering the small window by the stairs.  I saw myself standing on the first step, checking on my children playing in the yard.  When they played football, I would holler, "Play touchy, not tackle," knowing that when I turned my head they tackled anyway.  When they would sled ride down the perfectly slanted hill, I would holler, "Steer toward the terrace, not the street."  I did not see the smooth grass in the lot.  I saw only four bare spots-home place and three bases.

           I did not see the freshly blacktopped driveway.  Instead, I heard the sound of our car crunching to rest on the loose gravel.

            I have read that it is to live twice when we can enjoy the recollections of our former lives.  We departed with a very satisfied, tender feeling.  I think somehow we were able to remember all the happy times on our sentimental journey.

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

COFFEE TO GO

Coffee To Go

March 30, 2009

            "Two coffees and two biscuits, please, " I told the impersonal machine at McD's.  The usual scratchy, high-pitched scream answered with some unknown gibberish, which I presumed told me to move to the next window.  I did.  Retrieving my purchase, I drove on to my mother's apartment, where she was expecting me.  Condensing her treasures from a seven-room home to a three-room apartment, she had moved to a high rise.  A simple statement not beginning to describe the emotions that went into the change in her life.

            Entering the building with my coffee and biscuits, I spoke to several tenants about their problems of the day in the hall.  The floral smell always present in the building permeated the air-even when my mother left, it lingered on her clothing.  I pressed the elevator button and glanced around the hall.  The bulletin board proudly announced coming events and a Polaroid picture of an anxious new tenant.  Another area held multiple pictures of tenants in their younger years.  My mother's photo was one taken when she was about 20 years old.  Smiling into the camera, she wore a knee-length dress and was sitting sideways, her legs straight ahead, arms on the grass behind her.  I always loved to imagine what she must have been doing and thinking on that day.  The elevator arrived and up I went to the second floor.  I looked down the hall and her blond head was peeking out the door.  She was smiling, waiting for me.  I set the cardboard container on her bookcase beside my bronzed baby shoes that were her bookends.  Above her soft floral green love seat, recently purchased, was the romantic picture my husband and I had helped her select.  It was an old-fashioned painting of a beautiful women in a long flowing gown, sitting demurely on her chair, while a gentleman, possibly her lover, kneeling at her feet, looked lovingly at her.  We always tried to imagine that conversation taking place.  Mom sat in her favorite lounge chair by the sliding doors.  She had a small balcony where she could view the gardens the tenants were allowed to plant.  Her limited area was significant from the rest because she had planted an assortment flowers with a few rocks between for small stepping-stones.

            Her face, when I walked in, had shown a hint of disappointment.  However, she was smiling.  She had made a pot of coffee (she normally made instant for herself) and on the counter sat her special cups and saucers.  It was then I realized I had deprived her of her usefulness by bringing cardboard coffee and paper-wrapped biscuits packaged by an anonymous, impassive person.  We had our purchased coffee and biscuits and talked about the grandchildren, her concern about her recently diagnosed macro-degeneration and soothed ourselves by sharing our problems.  Then it was time to go.

            Sometimes, gazing at her cups, now in my cupboard, I think back to that day and chide myself for always wanting to be the giving person and not allowing her to enjoy that feeling herself as she grew older.  It was a small lesson learned at her expense.

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Simple Pleasures

Simple Pleasures

January 12, 2009

            Do you have your story this week?" son Mike questioned me.  Mike lives in Pittsburgh and is a much more advanced writer than I, but likes to encourage me.

            "Mike, I haven't had time"

            "Nothing should interfere with your writing.  Get busy, Lady." he laughed as he admonished me.

            Recently a gentleman caller, as my grandmother probably would say, has taken up some of my time.

            Ed was married to my very dear friend Gloria who passed away a while ago.  He was also a friend of my late husband.  Their daughter married our son, and we have two mutual granddaughters.

            Ed and I attend the same church and usually go to 5:30 mass on Saturdays. One snowy evening, Ed called and offered me a ride.  He and Gloria had often done that when conditions were bad.  The roads were icy that evening, so I gratefully accepted.  When we got to church, he sat in the section he and Gloria had always used, and I sat where Bill and I usually did.  We called it sitting with Bill and Gloria.

            After mass, Ed suggested coffee at The Cookery.  We shared many things during our conversation.  I had been a widow four years, and he was a recent widower.  I think I helped him deal with things a little better that night.  He also helped me.  We had both enjoyed 50 years of very good, solid marriage.  Gradually, we worked into a comfortable relationship.

            Recently, we made a trip to the Eastwood Mall to exchange a few presents.  We decided to make it sort of an adventure.  We slowly walked through the mall, noticing things we might ordinarily pass by.  Neither of us had been there for years, and we felt like country folk in the big city.  There was a large aquarium centrally located.

            "Let's look at the fish," I said as I walked toward the beautiful blue wall of water.  We paused to study the colorful uniqueness of each fish.

            "I wonder if when they mate, they select each other by color,"  I questioned.  "They are all so perfect.  We stood there quietly contemplating the life of a fish, then slowly proceeded on our way.

            I helped Ed select a winter jacket in Old Navy.  He probably wouldn't have gone into that store if I hadn't prodded him.  He found a perfect warm brown quilted coat on sale for $18.  Happy with his great find, we stepped to the checkout line.  The young clerk was very friendly and we carried on a brief conversation with her.  I told her we hadn't been to this mall for ages and were enjoying memories about the stores that had disappeared.

            "You don't remember the carousel, do you?" she asked.

            "Of course," I replied.

            "Goodness, I guess it has been a long time since you were here."

            We joked with her a few minutes more.

            "I'm so glad you were my first customers.  You are so pleasant and have made my day,"  she laughed as she handed Ed his package and receipt.

            We walked around a while, decided we were hungry and drove to The Olive Garden near the mall.  The hostess led us to a table.  We sat down, removed our coats, looked at each other and smiled.

            Our waitress brought us our water.  She smiled, and we spoke with her a minute, asking about her family.  She happily told us about her twin daughters.  As she walked away, I said to Ed, "Do you realize we have not met a mean person today.  Everyone has been so nice."  I paused thoughtfully a moment.  "Maybe that's because we are happy today."

            Ed smiled again, and we agreed we both enjoyed that simply outing.

            Last week I had to return some books to the library, accompanied by Ed.  He asked me if there was a way to look up old high school sports items.  We asked the young man at the desk, and he took us over to the microfiche viewer.  We had no idea what to do.

            "What year are you looking for?" he asked.

            Oh around 1949-50," Ed answered.  The boy unlocked a file case and searched for Ed's request.  The film was on a spool about 5" in diameter.  He showed us how to put it in the machine, then left us to play with it.  We fed the film under the glass and watched the screen in front of us as each page on the May 1950 Herald passed before us.

            We couldn't stop reading.  So many of the items in the paper we remembered.  We laughed at the ads and the prices of the merchandise.  Also, the many stores that are no longer here.  The microfiche goes back to the 1800's when the very first Herald was published.  We intended to return and view that next time.

            After the library visit, we went for coffee at the downtown McDonald's and sat at the front window peering out at State Street.  We sat in thoughtful silence, each of us painting our minds with times and places past.

            Both our lives have changed dramatically but we feel through our past pain and realize we have had very blessed lives.  We have seen good friends and family members leave us so rapidly and realize we need to live life fully and try to enjoy simple pleasures, as Ed say, "because we can."

Father, June 4, 2009

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

Father

June 4, 2009

He was never a part of my life, although I thought of him often and yearned for his attention.  He was my father.  He and my mother separated when I was about 3 years old.  A memory has always stuck in my mind, and I believe it is one of my earliest.  I was standing in front of a floor model radio, playing with the dials and listening to the commotion behind me, which I have always believed was when my mother and I were leaving the apartment.  I remember a sense of something happening.

My mother and I moved in with her parents until she could find other living arrangements for us.  From then on I have only one memory of my father.  I was about 8 years old when he came to see my mother.  I don't remember anything about the visit, only seeing him standing in the doorway.  I know of only 2 gifts he gave me, a $25 war bond and later a gold locket with a rhinestone cross in the center.  My name was engraved on the back.  Years later, I mentioned to my husband that the clasp needed replaced.  He insisted on having it done for me.  When I asked him about it later, he sheepishly told me he lost it.

My mother, my grandmother, came to see me one Easter and brought me a basket.  I remember no interaction with any of them.

I forever dreamed of a dramatic reunion with him when I got older.  I would find him and announce, "I'm your daughter,"  He died at age 39.  I did not go to his funeral.

We were told he remarried and had a daughter named Mary Ann.  Somewhere I have a half sister.

I Write

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown

I Write

By Joanne Murray

I write, you write, we write.  But are we all right?  There appears to be a growing discussion that cursive writing will be obsolete, replaced by email or instant messaging.

Cursive writing refers to a handwriting style in which all the letters in one word are connected as part of a single stroke.  The importance of proper handwriting has diminished with the emergence of email and instant messaging.   Handwriting is a more personal aspect of communication.

How can we keep a link to the past if we are unable to read script?

I remember the pride I had when I was able to write the alphabet as beautifully as the sisters taught us.  One of the biggest thrills was sitting in the 4th grade desk and there was actually a well filled with ink in that little hole.  We would carefully dip our pen points (nibs) into it and begin our new lesson.  It usually took many dips of the silver nib to complete our assignment.  After we had written a few lines, we would use a blotter to absorb the extra ink.  At that time, it was customary for many businesses to give away blotters with their advertising on the front.  "Do you have any blotters?' we would often ask as we stepped inside a gas station nearby.  The owner patiently handed us 4 or 5 of them.  My grandfather operated a comptometer school in Youngstown (Ohio), and I was very proud when he would supply my class with abundance, showing his name on the front.

Owning an Esterbrook fountain pen was a status symbol.  They held a reservoir of ink by flipping a lever on the side, holding it down and inserting the pen point into a bottle of ink - thus eliminating the need to repeatedly dip the pen into the well.

Now handwriting may become a relic replaced by the keyboard. How will our future generations read the beautiful handwriting of history?  The abacus replaced finger counting, and then the calculator replaced the comptometer.

NOTE:  Sams Clubs have disposable Fountain Pens you can order online that cost less than $4.00 each.  They are actually very fine writing instruments and given the cost, you can afford to give them away as remembrances.  http://www.samsclub.com/sams/pilot-varsity-disposable-fountain-stick-india-pen-blue-ink-medium/144489.ip?navAction=