One Old Crone's Plan for a Long Life...

Look at this--me with my beautiful daughter
about 10 years ago... What a difference
between then and now...

Yup, that would be me--I think at sixty-one I am in that category--oone of the old crones.  I never thought I 'd get here, but there you go.  One day after another and all of a sudden that face I kept complaining about really looks old now-- crows feet, age spots and all--I guess I was looking pretty good back in my twenties and thirties, and yes, even my forties and fifties.  Oh.  But then menopause hit.  Whole new story. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.  Everything changes after menopause.  You totally loose all elasticity in your skin, you suddenly look in the mirror and realize you are looking at your mother.

Am I old now that I am sixty-one years old?   I can't even get my thoughts around that number.  Sometimes I have to think about what I am looking at when clothes shopping and remind my self that I am really too old to wear something.  Not that I am too heavy... but that my flabby arms and wrinkly legs are not going to look good in it!  I still feel like a 30-something.  I talk to women in my exercise class and I think we are the same age... until they make a comment about getting up at night with the baby... oh... right.  My baby is twenty-six.

Maybe my attitude is the one that will help me achieve my goal of living to be 125 years old.  Lots of people are living to be 100 these days... so I figure by the time I hit 90, medical technology ought to have advanced enough to keep me going until 125.

Herring Gull I painted this spring

I just have too much to do to die any sooner.  I started water color painting this year--what fun.  Who knew I would have any aptitude for water color?

I am writing more.  I still want to learn to speak Chinese and how to play the piano.  And so much more!  Now that I am not working, I have so much more time on my hands to do the things I have wanted to do.  I think I need at least 40 or 50 more years to get it all done!

And maybe this is the attitude of a long-lifer... being interested in life... interested in learning... I saw a video of a 100 year old woman selling something beside the road. (Yes, it was a third world country)  She did this to make enough money to live on --at 100 years old.  Obviously not American culture.  Don't get your panties in a twist now, I love America and am thankful to live here, but you have to agree it is not part of our culture to continue supporting oneself after 60 or 70 years.  We all expect to retire and live the life of Riley. (whoever that is...)

But what is retirement but another stage in life.  We had the childhood stage, where someone took care of us, and the college/young adult stage where we learned about ourselves and who we were, and then the working/growing a family stage where our attention was mostly on family and work... and then comes retirement.

That much anticipated, all encompassing, I can't wait for it state of.... what?  So many of us live our lives looking forward to the day when we can retire, that we miss much of the wonderful life we are actually in, .  Hmmmm.   Seems to me there is a problem here.  A serious problem.

...not to say we shouldn't plan for our retirement--or course we should.  But part of that plan needs to include what we are going to do when we retire.  Sitting and watching TV will either get old real fast or kill you.  Same for facebook.  We need to have a plan for exercise, of our body and our mind.  I truly feel that learning new things is critical to a long life.  You all have seen people who can barely walk, who are not interested in much of anything besides what's on TV,   They are dying a long, slow death-- and maybe not so long.

With all there is to do in the world... I can't fathom not finding new things to do.  A friend recounted a phrase a woman had said to her--"You have to retire TO something, not from something"  Good advice.   Now that we are old enough to not care what others think of us--go for it!  Pick up a new sport, try out a new art form, dance, write, golf, collect stamps--it doesn't matter what as long as you find it engaging.

 I could have ended up painting like a five year old (and trust me, some of my flowers look like a five year old painted them) but I still would be having fun!  And I am having fun--most of my paintings I would not put out for the public to see, but I don't care.  It's the process that I enjoy.

So my plan for a long life--learn more things--  Exercise my mind and my body more.  (Dance classes in my future.)

...And use more exclamation points!  --Live life as an exclamation point!  This old crone is embracing this stage of life--saggy skin and all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Me and my sister-in-law Jeannie, celebrating a successful day

 of shopping in the keys with our favorite beverage

--a glass of wine of course!  BTW... this is sans makeup 

as I don't bother with it down here in the Keys... 

...and that is a whole other soap box I will get on next time...

Stay tuned...

Fear... and Freedom...

 I spent my child raising years worrying about every word that came out of my mouth, living in fear of every moment my children were not with me.  Now, I fear I smothered my children.  I fear I did not let them grow into who they might have been without a sense of my fear overwhelming them. 

Are they happy, self-loving human beings as I wanted for them to be?  I worry that I didn’t let them know how much I loved them, I didn’t talk to them enough, I wasn’t open enough with them, I didn’t say I love you enough. 

I grew up in an atmosphere of fear.  I was afraid of my mom—she being the disciplinarian. My mom loved me, I know this.  She was a work-a-holic though and often not home. But, if I needed her--say when a long time boy friend broke up with me in high school-- she stayed up all night with me as I cried, ranted, raved and vented my grief.  On a day to day basis though--she was pretty unavailable.  I was also afraid of my step-dad—he being the person who could make me feel dumb, unloved, unwanted with but a few words.  I did not want to create that same atmosphere for my children.  I wanted them to feel love, to know peace, to see joy.  And in many regards they did.  I know they know I love them.  I know that I helped them see the beauty in the world.  I know I created family traditions that they still come back to today--that family culture that glues a family together.

I tried so hard to love them, to create the relationship I never had with my parents, but in the trying so hard, I fear I created something else.  I am not sure how to name it…. is it insecurity… a not knowing how capable and perfect they are, just as they are?  Did I protect them so much that they now don’t trust their own sense of self?  They are each of them, such perfect, beautiful individuals with much to contribute to the world.

The question is, can I let go.  Can I trust that they will each, in their own way, grow and learn and become… who they want to be, regardless of my fumbling parenting attempt?  Can I now find the freedom to live in peace, knowing that my children are a product of love, that we all grow up in less than perfect situations and that we all have to grow from wherever our starting place is…

If I could rewrite my story…. my parenting… my children’s lives… from conception to now…. I would love more and worry less.  I would allow for more spontaneous outbursts.  I would allow for conflict.  Growing up with constant conflict, with yelling and anger, I vowed that my children would never have to live in such a situation.  But… did I teach them that conflict was bad… that you should do anything to avoid conflict?  

As a sixty year old… I am less afraid of conflict now.  I am less likely to run from it.  I know that I grow from conflict… I hope that my children do not need sixty years to learn this lesson, that I fear I didn’t teach them because I couldn’t –I didn’t know it yet.

I am freer today than I have ever been.  I am more able to deal with conflict--not perfectly and not always, but better able.  I know that I have grown the most when there has been conflict.  I am able to love myself more, to accept me as I am and know that I am okay just this way. 

I struggle every day with the choice to allow my children their own path.  I worry, I fear… and I work to let that go.  To know that their journey is starting where it starts and they have the choice to be a product of my parenting…. or to be who they choose to be today.  I hope they exercise that choice, that freedom.

It's All In The Details...

I walked into a painting class recently, a small class of only 10 people.  The teacher, who I hadn’t met before, came right up, introduced herself, gave me some directions and invited me to sit anywhere.  As I walked into this scenario, I noticed the teacher and I noticed what chairs were empty as I made a quick calculation about where to sit.  I took my coat off and said hi to the person immediately next to me and then started gathering my supplies as directed. 

After a good five minutes while I was gathering supplies, I suddenly heard a voice I recognized, looked down the table and there sat Beryl from my writing group.  I had walked right past her to get to my seat.  And she was seated facing the door I came in, so one might think I would noticed that person as I entered.  I noticed no one!  We were seated at a giant U shaped table and about twenty minutes into the class, the teacher asked us to introduce ourselves.  Sitting right across from me was Tarren, another person from my writing group. 

My writing group meets weekly and although we all don’t make it every single week, we all make most weeks.  I know these women.  I would recognize them anywhere.  How is it I can come into a group of only ten people and not pick out the people I recognize immediately?  This has got me thinking about my upbringing and who I was as a child.  I was a very shy child—I can hear you (who know me) laughing—but it’s true.  When I was out in the world I didn’t speak unless spoken to, I was terrified to start kindergarten and when we moved and I had to start eighth grade in a new school of strangers, I was so scared I vomited and my mom drove me to school—knowing it was a case of nerves, not a virus. 

Imagine this extremely shy girl in a big boisterous family of four boys and one sister, with a step father who yelled a lot and a mother who wasn’t home a lot.  As I look back on those days, I can remember the sensation of looking out at the world as if from inside a box with a slit for the eye hole.  I felt like I could see what was going on around me, but I wasn’t a part of it, I wasn’t engaged.  I think because the world was such a scary place for me, and because I was born into the family I was born into, I learned to be safe by staying out of the way and not being noticed—and I think, not noticing. 

My stepfather was not known for his parenting ability.  His tendency was to yell, to put down, to degrade.  To be fair, my sister and brother, who were his children, would give you a very different picture of him, but I have come to realize that he treated the four of us who were not his children very differently than he treated the two who were his children.  I think now that he was one of those people who could not love children who were not his own.  All four of us have similar stories of how he berated us, belittled us and in general made us all feel like we were just not good enough. For example, whenever he explained something to me, if I had a hard time understanding it, he would tell me to, “stop playing dumb.”  Well.  Let me tell you my reaction to that!  I of course, said nothing to him—but inside my head, I ranted!  I raved!  I told him I was NOT playing dumb.  I WAS dumb.  So there.  As you can imagine, growing up believing you are dumb is not a good place to start from. 

In order to not be a victim of his tirades, I said little, trying to be like the wall paper, there, but not noticed.   He made up nicknames, particularly for my brothers.  They were not nice, loving nicknames either.  They were names you would be ashamed of having your friends hear.  They were names that would make you feel bad about yourself.  I was a very empathetic child.  I would be so angry at my step dad for humiliating my brothers.  My impassioned diatribes would go on at length—though no one ever heard them.  For a short while I kept a diary and wrote them down, but I certainly never uttered a word aloud to anyone, and I kept that diary under lock and key.

So as I look back at my childhood, I guess it is not surprising that I could walk into a room of ten people and not notice the two I knew.  It didn’t pay to notice the hurtful, sad and degrading ways we were often treated as children, and it sure didn’t pay to be noticed.  I have long wondered if that is one of the reasons I now like to act.  I get so much positive attention for it—maybe it’s filling the empty spaces from my childhood.  The journey is long… and never ending… and I look to a future filled with more detail, and so, a more enriched life. 

Is a House a Home...?

What makes a home?  What makes a family?  Is the space more important or the people?  If you put the same family into a different house...is that home now? 

These are questions I have been contemplating.  The home my children grew up in is no longer my home.  I still have some financial interest in it... but it is not my home.  I will never live there again.  Currently, for a few months, I am in Florida... so is this condo my home?  What about my house in Corning... is that a home with no one living in it?

And really, what does make a house a home?  The stuff inside?  The memories associated with a particular place?  The people congregated there?  Seriously, I am interested in your view.  

When adult children come home for the holidays --are they coming "home?"  Even though they have their own homes?  How invested are you in your family of origin home?  

My brother and his wife live in the family home we grew up in.  A few years ago they updated the kitchen.  Read that, they totally changed the kitchen and it looks nothing like what we grew up in. It is their home now and I have my memories of growing up there; I don't need the actual house to own the memories.

I know a person who understands this better than anyone I know.  She is always willing to clean out, throw out, give away 'stuff.'  I think somehow she learned growing up that stuff is not the memory.  Stuff can easily be taken from you--a fire, a flood, financial problems.  But you still have your memories.  

And seriously, how much time should we be spending looking backwards anyway?  Shouldn't we be living in the present?  Looking towards the future?  Yes, we have some great memories that we don't want to forget.  Our past creates us--all of that programming is in us today.  Are we going to  stay stuck in the past?

I am not one of those people who talk about the "good old days."  I don't post things on facebook about how my childhood was so much better because I didn't have a cell phone.  My childhood was great.  My grandchildren, I am sure, will look back on their childhood and declare it just as wonderful--cell phones in hand since the age of two.

I want to propose something here.  

"I" am home.  I create the space that is home.  I, the mom.   I, the wife.  I, the single woman.  I have been creating 'home' since I first left the house I grew up in at eighteen.  I created a home in my college dorm, I created a home in my first apartment and in my first house.  I propose that home is wherever a person creates it.

My children were all born at home.  That house has long been sold to another family and my children haven't lived in it since they were quite small.  So, do my children still have a home?  I can remember leaving that house after it was sold.  There was a bit of nostalgia, a bit of sadness, but... I was moving into a bigger, better house!  How exciting!  I was looking to the future.  And to creating a new home in a new space.

When children grow up, move out, get a job and a house of their own, where is home then?  Is it in the new space they have created or in the past, the old house that they grew up in?

How much is invested in the old and how much is invested in the new?  It seems that when we move into a new space, we start creating that space into our home.  And yes, I certainly understand  a connection to the old.  I drive by the house my children were born in and get a slight tug at my heart every time. Not enough to cause pain, but just enough to relive some happy memories.  Do I want to go back there?  No.  Do I long to walk through it again? Not particularly.  I am happy enough with my memories, my photos and even some videos--though that was not as easy as it is today, so there are less of them.

When my mom was still alive and we would go back and visit the farm where I grew up, it was home, and it wasn't.  It was home because my mom was there--and where she was, was home--that space that is family, that is love, that is unconditional acceptance. But.  It was no longer my home.  It was family and togetherness and all the feelings of my family of origin that was important to me, that is true.  By then I had created my own home, that space that is where I felt safe and loved and accepted.   

My mom moved into a trailer on the farm near the end of her life. The family farmhouse became my brother's and his wife's.  It didn't matter, I now walked into the trailer like it was home, like I had always grown up there.  Because it was now 'home.'

So it all seems like an exercise in living in the present; in letting go of the past.  Home to me is where I am.  I create the space that is home, and in my role as 'mom' that means wherever I am, is where my kids home is too--whether they have ever lived there or not.  

I would like to redefine the term 'home.'  Home is a sense of belonging.  A place where one is sheltered, loved, accepted, and protected.

Maybe it all is neatly boiled down to the old adage...

"Home is Where the Heart Is."

Defining Moments...

Wow... Have I really lived sixty years and a day?  Amazing.  Amazing that my babies are all grown up now--one with her own babies.  Amazing that I have been married three times... Amazing that I lived in Westchester County--a stone's throw from NYC.  Amazing.  Or not.  Is it?  Or is it just a life, with the usual vagaries, the ups and downs and changes that we all go through.

My first day of kindergarden... I was terrified.  You may not believe this but I was painfully shy as a child, scared of everyone and everything.  I lived inside my head, looking out at the big scary world, watching, always watching.  My mother, in her usual no nonsense way, handed me over to the teacher and said, "Go on, you'll be fine."  She left me standing there crying with the teacher trying to comfort me.

Fourth grade, and a huge, terrifying male teacher, Mr. Ellenburger.  Oh my, stern of face and firm of character, the word about school was enough to make any child of my demeanor scared of him before even stepping through his door on the first day.  There was an African American girl sitting next to me right in the front row.  Now I had two things to be scared of--the teacher in the front of the room and this strange creature next to me.  I had never seen anyone who looked different from me.  She leaned over and asked me if we were supposed to have a certain book.  I was too scared to answer her; scared of the teacher who would yell at me for talking during class and scared of the girl because she was so alien.  Mr. Ellenburger came right over and yelled at ME for not helping the new girl in school --Says something about his character that I couldn't see as a child.

I was in 6th grade.  I had walked down my hill and up the next hill to meet some friends at the lake.  When I got there, only one other girl had arrived yet.  She started asking me if I liked Debbie better than her.  She started pushing me on the shoulder and taunting me, "You better not like her better."  She was only at our school for that year--she was new to the area and no one had ever bullied me--or anyone that I saw, before this.  I was terrified.  I capitulated and agreed that she was my best friend and I couldn't stand Debbie.  I am sorry Debbie, I just did not have the moral fortitude to stand up to Sandy, but I always did like you better.

When I was nineteen I dated a man who was 5 years older and not in school.  He would pick me up after work and already be smoking a joint in the car.  After a month or so of dating I finally realized this guy was never not stoned.  He smoked when he woke up, on his breaks at work, on his lunch hour and immediately after work.  He was a big talker who had big plans and was going no where fast.  I broke up with him, gave away my little bag of weed and never smoked a joint again.  I was not following him down that path.

When I was twenty, I was in a very low spot in life.  One night I sat crying somewhere near the Miami River, and a police officer stopped and talked to me.  He thought I was there to commit suicide.  I wasn't, but he couldn't know that.  The fact that he talked to me for twenty minutes or so, gave me his phone number and encouraged me to find help, was enough.  Someone cared. I made changes and became happy again.

I met my first husband when I was almost twenty-one.   Even though the relationship was not to last, it changed me and helped me to become who I am today.  I learned to value myself from him.  He helped me to discover that I could choose my life, rather than just be pushed around by life, reacting to the events that occurred. 

When I was in my twenties, I walked into a small health food store I had been frequenting regularly and the owner was there sitting on the counter, crying softly.  I hadn't really connected to her before that, but in that one moment, we did connect and I am forever changed by this relationship.  She was my first true woman friend.  And she has inspired me, prodded me, enhanced me in myriad ways.  I am not who I was before I met her. 

I had my first baby in my twenties.  It was 2 am and I was suddenly awakened wracked with pain, I thought I was going to die.  My husband was sleeping, not for long though, as I couldn't do this alone.  Sixteen hours later my baby girl lay in my arms, looking straight into my eyes, my heart... my soul.

In my thirties I argued with my second husband incessantly, "Let me get two words out before you correct EVERYTHING I say!"  We finally came to an agreement--he would choose one thing and ONLY correct that until I had it, and then he would go on to something else.  An English teacher with a very limited ability to let poor English go by uncorrected, he helped me become the writer I am today.

Three more babies were born when I was in my thirties.  It was a time focused on children with little time for anything else.  If my kids felt smothered by me, it was because I was so worried about being like my mom.  I wanted to be there for my kids in a way my mother couldn't.  I worried about the impact of every single word that passed through these lips.  I read books, I joined mothers groups, I led discussions about parenting, I taught classes. I know I smothered.

One of my children went through some very hard times when I was in my thirties.  I spent years crying, worrying, feeling helpless.  I knew this child would grow up to be an amazing and strong individual and I clung to that hope as if to a life preserver.  I knew that I did not know how to parent this child... but I kept trying and I loved.  Sometimes that was all I could hold on to.  I love you child.   

There are actually people in the world who would come to me for parenting advice when I was in my forties.  Yes, I can hear all of my children laughing out loud right now, but its true.  Some people actually thought I was a model parent.  My children and I know better.

I started to realize just how much I was like my mother when I was in my forties.  I had tried so hard not to be her and now I found without even noticing... I had slid into her shoes and they fit so well I didn't even notice I was wearing them for years.

Work. Work. Work.  In my forties and into my fifties I was a workaholic.  Oh so much like my mother; hiding in my work, finding self worth in my work.  Things were not good on the home front--but they were great at work.  So I stayed at work.

Pain.  Hurt.  Secrets.  Like my mother, I didn't talk about any of it.  I held it in.  I kept the secret.  I didn't even tell my best friend.  The fifties were a kind of fraudulent time for me.  I looked happy.  I smiled in photos.  But I was desperately unhappy.  I became stuck emotionally, spiritually, secretly.

In my fifties I learned that to keep growing I had to open up to possibilities.  I learned to speak my truth.  I learned not to keep secrets.  I learned to be willing to take emotional risks.  Very scary stuff.  But I did it.  And I blossomed. No more secrets.

I learned how to choose a mate successfully in my fifties.  It only took two practice husbands to get it right.  I learned to love, to give, to consider, to be thoughtful.  I learned the more love I give, the more love I get.

I met my third husband in my mid-fifties.  We connected instantly.  But I was wary.  I had a list, a list of attributes my next partner must have.  He did.  We did.  Happy-Happy-Happy.  Happy ever after?  Who knows.  But I know that I will only be around as long as it is working.  No pain, no hurt, no secrets are worth giving up my own happiness.

I moved to Westchester County in my fifties.  Only a stone’s throw from NYC.  At first I was on this great adventure… but reality soon set in.  I couldn’t be a wuss and survive.  I had to man up.  Or woman up.  On my way to the grocery store I saw two men –older men—well dressed, get out of their cars and start fighting.  Yes, really hitting each other!  I couldn’t believe it.  I turned around, went home and stayed inside the rest of the day.  I couldn’t even go shopping safely.  I learned to not watch the news at night.  Every single night there were murders and robberies and people hurting people.  It threw me right into fear.  I could not live in Bronxville, NY and be happy while constantly being in a state of fear. I learned that there really are geographical places that suit a person better than others and that I needed to find my place.

And now.... here I am at sixty.  It is hard to imagine I am really here.  Better sixty than not though, right?  Sixty seemed so old when I was in my twenties.  It seems so young now.  When I am talking to people in their thirties, I have to remind myself that we are not the same age... I forget. I wonder if that is early Alzheimer’s... 

It has long been my goal to live to be one hundred and twenty five years old.  Only sixty five to go.  I hope medical science keeps up.

Heidi

“Mommy!  It’s too hot.”  I need something.  I need a COLD something.  MOMMY!  ARE YOU LISTENING?”

“Vanessa, please!  I am trying to read.” 

“But Mommy, aren’t you hot?”

“I am hot, but I have to finish this homework, please go find something to do.”

Vanessa stomped off, with a big pout on her mouth which she made sure her mother couldn’t see.  She knew her mother would just make a comment like, “oh, what a nice new shelf we have in the house, here I’ll set my coffee cup on it.”  She wasn’t in the least sympathetic.

Vanessa wandered around the apartment.  She wandered around the back yard.  She wandered upstairs to her bedroom.  There was just nowhere that was not stifling hot! 

Vanessa tried drawing with her crayons, but it was so hot they stuck to her fingers and just felt… well, sticky.

Vanessa tried playing the piano, but her mom yelled at her to be quiet as she had to concentrate.  “Humph.”  Vanessa stalked away from the piano and went to the book shelf.  She pulled out a book to read, it was all about the ocean and a rainbow fish.  Vanessa couldn’t read very well yet, but she had memorized this book so she looked like she was reading it, and she felt like she was reading it, even though she could only read certain words. 

But it was making her hotter to read about the ocean—everything looked so cool there with the waves and the breeze… and then she had an idea that she knew would cool her off!

She needed to get her mother’s attention.  She needed to get her attention right now!

“MOMMY!  I know just what to do so we can both be cool while you study!”

“Alright, what is it, but be quick, I have to finish this today. “  Mommy didn’t even look up when she spoke and Vanessa knew she hadn’t gotten her attention yet.  Vanessa stood there with her little fists on her hips and a frown on her face.  Mommy didn’t even notice. 

“Mommy.  I am so hot I am going to faint.  I am hotter than the sun.  I am hotter than the BBQ grill.  I am hotter than the inside of the oven….”  Vanessa waited.  Mommy still didn’t look up. 

“Ummm” said mommy.

“AND I THINK YOU ARE TOO!” Yelled Vanessa at the top of her lungs.

“Vanessa Dawn!  Don’t you yell at me like that!  (Now she had mommy’s attention.)

“Mommy, you always tell me it’s not polite to ignore you and you are ignoring me so I HAD to yell to get your attention.”

“Well.  You have one minute, and then I am going back to work.  What is it that cannot wait.”

“Mommy, I know just how to cool us both off and I promise I won’t bug you all the rest of the day!  Let’s go to the lake!  You can work on your tablet in the grass and I can swim and you can even swim to take a break and cool off and you know it will be SO much cooler there.”

“Oh.”  Mommy looked thoughtful.  Vanessa looked hopeful.  Vanessa waited.  She waited some more.  Mommy still looked thoughtful. 

“Please Mommy.  Please?”

Mommy took a big breath.  “You are right.  What are we doing sitting in this hot sticky apartment when we can be sitting by the lake?  Get your swimsuit on and I’ll pack a lunch.”

“Yippee!  Thank you mommy!  Thank you, thank you!” Vanessa yelled as she flew upstairs to get her swimsuit.  It didn’t take long for both of them to pile into the car and be on the road.  In a half hour they were pulling up to the parking lot at Big Pond.  Vanessa thought calling the lake, ‘Big Pond,’ was hilarious, as obviously it was too big to be a pond and really, Mommy had told her, it’s name was Lake Ondawa, which was an Indian name anyway.  Vanessa thought that was a much better name AND it was more fun to say than “Big Pond.”

Mommy rolled out their blanket and got out their basket of food.  Vanessa ran down to the lake for a cool off dip before she ate, while Mommy got everything ready.  Just as Vanessa ran back to the blanket, a roll-y poll-y ball of fur ran up to her and started jumping and yipping and falling backwards and then jumping up and doing it again.  Vanessa ran around in circles and called out, “what a cute puppy!” 

“Why don’t you take her back to those nice people over there, I think she belongs to them.  Then we can eat our lunch.”

Vanessa scooped up the little puppy and took her back to her owners and came back and sat down on the blanket.  “That poor puppy doesn’t even have a name yet.  If she were my puppy I’d name her Cinderella.  When can we get a dog mommy?  I really want one and you said someday I can have one.  Wasn’t that puppy just so cute?”

“Here is your sandwich honey.   Let’s have our lunch, you must be starving.”  Mommy had a way of ignoring things she didn’t want to talk about.  As Mommy was handing Vanessa her sandwich, the puppy ran back to their blanket and was sniffing and yipping and jumping all over Vanessa’s lap. Vanessa held her sandwich over her head.

“Can I give her a piece of my sandwich mommy?” 

“You will have to ask her owners, it’s their dog.” 

“Hey!  Can your puppy have some of my chicken sandwich?” Vanessa yelled over. 

Mommy gave her ‘the look’ and Vanessa knew she shouldn’t have yelled, it wasn’t polite.  But the people yelled back, “sure, she would love a treat!” so it seemed ok to Vanessa— at least the other people thought it was ok to yell.

The puppy kept wandering back and forth between Vanessa’s blanket and their blanket all afternoon while Mommy worked on her tablet and Vanessa splashed in the water.  Sometimes the puppy splashed with her—Vanessa liked that best of all.

Vanessa ran up from the water’s edge and threw herself on the blanket.  The puppy looked over and then ran to Vanessa and gave her puppy kisses all over her face.  Vanessa couldn’t stop laughing.  The owners walked over and Mommy said, “I hope we haven’t monopolized your puppy too much, but my daughter did have a good time with her.  Thank you for sharing her.”

 

“Well actually, we came over to say hi.  And to tell you we have six more of these little critters at home and are looking to find good homes for them.  Your daughter looks like she really enjoys this one.  Would you like to take her home with you?”

Mommy just sat there with her mouth open.  Vanessa didn’t.  “PLEASE MOMMY?  PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE?  I PROMISE I’LL TAKE ALL THE CARE OF HER.  I PROMISE. I PROMISE.  PLEASE?”

“Well, I… uh… well, we have talked about getting a dog.  And you are four years old now.  Do you think you could remember to feed her?”

“Oh, Mommy.  You know I would!  Thank you mommy, thank you so much!  It’s all I’ve wanted for a long time!”  Vanessa was hopping up and down and could barely contain herself.

“Now wait, we don’t have all the details worked out yet.” Mommy said to Vanessa.  She turned to the nice couple, “How much do you want for her?”

“Oh we don’t want any money!  We just want her to go to a good home and we can see that you two love her and will take good care of her.”

“OH we will take the BEST care of her,” said Vanessa with such conviction all the adults laughed.

“What will you name her,” asked Mommy.

“Hmmmm… Cinderella?  Or Maid Marion?  Or…Snow White?”  Mused Vanessa. 

“Well,” said Mommy, “she isn’t very white—more like a light tan, so Snow white doesn’t seem right, and Maid Marion and Cinderella are quite a mouthful for a little puppy.  Any other ideas?”

“Ummmm….I know, from my MOST favorite book—we’ll call her Heidi!”

At that, Heidi jumped up and wagged her tail so hard she fell over!  She seemed to be in agreement that this was the perfect name for her.  The nice people kissed Heidi goodbye and Vanessa and Mommy and Heidi packed up to make a trip to the store to buy Heidi everything she would need in her new home.  Vanessa held Heidi on her lap and thought that this hot, hot day had turned out to be the best day of her whole life.

  

Izzy’s Almost Dream Come True

This is a fictionalized account of a true story that happened to me... way back when... written as a children's picture book.  If you read this to your children--let me know how they like it!

Izzy’s Almost Dream Come True

“Everyone get ready, we’re going to Eldridge Park!” Mom yelled.  She had to yell because the four boys always yelled and if you wanted to be heard by them, you had to yell louder.  “Get dressed and Izzy, remember your shoes!” she reminded Izzy. 

Izzy was the middle child, tall, for six years old, and skinny and she HATED to wear shoes.  Her little sister was just three and her baby brother was just a toddler but he had already learned how to be a boy which meant yell a lot and run everywhere. She also had another younger brother and two older brothers.  As you can see, this is a LOT of brothers, too many really, in Izzy’s opinion.

This day was going to be glorious.  Eldridge Park!  The merry-go-round!  The bumper cars!  Best of all… ponies!  Izzy couldn’t wait to ride the ponies!  Her first word as a baby was “sorsey.”  She wanted a horse so bad she could taste it.  She wanted a horse so bad it was all she talked about.  She read books about horses and dreamed about horses and just knew that someday she would have her very own horse.

Mom packed a lunch for everyone.  This was a huge undertaking because the boys ate like they were never going to see food again.  She took two whole loaves of Wonder bread and started slathering peanut butter on one slice and grape jelly on the other and slapping them together and putting them right back in the bread bag they came out of.  When she was done it didn’t even look like she had opened the bread bag yet—it just looked like a loaf of bread.  The she grabbed a bag of apples and another of oranges and put that in the basket along with a gallon of Koolaide—orange, two bags of potato chips, some paper plates, cups and napkins and we were ready to go!

Dad put the top down on the old blue Packard.  It was the most divine bluish-green color—Izzy’s favorite color in her box of crayons- aquamarine.  The seats were like a great big old sofa.  They were huge and cushy and there were no seat belts back then—can you imagine that?  (I’m sure it wasn’t very safe.) There was no center console for water bottles—there weren’t even water bottles, and mom and dad who drank coffee all day never even thought of taking coffee with them wherever they went, so I guess you didn’t really need the center console anyway.  Weird, huh?

You could squash as many people as you wanted in that car.  The three bigger boys scrambled into the back seat with Izzy and her sister and the baby squished in the front seat between mom and dad and they were off!

It took forever to get to Elmira and then to go under the big black tunnel and when we came out of the tunnel—there was Eldridge Park!  Dad parked the car, mom handed each of us two dollars for rides and as everyone started to scatter… Mom yelled, “Be back at twelve for lunch!” 

Izzy ran straight towards the pony ride and stopped short.  She thought she was seeing a vision, the sun was shining down on the most beautiful white pony standing there tied to a tree with a ‘for sale’ sign tacked to the tree.  She approached the pony slowly, holding out her hand so he would know she was a friend.  She couldn’t believe it.  This was the perfect horse for her, just her size, pure white like a fairy tale horse, and so sweet and gentle. She petted him and told him how beautiful he was and wished she had a carrot for him. 

Izzy shyly went up to the man sitting by the pony ride.  He was sort of scary looking, with a grizzled grey beard and a baseball hat on and he just looked sort of mean.  Izzy was not going to be scared away by him though.  She asked, “What’s the pony’s name?”   

 “Snowball,” he answered gruffly.  Then he said, “you lookin’ to buy a pony?”

“Oh, I AM!” exclaimed Izzy.  “I really am!  How much is he?”

“A hundred dollars, but for you I might go a little less,” he said and he sort of smiled.  Maybe he wasn’t really so mean… “Ya better ask yur dad and ma before we seal the deal though.”

Izzy turned around and ran.  She ran as fast as her legs could carry her all the way back to the picnic area.  She felt like she was flying, she couldn’t believe it, a pony, oooh boy!  This was HER horse she could just feel it.  This is what she had been dreaming about forever!  Her very own horse.  Oh please oh please oh please let her mom say yes.  She ran and ran.

“MOM!”  She yelled as she skidded into the picnic table.  “Mom!”  She was breathing so hard from all that running she couldn’t even talk!

“Slow down now,” said her mother.  “What is it?  Is everything ok?”

Izzy took a big breath, “Mom, there’s this perfect white pony for sale and it’s only a hundred dollars though the man said he would let me have it for less and maybe only eighty dollars I think and I could work it off and it’s the most beautiful pony and his name is Snowball and please please please can we buy it?  PLEASE???”

“Oh Izzy...” began her mom.

“Mom, just come see him, he’s so perfect for me,” and Izzy dragged at her mom’s hand and pulled her towards the pony ride.

“Now Izzy, I’ll come look but you know we don’t have anywhere to keep a pony.”  Izzy kept pulling her mom towards the pony ride and soon they were standing right in front of Snowball. 

“See!”  Izzy could barely contain her excitement.  Every nerve in her body was shivering with excitement.  A pony!  A real live pony!  She just had to have him!  She knew she could earn a hundred dollars if she put her mind to it—or maybe only eighty.  She would do anything. 

Mom stroked the pony’s head.  She look at her daughter.  She knew how much Izzy wanted a horse.  It was all she talked about. 

“You interested m’am? I might could do better than a hundred” said the old man.  And mom just looked at him and then at Izzy and then back at him.

“Oh please mom? I’ll totally take care of him, you won’t have to do a thing, I’ll brush him and ride him and do everything!”

Mom looked at Izzy with a funny look.  “Come on, let’s talk about it.”  She started walking back to the picnic area.  “”first of all, how will we get him home? We don’t even have a horse trailer.”

“He could ride in the back seat with me, I could just sit Indian style and he could stand right there!  He would fit, I know he would!”

“And what about a barn?  We don’t have a barn for him.”

“Couldn’t dad build him a barn?  Dad can build anything!”  Izzy was starting to get alarmed.  “Oh Mommy, I just HAVE to have this horse.  PLEASE!”  Izzy felt desperate.

“I’m sorry honey.  It’s just not the right time.  Someday we will have a place where we can have a horse, but our yard is not big enough for a horse, or even a pony and we don’t have a horse trailer or a barn.” Mom looked as sad as Izzy felt, but Izzy couldn’t see that.

Izzy felt a hard lump rise into her throat.  She felt hot and tight and ready to cry.  “I have to have a horse mom.  I just have to.” She said shakily.  

Izzy slumped away, tears sliding silently down her cheeks, her hands jammed in her pockets.  She felt the two dollars her mom had given her for rides crumpled up in the bottom of her pocket and decided she didn’t need to ride the merry-go-round after all, this would be the beginning.  “I will get a horse, I will get a horse, I will.” 

And she knew in her bones, that someday, somehow, she would have a horse of her very own.