...I Got You, Babe...

Here's a toast to the future

A sigh for the past

We can love and remember

And hope to the last.

And for all the base lies

That the Almanacs hold

While there's love in the heart,

We can never grow old.

~Unknown

Forty years ago today, the final preparations were being made for the wedding that will take place in four short weeks. With time running out, my parents and my new in-laws were still disagreeing about the reception and where it would take place, the food that would be served, and the guests who were to be invited. Every day I sewed pearls and sequence on the wedding dress and veil my mother made for me. Many things crossed my mind during the time I hand sewed the details on my dress. It would have been so easy to elope like we planned and save everyone, including us a lot of headaches, bickering, and the financial obligations of having a wedding. Getting married and vowing to spend a lifetime with someone, for better or worse, is a tall order for two kids who just finished high school. The decision wore at me until I panicked. Four weeks to the big day, time demanded I confront those fears with the dark haired boy sitting next to me in the dining room of our first home. My mind wasn’t on the task of tediously addressing invitations. With every envelope I sealed, I felt myself becoming more stressed. I wrung my hands under the table trying to hide my nervousness and like someone possessed, the words poured out of my mouth, “I don’t think I can do this.” “Do what?” he asked. “Marry you,” I blurted staring out the window. The announcement was cold and unfeeling and it was too late to take it back.

The silence was overwhelming in that small dining room. I felt as though the ice green walls were going to smother me for breaking his heart. In my mind, marriage was supposed to last forever, when you agree to “until death do you part.” You accepted each other’s weaknesses and imperfections, and all the good and bad times that were part of the pact. Not only was it my religious beliefs, but also the way it’s supposed to be when two people truly pledge their love for one another. Forever is eternity. I just wasn’t sure at that very moment I could make that promise, or if I would, or wanted to be his forever. I told him what I had been hashing over in my mind and the fear and confusion I felt making a lifetime commitment.

The warmth of his hands eventually broke the surreal moment as he reached for mine and held them tight within his. Tears streaked his young face as he professed his love for me. He told me he had loved me from the first time he laid eyes on me. He told me what was in his heart. At that very moment, sitting at our small second hand dining room table, I really looked into his eyes and saw into his heart. I knew I loved him more than life and made the decision to be with him and to never look back. Oh, once in a while I wonder what would have happened if he took his love that day and walked away. I also wondered how that split second in time would have defined the rest of our lives. But...this is not a story of how life went on and we lived happily ever after. It’s not about the birth of our children nor is it about the deaths of our loved ones. It's not about the joy and heartbreak a couple endures.  It’s not about our spirituality or the possessions we own. It’s not about trust, honesty and compatibility. It’s as simple as seeing the look of pure love in someone’s eyes. The unspoken words that the eyes reveal when they tell you are the love of their life that you always was, and always will be.  It's the gel that meshes two people together...

One of our favorite things to do for the past 40 years is to scour for antiquities of the distant past and to find that one of a kind something that had meaning to each of us even if it meant digging, dragging, and hauling it from different areas of the country. One of our many shared interests has always been music and its many genres. More specifically, we love old gramophones, or as they are referred in general, the old talking machines. We have found many through the years but not one that had heart.

A few weeks ago, we happened to be browsing a shop we hadn’t frequented in quite a while. I usually go my way and my husband goes his, both of us searching to acquire a lost treasure. I already made my way to the farthest end of the shop and was peacefully browsing for some of the things I collect, when my husband comes around the corner, grabs my hand, and drags me with him to the opposite side of the store. “Why can’t it wait until I got done looking?” I protested. “It can wait,” he said. “What I need to show you can’t. You have to see what I found.” Well, you guessed it, my curiosity was peaked!

After practically dragging me to the farthest corner of the shop, there stood a beautiful mahogany sideboard hidden behind a montage of items. “What do you think?” he asked after he zigzagged through the maze and stood beside it. “Beautiful,” I replied. Indeed, it was a beautiful piece of furniture but I wasn’t sure if I needed something that ornate. He flashed me that devilish boyish grin that makes me melt and says, “Wait there’s more.” He revealed the cabinet had three compartments, and the one on the right was a phonograph. “And…it works!” He cranked the handle, placed the arm on the record he had waiting on the turntable, and the scratchy sound of Ethel Waters singing Stormy Weather began to play. Tears welled in my eyes and what I refer to as, “that mushy look” washed all over his face. When our eyes met, we both knew it was ours. “Do you think the records come with it?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders and before he could answer, I hurried to the counter to inquire about it. The answer was “yes.” When I returned to my excited spouse, he was closely examining the cabinet and the phonograph components. “Not only is this solid mahogany, it is hand carved. Look here, you can see a few chisel marks…” he pointed out. I ran my fingers over the cabinet’s detail as another record played. I didn’t have to say I wanted or needed it when he whispered, “Happy Anniversary.” I was given the Hope Diamond of record players to commemorate forty years of an ongoing hunt.

So, here it is...the new addition to our home, a Meteor, The Star Of The Talking Machines. We brought it home last Saturday with its original finish and placed it in its special place. Upon picking it up, the owner of the antique shop told us there were two owners of the phonograph, the woman who originally purchased it est. 1905, and her nephew who inherited it. His aunt would be pleased to know we've been having a wonderful time playing the old 78's to the flicker of candlelight in the evenings. It will take a while to play all 150 of them...Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, George Gershwin, Jimmy Dorsey, Ozzie Nelson collections along with some children’s stories and early country and jazz. Al Jolson, Ben Bernie, Paul Whiteman, and a few Enrico Caruso songs also grace this stack of vintage records.

I know “Auntie” will be smiling down on us this coming June 24th. We will be dancing cheek to cheek like we did years ago in the high school gym. The Peerless Quartet will be singing Let Me Call You Sweetheart, and we will be momentarily lost in time. Sometime during that sublime moment, we’ll tip our wedding glasses filled with a soft red wine, we will toast to the here, the now, and to our future, and hope that the warmth of our affections survive the frosts of old age…  

...Remembering Opal...

“The common fallacy among women is that simply having children makes one a mother…which is as absurd as believing that having a piano makes one a musician.”


On this Mother’s Day, I would like to pay tribute to another woman who was a significant part of my life. She was a mother to me for another twenty-three years after my own mother passed away. My first, and most prominent memory was when I was about to become a member of the Sharpe family as their daughter-in-love, not just an ordinary daughter-in-law. Mom Sharpe made it very clear when I married her son, that I was every bit a daughter in their eyes, and in their hearts.   

Opal was the youngest of eight children and didn’t grow up with many luxuries. Her parents were farmers, as were her grandparents. They nurtured their family on the values of selflessness, generosity over materialism and modesty over conceit, and she raised her children in the same manner. Growing up, her family lived off the fruits of the land, and enjoyed the splendor of life one day at a time.

When I think of my dear friend and “Mom,” floods of memories fill my mind. Endless conversations, filled with laughter and tears, special moments shared over hundreds of pots of our favorite beverage, coffee. I often thought she was trying to fatten me up by the number of times we used to sneak off for ice cream during the hot summer afternoons following our marriage. She mentioned it was a good excuse to leave a hot steamy laundromat while the clothes were in the dryer, and I couldn’t have agreed more.

I am reminded of her generous nature and her giving heart when our family went through some tough times. I loved her sense of humor and admired her for never giving it up at the end. Opal’s laugh was infectious, I never knew another woman who enjoyed a good practical joke as much as she. Just thinking about some of the pranks we pulled on her makes me smile.

Mom Sharpe took with her, stories we have not heard, or secrets we may not have discovered. How can I do justice to the task of packing a lifetime into a few words? I can’t. Not any more than I can write about my own mother in a few paragraphs.

Each one of us is put on earth to learn, share, love, appreciate, and give of ourselves. None of us knows when this fantastic experience will end. Perhaps, knowing such wonderful people in our lives is God’s way of telling us that we must make the most out of every single day as Opal, my mother-in-love did. Remembering is all that any of us can do, and the way I remember her is the way she will continue to exist in my world.

I welcome the course ahead because I had help getting here from a few amazing women. For if I have learned nothing else, it is that the journey will always be unfinished.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Opal Sharpe

1924 - 2004

...Beer Blog...

“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.” ~Oliver Goldsmith

I recently told my friend I had so many things I could blog about, but deciding what the day’s subject would be is another toss of the coin. I could write about my ongoing fight with depression, but not today. Today the sun is shining, I feel fulfilled in my life and good about my mental and physical state. Don’t mess with karma, right? I could write about completing my first novel, and how I am letting it rest patiently in a drawer, so I can look at it with fresh eyes one day soon, but not today. I mentioned to her that I enjoy being a homebody, working in my yard, planting, mowing, and doing all the things it takes to keep a presentable landscape. You know how it is keeping up with the Jones’s and their professionally manicured yard…it’s grueling!

After much consideration and a smile on my face, I decided to write about beer. Yes, beer! I came from a long family line who enjoyed the golden concoction, most everyone that is, except me. With the popularity of new brewing companies popping up in every town, I have succumbed to the substance every Irish pub serves an abundance of, or a proper polka party can’t do without. It hooked me on one blistering Saturday afternoon, and if I remember right, it happened something like this… We, (as in my spouse and I) were hauling and placing new mulch about our shrubs since well before noon. The sun, the heat, and the high humidity made it hotter than Dutch love in a sauna. My partner in crime disappeared into the house and when he came out, he had a small cooler filled with ice and a several beers. I have to confess, it was difficult not to turn down a cold one, especially when the liquid is enticing me through a frosty mug right out of the freezer, “Drink me, you know you want to!” Ugghhh! I took the offered beverage, downed over half of it before it began to quench my thirst. Yes, I had been seduced, and I liked it. I liked it so much that day I had several more while spreading mulch (I think I used the excuse I was sweating it all out).

I know our taste for different substances change as we age, but never would anyone ever hear that I actually liked the taste of beer, let alone ask for one. My sister-in-law once told me I must not be a true LaRocque because I didn’t like beer and can become inebriated sipping “sissy wine.” (Please, give me a break…yes, she was laughing when I tripped going up the stairs to bed!) That sweltering Saturday last August marked the day I drank more than one golden elixir, the day was perfect, the company was first-rate, and I never went beyond acting silly. All this is coming from the girl who usually gets dizzy sniffing bottle caps!

I will never be a beer connoisseur, nor do I want to be. The summer afternoon I mentioned happened only once, but there is another hot summer day that comes in at a close second. (Oops, I shouldn’t have let that slip out!) If there happened to be contest among family members for burp talking then maybe I’d consider drinking it more often (probably not). My family gets a kick when I let my hair down, for them, it’s a rare sight to see me dance on the table (figure of speech)…but, I assure you, I don’t or have ever participated in a public hooley (at least I don’t remember)! If you’re wondering if I’m drinking a beer right now, I’m not. Geez, I hope you’re not getting the wrong impression of me! But, come to think about it, I think I have to finish up a few things out back!

When I think of beer on a warm summer’s day I can’t help but think of the fond memories I have of my dad, sipping on a Stroh’s longneck and listening to Tiger baseball on a transistor radio. He loved baseball, and as I recall, he never attended a professional game. Here’s the setting at our house for Game 7 of the 1968 World Series. My family gathered to watch the pitcher’s duel, Detroit’s pitcher Mickey Lolich, and St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Bob Gibson were both dominating the mound, both keeping their teams in the Series. Only one would win the duel and the Series. The Tigers had already been victimized by Gibson twice, striking out a Series record 17 times in Game 1, and managing only one run on five hits in Game 4. Lolich had already won two games in the Series himself and it was doubtful he was up to the challenge of taking on Gibson in Game 7. Lolich spun a gem, with only a ninth-inning homer by Mike Shannon spoiling his shutout as the Tigers won the World Series in seven games. It was a grand day even for me to see the Tigers win the Pennant, fresh beers for everyone and my dad’s famous hamburgers were part of that celebration. Summer, baseball, swimming at the lake, hamburgers, hotdogs, backyard games, and picnics were some of the best memories I have associated with the certified beer drinkers, I call family.

We recently went to dinner with another avid beer drinker and his lovely wife at one of the local brewing companies I spoke of earlier. He swirls his beer in his mug, examining the color and the aroma, while we all roll our eyes. Then in an English theatrical sort of way, he states (I’m going to adlib here) that good beers are powerful in an obvious, nose-punching way, but the best beers rely on the subtle subversions of the norm for their strength. The discerning public seeks it out, they consume it, they let its flavors coat their palates and its essence infiltrate their souls. They ponder, and move on to the next in an eternal cycle, which to the outsider appears intimidating at best and inane at worst, but to the connoisseur it is simply glorious. Each cycle presents fresh insights, a new chance to observe the majesty of creation and the beauty of innovation. Yes, our friend is a bit of a diva…sorry son, we love you and know you’re only searching for the perfect beer!

My dad’s birthday is May 8th, if he were alive, today he would be 105 years old, and if he saw me with a longneck in my hand he would smile and nod and never question my new acquired taste. We both would silently relish the memory when he saved a sip of the frothy substance at the bottom of the bottle for me when I was young, like he did with the rest of my older siblings. I didn’t like the taste then, but I was delighted in the moment he and I shared.

So in retrospect, if I could go back in time, I would want it to be in our old Detroit home.  I would be an adult, not the fifteen year old I was when we moved.  The soft breeze through the bay window carries the scent of freshly mowed grass into the room.  I would be sitting across from my dad at the 50’s style red and gray kitchen table anxious to grant him my birthday wish.  I would proudly lift my amber bottle and tip it in a casual toast and say, “Here’s to you dad, I hope you don’t have any plans next weekend because I have two tickets to the Tiger's home game!  Happy Birthday!"

Raymond J. LaRocque May 8, 1907 - January 26, 1978