...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…  

...Who Is This Woman In The Mirror...a short story...

Who Is This Woman In The Mirror?

A Short Story By

Monica L. Sharpe

Six months ago, I forced myself to look into the mirror, focusing on the reflection of the precocious fifty-seven year old woman standing before it. I barely recognized her thin forced smile, heavy eyelids, and her hair streaked more with gray than her sassy dark auburn. They say you get the face you’ve earned by the time you’re fifty—all those regretful and angry expressions, hidden behind the artistry of makeup. It’s amazing how a little mascara and shadow masks the pain and hurt, while a dab of rosy pink blush camouflages the naked truth in a montage of endless miles.

I’ve been running away all my life. When I was six years old, I ran to a vacant lot—the only place I could be all by myself and contemplate my life as free as a butterfly. At seventeen, for no apparent reason I left home and hitchhiked as far as my thumb took me and became who I wanted to be. I tried to be my own person and thought it was deadly to be in the constraints which society held for teenage girls in the late 60’s. At fifty-four, I ran from another unfulfilled marriage and never looked back. Its no wonder all the term papers I wrote in college, the ones that remain tucked within my journals are those written about runaways. I gaze at this stranger before me, I look back and think; I’ll never be that way again.

It’s only been recently I came to know what I’m missing in my life and what I crave to have back. I want a true sense of balance that begins in my heart, an amalgamation of life experiences. This is what’s driving me to my future. I strive not to feel week and inferior and I selfishly desire more independence. I no longer want to keep up with the Jones’s who are keeping up with the Smith’s. I want a simple life with minimal complications.

I wake each day with self-determination, thirsting to make my way without needing or calling for help. I now struggle for autonomy and the rebirth of will. Every decade I live offered new leaps of faith and new challenges and as I near the threshold to the other side, always I strived to be me. With hard work and a strong will, I’ve conquered the past. Well, I thought I did, until I saw his smile again.

For the past six years, I have flown all over the country conducting seminars, attending retreats and lectures given by women for the aging female baby boomer generation. The majority of the women who attended were no longer satisfied with their careers, women who have been in long relationships who felt unappreciated and useless. Others were experiencing the empty nest blues, women who were seeking a higher calling and those who felt sexually undesirable.

I was one of those women. I fell into all of those categories at one degree or another, so did the majority of women who attended. We all needed something hotly cold to bite our souls while we longed for a new sense of being. Not only did we feel compelled to make a difference and prove we are still in some way independent of those who depended on us; we all secretly wanted to experience that little glimpse of youth that was rapidly slipping through our fingers.

My connecting flight to New York was delayed due to an ice storm in the Chicago area. An already exhausted airline attendant tried to joyfully announce the delay would be another six to seven hours, and that the airlines regretted the inconvenience. The ergonomics of the airport accommodations were already uncomfortable as I patiently sat for nearly three hours. Rather than sit here any longer listening to the rash of complaints from other passengers and tired fussy children, I thought about getting a room for the night at a nearby hotel and catch another flight early in the morning. If it wasn’t for the speech I was scheduled to give at a prestigious women’s club in New York tomorrow night, I might have spent another day or two basking in the Phoenix sun. Presently, I had no one to answer to and my independence allowed me to make that choice.

I collected my coat and briefcase and wearily shuffled to the airport lounge to make up my mind over a drink or two. The soft jazz playing was soothing and I had my pick of seating options. I chose a quiet table towards the back of the room overlooking the runway, hoping to review the speech I was going to give tomorrow night. I had the uncomfortable feeling I was being watched from the time I sat down. I looked up and over to my left, an attractive silver haired man was sitting at the end of the bar. He sat alone looking in my direction, nursing what was left of a mixed drink. His generous smile was familiar when he tipped his glass and affirmed my glance with a nod. I returned the smiled and went back to reviewing my notes. Occasionally I glanced his way, only to meet his equally puzzling expression. I was curiously preoccupied why he seemed so familiar, it was becoming impossible to concentrate on the speech I was putting the polishing touches on.

Unexpectedly, it was as if lightening struck, he crossed my mind. I hadn’t thought about him for years. I knew that smile. I would never forget it. That’s what gave him away. “Could it be?” I whispered. What are the chances we would meet in an airport more than thirty years later? Slim to none. But, it was him…I knew that smile…I looked into those soft soulful eyes too many times not to forget…I felt the pangs of my youth suddenly seize me in a flash of ecstasy when I reminisced about the boy I loved so long ago.

In a dam bursting instant, the past flooded my mind consuming every ounce of sanity I had left. Two things resonated in the back of my mind. Why didn’t I take the time to touch up my roots and the other was the little voice screaming, “Run, Theresa, run!” I mourned our bitter breakup for years and I often wondered what life would have been like if we married. I was infatuated—no, I was borderline obsessed with his memory and when the love affair ended, the “what ifs” always teetered on the edge of my mind. I imagined our life together and what our children would look like, if we had any. I wondered if he would make love to me, long after my hair turned gray and my breasts lost their firmness. I dreamt for the carefree days we shared and falling asleep in his arms for the rest of my life.

For more years than I care to admit, I rushed forward in a straight line, pushing onward never veering away from the path of rules set by other people—those rules against which I have measured myself. I never took the time to decipher where I was going—I just went without question. I never thought once to celebrate myself not even once—not after the birth of my children, not after nurturing them or helping shape their young lives. It occurred to me that I was always eager to applaud their accomplishments and yet I hardly noticed my own. I stood behind them and guided them as they matured into independent and responsible adults, taking pleasure in a job well done.

I did not take the time to grieve even after the hundreds of times I consoled others through loss or hard times. I did what was expected of a daughter, when my father passed away and six short months later, my father-in-law passed. I suppressed my grief to take care of two women, who like myself, never stood on their own two feet. More than thirty years have lapsed, I am now learning to grieve. I am the only woman I need to take care of.

I’ve taken that leap into uncertainty one too many times. The first monumental leap of my adult life was when I said, I do. I was afraid of indecision. I worried if this relationship would really last “till death do us part,” or would we tire of each other and move on separately in different directions. There were many times I leaped and fell flat on my face…starting one business then losing another. Going back to college in my thirties only to determine my career choice wasn’t what I wanted. I convinced myself, I will never know until I tried. I knew I didn’t want to reach retirement age with any more regrets and what ifs. In the words of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “There is no past we can bring back by longing for it. There is only an eternal now that builds and creates out of the past something new and better.” I have taken that quote to heart, focusing on the here and now.

I realized risks are attached to everything, even if I was afraid or never took that initial leap; they are lurking around the corner. I have learned that I will never be free to do as I please if I stayed with the familiar. I lived in an era where women emerged as freethinking individuals. We broke the mold of our mothers. We made love not war, we protested, burned our bras, and went full circle in our lives to an age we need to find our true selves once again. I struggled to take two steps forward. I cannot allow myself to fall behind even one small step over a man, who as a boy, left me behind dazed and confused while he ran as fast as the wind in the opposite direction.

I am now weakened by the image of his boyish smile and the fond memories. I know myself too well. With one beat of my heart, I would let myself fall for him again. I could easily relinquish my heart for an old familiar feeling, the desire of youthful passion, and the need to feel alive again. I spoke to numerous women how a fleeting moment of passion could change their life’s harmony, and how they should think before they dove head first into a situation. Now, what I am thinking. Look at what I’m lusting for. My fellow supporters would be so disappointed and give me the finger motion of shame.

“Look at you…is it really you?” he said. I was lost in a moment. I was taken aback when I heard his voice, “It is you.” I did not notice him leisurely make his way to my table. “May I sit with you?” I knew his voice. My memory didn’t falter. I motioned for him to join me. There was no need for introductions. We sat across from one another and stared into each other’s faces like we did at our favorite restaurant when we shared one milk shake with two straws. “Life sure has been good to you Theresa. You’re as beautiful as I remembered.” he said. I tried to hide my excitement behind the shy bashful smile he used to kid me about. “Wes, you look wonderful,” he took my hands in his. “The years have also been good to you.”

We pushed through the initial awkwardness of seeing one another. We remembered some old chemistry that made us gel, and a whole lot of hopeful projections about who we thought each other was to the other. We talked about our past, a time when there was a brief us. A time we were enveloped in the moment, oblivious to outside interference and scared of ourselves. His lips expressed words with smiles that stretched across his broad face ending in soft corners that I wanted to kiss for hours that night.

When the conversation ran its course and drifted back to our current lives, I inquired why he was in Arizona. Wes told me he was waiting for his wife’s connecting flight to arrive from Chicago. When he found out it would be delayed for several more hours he stopped to get a drink before driving back home to Sedona. Once expressed, that thought of ending the night unfulfilled, nearly brought a young wide-eyed plea to my now aging face. His own countenance was dropping from what was moments ago a laughing grin to the same sad resolve that tonight we would not have more than what we had already tasted of each other. We exchanged goodbye kisses and well wishes. My lost love was content and fulfilled with his life.

I watched from my lonely table for two, as his easy gait strolled through the glass doors, out of my life again. It was tempting to follow at a safe distance, and perhaps suggest we share a bite to eat. Instead, I stayed behind and waited till I knew he would safely be on his way. I hailed a cab to a nearby hotel and settled in for the evening.

I didn’t feel the wave of depression I expected. Instead of waking in a fetal ball of despair, I awoke and saw all the wondrous things my life had become, all the beautiful souls that shared a step with me on the mortal journey of this life, and I was amazed by it all. All the beauty, all the warm and lasting memories, never understanding that this wishful full life that I wanted is what I have been living all along, and sharing all the way. The complete happiness that seemed to elude me was mine all along. I dreamt of experiences that didn’t happen to me, yet it was my life and I did live it. I am not a better person, nor am I worse. I’m only different. I only needed to be awakened to know it.

I look at my reflection and know that certain life experiences left a mark on me. I see deep lines of hopeful projections, some fulfilled, and others not obtainable. I smiled at the familiar woman looking back at me. I no longer feel isolated in my own selfish thoughts, because many wonderful women have openly shared that I’m not swimming alone in a haze of ambiguity. Like women before me and around me—we have, and are being seasoned by life’s experiences.



"My Reel Christmas"

This time of the year, most of us can’t help feel a little melancholy. The Christmas season can be filled with parties and activities to celebrate with family and friends. For others it can be a time of sadness, loneliness, and anxiety about an uncertain future. During our lifetime, we have all experienced melancholy feelings during the holidays with the loss of family members, divorce, arguments and the stress of over extending your budget and the disappointment of unrealistic expectations that were envisioned for gift giving.

For many people my age and older, the mind's vision of a perfect holiday is portrayed in the paintings by Norman Rockwell, by showing the celebration of the American family with strong small town values. Streetlights illuminated the freshly fallen snow, every home beautifully decorated, dinner being prepared for a large family gathering, and warm embers glowing in the fireplace, while everyone gathered around the tree, singing, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

We didn’t have a Norman Rockwell Christmas, but it was close as it could be in my mind. Everyone on our street knew one another. Our elders were referred to as Mr. or Mrs., and it was rare when someone moved away. We didn’t have extravagant gifts that robbed our parent’s savings, but we had plenty of love, respect, and togetherness. My friends didn’t brag about what they got and no one seemed jealous that one of us got a toy the other one didn’t get. Those fond memories of my youth are magical, and when I close my eyes, I feel like a child again with the nervous anticipation every child feels on Christmas morning. I’d like to share one of those holiday memories that have been accepted for publication, entitled, “My Reel Christmas.”

Merry Christmas!

My Reel Christmas
By
Monica L. Sharpe
(Condensed Version)

The holidays spark wonderful memories of my childhood, especially the year my dad suffered his first heart attack. Christmas came five months after my father’s month stay in the hospital, and because his recovery was extensive, money was very tight that Christmas of nineteen fifty-eight. My two oldest brothers were in the service and three of us were still at home, me being the youngest of five children and the only girl. My parents made it their priority not to let any of us kids know how difficult their financial status was, so life went on as usual not noticing a little less food on the table or fewer outings.

The basement of the home I was raised in was converted into a comfortable family room. We all spent a great deal of time downstairs as a family watching television or playing games. The basement also had a combination laundry room and kitchen where my mother did her seasonal canning and baking. Mom took in ironing when I was young and generally had several large rolling laundry baskets piled high with clothing. When one of the baskets became empty, she would let me lay in it like a hammock and for a special treat as I laid there, she turned on the wire recorder so I could listen to the numerous old radio stories and songs she recorded when my older brothers were young. It fascinated me to watch the reels of wire turn and listen to the recordings of my grandfather playing his fiddle and sing, while mom and I chimed in and sang along as she ironed. My mother had a beautiful soprano voice. Anyone could single out the pure clarity of her voice in the church choir and know it was she.

When she needed a break from the ironing, she fixed our lunch and we would have our little “tea party” on the old oak table in the corner of the room. Only after we were finished with our little “party” did she provide the entertainment she so gladly promised, and I was delighted when she reached for her guitar to play for me.

The old Spanish guitar was my grandfather’s. The dark as ebony finish made you believe you were looking into an endless black gazing pool and if you touched it, your hand would truly become immersed in the wood.
Before she began to play, mom always closed her eyes as she lightly strummed the steel strings. She hummed the notes while she adjusted the tuning keys to make sure it was perfectly tuned to her ear and mind before she continued to play. In spite of the fact, my mother never learned to read music, she had a gift for creating her own melodies and lyrics. Some of these songs were silly juvenile ditties that made me laugh and dance; while others were so compellingly beautiful your senses were free to drift away. I was certain when I looked at her calm face, her thoughts did move her to another place as she became one with her instrument.

On this one particular snowy day, she encouraged me to sing-a-long more than usual to the songs that were so familiar to me, it didn’t seem to matter to her that loads of clothing were still needing to be ironed, she was thoroughly wrapped up in the special moment we were sharing. Like all good things, the concert had to come to an end. I climbed back into my basket hammock and listened to more stories on the wire recorder until they eventually lulled me to sleep and mother worked on her tasks.

I counted the days to Christmas and the only thing I asked Santa for that year was the red and white stuffed squirrel I saw at the big toy store downtown, and for my two oldest brothers to come home. In preparation for the holidays, mother let me help decorate cookies and mix the “secret” ingredients for all the traditional sweets she made only once a year. Two days before Christmas, a heavy snowstorm blew in and blanketed the city, nobody could get out.

Christmas Eve arrived, we still did not have our tree and my parents were encouraging me to go to bed early, when we heard some racket out on the front porch and someone started to pound loudly on the door. My mother opened the front door and started to cry with happiness, my brother Jerry was at the door in his Navy uniform, snow dusted his broad shoulders holding a Christmas tree, we had not seen him for two years. There really was a Santa, and one of my wishes really did come true.

We all gathered in the living room to decorate the beautiful pine tree with decorations that were handed down, reminiscent of Christmas’s past, and sipped steaming apple cider with cinnamon sticks. My brother Joe lifted me up to place the angel on the top of the tree, while my brother, Tom laughed when the pine needles pricked my arm. I sat on Joe’s shoulder staring in awe at the lit vision of love and promises. It was difficult to go to sleep that night, with every turn in bed I listened for any indication that Santa was coming, but eventually I succumbed to the nervous fatigue.

I awoke the next morning before dawn, and when I sat up, I squealed loud with delight. It was clear to everyone who heard me, Christmas Day and Santa was here. There sitting on the foot of my bed was the red and white stuffed squirrel, adorned with a big beautiful bow, the one I had admired and longed for, from the first time I laid my eyes upon it.

Under the tree were a couple of presents for all of us, and since the best was left on my bed, there was only one more for me to open. My mother handed me a small item wrapped in a white lace trimmed handkerchief tied with a scarlet satin ribbon. The message on the tag was written in gold ink, “To Mary, May this bring you the happiness you have given us.” signed “With Love, Mom & Dad.” I untied the ribbon and a reel of wire exposed itself to me. The look on my face must have showed my disappointment; because at that moment she went over to the wire recorder she brought up from the basement and I gladly handed the reel over hoping there was something else for me.

My dad picked me up sensing my disillusionment, sat me on his lap and told me to listen. The wire started to wind itself on the empty spool. First there was a little static, then silence and all of a sudden a strong voice boomed from the speakers, “Merry Christmas, Mary!” I leaped off my dad’s lap and jumped and clapped for joy. My brother, Jack who could not be home for the holidays called home from Korea and my mother recorded his voice over the phone sending his Christmas and New Years wishes for all. The rest of the recordings on the spool became my very own reel of memories of my parents and each one of my brothers expressing something personal to me. It’s the recordings of the day that took place only a couple weeks ago in my mind, when my mother and I sang and told stories to each other. The day I will hold forever in my heart when we were each other’s undivided audience of one.

Peace & Love...

Remembering Dad...

Remembering Dad With Love…
By Monica Sharpe

I could hardly wait until Daddy got home from work. Soon as my mother started to prepare dinner, I patiently waited, looking out the picture window when it was cold or rainy, or I sat on the front porch when it was warm. No matter how tired he was after working, he was never too tired to dance our special little jig that ended in a dramatic twirl.

The tall tales and bedtime stories he told were of heroes, princesses, and knights in shining armor. Ali Baba…fly away birds and string tricks…and falling asleep in his arms. I loved to snap rubberbands at the newspaper he read just to see him flinch. He never got mad until the time came I shot a bigger rubberband a little harder through a single sheet of newsprint…he was a little upset and the incident still makes me smile.

Today my Dad is celebrated for the familiar; he was a man who raised his family with strong Christian beliefs. He loved God and his country. And he is celebrated for the self-evident life-lesson anecdotes; like the less than subtle screening of potential boyfriends, building things, fixing broken toys, and mending my broken heart. These are the things he did. It’s the essence of what made him my Dad. Fundamental to his lifeblood, these idiosyncrasies became intrinsic me.

I have memories I can recall at a whim. Dad’s love of the north country where he was born, his love of baseball, apple pie, a good cup of coffee, and a tall neck bottle of beer with his famous Sunday hamburgers. He was my biggest fan when I learned to cook and because of his patience, I believe it’s why I have a love of the culinary arts.

I’m a carpenter’s daughter. I saw a man whose choice of profession was shaped by his commitment to family. He taught me about wood and nature, and the cycle of life. I am captivated by the smell of freshly cut wood. I remember unsuccessfully trying to make sawdust castles from the piles of sawdust that accumulated beneath his tablesaw. I laid in it and I played in it. For me there is little, if anything, more intrinsically masculine than the sweet scent of wood and varnish.

My Dad was my first glimpse into the strange but true world of men and boys. Perhaps he wasn’t the first one I ran to with a scraped knee, but he was the first man I ever truly admired. He did masculine things with gusto and bravado. Everything seemed somewhat bigger with Dad and more certain was his handshake, his opinion, and his convictions.

My memories live in the raw, pure unadulterated love of a child, uncomplicated with growth and change. The “real men are” list I fell heir to was Dad’s ultimate act of inadvertent philanthropy. And while my list is specific to me, I imagine that the more things change the more they stay the same. Our relationship was intangible, uncomplicated, and critical. I imagine that as daughters we all inherit a list and that as girls we are influenced by it.

My Dad was kind, forgiving, and tougher than any friend would risk being. He was clear and never resorted to aggression or humiliation. His underlying tone was warm even when he set boundaries. My Dad taught me to be a cooperative member of my family, to keep agreements, and treat others with respect, to be thoughtful and to help with household tasks. He was my friend and he treated me with respect and dignity. He liked me for who I was. He didn’t criticize, nor did he make any negative or derogatory remarks. He took time to listen to my side of the story. Security came from knowing the boundaries he set were firm and could not be manipulated.

The lessons I learned from my Dad were the ones he never actively tried to teach me. I realized with all his imperfections, my Dad was still one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. He showed me he was human when he showed emotion. Was he perfect…no he was not. But he had a depth of wisdom and experience that can never be denied. His life was an example of selflessness that has never left me.

I was twenty-three when I lost my Dad. He died of a heart attack in January 1978 during the snowstorm of the century. One month before on Christmas Eve, he gave me one final gift. It was the single most memorable gift I ever asked for.

My Mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told her I only wanted words. She was bewildered when I told her I wanted my Dad to tell me he loved me, nothing more. The words, “I Love You,” were not freely used with my siblings and me as they are in our homes now. And not once, in all my entire life had I ever doubted he didn’t love me. I only needed to hear the words from him…

With the day’s festivities nearly over, everyone went into the living room to exchange gifts. It was out of character for my Dad to stay behind in the kitchen with me. He complimented me on the effort I made to make this a special holiday for them. He told me how proud he was of me and what a good mother he thought I had become. He gave me a hug and whispered, “I love you, Snicklefritz.” I cried tears of joy when I heard the words I longed to hear. It was the third time I saw tears in my Dad’s eyes. They were tears of validation.

My Dad evokes some of my fondest memories. I know that daughters need their dads in ways that dads will never fully comprehend. More than likely, dads need their daughters in a beautiful dance of synchronous reciprocity.

Raymond J. LaRocque
1907-1978

This picture of my Dad and me was taken five months before he passed.

I Will Send No Flowers...

This Mother’s Day I Will Send No Flowers
By Monica Sharpe


I watch the deep furrows of her forehead soften with each stoke of my fingers, I sense she knows I’m here trying to reassure her like the countless times she comforted me when I was sick. I sit here beside Mama in her hospital bed looking at her jaundiced, cancer ravaged body praying to our good Lord God to please release her from all this suffering. “You know Mary, I don’t know if I can wear yellow, it’s never been my favorite color on me, but I have always prided myself at being different, and now I certainly am!” We laughed when Mama made this comment after my sister’s wedding...

Four four days after Anna's wedding, Mom’s test results revealed what I’m sure she already knew, cancer was imminent. What type of cancer it was, would only be determined by more tests. Dr. Rosa almost immediately delivered the dreaded diagnosis after a series of tests; cancer of the pancreas and liver. Surgery was scheduled and dreaded, we knew what the surgery would reveal. What we didn’t know was to what extent the cancer was devouring her, and how long I have left with the woman who had become my best friend...

How undeserving. This gracious woman who raised six, generally unappreciative children, including myself, was finally able to enjoy life when four days after the youngest leaves home she’s burdened with the knowledge she almost certainly has some form of incurable cancer. Three to six months to live was the most time doctors predicted Mama would have left after the first surgery. Time…the greatest healer. Not this time…all the sand was drained from this hourglass...

Dying, she listened to the hospital nurse read out the dinner invitation. Tubes in her arms and tubes in her nose, her body ravaged with pain she still smiled, “Oh, I think I’ll definitively be there.” Even when pain made her momentarily old, you could still glimpse the woman she had been, a great beauty, strong and proud, a woman ahead of her time. She had the endless spirit to help others, ironically, as a child I remember sitting under her sewing table playing with the scraps of fabric she used to make ‘cancer pads’ for hospital patients. What started out as an individual way for her to ease someone’s discomfort ended up with her organizing dozens of women all sewing a array of assorted items for cancer patients and for the veterans hospital in our church’s activity room...

Mother adopted ailing plants the way some people adopt puppies or abandoned kittens, nursing them back to health. She could of gardened in old teacups and did, “Don’t throw away that cracked bowl,” she would say, “It’s just right for starting that philodendron slip, just turn it around and no one will ever see the crack.” On our frequent visits she always made sure there were some freshly baked cookies with a pot of tea. Mama was never too ill or too tired to fix her nails and set her hair. She had courage, the kind of courage I don’t know that I could have demonstrated, “I had a wonderful life, a good husband and six fine children who have their own families now,” she said at the end, “I’m ready to go. There’s nothing terrible about going.”

My self-seeking reasoning that maybe Mama’s entire life was raising children and that life without Dad, now with my sister married, would only be a lonely excursion. After all, her life was her family, but where was her fine children now? Each of my brothers living in different states, my sister, a newlywed with her own hand of dealt problems, all consumed with their everyday issues. Where were her brothers and sisters? Where was her Mother? For all the people she cared for, where was anyone now? This austere hospital room should be overflowed with more than her “Mary Sunshine”...

My unselfish reasoning is that Mama deserved so much more from life. She should finally be able to go on a date, a cruise, spend time with friends and family at her leisure. She should be able to grow old and have the love and attention of her children and grandchildren. Not lying here unconscious with this disease devouring her body and spirit and her daughter singing her the same lullabies she so long ago sang to her as a child...

This year and every year from now on I will send no flowers. My mother died young. I will always remember her gifts to me. My mother was my first and best teacher. She would be gratified to see how well her lessons took. Just yesterday, I made several mistakes on a project at work, I redid it over and over and still the outcome was the same. I put it aside for a while, and begin again. My mother moves in me still. “Is this your best work?” she would ask. Whether the object was an English composition or sewing a simple doll’s dress, she rarely criticized directly. “If you used a ruler, you could keep the columns straight.” Or, fingering a rumpled garment, “The seam is puckered; maybe you could baste the pieces before you use the sewing machine.” The pressure was subtle, a combination of this is how it’s done and I’m sure, you’re not satisfied with that, and so I discovered by degrees, the singular pleasure of work well done. A beautifully finished garment, a perfect German chocolate cake, a beautifully set table, flowers planted in a garden that the colors off set each other, joy in rightness is my mother’s legacy...

What else did she teach me? Practical things, like how to slip a plant and know whether the cutting would root better in water or soil. How to lay out and create a pattern when there isn’t quite enough fabric. Whenever I cut shortening into flour for pie crust or bathe my children, her hand guides me...

My mother had no conscious philosophy of life or child rearing. But her attitude and beliefs were so consistent, so strongly expressed in her actions that I followed as if reproducing the steps of a dance. I learned from my mother that there is always something to do, the ideal being two things at once. When mother waxed the basement floors, she wrapped old towels around her shoes, a little extra footwork kept them shining. She watered plants and emptied wastebaskets on the way to other tasks. If a friend stopped to talk, she reached for her crocheting. Until the last days, I have no image of mother just sitting. Is it any wonder that I, stretched out on the lawn, always find weeds to pull?

I learned from my mother to improvise, make over, and make do. She would create a table out of an old fruit crate, and make small stool out of juice cans. She bought flour in sacks and used to bleach the sacks to make dishtowels so strong that I still have them. When sheets were worn, she made me soft camisoles with lots of lace out of the good spots and new iron board covers out of the old. What was left, she saved for dust cloths. She could extend by years the life of a special garment, by taking in, hemming or adding special added touches. When the garment was beyond extending, she removed everything salvageable, zipper, buttons, bias binding. My mother saved not just because we were hard up, but because waste was detestable to her...

My mother’s most powerful lesson was a distillation of all the others. Life is doing. I still, most every morning make a list of things that have to be done, people to contact, work to complete. Often, as I do so, I have a vision of my mother in old age, visiting me and staying in bed to avoid interfering with my morning routine. When finally when I would appear with her morning coffee, she would ask, “What my dear have you accomplished?”

Beyond all lessons, beyond the model she provided, my mother gave me a parent’s ultimate gift. She made me feel loved and good. She paid attention, she listened, and she remembered what I said. She did not think of me as perfect, but she accepted me without qualification. Today’s books concerning parenting emphasize the importance of telling a child he or she is okay. No doubt, that is helpful, but when I think of how my mother made me feel okay, I realized it was not what she said. It was her pleasure in me, visible as “sunshine”. It was the way she brushed my hair around her fingers to make the ringlets that were my six-year-old pride. It was in her radiant look when I ran in from school and in her touch when I snuggled next to her...

A quarter of a century later, in a hospital room, waving away the food a nurse urged her to eat, she said, “I’m not hungry. I look at my daughter and I am full. She is my sunshine and is what keeps me going.”

I am no one’s daughter now, only a mother now. Carrying her gifts, I think about my mother and my children with love, gratitude and resolve...

This is a picture of my mother and my daughter taken a few months before she passed away. This excerpt was taken from a tribute I wrote for her on Mother's Day, four months after she passed away in January, 1981. She's been gone for thirty years now and she still guides my hand. No matter how old I am, I will always miss her...

Can you ever go back home again?

Can you ever go back home? Maybe the old familiar cliché is true, “You can never go back home again.”

The quote really means that once you grow up, leave home, find your own place, etc, you can’t return to the atmosphere of your childhood. Sure, you can technically go back to where you once lived, but you can’t recreate the environment, because it's completely different. Your parent’s and siblings have grown older, moved out, or passed away and all of your old friends and neighbors are gone...

Last year I had the opportunity of going back to the magical atmosphere of my childhood. It’s been over forty years since I last saw my childhood home. It was the day I described in my blog, Girlfriends 2 when I wrote about finding my childhood best friend, Sue.

My heart was filled with anticipation while I drove up one street and then down another until I finally arrived on “my” street. I don’t remember the streets being so narrow and the houses looking so small. I was so lost in envisioning my life in the 50’s and 60’s that I drove right past my house. I drove up a couple more blocks and turned around. All of the homes were vacant, it was surreal to be here when nothing but emptiness occupied the once elm lined street.

I turned into our driveway and before I could open the door the tears began to flow. I was so filled with emotion that I froze. The last time I stood in this very spot was the day I heard the slide of the steel door on the moving truck and a slam, the indication that everything was loaded and they were ready to roll. One of the movers started the engine while the other went inside the house to have my mother sign off on the paperwork and confirm the delivery date and time. I slowly walked past the truck and trailer running my hand down the side leaving a wave of disapproval to the adventure and went into the backyard and stood there recalling all the times I pretended to be the human sundial.

I smiled as I reminisced of my mother’s prize roses and peony bushes. Freshly picked flowers graced the little kitchen table while the soft fragrance of the lily of the valley and sweet peas permeated through the open windows. I looked through the bay window and saw the walls and floors were savagely exposed leaving her for all to see in her nakedness. I imagined my childhood refuge weeping, and feeling unloved because she had no one to protect within her aged walls. She was abandoned, beaten and broke down for the first time in seventy years.

I closed my eyes, and for a moment I imagined all the mothers calling out our names when it was time to come home; the endless summer days playing tag and hide-n-seek and the winter ice-skating parties at Sue’s house and drinking her mom’s special hot cocoa to warm up.
I walked all around the little white house touching her and looking in her windows for the last time with every step a memory and another tear.

The bountiful trees that lined this street were no longer standing to block the setting sun from falling on my shoulders then I remembered my first kiss was under the streetlight just up the street. The longer I sat there I felt the warmth return to my heart and the sweet memories of growing up here made me smile.

I smiled because there was much I learned here on Jackson Street besides taking my first step or riding my first two wheeled bicycle. I learned from my parent’s their most powerful example was a distillation of all the others. Life is doing. Beyond all lessons, beyond the role model they provided, my parent’s gave my siblings and me the ultimate gift. They made us feel loved and good and it all started in this home within her loving walls.

You Are My Sunshine

You Are My Sunshine by Monica L. Sharpe

“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. 4 Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. ~Matthew 18:3

The last thing I remembered before waking up in the hospital was the traffic light turning green. I was the first car to cross the busy intersection. I glanced to my left and saw the pick up truck run the red light. I was unable to avoid the collision.
I was in a coma for eighteen days before I opened my eyes to see my first glimpse of light. It didn’t register in my mind where I was. The pain was excruciating and I found myself unable to move. It’s a blur exactly what happened next. What I do remember is that I woke to the sound of a soft angelic voice singing the lyrics of a familiar tune. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know mom how much I love you. Please don’t take my mommy away…” I felt the warmth and smelled the familiar sweet aroma of my son’s head resting near my face. When I could focus clearly, there was my husband smiling with tears of joys streaming down his face and my son with his beaming little face. He looked up to his dad and said, “See dad, I told you it would work. Mom loves that song.”
It was a slow recovery. When I was finally able to go home I spent the first couple weeks almost entirely in bed. During that time, family and friends took care of me until my husband came home from work. One afternoon my sister called and said that she was unable to come over because her daughter was sick. I heard my son tell her that he was there with me and things would be fine until his dad got home. Philip bounced into the room with that big smile on his face. He told me he was going to take care of me and I smiled. When I asked if he would get me a glass of water, he quickly darted to the kitchen. When he returned with the water and handed it to me, there was a loud clear smack. Philip’s hand touched his cheek, “Mom, someone kissed me!” I was shocked as well. I told him an angel kissed him for helping me.
Twenty-five years later my son clearly recalls that moment. He chose to be a paramedic as his career attributing the decision to the day the angel kissed him.
I thank God for giving me another day, another chance to become a better individual, another chance to give and experience love. I thank God for “My Sunshine.”