...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

...Have you had your daily hug?

 

Her voice was soft and tender; they looked into each other’s eyes when I heard her say, “Walter, am I your bliss?” My cousin didn’t know I was around the corner when she said this to her spouse of fifty-five years. “Always,” he whispered back, confirming it with a gentle kiss. These two very special people hold hands wherever they go even if it’s in their garden. If they sit at the table over a morning cup of coffee, Walt will instinctively reach for Fran’s hand and pat it lovingly. And, the affectionate fixation of their eyes on each other over a shared Frosty, I know they see themselves as forever young.

I think it’s just amazing how a simple loving touch could effect change and could make the world a better place. My cousin also practices reiki healing. She is teaching me how essential touch, and the energy from touch has in healing properties. I have always realized how touch affects me and therefore, I have become a hugging type of person. I’m not a hug-a-holic mind you, and yes, I try to size up the person beforehand, body language being the usual indicator if someone is a willing recipient, or if they stiffly straighten their transparent, “Don’t touch me,” sign. Once, there was a particularly awkward moment (fortunately, I can only think of one), that I have ever been told by a relative, they didn’t liked to be hugged, “Not by anyone!” (My internal reaction was, “Exxccccuuuuuusssse me! What kind of a butthead doesn’t like to be touched?”) But, I politely apologized, smiled, and extended my hand, which was accepted with a hearty handshake. Whew!

Hugging, for me was a gradual transformation. My mother was a very affectionate person and when I was a teenager, I wanted to break loose of that bond, you know, the independence thing. One snowy afternoon, my sister, my mom, and myself were dancing and goofing around in our living room, when all of a sudden mom put a bear hug on me. My first reaction was to push her away, and out of my fifteen-year-old big mouth, I lashed back by calling her a queer. The words were out, too late to take them back, and to this day, I will never forget the shocked look on her face. I made her cry. Instead of saying I was sorry, I too, was shocked what came out of my mouth and ran to my room slamming the door behind me in shame. Today, I look back at that spiteful incident, and know it was an outburst of rage prompted by a prior unresolved incident. Unfortunately, I took it out on the wrong person. Several years went by after that adolescent eruption, I never apologized to my mother until a couple months before she passed away, when I laid next to her on her bed with her arms around me, and this time, we both cried.

The older I get, I have noticed how skin hunger/touch in any form is a sad, growing epidemic in our society. The elderly and disabled are at the greatest risk of being neglected, due to living in isolated homes and do not venture far from home from fear of victimization. Families are living further away in different states or countries keeping them from being close to their loved ones.

I read recently that the United States is known for being one of the lowest on the scale of touch or intimacy, and blames it on three trends. The first being technology. Yes, we can communicate with anyone at any time around the world, but it also dehumanizes physical interaction. Secondly, families live disconnected lifestyles because of urbanization and the loss of extended family. More families include careers for both parents, leading to less interaction with children. Children are taken to daycares in lieu of having a grandparent care for the child. Third, we live in an extremely litigious society, where touching someone can be deemed sexual harassment.

It’s hard for me to believe the United States rates at the bottom of the list when we have come to recognize the human touch as a healing mechanism. The healing-touch can be found in therapeutic massages, the most well-known and accepted method of healing sore and injured muscles. It is also known for reducing overall pain and engendering a feeling of relaxation and spiritual well being in the receiver. And, for those suffering from skin hunger, a massage may satisfy cravings. People live longer and happier lives if they receive a warm touch from a friend every now and then. A pat on the pack, squeeze of the hand, or a gentle hug can heal ailments and make both you and recipient happier.

Your hands are your body's second eyes, they allow you to experience and interact with the world. Through your hands, touch is sight. It allows you to perceive texture, shape, and form. Touch is important for survival. When a baby arrives into a strange world, he or she makes sense of our surroundings through our skins. An affectionate touch told us the world is safe, secure and a warm place to live, much like our mother’s uterus. Touch comforts us physically and mentally. Touch is the first sense to develop in the womb and the last sense to leave in old age. I don’t know who it was that stated human beings need four hugs a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintenance and twelve hugs a day for growth, but, I tried to enforce it with my kids and I thank God they never pulled away!

Touch is a fundamental requirement of life, and I hope if you’re reading this, you will reach out and give your loved ones their required amount of hugs for the day! Just think of it as another essence and quintessence of life!

May the good Lord take a likin’ to you today and bestow you with many hugs!