Posts Tagged ‘laugh’

This is all so completely new to me and so out of my “territory,” I can’t believe that I’ve actually missed blogging for the last few days. But I have. And that’s that. I’ve been unreasonably busy at other things, mostly fun things, but also accomplishing a great deal.

For several years of my life, I came home to somebody to talk to, to share the day’s events with. That’s been missing in my life for decades now and somehow, crazy as it seems, being connected to the rest of humanity with this blog sort of replaces “someone to come home to.”

It’s OK to laugh or to think I’m weird. This is NOT what I expected from the  internet a few years ago when I toyed with the possibilities of this new “gadget” in my living room and where it might lead. It was quite evident to me, from the very beginning, that the internet held the possibility of bringing about “the brotherhood of man”, a method of connecting so easily that we would accidentally stumble upon the fact that we’re all more alike than we are different.

That it should happen this quickly and this easily comes as a complete surprise to me. It gives me one more reason, possible the best reason of all, to be grateful that I have been allowed to live this long and still be independent, resourceful and comfortable.

I hope the day will come when all of my fellow human beings will know what I mean by that.


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Every Tuesday evening the local bridge club meets for a friendly competition. It is competitive because duplicate bridge just is. It’s also a pretty good measure of your skill because other tables of players play the exact same hands that you play. A record is kept. My partner is one of those younger men in my life and we play to have fun, not to win. We’re always pretty much in the middle as to scores. I feel so lucky to have Gary for my partner. He’s really special.

Because I got there a little late last Tuesday night, I had to park all the way across the paved parking lot from the entrance.  When the game was over, it was dark and having to walk that expanse of black under-footing to get back to my car was a bit daunting.  I jokingly stood at the curb and called to my Sebring to come to me.

It got a couple of chuckles, but no car.  And then this lovely woman offered to go get my car and bring it to me.  She actually meant it and believe me, I didn’t hesitate for one moment to take her up on her offer.

For an independent ole girl like me who spent most of her life unable to ask for help, I always have to smile at how welcome help can be.  It’s one of the little treats that comes with being over eighty.  You can no longer deny that you could use a little help.  Sometimes more than a little help.

People like to help other people. How come I didn’t know that? How selfish of me to deny others the satisfaction of helping me all those years.

I don’t know about this karma thing, but I do have to ask myself,  “How come”? For example, do you think it’s possible that for every mile I walked faster than anybody else on the street, I now get to walk a mile at a snail’s pace–lagging behind everybody else? My mind is still way out front there, putting everybody else to shame, but my body rebels in such a way that I really can’t argue with it.

I’m sure that if they hadn’t slowed me down, I’d be dead by now.

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It was another cold day on the Mendocino Coast with patches of rain. I found myself in town following a one o’clock class with time to kill. I impulsively decided to go to the gym.

When I passed the fabric store in the same shopping center, I realized that they would be open because it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. I made a U-turn and pulled in near the door. A lovely young woman offered to help.

Two years ago when I was eighty and anticipating hip surgery, I had, for the first time, made some preparations for dying. I had a will drawn up and purchased and filled in MaggieWatson’s, A Graceful Farewell to save my heirs a lot of frustration, time, money, and maybe sanity. I had checked out the local crematorium, but I had not yet made my shroud although I felt strongly about what I wanted to wear for my cremation. It would be a simple white gown.

I asked the clerk what she had in white, 100% cotton fabric. Synthetics don’t burn cleanly. She walked me directly to a section where she found three white, cotton fabrics. We decided which one of them was less sheer and then she directed me to the patterns. There was not a vast selection, no caftan pattern at all so I spent quite a long time finding one that would work. It was a long dress pattern.

When I took the pattern over to check out, she helped me decide how much fabric it would take and started measuring out the four yards. As she did this, she attempted to make conversation and, so help me this is what she asked, “So are you going to some nice, warm place where you can wear this?” There were other people in the store or I might have told her the truth, but instead I quickly replied, “Yeah, I’m going to hell.”

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