It’s difficult to find a new vet when you move. She will be their third one since we’ve been here just over a year ago. The first one had some issues I won’t illuminate. The second one seemed nice enough, but was never available. So, I decided to make the thirty-minute trek to Wilmington to try a larger, more modernized vet, and so far, I am happy I did.
I took the three cats, and the vet knew we got the name T’Challa from Marvel’s Black Panther. Score. She read the dogs’ names and said, “Are you Patriots fans?”
“Yes! I’m from Mass,” I said to her.
“Me, too!”
She knew Gisele and Gronk were linked to the team. “David is from David Ortiz, Big Papi,” I said to her.
“No way!” she said.
My heart feels better and I have confidence in this new vet. My anxiety from this morning prior to our visit is beginning to quell, and I am thankful that our new animal doctor is from my home state.
The small town I live in is close to another small town called Wallace. The people are sweet, the feel is simple and safe, and there are farms everywhere in town and in the surrounding communities. They grow corn, soybeans, hemp, and farmers also raise pigs and chickens.
Almost every time I go into town, I see the big semi farm truck, the ones with the open, gated walls, the ones that carry pigs and chickens. We see full ones, and we see empty ones.
I really wish I could just look past them and not see what’s inside. I know people eat meat, and I don’t push my ways on them, but it makes me very sad to see them. I try so hard not to look at the animals’ faces and to not think about where they’re going. I also try to imagine they are at least treated with kindness and respect until their last minute.
I understand this is my issue and that it’s not within the social norm, and I’ve learned to live with it and learn how to go the other way when I see one of those giant metal cage trucks. I will say, though, that if one of those chickens, or even pigs falls off the truck, it’ll come home with me to live, and I will name her Suerte.
Why have we given people’s offense of the F-word so much power? You can’t say it in school, on the radio, at work. Why not?
We’ve all heard the word. It sits amongst a few friends on a mossy toad stool in our minds, knees propped up, waiting to hop down from it and spew from our lips. Teeth touch the bottom lip, then the air hits, then the voice box joins in to finish the word with a hard, loud K-sound.
I say the word, but for the past few years I’ve refrained from using it unless absolutely necessary. I made that conscious decision simply because it’s lazy, not offensive. A good kick with my bare painted toes on the top stair, though, brings it out.
It seems to me that the people who don’t want the word to exist in a public forum are the same who call people “offended” by certain terms and phrases that are truly derogatory. Others are afraid a child will hear it.
When I was little, as soon as I left my driveway on my blue, three-speed bike to ride around the neighborhood with my friends, the word became ready in my mouth, sitting restlessly behind my back molars, waiting.
My boys are free to say the word. I mean, it’s silly to imagine them being forbidden from speaking freely. They’ve never aimed swears at me. They understand and respect the social construct of quote-unquote profanity. It has no power if it has no audience. It’s always been silly more than vulgar.
It doesn’t aim its offense at anyone in particular. It’s literal meaning is a positive action, so I suppose its sharpness will always baffle me. In a country that boasts free speech, to limit the use of four-letter word with no audience to be harmed doesn’t make the most sense.
I really really love my job. When I read this, I almost hear Mr. Peterson, Elaine’s boss on Seinfeld reading it, which makes is comical. Either way, this is so much fun to do.
Come home from a day at the beach and rinse your sun-kissed skin off in the outdoor shower. Enter the brilliant and beachy home to find a smooth flow and neutral colors throughout, stunning views of the white-capped waves, AND the unspoiled nature of the area’s most spectacular sound. Cook dinner in the open-concept kitchen while you occasionally peek at the deep teal water through the windows, or laze around in the very spacious living room and binge-watch your favorite shows. Maybe you would rather step outside onto the expansive wraparound party deck while you inhale the warm beach air, or take an evening walk up and down the beach.
A few steps away you will find the beach access that will guide you to the fresh, clean sands of Topsail Island. Lounge in your beach chair all day long while you watch the dolphins frolic in the ocean, sip your coffee while you welcome the morning’s first sun, or rent a surfboard or bodyboard from one of the local rental places and play in the salty water all day long.
Walk back over to the house, rinse off in the outdoor shower, and get yourself ready for a night on the town. A brief car ride will take you to a more lively beach life with stores and chain restaurants you are familiar with, and also local boutiques, restaurants, some with local fish, seafood, and produce, and nightlife, sometimes with live music and karaoke. There is also a boat ramp, golf course, and fishing piers where you can spend time catching fish and speaking with the friendly locals.
Maybe you would rather have a quiet night at home sitting on the deck listening to the ocean swell begin to quiet for the night. Order wine from Instacart, or browse local food delivery options and throw on comfies to stay in for the night and watch classic movies or play Yahtzee until dawn. End your day with thoughts of tomorrow, then wake in the morning and watch the waves while your head rests on the pillow, only to begin another day at the most treasured Topsail Island.
When I arrive home from work, I brace myself, and once she sees me, her mouth closes, and she implodes.
Wanda is a sleek, long, and fast German Shepherd. She’s semi-obedient and smart. I think she’s pottied in the house twice since we adopted her in December, she’ll stay in her crate until we say she can come out, and when we say “crib” she goes right into her crate. She’s not perfect, though.
Her only issue, although a major one, is her separation anxiety. She will scream if you leave her and she will push with all her might to get out the door with you. Also, she doesn’t like to leave her homestead and will cry in the Jeep. Cry, like a baby. It’s a piercing screech.
I do become impatient with her when she’s inconsolable, and I know the worst thing I can do is console her during her outbursts or she’ll think it’s OK, but it’s very sad if you think about it.
We adopted her at six months, well after a pup remembers, so I don’t know if she’ll ever feel secure, safe, and a permanent part of this family. Gosh we love her so much, and if we could only reassure her that she’s here for good, she may be able to rest.
Roger had a traditional, simple palate. He wasn’t into bold flavors or robust foods or drinks. He liked his coffee light and sweet, and although he was an evolved foodie, gourmet was not his thing.
“Take a sip of my merlot,” I’ve said to him.
“No,” he said laughing.
“Please? Just a little one.”
He was either over my annoying pestering or he loved the attention, so he took my glass and sipped a small amount of the deep, rich wine.
The face always changed immediately. I don’t think he could have possibly stopped it.
“Why do you make me do that?”
“I don’t make you!” Of course, by this point, I’m laughing.
He was like that with beer, too.
“Roger, we bought you that water you like,” my dad would tell him.
He was referring to Busch Light, his favorite beer, always in a can.
Today, I raise my tepid can of Busch Light and toast my husband on what would have been his fiftieth birthday.
Cheers to the gray that never was. Cheers to your birth and your legacy. Cheers to you!
Life changes very fast, and not in little pieces, but in blocks. Large chunks of big deals, life events, well-contained chapters.
This new series of being in North Carolina again seems to be contained in a tidy section of our life with new degrees, careers, friends, and a home we are completely comfortable in. Tucked in.
I feel, though, that although all is good, I still haven’t mourned my life in Massachusetts, what could have been, and even what was. I still dream of my house while I’m awake and inhale the rich sent of history. The places and the people still rest there all snuggled into that beautiful state I called home, the one I can’t imagine stepping into again.
The haunting of my potential life in Massachusetts hasn’t approached me in a diluted form, not yet. Maybe I don’t want it to or maybe it’s just not time.
It’s odd that even what we do or did want to happen can still cause pain, and although I’ve moved on, there are times the what-ifs still drag me down.
Roger has a special birthday this week. The twelfth is his 50th birthday.
As always, I wonder what we would have done to celebrate, but there would have only been one way.
A party at our house would have been his choice anyway, a cookout with burgers and his favorite sides, enough pineapple upside-down cakes for the masses. Busch beer.
The boys and I would buy him some shirts from faraway fire departments, maybe a Red Sox hat, and a power tool.
There would be a fire in the back yard for after dinner and cake, and he would be cheerful and very happy to have his people all in one place, and we’d play country music, his favorite.
Now, it’s just another date to wonder, one which chills sloppily atop the others, not leaving when the clock strikes midnight, but resting in their little closet with the missed anniversaries, Memorial Days in May, and the thirteen Christmases that have gone on without him.
The woulds are annoying, quite honestly, so very annoying.
“I don’t understand how people can take a photo of the Milky Way if we’re literally on it,” I said to Sam.
He looked at me for once, eyebrows raised and said, “right?!”
I’ve seen photos of it for years and years and can’t process the concept that photos exist, and I stand by my curiosity and confusion as not a sign of dippiness or naivete.
It’s just weird, but either way, I would love to see it.
I don’t say LOL, never have, never will unless a little snark is necessary to make my point. It’s always been so silly to me. I wonder, then, if it’s the reason Sammy says I always seem mad in my texts.
Am I a terrible person if I think that GoFundMe participants can go too far at times? The sentiment of it has become diluted, and GoFundMe has become rich in the process.
We’re having a little tropical storm named Collin today. It was last minute. The air is so muggy and thick, warm and misty.
As the rain was pouring on my Jeep, giving it a much needed bath, a rinsing off of the poor juicy insects who found their demise on Interstate 40, I was reminded of past hurricanes, and of one moment in particular that wasn’t funny then, but I guess is now.
Max was a baby, only a couple months old. He still used a baby carrier because he wasn’t quite ready for a car seat yet.
I worried about the storm and potential for tornadoes so when it was time to sleep at night I locked him up tight in his seat so if anything happened, he would have a fighting chance.
That’s paranoid, right? I thought it was genius.
It’s frightening to sit through sometimes days of violent winds and darkness. News on the battery operated radio talked about tornadoes lifting houses high in the air and flooding chasing people away from their homes.
All of the boys are working today, and I am too, but they left and I stayed. It’s just me, the cats, the dogs, and the chickens today, and I thought it would be nice.
It’s too quiet, and I haven’t had a second to myself until now. Once the boys all began working, the others would take over their chores. Now, today anyway, it’s only me. I worked until after two, then did the chores.
I had to tend to the chickens which included feeding them, making sure their water was fresh, counting them, giving them treats, chatting with them for a bit, and collecting their eggs. I also had to peek at the garden and pick what was ready, take out the trash, empty and fill the dishwasher, and so much more that I simply don’t want to list.
While I do all this I have nobody to talk to, not one person to hear me fall in the shower, and the silence is deafening. It’s funny because even the dogs are quiet. It’s eerie.
So, I have made a decision: If I am still single when the boys all move out in fifty years, I will become like Forrest Gump’s mom and have boarders here who I will cook for, rent out rooms to, and share stories with. It actually sounds kind of nice.
We had a beach day at Tyler’s today and Gisele came along. It’s sweet to see her niece, Maxine, and her nephew, Belichick, love on her and show her the respect she deserves.
She got to see her person, Tyler, and she knew where we were going once we turned down his very long road.
Hot sauce with jalapeños and Cayenne peppers from the garden is in the fridge for two weeks then we can use it. Try making it yourself. It’s easy.
Yogurt with granola is underrated.
There are so many last names in the world.
Stuff is getting expensive!
If I could meet the person who invented the undo button, I would buy her a Coke.
There are good people in the world, but we focus too much on the bad.
Pizza or tacos? You can only choose one forever.
My dad used to talk to me about a rocket that had unlimited gas and time. It can go go go forever. He would say, “Does it end? If it does, what’s on the other side?” There’s an other side to everything. Whoa.
I was talking to friends the other day about dating and the apps that are available. We traded stories, and although it was a fun conversation, it got me thinking.
I have a cousin somewhere, maybe, who I idolized as a little girl. I only remember she was beautiful, she wore light pink legwarmers, and she wore her hair in a side ponytail.
Sometimes I was jealous of Roger, well envious maybe. He’s traveled the world and has been to places like Turkey, England, Italy, Malta, and I could go on. He had friends in the Marine Corps, experienced adventures like sky-diving and visits to Las Vegas, and was able to nap. A lot.
A book I read, with a bright orange, non-glossy cover and deckled edges, Where the Crawdads Sing, is about a girl/woman who raised herself in the marshes of the South amongst the tidal swells and swinging, gray air grass. She had no friends for most of her life and her family was not around for the most part. The novel has lingered in my mind, popping up randomly for years, for no reason. I imagine it would be lonely out there amongst nature only, rough nature, but I also imagine there is peace as well. And if you've never known company, would you know, recognize, and understand loneliness? She has nobody to answer to, no bills to pay, no comments to respond to on Facebook, and she will suffer no great loss. She also is not privy to the heartache we all read about on a daily basis, the happenings in the world that are potential for harm and sadness. I became lost in that novel by Delia Owens, and still fantasize about what life like that would be. It takes me back to camping, which I desperately want to do, and nature in general, the woods, ocean. The peace that God has offered to us all. It's what I appreciate the most, what grounds me. It's what offers me stillness and hope. It's fuel and vitamins and life. Real life with death that is cyclical and necessary, not to be feared or mourned, but to be comprehended and respected. There's no make-up or processed diamonds or five-hundred dollar handbags made out of nature. It's authentic.
Memorial Day weekend has always been one for us to reflect and remember. The more years that pass, the more privately we want to do that. Our time is spent together and not on our screens, so I did not write anything new.
Today I share a post that Tyler wrote over two years ago to his three younger brothers:
Nana was part of the Survival Center in Northampton, MA and would often take me with her when she needed to stop by and perform a task, whether it be to work on paperwork or to move around inventory.
The whirring of the green and yellow lawnmower becomes loud, then fades, and repeats over and over again while Baylee attempts to created the best lines, the ones that will look better than Max’s, or so he hopes. Curving so gracefully and in cadence with the shape of the front yard. Long slim letter S after long slim letter S.
Other than a slashing burn on your tongue, gums, and delicate throat, Da’ Bomb hot sauce offers your guts twisting cramps that begin at the base of your insides then dillydally through your organs and fat bubbles to your lower back. There it lingers until it casually fades leaving a dull ache. You are then gifted with about five minutes of hope that it has passed, until the warmth reappears and recycles with its crimson heat.
This challenge is the product of a well-calculated peer-pressure type event, and in my case, it was caused by my oldest son, Tyler. He watched a show called Hot Ones on YouTube that is hosted by the babyface, soft-spoken Sean Evans.
Evans speaks with the enthusiasm of a middle-schooler proudly reciting the preamble to the Constitution with a background of inspirational Olympicesque tunes all while directing your eyes with his finger guns. On his porcelain palette of a cleanly shaven head he wears a neatly manicured red beard and mesmerizing psychopathic green eyes. The angel of light shares the experience with his guest, reacting like a crying defendant with no wet tears.
Evans interviews celebrities like Idris Elba, Kristin Bell, Paul Rudd, and my favorite, Pete Davidson while they eat wings, sometimes bird, sometimes vegan. The sauce used on the wings becomes progressively hotter forcing the interviewee to be stripped down to their vulnerable, gelatinous core. And you can’t look away.
“Hot sauce has a way of humbling you, especially this one,” Sean Evans said in an interview with Drew Barrymore in August of 2020 via Zoom. He was speaking of their seemingly hottest sauce, which is number 8 out of 10. It’s called Da’ Bomb. (See below.)
As the veteran actor is visibly distraught from the effects of the bite she just took which was dressed in Da’ Bomb, Evans politely continues to rattle off questions about her career and daily life, a tactic he uses in all of his 219 episodes, showing no remorse or concern as he inquires. It’s brilliant!
I wondered why Tyler kept asking me if I watched the show so I did, and became hooked. Then, Tye said he ordered some of the sauces from the show, and that’s when my nerves started. We tried it. It was me, my three youngest sons, and our family friend, Ben. I tried to talk them out of it and especially concentrated my lessons of peer pressure on my youngest, Baylee.
I took some Morning Star Farms Chik’N nuggets, dunked them in the sauce that’s the color of dried blood, then baked them for 18 minutes. The world stopped as our past few days of anticipation was finally in our sites. We all took a bite, and while I was taking my second, the boys’ eyebrows lowered, and their weight shifted from foot to foot. Their mouths were opened like comedic alligators and their hyperventilating breaths were doing no good with the inhaling and exhaling “hees” and “haws.”
They paced and did pirouettes with their six-foot frames as their inner little boys took over causing them to alternate guzzling milk and lemon-lime Gatorade. The constant dancing and drinking lead them to the bathroom or nearest trash can where they unintentionally gifted their mouths with another taste of the putrid mash. I posted a video of our challenge for your diabolical enjoyment.
It burns down deep through the thin skin at the roof of your mouth through your nostrils creating the most unattractive drip. There is an overwhelming desire to wipe your eyes and dab your forehead which is thinly veiled in a cold sweat, not like you just ran a mile, but like you’re ill with the flu. You tell yourself not to lick your lips and no matter how hard you try not to, you just do with the instinct of a dog who kicks the ground after he pees.
There’s a sense of camaraderie that accompanies the challenge. People don’t just do this without video evidence or by themselves on a Tuesday night. That would be weird. It’s social. They do it to complement their fists while they pound their chests, to simply create new commiseration material, or for a spicy dose of relativity, as told my son, Baylee, 14.
After his pain began to subside, he said, “I feel really good, like better than I did yesterday.”
The Blues are the superior uniform of the Marine Corps. They call the jacket a blouse, and it is navy blue, so dark it looks black. I would rub the heavy, soft wool against my naked arms and watch the bumps rise. The blouse was trimmed in scarlet, and there were gold buttons straight up the front, three on each arm, and one on each shoulder. The collar had an Eagle Globe and Anchor, or EGA, shining gold on each side.
My Marine was decorated with multiple ribbons on one side and clinking medals on the other. On his upper-arms, he wore his rank, scarlet and gold, proudly displaying his non-commissioned officer status as a corporal. There was a white belt that clasped with a gold buckle, showing his trim waist. The pants were royal blue and after a certain amount of time in, he earned his blood stripe, which is a sewn red line from hip to ankle on the outside of both legs. His black patent leather shoes looked liquid and whispered when he stepped, and the wide, metal-framed white hat, or cover, sat low over his brown eyes, and complemented his full lips.
I wore a form-fitting, long, black velvet dress with matching sling back heels. I walked out of the hotel room and Roger grinned with his eyes as he looked at me. My hair was long, down my back in loose, glossy curls that felt soft on my bare skin. We were ready for the Marine Corps. Ball.
People were doing shots of Jägermeister, and their laughter invited the green odor to dance around the ballroom. There was a ceremony, then dinner of roast beef with gravy, and always mashed potatoes, no lumps. After we rested our full bellies, we ate a piece of the massive white cake with sticky red trim that was not known for its flavor.
My family and I were sitting at the table sipping vodka, straightening collars, and replacing lip gloss, when I started to wonder where Roger was. After a minute, I heard his voice echoing loudly over the hundreds of people partying. “May I have your attention please?” I thought he was talking to a friend, but he was at the podium at the front of the room, hands controlled in front of his waist, head slightly tilted, and the microphone receiving his question.
“Teresa will you come up here?” Oh, gosh. I saw his slight, nervous smile.
There were hundreds of people, including my family and many friends, all dressed in their sparkly gowns, Dress Blues, and suits saved for weddings and funerals. The lights had dimmed since dinner, and there was no music. I stood and made my way towards him. There was flat, crimson ballroom carpeting, dark with golden swirls, and many chairs in my way as I lifted my feet higher than normal as to not trip.
Bright camera flashes gave me a white tunnel directly to him, and I felt people’s eyes on me. The path gave me time to wonder and hope. It invited me to remember flashes of our talks.
“We could just get married now,” he said months before. His tone teased but his eyes wondered.
“Now?” I replied. We had a private moment to talk after taking Tyler, who was three, to Casper the movie.
“Or we can wait,” he said.
“No, no, no, I can’t live away from you any longer,” I said.
I brought myself back to the present and continued my walk up to the podium, my hands were damp. My skin pricked and butterflies were crawling up my throat. My legs wobbled until I found his face. His smile was wide and warm, probably happy I didn’t run out of the room. I forgot about the other people. In his eyes, I found safety and adoration, and I finally noticed that he was shaking when he held my hand.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” so only he could hear me. “Yes.” I felt my face stretch as he put the ring on my finger.
“What did she say!!??”
“She said yes! Wooohoooo!” The room shook with cheering and clapping, and he raised his hand that wasn’t holding mine in celebration.
The Marines were roaring with shouts of “Oorah!”
We showed off with a long, respectable kiss. The band played our song, “I Swear.”
He wore those same Dress Blues one month later at our December wedding in the snow. I rented my dress for $80 and wore my plaid sneakers to tease him. He didn’t know until we were officially married. The gazebo in Easthampton, Mass. was surrounded by Christmas lights and sweet, undying love.
I woke up this morning and felt the cool air come through the window into my bedroom, a nice break from the heavy thickness that has been lingering around town lately. I breathed it in and allowed it to turn into the feelings of autumn. My eyes remained closed as it speared its way through my mind with images of pumpkins and sweaters, until it found my basket of reasoning right next to my closet of rationale. At that, my eyes snapped open and panic set in. Again. Still.
These next few months will be quite full. I am merely expelling my growing inner concern and simple nervousness about wanting it all to fall into place. I’d love to sleep at night.
(Wow this feels good.)
I don’t hate it in Massachusetts. We simply don’t fit in and that’s OK. So, we’re off to North Carolina, where we belong. Where my Tyler is. Home.
I own a house in Southampton, MA. It’s a gorgeous 1800’s farmhouse that needs love. It will need to be cleaned and sold and I don’t see how that will even work with us living here. Have you met us? Have you met David? He’s loud.
This is David
Also, as I look at the place from a different perspective like from a mother of a darling little lacy girl, or the cleanest queen of Pinterest, I worry. I begin to notice, more, the hand prints on the ceiling from when Baylee finally could touch it with a spry jump. He keeps testing that theory, and so do the others (maybe me, too). Also, apparently when one walks up or down the stairs, the white walls are irresistible to the smear. If you have boys, you know what smear is.
I also see the gobs of dog hair that were missed by Max’s daily big-brooming. There are the most charming slants here or there in the house, a marble’s delight, possibly from being here for about 150 years. Also, our forsythia bush is overgrown because in the winter “the animals in there will be cold” and in the summer “but what if they have babies in there” so now it’s a giant mass of green waving vegetation. I realize this will be quite the job.
I love this house and its quirky angles and very wild wildlife. It’s eccentric with its whimsical creaking doors and out-of-place scent of lilac in the winter. I listen at night to the packs of coyotes traveling along the game trail, and I will miss locking eyes with a bear or young deer while I hang towels on the line. But, it’s time, and we need to work.
Want to live here?
Sammy is going to finish his degree in a hybrid environment as an environmental science major. I am overwhelmed with pride for this kid, and I know he can push through it, all while he maintains his position as my sweet listener.
Max will enter into his sophomore year of college which will be remote and is also learning to drive, and (oh yeah) he still has to decide where he wants to go next semester in NC.
Baylee, the youngest who just turned fourteen will be learning remotely if it’s allowed. Otherwise, we will find the right program for him to enter into homeschooling.
I will also enter into my last semester at Westfield State, and have tacked an internship on to that. During that time I will also be looking for a job. A job. I’ve stayed home with the boys all these years, so, yikes to the second power.
Why not wait until next spring? Because we already did that once and here we are. We are ready now and we want to leave as soon as we can. Baylee will be schooling from home so that part won’t matter. I am hoping to work remotely, and Sammy has that option as well.
Palms sweating again.
I dip deeply into my brain’s little knock-off purse with sequined hunter holly leaves and shiny red berries. In it are what Christmas could look like if we pull this all off. I go there when I need some supplemental energy. It tastes like peppermint and smells like a deep green Frasier fir that’s littered with tinsel and Popsicle sticks with dried Elmer’s. Roger’s village will be up no matter where we are, in a camper or cabin, on a mantel or the floor. I keep those hopes tucked away in the sequined purse because they can’t roam freely. It’s mine to look at when I allow myself to. My own little syrupy pill that helps me sleep.
I don’t care what the house we’re in looks like. We may rent until this place sells or buy something cheap in the mountains that we will live in temporarily. All we need is a place that has no cockroaches, no neighbors or ones who love roosters, and room enough for each of us to have our own little space.
I see us wearing brand new pajamas from Old Navy with prints like snowflakes or Superman. We will feast on something with white gravy or chocolate sauce, and soak in our brandnewness. I almost can’t handle that day already, but it’s all I want. It’s what we need.
We may have been in a local bar in Western Mass., at the gazebo on a warm July day in Easthampton at the rotary, or even at an outdoor pavilion surrounded by a setting sun and dancing people, barefoot, fun liquid sloshing around in their red plastic cups. He also played music at Jack and Jill celebrations in American Legions, surrounded by dancing smoke and the scent of crock pot lazy Pierogis, and at birthday parties about ages that end in zero. Life stood still when he played, and people loved to listen.
Every time, I knew what song he would play for me.
“It’s called ‘Great Balls of Fire.’” At that, my Uncle Joe’s hands would dance around the keys flawlessly and his rich velvety voice would sing with smooth syncopation while it accidentally commanded attention. I don’t think he had to even look where he placed his piano fingers, no crinkled piece of notepaper held the lyrics for him.
When he played that song, our song, the one I told him I liked when I was a little girl decades ago, I felt like a kid again, little and loved by my big strong uncle, the one who served in the Navy, the one who really loved cats, and the one I shared my love of music with.
He played in a band for most of his life, many bands actually. His favorite music to play was old rock like “Penny Lane” by the Beatles or “Green Door” written by Jim Lowe in 1956, a peppy and very catchy song that offers a riddle about what’s behind the green door that is making people so happy. Uncle Joe sings the lyrics, “Don’t know what they’re doing. But they laugh a lot behind the green door.”
Oh, Uncle Joe
He was Joe Joe, a guy who said what was on his mind, even if maybe he shouldn’t. That’s what made him so real.
I remember the phone call we had after I lost my husband in 2009. I was in North Carolina and Uncle Joe was unable to fly down. We didn’t talk much. All I remember is hearing him choke out, “I love you.”
Years later he talked about his college and said I should give it a try.
“I went to Westfield State College. I think it’s called Westfield State University now,” he said. “It’s a great school.” I took his advice, and this December I will be finished with my degree at WSU.
I never wondered with Uncle Joe whether I was loved by him. He showed me by carrying around a giant bucket of Lincoln Logs he bought for me at Caldor, and by not getting mad when I got sick at McDonald’s. All over the place. He was kind when he found out I was seventeen and pregnant, and he always looked happy to see me.
How I will always remember him
It was rare to see him without a smile all over his face, and he didn’t simply walk into a room; he bounced. He had a strut stroll that was more of a cool saunter with rhythm, like coolness took no effort with him.
I still hear his deep, booming voice in my mind, and am thankful that he lives on in recordings of songs he played, present tense, but more than that, he lives on in me through the love that I have for him.
Rest, Uncle Joe, not peacefully, but full of oldies, cheeseburgers, and long-haired kittens.
July 13th has become a favorite of mine when she enters the world dancing and celebrating. The date indicates the beginning of peace for me, and a termination of the seemingly eternal six-week period of time when memorable dates congest my breathing and weaken my body.
Also, during this long stretch of time, I feel the cloud around me, the one that places a haze over my individual self, violently stuffing me back into my blaring widow status. Any of my personal accomplishments, good moods, or peaceful days are to be set aside until the certain dates go by. The boys’ lives are paused as well. Another thing that makes these days heavier is being the “sad one” all the time. I am associated with bummer-like feelings, and July 13th brings me back.
As the years go by, people still celebrate him on all of the dates, and I pray it remains that way. If people forget him, I will lose a little of me, so I don’t want it to stop, but it takes work.
Memorial Day begins before the actual weekend with posts and photos, and I will always be grateful. We all dip into the tepid pool of memories and deliver them to each other in the form of Facebook posts, old, pixelated photos, and emails. This year was particularly peculiar with its lack of ceremony and personal connections, yet still it wedged its ghostly barbed form into our hearts.
After we memorialize our fallen, we celebrate Father’s Day which has become blurry with false cheers for the future which we don’t have with him. For some reason, the sun shows brightly each year attempting to heave up my pouty mood. Maybe she’s mocking my fake smiles and closeted crying with her cheerful rays.
After Father’s Day comes June 29th which marks the anniversary of Roger’s death. This year we acknowledged it for the eleventh time. As the years pass by in their modern vehicles, I become less confident in time’s ability to mute the sadness. I just willingly become tired because it’s easier.
The significant dates linger, too, by my own choice and fault, because I stay off social media on those days as much as I can. I respond the day after, which I suppose is counterproductive to condensing the feelings of all the special days.
Roger’s birthday is Sunday, July 12th.
He would have been forty-eight, with gray hair, maybe, otherwise the same. As always, I would have teased him because he is older than I am, and he would have crossed his eyes, scrunched up his nose, and made the most obnoxious face at me while he cackled.
There would have been pineapple upside-down cake as with any special Roger day, probably some type of cheeseburger, and so many fries, crinkle cut, with lots of Heinz ketchup and extra salt. I would not have given him grief about having too much Dr. Pepper, and Busch Light would have joined him to the end of his evening while we swam with the squeaking bats in our backyard pool.
The boys would give him gifts of heavy handfuls of dried clay shapes with gobs of primary colored paint placed carefully on their surface. They would look nervous when he opened their individual gift, making my heart stop for just long enough to reset me. I would have wrapped t-shirts with funny pictures on them, size large, a giant Zero bar, some router bits, and a book that he would love more than I thought he would.
I remember the first birthday of his after he died, the day we had his funeral, July 12, 2009, but a year after that leaves its spiny quill in me the most.
We made a pineapple upside-down cake, of course, and let the day pass. It was getting dark so the time came to light the candles. The kids were happy and giddy, I mean, it was a birthday. I stood on the back deck with my vodka drink and freshly lit Camel Crush after casually saying, “Go on without me.”
The lights in the kitchen turned off and I saw the cake through the back window, floating around on its own being held up by an orange halo of candles. He would have been thirty-eight.
I listened to them sing to him.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear dadddddddddyyyyyyyy. Happy birthday to you.”
I choked.
After that year, we quit doing anything traditional on his birthday. I don’t make a cake and we don’t look at photos. We just exist in the thickness of the date, waiting for the day to pass, longing for the arrival of July 13th so we can, without explanation, live as regularly as we can.
I don’t think there’s a right thing to do. We celebrate him every day and he’s never away from our minds. Sometimes, though, it’s just too much.
When I moved from Massachusetts to North Carolina in 1995, I worked at Helen’s Kitchen, a country restaurant in Jacksonville, where I learned about the different foods offered in my new military town. I also was taught how to speak the Southern food language, and to appreciate the culinary differences between my two home states.
If you say, “I’ll have tea,” in MA, you will be served with a steaming cup of hot tea. Sometimes it will come with a tiny metal pitcher of hot water with the little thumb tab. Tink. Other times, it will come in a large Styrofoam cup with a lid, tea bag dangling off to the side displaying your preference. Green?
In NC if you say, “tea, please,” you will get a large glass of iced tea, sweetened with a syrup made on the stove with sugar, water, and love. A request for hot tea in NC must be specified, and unsweet tea should be asked for quietly. Sweet tea can be quite the cure for too much Jack Daniels the night before, and will repair wooziness from low blood sugar or heartbreak. People drink sweet tea daily with their country ham, chicken and pastry, or even while they nibble on a pig’s thinker.
“What are brains and eggs?” I asked my friend, Opal. Only once.
“Honey, they’re brains and eggs,” she answered, amused.
“Like real brains?” I asked.
“Yes, hog brains,” she laughed.
Brains were the most delicate pink, as expected, and came in a small can. The cooks would mound them up high on a plate next to a heaping gob of bright yellow scrambled eggs. Usually, the consumer would mix the eggs and brains, and the soft mixture didn’t require much chewing, unlike the empty hot dogs that were served, also known as chitlins.
Chitlins, or chitterlings, is another food I had to get used to the scent of. They are made with hog intestines and when they were on special, their pungent scent would dance around the restaurant all day long. They were usually dressed with red pepper flakes and people would put extra vinegar on top of the heap. I remember holding the plate steady so the jiggly, brown chunks wouldn’t slide off onto the floor. If one piece wanted to jump off the plate, a quick flick-of-the-wrist would place it gently back with the rest.
Let’s fix our grossed-out brains:
Helen’s also turned us on to biscuits, sausage-gravy, tangy, vinegar-based pulled pork, and hush puppies. After many failures, and burnt biscuits, I learned.
There are many foods from North Carolina I practiced then added to my mind’s cookbook that are considered favorites of me and my sons. I now make skillet corn bread, the creamiest macaroni and cheese with a spicy topping, and one of our favorite foods from NC, banana pudding.
The following recipe is for a dessert that is requested quite often for special occasions or by the most cherished visitors, like my niece, Shyla. It is always in a very large, heavy bowl, surrounded by happy people and sometimes colored eggs or decorated winter pine. It has served well as a weapon in a food fight, and tastes the best in the middle of the night with only the fridge light to illuminate the delicious sweetness. After many attempts at making it perfect, I finally came up with the most decadent recipe.
Recipes for banana pudding can vary, and I have perfected mine through years of observing and trying different ingredients. Simple is best.
My Banana Pudding
(You will want to at least double this.)
1 block of cream cheese, 8 ounces, softened
I large container of frozen whipped topping, thawed *
I small can sweetened condensed milk, 8 ounces
1 box of instant banana pudding mix (or vanilla then add 1 tsp. of banana extract)
2 cups whole milk
1 box of vanilla wafer cookies
A few bananas
Beat cream cheese, sweetened condensed milk, pudding mix, and milk until the lumps are mostly gone. Fold in half of the whipped topping. Once that is incorporated, add half the box of wafers, not crushed. (The wafers will absorb the flavors.) Once mixed, carefully place the rest of the whipped topping neatly on top of the rest. Layer with the remaining wafers. The bananas can be added to the main mixture or the top, but any leftover (I laugh) pudding will turn brown quickly if bananas are in it. I usually add them right before serving, or sometimes not at all.
*Normally, I would say to use homemade (or even canned) whipped cream, but in this case, tradition dictates the use of whipped topping.
Teresa Forester Adams 