My Sister Rocks

Yesterday my mood meter swung unexpectedly and quickly from blissfully happy to deeply sad in a matter of minutes.

Yesterday my mood meter swung unexpectedly and quickly from blissfully happy to deeply sad in a matter of minutes. Everything is okay. As my grandmother used to say, “no one died today”. It is just another big bump in my relationships journey.

I spent the evening at dinner with my father and my step-mom. We spent four short hours together at a booth table in a restaurant. Eventually the entire staff gave up on us ever leaving and left us alone. It was wonderful. The night flew by and we were all shocked to discover four hours had passed so quickly. My Dad has always teased me about how much I talk. And, even asked me last night what it is like to have so much boundless energy. He then expressed a concerned – as parents will – that I find quiet time for myself. I reminded him that I live with a nine year old that goes to bed by 8:00pm each night. So, yes, I have plenty of quiet alone time and I get a bit excited when I get to be with adults. He smiled.

When I returned home I checked my computer. There was an email that stated that my sister had shared a pin on Pinterest with me.

I clicked on and this is what came up…

somedayI fell apart in a pool of tears. It was exactly what I needed. She knew that when she sent it. She knew I would cry. She knew it would wear me out and zap my boundless energy. And, she knew I would sleep the deep, heavy sleep that comes after an emotional release. I woke feeling groggy, but ready.

My sister rocks!

Casey

 

PS. I tried to find the original source of the image above, but sadly couldn’t. If you know the source, please let me know. I would like to give them credit for their words.

PSS. I am deeply blessed with a family that loves, accepts and celebrates me.

SHARE THIS: Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail

To Each Their Own

I remember the day my grandmother asked me to take her to New York City. By the end of our second abbreviated conversation that day, she all but said she wanted me and my husband to join her in “the biggest city I’ll ever set foot in.”

I’m not a fool. We went to New York.

Towards the middle of my grandmother’s second battle with breast cancer, she realized she was never going to see Europe. My grandfather had recently died, she was weakened by treatments, but her urge to travel kicked in again on a morning in September. She had, for all my life, always been a woman in constant and focused motion.

flower 1

flower 4

I remember the day she asked me to take her to New York City. She called me and immediately upon my answering started in. “What does a room actually cost at the Waldorf-Astoria?” This query had to have been founded from my sister Casey and me telling her about our discounted adventures during a market we had attended a month before at the hotel she was asking about.

flower 3

 

flower 5

I didn’t really know where she was heading with this line of questioning, I figured she might just be nosy. But whenever she started with a question and not a “hello”, I knew she had been chewing on an idea for hours or days. I was intrigued and willing to play along. I didn’t really know what the room rate was, but I jumped online after hanging up and found out. By the end of our second abbreviated conversation that day, she all but said she wanted me and my husband to join her in “the biggest city I’ll ever set foot in.”

I’m not a fool. We went to New York.

new york 1

We ended up sharing a room – her in one double bed and us in another. I think she wanted us close – and, if I remember correctly, the room rate was steep. She never intended on staying in any other hotel. Without ever having been to New York, the Waldorf was “her New York”. The hotel of queens and presidents and movie stars. Fancy balls, galas, and weddings. And her dreams.

new york 2

I let her choose our agenda, but, seeing my once-vibrant grandmother lessened by disease, I knew we would need to hit the highlights and see the breadth and width of the city in ways that impacted the body softly. Looking back, the only thing we didn’t get done was a subway ride. Taxi rides, tour boats to Staten Island and around Lady Liberty, top-level seats on a double-decker tourist bus, three Broadway shows, a hot dog from a street vendor, and one special dinner after a show near Times Square. We accomplished a great deal. We went in early October, and the weather was delightful. Blue sky days and crisp nights.

hoboken 1

The greatest memory from the trip happened in our room. She was in her bed, the one closest to the bathroom. She was on her right side facing away from me and the bedside light. I had seen her in this position every time I ever entered her bedroom as a child. My husband was sitting beside me reading in our bed, and we were both still dressed from our afternoon matinee. She had already declared herself “in for the night” an hour or so earlier.

hoboken 3

Many minutes passed in the city that never sleeps, and night darkened outside our single window facing Lexington Avenue. I thought she was sleeping because her hand-knitted cap – to cover chemo-ruined hair – was firmly in place and she was still.

Out of the blue, I heard, “We need pizza.”

She was right, and my husband was delighted. It is his favorite food in any city, but “street pizza” in NY is the delicious pinnacle. I forged ahead with questions about specifics – toppings and sauces – and she said, “Get five pieces, all different, and we’ll share.”

hoboken 4

We loved every bite, and she marveled at the size of the slices – each in its own box – and wondered how we would ever finish them. It really wasn’t a problem any of us spent much time contemplating.

Pizza may not have been the wisest decision for late night food for a survivor over 70 years of age – or for her descendent and her husband. Ours was the smallest room the Waldorf offers, and we filled it with the wonderful smell of pizza. And probably the hall as well.

hoboken 5

Today I walked alone from a borrowed apartment in New Jersey. I traipsed to the ferry and made my daily move into Manhattan. Every day before this one on this trip, I have been in motion with a member of my family – husband, sister or friend. I was never alone. Until today. It didn’t last, the alone part. Somewhere in the watery region between New Jersey and New York, I was with my grandmother again. She joined me on the ferry, and the memories of five days spent in this city ten years ago overwhelmed me. It was the last trip she ever took.

new york 3

I believe we all have our own New York, whether we live there full time or live in it as visitors. Places we must visit every time we can. Neighborhoods we move through because they take us back to the first time we were there. Routes considered and re-considered depending upon the time of day.

My son’s New York continues to hold awe and discovery.

My sister’s New York has the Twin Towers in it.

My mother’s New York gifted us fancy truffles every time she returned to her children.

And her mother’s New York was the Waldorf-Astoria.

My New York? I’m still trying to figure it out. But I’m willing to come as often as it takes to solve the mystery. It’s probably all of their New Yorks combined with mine.

Sloane

p.s. All of these photographs were taken on my daily walks to and from the ferry on this most recent trip to New York. On the last day, there was a parade. You can’t beat that with a stick.

hoboken 6

SHARE THIS: Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail

Boxed In

There are certain times of the year when the days move so fast and every day is so crammed full that a calendar – on paper or screen – can’t contain or corral it. Each and every day has a little extra task in it brought to me by my child.

There are certain times of the year when the days move so fast and every day is so crammed full that a calendar – on paper or screen – can’t contain or corral it.

In my job, that’s every day from about Halloween to New Year’s.

As a mother, it’s the month before school ends.

Each and every day has a little extra task in it brought to me by my child. Over the weekend, it was potato salad for 75 people at a volunteer gig. Four dozen cookies for the teacher’s lounge. Nineteen gifts for a national youth exchange. Brownies for math class. None of this makes us a unique family, because every family I talk to is on the verge of having their neatly paced lives run amuck.

In early March, our family went to my youngest niece’s school to view the rainforest that had been crafted by her entire grade. I wrote about that magical day then. It was the camera shot I took afterward during “snack time” that hit home. I was already – two months out from the end of school! – talking to others about how “we’ll get to it this summer” and “that would be the perfect thing to do this summer.”

boxes

We were in the multi-purpose room of her school, and I saw physical proof of what I was already doing…packing the proverbial boxes on my calendar full for every day and every thing that needed to get done so that we could all arrive alive at summer. Unscathed. Whole. Ready for a slower pace.

Just a few more dozen cookies, many tests, a child’s three-plus-day trip to a science contest overlaid with his parents’ seven-plus-day business trip. Then the junior year of my son’s high school year will be behind him.

We’re almost there.

Sloane

SHARE THIS: Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail

Crying Mercy

Two days ago, I cried mercy. This blog has started a little more dramatically than I intended. It was two days ago when I realized that my dual-self-employed-only-child-in-his-junior-year household was not going to get its spring yard work done.

Two days ago, I cried mercy.

This blog has started a little more dramatically than I intended. It was two days ago when I realized that my dual-self-employed-only-child-in-his-junior-year household was not going to get its spring yard work done. My husband and I don’t have green thumbs, and, with the side-effects of three very large old growth trees on our little patch of heaven, hostas, perennial vines and plantings are our friends. These choices we made twenty-plus years ago make for very little annual yard work. We had spent hours here and there over the past three weeks doing the very small amount of things that needed to be done in the warming weather, but there was about three hours of work left to do on one side of the house that was languishing. Undone. Messy.

And for the first time ever – besides lawn mowing – I called in a professional to finish our yardwork. I had never hired anyone to remove the winter’s leaves from all they were protecting. That is actually a job I adore, because I can say hello to my green friends that have been resting over the long winter. Their little, pale, white-ish shoots are usually found reaching for the sun and fresh air. And my gentle words of welcome.

harl & scotty
My husband and our friend Scotty last year. Obviously not in the yard….

Today, my friend – and professional self-employed yard genius – stepped in and took us to the finish line. I really struggled with reaching out for help this time. Not that I am opposed to hiring people – plumbers, electricians, painters – who know exactly what they are doing, like that Oakland County’s best plumbing service our neighbours using on the regular basis. I stand in awe of their capabilities and knowledge. I think my problem with reaching out was about me, not her. I like to be the one to take the spring projects to the end. I like to stand back and see the fresh rake marks and the tender buds. It is the final nail in winter’s coffin.

Today I handed the hammer to Scotty and I couldn’t be happier.

Sloane

SHARE THIS: Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail

Copyright Casey Simmons and S. Sloane Simmons. People who steal other people's words & thoughts are asshats. Don't be an asshat.