Bittersweet

A million years ago, when I first moved into my house I decided I needed a place to go.  You know what I mean.  Someplace comfortable.  Someplace where I was known and could go without worrying about anything.  Someplace to hang out.

Back then the Pike hadn’t begun its metamorphoses and was still pretty much of a dive.  It was definitely not a place where I could go alone.  So I roamed my new neighborhood and stumbled on Ronies.  A few blocks from home.  Back then it was safe to walk at all hours so it was perfect.

Ronie was a character.  If he liked you, he delayed taking your money so you were unable to leave.  If he didn’t, you never got served.  I was fortunate.  Ronie and his wife, Donna liked me.  One of the early years I ended up with way too much vacation.  I used it up one Friday afternoon at a time, at Ronies, eating fresh sliced Delmonico cheese steaks with spicy fries.  By the time the summer was over I was family.  Over the years, I stored up a lot of memories from there.  Mostly good, a few not so much.

A month ago a for sale sign appeared on the railing.  I hadn’t been there in quite some time but that didn’t stop me from feeling a little sad.  After forty-eight years in business Ronies was closing.  The end of an era.   One less place for me to feel at home.

Today some friends and I went for what will be the last time.  There is a deal pending.  Someone else will step in and change things.  No, there is nothing wrong with change.  But in this case even if the new place is fantastic it still won’t be good.   Ronies was an old fashioned corner bar that I’m sure is very similar to how it looked the day it opened, only not as shiny.  Ronie and Donna are much the same as the first time I walked in.  They’re not as shiny either but then neither am I.

I’d like to say thank you for all the time I spent there.  And wish them both all the best in the world.  Cheers!

Melancholy

I put on the flannel sheets this morning.  Doing so for the first time each season always reminds me of the second cat to grace my home.

Igor.

He was a street cat who claimed me on cold December day.  When he found me he was missing half his fur.  He limped.  The vet later told me he had broken his leg at some point.  He was skinny as could be.

By spring he was gorgeous and sleek.  Pure black, exotic yellow eyes.  With a Siamese voice that echoed throughout the house.  He would sit in the attic and scream.  I’d go running, sure he was in tremendous peril only to find him sitting on the railing, waiting for me to pet him.  Yes, he laughed every time.

The next fall when I put the flannel sheets on he was the happiest kitty ever.  He never seemed to be able to get warm enough. All summer he’d sleep on the navy blue beanbag chair in the sunbeam in the attic.  As soon as those sheets were on he burrowed into them.  I’d have to go get him when it was time to eat.  When he was done he’d go straight back up to his cozy little nest.  He was nice though.  At bedtime he’d scoot over and give me a bit of space so I could join him.

He’s been gone for years.  Every time I put on the sheets though, I can feel him with me that first night.  I expect to hear him later, calling me to curl up with him.

June 20, 1916

Today would have been my great aunt Irva's 97th birthday. Sadly, she only made it to her 94th. Still, that's a long time. Imagine the changes she saw in her lifetime. She was the quiet sister. The good girl. The nice one. Or that's what people saw. Oh, don't take that the wrong way. She was those things. She was also the most sweetly determined woman I ever met. She issued orders that had everyone hoping all the while sitting regally and smiling sweetly. No one dared to refuse because it was Irva and of course you had to do what she said.

As I age, I find that I am looking more and more like her. I'm okay with that. Perhaps with the appearance will come the ability to command without seeming to as brilliantly as she could. I sure hope so because it was a true art. Gods, I miss her.

Happy birthday, Irva. I love you.

Cheesecake

In honor of my dad's birthday.  He would have been 84 on the 10th.  This was made by the folks at the World Famous Pike Cafe and he would have loved it.

From my Childhood

When I was a small child my dad taught STEP classes.  Systematic Training for Effective Parenting.  He was a school psychologist.  After being a music and history teacher.  After being a Marine during the Korean War.

I went along to the classes.   They were held in a very old school building, one step up from a one-room schoolhouse.  It was an incredible building.  Old wood everywhere.  Worn floors.  Even the steps were wooden.  Real slate chalk boards.  Back then the rooms weren’t locked so I could explore to my heart’s content.  I’m sure you can imagine the adventures my mind created.

I loved it however I almost was banned from accompanying him.  You see, even as a small child I had an opinion.  I don’t remember what exact point my dad was making but he used our family as an example.  I happened to be pausing in the doorway at the time.  It was several weeks into the class so the parents there were used to my coming and going. 

I generally kept to myself after doing the dog and pony show of saying hello but not that night.  No, that night it was too much for me to smile and nod as I’d been doing.  Whatever it was he said was so far from the reality I knew that it was impossible for me to remain silent.  I walked in and said very clearly that what he said was not true.

Yeah.  I opened a huge can of worms with that one.  My dad tap danced and back pedaled so frantically that I was stunned back into silence.  He twisted and spun so that what I said became part of the example on how to deal with children.  I was amazed.  I could tell the adults there were so confused and dazzled they’d forgotten what either of us had said leading up to it.

I didn’t mean to discredit him.  I was little.  I hadn't learned to play the game yet.  There was a second when no one was looking at him and his expression changed.  I knew then just how badly I’d screwed up.  In that instant I learned that my dad was not to be blindly trusted.

We talked on the way home.  Well, mostly he talked.  I agreed because I wanted to continue going along with him.  The privilege of having unlimited access to the building was worth lying for though on my part it was a lie of omission.  After that night I said nothing more than hello and goodbye to the parents in the class.  Yes, I became the model child in public, a perfect example of what he was attempting to teach.

Apologizing in Advance

Ever have someone in your life who was so jealous of your writing he hated it (and you) enough to destroy it?  Sadly, I did.

Years and years ago, I had idea notebooks.  One, a blue one, was for a story called Ask Luellen.  It was a tale about a family as told by the youngest daughter.  I had all sorts of notes.  Even the first chapter though it wasn’t quite right. 

As I was debating on what person to tell it in, the mean, hateful, spiteful boy who was living in my house at the time destroyed it.  And yes, boy is the correct term.  No matter how old he was his behavior precludes me from ever calling him a man.

Having the notebook obliterated made the characters disappear.  I thought I’d lost them forever for letting that happen.  I’ve hated myself for years over it.  And so many other things from that time in my life.

As I was waking up this morning, in that moment between truly asleep and awareness, I heard the slightest whisper.  They’ve been there all this time.  Punishing me?  Hiding?  Sulking?  Searching for someone else, someone more worthy, to tell their story?  I really don’t know.  But they’re still there or maybe it’s back again.  It’s like finding an old, old friend you lost touch with eons ago, never expected to find again and one day they bump into you in the most unlikely of places.

Maybe it’s time to forgive myself.

Yes, I’m a bit too introspective today.

Today...

...Would have been my great aunt Irva’s 96^th birthday.  I miss her tremendously.  She was the one I could, without any hesitation, count on her to have faith in me my entire life before she passed away a year and a half ago.  It’s a bittersweet day, full of memories.

Irva was the quiet one in the family.  She went about her business, accomplishing everything she set out to do without making a fuss or drawing attention to herself.  She was a sixth-grade teacher her entire working life.  I remember going to lunch with her forever and having a handful of people stop to chat with her about the impact she had on there lives.  It happened no matter where we went in Carlisle.  Those that didn’t know her from school knew her for her lovely voice.  She spent 70 years in the church choir and over the years sang at many weddings.  Between the two occupations, she left a wonderful legacy.  I’m sure I could go back to the places she frequented and still find people missing her.

In her honor, I took today off and did fun things.  As a child, I remember going to the Carlisle Farmers Market.  I couldn’t get there today but I did go wander the Leesport Farmers Market, a place I know she would have enjoyed.  I even found a few orange and white kittens who resembled her cat, Puffy, to "fuzz" while I was there. I had lunch with the Little One who has adopted me as her aunt.  I even had a few bites of a decadent double chocolate brownie with hot fudge and ice cream.  I know Irva would have liked that.

As long as I have my memories, I know Irva will not ever be truly gone.  So happy birthday, Irva.  I love you.

An Extra - Bittersweet

The last hyacinth my dad gave me before he passed, ten years ago.

Yes, I’m playing with my nifty new camera again. For more of my photos, click here.

Yesterday...

Was my great aunt’s birthday. She would have been 95.

I miss her tremendously, as you can imagine. She’s the only person who encouraged me my entire life, the only one who I was able to count on, no matter what. The only person to always be proud of me, whether I was four and learning to print her name or forty-four and sending off a book I had written.

I worked up the nerve to start going through some of the things I brought home from her house. I figured I was even more swamped with memories last weekend than usual so it was as good a time as any. I started with the box containing photo albums. Yeah, it was very hard. Bittersweet. But that one should be the most difficult. The others will be easier. They’re just stuff, not faces.

I found the scrapbook her class had made for her when she retired back in 1974. That was fun. I don’t know who they enlisted to snag pictures from her life outside of school but there were a bunch that made me smile. A million years ago, she used to sing professionally and there was a program for an event where she was the featured soloist. There were also pictures of her cat, Puffball, who hated everyone but Irva. She would corner me, not letting me out of the room, whenever she could. I can’t tell you how many times I had to call for help because of that cat.

There was an album of old relatives. Her grandparents, parents, uncles and the cousins. I had a lot of fun looking through that one. I knew the cousins when they were all over 50 so it was great seeing them with Irva when they were all much, much younger. And there was an album of me, birth to maybe age seven. Apparently I used to have a thing for hats. There’s one picture of me looking outside with longing. You can see the rain on the window. Some things never change.

An Ending

I realized earlier that today is the day I would have mailed my great aunt’s Valentine’s card. We exchanged cards every year since I was able to hold a crayon and draw something which, to my small child’s mind, resembled a heart. Yes, every year, without fail. There’s no one else I can say that about.

Cards for occasions were important to my great aunt. She never missed one. Not for me. Not for any of her friends. She always kept one of those address books with the date trackers in them. And she referred to it often. She’d check it, then go out and select appropriate cards so they were there, ready and waiting for when they needed. Each one included a personal note from her as well.

I’m going to miss getting those cards from her. Why is it that the sweetest memories are also sometimes the most painful?