life

Not Perfect but Better

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“Not perfect but better than it was” is my new answer to the question, “How are you doing?”

A good friend told me recently (In my thoughts, I used the verb accused.), “You are good at thinking about what you are thinking about and communicating that…” I thought to myself, huh? I do not understand what that means. My second thought was, is that a good thing?

Maybe that is why I am here talking to the computer (me really) and maybe putting these thoughts on my little blog. Maybe I do think about things more deeply than others. Maybe I do not. Caring for someone every hour of everyday with a chronic disease which gets steadily worse has turned my attention to finding grace and meaning in the little things and simple things around me. I suppose that fits with Carpe Diem.

Carpe Diem is how I sign these blog posts. And these are more and more about me, which fits because Cheryl is no longer here. And down the rabbit hole of meditation and thoughts about life and where it is going and where it was before, I have fallen. Alas. I can consume much of the day thinking about it. I hope I am not mired in grief. I do not think so. I do think that I have a predisposition to helping others if I can. I suppose I learned that from my father. (Ahh! another stream of conscience.)

If you are not used to doing this thought process on your own (finding your space and place), seek out a support group, either face to face or on Facebook. It is helpful with whatever difficultly you are encountering. The anonymity of Facebook works for many. Talking person to person about a mutually experienced disease or issue works for others.

This will sound like a tangent but stay with me. I have a notepad I keep on the kitchen table that I use to take notes about various vegetables and other items that I cook for a meal. I roast many things in the oven because I find it a convenient way cook. And while the oven is cooking there is often a convenient fifteen minutes or so for a glass of wine. Alas, I have digressed. On this pad I note which combinations of ingredients seem to work for me, so that I can repeat them in the future if I desire. (Cooking for one can be a chore.)

My first note is; brussel sprouts / tomato / carrots / salt, pepper, toss with olive oil / roast all 375F ~ 20 mins. This is pretty cryptic but this is a combination of vegetables that I like roasted together. There are others. Trying to eat healthy is a personal goal. I quartered the tomato and roasted it along with the rest.

My second note is; What’s in that soup? And a list of ingredients that I put in the soup. Several days ago it was a list of ingredients for beef, vegetable, barley soup. Today’s soup is a butternut squash recipe modified from the Mind Diet cookbook. I used orange lentils (1C.) instead of tofu and not so much ginger. My scribble tells me what marsala curry powder is made from.

My point is this: I have given myself the opportunity and place to note to myself about what is working. I do not feel the need to keep notes on what does not work in cooking a meal or in life. (Laments are not my style. I just throw away any leftovers… did he mean food or life? Yes.) It must be my personal reason for journaling and exposing my emotions to the blog-o-sphere.

I am not attempting to convince anyone of this method. I just know it works for me. I keep notes about what works for me when I am cooking. I keep notes about what works for me in life – my journal and this blog.

I rarely notice my own habits and attributes and other things that I do to help myself during the day. I used to have Cheryl to do that for me and it is, no doubt, another reason that I miss her so each day. (I know you are reading this , Cheryl, so there you have it.) It seems that I have others who do that for me also and I did not know they were there.

Others have told me that my words help them. If you are one of those, you are welcome. I only know that my writing helps me.

Look for grace where you can find it. (Cheryl often told me, there is grace in accepting help from others.) There is grace in simply being present for others.

Carpe Diem

Hurry, Haste

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What is your hurry?

I ask myself that question several times per day. What is your hurry?

My encouragement to myself is “what is your hurry?” At this stage of my life the answer is I do not know. (IDK)

I do know that when I close my eyes in the sunny shade of these woods and empty my mind as best I can, and then I open my eyes again the evergreens are a brilliant color with a deeper blue. Why is that? IDK. I have hurried through life without looking.

Why did I pick this trail for today’s activity? A day ago I wrote that I am not a child anymore and I am not youthful but I still see a world of wonder with youthful eyes. I remember long ago when Cheryl and I came here we hiked this trail more quickly than I do today. I am not in a hurry. Maybe that memory brought me up the cliff face. IDK. Today I stopped often to rest but also to look, think, remember and read and listen while I read.

I selected several books to bring with me on this retreat and personal retrospective. I selected first “So long and Thanks for the Fish” by Douglas Adams. I have read a couple of the others from the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy. There are five books altogether and the theme is cynicism and simultaneous mediocrity as we splash through life. Wonko the Sane explained why he became a hermit – “The sign read: hold stick near the center of its length. Moisten pointed end in mouth. Insert in tooth space blunt end next to gum. Use gentle in-out motion. It seemed to me,  he said, that any society that had so far lost its head to put such a detailed set of instructions on a package of toothpicks, was no longer a civilization that I could live in and stay sane.” We have a lot of things like that going on. “Caution HOT!” is printed on the side of the McDonald’s coffee cup.  I always think, “I hope so.” Why are warning signs like this posted? I passed several today on railings erected along the trail. The other side of the rail was a sheer drop. “DANGER No Entrance ” is printed on the sign.  IDK. I did not hurry through the small volume. Several times walking today I found myself reading on a convenient log or outcrop of rock.


Why did I select this book to read first? IDK but it has been many years since I read the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the absurdity of the story line is compelling. Maybe it is time to review my life and start anew. Maybe I long for the next great thing. IDK. There is no hurry.

There will be time to take time for wonder. There is no hurry.

Carpe Diem.

Dear Cheryl

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Dear Cheryl,

It has been six months today. How are you in your new existence? I have to admit to myself that I still miss you greatly. You were so much of my life how can I not?

I wrote on my blog (I am sure that you read it.) about my own personal “If Only”. If Only is the title of the next section of the Grief Share series. I have not watched the video yet but I will later today in preparation for helping Sr. Janet tomorrow.

In case you forgot, here is what I wrote the other day:

If Only

There is no percentage in “if only”. None. Although many of us spend considerable time with if-only style thoughts. If only I had completed (insert item here) I would be (insert perceived superlative or horror here). If only I had asked (him, her, them) about the consequences of (this, that , those) we would be (better, worse, still wondering). One can go anywhere with a good if only.

There is no percentage in it. Nothing is gained by speculative thought and other attempts to predict present out comes from “if only I had”. Additionally there is no real risk except perhaps diminishing self worth. God (or whatever one’s concept of God is) as the eternal knows the future and needs no predictors. Past, present and future is the same to the eternal.

Fuzzy philosophy there but what-iffing your past actions does not help today’s actions.

Grief Share talks about this in long winded generality. The “if only” that I deal with often when it jumps into my head is why could I not see that she was moments from leaving this existence when I kissed her good night the evening before she died.

This is my “if only”. What would be different today if I had sat up with her as she took her last breath? I will never know.

If Only.

At the time I was experimenting with prose poetry in a way. You know what a corny poet I am. I still have those old letters we wrote each other in high school. I have yours and mine because you never threw anything away. Neither did I. Those notes are special to me. Not long after you died, I read some of them and thought that I should put them together and match the dates. I did not. Much like looking through old pictures (I found the packets from our trip out west with the kids.) I look through your letters and then find my reply. Good heavens, I was smitten with you back then.

I am smitten with you now as I think about those days and the life we had together.

A fellow blogger wrote this comment to me: “I was with my dad in his final hours, lingering long. My older brother wondered aloud if he was hesitant to leave while I was there, as if to protect my sensitive soul. When I went home to sleep, he went on to eternity.

I hope this might bring you some comfort. “

(Karen 🙂 — comment posted to my blog)

I wrote back: “ … And that is what I tell myself. My father (I think) waited until Cheryl and I left to eat a little lunch. When we came back – Dad was gone. I simply did not want her to feel abandoned. I think that is the source of my sadness when it pops into my head. — and this thought and how it affects me is what I will think about today as I walk and try to enjoy this beautiful Autumn day in Ohio. Those thoughts make it all about me and I do not want to feel that way. At other times I think Cheryl hung on as long as she did because she wanted to be sure that I would be okay. That was her personality. (that thought also makes it about me.) Today is Monday. Cheryl died on Monday April 22. Six months ago today. I think I am missing her a little more today.
Thank you for reading and your comment. It is a comfort.”

Do you remember that? We went to be with Dad that day at Hospice and we went to get some soup in the little lunch room they had there. That is a vivid memory of mine.

I can still see Dad’s gray face. I can still see your gray face. I can still see Mom’s gray face. I can still hear the silence when Laura stopped breathing.

Even when it is expected, death is unexpected. If you had wanted me there to be with you that morning and could not wait any longer, I apologize for not getting there to be with you. Please do not think that I abandoned you. If you knew when I was coming that morning and did not want to upset me with your silence, thank you but I was upset anyway. (pretty sneaky, girl)

I miss you today. I am going to take a walk in the sunshine and think about it all.

If you are allowed to, save me a seat next to you. We will talk more when I get there.

As always with love,

Paul

Autumn Haiku and Inner Thought

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friday comes with cool
sun peeks higher in the sky
autumn is awake

she speaks in my head
often with her quiet voice
our love continues

this day Cheryl is
this day memories of us
happy memories

Haiku form – 5 : 7 : 5 – is a favorite poetic form to me. Real poets, I do not consider myself a real poet, are able to paint a picture, elicit an emotion or start a meditation with seventeen syllables. Distilling feelings and ideas to their basic form. I have noticed in myself that many times words do not work. The search for a word with the perfect nuance of what I feel alludes me often. Perfection at reading what is not there is not my strongest ability.

And yet, funneling feelings into seventeen sounds is sometimes satisfying.

Meditation (I use that word instead of prayer) comes in many forms to me. Today it is distillation of thought into seventeen bits of non-prattle.

abracadabra
in mind appears some pictures
our happier times

grieve companion lost
happy memories abound
love is present, found

Thinking about Cheryl today as I write about our life with its past joys and wonderful trips and the sadness and struggles near the end has pushed me into haiku today. Waiting to see what the rest of the day brings and the realization that existence takes care of itself without my help is comforting.

Is that prayer?

Carpe Diem.

Astral Planes?

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I have been reading a lot about death lately. Looking for something else in my little office, I rediscovered a book by Robert Fulghum entitled From Beginning to End, the rituals of our lives. It seemed to fit with my overall end-of-life curiosity and reading I have pursued of late so I placed it on the table near where I often sit to read in the evening. I have not re-read it yet. I have many of his books. I may re-read all of them eventually.

I did not think much about death before these past few months. I am driven in this direction because Cheryl is gone. When she was alive either with me or comfortable in the memory care section of Bridgeway Pointe, I searched for information about her condition, how to help, how to react, how to, what if, generally I was hunting for the manual. I became very observant while she stayed at BP. The other day I looked back through my journal. I read this entry: “Thursday, April 18, 2024: (after several notes) – I think today I see that Cheryl is close to death. Her eyes are receding into their sockets. Often her right eye does not open. Her voice is almost gone. – (list of vital signs)” Reading this several months later brought me to the realization that I anticipated her death many days before it occurred. This notation was 3 days before.

Jodi Picoult in her novel The Book of Two Ways which is about an egyptologist turned end-of-life doula, the main character in her role as doula helps the dying to transition. She also helps the caregiver(s) after the death. Being an end-of-life doula is a real occupation. Had I known there existed people who did this sort of work I would have tracked one down to help me and Cheryl (but mostly me.) In the characters role as egyptologist she delves into ancient Egypt, their gods, belief structures and spells and rituals. In 1500 BCE these guys were concerned with the resurrection of the spiritual body and the immortality the soul. The rituals of helping the soul to transition into the after-world are captivating to me. I still hunt for the manual.

I want to know what is next. I write that thought with the realization that I cannot know what is next. Even so, right now, it is a strong desire. I found a book called “Life after Death”. My first thought was “Aha! There is a manual!”

Deepak Chopra in his book Life after Death writes, “Soul bonds occur on the astral plane just as they occur in the physical world. Relationships in the astral plane mean that you are vibrating in concert with someone else’s soul and therefore feel a heightened sense of love, unity and bliss. … When the disembodied soul tunes in to the frequency of a loved one back on the physical plane, that person may feel the presence of the departed…” I sure hope that is what is going on when I feel Cheryl near me.

I long to hear, strain to hear her voice. She knows what is after this physical life. It is very hard to hear what she is saying to me from that higher plane.

I have so many more questions. I could not ask Cheryl about what is next. I think she knew but was unable to tell me what she knew. It was not until after she left this plane of existence that I realized I still had questions. She gave me little hints. I did not recognize those for what they were. Many months before she left, she spoke to me about not being here for her next hair appointment. Her timing was off a little but I remember at the time thinking, you are wrong dear. Most smart men know that their wife is rarely wrong.

“… I went in seeking clarity

I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains
We go to the doctor, we go to the mountains
We look to the children, we drink from the fountain
Yeah, we go to the Bible, we go through the workout
We read up on revival, we stand up for the lookout

There’s more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
And the less I seek my source for some definitive
(The less I seek my source)
Closer I am to fine …

Songwriters: Emily Ann Saliers / Amy Elizabeth Ray

Carpe Diem

I Remember

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Cheryl and I met at a picnic. It was a blue moon in August of 1966 specifically, but that’s not really the story. The story is what we have been together since.

High school friends of mine put together a picnic with friends of hers. Cheryl went because they invited her. I went because my friends invited me.

I found myself sitting alongside of her at a picnic table in a dark picnic area in Winton Woods. Both of us were wondering how these guys were going to get the hot dogs and stuff off of the grill when they hadn’t brought any tools. So I kind of jumped into the breach to fix the problem and scooped the hot dogs up with a couple of paper plates. Cheryl later told me that she thought that action was really clever.

But that is not the important thing that I wanted to tell you about that night. Our meeting was a totally random event in both of our lives then and since that night (58 years ago) we have been together.

It’s sort of amazing when you think about it. I mean in high school, of course when she went back to ICA in Indiana, I dated a couple of other girls, but I didn’t really get serious or even interested in anybody else except for her. Four years almost to the day after we met on that picnic, we got married. I finished up school at Miami. We had kids. She supported me at Miami. I supported her at U. C. The kids grew up. We supported them and they moved out. We had a few years in there when we sort of enjoyed (you know) empty nesting, a few trips, just enjoying life and living. We had two fairly well paying careers and enjoyed a little bit of travel and some other things like that. It’s been a really good life. It’s been a really good life and she is gone mentally and I don’t know where to put that. I do not know where to put that in my heart. I don’t know where to put that in my head. I don’t know what to do about that period. I struggle with that pretty much every day.

She is physically still here but mentally not so much in the last few weeks. Probably not very far from now in a few weeks she will physically be gone, too.

I just don’t know how to think about all this. I ponder this all the time.

I do not know what is next but I do so wish there was a manual. She is still here, but she is not here.

At first it made me feel a little bit guilty, moving her to memory care but I’ve come to realize that if she was still home with me, I would really not have a good handle on being able to help her and keep her clean and and feed her and all those other things that go along with the situation that she’s in at Bridgeway Pointe.

I don’t have guilt feelings anymore. I tell myself this but maybe those feelings are still with me. At first I had sort of thought that it felt like I was giving up or giving in or throwing our life away or whatever you want to say. I but I don’t really quite know how to express that emotion, but we have lived together for so long. It did not and still does not feel right. Perhaps it never will.

And it’s so hard to see her go. I just don’t know what to do about it. I just don’t know what to do about my emotions. I can’t really put them in my pocket. I mean, I can for a while but then they just sort of spontaneously come out every now and then. I don’t worry about that. I just sort of stop for a minute when I get all choked up and I just simply can’t talk, but I’m getting better at it passing by that that deep sense of loss. I don’t know how else to say that. It is just a really deep deep sense of loss.

I love her and she will always be part of me. I have and we have lots and lots of good memories. I am not sure that she has any memory, sometimes it’s hard to tell.

It is very hard to tell where and what she remembers especially towards the end of this past year. She seemed to regress more and more into her childhood. And I don’t know how else to say that. In the middle of the night when I would get up and go to the bathroom, she would wake up a little bit and say, “Jan where are you going?” Sometimes she would say, “Dan?” (you know? )

These past few years have been a trial. I will not remember her this way.

I will remember the trips to the Cincinnatian Hotel.

I will remember Sunday matinees at the Playhouse in the Park.

I will remember the cruise trips.

I will remember the hiking trips in various parks and the looks on the boy scouts’ faces when we encountered each other five miles from the trail head in Green Bow State Park in Kentucky. And how great lunch tasted when we got back to the lodge after our hike.

I will remember pancakes with fresh maple syrup in the morning looking for the ladies room in Hocking Hills.

I will remember the joy on her face when she graduated college.

I will remember the tired joy on her face after the birth of each child.

I will remember the trips to Myrtle Beach and during those to Charleston.

I will remember a Christmas Eve a long time ago when she insisted that I open her gift to me and all I wanted to do was go to bed and sleep. She had made me a shirt. She was a wonderful seamstress and proud of it.

I will remember the trips with friends to Door County and the Grand Canyon.

I will remember walking to the neighborhood pub after work to enjoy dinner she did not cook and a glass of wine.

I will remember her herding the kids to church on Sunday morning.

I will remember cold weekend mornings alongside soccer fields.

I will remember her excitement when Anna announced that our first grandchild was coming.

I will remember how she cared for me and our family through life.

I will remember many things but I will not dwell on the last few weeks of her time here.

I love you Cheryl. You will always be with me. I carry your heart in my heart. I will remember your smile.

Parkinson’s disease sucks. (Today I do not feel much like carpe-ing the damn diem.) She is slipping from me and I feel sad.

Stream of Conscious – Touch

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Two days ago when I sat with Cheryl in the common area of where she is staying, I noted in my journal that she seems to need touch. I think I do too. On these occasions when she does not seem to be in the present, somewhere in her head she needs to feel, manipulate and touch.

It seems to me that these days Cheryl has to have more touch. That is just my thought in my observations when I see her. I am just sitting with her and seeing how she’s doing. But that is what I see and think. I think also that I need the same kind of touch. I sit there and turn the chair so that I can we can be side by side and I can hold her hand. Doing that action is important to me. I observed that about myself today. Today for awhile, about an hour or so, we sat holding both hands. She was holding my left hand with her left hand and I was holding her her right hand with my right hand and we sat that way for a long time.

I am writing this using an app that I downloaded that transcribes spoken words into printed words. I will see how that goes. It looks like I can write in a crude fashion. I can just send this text to myself via email and then paste it into a document and then spend some time trying to figure out exactly what I am trying to say.

It is hard to describe. What I see and and I mean as I think about what I am internalizing when I’m touching her or feeling as I am feeling her knee. Cheryl has gotten very skeletal over the past few weeks.

Even as she looked around at things in the room and told me some story that I could barely hear because her voice is so soft. There is a lot of ambient noise; television in the main room, television in one or two side rooms, Bluetooth music and the occasional phone call, she would simply just sit holding my hands. She was okay to sit that way. Every now and then I had to move my hand and scratch my nose or whatever and every now and then she would let go and you know touch something else or scratch her nose or whatever. It is fascinating to me as this goes on how much it is important for the both of us to touch each other.

The whole thing about touch is sort of interesting to me. I think we have always had that throughout our married life but as I as we get further in this Parkinson’s journey, the sense of touch is is important to me and I think I really do think it’s important to Cheryl. We are communicating our presence to each other through touch.

She does not resist it. She does resist things that that bother or sometimes hurt her. Her sense of pain can be strong. I am sure she feels pain because every now and then she says stop doing that, it hurts me or something like that, or maybe she’s having a cramp in her leg or whatever the deal is, but simple touch is very different. She will also grimace if something causes pain.

I have been exploring the nuances of touch in my head and I don’t really know how to describe differences of instance. It is interesting to me that it is important to her and me at the same time.

Now if she is sleeping or she’s very tired or trying to doze or she does not feel quite right or she is hungry or she needs to go to the toilet or needs to move, then touching gets in the way. When she was still home here with me, it seemed like we would fight (not the right word) when I was helping her with one of these activities. She would be dissatisfied with any any help that I would give her.

I sometimes just reached over to touch her leg to see whether or not there is anything left there. And I realize that I am holding on to her thigh bone, for example without hardly any any any meat. She used to be a much bigger woman. She used to be a lot fluffier. Just a year ago, I would have had a very hard time picking her up and holding her up and helping her into and out of bed. These days, in some book somewhere, I read somebody describe somebody as a bag of bones, that is a pretty good description of Cheryl. She still has a lot of muscle strength when she decides to squeeze and grab something, but she really doesn’t have a lot of mass. There is little subcutaneous fat left on her body and that too makes me want to touch her just simply so that I know in my own mind that she’s still there and she’s still alive. Without touching her she still in my heart. I think about her all the time but somehow there is a physicality that happens when when I actually touch her.

She is very skinny. Touching helps me to understand.

Carpe Diem.

A Sense of Cheryl

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Often when we went to see her neurologist and I talked to him about Cheryl seeing things or we saw the nurse practitioner and had similar conversations, he spoke of sensing a presence nearby. For the past few weeks that Cheryl has been away I have had that same sense of her nearby. It occurs mostly in the morning when I awaken. The sense of her is not always there but it is often there.

I admitted that to myself and others when we met for our support group meeting last night. The concept is hard to describe. There is something about being sensate to this world and being aware of our presence in it that implies to me an additional sense of soul. If there is a soul who is to say two souls cannot touch each other. They could become entangled and affect each other. Why not?

Yesterday I did not sense any of this presence of her. When I went to visit she was deeply asleep. No amount of talking or kissing of ears would awaken her. In the evening when I was home alone after my second visit I felt disconnected. Something was missing. I have no idea what but I felt or did not feel something. It was an emptiness and maybe a little anxiety because whatever it was, it was not there.

On this morning I felt her. I was certain she was awake and aware. When I went to visit, she looked at me and smiled. Maybe it is just fifty-three years of marriage. Maybe it is just a comfortable familiarity and an expectation that she will be with me in the morning. Perhaps it is just a pleasant dream of her that I am waking from. Perhaps it is what is referred to in the Star Wars movies as the force. I like to think there is an ethereal connection between us. We are eternally connected souls. Maybe a quantum connection exists.

Yesterday her end of the connection was off. Today it was not.

Carpe Diem. Carpe Nexum.

Ice Cream

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This morning my thoughts turned to ice cream. Cheryl and I often went out for ice cream in the evening. In two smaller suburbs there was a Dairy Queen in one – she likes Oreo Blizzards – and Aglemessis Bros. which is a small local ice cream and confectionery. She likes black raspberry chocolate chip.

There is a very good story about the second store. many years ago when Cheryl was still working one of her coworkers would have what she referred to as “Grandma’s Camp”. She invited the grandchildren to stay with her for a week in the summer individually so that she could get to know each child without the distraction of the others and the bigger family around that would be there during big family gatherings. Cheryl decided that this was a good, bordering on great idea.

Audrey, Anna’s third child, stayed with us during this episode of our life adventure when she was about seven years. I am unsure exactly how old she was but it suffices to say she was a young child. She was a very early reader which became apparent when I took her with me to visit my mother at the independent living situation she was staying in to help organize her meds for another week. Audrey read some of the names of the medications and was asking me what various ones were for. Mom took a bunch of stuff.

Afterward I took her to Aglemessis Bros. for ice cream. This store has an old fashioned soda fountain style counter in it that you can sit at and watch the folks (soda jerks) dish up the ice cream and sodas. We sat there. There is a big board on the wall listing all of the flavors and other less important information about price. There is also a menu of sundaes and other goodies in addition to a display case for various chocolate delights and chunky chocolate all sold buy the pound. It is a chocoholic addict’s downfall. Audrey looked up at the board and said to me, ” Grampaw, they have chocolate chocolate chip!” I responded yes they do and you can probably get hot fudge on top if you want that also. I did not know at the time that my granddaughter was a chocolate fan like me. (It makes me smile inside when I recall this experience.)

I think she got chocolate sauce on her two scoops of double chocolate chip ice cream as did I and we sat with satisfaction as we ate and watched the activity behind the counter. I suppose that is why I particularly enjoyed bringing Cheryl to the Aglemessis store. It always reminds me of this story. I think tomorrow perhaps I will see if I can bring Cheryl some black raspberry chocolate chip ice cream from there.

From a precocious, chocolate loving, early reading, intelligent young girl to a beautiful young woman, when I think of Cheryl and I going to Aglemessis Bros. for ice cream, I think of Audrey and chocolate chocolate chip.

Carpe Diem.

The Things You Keep

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(Pieces of a Life)

It is interesting and nostalgic to find a pile of random objects in your sock drawer and ask yourself – why did I keep this? Looking for something else I found a pile of these random printed things that I had kept over the years. The why for many of these is obvious. Most are cards that express love for me from Cheryl. I know why I kept them. Neither of us has been very poetic, romantic or good at expressions of love to each other. I mean that in the literary sense. We have always expressed our love for each other.

The employees at Hallmark and American Greetings are expert at expressing emotional thoughts. Cheryl would write Paul or To my dear husband at the top of the verse and sign below with simply Cheryl. I know why I kept them. I kept them because when I read them now I hear her voice. She is so much better than I am at marking life events with a card.

Sometimes things mark the first of some event, so, it is necessary to keep a record. In this particular pile is an old scorecard from a golf game I played with a friend from work. Circled on the card and highlighted with arrows is a “3” scored on a par four hole on an old Cincinnati golf course. The notation is “the first birdie for Gerbs” and the card is attested to by Rick Hilt.

I play golf very little these days. I still enjoy a round with my sons or grandson but it is no longer a passion as it once was. My very first round of golf I played with my father and my brother long ago on Blue Ash golf course. The course was brand new. It had only nine holes. My brother had chased his job to Florida but was back for a visit. It was a special occasion and I had asked for a day off from work to play. Bill gave me his driver, a tee and a ball and said, “Just swing it around a bit and get loose. When you are ready to hit, just think smooth.” I can still hear him say that. I was young, skinny and inexperienced.

The teeing area was elevated slightly but across the front of the tee was a riff in the landscape that drained the land in a rainstorm. The landing area for the experienced drivers began one hundred and fifty yards to the fore. The landing area for the hackers was the riff. The pressure to stay away from the dry weedy creek bed was great. As I approached the ball with my brother’s driver he said to me, “Remember. Smooth just think smooth.” I kept thinking smooth as I took the club head back. Being inexperienced and skinny I was unsure of grip and other nuances to send the ball rapidly into the hackers paradise below. As I swung the club forward I stayed with his advice, smooth.

I am sure it happened too fast but as I think about it, it is all in slow motion in my memory. The club impacted the ball squarely through the bottom of the arc. My body followed it around and through. As I lifted my eyes to follow the ball on its flight, it moved straight away from me for twenty or thirty yards of flight and then gently rose and headed to the experienced drivers landing area away from the surrounding clover, the weedy creek bed and the trees. It struck the ground two hundred or so yards from me and ran up the slight grade of the short grass for another fifty yards into the heal of the slight dogleg left fairway.

I was ecstatic and proud of my effort as I handed my brother his driver back and asked, “Like that?” He grabbed his club and switched to competition mode. My brother Bill was a scratch golfer and an excellent Bridge player through most of his life. He said, “Why don’t you have your own sticks?” He approached his ball and hit a very fine drive and when his ball stopped out in the fairway it was only a few feet beyond mine. It was the best drive from the tee that I ever hit playing golf. I had almost out drove my big brother. He felt the need to compete with me. It was a good day although that was it for my first golf game. I was in hacker’s paradise for the rest of the round.

In another handwritten letter, I have been “ripped a new one” by the mother of a child that played on a soccer team with my daughter. I kept it all these years for a couple reasons. It was the first time I have been ripped a new one in such elegant cursive and her reasoning did not carry any weight after my daughter pointed out that her daughter was an only child.

Memories like this come flooding back as I hold various objects from my very own junk drawer.

I still see Linda and occasionally talk to her because she is a dear friend of our neighbor Jane. They are both gardeners and talk often. Jane has had several bouts with lymphoma in her life. During a couple of these Linda called me and asked if I had seen Jane. How was she doing? And so forth. My response was to knock on Jane’s door and ask her to please call Linda. Linda was worried.

I do not know if she remembers the soccer incident.

There is a completely random collection of matchbooks from my old days of smoking. I suppose I was worried about running out of lights for my cigars and cigarettes. These were originally ensconced in a decorative water pitcher that resided on top of our hope chest in the bedroom. About two years ago our granddaughter was visiting and during part of that visit Cheryl began routing through the hope chest for something. When they were done the pitcher was put inside the chest. (This was probably another presentation of Cheryl’s slipping mental acuity.)

Some of the match boxes and packs evoke memories of times past. French Lick Springs resort is a wonderful memory. Cheryl and I went there early in our lives. It was part of Sheraton Hotels at the time and it was still just that, a resort hotel with a golf course and tennis and a built in nightclub. Meals were included in the room price. If your round of golf was scheduled over the luncheon hour, a call to the kitchen provided a box lunch on the cart when you appeared at the clubhouse. There were two swimming pools but the one immediately adjacent to the hotel had a roll back cover so that it could be used in winter and in the summer months was reserved for adults only. I remember sitting next to Cheryl poolside dangling my feet in the water and a guy approached in a jacket and bow tie and asked if I would like a drink. I ordered a gin and tonic. Cheryl ordered rose wine. I signed the check with my room number. It was elegant and chic.

For dinner one evening we ordered a Caesar salad. The head waiter prepared it table side and made the dressing there in front of us. At another time after dinner we ordered cherries jubilee. It too was prepared table side with a little flair and elegance as the sherry is set on fire and the alcohol is burned off. It is not the same as a time share.

There are several restaurants represented. There are also several packs of matches from the wedding of Diane and Ron. I wonder who they are.

There is a stack of old credit cards and ID badges from several work situations. My old Xavier University student ID is there as well as a luggage tag made from an old business card. We keep these items, I do anyway, because they are pieces of a life. They are memories to remember.

They are nostalgic. I do not keep bad memories in my junk drawer. A couple of those are on full display in my office atop my computer. There are good remembrances there too.

All are pieces of a life.

Carpe Diem.