(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

(This entry is a letter that was written by my Mom for my grandmother who passed away earlier this year. A brief explanation follows.)

DEAR MOM,

This is my first Mother’s Day without you. It has been four months since your passing. I still think you are here for fleeting seconds at a time before reality sets in.

Eighty-eight years sounds like such an eternity. Fifty-eight years sounds almost as long. But that too has been fleeting.

Wasn’t it just yesterday when you took us to Hummer’s Beach? Wasn’t it just yesterday we had our Tuesday night tickling matches while Dad was bowling? Or at the cottage when corn on the cob was roasting on the fireplace or you were calling me in from the river? It can’t be that long since you made those beautiful gowns for my grade school plays or drove my friends and I to Mountain Lake to skate. Wasn’t it just yesterday when we sat on the beach together at Sea Isle City?

Everyone said I was tied to your apron strings. And they were right. I can remember hiding by your side when people would talk to me, hiding behind your skirt. We were two peas in a pod. Always having so much to say to each other every day. I miss that.

The memories of you and my childhood help to fill the moments of sadness when I remember you are gone. We laughed together all the time. Sometimes until the point Dad would get annoyed. Remember the days of jitterbugging in the kitchen or catching the runaway grapefruit in the motor home? Sometimes we’d laugh until the tears rolled down our faces.

I heard you call my name the other night while sleeping. I woke up startled and looked for you. My dreams of you are always comforting.

Sometimes I feel like an orphan at fifty-eight and wonder how little children survive when a parent dies. To have no parent alive is so odd to me. Even though you prepare for your parents death sometime during your adult life and make that thought go rapidly through your mind, you are never ready when it happens.

As I celebrate Mother’s Day this year with my own children, I cannot help but remember the example you set for me. I always admired the parental qualities of you and Dad. You showed me how to be loving, patient, unselfish, and understanding,compassionate,fair and most of all a good listener. To laugh at myself and have fun was most important. Having a strong faith is something you always showed and passed to me. It has sustained me through many trials when the light at the end of the tunnel seemed so far away.

We will celebrate with a picnic as we did with you both. You will be in my thoughts all day as most other days. The flowers I put on your grave will bring me joy and sorrow at the same time.

If I could have one wish it would be to have one more day with you to talk and laugh and enjoy the sunshine while sitting on the deck. We would celebrate “something” to have dessert with no calories. We’d complain about “Bush” and tease “Bushwacker” about him. We laugh ourselves sick when talking backwards. Only the two of us could understand it. We’d stay up late talking and watching TV. I would hold your soft hand and kiss your soft cheek and tell you goodnight. You’d say, “Thanks for everything” and I would say “my pleasure!”

So, my dear Mom, as I sit here with memories flooding my mind and tears streaming down my face I thank you for a wonderful childhood and for all the times you were my caregiver, confidant, healer, friend and clown. For all the values instilled in me to be a patient and loving mother and person I thank you and give you all the credit.

I know you are in a better place and enjoying a glorious day in heaven celebrating Mother’s Day.

With all my love…

Your loving daughter,

Jeanette

MANY OF YOU are aware that my grandmother passed away in January. She was a wonderful, caring, gentle woman. She was always supportive of all of her children and grandchildren. I wrote about these things around the time of her death in the following entries:

• “My Grandmother’s Passing” (January 9, 2001)
• “Flowers for my Grandmother” (January 10, 2001)
• “Pennies for my Thoughts” (January 11, 2001)
• “After Words” (January 13, 2001)

All of the qualities of Gram that are portrayed in this letter were a joy and blessing not only to her children, but also to her grandchildren and even her great-grandchildren. Even in her last months and days, she loved us all and was always happy to see each one of us. She loved the little ones. How she loved to hold them! She was always gentle and patient with them. She would let the little ones talk and tell her jokes. I will always remember how she sang children’s songs with my H and M shortly before she passed away, even though she was becoming increasingly weak and frail.

Mom and Gram shared very special moments while Mom cared for her as she suffered from cancer between August 2000 and January 2001. As mom said, they would think of just “anything” to celebrate. Mom also encouraged Gram to stay active. Though she was nearly blind, Gram insisted on at least folding the bath towels. She made Christmas ornaments. The days came when she needed constant assistance to move around. Mom would print out award certificates for Gram as she accomplished tasks that healthy people do not think twice about. I remember Mom giving Gram these awards during the summer Olympics. Once while visiting Gram on a weekend, I asked her how she was enjoying her stay at Mom’s. She replied, “The service is wonderful here. I highly recommend it!”

Gram was not one for complaining. But she was always quick to laugh. During the presidential elections last November, she did not want George W. Bush to win. Stepfather was voting for Bush. So Mom and Gram named him “Bushwacker.” And the two of them teased the poor guy to no end. Gram maintained her sense of humor through all that she suffered. She also maintained her mental faculties, except for brief times when the cancer affected her. I am convinced that she was aware of what was happening around her during her last hours. The night before she passed, she was so weak that she could not speak and could not focus her eyes to respond when someone spoke to her. She tried. Yet at one point, when several of the ladies present were trying to turn Gram onto her side and were laughing at their inability to coordinate the move, Gram laughed out as well. How happy we were to hear it!

My last memory of Gram is of the final time that I was able to tell her that I loved her. I kissed her forehead. Said, “I love you, Gram.” In her weakened condition all she could do was slightly raise her eyebrow. Satisfied that she had heard me, I said good-bye. I left that room thankful that this precious woman was my grandmother.

I thank my own Mom for having the courage to write this letter and to allow it to be shared with others. I am proud of her. I would not trade her for the world!

(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

TRY for a ringer. Aim for the hub. A little bit of strength. A little agility. Some skill. A little bit of coordination. And a whole lot of patient practice! But you also need to determine when an all out attempt for a ringer is just a little too risky. If you misaim slightly and hit the hub wrong, you might end up losing all points completely. Sometimes you need to know when to forsake the ringer shot and instead aim to get closest to the hub and at least gain one point, perhaps “digging” your opponent and forcing him out of the way.

Now, I suppose you think I am talking about the art of pitching quoits in that first paragraph. Well, you are sort of right. But my primary thought is about raising teenagers. I am learning that there is a certain skill involved in raising that unique form of human being. Parental agility and coordination are definitely required. The ability to juggle is always a plus. Patience. One cannot say enough about the need for patience in the realm of parenting teenagers. Sometimes I wonder if God’s primary purpose in giving us children is to develop our patience. Notice I did not say “teach us patience.” Sometimes “teaching” is enough. But for most of us it takes stronger measures to work this highly unnatural quality into our characters. Sometimes it takes molding, carving, breaking, remolding, shaping, grinding. In my case it has taken downright “bludgeoning” and near “pulverizing” to achieve even a minimal level of patience. Plus parenting takes practicing, especially with teenagers. They are semi-adults and they can spot your flaws and inconsistencies. Boy can they point out those inconsistencies quickly! (They have yet to enter the school of patience.) So all one can do is one’s best. When that doesn’t work one can only try again, striving for improvement. Recognize your weaknesses. Admit your mistakes. Step up to the line and pitch again. The one thing you can never do though is QUIT!

LAST weekend my family got together for a picnic at my Mom’s house. Sister C, B, Nephew J, Nephew P, Niece B, Sister Ch, Brother B, Brother B’s new girl, Mom, Stepfather and Stepfather’s Friend F were all there. Dogs and burgers were cooking on the grill. (Sorry Sister Ch, veggie dogs just don’t do it for a carnivore like me!) Mom made her world famous potato salad. The kids were hyper from all the soda they were drinking. The sky was so clear. The air was warm. It was a good day for a picnic. It was a super day for pitching quoits! I got the boards out of the trunk of the car. We put the hubs on. The games began.

LET ME fill you in on quoits (Pronounced “kwaits”). Pitching quoits is very similar to pitching horseshoes. The game seems to have originated in England. There are several varieties of quoits. In the area where we live, people play what is referred to as Pennsylvania Slate Belt quoits. The quoits themselves are circular and made of hard rubber (as opposed to steel quoits used in other parts of the world). The object of the game is to “pitch” these quoits onto a 2″ x 2″ slate board, attempting to throw the quoits onto a metal hub in the center of the board. The boards are set up at a distance of 18 feet from each other. Players take turns pitching their quoits. The player who throws his closest to the hub earns one point. The player who throws a “ringer” gets three points. Here is an interesting website with a lot of information on the game of quoits: www.quoitpits.com. Pennsylvania Slate Belt quoits is a fairly localized game. It is popular in northeastern Pennsylvania and small parts of northwestern New Jersey. Outside of that region most people do not even know what you are talking about when you mention the word “quoits.” (“Quoits? Isn’t that a country that had something to do with the Gulf War?) It is common to see people in our area pitching quoits in their backyards. Often the bars around here have quoit boards in addition to dartboards and pool tables. There are even quoit leagues in this area. Those are the “hardcore” quoit pitchers. You don’t want to mess with them!

My family is of the “backyard” quoit pitching variety. We certainly had a good time playing at our picnic. We had some rivalries going. Mom has a killer pitching arm. Now I know why those spankings hurt so much! Ouch! Do you know that she even broke a hairbrush over the back of my hand one time? I will have to tell you about it sometime, if I can bring myself to face such a traumatic episode of my innocent developmental years. (“Heh heh! Hi, Mom!”) B and Stepfather were pitching like maniacs and each had several ringers. My sisters pitched like girls. (“Sorry, couldn’t resist!”) I don’t remember Brother B pitching at all. But he turned 21 today (“Happy birthday, Little Bro!”). So, maybe he is man enough to pitch some quoits with the big guys now.

AS FOR ME, well, I could not get a ringer to save my life that day! I just could not get my “groove” going. I lost my “mojo.” I was all thumbs and left feet. Superficially I would tell you that it was because I was tired from biking 20 miles with Friend J the day before. But in reality, I think it was because of some deeper things. Maybe I can explain without getting too detailed.

Let me return to the quoit pitching analogy. Being a single parent is like playing quoits with the boards set twice as far apart. After a while the quoits begin to feel like they weigh two tons a piece. Often it seems like you are forced to throw with your weak arm. It gets a little harder to determine when to go for the ringer and when to try with all of your might just to get close enough to the hub to score one point. If you are a single parent, I know you are shaking your head in agreement right now, even if you have never played quoits. You know what I am talking about. Sometimes it feels like you are never going to win. You feel outnumbered. You have more opponents than you can name and most of them CHEAT at the game! You get frustrated. You get discouraged. You often think that you could do better if you had a partner on your team. Often you just get plain old TIRED! Sometimes you might even entertain the thought of walking away from the game. Now, add to all of this the “handicap” of parenting teenagers on your own. Man! Now it’s like trying to pitch with your hands tied behind your back!

Do you understand where I am coming from? When I woke up on the day of our picnic my hands were already tied behind my back. My body was beat from that 20-mile ride. But my emotions felt like they had been on a 20-mile ride and run over by a truck on that last and final hill right before home. I woke up at 10 AM starving. So I ate a piece of pizza. (Hey this is a single parent household run by a MAN! Sometimes anything goes when it comes to filling bellies!) I lay in bed reading a good science fiction book attempting to escape for a while (book 4 of the Dune chronicles by Frank Herbert). But I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until 1 PM. I just did not have the strength, agility, coordination or patience to accomplish the whole parenting teenagers gig that day. It even showed in my quoit pitching when I finally got to the picnic.

IT SEEMS that it is always on these kinds of days as a single parent that your opponents decide to play rough. After a few whacks in the forehead, you realize that they are no longer attempting to merely get a ringer on the board. They are aiming for your brain! That is when you remember that parenting really is not a friendly backyard game where the only thing you stand to lose by missing the mark is a little bit of dignity when the other guys tease you for pitching like your sisters. No. Parenting is more like a war with immensely high stakes! The stakes are the well being and development of their minds, hearts, bodies and souls. It is a war of multiply and complex battles, the outcome of which has far reaching, lifelong and even eternal implications. Yes, in the middle of the picnic I took a few shots to the head. A certain adolescent offspring of mine decided to give the old man a run for his money. It is amazing what strength one can find when the need arises! Somehow, after getting knocked on my butt momentarily, I managed to get up, brush myself off and pitch my quoits. Yes, I missed the first time. And the second. I got a little closer on the third. I knew better than to try for any ringers. You sometimes have to pick that battles that promise the greatest success and throw for one pointers with all your guts. I think it worked for me a little that afternoon. I may not have won the battle that day. But I did not lose all my ground either. The war is not even close to being over. I might talk about quitting. I might feel like walking away from it all. But ultimately I WILL NOT quit! I might be all thumbs and left feet. I might be weak and tired at times. I might have to take on a few Goliaths as opponents.

Now hand me my quoits and step aside. It is my turn to pitch!

(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

LET ME tell you about the mental abuse that I have had to endure this past week. Well, it sure felt like abuse! Classes, methods, constructors, abstraction, inheritance, hash tables, vectors, POLYMORPHISM. Stop! Enough! Yes, I have been in Java class. This was actually my second round of Java class. The first class left me down on the mat bleeding from my ears just a few weeks ago. I barely got back on my feet when it was time for the second class. Ding ding! Pow! Ugh! Right in the brain again!

Going to class for a whole week can really throw your routine off. We have classes in a different company office located about 20 minutes from our office. It’s not a very big place. But our classroom is on the second floor, down a tremendously long hall with nothing on the walls. There is a real inconvenience at this place in that the bathrooms are at the very opposite end of the second floor near the stairwell that you enter through. One realizes the true length of that hall on the first time you take a class there and drink a cup of coffee first thing in the morning! Those bathrooms seem like they are miles and miles away then! I’ve learned to adjust to this by beginning the long trek to the men’s room when I am just half way done with my coffee. By the time I get there that half-cup is just about all the way through my system.

A certain friend of mine back in the office helped to lighten the anguish of class by sending emails to me at various times during the day. That kind of kept me in touch with the real world somewhat. Once she sent me a fairly off-color picture hoping that someone would be sitting behind me and see it when I opened it up. Her plan worked unfortunately. The funniest was the email that simply said, “Hey LOOPY HEAD!” While heavily under the influence of Java in the middle of a lecture, that line struck me as so funny that I nearly blew snots on my monitor trying to hold the laughter in! (Yeah, I know. That’s kind of gross.)

THE BUILDING where we have class is located in a nice area. Down the road from the place are a few farms. I made it a habit to walk during lunch each day. It has been a little hot here lately. I think we reached 91 degrees yesterday. But even in the heat it was a nice break to walk for about a half-hour and just take in the scenery. There were a lot of different birds in the fields: geese, red-winged black birds, hawks, swallows. The sky was blue. The sun was hot. But my brain appreciated the relaxation and my body certainly needed the exercise, especially after eating lunch. Ah, lunch! Let me tell you about lunch!

There is a deli here that makes the world’s best cheese steaks. It is right around the corner from the building where my class is. Nearly every time that I am here for classes I go to that deli for lunch. I went there three days in a row this week! I strolled on in there, strutted my way up to the counter, spurs clinking, and said to the waitress, “Gimme a cheese steak with fried onions and ketchup, little lady.” With a wink, “Coming right up, cowboy,” she replied.

The second day that I went to the deli, I sauntered on in as usual, ordered my usual, and was standing there feeling rather manly when the door banged open. In walked a huge construction worker, his dump truck tethered outside and his posse of laborers close at his heels. I, in my Levi’s Dockers with my cutesy little work badge clipped to a belt loop and my comfy little business casual cotton/polyester shirt, suddenly found myself surrounded by sweat and tattoos. There I stood a tattoo-less programmer. But when the waitress called out, “Cheese steak ready!” and I stepped up and laid my money on the counter, those fellows knew that I was a true carnivore! Oh yeah! They could tell by the look in my eye that I was no vegetarian, despite my nerdy appearance. I could see the envy on their faces and the growls from their stomachs as I walked on out of there with my half pound of fried flesh. I rode off under the blazing noon sun and thought if I ever got a tattoo it would be one of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, King of the Carnivores!

Okay. So I would never get a tattoo because I can’t stand needles. There it is. The truth is out. Yup! I’m one of those guys that pass out if I see a needle coming my way. I feel kind of queasy just writing about it! A nurse once told me that there is actually a term for the fear of needles. I forget what it is. She said that it usually affects men more then women. I just wonder if I still qualify as a cowboy if I am afraid of needles.

Okay. So I am not really a cowboy either! I am just a geeky programmer who has just received the second phase of a Java lobotomy! No horse. No guns. No spurs. And I happen to like my Dockers! Thank you very much! And now I have a web page to make! So if you will excuse me, I will be on my way now.

BY THE WAY… You might notice that the picture on this page is rather similar to the picture on the previous entry. It’s amazing what can happen to a guy after just one week of class! It’s even more amazing what can happen to a guy’s picture when one of his friends is armed with a web browser and Paint Shop Pro! Actually, I am looking more and more like this photo these days. Just ask my kids! And the whole pig and frog thing… Now there is an idea for a tattoo!