The Nook and Noise

Ah, one of the great things about being a senior is grown kids. One bedroom becomes a space for computer stuff, you know, writing books, researching, drinking pots of coffee and admiring the comfort of PJs in a chair that must have been lowered down from heaven itself. My husband bought this chair for me. Too bad I need to let out coffee every two seconds, it seems, because I could sit all day without discomfort. There’s a spare bedroom downstairs, and I put dibs on it. It’s where I hook my arm into Jesus’ arm and say, please teach, show and tell me all I should know from You today.

These would be perfect spaces for me if the following were true: downstairs would have a coffee maker, large mug, small spoon and Truvia bowl. Truvia is the brand name for a seventy-five percent less sugar mixture with stevia. Washroom is close enough. I’d have a cold water thingamajig onsite too. I’d love it if these things were part of my private space. But I do I have several Bibles, Bible dictionaries, notepads, reference books, a desk and comfy chair, Jesus’ Spirit, and a focusing brain. That’s good for the downstairs, all set.

The bedroom I took over upstairs needs the following: A thick noise blocking glass doorway. This way I can let my kitty in, she just likes to be with me. However—that same glass doorway ought to mute the husband who asks questions that could wait, and block also his failed attempts to not drop crash-y things, keep his laptop from filtering in annoying music and making me nuts, and the failed attempt to not talk on the phone so bloody loud while I form my writing into books, stories, blogs, or frustration events. Why are men and boys unable to just make , um, shrug, normal noice? No, I’m serious! Even their breathing seems to carry sound farther than woman and girls. My hubby has a fave pair of moccasin slippers. They’re a little big as he’s stretched them out with mammoth socks. They scrape and scuff along, stopping at my door. Oh, I see, he felt excited to tell me what he just saw on Facebook. Or what he’ll make for lunch. He’s good at taking care of his own guts of hunger, and I praise him for that, even though he interrupts a lot. Dyslexia is a double giver. It gives me a hard time with writing, but I see words as images with this condition, and that’s an awesome talent for writing descriptive phrases. So I need an extra loophole for concentrating.

To be fair, those who don’t write on the regular have no idea the amount of silence a person needs to focus and write something decent. But, you know, all these feeling of irritation dissipate when I have forgotten I need sustenance, and my hubby comes in with a plate of food for me, and asks if I need anything else. I have chronic low blood sugar, and I should eat something every three hours. So let’s cancel the noise proof glass door after all, and just train my guy to give me a few hours before interrupting. I suppose my writing space has all it needs. Computer, writing paper, pens, dictionary, printer, full bookshelves, cat ornament, business cards, touch lamp, love, and small wastebasket; a large waste basket encourages errors. Anyway, yeah. I suppose I have what I need, even what I want. Looks like it’s actually perfect then. I love writing, my kitty, and my husband. That really is perfect.

Daily writing prompt

You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

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I Never Saw the Hype

No, I’m not doing that. I’m not naming my favourite car, because I don’t have a favourite. I just don’t see the hype, maybe because I’m boring? I love any car, any pick-up, any van, any anything that gets me where I’m going without the heel toe express. I enjoy a good brisk walk, but not everywhere I have to go. I don’t have a favourite vehicle, as I said, but here’s what I like in a car, a sedan. If it can speed up and pass a car safety on the highway, I’ll drive it. If it has s a comfy seat that’ll take me a couple hours down the road, I’ll take it. If it has A/C in the hot weather, and heat in the winter that doesn’t take most of my trip to heat or cool. yup, that’s a car I’ll drive. I like my car. She’s an old girl, like me. She has her ways, though. I find my body travelling at 100 K when the speed limit is 70. When the signs say 50, She’s going 60, sometimes 70. I thought perhaps I need to get a grip on speeding, but my husband has used my car a few times when his Eveie is in the shop, and he too finds his body being carried at 100 when he though he holds her at 70 or 80. Or thinks he does. This is my Izzy. She likes to go fast…and secretly I enjoy it too, I just have to watch the road carefully. She stops as easily as she speeds, so it’s all good. Hm. To conclude, I guess I can say my Izzy is my favourite car. She’s paid for, she doesn’t require much, and I love how she glides. Izzy makes it possible for me to be early rather than late. She’s a 2007 Hyundai Accent. Yeah, old girl like. Her paint is peeling, my skin is dry and sometimes peels. Common things bring vehicle and owner together—and small as she is, my three grandkids and my daughter fit in her with me. So at the beginning of this write-up I made the mistake of saying I had no fave. I do, I’ve got the love for the IZ. Oh, and the cars’ names? And personality? Of course they have names. It’s so much easier to pay for car repairs when there’s an emotional attachment.

Daily writing prompt

What is your all time favorite automobile?

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Sixty Years Ago, Kind of Started Something

History anyone? Yes, anyone but me, please. I’ve never done well with remembering past events, probably because I thought about English and art, stories and drawings to accompany my poems, or daydreamed about being anywhere but history class. My teacher spoke in monotone, if I recall. His red beard got shaved off due to lice, along with his styled and thick hair. That’s what I remember, aside from the end of class when I knew I must have failed. Haha, came out with a 57, though.

Sixty years ago, 1963… I know one thing for certain: my mother went into labour that year. My birth year changed something. John F Kennedy went down with a bullet. These days that kind of thing is so common, but back then, shooting was big in the news. In 1963 women were more free with sex, because the both control pill opened the way in 1960. That was not the start of sex without marriage, but it sure encouraged it. I remember as a girl, hippies and round eye glasses. Short hair on woman, but hippies had all one length, long hair. I recall hating short hair. As far back as I can remember, I preferred long hair on both men and woman.

To this day I have an aversion to short hair. Actually, that may be because my mother insisted I always have short hair. She kept hers too short. I mean white walls kind of short. Out from under her thumb, I’m sixty and I keep it long. It has its drawbacks for sure. Long silver stands are all over my house. I vacuum or sweep, that’s easy enough, but my poor husband refrains from holding me down and wrapping an elastic around a ponytail when he has to pull my hair from a mouthful of food like a magician… and this has nothing to do with history, I know.

1963 didn’t pan out well. I don’t remember it, obviously, I kept myself busy with catching my toes and practicing my yell for food or diaper change. But the news of that year was grim from what I’ve read. I came into this world at an unfortunate time, but compared to today… I’ll take 1963, because I made the most of myself before the culture of this youth came to be. I’m still lousy at history, though. Some things never change, and in other ways, it’s all different now.

Welp, 1963. Sometimes that jars me. I don’t feel in my heart like a historic lady, but my birth year pokes me with wrinkles and dry skin. The odd pimple keeps me feeling young. Some day that will be history too.

Daily writing prompt

Share what you know about the year you were born.

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Most what?

It’s been said and said that a person is at their most when… and someone’s most isn’t the same as another’s most. For instance, most aware is different from our head in the sand, and most excited is different than most bummed out. Of course this goes without saying, but I had to start somewhere.

So most what? Ah, yes, the question asked about most happy. This prompt is deep, because I’m a most often a happy soul. Cat purring on my lap, husband contented, money for groceries, all that. You know what I really like, though? I like coming up the stairs to my kitchen—after being forced out of pyjamas and into clothes to run errands—and my kitchen is spotless. Isn’t that odd? “Most” would be many other things to a lot of humans, but I really love when my kitchen needs zero attention. It lasts only a few hours till I rattle pots and pans to feed my hard-working husband, but to me it’s a feeling of rest. I wash quite a lot of dishes by hand, further wrinkling my old lady skin, yet this adds validity to my seniors discount. A counter filled with dishes and a dishwasher needing to be emptied makes me feel rushed. I love my cat, my husband, kids, friends, food and all, but nothing rests my heart like no kitchen slavery. Hap-hap-happy!

Daily writing prompt

When are you most happy?

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Writing Preserves Loved People

At first I thought her stories were just talks to take the place of silence.

I smiled and listened a few times a week. She told me of her meeting her late husband, how she had surgery in order to at last get pregnant with her final son. I heard how her husband laughed before the war, and what was left of him afterward. She told me about her whole life. She told me about all the pets she had, what happened to them, and how she felt about it.

It was coffee at my place and tea at hers. She loved driving to see me. Hours of story telling were also hours of bonding. In time, I picked her up to visit at my place, or go to parks or coffee shops. She no longer had a driver’s license or even her beloved cars. My phone rang often; a lonely sounding voice asked for a visit. At times I became frustrated as I needed to concentrate on my upgrading courses. My compassion was greater than my study habits.

Less than a year later, she couldn’t tell me anything new. She struggled to remember what I said minutes before, and she was frustrated with her lost ability to remember what she had just said. But I had bonded with my mom-in-law, and I remembered for her. I was her external brain, and she would always say, “Oh, yes, that’s right.” Nonetheless, she honestly never recalled.

Within a year, Mom could not function at home. Her weight had dropped significantly. Our visits were at a lovely rest home. Her memory continued to decline, however, having a lucid few moments one afternoon, she directed me to sit with her on her bed and told me she had to clean out her in-laws home, and she knew of the hard work and long hours. She thanked me that day, when previously she had resentments for her son and myself taking her from her familiar home.

All those stories over that period of time were not silence fillers. I believe she knew she had only so much time to tell them. I’m certain she understood her mind had slipped and would continue to be eaten by something she herself could not identify.

In the five years she lived in the rest home, she declined to the point of not knowing me, hollering at me, and insulting me. I took it hard as I only hoped Mom lived in herself somewhere, and somewhere, she still loved me.

Dementia did not love me. It didn’t keep track of our bonding. Dementia hardly recognized her son. The disease took her away forever, and she died not knowing who we were.

Over a year has passed. I can write about this without weeping, although my eyes sting. I can still hear her story-telling voice. I can smell her White Diamonds perfume. I can feel her genuine hugs, and I can imagine a delicate tea cup in my careful grip. I’m so afraid these memories will fade like she did. Writing preserves loved people.