Easter – The Day You Told Me You Had AIDS

The early 1990’s were a challenge.  At the end of 1990 and beginning of 1991 I was injured in two car accidents.  The first one wasn’t too bad, but I wasn’t fully recovered when the second, more severe accident happened.  Between those two accidents I was away from work for nine months.

It was Easter.  I was at my parent’s home.  After coming back from church my mom mentioned that she wanted to visit friends.  Honestly, I didn’t feel like visiting.  I often felt very tired.  Perhaps I was also feeling down because in the past I had been very active.  The injuries took that away from me. I was still adjusting.

We went to see our friends.  This was a family whose kids went to the same elementary school and church that we once attended.  Essentially we kids grew up together.

I hadn’t seen them in a few years.  Two of their three adult children, Jack and Diana, were there.

We spent time getting caught up.  Jack looked great.  He talked about taking care of himself.  When he said he’d been going to the gym I wasn’t surprised.  He looked fit.

We went outside on a beautiful spring day.

As we talked Jack told me very simply that he had AIDS.  He was focused on taking care of himself.  He was feeling alright but knew that could change at any time.   New drugs were being developed, but life expectancies at that time were only a few years after diagnosis.

When we said our good-byes we hugged each other tightly.  I kissed him on the cheek.

In 1993, Jack and I spoke before I moved to Northern California.  My body had reasonably recovered and I had a new job with my company.  We spoke very candidly.  When we said good-bye we both knew it was a real good-bye.  We were never going to see each other again in this life.

Jack was very talented. He had a great singing voice. He loved practical jokes and was quick-witted. In high school he helped me come out of my shell so that I had a part in a school play.  I couldn’t have done that without his encouragement.

In November of 1993 my mom called me to tell me Jack had died. Over the years I had sung at many funerals.  I sang for him, too, from the privacy of my apartment in Northern California.

Growing up, I saw Easter as a time to celebrate life and resurrection after the death brought by Good Friday. On that Easter Sunday, even though I had my own challenges, here was Jack living with a deadly disease.

It was probably the most unique Easter that I had ever experienced.  It was a profound time that still touches me to this day.

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This is my second post on the subject of Easter.  In case you didn’t see it, I also posted Easter Memories earlier today. I’ll finish this series tomorrow, on Easter Sunday.

Regret – Maybe Not

The WordPress Topic of the week is Regret.  Admittedly, it wasn’t a topic I really wanted to pursue.  The way I see it, why look back?  No need to dwell on shoulda’, woulda’, coulda’.  I decided a while ago that it was more important to move forward than dwell on the past.  Always easier said than done, isn’t it?

A few years ago I made the decision to stop playing music.  When I say that I stopped playing, I don’t just mean that I stopped playing publicly; I stopped playing.  The music inside me went quiet.

Life was pretty hectic at the time. I needed to balance out a few things.  It was hard at first, but I knew it was the right decision.  No regrets.

I think there may be times when Al would want to hear me play music and sing a bit more.  I did pluck out a few songs recently as you can see in my Peaceful 2 post.  Perhaps the fact that I’ve mentioned this a couple of times in posts means it’s time to start exploring this again.  Hmmm…ya think?

I know I’ll enjoy reconnecting with old friends…a 12 string and a few six string acoustic guitars.  They’ve come along way with me.  We’ll make some rich sounds.  I suspect it won’t be too much longer.  I don’t have the tug to sing into a mike at the moment, at least not right now.  No regrets there, either!

Top photo – My sis’ wedding…was it really that long ago?

Bottom photo – A bit more recent.  Taking a break from rehearsing.

Waiting

Cobbie69 suggested the theme Waiting as the weekly photo challenge.   What a great idea!

I went to the family archive and found this photo of my grandmother celebrating her 86th birthday.  The little cutie who is waiting in anticipation of a birthday song and a piece of cake is my niece.  She is now a lovely young lady, so this picture is recent but not that recent.

I suspect my grandmother asked her to help blow out the candles.  I’m sure my niece could hardly wait for the song to finish.

In looking through the photo archive I found some additional photos for future posts.  I guess you can say my discovery also fits the theme because I can hardly wait to use them!

p. s. To Gerry aka  Cobbie69 – Thanks for a great theme suggestion!

Christmas 2011

O Lord, in the stillness of this morning let us recall the mystery of your love.

A life come to earth that we may learn to love one another,

To live in your love that we may live in peace.

 

To family and friends,

Have a blessed, safe and merry Christmas.

Take time for those you love and be sure to take time for yourself.

- Cathy

Why is it hard to admit a mistake?

The WordPress topic of the day is “Why is it hard to admit a mistake?”

Interesting question!  I can approach this from several angles – professional, personal or spiritual.  Where to start?

Briefly, no one wants to admit a mistake professionally.  Mistakes in my line of work can be costly in terms of money and (company) reputation.  I also value my own reputation.  Being up front and admitting a mistake can actually keep a solid reputation intact.  Hard as it is to admit a mistake, in the long run this serves everyone best.

This brings me to the next idea.  Why is it hard?  Well, making a mistake, when it’s “a big one” can equate with the notion of failure.  Who wants to admit that they failed  and, maybe, caused disappointment? Who wants to leave themselves wide open for possible scrutiny?

I’ve had a sudden thought about recent stories in the news where lives have been ruined and people may be brought to justice because no one admitted they made a  mistake…hmmm…I’m not sure where to take that thought, but it makes me pause.  Many times we don’t understand the long-term ramifications when we make a mistake, and when we don’t admit it.

So what to do?  I was raised in a rather strict religious tradition.  We grew up with the teaching that some mistakes are sinful.  Can you think of this from a child’s point of view? Who want to be known as a sinner? We can be forgiven, but we must admit our mistakes.  Now, as an adult, I have a better understanding of this.  There can be freedom and forgiveness in terms of my own relationship with God.  On a personal level freedom and forgiveness can occur when the ones who hear the admission respond with love, understanding and an open heart.

This topic just started a brief but interesting dialogue with my husband.  We spoke of what it’s like to admit our mistakes to one another.  Neither of us wants to disappoint or hurt the other.  We also trust each other, and we know we’ll work through the ups and downs that life brings us.  We’ve also learned that, once “the crisis” has passed, a sense of humor can go a long way when someone admits a mistake!

My husband mentioned how he experienced relationships in the past where the admission of a mistake was met with hostility.  That statement grounds me.  I know I’ve experienced the same.  I can probably write an entire post on that statement.  It was a good perspective that I hadn’t considered.

This question makes me look at myself.  How do I respond when someone admits to me they made a mistake?  Am I willing to practice what I preach?  Hmmm…I can see that this question once again gives me pause.  I am hopeful but, as the topic indicates, this admission is not always easy!

Tiles Across Miles…and the Dog Who Couldn’t Play

At the moment I’ve set aside some crocheting so that I can write.  As I’m blogging  my sis and I are also in the middle of a game of Words with Friends.  As such, it’s only fitting that I write about a topic that she suggested.

Before Thanksgiving she asked me “please oh please” if I played this.  I hadn’t but she sent me an invite.  We’ve played a few games that have sometimes taken a week to finish.

Alicia is in California.  I am in Texas.  The web has allowed us to now play tiles across the miles.  We’re now hooked together as if we were kids again.  In some ways it’s an electronic version of our childhood.

There is one family member who comes to mind as we play this game.

We had a dog, Alfie.  He looked a lot like Toto from the Wizard of Oz, except he had floppy ears.  I got him when I was in the seventh grade.  He was my best buddy for many years.  He had a lot of energy.  He was an outdoor dog, but every morning he would be let into the house.  We could hear him running across the den.  The door would be closed but not really shut.  He would bounce against the door without losing momentum.  The door would swing open.   Alfie would run into the room I shared with my two sisters.  He would jump on one bed, then bounce back and forth between all three beds.  If you were asleep when this happened you wouldn’t stay asleep for long.  He would do this day or night.  He was just so happy to see everyone and he wanted to be sure you knew it, too.

When Alicia and I were growing up we spent many, many hours playing Scrabble.  We played in the kitchen or our room.  We were very competitive.

One evening the game was very intense.  We were sitting cross-legged on one of the beds in our room.  You could tell the intensity because we wouldn’t speak.  While one person shuffled her tiles the other one usually had her hands on her chin, deeply concentrating.  We were nearing the end of the game.

We were concentrating so hard that we didn’t hear Alfie running across the den.  The door burst open.  He was so happy to see us that he jumped onto the bed.  The Scrabble board and tiles went flying into the air.  We may have screamed but then we were laughing at the craziness of it all.  We hugged the dog and petted him.  Once he settled down he went to another part of the house.

We played this game so much that once we stopped laughing we were able to reconstruct the board.  We continued on.  As much as we’ve played this game over the years this particular game is the one we remember so many years later.

Hey, sis! It’s your move!

The Late Night Intruder

My brother and I were burning the midnight oil, studying.  This night was particularly intense.  We weren’t even speaking.  The only audible sounds were rustling pages, and our groans.  At least, those were the only sounds I heard.

“What’s that noise?”

“What are you talking about? I don’t hear any noise.”  I went back to my books.

“That noise!  Don’t you hear it?”

“No David, I don’t.” I also thought, “Now will you please let me get back to this?”

David wasn’t deterred.  He got up, pacing, determined to find the mysterious noise.  I was convinced he needed a break.

He stopped by the center drawer of the pantry, bending over at the waist, listening.  Yeah, David lost it alright.  School must be too much for him.

He looked at me and pointed. “It’s coming from in there!”

“What are you talking about?”

“That noise!  Don’t you hear that noise…that tick tick tick tick?”  He imitated the sound, pinching his thumb and index finger together a few times.

“David, I think you’ve had enough.”

Now on a mission, he pulled out the entire drawer and shook it.  It didn’t take long for the intruder to stir.  A mouse jumped out of the drawer, onto the floor then dashed into the dining room.  David yelled, dropping the drawer. It went crashing to the floor.

“AAAAAAUUGH! A rat!” He ran off and quickly came back with a baseball bat.

The rest of the household was now awake.

“What’s going on here?”

“Dad, there’s a rat!”

“What? Where?”

“It jumped out of the kitchen drawer and ran into the dining room!  Look, it’s there under the china cabinet!”

My dad got on his hands and knees.

“That’s not a rat! That’s a mouse!  What are you going to do with that baseball bat?”

“I was going to get it.”

“Not with that! Go get a broom!  He’s probably more upset than you are!”

My dad and brother got on their hands and knees, peering under the china cabinet to corner the mouse.   One swift whack and it was stunned.

“Okay, now what do we do? It’s not dead.”

My dad answered, “Well, why don’t we just put it in the dust pan and toss it over the fence (into the lot) across the street?  It’ll have to take its chances with any cats that come by.  At least it won’t be in here!”

David agreed.  As planned, the stunned mouse went across the street.

Unbeknownst to us, my grandmother, Abuelita, was watching the late night antics.  Before shuffling slowly and softly back to her room she looked around and said only one thing.

“I tol’ you we had mice!”

David and I looked at each other and laughed until we almost cried.

It was obvious we weren’t studying any more that night.

Visiting with Mom

Mom visited this week.  A few weeks back she “announced” she was coming.  I didn’t mind.  Funny thing was I had started making plans and knew I would have to change them.  Ah, well.  It was all good.

We did the rounds of shopping, including visiting two yarn shops.  I was inspired to start some serious crocheting for the holidays.  I’ve been doing this for the past several years.  I hadn’t crocheted for quite some time.  I re-started when I was facing a lay-off.   It was productive and relaxing.  I was hooked, so to speak.  The crocheting has been prolific ever since.

The yarn shops had very beautiful and luxurious fibers.  I could spend hours examining the skeins, imaging what I would make.  For now, I settled on a few small items.

Back at home Mom settled back on the couch and watched me crochet.  As I worked my way through the yarn I would show her my progress.  A couple of times I wasn’t satisfied with the outcome so I pulled it apart and started again.  We enjoyed talking about the stitches and the “finished objects.”  At first she talked about taking all the items I made back with her so she could give them out.  She had no room in her suitcase.  I had already given her a shawl and several scarves.  I would mail the other items; she enjoyed giving them out.

On a different note, I am always introspective at this time of year.  There are a lot of reasons for this.  As I look back on this year I’ve considered the tremendous amount of change that took place.  I started a new position in a different department…traveled on the job…met new people…was greatly challenged…began to feel more secure in the new position…Al supported me…Mija was settling into the school year…was it a successful year?   Well, let’s just say that I was satisfied.  More on this in a future post.

When we took Mom to the airport I saw our reflections in the two glass doors leading into the terminal.  When I looked at our reflections I had another brief flash of introspection.  I saw my Mom’s reflection and mused that this is what I would look like in twenty years.  We have similar features.  We have short hair.  Hers is white, mine is mostly silver.  We each walk with a limp, depending on how tired our legs are.  She has grown old gracefully and I  wondered if I was doing the same.

I only see her a couple of times a year, so I wondered how many future visits there would be…ever.  I wasn’t sad about that thought.  I realized we would have to make the most of every single visit no matter when they may be. With that in mind we said our good-byes. Even though I didn’t know when I’d see her again I knew she would call when she got home.  She did.  That’s my mom, ever faithful.

Memories of Antonio

I originally wrote this story in 1996.  I decided to edit and update it for this post. – Cathy.

Antonio Lopez, known as Abuelito, was in his sixties when I was born.  I remember his license listed his birth date as 06-13-95.  Years ago we found a copy of an affidavit of his birth in a box filled with old papers.  It listed the date as two years earlier.  He was born on a farm in Mexico.  I was surprised to think he would have been 100 years old in 1993 instead of 1995.

A picture of him in a military uniform shows a robust, handsome, young man.  I never knew that part of him.  To me, Abuelito’s hair was a silvery crew cut.  He often wore light-colored pants and lightweight cardigans with elbow patches.  He had a twinkle in his eye and a quick sense of humor.  As a little girl I would follow him around the house.  I can picture him mowing the lawn while I sat on the porch.  When we walked down the street to get my grandmother from work I often tried to convince him to buy sweet bread from the nearby Mexican bakery.

At night, when we were supposed to be asleep, my siblings and I would crawl on our hands and knees into my grandparents’ room to surprise them.  Even though they acted surprised, they knew we were there and just played along.  We didn’t figure that out until we were much older!  Eventually we’d say good-night and make our way to our own rooms.

In the spring birds would build nests in the patio beams.  My grandfather would pick me to look at the little eggs.  I could never convince him to let me keep a bird after it hatched.

When it rained we would watch the storms from the patio.  Being with him I was never afraid of the lightning and thunder.

My grandfather would pick us up after school, waiting in the car.  My classmates would yell, “Cathy your grandfather’s here!”  Whenever he got out of the car they would hover around him.  I remember feeling happy and proud that they treated him lovingly.

He used to take Abuelita, my sister Rose and me shopping downtown.  Abuelita was an incredible shopper with amazing stamina.  She would bargain shop for what felt like an eternity.  We would often get tired and whiny, then pester to go home.  Abuelito always waited for us in the coffee shop of one of the department stores.  We would run out of the elevator and across the floor down large hardwood steps.  We then ran up some other steps to get to the coffee shop.  He would always be there reading.

Abuelito was quite a character He would sing songs that really poked fun at us but we always laughed.

My grandfather died when I was 14.   The ache I felt lasted many years.  Now, when I hear the sound of thunder in the distance, I think of him and smile.

Thoughts and Memories while Sipping Tea

I’ve been wanting to write for a few days now but my thoughts haven’t been exactly focused.  Still, I decided that the only way to write was to simply begin and see what happens.

I boiled water and looked forward to enjoying a cup of tea.  It may not seem like much but my favorite tea hasn’t been sold locally for the ten years that I’ve lived in San Antonio – or so I thought!  I was in the market last week and came across my favorite tea!  My choices previously were (1) drink the same brand but with caffeine…really tasty, but I was trying  to cut back on that …(2) order it on-line…too costly plus I don’t get to check the expiration date, or (3) buy it when I go to visit family in California…this is usually what happens.

I was so excited that I bought several boxes.  It will keep me happy for a few months.  I now know I can continue to buy it locally.

What’s the big deal?  For me, making tea is like having one-minute aroma therapy.  I like to open the tea bag and take a whiff.  Red tea with a strong scent of cinnamon and star anise.  Take another whiff.  My mind begins to relax, even if I’m at work.  It’s hard to have a frown on my face when I smell that.  I also enjoy various green and white teas, but I had really been missing this particular brand.  It’s one of life’s small pleasures.  It’s also the reason I carry a few bags of tea with me when I travel.  I don’t have to depend on the hotel or restaurant to supply me with my favorites. That being said, I’ve also encountered some new flavors along the way.

I suspect my tea drinking has to do with my grandparents.  My grandfather would boil the water, steep the tea and pour me a cup. He would add sugar from the simple sugar bowl that now sits in a place of honor in my kitchen.  That sugar bowl, which was my grandmother’s is close to 100 years old.

My grandmother used tea medicinally.  She would grow varieties of mint in the back yard, pull the leaves and brew them.  She also used to make chamomile tea when we were sick.  To this day I always have some on hand for the same purpose.

As I sit here writing I realize my thoughts took shape in a way I wasn’t expecting.  My simple cups of tea are really a connection to my past.  I can see my grandparents going about their day while enjoying a cup of tea.  I remember climbing onto a chair and waiting for my grandfather to pour me a cup.  I would blow on it because it was so hot and he would always laugh.  To this day I won’t drink it until  it’s had the time cool just a little.  It smells wonderful and warms me.

I guess my thoughts weren’t so random after all.