A Warm Piece of Toast…

Years ago while in Japan, a dear friend and I had babies within weeks of one another.   Both were little girls.  We would talk daily on the phone and we loved our talks.

One day, mid morning ,the phone rang,  I answered in tears.  It was my friend Cindy, the one who had a baby girl weeks after we had ours.   Hearing my tears, she promptly asked what was going on.  Through my tears I told her that all I really wanted was a warm piece of toast, and I hadn’t had one in weeks and I was just about to take a bite of a warm piece of toast when the phone rang.  Hiding her laughter, she told me to hang up, have my toast and call when I was done.

I know I have a weird relationship with my toast.  I just love to eat it when it is warm out of the toaster, the butter melted and the topping of choice (mostly peanut butter for me) is soft and warm also.

For the past couple of weeks I have been trying to get hold of Cindy.  Her health has not been good and I have just needed to hear her voice.  To hear her laughter and know in my heart that she is okay.    She is a friend who is  one of those that we can go months and years without talking and when we hear one another’s voice it is just a continuation of where we left off.   The last time we talked we promised that we would talk more often, like we used to in Japan.  That was at least three years ago.   So, no, we did not keep our promise to one another.

This morning I had texted her husband and tried once to call and left a voice mail.  After that I made hubby some toast and then made myself a piece.  Again, it was warm, butter melted and peanut butter gooey.  It was a great piece of toast.  Since I had been thinking of Cindy, I thought of that conversation so long ago and laughed to myself.

Then the phone rang.  I answered and we had a great visit on the phone.  As typical of when I talk with her, tears streamed down my face.  Tears of happiness in hearing her voice, tears of sorrow that we do not live closer to one another, tears of memories that cover so many years and the knowledge that I need to cherish each conversation, each echo of laughter.

Once more we hung up promising each other that we would talk more often.  I am hoping to hold up my end of the deal this time.   As I walked back into the living room to continue my day, I looked at the end table.  There on my plate was a cold, hard piece of toast.  I smiled to myself as I ate it.  How times have changed for me, a cold piece of toast tastes so much better after a warm conversation.

Proverbs 25:25 says, “Like a cool drink of water when you’re worn out and weary is a letter from a long-lost friend.”     This wasn’t a letter, but even better, a conversation.

Thank you my friend for blessing my day.  You are loved.

Thanks for stopping by, Cathi (DAF)

Just Thinking…

Each year at this time I begin to remember and think of what I was doing and where I was.  Each year I add another number to the count of the years.  Each year I wonder where the time has gone.  Tomorrow is my oldest daughter’s birthday.  I don’t mind my own birthday, but, hers gets to me yearly.

Yes, I have two daughters, but until recently the only birthday that bothered me was my oldest daughter’s birthday.  Now, that her sister has made it to her mid-thirties, I begin to feel older in September also.

I can remember talking to my Dad on my birthday.  He would ask, “How old are you now?”  I always thought that was a bizarre question, I  mean, how could you not remember how old your child was?  I am beginning to think it was self-preservation that he asked that question.  I think he was most likely hoping I would give a lower number, which I never did, because, as I mentioned previously, my birthday never seems to really bother me. So, I would proudly announce my age and his response is one that I have become very familiar with, “How did you get to be that old and I really don’t think I am old enough to have a daughter your age.”   I guess with age comes wisdom.  I feel that same way.

Today as I was going through my Facebook page, I started to read the responses on a friend’s post.  As usual there was a secondary conversation that was between my friend and a friend of hers that I do not know.  The conversation went like this, (friend 1) “How is your Mom?”   (friend I don’t know) “She is good.  64 now and healthy.”

I swallowed hard.  This comment made it sound like at 64 the woman should be in a home for the infirm and aged.  This, on top of my oldest approaching what could be a milestone year as she hits a big year next year (sorry Sweetie), made me start to look for my walker, a cane or my bed pan.  Or all three of them.

It truly is amazing that I have my facilities to actually write this out and think coherently.  Age, in wine, cheese and Sean Connery it is a wonderful and delightful thing, each year making it better than before.

So, I will continue to think on this.  This business with age, and numbers and gray hair and arthritic hands.  This business of growing older.

I close with this quote I found.  
Never use the passing years as an excuse for old age. ~Robert Brault

Thanks for stopping by today.  I appreciate your visit.  Oh, and to my dear daughter, Thank you for the years of laughter and tears and worry and joy.  May #%* be the best year yet for you!  Cathi (DAF)

 

 

Another Visit to the V.A.

This morning my hubby had to have some blood work done at the local V.A. (Veteran’s Administration) clinic.  We have gone there numerous times and I always sit and people watch.   Today was no different.

The V.A. is not a place to go if you don’t want to be reminded of what men and women do for this country.  The waiting room is like every other waiting room in the country.  Chairs formed so you can either watch the television, or read old magazines.  The chairs are no more and no less comfortable from any other waiting room.   On first glance it could be a waiting room for any medical facility in the country.

So, why do I spend more time people watching here, then in other rooms?  It’s easy.  Most of the clients are men.  An occasional woman comes and goes, but for the most part the only women are those wives who have accompanied their husbands.  You can tell the wives easily.  They are quietly waiting, because being military spouses we got used to waiting years ago.   It is a way of life for us.  The men fidget.  Their eyes are never still, they glance at the television, they look at their phones, they look at their books or magazines, but, their eyes dart all around them, as if knowing they are in a military facility they return to old habits of making certain of their surroundings.

Often you see young men there.  Young men who look like old men.  They have witnessed too much for their young lives.  They are crippled and you can see it, even if the wounds are not noticeable.  Their eyes say it all.  The mother in me wants to hug them all, somehow make it better, but, that is not my role in their lives.

Today, though, there was only one young person I saw.  He came out from being seen and waited impatiently in the queue to schedule his next appointment.  He didn’t want to be in line and you could see from his body language that he just was annoyed for having to be there at all.

The others that filled the waiting room were relics from a time when war was called a conflict or just a cold war.   These relics were once the best and the brightest.  They were strong men.  They were well-trained and ready to move in an instant.  Today, they walked stiffly and their eyes were not as sharp.  Many of them wore pony tails in long silver hair, one last outward sign of rebellion after years of high and tight haircuts.

I sat in a corner chair studying these men.  My heart was filled with pride and heart-ache.  It is the same feeling I have each time I go there.  These men served when it wasn’t popular.  They served when no one noticed and no one thanked them.  They served because they love our country.

So, thank you to all those vets who are now a bit crippled, a bit hard of hearing, a bit old.  I think that on the outside there is age and it’s deterioration, but on the inside that young man filled with fire and strength is laying dormant.    I left that clinic feeling grateful for all you did.  You paved the way for the young strong men of today.  Well done.

Thanks for stopping by today, Cathi (DAF, retired Navy wife)

Ramblings from a would be writer…

What a week!  Not bad, actually, but filled.  This post won’t be about anything in particular, but, as the title suggests, it will be a rambling of what is on my mind.

A couple of weeks ago I decided  that come September 1st, I was going to start to run again.  Not a huge decision as I actually lettered in track… well, okay, I lettered because I agreed to be student manager for two years, but I did run with the team and I actually ran in a few meets.  I love running.  There is something about it that feeds my soul.  I love the feel of air in my lungs and I love the pain I feel in my legs after I am done.  I used to run a bit, but, first there was a car accident and it hurt my shoulders to run, then there was that time where I went sled riding and hit a boulder and broke my back.  That made running difficult also.  But, a few weeks ago, I decided to run again.

So, to be ready for this I did what most people do… no, I didn’t go to my doctor.  I went online and googled, “beginning to run again” .  Actually there was a whole list of articles about it.  There was one that actually broke down running again into decades.  I went to the 50’s and read how to begin to run again.  It said to walk to warm up, done.  Don’t stretch, as most seniors hurt themselves in stretching either before or after a run, done.  Didn’t want to do that anyhow.   It said to run in 5 to 10 second intervals.  Wow!  That I can do.

So, this past Monday, I got up early (didn’t want anyone to see me) and I did it.  I walked to the park, and along the track there I did several 5-10 second running spurts.  I did the same today and I survived.  Now, if I can continue this and increase the amount of time in actually running, who knows, by next year I could actually run around the entire track at the park!  I will keep you posted.

I got a cyber kick in the bum this week also.  I read a wonderful post about cleaning out a closet.  I had thought of doing this to all my closets and drawers.  So, yesterday I started this also.  I was surprised to realize that although I have thought that my closets and drawers are out of control, they actually just need redone.  Taking things out and putting them back in order.  I have gone through most of my downstairs and will continue until I am finished with the house.

I think, however, the reason I am keeping busy and starting things like running is I need to feel like I am doing something.  My dear hubby has been ill, as some of you know.  Last week we got a diagnosis and although it is not extremely serious, it has its challenges.  I know that the Lord is not surprised by the diagnosis.  I know that He is in control of everything in our lives.  I do have peace in this knowledge.  The thing is, is I am a do-er. I need to feel like I am accomplishing something, helping something DOING something.  Since there is nothing I can do to help this situation, the next best thing is to get busy.  So, that is what I am doing.  I am running, hopefully getting into shape.  I am also cleaning, because, well, it needs to be done.

But, as I am moving, I am praying.  Praying for wisdom, direction, and most of all healing.  Thanks for listening to my rambling, as always, your Dear Anonymous Friend.