Facebook and Me

Facebook conjures up a lot of images in many people’s minds¾everything from a place where unsuspecting young people sabotage their careers by posting  pictures of a big night partying or a vehicle for cyber bulling , or where those who lack discipline fritter away hours playing games like Farmville.
Personally, I never thought that I would subscribe to Facebook¾after all, I didn’t need it. I never had a My Space account. I had no desire to check on what my students were saying about me-¾or about each other. And I believed all the hype about the dangers of My Space and its successor, Facebook.
Until an 80+ year old friend relocated to Long Island. The first  email I received from her informed me that she had posted  pictures of her new apartment on Facebook.
So, I ended up with a Facebook account. And now I am hooked.
I love Facebook because my family, like so many others, is scattered all over the United States: a sister, my daughter and cousins  live in California, a brother in New Jersey, another one in Poughkeepsie, another one  spends time in both Chicago and Buffalo and another sister and brother  are in Buffalo, and another  sister is in Tampa.  In addition, there are many nieces and nephews who are all over¾including one traveling in Viet Nam.
Many of my family members are on Facebook. It is such fun to see their photos and read their posts!
I feel like I am really connected to them in a very authentic way. Our Facebook relationships are much more natural than a phone call or email. Pictures, jokes, serious posts, poems, music videos, reminders of special events and even invitations and expressions of love and admiration have been posted on Facebook. We have posted tributes to our late parents and shared cherished memories of them on FB. And we can banter back and forth¾which is a lot of fun.
My nephew posts pictures and videos of his adorable baby¾and even though I haven’t  met the baby yet , I delight in his sweet smile and charming antics¾thanks to Facebook.
Several friends are on FB as well. Even though I don’t have opportunities to see them often, we still keep in touch. We have even planned lunch dates on FB.
Back in the  1980’s, we hosted a girl from Northern Ireland  in a program that was designed to give children who had known only conflict and war a respite. This girl is now grown and she, too, is on Facebook. I have seen photos of her kids and husband¾across the sea from Northern Ireland.
An unexpected benefit of being on Facebook was the opportunity to reconnect with several cousins.
We were a close family growing up, but distance and the busyness of life came between us. Facebook has brought us back together through photos, posts and messages. One cousin was even inspired to plan a reunion as a result of being back in touch!
We have become a family again, thanks to Facebook.
As you can see, I am a fan of Facebook. Needless to say, you have to use common sense on any social networking website. Facebook is by no exception. It is by no means perfect.
But being on Facebook had enhanced my life in ways I could never have imagined when I first created an account to see my friend’s pictures three years ago. To me, the payoff has been worth it.
As they used to tell Mikey on the TV commercials years ago…“Try it¾you’ll like it!”
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The Rest of the Story–Sophie

I hurry into the pantry. My heart is beating so fast that I can barely breathe.
Twenty years of being careful , of working menial jobs, and watching my back screwed up in a minute.
Was that really Lee?
There’s a  commotion  as Lee pushes her way into the pantry. Next I hear my boss Tomas cajoling her into leaving the restricted area.  Finally he resorts to threatening to call security.
In the end, she agrees to leave¾after she threatens to make a formal complaint.
I gulp. Like so many of the ship’s staff, Tomas works inhuman hours to make the passengers happy. The majority of his paycheck goes to his family in his native Philippines.
“What’s this all about, Rita?”
“How would I know?”
“That woman seems to want to see you badly. How do you know her? And why is she calling you Sophie?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“You’re still on probation. I can have you fired like that.“ Tomas snaps his fingers.
What will happen now?
“I’m assigning you to work in the dishwashing galley,” he snaps.
Dishwashing is an unpleasant job, sweaty, smelly and physically demanding. The people who work there are like lepers. They sit by themselves in the crew dining room, and they never join in when the crew has a karaoke party.
I clear plates and hoist garbage cans, and at the end of my shift, I skulk back to my cabin, stinking of sweat and soured milk. The waste I see, plates loaded with food, desserts with a bite from them, full glasses of milk and juice left to spoil, is sickening. Every day in the  hot and humid dishwashing galley, I pray that we will soon dock overnight on the island. I can’t wait for my shore leave.

***********

Sitting back on my lounge chair, I open my romance novel. I’ve given up looking for  Sophie.
We’re in port until tomorrow. Most of the other passengers have disembarked, but Ted and I have a couples’ massage scheduled. I’m treating myself to a facial and a manicure. The prices are outrageous¾but what the hell¾we deserve it.
As I settle in, a skinny woman with a head wrap scurries out from the door that  swallowed Sophie. Grabbing my bag, I hurry to the disembarkation deck just in time to see the woman  get into a rattle-trap van. Hailing  the nearest cab, I demand that he follow the van.
After a half hour the van stops in front of a candy colored  block house. I slouch down in the back seat watching as my sister hugs a young man  who rushes to greet her.
The young man turns toward me and I  stifle a gasp.
There is no mistaking the slope of his shoulders and the firm jaw. I feel like I’m going to vomit.
He looks to be about twenty–the same age as my darling Katie.
And he is almost a clone of Ted at the same age.
I hiss at the driver to step on it. But like a typical Islander, he is dozing as the meter ticks away.
The young man spots the cab and approaches, followed by Sophie.
I inch the  window down and stare at my sister,
“How could you, Sophie? How could you seduce my husband?”
Sophie places her hand on her mouth.
“Maybe you’d like to ask Ted about that.”
“You must be kidding!”
“ Lee, maybe you don’t remember this–but I was only 18 when you got married. I never had a boy friend¾remember? I was the smart one, and you were the beautiful one.“
“Ted forced himself on me.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
I scream at  the driver and we  speed away spewing dust everywhere.
************
Ted and I are having breakfast on our veranda.
“You’re quiet today,”  he says.
I nod.
“So, what did you do on the island yesterday? You missed our massage–too bad, because it was awesome! Did you buy more jewelry?”
I butter another croissant. I can barely look at  him.
There is a knock on the door and I answer it. An officer is standing there. He leaves after expressing his condolences to me, the only sibling of Sophie Manley, who signed on as Rita Rivera a month earlier. Sophie was killed in an  accident while visiting her family on the island.
I am numb with grief as the ship pulls out of port. I toss my breakfast is the trash  uneaten.
***************
And in the dishwashing galley, Sophie is disgusted as still another person wastes another plate of food.

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Sophie Part II

Hi all,

I get it–you need to know how the story about Sophie ends.

FYI–my writing style is a type some people call organic–the story writes itself. Once I have an idea and start writing, the characters and situations lead the way. That’s what happened with Sophie.

So, now that I know–I can write it. Stay tuned.

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A story

This story is a short, short story ( also called Flash Fiction) Hope you enjoy it!
Sophie
My cabin, while snug, was beautifully appointed. Standing on the compact balcony I breathed deeply of the fresh salt air. The ship rode on emerald green waves that seemed to stretch forever.
Pinch me, I thought, anticipating a whole seven days away from phones, emails and text messages. I felt released from the shackles of being connected every hour of every day to my job, my family, my prying neighbors, demanding in-laws and  the problems of everyday life.
Stretching out on the bed, I felt the rhythm of the ocean lull me to sleep like a baby in her mother’s arms. An hour later, I woke feeling fully refreshed.
“Hey¾let’s get some lunch,” my husband said, sitting on the end of the bed and massaging my feet.
“Stop that or you’ll have to go hungry!”
“On a cruise ship? Are you kidding? I doubt that’s ever happened.” His chuckle was a deep rumble.
I quickly dressed in the business casual attire that was de rigueur in the various dining rooms onboard.
Soon we were settled on the seventh deck open dining area. The ocean breeze caressed us. I virtuously dug into the plate of cottage cheese and lettuce I had chosen  from the abundant buffet, planning the dessert I would have later.
Then  I spotted her.
The cruise line uniform did nothing to enhance her thin frame. She pushed an errant hair back into a bedraggled pony tail. Smiling wanly, she scurried through a double door marked  “crew only.” Soon she reappeared, wearing baby blue rubber gloves  and proceeded to collect cups, glasses and soiled plates and methodically stacked them in a large grey bin.
“Oh my God!” I sucked my breath in sharply. “Is that my sister Sophie?”I nudged my husband.
He looked up from his third dessert and almost swallowed his spoon.
How long had it been since we had seen her? She was the golden girl, Mom and Dad’s favorite. They had died with broken hearts, never knowing what had happened to their favorite daughter.
Sophie looked up and our eyes met. A wave of recognition washed over her face.
And then she was gone.
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Friends

Hello !

This post is a little different than some of the earlier ones.  I don’t usually write poems. Especially because I never like the end product. But this reads a little like prose and it does fit into the category of musings…

Thanks for indulging me.

Kathy

 

Friend

Friend, be my friend forever. Be my soul mate and my blood sister.

Understand me–for I need care, and especially love.

Laugh at my jokes, marvel at my talents, and listen to my woes.

Be kind and be patient. Forgive my transgressions because I am so human.

Friend, let me be part of your life.

Then we can share joy, and laughter, and even sorrow with one another.

We will make a journey into one another¾
across time and place, in the here and now,

and in all of our tomorrows.

Then we will be forever friends.

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Roller Coaster Ride

I feel like my emotions have been on an out-of-control roller coaster ride this week.

My week started with a celebration—my brother Brian was ordained as a Methodist Elder. This is a major milestone in his life—it seals his commitment to the ministry he has chosen. The ceremony itself was a joyous celebration of the presence of God in our lives. And the next day, Saturday, it was a celebration of family highlighted by affection, sharing, music and, of course wonderful food. The congregation my brother ministers provide another tribute on the Sunday after his ordination—which added a loving and public dimension to this event.

Then we received the news that my Aunt  Virginia had died. It came in the form of a text message from another brother who was unable to attend the ordination.

And then my roller coaster ride began.

How can joy be intertwined with grief? How do we celebrate one event and mourn the other—all in the same  moment in time?

We go from joy to sorrow back to joy—often within moments.  And yet, we make sense all of this and continue despite the way our lives sometimes seem like a riotous amusement park ride.

We sort out the feelings and sometimes even compartmentalize them to allow us to continue to function.

Sorrow can color our lives sometimes for years, but yet we soldier on, facing each day  with great courage.

Finally we realize that joy is transient and that we must delight in those moments and hold them dear to our hearts—living them over again and again. Ultimately we come to know that to understand joy, we must embrace life’s sorrow.

And bravely, we get back in line for the roller coaster of life, throw caution to the wind, throw our arms up in the air… and ride.

 

 

 

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Aunt Virginia

 

My Aunt Virginia died. She was my godmother,was a constant in my life and, at times, my surrogate mom.

She made the worst oatmeal and the best Rocky Road fudge. She was known for being no-nonsense and
strict, but loving. A devoutly religious woman, she attended Mass every day.

Aunt Virginia and my Mom grew up together, attended the same high school and then married the handsome and intelligent Joyce brothers. They were bonded from the earliest days of their lives.

Right after WWII, the whole Joyce clan all lived together in a two story frame house at 95 McKinley Parkway
in Buffalo. The household included my grandparents, my parents, my Aunt Virginia and her husband, Uncle Bob, Uncle Bam and his wife, Aunt Janet and a teenaged kid brother, Jack. Eventually my brother Michael and I were born into this household.

There are pictures my Dad took of all of them arrayed around an oval dining room table, an extended family sharing an evening meal. My Mom and my Aunt often told stories of those days.

Eventually the brothers all bought their own homes and moved their respective families out of McKinley Parkway.
But they often recalled those days with a wistful nostalgia.

Aunt Virginia was the only one left of this generation of my family—everyone else had preceded her in death. She buried many important people in her life: her mother and three step mothers,her brother, her father, her husband, dear friends, Aunt Janet and Uncle Bam,the kid brother, Uncle Jack and his wife, Aunt Noel, my Mom and Dad and finally her own daughter. My cousin Nancy was only 60 years old when she died from
breast cancer. Virginia was stoic through all this loss. And that’s what I think allowed her to carry on.

Lately, she has been confined to a nursing home—a good one where she was well cared for and cherished. I visited her there the last time I was back in Buffalo. I saw a mere shell of the vibrant woman
she had been.

When I spoke with my cousin Peter after his mother’s death, he said that he and his sister felt that their mother
had been caught in a loop of the movie, “Ground Hog Day”, where every day was aclone of the day before, but meaningless.

I have to agree with them.

There does come a time when death is a friend, and the passage from this life to the next one is welcome. So,
that’s where I take my solace—my aunt was ready to die. Her life on earth had come to an end and she was ready to join the “95 McKinley” gang around the dinner table in heaven.

 

 

 

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Longing

 

 

 

Longing feels like loss, but is
hopeful for restitution…for rebirth… for renewal. Loss leaves a void, one that
seems to beg to be filled, but how? How do you bridge the void?

New ideas, new friends, reinventing
yourself? Just keep busy, the mantra plays over and over in my head…just keep
busy… it helps to mask the feelings of loss. Where does busy-ness overwhelm one
and make one long even more for what is lost?

I long for so much: for peace, and
virtue and common courtesy. But in my heart I long the most for what is lost
from my life—the closeness, the physical proximity to my family, my parents,
long dead, and sisters and brothers scattered like clouds across a perfect
October sky.

I long for the childhood days in my parents’ home,
Even though those were complicated days: Too many people, too little space, big
egos, discord (at times), hilarity at others and anger, laughter, fun, grief,
religion, love, hate, discord and peace— family.

Strange to think that the very technology we all embraced from the very beginning has built barriers between
us. How many times can a person call an anonymous answering machine, and have a conversation? How many e-mails lost in cyberspace does it take to finally break down any sense of belonging? For every step forward, it feels like we have lost some big part of ourselves, the very essence of who we were and are.

So I long for intimacy, closeness, togetherness, for belonging and involvement–even though it’s messy, and complicated.

I long for them, for their presence.
I long to love them as the truly complicated, bigger than life people they are.

I long for the gift of family.

 

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Insomnia

Insomnia—a dreaded word. And a dreaded condition. It conjures up images of tired people barely getting through the day in zombie-like trances.
I have insomnia. Sometimes it’s not so bad and I sleep more or less regularly. I go to bed and within fifteen or so minutes, I fall asleep. Then I awake the next morning more or less refreshed.
Then there are the other nights. The nights when nothing brings sleep on—praying, meditating, listening to white noise or getting up and reading.
In desperation, I often go to the computer and play mindless games—a favorite is Mah johng—not real Mah johng, but the computer game where you match up tiles. I play the game endlessly,
hoping to become so tired that I fall asleep with my hand on the mouse.
Finally,  I will swallow a Benadryl and nestle into the recliner (aka Big Blue) until I fall into
an exhausted haze until dawn. Sometimes dawn is only an hour or two after I
finally go to sleep. On a few horrifying nights, I finally fell asleep when it was dawn. And on one or two nights it
was 7a.m. before sleep finally rescued me from my despair.
I know other people have sleep problems.
They avoid things like eating chocolate and drinking caffeinated coffee right
before bed. They take a Tylenol PM and then sleep through the night. They advise me to do the same—even though I know that taking another pill will do nothing for me.
My insomnia is not caused by caffeine or arthritic aches and pains.
I don’t sleep because I can’t turn off my mind . I lay awake planning the next day’s activities. Lately, I’ve been
writing Flash Fiction stories in my head. Or I worry about getting my novels published. I make plans to market them. And then I think about how I can cannibalize them to write new stories or even novels.
It worries me that I now call it “my insomnia,” like it’s a precious possession, or some personality trait that defines me. I don’t want it to be part of who I am. I want it to be something I’ve overcome, something that used to be a problem for me. Or I at least want to make peace with it and learn to coexist.
So, for the time being, my insomnia will keep me awake until I come up with a scheme to trick it into leaving me in peace.
Sleep well, my friends.

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Young Again

The car races along the patent leather- like streets as the mellow Jazz tunes waft from the radio.  I hug the door, staring straight ahead. Earlier I had been shocked to hear a Beatles tune played as part of the play list on the “Cool Jazz” station we have tuned in.

We are headed to a party; some friends are celebrating forty years of marriage. An amazing milestone!

I try to remember us forty years ago—young, and attractive. I open the vanity mirror on the back of the visor, flipping the light on  as my husband zips along, cursing the other drivers who, according to him, are all idiots. I pull a pinch of skin on my jaw line, smoothing out the fine lines and wrinkles that have made their home along my mouth. “What do ya’ think? Would I look better with a face lift?” I ask, knowing fully well I would never subject myself to that invasion.

I had resolved a few years back when I stopped coloring my hair to its more youthful deep sable color, to age gracefully. Age gracefully, h-m-m, I wonder, does that have to mean looking old? I look again in the small mirror. Not too bad—yet!

I remember when I was in my early twenties, when my generation, the legendary Baby Boomers, first began to flex their muscles, at Woodstock, at peace rallies, pushing our free love, anything goes philosophy to the forefront. For better or for worse, we have changed society. I recall recent conversations with my daughter discussing how young women now know so little of the struggle for Women’s Rights.

“Do you remember Ruth Anne, the teacher I was friends with back home? You know it weird to think that she was discouraged from being a doctor by her professors at the college. That wouldn’t happen now,” I say.

“And your point is?”

“Well, it’s just strange to realize how much everything has changed since we were young.”

The rain has let up as we pull up to the multi-storied hotel. I wonder why our friends always want to go to buffet restaurants, as if they have to get their money’s worth by having more food to choose from than can possibly be sampled. What’s next, Early Bird Specials?

I dread stepping down onto the pavement, knowing that my knee is so unpredictable. Will it hold out this time, I wonder, as I gingerly emerge from the car. My knee has decided to act normal today. Hooray!

The gleamimg glass revolving door  leads to a glittery lobby. We enter the fairy land this hotel has created for the convention guests it caters to. Ahead of us is a marble lobby, decorated with expensive Oriental carpets, chairs upholstered in mauve and pink, with asymmetrically curved backs. To the right of the smoky black mirrored piano bar is a large tropical themed pool.

 I have no desire to stay here for a romantic weekend like I might have when I was younger. And as far as paying to go to a resort, well now I live in a resort—an active adult community. We spend our days trying to choose from an array of activities and our evenings going to dinner with friends. I live in a paradise, one without kids, where I can go to a quiet restaurant, and swim in pools sans babies and splashing ten year olds. And although I enjoy my adult oriented life, I have to admit that romance now is a lot different than it was years ago. Now it’s romantic if it doesn’t involve any little pills and special lotions.

We find our friends, and exchanging hugs and quick kisses on the cheek, congratulate Cathy and Bob on their aniversary. Jokes are made about how difficult marriage is— but how wonderful it is to have a shared history, companionship, and support as we age.

Age! Yikes!

A young couple is in the restaurant, trying to convince their squirmy two-year old to sit and enjoy her food. Each parent takes a turn, trying to find something to amuse their young child, to no avail. I look at the parents, their smooth unlined faces beautiful the way young people are—and I feel a pang of jealousy. The image of a handsome fully -accredited plastic surgeon wielding his scalpel above me as I drift off to sleep pops into my head.

I turn to my husband. “How do I look?”I ask.

“Very nice, is that a new outfit?” he replies. Well, I’ll have to be content with that; it’s the most I’ll get out of him.

Eventually the thirty-something mom picks up her fussy baby, and struggles to leave the restaurant gracefully. The dad packs up the food they couldn’t eat, pays the bill, and hurries to the door.

Yeah, youth. Looks like fun on TV, but the reality can be very different.

Later as we leave the hotel, I turn to look at my husband.

We have shared a lifetime together, all the anger, pain, hurt, joy, happiness, and success that are the hallmarks of a marriage. He pulls the car out into the traffic, just as the sunset blazes across the sky, filling the horizon with lavender, pink and gold.

A song drifts out of the radio, a familiar tune, “love is lovelier….love, like youth is wasted on the young.” I hum along, as I smile a little crinkled smile.

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