NJ, I love ya, but come on . . .

Since I've been staying here (for two weeks now) we haven't really had a "Jersey Day". That's the kind of day when you wake up and feel the air outside pressing in on the screen window. It's the kind of day that doesn't go well, weather wise. Sometimes rain will fall, and if you've lived somewhere else where rain means a cooling down, you'll think okay, now it's gonna cool down. Likely it will not.

Today is gonna be one of those days, with an expected high of 88 degrees. It'll make me think of summer days long ago when I went from lap to lap trying to find someone patient enough to let me sit on them and add to their discomfort. It'll make me think of car trips with no air conditioning during which I also went from lap to lap as we set out for exotic locations like the Bronx and Long Island. And later it'll make me think about how my father let me sit on his lap on the front porch as he told scary stories to neighborhood kids gathered at his feet: stories he made up on the spot. I'll be sharing some of those with you.

I guess if you have memories like I have, even "Jersey Days" are good days.
MNYAGG

I'd Like To Share This With You

I decided to post my "This I Believe" essay because it captures my parents' marriage and how much they love each other.


My parents are getting old; even by our new techno-medically induced standards, at ninety-seven and eighty-eight, they’re really getting old. They still live in the same suburban New Jersey home where I grew up. I’m four hours away in central New York, that rust belt of broken down towns and tenuous local economies.

Sometimes I worry about my parents a lot; always I worry at least a little. I worry about everything from dishonest plumbers to slippery front steps and basement stairs. But somehow they keep going. When serious medical concerns come and go, they continue to prop each other up.

My parents met when my mother was invited to my father’s sister’s wedding next door to where she lived in the Bronx. My father, a soldier in WWII, was home on leave from the Philippines, and when he returned to duty they corresponded in letters now neatly bundled in the attic. They had three kids right away, left the city for New Jersey and years later had another child, me.

I grew up in the 70s, before the Garden State came into its own, when we were still ashamed to be New Jerseyians. In high school it was always a source of discontent; the sameness, the same lack of identity in every north Jersey town wore me out. So I left and went to the West and worked on my superior attitude. I rhapsodized about the openness, the big blue sky, later the feeling I got from raising my kids in such a safe place. My family put up with running commentary about Jersey’s dirty air and overcrowding when I came for visits.

But by the time I finished graduate school I was ready to leave the rural West; accompanying the big sky was a rampant conservatism that I just couldn’t even understand. So there I was at 42 years old, running away to home in a way, but things had changed. I am now the middle aged child of really old parents, not the overindulged much younger one.

Sitting on my parents’ couch I overheard my father say something that I know I’ll always keep with me, as sappy and nostalgic as that might sound. As he bade my mother goodnight, he said “goodnight my dear; dream only of me.” With those words, I, the interloper on the couch, was reminded that there really is so much more to life that what we see on the surface as we rush every day from one important thing to another: as we fill our lives with the trappings of success.

I believe sometimes it’s the things we overhear that have the greatest impact on us. I think when we’re reminded inadvertently that people love each other profoundly we gain access to something important we can remember when we worry or become disgruntled in this time of fear. I believe that right now in history it’s more important than ever to overhear because we might be thrilled and inspired with what our ears pick up.

Thanks for reading,
MNYAGG

My father . . .

was a very good man. I will miss him terribly. He passed away Saturday morning. When things settle down, I'll begin posting some things that I'd like you to know about him. Until then,
MNYAGG

Well, what can I say?

I'm in New Jersey with the Murphys. The hospice people are here. They are wonderful. My father is comfortable, on oxygen and morphine. I'm glad I'm here with him.

Imaginary Lover

If you read my blog, you know that I often make reference to a significant other, one "D". You may have wondered how come he never posts. You may have even begun to think that he doesn't exist, or is a cover for my closeted lesbianism (after all many people seem to think I'm gay when they first meet me), or that Clark is actually my boyfriend.

Yes, my significant other is a private person, but he does exist. Last night he cooked me dinner at my house because I didn't feel well. As a matter of fact, he came in, didn't bother me, and fixed dinner in my appliance-impoverished kitchen quietly and without complaint while I watched Up on my laptop in bed.

He's great, and I hope that any of you who know him will chime in and verify his existence. I'll give you bonus points if you can (without google) name the band from whose song my post title comes.

Tomorrow I'm putting up a little quiz I'm designing to see how "out the box" you are, so tune in.

MNYAGG

The 2 Cat Couple

I'm at D's house where I am listening to Miss Sophie (his cat) meow by turns pitiously and angrily because she is in the kennel about to go to the vet. Getting her in the kennel revealed what appeared to be an extra set of legs containing an extra set of claws that clamped themselves on the sides of the kennel door. I really do think I saw six legs, maybe eight.

Earlier today Vincent Murphy (my cat, not my father) decided to jump up and chase a bug or something -- on the curtains in my office. I wish I'd had a camera for the nanosecond his claws were stuck in the weave.

We are a two cat (and of course one dog) couple, D and I. How cosmopolitan, how twenty-first century, how middle aged. We love our pets, but I think we deal with their traumas differently. D apologized to Sophie all the way out the door just now, and no doubt he is gently tryting to calm her right now as he drives to the vet. I, on the other hand, put Vincent's carrier (which he too does not like to go into) on the backseat and tell him to "shut it" as I drive to our destination. Come to think of it, that's what I do with my father Vincent Murphy in the car (I'm joking!). One thing our cats have in common: they are both charmers once they get out of their carriers. They're that cute.

Do you have any cute pet stories? Come on, share why don't cha?

It's like thunder, lightnin'

Last night Missy was so upset about the thunderstorm that she couldn't eat the benadryl-loaded hot dog that I placed under the bed where she was cowering. Cowering, panting, shaking, hyperventilating, she was doing it all right underneath me while I was trying to sleep. When she eventually came to the side of the bed where I'd placed the hot dog, I grabbed her collar and pulled her the rest of the way out, out the bedroom door into my office, whereupon I closed the door to my room and tried to go to sleep. By then the storm was long over. So my little bundle of nerves got medicated after the fact, but I'm sure she had a good night's sleep. I am a bad pet owner.

I know I said I wouldn't be blogging, but thanks to Clinton's bird population, which rises early and noisily (5:30) I seem to have a chunk of time. Aren't I the lucky one.

Thank you Clark and Lena for reminding me that you're "out there", on the Internet that is.

Today is stating off humid and stuffy, as I remind myself that my love of humidity is what brought me back to the East. I am going to spend some time looking at my unpublished poetry (which is most of my poetry, after all) to select four to send to the Rattle poetry contest, even though I know:
I do not stand a chance of winning.
I am a fool who will be out $25.00 for trying.
My best poem has already been published and is therefore ineligible.
A better known poet will win.
I would sell both my children (easy to say when they're 29 and 27) to even get an honorable mention.
My time might be better spent walking the dog or weeding that one last flower bed.
I will enter anyway and be genuinely hurt and confused when I do not win or place.
Even as I typed all the above, I had a fantasy wherein I won and accepted a huge award as well as the cash prize they give. I MEAN HUGE!

That's the way my brain works, so conflicted it is.

Have a peaceful day wherever you are.