Why is it your own “blood” does not validate you?  My writing growing up was always taken for granted by my immediate family–my mom and dad and two sisters.  In the beginning it was my letter writing.  In the sixties I started keeping a journal.  In the late seventies I wrote poetry.  And now I am going on the fifth year of keeping a web site and blog.  Both of my parents are now dead.  I am not sure if my two sisters ever go on my web sites.  They usually don’t comment on them.  My writing is who I am, what is going on which is important to me.

Gratefully my wife cares about my writing, as well as other friends.  I found out I had a talent for making people laugh at open mikes.  And that is a validation of my writing although humor is not the only type of writing I do.  I keep getting hits on my web sites and that is encouraging.  And occasionally I get a poem published in a literary magazine.  I guess we choose our friends.  We can’t choose our family.  Up till his dying day my father who lived until ninety-two was more impressed with money than anything I wrote.  I was a failure in that area.  That still hurts.  Sometimes you have to go outside of your family for validation.  And that was my case.

I don’t know whether I will live that long:  the mattress we just bought is guaranteed for twenty years.  Frankly I don’t know if I will outlive the mattress.  In another twenty years I will be eighty-three.  I know my family is long-lived.  My Dad lived 91 years and my Mom was over 81 when she died.  Nevertheless I am not sure I will make it that long.  It gets me thinking, that is all.  I need to focus on the time allotted to me.  One never knows when one’s times runs out.

I Just Felt Bad

Author: siggy

I just felt bad.  I had gone on a rant about the disorder in this house, all the things that I never wanted to come in this house especially the “stuff” we brought back from Austin when her Mom died.  It filled two rooms and a garage.  Our house was full of stuff.  There was also the “chaos” room.

Also months ago my wife had discovered a web site for people to exchange stuff they did not want.  It appeared that for every one thing that went out three things came in.

Her face had dropped after my ten minute rant.  I had a major hand in souring her mood.  I wish I could take my words back.  I just felt bad.  I discounted totally the effort she had made in getting rid of some of the stuff.  I just made her feel bad.

I want to grow old gracefully.  That is a choice I can make.  I used to tell my Mom after she used to complain again about her fading health, “Parts of your body when you get older just don’t work right.”  She has been dead seven years and lived until eighty.  She did not like hearing that.

I am not as old as she was when she died.  I am sixty-one now.  Even at this age I can tell you parts already do not work perfectly anymore.

I do not want to rant and rail as I get older.  I pray to the Lord above that I can accept my limitations as I get older and do not complain and center on the things that I can do.

I do not want to become bitter as I age and my body breaks down.  I know human beings go through a cycle:  first they are dependent as babies, then become independent and finally as they age become dependent on others again.

Hopefully I will become wiser as I age and not complain because I have grown older and no longer can do certain things physically.  I am praying that as I age I can accept my limitations.  I want to grow old gracefully and not bore others with my ailments.  Everyone has them.

It is no accident that all of us (my two sisters and I) garden.  It all started in my mother’s garden.  It was such a small garden but what an “oasis”.  She had all kinds of beautiful flowers.  I never forgot those deep red roses she had.

That does not even include our fig tree (I mourn its death), the biggest blackberries I have ever seen and the white grape vine she could not kill and finally gave up.

Even after decades I can almost visualize that garden.  Everything started there.  That does not even include the vegetables she raised.  Years later I became a produce clerk.

My appreciation of beauty started in that garden.  She introduced me to God there.  This is such a short essay.  I can not even begin to state the impact of her garden had on on my life even long after she moved from there (I must say reluctantly).

She has been dead seven years and it has been decades since I left that garden but its impact can still be felt today.

I still love looking at flowers and this year I planted eight tomato plants in pots.  I used to think that New Jersey had the best tomatoes in the whole world.  (Yes, I forgot to mention we also had tomatoes in that garden.)

There is so much I have to thank Mom for the garden she tended so carefully and lovingly.  This is such an incomplete list but I have to start somewhere.  Thank you Mom, for introducing me to flowers (and figs and so many other things).  Thank you, Mom, and may you rest in peace.