Why does the issue of one’s health have to be so complicated that you are forced seek the advice of a specialist for every medical situation? It is becoming such that you require a specialist to determine which specialist you must see!
I recently had reason to discuss health concerns with the only nurse in the office of one of my many doctors. I was already frustrated by the fact that with so many physicians, I wasn’t sure which one to choose to seek answers and her less than compassionate repetitive responses of, “That would be guessing,” following her own several “suggestions” left me ready to seek another specialist. I am not suggesting I would be looking for one to deal with the issues of my mind although if this keeps up, that may become necessary, because “they” are driving me to distraction!
Following this “That would be guessing” episode, my circumstances have worsened, the issue I called about has shown no improvement, the added tension is no help, sleep is interrupted as I think of having to keep the already-scheduled appointment and face this less-than compassionate nurse and how I will deal with her. Likely she will have forgotten all about me but my short-term memory has not yet expired! Because I am God’s child, I definitely plan to make a considerable effort to bite my tongue but oh, think of the consequences of that! I’ll have to find yet another new doctor…a specialist, no doubt!
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 7-24-2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
A WOMAN’S PEROGATIVE
People who know me, really know me, know I don’t like change… BUT…thinking it over, I’m changing my mind!
For me, change has generally carried with it a connection to something unpleasant. I am not sure when it started but I suppose twenty-some moves in less than thirty years had something to do with it. The older I have grown the more my desire seems to be to stay-the-course, don’t rock the boat, and whatever else you may think you have planned for me, don’t even think of forcing me to leave the harbor until God Himself plans that final heavenly cruise!
However, more recently I have discovered winds of change blowing through my thinking. Often these days happy memories come to me of how Vietnam refugees would smile and say, “Same! Same!” when they understood a concept but I wear no happy smile when I think, “Same! Same!” as I perform some repetitive task. Pervasive thoughts include, “This is the same old routine day in and day out! Where is the challenge in this? How am I going to keep my brain alive doing this same old thing all the time?” As quickly as these same old thoughts invade, others pile in reminding me I should heed the admonition to be thankful I am able to do these tasks knowing at any moment things could…uh-oh, there’s that dreaded word again! … change.
Now I must re-think things: all along I have known that change is not all one way or the other: there is a matter of perception or circumstance here…some change is good, some not so good. Even in all the moving around I mentioned earlier I found both good and bad. Though searching for a new place to live, a different store in which to shop for groceries, and worship with a new church family in each new city was unsettling, it presented something of value at the same time. While new grocery store chains presented challenges for finding familiar items, we found fresh taste treats to try. Somehow our old furnishings took on a new shine in different settings. Maybe that was because they’d just been dusted prior to the move or perhaps freshly painted walls behind faded upholstery set it off in a better light! And going from one congregation of the church to a different one was like finding a part of the family we knew about but had not previously met, thus providing an opportunity to develop new, lifelong fellowships that even a future move never takes away.
Okay, with all of my wishy-washy talk of change, are you seasick yet? I think I’ll just sit here and row-row-row my boat a while and then as my grandfather used to say about the mailboat in his charge, ‘Sometimes we just let the current take ‘er!”
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 6-19-2010
For me, change has generally carried with it a connection to something unpleasant. I am not sure when it started but I suppose twenty-some moves in less than thirty years had something to do with it. The older I have grown the more my desire seems to be to stay-the-course, don’t rock the boat, and whatever else you may think you have planned for me, don’t even think of forcing me to leave the harbor until God Himself plans that final heavenly cruise!
However, more recently I have discovered winds of change blowing through my thinking. Often these days happy memories come to me of how Vietnam refugees would smile and say, “Same! Same!” when they understood a concept but I wear no happy smile when I think, “Same! Same!” as I perform some repetitive task. Pervasive thoughts include, “This is the same old routine day in and day out! Where is the challenge in this? How am I going to keep my brain alive doing this same old thing all the time?” As quickly as these same old thoughts invade, others pile in reminding me I should heed the admonition to be thankful I am able to do these tasks knowing at any moment things could…uh-oh, there’s that dreaded word again! … change.
Now I must re-think things: all along I have known that change is not all one way or the other: there is a matter of perception or circumstance here…some change is good, some not so good. Even in all the moving around I mentioned earlier I found both good and bad. Though searching for a new place to live, a different store in which to shop for groceries, and worship with a new church family in each new city was unsettling, it presented something of value at the same time. While new grocery store chains presented challenges for finding familiar items, we found fresh taste treats to try. Somehow our old furnishings took on a new shine in different settings. Maybe that was because they’d just been dusted prior to the move or perhaps freshly painted walls behind faded upholstery set it off in a better light! And going from one congregation of the church to a different one was like finding a part of the family we knew about but had not previously met, thus providing an opportunity to develop new, lifelong fellowships that even a future move never takes away.
Okay, with all of my wishy-washy talk of change, are you seasick yet? I think I’ll just sit here and row-row-row my boat a while and then as my grandfather used to say about the mailboat in his charge, ‘Sometimes we just let the current take ‘er!”
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 6-19-2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
THE SHARING OF THE SHEARING OF THE SHEEP
A couple of mornings back I was given a gift sample packet of raw wool. This morning as I stood holding it in my hands in our home in West Texas I was transported back to Northern Maine to Crafts Elan, a shop where I worked for several years ordering, stocking, counting, rearranging, and pricing many varieties of yarns, among which there was some called raw wool that had a similar look to what I was now holding in my hand.
As I stood there, fingers smoothing the sample amount over the palm of my hand, reminiscing with wonder about how yarn is made from what was so recently on the backs of these marvelous sheep, admiring the beauty in the natural color combinations, I spoke to my husband, “I wonder if I could make a sweater out of this.” My reverie was promptly broken when he said, “You don’t have enough!”Laughter emerged inside and out as I had to agree and the musing for the moment was broken, but it was enough for the brief period of time to have revisited places held dear in memory and then to return to the present, all thanks to the sharing of the shearing of the sheep.
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 6-1-2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
DAYDREAMS
Red-orange and bright the proud flowers bloom above ground calling my camera and me,
But more than just for today I’m called all the way back to a place in a far memory;
Back when I lived by a beautiful brook where the water flowed by crystal clear
On its path to the sea with a musical song each child should be privileged to hear.
A close look within showed a tadpole or two, tiny tails in developing stages;
A swift scoop of the hand and some were saved to observe; an interest…no matter the ages.
Mamma stood on our porch far away from the brook, calling our ducks who’d gone out of sight,
She feared the foxes in woods and the dangers inherent with the coming on of the night.
Her oft-heard call, “Quacker, where are you?”…the answer immediate, came back…
The ducks were downstream but from far, far away, the response, a loud, “Quack! Quack! Quack!”
As with the ducks, I was called in for the night, away from my wandering ways;
I, too, like the ducks, enjoyed freedoms galore in those long ago childhood days.
Intermittent reminders come to renew the thoughts and memories to me from the past
Re-creating the land of my youth once again helping long ago visions to last.
I see the green of the fields where our daylilies grew alongside the banks adding pleasure;
Although only in memory I go back today, I am thankful for each childhood treasure.
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 5-11-10
But more than just for today I’m called all the way back to a place in a far memory;
Back when I lived by a beautiful brook where the water flowed by crystal clear
On its path to the sea with a musical song each child should be privileged to hear.
A close look within showed a tadpole or two, tiny tails in developing stages;
A swift scoop of the hand and some were saved to observe; an interest…no matter the ages.
Mamma stood on our porch far away from the brook, calling our ducks who’d gone out of sight,
She feared the foxes in woods and the dangers inherent with the coming on of the night.
Her oft-heard call, “Quacker, where are you?”…the answer immediate, came back…
The ducks were downstream but from far, far away, the response, a loud, “Quack! Quack! Quack!”
As with the ducks, I was called in for the night, away from my wandering ways;
I, too, like the ducks, enjoyed freedoms galore in those long ago childhood days.
Intermittent reminders come to renew the thoughts and memories to me from the past
Re-creating the land of my youth once again helping long ago visions to last.
I see the green of the fields where our daylilies grew alongside the banks adding pleasure;
Although only in memory I go back today, I am thankful for each childhood treasure.
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 5-11-10
Friday, May 7, 2010
TURN AROUND AND YOU’RE GROWN
On my desk is a beautiful black, red, and silver 2010 high school graduation invitation, not so unusual at this time of year, but this one is very special. There is a silver tiger embossed against the black background along with decorative red writing and a shield in which there are four emblems that hold meaning to the graduates, but none of that is why it is so special to my husband and me. This invitation represents the culmination of years of study of our grandson, John E. Moore III.
When his dad, John E. Moore II was born, we nicknamed him “Chip” assuming he would be a “chip off the old block.” Little did we know how prophetic that would be! When John E. Moore III joined the family, my husband John declared, “My dynasty!” The new addition’s parents said, “We will call him, “Chi.” For those with difficulty working the pronunciation and seeing it only in written form, his nickname rhymes with “eye” but is part of the name of a sorority to which his mom belonged in college as well as the first three letters of his dad’s nickname. His parents were thinkers and his nickname has served him well.
This morning as I added Chi’s wallet-sized graduation pictures to a bulletin board above my computer, my thoughts wandered back as grandmother’s thoughts are allowed to do. As I recalled an opportunity I had to spend a few days babysitting Chi and his older sister when he was in kindergarten, I found it a little difficult to think how fast the years between my making cheese roll-ups for him before he went to afternoon classes that year and now, his senior year have passed. I suppose it doesn't seem all that speedy to him, but to me it seems almost as fast as the length of time writing that sentence took!
As I thought of all that has occurred in what seems so short a period of time, a slideshow of childhood pictures flashed through my memory, and I was thankful I was able to take the opportunity to tell him we are proud of him...the child he was and the young man he has become. And just as the thoughts of how he has grown, so too tumble in worlds of wonder of just who it is that waits inside to continue to grow, as he becomes an older version of John E. Moore III, a.k.a. Chi.
Go with God.
Love, Grandma
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 5-7-2010
When his dad, John E. Moore II was born, we nicknamed him “Chip” assuming he would be a “chip off the old block.” Little did we know how prophetic that would be! When John E. Moore III joined the family, my husband John declared, “My dynasty!” The new addition’s parents said, “We will call him, “Chi.” For those with difficulty working the pronunciation and seeing it only in written form, his nickname rhymes with “eye” but is part of the name of a sorority to which his mom belonged in college as well as the first three letters of his dad’s nickname. His parents were thinkers and his nickname has served him well.
This morning as I added Chi’s wallet-sized graduation pictures to a bulletin board above my computer, my thoughts wandered back as grandmother’s thoughts are allowed to do. As I recalled an opportunity I had to spend a few days babysitting Chi and his older sister when he was in kindergarten, I found it a little difficult to think how fast the years between my making cheese roll-ups for him before he went to afternoon classes that year and now, his senior year have passed. I suppose it doesn't seem all that speedy to him, but to me it seems almost as fast as the length of time writing that sentence took!
As I thought of all that has occurred in what seems so short a period of time, a slideshow of childhood pictures flashed through my memory, and I was thankful I was able to take the opportunity to tell him we are proud of him...the child he was and the young man he has become. And just as the thoughts of how he has grown, so too tumble in worlds of wonder of just who it is that waits inside to continue to grow, as he becomes an older version of John E. Moore III, a.k.a. Chi.
Go with God.
Love, Grandma
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 5-7-2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
A WEEK OF LOST PAWS
As I look back over pictures taken from my very early childhood on, there seems to be a dog by my side in a large number of them. I used to think it was because my mother thought it made for good picture posing but as I have grown older and my doggies even follow me into the bathroom so not to lose sight of me, I can't help but wonder: is the tie that binds a leash?
Early last Sunday evening when our kids were loading their car to head back home following a visit of a couple of days, we were in the process of saying so long to our daughter and her family when an adorable ball of white fluff came bounding across the street to greet not only us but our daughter’s small dog as well. Holly Doggie appeared more inquisitive than threatening to the newcomer, but to be on the safe side, I scooped the little one into my arms where she wiggled her friendly protestations at our trying to see her name on her attached tags. The tags had been taped together with black electrician’s tape so while I held her, our daughter tried removing the well-stuck tape. Finally the tiny round black tag revealed the name of DAISY and a phone number but Daisy was holding still for none of it. At that minute I said, “Daisy and I have met before!” About 6 months ago I mistakenly thought she was one of our next-door neighbor’s little white poodles. That day I had gone to the home of our neighbor’s mom because our neighbor was working, but it wasn’t their dog, so I had taken Daisy to our vet where they would find the rightful owner by using the tag info.
The phone number on Daisy’s tag came up as no longer in service, so after our family left, I used the rabies tag issuer phone number and got their answering service. The woman said the animal clinic folks would not be in until 8 on Monday morning. By then I had shut Daisy in our guest bathroom, a perfectly safe place for her away from our two very inquisitive Yorkies, but she wasn’t happy there, so I knew it could turn into a very long night for all of us if I didn’t figure another way. I wondered about Daisy’s people: were they worried about her and frantically searching, as we would be if one of our dogs were gone from home? We live near a fairly busy street and that is always a concern when these little dogs get out on their own.
Then, the idea struck! Why not use the reverse white pages to see if a name would come up for the phone number? Perhaps that way I could find a new phone number and let Daisy’s owners know we had her. Daisy needed help and her persistent barking was accomplishing little in finding her owners; perhaps my fingers walking over the keyboard would have more success. Once the reverse pages loaded and I had filled in the numbers, I could scarcely believe my eyes at the name that showed on the screen. It was our across-the-street neighbors, a young family we see from time to time, but little enough that we would recognize Daisy as being their dog.
It didn’t take long for me to scoop that precious little bundle up in my arms again and walk across the street, relieved to see that their front door was open, a good sign they were home. I rang the doorbell and as the young man approached, I didn’t hear exactly what he exclaimed but it was obvious he was stunned that I was standing there holding their dog. I explained how I happened to have her and said their back gate was ajar, but I added, “This is the second time Daisy and I have spent time together.” I briefly told him of the first meeting. He thought it was the woman from up the street that first time because we had used her phone so her number that had showed up when we left the message about finding Daisy.
Sunday evening: It was enough to know that sweet Daisy was home and we and our Yorkies could have a relaxing evening after all; that is, after our two gave me their version of the third degree, the special doggie sniff-all-over test, saying, “We know you have been with that other dog and we want to know more about her!”
Last evening as I headed out to get the mail just before 5, there in Daisy’s front yard was a very cute rust-colored Pomeranian with a unique bark. I knew he didn’t belong there but judging from his seeming fear I was quite sure he wouldn’t let me near to catch him. If I tried, I was concerned he’d run towards that busy street and traffic would be heavier at that time on a Friday. When I returned from getting the mail, he was in the yard next-door to Daisy’s house and seemed compatible with a kitty that was nearby. I came inside and prayed for his safe-keeping, feeling I could do no more, until I saw him out there again this morning. We have had several days of rain and now I grew concerned and determined to gather him up and make sure he was safe. It was 8 a.m. and I knew our vet’s office would be opened until noon so I dressed faster than even I would have thought possible, hurried outside with van keys and my cell phone in my jeans pockets, having unlocked the van on my way out the door.
At first I didn’t see the little guy again but then, there he was cuddling close to a fence in that yard next-door to Daisy’s house. I wondered if he belonged there but at 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning I hesitated to ring a doorbell so I tried talking to him. He answered me, using his smoker’s voice, and each time I moved, he did as well, obviously insisting he didn’t want me to try to catch him. Then, I heard the voice of a woman from the back yard calling, “Russell? Russell?” I said, “Ma’am, Ma’am?” No response. Again she called, “Russell? Russell?” So I spoke more loudly, saying, “Ma’am, does this rust-colored Pomeranian belong to you?” She said, “Yes, he does. Just a minute, I’ll be right there.” Pretty soon she appeared at the front door and I told her of the previous evening as well as this morning and why I had been so concerned. She thanked me as she said, “I’ll have to check my fence.”
And for the second time this week, I came home to receive the once-over twice; twice because with two dogs, each one has to do their own interrogation. I assured each one that I had neither touched nor held the little guy, that he was really cute, but that he was now safe at home.
So ends my week of lost paws. No black-and-white picture-prints of this week’s escapades, but thankful memories it ended so well.
P.S. Several hours after having posted this, I was surfing the web and I learned that April 11-17 is National Animal Control Appreciation Week. I smiled, thinking Daisy and Russell wanted to make the work of the Animal Control officers easier so they "called" on me to help instead! ;-0
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 4-17-2010
Early last Sunday evening when our kids were loading their car to head back home following a visit of a couple of days, we were in the process of saying so long to our daughter and her family when an adorable ball of white fluff came bounding across the street to greet not only us but our daughter’s small dog as well. Holly Doggie appeared more inquisitive than threatening to the newcomer, but to be on the safe side, I scooped the little one into my arms where she wiggled her friendly protestations at our trying to see her name on her attached tags. The tags had been taped together with black electrician’s tape so while I held her, our daughter tried removing the well-stuck tape. Finally the tiny round black tag revealed the name of DAISY and a phone number but Daisy was holding still for none of it. At that minute I said, “Daisy and I have met before!” About 6 months ago I mistakenly thought she was one of our next-door neighbor’s little white poodles. That day I had gone to the home of our neighbor’s mom because our neighbor was working, but it wasn’t their dog, so I had taken Daisy to our vet where they would find the rightful owner by using the tag info.
The phone number on Daisy’s tag came up as no longer in service, so after our family left, I used the rabies tag issuer phone number and got their answering service. The woman said the animal clinic folks would not be in until 8 on Monday morning. By then I had shut Daisy in our guest bathroom, a perfectly safe place for her away from our two very inquisitive Yorkies, but she wasn’t happy there, so I knew it could turn into a very long night for all of us if I didn’t figure another way. I wondered about Daisy’s people: were they worried about her and frantically searching, as we would be if one of our dogs were gone from home? We live near a fairly busy street and that is always a concern when these little dogs get out on their own.
Then, the idea struck! Why not use the reverse white pages to see if a name would come up for the phone number? Perhaps that way I could find a new phone number and let Daisy’s owners know we had her. Daisy needed help and her persistent barking was accomplishing little in finding her owners; perhaps my fingers walking over the keyboard would have more success. Once the reverse pages loaded and I had filled in the numbers, I could scarcely believe my eyes at the name that showed on the screen. It was our across-the-street neighbors, a young family we see from time to time, but little enough that we would recognize Daisy as being their dog.
It didn’t take long for me to scoop that precious little bundle up in my arms again and walk across the street, relieved to see that their front door was open, a good sign they were home. I rang the doorbell and as the young man approached, I didn’t hear exactly what he exclaimed but it was obvious he was stunned that I was standing there holding their dog. I explained how I happened to have her and said their back gate was ajar, but I added, “This is the second time Daisy and I have spent time together.” I briefly told him of the first meeting. He thought it was the woman from up the street that first time because we had used her phone so her number that had showed up when we left the message about finding Daisy.
Sunday evening: It was enough to know that sweet Daisy was home and we and our Yorkies could have a relaxing evening after all; that is, after our two gave me their version of the third degree, the special doggie sniff-all-over test, saying, “We know you have been with that other dog and we want to know more about her!”
Last evening as I headed out to get the mail just before 5, there in Daisy’s front yard was a very cute rust-colored Pomeranian with a unique bark. I knew he didn’t belong there but judging from his seeming fear I was quite sure he wouldn’t let me near to catch him. If I tried, I was concerned he’d run towards that busy street and traffic would be heavier at that time on a Friday. When I returned from getting the mail, he was in the yard next-door to Daisy’s house and seemed compatible with a kitty that was nearby. I came inside and prayed for his safe-keeping, feeling I could do no more, until I saw him out there again this morning. We have had several days of rain and now I grew concerned and determined to gather him up and make sure he was safe. It was 8 a.m. and I knew our vet’s office would be opened until noon so I dressed faster than even I would have thought possible, hurried outside with van keys and my cell phone in my jeans pockets, having unlocked the van on my way out the door.
At first I didn’t see the little guy again but then, there he was cuddling close to a fence in that yard next-door to Daisy’s house. I wondered if he belonged there but at 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning I hesitated to ring a doorbell so I tried talking to him. He answered me, using his smoker’s voice, and each time I moved, he did as well, obviously insisting he didn’t want me to try to catch him. Then, I heard the voice of a woman from the back yard calling, “Russell? Russell?” I said, “Ma’am, Ma’am?” No response. Again she called, “Russell? Russell?” So I spoke more loudly, saying, “Ma’am, does this rust-colored Pomeranian belong to you?” She said, “Yes, he does. Just a minute, I’ll be right there.” Pretty soon she appeared at the front door and I told her of the previous evening as well as this morning and why I had been so concerned. She thanked me as she said, “I’ll have to check my fence.”
And for the second time this week, I came home to receive the once-over twice; twice because with two dogs, each one has to do their own interrogation. I assured each one that I had neither touched nor held the little guy, that he was really cute, but that he was now safe at home.
So ends my week of lost paws. No black-and-white picture-prints of this week’s escapades, but thankful memories it ended so well.
P.S. Several hours after having posted this, I was surfing the web and I learned that April 11-17 is National Animal Control Appreciation Week. I smiled, thinking Daisy and Russell wanted to make the work of the Animal Control officers easier so they "called" on me to help instead! ;-0
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 4-17-2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
NAME CALLING
Is a person ever satisfied with his/her given name or would it be better to refer to the new little person as Male #1, Female #3, etc., until each is old enough to legally choose a name for him/herself? What, if any, significance does the choice of name attach through the years?
I grew up knowing my mother didn’t like her name, but I was contented with mine. However, once I was enrolled in the city schools and junior high years, the school system took over and said my previous name of Marilyn would now officially become Sue because they used first names. Junior high years were hard years for me but I doubt being forced to be Sue at school while staying Marilyn at home evolved into two separate and distinct personalities. Sue Libby earned good grades, won a spelling bee, and even became a recognized member of the National Junior Honor Society.
I chose marriage immediately after high school so another name change was imminent although at the time I had no idea how much so. My intended and I went to the town clerk of my current residence and she pointed out that my paperwork was incorrectly filled out as Sue Marilyn Libby. Well, that was my name, what did she mean? She showed me that my birth certificate stated I was not who I always thought myself to be. The order of my first and middle names had been switched on that official form so legally I was Marilyn Sue Libby. Oh, if those city school officials had only known way back when I entered seventh grade, I could have stayed who I always had been! Learning about it at the particular moment was enough to be thankful for; we joked that my future was secure because we found out before marriage, not after, thus making the wedding documents completely correct.
Since my husband knew me originally from school, he called me Sue and through the fifty-two-plus years our journey together became John and Sue to our friends and his family, John and Marilyn to my family. Most of the time now, I do not often hear the name Marilyn spoken except at the doctor’s offices where legality reigns. While Marilyn is a name I treasure because I understand it is one Daddy picked out, it belongs more to the little girl than the woman I have become. Perhaps because most of the loved ones who consistently called me by that name have gone from my life, either by death or by distance or maybe due to the fact that deep down inside it hurts to be reminded that I’ll never be that little girl again, tears come to my eyes as I sit here typing these thoughts. Could it be…is it possible that there is more to a name than what we see printed on paper?
©Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 4-14-2010
I grew up knowing my mother didn’t like her name, but I was contented with mine. However, once I was enrolled in the city schools and junior high years, the school system took over and said my previous name of Marilyn would now officially become Sue because they used first names. Junior high years were hard years for me but I doubt being forced to be Sue at school while staying Marilyn at home evolved into two separate and distinct personalities. Sue Libby earned good grades, won a spelling bee, and even became a recognized member of the National Junior Honor Society.
I chose marriage immediately after high school so another name change was imminent although at the time I had no idea how much so. My intended and I went to the town clerk of my current residence and she pointed out that my paperwork was incorrectly filled out as Sue Marilyn Libby. Well, that was my name, what did she mean? She showed me that my birth certificate stated I was not who I always thought myself to be. The order of my first and middle names had been switched on that official form so legally I was Marilyn Sue Libby. Oh, if those city school officials had only known way back when I entered seventh grade, I could have stayed who I always had been! Learning about it at the particular moment was enough to be thankful for; we joked that my future was secure because we found out before marriage, not after, thus making the wedding documents completely correct.
Since my husband knew me originally from school, he called me Sue and through the fifty-two-plus years our journey together became John and Sue to our friends and his family, John and Marilyn to my family. Most of the time now, I do not often hear the name Marilyn spoken except at the doctor’s offices where legality reigns. While Marilyn is a name I treasure because I understand it is one Daddy picked out, it belongs more to the little girl than the woman I have become. Perhaps because most of the loved ones who consistently called me by that name have gone from my life, either by death or by distance or maybe due to the fact that deep down inside it hurts to be reminded that I’ll never be that little girl again, tears come to my eyes as I sit here typing these thoughts. Could it be…is it possible that there is more to a name than what we see printed on paper?
©Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 4-14-2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)