I once read about a mortifying mistake, never dreaming I’d live through one, but such was the case this past Sunday when we took out-of-town guests out to lunch. The problem seemed to be the restaurateur and his minions were the ones out to lunch.
We arrived at the restaurant at 11:50 a.m., promptly requested a table for seven and were told there would be a twenty-minute wait. Elderly friends who have been married a year longer than we have been alive, that being seventy-two years for them, went in just ahead of us. They must have been led to their seat in a hurry because they disappeared right away. Another friend appeared from the recesses of the restaurant, thinking it was just my husband and me standing there, waiting. He was planning to invite us to sit with him and his wife. They had just been seated in a booth for six.
After forty minutes had passed, we questioned the hostess and she said she’d check the table they had in mind for us. Oops! The people had just ordered dessert so it’d be another twenty minutes…sorry. When we had been there approximately an hour, my husband asked if it would be possible if two tables for four emptied, they could be pushed together to make room for us. An agreeable nod led to nothing more than a hovering consultation at the hostess stand that we were forced to witness as we continued to wait while those with lesser numbers who came in after us were continually called.
In the meantime, our out-of-town guests were very patient considering they had planned to eat lunch, then get headed back towards their homes, a four-hour drive once they were on the road. The longer the wait, the deeper my embarrassment grew. As each minute ticked off, I tried to avoid joining in like manner. In the meantime, our elderly friends came through the lobby with a to-go box in hand. The sweet lady asked, “Are you still waiting? You can have our booth.”
Finally, we were given a choice: we could wait for the dessert-eaters to leave (we were informed they had just asked for to-go boxes) or we could take two small round tables pushed together in the bar. My husband selected the bird-in-the-hand. We headed for the bar area and climbed onto the high bar stools. Thankfully my precarious Parkinson’s imbalance wasn’t working overtime and since there was little elbowroom on which to lean on the tiny tables, I managed to plant my feet quite securely on the ring surrounding the stool’s lower edge.
The manager, whom my husband had asked to speak to earlier, miraculously showed up this time…not the same manager who had been involved in the hostess stand conference as before….hm-m-m-m. He personally delivered chips and salsa and cheesy dip that was no charge “because he knew we had had a long wait.” Oh, he had no idea! He also promised that Stonehardt (name changed lest I be sued) was “going to take good care of us.” Once again, he was mistaken. Stonehardt showed up with what appeared to be a chip on his shoulder. (Not the kind served with salsa! Maybe Santa cheated him out of that sports car he really, really wanted…but, hey! Don’t blame me. At this point, do I even slightly resemble a jolly fat man in a red suit?)
In the meantime, our friends who had planned to invite us to sit with them came searching for us in this hidden nook, saying they thought we must have left. They saw we had just been served our water and cokes, and were interested in our story of how their tee-totaling friends ended up in the bar. Since they realized the already-long wait we’d had to be seated, they left with a few hugs and smiles all around.
Once Stonehardt realized we weren’t out to make him pay for the hold-up out front, he seemed resigned to do his job in a less surly manner but certainly not in a glad-you-are-here way. He was busy, but without customers such as we were still trying to be, where would he be?
Our meals were a long time arriving and once there, my sandwich, which should have been warm through was barely so, and cool in places. Our granddaughter’s meat was rare instead of cooked well done. The waiter did offer to replace it and when she said, “No, thanks,” he removed the cost from the ticket.
When we had completed the meal and asked for to-go boxes, Stonehardt brought them immediately, along with the bill, but then, the wait began once again. The bill is time-stamped 2 p.m. It had been a long afternoon already. We were thankful to have had good company with whom to spend it, except we knew they were eager to get on their way. Eventually, my husband asked another waitstaff to get the manager (who did not appear) but Stonehardt did, carrying food for another table. Finally, well over two hours after our arrival, we were able to pay and be on our way.
I was just glad our guests were the ones who had made the decision to go to that restaurant. Of one thing I am pretty sure: even with free chips and salsa, upon their return to our city, they’re not likely to ask to go there again.
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 1-3-2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Saturday, December 11, 2010
MEMORIES OF MAMA’S CHRISTMAS IN THE CITY
I don't have to hear the words. The music alone gives me images in my mind that set me back six decades every time I hear the song.
"City sidewalks, busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style; in the air, there's a feeling of Christmas..."
Those words conjure up a more than just Christmas memories, but Christmas is a good place to begin.
In my mind's eye, I see those so well-dressed city sidewalks. My sidewalks are in Bangor, Maine. The holiday style setting is fluffy flakes of snow coming down in abundance on the streets and sidewalks in 1949. Having just moved from the country and being dependent for a ride everywhere she went, Mama was having a particularly good winter. Living in the city meant if she couldn't walk somewhere, she could take the city bus. She had freedom she'd not had in...well, most likely in her life since childhood.
"Children laughing, people passing, meeting smile after smile..."
Having that freedom meant she could go to one of those festive stores and absorb some of the holiday spirit simply by being one among many shoppers. She carried a paper shopping bag to fill as she found a variety of small, inexpensive, yet useful gifts for family and close friends. She seemed to like the shopping. The wrapping was passed to me.
There wasn't a lot of money, the gifts were simple, but there was a lot of love. World War II was over, the Korean Conflict had seemingly settled enough that life was back on track, and Daddy had found work again. Our family's two older brothers were now living the lives of young married men. My brother next in age to me and I were still at home. We had a faithful dog named Peggy, a wonderful cat named Tippy, and a comfortable place to live in a duplex that allowed growing kids and pets. Yes, there were lots of smiles over those holidays.
As yet there was no television in our home, but the radio played an important role. Christmas sounds were generally softer and gentler then than songs of today; however, Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer had become popular just a few years prior, so don't mistakenly think the songs were all related to the birth of Christ. I well recall my early school year Christmas performances including, "Up on the Housetop" and "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town." During my preschool years, my favorite Christmas songs were "Silent Night" and "White Christmas."
"White Christmas" was likely chosen because we had a music score of it sitting on the piano in our living room. The cover picture showed a church building with a steeple and snowflakes falling all around. These were silhouetted in white against a dusty navy blue background. My mother played that old piano with much pleasure. I took her talent for granted; that is, I took it for granted until I tried doing likewise and learned that what came naturally to her wasn't carried through to my genes. She'd never had a music lesson; yet she could play the piano, sing lovely harmony (as she called it) and in her younger days, I was told she had played a pretty mean banjo.
The radio, some records, and Mama's piano playing wasn't the only music in our home. Once in a while Daddy would pull out his old harmonica and play a few tunes. I never grew tired of listening to his playing, but after a while he'd grow breathless or weary from the effort. The music of Mama's singing was also a part of the humming of our household. Once she heard a song she liked, she'd make an effort to learn to sing it. If she could inveigle me into learning the melody, she'd end up singing harmony. Like Daddy, I grew weary much sooner than she. Unlike my piano playing efforts, I did do well in the singing department as long as I stayed with the melody, so the end result was Mama and I made sweet music together.
And so, today as I hear the sounds, I see Mama enjoying life and join her in song, "Silver Bells, Silver Bells...soon it will be Christmas Day..."
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 12-11-2010
"City sidewalks, busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style; in the air, there's a feeling of Christmas..."
Those words conjure up a more than just Christmas memories, but Christmas is a good place to begin.
In my mind's eye, I see those so well-dressed city sidewalks. My sidewalks are in Bangor, Maine. The holiday style setting is fluffy flakes of snow coming down in abundance on the streets and sidewalks in 1949. Having just moved from the country and being dependent for a ride everywhere she went, Mama was having a particularly good winter. Living in the city meant if she couldn't walk somewhere, she could take the city bus. She had freedom she'd not had in...well, most likely in her life since childhood.
"Children laughing, people passing, meeting smile after smile..."
Having that freedom meant she could go to one of those festive stores and absorb some of the holiday spirit simply by being one among many shoppers. She carried a paper shopping bag to fill as she found a variety of small, inexpensive, yet useful gifts for family and close friends. She seemed to like the shopping. The wrapping was passed to me.
There wasn't a lot of money, the gifts were simple, but there was a lot of love. World War II was over, the Korean Conflict had seemingly settled enough that life was back on track, and Daddy had found work again. Our family's two older brothers were now living the lives of young married men. My brother next in age to me and I were still at home. We had a faithful dog named Peggy, a wonderful cat named Tippy, and a comfortable place to live in a duplex that allowed growing kids and pets. Yes, there were lots of smiles over those holidays.
As yet there was no television in our home, but the radio played an important role. Christmas sounds were generally softer and gentler then than songs of today; however, Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer had become popular just a few years prior, so don't mistakenly think the songs were all related to the birth of Christ. I well recall my early school year Christmas performances including, "Up on the Housetop" and "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town." During my preschool years, my favorite Christmas songs were "Silent Night" and "White Christmas."
"White Christmas" was likely chosen because we had a music score of it sitting on the piano in our living room. The cover picture showed a church building with a steeple and snowflakes falling all around. These were silhouetted in white against a dusty navy blue background. My mother played that old piano with much pleasure. I took her talent for granted; that is, I took it for granted until I tried doing likewise and learned that what came naturally to her wasn't carried through to my genes. She'd never had a music lesson; yet she could play the piano, sing lovely harmony (as she called it) and in her younger days, I was told she had played a pretty mean banjo.
The radio, some records, and Mama's piano playing wasn't the only music in our home. Once in a while Daddy would pull out his old harmonica and play a few tunes. I never grew tired of listening to his playing, but after a while he'd grow breathless or weary from the effort. The music of Mama's singing was also a part of the humming of our household. Once she heard a song she liked, she'd make an effort to learn to sing it. If she could inveigle me into learning the melody, she'd end up singing harmony. Like Daddy, I grew weary much sooner than she. Unlike my piano playing efforts, I did do well in the singing department as long as I stayed with the melody, so the end result was Mama and I made sweet music together.
And so, today as I hear the sounds, I see Mama enjoying life and join her in song, "Silver Bells, Silver Bells...soon it will be Christmas Day..."
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 12-11-2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
OVER THE RIVER AND THROUGH THE WOODS
“Over the river and through the woods…”
Whatever happened to those rushing rivers I recall from my childhood?
And what about the snow-covered woods?
Well, at least, there’s still grandmother’s house, right? Oh, but it’s not a farmhouse way out in the country anymore, is it? No, a patio home in the city is more like it, or a condo on the beach. And “Grandmother?” When is the last time you called her that? It’s a good thing we have a song to remind us of the way things were.
It appears to me that new names have taken over in most families in the years since that song was written as well. Granted, most are versions of the old, but I love the imaginations of the minds that bring forth such endearing terms as Graham Cracker, Meemaw, Oma, Grana, Bubbe, Mimi, Nonna, and more. And as varied as the names, so too are the persons and personalities.
Some grandmothers are as the Norman Rockwell images project in our minds: fulltime homemakers who find delight in cooking and needlework. Some are Cagney and Lacey type policewomen working to “protect and serve” in our communities. Then, there are those we know in the public eye. Mary Travers, of the singing group, Peter, Paul, and Mary, comes to mind. Mary was a grandmother, not much older than I am now when she passed away, but through the beauty of her voice, she left the world with many recorded reminders of having been here.
I wonder if the homemaker’s decision was always her first choice in life. Do the ones who protect and serve really want to be ridding the streets of riff-raff? Would they rather be home reading bedtime stories, rocking and cuddling grandkids? And, as she aged, did Mary Travers love her life in the spotlight on the road, or would she have given it all away in exchange for the home-style life projected in Norman Rockwell pictures?
Earlier today the thought raced though my mind that I would rather be at my computer writing this article than in my kitchen cooking those goodies that my family expects and loves to eat as part of the holiday tradition! Wait a minute! Sitting at the computer instead of preparing a holiday feast? What is wrong with that picture? It appears that more than the rivers of my childhood, the snow-covered woods, and the name of Grandmother have changed as part of the holiday tradition. I am a grandmother who is supposed to be happily humming as I buzz busily around my little kitchen creating confections that the most discerning of palettes will long remember.
Perhaps I’d better think long and hard about the legacy I’m leaving if I choose the computer over the cooking. After all, if I don’t cook, will I be the cause of some future composer’s not writing a new song about “Over the rive…”; well, you get the idea!
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 11-22-2010
Whatever happened to those rushing rivers I recall from my childhood?
And what about the snow-covered woods?
Well, at least, there’s still grandmother’s house, right? Oh, but it’s not a farmhouse way out in the country anymore, is it? No, a patio home in the city is more like it, or a condo on the beach. And “Grandmother?” When is the last time you called her that? It’s a good thing we have a song to remind us of the way things were.
It appears to me that new names have taken over in most families in the years since that song was written as well. Granted, most are versions of the old, but I love the imaginations of the minds that bring forth such endearing terms as Graham Cracker, Meemaw, Oma, Grana, Bubbe, Mimi, Nonna, and more. And as varied as the names, so too are the persons and personalities.
Some grandmothers are as the Norman Rockwell images project in our minds: fulltime homemakers who find delight in cooking and needlework. Some are Cagney and Lacey type policewomen working to “protect and serve” in our communities. Then, there are those we know in the public eye. Mary Travers, of the singing group, Peter, Paul, and Mary, comes to mind. Mary was a grandmother, not much older than I am now when she passed away, but through the beauty of her voice, she left the world with many recorded reminders of having been here.
I wonder if the homemaker’s decision was always her first choice in life. Do the ones who protect and serve really want to be ridding the streets of riff-raff? Would they rather be home reading bedtime stories, rocking and cuddling grandkids? And, as she aged, did Mary Travers love her life in the spotlight on the road, or would she have given it all away in exchange for the home-style life projected in Norman Rockwell pictures?
Earlier today the thought raced though my mind that I would rather be at my computer writing this article than in my kitchen cooking those goodies that my family expects and loves to eat as part of the holiday tradition! Wait a minute! Sitting at the computer instead of preparing a holiday feast? What is wrong with that picture? It appears that more than the rivers of my childhood, the snow-covered woods, and the name of Grandmother have changed as part of the holiday tradition. I am a grandmother who is supposed to be happily humming as I buzz busily around my little kitchen creating confections that the most discerning of palettes will long remember.
Perhaps I’d better think long and hard about the legacy I’m leaving if I choose the computer over the cooking. After all, if I don’t cook, will I be the cause of some future composer’s not writing a new song about “Over the rive…”; well, you get the idea!
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 11-22-2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
THE LONELY, QUIET LIFE OF A WRITER
What is this description I keep hearing of the lonely, quiet life of the writer? Either I am not the writer I purport myself to be, or somebody has been misleading me!
I sit down with a story in my mind, eager to get it into my computer so I can share it with my fellow writers. I no sooner place my laptop in my...well, in my lap…when one of our small dogs jumps up beside my leg, stretching herself close to full length alongside my knee to ankle, on the lifted leg-rest portion of my recliner. Our other little dog climbs onto the footstool by the chair and stands there looking forlorn because he can’t jump up by my side with his Big Sissy Dog in his way. He knows that would raise a row and he doesn’t want to risk her ire. I take pity on him, make sure my computer is secure on its cooler pad, reach over and lift his small body into the space between the arm of the chair and my thigh.
Dogs settled, now I can get back to my story plots. Buzz-zzz…Buzz-zzz! Oh, hold that thought. The dryer announces clothes are ready to come out right now or they will end up with wrinkles set in them. Sorry doggies, got to dump you as I lower the recliner leg rest and head to the laundry room. It’s a good thing I have time to think about my story while I take care of the laundry.
Clothes taken care of, but more laundry is in the dryer now. Walking by the kitchen on the way to and from the laundry room, I notice the addition of dishes in the sink. Funny how those dishes just seem to appear as if by magic, yet they never seem to do themselves. Have any of you ever noticed that? There can be an empty sink and stovetop when a writer walks by to put the laundry in, yet the next time she walks by, not only is there a used frying pan on the stove, but also dirty dishes soaking in the sink as well as crumbs crawling across the countertop! Thankfully, the crawling crumbs are not alive! Might as well do a swift sweep with a wet cloth since I am walking by anyway. This may give me something more to write about.
Now the dogs want to go out. Good timing. I’m on my feet. I wonder how they decided to ask to go out now since I’m not trying to sit and write! Amazing! Good girl! Good boy! Out you go. Guess I’d better follow and clean up the yard before the yardman gets here. His careless stomping anywhere and everywhere, as well as running the lawnmower all over everything, just creates a problem if I don’t get out there before he does. Okay, doggies, time to go back inside. I’m not getting any writing done out here.
Ah, back in my recliner and at my laptop at last. “Ding!” E-mail has arrived. I’d better check that. I’m waiting for a response from the banker who’s working on our house refinancing. No, but one of my writing friends wants some suggestions with a place that has her stuck. She has a deadline and since I don’t, I certainly can help her. Oh, and here’s a joke I want to share with several friends. It has to do with writing and may be a prompt for some folks. We all need a laugh now and then. That reminds me, I have some snail mail get-well cards I must get sent today.
At last, back to my story: “Iva was an intelligent…”
“What are you thinking about for supper?” hubby asks.
“Supper? We just had breakfast a little while ago.”
“Yeah, but I was thinking if we are going to have something that’s frozen, we should be getting it out now so it can thaw.”
(Sigh)…and that reminds me of the groceries that need to be bought.
I just get back into the storyline in good shape when the phone rings, not necessarily for me, but enough to be a distraction. If it isn’t the phone, it is likely something on the TV whose sound I cannot escape during most daytime hours.
Speaking of escape, of course, there are occasions when I go away from the distractions of home, and work on my writing. Usually, that’s when my husband and I, or both of us, go for medical appointments or to rehab, where I know I will be sitting and waiting. The problem with most of my times away seems to be similar to the times at home: there is almost always a TV running in the background. If not a TV, someone is having a discussion a few decibels louder than necessary. So far, I am not deaf, but sometimes I wonder how long before I will be!
The library is a quiet place. I do go there from time to time, but I never thought to go there to write. I go there to find books so I can read books written by those who, I have been told, live the lonely, quiet life of a writer.
As I finish this writing, I wonder: should this be posted under truth or fiction?
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 10-4-2010
I sit down with a story in my mind, eager to get it into my computer so I can share it with my fellow writers. I no sooner place my laptop in my...well, in my lap…when one of our small dogs jumps up beside my leg, stretching herself close to full length alongside my knee to ankle, on the lifted leg-rest portion of my recliner. Our other little dog climbs onto the footstool by the chair and stands there looking forlorn because he can’t jump up by my side with his Big Sissy Dog in his way. He knows that would raise a row and he doesn’t want to risk her ire. I take pity on him, make sure my computer is secure on its cooler pad, reach over and lift his small body into the space between the arm of the chair and my thigh.
Dogs settled, now I can get back to my story plots. Buzz-zzz…Buzz-zzz! Oh, hold that thought. The dryer announces clothes are ready to come out right now or they will end up with wrinkles set in them. Sorry doggies, got to dump you as I lower the recliner leg rest and head to the laundry room. It’s a good thing I have time to think about my story while I take care of the laundry.
Clothes taken care of, but more laundry is in the dryer now. Walking by the kitchen on the way to and from the laundry room, I notice the addition of dishes in the sink. Funny how those dishes just seem to appear as if by magic, yet they never seem to do themselves. Have any of you ever noticed that? There can be an empty sink and stovetop when a writer walks by to put the laundry in, yet the next time she walks by, not only is there a used frying pan on the stove, but also dirty dishes soaking in the sink as well as crumbs crawling across the countertop! Thankfully, the crawling crumbs are not alive! Might as well do a swift sweep with a wet cloth since I am walking by anyway. This may give me something more to write about.
Now the dogs want to go out. Good timing. I’m on my feet. I wonder how they decided to ask to go out now since I’m not trying to sit and write! Amazing! Good girl! Good boy! Out you go. Guess I’d better follow and clean up the yard before the yardman gets here. His careless stomping anywhere and everywhere, as well as running the lawnmower all over everything, just creates a problem if I don’t get out there before he does. Okay, doggies, time to go back inside. I’m not getting any writing done out here.
Ah, back in my recliner and at my laptop at last. “Ding!” E-mail has arrived. I’d better check that. I’m waiting for a response from the banker who’s working on our house refinancing. No, but one of my writing friends wants some suggestions with a place that has her stuck. She has a deadline and since I don’t, I certainly can help her. Oh, and here’s a joke I want to share with several friends. It has to do with writing and may be a prompt for some folks. We all need a laugh now and then. That reminds me, I have some snail mail get-well cards I must get sent today.
At last, back to my story: “Iva was an intelligent…”
“What are you thinking about for supper?” hubby asks.
“Supper? We just had breakfast a little while ago.”
“Yeah, but I was thinking if we are going to have something that’s frozen, we should be getting it out now so it can thaw.”
(Sigh)…and that reminds me of the groceries that need to be bought.
I just get back into the storyline in good shape when the phone rings, not necessarily for me, but enough to be a distraction. If it isn’t the phone, it is likely something on the TV whose sound I cannot escape during most daytime hours.
Speaking of escape, of course, there are occasions when I go away from the distractions of home, and work on my writing. Usually, that’s when my husband and I, or both of us, go for medical appointments or to rehab, where I know I will be sitting and waiting. The problem with most of my times away seems to be similar to the times at home: there is almost always a TV running in the background. If not a TV, someone is having a discussion a few decibels louder than necessary. So far, I am not deaf, but sometimes I wonder how long before I will be!
The library is a quiet place. I do go there from time to time, but I never thought to go there to write. I go there to find books so I can read books written by those who, I have been told, live the lonely, quiet life of a writer.
As I finish this writing, I wonder: should this be posted under truth or fiction?
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 10-4-2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
THE MAN AT IHOP
It was just a quick glance, but then a swift repeat. It was a little like looking into the face of my daddy. Even though I knew that was impossible, the longing was strong enough that I had to work to hold the tears away.
John was sitting across the table from me at IHOP where we were enjoying a Friday morning breakfast in the midst of running errands. We had already been to do our early voting before dropping some paperwork off at the bank in an effort to try to speed along official signing for the refinancing of our mortgage. I said, “There is a man who looks so much like my dad. Maybe you will be able to see him, too. He is just walking by. He looked at me and then he looked again so maybe I reminded him of someone he knows, too.” I smiled as I added, “Maybe a daughter.”
John said, “Yes, I see him and I see what you mean. He’s earthy.”
I added, “Not a businessman, in a suit.”
John then asked, “What year did your dad die?”
“1967. I was twenty-seven.”
“So your dad was thirty when you were born.”
We each sat with our own thoughts as we continued our meals.
Breakfast finished, we got up to leave and to my surprise, faced the aforementioned man-reminder-of-my-daddy. John had been sitting where he had the advantage of knowing this all along. Having never met a stranger, he had made a plan. I was behind him when he stopped at the booth where the man sat aisle side. A young woman was on the inside of the bench seat to his left. Across the table from them sat a gray-haired woman I assumed to be his wife. John said, “Sir, I want to thank you for coming into IHOP today. You reminded my wife of her dad who passed away in 1967.”
At the same time the young woman beside him said, “Ooh,” in a soothing manner, the man’s pleased response, directed to me was, “I hope you have good memories.”
I assured him, “Oh, I do.”
“Then I am glad I helped,” he said.”
I thanked him as I told the family to enjoy one another. I didn’t feel the need to remind them that life was unpredictable. My hope for that young girl was that she be able to enjoy her daddy longer than I enjoyed the company of mine.
The comfort for me when battling the tears earlier was in the knowing that Daddy is safe in his eternal home. Still, there are times when there is that great longing: I’d like a hug from my daddy.
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 10-29-2010
John was sitting across the table from me at IHOP where we were enjoying a Friday morning breakfast in the midst of running errands. We had already been to do our early voting before dropping some paperwork off at the bank in an effort to try to speed along official signing for the refinancing of our mortgage. I said, “There is a man who looks so much like my dad. Maybe you will be able to see him, too. He is just walking by. He looked at me and then he looked again so maybe I reminded him of someone he knows, too.” I smiled as I added, “Maybe a daughter.”
John said, “Yes, I see him and I see what you mean. He’s earthy.”
I added, “Not a businessman, in a suit.”
John then asked, “What year did your dad die?”
“1967. I was twenty-seven.”
“So your dad was thirty when you were born.”
We each sat with our own thoughts as we continued our meals.
Breakfast finished, we got up to leave and to my surprise, faced the aforementioned man-reminder-of-my-daddy. John had been sitting where he had the advantage of knowing this all along. Having never met a stranger, he had made a plan. I was behind him when he stopped at the booth where the man sat aisle side. A young woman was on the inside of the bench seat to his left. Across the table from them sat a gray-haired woman I assumed to be his wife. John said, “Sir, I want to thank you for coming into IHOP today. You reminded my wife of her dad who passed away in 1967.”
At the same time the young woman beside him said, “Ooh,” in a soothing manner, the man’s pleased response, directed to me was, “I hope you have good memories.”
I assured him, “Oh, I do.”
“Then I am glad I helped,” he said.”
I thanked him as I told the family to enjoy one another. I didn’t feel the need to remind them that life was unpredictable. My hope for that young girl was that she be able to enjoy her daddy longer than I enjoyed the company of mine.
The comfort for me when battling the tears earlier was in the knowing that Daddy is safe in his eternal home. Still, there are times when there is that great longing: I’d like a hug from my daddy.
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 10-29-2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
MEMORIZING GRANDMA’S HEARTBEAT
A grandchild is born
Grandma lives far away
Yet gets to spend time
With him today
He snuggles in close
And takes a sweet rest
They rock and relax ~
His head on her breast.
He hears without knowing
Something quite neat ~
He’s memorizing
His Grandma’s heartbeat
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore
10-15-2010
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