Tag Archives: Love

Tell Me More

I wrote this piece several days ago. Most of this lament came out in one sitting as it appears here. The formal tone in this seemed fitting for the mood that I was in, even though I had a very warm and loving relationship with both my mum and dad. I had found out that my dear aunt will be celebrating her 90th birthday(!). I was in a reflective mood, thinking about mothers, mine in particular, and age and the thought that I would love to talk to her again. If I could place a phone call to Heaven, what would I tell her? What would she tell me? We get so caught up in the stories of our lives that we forget that the older generation that raised us has their own stories to tell. We think we know our parents, until they are gone and we can’t ask them questions any more. I thought I had listened to my mother’s stories, but I realized, as I was going through her possessions after she died, that I didn’t know much about many of them. Who gave her the hand-made metal ring with the X’s and O’s on it? Which of her older brothers gave her the bracelet from France during WWII? Why did she keep that particular ribbon that I found in her hope chest? I can no longer ask her, but how I wish she could tell me more.

Dear Mother, tell me more about your mud pies, your broken arm, your quarantine for measles in those Depression days. Tell me more about where you were raised, and your mother and coal miner father. About those irascible brothers of yours, my uncles who loved you and have been loved by me: The one who raised you, the one who teased you, the one who caught hell from your father for not protecting you. The one who left to go to war. The others who followed.

Tell me more about moving when the mine went dark. About leaving your best friend behind, finding new ones in your new school, and how you found the love of your life on the roller rink. Tell me more about these rings that I cherish, that I remember resting gracefully on your hand even after he passed into the arms of Jesus.

Tell me more about your life as a young newlywed couple, the lack of money, the abundance of love. About my brother, about me. Tell me how you rejoiced at his birth and cried because of me. Help me remember your nurturing hands and loving arms, your pride in all we did. Tell me. How did you feel? I want to know more.

Tell me about my wedding. Tell me about your happy tears as I walked down the aisle on the arm of your man and into the arms of mine. Tell me about the sad tears that fell as we moved across the country, away from you. Tell me how one survives the cleaving. As a parent, I need to know.

We kept you waiting, so tell me about your elation to hear of your new grandchild. Tell me. Tell me once again how happy you were to hear. I could see it. You love was visible, but I want you to tell me more. Tell me about that love that is so much more than a parent knows. Tell me about being a grandparent. I’m not sure that I will become one, so I need you to tell me more. Just in case.

Tell me about your last trip with him to where the country began, searching for family history, for roots. What did you find there? Tell me more about your thrill of discovery. A new ancestor. A new connection from long ago. Now that you know who we were, who are we now? I can only pick up the thread you left and hope that it leads me down the same path. We are family, but you are no more. Am I still a daughter without you? Tell me.

I desperately want you to tell me more. But you cannot; you are not here. You are my past, but such an ever-present notion in my head reminding me of the future you wanted for me. Telling me that there are more days to come. That I have more to live. You are no longer here, but you still exist in love, in my heart, in who I am. Even so, how I wish you could tell me more.  I would listen closer.

And remember it all.

Because I still have a lot of things I want to know.

How I wish I had asked you more.

Present

Through my tears, I see your gentle face,
I feel your tender arms, your loving heart,
In the middle of the night,
As my heart breaks once again.

XOXOX

DSC00575

Betty Boop is winking and throwing hugs and kisses from my socks. When I wore my Betty Boop Christmas socks, I wrote about how Betty Boop and Christmas just don’t seem to go together. However, it’s Valentine’s Day, and Betty is such a flirt. Who can imagine Heart Day without the iconic Miss Betty? She and Heart Day just go together. Like peanut butter and jelly. Soup and sandwich. Cookies and Girl Scouts. Hugs and kisses. X’s and O’s. Some things are meant for each other. Unlike Betty and Christmas, Betty and Valentine’s Day are a perfect match. This holiday brings up a lot of emotions in people. To some, it’s fulfilling, a chance to express to the one they love just how special they are. To others, it’s a reminder of what they don’t have. Cards, roses, stuffed animals, and chocolates in the stores and on TV are all constant visual assaults. And there’s another group of people, too, who are affected by this particular holiday. These are the people with their hearts on their sleeves, those brave souls who choose to declare themselves up to a new love and risk rejection or gain elation. Whether you have a love, are looking for love or have given up on love, I say adopt Betty Boop’s attitude. Flirt a little. Throw a kiss or two. Take a chance. Go a little big. Even if love doesn’t find you this year, hug someone else. You never know who might need a hug more than you do. Wine and cheese. Love and passion. Candy hearts and “Be Mine.” Betty Boop-Oop-a-Doop and pink lips on my left sock. Pink lips and Betty Boop-Oop-a-Doop on my right sock. Some things just go together. XOXOX

Thick Or Thin

DSC00553

Sometimes, you just have to take one look at a pair of Valentine’s Day socks and say, “What the heck is up with these socks?” and put them on anyway. Love is one of those things that we often wonder about too. It’s crazy. It’s complicated. When it’s right, it’s sane and simple. My husband and I dated for six months, got married and moved 1000 miles away from family. Crazy, right? Yet, here we are, 35 years later, still together and still crazy in love.

How did we do it? It’s simple: I don’t know. Any sane man would have dumped me years ago. I’ve put him through enough that he could have walked out on me at any time. I’ve often wondered why he didn’t in our earlier days. But for my complicated man, it was simple. He loves me.

Through thick and thin, he has always been there with his silent support. He doesn’t coddle me with words. I’ve had to train him to say “I love you” freely, but he’s more likely to show me his love through his actions. The unexpected touch, the dozen yellow roses that he gives me each year on our anniversary, the unloaded dishwasher. It makes sense.

These crazy socks, however, seem to make no sense at all, but behind the black and silver hearts, behind the big black heart with the arrow through it, behind the checkerboard that has no reason to be there – behind the display – lies the red foundation that pulls the design together.

Deep love doesn’t scream hearts and arrows. It’s a quieter feeling that says, because of the solid foundation that supports it, love can be freely given and freely taken. No matter what socks and love look like from the outside, both are there, through thick or thin, to make us feel warm and protected when we need it the most. Valentine socks can be crazy. Love doesn’t need to be.

 

This post, while not funny, was inspired by the Weekly Writing Challenge: My Funny Valentine? http://wordpress.com/read/post/id/489937/68832/

Valentine Sock Season!

DSC00551

It’s Valentine’s week. Some people love it; some don’t, but I think we can all agree that it’s the best time of the year to wear Valentine’s socks. After all, doesn’t everyone? I was amazed at Christmas (was I really?) to discover that not everyone wears special holiday designation socks, but I can assure you that even though I own 58 pairs of Christmas socks, I am by no means a sock nut. Consider, please, that I have only a modest amount of non-Christmas socks. Six pairs for Valentine’s Day, two each for St. Patrick’s Day and Halloween, and one pair for New Year’s Eve. Someone obsessed with holiday socks would not be thinking about weeding out the stockpile, now would they? Some of my Christmas socks have seen better days. Some, due to poor construction, are too tight (It has nothing to do with my cankles, honest.) And let’s face it. If I don’t weed out some of the oldies but goodies, I won’t have room for more, now will I? So after a month and a half of boring socks, I’ve eased into the Valentine Sock Season, which is much shorter than the Christmas Sock Season, with a pair of black socks with an argyle diamond stripe and pink hearts. Plain on the bottom, colorful on top and hidden under my pant leg. As I’ve learned in 35 years with my husband, love is like that, especially the longer it goes on. We get used to our partner. Being together in our everyday routine becomes boring, expected, but under the surface, where no one else is looking, the colors of the heart are always there. Happy Valentine’s Sock Season.

My Love

Caress my palate with your creamy gift;

My heart rejoices and my spirits lift;

You are my light, my dark,

My fat or fit;

Supping on heaven’s milk,

You are my love – my chocolate.

Do not truffle with my emotions.

Copyright (c) 2009 Barbara E. Nelson

12/27 A Matched Pair

This is a love story today. My hubs has been so wonderful and generous this Christmas. I’m a worrier. His thoughtfulness has gone a long way to relieve some of my worries. We live in a nice house, not a well-built house, but a nice house. It has its issues, and those issues worry me. Our bedroom light has been bad for some time. It’s a fan/light combination, and the light is not working. One of my presents this Christmas was Hubs making arrangements to have an electrician come and fix it. He researched electricians, made the call, set up the appointment. I didn’t have to lift a finger. Today, we drove to the far side of the city to look at lighting and bought a new fan/light fixture. It was a nice day together. I will miss him when his vacation ends with the New Year. After thirty-five years, I’m still touched by his thoughtfulness. We’re just like a matched pair of socks. It doesn’t matter what’s on the socks, as long as we’re a pair. He still surprises me as I unwrap the gift that is my husband year after year. I’m a lucky gal.

IMG_8061