Notes From A Broken Heart

"Kiddo."  Jimmie, my second elder brother, either began a conversation. ended it, or both, with "Kiddo."  His creative use of the sobriquet generated either chagrin or a chuckle.  While English didn't constitute a college major, he wielded the word as noun, pronoun, adjective, and verb ("You can just Kiddo yourself right on out of here!" he'd declare.)  He punctuated the word with a period, question mark, or exclamation point.  "Kiddo" served myriad needs:  Many times he'd had forgotten a name or the opposite, deigned not to use it. "Kiddo" lightened a difficult interaction, especially if the topic were political or financial. At his best, however, he ranked it a term of endearment.  Jimmie called Mother, "Kiddo." His letters with an "APO" return address when stationed overseas began with "Hello there, Kiddo."  He used the term while Mother lay dying in Hospice, as his greeting and goodbye after

My first attempt at walking the track on the Ft. Gordon (Georgia) Army Base taught a pivotal lesson that lingers.  You see, I had been transferred to a Southern city not too far from my job.   Excited to undertake the challenges and opportunities of this dream job, had I been a horse I'd have been champing at the bit.   Swoon. Swoon. A Midwesterner most of my life, the lure of the South had as much to do with the enterprise as its renowned cuisine promised.  My goodness,  bountiful blessings awaited!  My first inkling of southern food came a few days before Thanksgiving, on the highway between work and home.  Every few miles or so, I spied vegetable stands on both sides of the road.  Collard greens, yellow squash, string beans, fresh okra, and sweet potatoes beckoned from bushel baskets arrayed enticingly.  Should I pull over and check it out?  No question.  Later, I inhaled and grinned at my backseat bounty.  Last stop before home: Shopping at the new supermarket. I stood sandwich

I opened my eyes to dreary-teary dawn.  "I don't know why I have to cry sometimes.  I don know why I have to sigh sometimes" blended into the sun-less morning.  What do I call a sigh held so long and running so deeply that it forces me to exhale? A guttural moan.  Left with the imminent decision---to get up or crawl under  the bed---I just lay there.  "T he world is too much with us, late and soon..  You're right, William Wordsworth! Still, what to do? I couldn't hide behind tired excuses or bromides. Nor could illness be a subterfuge.  Nor exhaustion, toothache, or sustained loneliness.  Nothing.  Except for a sense of vulnerability and loss that drizzled on and over me.  Like water on cement.  Still, it makes no sense to ask the rhetorical "why." The song answers its own question.  Again, stay in  bed or get under it? Mother's spirit responded. "Give thanks in everything," she'd quote; then, "Say 'Thank You, Jesus,"

Walking ranks highest among my aerobics choices.  It's simple, straightforward, and much easier to learn than riding a bike.  Especially, when I'd go to the neighborhood recreational center, walking didn't require a fashion statement.  For goodness sakes! It was the neighborhood rec center,  and a certain treadmill had my name on it! Just kidding. However, walking around my neighborhood, a favorite pastime, let me compare architectural styles, admire flower gardens, and marvel at the industry that fueled community gardens.  The big plus: it cost nothing.  That's priceless Because weather during Colorado winters can be daunting, I typically used the rec center treadmill from late-October to early March. Maybe a month after the crocuses and tulips stretched through dormancy, peeked out, and brought smiles, oohs, and ahhs! I'd rummage through the back of my closet, pull out three or four outfits (to put it kindly), find sneakers, and prepare to walk!  Early morning tem

"And now, the end is near; And so I face the final curtain, My friend, I'll say it clear, I'll state my case, of which I'm certain. No, I'm not about to write, nor will you have to read, my obituary.  (Nothing about the sleep of a thousand eons.)  It might be presumptuous to pen such a requiem since I plan to live forever! Well, for a really, really long time.  No, the lyrics Frank Sinatra made famous serve a different purpose.  Finally tired of the posturing and bravado that seem to attach itself to me, I face the music of another kind. Unfettered honest                                   I give up! The ghost of independence. Pride-filled with the life of my construction and feeling as smug as the third little pig in the fairy tale, I woke with a start.  Distortions, contortions, and distractions had lulled me into the deep sleep of ignorance.  I thought my status, my position, my world derived from  my efforts, my education, my ambition, my ch

Thank YOU! As dusk fell that Saturday evening Sherry, truly a gift from God, casually asked, "What are you going to do with your writing talent?" "I'll just use the oldest excuse out there: I'm writing the Great American novel." "Seriously, have you ever thought of   blogging?" "Who-ing?" Don't you believe me? What's wrong with the great American novel? I know there's only one Toni Morrison, but..." "Do you even know what a "blog" is?" No.  And I''m not really interested." "It's a way to write about many things." Well, if I did, I'd write about grief and loss.  That's what I present at seminars and other venues on." Sherry finished packing her tools; I helped her fill her trunk with them; then thanked her and mutual friend, Jan, for the "do-over" of my modest bungalow.  I went to bed that Saturday night, only to be awakened before dawn   by a frantic c

"Grandma, I got my puberty!" WHAT? What do you mean?" Looking at her as if she'd suddenly grown two heads, ten-year-old Dominick repeated slowly, "I told you.  I got my puberty."   Slow down, Sweetie. and explain what you mean." Her mind racing, as Grandma frantically flipped through a slim file of the few male friends she could turn him over to.  Someone who could help her navigate these potentially dangerous waters. "Look, Grandma, look! I got hair on my upper lip! I saw them when I was washing my face this morning."  He smiled smugly as he beamed with pride. Silently, Grandma screamed, "Thank You, Jesus! I dodged that bullet.  NowI can breathe again."  Words matter. Whether an "I got my puberty" announcement from a precocious grandson or a Pauline pronouncement, "Pray without ceasing" (1 Thessalonians 5:7) written centuries earlier, words matter.   As a kid, I often faced the threat of soap-in-the-mouth.    &q