Wednesday was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 96 years old.
If she was alive today she would probably still be playing the piano or organ. And playing badly.
She loved playing the piano/organ.
She took years of piano lessons when she was young but they didn’t seem to help.
She had a basic understanding of music.
She could read music and knew where the corresponding keys were on the piano and organ.
But somehow it just never all came together.
She would happily play all her favorites.
But none of us knew what she was playing because they all sounded the same.
We would say, “That was very nice. What was the name of it?”
“That was familiar. I just can’t remember the name of that song.”
My dog, Polo, loved to hear her play the organ. He was her biggest fan.
He particularly like the Mickey Mouse theme song.
When she played that he would sing along.
They were well suited as a duo…they had the same musical abilities.
I have her lack of musical talent but I like to sing.
In my head the words sound beautiful but something happens when they the hit the air.
Sadly, even the cat laughs when I sing.
But I don’t let that stop me.
But I only sing in public in big groups where no one can really hear me.
I did take voice lessons. One day I will tell you about it.
I grew up in the Snowbelt where there was lots of..well…snow. We almost always had a least a little snow at Christmas so there was little worry about how Santa’s sleigh would get around. But I did wonder about how he managed in the warmer climates.
But being the brilliant child I was…some of the brilliance has sorta wore off with the years…I figured it out.
Santa has lots of smart, inventive, creative, and hard-working elves that knew out how to fix the sleigh for warm places and for times there is no snow in cold places.
You see, the sleigh not only has runners it also has wheels. The runners and wheels are retractable. When there is snow Santa has the runners in place and when there is no snow he retracts the runners and lets the wheels down.
Santa and his elves are no slouches. They know what to do in all weather systems. This fact certainly made the move to the South easier.
I still worry a bit about the Easter bunny, though. He doesn’t have transportation and he has a lot of miles to hop.
Being old isn’t a bad thing.
The hallelujah cat is back!
I have made my Medicare decisions and I am glad to be done with it. I don’t know why it was so hard. I am usually a do the research, think, decide about life stuff, and move on kinda person. But for some reason I went back and forth and up and down and on the diagonal with this. Not sure why…maybe it’s an old age thing. Really. When you qualify for Medicare you are officially old.
Being old isn’t a bad thing. It isn’t all good but for the most part it’s…okay.
On the outside I look different and that isn’t all good but it could be worse.
On the inside I am better than I was when young. I am nicer and kinder, more compassionate, not angry all the time, not so full of myself. I have learned lessons. Some of them brutally hard lessons. And I am better for it.
To be honest, I would like to have my old insides with my young outside.
But you get what you get and have to make the best of it. That’s what I am trying to do.
Of course, being a ditz helps.
Someday I will show you a picture of the old me. Just not today.
It ain’t necessarily so…
This is what I remember.
The above is how I answered a Plinky prompt yesterday, “You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your first sentence?”
While thinking about my life and what I would–and do–write about it, I realized that what I remember is how I perceive the happenings and events–or non happenings and events–not necessarily the facts.
Memories are not always the whole truth or even truth at all. The memories we have are our personal truth, perhaps, but maybe not someone else’s truth.
Today, I think if I wrote my autobiography there would be people I know who would not recognize me at all.
Ma, Willie, and me, being silly.
Today I was going through a box of old photographs. Not something I especially wanted to do but I have two boxes that came from my parent’s house that are just bothering me. They have been my closet for years. My mother died more than 30 years ago and my father, 17 years ago. When we sold my parent’s house I took the boxes. My brother, Willie, and I went through the pictures and he took the ones he wanted. Later I sorted through them again and sent some to my older brother that I thought would mean something to him. Then I put it all away in the closet. Today one of them was opened.
Today, 15 years since I last looked in the box, I sorted and threw a bunch of the pictures away. Pictures that were so faded they were hard to make out, or so out of focus they were worthless. Many were of people I have no idea of who they were and there is no one left to ask. Kind of sad, two boxes of family history forgotten.
I didn’t remember this picture and have no memory of the day it was taken. I think I was about four and that would make Will three. We look happy don’t we? I can’t ask them because they are gone. I guess we were happy…I don’t remember…
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This blog Steadily Skipping Stones really got my attention. It asks, if you could go back in time what would you say to yourself?
I left this as a comment:
“Patricia, just be yourself, who you are. Don’t try to be who and what others expect or want you to be. You have been given this gift of your life–not another’s–yours.
The journey will be good and bad, easy and hard, filled with love and loss, happiness and sorrow. Some times will be exciting and others boring, some scary and some joyous. You will feel empty at times and filled to overflowing at times. There will be seasons of clarity and light and seasons of confusion and darkness.
Much of life will be tough. You will make mistakes–a couple of really big ones. Remember it’s a journey, there will be times to rest but not to stop. Ask forgiveness, forgive others, forgive yourself, then go on.
You will not just survive but you will flourish. You will never be forsaken or alone and there will be wonderful blessings beyond anything you can imagine. Go–live your life.”
Today, I am thankful for Michelle and her thought-provoking post that reminded me of things I have let slip my mind.
I have been called by different names over the years. All derivatives of my given name.
My father always called me PJ. Sometimes my big brudder still calls me PJ. For most of my life everyone called me Pat.
I called myself Pat.
In my mid-forties I had a mid-life crisis or something and decided that from then on I would be called Patricia. So, since then the world has called me Patricia.
I call myself Patricia.
I like it.
Sometimes someone will call me Patty. Ugh, I hate that! I quickly correct them. Except for one young man many years ago…he could have called me Poop if he wanted. But that is a story for another time.
I still answer to PJ and Pat. Pat and PJ are ok but I prefer Patricia. You can tell how long someone has known me by what name they use.
One thing I am never called anymore is Queenie or The Queen. That was my mother’s name for me. It started out as being a way for her to say I was acting like a spoiled brat, which I was most of the time. But over time it became a term of endearment.
I think she was spot on with the name. I loved it. It has been years, 31 to be exact, since anyone has called me Queenie. I miss my nickname.
I miss being Queenie.