drowning at 7 feet sea level
Mike and I have been married for 30 years today! Where did the time go?? We met in 1986. Long story. I ran, he chased. Then hurricane Andrew hit and everything changed. Not just my missing roof, but our relationship. I’m not even sure what happened! LOL
I can’t find the actual images, but here are the scrapbook pages from our first meeting.
His first flight in one of those small planes:
At 17:
I’m so lucky to be married to this sweet, sweet man and I pray we have many more years together.
Happy Mother’s Day to my mama in Heaven.
I’ve written a bit about my mother; her incredible ability to cook amazing food out of very little and of course adopting me at the age of 43.
Mama (Rose) was born in Indian territory, Oklahoma in 1914. Her Irish father (Charley) was known as the ‘meanest red-headed man on earth’. Her mother died when mama was a baby, so her father and two brothers were all she had. They lived in a shack with dirt floors and if you had to relieve yourself… well, any tree would do.
Things didn’t really pick up for the family as time went on, given the Great Depression starting in 1929 and the Dust Bowl occurring at roughly the same time. I can’t imagine the abject poverty.
At one point mama and her family were living in a fruit stand alongside the road. Dirt floor again, no facilities and everyone pitched in.
They all picked cotton. They did anything to survive.
At some point mama was sent to a girl’s school… goodness knows what it really was… but thankfully she was rescued by her Aunt Ollie sometime during her teen years.
Good food, nice clothes and real school. I can only imagine how lovely that was for her!
During WWII she worked in an aircraft plant. I don’t know too much about her life because mama didn’t speak about it often, as though she was ashamed of it… or worried it would catch back up to her, I don’t know.
Even though I was adopted, mama is always with me. When sick, I want to sit on her lap and lay my head on her bosom. When cooking, I wonder what she would have done… she never passed on any tips…. and because I wanted to be outside more than anything, I never asked. My loss.
When children are bereft at receiving only one X Box or whatever for their birthdays I think of mama. And I’m thankful for the spirit of gratitude knowing her gave me.
Happy Mother’s Day to mama and to the woman who gave birth to me, still alive, who does not know me. Blessings to all mothers, always!
I’m making a little scrapbook for mama.
My favorite picture of Stacie and the old broad.
Stacie is on the right, of course. She’s so beautiful, inside and out! I’m so blessed! ❤
I need a haircut.
A few years ago Mike and I took his sister to Vizcaya. There are some photos from that trip here.
This time it’s my sister visiting, so we went back! My camera has been dropped too many times, so the pictures are somewhat lacking, sorry.
Lovely inside and out, yesterday was her birthday!!
See what I mean about my camera? Half the time it wouldn’t focus. Pictures were either blown out or way too dark. Weird.
I really, really need a haircut.
If not ill or depressed I laugh… a lot. It’s my nature. But my sister in law, who is also the BFF, does not. Hardly ever, in fact. Well, unless she sees a video of someone falling. The sort of stuff that makes me cringe. Natural gigglers like myself can have a hard time with non-gigglers.
So I set out to make her laugh.
First, I sent this picture and wrote “I picked this flower for you”.
She replied: “NICE WEED”.
Not put off at all, the next day “Badger helping me clean up the patio” (it’s horrid, no? lots of work left to do if anyone wants to raise their hand?):
No reply at all. Now that’s just rude. At least say something about the dog’s overly long nails. (A personal peeve of hers)
She must be off her meds, so I ramp things up.
“I’m now farming hydroponically”
“YOU CRACK ME UP” says she.
Mission accomplished!
Romantic. Much more so than I.
He replaced the carb in the big pressure cleaner and apparently decided a love note was in order.
I love that man.
For Lawrence!
I only rode the Sportster when oldest daughter took over the Honda. Otherwise, it was my husband’s. 😉
These pictures are from the early/mid 90’s.
I’m having a difficult time this Christmas. It’s like going through menopause again: sadness, hysteria, anger, bursting into tears for no reason… I was sad when my adoptive parents passed, but losing my father is something completely different. And I only had him for three years! (Here comes the anger again.)
Thought it was getting better but it’s worse. Maybe after Christmas?
Many years ago after a breakup I was gifted the book “How to Survive the Loss of a Love”. It helped immensely and found it was good for other losses as well. Just ordered a new copy.
I loathe funerals. The entire circus: viewing, service, graveyard sobbing while the casket lowers.
Not all people feel this way of course. Funerals tend to be great family reunions. Folks take pictures of the body in the coffin, selfies of themselves with the body and gather in groups for photos that resemble a cheerful event such as a fish fry or church picnic. I can’t count the number of times I asked my mom to identify a group of black and white people (yeah, I’m old) only to hear her reply “Oh, that was taken at Uncle Ollie’s funeral”. To name only one.
My (adopted) father’s funeral in 1978 was about as surreal an event as I’d ever encountered. The body in the coffin didn’t resemble the man I knew in the least and the Baptist preacher pressed into service had a speech impediment and called my father ‘Johnny’, which might have earned him a punch in the nose had the man himself not been dead as a doornail. The graveside service was where I finally woke to the fact that we were going to leave my father there, in the ground. I was the last to leave; the hardest thing I’d done so far in my short life.
I’ve not attended a funeral since and don’t intend to do so. When the inevitable happens I want a Viking send off – well, the cheap redneck version. Put me in a rowboat and push it off into the water armed with an explosive on a timer. Then forget about me because I’m long gone.
While I type this my birth father, whom I’ve had the pleasure of knowing and loving these last three years, is having his funeral in another state. Hope they take good pictures of each other.
pamibe 