Eight Blue Eyes

by

Patti Dickinson

Last night we had our book signing at Rainy Day Books in Fairway. Owners Vivien Jennings and her partner Roger manage to pair professional and gracious beautifully. The evening began with running into an old friend, Susan and her husband Bruce. Long ago friends. We go all the way back to high school (and that might even qualify for long, long ago!) And Donna....a friend that has been there for every one of life's big events....I have lost count remembering just how many of our kids she and her husband Larry are godparents for! And Claire....a friend of seven years, who came to show her gentle support. And my kids, who came in one-by-one to say, without words, "Yeah, mom." And Wood. He believed in this book before I did. I'd marry this man all over again.

Inside the store, as we waited for the start time, we were greeted by smiling face after smiling face coming in the door, friends who were sharing our accomplishment.

We were seated behind a table, all four of us. Identical, quick drying pens were distributed. And the signing began. Dozens of folks, asking questions about the how/when/where of this book's conception and birth. One woman said to me, "I read your book already, and I am here to buy two more copies for my daughters. I wanted to come to meet you, because I feel like I already know you all." Wow. That alone would have made the evening. Because that is just exactly what we were aiming for....we wanted women to read our book and think, "Yes, I know just what you mean." or "Yes, I have had that same struggle."

As the evening wound down, as the crowd dwindled, about ten of us were still conversing around the table. One of them said, "Omigosh...do all four of you have blue eyes?"

We do. And we never noticed it before. Hmmmm. A sequel? Eight Blue Eyes?

Forever Now

by Pat Antonopoulos

We establish our silent companions as we mature, not always able to discard the most painful. The death of a parent, spouse, a child, sibling or a friend can add grief to those over-the-shoulder companions that whisper their presence throughout our lives. Time doesn't really heal loss. We find ways to diminish feeling, but death of a loved one becomes a life time companion.

Memories of harm clutch, and refuse our struggle to let go. Betrayal festers, no matter the degree.

Ghosts? Memories? Spirits? The silent companions are with us. A line in a book, the breeze across the porch, a smile from a stranger, or the giggle of a child can force us recognize grief yet again.

Silent meals become the norm because what needs to be spoken cannot be said. All other conversations are far too trivial. The walls of the house become a fortress protecting us from the world that cannot understand.

All this is reality, that "time to weep". But we are amazing creatures. When we are able, we talk. It takes time and patience to get to the deepest part of pain but baby steps simply take longer. When we find that person who has earned our trust, we begin to diminish our pain.

Friendship is an extraordinary gift that can be shared by all ordinary people.

Creativity

by Pat Antonopoulos

Artists of pen, paint, movement, camera, sound, raw materials and thought receive the label. Works are sorted and valued by the degree of perceived creativity filtered through layered judgements.

Children bombard with creativity. If not restricted, they play with abandon and their creativity seems endless. The first stick person or a pretend pink sky truly are creative. Pirates, dragons, princesses and super heroes are spontaneous and build on a foundation.

Creativity is beautiful in the bursts that produce, no matter the product. But the other side, the quiet dark side, is as fruitful. We use the work 'block' to describe the times when we strain towards creativity, wondering at our lack.

Maybe those are the trigger times---meditating, walking, staring off into nothingness, simply being alone and giving time for the creativity to rise.

I love the rush of words that can put my thoughts into order, the moment of surprise when a problem is solved mid-step in a slow jog on the river walk, or the inspiration of a beautiful new dessert for a special occasion.

And I have learned to give equal value to the blocks, knowing that they will surprise and delight by clearing the way for something new and fresh.

The Phone Call

by Pat Antonopoulos

The gentle voice asked for Pat Antonopoulos who was once a teacher at Westwood View School. "You may not remember us. This is Tori __________."

Tori, Al and their two beautiful daughters, Ally and Lindsay, were an important part of my years of teaching.

Westwood View School was a vital community. Parents, students, and staff truly seemed to be a family with shared goals and values. I loved it there. Retirement was one of the most difficult decisions of my life.

And this phone call generated by the publication of Four Ordinary Women is another example of why I cared so deeply about the people of that chapter of my life.

Lindsay and I shared kindergarten together. She was bright-eyed, beautiful, inquisitive and always ready with a smile and laughter. Now she is teaching high school in a southern state and sharing her gifts with her students.

Through Internet connections, Lindsay learned of our book and the signing at Rainy Day Books in Fairway. She wants a copy of the book and Tori will make that happen.

I am a bit overwhelmed by this.
Humbling? Indeed.
A beautiful little girl grown to teach her students and still remembering the fun we had in that kindergarten classroom.
Connections of the heart.

Nuts and Bolts

by Pat Antonopoulos

Once upon a time...
He told me, with a tinge of annoyance, that I would probably be content living in a home that looked like a motel room. This said as he sorted through a box of my discards swept off any horizontal surface touched by a dust cloth. My box never made it to the recycle, but stayed in his stash of 'stuff' that will be useful in that someday-time.

We come close to agreeing to disagree, but I always hold back. I avoid the barn where all these treasures are stored. Bob and our oldest grandson are the only two people who understand that filing system.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I freely admit that my former classrooms did not have a clear horizontal surface. That filing system was perfect, right? And my desk next to this computer never needs dusting as it is covered with papers, toys and books. But my clutter is different, right again?)

Cannot remember a time when Bob actually handed me a dish of deserved crow, but today I serve it to myself.

Yesterday, he rummaged through his boxes to find the last part needed to repair the 1964 Ford Tractor that mows the field and moves the winter snow.

With cobbled parts, he is now in the process of repairing the huge sprayer needed for our hundred plus trees. Prone on a piece of carpet, covered with grease and sweat, Bob looks up as I walk towards the shed and he says, "What's up?"

"The black ball hooked to the little chain inside the tank won't shut off. I have tried everything and the water keeps running."

"OK". And he is on his way to fix the problem. Meantime, the phone rings and a son asks if Bob has a particular item needed for a project. As usual, the answer is yes and the item will be supplied.

When he sees the mess I am making as I try to fill miniature cupcake pans with thick batter, Bob quietly reminds me that I tossed a old cake decorating tool that would be perfect for this job. "I'll get it from the plastic bag of kitchen stuff that is wrapped in foil, third drawer from the top, back room of the shed."

Baked, boiled or fried, I deserve a flock of crow meat and Bob deserves his favorite dinner every night of the week. And not surprising, he really does love left-overs!

College bound

by

Patti Dickinson

Andrew, kid #6, is about to go off to college. Launching a kid is never easy. Soon, when I wind down the day, taking that last barefooted walk through the house to make sure it's all locked up, Andrew won't be upstairs sleeping. He will be sleeping in his dorm room, hundreds of miles away. He won't be here for me to ruffle his hair, remind him to take the trash to the end of the driveway on Sunday nights. No one to harass about putting his laundry away (he uses my laundry room as his first floor dresser).

He won't be.......here.

Boys are different from girls in this process. For girls, it is all about decorating the dorm room. equipping the dorm room. All summer long. Matching comforter and sheets. And the buckets/baskets for storing things have to figure into that decorating scheme. Checking with the roommate about who's bringing a television and who's bringing the microwave. Exchanging emails with the potential roommate. Sort of doing a cyberspace dance to find out what this other person is like who will be spending lots of shared time with you.

Boys? Andrew ordered a comforter, etc. from some company that sends out millions of catalogs to college-bound kids. Andrew picked out his comforter/sheets/towels in under five minutes. Black/grey reversible comforter and black sheets and towels. I am not kidding. Black. He wanted color-coordinated nothing.

I am caught unawares at odd moments. Unexpected tears out of nowhere. Watching him give Meghan a hard time.....and Meghan calling him "Andy", a name he doesn't like, in retaliation. Theirs is a closer relationship than either one of them acknowledge. I will miss Andrew laying on the couch in the playroom, with his laptop on his stomach, feet propped on the armrest, to accommodate his too-tall frame, receiving internet news and watching television news simultaneously. A news junkie, he. He is going for a double major -- journalism and political science. He's the most well-informed kid I know. I will miss he and his dad's "Did-you-hear..." abouts as they summarize the news highlights of the day, while I cook dinner. I love that volley of words and opinions.

But at the end of the day, I will miss his presence. This is a house that is built on interpersonal dynamics. How could it be any other way? Eight kids, two adults. When one leaves, there is a reshuffling of who fits where, as everyone moves up the family ladder. Suddenly there is a new and different oldest kid. Or someone no longer has to share a room. Those ripples are felt and destabilize us until we settle into a new normal.

Forgive my lapse into button-popping mom. Andrew is a kid with a moral compass pointed due north. He is compassionate. Savvy. Appreciative. A good head on his shoulders. All good stuff to have in your "suitcase".

But the porch light will always be on.....

Blog-alogue

by Pat Antonopoulos

Oh my goodness! Dialogue through your very caring, supportive and appreciated comments.
Sara, Mari and emptying nest supria are now wrapped and ribboned into my treasure trove scheduled for that someday when my grandchildren open their inheritance-from-the-heart-chest.

I am Mom, Grandma, G.M., and Nana, depending on the child and the whim of the moment. Over the years, I have collected their trinkets-of-great-price, home made cards, photos and pieces of my writing. Mementos of my life passages are also in the box.

Four Ordinary Women just might create the need for a second chest of Grandma's Gold. Of course, the printing of the book and all that led to the moment when the publisher responded with a "Yep" to my query of "You interested?" are definitely life passage moments. This seminal event came months after his initial (and unusually gentle and informative) rejection.

And now? And now you, Gentle Readers, are contributing to what my grandchildren will eventually learn about their grandmother. They will learn that her life was enriched by some very extra-ordinary people.