Our Fathers

Our fathers Who are, Or aren't, In heaven. Who are, Or aren’t, Here with us Today. We remember you, And love you. For all that you are, And all that you were. For lifting us up on your shoulders and carrying us high. For teaching us to dance with our feet on yours. For the smell of your aftershave lingering behind you. For your voice on the phone, no matter where you were. For playing catch, chess, cards and cigars. For holding us tight, For letting us go. Our fathers....... We thank you. We miss you, We love you. Sigh. He was a wonderful father.

Welome, Spring!

Greetings, my friends! It has been such a long time since I've posted. Life has a way of getting in the way. It was a very long winter here in Chicago. But I think we can officially say that spring is finally here, as witnessed by these glorious tulips nodding hello all over town. It is a very welcome sight. Hope springs eternal. I am hopeful. And it is spring, again. With each spring I see that I am able to enjoy life a bit more. Life is for the living, after all. Enjoy.

Valentine's Day

Here's to Love, for there is no greater gift, than to love, and be loved.

It's The Little Things

We are not allowed to have real Christmas trees in the tall building we live in. It's a fire hazard. I grew up in Michigan, we always had a live tree. Sometimes they were crooked and my dad tied a string from the top to a wall to keep them standing straight. I adore the smell of a live tree. And all that it conjures inside of me. Fresh snow. Silent, starlit Christmas Eves. Shining packages on Christmas morning. I love Christmas. My memories run so deep from childhood. My parents made is so very special. And then, as luck would have it, I met a kindred spirit in Lou. No, he surpassed me in his love of Christmas. He WAS Santa Claus, even in July as I've written about before. So. Not having a live tree was a small problem for me. When we married, we lived in his apartment, now our apartment, and live trees were, and still are, verboten. Bah humbug. Our first few years of marriage, we decorated a forlorn norfolk pine, Not quite the same. Then we finally broke down and got the artificial tree. Sigh. I spent quite a bit of time experimenting with "Christmas scents", to find just the concoction that smelled like a real tree. Might I say, none of them really do. Some of them smell like Pine Sol. That said, little by little, our artificial tree became "ours". It became ours with decorations the kids made, and a tradition my folks started, of sending each boy an ornament each year, following the same theme through the years, a bear for Drew and a Santa for Damon. With just the right amount of lights and lots of ornaments, and real pine cones buried in the branches, it passes. Actually, it does quite well. There is only one problem with the artificial tree, and that is the assembling of it. It comes in probably fifty or more pieces. Not my job. It was always LOU'S job to put the tree together, and the lights on. I liked to swoop in for the fun stuff, that being the ornaments. I hate assembling this tree. It's been five years now since Lou did it, I realized that this year. Four years since he got sick. So, the last time he put this darn thing together was five years ago. You'd think by now I'd be better at it, but I am not. Each year, we haul the box out of storage, and it sits there for a bit before I get the energy to attack it. All those branches to put in order! Ah, but there is a trick to it. And Lou saw to it that we would always put the tree together just right. Because, you see, he COLOR CODED the branches, as you can see from this pic! I laugh each year as I lay them out. I curse the darn thing, and then I laugh. That was Lou. I complain about this tree, and this year, I actually thought twice about the Martha Stewart pre lit tree on sale ( don't get me going on the lights, that, too, was Lou's job, of course!). No, I"ll stick with this one. It's now 23 years old. You wouldn't know it. Once it's covered in lights, bears and santas, you wouldn't know it. Thank you, Lou, for helping us put the tree together.

Closet Cleaning

Good day for it; gray, cold, sleeting. Trying to get ready for the holidays. Tears when I stumble upon certain somethings. Anger that this horrible thing happened. Wanting to throw it all out, without looking. Wanting to keep it all. Hating the holidays. Wishing we could just fast forward. Knowing that we can't. Trying to make it better. Wondering how. Keeping his golf shoes, again.

The Empty Nest

It's more than missing Lou. On a dreary, rainy November night like this, it's missing all that went before. It's missing hearing the kids when you put the key in the door. The running down the hall to give you a hug. The swoosh of activity at the end of the day. The rush to get dinner on the table. The clamboring for attention. The chatter at the dinner table. The mess after dinner. The homework/brushteeth/storytime routine. The plopping on the couch, together. Another day done. I miss all that. I miss all that when I put my key in the door to be greeted by darkness and silence, save for the kitties. I hear the echoes of the kids and wish I could hear it again, wish I could have that life one more time, again, even if only for one day, even if only for one key turn in the door after work. If you have it, yourself, grab hold and hang on to it, tight. It slips through your fingers oh so quickly. The empty nest is not all it's cracked up to be.

Closing A Door

This week has been spent packing up the office. We will be moving to new space tomorrow. It's been an emotional time for me. Lou's office was in this space for seven years. For Lou, it was really only three before he got sick for the next two years, and then, not with us for the last two. This was never really Lou's office. His place was in the landmark Wrigley building, just a few doors from this office. He was there for 18 years and then they wouldn't renew his lease and he had to move. THAT was difficult. Lou never liked change, and he loved that building. That building was Lou. This building was not. Nonetheless, the office space itself had the feeling of Lou, and of course, we tried to maintain much of the feel of his original office space in the Wrigley. This office has the memory of when Lou got sick. Of the times I brought him in, and we pretended all was well. When we arranged to have certain clients call to talk to him on the phone so he thought he was back in action. From that standpoint, it is good to leave. I hate thinking about those times, about him, like that. Nonetheless, it is hard to leave. It is hard to close the door. Another part of Lou is disappearing. That is the problem. I hate that. I hate it so much. I've cried so much this week and I can't quite figure it out. I was not prepared for this response. I don't really like that office all that much, the space was never quite right for our group. But it's still hard to leave. I had to go through some of his things. They were put away long ago when it became obvious he would not be back. The notes that were on his desk. His pens and old pipes, artifacts. Pictures. Golf trophies. Notes and more notes. Lou was his own blackberry I always like to say. That tiny writing of his. His and my mom's phone numbers, both on a tiny piece of paper, in his blotter. A very old picture of me looking very very young. So many pictures. Good times. Love. Family. Lou. It seems, at times, it really does get harder as time goes on. The finality of it doesn't really settle in until time has past. When you begin to close doors, you realize that part of your life really is over. Closing a door is a hard thing to do.