This is the latest story, another one I Love. Join me in another tale of romance and love. She finds herself in an odd position. The doctor who delivered her baby has discovered her at a place to shoot. What an odd position . Add to this, her daughter is expecting and he reinvites the two of them. What will become of the two couples after all these years.
Are we having fun or what? My grandest in her glory at almost ten. Almost. She is the dearest ever, the most fun and loving child and with her love for animals, she plans to be a Veterinarian in the future. She’s learned to love the big dogs she’s grown up with, so beautiful to see. Her mother set the pace from earliest childhood with her care of dogs and cats How well I recall her bringing stray cats home with no fear, just love and caring and she was a young child back then. To watch her grow to become a mother so dear, a teacher well known, is a joy for this mother and now we have Grandest who plays basketball so well and loves life.
The big thing is they both saved my life a year ago when I fell. Suddenly I was on the hardwood floor in my grandest’s bedroom. I heard her screaming, “Mom, Gran fell down and she’s not moving.” Daughter to the rescue with phone calls, an ambulance, arrangements for a fine rehab where I stayed for seven weeks until I was able to go home with a cane in my hand for balance. Every day they came to visit after school with a new outfit for me to wear. When I look at pictures from that bad time, I’m shocked at my thin face so worn and frightened yet my family brought me back to life.
Now it’s almost Chrismas. I still need a cane but I’m back to wearing makeup and looking human. I am so grateful to have survived, to laugh with grandest, to enjoy life again.
Coming soon, Don and I will celebrate so many good years together. December 28 is the date. We celebrated at the dearest restaurant near our home inviting close friends only plus our beloved children. Don wore a tux-so fancy-and I, with him, went to Lord and Taylor for a nifty white gown. We handed out copies of “Young at Heart” and everyone sang as we walked up the aisle. So much fun. Then I wrote a script about how we met. And so it went with lots of love and friendship.
The years have passed and we are still together. Talk about sickness and health, we’ve had it all and still survived. We are still best buddies, no matter what. So join us in a premature celebration on this day.
Thanks for joining us.
Don and Charmaine
She brings with her, a brilliance. Aunt takes her shopping for the first time in her young life. She passes all her studies and decides to stay in the easy class. This will be the best school ever. Next comes Northwestern University. Her mother never gets in touch with her all through the years. Brother Jimmy stays far away until one day, he calls. He chooses to be with his dearest Charlie. Aunt and Uncle send a ticket for their nephew and soon he becomes part of the family.
Looking back and forth with author Charmaine Gordon
The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past
Back in the days when people didn’t lock the front door or car doors, the big family I belonged to gathered at my parent’s home for Thanksgiving. When I say big-I’m talking BIG. Grandma and Grandpa had ten kids. My mom was in the middle and somehow she became the hub of the wheel of this family.
Picture this: Grandparents seated at one end of the table, candlelight shining on their white hair and proud faces. At the other end sat my father, leaning back in the chair, master of all he surveyed. Every other chair was occupied by an uncle while my aunts scurried back and forth from kitchen to dining room carrying trays heaped with enough food to feed a small nation. And as they waitressed, they managed to gossip about everything and everyone.
Did I mention that the table extended into the living room? Well it did, to accommodate all the cousins who were up to no good. Boys of all ages and me, the first girl born to this rowdy bunch and two quiet girl cousins. We couldn’t wait to finish dinner and crawl under the grown-up table and sit with legs of various relatives all around us, while we listened to adult conversation and tried to stifle laughter. We weren’t discovered until cigar and cigarette smoke from above sent us coughing and choking for fresher air.
Ah, sweet memories.
Title: Since Larry Died
Newly widowed Joan braced her hands on the edge of the kitchen sink as she stared out at the garden. She breathed in the scent of lilacs wafting through the open window and thought what a mess and she had to fix it, make it right and why? No one’s home and only she would see the flowers bloom anymore; the fun of pulling dandelions together ended the day his heart attacked him.
A laundry list of pleasure left her life but the worst one to top the list was he never even said goodby.
Joan inhaled a deep breath and let it out in hopes the memories would fade in time; then the backload of conviction she’d summed up to battle her wallowing in the abyss, she snapped her shoulders back and spoke to her deceased husband.
“You exited stage left so I’ll write the next scene myself, if that’s okay, my dear.”
She had to write a letter to him; “Dear deceased Larry, you son of a bitch! “It’s your fault you died and left me alone. Take your pills, I said, everyday, but no; and now you’re gone and I’m alone.
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“Paul, here she is.” The grandmother who didn’t live long enough to meet this fine son of mine. So beautiful with prematurely white hair swept up in a pompadour forming a halo around her head, an orchid pinned to a pale gold organza gown. I remembered so well the day she bought it.
He hurried to my side, squeezed my hand, and touched my throat to speak to no avail.
I whispered, “I want three red roses for her headstone. Paul hugged me and patted my back. Three for Pop; one from me, one from you and one from Amy. The two of my children who never knew my mother only through stories and snapshots.
Paul’s new friend Rueben directed us to Walmart around the corner; we had half an hour before the appointed hour of the graveside service, the day after Mother’s Day. A kind saleswoman said there weren’t any flowers left and as we walked away dejected, she called us back. “Look in the shopping cart over there where there should be some leftovers. We thanked her, selected six roses and left.
Once more , we waited next to the fence silent in the rented car, the wilted roses, three red-three pink, between us. A shiny black hearse pulled up; Paul got out of the car and around to open my door, and steered me up and out.
I was dressed in a black pants suit, my son wore his only dark suit and we stood there with our six flowers at a cemetery in Chicago on a cold spring morning. The back of the hearse opened; a somber man dressed in black, pulled along a polished wooden box balanced on rollers onto the tailgate. Paul edged me forward; the limousine transporting the family hadn’t arrived yet. On this brisk windy morning, we were there to greet my father who lived to be ninety four and I murmured to Paul, “No matter how old, you never want to let them go.”
The driver moved aside and we approached, my son and I. I reached out to touch the coffin. My hand flattened on the box and in a quavery voice, I sang the song Pop and I had sung together for ten years, mostly by long distance. I would sing one line, he the next; a silly song about a goat he taught me when I was a child. We never had a real conversation but we had our song. It never failed to make us laugh, and in the long run, that’s more than good enough.
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Thanks for sharing my memoirs. Love, Charmaine