M.I.K.E.

I cannot remember the first time we actually met. Was it before or after he started dating my Banana? All I know is that once he arrived – he never left. 

For anyone following me for a while, you will know that I believe in energy. You can feel it in your bones when you talk to certain people. I know to some it sounds so hippy-ish but I think there are people placed on your path on purpose. They are meant to be with you as you walk through life. If you are lucky enough – some of these souls turn into family. 

My Diana Banana and I had known each other since 8th grade at JFK Middle School. Legend has it that we would have known each other since kindergarten had we been in school at the same time. I was assigned to the morning Kindergarten and Diana was in the same classroom for the afternoon session. Life kept us apart until “Junior High”. It was not until high school though that we became very friendly. There was Kickline that drew us together of course but there was an instant bond of friendship between us. She was the shiniest and happiest person I knew in school. In our sophomore year Di started dating Mike. He was a football player and part of our circle which included Kickline, Cheerleading, and every other sports team at the high school. Except Bowling. I do not remember those team members joining us. I digress. 

Mike, Di, Ernie, and I would attend football and other parties on a regular basis. We wore the guys’ jerseys and our saddle shoes with jeans on Fridays before the weekend games. This morphed into adventures once we all learned to drive. Little did we know that these days and nights out would turn into some of the best times of our lives. 

One night in particular stands out vividly. Mike – a.k.a. “Poopsie” as everyone called him was driving his father’s Chevy Impala. It was monstrous. A boat. It was a comfortableride down Hempstead Turnpike as we headed for dinner at a new spot called “My Mother’s Chicken” in Levittown (affectionately known as L-Town). Anyway, the entrance into the parking lot was a little tricky. Somehow, we ended up on either a concrete median or part of the sidewalk. My laughter prevents me from remembering what happened. All I know is that we came to an abrupt stop. Mike threw the car into park and said, “We’re here.” I fell out of the car gasping for air and laughing. I do not remember the chicken. It was a blur after that.After one of our proms, Mike needed a root canal. He went the morning after the prom and then over to my parents for breakfast. After that we loaded into Diana’s parents’ van and drove to Six Flags Great Adventure in New Jersey equippedwith only cash and a box of Captain Crunch Crunchberries. I told you there were epic times. 

Years of these type of nights went on. We all attended C.W. Post together. I would watch Mike’s football games there too where Di’s Dad Vinny was the Director of Athletics. College football and friends. Page by page – the calendar turned to 1988. Mike and Di were married in August. We were married in September. We were all so young. Ages 23 and 24. The following year while we were lying in bed, and we heard Mike’s parents leaving in the middle of the night. Ok let me explain as I’m sure this sounds weird! We were renting the first-floor apartment in Mike’s parents’ home. They were driving to the hospital as Diana was in labor. There were no cell phones then. Diana called the next day and announced that Kenny was here. Baby #1 had arrived. I was an aunt! 

Mike and Di were new parents. It was so much fun spending time with them at their first house and watching them grow with Kenny. A year later, Tommy arrived. My new Godson was every bit as amazing as Kenny. We now had two nephews. I watched Mike fall in love with his boys. We would have hours of convos about parenting. Zach arrived a few years later to complete their trio of excellence!  Listening to Mike talk as a Dad himself always gave me so much hope to be a parent myself. He was so encouraging and was so wonderful with my emotions about not being able to conceive. If I did not have Mike and Di to talk to during that time I really would have turned into a shell of a person. 

More years ticked on. We would drive to the city for dinner parties with mutual friends. One evening Mike blasted his CD player and announced, “This is my new favorite song”. Trumpets blared and Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” boomed right before we entered the Midtown Tunnel. I have downloaded every Johnny Cash recording I could find since that night. The joy on this man’s face as he sang was unforgettable. 

Recently I recalled a few emails Mike sent when Jakey was first diagnosed with Autism. I thanked him for always being the best role model with the boys. It gave me strength I told him. I would always remember him telling me that the most important job we had as parents was to teach our kids how to be good humans before they stepped out on their own. He told me that is all he wanted was to know that the boys and my kids were ready for what life through at them. I told him that with this attitude and love, it would happen. Look at the boys and my kids now. Out there living and loving their best lives.

The 80s, 90s, and up until 2024 were filled with family parties, reunions, weddings, vacations, Christmas Tree Chopping (mini adventures at Jones Family Tree Farm in Shelton, Connecticut), and days on the boat filled our memory banks. The amount of belly laughs that were born out of each time we had with Mike and Di were gifts even if it was just two hours away at dinner. 

Two years ago, Di sat us down with some devastating news that Mike had developed early onset Dementia. It seemed impossible. You just do not know. You think you have time. We were so young and still 18 driving to My Mother’s Chicken in our minds. I begged time to slow down. Sadly, it did not. Time flew. During this time I watched my dad suffer from Dementia. It was a prequel to what was happening with Mike. There was no turning back time.

Mike left us a week ago today. My heart broke when the call arrived. We knew the call would come but I am not good with saying goodbye. My Banana is so strong. Her boys are all with her and holding her up. As I woke up the following day I realized that Mike got his wish – all of his boys are good men with lots of love and strong minds – just like their dad. 

Until we all meet again Poopsie. We shall miss you forever…

Dark Screen. Dark Heart.

As what I think was the flu rattled through my body on Monday night, I picked up the remote and pressed the button for Netflix. It was the only thing I could muster up energy for. Finding a series to binge would clearly keep me entertained for the next few days as I stayed wrapped up in a pile of 14 very comfy and fluffy blankets and pillows. What to watch?

I scrolled for about 20 minutes unable to commit to any one series. The flu had even seeped into my decision-making process. I finally found a Ricky Gervais series called “After Life”. It had 3 seasons and a super high rating. The flu was slowing me down so I didn’t know if my brain was ready to keep up with the super quick wit and cadence of Gervais’ speech. He is so damn fast and funny. I hate to miss a line of his. And so, it began.

I was not prepared for what began as a fabulous love story. I am not giving away any plots or plot twists by saying this was perhaps one of the greatest love stories I’ve seen in my movie and tv watching career. Those in the know will say I’m an extreme romantic. This series…well it pretty much told me I’m a hopeless romantic. By Wednesday, all three seasons were complete. The flu had ever so slowly left my body, and I was left with the jagged remnants of a sinus infection and a box of crumpled up tissues. What also remained was a hole in my heart caused by Gervais and his tale woven by an extremely talented and gifted cast. This hole I realized was gaping and held open by the realization from which I may not recover.

The main character was so in love. He loved and missed his wife to the point that he could not live life without her. Life was unbearable without her. It hurt to breathe. That is when it hit me. I have loved like this. In fact, it is who I am. I love hard. I go to the ends of the earth for people I love. 

I stopped.

It does not work in reverse. 

I have never felt this intensity. All the years of giving and giving and giving thinking “ok – maybe now I’ll feel it”. No. It never arrived. Yes, I’m loved in different ways by others but never with this intensity. Never.

Realizing that life is not fiction, and that reality is often FAR from fiction, I chalked up my uncertainty and this new somber moment to this just being a show. No one is really this happy anyway, right? Right? Well yes. I think people really are. They can be. I was happy giving love. I always have been. It makes me feel brighter. It makes me want to share my energy with others and maybe help anyone I can to see that love is possible – even in the day-to-day tasks. 

Heavy sigh. The screen is now off and dark. The dialogue has ceased. So now has a piece of my heart. There is a part of me that is silent and no longer open and trusting that true love lives for me. I will not give up the piece that allows love to live within me. I have however given up the part of my script in which love for me truly exists.

Defying Gravity

The lyrics go something like this… “It’s time to try defying gravity. I think I’ll try defying gravity, and you can’t pull me down.” 

If they sound familiar, these are a few of the lyrics from “Defying Gravity” from the Broadway musical “Wicked“. The musical is a prequel to the infamous “The Wizard of Oz“. In fact, it is often spoken of as the what  really happened before Dorothy dropped in on Oz. 

I had first seen Wicked for my 40th birthday weekend with Maureen in 2005. It was then the hottest show ticket in town. I fell in love with the show. The production was outrageously colorful and so entertaining! The soundtrack played weekly in the car and at home. Maureen had given me a copy of “The Grimmerie“ – a documented piece of how the show was created.  Julia discovered the big green book one day. She studied the shows production from start to finish. By the time she was 10, she had the entire timeline of the show’s history memorized and could tell me every actor involved with the show along with their career trajectory. 

So, in the summer of 2010 we boarded a train to New York City with two tickets to Wicked in hand. I purchased a package  with a pre-show option to go behind stage and experience the costumes and history of the show. One of the cast members led us through the tour and graciously took pictures with Jules. Watching Julia light up during each scene made my heart melt. A spark reached Julia and changed her for good. When Julia returned to school that fall, her music teacher announced that the fifth grade would produce “The Wizard of Oz“. Well… You know where this was going! A few months later, Jules was belting out her songs and lines as the Coroner of Munchkinland on the Central Boulevard Elementary Schoo stage. Our Broadway Baby had arrived. 

Wicked became a staple in our house. The soundtrack was always on now. Jules and I would forever cast our picks for Glinda and Elphaba while we discussed the themes of the show. Each year the discussion turned deeper as we realized that the story wasn’t just about the land of Oz. It involved good versus evil, powerful female friendships, corruption, and above all – staying true to yourself and rising above it all. Last week, the movie version of WICKED was FINALLY released in theaters. Julia and her pal Maura scored opening night tickets(thank you Maura!). Julia was glowing when she floated in after her night out. She was all choked up when she said “mom, I have no words. Just wait.“ Today, at 4 p.m. the past 14 years came down to two girls munching on popcorn and Powerade in Row K – seats one and two. For 2 hours and 40 minutes we were silent only to gasp at a few choice scenes. 

As the credits rolled, I burst into tears. I thought to myself , this journey started when my girl was 10. Now, at 24 she has the whole world open to her. She can go after anything she wants – live where she wants – follow her dreams – form fierce, friendships, and hopefully fall madly in love. Most of all – I hope she finds herself wrapped up doing something she loves. Julia, it’s time to spread your wings and fly. It’s time to try defying gravity.

I love you, 

Madre

Farewells. Closure. Peace.

When you hear the word closure, do you think “the end“ like I do? Admittedly I’m that person who needs a reason. I need to make sense of things in my mind. An overthinker, in every sense of the word, the search for closure can be painful at times, but sometimes it brings me to places I never expected to be.

One of the longest searches for peace started in June of 1985. I had finished up two years at the College of Saint Rose. I had a fabulous time on campus and met people I knew were chosen to be part of my journey. Here comes the “but“. I had THE best time and enjoyed myself. Sure, I learned and did manage to pull some good grades, BUT I did not apply myself anymore than I had to. I would breeze into classes and keep myself closed off most days. I can remember showing up to my computer class and someone saying “Are you ready for this?“. I said “ready for what?“. It was the class final and I didn’t even know. I chose not to know. My brain actually said on the way to this class “What am I going to use a computer for anyway?”. Please continue reading when you stop laughing. This is when I realized it was over. Well, then, and when I pulled into the parking lot of C.W. Post to start my Junior year that September. Thankfully my attitude changed, my grades improved, I picked up a part-time gig at GEICO, and started my new life.

Each month though the “what ifs” grew more intense. What if I had stayed at Saint Rose? What if I had applied myself more? Would I be better off? Did people think I was a loser for leaving? Years of what ifs. YEARS. This is how I function . I’m not proud of it but it’s me!

Months rolled on. School wrapped. I did well actually. I signed on full-time at GEICO and started to move up quickly. Management suited me well and I was happy with building teams who flourished together. We started a family after years of heartbreak from trying to conceive. Life was chugging along. Autism knocked on my door and pushed in with such force that it knocked me off my feet for a while. What ifs grew to proportions I never imagined. My brain swelled and swirled. A voice kept saying “what if you stayed?” more than than ever. Would I have been on a better path and more successful? It kept me up at night. I slipped into a depression and stayed there in the dark for a few years.

The dream started. Carrying a printed school schedule, I would wander through a school hallway. I’d glance in the classrooms and see my original college crowd and old high school buddies. Everyone was locked in and learning. No one saw me. I just kept walking around the hallways aimlessly and when I finally woke up, I felt like I was clutching a sweaty and crumbled schedule in my clenched fist.

My Jules chose Saint Rose for her Undergrad path. I was thrilled! She flourished and finished strong. I was determined to keep her going so that she didn’t walk away early like I did. We have a policy in my house where you don’t ever accept average. The tears flowed freely at her graduation. It was one of the proudest moments of my life!

A few months ago, we heard that Saint Rose was closing its doors. Finito. The end. What? There were so many questions and emotions running through my head. Yesterday Jules and I traveled back to campus for the official campus closing and blessing. I was anxious for days. My best friend asked why I was so anxious? At first, I couldn’t answer, but then the thoughts flowed. I never felt like I made it. I felt like that loser I made myself out to be all of those years before. She shook it off and said “I think we did well for ourselves my friend”. She was right – she always is!

So yesterday, I walked back onto campus with my head held high. I hugged the stuffing out of my first Saint Rose, friends – Robin and Mary Pat. All day I sat on the lawn and walked around with friends I had made as if zero time had passed. Magic was happening. Saint Rose had been a magnet which drew me in, just the way it was supposed to. I was meant to have each and every experience and meet every single person. Seeing these faces and meeting new ones was scripted to happen.

Each time I looked around yesterday or entered a building, I was reminded of every fun and even poignant moment I had while there. Whether it be waiting outside the men’s room at the Partridge Pub and drinking every guy‘s beer that put it down on the table next to us with Robin…Trying to make it back to your dorm by the time the sisters/nuns went to mass in the morning… or sprinting to the Camelot Room for 10 cent drafts. Every single memory I had came flooding back to me yesterday!

The last part of the day was a blessing of the sacred grounds of Saint Rose that was home for so many of us. We hugged and cried hot tears. I hugged Robin, Mary Pat, and Thom and said thank you for being a part of me forever.

Last night, it finally happened. The peace floated in on a cloud. What if I never met these people? What if Saint Rose was never in in the recipe for my life? Closure was not the end. It was an opening for light to come in and brighten my mind. I’m exactly where I am supposed to be. There are things I need to work on (don’t we all?) Saint Rose has now closed, but this closure has created new beginnings that will last the rest of my lifetime.

Take Your Shot

I am a fan of basketball but never really played basketball. For years I watched two of my neighbors and friends play CYO basketball. One played only in school and the other went on to make basketball his career and is now a college coach. It’s no secret that I am in awe of an athlete. I am drawn to most sports and genuinely appreciate and soak in the amount of training it takes to perform or compete. Some people have the raw gift it takes to perform well – exceptionally well. For some it takes more training than others. Not everyone has a God given talent. Not everyone is inclined to play sports. Some people are born with a tiny flaw which prevents them from excelling into the big leagues. Perhaps some of these same people though will play and enjoy every little nanosecond of the game even if they do not score a basket, a goal, a touchdown, or a hole in one. It does not matter. What DOES matter is their ability to get out there and try.

Each year Jake’s Challenger basketball team will play a huge home game at our Bethpage High School. The crowds are tremendous. Teachers, administrators, staff, students, cheerleaders, kickline, parents, grandparents, and Goldie, the school mascot are in the stands cheering our Eagles on the court and the sidelines. Each player is introduced in grand fashion by the game announcers (who by the way rival an ESPN panel). The team members line up and wave to the crowd. They place their hands on their hearts and sing the National Anthem with such intensity that you feel prouder to be in front of our flag than ever before. 

The tears start when I look over at my Jake on the sidelines. Once a Challenger team member himself, he is now holding a clipboard and calling off the first team members who will start on the court. He is proud of his position and spends countless hours at home making sure that he and the team are ready for each game. This game though is nothing short of spectacular. The game begins and now I am openly sobbing. 

The players were moving the ball back and forth – basket to basket. Some people score easily while others struggle and will need a little TLC to score. The players help each other even if they are not on the same team. In a world where it seems so cut-throat these days, it is heartwarming to see player helping player. What gets me every time though is watching players move the ball down the court and take three-point shots and score. They know how to play the crowd and in true dramatic fashion will shoot the ball and SCORE at the buzzer. 

The faces of the players when they score give off enough energy to light up a whole city. The pride they feel literally lifts them off the ground and carries them to the next spot on the court. You can feel their joy in your seat. Yesterday I caught the reaction of one player’s mom, and I was transported back to the day when Jake first scored a basket. The kid who I was told would most likely never speak. Never interact with others. Never function beyond elementary school level. Watching that ball slip into the net was not only two points on the scoreboard but a score in life. He did it. He did something that someone without a disability could do naturally. To me that basket and being on the court was proof that you can do anything you want to if you try. The crowd’s roar dragged me back into the game. I looked at the scoreboard and there were 17 seconds left in the game. A high school freshman was dribbling the ball and set himself up for the three-point shot. One of the coaches gave him a sign to pass to his teammate. That player brought the ball in and launched the ball. Nothing but net at the buzzer. We won but it wasn’t about the one-point win at the buzzer. Every player on that court won and every fan in the stands won for being there to cheer on each player. My tears dried and I was smiling and laughing. I looked up at the hoop. Take your shot no matter what you are going through. You will always score. You just have to try.  

Flight 27

I grew up at airports in the 1970s not because I was flying to and from different places. My mom, sister, and I were always driving and picking up my Dad at the airport. What I will share today will share our stories from 1965 on when my flight arrived.

Pre-Internet – most, if not, all business was conducted face-to-face. Depending on what line of work you were in meant you could be away from home anywhere from one day two weeks at a time to close a deal. As President of an International Export Management company, Daddy was forever flying to suppliers here in the United States or around the world to his company offices in England, Belgium, Sweden, Japan, and Italy. Other various countries were places for deals. In the end, there weren’t many countries Daddy had not worked in.

When it was time for a trip, my mom would help Dad pack his luggage. I wrote notes to hide in the suitcases. I tried to sneak my fave stuffed animal in so that they could see the world. We’d all drive to the airport and at that time could walk to the gate and wave goodbye to Daddy as he boarded the plane. When it was time to come home, we’d return to the airport and grab a quick dinner at an airport restaurant before waiting for Daddy to emerge through the gate. It was so glamorous to me yet all very normal to us as we grow up.

When Daddy was away, we’d go out to restaurants that he hated like Beefsteak Charlie’s or Farrell‘s Ice Cream Parlor. The long trips were hard. I missed Daddy terribly. I’d wait for his calls every day after school. Dad and I had a special bond through postcards. The old-fashioned postcards that were pictures of the country or region where he was. Our Mail Carrier would announce the postcard arrival as he walked towards our front door. I clutched that postcard and read every word my Dad had written in his near perfect penmanship. By the time he retired, I had boxes of these postcards.

When he returned home from each trip, we had a tradition where we would follow Mom and Dad to their bedroom where Dad would empty his suitcase with gifts from the trips. My sister Kathy and I would sit on the edge of the bed and Dad would push us down saying goodbye in various languages. We would pop back up roaring with laughter screaming “more Daddy!” He must have been wiped from the travels but he made us feel like princesses for a few hours!

Each time Daddy would travel he’d return with more stories and tales from these countries. This is how I learned about different parts of the world, the local customs, the currency, food, and the looks from the hundreds of pictures Daddy snapped.

There were years of departures and years of arrivals. Each time Daddy arrived home from a trip he would jump back into our family activities and quickly earned a place in the St Martin of Tours parish community where he served as a church usher, Pre-Cana, instructor, Counter, a member of the Parish Council, and the Bethpage St. Patrick’s Day Parade Committee. Dad threw himself into each role as if it was a full-time job.

Our Dad was involved in it all. He loved to talk to anyone and everyone. You would always come away from a convo with Daddy smiling! He would treat everyone like he wanted to be treated. He was genuine and looked you in the eye. He made you feel special – as if you were the only one in the room. I used to joke that I couldn’t get past my Dad when I called to ask my Mom a really simple question but the truth of the matter was I loved talking to Daddy about anything and everything. He always made time for me. Always. There was one story in particular that I remember so well. I was a Freshman in college and I was just feeling really blue one day. I knew he was busy at work but I dialed Dad’s office from the hall pay phone. His secretary picked up and said he was in a meeting, but she would see if he could speak to me really quick. Dad picked up the line and said tell me what’s happening and how are you are feeling. We talked only for a few minutes but it was enough to pick my spirits up and get me through the next few weeks.

After retiring and spending some time in the Bethpage Sports Center that he purchased on a trip downtown, Mom and Dad enjoyed years of their own personal travel. They became Atlantic City fans, traveling back-and-forth every few months to their favorite casinos. It was so much fun to watch them having fun!

These past few years were very rough for us after Dad was diagnosed with Vascular Dementia. In total, he suffered 10 strokes. Each stroke left him weaker. We watched Daddy slowly slip away. First the memory faded. After that, the words started to disappear. Last year, his faculties vanished, and he was confined to bed. Daddy no longer knew who any of us were. That was possibly the most heartbreaking piece for me. He just didn’t know who I was or what we had been through for the last 58 years together. I would sing to him. We would hold Spelling Bees. I’d feed him ice cream and tell him “Once upon a time” stories. We would relive Daddy‘s life over and over to make him feel comfortable and special.

On Saturday, January 27, 2024, we met at Mom and Dad‘s and spent the entire day and evening watching old family movies. We howled with laughter and cried very hot tears. I thought to myself, I truly did have an awesome childhood and this was proof.

I kissed Daddy goodbye at 7:30 p.m. and thanked him for making my life the best it could be. I left, knowing that would be the last time I would see that twinkle in his eye. Two hours later Kathy called to tell me to return. Daddy was gone.

Today we gathered not at the airport, but at St. Martin’s to say our goodbyes to my Dad, a husband, an uncle, grandfather, father-in-law, and one of the greatest guys you’ll ever know.

Today Flight 27 boarded one passenger with nonstop service to Heaven. Have the best flight Daddy. Please wait for me at the gate when my flight arrives home someday.

I love you,

Karen Anne

The Eagles Are Turning 58

We turn 58 years old this year. For many of you it’s just another check mark or scratch on the calendar. For me it’s downright crazy. This year is not considered a milestone birthday by the Hallmark Store gold standards of birthday cards. In fact, I defy you to find a stock Happy 58th Birthday card. When you think of the other milestones, we have experienced in our 58 years on this earth up until now, I consider this an outrageous accomplishment.  There is one event taking place this year that I truly believe we should all celebrate together. 

Did you know that we graduated Bethpage High School 40 years ago? FORTY YEARS AGO. Let that sink in. We walked across the stage on a very hot June 26, 1983, in our blue and gold gowns and then threw our graduation caps in the air when Mr. George McElroy declared us graduates of Bethpage High School, class of 1983. We took pictures in the parking lot, on the football field, in our cars, and at the many graduation parties that we had over the next few months. On June 27, 1983, our new lives began. 

We’ve flown all over the country and world during these last 40 years. We’ve married, divorced, started families, battled illnesses, experienced loss, and some of us have started to help our children start those cycles of their own. There are some who did not make it to this 40-year road marker, and we remember them with smiles and gratitude in our hearts. 

We definitely didn’t know the tiny and minute details about each other’s lives during those four years as an Eagle. I didn’t know what your favorite breakfasts were, your dog or cat’s name, or even where you actually lived. We may not have known your parents, grandparents, or how many siblings you had. What we did know was who you were in class – eight classes a day…five days a week…. for four years. If we were lucky, we saw each other after school at clubs, sports, trips, or maybe even downtown for a slice of pizza, or ice skating at the Community Park. There are thousands of stories that we all have to recall either by ourselves or together if we have run into each other over the years. 

We are meeting on October 7th for a night of celebrating US. This will be a night to get together to say, “Remember when?” A few hours to belly laugh and think of the times that meant the world to us and sometimes wish would never end. It will be a time to take pictures together (this time via selfies on our phones and not through the deafening sound of a Polaroid camera or flash bulbs popping). I for one will be there in October hugging each of you with a huge thank you for giving me what I now know was one of the best periods of my life. Once an Eagle…always and Eagle class of ’83. See you then!

Left Rights

When I was a kid, many a family vacation was planned out by the now antiquated Rand McNally Road Atlas and the Hagstrom maps. They were the key to creating the most direct route from our house to any destination that did not include air travel. It still amazes me that to this day I could pour over these maps in the car and have my bearings complete with Longitude and Latitude or a spot on the map called B6. I could read a map but have absolutely no sense of direction if I was plopped on a road or in the middle of a street. Fascinating. Somehow, I was able to navigate from Anywhere U.S.A. to Everytown U.S.A. with my index finger and a pencil.

It is now 2023 and the world’s coordinates are run by satellites and GPS. If you’ve been following along with my home game, you’ll know that GPS and I are not friends. I don’t know if it is truly my having no sense of direction or if it is just my disdain for the robotic voices urging me to make a turn at the next light. 

Last night I received word that one of my classmates from back in the day was gravely ill. I’ve been following his progress on Instagram for years as I keep in touch with him and his husband through posts and comments. It’s strange how your old relationships blossom into a completely different model all because of social media. I find the whole concept crazy yet comforting. Yes, I digress. As I read of this friends’ state, I was getting updates from my high school reunion committee group. Just two days earlier we met to discuss reunion plans. Our conversation somehow drifted to some of our parents passing away at the ages we are now. The sobering thought of this sent me down a rabbit hole as I drove home. I’ve been living in the abyss for a few days now just thinking about how fragile life really is. 

My phone started buzzing with group texts from my gym family. One team member is retired but drives a school bus. He is often heard talking about being placed on different school routes which either involve a few special needs students or sixty elementary and secondary students. The routes he says are sorted into a series of “Lefts and Rights” on paper. There are no GPS routes for these buses. It is good to know that your school tax dollars are not being squandered. Major eye roll here. I think I just sprained my eyeball trying to convey the sarcasm…I thought about what this member said. He plans the lefts and rights so that he optimizes his time and can move efficiently throughout the route and deliver each student safely to either their schools or homes. I often joke with him that I’d be terrible for that job and the kids may not arrive home for dinner…if at all. The drop off and pick up topic though sent me deep into thought. 

Aren’t we all our own drivers picking up and dropping off people in our lives? Some passengers stay on our bus for a few stops. Some just for one – others for a lifetime of stops. Some will be with us until we reach our final destination. I took the thoughts further (overthinking and create Kiki for the win). There are people who board our bus or vehicle and even though they exit they have left you with a memory or two hundred that stay with you throughout your entire drive through life. For example, this friend I heard about last night. He was in my homeroom in middle and high school for six years. He and I nodded and had a connection each morning. I hugged him when he signed my yearbook. He exited my bus after graduation. It would be years before I even saw his name again, but I never forgot how nice he was to me all those years and the look we gave each other after the goodbye. I realized that no matter how long people are on your bus that they leave something behind. It isn’t something you can place in a lost and found but something that stays in your heart – sometimes deep in your soul. 

My thoughts never stop. Our internal GPS will tell us where to go…when to turn…when to stop. Sometimes we can back up and go the other way. More often than not though we just keep going. In my case, if the bus breaks down, you work through the challenge of what caused the halt and merge back into traffic. There are more people we need to meet and discover. You never know who will board your bus and when. I for one am ready to greet everyone with a smile and get to know them as we drive. Each trip we take is a piece of your journey towards our finish lines. It is your trip. Your road atlas. Your map. Who you allow on your bus will help you to determine where you are headed next whether you realize it or not. Wishing everyone a happy drive as we enter our next season of life. Enjoy the lessons you will gain from your passengers. Write your own set of lefts and rights. They will bring you to where you want to go.

Things Change…and that’s o.k.

Autism sucks. No wait, it doesn’t suck all the time. There are days when I thank my stars that Autism came into my life like a Cat 5 Hurricane and leveled everything good, I had ever known and worked for. When the storm was over, I clearly saw the good that Autism has brought into my life in terms of the extreme changes to the way I previously viewed the world.

Change is scary. It brings a different level of unpredictability. You need change although we can fear it and sometimes resist it. Eventually change brings new life to a situation. Change to someone living with Autism though is debilitating. Depending where you are on the Autism Spectrum, change can be excruciating and cause physical pain to an individual and if left unchecked, to those around the person. 

Such is the case in Chez Fikar. If you have been playing along with our home game and are familiar with MOFK posts then you know that my Jake was diagnosed with Autism as a toddler. This was a shock to my system after waiting so long to create a life. It was a blow that I just did not see coming. It was a change to what I expected but hey, life gives you lemons and you make lemonade. By the way, I love a good lemonade but hate the cliché. I adore lemons, but I digress. 

In the early days, I read everything I could on Autism and spoke to anyone who even whispered the word Autism. I was a sponge and wanted to know what I could do just to help Jake feel whole and be able to express himself. It was a full-time job, but I was silently relentless in my quest to help Angel One feel comfortable in his own skin. One of the first things I figured out was that everything in Jake’s world stayed the same. He became agitated and distressed if things changed. The same foods, the same routines, the same bedtime stories night after night, the same red shirt on Wednesdays. Same was the name of the game. I found however, that when we shook things up and tried something different, Jake would react, sometimes vehemently but the next time a similar situation popped up, he would sail through it with ease. Hmm, I thought. Let’s try this change thing. Let’s shake things up as much as possible on Third Street. 

As Jake grew older, I would explain that things weren’t always going to stay the same and that you needed to learn how to deal with it. Hell, I hate change too I told him. When MAC discontinued my fave “Hodgepodge” lip liner, I fell into a tailspin that still gives me shivers each time I pass a makeup counter at Ulta. Ok, that’s a humorous scenario and while true just shows you that change is different to every single person in every situation. Jake seemed to understand my change scenario as he knows that makeup and I are fast and furious friends. 

The years rolled on and Jake and I would talk about how a shift in routines can make him feel. Our therapy sessions lasted anywhere from five minutes to two hours. We would explore his feelings and I would ask him to try and tell me what was bothering him and why. Two summers ago, he started journaling his feelings. I am happy to report that this decreased a lot of frustrations and taught Jake how to look at things from different angles rather than boxing things up and coloring them black or white. Again, this is a lifelong process and strategy, but it has helped Jake to see the world in a different way and realize that hey, change is not so scary. We developed a phrase that we are going to market “Things change…and that’s o.k.”. It is our Madre/Jake Mantra. 

Last summer, we hit a rough patch at home. Jake was arriving home after his summer job (yes, Jake works two jobs) beyond agitated. He would have frequent meltdowns (which by the way are extremely intense at times) which started to change the fabric of our daily lives. These waves of anxiety were ripping apart the comfort blankets that kept Jake calm for so many years. The suggestion to make a shift in summer employment came from Julia who suggested that maybe Jake take a summer off and not work this position. She said it’s simple Jake, you need a break. It isn’t that simple in Jake’s head. He’d worked for years in this position and the thought of a new plan terrified him. He was absolutely beside himself trying to make heads or tails of what to do. On Monday, the email solicitation was released to district employees interested in working the summer education program. My phone buzzed. It was Jake texting his thoughts. He said “Mom I think I’m going to take a break. My mental health is more important than six weeks of this program.” I stopped what I was doing at work and burst into tears. I simply responded “Good decision Jake. Proud of you.” The next day we received a screen shot of Jake’s email reply to the program director that he would not be returning to the program this summer but thank you for the opportunity. My God, this was huge. 

Last night I looked over at Jake on the couch after dinner. Phoebe had curled up next to him. He was calm and had his signature grin on his face. I said “Jake, I just want you to know how proud I am of you. You took a step today to protect your happiness. That’s not easy to do sometimes but you did it!” He looked at me and said, “Yes Mom…Things change – and that’s o.k.”.

TV Time

Shirely Feeney is dead and I’m mad.

I can’t tell you why exactly but maybe I’m mad because Cindy William’s death is just another reminder that parts of my childhood just slip away. They will never return but will always stay a part of my life forever. Thanks to the endless amount of streaming services and YouTube clips, “schlemiel schlimazel hasenpfeffer incorporated” will still be humming along in my brain when I think of my old fave tv shows that filled my early years with so many laughs.  

Life is a series of Laverne and Shirleys. They were little pockets of gold that entertained you on nights when things may not have been so good during the day. You might have had a bad day at school because you thought the girls were talking behind your back on the bus ride home. Maybe your dance class was cancelled, and you were left waiting on the curb to be picked up for an hour because there were no texts or emails to alert you back in the day. Whatever the day held, our choice of shows that made us laugh always delivered a shot of happiness that returned your body and mind into the upright position. Early on in Kiki/Karen history there were heartthrobs that caught my eye and I could not wait the 7 days to see him again on tv. If I was fortunate enough, there would be a new “Tiger Beat” magazine out at the stationery store that week which if I was lucky enough carry at least a glimpse of the crush I was looking for. David Cassidy or Donny Osmond were never in short supply on tv or in print!  

When the kids were small, the Disney Channel was in its infancy and was jam packed with fun shows for them. I became addicted to their world that included such gems at The Suite Life of Zack and Cody or the animated Phinneas and Ferb. Julia can still recite lines from each show much like I can tell you the entire season catalog of Happy Days episodes from 1974 to 1984. Yowza…Yowza…Yowza. If you know, you know. Vintage “Emergency” and “Adam 12” still play on in our house thanks to Jake discovering these classics and memorizing the characters and story lines.  

A throwback to the early shows and days also brings back memories of sneaking down the hall to catch glimpses of “The Merv Griffin Show” some nights when I couldn’t sleep. Across the living room with the brownish/rust colored Berber carpet was our television set on the brass tv stand. Merv would welcome his guests onto his very mod looking chairs on the set and they would smoke and talk about their upcoming film or project. It was glamorous and I loved every glimpse I could soak in. My parents would be laughing along while glued to each word. Our dog was nestled between them feeling like the luckiest  miniature schnauzer in America.  

Heavy sigh…farewell Shirley. Say hi to Laverne and The Big Ragu for me. They have all gone to that big sitcom in the sky. Hopefully they are entertaining everyone up there that has enjoyed them for so many years like we did back down here on good old earth. I’d love to hear about your selections and discuss someday. There were so many choices despite the only 13 channels and gasp…no remote control.