memento mori

birthday polish, from Jamie


At my weekly counselling session last Thursday, Glenda said something about Dale that's been bothering me since then. We were talking about the guilt I have as a mother, for staying with an alcoholic. Because I couldn't leave, I changed the course of mine and Jamie's life forever - and in some ways, that was a good thing. In other ways, it was horrific. Anyway, she had said something like, "You shouldn't blame yourself so much because after all, when you met him he was still young and a nice guy. You didn't know he'd turn out to be not such a nice guy."

I'm sure she didn't realize how that would set off more guilt, because one of the reasons Dale chose to die was because he felt he deserved it. He quit drinking eight months before he died but kept beating himself up, I kept saying that I would keep his memory alive and I would celebrate the person that he was before he lost the battle with booze. I hate that other people only know the bad things.

Anyway, one of the nice things I truly miss about him is that he had a thing for giving me pedicures.

It wasn't a fetish as far as I know, but he thought I had beautiful feet. He loved the way they got so brown in the summer time, he loved the way they arched along the bottom, and loved painting my toes.

We'd be reading on the couch, with him sitting on one end and me laying down with my feet across his lap. Every now and then he'd notice that the polish was fading or coming off and fix it.

A few months before he actually died, we were on the couch in the same way but when his hand closed over the top of my foot he started crying. Through tears of my own I asked him what was wrong and he said who's going to take care of these? You have such pretty feet...

In the six and a half years since he died, I thought of this story every single time I painted my nails, with the exception of the time I asked Bill to do it last fall. We sat on the bed in the bedroom for over forty-five minutes because we kept laughing so hard that I couldn't stay still. Thank god the colour was light pink.

I kept that polish on for months, until it eventually faded away.

youth is wasted on the young

photo by Portlandground.com

There is something so .... young about this picture, don't you think? It just seems like a compilation of all the places I've lived since I was eighteen. The type of vehicles, the rental properties.

On weekends, I would hear music coming from some of the houses, fighting from some of the others. The scent of someone BBQing pork chops would drift through the neighbourhood, mixed with the pungent aroma of someone's weed.

In a way, I miss those days.

Do you ever think back to when you were nineteen or twenty years old, and try to imagine what your reaction would be if you could see what you'd be like at forty-four? I always freak myself doing this. Imagine knowing about future relationships, or hardships. Imagine knowing what you'd look like! At the very least, I could console myself in the knowledge that I'd have good shoes.

It's not a bad day for a Sunday, although it could be warmer. It's been hovering around -10°C (or 14°F) and looks like snow. Hopefully it won't snow until we get home from visiting my mom.

Have a nice Sunday.

altered

My late husband was a third level black belt in Shotokan karate, or nidan. I'd been slightly fascinated with it before we met, but afterwards, I was hooked!
There's a lifestyle when you're involved with this traditional type of karate. Most of your life outside the dojo is about making money so that you can be back inside the dojo, training with a wide range of sensei's from all over the country. There's a protocol that is followed, based on your rank within your own organization.
I was always proud that Dale was one of the top members of his group, with a school of his own and students that excelled. Also, as Sensei's Wife, I garnered quite a lot of respect, to the point that his juniors bowed when they greeted me, and at dinner, I was almost always reserved a seat beside the big kahuna, who had a seventh level black belt and with whom I am still friends with today.
I've been thinking about and missing all the karate boys in the last few weeks, and I think it's probably because Dale's birthday is coming up. He would have been forty-two! I find that amazing, and often wonder what rank he would have made by now. One of his big dreams was to retire at forty-five and teach seminars, and I bet he would have done it.
Anyway, today I'm working at the clothing store. I've got the truck warming up (it's -25°C) and should leave soon. Have a good one!