Our Journey with Mikey, 2015

            Eighteen years ago our Journey with Mikey, aka the Buddhaman, began. I try to write something positive every year around this date, although it is the anniversary of a tragic turn of events. Mikey’s place in our family is a constant reminder how fragile and how strong we are in body and mind.

            

Mike and PopPop

Mike turned seventeen in January. He is growing tall and handsome in the usual adolescent ways. Some days he is poised and gracious, but more days he is prone to the classic teenage boy behavior, a little clumsy, resistant to expectations like chores and personal hygiene and a lot insecure. Regardless of how irritating it can be, I thank God for all those adolescent normalcies. It’s a sign that things are working, maybe not as sharp as other 17 year old boys, but he has moments of greatness that really grab your attention, especially when you know his backstory.

           
This year Mike is captain of his Sled Hockey team, Virtua Wings of Steel. He is proud of wearing the big C on his Jersey and he looks forward to practices and games with more enthusiasm because of his position of team Captain. It’s a forum where he has the responsibility to be a role model for younger players, such as he had when he first began to play Sled Hockey 9 years ago. Sled Hockey has provided Mike and other kids an athletic and competitive venue where a kid with a disability that is unable to participate in able-bodied sport competitions can compete on a ‘level playing field’, such that even if a player can’t move his/her own sled, a pusher will move that player around the ice, actively participating in the game. It’s a thing of beauty to see the cheesey grin on the face of kid that swings his stick and moves the puck.

Pusher in Sled Hockey

            What’s next for Mikey and our journey with him? On the calendar, April has become our month to celebrate all things Sled Hockey. On April 24 the Wings of Steel Annual GolfTournament will be held at the Ramblewood Country Club. This fundraiser is our main event where the team raises the money needed to support everything from ice time to equipment and travel. Every player is equipped with everything needed to play Sled Hockey. The team and parents are on hand all day to help host this event. Feel free to check it out! Sometimes, a few veteran Flyers, like Don Saleski and Bob Kelly participate in the day's events supporting the Wings.

 In two weeks is the USA Hockey Disabled Festival in Buffalo. It is truly a celebration of athletes with disabilities celebrating their different abilities. Aside from the Wings of Steel, I think one of my favorite groups of teams to watch are the USA Warriors, teams of veterans who suffered life altering traumatic injuries in service to our country.

This is part of our journey with Mike, a reminder of how fragile and strong the body and mind is.

 

 

 

 

An Ode to a Smashed Face.

An extended weekend in the mountains for creativity was the original project.

But got detoured very early when I smashed my face into an immovable object.

As I exited a local Dollar General for some weekend supplies I tripped.

It was an epic fall, not an icy slip,

One that replays in my brain like a ½ hour skit.

The actual fall was probably no more than 3 seconds

Yet the aftermath replays in my mind longer than the actual errand.

I walked to a sliding door and it opens.

I step through said sliding door, and then it happens.

The lip on the strip of the sliding door track

Grabs the toe of my shoe in attack.

I step and then stumble, crash on to my knees

Trying to regain balance with no sense of dignity.

In my descent I see what’s going to stop my fall,

An eight inch cement post, coming right at my maw.

Stars, I see stars and they’re not the ones in the sky.

My first response wasn’t why, why, why.

My immediate concern was where are my glasses, did I break my glasses?

I shout out to the masses and then came the asses.

The townies surround me expressing concern and alarm

“You can sue them, you know, they have caused you great harm.

Don’t try to get up, let us call you an ambulance.

You have a lawsuit right here, this isn’t their first instance.”

And still I don’t have my blasted glasses.

This weekend excursion was time set aside to read and to write

Without my glass eyes I’ll do neither without sight.

I know they mean well and really do care,

But my glasses, you asses, I need to know where.

A young teenage girl, says “I have them right here, they’re not even broken

But your nose, and your face looks not so good”, said she very plainspoken.

Her companion, her mother, she announced to me as she came very near,

“Really, my dear, let me help you, would you like to sit in my car, its right over here”.

Flashes of Annie Wilkes like a scene out of “Misery”

Raced through my brain as I tried to ignore her enquiry.

“Really, I’m fine, I appreciate your concern and attention

I’ll help myself up” I said with growing apprehension.

The store manager, an anxious young, man brings to me a chair

From which I hoist myself up with little flash or flair.

The anxious young man asks for my personal information,

Like an auto accident, he fears there’s potential litigation.

I hand him my license, it’s easier for him to copy it all down.

I begin to wonder why I even thought to visit this mountain town.

All I’m quite sure of now is I gotta get out of this place,

Gather my companion and I to depart in much haste.

Soon a shiner of a colorful spectrum has blossomed on my right eye

My nose and cheekbone indicate more bruising is nigh.

There are no loose teeth and with ice packs my dignity begins to return.

The journey of this weekend should commence with a lot less churn.

Phone calls were made to alert loved ones and friends the condition of my face.

All’s well that ends well, I’ve made time to write this in humor if not grace.

The Smashed Face.

 

Happy Birthday to Me!

I celebrated my 60^th birthday last month. Yes, I CELEBRATED turning 60 years of age.

I know many people that dread their age, and to me, that is just silly. Age is simply the number of years you have been on this earth. And if all those years haven’t garnered you any wisdom and relative comfort in being who you are in the only skin you have, then I think something is missing.

That is not so say everything in my life is perfect and that nothing needs to be worked on, I am, like the rest of the human race, a work in progress. That is okay. If everything is perfect, than there is no reason to be, at least that’s what I tell myself.

For a dear friend who dreads almost every birthday she has, I sent her a list of 60 relevant things that reflected the years she and I have been friends and in each other’s lives.  After all, she and I have been friends longer than we have been married to our spouses.

So here’s my list of top 10 things that are relevant to me, reflecting on as I turned 60.

1.     I am blessed to be married to someone who loves me with all my warts and wrinkles, especially the invisible ones.

2.     My parents loved me, no matter how mad they got at me.

3.     My kids love me, no matter how mad they get at me.

4.     I love my kids, no matter what. They are MY kids.

5.     Grandchildren are a gratuitous fan club.

6.     I can’t quantify the love and awe I feel when my adult grandchild tells the world how much she loves and admires my place in her life.

7.     There is nothing that I am in ‘need’ of.

8.     The things I ‘want’ are not necessary. They would be nice, but I’ll live.

9.     I have travelled well.

10.  For all the travels I’ve done, there is no place as comfortable as home.

I never shy away from a birthday. It’s another year to look forward to, new adventures and a few new pairs of shoes, especially ones that don’t hurt.

I am loved. I have good friends. I have a huge family where, whatever the occasion or need, somebody will step up or step in. That is awesome.

I could wax on about how good my life is, but I’d rather you read my blog.

Cleaning the House for the Cleaning Lady: #30shorts

There once was a time when we retained the services of a Cleaning Lady. She came to the house every two weeks, on a Thursday or a Friday, but usually on Thursdays. She charged a reasonable price, and the house looked and smelled great when we came home at the end of the day.

We met over an initial visit about what the mutual expectations would be. Her fee would be left on the kitchen table, she would clean the living room, the kitchen (floors and cabinets, no dishes), the dining room and the powder room. The living room and dining room involved dusting, furniture polish and vacuum the carpeting. The coffee table in the living room was almost always cluttered with magazines, newspapers and the TV guide. Well, actually the TV Guide is always in the room with no TV, the powder room. They call that ‘reading material’.

When she cleaned the house the first time we were genuinely impressed. It was really nice to see how everything looked so clean and organized. The magazines on the coffee table were neatly stacked, the sofa cushions were fluffed up and lined up neatly across the back. Everything was dusted and polished. All the odds and ends that she could not identify a ‘place’ for, were left on one of the end tables. These were usually an afghan, or sweater that was casually left lying around. It was a relief that the chore of housecleaning had been crossed off the ‘to-do’ list before the start of a weekend. I thought to myself, “I could really get used to this”, and we did for a while.

Every two weeks we’d look forward to coming home to a cleaned and straightened house along with the neat little pile of ‘things’ she would stack on the end table. That neat little pile she left for us was soon being left on the coffee table. This really did not send any kind of message to us, if that was her intent. It was our ‘stuff’, like the blanket pulled up around you while watching TV, the extra sweater I left on the back of the sofa in case I felt a chill, the kind of things that one just leaves around as part of living in the living room.

I am not sure of the exact time frame, but at some point she began to make remarks about the clutter she had to wade through before she got to her cleaning of our house. We soon found ourselves straightening up the night before the cleaning lady’s visit, so as not to make things too messy for her to clean up. The eve of the Cleaning Lady visit was now almost as much work as if we were doing all of the house cleaning ourselves.

However the remarks continued about the things we would leave lying around. For instance, why are there always magazines and books sitting on the coffee table? (um, we read that stuff) Why is the TV Guide in the powder room?(more reading material)Why isn’t the sweater ever hung up in the hallway closet? Why are things not as organized as she left them?

With this last go-around of questioning our living habits, I responded to her, “We LIVE here. It’s not a show case like Architecture Digest or anything.”

She replied, “Clearly.”

So now my cleaning regime is a collection of a Swiffer Wet Jet and a variety of Dollar Store furniture polish, Awesome Orange degreaser and a feather duster. 

No more judgmental questioning on our living habits. And the TV Guide is still found in the powder room.

Being Brave and Funny: #30shorts

 “I’m not funny. What I am is brave.” Lucille Ball said that.

My Mom was a brave person and naturally funny.  Early in their marriage, my father worked an overnight shift at the front desk of a hotel.  Mom always packed him a lunch bag that, for a while at least, was one of his favorites, sardines packed in mustard sauce, a couple slices of bread and a snack.

After what seemed to him a long stretch of the same lunch every day, probably only about a week, Dad said to Mom, “I really appreciate the lunches you make for me, but maybe you could change it up once in a while.”

“What would you like different?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Use your imagination.” 

he replied.

The next night as he went off to work Mom handed to him the packed lunch, kissed him goodbye and said, “enjoy your lunch.”

When it was time to have his lunch, Dad opened the bag and inside was the usual two slices of bread wrapped in wax paper, with a can of sardines in mustard sauce, without the key to open the can. She removed it from the bottom of the tin. Attached to the wax paper wrapped bread was a note.

 “Here is your lunch. I used my imagination to make it. Use your imagination to eat it.”

Many long marriages are fortified with humor and courage. Dad didn’t think so, but that was brave and very funny.   

However, after that episode he hardly ever challenged Mom to use her imagination. Had he used his imagination that night he would have found the key she removed from the can was tucked inside the bread slices.