Debbie On Stage

What we remember from childhood we remember forever — permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen. ~Cynthia Ozick, American writer

I’ve long been fascinated by the theater.

The excitement of opening night, the pageantry, the costumes and props, the music — all of it struck me as a mystery that somehow came together to please both audience and troupe.

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Run Free, Dallas

Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole. ~Roger Caras, American wildlife photographer and writer

From my last post, you know that my beloved Sheltie Dallas was escorted to the Rainbow Bridge on Monday afternoon.

What you can’t know is how much I miss him.

Me and Dallas on Saturday, Feb. 29, 2020

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Gone But Not Forgotten

We do not remember days; we remember moments. ~Cesare Pavese, Italian poet and novelist

Dog-eared photographs,

Awards and certificates.

Remnants of my past.

 

Movie stubs, medals,

Report cards and recipes.

Moved across country.

 

Stuffed animal friends,

T-shirts, toys, and some trinkets

Preserved, so I thought.

 

Snatched from my clutches

By a cadre of critters.

Can’t steal my memories.

 

Note: This is a series of Haiku. On a personal note, the nasty shed has been hauled off (along with the pesky interlopers) and once again, Dallas is master over his yard. Now, to research what I can plant in its place next spring, keeping in mind the site gets only morning sun — any suggestions?

Memories

In any household, junk accumulates to fill the space available for its storage. ~Boston’s Irreversible Law of Clutter

They say one man’s trash is another’s treasure, but I can’t think of a single soul who’d be interested in the old storage shed Dallas told you about a couple of years ago.

It’s empty as a box of chocolates hours after Valentine’s Day.

But it’s still here.

Perhaps I should explain.

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Hope

Mired in darkness,
Gasping for air,
Overpowering tremors,
Haunting memories.
When will it end?

Restless sleep,
Relentless nightmares.
No peace by day,
No calm at night.
Bone-weary exhaustion.

A point of light appears
Far in the distance,
A beacon of hope
Is glimmering.
Hard to stay blue forever.

Taking baby steps
Toward normalcy.
Learning to trust
Through sheer willpower.
Don’t hurt me again.

Love or Hate Reunions?

Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. — From the television show The Wonder Years

The beauties, the jocks, the popular crowd
Make an entrance, heads held aloft.
Still strong of body, smooth of skin, untouched
By challenges they couldn’t or wouldn’t face.

The geeks, nerds, shy ones, and unknowns
Slink in hoping not to draw attention.
Who’d have thought they’d grow into attractiveness?
All grab name tags, then gravitate to special friends from before.

Funny how the old cliques persist, years after graduation.

Five or ten years out, talk centers on accomplishments.
Who has married, how many babies, whose job is most promising.
There are golf outings, tennis matches, bowling, and such.
Drinks flow freely, and so does the food.

Fast forward to the golden years, when things typically slow down.
Weathered hands fumble for name tags, grateful at last
For a chance to put names to faces, to call a halt to
The endless “Bet you don’t remember me” game.

An assortment of canes, wheelchairs, and oxygen tanks appears.
The aging beauties and athletes don’t look one bit better
Than their counterpart nerds, geeks, and unpopular classmates.
Most are familiar with pain, have shaken hands with illness and death.

Talk of grand-babies, retirement, and which surgeons are best
For replacing knees and hearts grabs the attention of all present.
A slideshow reminds them who is no longer among the living.
Activities include sit-down dinners, coffee, and a tour of the old school.

Funny how the cliques fade away, the older classmates become.

Preserving our Memories

Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.  ~From the television show The Wonder Years

Today I finished the Memory Book I was compiling for My Favorite Domer (aka my son or College Guy), and I must admit it looks great!

Now don’t bother reminding me I’m not supposed to be “laboring” on the Sabbath. I know that!

However, no way do I consider scrapbooking “labor.”

Nope, unless you call it a labor of love, which it surely was!

I have countless friends who are into the hobby of scrapbooking. They spend lots of time — and money — browsing craft stores for just the right binder, colorful inside pages, cutesy decorations, stickers, fancy scissors, bric-a-brac, etc. Then they spend equal amounts of time cutting things out, gluing them down, measuring and re-measuring until the finished product is a work of perfection.

They love scrapbooking and wouldn’t consider giving it up.

I never thought I’d join them — not until my son’s senior year in high school, when one of his teachers had all her classes do a Memory Book.

On a regular basis throughout the year the kids had to compose an essay on a certain topic (My Favorite Vacation, A Person I Wish I Could See Again, My Early School Years, Middle School, My Family Tree, My Special Gifts and Talents, My Future Plans, and so on). These essays were to be grouped (with photos, ticket stubs, and other treasures) into a Memory Book.

It had to look nice because it was for a grade.

Wise teacher, huh? She probably knew kids that age wouldn’t bother unless there was something in it for them!

Anyway, because much of the information to be included was stuff my son didn’t know, I had to help.

What started out as a labor became a labor of love and a really good bonding tool. We spent countless hours poring over photos, reminiscing over his early years, and enjoying each other’s company. I still get misty-eyed over some of his essays, particularly the one he wrote about his grandpa (my dad, who passed away in 2008).

When my son became a College Guy, I instructed him to save everything. Ticket stubs, pictures, programs, honors, awards, everything.

He’s a bit of a pack-rat, so that was no problem; however, he drew the line at writing more essays or cutting or gluing or organizing.

Those jobs (minus the essays!) fell to me.

He now has three Memory Books, one for each of the last three years. He says he’s glad I’m doing them, but I know he’ll be even more glad several years into the future. Time has a way of erasing things that photos, songs, and stories help us recall.

What are you doing to preserve the past so you can relive it in the future?