Lol. Screw the red suit. Go with the pointey-toed elf shoes.
Oh, yeah, that's all I'd need.
As it is, it's a sad commentary on the world we live in: My truck is a Budget rental truck and despite the magnetic signs on doors and hood - and my uniform - when i pull into a driveway with kids playing in it, they run away like hell to their respective houses, like I'm a pedophile madman with his kidnapping panel truck. Sad.
Gardener
"My soul, be satisfied with flowers, With fruit, with weeds even; but gather them In the one garden you may call your own." Cyrano deBergerac
That's because you aren't wearing the elf shoes. You could star in one of those goofy Christmas movies and eventually save Christmas or something.
I dunno, you really seem to have a thing about little green pointy elf shoes. Should I be worried? Or, perhaps I should buy a pair? Goodnight, m03. Fed Ex beckons @ 5:45 am. Good talking to you. Sincerely,
Gardener
"My soul, be satisfied with flowers, With fruit, with weeds even; but gather them In the one garden you may call your own." Cyrano deBergerac
Journaling. Actually, kind of repeat journaling. And long (do I ever post any other kind?)
Got in a couple of hours ago from an 6:00 am start. Gotta stay up for hours to do crappy paperwork for mediator session tomorrow.
As I've posted earlier, I don't listen to ipod much anymore because there are too many "us" songs on it that I really don't want to hear and will be deleting when I have the time.
So, today, instead, the radio got me! Good and bad. Mostly good.
First off, Gardener's Christmas Season officially started today at 10:00 am when John Lennon's "Happy Xmas" came on. For me it isn't really Christmastime until I hear that song.
After that, Janis Joplin's gut-and-lung-wrenching (did she ever sing any other way?) "Maybe" came on. As I've also posted before, this song was the last song Mr. & Mrs. Gardener danced to. In her apartment. In January. I turned on her ipod and of all songs, "Maybe " came on.
Maybe
Oh if I could pray and I try, dear, You might come back home, home to me. Maybe Whoa, if I could ever hold your little hand Oh you might understand. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, yeah.
Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe dear I guess I might have done something wrong, Honey I'd be glad to admit it. Oh, come on home to me! Honey maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe yeah. ... Please, please, please, please, Oh don't you reconsider babe. Now come on, I said come back, Won't you come back to me!
Our last dance.
I've also posted in the past (sorry, a lot of repetitions here, tonight) that every Christmas Eve, StepS would put the last ornament on the tree: his 3rd grade silver-painted cardboard and elbow macaroni star. I would always announce it by saying,
"Through the years we all will be together If the Fates allow, StepS, hang the brightest star upon the highest bough." Tradition.
Today on the radio, James Taylor's cover of that song - with its original lyrics - came on. The lyrics had been changed from the movie it was in: Meet Me In St. Louis
I bought the CD for Mrs. Gardener in early December when we "weren't separated, just on a one-year 'respite.'" Right. So I played it and we danced our penultimate dance to its original lyrics:
"I know that in a year we all will be together If the Fates allow, Until then, we'll just have to muddle through somehow."
But today, neither song made me sad. I felt serene. Such fitting - if ironic - last two dances. I got a little misty, but it was happy, bittersweet, thankful, misty.
I'm glad that Gima - and others - pounded into my head that detached didn't mean cold and emotionless. Just embracing either outcome - and their emotions - and knowing you'll be fine either way.
Well, Mrs G. and I have our upcoming only outcome: the big D on December 23. I accept it but now accept it with its inevitable accompanying emotions - both fondly, gratefully, and with regret.
Those poignant songs and last dances will hold a special place in my heart. I will miss dancing with her, especially those spontaneous, "C'mere, you," dances.
Is this form of detachment making sense to anyone other than the ol' sentimental, romantic Gardener?
Oh, and last night, favorite Nephew , 33, emails and calls me and tells me he told a fellow teacher in his school about me: "She's 47, recently divorced and cool and hippie-like, like you. Anyway, she said she'd be interested in meeting you and talking to you." Good nephew, that one.
So now I'm off to mediator paper crap land. I have little time lately for anything but sanity-preserving and perspective-enhancing journaling.
My one day off this week will be Sunday (though I still have some final gardening winter-protection things to do that day). But I will set aside a chunk of time to catch up with you guys.
Thanks.
Gardener
"My soul, be satisfied with flowers, With fruit, with weeds even; but gather them In the one garden you may call your own." Cyrano deBergerac
