Saturday, September 30, 2006

Photographer's Log

There was a maple. It was the last week of August when I firsr saw this tree. It wore a hint of fall, brushed lightly with color, a touch of red in its high branches. It was the first color I had noticed. In the hospital I told mom about the tree. Told her fall was coming and I prayed she would be here to see it. I returned to Mystic today and took a picture of the tree. Spent the day poking around Mystic Seaport and the town of Mystic.



The Morgan:The Charles W. Morgan is the last surviving wooden whaling ship from the great days of sail. Built in 1841 in New Bedford, Mass., the Morgan had a successful 80-year whaling career. She made 37 voyages before retiring in 1921, and was preserved as an exhibit through the efforts of a number of dedicated citizens.


Snailbutton flowers: The fragrance caught my attention before I noticed the flower. I listened to others mention the scent: similar to lilac.




My favorite photo of the day.







Thursday, September 28, 2006

Tomorrow

Tomorrow, I leave home with mixed feelings. I am not excited, yet I am looking forward to being alone with time to contemplate the events of the last month. Years ago, when Rusty had to be put down, Mom said she had not had a good cry. She was waiting for Dad to go on a trip at the end of the month. Then she could grieve alone. I wondered how she could store the emotion away, as if it was a coat put into a closet and at the first chill drifting in the air it is brought out to wrap a warmth around the soul. I never did know if she did have a good cry, but I remember that Dad did not leave.

I have done the same thing. I have not burst into a long hard cry of grief. I certainly have caught myself aching for mom’s presence, missing her, feeling sad and lonely. My eyes have shed their share of tears, I have felt the ache fill the back of my throat and I have choked on a heart so tender that just one more thought would make it stop. But I have not sobbed. (all out wailing sobs of grief only last 1 to 2 minutes). I want to, but I want to be alone. I want to be at the ocean, the place of the beginning. The place of the end. The place of eternity, as I know it on earth.

Tomorrow…

If it had been a different month, there were things I would have told Mom. These are not things I would have told you. It would have been of interest to her, not you. I would have told her that the old barn on Rt9 is being relocated to Duchess County, being restored instead of demolished. I would have told her that the patio and back porch on the Grey’s house was being redone. Oh, by the way, I found grapes near the old barn and Dr. Gabay’s wife offered some rhubarb for a pie. I would have shown her a Colorado quarter and put it in the cup on the top of the cherry cabinet where she saved every new state quarter.

I lost my watch, an $1800 Tag. It doesn’t seem to bother me.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

BoUnCiNg MiCe

I worked my butt off cleaning the RV. It gave me flashbacks to cleaning a damn boat in the tropics, except I did not sweat as much this afternoon. Although the inside wasn’t too dirty, I vacuumed the dirt I had tracked in during the past month and the mouse turds found in the stove’s burners. I looked for more mice nests, but did not find any. If there are any rodents onboard come Friday, they better evacuate the RV before the cats find them. I envision them dropping out as I tool down the highway, their little furry bodies bouncing and then rolling down the warm asphalt before skipping off into the embankment along side a country road.

Over the past month I had slowly unloaded gear from the Rig as I needed it, bringing in one or two items at a time—an extra pair of underwear or socks, another t-shirt and finally a pair of long johns when I went to New Hampshire
last weekend. But today it all went back at once except for my computer, a change of underwear and my slipper socks—essential gear for the next day and night.

Of course I haven’t loaded the cats and their provisions. My poor kitties. They have enjoyed the freedom of the house, despite the cat spats with their cousin, The Booter Cat. Back into the RV they will go for the next six weeks and hopefully I’ll keep them there. Ever since Phoenix learned how to open the door and slide the screens off the windows I have feared I would come home without one cat or the other. I don’t think my heart could take another blow.

It took three hours to wash the RV using a bit of elbow grease. I got up on the roof and swabbed the deck removing mostly tree droppings, dried sap and bird dirt. The sides were dirty and most of the seams had mold or mildew. The RV wasn’t washed before I left in August and I don’t know the last time Dad had the chance to scrub it down. When he came home tonight he said it looked brand new. Almost. If I had the inclination and nothing else to do, I’d give it a good waxing. Thank God, I have something else to do.

I took it down the a gas station to check the tire and air bag pressure and filled the compressed air tank to 110 pounds, learning it is easier to put air into the rear dual tires with the air compressor than to use the air hose and nozzle at the gas station. It is an angle thing. I’ll need to change the oil in 1500 more miles.

The price of gas is going down, but after driving through Vermont where it was $2.45 in Woodstock, New York gas is high at $2.65 in Saratoga Springs, NY. In August I paid $3.29 in Connecticut. I’ll find out what it is this weekend when I return to Mystic, CT. My Jeep still has $3.03 gas in it from July.

Hair Cut

After a little cajoling and a mild refusal to pick up the scissor and do it myself, Dad got a “professional” haircut at a salon in the mall. He told the young stylist that it had been twenty years since he had a professional cut. I guess mom did it or maybe he tried to manage it himself. Regardless, he was in need of one despite being rather bald, a condition he continues to deny by having a comb-over that consists of a few wisps of hair. He had to admit it looked a lot better and he was pleased that he lucked into a deal on Tuesdays when men can get a $10.00 cut. Considering the amount of hair Dad doesn’t have, he should have got a $7.00 discount. Now, if I can just get him to put that Chicago White Sox ball cap in the wash. After all, I found a photo of him and Mom in Hawaii and he was wearing that hat. I think that was in 1996. However that is not the record. I graduated from Michigan in ‘85 and he still has that hat and it looks all of 21 years

Photo Log



Senior Center

A sea of gray hair little old ladies, some kind of feisty. On Tuesdays and Thursdays they gather for company, gossip and serious card playing. It did not take dad much effort to convinced them to let me speak during their pot-luck lunch. The room was packed. Not because they wanted to hear about the Cosmic Muffin, but because the food was free. After lunch they tentatively listened to me, but I was sensitive to not delay their rummy games. In the end I sold two books. I might have sold more if...
1. I had an opportunity to advertise my appearance so they could have brought their wallets.
2. I came at the beginning of the month so they had their social security checks.
3. The book is printed in large print.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Via Con Dios

Jennifer participated in an art show in Littleton, New Hampshire. If mom had not past away Mike and Margie would have been in western New York or perhaps Colorado where they just bought a new home, I would have been on my book tour in the Carolinas, and Dad would have been home with Mom in Saratoga. Instead, Mom brought us together and we converged on Robin’s log home outside of Littleton where we spent the weekend dodging rain drops, watching the leaves turn color, and helping Jennifer sell a few pieces of pottery.

The weather forecast never looked promising, unless you consider that there was never a threat of snow. I prepared for cold weather, digging out my long johns and donning five layers of clothes including my rain gear. However, I did not bring my boots and thought I was going to freeze my toes off. Fortunately, it wasn’t too cold if you consider 50 degrees not too cold (frankly I do), but since the rain wasn’t too heavy and Jennifer’s exhibit was near one of New England’s ubiquitous covered bridges (close enough we could have smelled the trolls living beneath it) I was able to stay dry and warm by crossing the bridge to visit the town where a Dunkin Donuts (of all places) could be found.

It was a long day starting at 4:45 am. I quickly concluded that selling books might be a bit easier. The tent and display racks had to be set up and leveled before boxes and boxes of breakable pottery could be unpack and placed carefully on the tables and shelves. Then there are the other things to consider – wrapping the product for the customer and putting it into a bag. When selling a book, at least for one who is on the road and selling them out of an RV, I sign it and hand it to the customer. A bag-free, wrap-free transaction.

While selling a book I might give the customer a little trip synopsis, share a little behind the scene insight like the captain threatened to sue me or share a few photos of the trip. Selling pottery takes a visual connection and once that is made hook the customer with the "how it was created" stories. For a book it is an curiosity connection. And what hooks them – hell if I have figured that out yet. Imagination maybe. I know some people get goose bumps thinking about ocean sailing.

I tried to entice buyers into Jennifer’s parking lot (she had a poor location), by standing at the far end of the covered bridge and welcoming the crowds who ventured to the bridge to cross on over to the other side (no Doors' music). I gave them a little pitch about the exhibit and handed them a business card. If they made a purchase they could use the card to get 10% off the price. It was more for my amusement than to attract customers.

By the end of the day she made a few sales and had won third place for 3-D art. She can now say she is an award winner artist. That is pronounced “Art-teist.”

I could not help think how proud mom would have been.

Saratoga National Cemetery

Once again I forget my camera. I would have gotten a few shots of clearing skies in the Hudson Valley where fertile farm lands lie in wait of winter. Still green are the pastures where horses and dairy cows graze. Tucked quietly among the rolling hills near the western bank of the Hudson is the National Cemetery. This is where dad wishes to be buried. He wants part of mom’s ashes to be buried with him. We had heard two different stories about how the process works for a veteran’s spouse who passes and is cremated before the veteran who wants to be casketed.

Dad and I spoke with the director and decided on some of the details such as vault or ground interment, inscriptions, style of cross and resolving how to inter mom without inconveniencing the family with an assembly on a weekday. A memorial can be done anytime, but the place is only open weekday 9 am to 3 pm.

When my father’s mother died I heard him say to her via con Dios. He said the same thing to mom the night she died. I thought it would be an appropriate inscription. I told that to dad as we stood in front of the wall. He hugged me and thought that might be a good idea.

Starting Over

I’ll load up the RV, check the tire pressure, make sure I am not caring any mice and leave for Mystic, CT on Friday. Back on the road for the first time since I returned home after mom’s heart attack. I am looking forward to being on the road again, but not looking forward to leaving. I will be packing an extra blanket and a heater. Key West is looking good.

Friday, September 22, 2006

This Day North

I woke up this morning.

Then I went to Vermont.

Crossed a river and kept running to the north country.

Bought a good pumpkin with dad, Robin, my brother's wife (Margie) and my older brother Mike.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Owls, Mice and Cats

Ouch.

It is indeed a cold world out there when it comes to selling a book. You make the economic sacrifice to send books and press kits out to independent bookstores and ask them for a few hours of their time to allow you to meet their customers and try to sell a few books which they take 20-40% and when they say no, well I graciously thank them and move on. Then because I have notices coming to me from online book sellers letting me know when my book is available, I find out the bookstore owners have the audacity to sell my complementary book on the open market for $12.90. Bookseller: Harbor Books LLC, Old Saybrook, CT is one such place selling my book on abebooks.com.

When the guy at Johnny People’s Garage in Wilton, NY wanted a copy of my book I just gave him one and asked that he send $18.00 to me later. Maybe he will; maybe he won’t. But the RV has now passed NY State inspection for another year.

Rodents

Squirrels or mice (I vote for mice) were building a nest in one of the drawers in the RV. Building material – foam. Tiny bits of foam carefully stuffed inside a roll of duct tape. What a mess. Can’t find where they found the foam. But at least the RV started, so they had not chewed through the wiring like they did in June.

The count now is eight—seven alive and one dead. The last one I dumped outside at 12:40 AM. I prefer not to kill them. Dad would prefer to “squash ‘em” as he has put it. At first, he thought it was the same one returning to the basement. No way dad. That would have to be either the stupidest or the smartest mouse alive. In either case, if it was the case, it deserved to live.

Phoenix sits for hours on the shelves near dad’s work bench. I have never her seen get a mouse, but I suspect that is where they are. Once she catches one, she brings them upstairs. I don’t know why she does this because when I hear the tell-tale sound of squeak-squeak, I am quickly on the trail to catch the mouse before its destruction, normally done by Diablo, as she has a less than delicate way about her bite.

Phoenix lets the big-eared little mouse go to admire its scurrying manner across the hardwood floor in the living room. Over the past two weeks I have perfected my mouse trap. I take her prey’s release as an opportunity to toss a large round opaque tupper ware over the rodent. The mouse runs in circles around the plastic container while the cats stalk around the perimeter. Meanwhile I retrieve a piece of cardboard to slip under the cage, flip the package over and I confess I admire the little creature. Many times, despite being within moments of death before my rescue, they take time to preen their tails or wipe their noses.

Dad would dispose of them with shovel to the head, but I think that is harder to execute than said. I trap and release, relocating the mouse across the road in hopes it doesn’t return or get into the RV, but instead travels westward and enter the Heron’s home where it might endure the winter in the cozy comforts of someone else’s house.

The other night while I crossed the dew soaked grass with my mouse package I heard an owl. Three hoots from deep in the woods. I paused, listening for it to repeat its call. Hoot, hoot, hoot.

Shit, I think Phoenix has another mouse. Dad says from now on we kill’em. Well, I’m not doing it.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Pieces of a Picnic

The season is nearing its end, the signature of early fall on display - golden rods, and rusty-colored mums, yellow-tinted birch, a brilliant red blaze on a random maple; nights are cool, air a little crisp and the sunlight of late afternoon casts long shadows that lay a little lower each day. Farmers markets start selling apples, feature cider, pumpkins and other squashes. And corn tassels are dried and brown, but sweet corn can still be found.

The plan was to go to the farmers market for a half dozen ears of corn for lunch. Once we had the corn and a few potatoes, we strolled through the market commenting on the non-produce vendors—a masseuse, The League of Women voters, a couple of musicians and a potter, whom Jennifer struck up quite a conversation with. Jennifer throws and has a craft fair scheduled for next weekend in Littleton, NH, so the two potters chatted about shop while dad and I roamed around the rest of the market. I was looking for spinach wondering if anyone would be carrying the disease laden green.

Jennifer and I had planned to tackle mom’s room, clearing the clutter out and giving it a good cleaning. Except Jennifer suggested we go apple picking. It sounded much better than standing around in mom’s room with a dust rag, so we headed off to Schuylerville. Working under the guidelines of pure spontaneity, we stopped for soft ice cream – raspberry dipped in chocolate – before we got to the orchard. Dad wondered if it would spoil our appetite for corn. We replied, “of course not, dad.” So he ordered a one too.

We climbed a small hill near the stand and sat on a picnic table painted like either a Gateway computer or a Holstein cow. Jennifer reflected on her first memories of her siblings. Mike came home for Thanksgiving with Margie, but she did not know if they were married at the time. I was leaving for the army and was standing in the driveway with the recruiter who came to pick me up. Jennifer remembered the time mom cut off Robin’s hair and when Robin left for Memphis to attend school to become a lumber grader, one of the first women in the US to become one. I asked her about Mark. She responded, “fighting.” She was being a pain the ass little sister. It is the perspective of the youngest, the one who doesn’t remember the day their sibling comes home from the hospital as a newborn, but instead recalls the day their older brothers or sisters left home.

The temperatures were perfect for soft ice cream. It did not have to be gobbled down to avoid it melting away, but it did require a steady pace of licking to keep the raspberry from dripping off my fingers. I thought of mom. This could have been a typical day—two sisters out with their Dad. When we returned home we would tell Mom what we did, but I knew that today I wasn’t going to have that precious opportunity.

Saratoga Orchard lies at the crest of the hill before descending into the Hudson River Valley. There was some confusion about the U-pick apples, which turned out to be rather expensive compared to the already picked apples. It was not possible to take a bag into the orchard and a mob of people to fill it. Instead, it was required that admission be paid to the orchards for each person regardless if they were picking apples. I didn’t want apples neither did dad, but Jennifer did and we wanted to go with her.

I guess you can say we just sort of snuck off into the orchards (we did pay for the apples). After getting a peck of Cortlands and Macintoshes we worked up a craving for cider donuts. And then a little sampling of Tennessee hot wings. That was lunch and the corn became dinner.

On the way home we had to stop by the Schuylerville Monument. Because dad said they don’t put up monument unless there is a good reason. I thought a monument for No Good Reason would be a good reason to put up a monument. However, since it is past Labor Day it was closed. Everything around here closes after Labor Day because you never know when it is going to start snowing after the first Monday in September. It is suppose to be in the eighties tomorrow.

Jennifer and I did get to mom’s room after Dad fired up the lawn mower. I didn’t expect to find any surprises. I scouted out the room in July. Why had I done that? I can’t really say. We made some progress sweeping away the spider webs and dusting off her night stands, straightening up her books and notions on her headboard. Jennifer reclaimed some books she had given mom. I left mine in her room. There wasn’t much that we disposed and we set aside magazines, unopened bottles of lotion, soap and other toiletries to donate to soldiers overseas. We found several dog collars with rabies tags tucked away in a box. These belonged to Rusty and Holly, her dogs.

I kept thinking of all those Saturdays as a kid when we had to clean the house. Mom was a great housekeeper and she wasn’t one to hang onto sentimental things. But we did find some things that meant a lot to mom. I found a hand written copy of a poem on an index card by Mary Oliver titled “In Blackwater Woods.” It was tucked behind a photo of Holly, her sheltie, taken by me when we were all in Mexico:

Every year, everything I have ever learned
In my lifetime leads back to this,
The fires and the black river of loss
Whose other side is salvation
Whose meaning none of us will ever know.
To live in this world you must be able to do three things;
To love what is mortal,
To hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends upon it,
And when the time comes to let it go…
To let it go.

She wrote, as if it was her own title for the poem, “One Death and Life for Holly and Me."

Friday, September 15, 2006

Mrs. Stroup

Mrs. Stroup returned from Spain last night and called on dad this afternoon to express her condolences. I grew up in a neighborhood with two other families with girls about the same age as my sister Robin and me. The six of us played all the time due to the closeness of our mothers we all had three moms: my mother, Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Stroup.

Mrs. Grey, although she lived in Upstate New York epitomized the New England Yankee woman - a polished lady in a LL Bean Adirondack barn coat and waders. She was mom’s best friend, but sadly she passed away many years ago. Mrs. Grey was an accomplished artist and poet, often writing notes in the form of a poem.

Mrs. Stroup was a fun loving lady, but practial approach to life always made me feel on guard. While mom made sure we minded our manners, Mrs. Stroup made sure we did not forget them. We were girls and we needed to know how to act like ladies, something I was never very interested in knowing because I could never imagine growing up to be one. Mrs. Stroup strived to introduce us to the finer arts and her two daughters were involved in Ballet and music lessons. She managed to reigned in six very young and energetic girls long enough to put on the play called The Emperor’s New Clothes complete with customs, makeup, scenery, lighting and a huge dog named Jake. I played the prime minister, Pompenstuff, and knew everyone’s lines long before opening night and whispered many lines to the two youngest performers, Leslie and Faith.

When I came into the house after my walk, she took me into her arms and told me how sorry she was. She and Mrs. Grey both had a part in raising me. And when she held me, I recalled there were times in the first 18 years in my life that she had done the same thing - comforted me - when the pain in my heart was nothing more than a lost cat, run over rabbit or the death of a bird after it smashed into a window. I could cry because she had been a mother to me as well, but I also knew that I could not wipe my nose on my sweatshirt sleeve. It just would not have been too lady-like.

Reminder

This Sunday at 8 am Eastern, I’ll be on Camping in the Zone with Raymond Brody. Click on the links below to listen on the Internet.

Fates

I can’t remember everything and what I did forget was the camera.

My presentation at Higher Grounds in the Saratoga Springs Public Library had a modest turn out and I sold nine books, a record sale for an event. One great newspaper article, 500 distributed flyers and a roast beef church dinner were the ticket. My own home turf caused me to be a little nervous. I just did not know who might show up, not that I have any baggage to worry about, but I do have those class reunion anxieties.

One person came from the church, another from my high school class, and one from my sister’s class (two years behind me). Some came because of the article. The School Teachers came to show their support and so did Jill Wing, the reporter from the Saratogian and head of my PR department where my dad is CEO and main spokes person. Then there was an interesting young woman who was a speech therapist.

Lisa
Her name was Lisa. She had a need to go to the farmers market when my dad and I were plastering cars at the farmers market. Prior to getting out of her car she was discussing her desire to be a writer with a friend on her cell phone. Not wanted to alarm her, dad tapped on the window instead of just leaving the flyer under her windshield wiper. He told her that his daughter had written a book and invited her to the presentation. Her friend heard dad tell her that and both thought dad’s knock on the window was more than coincidental, after all a stranger invites Lisa to a book signing while she is discussing her desire to be a writer.

Dad moved on to continue his marketing mission, and Lisa headed off to the market, except she did not have her wallet, so she could not buy a thing. Mission aborted. Yet, maybe it was fate to be there when dad came by. When she came in, she asked if my dad was handing out flyers. At first I thought she was going to complain. I said my dad was here and she told me her story. She asked if she could email me if she had any questions about writing and publishing. Of course, but I am not an expert.

Steve
Just before the reception, I went to the restroom to make sure I would not have to go while I was reading or talking. In the hallway I was stopped by a handsome man with a familiar face. Gone was the face and body of a teenager, which was the last time I saw him. Before me stood a lean, strong man, with the same composure of his youth. He asked me if I was Valerie and as I replied I recognized him as Little Stevie Bicklehaupt.

His mom still calls him Stevie, but he went on to explained that she thinks there are two of him, Stevie and Steve. He shared that his mother suffered from a stroke a year ago and with the help of his wife, Pam, they provide round the clock care for her.

When I was in junior high Tom, his older brother, asked me out and I said no. When my sister was in high school Steve and Robin dated for little while. He asked about Robin. The last he heard she had been in a biking accident and broke her jaw. That was June 1981. Time gets away from all of us.

A special thanks to the following: Lisa, Darren and Lisa, The School Teachers-Ginny and Joyce, Jill, Steve, Kimberly, Kate from Pokai Bay of all places (it is the bay from where my sail trip left Hawaii), and Dad’s friend from Saratogian-Shelia for purchasing The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Three Degrees of Separation

By way of the schoolteachers, two dear friends of the family for the past forty-two years since they bid on and won the public auction of the old one room school house next to my parents’ house, I have a means of sending my book to Jimmy Buffett. Virginia Clark who is now 75 years young, has been seeing a massage therapist who also has Jimmy as a client when he happens to be out on Long Island. I found this out rather accidentally, but maybe it was meant to be. I asked Virginia if she would take one of my books to Carlos and if Carlos did not mind, if he would give it to Jimmy. Connections.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Press

The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin
Reviewed by Jill Wing, Reporter for The Saratogian
September 12, 2006
At the Helm of the Muffin

SARATOGA SRPINGS, NY - A sensational new writer visits the Higher Grounds coffee shop at the Saratoga Springs Public Library ay 6 p.m. Thursday, Sept. 14, for a reception and book signing.

Valerie Perez, who grew up in Saratoga Springs, has penned a rollicking, rolling memoir that crests the wave of adventure during an unforgettable sail across the open Pacific. The captain is a seafarer who runs his ship like Ahab — a sometimes lovable, gentle, obstinate and stubborn “man-the-lifeboats” Ahab.

Her new memoir, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, puts the reader at the helm of the 40-floot sailboat on an epic journey of discovery, madness, romance, sickness, hunger, loneliness and an awakening that has helped forge her path to the future.

Muffin is required reading for all women approaching the age of no return, and for men to float their dreams of adventure past their significant others, they just might take the bait.

When Perez turned 50, she decided to join the Peace Corps, taking a leave of absence as managing partner with Design Management Alliance in Bean Station, Tenn. She was sent to Micronesia, where she met Shepard Harris “Shep,” captain of the Cosmic Muffin. Harris was on the last leg of a round-trip sail from California to Australia.

The landlubber and seafarer found some common ground in their lives of adventure and Harris asked Perez to crew on the last leg. It was a two-person gig — Perez and Harris. The self-confessed clueless sailor was the crew.

The landlubber and the sailor gave in to their passions and struck out together on an extended voyage to Hawaii and, ultimately, to Shep’s home in Moss Landing, Calif.

In this engaging and compelling memoir, Valerie tells of falling in love with a man whose only real commitment is to himself. The two unlikely cabin mates spend months at sea, enduring a relationship that runs as hot and cold as the Pacific currents. Privacy was nil. There was no privy (head in boat-speak). After all, the Muffin was built for a man to sail.

Her writing is so vivid, the reader feels the dizzying agony of seasickness, the penetrating chill of wearing wet clothes braced against persistent wind and waves, the scratchy feel of crusty layers of salt on the skin, the loneliness of seeing a horizon that can’t be reached, the incessant stench of ocean water and its rich organic pit of writhing creatures, and of breathtaking moments of sunrise and joy, love and romance.

Muffin reads like an adventure/romance/survival novel. Perez never gives away the ending, keeping the reader in limbo between hating and loving Shep, wondering at times about Perez’s sanity and questioning her motives.

But it is most about finding a ray of spirituality that provides comfort against all odds. This is a page-turner that will engage readers in the spirit of high, spontaneous adventure that will leave an indelible imprint of one woman’s shot at attacking life with an unbridled passion.

Perez’s stop in Saratoga Springs is part of an East Coast swing on a book promotion tour in her parents’ 20-year-old RV. The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin is available at amazon.com or www.valerieperez.com. To read more about her further adventures visit Valerie Perez’s blog www.beyondthesail.blogspot.com.

Dad and I again put flyers out at the farmers market. A cold and gloomy day kept the crowd down, but it wasn't raining in the afternoon, so at least the flyers did not turn into gloppy messages. Whenever there was someone getting either into or out of their cars I personally invited them to come to the reception. Everyone was pleasant. Nobody growled at me for tagging their car and I did not see a bunch of flyers tossed on the ground afterwards.

Mailboxes

Later, I drove and dad stuffed the mail boxes around the neighborhood. My neighborhood is country so the mailboxes are stuck alongside the road in what I discovered a haphazard sort of method. There is no standard height and boxes apparently don’t have to be in any particular condition to function as a repository for letters. One mailbox door nearly fell off and dangled on one rusty hinge when Dad opened it. Some had doors seemed glued shut and were difficult to open. Still other could not be shut. The mail boxes were perched precariously on top of posts that projected out of the ground in various angles. Two were placed behind guard rails. A few mailboxes were almost lost in a thicket of weeds. I suppose the owners grow tired of investing in something that is continually ripped out of the ground and flung into the next county when the snowplows go tearing by. I managed to drive up to all the boxes without hitting any, but made Dad a little nervous when he thought I got too close.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Bread Crumbs

I would have had a few photos, but forgot to put the card back into the camera.

Dad served coffee during the supper and I talked to people about my book. The Trinity United Methodist Church of Wilton served 240 roast beef dinners in two and a half hours. I sold five books. They grossed over $1700 and I grossed $94. On Saturday afternoon I set up my book display in the waiting area for the church supper. Although my average sale is one book an hour and therefore this was a great sale, this really is a hard way to make a living.

Went hiking with a neighbor of my dad’s and she said she would buy five books. This really is an easy way to make a living. Then a neighbor came by on a walk around the block and stopped in to buy a book. Even easier.

Pam, one of my dad's neighbors, and I hiked along a ridge overlooking the Hudson River. The maples were splashed with red, turning colors in the cooler and shorter days. Night time air is crispy with tonight’s predicted low to be in the lower forties. Winter is only two weeks away according to Robin who resides in the north country of New Hampshire. I am going to be here. Headed south in the RV is beginning to sound good if for no other reason than to head south to warmer temperatures.

On Thursday I will have a presentation at the Higher Grounds in the Saratoga Public Library. To promote this event Dad and I hit the farmers market of Saratoga Springs, littering cars with the flyers announcing my presentation. After the church supper we hit the parking lot at the library, tapping the people who attended Al Gore’s follow up forum on global warming. I’ll scatter my flyers around the neighborhood and hit the market again on Wednesday. When it is all said and done, I’ll have distributed 700 flyers. Maybe seven people will show up and three might buy the book. Back to the tough way of making a living.

I have slowly begun to clean up with kitchen. For years mom has been incapable of doing much beyond the dishes. Unable to bend down without losing balance and too weak to lift much weight she lost track of what was in the cabinets. It does puzzle me however as to what she was using all the bread crumbs for. I have found seven partially open packages and as many boxes of stuffing bread crumbs. I can only laugh to think maybe mom was using them to find her way home.

On my morning runs I find it hard to complete my four miles circuit without thinking of mom. It is my pure alone time. The thoughts stir up emotions of joy and sorrow. Conversations with My Lord regarding my mom do the same. There are times I am gasping for air as I choke on the pain that tries to escape me. Other times the run is easy knowing that I am because of my mom and her spirit lives within me. I am capable of running, praise the Lord, so I will run still free in my body, not trapped as mom was for so many years.

But I can not escape the feeling of how final her death is. It is not as if I went on a thirty day trip to Nepal, or a two year experience with Peace Corps, or a month long sail across the ocean. I always came back, mom. I always came back. I wish you could.

Friday, September 08, 2006

It is Small

Finally the sun came out.

Dad and I took the RV to Moreau State Park and dumped the waste water. After stopping by Alpine Haus RV Center in Wilton, where the manager installed a replacement vent cover for the leaky one in the bath room while I replaced the cover to the electrical cord outlet, we came home to rinse, clean and flush out the water system. I don’t know what is going on with the hot water heater but if water sits in there for any length of time the water begins to stink. It had been sitting for more than two weeks since I have been home. Yikes, it stunk up the RV with a smell as bad as some funky French cheese. Hopefully all my work on this beautiful day will pay off. I put a fresh six gallons in the tank and will see what it smells like in a day or two. And now with the leaky window and vent fixed it won’t rain for weeks.

I had to get back to selling books. I feel as stagnant as a beaver pond in a summer drought. Mom wrote that she wanted us to move forward. So I am, even if it is slowly.

New Haven – Atticus Books.

Jill, Beth and Oliver made me feel as if I was the most important author to ever walk through the door at Atticus Book Store and Cafe. Signs announcing my reading were displayed throughout the store РThe Muffin has docked. At each table throughout the caf̩ little orange signs said I would be here to read and sign my book. For those savvy enough to purchase a book, they would receive a certificate for a free muffin. And I am talking big honking muffins.

Beth moved through the café inviting customers to come hear my story, tempting them with a tray of muffins that had to weigh twenty pounds. Oliver passed out my book markers. And in the end, I read for Beth, a couple from Indiana (although he was born in Belgium. I don’t think I ever met some one from Belgium before) Oliver, the young handsome cashier, and my dad who tagged along.

I read five passages, conversing with the audience between each reading. Behind me a small crowd gathered in the doorway. I guess these things are like being in church—can’t get anyone to sit up front and here I can’t get anyone to sit in the seats provided. I was a little nervous because I have no talent for reading out loud and hate the sound of my own voice. Since the past few weeks have been hectic, emotional and busy, I have not had much time to practice. I managed a few run-throughs the day before, walking up and down the road outside my parents’ house. Yes, not much traffic on the road.

The last passage I read was August 5th—day 15:

My parents are two individuals who became one. They dedicated their lives to raising five children in a stable and secure home. At times their partnership was rough, but never did either one neglect their responsibilities as loving parents who instilled core values of honesty, decency, and compassion. They believed that nothing came free, that you worked and you were rewarded, and that education was the ticket to opportunity. In three weeks they will celebrate their fifty-ninth wedding anniversary. A science teacher, an MRI technician, a cancer research professional, a house painter, and an aspiring writer will wish their parents all the best on that day, while they celebrate in subdued fashion.

Even in my fifties, I receive no less love from them. Both provide encouragement and support, albeit I am sure with some reservation, as I pursue a less than typical means of living. The fact that this year I’ve managed to make a concerted effort not to make a living is probably not something they brag about to their friends. Nevertheless, in part due to the way I was raised, I am a person of good standing. They have given me much. In turn, I can give back.

The difference between wiping snot off a child’s nose and wiping dribble off a parent’s chin is the difference between promise and dignity. That is the difference between growing up and growing old. How much prouder could parents be but to raise their children to do what is right when the time comes to return the grace and care they unconditionally provided? And when your parents are proud of you, what more can you accomplish? Now, isn’t that love?

I managed to get through that without choking up and dad gave me a huge hug afterwards. I wish mom could have been there and I know in a way she was. She would have been proud and I would have glowed in that. We drove back to Saratoga leaving New Haven about 8 pm. The full moon had risen. It was breathtaking. And I called it Mom’s Moon.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Never Again

Bereavement Leave - Three days. Got to be the stupidiest policy in the world.

The family is slowly retreating, heading back to lives and routines more familiar than the trying times, long drives to the hospital, the stress, the tough decisions and the emotional turmoil caused by mom’s death. Her ashes have been returned and I quietly slipped the in to mom’s closest. At some point, the family will have a private celebration and complete mom’s wishes with a scattering of her ashes along with those of her two dogs, Holly and Rusty.

The funeral home, Simone’s of Saratoga Springs has been fantastic. They delivered mom’s ashes to the house and explained to Dad that he can have Mom’s ashes buried in the site designated for him. This means dad will know where he will be buried, mom can have a headstone with dad and dad will have a traditional place to visit mom, should he wish. I saw great relief in dad when he learned this. On Tuesday, we will make arrangements for this to happen.

I am so tired. Mike took Dad grocery shop after planning some meals for the week. This gave me some precious time alone. As I did the lunch dishes, I realized there is not an end to this story. Mom is gone; she is not coming back; I know longer have a mom. There are no more home cooked meals. There is no place I can find my mother—I won’t be able to come into the house and see mom at the dining room table, or find her in the kitchen or reading the newspaper in her chair in the living room.

Some things will never be explained. Why are there hundreds of food can label bar codes in a canister in the cherry cabinet, or who is the person in the old black and white photo found tucked away in a drawer my old bedroom, or what happened to mom’s mattress pad on her bed. It was missing. (The woman could barely walk across the living room, where could she have put a full size mattress pad, let alone how did she get it off the bed without dad’s help?)

I find myself crying alone – on a morning run, in bed during the middle of the night, in my Jeep while running an errand. In some cultures it is forbidden to speak the name of the dead for fear their spirit will get lost and not be able to find the way into the next world. I say her name out loud, as if calling to her. It is painful and there is no answer. I sure as hell miss her.

Friday, September 01, 2006

The Service

It was a little quieter this late afternoon, except for the chain saw. Jennifer was pulling weeds out of the back yard garden that was so over grown she rustled up a leopard frog, the snake and a forty pound toad. Her intensions were to plant the beautiful rose bush given the family by the Peter and Charlotte Smith in remembrance of Mom. The yard work and gardening prompted Dad’s decision to cut the juniper down, something that would horrify my mother. Mike, Jennifer, Darryl and I all had the same thought. We each had a private conversation to be sure Dad he wanted to do this. Maybe he thought Mom might come back and before she did he was going to get it down. The lumber jacks would have brought it down sooner, but the chain saw would not cooperate. Undeterred, Dad went to the neighbors to get a chain saw and the men cleared the tree, carting the branches off into the woods in the back of the house.

While all this outdoor stuff was occuring, I did the dishes, answered the phone calls from those who offer their condolences and tried to write, not getting too far in the process.

The Service

It is a small country church and it was packed. I stood in front of the people who had come to pay their respects to my mother. I was to say a few words. I wanted to do this, yet knew it would be so very difficult. I had something to share with those who came and something to share with the family.

Four years ago, prompted by my Uncle David, a retired minister, I wrote a eulogy for my mom and dad and made plans for my memorial service. I was traveling to Nepal and worried I might be someplace from where I could not get home, yet I wanted to share my thoughts about my mother with others at the service. And if something happened to me, I wanted my wishes known.

Now I was faced with my mother’s death and her service and the reality of my inability to retain my composure and share the words. The strength came from somewhere while I spoke about my mom and while I did hit a couple of emotional spots in the text which choked me and the congregation, I delivered my mother’s eulogy so that I knew she would have been proud.

Eulogy for Florence H. Perez, my Mother

Mom was not the type of person who wanted to be lavished with the finer things in life. Mom did not desire the newest, the finest, the biggest, or the most of anything. If she did desire the finer things in life, she checked those feelings, foregoing the desires - as a sacrifice for us kids. Certainly if the US economy was driven by my mom’s personal spending habits, our country would be in dire straits.

My mom appreciated the simpler things that life offers. It never took a lot to make Mom happy. She took pleasure in things found close to home. One thing she enjoyed was flowers. Not the big fancy bouquets from the florist, but the flowers that were found in the woods, the fields, the yard or along the side of the road. The wild flowers.

As a little kid, I could brighten her day with a collection of wild flowers—daisies, Black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace. And in the early spring a collection of pussy willows. A small bouquet picked while I was on my way home from school or play, brought through the door just before dinner, could always bring a smile to Mom. She made me feel as if that was the best gift I could ever give her and that I was special for bringing them to her.

Mom’s favorite flowers were found close by. In early spring sometimes even before the snow had vanished, daffodils challenging winter’s dominance punched their way up through the cold, damp earth. With yellow daffodils and fat robins in the yard outside the kitchen window Mom enjoyed the prospects of longer days and warmer temperatures.

Spring might have meant many things to Mom, but one thing it meant was that she could now chase all us kids outside. Mom liked us outside. I can hear her saying, “You kids get out of the house.”

The month of May brings Lilacs. Regardless of where I went if I saw lilacs in the spring, I’d always think of Mom. She used the lilac blooms as a metric - comparing to the previous years’ blooms to the current. She observed how soon they appeared, how many blooms filled the branches, how rich they smelled, or how long they lasted. This spring I was home and while the trees have grown older and produce less, the joy and the appreciation Mom had for the lilacs never diminished.

It was the appreciation of the simple things in nature that Mom gave me. The excitement when the grosbeaks returned for the winter or the hummingbirds to the feeder, or the sighting of the Pileated Woodpecker in a dead tree. The joy she found in nature’s offerings, she passed on to me.

As an example, the other night just hours after her passing, Robin and I drove up the hill to our house and saw three young bucks standing in the middle of the road. Their bodies lean and healthy, their coats shining in the headlights, their velvet racks like crowns. They were not startled. They stood there as if to stop us for a reason. After a couple of minutes they quietly and peacefully walked into the woods and disappeared. Three young bucks - the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost came for Mom.

Mom always wanted the best for us. She worked hard to make our house a home. Inside this home was security and love. It was a place to run to when I skinned my knee. Or fell off my bike. Or had my heart broke. Mom was there to mend our wounds and make things better. It was a place to find a well cooked meal. A place to drown our deepest thirsts. It was a place to hear the sounds in the kitchen of breakfast being prepared while laying deep under thick warm blankets on a chilly morning—much like this morning. The best meant ‘home’ and it was home because of Mom.

Mom wanted us to have the best and the best meant having choices. Mom wanted us to have choices in life. So she and dad stressed that education was the ticket to opportunity. They believed that nothing came free, that you worked hard and you were rewarded. She encouraged us to be whatever we want to be. And this made us independent and self-reliant - two qualities Mom valued.

Mom took great pride in what her children became. Not doctors, or lawyers or even Indian Chiefs. The status found in career wasn’t important. She wanted us to be happy. What we became were five adults who converse, share, laugh, love and find joy each other’s company and friendship. We were family—we are family—and that was Mom’s greatest achievement.


So what is next?

I am going to take the next couple of blogs tocapture my family’s oral history. Dad has spent the last couple of night reminiscing about his family history and mom. Suddenly I am very aware of being first generation American, how decisions and sacrifices affected my life. I want to capture some of these things before the details fade and before I lose my father.

My book tour is interrupted for a few weeks while I help dad transition into living alone after sixty years.