“Kissing Tomatoes,” is now available online for Kindle and iPad as an e-book through Amazon.
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Bob and Joe are about as unlikely a pair as a cowboy boot and a Ked’s sneaker. Yet every morning they hold court at the local Starbucks. As customers dash in and out, there is a continual stream of “Mornin’ Bob.” “Hey there, Joe.” “How you guys this mornin?” Each recognition makes Bob puff his large chest out further than the buttons on his monogrammed shirt, lean back in a chair half his size, and wait for his next admirer with one wary eyebrow raised. Joe, as shy as Bob is bold, just beams like a low watt bulb by his side.
As I leave, Bob asks me to join them. Before I can answer, he huffs, “Oh, she won’t sit with us. She’s always too busy.” I plunk my coffee right down on their table. He proceeds to make wisecracks about the ‘regulars,’ “Here comes Smiley,” he says, indicating a blonde who scowls past. “Never seen her smile. Not once.” Sure enough. She blows past us with neither glance nor grin despite a, “Hello,” from Bob.
His monologue continues while Joe nods sweetly in agreement, rarely speaking. I figure his wife of 50 years must pick out his clothes. They match, they fit and they’re always clean. With his diminutive physique, she could still probably shop for him in the boys’ department. They’re probably the same clothes he wore before he retired from the construction business. “I was in cement,” he tells me with considerable pride.
They’ve been friends since they rode the school bus together in 4th grade. 65 years later they’re still school boys, joking and telling tales about the locals. Of course when you’ve lived in a town 75 years and know everyone, I don’t suppose it’s gossip, rather facts. Bob’s married three times but says he’s, ‘keeping this one because I’m too tired to look anymore.” Mid-conversation, he bolts outside for a smoke; his 5th of the day though it’s only 8 AM. Joe’s dimming blue eyes follow his lumbering frame out the door, then he leans in, “You know, Bob was a BIG lawyer in town. Litigation,” he whispers. “But I think he has Alzheimer’s.”
This throws me. “What makes you say that?” I laugh. “He forgets everything, and can’t find things to do,” he explains. “What kinds of things does he forget?” Joe is silent a long while. He’s forgotten the question. “The hardest part about getting old is finding things to do,” he continues. “What do you like to do? I ask. “Oh, I go to the Y with my wife.” “What do you do there?” I prod. He looks at me blankly. I persist, “Well, when do you guys usually go?” “Um. When I finish my coffee, I guess,” he says.
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Granny let me have a party at our house back in the 70’s with
a bunch of my hippie friends. She bought potato chips and 7 Up and told me I could even crank my record player up a notch. (“In A Gadda Da Vida, Baby” was a fave.) As she retired to her bedroom, she said, “Now have fun, dear, but don’t raise the roof!” Funny that I am remembering that little piece of advice right now. Because when the architect said he was going to ‘raise the roof’ of our old, fifties ranch I had no idea what I was in for. We are now at the end of week two of ‘the renovation’ and someone has dropped a bomb in our backyard. The cement patio is jack-hammered up. The white picket fence has been ripped out and stacked behind a tree. The salvageable rose bushes are stuck in a clump of what was the lawn but is now a churned up, chocolate mess.
Should I venture to step out the patio door now, I would fall into a five foot pit of old bricks, broken up cement, spiky, metal rods and rotten boards filled with rusty nails. Inside, the walls have been sledge hammered out into piles of rubble. Now, there is a panoramic view from the living room smack into the master. Well. . .we were looking for more light. Now we have it.
Renovating a house is like living a life. You really don’t quite know what you’re in for until you’re IN it. You have a vision of what you hope it will be, but getting there can be treacherous, circuitous and downright messy. The same goes for raising kids. You have a vision of who they might become but their own paths often wander far astray and leave you anxiously wondering.
I have to remember that tomorrow at 7 am when the crew arrives and Thomas gets behind the wheel of that back hoe and Lenny wields his jackhammer, biceps blazing through the concrete. Remember that, as Salem guides the men through all the drilling, pounding, banging of boards and whizzing of saws. Remember, that somewhere in the endless swirl of plaster dust that settles everywhere at once—that all dreams, no matter how starry take shape in chaos. Raising a roof means tearing things down but the view will amaze you.
Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” a non-fiction memoir of the years she and her husband cared for her grandmother with Alzheimer’s.
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New Year’s Eve finds me sitting alone in an old house dress with rolled up socks and the dog curled at my left hip. As I reflect on the ‘old’ year passing in my final blog for 2011, firecrackers pop in the distance. My teenagers are off with friends and my husband is long in bed. So, before 2012 dawns, a few “Thank You’s” for these last 365 days:
First, to my husband of 31 years who appreciates the ‘little’ things I do, like filling the espresso machine with fresh coffee every morning and holding up my half of the heart whenever we say, “Good-Bye.” Every now and then I let him edit these—but not tonight.
To my oldest daughter who begged and begged for that puppy that I never wanted last Christmas. Your little Skylar, who has now become my sole responsibility since you left for college, has brought me unimaginable joy, laughter & companionship. A year ago I would not have believed it possible.
To my youngest daughter who reminds me often that I am old, thank you for sharing what young is really like in all its’ ups and downs. You make me glad that I am exactly the age that I am. Thank you also for showing me a harder way to do my piano scales. It should keep my fingers nimble for at least a few more years.
To Lorenzo, our church janitor, who brought me flowers on Mother’s Day but was never able to give them to me because I was a ‘no show.’ My Sundays are never quite complete without his, big hug.
To all of the strangers who motioned me across sidewalks, let me merge in front of you in difficult traffic, or waved and smiled at me from a distance; the ones I chatted with in lines from Starbucks to airline counters or dressing rooms in clothing stores: Thank You for those brief, joyful seconds. Without the warmth and camaraderie from strangers, my days would be as empty as a soundstage from an old movie set. No lights. No camera. No action.
Finally, to the 2,000 new readers of my blog from America & Canada to Australia & Brazil: Thank You for taking a few minutes in your day to share a part of mine. May EVERY day of your 2012 be a photograph you want to take and keep close to your heart.
Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” a non-fiction memoir of her grandmother’s descent into Alzheimer’s. http://www.helen-hudson.com.
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Right now, this page is as blank as my cupboards are bare of gifts this year. I just read, “Breaking News” from the New York Times, which says that “Spending is down for November which indicates a gloomy forecast for 2012.” Part of me feels guilty for this downturn, for I have not spent a single penny on this Christmas. No, not one.
Well, I did spend $6 on some holly cuttings for a wreath which I fashioned and hung on the front door. Around the edges, I tied five, old, pine cones from a long ago walk with the dog. When a friend assumed that I had purchased it, I was pleased. But the usual fuss I make shopping, buying, wrapping, hanging lights and decorating the house has not happened. In fact, I even forgot to pre-order our usual 12-lb turkey.
Months ago, I reminded my teenage daughters that this would be our, “handmade Christmas.” It is a tradition we started some years back which has yielded some of our most treasured possessions: a hand stitched quilt our oldest made for her sister; a hand-sewn bag our youngest made for us; a photo collage which hangs on the mantle from a happy, family time.
But this year feels different and not because it has been a difficult one but because I want it to hold meaning. Granny taught me long ago that you can’t buy that. It is always wrapping itself effortlessly into your heart and head. So, I have decided that my gift to my family this year will be my happiest memories of time with them. I began writing them some weeks back. The task was harder than I thought it would be, because as you remember the happy times, the sad ones have a way of creeping in, too.
So, as you fill-in-the-blanks of your own Christmas this year, I wish you moments of meaning. They will fill the pages of your heart with more laughter and tears than you can imagine. One day, you may just be lucky enough to have the time to write them down . . . or even read them.
P. S. Just before posting this, I heard the sweetest sound coming from my husband’s office. He was whistling, “The Christmas Song,” in its’ entirety. Those lovely notes are filling my heart line by line this very second! Merry Christmas!
Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” a memoir of her grandmother’s years of Alzheimer’s.
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It takes a lot of nerve to steal from someone but it takes even more to give what you’ve stolen back. Both scenarios occurred to an 83 year-old friend of mine yesterday. She arrived at the pool as she has, “for the last 40 years,” with her purse stuffed inside of her gym bag. She put them in her locker and headed out to swim. When she returned her purse was gone.
Inside, besides $60 in cash, were two gift cards from her grandchildren totaling $200, along with her ID and all of her credit cards. Bereft, she drove straight home to cancel everything. When she finished, she walked out to her mailbox and found her purse sitting inside. The cash and gift cards were gone, but everything else was just as she had left it.
I thought about the girl who returned it in broad daylight. Someone could have seen her, including my friend. It took nerve but it also meant that she had a conscience. Nowadays you don’t see much of that. Just read the news. Not much conscience around. Some of our politicians and PEOPLE idols could have used a grandmother like mine.
When I was five, I stole a piece of Bazooka bubblegum from the open jar at the checkout stand as Grandmother paid for our groceries. I unwrapped it, stuffed the pink sweetness into my mouth and began to chew. However, as we approached the car, Granny looked hard at me and asked, “What are you chewing?” “Gum,” I answered guiltily. “Did you pay for it?” she asked. “Um. No,” I replied, “but it only cost three cents.” “That is stealing,” she said. “The amount doesn’t matter.”
She reached into her handbag, took out a Kleenex and had me put my gum inside of it. “Now take this back and tell the clerk that you are sorry for stealing it.” Then she took three pennies from her purse and pressed them into my hand. “And here is the money to pay for it.” “But Grandma,” I protested, “You mean I have to give the gum back AND I have to pay for it, too?” “Yes,” she replied. “But why?” “Because you won’t enjoy it anymore. Your conscience won’t let you.” I’m kind of hoping that girl has that same feeling with the stuff she buys on my friend’s cards.
Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” an Alzheimer’s memoir.
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A half, bent over, old man was moving very slowly in front of me as I walked to the gym this morning. Every, single step he took was arduous, deliberate and pained me to watch. Even though my own step these days lacks some of its’ old spunk, I slowed my pace. He was working so hard just to put one foot in front of the other that I could not bear to pass him.
He was dressed in elegant, pressed dark slacks, with a brand new knitted Polo and had that snappy hat like Frank Sinatra used to wear cocked slightly over his right bushy eyebrow. However, nothing hung quite right on his humped, misshapen frame. His outfit would have looked sharp on a younger, stronger man, but on him, the overall effect was rather sad. . .and yet…as I drew up to his side, I realized that he once WAS a younger man.
“Good morning!” he bellowed with a voice ten times the size of his body.
“Good morning, to you Mr. Sinatra in that classy hat!”He stopped. It was probably just so he could bear the weight of the huge smile that now raised even the edges of his sagged and lined mouth.
“Ya remember his hat do ya? You’re not old enough but you’re right. It’s the exact kind he used to wear.”
“Well it looks handsome on you.” And strangely enough, at that moment he did, indeed look handsome. “You don’t see men in hats anymore and I rather like them.”
“Ya know. Best part of my day now is when I put on the hat. I figure if my arms can still reach up there and my head can still hold it, it’s gonna be a good day.”
Wow. At that moment, I felt 17. He’s the kind of guy we could all use more of. So if you have someone like that in your life, hang on to them. If you don’t, just put on the hat.
*Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” an Alzheimer’s memoir. -
It started harmlessly enough. I was trudging in to Target when suddenly I heard the thump-thump beat of some pounding rap music. Approaching slowly, was a well-used, Chevy with two teenage girls in front. (It’s a good thing they had the windows rolled down or they might have gone deaf). By the time we were eye to eye, even the pavement under my feet began to rumble. So, I did what any other middle-aged woman would do: I started to dance.
Now back in the day, I actually had some moves. Unfortunately, some of the parts on me that used to gyrate now merely grate. This did not impede my enthusiasm in front of these grinning, gum-smacking, girls, however. And they did what anyone else would do when confronted by such a spectacle: they stopped their car and began to whoop and holler, “YOU GO GIRL!”
So I did. Now this is not the first time I have behaved in such a manner. But it has been a long time since the last time. At least three months, when I was having my teeth cleaned and suddenly Michael Jackson’s, “Beat It,” came on the surround sound. Despite the fact I was flat on my back and the hygienist had both her hands in my mouth, I managed to move everything that wasn’t tied down.
Now ever since my kids were born I have tried very hard to keep this clearly genetic reaction to drums on the QT. At school functions, I always sit in the back row just in case they play danceable music. My teens do not understand my impulse to move when Phil Collins kicks it, “In The Air Tonight.” I do not understand how they can possibly sit still when Santana’s, “Smooth” is grooving.
This morning in church, when my right foot started tapping out the beat, my youngest calmly placed her hand on my knee. Good thing she didn’t see me at Target. I worked it all the way through the crosswalk. With those girls and now several onlookers egging me on, I even did a few turns and began to moonwalk backwards into what I thought were the ENTRANCE doors.
This is probably a good place to stop. Just sayin’ that the next time you see someone dragging their heels a bit–encourage them. You might just end up with a parking lot full of strangers doubled over in laughter.
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She looks absolutely pitiful; a shadow of the fluffy pup who only yesterday sprung up to her window seat to watch the cars go by. The vet sent Skylar home today after double knee surgery. A stiff, plastic Edwardian collar keeps her from licking the long, red-stitched wounds open. Her tail no longer arches up with its’ Pomeranian plume but droops like a worn out feather duster. Carefully, as if I am holding a fragile, glass figure, I carry her to the grass to pee. Her hind paws rest in my palm like tiny rabbit’s feet.
The sight of her now would make anyone sad—but for this: She leaves my side, walking on only her two front feet as if she has done this all her life! She pauses, sighs, then wobbles forward another several yards with both her back legs lifted. They seem held aloft by invisible strings! While her gait has a slight back and forth wobble, she moves with a smoothness that amazes me.
I think of the old saying, “When one door closes another one opens.” It occurs to me, though, that the other door being open means absolutely nothing if one does not walk through it. And I think of the many people I know in my life who stand in front of open doors and never even cross the threshold. They just stand there, not lifting a foot, as if paralyzed. Aren’t they curious what might be around the corner?
When I was a teenager and moping around the house, Granny always encouraged me to go do something for others. ‘I bet Mrs. Tway would love it if you’d offer to water her flowers.” Her theory was: If you take a real interest in others, you won’t have time to think about yourself. It always worked.
It even works for dogs. Skylar has spotted a butterfly. She gives chase for only a few feet and collapses in the grass. Her little, collared head turns in the direction of the butterfly until it disappears and then she looks at me. Her eyes are sparkling. I lift her up and hold her close. She looks around sniffing with anticipation of what might be next. And so do I . . .and so should we.
**Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” a memoir of the years before and after her grandmother’s descent into Alzheimer’s. http://www.helen-hudson.com
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Everywhere you go nowadays you see ‘kids’ taking care of their elderly parents. That wasn’t the case when I wrote, “Kissing Tomatoes,” 10 years ago. At the time, publishers said, “Love the writing but no one will buy it. Who cares about Alzheimer’s?” Well, time changes everything.
Just today, the woman in front of me at the pharmacy counter was waiting for her mother to write a check. Dowager-humped and small, her shaky hand extended from a wrinkled, arthritic arm. The wait for all of us was almost interminable.
Every few seconds, the daughter looked around nervously, then straightened her shoulders as if to keep herself from getting the hump her mother has. She was so embarrassed holding up our line that I made small talk.
“Well, looks like you get to do all the shopping while Mom pays the bills.”
She brightened slightly. “Yes, we’ve always loved shopping together. Just takes longer now.”
“No worries,” I replied. “We’ll be there ourselves one day.”
An hour later I dashed back to the same store for something I had forgotten. The man ahead of me was turning his pockets inside out for change and holding a single bottle of water.
“I just need twelve more cents, right?” he asked in a nervous voice. He was sweating and his face so flushed, that I feared he might be having a heart attack.
“Goodness,” I said to the clerk, “I’ll pay for his water.”
“Oh no. Can’t let you do that,” the man said. “I have it here somewhere.” He began searching his back pockets. “I’m taking care of my mom,” he suddenly blurted. “Never thought it would be this hard. She’s driving me crazy.”
“How wonderful,” I replied. “After all of those years she raised you, now you are caring for her.”
“Yeah, but the only problem is I can’t spank HER!” he laughed.
His car was parked next to mine. As he jumped behind the wheel, I waved at the old gal next to him. “Mom!” he yelled, “This lady just paid for my water.” “How nice,” she said. “And how nice that your son is looking after you,” I added. “Oh, not for long,” she confided. “The doctor said this thing I have will be over very soon.” I glanced at the man. He shook his head. Yeah, time changes everything—especially us.