“It’s Time to Remember”

The alarm went off and I felt for Francie. She was already up. I could smell the coffee and I knew breakfast was on the way.

As I moved my body out of bed and shuffled off to find the bathroom, there was no way I could know what was ahead. The first thing I noticed was my dress shirt tied around the shower curtain. My trousers were inside out, and on the floor. My socks didn’t match. The shoes were one dress shoe and the other one a tennis shoe. What is going on here? I wondered.

Into the kitchen I went, wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. As I saw my wife cooking breakfast, wearing nothing but her apron, she turned, put the spatula down, and gave me a kiss. I asked her what I had done wrong. She just gave me a silly grin and said, “Do you know what day this is?”

I said, “Yes, it’s Thursday.”

“Keep going,” she said. “What month?”

“October,” I said.

“You’re getting closer,” she said. “What number?”

When I said “four,” I knew what was going on. It was our 36^th wedding anniversary. I had forgotten it!

As she kissed me, she said, “I’m five foot two. My eyes are blue; my hair is blonde and naturally curly, and I weigh 102 pounds. And, lucky boy, today, you get the ride of your life!”

It started in the kitchen and ended with our breakfast burned and the kitchen a mess. But we both knew who loved who on this anniversary day.

Wise woman, she said, “Let’s get a shower. Your work clothes are on the bed. I set the clock up an hour. So no need to be late getting to work. Let’s just remember this day and the fun we have had on our wedding day, remembered, our 36^th!”

Roger Wilson

Francie Wilson

Kitten Love

I found three kittens in a box at a park. They were 3 weeks old and had been left with a tiny bit of adult dry food.

Though I have a cat and a dog, I took the kittens home. We are amazed at how endlessly entertaining they are. (We have always found our pets fun and funny, but these littermates are a total sideshow.)

Plus, they give us so much love. The sweet looks, the nose kisses, the snuggles, and the soulful meows!

It’s hard work—they need to be fed 4 to 5 times a day and litterbox cleaning is continuous, but it’s all worth it. We know that stage will be over soon too.

 

Precious Pain 

 

I want to touch you with tender hands

As I’d hold a newborn baby

Or stroke a sleeping pet

Or caress a loved one’s brow.

 

I want to lie beneath

 A blanket of wisdom with you

While the whole world circles us,

Mending the hem.

 

But bees sting, curt replies, careless eyes,

And my lungs inflate with rage

That wants to be expelled.

 

The hardest job is

Holding my breath

Until the pain returns.

It’s not for you.

 

Ariele M. Huff

 

“Home”

By Kathy Reeves

When I walked in that night—my last night walking in from that job, that commute I’d done for thirteen years—he was waiting for me.

It had been a good day, but a hard day. Saying goodbye to some good people, yet still holding onto grudges against others. Was I free, or was I cast out? Chased off or escapee?  Both, maybe, I’d decided during the long ride home.

So when I walked in that night, I had mixed feelings about having left. Layered on top, of course, was the guilt.

Love is not simple, is it? Of course, no matter how I felt about what I’d done, what mattered more was what he felt. I must have disappointed him. The loss of my income could affect both of us—now and later. I was putting down my burden, but how much would now fall on him?

He met me with a dozen roses, a smile, and a glass of wine.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

That’s what love is.

 

BOTH

 I have much for which I am grateful,

Thankfully

My body is shot through and through

I live on social security

Tolerable

Quality,

not quantity the doctor says

Still, I want both.

 

Melba Walton

March 1, 2005

BUTTERFLY

My romance with blossoms in an arboretum,

is the most picturesque moment in ultimatum.

I can decorate your garden in style,

provided, you keep the flora in pride.

Elated to dabble with a child,

as long as, both of us get stirred.

I can pose in variety of striking colors,

competing positively with seasonal flavors.

I am the world's most aesthetic insect,
  with my graphics globally perfect.

I Love

I love to print words of heartiness

I love to air speeches of liveliness

I love to beam actions of peacefulness

I love to shower feelings of tenderness

In me, you, and all; by my prayers to God.

Ramesh Anand

LOVE STORIES

of all kinds

And a cool DISCOUNT

Don't forget to write about your stories of loving relationships—school crushes, teen angst, meeting your mate, falling in love with a new child, discovering the depth of connection with an animal, re-uniting with parents after you get mature enough to appreciate them. LOVE makes great stories.

                Even better than that, recent studies show thinking about love (of people, activities, favorite things) “activates the brain's reward center." The sense of taste is enhanced, breathing becomes deeper, blood pressure normalizes, and we get that wonderful serotonin effect.

Bring "happy" back into your life by reclaiming your "love history.”

Start with a delightful three hours at the Greenwood Senior Center, June 12^th, Thursday from 3-6pm for Love Stories ($35). (I may request your love story or poem for my book, columns, blog, or the NW Prime Time's web segment I host—"Sharing Stories.") Come and discuss what “love” means to you.  Register: ariele@comcast.net or 206-361-6733 (leave a message as we scan all calls). 

Discount: Mention this blog piece when you register and get $5 off the class price.

Ariele M. Huff

MIRACLE

My miracle came as a 5'2" beautiful blonde, natural curly hair. The first time I saw her, she had three little guys with her age 4, 5, and 6. I mentioned to her she must have started awfully early to have three youngsters at 16. We both laughed. She told me she was visiting her sister for the summer. The kids were her sister's not hers. We just fit each other. I saw her every day. We laughed, danced, swam at Angle Lake. I couldn't get enough of her. The day she left to return to Cheyenne, Wyoming was a sad day for me.

We wrote each other for a year. When the next summer arrived I told her, you don't get to go back—EVER!

We were married—Francie 17, Me 19. Many thought we were too young. That marriage lasted 66 years. Every one of those years had its ups and downs, but we were a team. We took each hit by supporting each other: her dad's death in a car wreck, the birth of our daughter Linda Gail, making a living with a 6^th grade education, a string of horrible jobs. But we never missed a meal.

Going to college. When we landed at school, we had a lone $5 bill. We made a commitment: We were leaving with a degree. Four years later, we did leave with degree in hand. We lived in Idaho, Wyoming, Arizona, California, back to Washington. We traveled the world, the USA, Kentucky Derby, Nashville for Xmas, Mardi Gras New Orleans, Branson MO many times, Las Vegas. We
got it done. One miracle after another.

The next miracle when I once again take her hand—forever and ever.

By Roger Wilson

 

"Mnemonae Healing"

Mnemonae , You are Mother of All Muses.

Because You are Mnemonae I worship You always.

 

Mnemonae in Loneliness is Pain not forgotten.

Pained and hurting I find You Mnemonae with grave regrets.

 

Mnemonae in Solitude is Bliss not forgetting.

Blissed and Blessed I greet You Mnemonae with dear regards.

 

Mnemonae I can escape Your embrace but for a moment.

Momentum is not forever. Your inevitable touch, Mnemonae,

precious perpetual Mnemonae,

I crave and must know.

 

Mnemonae, Your Loss and letting go I must embrace just now.

Mnemonae, Your Life and Love I must so will know.

 

for My Precious Mnemonae, You are Death and Loss

unforgotten. for Present Mnemonae,

You are Life and Love and Time.

 

Mnemonae, I owe You All My Muses. They will come visit Me.

I know that. for You, Mnemonae, for You are Death and

Loss and Love and Time Immortal. Yes, My Dear Mnemonae, You;

BECAUSE You are Mnemonae,

You I will Worship with Awe Forever.

Patrick McCabe

 

           "Cupid"    
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

 Skilled archer, your arrow found its mark.
 It pierced my unsuspecting heart
 and left it bleeding there.
 Deceiving cherub, you sent the pangs
 of love into my breast:
 an agony that I must bear.
 
 No sword can penetrate my armor.
 No adversary do I fear.
 But deep inside this tortured soul
 how fragile is my shield.
 Your tiny arrow pricks my heart
 and causes it to yield.
 
 I fight with all my strength
 to keep from falling
 as many helpless mortals fell before.
 You draw your bow and I quiver.
 I cannot tell you why
 for in my heart, my greater fear
 is that you'll pass me by.
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Rinald Steketee

IT IS VALENTINES DAY--I REMEMBER YOU

Today is Valentines Day. Last night, I saw the full moon shine with a glow from the past. I think of how much I miss you. I think of the time we had together when we thought the world was ours forever. I think of the years you were on oxygen twenty-four hours a day, each breath a reminder time doesn’t stand still.

I remember the first month you were gone. You left Sydney and me at three o’clock in the morning on December 27, 2012, while at Evergreen Hospice for a week, after surrendering to your brave battle with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The moon was full, a bright light to guide you on your journey. I felt hollow and empty. You were my rock. You were my safe harbor. I was lost in a sea of tears, every breath a reminder of your encouraging smile. I still wish for one more minute--one more day--one more year--an endless amount of time through eternity when we were healthy, dancing in the kitchen to our own rhythm. I hold on to your memory like a life-saver.

I met you when I was twenty-two, you were thirty, the year was 1968, strobe lights flickered over the dance floor as we smiled, dancing to bass beats pounding, voices singing poetry into each heart. We were members of a secret tribe, changing partners to dance when the police walked in the front door. No commitments back then, we were free spirits chasing new adventures each night; the sexual revolution was blooming. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I would get married, have children, and be like everyone else. Somehow I thought I was going through a phase, like a full moon.

It was a time when people only exchanged first names, keeping personal information to a minimum from fear of being blackmailed or losing a job for being in the wrong place at the wrong time or beaten-up by the self-righteous or even murdered. No big neon lights above the door announcing welcome to the local gay bar, relax, have a drink. No warm, safe feeling when policemen walked through the bar, out the back door. A ripple of fear followed crisp blue uniforms to the alleyway, expecting to see human garbage lurking in the shadows needing to be arrested, placed behind locked steel doors, or deserving to be beaten with a billy club. Lost, lonely spirits made it past a maze of obstacles to a circle of friends for comfort, protection, and a few hours of feeling accepted. Eyes met across the room, shooting Cupid’s arrow to an empty heart hiding behind a secret life.

Dancing slow dances at the Golden Horseshoe. Hearts beating to three songs for a quarter playing on a glowing blue light jukebox. Titles were selected, giving courage to ask temptation to step together in an embrace on a small crowded dance floor. Hands sweat. Music plays so loud, conversations can’t be heard--murmurings imitate sentences, heads shake with silent answers, smiles acknowledge something was said. A few drinks, fear melts away; three dances become an introduction to true love; time speeds fast forward to last call. With luck from the heavens, I woke-up snuggling with you, my Yvonne. Leaving in the morning with a throbbing hangover, back to another rule to live by: If you see someone away from the bar, act like you don’t know them, be a daylight blur in the crowd. But oh, the nights, the magic of the dance.

For six months, my heart skipped a nighttime beat, living a dream. I woke-up mornings, looking at you in wonder, saying your full name like a mystical chant. No shadow of daylight blurring the stars in my eyes. Your decision to return to Australia burst the bubble of happiness filling my heart. I was twenty-two, left alone with the memory of your smile, prepared to change partners for the next dance.

Twenty-eight years later, I was fifty years old, living alone for ten years, feeling depressed, empty from a life filled with ups and downs. You had been watching a channel nine PBS program. The end credits listed April Ryan--graphic artist. You looked up my phone number, called thinking I was a talented PBS artist, but didn’t seem disappointed hearing I was a Metro bus driver. We spent a few weeks talking on the phone. I felt anxious making plans to meet after so many years. On the inside, I was a thin twenty-two-year-old, drinking beer and dancing under strobe lights. On the outside, I was a fifty-year-old bus driver with a sore back and seventeen years of sobriety. I wondered if you expected time to have stood still since 1968.

We met for lunch at Thirteen Coins Restaurant, where years before we had dinner, ordering Steak Sinatra ala Mia, drinks, and bottles of wine. This time you were waiting in the lobby, reaching out to shake my hand. I was having none of that, pulling you in for a heart throbbing hug. No Steak Sinatra on the menu. It was 1996, new famous names, but I didn’t care what was on the menu; I was fifty years old, ready to burst with excitement like a giddy school girl!

I told my mother I wanted her to meet the woman I planned to spend the rest of my life with. She had us come to her house for a “my daughter loves you and wants us to meet” dinner. I sat on the couch, holding your hand. I had never before, not with men, or other women, held anyone’s hand in front of my mother. I was fifty years old, finally holding the hand of someone I loved and adored. It was a monumental moment for me, expressing I was ready to start a new, open life without guilt or shame.

One night, your dear friend June invited us for dinner to celebrate our new relationship. June was cooking sizzling New York steaks, when you said, “I just can’t get used to April’s gas!”

I about fell out of my chair. GAS! How could you tell June about my having gas when you hadn’t said anything to me? I looked at you so hard I am sure my eyes were bulging out of my head!

“What do you mean?” I whispered like it was a hidden national secret.

“Well,” you said, “I’ve never cooked with gas before.”

“You’re talking about cooking with gas? I thought you meant I have gas! I wondered why you would tell that to June in front of me!” We laughed so hard tears ran down our cheeks.

For the longest time, when we visited June, she’d open the door asking, “Have you gotten used to April’s gas yet?”

You got used to more than my gas. We got our dog Sydney when you retired in 1999. We bought a home together. You helped hold my spirits up when my mother was ill with Lou Gehrig”s Disease. When mom died at Evergreen Hospice ten years ago, you told me, “If I need to be in a hospice, I’d want to be in a place like this.” You encouraged me while I helped my stepfather live with a stroke at Harbor Point Assisted Living. You were put on oxygen in March of 2005. You were brave, loved, and adored by Sydney and me.

The list of our common values was much longer than our differences. I was more Tinker Bell, you were more Thinker. We traveled to Mexico, Hawaii, and your beautiful Australia. I didn’t expect a long wonderful adventure after I turned fifty. We were a great team, we loved each other and were comfortable together.

On this Valentine's Day, I think of you.

I see you flash your beautiful smile, our eyes meet. We dance together, once again. Holding each other, forever I am twenty-two. My heart skips a beat.

February 14/2014 April Ryan  

 

THE LOCKET of LOVE

“What’s this about his grandmother?” My mother came rushing into the dining room from the kitchen as my brother, Fred had asked: “Isn’t that the locket Peter brought home from Egypt or Australia that time?”

            As Kay looked at me, and said, “Why Peter, your grandmother sure gets around!” I was instantly wishing the floor would somehow open and swallow me. But it didn’t.

            You see, it’s this way. I had met Kay in New York some three years earlier. She was brought up to the British Apprentices Club at Chelsea Hotel as a guest of one of their hostesses. I happened to be there as a guest of Tommy Finn, an apprentice on the MS Western Prince. I seemed to hit it off with this black-eyed beauty right away, and for a couple of weeks until my ship sailed, I escorted her home from the club each night, detouring by way of Times Square to her residence hall on East Eighteenth Street. When I sailed that snowy December day to West Africa for a three-month trip, I went in hopes that she would still be in New York when I returned. She wasn’t.

            I joined another ship and sailed out for a five-month trip to Egypt, via South Africa. When I returned in November, I called at the British Club and learned Kay had returned to her home as she couldn’t find her dream job in New York. I didn’t know where her home was. In late December, I found in my notes the phone number GRamercy 5-8924. I couldn’t remember what it was, so I called it. Mrs. Garrison, the house mother at Kay’s one time residence hall answered, so I asked her for Kay. She gave me her home address in Fall River, Massachusetts.

            On a chance, I sent a Christmas Card. Right after I joined another ship, I received a Happy New Year’s card from Kay in return. This card gave me an excuse to take the weekend off and travel up to Fall River to meet Kay and her parents. When I returned to New York, my ship sailed to Australia.

            In Melbourne, one day, I happened to see a crystal heart-shaped locket on an old fashioned gold chain in a shop I was passing. I thought of Kay, and purchased it.

            When I returned to San Francisco in April, I immediately called Kay on a pay phone to her home in Massachusetts. I was so happy to make contact with her, I managed to run up a phone bill of over $23. Since I was only earning $35 per month, I figured the rest of my pay would just about purchase a bus ticket to take me back to New York.

            When I returned to New York, I was nearly out of funds, and headed for the Union hall to put in for another ship job. It was early enough, that I stopped in an Automat for morning coffee, and while looking through the newspaper came across an article about a new Officer’s training school for merchant seamen who had a minimum of 19 month’s sea time, and was 19 years old. This school was to be at New London, Connecticut. I just fit the criteria, so instead of the Union hall, I went to the War Shipping Administration office to apply. I was accepted, and sent to New London, Connecticut for a four-month’s training course.

            The courses were Monday to Friday, so I had week-ends off. I used these weekends to visit either New York or Fall River, so spent many weekends visiting Kay’s family. As the weeks went by, I thought about this locket, and being quite bashful, tried to figure out how to give it to Kay with all the sentimental attachments I wanted to convey. I couldn’t just say, “I’m in love with you!” So I made up a yarn that this locket had belonged to my grandmother, who had died ten days before I was born. It was to go to me if I were a girl, or to pass on to a love as the years passed. Since I would be sailing into the torpedo infested North Atlantic, I did not want to chance losing such an heirloom. I gave it to her for safekeeping. As the summer passed, I asked her to wear it.

            After September, I went to San Francisco and was sent to New Orleans for a ship assignment. In late January, 1943, the ship was torpedoed, and I sailed with part of my crew nearly one thousand miles, landing in Barbados.

Before I left Barbados via Trinidad and returned to Mobile, Alabama to payoff the ship, a troopship the Dorchester” was sunk in the North Atlantic. Headlines in the papers told of the many possible survivors succumbing to hypothermia in the cold waters before they were rescued.

Kay read these headlines, and thought it was my ship. When I called her about ten days later, she was so happy to hear I was still alive, she quit her current job at the Pentagon in Washington and took the first train to Mobile to join me.

When we met, I took her to New Orleans to be married. Then brought her to the West Coast to meet my family and so I could sail the relatively safer Pacific Ocean. Hence that dinner with my family.

I had forgotten about the sentimental story I had used when I gave the locket to her, thus when my brother asked: “Isn’t that the locket Peter brought home from Egypt or Australia that time?” Kay responded: “Why Peter, your grandmother sure gets around!”

Peter and Kay Chelemedos, in their 90s and still together, live in Edmonds.

                                         Peter, Kay and their daughter Penny. They seem to have 

                                         survived the locket incident pretty well. 

Read tales from your friends and neighbors in SHARING STORIES on the LOCAL page of Northwest Prime Time  at http://northwestprimetime.com/. Send your stories and photos to ariele@comcast.net. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.).

“I’M IN LOVE!”                                                                                                                 Sept. 9, 2013

By Marta Boros Horvath,  age: ancient

“I’m in love” might sound like an ordinary statement of fact or an excited shout from a young person, but come on; I’ve practically sailed here on the Mayflower with the Pilgrims!

The exciting discovery is that I’m as passionately, obsessively, madly “in love” once again, just as I was when I was in my youth or prime.

The object of my current passion is a beautiful 33-year-old man named David Garrett.  David is a violin virtuoso, which in itself could ignite my emotions, but in addition to being a talented musician and a great violinist, he is also a “beautiful man,” beautiful in a sense of Greek gods.  His face, at times, can look classically sculpted,  at other times exotically sensuous.  He has a charming smile that reveals dimples in his cheeks, and he has a captivating personality when he talks to an audience of thousands or to a few friends in an intimate bar.

My meeting with David was accidental, a chance encounter. I was looking for something to watch on TV Saturday night, flipping channels.  I finally stopped on PBS.  And there he was!  The station was doing their usual fundraising, broadcasting one of David Garrett’s concerts. It was one of his crossover concerts that looked more like a pop or rock concert than a classical one.  A spectacular light show, dancers, and pop instruments, such as guitars and drums, rounded out an explosion for the senses.  David played the violin like a blond devil. I’ve never seen him or heard him before.   It was love at first sight that glued me to the TV set, mesmerized, trying to figure out who this Pied Piper was. Then, l  heard his name.  After the show, I “Googled” his name on my computer and continued to watch YouTube clips of his performances, classical and crossover, for hours.

Next, I looked at numerous still images of him, and as an avid amateur photographer and a visually oriented person, I enjoyed comparing the “many faces” of David. I wanted to know everything about him.  I found out that while he had attended Juilliard, to help with his living expenses, he sometimes modeled. Another evidence that he’s “easy on the eyes.”

My obsession took me to Silver Platters yesterday to see what recordings of his are available on CD or DVD. I purchased some of both, and just finished viewing him and listening to him perform Beethoven’s Violin Concerto with the Russian National Philharmonics. Immense enjoyment! He is a renegade artist, likes to dress unconventionally for the crossover concerts, yet he’s equally capable of conveying the most tender tunes and emotions on his Stradivarius violin.

So what is happiness? According to some, happiness is having something to do, someone to love, or something to anticipate.   

Now I look forward to seeing David in person.  As luck would have it, he has an engagement at the Paramount Theater in January.  Just in time for me to ask my family for tickets to his show!  I love you, David Garrett!  And I’m  a senior citizen of 72!                                                                         

A JOYFUL EXPERIENCE

I knew where the Tully’s was on Lake City Way in Kenmore and made the journey from my RV home on the lake in time for our coffee date.  I checked my hair and lip gloss before exiting the car.  I was nervous.  I asked myself if I was ready for this.  I wasn’t sure, but I would soon find out.  This would be our first face-to-face meeting after many long emails for two weeks sharing our interests and getting to know one another.

 

I entered and she greeted me with a smile and a gentle hug, then we sat down to chat.  I felt like I’d known her all my life.  We talked rapidly, pausing to take a sip of coffee and then reengaging in a lively conversation.  We made plans for a matinee that afternoon and subsequently our dating began: camping, boating, gardening, walking, and going to boat shows, out to eat, to movies, and finally to Hawaii.

 

We shared travels and fun that led us to where we are today.

Now, eight lovely years later, we are domestic partners and have discussed the notion of marrying.  Posting the ad on Craigslist to see if I could meet someone led me to the joyful experience of meeting the love of my life. 

 

by Sue Ferguson

 

This is the response to one of the exercises in my online class, Write about Your Life. Sue has graciously allowed me to use her lovely story.

Ariele M. Huff

Having a cold together is bonding, though not exactly romantic.
On the other hand, it really makes us aware of times when we want to kiss and really don't think that would be good for us--continuing the contagion to the less sick one, etc.
There is something to be said for anticipation ;-)

Thanks to Peter Chelemedos for sending me some of his best “love lines” written for his wife Kay back in 1943.  He uses a lovely poetic strategy, repetition of a key phrase at the end of each stanza: “I have known melancholy,” “I have known solitude,” “I have known love.”  Capped by the final lines: “I have looked to the depths of your big brown eyes, Found there the love for which passion cries.  Quickening the beat of my heart…I have known you.”

Peter is now in his 90s. He and Kay live in Edmonds. I've had the couple in writing classes for about the last 20 years. Their love story is true, as I've seen it played out in those many years.
Ariele

"ELAINE"

On a wet November night in '83

early in the A.M.

after a long days work

and your passing,

I've left my car in some lot

and walked so the journey

home would be long

and the memory of your

life would linger deep into

the tired bones of my legs

at sunrise.

W S Fisher

Along with 50 shades of graying, there are at least 50 shades of women’s sexuality--all the way from my 80 year old Aunt, who couldn’t go long without a man--When her husband died she found a new lover at his funeral-- to Saint Teresa of Avila, who married Jesus who filled her with his spirit and gave her “ecstasy” (her word).

Regular sex, according to researchers, sex experts, and Dr. Oz, helps you live longer. If you do not have a partner, you are not out of luck. Bernini’s famous sculpture, The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, can represent any woman’s orgasm, even if, like Saint Teresa, she has them, in dreams.

Orgasmic dreams can rival if not surpass partnership sex. Here are a couple of testimonies on the Forum of Women-Health.com:

It doesn't seem to coincide with a specific dream…. The orgasms are amazingly intense, almost full body, and nothing like I've experienced during sex or masturbation, and even those are pretty intense.

I would be deep in sleep, dreaming apparently, and then have these INTENSE orgasms while still about 85% asleep! And, I am not touching myself in anyway either!

Women, young and old, can have a robust sex-life with or without a partner. Due to our traditional culture, older women may be too inhibited for auto-erotic or dream-state sex. My advice? Get over it.
Wanda Fullner

We are independent, we are not afraid to be alone...we have a world of friends on our laptops and ipads and phones and computers ....but there is nothing in the Universe that can replace a warm hug, a loving "it's OK" embrace, a human heart that feels your heart. Arm's are loving extensions of our hearts...they are meant for hugging.

Melba Walton

 

There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one.
Kazuo Ishiguro

“Downward Dog”

Closed Leaf,
my nose in your smell on the mat.
Dog hair where
we did doga—dear departed.
A sigh, a sob.
I look at you snoring on the sofa.
Thirteen years.
I must stop grieving you
before you’re gone.
Ariele M. Huff

I’ve been told no one can define love, but I think the opposite, that everyone can and does, every day.
    When we talk about love over fifty, pets are a big part of that. Of course, they are at every age for some people. But so many of us—when left by spouses and children—don’t have the desire or energy to find another mate or lover. Sole companions many times, our cats, dogs, birds, fish, snakes, pigs, horses, or chickens become our lifelines to love. They provide touch—so precious. They listen when we talk, watch us, and count on us.
    In jails, prisoners turn to wild birds, mice, rats, whatever will come close, whatever will make some kind of contact. In the prison of depression, illness, lack of mobility, we discover other things to comfort us: pets, plants, television, social media. And then, we love them, it, those with an affection borne of propinquity—and more. With an affection that recognizes the need to feel affection that overreaches rules and custom.
    One day, my mother had a special fly—visiting her as she wrote. She saw intelligence and felt connected—a kindred soul buzzing through the veil of tears.
    May you find and enjoy loving something living today.

“Dancing”

Kamill, a boy I liked, was a good dancer who enjoyed it and knew how to lead. At about 14 years old, I realized I also liked to dance.

It was a popularity contest. If you were asked to dance a lot, and boys kept cutting in just to get a chance to be with you, it showed you were "light on your feet" or had a personality that attracted boys' attention. I liked dancing with boys who were taller than I was and who could lead well. And I discovered I liked being in the arms of someone who guided me in such a way that I could anticipate his next move so we could sway to the rhythm of the music in unison.

I loved the sensation of being led by someone smoothly, gently but decidedly. "Let the
man lead, and give yourself over to him” are some of the secrets of good dancing, because,
ultimately, it depends on his skills.

I spent many nights dancing with many different young and not so young men, but never became tired of the sensation. In a way, it is like good foreplay, a legitimate tactic for being embraced by someone in public. Add some romantic music, mood lighting, and a couple of drinks, and you have all the ingredients for dizzying feelings unlike anything else.

Kamill and I were young and very proper, however.

 ©2009 by Marta Boros Horvath  Stories from Hungary

 

"For My Love"

 Folks can say we don't act our age

that we giggle too loud, late at night

but they're just on the dour page

and us, we living with delight

 

Yes, you make me feel sixteen again

and yes, I like this 'sixteen' better

and oh yes, you make mornings with rain

just so much prettier.

James Stansberry

Why am I blogging? And why this blog? Why about love, romance, and sex?

Fair questions since I haven’t been much into following blogs and previously stopped doing a blog through Barefoot Running ezine, a publication and a sport I love.

First reason, my lifelong dislike of the general trend to find love, romance, and sex laughable or disgusting in the elderly seems well shared in this way. If you doubt this ubiquitous social attitude, recall the last time you saw a story about the elderly couple married fifty, sixty, or more years. “Oh, they’re so cute!” the reporter gushes. Please! Staying married that long requires a lot of skills, guts, and nerve. To have that reduced to “cute” is so patronizing. Or try having a conversation in a public place where you’re sharing that your over 50s aunt is in a steamy romance. Watch for the shocked faces and “E-yew” grimaces. (Betty White has done this one a couple of times on Off Their Rockers, a series devoted to showing how the majority of adults under 50 misjudge and perceive those over.)

Second, Nick Wong is doing a blog from Brazil about his work there and sharing his feelings on several topics. I found myself reading it faithfully and, though the subjects are often sad or scary, feeling accompanied in a transitional time for me too. I felt closer to him than to most people I saw in person. Therefore, I concluded, blogs have that value.

Third, Marta Horvath (in a Write About Your Life class) began doing hauntingly beautiful stories about love in all its aspects, including sexuality. That’s unusual in any class composed of any age group. Her writing seems the perfect counterpoint to or medication for the disbelief or dislike of older people enjoying flirting, courting, and mating.

DISCLAIMER: I find it easier than easy to write about love (note the posts Love is a Decision and Struggles: Loneliness). And I’ve previously written light erotica and pieces about sex. HOWEVER…I am NOT finding this easy. I want to be as personal and as authentic about sexuality as I can be about love and romance. That’s my goal.

In actual practice, I’m finding it difficult not to default into generalities, not to dance around problems, not to leave myself out of the mix—to pontificate to the masses. This self-protectiveness is understandable, of course, but the value I found in Nick and Marta’s writing was that opening of self. Some opinions on the blog so far are that I’m too shy and hidden or too open and sexual.  

Lol  ;-)

My attempt will be to share honestly without being vulgar or explicit in a gratuitous manner.

Excerpt from A Submarine
by Ritzy A. Ritzhaupt © 2013

"Peggy and Handy Together"

They became as one as they loved each other sharing the deepest joy of being joined together. Their bodies shattered into tiny pieces. The room glowed with the vibrations of their newfound energy. They revelled in each other’s arms. They screamed in unison during their loving climax holding on with unbelievable strength as they reached the ultimate goal of being one. Handy knew when he inhaled her scent that she would always be beside him.

Peggy melted to him with their two hearts beating in unison. The aroma of heated sex filled the room. She knew she would love him forever. She wound her legs around his, refusing to let him escape. She felt him in her soul and in every corner of her being. The tender lovemaking by her oversized man filled her with joy that reflected in her eyes as the hazel color engulfed him. He surrendered completely shuttering one last time in pure joy. They continued to hold onto each other while wave after wave struck them, like the ocean crashing upon the rocks. They were exhausted but they could not let go. He bent down and tenderly kissed her forehead.

“Sweetie, no matter where I go, I will always carry you with me.” He reassured, cradling her to him, protecting her from all harm, as he cherished her very being.

“I love you so much, sometimes it hurts,” she expressed in soft sobs while he protectively rocked her until the tears stopped flowing and once again, she smiled.

Two emotional refugees adrift in the sea of humanity, had found each other. They each were surprised that someone could actually love them. They carried the burden of neglect and abuse, dragging each one of them down, as it had tried to drown them giving the earth two less people.

Together they stood strong and appeared tall like a golden statue, but shallow to a casual viewer. Their feelings and support for each other ran deep beneath the sea. They had each fought their own battles to survive to adulthood.  The grace of an added supporter gave both of them strength beyond that of a towering mountain. Each had withheld love from people who would only hurt. Now, they were freely able to share between themselves. Giving support to each other through any situation that would devastate most people. They were survivors and together they formed an unbeatable force with overflowing love. 

 Novel being written by a student in my class. Permission given to post.

Struggles: Loneliness

Of all the struggles with love, romance, and sex that  I hear about from
people over 50, loneliness seems to be the most common and the worst.

My mother mentioned it often after my father died. She survived him for
12 years and 23 days. My grandmother mentioned it a few times during
the 23 years she out-survived my grandfather. Friends and students also
comment on this factor of aging: loss of spouses, loss of social contacts
through retirement, loss of friends & family through moves and deaths.

The photo below of my mother the year she passed shows a big part of her
network of support. However, she was a friendly woman who managed
to have a male companion in spite of all odds. She cultivated her next
door neighbor--a man of my age--who had been a teacher like herself.
A totally platonic relationship, her time with Dan still fed the need for
companionship. They baked pies together, played with her cat, and
endlessly discussed what it was like to be teachers. Shortly after this
photo was taken, Dan dropped away from their friendship. Later, we
realized he'd not wanted to go through seeing her die, but, at the time, it
was a devastating blow for her. Within a month, she began to demonstrate
what later we discovered were cancer symptoms. She died in about three
more months. Her sense of betrayal at Dan's unexplained absence was
part of it, but just the absence of the almost daily connection was a huge
blow to her quality of life.





Four Generations: Mom, Me, Daughter, Grand-daughter

 Personally, I seldom feel lonely. I have a husband, four daughters (available by phone or

email if not in person all the time), and since I still am teaching writing classes, I have a

large group of people I see weekly. Those groups are highly pleasurable and stimulating.

I read somewhere that just having a place where you are expected to be with regularity

supports living longer and happier lives.

My writing classes do that, and to some degree, even my online writing classes provide

companionship, certainly challenge and creativity.

 

 

 

 This is a photo of a small group of writing students at the Greenwood Senior Center.

Lyda, the woman standing next to me (far left), passed a year ago. The most memorable

thing she said to me was, "If you liked sex when you were young, you'll ALWAYS like it."

I consider her saying that to me a major gift to give to another person.

 

Groups like this are a part of what keeps me feeling needed, interested, stimulated, and

more alive to things like love, romance, and sex.

 

So, thanks, friends!

Ariele