Author: Jcpatrick

Catlin went to a dressage horse camp outside of Saranac Lake, New York every summer from the time she was 10-11 years old until she was 15-16 years old. Her birthday fell in the middle of the camp session, so she changed ages between drop-off and pick-up each year. That rustic Adirondack camp was a tradition for our whole family, and Al and I often vacationed alone for a few days before our family vacation began at the end of camp.

One year, I decided I wanted to do some mountain stream wading. Al and I stopped in a cheap dollar-store type shop in Saranac Lake and picked up a couple of bath towels for our feet and legs. I like my towels to be a medium weight rough terry, preferably with ridges. The pale mint green and pale petal pink towels fit the bill perfectly, and I decided to throw them in my suitcase to bring home. I figured at a couple of bucks apiece, they might last me for one season.

That was approximately 25 years ago. I just hung up the mint green one after tonight’s shower.

I looked for towels as great as these two for all these years. Never have I found their equal. At their advanced age, they show no sign of thinning. Their appearance, however, is quite another matter. A quarter of a century of daily use, a couple of spins through the washer/dryer each week, and the continued discoloration from minerals in the water have turned them pretty unrecognizable when compared to the originals. In fact, I’m not always sure which one used to be pink and which one used to be green. They are both now just kind of a light, dingy beige color. They look pretty danged disreputable, to tell the honest truth.

The first time Mike laid eyes on one, he tried to throw it away. Nope. In Texas, it was okay. Our bathroom was an en suite, upstairs in the master suite. No one saw them except us. But here in this much older home in Arkansas, we chose a downstairs bedroom, and there is no master bath. We share the one across the hall with any visitors.

Every time we straightened up before people came to visit, Mike would tell me to hide those towels. He said that people would think he couldn’t afford to buy me a decent towel! Even freshly laundered, he refused to touch them. He simply couldn’t understand why I – the one who tossed an article of clothing at the first sign of wear – would continue to use something so decrepit. But use them I did – and I still do so today. (But I do hide them now when company comes!)

I cleaned out Mama’s cedar chest about ten years ago. In a box, still wrapped in tissue paper with a card, was a gorgeous set of deep rose towels she and Daddy received for their wedding in the early 1950’s. Never used. I immediately washed them and hung them in the bathroom. I’m happy to say those 70-year-old towels are still going strong – and they still look great.

There is something timeless and intimate about linens. Our beds are decorated with handmade quilts that Mike and I collected and others that were passed down through my family. Some are so old they are more batting than quilt, but we treasured those all the more. Antique throws decorate our chairs, and I still use antique lace and crocheted linen doilies for fun when I decorate for various seasons. I’ve collected old kitchen towels from almost every female relative I’ve lost who was close to me. They aren’t new – the more faded the better. Each piece of linen bears witness to their daily lives. Meals cooked, cabinets wiped, behinds of husbands and children swatted. They are fabric reminders of handed down love.

So much of today’s society is disposable. We rarely make things that last anymore. But the warp and woof of old linens and the memories and stories they hold make them even more precious to me in our transient world.

However, those two bath towels likely won’t make the cut after I’m gone. Saner minds than mine will hustle them off to the rubbish bin. Mama’s towels? Those rose-colored beauties have YEARS of life left in them yet at 62 – and beyond.

Today is my husband’s birthday. Were he still here on earth, we would celebrate his 66th birthday with a homemade Coca-Cola cake with double fudge frosting. We would share presents and jokes and laughter. We would compare aches and pains and be amazed that we’d reached an age that Mike insisted on calling “elderly”, to my great irritation!

Before Mike left this world for the next, we talked a lot about signs. Signs from the other side, to be precise. He felt them all his life, as did I. He felt the presence of his mom and dad on a daily basis and talked with them often. I am blessed to regularly walk my path surrounded by my loved ones who are no longer present on earth.

Because we knew it was possible, Mike promised that he would send me signs. He wanted me to know that he was always there watching over me, only a heartbeat away. And being Michael, he stayed true to his word.

As soon as Mike passed, I was filled with the most unutterable peace. That peace was filled with the assurance of no more physical pain, a pure bliss, and an indescribable happiness. As Mike would say, it was wonderful. I knew with certainly at that moment, he was home, and all his beliefs were indeed real.

Those first months without Mike, I asked the question endlessly – what would Mike do in this situation? The answer always came. I knew how to do so many things, even though I really hadn’t a clue. I felt Mike was there, guiding my hands and giving me knowledge. And by golly, I conquered each new task with his help.

I’ve never felt someone’s spirit via smell until Mike. That first summer, I walked through a cloud of his fragrance almost every day. His cologne. His sweat. Traces of smoke. The scent of his lotion and shampoo. It was unsettling the first time it happened, then I began to welcome it. It continues still today. Not as often, but the scents are definitely as strong. They are like brief, fragrant hugs.

On one of our first exploring trips here in the Ozarks, Mike and I were poking around the Buffalo River, finding new swimming holes. He ducked down in the water, grabbed something off the bottom, and presented me with a perfect heart-shaped rock. Over these last three and a half years, many more hearts were placed in my path. Rocks. Leaves. Clouds. Water droplets. A slice of cucumber in my salad. I never know when one will show up, and they are such lovely surprises when they do.

As Mike asked me to, I’ve worn our two gold nugget necklaces together every day since he died, with nary a tangled chain. In the past two months, they have woven around and through and back on themselves in intricate patterns that take quite a while to gently unwrap. I never notice it until I look down, and they have knotted themselves together, clinging to each other until I separate them once again.

Are these things real? Are they just my wishful imagination? Cabinet doors swing open of their own accord, with no one nearby. We had a lamp that we both loved, and it turns off and on all by itself. Others have observed these things, too. Once they get over the slight shock, they just laugh and tell Mike they miss him. Michael was such a sheer force of nature in life, it seems perfectly natural that he would continue to be so in spirit form.

I know without a shadow of a doubt that Mike continues to reach out to me. He is letting me know he’s at peace, watching over me, trying to keep me safe. He told me just before he passed that he found me once. He would find me again, and we would be together forever. I believed him then, and I believe him now.

And in the meantime, I pray that Michael will continue to send me messages…at 62 and beyond.

It’s the simple things that surprise me. Tonight, I made a fire in the wood stove.

It’s a much bigger deal than it sounds.

Mike and I grew up in the same small Arkansas town. We were friends since we were small kids, but our upbringing couldn’t have been more different. Mike grew up outdoors, hunting and fishing, hiking, helping his dad with horses and cattle, operating tractors and boats and four-wheelers and motorcycles. Yes, he liked to read, but Mike wasn’t an inside kid by any means.

I, on the other hand, was practically forbidden to go outside. Mama redefined the term “over-protective mother”. If I sat on the ground, it was on a quilt. I wasn’t allowed to make mud pies, couldn’t get dirty, playing ball was out of the question, and running was frowned upon – it was a very long list of restrictions. Finally, at ten years old, I was allowed to ride a bike, and I was darn good at it. Roller skating was encouraged, and amazingly, I stayed mostly upright. I could swim like a fish and had an almost perfect dive, thanks to Daddy’s coaching. Those were the extent of my outdoor skills.

After graduation, I moved to Houston. In the heat and humidity of America’s fourth largest city, I was hermetically sealed inside air-conditioned venues for the next 42 years. I worked in broadcast facilities and offices. My hobbies were reading, crafts, antiquing, writing, making jewelry – all inside activities.

And then Michael came back into my life. I was more than ready to break out of my shell, and MIke exploded it into small bits. Things I would have previously found inconceivable, I took in stride. If Mike told me it was safe, I followed without question. And I wanted to learn to do everything that he knew how to do.

Mike loved teaching me what he called “country girl skills”. Pretty soon, I was driving the four-wheeler, raising and caring for chickens, learning to operate power tools, and so much more. In Alaska, Mike taught me the very basics of driving the boat, how to hook up propane tanks, to blow out water lines and winterize the cabin, to catch and clean fish – I discovered something new every day. And I learned to build a fire – in the fire pit, in the wood stove, in the fireplace – I learned to make fire and to keep it going. I loved being out of doors, and I loved my life.

I did the gross stuff, too – fishing the dead rooster out of the water barrel, cleaning out the truly disgusting cabin our winter renter left behind, and disposing of the half-decomposed animals brought home by Gus, our blue heeler. Gloves, bleach, and a long sturdy stick allowed me to do wondrous things.

And then Mike died, taking all of my confidence in my new life with him. I was fine for awhile. I carried on for most of 2019, continuing to learn and to grow. But the combined avalanche of grief, pain, hip replacement, retinal detachment, and recovery finally overwhelmed me. With Covid lockdowns, my world condensed to my chair, my desk, and my bed. I rarely spent time outdoors. My new-found confidence vanished, depression took over, and it was just easier to let Catlin do it.

But that’s not what I want out of life. Several months ago, I decided to start reclaiming my life in a myriad of ways. A dear friend told me this week that my voice is different on the phone. I asked her what she meant. She said that I sound strong and vibrant again – I don’t sound sick anymore. And that took me aback, because I thought I was the only one who knew how broken I had become.

I loved that woman that Mike awakened. And sometime this winter, she blasted out of her hiding place. I don’t know why or when it happened, but I know she’s back.

Maybe it’s because I’m physically feeling better and stronger. Maybe it’s because I’m busy, working on interesting projects, getting out of the house, and making plans for the future.

Or maybe it’s that Mike gave me a figurative boot in the butt from the great beyond – just like he would do if he were here in person. He would simply tell me that enough is enough – it’s time to get back to the business of living.

Mike always told me before I set off to do anything on my own – “Go, girl. Make us proud.”

And so, today, I made fire. And in one way or another, I will continue to do so – at 62 and beyond.

There were two libraries during my growing up years. The first was a big square brick building across the street from the county jail. Two water fountains were on the south wall, with two labels above them, stating who could – and who could not – drink from them. They were but two of the many examples of the starkly divided world that comprised small southern towns in the early 1960s, and the signs were eventually removed. The second library was a standalone building down on Main Street. I loved the topiaries on the east side that spelled out the word “Library”. It was the first time I’d ever seen such a wondrous thing. The second library had a place to park the Bookmobile out back. That was one of my favorite things, that little rolling truck of books. It always smelled like old books, with that slightly musty odor that promised wonderful discoveries within.

Daddy took care of the African violets for the library. They had a huge table of gorgeous plants, with flowers covering the violet spectrum – pinks, purples of all shades, whites. Every Saturday morning, I followed along with him. He watered, picked over leaves, and chatted with the librarians. I disappeared into the shelves to re-emerge an hour later with a huge stack of books. I blazed through them each week, curled up on my bed by the big window, a fortification of snacks beside me. I could hardly wait until the next heavenly Saturday morning. I loved those times with Daddy.

Stairs formed the dividing line between the children’s section and the adult section at both the old and the new libraries. There was something symbolic about those stairs for me. Entering the adult section was heady, entering the kid section always left me wanting more.

I outgrew the children’s library at a young age, and I got permission from the librarian to check out adult books when I was around ten, but only with her supervision. I always wondered if she had any idea of the depth of the world that she opened for me with that permission. I wandered around the stacks, looking for pretty dust jackets. One huge book caught my eye. The cover was exciting, filled with glorious pictures. Gone With the Wind had over 1000 pages in that edition, with double columns of tiny mouse-type on each page. I checked it out, it took me about two months to read it, and Scarlett O’Hara and her world were forever burned into my impressionable ten-year-old soul.

I got my sex education at the county library. Thinking back on it as an adult, I’m amazed at the wide variety of truly descriptive authors that lived on the shelves of that small town, Bible-belt library. I read some of the most graphic, out of the ordinary passages I’ve ever had the pleasure to read while curled up in those stacks. (I never sat in the chairs in the lobby. When I found a book to skim, I just dropped down to the floor and commenced to read.) Back in those days, when you checked out a book, library index card bore your name. You could see everyone who’d checked it out. I still can’t believe the little grey-haired ladies freely wrote down their names on some of those cards – or maybe they just found each other afterwards for book discussions…!

After GWTW, I branched out. I devoured historical romances, and soon began to learn which ones were worth reading for the history, and which ones to skip. Gwen Bristow’s books brought history to life, while telling exciting stories. Others I loved were by Harlequin Romance authors, which in those days, were pretty well written. In later years, we loved to play Trivial Pursuit. I knew the oddest answers, and I could credit every one of them to those early Harlequin Romances.

Other authors caught my early attention – Herman Wouk, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Louisa May Alcott. In middle and high school, the list expanded to J.R.R. Tolkien, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Truman Capote, Edna Ferber, Leon Uris, Erma Bombeck, Jean Shepherd, Stephen King, and oh, so many more. Just like with music, I didn’t have a favorite genre. I sampled them all.

I continued to visit the Young Adult section even as an adult. Some of my most cherished book collections come from those authors – Janet Lambert and Lenora Mattingly Weber were my two favorites, and I still reread them today, in my sixties.

I discovered an entire section of plays at the library. I spent hours poring over the set and scene directions, reading them aloud. Many were older plays, and I discovered those who made up Broadway’s golden years – Barbara Bel Geddes, Noel Coward, Tennessee Williams, Neil Simon, Moss Hart, Arthur Miller, and so many more. Plays opened my world in an entirely different way and made it much easier to understand theatre when I moved to Houston and could finally experience live productions.

Those hours and hours at the library taught me practical skills, too. In those days, the Dewey Decimal System and the card catalogue were our search engines. More detailed info was contained on microfiche. The xerox machine was expensive, so skimming and taking notes was imperative. We also had to learn and decipher footnotes. I perfected my skimming skills to the point where I could zip through entire books and microfiche cards in record time. That skill still serves me well.

What did I learn at the library? I learned that there was an entire world outside the narrow confines of the one in which I was raised. I wanted to experience it – to see it – to taste it – to live it. The library literally opened up my world. I learned to question, to not take things – or people – at face value. I learned the value of reading the last chapter first. I learned to laugh, to cry, to feel shock and terror. I learned critical thinking. I learned tolerance of others. I learned that being female wouldn’t stop me from realizing my career and my dreams. And I learned what I wanted to do with my life – and to feel free in my choices for that life.

So much more than a building full of books. That library threw open the doors to the world for me. And I’m still discovering and learning and building on those skills – at 62, and beyond.

 

 

It was a normal September day, 20 years ago. The sky was a beautiful robin’s egg blue, that sky that is synonymous with September for me. Catlin was at high school. Al just left for jury duty. I turned on the Today Show, getting ready to walk into my home office and start my day, working for NPR.

Matt and Jane were puzzled, trying to figure out what kind of plane just hit the World Trade Center. They were saying that there seemed to be an awful lot of damage from just a small plane, but what else could it be? Moments later, as we watched the second plane fly into the towers, we realized exactly what it could be. A commercial airliner. The unthinkable unfolded before our eyes.

We soon found out about the attacks on the Pentagon and the downed airliner in Pennsylvania. I called my boss – and good friend – in DC, frantic with worry for my coworkers. He assured me they were fine – for now – and quickly ended the call. Al came home from jury duty. We decided Catlin was safer at school, a decision I’ve always regretted.

When the first tower came down, I thought our world was ending. I loved those towers, and watched the phases of their building with awe. I screamed aloud and sobbed when the second one fell. All I could think of was the people – all those people inside. The first responders, going up the staircases to rescue those who were trapped. Those who looked up from a phone call to register briefly a jet nose huge in their window before they registered nothing at all. Those who made it out, unbelieving that they were physically safe. Their mental safety was another matter.

It was the people who made this personal. Military personnel – we know they face real danger, danger that has the potential to take their lives. But moms and dads working in an office, going to meetings, grabbing their first cups of coffee, sitting in their seats on an early morning flight – those aren’t warriors. They aren’t in mortal combat. They are ordinary people.

They are us.

The personal stories are what I will remember from that long day. My PBS friend who was stuck in traffic and watched in disbelief as AA Flight 77 sheared off a giant light pole as it roared across the freeway in front of her and slammed into the Pentagon. My NPR friends – so many stories. One friend had been in an offsite seminar. For some reason, no one told them what had happened until the day was over. She said they emerged into DC streets full of chaos, so frantic that she expected to see a Godzilla foot rounding the corner. It was a scene from a horror movie come to life. Catlin had summer camp friends whose parents worked in the towers. Thankfully, all safely returned home – but many of their colleagues and neighbors did not.

That night, still shell-shocked, we went to our neighborhood Mexican restaurant for dinner. It was packed with people, surprisingly all wearing red, white, and blue. I felt very out of place in my peach shirt. The next day, those robin’s egg blue skies were empty. All flights over the USA were grounded. It was eerie. Silent. Forever changed.

I became almost obsessed with learning the stories of those who died. I read all the NYTimes series of articles about them. I ordered the 9/11 books when they were published. Alone in my office, I read story after story of survival and death. That’s actually when I started my jewelry business. I had to have another outlet for my spare time – something for my hands to do other than type in research points about 9/11.

This wasn’t something that was a one and done. The effects of 9/11 are far-reaching. It’s taken 20 years for our troops to come home from Afghanistan, and even that was full of trauma. Many of my NPR colleagues in DC turned their bottom lateral file cabinets into storage for their survival gear – their bug out bags, in case the unthinkable reoccured. I never again went in the subway – or any building – without a flashlight.

The Newseum in DC built a large exhibit devoted to 9/11, along with part of the broadcast tower from the top of the North Tower. We lost 6 broadcast engineers when that tower fell, including one from WNET-PBS. Our public radio station, WNYC, was a prominent part of that exhibit. Their staff were heroic, risking their own lives to continue reporting the day’s events and the aftermath, even after their transmitter went down with the North Tower, and their nearby offices had to be evacuated.

I flew back into DC shortly after flights resumed. Catlin was terrified for me to go. I wasn’t totally at ease with it myself. The downtown, convenient National Airport was closed – and the multiple headaches of navigating Dulles Airport and finally reaching downtown DC gave me something else to focus on besides fear. Dulles was filled with soldiers, automatic rifles at the ready. This was the beginning of the searches, random and not. Our world of flight was forever changed.

By some strange circumstance, a photographers’ convention was going on in NYC on 9/11. Some time later, the Smithsonian held an exhibit of their work, taken on that day. The best disaster photographers in the world were in the city, on the scene, documenting the events as they unfolded. The photos were chilling, almost unbelievable, as are so many of the day’s memories.

Everyone has a story about where you were on 9/11. It’s one of the epic events in our nation – along with the moonwalk, Kennedy’s assassination, the Challenger explosion. One of Mike’s and my earliest online conversations was about where we were on 9/11, and the impact it still had on our world several years later. He’d posted a photo on Facebook of an American flag flying proudly from the raised ladder of a fire truck at his oil rig in Prudhoe Bay. Mike and I differed dramatically in our political beliefs, but in the pride and love we had for our nation, we were the same.

Pearl Harbor belonged to our parents and grandparents. 9/11 belonged to us and to our children. I pray that they – and their children – never have another day like this to call their own.

Asking for God’s continued blessings and His healing hands on all Americans – at 62…and beyond.

A fresh, ripe peach is one of my longed-for summer traditions when the days are wintery and grey. Even the colors of it – cranberry, peachy orange, lemon yellow – evoke the warm colors of summer. The fragrance – so sweet I’m fighting the bumblebees for it – is heavy, languid, indolent. Peaches will forever be summer to me.

I have my father to blame for much of that. Every morning of our summer world, a red plastic mixing bowl sat in our Frigidaire, securely covered with Saran Wrap. Every evening, Daddy cut up and sugared his peaches, adding more to the bowl. They graced his cereal in the morning, making bearable those horrid bran flakes he loved so much.

I clamored for peaches, too. In those days, I was a skinny little thing, but with an appetite like a stevedore. Daddy knew if he let me loose in his peaches, only one of us would be enjoying them! He cautioned me to stay out of them each morning. I could have a few, but only a few. He told me that eating the whole bowl would make me very sick, and I would wish I hadn’t done it.

One morning, the temptation was just too great. I snuck into the kitchen after Daddy left for work. A quick swipe and a handy spoon, and that red mixing bowl and I kept happy company until it was completely empty. I even drank the sugar water Daddy soaked them in! I was quite pleased with myself, and went off for a happy morning of Barbies at my friend’s house.

Mid morning, the first queasy feeling started. About an hour later, I was hot-footing it home to spend a very long day hugging the porcelain bowl. I had never been so sick in my life! Mama ratted me out to Daddy when he got home, and he let a simple “told you so” be the end of it.

And that ended my peach obsession for awhile. Except for peach ice cream. Peach preserves. Peach syrup. Nope, as I dug out those frozen little peachy bits from the ice cream carton, I decided that peaches were in my life to stay.

And so they have.

When I was moving, I found a forgotten childhood birthday gift tucked way back in a dresser drawer. The Avon peach soap, still in its box. I gently unwrapped the fragile paper surrounding the peach, now nearly six decades old. Just as I remembered, the two halves fell open, revealing the perfectly carved soap peach pit inside. The fragrance was long departed, but so many memories remained. I’d thought that peach to be just about the cutest thing I’d ever seen as a little girl. From time to time, I’d take it out and smell it, then carefully rewrap it and put it back in the drawer, just as carefully as I placed it in that moving box. We’d come so far together – I wasn’t parting with it now.

Peaches from the Amish farmers market now top my oatmeal each Arkansas morning, taking me full circle to those Arkansas summers long ago. The red mixing bowl is long gone, and I now cut up only a few at a time, and make them last for days. There’s no longer a need to rush to the bottom of the bowl. I now have the wisdom – and the memory! – saving me from that bit of excess.

And I think of Daddy with a smile each summer morning when I open that refrigerator door…at 62 – and beyond.

On the island, Mike always watched for slack tide to go fishing. It’s a term I was unfamiliar with, and it basically means a stasis. Tide isn’t coming in, tide isn’t going out. The water is simply still.

That’s been me over the past few months. The pandemic. The hip replacement. The emergency retinal surgery. The complications from same. Relearning to walk and get energy back after three months of forced inactivity. Lots of stasis going on in terms of general life.

Mike was the Energizer Bunny. Even through chemo, he rarely stopped doing something. I’ve always had the same energy – until now – and I want it back. I’m going to have to fight a little harder for it, but I’m determined it’s coming.

There’s a new Jimmy Buffett song (isn’t there always?!) called “Slack Tide”. I’ve played it over and over as I’ve been driving the highways the last two days. One of the lines says “things don’t just happen, they happen for a reason”. First time I heard the song, I burst into tears.

That’s what Mike always said about us. He said he didn’t “pick” me – that it was much bigger than that. He felt that we were part of a cosmic circle, that we had been planned all along by a Power much greater than ourselves. We both felt God had put us in each other’s lives at exactly the right time. We just didn’t understand why there wasn’t a lifetime more of it.

Being in stasis has surprisingly shown me another go-round to my grief. It was quite unexpected. This is the part that hits after the first shock. After the first year is done. After the second year is done, and you’re starting to feel like yourself again around the edges. That’s when contemplation and that extra round of grief sets in.

This grief is different. It’s a regretful, cautious, optimistic, sad, missing-you feeling. How do I pick up my world and live the rest of my life without you? How do I start over yet one more time? What are the things that will make me happy on my own?

In other words, what will the rest of my life look like? Failing a crystal ball, I can’t answer with certainty. But I can answer with ideas.

Business – rebuilding my consulting business. Branching out into other areas. Learning new skills. Getting the garage sorted and setting up a booth in one of the local markets. Selling on eBay. Starting a couple of new projects in totally different areas.

Friends – traveling to see them, as my mobility improves. Lunching and getting together. Finding friends to fish with, to boat with, to get outside with. Making new friends here. Enjoying my adopted “grandkids”. Discovering places and spaces I still want to see in this world.

Making the most of Catlin’s time with me – and building a relationship as adults.

Returning to my jewelry. Building the websites out. Finding shows to do again.

As Mike used to say, there are three projects everywhere I look! Ideas are good. But only action brings them to life.

Slack tide is ending. It’s good for boats, it’s good for fishing, and it’s been good for me in some ways. But it’s not a place to stay. It’s time to feel the push and pull of the tide of life again. If I stay here much longer, I’m afraid the comfort and sameness of it will be too much to overcome. It’s like dragging myself out of a pit of taffy.

Time to remember – Things don’t just happen. They happen for a reason. I’m going to again find all the reasons and joy for life I once had – and wrap them in the laughter and exuberance that Mike brought to me as I get on with the next chapter…at 62 – and beyond.

JIm and I used to laugh that we’d lived our lives by the lyrics of Jimmy Buffett and Willie Nelson songs. Past 62, I find there’s a lot of truth in that statement. It’s always been about the words with me – the turn of a phrase, the quirky pairing of words, the emotions. Buffett is a master lyricist.

I watched a Jimmy Buffett concert tonight on YouTube. It was from a Dallas performance in 1994. I feel sure I was in attendance at the same show in Houston earlier that season. At first, I just watched the show. But as the music progressed, I was almost 30 years younger, feeling the total euphoria that a few hours in the presence of Mr. Buffett engendered in me every single time. It never mattered how bad the day had been, how deep the depression, how complete the exhaustion – music and lyrics by Buffett brought me back to life.

I first saw Buffett in the summer of 1975, when I covered him as a reporter for the University of Houston newspaper. He was playing at Gilley’s, the legendary country honky-tonk in Pasadena, Texas. I was shoved up next to the stage, interacting with him on every song. He wore those iconic blue suede sneakers of the time, and when the very drunk lady next to me set her open beer on the top of his speaker, Jimmy and I both watched it slide down the speaker in slow motion. He didn’t jump away in time, and he wore beer-soaked sneaks the rest of the evening.

For the next few decades, I was in the audience every single time he came to Houston. Astroworld, The Summit, Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion and more. I missed his concert the year Catlin was born – I was on forced bed rest, and I couldn’t persuade Jim to let me break out just about a week from due date! My last concert was the night of my 50th birthday – it was as close to perfect as a concert could be.

I never drank at his concerts. I never got high. The all-consuming energy came from somewhere deep inside me. I danced for the entire show – I often wondered why I paid for a seat. I knew the words to every song. It was all about the lyrics for me.

The pop songs – “Margaritaville”, “Cheeseburger in Paradise” – were never my favorites, as much fun as they were. I fell in love with his ballads. The way he wrote, the words he used, the plays on words, and the turn of a phrase made my writer’s heart happy. When he started writing his books, I devoured the ones that told the stories of his escapades, then I fell in love with his short stories. “Boomerang Love” – there is lots of truth in that one to this day.

When Jim died, we used Buffett songs to tell the story of his life in video. “Son of a Son of a Sailor”. “Delaney Talks to Statues”. “Pirate Looks at Forty”. They were perfect. Every single word.

Buffett is a master marketer – hotels, restaurants, casinos, even the whole Parrothead thing. He has that same life energy I loved in Mike – he set out to live life in full, in total – and he did. As a pilot, a surfer, a sailor, a writer, a performer, traveling the world – every day seems to count in his life – and he has fun doing it. There aren’t many who can say that.

There are dozens of songs he’s written that count as favorites. When I finally mastered the incredibly complicated lyrics to “Off to See the Lizard”, that was a job well done. “Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On” has become a personal mantra. “Oysters and Pearls” got me through leaving Catlin at camp for the very first time. The Adirondack Mountains are the backdrop for “Tonight I Just Need My Guitar”. “Oceans of Time” broke my heart after I lost Mike. “Trying to Reason with Hurricane Season” has soothed my Gulf Coast heart for years. The list goes on – and on.

Now, at 74 years of age, Buffett is still going strong. Still writing. Still surfing. Still making his audience think with his lyrics. “Life on the Flip Side” is an album that is a perfect capstone to his career. The very last song – “Book on the Shelf” made me burst into tears the first time I heard it. At that point, I had definitely put my book on the shelf. Without Mike, and with my loss of mobility, I had no plan, no purpose, for the first time in my life. My depression was deep and total. This song summed up for me all that I was feeling – but with a defiant twist. After listening to it over and over, I decided that, somehow, I wasn’t yet ready to put the book on the shelf, after all.

And so, I kicked myself in the butt, got a hip replacement, and started making lists again. I realized that the music was gone from my life. I’m making a point to turn it on again – to crank it up loud – and once my new hip allows it – to start dancing again, both figuratively and literally.

“According to my watch the time is now. The past is dead and gone. Don’t try to explain it just nod your head – breathe in, breathe out, move on.”

So much soul-searching just from a concert – and memories. Thanks, Jimmy.

Taking a deep breath…at 62 – and beyond.

I always vowed that I was leaving the planet with all my original parts. The mastectomy and reconstruction in 2009 negated that vow, but I still had everything major that was originally issued. This new hip, however, is a big deal.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am a very competitive person. I suppose that’s why there’s some small thrill of success when every doctor who looks at my hip X-ray gasps in astonishment that I’m walking at all. Apparently, I won that prize. There’s no longer any resemblance to a hip joint – it’s a blob of bone all fused together.

The ability to function is rapidly decreasing, and I’ve gone from occasionally needing a hiking stick to needing it all the time to worrying that some days, I won’t be able to move forward at all. At least a few times each day, it takes every bit of energy I have to just get from one room to the next.

The shooting, burning, knife-stabbing pain that left me literally screaming for relief most nights last year is gone. It’s replaced by a general pain that pretty much goes away if I’m off my feet – and is pretty constant if I’m on them. So – I spend most of my time in my chair or at my desk or on the bed. I work hard to manage 1500 – 3000 steps each day. Living with chronic pain is debilitating in itself, and it’s exhausting. There are lines in my face that were never there before. Pain is a harsh taskmaster.

Even though I’ve begged for them, the doctors would not prescribe any form of pain pills due to the “opioid crisis”. I took a prescription form of Motrin for awhile, until my blood pressure went through the ceiling. So, that’s gone. I’ve taken massive doses of Motrin and Tylenol, to no avail – and to the point that I’m concerned it’s affected my kidneys and liver.

To sum it up – my life has gone from a pretty happy and active life to one of constant pain and inactivity. It’s more than time for a change.

But it’s a really big one.

There are a thousand questions skidding through my mind. Everyone has told me that it’s an easy recovery. They’ve said I will wonder why I waited so long. They all say that this surgery gave them their lives back.

And that’s the reason that I’m doing it. I want my life back. My body is way past anything I thought I’d deal with as a very senior citizen, much less in my early 60s. I want ease of movement again. I want to walk. I want to escape this damnable pain. I trust my surgeon. He has an excellent reputation and I think he can fix me. I’m telling myself there will be no complications, that my new hip and I have got this.

I know I will be chafing at my recovery. Muscles will be cut, taken off the bone and reattached during the surgery. That alone takes a long time to heal. I still get nerve zings from my surgery in 2009. I will be on a walker for six weeks in order to allow the hip to knit itself into my tissues. Since it’s my right leg, I can’t drive for at least six weeks. I will be using a hiking stick for another six weeks – then I’m done. The walking aids are for tissue healing more than for balance. I will have only two restrictions during this time – don’t bend over at the waist 90 degrees or more – and don’t put my right foot up on my left knee. After healing – there are no restrictions for the rest of my life, except to avoid running for exercise. I can certainly live with that!

One of my friends said that the pain before surgery was just pain. The pain after surgery was accomplishing healing. That’s a great way to look at it, and it’s an attitude I want to remember.

I also want to welcome this new bionic joint into my body. I did that with my breast implant following the mastectomy. I visualized the tissues surrounding it, settling it into place, and welcoming it into my body. It may sound ridiculously zen, but I believed it was important. And so I will welcome this new little part that I’m praying will change my body back to one that is fully functional.

The doctor wants me to take up swimming as soon as he releases me to do so. The therapy clinic has a fit for life program where they will write me a therapy plan and I will pay to use the machines on my own. And I will walk and eventually start to enjoy some of our many hiking trails. I have a lot of ground to make up to recover from this lost year.

I’ve done everything I can think to do to prep for this recovery time. My office is relocated from upstairs to a card table in the den. I have magazines and video services and puzzles and games. Groceries and pre-made meals are bought to give Catlin a break. I have all sorts of after-surgery aid devices. The den is rearranged. I think I’m ready.

Once again, I’m walking to the edge of the roof and trusting my cape. This is a let go and let God moment. This is something I can’t fix on my own. It’s time to thank my original parts for all the happy years – and to welcome this zippy new replacement hip into its new home. I’m praying hard the surgery will be successful and that my recovery will be complete.

It’s just one more thing I thought I’d never do…at 62 – and beyond.

I have been Jane Carrie Patrick since birth. I changed my name in 1979, when I entered a huge mistake of a marriage which lasted less time than it took the lawyers to separate us. For that very brief time, I felt an imposter.

I am the last of Daddy’s immediate family to carry his name. All of my work credits are under JC Patrick. In 1980, I decided to remain who I am for the rest of my life – both personally and professionally.

I answered to Mrs. Uhlig and Mrs. Berkowitz on the rare occasions that I was addressed as such. I added Uhlig to my last name on Catlin’s birth announcement so that future generations would understand that her dad and I were married! But legally and personally, Jim and Catlin were Uhlig and I remained Patrick. Our family with Al sounded like a law firm – Berkowitz, Patrick and Uhlig.

And then came Michael. We were halfway there with the same initial for a last name. All of the P monograms we each had on various items worked for both of us. We were the P&P team, as Mike dubbed us. He had the best sense of humor, and he came up with lots of comedic variations on the team name. One of my favorites was the “P&P Get the &@”$ Outta Here Team” – we used that one a lot!

When Mike first got sick, I became Mrs. Powell at the hospital. It always frustrated me, because I wasn’t. We corrected them at first, then just let it go. Mike said he felt like I’d been his wife for a very long time anyway – we just hadn’t made it legal.

When Michael did ask me to marry him, we thought we had a good stretch of time ahead of us. They called Mike the miracle man. He’d already been in remission once. He was active, eating anything he wanted. This new medication was on track to buy us a good year to eighteen months, maybe more. And then we’d go to the next medical option, whatever that might be. His doctors were optimistic that he would continue to keep the cancer at bay. No one had any idea our time would be cut so tragically short.

We eloped to the courthouse between radiation treatments – and that fit our crazy world perfectly. Our kids didn’t even know until later, and in retrospect, that’s one surprise we should have shared in advance. I still wish we’d video-taped the ceremony on a cell phone. There was just Mike, me, the minister and his wife. We were in our jeans. It was cold, and Michael didn’t even take off his coat. We were on a mission – to legalize what we’d already promised each other long ago – and then let Mike get home to rest after his cancer treatments. Mike beat the minister in saying “I WILL!” in a strong, confident voice. We locked eyes and hands – blue eyes to blue eyes – and summed up in vows everything we’d been living and loving for the last few years.

After the wedding, Michael and I discussed the name issue. He told me to do what I wanted – but neither of us thought it made sense to change my work name after a whole career – which meant that legally, I would remain Patrick. But Powell in our personal life would work for both of us, if I wished to do it. I wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to influence my decision either way.

We had a quick ER visit a little while after the wedding. They were orienting Mike, trying to be sure he knew where he was. “And who’s this pretty lady over here?” “My wife.” “And what’s her name?” “JC…POWELL!!” I laughed and laughed – with that very strong emphasis, he’d made known his preference for my new name!

After the wedding, I got a thrill every time I was called Mrs. Powell, or when I saw something addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Powell. It tickled Mike, but It amazed me. Who was I? I’d never wanted the name change before. I wanted to remain separate. But Mike and I were partners. We were family. We had come full circle to each other, and we had been through so much together in such a relatively short time. Our partnership was complete, and that’s who I was. Who I am.

But our modern data systems won’t let me split my world so easily. If my checks say Patrick, then my ID, etc, must as well. So, in my legal world and in my business life, I will remain Patrick. But in my personal life, even though Michael’s not here, I will continue to be Jane Carrie (or JC) Patrick Powell. Mrs. Powell. It’s who I became – who I am. And it’s the way I will continue to honor Mike for the rest of my life.

Even though I am now technically his widow, I prefer to think of myself as his wife. It makes me proud, and every time his name is uttered, his memory is still alive. The sadness fades, and only the happy times and the laughter remain.

I’m still the other half of the P&P team…at 62 – and beyond.