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If you were my daughter . . .

2/28/2015

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There are moments to be quiet, keep your opinions to yourself; after all, they are just my opinions and more than likely will not manufacture world peace or nourish the hungry. "Don't unleash the drama," says the one that is my son. I ask, "So others get a voice and opinion, and I do not? " Silly, but that doesn't make the world go round. No one learns from keeping quiet, and heart attacks are ignited because you can only stuff things inside so long.

There are moments when I should be quiet but don't. THIS is that moment.

If I learned anything from my mother, it was that I should listen to my mother. Sure, she was the devil's instrument, tearing apart my dreams and bursting every bubble, telling me that Bobby Sherman will never love me. She knew nothing. Absolutely nothing. She was old. Old people don't know anything about young people. Where does she get off?

And yet, in the end, she knew everything. Funny how that happened. Sadly, it took me 50 years to get it. I wish there could have been one more moment to tell her, "You were right."

So at the end of a week - that included disappointments and pure rage - there's a swarm of thoughts stored still inside my gut, I'm letting them out. Time to make Juette proud and avoid the heart attack.

If you were my daughter (or son), this is what I would tell you:

Always say THANK YOU. From the kid who opens the door for you at the Waffle House to your family who takes care of your dog for four months, say "thank you." You might need those people again some day. No one should ever have to wait to hear those words.
And let's not forget manners. You know, those things that make us civil, kind, thoughtful and not a dog. If someone calls you and asks for a response, do it. When someone takes the time, you should take the time. Convenient is not an excuse. It's just good manners.
Along those same lines, don't burn bridges. Bridges are very hard to build from the ground up.
Listen to your elders, especially those who have said they have been there before. More than likely, they aren't lying - why would they? - and they are trying to save you some grief.
Do the right thing from the beginning. It's easier that way.
Admit you were wrong, and fix it. Just fix it, and stop whining.
Love can't fix everything. Some things must be left to the will and skill of others, and there's nothing that all the love in the world can do until they are ready.
Be honest. If he's in jail, he's in jail. Things (truth) always have a way of returning and biting you in the ass (Juette would have never said ass, but I'm taking poetic license here!) It's always harder to tell the truth later.
If you say you're an adult, then act like one. Being an adult is hard, making hard choices and then sticking with them. And, being an adult never means being rude. You can't fix rude. Rude runs deep, and people don't forget.
You will grow up one day. The past is much clearer through the lens of your own experience.
Love doesn't end, but nerves do. People will only take the shoveled shit so long. (Again, Juette - no shit.)
Tell your parents - your in-laws - your family - that all those years of their struggling, denying, sacrificing, and believing - was not in vain. Those words of gratitude will mean more than you can know right now.

Listen to that voice that inevitably lives deep within us all. It comes from mama and daddy and all the other crotchety old people who have saved you a few tears and attempted to make life's road a little smoother. There is right and wrong - black and white (not everything is 50 shades of gray!)

Call it your gut - I call it mama.

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Boat motors, fishing reels and $.79 shirts

2/9/2015

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Maya Angelou said, "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

I get that now.

We walked onto Little Palm Island smelling of crab pots and sea spray. Sal had pulled our little boat up to their private dock without giving it a second thought. Helen jumped out, tying the boat to the pilings. Then, Sal hopped out. Len and I just looked at each other with amazement. I knew one night on Little Palm Island would set us back at least two months mortgage payments. I smelled. I was wearing shorts. I was not Little Palm Island style, none of us were. Nevertheless, led by invincible Sal, we marched through the tree-lined path, past the padded chaises and thatched guest huts, to the tiki bar and pulled up a stool. "What do you want?" Sal asked of us. Within five minutes, we had exotic drinks, and I was ever the more amazed that no one had asked us to leave. Then, the words that would change me.

Sal raised his glass and softly offered a toast. "I wonder what all the poor people are doing today."

My eyes popped. I know exactly what the poor people are doing. They are sitting right beside you, Sal!

You see, Sal was wealthy. Not in a banker kind of way, but in a president kind of way. He had obtained the kind of wealth that only lives in my dreams. Sal traveled to pyramids and exotic lands with Helen, his wife of 48 years; he built houses for every season, collected antique tractors, fishing reels, old fans. He flew planes, drove boats, set crab traps, and enjoyed white wine with lots of ice cubes. And, he shared all of this with his family, his friends, his wife and his little pup, Quinn. His collections were always growing, not for the sake of wealth and accumulation, but for the sake of preserving the reel's story or the tractor's might. Preserving and protecting, and he knew he had the means to do it. So, he did. And when an email would pop into our inbox from time to time from Sal, the one line, ALL CAPS message told of his newest discovery, and he would include a quick picture. It always made us smile.

And that day, on Little Palm Island, I smiled. He made me feel really good about me. Knowing that I was way out of my league on that island and even out of my league in the presence of a man who had traveled the world and had made more money that I would make in a thousand lifetimes, I belonged. In my shorts, smelling of crab pots. I was rich. He didn't see my bank account or my list of accomplishments. We were family. We were rich.

I remember vaguely the stories Sal shared. The names he dropped - Jackie Kennedy, Andrew Wyeth, Jimmy Buffett - that didn't faze him. I remember how he and Helen welcomed Len and I into their home year after year, taking us to No Name Pub and playing trivia at Boondocks and, to my amazement, winning the first round of our first game. Sal knew that Marilyn Monroe was on the first cover of Playboy; we asked how he knew, but he just shrugged his shoulders and grinned. When we got back to his place, he couldn't wait to show Len the red collared shirt he bought in Key West for a bargain $.79. What a deal!

Sal and Helen told us how lucky Len and I were to have found each other late in the game. They knew how important it was to find your soul mate, for with Sal and Helen, you could not say one name without the other. Where one went, the other followed. They were the ultimate soul mates. And if I ever needed anything, "you call me," he said. And I knew he meant it. There's not many people that will give you their heart without proof of life. Most people like Sal don't have time for people like me.

For the last four years, as I finally realized my own family had disappeared, I found a new source of wisdom and comfort in Sal and Helen. Accepting me into a larger-than-life Sicilian family that many times made me wince from their oddities. I loved it. I love them, and that's why today, there's a void in my heart.

I've never driven a Bentley, given Ted Kennedy permission to tie up at my dock, helped Jackie Kennedy with her horse, exported cars or tanks across the sea, looked at Hemingway's fishing reel resting on my shelf, encouraged Jimmy Buffet to take a shot at this singing thing, but I have felt the same kind of compassion they felt when they walked with Sal Lentine. I was lucky enough to have him in my life, if only for a few short years. I am no longer poor.

Len and I like to think his heavenly chariot looks something like this: a golf cart with a hood of an antique Cadillac a half block long, with wings, sporting huge tractor tires, powered by an old Evenrude outboard motor, with a license plate that reads "Lentine" with Sal at the wheel, a fishing rod in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other.

That makes me feel really good.

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If you were my daughter . . .

Boat motors, fishing reels and $.79 shirts

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