My best friend of all time, Gaylee, died May 3, 2019, after only ten years of knowing one another. A cancer tragedy second only to losing my dad suddenly to a heart attack at his age of 60. Although Gayle never met my dad, she would say more than once, “I love your daddy.”

She’d heard of many loving daddy moments I’d spoken to her attentive ears, often with tears. We’d driven and hiked to many waterfalls found by reading her 200 Waterfalls of Central and Western New York guidebook in hand.

Roy H. Park Preserve is near her home in Ithaca, NY where we both reside gloriously. I am prompted to return there many seasons since losing her, now the first day of spring 2025, remembering how she called it Paradise Park.

Near 16 years ago, Gayle began placing heart rocks on the gorge wall near two converging streams, small waterfalls racing to larger ones. Like how my love for her vulnerable, sensitive, generous, loving whose openness and acceptance made it possible for me to share everything. And I mean everything! Even when I felt fearful or embarrassed.

A prize without price.

Every time we returned to paradise park, other hikers had added heart rocks discovered nearby, to the natural shelves of the gorge wall. And every year since her passing I add another heart rock each season and sometimes write “Gaylee and Dianea” with a stone, on a heart rock, where I and her partner, Jim splashed her ashes. Our love. Foreverlasting. Still growing heart rocks.

As I saunter into Salvation Army’s Thrift Shop, (some Ithacans call it Sallie’s boutique), a mannequin dressed in a bright red floor length billowy dress catches my eye. Looking closer, first to the price tag, $24.99. Then the size – I decide it deserves to be tried on.

Once in the fitting room, I manage to zip up the back most of the way. I’m stuck after I tug and tug. Until I’m out the door asking a stranger, a woman to complete the zip. Success!! It fits my 5’9” height perfectly; although I wonder if I could hold up this strapless wonder of frills and flounce.

I decide to risk it; and proceed behind the fitting room door to unzip. Stuck again! Thinking, should I decide to go outside again to request assistance where all can see? One woman tries and tries again. Then another woman holds the dress together as the other pulls and tugs. No success! Our laughter doesn’t help – except for our boundless mood. 😊 As the dress zipper breaks. Scissors to the rescue. I am free.

You might be asking why do I want this dress so much? I tell these helpful women that I am attending a Stardust ballroom weekend in April, (it is now January 2025) and it is perfect in size and price, now lowered to $1.99. More laughing. One woman tells me that a good seamstress works at Angelos dry cleaners that would be reasonable in cost. ANGEL to the rescue I quip.

When I cash out, I notice some ribbon-straps tucked inside where my boobs belong. Liberated again with a possible security.

Three weeks later, the seamstress collects $24.

I wish I could remember the specifics of my dad’s conversations; like now reading slowly, like a turtle, and carefully, like a spider weaving its web, his 100 plus weekly letters handwritten to me in the late 1960s while I was in nursing school and early 1970s when married.

The one outstanding sentence I clearly hear from him in my memory: “I won’t give you advice unless you ask me for it.” How wise!  Still his wisdom shines brightly as a full moon, while reading his letters, like June 8^th, 1967: “that a mans (or womans) home is his castle.” Or more so during mom and dad’s separation: “In spite of the fact, that she can’t legally sell our belongings without my consent and that any monetary proceeds from such a sale belong to us jointly, I am sick to death of arguing and will not stand in her way. I am not looking for any reaction or comment on this from you – only to inform you as to what goes on.” Besides being caring and open – the tip to me is that I’m not being asked to take sides, to be put in the middle of their divorce.

However, “When mom asked yesterday if Eric (my brother) was going to stay with the Krauses, I told her, that I would try to find a Christian home for Eric through Rev. Olford and she insisted, that you had decided to do that? That it had been your idea from the beginning? It really does not matter whose idea it was, as long as he finds a good home.” Wise enough?

“Right now is perhaps the most beautiful time of the entire year here. The various shades of green here are so full and pure and lovely and there is a profusion of beautiful flowers…Went for a walk the other day and on a rocky bank beside a path, there was an area, no more than 4 square feet, with three different types of moss, some lichen, several beautiful small ferns and three different types of blossoms of plants I did not know – and within a few feet, there were several Jack-in the -Pulpits. How much are we inclined to look at the overall “big picture” and miss the very beauty of the little details. Yet, weather we look at the immenseness of the Universe, or through the microscope, we see His beauty everywhere. How wonderful it is.”

We were both religious at this time, I no longer am, yet I am spiritual.

He concludes this letter, as he does many, “Please take care of yourself. I am looking with eager anticipation to the arrival of your letter you mentioned in your card. Be happy.” I am still learning to ‘take care of myself.’ I am happier each day I cry.

Although sad, my tears fill the cracks of my heart that misses him. (He died of a sudden heart attack in 1977 when I was 31 years old.) And the stars never stop reminding me of how his love flourishes (tears) within me – and when the full moon shines over me, I hear and see dad’s story – that we are together when looking at the moon.

Last weekend, December 15^th, 2024, I was moonstruck, yes, struck by how high in the sky, more brilliant than a sun at daybreak.  It is called a cold moon, showing itself every 19 years or so, yet warms my heart to say, “Carol, look at the full moon!” with an excited voice, like that of a child.

You know, I could write of my USA record (now broken) of most marathons run consecutively by a woman – 36 in 36 months – back in1983, 1984, 1985. But it pales in the light of the high moon that shines my pillow brilliantly as I sleep until surprisingly awakened at 3am to take photographs. Unforgotten.

My dad was an astronomer, who showed me the constellations through his telescope set up in our backyard, but I could not hang onto his enthusiasm as I wish for now tearfully. He is and has become the most brilliant star of my life like an Olympic medal around my neck. (Now listening to YouTube: The Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me sung by Gladys Knight…glad tears running a film of you as my knight in shining…). Dad told the story of when you look at the moon, you are never alone – crying – that wherever you are, we are both under its light, which shines brilliantly our love shared in memory.

I’m rereading the 100 plus letters he wrote to me during my college and early married years, “Please take good care of yourself,” written in some form every letter, like March 20^th, 1967, “make sure you get enough sleep and eat properly.” Concluding always with words like “love galore,” or “love, Dad.” Or “love you.” He constantly writes detailed descriptions of family events, and nature, nurturing me daily since his death in 1977 from a sudden heart attack.

No wonder, while perusing East Hill Antiques during the holidays, I see a record player, spinning vinyl – wishing to hear again, Luther Vandross singing, Dance with my Father. Thinking how I bet my dad has the record of the most feelings expressed in his weekly letters than any other dad of the 1960s.

There is a backed-up line awaiting at Wegman’s recycling of cans and bottles; large grocery carts overflowing, like a snowy tree-lined ski slope. I carry a small bag of maybe a dozen cans, standing still with my thoughts, should I come back? A toothless man with mountains of cans stretches forth his two quarters in exchange for my cans -without introduction- unshaven, a complexion of poverty. I refuse his 50 cents, us both smiling, to his thank you.

Another day I am in the laundromat, where the bill changer is not cooperating with my one dollar, so I end up short 50 cents needed to start the washing machine. I ask a woman with several piles of laundry if she has two extra quarters, replying, “I can’t” until she sees my offering of 5 dimes, which turns into a “yes”, sending me a mournful smile. Of course, I say Thank you so much! sent with a compassionate smile.

After my clothes are clean, it becomes clear that same woman is struggling financially, while her man-friend is helping her to wash their clothes. They are white poor, like the man at Wegmans. As I leave, I give them $5, hearing a cautious thank you, receiving a squinted smile.

Another day soon after, I am in line at CVS to pay for printed photos. The woman with uncombed hair in front of me cannot make her credit/debit card accept payment. I pay the 8 dollars and some cents for what looks like Depends pads. She accepts, but does not turn to look at me, as I hear a soft thank you. A complexion of shame?

I am 78, a very middle middle class white woman, who has been lower middle class, close to the poverty line, but never crossed over, although once on Medicaid for a year. My growing up complexion of anger has been moisturized with many many tears, washing away the anger; the wildfires, opening my heart to evolving tenderness, as is the rain to mother earth that smooths my wrinkled complexion.

I am a dancer, despite my mother’s religious attempt to stop me. As a mother with two young daughters, they will take dance lessons, even though I have little money and am essentially a single parent.

I sew my own dress of shiny blue, a 360degree swirling skirt that shows off the fitted top. I own small boobs; and now the freedom to dance. To make up for lost time; forbidden to dance during my childhood.

Young at heart, I am a beginning average runner in the late 1970s. I sign up for the 24-hour dance marathon fund raiser for the Arthritis Foundation held at a local night club in Ithaca, NY called the Nite Court. How apropos!

Each hour, we are given a 10-minute rest period for a bathroom sprint and hydration. All night. For 50-minutes you must be on your feet. More exhausting than the all-nighters I pulled off in college.

When I return home to my daughters and their babysitter, I am just plum tired.  I hug my precious Erin and Megan, hardly remembering my head hitting the pillow – out like a light! My heart full of light. All night.

How many years has it been since I created a log cabin quilt? One side is doused with purples and blue flowers, the other side is fronts of T-shirts displaying many National Parks I’ve explored as my love affair of many years still unfolds.

My heart warms like a quilt during sleep as I recall my oldest daughter, Erin as a teenager joining me in a quilt making class, where we ended up being the only two attending. How special I feel that she wanted to share this creativity.

I am especially pleased when remembering Erin and my younger daughter, Megan traveling with me cross country for a month of summer 1986, when they were 15 and 12 respectively. We tented and hiked in Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky, Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons of Wyoming, onto Glacier of Montana, to Olympic and Mount Rainier in Washington, Crater Lake in Oregon, to the Redwoods, Lassen, Yosemite, Sequoia and Kings Canyon of California. Of course, we include the Grand Canyon of Arizona, onto Carlsbad Caverns of New Mexico, and Mesa Verde of Colorado, where native American homes were uniquely built into the sides of hills. The state of Utah graced us with five of the most unique national parks: Zion, Bryce, Capitol Reef, Canyonlands, and Arches. WOW, we saw all this beauty I say to myself!

I drove a rusted Dodge van, belonging to my then boyfriend, odometer reading 150,000 some miles, experiencing only two breakdowns, miraculously mended (that’s for another essay.) Since I was a single parent 90 percent of the time, having just finished graduate school, there was little money to be saved – $700 in traveler’s checks carried us through gorgeous mountains, spectacular waterfalls, new wildlife. My girls brought money saved, knowing we had a very tight budget, where I’d agreed to buy them each a T-shirt from the park of their choice: Megan chose Yellowstone, and Erin chose Glacier. Their T-shirts now sewn into the quilt with the many others I must buy from each of the parks we visited, not knowing I would be stitching them together years later, close as I wished to be with their memories. Adding in 1990, Badlands and Wind Cave of South Dakota, Teddy Roosevelt of North Dakota, and another of my favorites, North Cascades in Washington, along with Big Bend in Texas, where Erin and I floated down the Rio Grande inside and outside of a tube maned by a guide. An 8×10 framed photo is hanging on my living room wall of us in those muddy waters where immigrants now cross, searching for freedom. Greatfulness surrounds me.

Just days ago, I ask my daughters and granddaughter Denali what their favorite National Parks are: Denali says her favorite is Arches because of fond memories with a friend biking around Moab, her second favorite being Olympic because it has different climate changes/biospheres, adding Banff in Canada just she and I, although not a US park. Megan says that probably Glacier and Yellowstone are her favorites because of the expansive mountains and geysers and animals; Grand Canyon was also amazing! Erin says Zion for the Narrows and Angel’s Landing, Mount Rainier for the mountain vistas and wildflower meadows. Although the Grand Tetons are a majestic memory I have returned to three times, riding donkeys down into Bryce Canyon stands out wondering if riding donkeys would take Erin and I over the narrow edge, that scary narrow ledge is no longer present, only love as I am warmed in spring, fall and winter by the quilt’s PARKed grand memories shared with my precious daughters!

At first, I thought I would focus on writing in my journal as the chore, but over the passing decades, this chore has become more pleasant as I receive the reward of an EVOLving higher love of self-awareness… to be able to love myself, more truly, then others.

But now I find myself more interested to write about today’s chore of riding my scooter to the repair man, despite the prediction of rain. Just over two weeks ago I was thrown off my scooter like a beached whale into the middle of Clinton Street in downtown Ithaca, NY.  When a car in front of me stopped quickly, I had to follow suit, and skidded, now recovering from a severely sprained ankle and several black and blues, mercifully greatfull no bones were broken and without ambulance bills! These are marvelous gifts when you’re turning 78 in a couple weeks and living on limited retirement funds!

I arrive without raindrops falling, and while I wait for Anthony ‘s easy attachment of a new mirror and left brake handle, a hummingbird flies into my face within 5 inches of my nose and eyes – as if I am a flower. I’m excited with joy while realizing I cultivate flower gardens and this close encounter has never happened before…a face-to-face close encounter with a bird. Magical!

And yesterday, as I was driving home from a printer-repair chore I see a man on the side of the road, picking up 3 bags he’d set down temporarily and then walking with his thumb out soliciting a ride. I stop, with the slightest thought of fear, to pick up a man, but do not hesitate. It’s broad daylight – I’m in my hometown – I trust my ‘gut’ – really my heart and soul. A tall strong man pushes 2 large grocery bags and a stuffed backpack into the back seat as I ask where he’s going. At first, I say I can drive you to Burns Road where I turn to home, then learn he is a homesteader, off the grid, where a home burned down, has a partner with two daughters and has just been volunteering at the Salvation Army although he is on disability. It is not a chore to take him and his positive energy a couple extra miles to his ‘lowly’ abode. Bombarded by his gratitude.

Addendum:

While reading in bed the next morning, I find myself googling: garrulous, solipsism, enervated, supermimetic, venality, within the span of 15 minutes. Turning my love of reading into a chore. Consternation! This is my peroration.

My daughter Erin, 15, and daughter Megan, 12, and I are hiking 6 miles up Mt. Rainier through switchbacks of colorful wildflowers causing my heart to beat with beauty, until we reach a 360-degree view of the valley below, dressed in lakes, rivers, flowers, and piercing mountain ranges. Tears race to my eyes unexpectedly. A rare moment. Of confusion. Of wonder. Feelings I walked out with in 1986, emblazoned in my memory like the days my daughters were born.

Their dad walked out when they were 4 and 1 coming out as gay; choosing to see them every third weekend. I did my best to have my daughters see their dad’s musical performances as a high school music teacher, being only 30-40 minutes from where we lived in Ithaca, NY.

It was the late 1980s when we were entranced by their dad singing, The Impossible Dream from the musical Man of LA Mancha – when tears flooded my eyes, nose, and throat, so I couldn’t help but sob like a baby. At the time, I was a budding Marriage and Family Therapist, hearing the words in my head, vowing, “I will never be ashamed again for crying in public,” resounding like the liberty bell.

When we walked out of the auditorium, a man I’d never met came to me, saying, “You’re stunning!” I was taken aback, stunned, while feeling proud.  Even when my eyes are reddened like a sunburst?

It wasn’t until the late 90s, after beginning primal therapy that my heart and mind clicked together as to why I sprung tears on Mt.Rainier – then I had not felt beautiful.