After living 13 years in a rented renovated chicken coop, I have moved twice in 2015, the latest being august 15th, when my daughter Erin and my granddaughter Denali  helped along with man-friends and family-men for which I am very greatfull. The sofa is a queen-size pull-out bed which means it is extra heavy, needing at least 4 people to carry. Being in the last year of my sixties, I am greatfull that I can carry many boxes and furniture, while ruling out the sofa. Almost. I did lend a small brief hand.

The following weekend my daughter Megan traveled with her daughters, Riley and Emily from Boston for their yearly visit to our home town of Ithaca, NY. My granddaughters (13 and 11) immediately claim the sofa bed, and there is no talking them out of it. Megan claims my double bed, and is not willing to sleep with her mother. So, being the camper I am, I am relegated to the carpeted floor in my sleeping bag, quite amazed that they are all very comfortable with this arrangement.

Then, I think to myself…isn’t it wonderful that they SEE me as this young spring chicken, peacefully living without a rooster. Yet, in my sleeping bag I can dream of one.

Smelling bacon frying meant the beginning of another day, while being awakened by daddy’s soft voice saying “Good Morning” as he switched the light on in the bedroom I shared with my sister, as well as lightening my heart. Mom would be making eggs and toast, setting out orange juice and coffee. It was the routine of my growing up years.

I can’t remember what I made for breakfast in nursing school but the two previous years of college was cafeteria style. I do remember frying bacon for lunch to make BLTs, often hearing the other nursing students say, “Diane’s having BLTs again!” Maybe I just missed breakfast bacon?

Marrying the weekend after receiving my bachelor’s degree in nursing meant that I would ‘make’ my husband and I cereal and orange juice before heading off to our 7am shift. It’s so blurry now as to what kind of cereal…does it matter?

My daughter, Megan would ask for Cece, her name for cereal in the mornings, leaving making either eggs with bacon or pancakes, or french toast on the weekends, my older daughter Erin’s favorite. Still eating together. Remembering the smell of maple syrup.

Now that my daughters have family’s of their own, and I am past four marriages, being single for ten years, I’ve rallied around Ithaca Bakery bagels toasted with butter, many times adding homemade jams made by my German aunt Resi, and cousin Gabrielle. Eaten only after my cup of orange juice, the first thing I drink when I walk out of bed, being the only routine that has continued since childhood.

In Copenhagen airport this past month (July 2015), where I spent the night, a banana and bottle of OJ were bought as I’m awoken by the store gate opening and passengers on the move at 6am. I’m overwhelmed by the many stores in this airport and wish I wasn’t drawn to shop for clothes at this hour. But I do, at H&M, an American store with a European label where I can feel at home?

After a couple decades of toasting bagels made at the local bakery, after being frozen in my freezer by the dozen, I have graduated this past year to bagels still warm from Wegman’s grocery store. Almost daily, I pick up the tissue paper and touch the various kinds to find the warmest. (Or ask) Wegman’s makes bagels all morning long. I relish every bite, the warm yeast scent of the sesame, or multigrain, or honey wheat, my favorites. I wait ’til I’m hungry before I drive to work by way of Wegman’s to find that special bagel and to fill my travel mug halfway with hazelnut coffee adding 2% milk and 2 brown sugars, which I have just this past year begun to drink. (coffee is recently recommended as healthy)

As I walk to my moped in the parking lot, I look up at the clouds and say to myself, “It’s wonderful to be alive: to taste, to smell (lost my ability for 10 years after experiencing a fractured skull), to feel the warm softness, as I remember my father’s tender voice, “Time for breakfast!”

When I tell others that I have been married four times, I usually hear, “Will you marry again? or is there someone in the future?” I smile as I respond, “I’m open to a fifth marriage on the spiritual level, not necessarily legal for I have learned a truer love is not a commitment on paper.”

I left my fourth husband in 1998; for the first time I truly felt I was being my SELF. I no longer depended on a man to make me feel happy and secure. I could trust that I am . I have been single ever since except for one year (2004-5) when I lived with my boyfriend Steve. Of course I was triggered into tears of my childhood hurt, as we all are in intimate relationships so I continue to learn what truer love is.

Being single does not keep me away from such growth opportunities, as my family, friends, and clients continue to trigger me as well. Thankfully, no longer into anger, (what an unexpected gift) always into tears which I am so greatfull for like the heavens raining down into my beautiful flowers. I didn’t wish this essay to be a lesson to be told, but I can’t help but write what I AM, a lover of tears. Replacing fears.

At my best friend’s, Gayle’s memorial for her daddy yesterday, another one of her friends, Clare, told me a story, as I had just said that I wouldn’t sing Amazing Grace as indicated in the program during the line “who saved a wretch like me.” Webster’s dictionary’s definition is “a base, despicable, or vile person.”

How can anyone look at a baby and think or believe we are born a wretch?

Anyway, there was another song on the program, “How Great Thou Art,” that is Gayle’s favorite, and I like as well from my growing up church days, that prompted Clare’s  memory of her seven year old student asking to sing: “How Great We Is!”

Like being single… fancy as a breeze, loving as I please!

For the past 13 years I lived in a pleasant renovated chicken coop, next to my landlord’s farm house, with gorgeous waterfalls within walking distance. Ed and his wife Helen allowed me to plant four different flower beds: one circled my home exhibiting Daises, yellow and orange Calendula, white Moon flowers, multi-colored Snapdragons, A sweet William (dianthus:), Forget-Me-Nots, Cone flowers, purple Spiderwort, pink Cleomes, and many colors of Impatiens. Also, light green Solomon’s seal, Lily of the Valleys, orange Touch-Me-Nots and Tiger lilies. A single orange Poppy. Opps, I almost forgot the window box of fanciful-faced Pansies.

A second flowerbed welcomed us home at the entrance of the circular driveway that joined our homes:  Tulips, Crocuses, Forgetmenots, Impatiens and several pots of Petunias made me smile. Also, I planted an Azalea bush and Oriental lily. Marigolds accentuating.

The third flowerbed evolved as a rock garden where flagstones provided a walkway along Daisies, a crowd of Day lilies, Phlox, Corn flowers, May Apples and wild Geraniums all taken from roadsides in the wild. The invading Goldenrod I did not allow to take over. Sunflowers grew for a few years when the ants didn’t eat them.

The fourth flower area was shaded by a large maple tree grove at the rear of my home, where I planted more and more myrtle each year I lived there, now a blanket of dainty blue beauty each spring and fall. Adding a few wild white trillium to nature’s design. Of course I weeded often, even around Ed’s home.

When I moved out in March I could not take my snow buried plant containers, nor my moped. When the weather warmed I went back for my few things left behind. I had left on a friendly note despite being evicted because I would not pay the raise in rent due to the continuing freezing pipes and drafts through the walls.

I enjoy planting and caring for flowers so in early May, I felt the need to embellish my new apartment with a few of the flowers that I had planted at Ed’s.  They were prolific and would not be missed. So I dug up a few Forget-Me-Nots, Daises, and Calendula. As I was putting them in the back of my moped, Ed drove in, immediately flying off the handle: “Are you taking my flowers? They are not your property!”  (None did he buy.)

I calmly reply: “They are prolific and won’t be missed.”

“I don’t care!” he shouts back.

“I’m even willing to come back and help weed your gardens which I did some today.”

” I don’t care!” spit flying out his truck window.

“You don’t need to yell at me,” I say, wanting him to hear of my generosity.

“This is not your property: get out!!”

“I thought we were friendly,” my voice full of sincerity.

“I don’t care!” his red face seeming threatening.

Off I rode with ‘my’ few flowers cradled inside my moped while wondering where “flying off the handle” originated. I learned from googling that it comes from the pioneer days, when hatchets were easily loosened with aggressive use so that the flying ax would make others have to duck unexpectedly. Times when neighbors shared their produce.

I have lived in a renovated chicken coop for the last 13 years, enjoying the open light of the hill overlooking Treman State Park across the road where many waterfalls delight me….as well as an easy walk to a gorge of waterfalls down the far side of the farm field behind my rental. Another perk is that the landlord allowed me to plant flowers surrounding the coop where I lived as a chick with no roosters except for 2004-2005 when my then boyfriend Steve lived with me.

When I moved this past March there had been no roosters for a decade; except for  some short-lived boyfriends not lived with, I’ve been content to live alone. But not content to have pipes freezing every winter or wall drafts pushing up my electric bills. I encouraged Ed to have a free energy audit and pushed for some adequate insulation which finally happened last fall. Still, the pipes froze once this past winter. So, when he decided to raise the rent in January 2015, I said  “no.” Not until this energy issue is adequately attended to.

I was surprised when he handed me an eviction notice in February. I called his lawyer to see if this was possible. At first I was not so happy about it. Within the next 24 hours my feelings changed and I searched for a another apartment in the country. I wanted a pond badly. The first apartment I looked at I liked despite no pond, and being that we were experiencing the coldest February on record, it was fine for the move then, and the landlady and realtor actually proposed a five month lease without me saying I’d like to find my dreamed of place …a more frequent awareness of the Design Of the Universe  (DOU) giving me what I need.

Moving is usually not fun, yet I mostly enjoyed going through things I had not seen in my mother’s filing cabinet since she died in 2002, as well as other’s loving cards and letters and forgotten photos. I sold my kitchen table and chairs, had older caned chairs fixed, sold or gave away half of my books, and gave two book cases away to my daughter and granddaughter along with mom’s filing cabinet. A futon, mattress, and living room rug went to the Salvation Army. I felt light and lighter. Some clothes disappeared as well as sending my stepdaughter Sara, her school report cards and baby cup and bowl. I delighted in these giveaways.

One of my best moments, other than reading some loving cards from the past…was cleaning out the box under my bathroom sink. I found a fresh white box with perfume in it from a past boyfriend, Bill who had asked me to marry him. We are still good friends a decade later. The perfume is called TRUE LOVE! I felt elated and over come with joy by this one single find, as it connected and confirmed my publishing of the third book of my trilogy called, TEARS ARE TRUE LOVE …waiting to be known, in 2013. I will tell Ed thank you for evicting me!

After writing more than 300 readers writes topics (and never been published), I still enjoy the adventure that springs back memories I have not thought of for decades. Like how my dear daddy instructed me to write down every cent I spent while in college.

I didn’t feel burdened by this as I knew money was tight as could be while raising three children, a one paycheck family. While in nursing school, I did indulge in mint chocolate chip ice cream cones even in the dead of winter, at least once a week, from what my chums and I named  “Dirty Harry’s,” because his hands were always charcoal gray rubbed off from the newspapers he stacked high which made it very difficult to squeeze by the next customer.

One day, while eating the second to last bite of my sugar cone, in my dorm room which is only a block from Harry’s slim store, my tooth sounds a hard crunch, as if I’d hit metal. I look inside the cone, and smile as I retrieve a penny, feeling how lucky I am to have enough babysitting money to afford the luxury of MINTy ice cream cones.

II

It’s a bitter cold  February 2015 when I walk into the Cobbler’s Village to have an extra hole punched into the straps of my ballroom shoes; a higher end shoe store. While the salesgirl readily takes on my request, I walk past the high priced shoes to find and peruse the shoes on sale…more likely to fit the price range suited to my budget.

When I walk back to the counter to fetch my newly-holed shoes, a pair of black shiny open-toed heels painted with red polka dots catch my eye. Before I can catch myself, I am asking, “How much are those, and do you have them in size 8?” They are $89 dollars and on sale with 20% off. I tell her that I don’t need anymore shoes and add, “I’ll think about it,” with an off-handed-laugh.

The next day, I have an unexpected extra hour break due to a client cancellation. While doing some errands I find myself driving to the shoe store, guffawing, as I ask to try on those unforgotten-red-polka-dotted shoes, and of course they fit perfectly, and I must meander through my guilt in order to pull out my Discover credit card. As I am paying, I tell the same salesgirl, “You know, half my wardrobe is from Trader K’s, the second hand shop. Like this jacket I have on and my up-to-my-knee winter boots.”

She asks, “How much did you pay for your (dark rich purple down) jacket?” “I think I paid $28 for it, and it probably cost $100 new.” She nods in agreement. (You can tell it is a high-end brand.)

I walk out of the store with my new shoes, and with a little bit less old guilt.

I didn’t have any until I was fifteen, just buds, as my granddaughter calls them, and even then they barely bloomed in my bathing suit. I was embarrassed to be the only one to be seen in an undershirt in the high school girls locker room. My mother would say, ‘You don’t need a bra;’ Dah…but my broken heart did.

Finally, I resorted to sneaking into Rothchild’s lingerie department after school one day to buy a bra that I would stuff kleenex into…extending this ritual even  into college. Weren’t padded bras available in the 60s?

Still, I married as a virgin at 22, to a man who planted 2 beautiful daughters in me. After six years of marriage he came out as gay…I wonder if me looking less feminine with tiny boobs made me more attractive to him; we had what I would call a ‘normal’ sex life.

And, nursing my daughters was one of the most exquisite loving experiences of my life, and not because my breasts bloomed into 34B or larger due to breast milk.

My second husband boosted my ego by saying he likes smaller breasts, and as an avid runner I finally had an advantage over the voluptuous women who drew men’s eyes to their chests. Presently, sometimes, I wear a bustier to lift my 34B breast implants when I dress up for argentine tango, or other dances, although most days I am braless.

My teenaged-daughters asked me why I would have surgery to augment my breasts to which I reply that I do accept my body, while being an evolving psychotherapist. Yet, I want to look good, especially ‘feminine’ in my bathing suit. That was 1991, 24 years ago, and I have no problems with my implants, and in fact enjoy delectable orgasms by touching my nipples.  I made sure my pleasure continued to be twofold!

In 2013, my best friend Gayle, underwent a double mastectomy due to cancer. Before undergoing reconstruction with implants, she asks to touch mine to see how ‘real’ they feel. I can’t help but be a little bit proud of both of us; how deeply we touch each other with tears and laughter erasing past shame.

I’d like to think that I’ve grown and healed enough to accept my body as it was before the augmentation, like my oldest daughter has. She wears her small breasts proudly as she dances classy burlesque with her five-women Whiskey Tango Sideshow, where she performs for audiences periodically when she is off duty as an RN OR nurse. I am a nurse too as was my religious mother who would not allow me to dance, (let alone show my breasts.)

After seeing the movie The Imitation Game, I was inspired to write the following.

He left his German home, a small village named Dreis, at seventeen, not knowing any English when he landed in America. It was during the rise of Hitler as Germany’s leader.

He was one of seven children of a poor Catholic farming family. The only one to oppose Hitler; his three brothers died as soldiers in WWII.

My dad only knew an aunt and uncle when he arrived in America hoping for an education in medicine, but their relationship did not bode well. Soon, he was off on his own, learning English by taking menial jobs such as an elevator operator, saying “Going up, going down, please.” Eventually he entered school at Cooper Union in New York City, became a United States Citizen, and then as an intelligence officer, was off to war to fight Hitler’s tyranny, against his birth family’s country.

I am continually in awe of my daddy’s courage, his sacrifice, his love for truth and liberty, which always sparks my childhood memory of our American family. Dad and mom took us three children to the annual Cornell’s Schelkoph field fire works, preceded by several marching bands playing in various formations, then marching down the path in front of the huge stadium where everyone stood up as the flag passed by.

My dad being a mild-mannered man surprised me by tapping the man’s shoulder who stood in front of us, saying:

“Please remove your hat, in respect of the flag.”

For the freedom I, and most of us take for granted. Which connects me to another memory of my mother, who served in WWII as a registered nurse. (My parents met on the ship returning home from the war, my dad being mom’s patient.)

As an adult, while looking at her photographs taken while serving in the war, I asked her, “Why did you choose to be in the war with bombs going off around you?”

With tears glazing her eyes, mom replies, “Someone had to take care of those men.”

Just this holiday week, I cried while watching The Imitation Game, sobbed really, while hearing the woman, once fiancée to Alan Turing, (the man who broke the Enigma code of the Nazis, which led the Allies to win the war against Germany), say:

“You cannot leave, you are the man who saved millions of lives, who persevered against tremendous odds, (he was homosexual which was then against the law) who gave so much more than anyone can imagine,” or something close to that.

My dad was that kind of man, who adopted me when my mother wanted to put me up for adoption, me being a child of rape. Who loved me abundantly as he did his two biological children who were born after me. I am meant to be here, so I am not leaving my very greatfull-for-freedom-ringing-homeland until I “Di,” (die) the endearment my daddy called me.

Since I turned 60, I frequently think of the door to death and say to myself that I am ready and will accept it as it comes, yet I still wish to live many more years to enjoy the many synchronicitys that enter my life more and more frequently as I grow older and hopefully wiser.

The week before 2014 thanksgiving, I called Credo, the phone company I have been with for 16 years because they give millions to 40 non-profits each year.  My cell phone worked just fine, but most of my family and friends owned smart phones, and I knew my latest contract ended in November when I could get a free one.

Yes, it’s true, a new $450 iphone5c was on its way, and I knew from previous years that phones arrived within 2-3 days. So, when my phone did not arrive after 5 days, I called Credo, and they informed me that my phone had been delivered by UPS to my front door 3 days earlier. I live in a renovated chicken coop next to the farmhouse where my landlord lives at the same address, along with another apartment on his second floor. So, sometimes my packages go to these other doors. I walk to the “front” door of my place, as I always enter a side door that seems like a front door from the driveway. No package. Then, to Ed and Rosemary’s door. No package.

Disappointed, I call Credo again, who suggests I file an insurance claim, but I say I need the tracking number and then called UPS that evening. I tell my story again, and they verify indeed, that the package went to my “front” door. Serendipitously, a flash of one more door that packages had never been delivered to appeared…the actual front door of the farmhouse. With flashlight in hand, while still on the phone with the UPS man who had put me on hold to research something, I walk outside to that dark porch and there it was…yes…MY phone. When the UPS man’s voice came back to me, I excitedly exclaim, “I found my phone!”

Silence, as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing.

Immediately, I think to myself how wonderful that memory pops in just at the right time: the day before thanksgiving, the day before I gather with 15 other family members who can help me learn to use my smart phone that I am not so smart about. On thanksgiving day, how thankfull I feel as I enter my niece’s home where I see and feel faces of love adooring me.