A Blast from the Past

This piece of writing was originally published on October 26, 2007. My son was eleven at the time and I was free to write about myself and him. The blog is now defunct, out of his teenage request to not have Mum ruin his life, at least online. I'm reposting again for the holiday season.

He Does What?!

I’m about to make a confession, a confession about a secret desire. No one, not my parents or my best friends, not even my husband knows. I have an unbelievable decades-old crush on Rod Stewart. Right about now, my mother is saying "WHO?" my sisters are saying, "EEEWWW!" and my husband is saying, "WHY?" This is why no one knows and now every one knows.

I’ve had a longstanding thing about Mr. Stewart that began with the first time I heard "Maggie May." That voice! THAT HAIR! (You may have already noted the follicle similarity between Mr. Stewart and my own online avatar.)

Mom and Dad kept a tight control over the stereo and LP expenditures in our house while I was growing up. Basically, the choices boiled down to their way or the highway. While I lived with the Partridge Family, Neil Sedaka, Barry Manilow and Billy Joel, I loved the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac, and Queen, and I lusted after Rod Stewart. I dared not bring any of these bad boys of rock and roll anywhere near my mother’s Ethan Allen living room, but I never stopped drinking in every song played on the radio.

I stopped dead when Rod was played over the airwaves. I was capable of no sane thought or action. His British accented growl could make "sardines and toast" sound like something naughty. I would continue to pour milk into over flowing glasses. I would mow over Mom’s flowers. I would walk into telephone poles. I was incapable of any coordinated movement when that whiskey soaked gravelly voice flowed from the radio right into my soul.

No one noticed that I had an uncontrolled desire for this man. It was covered by a teenage awkwardness that began at the age of nine and ended at thirty-five. I had glasses, a bad haircut, chronic sinus drip, and a passion for reading which pretty much sealed up my social life and ensured that my parents left me very much alone. I was, however, skinny, real skinny, model skinny, but this was only a temporary tease for my adolescent ego. I knew, by looking at family photos, that I was headed to become an apple dumpling with cellulite.

Despite all the outward negatives, I did have one vivid imagination. In my mind, some day, some how…I would get to see Rod Stewart in concert and he might even look out to my section of the stadium and…and…

As I grew older, these fantasies grew older. They involved alcohol, cigarettes, velvet, and a tawdry lifestyle that I could never bring myself to attain. But in my mind, I would still gladly give my body, cellulite and all, if only….

Now fast forward to the present, I don’t think of Rod Stewart much any more, but every now and then, his songs are played on "oldies" radio. Such sin, Rod Stewart played on oldies radio. A quiet blush still crosses my face with "Tonight’s the Night" and I still love the name Maggie. Losing ten pounds will always result is a riotous round of "Do you Think I’m Sexy" shouted into my hairbrush as I gyrate about the bedroom dodging shoes and piles of laundry. But it has all ended today, in the post. It was a crushing blow.

My son’s "Model Railroader Magazine" arrived today. "Hey Mom, do you know Rod Stewart?" I’m thinking I’ve got to sing more quietly in the shower. "Hey, MOM! Did you hear me? Do you know Rod Stewart?"

"I know of him, Matt." I said, truthfully.

"Guess what! He’s a model railroader, just like me!"

"HE DOES WHAT?!",  I screamed. My fantasy life crumbled as I stood in the driveway staring at a feature article about my favorite sex symbol’s hobby. For God sakes, he even takes his paints and glue on tour with him. The champagne, the smoky lounges, the bear skin rug, the entire fantasy is now lying at my feet like so much spilled rail bed ballast. It’s all replaced by an image of an English eccentric in a railroad cap painting age and tarnish over miniature plastic buildings.

"I’m proud to be a railway modeler. It means more to me to be on the cover of Model Railroader than to be on the cover of a music magazine" - Rod Stewart, Model Railroader, December 2007

Rod, sweetheart, you are in my heart and in my soul, but why did you have to end it this way?

Tie Your Shoestrings Well

I will be the very first to admit that I’ve stolen the title of this blog from Werner Herzog. Mr. Herzog was interviewed on Science Friday and this is part of his answer to the despondency over the American election results. He said in part, “Tie your shoestrings well. Keep on walking.”

I think this an idea that can be applied much farther than consolation to those who are grieving their political losses. For those who have lost, they must find a way forward, listen to the lessons learned and hear the anger expressed through the voting process.

It also speaks to the winners who now carry an enormous responsibility for everyone. Take care that all are carried forward, not just the rich but the poor, the hungry, and the sick. They also must find their way forward and heal the anger that elected them and the anger spawned by their victory.

Outside the political arena, we all need to tie our shoes well. Those that grieve the loss of a loved one, struggle to face each day. They wake each morning and wonder how are they going to get through the waking hours when raw grief rides their backs like a hidden leopard ready to pounce and tear them limb from limb on the subway, at work, walking alone down the street. They wait out the day, in fear, being hunted by grief, until the sleep finally pulls them down to numbing oblivion for a few short hours. Each day, they tie their shoes well and keep walking among us, who are unconscious of their pain.

Those who are sick wade through the physical and psychological pain of illness. It is a long and lonely road full of bureaucracy and sacrifice. They must face new procedures, inadequate treatment plans, and expenses that no one should worry about while ill.  Each day they tie their shoes well and keep walking.

Parents work hard each day to provide food, shelter,  and clothing for their children. Some in the face of joblessness and homelessness. Parenting is tough even when those things are satisfied. I don’t know any parent who hasn’t knelt down at the end of a tough day and asked for the strength to carry on. Sometime the next day, they tie their shoestrings well and walk on.

We each have our own burdens, our own life stories, our own weakness, strengths and passions. Our shoes are very different one from another. That is why another famous proverb comes to mind about not judging each other until we have walked a mile in their shoes. I think I’ll keep this old proverb in mind as well as the new. These are my shoes, well worn and well tied. I’ll keep walking one foot in front of the other this day and the next but I’ll also mind those beside me who’s shoes may be broken or who are barefoot or who have stumbled and fallen.

The White Paneled Van

Some times life is sweet. I have to preface this story by saying there are many places and people in Belgium where the traditional roles of men and women are still upheld and those who cross these lines are gaped at with awe and fear.

Today, DHL "found" my house or rather a DHL subcontractor found my house. Apparently, my enraged email to them yesterday morning about missing deliveries found its way through the proper channels and into the hands of some poor, unlucky sod who's job it was to "cleanup" DHL's little messes. 

So this afternoon, an unmarked, windowless, white paneled van lumbered up my driveway; the kind of van always used in horror flicks. As the driver spied me in the yard, he slowed down....reeaaallll slow....I just knew he was taking in a good look and I'm thinking, "Lord almighty, another one has lost his way using his GPS and not his mind again." (The maps are incorrect for some systems in my little corner of the world.)

 So, since he was having a good look, I gave him a little more....get your mind outta the gutter. I was dressed like a farm hand going out to milk..jeans, husband's flannel shirt, muck boots and a knit skull cap. I raised the sledge and slammed the wedge through the wood and the splits flew across the path of the truck. He slammed on his brakes and I picked up the axe, put the sharpening stone in my back pocket, wiped the sweat off my face and sauntered up to the van while running my finger along the edge of the axe as if to test the blade. I can't sharpen a pencil, but I can act like I can if an unmarked white paneled van is my driveway.

I was greeted by a small, sweaty man sliding nervously out of the driver's seat. The guy was shaking. Papers were flying. A copy of my email fluttered down to my feet. "Attention client en colore" was written in red ink at the top. He stutters,  "Mme Diedra...." I cut him off with a gutteral "Oui" in backwoods Quebecois ...and then out comes a flood gate of French apology and he shakes and sweats himself around to the back of the van. Two boxes appear and at this point, I realize this poor guy is from DHL and my Christmas boxes have arrived. But this guy is so far gone in his imagination, I might as well keep up the pretense. He pushes the packages in my direction and I, with my hands full of lumberjack axe, grunt and point to the ground next to the van. He can't break his sight line with me and shoves the boxes to the side as if they contain TNT. I sign while he utters more French apologies and I remain silent. I nod a g'day to the man. Stepping once more up to the fire wood, I split the next log  perfectly sending another piece flying just in front of the van. The man spun gravel to get the heck outta there.

I'm not exactly sure if the house is going to back in DHL's good graces, but thank you Dad, for treating me like a son, at least some of the time. My skill bank is vast and large and sometimes put to messing with people's heads. Forgive me.