Yesterday when I woke up, my phone was blowing up with text messages. I had totally forgotten it was the pub day for my essay in the Huffington Post (long Covid brain). One friend, who reads the HP regularly, said she almost dropped her coffee when a picture with me and two dear friends popped up on her computer screen. Noah Michelson, the editor at Huff Post Personal, is an absolute dream to work with. He accepted my pitch back in November. Since then we’ve worked through edits. He had to contact Wendy and Suzy to get their permission. Now I see behind every good writer is a great editor. This essay is dedicated to Wendy and Suzy. I thank them for their time reading and sharing their edits. Really this is our essay.
A couple of days ago, an email from the New York Times appeared with “Your Tiny Love Story!” in the subject line. After submitting three or four times over the last couple of years, with no reply, I got a yes. It’s not easy to capture the love story you want to capture in 100 words. The editor asked that I get permission from my college sweetheart’s wife, since she is mentioned. His wife, Kim, and I are friends on social media. I took a deep breath, messaged her with a copy of the TLS. Within five minutes, she replied, “Absolutely, what a beautiful love story, Gosh how I miss that man.” Kim’s generosity was one of the things I wanted to come across in the TLS. The editor saw that. Once again, I am moved by Kim’s open heart. My heart is full, maybe bigger today. The love for my sweetheart is as strong as it was 40 years ago. Truly, he was the love of my life, one of the healthiest, fun-loving, respectful relationships I’ve had. The demise of our relationship happened after an unfortunate occurrence. That’s another story. Once he met Kim and married her, all my friends told me how much they like Kim and that I would too. They were right. I couldn’t be happier that he married a woman as lovely as his wife. I know he was the love of her life too. He was one of a kind. And there is plenty of love to go around. The Tiny Love Story should be out next week. In March, Huffington Post is publishing another essay of mine. Woohoo. I’ll send links when they come out.
Thanks for reading and keep your heart open.
Me and Tayloe I still have the watch I’m wearing. It was a gift from him.
Four years ago off I went to Sage Cohen’s writing workshop, The Crucible of You, Write Yourself from Hurt to Healing. Just what I needed. It was held for a weekend at Sitka Center for Art and Ecology on the Oregon Coast. Sage put us all at ease from the get go. She created a safe environment for the dozen or so attendees to write our pain and share that writing. Putting my pain on paper helped me to release it. Sharing it and hearing other’s hurt helped to not feel alone in the process of grief. We laughed (Sage has a contagious laugh) and cried. At the end, we all hugged. Some of us promised to stay in touch and we have. Out of her workshop, I gained a writing community. Three of us took her 2nd workshop together. Then Covid. Deb, from the workshop, started our online writing group that grew to ten of us who met once a week. Our time together was a treasured part of Covid. Not only did it commit me to writing but our care for each other keeps us still in touch. If you are interested, next week Sage will be the hostess of a Craft Talk webinar, Fierce on the Page: Using Poetic Craft for Unforgettable Prose January 3rd, 2024 at 11:00 – 12:30 Pacific time. I highly recommend checking out the Craft Talk webinars, curated by Sharla Yates and Allison K. Williams. You can sign up early for $15 then, price is $25. The webinars are recorded to watch at another time.
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” William Faulkner
Family movies show the plethora of flower sprays and large crowd at my paternal grandmother’s funeral. Effie Lee Galloway Scott died July1958, a year before I was born. From all the stories told, I feel I knew her and wish we had known each other.
She was a member of Jackson, MS’s pioneer Manship family, the daughter of Alfred Daniel Galloway and Annie Manship Galloway. Effie Lee was a devout member of Galloway Methodist Church, president of the garden club and Junior League, a member of the DAR and other civic organizations.
My older siblings called her Gaga and speak of how much they loved her, always upbeat up until the end and loved by many.
She endured enormous loss in her lifetime. Two of her four sons died.
Francis (Frank) Tomkeyes Scott, two years old, was hit by a trolley car in downtown Jackson while my grandmother helplessly watched from outside the Woolworth store screaming, “Oh my baby.” The newspaper article on this event is graphic and heartbreaking.
Her son, Walter W. Scott, 1920-1945, stationed in Italy and promoted to Captain was killed in action April 29th, 1945, five months before the war would end.
Effie Lee’s third child, Charles Scott, became a first pilot on a B-17 bomber that was shoot down during a raid. He was taken as a prisoner in a Nazi war camp for eighteen months returning to his family in Jackson, MS a forever changed man.
The fourth son, Bert Scott Sr., my father served in the Navy and outlived them all. I wish I had known to ask my father while he was alive, what all that must of been like for him. Did he feel undue pressure as the last remaining son of our prominent Southern family? Did he carry grief for his mother and lost brothers? Certainly, Daddy was trying to bury some sort of pain through his drinking and alcoholism.
Effie Lee, it’s no wonder from all the loss and sadness she experienced that she died from stomach cancer at age 64. But she lived. She loved fishing and was saluted for her vivaciousness, charm and love during her life. (See newspaper clipping below.)
It’s no wonder Missoula’s new library was named the world’s best public library by the International Federation of Library Associations in 2022, a year after it opened. The floor to ceiling windows on all four floors allow the natural light to spill in. Aside from books, movies and audiobooks to check out, the library has much to offer for all ages and range of interest. Cam, the one year old boy I care for, and I go at least once a week. The children’s section on the second floor has an entire area for littles to run around, play kitchen, climb on soft benches. It doesn’t take long for Cam to run to the area for a little older children with a water play area and a soft slightly sloped platform for one years olds to practice running. Yesterday we made our way to the Spectrum space, an interactive science museum. As Cam and I put pegs in a giant bright light, a mother was making a large heart design with pegs. Her husband and two year old girl were on the other side of the board making shapes with magnets. She introduced herself, “We are here visiting from Orlando, FL and just happened to discover this library.” “I’m so glad you did, story time is tomorrow, but you do have Disney World.” “But we don’t have a free library that offers all this.”
Even though I’m tired after a day of chasing a one year old, I made it back to the library for the evening family history writing class. Well worth it. A few weeks prior I attended a class on genealogy, learning how to search for ancestral records. Yes, I could get lost in research. Familysearch.org is free, you can access Ancestry.com for free if you are in the Missoula library. There is a genealogy section and Desiree is there to answer questions.
With winter coming I wanted to pick up knitting again. The library host a knitting group every Friday at noon. I went to be reminded how to cast on. Fingers occupied either knitting or crocheting, women of all ages looked up and welcomed me to come sit. “Oh Sandy can show you how to cast on.” For two hours as my fingers remembered, stories and stitches were shared.
Who knows, maybe I’ll make it to the yoga class on Thursdays or the introduction to podcasting class.
Brenda is how she was introduced to me three years ago when I moved into the hotel. Black Cat, Black Kitty, Rosa and I’m sure there were other names she had over the nineteen and a half years she lived. I’ve been calling her Monkey. She wondered into the hotel during a Valentine party back in 2005. Bob, a long time resident here took her in and she never left. He guesses she was around six months old at the time. I wasn’t pet sitting when I moved in. It was Covid times. Brenda and I quickly bonded. She spent days in my room, wondering out for her meals and back in to sleep at the end of the bed at night. Bob lives on the 2nd floor, I live on the 3rd. Brenda still went down to spend time with him. He fed her and kept the litter box down there.
Once I starting pet sitting again, I missed her but knew our community was taking care of her. It sure was a sweet greeting coming home each time, having her pitter pattering behind me, prancing into my room as the door swung open. She’d stare wide eyed at me until I presented her a treat. She had me wrapped around her paw.
A year or so ago, someone moved in on the 2nd floor. She brought along her kitty. Brenda was not happy about it nor were most of us tenants. That’s when Brenda moved herself upstairs staying on the couch in the community room when I wasn’t home. We accommodated her with a new spot for her litter box and meals served to her on the 3rd floor.
Brenda comforted me after knee surgery and again through anal cancer treatment. Her usual spot was at the end of the bed never next to me, occasionally submitting to my kisses and hugs. I was touched and sure she contributed to my healing when she’d rest again my bum.
A week after my return from a three week trip Brenda wasn’t pitter pattering behind me when I came home. Another housemate noticed she was constipated. Fortunately, I had a few days off from pet sitting. After a visit to Sentinel Emergency Vet this past Thursday blood test showed her kidneys were failing, diabetes and anemia. Just days before I had seen a friend’s post about a woman who provides in-home euthanasia, Dr, Janet Alviar, with Twilight Paws. After a call to her and house mates Janet made arrangements to come the next day. The experience was tender, respectful and the best one would hope for. Monkey was able to be surrounded by several who loved her in the home she had known all her 19 1/2 years.
I held it together through it all until yesterday morning, the day after her death. Waking I reached to pet her and heard a meow. My morning tears left me rung out for the rest of the day. Last night I had the comfort of the sweetest dog I’m pet sitting. He slept on my lap, then next to me for the remainder of the night as I dreamt and woke to sweet memories with Monkey.
Summer is here and it’s filling up fast. Booked with pet sitting, baby sitting, cleaning my friend’s Airbnb for two weeks, some fun and a bit of travel. Not too many free days until September. That’s Ok, It’s great.
I’m OK with the fact that I’m not writing much. Writing has been such a friend through Covid, through grief and cancer. Writing has helped me see different perspectives, it’s helped me heal. And it’s always there. Through writing classes and groups I’ve made some invaluable friendships.
As I write, I am already thinking of what I need to do today and feel the urge to start doing them.
I did want to share an opportunity that came my way and will be helping with next Sunday. I am especially excited about it since it has three things I connect with; animals, children and healing. It’s organization to know about, maybe help where you can. The Arlee Rehabilitation Center, a sanctuary where animals heal people and people heal animals located in Pablo, MT.
ARC’s Pawsitively Healing Camp weeklong camp for Reservation children who have dealt with trauma is in need of volunteers with a dog of the right temperament to visit throughout the week. The dog I will be caring for is perfect and her owners love the idea. Don’t you love it when it all comes together with ease? A friend of mine, Kikki the dog and I will venture an hour north to Salish Kootenai College to bring some comfort to a child who needs it.
I do hope you enjoy these summer days. Thanks for reading.
She wasn’t very good at parenting. She didn’t have the skills or backbone for discipline. She was the queen of denial and avoiding difficulty. She left the job of raising me up to our maid, Elizabeth aka Woosie, for the first six years of my life. After that I was pretty much on my own.
When Mama found the cigarettes I was smoking as a teenager she left me a note saying, “if these are yours, don’t smoke it’s a terrible habit,” no words were ever spoken as I watched her, and daddy smoke a pack or two per day. When my best friend, Elaine and I got caught sneaking out the car, our punishment was to sleep in separate bedrooms. We laughed as we met in the hallway to play our usual game of double solitaire. It was easy to go camping with my boyfriend because I knew my parents would never check to make sure I really was sleeping over at Elaine’s.
My parents divorced then remarried after a couple of years. It was just me and Mama in our two-story house. My older siblings had all flown the coup. Mama spent her evenings in her bedroom drinking her sorrows away. One evening I was off babysitting. When I got back home the house was locked. Banging on the door and the window right next to her bed didn’t wake Mama. I absolutely can’t remember how I got in that night or if I spent the night with a friend. My boyfriend often spent the night with me on the 2nd floor that I had full reign of.
She didn’t speak to me for weeks, when I dropped out of sorority rush (because I thought it was a bunch of bullshit). I had disappointed Mama since I came from a lineage of the sought after Chi Omega and Tri Delta sororities. We had spent several days shopping for outfits just for rush. She had loved that I was a debutante in my high school years, that we had a reason to go to New Orleans to find the perfect dress for the ball, that we attended and put on mother/daughter luncheons.
It was important to my mama that our family keep up appearances, fit into the high society crowd of our Southern city. That was a value she was raised with. Women’s education, thoughts and desires were not part of her upbringing. Her job was to stand by her husband, make a home, hire the right maid, keep up with society, join the Junior League and attend church. She succeeded in all those duties.
With maturity I was able to see my mama as the flawed human being we all are. She was a product of her environment, raised in an upper-class Southern family, taught that appearances were everything.
As an adult, I enjoyed my mother. She loved nothing more than to have all her “chickens”, her four children, in the same room. She loved it when her grown chickens landed in the kitchen raiding the refrigerator mainly to get to her lemony homemade mayonnaise to dip saltines in. She enjoyed cooking for us and having everyone around the table. She loved to laugh. She loved to take us shopping. She loved helping set up our homes. I was tickled by her can do spirit when she came to my newly bought home in Oregon. As we stared at the dated carpet, we began to wonder what was underneath. She got on her hands and knees to pull back a piece. There was a treasure of beautiful oak floors underneath. The rest of the day was spent pulling up carpet even moving the decorated Christmas tree. Nothing was going to stop her.
My oldest sister threw a party for Mama’s 80th birthday. I told mama I wouldn’t be able to fly down. She only learned of my surprise when I rang her doorbell and offered to drive her to the party. She kept me by her side for the entirety of the party, sharing how pleased and surprised she was when she answered the door.
When she wasn’t visiting or I wasn’t flying South for a visit, our regular Sunday phone calls kept us in touch. We ended our calls with “I love you” and meant it.
Since her death in 2010, many Sundays I’ve longed to pick up the phone and call her.
Doing this thing called life and enjoying it, if I don’t listen to the news too much. Physically feeling good, better than I have in years. Winter is over, sunshine and warmth are in the foreseeable forecast. Robert, the owner of the building I live in, has made it to age 84 with no immediate health issues. He does require eye drops everyday and an anti-viral due to the shingles a year ago that went to his eye. So get your shingles vaccine. I’ve had my first and waiting until I have a day or two to lay low after the 2nd shot. There were no side effects from the 1st shot but I’ve heard from folks and the doctor the 2nd shot can make you feel yucky. Not too much news to report from the hotel I live in. Our house kitty, Brenda, became constipated yesterday. Thank goodness one of my housemates, took her to the vet to get relief since I am pet sitting for the next few weeks. Brenda is old, we think around 17, and really in pretty good shape for her age. A friend of mine is coming for a few months this summer and will rent a room at the hotel. That will be fun. Living at the hotel is such a good fit for my life right now. Very low rent, downtown living, even though it’s community living there is space for autonomy and privacy. A nice mix. My 3rd floor room is spacious with southern facing windows. I get my house and yard fix when I house sit. Presently, I am pet sitting for long time friends who happen to live next door to a house I rented for years tucked into a central quiet neighbor hood. I was touched yesterday when the owner who now lives in the house came out to say hello and mentioned I was her favorite renter. Again, it was the perfect little house for me when I moved back to Missoula in 2010. My love of animals and babies has a place to go with a calendar full of pet sitting and babysitting. With mom’s permission I share with you some joy and the reason, my lips are numb today from going along with this little guy yesterday. Enjoy your weekend and thanks for reading.
Fscottwrites 