Should Old Acquaintances Be Forgotten?

That's the traditional question posed each year at the stroke of midnight as we bid adieu to the old year and welcome the new...

It's that whole "Auld Lang Syne" thing.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And days of auld lang syne..."

The words "Auld Lang Syne" actually translate from old Scottish dialect to mean "Old Long Ago", and the song is all about love and friendship in times past.

So, should our loves and friendships from long ago be forgotten?

No! Yes! It all depends...

I mean, where would Facebook be if we all decided to forget our old acquaintances?

Dear God, one of the few bright spots for me in this otherwise dismal and depressing year has been that, thanks to FB, I have successfully reconnected with dear friends from college and high school and ye ol' newspaper reporter days. Friends that, due to time, distance, and just life in general, I had inadvertently lost touch with.

These are the folks that "knew me when", for better and for worse...and STILL accepted my friend request, or sent me one. Amazing!

Yes, FB is AWESOME! A tad voyeuristic, perhaps...but awesome nonetheless. And it continues to grow in popularity because there is something very comforting and reassuring about chatting it up -- even if only briefly -- with old acquaintances on a fairly regular basis.

On the other hand, there are, I would think, some old acquaintances that probably should be forgotten. They should never be brought to mind, and certainly NEVER stalked, er, searched for on Facebook...

Yes, I am talking about old high school/college boyfriends or girlfriends -- former love interests that, for whatever reason, back in the day, went awry. It just stands to reason...

Exception to this rule: If you truly just happen to run into said former love interest at the grocery store during the holidays -- as in Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne"/"Met my old lover at the grocery store, the snow as falling Christmas Eve, yada, yada, yada", I suppose it's OK to chat it up in the frozen food aisle for a minute or two...no harm done. But otherwise...

True story: I was in the midst of a mani-pedi last spring in Minneapolis when this gal in her early 40s sitting in the massage chair next to started yammering into her cell phone to somebody or other about how her old high school beau found her on FB. She was absolutely GIDDY! He had broken her heart long ago...

You don't have to be Dear Abby to realize that chances are good you will find that same once-giddy gal -- now rejected and broken-hearted (again) -- and having gulped one-too-many vodka gimlets this New Year's Eve -- trying desperately to connect with her lost/found/lost again love via drunk FB'ing, or its evil twin, drunk dialing/texting...and all under the guise of "merely" wishing an "old friend" a Happy New Year.

I can hear Miss Lonely Hearts now..."I jusht wanted to shay Happy New Year... "

Ugly stuff. Ugly. Perfect fodder for that schlocky Dr. Phil...

But hey, what the heck do I know? While everyone here in Podunk is out having fun and dancing the old year away at the community building, or throwing back glasses of cheap champagne at Chuck's (I'm just assuming it's cheap, I don't know that for a fact), I am, once again, spending New Year's Eve at home, blogging philosophic about the pros and cons of forgetting old acquaintances...

I just think that if we are going to sing "Auld Lang Syne" we ought to analyze what we are singing about...

Anyway...

If I had a glass of champagne (cheap or otherwise), I would raise a toast -- a "cup o' kindness", as it were -- at midnight to not only the 192 friends I have connected/reconnected with on FB this past year, but to all acquaintances...those long forgotten and those trusty pals forever remembered...

Thanks for being a part of my life!

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne...

We'll take a cup o' kindess yet

For auld lang syne...

Love and hugs...with hopes and prayers for a kinder, gentler 2010...

And So This Is Christmas

Such mixed emotions...

I sat staring at our beautiful, brightly-lit Christmas tree for an hour last night -- in between power outages, that is -- and contemplated the last 29 Christmases of my life.

Like many folks do, John and I have made it a point to add a special tree ornament each Christmas to symbolize the year that is about to pass.

There's our "first Christmas together 1980" ornament...the one that cost $26 and we had to quick-like-Christmas-bunnies move funds from our meager savings into our meager checking account to cover the cost of that ornament...

There's the special cross stitched "Ann and John 1982" ornament from my dear friend and former co-reporter pal, Anne Phillips...

There's our "Buttercup" angel ornament...Christmas 1987, I believe...that was the year we thought that after two years of trying I was FINALLY pregnant -- was most sure of it -- but alas...no baby. But hope sprang eternal that SOMEDAY we would have our Buttercup...

And then there's the "1990 Love, The Ludys" Santa...our first Christmas in Cincy...it was great to be back home again...

I always look forward to seeing the 1992 "Mom To Be" and "Dad To Be" hen/rooster ornaments...our very own Buttercup was on his way! At last!

1993! Baby's First Christmas!

After that, the ornaments and their respective years and favorite memories -- much like the years of our lives -- are a bit less defined, you might say...a whirling dervish of people, places and events...

There are the ornaments that I cherish most -- the ones Daniel made in church school or at the Hanging of The Greens night..

And, of course, there are the miniature Superman lunch box and the Scooby Doo ornaments that Daniel got from Santa a while back...There was a Harry Potter ornament. But as I recall, young Mr. Daniel snatched Harry off the tree one Christmas past to play with him and he never made it back into the Christmas ornament box...I am sure Harry is around here somewhere...

Yes, we've had some great years over the past three decades.

2009, however, has not been one of them. And for obvious, heartbreaking reasons for so many near and far...

And yet, we cannot pretend that 2009 never happened. Sometimes, you just have to stare terror and tragedy in the freaking face, call it out, and call it like it is. Only then can hearts begin to mend and hope for a better new year prevail.

Hence, the shiny, silver, beautifully and ornately engraved "2009 can s*** it" ornament that hangs at the top of this years beautiful, brightly-lit Christmas tree, just below the festive multi-color LED angel.

Thanks, Brianna! Irreverent? YES! But spot on!

And, yes, that is a pizza cutter you see hanging there as well. Casey gave John and I that pizza cutter last Christmas because he just thought it was so weird that we didn't have one and that we cut our pizzas with scissors instead. Not kitchen scissors, mind you. Just plain, regular scissors...

Oh, Case, we will treasure that pizza cutter -- and the story that goes with it -- forever...

That is one Christmas ornament story I promise we will never forget...

And Rosemary...For Remembrance

Thanksgiving/Pre-Black Friday Thoughts...

Remembering My Dad, With Love And Smiles...

Maybe THIS is why I have always loved dancing...

My dad, John Arthur Heise, was my first dance partner.

And he taught me how to bowl...he was an excellent bowler.

And without knowing it, he instilled in me that special-albeit-odd sense of Heise humor that comes in handy at the strangest times...and I thank God for that.

My dad, bless his heart, would have turned 88 this week...

Oh, we had our issues. And there was a 14-year time span -- from the day I turned 21 till sometime in my mid 30s -- that we rarely talked on the phone and never saw each other. But we were fortunate in that at the end of his journey here on earth (about a dozen years ago), we had the chance to make amends and hug and tell each other how much we loved each other...

Sadly, my dad never met Daniel or my sister's children, Aaron and Liz...blame it on time, distance, difficult family dynamics, health problems... and yet, in his own way, I know he loved them...

It's all about forgiveness...sometimes hard, but not impossible, to find...

Anyway, thinking of you, Dad. And smiling...

Survivor

Oct. 21, 1969.

It was a Tuesday. A bright, beautiful October morning. And it was three days before my 13th birthday...

I remember sitting in study hall at Sellman Junior High...the school secretary called me out to come to the office.

I had a sick feeling in my stomach...I knew. I was hoping against hope I was wrong...but I just knew.

There, in the school office, stood my very sad looking father and my even sadder looking sister...

"Mom's gone," my dad said.

They called it "a therapeutic misadventure," but the truth is, my mother died from an accidental overdose of alcohol and sleeping pills. She had been in the hospital since Monday morning after I found her passed out on the living room floor...

Mom's funeral was Oct. 24...my birthday. My first day of being a full-fledged teenager...

How to describe the past 40 years without my mom? I think author Hope Edelman, in her book, "Motherless Daughters", describes it best.

" I am fooling only myself when I say my mother exists now only in the photograph on my bulletin board or in the outline of my hand or in the armful of memories I still hold tight. She lives on in everything I do. Her presence influenced who I was, and her absence influences who I am. Our lives are shaped as much by those who leave us as they are by those who stay. Loss is our legacy. Insight is our gift. Memory is our guide."

After four decades, I can no longer recall the sound of my mother's voice. I can no longer recall the sound of her laugh.

What I do remember is that she had a great sense of humor, and her friends regularly turned to her for advice. My mother was a registered nurse. Her favorite soap opera was As The World Turns. She boycotted lettuce in support of the underpaid lettuce growers in the 60s. She loved reading and acting. My mother never learned to drive. She enjoyed playing bridge and Monopoly. She was a good cook.

I remember she let me stay home from school once when I was in the fourth grade. I wasn't sick, she just let me stay home with her. I think now that I was her safety net that day...

In my mother's absence o'er these many years, I have been blessed with the love of and nurturing by several special "other mothers", including my wonderful mother-in-law... the most wonderful friends... and of course, my guardian-angel-on earth, my ever lovin' sister. So I have much to be thankful for.

Granted, I have struggled with several emotional issues. All motherless daughters do, to one degree or another.

And then, of course, there is the issue of Mother's Day. Until I had Daniel, Mother's Day was THE worst day of the year. Every spring, surrounded by reminders of how special the mother-daughter relationship is, but unable to spend time with my own Mom or give her a gift...

According to Ms. Edelman, however, we motherless daughters have our own "gifts".

We have, she says, the courage to "journey alone." Courage born of necessity, I would add.

Actually, truth be known, I come from a long line of motherless daughters.

My mother lost her mother when she was four years old. My grandfather later married a woman who had lost her mom when she was five.

Even my stepmother (my dad remarried a year or so after my mom died) lost her mom at a young age.

Both my sister and I freaked out a little as we approached the age our mother was when she died -- 47. When we each made it to 48, we breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Psychologists say that for motherless daughters, living beyond the age our mothers died is "living dangerously," and we often feel driven to make the most of that time. Hence, many of the most celebrated and driven women of our time are motherless daughters...

Me? Suffice to say, I'm a tish neurotic, but with a creative bent...

And so tonight, in loving memory of my mother, my heart goes out to all those daughters, near and far, who have lost their mothers. Celebrated and driven, or creatively neurotic, we are all survivors!

Love you, Mom! Miss you...

ANGEL ON THE FOOTBALL FIELD

We won!

We won!

We won!

The 2009 Crusaders play every game for Casey, and this game, especially, against the Glidden-Ralston Wildcats, was a triple sweet victory in loving memory of the Mighty Case, #85.

And Daniel got to play for a little bit -- and he caught a pass! Cast and all!

Victory has never felt so GREAT!

42-28!

Awesome, Crusaders! WooHoo!

Triumph Over Tragedy

I still get goosebumps.

9/11/2001

It was a Tuesday.

WHAT!?! A terrorist attack? No! No! This can't be happening! Our country, our world...we were all, suddenly, shocked to our very core...and we have never been the same.

I will never forget John, in Kansas City at seminary, calling home the day after to check on Daniel yet again. How was he doing? How was he handling the tragedy?

"How was your day at school today, Daniel?" John asked.

"Good, Daddy," Daniel replied, in his quiet, little third-grade voice. "No planes fell out of the sky today."

Eight years later, Sept. 11, 2009, I am pinning a red, white and blue ribbon on my CR-B Crusaders sweatshirt, the ribbon a handmade token of patriotic remembrance from one of my office co-workers. I carefully attach the ribbon just above and to the right of Daniel's junior year football pin.

I gently pat the pin. Heavy sigh...

And then I think to myself, "Has it really been only eight years?" Seems like forever that our country's heart has been laden with the painful and complicated aftermath of the 9/11 tragedy. Yet, we, as a country, and all the families of those loved ones lost, have somehow, through heartfelt memoirs, fitting tributes, and special anniversary observances, found some healing and the strength to move forward from that horrific moment in time.

My hand moves slowly from the ribbon and the football pin to touch the pair of silver metal memorial dog tags dangling from a simple necklace chain around my neck. I feel the raised lettering on the tags.

He had dreamed of one day joining the Marines...

"Casey Daniel Stork, 1993-2009"

"Forever In Our Hearts"

I still get goosebumps.

7/8/09

It was a Wednesday.

WHAT?!? A car accident? NO! NO! THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING!

We were all suddenly shocked to our collective core. Has it only been two months? Seems like forever that our hearts have been so heavy with sorrow...we are all still dazed by disbelief as we continue to grapple with the stark, heart wrenching reality of it all...

We all miss Casey so very much, and we all are so very thankful that we still have Daniel. Loss and thankfulness, loss and thankfulness...And we live day to day, hour to hour, in the balance.

"How is Daniel doing?" everyone kindly asks.

That is a tough question to answer. It is hard to know, fully, just yet. On the surface, we all seem to be doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Who among us doesn't still cringe when we pass the accident site on our way to Carroll? Timber Avenue...it is our own private Ground Zero. It is where the proverbial planes fell out of the sky once more...and we will never be the same.

Accidents, illness, the sudden loss of a loved one...Certainly, the list of personal 9/11s that we all, as human beings, experience over the course of our lives, is varied and endless. How do we overcome these tragedies? How do we, as adults, heal? How do we, in this instance, help our heartbroken, teenage children -- Casey's friends -- heal?

"When I was your age, my best friend died, too," my 25-year-old niece, Liz, wrote to Daniel the other day. "Her name was Rachel. She died of cancer. It was different circumstances than what you've had to face, and I don't pretend to know how you feel. But one thing I do know: when you lose your best friend at age 16, it changes you. It becomes part of who you are. There's no use fighting that.

"My advice" Liz continued, "is to take all the good things about Casey, and all the lessons learned because of this tragedy, and try very hard to use them for good. Keep moving forward and take Casey with you."

Indeed, the upcoming installation of the Casey Stork Memorial football scoreboard at the high school, and the subsequent dedication being planned by his classmates, is a healthy step toward doing just that. It is a triumph, of sorts; a positive, healing event to focus on, not only for Casey's family and many friends, but also for the community at large.

Casey Daniel Stork.

Forever in our hearts.

And now, to be forever remembered at one of the places Casey was happiest...the Coon Rapids- Bayard High School football field.

We love you, #85!

A fitting tribute to Casey.

Time It Was, Oh, What A Time It Was...

It was a time of innocence...a time of confidences...

Thought I'd reprint one of my earliest blog posts -- from three years ago...

The recent fall-ish weather and the constant call of the very noisy crickets always bring back memories of one very special cricket -- Flower -- a forever symbol of the long-ago summers of my youth.

Kim, Tricia, Helen: This blog post -- as it was three years ago -- is for you...

(From The Home Stretch, Sept. 3, 2006)

Today has been one of those days...it's supposed to be a day of rest, but the lawn called to me, "Annie, rev up that lawnmower... NOW!"

So I did.

Then I noticed how the morning glories, though beautiful, have taken over my entire garden, and the creeping jenny, albeit great, green groundcover, is really a weed and it has highjacked most of the yard.

Do I really care? No. But I started yanking weeds anyway and that's when I saw the first one. The first cricket of "cricket season". All sorts of little crickets hopping to and fro...they do that this time of year; that summer's-almost-over-but-fall-ain't-quite-here time of year that brings out not only the crickets but the big, beautiful (and scary looking) garden spiders...

It's the time of year I always think about my friend Kim...if you are reading this, Kim, you know where I am headed.

It was, I think, 1968...Kim and her family had just moved back to our neighborhood, and sixth grade was just getting underway. We were playing outside in the field behind the elementary school where it was crickets galore. And so Kim and I got a box, caught some of the little buggers, and one of them we named Flower...

Ah. The innocence of life back in the sixth grade in Madeira, Ohio.

That following summer -- our sixth-grade summer, as we still to this day reminisce -- was THE best summer of our lives. Kim, Tricia, Helen and I were best buds, and we rode bikes, and slept outside in sleeping bags, and talked about how the four of us were going to get an apartment together some day...

We'd spend our days just hanging out, sometimes lying on the ground, staring up into the cloudless sky for what seemed like hours..."The sky is so blue," I remember one of us remarking once. It was, indeed, a scene right of Wonder Years.

As it turned out, the four of us never did share an apartment. We all went our separate ways after high school. But for the most part, we have always kept in touch.

We tried re-enacting that blue-sky moment years later -- around 1990 -- after I moved back to Cinci from Iowa. We were in our mid-30s, married...way past the age of catching crickets and naming them. But it felt so good to be back together again. So, putting our harried lives on hold for a moment, we all made our way down to the ground in Tricia's backyard one mid-summer afternoon and gazed up into the sky.

"The sky is so blue!" one us said, and we laughed and laughed.

For a brief moment, we were back in sixth grade again...lighthearted, carefree, awash in the sense that like the big, blue endless sky above, our lives stretched out before us, chock full of possibility and opportunity...

But then it was getting late, and there was supper to fix and diapers to change, and...

I don't think we will ever forget our sixth grade summer. Those rare and precious times we are blessed to be together -- usually class reunions (we LOVE class reunions), we almost always bring up the "blue sky" day, and Kim and I to this day fondly remember Flower, the cricket.

From the vantage point of my "omigod I'm almost 50" summer, life at 12 seemed so simple then. (Somebody stop me before I break into a teary rendition of "The Way We Were! Kleenex! I need a Kleenex!)

Funny... to this day, I cannot kill a cricket.

So Kim, Tricia, Helen...if you are reading this...Here's to crickets, blue skies, sixth-grade summers, old friends, and life's innocence lost.

And to the rest of you...what are your favorite memories? What brings back, with a rush and a sigh, a heart-enveloping memory? What are your special anniversaries of the heart?

Celebrate them whenever you can.

Breathing Lessons

I always have the best intentions at the beginning of each school year...

I'm going to be more organized, hence, Daniel will be more organized.

Or, I will keep an activity calendar in the kitchen and fill it out religiously so we are not running around at the last minute trying to make it to school events on time...

Or, I will always stay caught up with the laundry so Daniel is not madly searching for matching socks at 8:15 in the a.m.

Well, here we are...the dawn of Daniel's junior year before us, and, alas...

I can't remember my log in and password for the school's on-line campus, nor find the scrap of paper on which I jotted it, and I've misplaced the order form for Crusader hoodies and T-shirts...and the orders have to be in by Friday...which I would put on my calendar if I had remembered to buy one but, of course, I didn't. And here it is 11:30 p.m., and I still have three loads of laundry to do...

I really did have good intentions for starting out this school year on the right foot...

But grief is exhausting. And mind-boggling. Even when you think you may possibly be healing, grief is there. Just hanging over the days and nights like a heavy yet invisible cloud shrouding the mind, the soul...

Yet, somehow, we all go on. Life demands it.

And so the new school year begins...

Daniel does have his book bag packed, and I actually had the presence of mind to order his college-credit on-line psychology class book from Amazon.com in plenty of time before the first class...he's got pencils, pens, a calculator, a binder, several college-ruled one-subject notebooks in various colors...

He's got a new shirt and jeans...he's got a nice haircut...

And he's got a giant, gaping hole in his heart, as do all Casey's friends who are preparing for their first day of school.

Yes, the hallways will be brimming with students, and yet there is sure to be an emptiness, a silence that will resound for all those who knew and loved Casey. He had an indescribable presence in the hallways, one mom said the other day. A personality bigger than life itself. And that infectious smile...

The first day of school will not be easy. Nor the second. Nor the third...

One school day at a time, kids. One school day at a time...

First lesson:

Left...right...left...right...left...right...breathe...

Serenity Prayer

So my dear sis arrived on my doorstep last weekend, her trusty stepladder in one arm, a drop cloth and paint rollers in the other. And with the help of my dear friend and neighbor, Angie, they painted Daniel's room.

I bought the paint. Angie edged. My sister rolled.

Now, at first blush, in the bigger scheme of things (such as they are, tragically, following Daniel's accident and the death of his best friend, Casey) painting Daniel's bedroom might seem like a frivolous thing to do.

Certainly, a fresh coat of paint doesn't eliminate our grief, our loss, our mourning, our overall sense of sadness and despair. But for whatever reason, painting is what we Heise girls tend to do in the face of death and loss.

Or at least that is the conclusion I came to in the midst of this mini makeover...

Go back 40 years. Different time. Different bedroom. It's my bedroom. I am 13. My sis (Sissy, as I always called her) is 21. Our mother has just recently died. Our grandfather (our mom's dad) has just recently passed away as well. Our family is awash in grief.

One weekend, Sissy shows up with a paint brush, three colors of paint, and a crazy idea -- she wants to paint my room (then lavender) red, white and blue. One wall red. Two walls blue. And the fourth wall, red, white and blue stripes.

Who did she think I was, Betsy Ross? I dunno. She was just determined that that was what she was going to do. Something fun. A little crazy, even. Something positive and fresh in the face of adversity and sadness.

And so Sissy painted. And she painted. And she painted. And when she was finished, I had the coolest room on Buckeye Crescent. No, it didn't bring my mom or my grandfather back. But it made me smile, which was no small feat at the time.

Truly, it was an act of devoted sisterly love. I remember watching her painstakingly paint those stripes...

She had to be out of her mind...and she was. Out of her mind with love for me. She just wanted to do something, anything, to make me smile at at time when that is the last thing I felt like doing.

And that, I guess, is why we decided to paint Daniel's room. I am out of my mind with love and worry for my son. And he couldn't ask for a more loving and devoted aunt. Or a more selfless, caring neighbor.

No, painting his room doesn't bring Casey back. But it was something we could do to, hopefully, make him smile, even if ever so briefly, at a time when that is the last thing he feels like doing. And he did smile...partially, I would surmise, out of relief that I did not redo his room in a Hello Kitty motif, as I had threatened.

Nor is his room painted in red, white and blue stripes. It is done in a warm, soft, assuring blue/gray called, ironically, "Serenity Now."

And isn't that what we all are praying for?

Thankful For Flip Flop Fridays

It is good to be back at work.

I'm making a point to participate in Flip Flop Friday today.

The distraction helps.

And it is good to be somewhere all day where there is noise.

The house seems so quiet some days. Too quiet...

Go Crusaders! Our Beloved Mighty Case #6 Is With You!

If I Could Turn Back Time...

When Daniel was five years old, he once said to me, "I am never going to learn to drive."

When Daniel turned 16 three months ago, he was chomping at the bit to get his license.

Two nights ago, Daniel (right) and his best friend, Casey, were in a horrible car accident. Daniel survived. Casey did not.

Many wonderful friends have rallied around our family and Casey's family in the past 48 hours. And many have asked me, "Is there anything we can do for you guys?"

Yes. There is.

Please, if you can, turn back time. To when Daniel and Casey were five years old. Hand me some bubble wrap. Watch as I wrap them both up all safe and sound and lock them in the house where I can protect them and know they are safe at all times...And they will never learn to drive.

Independence Day

This IS It!

Every Fourth of July, it's the same question.

"Waddya doin' for The Fourth?"

"Got plans for The Fourth?"

"So waddya got planned for The Fourth?"

And every Fourth of July, my answer is, and always has been (in order)..."Nothing. No. Nothing."

This year, I am blessed with a three-day weekend. Not working today. Yee-hah! Cleaning. Not working tomorrow, of course, cuz it's The Fourth... but John, as it turns out, is weeding his garden.

Oh.

The Fifth? Yeah, I could use one right about now.

My friend Angie and her husband, Jeff, are taking today to drive to Minneapolis to go shopping. Just a roundtrip to Mpls (no small feat in my book, but no big deal to those crazy kids). They are seizing the day, as it were.

Carpe Diem, and all that jazz...

Vick and Big Lee and the fam are camping all weekend...

Linda and her fam will have the annual Fourth of July/Linda's Birthday (July 5th) cookout extravaganza -- and smack dab on Linda's birthday this year, no less...

Mary will most likely be picking up shells along Myrtle Beach...

Wait! I almost forgot!

We DO have plans...We will be attending the second annual Daniel and Casey Fireworks Display (with adult supervision, of course)...

Just what every mother dreams of...

Teenagers with explosives.

As I contemplate plans for the holiday weekend -- or the lack thereof -- I've decided that the Carpe Diem slogan should be replaced by three little words that truly drive home in a big way the fact that we must make the MOST of each day, that cleaning and weeding can wait...

"This Is It."

Yes, morbidly ironic, isn't it, that THAT was the title of Michael Jackson's comeback tour...I'm sure he figured he had a few more days to dance, to prepare...

Alas, it really was IT for MJ. One day he's dancing, rehearsing. Two days later he's dead.

THAT really was IT!

So it is for the rest of us. Today is IT, folks. Tomorrow is promised to no one.

Can't the cleaning and weeding wait?

Be it the Third, Fourth or Fifth of July, let's make the MOST of "it", shall we?

As The Tan Lines Fade...

And the nail polish peels...and my face breaks out from stress...That's when it is officially official. Yup.

I've been back from my Cincy vacay for one week.

Happens every time. Like Cinderella at midnight. Poof! Turned back into a pumpkin. A pumpkin called "Reality."

That's just what happens after vacay, no matter where you go, or who you are...at some point - be it one week, two weeks, three weeks -- you have to get back to your real life, your regular routine.

The emotionally disturbed jackrat terrier...the cat that projectile erps her food everytime she eats...the 16-year-old son who somehow always forgets how to tell time while out on a date...the yard that needs mowed...the laundry that needs washed, and folded AND put away...bills to pay...blah, blah, blah...

It's not NEARLY as bad, though, as it was two years ago when I returned from Cincy, and for that I am thankful. Dear God, I re-read those blog posts and I think, "Geezle, Ann, we get it. You miss Cincy. You miss your Cincy friends. The Cincy 'life'. Get a grip, girl!"

Bottom line is, Cincy is not my life. THIS is my life. And despite my whining of late, it's a good life. I have a roof over my head, clothes on my back, a good paying job with bennies, have yet to miss a meal, and most of all, I have wonderful friends and family HERE, just like in Cincy.

I am fortunate beyond belief.

My longtime friend Nancy H. once gave me a pillow she made that says, "If friends were money, you'd be the richest person in Coon Rapids."

Thanks, again, Nance, for that pillow. Sometimes, I lose sight of that message. I am very blessed with friends, indeed. Here. There. Everywhere I have lived. Friends have always been my extended-and-then-some family.

It is, as the saying goes, a wonderful life.

Truth is, everybody has to come back from vacay. You can only vacate your real life for so long...well, yes, OK...Thelma and Louise decided to NOT come back from what was supposed to be their weekend vacay at a fishing cabin. But the whole cliff thing? Ouch. Not a good idea...

Today is a family dinner out at the farm. John's brother, Tom, and his wife, Barb, and her mother will be here for a few days as they move Barb's mom from Rockford, IL to Prescott, AZ. Hence, a big Kult Family Dinner is the plan for today...

We've got fresh green beans and peas and potatoes from John's garden, homemade ice cream, ChiChi's Margaritas...pulled pork sandwiches, homemade carrot cake...the weather is GREAT!.

I think the late, great John Denver said it best:

"Hey, it's good to be back home again. Sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend. And hey, it's good to be back home again..."

Ed. Farrah. MJ. And Dave.

Surreal.

Was still trying to get my head around the horrible, senseless murder of Applington-Parkersburg (IA) Coach Ed thomas (gunned down by a former player in the high school weight room earlier this week) when I learned of Farrah Fawcett's passing from anal cancer. I was quietly contemplating Farrah's demise when Daniel hits me with, "Michael Jackson just died."

What? WHAT? Surely he was mistaken...

Turned to CNN, and there it was...

Only at that time, they were saying that he was hospitalized....cardiac arrest... in a coma...

Obviously, didn't look good for the King of Pop, but maybe, just maybe...

Despite my friend Ned's insistance that MJ was, indeed, dead, I refused to believe it...until CNN reported that the LA Times confirmed it.

Michael Jackson. Dead at 50.

Many an afternoon during my early adolescence I spent dancing in front of our huge living room mirror to The Jackson Five's "ABC". Michael was so cute...what a voice! What moves for a kid!

ABC, 1,2,3 baby, you and me...

Many a Saturday night during my post-college Disco Diva days I spent dancing to MJ's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough". I never really knew the words, but man, could I dance to it...

"Billy Jean" was a fave as well. "Thriller" not so much. Yes, I am probably the only one in the world who wasn't thrilled with "Thriller".

And then poor MJ just plain went weird and I have spent the last many years just feeling sorry for the guy...

And now he's dead. The King of Pop, a music icon from my youth, gone. Just like that.

Athough, it wasn't really "just like that." MJ was not on a healthy road for a very long time. Mentally or physically. Damn those addictive prescription meds. There is some pain that pills just can't take away...

And let's not forget poor Farrah -- though once MJ's demise hit the airwaves, her death from anal cancer but hours before was truly treated like "oh, yeah...and in other news..."

Many a male college student in my co-ed dorm during my junior year at Ohio University had that famous Farrah poster slapped up on their wall...good ol' Kent Whatshisname was one of them...I can still see that poster. I had my picture taken in front of it -- my hair a mess, my face slathered in zit cream, clowning some kind of flashy "Farrah Wannabe" smile...

A few years later, after I was married, my hubby secretly dug out that picture from the Ann Heise Photo Album Collection and ran that picture in the Carroll Daily Times Herald for my 25th birthday...

What young woman back in the day didn't wish she had Farrah's face, hair and smile? Farrah was the beginning of Big Hair. And she was romantically involved for 17 years with one of my earliest Hollywood crushes...Ryan O'Neal. Love Story.

Love Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry.

OK, so THAT'S a crock of crap...but I digress...

As sad as the deaths of Farrah and MJ are, the worst news this past week was that of the senseless murder of longtime Applington-Parkersburg (IA) High School Football Coach Ed Thomas...beloved coach and family man who was gunned down by a former player in the high school weight room.

A couple thousand of Thomas' grieving family, friends and former football players gathered for a candlelight vigil the night of his murder...

This is small town Iowa, folks. This isn't supposed to happen here. Even though we all know it can and it does. And it never makes sense. Anywhere.

I am also saddened this week by the news of the death of my grocery store pal, Dave M., 50, who had a heart attack after mowing the lawn. He used to scare me, frankly. Worked construction. Kind of a gruff, tough guy. Until I started joking around with him as I checked and bagged his groceries back when I worked at The Fro (our local grocery store). He had a great sense of humor. Dave led a tough life, but was looking forward to a better, brighter future. Alas, that future was cut short.

Last time I saw Dave was before I left for Cincy...was getting a few things at The Fro...had not seen Dave for a long time...

"Well, looked who the cat dragged in," I joked. He smiled and asked how I'd been doing...

And just like that, he's gone.

Ed. Farrah, MJ. And Dave.

May each rest in peace.

IF ONLY IT WAS THIS EASY TO GET BACK TO CINCY...