Dad’s garage is our workshop, therein
Is the stuff that we’ll need to begin,
We will lay plywood flat,
And we’ll draw lines on that,
While his car is out, to his chagrin.
But what’s this? While her spouse was obsessed,
Margaret boarded a plane for the West,
She’s gone off to give care,
To a friend they both share,
Leaving Barry to sew all the rest.
So he lofted the panels and cut,
Out the sail fabric, cheerfully, but,
Figuratively, a wall,
Stopped the man. Then a call,
To his wife, got him out of that rut.
I’ll be helping with the sewing when I return later this week. And I’ve provided emotional support by phone every day. But please, feel free to leave your encouraging comments for Barry on the blog!
Oops… I just figured out that comments are disabled for the limericks section. That’s goofy! We’ll have to fix it one of these days, when we’re not making sails in Dad’s garage. Well, send him an encouraging email instead. But don’t tell him I said so.
There once was a fellow named Jason,
Who learned that it’s bad luck to hasten,
Just a trip and a splash,
Can relieve you of cash,
When your eyeglasses now need replacin’.
Jason’s really a quite graceful lad,
Just a chip off the block, like his Dad,
Who has pitched a few phones,
Down to old Davy Jones,
But poor Jason’s Blackberry — so sad!
All joking aside, send your kind thoughts to Jason, who banged up his knee in the incident. Given the dunking his Blackberry got, I wonder if texting had something to do with his distraction?
There once was a lady named Jacqui,
And her taste in small boats was not wacky.
She knows quick as a jig,
With her fine Freedom rig,
She can rotate the wheel and yell “Tackie!”
It’s her birthday today, and I wish,
That the day brings some cake in a dish,
And a stroll down the dock,
Where she hears, to her shock:
“Happy Birthday To You!” sung by fish.
There is a fish I call Harvey who hangs out under our boat and makes funny “groink” noises. We suspect he is a “croaker” or a “grunt,” as his ability to hold a tune is limited.
In other news, we heard some strange noises in our dinghy this morning, and I thought it was just the wave pattern. A few hours later, as we went to row ashore, Barry discovered a beautiful 12-inch fish in the bottom of the dinghy! If we’d realized that was the source of the earlier noise, we could have had fresh fish for breakfast.
There once was a lady named Ann,
She’s an awesome friend with a big van,
For our carless existence
Required help and assistance,
To begin on our junk sail-rig plan.
Said our friend, as to Lowe’s we propel.
“Please beware of the dog-mothball smell,”
With that big engine purring,
We hauled plywood and furring,
Don’t apologize, Ann: Your van’s SWELL!
The term “elderly” isn’t the word,
For Da’oud, no, that’s much too absurd.
Though his birthday’s today,
If you asked, he would say,
The word “youngster” is greatly preferred.
This one is for my jeweler-artist friend, currently hanging his shingle at the Arizona Renaissance Festival. The twinkle in his eyes makes him look like a little kid with prematurely gray hair.
His name was so much fun to play with, I wrote a second limerick the next day:
A fellow I knew named Da’oud
Refused to eat all birthday food
He said, “I’ve been told,
…Eating cake makes you old.
And I’m an extremely young dude!”
There once was a lady named Donna
Who said to her friends, “I’m not gonna
Eat your candy and cake,
I refuse to partake.
Blow those candles yourself — I don’t wanna!”
Happy Birthday, Donna! If they put one candle on your cake for each year, you could heat the whole house!
The weather’s been so beautiful in Vero Beach this week, Barry and I have just been riding, riding, riding our bicycles. With the exception of two 65-foot-tall bridges that span the Indian River, there are no hills. It’s all flat. Whee!
This morning, for the first time, Barry and I pedaled in separate directions. Barry went to a meditation group in town, and I headed for the farmers’ market on the beach. I filled my backpack with peppers and cucumbers and strawberries and brussels sprouts and giant crunchy red radishes. I sampled grapefruits and tangerine juice (yum) and carrot juice (not-so-yum).
Then I walked over to the beach and dipped my toes in the ocean. Life is sweet.
I was pedaling back to the marina, a few blocks later, when a big bus in a bank parking lot caught my eye: The Bloodmobile.
You may recall that earlier this week, on Valentine’s Day, we commemorated our friend Becky’s birthday by hugging people. One of the other things people did in her memory was to give blood, including people in the US, Australia, and New Zealand.
Barry last gave blood about 20 years ago, and got a huge painful purple bruise all over his arm. That scared me so much, I never tried it.
Seeing that big bus, I thought of the folks who gave blood in Becky’s memory this week. Some of them were first-time donors. I’ve given my share of blood at the doctor’s office for tests. Surely donating couldn’t be much harder than that?
I rode back to the marina to meet Barry. “There’s something I’d like to do after lunch, and I’d love it if you’d do it with me,” I said. When I told him I wanted to donate blood, he was a little surprised. “You know what happened the last time I gave blood, right?” he asked. Nonetheless, he was willing to try it again.
We ate some lunch — they recommended that we eat a meal first — and then biked back to the big bus. On board, we each filled out a health questionnaire and had temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate measured, along with the iron level in our blood. We passed all those tests, so we were ready to donate.
The bus had four couches, and Barry took one on the right (so his left arm was accessible) and I took one on the left. I’m sure there’s a carefully established protocol for taking the blood out, but I’m a little squeamish, so I didn’t watch very closely. Besides, we were busy chatting with the three employees on the bus, two technicians and one woman who served as a sort of usher-organizer-cheerleader. She was the one who gathered up a whole pile of t-shirts, calendars, coupons, magnets, and pens, and gave them to us for donating.
It didn’t seem like very many minutes before there was a very loud “BEEP!” and Barry was done. I was done about two minutes later. It was easy.
Afterwards, I mentioned that we were donating in memory of Becky, and I hugged my technician. We’d been warned about adverse effects, including the infamous bruising, lightheadedness, and nausea, but as we got onto our bikes with our now-stuffed backpack of goodies, I felt physically fine.
Mentally, though, I was feeling better than fine. I felt super! Magnanimous, healthy, and proud. Glad to do something to help the world in Becky’s memory. Over and over, this lesson, the one about generosity, comes home to me: I gave up a little blood, but I got back way more than I gave.
Everything we do ashore starts with a row in the dinghy. Here's Meps, wearing a Becky's Hugs button, tying the dinghy painter.After the rowing comes the bicycling. Here's Meps and the Bike Fridays in front of the Bloodmobile.Afterwards, Barry shows off his new t-shirt, which says "2011, the year of the blood donor."
Barry and I drove through Fort Lauderdale last week. Along the way, I cringed to see tents set up in gas stations, selling giant red made-in-China teddy bears in clear plastic bags. That really conveys the right message — “I love you so much, I picked up this stuffed thing for you along with gas and beer.”
Returning to Vero Beach, I saw a vendor selling plastic-encased bunches of flowers from a parking lot on US 1. Nothing says “I love you” like a wilted bunch of flowers bought in a vacant lot…next to the gas station where you got gas and beer.
You know those chalk-flavored heart-shaped candies with little messages on them? They used to say romantic things like “Be Mine.” I ate one yesterday that said “Text Me.”
Valentine’s Day is a very old holiday. It goes back over 1600 years to a guy named Valentine, but who he was and what he did are vague. He may or may not have been a priest, may or may not have performed illegal weddings, and may or may not have fallen in love with his jailer’s daughter, who may or may not have been blind. He wasn’t even born on February 14, yet that’s the day when we do many of the wrong things in his name.
What the world needs is a new Saint Valentine. For this, I nominate my friend Becky Johns, who was born on Valentine’s Day.
Becky making cookies for Valentine's Day 2010
Becky died last year when her bicycle was struck by a car. She would have turned ten today.
She was a little girl who never met a stranger. For years, Barry and I only knew Becky and her sister, Cindy, through photos. Barry had worked with their dad, Andy, in the early 90’s at the US Patent Office, where Andy still worked. We’d met Andy’s wife, Sandy, a few times before the girls were born, but the years and distance got away from us, so the first time we met Becky, she was seven.
Barry and Becky pose for a photo before we walk the girls to school (2008)
On that trip, Barry and I drove up to northern Virginia from the boatyard in North Carolina. We were road-weary, and there was a lot of catching up to do with Andy and Sandy. As we talked in the family room, Becky was quiet. She kept looking from Barry to me and back again with a curious look on her face. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any more. She fixed her eye on Barry, sidled over to him, and to my surprise, just sort of melted into his lap. She hugged him like he was her bestest friend. Like she’d known him for years. One melting hug from Becky would turn anybody into pure marshmallow. I say this from experience, because after she hugged Barry, she hugged me.
Last year, about two weeks before Becky’s 9th birthday, we stopped in at her house again, on the way back from Pennsylvania. For a few days, we were part of the family and the marathon cookie-baking sessions that preceded Valentine’s Day. I got lots of Becky’s hugs over those few days, and captured dozens of photos of her mischievous grin.
Becky’s death was devastating. In an effort to cope with it, her friends and family have been inspired to do amazing things in her name, things that are especially kind and giving. A number of people are giving blood to celebrate her birthday. People involved in Bookcrossing, including Becky’s father, have been sending free books out into the world in her name. Her elementary school community held a bicycle safety rodeo to help children learn about bicycle safety and regain the confidence to ride their bikes.
The most important thing we do in Becky’s memory is the simplest, though. We hug people.
Becky's hugs
At the candlelight vigil held in Becky’s honor, a few days after she died, her mother asked her schoolmates to share Becky’s love by hugging each other during the coming school year. Some friends who heard this had stickers made up with her photo that said, “Becky’s love lives in me! Live her love by sharing Becky’s hugs!”
The sticker campaign took on a life of its own, and it’s now known to friends all over the world as “Becky’s Hugs.” There’s a website and a Facebook community page. Becky’s parents have been distributing buttons and magnets with her picture and message as a living memorial. You can be part of Becky’s Hugs, too. When you hug someone, you are sharing her love.
Unlike the original Saint Valentine, Becky’s life is not shrouded in mystery. Her short, happy, love-filled life is documented in pictures and videos. Those of us who were lucky enough to know her know exactly what Becky stood for: Love.
From this day forward, I’d like you to help me turn Becky’s birthday into the new, hugging Valentine’s Day. Saint Becky Valentine’s Day.
Please, share Becky’s message with everyone you can. Now, go hug somebody.
My poor brain’s going nuts, it’s frenetic
As I run though the words, alphabetic.
But this thing that I do,
Well, my Dad does it, too,
So my gift — or my curse — is genetic.
Sometimes limericks run around in my head until I write them down. This email from my Dad, which I received first thing this morning, reminds me that I am not alone in my affliction:
“This kept running around in my head last night,
so I had to get up and put on paper. Hugs, Dad
Marg’s homonyms are soulfully smooth,
Of this I fully approve;
But her limericks are sweet,
Filled with Her Dancing Feet,
They’re keeping us all in the groove!”
I’m wondering what are the odds
That people who call themselves “CLODs”
Would hang out with SLOBs
Who do not have jobs,
And party with one of their PLODs?
“It would be nice to find out about the weekly cruisers’ breakfast,” Barry said to me. We’d heard about it years ago through the Seven Seas Cruising Association.
“What do you mean, find out? Can’t we just go?” I asked.
He looked puzzled. “We’d have to find out when and where it is.”
“There’s a sign in the … uh … women’s bathroom…” Evidently, there was not a corresponding sign in the men’s room.
The sign advertised a weekly breakfast for cruisers and CLODs: Cruisers Living on Dirt. In other words, people who have “swallowed the anchor” here in Vero.
I told my Dad about the cute acronym. “I guess that makes you a PLOD: Parent Living on Dirt.” I suggested that he should join us for the boaters’ Happy Hour, and we would introduce him that way.
The next day, an email came from Dad, asking if he could “observe the SLOBs and PLODs thursday at the happily happy hour?”
