Lydia Aswolf

Frances and Frank lived next door to one another several years without meeting one another.

One day, they found themselves sitting next to one another.

They struck up an conversation that might have appeared odd to others.

But this conversation resulted in them wanting to see and speak to one another again.

Even at that point, they did not know they lived next door to eachother.

They had no reason to suspect it, and as their lives flowed like clockwork.

Frances and Frank didn’t bother looking for an explanation as to how they met one another.

They both knew in time, they would meet one another again.

They did meet one another again, much sooner than either had expected.

At dinner that very evening, in fact.

They talked until it was time to retire for the evening.

Both happened to be my patients, so I listened to each glowing report about the other.

Then, I acted.

I arranged another meeting, after informing both that they lived right next door to one another.

Both smiled a secretive little smile at that.

Being no stranger to attraction myself, I knew what that smile meant.

I smiled inwardly, lest it be discovered I was in on the secret.

After that, an glorious love affair resulted.

Frances was a professor before her retirement.

Frank had been something of a soccer star abroad.

Both were intimidatingly intelligent.

But their kindness and courtesy blunted the edge of that fierce intelligence.

I watched their faces alight every single time they watched one another.

I was there the first time they held hands.

For months, Frank courted Frances.

The changes in both were incredible.

Each had, before meeting one another.

Tended more towards isolation.

Not out of depression or disrespect for anyone around them.

Simply because they were free to enjoy their lives as they saw fit.

Many a time I had knocked on their respective doors, and receiving no reply.

Tiptoed in to place a comfortable pillow under their sleeping heads.

They never knew I did it.

But those short cat naps were to be a thing of the past as their courting proceeded.

Frances got her hair done much more frequently than before.

Frank fussed at me to make certain his beard and mustache were trimmed just so.

Both had found something they needed in one another.

Their families, while wonderful, kindhearted, and affectionate people.

Lived rather far away, though they kept in touch often by phone.

As their first year anniversary of meeting one another approached.

I was made aware that a big question was going to be asked of Frances, and soon.

Sadly, I was not there when the proposal was made.

But my heart gladdened when I saw Frances’ smiling face.

Frank tried to be stern, but the most beautiful smile wreathed his features when I gently teased him about his impending “fate.”

Wedding plans were made.

Family flew in to attend the wedding, and to the delight of all involved, everyone got along.

Beaming with pride, Frances became Frank’s beloved bride.
It was shortly thereafter, on a night shift I was not working.

That one of the colleagues I was due to relieve for the morning shift gave me a eye opening report.

She had entered Franks room to find Frances bent over in a most unusual position.

I suppose it goes without saying that Frank was behind her.

She quickly exited the scene, hand covering wide grin on her face.

Happily married life includes intimacy.

We were glad that Frances was sneaking into Frank’s room at night.

You see, Frances and Frank had decided to share adjoining rooms.

Now we knew why.

Anything else done, was done as should be.

In their time, with total privacy, as it should be.

I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to see them laugh together.

Gently hold one anothers hands.

Just be involved with the world again.

In a way, frankly, I had not seen in the years preceding them finding one another.

It never occurred to me in any way, shape, or form that they were any different from any other couple.

It might to you.

Frank and Frances have Parkinson’s Disease.

In Frank, the symptoms have served to slow, and at times, stop his tongue.

He cannot speak quickly, but must wait and work with his body, wringing out the words with time and great care.

Frances body was affected, not her speech.

She twitched constantly despite her meds.

Sometimes I would check on Frances, and help untangle her twitching limbs.

If she was in a good mood, I didn’t get an ass chewing whilst doing so.

I loved Frances for her mouth, her spunk, and her spirit.

I loved Frank for his wit, intelligence, and innate curiosity.

More than once, I waited nearly an hour for a full sentence from Frank.

I didn’t mind, because the sentences were worth their weight in gold.

Their wisdom and dignity while enduring a unthinkable disease taught me so much.

Yet I heard later some colleagues didn’t think it was love at all.

They believed my patients wits were addled, minds gone.

Those colleagues also believed love was something only the young could experience.

They succombed to their own disease.

I don’t know what awaits those colleagues in their future romances.

But I know this.

I will emulate Frances and Frank.

Love presents many obstacles, no matter what your age.

God willing, I face whatever obstacles come my way as Frances and Frank did.

Rather than be young and terminally, if not incurably blind.

Okay, must explain why I’m gonna be a little absent on the blogging front.

First, Suzanne and I are jockeying our schedules to allow time to revive Psychically Correct.

Second,  an Literary Agent is reviewing my manuscript, crossing fingers she will accept me as a client, then we can see action on my first book front.

Third, and most important…I’m working on my second book.

When I wrote the first one, I was absent from blogging quite a bit, all that energy expended in book.

I don’t expect this time to be different…so I’ll be absent.

That said, look out, as I’m going to be plotting the time and posting on my radio show page the new info about Psychically Correct, which Suzanne and I are aiming to have up and running in September!

Will blog where and when I can, but writing takes it outta me, lol!

Typical day.

Dealt with clients in the morning.

Took a break to deal with nails in the afternoon.

If my nails are too long, I just can’t type.

Seem to catch my nails in the laptop.

Off I set, and when I got there.

I admit, (no sainthood to be found running in these veins) I sighed inwardly when I saw the line.

Nevertheless.

I bought a magazine, figuring I could donate it for the other people waiting, give them something to do.

I sat, read through the pages.

This celebrity and that getting hitched, ditched, or pitched.

A woman beside me leaned over and bemoaned the wait.

I concurred, but we both agreed it was the best place to get one’s nails done.

After I leafed through the magazine.

I gave it to the woman next to me.

The one who had coincidentally said the wait was long, but worthwhile.

She thanked me with surprise in her eyes.

I had but a moment to realize the surprise was due to someone giving for a change, instead of wanting to take.

Then I was beckoned forth, and so I settled into a comfy chair, sighing, this time with relief.

Until they handed me a cotton soaked with nail polish remover.

Man, I suck at removing nail polish.

I did the best I could, but by the time I was done.

I had cotton sticking to every fingernail and pink smudges down to my first knuckle.

The maroon nail polish didn’t wanna come off.

I forced it to do my bidding.

As the nail tech came and shook her head sadly (she always does, nor do I blame her for it).

The kind woman came back to try and return the magazine I’d bought.

Thanking her kindly, I told her to keep it.

As she walked away, surprised yet again.

 I heard some voices behind me.

Tensed.

We psychic-mediums can’t read your mind at will.

But we generally know who you are without giving you a second glance.

Comes in handy sometimes.

 I felt the rush of negativity, and thought, so much for relaxation.

The slightly sullen voice behind me was complaining about the wait.

Been nearly a hour, she pouted.

After a little more bitching, her voice died down to a low murmur.

I was glad, yet wary.

I didn’t want her seated next to me.

Call it a psychic thing, just don’t like being around ppl who are too entitled.

It grates on my nerves.

I imagine if cheddar were alive.

A cheese grater would give it the same feeling of dread I had about that particular chick sitting by me.

In any case, a nice lady sat beside me, relieving me greatly.

I lent her my cell phone when her battery went dead.

Commiserated with her on the fickle nature of cell phone batteries.

Hell, I even told the nail tech I felt bad.

She was rushed off her feet.

I asked if she’d eaten lunch yet.

No, busier day than expected; not enough help.

I truly felt bad, and gave her a extra large tip to try and make up for my intrusion.

I wandered back to the nail drying station to..what else?

Dry my newly dark blue polished nails (looks terrific).

I heard the same voice who had loudly protested the long wait.

Saw three brunette heads.

Younger, maybe early twenties.

Maybe late teens.

Hell, I can never tell age.

I listened blithely to their conversation (don’t we all, be it at the hair salon or nail salon?)

Heard about who was fucking whom.

How good it was.

And wondered, as I so often do.

When I heard the young lady who had apparently fucked quite a few young gentlemen.

Call one of her peers (not present of course).

A slut.

I had strategically positioned my purse so I couldn’t actually see the two worst offenders.

I shook my head and wondered if she could see the hypocrisy in her own statement.

I wryly shook my head again.

Aren’t we trained from the womb to not see things objectively?

Least of all, ourselves.

To never view our behavior through others eyes.

With all that might entail.

I listened on, hearing about who was a slut, a bitch, a whore.

I noted one girl on the edge of things.

She never spoke up, as the more eager one did as the pouter spouted her vitriol.

She kept her eyes down, remaining silent, not commenting one way or another.

Even when directly spoken to.

I looked at the girl.

Curiously.

She wanted to be part of this threesome.

Part of this clique.

Yet she didn’t want what went with it.

She didn’t want to render judgment, when the person involved wasn’t there to defend herself.

I found this curiously irritating.

I continued to watch her.

The more vicious the vitriol, the more she studied her hands, whirled in her chair, twisted her hair.

The more uncomfortable she became.

Yet there she still sat, enduring.

I felt bad for this girl.

I felt angry with her.

She purposely never commented.

Yet silence gives consent.

Taking a stand when things go too far is a trait I admire.

Yet silent she stayed.

Consent she gave.

I wonder how this young girls life will go.

I wonder how badly her self esteem will suffer.

I wonder if she will ever take a stand when wrong is done artlessly to others within her hearing.

I wonder if she will ever take a stand for herself.

As I walked out, I stopped, making way for a car wanting to turn.

Smiling, the couple in the car waved me forward.

I knew they were smiling because I’d stopped.

Others had ignored the car and blindly surged forward.

Thinking only of themselves.

Where they wanted to go.

How they would get there.

Just as further out in the parking lot.

Careless drivers nearly backed into unwary pedestrians.

In their surge forward to get where they wanted to go.

I approached my car, still wondering about that lone girl, the mute one, to all appearances.

I wondered if perhaps she would stop for the car I did.

If she would stop if an pedestrian entered the path of her vehicle.

Stopping to unlock my car.

I thought she would.

Today.

I wondered how long it will take before she stops being silent.

Starts participating.

How many days, weeks, months remained before she chooses to become as obnoxious as her “friends.”

To fit in.

To get where SHE wants to go.

To stop seeing others.

To stop responding to others.

Thinking only of herself.

Of course.

Who am I kidding?

Days?

Weeks?

Months?

Silence is merely the first step in giving consent.

One step down.

So many more to go.

Perhaps another step in the path this girl has chosen awaits her sooner than I could or would acknowledge.

Tomorrow is, after all.

Another day.

I was idly flipping through channels today.

Every once in awhile, something will catch my eye.

So I settle down to watch.

If it’s good enough.

I even sit through commercials.

The particular thing that caught my attention was the subject of parenting on one channel.

I was totally engrossed,  as I watched the parent in question.

Said parent didn’t have a clue she was being filmed for all to see.

She was mostly silent, yet communicated so much.

Her love and affection for her children was real.

She played with them.

She taught them.

She fed them.

If necessary, she went without so that they could eat.

Anyone who threatened her young.

Did so at their expense.

Yet there were times, while I watched.

That she had to back down.

For her children’s safety.

She removed them from the situation.

There were also times.

Her children went hungry.

Other times, they had almost too much to eat.

Yet at no point did she spoil her kids.

No, she taught them respect at her own hand.

She did not put up with any attitude.

She did not let them do whatever they wanted to do.

She minded their every move.

At least, until they were old enough to know what moves were right and proper to make.

Sadly, she was not able to protect one.

In a moment of real danger.

Of high stakes few of us ever see.

One of her sons was snatched, and killed.

She at first couldn’t comprehend the fate that had befallen her son.

Always the unruliest, the most mischevious, the one she knew would get into trouble.

He charged headfirst into danger more than once.

In vain did she try and make him see sense.

In the end.

His choices came back to result in him losing his life.

When his mother did comprehend her loss.

She was unconsolable.

She stayed for ages with the body of her dead son.

Her other children came, sat with her.

A memorial of the worst kind.

They did their best to comfort her.

Eventually, her eyes, so weak before with grief.

Hardened with resolve.

She got up, holding her head high.

Did what had to be done.

For the dead, they are gone.

The living must be attended to.

It does not pay to ignore one’s other offspring at the expense of their lives.

Or yours.

Great pain often brings with it great wisdom.

She possessed wisdom in abundance.

Wisdom enough to know that her life had not ended.

Nor had her other kids.

She went back.

Showing the same love and affection as before.

She survived.

Her other children survived.

She saw them through the good and bad times that came, as they must come in every life.

She watched as one by one, they left her to make their own lives.

She did not try to prevent it.

It is natural, right, and good that children, once grown, must have their own lives.

If she felt sad.

If she remembered her lost son.

Not one of her children, or those like myself knew it.

It had a bittersweet ending, as life often does.

I turned off the television, awe of this mother still strong in my mind.

My own youngest two offspring were begging to go outside.

I smiled, albeit a bit sadly.

I had lost a son.

I could identify with sadness and wisdom the mother I’d just watched possessed.

Yet, life waits for no one.

So, outside I went, with my two youngest sons chattering and laughing eagerly in my ear.

I sat, the book I’d brought out forgotten on my lap.

I watched.

I noted three young girls, two young boys, and a gaggle of three other boys, besides my own two.

All screaming, laughing, having a great time.

Not one child over eleven years of age, some as young as five.

I was the only parent present.

I looked at the other parents homes.

Windows and doors closed.

No parents watched these children.

I idly searched through my memory for the last time I had seen a parent present.

Couldn’t remember.

I could remember picking up the youngest girl, just turned five.

When she fell off her bike.

Just a few days ago that was.

I carried her up to her parents house.

Instructed her sister to knock on the door.

I don’t walk into homes.

I got a grudging thanks for my assistance.

Last night, the seven year old boy fell off his bike.

Screaming without end ensued.

He would allow no one to comfort him, screaming over and over for his mother.

Someone finally went and knocked on her door.

For five minutes.

She finally answered.

Finally went out to her son, lying there pathetically on the pavement.

The same son I had seen with his butt hanging out her car window as she drove down into our neighborhood.

The same son I’d seen only four days ago be shooed out of his house with his two brothers.

Upon exiting the door, he said “They are either smoking pot, or just need to relax.”

I did tell you he was but seven years of age, yes?

From my vantage point.

They have relaxed all summer.

Nor is this my experience alone.

A neighbor who is as loving a mother and grandmother as I’ve ever seen.

Noted the absence of parents.

All save myself or my husband.

It is little trouble to me.

For I have five sons.

28 assorted nieces and nephews.

I know how to handle kids.

To train them in the way they must go.

Fairness, justice, and affection matter.

I give them what I can.

God knows, their parents won’t.

Yet I am not a saint.

Not incapable of losing my temper.

I admit I smoke…very bad example for kids.

I also tell them how disgusting it is, how every adult is faulty, no one is perfect.

On the occasions my temper has gotten the best of me, I have apologized.

Will continue to do so, letting them know I am no saint, but flawed.

Flawed and working to be better as hard as they must work at their schoolwork.

We are all a work in progress.

Mistakes are necessary.

More crucial is being able to see the mistake, and correct it before it bites you in the ass.

I run through these things in my mind, as I sit in porch swing.

My eyes sharp, to better observe if everyone is taking turns.

I recalled the show I’ve just watched, on Animal Planet.

The superior mother was a lovely Cheetah and her brood.

The rarely present and never caring mother is human.

I don’t find this odd at all.

Do you?

 

I am blessed that Suzanne can use photoshop.

On the other hand, you must realize.

When it comes to my face.

Suzanne didn’t have much to work with.

But at least you can see, from this picture.

Why, Reilly, my seven year old and Don Juan in the making.

Got both Suzanne and her daughter Laini, in bed with him.

Together.

Boy’s got taste.

I couldn’t be prouder.