Saturday, December 19, 2009

The tail of two balloons

On October 16, the riveting episode of the boy trapped, overhead, in a floating balloon was the story of the day. But No! It wasn't the story of my day at all.  That was the day my family, all my most beloved, were here to celebrate my ninetieth birthday.

And celebrate we did, in full Buckeye regalia, in a living room that had become The Ohio State stadium with banners and balloons and Brutus Buckeye, scarlet and gray m'n'ms,  and a cake that was an exact replica of The 'Shoe. The loving thoughtfulness of my children was magical. I have not stopped thinking about it for a single day since then.

 But how did we get from Colorado to Columbus, Ohio in two easy paragraphs? Because, I have a balloon story of my own, about that day, and it's all about love.

I was lucky enough to hear from many people.  Among the lovely surprises was an arrangement of fresh fruits, shaped into flowers, topped by a birthday balloon of shiny gold with Happy birthday written on it, designs and ribbons decorating it.

 It was a gift from three brothers whom I have loved since the day they were born. They are the sons of my life-long friend, Lois, and we have an unshakeable bond.

There is magic at work here. The fruit disappeared in the first twenty-four hours, but the balloon flew to the ceiling of the dining room. And stayed and stayed.

Mysteriously, it moved itself into the hall, floating past three bedroom doors, until it came to rest in my blue room, the room I created for myself nine years ago, and where I now pretty much stay. It is my TV room, my radio room, my computer room and my eating room. Two walls are full of family pictures. This is your life, PHG, like the old TV show.

Up in the corner, above the dictionary stand, two months from its launch, the balloon still sits.   Full of helium and brought here by the wide world of love.

It says everything I need to know about the power of staying connected.  "Its all good," as my son Tim likes to say.

1 comment:

  1. This was touchingly lovely, Phyllis. I read an article in the New York Times yesterday (words that rarely come out of my mouth or typing fingers), Phyllis about a 94 year old woman painter in NYC. I am bring that section of the paper home with me to get to you. In the interview with her, she has such a strong voice, like you. She, too, is choosing to live her life simultaneously expansively and selectively. I think there are lessons there for me at this stage in my life.