seniors
Love Is In The Small Things
I hold her hand
So nervous like the first time
She offers me a gentle smile
It hides a trace of pain
2 Days mean more
When they’e numbered
I can’t imagine my days Here
Living without her
3 She use to make my meals
Use to mend my clothes
Now there’s only shadows
Where she made a small house our home
4 The sounds of laughing children
Once filled these empty rooms
The best of times in our life
We danced and laughed and struggled through
Those were the days
Even if we didn’t know it
Love is in the small things
Seldom seen and often go unnoticed
1 She wants to walk in the garden
But her legs have grown weak
I help her to the window
She shuffles her feet
2 Holding hands in silence
Siting in the setting sun (ya see)
Love doesn’t belong
Only to the young
3 Sunday drives in the country
Picnics by the lake
It doesn’t seem that long ago
But time moves on, refuses to wait
4 Whispers a Hail Mary
Tells me there’s angel circling
She can hear them calling
Calling her name
5 I kiss her forehead, and say
If you must go, I understand
What will I do without my sweetheart
Who I shared my life, hand in hand
Those were the days
Even if we didn’t know it
Love is in the small things
Seldom seen or noticed
Those Were The Days
Sorry I can’t make it to your mothers Celebration of Life event. This will be my final installment to Jeanne’s letter writing project. I hope she enjoyed the previous eight letters I sent to her while she was in the rest home. I hope they comforted her and made her laugh or perhaps cry—- my stories and words were intended to help her relive some of those good ole days we shared on Briar Lane. I can’t be there to tell my story in person, but if there is a place where pictures and such are being displayed, perhaps you can post this letter.
I’m going back, I’m going way back in time. Back to the 70’s. Back to when classic rock wasn’t something you now hear being played in the produce department of Safeway. There is something unsettling about listening to Van Halen “You Really Got Me” on the store sound-system as I watch an elderly woman examine the firmness of a zucchini.
No, I’m going back to when rock and roll was still rebellious and social networking was hollering out your car window at girls in their cars—I can still recall those hot summer Yuba City nights and that distinctive scent of rotten peaches lingering in the stale night air. It’s the end of August and another summer is slipping away. The sound of crickets, bullfrogs and a lone barking dog make up the evenings chorus. Thoughts of returning to school leaves me feeling flat and uninspired. This is the stuff that keeps a small agriculture town like Yuba City forever tucked away at the edges of my memories. We all carry pieces of our hometowns within us. Rainy days playing monopoly, making jokes to hide our insecurities, experiencing an awkward first kiss, playing baseball in a weed strewn field, climbing the levee for a swim in the the river——and coming to appreciate the value of being part of our Briar Lane gang——-where we made friendships to last us a life time.
Back then, on our block we played outside until it got dark or someone’s mom hollered “Supper time”. Yeah, “those were the days”. That’s what old farts use to say to me when I was a kid. I thought that was a bunch of nonsense, but now that I’m an old fart, I find myself muttering “Those were the days”. I suppose, ya don’t know somethings, until you’re ready to know them. Sometimes it’s too late——- and there’s nothing worse than being too late. Too late to share a morning walk, too late to share an evening sunset. Too late to share all those seemingly insignificant moments that comprise a lifetime. Too late to say the things you always intended to say. Things like, thanks for always being on my side, thanks for believing in me when no one else did——thanks for loving me—-cause that ain’t always such an easy thing to do——just ask my wife.
So there you lay and here I stand. Although you no longer inhabit your body and it no longer imprisons you——-I will always carry your voice and memory within me. Somethings are immortal. Somethings never die.
Jeanne——mother, wife, friend, neighbor, teacher, counselor, life learner, strong and courages, gone but never forgotten. And to you I proudly say—— “I love you”.
Victor S. Uriz II
Briar Lane Poet Laureate
A Song For Mom
This ones for mom.
The Forgiveness Song
This one’s for all the old couples who stuck it out through the hard times.
I’m tired of you
Being tired of me
I’m tired of me
Being tired of you
Once again
You forgive me
Once again
I forgive you (2X)
Your my friend and lover
I’m your lover and friend
We’re still together
Cause we’ve learned how to bend
Wrote you a love song
Wrote me a letter
Some loves fall apart==but
We’re better off together
We can take bike
We can take a bus
Enjoy the ride
Don’t get in a rush
Come on to bed
Don’t make a fuss
Shut off those lights
I’m gonna make ya blush
I’ve been wrong
A few times right
You’ve been right
A few times wrong
After all our trials
And tribulations
Our loves like a sweet song
Playing on a country station (2x)
Gave me a kiss, and a hug
Gave ya a hug, and a kiss
Turn tears to laughter
Cause it’s better than being pissed
Doubts and questions
We’ve had a few
But, you still love me
And, I still love you
We can take a Harley
We can take a bus
Enjoy the ride
Don’t get in a rush
Come on to bed
Don’t make a fuss
Shut off those lights
We’ll polish off the dust
I’m gonna make ya blush
At The Speed Of Foreverness

In spite of our long days and the swiftness of these passing years We’ve reluctantly grown old Old as in running out of time The potholed street of aging leads to a cul de sac of convalescence Age robs us of youths vanities It rubs our hair off, dulls our eyesight and deafens our hearing We slowly cave in on ourselves We can no longer get by on our sexiness or youthful bravado We’re left with a fading wit and the shreds of a once charmed personality This leaves some bitter, while others are liberated There’s nothing more attractive than someone who no longer gives a shit about what others think of them Shriveled skin, brittle bones, hemorrhoids and varicose veins ain’t so bad It’s the fading of memories and the onset of feeble mindedness that leaves us befuddled There’s that moment of confusion when we enter a room and forget what we needed there, or what we were looking for, or even why we came there in the first place??? But, I’ll fight like hell to forever remember your face
Song For Jeanne (behind times cruel walls)
A song about a son visiting his mother in a rest-home.
Still Not Feeling My Our Age
A tune about old folks loving life and having fun, cause fun isn’t just for the young ones. Stay Young at heart.
“We don’t stop playing cause we get old, we get old because we stop playing” George Bernard Shaw