childhood memories

Oh Well.

~ jessieloeb ~ Leave a comment

I used to play what was probably the very first Extreme Sports/Survivor game by myself when I was a kid; so I basically invented this concept of live action reality challenge TV – too bad I never told anyone or made a patent. Oh well.

     This game was awesome! I would cover my eyes with a blindfold of some kind and start from one corner of the top floor of my childhood home and find my way to the basement floor making sure I went into every room, touching every wall, outlining the whole perimeter of the house with my hands without seeing a thing. The goal was to cover the periphery of the house in the dark and not fall or bump into anything. This did not always work mind you; possibly why I struggled so desperately in math but that is a whole other deep dive – first let’s jump into this pool! With practice and within this darkness I knew every wall – the walls my mother painted and the walls with wallpaper; I knew every hallway, creaky, carpeted step, towel rack, doorway, outlet, and vent. This home was where I grew up and was the space that gave me privacy and shelter, hilarious and tender memories as well as a front row seat to the worst moments, the most painful memories. This house and I had a complicated relationship. But just like in so many relationships it was one sided. The house moved on and I kept checking my phone, wanting to have brunch, wondering why it did not like me back and pleaded for it to reconsider.  He (it) is Just Not That Into You (me)- The Spec Script for the 2022 Rom Com adorable.

     Over the many years after we parted ways I would make a point to drive past this deeply beautiful and haunting house. My go to itinerary would be to conspicuously pull over across the street, lock eyes with my bedroom window, do a Marvel’s Vision scan across the whole place, linger at the basketball hoop, and conclude my reverie at the beacon globe light that always either kept me calm at night or guided me home. 

I loved visiting my old stomping ground; I used to be pleasantly nostalgic and excited to sit within the house’s orbit and think about my life.

Within this past year, coinciding with other family, friend visits, I was able to stalk this Frank Llyod Wright suburbia mock up a few times. During one of these visits I blurted,

“I am actually pissed.” 

My husband was with me at the time and listened patiently as I, unbeknownst to myself, unleashed years of buried PISSED. After my much needed purge my husband turned around and smiled and pointed out,

“Wow, you really can hold a good ol’ grudge.” 

I really could. I really do. I guess no matter how old we get it is possible to learn new things about ourselves – The good, the bad, and the ugly.

     The light bulb that went off in my brain was this – After all the loss, the chaos, the stress, and change I went through during very formative years of my childhood I was told by my father the Spring before the Summer before my senior year of high school that he and my step mom were going to sell our house and we were moving into a condo in the progressively blooming, even more suburbia suburbia, city of Mequon. Soooooo, by the time I get home from my Summer camp job I should expect to be living in a completely new home. He continued to tell me that he communicated with my high school who was allowing me to finish my senior year at the school even though I was well out of the school district of residence. WTF.

     I knew at that point in my relationship within this married couple that my rebuttal would be pointless; I was not consulted and decisions were made. I decided to let it go, or so I thought. Oh well.

     Wow, could I hold a good grudge; Where did that come from?!  At that moment in the car with my husband I allowed myself to stop painting this reverie with glitter; I realized that I no longer had to pull over and stare with Anne of Green Gables longing but accept the numbing nostalgia – it was unfair and I was angry at my house, angry at the adults in my life who I thought made a terrible decision – it just sucked. I was simply not ready for yet another goodbye; that house wasn’t just walls to me, it had been the only consistent thing in my life.

It was a grudge worth keeping and a grudge worth understanding; the next step is however, what do I do with it?  Turning fifty is kind of crispy and raw as I observe real truths beyond and through Pollyanna goggles and what lies underneath many times is a good ol’ grudge that I left behind. Being angry and unforgiving is completely exhausting; maybe some grudges just need a good ol’ Oh Well. Letting go a bit doesn’t necessarily mean you forget, and to quote the wise  mother of a very Funky friend of mine, giving an OH well, may just help “Take a layer off” and open a chance for healing.

       In honor of our loved ones, Montoya’s gentle honesty and keeping an open mind,

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” Princess Bride.

Happy New year! May it be as grudgy and/or grudgeless as you choose or need it to be.


Happy 24th Anniversary to the love of my life. And a huge I Love You to our kids who are the very best, kindest, and most wonderful people I know. You are all my favorites!!


Puddle Splashing – Amazon

Puddle Splashing – Lake City Books

Puddle Splashing Direct – https://www.jessieloebdoula.com/contact

Gazpacho and Le Nozze Di Figaro

~ jessieloeb ~ 2 Comments

Pretentious title, yes? I can already hear my bubbe saying, ‘Oh, look at you with the fancy shmancy.’  

Gazpacho and The Marriage of Figaro – two things I never encountered until age 42. The three of us met late one Spring when my brother and I were taking care of my dad.

My dad and his lovely wife had been dealing with symptoms and emotional repercussions from a diagnosis received almost a year prior. My step mother had been dedicating every day to caring for my dad who, in all his years of parenting me and teaching me to be resilient, competent and strong, was a terrible patient! Do as I say, not as I do became a strong message in his Florida condo as he refused help, denied there were needs for specific safety and health instructions and snuck gin every time he could even though his walker could not be trusted to balance pride, stubbornness and liquored-up loose limbs! His wife needed a break and time with her Midwest roots so my brother and I swooped in, put trust in Spirit Airlines, and took on Naples!

My father did not want or need a babysitter so for the first few hours of our arrival his emotions bounced between and within sarcasm, eye rolling and utter joy; complicated is a mediocre adjective to describe this man.

The next day my brother’s main job was to convince our father that kale would not kill him nor was it green garbage AND make absolutely sure that the PBS live streaming of The Met’s performance of Le Nozze Di Figaro was ready to be recorded at least 10 minutes prior to curtain call. 

“Are you sure it is recorded?”

“Yes dad I am sure.”

“No you’re not.”

“Dad, it is all ready to go.”

“How do you know?”

“Dad, I know.”

“No you don’t……” and things of that nature.

While my patient brother continued to convince our father that he was technologically capable my job was to make Gazpacho. During my visits to Florida after his diagnosis my father always made grocery lists and slid them to me on the sly – as if we were in cahoots over something big. One of my favorite notes he passed me was for more butterscotch candy; he was given specific instructions to lay low on the sugar though he continued to order pounds and pounds of this Brachs delight taking up all the room in almost every cabinet. To the chagrin of medical practitioners everywhere I got him the butterscotch; after going to four different Publix locations I returned with his bounty! On this particular day however, his focus was on a high maintenance vegetable soup.

My dad, while journeying through life alongside the unwanted guest of mortality, had a craving for foods from his past. I had been asked to make numerous items over the course of two years, but this request was my biggest challenge. There were about a trillion recipes for gazpacho and my father wanted it the way his mother made it; pureed just so with perfectly shaped chunks of specific vegetables in order to give it the perfect “crunch” and texture. 

I was sweating over this savory solicitation for quite a while and my thoughts kept being interrupted by, “Jessie, when are you going to go to the store already?!” Finally I emailed my father’s specific requests to my genius, quick-witted cook of a neighbor and she sent me the perfect recipe. 

The rest of the day played out a little bit like this,

“What is all the goddamn chopping?”

“Dad I am slicing the tomatoes.”

“Now what is that noise?”

“I am blending the cucumbers and garlic and lemon juice.”

“How long are you going to keep making that racket?”

“Until the soup is ready.”

“Goddammit, “….

Finally the soup was ready and it was curtain time. My brother, dad and I chewed, swallowed, chomped and slurped our way through the live streaming of this funny, gorgeous and LONG Opera. My brother went to sleep after round one and my dad and I proceeded to watch the recorded production two more times (because my brother was absolutely technologically capable) and we went to bed finally at 3 a.m.

The next morning my dad got up, came into the kitchen, smiled at me and said, “The soup was good. I am going to have some for breakfast.”

The tables began to turn that year; my siblings and I became the adults. Love is complicated; love is deep; love is confusing, phenomenal and fantastic and parenting is 3-4 handfuls of butterscotch.

View at Medium.com