Mrs. Foster

Dedicated to the real Mrs. Foster, and yes I may recall something about throwing up in your antique sewing bucket. I’m sorry! Talk about having to continue paying for your sins from 40 years ago!

March 1, 2015 – It was a Sunday and all day I was thinking about my first love, the boy next door.  I couldn’t shake it, and was reminiscing about when he moved from one town over and I would stalk him from my friend, Paula’s front porch across the street playing Mr. Bojangles on our guitars for 12-16 hours a day.  I was about 12 years old, and I was in love. He was a bit of a wild child at the time, but in today’s world he would be categorized as a scholar.  I was thinking about how we would toss a coin to see who got the couch in the Athan’s basement for playing tongue hockey, and depending on how you want to look at it, Ronnie and I won on this particular occasion.  I got caught by Mrs. A and pulled up to the kitchen for the “talk” about how to conduct myself.  Loser. Pootana.  Shit.

Fair to say, you never forget your first love or their family.  Ronnie was #4 in the line up of 6 kids, and upon reflection of raising half as many children, his Mother, Joyce, was a saint.  The quintessential lady who was always patient and  kind, and God knows she had enough ammunition to become unhinged.  Before our first day of school, Joyce asked me what the style was since Ronnie was coming from Stamford where it was wear whatever the hell you want and can afford.  This was the early ’70’s and I told her it was Levi jeans (the ones with the W28xL30 on the ass patch), those camel color work boots, and work shirts with a popped collar.  It was pretty much the identical attire for girls except my Levi’s patch was probably W36xL20 (or how I perceived myself at 100 lbs).  I missed the first day of school because I had strep throat and a high hallucinating fever.  I won’t even get into that, and like I said you NEVER forget your first love, dementia or not.  I managed to get outside to see Ronnie come home and he had on the Levi’s, not jeans, but mint green corduroy.  He had a work shirt, but it was a mint green floral pattern to match the pants, and then there were the boots.  The boots were the right ones, but I would’ve at least scuffed them up a bit so they weren’t screaming, “I’m the new kid, please let me fit in.”   Basically his Mom amp’d up our Darien cookie cutter fashion and Stamford-ized it with some color bling.

March 1st would’ve been Ronnie’s Birthday, and he passed away much too young.  Since I obviously wasn’t firing on all pistons that day, I hadn’t made the connection until I saw the date on my phone then PING!  At 8:19 that night I sent his sister a private message about what happened that day and just that I was thinking about him and the family.  It’s odd and I’m odd to some people, but I do that a lot for people who have lost a loved one.  She didn’t respond that night which was a good thing because……

TWO DAYS LATER  I go to my accountant, Mezz, to do my taxes. We’re joking about keeping all the folders straight for my kids, my ex husband, and my ex sister-in-law whose name is the same as mine (thus Behoxie).  I tell my accountant I need to change my last name because of the TWO sister-in-law thing (go back to the About Me section).  I told him I need an entirely new last name. He’s hunched over my 1099’s and mumbles “Foster.” I said, “What did you just say?!?” He looks up and said, “Foster.”  Then he said, “I have no idea where that just came from.”  I told him about my Sunday, March 1st. He was a bit freaked out, and as always, I was very entertained. Mezz was still mumbling when he walked me out.  The spirits find a way to acknowledge, and they can be very persistent.

A few weeks after that, my Father came home from our shared Accountant and put an envelope on the table from Mezz to me.  It just had “Mrs. Foster” on it.  I explained the reason behind it to the 87 year old. I’m not exactly sure what goes on his head at any given moment, but I was the first one he called very excitedly (if you knew my Dad, this is NOT a normal characteristic) to describe a very vivid dream he had the day after his cousin died.  He won’t ever admit it, but he’s on board now because you don’t get a dream like that for nothing.

I have an 8×10 notepad in my kitchen that has my name across the top, and “I Quit In May” on the bottom with photos of me sneaking a cigarette out a window among others.  My friends will use anything and everything against me for a good laugh.  I even have my own label for wine bottles when I took out half of my front tooth with an e-cig.  For months after the “Foster” story, I’d pull a note off the pad and my name would be crossed out and it would alternate between Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Hoxie.

Foster family (especially Joyce) – Thank you for putting up with me all those years.  My memories are fond even though some of you are still stuck on me barfing in the antique sewing bucket and still trying to solve the mystery of the condoms (it wadn’t me).  My Mother would’ve taken the brush to me to the point I would’ve resembled swiss cheese.  Can I at least get the famous bean soup recipe?