I was asked how I met my husband Steve. It's a romantic story in some ways--blind date, young love that has lasted more than forty years. It's also got its lessons.
I loved the dances at Rainbow Gardens. So many people, so much music! It didn't matter where you went to school. Once you walked through those doors you were transported to a land where everybody was your friend. Rock and roll was king. Rivalries disappeared.
On that warm night in October, 1967 a friend was bored and asked if I wanted to go to the dance at Rainbow Gardens. Of course! In those days, as now, I never turned down the chance to dance whether I had a sense of rhythm or not (I still don't). She and I spent an hour getting ready and persuaded my dad to drive us. The crowd was immense, and Rainbow Gardens was not famous for its quality air conditioning.
Let me tell you just a bit about the Gardens. First of all, "Gardens" brings to mind lush greenery and flowers in bloom. Well, maybe when there is a floral show going on. Other than that, it is a large non-descript building with a few trees, a few plants and bushes and a large asphalt parking lot that still could stand to be resurfaced. It sits on the west side of Waldameer, our wonderful local amusement park. You can go through the park to get there, or you can cruise down a long, tree-lined driveway that ends at the doors of Rainbow Gardens. You can still walk in for free at Waldameer and enjoy the sights and sounds even if you don't want to be terrorized by the rides. Anyway, the Gardens isn't much to look at, but inside is a different story. I've see it transformed into a prom setting, a winter formal, an orchid show and an antique sale plus everything in between. A grand time is had by all, I've heard people say.
On this night, it was just a teen dance. There was a disc jockey from a local radio station--Randy Michaels, I think. There were snacks and drinks and decorations. We danced until we could dance no more. In the cooler breezeway we stood, waiting for somebody else to ask us to dance. We were too shy to ask a fella on our own.
Well, sure enough, two boys approached us. One was almost comically shy, the other with a confidence shown only rarely at that age. "Aren't you Marilyn?" the confident one asked, and I recognized him in an instant. He was my cousin Frank who had moved away to southeastern Pennsylvania a few years before. We had been close as kids, and he was back! His friend was Casey, he said, and the four of us hung out the rest of the evening. Casey was a little too shy for me, not speaking unless spoken to, and Frank and Janet never did hit it off. It was fun anyway.
It was a week later, on a Friday night, that I heard from Frank again. He had a fellow he wanted me to meet, and would I fix him up with one of my friends? Sure! We would go to a football game, he said. Fine with me. I called Linda, of course. Disaster time. That was not a match made in Heaven.
When I saw Steve, however, that was a different story. Beatle-long dark hair, snug Farahs and an attitude, cigarette dangling, hands in his pockets of the North East High School letter-sweater he wore. He was like the hoods in the movies, the bad boy with a heart of gold. He had a look, a smile, that made me babble. That was just the outside. Inside, he was sweet and shy. I liked him instantly. It was Friday, October 13th.
When we got back to my house, Linda made me promise never to set her up with Frank again. Frank asked me to PLEASE find him another date. And Steve? Well, we exchanged numbers and he asked me out again. Unfortunately, I had a date already for that day. How about Saturday, then? he said. And I said yes. The first time he kissed me good-night I forgot to turn out the lights and lock the door; I tripped over the dog as I stumbled to my room. We got married on October 24, 1970.
The next week, I fixed up Frank with my friend Winnie. They eventually married and had a family. Steve and I fixed up Linda with Steve's cousin Anthony which again was not a good thing. Linda was about to forbid me to fix her up ever again when we introduced her to Tim. That was more like it. After a couple of tries, we gave up on Anthony. He moved to Rochester and found the love of his life there.
That chance meeting at Rainbow Gardens has brought at least eight children and lots of grandkids into this world. In spite of sorrows along the way, it was worth it.
Steve and I have been together since that night. There are days when the humdrum of daily life gets to us. His green eye almost glows when he is angry, his brown eye gets almost black. We scream at each other and then feel bad. His mostly-Sicilian temper and my German-Italian heritage are almost certain fireworks. We storm out of the room or the house, but we find our way back. Then his expression softens, and I know he loves me and always will. Oh, yes, I had crushes in those early days, but Steve always came out on top.
There is love, and there is love. When we live our day-to-day lives I sometimes forget about the excitement of meeting him that first time. It's easy, after more than forty years, to forget four proms, a couple of winter formals, a gross of semi-formals, dinners and football games. We forget about Trooper Gerard sneaking up on us at the beach, shining his flashlight in our car, looking for booze and finding only four surprised teens watching the submarine races.
Today Steve got the lawn mower fixed after it nearly drowned in our shed full of water from the spring rains. It was getting hot, the grass was thick and high from the recent wet and heat. I came to the door just as he staggered to the steps. He was sweating, his face pale and his hands shaking. I thought at first he was in the midst of a heat stroke or something more dire. I panicked, but tried not to show my concern too much. Two men of his age whom we knew had died in the past week. What if I lost him?
That was a revelation for me. In spite of the times I was ready to chop him up in little pieces and feed him to the coyotes; in spite of the days when we lose our tempers; in spite of the days when his political ideas drive me crazy--I love this man. He is the one who has always been there for me. He is the father of my very special sons. It is Steve who holds me close when we dance, or when I am hurting. It is Steve who holds my hand in church and who surprised me with my first-ever new car ( I was planning to buy an Omni. When I went to pick it up, instead of the ugly little beast, there was a shiny white Shadow Sun Coupe with silver on the sides and a sun-roof on top. He had ordered it especially for me, calling the salesman after he found out I was going to settle for the Omni.). He doesn't care if I can't dance or if I don't feel like cooking. He doesn't read my blog unless I shove it under his nose.
He isn't sure if he likes the re-defined me sometimes, but he isn't objecting too loudly.
He still tells me I look "hot" when we go out.
What a guy!
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
In Honor Of...
It's officially the opening day of the summer season. Presque Isle has its first lifeguards though the water is a chilly sixty degrees. The boats sail the bay and Lake Erie. Outside, my neighbors have started to grill. Today and tomorrow, the entire neighborhood will smell of hot dogs and burgers. We will fill up on salads of every description. There will be parades and fireworks, Waldemeer will be alive again. Many of us will have the day off work on Memorial Monday.
It is a day of celebration.
Let's not forget what Memorial Day is all about.
Take a moment or two to remember our brave military. They are the ones who offer their lives in service to our great country. They keep us free. We can be critical of our government because they have helped us to keep that right alive. We can have those celebrations, go to our own place of worship (or not), come home when we choose, gather as we wish and debate if we dare. We are a free people in a world that can be dictator-driven.
We in the United States of America are very lucky, indeed.
As you hoist your flag or wear your tiny lapel pin, remember what it's all about. Thank you, brave Marines, soldiers and sailors, Air Force and Coast Guard and all the rest. We don't say it often enough--thank you from the bottom of my heart for your service to our country.
Those who have given their lives, no matter which war or conflict or occupation deserve to be remembered. Let us give them a minute of silence. Let us honor their sacrifice.
God bless our military. God bless America.
It is a day of celebration.
Let's not forget what Memorial Day is all about.
Take a moment or two to remember our brave military. They are the ones who offer their lives in service to our great country. They keep us free. We can be critical of our government because they have helped us to keep that right alive. We can have those celebrations, go to our own place of worship (or not), come home when we choose, gather as we wish and debate if we dare. We are a free people in a world that can be dictator-driven.
We in the United States of America are very lucky, indeed.
As you hoist your flag or wear your tiny lapel pin, remember what it's all about. Thank you, brave Marines, soldiers and sailors, Air Force and Coast Guard and all the rest. We don't say it often enough--thank you from the bottom of my heart for your service to our country.
Those who have given their lives, no matter which war or conflict or occupation deserve to be remembered. Let us give them a minute of silence. Let us honor their sacrifice.
God bless our military. God bless America.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Dock
It isn't just the Dock anymore, it is Dobbins' Landing. The Brig Niagara, of War of 1812 fame, no longer sits on State Street south of the Dock. It has been refurbished and sets sail along the coast most summers now. There are no more grain elevators where the cat-sized rats used to play (my dad would take his .22 pistol down there to shoot at them). Instead there is a Maritime Museum and Blasco Library. Where there was once a bait stand and a place for lovers to walk, there is a hotel and a convention center. Hamot Hospital still looks over the domain like a king over his kingdom, but it is many times larger now and has a companion--a several-story office building that appears to be built of Construx toy building blocks.
At one time, the roof over the Dock covered it all. Dances were held above, with live music. Cabin cruisers would pull up and tether to the railings. Now there is little shelter; boats have become ships some of the time. There was a tour boat then, lake rides for two hours when the water was calm and the moon was shining on it. There is a tour boat now, a red-and-white paddle boat that has comfy seats instead of benches and serves dinner instead of bring-your-own-snack. A tall, well-lit tower stands at the Dock now, like a beacon on the bay. You can take its elevator to the top to the observation deck, or walk out on what is left of the canopy if you are afraid of heights.
A ferry ran back then. We would take the bus to the Dock, pay our fifty cents and take our blankets, towels and lunch to the beach across the way. A day of sunburn and sand, cool water and friends--then head back from Waterworks Beach for home to start over the next day. There is a water taxi now, not fifty cents anymore, but it still goes across the bay and picks up the visitors to Presque Isle.
This part of State Street, and along the bayfront for blocks east and west, houses several marinas where folks leave their boats most of the year. There are more now, some of them from Pittsburgh, others from Connecticut to the Carolinas. Some are magnificent sailboats; there are speedboats and cruisers and party fishing boats. The bigger ones go through the Channel into Lake Erie; the smaller ones play in the bay. They cruise, they fish, they para-sail, they water-ski.
There are restaurants and bars, live music and free-flowing fun, just like there always was. Grandmas and Grandpas still take their grandkids fishing off the piers. Seagulls, ducks and geese still stop traffic. Going for a ride "down the Dock" is still in every Erieite's language. Some things don't change.
The best thing about the Dock when I was a teen, and now again in my almost-over fifties, was buggin' State Street. We would drive, couples or a bunch of girls or guys, up and down the sacred street. Some had hot rods, some Daddy's Buick. It was part of being a teen in Erie, PA. We raced from light to light if there were no cops around. We gunned our engines to strut our stuff. We parked at the Dock under the canopy or up State aways, laughing and flirting and having the time of our lives. Who cared if the heater in Debbie's Beetle didn't work? It gave us an excuse to talk some cute fella into fixing it. Nobody minded if the music was too loud or the traffic too slow. After all, it was Friday.
A few years back, Hubby bought a midnight blue Trans Am, then a red WS6. Now he drives a newer GTO. We have rekindled those trips down State Street along with the other old folks who can now afford the hot rods and sports cars we were denied in our youth. Every hot car there is spit-polished, every stereo blaring. Engines roaring, exhaust systems rumbling, we take to the streets again. Once again we are sixteen. We still meet near the Dock--it will never be Dobbins' Landing to us..
At one time, the roof over the Dock covered it all. Dances were held above, with live music. Cabin cruisers would pull up and tether to the railings. Now there is little shelter; boats have become ships some of the time. There was a tour boat then, lake rides for two hours when the water was calm and the moon was shining on it. There is a tour boat now, a red-and-white paddle boat that has comfy seats instead of benches and serves dinner instead of bring-your-own-snack. A tall, well-lit tower stands at the Dock now, like a beacon on the bay. You can take its elevator to the top to the observation deck, or walk out on what is left of the canopy if you are afraid of heights.
A ferry ran back then. We would take the bus to the Dock, pay our fifty cents and take our blankets, towels and lunch to the beach across the way. A day of sunburn and sand, cool water and friends--then head back from Waterworks Beach for home to start over the next day. There is a water taxi now, not fifty cents anymore, but it still goes across the bay and picks up the visitors to Presque Isle.
This part of State Street, and along the bayfront for blocks east and west, houses several marinas where folks leave their boats most of the year. There are more now, some of them from Pittsburgh, others from Connecticut to the Carolinas. Some are magnificent sailboats; there are speedboats and cruisers and party fishing boats. The bigger ones go through the Channel into Lake Erie; the smaller ones play in the bay. They cruise, they fish, they para-sail, they water-ski.
There are restaurants and bars, live music and free-flowing fun, just like there always was. Grandmas and Grandpas still take their grandkids fishing off the piers. Seagulls, ducks and geese still stop traffic. Going for a ride "down the Dock" is still in every Erieite's language. Some things don't change.
The best thing about the Dock when I was a teen, and now again in my almost-over fifties, was buggin' State Street. We would drive, couples or a bunch of girls or guys, up and down the sacred street. Some had hot rods, some Daddy's Buick. It was part of being a teen in Erie, PA. We raced from light to light if there were no cops around. We gunned our engines to strut our stuff. We parked at the Dock under the canopy or up State aways, laughing and flirting and having the time of our lives. Who cared if the heater in Debbie's Beetle didn't work? It gave us an excuse to talk some cute fella into fixing it. Nobody minded if the music was too loud or the traffic too slow. After all, it was Friday.
A few years back, Hubby bought a midnight blue Trans Am, then a red WS6. Now he drives a newer GTO. We have rekindled those trips down State Street along with the other old folks who can now afford the hot rods and sports cars we were denied in our youth. Every hot car there is spit-polished, every stereo blaring. Engines roaring, exhaust systems rumbling, we take to the streets again. Once again we are sixteen. We still meet near the Dock--it will never be Dobbins' Landing to us..
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Harbingers of Spring
Spring! At last it has arrived along with all its "firsts".
The sun is warm when it occasionally shines in this neck of the woods. Lilacs are in bloom, daffodils and forsythia have come and gone. One day there was a robin, the next day there were hundreds. With them came the bluebirds, grackles and the sweet mating call of the cardinals.
The leaves are a glorious shade of new green. The scent of cut grass and wet (very wet) dirt fill the air. Strawberries will soon be in season. Yes, spring has sprung. The days are wonderfully warm, the nights cool and, if we are lucky, starlit. The harbingers of spring don't shout; they creep in slowly, surprising us with their intensity.
Yes, I'm talking about ants.
There weren't any a few days ago. Then hubby found one....today he called me at work to bring home traps. The big black buggers had set up shop anywhere they could find a crumb.
We go through this every year. I stopped being embarrassed by the ant population when I went to buy traps one day and saw my neighbor (the one with the sterilized kitchen floor) sneaking out with an array of traps and sprays. Other stores, other neighbors stripping the shelves of poison and boric acid. We're all in the same boat--or should I say anthill. What was Noah thinking when he took two ants on the ark?
I bought a dozen ant traps, spray and boric acid. I put the traps under the fridge and the microwave, in the cupboards and under the sofa. The computer den got one as did the bathroom. Boric acid went in the grooves of the threshold and the ridges in the window sills. I sprayed the steps and the heater vents. They don't stand a chance.
I looked down to see an ant crawling on my foot. I am not afraid of ants. I saw him grin at me. Really, he did. He was still grinning when I flattened him with my loafered sole. History.
I'm not a natural-born killer. I will rescue ladybugs from the macaroni salad. I will capture a moth and set it free. I have even been known to save the lives of an ant or two, explaining to them that they must tell their friends not to come in here or they will die. I am not fluent in ant-speak. I hope they understand. When a couple of apparently drunk ants stumbled across the bathroom floor, I let them go. Maybe they will take their ration of poison back to wherever it is they hang out.
I was sick of winter. I tired of the boots and gloves, even my pink fur coat. Warmth feels good. This is the year I will go hiking and biking, white-watering and kayaking. I will lose the pounds that have been bugging me. I will find a publisher for my as yet unwritten children's book. I will make more friends and get to know my newly found relatives. I can do it all.
And I don't need the ants to help out.
The sun is warm when it occasionally shines in this neck of the woods. Lilacs are in bloom, daffodils and forsythia have come and gone. One day there was a robin, the next day there were hundreds. With them came the bluebirds, grackles and the sweet mating call of the cardinals.
The leaves are a glorious shade of new green. The scent of cut grass and wet (very wet) dirt fill the air. Strawberries will soon be in season. Yes, spring has sprung. The days are wonderfully warm, the nights cool and, if we are lucky, starlit. The harbingers of spring don't shout; they creep in slowly, surprising us with their intensity.
Yes, I'm talking about ants.
There weren't any a few days ago. Then hubby found one....today he called me at work to bring home traps. The big black buggers had set up shop anywhere they could find a crumb.
We go through this every year. I stopped being embarrassed by the ant population when I went to buy traps one day and saw my neighbor (the one with the sterilized kitchen floor) sneaking out with an array of traps and sprays. Other stores, other neighbors stripping the shelves of poison and boric acid. We're all in the same boat--or should I say anthill. What was Noah thinking when he took two ants on the ark?
I bought a dozen ant traps, spray and boric acid. I put the traps under the fridge and the microwave, in the cupboards and under the sofa. The computer den got one as did the bathroom. Boric acid went in the grooves of the threshold and the ridges in the window sills. I sprayed the steps and the heater vents. They don't stand a chance.
I looked down to see an ant crawling on my foot. I am not afraid of ants. I saw him grin at me. Really, he did. He was still grinning when I flattened him with my loafered sole. History.
I'm not a natural-born killer. I will rescue ladybugs from the macaroni salad. I will capture a moth and set it free. I have even been known to save the lives of an ant or two, explaining to them that they must tell their friends not to come in here or they will die. I am not fluent in ant-speak. I hope they understand. When a couple of apparently drunk ants stumbled across the bathroom floor, I let them go. Maybe they will take their ration of poison back to wherever it is they hang out.
I was sick of winter. I tired of the boots and gloves, even my pink fur coat. Warmth feels good. This is the year I will go hiking and biking, white-watering and kayaking. I will lose the pounds that have been bugging me. I will find a publisher for my as yet unwritten children's book. I will make more friends and get to know my newly found relatives. I can do it all.
And I don't need the ants to help out.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
One Tuesday
There are angels, and there is Angel.
At the beginning of my journey to re-define myself, Angel and I bonded over too much gin and a need to be someplace else. Everybody was ready to go back to the hotel after a long Tuesday meeting. Jeff, Angel and I were not, so I and my thirty-something friends went out to play. I felt self-conscious at first; after all, I was old enough to be their mother. They didn't treat me that way. I felt like a friend, not a chaperon.
How would I describe Angel? As a contradiction to her given name? Yes, there is that. She is tiny and cute with long brown hair that shows a glint of chestnut; she tosses it in an innocent flirt. Her big eyes glow with a hint of mischief. Her phone never stops, even at two in the morning. Jeff and I threatened to take it, but neither of us is ready to die. A glass of wine or two or three charges her sense of humor. Angel is unstoppable.
I live vicariously through Angel's adventures. I can hardly wait to see what she is up to when the weekend comes. Jealous? Sort of. It's not that I want her suddenly single lifestyle, but she is having so much fun! When she accidentally stumbled into the men's room, I won't say she panicked, but she did rush to our safety net. I was tickled to see that something could slow Angel down for a minute and even make her blush.
Words like "a good Mom", "a good friend" or "competent at her job" might describe Angel, but they sound so stuffy. She isn't stuffy, not by a long shot. Her exuberant personality lights up a room. If you don't like Angel, it's because you haven't taken the time to know her. This slightly irreverent thirty-something makes this silver-haired grandma feel like a kid, even if it's only for a little while one Tuesday.
Who knows why such diverse personalities become friends? Chemistry, I guess. My life is changing so fast I can't keep up. I'm opening myself up to different experiences and different people. My friends are of all ages, backgrounds and political persuasions. They come in all sizes and colors. They are from another time, now reconnected; there are new friends I never expected. They are family I never got to know.
Angel, in her own inimitable way, opened my eyes to possibilities. She taught me that I'm not too old to have some fun on a Tuesday night in Pittsburgh. I'm not too old to change. I'm not too old for anything.
As another friend would say, Atta girl. Go for it.
At the beginning of my journey to re-define myself, Angel and I bonded over too much gin and a need to be someplace else. Everybody was ready to go back to the hotel after a long Tuesday meeting. Jeff, Angel and I were not, so I and my thirty-something friends went out to play. I felt self-conscious at first; after all, I was old enough to be their mother. They didn't treat me that way. I felt like a friend, not a chaperon.
How would I describe Angel? As a contradiction to her given name? Yes, there is that. She is tiny and cute with long brown hair that shows a glint of chestnut; she tosses it in an innocent flirt. Her big eyes glow with a hint of mischief. Her phone never stops, even at two in the morning. Jeff and I threatened to take it, but neither of us is ready to die. A glass of wine or two or three charges her sense of humor. Angel is unstoppable.
I live vicariously through Angel's adventures. I can hardly wait to see what she is up to when the weekend comes. Jealous? Sort of. It's not that I want her suddenly single lifestyle, but she is having so much fun! When she accidentally stumbled into the men's room, I won't say she panicked, but she did rush to our safety net. I was tickled to see that something could slow Angel down for a minute and even make her blush.
Words like "a good Mom", "a good friend" or "competent at her job" might describe Angel, but they sound so stuffy. She isn't stuffy, not by a long shot. Her exuberant personality lights up a room. If you don't like Angel, it's because you haven't taken the time to know her. This slightly irreverent thirty-something makes this silver-haired grandma feel like a kid, even if it's only for a little while one Tuesday.
Who knows why such diverse personalities become friends? Chemistry, I guess. My life is changing so fast I can't keep up. I'm opening myself up to different experiences and different people. My friends are of all ages, backgrounds and political persuasions. They come in all sizes and colors. They are from another time, now reconnected; there are new friends I never expected. They are family I never got to know.
Angel, in her own inimitable way, opened my eyes to possibilities. She taught me that I'm not too old to have some fun on a Tuesday night in Pittsburgh. I'm not too old to change. I'm not too old for anything.
As another friend would say, Atta girl. Go for it.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Debate
There are two viewpoints represented in a decent debate--the right one and the wrong one. It depends on where you are sitting at the moment.
I would hope my friend is still a friend after our spirited discussion. One of us may win, but I doubt it. Neither of us have control over the topic. So far, no one else has chimed in to contradict us. We must be doing a good job.
Debate is a useful tool. It's a learning mechanism and an opportunity. The trick is to talk without tearing down your opponent's personal belief. Agree to disagree. I probably shouldn't have called him irrational. I will apologize for that later.
Another trick is to watch that very fine line between discussion and argument. It doesn't have to be raised voices (or all capital letters) to make a point. By our respective ages, we must have learned some civility. You can respect another's point of view without agreeing with it.
I am hyped over this debate. My opponent is intelligent and a little...uh...misguided. As I read his words, I am beginning to understand where he is coming from. My desire is not to change his mind (that won't happen; trust me) but to make him think about his rationale. He believes what he says and will defend it without name-calling or cheap shots. Politicians could learn a lot by listening to how we are handling this.
Much argument could be avoided if people would come to the table with ideas instead if prejudice, loud voices and self-centeredness. Why is your own opinion so much more valid than another's? You know what they say about opinions. Everybody has one--a polite version of the quote. If you have chosen a side, defend yourself with some semblance of dignity and intellectual comment. If you've not decided where you stand, listen and learn.
This debate isn't over yet. I hope there will be many more like it.
I would hope my friend is still a friend after our spirited discussion. One of us may win, but I doubt it. Neither of us have control over the topic. So far, no one else has chimed in to contradict us. We must be doing a good job.
Debate is a useful tool. It's a learning mechanism and an opportunity. The trick is to talk without tearing down your opponent's personal belief. Agree to disagree. I probably shouldn't have called him irrational. I will apologize for that later.
Another trick is to watch that very fine line between discussion and argument. It doesn't have to be raised voices (or all capital letters) to make a point. By our respective ages, we must have learned some civility. You can respect another's point of view without agreeing with it.
I am hyped over this debate. My opponent is intelligent and a little...uh...misguided. As I read his words, I am beginning to understand where he is coming from. My desire is not to change his mind (that won't happen; trust me) but to make him think about his rationale. He believes what he says and will defend it without name-calling or cheap shots. Politicians could learn a lot by listening to how we are handling this.
Much argument could be avoided if people would come to the table with ideas instead if prejudice, loud voices and self-centeredness. Why is your own opinion so much more valid than another's? You know what they say about opinions. Everybody has one--a polite version of the quote. If you have chosen a side, defend yourself with some semblance of dignity and intellectual comment. If you've not decided where you stand, listen and learn.
This debate isn't over yet. I hope there will be many more like it.
Monday, May 23, 2011
An Angel Named Willa
What does an angel look like?
I believe God sends angels in many forms to minister to us when we need them. I have met many a friend and many a stranger who has been my angel in troubled times. They don't know what they do for my soul.
Today had a fine start, but as it progressed something was niggling at me. The self-doubts, the self-image questions, the self-hatred of my weaker insides came creeping in. Someday I will be rid of those, I hope. I need to run into Willa again.
A new friend needed someone to talk to. I should have listened instead of offering advice no matter how solid it was.
I reached out once again to an estranged friend. There was no response. I can't give up even though I probably should. It was someone who once would have listened and given me support I trusted and a hug I needed.
I saw a high school friend. We had a nice visit, laughing and talking like the old days. I'd like to do that again. Something was missing, though. It's the self-image thing again. Not only did I long for a tarp to cover my body, I felt inadequate. All the things I haven't done yet, all the things I will never do, came rushing at me as I sat in the car. The accomplishments of my friend and family read like a Christmas letter. No wonder I don't write one! What have I done with my life? I am continually going two steps forward and one step back on my journey of growth.
Tonight I went to the Y. I hobbled one mile instead of two. I used only the machines that aren't hard on my still-sore back. The gym was virtually empty, most of the regulars who had become friends were out enjoying the finally dry weather.
As I sat on the bench debating whether I could do another lap or two a young black woman came down the stairs and stopped beside me. Not being one to let a possible friend get away, I began to talk. She was killing time before her class started, she said. We spoke of many things--the death of our mothers, God and churches, friends and children.
I was sorry to see the time pass so quickly. As she left we exchanged names and shook hands. I wanted to hug her. Those few minutes of honest exchange without expectation or reason gave me back much of what I thought I lost today. She has no idea how her words helped.
Angels come in every size, shape, color and gender. Some have fur, some have feathers. God sends them to us when we need them. We recognize them sometimes after the fact. Oh, I know these are not heaven-dwellers; they are people like you and me. God places them in our path or nudges them in our direction when necessary.
Her name is Willa. She was my angel today. Thanks, Willa. Thank you, Lord, for sending her.
I believe God sends angels in many forms to minister to us when we need them. I have met many a friend and many a stranger who has been my angel in troubled times. They don't know what they do for my soul.
Today had a fine start, but as it progressed something was niggling at me. The self-doubts, the self-image questions, the self-hatred of my weaker insides came creeping in. Someday I will be rid of those, I hope. I need to run into Willa again.
A new friend needed someone to talk to. I should have listened instead of offering advice no matter how solid it was.
I reached out once again to an estranged friend. There was no response. I can't give up even though I probably should. It was someone who once would have listened and given me support I trusted and a hug I needed.
I saw a high school friend. We had a nice visit, laughing and talking like the old days. I'd like to do that again. Something was missing, though. It's the self-image thing again. Not only did I long for a tarp to cover my body, I felt inadequate. All the things I haven't done yet, all the things I will never do, came rushing at me as I sat in the car. The accomplishments of my friend and family read like a Christmas letter. No wonder I don't write one! What have I done with my life? I am continually going two steps forward and one step back on my journey of growth.
Tonight I went to the Y. I hobbled one mile instead of two. I used only the machines that aren't hard on my still-sore back. The gym was virtually empty, most of the regulars who had become friends were out enjoying the finally dry weather.
As I sat on the bench debating whether I could do another lap or two a young black woman came down the stairs and stopped beside me. Not being one to let a possible friend get away, I began to talk. She was killing time before her class started, she said. We spoke of many things--the death of our mothers, God and churches, friends and children.
I was sorry to see the time pass so quickly. As she left we exchanged names and shook hands. I wanted to hug her. Those few minutes of honest exchange without expectation or reason gave me back much of what I thought I lost today. She has no idea how her words helped.
Angels come in every size, shape, color and gender. Some have fur, some have feathers. God sends them to us when we need them. We recognize them sometimes after the fact. Oh, I know these are not heaven-dwellers; they are people like you and me. God places them in our path or nudges them in our direction when necessary.
Her name is Willa. She was my angel today. Thanks, Willa. Thank you, Lord, for sending her.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Under the Clock
When I was a little girl I loved to go downtown (or uptown, depending on who you were talking to). Aunt Marjie would get all dressed up, complete with hat, gloves and heels. I would wear my Sunday best, right down to a flower in my hair and shiny patent leather shoes.
Generally the first stop would be fifty-two cartoons at the Warner theater, or maybe a Bette Davis flick at the Shea's. Second stop, lunch (hot turkey) at Grant's or a hot fudge sundae at Kresge's. Then it would be time to shop, a stop at the milliner's for Aunt Marjie and the toy department at Woolworth's for me. Then it was on to the Boston Store.
I wish there was a style of printing to reflect the reverence I had for the Boston Store. Going through the revolving doors, one entered into the magic world of six floors (not counting the sixth floor which housed the dining room and offices) of everything under the sun. You could grocery shop at Rudy Voss, book your vacation plans through Cappabianca Travel. You could buy paint or carpeting, get stamps, have your shoes repaired. I was the happy recipient of more than one rose from Rosebud Floral. All this plus clothes in every price range, jewelry and furs, make-up and records, books, candy and toys. I wanted to get locked in there at night so I could look at the pretty dishes, hug the beautiful dolls, try on the fur coats without anyone saying, "DON'T TOUCH!"
It was only a few years later when I got my first real job writing advertising copy for the Boston Store. The big thrill of being there when the store was closed had come true. I wrote ads for those pretty dishes and fur coats. I got to touch all the jewelry. No one told me to leave it alone. I was able to go into all those secret halls and locked rooms. I watched, even helped, put up the bouquets of fantasy flowers, the crystal chandeliers and the window mannequins. What a wonderful time that was.
But the best thing was, and still is, the Boston Store clock. Everyone met everybody under the clock. Everyone knew where it was. You met your date there, or your mother. Today there is a restaurant called Under the Clock. I haven't been there yet. It wouldn't be right to go with just anybody. It has to be a special day with someone who understands what it means to meet under the clock.
The Clock was a four-sided, huge, somewhat Victorian monstrosity that hung from the ceiling near the "down" escalator. It had no chimes, just big Roman numerals to announce the time. It was so big it could be seen from every entrance. You could see the whole first floor and all the activity while under that clock. I still get a lump in my throat when I remember seeing someone I cared about looking for me under the clock. I remember, in the days before cell phones, planning to meet someone there. In the excitement of planning, we had forgotten that the store didn't open until noon. I wonder what might have been. It was hours later that Mom remembered to tell me that he had called. Another time, the girls I worked with thought it would be funny to set up a "chance" meeting with somebody they knew I liked. They wrote to him and didn't tell me. Talk about a tongue-tied, embarrassing moment. It didn't turn out well. I wish I would have said something then, because today I can't. I wonder if they even remember those days. There were other times and other friends. I hope there will be again.
The bustle of the Boston Store is gone now, replacing the cosmetics department with a restaurant, the men's wear with radio stations, the polished wood display tables with a security desk. The clothing and fur coats and pretty dishes are now apartments that bear the Boston Store name. I have been in there many times. The glory is gone. The Clock remains. There are too many memories to cover in one essay. I will visit the Boston Store again.
If I had one wish to restore one thing of the past, it wouldn't be the Dock, now Dobbin's Landing. It wouldn't be the old library or the shoe shine parlor. It would be meeting under the clock at the Boston Store.
Generally the first stop would be fifty-two cartoons at the Warner theater, or maybe a Bette Davis flick at the Shea's. Second stop, lunch (hot turkey) at Grant's or a hot fudge sundae at Kresge's. Then it would be time to shop, a stop at the milliner's for Aunt Marjie and the toy department at Woolworth's for me. Then it was on to the Boston Store.
I wish there was a style of printing to reflect the reverence I had for the Boston Store. Going through the revolving doors, one entered into the magic world of six floors (not counting the sixth floor which housed the dining room and offices) of everything under the sun. You could grocery shop at Rudy Voss, book your vacation plans through Cappabianca Travel. You could buy paint or carpeting, get stamps, have your shoes repaired. I was the happy recipient of more than one rose from Rosebud Floral. All this plus clothes in every price range, jewelry and furs, make-up and records, books, candy and toys. I wanted to get locked in there at night so I could look at the pretty dishes, hug the beautiful dolls, try on the fur coats without anyone saying, "DON'T TOUCH!"
It was only a few years later when I got my first real job writing advertising copy for the Boston Store. The big thrill of being there when the store was closed had come true. I wrote ads for those pretty dishes and fur coats. I got to touch all the jewelry. No one told me to leave it alone. I was able to go into all those secret halls and locked rooms. I watched, even helped, put up the bouquets of fantasy flowers, the crystal chandeliers and the window mannequins. What a wonderful time that was.
But the best thing was, and still is, the Boston Store clock. Everyone met everybody under the clock. Everyone knew where it was. You met your date there, or your mother. Today there is a restaurant called Under the Clock. I haven't been there yet. It wouldn't be right to go with just anybody. It has to be a special day with someone who understands what it means to meet under the clock.
The Clock was a four-sided, huge, somewhat Victorian monstrosity that hung from the ceiling near the "down" escalator. It had no chimes, just big Roman numerals to announce the time. It was so big it could be seen from every entrance. You could see the whole first floor and all the activity while under that clock. I still get a lump in my throat when I remember seeing someone I cared about looking for me under the clock. I remember, in the days before cell phones, planning to meet someone there. In the excitement of planning, we had forgotten that the store didn't open until noon. I wonder what might have been. It was hours later that Mom remembered to tell me that he had called. Another time, the girls I worked with thought it would be funny to set up a "chance" meeting with somebody they knew I liked. They wrote to him and didn't tell me. Talk about a tongue-tied, embarrassing moment. It didn't turn out well. I wish I would have said something then, because today I can't. I wonder if they even remember those days. There were other times and other friends. I hope there will be again.
The bustle of the Boston Store is gone now, replacing the cosmetics department with a restaurant, the men's wear with radio stations, the polished wood display tables with a security desk. The clothing and fur coats and pretty dishes are now apartments that bear the Boston Store name. I have been in there many times. The glory is gone. The Clock remains. There are too many memories to cover in one essay. I will visit the Boston Store again.
If I had one wish to restore one thing of the past, it wouldn't be the Dock, now Dobbin's Landing. It wouldn't be the old library or the shoe shine parlor. It would be meeting under the clock at the Boston Store.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Still Here
Well, if the Rapture happened as planned, Erie, PA must have a lot of heathens.
We were at a picnic for my grandson's fifth birthday. All we saw was a bunch of stray balloons. Our family, friends and neighborhood remain intact. There was no earthquake, no looters, no planes falling from the sky. I'm a little disappointed.
When I said my prayers, I told Him I wasn't worthy of being one of the chosen. I said I would be willing to stay behind and take care of the scared and the animals. I would minister to the unsaved. I would help the wicked change their ways. I would help them to become believers.
Before you say to me, "Marilyn, how selfless of you! How brave!", let me finish.
I will remain because God knows I am Lot's wife.
All this about being a Christian is true, my faith is strong. BUT--I still haven't rid myself of the materialistic tendencies. I love life. I love my family and my house and my dog and my possessions. I love this new thing I am starting. I love the lake and the sky. I love the earthly pleasures. There is so much I want to do, so many friends I haven't made, so many I need to forgive and so many who need to forgive me. I don't want to leave all this in spite of the unhappiness I sometimes feel.
It hit me today as six o'clock approached. I was afraid it was true, that I might be leaving this life. I know that Heaven is millions of times better. I'm sure it was Satan who wants me to stay behind for his own reasons.
I escaped into the house under the guise of stretching my back to relieve the tension. No one questioned my tears; they assumed they were from pain. They didn't know the truth until now.
I am trying to be a better person. I am filled with so much love that I want to share it. Yet I still have this need to be human. If it was a matter of push or shove, I would choose God, at least I hope I would. Today I wasn't so sure. It's a painful thing to admit. Please don't think less of me. I have to live with this realization. I want to be good; I'm learning that I am not. What a revelation.
I went over the list of the things in which I believe, the things and the people and the places I love. I have told you that I am prepared, I'm just not ready. Today I found out how true that statement was.
I am not ready.
We were at a picnic for my grandson's fifth birthday. All we saw was a bunch of stray balloons. Our family, friends and neighborhood remain intact. There was no earthquake, no looters, no planes falling from the sky. I'm a little disappointed.
When I said my prayers, I told Him I wasn't worthy of being one of the chosen. I said I would be willing to stay behind and take care of the scared and the animals. I would minister to the unsaved. I would help the wicked change their ways. I would help them to become believers.
Before you say to me, "Marilyn, how selfless of you! How brave!", let me finish.
I will remain because God knows I am Lot's wife.
All this about being a Christian is true, my faith is strong. BUT--I still haven't rid myself of the materialistic tendencies. I love life. I love my family and my house and my dog and my possessions. I love this new thing I am starting. I love the lake and the sky. I love the earthly pleasures. There is so much I want to do, so many friends I haven't made, so many I need to forgive and so many who need to forgive me. I don't want to leave all this in spite of the unhappiness I sometimes feel.
It hit me today as six o'clock approached. I was afraid it was true, that I might be leaving this life. I know that Heaven is millions of times better. I'm sure it was Satan who wants me to stay behind for his own reasons.
I escaped into the house under the guise of stretching my back to relieve the tension. No one questioned my tears; they assumed they were from pain. They didn't know the truth until now.
I am trying to be a better person. I am filled with so much love that I want to share it. Yet I still have this need to be human. If it was a matter of push or shove, I would choose God, at least I hope I would. Today I wasn't so sure. It's a painful thing to admit. Please don't think less of me. I have to live with this realization. I want to be good; I'm learning that I am not. What a revelation.
I went over the list of the things in which I believe, the things and the people and the places I love. I have told you that I am prepared, I'm just not ready. Today I found out how true that statement was.
I am not ready.
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Trouble With Love
There are so many different kinds of love that it is hard to say what you mean. The English language is woefully inadequate. We say "love" when we mean "agape" or "infatuation" or "lust". The person who is feeling it can't even describe it. Is it love? we ask Dear Abby. Will it last? we query Dr. Phil. I would be very rich if I could figure it out.
There is the kind of love that we have for our God if we are believers. It's the sort of love that makes us want to do good deeds, to be kind and to sing in praise. It is nothing compared to His love for us, but that's because we are human. There is agape love which we feel for our fellow man. These types of love are as real as we are.
There is self-love, not to be confused with ego. It is what keeps us nourished and healthy. It provides the fight-or-flight instinct. It's what makes humans want to be. If you don't love yourself, nobody else will, either.
There is the deep love we have for our children, a love unlike any other. We sacrifice willingly, even our own lives. It is unconditional and forgiving. We will protect our brood no matter what the consequence to ourselves. This kind of love follows closely the love of family and close friends. We my gripe about them, but we will jump to defend them if anyone else says a cross word.
We love our pets, be they rabbits, cats, dogs or goldfish. We feed and care for them and they respond with unconditional love as our reward.
The love we have for our material possessions, hobbies or Jack Daniels is another matter. I say I love chocolate or peanut butter or costume jewelry, but is it love if the recipient can't respond? Of course they give satisfaction, but love? Again the English language fails me. There must be a better word to describe how I feel about gin and tonic.
There is the love we have for our friends. You see what I mean about English? If I say "I love you" to a male friend, do romantic ideas make him run from me? So is it better if I say nothing but generic platitudes? It isn't enough for these special people in my life, but I don't want to send the wrong message.
Arguably the best kind of love is what we feel for that special someone, a spouse, SO or mate. It can begin slowly, with affection and friendship. It matures over time. If allowed to grow, it becomes lifelong, even beyond death. There is compassion and passion. There is tenderness in the touch, unspoken gratitude and some taking for granted. Sometimes feeling the breath of a loved one on your face is enough, or the flutter of eyelashes on your cheek. Some days that is not enough. "Love" doesn't begin to describe it.
Some love starts with a thunderbolt. It might be infatuation, it might be real. A thunderbolt comes out of the blue without rhyme or reason. It strikes the heart with the force of an atomic bomb, making one obsessive, compulsive and reckless. It torments your soul and drives you to the edge of insanity until that magic moment when it is recognized. If the love of your life feels it too, well, life becomes an adventure. If not, it becomes tragedy.
We go around barely noticing the love that surrounds us. We fail to appreciate the child crawling on our laps for a hug; we see his muddy shoes. We don't see the invitation to walk or have coffee as affection; it is an intrusion or obligation, even an annoyance. We miss the fact that love may come in the guise of a note, a string of beads, a simple key chain. It might be getting the oil changed or doing the dishes. We need to look beyond the obvious.
I will accept the gifts you offer me-- the hugs or the pat on my shoulder, words of praise, coffee or a walk on the beach. I will accept the conversation, the jokes and the dreams we share (jewelry doesn't hurt, either!). I don't want your whole life, just a few minutes we can call our own.
I've been trying to share this love that fills me to overflowing. It's new to me to feel like this. If it is not returned, I have lost nothing. If it is returned in some small way, I will be happy and a bit more content. My words are a gift to you. I pray every day for the right ones that will touch one person, one time.
Especially you.
There is the kind of love that we have for our God if we are believers. It's the sort of love that makes us want to do good deeds, to be kind and to sing in praise. It is nothing compared to His love for us, but that's because we are human. There is agape love which we feel for our fellow man. These types of love are as real as we are.
There is self-love, not to be confused with ego. It is what keeps us nourished and healthy. It provides the fight-or-flight instinct. It's what makes humans want to be. If you don't love yourself, nobody else will, either.
There is the deep love we have for our children, a love unlike any other. We sacrifice willingly, even our own lives. It is unconditional and forgiving. We will protect our brood no matter what the consequence to ourselves. This kind of love follows closely the love of family and close friends. We my gripe about them, but we will jump to defend them if anyone else says a cross word.
We love our pets, be they rabbits, cats, dogs or goldfish. We feed and care for them and they respond with unconditional love as our reward.
The love we have for our material possessions, hobbies or Jack Daniels is another matter. I say I love chocolate or peanut butter or costume jewelry, but is it love if the recipient can't respond? Of course they give satisfaction, but love? Again the English language fails me. There must be a better word to describe how I feel about gin and tonic.
There is the love we have for our friends. You see what I mean about English? If I say "I love you" to a male friend, do romantic ideas make him run from me? So is it better if I say nothing but generic platitudes? It isn't enough for these special people in my life, but I don't want to send the wrong message.
Arguably the best kind of love is what we feel for that special someone, a spouse, SO or mate. It can begin slowly, with affection and friendship. It matures over time. If allowed to grow, it becomes lifelong, even beyond death. There is compassion and passion. There is tenderness in the touch, unspoken gratitude and some taking for granted. Sometimes feeling the breath of a loved one on your face is enough, or the flutter of eyelashes on your cheek. Some days that is not enough. "Love" doesn't begin to describe it.
Some love starts with a thunderbolt. It might be infatuation, it might be real. A thunderbolt comes out of the blue without rhyme or reason. It strikes the heart with the force of an atomic bomb, making one obsessive, compulsive and reckless. It torments your soul and drives you to the edge of insanity until that magic moment when it is recognized. If the love of your life feels it too, well, life becomes an adventure. If not, it becomes tragedy.
We go around barely noticing the love that surrounds us. We fail to appreciate the child crawling on our laps for a hug; we see his muddy shoes. We don't see the invitation to walk or have coffee as affection; it is an intrusion or obligation, even an annoyance. We miss the fact that love may come in the guise of a note, a string of beads, a simple key chain. It might be getting the oil changed or doing the dishes. We need to look beyond the obvious.
I will accept the gifts you offer me-- the hugs or the pat on my shoulder, words of praise, coffee or a walk on the beach. I will accept the conversation, the jokes and the dreams we share (jewelry doesn't hurt, either!). I don't want your whole life, just a few minutes we can call our own.
I've been trying to share this love that fills me to overflowing. It's new to me to feel like this. If it is not returned, I have lost nothing. If it is returned in some small way, I will be happy and a bit more content. My words are a gift to you. I pray every day for the right ones that will touch one person, one time.
Especially you.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Peaches and Politics
Two of my newest friends are Socialists. At nearly sixty you would think I'd understand what that means. I always believed that all Socialists were next in line to being Communists. I thought their only goal was to sacrifice the good of the many for the few. I expected, unreasonably, that they were all agnostics at best. I expected arguing instead of discussion. Wouldn't you think, after months of self-therapy, that I would have learned to leave the titles behind, to accept them for themselves instead of pigeon-holing. You can't judge the peaches by the label.
As it turns out, John (and his friend Greg, too--he wanted his name in print) isn't such a bad guy. He obviously shares my faith. He will put blame where blame is due instead of heaving it willy-nilly on conservatives. He is witty, has a silly sense of humor and plays a mean game of Scrabble. He seems to accept teasing good-naturedly and will throw it back if he's quick enough. We are different politically, of different genders, of different coasts. It doesn't matter.
There's a lesson here somewhere.
Peaches come packed in water, light syrup, heavy syrup or juice. They are halved, sliced, diced and mixed with other fruits. They are generic, store brand or famous labels like Del Monte or Libby. Some are freestone, some cling. Occasionally you will find a bruise or piece of pit. Rarely would you find a toxic peach. One thing in common, only one. They all come from trees.
Now imagine that the peaches are people. We are different politically and socially. We are of different genders and religions. We were all born. We will all die. We are all branches of the same tree.
I asked John what he believes so that I could understand. I'm sure he will defend his beliefs just as I will defend mine. We may argue the fine points. We will agree to disagree.
I have spent many years wrong about many things. Now I have reached a point where I can admit that freely. I am open to other views of politics, faith and life. I am no longer afraid that another's views will compromise my own. Discussion isn't argument, it is learning.
There are so many kinds of peaches. Of course I have my favorites (Albertas, in case you wondered), but if I don't sample the others how will I know what they are like?
I am like a sponge these days, soaking up as many friends as I can, as much knowledge as I can comprehend, all the love and experiences the universe has to offer. I want it all, and I want it now.
As it turns out, John (and his friend Greg, too--he wanted his name in print) isn't such a bad guy. He obviously shares my faith. He will put blame where blame is due instead of heaving it willy-nilly on conservatives. He is witty, has a silly sense of humor and plays a mean game of Scrabble. He seems to accept teasing good-naturedly and will throw it back if he's quick enough. We are different politically, of different genders, of different coasts. It doesn't matter.
There's a lesson here somewhere.
Peaches come packed in water, light syrup, heavy syrup or juice. They are halved, sliced, diced and mixed with other fruits. They are generic, store brand or famous labels like Del Monte or Libby. Some are freestone, some cling. Occasionally you will find a bruise or piece of pit. Rarely would you find a toxic peach. One thing in common, only one. They all come from trees.
Now imagine that the peaches are people. We are different politically and socially. We are of different genders and religions. We were all born. We will all die. We are all branches of the same tree.
I asked John what he believes so that I could understand. I'm sure he will defend his beliefs just as I will defend mine. We may argue the fine points. We will agree to disagree.
I have spent many years wrong about many things. Now I have reached a point where I can admit that freely. I am open to other views of politics, faith and life. I am no longer afraid that another's views will compromise my own. Discussion isn't argument, it is learning.
There are so many kinds of peaches. Of course I have my favorites (Albertas, in case you wondered), but if I don't sample the others how will I know what they are like?
I am like a sponge these days, soaking up as many friends as I can, as much knowledge as I can comprehend, all the love and experiences the universe has to offer. I want it all, and I want it now.
Survival
It has been an interesting week.
The team meeting went pretty well with a few minor glitches--like half the team sick, in pain, on meds that made them sleepy or just plain testy. I had some laughs, some good food and the best night's sleep I've had in ages. Tomorrow we all resume the everyday chores. I need to cook again, the laundry is waiting, a new cycle has begun on the job. Facebook needs updated and there are blogs to be written. There are friends I haven't spoken to in awhile.
I had my second letter to the editor published. Two for two, not bad. They did some editing for space and left out my punch line and changed my title but I guess I can forgive that. And, of course, we cannot forget that the world as we know it is ending on Saturday. I am not scoffing--I don't have the answer and I don't believe Harold Camping does, either. If he is right, I am prepared. If he is wrong, I will survive another day.
The trouble is that for too many of my adult years I have just survived. I have existed. I haven't, until recent months, taken on any great challenges. I am enjoying the revitalized me. I am enjoying the wacky Facebook pages to which I have been introduced. I am enjoying talking about memories with old friends. I love my new-found passion in writing. I am looking forward to this summer of whitewatering, kayaking and whatever else comes along. So much to do, so little time.
I see people I know doing exciting things. One is off to China, another to Hawaii, another to the Outer Banks. Godspeed, my friends. Still another is enjoying a political career, others have new jobs. Some are getting married and some are suddenly single; many are retiring. I'm happy for them, but I don't want to be them. I'm starting to like being me.
I had a lot of time to think when coming home from Pittsburgh. I got caught in two thunderstorms so severe that I and several others had to pull off the highway. I saw the power of the wind and the rain and the lightning. I opened myself to the universe to harness some of that energy. I let the rain fall on my face and the wind play with my hair. I couldn't remember the last time I did that on purpose. Home again, I napped, not dreaming. I wanted to stay awake late into the night, while the house is very quiet, to sop up what is left of the energy and to reflect on what I learned at the meeting--not the new products or the HR rules, but about this group of friends and myself.
I no longer want to be only a survivor. I want to live every moment myself, not vicariously through my friends. I want to be open to new things from people to food to music to life experience. I want to learn, and I want you to teach me. I promise to be a good student.
I have discovered in some small ways what it feels like to be alive instead of to merely survive. The little stuff fits like a jigsaw puzzle, each piece added to another until they grow into a whole picture. I have been working on the straight-edged frame for some time; now it is time to fill in the middle. I don't know yet what the whole picture will be--just that it will be gloriously colorful, quietly charming and several pounds slimmer. I hope that there are those who will want to be a part of the puzzle, even if it just a small corner, and not be the missing piece.
Like the folks on the reality show, I don't want to be voted off the island. I want to work some more, play some more, win some more. Unlike them , I will no longer be content with surviving. I'm going to live.
The team meeting went pretty well with a few minor glitches--like half the team sick, in pain, on meds that made them sleepy or just plain testy. I had some laughs, some good food and the best night's sleep I've had in ages. Tomorrow we all resume the everyday chores. I need to cook again, the laundry is waiting, a new cycle has begun on the job. Facebook needs updated and there are blogs to be written. There are friends I haven't spoken to in awhile.
I had my second letter to the editor published. Two for two, not bad. They did some editing for space and left out my punch line and changed my title but I guess I can forgive that. And, of course, we cannot forget that the world as we know it is ending on Saturday. I am not scoffing--I don't have the answer and I don't believe Harold Camping does, either. If he is right, I am prepared. If he is wrong, I will survive another day.
The trouble is that for too many of my adult years I have just survived. I have existed. I haven't, until recent months, taken on any great challenges. I am enjoying the revitalized me. I am enjoying the wacky Facebook pages to which I have been introduced. I am enjoying talking about memories with old friends. I love my new-found passion in writing. I am looking forward to this summer of whitewatering, kayaking and whatever else comes along. So much to do, so little time.
I see people I know doing exciting things. One is off to China, another to Hawaii, another to the Outer Banks. Godspeed, my friends. Still another is enjoying a political career, others have new jobs. Some are getting married and some are suddenly single; many are retiring. I'm happy for them, but I don't want to be them. I'm starting to like being me.
I had a lot of time to think when coming home from Pittsburgh. I got caught in two thunderstorms so severe that I and several others had to pull off the highway. I saw the power of the wind and the rain and the lightning. I opened myself to the universe to harness some of that energy. I let the rain fall on my face and the wind play with my hair. I couldn't remember the last time I did that on purpose. Home again, I napped, not dreaming. I wanted to stay awake late into the night, while the house is very quiet, to sop up what is left of the energy and to reflect on what I learned at the meeting--not the new products or the HR rules, but about this group of friends and myself.
I no longer want to be only a survivor. I want to live every moment myself, not vicariously through my friends. I want to be open to new things from people to food to music to life experience. I want to learn, and I want you to teach me. I promise to be a good student.
I have discovered in some small ways what it feels like to be alive instead of to merely survive. The little stuff fits like a jigsaw puzzle, each piece added to another until they grow into a whole picture. I have been working on the straight-edged frame for some time; now it is time to fill in the middle. I don't know yet what the whole picture will be--just that it will be gloriously colorful, quietly charming and several pounds slimmer. I hope that there are those who will want to be a part of the puzzle, even if it just a small corner, and not be the missing piece.
Like the folks on the reality show, I don't want to be voted off the island. I want to work some more, play some more, win some more. Unlike them , I will no longer be content with surviving. I'm going to live.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Pittsburgh, et al
I love Pittsburgh.
I love muffalettas and the way they serve French Fries on a salad or sandwich instead of next to it. I love the sky-scraping buildings, dozens of floors above Erie's tallest. I love the city lights at night and the way they reflect off the water. I love the quiet streets where I inevitably get lost. I love the shopping, I love the restaurants. I love the blue-collar atmosphere. I love Pittsburgh.
Once a year or maybe twice we have a meeting in Pittsburgh. Our company pays for a single room in a nice hotel, usually the Marriot. We spend the day cloistered in a meeting room; at night we go to decent places for dinner and drinks. I get a chance to commiserate with the teammates I rarely see. We bond over calamari and filets. We laugh and share ideas. We get caught up on new homes, new babies, new pets, new territories. We are energized.
I got to thinking. Maybe I need to get energized in the other areas of my life, now, not later. I can't have a team meeting with my old friends...or can I? I can't have a get-away with my family...why not? In the business world, we lose customers every day. I don't lose friends that often. If a product is no longer profitable, we discard it. I could do that with my junk and with those people who try my patience. If something doesn't pass the consumer testing, it is taken off the assembly line. I could do that with things and relationships that no longer work.
There are those who will never be friends, never be worth the trouble. It's time, I guess, to discard them and move on. Not because it is too late--I am still breathing, as are they--but because I have so many other things I want to do. My bucket list and I aren't getting any younger.
I'm going to Pittsburgh tomorrow. I am going to take the time on my way down and my way back, after dinner and during my morning exercise to reflect on those thoughts, feelings and material things that I have to throw out. It's time to get energized. When I get home, I will have made decisions. I am determined to accomplish things I have been putting off. The time is now.
I want to love everything like I love Pittsburgh, even if I get lost on the way.
See you Thursday.
I love muffalettas and the way they serve French Fries on a salad or sandwich instead of next to it. I love the sky-scraping buildings, dozens of floors above Erie's tallest. I love the city lights at night and the way they reflect off the water. I love the quiet streets where I inevitably get lost. I love the shopping, I love the restaurants. I love the blue-collar atmosphere. I love Pittsburgh.
Once a year or maybe twice we have a meeting in Pittsburgh. Our company pays for a single room in a nice hotel, usually the Marriot. We spend the day cloistered in a meeting room; at night we go to decent places for dinner and drinks. I get a chance to commiserate with the teammates I rarely see. We bond over calamari and filets. We laugh and share ideas. We get caught up on new homes, new babies, new pets, new territories. We are energized.
I got to thinking. Maybe I need to get energized in the other areas of my life, now, not later. I can't have a team meeting with my old friends...or can I? I can't have a get-away with my family...why not? In the business world, we lose customers every day. I don't lose friends that often. If a product is no longer profitable, we discard it. I could do that with my junk and with those people who try my patience. If something doesn't pass the consumer testing, it is taken off the assembly line. I could do that with things and relationships that no longer work.
There are those who will never be friends, never be worth the trouble. It's time, I guess, to discard them and move on. Not because it is too late--I am still breathing, as are they--but because I have so many other things I want to do. My bucket list and I aren't getting any younger.
I'm going to Pittsburgh tomorrow. I am going to take the time on my way down and my way back, after dinner and during my morning exercise to reflect on those thoughts, feelings and material things that I have to throw out. It's time to get energized. When I get home, I will have made decisions. I am determined to accomplish things I have been putting off. The time is now.
I want to love everything like I love Pittsburgh, even if I get lost on the way.
See you Thursday.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Dot and Joe
In his young days, Daddy Joe was a rabblerouser. He liked his trouble, yes he did. He and his friends would race backwards from Buffalo on route 5. In those days, state cops couldn't follow you into another jurisdiction. Dad and crew would sit at the state line, get warned to stay out of New York State and chat with the troopers. He loved to gamble, especially cards and craps. He had been a champion Golden Gloves boxer. His sense of humor allowed him to torment any fella I brought home. It's no wonder a couple of them never came back. I sometimes am curious if that's why Bob moved to California never to be heard from again.
Dad was handsome beyond description. He had a winning smile and dark, dark brown eyes. He had his father's olive Mediterranean skin and arms so strong that he would perch me on one held straight out. He was smart, too, graduating at barely sixteen. When he joined the Army Air Corps in World War II, he had every intention of becoming a commercial pilot on his departure. Alas, he lost his hearing and was grounded. He made mischief his own way, grounding stateside planes till he could finish a Kansas City steak or a Louisiana feast. Then he met Mom.
Mom hung with a group of friends at the Star Club in southeast Erie. She and Aunt Marje, a bundle of trouble herself, joined a bowling league but didn't bowl much. They preferred flirting (I come by it honestly), drinking gin (an inherited trait) and listening to the juke box. One of those friends was Maggie. Maggie's brother happened to be Joe. Mom and Maggie started hanging out more as soon as Mom got a good look at Dad. She would stay at Maggie's until Dad came home, and Maggie--always willing to help--would suggest that Joe walk Dorothy home. One thing led to another and Mom, Dad, a District Justice and eventually me and my sister...you know how it works.
Never have I see a pair so well-suited as Dot and Joe. They didn't argue--Dad would say that when two people are right, there isn't much point in arguing about anything. Dad, the son of an Italian immigrant, was lord of his household. What Dad said was law. Of course, since Mom was the undeniable Queen, she could overrule a mere lord if she so chose.
Dad would bring home flea market treasures, often something ugly and overpriced (see? I inherited pack-rat, too). If Mom couldn't sell it, use it or fix it, out it would go. Dad did his share trying to repair things from clocks to furniture. Not saying he wasn't good at it, but when Mom wanted a new TV or something, she would ask Dad to fix the old one. Stick to cars, Pop!
Mom and I learned collectible glassware and costume jewelry together. Every week we went to the big old library downtown and took home a mountain of books. We got pretty good at spotting the good stuff. I still have some of it. Mom kept a lot and sold a lot. She and Dad spent many happy hours at flea markets.
On their twenty-fifth anniversary we debated on how to get them to the party. We finally settled on an invitation to a private estate sale. They were so thrilled! Guests arrived bearing gifts, a cake arrived, a big buffet was served. And Mom took me aside and said---"you mean there's no garage sale?" Ahhh, my Mom....Dad kept on grinning and guzzling beer.
On anniversary number fifty, we had a big dinner at their favorite restaurant. Mom and Dad were as much in love that day as they had been fifty-five years before.
Mom wasn't the same after Dad died a couple of years later. We didn't know that in addition to grief, Mom was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's. She joined Dad in one of Heaven's mansions eight years later.
My parents were simple people with high morals and a trunk full of mischief. What we didn't have in cash we had in love. There are some regrets--that they didn't push me harder to succeed, for one. They themselves were content and figured everybody else should be, too. We were lucky to have them as long as we did.
To you, Mom and Dad. May everyone know the happiness that you had at some time in their lives!
Dad was handsome beyond description. He had a winning smile and dark, dark brown eyes. He had his father's olive Mediterranean skin and arms so strong that he would perch me on one held straight out. He was smart, too, graduating at barely sixteen. When he joined the Army Air Corps in World War II, he had every intention of becoming a commercial pilot on his departure. Alas, he lost his hearing and was grounded. He made mischief his own way, grounding stateside planes till he could finish a Kansas City steak or a Louisiana feast. Then he met Mom.
Mom hung with a group of friends at the Star Club in southeast Erie. She and Aunt Marje, a bundle of trouble herself, joined a bowling league but didn't bowl much. They preferred flirting (I come by it honestly), drinking gin (an inherited trait) and listening to the juke box. One of those friends was Maggie. Maggie's brother happened to be Joe. Mom and Maggie started hanging out more as soon as Mom got a good look at Dad. She would stay at Maggie's until Dad came home, and Maggie--always willing to help--would suggest that Joe walk Dorothy home. One thing led to another and Mom, Dad, a District Justice and eventually me and my sister...you know how it works.
Never have I see a pair so well-suited as Dot and Joe. They didn't argue--Dad would say that when two people are right, there isn't much point in arguing about anything. Dad, the son of an Italian immigrant, was lord of his household. What Dad said was law. Of course, since Mom was the undeniable Queen, she could overrule a mere lord if she so chose.
Dad would bring home flea market treasures, often something ugly and overpriced (see? I inherited pack-rat, too). If Mom couldn't sell it, use it or fix it, out it would go. Dad did his share trying to repair things from clocks to furniture. Not saying he wasn't good at it, but when Mom wanted a new TV or something, she would ask Dad to fix the old one. Stick to cars, Pop!
Mom and I learned collectible glassware and costume jewelry together. Every week we went to the big old library downtown and took home a mountain of books. We got pretty good at spotting the good stuff. I still have some of it. Mom kept a lot and sold a lot. She and Dad spent many happy hours at flea markets.
On their twenty-fifth anniversary we debated on how to get them to the party. We finally settled on an invitation to a private estate sale. They were so thrilled! Guests arrived bearing gifts, a cake arrived, a big buffet was served. And Mom took me aside and said---"you mean there's no garage sale?" Ahhh, my Mom....Dad kept on grinning and guzzling beer.
On anniversary number fifty, we had a big dinner at their favorite restaurant. Mom and Dad were as much in love that day as they had been fifty-five years before.
Mom wasn't the same after Dad died a couple of years later. We didn't know that in addition to grief, Mom was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's. She joined Dad in one of Heaven's mansions eight years later.
My parents were simple people with high morals and a trunk full of mischief. What we didn't have in cash we had in love. There are some regrets--that they didn't push me harder to succeed, for one. They themselves were content and figured everybody else should be, too. We were lucky to have them as long as we did.
To you, Mom and Dad. May everyone know the happiness that you had at some time in their lives!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
I AM A WRITER!!
This is number ONE HUNDRED.
Some essays were pretty good, some not so hot. I did some griping (OK, a lot of griping), some introspection, some inspiration and some stuff that was kinda funny. All of them were meant to show you a little bit about the mind of an almost-senior who is doing what she should have done years ago--find myself.
In the past hundred days or so I've discovered a lot about me, and some things about you, too.
My faith has grown by leaps and bounds. It helps that I have found many--even most--of my friends on and off Facebook have a deep and abiding faith that they are willing to share. I can feel the love and the prayers that go out to me, especially for my eyesight. Thank you. I send them back to you every day.
I have made diverse friendships. Some were friends from long ago, from childhood or from work or school. Some, like Jj, John and Kellie were the accidental draw of a Scrabble game, but we somehow connected as friends. I don't challenge that; it was meant to be. Others came into my life because of a broken fingernail, or the YMCA, the neighborhood or my job. Each of them, of you, has a special place. I found cousins I hadn't seen in forty years. I cry in gratitude.
From my first status on Facebook, maybe before, friends told me I should write. For a change, I listened. How am I doing? The bug has gotten under my skin. I have reams of ideas and phrases. I'm planning a children's book and a hundred more essays to publish if you can stay with me that long. I have one letter to the editor published and another pending, Alas, only one allowed per month. It feels better than a gin and tonic with a peanut butter and chocolate sandwich.
It took one hundred essays before I realized how much wealth I have accumulated over the last year. It took all one hundred to make me see that the friends I have found, even the couple I have lost, helped me to see what I have to do next and how far I have come already. They have influenced me in ways they don't even know. I am incredibly grateful.
A simple walk turned into a commitment to get more fit. I am more limber and have more stamina than I've had in years. My clothes fit better, even if I haven't lost as much weight as I want to. I can finally show my hands, literally and figuratively. I am no longer afraid to express my love for my friends, nor my faith. My eyes are healing. My beliefs are my own. I have a concrete list of the things I love and the things I want to do. I have a church where I feel at home. My friends call me for coffee or walks or talks or wings and I accept instead of making excuses. I don't wonder why I lost touch with some of them; I have admitted to myself, finally, that my pride and stubbornness got in the way more than once. I'm sorry. I am not the person I was. I am new. I am becoming the person I've always wanted to be. I like it. I finally like ME.
I no longer expect to grow up; I no longer want to. I may never be whole. It's become OK, even if nobody else gets it but me and cousin Sue.
After one hundred essays, one dream has come true. I am writing. The grammar may be a little weak, the sentence structure a little awkward and thank God for spellcheck. I think I get my point across in spite of it all. I'll keep writing until I am the only one left reading.
The basement still needs cleaned, I still don't have matching socks. Magic elves will take care of it. I believe--anything can happen. After all, now I can call myself a writer!
Whoduhthunkit.
Some essays were pretty good, some not so hot. I did some griping (OK, a lot of griping), some introspection, some inspiration and some stuff that was kinda funny. All of them were meant to show you a little bit about the mind of an almost-senior who is doing what she should have done years ago--find myself.
In the past hundred days or so I've discovered a lot about me, and some things about you, too.
My faith has grown by leaps and bounds. It helps that I have found many--even most--of my friends on and off Facebook have a deep and abiding faith that they are willing to share. I can feel the love and the prayers that go out to me, especially for my eyesight. Thank you. I send them back to you every day.
I have made diverse friendships. Some were friends from long ago, from childhood or from work or school. Some, like Jj, John and Kellie were the accidental draw of a Scrabble game, but we somehow connected as friends. I don't challenge that; it was meant to be. Others came into my life because of a broken fingernail, or the YMCA, the neighborhood or my job. Each of them, of you, has a special place. I found cousins I hadn't seen in forty years. I cry in gratitude.
From my first status on Facebook, maybe before, friends told me I should write. For a change, I listened. How am I doing? The bug has gotten under my skin. I have reams of ideas and phrases. I'm planning a children's book and a hundred more essays to publish if you can stay with me that long. I have one letter to the editor published and another pending, Alas, only one allowed per month. It feels better than a gin and tonic with a peanut butter and chocolate sandwich.
It took one hundred essays before I realized how much wealth I have accumulated over the last year. It took all one hundred to make me see that the friends I have found, even the couple I have lost, helped me to see what I have to do next and how far I have come already. They have influenced me in ways they don't even know. I am incredibly grateful.
A simple walk turned into a commitment to get more fit. I am more limber and have more stamina than I've had in years. My clothes fit better, even if I haven't lost as much weight as I want to. I can finally show my hands, literally and figuratively. I am no longer afraid to express my love for my friends, nor my faith. My eyes are healing. My beliefs are my own. I have a concrete list of the things I love and the things I want to do. I have a church where I feel at home. My friends call me for coffee or walks or talks or wings and I accept instead of making excuses. I don't wonder why I lost touch with some of them; I have admitted to myself, finally, that my pride and stubbornness got in the way more than once. I'm sorry. I am not the person I was. I am new. I am becoming the person I've always wanted to be. I like it. I finally like ME.
I no longer expect to grow up; I no longer want to. I may never be whole. It's become OK, even if nobody else gets it but me and cousin Sue.
After one hundred essays, one dream has come true. I am writing. The grammar may be a little weak, the sentence structure a little awkward and thank God for spellcheck. I think I get my point across in spite of it all. I'll keep writing until I am the only one left reading.
The basement still needs cleaned, I still don't have matching socks. Magic elves will take care of it. I believe--anything can happen. After all, now I can call myself a writer!
Whoduhthunkit.
Bubble Gum Babies
I expect to be invited to at least two showers this year, one baby and one bride (not the same gal in case you wondered). I hope the hosts are too young or too sophisticated to remember bubble gum babies and toilet tissue tiaras.
I always participate in shower games, but let's face it. Most of them are at best funny ice breakers, like "please and thank you". At their worst, they are sticky and somewhat infantile.
In case you aren't in the know, bubble gum babies are made from chewing wads of Bazooka until soft, then forming it into some semblance of an infant. For toilet paper tiaras ("take as much as you need"), you get a length of paper and form a headpiece for the bride to be. Add to this the paper plate with ribbons poked through for a bouquet....well, it's all in good fun.
When my sister-in-law-to-be gave me a shower some forty-one years ago, I requested no toilet tissue head wear. Instead my creative friend came up with a challenge to name as many things as you could think of in your kitchen that began with the letter C. Mind you, these are Hubby's relatives. Most of them I had never met. Some seemed very tight...lipped. My mother got the word from Sheila to liven things up a bit. Heaven help us when those two got a burr in the seat. Mom started out with coffee...cookies...chocolate....COCKROACHES....you could've heard a pin drop for a moment. While Sheila convulsed with glee, I hid under the nearest chair. Mom-in-law to be tittered. Some of the ladies' eyes bulged, others hid a grin. One got hiccups. Mom smiled innocently and continued her list.
Sometime I will tell you more of Mom's shenanigans. Really? OK, one more.
She and I occasionally went to bingo with Aunt Marje and Uncle Don at St. Mary's on Friday night. I played nine cards, Mom had three, Aunt Marje and Uncle Don had maybe seventy between them along with a huge box of old-fashioned red bingo chips. We ate fries and sundaes, drank coffee and Coke by the gallon. Sometimes we won.
Uncle parked way at the end of the parking lot. Being the youngest, I trotted ahead, his keys in my hand. Behind me I heard a stage whisper, "Marilyn! MARILYN!" I turned to see....Mom, her scarf tied like a babushka, walking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame with a Grandpa McCoy limp. She was waving Aunt Marje's cane in the air. In a voice that carried to the Rockies, I heard, "HEY! MARILYN! WAIT FOR YOUR MUDDER!!!" Cripes, Ma.
I became wary of taking Mom anyplace that required decorum. Showers made me shudder, especially when those blue eyes twinkled. Lunch was an adventure. We and several of her friends were politely asked to leave Pizza Hut one day, not because of exuberance but because they wanted to set up for the supper rush. I left a big tip.
As I go to the graduations, baby showers and birthday parties this year, I'll miss taking Mom and her mischievous and unpredictable sense of humor.
Besides, her bubble gum babies always took first prize.
I always participate in shower games, but let's face it. Most of them are at best funny ice breakers, like "please and thank you". At their worst, they are sticky and somewhat infantile.
In case you aren't in the know, bubble gum babies are made from chewing wads of Bazooka until soft, then forming it into some semblance of an infant. For toilet paper tiaras ("take as much as you need"), you get a length of paper and form a headpiece for the bride to be. Add to this the paper plate with ribbons poked through for a bouquet....well, it's all in good fun.
When my sister-in-law-to-be gave me a shower some forty-one years ago, I requested no toilet tissue head wear. Instead my creative friend came up with a challenge to name as many things as you could think of in your kitchen that began with the letter C. Mind you, these are Hubby's relatives. Most of them I had never met. Some seemed very tight...lipped. My mother got the word from Sheila to liven things up a bit. Heaven help us when those two got a burr in the seat. Mom started out with coffee...cookies...chocolate....COCKROACHES....you could've heard a pin drop for a moment. While Sheila convulsed with glee, I hid under the nearest chair. Mom-in-law to be tittered. Some of the ladies' eyes bulged, others hid a grin. One got hiccups. Mom smiled innocently and continued her list.
Sometime I will tell you more of Mom's shenanigans. Really? OK, one more.
She and I occasionally went to bingo with Aunt Marje and Uncle Don at St. Mary's on Friday night. I played nine cards, Mom had three, Aunt Marje and Uncle Don had maybe seventy between them along with a huge box of old-fashioned red bingo chips. We ate fries and sundaes, drank coffee and Coke by the gallon. Sometimes we won.
Uncle parked way at the end of the parking lot. Being the youngest, I trotted ahead, his keys in my hand. Behind me I heard a stage whisper, "Marilyn! MARILYN!" I turned to see....Mom, her scarf tied like a babushka, walking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame with a Grandpa McCoy limp. She was waving Aunt Marje's cane in the air. In a voice that carried to the Rockies, I heard, "HEY! MARILYN! WAIT FOR YOUR MUDDER!!!" Cripes, Ma.
I became wary of taking Mom anyplace that required decorum. Showers made me shudder, especially when those blue eyes twinkled. Lunch was an adventure. We and several of her friends were politely asked to leave Pizza Hut one day, not because of exuberance but because they wanted to set up for the supper rush. I left a big tip.
As I go to the graduations, baby showers and birthday parties this year, I'll miss taking Mom and her mischievous and unpredictable sense of humor.
Besides, her bubble gum babies always took first prize.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
I Don't Get It
I don't get it, she said.
Get what? I asked.
Your blog. I don't get it.
What's to get? I asked peevishly.
It doesn't make sense, she said.
She is the second person in as many days to tell me she doesn't understand. I thought it was plain from the start. My mind wanders. I lost my essence somewhere along the way, and I am trying to find it. I get emails regularly from people who see themselves in my pages or who chuckle at my dread of spiders or my love of chocolate. Some sympathize, some lecture. Most want a read to lighten their own load. A few are looking for themselves.
It's all about you, she added testily.
Well, yes it is. It's a sort of journal. It tells of my ups and downs. Once in awhile I get a special insight that might be inspiring to someone else. Sometimes a friend flashes into my brain and I'll talk about that. Some days are "if only" days. Every day is a part of my journey. Maybe I will touch someone. Maybe that will be the person who can tell me why I feel a need to grow again.
You could write about me, she snipped.
I could, but you know my policy. If you can't say something nice.....
You only care about YOU, she whined.
That's when I got mad. Of course I care about me! If there is no one else around, I still have to be with myself. If I don't like myself, if I don't have beliefs strong enough to defend, if I love and don't share it, what am I good for? I may as well be the pile of dung that Dee filled with lead or the weeds felled by the sickle. One thing I have learned on this trip is that if I don't like me, nobody else will, either.
You talk about God. What if anybody reading doesn't believe in God? she asked, more quietly this time. I may have scared her.
I believe. Period. Maybe by my faith and my example, I can draw others to God. I live as if He is real, and He is watching. If He is not real, I will still have made a place in the world as a decent human being. If He is real, I will have eternal life and salvation. It's a win-win. I don't ask for you to believe as I do; I ask that you let me believe as I do.
You're not perfect, she pouted. You're fat, your hair is grey even if you call it silver. Your blouse is cut too low, your earrings are too big. Your nails are outrageous. You use the same words over and over, your sentences are too long. You dangle participles. AND I saw you with some dude in a black GTO. Your husband has a red SUV!
Phew! She finally took a breath. I raised one eyebrow and waited....nope, she was done with her rant.
I did not pray for patience (We all know what happens when you do that). Instead I took note that her comments showed remarkable knowledge of my columns. And the guy in the GTO was my husband, you nitwit. The red SUV is my car.
For somebody who doesn't "get" my blog, she sure reads it a lot. We are traveling on the same road, she and I. She just doesn't know it yet.
MzzrzzLikezThiz is a method of expression. I hope I can help someone else in a small way as I help myself. I write for the sheer joy of it. I can't remember anything else that has brought me such happiness and satisfaction. Soon I will be at number 100. Next week I will be in business meetings all week. I will write when I can but I can't post until late in the week unless I can figure out how. I hope you will miss me. I hope you are one who can read between the lines. I hope you are one who "gets" it!
Publisher's note: as I finished and was ready to publish, a note popped up as a sidebar. "Do you need a neurologist, or is it a psychiatrist you need?" with a website attached. Is that a hint?
Get what? I asked.
Your blog. I don't get it.
What's to get? I asked peevishly.
It doesn't make sense, she said.
She is the second person in as many days to tell me she doesn't understand. I thought it was plain from the start. My mind wanders. I lost my essence somewhere along the way, and I am trying to find it. I get emails regularly from people who see themselves in my pages or who chuckle at my dread of spiders or my love of chocolate. Some sympathize, some lecture. Most want a read to lighten their own load. A few are looking for themselves.
It's all about you, she added testily.
Well, yes it is. It's a sort of journal. It tells of my ups and downs. Once in awhile I get a special insight that might be inspiring to someone else. Sometimes a friend flashes into my brain and I'll talk about that. Some days are "if only" days. Every day is a part of my journey. Maybe I will touch someone. Maybe that will be the person who can tell me why I feel a need to grow again.
You could write about me, she snipped.
I could, but you know my policy. If you can't say something nice.....
You only care about YOU, she whined.
That's when I got mad. Of course I care about me! If there is no one else around, I still have to be with myself. If I don't like myself, if I don't have beliefs strong enough to defend, if I love and don't share it, what am I good for? I may as well be the pile of dung that Dee filled with lead or the weeds felled by the sickle. One thing I have learned on this trip is that if I don't like me, nobody else will, either.
You talk about God. What if anybody reading doesn't believe in God? she asked, more quietly this time. I may have scared her.
I believe. Period. Maybe by my faith and my example, I can draw others to God. I live as if He is real, and He is watching. If He is not real, I will still have made a place in the world as a decent human being. If He is real, I will have eternal life and salvation. It's a win-win. I don't ask for you to believe as I do; I ask that you let me believe as I do.
You're not perfect, she pouted. You're fat, your hair is grey even if you call it silver. Your blouse is cut too low, your earrings are too big. Your nails are outrageous. You use the same words over and over, your sentences are too long. You dangle participles. AND I saw you with some dude in a black GTO. Your husband has a red SUV!
Phew! She finally took a breath. I raised one eyebrow and waited....nope, she was done with her rant.
I did not pray for patience (We all know what happens when you do that). Instead I took note that her comments showed remarkable knowledge of my columns. And the guy in the GTO was my husband, you nitwit. The red SUV is my car.
For somebody who doesn't "get" my blog, she sure reads it a lot. We are traveling on the same road, she and I. She just doesn't know it yet.
MzzrzzLikezThiz is a method of expression. I hope I can help someone else in a small way as I help myself. I write for the sheer joy of it. I can't remember anything else that has brought me such happiness and satisfaction. Soon I will be at number 100. Next week I will be in business meetings all week. I will write when I can but I can't post until late in the week unless I can figure out how. I hope you will miss me. I hope you are one who can read between the lines. I hope you are one who "gets" it!
Publisher's note: as I finished and was ready to publish, a note popped up as a sidebar. "Do you need a neurologist, or is it a psychiatrist you need?" with a website attached. Is that a hint?
Monday, May 9, 2011
Influence
There are people who have influenced me, good and bad, for all of my life. Some did it on purpose, some didn't even know that they were making me sit up and take inventory of myself.
Around the time Mom died (I seem to use that single incident as a landmark), I came back into contact with several old friends. Some wrote when they read of her death, some I met again on Facebook. Hearing from them, seeing them, made me realize a lot of things that were missing from my life.
I have a good man for a husband, loving sons and almost-daughters-in-law, terrific grandkids and a host of relatives and friends. So explain, please, why did I feel so alone and isolated?
I spent the time on my long drive home examining that. My job keeps me working alone. I see people, but not friends. I managed somehow to distance myself from many old friends, and I am not sure why. I crave validation of my worth; I don't know why that is, either. There are those who say they don't understand my blog. I tell them it is because we are on different roads. My road is to find happiness inside myself, to embrace being alone with myself; they might have found that already, or they might be afraid to look. It sounds easy, but it's not. I still have the old image issues to deal with, and the insatiable need to be liked.
Some of those old friends (and some new ones, too) encouraged me to get myself moving. A simple walk one day turned into a commitment to work out at the Y. Some encouraged me to start this blog. That has turned into nearly one hundred of my ramblings. Each one has opened up another little piece of the puzzle that is me. One suggested I looked a little frumpy, another said I was stunning. I chose to believe....frumpy. I started taking better care of myself. I found I needed to exercise my faith and joined a church. My Scrabble buddies have provided me with opportunities to be gracious (I hope) at winning and at losing. I have discovered the mindless joy of Facebook games, chat and secret groups. I can't tell you how many times a day I open email to see who has taken time to think of me.
Next week I will see my Pittsburgh teammates for the first time in nearly six months. I wonder if any of them will notice a change in me? I hope they like it.
So, I'm working on it. My attitude is changing, my interests have expanded. By the time my birthday gets here, I hope to be a new improved version of me.
SOMEBODY better throw me a party!
Around the time Mom died (I seem to use that single incident as a landmark), I came back into contact with several old friends. Some wrote when they read of her death, some I met again on Facebook. Hearing from them, seeing them, made me realize a lot of things that were missing from my life.
I have a good man for a husband, loving sons and almost-daughters-in-law, terrific grandkids and a host of relatives and friends. So explain, please, why did I feel so alone and isolated?
I spent the time on my long drive home examining that. My job keeps me working alone. I see people, but not friends. I managed somehow to distance myself from many old friends, and I am not sure why. I crave validation of my worth; I don't know why that is, either. There are those who say they don't understand my blog. I tell them it is because we are on different roads. My road is to find happiness inside myself, to embrace being alone with myself; they might have found that already, or they might be afraid to look. It sounds easy, but it's not. I still have the old image issues to deal with, and the insatiable need to be liked.
Some of those old friends (and some new ones, too) encouraged me to get myself moving. A simple walk one day turned into a commitment to work out at the Y. Some encouraged me to start this blog. That has turned into nearly one hundred of my ramblings. Each one has opened up another little piece of the puzzle that is me. One suggested I looked a little frumpy, another said I was stunning. I chose to believe....frumpy. I started taking better care of myself. I found I needed to exercise my faith and joined a church. My Scrabble buddies have provided me with opportunities to be gracious (I hope) at winning and at losing. I have discovered the mindless joy of Facebook games, chat and secret groups. I can't tell you how many times a day I open email to see who has taken time to think of me.
Next week I will see my Pittsburgh teammates for the first time in nearly six months. I wonder if any of them will notice a change in me? I hope they like it.
So, I'm working on it. My attitude is changing, my interests have expanded. By the time my birthday gets here, I hope to be a new improved version of me.
SOMEBODY better throw me a party!
Sunday, May 8, 2011
We Will Always Be...
I had been thinking about Margie a lot, wrote a story about her, then I found out she had passed away little more than a week after I became determined to find her again. I sit here sobbing. Why had we lost touch? What happened?
In a later essay, I wrote how I had finally decided it was too late to repair another friendship that had ended. I still am not sure why. I am re-thinking that. Some time later, I wrote about how I felt that God had spoken through my Pastor, telling me that it isn't time to write somebody off--not yet. I will try again, and try again. It is too late for Margie, but not for me.
The sermon today was about passing on the joy we feel inside instead of hiding it. I know Pastor Jeff was talking about the joy of knowing God, and I understand that. We Lutherans tend to be a bit stoic. While we don't have to be bible-thumpers, we do need to express our joy by example. An example was given of one candle lighting many others to heal the darkness.
The bigger picture, as I see it anyway, is to pass on little moments of joy--the joy of a baby's smile or first steps, the happiness of really good chocolate, the sighting of a cardinal or paying attention to what interests the person we are speaking to. (Pardon the dangling participle. You know what I mean.) Tell the people you care about how you feel, don't make them guess. Tell them how proud you are. Let them know they are worthwhile beings.
Say something nice, or say nothing. We have been given this advice from childhood in one way or another. It's too bad we don't heed it. We are quick to criticize, slow to compliment. When given a compliment, we often turn it into a scoff as though our complimenter doesn't know what they are saying. You may as well tell him/her that they are too stupid to recognize the ugly side of you, that the beauty they see cannot possibly be real. Oh, you think I can write, or draw, or sing? You can't be serious....a word given in praise should never be treated with derision, but with graciousness and respect.
I will send this essay today to my lost friend, hoping it will be read and not discarded. Maybe we can mend our differences at the Dairy Queen or at Starbucks, perhaps with a long talk or walk. In my heart we will always be friends.
I don't ever want to be too late again.
In a later essay, I wrote how I had finally decided it was too late to repair another friendship that had ended. I still am not sure why. I am re-thinking that. Some time later, I wrote about how I felt that God had spoken through my Pastor, telling me that it isn't time to write somebody off--not yet. I will try again, and try again. It is too late for Margie, but not for me.
The sermon today was about passing on the joy we feel inside instead of hiding it. I know Pastor Jeff was talking about the joy of knowing God, and I understand that. We Lutherans tend to be a bit stoic. While we don't have to be bible-thumpers, we do need to express our joy by example. An example was given of one candle lighting many others to heal the darkness.
The bigger picture, as I see it anyway, is to pass on little moments of joy--the joy of a baby's smile or first steps, the happiness of really good chocolate, the sighting of a cardinal or paying attention to what interests the person we are speaking to. (Pardon the dangling participle. You know what I mean.) Tell the people you care about how you feel, don't make them guess. Tell them how proud you are. Let them know they are worthwhile beings.
Say something nice, or say nothing. We have been given this advice from childhood in one way or another. It's too bad we don't heed it. We are quick to criticize, slow to compliment. When given a compliment, we often turn it into a scoff as though our complimenter doesn't know what they are saying. You may as well tell him/her that they are too stupid to recognize the ugly side of you, that the beauty they see cannot possibly be real. Oh, you think I can write, or draw, or sing? You can't be serious....a word given in praise should never be treated with derision, but with graciousness and respect.
I will send this essay today to my lost friend, hoping it will be read and not discarded. Maybe we can mend our differences at the Dairy Queen or at Starbucks, perhaps with a long talk or walk. In my heart we will always be friends.
I don't ever want to be too late again.
I Found Margie
On April 21 or thereabouts, I wrote of my memories of a high school friend, Margie McLaughlin. She was beautiful and fun. It had been some years since I saw her, maybe six or seven. I was determined to find Margie again.
Today I picked up the newspaper as always.
I found Margie, but not in the way I intended.
Margie had left her home on earth for her heavenly one on April 30, 2011.
It is so sad to think I was able to share with you my memories of Margie, but not with her. Now I need to find her daughter and pass them along.
R.I.P., my friend.
Today I picked up the newspaper as always.
I found Margie, but not in the way I intended.
Margie had left her home on earth for her heavenly one on April 30, 2011.
It is so sad to think I was able to share with you my memories of Margie, but not with her. Now I need to find her daughter and pass them along.
R.I.P., my friend.
Friday, May 6, 2011
To Mom: R.I.P.
Sooner or later I have to come to terms with my mother's death a year ago this month. Mother's Day, the first one without her, seemed appropriate. I need to concentrate on all the good times we had instead of on her last few months. Those months she was a woman I didn't know. Alzheimer's is a dreadful illness. It saps the strength of the family. It destroys the lifeblood of the afflicted as well as their essence. At the beginning, the odd behavior and forgetfulness are laughable. Then WHAM! Soon, nothing is left but a shell.
Mom was the Hope Diamond, the Crown Jewel of a mother. She was the one who baked cakes for the ice cream socials, who tagged along on field trips as a room mother. The other kids loved her (and for those lucky few, they loved her spaghetti sauce, too!). They thought she was so pretty with her French twist that she did herself daily, the top a mass of curls. Her handmade shirts were flawless, her earrings might be flowers one day and crystals the next. Her smooth skin and blue eyes needed little make-up, but she wore it just the same, making her even more beautiful.
When her father came to live with us after Grandma died, Mom never complained about any extra work. No, she loved her parents as much as I loved mine. She made sure Grandpa Hess had his Fels Naphtha soap and his favorite treats-- the strawberry jam, the Petri sugar cookies and his horehound drops.
Mom was crafty, and I mean with her hands. She could take a flea-market find that was downright ugly and turn it into a painted masterpiece, usually in pastels of pink, purple and blue. She sported crocheted hats and sweaters and capes; her bed and couch boasted crocheted spreads. She tried to teach me many a time but I lacked her patience. Even Barbie had a wardrobe any wealthy woman would envy.
By far Mom's greatest accomplishment as a seamstress was my wedding gown. Traditional in satin and lace, she sewed on every pearl and every sequin with her loving hands from the tiara to the long train. She made her own dress and my sister's, too. Nothing store-bought could compare.
Dad would take us to garage sales most Saturdays during the summer, or for a drive in the country to check out local produce. He would buy a big basket of apples and grin as he handed them to Mom. He knew the next day there would be apple dumplings.
Mom loved to collect things...she had Carnival and Capodimonte, troll dolls (not Dad's favorite) and foo dogs, stuffed beagles and ugly little critters. She kept for years the plastic fly that my son, then five, sold to her for fifty cents (he has it now).
I cherish these memories and so many more. I did not inherit her talented hands nor her blue eyes. I hope I inherited her silly sense of humor, her love of animals and her love of family and friends. As I step into her shoes as matriarch of the family, I wonder if I can fill them.
I honor my mother the only way I can this Mother's Day, with words of remembrance.
I miss you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day.
Mom was the Hope Diamond, the Crown Jewel of a mother. She was the one who baked cakes for the ice cream socials, who tagged along on field trips as a room mother. The other kids loved her (and for those lucky few, they loved her spaghetti sauce, too!). They thought she was so pretty with her French twist that she did herself daily, the top a mass of curls. Her handmade shirts were flawless, her earrings might be flowers one day and crystals the next. Her smooth skin and blue eyes needed little make-up, but she wore it just the same, making her even more beautiful.
When her father came to live with us after Grandma died, Mom never complained about any extra work. No, she loved her parents as much as I loved mine. She made sure Grandpa Hess had his Fels Naphtha soap and his favorite treats-- the strawberry jam, the Petri sugar cookies and his horehound drops.
Mom was crafty, and I mean with her hands. She could take a flea-market find that was downright ugly and turn it into a painted masterpiece, usually in pastels of pink, purple and blue. She sported crocheted hats and sweaters and capes; her bed and couch boasted crocheted spreads. She tried to teach me many a time but I lacked her patience. Even Barbie had a wardrobe any wealthy woman would envy.
By far Mom's greatest accomplishment as a seamstress was my wedding gown. Traditional in satin and lace, she sewed on every pearl and every sequin with her loving hands from the tiara to the long train. She made her own dress and my sister's, too. Nothing store-bought could compare.
Dad would take us to garage sales most Saturdays during the summer, or for a drive in the country to check out local produce. He would buy a big basket of apples and grin as he handed them to Mom. He knew the next day there would be apple dumplings.
Mom loved to collect things...she had Carnival and Capodimonte, troll dolls (not Dad's favorite) and foo dogs, stuffed beagles and ugly little critters. She kept for years the plastic fly that my son, then five, sold to her for fifty cents (he has it now).
I cherish these memories and so many more. I did not inherit her talented hands nor her blue eyes. I hope I inherited her silly sense of humor, her love of animals and her love of family and friends. As I step into her shoes as matriarch of the family, I wonder if I can fill them.
I honor my mother the only way I can this Mother's Day, with words of remembrance.
I miss you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A Day In Painesville
The nicest thing happened to me the other day. I was working in Painesville, Ohio, when I was approached by a customer. Since I wear a badge, I am often mistaken for a store employee and asked to help. I began my usual spiel of 'I'm sorry, but I am not qualified to give medical advice. Please see the pharmacist'. The man stopped his query and said "can I buy you a drink?", just like that.
Now the last time this happened, back in the fall of last year, I was also in Painesville; the man was a neighborhood unsavory character. He had been following me around the store wanting to "talk", he said. It took a store manager and another to get him to leave. When I left the store, he was hiding behind cars in the parking lot and grabbed my arm. "I said I wanted to talk, pretty lady!" Too scared to scream, I froze just long enough to get a grip on myself. I was just about to give him a kick in the nethers when a welcome voice from the store said "I'm calling 911!" Thank God she had the foresight to watch me go to my car. The man took off, as did I.
I told my sons about the experience. One got me a stun gun, the other got pepper spray. Hubby wants me to change jobs.
So my knee-jerk reaction was just that, but no, he was really very nice. Tallish, about my age, well-dressed with a pleasant smile. I declined, of course, not being one to take up invitations from total strangers. I'm sorry if I bothered you, he said, but you're so pretty! Maybe another time...and he walked away.
My heart pounded. Somebody I didn't know said I was pretty! The boost to my ego was tremendous. I skipped through the rest of my chores, smiling more than usual. What a rush. It takes so little to make me happy, as my friend Cindy would say.
On my way home, still grinning like the sixteen-year-old in my brain, I stopped to buy bread. There were a couple of boys in the store, fifteen or so would be my guess. I'm sure I looked haggard by then. I was searching my pockets for the cash I knew was there someplace when I heard one of them say, "GET A MOVE ON, GRANDMA!"
POP! went my balloon, Yes, I'm a grandma, but the eldest is only twelve, not as old as these guys. My hair is silver, not grey. Somebody told me today that I'm pretty....sigh...
It takes so little to spoil my day.
Now the last time this happened, back in the fall of last year, I was also in Painesville; the man was a neighborhood unsavory character. He had been following me around the store wanting to "talk", he said. It took a store manager and another to get him to leave. When I left the store, he was hiding behind cars in the parking lot and grabbed my arm. "I said I wanted to talk, pretty lady!" Too scared to scream, I froze just long enough to get a grip on myself. I was just about to give him a kick in the nethers when a welcome voice from the store said "I'm calling 911!" Thank God she had the foresight to watch me go to my car. The man took off, as did I.
I told my sons about the experience. One got me a stun gun, the other got pepper spray. Hubby wants me to change jobs.
So my knee-jerk reaction was just that, but no, he was really very nice. Tallish, about my age, well-dressed with a pleasant smile. I declined, of course, not being one to take up invitations from total strangers. I'm sorry if I bothered you, he said, but you're so pretty! Maybe another time...and he walked away.
My heart pounded. Somebody I didn't know said I was pretty! The boost to my ego was tremendous. I skipped through the rest of my chores, smiling more than usual. What a rush. It takes so little to make me happy, as my friend Cindy would say.
On my way home, still grinning like the sixteen-year-old in my brain, I stopped to buy bread. There were a couple of boys in the store, fifteen or so would be my guess. I'm sure I looked haggard by then. I was searching my pockets for the cash I knew was there someplace when I heard one of them say, "GET A MOVE ON, GRANDMA!"
POP! went my balloon, Yes, I'm a grandma, but the eldest is only twelve, not as old as these guys. My hair is silver, not grey. Somebody told me today that I'm pretty....sigh...
It takes so little to spoil my day.
It's About Time
Working on the school newspaper was a dream never fulfilled. I proofread the junior high newspaper, but I wasn't happy. I wanted to write. The teacher in charge didn't like me much; I never knew why. She wasn't my English teacher; I had very little contact with her. Try and try again, but my name was never on the staff sheet. You can imagine my chagrin when she transferred to Academy the same year I did--and ended up my homeroom teacher! I could see my chance at the newspaper fly away. I tried out anyway. No dice.
When dear Edna Mae invited me to join the yearbook staff, I was thrilled. To be a part of Academy history was so exciting. I remember bursting with pride when I saw my name with the word "copy writer" beside it. Robin and I would be doing the writing, or most of it.
The Academe caused a bit of trouble, though. I and a couple of staff mates were almost always late for Mr. Guenther's European History class. He got to the point where he didn't want to accept Edna Mae's notes of apology. Of course, it didn't help when I wrote my term paper on the Reformation. I knew full well he would find things wrong with my research. He was VERY Catholic in those days; I socked it to him every chance I got, rubbing my Lutheran knowledge in his face. I wasn't nice, but in a quiet way. There was a lot of red pencil on that paper, but I did get a grudgingly given B.
I remember trying to get out of taking pool class. I hated getting undressed in front of anybody, I hated the smell of chlorine in my hair, I hated the tank suits with holes in them...hated it all. Gym was a little better. I was at home on a volleyball court and I liked to play basketball. As long as the trampoline stayed put away....
I loved my high school days, my time on the yearbook, my girlfriends and boyfriends, even Edna Mae and Mr. Guenther. Oh, yes, I had image issues back then, just as I do now, but the happy memories remain as the bad ones slowly fade.
Those days are gone now, but little triggers make me remember those joyous bygone days. From time to time I will talk about them again, but for now it is time to move ahead in my memories.
I still haven't found the place where I stopped growing and became stagnated. I'm sure it wasn't those wonderful high school days, but why are the events and the classmates so etched in my mind? Would I go back if I could? I have thought about that. Yes, but only for a little while. Would I make any changes? You can bet your life on that one.
I encourage the young around me to try many things, to not be afraid of a change in job or place to live. Many of my generation were encouraged to lead the lives of our parents--I was one of those who followed along. So was my husband. Do we regret the choices we made? No, not the important ones, although we probably would have made them later.
As I get to know myself--FINALLY--I see why I made those choices when I did. I am beginning to understand. It's about time.
When dear Edna Mae invited me to join the yearbook staff, I was thrilled. To be a part of Academy history was so exciting. I remember bursting with pride when I saw my name with the word "copy writer" beside it. Robin and I would be doing the writing, or most of it.
The Academe caused a bit of trouble, though. I and a couple of staff mates were almost always late for Mr. Guenther's European History class. He got to the point where he didn't want to accept Edna Mae's notes of apology. Of course, it didn't help when I wrote my term paper on the Reformation. I knew full well he would find things wrong with my research. He was VERY Catholic in those days; I socked it to him every chance I got, rubbing my Lutheran knowledge in his face. I wasn't nice, but in a quiet way. There was a lot of red pencil on that paper, but I did get a grudgingly given B.
I remember trying to get out of taking pool class. I hated getting undressed in front of anybody, I hated the smell of chlorine in my hair, I hated the tank suits with holes in them...hated it all. Gym was a little better. I was at home on a volleyball court and I liked to play basketball. As long as the trampoline stayed put away....
I loved my high school days, my time on the yearbook, my girlfriends and boyfriends, even Edna Mae and Mr. Guenther. Oh, yes, I had image issues back then, just as I do now, but the happy memories remain as the bad ones slowly fade.
Those days are gone now, but little triggers make me remember those joyous bygone days. From time to time I will talk about them again, but for now it is time to move ahead in my memories.
I still haven't found the place where I stopped growing and became stagnated. I'm sure it wasn't those wonderful high school days, but why are the events and the classmates so etched in my mind? Would I go back if I could? I have thought about that. Yes, but only for a little while. Would I make any changes? You can bet your life on that one.
I encourage the young around me to try many things, to not be afraid of a change in job or place to live. Many of my generation were encouraged to lead the lives of our parents--I was one of those who followed along. So was my husband. Do we regret the choices we made? No, not the important ones, although we probably would have made them later.
As I get to know myself--FINALLY--I see why I made those choices when I did. I am beginning to understand. It's about time.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Make the Best
OK,OK. I admit that I was getting a bit cocky. The Scrabble wins were coming easily my way. Yes, I was winning. A lot. The words appeared like magic on my rack. I had so many seven letter words that I couldn't use them all. Vowels and consonants appeared in perfect proportion. I was smug.
Then Regina won. Good for her, I said. Then John beat me twice. Kellie and Jj, Ron and Juan followed suit. I dreamed of drowning in a sea of simulated wooden tiles....humiliating loss followed humiliating loss. I have been humbled. I am embarrassed over my ineptitude.
I hunted up my favorite old Scrabble dictionary. XQAIIIE must spell something, or fit somewhere. In another game, the letters are AAEEIOU; in yet another they are BKQTRDY. The boards are tight. My opponents are too smart to leave open vowels or triple spaces. My ingenuity must be fogged by pain pills...yes, that's it.
If the actual board was in front of me, I would have heaved it in the air. They really should add a button for that. Instead I struggle for two- and three-letter words--ten points here, eight there. Sigh....it's a silly game anyway.
Many of the lessons I am learning in the autumn of my years are like the Scrabble game. You win some, you lose some. Life doesn't always give you everything you want, sometimes it takes a trade to make it work. Sometimes like the seven-letter word with no home, you've got the idea but can't do anything with it. Sometimes you pull out all single points, sometimes you get big results. Other times it pays to pass.
There was a time when Scrabble was just another game. As I go through this new stage of learning I find life lessons everywhere. In Scrabble and in life, I will win some and lose some. Make the best, as Grandma Laura would have said. Don't scoff at a single point victory; it is still better than a win because someone else forfeited.
When I opened my games last evening, I saw that two new players had come to call. I expect no favors, and I give none. We will all play our best.
Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose; most times you choose between the two...Thanks, Carole King, for your words of wisdom.
Then Regina won. Good for her, I said. Then John beat me twice. Kellie and Jj, Ron and Juan followed suit. I dreamed of drowning in a sea of simulated wooden tiles....humiliating loss followed humiliating loss. I have been humbled. I am embarrassed over my ineptitude.
I hunted up my favorite old Scrabble dictionary. XQAIIIE must spell something, or fit somewhere. In another game, the letters are AAEEIOU; in yet another they are BKQTRDY. The boards are tight. My opponents are too smart to leave open vowels or triple spaces. My ingenuity must be fogged by pain pills...yes, that's it.
If the actual board was in front of me, I would have heaved it in the air. They really should add a button for that. Instead I struggle for two- and three-letter words--ten points here, eight there. Sigh....it's a silly game anyway.
Many of the lessons I am learning in the autumn of my years are like the Scrabble game. You win some, you lose some. Life doesn't always give you everything you want, sometimes it takes a trade to make it work. Sometimes like the seven-letter word with no home, you've got the idea but can't do anything with it. Sometimes you pull out all single points, sometimes you get big results. Other times it pays to pass.
There was a time when Scrabble was just another game. As I go through this new stage of learning I find life lessons everywhere. In Scrabble and in life, I will win some and lose some. Make the best, as Grandma Laura would have said. Don't scoff at a single point victory; it is still better than a win because someone else forfeited.
When I opened my games last evening, I saw that two new players had come to call. I expect no favors, and I give none. We will all play our best.
Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose; most times you choose between the two...Thanks, Carole King, for your words of wisdom.
American Dignity
As I read comment after comment on my home page about the death of Osama Bin Laden, I am torn. Where did our dignity go? There were quips about his being fish food (yes, I was one), about the preparation of his body for burial at sea, how reverently his remains had been handled.
My first thought when I heard of his death was fish bait.
After sleeping on that thought, I knew I was wrong. Yes, the misfit was responsible for the death of innocents. No, a trial would accomplish nothing except to have given him a longer, protected life. No, I am not sorry he is dead.
If he had kept on, if his body had been turned over to his people--he would have been resurrected somehow as a savior or a martyr. His million dollar shack would have been turned into a shrine. Our SEALS did what they had to do.
What disturbs me is our reaction to OBL's death. As Americans we value human life. The worst among us are treated humanely whether as prisoners of war or hardened criminals. Vermin like OBL and his cohorts do not value human life, unless it is their own. They use others to make themselves larger. No sacrifice is too great for a terrorist leader--unless it is his own life.
The more I think about it, the more I see the sense in how the SEALS disposed of the carcass. It showed strength of character that they did not desecrate it. It showed courage that they offered him surrender. It showed American pride that they handled the remains with a modicum of dignity.
Let us never forget that we are Americans. We treat others with respect even if they don't deserve it. We are the greatest people in the greatest nation on earth. Rejoice in that.
So OBL is dead. Good riddance. I rejoice that one less terrorist is alive to torment us. I applaud our military for their courage and efficiency. I wonder if we are celebrating too much.
My first thought when I heard of his death was fish bait.
After sleeping on that thought, I knew I was wrong. Yes, the misfit was responsible for the death of innocents. No, a trial would accomplish nothing except to have given him a longer, protected life. No, I am not sorry he is dead.
If he had kept on, if his body had been turned over to his people--he would have been resurrected somehow as a savior or a martyr. His million dollar shack would have been turned into a shrine. Our SEALS did what they had to do.
What disturbs me is our reaction to OBL's death. As Americans we value human life. The worst among us are treated humanely whether as prisoners of war or hardened criminals. Vermin like OBL and his cohorts do not value human life, unless it is their own. They use others to make themselves larger. No sacrifice is too great for a terrorist leader--unless it is his own life.
The more I think about it, the more I see the sense in how the SEALS disposed of the carcass. It showed strength of character that they did not desecrate it. It showed courage that they offered him surrender. It showed American pride that they handled the remains with a modicum of dignity.
Let us never forget that we are Americans. We treat others with respect even if they don't deserve it. We are the greatest people in the greatest nation on earth. Rejoice in that.
So OBL is dead. Good riddance. I rejoice that one less terrorist is alive to torment us. I applaud our military for their courage and efficiency. I wonder if we are celebrating too much.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Spiders
Did you know that the average adult swallows eight spiders in a lifetime? Or is it in a year. Whatever, the very thought makes me ill.
Picture this: you are a woman of nearly sixty. You have blind spots in your vision, so you miss things occasionally. You are in your basement from Hades. You know you have to do laundry or go to work naked. Not a pretty thought. You root through the pile by the washer hoping to find just ONE MORE clean uniform for Hubby. Something tickles your arm. You wave it away. It is on your hand. You see nothing. Then you put your glasses on and there it is--A SPIDER!!!!
Our house gets inundated by spiders every spring. Teensy ones in black and white, greenish ones, daddy-long-legs....I hate them all. I don't want to kill them, superstitious person that I am. I just don't want them in my space.
Anyway, you must have heard me shriek all the way to Utah. I swatted at that dang spider instead of squishing it. It was gone, I thought. But no, the strong, invincible, slightly stunned creature was on top of the uniform for which I had been hunting. I swear he looked at me and twitched before he landed on my foot and crawled swiftly up my pant leg. I got out of those faster than Gypsy Rose Lee, but not nearly as gracefully. I snatched the uniform and a clean robe and high-tailed it to the sanctity of my living room.
I shook out the uniform, folding it and putting it aside. I put on the robe, shaking it, too. No spider. I took Hubby his uniform and turned to leave the room.
"Hold on!" he said. Romantic interlude? I thought. "There's a spider crawling up your back!" The dance I did would have put Chubby Checker to shame. I shook out my hair, my clothes. He looked to see where the spider had fallen. We couldn't find it.
I will not sleep in my bed tonight. I won't sleep on the couch because it will disturb the dog. I might have to doze in my LaZBoy. I don't mind so much if I know where the spider is. This one is out for revenge, I know it.
I shake out my electric blanket throw. I pick up my unread Times-News. I gather up my notebook to write another essay. I reach for my pen on the end table. ^&*%!!! There he sits. He is following me. I shout for my husband, but he is in the shower. No neighbor comes running. I am on my own.
I reach for the newspaper. When I turn back, the spider is gone. Rocco is sniffing at something. He jumps back, then growls and snaps. He makes a face. There is a dead spider on the floor.
My hero!
Picture this: you are a woman of nearly sixty. You have blind spots in your vision, so you miss things occasionally. You are in your basement from Hades. You know you have to do laundry or go to work naked. Not a pretty thought. You root through the pile by the washer hoping to find just ONE MORE clean uniform for Hubby. Something tickles your arm. You wave it away. It is on your hand. You see nothing. Then you put your glasses on and there it is--A SPIDER!!!!
Our house gets inundated by spiders every spring. Teensy ones in black and white, greenish ones, daddy-long-legs....I hate them all. I don't want to kill them, superstitious person that I am. I just don't want them in my space.
Anyway, you must have heard me shriek all the way to Utah. I swatted at that dang spider instead of squishing it. It was gone, I thought. But no, the strong, invincible, slightly stunned creature was on top of the uniform for which I had been hunting. I swear he looked at me and twitched before he landed on my foot and crawled swiftly up my pant leg. I got out of those faster than Gypsy Rose Lee, but not nearly as gracefully. I snatched the uniform and a clean robe and high-tailed it to the sanctity of my living room.
I shook out the uniform, folding it and putting it aside. I put on the robe, shaking it, too. No spider. I took Hubby his uniform and turned to leave the room.
"Hold on!" he said. Romantic interlude? I thought. "There's a spider crawling up your back!" The dance I did would have put Chubby Checker to shame. I shook out my hair, my clothes. He looked to see where the spider had fallen. We couldn't find it.
I will not sleep in my bed tonight. I won't sleep on the couch because it will disturb the dog. I might have to doze in my LaZBoy. I don't mind so much if I know where the spider is. This one is out for revenge, I know it.
I shake out my electric blanket throw. I pick up my unread Times-News. I gather up my notebook to write another essay. I reach for my pen on the end table. ^&*%!!! There he sits. He is following me. I shout for my husband, but he is in the shower. No neighbor comes running. I am on my own.
I reach for the newspaper. When I turn back, the spider is gone. Rocco is sniffing at something. He jumps back, then growls and snaps. He makes a face. There is a dead spider on the floor.
My hero!
A Reminder
Pastor Jeff has not been reading my blog; I am fairly certain of that. If he had been, he would surely have taken me to task on my universalist approach to faith instead of my adherence to the Lutheran doctrine.
God, however, has been reading. His comments are gregarious with a bit of attitude, and very often come when He knows I am paying attention. If I have gotten a point wrong, or left one out, I can be certain the Lesson for the day or Pastor Jeff's sermon will make the point clear. It's uncanny.
Since I believe that Pastor Jeff was called to his vocation and did not just wander into it, I was not at all surprised in his sermon on faith and forgiveness. He believes as I do, that some faith is acquired because our parents had it, and some is learned. What really matters is when the faith becomes our own, with enough belief to defend it.
My parents, one a Catholic and one a Protestant, were not church-goers. Mom took me to the Lutheran church nearby because her friend went there. Dad would have preferred I went to St. Ann's, but rarely went himself. My friend Linda's family was devout and often included me. Some of her faith rubbed off on me along the way. In my teens and twenties I was active in my church. In my thirties I went occasionally. In my forties I didn't need the building or the people; I could do it alone. In my fifties, I came back.
In those years, I discovered what kind of faith was my own. Some of the tenets of the Church no longer made sense to me. I don't argue the finer points of my beliefs, although I am sure Pastor Jeff would welcome the challenge. I believe what I believe firmly enough to defend it.
Pastor went on to talk about forgiveness. Uh-oh. Here is the thing--I didn't put forgiveness on my list of truths. I hear God's shouting through Pastor's words. Don't you believe in forgiving others? That was a heck of a thing to leave out! He admonishes.
I believe we must forgive to be forgiven, including forgiving ourselves. The uneasiness that comes in not forgiving is conscience.
The impeccable timing of the sermon tells me that God is using Pastor to make His point clear. He is speaking to me and to others in an answer to a prayer, spoken or unspoken. He has read my essay on writing a person off...He is telling me not to do that, not yet. As we forgive, we are forgiven.
I add another truth to the things in which I believe.
God, however, has been reading. His comments are gregarious with a bit of attitude, and very often come when He knows I am paying attention. If I have gotten a point wrong, or left one out, I can be certain the Lesson for the day or Pastor Jeff's sermon will make the point clear. It's uncanny.
Since I believe that Pastor Jeff was called to his vocation and did not just wander into it, I was not at all surprised in his sermon on faith and forgiveness. He believes as I do, that some faith is acquired because our parents had it, and some is learned. What really matters is when the faith becomes our own, with enough belief to defend it.
My parents, one a Catholic and one a Protestant, were not church-goers. Mom took me to the Lutheran church nearby because her friend went there. Dad would have preferred I went to St. Ann's, but rarely went himself. My friend Linda's family was devout and often included me. Some of her faith rubbed off on me along the way. In my teens and twenties I was active in my church. In my thirties I went occasionally. In my forties I didn't need the building or the people; I could do it alone. In my fifties, I came back.
In those years, I discovered what kind of faith was my own. Some of the tenets of the Church no longer made sense to me. I don't argue the finer points of my beliefs, although I am sure Pastor Jeff would welcome the challenge. I believe what I believe firmly enough to defend it.
Pastor went on to talk about forgiveness. Uh-oh. Here is the thing--I didn't put forgiveness on my list of truths. I hear God's shouting through Pastor's words. Don't you believe in forgiving others? That was a heck of a thing to leave out! He admonishes.
I believe we must forgive to be forgiven, including forgiving ourselves. The uneasiness that comes in not forgiving is conscience.
The impeccable timing of the sermon tells me that God is using Pastor to make His point clear. He is speaking to me and to others in an answer to a prayer, spoken or unspoken. He has read my essay on writing a person off...He is telling me not to do that, not yet. As we forgive, we are forgiven.
I add another truth to the things in which I believe.
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