Cliques Click

Way back in my high school days, I was vaguely aware of the Clique.  Since I knew several of the Clique from my pudgy, pimply junior high and grade school days I was not intimidated by them; they were just people who happened to have it all, except blemishes.  There were a few in the Clique who treated my friends and I like road kill, but then again they treated everybody like road kill--why should we be exempt?

I never considered my group of friends a clique.  We moved about on the fringes, taking in the strays--the really sad classmates who had no one (some for good reasons!); hob-knobbing with the rich and famous, with the smart and the silly, trying to give everybody a shot at being happy for awhile.   We were free spirits in some ways.  We rarely went dateless;  we had our own lunch table, we went to dances and basketball games and pep rallies and French Club en masse. There were a few in the Clique whom I envied--I wouldn't have been a normal kid if I hadn't.  There were a few whom I wanted to emulate, a few whom I despised for their better-than-you attitude and one on whom I had a massive crush that never was resolved.  Oh, well.

As the years have passed, I have discovered some basic truths about the Clique, as well as about myself.  First of all, they were in the Clique because, well, they "clicked" with the others in the group.  It might have been the desire to be with others as smart, as popular, as talented. It might have been childhood friendships that continued and the comfortable camaraderie stayed.  Hey! Wait a minute!  Isn't that why my friends were my friends?

Secondly, the Clique seemed to move as one,  from football to music to mayhem.  From an outsider's point of view they were more alike than different. They were rich (no, they weren't), they were smart (not necessarily), they had a famous parent (nada), they had fast cars (occasionally) and a desire to belong.  Oh, for pity's sake, that sounds like my friends.

Third, I guess, is that they were comfortable in their own skins, exuding confidence wherever they showed up.  Aye, there it is.  This select group had confidence as its ally, many of them learning early on who they were and what they wanted (or having been told what they wanted, believed it at the time).  That's what separated us, clique from wanna-be.

As I open my eyes today, I no longer see the Clique.  I see people who live and die, are rich and not-so.  I see long-lived marriages like my own, or stacks of two, three and more relationships.  I see general equivalency diplomas from high school and strings of letters after classmates' names.  I see drunkards and addicts, successes and mega-successes. I see those who are well-loved and those who are not.  I see the fella of the massive crush, bouncing from marriage to marriage and job to job and am grateful it ended before it started.  Funny, isn't it, how Life sorts us into groups, then into other groups, till the lines between "Clique" and "not-Clique" blend and morph into one-size-fits-all?

The truth is, the Clique was then, Life is NOW.  When we look back to high school or college or even a few years past, we need to look beyond what was and see what is.  Times change, people change.  Some came out from under their bushel baskets later in life, some bloomed early, some will never see the flowers because they are still chasing a rainbow (bet you didn't know anybody who could mix all those metaphors in one sentence, huh?).

Today I no longer need to be them because they are us.  We have grown up (at least most of us have), and should be able to look past the Vuiton  and the Prada, or the WalMart and the Target; we should see not the wrinkles or the pounds but the inner light.  We are different; we are the same. Maybe today we will "click".  Then again, maybe not.

I can't say that being outside, looking in to the Clique, was a heart-wrenching experience.  I was too naive and too busy to be a part of the inner circle. In the years since, there have been the inner circles of which I've been a part and it isn't a big deal.  I am content on the fringes, being the trim on somebody else's shawl.  Without me, their lives would be so plain! (OK, even I  can see that was a bit of a stretch.)

Today there is only an eensy bit of envy for those who have achieved what I have only dreamed of.  One day when I said as much to an old classmate and friend, she said to me, " I envied you!" Imagine that.  While I saw her successful career, Mustang and cheerleader energy, she saw my marriage,  my sons and my shiny new Sun Coupe. There's a lesson there somewhere.  There always is.

Ketchup

Or catsup.  You know, the red, slightly spicy stuff made from tomatoes, vinegar, salt and spices.  The stuff Weight Watchers used to ban from their diet plan and the US government decided was a vegetable on the school lunch program.  The stuff some wiseguy tried to improve by making it green or purple. Sheesh.

I'm getting into this confession thing. Ask me, and I might tell you my secrets.  Or I'll lie about them.  How would you know?  But this confession is one I will share honestly. I love ketchup.

You know that I will cause mayhem if you touch my chocolate.  That 85% cacao bar better still be there when I crave it.  Peanut butter is a staple.  Ice cream is surely my best friend, even surpassing gin and tonic.  I am also a nut for ketchup, but not with my chocolate, peanut butter or ice cream.  It wouldn't do justice to any of them.  I haven't tried it yet with gin.


I realized it even as a child.  Linda's sister would reach for peanut butter sandwiches. Lin and I ate ketchup on white bread, sometimes with mustard (plain yellow ballpark).  My occasional bologna sandwich (still a comfort food), also on white bread, had a big squeeze of ketchup on it.  My dear mother-in-law would fix sandwiches for me when we lived there.  She would lovingly lightly butter the Vienna bread, then spread just a little mayo. A slice of bologna or ham, a lettuce leaf--all presented with a slice of tomato with grated cheese, or a pickle, and a linen napkin. To her chagrin, I would make one for myself--bread, bologna, ketchup served on a paper towel.

My sister and I would stop at McDonald's or wherever for French fries and proceed to drown them in the red condiment.  We decided we only ate the fries so we wouldn't get our fingers full of ketchup. What would a restaurant do if you asked for a bowl and spoon, then dumped the complimentary ketchup in it and began to dine?  Call Bellview, I guess.

I don't love ketchup the way I love peanut butter.  It needs a medium, like bread, to be filling. It stains when splattered on my yellow t-shirt.  It feels wrong to dunk anything in it when dining out.  Those little fast-food packets have a way of leaking in one's purse or getting stepped on in one's car (trust me on this--it shoots out of that little tube like Old Faithful).  Still, ketchup is more versatile than you may think.

Mixed with horseradish, it makes good cocktail sauce. With mayo, it makes thousand island dressing (add chopped egg and relish if you want it).  Add it to mushroom soup and mustard and it makes a spicy gravy for Salisbury steak (really--try it; add some Worcestershire, too).  Use it for sloppy Joes. Top your eggs, hamburgers, hot dogs or mac and cheese. And bologna, of course.

I wanted a snack one day and was trying to decide between sour cream and onion or barbecue Pringles when the stock man brought out a new carton for the shelf.  Bless my soul, ketchup flavored Pringles! Heaven in a chip. I don't know why this flavor isn't catching on...I mean, it's ketchup!

Before you barf, I urge you to at least try the ketchup.  I know, I know.  Hubby says it's good on hamburgers and hot dogs, even fries, but draws the line on my putting it in his lunch box.  My sons scoff--they want malt vinegar or ranch.  Some look at me like I must have been deprived of the finer things as a child, to rely on the lowly ketchup for sustenance.  What can I say?  I won't apologize for my habit.

Someday we will chat about mustard and pickle relish.

Apples and Peaches

Much of the time I am content.  Most of my needs are met; I am working on the wants.  Some of the peace comes from knowing my calling; some from my minimal knowledge of God, reike and tai chi. Some of it is from my family and friends.  Some peace comes with a thunderstorm, a paycheck, a new piece of jewelry or a Klondike bar.

Those times I am discontented it is out of frustration.  There are things I want but cannot have, at least not now.  There is so much to do that I get overwhelmed and feel myself shutting down.  I sense reality creeping into my dreams and I don't like having to acknowledge it.

It's kind of like munching a Gala apple.  It is crisp, sweet but not cloying; it's juicy, but not so much that it runs down your hands. The crunch is satisfying for the most part, but it isn't what you want this time.  This time, at this moment, you want a peach--a perfectly ripe one.

As you take another bite of the Gala, you imagine how good that peach would taste. The flesh of it is just soft enough. The juice drips down your chin.  It is exactly what you  hunger for....until you get close to the pit and see the little white half of a worm that got to your precious fruit first. Reality has crept in. That peach looked flawless--until you got too close to the insides.

So it is with life.  The day-to-day is filling, satisfying, sometimes boring. Sometimes we have one too many apples.  They become a lunch box staple. We don't even notice them after awhile.  We automatically reach for the Galas or Fujis. They're not expensive, they're sturdy.  The peach--be it a different job, a new home, a new car, a trip to Las Vegas--looks so delicious, and in season for such a short time. We don't look at the price, or if we do, we brush it off because it's a special treat.
Think  about peaches--the fruit, not the euphemism.  If you buy them unripened it is days before they are ready. If you don't eat them right away, they turn mushy, brown, finally moldy. You attract fruit flies. The life of an apple is so much longer! And if they get a bit past their prime, there is always applesauce or apple butter.

And yet, I adore peaches. Albertas are my favorite, but red havens and clings will suffice. Their cousins, the nectarines, are often even better.

I guess the moral is (I often have one. Have you noticed that?) that we should taste the peach in its season--and the cherries and plums, too.  Try things; experience what life has to offer. Just remember that old stand-by, the apple. It can take being tossed into the lunch box, survive winter storage and is a nice gift for a teacher.

The peach may look like the perfect fruit...but be sure you check for worms.

Roller Skates and Dreams

The most aggravating song of all time has to be Melanie's "I've Got a Brand-New Pair of Roller Skates" (you've got a brand-new key).  It isn't just because it is silly.  I like silly songs, like "Ahab the Arab" and  "Purple People Eater".  Of course, I know all the words to that durn tune and some days it runs through my brain like a loop-de-loop.

Does that happen to you, too? A thought, a song, a chant--especially one that you aren't crazy about--sticks in your mind and nothing will turn it loose.

It's the same with recurring dreams.  I have one that comes back so often that I know what will happen as soon as it begins.  The story varies a little depending on if I had burritos or chicken salad before my nap.  This dream never occurs at night that I can remember, only during one of those satisfying afternoon snoozes. I wake up annoyed, reaching for someone--I don't know who.

"Sometimes I think that you're avoiding me.  I'm OK alone, but you've got something I need..."

Like the Melanie song, the dream is always there, burbling about in the recesses of my mind. I try to finish it, thinking that by bringing some kind of closure to the story and finding out who that being could be will mean the end of it.  But no, it's always the same.  I'm thinking it may be someone I love who can't be with me.  Or someone who loves me but can't be near for whatever reason.  Or somebody who likes to tease like an irritating child.

Melanie sings, "for somebody who don't drive, I've been all around the world".  Grammar aside,  I understand.  This dream has taken place in Kansas (after watching "Wizard of Oz"), in Hollywood (don't ask), in Casablanca (self-explanatory), in Paris and at home.  I am always reaching for the being, and he, she, it is always out of reach.  We have seen the world, but I never see the face.

"Some people say I've done all right for a girl".  Oh, please.

In the dream I am beautiful.  I sing like an angel, wear long lace and satin gowns and have hair that flows.  I am drenched in jewelry. There are flowers of every color. There is a big window; no matter where in the world we are, the view is always the same--I am looking out over the city, over the lake.

I dance and others stand by and watch my partner and I as we float across the floor.  The room has an orchestra and chandeliers, one of which is made of tiny silver keys.  My partner is neither male nor female, it has no face.  I am smiling; I am obviously happy.  I am always aware of where we are, be it Paris or Rome, the desert or Siberia. The dress changes, the music changes, the dancing does not.  Sometimes it is Santana, other times is is Glenn Miller, occasionally Jackson Browne pops in.

Suddenly the music stops.  Everyone is clapping and laughing.  At me?  I don't know.  I turn to find out why, and my partner is gone--SNAP!  I wake up then, calling a name, but no one hears me.  I don't know what name I am calling.  Only once did I hear myself and that was something nonsensical.

So what does that all have to do with Melanie and her blasted roller skates?  Well, in the dream I am wearing roller skates, the old-fashioned kind that used the key you hung around your neck. A voice sings ever so softly, not enough to drown out "For a Dancer" or "Europa".

"I think we should get together and try them out, you see....".

Afterthoughts

When the dance is done, the dinner is digested; when we have had the last of the wine and the song; when the last blush of sunshine flushes the sky with shades of amethyst...that is when we sit quietly and think about what is and what might have been.

Sometimes the thoughts are random.  What if I had won the lottery?  What if I had studied Transcendental Meditation?  What if I had been a hippie?

Sometimes specific.  What if I had married someone else? Would I have found the life I have today?  What if I had become a teacher instead of a salesman?  What if I had not let my fears rule me?  If the man I love loves another, will I live at all?  Could I be happy in another world?  What if my children were not mine, but the result of someone else's union?

What if I had been born a man? Would I have served my country with honor? Or would I have run when my number came up? Would I be brave and loyal, hardworking or a bum?  Would I have taken up a trade?  Gone into politics?  Would I have been open and caring, forgiving and loving with the person I loved most? Or would I have been cold, indifferent, even mean? Would I share what was wrong and rejoice in what was right?

I want to do what is right.  I try to live the way I think God wants me to live. I try to do my job, love my family, be honest in dealng with others.  I try to stay true to what I believe.  Most days I enjoy living as I do. I am a basically happy individual, and I try to let my inner light shine on those around me, bringing joy when someone will let me into their space for even a little while. I try to be warm, letting my warmth melt the coldest hearts.

Sometimes it works.  Sometimes it doesn't.  Some people make the candle in me burn brighter, like a million tiny flames.  I can feel the fire spreading, touching other souls, giving them a light they can follow out of their self-imposed darkness. Sometimes it fails, the cold breath blowing out the last flicker of love within me, shrouding those around me in thickness so that all they see is pain reflected against pain.

It used to be enough to simply be, but not anymore.  Suddenly it is my mission to touch people and make them whole, giving them a reason to live where they had none, giving them friendship when they had been lonely, giving an ear to their quiet voices.  It isn't enough anymore to sit in my LaZBoy and watch the world falter;  I need to help hold it up.

There are those who will bite the hand I offer, rejecting any attempt I make to show them kindness.  Is it because they don't like me? Or are they afraid to accept my unconditional gift? Or don't they like themselves?  No matter how you look at it, it is so wrong to reject the love of another when it is freely given.

What changed me? I looked inside. I decided what I believe. I remembered the things I used to love.  I opened my eyes to see the wrong things I have done.  I tried to make them right.  I asked God to fill me with enough love that I could give it away, enough light that people would see it in me and want it, too.  I asked for the right words to touch someone's life.  I asked for a new perspective.

Sometimes my afterthoughts are silly ones that don't mean a thing to anyone but my selfish self.  Sometimes they are profound, sometimes they make me cry. Sometimes I am content, sometimes not. There are things I want that I cannot have, there are things I will never speak aloud.

Through it all, I will trust.

Purses and That Ilk

It's a purse.  A handbag.  A pocketbook.  When you have young children, it is more likely a tote or a diaper bag with your wallet and keys among the diapers and toys and seven changes of clothes (including a fresh shirt for you).  I once had  a vet ask me how old my baby was.  How did you know I had kids? I asked, and he pointed to the Nuk I was wearing as a ring.

It is chaos.  Oh, there are a few amongst us who do not use a purse as a survival kit.  Look in the purse of most women and you will find her life story, at least one piece of candy, meds, tissues, pens, make-up and a sewing kit.  On a bad day I will also have double-sided tape, a paperback, Tums, a screwdriver, three washers and a bottle of Kahlua, a Magic Marker, six Do-Its and slightly stale gum.

Her income (the checkbook), where she had lunch or bought that white filigree necklace (the receipts--and please don't tell me you were just admiring the necklace, mister!), her age (driver license), how much is real and how much is Maybelline and a whole host of other information resides in that purse.

She will try to stuff in the camera, hairbrush, tissues and a cell phone in a tiny evening bag.  When it doesn't fit, she will turn her beau's pockets into an extension.  If she carries a big bag, her mate makes it an extension of his pockets--honey, put my cigarettes in your purse, OK? and an extra hanky, my lighter and the table saw I bought at Sears.....

My purse is black inside, as is my wallet, my cell and my camera case. The floor mats in my Chevy are also black.  So when the purse that I have been rummaging in to find the black phone in the black purse lands on the black floor on the way from the Y....well, my car becomes a giant black hole of a purse on wheels. Can't find a thing.

Between my purse and my car I can survive a blizzard in Colorado for a week.  I carry water and a snack or two or three, plus I usually carry my lunch.  I have a blanket, jumper cables and dry socks. I am not without a flashlight and a rain poncho.  In winter I carry those shake-up hand warmers.  There is enough junk for a bonfire, tissues for my nose and my meds in my purse. There is at least one book, a legal pad, phone charger and a take-out directory.  I should get a shovel, I suppose.  Of course, I can't have passengers.....

I can't fathom spending a thousand dollars on a purse, maybe twelve-fifty--on sale.  I want something practical and basic, not like the little silver number I thought was chic until I put two dollars inside and it was full.  I want one so big it aggravates the bursitis, so heavy that my Hubby asks, "What the #$%^ do you have in there?" and such a long strap that I can use it as a weapon if need-be.

NEVER, EVER violate a woman by getting into her purse without--or even with--permission. Her purse is sacred, a private place like a secret garden.  Trust me, nothing bugs her as much as having you hunt through it for a quarter to use at the car wash.

There are days I do without a purse, like I never carry one anymore when I shop, just stuff the phone, money, debit card and ID in my pockets.  I don't carry one when I work, I shove it all in my briefcase. I had one for my trip to Vegas. I guess I could have used a fanny-pack, but they're so darn ugly.

I swear my next purse will not hold a single zipper bag full of cosmetics.  It will have no more than two pens, one small packet of tissue, a few ibuprofen in a classy little pill box and maybe a lipstick. The wallet, of course, and my cell phone...a bottle of water...Tums...a first-aid kit...a paperback..one notepad and my checkbook...a calendar, change for the parking meter and a couple of ones for tips...safety pins...and a bottle of Kahlua.

Ready to go, Honey.

The Throat

I was buying lunch the other day.  Being sixty now and a bit frugal (read cheap), I inquired about the senior discount.

Oh, I'm sure you don't qualify, said the sweet young thing.  His eyes traveled to my throat--no, I wasn't wearing my ever-present choker, and no, he never got as far as my cleavage--just as far as the turkey neck--and promptly took off ten per cent.

I hate my throat.

My face is pretty much unlined thanks to a little extra fat here and there.  My eyes are bright with new lenses from the cataract surgery as well as with a love of life.  But the throat.  Geez.

I won't wear turtlenecks anymore.  I can't stand the tightness.  I like to wear shirts that...uh...accentuate my finer places.  I opted to wear chokers that help to hide the wrinkle (shudder).

When Mom was about my age, she had thyroid surgery.
"Don't worry," said the doctor. "I'll hide the incision in this wrinkle here."
If I hadn't heard him say it, I wouldn't have believed it.  Mom was shocked.  As beautiful as she was, I don't think her less than perfect eyesight ever noticed the wrinkle before that day.

I look at my peers. Some of them have had eyes fixed or chins lifted.  My husband will guess her age. Nope, I say, older than that.  How do you know? he quizzes. Throat, I answer.

Throat and hands, dead give-aways of a woman's age.  Hands, slightly darkened at the knuckles, an age spot here and there, the skin not as taut. The throat, no matter how slim she is, shouts "senior citizen".
It's that wrinkle at the base, you see, the one that swallows the fine gold chain you wore at forty. Don't believe it?  Ask Barbara Bush why she wears those blasted pearls.

By the way, men don't get turkey necks.  Some age well, some don't.  Some wear thick gold chains, but that is for prowess, not to hide anything.  There is no male equivalent of the throat.

I am better in many ways than I was at forty.  I am freer and more open than I was. I have more faith. I see things from a different viewpoint.  I have an insatiable need to have people like me--which astounds me because I never cared what people thought of me before.  I like myself most of the time.  I have discovered gifts and I use them.  I've been told I don't look bad for my age (why can't they just say, "Damn! You look GOOD"??).

If it wasn't for the durn throat, everything would be perfect!

Las Vegas--The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Let me talk about the bad and the ugly first so I can end with a smile on my face, and I hope on yours.

Las Vegas is not a customer-friendly town.  Oh, I'm sure the city itself is...but the money-maker, the famous Strip, isn't. If you have a Diamond card (Vegas-speak for game rewards), you get some perks--free shows, front-of-the-line service, discounts, valet parking, etc.  If you don't, well, you're just another schmuck with beaucoup bucks to spend.

If you go out there on a shoestring, like I had to, you are amazed at how expensive everything is. Pay for the monorail, pay for expensive meals that would be ten dollars at home, pay two dollars for an apple (not kidding), tip him here, tip her there. You can buy t-shirts, three for fifteen, if you can stand the sleazy booth.  You can buy a bottle of water for a dollar if you trust the fellow with the cruddy cooler. You can buy a necklace for ten thousand bucks or for fifty.  You can buy a scoop of ice cream for five-fifty, or a single strawberry covered in chocolate for six-ninety-five.

There are police everywhere--on bikes, in cars, marching the perps down the street in cuffs.  Pit bosses keep watch over the patrons. There is security in every corner.

The worst thing, though, isn't the half-dressed girls in cages--after all, it is Las Vegas and the girls have  chosen to dance for entertainment. No, I didn't find the girls in the casino or in the shows vulgar at all.  What I did find vulgar were the young men and women on the street, driving trucks with pics advertising brothels, and the ones passing out cards and fliers with sex for sale.  OK, call me a prude.

There are escalators everywhere.  You even use them to cross the street! You walk or take the monorail and then walk, every place you have to go.  I may have missed the Y, but I didn't miss the workout.

All that  being said, the Strip is a wonderful place to visit. It must be the combined energy of the shows, the bells of the casinos and the day-lit evenings that power the billions of watts.  The lights are amazing--there is no other word to describe them.  Floodlights, neon, bold and bright, cascading, flashing, pulsing...all I could find to say was WOW.

And the statuary! Two stories high! A spiral escalator that takes you to the top! Ceilings painted as sky, some with brilliant flowers made of glass.  Chocolate cascades from ceiling to floor; baubles glitter in store windows; fountains spring forth in the middle of a courtyard.  Fresh flowers grace the backdrop in one place, the front desk in another.  The garden at the Flamingo has live flamingos, swans...so beautiful amongst the palm trees.

Yes, I had a good time.  No, I didn't win a bundle.  I loved the high-energy shows the best, and the simple fact of not one mosquito the entire week. Nights were balmy and breezy; days hot, sunny and dry--not a drop of sweat to make my mascara run. 

Would I go again?  Not unless I had to.  It's sensory overload for me. Besides, we didn't go dancing. Las Vegas is glitzy and glamorous and there is more money on a single roulette table than I earn in a year.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Happy Birthday To Me

For those of you who are sick of hearing about  my six-oh birthday, the day is here! Happy Birthday to me!  This one is especially important for lots of reasons.

First, it's a round number.  Round numbers always seem more important as birthday numbers, except for twenty-one.

Second, last year's only redeeming quality was the birth of my granddaughter. Enough said.

Third, I've undergone so many changes since my last birthday!

There are still things I meant to do, like take a road trip.  Well, I'm going to Las Vegas instead.  I wanted to go kayaking, but my back gave out.  Oh, I am still going! It just has to wait until I can at least get out of the car without wincing.  I wanted to clean the basement from Hades....yeah, right.  I wanted to lose weight--and I have, just not as quickly as I'd hoped or as much as I wanted. Still time.

I wanted to begin this decade with joy.  I have found some in friends, new and old.  I wanted to find a church, and I did.  I began a fitness program and got my graduation t-shirt.  I started writing, something I didn't plan, but it has been a Godsend.

I have learned to express my faith in God openly, unafraid and without reservation.  I can live in the world and see beyond the material things, yet enjoy them.  I have written down my core beliefs and will defend them.  I am proud to be a Christian.

I wanted to rid my mind of negativity, learn to laugh and love again.  I wanted to dance again.  I wanted to forget who I had become and get back to the roots  of who I am.  That's going well.  I am no longer afraid of being lonely--I have learned to like myself.  (If I don't like me, nobody else will either.)

I wanted to connect with old friends, and they have been a blessing in more ways than you know.  They have given me back my childhood memories and reminded me of carefree teenage years.  They have helped me to find ME. I can be myself with them because they know who I am.

I wanted to make new friends, and I've done that.  I can be myself with them because they have no expectations.  There are no longer any strangers, just friends I haven't met yet.

I have discovered my gifts and my calling.  I am grateful that I've recognized them.  I pray for them to be used wisely, and for  my words to touch one person's heart one time, and to make a difference in one person's life.

I wanted more bling in my life, and more creativity.  Done.

There are still people to meet--a whole slew of cousins, for example.  There are those whom I've injured in some way who haven't forgiven me yet.  I won't give up until I understand why.

There are days I want to run through the sprinkler and shout with joy and laughter.  I cry over everything, mostly because I had forgotten how to cry.  There are few tears of sadness these days.  I am happier than I've been in a long time. There are days when I want to hug everyone in sight, and days when I do exactly that.  I've learned to experience new things as a child would do.  The eyes of a child seek and find magic.

This year will be a continuation of my renewal and growth.  I have so much to see, so much to do, so many people I have not yet hugged.  I have a good foundation.  I can build mansions!

Happy Birthday to me!

Thunder

I love thunder and lightning shows.  I love to press my face against the window pane, absorbing the energy around me.  I love to sit on a porch feeling the spray of the raindrops.

I love a good storm when I'm in a valley, because the thunder bounces from hill to hill in a never-ending crescendo.  I can hear it clap loudly for my attention,and grumble as it rolls restlessly through the forested lands...echoing, echoing...

I love the lightning when it streaks from the heavens or flashes like a thousand neon lights in the distance.  I love the bright forks, more dramatic than any fireworks display.  I love the crackle in the air and the crisp smell of ozone being formed.

I love the rain when it is so powerful that it rushes like a river toward the storm sewer, erupting like a geyser at the end.  I love the way it cleans my car without remuneration and washes my face like a million tears.

I love the wind when it whips the trees into a frenzy, lays flat the grasses and tosses the debris as if it were a tiny tornado.  I love the way it flips my hair onto my face and plays with my skirt as though I was Marilyn Monroe.

I love to watch the gentle waves of the Bay as they build and crash against the pier.  I love the swells as they  reach surfer-worthy status on the lake in a few moments of time.  I love to watch the seagulls as they ride each wave, bobbing and curtsying as though they are paying homage to the power.

Most of all, I love to count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. . . listening as it moves farther away...hoping it will come back soon and cleanse my world.

Rumspringe

The Amish have a good word--rumspringe--which cannot be literally translated.  It s the time of a young person's life, usually around 17 or 18, when the youngster is set loose into the world of the "English".  "English" is the term used by the Amish to include anyone not of their faith.  Why they pick on the English instead of Italians or Poles is anybody's guess.

Anyway, during  rumspringe a youth can take in the sights and sounds of the English world previously forbidden.  They can live in the city, wear modern clothes, listen to music, watch TV, drink and drive.  Some get into trouble because they can't handle the freedom.  Some never go home--if they choose the English world, they are "shunned" by their families. Some can't wait to return to the simpler way of life.

I'm a little old for rumspringe. Never in Amish history has a two-days-from-sixty woman been turned loose to experience rumspringe.  If she didn't get the world out of her system at 17, well, tough toodles.

And yet, that's how I feel.  The past months, culminating with my first ever time in Las Vegas, is my rumspringe.  Yes, I have a TV and radio; I drive and play CDs really loud to drown out my singing.  I wear clothes that suit my personality if not exactly Vogue.  I use a cell phone.  But never in my life have I been turned loose to experience the "English" world--until now.

My life has been a simple one.  We have the usual modern conveniences.  I get a new car every four or five years, not a buggy and Clydesdale.   I cut my hair, pluck my eyebrows, wear outrageous earrings and adorn my nails with glitz and glimmer. We are simple folk.  We like rides in the country, moonlit nights and a bonfire now and then.  We are not travelers.  So you can see why this trip to Las Vegas is my rumspringe.

I have every intention of having a good time as soon as the Dramamine wears off and my stomach settles to a dull ache.  I will  enjoy the "lights, camera, action!" of the famous Strip, the big show we will attend and the bing-bong of the casino.  The meetings are an afterthought; I have to go to them to be able to enjoy the rest.  Even they will be exciting, because I will be on the ground floor of a new team launch. 

The "English" world, much maligned by the Amish, is nonetheless useful to them.  It provides a place to shop for material goods, a place to work when farming doesn't pay enough, a place to sell their jam, meat and quilts.  It is the English who buy their furniture, taking great pride in saying their porch swing is "Amish crafted".

So it is with me.  I have no lust to live in Las Vegas, not even off the Strip in the regular sections of the city.  I do not pant for life of lights and noise.  One show with all its glamour will be probably enough for a lifetime.  Yet--here's the catch 22--I have to experience it before I can deny it. The English world isn't where my heart is, but is useful for a break from the monotony of real life.

There it is.  The Amish in their wisdom have seen the truth.  If one is denied (or ignores) the experiences set in front of her, how does she know what she loves?  Not just Las Vegas, but life  here in Erie, PA, too.  If I don't take in a play or ballet, see a rock concert or go dancing; if I don't sip apricot brandy or a mai tai on occasion instead of my usual G&T--how will I ever know?  If I don't sit on a bench at Rodderick overlooking the waters of Lake Erie, or take a kayak on a one-woman trip to the Lagoons, how will I know what I have missed?

Hubby and I have been together for forty-plus years.  Every day lately, it seems, we find out something new about each other.  We are starting to take time once again to experience simple pleasures.  It's time we explored the "English" world.

So my rumspringe begins.  Unlike the Amish kids, mine will only last a few days.  I won't find my heart in Las Vegas; my heart is in Erie, PA.  I won't find the love of my life there; he is in Erie, PA, too.  I won't sleep much, I won't have a shedding 100 pound dog at my feet.  Those, too, are in Erie.  I, too, would be shunned if I gave up my life here for the life of a casino groupie.

No worries, my friends.  When my rumspringe ends, I'm coming home.

At The Y

I will make a friend today.  Somehow, somewhere.

It was unlikely, really. The Y on a warm, clear summer night is relatively deserted.  Only a few of my new friends were there, all of them on their way to classes or huffing on spin bikes or ellipticals.  I resigned myself to walking alone unless my trainer found time to join me.

A woman in red was headed toward me on the track.

"You're going the wrong way!" she blurted. "Thursday is counter-clockwise!"

Well, yes it is. However, today is WEDNESDAY, and I'm walking in the right direction.  I decided not to argue the point. Why bother? It is Wednesday, or I would have put garbage out.  My birthday is on Wednesday.  The newspaper said it is Wednesday.  Why am I even THINKING about this?  I kept walking; she passed me, scowling again.

Suddenly she stopped, approached me and said, "Why the h*** didn't you tell me it's Wednesday?"

I didn't answer, but we did start walking (in the right direction), discussing our foibles, our kids, Buddha and the Y in general.  We exchanged numbers and agreed to walk again.  We have much in common.  I have made another friend.

I expect my trip to Las Vegas to be much the same.  I am going with a friend of several years.  The other team members are unknown to us, yet I am sure we will both come home with budding friendships.  It is a gift, one that I will not waste.

It's like this...I yearn for friends of my past to be friends of my future.  I long for old friendships to grow and to blossom.  I want new friendships to thrive.  I want to begin my next decade being surrounded by people I want to be with.  Everywhere I go, I want to run into someone I can call "friend".

Bev and I may become coffee-klatsch friends, or maybe just Y friends.  We will probably never share secrets, or peanut butter fudge from the bake sale. I doubt we will ever discuss evolution on Facebook, or argue the finer points of politics or religion.  But we can talk and laugh, and we will find a niche in each other's lives.

As I begin a new decade, there are still old friends I want to see again.  New friends can't take their places.  A hug from an old friend is worth a thousand handshakes from a new one.  I can hope that a few years down the road I will be able to say, "meet my old friend..."

TMI

I am a hopeless romantic.  I love to sneak up behind hubby and kiss his neck.  I like it when somebody surprises me with trinkets or does the dishes or takes me out for ice cream for no occasion at all.  I like to hear the words "I love you", "I like you", "I need you", "let's eat out." I like flowers and wine and sunsets, silky clothes and creamy chocolate.  I like t be remembered on my birthday (coming soon!)

I didn't cry for a lot of years, then my heart was opened and I cry at everything--movies, songs, pictures of puppies.  A dance at someone else's wedding was my best hope; now it has become an event.  Being alone used to terrify me; now I have learned that I can be by myself and not feel alone.

The confidence is not without risk.

Last fall I was doing my day off chores, and I spotted a black GTO heading east on route 20.  Thinking it was my husband's car I bared one shoulder, fluffed my hair and revved my engine (actually, it was the car I revved. I just purred.).  Putting on my sexiest wink, I pulled up alongside--and looked straight into the eyes of a thirty-something, or maybe twenty-something, but it sure as heck wasn't my hubby the fifty-something.  Do you know how fast an Equinox can move when motivated? Geez.

"How many GTOs can there be on route 20 on a Saturday?" I wailed to Hubby.
"Apparently at least two," he snarled, unamused.

Was that the end? Of course not.  I saw a friend from high school days at the coffee shop.  Boldly, I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Hi, there" with my brightest smile--to a total stranger.  Same build, same hair, different face.  I quickly excused myself, reaching for sugar packets as though he had been in my way....will I never learn.

"You did WHAT?!" said my friend when I confessed.
"I was just being nice, I thought." I whimpered.  Cripes.

So the shell that I lived in for many a year has to be refurbished.  Looks like I should spend some more time in it.  I am certainly no floozy, though Hubby says I am a bit flirtatious.  I am friendly, that's all.  I no longer wave at GTOs or approach anybody at the coffee shop unless I am SURE who it is.  I don't take candy from strangers, and I wouldn't take a ride from anybody who sings "I'm your vehicle, baby, I'll take you any place you wanna go."

But I will accept the trinket with a smile, the perfume with a hug, the ice cream with a grin. Like I said, I'm a hopeless romantic.

The Calling

The pastor at my church, Pastor Jeff, was truly called to his post; it wasn't happenstance or merely luck, nor an alternative he chose to something far more lucrative.  His notes, his sermons and his booming laugh all attest to his joy at serving his congregation and his Lord.

Do you know what your calling is?  I didn't until a couple of years ago.  It's possible that I have been called many times in my life, as you have--to be a child, a parent. We all are put on earth for a purpose.  It was, however, when I realized it was God speaking to me that my life changed.  Oh, I am only a human with human desires and human imperfections by the multitudes. Once I recognized and accepted my gifts and my calling, that area of my life became, if not perfect, then joyous.

We can make guesses at God's will.  We can ask for signs and portents and believe that  He has given His approval when indeed it is at best ourselves, at worst the devil on our shoulders.  Is our talent a gift? Or is it acquired by our free will?  Can it be used for the betterment of our extended world?  Is it our passion?  Is it His will?  Is it strictly for profit? (Whoa! nothing wrong with profit! I am a capitalist to the core!) Is it useful to the spirit?

I know of a rich man who built a thriving business.  When it was destroyed by fire, his customers collected money to help him rebuild. He opted to give the money to his out-of-work employees.  Yes, he is rebuilding--not just the business but the good will.  Is the business his calling? I believe it is.

I know a man who left a lucrative career to become  a minister.  His wife hated the idea and eventually left him.  His congregation was at odds with itself.  His sermons were technically correct, but without conviction.  He was not a gracious guest in one's home.  He thought ministry was his calling, but his place would have been better served as a director or an assistant where his technical background would have been useful. Far more people left his church than were drawn to it.  I'm certain the Lord has a plan for him; it just wasn't ministry.

When God speaks, He does it with authority--be it a whisper or a cacophony of angelic choir.  He speaks only truth.  If we listen, we can hear the direction He is sending us.  It will feel right; there will be no doubt.  We will see the indescribable light of satisfaction and feel the passion of knowing it is from Him.

Callings are easy to spot in another.  The passion with which an artisan shows his work, the compassion of a gifted nurse or the genius of a teacher, the pride of a baker displaying his wares--you can tell who is called and who is earning a paycheck and nothing more.  We recognize it in the doctor who crams in the patients and hurries them out, or the attorney who collects a fee but doesn't try his best.  We all know parents who should have been childless and pet owners who should have pet rocks instead of living creatures.

The differences between a want-to-be-there and a have-to-be-there in any field is palpable. A calling is more than ability to do the project.  It is a place of passion and purpose that gives something to others, be it laughter or service, and glory to God.

I have learned, during my journey to become whole, what makes me crazy and what I love.  Some things, like housework, I have to do whether or not I want to.  Other things, like dancing to live music and sipping gin and tonic, I had forgotten that I love.  Some things, like weeds, I barely tolerate.  Others, like being with childhood friends, I cherish.  I was blessed with the opportunity to have them back in my life.

The  job I am taking is a step I needed to take.  It isn't enough hours, but I will get a part-time job to take care of that part.  It's got a product line different from what I have done for decades; I see it as a challenge.  It came to me unbidden at  time when I needed change.  I didn't even interview for it.  It was meant to be.  I relish the chance to begin again, but is this a calling?  No, just work.

My calling is my ability to speak without fear, and to write those things I feel.  When I put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, I pray for the words that will touch one person, one time, and make a difference in one life.  Maybe I will help someone to know God, or make them laugh. Maybe one person will see that I am talking directly to him or to her  and hear what I have left unsaid.  As I prepare to put my essays into book form, I recognize my gifts as God-given and pray that I can use them wisely.  My words are my calling.

So, why did God wait so long to call me? Maybe I wasn't ready to hear Him.  Maybe I was called to do other things first, like to be a wife, mother, grandmother--or to learn who I am inside.  Maybe it was my stubborn human-ness that kept me from paying attention.  Today is different.

He has called me.  Lord, I have heard You!