The only sound right now is the clickety click of my keyboard, and the dog's light snoring as he snoozes at my feet. It's been a long day. I'm tense and snappish. The silence is its own comfort.
The job thing has me irritable. The night is cold and damp. I have to go to the grocery tomorrow, do laundry, go to work, pay bills. I should be in bed, but I'm not sleepy. My mind is busy. I have a pimple. A zit. I'm sixty years old. I got over these at fifteen, I thought. Geez.
Where? says Hubby. RIGHT THERE!!! I almost screech. That little thing? he says. THAT BIG THING! I say. Geez, he says.
I can see it, even with my lousy near vision. It's right there, right above my beauty mark. (oh, OK, it's a mole. Aunt Marjie called it a beauty mark. No one ever said Liz Taylor or Cindy Crawford had a mole, did they? Well, DID THEY??) I'm getting testy, aren't I? The new improved me isn't supposed to have a pimple. I am too vain to tolerate a teenage imperfection.
As a pre-teen, I put up with the inevitable hormone-induced outbreaks. One time, my face looked so bad that a teacher sent me to the school nurse....I had measles, thank goodness, not major acne. It was school picture day, and I never did get a retake. Believe it or not, this happened to me twice. I won't tell you the years. You might look it up and die laughing.
Since the years of misery, my complexion hasn't been too bad. I'm thinking about cosmetic surgery when I win the lottery, just to tighten up the throat, maybe the jowls and the eyelids. But will that get rid of the pimple? I think not.
I usually only look in the mirror to use the Great Lash and to fix the curl on my forehead. Now I find myself drawn there hourly, checking to see if the monstrous growth has taken over the entire left quadrant of my face, or if it has miraculously disappeared. I am obsessed.
I'm thinking customers may not want me to wait on them, that I may be contagious. Will this be the day I run into somebody I haven't seen in years? I just know I will get called for a job interview when this..this....this THING is at its worst. Oh, the shame of it.
I examine it for the umpteenth time....this cannot be.....there are TWO!!!!!! Geez, will I ever be able to show my face in public again? THERE CANNOT BE TWO PIMPLES. I lean closer to the mirror. I will call in sick, yes I will....but it is a bit of chocolate from my ice cream bar.
I know that one pimple doesn't make me a different person. It makes me a bit self-conscious is all. I am still ME, pimple or not. It is just an eruption, not an interruption of my life. Nobody cares.
So if one zit or ten (please, God, not ten!) doesn't change who I am, I shouldn't let other little things get in my way either, should I? No, and I won't.
Forget I mentioned the zit. I am going to enjoy the silence while it lasts, let my brain drift to sleep, scratch Rocco's ears and put some astringent on my skin.
I will not obsess...I will not obsess...I will not obsess....
Friday, September 30, 2011
Hubby
Hubby and I will be married for forty-one years in October. This is quite an accomplishment, since my brain is but sixteen. He sighs. He says sometimes he thinks it is only six. I don't argue (well, yes, I do) because I believe it, too.
I met Hubby when we were just sixteen, a blind date that my late and dearly loved cousin set up (RIP Frank). That night began a journey that has lasted to this very day.
Lest anyone should believe it is easy, I will tell you now--it isn't.
There are ups and downs, anger and disgust, screaming and loving and everything in between.
We went through heartbreak. We went through periods of wealth and struggle, boundless joy and trauma. The road to forever takes twists and turns. Sometimes it is hard to stay focused. Our thoughts tend to wander to what might have been. Our hearts know that what might have been....IS. This is reality. This is US.
As Hubby and I approach forty-one years, I look back at what was us then, and what is now.
We were so young! Would we have made different choices? A resounding "yes", we both agree. Would we still have come together? Yes. Would WE still be US? Yes.
We have reached a stage of comfort. We finish unspoken thoughts, we agree on grilled cheese or Wendy's take-out when I don't want to cook. He doesn't do laundry, I don't mow the lawn. We don't ask, we just do. Sometimes we are too comfortable. We need to get away, get some excitement. Sometimes it is the predictability that makes us argue. I found hobbies to give me a new perspective. We started going dancing. It works for us.
Yes, we gripe and complain. We get over it. We trust.
The changes in myself over the past year didn't scare him like I thought they would. Instead, he tells me he kinda likes the confidence I have grown and the hair I have not. He likes the energy and the bling. He likes the smiles. I see that those changes have rubbed off some on him. I like that.
He goes to church with me now, too, most Sunday mornings. Many times we will have coffee with newfound friends. He has renewed old friendships, too. We are growing.
These days, you know when I feel most loved by him? When he whispers naughtiness in my ear? No, not as much as when we are at a wedding, or in church, or walking on the street and he reaches for my hand and squeezes it tight. It's knowing that he doesn't care who sees the affection. He's proud of me, he says.
The throw-away society we live in does not apply to Hubby and me. We live and breathe the same air, rehash the same arguments, get bored together, live at different places on the political spectrum. He likes early sixties music, I prefer early seventies and eighties. I read mysteries, he reads history. The differences keep us together. So does the sameness.
There have been days when the anger alone would have made it easy to walk away.
Why didn't we?
It wasn't only the vows or the commitment or the love. It certainly wasn't the paper license. It's a connection I can't explain. Soulmates? Maybe.
All I know is that he isn't going anywhere anytime soon.
Neither am I.
I met Hubby when we were just sixteen, a blind date that my late and dearly loved cousin set up (RIP Frank). That night began a journey that has lasted to this very day.
Lest anyone should believe it is easy, I will tell you now--it isn't.
There are ups and downs, anger and disgust, screaming and loving and everything in between.
We went through heartbreak. We went through periods of wealth and struggle, boundless joy and trauma. The road to forever takes twists and turns. Sometimes it is hard to stay focused. Our thoughts tend to wander to what might have been. Our hearts know that what might have been....IS. This is reality. This is US.
As Hubby and I approach forty-one years, I look back at what was us then, and what is now.
We were so young! Would we have made different choices? A resounding "yes", we both agree. Would we still have come together? Yes. Would WE still be US? Yes.
We have reached a stage of comfort. We finish unspoken thoughts, we agree on grilled cheese or Wendy's take-out when I don't want to cook. He doesn't do laundry, I don't mow the lawn. We don't ask, we just do. Sometimes we are too comfortable. We need to get away, get some excitement. Sometimes it is the predictability that makes us argue. I found hobbies to give me a new perspective. We started going dancing. It works for us.
Yes, we gripe and complain. We get over it. We trust.
The changes in myself over the past year didn't scare him like I thought they would. Instead, he tells me he kinda likes the confidence I have grown and the hair I have not. He likes the energy and the bling. He likes the smiles. I see that those changes have rubbed off some on him. I like that.
He goes to church with me now, too, most Sunday mornings. Many times we will have coffee with newfound friends. He has renewed old friendships, too. We are growing.
These days, you know when I feel most loved by him? When he whispers naughtiness in my ear? No, not as much as when we are at a wedding, or in church, or walking on the street and he reaches for my hand and squeezes it tight. It's knowing that he doesn't care who sees the affection. He's proud of me, he says.
The throw-away society we live in does not apply to Hubby and me. We live and breathe the same air, rehash the same arguments, get bored together, live at different places on the political spectrum. He likes early sixties music, I prefer early seventies and eighties. I read mysteries, he reads history. The differences keep us together. So does the sameness.
There have been days when the anger alone would have made it easy to walk away.
Why didn't we?
It wasn't only the vows or the commitment or the love. It certainly wasn't the paper license. It's a connection I can't explain. Soulmates? Maybe.
All I know is that he isn't going anywhere anytime soon.
Neither am I.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Cortlands and Memories
I love the fall.
Autumn, with its cool days, leaves of bronze and red and gold, energizes me. I love the color of the sky. I love to smell the leaves burning, and the wood fires in someone's backyard or from the neighbor's wood stove. I love the big grapevine wreath on my front door. I love the comfort foods of fall--stews and casseroles, turkey and pot roast. And the vegetables of fall! Squashes of so many varieties, carrots and turnips, rutabagas and pumpkins. And the fruits! Cranberries, pears, grapes and my favorite--apples.
I used to love the football games and the long walk home with friends. Sometimes the moon was so big it seemed to fill the sky. The sounds of the band echoed in my ears--the French horns, the tuba, the trombones and my favorite horn, the saxophone. I loved the costumes the twirlers wore with their bright sequins, and the tall hat of the drum major. I loved it all.
It was brought back in a rush today by, of all things, a Cortland apple.
I enjoy apples, though the local Macintosh is not among my favorites to chomp while trying to stave off hunger. The Cortland, however, always was. A few years ago I began to eat Galas, Braeburns and Honeycrisp--neglecting the old favorite. When my friend gave me some I had full intention of making applesauce, but I didn't have any fruit for lunch. So I packed a Cortland.
It took one bite, the tangy-sweet juice dripping on my shirt. Aaahhh, the memories came back in a flash.
Dad used to bring home apples often. He would buy an eight quart basket or even a bushel and put them in the middle of the kitchen table. Mom knew without a doubt that Dad was expecting apple dumplings for dessert, chunky applesauce with brown sugar and cinnamon for his toast, maybe an apple cake a few days later. And of course, there was an apple in every pocket for munching.
Dad hardly ever brought apples to my door, or if he did, it would be a quart basket. It was accompanied by tomatoes or cucumbers; grapes, perhaps, maybe a squash. Sometimes amongst the produce I would find a special little pumpkin, a pie pumpkin--never a jack o' lantern.
Dad knew that I would cut and cook the pumpkin, blend the eggs and spices, make a hand-rolled crust and present him with a fresh pumpkin pie. Yes, my sons, there was a time when I liked to do that sort of thing. Dad's grin would be a mile wide when I took the pie to him. He always cut a slice right away, savoring and grinning over every bite. How I loved that smile! Never in my presence would he pile whipped cream on top like Mom and Grandpa did. Nope, he wanted to taste every morsel.
Another bite, another memory.
The apples made me remember the Cider Mill, a well-loved institution that cousins had started decades ago. It seemed everybody in the county knew Fuhrmann's, the best cider around. I remember walking there to get cider for a fall party at my friend's house, and how heavy the jugs were on the way home.
Which, of course, made me remember the parties in her basement, the corner dark for slow dancing until her father came down the stairs. The night Charlie put his elbow in the chip dip, the night I met my date for the dinner dance, the big cans of Charles Chips, the tub full of ice and cold drinks. A couple of times we divided into groups, each with a list, running and laughing around the neighborhood for a scavenger hunt, trading this for that until our lists were finished. Can you imagine a group of party-happy teens coming to your door in the dark, asking for a flat bicycle tire or a brick? The police today would thoroughly enjoy rounding up such trouble-makers!
Life was good then, fun and innocent. We understood the words to the music and moved to its beat. We danced and sang--yes, even me with my cat-in-heat voice, We didn't count calories, we didn't smoke in front of our parents. We whispered to our friends about our latest crush.
And, of course, we bobbed for apples--Cortlands, as I recall.
It takes only a small thing to tap into the resources of my brain. As I move ahead, I sometimes try to block some things from the forefront. Always, always, something will jog it to my consciousness, even the stuff I want to forget. Yes, I remember what caused the tiny scar on my wrist and my side and my forehead. Yes, I recall being accused of stealing a loaf of bread (no, I didn't, Pete). I remember a lot of the hurts and a lot more of the laughter.
I am right now finishing another of those Cortlands, and I thank my friend and the farmer--not just for the fruit, but for the delicious memories as well.
Autumn, with its cool days, leaves of bronze and red and gold, energizes me. I love the color of the sky. I love to smell the leaves burning, and the wood fires in someone's backyard or from the neighbor's wood stove. I love the big grapevine wreath on my front door. I love the comfort foods of fall--stews and casseroles, turkey and pot roast. And the vegetables of fall! Squashes of so many varieties, carrots and turnips, rutabagas and pumpkins. And the fruits! Cranberries, pears, grapes and my favorite--apples.
I used to love the football games and the long walk home with friends. Sometimes the moon was so big it seemed to fill the sky. The sounds of the band echoed in my ears--the French horns, the tuba, the trombones and my favorite horn, the saxophone. I loved the costumes the twirlers wore with their bright sequins, and the tall hat of the drum major. I loved it all.
It was brought back in a rush today by, of all things, a Cortland apple.
I enjoy apples, though the local Macintosh is not among my favorites to chomp while trying to stave off hunger. The Cortland, however, always was. A few years ago I began to eat Galas, Braeburns and Honeycrisp--neglecting the old favorite. When my friend gave me some I had full intention of making applesauce, but I didn't have any fruit for lunch. So I packed a Cortland.
It took one bite, the tangy-sweet juice dripping on my shirt. Aaahhh, the memories came back in a flash.
Dad used to bring home apples often. He would buy an eight quart basket or even a bushel and put them in the middle of the kitchen table. Mom knew without a doubt that Dad was expecting apple dumplings for dessert, chunky applesauce with brown sugar and cinnamon for his toast, maybe an apple cake a few days later. And of course, there was an apple in every pocket for munching.
Dad hardly ever brought apples to my door, or if he did, it would be a quart basket. It was accompanied by tomatoes or cucumbers; grapes, perhaps, maybe a squash. Sometimes amongst the produce I would find a special little pumpkin, a pie pumpkin--never a jack o' lantern.
Dad knew that I would cut and cook the pumpkin, blend the eggs and spices, make a hand-rolled crust and present him with a fresh pumpkin pie. Yes, my sons, there was a time when I liked to do that sort of thing. Dad's grin would be a mile wide when I took the pie to him. He always cut a slice right away, savoring and grinning over every bite. How I loved that smile! Never in my presence would he pile whipped cream on top like Mom and Grandpa did. Nope, he wanted to taste every morsel.
Another bite, another memory.
The apples made me remember the Cider Mill, a well-loved institution that cousins had started decades ago. It seemed everybody in the county knew Fuhrmann's, the best cider around. I remember walking there to get cider for a fall party at my friend's house, and how heavy the jugs were on the way home.
Which, of course, made me remember the parties in her basement, the corner dark for slow dancing until her father came down the stairs. The night Charlie put his elbow in the chip dip, the night I met my date for the dinner dance, the big cans of Charles Chips, the tub full of ice and cold drinks. A couple of times we divided into groups, each with a list, running and laughing around the neighborhood for a scavenger hunt, trading this for that until our lists were finished. Can you imagine a group of party-happy teens coming to your door in the dark, asking for a flat bicycle tire or a brick? The police today would thoroughly enjoy rounding up such trouble-makers!
Life was good then, fun and innocent. We understood the words to the music and moved to its beat. We danced and sang--yes, even me with my cat-in-heat voice, We didn't count calories, we didn't smoke in front of our parents. We whispered to our friends about our latest crush.
And, of course, we bobbed for apples--Cortlands, as I recall.
It takes only a small thing to tap into the resources of my brain. As I move ahead, I sometimes try to block some things from the forefront. Always, always, something will jog it to my consciousness, even the stuff I want to forget. Yes, I remember what caused the tiny scar on my wrist and my side and my forehead. Yes, I recall being accused of stealing a loaf of bread (no, I didn't, Pete). I remember a lot of the hurts and a lot more of the laughter.
I am right now finishing another of those Cortlands, and I thank my friend and the farmer--not just for the fruit, but for the delicious memories as well.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Dizzy
So many connotations.
Remember when we were kids, how we would spin 'round and 'round till we fell to the ground? The world would continue to spin...my friend Jane broke her collarbone doing exactly that fifty years ago. It was a silly game, anyway.
Remember the first time you were kissed by somebody special? I was so dizzy with joy I forgot to turn out the lights, tripped over the dog and danced up the stairs. I stumbled to my bedroom, my head spinning, absolutely giddy. Couldn't wait to do that again...
How about the first time you drank too much? Trying to keep one foot on the floor to make the room stop...ooohh....
And the way things below looked when you flew for the first time, or visited a tower or even climbed a tree? Didn't you want to jump and try to fly?
How about when you passed that exam, be it a physical one or an intellectual one?
Dizzy with worry, dizzy with distractions, dizzy with happiness, dizzy with relief.
Dizzy as in dumb...dizzy as in blond (you are not being kind when you call me blond. I am silver, thank you)....
Like many things, being dizzy is purely subjective.
I am, at this moment, in the throes of life-altering decisions, a couple of them actually. Hubby, while not thrilled, is supportive in his own way. It is a dizzying time. My mind is weak from processing too much. I am fully caffeinated (read: in a stupor), probably not a good time to make any decisions at all. Having one already made, I find myself dizzy with relief. The second, conceived in a dizzy state, will have to be thought about some more when I come down from my iced-coffee high.
Poor Hubby. Imagine if you had to live with the dizzy trial that is me. I am not a dizzy blond, nor a ditzy person in general. I have my moments these days, though, when the dizziness takes over my senses.
The mind is an amazing thing. It can be drenched in despair, sad beyond comfort. It holds millions (billions?) of useless facts, yet fails to recognize the single truth. It allows us to find chaos among order and joy among troubles. It knows right from wrong, yet lets the wrong often win. It is a dizzying array of knowledge spun into a fabric of sometimes-madness.
I need to sit back and examine the dizzy confusion. I need to lay off the caffeine and sober up. My mind rambles. I want to do what is right, if I only knew what right is.
I guess it is time for bed. My Hubby isn't here; it's a work night. My big mutt doesn't care if my world spins so long as it doesn't disturb his beauty sleep. My brain isn't ready to jump off the merry-go-round just yet. It keeps on spinning, running in circles without me.
I'm getting dizzy.
Remember when we were kids, how we would spin 'round and 'round till we fell to the ground? The world would continue to spin...my friend Jane broke her collarbone doing exactly that fifty years ago. It was a silly game, anyway.
Remember the first time you were kissed by somebody special? I was so dizzy with joy I forgot to turn out the lights, tripped over the dog and danced up the stairs. I stumbled to my bedroom, my head spinning, absolutely giddy. Couldn't wait to do that again...
How about the first time you drank too much? Trying to keep one foot on the floor to make the room stop...ooohh....
And the way things below looked when you flew for the first time, or visited a tower or even climbed a tree? Didn't you want to jump and try to fly?
How about when you passed that exam, be it a physical one or an intellectual one?
Dizzy with worry, dizzy with distractions, dizzy with happiness, dizzy with relief.
Dizzy as in dumb...dizzy as in blond (you are not being kind when you call me blond. I am silver, thank you)....
Like many things, being dizzy is purely subjective.
I am, at this moment, in the throes of life-altering decisions, a couple of them actually. Hubby, while not thrilled, is supportive in his own way. It is a dizzying time. My mind is weak from processing too much. I am fully caffeinated (read: in a stupor), probably not a good time to make any decisions at all. Having one already made, I find myself dizzy with relief. The second, conceived in a dizzy state, will have to be thought about some more when I come down from my iced-coffee high.
Poor Hubby. Imagine if you had to live with the dizzy trial that is me. I am not a dizzy blond, nor a ditzy person in general. I have my moments these days, though, when the dizziness takes over my senses.
The mind is an amazing thing. It can be drenched in despair, sad beyond comfort. It holds millions (billions?) of useless facts, yet fails to recognize the single truth. It allows us to find chaos among order and joy among troubles. It knows right from wrong, yet lets the wrong often win. It is a dizzying array of knowledge spun into a fabric of sometimes-madness.
I need to sit back and examine the dizzy confusion. I need to lay off the caffeine and sober up. My mind rambles. I want to do what is right, if I only knew what right is.
I guess it is time for bed. My Hubby isn't here; it's a work night. My big mutt doesn't care if my world spins so long as it doesn't disturb his beauty sleep. My brain isn't ready to jump off the merry-go-round just yet. It keeps on spinning, running in circles without me.
I'm getting dizzy.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Lightning Bolts and Vineyards
I had a crazy dream.
I know where the components came from. I don't know what the dream means. Hubby deciphered it his way, I interpreted it another. I'll tell you what I remember and let you decide.
I was walking in a vineyard. Instead of grapes, the vines produced ice cream cones. They looked like curly-topped, soft-serve vanilla, my favorite. I reached down to pluck one, of course, but most of them were covered with bugs. When I found a clean one, I sampled it. It was more like a green banana. It had little flavor, no sweetness, not what I expected at all.
I looked around for another, but all I saw was clouds gathering. I couldn't find my car. A lightning bolt came down at dizzying speed. Then it paused right in front of me, grew to immense proportion, spun around and plunged into my heart. It was hot, but left no damage and no pain. I had no fear of the lightning bolt. When I opened my eyes, though, there was no vineyard. Everything was gone.
I began to run in the way dreams work, running endlessly and not getting anywhere. At last I came to another vineyard and collapsed in relief. The storm had ended. The sky was as blue as it only gets in the autumn. There were no grapes here, either. Instead, bottles of celebration wine were tucked among the twigs. It was the best wine I ever had. I drank until I finally slept, covered with grape leaves.
That's the gist. There were some other things, too, but I don't remember how they fit into the story. There were dogs, large and small. I had a sense of being near a park I know, but there are no grapes there. There was coffee, but when I tried to grasp it, it was out of my reach.
I know that dreams are part subconscious, part life. I know they can come from deep within, or from without. Do they mean something, anything at all? I think they do, but how do we know how to interpret? What a crazy dream that was! I ask you, what was it telling me? Are the vines representing life? A person? What is that lightning all about?
I did some daydreaming, some pondering, but no serious research.
Maybe it was just the meanderings of an almost-senior mind?
I know where the components came from. I don't know what the dream means. Hubby deciphered it his way, I interpreted it another. I'll tell you what I remember and let you decide.
I was walking in a vineyard. Instead of grapes, the vines produced ice cream cones. They looked like curly-topped, soft-serve vanilla, my favorite. I reached down to pluck one, of course, but most of them were covered with bugs. When I found a clean one, I sampled it. It was more like a green banana. It had little flavor, no sweetness, not what I expected at all.
I looked around for another, but all I saw was clouds gathering. I couldn't find my car. A lightning bolt came down at dizzying speed. Then it paused right in front of me, grew to immense proportion, spun around and plunged into my heart. It was hot, but left no damage and no pain. I had no fear of the lightning bolt. When I opened my eyes, though, there was no vineyard. Everything was gone.
I began to run in the way dreams work, running endlessly and not getting anywhere. At last I came to another vineyard and collapsed in relief. The storm had ended. The sky was as blue as it only gets in the autumn. There were no grapes here, either. Instead, bottles of celebration wine were tucked among the twigs. It was the best wine I ever had. I drank until I finally slept, covered with grape leaves.
That's the gist. There were some other things, too, but I don't remember how they fit into the story. There were dogs, large and small. I had a sense of being near a park I know, but there are no grapes there. There was coffee, but when I tried to grasp it, it was out of my reach.
I know that dreams are part subconscious, part life. I know they can come from deep within, or from without. Do they mean something, anything at all? I think they do, but how do we know how to interpret? What a crazy dream that was! I ask you, what was it telling me? Are the vines representing life? A person? What is that lightning all about?
I did some daydreaming, some pondering, but no serious research.
Maybe it was just the meanderings of an almost-senior mind?
Give Till It Hurts?
Tomorrow I will go for the CROP Walk.
Try as I might, I can never remember what CROP stands for. I only know the Lutheran Church sponsors it, gives twenty five per cent of the money raised to the county who raised it, the rest going to disaster areas and the poor around the world. Our dollars will feed how many?
Imagine that--the little bit of money I was pledged will go to feed a child in my city, my country, maybe in the world. I'm not helping much, but I am doing something, and so is everyone else who is walking.
Our church put together school kits with notebooks and rulers, and health kits with soap and towels and more. Other churches did sewing kits and infant layettes. each package wasn't much in itself, but each one was a gift of love to the unknown someone who received it. A little here, a little there. It adds up. It adds up to tens of thousands of dollars when you consider how big the Lutheran Church is, how vast the ministries and how generous the members and others who come along.
I didn't belong to a church for many years. Now that I'm back, I have left the selfishness behind. I want to be a part of all the good things the Church does. Oh, I know, Church isn't your thing, but even if you aren't a believer my Church would feed you if you were hungry, keep you warm, tell you where to find medicine or housing. The Church doesn't care if you are a member or a non-believer. We will help.
I will walk a mile tomorrow. My new church friends will be there, too. I have another week to raise some more money for the hungry people of the county and the world. In addition, we will pray over every quarter, that it will be used wisely.
Giving is not a new concept for me, but being part of this group that gives so much without regard to what they get in return--well, now, that's a different story.
Give till it hurts? What if it never hurt, just keeps on feeling better?
Try as I might, I can never remember what CROP stands for. I only know the Lutheran Church sponsors it, gives twenty five per cent of the money raised to the county who raised it, the rest going to disaster areas and the poor around the world. Our dollars will feed how many?
Imagine that--the little bit of money I was pledged will go to feed a child in my city, my country, maybe in the world. I'm not helping much, but I am doing something, and so is everyone else who is walking.
Our church put together school kits with notebooks and rulers, and health kits with soap and towels and more. Other churches did sewing kits and infant layettes. each package wasn't much in itself, but each one was a gift of love to the unknown someone who received it. A little here, a little there. It adds up. It adds up to tens of thousands of dollars when you consider how big the Lutheran Church is, how vast the ministries and how generous the members and others who come along.
I didn't belong to a church for many years. Now that I'm back, I have left the selfishness behind. I want to be a part of all the good things the Church does. Oh, I know, Church isn't your thing, but even if you aren't a believer my Church would feed you if you were hungry, keep you warm, tell you where to find medicine or housing. The Church doesn't care if you are a member or a non-believer. We will help.
I will walk a mile tomorrow. My new church friends will be there, too. I have another week to raise some more money for the hungry people of the county and the world. In addition, we will pray over every quarter, that it will be used wisely.
Giving is not a new concept for me, but being part of this group that gives so much without regard to what they get in return--well, now, that's a different story.
Give till it hurts? What if it never hurt, just keeps on feeling better?
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Interlude
Wake up.
Down a java or two.
Shower, dress, a spritz of cologne.
Drive, drive, drive. Work, work, drive drive.
Oops! Need to buy bread.
Home, cook, laundry, paperwork, pack lunches. Sleep.
Wake up, down some coffee. . . .
Wait a minute. Something is wrong here. Yes, I find time to walk or the Y. Yes, I take some time to play games. Yes, I find moments to share with those I love.
Some days it isn't enough, those few moments. I need an interlude, a time when I don't have to be at work or at a meeting or at the grocery store. I need time to be mesmerized by adult conversation instead of the spinning wheels of video slots or the click-clack of the Scrabble board. I don't want to be interrupted by the squawk of the TV or the neighbor's weed whacker. The endless clatter of shopping carts grates on my nerves. I've had enough of the daily rat race.
I want an intermission of sorts, like my days with the grapes, when I can shut off the phone. The time might be better spent in minutes of prayer or meditation, or of conversation and contemplation.
I want to scream in frustration. Time goes so fast! I'm impatient. I want it all to drop in my lap; I am tired of having to work for what I want. I want the job, but not the work ; I want the invitations to come but not the inconvenience. I want ice cream without the guilt of too many calories. Left to myself, I am too lazy to be lazy!
I need that interlude, or the intermission, if you will. Meditating on the important, dreaming about the frivolous, thinking about the possibilities. Ground me, please, or help me to fly.
If you've been reading regularly, you can tell I am starting another growth spurt, or maybe a leap of faith.
Oh, my! What have I gotten myself into this time?
Down a java or two.
Shower, dress, a spritz of cologne.
Drive, drive, drive. Work, work, drive drive.
Oops! Need to buy bread.
Home, cook, laundry, paperwork, pack lunches. Sleep.
Wake up, down some coffee. . . .
Wait a minute. Something is wrong here. Yes, I find time to walk or the Y. Yes, I take some time to play games. Yes, I find moments to share with those I love.
Some days it isn't enough, those few moments. I need an interlude, a time when I don't have to be at work or at a meeting or at the grocery store. I need time to be mesmerized by adult conversation instead of the spinning wheels of video slots or the click-clack of the Scrabble board. I don't want to be interrupted by the squawk of the TV or the neighbor's weed whacker. The endless clatter of shopping carts grates on my nerves. I've had enough of the daily rat race.
I want an intermission of sorts, like my days with the grapes, when I can shut off the phone. The time might be better spent in minutes of prayer or meditation, or of conversation and contemplation.
I want to scream in frustration. Time goes so fast! I'm impatient. I want it all to drop in my lap; I am tired of having to work for what I want. I want the job, but not the work ; I want the invitations to come but not the inconvenience. I want ice cream without the guilt of too many calories. Left to myself, I am too lazy to be lazy!
I need that interlude, or the intermission, if you will. Meditating on the important, dreaming about the frivolous, thinking about the possibilities. Ground me, please, or help me to fly.
If you've been reading regularly, you can tell I am starting another growth spurt, or maybe a leap of faith.
Oh, my! What have I gotten myself into this time?
Grape Season
Erie, PA has been my hometown since I was born here in 1951. It's a good place to call home and to raise a family. Some days are brighter than others, just like your hometown, or yours.
Unless you live in a grape belt as I do, you can't begin to imagine one of Erie's lake shore moments in September--the Concord grapes.
Open a bottle of grape juice or jam and take a deep breath...mmmm. That is the smell that greets us in late September, maybe a week in October as the grapes ripen. From a few miles west in Ohio to a few miles east in New York, the aroma permeates your senses. All along route five and route twenty, but not much farther south (it turns into corn and cows), the sweetness is everywhere. Whether you are at a Walmart or a car dealer, or standing trembling in front of a produce stand to buy them, the grapes become an accustomed part of your day.
In our narrow little strip along Lake Erie, there are more than thirty wineries producing everything from champagne to Zinfandel. We grow more than ninety per cent of the grapes for our region right here. Acres and acres, protected from freezing too soon by the warm lake waters, some allowed to freeze later on the vine to make ice wine.
Ah, we love our grape festival, the grape pies, jellies and jams, juice and, of course, the wine. The best part is still the smell of the grapes up and down the highway in late September. I will take a country drive on one of those days. The sky is the sapphire blue that only happens in September; clouds, fluffy and white, skittering along with the wind. Sumac is turning orange and red, a few trees are starting to bronze. It is perfection.
Many of our friends are grape farmers, and they don't appreciate these days like I do. This time of year is their livelihood--the picking, loading, sorting, sugar-testing--it keeps them working from dawn till late at night. I hope they all know how grateful I am that they can do this job for the rest of us! While they labor, I sit back and enjoy the fruits.
Mouth watering, I head for the nearest farm stand, ready to buy a quart or maybe a basket. Slip-skins, my mother called them, squeezing each orb and tossing the skin. Not me. I eat it skins and all. Why would I waste a drop of this succulent fruit?
My sense of smell is good enough that I can smell impending rain, warm chocolate, fresh coffee and any number of other things.
None of them are as sweet as Pennsylvania grapes in September.
Unless you live in a grape belt as I do, you can't begin to imagine one of Erie's lake shore moments in September--the Concord grapes.
Open a bottle of grape juice or jam and take a deep breath...mmmm. That is the smell that greets us in late September, maybe a week in October as the grapes ripen. From a few miles west in Ohio to a few miles east in New York, the aroma permeates your senses. All along route five and route twenty, but not much farther south (it turns into corn and cows), the sweetness is everywhere. Whether you are at a Walmart or a car dealer, or standing trembling in front of a produce stand to buy them, the grapes become an accustomed part of your day.
In our narrow little strip along Lake Erie, there are more than thirty wineries producing everything from champagne to Zinfandel. We grow more than ninety per cent of the grapes for our region right here. Acres and acres, protected from freezing too soon by the warm lake waters, some allowed to freeze later on the vine to make ice wine.
Ah, we love our grape festival, the grape pies, jellies and jams, juice and, of course, the wine. The best part is still the smell of the grapes up and down the highway in late September. I will take a country drive on one of those days. The sky is the sapphire blue that only happens in September; clouds, fluffy and white, skittering along with the wind. Sumac is turning orange and red, a few trees are starting to bronze. It is perfection.
Many of our friends are grape farmers, and they don't appreciate these days like I do. This time of year is their livelihood--the picking, loading, sorting, sugar-testing--it keeps them working from dawn till late at night. I hope they all know how grateful I am that they can do this job for the rest of us! While they labor, I sit back and enjoy the fruits.
Mouth watering, I head for the nearest farm stand, ready to buy a quart or maybe a basket. Slip-skins, my mother called them, squeezing each orb and tossing the skin. Not me. I eat it skins and all. Why would I waste a drop of this succulent fruit?
My sense of smell is good enough that I can smell impending rain, warm chocolate, fresh coffee and any number of other things.
None of them are as sweet as Pennsylvania grapes in September.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Icebreakers
You know them as well as I do.
You shake hands. Instead of a warm, two-handed grasp or a firm return, you get a non-medically-induced limp fish in your hand. It's enough to make you wipe away the clamminess on your silk shirt, but you don't want to be rude.
One day he or she will be full of laughter; the next you feel like you've been slammed by an iceberg.
This type of person will give you no gradual letdown, no explanation whether legitimate or not, just a sudden cold shower.
We all know how it feels. We all hate it.
You know, sometimes truth hurts. So cry and get over it. Hubby says I can be too forgiving sometimes. I don't think there is such a thing. I would much rather be an estranged friend for a reason than to be a what-the-hell-happened one. It's the not knowing, not the knowledge that makes one crazy. But there are some folks that are so spiritually cold that they refuse to share themselves.
Work relationships can be like that, too. We bond over company experience; we talk, complain, commiserate. Then somebody moves on. The bond breaks.
I love quickly and deeply. I forge chains that my optimistic self never wants to have fall apart. Years later I can still find that broken link and try to put it back together. I am a fence-mender, a people-pleaser. Oh, I know how to get angry, and sometimes I will spout off from my dark side. Of course I am not perfect. Tell me if I have hurt you. I will apologize, and I will mean it from my heart.
Life is so short. Wasting it by avoiding people or things we have a problem with isn't productive. I am learning to face my fears, face the consequences and move on to a better place. I want to be surrounded by warmth and peace, good feelings for the most part. I don't want to be afraid of running into anybody because of things unsaid or misunderstood. Oh, yes, I want the world to be one big cup of warm honey, full of hugs and sweetness. Sickening, huh?
I was part of a discussion about how many wars, personal and public, could be avoided if our egos weren't so big. No, when it comes to my country I am not a pacifist. My private life is something else. A bit of honesty, put gently, can make or break a moment or even a life. How much misery might be avoided with a simple phrase like "How about coffee?"--and mean it. Smiling and "hello"--is that so much to ask?
Spouses, friends, acquaintances, relatives should try to put the fear and the ego aside once in awhile and start fresh. Maybe all you need is an icebreaker. Coffee, double cream, on ice, sweetened, works. So does the handshake, two-handed, not fishy, and a hug.
Your best friend may well turn out to be the person you never tried to know.
You shake hands. Instead of a warm, two-handed grasp or a firm return, you get a non-medically-induced limp fish in your hand. It's enough to make you wipe away the clamminess on your silk shirt, but you don't want to be rude.
One day he or she will be full of laughter; the next you feel like you've been slammed by an iceberg.
This type of person will give you no gradual letdown, no explanation whether legitimate or not, just a sudden cold shower.
We all know how it feels. We all hate it.
You know, sometimes truth hurts. So cry and get over it. Hubby says I can be too forgiving sometimes. I don't think there is such a thing. I would much rather be an estranged friend for a reason than to be a what-the-hell-happened one. It's the not knowing, not the knowledge that makes one crazy. But there are some folks that are so spiritually cold that they refuse to share themselves.
Work relationships can be like that, too. We bond over company experience; we talk, complain, commiserate. Then somebody moves on. The bond breaks.
I love quickly and deeply. I forge chains that my optimistic self never wants to have fall apart. Years later I can still find that broken link and try to put it back together. I am a fence-mender, a people-pleaser. Oh, I know how to get angry, and sometimes I will spout off from my dark side. Of course I am not perfect. Tell me if I have hurt you. I will apologize, and I will mean it from my heart.
Life is so short. Wasting it by avoiding people or things we have a problem with isn't productive. I am learning to face my fears, face the consequences and move on to a better place. I want to be surrounded by warmth and peace, good feelings for the most part. I don't want to be afraid of running into anybody because of things unsaid or misunderstood. Oh, yes, I want the world to be one big cup of warm honey, full of hugs and sweetness. Sickening, huh?
I was part of a discussion about how many wars, personal and public, could be avoided if our egos weren't so big. No, when it comes to my country I am not a pacifist. My private life is something else. A bit of honesty, put gently, can make or break a moment or even a life. How much misery might be avoided with a simple phrase like "How about coffee?"--and mean it. Smiling and "hello"--is that so much to ask?
Spouses, friends, acquaintances, relatives should try to put the fear and the ego aside once in awhile and start fresh. Maybe all you need is an icebreaker. Coffee, double cream, on ice, sweetened, works. So does the handshake, two-handed, not fishy, and a hug.
Your best friend may well turn out to be the person you never tried to know.
In Gratitude: Leaves
I had a quick lunch at a little park on my route. It wasn't fancy-- not the apple and yogurt, nor the graveled parking lot. It is, however, a place where I find peace and quality time with my own thoughts. There was no human sound, save the relentless traffic. The breeze was warm, the clouds spattered across the sky minded their own business. I was soaking up September.
The car windows were open. What a beautiful almost fall day....
I thought I felt something fly against my cheek. Swiftly swatting at the supposed insect, I found instead a tiny red leaf. It looks like a maple leaf, though most of the trees are pines and firs. It is tiny as maple leaves go, maybe inch and a half across, but the colors! A heavenly artist must have painted the shades of red, the specks of gold, the tips of brown. I look up and all I see is green--and the crimson one I hold now in my hand.
A harbinger of autumn on this late summer day...
Some think of fall as the end, when everything dies. I don't try to explain the way I view the life cycle of birth, living and death, because like the leaves I believe there is more for humans, too. The leaves will be back in new glory next spring. They are resting...everything in its time...and in a couple of weeks Solomon in his glorious robes won't be able to compete with the gold, crimson and pumpkin-colored leaves of fall.
I tucked the little red leaf into my notebook. It will be replaced by another one of these days, one of gold, perhaps, as beautiful but different. It will never be as significant as the first one of the season no matter how I try to make it so. The first leaf of autumn, the first snowflake, the first rose are always special.
Today I have added to my list of gratitude the leaves. Whether they are green or red, sprouting from a limb above my head, brilliant in their fall garb or crunching beneath my feet, every leaf has its moment of beauty before its demise. I am grateful for them, no matter what their stage of being. As with friends old and new, distant or close--each has a place and a reason for being.
I've been practicing how to be grateful for the large and small of things, for hot summer days and cool fall ones, for the crisp white winter days and fresh spring ones. I am grateful that I have grandchildren to share the pumpkins and the man I love to share the harvest moon and the stars. I am learning to be grateful for those things I have and the things I will never have.
I am grateful for the little red leaf today.
The car windows were open. What a beautiful almost fall day....
I thought I felt something fly against my cheek. Swiftly swatting at the supposed insect, I found instead a tiny red leaf. It looks like a maple leaf, though most of the trees are pines and firs. It is tiny as maple leaves go, maybe inch and a half across, but the colors! A heavenly artist must have painted the shades of red, the specks of gold, the tips of brown. I look up and all I see is green--and the crimson one I hold now in my hand.
A harbinger of autumn on this late summer day...
Some think of fall as the end, when everything dies. I don't try to explain the way I view the life cycle of birth, living and death, because like the leaves I believe there is more for humans, too. The leaves will be back in new glory next spring. They are resting...everything in its time...and in a couple of weeks Solomon in his glorious robes won't be able to compete with the gold, crimson and pumpkin-colored leaves of fall.
I tucked the little red leaf into my notebook. It will be replaced by another one of these days, one of gold, perhaps, as beautiful but different. It will never be as significant as the first one of the season no matter how I try to make it so. The first leaf of autumn, the first snowflake, the first rose are always special.
Today I have added to my list of gratitude the leaves. Whether they are green or red, sprouting from a limb above my head, brilliant in their fall garb or crunching beneath my feet, every leaf has its moment of beauty before its demise. I am grateful for them, no matter what their stage of being. As with friends old and new, distant or close--each has a place and a reason for being.
I've been practicing how to be grateful for the large and small of things, for hot summer days and cool fall ones, for the crisp white winter days and fresh spring ones. I am grateful that I have grandchildren to share the pumpkins and the man I love to share the harvest moon and the stars. I am learning to be grateful for those things I have and the things I will never have.
I am grateful for the little red leaf today.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
De Plane! De Plane!
Are you old enough to remember "Fantasy Island"?
Remember Ricardo Montalbahn's short sidekick Tattoo? Or Tatu. Don't remember how to spell it.
Can you guess what I'm talking about?
Yes and no.
Fantasy, yes. Island, maybe. Tattoo, yes (gotcha!). The short guy, no. He always bugged me. Nothing against little people; his voice grated on my nerves.
Some days I could lay in bed for hours (if only I could!), daydreaming, fantasizing, call it what you will. My mind takes off running from the dust and bills and the job. I live in a world of perfection.
I have no need for eyeglasses that don't help much, nor insulin nor a paycheck. Driving is for pleasure, not destination. In today's fantasy, I have a tattoo. Nice segue, huh?
The tattoo isn't a big part of the dream It was a little touch of bling inspired by my nine year old grandson's birthday party. All the kids were getting them. Suddenly I wanted one, too! I picked out a black dragon. My surprised daughter-in-law-to-be helped me place it right above the lace. (You didn't think I'd get a real one, did you? First of all, where I wanted it is private territory. Second, nobody is gonna stick a needle in me there and live. Got that? Besides, the tattoo will get stretched out or buried in a wrinkle. Gross, just gross.)
But what that little black dragon did for me was amazing. I told my forty-something boss about it. Why, you're a closet slut, she said. Now I want one! Yes, an artist's rendering of a teensy dragon gave me sexuality and power.
Like the occasional design on my nails, the lace under my blazer or the funky earrings, the tattoo gives me a sense of invincability. An inch of ink that is my secret. A moment of fantasy, with or without the island. Fantasy is the stuff that manifests reality.
If someone hadn't fantasized about the wheel or the steam engine or jet plane, we would still be walking. What if our forefathers hadn't conceived a land of freedom? It takes a minute of daydreaming to begin a reality. Correct me if I am wrong, my sons, but did I ever even once tell you to stop daydreaming?
After a shower, of course, the tattoo is gone. There will be others, discreetly applied so as to be my little secret. It isn't showing the tattoo that stimulates me. Knowing it is there gives me a sense of magic.
It is an inch of ink, a package of fifteen or so for a buck , but it represents the idea that yes, I can.
I didn't think I would ever fly, but I did.
I didn't expect to see Las Vegas, but I did.
I never thought you'd catch me in a kayak, but you did.
I never thought my words would be available for everyone to see, but they are.
When you hear "De Plane! De Plane!" in your mind, or you see the tiny tattoo, you are landing on your own Fantasy Island. The fantasy, the dreams, the everyday ho-hum--all are different pieces of the same puzzle.
What will it take to manifest your dreams into reality? Maybe just a little tattoo.
Remember Ricardo Montalbahn's short sidekick Tattoo? Or Tatu. Don't remember how to spell it.
Can you guess what I'm talking about?
Yes and no.
Fantasy, yes. Island, maybe. Tattoo, yes (gotcha!). The short guy, no. He always bugged me. Nothing against little people; his voice grated on my nerves.
Some days I could lay in bed for hours (if only I could!), daydreaming, fantasizing, call it what you will. My mind takes off running from the dust and bills and the job. I live in a world of perfection.
I have no need for eyeglasses that don't help much, nor insulin nor a paycheck. Driving is for pleasure, not destination. In today's fantasy, I have a tattoo. Nice segue, huh?
The tattoo isn't a big part of the dream It was a little touch of bling inspired by my nine year old grandson's birthday party. All the kids were getting them. Suddenly I wanted one, too! I picked out a black dragon. My surprised daughter-in-law-to-be helped me place it right above the lace. (You didn't think I'd get a real one, did you? First of all, where I wanted it is private territory. Second, nobody is gonna stick a needle in me there and live. Got that? Besides, the tattoo will get stretched out or buried in a wrinkle. Gross, just gross.)
But what that little black dragon did for me was amazing. I told my forty-something boss about it. Why, you're a closet slut, she said. Now I want one! Yes, an artist's rendering of a teensy dragon gave me sexuality and power.
Like the occasional design on my nails, the lace under my blazer or the funky earrings, the tattoo gives me a sense of invincability. An inch of ink that is my secret. A moment of fantasy, with or without the island. Fantasy is the stuff that manifests reality.
If someone hadn't fantasized about the wheel or the steam engine or jet plane, we would still be walking. What if our forefathers hadn't conceived a land of freedom? It takes a minute of daydreaming to begin a reality. Correct me if I am wrong, my sons, but did I ever even once tell you to stop daydreaming?
After a shower, of course, the tattoo is gone. There will be others, discreetly applied so as to be my little secret. It isn't showing the tattoo that stimulates me. Knowing it is there gives me a sense of magic.
It is an inch of ink, a package of fifteen or so for a buck , but it represents the idea that yes, I can.
I didn't think I would ever fly, but I did.
I didn't expect to see Las Vegas, but I did.
I never thought you'd catch me in a kayak, but you did.
I never thought my words would be available for everyone to see, but they are.
When you hear "De Plane! De Plane!" in your mind, or you see the tiny tattoo, you are landing on your own Fantasy Island. The fantasy, the dreams, the everyday ho-hum--all are different pieces of the same puzzle.
What will it take to manifest your dreams into reality? Maybe just a little tattoo.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Peter Pan Wishes
Yes, I wish I could have my Peter Pan peanut butter back. Alas, those two horrifying words keep me from it--PALM OIL. Just inject cholesterol into my arteries, thank you. But I digress even before I get started.
My daughter-in-law to-be posted today about being a child again, watching the children run and play. Sweetie, at thirty you still have a lot of child left in you. You can run and play with your daughter, my son, your nieces and nephews. With me. You're pretty and funny and smart. You have a lot of life to live. An eighty-year old might say the same about me.
Like Peter Pan, I don't want to grow up. Some people think I never did anyway.
Oh, but I did.
I tried the grown-up thing. I married, bought a house with Hubby. We worked, had kids, worked some more. We forgot how to be kids! We forgot how to have fun. We forgot how to play. We forgot how we liked to dance. We forgot about picnics at the last minute--throwing fruit and a sandwich, a drink or two in the cooler and taking off. We quit shooting baskets and tossing a ball. Is holding hands only for tweens? Is a snowball fight only for children? When was the last time you built a sand castle?
There was a time I wanted to play. My actions were met with a withering glare. Real mature, Marilyn. I didn't understand then, and I don't understand now. What is so mature about being stuffy? Why can't an adult act like an adolescent once in awhile? What is so special about acting old?
A little over a year ago, I suddenly remembered! Peter Pan was back! Tinkerbell was tickling me with her wings! I remembered what I used to love. The adventure inside began to overshadow the grown-up me. The kid started to re-emerge. Yes, I need a nap some days. Yes, I have responsibilities. Give me a chance to have some fun, though, and I will take advantage of the moment. Some people are old at twenty. I got old at thirty. I got younger again in my fifties.
Maturity is a fancy word for taking responsibility for yourself. Yes, I see the wisdom of that.
It doesn't mean you have to stop loving. It doesn't mean you can't show affection. You needn't tsk-tsk-tsk because someone laughs in church or guffaws at a funny story. You don't have to spend Suday evening counting out the pills for the next week. Why shouldn't you snag an ice cube at the next picnic to drop down somebody's back? Give me a good reason why you can't play football with a loaf of Italian bread instead of a pigskin. Try parking with your spouse or special someone (remember those days?). I have a friend who, at eighty, went snowshoeing and tubing for the first time last year. He takes cruises. He studies. He is planning on skydiving. Bob knows the difference between maturity and growing up. His motto is "If not NOW, WHEN?" Indeed.
To my sons and daughters to be; to their friends, to my young friends--take this no-longer-grown-up woman's advice. Don't forget how to live. Don't forget how to be a child sometimes. Time will march by whether you are a perpetual child or not, but it will zip by faster and faster as you age.
Live it while you can. If not NOW, WHEN?
You know what? I think I'll keep a jar of Peter Pan in the house, just to remind me of where my heart lies.
My daughter-in-law to-be posted today about being a child again, watching the children run and play. Sweetie, at thirty you still have a lot of child left in you. You can run and play with your daughter, my son, your nieces and nephews. With me. You're pretty and funny and smart. You have a lot of life to live. An eighty-year old might say the same about me.
Like Peter Pan, I don't want to grow up. Some people think I never did anyway.
Oh, but I did.
I tried the grown-up thing. I married, bought a house with Hubby. We worked, had kids, worked some more. We forgot how to be kids! We forgot how to have fun. We forgot how to play. We forgot how we liked to dance. We forgot about picnics at the last minute--throwing fruit and a sandwich, a drink or two in the cooler and taking off. We quit shooting baskets and tossing a ball. Is holding hands only for tweens? Is a snowball fight only for children? When was the last time you built a sand castle?
There was a time I wanted to play. My actions were met with a withering glare. Real mature, Marilyn. I didn't understand then, and I don't understand now. What is so mature about being stuffy? Why can't an adult act like an adolescent once in awhile? What is so special about acting old?
A little over a year ago, I suddenly remembered! Peter Pan was back! Tinkerbell was tickling me with her wings! I remembered what I used to love. The adventure inside began to overshadow the grown-up me. The kid started to re-emerge. Yes, I need a nap some days. Yes, I have responsibilities. Give me a chance to have some fun, though, and I will take advantage of the moment. Some people are old at twenty. I got old at thirty. I got younger again in my fifties.
Maturity is a fancy word for taking responsibility for yourself. Yes, I see the wisdom of that.
It doesn't mean you have to stop loving. It doesn't mean you can't show affection. You needn't tsk-tsk-tsk because someone laughs in church or guffaws at a funny story. You don't have to spend Suday evening counting out the pills for the next week. Why shouldn't you snag an ice cube at the next picnic to drop down somebody's back? Give me a good reason why you can't play football with a loaf of Italian bread instead of a pigskin. Try parking with your spouse or special someone (remember those days?). I have a friend who, at eighty, went snowshoeing and tubing for the first time last year. He takes cruises. He studies. He is planning on skydiving. Bob knows the difference between maturity and growing up. His motto is "If not NOW, WHEN?" Indeed.
To my sons and daughters to be; to their friends, to my young friends--take this no-longer-grown-up woman's advice. Don't forget how to live. Don't forget how to be a child sometimes. Time will march by whether you are a perpetual child or not, but it will zip by faster and faster as you age.
Live it while you can. If not NOW, WHEN?
You know what? I think I'll keep a jar of Peter Pan in the house, just to remind me of where my heart lies.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Where Were You On 9/11?
Like the day JFK was assassinated, like the day tornadoes swept a nearby community, like the days my sons were born and the day we married--I remember where I was on 9/11.
It seems strange that the year is hardly ever mentioned. Just say "9/11" and the day is burned into our memories.
Me? Oh, I was at work when the first report came in, that there had been a tragic accident in New York City; a plane had flown into the World Trade Center Tower. A few minutes later another...and yet another, closer to home still, just outside of Pittsburgh, PA. In an instant, those invoices didn't need to be tracked anymore. I wanted the safety of my home, the voices of my family, not strangers.
No one panicked. No one fled the offices. No one cried, not then anyway. We clustered around a tiny television, around radios in the far corners. I remember packing my briefcase and slipping out the door. No one noticed.
I got home a few minutes later, still in shock. As I turned the TV from channel to channel, my anger grew with my fear. How dare they? How dare they do this horrible thing in the greatest country on earth? I barely left the sights and sounds of New York for several days. My husband would find me where he had left me. ...watching the news.
The skies were eerily silent and unbroken by jet trails...it was surreal.
Suddenly politics had evaporated for while. People were kinder in their fear. Those who had never offered a hand to fellow man came through. Blood was donated until we realized that no more was needed. Tiny flags sprouted from car antennae and green lawns, larger ones flew from upstairs windows and newly-erected posts. The photo of the fireman holding the child was everywhere. We became one people, one country, for awhile. There were no red states or blue states, for awhile. Everybody knew somebody who knew somebody who had been there. Our anxiety had, in its strange way, made us whole. For awhile.
What happened?
The networks went back to their regularly scheduled programming. Some complained that shabby flags were messing up their manicured spaces. In every city but parts of New York, people went back to work. Planes began to fly. Suspicion of our Muslim co-workers and neighbors took on an air of toxicity that wouldn't have been bred a few months before. The rules changed. The world changed. And not, it is apparent, just for awhile.
Today, we say that security changed because of 9/11. The trust is gone because of 9/11. The taxes are higher, the military is tougher, we need to find this fellow or that one because of 9/11. We make excuses for politics and hate, all in the name of 9/11.
Somebody started the blame game. Instead of being directed where it belonged, to a handful of terrorists who let their idealism threaten our sovereign shores, we listened to those who directed it against us. I find no blame in the workings of the United States. I find the blame in a small group of terrorists who chose to blame us, the USA, for everything they saw wrong in the world.
It became, in some minds, not a tragedy caused by outsiders, but tragedy from within. Instead of bonding as one people under one flag, we allowed a tiny handful of radicals to tear us apart.
The patriotism waned, the flags disappeared, the arguing began again as quickly as it had ended. Worst of all, in a show of utter disrespect, the mayor of New York in his impeccable political correctness, denied the policemen, firemen and clergy attendance at the tenth year 9/11 memorial. I could say I understand, but I don't. The police and firemen should have the largest presence on the podium, the clergy by their sides. How can we come so far as a country and fall so far behind as compassionate citizens?
Yes, I was at work that day, reviewing invoices, counting cases of soft drinks. Others in that office were counting bottle caps for a promotion, tabulating sales of coffee or bread, complaining about the high cost of paper products and theft. It was just a job, nothing memorable. Now that day, that moment, is solidly etched. The nonsense of the day remains as real as the terrorist attack.
I'm not sure I want the world to change so much. I'd like to see us go back to those days of peace and patriotism. Do we have to have another senseless killing to bring us back? Will political correctness become our forever-mantra? Will politics forever try to run our lives?
We the people of these United States cannot allow 9/11 to dictate who we are or how we feel about other human beings. We cannot allow 9/11 to decide how we travel or where we go. We have to respect the way our country responded to that awful day. Our police and firemen, our clergy, the way we held on to each other, the way common man responded to the call to Ground Zero. . .these are moments of pride. The hate, suspicion and political failings that have followed are not worthy of American attention.
Today as we remember 9/11, let us also remember how we felt that day--the love of country, the way we stuck together, the way we revered true heroes-- not the athlete or rock star, but those who gave of themselves to help others in peril.
God bless America, land that I love. Stand beside her and guide her through the night with the light from above. From the mountains to the prairies, to the oceans white with foam...God bless America, my home sweet home.
God bless America, my home sweet home.
It seems strange that the year is hardly ever mentioned. Just say "9/11" and the day is burned into our memories.
Me? Oh, I was at work when the first report came in, that there had been a tragic accident in New York City; a plane had flown into the World Trade Center Tower. A few minutes later another...and yet another, closer to home still, just outside of Pittsburgh, PA. In an instant, those invoices didn't need to be tracked anymore. I wanted the safety of my home, the voices of my family, not strangers.
No one panicked. No one fled the offices. No one cried, not then anyway. We clustered around a tiny television, around radios in the far corners. I remember packing my briefcase and slipping out the door. No one noticed.
I got home a few minutes later, still in shock. As I turned the TV from channel to channel, my anger grew with my fear. How dare they? How dare they do this horrible thing in the greatest country on earth? I barely left the sights and sounds of New York for several days. My husband would find me where he had left me. ...watching the news.
The skies were eerily silent and unbroken by jet trails...it was surreal.
Suddenly politics had evaporated for while. People were kinder in their fear. Those who had never offered a hand to fellow man came through. Blood was donated until we realized that no more was needed. Tiny flags sprouted from car antennae and green lawns, larger ones flew from upstairs windows and newly-erected posts. The photo of the fireman holding the child was everywhere. We became one people, one country, for awhile. There were no red states or blue states, for awhile. Everybody knew somebody who knew somebody who had been there. Our anxiety had, in its strange way, made us whole. For awhile.
What happened?
The networks went back to their regularly scheduled programming. Some complained that shabby flags were messing up their manicured spaces. In every city but parts of New York, people went back to work. Planes began to fly. Suspicion of our Muslim co-workers and neighbors took on an air of toxicity that wouldn't have been bred a few months before. The rules changed. The world changed. And not, it is apparent, just for awhile.
Today, we say that security changed because of 9/11. The trust is gone because of 9/11. The taxes are higher, the military is tougher, we need to find this fellow or that one because of 9/11. We make excuses for politics and hate, all in the name of 9/11.
Somebody started the blame game. Instead of being directed where it belonged, to a handful of terrorists who let their idealism threaten our sovereign shores, we listened to those who directed it against us. I find no blame in the workings of the United States. I find the blame in a small group of terrorists who chose to blame us, the USA, for everything they saw wrong in the world.
It became, in some minds, not a tragedy caused by outsiders, but tragedy from within. Instead of bonding as one people under one flag, we allowed a tiny handful of radicals to tear us apart.
The patriotism waned, the flags disappeared, the arguing began again as quickly as it had ended. Worst of all, in a show of utter disrespect, the mayor of New York in his impeccable political correctness, denied the policemen, firemen and clergy attendance at the tenth year 9/11 memorial. I could say I understand, but I don't. The police and firemen should have the largest presence on the podium, the clergy by their sides. How can we come so far as a country and fall so far behind as compassionate citizens?
Yes, I was at work that day, reviewing invoices, counting cases of soft drinks. Others in that office were counting bottle caps for a promotion, tabulating sales of coffee or bread, complaining about the high cost of paper products and theft. It was just a job, nothing memorable. Now that day, that moment, is solidly etched. The nonsense of the day remains as real as the terrorist attack.
I'm not sure I want the world to change so much. I'd like to see us go back to those days of peace and patriotism. Do we have to have another senseless killing to bring us back? Will political correctness become our forever-mantra? Will politics forever try to run our lives?
We the people of these United States cannot allow 9/11 to dictate who we are or how we feel about other human beings. We cannot allow 9/11 to decide how we travel or where we go. We have to respect the way our country responded to that awful day. Our police and firemen, our clergy, the way we held on to each other, the way common man responded to the call to Ground Zero. . .these are moments of pride. The hate, suspicion and political failings that have followed are not worthy of American attention.
Today as we remember 9/11, let us also remember how we felt that day--the love of country, the way we stuck together, the way we revered true heroes-- not the athlete or rock star, but those who gave of themselves to help others in peril.
God bless America, land that I love. Stand beside her and guide her through the night with the light from above. From the mountains to the prairies, to the oceans white with foam...God bless America, my home sweet home.
God bless America, my home sweet home.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Key to My Heart
I read a story a long time ago. It was sweet and sappy. At the time I didn't comprehend the symbolic gesture. Now that I have reached an age of moderate wisdom, I understand completely.
It sounds a bit trite, giving someone the key, literally, to your heart.
It isn't the key itself, be it bejeweled or golden, or like the key in the story--a simple silvery key blessed with a kiss and a promise. It might have been the key to a diary, an overnight bag or a jewelry box. It really doesn't matter.
The woman in the story searched for such a key to place in a letter she wanted to pass on to a man she loved. It was a bit silly, a teen-age movie type of thing. Would he understand what the key represented? Probably not.
The need to pass the key along was overwhelming. She could see his eyes tearing, feel his heart opening. It had been awhile since she felt so strongly. She took the chance.
I read the passage a dozen times. It made so little sense. I could almost hear my love guffawing at the thought of receiving a useless little key.
In the story, the man of her dreams did just that. Crumpling the letter, key and all, tossing it toward the compactor to be headed for the landfill...He would make no commitment, no promises. He would ignore it all, avoiding ever mentioning it to anyone except perhaps as a joke.
The woman, however, felt differently. She had given the key as if it was a real part of herself.
The story took years for me to understand. He thought she wanted his soul, but she was offering hers. She didn't want his whole life, just a piece of it.
The story touched me. When we love we give ourselves fully. We don't think about not being loved in return. We accept it as fact. We KNOW. And so, we give the key, without expectation of return. The key is a symbol that the person you love will always have a safe place to come. He (or she) will need no appointment, no calling card. The key can open the heart and soul on any given day.
I've known my love for more than forty years. Love is not stagnant. It crests and ebbs. It pauses. Sometimes it seems comatose. That's when you need the key, to unlock the door and let the love flow in, the meanness out.
That little key isn't worth a dime by itself, yet as soon as you give it away it becomes precious. It represents the place you can go without reservation, the place you belong. You're safe there.
When you have a chance, find a little key. Present it to someone you care about with a note that explains why you chose that special person to receive the key to your heart. At worst, you might feel a bit foolish and I won't guarantee the key won't land in the trash.
At best, you will share a mutual gift of a safe haven for your secrets.
Personally? I think the little silvery key will end up tucked away in a memory box, being brought out when the one you love is sad or lonely or thinking of you. After awhile, he or she will begin to believe and see the significance of the little key.
Oh, by the way, the man in the story? He wasn't as cold as he seemed. Like all good love stories, it had a happy ending.
It sounds a bit trite, giving someone the key, literally, to your heart.
It isn't the key itself, be it bejeweled or golden, or like the key in the story--a simple silvery key blessed with a kiss and a promise. It might have been the key to a diary, an overnight bag or a jewelry box. It really doesn't matter.
The woman in the story searched for such a key to place in a letter she wanted to pass on to a man she loved. It was a bit silly, a teen-age movie type of thing. Would he understand what the key represented? Probably not.
The need to pass the key along was overwhelming. She could see his eyes tearing, feel his heart opening. It had been awhile since she felt so strongly. She took the chance.
I read the passage a dozen times. It made so little sense. I could almost hear my love guffawing at the thought of receiving a useless little key.
In the story, the man of her dreams did just that. Crumpling the letter, key and all, tossing it toward the compactor to be headed for the landfill...He would make no commitment, no promises. He would ignore it all, avoiding ever mentioning it to anyone except perhaps as a joke.
The woman, however, felt differently. She had given the key as if it was a real part of herself.
The story took years for me to understand. He thought she wanted his soul, but she was offering hers. She didn't want his whole life, just a piece of it.
The story touched me. When we love we give ourselves fully. We don't think about not being loved in return. We accept it as fact. We KNOW. And so, we give the key, without expectation of return. The key is a symbol that the person you love will always have a safe place to come. He (or she) will need no appointment, no calling card. The key can open the heart and soul on any given day.
I've known my love for more than forty years. Love is not stagnant. It crests and ebbs. It pauses. Sometimes it seems comatose. That's when you need the key, to unlock the door and let the love flow in, the meanness out.
That little key isn't worth a dime by itself, yet as soon as you give it away it becomes precious. It represents the place you can go without reservation, the place you belong. You're safe there.
When you have a chance, find a little key. Present it to someone you care about with a note that explains why you chose that special person to receive the key to your heart. At worst, you might feel a bit foolish and I won't guarantee the key won't land in the trash.
At best, you will share a mutual gift of a safe haven for your secrets.
Personally? I think the little silvery key will end up tucked away in a memory box, being brought out when the one you love is sad or lonely or thinking of you. After awhile, he or she will begin to believe and see the significance of the little key.
Oh, by the way, the man in the story? He wasn't as cold as he seemed. Like all good love stories, it had a happy ending.
Catsmack
With sincere apologies to my cat-loving friends (you know who you are), and to Hubby who attracts strays like catnip--what do you find so enticing about felines?
Let's examine canine behavior first.
The dog's love is unconditional. No matter how grievous your attitude toward him, he will still wash your face given the slightest opportunity. If you go out the back door to put the garbage out and come back through the front, you will be greeted like a long lost buddy. He will wait patiently outside the bathroom door. He will happily share your dinner, if not his.
Then there is the cat. You go away for a week. The cat remains in the dent on the back of your sofa. His response to your return? A loud meow of indignation that he had to have a used litter box because you didn't leave him one for each day.
The dog will wag and chase his tail in excitement and anticipation of playtime.
The car, bored with his bells and string, will lick himself. Me? Sweat? Please get real.
The dog will bring you his favorite toy and chase it till he is dizzy.
The cat will grudgingly show off, swatting cutely at a mouse or ball. When he is sick of the game in 3.7 seconds, he will choose to bite your ankle instead. Then he will go off to lick himself.
The dog, never knowing when he might eat again, will gratefully scarf down dog biscuits, candy bars, peaches and the last strip of bacon.
The cat, expecting to be waited upon, will tongue the tender tidbits then stare at the rest with a withering look at you, his servant. He wanted salmon today, not chicken. With the switch of his tail, he is off to his corner again to--you guessed it--lick himself.
The dog will protect his household by barking furiously at strangers, mailmen and the occasional mosquito.
The cat will ignore the intruder and finish licking himself.
You can't own a cat. He will make it clear from the start that he is lord of the manor.
You can't own a dog, either. You have to adopt a dog, taking him in on equal footing as a family member.
As near as I can tell, a dog wants to be with his "pack" 24/7. He will groggily follow you to the kitchen sink, the laundry room, the back steps.
The cat will sleep for twenty hours, occasionally raising one sleepy lid. He will spend perhaps an hour eating and socializing.
And, of course, the rest of the time? You guessed it. He will be licking himself.
Let's examine canine behavior first.
The dog's love is unconditional. No matter how grievous your attitude toward him, he will still wash your face given the slightest opportunity. If you go out the back door to put the garbage out and come back through the front, you will be greeted like a long lost buddy. He will wait patiently outside the bathroom door. He will happily share your dinner, if not his.
Then there is the cat. You go away for a week. The cat remains in the dent on the back of your sofa. His response to your return? A loud meow of indignation that he had to have a used litter box because you didn't leave him one for each day.
The dog will wag and chase his tail in excitement and anticipation of playtime.
The car, bored with his bells and string, will lick himself. Me? Sweat? Please get real.
The dog will bring you his favorite toy and chase it till he is dizzy.
The cat will grudgingly show off, swatting cutely at a mouse or ball. When he is sick of the game in 3.7 seconds, he will choose to bite your ankle instead. Then he will go off to lick himself.
The dog, never knowing when he might eat again, will gratefully scarf down dog biscuits, candy bars, peaches and the last strip of bacon.
The cat, expecting to be waited upon, will tongue the tender tidbits then stare at the rest with a withering look at you, his servant. He wanted salmon today, not chicken. With the switch of his tail, he is off to his corner again to--you guessed it--lick himself.
The dog will protect his household by barking furiously at strangers, mailmen and the occasional mosquito.
The cat will ignore the intruder and finish licking himself.
You can't own a cat. He will make it clear from the start that he is lord of the manor.
You can't own a dog, either. You have to adopt a dog, taking him in on equal footing as a family member.
As near as I can tell, a dog wants to be with his "pack" 24/7. He will groggily follow you to the kitchen sink, the laundry room, the back steps.
The cat will sleep for twenty hours, occasionally raising one sleepy lid. He will spend perhaps an hour eating and socializing.
And, of course, the rest of the time? You guessed it. He will be licking himself.
T.O.Y.
Thinking of you.
If you are reading this, we are most likely friends. If you are getting this by email, chances are I value your opinion or I wouldn't ask for your feedback.
Not so long ago, just a couple of years, you wouldn't be reading this. For one thing, it had not yet been conceived, but that isn't the point. You wouldn't have liked me well enough to bother. I see this clearly now. I see the friends I was "too busy" to call for coffee, the church I didn't bother going to, the reckless way I treated the people and things I cared about, the awful state I had allowed my body to become.
There for awhile, several years at least, I was without merit, for the most part anyhow. At least, looking back, that's how I see it. Thank You, God, for those who loved me in spite of it all.
I wasn't Godless. I had a wishy-washy faith that served me, sans building, preacher or fellowship. Basically, I used prayer as begging, my God as a genie in a bottle, instead of worship, petitioning for my smallest need. I didn't see it that way then, naturally. I went the polyester pants suit route, figuring a jacket would cover up my flabby, frumpy body. It didn't. I was lazy to a fault, sometimes too lazy to take care of myself, too lazy to think. I got spurts of energy, to be sure, but nothing constant. I lacked commitment, confidence and creativity. I was incapable of returning what was given to me.
I didn't like myself very much. I don't think you would have either.
My husband would never have called me sexy or even pleasant in those years. I'm sure he was disgusted with my failures. Why he stayed, I will only guess. He must have seen a glimmer of who I was once, or what I would become much later.
So what does this have to do with thinking of you? Everything.
The unconditional love from my family wasn't enough. I needed outside validation.
If you hadn't been there to give me encouragement, if you hadn't been there to suggest that I try something new, if you hadn't told me I was pretty--well, I wouldn't have bothered changing. I was in such a low spot that it was pointed out to me many a time how "down" I sounded. I needed a hand, and you offered yours to me.
I am new, although I have along way to go. I'm not as selfish as I was. I threw out the shoes that pinched and the polyester jackets and with that simple exercise I regained some of what had been lost. I'm still chubby, but I'm strong. I'm willing to try something new. If I can overcome my fear of kayaking and of sweating--well, I can do most anything. Maybe I'll buy a bathing suit next season.
Every time I do something that I didn't think I could do, every time I set foot in my thank-God-I-found-it church, every time I renew an old friendship or make a new friend--I think of you. I can walk a lot farther now, I've kept my blog up and running, I care about how I look. I've learned to give love where it is needed. I don't have to ask for it back; it comes to me from unexpected places.
You make me ponder; you are the reason I stand up straighter and dress better. It is because of you that I am no longer afraid to scrutinize who I was and to be who I am. You are my family and my friends. You've given me all those things I didn't think I deserved.
Thank you.
If you are reading this, we are most likely friends. If you are getting this by email, chances are I value your opinion or I wouldn't ask for your feedback.
Not so long ago, just a couple of years, you wouldn't be reading this. For one thing, it had not yet been conceived, but that isn't the point. You wouldn't have liked me well enough to bother. I see this clearly now. I see the friends I was "too busy" to call for coffee, the church I didn't bother going to, the reckless way I treated the people and things I cared about, the awful state I had allowed my body to become.
There for awhile, several years at least, I was without merit, for the most part anyhow. At least, looking back, that's how I see it. Thank You, God, for those who loved me in spite of it all.
I wasn't Godless. I had a wishy-washy faith that served me, sans building, preacher or fellowship. Basically, I used prayer as begging, my God as a genie in a bottle, instead of worship, petitioning for my smallest need. I didn't see it that way then, naturally. I went the polyester pants suit route, figuring a jacket would cover up my flabby, frumpy body. It didn't. I was lazy to a fault, sometimes too lazy to take care of myself, too lazy to think. I got spurts of energy, to be sure, but nothing constant. I lacked commitment, confidence and creativity. I was incapable of returning what was given to me.
I didn't like myself very much. I don't think you would have either.
My husband would never have called me sexy or even pleasant in those years. I'm sure he was disgusted with my failures. Why he stayed, I will only guess. He must have seen a glimmer of who I was once, or what I would become much later.
So what does this have to do with thinking of you? Everything.
The unconditional love from my family wasn't enough. I needed outside validation.
If you hadn't been there to give me encouragement, if you hadn't been there to suggest that I try something new, if you hadn't told me I was pretty--well, I wouldn't have bothered changing. I was in such a low spot that it was pointed out to me many a time how "down" I sounded. I needed a hand, and you offered yours to me.
I am new, although I have along way to go. I'm not as selfish as I was. I threw out the shoes that pinched and the polyester jackets and with that simple exercise I regained some of what had been lost. I'm still chubby, but I'm strong. I'm willing to try something new. If I can overcome my fear of kayaking and of sweating--well, I can do most anything. Maybe I'll buy a bathing suit next season.
Every time I do something that I didn't think I could do, every time I set foot in my thank-God-I-found-it church, every time I renew an old friendship or make a new friend--I think of you. I can walk a lot farther now, I've kept my blog up and running, I care about how I look. I've learned to give love where it is needed. I don't have to ask for it back; it comes to me from unexpected places.
You make me ponder; you are the reason I stand up straighter and dress better. It is because of you that I am no longer afraid to scrutinize who I was and to be who I am. You are my family and my friends. You've given me all those things I didn't think I deserved.
Thank you.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Grateful Tomorrow
After a wonderful day off, I return to work on Tuesday. I haven't checked my schedule yet, but I'm sure it will be someplace a couple of hours away. I don't know if I can do this this winter. I'm starting to get scared when I drive in the snow. The brightness confuses my eyesight. Jobs that pay this well are hard to come by. I have to do this for now. I should be grateful I am able to work.
I guess I don't want to work anymore at all. I want to play. I want to shop. I want to travel. Oh, does that sort of entertainment cost money? Sigh. So every day I will continue to play the part in my skirt and heels, gulping my Starbucks and driving, driving, driving. OK, I am grateful that I have a job.
My life could be much worse. We aren't impoverished, just on a budget. Our health issues are manageable for now. I'm darn cute for an old lady. I need to hear it once in awhile, that's all. My car is working, the dog is healthy (even after eating a Popsicle stick). Of course we want, want, want like other people do, but we have, have, have more than many.
Tomorrow, or some day this week, I will take my notebook to a quiet little park at lunchtime. I will eat my yogurt and my nectarine and think about all the good things in my life, and learn to appreciate them. I will write them down so that on those days when I want to complain and run away, I can look at my list and say, "I am grateful for this." Another day I will go to the cemetery and talk to Mom and Dad, begging them for their wisdom. It isn't enough right now to depend on my own judgement. I need to practice being grateful.
Some days it is easy to be grateful. Those we love are close by. We can touch them, talk to them, hold them close and all is well. Or if they are far, we can pick up the phone or open the email to find them. The drink is cool, the sun is warm, the sky cloudless. These are the days it is easy to believe.
There are other days, even weeks that seem never ending, when the smallest troubles seem like mountains to climb. We take it out on those we care about most. We are not grateful for the snippets of time and health and wealth, We are too busy looking at the big picture of uncertainty. Like me, others are uncertain of their futures. They wonder if they are loved and wanted, they wonder if their loved ones will always be around, they wonder if the job will be there or if the roof will hold through another winter storm. I understand, I do. The names and the games are different; the playbook is the same. It is all these things that make us ungrateful.
So I need to take another step forward. I will take a few minutes every single day to continue the journey I was foolish enough to think had ended. This step is to learn to be grateful once again for all the good things in my life, no matter how small.
I am grateful for my family; for you, my friends, for my faith. I am grateful that I have a park to hide in, a lake to gaze upon, nourishment to share and hugs to give. I am even grateful for my work, because it sustains me. By the end of this challenge, I will find much more for which to be grateful.
The journey has begun again. You are welcome to join me.
I guess I don't want to work anymore at all. I want to play. I want to shop. I want to travel. Oh, does that sort of entertainment cost money? Sigh. So every day I will continue to play the part in my skirt and heels, gulping my Starbucks and driving, driving, driving. OK, I am grateful that I have a job.
My life could be much worse. We aren't impoverished, just on a budget. Our health issues are manageable for now. I'm darn cute for an old lady. I need to hear it once in awhile, that's all. My car is working, the dog is healthy (even after eating a Popsicle stick). Of course we want, want, want like other people do, but we have, have, have more than many.
Tomorrow, or some day this week, I will take my notebook to a quiet little park at lunchtime. I will eat my yogurt and my nectarine and think about all the good things in my life, and learn to appreciate them. I will write them down so that on those days when I want to complain and run away, I can look at my list and say, "I am grateful for this." Another day I will go to the cemetery and talk to Mom and Dad, begging them for their wisdom. It isn't enough right now to depend on my own judgement. I need to practice being grateful.
Some days it is easy to be grateful. Those we love are close by. We can touch them, talk to them, hold them close and all is well. Or if they are far, we can pick up the phone or open the email to find them. The drink is cool, the sun is warm, the sky cloudless. These are the days it is easy to believe.
There are other days, even weeks that seem never ending, when the smallest troubles seem like mountains to climb. We take it out on those we care about most. We are not grateful for the snippets of time and health and wealth, We are too busy looking at the big picture of uncertainty. Like me, others are uncertain of their futures. They wonder if they are loved and wanted, they wonder if their loved ones will always be around, they wonder if the job will be there or if the roof will hold through another winter storm. I understand, I do. The names and the games are different; the playbook is the same. It is all these things that make us ungrateful.
So I need to take another step forward. I will take a few minutes every single day to continue the journey I was foolish enough to think had ended. This step is to learn to be grateful once again for all the good things in my life, no matter how small.
I am grateful for my family; for you, my friends, for my faith. I am grateful that I have a park to hide in, a lake to gaze upon, nourishment to share and hugs to give. I am even grateful for my work, because it sustains me. By the end of this challenge, I will find much more for which to be grateful.
The journey has begun again. You are welcome to join me.
Cousins
My friends talk about their first best friends being their cousins. They tell tales of growing up together, of sleep-overs and tight-knit families. My mother had a cousin like that. Me? Nope.
I had a cousin six years my senior who lived next door, got married when I was twelve. A couple of others lived far away. Some boy cousins who I saw on occasion, one with whom I lost touch and reconnected later on. My grandmother pretty much took care of driving away cousins on Dad's side of the family. Mom's side had mostly childless couples it seemed.
So one day I had a friend request on Facebook from Sue something. I know lots of Sue people. So I confirmed it and wrote to her, pretty much saying OK, I see you have somebody I might know on your friend list, but who are you?
My cousin......say WHAT???
She put me in touch with her surviving brother who I had loved like my own brother when we were kids. She was much younger than I; I knew who she was, but never got to know her, missed knowing her family, missed a lot.
Suddenly here is Sue, here is Bobby, in my life again. I chatted with her on Facebook that first night for a long while--alternately crying with happiness and laughing with the sheer joy of family connections.
My Mom's family is tiny. Most of them have passed on leaving me and my sister. Now there is this whole group of people I can get to know. Family.
Sue and I are closer in age than I had thought years ago. A five-year difference doesn't mean so much when you are sixty instead of sixteen. We are both grandmothers now--what fun those kids could have together--all thirteen of them. Our husbands like cars and music. Sue doesn't have to do anything. She is the cousin I should have had growing up. I want to make up for it now.
Today Hubby and I spent a few hours at a picnic at Sue's house. I felt a little awkward at first, like I should know all these people, but I didn't know any of them, not even Sue. It took awhile, and a couple of wine coolers, to start talking...gingerly....but by the time we left, I knew that given a few minutes over coffee and PB2 that we could become friends.
I don't remember all the names of sons and daughters and grandkids. I will learn them.
It might seem silly to crave family now after so many years of doing without. But it is one more part of my past that I want to reconcile.
We have plenty of time now, Sue and Mike. Pleased to meet you.
I had a cousin six years my senior who lived next door, got married when I was twelve. A couple of others lived far away. Some boy cousins who I saw on occasion, one with whom I lost touch and reconnected later on. My grandmother pretty much took care of driving away cousins on Dad's side of the family. Mom's side had mostly childless couples it seemed.
So one day I had a friend request on Facebook from Sue something. I know lots of Sue people. So I confirmed it and wrote to her, pretty much saying OK, I see you have somebody I might know on your friend list, but who are you?
My cousin......say WHAT???
She put me in touch with her surviving brother who I had loved like my own brother when we were kids. She was much younger than I; I knew who she was, but never got to know her, missed knowing her family, missed a lot.
Suddenly here is Sue, here is Bobby, in my life again. I chatted with her on Facebook that first night for a long while--alternately crying with happiness and laughing with the sheer joy of family connections.
My Mom's family is tiny. Most of them have passed on leaving me and my sister. Now there is this whole group of people I can get to know. Family.
Sue and I are closer in age than I had thought years ago. A five-year difference doesn't mean so much when you are sixty instead of sixteen. We are both grandmothers now--what fun those kids could have together--all thirteen of them. Our husbands like cars and music. Sue doesn't have to do anything. She is the cousin I should have had growing up. I want to make up for it now.
Today Hubby and I spent a few hours at a picnic at Sue's house. I felt a little awkward at first, like I should know all these people, but I didn't know any of them, not even Sue. It took awhile, and a couple of wine coolers, to start talking...gingerly....but by the time we left, I knew that given a few minutes over coffee and PB2 that we could become friends.
I don't remember all the names of sons and daughters and grandkids. I will learn them.
It might seem silly to crave family now after so many years of doing without. But it is one more part of my past that I want to reconcile.
We have plenty of time now, Sue and Mike. Pleased to meet you.
Friday, September 2, 2011
"Our" Places
There are places where we spent time together once. There is a spot by the lake where we would watch the waves break on the pier and seagulls flock to the popcorn we threw. There was a little park where we would sit, a favorite place to drive. They are still the places that make me smile from the inside out. They are filled with the memories of a hug, a heart-to-heart, a promise of something more.
I go there myself now more than with him. Our lives are too full these days of work, fatigue, obligations and maybe laters. Always an excuse, always something that gets in the way of a few moments of peace together in "our" place.
Why are those others here? I recognize the cars more than the people. There is the grey Kia who never speaks. Is he shy or fearful? There is the yellow Jeep who always has a smile and a friendly wave. There is the convertible who sits with his cigarette, never leaving the safety of his front seat. Why are they here? Is it memories? Or are they, like me, trying to recapture something lost?
We have a place by the lake where we watch the waves or the storms. There is rarely anyone I recognize there. The anonymity suits me.... It isn't hard for me to engage in conversation if I so wish. Today I crave quiet. What happened to time? Where am I going next?
Today I have time. We have been so busy. Too busy to enjoy each other's company, too busy to enjoy the wildflowers and the warm wind, too busy to walk in a gentle rain, too busy to take in the fragrance of cut grass. We are not making memories these days; we are intent on destroying them.
If my love was here today he would surely be disgusted. They have thrown wrappers on the ground. Their conversation is so loud we would be forced to listen. The music blares. So irreverent! I don't want to roll up my window. I want to take in the lifeblood that is September. I love this place, and today I don't want to share.
Do I sound melancholy? Forgive me, I don't mean to. I know this physical place isn't "ours", just the memories it holds. I have to share the geography, not the photographs in my mind.
He isn't with me today, but I will ask him to come back here sometime soon. We will bring our own music, talk again about our dreams, have a hug for good fortune.
Sweet.
I go there myself now more than with him. Our lives are too full these days of work, fatigue, obligations and maybe laters. Always an excuse, always something that gets in the way of a few moments of peace together in "our" place.
Why are those others here? I recognize the cars more than the people. There is the grey Kia who never speaks. Is he shy or fearful? There is the yellow Jeep who always has a smile and a friendly wave. There is the convertible who sits with his cigarette, never leaving the safety of his front seat. Why are they here? Is it memories? Or are they, like me, trying to recapture something lost?
We have a place by the lake where we watch the waves or the storms. There is rarely anyone I recognize there. The anonymity suits me.... It isn't hard for me to engage in conversation if I so wish. Today I crave quiet. What happened to time? Where am I going next?
Today I have time. We have been so busy. Too busy to enjoy each other's company, too busy to enjoy the wildflowers and the warm wind, too busy to walk in a gentle rain, too busy to take in the fragrance of cut grass. We are not making memories these days; we are intent on destroying them.
If my love was here today he would surely be disgusted. They have thrown wrappers on the ground. Their conversation is so loud we would be forced to listen. The music blares. So irreverent! I don't want to roll up my window. I want to take in the lifeblood that is September. I love this place, and today I don't want to share.
Do I sound melancholy? Forgive me, I don't mean to. I know this physical place isn't "ours", just the memories it holds. I have to share the geography, not the photographs in my mind.
He isn't with me today, but I will ask him to come back here sometime soon. We will bring our own music, talk again about our dreams, have a hug for good fortune.
Sweet.
Second Sight
I said that I would tell you about Grandma Hess someday. Today is the day.
Grandma Hess was a round, pink and white, fluffy bundle with arthritic hands and a huge heart. I remember her baking and fussing and using a big "ironer" machine to iron shirts to hankies.She loved canaries, always naming each one "Dickie bird". Although diabetic and in much pain, Grandma was not a complainer.
Ethel Pearl Ferer Hess was every bit as patient as the Hess family she married into. Where Grandpa would greet a guest with an easy handshake, Grandma was the one who was quicker to laugh and clap him on the back, tell him to "sit a spell" and offer to whip up something lest a guest should leave her table hungry. They always stayed, praying that the "something" would be a pie or cake or homemade biscuits with honey or jam.
Not every guest came for the goodies. Grandma had a secret. She had a sixth sense. Some call it second sight.
Scoff, go ahead. My dad and his father, devout Roman Catholics, put no stock in Grandma Hess' abilities. Not, that is, until A. Grandpa lost his "numbers" bets and was worried about retaliation and B., when Dad's truck was stolen. Well, A was found in the chicken coop where Grandpa had laid it down for a couple of eggs for breakfast, and B was exactly where Grandma told him it would be found.
The police department believed, too. Over a cup of coffee and a sweet the detectives would relate what they knew. Grandma would tell them the rest. The headlines would read "POLICE CONSULT LOCAL FORTUNE TELLER" the next day. She told them how to find the missing man in a swamp by the heel of his boot, where the diamond ring has been lost down the overstuffed chair she had never seen, where the produce vendor had spent his afternoons in the "house of ill repute".
There are many more stories I could relate, not from personal experience but from the mouths of believers and skeptics who saw her at work.
Grandma didn't predict numbers or horse races. She didn't accept money or presents. Would I be so altruistic? Or would I hang out a shingle and prey on passers-by?
Grandma used to tell me that I had "healing hands", and Aunt Marjie always suspected that I was gifted with her mother's second sight. There have been disconcerting moments in my life, but none so strong that I would call it predilection. Afterward, it is too late. Hindsight is, after all. twenty-twenty.
So would I open my mind for cash? Would I clean the pockets of John Q Public? The old me, blessed or cursed, might have tried. The newer me is also blessed with a conscience. How much of one?
Let's see. . .want your fortune told?
Grandma Hess was a round, pink and white, fluffy bundle with arthritic hands and a huge heart. I remember her baking and fussing and using a big "ironer" machine to iron shirts to hankies.She loved canaries, always naming each one "Dickie bird". Although diabetic and in much pain, Grandma was not a complainer.
Ethel Pearl Ferer Hess was every bit as patient as the Hess family she married into. Where Grandpa would greet a guest with an easy handshake, Grandma was the one who was quicker to laugh and clap him on the back, tell him to "sit a spell" and offer to whip up something lest a guest should leave her table hungry. They always stayed, praying that the "something" would be a pie or cake or homemade biscuits with honey or jam.
Not every guest came for the goodies. Grandma had a secret. She had a sixth sense. Some call it second sight.
Scoff, go ahead. My dad and his father, devout Roman Catholics, put no stock in Grandma Hess' abilities. Not, that is, until A. Grandpa lost his "numbers" bets and was worried about retaliation and B., when Dad's truck was stolen. Well, A was found in the chicken coop where Grandpa had laid it down for a couple of eggs for breakfast, and B was exactly where Grandma told him it would be found.
The police department believed, too. Over a cup of coffee and a sweet the detectives would relate what they knew. Grandma would tell them the rest. The headlines would read "POLICE CONSULT LOCAL FORTUNE TELLER" the next day. She told them how to find the missing man in a swamp by the heel of his boot, where the diamond ring has been lost down the overstuffed chair she had never seen, where the produce vendor had spent his afternoons in the "house of ill repute".
There are many more stories I could relate, not from personal experience but from the mouths of believers and skeptics who saw her at work.
Grandma didn't predict numbers or horse races. She didn't accept money or presents. Would I be so altruistic? Or would I hang out a shingle and prey on passers-by?
Grandma used to tell me that I had "healing hands", and Aunt Marjie always suspected that I was gifted with her mother's second sight. There have been disconcerting moments in my life, but none so strong that I would call it predilection. Afterward, it is too late. Hindsight is, after all. twenty-twenty.
So would I open my mind for cash? Would I clean the pockets of John Q Public? The old me, blessed or cursed, might have tried. The newer me is also blessed with a conscience. How much of one?
Let's see. . .want your fortune told?
Cats and Caterwauling
There was a stray cat in our neighborhood last spring. She took a liking to Hubby, rather excessively pursuing him. Her plaintive yowling would start as soon as she spotted him leaving for work and continued to the wee hours. Our mutt didn't like it one bit. When the crush finally ran its course, I was more than a little relieved. The singing had stopped at last.
It has been pointed out to me, none to sweetly, that I, like that cat, should learn to sing solo...make that SO LOW, so low that I can't be heard. It is usually followed by, "but you know I love you, Ma."
Ok, so I can't carry a tune. At church I lip-synch mostly. I don't offer to sing a remnant of a sixties' song because it would help no one remember the tune. If I am alone, I crank up the radio and belt out Aretha or Fogerty or the Boss. Otherwise, no amount of gin will flex my vocal chords. Karaoke? I don't think so. You know that sound when you step on a cat's tail? It's melodic compared to me.
Driving as much as I do I have learned to entertain myself to stay awake. Pop in a CD and get motivated by Clapton. It's no wonder I only rarely see deer or other critters. They are running for their lives from the sound of my screeching.
Is my speaking voice so totally devoid of pitch? Is my cadence cock-eyed (geez, I love alliteration). If so, I apologize to the masses.
I was asked at church if I was musical, obviously from someone who sits several pews away. Hubby, bless his heart, turned away as though not hearing the question--no need to lie or snicker.
Even long-time friends haven't heard my voice. One says "it can't be that bad." Maybe someday after a fifth of gin, and when I feel like torturing someone, she will find out.
I took public speaking class because I was nervous when talking in front of people. They worked, and I have no fear of crowds. I can't afford the combat premium I would have to pay to anyone who thought she could teach me to sing. She would have more luck teaching the cat in heat to be tuneful.
I will continue to whisper as I sing praise. I will mouth the National Anthem as I hold my hand to my heart in pride of my country. I will screech as I speed down highway 79.
That off kilter voice you hear? Must be that stray cat in heat yet again.
It has been pointed out to me, none to sweetly, that I, like that cat, should learn to sing solo...make that SO LOW, so low that I can't be heard. It is usually followed by, "but you know I love you, Ma."
Ok, so I can't carry a tune. At church I lip-synch mostly. I don't offer to sing a remnant of a sixties' song because it would help no one remember the tune. If I am alone, I crank up the radio and belt out Aretha or Fogerty or the Boss. Otherwise, no amount of gin will flex my vocal chords. Karaoke? I don't think so. You know that sound when you step on a cat's tail? It's melodic compared to me.
Driving as much as I do I have learned to entertain myself to stay awake. Pop in a CD and get motivated by Clapton. It's no wonder I only rarely see deer or other critters. They are running for their lives from the sound of my screeching.
Is my speaking voice so totally devoid of pitch? Is my cadence cock-eyed (geez, I love alliteration). If so, I apologize to the masses.
I was asked at church if I was musical, obviously from someone who sits several pews away. Hubby, bless his heart, turned away as though not hearing the question--no need to lie or snicker.
Even long-time friends haven't heard my voice. One says "it can't be that bad." Maybe someday after a fifth of gin, and when I feel like torturing someone, she will find out.
I took public speaking class because I was nervous when talking in front of people. They worked, and I have no fear of crowds. I can't afford the combat premium I would have to pay to anyone who thought she could teach me to sing. She would have more luck teaching the cat in heat to be tuneful.
I will continue to whisper as I sing praise. I will mouth the National Anthem as I hold my hand to my heart in pride of my country. I will screech as I speed down highway 79.
That off kilter voice you hear? Must be that stray cat in heat yet again.
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