I hate having my picture taken.
Every time I think I am over it, that maybe this one won't freak me out, I am not and it does.
We have a professional photographer in our family. She whips out that little Kodak at every occasion (or no occasion) trying to catch a good snap or two. OK, it's a simple little camera, but the colors are pure and clear and she is a genius at composition. But when she oohs and aaahs, I know she is trying not to hurt my feelings. I may as well fill my cheeks with air, cross my eyes, pull my lower lip over my nose and stick out my tongue. Awful.
I take a lousy picture and I know it, OK? Let's face it, I am the least photogenic person in the US of A. Probably Canada, too, maybe even China. We won't talk about the driver's photo. I didn't expect to look like a movie star. I didn't expect to look like Michael Moore in drag, either.
When I look in the mirror I don't see that ugly face that taunts me from the digital box. Granted, I usually only look at my eyes, but that's beside the point. I see a softly rounded face with bright eyes and silver hair. I see dewy skin, a little puffiness that comes with age. I do not see the sumo wrestler with several chins, a blotchy face and is that a pimple on my nose?? Oh, please just shoot me....
You're so pretty, he says. Well, what else can he say? You look fine! he says. Well, yes, I do, if you want dinner and whatever you will not be truthful this time. Oh, you look fine! says my friend of many years. This from a woman whose God-infused joy beams from every pore. Now that is a beautiful woman, Nice pic, Ma, says my unnamed son who coughs and turns away so I won't see the snigger. Be nice, my dear; after all, I gave you life.
Every time I see in a picture what I must look like to the world, I cringe. My carefully nurtured self esteem plummets. The flirty attitude disappears. I want to go back to bed, pull the covers over my head, stay there lest I offend someones senses.
Yes, yes, a bit melodramatic (which I often am). Even though I have come a very long way in the last year there are still some people and circumstances that set me back. They lead me to a black hole, and a bitty Kodak shoves me into it.
Thank you, no, I don't want to be photographed. It crushes my ego, gnaws at my vanity, magnifies my flaws. I prefer to see myself in a different light.
One good picture. Is that too much to ask?
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Beginnings
I love you, you know that, don't you? I don't always tell you to your face; sometimes it remains quietly unspoken in my heart. The key to my heart sounds trite, doesn't it? But it is yours.
It's been more than forty years since the day we met. We were both a little shy back then. I can still remember the look on your face. I can still remember your eyes, always smiling. I could feel it even then, that something special was happening, something that would keep us linked in a small way or a large on, for all our days.
I remember the first time you asked to see me. I couldn't believe that someone like you would want to be with someone like me. There is nothing remarkable about me, but you, well, you were special, different from everybody else in some way. You made me feel like I could fly. You made me feel like I could accomplish wonderful things. You made me feel beautiful, smart and capable of almost anything. I fed off your remarkable quiet energy.
I became so wrapped up in wanting to be with you that I forgot about wanting to be with me. That was all right for awhile, but these days I can feel those wings again, and I want to spread them wide and take in all the good things that the universe has to offer. I want the chance to sip a mai tai on the ocean, hobnob with those who run the world, float in a kayak on the lagoons and to write a book that will make people think about themselves in a new way. I want you to be there with me, not watching from a distance. I want you to see what I see. I don't want to wonder if you notice me at all any more.
See, I don't want to go it alone. I want you to be there to hold my hand or to give me a hug when I need it. I need to lean on you, and I will be there so you can lean on me, too.
There have been those days when the distance between us seems insurmountable. We don't talk, or we say too much. You say things that hurt, I say things that wound you just to get even. But it is never even, is it? It makes the chasm so wide that we are lucky if we can mend it.
But--here's the good part--we are still breathing. We have a little while left at worst, a long time left at best. We can go along as we are, or we can begin again. We are alive. We can begin again, and again, and again--as often as it takes. There is so much to see, so much to do! I want to be with the person I know loves me the most so that neither of us has to do those things alone.
I look at you when you don't know I am watching. I see the fine lines around those eyes that aren't smiling as much as they used to. I wonder if you are thinking as I am, that it is time to begin again. There was a time when you were my hero. You brought me life. Am I willing to begin again with you?
Yes. You are the love of my life. Don't you ever forget it.
It's been more than forty years since the day we met. We were both a little shy back then. I can still remember the look on your face. I can still remember your eyes, always smiling. I could feel it even then, that something special was happening, something that would keep us linked in a small way or a large on, for all our days.
I remember the first time you asked to see me. I couldn't believe that someone like you would want to be with someone like me. There is nothing remarkable about me, but you, well, you were special, different from everybody else in some way. You made me feel like I could fly. You made me feel like I could accomplish wonderful things. You made me feel beautiful, smart and capable of almost anything. I fed off your remarkable quiet energy.
I became so wrapped up in wanting to be with you that I forgot about wanting to be with me. That was all right for awhile, but these days I can feel those wings again, and I want to spread them wide and take in all the good things that the universe has to offer. I want the chance to sip a mai tai on the ocean, hobnob with those who run the world, float in a kayak on the lagoons and to write a book that will make people think about themselves in a new way. I want you to be there with me, not watching from a distance. I want you to see what I see. I don't want to wonder if you notice me at all any more.
See, I don't want to go it alone. I want you to be there to hold my hand or to give me a hug when I need it. I need to lean on you, and I will be there so you can lean on me, too.
There have been those days when the distance between us seems insurmountable. We don't talk, or we say too much. You say things that hurt, I say things that wound you just to get even. But it is never even, is it? It makes the chasm so wide that we are lucky if we can mend it.
But--here's the good part--we are still breathing. We have a little while left at worst, a long time left at best. We can go along as we are, or we can begin again. We are alive. We can begin again, and again, and again--as often as it takes. There is so much to see, so much to do! I want to be with the person I know loves me the most so that neither of us has to do those things alone.
I look at you when you don't know I am watching. I see the fine lines around those eyes that aren't smiling as much as they used to. I wonder if you are thinking as I am, that it is time to begin again. There was a time when you were my hero. You brought me life. Am I willing to begin again with you?
Yes. You are the love of my life. Don't you ever forget it.
Foreboding
In spite of my generally good outlook of the last few months, I have recently been hit with a deep sense of foreboding. I can't seem to shake it off. It comes and goes, in daydreams and night dream, out of the clear blue. I might be reading or dancing or walking at Wintergreen. I will suddenly feel the tears well up and spill down my face. I feel so foolish.
Much of the turmoil inside me ended when I realized who I am. I have become reacquainted with the old self and I like her. This eerie feeling tells me that there are still unresolved issues in my past or present that I have to see clearly, and I mean now. Maybe I need to get away for a couple of days. I do that on occasion, but it is always associated with work. No, this time I need to pitch a tent, take my cell phone and peanut butter and iced coffee and just think for a few days without distraction.
I don't know what is going to happen, or when. I feel it in the air--a mixture of sadness, chaos, fear and uncertainty. I don't know if it is global or personal. I only know it isn't right. It leaves me with tenseness, irritability and a state of confusion that I don't much like. My friends think I'm getting nutty. My husband can't believe I can be dancing one minute and chewing off his ear the next.
I want it to stop.
I am not mentally ill, thank you for your concern. I am at least as normal as you are (well, some of you anyway). I don't think I am a clairvoyant, although Grandma H was, and I will tell you about her another day. It is not mass destruction I see. It is more like a 4.0 earthquake, enough to shake up one but not cause deep personal tragedy in most cases. I do believe we are in the End Times, but that isn't it. It's a restlessness, an uneasiness, a dissatisfaction that I can't put my finger on. Is it me, or is it the world? I don't know.
I wish I could say this was the first time, but it isn't. The feeling is often precipitated by something I read or dream or talk about. The images are triggered, and then I begin the "what if?" process. That part is OK. We all have "what if?" days. My imagination turns itself loose and pummels me with sweet dreams of fame and fortune and whatever. I enjoy the rush.
Sometimes it is different. Whether it is an unrecalled nightmare or something deeper, I don't know, only that it gives me these muddy water dreams. Grandma always said nothing good comes from one of those dreams.
So as I drove to New Castle today and someplace else tomorrow, I will use the time to think, to plan and to try to resolve whatever is causing this uneasiness. Bear with me, my friends.
Maybe I think too much.
Much of the turmoil inside me ended when I realized who I am. I have become reacquainted with the old self and I like her. This eerie feeling tells me that there are still unresolved issues in my past or present that I have to see clearly, and I mean now. Maybe I need to get away for a couple of days. I do that on occasion, but it is always associated with work. No, this time I need to pitch a tent, take my cell phone and peanut butter and iced coffee and just think for a few days without distraction.
I don't know what is going to happen, or when. I feel it in the air--a mixture of sadness, chaos, fear and uncertainty. I don't know if it is global or personal. I only know it isn't right. It leaves me with tenseness, irritability and a state of confusion that I don't much like. My friends think I'm getting nutty. My husband can't believe I can be dancing one minute and chewing off his ear the next.
I want it to stop.
I am not mentally ill, thank you for your concern. I am at least as normal as you are (well, some of you anyway). I don't think I am a clairvoyant, although Grandma H was, and I will tell you about her another day. It is not mass destruction I see. It is more like a 4.0 earthquake, enough to shake up one but not cause deep personal tragedy in most cases. I do believe we are in the End Times, but that isn't it. It's a restlessness, an uneasiness, a dissatisfaction that I can't put my finger on. Is it me, or is it the world? I don't know.
I wish I could say this was the first time, but it isn't. The feeling is often precipitated by something I read or dream or talk about. The images are triggered, and then I begin the "what if?" process. That part is OK. We all have "what if?" days. My imagination turns itself loose and pummels me with sweet dreams of fame and fortune and whatever. I enjoy the rush.
Sometimes it is different. Whether it is an unrecalled nightmare or something deeper, I don't know, only that it gives me these muddy water dreams. Grandma always said nothing good comes from one of those dreams.
So as I drove to New Castle today and someplace else tomorrow, I will use the time to think, to plan and to try to resolve whatever is causing this uneasiness. Bear with me, my friends.
Maybe I think too much.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Brown Food, et al
Brown has a bad rep.
I seldom wear brown, except for its variant, khaki (whatever happened to beige?).
Brown is the color of doggie doo. It represents old food that is bruised, grass dried up and dying in the July heat, dead leaves beyond the reds and golds of October. We look at weathered, leathery brown skin with some distaste at the wrinkles. Coffee (ah, my beloved coffee!) leaves a nasty brown stain on your shirt and your teeth. You can tell where a smoker sits by the brown film on the curtains and the wall. And let us not forget the UPS guy who brings tons of brown cardboard boxes to my house, waking my husband from his already restless third-shifter daytime sleep. No, brown is not pleasant.
My wardrobe, as I might have mentioned, consists mainly of black and khaki with shirts of various jewel tones--garnet, amethyst, aquamarine. This way, my sleep-deprived and slightly blurred eyes can grab a jacket, pair of pants and almost any shirt. I leave the house looking decent if not fashionable. Khaki is my one indulgence in the brown family. Yes, yes, I'm sure you have seen my recent acquisition of the brown skirt and jacket. They are an anomaly, like the the lime green blazer.
I used to wear brown. Then we had our house decorated in earth tones. It lasted a year or two. I began to think I lived in the mountains instead of the suburbs. I haven't worn earth tones in my home or on my body since-- unless it looks darn good, like the brown skirt or the pleated blouse.
Anyhow, if you see the glass half full as I usually try to do, you see the better side of brown. You look at the deep brown eyes of your loved one, or the so-dark brown eyes of a beloved dog. You see the brown hair falling over the forehead of a child or the soft earth of your garden plot. Brown is the color of the bark of your favorite oak, and the shimmer of maple syrup. It is the color of tiger eyes. You see a beautiful woman's gently tanned legs. You see the warm woods of your classic end tables.
Brown gives us hot coffee and iced tea, chocolate cake and Oreo cookies. There are baked beans, new potatoes in their jackets and caramel topping on your sundae. Toast a marshmallow, eat a s'more or a perfectly done hamburger or pot roast. Spices like cinnamon and nutmeg, caramelized onions, even your morning toast with peanut butter (you didn't really think I would leave out peanut butter, did you?), all delicious nuances of the lowly maligned brown.
So, like many other things I have changed my perspective about in recent months, I have learned to accept the beauty of brown. I am trying to--actually become obsessed by, as some would say--see the glorious world in all its colors from the blackest shadows to the white light of heaven's gates. I am trying not to see the muddy mix of primaries that is brown, but to see how each individual drop of color turns it into khaki or peanut butter or 85% cacao.
Maybe my understanding of brown will help me to change my world a bit.
I seldom wear brown, except for its variant, khaki (whatever happened to beige?).
Brown is the color of doggie doo. It represents old food that is bruised, grass dried up and dying in the July heat, dead leaves beyond the reds and golds of October. We look at weathered, leathery brown skin with some distaste at the wrinkles. Coffee (ah, my beloved coffee!) leaves a nasty brown stain on your shirt and your teeth. You can tell where a smoker sits by the brown film on the curtains and the wall. And let us not forget the UPS guy who brings tons of brown cardboard boxes to my house, waking my husband from his already restless third-shifter daytime sleep. No, brown is not pleasant.
My wardrobe, as I might have mentioned, consists mainly of black and khaki with shirts of various jewel tones--garnet, amethyst, aquamarine. This way, my sleep-deprived and slightly blurred eyes can grab a jacket, pair of pants and almost any shirt. I leave the house looking decent if not fashionable. Khaki is my one indulgence in the brown family. Yes, yes, I'm sure you have seen my recent acquisition of the brown skirt and jacket. They are an anomaly, like the the lime green blazer.
I used to wear brown. Then we had our house decorated in earth tones. It lasted a year or two. I began to think I lived in the mountains instead of the suburbs. I haven't worn earth tones in my home or on my body since-- unless it looks darn good, like the brown skirt or the pleated blouse.
Anyhow, if you see the glass half full as I usually try to do, you see the better side of brown. You look at the deep brown eyes of your loved one, or the so-dark brown eyes of a beloved dog. You see the brown hair falling over the forehead of a child or the soft earth of your garden plot. Brown is the color of the bark of your favorite oak, and the shimmer of maple syrup. It is the color of tiger eyes. You see a beautiful woman's gently tanned legs. You see the warm woods of your classic end tables.
Brown gives us hot coffee and iced tea, chocolate cake and Oreo cookies. There are baked beans, new potatoes in their jackets and caramel topping on your sundae. Toast a marshmallow, eat a s'more or a perfectly done hamburger or pot roast. Spices like cinnamon and nutmeg, caramelized onions, even your morning toast with peanut butter (you didn't really think I would leave out peanut butter, did you?), all delicious nuances of the lowly maligned brown.
So, like many other things I have changed my perspective about in recent months, I have learned to accept the beauty of brown. I am trying to--actually become obsessed by, as some would say--see the glorious world in all its colors from the blackest shadows to the white light of heaven's gates. I am trying not to see the muddy mix of primaries that is brown, but to see how each individual drop of color turns it into khaki or peanut butter or 85% cacao.
Maybe my understanding of brown will help me to change my world a bit.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Cliques Click
Way back in my high school days, I was vaguely aware of the Clique. Since I knew several of the Clique from my pudgy, pimply junior high and grade school days I was not intimidated by them; they were just people who happened to have it all, except blemishes. There were a few in the Clique who treated my friends and I like road kill, but then again they treated everybody like road kill--why should we be exempt?
I never considered my group of friends a clique. We moved about on the fringes, taking in the strays--the really sad classmates who had no one (some for good reasons!); hob-knobbing with the rich and famous, with the smart and the silly, trying to give everybody a shot at being happy for awhile. We were free spirits in some ways. We rarely went dateless; we had our own lunch table, we went to dances and basketball games and pep rallies and French Club en masse. There were a few in the Clique whom I envied--I wouldn't have been a normal kid if I hadn't. There were a few whom I wanted to emulate, a few whom I despised for their better-than-you attitude and one on whom I had a massive crush that never was resolved. Oh, well.
As the years have passed, I have discovered some basic truths about the Clique, as well as about myself. First of all, they were in the Clique because, well, they "clicked" with the others in the group. It might have been the desire to be with others as smart, as popular, as talented. It might have been childhood friendships that continued and the comfortable camaraderie stayed. Hey! Wait a minute! Isn't that why my friends were my friends?
Secondly, the Clique seemed to move as one, from football to music to mayhem. From an outsider's point of view they were more alike than different. They were rich (no, they weren't), they were smart (not necessarily), they had a famous parent (nada), they had fast cars (occasionally) and a desire to belong. Oh, for pity's sake, that sounds like my friends.
Third, I guess, is that they were comfortable in their own skins, exuding confidence wherever they showed up. Aye, there it is. This select group had confidence as its ally, many of them learning early on who they were and what they wanted (or having been told what they wanted, believed it at the time). That's what separated us, clique from wanna-be.
As I open my eyes today, I no longer see the Clique. I see people who live and die, are rich and not-so. I see long-lived marriages like my own, or stacks of two, three and more relationships. I see general equivalency diplomas from high school and strings of letters after classmates' names. I see drunkards and addicts, successes and mega-successes. I see those who are well-loved and those who are not. I see the fella of the massive crush, bouncing from marriage to marriage and job to job and am grateful it ended before it started. Funny, isn't it, how Life sorts us into groups, then into other groups, till the lines between "Clique" and "not-Clique" blend and morph into one-size-fits-all?
The truth is, the Clique was then, Life is NOW. When we look back to high school or college or even a few years past, we need to look beyond what was and see what is. Times change, people change. Some came out from under their bushel baskets later in life, some bloomed early, some will never see the flowers because they are still chasing a rainbow (bet you didn't know anybody who could mix all those metaphors in one sentence, huh?).
Today I no longer need to be them because they are us. We have grown up (at least most of us have), and should be able to look past the Vuiton and the Prada, or the WalMart and the Target; we should see not the wrinkles or the pounds but the inner light. We are different; we are the same. Maybe today we will "click". Then again, maybe not.
I can't say that being outside, looking in to the Clique, was a heart-wrenching experience. I was too naive and too busy to be a part of the inner circle. In the years since, there have been the inner circles of which I've been a part and it isn't a big deal. I am content on the fringes, being the trim on somebody else's shawl. Without me, their lives would be so plain! (OK, even I can see that was a bit of a stretch.)
Today there is only an eensy bit of envy for those who have achieved what I have only dreamed of. One day when I said as much to an old classmate and friend, she said to me, " I envied you!" Imagine that. While I saw her successful career, Mustang and cheerleader energy, she saw my marriage, my sons and my shiny new Sun Coupe. There's a lesson there somewhere. There always is.
I never considered my group of friends a clique. We moved about on the fringes, taking in the strays--the really sad classmates who had no one (some for good reasons!); hob-knobbing with the rich and famous, with the smart and the silly, trying to give everybody a shot at being happy for awhile. We were free spirits in some ways. We rarely went dateless; we had our own lunch table, we went to dances and basketball games and pep rallies and French Club en masse. There were a few in the Clique whom I envied--I wouldn't have been a normal kid if I hadn't. There were a few whom I wanted to emulate, a few whom I despised for their better-than-you attitude and one on whom I had a massive crush that never was resolved. Oh, well.
As the years have passed, I have discovered some basic truths about the Clique, as well as about myself. First of all, they were in the Clique because, well, they "clicked" with the others in the group. It might have been the desire to be with others as smart, as popular, as talented. It might have been childhood friendships that continued and the comfortable camaraderie stayed. Hey! Wait a minute! Isn't that why my friends were my friends?
Secondly, the Clique seemed to move as one, from football to music to mayhem. From an outsider's point of view they were more alike than different. They were rich (no, they weren't), they were smart (not necessarily), they had a famous parent (nada), they had fast cars (occasionally) and a desire to belong. Oh, for pity's sake, that sounds like my friends.
Third, I guess, is that they were comfortable in their own skins, exuding confidence wherever they showed up. Aye, there it is. This select group had confidence as its ally, many of them learning early on who they were and what they wanted (or having been told what they wanted, believed it at the time). That's what separated us, clique from wanna-be.
As I open my eyes today, I no longer see the Clique. I see people who live and die, are rich and not-so. I see long-lived marriages like my own, or stacks of two, three and more relationships. I see general equivalency diplomas from high school and strings of letters after classmates' names. I see drunkards and addicts, successes and mega-successes. I see those who are well-loved and those who are not. I see the fella of the massive crush, bouncing from marriage to marriage and job to job and am grateful it ended before it started. Funny, isn't it, how Life sorts us into groups, then into other groups, till the lines between "Clique" and "not-Clique" blend and morph into one-size-fits-all?
The truth is, the Clique was then, Life is NOW. When we look back to high school or college or even a few years past, we need to look beyond what was and see what is. Times change, people change. Some came out from under their bushel baskets later in life, some bloomed early, some will never see the flowers because they are still chasing a rainbow (bet you didn't know anybody who could mix all those metaphors in one sentence, huh?).
Today I no longer need to be them because they are us. We have grown up (at least most of us have), and should be able to look past the Vuiton and the Prada, or the WalMart and the Target; we should see not the wrinkles or the pounds but the inner light. We are different; we are the same. Maybe today we will "click". Then again, maybe not.
I can't say that being outside, looking in to the Clique, was a heart-wrenching experience. I was too naive and too busy to be a part of the inner circle. In the years since, there have been the inner circles of which I've been a part and it isn't a big deal. I am content on the fringes, being the trim on somebody else's shawl. Without me, their lives would be so plain! (OK, even I can see that was a bit of a stretch.)
Today there is only an eensy bit of envy for those who have achieved what I have only dreamed of. One day when I said as much to an old classmate and friend, she said to me, " I envied you!" Imagine that. While I saw her successful career, Mustang and cheerleader energy, she saw my marriage, my sons and my shiny new Sun Coupe. There's a lesson there somewhere. There always is.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Ketchup
Or catsup. You know, the red, slightly spicy stuff made from tomatoes, vinegar, salt and spices. The stuff Weight Watchers used to ban from their diet plan and the US government decided was a vegetable on the school lunch program. The stuff some wiseguy tried to improve by making it green or purple. Sheesh.
I'm getting into this confession thing. Ask me, and I might tell you my secrets. Or I'll lie about them. How would you know? But this confession is one I will share honestly. I love ketchup.
You know that I will cause mayhem if you touch my chocolate. That 85% cacao bar better still be there when I crave it. Peanut butter is a staple. Ice cream is surely my best friend, even surpassing gin and tonic. I am also a nut for ketchup, but not with my chocolate, peanut butter or ice cream. It wouldn't do justice to any of them. I haven't tried it yet with gin.
I realized it even as a child. Linda's sister would reach for peanut butter sandwiches. Lin and I ate ketchup on white bread, sometimes with mustard (plain yellow ballpark). My occasional bologna sandwich (still a comfort food), also on white bread, had a big squeeze of ketchup on it. My dear mother-in-law would fix sandwiches for me when we lived there. She would lovingly lightly butter the Vienna bread, then spread just a little mayo. A slice of bologna or ham, a lettuce leaf--all presented with a slice of tomato with grated cheese, or a pickle, and a linen napkin. To her chagrin, I would make one for myself--bread, bologna, ketchup served on a paper towel.
My sister and I would stop at McDonald's or wherever for French fries and proceed to drown them in the red condiment. We decided we only ate the fries so we wouldn't get our fingers full of ketchup. What would a restaurant do if you asked for a bowl and spoon, then dumped the complimentary ketchup in it and began to dine? Call Bellview, I guess.
I don't love ketchup the way I love peanut butter. It needs a medium, like bread, to be filling. It stains when splattered on my yellow t-shirt. It feels wrong to dunk anything in it when dining out. Those little fast-food packets have a way of leaking in one's purse or getting stepped on in one's car (trust me on this--it shoots out of that little tube like Old Faithful). Still, ketchup is more versatile than you may think.
Mixed with horseradish, it makes good cocktail sauce. With mayo, it makes thousand island dressing (add chopped egg and relish if you want it). Add it to mushroom soup and mustard and it makes a spicy gravy for Salisbury steak (really--try it; add some Worcestershire, too). Use it for sloppy Joes. Top your eggs, hamburgers, hot dogs or mac and cheese. And bologna, of course.
I wanted a snack one day and was trying to decide between sour cream and onion or barbecue Pringles when the stock man brought out a new carton for the shelf. Bless my soul, ketchup flavored Pringles! Heaven in a chip. I don't know why this flavor isn't catching on...I mean, it's ketchup!
Before you barf, I urge you to at least try the ketchup. I know, I know. Hubby says it's good on hamburgers and hot dogs, even fries, but draws the line on my putting it in his lunch box. My sons scoff--they want malt vinegar or ranch. Some look at me like I must have been deprived of the finer things as a child, to rely on the lowly ketchup for sustenance. What can I say? I won't apologize for my habit.
Someday we will chat about mustard and pickle relish.
I'm getting into this confession thing. Ask me, and I might tell you my secrets. Or I'll lie about them. How would you know? But this confession is one I will share honestly. I love ketchup.
You know that I will cause mayhem if you touch my chocolate. That 85% cacao bar better still be there when I crave it. Peanut butter is a staple. Ice cream is surely my best friend, even surpassing gin and tonic. I am also a nut for ketchup, but not with my chocolate, peanut butter or ice cream. It wouldn't do justice to any of them. I haven't tried it yet with gin.
I realized it even as a child. Linda's sister would reach for peanut butter sandwiches. Lin and I ate ketchup on white bread, sometimes with mustard (plain yellow ballpark). My occasional bologna sandwich (still a comfort food), also on white bread, had a big squeeze of ketchup on it. My dear mother-in-law would fix sandwiches for me when we lived there. She would lovingly lightly butter the Vienna bread, then spread just a little mayo. A slice of bologna or ham, a lettuce leaf--all presented with a slice of tomato with grated cheese, or a pickle, and a linen napkin. To her chagrin, I would make one for myself--bread, bologna, ketchup served on a paper towel.
My sister and I would stop at McDonald's or wherever for French fries and proceed to drown them in the red condiment. We decided we only ate the fries so we wouldn't get our fingers full of ketchup. What would a restaurant do if you asked for a bowl and spoon, then dumped the complimentary ketchup in it and began to dine? Call Bellview, I guess.
I don't love ketchup the way I love peanut butter. It needs a medium, like bread, to be filling. It stains when splattered on my yellow t-shirt. It feels wrong to dunk anything in it when dining out. Those little fast-food packets have a way of leaking in one's purse or getting stepped on in one's car (trust me on this--it shoots out of that little tube like Old Faithful). Still, ketchup is more versatile than you may think.
Mixed with horseradish, it makes good cocktail sauce. With mayo, it makes thousand island dressing (add chopped egg and relish if you want it). Add it to mushroom soup and mustard and it makes a spicy gravy for Salisbury steak (really--try it; add some Worcestershire, too). Use it for sloppy Joes. Top your eggs, hamburgers, hot dogs or mac and cheese. And bologna, of course.
I wanted a snack one day and was trying to decide between sour cream and onion or barbecue Pringles when the stock man brought out a new carton for the shelf. Bless my soul, ketchup flavored Pringles! Heaven in a chip. I don't know why this flavor isn't catching on...I mean, it's ketchup!
Before you barf, I urge you to at least try the ketchup. I know, I know. Hubby says it's good on hamburgers and hot dogs, even fries, but draws the line on my putting it in his lunch box. My sons scoff--they want malt vinegar or ranch. Some look at me like I must have been deprived of the finer things as a child, to rely on the lowly ketchup for sustenance. What can I say? I won't apologize for my habit.
Someday we will chat about mustard and pickle relish.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Apples and Peaches
Much of the time I am content. Most of my needs are met; I am working on the wants. Some of the peace comes from knowing my calling; some from my minimal knowledge of God, reike and tai chi. Some of it is from my family and friends. Some peace comes with a thunderstorm, a paycheck, a new piece of jewelry or a Klondike bar.
Those times I am discontented it is out of frustration. There are things I want but cannot have, at least not now. There is so much to do that I get overwhelmed and feel myself shutting down. I sense reality creeping into my dreams and I don't like having to acknowledge it.
It's kind of like munching a Gala apple. It is crisp, sweet but not cloying; it's juicy, but not so much that it runs down your hands. The crunch is satisfying for the most part, but it isn't what you want this time. This time, at this moment, you want a peach--a perfectly ripe one.
As you take another bite of the Gala, you imagine how good that peach would taste. The flesh of it is just soft enough. The juice drips down your chin. It is exactly what you hunger for....until you get close to the pit and see the little white half of a worm that got to your precious fruit first. Reality has crept in. That peach looked flawless--until you got too close to the insides.
So it is with life. The day-to-day is filling, satisfying, sometimes boring. Sometimes we have one too many apples. They become a lunch box staple. We don't even notice them after awhile. We automatically reach for the Galas or Fujis. They're not expensive, they're sturdy. The peach--be it a different job, a new home, a new car, a trip to Las Vegas--looks so delicious, and in season for such a short time. We don't look at the price, or if we do, we brush it off because it's a special treat.
Think about peaches--the fruit, not the euphemism. If you buy them unripened it is days before they are ready. If you don't eat them right away, they turn mushy, brown, finally moldy. You attract fruit flies. The life of an apple is so much longer! And if they get a bit past their prime, there is always applesauce or apple butter.
And yet, I adore peaches. Albertas are my favorite, but red havens and clings will suffice. Their cousins, the nectarines, are often even better.
I guess the moral is (I often have one. Have you noticed that?) that we should taste the peach in its season--and the cherries and plums, too. Try things; experience what life has to offer. Just remember that old stand-by, the apple. It can take being tossed into the lunch box, survive winter storage and is a nice gift for a teacher.
The peach may look like the perfect fruit...but be sure you check for worms.
Those times I am discontented it is out of frustration. There are things I want but cannot have, at least not now. There is so much to do that I get overwhelmed and feel myself shutting down. I sense reality creeping into my dreams and I don't like having to acknowledge it.
It's kind of like munching a Gala apple. It is crisp, sweet but not cloying; it's juicy, but not so much that it runs down your hands. The crunch is satisfying for the most part, but it isn't what you want this time. This time, at this moment, you want a peach--a perfectly ripe one.
As you take another bite of the Gala, you imagine how good that peach would taste. The flesh of it is just soft enough. The juice drips down your chin. It is exactly what you hunger for....until you get close to the pit and see the little white half of a worm that got to your precious fruit first. Reality has crept in. That peach looked flawless--until you got too close to the insides.
So it is with life. The day-to-day is filling, satisfying, sometimes boring. Sometimes we have one too many apples. They become a lunch box staple. We don't even notice them after awhile. We automatically reach for the Galas or Fujis. They're not expensive, they're sturdy. The peach--be it a different job, a new home, a new car, a trip to Las Vegas--looks so delicious, and in season for such a short time. We don't look at the price, or if we do, we brush it off because it's a special treat.
Think about peaches--the fruit, not the euphemism. If you buy them unripened it is days before they are ready. If you don't eat them right away, they turn mushy, brown, finally moldy. You attract fruit flies. The life of an apple is so much longer! And if they get a bit past their prime, there is always applesauce or apple butter.
And yet, I adore peaches. Albertas are my favorite, but red havens and clings will suffice. Their cousins, the nectarines, are often even better.
I guess the moral is (I often have one. Have you noticed that?) that we should taste the peach in its season--and the cherries and plums, too. Try things; experience what life has to offer. Just remember that old stand-by, the apple. It can take being tossed into the lunch box, survive winter storage and is a nice gift for a teacher.
The peach may look like the perfect fruit...but be sure you check for worms.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Roller Skates and Dreams
The most aggravating song of all time has to be Melanie's "I've Got a Brand-New Pair of Roller Skates" (you've got a brand-new key). It isn't just because it is silly. I like silly songs, like "Ahab the Arab" and "Purple People Eater". Of course, I know all the words to that durn tune and some days it runs through my brain like a loop-de-loop.
Does that happen to you, too? A thought, a song, a chant--especially one that you aren't crazy about--sticks in your mind and nothing will turn it loose.
It's the same with recurring dreams. I have one that comes back so often that I know what will happen as soon as it begins. The story varies a little depending on if I had burritos or chicken salad before my nap. This dream never occurs at night that I can remember, only during one of those satisfying afternoon snoozes. I wake up annoyed, reaching for someone--I don't know who.
"Sometimes I think that you're avoiding me. I'm OK alone, but you've got something I need..."
Like the Melanie song, the dream is always there, burbling about in the recesses of my mind. I try to finish it, thinking that by bringing some kind of closure to the story and finding out who that being could be will mean the end of it. But no, it's always the same. I'm thinking it may be someone I love who can't be with me. Or someone who loves me but can't be near for whatever reason. Or somebody who likes to tease like an irritating child.
Melanie sings, "for somebody who don't drive, I've been all around the world". Grammar aside, I understand. This dream has taken place in Kansas (after watching "Wizard of Oz"), in Hollywood (don't ask), in Casablanca (self-explanatory), in Paris and at home. I am always reaching for the being, and he, she, it is always out of reach. We have seen the world, but I never see the face.
"Some people say I've done all right for a girl". Oh, please.
In the dream I am beautiful. I sing like an angel, wear long lace and satin gowns and have hair that flows. I am drenched in jewelry. There are flowers of every color. There is a big window; no matter where in the world we are, the view is always the same--I am looking out over the city, over the lake.
I dance and others stand by and watch my partner and I as we float across the floor. The room has an orchestra and chandeliers, one of which is made of tiny silver keys. My partner is neither male nor female, it has no face. I am smiling; I am obviously happy. I am always aware of where we are, be it Paris or Rome, the desert or Siberia. The dress changes, the music changes, the dancing does not. Sometimes it is Santana, other times is is Glenn Miller, occasionally Jackson Browne pops in.
Suddenly the music stops. Everyone is clapping and laughing. At me? I don't know. I turn to find out why, and my partner is gone--SNAP! I wake up then, calling a name, but no one hears me. I don't know what name I am calling. Only once did I hear myself and that was something nonsensical.
So what does that all have to do with Melanie and her blasted roller skates? Well, in the dream I am wearing roller skates, the old-fashioned kind that used the key you hung around your neck. A voice sings ever so softly, not enough to drown out "For a Dancer" or "Europa".
"I think we should get together and try them out, you see....".
Does that happen to you, too? A thought, a song, a chant--especially one that you aren't crazy about--sticks in your mind and nothing will turn it loose.
It's the same with recurring dreams. I have one that comes back so often that I know what will happen as soon as it begins. The story varies a little depending on if I had burritos or chicken salad before my nap. This dream never occurs at night that I can remember, only during one of those satisfying afternoon snoozes. I wake up annoyed, reaching for someone--I don't know who.
"Sometimes I think that you're avoiding me. I'm OK alone, but you've got something I need..."
Like the Melanie song, the dream is always there, burbling about in the recesses of my mind. I try to finish it, thinking that by bringing some kind of closure to the story and finding out who that being could be will mean the end of it. But no, it's always the same. I'm thinking it may be someone I love who can't be with me. Or someone who loves me but can't be near for whatever reason. Or somebody who likes to tease like an irritating child.
Melanie sings, "for somebody who don't drive, I've been all around the world". Grammar aside, I understand. This dream has taken place in Kansas (after watching "Wizard of Oz"), in Hollywood (don't ask), in Casablanca (self-explanatory), in Paris and at home. I am always reaching for the being, and he, she, it is always out of reach. We have seen the world, but I never see the face.
"Some people say I've done all right for a girl". Oh, please.
In the dream I am beautiful. I sing like an angel, wear long lace and satin gowns and have hair that flows. I am drenched in jewelry. There are flowers of every color. There is a big window; no matter where in the world we are, the view is always the same--I am looking out over the city, over the lake.
I dance and others stand by and watch my partner and I as we float across the floor. The room has an orchestra and chandeliers, one of which is made of tiny silver keys. My partner is neither male nor female, it has no face. I am smiling; I am obviously happy. I am always aware of where we are, be it Paris or Rome, the desert or Siberia. The dress changes, the music changes, the dancing does not. Sometimes it is Santana, other times is is Glenn Miller, occasionally Jackson Browne pops in.
Suddenly the music stops. Everyone is clapping and laughing. At me? I don't know. I turn to find out why, and my partner is gone--SNAP! I wake up then, calling a name, but no one hears me. I don't know what name I am calling. Only once did I hear myself and that was something nonsensical.
So what does that all have to do with Melanie and her blasted roller skates? Well, in the dream I am wearing roller skates, the old-fashioned kind that used the key you hung around your neck. A voice sings ever so softly, not enough to drown out "For a Dancer" or "Europa".
"I think we should get together and try them out, you see....".
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Afterthoughts
When the dance is done, the dinner is digested; when we have had the last of the wine and the song; when the last blush of sunshine flushes the sky with shades of amethyst...that is when we sit quietly and think about what is and what might have been.
Sometimes the thoughts are random. What if I had won the lottery? What if I had studied Transcendental Meditation? What if I had been a hippie?
Sometimes specific. What if I had married someone else? Would I have found the life I have today? What if I had become a teacher instead of a salesman? What if I had not let my fears rule me? If the man I love loves another, will I live at all? Could I be happy in another world? What if my children were not mine, but the result of someone else's union?
What if I had been born a man? Would I have served my country with honor? Or would I have run when my number came up? Would I be brave and loyal, hardworking or a bum? Would I have taken up a trade? Gone into politics? Would I have been open and caring, forgiving and loving with the person I loved most? Or would I have been cold, indifferent, even mean? Would I share what was wrong and rejoice in what was right?
I want to do what is right. I try to live the way I think God wants me to live. I try to do my job, love my family, be honest in dealng with others. I try to stay true to what I believe. Most days I enjoy living as I do. I am a basically happy individual, and I try to let my inner light shine on those around me, bringing joy when someone will let me into their space for even a little while. I try to be warm, letting my warmth melt the coldest hearts.
Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Some people make the candle in me burn brighter, like a million tiny flames. I can feel the fire spreading, touching other souls, giving them a light they can follow out of their self-imposed darkness. Sometimes it fails, the cold breath blowing out the last flicker of love within me, shrouding those around me in thickness so that all they see is pain reflected against pain.
It used to be enough to simply be, but not anymore. Suddenly it is my mission to touch people and make them whole, giving them a reason to live where they had none, giving them friendship when they had been lonely, giving an ear to their quiet voices. It isn't enough anymore to sit in my LaZBoy and watch the world falter; I need to help hold it up.
There are those who will bite the hand I offer, rejecting any attempt I make to show them kindness. Is it because they don't like me? Or are they afraid to accept my unconditional gift? Or don't they like themselves? No matter how you look at it, it is so wrong to reject the love of another when it is freely given.
What changed me? I looked inside. I decided what I believe. I remembered the things I used to love. I opened my eyes to see the wrong things I have done. I tried to make them right. I asked God to fill me with enough love that I could give it away, enough light that people would see it in me and want it, too. I asked for the right words to touch someone's life. I asked for a new perspective.
Sometimes my afterthoughts are silly ones that don't mean a thing to anyone but my selfish self. Sometimes they are profound, sometimes they make me cry. Sometimes I am content, sometimes not. There are things I want that I cannot have, there are things I will never speak aloud.
Through it all, I will trust.
Sometimes the thoughts are random. What if I had won the lottery? What if I had studied Transcendental Meditation? What if I had been a hippie?
Sometimes specific. What if I had married someone else? Would I have found the life I have today? What if I had become a teacher instead of a salesman? What if I had not let my fears rule me? If the man I love loves another, will I live at all? Could I be happy in another world? What if my children were not mine, but the result of someone else's union?
What if I had been born a man? Would I have served my country with honor? Or would I have run when my number came up? Would I be brave and loyal, hardworking or a bum? Would I have taken up a trade? Gone into politics? Would I have been open and caring, forgiving and loving with the person I loved most? Or would I have been cold, indifferent, even mean? Would I share what was wrong and rejoice in what was right?
I want to do what is right. I try to live the way I think God wants me to live. I try to do my job, love my family, be honest in dealng with others. I try to stay true to what I believe. Most days I enjoy living as I do. I am a basically happy individual, and I try to let my inner light shine on those around me, bringing joy when someone will let me into their space for even a little while. I try to be warm, letting my warmth melt the coldest hearts.
Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Some people make the candle in me burn brighter, like a million tiny flames. I can feel the fire spreading, touching other souls, giving them a light they can follow out of their self-imposed darkness. Sometimes it fails, the cold breath blowing out the last flicker of love within me, shrouding those around me in thickness so that all they see is pain reflected against pain.
It used to be enough to simply be, but not anymore. Suddenly it is my mission to touch people and make them whole, giving them a reason to live where they had none, giving them friendship when they had been lonely, giving an ear to their quiet voices. It isn't enough anymore to sit in my LaZBoy and watch the world falter; I need to help hold it up.
There are those who will bite the hand I offer, rejecting any attempt I make to show them kindness. Is it because they don't like me? Or are they afraid to accept my unconditional gift? Or don't they like themselves? No matter how you look at it, it is so wrong to reject the love of another when it is freely given.
What changed me? I looked inside. I decided what I believe. I remembered the things I used to love. I opened my eyes to see the wrong things I have done. I tried to make them right. I asked God to fill me with enough love that I could give it away, enough light that people would see it in me and want it, too. I asked for the right words to touch someone's life. I asked for a new perspective.
Sometimes my afterthoughts are silly ones that don't mean a thing to anyone but my selfish self. Sometimes they are profound, sometimes they make me cry. Sometimes I am content, sometimes not. There are things I want that I cannot have, there are things I will never speak aloud.
Through it all, I will trust.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Purses and That Ilk
It's a purse. A handbag. A pocketbook. When you have young children, it is more likely a tote or a diaper bag with your wallet and keys among the diapers and toys and seven changes of clothes (including a fresh shirt for you). I once had a vet ask me how old my baby was. How did you know I had kids? I asked, and he pointed to the Nuk I was wearing as a ring.
It is chaos. Oh, there are a few amongst us who do not use a purse as a survival kit. Look in the purse of most women and you will find her life story, at least one piece of candy, meds, tissues, pens, make-up and a sewing kit. On a bad day I will also have double-sided tape, a paperback, Tums, a screwdriver, three washers and a bottle of Kahlua, a Magic Marker, six Do-Its and slightly stale gum.
Her income (the checkbook), where she had lunch or bought that white filigree necklace (the receipts--and please don't tell me you were just admiring the necklace, mister!), her age (driver license), how much is real and how much is Maybelline and a whole host of other information resides in that purse.
She will try to stuff in the camera, hairbrush, tissues and a cell phone in a tiny evening bag. When it doesn't fit, she will turn her beau's pockets into an extension. If she carries a big bag, her mate makes it an extension of his pockets--honey, put my cigarettes in your purse, OK? and an extra hanky, my lighter and the table saw I bought at Sears.....
My purse is black inside, as is my wallet, my cell and my camera case. The floor mats in my Chevy are also black. So when the purse that I have been rummaging in to find the black phone in the black purse lands on the black floor on the way from the Y....well, my car becomes a giant black hole of a purse on wheels. Can't find a thing.
Between my purse and my car I can survive a blizzard in Colorado for a week. I carry water and a snack or two or three, plus I usually carry my lunch. I have a blanket, jumper cables and dry socks. I am not without a flashlight and a rain poncho. In winter I carry those shake-up hand warmers. There is enough junk for a bonfire, tissues for my nose and my meds in my purse. There is at least one book, a legal pad, phone charger and a take-out directory. I should get a shovel, I suppose. Of course, I can't have passengers.....
I can't fathom spending a thousand dollars on a purse, maybe twelve-fifty--on sale. I want something practical and basic, not like the little silver number I thought was chic until I put two dollars inside and it was full. I want one so big it aggravates the bursitis, so heavy that my Hubby asks, "What the #$%^ do you have in there?" and such a long strap that I can use it as a weapon if need-be.
NEVER, EVER violate a woman by getting into her purse without--or even with--permission. Her purse is sacred, a private place like a secret garden. Trust me, nothing bugs her as much as having you hunt through it for a quarter to use at the car wash.
There are days I do without a purse, like I never carry one anymore when I shop, just stuff the phone, money, debit card and ID in my pockets. I don't carry one when I work, I shove it all in my briefcase. I had one for my trip to Vegas. I guess I could have used a fanny-pack, but they're so darn ugly.
I swear my next purse will not hold a single zipper bag full of cosmetics. It will have no more than two pens, one small packet of tissue, a few ibuprofen in a classy little pill box and maybe a lipstick. The wallet, of course, and my cell phone...a bottle of water...Tums...a first-aid kit...a paperback..one notepad and my checkbook...a calendar, change for the parking meter and a couple of ones for tips...safety pins...and a bottle of Kahlua.
Ready to go, Honey.
It is chaos. Oh, there are a few amongst us who do not use a purse as a survival kit. Look in the purse of most women and you will find her life story, at least one piece of candy, meds, tissues, pens, make-up and a sewing kit. On a bad day I will also have double-sided tape, a paperback, Tums, a screwdriver, three washers and a bottle of Kahlua, a Magic Marker, six Do-Its and slightly stale gum.
Her income (the checkbook), where she had lunch or bought that white filigree necklace (the receipts--and please don't tell me you were just admiring the necklace, mister!), her age (driver license), how much is real and how much is Maybelline and a whole host of other information resides in that purse.
She will try to stuff in the camera, hairbrush, tissues and a cell phone in a tiny evening bag. When it doesn't fit, she will turn her beau's pockets into an extension. If she carries a big bag, her mate makes it an extension of his pockets--honey, put my cigarettes in your purse, OK? and an extra hanky, my lighter and the table saw I bought at Sears.....
My purse is black inside, as is my wallet, my cell and my camera case. The floor mats in my Chevy are also black. So when the purse that I have been rummaging in to find the black phone in the black purse lands on the black floor on the way from the Y....well, my car becomes a giant black hole of a purse on wheels. Can't find a thing.
Between my purse and my car I can survive a blizzard in Colorado for a week. I carry water and a snack or two or three, plus I usually carry my lunch. I have a blanket, jumper cables and dry socks. I am not without a flashlight and a rain poncho. In winter I carry those shake-up hand warmers. There is enough junk for a bonfire, tissues for my nose and my meds in my purse. There is at least one book, a legal pad, phone charger and a take-out directory. I should get a shovel, I suppose. Of course, I can't have passengers.....
I can't fathom spending a thousand dollars on a purse, maybe twelve-fifty--on sale. I want something practical and basic, not like the little silver number I thought was chic until I put two dollars inside and it was full. I want one so big it aggravates the bursitis, so heavy that my Hubby asks, "What the #$%^ do you have in there?" and such a long strap that I can use it as a weapon if need-be.
NEVER, EVER violate a woman by getting into her purse without--or even with--permission. Her purse is sacred, a private place like a secret garden. Trust me, nothing bugs her as much as having you hunt through it for a quarter to use at the car wash.
There are days I do without a purse, like I never carry one anymore when I shop, just stuff the phone, money, debit card and ID in my pockets. I don't carry one when I work, I shove it all in my briefcase. I had one for my trip to Vegas. I guess I could have used a fanny-pack, but they're so darn ugly.
I swear my next purse will not hold a single zipper bag full of cosmetics. It will have no more than two pens, one small packet of tissue, a few ibuprofen in a classy little pill box and maybe a lipstick. The wallet, of course, and my cell phone...a bottle of water...Tums...a first-aid kit...a paperback..one notepad and my checkbook...a calendar, change for the parking meter and a couple of ones for tips...safety pins...and a bottle of Kahlua.
Ready to go, Honey.
The Throat
I was buying lunch the other day. Being sixty now and a bit frugal (read cheap), I inquired about the senior discount.
Oh, I'm sure you don't qualify, said the sweet young thing. His eyes traveled to my throat--no, I wasn't wearing my ever-present choker, and no, he never got as far as my cleavage--just as far as the turkey neck--and promptly took off ten per cent.
I hate my throat.
My face is pretty much unlined thanks to a little extra fat here and there. My eyes are bright with new lenses from the cataract surgery as well as with a love of life. But the throat. Geez.
I won't wear turtlenecks anymore. I can't stand the tightness. I like to wear shirts that...uh...accentuate my finer places. I opted to wear chokers that help to hide the wrinkle (shudder).
When Mom was about my age, she had thyroid surgery.
"Don't worry," said the doctor. "I'll hide the incision in this wrinkle here."
If I hadn't heard him say it, I wouldn't have believed it. Mom was shocked. As beautiful as she was, I don't think her less than perfect eyesight ever noticed the wrinkle before that day.
I look at my peers. Some of them have had eyes fixed or chins lifted. My husband will guess her age. Nope, I say, older than that. How do you know? he quizzes. Throat, I answer.
Throat and hands, dead give-aways of a woman's age. Hands, slightly darkened at the knuckles, an age spot here and there, the skin not as taut. The throat, no matter how slim she is, shouts "senior citizen".
It's that wrinkle at the base, you see, the one that swallows the fine gold chain you wore at forty. Don't believe it? Ask Barbara Bush why she wears those blasted pearls.
By the way, men don't get turkey necks. Some age well, some don't. Some wear thick gold chains, but that is for prowess, not to hide anything. There is no male equivalent of the throat.
I am better in many ways than I was at forty. I am freer and more open than I was. I have more faith. I see things from a different viewpoint. I have an insatiable need to have people like me--which astounds me because I never cared what people thought of me before. I like myself most of the time. I have discovered gifts and I use them. I've been told I don't look bad for my age (why can't they just say, "Damn! You look GOOD"??).
If it wasn't for the durn throat, everything would be perfect!
Oh, I'm sure you don't qualify, said the sweet young thing. His eyes traveled to my throat--no, I wasn't wearing my ever-present choker, and no, he never got as far as my cleavage--just as far as the turkey neck--and promptly took off ten per cent.
I hate my throat.
My face is pretty much unlined thanks to a little extra fat here and there. My eyes are bright with new lenses from the cataract surgery as well as with a love of life. But the throat. Geez.
I won't wear turtlenecks anymore. I can't stand the tightness. I like to wear shirts that...uh...accentuate my finer places. I opted to wear chokers that help to hide the wrinkle (shudder).
When Mom was about my age, she had thyroid surgery.
"Don't worry," said the doctor. "I'll hide the incision in this wrinkle here."
If I hadn't heard him say it, I wouldn't have believed it. Mom was shocked. As beautiful as she was, I don't think her less than perfect eyesight ever noticed the wrinkle before that day.
I look at my peers. Some of them have had eyes fixed or chins lifted. My husband will guess her age. Nope, I say, older than that. How do you know? he quizzes. Throat, I answer.
Throat and hands, dead give-aways of a woman's age. Hands, slightly darkened at the knuckles, an age spot here and there, the skin not as taut. The throat, no matter how slim she is, shouts "senior citizen".
It's that wrinkle at the base, you see, the one that swallows the fine gold chain you wore at forty. Don't believe it? Ask Barbara Bush why she wears those blasted pearls.
By the way, men don't get turkey necks. Some age well, some don't. Some wear thick gold chains, but that is for prowess, not to hide anything. There is no male equivalent of the throat.
I am better in many ways than I was at forty. I am freer and more open than I was. I have more faith. I see things from a different viewpoint. I have an insatiable need to have people like me--which astounds me because I never cared what people thought of me before. I like myself most of the time. I have discovered gifts and I use them. I've been told I don't look bad for my age (why can't they just say, "Damn! You look GOOD"??).
If it wasn't for the durn throat, everything would be perfect!
Las Vegas--The Good, The Bad, The Ugly
Let me talk about the bad and the ugly first so I can end with a smile on my face, and I hope on yours.
Las Vegas is not a customer-friendly town. Oh, I'm sure the city itself is...but the money-maker, the famous Strip, isn't. If you have a Diamond card (Vegas-speak for game rewards), you get some perks--free shows, front-of-the-line service, discounts, valet parking, etc. If you don't, well, you're just another schmuck with beaucoup bucks to spend.
If you go out there on a shoestring, like I had to, you are amazed at how expensive everything is. Pay for the monorail, pay for expensive meals that would be ten dollars at home, pay two dollars for an apple (not kidding), tip him here, tip her there. You can buy t-shirts, three for fifteen, if you can stand the sleazy booth. You can buy a bottle of water for a dollar if you trust the fellow with the cruddy cooler. You can buy a necklace for ten thousand bucks or for fifty. You can buy a scoop of ice cream for five-fifty, or a single strawberry covered in chocolate for six-ninety-five.
There are police everywhere--on bikes, in cars, marching the perps down the street in cuffs. Pit bosses keep watch over the patrons. There is security in every corner.
The worst thing, though, isn't the half-dressed girls in cages--after all, it is Las Vegas and the girls have chosen to dance for entertainment. No, I didn't find the girls in the casino or in the shows vulgar at all. What I did find vulgar were the young men and women on the street, driving trucks with pics advertising brothels, and the ones passing out cards and fliers with sex for sale. OK, call me a prude.
There are escalators everywhere. You even use them to cross the street! You walk or take the monorail and then walk, every place you have to go. I may have missed the Y, but I didn't miss the workout.
All that being said, the Strip is a wonderful place to visit. It must be the combined energy of the shows, the bells of the casinos and the day-lit evenings that power the billions of watts. The lights are amazing--there is no other word to describe them. Floodlights, neon, bold and bright, cascading, flashing, pulsing...all I could find to say was WOW.
And the statuary! Two stories high! A spiral escalator that takes you to the top! Ceilings painted as sky, some with brilliant flowers made of glass. Chocolate cascades from ceiling to floor; baubles glitter in store windows; fountains spring forth in the middle of a courtyard. Fresh flowers grace the backdrop in one place, the front desk in another. The garden at the Flamingo has live flamingos, swans...so beautiful amongst the palm trees.
Yes, I had a good time. No, I didn't win a bundle. I loved the high-energy shows the best, and the simple fact of not one mosquito the entire week. Nights were balmy and breezy; days hot, sunny and dry--not a drop of sweat to make my mascara run.
Would I go again? Not unless I had to. It's sensory overload for me. Besides, we didn't go dancing. Las Vegas is glitzy and glamorous and there is more money on a single roulette table than I earn in a year.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Las Vegas is not a customer-friendly town. Oh, I'm sure the city itself is...but the money-maker, the famous Strip, isn't. If you have a Diamond card (Vegas-speak for game rewards), you get some perks--free shows, front-of-the-line service, discounts, valet parking, etc. If you don't, well, you're just another schmuck with beaucoup bucks to spend.
If you go out there on a shoestring, like I had to, you are amazed at how expensive everything is. Pay for the monorail, pay for expensive meals that would be ten dollars at home, pay two dollars for an apple (not kidding), tip him here, tip her there. You can buy t-shirts, three for fifteen, if you can stand the sleazy booth. You can buy a bottle of water for a dollar if you trust the fellow with the cruddy cooler. You can buy a necklace for ten thousand bucks or for fifty. You can buy a scoop of ice cream for five-fifty, or a single strawberry covered in chocolate for six-ninety-five.
There are police everywhere--on bikes, in cars, marching the perps down the street in cuffs. Pit bosses keep watch over the patrons. There is security in every corner.
The worst thing, though, isn't the half-dressed girls in cages--after all, it is Las Vegas and the girls have chosen to dance for entertainment. No, I didn't find the girls in the casino or in the shows vulgar at all. What I did find vulgar were the young men and women on the street, driving trucks with pics advertising brothels, and the ones passing out cards and fliers with sex for sale. OK, call me a prude.
There are escalators everywhere. You even use them to cross the street! You walk or take the monorail and then walk, every place you have to go. I may have missed the Y, but I didn't miss the workout.
All that being said, the Strip is a wonderful place to visit. It must be the combined energy of the shows, the bells of the casinos and the day-lit evenings that power the billions of watts. The lights are amazing--there is no other word to describe them. Floodlights, neon, bold and bright, cascading, flashing, pulsing...all I could find to say was WOW.
And the statuary! Two stories high! A spiral escalator that takes you to the top! Ceilings painted as sky, some with brilliant flowers made of glass. Chocolate cascades from ceiling to floor; baubles glitter in store windows; fountains spring forth in the middle of a courtyard. Fresh flowers grace the backdrop in one place, the front desk in another. The garden at the Flamingo has live flamingos, swans...so beautiful amongst the palm trees.
Yes, I had a good time. No, I didn't win a bundle. I loved the high-energy shows the best, and the simple fact of not one mosquito the entire week. Nights were balmy and breezy; days hot, sunny and dry--not a drop of sweat to make my mascara run.
Would I go again? Not unless I had to. It's sensory overload for me. Besides, we didn't go dancing. Las Vegas is glitzy and glamorous and there is more money on a single roulette table than I earn in a year.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Happy Birthday To Me
For those of you who are sick of hearing about my six-oh birthday, the day is here! Happy Birthday to me! This one is especially important for lots of reasons.
First, it's a round number. Round numbers always seem more important as birthday numbers, except for twenty-one.
Second, last year's only redeeming quality was the birth of my granddaughter. Enough said.
Third, I've undergone so many changes since my last birthday!
There are still things I meant to do, like take a road trip. Well, I'm going to Las Vegas instead. I wanted to go kayaking, but my back gave out. Oh, I am still going! It just has to wait until I can at least get out of the car without wincing. I wanted to clean the basement from Hades....yeah, right. I wanted to lose weight--and I have, just not as quickly as I'd hoped or as much as I wanted. Still time.
I wanted to begin this decade with joy. I have found some in friends, new and old. I wanted to find a church, and I did. I began a fitness program and got my graduation t-shirt. I started writing, something I didn't plan, but it has been a Godsend.
I have learned to express my faith in God openly, unafraid and without reservation. I can live in the world and see beyond the material things, yet enjoy them. I have written down my core beliefs and will defend them. I am proud to be a Christian.
I wanted to rid my mind of negativity, learn to laugh and love again. I wanted to dance again. I wanted to forget who I had become and get back to the roots of who I am. That's going well. I am no longer afraid of being lonely--I have learned to like myself. (If I don't like me, nobody else will either.)
I wanted to connect with old friends, and they have been a blessing in more ways than you know. They have given me back my childhood memories and reminded me of carefree teenage years. They have helped me to find ME. I can be myself with them because they know who I am.
I wanted to make new friends, and I've done that. I can be myself with them because they have no expectations. There are no longer any strangers, just friends I haven't met yet.
I have discovered my gifts and my calling. I am grateful that I've recognized them. I pray for them to be used wisely, and for my words to touch one person's heart one time, and to make a difference in one person's life.
I wanted more bling in my life, and more creativity. Done.
There are still people to meet--a whole slew of cousins, for example. There are those whom I've injured in some way who haven't forgiven me yet. I won't give up until I understand why.
There are days I want to run through the sprinkler and shout with joy and laughter. I cry over everything, mostly because I had forgotten how to cry. There are few tears of sadness these days. I am happier than I've been in a long time. There are days when I want to hug everyone in sight, and days when I do exactly that. I've learned to experience new things as a child would do. The eyes of a child seek and find magic.
This year will be a continuation of my renewal and growth. I have so much to see, so much to do, so many people I have not yet hugged. I have a good foundation. I can build mansions!
Happy Birthday to me!
First, it's a round number. Round numbers always seem more important as birthday numbers, except for twenty-one.
Second, last year's only redeeming quality was the birth of my granddaughter. Enough said.
Third, I've undergone so many changes since my last birthday!
There are still things I meant to do, like take a road trip. Well, I'm going to Las Vegas instead. I wanted to go kayaking, but my back gave out. Oh, I am still going! It just has to wait until I can at least get out of the car without wincing. I wanted to clean the basement from Hades....yeah, right. I wanted to lose weight--and I have, just not as quickly as I'd hoped or as much as I wanted. Still time.
I wanted to begin this decade with joy. I have found some in friends, new and old. I wanted to find a church, and I did. I began a fitness program and got my graduation t-shirt. I started writing, something I didn't plan, but it has been a Godsend.
I have learned to express my faith in God openly, unafraid and without reservation. I can live in the world and see beyond the material things, yet enjoy them. I have written down my core beliefs and will defend them. I am proud to be a Christian.
I wanted to rid my mind of negativity, learn to laugh and love again. I wanted to dance again. I wanted to forget who I had become and get back to the roots of who I am. That's going well. I am no longer afraid of being lonely--I have learned to like myself. (If I don't like me, nobody else will either.)
I wanted to connect with old friends, and they have been a blessing in more ways than you know. They have given me back my childhood memories and reminded me of carefree teenage years. They have helped me to find ME. I can be myself with them because they know who I am.
I wanted to make new friends, and I've done that. I can be myself with them because they have no expectations. There are no longer any strangers, just friends I haven't met yet.
I have discovered my gifts and my calling. I am grateful that I've recognized them. I pray for them to be used wisely, and for my words to touch one person's heart one time, and to make a difference in one person's life.
I wanted more bling in my life, and more creativity. Done.
There are still people to meet--a whole slew of cousins, for example. There are those whom I've injured in some way who haven't forgiven me yet. I won't give up until I understand why.
There are days I want to run through the sprinkler and shout with joy and laughter. I cry over everything, mostly because I had forgotten how to cry. There are few tears of sadness these days. I am happier than I've been in a long time. There are days when I want to hug everyone in sight, and days when I do exactly that. I've learned to experience new things as a child would do. The eyes of a child seek and find magic.
This year will be a continuation of my renewal and growth. I have so much to see, so much to do, so many people I have not yet hugged. I have a good foundation. I can build mansions!
Happy Birthday to me!
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Thunder
I love thunder and lightning shows. I love to press my face against the window pane, absorbing the energy around me. I love to sit on a porch feeling the spray of the raindrops.
I love a good storm when I'm in a valley, because the thunder bounces from hill to hill in a never-ending crescendo. I can hear it clap loudly for my attention,and grumble as it rolls restlessly through the forested lands...echoing, echoing...
I love the lightning when it streaks from the heavens or flashes like a thousand neon lights in the distance. I love the bright forks, more dramatic than any fireworks display. I love the crackle in the air and the crisp smell of ozone being formed.
I love the rain when it is so powerful that it rushes like a river toward the storm sewer, erupting like a geyser at the end. I love the way it cleans my car without remuneration and washes my face like a million tears.
I love the wind when it whips the trees into a frenzy, lays flat the grasses and tosses the debris as if it were a tiny tornado. I love the way it flips my hair onto my face and plays with my skirt as though I was Marilyn Monroe.
I love to watch the gentle waves of the Bay as they build and crash against the pier. I love the swells as they reach surfer-worthy status on the lake in a few moments of time. I love to watch the seagulls as they ride each wave, bobbing and curtsying as though they are paying homage to the power.
Most of all, I love to count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. . . listening as it moves farther away...hoping it will come back soon and cleanse my world.
I love a good storm when I'm in a valley, because the thunder bounces from hill to hill in a never-ending crescendo. I can hear it clap loudly for my attention,and grumble as it rolls restlessly through the forested lands...echoing, echoing...
I love the lightning when it streaks from the heavens or flashes like a thousand neon lights in the distance. I love the bright forks, more dramatic than any fireworks display. I love the crackle in the air and the crisp smell of ozone being formed.
I love the rain when it is so powerful that it rushes like a river toward the storm sewer, erupting like a geyser at the end. I love the way it cleans my car without remuneration and washes my face like a million tears.
I love the wind when it whips the trees into a frenzy, lays flat the grasses and tosses the debris as if it were a tiny tornado. I love the way it flips my hair onto my face and plays with my skirt as though I was Marilyn Monroe.
I love to watch the gentle waves of the Bay as they build and crash against the pier. I love the swells as they reach surfer-worthy status on the lake in a few moments of time. I love to watch the seagulls as they ride each wave, bobbing and curtsying as though they are paying homage to the power.
Most of all, I love to count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. . . listening as it moves farther away...hoping it will come back soon and cleanse my world.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Rumspringe
The Amish have a good word--rumspringe--which cannot be literally translated. It s the time of a young person's life, usually around 17 or 18, when the youngster is set loose into the world of the "English". "English" is the term used by the Amish to include anyone not of their faith. Why they pick on the English instead of Italians or Poles is anybody's guess.
Anyway, during rumspringe a youth can take in the sights and sounds of the English world previously forbidden. They can live in the city, wear modern clothes, listen to music, watch TV, drink and drive. Some get into trouble because they can't handle the freedom. Some never go home--if they choose the English world, they are "shunned" by their families. Some can't wait to return to the simpler way of life.
I'm a little old for rumspringe. Never in Amish history has a two-days-from-sixty woman been turned loose to experience rumspringe. If she didn't get the world out of her system at 17, well, tough toodles.
And yet, that's how I feel. The past months, culminating with my first ever time in Las Vegas, is my rumspringe. Yes, I have a TV and radio; I drive and play CDs really loud to drown out my singing. I wear clothes that suit my personality if not exactly Vogue. I use a cell phone. But never in my life have I been turned loose to experience the "English" world--until now.
My life has been a simple one. We have the usual modern conveniences. I get a new car every four or five years, not a buggy and Clydesdale. I cut my hair, pluck my eyebrows, wear outrageous earrings and adorn my nails with glitz and glimmer. We are simple folk. We like rides in the country, moonlit nights and a bonfire now and then. We are not travelers. So you can see why this trip to Las Vegas is my rumspringe.
I have every intention of having a good time as soon as the Dramamine wears off and my stomach settles to a dull ache. I will enjoy the "lights, camera, action!" of the famous Strip, the big show we will attend and the bing-bong of the casino. The meetings are an afterthought; I have to go to them to be able to enjoy the rest. Even they will be exciting, because I will be on the ground floor of a new team launch.
The "English" world, much maligned by the Amish, is nonetheless useful to them. It provides a place to shop for material goods, a place to work when farming doesn't pay enough, a place to sell their jam, meat and quilts. It is the English who buy their furniture, taking great pride in saying their porch swing is "Amish crafted".
So it is with me. I have no lust to live in Las Vegas, not even off the Strip in the regular sections of the city. I do not pant for life of lights and noise. One show with all its glamour will be probably enough for a lifetime. Yet--here's the catch 22--I have to experience it before I can deny it. The English world isn't where my heart is, but is useful for a break from the monotony of real life.
There it is. The Amish in their wisdom have seen the truth. If one is denied (or ignores) the experiences set in front of her, how does she know what she loves? Not just Las Vegas, but life here in Erie, PA, too. If I don't take in a play or ballet, see a rock concert or go dancing; if I don't sip apricot brandy or a mai tai on occasion instead of my usual G&T--how will I ever know? If I don't sit on a bench at Rodderick overlooking the waters of Lake Erie, or take a kayak on a one-woman trip to the Lagoons, how will I know what I have missed?
Hubby and I have been together for forty-plus years. Every day lately, it seems, we find out something new about each other. We are starting to take time once again to experience simple pleasures. It's time we explored the "English" world.
So my rumspringe begins. Unlike the Amish kids, mine will only last a few days. I won't find my heart in Las Vegas; my heart is in Erie, PA. I won't find the love of my life there; he is in Erie, PA, too. I won't sleep much, I won't have a shedding 100 pound dog at my feet. Those, too, are in Erie. I, too, would be shunned if I gave up my life here for the life of a casino groupie.
No worries, my friends. When my rumspringe ends, I'm coming home.
Anyway, during rumspringe a youth can take in the sights and sounds of the English world previously forbidden. They can live in the city, wear modern clothes, listen to music, watch TV, drink and drive. Some get into trouble because they can't handle the freedom. Some never go home--if they choose the English world, they are "shunned" by their families. Some can't wait to return to the simpler way of life.
I'm a little old for rumspringe. Never in Amish history has a two-days-from-sixty woman been turned loose to experience rumspringe. If she didn't get the world out of her system at 17, well, tough toodles.
And yet, that's how I feel. The past months, culminating with my first ever time in Las Vegas, is my rumspringe. Yes, I have a TV and radio; I drive and play CDs really loud to drown out my singing. I wear clothes that suit my personality if not exactly Vogue. I use a cell phone. But never in my life have I been turned loose to experience the "English" world--until now.
My life has been a simple one. We have the usual modern conveniences. I get a new car every four or five years, not a buggy and Clydesdale. I cut my hair, pluck my eyebrows, wear outrageous earrings and adorn my nails with glitz and glimmer. We are simple folk. We like rides in the country, moonlit nights and a bonfire now and then. We are not travelers. So you can see why this trip to Las Vegas is my rumspringe.
I have every intention of having a good time as soon as the Dramamine wears off and my stomach settles to a dull ache. I will enjoy the "lights, camera, action!" of the famous Strip, the big show we will attend and the bing-bong of the casino. The meetings are an afterthought; I have to go to them to be able to enjoy the rest. Even they will be exciting, because I will be on the ground floor of a new team launch.
The "English" world, much maligned by the Amish, is nonetheless useful to them. It provides a place to shop for material goods, a place to work when farming doesn't pay enough, a place to sell their jam, meat and quilts. It is the English who buy their furniture, taking great pride in saying their porch swing is "Amish crafted".
So it is with me. I have no lust to live in Las Vegas, not even off the Strip in the regular sections of the city. I do not pant for life of lights and noise. One show with all its glamour will be probably enough for a lifetime. Yet--here's the catch 22--I have to experience it before I can deny it. The English world isn't where my heart is, but is useful for a break from the monotony of real life.
There it is. The Amish in their wisdom have seen the truth. If one is denied (or ignores) the experiences set in front of her, how does she know what she loves? Not just Las Vegas, but life here in Erie, PA, too. If I don't take in a play or ballet, see a rock concert or go dancing; if I don't sip apricot brandy or a mai tai on occasion instead of my usual G&T--how will I ever know? If I don't sit on a bench at Rodderick overlooking the waters of Lake Erie, or take a kayak on a one-woman trip to the Lagoons, how will I know what I have missed?
Hubby and I have been together for forty-plus years. Every day lately, it seems, we find out something new about each other. We are starting to take time once again to experience simple pleasures. It's time we explored the "English" world.
So my rumspringe begins. Unlike the Amish kids, mine will only last a few days. I won't find my heart in Las Vegas; my heart is in Erie, PA. I won't find the love of my life there; he is in Erie, PA, too. I won't sleep much, I won't have a shedding 100 pound dog at my feet. Those, too, are in Erie. I, too, would be shunned if I gave up my life here for the life of a casino groupie.
No worries, my friends. When my rumspringe ends, I'm coming home.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
At The Y
I will make a friend today. Somehow, somewhere.
It was unlikely, really. The Y on a warm, clear summer night is relatively deserted. Only a few of my new friends were there, all of them on their way to classes or huffing on spin bikes or ellipticals. I resigned myself to walking alone unless my trainer found time to join me.
A woman in red was headed toward me on the track.
"You're going the wrong way!" she blurted. "Thursday is counter-clockwise!"
Well, yes it is. However, today is WEDNESDAY, and I'm walking in the right direction. I decided not to argue the point. Why bother? It is Wednesday, or I would have put garbage out. My birthday is on Wednesday. The newspaper said it is Wednesday. Why am I even THINKING about this? I kept walking; she passed me, scowling again.
Suddenly she stopped, approached me and said, "Why the h*** didn't you tell me it's Wednesday?"
I didn't answer, but we did start walking (in the right direction), discussing our foibles, our kids, Buddha and the Y in general. We exchanged numbers and agreed to walk again. We have much in common. I have made another friend.
I expect my trip to Las Vegas to be much the same. I am going with a friend of several years. The other team members are unknown to us, yet I am sure we will both come home with budding friendships. It is a gift, one that I will not waste.
It's like this...I yearn for friends of my past to be friends of my future. I long for old friendships to grow and to blossom. I want new friendships to thrive. I want to begin my next decade being surrounded by people I want to be with. Everywhere I go, I want to run into someone I can call "friend".
Bev and I may become coffee-klatsch friends, or maybe just Y friends. We will probably never share secrets, or peanut butter fudge from the bake sale. I doubt we will ever discuss evolution on Facebook, or argue the finer points of politics or religion. But we can talk and laugh, and we will find a niche in each other's lives.
As I begin a new decade, there are still old friends I want to see again. New friends can't take their places. A hug from an old friend is worth a thousand handshakes from a new one. I can hope that a few years down the road I will be able to say, "meet my old friend..."
It was unlikely, really. The Y on a warm, clear summer night is relatively deserted. Only a few of my new friends were there, all of them on their way to classes or huffing on spin bikes or ellipticals. I resigned myself to walking alone unless my trainer found time to join me.
A woman in red was headed toward me on the track.
"You're going the wrong way!" she blurted. "Thursday is counter-clockwise!"
Well, yes it is. However, today is WEDNESDAY, and I'm walking in the right direction. I decided not to argue the point. Why bother? It is Wednesday, or I would have put garbage out. My birthday is on Wednesday. The newspaper said it is Wednesday. Why am I even THINKING about this? I kept walking; she passed me, scowling again.
Suddenly she stopped, approached me and said, "Why the h*** didn't you tell me it's Wednesday?"
I didn't answer, but we did start walking (in the right direction), discussing our foibles, our kids, Buddha and the Y in general. We exchanged numbers and agreed to walk again. We have much in common. I have made another friend.
I expect my trip to Las Vegas to be much the same. I am going with a friend of several years. The other team members are unknown to us, yet I am sure we will both come home with budding friendships. It is a gift, one that I will not waste.
It's like this...I yearn for friends of my past to be friends of my future. I long for old friendships to grow and to blossom. I want new friendships to thrive. I want to begin my next decade being surrounded by people I want to be with. Everywhere I go, I want to run into someone I can call "friend".
Bev and I may become coffee-klatsch friends, or maybe just Y friends. We will probably never share secrets, or peanut butter fudge from the bake sale. I doubt we will ever discuss evolution on Facebook, or argue the finer points of politics or religion. But we can talk and laugh, and we will find a niche in each other's lives.
As I begin a new decade, there are still old friends I want to see again. New friends can't take their places. A hug from an old friend is worth a thousand handshakes from a new one. I can hope that a few years down the road I will be able to say, "meet my old friend..."
Monday, July 4, 2011
TMI
I am a hopeless romantic. I love to sneak up behind hubby and kiss his neck. I like it when somebody surprises me with trinkets or does the dishes or takes me out for ice cream for no occasion at all. I like to hear the words "I love you", "I like you", "I need you", "let's eat out." I like flowers and wine and sunsets, silky clothes and creamy chocolate. I like t be remembered on my birthday (coming soon!)
I didn't cry for a lot of years, then my heart was opened and I cry at everything--movies, songs, pictures of puppies. A dance at someone else's wedding was my best hope; now it has become an event. Being alone used to terrify me; now I have learned that I can be by myself and not feel alone.
The confidence is not without risk.
Last fall I was doing my day off chores, and I spotted a black GTO heading east on route 20. Thinking it was my husband's car I bared one shoulder, fluffed my hair and revved my engine (actually, it was the car I revved. I just purred.). Putting on my sexiest wink, I pulled up alongside--and looked straight into the eyes of a thirty-something, or maybe twenty-something, but it sure as heck wasn't my hubby the fifty-something. Do you know how fast an Equinox can move when motivated? Geez.
"How many GTOs can there be on route 20 on a Saturday?" I wailed to Hubby.
"Apparently at least two," he snarled, unamused.
Was that the end? Of course not. I saw a friend from high school days at the coffee shop. Boldly, I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Hi, there" with my brightest smile--to a total stranger. Same build, same hair, different face. I quickly excused myself, reaching for sugar packets as though he had been in my way....will I never learn.
"You did WHAT?!" said my friend when I confessed.
"I was just being nice, I thought." I whimpered. Cripes.
So the shell that I lived in for many a year has to be refurbished. Looks like I should spend some more time in it. I am certainly no floozy, though Hubby says I am a bit flirtatious. I am friendly, that's all. I no longer wave at GTOs or approach anybody at the coffee shop unless I am SURE who it is. I don't take candy from strangers, and I wouldn't take a ride from anybody who sings "I'm your vehicle, baby, I'll take you any place you wanna go."
But I will accept the trinket with a smile, the perfume with a hug, the ice cream with a grin. Like I said, I'm a hopeless romantic.
I didn't cry for a lot of years, then my heart was opened and I cry at everything--movies, songs, pictures of puppies. A dance at someone else's wedding was my best hope; now it has become an event. Being alone used to terrify me; now I have learned that I can be by myself and not feel alone.
The confidence is not without risk.
Last fall I was doing my day off chores, and I spotted a black GTO heading east on route 20. Thinking it was my husband's car I bared one shoulder, fluffed my hair and revved my engine (actually, it was the car I revved. I just purred.). Putting on my sexiest wink, I pulled up alongside--and looked straight into the eyes of a thirty-something, or maybe twenty-something, but it sure as heck wasn't my hubby the fifty-something. Do you know how fast an Equinox can move when motivated? Geez.
"How many GTOs can there be on route 20 on a Saturday?" I wailed to Hubby.
"Apparently at least two," he snarled, unamused.
Was that the end? Of course not. I saw a friend from high school days at the coffee shop. Boldly, I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Hi, there" with my brightest smile--to a total stranger. Same build, same hair, different face. I quickly excused myself, reaching for sugar packets as though he had been in my way....will I never learn.
"You did WHAT?!" said my friend when I confessed.
"I was just being nice, I thought." I whimpered. Cripes.
So the shell that I lived in for many a year has to be refurbished. Looks like I should spend some more time in it. I am certainly no floozy, though Hubby says I am a bit flirtatious. I am friendly, that's all. I no longer wave at GTOs or approach anybody at the coffee shop unless I am SURE who it is. I don't take candy from strangers, and I wouldn't take a ride from anybody who sings "I'm your vehicle, baby, I'll take you any place you wanna go."
But I will accept the trinket with a smile, the perfume with a hug, the ice cream with a grin. Like I said, I'm a hopeless romantic.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Calling
The pastor at my church, Pastor Jeff, was truly called to his post; it wasn't happenstance or merely luck, nor an alternative he chose to something far more lucrative. His notes, his sermons and his booming laugh all attest to his joy at serving his congregation and his Lord.
Do you know what your calling is? I didn't until a couple of years ago. It's possible that I have been called many times in my life, as you have--to be a child, a parent. We all are put on earth for a purpose. It was, however, when I realized it was God speaking to me that my life changed. Oh, I am only a human with human desires and human imperfections by the multitudes. Once I recognized and accepted my gifts and my calling, that area of my life became, if not perfect, then joyous.
We can make guesses at God's will. We can ask for signs and portents and believe that He has given His approval when indeed it is at best ourselves, at worst the devil on our shoulders. Is our talent a gift? Or is it acquired by our free will? Can it be used for the betterment of our extended world? Is it our passion? Is it His will? Is it strictly for profit? (Whoa! nothing wrong with profit! I am a capitalist to the core!) Is it useful to the spirit?
I know of a rich man who built a thriving business. When it was destroyed by fire, his customers collected money to help him rebuild. He opted to give the money to his out-of-work employees. Yes, he is rebuilding--not just the business but the good will. Is the business his calling? I believe it is.
I know a man who left a lucrative career to become a minister. His wife hated the idea and eventually left him. His congregation was at odds with itself. His sermons were technically correct, but without conviction. He was not a gracious guest in one's home. He thought ministry was his calling, but his place would have been better served as a director or an assistant where his technical background would have been useful. Far more people left his church than were drawn to it. I'm certain the Lord has a plan for him; it just wasn't ministry.
When God speaks, He does it with authority--be it a whisper or a cacophony of angelic choir. He speaks only truth. If we listen, we can hear the direction He is sending us. It will feel right; there will be no doubt. We will see the indescribable light of satisfaction and feel the passion of knowing it is from Him.
Callings are easy to spot in another. The passion with which an artisan shows his work, the compassion of a gifted nurse or the genius of a teacher, the pride of a baker displaying his wares--you can tell who is called and who is earning a paycheck and nothing more. We recognize it in the doctor who crams in the patients and hurries them out, or the attorney who collects a fee but doesn't try his best. We all know parents who should have been childless and pet owners who should have pet rocks instead of living creatures.
The differences between a want-to-be-there and a have-to-be-there in any field is palpable. A calling is more than ability to do the project. It is a place of passion and purpose that gives something to others, be it laughter or service, and glory to God.
I have learned, during my journey to become whole, what makes me crazy and what I love. Some things, like housework, I have to do whether or not I want to. Other things, like dancing to live music and sipping gin and tonic, I had forgotten that I love. Some things, like weeds, I barely tolerate. Others, like being with childhood friends, I cherish. I was blessed with the opportunity to have them back in my life.
The job I am taking is a step I needed to take. It isn't enough hours, but I will get a part-time job to take care of that part. It's got a product line different from what I have done for decades; I see it as a challenge. It came to me unbidden at time when I needed change. I didn't even interview for it. It was meant to be. I relish the chance to begin again, but is this a calling? No, just work.
My calling is my ability to speak without fear, and to write those things I feel. When I put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, I pray for the words that will touch one person, one time, and make a difference in one life. Maybe I will help someone to know God, or make them laugh. Maybe one person will see that I am talking directly to him or to her and hear what I have left unsaid. As I prepare to put my essays into book form, I recognize my gifts as God-given and pray that I can use them wisely. My words are my calling.
So, why did God wait so long to call me? Maybe I wasn't ready to hear Him. Maybe I was called to do other things first, like to be a wife, mother, grandmother--or to learn who I am inside. Maybe it was my stubborn human-ness that kept me from paying attention. Today is different.
He has called me. Lord, I have heard You!
Do you know what your calling is? I didn't until a couple of years ago. It's possible that I have been called many times in my life, as you have--to be a child, a parent. We all are put on earth for a purpose. It was, however, when I realized it was God speaking to me that my life changed. Oh, I am only a human with human desires and human imperfections by the multitudes. Once I recognized and accepted my gifts and my calling, that area of my life became, if not perfect, then joyous.
We can make guesses at God's will. We can ask for signs and portents and believe that He has given His approval when indeed it is at best ourselves, at worst the devil on our shoulders. Is our talent a gift? Or is it acquired by our free will? Can it be used for the betterment of our extended world? Is it our passion? Is it His will? Is it strictly for profit? (Whoa! nothing wrong with profit! I am a capitalist to the core!) Is it useful to the spirit?
I know of a rich man who built a thriving business. When it was destroyed by fire, his customers collected money to help him rebuild. He opted to give the money to his out-of-work employees. Yes, he is rebuilding--not just the business but the good will. Is the business his calling? I believe it is.
I know a man who left a lucrative career to become a minister. His wife hated the idea and eventually left him. His congregation was at odds with itself. His sermons were technically correct, but without conviction. He was not a gracious guest in one's home. He thought ministry was his calling, but his place would have been better served as a director or an assistant where his technical background would have been useful. Far more people left his church than were drawn to it. I'm certain the Lord has a plan for him; it just wasn't ministry.
When God speaks, He does it with authority--be it a whisper or a cacophony of angelic choir. He speaks only truth. If we listen, we can hear the direction He is sending us. It will feel right; there will be no doubt. We will see the indescribable light of satisfaction and feel the passion of knowing it is from Him.
Callings are easy to spot in another. The passion with which an artisan shows his work, the compassion of a gifted nurse or the genius of a teacher, the pride of a baker displaying his wares--you can tell who is called and who is earning a paycheck and nothing more. We recognize it in the doctor who crams in the patients and hurries them out, or the attorney who collects a fee but doesn't try his best. We all know parents who should have been childless and pet owners who should have pet rocks instead of living creatures.
The differences between a want-to-be-there and a have-to-be-there in any field is palpable. A calling is more than ability to do the project. It is a place of passion and purpose that gives something to others, be it laughter or service, and glory to God.
I have learned, during my journey to become whole, what makes me crazy and what I love. Some things, like housework, I have to do whether or not I want to. Other things, like dancing to live music and sipping gin and tonic, I had forgotten that I love. Some things, like weeds, I barely tolerate. Others, like being with childhood friends, I cherish. I was blessed with the opportunity to have them back in my life.
The job I am taking is a step I needed to take. It isn't enough hours, but I will get a part-time job to take care of that part. It's got a product line different from what I have done for decades; I see it as a challenge. It came to me unbidden at time when I needed change. I didn't even interview for it. It was meant to be. I relish the chance to begin again, but is this a calling? No, just work.
My calling is my ability to speak without fear, and to write those things I feel. When I put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, I pray for the words that will touch one person, one time, and make a difference in one life. Maybe I will help someone to know God, or make them laugh. Maybe one person will see that I am talking directly to him or to her and hear what I have left unsaid. As I prepare to put my essays into book form, I recognize my gifts as God-given and pray that I can use them wisely. My words are my calling.
So, why did God wait so long to call me? Maybe I wasn't ready to hear Him. Maybe I was called to do other things first, like to be a wife, mother, grandmother--or to learn who I am inside. Maybe it was my stubborn human-ness that kept me from paying attention. Today is different.
He has called me. Lord, I have heard You!
Monday, June 27, 2011
Secrets
Good secrets, bad secrets. We teach this to our children when they are very young.
Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. Unfortunately too true.
You have secrets, even if you don't realize it. You have secret shame, or secret thoughts. You don't tell anyone because it is a guilty pleasure, or just plain guilt. There are things you don't want to share with anyone, things you see no need to share and things you should forever keep to yourself.
Some of our secrets cost us love or friendship, marriage, our job or even our lives or our freedom. They turn us into someone we don't recognize because we won't face them. Some secrets make us smile, like the secret crush on the boy next door or the stash of chocolate we nibble on when alone. Some make us cry, so we push them into the filing cabinets of our brains.
No one person knows all our secrets. We play the role of being open and honest with our siblings or our spouses or our best friend or our therapist. We share a little bit with her, a little bit with him, but always, always there is that little bit we keep to ourselves. It's part of being human, I guess.
Is keeping secrets the same as living a lie? No, not always. There are some things so private that sharing them would be a mistake. There are some things that feel right and you want to share them but you don't understand what the outcome will be. There are things that should be left unsaid, never to be shared with anyone.
I shared a secret with a friend of many years. It was a mistake. I should have kept my mouth shut. It put a strain on our friendship that will never be repaired. I have apologized over and over, but it doesn't seem to matter. Someday I hope the friendship can be mended.
I know another friend's secret. I will never tell, because it would hurt a lot of people. I found out by accident; the friend is unaware that I know. I would die before I would tell.
Yesterday I told my biggest secret to my oldest friend. I know it is safe with her. It had affected me, her, us, for many years. It was a burden I carried. Afterwards, I felt bad that I had given her a portion of my burden to struggle with. I feel lighter now, and I hope I haven't given her any of my pain to bear. Still, she is the most loving and forgiving, non-judgemental person I have ever known. We'll be OK.
There is much to do in the next couple of weeks. Turning sixty is a big deal for me. I want to celebrate this new decade in a special way. I want to be free of the guilt I have over people I might have mistreated. I want forgiveness for my actions that may have offended anyone. I want to celebrate with faith, truthfulness and the simple joy of being alive. I want to give a portion of the love I have been given to my friends, to strangers and to myself. (The irony is not lost on me--if I don't love me, no one else will either.)
Good secrets, bad secrets. Some to keep, some to share, some best discarded. All to learn from.
Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. Unfortunately too true.
You have secrets, even if you don't realize it. You have secret shame, or secret thoughts. You don't tell anyone because it is a guilty pleasure, or just plain guilt. There are things you don't want to share with anyone, things you see no need to share and things you should forever keep to yourself.
Some of our secrets cost us love or friendship, marriage, our job or even our lives or our freedom. They turn us into someone we don't recognize because we won't face them. Some secrets make us smile, like the secret crush on the boy next door or the stash of chocolate we nibble on when alone. Some make us cry, so we push them into the filing cabinets of our brains.
No one person knows all our secrets. We play the role of being open and honest with our siblings or our spouses or our best friend or our therapist. We share a little bit with her, a little bit with him, but always, always there is that little bit we keep to ourselves. It's part of being human, I guess.
Is keeping secrets the same as living a lie? No, not always. There are some things so private that sharing them would be a mistake. There are some things that feel right and you want to share them but you don't understand what the outcome will be. There are things that should be left unsaid, never to be shared with anyone.
I shared a secret with a friend of many years. It was a mistake. I should have kept my mouth shut. It put a strain on our friendship that will never be repaired. I have apologized over and over, but it doesn't seem to matter. Someday I hope the friendship can be mended.
I know another friend's secret. I will never tell, because it would hurt a lot of people. I found out by accident; the friend is unaware that I know. I would die before I would tell.
Yesterday I told my biggest secret to my oldest friend. I know it is safe with her. It had affected me, her, us, for many years. It was a burden I carried. Afterwards, I felt bad that I had given her a portion of my burden to struggle with. I feel lighter now, and I hope I haven't given her any of my pain to bear. Still, she is the most loving and forgiving, non-judgemental person I have ever known. We'll be OK.
There is much to do in the next couple of weeks. Turning sixty is a big deal for me. I want to celebrate this new decade in a special way. I want to be free of the guilt I have over people I might have mistreated. I want forgiveness for my actions that may have offended anyone. I want to celebrate with faith, truthfulness and the simple joy of being alive. I want to give a portion of the love I have been given to my friends, to strangers and to myself. (The irony is not lost on me--if I don't love me, no one else will either.)
Good secrets, bad secrets. Some to keep, some to share, some best discarded. All to learn from.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Reality Check
We have new neighbors, originally from the Ukraine. Nalia can't be said to be perky, but she seems nice, friendly and above all, industrious. She and her mother Nina moved to this great land of ours eight years ago for reasons I can only guess. What I do know is that her mother wished for a real house to live n, not an apartment. That wish was granted last fall.
Nina wanted to have room for the flowers she loved as well as the food she needed, so the plain front lawn has become a perennial showpiece. Nalia has taken the flowers and entwined them with paths of white stone, accented with figures of gnomes and bunnies. She's not a landscape architect, not a horticulturalist--just a very hard worker. It is so beautiful, you have to stop and stare.
"Would you like to see the back?" she queried. Of course! and I was led into the most productive city-lot garden I have seen since Grandpa D had his on Twentieth Street. The previous folks had left behind an old wood deck. Nalia dismantled it piece by piece and repurposed the wood into raised box gardens. Each box has potatoes or tomatoes, berries (five kinds), celery, eggplants or one of four varieties of squash--or herbs, or cucumbers, or who knows what else. Nina tends to them while Nalia works, then Nalia comes home and begins her part. Nina uses no chemicals, just rainwater and her own seventy-something hands. There will be enough food to last them until next year's harvest.
Nina speaks little English, but Nalia translates. She is proud of her garden, as she has every right to be.
I suppose it has to do with life in the Ukraine, learning at a young age that you have to be self-sufficient to live. In our spoiled, abundant land we rarely have to learn that lesson. While Nalia works two jobs, takes care of her aging mother and tends the flowers, I am complaining about the cost of food and gas. While Nina cares for the house and vegetables, I complain about the dusting I hate to do and the basement from Hades.
I am reminded of both my grandfathers with their gardens, one simple and one elaborate. They had plenty for us, and always some to share. I am reminded of the families on Nineteenth Street with their block of garden plots by the railroad tracks. Everybody did their share of the work, everybody took their share of the harvest.
Today? We want, we take, we buy. We are too busy. We have forgotten how to be industrious in our hypocritical society. Too many of us are dependent on hand-outs instead of attempting to make our own way. We see so much every day at every store. We get upset when we can't find exactly the right color or flavor.
The self-sufficiency of my neighbors, my grandfathers and the people of Nineteenth Street make me ashamed of my self-indulgence. My idea of self-sufficiency is to drive to the supermarket and pay for it all by myself.
Will I change? Unlikely. I am just another spoiled American.
Nina wanted to have room for the flowers she loved as well as the food she needed, so the plain front lawn has become a perennial showpiece. Nalia has taken the flowers and entwined them with paths of white stone, accented with figures of gnomes and bunnies. She's not a landscape architect, not a horticulturalist--just a very hard worker. It is so beautiful, you have to stop and stare.
"Would you like to see the back?" she queried. Of course! and I was led into the most productive city-lot garden I have seen since Grandpa D had his on Twentieth Street. The previous folks had left behind an old wood deck. Nalia dismantled it piece by piece and repurposed the wood into raised box gardens. Each box has potatoes or tomatoes, berries (five kinds), celery, eggplants or one of four varieties of squash--or herbs, or cucumbers, or who knows what else. Nina tends to them while Nalia works, then Nalia comes home and begins her part. Nina uses no chemicals, just rainwater and her own seventy-something hands. There will be enough food to last them until next year's harvest.
Nina speaks little English, but Nalia translates. She is proud of her garden, as she has every right to be.
I suppose it has to do with life in the Ukraine, learning at a young age that you have to be self-sufficient to live. In our spoiled, abundant land we rarely have to learn that lesson. While Nalia works two jobs, takes care of her aging mother and tends the flowers, I am complaining about the cost of food and gas. While Nina cares for the house and vegetables, I complain about the dusting I hate to do and the basement from Hades.
I am reminded of both my grandfathers with their gardens, one simple and one elaborate. They had plenty for us, and always some to share. I am reminded of the families on Nineteenth Street with their block of garden plots by the railroad tracks. Everybody did their share of the work, everybody took their share of the harvest.
Today? We want, we take, we buy. We are too busy. We have forgotten how to be industrious in our hypocritical society. Too many of us are dependent on hand-outs instead of attempting to make our own way. We see so much every day at every store. We get upset when we can't find exactly the right color or flavor.
The self-sufficiency of my neighbors, my grandfathers and the people of Nineteenth Street make me ashamed of my self-indulgence. My idea of self-sufficiency is to drive to the supermarket and pay for it all by myself.
Will I change? Unlikely. I am just another spoiled American.
I Sream, You Scream
Not in this house, you don't--but that's another topic. I am referring to the dessert of presidents and kings, of all of us great and small, those who have a palette for the finer tastes and those who do not. Drum roll, please, or perhaps a choir of angelic voices.....
Ice Cream
You know my staples--chocolate, peanut butter and coffee. But with the heat and golden sunlight of summer, as well as the occasional hot flash (when, dear God, do these END???) I need ice cream daily.
It's no wonder my diet stalls. I have worked peanut butter and a square of eighty-five per cent cacao into my plan, no problem, and still lose about a half pound most weeks. Then the weather finally warmed to the eighties. Yes, I am lapping up the heat. As one who usually prefers the sixties in life and temperature, this is a miracle of sorts.
This year is different in many ways. I am relishing every minute, including heat. Eighty-two, however, sent me to checking out my stash in the freezer--frozen Italian Ice, freezer pops, sugar-free fudge bars and a half gallon of cheap Neapolitan (minus most of the strawberry).
Ice cream and its cousins take care of heat in more ways than one. It's medicinal, you understand.
I've been very antsy lately. I'm tired of my sciatica preventing me from white watering and protesting when I try to work out at the gym. I'm sick of driving over a hundred miles a day for work. I'm tired of always having to postpone my dreams now that I know where my heart lies. I don't smoke and despite my bravado, I ordinarily drink only on occasional weekends. So, I guess I need a vice. I choose ice cream. Sue me.
By the time I am on my second Italian Ice or fudge pop, the hot flash cools to a gentle warm breeze. My temper loses its bite to the cool, creamy confection. My nerves calm as soon as the frozen chocolate tangles with my taste buds.
At lunchtime my standard fare of tuna, crackers, yogurt and fruit aren't especially appealing, so I take the drive-through. For a buck and change, I slurp up 120 calories of frozen yogurt. It isn't Ben and Jerry's, but it works.
How many of the world's ills could be resolved if leaders would share a banana split? Sounds simplistic, but how can anyone stay angry while his mouth is full of pineapple syrup and crushed nuts? Wrap your tongue around the whipped cream and you'll see what I mean.
Surely God was smiling when the first man sweetened his snowball with maple syrup. He must have chuckled when man (or more likely woman) found a way to fold fruit and nuts into frozen cream. He probably rolled on the clouds when somebody plopped it into a cone. Now they get it! I'm sure He roared.
As I write I am working on the strawberry section of the Neapolitan.. There were a few berries left, and I added them, too. It is soft, like when I used to stir it into mush as a kid. I had almost forgotten this little indulgence. It makes me laugh out loud at the sheer pleasure of it.
I feel so much better. My body is cool, my temperament has calmed. Tomorrow I will park farther from my account or walk a little farther at the Y. Maybe I'll ride an extra mile on the recumbent bike, or try to get the hang of the elliptical.
One way or another, my diet will include ice cream.
Ice Cream
You know my staples--chocolate, peanut butter and coffee. But with the heat and golden sunlight of summer, as well as the occasional hot flash (when, dear God, do these END???) I need ice cream daily.
It's no wonder my diet stalls. I have worked peanut butter and a square of eighty-five per cent cacao into my plan, no problem, and still lose about a half pound most weeks. Then the weather finally warmed to the eighties. Yes, I am lapping up the heat. As one who usually prefers the sixties in life and temperature, this is a miracle of sorts.
This year is different in many ways. I am relishing every minute, including heat. Eighty-two, however, sent me to checking out my stash in the freezer--frozen Italian Ice, freezer pops, sugar-free fudge bars and a half gallon of cheap Neapolitan (minus most of the strawberry).
Ice cream and its cousins take care of heat in more ways than one. It's medicinal, you understand.
I've been very antsy lately. I'm tired of my sciatica preventing me from white watering and protesting when I try to work out at the gym. I'm sick of driving over a hundred miles a day for work. I'm tired of always having to postpone my dreams now that I know where my heart lies. I don't smoke and despite my bravado, I ordinarily drink only on occasional weekends. So, I guess I need a vice. I choose ice cream. Sue me.
By the time I am on my second Italian Ice or fudge pop, the hot flash cools to a gentle warm breeze. My temper loses its bite to the cool, creamy confection. My nerves calm as soon as the frozen chocolate tangles with my taste buds.
At lunchtime my standard fare of tuna, crackers, yogurt and fruit aren't especially appealing, so I take the drive-through. For a buck and change, I slurp up 120 calories of frozen yogurt. It isn't Ben and Jerry's, but it works.
How many of the world's ills could be resolved if leaders would share a banana split? Sounds simplistic, but how can anyone stay angry while his mouth is full of pineapple syrup and crushed nuts? Wrap your tongue around the whipped cream and you'll see what I mean.
Surely God was smiling when the first man sweetened his snowball with maple syrup. He must have chuckled when man (or more likely woman) found a way to fold fruit and nuts into frozen cream. He probably rolled on the clouds when somebody plopped it into a cone. Now they get it! I'm sure He roared.
As I write I am working on the strawberry section of the Neapolitan.. There were a few berries left, and I added them, too. It is soft, like when I used to stir it into mush as a kid. I had almost forgotten this little indulgence. It makes me laugh out loud at the sheer pleasure of it.
I feel so much better. My body is cool, my temperament has calmed. Tomorrow I will park farther from my account or walk a little farther at the Y. Maybe I'll ride an extra mile on the recumbent bike, or try to get the hang of the elliptical.
One way or another, my diet will include ice cream.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Blue Hair
My tresses are naturally silver. They are not your average grey. They are not the baby blond of my infancy, nor the bottle-induced auburn of some of my teen years. It has not been yellowed with chemicals nor age. I wouldn't trade it for any other color.
The other day, however, I noticed it looked a bit tarnished. I remembered my mother buying a shampoo especially designed to remove the yellow from white or grey hair, Silver Fox by name. If she used it too often, her hair turned a pale shade of lavender. Well, surely technology has worked on that, right? Silver Fox isn't on the market anymore, but I did find a special shampoo for grey hair that made the same claims.
I usually lather my short hair twice, once for the hair and once or the scalp. I was a little put-off by the deep purple of the shampoo, but that's just marketing, right? So I toweled it dry as usual, ran a brush through and left it wet with a hint of spray as I always do. My husband, bleary-eyed from working all night, said only, "Have a good day, Honey."
I tossed my bags in the back and adjusted the seat as I always have to do when someone else drives my car. I turned the key, found my favorite oldies station on the radio. Buckling my seat belt, I did a last minute check in the mirror.
The face that looked back was mine, OK. The flawless make-up gave it a healthy glow. The eyes were mine, too, and simple gold hoops adorned my ears. I pulled the silver curl down on my forehead....and it wasn't silver. It was pale lilac. It must be the light...no, it's purple. I had visions of people thinking I was in costume, or that I was really OLD. I would have to be careful of my driving and parking, or they would call me a "blue hair". If I tried to flirt, I would be called a cougar. I could not go out in public like this!
Well, thank goodness I don't have to punch a time clock. I flew back into the house to the strains of, "Whaja forget this time?" and went straight to the bathroom sink. Grabbing my trusty VO5, I washed my hair three times before I was satisfied. I have to say, it was very, very shiny and showed no tinge of blue.
Some of the ladies I meet each day don't seem to mind their hair color, be it grey, blond, brown, blue or black as pitch. I, as you have surmised, am a little vain. Give me silver any day.
The other day, however, I noticed it looked a bit tarnished. I remembered my mother buying a shampoo especially designed to remove the yellow from white or grey hair, Silver Fox by name. If she used it too often, her hair turned a pale shade of lavender. Well, surely technology has worked on that, right? Silver Fox isn't on the market anymore, but I did find a special shampoo for grey hair that made the same claims.
I usually lather my short hair twice, once for the hair and once or the scalp. I was a little put-off by the deep purple of the shampoo, but that's just marketing, right? So I toweled it dry as usual, ran a brush through and left it wet with a hint of spray as I always do. My husband, bleary-eyed from working all night, said only, "Have a good day, Honey."
I tossed my bags in the back and adjusted the seat as I always have to do when someone else drives my car. I turned the key, found my favorite oldies station on the radio. Buckling my seat belt, I did a last minute check in the mirror.
The face that looked back was mine, OK. The flawless make-up gave it a healthy glow. The eyes were mine, too, and simple gold hoops adorned my ears. I pulled the silver curl down on my forehead....and it wasn't silver. It was pale lilac. It must be the light...no, it's purple. I had visions of people thinking I was in costume, or that I was really OLD. I would have to be careful of my driving and parking, or they would call me a "blue hair". If I tried to flirt, I would be called a cougar. I could not go out in public like this!
Well, thank goodness I don't have to punch a time clock. I flew back into the house to the strains of, "Whaja forget this time?" and went straight to the bathroom sink. Grabbing my trusty VO5, I washed my hair three times before I was satisfied. I have to say, it was very, very shiny and showed no tinge of blue.
Some of the ladies I meet each day don't seem to mind their hair color, be it grey, blond, brown, blue or black as pitch. I, as you have surmised, am a little vain. Give me silver any day.
Fantasy
As children we had our dolls and toy cars (I also had an orange steam shovel). We made up wonderful games. The vacant lot by our house on Twentieth Street became a jungle or a playground, a circus or a ball field. It would take my fingers and toes, and yours, too, to count all our friends who came to play with us. Some were constant companions, others had aunts or grandparents who lived in the neighborhood, still others were school chums from a couple of blocks away. The joy and innocence of childhood! How I wish it could remain forever.
My bedroom had a small closet like most WWII era homes. They were not noted for being spacious! It served its purpose, however, and another--the closet had a teeny door, way in the back. I suppose it was to reach pipes or something, but not then. I knew it opened the door to a magical kingdom, a land of fantasy--and it was all mine.
I would be in bed, trying to listen for the trains, or for the music at the Spot Cafe on the next corner when my mind would wander to the little door. In my dream state, I would open it and enter a land of wonder.
There was a huge round bed with brass rails and a fancy brass headboard. On it was a fluffy pink comforter covered with lilacs in white and lavender and edged in tatted lace like Grandma used to make. It sat under a tree with pink and white blossoms and was surrounded by fragrant flowers in yellow, red and white. A path covered in sparkly white stones led to a tiny bridge that arched over a little creek. The water was so clear, and tasted cool and sweet. Tiny little fish swam in the creek, all of them gold and silver and blue.
Across the bridge was a pasture where all kinds of animals grazed peacefully--tigers and deer, ponies, angora kittens and big furry dogs. There were birds, too, and butterflies. Music was playing, but I couldn't tell you the genre. The field was littered with flowers of every color, and tall trees with leaves of red, orange and gold.
Under each tree was a treasure chest, like a pirate's chest from the movies. Each held something different. One was filled with gaudy jewelry of rubies, sapphires and emeralds set in gold; another held dolls in bridal gowns and teddy bears in tuxedos. Yet another had cones of cotton candy and sticky peppermints.
I had only to close my eyes, and I was wearing a frothy white dress, crystal slippers and a tiara that glittered with diamonds. I was no longer the little girl from Twentieth Street, I was queen of my own land. In my fantasy world, I was incredibly beautiful. I sang and danced and rolled in flower petals till at last I slept...
As I grew, the fantasies changed. I thought about the house I would live in, the man I would marry, the children I would bear. I made up stories about them, but only in my head, never on paper. Maybe I should do that someday.
No matter how I try to describe my dream world, the words are inadequate. It is impossible to describe a child's dreams. I say "white", but not the flat white of chalk; a gleaming, brilliant white of stardust and sunlight. Blue cannot adequately describe the morning sky in summer, nor can pink describe the clouds at sunset. The music was not rock, nor classical, but a blend of angel voices, the strings of a harp, the twang of a guitar and the harmony of an accordion.
It's been many years since I was in that bedroom with the secret door. I wonder if the new owners even know it is there, or where it leads. To some folks, a house is only a place to eat supper and sleep.
Today our world is so concentrated on reality that we have forgotten how to play and how to live in make-believe. The little doors lead to circuit breakers or pipes instead of a treasure. The floors have dog's muddy footprints instead of gold dust; the laundry is work uniforms and underclothes instead of silky ruffles. I have research to do, and paperwork to file, customers to see and grocery shopping to do. All of these take precedence over my fantasies. I am an adult now, with responsibilities.
Wait a minute.
I am an adult. I will still be an adult tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. There will still be laundry to do and paperwork to file.
Today and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, I am going to take time to dream. I will visit my fantasy world again, this time through the little door of my mind. It will be my place of escape.
It will be my very own fantasy.
My bedroom had a small closet like most WWII era homes. They were not noted for being spacious! It served its purpose, however, and another--the closet had a teeny door, way in the back. I suppose it was to reach pipes or something, but not then. I knew it opened the door to a magical kingdom, a land of fantasy--and it was all mine.
I would be in bed, trying to listen for the trains, or for the music at the Spot Cafe on the next corner when my mind would wander to the little door. In my dream state, I would open it and enter a land of wonder.
There was a huge round bed with brass rails and a fancy brass headboard. On it was a fluffy pink comforter covered with lilacs in white and lavender and edged in tatted lace like Grandma used to make. It sat under a tree with pink and white blossoms and was surrounded by fragrant flowers in yellow, red and white. A path covered in sparkly white stones led to a tiny bridge that arched over a little creek. The water was so clear, and tasted cool and sweet. Tiny little fish swam in the creek, all of them gold and silver and blue.
Across the bridge was a pasture where all kinds of animals grazed peacefully--tigers and deer, ponies, angora kittens and big furry dogs. There were birds, too, and butterflies. Music was playing, but I couldn't tell you the genre. The field was littered with flowers of every color, and tall trees with leaves of red, orange and gold.
Under each tree was a treasure chest, like a pirate's chest from the movies. Each held something different. One was filled with gaudy jewelry of rubies, sapphires and emeralds set in gold; another held dolls in bridal gowns and teddy bears in tuxedos. Yet another had cones of cotton candy and sticky peppermints.
I had only to close my eyes, and I was wearing a frothy white dress, crystal slippers and a tiara that glittered with diamonds. I was no longer the little girl from Twentieth Street, I was queen of my own land. In my fantasy world, I was incredibly beautiful. I sang and danced and rolled in flower petals till at last I slept...
As I grew, the fantasies changed. I thought about the house I would live in, the man I would marry, the children I would bear. I made up stories about them, but only in my head, never on paper. Maybe I should do that someday.
No matter how I try to describe my dream world, the words are inadequate. It is impossible to describe a child's dreams. I say "white", but not the flat white of chalk; a gleaming, brilliant white of stardust and sunlight. Blue cannot adequately describe the morning sky in summer, nor can pink describe the clouds at sunset. The music was not rock, nor classical, but a blend of angel voices, the strings of a harp, the twang of a guitar and the harmony of an accordion.
It's been many years since I was in that bedroom with the secret door. I wonder if the new owners even know it is there, or where it leads. To some folks, a house is only a place to eat supper and sleep.
Today our world is so concentrated on reality that we have forgotten how to play and how to live in make-believe. The little doors lead to circuit breakers or pipes instead of a treasure. The floors have dog's muddy footprints instead of gold dust; the laundry is work uniforms and underclothes instead of silky ruffles. I have research to do, and paperwork to file, customers to see and grocery shopping to do. All of these take precedence over my fantasies. I am an adult now, with responsibilities.
Wait a minute.
I am an adult. I will still be an adult tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. There will still be laundry to do and paperwork to file.
Today and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, I am going to take time to dream. I will visit my fantasy world again, this time through the little door of my mind. It will be my place of escape.
It will be my very own fantasy.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Brick #1 Iz Grey
The kid was building with Legos. His mom said it looked like modern art, and it needed a simple name, like "Brick #1 is grey."
What a great title!
Black and white isn't much fun. So many things are in shades of grey depending on the surrounding circumstances. Would you kill? No, of course not...but wait....hurt one of my loved ones, especially my grandchildren...watch how fast that answer changes. Do you lie? No, I don't think so. Didn't you just say that dress doesn't make her look fat when really it makes her look like a Sumo wrestler? Ah, when it comes to self-preservation, the rules change.
If I hold in my manicured fingers information that will hurt someone, do I give it up? I'm not talking legal issues here, just moral ones. What if it will cause more harm than good? If someone shares an unwanted memory, am I obliged to listen? If someone is critical of a loved one, how far will I go to keep peace?
The "me" I have found is a peaceful one. I have decided to surround myself only with those people and things that I enjoy having in my presence. I will fill my mind with happy thoughts and images. Sounds child-like, doesn't it? There's a lot to be said for the innocence of childhood.
I can't have back my youth. I don't really want it, I guess. But I would like the have back the innocence of childhood. I'd like to have the uncomplicated faith of a child. I'd like to look at everything new, like my granddaughter does, without preconceived notions. I'd like some of my friendships to start fresh, as they were at the beginning. I want all the guilt of ice cream and cotton candy absolved.
If I could go back to childhood, I often said that I'd like to go back knowing what I know now...but I have re-thought that. Shades of grey and colors are so much more interesting than black and white. They give life to a sterile world. I wouldn't want to know what I know now. I'd want to start from scratch, without ideas of how anything should be. I'd like to look at everything new, as a child does, and build it again, block by block.
The first one is grey.
What a great title!
Black and white isn't much fun. So many things are in shades of grey depending on the surrounding circumstances. Would you kill? No, of course not...but wait....hurt one of my loved ones, especially my grandchildren...watch how fast that answer changes. Do you lie? No, I don't think so. Didn't you just say that dress doesn't make her look fat when really it makes her look like a Sumo wrestler? Ah, when it comes to self-preservation, the rules change.
If I hold in my manicured fingers information that will hurt someone, do I give it up? I'm not talking legal issues here, just moral ones. What if it will cause more harm than good? If someone shares an unwanted memory, am I obliged to listen? If someone is critical of a loved one, how far will I go to keep peace?
The "me" I have found is a peaceful one. I have decided to surround myself only with those people and things that I enjoy having in my presence. I will fill my mind with happy thoughts and images. Sounds child-like, doesn't it? There's a lot to be said for the innocence of childhood.
I can't have back my youth. I don't really want it, I guess. But I would like the have back the innocence of childhood. I'd like to have the uncomplicated faith of a child. I'd like to look at everything new, like my granddaughter does, without preconceived notions. I'd like some of my friendships to start fresh, as they were at the beginning. I want all the guilt of ice cream and cotton candy absolved.
If I could go back to childhood, I often said that I'd like to go back knowing what I know now...but I have re-thought that. Shades of grey and colors are so much more interesting than black and white. They give life to a sterile world. I wouldn't want to know what I know now. I'd want to start from scratch, without ideas of how anything should be. I'd like to look at everything new, as a child does, and build it again, block by block.
The first one is grey.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Hess Lodge
Today my grandparent's camp in Duhring, PA came to mind. There is a bushel of memories from the camp, too many for a simple essay. I'll settle for describing it and let your imagination do the rest.
The camp was built in 1933 from an old barn that Grandpa had torn down and moved--plank by plank--to Forest County. He officially named it "Hess Lodge", and for many years a wood-burned plaque bore the name and hung outside the front door. When I was about eleven, I informed Grandpa Ernie that it should be "HESS'S". Too many S's, he said, and "Hess Lodge" it remained. Most folks around there called it "Ernie's Place".
Hess Lodge was two stories high with barnboard siding and a green shingled roof. Grandpa built awnings over the front and back in preparation for the porches. (I used to call them "yawnings".) The first floor had two big rooms--a kitchen that eventually had running water and propane, and could seat a dozen with room to spare was at the back. The other side was a living room with an eisen-glassed pot belly stove, a floor-model radio, two pull-out sofas and a a huge library table. Upstairs were two bedrooms, each with two double beds and a chamber pot (look it up.). The beds were topped with feather-filled pads and feather-filled quilts that Grandma, and maybe Great-Grandma had made.
Grandpa had added porches made of two-by-fours and plywood and painted them a dull grey. Wicker chairs, a glider and old kitchen chairs served us well as we would sit and watch thunderstorms move into the valley.
Behind the camp was a deep pit, fifty feet across and at least twenty feet deep. Previous lessees (nobody could own the property there; it was leased from the state) had allowed gravel to be dug from it. It was never filled in, and neighbors tended to use it to get rid of their trash. Bears loved it. What treasures might still be buried there?
Along one side of the camp was an abandoned railroad track. As girls Mom and Aunt Marje would hop the train, or watch for the CCC boys to come riding in for treats at Grandma's table. They took care of Grandma during the week when she would often be there alone, doing routine chores and keeping the grass cut. Then they went back to the camp on Government Road where they lived. Many a time we followed that track to the swimming hole in one direction, or the swinging bridge in the other.
On the other side, down a steep embankment, was the "crick"--Spring Creek by name, trout heaven. Following the creek downstream took you to the same swinging bridge, a treacherous-looking wood and rope contraption that we ran across without fear. The other direction led to the swimming hole near Summer's place, home of kids and snapping turtles.
Out in the front yard was a huge stump. I'm not really sure of it's origin--it was never a tree in my lifetime. It must have been really big, the stump being at least eight feet across. Happy hours with my dolls and tree frogs, feeding birds and watching chipmunks and the occasional snake...what a life it was.
I remember every blade of grass at Hess Lodge. I remember the cool, clear water of the spring that supplied us, the sweetness of wild berries, the smell of the pines. I recall vividly the salamanders that hid under the porch and the sandbox that Grandpa brought into the living room when it rained. I remember the neighbors showing up as soon as Grandma or Aunt Marjie took a cake from the oven. I remember the dark green black-out shades from WWII that graced the windows. I remember the day my Dad chased a bear through the woods in his Jeep, and tagging along when he hunted rattlesnakes at the Gravel Pit. Looking for deer was a nightly ritual at Watson Farm or Pigeon, always ending with ice cream from Ridgeway or Marienville. Not a cone, no sirree. The half gallon was opened into a brick, sliced and stacked in our bowls, worked at by the four or five of us until nothing remained. Always Neapolitan. I got the strawberry.
And who could forget the bats! Nestled in a valley, the big trees made an excellent home for flying rodents. One night, Linda and I were minding our own business when the bat whooshed through. "GRANDPA!" we screeched, and in he came with his broom to down the bat. We couldn't find the carcass in the dim light and slept restlessly. It the morning, there it was, right beside Linda's shoe.
The camp has been remodeled into a house; the people who shared the cake at Grandma's table are gone. The memories, however, are etched there when I close my eyes.
I've become more sentimental of late, clinging to those days. I wonder what happened to Gary(was it Young or Youngberg?), the boy next door, or Vince from Youngstown? Or Betty with the black and white poodles? I wonder if the current owners are as happy there as we were?
Memories might be God's way of teaching us to appreciate what we have, or maybe they are just a pleasant way to spend an evening.
The camp was built in 1933 from an old barn that Grandpa had torn down and moved--plank by plank--to Forest County. He officially named it "Hess Lodge", and for many years a wood-burned plaque bore the name and hung outside the front door. When I was about eleven, I informed Grandpa Ernie that it should be "HESS'S". Too many S's, he said, and "Hess Lodge" it remained. Most folks around there called it "Ernie's Place".
Hess Lodge was two stories high with barnboard siding and a green shingled roof. Grandpa built awnings over the front and back in preparation for the porches. (I used to call them "yawnings".) The first floor had two big rooms--a kitchen that eventually had running water and propane, and could seat a dozen with room to spare was at the back. The other side was a living room with an eisen-glassed pot belly stove, a floor-model radio, two pull-out sofas and a a huge library table. Upstairs were two bedrooms, each with two double beds and a chamber pot (look it up.). The beds were topped with feather-filled pads and feather-filled quilts that Grandma, and maybe Great-Grandma had made.
Grandpa had added porches made of two-by-fours and plywood and painted them a dull grey. Wicker chairs, a glider and old kitchen chairs served us well as we would sit and watch thunderstorms move into the valley.
Behind the camp was a deep pit, fifty feet across and at least twenty feet deep. Previous lessees (nobody could own the property there; it was leased from the state) had allowed gravel to be dug from it. It was never filled in, and neighbors tended to use it to get rid of their trash. Bears loved it. What treasures might still be buried there?
Along one side of the camp was an abandoned railroad track. As girls Mom and Aunt Marje would hop the train, or watch for the CCC boys to come riding in for treats at Grandma's table. They took care of Grandma during the week when she would often be there alone, doing routine chores and keeping the grass cut. Then they went back to the camp on Government Road where they lived. Many a time we followed that track to the swimming hole in one direction, or the swinging bridge in the other.
On the other side, down a steep embankment, was the "crick"--Spring Creek by name, trout heaven. Following the creek downstream took you to the same swinging bridge, a treacherous-looking wood and rope contraption that we ran across without fear. The other direction led to the swimming hole near Summer's place, home of kids and snapping turtles.
Out in the front yard was a huge stump. I'm not really sure of it's origin--it was never a tree in my lifetime. It must have been really big, the stump being at least eight feet across. Happy hours with my dolls and tree frogs, feeding birds and watching chipmunks and the occasional snake...what a life it was.
I remember every blade of grass at Hess Lodge. I remember the cool, clear water of the spring that supplied us, the sweetness of wild berries, the smell of the pines. I recall vividly the salamanders that hid under the porch and the sandbox that Grandpa brought into the living room when it rained. I remember the neighbors showing up as soon as Grandma or Aunt Marjie took a cake from the oven. I remember the dark green black-out shades from WWII that graced the windows. I remember the day my Dad chased a bear through the woods in his Jeep, and tagging along when he hunted rattlesnakes at the Gravel Pit. Looking for deer was a nightly ritual at Watson Farm or Pigeon, always ending with ice cream from Ridgeway or Marienville. Not a cone, no sirree. The half gallon was opened into a brick, sliced and stacked in our bowls, worked at by the four or five of us until nothing remained. Always Neapolitan. I got the strawberry.
And who could forget the bats! Nestled in a valley, the big trees made an excellent home for flying rodents. One night, Linda and I were minding our own business when the bat whooshed through. "GRANDPA!" we screeched, and in he came with his broom to down the bat. We couldn't find the carcass in the dim light and slept restlessly. It the morning, there it was, right beside Linda's shoe.
The camp has been remodeled into a house; the people who shared the cake at Grandma's table are gone. The memories, however, are etched there when I close my eyes.
I've become more sentimental of late, clinging to those days. I wonder what happened to Gary(was it Young or Youngberg?), the boy next door, or Vince from Youngstown? Or Betty with the black and white poodles? I wonder if the current owners are as happy there as we were?
Memories might be God's way of teaching us to appreciate what we have, or maybe they are just a pleasant way to spend an evening.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Bookends
Old friends, bookends.
Old friends are the ones who keep you standing tall when you slouch. They came along in the beginning, and God willing, they will be there at the end. In between are many chapters. Sometimes years of pages get ripped out. It doesn't matter to an old friend They paste the pictures together, fill in the empty paragraphs, start a new book.
An old friend will listen to your complaints and give you advice before you ask. You don't mind, because your old friend knows you and knows your needs. An old friend knew you when you were really you, before time took its toll and before you lost yourself. They remind you of days at the Plaza, pampas grass, buttons and Barbie dolls.
Old friends let you talk about anything on your mind. You can discuss religion and politics, money and relationships without fear because to your old friend it's just a piece of who you are, not your essence. Your old friend has seen you without make-up and doesn't run away screaming in fright. Your old friend will bring you a Coke if you ask, and even if you don't. Old friends remember that you like rhubarb.and don't want oysters on the menu; they will give you peanut butter before you ask and not put jelly on it unless it is peach or apricot preserves. Your old friend doesn't care if you weigh more than you did, if you are balding or wrinkled. Old friends are glad to have you around, and your physical appearance and props don't matter.
Your old friend rejoices when you are happy or when you have found out something new about yourself. Your old friend cries for you when you are sad, hugs you when you need one, makes you walk when you want to sit in front of the TV because it's better for you. Old friends finish your sentences because they know what you were going to say. They gently chastise you if you can't tell the difference between cherry and strawberry Kool Aid, but it is with a laugh, not a snarl.
Old friends can be trusted with your life and your secrets. They know when you are lying to them and will gently guide you to the truth. They will lead you to God because they love you; they will keep you in their prayers because they genuinely care, but they won't insist that you share their faith or be ousted from their lives.
Today I counted how many friends from other days have come back into my life in the last year. Some I have known for more than fifty-five of my nearly sixty years. Some I have known more than forty. Amazing, since I am only sixteen (Celsius). Some I knew well back then, others were on the periphery. I lost count. In today's throw-away society I am truly blessed.
There are still some who are missing. I hope to find them someday, before the books tumble to the floor and the powers that be decide to toss them in the trash. There are still some missing pages, even whole chapters. I will find more of my old friends, watch and see.
Old friends are the ones who keep you standing tall when you slouch. They came along in the beginning, and God willing, they will be there at the end. In between are many chapters. Sometimes years of pages get ripped out. It doesn't matter to an old friend They paste the pictures together, fill in the empty paragraphs, start a new book.
An old friend will listen to your complaints and give you advice before you ask. You don't mind, because your old friend knows you and knows your needs. An old friend knew you when you were really you, before time took its toll and before you lost yourself. They remind you of days at the Plaza, pampas grass, buttons and Barbie dolls.
Old friends let you talk about anything on your mind. You can discuss religion and politics, money and relationships without fear because to your old friend it's just a piece of who you are, not your essence. Your old friend has seen you without make-up and doesn't run away screaming in fright. Your old friend will bring you a Coke if you ask, and even if you don't. Old friends remember that you like rhubarb.and don't want oysters on the menu; they will give you peanut butter before you ask and not put jelly on it unless it is peach or apricot preserves. Your old friend doesn't care if you weigh more than you did, if you are balding or wrinkled. Old friends are glad to have you around, and your physical appearance and props don't matter.
Your old friend rejoices when you are happy or when you have found out something new about yourself. Your old friend cries for you when you are sad, hugs you when you need one, makes you walk when you want to sit in front of the TV because it's better for you. Old friends finish your sentences because they know what you were going to say. They gently chastise you if you can't tell the difference between cherry and strawberry Kool Aid, but it is with a laugh, not a snarl.
Old friends can be trusted with your life and your secrets. They know when you are lying to them and will gently guide you to the truth. They will lead you to God because they love you; they will keep you in their prayers because they genuinely care, but they won't insist that you share their faith or be ousted from their lives.
Today I counted how many friends from other days have come back into my life in the last year. Some I have known for more than fifty-five of my nearly sixty years. Some I have known more than forty. Amazing, since I am only sixteen (Celsius). Some I knew well back then, others were on the periphery. I lost count. In today's throw-away society I am truly blessed.
There are still some who are missing. I hope to find them someday, before the books tumble to the floor and the powers that be decide to toss them in the trash. There are still some missing pages, even whole chapters. I will find more of my old friends, watch and see.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Not Alone Anymore
I don't know when it started, or why. I developed an insane fear of being alone. I don't mean the mornings Hubby went fishing, or the nights in a hotel in Pittsburgh. I mean really alone.
My parents were loving, giving people, like their parents and for generations before. Even Grandma D, who was known for her...uh...ways...was capable of love and thoughtfulness. Never, not once, did I feel unloved as a child.
Something changed. I was no longer the carefree kid who felt special, but the care-less person who felt the world owed her. I felt like I was doing all the giving and none of the getting. I didn't see myself that way, of course. I was the victim. I was the one being rejected without knowing why. I saw this cool, confident woman--and I was her, as long as things went as I expected them to. My way or the highway. It's incredible that our marriage survived those years. I was capable of unselfish love when it came to my boys, so I wasn't hopeless. There were times that I didn't like them much, but I always loved them.
Let's be truthful, much as it pains me to admit this for anyone to see. I was a selfish, spoiled brat. I look back now and every day I think of someone else I need to approach for forgiveness for my selfish ways. I look back to see the anger directed at my husband, the ignoring of old friends, the people I have only recently realized that I used for my own benefit. I have a lot of making up to do.
I once felt tired all the time, drained of energy and lacking any sort of emotion. If I received a rare compliment, I did not believe it. I was used up. I had given all I could.
I was right, you know. I was empty because I had refused to accept being refilled. I made excuses for not seeing my friends, I had reasons for my failures. The friends gradually drifted away. I left my church. I slipped into a polyester pants suit and a pony tail. On a good day, I was surly. On a bad day, well, you don't want to know. No wonder I became afraid of being alone. I was driving away the very people I wanted near me!
They weren't going to change.
It had to be me. Lord, I prayed, change me.
A series of events came into being. It began with a couple of emails when Mom died. It continued with its ups and downs for the past year. Fortunately, most of those to whom I have reached out have reached out to me, too. They welcomed me back into their lives without questioning what had happened along the way. They filled the empty me with self-less caring.
The outpouring goodness of my friends, my church, the YMCA, the patience of my husband--I have allowed these to fill me to overflowing. I get so excited that with some I have become overbearing. Sorry, but I am filled at last and I have to share it.
I am not perfect. I don't have to be. I can make room for the material "I wants". I can have my chocolate and peanut butter; I can drink my gin and dance all night. I still demand attention. I still feel fat. I will still put on an extra coat of Great Lash, pull my silver curl down on my forehead and wear my outrageous flirty earrings. They are just props.
God, let my words touch one person, one time, and make a difference in a life. I want to give back a portion of what has been given to me. Show me those I have wronged. Bring back into my life those who are estranged. Touch those who don't believe and give them belief. Take those who are afraid of being alone and give them companionship. Fill me with so much love and kindness that it spills over into those who need it more than I do.
I have found the real me. I like her. I will never be alone again.
My parents were loving, giving people, like their parents and for generations before. Even Grandma D, who was known for her...uh...ways...was capable of love and thoughtfulness. Never, not once, did I feel unloved as a child.
Something changed. I was no longer the carefree kid who felt special, but the care-less person who felt the world owed her. I felt like I was doing all the giving and none of the getting. I didn't see myself that way, of course. I was the victim. I was the one being rejected without knowing why. I saw this cool, confident woman--and I was her, as long as things went as I expected them to. My way or the highway. It's incredible that our marriage survived those years. I was capable of unselfish love when it came to my boys, so I wasn't hopeless. There were times that I didn't like them much, but I always loved them.
Let's be truthful, much as it pains me to admit this for anyone to see. I was a selfish, spoiled brat. I look back now and every day I think of someone else I need to approach for forgiveness for my selfish ways. I look back to see the anger directed at my husband, the ignoring of old friends, the people I have only recently realized that I used for my own benefit. I have a lot of making up to do.
I once felt tired all the time, drained of energy and lacking any sort of emotion. If I received a rare compliment, I did not believe it. I was used up. I had given all I could.
I was right, you know. I was empty because I had refused to accept being refilled. I made excuses for not seeing my friends, I had reasons for my failures. The friends gradually drifted away. I left my church. I slipped into a polyester pants suit and a pony tail. On a good day, I was surly. On a bad day, well, you don't want to know. No wonder I became afraid of being alone. I was driving away the very people I wanted near me!
They weren't going to change.
It had to be me. Lord, I prayed, change me.
A series of events came into being. It began with a couple of emails when Mom died. It continued with its ups and downs for the past year. Fortunately, most of those to whom I have reached out have reached out to me, too. They welcomed me back into their lives without questioning what had happened along the way. They filled the empty me with self-less caring.
The outpouring goodness of my friends, my church, the YMCA, the patience of my husband--I have allowed these to fill me to overflowing. I get so excited that with some I have become overbearing. Sorry, but I am filled at last and I have to share it.
I am not perfect. I don't have to be. I can make room for the material "I wants". I can have my chocolate and peanut butter; I can drink my gin and dance all night. I still demand attention. I still feel fat. I will still put on an extra coat of Great Lash, pull my silver curl down on my forehead and wear my outrageous flirty earrings. They are just props.
God, let my words touch one person, one time, and make a difference in a life. I want to give back a portion of what has been given to me. Show me those I have wronged. Bring back into my life those who are estranged. Touch those who don't believe and give them belief. Take those who are afraid of being alone and give them companionship. Fill me with so much love and kindness that it spills over into those who need it more than I do.
I have found the real me. I like her. I will never be alone again.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Pampas Grass
After Grandpa D passed away the summer I was nine, Grandma lost interest in the city-lot garden that Grandpa had faithfully tended. Instead, she would keep a few tomatoes and peppers and the rhubarb, of course; her perennials would stay, and the rest would be planted with grass for Dad to mow. When she suggested a hedgerow along the front walk for privacy, Dad was, shall we say, upset. And who the H*** is going to trim those! said he.
Grandma gave in, first time ever, I think, and planted pampas grass.
If you've never been introduced, perhaps it is time. Also known as "cut grass", pampas has a sticky silver vein in the middle of each blade. Touching it, hiding in it, God forbid chewing on it like a hayseed (yes, one of my stupid boyfriends tried that) results in sharp paper-like cuts that don't just hurt, they sting. All of us kids kept the Eckerd's Pharmacy in business with the sales of Mercurochrome and iodine, Our orange-stained skin was testimony to the power of pampas.
The pampas migrated to gram's house on Twentieth Street and to ours next door. From there, my aunt moved it to Parade Street. I'm surprised the entire east side wasn't dressed in pampas grass.
I remember playing "jungle" in that grass, "hide and seek" and other childhood games. Any kid from Twentieth Street will remember that row of grass. I was never afraid to walk after dark down by that lot. No one but us kids would ever hide out in it. We would fight over who had to retrieve the birdie from its depths, and no one wanted to run in that direction during a rousing game of "Red Rover".
The only good thing I can say is it had interesting golden-brown feathery fronds near the end of summer. Even after I was married and left Twentieth Street forever, I still cut those fuzzy fronds from our house or Aunt Marje's and put them in wildflower bouquets. I guess they reminded me of growing up.
When I cover my eyes and think of pampas grass, I see us as we were then, sitting behind those big bushes. We were playing, eating Popsicles from White's Market--the kind you could break in half to share; we were drinking Kool Aid--red, with REAL sugar. We were whacking a croquet ball, or pretending we were soldiers. So many memories!
Memories like the pampas grass can be triggered by a chance remark, like when Michael reminded me of it. Sometimes it is a smell--I always think of Linda's Mom when I smell Oreo cookies. The old Perry Plaza brings back memories of youth, Walczak Park brings many more. I try to remember only the good parts and to keep the sad ones at bay.
I laid in bed last night after I wrote this first draft, wondering what will bring on the next barrage of memories. Who'd have thought that this time it would be pampas grass?
Grandma gave in, first time ever, I think, and planted pampas grass.
If you've never been introduced, perhaps it is time. Also known as "cut grass", pampas has a sticky silver vein in the middle of each blade. Touching it, hiding in it, God forbid chewing on it like a hayseed (yes, one of my stupid boyfriends tried that) results in sharp paper-like cuts that don't just hurt, they sting. All of us kids kept the Eckerd's Pharmacy in business with the sales of Mercurochrome and iodine, Our orange-stained skin was testimony to the power of pampas.
The pampas migrated to gram's house on Twentieth Street and to ours next door. From there, my aunt moved it to Parade Street. I'm surprised the entire east side wasn't dressed in pampas grass.
I remember playing "jungle" in that grass, "hide and seek" and other childhood games. Any kid from Twentieth Street will remember that row of grass. I was never afraid to walk after dark down by that lot. No one but us kids would ever hide out in it. We would fight over who had to retrieve the birdie from its depths, and no one wanted to run in that direction during a rousing game of "Red Rover".
The only good thing I can say is it had interesting golden-brown feathery fronds near the end of summer. Even after I was married and left Twentieth Street forever, I still cut those fuzzy fronds from our house or Aunt Marje's and put them in wildflower bouquets. I guess they reminded me of growing up.
When I cover my eyes and think of pampas grass, I see us as we were then, sitting behind those big bushes. We were playing, eating Popsicles from White's Market--the kind you could break in half to share; we were drinking Kool Aid--red, with REAL sugar. We were whacking a croquet ball, or pretending we were soldiers. So many memories!
Memories like the pampas grass can be triggered by a chance remark, like when Michael reminded me of it. Sometimes it is a smell--I always think of Linda's Mom when I smell Oreo cookies. The old Perry Plaza brings back memories of youth, Walczak Park brings many more. I try to remember only the good parts and to keep the sad ones at bay.
I laid in bed last night after I wrote this first draft, wondering what will bring on the next barrage of memories. Who'd have thought that this time it would be pampas grass?
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Hero
There is a person on the outskirts of my life who I privately call "hero". Why I chose that euphemism, or who it is doesn't matter. What does matter is that a couple of chance encounters helped to change my life.
I said I would tell you about some of those "chance" meetings. This is the first.
It began as a ritual of sorts. I was new to Facebook and spent some evenings tracking down my past--childhood chums, high school mates, friends with whom I had lost touch. My mother had passed away, friends had moved out of town. My job had left me feeling isolated. Depressed and lonely, feeling fat and non-descript, I sought sympathy and a reason for being. Yes, I have my husband, my beloved children and grandchildren, but their lives belonged to them, not to me.
When I came across the old friend's name, I did not expect to be remembered. I clicked on "add a friend" and was surprised and delighted when "of course I remember you!" was the response. The messages after that were fun and hope-building, the words meant to be encouraging and flattering.
"I like the way you write," began one note. "What is your goal?" said another, each followed by rah-rah enthusiasm and heartening compliments. "Embrace what you want." Each of these things had been said before, but I wasn't ready then to listen. This time, I was ready to take charge.
I began to walk again at my friend's suggestion, increasing my speed and mileage every week. When it got too cold and dark it was suggested I join the Y. I did, and it is among the best decisions I ever made. I am more limber, a bit trimmer and much stronger than I have been in decades.
When one has friends who are people of faith, one is drawn to have more faith. My belief in God went from doubt to absolute. I joined a church where I felt at home, mostly because my hero had faith and I wanted it too.
When I looked in the mirror and saw what I had let myself become, I no longer wondered why I had no confidence in myself as a woman or as a person. I began to change my dress, my attitude, my way of thinking. The simple words, "you're pretty and good-natured" stayed in my head. Maybe, just maybe, I am.
Eventually, the comments about my writing took hold, too. Along with the encouragement of my hero came the inspiration of other friends, and some instruction on how to build a blog. In February, my long-held dream of being a writer took root.
Hero, you know who you are. You helped me to begin a whole new chapter in my life. I don't know where you are now, nor if you will ever read this. I hope to see you someday to show you what you, and others like you, have done to give me the confidence to face new challenges, and to leave behind the self-centered person I was not long ago. I owe what I am becoming to those friends who were once forgotten, or misplaced, and are now a part of my life.
All it took was a chance meeting, one minute of billions in a lifetime. Five little words, "of course I remember you", and I was on my way.
Thanks, hero.
I said I would tell you about some of those "chance" meetings. This is the first.
It began as a ritual of sorts. I was new to Facebook and spent some evenings tracking down my past--childhood chums, high school mates, friends with whom I had lost touch. My mother had passed away, friends had moved out of town. My job had left me feeling isolated. Depressed and lonely, feeling fat and non-descript, I sought sympathy and a reason for being. Yes, I have my husband, my beloved children and grandchildren, but their lives belonged to them, not to me.
When I came across the old friend's name, I did not expect to be remembered. I clicked on "add a friend" and was surprised and delighted when "of course I remember you!" was the response. The messages after that were fun and hope-building, the words meant to be encouraging and flattering.
"I like the way you write," began one note. "What is your goal?" said another, each followed by rah-rah enthusiasm and heartening compliments. "Embrace what you want." Each of these things had been said before, but I wasn't ready then to listen. This time, I was ready to take charge.
I began to walk again at my friend's suggestion, increasing my speed and mileage every week. When it got too cold and dark it was suggested I join the Y. I did, and it is among the best decisions I ever made. I am more limber, a bit trimmer and much stronger than I have been in decades.
When one has friends who are people of faith, one is drawn to have more faith. My belief in God went from doubt to absolute. I joined a church where I felt at home, mostly because my hero had faith and I wanted it too.
When I looked in the mirror and saw what I had let myself become, I no longer wondered why I had no confidence in myself as a woman or as a person. I began to change my dress, my attitude, my way of thinking. The simple words, "you're pretty and good-natured" stayed in my head. Maybe, just maybe, I am.
Eventually, the comments about my writing took hold, too. Along with the encouragement of my hero came the inspiration of other friends, and some instruction on how to build a blog. In February, my long-held dream of being a writer took root.
Hero, you know who you are. You helped me to begin a whole new chapter in my life. I don't know where you are now, nor if you will ever read this. I hope to see you someday to show you what you, and others like you, have done to give me the confidence to face new challenges, and to leave behind the self-centered person I was not long ago. I owe what I am becoming to those friends who were once forgotten, or misplaced, and are now a part of my life.
All it took was a chance meeting, one minute of billions in a lifetime. Five little words, "of course I remember you", and I was on my way.
Thanks, hero.
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