I like the word "askew". I have been trying to think of a way to use it. Someone suggested, "If I want your opinion, I'll ASKEW." Sigh.....
ASKEW is one of those words we do not often hear spoken. Maybe it sounds pretentious (another word I like), or maybe it just fits the bill better in print.
Are you likely to tell your kid he left the door AJAR? No, you probably tell him he left it open, or in my case, ask if he was born in a barn. Do you tell somebody that his hat is ASKEW? No, it's just crooked. ASKEW is not a word in the real world.
There are lots of words like ASKEW. I remember an English teacher who asked us to define "striated", "corpulent", "cacophony" and a few others. Oh, I can't say I have never used any of them once I found out what they meant. It's just that they READ better than they SOUND.
I am hoping my friend will take me up on the bet that I cannot do a blog article on the word ASKEW. My clock hangs askew on the wall over the computer desk. I can't reach it to fix it. I am too corpulent to fit behind the desk. There is a cacophony of crows outside my window. The sky is striated. Don't tell me I didn't use them correctly. I was only making a point.
If I want your opinion, I'll ASKEW.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Jesus Died For Me. My Truth.
We are on the eve of the most important of Christian holidays. I make no apology to my non-Christian readers. This is what I believe; it is my truth. Your truth may be quite different.
I am materialistic. The pleasures of the world appeal to me, from ice cream to jewelry to whatever. It would be silly and dishonest to deny it. Since I went back to church--meaning the building with a congregation--I have not lost those desires. Instead I have learned to appreciate the talent that designed my butterfly necklace and the artist who painted my nails, the cows who gave milk to make my ice cream and the genius who put peanut butter with chocolate. I am also far more grateful to the Savior who died for me.
Jesus was divine, the Son of God. He was mortal, the son of a human. His crucifixion was actual, and symbolic as well. Those who were executed on a tree (or cross) were cursed. God abhors sin, and cannot look at it. Those who died in this manner were separated from God. Yet Jesus took all the sins of the world on His shoulders, and until his death and subsequent Resurrection, was separated from God. Jesus called out to His Father ("Why have you forsaken me?") not because of the fear of pain, but because He could not bear the Father's turning away from Him.
Can you imagine what it was like? To be sweating blood? To know you are going to suffer? To know that you have only to ask, and the pain will be taken away? To know that you will go through with it anyway, all for the saving of mortals.
Jesus suffered, was humiliated--stripped and beaten, made to carry the weight of His own cross--and then to have the guards gamble for His garments. He endured betrayal, death and a trip to Hell--willingly. He asked nothing from us, except that we believe and accept the gift we were given.
I feel unworthy. My thoughts and my actions are not pure. Sometimes I think of the Ten Commandments as the ten suggestions. It is hard to be human.
As I accept communion each Sunday, I am accepting a representation of the body and blood of Christ, given for me and for all, for the remission of sin. Not just forgiveness, but wiping the slate clean. This is what I believe. It is my truth. What church doctrine says, or what you choose as truth, may be different. Until He comes again, we won't know the facts, only our own truth. We will, as Christians, celebrate His Resurrection on Easter Sunday. I am humbled at His sacrifice.
I Believe. It is my Truth.
I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into Hell. On the third day He rose from the dead. He ascended into Heaven. He sits at the right hand of God the Father with whom He will judge the quick and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, who with the Father and the Son is worshiped and glorified. I believe in the Holy Christian Church, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and in life everlasting.
I am materialistic. The pleasures of the world appeal to me, from ice cream to jewelry to whatever. It would be silly and dishonest to deny it. Since I went back to church--meaning the building with a congregation--I have not lost those desires. Instead I have learned to appreciate the talent that designed my butterfly necklace and the artist who painted my nails, the cows who gave milk to make my ice cream and the genius who put peanut butter with chocolate. I am also far more grateful to the Savior who died for me.
Jesus was divine, the Son of God. He was mortal, the son of a human. His crucifixion was actual, and symbolic as well. Those who were executed on a tree (or cross) were cursed. God abhors sin, and cannot look at it. Those who died in this manner were separated from God. Yet Jesus took all the sins of the world on His shoulders, and until his death and subsequent Resurrection, was separated from God. Jesus called out to His Father ("Why have you forsaken me?") not because of the fear of pain, but because He could not bear the Father's turning away from Him.
Can you imagine what it was like? To be sweating blood? To know you are going to suffer? To know that you have only to ask, and the pain will be taken away? To know that you will go through with it anyway, all for the saving of mortals.
Jesus suffered, was humiliated--stripped and beaten, made to carry the weight of His own cross--and then to have the guards gamble for His garments. He endured betrayal, death and a trip to Hell--willingly. He asked nothing from us, except that we believe and accept the gift we were given.
I feel unworthy. My thoughts and my actions are not pure. Sometimes I think of the Ten Commandments as the ten suggestions. It is hard to be human.
As I accept communion each Sunday, I am accepting a representation of the body and blood of Christ, given for me and for all, for the remission of sin. Not just forgiveness, but wiping the slate clean. This is what I believe. It is my truth. What church doctrine says, or what you choose as truth, may be different. Until He comes again, we won't know the facts, only our own truth. We will, as Christians, celebrate His Resurrection on Easter Sunday. I am humbled at His sacrifice.
I Believe. It is my Truth.
I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into Hell. On the third day He rose from the dead. He ascended into Heaven. He sits at the right hand of God the Father with whom He will judge the quick and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, who with the Father and the Son is worshiped and glorified. I believe in the Holy Christian Church, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and in life everlasting.
You Like Me! You Really Like Me!
There's something fishy with the girls at All About Nails. Suddenly, it is as if they not only KNOW they will be blog material if they speak a single word...they seem to RELISH the idea. Is it any wonder these Saturdays have become so special?
Today I had to get my hair cut. It took ten minutes to style the other day. If it takes longer than six, it needs cut. My car needs tires and front brakes. My eyebrows need trimmed. I need an oil change. So, I had to forgo the nail art and settle for plain white opal nails. I felt naked.
I was lamenting the lack of art, complaining to Cindy that I felt deprived. She did not tell me to shut up. She rolled her eyes in a "heaven, help us" look. Joanie didn't have much to say. She was obviously sympathizing. I'll have to hand over my gas card palm up, I cried. Oh, for pity's sake, I heard.
Some minutes later, the girls asked how much the art would cost. Sue perked up as she told them. Grace immediately headed for the colors she knows I like best, even remembering the silver sparklies. The girls dug into their wallets.
It is the only way to get you to stop whining, they said. It takes so little to make her happy, they said. I hugged them. Eyes rolled. But I'll tell you this--there was no resentment, no anger, no nothing but happy smiles, especially mine. Thanks, girls. You made my day.
Haircut, 20.00
Four tires, 600.00
Brakes, 200.00
Oil change, 40.00
Friends like these, PRICELESS.
Today I had to get my hair cut. It took ten minutes to style the other day. If it takes longer than six, it needs cut. My car needs tires and front brakes. My eyebrows need trimmed. I need an oil change. So, I had to forgo the nail art and settle for plain white opal nails. I felt naked.
I was lamenting the lack of art, complaining to Cindy that I felt deprived. She did not tell me to shut up. She rolled her eyes in a "heaven, help us" look. Joanie didn't have much to say. She was obviously sympathizing. I'll have to hand over my gas card palm up, I cried. Oh, for pity's sake, I heard.
Some minutes later, the girls asked how much the art would cost. Sue perked up as she told them. Grace immediately headed for the colors she knows I like best, even remembering the silver sparklies. The girls dug into their wallets.
It is the only way to get you to stop whining, they said. It takes so little to make her happy, they said. I hugged them. Eyes rolled. But I'll tell you this--there was no resentment, no anger, no nothing but happy smiles, especially mine. Thanks, girls. You made my day.
Haircut, 20.00
Four tires, 600.00
Brakes, 200.00
Oil change, 40.00
Friends like these, PRICELESS.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Definition: BLING
If you know me or my blog, you know that I have a... few.... obsessions. Those are the ones to which I will admit. You will find others between the lines. If you find them, I will probably deny it. Some things are better left unsaid.
Among those things I readily admit is a love of bling, specifically costume jewelry. I love the stuff. Flowers or beads, my newest acquisition--a sterling mosaic butterfly, ropes and chains, bracelets and watches, pins and earrings, chunky or dainty, antiquish or moderno--it doesn't matter. I am unable to walk into a craft show or flea market without stopping at the jewelry display.
My daughter-in-law-to-be introduced me to All That Glitters last winter. The breath was knocked out of me as soon as I entered those shimmering doors. Imagine this, if you will (Men, don't give up. Give your lady something from here. If she doesn't want it, I'll give you a P.O. number to send it to.). You enter a well-lit small store. There are three aisles at least fifty feet long with curio shelves, racks and fabric-covered tables. Each table has tray after black-velvet covered tray of shiny, sparkly, classy jewelry. There are cz's and stones, silver and gold, jet and pearl, every color under the sun and some you didn't think existed. My littlest granddaughter, not quite a year at the time, was mesmerized.
I get all choked up when I enter. Around and around I walk, touching every ceramic bead, every silken scarf, every metallic flower. I imagine being in a tub filled with all this glittering glory. The "I WANT" gene kicks in. I am hooked. It's costume, so it is affordable. It is beautiful. It is glamorous. It is sexy. My heart pounds as I lift a delicate cascade of white flowers. I hold them to my throat. They dip to wherever. The earrings dangle, a pale pink jewel as the center of each blossom. I covet. I buy. I wear. Men, women, children ask where I found it. It is a success.
Husband orders me to stay out of there. (Yeah, right.) He says I certainly don't need more jewelry (then why do you buy it for me, sweetie?). His eyes take in the butterfly. Even Hubby is impressed.
You already know I am an attention junkie. Trust me, this jewelry begs for attention. I just follow it along. I have been called a show-off. Hey, not fair! I need every piece of bling to muster up the courage to show off even a little.
I come by this love of bling honestly. My mother had a toolman's chest, the one with all the little plastic drawers, filled with costume treasures. My aunt did the same, having a four-drawer bureau and several boxes filled to the brim. I only have a .....few....boxes. You are insatiable! says Hubby. Could be, I reply. You are spoiled! says a friend. Go for it! says another.
I don't know who coined the word "BLING". I don't care. It is a perfect description.
Among those things I readily admit is a love of bling, specifically costume jewelry. I love the stuff. Flowers or beads, my newest acquisition--a sterling mosaic butterfly, ropes and chains, bracelets and watches, pins and earrings, chunky or dainty, antiquish or moderno--it doesn't matter. I am unable to walk into a craft show or flea market without stopping at the jewelry display.
My daughter-in-law-to-be introduced me to All That Glitters last winter. The breath was knocked out of me as soon as I entered those shimmering doors. Imagine this, if you will (Men, don't give up. Give your lady something from here. If she doesn't want it, I'll give you a P.O. number to send it to.). You enter a well-lit small store. There are three aisles at least fifty feet long with curio shelves, racks and fabric-covered tables. Each table has tray after black-velvet covered tray of shiny, sparkly, classy jewelry. There are cz's and stones, silver and gold, jet and pearl, every color under the sun and some you didn't think existed. My littlest granddaughter, not quite a year at the time, was mesmerized.
I get all choked up when I enter. Around and around I walk, touching every ceramic bead, every silken scarf, every metallic flower. I imagine being in a tub filled with all this glittering glory. The "I WANT" gene kicks in. I am hooked. It's costume, so it is affordable. It is beautiful. It is glamorous. It is sexy. My heart pounds as I lift a delicate cascade of white flowers. I hold them to my throat. They dip to wherever. The earrings dangle, a pale pink jewel as the center of each blossom. I covet. I buy. I wear. Men, women, children ask where I found it. It is a success.
Husband orders me to stay out of there. (Yeah, right.) He says I certainly don't need more jewelry (then why do you buy it for me, sweetie?). His eyes take in the butterfly. Even Hubby is impressed.
You already know I am an attention junkie. Trust me, this jewelry begs for attention. I just follow it along. I have been called a show-off. Hey, not fair! I need every piece of bling to muster up the courage to show off even a little.
I come by this love of bling honestly. My mother had a toolman's chest, the one with all the little plastic drawers, filled with costume treasures. My aunt did the same, having a four-drawer bureau and several boxes filled to the brim. I only have a .....few....boxes. You are insatiable! says Hubby. Could be, I reply. You are spoiled! says a friend. Go for it! says another.
I don't know who coined the word "BLING". I don't care. It is a perfect description.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Farewell, Yellow T-Shirt
There is only one full-length mirror in my house. It hangs on the back of the door of a seldom-used closet. There is a good reason for that. Most of the time I hate how I look. The mirror just makes it worse.
I had to go into that closet today. I caught a glimpse of myself. I thought somebody must be standing behind me. Nope, that is me.
The too-huge sweatpants with the remnants of Rocco's fur are singularly unattractive. The t-shirt, a faded yellow one that Hubby and both sons want for a car rag is so old it is nearly threadbare in strategic spots. Make-up and jewelry are non-existent. My silver mop of hair sticks out wildly from behind my ears. Hubby's old socks that I should have thrown out, but didn't, cover my feet. Most of my feet. A toe sticks out. My unmentionables are unmentionable. I pray no one comes to the door.
Yes, I am at home. Yes, I was comfortable until I saw myself. Yes, I have seen other women dress like this in public, something I would never do. Why not? Because I'm vain, that's why. There is no excuse for the way I look today. I am healthy. I am not cleaning or painting. I am lazy.
I got out my meditation CD and my cookie-scented candle. A slew of questions came to mind. The first one was, when did I become such a slob?
I thought back to my cycles of depression--the saggy polyester pants suits, scuffed toes, my hair in a bun or pony tail because it was easy. I thought about when I was on the high school reunion committee and was told I needed a new coif, and the day my cousin told me he hadn't seen me in a skirt since I was ten. I thought about the classmate who made the "frumpy" remark. The all-too-recent episodes of tugging at my too-short shirt and going to bed in a t-shirt and sweats instead of a pretty nightie taunted me. I remembered the days of staying in bed hugging a pillow instead of dragging myself into the shower.
When I go to work or to church or to the grocery I am fresh and neat. I wear make-up, brush my silver hair till it shines. I might wear jeans and sneakers, but they aren't ratty ones. My shoes shine. I care.
So why do I let myself look like this at home? Doesn't my husband of forty years deserve to see me in clean, well-fitting clothes? If I will put on make-up and earrings for strangers, shouldn't I do it for him? Of course.
I am in the market for new things anyway. My clothes run the gamut from too small to too big. My unmentionables are serviceable, but that's all. Some of those clothes were never in style to begin, and certainly are not now. I will heave-ho every turtleneck and every pair of too-baggy sweats. The yellow t-shirt and its cousins will wax the GTO.
Instead, I will buy satin and silk and lace in black and pretty pastels. If I can't find pants that fit, I will wear skirts that show off my getting-shapelier legs. My shirts will show that I am a woman, but still a lady. Ah, yes, I will invest in decent pajamas.
Most important, I will no longer allow myself to look like a clone of a Carol Burnett cleaning lady when I am home. Yes, it is that important.
I had to go into that closet today. I caught a glimpse of myself. I thought somebody must be standing behind me. Nope, that is me.
The too-huge sweatpants with the remnants of Rocco's fur are singularly unattractive. The t-shirt, a faded yellow one that Hubby and both sons want for a car rag is so old it is nearly threadbare in strategic spots. Make-up and jewelry are non-existent. My silver mop of hair sticks out wildly from behind my ears. Hubby's old socks that I should have thrown out, but didn't, cover my feet. Most of my feet. A toe sticks out. My unmentionables are unmentionable. I pray no one comes to the door.
Yes, I am at home. Yes, I was comfortable until I saw myself. Yes, I have seen other women dress like this in public, something I would never do. Why not? Because I'm vain, that's why. There is no excuse for the way I look today. I am healthy. I am not cleaning or painting. I am lazy.
I got out my meditation CD and my cookie-scented candle. A slew of questions came to mind. The first one was, when did I become such a slob?
I thought back to my cycles of depression--the saggy polyester pants suits, scuffed toes, my hair in a bun or pony tail because it was easy. I thought about when I was on the high school reunion committee and was told I needed a new coif, and the day my cousin told me he hadn't seen me in a skirt since I was ten. I thought about the classmate who made the "frumpy" remark. The all-too-recent episodes of tugging at my too-short shirt and going to bed in a t-shirt and sweats instead of a pretty nightie taunted me. I remembered the days of staying in bed hugging a pillow instead of dragging myself into the shower.
When I go to work or to church or to the grocery I am fresh and neat. I wear make-up, brush my silver hair till it shines. I might wear jeans and sneakers, but they aren't ratty ones. My shoes shine. I care.
So why do I let myself look like this at home? Doesn't my husband of forty years deserve to see me in clean, well-fitting clothes? If I will put on make-up and earrings for strangers, shouldn't I do it for him? Of course.
I am in the market for new things anyway. My clothes run the gamut from too small to too big. My unmentionables are serviceable, but that's all. Some of those clothes were never in style to begin, and certainly are not now. I will heave-ho every turtleneck and every pair of too-baggy sweats. The yellow t-shirt and its cousins will wax the GTO.
Instead, I will buy satin and silk and lace in black and pretty pastels. If I can't find pants that fit, I will wear skirts that show off my getting-shapelier legs. My shirts will show that I am a woman, but still a lady. Ah, yes, I will invest in decent pajamas.
Most important, I will no longer allow myself to look like a clone of a Carol Burnett cleaning lady when I am home. Yes, it is that important.
A Day In 1968
Usually my words flow from mind to keyboard without much effort. A chance remark might set off an essay. My friends worry that what they say may show up here. But this time is different. It has taken weeks of editing to tell this story. I was there. You may remember it differently. I hope you will tell me. The incident tore us apart, but not for long. In a matter of weeks, we were once again the LIONS. We laughed and danced together, we graduated. We came together for reunions. We made lasting friendships. We were bound, not because of one day in 1968, but by a camaraderie years in the making.
1969 was an amazing year. Woodstock happened. Who would have thought man would walk on the moon? Honeywell introduced the first home computer, priced at over ten thousand dollars. Penthouse and Sesame Street were born. Edward Kennedy got away with what some called murder. The Amazing Mets won the World Series, Charles Manson became a household name. The Smothers' Brothers were cancelled after Spiro Agnew called them "subversive"....and in a little city called Erie, PA, there was a student disruption that would change the face of Erie schools forever.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: Class of '69 was directly affected. Sorry, but I like this part!
The tension had been growing for awhile, but unless you were part of the inner circle you were probably, like me and many of my friends, oblivious to what was going on. We were high-schoolers, too self-absorbed to notice. That particular morning, there were rumors. We knew something was going on. While normally we walked the hallways until first bell, there were more little groups in the corners. There was more whispering. I heard somebody say something about first lunch. I paid no attention.
There was talk about a popular basketball player getting expelled from school because of an incident with a prejudiced teacher. Petitions were signed. Everybody liked the hoop star. The teacher was not exactly well-loved, his racial and gender bias known well to his students. What I had heard was that the teacher grabbed the student, the student hit him, and that was that. I was not there.
The cafeteria at first lunch that day was ominously quiet. There were few type-A dinners served. Pods of students gathered here and there. Teachers shifted from foot to foot. Tension was palpable.
We sat at our usual table with hot rolls and cookies instead of Johnny Marzetti (a sort-of goulash for you west-coast readers). We waited.
When the fire alarm sounded at twelve noon, it became something from the movies. Our peaceful lunchroom was filled with flying trays, stoneware plates and bowls. A stainless butter knife whizzed past my ear (no plastic sporks in those days). There were tables upended, chairs thrown. Shouting and screaming and running. I grabbed my purse and my best friend. We beat the track team out the door, never stopping until we reached the stadium gate.
My dad, who worked for the city at that time, had heard on the police band about the "riot" at Academy High School. There were no cell phones in 1968. My blessed father brought a huge yellow city truck into the frenzy. Somehow, he found me and my friends and drive us to safer territory.
Oh, yes, the Lions made the news. They called it a "riot". This was 1968, remember. But let me tell you this...there were a couple of minor fistfights that I saw. There were no weapons--no knives, no guns. There were bruises and black-and-blue feelings, but no killing. There was mayhem, to be sure. I don't envy those who had to clean up the cafeteria.
The next day, I went back to Academy. Outside the stadium there were black students gathered. Up on the hill, there was a parking lot where white students paced. They eyed each other warily, but no punches were thrown . No one stopped us from going in to the school. For the first, but not the last, time there were police on every corner. There were chains on the doors until first bell. There were guards in the hallways when we were finally allowed inside. We weren't allowed to walk the halls that first day; we went straight to homeroom.
The halls were eerily silent. More than three hundred of us chose to stay home.
A few evenings later the school board called a special meeting to be held at Academy. Hundreds of students, parents, teachers and police packed our auditorium. One director, apparently miffed at being asked to attend, showed up late. Making her entrance on the stage, she sighed as she dusted off her chair and nodded to the other members. She barely acknowledged the throngs in the audience. Yes, I remember her name.
We survived those days of mistrust. We stayed civil with each other. Our friendships stayed integrated. Life went on at Academy. We went to dances, we went to the prom. We had our graduation in the stadium where we proudly wore the blue and gold. Something changed in our school district that day besides the stoneware becoming Styrofoam and the stainless becoming plastic sporks. Policy changed. No-tolerance prevailed.
Throughout it all, we remained the Lions.
Dedicated to Academy High School, class of 1969 (and also class of '68).
High stands our Alma Mater, overlooking lake and town.
High in our hearts we cherish her ideals and fair renown.
Noble in her grace and beauty, in her service frank and free;
Training lives in truth and duty, honor, trust and loyalty.
Oh, we'll work and fight for her honor; we'll work and fight for her fame.
We will serve her right in the world's great fight; we will ever uphold her name.
For her sturdy sons are so valiant, her maidens so kind and true.
We will carry on, till the stars are gone, for Academy, the Gold and Blue!
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: I erred. This was 1968, not 1969. This is good, as my memories of 1969 can remain untarnished. However, I did such a good job (place here for applause) that I'm going to leave it pretty much as is, with apologies to everyone but the NY Times who also erred in its reporting. C'est la vie.
1969 was an amazing year. Woodstock happened. Who would have thought man would walk on the moon? Honeywell introduced the first home computer, priced at over ten thousand dollars. Penthouse and Sesame Street were born. Edward Kennedy got away with what some called murder. The Amazing Mets won the World Series, Charles Manson became a household name. The Smothers' Brothers were cancelled after Spiro Agnew called them "subversive"....and in a little city called Erie, PA, there was a student disruption that would change the face of Erie schools forever.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: Class of '69 was directly affected. Sorry, but I like this part!
The tension had been growing for awhile, but unless you were part of the inner circle you were probably, like me and many of my friends, oblivious to what was going on. We were high-schoolers, too self-absorbed to notice. That particular morning, there were rumors. We knew something was going on. While normally we walked the hallways until first bell, there were more little groups in the corners. There was more whispering. I heard somebody say something about first lunch. I paid no attention.
There was talk about a popular basketball player getting expelled from school because of an incident with a prejudiced teacher. Petitions were signed. Everybody liked the hoop star. The teacher was not exactly well-loved, his racial and gender bias known well to his students. What I had heard was that the teacher grabbed the student, the student hit him, and that was that. I was not there.
The cafeteria at first lunch that day was ominously quiet. There were few type-A dinners served. Pods of students gathered here and there. Teachers shifted from foot to foot. Tension was palpable.
We sat at our usual table with hot rolls and cookies instead of Johnny Marzetti (a sort-of goulash for you west-coast readers). We waited.
When the fire alarm sounded at twelve noon, it became something from the movies. Our peaceful lunchroom was filled with flying trays, stoneware plates and bowls. A stainless butter knife whizzed past my ear (no plastic sporks in those days). There were tables upended, chairs thrown. Shouting and screaming and running. I grabbed my purse and my best friend. We beat the track team out the door, never stopping until we reached the stadium gate.
My dad, who worked for the city at that time, had heard on the police band about the "riot" at Academy High School. There were no cell phones in 1968. My blessed father brought a huge yellow city truck into the frenzy. Somehow, he found me and my friends and drive us to safer territory.
Oh, yes, the Lions made the news. They called it a "riot". This was 1968, remember. But let me tell you this...there were a couple of minor fistfights that I saw. There were no weapons--no knives, no guns. There were bruises and black-and-blue feelings, but no killing. There was mayhem, to be sure. I don't envy those who had to clean up the cafeteria.
The next day, I went back to Academy. Outside the stadium there were black students gathered. Up on the hill, there was a parking lot where white students paced. They eyed each other warily, but no punches were thrown . No one stopped us from going in to the school. For the first, but not the last, time there were police on every corner. There were chains on the doors until first bell. There were guards in the hallways when we were finally allowed inside. We weren't allowed to walk the halls that first day; we went straight to homeroom.
The halls were eerily silent. More than three hundred of us chose to stay home.
A few evenings later the school board called a special meeting to be held at Academy. Hundreds of students, parents, teachers and police packed our auditorium. One director, apparently miffed at being asked to attend, showed up late. Making her entrance on the stage, she sighed as she dusted off her chair and nodded to the other members. She barely acknowledged the throngs in the audience. Yes, I remember her name.
We survived those days of mistrust. We stayed civil with each other. Our friendships stayed integrated. Life went on at Academy. We went to dances, we went to the prom. We had our graduation in the stadium where we proudly wore the blue and gold. Something changed in our school district that day besides the stoneware becoming Styrofoam and the stainless becoming plastic sporks. Policy changed. No-tolerance prevailed.
Throughout it all, we remained the Lions.
Dedicated to Academy High School, class of 1969 (and also class of '68).
High stands our Alma Mater, overlooking lake and town.
High in our hearts we cherish her ideals and fair renown.
Noble in her grace and beauty, in her service frank and free;
Training lives in truth and duty, honor, trust and loyalty.
Oh, we'll work and fight for her honor; we'll work and fight for her fame.
We will serve her right in the world's great fight; we will ever uphold her name.
For her sturdy sons are so valiant, her maidens so kind and true.
We will carry on, till the stars are gone, for Academy, the Gold and Blue!
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: I erred. This was 1968, not 1969. This is good, as my memories of 1969 can remain untarnished. However, I did such a good job (place here for applause) that I'm going to leave it pretty much as is, with apologies to everyone but the NY Times who also erred in its reporting. C'est la vie.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Give Me Peanut Butter....
There are three, maybe four, staples. Chocolate and caffeine in most of its forms are two. Peanut butter is the third.
I rarely eat peanuts. They stick in between my teeth. They crumble and make me cough. When I buy mixed nuts, I buy the deluxe ones--no peanuts.
Peanut butter is a different matter. I love peanut butter. I can--and do--eat it right from the jar. I order peanut butter and marshmallow sundaes when I can find them. I have a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and one for a bedtime snack. No jelly unless I have apricot or peach preserves. Peanut butter brownies, peanut butter pie, peanut butter fudge...oh, my. Peanut butter makes rice cakes palatable. It is delicious in a grilled sandwich. It vastly improves Rice Krispies bar cookies. One can add sweet pickles, bananas, marshmallow fluff, sliced Granny Smiths or honey. Or chocolate, of course. Did you really think I would leave out chocolate??
Dunk peanut butter toast in hot cocoa or coffee. Seventh heaven. Wash it down with fresh ice cold milk. Dip celery or pretzels in it. Delicious.
Peanut butter is chock-full of B vitamins and protein. It's actually good for you! It makes children smile and old folks reminisce. It is the finest of comfort foods. It must be the feel of the fat on one's tongue.
Do NOT adulterate my peanut butter. Do NOT make it low fat, no sugar, calcium added. Give me organic only if you will do the daily stirring. I'll take Peter Pan, Jif or Skippy. Don't slip a generic brand in there. I will eat crunchy. I prefer creamy. I want the bread lightly buttered, then a thick layer of the satiny stuff ....drooling now.
Why the peanut butter praises? Because peanut butter is villainized. We are led to believe it is a fat-laden, sodium-laced kids' food. The truth is, it's a lot healthier than that bologna sandwich you just scarfed. It's cheap, convenient and tastes good.
I nearly panicked today when I scraped the last drop with my trusty rubber spatula. I rummaged through every cupboard, every kitchen drawer. At last I found a jar behind the balsamic vinegar. It will have to last three days, until payday. A very close call.
I eat healthy food for the most part. Lately I have been craving something, I am not sure what. I can either sample everything that is available, or I can wait for the peanut butter and saltines. I think I will wait. Peanut butter does not leave me guilt-ridden nor still hungry. All I am sure of is that peanut butter, chocolate or caffeine is my best friend whether I am dissatisfied with dinner or life in general.
Didn't Patrick Henry say, "Give me peanut butter, or give me death"? If he didn't, he should have.
I rarely eat peanuts. They stick in between my teeth. They crumble and make me cough. When I buy mixed nuts, I buy the deluxe ones--no peanuts.
Peanut butter is a different matter. I love peanut butter. I can--and do--eat it right from the jar. I order peanut butter and marshmallow sundaes when I can find them. I have a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and one for a bedtime snack. No jelly unless I have apricot or peach preserves. Peanut butter brownies, peanut butter pie, peanut butter fudge...oh, my. Peanut butter makes rice cakes palatable. It is delicious in a grilled sandwich. It vastly improves Rice Krispies bar cookies. One can add sweet pickles, bananas, marshmallow fluff, sliced Granny Smiths or honey. Or chocolate, of course. Did you really think I would leave out chocolate??
Dunk peanut butter toast in hot cocoa or coffee. Seventh heaven. Wash it down with fresh ice cold milk. Dip celery or pretzels in it. Delicious.
Peanut butter is chock-full of B vitamins and protein. It's actually good for you! It makes children smile and old folks reminisce. It is the finest of comfort foods. It must be the feel of the fat on one's tongue.
Do NOT adulterate my peanut butter. Do NOT make it low fat, no sugar, calcium added. Give me organic only if you will do the daily stirring. I'll take Peter Pan, Jif or Skippy. Don't slip a generic brand in there. I will eat crunchy. I prefer creamy. I want the bread lightly buttered, then a thick layer of the satiny stuff ....drooling now.
Why the peanut butter praises? Because peanut butter is villainized. We are led to believe it is a fat-laden, sodium-laced kids' food. The truth is, it's a lot healthier than that bologna sandwich you just scarfed. It's cheap, convenient and tastes good.
I nearly panicked today when I scraped the last drop with my trusty rubber spatula. I rummaged through every cupboard, every kitchen drawer. At last I found a jar behind the balsamic vinegar. It will have to last three days, until payday. A very close call.
I eat healthy food for the most part. Lately I have been craving something, I am not sure what. I can either sample everything that is available, or I can wait for the peanut butter and saltines. I think I will wait. Peanut butter does not leave me guilt-ridden nor still hungry. All I am sure of is that peanut butter, chocolate or caffeine is my best friend whether I am dissatisfied with dinner or life in general.
Didn't Patrick Henry say, "Give me peanut butter, or give me death"? If he didn't, he should have.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Right To The Core
The Apostles' Creed begins, "I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth...". Do I believe that? Yes, I do. To me it is truth.
So began my list of the things in which I believe. Like the list of the things I love, it is a work in progress. Some of the things on the list I will share here; others are too private.
Making a list of the things one believes isn't as easy as it sounds. Oh, it's easy to say you believe the sky is blue. Is it? Or is it refraction of light? Is the bay water as blue as it in July, or is it truly grey, as it is in November? Are clouds white and cotton-ball fluffy? Not always. Sometimes they are black with storm or pink with sunset. Which is true?
The things I believe in must be worth defending, or they are just words. They must be the truth for my eyes only. Someone else will surely see a different truth.
You might argue that point, saying that truth is truth is truth. Not so, says this newly wise woman. There is a difference between truth and fact. It is a fact that humans breathe air. If someone says that humans breathe oxygen, that is true. BUT--and here is the caveat--we also breathe nitrogen, hydrogen and a myriad of chemicals in our air. Parsing, I know. Is it a fact that Democrats or Republicans know the right way to run Washington? It is true to those who hold those particular beliefs, but it is not fact.
You may be in love. It is your truth. It is no less true, even if he does not return your affection. It's a different truth for him. To you, he is the love of your life; to him, you are just another body on the carousel. The only fact here is that you exist in the same world.
It is a fact that I weigh X number of pounds (quit asking; I am not telling) and that my basement looks like a tornado hit it. But what is the truth? That is what I need to decide. Am I less of a person because of these facts? Or is it the truth that I am who I am in spite of them?
The truth is how you look at it. The facts may be quite different.
The beliefs that I write about will be my core. As Pilates strengthens my physical core, my defense of my beliefs will strengthen my spiritual one.
Like the discovery that the real me is a multitude of personalities, the beliefs may morph from time to time if the facts change. I won't apologize for that. We make our decisions based on the information we have at the moment.
In the meanwhile, when I share my truths with you, I promise to be honest, right to the core.
So began my list of the things in which I believe. Like the list of the things I love, it is a work in progress. Some of the things on the list I will share here; others are too private.
Making a list of the things one believes isn't as easy as it sounds. Oh, it's easy to say you believe the sky is blue. Is it? Or is it refraction of light? Is the bay water as blue as it in July, or is it truly grey, as it is in November? Are clouds white and cotton-ball fluffy? Not always. Sometimes they are black with storm or pink with sunset. Which is true?
The things I believe in must be worth defending, or they are just words. They must be the truth for my eyes only. Someone else will surely see a different truth.
You might argue that point, saying that truth is truth is truth. Not so, says this newly wise woman. There is a difference between truth and fact. It is a fact that humans breathe air. If someone says that humans breathe oxygen, that is true. BUT--and here is the caveat--we also breathe nitrogen, hydrogen and a myriad of chemicals in our air. Parsing, I know. Is it a fact that Democrats or Republicans know the right way to run Washington? It is true to those who hold those particular beliefs, but it is not fact.
You may be in love. It is your truth. It is no less true, even if he does not return your affection. It's a different truth for him. To you, he is the love of your life; to him, you are just another body on the carousel. The only fact here is that you exist in the same world.
It is a fact that I weigh X number of pounds (quit asking; I am not telling) and that my basement looks like a tornado hit it. But what is the truth? That is what I need to decide. Am I less of a person because of these facts? Or is it the truth that I am who I am in spite of them?
The truth is how you look at it. The facts may be quite different.
The beliefs that I write about will be my core. As Pilates strengthens my physical core, my defense of my beliefs will strengthen my spiritual one.
Like the discovery that the real me is a multitude of personalities, the beliefs may morph from time to time if the facts change. I won't apologize for that. We make our decisions based on the information we have at the moment.
In the meanwhile, when I share my truths with you, I promise to be honest, right to the core.
Another AHA! Moment
I am, for the most part, pretty quiet. I can hear my friend Linda laughing out loud at that. Mary Jo is rolling her eyes heavenward. My husband thinks he is reading the wrong blog. It is true, nonetheless.
These last months have been a series of conflictions. On one hand, I have become far more outgoing. I've been willing to approach people, and more willing to say what is on my mind, at least in print. Why not? If somebody thinks I am pushy, annoying or crazy as a fruitcake that is merely their opinion. Everyone has one, you know?
On the other hand, I have been spending more time with myself. I find a quiet place to eat the lunch I usually carry, or I take a mid-day break to treat myself to myself. Reading has become a difficult pastime. Instead, I write in my ever-present notebook or listen to music. Sometimes I meditate and sometimes I listen to the wind and the waves.
Today I made a couple of sales calls. I can't get motivated. The sun is shining. I want to play, but the other kids aren't around. I don't want to think about my eyes or my work or what I am going to cook for supper. I want to run on the beach or go sailing. My sneakers are at home. I have no boat. Sigh.
Today I would hide if I saw anyone I knew. My shiny silver mop needs a cut; it is dull and unmanageable. At 44 degrees, I opted for a slightly too large red blazer instead of my pink fur coat. I'm freezing. My shoes are dirty with mud. I lost an earring.
Today I am very quiet. I am part of the landscape, hoping no one notices me. The car that parks near me looks familiar, but he is another soul like me, hiding in plain sight. He leashes his dog and walks toward the water. He didn't see me.
Some folks bring out the best in me--or the worst, depending on your point of view. With some, I am gregarious, with an easy laugh and flirtatious body language. Others make me feel like a sixth-grader in the principal's office. Some make me want to button the top of my shirt and answer their questions with nods and shakes; with others, I want to run barefoot in the grass.
I am slowly coming to realize that the "ME" I have been looking for is not one person, but many. Not a multiple personality disorder, you understand (oh, quit snickering!), but different phases of one. I have been looking for the "real" me, wondering if it was the quiet one or the obnoxious one or the vivacious one.
Am I the smart one? The writer? The salesman? The candy maker? The cookie lady? Am I the one who is too self-conscious to wear a bathing suit? The one who dreads running into people I haven't seen in years, thinking they might see only the pounds? Am I the one who needs to be loved by everybody or the one who doesn't care a rat's behind what they think of me? Am I the pretty one who stops men in their tracks, or the one the trooper spares a ticket because he figures it is the only break I will ever get?
I am all of these, because I AM.
It came to me today as I watched the seagulls. They are white and grey and beige. Their color changes with their age. They are still seagulls, and will always be seagulls. I will never be Jonathan Livingston, but I will always be Marilyn.
I felt the tears come. I have taken a great leap toward knowing who I am. Now I need to make a list of what I believe.
It was an AHA! moment.
These last months have been a series of conflictions. On one hand, I have become far more outgoing. I've been willing to approach people, and more willing to say what is on my mind, at least in print. Why not? If somebody thinks I am pushy, annoying or crazy as a fruitcake that is merely their opinion. Everyone has one, you know?
On the other hand, I have been spending more time with myself. I find a quiet place to eat the lunch I usually carry, or I take a mid-day break to treat myself to myself. Reading has become a difficult pastime. Instead, I write in my ever-present notebook or listen to music. Sometimes I meditate and sometimes I listen to the wind and the waves.
Today I made a couple of sales calls. I can't get motivated. The sun is shining. I want to play, but the other kids aren't around. I don't want to think about my eyes or my work or what I am going to cook for supper. I want to run on the beach or go sailing. My sneakers are at home. I have no boat. Sigh.
Today I would hide if I saw anyone I knew. My shiny silver mop needs a cut; it is dull and unmanageable. At 44 degrees, I opted for a slightly too large red blazer instead of my pink fur coat. I'm freezing. My shoes are dirty with mud. I lost an earring.
Today I am very quiet. I am part of the landscape, hoping no one notices me. The car that parks near me looks familiar, but he is another soul like me, hiding in plain sight. He leashes his dog and walks toward the water. He didn't see me.
Some folks bring out the best in me--or the worst, depending on your point of view. With some, I am gregarious, with an easy laugh and flirtatious body language. Others make me feel like a sixth-grader in the principal's office. Some make me want to button the top of my shirt and answer their questions with nods and shakes; with others, I want to run barefoot in the grass.
I am slowly coming to realize that the "ME" I have been looking for is not one person, but many. Not a multiple personality disorder, you understand (oh, quit snickering!), but different phases of one. I have been looking for the "real" me, wondering if it was the quiet one or the obnoxious one or the vivacious one.
Am I the smart one? The writer? The salesman? The candy maker? The cookie lady? Am I the one who is too self-conscious to wear a bathing suit? The one who dreads running into people I haven't seen in years, thinking they might see only the pounds? Am I the one who needs to be loved by everybody or the one who doesn't care a rat's behind what they think of me? Am I the pretty one who stops men in their tracks, or the one the trooper spares a ticket because he figures it is the only break I will ever get?
I am all of these, because I AM.
It came to me today as I watched the seagulls. They are white and grey and beige. Their color changes with their age. They are still seagulls, and will always be seagulls. I will never be Jonathan Livingston, but I will always be Marilyn.
I felt the tears come. I have taken a great leap toward knowing who I am. Now I need to make a list of what I believe.
It was an AHA! moment.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
I Tried Doing It My Way...
In case I haven't mentioned it, I will soon turn sixty. Did I hear a chuckle somewhere? The last few months have been a time of revelation and inner conflict; a roller-coaster ride of sorts. I've been telling you about it so that if you haven't done it already I don't want you to wait as long as I did to start looking for yourself. At almost sixty I have finally decided on many of the things I want from life. Some of them are well beyond my grasp.
When I was much, much younger I thought of a career in advertising. I would make up commercials in front of my dresser mirror. At another age a dairy farm in, say, Wisconsin sounded peaceful, the wide open spaces calling me. Maybe I should live in a tropical paradise, sipping mai tais. Maybe it is the high-powered world of politics I crave, or maybe it is the fame and fortune of being a best-selling novelist.
Instead, I ended up as a copywriter in the advertising department of a now-defunct department store, as the owner of a now-defunct candy shop, as a non-descript sales rep where I am a small cog in a very big hub. It isn't what I had planned.
For most of my life I have been somewhat of a lemming, or "quisling" as my husband would say. I willingly went with the tide instead of creating my own surge. Over the years I would come to my senses in fits and spurts, like in the candy store days, but the enthusiasm was hard to maintain. It wasn't so much that I was unsupported, but that I felt unsupported. I am not one who likes to stand alone.
My bucket lists, both published and private, are a drop in the...uh...bucket. Every day that I get closer to that benchmark of sixty, I think of more things I haven't done. First, I need an influx of cash. I've been told that some of my essays should be published. I will need a vanity press; I have no illusions about a publisher coming to me. Second, I need a new Facebook picture. Third, there's the bathing suit fiasco. Lordy. The list goes on and on.
If I look back at the things I have longed for, I see few parallels to my life as it is. The advertising career no longer appeals. The dairy farm in Wisconsin would be too much work, although I would still enjoy the cheddar. The tropical paradise? I want a little taste of the mai-tai, just once. Politics? How I would love to serve in a way that would change someone's life! But that takes a freedom and dedication I don't have. Fame and fortune from the written word are not in the foreseeable future, although I am not as old as Grandma Moses yet. I love the writing part anyway. Every time someone says to me that an essay has made a difference in his or her life, I grin from ear to ear. Maybe it isn't the fame and fortune I crave. Maybe it is just the strokes.
I am counting down the days till I turn sixty. I am plotting my progress and revising my bucket lists from day to day. I am still an adolescent in growth terms. Some days I sprint ahead, others I tumble backwards. I pray not for material things (although a classic car I would not kick out of the driveway), but for insight and strength to accomplish my goals, and the wisdom to recognize my failings and to learn from them.
There are choices I must make. I can do things my way (gee, that has worked out well) or His way.
It's a matter of using the free will we were given wisely, instead of selfishly.
I think I learned something today.
When I was much, much younger I thought of a career in advertising. I would make up commercials in front of my dresser mirror. At another age a dairy farm in, say, Wisconsin sounded peaceful, the wide open spaces calling me. Maybe I should live in a tropical paradise, sipping mai tais. Maybe it is the high-powered world of politics I crave, or maybe it is the fame and fortune of being a best-selling novelist.
Instead, I ended up as a copywriter in the advertising department of a now-defunct department store, as the owner of a now-defunct candy shop, as a non-descript sales rep where I am a small cog in a very big hub. It isn't what I had planned.
For most of my life I have been somewhat of a lemming, or "quisling" as my husband would say. I willingly went with the tide instead of creating my own surge. Over the years I would come to my senses in fits and spurts, like in the candy store days, but the enthusiasm was hard to maintain. It wasn't so much that I was unsupported, but that I felt unsupported. I am not one who likes to stand alone.
My bucket lists, both published and private, are a drop in the...uh...bucket. Every day that I get closer to that benchmark of sixty, I think of more things I haven't done. First, I need an influx of cash. I've been told that some of my essays should be published. I will need a vanity press; I have no illusions about a publisher coming to me. Second, I need a new Facebook picture. Third, there's the bathing suit fiasco. Lordy. The list goes on and on.
If I look back at the things I have longed for, I see few parallels to my life as it is. The advertising career no longer appeals. The dairy farm in Wisconsin would be too much work, although I would still enjoy the cheddar. The tropical paradise? I want a little taste of the mai-tai, just once. Politics? How I would love to serve in a way that would change someone's life! But that takes a freedom and dedication I don't have. Fame and fortune from the written word are not in the foreseeable future, although I am not as old as Grandma Moses yet. I love the writing part anyway. Every time someone says to me that an essay has made a difference in his or her life, I grin from ear to ear. Maybe it isn't the fame and fortune I crave. Maybe it is just the strokes.
I am counting down the days till I turn sixty. I am plotting my progress and revising my bucket lists from day to day. I am still an adolescent in growth terms. Some days I sprint ahead, others I tumble backwards. I pray not for material things (although a classic car I would not kick out of the driveway), but for insight and strength to accomplish my goals, and the wisdom to recognize my failings and to learn from them.
There are choices I must make. I can do things my way (gee, that has worked out well) or His way.
It's a matter of using the free will we were given wisely, instead of selfishly.
I think I learned something today.
Thiz Time Will Be Different
Today is a dangerous day.
Over the past how many years I have starved myself, exercised (not much) and fought my way to twenty or thirty pounds of weight loss at a time (can you tell I am obsessed?). Every time, without fail, that I reach that magic number I binge my way back up, plus a few.
The day I hit the "skinny pants" stage, as my friend called it, was the day I was felled by ravenous hunger, a Big Mac attack (I HATE Big Macs; make that cheeseburger) that did not respond to peanut butter (my mainstay), apricot jam on rice cakes or caffeine. It was after my second Russell Stover maple cream egg that I had the "AHA" moment. I spent two grueling hours at the Y attempting to stifle my latest binge.
I am not one who struggles with those last ten pounds. I never get to that point. I remember a classmate telling me once that he could never be a doctor like his father because he couldn't stand looking at fat people. What if I run into him one of these days? I have decided that if I don't lose at least most of this, or maybe learn to accept myself, I will not go to the next reunion. That's final. The last one I attended was a disaster, and I don't need a repeat. Guess I haven't come along as far as I think I have, huh? Lots of self-image work to be done some days....
There are days I feel good, like the skinny pants day (they are not size four, just a landmark). Then I catch a glimpse in a rest room mirror. These are the times when the old insecurities, fueled by years of reminders, come to the front.. I want to stay on an even keel. I want to be confident all of the time, not sometimes. I don't take rejection well. I want to be loved and desired because I am ME.
I will not succumb to drug-induced euphoria (except caffeine). I will not cry my eyes out at sarcasm. Like Kirstie Allie, I will dance on in spite of the snickers.
Until the day I finally become whole (which does not necessarily mean reach my goal weight), I will probably obsess about poundage. I will continue to be inwardly jealous of my slimmer comrades. I will pray daily that I will be gifted with the goodness, kindness, sexiness (did I really say that?) and personality that will draw people close in spite of my physical appearance.
This time. I will pass through this difficult day without failing. This time, I will do it one day at a time, one pound at a time, one mile at a time, one Roc-It ab machine at a time. This time, I won't listen to anybody who says I'm fat or even "RUBENESQUE", a polite way of saying fat when they think you are too dumb to recognize the reference. This time I won't care if I have to walk alone. This time, I will smile because I want to, I will flirt because I can, I will dance because it feels good to let loose once in awhile. And if I run into that classmate, I will turn on all my charm and hope that works.
This time, when you look at me, if all you see is a size fourteen instead of a four, it is your loss. You will be missing out on knowing one terrific lady.
Over the past how many years I have starved myself, exercised (not much) and fought my way to twenty or thirty pounds of weight loss at a time (can you tell I am obsessed?). Every time, without fail, that I reach that magic number I binge my way back up, plus a few.
The day I hit the "skinny pants" stage, as my friend called it, was the day I was felled by ravenous hunger, a Big Mac attack (I HATE Big Macs; make that cheeseburger) that did not respond to peanut butter (my mainstay), apricot jam on rice cakes or caffeine. It was after my second Russell Stover maple cream egg that I had the "AHA" moment. I spent two grueling hours at the Y attempting to stifle my latest binge.
I am not one who struggles with those last ten pounds. I never get to that point. I remember a classmate telling me once that he could never be a doctor like his father because he couldn't stand looking at fat people. What if I run into him one of these days? I have decided that if I don't lose at least most of this, or maybe learn to accept myself, I will not go to the next reunion. That's final. The last one I attended was a disaster, and I don't need a repeat. Guess I haven't come along as far as I think I have, huh? Lots of self-image work to be done some days....
There are days I feel good, like the skinny pants day (they are not size four, just a landmark). Then I catch a glimpse in a rest room mirror. These are the times when the old insecurities, fueled by years of reminders, come to the front.. I want to stay on an even keel. I want to be confident all of the time, not sometimes. I don't take rejection well. I want to be loved and desired because I am ME.
I will not succumb to drug-induced euphoria (except caffeine). I will not cry my eyes out at sarcasm. Like Kirstie Allie, I will dance on in spite of the snickers.
Until the day I finally become whole (which does not necessarily mean reach my goal weight), I will probably obsess about poundage. I will continue to be inwardly jealous of my slimmer comrades. I will pray daily that I will be gifted with the goodness, kindness, sexiness (did I really say that?) and personality that will draw people close in spite of my physical appearance.
This time. I will pass through this difficult day without failing. This time, I will do it one day at a time, one pound at a time, one mile at a time, one Roc-It ab machine at a time. This time, I won't listen to anybody who says I'm fat or even "RUBENESQUE", a polite way of saying fat when they think you are too dumb to recognize the reference. This time I won't care if I have to walk alone. This time, I will smile because I want to, I will flirt because I can, I will dance because it feels good to let loose once in awhile. And if I run into that classmate, I will turn on all my charm and hope that works.
This time, when you look at me, if all you see is a size fourteen instead of a four, it is your loss. You will be missing out on knowing one terrific lady.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The Salesman's Face
From time to time I have referred to the "salesman's face". Recently someone challenged me on that, telling me it was only an excuse to put on a phony front. That hurt.
I am not a phony. I say exactly what I mean, not always what is expected. If I like you, I will tell you. If I am angry, I will probably tell you why. If you have a problem with me, I will listen to your complaint. Maybe I will walk away, maybe I will cry at your words, maybe I will get a little loud in my rebuttal. Maybe I will throw my drink in your face. You will not be left wondering what I am thinking.
The salesman's face is something we all do once we learn the mechanics of it. It is a passive, nondescript, ultimately pleasant expression void of real feeling. No happiness, no joy. It's usually from the nose down; no crinkles around the eyes. It shows an interest in the other human being, but not as a loved one or friend. It is used by the cashier at the grocery, the guy at the gas station, the car salesman, the politician. Some people master the schmooze, others never do.
When I greet you as a friend there will be a light in my eyes, and I hope in yours, that tells that the smile is genuine. If you hug me, I will not pull away. You will get a gentle handclasp, not a cold, fishy shake.
The salesman's face helps on those days when I can't do it anymore. I can't stand another "we'll catch up", another "next time" or "maybe later". It helps when I am not feeling well, when I have to accept criticism or when I need to be one place and would rather be someplace else. I see no need to offend the innocent because I am feeling peevish.
It is not "brown-nosing" nor donkey-kissing as some would think. It is being nice, being polite. The Golden Rule applies here.
Most of the time, I can tell if that smile you give me is a plastic one or if you are genuinely glad to see me. I can see it in your eyes and read it in your body language. I am rarely wrong.. While the politician or the late-night infomercial host may have mastered the art of faking it, most of us aren't that good.
What would be the point of being phony? Being honest with one's emotions is what makes friends stay friends, or not, as the case may be. Hurt feelings can heal eventually. The pain of not knowing what went wrong never goes away. I give honest answers, and I expect them. Life became much more worthwhile once I put this philosophy into practice.
The smile on my face when I greet you is unlikely to be my salesman's mask. I am by nature affectionate, friendly and a bit flirtatious. I lost the ability to hide my emotions over the last several months. You might see unbidden tears welling up, hear a nervous chuckle or an outright guffaw.
Whatever you see, at least you will know it is real.
I am not a phony. I say exactly what I mean, not always what is expected. If I like you, I will tell you. If I am angry, I will probably tell you why. If you have a problem with me, I will listen to your complaint. Maybe I will walk away, maybe I will cry at your words, maybe I will get a little loud in my rebuttal. Maybe I will throw my drink in your face. You will not be left wondering what I am thinking.
The salesman's face is something we all do once we learn the mechanics of it. It is a passive, nondescript, ultimately pleasant expression void of real feeling. No happiness, no joy. It's usually from the nose down; no crinkles around the eyes. It shows an interest in the other human being, but not as a loved one or friend. It is used by the cashier at the grocery, the guy at the gas station, the car salesman, the politician. Some people master the schmooze, others never do.
When I greet you as a friend there will be a light in my eyes, and I hope in yours, that tells that the smile is genuine. If you hug me, I will not pull away. You will get a gentle handclasp, not a cold, fishy shake.
The salesman's face helps on those days when I can't do it anymore. I can't stand another "we'll catch up", another "next time" or "maybe later". It helps when I am not feeling well, when I have to accept criticism or when I need to be one place and would rather be someplace else. I see no need to offend the innocent because I am feeling peevish.
It is not "brown-nosing" nor donkey-kissing as some would think. It is being nice, being polite. The Golden Rule applies here.
Most of the time, I can tell if that smile you give me is a plastic one or if you are genuinely glad to see me. I can see it in your eyes and read it in your body language. I am rarely wrong.. While the politician or the late-night infomercial host may have mastered the art of faking it, most of us aren't that good.
What would be the point of being phony? Being honest with one's emotions is what makes friends stay friends, or not, as the case may be. Hurt feelings can heal eventually. The pain of not knowing what went wrong never goes away. I give honest answers, and I expect them. Life became much more worthwhile once I put this philosophy into practice.
The smile on my face when I greet you is unlikely to be my salesman's mask. I am by nature affectionate, friendly and a bit flirtatious. I lost the ability to hide my emotions over the last several months. You might see unbidden tears welling up, hear a nervous chuckle or an outright guffaw.
Whatever you see, at least you will know it is real.
Not My Fault!
I have a legitimate excuse! According to today's paper, it is not my fault that I am addicted to caffeine! As a matter of fact, it is a genetic inheritance. It is part of my DNA. It is a gene, the article reads. I looked no further. I have a real pre-disposition for caffeine addiction. Meet my new best friends--CYP1AZ and AHR.
My grandparents on both sides, even great-grandpa Henry, never understood the reasoning behind decaf. Great-grandpa had a huge white stoneware mug full of coffee at least four times a day, usually accompanied by Petri sugar cookies. In that mug he put TWO TABLESPOONS of instant Nescafe. He lived till his nineties. Grandma D said my perked coffee was too weak. She added a heaping teaspoon to every cup. Grandpa Hess and Uncle Roy were never without a pot brewing, each cup served with a sweet of some kind. Mom and Dad and my sister ("I only have one cup in the morning," she quips. Yes, but the cup is a 32-ounce tank!), even my sons like their caffeine. My grandson, at twelve, laces his with milk and an obscene amount of sugar. It is still coffee.
While my mother's family seemed no worse off for their pots-a-day habit, the rest of us tend to react as though we had consumed quantities of Jack Daniels (or in Grandma's case, Four Roses or Seven Crown). None of us are mellow to begin with. Add 80 mg at a time and we become a little hyper. We all are good at power napping; none of us are insomniacs. Sleepless nights are a rarity, from stress if at all, and not because of caffeine ingestion.
Ah, there are naysayers among my faithful readers. It is environmental influence that drives me to Starbucks! It might be the hope of running into friends. It could be the people-watching that demands my presence. It could be the corner table where I catch up on paperwork when it is too dismal for the lake. Maybe it is a need to be social, or to keep my hands occupied.
Maybe, could be, might be, hope to. My friends CYP1AZ and AHR don't think so.
So pour me a large coffee, double cream, please. And some for my friends.
My grandparents on both sides, even great-grandpa Henry, never understood the reasoning behind decaf. Great-grandpa had a huge white stoneware mug full of coffee at least four times a day, usually accompanied by Petri sugar cookies. In that mug he put TWO TABLESPOONS of instant Nescafe. He lived till his nineties. Grandma D said my perked coffee was too weak. She added a heaping teaspoon to every cup. Grandpa Hess and Uncle Roy were never without a pot brewing, each cup served with a sweet of some kind. Mom and Dad and my sister ("I only have one cup in the morning," she quips. Yes, but the cup is a 32-ounce tank!), even my sons like their caffeine. My grandson, at twelve, laces his with milk and an obscene amount of sugar. It is still coffee.
While my mother's family seemed no worse off for their pots-a-day habit, the rest of us tend to react as though we had consumed quantities of Jack Daniels (or in Grandma's case, Four Roses or Seven Crown). None of us are mellow to begin with. Add 80 mg at a time and we become a little hyper. We all are good at power napping; none of us are insomniacs. Sleepless nights are a rarity, from stress if at all, and not because of caffeine ingestion.
Ah, there are naysayers among my faithful readers. It is environmental influence that drives me to Starbucks! It might be the hope of running into friends. It could be the people-watching that demands my presence. It could be the corner table where I catch up on paperwork when it is too dismal for the lake. Maybe it is a need to be social, or to keep my hands occupied.
Maybe, could be, might be, hope to. My friends CYP1AZ and AHR don't think so.
So pour me a large coffee, double cream, please. And some for my friends.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Blue Eyes
My mother and her father had blue eyes. They were a watery blue, like the bay in August, sometimes almost grey. Those blue eyes could peer right into my soul and pick out a truth or a lie in an instant. Their blue eyes were thoughtful and loving, and could drop me to my knees.
My husband has one brown eye and one green. The brown eye is gentle, full of love and tenderness. The green eye turns brighter green when he is miffed and dull if he is hurting. His eyes portray every emotion.
One son has eyes of deepest brown, chocolate colored eyes that reflect his inner kindness. The other son has hazel eyes like my own, rimmed in amber, that flash when inspiration strikes him. All of their children have blue eyes like their mother's or other grandma's. Their bright blue eyes can make you melt when they tilt their heads. Please, Grandma? How can anyone say "no" to those big blue eyes.
My dog, and both of my grand-dogs, have eyes so dark they appear almost black. So expressive, more than many humans.
I confess to a weakness of eyes of any color. I guess it is because I see beyond the pigment. Because I have so much concern with my own vision, I notice closely the eyes of others. While the smile or the voice may betray you, the eyes never will.
I've met people who will smile only with their mouths, their eyes flat and uncaring. With others, one can see the mischief behind their eyes, or the love or the lust, or the happy glitter of friendship. You can see your joke tickled their funny bone by the sparkle in the eyes, not by the half-hearted chuckle. You recognize longing or hatred by the eyes as much as by the gestures that accompany the words.
As I go in for yet another eye exam and yet more laser treatments and worry, I wonder if this doctor can make my eyes blue for a change. Maybe blue eyes will help me to look into the future like Mom or Grandma Hess, or make me irresistible like my grandkids pleading stares. Probably not.
It isn't the color of the iris that is important. It's what's behind them.
My husband has one brown eye and one green. The brown eye is gentle, full of love and tenderness. The green eye turns brighter green when he is miffed and dull if he is hurting. His eyes portray every emotion.
One son has eyes of deepest brown, chocolate colored eyes that reflect his inner kindness. The other son has hazel eyes like my own, rimmed in amber, that flash when inspiration strikes him. All of their children have blue eyes like their mother's or other grandma's. Their bright blue eyes can make you melt when they tilt their heads. Please, Grandma? How can anyone say "no" to those big blue eyes.
My dog, and both of my grand-dogs, have eyes so dark they appear almost black. So expressive, more than many humans.
I confess to a weakness of eyes of any color. I guess it is because I see beyond the pigment. Because I have so much concern with my own vision, I notice closely the eyes of others. While the smile or the voice may betray you, the eyes never will.
I've met people who will smile only with their mouths, their eyes flat and uncaring. With others, one can see the mischief behind their eyes, or the love or the lust, or the happy glitter of friendship. You can see your joke tickled their funny bone by the sparkle in the eyes, not by the half-hearted chuckle. You recognize longing or hatred by the eyes as much as by the gestures that accompany the words.
As I go in for yet another eye exam and yet more laser treatments and worry, I wonder if this doctor can make my eyes blue for a change. Maybe blue eyes will help me to look into the future like Mom or Grandma Hess, or make me irresistible like my grandkids pleading stares. Probably not.
It isn't the color of the iris that is important. It's what's behind them.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Candy Store, Part Two
Business was pretty good for a new start-up.
Friends and relatives, of course, and people from the neighborhood. I went to craft shows with the fancy candy dishes and solid chocolate greeting cards. The best seller, though, was the chocolate pizza. (A rocky road base, drizzled with white chocolate and other goodies. Yum.) I rented costumes, and persuaded the jeweler and one of the barbers to wear them to nursing homes and the school where we visited and passed out treats. I rode on the WBA float, "Puttin' On The Ritz", tossing Tootsie Rolls to the crowds. My kids rode in the Cherry Festival parade, a biggie in these parts. We had lots of fun.
One day, the jeweler and I were putting the final touches on the float for the Memorial Day parade. The sky turned an awful color, like brass. The wind howled and it hailed sideways. It wasn't until later that we learned a tornado had passed over us and hit a neighboring community. Eleven people died there. The storm continued through several other towns over a stretch of a hundred miles or more, It is not a day any of us want to relive.
Finally it was just too much. Summers were hard. Wesleyville wasn't enough to sustain me. The competition from the big candy makers was tough. The cost of sugar and chocolate had skyrocketed by 1986, doubling in only three years, Utilities were high, too. I had two small children. I couldn't afford hired help. I gave up.
Reluctantly I closed the door for the last time. I cried a lot. I recognized my mistakes and would not repeat them. I joined a friend's business, and that worked until she decided to close her doors, too. I went to work selling furniture, found a niche, and have been selling ever since.
I still miss the candy business--the kids, the senior who helped me out on Thursdays, the other business owners, the smell of peppermint and chocolate and peanut butter fondant and fudge. I miss being a part of the community. I have forgotten more about candy-making than most people will learn in a lifetime.
If you ever want me to make cordials filled with pineapple soaked in bourbon, special Easter eggs with money inside or chocolate pizza--I've done that. (I sold so many chocolate pizzas that others started copying my idea!)
I've still got the magic touch.
Friends and relatives, of course, and people from the neighborhood. I went to craft shows with the fancy candy dishes and solid chocolate greeting cards. The best seller, though, was the chocolate pizza. (A rocky road base, drizzled with white chocolate and other goodies. Yum.) I rented costumes, and persuaded the jeweler and one of the barbers to wear them to nursing homes and the school where we visited and passed out treats. I rode on the WBA float, "Puttin' On The Ritz", tossing Tootsie Rolls to the crowds. My kids rode in the Cherry Festival parade, a biggie in these parts. We had lots of fun.
One day, the jeweler and I were putting the final touches on the float for the Memorial Day parade. The sky turned an awful color, like brass. The wind howled and it hailed sideways. It wasn't until later that we learned a tornado had passed over us and hit a neighboring community. Eleven people died there. The storm continued through several other towns over a stretch of a hundred miles or more, It is not a day any of us want to relive.
Finally it was just too much. Summers were hard. Wesleyville wasn't enough to sustain me. The competition from the big candy makers was tough. The cost of sugar and chocolate had skyrocketed by 1986, doubling in only three years, Utilities were high, too. I had two small children. I couldn't afford hired help. I gave up.
Reluctantly I closed the door for the last time. I cried a lot. I recognized my mistakes and would not repeat them. I joined a friend's business, and that worked until she decided to close her doors, too. I went to work selling furniture, found a niche, and have been selling ever since.
I still miss the candy business--the kids, the senior who helped me out on Thursdays, the other business owners, the smell of peppermint and chocolate and peanut butter fondant and fudge. I miss being a part of the community. I have forgotten more about candy-making than most people will learn in a lifetime.
If you ever want me to make cordials filled with pineapple soaked in bourbon, special Easter eggs with money inside or chocolate pizza--I've done that. (I sold so many chocolate pizzas that others started copying my idea!)
I've still got the magic touch.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Candy Store, Part One
I may have mentioned a time or two that I used to own a small business, a candy shop. That was me more than twenty years ago, sole proprietor of Trifles 'n' Truffles in the thriving metropolis of Wesleyville, PA. I was also the first woman vice president of the Wesleyville Business Association. Good grief, it sounds like I am writing an obituary.
It was good stuff, I am proud to say. I blended my own chocolate and made most of the fillings from scratch. Business was good from September until Mother's Day. In the summer I had a shack at the ball field and sold popsicles. I learned a lot and would try it again in a heartbeat.
The idea was born in the summer of 1983.
We had just come back from a few days vacation with cousins in Rochester, NY. We ate too much Italian food, saw lots of long-lost family, toured Kodak and were generally wiped out. But of course, you know how vacations are. There was still work to be done. We got lumber and paint, painted the house and built a new shed. Beavers weren't as busy as we were.
Steve had just finished the roof and settled in with a Miller when we got an unexpected visit from his boss. Art wasn't known for dropping in. Something was up. Sure enough, he helped himself to a beer and said, "don't be coming back to work Monday, Steve. You're laid off as of today."
Well, we had been through this before. We would survive. It would be at least six months, Art told us. OK, we could do that. We had always been careful to see that unemployment checks would cover our bills. It had happened before...little did we guess it would be eleven months this time.
By the sixth month, I was panicking. Steve seemed unworried as he enjoyed the time with the boys, but I felt desperate. We fought a lot. At Christmas time I made and sold candies of all kinds to earn money for Christmas presents. I got a part-time job in a little candy supply shop. An idea began to form.
I began to walk and to think. After the kids were in bed, I would spend hours on my plan. My aunt fronted me some money so I could experiment with different recipes. I learned chocolate painting. I researched candy supply houses. An old friend who was a CPA helped me with a business plan. Several months later, I got a loan. Now I needed a location, not as easy as it sounds. In Erie, there are zoning laws. You can make it but not sell it, or sell it but not manufacture. I went to Wesleyville. Nestled between Etzel's Barber Shop and Hull's Jewelry was a little place for rent.
I had it painted red and white and hung my sign. We built a kitchen, put up shelves and stocked the pantry. Uncle Don came to work for me, learning to temper chocolate and wash molds. Mom helped, too. She ate all the imperfect pieces!
The barber and the jeweler were happy to help me get started, They shared some of the initial advertising costs and sent flowers on opening day, as did the radio stations. Johnny Arnone sent me the first of many lunches. I got greetings from the bank and the bakery, Padden's and Baby Fair and Wendel's. I was open for business. My license to make chocolate would be available in a few days.
On the day I was expecting the health inspector, it rained. The new kitchen ceiling collapsed. There was water EVERYWHERE, except, praise God, in the chocolate-stocked pantry. AAAAGGGGHHH!!!!
A woman I didn't know came to the door, peeked in and asked if I was open yet. I had been passing out samples for a week or so in the neighborhood. I said no, no candy yet, probably not for awhile, and told her the problem. She sat her bag on the counter, rolled up her sleeves and said, "I guess we'd better pray about this!" and she took my hands in hers. Then she marched into my sloppy kitchen, pulled out a mop and went to work. In the meantime, my friend and bookkeeper showed up unbidden. She too, went to work. We mopped and scrubbed for hours.
Much later, the health inspector arrived. She nodded her way through the kitchen, citing me for a stray coffee mug on the counter, She never looked up at the sagging ceiling. She smiled as she handed me the license. I was in business.
Jackie and Linda remained my friends from that day until the day Jackie died of breast cancer a few years ago, Linda following her a year later. They are still missed.
TNT was up and running. Imagine Christmas ornaments and Nativities made of painted chocolate with peanut butter camels, candy dishes and novelties made of white chocolate. The window had a tree with lights and stockings. Poinsettias filled the store. The smell of warm chocolate, sponge candy and spicy hard tack permeated every corner.
It was among the happiest moments of my life.
It was good stuff, I am proud to say. I blended my own chocolate and made most of the fillings from scratch. Business was good from September until Mother's Day. In the summer I had a shack at the ball field and sold popsicles. I learned a lot and would try it again in a heartbeat.
The idea was born in the summer of 1983.
We had just come back from a few days vacation with cousins in Rochester, NY. We ate too much Italian food, saw lots of long-lost family, toured Kodak and were generally wiped out. But of course, you know how vacations are. There was still work to be done. We got lumber and paint, painted the house and built a new shed. Beavers weren't as busy as we were.
Steve had just finished the roof and settled in with a Miller when we got an unexpected visit from his boss. Art wasn't known for dropping in. Something was up. Sure enough, he helped himself to a beer and said, "don't be coming back to work Monday, Steve. You're laid off as of today."
Well, we had been through this before. We would survive. It would be at least six months, Art told us. OK, we could do that. We had always been careful to see that unemployment checks would cover our bills. It had happened before...little did we guess it would be eleven months this time.
By the sixth month, I was panicking. Steve seemed unworried as he enjoyed the time with the boys, but I felt desperate. We fought a lot. At Christmas time I made and sold candies of all kinds to earn money for Christmas presents. I got a part-time job in a little candy supply shop. An idea began to form.
I began to walk and to think. After the kids were in bed, I would spend hours on my plan. My aunt fronted me some money so I could experiment with different recipes. I learned chocolate painting. I researched candy supply houses. An old friend who was a CPA helped me with a business plan. Several months later, I got a loan. Now I needed a location, not as easy as it sounds. In Erie, there are zoning laws. You can make it but not sell it, or sell it but not manufacture. I went to Wesleyville. Nestled between Etzel's Barber Shop and Hull's Jewelry was a little place for rent.
I had it painted red and white and hung my sign. We built a kitchen, put up shelves and stocked the pantry. Uncle Don came to work for me, learning to temper chocolate and wash molds. Mom helped, too. She ate all the imperfect pieces!
The barber and the jeweler were happy to help me get started, They shared some of the initial advertising costs and sent flowers on opening day, as did the radio stations. Johnny Arnone sent me the first of many lunches. I got greetings from the bank and the bakery, Padden's and Baby Fair and Wendel's. I was open for business. My license to make chocolate would be available in a few days.
On the day I was expecting the health inspector, it rained. The new kitchen ceiling collapsed. There was water EVERYWHERE, except, praise God, in the chocolate-stocked pantry. AAAAGGGGHHH!!!!
A woman I didn't know came to the door, peeked in and asked if I was open yet. I had been passing out samples for a week or so in the neighborhood. I said no, no candy yet, probably not for awhile, and told her the problem. She sat her bag on the counter, rolled up her sleeves and said, "I guess we'd better pray about this!" and she took my hands in hers. Then she marched into my sloppy kitchen, pulled out a mop and went to work. In the meantime, my friend and bookkeeper showed up unbidden. She too, went to work. We mopped and scrubbed for hours.
Much later, the health inspector arrived. She nodded her way through the kitchen, citing me for a stray coffee mug on the counter, She never looked up at the sagging ceiling. She smiled as she handed me the license. I was in business.
Jackie and Linda remained my friends from that day until the day Jackie died of breast cancer a few years ago, Linda following her a year later. They are still missed.
TNT was up and running. Imagine Christmas ornaments and Nativities made of painted chocolate with peanut butter camels, candy dishes and novelties made of white chocolate. The window had a tree with lights and stockings. Poinsettias filled the store. The smell of warm chocolate, sponge candy and spicy hard tack permeated every corner.
It was among the happiest moments of my life.
Dreams Are Made of Thiz
I love to dream.
Sometimes my dreams are so vivid that I remember everything about them when I wake up. Sometimes they are frightening, sometimes sensual, sometimes sad. Most of the time they seem sensible while they are happening. I awaken, and quickly write down what I remember. In the morning I will read it, and it says something like "plums are pink" or other nonsense.
I have a couple of recurring dreams. One of them has a big dining room with at least a hundred tables, all covered in white cloths. They have votives in silver holders. There are windows with sheer white ruffled curtains all around. The sun is streaming in. The room reminds me of the department store dining room in the original "Miracle on 34th Street" where Kris Kringle is having lunch with the young wanna-be Santa. Nothing ever happens there. In the second one, I am crying and reaching for someone who is not there. I don't know why I am crying, nor for whom I am reaching.
I have had dreams that revealed solutions, dreams that made clear my private fears. There are dreams of longing for secret treasures and disjointed ones with fairy- like creatures and trolls. Sometimes I wake up laughing, sometimes sobbing. I have read book after book to interpret my dreams, but I have never found anything definitive.
What fascinates me is that I've been told we can control our dreams. Why would I want to? Perhaps if I was prone to nightmares I would feel differently. My dreams take me to places I have never been. They allow me to sit on clouds, to walk in jungles, to visit other stars. I can see an Amazon village after watching a National Geographic special or have a ...uh...date with Sean Connery. I travel by thought, or by light to another world.
Dreams bring back the people I miss. We go to our old camp, or to Niagara Falls. I sit at the Thanksgiving table with much-loved parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. My grown children and their children are there, too, to share the feast. The food looks good, too. Please, God, don't let me waken yet, not yet.
My mother and grandmother frequently had dreams of the future. Would I want that gift? Only if it was just lottery numbers, thank you.
Last night I dreamed we were dancing to the Righteous Brothers. The room was lit with candles and I thought I smelled roses. A rush of water swept away the band and extinguished the candles. I was left alone in the dim light with a being of indeterminate gender. We felt our way to a bench, a wrought iron one like the one in my backyard that had belonged to my parents. I sat there stupidly, waiting for what, I don't know. When I awoke, I concentrated hard on every second of that dream...It left me uneasy.
Whether or not I believe in the predictions of dreams is irrelevant. What I do believe is that dreams are an amazing mix of our subconscious and conscious set free for a few hours at a time. They bring to the forefront the stuff that our busy daytime brains have rejected. Bits and pieces of the everyday world blend with fantasy. Anything can happen.
Pay attention to your dreams. You might learn something about yourself.
Sometimes my dreams are so vivid that I remember everything about them when I wake up. Sometimes they are frightening, sometimes sensual, sometimes sad. Most of the time they seem sensible while they are happening. I awaken, and quickly write down what I remember. In the morning I will read it, and it says something like "plums are pink" or other nonsense.
I have a couple of recurring dreams. One of them has a big dining room with at least a hundred tables, all covered in white cloths. They have votives in silver holders. There are windows with sheer white ruffled curtains all around. The sun is streaming in. The room reminds me of the department store dining room in the original "Miracle on 34th Street" where Kris Kringle is having lunch with the young wanna-be Santa. Nothing ever happens there. In the second one, I am crying and reaching for someone who is not there. I don't know why I am crying, nor for whom I am reaching.
I have had dreams that revealed solutions, dreams that made clear my private fears. There are dreams of longing for secret treasures and disjointed ones with fairy- like creatures and trolls. Sometimes I wake up laughing, sometimes sobbing. I have read book after book to interpret my dreams, but I have never found anything definitive.
What fascinates me is that I've been told we can control our dreams. Why would I want to? Perhaps if I was prone to nightmares I would feel differently. My dreams take me to places I have never been. They allow me to sit on clouds, to walk in jungles, to visit other stars. I can see an Amazon village after watching a National Geographic special or have a ...uh...date with Sean Connery. I travel by thought, or by light to another world.
Dreams bring back the people I miss. We go to our old camp, or to Niagara Falls. I sit at the Thanksgiving table with much-loved parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. My grown children and their children are there, too, to share the feast. The food looks good, too. Please, God, don't let me waken yet, not yet.
My mother and grandmother frequently had dreams of the future. Would I want that gift? Only if it was just lottery numbers, thank you.
Last night I dreamed we were dancing to the Righteous Brothers. The room was lit with candles and I thought I smelled roses. A rush of water swept away the band and extinguished the candles. I was left alone in the dim light with a being of indeterminate gender. We felt our way to a bench, a wrought iron one like the one in my backyard that had belonged to my parents. I sat there stupidly, waiting for what, I don't know. When I awoke, I concentrated hard on every second of that dream...It left me uneasy.
Whether or not I believe in the predictions of dreams is irrelevant. What I do believe is that dreams are an amazing mix of our subconscious and conscious set free for a few hours at a time. They bring to the forefront the stuff that our busy daytime brains have rejected. Bits and pieces of the everyday world blend with fantasy. Anything can happen.
Pay attention to your dreams. You might learn something about yourself.
Picture This: April, 2011
Picture it: you buy a pair of pants a few years back. The tag reads size whatever. You don't try them on. You take them home. When you finally get around to it, you find that they must be mis-marked. They barely fit over your hips, let alone your sizable gut. You try laying flat on your back, a pair of needle nose pliers grasping the zipper tab. It's no use.
You are too lazy to return them. Every time you go on a starvation kick, you take them out. They join the others in the maybe-someday-they-will-fit pile. Yeah, right. Like most of the women you know, over forty anyway, you have three wardrobes--the fat clothes that you keep ending up wearing after each unsuccessful attempt at losing weight, stylish or not; the smaller size you keep buying because you will lose that weight someday, and the cheap stuff you buy because you need something that fits so you can wear it today. You cut the size tags off as though they might betray you. A lesson here: Be good to yourself now. I learned the hard way--it's the inside that matters, not the packaging.
Then one miraculous day in April, after months of sweating, dancing, walking, Pilates, giving up fast food and diet soda (but not chocolate); after months of working on struggling inside and out...you slip them off the hanger. You might as well give them a try because nothing else fits. They are too big, thankfully, or still in the someday-they-might-fit category. Besides, everything else is in the wash.
You step in, one leg at a time. So far, so good. The real test is that little button, the one that makes the waistband lay flat. (You know the one. You never button it because it's too friggin' tight.) It works. The zipper glides up. The tabs close smoothly. You did it standing up, no pliers in sight. The hips fit, no sagging. There is still room to tuck in your favorite red blouse, the one Hubby hates because he says you can see through it. You can still breathe. HALLELUJAH!! THEY FIT!!
They are plain black dress pants, similar to every other pair I have known. They have pockets just big enough for my ever-present cell phone (want the number?), a tissue and a lip balm. They are perfect.
I still have a long way to go, but the black pants are a good indicator of how far I have come. They tell me I can get rid of the size whatevers (No, I am ashamed to admit what the size is. Sorry.) and wash up the "somedays". I will be able to fit those in a few months. I feel like I have accomplished something.
So today, I will put on the new black pants, my favorite red blouse and my most comfortable two-inch heels. I will wear a pewter choker that covers my abominable neck, and big hoop earrings. I will perch my reading glasses with the bling atop my glittering silver hair. My make-up will be flawless, my eyes bright. My nails shine, my perfume is subtle. There are no smudges beneath my eyes, no mustache. I will toss aside the pink fur coat and don a spring jacket; my car has an excellent heater. Hubby will ask if I really have to go to work. Yes, dear, I do. Just for today, I feel pretty and sexy and everything in between.
Remember that classmate who said I looked frumpy compared to high school? The one who helped to create the monster I am today? Today would be a good day to run into people like that. I will check out the coffee shop this morning, and my favorite hide-outs later on. I may have some pounds still to lose, but I have crossed something off my private bucket list. I can no longer be called frumpy.
Dang, I look good.
You are too lazy to return them. Every time you go on a starvation kick, you take them out. They join the others in the maybe-someday-they-will-fit pile. Yeah, right. Like most of the women you know, over forty anyway, you have three wardrobes--the fat clothes that you keep ending up wearing after each unsuccessful attempt at losing weight, stylish or not; the smaller size you keep buying because you will lose that weight someday, and the cheap stuff you buy because you need something that fits so you can wear it today. You cut the size tags off as though they might betray you. A lesson here: Be good to yourself now. I learned the hard way--it's the inside that matters, not the packaging.
Then one miraculous day in April, after months of sweating, dancing, walking, Pilates, giving up fast food and diet soda (but not chocolate); after months of working on struggling inside and out...you slip them off the hanger. You might as well give them a try because nothing else fits. They are too big, thankfully, or still in the someday-they-might-fit category. Besides, everything else is in the wash.
You step in, one leg at a time. So far, so good. The real test is that little button, the one that makes the waistband lay flat. (You know the one. You never button it because it's too friggin' tight.) It works. The zipper glides up. The tabs close smoothly. You did it standing up, no pliers in sight. The hips fit, no sagging. There is still room to tuck in your favorite red blouse, the one Hubby hates because he says you can see through it. You can still breathe. HALLELUJAH!! THEY FIT!!
They are plain black dress pants, similar to every other pair I have known. They have pockets just big enough for my ever-present cell phone (want the number?), a tissue and a lip balm. They are perfect.
I still have a long way to go, but the black pants are a good indicator of how far I have come. They tell me I can get rid of the size whatevers (No, I am ashamed to admit what the size is. Sorry.) and wash up the "somedays". I will be able to fit those in a few months. I feel like I have accomplished something.
So today, I will put on the new black pants, my favorite red blouse and my most comfortable two-inch heels. I will wear a pewter choker that covers my abominable neck, and big hoop earrings. I will perch my reading glasses with the bling atop my glittering silver hair. My make-up will be flawless, my eyes bright. My nails shine, my perfume is subtle. There are no smudges beneath my eyes, no mustache. I will toss aside the pink fur coat and don a spring jacket; my car has an excellent heater. Hubby will ask if I really have to go to work. Yes, dear, I do. Just for today, I feel pretty and sexy and everything in between.
Remember that classmate who said I looked frumpy compared to high school? The one who helped to create the monster I am today? Today would be a good day to run into people like that. I will check out the coffee shop this morning, and my favorite hide-outs later on. I may have some pounds still to lose, but I have crossed something off my private bucket list. I can no longer be called frumpy.
Dang, I look good.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Trying Again. Will You?
There are two, make that three, kinds of people who populate my small world.
There are ones who make life worthwhile. Thinking of them makes me smile, or even laugh out loud. They fill me with happiness just because they exist. Every second I spend with them on the phone, in person, by email or on Facebook is a joy. They are the reason I get up each morning, why I tap my feet to music, or play Scrabble. They push me to excel. They are there in prayer and encouragement. They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. They tolerate my failures. They are family and friends and acquaintances. Without them, there would be no reason to be.
There are those I deal with on a regular basis. There is no special caring, nor any distaste. I sell them quantities of toothpaste and Tums. They are the people at Kmart, or the grocery or the car wash. We have no private jokes. There is an occasional cup of caffeine during a ten-minute break. They are neither friends nor loved ones. They just are. They don't care that I saw the first kingfisher of the season, or that Nick got a new job. If I didn't see them next Tuesday, they wouldn't miss me. We are civil, we share an occasional laugh. Some of them may eventually call me friend.
Then there are the few, the very few, that I loathe. It is hard to admit, even to myself. I want to like everyone, and have everyone like me. BUT...there are those very few. They cannot converse; they blat and blather. They are rude and crude, insensitive, ungrateful or plain cruel. I walk away if I can. I cringe if they get too near my space. My salesman's face fails me. I am not nice.
I don't want to feel this way. I try to be pleasant to everyone. I will give a second chance, a third, as many as it takes. I try hard to make friends by being a decent, loving person. I work at earning friendship and trust.
What is the chemistry involved with this handful? Why am I so unwilling to put my hand in theirs?
My next self-awareness exercise is to examine closely why the mere existence of these few people drives me bonkers. It is possible that I have been wrong. I might be missing a valuable relationship, or at least a civil one, by my attitude. I no longer am willing to make that sacrifice.
I will try again. Will you?
There are ones who make life worthwhile. Thinking of them makes me smile, or even laugh out loud. They fill me with happiness just because they exist. Every second I spend with them on the phone, in person, by email or on Facebook is a joy. They are the reason I get up each morning, why I tap my feet to music, or play Scrabble. They push me to excel. They are there in prayer and encouragement. They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. They tolerate my failures. They are family and friends and acquaintances. Without them, there would be no reason to be.
There are those I deal with on a regular basis. There is no special caring, nor any distaste. I sell them quantities of toothpaste and Tums. They are the people at Kmart, or the grocery or the car wash. We have no private jokes. There is an occasional cup of caffeine during a ten-minute break. They are neither friends nor loved ones. They just are. They don't care that I saw the first kingfisher of the season, or that Nick got a new job. If I didn't see them next Tuesday, they wouldn't miss me. We are civil, we share an occasional laugh. Some of them may eventually call me friend.
Then there are the few, the very few, that I loathe. It is hard to admit, even to myself. I want to like everyone, and have everyone like me. BUT...there are those very few. They cannot converse; they blat and blather. They are rude and crude, insensitive, ungrateful or plain cruel. I walk away if I can. I cringe if they get too near my space. My salesman's face fails me. I am not nice.
I don't want to feel this way. I try to be pleasant to everyone. I will give a second chance, a third, as many as it takes. I try hard to make friends by being a decent, loving person. I work at earning friendship and trust.
What is the chemistry involved with this handful? Why am I so unwilling to put my hand in theirs?
My next self-awareness exercise is to examine closely why the mere existence of these few people drives me bonkers. It is possible that I have been wrong. I might be missing a valuable relationship, or at least a civil one, by my attitude. I no longer am willing to make that sacrifice.
I will try again. Will you?
Monday, April 4, 2011
A Work In Progress
It was pointed out to me, none too gently, I might add, that while I seem to think my greatest sin is vanity--it isn't. No, my friend pontificated, it is self-centeredness. I stand corrected.
My blog, the friend went on, was all about ME. Well, DUH....Also, that I seem to have too much pride in my nail art and my hair. When I talked about gifts I had finally recognized, the friend pointed out my lack of ability to gain the friendship of some people that I would really LIKE to have as friends, yet they won't respond. And on, and on, and on.... I never said I was perfect.
One point at a time.
Yes, I LOVE my nail art. It is not of my doing, and I always give credit to Sue and Grace. Yes, I show off my hands for the first time in my life. They are beautiful. That's a fact, not braggadocio.
Yes, I love my hair. It is shiny and silver and I wouldn't think of coloring it brown or blond. I like the way it looks in the sun. I like the fact it is silky instead of coarse. Again, all I do is wash it. I got lucky in the gene pool.
On my road to renewal, there are three main points so far.
Number one, I need to grow spiritually. I don't mean just religion. Spirituality involves a whole set of beliefs--in God, yes, but also in oneself. I need to make sure that what I believe is strong enough to defend. Otherwise, it is mere wordplay. Whether I stand alone or others share my beliefs is of no consequence.
Number two, I need to make amends, where I am able, to anyone I have hurt along the way. Whether it was intentional, a misunderstanding or whatever doesn't matter. It needs to be done so I can grow.
Number three, to get as much living as I can fit in to whatever years I have left. That means to make myself healthier, to take more care in my appearance, to try different things...you get the picture. Of course, there are a dozen corollaries and notes and conundrums to resolve.
It really frosted me when the friend said I am even self-centered about my failures. citing the mustache thing, my admitted loathing of certain cities, the fact that I hate to sweat and the pounds I can't get rid of. I didn't think that was self-serving, just honest.
Renewal, rejuvenation, whatever you want to call it, isn't easy. Every stride I take includes a shuffle of priorities and ideas. Every time I recognize a strength, I find its counterpart in weakness. Every new person I befriend reminds me of those who were lost along the way, those who I desperately want back in my life.
Am I self-centered? I guess I am. In my quest to change myself I have turned inward for self-approval. I am self-examining to find out who I am and what I like about myself. If I don't like me, how can anyone else?
If I seem a little too vain, a little too self-centered, a little too loquacious , a little too pushy, a little too anything else--please forgive me.
I am a work in progress.
My blog, the friend went on, was all about ME. Well, DUH....Also, that I seem to have too much pride in my nail art and my hair. When I talked about gifts I had finally recognized, the friend pointed out my lack of ability to gain the friendship of some people that I would really LIKE to have as friends, yet they won't respond. And on, and on, and on.... I never said I was perfect.
One point at a time.
Yes, I LOVE my nail art. It is not of my doing, and I always give credit to Sue and Grace. Yes, I show off my hands for the first time in my life. They are beautiful. That's a fact, not braggadocio.
Yes, I love my hair. It is shiny and silver and I wouldn't think of coloring it brown or blond. I like the way it looks in the sun. I like the fact it is silky instead of coarse. Again, all I do is wash it. I got lucky in the gene pool.
On my road to renewal, there are three main points so far.
Number one, I need to grow spiritually. I don't mean just religion. Spirituality involves a whole set of beliefs--in God, yes, but also in oneself. I need to make sure that what I believe is strong enough to defend. Otherwise, it is mere wordplay. Whether I stand alone or others share my beliefs is of no consequence.
Number two, I need to make amends, where I am able, to anyone I have hurt along the way. Whether it was intentional, a misunderstanding or whatever doesn't matter. It needs to be done so I can grow.
Number three, to get as much living as I can fit in to whatever years I have left. That means to make myself healthier, to take more care in my appearance, to try different things...you get the picture. Of course, there are a dozen corollaries and notes and conundrums to resolve.
It really frosted me when the friend said I am even self-centered about my failures. citing the mustache thing, my admitted loathing of certain cities, the fact that I hate to sweat and the pounds I can't get rid of. I didn't think that was self-serving, just honest.
Renewal, rejuvenation, whatever you want to call it, isn't easy. Every stride I take includes a shuffle of priorities and ideas. Every time I recognize a strength, I find its counterpart in weakness. Every new person I befriend reminds me of those who were lost along the way, those who I desperately want back in my life.
Am I self-centered? I guess I am. In my quest to change myself I have turned inward for self-approval. I am self-examining to find out who I am and what I like about myself. If I don't like me, how can anyone else?
If I seem a little too vain, a little too self-centered, a little too loquacious , a little too pushy, a little too anything else--please forgive me.
I am a work in progress.
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