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 |  Who knows what's to be found inside my head? |
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March 12, 2007 Life in transition. It’s a common theme for everyone, I think. In one way or another all our lives change day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year. Sometimes though, the changes come fast and hard. When I got married I moved out of the home I’d lived in since I was eighteen months old. In a few weeks I’ll move out of the house I’ve lived in for the past twenty-eight years, and away from the local I’ve lived in my entire life. After thirty years of being the wife of an executive who worked sixty hours a week, and took numerous business trips out of the country each year, I will find myself the wife of a semi-retired man who works from home. After a lifetime of suburban living, where no convenience is out of walking distance, we’ll be living in the mountains, thirty minutes out of town. Yeah, life is changing. Can I keep up with it? That’s the question. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Sunset in April on the lake in our Forest Lakes back yard. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Thank you to Voxxylady  for the fantastic sig!Thank you to carlton607  for the gift of the awardicon. If you have time, visit his port. He's a talented writer, and I'll bet you enjoy the Cash N'Advance and Gil and Dolores stories.{/b}
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| I’ve never really considered myself a competitive person, but I am. It goes unnoticed because I don’t generally care too much about winning in games or competitions. I’ve never strived to best another at a board game, or tennis or even in riding competitions. What I want most is to have fun – isn’t that why we call it “playing?” And if I learn something in a competition, coming away slightly improved, I feel as if I’ve won, regardless of how I placed. (This is a useful attitude for another reason: the occasional inequities in contest and competition judgments.) There is a form of competitiveness I engage in daily, but it’s with myself. When I was learning to ride and jump horses, my trainer called me a greedy rider. He was right – I wanted it all. I wanted to be all and do all and be the best. But it wasn’t about being better than another; it was just about being my best, which I wanted to be THE best. But there is also a different competitive streak that explodes from within me. It doesn’t set off its fireworks often, but when it does, watch out. My brother-in-law, Bob was the most recent recipient of my competitive fury. He, Dianne, and I were riding along a shaded bike path that had once been parallel steel tracks bulldozing through the forest. Where once trees had swayed in the wind of clacking railcars, cyclists now breeze along to the quiet tune of tires frictioning on pavement and chains passing over gears. We rode to this cycle music with Dianne in the lead, pacing us on a leisurely ride. I rode behind her, and Bob took up the rear. I devoured the peace and greenery of the place, lost in thought and enjoyment of the exercise. “On your left,” I heard Bob call. In my peripheral vision I saw him come alongside me, and that’s when the monster erupted. No way was I going to be passed without putting up a darn good fight. It never crossed my mind that it had been quite a long time since I’d been on a bike, and Bob is a seasoned rider who was riding a light, professional cycle. I put my head down and pumped those pedals and bled every ounce of strength from my muscles to stay ahead of him. Eventually, he slowed down and slunk back behind me. It was amazingly fun, that outpouring of adrenaline and effort, and we laughed together at my victory. “I couldn’t pass you!” he told me, amazed. Later, we raced again and I was the one to back off and allow him the lead. By then the dust had settled and I was once again in my everyday mind. The mind that says, “Everybody needs a chance to win.” The mind that doesn’t care about besting another. The contrast was so clear that evening, I was left wondering about myself. I guess this drive to show my best when performing, and to prove my strengths serves me. It snatches me from my plateau and propels me to a higher level. Whether it’s the competitive need not to be beaten by my riding trainer’s expectations, as he hollers, “More leg! More leg!” while I reach deep to find resources I don’t know I have; or the stubborn desire to hike to the top of the hill a little quicker than anyone else; or the reflexive response not to be overtaken by my brother-in-law, the eruption of my competitive self always ends up giving me a new baseline – one that was higher than before. But I’m glad I don’t live there all the time. I like the peace of striving to move forward and improve, without the stress imposed by an ingrained insistence on beating someone else. I enjoy having fun without having to conquer. But I also love the rush that comes from that place of complete focus and concerted effort arising out of a drive to WIN. On the day of that bike ride, winning looked outwardly like staying ahead of Bob, but it was actually less about beating Bob, and more about pressing my mind and muscles to their maximum, and then a scoch beyond. Bob was merely the vehicle driving me there. It turned out to be a great thing. That night I realized I was on the upside of my recent flare-up, and that I had strength to do more than I’d been allowing myself. It truly was a step forward. And don't forget to email David McClain with your vote for the blogger of the month! |
| Today’s blog is decidedly American. My apologies to those of you who live outside the States. I can hardly believe we may become a penniless society. Five years ago, Jim Kolbe, a US representative, tried to persuade Congress to phase out the penny. I remember that period, and was glad the attempt failed. I hope his current effort is equally fruitless. Many consider pennies nuisance coins, but I’m attached to them. There’s a peculiar satisfaction in counting out pennies and handing them over to make exact change. I appreciate the savings I accrue when I hold on to my pennies. Handing over a few pennies so I don’t have to break a bill gives me a sense of economic savvy-ness. For a few years, we horded our pennies, saving them in a glass jug. The kids took them to the bank each year and redeemed them; they’d come away fifty dollars richer. One man saved 1.3 million pennies – over four tons in weight! It took him four decades to save that many pennies in drums, stashed in his garage. He had to call a coin counting company to come and fetch them. The loaded armored truck sank into the mud in the man’s yard, and a tow truck had to be sent for to extricate it. The total value of the man’s collection? $13,084.59! Let’s see, over forty years, that’s roughly $.90 per day. Quite a bit more than our $.13 per day average. Over half of us Americans stash our pennies, and of those stashers, two percent admit to throwing the pennies away. It’s hard to remember the days when the copper coin purchased candy or bubblegum. And I was not alive when it delivered a loaf of bread, but there was a day when it had that power. Now, they are tossed into fountains or onto the ground, and hidden in drawers, then gathered and thrown into the trash. The poor penny! I remember saving those pennies I got that had ears of wheat on the tails sides – they were old ones. Now, there are plans to replace the current tails imprint of the Lincoln memorial with four new designs reflecting themes from Lincoln’s life. They are expected to be minted in 2009. Sadly, the new designs may never see the light of day. The problem is that metal prices are high enough that it now costs 1.2 cents to make each penny, produced primarily from zinc (copper got too expensive many years ago). The Mint has been accustomed to making money minting coins, which cost less to manufacture than the face value paid for them by banks. The tide has turned, and we may lose our precious Lincoln coins. I don’t relish the idea of having my purchases rounded up to the nearest nickel. Sounds like a pittance, but as the man with four tons of pennies can attest, a cent here, a cent there – it all adds up. Economic experts agree. They say using the penny is a hedge against inflation. Imagine that. Imagine a generation growing up without understanding the adage, “a penny saved is a penny earned.” Imagine losing this symbol of Americanism. Imagine your pocket or coin purse empty of that lovely copper color. Imagine life without the thrill of counting out and handing to a cashier a handful of pennies, and the accompanying satisfaction of lightening your load. And guess, what? Nickels are also costing more to produce than they’re worth. What’s a government to do? |
| Another pre-blog: As I hinted in an earlier blog, life for me has altered greatly. I do intend to write more about that when the situation with my daughter and her husband has come to a place of stabilization. Each day sees either some sort of change, or the promise of one. The upshot of the deal is that much of my formerly free time is now spent with Rebecca, befriending and supporting her, or babysitting my granddaughter. The nice rut I had dug, which had a few hours carved out especially for daily blogging, has been re-routed, and those hours are often now spent with my grandbaby. If you don’t hear from me every day, know it’s because I’m out taking a walk with the toddler, or playing with her in the pool, or keeping her fingers out of the electrical sockets, which haven’t been plugged yet  Here’s to the interruptions of Life!! * * * July second marked an important anniversary for me. It was one year ago, on that date, that I ate my last bite of sugar. I’d known for a long time that I needed to take that step, but I was never ready to make the commitment. Consuming sugar harms our bodies in a number of ways, but the most important issue for me has been immune system compromise. It takes hours for our immune system to regenerate and function fully after the consumption of even a small amount of sugar. Daily consumption results in ongoing immune suppression. I knew if I was ever to win the battle over my virus, I had to eliminate the primary enemy of my natural defenses. Twelve days after my granddaughter was born, I made the final decision. I’d been relatively sugar-free once before, for just over a year. During that time, I made an important discovery – I learned that I cannot have “just a little.” There were no cookies or candy in the house, but my husband, who was not ready to give up his sweet treats, kept a bag of trail mix. This was his compromise, but my downfall. The trail mix had yogurt chips in it – sweetened yogurt chips. Every so often, when I wanted something to nibble on, I’d reach into that bag of trail mix. After one handful of the sweetness, I was done for. I literally felt a sensation of dying of thirst. I felt as desperate for more of that sweet as a man stranded in the desert is desperate for water. I returned to that trail mix often enough to sabotage my sugar-free efforts. When summer came along I made ice cream with Xylitol, a natural sweetener that is not as harmful as sugar. I thought I was doing myself a favor, but I was walking a dangerous line that eventually led to the total abandonment of any ideas of living without sugar. I learned that the taste of sugar sets off a craving for more. This has been the pattern my entire life. Mother always had cookies, ding-dongs, M&M’s and other such yummies around the house, not to mention the weekly batch of home-made ice cream. I was never able to snack on just one or two cookies, or a few candies. A few didn’t satisfy my craving, they only made it worse, but it wasn’t until I had pretty much eliminated sugar that I noticed how my brain reacted to it. A lifetime of eating sugar has taken its toll. My immune defenses have been compromised, including the dying off of all those nice buggers that like to live in my gut and keep me healthy. My skin has begun to wrinkle and lose its elasticity. When I abandoned my first efforts to get the monkey off my back, I gained twenty pounds. No amount of exercise or dietary changes lowered the scale. During those years when I was battling the weight gain and serious viral outbreaks, I knew what I needed to do, but was unwilling to make the sacrifice. I spoke the words out loud, “I’m just not ready to stop eating the foods I’m enjoying. I get too much comfort from them.” And I went to the store and bought another container of chocolate chip cookies. I don’t know what it was that switched in me. I suspect it was becoming a grandmother. But the day came when I knew I had to be done with it. And I was. I discovered two things that made eliminating sugar easy for me and I’ve never looked back. I know that I cannot have even one cookie, so I don’t. And I don’t crave it, or any sweet thing. What I thought would be a sacrifice has turned out not to be, after all. When you don’t want something, you’re not sacrificing if you pass it up. The key was to do it right and give my body a chance to cleanse itself thoroughly, and give my brain a chance to re-program. It will be a number of years before I can expect my virus to no longer be an issue, but if I can manage to keep my defenses up and the enemy away I may be able to enter into wellness sooner. And those twenty pounds? They vanished. |
| PreBlog: Today the house has been thoroughly cleaned. Elizabeth did as good a job as I expected her to do in cleaning the rooms they vacated, but the rooms still needed a little special attention. Those empty rooms were killing me, so they now have new rugs and a few little furnishings. My massage table has finally found a place so I can use it once again with regularity. The cat hair is dusted and vacuumed up. I don’t miss the cats, but Rowdy sure does. He stands around, just looking. What I miss is the life energy the kids took with them. I have a list of what I’ll miss, and a list of what I’m glad for. The first list is longer. It’s been a hard weekend for all of us, but I’m thinking the empty spaces, the void pantry shelves, the lifeless rooms will soon feel natural and will no longer evoke tears. The baby comes in an hour, and that will help, you can bet. Now, for the blog, and some pictures: * * * I love my dog, I really do. I even had a friend accuse him of being spoiled, but he’s not. So what if he has a special bed in the corner of the couch? That’s to protect the furniture, not for his comfort. He sleeps overnight in a crate in the living room. And what if he got fed only raw meat and bones the first year and a half of his life? Those trips to buy chicken feet and turkey necks and organic eggs were to keep him from “recycling” his meals, if you know what I mean. And it worked. Now, he’s on regular dog food, minus by-products, plus the fresh organic eggs. Those cuddling sessions we have each morning? They’re more for me than for him, and besides, I have to check that he has all his nail covers on – no more scratching the wood floors. All right, so I walk him off leash. He’s a border collie. He’s bred to run hours a day – his sanity (and mine) depend on his chance to get out and race down the block. Besides, he’s trained perfectly, always turns to check where I am, comes immediately when I call him and is inclined to move away from, not toward, another dog. And I carry the leash, just in case. I get him out nearly every day, but that’s as much because I need the exercise as it is for him. His trips to “doggie day care” aren’t for the express purpose of allowing him to visit his parents and siblings. They’re so I don’t have to worry about him wreaking havoc in our yard when I can’t get out to exercise him. OK, so I make some interesting concessions as a dog owner. We all do. But one thing I would NEVER do, ever, is what I saw the other day. Walking home from dinner, Ron and I encountered a woman carrying her dog. As we passed she said to me, “He’s tired.” Give me a break. I wonder if she’s had any children – my guess is, no. Here are some pictures of the Rowdy dog ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Remember the foot fetish? Before I could snap the picture he pulled in his tongue. It’s really pitiful when he’s staring at my feet with his tongue dangling. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Rebecca and Theren, with Rowdy watching feet. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** That tongue just sneaks out. But, he doesn’t drool. |
| I don’t usually write a blog on the weekends, as you know, but I’m taking a few moments while the girls are cleaning rooms. They’re cleaning because Elizabeth and Ryan are moving out today. Two rooms are now empty and being cleaned of a year’s worth of accumulated cat hair and other grime. Ron and the men just left with the U-Haul to pick up the remaining of their furnishings and wedding gifts from the storage room. It was a sad morning, and while Elizabeth was out with Ron for their final weekly breakfast together, she cried. I’m feeling the loss, too. I’m not especially anxious for them to stay with us – they are, after all, grown and married and need to be out on their own. Ryan has only one more class to finish next semester and got a fulltime job with the university so they are finally able to step into full independence. Their year in our home, as a stopgap to allow them time to get started, has come to an end. What we’re experiencing today is the farewell we might have had a year ago, when Elizabeth and Ryan got married. Exactly a year after their wedding (their anniversary is today), we’re giving away our daughter. Their apartment is adorable and located on the campus where Ryan goes to school and works, so it’s as perfect for them as anything could be. It might interest zwisis to learn the rent for their one bedroom, plus den apartment is an appalling $1,400 per month. Tonight will be the first night Ron and I will have ever been alone overnight in our house, since we had children. What a strange thought. The idea of being able to run around the house in the all-together without worrying about who may come in the front door is rather interesting (I first wrote “exciting,” but I didn’t want all you men to get the wrong idea!) and I’ll look forward to guaranteed peace when I want it. But there’s going to be no getting around the adjustment of having the kids gone. There will no doubt be a period of mourning while we miss them. However, we’ll be empty nesters for only a short while. It looks as if Rebecca and the baby will be moving in, perhaps as early as the end of August. That is a whole ‘nother drama that I’ll write about later. That is the drama that is changing my life and causing an overhaul of my time, resources, and priorities. This is Elizabeth’s day, though. And in a way, Ron’s and mine. We’ll cry and crack open the champagne tonight, if we’re still awake after a day of moving, and an evening of attending a church gathering. Somewhere, I’ll find time to take a breath! It may have to wait until Monday, though. Now I've got to go. Time to move out and on and forward. |
| Yesterday, I watched a neighbor’s house burn down. I’d been past this house down the block earlier in the morning, riding my bike, with Rowdy racing me on the sidewalk. He alerted me to the workers replacing the roof when he crouched, then made for the other side of the street, reacting to the PFFT of the pneumatic nail guns. A few men scrambled on the roof, nailing shingles and arranging bags of roofing materials for easy access. It reminded me our house is due for a re-roofing. Returning home after lunch out with Rebecca, I followed a beacon of black smoke that lead back to this house. The workers were away, and the roof was aflame. It was a newly born fire – the firefighters, whose station is a mere two blocks away, hadn’t even arrived yet. I surmised they’d been called when I saw a neighbor pulling dogs out of the back yard, and sure enough, within a few minutes the yellow trucks pulled up. It is a strangely emotional experience, watching a family lose their home in a mere thirty minutes. To hear the words spoken by a yellow hat to his battalion chief: “The house is gone. All we can do is control the burn while it finishes eating the walls.” To watch the roof collapse and see the wonder of a home’s interior fully lit from above. To see a wall of flame erupt from the garage, after melting the aluminum door. To hear the sizzle of fire hose water vaporizing in the heat. To know that this night, that family will be without so much as a toothbrush or hair comb. It took twenty firefighters to battle that blaze and contain it so it didn’t spread to adjacent homes in the sweltering heat of midday. They did an amazing job, and after thirty minutes those not assigned to the final putdown shed their heavy, soaked coats and sat down to rest and guzzle Gatorade. A chief strode up to the line of blue-shirted men and pointed over the rooftops to the west, where a plume of white smoke could be seen rising in a mushroom. “Looks like Carlyle canyon has begin to burn, boys.” The men shook their heads, stood, and shouldered their way back into their hot, yellow coats. “It’s going to be a long summer,” one said. “Well, a long day at least,” another replied. The majority of firefighters left to face off the brushfire, and it took the remaining men a total of two hours to complete their job. They pulled in the rest of the roof and tossed the pieces out the front windows. They hacked and hosed and foamed every inch of the house and brunt-out garage until they were satisfied no embers were left and there was no danger of falling debris to injure the family and friends who would be salvaging what belongings they could. Shaun and Christy looked on in stunned amazement as all they owned was lost. I knew the enormity of what was happening hadn’t begun to register, but there was joy when they discovered that same man who fetched their dogs had gone into the house and redeemed some precious paintings and photos before the firefighters arrived with their soakers. What is there to say to people who have just lost their home? Who have watched it burn down? Who gather the sum total of their possessions in a ragged pile on the front lawn? I overheard folks offering the usual clichés, which I couldn’t bear to utter. I’d never met them before so knew my offers of “if there’s anything you need” wouldn’t be accepted – people don’t knock on the door of strangers and ask for help. So, all I did was hand Christy some cash, knowing they’d need to buy essentials for that night and the days ahead. I offered the use of my car for transporting their possessions to storage, and said I was sorry. Thankfully, they have family in the immediate area, as well as a church family for support, which I’m sure they will consider a blessing. But life for them has suddenly changed. Yesterday morning they thought they knew what their life looked like – they had plans for the day and for their tomorrow. They were living, as we all do, in the peace of predictability. By four in the afternoon that idea had been erased, burned away. In some odd way, my life is altered as well. I’ve experienced vicariously a tragedy of loss that goes beyond anything I’d known before. I’ve seen firsthand how quickly possessions can be taken. This morning, I did not take for granted that I awoke in my bed in my bedroom and went out for my walk with the dog, as usual. Today, I’m feeling the blessings I usually ignore. I rode by the house this afternoon, after fetching my bike from the shop. Somehow, the bright daylight streaming across the lavender bedroom walls and into the open closets and exposed interior of the house spoke to me of life opened and rearranged; of tragedy that peels away the rind of complacency and lets light into dark places. I hope that this will be a rebirth, not just for the house, but for the family as well. |
| Well, vacation is over. I got to stretch it a bit since I came home before a weekend, and before a holiday, to boot. I got four extra days of messing around and ignoring the duties of day to day life. But last night, I knew it was over when I fell into a slump of depression. Well, maybe not depression exactly, but sadness. There was no real reason for my feeling blue, except for the realization that today, life – with all its drama – would shroud me. My comfortable rut filled in while I was gone and I am facing the task of digging myself a new one. Events have transpired in the last two weeks that require an alteration in my routine and my priorities, and discovering how to make it all twine together is the challenge for my summer. It begins today. These post-vacation blues are not unique to me, I know. I’d lay odds anyone reading this has had their own experience with them. This is the first time I’ve felt them so keenly, though. The temptation to lie down and sleep through the day is one I had to fight off. I didn’t have time to consider it seriously though, thanks to the beckoning of the dog who was crying for his run; of the house desperately in need of cleaning; of Rebecca who wanted me to go mall walking with her and the baby; of Elizabeth who asked me to go with her on some errands. Now, my first real day home is almost finished and I’ve still got a list of things I want to get done before the weekend, when we’ll be moving the kids into their apartment. Thinking about it can make me panic, so I’m just tackling one thing at a time and hoping for the best. The next thing on my list is to get caught up on reading all your wonderful blogs. That is how I intend spending my evening, and if all goes well I’ll be ready to begin interacting with you all tomorrow. Thanks for checking in while I was gone. I had expected to have time to post more entries, but dang if I wasn’t just kept so busy having fun I just didn’t have time to write. Ah, life. A never ending stream of adventures and surprises. Ain't it grand? |
| ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Me, Dianne and Karen standing before the tea garden in Fabyan Park. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** A closer look at part of the garden. It was closed, so we were stuck outside the fence. * * * Yesterday, Dianne and I left our sister Karen’s house. We three had two days of fun together. It took me so long to get out here, and now I’m sad we have to split up. When we were children, we lived in separate worlds. My older sisters were a mystery to me – big girls who had big-girl friends and boyfriends and never played with dolls. Instead, they sewed clothes and went on dates. They rolled their hair in rollers and sat under the hairdryer; I sat in the floor at my mother’s feet wincing against the pull of hair tufts twisted into pincurls. They wore nylons and high heels; I wore knee socks and Oxfords. They put on make-up; I carried Chapstick. They sat with their big-girl friends in church, listening to the sermon; I sat with Mother and Daddy, scribbling on registration cards. They drove themselves to college; I walked to elementary school. By the time I was old enough to be aware of them as people I might have a relationship with, they were gone from home, starting their own families. I was an aunt while I was still in sixth grade, and felt like a stranger in my sisters’ homes. Now, we three are all grandparents and age no longer stands between us. We have years of life experience under our collective belts – experiences which, though unique to each of us in their particulars, have sent us all on common paths of learning. When I was a child, I had no idea who my older sisters were. There is still much about them I don’t know, since our lives were separated by so many miles during the years I was maturing. But, I also know quite a bit about them. I know enough to say that I revere and respect them, that I look up to them and in different ways would like to be like each of them. I am encouraged by the example of their lives and taught by the depth of their spiritual commitment. I am drawn into their love by their care and nurturing of me, not in a condescending way, but in the way of the camaraderie of sisterhood. And we just plain have fun together. My sisters are supreme tour guides and know fun and interesting things to do. My life is a whirlwind of adventure and new experiences when I’m with them, and we laugh. We laugh lots. On this trip away from home, I am separated from my husband and miss him no end. I’m also separated from my kids and my granddaughter, who is learning to walk while I’m away. I’m thousands of miles away from a crisis that began unfolding before I left. Each day I feel the longing to be home, the exhaustion of dealing long distance with a painful situation that progresses in my absence, and the loneliness of experiencing so many new things without Ron. But my sisters have made me glad to be here. The effort they have put into making my time with them fun and fascinating has communicated a caring that goes beyond what I could have comprehended. The fun we’ve had is an echo of all the joyful times we’ve had in the past, and a promise of more to come. I am learning that there is a closeness shared by us siblings that is absent from other friendships, even the closest ones. Our common experience of being raised in the same home, along with our common faith, has created a bond and understanding of life that ties us to one another. Every time we get to be together I grow just a little more, and this time, visiting them in their homes and towns, I’ve been generously enriched. Yesterday, I left Karen’s. Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving Dianne’s. I’ll be returning home a different person, a better person, a sister who belongs to her sisters. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Here we are, reflected in The Bean, which I may write about later, and I have other wonderful pictures of it. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** The granddaughter who is now walking |
| What is it about Green? The green of nature enthralls me, awakens me. Maybe it’s because I live in a desert. Even though Los Angeles and her suburbs are on the coast, she’s still a desert that receives little precipitation. Without sprinklers in our lawns, we’d be surrounded by brown all year, excepting the few months of spring. I flew out of Los Angeles International Airport, on my way east. The plane took off over the ocean, as the airport is on the coast. We flew over the Pacific for miles before turning and heading back toward land. And, past the incorporated areas, the land is desert – brown and red and barren. I live in a small valley encircled by foothills. Through the months of March, April and May they boast an exuberant green. The remaining nine months of the year they are variegated in browns and beiges. I hike in rocky hills, on trails of hard packed dirt, twelve hundred feet up through dry brush, scrub and flowers gone to seed. My hikes are accompanied by silence. No birds sing along these trails – there are no trees and few bushes for them to make home. I savor the fragrance of sage, the one plant that remains green. I inhale deeply to fill my nostrils and lungs with that green, living aroma. Here in Ohio, all I see is green. I flew in over a forest, and fields of corn and soy. Houses are situated back off the street, bibbed with green lawns, watered by the heavens. The back yards are expansive and to me, look like parks. The hikes aren’t climbing ones, but they are beautiful passages through forest and gorge, or along the river. Instead of sage, I breathe the breath of trees and undergrowth and damp, mulchy earth. Birdsong echoes, crickets chirp. We are not alone. The air is heavy with moist heat, but it feels like life. Here are some green pictures: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** The Clifton Gorge. The river runs through the forest. It rained so the ground was moist and soft and spongy. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** All the grass. Everywhere grand expanses of grass. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** 422 miles of canal once operated along the Great Miami River. This section is obviously abandoned. How strange it was to see a canal of grass, and locks growing tiger lilies. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** On a trip along a working section of the old canal system. Like a blast from the past. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** My sister Dianne, and me, in the gorge. Those of you who live in such places as this must wonder at my amazement. Wonder away. I am amazed. |
| First of all, thank all of you for your kind Anniversary wishes. We had a great day celebrating our anniversary, Father’s Day, and our granddaughter’s first birthday. Can’t quite go wrong with that. * * * * * I have three sisters and no brothers. My parents sort of had two families because when I came along, as number three, they already had an eleven and a nine year old. Three and a half years after I was born, my little sister showed up. We were never a very close family, for a number of reasons. Dianne and Karen, the two oldest, developed a friendship of sorts, but they haven’t ever been best friends as far as I know. Lee Ellyn and I shared a room, but during all those years of childhood and youth, we never crossed the line from sisterhood, into friendship – that wasn’t to come until we were adults. My older sisters teased in ways that scarred me for a great many years, but it was never malicious – they just didn’t understand or know better. It wasn’t always only teasing – there were fun times, too. Karen taught me how to blow bubbles with Bazooka bubble gum, and Dianne used to take me to plays at her college. Those are pleasant memories, but intimate interaction was infrequent. Once we all became adults and married, we grew closer and learned more about being friends with each other. It took a while though. After all, I was only in sixth grade – not even a teenager yet – when both my older sisters got married. I had a lot of growing up to do before I could meet them on common ground. The process began after I got married, and just as I was coming to know my older sisters, they moved out of California. In those twenty-some years, I’ve spoken to them from time to time, and have seen them less often, but somehow we’ve become peers, even friends. In the year since my father died, Dianne and I have developed a special friendship and talk on the phone every other week or so. Here comes the embarrassing part: in all the years Dianne and Karen have lived outside California, I have never been to visit them. With our parents living in California, they had reasons to come out here every so often and it was during those trips that we saw each other. For Dianne’s fiftieth birthday all four of us sisters spent a weekend together. We did the same for Karen’s half-century celebration. Those were the only times we all met for the sole purpose of visiting together, just sisters. And what a blast we had. Ron and I have talked about taking a vacation out their way and visiting my older sisters and their families, but somehow, each year we decide to do something else – something closer to home that doesn’t require either airfare or days of travel, which eats into the fun time. Last year, at my father’s funeral, I promised my older sisters that I’d come and visit them this summer. Dianne lives in Dayton and Karen lives in Chicago; those cities are close enough that we three can visit together on one plane ticket out east. I’m keeping my promise. Today, I’m on my way to spend eleven days with my sisters, and to attend a small family reunion. It’s funny how there’s so much I feel I don’t know about my sisters simply because I haven’t been in these homes of theirs. I stumble at Christmas and birthday time because I don’t know how they decorate, or what’s in their wardrobe. Knowing someone’s personal taste, and seeing how they make it part of their world helps a lot in making gift giving decisions, don’t you think? I’m sure we’ll have a great time together – we always do – but even more, I hope I come to know and understand them better, for having lived a few days in their private space. You will be hearing from me off and on over the duration of my little vacation. Both sisters have internet access and I expect to have the opportunity to post some blogs. I may not have time to go reading and commenting, though. So, if you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know why. |
| We make decisions in our youth, not giving the slightest consideration as to how they will affect our future. We breathe life into those decisions and they transform into living creatures that advance before us and machete a path through the jungle of our lives. We follow along the cleared way, like rodents in a maze, unaware of how different out lives would have been with a different guide. Twenty-nine years ago I made one such decision. The person I am today, the life I have passed through and the one I live this moment – even my future – all of it is a result of my choice to follow a particular path, which I entered into with a young man. We’ve walked the way together, through storms and sun; through clouds of stinging insects and gardens of fragrant blossoms. We’ve climbed the heights of joy and plumbed the depths of sadness. We’ve also walked many tranquil miles, following the guide along a level path, our ankles occasionally slapped by sloppily cut foliage. I was still eighteen when I married a twenty-one year old man. In many ways June 18, 1977 was my birthday, my initiation into adulthood. I’ve never known my adult self apart from my husband, and I am wholly content with that. There’s no way of knowing which path my life would have taken without him, what lessons I would have learned, experiences I would have had, or what kind of person I would have become. What I believe is that I’ve grown into someone bigger, brighter and grander with him than I would have become on my own. We two entered into adulthood together, learning as we went; struggling and arguing and feeling our way around each other. We learned about compromise and sacrifice and receiving gifts of love with grace. We learned about working together and listening to each other and giving ground when our partner needs to lead. We learned that, in our relationship, dreaming of greener pastures doesn’t mean they exist. We learned about forgiveness and work and leaning on one another when stumbling over tree roots grown across the path. We learned the truth of what it means to bury the hatchet and continue in companionship, regardless of what harsh words have been spoken. We learned the special lessons of unity and respect that came along with children – the children infertility nearly stole from us; we fought battles as the girls struggled through their teen years – all of us so uncertain and searching. When it was over, we nursed each other’s wounds and learned about healing. I stepped out on a path twenty-nine years ago. I made my vow of loving until death separated us. I had some vague thought of life with my groom when we hit our eighties, but the image was a flash – come and gone in an instant. My eighteen year old self couldn’t grasp the future, I had no appreciation for the fact that when I stepped out of the chapel on that summer evening, I was following a force I’d given life to, that would guide my way and shape my character. By some miracle, I made a good choice. I’ve never fully understood Ron’s love for me – it has been and will always remain one of life’s mysteries. He’s given so much of his life to support me and the girls, to make our dreams come true. He’s endured my illness and emotional instabilities. He’s taught me invaluable lessons about accepting life and sacrificing and not giving up. Most of what I know of love, I learned from him. I will forever believe I got the best end of the deal when we married, and I’ll forever be grateful for the decision I made twenty-nine years ago. |
| Yikes, I got caught up in the nostalgia loop this morning! On my neighborhood walk with Rowdy, I passed the elementary school, and out on the playground the staff was entertaining the students with a game of teacher-on-teacher softball. Do you remember those days during the last week of school? That little light flutter flapped around in my chest this morning, just as it used to do during the week school wrapped up. Nothing got done in the classroom, the teachers relaxed and the school days lazed away. We kids got to come to school in shorts or pants (in the sixties, girls in elementary school wore dresses only to school) and no one cared if we just sat around at recess instead of playing the assigned games. The sun was warm but not hot, the outdoor corridors shady and smelling of cool cement. The lunch area, empty in the hours before noon; the corridors, deserted after the class bell rang; the playground, silent as children lounged behind desks – all were enveloped in the lazy energy of eminent desertion, so different from the energy of expectation these same empty spaces had scattered in the previous nine months. I felt all this at that young age, I just didn’t know what it was or how to name it. I recall the feelings I had as I walked home on the last day of school, each year. We lived just two blocks from the campus and I walked to and from school alone. (I don’t know why I never shared the walk with my younger sister, but we went separately.) I always felt a mixture of emptiness and anticipation. There was the empty space that would be part of my days for the next three months, and the loss of seeing my school friends, but also the freedom to sleep late and ride my bike up and down the street in the morning and run in the sprinklers, and hope to be invited to swim at a neighbor’s house. Walking home from school on the last day, I always felt lonely, and the house seemed large and vacant when I came in the door. Summer vacation had begun, and it stretched out ahead a blank slate, waiting to be writ upon. |
| Yesterday, susanL brought up the subject of scripted reality shows. This was an interesting thought, since I too have heard that reality shows aren’t all that “real.” My husband has been working in the industry for thirty years and knows the ins and outs of many aspects of production, so I asked him about it. According to my expert the survivor shows are indeed scripted to a large extent, and all participants are paid and sign a non-disclosure contract. But with the contest shows, no one tells the contestants what to do. With thousands of people lined up to dance, (or sing, or whatever) the odds are you’re going to get a bunch of stinkers to capitalize on. They aren’t instructed to perform badly, but they are compensated for permission to show their humiliation on national television. They have to give their permission, and if they know their stuff, they get plenty of payment for it.Now, for the blog. * * * * * * A few weeks ago, vivacious posed a question in her blog about our general reluctance to acknowledge our strengths. For some, willingness to accept their strong points is a problem. For others, the difficulty lies in thinking themselves more talented than they are. They live in a place where ego supersedes simple pride.On the show So You Think You Can Dance, there was a group of egos that seriously needed a reality check. Some of those dancers auditioned last year and failed to make the cut. They returned this year with nothing new to offer, not having taken advantage of any training in the intervening months. But they were proud of that fact, and loudly proclaimed that their skill was superior by virtue of the fact that "it comes from inside of me, man.” They bragged to the camera in their pre-audition interviews like so many cocks strutting their stuff, but their skills were lacking. There were a frightening number of dance instructors and choreographers whose performances were painful to watch. One young man proclaimed to the camera that he hadn’t started dancing until he was thirteen, but he picked it up so fast and got so good that his teacher had him start teaching and choreographing. The judges inquired if he got paid for this work, and when he confessed that he did, they suggested (perhaps a bit meanly) that he should give the money back. They pointed out that it takes years of training and a high degree of skill before one can legitimately hire themselves out in the capacity of trainer/choreographer. He had neither the years, nor the skill. He was one among many. I’m not suggesting there’s no place for amateur teachers of dance. And if they want to charge money and people are willing to pay them, that’s their business. Not everybody who wants to learn dance desires or needs professional training. But for these amateurs to wear the mantel of professionalism and to pass that thinking on to their students is a crime. This poor fellow had been deluded by a teacher with an over-inflated ego who didn’t know the difference between excellence and mediocrity – or didn’t care. The result was a young man who took the stage in front of millions and made a fool of himself, ignorantly believing himself to be more far skilled than he was – relying on titles that had too early been bestowed upon him, rather than talent. Our daughter Elizabeth is a talented dancer and singer, who has done quite a bit of performing (inducing lead roles) in college and Community Theater musical productions. There was a time when she dreamed of Broadway. Any time she mentioned going to New York to study dance, we smiled with her and said, “Wouldn’t that be fun?” We knew that, as good as she was, she had limitations that would prevent her realizing such a lofty dream. We never discouraged her, but we didn’t push her, either. We figured she’d discover the truth herself. Thanks to excellent instruction, she did. She has no arches and this affects her hips and her turnout. There are some styles of dance she does amazingly well, and others she can’t manage with a high degree of skill. So, she adjusted her goals, does what she is able to do well, and loves every minute of it. Facing reality doesn’t have to mean losing confidence or becoming less of who you desire to be. It affords freedom to grow and in the end, results in greater confidence and success. |
| When Ron and I walked in the front door after our walk to dinner the other night, we found Elizabeth and Ryan watching recorded episodes of So You Think You Can Dance. Though not a show I’d normally choose to watch, it ended up being quite entertaining, and two things struck me like a ton of bricks. First of all, let me say, I’ve got admiration for anyone willing to put themselves out there for those judges and the millions of TV viewers to criticize. That takes a courage I don’t have. BUT, there really were some of those auditioning who should not have been on that stage. These were the dancers who played the role producers salivate over: comic relief and embarrassing tension. One such group of performers was composed of those who didn’t understand that carrying an extra thirty to fifty pounds was sure to prevent them moving past the audition stage of the competition. My intention isn’t to critique overweight individuals, but to point out that weight, while it may not matter in a singer, certainly does matter in a dancer. It’s not a reasonable expectation for an overweight dancer to maintain graceful balance and fluidity of movement. And it showed over and over again. (Leaving out the inevitable individual who is the exception to the rule!) Unfortunately, it’s apparently un-PC to mention weight, because only one time did a judge comment on the issue; that was in response to a girl dancing with six inches of her belly blubbering uncovered. Otherwise, the judges merely admonished these dancers that they would never make a professional grade performer, and not to quit their day job. I am in favor anyone, overweight or not, taking up dancing for fun and exercise. Dancing provides an awesome aerobic workout, improves balance and strengthens the core muscles – not to mention its effectiveness in boosting self-confidence. But for dance instructors (who surely know better), and mothers (who may not) to encourage these pudgy kids and young adults to pursue a career in the field beyond teaching youngsters the basics, I believe does them a disservice. I’m haunted by one young woman whose mother put her into dance when she was a child; she’s been taking formal instruction for thirteen years. She is a beautiful young lady, and if she weren’t auditioning in a dance contest, her extra fifty pounds probably wouldn’t matter. She glowed; the confidence sparkled from her in her pre-audition interview. She danced like a second grader. And it wasn’t just that her moves were elementary, it was the effort required to maneuver her weight around the stage that limited her options, and clearly, they’ve been limited for over a decade. As she walked off the stage, she smiled for the camera, but the spark had left her eyes, replaced by defeat. The head that had been held high was sagging on her shoulders. I cried for her as the judges told her the truth about her dancing. How much of her hard earned self-confidence was stripped from her that night? I don’t fault the judges – they were doing their job. Someone in her life should have either helped her lose weight in order to have some hope of achieving her goals, or they should have given her more realistic guidance. I hear parents tell their children, “You can do anything you want to do.” I understand the encouraging nature of those words, meant to build confidence, but I don’t agree they should be preached. With both our girls, we faced the dilemma of encouraging them to be successful without leading them in a path of crushed dreams. It was a tricky role for us as parents, and took some loving conversations and effort to work with them to find alternatives to their fantasies. Elizabeth discovered her path easily. Rebecca, who wanted to be an actress, held on a bit longer, but came to accept the need to look elsewhere for her life’s calling. Both are happy and successful and avoided the crush of confidence and the lost years that would have come had they pursued unrealistic dreams. I hope the young woman continues to dance and allows it to enrich her life. I hope she has the inner strength to realign her thoughts so this experience will be one that makes, and doesn’t break her. There was another group of dancers who could have used a reality hit before they went out on the stage, but I’ll talk about them tomorrow. |
| Hanging on the wall in my living room is an American flag, folded into a perfect triangle, exposing the requisite thirteen stars. This is the flag that was draped over my father’s coffin at his funeral last July – an honor due him for his service in the American Coast Guard during the Second World War. My father died after years of battling Alzheimer’s. For two years after my mother passed away, it was my younger sister and I who looked after Daddy. We shopped for a place he could live safely, given his tendency to wander, and made sure he had what he needed: bird seed for the feeder outside his window, toothpaste and shampoo, chocolate chip cookies. You know – all the necessities Each Wednesday, we took him out to breakfast and for a walk around the lake in a local park. After a year and a half, my sister moved to Washington with her one year old daughter and husband. I was left to see after Daddy’s needs and deal with the problems that arose as he became increasingly confused. He soon was in a wheel chair, so I pushed him around the lake. It wasn’t long before I was informed the time had come to transfer him to a skilled nursing facility, as he had become unable to care for himself. The heartache of looking for a suitable place for him to live is something I never want to live though again. Even in a wheel chair, Daddy moved around on his own and went outdoors to explore and keep some grasp of his independence. In skilled nursing facilities there is no allowance for such freedom of movement outdoors, and I cried buckets of tears knowing I was taking away from my father his last shred of independence and consigning him to peddling along the same three hallways for the remainder of his days. The job of disposing of all his belongings and furnishings didn’t make the task any easier. I smiled and joked with him the day I took him to his new home, all the while crying inside as I handed the nurse a Hefty bag containing the only things he owned – a few articles of clothing. I continued to visit with him and took him out a few times, then the trips away became more than he could handle. After that, I just wheeled him into the courtyard so we could sit together in the shade and fresh air. He rarely spoke anymore, and when he did, it was to say phrases that made no sense. When he looked at me, I could see that he knew he recognized me, he just didn’t know who I was. I rushed to the emergency room when he was taken there for respiratory distress and it was in that place I had my last words from my father. He lay on the bed with his back to the door so I had to walk around to the other side so he could see me. His eyes were closed, but I knew he was awake. “Daddy,” I said. He opened his eyes and they widened with recognition. He rose, reached out his left hand and cradled my face. He said, “Lauren, I’m so glad to see you.” This was the only time in my life he ever touched me in such an intimate way. He remained alive for another few weeks, and died in his bed at the home. It was a good release. He was free to go to heaven and to my mother. Before the funeral, I was telling my oldest sister about the weeks my kids had shared with their grandfather. Because we homschooled we were able to spend all kinds of time with my parents at their home in the mountains. Daddy taught my girls how to fish in his backyard pond, and he let them keep him company as he puttered around the place, giving them small jobs to do and sharing special moments. He never got to know his other grandchildren so well, since the all lived in other states. I mentioned to Dianne that for the sake of his relationship with my girls, I would like to have my father’s flag after the funeral, if she herself didn’t want to keep it with the other family artifacts she has been saving. When the graveside service was over, my brothers-in-law folded the flag and presented it to Dianne. As the oldest, she held that place of honor, and it was her responsibility to decide what to do with the flag. This is all unbreakable tradition. Dianne gave the flag to me the following day. My sister Karen had no complaint but now our youngest sister is not speaking to Dianne. Lee Ellyn wanted the flag and even in the face of Dianne’s explanations, refused to let go of her resentment. Despite a year of overtures from Dianne (including giving to Lee Ellyn our father’s Bible), the younger still refuses any communication with the older. I have been willing to give up the flag, but Dianne asked me not to, since she made her decision with great thought and care and believes it belongs with my family. So, I look at that flag with mixed emotions. It reminds me of the gift of my father’s only physical expression of love for me, and of the happy times he and my girls shared. But it also brings me to wonder if that day after his funeral when we four sisters spent the day together in close companionship will be our last one. |
| There are all kinds of addictions, I guess. Addiction to drugs, alcohol and caffeine are the obvious ones, but there are others we don’t normally think of. There was a time in my life when I was addicted to sugar. Not so obvious. And today, I was reminded of another addiction: to video games. The US has what are strangely called Detox clinics for gaming addicts, but just this week, the first one is opening in Europe. Signs of addiction have shown up in children as young as eight years old. It’s estimated that eighty percent of boys from eight to eighteen play video games, and of those, forty percent play a minimum of two and a half hours per day. The severe addicts play upwards of fourteen hours a day and use drugs to keep themselves going. We’re told the majority of gamers are boys who use the violent games as “a laboratory where they can experience different emotions,” and that the act of playing gives them a high similar to that experienced by drug addicts and gamblers. The most horrifying thought is that we parents have freely handed over to our children the agency of their addiction. Our kids don’t get a bottle of scotch for Christmas, or a cigar box of marijuana for their birthday. But they get Game Boys and X-Boxes and Play Stations and a full collection of games. The experts try and soften it by stating that when video games first came out, parents didn’t understand their power – mom and dad thought they were doing something good by offering an alternative to television. Rubbish. Sitting in front of the TV or computer, no matter what the kid is doing, is NOT reading, or playing outside, or doing homework, or learning to play a musical instrument, or any number of the other activities that used to occupy time and stimulate imagination. Haven’t we understood enough of what happens to our brains when we watch hour after hour of television, that the correlation to playing video games would have been evident? My husband and I are not scientists, but we understood. No video games came into our house. Children for generations, I – and perhaps you – among them, have managed to become emotionally functioning adults, without the benefit of such “laboratories.” To be fair, it’s not always the parents who send the ball rolling. There are adults who have become addicted after buying the systems themselves and finding within the video world a place to escape the problems of their lives. They just happened upon gaming before they found alcohol or drugs or gambling. But as far as the children go, I think it boils down to a need for parents to once again take an active role in the lives of their kids. I’ve heard there is a population of children and young adults who have unique problem solving skills, thanks to their experiences playing video games. As with everything, value can be found when the discipline of moderation is exercised. But it takes parents who will set and enforce limits. It takes paying attention and putting forth the effort, and being the boss. Families are supposed to be adults and children living their lives together, and parents have the responsibility of being involved with their youngsters. Should any parent ever have to say, “I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what it was?” |
| Stinking internet. I’m so late posting, thanks to issues that kept us offline for a few hours. For those of you who read yesterday’s blog, I’d like to say first of all, thank you for your comments. As it turned out, Bob gained sufficient clarity of communication to make his wishes known. He’s back in the hospice, allowed to eat anything he wants, as long as he’s able to swallow, and being kept pain-free until his final moments. And now, for today’s blog: The northeastern Arizona desert is a sight to behold. If you’ve never seen it, you may be surprised to learn it’s a riot of color, especially in spring when yellow-, blue-, and silver-greens are added to the pallet of hues. One distinguishing feature of these deserts are the flat-topped mountains, called mesas. They range in area from the size of a parking lot to miles of mountain range. In the distance, these mesas silhouette against the horizon in mauve, purple and the deep blue of the overhead sky. Clouds hover with slate-purple underbellies; the attenuated sunlight deepens the golds, rusts, pinks and blushed peach and oranges of the scrub brush and soil. The sky variegates from near white at the horizon to deep blue overhead. As we drove through these deserts the other day, I longed to capture the glory of them within my camera, to share. But the digital images are bland and the lens can’t widen enough to provide the perspective of vastness. The California desert, by comparison, in unremarkable. For a few weeks in spring there is the surprising green of some brush, but even during this time of growth, most of the landscape is a boring beige – especially during midday, when the high sun bleaches all color and flattens the desert’s features. But at sunset, the slanting light warms the land and brings dimension to the bushes and brush, making the place seem almost welcoming. Having lived my entire life in Southern California, I have passed through our deserts many times, as each family vacation to the east required passage through those hot lands. It wasn’t until I reached adulthood however, that I ever saw the desert. As a child, vacations began when I was awakened and helped out of bed hours after I’d fallen asleep for the night. The car had been prepared: rolled up sleeping bags filled the back floor space, fitted snugly on either side of the driveshaft hump. Another bed was made in the back of the blue Chevy station wagon. I was put to bed on the sleeping bags, my little sister was bedded down in the back of the car, and my older sisters curled up in the back seat. Daddy got behind the wheel and while the rest of us slumbered, he drove us through the notorious Needles desert. This was always Mother’s plan. In those days cars overheated easily and there was no air-conditioning. My mother wanted no part of sweating through the desert or sitting on the side of the road watching Daddy pour water over the radiator. Her strategy always paid off. By the time the sun rose, we found ourselves in Arizona, with the dangerous daytime heat of Needles behind us. I can’t remember the last time I saw an overheated car pulled over, its driver stepping away from the steam rising as he doused the radiator with water. I was still a child, I’m sure of that. Thanks to progress in automotive design and standard air-conditioning, we no longer have to avoid the desert during daylight. Since I got married, I’ve only been through the desert once during the night. I wasn’t asleep on the back floor. I was sitting in the passenger seat gazing in awe at the landscape lit by a full moon. That was a night I wished to be on a horse, galloping through the moonlight in the warm night air, weaving among the Joshua trees and prickly pear cactus. Void of color beneath the white luminescence of the moon, they glowed with eerie light and cast black shadows. We whizzed by in our car, and in a mere hour that finger of desert was behind us. We crossed Needles the next day, after a good night’s sleep in a hotel. We were on our first trip to Colorado, where we ended up buying a home in the forest. Speaking of the forest, here are some pictures of our Lake House – the house we’ll be living in some day. From the road at the bottom of the lake, the house is hidden within the trees: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Here’s the back of the house ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** The lake from the lot next door ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This is the lot we’re hoping to close a deal on. How nice not to have neighbors there! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** The front of the house. So, my friends, this is what awaits us in…..how long? Maybe one year, maybe five. But what a place to dream of living in, hu? |
| My son-in-law’s step father was diagnosed with a brain tumor in January. They performed surgery on the seventy-six year old man and followed that up with three months of chemotherapy and radiation. The surgery removed eighty percent of the tumor, which has since re-grown and spread, despite the chemo and radiation treatments. Two days ago, Bob fell into a state bordering non-responsive. His doctors say they can go in again and dig out more of the tumor, but when it’s over, he will not be any better than he is now. All it would do is extend his life by a possible few months. His wife Terry, my son-in-law’s mother, is making noises about demanding the surgery as well as life support to keep the man alive as long as possible. She did this with her previous husband, who she insisted be put on life support and was consequently kept alive as a vegetable for months. The family is convening to attempt arguing her out of a repeat of that decision. It’s going to be a bloody day. Bear in mind that these two are strong Catholics, with an expectation of an eternity awaiting that is far better than anything here in this life. Bob is a former priest and said in no uncertain terms when he was diagnosed that he had no desire to hang on for dear life at any cost – he was content to forego treatment altogether and let nature take its course. He consented to therapy for the sake of his wife. Terry is clear that her insistence on keeping her husbands alive has nothing to do with the ethics involved in letting life go; rather it has everything to do with her fear of being left alone. “If he dies, I’ll have nothing to live for,” she said to her two grown children, each of whom held her grandbabies in their laps. As I reflect on this and fume at her selfishness, I am touched by Bob’s final sacrifice for his wife. Knowing it was important for her to hang on to him and have extra time for friends to parade through, Bob agreed to prolong his pain and wait a little longer for heaven. Bob did have opportunity to make whatever good-byes he wished. Many years ago, my mother’s friend had a heart attack while visiting with my parents. She stayed alive several days, coherent and able to call each of her children into her room to say final words. My mother had strokes after her surgery and never got to say good-byes. Her final words to me, delivered from her hospital bed, were “did you take the beans out of the oven?” (It’s OK if you want to laugh at that. I’m smiling at the memory.) Without intervention, Bob is expected to live another week. God bless him for his final act of love. |
| Donald Trump has a new apprentice. Sean will be supervising the building of a high rise condominium in the So Ho area of New York. I wonder how much money it’s going to take to build that thing. And, another is being constructed on Waikiki Beach, in Hawaii. I look at men like Donald Trump and Bill Gates, and others who earn multi millions or billions of dollars yearly, and my brain gets ticking. I don’t begrudge any of them their fortunes, and I don’t believe the government ought to stick its hands in their pockets and purloin most of it. Their money circulating in the economy does all of us good. But I wonder if there’s a better way to circulate a whole bunch of it. I know these men are fairly generous with their donations to charity; however, what they give, though significant to those receiving the donations, is but a drop in the money bucket of the mega-wealthy. What if the really rich guys forgot about building one or two high rise condos and instead, used that money to provide jobs for those in poverty? I’m so against a welfare system that doles out money without expecting productive work in exchange. I personally have known people who wouldn’t look for work because they could get more from welfare. This is a system that undermines everything America was built upon. I fantasize about a group of men who are willing to take a risk that may even require them to lose money for a while – who are ready to invest in poverty-stricken inner city communities. The idea is to revamp, provide jobs, and raise the communities into the radar so that consumers are drawn to spend dollars in commerce conducted there. What about establishing or renewing a number of businesses (retail, grocery – whatever is appropriate) within poor communities, and hiring those who live there to make the businesses thrive? Pay a wage that would exceed their welfare checks and provide daycare for their kids. Offer jobs beyond housekeeping and cashiering. Provide training and education. Think about raising leaders. Subsidize improvements to the housing, build and maintain parks, establish soccer and baseball leagues. Begin building the people and showing them their worth – the worth they carry within themselves. When we hand anybody money and food stamps we tell them they’re worth only what we’re willing to give them. When we offer them the opportunity to be productive and earn their way, we show them their value. Many of the early immigrants to this country lived in abject poverty, refusing to accept charity. They worked their fingers to the bones and found joy where they could. Their children rose higher, and generation by generation our nation grew to greatness. I shudder to think where we’d be today if welfare had been handed out and greedily accepted, back in those days before the First World War. I realize there are at least a hundred reasons an idea such as this couldn’t work. For one, the sheer number of required cooperating individuals – HONEST ones – is mindboggling. For another, it’s conceivable that even with the incentive of more income and improved living conditions, those who currently are supported by taxpayers might wish to remain as they are. Moving out the gangs and criminal element and establishing peace and safety; replacing dealing drugs with working toward managing the local restaurant – these feel like impossible thoughts, to say nothing of imagining such a scenario as reality. The list of obstacles that I can think of is long. You can come up with a list equally long, I’m sure. The task would be unbelievable large, and it wouldn’t be profitable. At least, not in the short term. It would take a long, long time to show itself successful. But, imagine if it was tried and it worked! What ideas would be born that might take such success to other areas of poverty? Now, that’s what I call a task for a true Apprentice. |
| Last July, our oldest daughter, Elizabeth married the love of her life, Ryan. We had invited them to live at our house until he finished school and got a job. I was surprised at the eagerness with which Ryan accepted the offer. How many men would want to live with their in-laws? As it turned out, he’s had to live in quite unpleasant and demanding circumstances with his parents; living with us would be a breeze. Not ideal, but doable. The new arrangements required some adjustments for me and Ron. Especially me. But both kids have been gone so much it’s been really easy. We all get along well – there have been no fights or disagreements. They have two rooms to themselves, so we don’t get under each other’s feet very often, and Ryan is exceedingly polite and accommodating. He and Elizabeth have had only two arguments in a year, of the nature that allowed me to hear their slightly raised voices. So, all in all, it’s gone well, and part of me isn’t looking forward to their leaving. Another part is. Right now, it’s the part that can’t tolerate perfume or aftershave or air freshener. Elizabeth has been aware for years of my chemical sensitivities, but just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t accept that her body spray can send me into a reaction and trigger a flare-up. She thinks that if the fragrance is merely lingering on her clothes from the day before, or if she sprays herself and leaves the house fifteen minutes later, that it won’t matter. I speak of it to her from time to time, but mostly I just suck it up because I know from experience that continued badgering only makes her angry and defensive and doesn’t result in changing habits. A few months ago, I pulled out the plug-in air fresheners she’d put in their rooms, explaining to her and Ryan that the chemicals were making me sick. Within a day I was feeling better, and to their credit, they haven’t replaced the fresheners, or even tried a different type. But Elizabeth can’t bring herself not to put on perfume – even before she leaves to go work in a restaurant. She sprays herself before going to the market, or out shopping. She sprays herself after dance class. She uses fragrant body lotions and shampoos. She just likes to smell nice. And now that school is out and Ryan is working fulltime, he has begun splashing on aftershave. I awaken early each morning to the scent of their combined fragrances wafting down the hall and into our room. They linger in the air hours after the kids leave. A few nights ago, the two of them came into the front room to visit with us before leaving to go to a movie. I had to say, “You’ve got to leave – you’re wearing perfume.” It was as if I’d reminded Elizabeth of a long lost memory. “Oh, yea, OK,” she said in agreement, and they took off. But the perfume stayed behind. I asked Ron if he’d talk with Elizabeth about this problem when they had their weekly breakfast together. For some reason, when he says a thing it registers. It seems to have registered with her. She’s not been fragranced since the morning of their talk. But Ryan is still using his aftershave. Now, I have to figure out if I should talk to Ryan myself or ask Elizabeth to do it; I don’t think there’s any reason for Ron to get involved with Ryan’s end. My main concern is Ryan’s sensitivity. I don’t want to make him feel foolish with the realization that all this time he’s been doing something “wrong,” (he always felt badly about putting recycle items in the blue, regular, trash can. He felt silly for not being able to remember what can was for which use – he blames himself easily). But I hesitate to leave it in my daughter’s hands as she still doesn’t really accept it, and I can’t even be assured she’ll be able to restrain herself from scenting up until after they move out. I guess I could continue to put up with it for another month, but I’m just so tired of being sick. I know that eliminating the fragrance contribution won’t make my virus disappear, but it will give me one slight advantage, perhaps an edge. And I figured that it’s a smaller thing for them to forego the perfumes than for me to deal with the consequences of their use. It’ll work itself out, one way or another. I’m grateful that in a year of sharing a household, aftershave and perfume are the only things I have to really gripe about. |
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