tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-111044462024-03-13T22:01:14.816-05:00Journey to SimplicityThe adventure and pitfalls of downsizing to a simpler, more peaceful life.Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.comBlogger472125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-52194790753825012282018-08-25T22:38:00.001-05:002018-08-25T22:48:05.058-05:00A poignant goodbye4 dogs. 2 houses. 4 cars. 2 sewing machines. Births of 3 grandchildren. 1 son's wedding. Death of my mother, 1 cousin, an aunt and uncle, and several dear friends. 3 jobs. 3 foreign exchange students in the family. 12 wall quilts and several bed quilts and many homemade garments. That’s one way to interpret the past 13 years.<br />
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Since I started this blog in February 2005, it has been a great source of introspection and pleasure for me. I started it to keep a record of our journey to simplify and downsize. I took ordinary times and turned them into learning episodes. I experienced adventures, not in the exotic sense of extensive travel or fame, but in the everyday experiences of a human life - watching a loved one suffer, listening to my grandchildren's observations, dealing with frustration, fear, anger, and change. I learned so much about myself, about relationships, about response to changes, some welcome, some not so welcome.<br />
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The time has come for me to end the formal recording of this journey for several reasons. One is that in our current political situation and general conflict, our journey to simplicity, although still active, has taken a back burner to more pressing things, and I certainly did not want to turn this into another political blog. Also with my mother dying in January, I feel a new chapter has begun in my life and it is time to close this chapter.<br />
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The process of writing is always more illuminating for the writer than the reader. I have learned so much about myself - my faults as well as my strengths. I have watched my body age with frustration and alarm, mourning the things I’ve lost, but grateful for what I can still do.<br />
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During the time I have worked on this blog, I have had a professional photo shoot for an online magazine, left my medical transcription career after 22 years, lost and gained and lost and gained a few pounds, got over my fear of flying, worried about things that never happened, started a Facebook page for my childhood church members, and worked with my sister, Joy, to digitalize reel-to-reel recordings to preserve family home movies, church home movies, and audio recordings of family and church to include Joy and me when we were little girls, all priceless. One of the gifts that sprang from this is that our dad, who died in 1980, got to sing "How Great Thou Art" for our mom's funeral this year via crystal-clear tape-to-mp3 recording.<br />
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Next month I will turn 64, coincidentally the age my dad was when he died. I think of all he missed and how much I have witnessed so far. I wonder what our future holds. Losing my best friend Kathleen and my cousin Mike reminds me that, cliche as it is, every day is a gift. My former job of medical transcriptionist and my new job of working in a local medical office continually reminds me that there are many folks in poor health, some terminal, who would probably give anything for my daily aches and pains.<br />
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My husband and I will still strive to simplify as we move forward. Back in 2005, I believed the journey to simplicity was a single drawn-out process, but the ensuing years have shown me it is a never-ending task. We are still giving away books, we are still evaluating our needs and wants, and we are still unfortunately wasting time instead of appreciating the beauty and blessing of each moment. Life will always be a learning process.<br />
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Thank you to those who journeyed with me in this blogging experience so I did not feel as if I were speaking to the wind. May the world and our country finally experience the peace and stability that comes with integrity, courage, and appreciation of our diverse, and yes, flawed, system, so we can reach our true potential as individuals and as groups who value human dignity.<br />
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Signing off,<br />
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CarolCarol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-16288965109336378072018-02-06T10:05:00.000-05:002018-02-06T10:19:22.501-05:00Planning for the Future<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was a very hot day in Memphis, and my sister Joy and I had a most unpleasant, sticky task...cleaning out our mom's attic. In the years following Mom's wreck in 2008, it gradually became apparent that she could not live in her house independently anymore. We had known there would come a time where we would have to sell her house. Before that happened, we had to clean it.<br />
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It was the attic we were most concerned about. Years of accumulation had taken its toll, and the area had become a breeding ground for mice and God knows what other kind of critters. We were just happy if when we pulled down those metal clanking stairs a bat didn't swoop down upon us. But it was a job we had to do, so I had flown down to Memphis to get together with Joy, don our white hazmat safety suits from Home Depot, and get to work.<br />
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We probably could have just pulled up a gigantic garbage sack and just dumped the whole lot, but we were looking for something very special in amidst the insignificant clutter. I had remembered our dad once sitting at the top of those stairs, as he was wont to do one some evenings, examining his "papers," which consisted of memorabilia, Sunday school lessons, choir anthems he was thinking about ordering, etc., when I went up to join him. While we were up there that night, he lifted up a magazine, pointed to the picture of an old man with a beard, and I <i>thought</i> he said, "This is the only picture I have of my father." As a teenager, that momentous fact was unfortunately lost on me. My interest in family lore would never really develop until I was an adult. So as I kind of heard what he was saying but didn't really focus on it, that was the last I thought of the episode until there Joy and I were on that hot summer day cleaning out the attic. I related the incident to the best of my memory. Joy, who is the family genealogist, got excited because she had never seen a photo of our paternal grandfather, so the search was on. The problem was, I couldn't remember the details. I thought it was some sort of magazine, and I knew the guy had a beard, but other than that, my mind was a blank. So we searched through stacks of old Life magazines, old church magazines, old newspapers. Our time in that hot stifling attic would have been shortened considerably had we not spent our time trying to find that darn picture.<br />
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Eureka! There it was, in a magazine of sorts - a trade magazine for printers, and the picture was <i>not</i> our dad's father, but his <i>grandfather</i>! A priceless treasure that had been uncovered with a lot of sweat, in this case, literally a lot of sweat.<br />
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In the subsequent years, we managed to sell the house, our mom grew more frail and unable to care for herself, living for a while with Joy, then living in an apartment with Joy bringing her food and being her caretaker in every way, and finally on January 6, 2018, Mom passed on at age 94. The last decade since her car wreck has been traumatic for us in many ways. We watched a strong parent become like a child. We watched how her health deteriorated. We looked into a mirror and saw ourselves one day getting old, wondering how that will be handled. A great deal of introspection ensued, for both Joy and me.<br />
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I have come to the realization that there are 3 priorities I must think about as I continue my own life journey, thinking ahead to the time <i>my</i> kids will have to deal with things.<br />
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1. For goodness' sake, get rid of the junk! This is something my husband and I fight every day, as somewhere deep down I know we have a minor hoarding tendency. My thoughts are always, "When I retire I will be able to work with this/fix this/do this/sew this." Ed's thoughts are usually, "The chair is broken. Stick it in the basement. Stick it in the attic. Just get it out of here so I don't have to deal with it." So from my perspective, when I die, the kids will have tons of clutter, sewing patterns they won't want, books, projects that I "intended" to finish. From Ed's perspective, there will be things they will have to trash that we just never had enough drive to trash ourselves. Sometimes I look around and think, "How sorry I will feel for our kids when they have to deal with all this stuff."<br />
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2. Our son Matt said to me one day, "Mom, I'm not looking for an inheritance; all I want to ask is that y'all not leave any debt." I never thought about it until then, but yes. If losing a parent is not enough, all one needs is to be saddled with debt.<br />
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3. Finally, it was our Mom's deteriorating health that because the hardest thing to deal with. Some of it was her fault, some wasn't. We often wonder what her remaining years would have been like if she hadn't had the accident, which broke a hip and ankle and set her on the road to disability. We'll never know, but I do know that it is up to Ed and me to take the best care of our health so we remain as independent as we can for as long as we can. This is not a selfish act; this is a <i>gift to our children.</i><br />
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Life is all about learning. Sometimes the lessons come slowly, sometimes fast. I may not have developed an appreciation for old family photographs until I grew up, but since then, I have certainly developed an appreciation of what it means to lose a parent, the things one can control, the things one can't. And there are things you leave your kids with - yes, that includes money or lack thereof, but it also includes leaving them with major tasks that should have been done earlier (whether the broken chair in the attic or the financial/insurance/important papers unorganized and/or missing), and the all important gift of <i>our </i>health, so we can relieve them of the burden of trying to take care of us when we become old. Easy to say, hard to remember to focus on. <br />
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Rest in peace, Mama. You taught me many life lessons and are teaching me still. My main lesson? Live a life so that the things that will be said at my funeral are the same things that were said at Mom's - who is remembered for her kindness, her generosity, her unconditional love. Now <i>that's </i>a worthwhile resolution!Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-39899977504550868312017-08-19T17:28:00.001-05:002017-08-19T18:00:53.979-05:00Aging Him!<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Time for my second in a series of posts about aging, and as they say, “Enough about me.”</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Let’s talk about my husband!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My husband, Ed, is 70, almost 71 years old, so he is 8 years older than I am. Every time I chuckle at something he complains about in the aging process, he always says the same thing, “Just wait until 8 more years…you’ll see then!” Of course, he has been saying this for 30 years, so I never know quite when we’ll ever be off that schedule of teasing, because by the time 8 years rolls around, assuming I even retain the ability to remember what we talked about 8 years ago, he is another 8 years older and keeps repeating his warning, so I guess it’s the game that will never end until one of us dies.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Ed and I watch PBS a lot, and we sat down the other night to watch a couple of their fundraising specials. Both specials were both celebrating the music of our past - the first one hosted by Peter Noone from Herman’s Hermits and Davy Jones from The Monkees. This was from my generation. I enjoyed the broadcast tremendously, as it brought back a lot of good memories. Then we watched the celebration of folk music, hosted by The Smothers Brothers and Judy Collins - and these were Ed’s generation. As a teenager, he adored Joan Baez and the rest of the folk music icons. So there we were, listening to music of our lifetime. Guess what struck me? Everyone was so OLD. The performers were OLD. The audience was OLD. I wonder how the performers themselves felt, as I'm sure they remembered originally performing looking out on a sea of young fresh excited faces, teenagers and adolescents who were applauding and dancing and excited to be watching, some swooning, all singing along because they knew all the lyrics. Now the audiences were full of gray hair (or no hair at all), grandmothers and grandpas, still excited, still happy to be there, still singing the songs along with their icons, but there had to be some kind of switch flipped in the brains of both the performers and the audiences - something along the lines of an out-of-body experience. Close your eyes and the songs are the same, the laughter (“I'm Henry the Eighth I Am”) and the sadness (“Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”). For a minute, you might forget you have gotten older. For just a few bars, you’re back in college or high school or driving around listening to the car radio, loving the music. For a little while, you don’t feel your muscles aching or your belly jiggling or your feet hurting. For the next wonderful verse, you aren’t thinking about your next doctor’s appointment or how you shouldn’t have eaten that junk food or hoping you remembered to pay your insurance bill. The music just takes the years away. But open your eyes, and there they were - old people singing and playing for old people. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">One of my favorite things to do used to be playing piano in local nursing/retirement homes. I would take my collection of Big Band music from the ‘40s and ‘50s, some from the ‘20s and ‘30s, and go to town. I knew the songs those older people grew up with and loved, and those were the ones I played. They’d sing along, they’d turn to one another and laugh, they’d thank me and sometimes say, “You don’t look old enough to know these songs!” So ever since then, I imagine my generation in a nursing home in the near future. Some young pianist will walk in with music from the Beatles and Monkees, Paul Revere and the Raiders, Cowsills, and play those wonderful songs for the exact same reason I played the music I chose - to help the old folks reminisce and wash away the years for an hour or so. Except the old folks reminiscing will be us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So after Ed and I enjoyed those PBS performances, shocked though I was at the age of the participants, I looked over at Ed. These days he is feeling his age. He had cataract replacement surgeries but unfortunately there were complications and now his eyes are even worse. He can still drive OK, but for how long? He can’t read regular print without a magnifying glass, so we keep one in every room. He has loved to read all his life, and has the collection of books as testament to that passion - books on spirituality, Celtic lore, history, fantasy books about dragons and other civilizations, cookbooks, Mark Twain stories, Lord of the Rings, CS Lewis. He now reads everything on Kindle because he can enlarge the print. He told me we might as well get rid of all his real books because he will never be able to read them again. So we packed up a bunch today and took them to the thrift store. That was so sad for me. It was an acknowledgment that something had forever changed for him. Some of these books I realized we have been moving with us from house to house, from town to town. Some of them he had when I met him in 1972. We moved them from our first apartment to our first house, then when we went into the ministry, from parsonage to parsonage, then finally from Tennessee to Maine. Some of them we researched to see if we could replace them in Kindle version, but most of them are not available. Some we saved for the grandchildren. But many, many of those stories of his life left the premises to be given the chance to go home with somebody else who will enjoy them. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Ed is also diabetic, and although he keeps it under good control, the damage has taken its toll through the years and he has lost feeling in some of his fingers, some just from neuropathy and some from having to prick his fingers to draw blood several times a day. He tends to drop things more than he used to, and this just frustrates him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He told me one day he looked in the mirror and actually said out loud to his reflection, “Where did you get your Daddy’s legs?” His once muscular legs are now skinny and frail looking. He still can walk the dog a couple of miles a day, but he can’t do what he used to do 20 years ago. He doesn’t like what his body is getting to be, and that frustrates him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So while I'm having to deal with aging myself, I’m watching him deal with his own aging. We have the shared memories of what we looked like when we got married, when I was just 19 and he was 27. Most young people first married don’t spend a lot of time wondering what it will be like to grow old together. And that is the way it should be. But - if you are LUCKY - the day will come when you don’t even recognize the person you married. Suddenly it hits you - you’re married to an old man or old woman. And not only are you dealing with your own aging and mortality, you’re watching a loved one go through the same thing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Most people I know are very hesitant to talk about dying. Not me - maybe it’s because I've been in the medical world so long and I’ve transcribed reports of patients through all stages of their lives, including their time in the dying process. So Ed and I will sit around and wonder - who will go first, him or me? How does one handle that? One minute you’re married, the next minute you’re alone. I can’t imagine. I am at the age now where I have friends who have lost their spouses, and I ache for them in their grief. Life goes on and one has to adjust, but I imagine the longer you are a couple, the harder the parting is. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s difficult enough with the dog. Every time Ed gets another dog, he does the math of how long that dog is supposed to live, and he does the math about how long he himself might live, because he doesn’t want to die and leave a broken-hearted dog wondering where his Master went, and he also doesn’t want to experience another beloved pet cross that darn Rainbow Bridge. So he always tries to calculate it so “we will go out together.” Yeah, I know - an impossible task but he still goes through the calculations. The problem is, there is no “normal” in life. There is no normal that a man will live to whatever and a woman live to whatever or even a pet live out its expected years. On top of that, Ed has never been good at math anyway.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So the odds are, one day one of us will die and leave the other one bereft. With or without a dog. My best friend and my cousin died prematurely, so I know we should consider ourselves the lucky ones, at this moment in time, the moment that will never come again. The future? “Let It Be.” In the meantime, I sit here listening to “Daydream Believer” and every once in a while will glance over at my sweet aging husband, with his glasses and gray beard and balding head, his shaky hands, and he will glance at me, a woman who looks nothing like she did 43 years ago either. We see it all, and we laugh. </span></span></div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-76934731397573105752017-02-26T00:56:00.001-05:002017-02-26T00:56:26.001-05:00Aging Me!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The idea of aging has always fascinated me. A few months ago I accompanied my husband Ed to a medical appointment, and while he was getting examined, I tried to pass the time reading on my iPad. But eventually the book was less interesting than the scene playing out in front of me. This particular office specialized in ophthalmology, which means the majority of its patients were usually on the elderly side (whatever elderly means these days). The layout was such that each patient had to come in the door and cross the room (right in front of me) to the reception window to check in. There each patient was asked to state his/her name and date of birth as the receptionist confirmed the appointment. (I was highly suspicious that their being asked to vocalize this information in a way others could hear was an invasion of patient privacy laws, but I won’t get into that.) As I watched patient after patient come and check in, I found myself trying to guess their ages before they so loudly announced their date of birth. I carefully watched the patients as they entered, some walking independently, some with canes, some leaning on a relative or friend, some with walkers, some being pushed in wheelchairs. I looked at their hair, their faces, their bodies, their clothes. I mentally compared them with other people I am acquainted with whose ages I know. At the very second the patient arrived at the window, I guessed their age. Then when they stated their date of birth, I saw how close I was. You’d think it would be easy, but it wasn’t. I know I’m 62, and I know what I look like, and I’ve seen some people I graduated with and know what they look like today, and Ed is 70 and I know what he looks like, and Mom is 93 and I know what she looks like, so I have a pretty good base of comparison. The fascinating part? Someone could be hesitantly using a walker and be my age, and another one might briskly walk in unaided and be in her 90s. The main thing I learn when I play that game (which I also play if I’m standing in line at the pharmacy, as they do the same drill) is that everyone ages differently, there is no pattern, no recipe to follow, and some people seem to thrive with it and others seem to be just counting the days until it’s over. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Aging is a strange thing. It happens to all of us, at least the ones who are lucky. Aging usually brings with it more physical aches and pains, hopefully some wisdom and insights, some regrets, some physical changes that are jarring and sometimes debilitating, and worries specific to planning for the future. Those of us around my age have these things in common, I would bet. Many books have been written especially for the Baby Boomers, trying to help us age “gracefully.” I just finished “Keep Moving” by Dick Van Dyke. He has the upbeat attitude and humor about aging one would expect from him. But in the end, my journey into aging is all mine. I enjoy hearing other people talk about getting older, and sometimes I glean some good advice, but my experience will be unique, just as yours will. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t ever mind talking about aging and its sibling, death. The subject is extremely interesting to me. Now, my mother, she is very uncomfortable talking about death, and that’s fine. But to me - aging and death make up the next great adventure! It’s the planning aspects that make me nuts.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So many decisions I have to make now are subject to my estimate on how long I will live. Which is, of course, something I just don’t know. Mother is still living at 93, but my dad died at 64. Hmm…do I add those up and divide by 2 to get an idea of my probable lifespan? Or did I inherit more genes from Dad and really only have 2 more years to get this already overdue quilt finished? Or did I inherit more of Mom’s genes and need to prepare financially for living to a ripe old age, requiring extensive help for self-care? How long should I work? When should I start receiving Social Security? People my age and older understand that there is now a lot more sand in the bottom of the hourglass than the top and the need to plan accordingly. But how much sand is in the hourglass to begin with? If I knew that, maybe I could make some viable decisions.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Also when I think about aging, I think how unfair everything is. They say eat healthy, get exercise, and regularly activate your mind in order to live a long time without dementia. Mom is, as I said, 93 years old, and never did nor does she do any of that stuff and although her body is wearing out, her mental status is fine. Dad, who never drank or smoked and who was a lover of theology and philosophy and reading never made it to 65. Go figure. My cousin Michael and my best friend Bernie died years ago, yet I’m still here. I frequently read news articles about people who die in car wrecks in their 20s and 30s. Surely we can assume they thought they would die of old age. Doesn’t everyone?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We aging people also have to deal with a lot of fears. Do I have enough money to live on for many more years? How bad will my health deteriorate? Will I ever be a burden to my kids? Will my spouse die and leave me alone or will I die first and leave him bereft? Even things as simple as writing a “starter obit,” making sure our kids know where to find my online passwords and a schedule of when bills are due and how they are paid, etc., are on my mind. (I handle all the money stuff and my husband does all the cooking. If I go first, the bills won’t get paid, and if he goes first, I will starve to death.) Will I even be able to work as long as I need to? As a medical transcriptionist, I need a focused brain, working nimble hands with no arthritis and no falls resulting in broken bones in my arm or fingers, clear vision, excellent hearing, and a back and neck that can withstand hour upon hour of sitting. I often joke that I wonder which part of me will go first, because if I lose any of these abilities, my job is toast. And then the biggest question of all…how long will Ed and I be able to safely drive? The last vestige of independence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I even have mini-panic attacks when I think about my 4 grandchildren. If I died tomorrow, would I have successfully passed on </span>whatever<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> knowledge and wisdom I want to give them? Have I made enough memories? Years from now, will they view me as a vibrant (yes, older!) woman who could get down on the floor and play </span>with<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> them or an old lady who lost her sense of excitement and wonder and got so decrepit she had no stamina? In my childhood,</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> I had 2 grandmothers. My maternal grandmother was anorexic and lived most of the years I knew her in a state mental institution. My paternal grandmother lived with us in a dark </span>room<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> in the back of the house. She never came out for anything and I remember her arguing </span>and crying when my Dad made her take her medicine. She could be quite scary. I don't want to be a scary old lady. I want to be an interactive, energetic, fun old lady. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alas, the future is unknowable.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Getting older is frightening, exhilarating, anxiety-provoking, and definitely challenging. Dick Van Dyke in his book wrote that he once got to meet Fred Astaire. He asked Fred if he still danced, if he still did the things he always used to do. Fred’s answer was, yeah, but now it hurt.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At that doctor’s office that day, I saw some hope. I saw some elderly people who seemed to be coping with their aging journey well. In my mind, I pointed to each of them and said, “You are my role model; you are who I want to be when I get old.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In my job as a transcriptionist, I hear a lot of dictations where the provider gives an opinion of what age means to them. I’ve heard a 75-year-old patient referred to as “middle-aged” and a 60-year-old patient described as “elderly.” I guess it all depends on where you’re coming from. I remember when our son Matt was about 3, which would make me about 31, I was cuddling with him in a chair, and I whispered, “Matt, will you take care of me when I get old?” Matt replied, “But you ARE old!” I was taken aback, but pulled myself together and asked, “If I’m old, what is Granny?” He said, “She’s VERY old.” I then brought up good old Aunt Bessie, who would have been in her 80s, I guess, and asked, “If all that’s true, then what is Aunt Bessie?” and Matt said without missing a beat, “She’s ALL old.” So there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the near future, I would like to expand the aging discussion to what it feels like to watch my spouse age, watch my Mom age, and watch my kids age, but for now, I am just astonished at watching myself age. I guess I’ll just keep turning the pages on my life’s story without ever knowing how many pages are left in the book. Thank God I’m still interested in how the adventure unfolds and enjoying the story along the way!</span></span></div>
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Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-15732600243651637622016-07-31T17:18:00.003-05:002016-07-31T17:19:50.804-05:00Our Place in Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m in a quandary. At almost 62 years old, that is not the most comfortable place to be. I’ve recently finished a biography of Paul Newman. I was really interested in, however, the story of his son, Scott, who died of a drug overdose after years of trying to live up unsuccessfully to his role as the only son of Paul Newman. Who could, really? Everyone expected him to have the same looks, the same acting ability, the same charm. But Scott was a different person, of course. Even Paul’s daughters felt the burden of their dad’s fame. They said it was hard finding a boyfriend who was not intimidated by their father, and even their female friends found themselves flirting with the handsome Mr. Newman, even as he got older and older. It’s hard to be born into fame and fortune.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My sister Joy and I were not born into fame or fortune. We were born into a middle-class family in Tennessee. Our parents were not politicians or actors or people whose names you would read in the gossip column of the newspaper. However, our father made his mark on the world by writing letters during the Civil Rights movement to encourage those on the front lines championing justice who were the recipients of so much hate and animosity, and sometimes penning letters to businesses to every so kindly encourage them to change policies (as in, it’s time to let go of the separate white/Negro drinking fountains). Letter by letter, he wrote his words of love and tolerance, and letter by letter those recipients were warmed, inspired, and sometimes challenged by his witness as a white Christian Southern man who had ideals and wanted to make the world a better place. Dad saved most of these letters, and Joy recently wrote a play called “Letter Man” which brought everything together; the play was staged in Memphis this summer. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As she was working on compiling these letters into a play, Joy and I held many conversations over the phone on the impact these letters were having on us. Both of us are way past the age where our dad started his ministry of public service as a lone agent speaking in the wilderness for love and tolerance and social change. Re-reading the letters inevitably made us question ourselves as to what we have done with our own lives. When you grow up with a parent whose life embodied Jesus in so many ways, how do you deal with that? How can you live up to that legacy? Everything we have done seems so inadequate in the shadow of his accomplishments and sacrifices. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I recently read an excerpt from a book by David Brooks titled “The Road to Character.” Here is what he says: <span style="color: #cc0000;">“In this method, you don’t ask, What do I want from life? You ask a different set of questions: What does life want from me? What are my circumstances calling me to do? </span></span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #cc0000; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In this scheme of things we don’t create our lives; we are summoned by life. The important answers are not found inside, they are found outside. This perspective begins not within the autonomous self, but with the concrete circumstances in which you happen to be embedded. This perspective begins with an awareness that the world existed long before you and will last long after you, and that in the brief span of your life you have been thrown by fate, by history, by chance, by evolution, or by God into a specific place with specific problems and needs. Your job is to figure certain things out: What does this environment need in order to be made whole? What is it that needs repair? What tasks are lying around waiting to be performed? As the novelist Frederick Buechner put it, ‘At what points do my talents and deep gladness meet the world’s deep need?’”</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #cc0000; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is the quandary. Dad served his life’s purpose during a great upheaval in this country. He felt in his soul he knew exactly what he was called to do. Indeed, he considered it his calling. No question about that. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But each generation has to respond to its own times. I was reminded of the Gettysburg Address, where Lincoln started out with the famous “Fourscore and seven years ago,” recalling the birth of the nation, then goes on to say “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure.” In just a couple of sentences, he takes the listeners all the way up the road from the founding of the nation, from which by this time they were so removed, to their current situation. He was saying, yes, we can remember the past, we MUST remember the past, but we are called to act in the present.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, using a phrase which used to be popular, “What would Jesus do?” - Joy and I ask, “What would our dad Ensley do?” Indeed - he lived in a different era. He typed his letters out on a typewriter, key by key, folded them up, inserted them into envelopes, addressed them, stamped them, and sent them on their way. He wrote on a one-to-one, from sender to recipient. The world has changed now. How would he have handled Facebook, where his passionate pleas may have been met with volatile response from friends and even strangers? What would have been his responses to the endless social media posts which would have saddened his heart? Would he have been overwhelmed with the job at hand? We know he would have responded with love, as that is the only way he could, but exactly how? As he was called to answer to his time in history, so are we called to answer to our time. We feel the urgency to bring attention and energy to injustice in the many ways our dad did. Racial tensions have escalated and his vision of a world of racial equality still has not materialized. And for our generation, there are additional battles to fight on other lines of social change as well. But how? When news goes around the world faster than lightning, and opinions are more numerous than stars in the heavens, when just watching the news makes your heart break, when the senseless killings just don’t seem to stop and violence and hate and fear seems to crown the days - what are we called to do? What are we called to say? How are we called to act? What is our “calling”? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s a world of questions waiting for answers. When you examine life in your 60s, the hourglass has lots more sand on the bottom than on the top. The urgency is clear. Time seems short. I am just one person. It all seems so overwhelming. Sometimes I call my friends because, instead of being an encourager, I seem to need the encouragement myself. Joy and I have said many times recently how we wished Dad were here to guide us, to show us the way that we can spread love and be active fighters for justice and tolerance in the here and now. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">No, we didn’t have a famous father who was listed in Forbes or People magazine. But he was certainly a man hard to live up to. May we all find our “calling” in this life - and be faithful to it. So help us God.</span></span></div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-8539840185781677392016-07-12T11:18:00.000-05:002016-07-12T11:19:53.414-05:00Listening<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">When my husband, Ed, was in seminary, he came home one day with something funny to relate. In his counseling class, the professor stressed the importance of listening. He instructed them in the art of listening to the clients, paying careful attention, then repeating back to the clients in their own words what had been discussed. It’s an empathy lesson, a session in careful listening as the counselor tries to discern what the client is really feeling, then in turn the counselor makes the client aware that everything they said had been accurately heard. The professor said one of his students came back to class one day and told him how it went. Here was the student’s story: <i>My elderly patient was saying, “I can’t stand it anymore, I am in daily pain.” I responded, “What I hear you saying is you can’t stand it anymore, you are in daily pain.” The patient looked at me for a moment, then said, “I am in such a depression, can’t focus, don’t feel life has meaning.” I responded, “What I hear you saying is you are in such a depression, can’t focus, don’t feel life has meaning.” At this point the patient said, “Is there a damn echo in here?!”</i> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As humorous as that story is, the point about listening and being heard is valid and so applicable to what is going on in our society. I just took a break from Facebook because the negativity and hate was wearing me down. We can’t stand still enough to listen to our brothers and sisters when they tell us how they feel. The Black Lives Matter folks are trying to tell us how scared they are around police officers, from their person experiences or seeing what it is happening to others. They say so often they are treated in a demeaning manner from society at large. The police officers are trying to tell us what it’s like to have their lives on the line every day, and how scary it is to stop a total stranger, who one day might be an old man who accidentally ran a red light to a wanted murderer who has nothing to lose when confronted and the officer may only have a few seconds to react to a threat. The white folks are telling us they are scared at the way society has changed, it’s too fast for them, and besides, they think since slavery has been fixed, and everything is integrated, and we have blacks in places of power, so what’s the big deal? They hear “Black Lives Matter” and add the words “more than other lives” and are offended, and the blacks hear the exact same phrase and add the words “just as much as other lives.” Everyone assumes if your pro-cop, you’re anti-black; if you’re pro-black, you’re anti-cop. The conversation deteriorates from there. Everyone talks, few really listen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What are we supposed to hear? That the “other side” hurts, they have feelings, they are frustrated, they are scared. It is human nature to want to have a voice. We want somebody to hear us. Even kids. I’ve just read a book about the old TV show where Andy Griffith and Ron Howard played a sheriff and his son. One day on the set, little Ron, who played Opie, took the director aside and said, “I don’t believe a little kid would say those words just that way.” The director responded by saying, “Well, how would a kid say that, then?” Ron gave the sentence as he thought it should be played, and the director gave him the green light to change the script. Ron got a huge smile on his face and right before the scene was taped, Andy Griffith asked Ron what he was smiling about. He told him the director had LISTENED TO HIM and was taking his advice! Andy asked him why that was so great and Ron said that he had many times asked the director to change something and he never had…up until now. Andy replied that it was probably because this was the first idea he had that was any good! </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One of the lasts posts I shared on Facebook before my “sabbatical” said that the phrases that matter most in the English language that we don’t say enough are “I love you.” I’m sorry.” “Please forgive me.” Thank you.” I will add one more to that….”I hear you.”</span></span></div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-20988935637188163412016-03-18T05:24:00.001-05:002016-03-18T05:24:39.482-05:00Thoughts in the wee hours of the morning...<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h2dcOlVnAb0/VuvU2QW0SgI/AAAAAAAAB9c/Vumy8QlESiouFEBbCKukf-QBu1n9gsjew/s1600/IMG_1099.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h2dcOlVnAb0/VuvU2QW0SgI/AAAAAAAAB9c/Vumy8QlESiouFEBbCKukf-QBu1n9gsjew/s320/IMG_1099.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>What time is it? If I turn my head I can just see the clock. 5 a.m.! Oh my goodness, I have got to get back to sleep so I can work tomorrow. Tomorrow? I guess it’s today now. Sheesh, I’m tired. After all, I didn't get to bed until 1 a.m. Ed is fast asleep, and so is Sam, our recently adopted dog. Sam loves to sleep in bed with us. That’s fine, except he loves to be curled up right next to me. I mean RIGHT next to me. I can barely move his 45 pounds of snoring canine body. We would have to get a dog who snores. I wonder if they make CPAP machine for dogs? Well, they make clothes and boots for them, don’t they? I saw where the pet store had dog coats and boots for sale this week. Ed won’t let me get Sam clothes. He says that is silly. Oh well.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I really have to switch positions. Oh man, I don’t want to wake Sam up but once I realize I need to move, that’s all I can think about. </i>I give a little nudge. Sam won’t budge. He doesn’t get hints, especially when he is fast asleep. <i>I can feel my nightgown scrunched up beneath me. I really need to turn over. I need to fix my nightgown. I need to go to the bathroom. I need to get this song out of my head. “Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail, hippity hoppity Easter’s on its way…” </i>I stifle a laugh. <i>We just got an animated toy for my mom who sings that song. I mean, the bunny sings the song, not my mom. Although she probably tries to sing with him. He actually hops around while he sings. And he wears bunny slippers. Sam would look cute in bunny slippers. But nooo, I can’t buy doggie clothes - stubborn Ed. Man, now I can’t get the song out of my mind. How am I supposed to sleep now? I’ve got to think of another song. The only way to clear one’s mind of one song is to get another one going….</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Ah, yes. “Here I go again, I hear those trumpets blow again, all aglow again, taking a chance on love.” That’s what we’re doing - taking a chance on love. It’s the reason we didn’t want a dog for many months after our border collie Lily died of epilepsy. We bonded tight with her, and had to watch her seize day after day after day. She was only 3. Never again, I said. I can’t do it again. I can’t emotionally go through with loving fiercely and losing everything. What good is loving if it has to end? Is the pain </span>and sadness <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">really worth it? We’ll get along without a dog, I told Ed. He agreed. Our emotions were just too raw. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sam starts jerking. For a split second, I think it is Lily having a seizure. Only this time it’s not a seizure. Sam is dreaming and running in his sleep. <i>Thank God his back is to me. The other night he was on his side facing me and I got a back massage all night, and not the good kind, until I gave up and went to the couch to finish the night. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“Here I slide again, about to take that ride again, starry-eyed again, taking a chance on love…” Now I can’t get THAT song out of my mind. Yeah, we managed to live without a dog for over a year. Then I started perusing PetFinder and the local shelters’ web pages. It was all innocent. Just a way to pass the time. Yeah, right. Then I saw Sam and fell in love. We tried to talk ourselves out of it. Remember in the summer when it’s too hot to leave the dog in the car? Remember having the vet bills, having to buy heartworm pills and dog food? Remember the dog hair everywhere? Yeah, I remembered. But I also remembered the cuddling and soft fur on my hands. I remembered the joy in Lily’s eyes after we had been separated for a few minutes and were reunited. The tail wagging. The funny things she would do that made us laugh. I kept staring at Sam’s picture. He was in Arkansas, asking us to adopt him. I could feel it. But where was the guarantee that we would have him for many years and he would be healthy and would never get sick or injured? I want a guarantee before I make a commitment! I want a guaranteeeeeee!!! “Now I prove again, that I can make life move again, in the groove again, taking a chance on love…”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Oh my goodness, if I don’t change positions I’m going to scream. I barely have enough room before he pushes me out of bed. I slowly maneuver my fingers over to the edge to measure the distance. Three fingerbreadths and I fall off. I literally will fall out of bed. Fingerbreadths. What a stupid word. I type it all the time as a transcriptionist. Oh dear! If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll NEVER be able to focus at work tomorrow. I mean today. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I give Sam a little push. No response. He is so heavy. <i>I could strain a muscle trying to move that hunk of animal flesh. Why does he have to sleep in bed with us? I will admit he is wonderfully warm, though. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Sigh. I’ve got to get up and rearrange my nightgown. What time now? Oh, 6 a.m. </i>I’m exhausted but surprisingly content. I maneuver myself out of bed without disturbing Sam or Ed and come in here to the computer to collect my thoughts. And to try to get the song out of my head. <i> “Things are mending now, I see a rainbow blending now, we’ll have a happy ending now, taking a chance on love.”</i></span></div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-86717427307767337582015-11-14T08:16:00.001-05:002015-11-14T08:26:56.565-05:00Encounters<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12px;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The year was 1996, and we were just about to move from middle Tennessee to Maine. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Packing was done, goodbyes had been tearfully exchanged, all necessary arrangements had been made, and the time had finally come.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The plan was that I would drive son Matthew to Maine and about a week later, husband Ed and daughter Rachel would follow.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">There was just one thing left to do.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">A couple of days before Matt and I were to leave, I had to play for a wedding.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Ed had just finished 4 years of ministry assigned to a charge near Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and in the course of that appointment, he had become acquainted with another minister, whose name was Carol (easy for us to remember!) and whose last name was also similar to ours with one letter difference, Janes, so people were forever getting confused and sometimes we would even get each other’s mail. Carol’s daughter was getting married, and Carol herself was going to officiate in the ceremony, but would I consent to play the organ? Even though it was a hectic time for us and our to-do list was a mile long, I readily agreed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have played the organ for a lot of weddings in my time, and I frankly don’t remember much of the ceremony, although I’m sure it was lovely and poignant. I do remember this, however: Ed and I made a short visit to the reception, and when it was time to go I wanted to say goodbye to the happy couple. I didn’t know them well, had just met them in my role as wedding organist, and I knew the probability was that we would never see each other again. Every version of “goodbye” in my mind seemed inadequate, and I vividly remember what I blurted out as we exited the hall: “Have a good life!” That would cover the next few decades, I guess. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I recall thinking how odd the situation was - here I was, an integral part of a major life-changing event in this couple’s lives - an organist at their wedding. I, a virtual stranger, had witnessed one of the most personal and private moments a human being can have. I had not seen them before, and would no doubt never see them again. Yet, there we were - our lives entwined for a brief hour or so, and then we would go our separate paths. So far, almost 20 years later, my prediction has come true, at least for now. Rev. Janes and Ed were not good friends - she was more of a colleague - and thus we have not kept in touch through the years. I often think about that couple and my wish to have a good life. I hope they have, and I hope they continue to live in happiness and peace. But I will probably never know.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The reason I think about them so many years later is that our encounter made me consider the journey of our lives and the many people we come across. Some of these people become lifelong friends. Some are on paths that intersects with ours just for a brief moment, then move away forever. Some weave in and out of our lives like a drunk trying to walk a straight line for a policeman. Some are close friends with whom we lose touch because of various life circumstances and with whom we delightfully reconnect many years later. Some are just strangers and will remain strangers, but we share individual moments in time - some momentous, others mundane. A smile and greeting exchange at a cash register. Someone in the audience complimenting me when I performed at a dinner theater. A former classmate with whom I shared a few years of adolescence. One of my kids’ teachers I met at open house (although - one of those teachers turned out to become my son-in-law - you never know about those chance encounters....). The friendly policeman who stopped me at a routine roadblock when I was driving home from work at midnight. The librarian who used to check out my books when I was a little girl. The flight attendant who knew I was scared to fly and who tried to reassure me. The hairdresser who made me look good for my daughter’s wedding. The nurse who made sure I had a chance to see my brand-new grandbaby, as I was alone in the hospital room watching over everyone’s belongings. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Then there are the churches we served. Just like military families, United Methodist ministers move around, appointed to one place, moving to another place, constantly saying hello and goodbye. Each congregation, each member, affected us in some way. Some showed us how to be a Christian, and others showed us how not to be. Every single one a teacher. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Ed had a seminary professor once who told him that two human beings cannot cross, even for the briefest of moments, without having an effect on the other. Each one of us is permanently changed by every encounter. We may not realize it, but we are.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have even been changed and continue to be changed by total strangers. Facebook now puts things in my “newsfeed” when one of my friends “likes” a post. These posts originate from strangers, but I see them as they are shared and many of them make me think, which is always a good thing. Some of these posts remind me to appreciate life, or how it costs nothing to be kind. I inadvertently see pictures of complete strangers who have just gotten engaged, married, or had a baby. I see hopes and dreams and happiness in their eyes, and for a short moment, we connect, as one human being to another, and I join in their happiness. Then I see a post from a stranger who is grieving - a suicide, and auto accident, a pet who died. Again, I share a moment and grieve with them. These are people I have never met and will probably never meet. But we connect on a very human level, even for a few seconds.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That is what it boils down to - shared humanity. Every time I encounter another human being, I want to try to remember that this encounter will change us. And if I can remember that, maybe I can do all in my power to make the change a blessing for both of us.</span></span></div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-15740129236090840542015-06-30T11:26:00.001-05:002015-06-30T11:59:50.402-05:00An Open Letter to My Facebook Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was diagnosed with depression last winter, I found a 7-step program to overcome it. One of the steps was to get out and commune with nature every day. So I’ve been parading around our yard, enjoying all the wildflowers and everything else popping up all around. We have everything from irises to lupines to a giant hosta, plus woods with maples, pines, oaks, and all manner of trees. Lots of stuff growing out there, varied and beautiful.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It occurred to me that my Facebook friends are another kind of garden, just as varied as the life brought forth from the earth on the property around our house. Variety? Heck, yes! Just perusing over my list of friends, I see all kinds of religions - Episcopal, Unitarian, United Methodist, Congregational, Church of Christ, Baptist, Catholic, and assorted other nondenominational Christians. Some of you are agnostics and atheists. My friends run the gamut of Republican, Democrat, Independents, and those who couldn’t care less about politics. Some of you hate Obama and some of you adore Obama. You may be vegans, vegetarians, or carnivores. I have fitness-oriented friends and couch potatoes. I have optimists and pessimists. I have friends in their 90s and friends that are still teenagers. I have gay friends, married and single. I have straight friends who are married and single, some widowed, some divorced. I have Southerners and Yankees and transplants. Some of you are teachers, medical field workers, musicians, animal activists, gay activists, a children’s chorus director, airplane pilots, landlords, a riverboat captain, a librarian, a hairdresser, farmers, some small business owners, and many more who represent assorted other careers. How do I know all these people? Some of you friends I met through quilting, through medical transcription, or through music. Some of you are or have been my co-workers. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Some of you were classmates from high school, or friends from churches, both ones we attended and ones we pastored. Two of you are my former teachers. Some of you are neighbors from decades ago in Tennessee, others are neighbors from just a few years ago in Ellsworth, Maine, and some of you are neighbors living in our current neighborhood. Some of you I got to know because our kids grew up together, and some of you are friends of our kids who grew up to become our own friends! Some of you are people I have known all my life, and some of you I have actually never met in person. Of course, some of you are just members of my crazy, beloved family. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now look again at that extensive list. What are the chances we all agree on everything? Nil. What are the chances I care deeply about each and every Facebook friend? 100%. I am so honored to share in your birthdays, anniversaries and weddings. I am so honored to grieve with you in your losses of loved ones, pets as well as humans. I am so honored to watch your kids and grandkids come into this world, grow up, and I cheer with you their successes in a variety of fields. I travel vicariously on your vacations. I sympathize with (or envy) your weather. I love your pet pictures and stories. I am awash in memories of how you people have contributed to my life. Some of you have taught me, some have challenged me. Some have inspired me, some have made me - yes - laugh out loud! Some have passions for ideas I do not share. Some of you are rejoicing over things happening in our country, and others of you are fearful and despondent about what is happening. Like my yard, my Facebook friend garden is full and varied. It is a garden of HUMAN BEINGS in all of their humanness, failures, triumphs, love, and fear. Certainly we don’t think alike. Certainly our experiences have led some of us to different conclusions and beliefs from others. Certainly we grew up in different environments and were taught different things. I have, I’m sure, something (if I wish to concentrate on the negative) to separate me from each of you. I also, however, have something in common with each of you - and that is what I choose to concentrate on. I care about you all. I care about what is going on in your lives, your struggles, your challenges. I want you to find the happiness you all deserve. The major thing we have in common? We want the best for each other, even if we disagree with how best to effect that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am not advocating we abandon our passions. I am not suggesting it would be better if we each gave up our beliefs and integrity to just blend in. I am suggesting we all treat each other with respect and dignity, not pass around unsubstantiated rumors, not demonize those “on the other side,” and to remember the complexity of that which we call life. We are required to live our own lives in accordance with our own personal beliefs, yet simultaneously respect those with whom we disagree.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will end with my dad’s favorite poem by Edwin Markham:</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He drew a circle that shut me out-</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Heretic , rebel, a thing to flout.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But love and I had the wit to win:</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We drew a circle and took him In!"</span></span></div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-7078550529238554332015-05-09T20:20:00.001-05:002015-05-09T20:20:09.058-05:00An Open Letter to My Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Daddy, I can’t believe it’s been 35 years we have lived without you. It seems just like yesterday I got the phone call from Mama on Mother’s Day, and I remember my shock when she said, “We’re taking your Daddy to the hospital. I’ve called an ambulance,” and then in the background, the last words I ever heard from you, “I don’t need an ambulance!” Ed stayed with little Rachel as I drove to Methodist Hospital’s emergency room. I remember standing there, still in shock, watching the crew wheel you in on a gurney as fast as they could run. That glimpse was the last time I saw you alive. I remember waiting the awful time in the private waiting room with Mom, then Zuleika came to sit with us. I remember calling Joy, who was living in Washington, DC, to tell her and she said she would catch the next plane out. I don’t know how much time passed before Dr. Murdock walked in and said they had done everything they could, but you were gone. I remember calling Joy back and telling her it was too late to say goodbye. Shock was just not a strong enough word for what we were feeling. Our world had turned upside down in one afternoon and we have never been the same. After Mama agreed to donate your corneas, saying quietly, “I think he would want that,” we left to go to Paw-Paw’s to deliver the sad news. I remember how he cried uncontrollably, and as you were only 64 years old and he was, of course, your father-in-law, he kept saying over and over, “It should have been me, it should have been me.” I don’t remember much about the days that followed. I do remember walking around in your den, the room filled with your reel-to-reel tapes, your stamps, your movies, your choir music - everything that brought you pleasure. I saw a lifetime unfinished, less than 4 months from the retirement you so ardently anticipated.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">In the midst of our grief, you did make me chuckle when Joy and I looked in the files for any information or planning you might have done. There was a folder marked “Ensley Death” which had what we needed. Of course, you, the great organizer and recorder, would have done so! Your funeral was standing room only. We sang “Lead On, O King Eternal,” and “God Be With You ‘Til we Meet Again.” I sang “Be Thou My Vision” and Zuleika sang “Eternal Life.” I remember an abundance of food being brought to us, but I also remember Mama didn’t eat for days.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">When you died, you had one grandchild, Rachel, who would turn 2 years old in a few weeks. Thirty-five years later, you have 4 grandchildren, one who would take Ensley as a middle name, and 4 great-grandchildren! Since you died, Joy has gotten married and has two wonderful, talented daughters. I’m so sorry you didn’t get to see Ed attain sobriety in 1984, but, as Ed always says to me, “He knows.” Ed went into ministry and then in 1996 we moved to Maine, where our kids met the wonderful people they married. Mama is turning 92 this year, and Joy is taking care of her needs enough to enable her to live in an apartment on her own. I know Mama was always your “little girl” because you married her when she was 19 and you were 8 years older. You always took care of her and I know it would make you happy to realize she is still being lovingly cared for, as we are doing what you cannot do anymore. I know you would be so proud of Rachel, Matthew, Kate, and Amelia, as well as the great-grandchildren. We keep your name alive. I remember when Rachel was watching your family home movies in the last few years, it brought her to tears, and she said, “I realized how much love is in this family into which I was born!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Since you left, the world has changed a lot too! I remember when videos were just coming on the scene, I asked you if you were interested in updating from the old silent home movies, and you laughed and said, “I’ll leave that for y’all.” Who would have imagined we’d all be carrying smart phones in our pockets - or ditched encyclopedias for Google? You left this world before the personal computer, before e-mail, before the Internet. I wish you could have hung around to be able to peruse, sample, and order choir music online, to research your stamp collection, and to share your interests with people all over the world. You were made for the Internet, Daddy! And guess what? We elected our first African-American President, and gay marriage is now allowed in many states! Times are moving fast.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Unfortunately, the world itself is still in turmoil. Wars are everywhere, even wars using the Internet. Injustice and inequality are still rampant. People are still using God’s name to kill everyone who doesn’t believe the same way they do. People still are straining in vain to hear the ideas of your favorite Bible verse: “What does the Lord require of thee? But to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But guess what, Daddy? Your home movies are alive and on the Internet! You recordings are being painstakingly transferred by Joy to digital format where they can be shared with those who want to hear them. And I sat down tonight with your oldest great-granddaughter, Caroline, and together we listened to a recording you made of Joy and me when we were 4 and 2 years old. What a priceless gift - decades after their origination!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Yes, a lot of remarkable changes in 35 years, in your family and on Earth. But the true values you instilled in us - integrity, truth, justice, equality, service, faith - and your love of music, your curiosity, your passion for learning, your sense of humor - these are the values that never change. These are the things I give thanks for today, as I sit here, myself now 60 years old. Joy and I and our families are here because of you. Countless people have been affected by your love. The actions and stands you took in your lifetime have furthered the cause of justice and inspired many.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As a country, we just honored the 150th anniversary of Lincoln’s death. I am taking the time here to honor just as great a man on the 35th anniversary of his death. Daddy, we miss you, we love you, and look forward to seeing you again. Thanks for everything!</span></div>
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Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-32699089901609608852015-04-13T01:03:00.002-05:002015-04-13T01:35:34.927-05:00Accents<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We recently had the chance to watch our granddaughter, Caroline, tie for sixth in the Maine State Spelling Bee. It was an exciting experience in its own right, but I couldn't help think of our frustrating experience with a spelling bee years ago. When Rachel was in 5th grade, my husband Ed was a pastor in an impoverished area of Tennessee. We had chosen to send both kids to the public school, and it wasn’t long before we realized that the teachers unfortunately were rather uneducated themselves. This fact was highlighted in the school spelling bee. It may help to understand that we have a family tradition of spelling excellence - after all, I managed to place in the Shelby County (Memphis) bee in junior high, and my sister and our children have always been great spellers. So it was with great anticipation Ed and I attended Rachel’s bee. It wasn’t long before I realized that the teachers who were leading the bee did not know how to correctly pronounce the words. It seemed impossible that a bee could be </span>attempted <span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">when student were given mispronounced words, but that is what happened. With every word, I was reaching the limits of my patience. The breaking point for me nearly came when a teacher gave the word “cherub.” She pronounced it </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;">chrub</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">, like </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;">shrub</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">. Now what child could spell that word correctly, given that pronunciation? The teacher put the accent on the wrong syllable! Come to think of it, I should have been forewarned, as a week before, Rachel told us her teacher was teaching the class about a country called “Gu’em” (accent on the first syllable) which turned out to be Guam.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fast forward decades, and now I am a medical transcriptionist who after years of transcribing for American providers is now trying to decipher dictators from India, Brazil, the Philippines, and eastern European countries. For months I was totally confused. They were speaking English, but not any English that was familiar to me. I recently realized that one of the problems was that most of these dictators were putting the accent on the wrong syllables. <i>Esophagus</i> became <i>e-zo-FA-gus</i>. Ever since that realization, when I’m stumped about what I hear, I try to imagine if the word were said with the accent on a different syllable, and I will usually figure out the correct syllable, and understand clearly what the word is supposed to be. But when the accent is on the wrong syllable, the whole situation can be confusing and frustrating, limiting communication, and putting up what seem like insurmountable barriers.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It occurred to me that life itself, in a broader sense, is made up of syllables. Love, tolerance, hope, compassion, encouragement, gratitude, as well as hate, distrust, intolerance, anger, and especially, fear. I believe the syllable of fear underlines so much of our daily interactions, and it is the syllable we accent by default. Fear of not having enough money, fear of death, fear of losing our jobs, fear of failure, fear of not being accepted, fear of never finding a mate, fear of growing old, fear of losing independence, fear of crime, fear of flying - you name it - <i>fear</i> seems to be our accent of choice. How much of a difference would it make if we chose to accent <i>love</i> and all that entails? Where the accent goes makes a world of difference, and...I believe... can make a difference in the world. </span></span>Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-76023280491778657232015-02-03T12:16:00.001-05:002015-02-03T12:16:04.183-05:00Where is Carson?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Why haven’t I blogged in months? Consider this: Since the last time I blogged - </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. I lost my 18-year job at our local hospital in August when they decided to close down transcription and outsource it all.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. I had to set up a home office from scratch on short notice, costing over $2000 with no severance pay to help with the expense and get used to a much smaller salary.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. I started a new job where half of my dictators are English-second-language folks and it is a huge learning curve trying to understand what they are saying.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4. Our 3-year-old border collie died of epilepsy.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5. My 91-year-old mom developed a stress fracture and we are considering moving her to assisted living.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">6. My sister lost her job to outsourcing as well.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">7. Our debit card was hacked again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, I’ve heard of stress, but this seems like a bit much happening within a short amount of time. What was the hardest thing about losing my job? Believe it or not, it was the transition and all that entailed. I had to choose new insurance plans, call Aflac and arrange direct payments instead of payroll deduction, notify providers of the insurance change, decide what to do with my retirement fund with the hospital, figure out which computer et al to buy for a home office, paint the room, choose virus software and make sure all required software for my new job was up and running, call the cable company to install a new connection, decide where to put my exercise equipment as the room was being turned over to an office, cancel and/or reschedule appointments in light of a different work schedule, make decisions about how to handle our medical reimbursement fund, make sure I keep receipts for the IRS for future home office deductions....whew! The list makes me tired just looking at it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do you know what I kept thinking the whole time (well, in between my crying jags and don’t-want-to-get-out-of-bed days)? I need a Carson! </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’m a big Downton Abbey fan, and Carson is their butler. Carson is always saying things like, “This problem is too <b>small</b> to worry his Lordship about. I will take care of it.” Or...”This problem is too <b>big</b> to worry his Lordship about. I will take care of it.” Carson is the transition man, the go-to man when something happens - and he usually successfully intercedes before Lord Grantham has to deal with it. It is Carson’s job to handle transitions. Carson calls the insurance company, Carson deals with Aflac, Carson calls the pension fund people, Carson cancels and reschedules appointments, Carson makes sure the bills are paid on time. God bless Carson!</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We all need a Carson in our lives. Life’s transitions are just too involved nowadays; why, even a simple phone call can result in an hour of wait time listening to horrible music and even after reaching a live person, can be put on hold and/or transferred to other live people who know just as little. The whole process is exhausting. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It reminds me of when years ago my sister Joy started a home business of gift baskets. She was trying to do it in her spare time and work 40 hours a week at her other job. At one point, she realized there were meal bugs in some of edible goodies she had ordered. The bugs had spread. Poor Joy had to make the decision to close up shop. She told me, “If I had been working full time and had no bugs, I could have done it. Or, conversely, if I had the bugs but no full-time job, I could have dealt with it. But - the stress of working full-time PLUS the meal bugs was just too overwhelming to fight.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was hard enough to lose my job and start over. But the overwhelming part came when the energy to train in my new job was vying with the energy it took for my to-do list. And, as life always goes on, there were the usual things to keep up with - bills to be paid, Christmas gifts to be purchased, bank statements to be reconciled, house cleaning to be done. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How wonderful it would have been to have a Carson! Most of the problems would have been taken care of before the news of them even reached my ears, and the rest I could have said, “Thank you, Carson. You handle it; I trust your judgment.” </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alas, I am my own Carson. Husband Ed, of course, was a big help (especially in the encouragement department) but most of the jobs nevertheless had to be accomplished by me. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">After mulling this over for a time, I have come to realize that Lord Grantham is missing out a lot on life - for the petty problems he doesn’t have to handle are the very ones that constitute the mundane reality of life, and the big transitions that he doesn’t have to maneuver are the life-changing ones that we learn from - how to combat cynicism, depression, anxiety. Handling these situations gives us more self-confidence when we come out on the other end, scratched up a little but still alive and kicking, with more lessons learned. For to feel the confidence of meeting challenges, you have to be given challenges. To feel the joy of </span>overcoming <span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">adversity, you have to be given adversity. To be courageous, you have to have something to fear. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A Carson of my own would have been so helpful. But I am a different person today than I was in August, and it’s all because I don’t have a Carson to handle everything for me, and maybe that's a good thing. Hmm... why am I suddenly in the mood for a cup of nice hot tea? </span></span>Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-41935455245042696462014-07-27T01:51:00.003-05:002014-07-27T09:06:04.800-05:00The Gift for Generations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3WS43YFibJw/U9SgHIv1KEI/AAAAAAAAA_M/_CQ7s6K_Q5s/s1600/img107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3WS43YFibJw/U9SgHIv1KEI/AAAAAAAAA_M/_CQ7s6K_Q5s/s1600/img107.jpg" height="320" width="249"></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our dad, Ensley Tiffin, was a recorder. He was a documenter. His two most important priorities were his church and his family, and in the 1950s, Ensley Tiffin decided to buy a movie camera and document both for posterity. My goodness, he had no idea exactly what kind of posterity he was dealing with.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We didn’t have much money growing up, and Dad hardly ever spent money on himself, as he had a family to support. He did have a stamp collection he lovingly organized, but he allowed himself two major expenses (and they, of course, were for the family): A yearly family vacation trip, and home movies. He took movies at home and at church, and carefully separated them, splicing each scene in its respective category, because as he put it, “I don’t want to bore the family with church movies or the church folks with family movies.” So by the time he died in 1980, he had amassed several decades’ worth of church movies, mostly of the church where we grew up, Harris Memorial Methodist Church in Memphis. The fact that they were "silent" movies did not detract from the vibrant personalities of those who were filmed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Most people who knew him remember Ensley with a camera up in front of his face. His favorite place to stand was out on the sidewalk in front of the church, taking movies of everyone walking out the front door and down the steps. It’s fascinating to watch them now - the ladies with their flowery hats and gloves, kids in suits and dresses with petticoats and patent leather shoes, elderly ladies with their elbows held by one of the men who helped them maneuver the steps, a group of men gathering to smoke out on the curb. I always love to watch the people who were initially unaware of the camera, then a smile (usually a startled look, then a embarrassed or delighted grin) broke across their faces when they realized they were being filmed. Some of the older folks weren’t used to a movie camera, so they would stand very still until Dad told them, “You can move, you know.” The children would run around like crazy, enjoying the freedom after being cooped up for Sunday school and the worship service, many of them carrying little crafts they made or pamphlets from their Sunday school handouts.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And the parties! Back in the ‘50s, the “young adults” who were starting their families (our parents) in the church weren’t financially well off, but they loved to have a good time, so they did it on the cheap. Let’s have a costume party! A talent show! Hey, let’s dress up like hobos and each bring a can of stew and we’ll pour all the cans into one big pot and ladle it out! Let’s have a “womanless wedding,” where all the men dress up as a wedding party! Let’s put on a show that parodies all these crazy TV ads! The costumes were clever and always homemade. The laughter was contagious. The parties were memorable. The church fellowship hall, Moffett Hall, was the place to be! </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, there were the pictures of the Easter altars, some pans of the choirs from different years, the Christmas programs, a few weddings, some picnics, and some softball games. These movies run the gamut. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Harris Memorial closed after over 100 years of service, then later the church building tragically burned down. Like little capsules of time, though, the people in these home movies have shared something precious. Some of us were there the whole time, others were there for just a few years. Some of us have kept in touch for decades. Some have lost touch but reconnected. Some we can't find at all. We all share this though: We know what it was like to be running around on that sidewalk after church. We know where the hall was that Lib Wilson scared us as a witch at the Halloween party. We know what was in that closet under the stairs leading to the sanctuary. We can visualize that pulpit at which so many ministers preached. We can see in our minds the door where Billy Grogan stood and counted heads so he could record the attendance. We know what the choir loft looked like, we know where every restroom was, where every Sunday school room was, how the pews were laid out. We especially remember the light (and sometimes the wasps!) coming in those gorgeous old stained glass windows. We are the last generation to have experienced these things first-hand. These movies Dad left us remind us of a time gone by, experiences that changed every single person who was involved, in one way or another.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last week with the death of another church member, I felt a strong urge to get these movies up and out there where people can see them. We have lost too many of our “church family” already, and before long, there won’t be anybody around to appreciate them. So Facebook it was.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the last few years, my sister Joy and I had been looking into the possibility of publishing a collection of Dad’s letters, and have run into the stumbling block of legal ownership - Do the letters Dad wrote belong to us or the recipients - and do the letters he received in return belong to us or the writers? That’s all being worked on.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: 0px;">However, with his movies, we know to whom they belong. They belong to Marti, whose grandfather died shortly before she was born. She gets to watch him “photobomb” scene after scene in his animated and delightful way. They belong to Sheila, who recognized her late parents in a scene - filmed on their wedding day. Sheila wrote me, “</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I just can't tell you how blessed my heart was this morning when I unexpectedly saw this...This video helped me beyond what I can ever tell you. I've seen pictures of my parents but to see them moving in this video !!!!!!........ There are no words!” They belong to Phyllis, who felt blessed to see her grandfather; to the Grogan and Underwood families, who can watch their matriarch, Zuleika, who died just this week, demonstrate how she “blacked out” her teeth for a comedy routine to look as if she had some missing. They belong to the Tanners and Fosters and Prescotts and Agees and Archards, the Glasheens and Wilsons and Fletchers, the Rogans and Basses and Yarwoods and countless others who can see their parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and other relatives, so many who have passed on. And they especially belong, I think, to the children. They belong to every child who was recorded singing in the Christmas program or playing an instrument, every kid who contorted his or her face at the camera, or who was maneuvered to line up out on the sidewalk for a group shot. My sister Joy and I were two of those kids - kids who are now grown, many of us with children and grandchildren of our own. We get to watch our little selves grow up in these films.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s kind of ironic that Dad once told us, “If anything happens to me, don’t just let my stamp collection go; take it to be appraised, as there may be some stamps worth something in there.” Joy and I did exactly that a few years ago - and we were told his stamp collection was considered worthless except for sentimental value.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What he thought might be valuable was not...and his real priceless legacy, his gift to generations of people he had never even met, has turned out to be his precious home movies. The gift for generations. At the time he recorded them, he would have not dreamed of the Internet, and that one day his beloved movies would be available for anyone to enjoy. That time has come, and I feel blessed to be a part of it. </span></span></div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-61902055135671439012014-05-28T12:38:00.001-05:002014-05-28T19:53:01.498-05:00An Open Letter to Medical Dictators - Tips!<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Dear Doctor/Mr./Ms./PA, FNP, CNM, etc:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If you spend what seems like an inordinate time dictating, I am sure you spend an equal amount of time wondering how you could improve the lives of the folks listening to you on the dictation system...us poor medical transcriptionists. I know your time is valuable, and so is ours, and I know you think for the most part we do a good job and you are aware that improving things on your end would make it easier for the MTs to do our jobs...but try as you might, you have until now not figured out how to do that.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s probably safe to say you’ve never had an MT sit down with you and tell you how to improve your dictation. Well, here’s your opportunity - listen and learn!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The first thing is the “pause” key. You know those times when you have to sit and think in the middle of the dictation, or maybe search for lab tests in the patient record? Most dictators think the pause key is the way to go. That way, the MT is not sitting, waiting, fuming, during minutes of silence until you come back on to continue the dictation. Well, I’m here to tell you to NEVER use the pause key! MTs would much prefer the silence - it gives us time to give ourselves a manicure, for instance. And those of us who get paid by line - don’t give a thought to how you are stealing money out of our pockets with dead air space when we could be making lines. I mean - really, we didn’t really need to pay the mortgage this month. I’m sure the bank will understand. Bonus points for this: If your phone rings and you let the dictation run and pick up the phone and carry on a private...I mean PRIVATE...conversation that we can listen to - that really makes our day!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I know you sometimes like to dictate on the cell phone while doing other things. That’s great! There are a few times you must absolutely be sure to dictate on a cell phone - when driving (don’t worry about running over that kid on a bicycle - the emergency room needs the business) - and at sports games, because the guy next to you, who never heard of HIPAA, has really enjoyed hearing the private medical details of his neighbor’s hospitalization. And yes, some MTs are sports fans and we love to hear the games too. If you’re not at the game in person, just dictate while you watch the game on TV, and make sure the volume is turned way up. The same effect applies to the news. MTs are so busy, we miss a lot of news, so we can listen vicariously through you. Just make sure the volume of the TV is higher than the volume of your voice so we can stay informed. Thanks!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Speaking of volume, if you really want to make MTs swoon, eat while you dictate. After all, we know you’re too busy to do just one thing at a time, and we love to take turns trying to identify the particular food you are consuming, since we hear every bite so clearly. After all, we get bored listening to your voice over and over. Throw a few potato or corn chips in the mix, and it gives us a break from your monotone delivery. Now regarding chips, you do know some are louder than others, don’t you? We prefer the really crunchy kind - they make the loudest decibels in our ears. And you get extra credit if you rustle around in a plastic bag to retrieve them! Makes me giddy just thinking about it. If you don’t have chips handy, there are alternatives, such as popcorn, crackers, and celery. Use your creative imagination and surprise us! Or, if you don’t feel like crunching on a certain day, go with...</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hard candy. Mmmm...that sucking sound is out of this world. And it even gets better while you try to talk through the sucks! Who cares if there are blanks in the medical record? It’s worth it because YOU SUCK!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You silly dictators - always trying to please us in the most charming ways. Sharing your mealtime and snack time with us is so nice! We love to try to distinguish what you are saying through all the dietary intake. Bonus points if we can hear you actually swallow liquids- and double bonus points if we can hear you make other bodily noises down below! (Going into the bathroom? We feel honored to come along!)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We know there are some times when you have the sniffles. Aw, Mr. or Ms. Practitioner - we feel for ya! Sometimes if we’re really lucky, you will sneeze or blow your nose DIRECTLY INTO THE PHONE. Oh, yeah! Some people might find that disgusting, but it just gives MTs a reason to visit the ENT doctor for burst eardrums - after all, we need regular medical care for our ears, as they are our most valuable asset, right? Thanks for giving us the impetus we need to go for a checkup!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">We know how hard it is for you with all these foreign-sounding names these days, too. When you admit a patient with the last name of Klzyakchkzn, please don’t bother to spell it or even give us the first letter. It makes it like a treasure hunt for us! Gives us a much-needed break during our shift. Be sure not to give us any clues like a birthdate - clues are for sissies. We want to spend the next hour trying to find the correct patient - but if we accidentally put it on the wrong patient, that won’t really matter, will it? Hey, things happen. It’s our fault anyway - everybody should know how to spell Klzyakchkzn! Bonus points if you say your dictation is on “Baby Boy Smith” and the real name of the kid listed in the </span><span style="font-size: 12px;">electronic </span><span style="font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">medical record is Chester Anderson Grobenoff III. Just because his mom’s name is Smith, just go ahead and assume it’s the same for the kid. Your time is too valuable to double check that; please, let us do that for you. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There are some words that sound so alike if you talk fast and/or slur: Regular, irregular. Hypertension, hypotension. Incomplete, complete. But that’s OK. What difference does it make whether the patient has hypertension or hypotension anyway? I’m sure the nurses know what’s what - they certainly don’t need to see it in the medical record correctly.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I think I’ve about covered it all. If you want more tips, we MTs are always happy to give them to you. After all, that telephone line is a direct communication link between you and us - and the whole communication involves the entire health record of thousands of people. I know we both want to do things right. Right? (Or left? Oh well, it doesn’t really matter, doesn’t it?)</span></div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-87366520520175864132014-05-18T23:39:00.001-05:002014-05-18T23:39:53.494-05:00A necklace and poems!I got the most wonderful Mother's Day gifts - a handmade necklace from my creative daughter-in-law which featured a thumbprint from 3-year-old Joshua and his 1-year-old sister Emily, a sweet card from my son, and then today I got poems written by my other two grandkids and my daughter (the latter who does not grant me permission to publish here!). So here is my necklace:<br />
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And here are my poetic tributes:<br />
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<i><b>From Charlotte, age 8</b></i><br />
Dear Grammy:<br />
I love that you're such a great singer,<br />
And you can be strict just by wagging your finger.<br />
I know when we're with you, we keep you a-hoppin';<br />
My favorite part is you take us a-shoppin'!<br />
<br />
Happy Mother's Day!<br />
<br />
<b><i>From Caroline, age 11 (3 poems)</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Poem #1</i></b><br />
Loving<br />
Caring<br />
Sweet<br />
And smart.<br />
<br />
Beloved<br />
Grammy,<br />
You steal<br />
My heart.<br />
<br />
Pianist<br />
Harpist<br />
Precise<br />
and Definite.<br />
<br />
My love<br />
For you<br />
Is strongly infinite.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Poem #2</i></b><br />
Your music is infectious<br />
Your love is very strong.<br />
Your face can light the darkest room<br />
And everyone else follows right along.<br />
<br />
Your music is infectious<br />
Your heart beats pure love.<br />
Your blood is filled with many a tear,<br />
But I cannot tell you enough -<br />
I love you more than words can say<br />
That only music can explain.<br />
And it's more than likely<br />
That it'd be yours -<br />
Your music is infectious.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Poem #3</i></b><br />
My feelings vary not for you<br />
My love is more than enough.<br />
My heart exceeds the largest limit<br />
On the inside I'm like melted chocolate<br />
Though I may look very tough.<br />
I act like nothing scares me<br />
But that is very untrue.<br />
My eyes fill with happiness<br />
At the mention of your name<br />
And may feelings vary not for you.<br />
<br />
______________________________<br />
<br />
The things my daughter wrote in her poem and that my son wrote in his card will not be written here, but suffice it to say they both made me cry.<br />
<br />
If my legacy consists only of these two children and these four grandchildren, my life will have been worth it. I am so blessed!<br />
<br />
<br />Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-23660659045456707332014-04-21T00:46:00.002-05:002014-04-21T00:48:48.254-05:00I must be getting old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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...when blacks sat at the back of the bus. Mom would take my sister and me shopping in downtown Memphis, and each time we rode the bus, I would see all the blacks sitting towards the back. I always thought they liked it that way - why else would they sit there? </div>
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....when women wore gloves and hats to church every Sunday.</div>
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....when the Blue Laws were in effect. For those who have never heard of this, the Blue Laws were a set of laws which made illegal the selling of certain things on Sunday. The Old Testament says the Sabbath (Saturday) should be a day of rest, which was basically a Jewish thing, but the Christians said the Sabbath was now Sunday and that the "not working" condition applied to them, and they decided that if a product in a store couldn't be used without "working," then that product would be forbidden for sale on Sunday. So I remember going into a store on Sunday after church and seeing white sheets covering half of the store merchandise, and learned why after asking Dad. So you could buy a ready-to-eat item but not something that needed cooking, etc. No bleach because that meant you were washing something. Confused the heck out of me!</div>
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<br /></div>
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....when the phone receiver was attached to the phone and to get any privacy, you had to drag the phone as far as you could, then receiver cord a little more. And there were no answering machines. If you missed a call, you just missed a call.</div>
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<br /></div>
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....when bills were only paid through the mail, as there was no internet, no computers.</div>
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<br /></div>
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....when phones couldn't take pictures and cameras used real film that you had to take to the store to get developed and wait to see your pictures.</div>
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<br /></div>
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....when Daddy recorded church services and other interesting things on reel-to-reel tapes. Later he graduated to a cassette player. Yeah, I remember cassettes too.</div>
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....when we rode around in a car without seat belts or air bags or car seats.</div>
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....when the TV had 4 channels and you actually had to get up and walk over to it to change a channel or change the volume. There were no recording devices to record a show to watch later. As with the telephone, if you missed a show, you just missed it.<br />
<br />
...when an interactive doll meant one whose eyes closed when you put her on her back.</div>
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....when you could buy records at many stores.</div>
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....when women wore corsages on Mother's Day and my sister and I wore rosebuds from our rose bushes. We were told the flowers were white if your mom was dead, but were red if she was still alive.</div>
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<br /></div>
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....when there was no thing as a "digital" clock or watch. Clocks and watches were round, had all the numbers in a circle, and you had to learn how to tell time with the two revolving hands.</div>
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....when kids used to get all new clothes for Easter - including socks and underwear and brand new shoes.</div>
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....when "home movies" didn't have sound - and to watch them, you had to get out a screen and projector.</div>
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....when girls at our high school weren't allowed to wear pants. That changed in the era of the miniskirt when Memphis had a very cold winter. The rule was restated to say girls couldn't wear pants except during the winter, but once the door was opened, it pretty much became okay. Never jeans, though!</div>
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....when classes had chalkboards instead of dry-erase boards.</div>
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....when the smell of mimeograph paper accompanied all tests.<br />
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....when we had to hang clothes outside on the clothesline to dry.</div>
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....when you had to type school papers on a regular typewriter, trying to guess how much room you needed at the bottom for footnotes. <br />
<br />
....when the garbage collectors had to walk to the back of the house by the garage to empty the garbage cans.<br />
<br />
....when there were two water fountains in stores - one for "whites" and one for "colored."<br />
<br />
....when everyone had to look up a phone number in the phone book instead of on Google.<br />
<br />
....when you "dialed" the phone and "rolled down" the windows in the car. We Boomers still use these terms, even though the phone no longer has a dial and the car windows are button-controlled.<br />
<br />
...when every night on the evening news, they would list the death toll in the war in Vietnam.<br />
<br />
....when you'd go to the doctor and see prescription pads with his name on them just lying around.<br />
<br />
...when freezers needed periodic defrosting and you made ice by using ice trays.<br />
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...when the regular adult combo at McDonald's was the same size as the Happy Meal today.<br />
<br />
...when sewing patterns cost 50 cents.<br />
<br />
....when gas cost 35 cents a gallon.<br />
<br />
....when our family of 4 could stay in a motel for one night for $12.<br />
<br />
....when there was no airport security.<br />
<br />
....when Cokes came out of the Coke machine in small glass bottles.<br />
<br />
....when cigarettes were sold everywhere in coin-operated machines - no ID required.<br />
<br />
....when doctors used to smoke cigarettes when rounding on patients.<br />
<br />
....when you had to use a card catalog to look up books at the library.<br />
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...when Memphis had two daily newspapers.<br />
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...when you could buy candy cigarettes.<br />
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...when cigarette ads were all over TV.<br />
<br />
...when Elvis was still alive.<br />
<br />
...when parents had to wait until delivery to find out their baby's gender.<br />
<br />
...when bank security was so lax, they let my sister and me play around back in the tellers' area and even step into the vault (Dad was a teller).<br />
<br />
...when most homes boasted a set of encyclopedias that were outdated as soon as they were printed but which occasionally would save you a trip to the library.<br />
<br />
...when personal hair dryers were humongous hoods you had to sit under.<br />
<br />
...when families collected Quality Stamps, then traded them for merchandise.<br />
<br />
...when one of our favorite restaurants still had the sign at the door that read, "We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone." I remember asking Dad what that meant, and he sighed, shook his head and said, "They don't want to serve Negroes."<br />
<br />
...when sewing machines only sewed a straight stitch.<br />
<br />
...when it was safe to walk home alone from school.<br />
<br />
...when we rode bikes and roller skated without helmets.<br />
<br />
...when babysitters were paid 50 cents an hour.<br />
<br />
...when grass was mowed with a rotary mower.<br />
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...when you had to wait until your favorite movie was broadcast on TV before you could see it again.<br />
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...when almost all toys and games needed no batteries.<br />
<br />
...when Prince Charles was just a teenager.<br />
<br />
...when a Dairy Queen cone cost a dime. (I remember Dad every once in a while agreeing to take us to Dairy Queen, but it was a rare thing. He said, "I hate to pay 40 cents for 4 cones when we could go to the grocery and get a half gallon of ice cream for 42 cents!)<br />
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....when the girls had to wear UGLY white one-piece shorts/top set for gym class.<br />
<br />
...when the lions at the Memphis zoo were confined to small cages.<br />
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...when kids were lined up at a community center/hospital to receive polio vaccines in little sugar cubes.<br />
<br />
...when we lived through hot summers without air conditioning.<br />
<br />
...when a family of 4 could share a small house with only one bathroom and only one phone and only one car and somehow it all worked out.<br />
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Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-84966835428730989812014-03-05T12:31:00.002-05:002014-03-08T18:54:58.131-05:00A Riddle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Every day I call my mom in Memphis and in the process of catching up, she always asks for a joke. I have had to buy joke books and search the Internet for appropriate ones (after all, she is my mother!) and in the process have stumbled across a few great riddles too.</div>
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My latest riddle is this: You have 2 coins that add up to 30 cents. One is NOT a nickel. What 2 coins do you have?</div>
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The answer is simple and obscure at the same time. Just think about it.</div>
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The answer is....</div>
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<i><b>A quarter and a nickel.</b></i> </div>
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"What?!" you say indignantly. "I thought you said one was NOT a nickel!" </div>
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That's right - <i><b>a quarter is not a nickel</b></i>. Feel free to hit your head on something.</div>
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This riddle encompasses everything about how we think. The riddle says "One is not a nickel," but we hear/read this: "Neither one is a nickel." Big difference.</div>
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Countless books have been written about "thinking outside the box." (Believe me, I'm a e-book addict and I know.) The box is what we are handed in life. We assume the answers are inside, and we assume the person who handed us the box, indeed the person who describes to us what is in the box, has our best interests at heart. Not always the case. Sometimes our brain is required to interpret. And our brain, though remarkably intricate, is not infallible, as it is filled with false assumptions, prejudices, ideas that are less than truthful, and, yes, is skewed to hear what we <b>want</b> to hear.</div>
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Riddles like this can turn your thinking upside down and inside out. It makes you question everything you think you know, because we interpret and assume so many ideas based on what we think we have heard/read. Each new day brings a new opportunity to think again, twist an idea, try out an experiment, see things from a different point of view, and challenge our assumptions. As they say, statistics can lie, depending on who is using them.</div>
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The next time you hear something that someone asserts is "fact," stop and think. It may indeed be fact, but, on the other hand, you may be hearing "Neither one is a nickel" and your mind is led down the garden path of assumption. And from personal experience, I know it's an easy, mindless walk, but in the end leads to nowhere very interesting.</div>
Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-88759943846487174262014-01-20T12:38:00.002-05:002014-01-20T13:13:52.035-05:00An Open Letter to Caroline<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My dear granddaughter:<br />
<br />
I get it. You're bored with school. I also get that you are one of the smartest people I know. I also get that the work at school is not challenging you. I get your frustration. I also understand that there is a part of you that is a rebel - just like I was when I was growing up.<br />
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You come by it genetically, of course. At least on our side of the family, we come from a line of rebels. My own father (your great grandfather) confessed to being a maverick. When he was starting to raise his family, black people were being denied access to just about everything. They even had a special day at the Memphis Zoo for the "Negroes" to visit so the white folks wouldn't have to be around them as they watched the animals. Can you imagine? Well, of course, your grandfather had to speak out. The danger was this: He was afraid if he wrote letters to the newspaper he would lose his job as a bank teller. The mayor of Memphis at that time was a powerful man and didn't want any complaints about how he ran the city. So Dad wrote for a while under a pseudonym, then after a time wrote under his own name became open about his beliefs in the equality of all people. He was frustrated at what he saw and heard, and he was in a minority when it could be a dangerous time to speak out, but he did anyway. He would stand up for what he believed until the day he died. He was a functioning, giving, caring member of society and he did everything that was expected of him - but on his journey, he took his typewriter and wrote and wrote so the rebel in him could be given a voice and his thoughts about how to live out his faith honored.<br />
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OK, so being upset with school is not anywhere near being upset with the way the blacks were being abused. But...I can get closer to your feelings by telling you what else I see in you....I see myself.<br />
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My school years were not too different from yours. I wasn't quite as smart as you are, but I was intelligent enough to get into some accelerated classes. My response to school was always one of three emotions: 1) I adored my class and my teacher and found the work exciting. 2) I was bored to tears because I wasn't being challenged, or 3) I was frustrated that I had to learn "crap" that didn't have anything to do with what I wanted to learn and which didn't apply to or enrich my life in any way, something I considered a total waste of time. On top of this, there was a rebel inside of me that the minute I was "told" to do something, I automatically resisted. I absolutely hated giving other people power over my life.<br />
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I've mentioned to you that one of the highlights of my junior year in high school was having to read <i>Walden Pond</i> by Henry David Thoreau. Now, I had nothing against <i>Walden Pond</i>. Part of it I really enjoyed. Now Mr. Thoreau had a way of going on and on and on with descriptions, so much so that I had trouble staying awake to read the book. However, I read enough to understand his message. So on our test, one question dramatically stood out: "How deep was Walden Pond?" <i>Seriously</i>???!! Of all the important ideas and observations in that book, this is a question my teacher felt needed answering? I was shocked, upset, offended, frustrated, and angry. How can you take a book and dissect it into mere facts? How can you take a book and make it a multiple choice quiz? Where was the joy in reading? Were we just some sort of machines that spit out what was fed in? Were we parrots or monkeys, repeating and mimicking what we were taught? So from early on, a book I might have picked up on my own and might have enjoyed became a power struggle once it was officially "assigned" in school. I indignantly resisted every word on every page.<br />
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As I have told you, I dropped out of college after one year because I wanted to immerse myself in history and French and music alone - and the college requirements mandated that I take math and other stuff I had no interest in. Even then, I figured out life was too short to waste it studying something that wasn't interesting or relevant to my life.<br />
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But here's the thing: I always kept up my grades. I could have slacked off with a lot of excuses about how it was boring and I was frustrated and I didn't want to be there and I'd rather be doing something else, but I didn't. I just gritted my teeth and got on with it, mainly because I didn't want to disappoint my parents. But I did learn something back then - that this is part of life. Every day unfortunately can't be a roller coaster ride. Sometimes it just consists of riding in the car to the grocery store - BORING. But we take the good with the bad.<br />
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So, you might say, Grammy, how did you manage to balance the rebel with the acquiescent student? That's a good question and it deserves a truthful answer. I wrote. Oh my, how I wrote! I wrote poems that made fun of everything that frustrated me - some teachers, homework, even the cafeteria in the school! I made fun of how literature teachers always wanted to find hidden meaning in every word - which I sincerely doubt was intended by the authors in the first place. (To do that, I took the poem "Mary had a little lamb" and wrote pages and pages of "hidden meanings" that were insanely funny!) I wrote it all down cathartically. I can still to this day recite some of these poems. I had to see the humor of the situation or I would have cried every day through high school. Writing my poems kind of gave me the "last laugh" and those clueless teachers didn't win after all - at least that's how I felt.<br />
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There's no need to write anything nasty or vindictive. There's no fun in that. That's just pure revenge. But parodies and comic poems and things like that - that's where the rebel in me could shine. Of course, the teachers in question never saw these. I shared them with a couple of close friends only. I would never, ever want to hurt someone's feelings. But I had to let it out somehow. Somehow this silly, ridiculous, test-oriented, one-size-fits-all education had to be challenged, and that's what I did - in my own way. (Even your great grandfather concentrated on writing complimentary letters to those were were taking unpopular stands, or letters of encouragement to those who were being victimized. His rebel wanted to bring light into darkness, not more hate - as there was quite enough hate to go around.)<br />
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The good student in me graduated high school with excellent grades. The rebel in me wore white shoes during the graduation ceremony instead of the black shoes that were required. Just little things - they kept me sane.<br />
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Every one of us, Caroline, is a blend of personalities. It is very hard for a nonconformist to have to conform, and just as difficult for the thinking minds to accept boring assignments. It is frustrating for the creative mind to see assembly-line education. We don't want to be stagnant or lose our focus or passion, and want outlets where we can empty ourselves in the pursuit of beauty and philosophy and the wonder of the universe. Somehow you have to let the rebel and the conscientious student live side by side in your brain and figure out a balance. Believe me, when you get to be an adult, you will still feel the need to speak out against stupidity and ignorance and ask the uncomfortable but important questions. That never goes away. But to get there, you have to settle down, do your homework, and in your spare time, use your creativity to help you deal with the daily frustration. Once you keep earning grades that reflect your intelligence, you can go on to high school and college and can choose whatever path you want in life with that good foundation. And that is what I want for you, my sweet Caroline. <br />
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Love,<br />
Grammy<br />
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<br />Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-18262363679892384892013-12-22T13:12:00.003-05:002013-12-22T13:32:07.999-05:00Coming out evenAh, the joys of being a grandparent at Christmas. It's like being a parent, only magnified. My kids are both adults now, and I miss their little selves; there is nothing like seeing the faces of children at Christmas - children who still believe in miracles, in magic, in things they can't rationally explain, in pure awe. Of course, my kids have blessed me with two grandchildren each, so Christmas is again a time of wonder as the family with the "little ones" convenes on Christmas Eve to exchange gifts.<br />
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It's not so much a problem with almost-1-year-old Emily, or even 3-year-old Joshua, because they can't count perfectly yet. On top of that, it would never occur to them that one of their cousins or their own sibling might, just might, have opened more presents than they did. But nevertheless, I try to keep all my four grandchildren equal in the gift-receiving department. I can remember Matt and Rachel when they were adolescents - making their piles of gifts, and let me tell you, they had better come out equal. Older kids don't realize the visible inequality of several inexpensive gifts versus one costly gift. They can count, though. Their specialty is not counting money, but counting items!<br />
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I haven't seen that as much with my grandchildren, but maybe that's because I meticulously try to keep things coming out even. I can even beat them at their own game: I can keep the total number of presents to unwrap even, but put several different smaller items in one box, and they never know the difference. For instance, I got 10-year-old Caroline some art supplies on her wish list - colored pencils, a sketch pad, and a small blank canvas. They went in one box. That probably was worth approximately the same amount as 8-year-old Charlotte's Barbie thingamajig. But in their minds, they are each opening one present. Grammys learn this kind of trick early on.<br />
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Then, too, gifts tend to get more costly the older the child gets. That's something else the children don't realize. Even with all these things to keep in mind, my primary goal is to give my grandkids something that will make their faces light up - while keeping the whole situation fair.<br />
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The whole present thing made me think about my own life. One of my lifelong complaints has been, "But it's not fair!" Of course, that is usually when I've been given the short stick. I less often complain of things not being fair when the "victim" is somebody else. Actually, when I look at the all the gifts I have received in life - and obviously I'm not talking wholly material gifts here - I find the situation truly, horrendously unfair. So many people go without, yet I am clothed and warm and fed. So many lose their mothers before their time; mine is still here and thank God, still knows who I am when I call. And even though my dad died before we were ready, his love for me and my sister still pervades our lives. So many people grow up in abusive homes; mine was loving, patient, and compassionate. My parents encouraged us to appreciate great music, great friends, and great family traditions. My sister was and is a treasure. My cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles and beyond brought me boundless love. My friends have been faithful and supportive. So many people have unfulfilled wishes for children or grandchildren; we have two children and four grandchildren, all in good health. Both my kids married wonderful and compassionate spouses. My husband has been sober now for 29 years. So many people have no access to good education; I have had wise mentors and teachers who taught me everything from diagramming sentences to speaking French to playing piano and organ. So many people hate their jobs; yet I love my job and find that it uses all my strengths. I am in good health, I can walk, talk, hear, think, and create. I have been forgiven more times than I can even acknowledge. I have been praised and encouraged way more than I deserve.<br />
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So, no, life is so unfair! The things I return to the world will never, <i>ever</i>, equal the gifts I have been given in this miraculous life of mine. I think if a lot of us examine our own blessings, we will feel the same way. It will <i>never</i> come out even. I'm sitting here counting my "presents" and the pile takes up the whole area under the tree and spills out the front door in an endless march of blessings, and I sit silently in grateful tears.<br />
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Merry Christmas to everyone, and may your New Year be filled with awareness of the unfairness of life! Give, give, and give again - more of your money, your wisdom, your talent, your friendship, your listening ear, your patience - for although it will never come out even to what we have been given, our job is to do the best we can to get it as close as we can. Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-39480726341190538852013-10-19T15:00:00.002-05:002013-10-19T15:03:20.814-05:00Losing PeterI had a vivid dream last night. It was Christmas, and we had a tree decorated, but after a couple of days, the limbs starting falling off, along with their ornaments. We ended up with half the tree missing. Next, a neighbor came in and asked me to look across the street at their new yard decorations. I went over to the window. At first, the decorations were just shadows through the glass, but if I looked, oddly enough, directly through the curtain, I could see them. They were life-sized carolers, holding their hymnbooks, mouths in song.<br />
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This was one of those dreams I could easily interpret on my own. <br />
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The high school which I attended had a chorus group whose members were close to each other. (I'm sure other chorus groups and band groups can relate; musicians are a tight-knit group.) Through the years, we have seen many of those classmates pass on, many of them my good friends. This past week, Peter Russell, a talented guy who was liked by all, died in Memphis. <br />
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As we age, we will lose more and more branches off our personal trees of relationships. And with those branches go their decorations - the smiles, laughter, talents, compassion - everything that made those individual branches bright and special and unique. The tree is now half empty, and it makes me sad. I try to concentrate on the intact part, but I can't help missing the empty part, the friends and relatives who brought joy to my life.<br />
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But, just across the way, I see them, as if through a veil, still singing. <br />
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It reminded me so much of the I Corinthians verse: <i>For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face. </i><br />
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I think one of the very first posts of this blog was about trying to deal with my visible accumulation of memories as we started downsizing. All those memories involved people, who, when they go, take with them a piece of my life. Especially in chorus, our experiences in that group are shared by us and us alone. The Broadway shows we put on, the assemblies at which we sang, the concerts we gave, the fun we had hanging around our chorus room, and our exceptional teacher, Miss Rose Gillespie - our generation will be the last to know what that was like. One by one, the list of the departed grows, and the list of those who are left on earth shortens. This does not invalidate the memories; indeed, it makes them even more precious.<br />
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Outside my room as I write this, there are more leaves on the ground than are on the trees. But their brilliant colors will be remembered, and I know I will see them again next autumn. <br />
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RIP, Peter. You are with a talented group of carolers. Give Miss Gillespie and all the others a hug from me.Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-12597760816837981672013-09-02T11:44:00.001-05:002013-09-02T11:46:37.575-05:00Learning from Blackberry Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Whenever people ask me what my favorite season is, I generally say autumn. Who doesn't like fall? (Except maybe kids who are returning to school...) Autumn has it all - colorful scenery, hot chocolate, football, York apples, pumpkins, wood-burning stoves, and culminating in Thanksgiving! I love the season so much that one year I honored it in a quilt (below). On the back, I quilted all the things I loved about this upcoming time of year (including a silhouette of Santa in one corner - because, as we know, when fall ends, Christmas is right around the corner....).<br />
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The sign to me that fall is on its way is the ripening of the blackberry bushes.<br />
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We have a few in our yard and several in our neighborhood. It's good vision practice to zero in on a few ripe black ones in a sea of unripe red ones. I love to pick blackberries and I love to eat them!<br />
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Blackberry season is over, I'm afraid. I think I picked about 5 quarts in all. Every seasonal change is a curse tied up with a blessing - for as much as I hate to see one season go, the next season has its own splendor and celebrations. I had a lot of time to think as I was berry picking last month, and the more I pondered on things, the more I realized that blackberry picking is a lot like life.<br />
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<b>1. Everyone matures at his/her own unique rate. </b> Not all the berries on one street, one yard, one bush, or even one branch ripen at the same time. It always amazes me that one branch, which gets the same amount of sun and the same amount of water and temperature will have some berries ripe on Tuesday, more on Wednesday, more on Thursday, and so on. The very same bush I checked yesterday, from which I gathered every ripe berry until none was left, today is loaded with the juiciest, blackest berries you ever saw. Just yesterday they were red. Go figure. <br />
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It's the same with people you run across in life. Sometimes just in the same family, children will be totally different in their physical, mental, and emotional maturity. Yet they were raised in the same environment by the same parents. So too are all the folks we encounter in our lives. It's difficult not to judge immaturity in people, but you never know - that same person might be one day away from an insight of wisdom. We encounter people traveling our road, but not necessarily at our speed, and there are always people ahead of us and behind us. It doesn't mean they are better or worse than we are - it just means they are on a different maturity growth schedule. (Unfortunately, some, like the shriveled red berries that never ripened, never make it all the way to maturity; witness the police reports.)<br />
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<b>2. Evaluate the risks.</b> Ah, yes, those pesky thorns - and mud - and a dog on a leash and a basket in one hand. There is a spectacular set of blackberry bushes on the road in front of a house that a Pennsylvania family uses as a vacation home right now. A family member saw my husband one day who commented on their plethora of bushes and they said they wouldn't even be around for blackberry season and to tell his wife that she is welcome to their bushes. Very nice! However, just like a castle with a forbidding moat, those bushes are on the other side of a shallow ditch-like area, which in blackberry season is usually filled with mud. Wise or not, I always walk the dog when I am berry picking. So one day the temptation of those plump berries calling my name was too great, and with the leash over my left wrist, and the basket in my right hand, I stood sideways and took a giant step with my left leg over the muddy water and stood like that while my left hand snatched what berries it could. However, the hill where I had one foot propped was a mudslide waiting to happen - and of course, it happened, and as I panicked I grabbed the bush to stop the slide, which, of course, showered me with countless thorns. Not a pretty picture. The next trip, the bush still tempted me, but as I evaluated the risks of falling in mud and cutting up my arms, I decided it wasn't worth it.<br />
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One thing I transcribe every day is this: "The risks and benefits of the treatment were explained to the patient." Everything we do in life consists of a risk/benefit judgment. Every day you drive you are saying the risk of a wreck is worth the reason for the trip. Whenever you take pain medicine, which always has some risks, you are saying it is worth it to feel better. When the benefits outweigh the risks of our choices, decisions are easy. The hard part comes when the risks are great and it might be better to cut our losses or keep the status quo and turn away. <br />
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<b>3. Look at everything from different angle.</b> It never failed - on my walk down the road, I picked the blackberries until I could find no more ripe ones. Then as I walked back to the house up the road, I noticed that, from a different angle, I could see all the ones I missed on those same bushes. I think I'm so smart and so thorough - yet I always found more berries on my way back from the exact bushes I picked "clean" on the way down.<br />
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In life it can't hurt to take a look from a different perspective. From the other side, or from another set of eyes, or from hearing another person's opinion - you may just find something you missed.<br />
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<b>4. Savor the pleasures in life, for some are short.</b> Blackberry season is only a couple of weeks. It's something I look forward to and hate to see go. Time is of the essence. You pick and pick and then one day there aren't any more black berries, and the red ones that never turned are withered and you realize blackberry season is over for this year. <br />
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In life, the child-rearing experience for parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, is fleeting - babies start crawling, kids get potty trained, children start the first day of school - and on and on. What may seem like an eternity in the present slips away before you know it, leaving you looking back with sighs and a few tears. <br />
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So those are the lessons I learned from the blackberry bushes. I'm a survivor of blackberry season - and I have the scars to prove it! Sometimes I won, sometimes the bushes won, but gee, the muffins were delicious! So goodbye to summer, and just around the corner is pumpkin time, then Christmas, then another year will have passed. The special thing about life, I find, is that I know (unless we annihilate the human race or our damage to the environment makes the earth uninhabitable) that blackberry season will come again next year. It's a comforting thought. When we say goodbye to a season, it's always a temporary <i>au revoir</i> because there's a great chance we will be welcoming it back next year. Some of us, of course, never make it. So if you live to see another returning season filled with its special beauty and memories, consider it a wonderful blessing to be appreciated.<br />
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<br />Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-19511548264567944032013-08-09T11:26:00.001-05:002013-08-09T11:29:00.150-05:00I'll never be an expert.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have a lot of respect for most experts. You know the kind - on the evening news they'll start out with a health report and interview their medical expert. Then they'll have a story on the embassy shutdowns and interview their terrorism expert. Those news stations have access to everyone who is considered an expert in their chosen field.<br />
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I'd like to think I'm an expert in something. I've spent the last day trying to figure out what that might be. I can quilt, but I'm not an expert. I can sew, but a tailor I'm not. (I'm still too afraid to try the invisible zipper installation.) I know medical terminology and medical knowledge, but I'm certainly not an expert in that or I would be a doctor by now. I know a lot about nutrition but wouldn't consider myself an expert. I can play the piano, organ, and Celtic harp, sing and even direct choirs, but I'm no expert musician. I know a lot about Abraham Lincoln, but I'm no match for the people who have written books about him. I'm a great speller, but I'd lose in the first round of the National Spelling Bee (have you ever seen those obscure words they use??). I'd like to consider myself an expert in my chosen expander software program, Instant Text, but there are features in there that I've never had to use and thus have never learned.<br />
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You see, when I really have an opportunity to see or hear an expert in action, I am awed. I know just enough about a lot of things to enable me to really value expertise when I see it. I realize, however, that for those areas in which I am lacking experience, my mind can never fully appreciate these artistic endeavors. For instance, I really enjoy looking at pretty flowers and love to eat delicious food. But alas, I have never been a gardener and I have never been a chef, and thus I know I really have no idea how much toil, learning, setbacks, etc., that went into producing those masterpieces. My friend Sally knits. It looks very difficult to me, and when I see one of her intricate sweaters, after I deeply admire it, I know that I will never be able to appreciate it as much as one of her fellow knitters would, because I have no idea how much time it took to make and how much time it took to learn the patterns. Maybe one day if I ever learn to knit, I could revisit all those beautiful pieces and be blown away at an even greater level by her handiwork. But I do have experience in some things, and I believe that has given me a better understanding of the work involved.<br />
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I remember seeing the late Van Cliburn perform when I was a teenager. The general audience members were entranced with the performance, of course. But I'll bet you that we pianists, young and old, in that same audience had a deeper appreciation of what was happening before our eyes, because we <i>knew</i> what it was like to practice (in a small way), we<i> knew</i> what it felt like to give a recital (in a small way), we <i>knew</i> how frustrating it was to learn something new and master it - again, in a small way. He was doing the same thing we had done - only on a much grander scale. He was our inspiration. Forget super heroes - he was the young pianist's awe-inspiring moment. He made it look easy - but we knew better.<br />
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This is why when I see beautiful quilts, I am wonderstruck by the work that I know went into it. I can admire the spellers in the bee, the seamstresses on Pattern Review, the Maine harpist Julia Lane, and the authors who write about Lincoln after countless hours of research. I feel that a tiny piece of me is present in them, because we share the same desire to learn - only they became the expert and took it to the limit, while I am content with coasting along in my learning, basking in their well-earned glory and marveling at their talent.<br />
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They say it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master a skill. That's a lot of time to dedicate to one magnificent thing. If I practiced piano for 10,000 hours, that's a lot of hours I wouldn't be sewing or quilting or transcribing. Every hour to perfect <i>one </i>skill takes away an hour of enjoying <i>another</i>.<br />
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I decided years ago that I would give up chasing the expert label. I had to ask myself if I would rather be fairly good at a number of things or a bonafide expert in one thing - and the answer for me was the former. Van Cliburn dedicated his life to the piano and the world is better for it, but he worked hard and long to perfect his talent. I'll bet you he didn't make a single quilt the whole time!<br />
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Of course, the world always has the "Renaissance person" - the Leonardo Da Vinci type - the one who is an expert in many things. But those people are rare. Most people who are experts in one thing can only handle expertise in a couple of other things before they just run out of time.<br />
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I'm writing this post on National Book Lovers Day - in honor of all those authors who dreamed big and worked hard to master writing and illustrating, for which I am so grateful. At the same time, I honor the artists, musicians, crafters, growers, knitters, spellers, and everyone else who was hungry to learn, worked hard to get better and better, and by that, have added beauty to our world. (Yes, I believe a correctly spelled word or an appropriate apostrophe is a beautiful thing!) I will never be an expert, but neither will I be complacent when the experts shine. Thank goodness we don't all have to have experience in something to have at least a tiny inkling of the work involved when we see what others have produced. We are co-creators, and I am honored to share the world with you!<br />
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<br />Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-52031904592596273432013-06-22T05:16:00.002-05:002013-06-22T05:23:37.016-05:00Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here's the thing - I'm 58 and I still lie to my mother. The lies one usually tells parents are the childhood ones - "No, I didn't take that cookie." "Yes, I finished my homework." "She hit me first!" Those are just silly kid things. Then when I became an adult, I started telling lies to her because she just wouldn't understand - "This dress caused $25" when it really cost $75, because Mom, bless her heart, hadn't shopped for clothes for years except at Goodwill, and she has no idea what clothes cost these days. It's easier just to deflate the price in the conversation. Those kinds of things - well, they don't bother me so much.<br />
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Now, however, my sister and I are reaching a crossroads. At some point in our lives, lying to Mom (or keeping important information from her, which is the same thing) has become an ethical dilemma. We used to lie for selfish reasons, to stay out of trouble, etc. Now we lie for compassionate reasons - so she won't worry.<br />
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Our mother has great anxiety, and it has gotten worse through the years, and now at 90, if you tell her ahead of time about an appointment or an outing or other worrisome thing, she will ruminate on it and start shaking and worrying until she's driven herself crazy. My sister Joy and I don't want to contribute to her anxiety. So we keep information from her.<br />
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These lies consist mainly of health issues of other people. For instance, I've had some medical issues lately and am going in for a CT scan next week. Do I tell Mom? Certainly not! She's down in Tennessee, and I'm up in Maine, and I couldn't even hug her to reassure her that I'm OK. I'll worry on my own, thank you.<br />
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This has become the new norm. On our frequent phone calls to each other, Joy and I usually have to insert the reminder caveat of, "Of course, don't tell Mother." <br />
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This week, however, we reached a conundrum. Mom's only sibling, a slightly younger brother, has been urgently hospitalized for a colon blockage and was scheduled to have surgery for what could be a cancerous tumor. Mom doesn't talk to him every day, so we could easily get by with keeping the information from her, as he lives in another state. My sister and I agreed - she would worry herself sick. We'll have to tell her at some point, but maybe we'll wait until after the surgery when we know everything's OK. We'll tell her after the fact. Meanwhile, our cousins are updating Joy and me on his condition. As I updated my own kids on Uncle Tommy, I repeated my mantra: "Now we're keeping this from Granny so she won't worry - but DON'T YOU EVER DO THIS TO ME WHEN I GET OLD, UNDERSTAND? I don't want to be kept in the dark about anything! Don't treat me like a child!" Each time my son just laughs in my face. "I <b>will</b> keep things from you, and Josh (his almost 3-year-old) will keep things from me one day and his kids will keep things from him. That's just how it is." Kids. Sheesh.<br />
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As the evening before surgery progressed, however, Joy and I had a change of heart. We came to this conclusion separately after discussing it with our spouses. Joy is my only sibling. We are very close and love each other very much. What if when we get older she had to have surgery for what might be cancer? How would I feel if that information was kept from me so I wouldn't worry? I would be devastated! <b>How dare others, even family members, even from a sense of compassion, pick and choose what I have a right to know? </b><br />
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So by the next morning with a change in plan, Joy told Mother the details, saying her brother had a blockage and they had admitted him and later that morning were going to do surgery to take out a tumor that was blocking his colon, omitting the word "cancer" because that wasn't a given anyway, at least not yet. Mother handled it well and said she appreciated Joy's telling her. Now at least Mom's brother was in her thoughts and prayers. Mother can deal with things better than we think, sometimes.<br />
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I have concluded that we now have veered from all-out lying, all-out omitting information, to a selective communication with Mom. If I receive a bad diagnosis from my CT scan and other tests, I will tell her, but there's no need in telling her what <i>might</i> happen ahead of time. That's a good compromise. I hate giving bad news to Mom. I was with her in the ER in 1980 when the doctor came in and said her beloved husband had just died. When I know she has been emotionally hammered, I just want to take it all away and hold her until she's better. <br />
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But life is full of bad things and most of them she deserves to know about. There's something about respect and dignity in this, too. As she tried to protect us from worry all these years, now the paradigm has switched and we are trying to reassure her. Sometimes we make good decisions on that score; sometimes we miss the mark. I hope the proper decisions outnumber the poor ones. But even the poor decisions are done out of love and what we think, rightly or wrongly, is best. It's a difficult and confusing journey and one that requires endless wisdom.Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-63925289045953335772013-05-18T05:09:00.000-05:002013-05-18T05:09:06.231-05:00Never Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On a past post, I mentioned my high school years ushering at Ellis Auditorium in Memphis, where I saw Broadway shows free as a thank-you for helping out. The show "I Do! I Do!" starring Robert Preston and Mary Martin was one of my favorites. Even to this day I have most of the songs memorized.<br />
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The interesting thing about this particular show is that the two characters carried the show by themselves - no other actors to help share the load. From Wikipedia: <br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span style="color: red;">The two-character story spans fifty years, from 1895 to 1945, as it focuses on the ups and downs experienced by Agnes and Michael Snow throughout their marriage. The set consists solely of their bedroom, dominated by the large fourposter bed in the center of the room.</span></span><br />
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As I was thinking of those extraordinary performances, I realized that only as I got older did I appreciate the magnitude of a 2-person play. The responsibility of singing the songs, getting the laughs, evoking the tears - just using the skills of two people - what a feat that was! Of course, these two were seasoned, magnificent performers and the audiences adored them.<br />
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Also as I got older, as I accumulated the wisdom one can pick up here and there, I realized that these two exceptional actors, of course, did <i>not</i> carry the play alone. In preparation to doing the play, they were helped by choreographers and voice instructors and directors. People had to sew their costumes. People had to print the scripts and the programs. When the two went on tour, people had to book their performances, make reservations for hotels, find transportation, generate publicity, and all other necessary planning steps. Then during each performance, there were other people in charge of costume changes, set, lighting, audio, musical accompaniment. Even before the touring group got to Memphis, people had to clean the auditorium and prepare all the details of what would be needed.<br />
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The audiences played an important part, because without an audience, there is no show. And that's where I come in. I helped seat the audience. I was a part of it all.<br />
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Just another reminder that we are all connected and it is impossible to be a self-made man or woman. We all had help, and continue to have help, along the way. Even today, a mechanic keeps our car running well so I can get to work, the Bangor Hydro folks keep the electricity going so we can maintain a household and I can type these words, the good people at John Edwards downtown worked to sell us the food we will have for supper, the doctor's office gave me the Rx for my daily thyroid pill I took this morning - and, of course, the list is never-ending because the chain is never-ending. Life is a group effort.<br />
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I love the idea of daily moments of gratitude, and part of that gratitude has to be a thanks to all the fellow humans who have helped me and continue to help me along the way. My life is <i>not</i> a one-person show. Bless you all.Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11104446.post-51066562514706270322013-05-04T04:24:00.001-05:002013-05-04T04:29:53.745-05:00Public Speaking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of my favorite jokes: <br />
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<span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;">A man is sent to prison for the first time. At night, the lights in the cell block are turned off, and his cellmate goes over to the bars and yells, "Number twelve!" The whole cell block breaks out laughing. A few minutes later, somebody else in the cell block yells, "Number four!" Again, the whole cell bloock breaks out laughing.</span><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;">The new guy asks his cellmate what's going on. "Well," says the older prisoner, "we've all been in this here prison for so long, we all know the same jokes. So we just yell out the number instead of saying the whole joke."</span><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;">So the new guy walks up to the bars and yells, "Number six!" There was dead silence in the cell block. He asks the older prisoner, "What's wrong? Why didn't I get any laughs?"</span><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial; text-align: left;">"Well," said the older man, "sometimes it's not the joke, but how you tell it."</span></span><br />
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It's true that some things don't need to be spoken. It's also true that this happens more and more as a couple stays together. Ed and I, married almost 39 years, can certainly finish each other's sentences and sometimes we will encounter a situation or hear or see something and I just know that we are remembering the exact same shared memory and we will laugh or tear up spontaneously in response to that without a word being spoken by either of us.<br />
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I've <i>said</i> and <i>not said</i> a lot in my life so far. Just like actions, some of the things I've said I'm happy I got to say them. Others, I cringe when I think about them. Then at other times, I should have spoken up when I stayed silent. <br />
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Communication is a strange thing. Language can hurt or heal and so much of it is so impulsive that we rarely take a prudent moment to realize the long-lasting effect of what we are about to say.<br />
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My niece Kate, like many others her age, is graduating from college today in Tennessee. At graduations all over the country, speakers (famous, infamous, and relatively unknown) are gearing up to give the new graduates the wisdom of the ages, or at least of the moment. I often wonder what I would say to Kate and her younger sister and our grandchildren and everyone else growing up in this wild world if I had only a limited time to impart advice. So I wrote her a short letter about my mantra, the Serenity Prayer, which I've quoted in this blog many times - <span style="color: red;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">God grant me the </span><em style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; line-height: 16px;">serenity</em><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"> to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. </span></span>That's a solid foundation on which to make decisions in life.<br />
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What I would also tell these young folks is this: <span style="color: red;">Remember, life has no rewind button; speak carefully</span>. I gave a children's sermon once about feathers from an old Jewish tale, and it went something like this: A rabbi took his students out into a large field. He asked his students to distribute a load of big rocks across the field, which they did. Then the rabbi asked them to gather up the rocks that they had just distributed. With effort and time, they managed to find every rock and bring it back. Then the rabbi produced bags of feathers and asked the students to scatter them over a great distance. The students did. Then the rabbi asked them to retrieve each and every feather. They tried, but had to return to the rabbi, saying that it was impossible because so many feathers had been carried off by the wind and could not be gathered back into the bags. The rabbi explained that words we say are like feathers - once said, they can never be unsaid and can never be placed back into the bag. So say them judiciously.<br />
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The things I most regret saying, of course, are hurtful ones - words said in the heat of an argument or in a moment of hopelessness or in an escalating time of pure frustration and impatience. Those words were heard and understood, and they will probably be remembered. Oh, we can apologize, for sure. We can try to make it up, which is an admirable step, but in the end, words were said that, like the feathers, are forever blowing around.<br />
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While I'm at it, I have to include advice from my mom: <span style="color: red;">This too shall pass.</span> That, as I've said before, can be comforting or scary - for as it is a relief to realize the bad stuff will pass, it is disconcerting to realize the good stuff will pass as well, so we need to appreciate it while it is here.<br />
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So today Kate graduates from college, and next week our oldest grandchild, Caroline, will turn 10 years old. I think they both realize what's important in this world, that learning is lifelong, and that they can improve the world by how they act and speak. You can't go wrong if you speak with love. And....that they are infused, covered, and permeated with encouragement and support and blessings from family and friends. Godspeed!Carol Tiffin Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882948989819202988noreply@blogger.com0