Something's fishy

Screensavers are intriguing. Even they are no longer technically necessary, we still use them.
On the helpful site how stuff works, they describe how the early screensavers were "designed to protect computer monitors from phosphor burn-in." Now that we no longer need them, why do we still use them? The site gives multiple reasons:

Here are the main reasons why:

• Entertainment - The most common reason we use screensavers is for the fun of it. Watching that macaroni dance across the screen to the tune of "Hey Macarena" can be a great diversion for a few minutes.

• Security - By setting up a screensaver with password protection, you can walk away from your computer and feel comfortable that nobody is going to be able to see any sensitive information.

• Uniform look - Many companies require all employees to use a particular screensaver. This creates a uniform and perhaps aesthetic environment and ensures that no inappropriate screensavers are displayed.

• Advertisement - Companies, particularly retail businesses, that have computers in areas accessible to customers will often have a screensaver that promotes their business or product.

• Information - A lot of screensavers provide either static or real-time information. A screensaver may cycle through a series of trivia questions. Another may pull stock information from a Web site and stream it across the screen.

• Distributed computing - Another form of screensaver takes advantage of your computer's inactivity to process data from another source. A good example of this type of screensaver is SETI@Home, which is currently utilized by thousands of computer users. This screensaver displays a graph of the radio spectrum and processes radio-signal information received from the SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) servers. It sends back results based on the data processed. By using the combined processing power of all of these computers, SETI is significantly reducing the amount of time it takes to sift through all the signals received from its radio telescopes.

At work, I upload a few pictures from my home computer and cycle them, so I have maybe 5-6 recent pictures of my kids and spouses and Caroline and Charlotte circulating at any one time. Fine for work, but for home I had a little more difficulty. I asked the screensaver to go to my 16,000+ photos and choose pictures at random. It sounds feasible, but the "at random" part was a little too random. It had no sense of choosing appropriate pictures. Every one of the over 16,000 pictures was willing and able to pop itself on the screen. Not all were suitable. I'm not talking indecent, by the way. I'm talking aesthetically pleasing.

For the last few years, I have documented everything. I documented the porch being rebuilt, former co-workers whose names I cannot even remember, pictures of things I'd rather forget, other people's dogs, and photos of furniture I had for sale. I do not necessarily enjoy having such pictures as a desktop decoration, even for a few seconds. My screensaver program also had a way of trimming my good pictures, so that I had a headless person on the screen.

For all the above reasons, I figured it was time to get another screensaver. I perused my choices that are built into my iMac, but they didn't impress me at the time. I decided I would like to try an aquarium screensaver. What fun it would be to see fish swimming around! I'd have the enjoyment of an aquarium without the hassle. I asked Matt for help, and he steered me to a list of aquarium-themed screensavers made for Mac.

I downloaded one with 2 fish. Apparently, if you want more fish, you have to pay for the privilege, and I was using a limited free download. The whole thing was so cool - I chose the "depth" of the water and the method by which it entered the "tank." I could set my choice as to whether I wanted the fish to stay on the screen continuously, or whether I would allow them to move off the screen and come back on. Yes, I had the POWER! I chose all my settings, and as soon as I could see my 2 little fishes were swimming happily around the screen, I figured it was fine, and I left the room to do other things. Unbeknownst to me, the screensaver came with real aquarium sounds. And, apparently, I had forgotten to mention my new "toy" to Ed.

So Ed was in the kitchen at the sink, and when he turned the faucet off, he was alarmed to hear that water was still running somewhere. Oh, that's just great, he thought. We have a pipe busted - just what we need! So with trepidation, he quickly searched the house, finding nothing out of the ordinary. He finally went to the master bath, looked around, couldn't find anything amiss. He thought that I might have been filling the tub. He claimed the running water sound even confused the dog Babe (but that's his excuse for a lot of things: "Hey, Babe even was worried/scared/upset/excited too, just like me....").

Well, he finally traced the water sound to the computer, and there they were, my 2 new fishies, rolicking in the tank, figuratively speaking. Ed was none too pleased. He had been duped.

Of course, I thought it was hilarious.

Anyway, suffice it to say, the fishes have been terminated. I never did get to pay to download any of their colorful friends, either.

So, taking my cue from my journey to simplicity, I left the Internet and decided to use one of my built-in screensavers. It's outer space pictures - galaxies and such. Ed loves them. They are beautiful, and seeing the Milky Way reminds me that my nagging life problems are not so big after all.

I do miss my fishies, though. And I do enjoy freaking out Ed sometimes. Hmm...I wonder if someone sells downloadable asteroids?

It's not my fault

I beat my little sister.
Oh yes, I swear it’s true.
I’ve tried to stop, but really,
It’s impossible to do.
I only beat her once a year,
So please give me a break.
It hurts me more than it does her,
It makes my heart just ache.
But beatings shall continue
Up until the day we die.
September means I’m one year older,
Hers is in July.
July precedes September,
Yes, it’s factually true.
But alas, the difference in our ages
Always will be 2.
I beat my sister age-wise.
I beat her every time.
She’s always 2 years younger.
She’s always in her prime.
Here’s to my little sister!
She’s 50 years today!
No matter how she ages,
I will always lead the way...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

The Name Game

In an ongoing attempt to sell or give away what we don't need, I came across a set of videotapes about grand houses on English estates. There is a tape devoted to each house, and the names are quite engaging. Penhurst Place. (I like the alliteration.) Goodwood House. Broadlands. Breamore House. Stratfield Saye. Arundel Castle. (Finally, a house that admits its true identity. I think all the others are really castles and won't admit it. Kind of like the Bar Harbor mansions calling themselves "cottages.") Wilton. Sutton Place. Chartwell. Finally, one of my favorites - Uppark. (I read that as "You Park" and it sounds like a downtown garage in Bangor.)

It takes creativity to name a house, that's for sure. When we bought this house, we had lived in parsonages for 8 years, and the whole idea of owning our own home again was exciting. The fact that we bought the house and didn't move in for 1-1/2 years added to the mystery and intrigue. The house existed more in our memories and imaginations than it did in our daily lives.

I wanted to name it, of course.

My first thought was Snowflake House. The Victorian gingerbread, painted white, reminded me of snow, one of the reasons we were moving to New England. Something was lacking with that name, however. It never flowed easily off my tongue, as if every time I started to say it, I had to think for a moment what it actually was.

My next name was a good old English manor name - Addington. Now, that had a stately ring to it, didn't it? Addington. Of course, nothing could be so clear-cut in origin, and the reason I chose Addington was my assertion that "we were adding on to the house and it was costing a ton." Well, that didn't stick either, probably because I knew that every time I said the word, I would be reminding myself of all the expense, and who wants to be reminded of that? Anyway, as much as the house has been reduced to its cost and selling price in the last couple of years, I'm glad I ditched "Addington" because it degrades the house somewhat, carving its identity out of dollar signs.

We finally did agree on a name, though. It wasn't long after we moved in 10 years ago. The chosen name was short, succinct, full of significance, and came easily to the lips. We called it Home.

Finding the words

The older I get, the more I lack a simple skill called "word-finding." As a medical transcriptionist, I know that that phrase is used in cases where someone has had a stroke or has other debilitating brain conditions such as dementia. It's not that serious for me, but it's something I have noticed lately.

It's not so much that I can't think of someone's name (although that happens), or that I cannot identify a pencil in my hand (thank God, that has never happened). I simply do not have an adequate vocabulary to describe my feelings - about myself, my loved ones, my life, my joys, my disappointments, regrets, and worries. The older I get, the less I think with the brain and the more I think with the heart.

Our language has its deficiencies, for one thing. We seem to lack the language nuances that other cultures possess. Ed tells me that groups such as the Eskimos have hundreds of words just to describe "snow" - because snow is very much an important part of their lives. We basically have wet snow and powder snow.

But even with the expanse of English vocabulary at my fingertips, I cannot settle on an acceptable way to describe something. As a nondrinker, I get tickled when I read descriptions of wine, for instance. How do they come up with that? Here are some description samples taken off one wine web site: "Ruby red color and aromatic. The wine has a pleasant nose of mint, blackberry and hazelnut." "The wine has an elegant and complex nose, with ripe red berry fruits and lush aromas of spice, tobacco, and vanilla." "Mid-palate is very well fleshed with ripe fruit and cherry flavours in a smoothly-knit structure."

They are just as wordy with perfume reviews.

"Today I am trying Calycanthus, which Acca Kappa describes as a "fresh, floral scent created with the unique essence of the Calycanthus flower blended with notes of Jasmin, Orange blossom honey and Musk."

This starts sweet and sharp. I am guessing there is some honeysuckle in the top notes, and possibly a touch of citrus. The dry down is a really pretty, spring-like floral, with slight green notes. There is a lovely spicy kick that I assume comes from the calycanthus — there are several varieties of this shrub, which are variously known as sweetbush, western spicebush, and Carolina allspice.

It has a sparkling quality, and manages to capture the aroma of honey without being overly sweet. (This review is from this site.)

Well, more power to them. I don't have enough taste or odor sensitivity to be able to distinguish all those individual contributions, and even if I did, I lack the vocabulary to voice my opinion in such a creative, exact manner.

With taste or smell, all I can say is: Either I like it or I don't, and maybe I can denote degrees to those feelings.

I have always loved words; that is one reason I enjoy medical transcription, grammar, spelling, and the like. I love obscure words, strange words, unpronounceable words - all of it. I love certain words for the sound of their syllables, others for how they look when they are written out. Yet, the longer I live, the more words fail me.

How can I find words to tell my family and friends how much I love them? To tell Ed how thankful I am to be married to him? To tell all my relatives how much happiness and laughter they have brought to my life? To explain how wonderful being a grandmother makes me feel? How do I tell people the release I feel when they have forgiven me? How do I explain how it feels to have had so many teachers (educators and life teachers as well) invest their time in me? How can I explain to someone the euphoria that overwhelms me when I hear Beethoven or Mozart? How can I describe the gut-wrenching worry I feel when my children are out driving in bad weather or the pit in my stomach every time I leave my 83-year-old mother in Memphis, knowing I might never see her again?

At some point, language fails. That cliche "Words cannot express...." is true. "A picture is worth a thousand words" - also true. "Actions speak louder than words" - true again.

Or course, I still try. But if, in the ensuing years, you think I'm a little quieter, slightly more pensive, somewhat more introspective, I might just be at a loss for words. But my heart will be talking a mile a minute.

Geography 101

After I found my long-lost friend Annie, I made arrangements to give her a phone call. She lives in Michigan and I live in Maine, and I wasn't sure of the time difference. Heck, I wasn't even sure where Michigan was! I was floored when I was told that Michigan was in the Eastern time zone along with us!

Well, that did it. I have known for many years that I am no good at geography. USA geography or world geography - it doesn't matter. I can identify some states - for instance, states adjacent to Tennessee, my home state - and some of the coastal or odd-shaped states (Texas, California, Florida, etc.). But for the majority of states, they are all jumbled up in my head.

The kicker to this is that apparently I could name and identify a significant number of states when I was 3. That fact of trivia even makes me feel more inadequate. And with Caroline well on her way to being able to identify every state in the union, I have decided to drill into my head - accurately and permanently - the exact location of every US state on a map. For this purpose, I downloaded some free maps off the Internet and printed them. Some have state capitals on them, some major cities, and some are simply blank - for me to fill in once I learn them.

I am in competition with myself every day at work. I compete against myself just like an athlete does. An athlete might try to shave some time off a race, whereas I try to increase my line count production from the day, week, month before. This map project should prove interesting, because in essence I am competing against my 3-year-old self. Mind you, this will only depress me if I fail to achieve my objective, for then I will have lost against my 3-year-old self, and that would be mightly pitiful indeed.

So here I go, into the world of state recognition. Considering I once neglected to see the entire state of Virginia when giving map directions to Ed on a family vacation (which ended up with our pulling into a motel in Kentucky at 3 a.m. instead of 8 p.m. the night before), I think this will prove be a challenging experiment.

My country, 'tis of thee,
I knew when I was three
Most of your states.
Now I am fifty-one,
Before I'm dead and done,
I'd like to point out Washington.
Hold those Pearly Gates!

Eureka!

Yay, I found my Annie! I knew my research skills would come in handy one of these days!

Up and Down and Round and Round

There comes a time when you may have a subject or project or life stress/change that seems to take over your whole existence. For some, it may be a medical diagnosis. For others, it could be a major lifestyle change. For Rachel and Chris, their world revolves around Charlotte's sleep habits. For us, of course, it's selling this house.

I am well aware that people are sick and tired of hearing us whine about our house. In all frankness, I'm tired of it, too. A co-worker who doesn't work in my office begins each phone conversation with the "Have you sold your house yet?" question. I finally told her that she would know exactly when we sold our house, because we would hire balloons to fly all over Ellsworth, and we would be in one, yelling and screaming the news with delirious abandon. So now, she starts her phone conversations with the statement, "Well, I haven't seen any balloons lately..." Of course, her house has been for sale for over a year, too, so she can relate.

Here is how insidious the house stress is. The situation consumes my every waking moment. I run the gamut of emotions: Fear (What if we don't sell?); Worry (What if we have a major repair to deal with?); Indecision (What have we left undone? What have we overlooked?); Disbelief (We initially thought the house would sell itself, and had no idea it would have been this long).

But most of my day on the emotional roller coaster consists of two major reactions: Hope and Despair. It's as if there is in my head a list divided into these two columns. Every single experience I have during the day and night gets placed into one of those columns.

I usually begin the day with Hope. After all, it's a brand new day and maybe this is the day we will get finally get something done. If I look outside and see that the weather is chilly and rainy, I write that in the Despair column. No one wants to come look at a house in the rain. The phone rings - Hope! This could be our Realtor with good news! No, it's just Rachel and her Charlotte angst. An e-mail from Venise, our agent! Hope! No, sorry, Despair. It's just ambivalent information.

Oooh, I see a car slowly driving by! Are they looking at the house? HOPE! Oh, I see they are slowing down for someone walking her dog. Despair.

Every showing brings Hope. Every slow-moving car stopping to look at the house brings Hope. Every time the phone rings, there is Hope.

But alas, for every Hope entry, there is usually a Despair entry in the other column. So from our waking moment to the closure of our eyelids in sleep, we are obsessed with fears, worries, hope and despair. The process consumes and drains us. It affects our moods, our plans, our schedules, our conversations, and all our thoughts.

So, friends and family, if it seems to you that we are always preoccupied, have pity. Let us weep on your shoulder and sigh over the phone. Let us rant and rave about injustice, expectations, and disappointments. Help us forget about our worries, and keep us laughing, as only you can do. Something funny Caroline or Amelia says is worth several minutes of relief. Getting together with the kids and grandkids gives us hours of pleasant diversion.

Seeing a picture of my mom in an umbrella hat - the epitome of hilarious distraction!

Where's Waldo et. al.?

Caroline loves the Where's Waldo? book series. If you have never seen one of these books, look through one on your next book store visit. Each page features a very complex and busy scene, full to the margins with colorful characters, buildings, and props, and scattered amongst the madness are minuscule pictures of Waldo, a guy in a red and white striped outfit. Of course, there are red and white stripes everywhere in the picture, so finding Waldo can be difficult (although Caroline has mastered the technique).

I personally don't enjoy looking for Waldo. I have better things to do, such as trying to find old friends using the Internet. But believe me, it's just as frustrating.

My sister says that my blog has gradually shifted away from "Journey to Simplicity" to become more like "Oh My! I'm Getting Old!" I can see her point. The journey to simplicity is all inclusive, and the act of moving towards a simpler life involves a great deal of introspection. And, unfortunately, every time I stop to look at my life, I am apt to say, "Oh My! I'm Getting Old!"

The more I feel my age, the more I look to the past because, after all, the past constitutes the majority of my life now. And the more I look to the past, the more I think about people I once knew - people I've lost touch with. Occasionally my curiosity will get the better of me, and I lean on Google to find Waldo - or in this case, someone from my previous adventure-filled life.

Of course, I realize right off the bat that it is much easier to find males than females. A male goes to high school with a name, keeps that name through marriage, divorce, even remarriage. Google a guy's name and you might easily find the one you are looking for. Not so with a woman. It's a convoluted mess trying to search for a woman.

I went to college with a girl named Annie Smith, and I lost touch with her and would really enjoy finding out where life took her. After some searching, I do believe one has to have the combined detective skills of Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, and Columbo to find anything specific with the name "Smith." I also realized that I didn't know as much about her as I thought. When I met her, she lived in Nashville, and that is where she went to high school. But which high school? I have no idea. Did you ever wonder how many schools there are in Nashville? A lot.

OK, then, maybe she is listed as an alumna of Lambuth College, which is where we first became friends. Maybe she kept in touch with Lambuth and is listed on their site, so I went there. Apparently before I can look at a list of alumni, I have to register as an alumna myself. That wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't have to pick my class year. I only went there one year; I didn't graduate. The site said they would verify my information before I would be allowed in, and all I could think of was the probability of being labeled a fraud, trying to impersonate an actual college graduate. So I nixed that idea.

I also visited the Memphis State site, because I believe Annie might have graduated from there, but I wasn't sure. At any rate, I had to register there too, and since I've never been a Memphis State student, even for a year, I gave up on that.

It was at this point I remembered that Annie Smith's first name was really LuAnn. Or LuAnne. So, armed with more correct information, I continued my search with LuAnn. And LuAnne.

However, Annie had married a Mike Davidson, and, if I remember correctly, got divorced. Did she keep her Davidson last name? Return to Smith? Heck, she might even be remarried again and changed her name altogether! To make matters more confusing, the last time a mutual friend heard from Annie, Annie had been living in Michigan.

Before throwing in the towel, I came across a promising match with a Nashville address. Every time I came across this lady's name, it was because she was involved in marathon running all over the country. Annie wasn't a runner when I knew her, but she was skinny enough to be. Her age was right, too.

I took the chance and called the lady. She was very understanding, but, alas, she wasn't Annie. I almost wished her luck in her running career, but I figured she would think that was too creepy, coming from a complete stranger.

So now I am back to square one. Well, this blog reaches around the world - maybe someone has heard of Annie Smith, a skinny girl who grew up in Nashville, attended Lambuth College and Memphis State, worked as a waitress for Red Lobster, married Mike Davidson at one point, and maybe (or not) divorced him. If so, would you please contact me?

I think after all, I might try again to find Waldo in one of Caroline's books. It's got to be easier than this!

There's something in your teeth

Rachel and I took Caroline to a children's museum last week. One of the displays consisted of anatomical sculptures, and one of those was an open mouth. Of course, I had to get a picture of Caroline being eaten.

She dutifully climbed up into the mouth and posed for the picture. Rachel urged her to act scared. "You're being eaten, Caroline!" she said. But Caroline knew she wasn't being eaten, and the only other expression she could give us was a frown. She couldn't act frightened on cue. I didn't get to see her crawl through the big intestine, but I would guess that would not have scared her either.

It's funny what scares little kids and what doesn't. I think when I was a little girl, the mouth would have fascinated me, but wouldn't have scared me. I'll tell you what really scared me.

There's a museum in Memphis called the Pink Palace. When I was little, there was not much rhyme or reason to the exhibits; it was mostly a hodgpodge of various curiosities. There was one huge room full of animal heads hanging on the walls. They were killed in Africa on safaris, I believe, back when it was socially acceptable to kill an innocent animal to provide a conversation piece for your wall and a souvenir of your adventures. Every time I went into that room, I was surrounded by huge dead animal heads. Most of them had been posed so that they looked capable of jumping down at any moment. It was quite eerie and uncomfortable and may have given me nightmares.

But the thing in the museum that scared me most was The Log. It had several holes in it, and the holes were totally dark. We were urged to stick our hands in each hole, feel around, and try to figure out what we were touching. Then we could turn the light on and see what it was. The whole thing totally freaked me out.

Maybe The Log experience was the earliest childhood "trauma" that made me fear the unknown, and maybe not. But it seems to me that as a kid, I was more frightened of things that I had no reason to be scared of. I knew those animal heads couldn't drop down and attack me. I knew those mysterious things in the log weren't going to harm me; otherwise, the museum would not have encouraged children to stick their hands in. Nonetheless, I was terrified.

When I became an adult, the situation changed. I had "eaten the apple of the tree of knowledge of good and evil," so to speak, and the things that frightened me had changed. Oh, they were still encased in the "unknown," but the fact that I knew they could happen changed everything. It's the difference in watching a scary movie - even though your emotions are affected, you still are aware you are watching just a movie - and barely avoiding a high-speed collision on the interstate. In real life, things that scare adults are very real, from terrorism to car accidents to financial ruin to losing your job to deaths of people you love. That is reality, and that is scary. It's so overwhelming that sometimes it is even tempting to step back in time and just have The Log to deal with.

I don't know if The Log is still there in the Pink Palace. They've gotten high tech in a lot of ways, I believe, and, of course, things change. But with Matt and Sarah visiting Memphis this week, my mind landed on the Pink Palace and its "safe" way to be scared out of one's wits. Too bad reality eventually sets in, and somehow the scary things get scarier.

The Interview

They sometimes call houses like ours Victorian Painted Ladies. And why not? Especially for families who live for years in a house like this one, the structure seems to lose its inanimate quality and becomes almost human with quite complex emotions. I imagine if "she" could be interviewed, the write-up would be something like this....
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today, we focus on the downside of dating after 40, specifically on finding that special long-term relationship. We are fortunate to be able to interview an older Ellsworth resident, Victorian Lady, who knows too well the hazards of finding that special someone.

She is an elegant lady who looks younger than her purported age of over 100 years. She is dressed to the nines, but as she removes her dainty white gloves, her hands bespeak her true age. She looks intently at me and sighs.

"I'm honored to be here. Of course, at my age, I'm honored to be anywhere! I believe that's an old George Burns joke. So, tell me, what do you want to know?"

I look into those aged but bright eyes - the windows to the soul. What things they have seen!

I clear my throat. "Victorian Lady," I begin, "exactly how hard is it to begin dating again at your age?"

"Oh my," she replies. "It's extremely hard. I feel like a Sophia Loren competing against the Paris Hiltons. There are so many eligible ladies out there these days, vying for just a few special available people. The trouble is that someone will agree to date me, but it ends up being just that - a date. I have yet to find that long-term relationship, the commitment, that I need so desperately."

"Why is that, do you think, Madame?" I inquire.

She pauses to consider this, then smiles a poignant smile. "I think that many people assume I am a high-maintenance kind of gal. Well, in a way, that is true, of course. I sag in places, other places could use a day at the spa. Body parts don't last forever, you know, and I have actually had to have replacement surgeries! But they can do wonders these days with that!" She pauses. "I'll bet you can't even tell my porch has been rebuilt, can you? The wonders of medical renovation!" I can tell she is proud of her upkeep.

I know I have to ask, but all the same, it is uncomfortable raising the delicate subject.
"Madame, I hear comments that....well...your size may be working against you. Do you think, as some have said, that you're just too big?"

She draws herself up to look every inch the Grande Dame. "Sir," she replies. "Some people actually prefer the larger woman. We have more to love."

I can't help but grin. "What exactly are you looking for in a mate,
Madame?"

Her eyes get misty. "Oh, I'm flexible on that, but I have my desires, of course. I want someone who loves and appreciates me for what I am - an old lady, but with the charm and charisma you don't find in the younger girls these days. I want someone who realizes that under this prim and proper exterior, there is an adventurous soul. Nothing can shock me - the things I've seen would make your hair curl!"

She continues. "My true desire is to find a family to love me. Of course, I am multifaceted and have the potential to be lots of things to someone. I learn quickly and easily and could master the art of a Bed and Breakfast overnight."

She sighs again. "I'm not some old stuffy Victorian Lady who can't have a little fun. I'm not stuck in the 1800s, for heaven's sake. "

She leans closer. "Do you know I have high-speed Internet and Wi-Fi? Some of the younger girls can't even get that! And my washer and dryer are digital top-of-the-line. My garage doors open by remote control, too." She takes her voice down a notch. "But they don't open for just anyone," she whispers. "I have to give you the special remote. It's my equivalent of giving you my unlisted phone number." She smiles.

She looks at her clock. "Oh dear," she says with a frown. "You'll have to go now. It's time for my weekly haircut." I look at her broad expanse of lovely green hair, which displays the beautiful flowers she enjoys wearing. "Ed, my hairdresser, tries to keep me looking groomed. Even so, I occasionally have those bad hair days! But don't we all?" She laughs a remarkable laugh that speaks of many years of love, caring, and wisdom.

"Good luck, Madame," I say as I depart. "I dare say your special someone is right around the corner." She nods wistfully, and plucks a day lily out of her hair to give me. "Just a remembrance of our visit," she says.

As I drive away, I take one look back. She stands tall and proud with a little furrow in her brow, squinting down the horizon, still looking for her soul mate. Someone special will be fortunate, indeed. I hope it's soon.

Caught Between

My generation is often called the "sandwich" generation because we so often find ourselves in the middle, continuing our roles as mothers and fathers to children (sometimes adult children), and at the same time, still daughters and sons of aging parents - and we find ourselves needed by both groups. A whole generation is redefining what growing older means and where we find ourselves at each marker - from what we should look like to how we should feel.

There are some days that I feel every hour of my 51 years, other days that I feel 18, and still other days that I feel all of 80 years old. I can laugh about getting old and feeling old, when in reality, 51 is not old. But it certainly is not young, either. It is definitely in between. Many of us feel like Max Cannon's quote: "I am too old for an eyebrow piercing but too young for an eyebrow lift."

I'm reading an article called "What is Old Age For?" by William Thomas. He separates the population into three distinct groups: The youth, the adults, and the elders. Here is his idea:

Adulthood itself is a right and fine thing. I am an adult. I love adulthood. I find daily pleasure in living as an adult and have no interest in returning to the childhood I have outgrown. Nor am I ready to enter into an elderhood that requires perspective, experience, and judgment that I do not yet possess. Adulthood, rightly understood, provides us with a productive, potentially glorious interlude between youth and old age. The problems begin when we conceive of it as a permanent necessity, an apex of human experience that must be defended and enlarged no matter what the cost.

So maybe the reason I feel so in transition is that I am in transition. Caught between youth and elder status. That's why the label of Baby Boomer never fails to get my attention. It's the one group to which I know for certain Ed and I belong - Ed, born in 1946, represents the first of the Baby Boomers, and I, born in 1954, represent the last of them, give or take a few years for statistical purposes.

It is a shame that, with the aid of Madison Avenue et. al., we Boomers are fighting tooth and nail to stay in adulthood and not accept the natural transition to elderhood. William Thomas calls our present stage a "productive, potentially glorious interlude." I guess the key word is "potentially," for our lives are in the end what we make of them.

In his article, Mr. Thomas maintains that elderhood starts around age 65. I still have time left in my "productive, potentially glorious interlude." The older I get, the more I believe that accepting where I am today - at this time, this age, avoiding yearning for the past or worrying about the future - is the key to contentment. Acceptance is certainly the first step. If I can add actual appreciation to that - even better.

Blogging our way into old age

We receive the AARP magazine in the mail. I'm not retired and I'm just 51, but in reality, it's Ed's name on the label, and he is 8 years older than I am, so that's only proper. Now that the Baby Boomer generation is gearing up for retirement, AARP has retooled its focus to produce a magazine which is supposed to sound more modern and less archaic. No longer does the acronym AARP mean only white-haired ladies and gentleman hobbling on their canes. This month's issue has stories like "Back to College at Fifty-Plus" and "7 Ways Fitness Makes You Smart, Sexy, Pain-Free." I doubt if they ever had the word "sexy" on the cover twenty years ago.

At any rate, in this edition I found a short article on the proliferation of bloggers over 50. "Keyboard-tapping fiftysomethings are writing, ranting, and reflecting online." "Only 5 percent of bloggers are over 50, according to a recent study, but most Web experts believe that number will grow. Blogster.com, a site where users create their own Web pages, says 22 percent of its bloggers are now older than 50, a 20 percent increase since October 2005."

On their list is www.jenett.org/ageless which "...has links to an array of blogs created by people 50 and older." Of course, I made haste to go there and submit my blog for their list. Finally - an advantage to being 51!

Oh, yes - my sister Joy might want to keep that link handy, because in July she can submit her blog. (The countdown has begun, Joy!)

Closets

Any closet is a walk-in closet if you try hard enough.” (Steve Connelly)
“I like my money right where I can see it... hanging in my closet.” (Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw)

We toured a sample modular home today. After much thought, Ed and I decided that the original modular home he designed would have to be scrapped, because, as a 2-story house, it would not be conducive to our lifestyle as we age. So now we're back to square one on our plans, and are settling for a simple 1-story ranch.

In the last year, we have seen and discussed many house plans, and in each one, our first thoughts were usually, "It's too small." They certainly are too small for our current accumulation of furniture and other stuff. Yet we insist we are downsizing and simplifying! Such a paradox. We finally agreed that we were determined to build a much smaller house and would just have to make do.

It's the closet space that surveys insist people are most interested in. It seems nobody every has enough closet space. After years of living in parsonages with teeny tiny closets, Ed and I made sure this Victorian addition had a huge walk-in closet. It is so big that, before the rods, etc., were hung, the tax assessor thought it was another room.

Our new house will have much smaller closets. The question we had to finally ask ourselves is this: Are the closets too small, or do we have too many clothes?

We manage to do a great job at filling up whatever space we are given. We never thought we could have filled up this 3-story Victorian, but we managed. Now we have to un-fill.

I think it is a worthy plan to embrace the smaller closets as a starting point. If something doesn't fit in that closet, it is too much. It's not needed. The overflow will have to go. (That has a good rhythm for a mantra.)

The same way we filled up to capacity, we will have to empty to capacity. More selling, more giving away, more letting go.

Closets have much to teach us.

The Odds

With the Triple Crown horse races in the news, I've been thinking a lot about odds and betting. As a chronic worrier, I always see the infinite possibilities in any situation, and therefore the infinite consequences that may arise.

For instance, we like the house to have a pleasant smell for showings. How best to do this? I stand at the grocery store shelves, perusing my choices for odors. Lilac? Cinnamon? Fresh Rain? Rose? Gardenia? Vanilla? Apple? It looks like if you can grow it or eat it, there is a room freshener out there somewhere extolling its virtues.

But, of course, the house is huge. Many, many rooms. I'll need more than one plug-in. It is at this point my anxious mind goes into overdrive. Here's my thought pattern: OK, I'll get the cinammon for the whole house. But what if the client doesn't like cinnamon? What if she hates cinnamon? I will have turned her off forever, because the whole house will smell like cinnamon! So, then maybe I'll get some cinnamon and some rose. Yeah, that will do it. Unless....

....that means I have just upped my chances for losing.

Do you understand? I think the same way with airplanes. Once my kids were talking about the idea of both of them and their families flying to Tennessee on one plane. Yikes! What if that plane crashed? I would lose my whole family! So I asked them if they could take two different planes. That way, if one crashed, I would still have one kid. BUT - and this is a big but - by taking two planes, haven't they increased their chances of being involved in a crash? They've changed the odds. Now instead of 1 out of whatever, it would be 2 out of whatever. The two-plane solution would have decreased the odds of losing both kids in a crash, but would have increased the odds of losing one kid in a crash.

So if I use both cinnamon and rose, I have decreased the odds that someone will hate the whole house because it smells like cinnamon, but by adding rose, I have upped the odds that someone else might not like rose. It's kind of like "betting the farm," "putting all my eggs in one basket," or whatever other cliche you can think of. All or nothing. Or should I spread out the risk?

Do you see the anxiety this provokes in me?

I have never been a lottery participant, and you can see why. I just can't make up my mind in petty decisions or large ones.

I can't even make up my mind where to end this post. Oh, for heaven's sake...THE END.

Guilt

Guilt must be my middle name. I am always quick to feel guilty, even over things I can't control. For instance, I feel guilty when I'm not actively quilting, and a recent issue of one of my quilting magazines didn't make me feel better. It featured a lady who is quilting - even selling her quilts - and she is legally blind. Ouch.

But mostly I feel guilty that I can't help out Rachel more than I am doing. Since I work Sunday through Thursday, Fridays are usually reserved for her. I urge her to schedule her appointments on Friday, so I can be there to babysit the little ones. I certainly don't consider it a duty; obviously, spending time with Caroline and Charlotte once a week is heavenly. But I still wish I could do more.

My own mother was a stay-at-home mom. I never knew her when she had a job. I remember hearing her talk about working before we were born, and it freaked me out a little to imagine my mom as a store cashier. I just couldn't picture it. She used to take us around downtown Memphis when we were little, and every time we passed a store called Silver's, she would remind us that she used to work there. It just didn't compute with me. Our mom wasn't a store clerk - she was...well...our mama! She cooked and cleaned and woke us up with wet washrags on our eyelids, she doled out dimes for A's on report cards, she washed clothes and hung them on the line, she washed dishes by hand, and she learned to drive one year in the empty Fairgrounds lot while my sister and I were held captive in the back seat of the car (before seat belts!) as she (with Daddy as instructor) tried to master the art of the brake and clutch. She made us sugar-coated frozen bananas, frozen chocolate milk, and delicious BLTs in the summer. She picked us up from East Elementary when we were too young to walk home, and forced us to eat raisins.

As we got older, she was always there for our every need. She could drop everything and come to school in the middle of the day to take us home if we were sick. She didn't have to "call in" to her job to stay home with her sick children because we (and Daddy) were her job.

After I got married and had children, there she was again, helping us at every turn. She stayed with Rachel and Matt when they were sick so I could go to my job at the hospital.

Basically, Mama has always been there for us, no matter what, no matter how old we were, no matter when or where. Unfortunately, I have to work these days, but my fondest dream is to be that available for Rachel and Matt. I will forever be limited in what I can do and when I can do it, but I still keep in my memory the generous role model of my mother.

(Also stuck in my memory are those pictures of us rolling around in the back seat screaming during her "driving lessons." That Survivor show doesn't have anything on us!)

Naturally

In our ongoing quest for simplicity, Ed and I automatically find ourselves gravitating to natural things. To us, natural means less processed, less refined, closer to what our bodies are meant to use, be it food or drink or clothes. Natural ingredients. Natural fibers. We read labels, and usually the shorter the list of ingredients, the better.

I was intrigued, therefore, with the latest ads from 7UP which announce that their cola now has "all natural ingredients." Hmmm....a cola that's nutritious? A cola that's less processed? I had to find out. On our next trip to the grocery store, I stopped to pick up a can of 7UP and read the label. Here is their new list of ingredients:

Filtered carbonated water, high fructose corn syrup, natural citric acid, natural flavors, natural potassium citrate.

Now, unless you have been under a rock somewhere, you must have heard that HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP is one of the worst things you can consume. Here is one of thousands of references on the Internet to HFCS:

Pure fructose contains no enzymes, vitamins or minerals and robs the body of its micronutrient treasures in order to assimilate itself for physiological use. While naturally occurring sugars, as well as sucrose, contain fructose bound to other sugars, high fructose corn syrup contains a good deal of “free” or unbound fructose. Research indicates that this free fructose interferes with the heart’s use of key minerals like magnesium, copper and chromium. Among other consequences, HFCS has been implicated in elevated blood cholesterol levels and the creation of blood clots. It has been found to inhibit the action of white blood cells so that they are unable to defend the body against harmful foreign invaders.

Many other companies have jumped on the "natural" bandwagon in a sneaky way, but 7UP for some reason irks me the most. It makes me wonder about two things - the ethics (or not) of the food industry, and the wisdom (or not) of the consumer. Using the word "natural" to imply "healthy" is just underhanded. There are a lot of natural things that we shouldn't eat.

The stones and pips of apricots, plums, cherries, peaches, apples and pears all contain glycosides which if eaten release potentially lethal doses of cyanide.

I guess if 7-UP put cyanide in their cans, they could still say "all natural ingredients." No thanks. I love to drink Coke, although I try to limit it because I know it's bad for me - but I'll stick with a cola that doesn't use this form of misleading advertising (although cola industry advertising still doesn't wear a halo). Let's just be frank: Coke is junk, 7UP is junk, and no amount of labeling will change that.

Together

Years ago, we gave Ed's mother a sign that said, "I finally got it all together and then I forgot where I put it." Every time I hear the word together, I think of that sign and chuckle. So true, so true.

It's getting harder and harder to get our family together these days. I'm sure it's the same situation with most families. Even excluding my relatives in Memphis, it's still hard to get our two kids and their spouses/kids together at one time. It's more difficult to get in one place to take the annual Christmas card picture. It's also more complicated on other special days.

Matt was talking to me last night about when we could all get together for Mother's Day. I have to work anyway, and both my children have in-law mothers and/or grandmothers who are older and/0r live farther away than I do, so I don't mind in the least that they go visit them for Mother's Day. I can see my kids another time. My Mother's Day is happy just knowing my children are healthy and content. Seeing them is just icing on the cake.

It takes longer these days to "get it all together" for me. Take physically: It takes longer to take photo of myself that I am satisfied with. It takes longer to get myself presentable in the morning.

As usual, I'm really thinking about "getting it all together" on the inside. The older I get, the more I realize that I am a compilation of many parts, and these parts have to live congenially in one body/soul, and if I neglect one part, the whole somehow suffers. My job as a medical transcriptionist caters very well to my analytical self - the part of me that loves words and grammar and spelling and language. It also gives me daily challenges. It gives me experience in problem-solving and trouble-shooting. It gives me great pleasure to come home from work after a productive day (which is not always reflected in how many lines I transcribed, but also can be the result of problems I successfully solved or a word expander created months ago that I actually remembered).

Then there's the creative side of me - the desire to write, to make greeting cards, to quilt, to cross-stitch, to take photographs, to sing, and to play the harp and piano. This part of me, too, must have an outlet. This is the part I tend to neglect. It's like being a school district with a limited budget. The reading, writing and arithmetic are necessities; the music and art programs will have to suffer, because they're dispensable. Such a shame.

I am still learning that to be "perfect" means to be "whole," and the whole with a few slices cut out of it is missing more than I think. What a continuing challenge it has been to try to integrate these various parts of myself and deem each one worthy to be fed!

We're in the club

An article in our local paper yesterday discussed the enormous task we have of sifting through the overload of worthy charitable causes in these days of natural disasters and other tragedies. The columnist said basically that the only way to cope is to prioritize charities and organizations which are especially suited to one's gifts, and concentrate your time, energy, and money there. He remarked that some people find a specific charity because it speaks to them in some way. Others are drawn to another charity because of an important experience in their lives. For instance, you are diagnosed with breast cancer, and decide to use your energy for breast cancer research organizations. The charity suddenly got personal. I would imagine in that sense, every "Race for the Cure" would get your attention, every pink ribbon pin would make you notice it, and every news article on breast cancer research would be read fully and intently. You have instantaneous rapport with others involved in the world of breast cancer and its cures. One hope, one dream, thousands of lives brought together because of a common entity.

Personal experiences (even much less significant ones) have that effect. One minute, you are in your normal life; the next minute, you feel part of a "club" - a group of people, all in similar situations, who understand what it's like.

I never used to notice "for sale" signs in front yards. Before last year, the real estate business held no interest for me one way or the other. I never gave a second thought to Realtors and their cell phones, "staging," offers and counter-offers, or whether it's a "seller's market" or "buyer's market." It just wasn't a part of my life.

However, I noticed on our trip to and from Winterport yesterday that for some time I have considered myself intimately involved with the real estate business. I notice those signs - For Sale, Price Reduced, Sale Pending, Under Contract, etc. I mentally calculate how long a certain house has been on the market, or how many turnovers in owners it has had since I originally saw it. I picture the family inside getting ready for showings, agonizing over whether to accept an offer, wondering whether they will move on their specific timetable. I emphathize with their every anxious moment.

For some of these homes, we are their competition. It is within the realm of possibility that some families will tour their homes as well as ours, and have to make a choice of one or none. But that is irrelevant. The empathy still stands. We are together in this more than we are separated by this. The common experience overrides everything. When we meet another homeowner selling his house, we strike up an instant and animated conversation, with plenty of nods and sympathy to go around. Oh yes, we are brothers and sisters now. We might be in the House Olympics on Team USA, still trying to beat the others' times, but in the end, we are all in this together.

Here's to the Team! May we all be winners!

The morning after

To quote our song, "There's got to be a morning after." And so it is with showings. A house showing is another form of the gift-and-curse syndrome. Of course, we welcome showings because they give us a tiny bit of hope once again that our house will be sold. On the other hand, showings are a true pain.

Oh, it's not just the fact that strangers are traipsing through my house, although it is that too. It's not just the fact that those very strangers are making negative comments (OK, call me paranoid) about our decorating or cleaning abilities, although that certainly comes into play. It's not just the full-blown cleaning mode we are in right up until the showing, although that is indeed exhausting and stressful. When I got ready for work this morning, the morning after last night's showing, I realized the true problem I have with showings.

It's my memory.

I'm one of those folks who constantly writes notes. If my memory is this bad at age 51, no telling what it will be when I'm 80. Nevertheless, the way I cope is to write notes. I keep an index card by my desk at work for my notes. I have sticky notes. I have calendars. I have all the necessary accoutrements of someone this age who needs little reminders.

I have found security in my piles. Oh, yes - I have them scattered around. You might call it clutter, but to me, they are piles. I keep them in plain sight because I'm afraid I will forget them if they are filed away or shoved in a drawer. I discovered decades ago that I operate mostly on a visual level (as opposed to auditory level, which might make one understandably question my chosen career of listening to dictation). If I see it, I can remember it.

Right now, my "filing system" consists of various piles of papers on our dining room table, along with a giant calendar in which I have marked paydays and bills due. One pile is for current bills. One pile is for ongoing bills. One pile is for papers that need to be put in my 2006 box of whatever. One pile consists of catalogs and magazines I have yet to read. And then there's the pile everyone has, I suppose. It's called, "I need to keep this but I'm not sure what to do with it." Restaurant coupons, sale flyers, reminders that I need to make an optometrist appointment - that sort of thing.

If any of the above gets filed away or shoved in a drawer, I will forget about it. I will forget to make my appointment, I will not have the JoAnn Fabric coupon when I go to Bangor, and I will forget that I already paid half of the radiology bill. I have to see these things, and I have to see them daily.

Over by the computer, there are more piles, though not as big. Instructions Matt sent me on how to download a certain software. Ideas for a greeting card. Another to-do list. Some Borders coupons. A reminder from the bank about fee changes on May 31st. It's also the repository for my load of index cards from work which I have scribbled reminders on.

These papers are an important part of my life. I can't function without these piles. Because they are "messy clutter," they are the first things to be hidden when we have a showing.

The house looks great this morning. Every surface clean and bare. I know I have to go to work this morning, but as for the rest, without my piles to consult, I'm at a loss. I think I'll be spending the afternoon retrieving and organizing them. That is, if I even remember to.

Keeping ahead of the game

On my favorite MT site, there is a current discussion on the advisability (or not) of being a medical transcriptionist in today's changing world, with its outsourcing and voice recognition sofware waiting in the wings to usurp our jobs. In the discussion, we mentioned the need for us to keep up with changing technology as our industry changes.

But that's only the beginning, I think. Today, I learned a little bit more about keeping up, because today I spent some time with Caroline.

I have to spend time with almost-3-year-old Caroline just to get used to how much she is learning. It behooves a grandma to know these things.

When Rachel asked Caroline what snack she wanted, Caroline's first choice was strawberries.
"But we don't have any strawberries," answered Rachel. "What else would you like?"
Caroline thought just a second. "Grapes."
"Sorry, honey," said Rachel, "but we don't have any grapes either. How about apple and peanut butter?"

So Caroline settled on apple and peanut butter. Meanwhile, I was considering the situation.

"Rachel, how about this?" I asked, trying to be helpful. "Many times when I come by to see you, I bring Caroline a little something. How about next week when I come, I bring some fruit, like grapes? It's better than a T-O-Y or a B-O-O-K," I said, sounding out each letter, as I didn't want to get Caroline involved in the intricacies of the conversation.

Rachel gave a little laugh. "She knows those words."
What?
"Yes, she knows those words. It doesn't do any good to spell them."
Then Rachel turned to Caroline. "Caroline, what's T-O-Y?" she asked.
Caroline didn't even have to think about it. "Toy," she said nonchalantly.
"What's B-O-O-K?" Rachel asked.
"Book," replied Caroline, engrossed in something else at the time.

Forget about keeping abreast of the latest technology. It's all I can do to keep up with the latest Caroline.

Folding, unfolding

One quilt pattern I have never tried to make is called Cathedral Windows. There is a lot of folding involved, and folding is really not my forte. If you need convincing, just look at my linen closet. Every time I go in Gap, I marvel at the perfection of their folded attire. If I dare to pick a T-shirt up to check the size, I never can get it folded back the way they had it. I feel as if I have disgraced myself in some way.

Even in cards, folding is not something I would want to do (even if I could play a card game that involved it). "Know when to fold 'em." Sounds like quitting to me. If you could see the boxes of quilt projects "in process" in my sewing room, you would understand I have a hard time giving in and giving up.

But unfolding - aye, that's different. That word has so many pleasant connotations for me. Unfolding of an angel's wings. Unfolding of a blossom. Unfolding journey, unfolding mystery. Agathie Christie's famous detective, Hercule Poirot, loves to promise confidently in his charming Belgian accent, "All will be revealed." There's something orderly when things are gradually revealed until the whole thing is finally open, and all is known. It gives a sense of completion. Oddly, unfolding seems to give closure.

I'm reading a book that forced me to look at that idea in a new way. The book is Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom by John O'Donohue.

It is interesting that the word revelation comes from re-valere, literally, "to veil again." The world of the soul is glimpsed through the opening in a veil that closes again.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you are well aware that I like things to be known. I like to know where I will be living, where I will be working, whether I can lose 20 pounds, and I certainly do not like the unknown (with its synonyms of uncertain, undisclosed, undecided, unresolved, unsettled). This idea of re-veiling intrigued me. It skewed my stable interpretation of my life gradually revealing itself until all is known. If what John O'Donohue says is true, then life doesn't follow a straight linear pattern of unfolding, like a flower does. Life is, as they say, "one step forward and two steps back" sometimes. It's glimpses of certainty and progress, then uncertainty and retreat, having glimmers of hope, then dealing with doubt and worry. A quick peek under the veil - you see a nose, maybe - then all is covered again. Another peek - you see an eye this time - or is it an ear? - and then all is hidden again. Zig-zags, U-turns, wandering, all on our chosen path, or in some cases, the path chosen for us.

My innate desire for order and pattern is not compatible with such a circuitous journey. I want, however, to open myself to the possibilities such a journey entails. And life continues to unfold.

In the end, all will certainly be revealed, and the veil will come off - just not necessarily on my personal timetable. I just need to learn to keep myself awake and aware so I don't miss those little peeks in the meantime.

Generosity

I'm reading a little book called Whever You Go, There You Are by Jon Kabat-Zinn. Its subtitle is Mindfulness Meditation in Everyday Life. Regarding generosity, the author states:

I am not talking solely of money or material possessions, although it can be wonderfully growth-enhancing, uplifting, and truly helpful to share material abundance. Rather, what is being suggested here is that you practice sharing the fullness of your being, your best self, your enthusiasm, your vitality, your spirit, your trust, your openness, above all, your presence. Share it with yourself, with your family, and with the world.

I think it's helpful to broaden our perspective on generosity. Our society puts so much emphasis on pairing generosity with money. It will on occasion associate generosity with sharing one's time and energy, e.g., volunteering or working in church activities, but on the whole, the emphasis is placed on money.

This author, though, has broadened the subject even further for me. Sharing your "best self," for instance. That's quite an idea. Sharing the "fullness of your being." Being generous with your "enthusiasm, vitality, and spirit."

Years ago, before Ed went into the pastorate, we were members of a United Methodist church in Memphis. We were also pretty broke most of the time, as Ed had just started recovering from alcoholism, but we attended church faithfully. I always dreaded Pledge Sundays - you know, where they remind you about the upcoming budget, how you need to give, give, give. I dreaded them because we had very little to give in the way of money. And that made me feel oh so guilty. We still talk about one incident that occurred during that period. I was in the choir as usual, and Rachel and Ed were sitting in the congregation up in the balcony. The collection plate was passing. Ed opened his wallet, and saw his one measly little dollar bill nestled in an otherwise empty hole. He took it out and turned to Rachel. "Well," he said, "we only have one dollar left, and we're giving it to God." Rachel gasped and her eyes got wide. She cried, "He'll give it BACK, won't He?!!"

I tried to compensate for our inability to give a lot of money by giving a lot of myself. I sang in the choir, substituted on the pipe organ, helped direct a children's choir, served on committees, and tried to support the church in every other way. I still went home on Pledge Sundays depressed.

Later when we inherited money, we let financial generosity spill over as much as we could. I remembered the sting of not being able to give as I wanted to, and never wanted to feel that way again. We also found the joy in anonymous donations - truly the best kind.

Financial generosity helps the world go 'round - no doubt it about it. I do believe we are called to give sacrificially. I was taught from an early age about giving, when my parents gave so generously to the church and other charities. I remember Dad writing checks to the Goodfellows, a group who provided Christmas gifts for needy children, and to the Cynthia Milk Fund. I also see Mom carry on the tradition of sacrificial giving, even when I worry about her not being able to afford to do so. Through their service to church and community, my parents also tried to serve as generosity examples in a way not tied to money. I learned this latter way of giving, but I always had such a guilty conscience that in my mind, on the ladder of generosity, whatever did not involve exchange of money or material goods was on a low rung.

So I read books like this to remind me of what I already know, somewhere deep inside myself. That giving is giving, no matter what form it takes. That the gifts mentioned above, especially the gift of "your fullness of being," constitutes something more valuable than we know.

The author ends the chapter with this:

At the deepest level, there is no giver, no gift, and no recipient...only the universe rearranging itself.

When it is all said and done, I don't think we will misunderstand generosity if we remember that nobody really owns anything - even your "fullness of being." It is all God's and we are just caretakers. It is "only the universe rearranging itself."

Bulletins

Having grown up as the daughter of a choir director, I know something about bulletins. And as the wife of a minister, I know even more about bulletins, as I usually had the role of creating them.

One of the great things about attending church on family vacations when we were kids (yes, we made a point to do that) was walking into a different church and being handed the bulletin of the day. Sometimes it would have a photo of the church on the front; other times, there was a nature photo to go with the season. It always had useful information, though. With a bulletin, we not only could prepare our hymnals for the next hymn, we could check out what the choir was going to sing and what the organist was playing. It was always fun to peruse the section that listed congregational announcements and concerns. We didn't get to visit other churches very much, so this was always a treat. The best part of the treat was being able to sit in the pew as a family unit. On all other Sundays, one or two or three of us were in the choir, and Dad, as the choir director, would sit up by the pulpit. I really treasured the times we all had the opportunity to sit together.

You can tell a lot about a church by its bulletin. The sermon information, the chosen hymns, the printed prayers or meditations - they all serve as insight into the congregation.

Oh, but the utility of the bulletin does not end there. You can draw pictures on it, write notes to pass around, and circle misspelled words. You can roll it up and peer through it like a telescope. On hot days, you can fan yourself with it. You can swat a pesky wasp if it lands on your lap (or on the hat on the lady sitting in front of you). Of course, the paper airplane function goes without mentioning. A bulletin is also a convenient thing to have if you aren't sure what to do with your hands, or to hide behind as you giggle at the little boy in the children's choir. My father wrote long letters to me at college on bulletins, his chatty messages circling around each one, with extra comments and arrows pointing to various parts of the service. But most of all, I like a bulletin because it gives a sense of order to the service. It's all there - the service has a beginning, a middle, and an end. You basically know what to expect the minute you sit down and read it. It's security. No surprises. Well, actually, Dad would sometimes leave the last hymn blank, so he could pick an appropriate one out of his head after he heard the sermon. So that was a bit of the "unknown." But ordinarily, a bulletin represents order and method. After all, we are Methodists.

Ed and I were once assigned to a church which was rather charismatic. They sang old shaped-note harmonies and some of them "spoke in tongues," and you couldn't pray a prayer without people loudly saying "Jeeezus!" and things like that. Quite a different type of scenario for Ed and me. They had bulletins, but they kept saying that they wanted the Holy Spirit to lead the service. They didn't like the way we did things, I guess. So Ed decided we would do an experiment. One Sunday, he announced that the evening service would have no bulletins. It would be totally Spirit led - like the Quakers. So that night, everyone gathered, and Ed got up and said that we would all remain quiet until the Holy Spirit led someone to speak. There was a whole minute of silence. That doesn't sound like a lot, but it felt like an eternity. It was an awkward silence which stretched into several minutes. The congregation decided they didn't like Holy Spirit-led services if it meant so much silence. I think they missed the bulletin.

When you don't have order or plan, things can get awkward, even scary. It's the unknown factor. That night, it was eerie - Who will say something? When will they say it? What will they say?

You can probably see where I am going with this. I want a bulletin for my life! I want everything down on paper - neat and orderly and methodical. I'll take a surprise or two, like not knowing the last hymn until right before I have to sing it, but I want the rest of it to be neatly typed out in a pleasant font where I see its order laid before me. A bulletin makes me feel safe and relaxed. I know what to expect.

The alternative? I feel like I'm in one of those funhouses at the Mid-South Fair in Memphis. It doesn't matter where you go or where you turn, there's always something to shock you, blow at you, scare you, or knock you off balance. You're trying to get somewhere but forces are against you. You can't tell what lurks around the corner or down the hall, but you know your heart will be racing and your palms will be sweating and you might even want to throw up.

I know in reality that having my whole life down on paper before me is not a feasible way to live. Nobody really wants to know exactly what their future holds or how many years they have left. But I'm so ready for some reassurance that our house will sell soon and that we will get to build our new house and move by next winter!

I am not asking to see the postlude. I just need a bulletin to get me past the first hymn...dare I say through the "offer"tory?

Just a few questions

I woke up this morning to see the latest news about the suicide bombing in Israel, which Hamas states is in retaliation to the killing of 21 Palestinians. Isn't it enough that we have natural tragedies like Katrina and tornadoes and tsuamis? Doesn't humanity see enough destruction to do them a lifetime in disasters and accidents? Do we have to keep massacring each other to create more orphans and widows and childless parents? My heart just breaks for the world.

So many people...

The acknowledgments at the Hollywood awards shows are common joke fodder. On my trip to Winterport today, though, I spent two hours listening to the most beautiful symphonies on the radio, and though I have never met the people involved, I just have to thank...

• The composers. Thank you for sharing your talent. I can't imagine what it would be like to have that gift.
• The printers who printed the sheet music.
  
• The musicians. I can picture you as kids, some of you kicking and screaming as you were driven to music lessons. It paid off, my friends!
• The parents of the musicians. Thanks for making them go!
• The music teachers of the musicians.
  
• The conductors. Keeping everything together to fulfill your vision of what the music should be about.
  
• The makers of all the instruments.
  
• Those involved in making the CD, financially and artistically.
  
• The radio station that chooses to broadcast classical music when it is not the most popular music around.
• The Toyota factory that made the radio for my car.

It's amazing how life is full of connections involving people we have never met. I am so grateful!

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

I discovered Carl Sandburg when I was in junior high school. When I found out he had written several volumes on the life of Lincoln, I was hooked. The above verse is one of his short poems. I thought about that as I drove to Bangor this morning, because I was engulfed in fog. Maine is known for its heavy fog, and this was not the first time I have encountered it. Fortunately, it was not on the road so much; it seemed mostly to engulf the sides of the road.

At one particular spot, I could see only the gray of the highway. On each side of me was total whiteout. An active imagination could have rendered up some exciting ideas of what could be enshrouded in the mist. A dragon? A magic city? Well, of course, I had traveled that road many times, and I knew it was just farmland. All the same, it was eerie. An entire ocean could have been on one side and the world's highest mountain on the other, as far as I was concerned. I couldn't see a thing until I reached an area where the fog had lifted.

I guess all people have times in their lives when they feel they are operating in the unknown. It can be just as panicky as driving through fog. And you can't really make sense of anything until you come out of it and turn around to look.

We placed an ad for our ParaBody 220 gym system last week. It is an all-in-one weight machine, extremely heavy, and would be exceedingly difficult to move. As the months have gone by with our house on the market, we have wondered what we should do with this piece of equipment. Our new house won't be big enough to put it anywhere. We certainly can't picture ourselves dissassembling it, moving it, and reassembling it anyway. So we decided to sell it and placed the ad, with a condition inserted that "you will have to move it out yourself." I long ago lost the user's manual, but I did manage to salvage a piece of folded paper which revealed minimal instructions on where every part is located in the machine. I was relieved that I still had that piece of paper; the buyer would certainly need it to put the machine back together.

Ed called me at work yesterday about 9 a.m. He said a woman had called, interested in buying the gym, but she wanted to make sure we had the assembly instructions. So Ed, knowing I had been in charge of them, called me at work to ask me where they were. I knew they were somewhere, but the exact location I did not know, so I left work, took an early lunch break, and spent a good 30 minutes dashing about the house like a madwoman, looking for those instructions. I went through papers in my secretary desk. I went through papers by the computer. I went through papers in our closet, in the file cabinet, in the garage, in drawers. I was almost crying at this point. Ed tried to soothe me. "Don't blame yourself," he said. "It's not your fault. It all this house-selling stuff. We're constantly throwing papers everywhere for showings and we just have too much to keep track of." Well, that made me feel a little better, but where was that instruction paper?! I had it just a few days ago. I went back to work, planning on resuming the search at 2:30. The customer was coming at 3:30. I had to find that paper! How could we sell the machine without the paper?

Ah, try the web site, I thought. What a brilliant idea! These days you can download anything from web sites. But the only things on the company's web site were their most recent products. Dead end there.

The clock was ticking away. I called the fitness specialty store in Bangor where we bought the machine three years ago. No, they did not have a copy of the assembly instructions. But they did give me the phone number of a company to call. I called the number; it was the wrong number. I called the store again. The lady apologized for giving me the wrong number, said someone had been talking to her at the time, put me on hold, then came back with a different number. I kept watching the clock. It was 3:00 by that time. Where was that stupid paper?? I was clenching my jaw in frustration.

The second phone number was the right one, and I talked to a very pleasant woman. I explained that we were having to move the machine, we couldn't find the disassembly/reassembly instructions, and is there any way I could have her mail them to us - that is, if they even still had a copy of them?

This is when I felt the first glimmer of hope. Was the fog lifting? I could always tell the customer that the instructions would be here in the mail...in about 2 weeks. But the woman on the phone said she could just e-mail the document. E-mail me! Instant instructions! Woo-hoo! The answer to my prayer! So I gave her my e-mail address and she said she was sending the document as I was talking to her.

I looked at the clock. 3: 15. I could barely make it. I sat in front of the computer screen impatiently. 3:16. 3:17. 3:20. Where was the e-mail?

I called the company back. I got the same woman on the phone - hurray! - and she said she must have written my e-mail address down wrong, because her message was returned. After some checking back and forth, we realized she had indeed left out one letter in my e-mail address, so she corrected it and resent the document.

3:25. The e-mail popped up on the screen like an excited kernel from Orville Redenbacher. Yes! It's here! I hoped that she had sent the right document. It should be short, just a little diagram with some part names and arrows.

Dear reader, I have to say at this point that she did not send me the little diagram with part names and arrows. Instead, she sent me the whole user's manual - 29 pages of it! It took me 2 minutes to print it out, staple it, and voila - we had everything a buyer could possibly desire!

The customer did show up right after that and did indeed buy the machine, making plans to come back tomorrow to take it down and take it home. She was especially pleased to have the entire user's manual; in fact, that might have clinched the whole deal.

When I was in the fog of my frustration, the only good outcome I could possibly imagine was success in finding that missing piece of paper. Instead, I got the whole manual! If I hadn't lost the paper, I would never have had the user's manual. When I came out of the fog and looked back, I was grateful that I had lost the paper. Mired in the fog, appreciating the circumstances was the last thing on my mind.

I had a similar experience when we moved to Maine. I had worked in a Memphis hospital most of my working adult life. I had held positions of ward clerk, lab clerk, pathology secretary, cardiac rehab secretary - and I was about ready for a change. I wondered what it would be like to work outside the medical world. So the week after we moved, I saw an ad the local newspaper had placed for a receptionist/classifieds clerk. That certainly sounded interesting. I knew with my grammar and spelling skills, I would be great at dealing with classified ads. I sent in my resume. They called back and scheduled an interview. At the interview, they apologized for the low pay they were offering (and it was low). They also said that newspapers really couldn't afford to offer good health insurance packages. I could tell the job was not the best in the world, but we had just moved here and I really needed a job. I knew the job was in the bag for me. I was a shoo-in. If anything, I was overqualified. How smug I was!

I was totally unprepared when I received the letter of rejection the following week. What? Hey, I was doing them a favor even being willing to work for their measly little company! After my indignation wore off, the depression came on. If I couldn't get a piddly little job at a weekly newspaper, how would I ever get a job of substance? I wallowed in self-pity.

Suffice it to say, the very next week, I was hired at...you guessed it - the hospital...as a medical transcriptionist, something I had never really done before, but I was to get paid by production, which meant I could have control over my salary, and it seemed to be a job that would take advantage of all my skills.

Ten years later, I am making 4 times the salary that the newspaper offered me. I am in a job I really enjoy which is rewarding and challenging. I have the best health insurance in town. Being rejected by that newspaper was one of the most fortuituous things that ever happened to me!

Remember this the next time you are in the fog. When you drive out and look back, you may be pleasantly surprised at how things worked out.

What I learned

There are many authors out there who want the world to know what they have learned, and they have learned these things from all sorts of places and in all sorts of ways. Their books give a glimpse into...well, some strange ideas, frankly. Here's a engaging title: What I Learned in My Bathtub. Hmm...no telling where that one might lead. There are a couple of books featuring lessons in theology: What I Learned From God While Cooking and What I Learned From God While Gardening. There's one called Great Dames: What I Learned from Older Women. Then there are the books that begin with "All I Need to Know I Learned from...." or some similar phrasing. All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. That's a well-known one. One maybe not so well known is All I Need to Know I Learned from Xena: War Princess. Maybe you'd prefer All I Really Need to Know I Learned from Star Trek or All I Need to Know in Life I Learned from Romance Novels.

Since so many folks want to share their accumulated life wisdom, I figured I could too.

All I Really Needed to Know I Learned as a Medical Transcriptionist

1. Everyone has an inherent desire to be the best at something. I met one of our local dictators the other day and introduced myself as an MT. He asked me, "Do I talk too fast?" I replied, "No, not at all." He frowned. "You mean I don't talk too fast? Everyone used to say I talked too fast." I said, "No, actually you are one of our better dictators." When I mentioned to him that Dr. So-and-So gave us a much harder time than he did, his frown got deeper. "What? I'm not the fastest talker you have?" I could tell he was terribly disappointed. This doctor wanted to have a position of honor - or dishonor - but at least he wanted a place of singular recognition.

2. Know when to keep your mouth shut. Ah, the new privacy laws, HIPAA for short. We are lectured several times a year about the dangers of spilling the juicy beans of what we learn on the job. But I already know about keeping my mouth shut. I learned that the first time I listened to Rachel whine about being up all night with the baby, and I said, "Oh? I had 9 hours of wonderful sleep." Zip that lip.

3. Everyone needs a challenge. People say they don't like challenges, don't want challenges, and are afraid of challenges. But in reality, they need challenges. Why? Because of the feeling they get when they succeed at one! When I was a new medical transcriptionist, I had one motor-mouth dictator whose dictation would send me home in tears, because I never thought I would ever be at all competent in understanding him. Now he is one of my favorites - and not only am I competent at transcribing his reports - I fly through them with ease and accuracy. Meeting and exceeding a challenge is one of the best things you can do for your self-esteem.

4. If you stop listening too soon, you might miss something worth hearing. So many times I have had a dictator say an obscure medical word which sent me scurrying through reference books and Internet sites to verify, when if I had only kept my foot on the pedal for a few more seconds, the doctor would have either spelled it or even would have decided against using it altogether. What a waste of time! That's what impatience will get you. If I go ahead and transcribe the rest of the report, often the word will be repeated more clearly. In pondering this life lesson, I think of Ed when he starts talking to me as I am in the process of walking to the other end of the house. He must think I'm still listening, I say to myself as his voice grows more distant. Sometimes I will be gone for 10 minutes and when I return, he is still talking. What insights from Ed I have missed! (I didn't say they were good insights, but I missed them all the same.)

4. If it doesn't make sense, something is probably wrong. How many times have new MTs heard a doctor say, "I's and O's" (for Intake and Output) and transcribed "eyes and nose"? Countless, believe me. And wise is the MT who thinks that "Eyes and nose were 2097 and 3400" does not make sense. Usually if what we hear does not make sense, we figure we might - just might - be hearing it wrong. In real life, accepting nonsensical things can get you into real trouble. Our state is airing some TV commercials warning senior citizens of e-mail scams and such. One skit had a couple receiving a fraudulent e-mail about winning the Canadian lottery. They were ecstatic, and planned right away to give out their credit card number so the scammers could pay the "taxes" on their winnings. After watching this public service spot for a minute, Ed turned to me and said, "Well, I would think it strange to learn that I had won a lottery I had never even entered! Don't these people ever say, 'Hey - I don't remember even entering the Canadian lottery!'?" If it doesn't make sense, think again.

5. We all share the journey of life, but may be at different stages in that journey. At our hospital, we have a special unit to which two groups of patients are transferred. One group consists of patients who need a little more rehab in order to be discharged. The other group is dying and needs a place to die in comfort and peace. It always seems strange to me that these two groups of patients are located in the same unit - some are there to get better, and the others are there to die. But in a way, that unit is a microcosm of life itself. We're all at different ages, different levels of spiritual wisdom, different levels of physical abilities, different degrees of intelligence, different stages of maturity - all sharing space on this planet at this time in history. Sometimes I think we have too high expectations for our fellow travelers, and it's easy to belittle those who are not on our level in one way or another. Compared to some, we might be farther along; compared to others, we have fallen way behind. But in the end, we're all in this together.

So there you have it. A glimpse into the wisdom of the MT world. I'd write more, but I need to start on my 9 hours of uninterrupted, blissful sleep. (Sorry, Rachel.)

Nice

In my freshman (and only) year of college, I had a well-respected professor named Dr. Mayo. I'm sure he taught me many things in his English class, but the only thing I really remember is about the word nice. He absolutely detested that word. He thought it didn't say anything worth saying. He considered it bland, empty, void. He said there are thousands of other words which would be more appropriately used in any conversation. I was so intrigued by his vehemence that I made sure I found a birthday card for him with "Have a Nice Birthday" written across the front.

Ever since then, I have had inklings that I was just too nice sometimes. I was taught to be nice when I was a child. In spite of Dr. Mayo's portrayal of nice as without meaning, I think it is very clear. Nice is polite. Nice is to think of others before yourself. Nice is quiet, unassuming, pleasant. Nice does not make waves, and most of all, nice is holding your tongue.

Family members might laugh at the last definition, for in my case, I doubt they realize that I ever hold my tongue. But I do, in situations outside the family. At work, for instance. I realize others are taking advantage of me, and I just continue to do my job (the difficult along with the easy) and just simmer. Sometimes I hear an offensive "joke" and don't speak up. Sometimes I see injustice and sit on my hands rather than complain. That is the "dark" side of nice. It's because I am one of those women they call G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised In The South). We're taught to be nice. It's in our genes.

Of course, you have a loophole twice in life - once when you're very young, and once when you're very old. Then you can speak your mind, because everyone expects it. Indeed, they laugh at it. As adults, we're afraid to proclaim, "The emperor has no clothes!" because it's not nice to speak your mind, even when it's just being honest.

This week I thought of two females in my family who were and are in the loophole stage. I got to see my granddaughter, Caroline, along with her 5-month-old sister, Charlotte. Caroline speaks her mind. You never know what will pop out of her mouth.

The situation was Charlotte's dirty diaper. (I heard of a Baby Weede whose dirty diapers were legendary, but this one came pretty close). The mess had traveled, encompassing the area of her belly, her back, even up by her shoulders. It was everything you could wish for in a dirty diaper. Rachel asked for my help. "Hold her hands," she told me, "so I can change the diaper without her touching it." I did as I was told, but even that wasn't enough. She called her husband. "Chris! I need you!" Chris was saying as he came into the room, "What? Two people aren't enough to change a diaper?" He soon found out that we were not dealing with an ordinary dirty diaper. So Chris held Charlotte's legs, I held her arms, and Rachel was trying desperately to do the deed. It was a scene worthy of a picture, but no one had free hands to get the camera.

Apparently when Charlotte has a dirty diaper, Caroline always wants to see it up close and personal. She took the little nursing stool, moved it over to the changing table, stood on it and craned her neck to see over the rail. She said nothing. I asked her if she could see OK, and she nodded. Finally, she got down. At this point, Chris remarked, "This is just too much here for a wipe. I'm going to get a wash cloth." And Caroline popped up, "Don't get one of MINE!" No altruism for her in this case. She knew what that wash cloth was headed for and she didn't want any part of her wash cloth collection involved.

It reminded me of the second female I mentioned, Aunt Bessie. Aunt Bessie could speak her mind because she was country-bred and old. She had two loopholes. Years ago, my family was sitting down to dinner to a plate of strange stuff. My mom was making hamburgers, but when she started, she realized she was out of hamburger buns. Oh, but she had hot dog buns. She just shaped the hamburger meat to look like hot dogs. Then they would fit the buns and everything would be great. I don't think she even realized what a plate of hot-dog shaped ground beef would look like until it was all in a brown pile. The plate was set in the middle of the table. We all stared. No one said anything - except, of course, old Aunt Bessie. She smirked.
"Jean, do you know what that looks like?" she said.
We all could guess what was coming. After all, Bessie was right. It did look like that.
"Yes, Bessie," said Mom, obviously hoping to drop the whole conversation.
"But do you really know what it looks like?" Bessie repeated.
By this time, the rest of us were stifling giggles.
"Yes, Bessie," said Mom, a little impatient. "I know what it looks like."
"Well," said Aunt Bessie, "it looks like...."

If you are hoping that Aunt Bessie's voice just dropped off at that point, sorry. You know better than that. Aunt Bessie said The Word. A word that was never said in our house. Ever.

Did the roof collapse? Did my parents faint? No. After all, Aunt Bessie was old. Everyone expected the unexpected when it came to Aunt Bessie. The meal continued without incident, and we all ate those misshapen burgers without other comment. The story, though, landed in our family collection of Stories Worth Remembering.

So here I am, 51 years old, and I fit neither category of loopholes. I am still nice. I know what's socially appropriate. Now I just have to learn that in some cases, nice will have to fall by the wayside, and the chips will fall where they may. This is not about any one situation; it is a part of my personality that I think needs to be adjusted. I don't like to speak up. I don't like to make waves. I certainly fear that people won't "like" me. Just one more hard thing about middle age. Sometimes life is just full of....

And yes, my last remark will fade into the Internet without being voiced. Even a reformed Girl Raised In The South has her limits.

Holding...holding

It was either a mistake or a godsend for me to start posting about songs. After I reminisced about Jeanette MacDonald, I visited iTunes to see if they offered any of her music. And there it was - Italian Street Song from "Naughty Marietta." If you read my previous post, you can read the lyrics. They're nonsensical and look pretty ridiculous without the music to accompany them, but I posted them anyway.

So I spent my $.99 to download the song. It was as thrilling as I remembered! Her gorgeous voice soars over the orchestra effortlessly. She could really hit those high notes. In particular, there is one high note right at the end of the song, the next-to-last note. You can tell the song is about to end, that she is probably ready to hit the final note, and you wait. And wait. She is still singing the high note. You wait some more.

By this time, in the olden days of record players, you probably would think the record was "stuck." It seems impossible for a human being to hold such a high note for that long a time. I know that we live in a era of impatience, in a society that demands everything fast and immediate - but even that could not explain my uneasiness at hearing her hold that note. The whole time I was waiting, thoughts were racing through my head. Is it possible to hold a note that long? Did my download have a glitch? Was she turning blue in the face, a visual scene that I missed because I only had the audio experience?

Finally - and I do mean FINALLY - she released the note with great fanfare, her voice sliding down to the very last note, with the orchestra madly dashing about ecstatically to carry the song to its dramatic conclusion.

That was one of the longest few seconds I have ever spent! I realized I had even been holding my breath while she was holding that high note. Whew! I took a deep breath and relaxed.

It didn't take long before I could see the whole experience as a metaphor for our house situation. We cleaned, we stored, we packed, we staged, we put the house on the market, and we had showings. With great anticipation, we knew we were approaching that high note, and from the first showing on, we have held that high note. We can't end the song until the house is sold; we can't build the new house until the house is sold. In short - we are holding the high note, and, my friends, I can assure you our collective face is the color of one of Maine's ripe blueberries.

How I want to relinquish the high note, beautiful though it may be, and end the song in a flurry of violins and drums and trumpets and cymbals! I know we will be involved in many other "songs" in our lives, and we'll be starting another one soon after we finish this one, but oh, please, please - we need to finish this song!

There's only so long a person can hold a high note like that. Even the great Jeanette MacDonald had to release it sooner or later.