Following the Rabbit

My oldest granddaughter was named after me and her other grandma - her first name, Caroline, after me, and her second name, Alice, after her paternal grandmother. I’ve always liked the name Alice, I guess because it reminds me of the adventures of Alice in Wonderland. Ah, the place where things are not what they seem to be. (Which reminds me of that Gilbert and Sullivan line my dad used to sing: “Things are seldom what they seem. Skim milk masquerades as cream.”) In Wonderland, you never know what to expect and things could turn topsy-turvy in the blink of an eye. I always imagined how it would feel to be in a setting so incongruous that you wonder if you have stepped into another dimension.

Well, I finally was able to experience that out-of-body/mind experience today. Maine is under a winter storm warning, and we are expecting loads of snow and freezing rain changing to rain to descend upon our entire state momentarily. We made a trip to the grocery for necessities, and all we had left to do was replenish our fatwood and BioBrick supply. (For the uninitiated among my readers, probably you warm-climate dwellers, fatwood is resin-treated sticks used for kindling, and a BioBricks are recycled wood byproducts shaped into bricks to be used in a wood-burning stove.) It is indeed the middle of March, but every good “Mainah” knows that we are still in the throes of winter, and tonight’s forecast emphatically reminds us of that. The highs today are in the 20s. Snow is still piled up in parking lots. Everyone is bundled up against single-digit wind chill.

We have 3 places in our little town where we can buy these items. We tried the nearest one. We walked into the corner where we knew the fatwood was prominently displayed in its burlap bags. There in front of us lay....well, basically empty shelves. That was disappointing, but not shocking. The shocking part was the apparent reason for the empty shelves - for immediately adjacent to the place where the fatwood should have been, there were shelves of - ready for this? - CHARCOAL! Yes, folks, we’ve just stumbled into Wonderland.

We made haste to get out of there, almost tripping over the GRILL and LAWN CHAIR displays. OK, so maybe we hadn’t heard the forecast right. Maybe spring came when we weren’t looking. Maybe all that white stuff outside is, uh, cotton that somehow got carried by the winds to Maine from Alabama.

So we tried the second store, a big Home Depot. We went straight to the aisle where we had previously seen fatwood and fireplace accessories. The good news is that their shelves weren’t empty. Hurray! The bad news is...they were full of LAWNMOWERS. Now why didn’t I think of that? That snow and ice in our yard has needed mowing for the longest time. The whole thing was so incredulous, it took all the control I could muster not to collar an employee and say, “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHERE YOU ARE????” But in my gentlest, most non-accusing voice, I just approached the customer service desk and asked where the wood-stove supplies went. The lady pointed to a 2-shelf display shoved in a corner a few feet from the desk. “That’s all we have left,” she said, as she resumed her work.

Again, we walked out of the store, noticing the seed packet displays and the countless fertilizer bags stacked high. We stopped to take our bearings. We live in Maine. Check. It is still winter. Check. We are under a major winter storm warning. Check. We can’t buy kindling but we can buy a lawnmower. Check. Yes, the facts seemed evident, but obviously we were still in Wonderland, or its modern counterpart, the Twilight Zone.

The third store, our last, final, desperate attempt to restore our sanity, was closed for staff training. I hope the first thing they train their staff to do is keep the store open during staff training. I hope the second thing they train their staff to do is to be able to step outside and guess what season it is.

So that was our day. As I write this, Ed is valiantly trying to keep the fire burning without fatwood or BioBricks, and me....well, I’m deciding if it’s worth sitting out in my lawn chair while my steak sizzles on the charcoal grill. At least I’ll have a front-row seat to enjoy the blizzard. Pass the iced tea, Alice. It’s gonna be a long night.

Adjusting

A great number of participants in the simplicity movement call themselves followers of “voluntary simplicity.” This affirms that their lifestyle changes are based on desire, not necessity. I can’t really call our lifestyle changes exclusively voluntary. To be sure, we crave a life of peace and simplicity, so a strong desire is there, but our changes are also borne out of more practical reasons.

We got our heating oil delivery today, and the bill was $237.00 for 4-1/2 weeks. That is probably half of what it would have been in the old Victorian house. Our electricity bill has been halved, our property taxes have been halved, our house insurance has been halved. Add to these regular expenses the issue of frequent and costly old-house repairs on an ongoing basis, and you can clearly see a few reasons why we moved. As beautiful and meaningful as that big old house was, it was financially inadvisable for us to continue to live there. It was a financial drain that could not exist indefinitely.

So in a way, we have no choice for downsizing. Fortunately, it is a fulfilling way of life for us.

Some people come into downsizing kicking and screaming. The power of culture is still strong. The encouragement to “upsize” and accumulate more and more never disappears. Sometimes a decision to simplify is sidetracked by catalogs as much as a decision to diet is blown off course by our culture’s obsession with food. It's easy to assume the attitude of victim, focusing relentlessly on the injustice of it all. Part of the downsizing is necessity, but all of it is our fulfillment. It is the path we are choosing more and more frequently. It is nice, isn't it, when what life demands of you is the same thing that you most strongly desire anyway?

We’re not fighting our simplicity movement. We are choosing instead to embrace it. It forces us to continually reexamine our priorities, and that is, as Martha Stewart would say, a “good thing.” A definition of embrace is this: “To accept or support (a belief, theory, or change) willingly and enthusiastically.” Some might call it “riding the wave” or “going with the flow.”

Some of my acquaintances ask me what it’s like going from a closet the size of a room with built-in shelves, ceiling lights, and tons of space to a regular small closet with one shelf and no lights. They ask me how hard it is for us to adjust to having no garage, after we have enjoyed years of a 2-car garage with automatic doors. They ask me how we can possibly survive with only two channels on TV and painstakingly slow dial-up Internet connection.

My response has been consistent. When I can’t see my shoes on the floor of my closet, I just smile. When I have to scrape my car off in 0-degree weather at 4:30 in the morning, I smile again. When I have to move the ironing board and two boxes to access a drawer of quilt fabric - yes, again I smile. (When it takes me several hours to download a 2-minute video of Caroline reading....OK, I get quite grumpy.) The questioners are incredulous, of course. How can I smile at things that would most likely be irritating and at times totally exasperating?

Necessary simplicity, voluntary simplicity, or combination thereof - whatever you want to term it - has become integral to our lives. We could fight it, or we can embrace it. We have chosen to embrace it.

I stand in front of my closet and remember the conclusion I came to a couple of years ago - that if I had too many clothes to fit in this closet, then I just had too many clothes, period. When I watch the crazy weatherman on Channel 7, I enjoy a pleasant diversion and get to see Ed go nuts at the same time. When I move stuff around in my sewing room/office in order to access other stuff, I’m reminded how much wonderful fabric and books and tools I have. When I scrape my car before I leave for work, I take a moment to look up at the sky, rewarding myself with glimpses of an extraordinarily large moon or shining stars - a view which can put a realistic perspective on life itself. I even marvel at seeing my breath in the frosty air - appreciating the ability to see that which is ordinarily invisible but without which I wouldn't exist. Embracing simplicity tends to make one annoyingly philosophical.

Oh, I know the “honeymoon” with simplicity may not last. I know I will find mud season particularly unpleasant when our yard has no grass yet. But I sincerely hope this enjoyment of location and circumstance continues until the day we die. I believe embracing - certainly not fighting and not just accepting - the whole lot of it is the secret.

We don't want simplicity to be just an acquaintance we tolerate because we have to; we want it to be a dear friend that we have invited to live with us. And I hope that will make all the difference.

Growing the Future

Back when my sister and her husband got married, a video was made for them at the reception which included comments and best wishes and honeymoon advice from the wedding guests. When they turned the camera on our little Matthew, the ring bearer, he came up with this: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Of course, he had no idea what it meant, but he thought it sounded good enough to say.

From the first moment our kids are born, we have aspirations for them. Part of this process entails the search for similarities between parent and child. One of the greatest compliments you can give a new parent is to say, “Your baby looks just like you!” As the child grows, we bask in every nuance of mannerism that mirrors our own. He’s got my smile or my gait. She’s got my speech pattern or my wit. Then later, we cultivate our interests and hobbies. Chris is pleased when Caroline can pronounce some obscure character’s name in Star Wars. I’m ecstatic when Charlotte can recognize Lincoln. And, as last week revealed, I took pride when Caroline expressed a tiny bit of interest in quilting. Already I had her life planned out as being the next generation of quilters in the family.

“Don’t do what I wouldn’t do,” and its corollary, “Do what I do; like what I like; be good at what I am good at” are parental mantras, whether we actually voice them or not. These are our expectations, because part of the joy in raising children is feeling we have had some influence over their personalities and tastes and beliefs. We have passed on part of ourselves.

My dad was a philatelist. I always felt guilty that neither my sister nor I ever really carried on his love of stamp collecting. But instead, he passed on to us his love of music.

Caveats abound in parenting books on the trap of trying to live through your kids. I get a kick out of thinking that were it not for my mother, I never would have learned to play the piano. Was she a pianist? No - she couldn’t play a note. But she always wanted to learn, so instead of learning herself, she enrolled her daughters in piano lessons and played the piano vicariously from then on. That’s sort of a backwards influence - in this case, not “Do what I do,” but “Do what I always wished I could do.”

An Asian Olympic skier was in the news this week. He had become lost as a child, and when his parents couldn’t be located, he ended up being adopted by an American couple - who happened to be ski instructors. He was immersed in that pursuit at an early age, and followed it to participation in the Olympics. I wondered what would have happened if he had been adopted by violin virtuosos or artisan bread bakers. Would their influence have moved his life in a different, maybe equally successful direction?

As our children maneuver through adulthood, our roles change more to that of spectators rather than participants. We set the foundation, help with the education, then watch what turns out. Sometimes they mirror our interests; sometimes they go off in a complete different direction. Sometimes, like my friend Sally, we marvel at how on earth these talented, gifted, remarkable adults ever even came out of our bodies, because they have developed their skills to such heights that they have surpassed our wildest expectations. We watch them make decisions about careers, about finances, about where to live, about how to negotiate relationships, about how to raise their own kids, and we worry and we encourage and sometimes we just stand back in awe and wonderment.

So sometimes we find ourselves starting to say, “Don’t do what we wouldn’t do,” and other times, “Do what we do,” but in the end, all we can say to our children is this: Be your wonderful selves. Develop your potential. Have patience with us because it's hard to let go. But most important: We love you and are so proud to be your parents.

In The Hole...Why I Don't Play Golf

Our daughter Rachel, her husband Chris, and our granddaughters Charlotte and Caroline visited us for several hours on Friday. It must have been the first time my quilt hoop had been set up for Caroline to see, because after I arrived home from work, Caroline seemed to take a curious interest in it.

“This is a quilt I’m making for your mom and dad,” I said. (OK, so I started it 5 years ago for their wedding quilt. It will be finished just in time for their 5th anniversary!) Caroline peered intently. I explained the mechanics of a quilt, how they called it a quilt sandwich, because it was 3 layers, and had a back, a middle, and a top. Caroline giggled. “But we don’t eat the quilt sandwich,” she said, her eyes twinkling. I gathered she thought the idea was pretty silly. (It was a great time for inserting something about a “high-fiber diet,” but, alas, when you’re discussing things with a 3-year-old, sometimes you have to forego the puns.)

She asked if she could learn how to quilt. I let her scoot underneath the hoop so she could watch the finger of my left hand from the underside as it deflected the needle. I showed her the callus on that finger, and I explained that actually touching the point of needle was the only way to be truly certain that the needle had penetrated all 3 layers of the quilt.

She then requested to cuddle up with me in my chair and “help.” I let her do so, showed her where I kept my thimble and what it was used for, showed her my tiny scissors that looked like a stork, my spool of thread, and my tiny, tiny needle. When she had absorbed all that information, I showed her how to thread the needle.

Now, you have to understand that I use a size 12 quilting needle, which is the smallest they make. It’s known for its ability to achieve the prized tiny stitches every hand quilter wants. It’s so small that if you ever dropped it, your only hope of retrieving it would be catching a glimpse of a piece of thread dangling from its tiny eye. And it is into this miniature eye that I am supposed to stick a piece of thread on a regular basis.

I do this many times in one quilting session. It never gets easier, and to add insult to injury, the older I get, the worse my eyesight gets, and the smaller they make the eye of the needle!

So there I was, trying to show Caroline how to thread a needle. I missed the first attempt (what a surprise!) and immediately thereafter missed the second, third, fourth, and fifth attempts. I tried all the tricks - wetting the thread, wetting the needle, cutting the thread at an angle - all the usual things - but that thread was stubborn and the needle was mischievous. For a while, I even forgot about Rachel, Chris, Ed, and Charlotte in the room. I even forgot about Caroline, sitting there so patiently. My surroundings just melted away as I repeatedly tried in vain to put the thread through that hole.

I have a needle threader, but gosh darn it, it was the principle of the thing by this time. I’m 52, not 82, and I ought to be able to thread a needle on command.

At last I received the successful outcome I had so ardently worked for. There! Did you see it? The thread went through the hole! I laughed, I giggled, I was thoroughly giddy. I did it!

At times like that, I push the thought from my mind that this is just one of many times I will have to thread the needle in the future, maybe even in the next few minutes. No - all I was focused on was my moment of thrilling success. As Ed says, “It doesn’t take much to amuse you.”

I continued the quilting lesson, letting Caroline pull the needle out of the quilt a few times, showing her how the stitches we were creating were forming a circle of stitches. She said, “How many have we got? I bet there’s 15!” So I counted. We had 8. I let her do 2 more stitches. “How many now, Grammy? I bet there’s a HUNDRED!”

Our little lesson filled me with gratitude. Of course, her interest may wane. Caroline may have had her fill of quilting after a while. But who knows - it may stick. I may be training the next quilter in the family. At the very least, though, I’m building memories.

Next time you hear someone say something is “like looking for a needle in a haystack,” you can smile and think of me. Because the hardest part is not finding the needle - it’s threading the darn thing.

Clarity

My sister posted an interesting comment to my last blog entry, offering one of our favorite hymns to the discussion. “Be Thou My Vision” is a hymn that we made sure was sung at our father’s funeral, as the prayer expressed therein interpreted his life.

I’m thinking a lot about vision this week, as I have just finished the eye chapter of my studies. I learned, by the way, that the pupil does not increase and decrease in size - it is the iris which opens and closes, making it appear that the pupil is getting larger and getting smaller. Even studying about the eye, you can’t always “see” the truth easily!

“See” is one of the first words we used to learn. Remember the Dick and Jane books - See Spot run! Run, Spot, run!” See this, see that. Seeing is believing. Seeing your way clear. See what I mean?

The eye is a most intricate instrument. As I understand it, the cornea bends, or refracts, the waves of light, then the light is focused on the retina (the nerve layer), which in turn sends impulses to the brain through the optic nerve. Of course, many of us have defects in the ability to properly focus images, resulting in vision correction in one form or another. Add to that diseases of the eye, such as glaucoma, and sometimes we really can’t see clearly. But in essence, the eye “sees” and the brain “understands.” That’s the kind of clarity I’m looking for.

Coincidentally, as I was studying the anatomy and function of the eye, I was reading an article by Steve Pavlina called “The Power of Clarity.” Mr. Pavlina is CEO of Dexterity Software, and he is writing mainly to people in business, but his thoughts apply to us all, I think. We all want to have clarity in our lives - some kind of vision that directs our lives in such a way as to reach our goals and give our lives some significance.

Here are some of the things Mr. Pavlina has to say:

Bunker Hunt, a man who rose from a bankrupt cotton farmer in the 1930s to a multi-billionaire when he died in the 1970s, was once asked during a TV interview what advice he could give to others who wanted to be financially successful. He responded by saying that it’s not terribly difficult to be successful and that only two things are required. First, you must decide exactly what it is you want to accomplish. Most people never do that in their entire lives. And secondly, you must determine what price you’ll have to pay to get it, then resolve to pay that price.

First, I want to thank Mr. Pavlina for modifying the word “successful” with the word “financially.” As I mentioned before, there are lots of different ways to be successful. I would also add a phrase to his last sentence, “....you must determine what price you’ll have to pay to get it, then resolve to pay that price or decide if that goal is worth that price.” Some people would love to make a few million dollars, but an 80-hour (or more) work week and no family time is not a price they are willing to pay, for instance. Or maybe you want to lose 100 pounds but realize that you aren’t willing to commit to the level of exercise or food intake that that goal would require. Clarity can help us set reachable, sustainable goals, and clarity can help us sometimes find the wisdom to redefine, adjust, or even relinquish those goals, if their price is just too high.

The whole idea of goal-setting can be overwhelming. I once had a goal software program that used an outline form. I had major goals, then minor goals under those, then goals that were “activity” goals under those, and so on. Then I had to decide whether to work on one or two goals first, or try to get a little done on every goal at the same time, or adopt some other method. There were even built-in reminders that would pop up on a calendar, detailing my “activity goals” for the day. The whole thing got to be too overwhelming, and I just dropped it.

To set goals for our lives, we have to have clarity, seeing the world through wisdom’s (God’s) eyes rather than the eyes of the marketing industry or the latest celebrity’s idea of fulfillment. It’s very hard to tune out all that cultural noise in order to concentrate on what direction we want our lives to take.

As if that weren’t enough, Mr. Pavlina even says the just choosing a life direction isn’t sufficient:

Many people assume that because they have a direction, they must therefore have goals, but this is not the case and merely creates the illusion of progress. “Making more money” and “building a business” are not goals. A goal is a specific, clearly defined, measurable state. An example of the difference between a direction and a goal is the difference between the compass direction of northeast and the top of the Eiffel Tower in France. One is merely a direction; the other is a definite location.

In other words, you know when you get there.

He goes on:

Every day is a mistake if you don’t know where you’re going. You’re probably spending most of your time working to achieve other people’s goals. The local fast food restaurant, TV advertisers, and the stockholders of the businesses you patronize are all very happy for that. If you don’t decide what you really want, then you’ve decided to hand your future over to the whims of others, and that’s always a mistake.

I think some goals that just function as directional goals are necessary. Not all goals can be measured. How will I know that Ed and I have raised responsible, kind, loving kids? It’s not something I can pinpoint in a single moment of awareness, but as I see our kids live their lives, raise their own kids, and interact with others, I am assured that we gave them a solid foundation and they are developing as we would have hoped.

Likewise, our journey to simplicity requires some directional goals and some measurable goals. How are we spending our money? How are we doing on controlling waste (not only of trash, but of food, money, time, energy, and our gifts)? Am I achieving the goals I wanted to achieve after we moved - like spending more time out in nature? Taking time to exercise? Taking time to quilt and to play the harp? Spending more time with Ed and less on the computer? Learning to live in the moment? Having a grateful attitude? Paying attention to my priorities?

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,
be all else but naught to me, save that thou art;
be thou my best thought in the day and the night,
both waking and sleeping, thy presence my light.

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise:
be thou mine inheritance now and always;
be thou and thou only the first in my heart;
O Sovereign of heaven, my treasure thou art.

A sad state of affairs

I finished studying another chapter for my CMT exam tonight and decided to “reward” myself by watching some TV. As usual, I had my pick of two channels, and since the ABC show 20/20 was airing a show called “Promises, Promises,” I watched that. They were exposing deceptive marketing techniques of today’s product promotions. Promises of weight loss, “genuine” designer handbags at 90% off, fine print in car ads and other commercials on TV (print so small that you can’t even read it as it flashes across the screen), dubious claims from Suzanne Somers that her brand of hormone pills will guarantee eternal youth, off-label uses (not FDA approved) for prescription medications, encouraged in ads (paid for by the pharmaceutical companies) made to look like medical research papers - and on and on. Of course, the show itself was supported by commercials, all well versed in the latest marketing techniques.

We are a consumer-driven culture, certainly. We also are apparently a gullible group of consumers. The expression “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is” just falls on our deaf ears - deaf, that is, to common sense, but very much intact to empty promises. In the end, we can blame the deceptive practices of corporate America, the naivete of the average American, or, put in a more flattering light, the endless supply of hope in the human soul. We want desperately for something to work, to keep us young, to get rid of the weight, to be an incredible bargain, so much so that we accept the questionable product claims and ignore the fine print and warnings. The whole thing made me rather sad.

That 20/20 program, plus the countless commercials I sat through to watch it, reminded me again how entrenched our culture is in acquisition and how corporations and individuals take advantage of that. The advertisers know how to catch us - by encouraging our greed and by zoning in on our tiny glimmers of hope, knowing that we expect that this product or that product will be the key to our happiness in one way or another.

Another way the culture imposes its values on us is by its definitions. Take, for instance, the word “Christian.” There are groups of people in the world now whose idea of what it means to be Christian is diametrically opposed to mine. The word “patriotic” means something different to me than to many other people. Our environment (including but not limited to the advertising industry) has strongly suggested one definition over another time and time again.

I was listening to the radio this week when they aired a commercial for Donald Trump’s latest “success” kit. I’m not sure if it was a book and/or CDs and/or DVDs, but whatever it was, Donald Trump said that if you bought it, it would make you “successful.” He kept saying that everyone wants to be successful like he has been successful, and he would graciously show you the way there.

Well, Mr. Trump, there are many definitions of success, and financial success is only one. According to your standards, Mr. Trump, my dad was a total loser, because he never made much money. You would consider him unsuccessful, in spite of the fact that he had a wonderful, lasting marriage and gave his two girls a happy childhood, worked for peace and justice, wrote many letters of encouragement, and shared his love of music with his choirs for decades. I don’t really want to go into your personal life, Mr. Trump, but if you represent success, I think I’ll pass.

If there’s one thing I want to teach my kids and their kids, it’s this: Scrutinize the message society sends, because it is often a furtive, devious message that distorts the higher meaning of life. It can accumulate in your brains for a long enough time that it soon becomes the only message you can perceive. Don’t accept everything you hear as truth. Listen to your spirit for your innate wisdom. Ask questions about sources of information. Don’t assume a self-appointed “authority” really knows what’s best. And most important - create your own definitions and live with integrity. You too can become a success...just like my dad.

The Fix

I got my fix tonight. I didn’t realize I was so desperate, of course. I ignored the warning signs of pensiveness, inability to focus, unexplained longing, and frequent sighing. So I gave in, picked up the phone, and called the only one who could help me.

My fix was not for drugs or alcohol or even for Coke (which, by the way, I have not had since we moved in December). No - my fix was for Paw.

Paw is a character created by our son Matt when he was an adolescent. It was a virtual soap opera situation. Matt created an old man several billion years in age (if Matt was 11, Paw was 11 billion years old, and Paw’s age stayed commensurate with Matt’s). Paw had no teeth, of course, so Matt mimicked that by pulling his lips over his teeth. Paw's story evolved as Paw matured, and we discovered he had a girlfriend named Trixie (he already had a wife, The Old Hag). Oh, Paw had quite an exciting life, yes, indeed.

Paw usually slipped in unexpectedly. Matt would fade into the background, like some kind of medium, and all of a sudden, there would be Paw, telling us his latest joke or timely observation. Paw was always amusing, entertaining, and most welcome to join us at any time. He appeared in restaurants, in the car, and even at church. One never knew when Paw would show up.

Rachel, of course, was not to be outdone, so she invented a character named Wap (Paw spelled backwards). It made for quite a few interesting conversations.

Alas, Paw gradually disappeared as Matt became an adult, and I had only my fond memories plus a few videos. My dependable source of laughter had fizzled.

Paw talked about many subjects, but the one expression he could hardly say with a straight face was, “Oh, crap!” Now, it wasn’t the most polite thing in his repertoire, but for some reason, whenever he said that phrase, I broke out in laughter so hard that it made me cry. We could all try to imitate him, but only the original Paw could say it with just the right nuance. Paw was loud, obnoxious, and absolutely adored.

Oh, yes, I needed my fix, and I needed it bad.

Videos help, photos help, but I always wish for someone to invent a magic button to push that would stimulate the memory part of my brain to replay poignant scenes from my kids' childhoods. I just can’t accept that those days of innocence and frivolity now only exist in the minds of a few people.

So I dialed up Matt on his cell phone. “I need to hear Paw.”
Matt was obviously taken aback. I could imagine his expression.
“Uh...Paw’s not here,” he said weakly.
“Oh, but I think he is,” I admonished gently.
The awkward discomfort on the end of the line was palpable.
Thinking he might be in a public place and might be concerned about embarrassing himself, I asked, “Where are you?”
I could tell he sensed defeat. “Home,” he said in a small voice.
“Well, then, I need to hear Paw.”
Again, hesitation. “This is just weird,” he muttered.
Ed, talking in the background as he always does when I’m on the phone, offered, “Say OH CRAP.”
And then it happened. All the intervening years faded away, and I heard Paw’s familiar booming voice on the other end of the phone. “Oh, crrrrrap!”
I laughed until I cried. My baby still had it. Paw will never disappear, not as long as this despondent parent can coax his presence forth one more time. Paw has staying power. After all, next month he’ll be 24 billion years old!

Regrets

There’s a person who works at my hospital who has a license plate that says NORGRET, which I assume means something along the line of “no regrets.” It makes me sincerely happy to know someone is living in this world today who is in this condition, but I think, unfortunately, this person is in the minority. Most of us have many regrets, both major and minor, especially by the time reach the second half of our lives.

I think it’s pretty universal to wish for a life rewind button. Oh, the bad choices I have made - the precious time I have wasted - the stupid things I have done! Even if many things turned out all right in the end, my journey has been full of unnecessary strife and pain. Regrets? I have regrets, indeed!

Yesterday Ed and I were discussing the news story that Americans are now so far in debt that the savings rate is, for the first time ever, in the negative realm. We talked about the idea that every high school could offer a course in financial matters, from checking accounts to investments to buying a house to credit responsibilities - things many of us just learned by experience, not all of it good experience. Wouldn’t it be great if we could add more courses to the curriculum? Ethics? Manners? How to live as civilized human beings?

But at the top of my list would be wisdom.

All my life I have relied on knowledge as the most powerful tool. And I still believe that it is powerful - one reason I’m studying for my CMT exam. The reason I have regrets, however, is not that I lacked knowledge - it is that I lacked wisdom. “The quality of having experience, knowledge, and good judgment” - one definition of wisdom. I realize that wisdom can come with age (but not necessarily), with experience (but not necessarily, as some people never learn), and with knowledge (again, not necessarily). Unfortunately, wisdom is not inherited (or I would have been all set), it is not really learned (I had remarkable teachers for other things), and it’s one of those things the Bible praises but everyone has a different idea of what it means. A lot of people think that if you agree with them, it follows that you are wise, and vice versa.

I still don’t have as much wisdom as I would like. I say things when I should keep quiet, don’t say things when I should speak up, and hurt people unintentionally. I either act before I think, or think so excessively and obsessively before I act that I am paralyzed and can’t do anything.

No, I will always have regrets, and they are ongoing. My only hope is that the scale will tip to the side of wisdom as I come nearer to completing my journey.

Carrying the load

I had a dream last night. I was on the top floor of a tall building, where I was in a florist shop, buying two balloons. I already had my arms full, but as I started down the building to the exit, I kept buying more stuff, then dropping some of what I had brought with me. My keys fell several times, and my canvas bag (where I was stuffing what I could) developed a huge tear and its contents were constantly falling out. More than once, I'd accidentally leave the balloons somewhere, and by the time I trekked back to retrieve them, they had lost their buoyancy and I had to take them back to the florist shop to have then revitalized - along the way, of course, dropping more stuff.

The interpretation of this dream is as plain as, well, the nose on my face (and the mandible, the superciliary arch, and the zygoma, found in and around my face). I've come so far in studying for my Certified Medical Transcriptionist exam that I'm starting to drop facts that I learned a couple of weeks ago. Then when I do go back and retrieve the facts, they have lost their helium and I'm therefore starting from scratch. What a confusing situation! I'm trying to stuff all this information in my brain for good, but my brain seems to have other ideas.

I certainly hope the situation resolves itself. It's a lot for a 52-year-old brain to handle.

Expressions continued

After my last post about sayings donated to our family by unsuspecting friends and relatives, I started thinking about our family expressions that we ourselves have generated.
That in turn reminded me of this story:

A guy gets sentenced to prison, and is led to his new cell. At lights out, he and his cellmate are chatting. In the background, he can hear the other prisoners talking in the darkness.
"27" he hears shouted in the darkness. Peals of laughter ring out. A different voice calls out "318". More laughter follows.

Intrigued, he asks his cellmate: "What’s the deal with calling out numbers?" "Well you gotta understand, man, that most of the guys in this wing have been in here for 20 years or more. So eventually you run out of new jokes to tell. Everyone's heard them all, in fact we all have them memorized."

"So we worked out a system where we numbered each joke. If you want to tell one, you can just call out the number."

The new prisoner chuckles. "Wow, that's neat. You think I can give it a try?" "Sure, newbie, give it a shot."

So he waits for a lull, and calls out loudly: "278!"

Nothing.

He tries another: "415!"

Dead silence.

He says to his cellmate, "What’s the deal?"

"What can I say, man, some people just can't tell a joke."

We have the very same setup. Over the years, our funny antics have been etched into our collective brain, and all we need to hear is a few words to bring it all back. I’ll bet everyone has times like this - when the memorable episode is intact in your mind and all it takes is a few words to make you laugh. Here’s my partial list:

“This chicken tastes kind of dry.”
“Calm down, calm down, calm down!”
“Bearland, Bearland...”
“Just jokin’.”
“What is this - rush hour in downtown Algood?”
“Hey - that’s a good name for a cookie!”
“Vandervilt.”
“Here’s the deal...”
“This ain’t no fake tie, it’s a tie tie.”
“...And that’s how I got gum on my glasses.”
“We saw no moose, we saw no bears...”
"It's lettuce trauma."
“That whale breached!”
“She looked just like Freddy Kruger in a bonnet.”
"Every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you."
“He’s holding it with his beak!”
"That reminds me of a commercial..."
"I'm 15 billion years old!"
"I can't get the paper off the steak to cook it."

And, just for my sister...”Show me that smile...”

Now, unless you’re a member of my family, you have no idea what those quotes mean - maybe even if you are a family member, you'd miss a few. I might as well have called out random numbers like the prisoner in the story above. But take it from me - there are some very wacky stories behind those snippets.

And that's all from our cell block today, folks!

Part of our lives

At several of our former parishes, I helped out with the music program while Ed was the pastor. I remember one specific church with a tiny choir of about 7-8 women. We were busy working on Christmas music, when I realized that none of the women had ever heard of “Lo, How a Rose,” a beautiful old, well-known (or so I had thought) Christmas carol. I took the time to teach it to them, and I remember saying, “You might hear this on TV or radio or even in a store during Christmas shopping season. You'll suddenly recognize it and think, Oh, yeah, that’s the one Carol taught us!” Oh, the significance of leaving one’s footprint for posterity!

I imagine we have left our mark in one way or another on every church we served. It is also true that they have left their marks on us, and therefore, they join all the other characters in our ongoing life story. This applies not only to people we met in church, of course. From casual acquaintances to family members, our memories are full of the people we have known - their quirks, their accents, and the wonderful characteristics that made each one of them unique.

After blogging about Aunt Bessie last week, I did some reminiscing with Ed about the various phrases we use on a frequent basis - phrases that immediately remind us of people from our distant (and not so distant) past. These folks, living and dead, probably never imagined they had become part of our linguistic repertoire.

I remember one preacher we heard at a revival. He preached a lengthy sermon, as one is wont to do in revivals, but at one point he said excitedly, “Yeah, that’s the ticket!” The way he said it was so funny, we have never forgotten it. Now when Ed and I agree with a plan, we both say, “Yeah, that’s the ticket!” All this from a guy we only met once and will never see again. I can’t even remember his name.

After Ed gave up drinking, the United Methodist Church required that he go see a psychiatrist for evaluation before they would let him pursue a path to the ministry. Ed remembers that this doctor wrote very little on his notes, but one sentence stood out, an observation which irritates Ed to this day. The doctor wrote: “The patient is stiff and rotund.” Ed, of course, has to defend himself, which he has done on a regular basis in the ensuing years. “Of course I was stiff and rotund!” he explains. “The doctor had this huge, overstuffed leather couch that when you sat down on it, you sank at least 8 inches. I was very overweight back then and couldn’t get up out of that damn couch!” Ever since then, when we feel lethargic and bloated, we say we are “stiff and rotund.” It still gives me a chuckle.

We had a sweet parishioner who was a grand, old Southern lady with an equally charming Southern drawl. During one hot summer, she told us that when she was little and it got this hot, she used to “go lay on the kitchen floor under the table, on the linoleum” to get relief. She stretched out the syllables in "linoleum" in the traditional Southern way. Now when it gets hot, we say we need to lie down “on the linoleum” to get cool. Thanks, Mrs. Johnson, you charming Southern belle.

The tradition continues to this day. Ed’s doctor said a couple of years ago that his cardiac risk assessment was something like 20% risk of having a heart attack in the next decade. The doctor kept saying, “That’s HUUUGE! That’s HUUUGE!” in an agitated fashion. Even though Ed thought that if he were a gambler, a 20% chance of losing sounded great and he would take it to Vegas in a heartbeat, he couldn’t keep from chuckling about the way that doctor said the word “huge.” Of course, every time a statistic comes up, we have to mimic dear Dr. Trenkle.

One year, a religious fundamentalist was arguing with us about how old the earth was. When asked about the Grand Canyon and other geological marvels, he replied, “Oh, God just created those with the APPEARANCE of age.” For years after that, every time we passed an old house or building that we had not noticed before, we comment on it and say that it must have been built the day before “with the appearance of age.”

My point is that all these folks have inadvertently given us ongoing laughter in our lives, and I sincerely thank them for their generosity, even though they were clueless as to their part in our little production. They’ve been a part of our lives ever since. And that...well, that’s just HUUUGE!!!

And Aunt Bessie’s phrase? Her favorite expression was “Oh, foot!” when she was aggravated, but the one we still jokingly use when our visitors depart (with a true Aunt Bessie-style half-grin/half smirk): “Come back when you can’t stay so long.”

The Good Life

We are now into one month of our downsizing lifestyle change. I started to say “experiment,” but that word is really not accurate. I’ll consider the “no TV except ABC and PBS” an experiment (so far a successful one), but the rest is basically forming thoughts and plans and actions about how we want to live the rest of our lives.

This is the house where we will grow old(er). I reflect on old age more than I used to, and, as is usually the case, Aunt Bessie pops into my head. My great-aunt Bessie was a character. Country born and bred, childless, heavy smoker for most of her life (until she quit cold turkey) - she was one of the most intriguing people I have ever known. She finally got too old to live independently, though, and so our mom checked around for an assisted-living facility for her. I went with her a couple of times to check them out.

One was especially notable. It was a huge complex, in 3 parts. You entered when you were fairly independent. It had the characteristics of a grand retirement home, with the luxury that entailed. They had parties, activities, hobby groups, meals in a fancy dining room - all the accoutrements of retirement in style. One day you would be partying with your friends, living the wild life, and the next day you would forget to take your pills, or sustain a wrist fracture, or developed arthritis - something that would hint that for you, it is time to move down to the next level - Assisted Living.

In Assisted Living, you still had activities and fun, but you had extra help. Here is one assisted living facility’s description:

Activities of Daily Living – On average, assisted living residents need help with two ADLs. The chart below shows the various ADLs and the percentage of residents needing help with them.
Activities of Daily Living, % of Residents Needing Help
Bathing 68%
Dressing 47%
Toileting 34%
Transferring 25%
Eating 22%
Other Common Services -- A full 91 percent of assisted living residents need help with housework, while 86 percent need help managing their medications.

So you move to the Assisted Living part of the complex and you’re having a grand time (even though maybe you can’t remember all of it), you age a little, you get more medical problems, and finally, you get full-blown dementia or break a hip and are bedbound. So what do you do? You are moved to the third part of the complex - the Nursing Home. And we all know what happens there.

At the time we were looking over this facility for Aunt Bessie, I remember discussing it with Ed. “Do you realize,” I remember saying, “that when you enter the first part of the complex, the basic retirement home, that you know you are never leaving? That they will just move you from one section to the other, then to the funeral home?” The facility sales rep promoted that as a great advantage to their place, but that just struck me as creepy at the time.

We lived in a town years later that had one nursing home and one funeral home, and they were right beside each other. Ed thoughtfully said he figured they’d just install some kind of giant chute going from the former to the latter for ease of transfer.

Ed and I talk about death, I guess, quite a lot. Some people might consider us morbid, but really, we're not. For one thing, it’s something we know will happen to all of us, so there’s no use skirting around the issue. For another, we’ve been in the ministry so long, it’s a subject that we are comfortable with. For another, we’re both in the second half of our lives, and it is pertinent not only to us, but to the many friends we have seen die over the last few years.

We were reading an AARP article about ways to make your home amenable to senior living. They suggested wide doors which will accommodate wheelchairs, handles on the doors instead of knobs (because the knobs are hard to grasp when one has arthritis), and a minimal amount of steps. We finished reading the article, looked up at each other, and we both had the same thought. This house has all of those things. This is our house not only for our present selves; this is the house for our old selves. This is the last house we will ever live in. We see our future.

We, of course, don’t really know what in detail the future holds, how well we will progress physically or mentally (hey - no sarcastic comments here, please!), how many or few years we will be blessed with. Nevertheless, we are in a small house that suits us, surrounded by things that remind us of those we love, things to challenge us, and things to bring us pleasure. I patiently wait for the dial-up to move me around the Internet, thankful that I am even connected. We laugh at the local ABC weatherman and the fact that we use rabbit ears to get two free channels. We can pick up the phone at any time and call our kids or talk to family down South. We are warm and cozy with a fire made of wood that Ed sawed and split himself, eating delicious meals that he cooked, sleeping under a quilt that I made, and marveling at the blanket of snow outside the door, with our loyal Aussie Babe snoozing at our feet.

LIFE IS GOOD!

I'm GRRRREAT! (For a while)

Life has a way of balancing things out.

I am a relentless organizer. I have my thread spools on the wall, organized by color. I have my fabric in boxes with pull-out drawers, organized by color, then by prints and solids. I am in the process of putting all my books in “Delicious Library,” an Apple computer software program which records all one's personal library information. I have a place to put all the 2006 income tax forms from the bank. And one of the first things I have done in my new office is to buy, label, and organize a 2-drawer file cabinet.

I get a great deal of satisfaction to be able to put my finger on something instantly. Need some birth certificates? I’ve got them. Need a car title? Just look in the folder. Need proof of rabies shot? Need the last oil bill? Need an appliance handbook? Just see me. I have everything, and I know where it is.

Yes, as soon as I finished organizing my new file cabinet (in alphabetical order, of course), I sat back to admire it. I could just feel the halo appearing above my head. What a great organizer I am! What a planner!

Well, when I get a feeling of bursting pride in myself, I do well to remember the past. My personal history assures me that I won’t have long to bask in my glory, for something will always happen to bring me back to reality. That’s just the way my world works.

In this instance, it was the Geico bill. Geico, our car insurance company, sends us our renewal and the appropriate ID cards for both our automobiles twice a year. Just twice a year. You’d think I could keep up with that. Well, apparently I can’t. Oh, I can pull out the Geico packet from 4 years ago. It’s in that brand new folder marked “Geico.” But as far as the packet we got just last week - I can’t find it anywhere.

I can blame it on the fact that our mailbox is now half a mile away, and we pick up the mail as we drive by, so things can get misplaced in the car. I can blame it on the fact that I am still a little discombobulated because of the move. I can even blame it on Ed - well, I wish I could, but this time he had nothing to do with it. I remember getting the packet out of the mailbox, showing it to Ed, saying, “Here is our new policy and here are our ID cards.” That’s the last thing I remember.

I have a spanking brand new file cabinet with new hanging folders. I have a gorgeous new roll-top desk to organize my office. Yet, one of the most important things we have received in the mail in the last week is nowhere to be found.

Oh yeah, Carol - You’re a great organizer. Cream of the crop. Donald Trump material.

So I asked Geico to re-send the packet, and they graciously are doing so. It still grates on me, though. I will learn one of these days not to rate myself so highly. That sense of accomplishment is always fleeting.

The same thing happens to me at work. On the days I’m flying through my transcription at the speed of light, racking up the lines, not having to look anything up (or if I do, finding it immediately), understanding every doctoral mumble, it never fails that I will find out I have made some kind of stupid error. One minute I think I’m the most competent transcriptionist in the whole world, and the next minute, I’m reduced almost to tears of humiliation. Sigh.

The only good thing to come out of this Geico mess was this: In the same mail delivery, I also received my 10% off card from Jo-Ann Fabrics, good for the next year. That card is sitting on my desk in front of me this very minute. At least I know what’s too important to lose.

Name that Name

One of the interesting parts of my job as a medical transcriptionist is hearing various patient names - really a microcosm of society. I’ve heard some doozies, that’s for sure. Some I just laugh at, and some I feel sorry for. Sometimes when I come across a first/last name combination for a female that is pretty bad, I wonder if she was unfortunately born under that name, or - heaven forbid - chose to marry it, leaving her forever known as...well, I won’t state a specific one here, but I assure you, anyone would do a double take on hearing this name combo for the first time.

I not only get to see creative patient names - I am exposed to a whole slew of medical eponyms, too. (An eponym is a person for whom something is thought to be named, which in my world includes surgical instruments, diseases, syndromes, techniques, etc.) Some of these consist of one last name, but when two or more geniuses get together, you can get one heck of a name. Charcot-Marie-Tooth, for instance. That’s a mouthful of a disease, isn’t it?

Some guy has a last name of Pfannenstiel, and the next thing you know, his name is lent to a surgical incision (one which I have myself, by the way). Most C-sections start off with a Pfannenstiel incision, which I have to remember how to spell for my certified medical transcription (CMT) exam. When I’m at work, I just use the code “PF” and out pops the word Pfannenstiel. For the exam, I won’t have such luxury, and all this information will have to be in my head. Why couldn’t the poor guy’s name have been Smith?

The moral of my story is this: If you are a creative medical type, and if you think in the future that you will invent some great medical instrument or discover a new disease or technique, please take a moment to pause and think of all the medical students and transcriptionists all over the world who will have to spell (and discern audibly) your name. If appropriate, ask forgiveness. Thank you. You may now return to your laboratories.

TV, O where art thou?

Today's Shoe comic strip is hilarious. The main character is turning on his TV with a remote, sighing, "Geez...If I had a nickel for every hour I've spent watching this mindless tube..." and the next panel shows him thinking, "I could buy one of those HD plasma babies!"

We’re doing pretty well with TV withdrawal. For one thing, when you remove a lot of choices in your life, your life automatically gets easier. When you only have two (marginally optimal quality) channels to choose from (ABC and PBS), there is no harrowing decision-making to be done. Either you watch the crazy weatherman on channel 7, or you watch Sesame Street. It’s so simple, it’s remarkable!

Of course, now that we’re in the rural area, we are getting almost daily mailings from the satellite TV companies, bragging about their 180 channels. 180 channels? Come on, now! That’s just asking you to sit down, make yourself comfortable, and stare at the screen until bedtime and beyond. At least it would be for us. Maybe other people have more resistance. Even the fact that we would watch mainly educational channels does not mitigate the harmful effects of our being perpetual (albeit knowledgeable) couch potatoes.

The TV is still in the living room, its “rabbit ears” antenna reaching in vain to find a good signal somewhere. But it really doesn’t bother me. I have some things of far more importance and interest in there - Ed in a chair nearby, and my quilting hoop in front of me!

There's a reason for that...

Although Rachel did extremely well losing her pregnancy weight shortly after giving birth, it is a common fact that many women continue to use the excuse of “I just had a baby” to explain their corpulence long after the fact. It is also true that there comes a time (maybe when their youngest child is graduating from high school) when such a woman feels that old stand-by excuse has at last become inappropriate, and as such, she suddenly has to either lose the extra weight or come up with a more plausible reason for her girth.

We moved into this house on December 21. That means we have been here 2 weeks and 1 day. Up until now, we have had the perfect excuse for our unorganized mess, the perfect excuse for not being able to do the tasks that we want to accomplish. What the heck, give us a break! we said. We just moved!

Alas, as in the case of the postpartum woman who needs to come up with another plan, the time is drawing near for our perfectly valid excuse to have run its course, and we will have to hold ourselves accountable for how we spend our time, money, and energy. If we wait until every last picture is hung and every last room is painted, we’d still be living in limbo.

No, I believe now is the time to start in earnest on the work we have set out to do with our lives. I’ll miss having that handy excuse at my beck and call. I’ll work on the weight, too, but give me a break, will you? After all, I just had a baby...almost 24 years ago!

He's no Seinfeld

Ever since we moved, Matt has been trying to get us to buy some old-fashioned “rabbit ears” to try to get at least a couple of stations on the TV. Not for the shows - he just knows how much I miss seeing the news, and how much Ed wants to see the weather forecast.

So we went to Target and bought the rabbit ears. It took Ed (technologically-challenged Ed) several attempts to hook the TV up to the VCR a few days back, so I was understandably worried about how he could hook up the antennae. Fortunately, it was pretty quickly, and we set about to find a signal.

No NBC, no CBS. Yes! ABC! Not our favorite news program, but we are desperate these days. Ed maneuvered the rabbit ears around while I surveyed the screen, clicking the remote. We ended up with only two stations - ABC and PBS. OK, not bad, we thought. It would do.

The next few minutes were spent trying to turn the rabbit ears around to varying positions to see how good a picture we could get. Ed was the contortionist, while I sat comfortably in a rocking chair giving feedback. “Yes...no...a little better...a little worse.” I felt as if I were in the optometrist’s office. It seemed kind of humorous that here we were in the 21st century, pleading with old-fashioned antennae to do something that we have taken for granted with cable. Moreover, I had a guilty pleasure feeling that I was stealing something. After paying for cable TV for decades, we were finally getting something FREE! Yeah! So what if it’s only two stations? So what if it hiccups and jumps and fades from color to black and white and back again? It’s FREE!

We watched the clock for 6 p.m., something we haven’t done in a while, anxiously anticipating our first local newscast. Oh my....there certainly were a lot of commercials. We forgot about those blasted commercials - one of the reasons we enjoyed not having TV. Finally the weatherman appeared. We sat back to savor it.

Unfortunately, this guy considered himself Mr. Entertainer. It was totally distracting. He wasn’t a low-key kind of entertainer that another weather person might have been. He was entirely annoying. “And this weather system is OUTTA HERE!!” (at which point he waved at the map). “SEE YA!!!!!” he shouted.

Ed and I just looked at each other. I started laughing and he was scowling and shaking his head. But this was it. We had no other choice for weather forecasts.

If that weren’t enough, half of the weather/news report consisted of commercials. Our old station would say, “Weather is brought to you by....” and name the furniture company or grocery store. That was it. On this ABC affiliate, they apparently have to work the sponsor several times into the script. “Our weather is brought to you by XXX, Bucksport Road. Hey, they sell fabric and drapes, and, hey, it’s for people who are into fiber arts! Hey, I don’t have a clue what fiber arts is - hey, maybe you don’t either - so why don’t you go down to XXX on Bucksport Road and ask them? Hey...”

The next night, I begged Ed to give the guy another chance. I had to beg hard - this weather guy was really getting to him. He finally relented, and we turned it on again. This time the guy was talking about a front approaching, initially in a quiet, nonchalant way. “Hey, looks like we’re in the clear, no rain, no snow...unless there might be a front coming into the picture... LIKE THIS ONE!” He screamed as he pounced on the weather system in the midwest, and he seemed to think it was funny that he probably gave old people heart attacks and made them have a urinary accident (not that this happened to us, but I’m sure it did to other people).

I don’t know whether we’ll get to watch Mr. Entertainer anymore. I don’t know if Ed is really up to it. But, hey - it’s FREE!

On Board

Hardly anyone does ironing anymore. I certainly don’t as a rule, but after unpacking my clothes at the end of the big move, I had a few things that had become too wrinkled to wear, so I plugged in the iron and gave them a pressing.

It’s a shame our culture has separated itself from the act of ironing. With the fluid, back and forth, almost hypnotic motions, it’s almost like the yoga of housework. It gives one plenty of time for thinking or daydreaming.

Mama said she didn’t even get a washing machine until after I was a few years old, and even then, we always hung the wet laundry on the clothesline, as we didn’t have a dryer. She never had a dishwashing machine. It’s interesting that so many of our household chores have been taken over by machines - but ironing has pretty much stayed the same for a few generations. More of our chores are automated, but our relationship with the electric iron has changed substantially little over the years.

Back when I was growing up, I had to stand at the ironing board just about every morning. Mama made most of our clothes, which consisted primarily of thin cotton shifts in the summer and heavier cotton jumpers in the winter. That way she didn’t have to set in sleeves and worry with buttonholes. These cotton dresses, however, had to be ironed, and not only ironed, but starched. So every morning before school, I wet down my dress with spray starch (I can still remember that smell of the hot iron hitting that moist fabric) and pressed my dress to a wrinkle-free crisp, which, of course, lasted until I sat down in the car to go to school.

When I was in 9th grade, Mama had to go into the hospital to have a hysterectomy, and would be gone for a week or two. She was so worried that the household couldn’t function without her, especially where Daddy was concerned. Daddy worked as a bank teller, and as such, had to wear suits and ties and freshly ironed shirts every day. So Mama took me in her bedroom shortly before she left for the hospital and taught me how to carefully iron a man’s shirt. She taught me that I should first start with the back yoke, then move on to the rest of the shirt in a certain order. She taught me how to press around the buttons, how to iron the sleeves, and finally, how to hang the shirt up properly to preserve my hard work. She also tried to cook several casseroles for us to thaw and I’m sure had other plans for her impending absence, but I remember the ironing lesson most - and what immense responsibility I had been given to make sure my Daddy’s shirts were perfectly pressed.

It’s also true that Mama couldn’t relax on a family vacation until she was certain she had turned her iron off before leaving on the trip. I was relieved when they created irons that turned themselves off, so with my many worries in life, that’s one less to agonize about.

I’m glad I don’t have to spend entire days ironing as women did in the past. But I don’t complain if I have a few items to press once in a while. It’s very little investment of time, considering what a remarkable result is effected. So I stand there, moving my arm back and forth, back and forth, lost in thought, and I smile.

Time for what?

An interesting thing about having no TV - I never realized how much TV served as an alternate clock. Instead of scheduling our time by what needed to be done, we scheduled it around TV shows. "I'll do it after the news," I would say. Now I just do it when I realize it needs to be done. We are no longer using TV as an authority of when to do what.

On the downside, I didn't hear about President Ford's death until well after the fact. I'm used to being so up to date on everything.

I think things will be better once I am connected to the Internet again at home, not relying on my work connection or the occasional visit to Rachel's house. That sense of disconnection is eerie.

Days of our Lives

The Five Days of Christmas:

Day 1 without TV: "Lord, keep me from being one of those holier-than-thou people who think any experiment I undertake successfully makes me better than everyone else. Amen."

Day 2 without TV: "Wow, it's quiet around here."

Day 3 without TV: "Wish I could see the news. Wonder what's happening in the world?"

Day 4 without TV: "What's this thing called? A radio?"

Day 5 without TV: "Lord, if I weaken and go back to TV again, please help me view responsibly and limit my TV viewing to a minimum. I've learned my lesson! Now where's the remote??"
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Day 1 without Internet: "This is hard."

Day 2 without Internet: "Wish I could check e-mail."

Day 3 without Internet: "Wish I could blog."

Day 4 without Internet: "Wish I could send some pictures."

Day 5 without Internet: "Lord, just help me survive until the stupid dial-up is activated!"
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Merry Christmas! Thank goodness for Rachel's cable Internet connection!

I have a good excuse...

Two days until the big move.

I am reminded of our late dog, Rusty. He used to love to cuddle up with me on the couch, and when Ed asked me to get up to do something (find the remote, answer the phone, turn down the pot on the stove, etc.,), he would look over, see Rusty, and say, "Oh, never mind. I see you have your excuse in your lap." Then he would get up and do it himself.

I have been gifted with excuses. The reason I wasn't exercising or eating healthfully or quilting or reading or playing harp is that I had a house for sale. Really - the whole scenario of constantly cleaning up for showings put a cramp in otherwise important tasks - not to mention that we were so anxious over whether or when the house would sell, which left little time for the peace of mind required to be productive and organized. I was in a full-fledged limbo and therefore frozen in time. The house was my excuse, and it was squarely in my lap.

After the house left my lap, of course, our tenure at Rachel's house climbed in. How can I exercise with an added 2 hours of driving to work every day? How can I eat right when Chris considers sugar one of the main food groups? How can I quilt or study for the CMT exam when all those tools are packed up? The answer has been, of course, no way. I sit restlessly (but guilt-free) on the couch with my excuses in my lap.

We move on Thursday, though, and that means I have to stand up and all my excuses will fall to the floor. It will be time for action and - gasp! - accountability.

We'll be a-movin' and a-shakin' - and maybe it's rather symbolic that we don't own a couch anymore.

Unplugging

As we are making our final preparations for our move, we have a few decisions to make. We are moving to an area which does not provide access for DSL Internet, cable Internet, or cable TV. This is disheartening, for I have been spoiled by high-speed, dependable Internet service for several years, and I am loathe to change at this point. I don't mind downgrading my lifestyle, downgrading my wardrobe, downgrading my expenses - but downgrading my Internet speed is something I'd rather avoid.

We checked briefly into satellite service, which demands a chunk of money for initial setup and can be expensive with a lengthy commitment. Regardless of whether we go with satellite or dial-up Internet service, we were intrigued to learn that the satellite TV service is a separate package from the Internet. For the first time in our lives, Ed and I started seriously flirting with the idea of having no TV after we move.

This is not an easy decision. We're not addicted to TV by any means, but we do enjoy a wide variety of programs - mainly nonfiction types. Ed watches the Food Network primarily, but we both enjoy shows from the History Channel, A&E, public TV, the Travel Channel, TLC, Discovery, Animal Planet - and, of course, I am somewhat of a news junkie. No TV? It's a strange scenario. But intriguing.

After all, we have many interests outside TV. Ed will be spending a lot of time sawing and splitting wood, landscaping our new yard, walking the dog, cooking, and reading. I have so many hobbies I never have time for - quilting, sewing, cross-stitching, harp playing, piano playing, singing, working with photos, studying for the CMT exam, and, of course, reading. That doesn't count all the things I want to learn.

A restriction on TV wouldn't concern anyone but us. We have no kids living in the house anymore, and the grandkids, when they visit, don't watch TV anyway (Rachel severely limits their TV access, and anyway, they don't really care about it and would rather read a book).We by no means consider TV evil or anything sinister like that. Indeed, we find very educational programs to watch, uplifting, informative programs, not just entertaining ones. But even watching uplifting, informative programming takes time away from other more meaningful pursuits.

There is a grassroots movement to alert society to the effects that TV has on our lives. Check out this site, for instance. A number of web sites attest to this. Listen to Jerry Mander, the author of Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television:

In the US, the average television viewer is seeing about 23,000 commercials every year. The specific content of those messages may vary, but the intent is identical-to get people to view life as a nonstop stream of commodity satisfactions. Buy something! Do something! Commodities are life! And this message is the same everywhere.

Even if we don't talk about the banality of TV in general, the dumbing-down of America, the lack of social and family life, the time wasted - we have to mention the advertising aspect. Advertising which has grown into an art form. Advertising whose whole purpose is to encourage us to buy their products because "commodities" line the road to happiness. It's not exactly what we want to focus on during our "downsizing" journey.

I think we'll get some form of Internet service, but forego the TV part, at least for a while. No telling what we will accomplish in our new-found time!

I have all I need

I like my little Toyota Corolla, but it lacks one feature I would love to have. On my old car, a Jeep Liberty, I could listen to the radio and simultaneously see what song was playing and who was singing it. A text message of sorts came across the radio display with these details. I really need that, because I do not keep up with a lot of popular culture and have no idea who the different groups are. Sometimes I will hear a beautiful arrangement of a song and have no idea who is performing it.

On my commute this morning, I was listening to a local station that plays nothing but Christmas music at this time of year, and song after song played as I wound my way to Ellsworth in the dark. The only voices I could recognize were Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole. All the other singers were foreign to me. Suddenly my eyes fell upon a button marked TEXT. I decided to push it just to see what happened. Lo and behold, the name of the song scrolled across the display, followed by the name of the performer. What a surprise - I had that capability the whole two years I've owned the car - and never realized it!

The situation reminded me of a children's sermon I used to give, which went something like this: A woman of modest means wanted to go on a cruise. She scrimped and saved until she finally had enough money for the ticket. She realized, though, that she didn't have any extra for food, so she packed a bag of cheese and crackers, and while the other passengers enjoyed the delicious buffets, our heroine stayed in her cabin, eating her self-imposed ration of cheese and crackers. On the last day of the cruise as she exited the ship, she discovered that the price of her ticket had included all the food, too! She could have feasted, but instead she existed on her limited snacks. The potential was there all the time - only she never realized, so she couldn't use it.

I read somewhere that we only use a fraction of our brains. Our potential for intelligence and creativity is far greater than we make use of. We think it's because we don't have enough power, when in reality, we have had it all along. Only we never realize it.

As the year draws to a close and I make my list of what I want to accomplish in 2007, I must remind myself to dream big. I know I have the energy, determination, intelligence, and skill to bring my dreams to life - I just have to tap into them. I'll take my cue from Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, who had her eureka moment after much turmoil. I don't want to discover too late that I had the power of the ruby slippers the whole darn time.

Baby Steps

It's so entertaining to watch Charlotte maneuver around a room. She is a year old now, but she hasn't learned to walk yet, and crawling is still her main mode of transportation. She laughs when she stands by herself; I can easily see that her few seconds of freedom leave her giddy. She has yet to take that first step on her own, but when she does, it will be baby steps all the way. You know the kind - wobbly, uncertain, exhilarating, anxious baby steps.

And baby steps take patience.

I know that our journey to simplicity starts with baby steps, but I seem to lack the patience this method requires. I want to leap and run a marathon immediately. I want to downsize and be done with it, making it as unconscious an act as breathing. Yet it will be baby steps for quite a while.

A book I recently read had the statement that we make over 200 food choices a day. That surprised me; in fact, it didn't seem possible. Yet, every time we pass a Baskin Robbins, every time we pass a bakery, every time we open the refrigerator, every time we go to the supermarket, we make choices of what to eat, what not to eat, even whether to eat. The same thing can be said for all other choices in our lives. The art of enveloping one's life in simplicity is an evolution, which by definition is ongoing.

So far in our effort to downsize and simplify, we have managed to get a good crawl started. Our new house is not the place for a marathon - at least not yet. But it is the perfect location for taking our journey to the next level - those tentative, scary, thrilling baby steps.

I pass dead people

From our place of temporary abode in Winterport to my place of work in Ellsworth and back again - that is how I spend 2 hours of each workday. I've never had a commute that long before, and it certainly has made me anxious to move into the new house, which will cut that commute to about 10 minutes. In spite of that, a long commute does provide me with some reflection time.

I pass two cemeteries on this commute. Back in Tennessee, it seemed like there were cemeteries around every corner, but up here in Maine they are few in number, probably because cremation is very popular here.

Cemeteries have always fascinated me; I'm not sure why. In one way, because of my spiritual beliefs that the body is only the temporary holding place of the spirit, a cemetery is insignificant. It's just a repository. But in another way, the symbolism is too strong to ignore. I pass dead people and they talk to me.

Lest you think I've lapsed into schizophrenia, I want to emphasize that I'm not actually hearing voices. But the dead do speak to me, reminding me of life's fragility. They encourage me to keep my priorities straight. They urge me to make my life fulfilling while I can. They remind me that all this can change in an instant. There's nothing like death to get one to thinking about life.

Tolerance

A desire for peace and simplicity is an admirable goal, of course. But, as every gift has a corresponding curse, I have found that to be so in my movement to simplicity. Specifically, I have been battling the demon of judgmentalism.

I guess that kind of thing can happen with a lot of other life changes. You give up smoking, and you get upset with smokers. You lose weight, and have no tolerance for overweight people. You go the simplicity route, and - yes - you find yourself looking with disdain on the Hummers and mansions and every other evidence of overconsumption.

I was driving home yesterday, listening to a local radio station playing 24/7 Christmas music. During the break, the announcer reminded everyone that their DJs were temporarily living in a truck outside the Bangor mall, collecting food and money to distribute to the poor this Thanksgiving. Immediately after the break came an ad for plastic surgery. Not plastic surgery to fix gross deformities, but plastic surgery to nip and tuck if you've lost weight but still want to look "toned." The contrast in the two messages was so evident. Some people can't afford to buy food while others can afford all sorts of nonessential "extras" to make their lives more to their liking. I try to start getting my priorities in line, and all of a sudden, those kinds of things seem to jump out at me. I think sometimes it's because they lift a mirror to my lifestyle, past and present, in many ways, and that upsets me. It can be just as hard when you're aging to look in a psychological/spiritual mirror as to look in a physical mirror.

I think it's partly that I'm trying to simplify and partly that I'm getting older, but other things are bothering me more than they ever have. Take grocery carts, for instance. At any given moment in our grocery parking lot, there are 30 or so carts strewn around as if a tornado had been by. The store has those cart drop-off places in several locations, but it doesn't matter. Too many people are unloading their carts and then just leaving them there. How long does it take to push the cart back to the holding place? A minute? Less than a minute? What is the problem? I could understand it if the offenders were old or infirm, but the ones I have seen do this are able-bodied people. What are they thinking? Some of these carts are left to roll around only a few feet from the holding place. They strike parked cars when the wind blows, they block otherwise empty parking spaces - I just can't understand the whole situation.

The things that irked me when I was younger are irritating me even more now.

I loved the movie "Grumpy Old Men," but I don't want "grumpy" to be my main personality trait for the rest of my life. I certainly don't want judgmentalism to represent my attitude of the world. On my journey to simplicity, I find that life is never simple.

Was the patient turned on?

My job as a medical transcriptionist takes complete focus. People who don't know what MT involves think, "How easy it must be! You just type what you hear!" Never that simple, folks. For one thing, sometimes your hearing can trick you.

Today the doctor dictated, "The patient got lamb stuck in his throat." I initially thought he said, "The patient got a lamp stuck in his throat." In the half second it took for me to catch my error, I thought, "Hmm...he must have been told to have a light diet."

I love my job!

The attic

I grew up in only one house, the small one my mother still lives in. One of my favorite places to go was the attic. The only way to get to the attic was through a set of pull-down steps, which were located in the hall ceiling. One pull of the cord, and the metal steps released their full length with loud clangs that could be heard anywhere in the house. Once they were secure on the hall floor, we could gingerly make our way up to the chamber of secrets.

The attic was basically our only storage space, so you never knew what you would find there. We went up there to get Christmas stuff down every year, but sometimes we just went up to explore. Only the center of the floor had flooring on it; the sides underneath the rafters just had insulation. I remember when someone - I can't recall who, but Joy would remember, I'm sure - stepped too far off the side and made a hole in the den room ceiling. Add to that limitation, the roof height was short, so mobility up there was rather tricky.

The star of the attic was Mother's cedar chest. There she kept the things she cherished. Our first locks of hair, some baby clothes, and other treasures that spoke of a life filled with love and happy memories. I remember the lovely cedar smell that permeated the air whenever we opened the chest.

When we went up to the attic to retrieve summer clothes, it always made me feel strange to be able to see the Christmas stuff nearby. Back then, you didn't see Christmas stuff in the stores starting in the summer, and usually not even before Thanksgiving. It was a little jarring to be going up there for shorts and T-shirts, when just a few feet away lay a Christmas card holder and tree ornaments. When one is a child, anything associated with Christmas is imbued with some sort of magic. It was not an ordinary time of year, and everything connected to Christmas was not ordinary either. Even up in the attic, I viewed the Christmas stuff with awe.

As I got older, my interest in the attic contents switched from old toys and baby hair to Daddy's papers. He kept old magazines and newspapers, speeches he had given, letters he had written, old books, and all sorts of other goodies that piqued my interest. I can vividly remember spending long periods of time sitting in the attic, right at the top of the steps, browing through all this old stuff.

These memories came back yesterday when Ed and I went to our new house. The workers haven't done anything for a week because of the heavy, steady rains we have been having. The ground is too muddy and soft to allow trucks to come in. The well, which was scheduled to be dug last week is still absent, and granite countertops are not there, the siding is noticeably missing, etc. But it was the first beautiful day in over a week, so we decided to drive to Hancock and take a look around the house.

We will have an attic when we move. Ed made sure to specify that the attic should be completely floored. Yesterday was a perfect time to see it, since we were there during daylight hours (the house has no electricity yet). We pulled the cord and down came the row of wooden steps. Going up wasn't a problem. I couldn't believe how large the attic was. It was the length and width of the house and completely floored. How exciting! What storage possibilities! What magical things will be stored in this mysterious place? Will our grandchildren consider it a place of treasures?

I can't quite make my way up and down the tiny steps as nimbly as I used to when I was a girl. But the enchantment of the attic for me has stayed intact and strong. Now my challenge is to balance the anticipation of having an attic again with the tiny warning in my brain reminding me it is dangerous to have too much available storage space when one's goal is to downsize!

You make me feel so young..uh, old

Living with my grandchildren, I have many opportunities to see the world through their eyes. I've heard that being around young kids can make you feel young. That's true, but the opposite is also true - kids can make you feel very old. Caroline, for instance, often reminds me of my infirmities, at least from her vantage point.

Last night at supper, she was not eating all of her carrots. As a rule, she likes carrots, but last night I think she was anxious for dessert, so it took a little coaxing from the rest of us to finish her meal.

"Carrots are good for your eyes," said Chris. "They help you see better!"
"Yeah," said Ed. "If you don't eat your carrots, you may end up looking like me - bald with glasses!"
At that, Caroline paused to take a close look at Ed. I'm not sure what was going through her head, but I knew she was trying to picture herself bald with glasses. Either that, or she was wondering how carrots got to be such a power broker in human transformation.

Later that night, I was helping give Caroline her bath. She told me she wanted more soap on her washcloth. I said I'd do it, but as I reached for the soap, she took it gently from me, looked up and said, "No, thank you. I'll do it. You can't see." She squeezed the liquid soap on her washcloth, then looked up again. "I have the goodest eyes in this house."

Of course, I realize Caroline thinks I am old, as I used to think all my elementary school teachers were old. But back then, all ladies of a certain age dressed "old." They wore clunky shoes and long dresses and jewelry and had their hair in buns. I really have no idea how old they actually were. But in the perspective of us second-graders, they were definitely old ladies.

This was my challenge when I became a grandmother. I think most Baby Boomers want to be a different kind of role model for "old ladies." Both my own grandmothers were elderly and frail by the time I was old enough to know them. They never wore shorts, or got down on the floor and lifted me up on their knees, or even chased me around the room. Even as I look in Caroline's books, all the grandmothers in the pictures are dumpy, dowdy, and wearing aprons.

Yes, my eyes are not what they used to be. I still get down on the floor with Caroline and Charlotte, but it takes a lot more effort to get back up. When I get home from my commute, I sometimes prefer to sit down for a while instead of playing with the doll house. But she accepts me all the same - with all my limitations as well as my strengths, most of the time with patience. Through it all, she can make me feel 5 years old one day and can make me feel 70 the next. I'm beginning to think the power is not in the carrots - it's really in Caroline.

Tubas

When my sister and I were children, our parents presented us with a record which taught us all the instruments of the orchestra. It even came with a miniature baton, just like the conductors used. Alas, my instrument knowledge went the way of my early geographic knowledge, and even after years spent at the Auditorium in Memphis listening to the Memphis Symphony Orchestra, I still cannot identify many of the instruments. The only instruments I play, of course, are the Celtic harp, piano, and organ. I flunked guitar lessons. Does the kazoo count?

At any rate, on my long commutes to work these days I am listening to my favorite Christmas CDs. One of my favorites is recorded by a brass band. I love listening to brass. The music reminds me of football games and Christmas carols. As I enjoyed my CD this morning, I realized that my brain was tuning in on the tubas. That is rather strange. I'm a soprano, and one would think I would be more attuned to the trumpet, for instance. I have never played a tuba and have never known anyone who did. The rest of my commute was spent in contemplation. Why was the tuba resonating with me?

The tuba is the foundation of every song on that CD. It keeps the beat, keeps all the other instruments in place. It's firm, solid, dependable. It may not be a romantic instrument, but it is certainly the rock of the orchestra. Its notes aren't fancy. It's not a show-off type of horn. But it's there when you need it. No surprises. Just a firm, steady beat. I can anticipate each note even before it is played, because it's usually a predictable sequence.

I concluded that I am probably being drawn to the tuba these days because my life otherwise is so up in the air. I've heard people complain about being in a rut - how uninspired, how depressing. I long for a rut! I long for the steady beat of the tuba, counting in a dependable rhythm, undergirding all my activities. As comfortable as our temporary quarters are in Rachel's basement (thanks, Chris, for finishing up our bathroom!), I still yearn for drawers instead of Rubbermaid containers, a desk instead of an underbed box, and a place to call home. I long for rut and routine!

Routine boring? I've never understood that. How could I possibly be bored? I have so many interests that I will never have enough time to fulfill them. Too many books, too much fabric, too many patterns, too many places to visit, too many sites to see on the Internet, too much music, too much learning!

No, all I want is to be settled and organized. I want to know where my clothes are. I want to play my harp again. I want to finish my quilts. I want to have all my stuff on shelves that are low enough for me to reach. I want that foundation, that rhythm of life that supports everything around me. Nothing fancy, no bells and whistles. Just a nice, firm beat that I can count on.

Mozart's critics said he had "too many notes." It can also be that way in life. There's something to be said for monotony.

Grammy Tales

3-year-old Caroline was pensive while she was enjoying her bath.
"Grammy," she said, looking up at me, "you're an old lady."
Taken slightly aback, I paused, then agreed, somewhat jokingly.
Caroline continued. "And you're gonna die. But not for a long time."
She sighed. "I will miss you."

Another time she told her mother she wanted to go to a site on the internet and order something online and have it sent to her by Fed-Ex.

At least that's what I think Rachel told me. Of course, I might not remember it exactly right. I am an old lady, after all...

Perspective

When I was in 7th grade, I had to take a class in art. It was a completely new experience for me. This course was only half a year, and it was required (a situation that usually aggravates my usually hidden stubborn side), and on top of that, music was my passion, and I didn't really see art as a useful skill. Mr. Tatum opened my world to new ideas.

In one of our first assignments, Mr. Tatum showed us a picture of a street. "Look at the telephone poles," he said. "See how, as your eyes are drawn down the road, the poles get shorter and closer together. This is perspective."

Wow! That was something I had never noticed before. He taught me to appreciate how perspective can take a flat surface and transform it into depth and shadows and distance. It was the same piece of paper, but the artist's skill changes the picture entirely. That lesson has remained with me since.

I took the above picture today. Ed and I were visiting the new house site, so we parked the Liberty and walked around. What you see here is our new basement. I laughed when I saw the photo, because the distortion in the picture makes the car almost look like a toy standing on the hill. The perspective is askew.

My goal for this time of transition is to keep my sense of perspective. We have so many phrases to interpret this idea that it has become almost trite. "Don't sweat the small stuff." "Choose your battles." "Consider the glass half full." A step back to check perspective is the only way we will be able to handle all the frustrations and hassles that will inevitably overtake us in the next few weeks. It's not easy to move in with our adult kids. It's not easy to live out of boxes. It's not easy to walk around on tiptoe to avoiding waking the baby. It's not easy adjusting to a 45-minute commute. It's especially not easy to cultivate patience when all we want to do is get settled in our new house.

Perspective tells a different story. All this is temporary. And in this temporary waiting period, I have found the joy. What can compare to little Charlotte falling asleep in my arms? What can hold a candle to hearing Caroline spell "stone"? What could possibly surpass our warm bed and delicious meals from Rachel? The funny story from Chris about setting off the car alarm and not being able to turn it off? All these experiences and more we would have missed had we been able to move directly into our new house. A simple change in perspective transforms impatience into contentment.

It's a powerful lesson from a little 7th-grade art class.

Intermission

One of my favorite bumper stickers reads: "Life is not a dress rehearsal." In that case, we are smack dab in the middle of an extraordinary play in progress. I know the plot outline, but the actors always are prone to improvisation and there's no telling how the play will end.

In case you came in late to the show, the previous act related the drama of selling a Queen Anne Victorian in Maine. By the end of the act, the house was indeed sold, and the curtain came down as one family tenderly said goodbye and another family took their place. Compelling drama has always made effective use of entrances and exits.

We are now officially homeless - that is, we have no address. Our Victorian changed hands yesterday, and so I told our daughter Rachel, with whom we live now until our new house is ready, that we are completely dependent on her and her husband for sustenance, shelter, and showers.

As hard as it is for me to believe, some people actually never get attached to their houses. They can stay one month or ten years - and they never feel sad about leaving. My supervisor is like that. When she left her house of twenty years or so, I considered taking a beautiful photo of her house and having it framed for her. I had the foresight to quiz her as to her emotions, and boy, was I glad. I learned she couldn't care less about leaving her home, and I had to find a more suitable gift.

I, on the other hand, have plenty of pictures of our lovely Victorian. I took pictures from the first time I saw it. In the twelve ensuing years, I have taken many, many more. I've been blogging for almost two years about it, since it is an integral part of our attempt to downsize and simplify.

Rachel and Matt tried to remind me that it wasn't the house so much as it was the memories that I didn't want to lose. In a way, that is true, but the hard part is that the house has interwoven itself with our memories in such a way that it would be as difficult to separate them as it would be to separate the threads in a blanket. The house will live in our collective memory with plenty of photographs to refresh that memory, for the years will pass and the memory will fade of what color the trim was, or what the pattern in the stairway runner looked like. The important things will always be carried in our hearts.

I can't complain. The family who bought our house fell in love with it, too, so they will take good care of it and change things about it to suit them. That's as it should be. For a couple of months, that family shared the stage with us in a scene, then left to continue their own play. Meanwhile, the curtain drops and we are preparing for the next act. It promises to contain all the excitement, laughter, and - yes - melancholy that are always the staple ingredients for this play we call life. Don't even think of getting up and leaving the theater; I hear the next act will be a doozy.