I get tickled when I hear about people wanting to seek their “fame and fortune.” The fortune part is fine (although that brings with it a lot of problems, too) but fame? No thanks!
On the TV show TLC’s “What Not to Wear,” the fashion advisors lament the fact that they see so many young women dressing as if to fade into the woodwork, looking as if they want to just be invisible. So what’s wrong with that? Some days I just run some errands and hope I don’t see anybody I know because I look like a total mess. Of course, I wouldn’t want to live my whole life that way, but occasionally it’s just reality.
As the news junkie I am, I enjoyed watching all the reports and commentary leading up to President Obama’s election. I remember one reporter saying that he didn’t think the reality had yet set in for Mr. Obama that he can no longer remain anonymous. He can no longer blend in. He can never again run to Burger King for a quick lunch, pop into the store to buy underwear, head over to 7/11 for a Coke. Once he became world-famous, life as he knew it once was essentially over.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a celebrity. Famous people say that some parts of it are horrible. Can you imagine not being able to leave your house without photographers waiting to snap your picture? Some paparazzi even specialize in securing photographs of celebrities that reveal the stars' cellulite or wrinkles or paunches or bad hair days or faces without makeup. Every pound the celebrity loses or gains is news. In addition to invasion of privacy in the physical sense, if you’re rich enough and famous enough, and have children, you have to worry about the possibility of kidnapping. Finally, everything embarrassing thing you’ve ever done (or will do) in your life is up for grabs as tabloid fodder. Past and current acquaintances (and nasty competitors) are always willing to sell your humiliation for a price, and photographers are waiting in line to catch you in a misstep.
Of course, with your life an open book, you'd better practice what you preach. Can you imagine the publicity and embarrassment if you were Oprah, just having talked in public about your struggle to lose weight, and you were seen eating a Quarter Pounder? We've seen politicians pleading for morality being caught in affairs and televangelists preaching against fornication ending up with prostitutes. Sports heroes bemoan steroid use and then fail their own drug test. In regular life, if we slip up, we hope it's a private thing, or at least limited to our community, depending on how well known we are. On the other hand, if you're famous, all bets are off.
Some famous people didn’t start out with a desire to be famous. They just wanted to act or sing or play an instrument and be one of the best. Fame appeared as a byproduct. Others wanted to be stars from early on in their lives. Regardless of how it arrived, fame is another one of those curses/blessings that I’m glad I don’t have to deal with. If you occasionally look as bad as I look sometimes leaving the house, you ought to be thankful, too!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Friday, May 01, 2009
The 3 D's
My almost-86-year-old mother was recently diagnosed with macular degeneration. Being a medical transcriptionist, I had to immediately research the disease to learn more about it, as curiosity is one of an MT’s great assets. Here is a quote from emedicinehealth’s web site:
That certainly made me think. As a Baby Boomer, I’ve read lots of insightful articles on whether our out-of-control healthcare system in this country can accommodate the great numbers of our age group who are going to be laden with diseases of old age. What? Did we really believe we could scientifically add years to our lives with no downside? In spite of health advances enabling most people to live to a ripe old age, unfortunately the medical knowledge has not found cures for all the diseases of a ripe old age. It’s the old gift/curse syndrome.
I, like a lot of people, I suppose, have spent a great deal of time wondering at what age I will die, but even more than that, I yearn for healthy, active, independent, and productive years leading up to that time. (OK, Rachel, I know this freaks you out, so you can quit reading now...) Everyone wants to live a long life, but more and more we are thinking about what constitutes a healthy one. We grow old, blessed with the increased years longevity gives us, cursed with the 3 D’s - disease, decline, and degeneration - that accompany those extra years. At some point, your body just can’t handle it anymore. When I was pregnant with Matthew 26 years ago, my maternal grandfather died. I don’t remember the exact age Paw-Paw was at the time, but he was old and had lived a long and productive life, and at one point, all his friends were gone, and his body just got worn out and he was just tired and ready to go. They say each of us is actually dying from the moment we are born - that natural process is put into action even while cells are growing and multiplying. Eventually the “shelf life” of our body parts is limited. We are not meant to live forever as physical beings.
Fortunately in my mom's case, her car accident, although it set her back physically, did nothing to impair her mentally, and she is as sharp as ever. Damage to the neuro and brain system (such as dementia or stroke) is probably one of the most prevalent fears of Baby Boomers. We can handle aches and pains and other signs of wear and tear, but we want to be able to recognize our family members.
Because we are discovering so much about how good food and exercise and decreased stress are all so integral to our health, it does make me regret a lot of choices I made in the past, and makes me wonder how much time I have left to implement habits that will preserve my health as I age. I remember my mom always saying, “If you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.” As with most of her maxims, I can appreciate its wisdom the older I get.
Age-related macular degeneration is the leading cause of legal blindness in people older than 55 years in the United States. Age-related macular degeneration affects more than 1.75 million individuals in the United States. Owing to the rapid aging of the U.S. population, this number is expected to increase to almost 3 million by 2020. Because overall life expectancy continues to increase, age-related macular degeneration has become a major public-health concern.
That certainly made me think. As a Baby Boomer, I’ve read lots of insightful articles on whether our out-of-control healthcare system in this country can accommodate the great numbers of our age group who are going to be laden with diseases of old age. What? Did we really believe we could scientifically add years to our lives with no downside? In spite of health advances enabling most people to live to a ripe old age, unfortunately the medical knowledge has not found cures for all the diseases of a ripe old age. It’s the old gift/curse syndrome.
I, like a lot of people, I suppose, have spent a great deal of time wondering at what age I will die, but even more than that, I yearn for healthy, active, independent, and productive years leading up to that time. (OK, Rachel, I know this freaks you out, so you can quit reading now...) Everyone wants to live a long life, but more and more we are thinking about what constitutes a healthy one. We grow old, blessed with the increased years longevity gives us, cursed with the 3 D’s - disease, decline, and degeneration - that accompany those extra years. At some point, your body just can’t handle it anymore. When I was pregnant with Matthew 26 years ago, my maternal grandfather died. I don’t remember the exact age Paw-Paw was at the time, but he was old and had lived a long and productive life, and at one point, all his friends were gone, and his body just got worn out and he was just tired and ready to go. They say each of us is actually dying from the moment we are born - that natural process is put into action even while cells are growing and multiplying. Eventually the “shelf life” of our body parts is limited. We are not meant to live forever as physical beings.
Fortunately in my mom's case, her car accident, although it set her back physically, did nothing to impair her mentally, and she is as sharp as ever. Damage to the neuro and brain system (such as dementia or stroke) is probably one of the most prevalent fears of Baby Boomers. We can handle aches and pains and other signs of wear and tear, but we want to be able to recognize our family members.
Because we are discovering so much about how good food and exercise and decreased stress are all so integral to our health, it does make me regret a lot of choices I made in the past, and makes me wonder how much time I have left to implement habits that will preserve my health as I age. I remember my mom always saying, “If you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.” As with most of her maxims, I can appreciate its wisdom the older I get.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Worms and Pears - All about timing
“The early bird gets the worm.” I don’t know about you, but I heard that piece of wisdom many times growing up, probably when Mama was trying to coax me out of bed. In spite of its being, well, a little unappetizing for me, it always seemed to be a straightforward proverbial gem. First come, first served. Early to bed, early to rise. Get there early, be first in line. That sort of thing.
As I got older, I started to rethink my interpretation. I don’t think it is meant to glorify the state of being early as it does timeliness. Being at the right place at the right time. For birds, that may indeed be early, assuming there are a limited number of worms available and every other bird is out for as many as they can catch. And that makes sense - for birds. For humans, it’s a bit more complex. Good timing can be due to lots of things, including planning and just plain good luck. Some timing is in our control. For instance, in 1994 when we decided to move from Maine to Tennessee, we sat down and figured out when the perfect timing would be. We decided to wait until 1996 when our oldest, Rachel, had graduated from high school. Her brother, Matt, would be 13 at the time, finishing 7th grade. We figured we could move to Maine in June 1996, and that fall, Rachel could start college, and Matt could have a year in junior high to make friends before he moved on to high school. It worked out well.
On the other hand, there are places in life we gamble about timing. Who hasn’t wished for a life rewind button when stocks plummeted last year and beyond? I imagine there are some lucky or smart people who managed to buy low and sell high, but for most of us, it was and is a total gamble. I try to time my gasoline fill-ups to coincide with the lowest price, but sometimes I wait too late and the price has gone up again. Only recently being able to fly, I am novice at buying airline tickets, and hope that I wait late enough to see if the price goes down, but not too late to get the flight I want, or, heaven forbid, the price goes up.
I recently had three completely different timing experiences with fruits. I bought a mini-watermelon a week ago. I know - way too early for ripe watermelons, especially in Maine, but I was lucky; it was bright red, juicy and delicious. I decided to press my luck, and got another mini-melon from the same store a week later. Inedible. I could hardly remove the fork once it was in it. Then we bought some pears, brought them home and put them in a paper bag to ripen. Ed announced they were ready yesterday - and they were the most perfect pears I have ever eaten! We timed it exactly right.
The best piece of wisdom we have ever heard about eating food is this: “Choose foods that spoil. Eat them before they spoil.” It’s all about choice and timing. You know the foods that can spoil are the best for you - fresh, unprocessed, and full of vitamins and minerals. The catch is on the timing part. You have to try to eat them right at the peak of ripeness and flavor for that particular food. Sometimes, as I said, it takes instinct, planning and sometimes it’s just luck. (As much as I recall my grandfather thumping melons at roadside fruit stands, they say that’s not a good indicator of a good melon.) It’s so disappointing to taste a fruit or vegetable and discovering that it’s not ripe or one that is past its prime. It’s also frustrating to buy fresh produce and forget to prepare it before it is spoiled. But those days you bite into The Perfect Pear of Ecstasy, it makes it all worthwhile. “Choose foods that spoil, and eat them before they spoil.” Welcome spring - the race is on!
As I got older, I started to rethink my interpretation. I don’t think it is meant to glorify the state of being early as it does timeliness. Being at the right place at the right time. For birds, that may indeed be early, assuming there are a limited number of worms available and every other bird is out for as many as they can catch. And that makes sense - for birds. For humans, it’s a bit more complex. Good timing can be due to lots of things, including planning and just plain good luck. Some timing is in our control. For instance, in 1994 when we decided to move from Maine to Tennessee, we sat down and figured out when the perfect timing would be. We decided to wait until 1996 when our oldest, Rachel, had graduated from high school. Her brother, Matt, would be 13 at the time, finishing 7th grade. We figured we could move to Maine in June 1996, and that fall, Rachel could start college, and Matt could have a year in junior high to make friends before he moved on to high school. It worked out well.
On the other hand, there are places in life we gamble about timing. Who hasn’t wished for a life rewind button when stocks plummeted last year and beyond? I imagine there are some lucky or smart people who managed to buy low and sell high, but for most of us, it was and is a total gamble. I try to time my gasoline fill-ups to coincide with the lowest price, but sometimes I wait too late and the price has gone up again. Only recently being able to fly, I am novice at buying airline tickets, and hope that I wait late enough to see if the price goes down, but not too late to get the flight I want, or, heaven forbid, the price goes up.
I recently had three completely different timing experiences with fruits. I bought a mini-watermelon a week ago. I know - way too early for ripe watermelons, especially in Maine, but I was lucky; it was bright red, juicy and delicious. I decided to press my luck, and got another mini-melon from the same store a week later. Inedible. I could hardly remove the fork once it was in it. Then we bought some pears, brought them home and put them in a paper bag to ripen. Ed announced they were ready yesterday - and they were the most perfect pears I have ever eaten! We timed it exactly right.
The best piece of wisdom we have ever heard about eating food is this: “Choose foods that spoil. Eat them before they spoil.” It’s all about choice and timing. You know the foods that can spoil are the best for you - fresh, unprocessed, and full of vitamins and minerals. The catch is on the timing part. You have to try to eat them right at the peak of ripeness and flavor for that particular food. Sometimes, as I said, it takes instinct, planning and sometimes it’s just luck. (As much as I recall my grandfather thumping melons at roadside fruit stands, they say that’s not a good indicator of a good melon.) It’s so disappointing to taste a fruit or vegetable and discovering that it’s not ripe or one that is past its prime. It’s also frustrating to buy fresh produce and forget to prepare it before it is spoiled. But those days you bite into The Perfect Pear of Ecstasy, it makes it all worthwhile. “Choose foods that spoil, and eat them before they spoil.” Welcome spring - the race is on!
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Good Life, 2009
One of our goals in downsizing and simplifying is that elusive status of “the good life.” A description of that, of course, varies from person to person. In fact, through my life, I have lived many “good lives” and many not so good. Sometimes I was living “the good life” and “the bad life” at the same time. But generally, these days, I consider the good life for Ed and me to include these things: The basics of family, friends, health, reliable transportation, secure employment and income, sustainable food-shelter-clothing. To those necessities of life in America, I would add the extra things that add joy and pleasure to our lives: Internet access, a dog, books, music, a digital camera, quilting and other creative opportunities. I have to include a cozy fire in the wood stove during the winter; one of Ed’s home-cooked meals; the serendipity of seeing a deer, owl, wild turkey, or moose; a neighborhood walk on a sunny spring day; the first snowfall of the season; the gorgeous autumn foliage, going through my “past box” and reminiscing. Then there are the real intangibles: Hearing from old friends, celebrating weddings and births, watching my grandchildren play, learning something new about myself, laughter, enjoying what I do for a living, teaching a skill to someone, doing a good deed, giving to charity, or watching another person discover his/her passion.
My favorite magazine these days is Experience Life. If I could afford it, I would buy a subscription for each person I know. If you are interested in a richer, healthier, more sustainable and happy life, I highly recommend reading it on a regular basis. There is an article in this month’s issue called "The Better Good Life: An Essay on Personal Sustainability," written by Pilar Gerasimo (Editor-in-Chief of the magazine). Here is an excerpt:
The article is way too long to quote here, but Ms. Gerasimo talks about the times (encompassing all areas of our lives) when we choose short-term satisfaction over long-term goals, not considering how our choices will affect our own lives as well as those sharing this planet with us. She reports that as the Gross Domestic Product has tripled over 54 years, our Genuine Progress Indicator (the environmental and social effects, including happiness), has not gained much, and that gap between the two is widening.
She ends the article with 3 questions to ask ourselves:
1. Given the option, would I do or choose this again? Would I do it indefinitely?
2. How long can I keep this up, and at what cost - not just to me, but to the other people and systems I care about?
3. What have I sacrificed to get here; what will it take for me to continue? Are the rewards worth it, even if the other areas of my life suffer?
It all comes down to your interpretation of “the good life.” Considering the impact our life choices have on ourselves and those around us, they are questions I guess we need to continue asking throughout our journey. Happy Earth Day, April 22nd!
My favorite magazine these days is Experience Life. If I could afford it, I would buy a subscription for each person I know. If you are interested in a richer, healthier, more sustainable and happy life, I highly recommend reading it on a regular basis. There is an article in this month’s issue called "The Better Good Life: An Essay on Personal Sustainability," written by Pilar Gerasimo (Editor-in-Chief of the magazine). Here is an excerpt:
So, what exactly is a “good life”?,,,We’d prefer a life that feels good in the moment, but that also lays the ground for a promising future - a life, like the cherry tree’s, that contributes something of value and that benefits and enriches the lives of others, or at least doesn’t cause them anxiety and harm. Unfortunately, historically, our pursuit of the good life has focused on increasing our material wealth and upgrading our socioeconomic status in the short term. And, in the big picture, that approach has not turned out quite the way we might have hoped.
For too many, the current version of “the good life” involves working too-long hours and driving too-long commutes. It has us worrying and running ourselves ragged, overeating to soothe ourselves, watching TV to distract ourselves, binge-shopping to sate our desire for more, and popping prescription pills to keep troubling symptoms at bay. This version of “the good life” has given us only moments a day with the people we love, and virtually no time or inclination to participate as citizens or community members.
It has also given us anxiety attacks; obesity; depression; traffic jams; urban sprawl; crushing daycare bills; a broken healthcare system; record rates of addiction, divorce, and incarceration; an imploding economy; and a planet in peril.
From an economic standpoint, we’re more productive than we’ve ever been. We’ve focused on getting more done in less time. We’ve surrounded ourselves with technologies designed to make our lives easier, more comfortable, and more amusing.
Yet, instead of making us happy and healthy, all this has left a great many of us feeling depleted, lonely, strapped, stressed, and resentful. We don’t have enough time for ourselves, our loved ones, our creative aspirations, or our communities.
The article is way too long to quote here, but Ms. Gerasimo talks about the times (encompassing all areas of our lives) when we choose short-term satisfaction over long-term goals, not considering how our choices will affect our own lives as well as those sharing this planet with us. She reports that as the Gross Domestic Product has tripled over 54 years, our Genuine Progress Indicator (the environmental and social effects, including happiness), has not gained much, and that gap between the two is widening.
She ends the article with 3 questions to ask ourselves:
1. Given the option, would I do or choose this again? Would I do it indefinitely?
2. How long can I keep this up, and at what cost - not just to me, but to the other people and systems I care about?
3. What have I sacrificed to get here; what will it take for me to continue? Are the rewards worth it, even if the other areas of my life suffer?
It all comes down to your interpretation of “the good life.” Considering the impact our life choices have on ourselves and those around us, they are questions I guess we need to continue asking throughout our journey. Happy Earth Day, April 22nd!
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Let's Face It
I consider myself relatively computer literate. I mean, I know how to create a blog and post and edit. I can work with and manipulate digital pictures. I work at home on a Mac and at the hospital on a PC. I send and receive e-mail and can pay bills online and shop online and order pictures to be printed off at my local Walgreen’s. But heaven help me - today I joined Facebook and I am drowning in technological awe. I bow down to those who can navigate that alien world.
My husband Ed was kind of scared of letting me put more personal information out there on the Internet - but, of course, Ed is scared of everything technological. I was so excited the day when he actually learned how to turn our computer on. I was doubly excited when he could click on the Safari icon, and triply excited when he could even look up a bookmark I had saved for him and go to his chosen site. Hmmm...I should probably never have shown him how to put items in a cart, but he still has to come get me in order to check out. There are some things he never needs to learn.
Anyway, under Rachel’s encouragement, I joined Facebook tonight. I thought that all I had to do was sign up and then I could look around. I was wrong. Facebook had me click on this, click on that, then gave me a list of people it figured I knew. Some were familiar - my kids and their spouses, a few friends - but some I never even heard of. I thought Facebook was asking me if I wanted to go see their profiles, so I started clicking away. Before I could say, “Yikes!” I realized that e-mails were being sent to all these people to confirm I was their “friend.” Afterward, I tried to remember on whom I had clicked. Would they even know who I was? Was there someone somewhere who gets this confirmation e-mail and thinks, “Who the heck is THAT?”
Next, I had to take a picture of myself. It’s not my favorite thing to do - in fact, I avoid it religiously - but that generic silhouette up at the top of my profile looked kind of weird. I have a built-in camera in my iMac, but my computer is in my messy sewing room/office and I don’t have good lighting, and the background is always cluttered. Enough excuses - I did some more clicking and got my photo up there.
Oh, look - I have a message on the screen! It says my daughter deigns to be my “friend.” Oh, the excitement! I must reply! But I have no idea how. I can’t see a “reply” button. I don’t know all these terms - what’s a wall? Wall-to-wall? It’s all so intimidating. And to think even kids in elementary school can do this.
It isn’t long before I realize that a person could spend HOURS on this site. I’m on a journey to simplicity - I don’t have HOURS to spend. I barely find the time to blog once a week or so. Fortunately, Facebook didn’t have me click on a button which made me promise to check in 30 times a day. At least I don’t think I clicked on that button. Who knows? I was pretty extravagant with that mouse trying to set all this stuff up.
Technology is the insidious beast on many a Road to Simplicity. First it pleasantly surprises you, then leaves for a bit and you get back to your other duties and relationships. The next thing you know, it starts walking with you more frequently until one day, you realize you’re palling around with technology so much on the Road that you have lost track of time and have missed some beautiful scenery.
Ed says every blessing has a curse, and every curse a blessing. That’s certainly true of technology. Joining Facebook? Intriguing and free. Being able to check my e-mail and see a picture of my precious granddaughters? Priceless! I think I’ll be thankful for technology, and I’ll accept it on my journey to simplicity. I just need to remember to use it as one of many tools to make my life richer and make the walk a little more pleasant. As long as it stays in its proper place, I will enjoy the company.
Now....what the heck is wall-to-wall????
My husband Ed was kind of scared of letting me put more personal information out there on the Internet - but, of course, Ed is scared of everything technological. I was so excited the day when he actually learned how to turn our computer on. I was doubly excited when he could click on the Safari icon, and triply excited when he could even look up a bookmark I had saved for him and go to his chosen site. Hmmm...I should probably never have shown him how to put items in a cart, but he still has to come get me in order to check out. There are some things he never needs to learn.
Anyway, under Rachel’s encouragement, I joined Facebook tonight. I thought that all I had to do was sign up and then I could look around. I was wrong. Facebook had me click on this, click on that, then gave me a list of people it figured I knew. Some were familiar - my kids and their spouses, a few friends - but some I never even heard of. I thought Facebook was asking me if I wanted to go see their profiles, so I started clicking away. Before I could say, “Yikes!” I realized that e-mails were being sent to all these people to confirm I was their “friend.” Afterward, I tried to remember on whom I had clicked. Would they even know who I was? Was there someone somewhere who gets this confirmation e-mail and thinks, “Who the heck is THAT?”
Next, I had to take a picture of myself. It’s not my favorite thing to do - in fact, I avoid it religiously - but that generic silhouette up at the top of my profile looked kind of weird. I have a built-in camera in my iMac, but my computer is in my messy sewing room/office and I don’t have good lighting, and the background is always cluttered. Enough excuses - I did some more clicking and got my photo up there.
Oh, look - I have a message on the screen! It says my daughter deigns to be my “friend.” Oh, the excitement! I must reply! But I have no idea how. I can’t see a “reply” button. I don’t know all these terms - what’s a wall? Wall-to-wall? It’s all so intimidating. And to think even kids in elementary school can do this.
It isn’t long before I realize that a person could spend HOURS on this site. I’m on a journey to simplicity - I don’t have HOURS to spend. I barely find the time to blog once a week or so. Fortunately, Facebook didn’t have me click on a button which made me promise to check in 30 times a day. At least I don’t think I clicked on that button. Who knows? I was pretty extravagant with that mouse trying to set all this stuff up.
Technology is the insidious beast on many a Road to Simplicity. First it pleasantly surprises you, then leaves for a bit and you get back to your other duties and relationships. The next thing you know, it starts walking with you more frequently until one day, you realize you’re palling around with technology so much on the Road that you have lost track of time and have missed some beautiful scenery.
Ed says every blessing has a curse, and every curse a blessing. That’s certainly true of technology. Joining Facebook? Intriguing and free. Being able to check my e-mail and see a picture of my precious granddaughters? Priceless! I think I’ll be thankful for technology, and I’ll accept it on my journey to simplicity. I just need to remember to use it as one of many tools to make my life richer and make the walk a little more pleasant. As long as it stays in its proper place, I will enjoy the company.
Now....what the heck is wall-to-wall????
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Come on over to my house!
One of the most interesting things to do is watch the faces of children. They are so transparent. And, being kids once ourselves, we can empathize with whatever they are feeling.
At a family gathering last year, I think something happened that favored Charlotte for some reason, and my daughter-in-law, Sarah, started laughing because she was watching Caroline’s expression at that moment. Sarah, who grew up with a younger brother, said she knew that face, and knew that she herself had sported that expression many times growing up.
At another time a few days ago, I didn’t see Caroline’s expression because I wasn’t there, but I wish I could have seen it. She had a good friend from school over to her house. It sounds like they had a great time, playing, dressing up, making pizza, etc. When the girl’s father came to pick her up, the girl didn’t want to leave. Here is how 5-year-old Caroline described it in her blog:
I imagine Caroline was so proud - proud of her mom, who helped them make pizza, proud of her dad, who went out sledding with them (even if the branches were out to get him), proud of her sister, proud of her house and her toys, and especially I can imagine a satisfied smile on her face when her friend didn’t want to go home.
There’s a certain vulnerability in having a friend visit your home, especially when you are younger. My sister Joy and I grew up in a very small ranch house, all four of us using one tiny bathroom, Joy and I shared a bedroom, and the kitchen was so small that it was crowded with two people in it. Our toys were limited. We realized that a lot of our friends’ families were financially a lot more well off than we were. One of my friends named Debbie lived in a very fancy house in a neighborhood built around a beautiful lake (with ducks!), and when she showed me her attic, it was full of board games - just like a toy store - all the games I’d seen advertised on TV but never owned. She had two sisters and each child had her own room. It was so much fun spending time at her house!
But do you know what? I had an ever greater time when she came over to my house. I was never embarrassed that most of my toys weren't brand-name, or that I shared a room with my sister. I was always proud of my parents, too. I always considered them to be interesting and entertaining in their own right, just different enough from other parents to make them special. Our home movies (which is another thing none of my friends had) show Debbie and me at the Mid South Fair, just two friends, no distinctions, having a blast with my sister and my parents.
Yes, it’s vulnerable when as a kid you invite someone into the most personal of all spaces, your home. You are giving them an opportunity to judge your taste in decoration, your fight against clutter, the size of your living area, your financial status, your neighborhood, the kind of food you eat and how it is prepared, and especially your parents and siblings. I still thank my parents today for the fact that I was always excited to have a friend come visit - because I thought I lived in the most awesome family in the world. If I had any part in creating that same atmosphere for our kids as they grew up, I am content. (You’ll have to understand I’m in a reminiscent mood, as my “baby” Matthew turns 26 years old today! Happy birthday, Matt!)
At a family gathering last year, I think something happened that favored Charlotte for some reason, and my daughter-in-law, Sarah, started laughing because she was watching Caroline’s expression at that moment. Sarah, who grew up with a younger brother, said she knew that face, and knew that she herself had sported that expression many times growing up.
At another time a few days ago, I didn’t see Caroline’s expression because I wasn’t there, but I wish I could have seen it. She had a good friend from school over to her house. It sounds like they had a great time, playing, dressing up, making pizza, etc. When the girl’s father came to pick her up, the girl didn’t want to leave. Here is how 5-year-old Caroline described it in her blog:
Once upon a time when I was five, my best friend Judy came over. The first thing we did was go into my closet and wear some costumes. I wore Big Bird, and Judy, my best friend, wore the bear costume - Bear in the Big Blue House. I loved that. We danced around and soon I wore Bear in the Big Blue House and Judy didn't wear any other costume.
Judy and I had lots of fun after that, Then we made pizzas. Then when the pizzas were finished, my mom put them in the oven. While we were waiting, we jumped in the bouncy house. Then Mama said, "Lunch time! Lunch is ready!" And Judy and I went up to have our pizzas. They were certainly yummy! And I loved them! And Judy did, too.
Then after lunch, we went sledding. After a few sleds, I was on my belly holding onto the handle bars of one sled. When I was almost to the bottom of the hill, my face slammed down onto the sled. One of my top teeth came very loose, and my gum was bleeding. It hurt really bad.
Then I went inside and had a popsicle. Judy did, too. Judy made me feel a lot better since she's my best friend. When Judy finished her popsicle, she wanted to go back outside again.
I said, "Okay, but I'm not going outside, but I'm not going outside, because I don't feel well enough to go outside."
Then Daddy said, "Why don't you go outside and watch?"
I said, "Okay, but I'm not sledding."
I went outside and watched for a while. Then my Daddy came outside and tried sleds on two way bigger hills. There were branches, and my Daddy almost got blind.
Just then, Judy's dad came in his truck. When the truck pulled in, Judy faced backward away from the truck and folded her arms across her chest.
Then when her Daddy said, "Come on, Judy!", Judy said, "I'm not leaving," still with her arms folded across her chest, but she had turned back facing her Daddy now.
"Yes you are," said Judy's dad, and they went on arguing back and forth, back and forth, until Judy went away. But Judy forgot her shoes. My Daddy waved went out and waved them at the truck. He brought them to the truck, and Judy was happy.
I imagine Caroline was so proud - proud of her mom, who helped them make pizza, proud of her dad, who went out sledding with them (even if the branches were out to get him), proud of her sister, proud of her house and her toys, and especially I can imagine a satisfied smile on her face when her friend didn’t want to go home.
There’s a certain vulnerability in having a friend visit your home, especially when you are younger. My sister Joy and I grew up in a very small ranch house, all four of us using one tiny bathroom, Joy and I shared a bedroom, and the kitchen was so small that it was crowded with two people in it. Our toys were limited. We realized that a lot of our friends’ families were financially a lot more well off than we were. One of my friends named Debbie lived in a very fancy house in a neighborhood built around a beautiful lake (with ducks!), and when she showed me her attic, it was full of board games - just like a toy store - all the games I’d seen advertised on TV but never owned. She had two sisters and each child had her own room. It was so much fun spending time at her house!
But do you know what? I had an ever greater time when she came over to my house. I was never embarrassed that most of my toys weren't brand-name, or that I shared a room with my sister. I was always proud of my parents, too. I always considered them to be interesting and entertaining in their own right, just different enough from other parents to make them special. Our home movies (which is another thing none of my friends had) show Debbie and me at the Mid South Fair, just two friends, no distinctions, having a blast with my sister and my parents.
Yes, it’s vulnerable when as a kid you invite someone into the most personal of all spaces, your home. You are giving them an opportunity to judge your taste in decoration, your fight against clutter, the size of your living area, your financial status, your neighborhood, the kind of food you eat and how it is prepared, and especially your parents and siblings. I still thank my parents today for the fact that I was always excited to have a friend come visit - because I thought I lived in the most awesome family in the world. If I had any part in creating that same atmosphere for our kids as they grew up, I am content. (You’ll have to understand I’m in a reminiscent mood, as my “baby” Matthew turns 26 years old today! Happy birthday, Matt!)
Thursday, March 19, 2009
We Are There
If you had asked me any day in the last 2 weeks what my evening plans were, I would have said, “I hope they finally drop The Bomb.” Before you send me to the mental hospital for a long overdue checkup, I must explain: Ed and I are in the middle of the book Truman by David McCullough.
I am a great lover of history, and know more American history than world history, but still I knew precious few things about Truman before we started the book. The main thing I knew, of course, was that he made the decision to drop the first atomic bomb. Events in the book are escalating toward that end, but we’re not quite there yet. For some reason, I want to get that part over and get on with it. It was an event of such magnitude, a decision of “no turning back,” a tragedy of enormous proportions, a military decision over which some people agonized and about which some people never thought twice. It is uncomfortable to read about over half a century later.
McCullough is an award-winning writer, and his talents have drawn us into the story. We are right there when Truman campaigns, when his opponents denigrate his naivete and humble beginnings, when he marries his childhood sweetheart, when he is elected to the Senate, then the Vice Presidency, and finally “inherits” the top office when Franklin D. Roosevelt dies. We are right there in the room when he is talking to Churchill and Stalin. And we will be right there when The Bomb is dropped.
One of the reasons some people hate history (and I love it) is that the reader already knows what is going to happen. That takes the fun out of reading for a lot of folks. It’s similar to the year we had no TV and had our daughter tape the Super Bowl for us, and we watched it a week later, all the time knowing who had won - that was indeed not as exciting as watching it in real time. So what if we know that Truman will take over when Roosevelt dies? There are still questions - how did he find out? What was his reaction? How did he deal with the transition? How did it change his family life? How did he cope with being suddenly thrust on the world stage at a pivotal moment in history?
I approach history differently than some. I like the fact that the word “story” is included in the word history, because that is exactly what it is - Lincoln’s story, Truman’s story, your story, my story. So far, science has not unraveled the possibilities of time travel, so this is the closest we will come, it appears. If you can find a good story - and a good storyteller to impart it - well, that’s one of life’s pleasures.
I just want them to drop The Bomb soon, so I can get over this horrible feeling of knowing something dreadful is about to happen. It’s one thing to read in textbooks the dry scenario of facts; it’s another to be right in the middle of everything as it unfolds minute by minute, with all the accompanying angst and foreboding that a good writer can muster.
The main thing I learned from reading history aloud to Ed is that all of our personal life stories have meaning and are worth telling - not just those of famous people. The other thing I learned is that my being in the medical field does strange things to reading aloud - and it’s frustrating when Truman is in important secret communication with Roosevelt and “statin.”
Friday, March 06, 2009
A Different World
I was once asked if I ever had my grandchildren in mind when I blogged, sort of creating a legacy for them into Grammy’s mind that they can enjoy as they get older. Yes, I do think that’s a part of this endeavor. And lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how my world as a child differed from their world as children - and how the journey to simplicity will in some ways be easier for them and in some ways much, much harder.
To Caroline (5) and Charlotte (3):
When I was a little girl, things were different than the lives you are living now. Take the telephone, for instance. We only had one telephone, and it was hooked by a cord to the wall. I had to stand by the phone and talk. I couldn’t move around, I couldn’t talk from the bedroom or bathroom, or talk sitting on the couch, relaxing. I had to stay right by the wall, and could go only as far as that cord would reach. There was no way to go in another room and talk privately. Everyone could hear the conversation. The telephone had what’s called a rotary dial instead of a keypad. This meant that instead of punching the number buttons, I had to stick my finger in a little hole, hold it down in the hole, and turn the circle dial until it turned all the way, then release my finger from the hole and let the circle dial rotate back around again. I had to do that for every single number!
Oh, and we didn’t have cell phones either. I couldn’t call anybody from the car, the grocery store, or the restaurant. There was nothing like a phone with a camera built in, and there was certainly no text messaging. On top of that, we had no answering machine! Can you imagine that? If someone called and we weren’t home, they would just have to call back later!
We had TV, but it was not in color; it was black and white. There was no such thing as cable or satellite, so we could only get 4 channels. Guess what - there was no remote, either! To change the channel or volume, I had to actually get up from the chair, walk to the TV, and turn another dial, then go sit back down.
We couldn’t record a TV show if we were going to miss it or wanted to see it again. There were no such things as VCRs or DVDs. To see a movie, we had to go to the movie theater, which is something we couldn’t afford to do very often. Occasionally the TV stations would play a movie, but they weren’t new ones. To see The Wizard of Oz, for instance, we had to wait all year until the TV station decided to play it. Can you imagine having to wait a whole year to see your favorite DVD?
We didn’t have a clothes dryer, either. We had a washing machine, but how do you think we dried our clothes after they were washed? Have you ever heard of a clothesline? It consisted of two poles several feet apart, and in between the poles were a few wires stretched all the way from one pole to the other, and it stood in the backyard. We would take the wet clothes in a basket and stand at the clothesline and use things called “clothespins” to attach each piece of clothing (or towels, sheets, etc.) to the wires. Depending on the weather, the clothes would be dry in a couple of hours or maybe longer, and we’d take the empty basket into the backyard and remove the items from the clothesline and take them back in the house. The clothesline was directly under some trees, so guess what we found on some of the clothes? Bird poop! Yuck!
The microwave hadn’t been invented yet for average people. We couldn’t heat up lunch or make some popcorn without some planning, for all that had to be done on the stove. We had no dishwasher and no bread machine.
We did have a refrigerator and freezer, but the freezer part was not like it is now. An ice layer would build up on the walls of the freezer, and get thicker and thicker, until Mama had to take everything out, “defrost” it and start over. Ice was made in trays. We couldn’t get ice or water from a hole in the refrigerator door.
Cameras were different, too. They used something called “film,” and after we took a few pictures, we had to take the film out of the camera and take it to the store to get it “developed,” which means the store would take the photographs off the film and print them off, just like you can do on your printer. If we took a bad picture, we couldn’t delete it from the film, unfortunately. I didn’t take as many pictures as I do now, because film costs money and I had to use it wisely. It was a very special thing to have a camera when I was young. Our dad took "video," but back then, there was no sound, only pictures.
There was no such thing as a CD. If we wanted to listen to music, we used record players. The record was round and flat like a CD, but it was a lot bigger, and we put the record on what was called a turntable, which turned the record around and around at a certain speed, then we took what was called an “arm” with a “needle” on it, placed the needle on the record, and music came out as the needle went around the grooves. By the way, we had a radio in the car, but, of course, no CD player and no iPod.
I saved the most terrifying thing for last. We had no computer and no Internet. Yes, that’s right. Can you believe it? If we wanted to find something out for homework, let’s say, what year a famous person was born, or the names of different kinds of clouds, we had to go to a set of books called encyclopedias. There, everything was listed in alphabetical order. Sometimes a set of encyclopedias consisted of 30 books, so as you can imagine, they were very expensive. If a family was lucky enough to own a set of encyclopedias, those books were probably old, because most families couldn’t afford to get a new set after the first set was out of date. This is why we used the library a lot - their encyclopedias were newer than ours.
I couldn’t blog, couldn’t play computer games, and there was no such thing as “e-mail.” If you wanted to mail someone, you had to send it through the post office with a stamp on it. There was no computer to store pictures digitally, so people just put their photographs in scrapbooks or shoe boxes. There was no computer, so there was no iTunes from which to download music. If I wanted to type something, I had to use something called a “typewriter,” which was kind of like a keyboard and printer in one machine. I had to hit the keys with my fingers, just like on a keyboard, but then little metal letters would hit a piece of paper in the typewriter through a ribbon that had ink on it, and the letters would appear on the paper. If I made a mistake, though, there was no delete key, and I had to fix it another way. It was a real pain.
So see, the things you take for granted are things that, as young girls, Aunt Joy and I didn’t have. There are some things, though, that still are the same. We used pencils that look the same as most pencils do now - a stick of wood with a point of lead and an eraser on top. We had spiral-bound notebooks for school, crayons, toothbrushes, Kleenex, and toilet paper. We had board games and bikes, cereal and ice cream, and cartoons on TV. On the other hand, we still had to do our homework, clean up our room, set the table, eat foods we didn’t like, and learn how to share. Some things just never change!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Survivor
OK, I’ll admit it. I’ve never seen Survivor or a lot of other reality TV shows. I do, however, watch The Biggest Loser. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this specific reality program, The Biggest Loser is a show where morbidly obese people are chosen usually in couples (i.e., spouses, cousins, siblings, best friends) to be taken to a ranch, where they will be worked over like crazy for a few weeks to help them lose weight. As in some other reality shows, each week one person is usually “voted off” - asked to leave the ranch to continue their journey at home. This person is taken out of the running for the grand prize and title of The Biggest Loser, and at the end of the season, there is a finale and all the contestants are brought back to display what they’ve accomplished and get weighed in one last time, where the winner will be chosen from the finalists.
When the contestants arrive at the ranch, each team is assigned a specific color to identify itself and each team is assigned to one of two trainers, but as more and more contestants leave, eventually all the remaining contestants are lumped into two teams and may or may not switch trainers. This is what happened on this week’s show. I was amused to see how the contestants handled the change. Some were extremely upset, said they were so happy with the way things were, and now everything had changed.
Watching that show, I thought, “Life is a game. The rules change all the time. How we adjust to those changes is what can make or break a successful life.” This is so true at my work. I love my job at the hospital, but one thing is certain - the rules will always keep changing. Rules about what to transcribe and what we outsource, rules about how we are paid, rules about format, rules about working holidays - even rules about the rules! It is a constant shift from one week, sometimes one day, to the next. Some of my co-workers fight this. I have just learned to “go with the flow.”
Freelance writer Lou Ann Thomas writes: “The only thing we truly can count on is that life likely will change. We can be going about our business, with most of the details of our lives planned out, and then something like a bridge failure, a mine collapse, an illness, a birth, a new job or any unexpected change happens and we feel the fragility and preciousness of life in a new way.
In these moments we understand more deeply that there really are no guarantees. The only thing life promises us is a wide range of experiences. What we do with them is up to us.”
The hard part is the realization that there are some changes we create, and some are thrust upon us. For the latter, we too often fall into the role of feeling helpless and victimized. We resent the fact that we have no choice. We frantically try to find someway out, knowing that in reality, as the old cartoon alien would say, “Resistance is futile.”
Yet that is the very change that life throws at us so often. We know the rules will change, the circumstances will shift; it is just a matter of when. My friend Sally told me last night of watching an Oprah episode where they showed people affected by the recession, people who had a few months before had good-paying jobs and houses to live in, people who had lost everything, and who are now living in tents. Some changes are extreme; some are more minor. Some are life-changing events, and some are just annoyances. But we are still caught by surprise when they happen. It is as if we had an “understanding” with life that it would go smoothly and be the same as it ever was, and just as we get comfortable with the rules, we are taken out, given a new color team T-shirt, and have to change our trainer. Bummer.
Yet, on The Biggest Loser, some contestants discovered that the very thing they had dreaded and fought against turned out to be a blessing. Their new trainer used different techniques than their old trainer did, which shook their bodies up to lose more weight. The whole situation looked different from the start than it really turned out to be. Sometimes the rules change and the outcome, though we can’t see it at first, might be an improvement.
Improvement or deterioration, change will indeed come. Those of us who are able to take change as, if not a welcome experience, at least a challenge, are life’s winners. Now that’s a Survivor!
When the contestants arrive at the ranch, each team is assigned a specific color to identify itself and each team is assigned to one of two trainers, but as more and more contestants leave, eventually all the remaining contestants are lumped into two teams and may or may not switch trainers. This is what happened on this week’s show. I was amused to see how the contestants handled the change. Some were extremely upset, said they were so happy with the way things were, and now everything had changed.
Watching that show, I thought, “Life is a game. The rules change all the time. How we adjust to those changes is what can make or break a successful life.” This is so true at my work. I love my job at the hospital, but one thing is certain - the rules will always keep changing. Rules about what to transcribe and what we outsource, rules about how we are paid, rules about format, rules about working holidays - even rules about the rules! It is a constant shift from one week, sometimes one day, to the next. Some of my co-workers fight this. I have just learned to “go with the flow.”
Freelance writer Lou Ann Thomas writes: “The only thing we truly can count on is that life likely will change. We can be going about our business, with most of the details of our lives planned out, and then something like a bridge failure, a mine collapse, an illness, a birth, a new job or any unexpected change happens and we feel the fragility and preciousness of life in a new way.
In these moments we understand more deeply that there really are no guarantees. The only thing life promises us is a wide range of experiences. What we do with them is up to us.”
The hard part is the realization that there are some changes we create, and some are thrust upon us. For the latter, we too often fall into the role of feeling helpless and victimized. We resent the fact that we have no choice. We frantically try to find someway out, knowing that in reality, as the old cartoon alien would say, “Resistance is futile.”
Yet that is the very change that life throws at us so often. We know the rules will change, the circumstances will shift; it is just a matter of when. My friend Sally told me last night of watching an Oprah episode where they showed people affected by the recession, people who had a few months before had good-paying jobs and houses to live in, people who had lost everything, and who are now living in tents. Some changes are extreme; some are more minor. Some are life-changing events, and some are just annoyances. But we are still caught by surprise when they happen. It is as if we had an “understanding” with life that it would go smoothly and be the same as it ever was, and just as we get comfortable with the rules, we are taken out, given a new color team T-shirt, and have to change our trainer. Bummer.
Yet, on The Biggest Loser, some contestants discovered that the very thing they had dreaded and fought against turned out to be a blessing. Their new trainer used different techniques than their old trainer did, which shook their bodies up to lose more weight. The whole situation looked different from the start than it really turned out to be. Sometimes the rules change and the outcome, though we can’t see it at first, might be an improvement.
Improvement or deterioration, change will indeed come. Those of us who are able to take change as, if not a welcome experience, at least a challenge, are life’s winners. Now that’s a Survivor!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Long Distance
I call my mom 'most every night. She lives so far away.
She’s living with my sister, Joy; I miss her every day.
My sister's busy with a husband, job, two teens, three pets.
As far time-consuming goes, that’s as crazy as it gets!
Sometimes the phone just rings and rings when I am sure they're there.
It turns out they can’t find the phone - it’s hidden well somewhere.
Once I get my mother, then our conversation starts.
It always has variety, but some familiar parts.
We talk about the weather first - it’s probably snowy here.
In Tennessee, it’s “gorgeous, Carol - sunny, warm, and clear!”
We then move on to dinner, and she asks what Ed’s creating.
I tell her we have eaten, and she says they still are waiting.
She says how good Ed’s cooking sounds, and then takes time to state
That Joy’s meals are luscious (if they are a little late).
She asks about “the kiddies,” meaning Charlotte/Caroline.
She asks what witty things they’re saying, hoping they are fine.
She asks about our children, who are grown and busy too.
She asks about our dog, and if there’s anything that’s new.
I ask about her day, and so she tells me what transpired.
Sometimes she has a doctor visit; that might make her tired.
She talks about my sister’s kids and all their busy lives.
I see that with her family there, my mother really thrives.
She’s proud that she can dress herself without my sister’s aid.
She’s proud to use the walker when she used to be afraid.
(Since her wreck, we’re blown away by how far she’s progressed.
It’s due to her will, and to Joy, who knew what might work best.)
Mom then thanks me for calling, and says to hug my Ed.
She notes, since I get up at 4, it’s probably time for bed.
We joke about our yawning every time we share a call.
We never know who starts it, but it’s “writing on the wall”
That now it's time for us to say, “Good night, I love you,” then
We both hang up, but knowing soon we’ll have a chat again.
She’s living with my sister, Joy; I miss her every day.
My sister's busy with a husband, job, two teens, three pets.
As far time-consuming goes, that’s as crazy as it gets!
Sometimes the phone just rings and rings when I am sure they're there.
It turns out they can’t find the phone - it’s hidden well somewhere.
Once I get my mother, then our conversation starts.
It always has variety, but some familiar parts.
We talk about the weather first - it’s probably snowy here.
In Tennessee, it’s “gorgeous, Carol - sunny, warm, and clear!”
We then move on to dinner, and she asks what Ed’s creating.
I tell her we have eaten, and she says they still are waiting.
She says how good Ed’s cooking sounds, and then takes time to state
That Joy’s meals are luscious (if they are a little late).
She asks about “the kiddies,” meaning Charlotte/Caroline.
She asks what witty things they’re saying, hoping they are fine.
She asks about our children, who are grown and busy too.
She asks about our dog, and if there’s anything that’s new.
I ask about her day, and so she tells me what transpired.
Sometimes she has a doctor visit; that might make her tired.
She talks about my sister’s kids and all their busy lives.
I see that with her family there, my mother really thrives.
She’s proud that she can dress herself without my sister’s aid.
She’s proud to use the walker when she used to be afraid.
(Since her wreck, we’re blown away by how far she’s progressed.
It’s due to her will, and to Joy, who knew what might work best.)
Mom then thanks me for calling, and says to hug my Ed.
She notes, since I get up at 4, it’s probably time for bed.
We joke about our yawning every time we share a call.
We never know who starts it, but it’s “writing on the wall”
That now it's time for us to say, “Good night, I love you,” then
We both hang up, but knowing soon we’ll have a chat again.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
There's a "Pee" in "Parsonage"
As our family moved from place to place while my husband was in active ministry, we collected memories of all the parsonages in which we got to raise our family. Some houses were better than others, but there was one standout that we still talk about. I will keep the location anonymous, of course.
This house, as were all of our parsonages, was set in a rural area. The outside was white asbestos, but had gotten moldy through the years, so little Matthew told friends we were moving to a “green and white house.” There was a freestanding garage with a dirt floor next to the house, but after we found out the previous pastor had quartered his horse in there, we decided to pass. Such a waste of good fertilizer, though.
The previous pastor (a bachelor) had decided he wanted a wood-burning stove in the living room, so he bore a hole in the ceiling, stuck the pipe up through there, put sand in the middle of the room, and placed his stove right there, on top of a box filled with bricks with sand sprinkled over them. When he moved out, he took the stove with him, but the hole in the ceiling had been thoughtfully taken care of by a green trash bag which hung several inches from the ceiling down into the room. The wall-to-wall carpet would get literally wet when it rained. The carpet where the wood-burning stove had been always smelled like urine. The mildew was so bad, one of our friends (another pastor’s wife) couldn’t ever come visit because of her allergies.
The pastor’s office had some unidentifiable brown stain on the wall. It looked as if something had been thrown at it and then dripped down in all directions. We decided from the looks of it, it was either a cup of coffee thrown at the wall or tobacco spit. To the right of the stain, there was a terrarium left by the former pastor with a snake skeleton still occupying the inside.
The bedroom adjacent to the little office, someone told us, had been redecorated during the ‘70s when the inhabitants had been a little “high.” That might explain why there was one kind of wallpaper on one wall, another on another wall, and the other two walls were painted, each a different color.
In our bedroom, the bed was tied together with a coat hanger.
I saved the best for last: In the bathroom, every time we flushed the toilet, raw sewage came up into the bathtub.
We met some wonderful people in the church when we lived there. But that parsonage was certainly an experience, and will live forever in the annals of our family as the worst house we ever lived in.
This house, as were all of our parsonages, was set in a rural area. The outside was white asbestos, but had gotten moldy through the years, so little Matthew told friends we were moving to a “green and white house.” There was a freestanding garage with a dirt floor next to the house, but after we found out the previous pastor had quartered his horse in there, we decided to pass. Such a waste of good fertilizer, though.
The previous pastor (a bachelor) had decided he wanted a wood-burning stove in the living room, so he bore a hole in the ceiling, stuck the pipe up through there, put sand in the middle of the room, and placed his stove right there, on top of a box filled with bricks with sand sprinkled over them. When he moved out, he took the stove with him, but the hole in the ceiling had been thoughtfully taken care of by a green trash bag which hung several inches from the ceiling down into the room. The wall-to-wall carpet would get literally wet when it rained. The carpet where the wood-burning stove had been always smelled like urine. The mildew was so bad, one of our friends (another pastor’s wife) couldn’t ever come visit because of her allergies.
The pastor’s office had some unidentifiable brown stain on the wall. It looked as if something had been thrown at it and then dripped down in all directions. We decided from the looks of it, it was either a cup of coffee thrown at the wall or tobacco spit. To the right of the stain, there was a terrarium left by the former pastor with a snake skeleton still occupying the inside.
The bedroom adjacent to the little office, someone told us, had been redecorated during the ‘70s when the inhabitants had been a little “high.” That might explain why there was one kind of wallpaper on one wall, another on another wall, and the other two walls were painted, each a different color.
In our bedroom, the bed was tied together with a coat hanger.
I saved the best for last: In the bathroom, every time we flushed the toilet, raw sewage came up into the bathtub.
We met some wonderful people in the church when we lived there. But that parsonage was certainly an experience, and will live forever in the annals of our family as the worst house we ever lived in.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Love
It's coincidental, but this week, the week of Valentine's Day, I’m reading about how to love myself. I have self-esteem issues like most people, and I am trying to learn self-acceptance which does not depend on outside judgments and circumstances. Ed used to preach that, common opinion to the contrary, we as a society follow the Golden Rule very well - to love others as we love ourselves. Ed said, “We treat others exactly as we treat ourselves - because we don’t love ourselves and don’t love others, either.”
In my reading, I came across this paragraph by Dilia De La Altragacia:
When Ed became sober in 1984, he suddenly looked at himself and the world with new eyes. He had hated himself and abused himself for so long that it was strange (to him and me both) to see a self-respect and self-love form in his being. It can be hard to believe that God loves us unconditionally, it can be harder still for us to love others unconditionally, but the hardest thing of all, I think, is to love ourselves unconditionally. The older I get, the more I admire people who have grasped this difficult concept. I am always amazed when I see someone with the ability of true self-acceptance, an acceptance not altered by other people or other external sources, whether from their families or from Madison Avenue. What an achievement!
On February 26, it will have been 4 years since I started this blog. In the ensuing journey from February 26, 2005, I have learned a lot about myself and my priorities. The more I learn, the more I see the lessons which I have yet to learn. I am still in an ongoing process of learning to love myself, to accept myself as a whole unit of the good, the bad, and everything in between. We have to be able to take care of ourselves if we want to be able to take care of others. And if we feel worthy of receiving love (especially from ourselves), it will make that task a lot easier.
In my reading, I came across this paragraph by Dilia De La Altragacia:
Loving ourselves is based on learning about ourselves, and that involves embarking on a path of self-discovery! We must learn our likes and dislikes. We must learn what gives us vitality and a sense of fulfillment, what makes us happy, what activities or emotions drain us, what we do for hours that energizes us. Who are the people that truly nourish us? When do we feel good about ourselves? When are we at our best? What are the activities that drain us and debilitate us? What are the activities that make us feel refreshed and alive?
....Self-love is not dependent on having husbands, or wives, or how well they are treating us. Self-love is not dependent on our children or how well they are behaving or how they are doing in school. Self-love is not dependent on our families or friends, their kindness, or lack of it, or their behaviors toward us. Self-love is not based on how well we are doing at home, work, or any other of our communities. Self-love is not dependent on our relationships, nor conditional on external events, nor based on any special talents or feelings...
When Ed became sober in 1984, he suddenly looked at himself and the world with new eyes. He had hated himself and abused himself for so long that it was strange (to him and me both) to see a self-respect and self-love form in his being. It can be hard to believe that God loves us unconditionally, it can be harder still for us to love others unconditionally, but the hardest thing of all, I think, is to love ourselves unconditionally. The older I get, the more I admire people who have grasped this difficult concept. I am always amazed when I see someone with the ability of true self-acceptance, an acceptance not altered by other people or other external sources, whether from their families or from Madison Avenue. What an achievement!
On February 26, it will have been 4 years since I started this blog. In the ensuing journey from February 26, 2005, I have learned a lot about myself and my priorities. The more I learn, the more I see the lessons which I have yet to learn. I am still in an ongoing process of learning to love myself, to accept myself as a whole unit of the good, the bad, and everything in between. We have to be able to take care of ourselves if we want to be able to take care of others. And if we feel worthy of receiving love (especially from ourselves), it will make that task a lot easier.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Dodging the OL
I’m reading How Not to Look Old by Charla Krupp, and it has really gotten me thinking. The trouble with “looking your age” is that the standard for what a certain age looks like changes every year, it seems. I would also venture to guess the average 40-year-old in some places in California looks a lot different than the average 40-year-old in Maine.
The book describes expensive, middle-of-the-road and cheap ways to look younger, going into extreme detail about everything from make-up to clothes to Botox injections and laser peels. The more I read the book, the more I become uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t care how I look (I obviously do) and it’s not that I can’t use some tips (I obviously can), but the question that came popping up was, “Where do you draw the line?” The book uses the abbreviations “OL” for the Old Lady look and “Y&H” for the Young and Hip Look. It may seem natural not to look OL when you’re, say, 50, but when you’re 80, are you going to be under pressure to look Y&H? At 80? I dare say there are some folks (the book’s author included) who want to carry this Y&H thing to the grave, but give me a break! Is the ideal situation to rid our society of anyone who looks OL? My mother is 85 years old, and she looks 85 years old, and if she started trying to look Y&H, I would freak out. Oh, sure, there are simple things you can do to improve your appearance, but I would term those things “looking up to date,” not trying to look younger. Fashion can change dramatically in a decade, and a modern pair of glasses frames can change a look dramatically (as my sister learned when she tried her frames on Mom one day).
If you’re high maintenance, says Krupp, “The Frazel laser is a non-ablative tool that targets cells under the skin to regenerate collagen production. It is designed to work in six sessions, at a cost of $1,500 per session. It produces results but leaves you red-faced and swollen. Recovery after each session can take up to a week. It is not a permanent solution, lasting roughly only six months.” I flipped to the chapter on buying jeans.
I don’t know how many other 54-year-olds occasionally envision their lives at 80, like I do, but my first goal is not to be Y&H. It is to be healthy, comfortable in my own skin, able to get around and be independent, to have energy, and to look decent enough that I don’t scare young children. I think most of it lies in attitude. To keep my insatiable curiosity, to get excited about the wonders of new technology, to be able to keep up with important current events, to read, read, read - these are what I wish for myself as I age. To keep my brain and body active. To dress appropriately for the situation and my lifestyle in a way that I feel good about myself. To be able to keep laughing and singing and quilting. To learn something new every day. When you think about it, all these things seem appropriate to wish for at any age, including 54.
I think it’s a little bit sad that we have been allowing ourselves to feel society’s pressure to look years younger than we are, because if 80% of 54-year-olds suddenly looked 40, I would not look like 54 anymore; I would look like 65 in comparison. Thanks a lot, guys.
There’s something to be said for that adage of aging gracefully with acceptance. That is not giving up; that is reality. There is a fine line between “letting yourself go” and understanding what age you are, what age you feel, and what kind of lifestyle you need to live in order to get (and give) the most in your life. I think I’ll get a new pair of jeans that fit me better and look modern, but I’ll leave the collagen treatments and injections to others. I want to spend the rest of my precious life fighting fear and injustice and intolerance - not fighting the aging process.
The book describes expensive, middle-of-the-road and cheap ways to look younger, going into extreme detail about everything from make-up to clothes to Botox injections and laser peels. The more I read the book, the more I become uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t care how I look (I obviously do) and it’s not that I can’t use some tips (I obviously can), but the question that came popping up was, “Where do you draw the line?” The book uses the abbreviations “OL” for the Old Lady look and “Y&H” for the Young and Hip Look. It may seem natural not to look OL when you’re, say, 50, but when you’re 80, are you going to be under pressure to look Y&H? At 80? I dare say there are some folks (the book’s author included) who want to carry this Y&H thing to the grave, but give me a break! Is the ideal situation to rid our society of anyone who looks OL? My mother is 85 years old, and she looks 85 years old, and if she started trying to look Y&H, I would freak out. Oh, sure, there are simple things you can do to improve your appearance, but I would term those things “looking up to date,” not trying to look younger. Fashion can change dramatically in a decade, and a modern pair of glasses frames can change a look dramatically (as my sister learned when she tried her frames on Mom one day).
If you’re high maintenance, says Krupp, “The Frazel laser is a non-ablative tool that targets cells under the skin to regenerate collagen production. It is designed to work in six sessions, at a cost of $1,500 per session. It produces results but leaves you red-faced and swollen. Recovery after each session can take up to a week. It is not a permanent solution, lasting roughly only six months.” I flipped to the chapter on buying jeans.
I don’t know how many other 54-year-olds occasionally envision their lives at 80, like I do, but my first goal is not to be Y&H. It is to be healthy, comfortable in my own skin, able to get around and be independent, to have energy, and to look decent enough that I don’t scare young children. I think most of it lies in attitude. To keep my insatiable curiosity, to get excited about the wonders of new technology, to be able to keep up with important current events, to read, read, read - these are what I wish for myself as I age. To keep my brain and body active. To dress appropriately for the situation and my lifestyle in a way that I feel good about myself. To be able to keep laughing and singing and quilting. To learn something new every day. When you think about it, all these things seem appropriate to wish for at any age, including 54.
I think it’s a little bit sad that we have been allowing ourselves to feel society’s pressure to look years younger than we are, because if 80% of 54-year-olds suddenly looked 40, I would not look like 54 anymore; I would look like 65 in comparison. Thanks a lot, guys.
There’s something to be said for that adage of aging gracefully with acceptance. That is not giving up; that is reality. There is a fine line between “letting yourself go” and understanding what age you are, what age you feel, and what kind of lifestyle you need to live in order to get (and give) the most in your life. I think I’ll get a new pair of jeans that fit me better and look modern, but I’ll leave the collagen treatments and injections to others. I want to spend the rest of my precious life fighting fear and injustice and intolerance - not fighting the aging process.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Getting Testy
I had an intriguing dream last night. I walked into a room where there was a lady behind a table. She asked if I would play a game. I agreed. She had a set of little cups, each upside down, and a marble. Immediately I knew what the game was, and I knew I would lose. I tried this game recently when the family was over and we were all playing Brain Academy on the Wii. On that, bird cages (some with birds, some empty) were covered and moved around all over the screen until they stopped at the end, and you were supposed to point out which ones had the birds in them. This is definitely not something I can do well. After the first couple of moves, I lose track and my final answer is just a wild guess.
Anyway, in my dream, this lady started the game. Under one of the cups goes the marble, and then she started moving around the cups. I was trying to pay attention, because, smart as I am, I knew what she was going to ask at the end. She came to a halt. This time, though, was my lucky day. I had concentrated well and I knew exactly where the marble was. Smirking, I could hardly wait for the question. She looked at me. Then she asked, “Can you describe the picture on the wall behind you?”
If one can be totally shocked in a dream, I was. What do you mean - the picture I scarcely noticed as I came in the room? What kind of question is that? Ask me where the marble is, lady!!
The whole thing reminded me of the familiar game where someone gets you to add up numbers in your head. “In the Meredith-Springdale school system, there are 439 students. All but 220 went on a field trip in 10 buses. Nine buses held 21 students each.” You’re thinking the question will be “How many students rode on the 10th bus?” but the question is usually, “What was the name of the school system?” It’s never what you expect, nor what you prepare for.
Yeah, I had this happen in 11th grade when Miss Weaks had us read Walden Pond, then on the test was the inane question, “How deep was Walden Pond?” Of course, it can work the other way. We might be studying the trivial part of the book and have to answer the big question of what the book was actually trying to say.
Sometimes in life, I’m afraid we get focusing on the things that won’t help us when the question comes. Some people think a question will come on Judgment Day, but there’s no need to even wait for someone else to ask. These are questions we can ask ourselves over and over to keep our focus in life on what matters. Have I poured myself into my job so much that I have neglected other priorities? I am doing things that bring me pleasure and fulfillment, things that make me a better person to those around me, or I am doing things that make me feel tired, anxious, or drained? Am I elevating family members into their proper place for my attention? Is there an important part of my life I am neglecting in order to focus on lesser things? Is there a decision I have been procrastinating about because it is unwelcome? Am I really paying attention as the days, weeks, and years fly by?
The questions always catch us by surprise, because sometimes they are not the questions we wanted or expected to hear. But sometimes they have to be answered.
Anyway, in my dream, this lady started the game. Under one of the cups goes the marble, and then she started moving around the cups. I was trying to pay attention, because, smart as I am, I knew what she was going to ask at the end. She came to a halt. This time, though, was my lucky day. I had concentrated well and I knew exactly where the marble was. Smirking, I could hardly wait for the question. She looked at me. Then she asked, “Can you describe the picture on the wall behind you?”
If one can be totally shocked in a dream, I was. What do you mean - the picture I scarcely noticed as I came in the room? What kind of question is that? Ask me where the marble is, lady!!
The whole thing reminded me of the familiar game where someone gets you to add up numbers in your head. “In the Meredith-Springdale school system, there are 439 students. All but 220 went on a field trip in 10 buses. Nine buses held 21 students each.” You’re thinking the question will be “How many students rode on the 10th bus?” but the question is usually, “What was the name of the school system?” It’s never what you expect, nor what you prepare for.
Yeah, I had this happen in 11th grade when Miss Weaks had us read Walden Pond, then on the test was the inane question, “How deep was Walden Pond?” Of course, it can work the other way. We might be studying the trivial part of the book and have to answer the big question of what the book was actually trying to say.
Sometimes in life, I’m afraid we get focusing on the things that won’t help us when the question comes. Some people think a question will come on Judgment Day, but there’s no need to even wait for someone else to ask. These are questions we can ask ourselves over and over to keep our focus in life on what matters. Have I poured myself into my job so much that I have neglected other priorities? I am doing things that bring me pleasure and fulfillment, things that make me a better person to those around me, or I am doing things that make me feel tired, anxious, or drained? Am I elevating family members into their proper place for my attention? Is there an important part of my life I am neglecting in order to focus on lesser things? Is there a decision I have been procrastinating about because it is unwelcome? Am I really paying attention as the days, weeks, and years fly by?
The questions always catch us by surprise, because sometimes they are not the questions we wanted or expected to hear. But sometimes they have to be answered.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Chosen
“A young Indian boy was auditioning along with some of us for a school play. His mother knew he’d set his heart on being in the play - just like the rest of us hoped, too - and she feared how he would react if he was not chosen.
On the day the parts were awarded, the little boy’s mother went to school on her horse to collect her son. The little boy rushed up to her and her horse, eyes shining with pride and excitement.
‘Guess what, Mom,” he shouted, and then said the words that provide a lesson to us all, “I’ve been chosen to clap and cheer.”
- Ed Slow Horse Chaparro
I received that little gem in a mailing today from Friends of Silence, a group that mails spiritual stories and quotes to me every so often. It made me think of my dad, Ensley Tiffin. You will probably never read his name in the history books, or see him honored posthumously by the Kennedy Center, or see him on the Biography Channel. Yet, he was instrumental in giving encouragement to hundreds of well-known and not-so-well-known people during the Civil Rights movement. He did this through letters of support to those who had done a courageous act, showed the true Christian way, took an ethical stand, knowing the potential risks to their reputation or job, or spoke up for justice in the face of adversity. Some recipients wrote back, saying that Dad’s letter was the only positive one in a bag of hate mail they had received that day.
One of his letters was quoted in the book Freedom’s Coming, and he once had a newspaper article written about his letter-writing habit, but other than that, he didn’t get much publicity. My mother, sister and I will be one day donating the collection of the letters he wrote (and those he received in return) to the Memphis Room at the Memphis Public Library, where they will be catalogued and archived. We would even like to get them published. However, if he never gets the recognition he deserves, that’s OK, too, because he never did anything for his own aggrandizement.
Daddy, of course, took his own risks for justice in his own life. But he knew innately that his gift was being “chosen to clap and cheer,” and he used that gift generously.
On the day the parts were awarded, the little boy’s mother went to school on her horse to collect her son. The little boy rushed up to her and her horse, eyes shining with pride and excitement.
‘Guess what, Mom,” he shouted, and then said the words that provide a lesson to us all, “I’ve been chosen to clap and cheer.”
- Ed Slow Horse Chaparro
I received that little gem in a mailing today from Friends of Silence, a group that mails spiritual stories and quotes to me every so often. It made me think of my dad, Ensley Tiffin. You will probably never read his name in the history books, or see him honored posthumously by the Kennedy Center, or see him on the Biography Channel. Yet, he was instrumental in giving encouragement to hundreds of well-known and not-so-well-known people during the Civil Rights movement. He did this through letters of support to those who had done a courageous act, showed the true Christian way, took an ethical stand, knowing the potential risks to their reputation or job, or spoke up for justice in the face of adversity. Some recipients wrote back, saying that Dad’s letter was the only positive one in a bag of hate mail they had received that day.
One of his letters was quoted in the book Freedom’s Coming, and he once had a newspaper article written about his letter-writing habit, but other than that, he didn’t get much publicity. My mother, sister and I will be one day donating the collection of the letters he wrote (and those he received in return) to the Memphis Room at the Memphis Public Library, where they will be catalogued and archived. We would even like to get them published. However, if he never gets the recognition he deserves, that’s OK, too, because he never did anything for his own aggrandizement.
Daddy, of course, took his own risks for justice in his own life. But he knew innately that his gift was being “chosen to clap and cheer,” and he used that gift generously.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Just Folks
I found out a few weeks ago that my second-grade teacher died in 2007. She was 94. Of course, when I was in second grade, I thought she was already in her 90s. Let’s see...that was about 47 years ago, so she must have been in her 40s. When you're in second grade, everyone looks old.
I’ve learned a lot about teachers and aging since then. I never really enjoyed school, but I had some remarkable teachers. I also had some teachers who were the target of my frequent comic poetic portrayal. A lot of my teachers were just plain “characters,” though. Unforgettable. I might have forgotten everything I learned in their classes, but the teachers themselves are burned into my memory. I have enough memories to fill blog posts for a year.
My least favorite teacher (11th grade English) was, interestingly enough, my sister’s favorite. My sister followed me 2 years later, so maybe Miss Weaks had mellowed by then. My favorite teachers were my French teachers, that is, until my last French teacher who didn’t know the difference between the French verbs “to rain” and “to cry,” so I kind of lost respect for her expertise. Most of my teachers just intimidated me, because I was raised to defer to their knowledge and rules and I always did what I was told. I tried to make good grades to please my teachers as well as my parents and myself. I never thought of most of my teachers as real people. During my 12 years of schooling, I visited the home of only my piano teacher for private lessons and my chorus teacher, who consistently opened her home to students. Most of the other teachers were enigmas - I had no idea if they were married, had children, where they lived, if they went to church, or what they did after 3 p.m.
It was an epiphany for me when I grew up when I realized that teachers had real lives outside of school. They went to the grocery, went to restaurants, went to the park, and did all sorts of ordinary things. I remember running into my piano teacher at Walgreens one day years ago. I was shocked to see her in an unfamiliar setting. She was extremely short, but I never noticed it because she was always sitting by me when I played the piano. I couldn’t picture many of my teachers doing things like buying toothpaste.
Of course, things changed when my daughter became a teacher, married a teacher, and then my son married a woman who became a teacher. All of a sudden, things clicked in my head. Teachers had families! They had kids! They paid bills! They could be silly! They could wear casual clothes! They had favorite foods and hobbies and pets!
Do you want to know the most fascinating thing I learned about teachers? I learned that they probably didn’t want to go to school any more than I did back then. They longed for snow days and holidays and summertime. I remember in Memphis on a rare snow day when my sister and I would be jumping for joy, I pictured the teachers cursing the heavens because they had to miss one day of torturing us. I thought they loved their jobs because they had the power over hundreds of students - the power to discipline, the power of the red pen, the power to make or break a report card. I never realized that so many of them got tired of going to work at the school day in and day out, and even among those who loved their jobs, most still enjoyed the serendipity of an unexpected day to stay home. I know the teachers in my family love those snow days!
Here’s to the teachers! Remember - next time you see that schools have a day off, it’s not only the students with unfinished homework who breathe sighs of relief!
I’ve learned a lot about teachers and aging since then. I never really enjoyed school, but I had some remarkable teachers. I also had some teachers who were the target of my frequent comic poetic portrayal. A lot of my teachers were just plain “characters,” though. Unforgettable. I might have forgotten everything I learned in their classes, but the teachers themselves are burned into my memory. I have enough memories to fill blog posts for a year.
My least favorite teacher (11th grade English) was, interestingly enough, my sister’s favorite. My sister followed me 2 years later, so maybe Miss Weaks had mellowed by then. My favorite teachers were my French teachers, that is, until my last French teacher who didn’t know the difference between the French verbs “to rain” and “to cry,” so I kind of lost respect for her expertise. Most of my teachers just intimidated me, because I was raised to defer to their knowledge and rules and I always did what I was told. I tried to make good grades to please my teachers as well as my parents and myself. I never thought of most of my teachers as real people. During my 12 years of schooling, I visited the home of only my piano teacher for private lessons and my chorus teacher, who consistently opened her home to students. Most of the other teachers were enigmas - I had no idea if they were married, had children, where they lived, if they went to church, or what they did after 3 p.m.
It was an epiphany for me when I grew up when I realized that teachers had real lives outside of school. They went to the grocery, went to restaurants, went to the park, and did all sorts of ordinary things. I remember running into my piano teacher at Walgreens one day years ago. I was shocked to see her in an unfamiliar setting. She was extremely short, but I never noticed it because she was always sitting by me when I played the piano. I couldn’t picture many of my teachers doing things like buying toothpaste.
Of course, things changed when my daughter became a teacher, married a teacher, and then my son married a woman who became a teacher. All of a sudden, things clicked in my head. Teachers had families! They had kids! They paid bills! They could be silly! They could wear casual clothes! They had favorite foods and hobbies and pets!
Do you want to know the most fascinating thing I learned about teachers? I learned that they probably didn’t want to go to school any more than I did back then. They longed for snow days and holidays and summertime. I remember in Memphis on a rare snow day when my sister and I would be jumping for joy, I pictured the teachers cursing the heavens because they had to miss one day of torturing us. I thought they loved their jobs because they had the power over hundreds of students - the power to discipline, the power of the red pen, the power to make or break a report card. I never realized that so many of them got tired of going to work at the school day in and day out, and even among those who loved their jobs, most still enjoyed the serendipity of an unexpected day to stay home. I know the teachers in my family love those snow days!
Here’s to the teachers! Remember - next time you see that schools have a day off, it’s not only the students with unfinished homework who breathe sighs of relief!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Charlie Brown's competition
There’s a 4-letter word that rhymes with tree,
It’s the greatest word you ever did see,
Especially great in times like these -
For money doesn’t grow on trees.
Save some here, save some there,
Cash is lacking everywhere.
This is the story of one fine day,
When Ed decided not to pay
A tree lot 20 bucks and more
To get a beauty through our door.
Amateur woodsman Ed may be,
But he certainly knows how to cut a tree.
So into our woods he gingerly tread,
With a stocking cap upon his head,
To find the best tree in our lot.
Don’t laugh at what he finally got.
It’s all he had to choose from, so
Ignore the fact it didn’t grow
Full and straight with boughs galore,
Like gorgeous trees we hunger for.
Charlie Brown’s now famous twig
Has morphed into a stick quite big.
This tree has fewer branches than our bank in Ellsworth.
However....
That money word that rhymes with tree?
It's FREE!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Blessings
The poignancy of taking care of my mother these two weeks has not been lost on me. What do I see when I look at my mother? I see her gnarled, crooked joints in her hands and feet, stigmata of her rheumatoid arthritis. I see a C-section scar, reminding me of the pain and labor she endured to bring me and my sister into the world. I see her eyes that have been witness to both wonderful and tragic memories, now with muscle contractures that clamp them closed, requiring her to receive therapeutic Botox shots to release the spasm. I see wrinkles from decades of worrying and fretting over others. I see the gray, thinning hair. I see loose skin from weight loss after weeks of tasteless hospital food. I see the signs of trauma - bruises and surgery scars from hip replacement and ankle fracture fixation in September. I see the tremor from her parkinson-like disease that is exacerbated by stress and anxiety about her future. I see the plain gold wedding ring she wears from her indescribably loving marriage that was cut short when Daddy died in 1980. I see the thrift store clothes that she buys herself so that she can send money to the kids and grandkids on their birthdays.
As I hold her frail hands, I can see them years ago, tearing pieces of gum, giving half to my sister and half to me. I remember the feeling of her hands lightly tracing letters of the alphabet on my back. I relive the mornings when she would come into our bedroom, sit on our beds with a wet washrag and gently rub each eye, saying, "Wake up, little left eye! Wake up, little right eye!" Those hands put tooth fairy money under our pillows and signed our report cards. They wrapped our birthday presents, they cooked our meals, washed our dishes, and tucked us in at night. They plays jacks with us, and gin rummy and checkers. They massaged our backs when we were little tots as we rested in her lap during church sermons.
Her feet walked with us all over downtown Memphis on lovely summer mornings, stopping at Court Square to feed the pigeons. Her mouth called us to supper, complimented our piano playing, kissed us, laughed her contagious laugh, and sang hymns in church, while at home, we were favored with happy songs like Pony Boy and Red, Red Robin. Her arms gave us countless hugs; her ears were always willing to listen to our troubles and our successes.
Mother's frail 85-year-old body stands as a testament to her dedication to and love for her family, but of course, the most important part of her body is not visible on the outside. It has been the heart and soul of her that has made all the memories possible. Love is what drives her, has always driven her.
She once cared for us when we were helpless, and now we care for her. She once made us take our medicine, and now we make her take hers. She once taught us to walk, and now we are teaching her to walk again. How can we do otherwise? How else could we possibly show her how much we love and appreciate her? It is a privilege, for as much as we all wish the accident had never happened, Mother is actually giving us an opportunity to serve her as she has served us for so many years.
"Her children arise up and call her blessed" (Proverbs). It is time to give back, and we are honored to do so.
As I hold her frail hands, I can see them years ago, tearing pieces of gum, giving half to my sister and half to me. I remember the feeling of her hands lightly tracing letters of the alphabet on my back. I relive the mornings when she would come into our bedroom, sit on our beds with a wet washrag and gently rub each eye, saying, "Wake up, little left eye! Wake up, little right eye!" Those hands put tooth fairy money under our pillows and signed our report cards. They wrapped our birthday presents, they cooked our meals, washed our dishes, and tucked us in at night. They plays jacks with us, and gin rummy and checkers. They massaged our backs when we were little tots as we rested in her lap during church sermons.
Her feet walked with us all over downtown Memphis on lovely summer mornings, stopping at Court Square to feed the pigeons. Her mouth called us to supper, complimented our piano playing, kissed us, laughed her contagious laugh, and sang hymns in church, while at home, we were favored with happy songs like Pony Boy and Red, Red Robin. Her arms gave us countless hugs; her ears were always willing to listen to our troubles and our successes.
Mother's frail 85-year-old body stands as a testament to her dedication to and love for her family, but of course, the most important part of her body is not visible on the outside. It has been the heart and soul of her that has made all the memories possible. Love is what drives her, has always driven her.
She once cared for us when we were helpless, and now we care for her. She once made us take our medicine, and now we make her take hers. She once taught us to walk, and now we are teaching her to walk again. How can we do otherwise? How else could we possibly show her how much we love and appreciate her? It is a privilege, for as much as we all wish the accident had never happened, Mother is actually giving us an opportunity to serve her as she has served us for so many years.
"Her children arise up and call her blessed" (Proverbs). It is time to give back, and we are honored to do so.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
I Have the Power!!
‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving, dark and quiet. Sounds very relaxing, until you realize it is one day before Thanksgiving and the power just went out after a very bad windstorm with up to 70 mph winds here in Maine. On top of that, we have a well run by electricity, so with no power, there was no running water and we couldn’t flush the toilets. We are also now on digital phone service, so when the power goes, the phone goes, too. Our cell phones receive a very weak signal out here, but they were our only tie to the outside world.
We live in a rural setting neighborhood without street lights anyway, but without any lights of any kind in the houses, the area was pitch black. Inside the house, we got the candles out and sat in front of the wood stove, which was great to have for heat since the furnace was nonfunctioning. I read aloud to Ed from our new book, a biography of Harry Truman, but after a few chapters, I worried about using up my battery-powered reading light, I turned it off and we sat in the quiet. It gave me lots of time to think, of course.
We could have had it much worse. Our daughter, Rachel, and her husband, Chris, and the girls got major wind damage to their roof with shingles all over their yard and resultant leaks inside. Chris, sick already, climbed a ladder in the middle of the rain and wind and took pictures. They still had power. Matt and Sarah in Old Town got lucky. Their house which they just moved into last weekend sustained no damage and they still had power. Three different households affected in three different ways.
Our family celebrates Thanksgiving on Friday so the kids can go to their in-laws on the actual day (they married into big families). So we were lucky in that with the roof damage and power outages, we had an extra day to figure out how to cope. Others were not so lucky. I felt so bad for the thousands of Mainers who were planning on baking and cooking Wednesday, only to find their stoves and refrigerators out of commission. Our power returned at 2:30 a.m. this morning, but when I logged onto the Internet news sources, I saw that many Mainers will still be without power all day today, Thanksgiving. I feel so sorry for those people. No Macy’s parade. No turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie. Some, like us, have some ruined food in the freezer (ice cream I bought for Thanksgiving), and some, like us, are on wells where they have no running water and no toilets, and some, unlike us, have no heat source other than an electric oil furnace. I really feel empathy for those who were to have hosted their family’s Thanksgiving feast, which is hard to do without electricity and running water.
Everything, of course, is high tech these days. The power went out in the middle of the night Tuesday night, and Wednesday when I got to work, I used my work computer to check e-mail and log into the electric company’s web site to report the power outage on our street. By later that morning, thousands were without power. I was surprised when I got home from work that we were still without electricity, and after the aforementioned evening of reading by battery light and candles, we went to bed. The power came back on over 24 hours after it had gone off, again in the middle of the night, and 20 minutes later the phone rang. It was an automated call from the electric company, wanting to verify that, “if your power has returned, press 1,” which I gladly did.
So on this Thanksgiving morning, very early, my main thought is that I am thankful for electricity. How we depend on it! How we are connected by it! My second thought is still about the thousands without power on this special day. My third thought is about the electric crew (apparently from several states) who spent their night before Thanksgiving outside repairing lines.
Oh, well - there is nothing that reinforces the journey to simplicity than sitting in front of a wood fire by candlelight in absolute silence! Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
We live in a rural setting neighborhood without street lights anyway, but without any lights of any kind in the houses, the area was pitch black. Inside the house, we got the candles out and sat in front of the wood stove, which was great to have for heat since the furnace was nonfunctioning. I read aloud to Ed from our new book, a biography of Harry Truman, but after a few chapters, I worried about using up my battery-powered reading light, I turned it off and we sat in the quiet. It gave me lots of time to think, of course.
We could have had it much worse. Our daughter, Rachel, and her husband, Chris, and the girls got major wind damage to their roof with shingles all over their yard and resultant leaks inside. Chris, sick already, climbed a ladder in the middle of the rain and wind and took pictures. They still had power. Matt and Sarah in Old Town got lucky. Their house which they just moved into last weekend sustained no damage and they still had power. Three different households affected in three different ways.
Our family celebrates Thanksgiving on Friday so the kids can go to their in-laws on the actual day (they married into big families). So we were lucky in that with the roof damage and power outages, we had an extra day to figure out how to cope. Others were not so lucky. I felt so bad for the thousands of Mainers who were planning on baking and cooking Wednesday, only to find their stoves and refrigerators out of commission. Our power returned at 2:30 a.m. this morning, but when I logged onto the Internet news sources, I saw that many Mainers will still be without power all day today, Thanksgiving. I feel so sorry for those people. No Macy’s parade. No turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie. Some, like us, have some ruined food in the freezer (ice cream I bought for Thanksgiving), and some, like us, are on wells where they have no running water and no toilets, and some, unlike us, have no heat source other than an electric oil furnace. I really feel empathy for those who were to have hosted their family’s Thanksgiving feast, which is hard to do without electricity and running water.
Everything, of course, is high tech these days. The power went out in the middle of the night Tuesday night, and Wednesday when I got to work, I used my work computer to check e-mail and log into the electric company’s web site to report the power outage on our street. By later that morning, thousands were without power. I was surprised when I got home from work that we were still without electricity, and after the aforementioned evening of reading by battery light and candles, we went to bed. The power came back on over 24 hours after it had gone off, again in the middle of the night, and 20 minutes later the phone rang. It was an automated call from the electric company, wanting to verify that, “if your power has returned, press 1,” which I gladly did.
So on this Thanksgiving morning, very early, my main thought is that I am thankful for electricity. How we depend on it! How we are connected by it! My second thought is still about the thousands without power on this special day. My third thought is about the electric crew (apparently from several states) who spent their night before Thanksgiving outside repairing lines.
Oh, well - there is nothing that reinforces the journey to simplicity than sitting in front of a wood fire by candlelight in absolute silence! Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Friday, November 21, 2008
Banana Peels?
In a life such as mine, one filled to the brim with interests, hobbies, fascinating people, work, family and friends, there must be projects that are always put on the back burner. Some things are consistently simmering back there, but occasionally I take one pot off and replace it with another. My stovetop is only so big and my front burners are limited.
Unfortunately, one of the perpetually placed things on the back burner is The Book. No, not the great American novel - this is a book my sister, Joy, and I are writing in collaboration, and it’s a book of children’s sermons.
When Ed was in active ministry, at one point I decided to start the familiar (to me) tradition of children’s sermons in the service. (For those of you who don’t go to church, this is the time in the service where the kids come down to the front, usually sit on a front pew or on the floor, and someone gives a short “lesson” and sometimes hands out “favors” to help them remember the point of the lesson.) I felt there was a need, and boy, I just love stories! I love to hear them and I love to tell them. Over the years I have heard countless children’s sermons. Most were ordinary, preachy, or, well, just plain boring. They either talked over the kids’ heads or were given condescendingly. In the defense of those brave souls who tried to do this, it’s not as easy as it looks to give a children’s sermon. You may have kids whose ages are anywhere from 1 to 12 - quite a broad range. You have kids with limited attention spans. You have kids who have attended church all their lives, and others who never heard of the story of Moses. In addition to all this, you have to remember that the adults are listening, too, and they might as well get something out of it. And in my case, I tried to match the “moral” of the story with Ed’s regular sermon (as well as the hymns), as we always tried to make our church services a seamless entity with a major focus.
In spite of the challenges, I started really enjoying giving children’s sermons. I looked at published books for ideas, but as I had experienced in real life, the sermons in those books were not interesting to me. If I was going to be a good storyteller, I had to really be passionate about the story.
What stories am I passionate about? My own! My life has been so enriched by crazy characters, situations, childhood memories, and I decided I had a fertile background for such stories. So I ditched all the books and started to write my own. I added to these things, tidbits I came across in my reading or on the news, things I observed maybe years ago or just the day before - hmmm...maybe these were actually the seeds for this blog which didn’t germinate until years later!
While I was in middle and east Tennessee giving children’s sermons, Joy was in west Tennessee going to her own church and lo and behold, she started giving children’s sermons as well. People were complimenting us both on our stories, and finally one day the idea began to take root about trying to get them published. Being separated by miles of Tennessee land at first, then by miles and miles of the Eastern seaboard after we moved to Maine, was a challenge, but using the Internet, phone, and occasional visits in person, we formulated a good start for our book. Taking our cue from two of the stories, we fashioned an intriguing title of “Banana Peels and Bumblebees.”
Alas, the demand is not really there for children’s sermon books, it seems. It’s such a specialized niche, and, really, even if a few churches in a city bought it, it would be only a maximum of one copy per church! A friend of mine volunteered to show some excerpts to a published Christian author of her acquaintance to get her critique, and the author gave us a thoughtful response. She detailed our strengths and weaknesses and suggested we might be better off retooling the book for use in families, as more and more families, she said, are having “spiritual” times together. We started the revisions, but life started getting busier, Joy’s girls got to be teenagers with all that entails, and my grandkids started growing up with all that entails, and we sold our house and moved and, well, there it sits on the back burner.
The point to all this: Just like the journey to simplicity, retrieving these stories from our lives required a great deal of introspection. It took observation and awareness - the ability to take any - any - ordinarily mundane and apparently meaningless situation or something somebody said or some other life experience, and squeeze it and wring out the meaning, because I believe you can find meaning in almost anything. There are life lessons in every little thing we experience, every person we come across, everything we see and hear and touch, everything nature gives us, and every other thing life throws our way. The key is to catch the moment and be able to put it into a story.
Frequently, the idea of finding meaning in your life is interpreted as one big thing - what you were called to be, your mission, looking at your life as one big experience. But Joy and I look at meaning in the little things - the memory of our dad picking crabgrass or directing the choir. The memory of our mom eating bananas, or of the time we brought an abandoned kitten back from a cliff in Chattanooga to our home in Memphis. These are some of the stories of our lives. We all have these stories, sitting in us waiting to be observed, given meaning, and shared. The more you find your own stories, the more you learn about yourself, about your relationship with those around you, and about your relationship with God. I encourage you to take some time to find the stories of your life and write some down, for your kids or grandkids or parent or friend - or even just for yourself. You will be amazed at the richness of your life and what it offers to others. Heck, even get a book published! (Then give me the name of your obliging publishers... I have something they might be interested in!)
Unfortunately, one of the perpetually placed things on the back burner is The Book. No, not the great American novel - this is a book my sister, Joy, and I are writing in collaboration, and it’s a book of children’s sermons.
When Ed was in active ministry, at one point I decided to start the familiar (to me) tradition of children’s sermons in the service. (For those of you who don’t go to church, this is the time in the service where the kids come down to the front, usually sit on a front pew or on the floor, and someone gives a short “lesson” and sometimes hands out “favors” to help them remember the point of the lesson.) I felt there was a need, and boy, I just love stories! I love to hear them and I love to tell them. Over the years I have heard countless children’s sermons. Most were ordinary, preachy, or, well, just plain boring. They either talked over the kids’ heads or were given condescendingly. In the defense of those brave souls who tried to do this, it’s not as easy as it looks to give a children’s sermon. You may have kids whose ages are anywhere from 1 to 12 - quite a broad range. You have kids with limited attention spans. You have kids who have attended church all their lives, and others who never heard of the story of Moses. In addition to all this, you have to remember that the adults are listening, too, and they might as well get something out of it. And in my case, I tried to match the “moral” of the story with Ed’s regular sermon (as well as the hymns), as we always tried to make our church services a seamless entity with a major focus.
In spite of the challenges, I started really enjoying giving children’s sermons. I looked at published books for ideas, but as I had experienced in real life, the sermons in those books were not interesting to me. If I was going to be a good storyteller, I had to really be passionate about the story.
What stories am I passionate about? My own! My life has been so enriched by crazy characters, situations, childhood memories, and I decided I had a fertile background for such stories. So I ditched all the books and started to write my own. I added to these things, tidbits I came across in my reading or on the news, things I observed maybe years ago or just the day before - hmmm...maybe these were actually the seeds for this blog which didn’t germinate until years later!
While I was in middle and east Tennessee giving children’s sermons, Joy was in west Tennessee going to her own church and lo and behold, she started giving children’s sermons as well. People were complimenting us both on our stories, and finally one day the idea began to take root about trying to get them published. Being separated by miles of Tennessee land at first, then by miles and miles of the Eastern seaboard after we moved to Maine, was a challenge, but using the Internet, phone, and occasional visits in person, we formulated a good start for our book. Taking our cue from two of the stories, we fashioned an intriguing title of “Banana Peels and Bumblebees.”
Alas, the demand is not really there for children’s sermon books, it seems. It’s such a specialized niche, and, really, even if a few churches in a city bought it, it would be only a maximum of one copy per church! A friend of mine volunteered to show some excerpts to a published Christian author of her acquaintance to get her critique, and the author gave us a thoughtful response. She detailed our strengths and weaknesses and suggested we might be better off retooling the book for use in families, as more and more families, she said, are having “spiritual” times together. We started the revisions, but life started getting busier, Joy’s girls got to be teenagers with all that entails, and my grandkids started growing up with all that entails, and we sold our house and moved and, well, there it sits on the back burner.
The point to all this: Just like the journey to simplicity, retrieving these stories from our lives required a great deal of introspection. It took observation and awareness - the ability to take any - any - ordinarily mundane and apparently meaningless situation or something somebody said or some other life experience, and squeeze it and wring out the meaning, because I believe you can find meaning in almost anything. There are life lessons in every little thing we experience, every person we come across, everything we see and hear and touch, everything nature gives us, and every other thing life throws our way. The key is to catch the moment and be able to put it into a story.
Frequently, the idea of finding meaning in your life is interpreted as one big thing - what you were called to be, your mission, looking at your life as one big experience. But Joy and I look at meaning in the little things - the memory of our dad picking crabgrass or directing the choir. The memory of our mom eating bananas, or of the time we brought an abandoned kitten back from a cliff in Chattanooga to our home in Memphis. These are some of the stories of our lives. We all have these stories, sitting in us waiting to be observed, given meaning, and shared. The more you find your own stories, the more you learn about yourself, about your relationship with those around you, and about your relationship with God. I encourage you to take some time to find the stories of your life and write some down, for your kids or grandkids or parent or friend - or even just for yourself. You will be amazed at the richness of your life and what it offers to others. Heck, even get a book published! (Then give me the name of your obliging publishers... I have something they might be interested in!)
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Feelings
A thread on clutter and organization on one of my MT sites this morning made me think. What’s so hard about dejunking and decluttering? It’s emotional, that’s what. We may think we are just disorganized or apathetic to clutter, but it’s all a response to emotions. I remember going through my Past Boxes in 2005, trying to decide what to keep and what to toss. I laughed, sobbed, and smiled my way through them. Of course, I put stuff in my Past Boxes for a reason - I thought they were worth keeping.
What about all the other accumulated stuff in the house? A lot of it is created by the emotion of fear: “What if I throw this away and need it again some day?” Guilt: “I shouldn’t have spent good money on this in the first place. If I give it away, it means I’ve wasted my money.” Grieving: “I can’t bear to part with this because is reminds me of someone who’s not here anymore.” Envy: “I can’t downsize because the rest of the neighbors have such nice stuff!” Paralyzing anxiety: “I don’t know where to start, so I just won’t start!” The fact is that it is highly probable that living in chaos is a form of avoidance - our minds are too harried to make important decisions in our lives that need to be made, or to come to terms with our life circumstances, whatever they may be.
I’m not saying emotions are bad; on the contrary, we have to feel them and work through them. That’s what’s hard about downsizing. You have to take a long, hard look at yourself and your priorities, what you consider beautiful and what you consider junk, what you are keeping just for yourself and what you are keeping for future generations to enjoy. It’s not easy; in fact, it can be quite painful - but cathartic.
My mother-in-law and my mother both lived through the Great Depression. Each woman came out on the other side of it changed in some way. My mother-in-law, who was financially well-off when she died, let the Depression turn her into a hoarder. Like Scarlet O’Hara, by God, she was never going to go hungry again! So she became a miser. My mother, on the other hand, came out with the idea that, as she had suffered, she didn’t want anyone else to suffer, so she spent the rest of her life being generous, giving away everything she had to give, living a meager lifestyle herself.
We are all tied up emotionally in our “stuff.” The trick is to dig deep within yourself, analyze the emotions, helpful and debilitating, behind your lifestyle, then act on it. The bad news is that these are decisions you will have to continually remake as long as you live. The good news is that you will learn a lot about yourself in the process.
What about all the other accumulated stuff in the house? A lot of it is created by the emotion of fear: “What if I throw this away and need it again some day?” Guilt: “I shouldn’t have spent good money on this in the first place. If I give it away, it means I’ve wasted my money.” Grieving: “I can’t bear to part with this because is reminds me of someone who’s not here anymore.” Envy: “I can’t downsize because the rest of the neighbors have such nice stuff!” Paralyzing anxiety: “I don’t know where to start, so I just won’t start!” The fact is that it is highly probable that living in chaos is a form of avoidance - our minds are too harried to make important decisions in our lives that need to be made, or to come to terms with our life circumstances, whatever they may be.
I’m not saying emotions are bad; on the contrary, we have to feel them and work through them. That’s what’s hard about downsizing. You have to take a long, hard look at yourself and your priorities, what you consider beautiful and what you consider junk, what you are keeping just for yourself and what you are keeping for future generations to enjoy. It’s not easy; in fact, it can be quite painful - but cathartic.
My mother-in-law and my mother both lived through the Great Depression. Each woman came out on the other side of it changed in some way. My mother-in-law, who was financially well-off when she died, let the Depression turn her into a hoarder. Like Scarlet O’Hara, by God, she was never going to go hungry again! So she became a miser. My mother, on the other hand, came out with the idea that, as she had suffered, she didn’t want anyone else to suffer, so she spent the rest of her life being generous, giving away everything she had to give, living a meager lifestyle herself.
We are all tied up emotionally in our “stuff.” The trick is to dig deep within yourself, analyze the emotions, helpful and debilitating, behind your lifestyle, then act on it. The bad news is that these are decisions you will have to continually remake as long as you live. The good news is that you will learn a lot about yourself in the process.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Happy Birthday, Charlotte!
How did that song go? “....moved to Beverly. Hills, that is. Swimmin’ pools, movie stars.” Yes, some of that and Broadway too was thrown in as the theme of Charlotte’s 3rd birthday party yesterday. Kids could have a photo op for “publicity photos” and take home sunglasses and fake microphones. There were hot dogs and lots of movie popcorn and candy. The annual video documenting the year in creative ways, made by Rachel, her mom, was its usual spectacular self, carrying on the movie star theme in the “premiere.”
One day if Charlotte, the young drama queen (following after her cousin Amelia, the high school drama queen), ever makes it to star status, the pictures of her at 3 years old making faces, wiggling her jean-clad butt, and video of her singing “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” in its entirety will be valuable indeed.
This is the girl who never stops. Getting her dressed is harder than putting a belt on a wet snake (I know - I had to do it yesterday). It is amazing to see the difference between Charlotte and her 5-year-old sister, Caroline. She is totally extroverted, a true party girl, and she will try anything that looks interesting or fun. Yeah, I know. Good luck, Rachel and Chris, huh? Yikes!
So, dear precious Charlotte, happy 3rd birthday! Can I have your autograph?
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
September 26, 2008, and Beyond
What I’ve learned since Mom’s accident:
1. Life can change in an instant. A few weeks after Mom’s wreck, our daughter Rachel broke into tears on the phone. “Why did this have to happen?,” she sobbed. "Everything was perfect; why did it have to change?” Why, indeed? Because that’s life. It’s unplanned, unrehearsed, and can throw you for a loop in the fraction of a second it takes for you to decide when to turn left, change lanes, go faster in the rain, follow too closely, or even mundane low-risk quick decisions we make each day. Sometimes we all want to shout, “Rewind! Back up! Let’s try that again!” but the die has been cast, and we have to adjust.
2. If you’re in the hospital, please make sure you have a personal advocate, family member, friend, or someone who is concerned about you and can watch out for you. We have had the privilege during this time to meet some dedicated, talented nurses and doctors and hospital staff. We’ve also had to deal with neglect, incompetence, miscommunication, medication mixups, apathy, hostility, and just plain rudeness. It is a scary thing to be a patient in a hospital. You need all the backup you can. Believe me.
My sister wrote everything down - people she talked to and when she talked to them, Mom’s vital signs, condition, improvement or deterioration, tests, what the social worker said, what the doctor said, what the nurse said, what Mom ate at mealtimes, what meds she got (or didn’t get). She started her notebook so she wouldn’t forget all the loads of information she was trying to process, but it turned out to be a detailed journal of Mom’s medical journey. That notebook has been a lifesaver for us - even though it appeared to make the hospital staff quite nervous at times.
3. If life goes according its customary route, we will all get old. Plan for it. I’m not talking just about retirement living expenses, folks. I’m talking about Living Wills, regular wills, powers-of-attorney, names on bank accounts, Medicaid supplements, insurance policies - the works. Organize your information so it is easily retrievable in case of emergency, remembering to shred old documents with personal information. Fortunately, our mother still has a sharp mind and can tell us where to find these things. Some aren’t so lucky. I often use our dad as a role model. He was the epitome of organization, keeping meticulous detailed records of, for instance, utility bills that were 30 years old. He could track decades of expenses. When he died unexpectedly at age 64, we looked in his file cabinet and there was a folder marked “Death” with all the funeral/burial information we needed. Do you have loved ones? Plan ahead. Please.
4. One word - Friends. These are the times when you rely on your friends. From e-mails of support to phone calls to visits to referrals - our friends have been there. Mom, my sister, and I have the most amazing circle of friends, many of them the result of lifelong relationships, unbreakable bonds. Thank God for friends.
4. Just one more word - Family. If you grew up in an abusive or dismal household, try to break the pattern and change that for those you are responsible for. If you grew up in an incredibly supportive household, please pass that spirit on. Our family, always close, has grown closer through this maze of hospitalization, rehab, placement, with so much up in the air and so many details to attend to. My sister, who is local to Mom, has handled the brunt of this mess with responsibility and caring. I love you, Joy, and I am so proud of you. I know it’s been hard and will probably get harder. Hang in there.
So in essence, in the midst of feeling lost and heartbroken and worried, the only thing you can do in a situation like this is learn what you can and pass on what you learn. Consider it passed.
1. Life can change in an instant. A few weeks after Mom’s wreck, our daughter Rachel broke into tears on the phone. “Why did this have to happen?,” she sobbed. "Everything was perfect; why did it have to change?” Why, indeed? Because that’s life. It’s unplanned, unrehearsed, and can throw you for a loop in the fraction of a second it takes for you to decide when to turn left, change lanes, go faster in the rain, follow too closely, or even mundane low-risk quick decisions we make each day. Sometimes we all want to shout, “Rewind! Back up! Let’s try that again!” but the die has been cast, and we have to adjust.
2. If you’re in the hospital, please make sure you have a personal advocate, family member, friend, or someone who is concerned about you and can watch out for you. We have had the privilege during this time to meet some dedicated, talented nurses and doctors and hospital staff. We’ve also had to deal with neglect, incompetence, miscommunication, medication mixups, apathy, hostility, and just plain rudeness. It is a scary thing to be a patient in a hospital. You need all the backup you can. Believe me.
My sister wrote everything down - people she talked to and when she talked to them, Mom’s vital signs, condition, improvement or deterioration, tests, what the social worker said, what the doctor said, what the nurse said, what Mom ate at mealtimes, what meds she got (or didn’t get). She started her notebook so she wouldn’t forget all the loads of information she was trying to process, but it turned out to be a detailed journal of Mom’s medical journey. That notebook has been a lifesaver for us - even though it appeared to make the hospital staff quite nervous at times.
3. If life goes according its customary route, we will all get old. Plan for it. I’m not talking just about retirement living expenses, folks. I’m talking about Living Wills, regular wills, powers-of-attorney, names on bank accounts, Medicaid supplements, insurance policies - the works. Organize your information so it is easily retrievable in case of emergency, remembering to shred old documents with personal information. Fortunately, our mother still has a sharp mind and can tell us where to find these things. Some aren’t so lucky. I often use our dad as a role model. He was the epitome of organization, keeping meticulous detailed records of, for instance, utility bills that were 30 years old. He could track decades of expenses. When he died unexpectedly at age 64, we looked in his file cabinet and there was a folder marked “Death” with all the funeral/burial information we needed. Do you have loved ones? Plan ahead. Please.
4. One word - Friends. These are the times when you rely on your friends. From e-mails of support to phone calls to visits to referrals - our friends have been there. Mom, my sister, and I have the most amazing circle of friends, many of them the result of lifelong relationships, unbreakable bonds. Thank God for friends.
4. Just one more word - Family. If you grew up in an abusive or dismal household, try to break the pattern and change that for those you are responsible for. If you grew up in an incredibly supportive household, please pass that spirit on. Our family, always close, has grown closer through this maze of hospitalization, rehab, placement, with so much up in the air and so many details to attend to. My sister, who is local to Mom, has handled the brunt of this mess with responsibility and caring. I love you, Joy, and I am so proud of you. I know it’s been hard and will probably get harder. Hang in there.
So in essence, in the midst of feeling lost and heartbroken and worried, the only thing you can do in a situation like this is learn what you can and pass on what you learn. Consider it passed.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Company
Ed and I are fixing to have company. I’ve sensed this for a long time, but only recently has the sense become so strong. Every day, as the news folks crunch the numbers on Wall Street, the housing market, and other indicators of the economy, I know that in increasingly larger numbers, more people will be coming to join us - on the Journey to Simplicity.
Of course, there’s Voluntary Simplicity and there’s Kicking and Dragging Simplicity, and I suspect the latter will be a big driving force in the exodus from consumerism, but that’s OK. Harder, but OK.
I suspect more and more of these people are waking up to the fact that maybe they are spending foolishly, maybe they are living beyond their means, maybe they’ve never taken time to examine their priorities, maybe they bought too much into advertising telling them what they “need,” or maybe it’s just a case of people living a normal American middle-class life, not excessive but comfortable, buying within reason what they wanted to, traveling when they wanted to, not having to take a calculator to shop for groceries, indulging their kids a little (or a lot), knowing the bills will get paid on time, having fun buying Christmas presents - I mean, that sounds like a good, agreeable way to live. I should know; I’ve been there. I’m not talking about excessive opulence here. I’m just describing the typical, comfortable, relatively anxiety-free life many of us have had. Until now.
Some folks who never had to cut corners are cutting corners. Some folks who have been cutting corners all along will have to cut even more corners. Some folks don’t even have a corner to cut.
So, with the understanding that Ed and I are no experts and still have a lot of road to travel to Simplicity, we have a piece of starting advice for those joining us on the journey: Take a few minutes of deep breathing to absorb the panic and anxiety, sit down with a nice cup of hot tea and a notebook or tablet, and make a list of your priorities. Because money is not the only thing in the balance here. We spend money, yes, but we also spend energy, time and resources on our priorities. How much more productive can I use my money, energy, time and resources? What is very important to me and what is not so important? Where do I make cuts? See, everyone has his/her own perspective on this. For me, having my high-speed cable internet is important. It is the way I communicate with my family and friends, the way I send and receive pictures, the way I pay my bills, the way I find free software and patterns, and the way I browse the newspaper since I canceled newspaper delivery. I would eat peanut butter for a week if it allowed me to keep my internet. For others, they don’t give a hoot about the internet; maybe their priority is organic food, and they eat less in general to be able to afford it. For others, their books are their precious commodities, and they might be willing to eat whatever is on sale so they can have money to buy books. It may be a special hobby or interest that others deem a priority, and these folks are willing to scrimp and save in other areas in order to engage in that. Others are willing to sacrifice little pleasures if it means being closer to sending their kid to college. Still others want to be able to spend time with family, if that means no new clothes this year.
I’m not here to give a lecture on cutting expenses. I am here to say that this is one task you can’t designate to someone else - a financial adviser, your pastor, or even your savvy second cousin. Establishing your priorities is the first step on the Journey to Simplicity and it has to be done by you. I’m warning you this is not an easy task. Do you know how it feels to look at your face in a magnifying makeup mirror? Seeing the wrinkles, imperfections, blemishes, sagging? Well, looking at your life from Simplicity’s point of view is exactly like that. You see the waste, the excesses, the “What was I thinking?!!” purchases. It’s not pretty, but it has to be done.
It has to be done because one just can’t jump into this journey unprepared. Simplicity’s road is long. Simplicity’s road is bumpy. It has twists and turns and sometimes you feel totally lost. Sometimes it curves back on itself and you have to go over the exact same path again! Sometimes you’re walking in rain and storms, and at other times, the view is so beautiful that it will make you cry. Some parts are so shaky and unpredictable that holding hands with someone is the only way to get through them.
So to all the people who are eyeing this incredible road: Welcome! We’re just taking baby steps, going slowly. There are many people who are traveling this road who have certainly sped past us, and others behind us whom we are trying to encourage. It used to be more of “the road not taken,” but I think in the near future it will get pretty crowded. To all of us - May the wind be at our backs!
Of course, there’s Voluntary Simplicity and there’s Kicking and Dragging Simplicity, and I suspect the latter will be a big driving force in the exodus from consumerism, but that’s OK. Harder, but OK.
I suspect more and more of these people are waking up to the fact that maybe they are spending foolishly, maybe they are living beyond their means, maybe they’ve never taken time to examine their priorities, maybe they bought too much into advertising telling them what they “need,” or maybe it’s just a case of people living a normal American middle-class life, not excessive but comfortable, buying within reason what they wanted to, traveling when they wanted to, not having to take a calculator to shop for groceries, indulging their kids a little (or a lot), knowing the bills will get paid on time, having fun buying Christmas presents - I mean, that sounds like a good, agreeable way to live. I should know; I’ve been there. I’m not talking about excessive opulence here. I’m just describing the typical, comfortable, relatively anxiety-free life many of us have had. Until now.
Some folks who never had to cut corners are cutting corners. Some folks who have been cutting corners all along will have to cut even more corners. Some folks don’t even have a corner to cut.
So, with the understanding that Ed and I are no experts and still have a lot of road to travel to Simplicity, we have a piece of starting advice for those joining us on the journey: Take a few minutes of deep breathing to absorb the panic and anxiety, sit down with a nice cup of hot tea and a notebook or tablet, and make a list of your priorities. Because money is not the only thing in the balance here. We spend money, yes, but we also spend energy, time and resources on our priorities. How much more productive can I use my money, energy, time and resources? What is very important to me and what is not so important? Where do I make cuts? See, everyone has his/her own perspective on this. For me, having my high-speed cable internet is important. It is the way I communicate with my family and friends, the way I send and receive pictures, the way I pay my bills, the way I find free software and patterns, and the way I browse the newspaper since I canceled newspaper delivery. I would eat peanut butter for a week if it allowed me to keep my internet. For others, they don’t give a hoot about the internet; maybe their priority is organic food, and they eat less in general to be able to afford it. For others, their books are their precious commodities, and they might be willing to eat whatever is on sale so they can have money to buy books. It may be a special hobby or interest that others deem a priority, and these folks are willing to scrimp and save in other areas in order to engage in that. Others are willing to sacrifice little pleasures if it means being closer to sending their kid to college. Still others want to be able to spend time with family, if that means no new clothes this year.
I’m not here to give a lecture on cutting expenses. I am here to say that this is one task you can’t designate to someone else - a financial adviser, your pastor, or even your savvy second cousin. Establishing your priorities is the first step on the Journey to Simplicity and it has to be done by you. I’m warning you this is not an easy task. Do you know how it feels to look at your face in a magnifying makeup mirror? Seeing the wrinkles, imperfections, blemishes, sagging? Well, looking at your life from Simplicity’s point of view is exactly like that. You see the waste, the excesses, the “What was I thinking?!!” purchases. It’s not pretty, but it has to be done.
It has to be done because one just can’t jump into this journey unprepared. Simplicity’s road is long. Simplicity’s road is bumpy. It has twists and turns and sometimes you feel totally lost. Sometimes it curves back on itself and you have to go over the exact same path again! Sometimes you’re walking in rain and storms, and at other times, the view is so beautiful that it will make you cry. Some parts are so shaky and unpredictable that holding hands with someone is the only way to get through them.
So to all the people who are eyeing this incredible road: Welcome! We’re just taking baby steps, going slowly. There are many people who are traveling this road who have certainly sped past us, and others behind us whom we are trying to encourage. It used to be more of “the road not taken,” but I think in the near future it will get pretty crowded. To all of us - May the wind be at our backs!
Thursday, October 09, 2008
The Wait
What is it like to be in the critical care waiting room of a trauma center?
9. 1. 5. 9. Those are the only numbers that matter in the critical care waiting room, because they are the only times the patients can have visitors and only then for one hour. Everyone in the waiting room plans his or her schedule according to those four times - 9:00, 1:00, 5:00, and 9:00. As infrequent as it is, it is still the only hope and comfort one has to look forward to in this pale yellow room with hard green chairs and gray paisley recliners. There are 3 TVs and lots of magazines scattered about in the room, but all eyes are mostly on the big clock at the front desk. The room is constantly occupied, so much so that they have to close it down for a few hours every Thursday morning just to clean.
Look around - this room holds many people, and with each person is another story - of tragedy, trauma, infection, coma, and death. So many stories. So many tears.
There are some smiles and laughter, of course. There has to be, for the worried ones could not survive without a break in the anxiety. Some of those worried ones have been living in the waiting room for months. Their suitcases and myriad bags tell of the many nights they have slept in recliners, and the many mornings they have shuffled into the bathroom to take a shower. There are hair brushes and toothbrushes and all the signs of personal hygiene. There is not much privacy here. No one worries about snoring or being seen with dirty hair or no makeup. On the contrary, instead of embarrassed strangers, they are a family, not for the most part with ties of blood, but with ties of suffering and hope, pain and recovery. They share a bond, they ask about each other's loved ones, rejoicing in any sign of improvement, no matter how small. They relate how long they have been "living" in this room. Here background or race doesn't matter. Understanding, though, does.
Every visitor has to first sign in at the desk and get a photograph taken for a sticker ID. This photograph is worse than a driver's license photograph, worse than a passport photograph. We pass the time trying to figure out whose picture is the worst. It is as if the camera purposefully chooses the most horrible perspective in order to mirror the mood of the wearer. After a few hours, the ID expires and you have to get a new one printed out. The photograph never expires, though. It is there forever.
Visitors wear this ID all day. When a CCU visitor passes another person in the hospital wearing the ID, both people smile in empathy. They might recognize each other from the waiting room; they might not. It doesn't matter. You are one of us. I am one of you. We know our priorities. One priority is our sick loved one, and the other is the clock which gives us those short hours we live for. 9, 1, 5, 9.
Every so often the ring of a telephone jars the quiet conversation. Everything stops. The books, the TVs, the cell phones - all are placed on hold as a clerk or visitor answers the phone and yells out the family's name. Your heart tries to beat out of your chest. Is it the doctor bringing bad news? No, it's not for you. You've been granted a reprieve. You can try to relax until the next time the phone rings.
After a few days, you realize that some recliners are off limits, because they are being used by the "regulars" who have made the waiting room their home. This tradition is given great respect. It reminds me a little of going to church, where certain people have their usual pews. Except these people sleep there and eat there with their bags of cookies and chips and snacks and sodas. It's almost like a camping trip, except you are so totally exhausted and anxious and worried. Beyond exhausted.
If the phone is not ringing, the choppers are landing overhead or an ambulance rushes past. There's been another wreck or another fire and the trauma center again does what it does best.
This is a place where nobody really wants to be. It doesn't matter, because you have to be there. You get through another day, help one more person find the elevators or the cafeteria, and then at 10:00 p.m. you go to the desk and receive your blankets and pillow. You snuggle down, trying to find a comfortable position in an uncomfortable recliner, and fitfully sleep. Occasionally another family comes in the waiting room in the middle of the night and moves chairs around so they can be together. The choppers and ambulances never completely go away. Morning comes before you know it, and it's time to wait your turn with the shower, the sink, or the toilets, get some breakfast, and start watching the clock. 9, 1, 5, 9. Those are the only numbers that matter.
9. 1. 5. 9. Those are the only numbers that matter in the critical care waiting room, because they are the only times the patients can have visitors and only then for one hour. Everyone in the waiting room plans his or her schedule according to those four times - 9:00, 1:00, 5:00, and 9:00. As infrequent as it is, it is still the only hope and comfort one has to look forward to in this pale yellow room with hard green chairs and gray paisley recliners. There are 3 TVs and lots of magazines scattered about in the room, but all eyes are mostly on the big clock at the front desk. The room is constantly occupied, so much so that they have to close it down for a few hours every Thursday morning just to clean.
Look around - this room holds many people, and with each person is another story - of tragedy, trauma, infection, coma, and death. So many stories. So many tears.
There are some smiles and laughter, of course. There has to be, for the worried ones could not survive without a break in the anxiety. Some of those worried ones have been living in the waiting room for months. Their suitcases and myriad bags tell of the many nights they have slept in recliners, and the many mornings they have shuffled into the bathroom to take a shower. There are hair brushes and toothbrushes and all the signs of personal hygiene. There is not much privacy here. No one worries about snoring or being seen with dirty hair or no makeup. On the contrary, instead of embarrassed strangers, they are a family, not for the most part with ties of blood, but with ties of suffering and hope, pain and recovery. They share a bond, they ask about each other's loved ones, rejoicing in any sign of improvement, no matter how small. They relate how long they have been "living" in this room. Here background or race doesn't matter. Understanding, though, does.
Every visitor has to first sign in at the desk and get a photograph taken for a sticker ID. This photograph is worse than a driver's license photograph, worse than a passport photograph. We pass the time trying to figure out whose picture is the worst. It is as if the camera purposefully chooses the most horrible perspective in order to mirror the mood of the wearer. After a few hours, the ID expires and you have to get a new one printed out. The photograph never expires, though. It is there forever.
Visitors wear this ID all day. When a CCU visitor passes another person in the hospital wearing the ID, both people smile in empathy. They might recognize each other from the waiting room; they might not. It doesn't matter. You are one of us. I am one of you. We know our priorities. One priority is our sick loved one, and the other is the clock which gives us those short hours we live for. 9, 1, 5, 9.
Every so often the ring of a telephone jars the quiet conversation. Everything stops. The books, the TVs, the cell phones - all are placed on hold as a clerk or visitor answers the phone and yells out the family's name. Your heart tries to beat out of your chest. Is it the doctor bringing bad news? No, it's not for you. You've been granted a reprieve. You can try to relax until the next time the phone rings.
After a few days, you realize that some recliners are off limits, because they are being used by the "regulars" who have made the waiting room their home. This tradition is given great respect. It reminds me a little of going to church, where certain people have their usual pews. Except these people sleep there and eat there with their bags of cookies and chips and snacks and sodas. It's almost like a camping trip, except you are so totally exhausted and anxious and worried. Beyond exhausted.
If the phone is not ringing, the choppers are landing overhead or an ambulance rushes past. There's been another wreck or another fire and the trauma center again does what it does best.
This is a place where nobody really wants to be. It doesn't matter, because you have to be there. You get through another day, help one more person find the elevators or the cafeteria, and then at 10:00 p.m. you go to the desk and receive your blankets and pillow. You snuggle down, trying to find a comfortable position in an uncomfortable recliner, and fitfully sleep. Occasionally another family comes in the waiting room in the middle of the night and moves chairs around so they can be together. The choppers and ambulances never completely go away. Morning comes before you know it, and it's time to wait your turn with the shower, the sink, or the toilets, get some breakfast, and start watching the clock. 9, 1, 5, 9. Those are the only numbers that matter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)