In Memoriam, Michael McDonald 1958-2007

Death has a lot of faces. Sometimes, in the case of a suffering cancer patient, it appears as a welcoming friend. Other times, it is an expected inevitable visitor to someone who has lived a long life and is ready for the next act.

Still other times, it strikes unexpectedly without reason or warning. Last week was one of those times.

Death and I have always had a strange relationship. I know Death is a necessary evil. I know Death has a job to do. I have no qualms with that. Once in an adult Sunday School class, Ed and I read a book by Leslie Weatherhead called The Will of God. In it, the author discusses the reasons for Death's existence, and asks if we truly would want to live in a world without Death. How precious would life be then, if it were unending? our class was asked. How precious would the sun be without the rain? How precious would good health be without sickness? Oh yes, he makes some good points for the necessity of Death.

The times when Death and I part ways are times when Death comes prematurely. In the normal scheme of things, the passing of one who has had a long, well-lived, happy life leaves me sad, but I am not angry.

This week and I am both sad and angry - because a few days ago, Death reached out and took a gentle soul a mite too early. We were not prepared to wake up to a world without cousin Mike. It just didn’t seem possible. He was only 49.

I’m getting angry these days with a plethora of lives taken under age 50. My best friend, Bernie, died before she turned 50. A woman who worked at my hospital died in a motorcycle wreck last week. She was 40. And all I can say over and over is my tired old mantra - “It’s not fair!”

And so I cry. I cry because I will miss Mike. I cry to think what his parents and brothers and partner and two sons will have to deal with every day. I cry because I am not able to attend the funeral in Arkansas. I cry because of the pain I hear in the voices of my relatives. I cry because I am totally helpless. I cry because I should be the one comforting my eldest cousin, and instead, he is comforting me. I cry because I wish I had been with Mike more. I cry because I know that other loved ones can be gone in the blink of an eye without warning. I cry because life is not fair.

For those of my readers who don’t know the story, it’s the tale of a brother (my uncle) and a sister (my mother) who married two wonderful people many years ago. My uncle and aunt had 3 sons. My mother and father had 2 daughters. And so were brought into this world 5 cousins who would be forever bonded in love. My sister and I, bereft of real brothers, looked upon these cousins as the brothers we never had. Most of our childhood and adult years, we lived in different states. But just the mention of an impending visit from the McDonald cousins, and our Saturday mornings would be totally immersed in glorious anticipation. A visit to Little Rock by us would awake the same excitement. Our cousins were a joy to be with. Our visits always came too infrequently and were over too quickly.

Mike was the youngest. He was quiet, shy, a little reserved, but had a delightful sense of humor. The camaraderie between the 3 boys was amazing. Of course, there was always that bit of competition and good-natured teasing, but their bond was unbreakable. They were always there for each other.

We 5 cousins all got together one last time during our trip to Tennessee, when we traveled to Little Rock to see everyone in August. We couldn’t resist an opportunity to get a rare picture of the 5 of us together. As you can see above, the picture speaks for itself. The smiles just show our happiness at being together. Life was sweet. Our dear Mike, on the far right, was relaxed and jovial, having just entertained me with stories about getting materials from his brother’s new house construction to build the most beautiful koi pond in his backyard. He had me laughing uncontrollably as he described the borrowed pickup truck getting lower and lower to the ground with each haul.

None of us knew that Mike would be gone in a few weeks. Oh, sure, in the back of our minds there is always the possibility of death, disease, accidents or some other catastrophe overtaking one in our family group. But that day, we banished bad thoughts and just basked in love. The world was ours!

I said that the bond between the brothers could not be broken. The bond between the 5 cousins cannot be broken, either. Their strength is carrying me through this horrible week. The bond is still very much alive. It stretches over distance and time and Death cannot sever it.

So after the tears and the remembering and the gratitude that we had Mike in our lives, in the silence as I sit here empty and drained, the words of this anthem come as a much-needed gift:

Open our eyes, open our eyes, O loving and compassionate Jesus that we may behold You, that we may be behold You, walking beside us, walking beside us in our sorrow.
You have made death glorious and triumphant. You have made death glorious and triumphant! For through its portals we enter, for through its portals we enter into the presence of the Living God, into the presence of the Living God. For through its portals we enter, for through its portals we enter into the presence of the Living God, into the presence of the Living God. Open our eyes, open our eyes, O loving and compassionate Jesus, that we may see to follow You, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus our Savior, Jesus our Savior and Redeemer. Open our eyes, open our eyes, oh Lord. Amen.

Bill

That he startled me is an understatement. We were in Christiansburg, Virginia, temporarily stranded on our trip to Memphis, the Jeep Liberty having been towed in to this dealership. And there he sat - cap on his head, legs crossed, with The Detroit News in his hands. As we were ushered into the waiting room, he was the first thing we noticed. The room was empty except for a few chairs, a TV, a coffee machine - and him.

I’m not sure why he was there. Maybe they put him there as a joke, to jolt unsuspecting customers. Maybe, on the other hand, he was placed there to keep customers company in the long hours of waiting for a car repair to be finished. Maybe he walked in one day, found a comfortable chair, and decided to stay. I never asked.

So there the three of us sat, Ed, me and this smiling "man," watching TV (which was surreal on its own to us, having had no TV to speak of since we moved in December), reading a very limiting collection of magazines (TV Guide and Popular Mechanics were the most common offerings), and trying to quell our mental cash registers ringing up the potential repair dollar signs. I kept seeing the “dummy” out of the corner of my eye, and I’m not talking about Ed. Nobody had mentioned his name, so I had to create one. I decided to call him Bill. Big Bill. Because that’s what we’ll have when we leave here, I thought grimly.

Big Bill never moved. He sat through our changing all the TV channels - weather updates on the record heat wave we would meet in Memphis, politics, the Disney channel morning kids’ shows, all the commercials - without a word of protest. Big Bill was easy to get along with. He didn’t complain about the volume or our channel choice or our bored conversation. He just sat there, with that satisfied grin on his face, and the whitest teeth I have ever observed in a mechanic.

We shortly thereafter welcomed more customers into our waiting room sanctuary. A young mother came in with two little girls, about 4 and 5 years old. She was getting her horn fixed. “My husband says,” she told me as she tried to entertain the girls, “that I’m the only one in the world who uses her horn so much that it breaks.” The girls were well behaved, armed with coloring books and crayons. For about an hour, we temporarily shared our world with these people, then would part and never see each other again.

When the three of them came in, I don’t know if the girls were actually frightened to see Bill there, or if the mother was worried that the girls might be frightened, or if the mother herself thought it was spooky, but she took a little pink raincoat from one of the girls and threw it over Bill’s head. “There!” she said briskly. “He can be kind of scary, so we will just cover him up.”

So there we sat - a mother, two little girls, and Big Bill with a pink raincoat over his head. I didn’t know about our new acquaintances, but to me, Bill was a lot more scary with his head hidden and his body sitting there than he was normally with his full head of hair and sparkling white smile.

Occasionally a mechanic would come in to get a cup of coffee and see if we needed anything. One mechanic seemed concerned about the raincoat and wanted to know if he should remove Bill while the girls were there. The mother said, oh no, he might have scared them at first, but the raincoat took care of everything. Yep - old decapitated Bill was not scary at all. Uh-huh.

When the mother and her little ones left, they forgot the raincoat. I had to grab it and run after them with it, catching them just as they were leaving the building. As I sat back down, I looked over at Bill. He seemed happy to be back to normal. I imagine it was hard to read The Detroit News in the dark.

I think in the end, Big Bill was there to reassure. Worried about a huge charge for your car repair? “Don’t worry. Be happy,” as the song goes. Your car will get fixed by cheerful mechanics who spend their free time reading up on the latest news from the car industry and brushing their gleaming teeth. Meanwhile, you will never be stuck in the waiting room all by yourself, as he will always be there to keep you company, pink raincoat notwithstanding.

The funny thing is that it was all true. Our car was repaired by cheerful mechanics who, although I did not inquire about their literacy or their dental hygiene, did keep us informed of their progress and even asked us to join them for their once-a-month cookout at lunchtime. Big Bill will always be in our hearts. And an even Bigger Bill on our credit card. Thanks, Bill, for the hospitality. You take care, now.

Playing the cards

The opera world lost two great voices this year. With everyone else, I mourn the passing of Luciano Pavarotti today, but my real sense of loss arises from the death of Beverly Sills in July. I had the pleasure of meeting her once in Memphis, where I had the foresight to bring along her autobiography, Bubbles, which she autographed, with a brief conversation and her trademark smile.

Tonight we watched a PBS broadcast featuring some of her performances. She was an amazing singer! I sat there in awe as she maneuvered her voice in the most intricate manner. Now, I’ve dabbled in opera myself, singing arias for my own pleasure, singing in a few church dinner theater performances, as well as enjoying couple of runs in the Opera Memphis Chorus, but I have never been able to sing like Beverly Sills, and never will.

When we get past the age of 50, we do feel as if we’re standing at the top of the hourglass with most of the sand on the bottom, and there’s a finality in admitting “I’ll never do this.” I’ll never sing at the Met, I’ll never climb a mountain, I’ll probably never get to Europe or go on a cruise or make a prize-winning quilt. I’ll never learn to play the cello or meet David Suchet or even completely learn PhotoShop. I'll never know what it's like to be really tan, I'll never know what it's like to have perfectly straight hair, I'll never know the feeling of being tall. I'll never be a world expert in anything. Some of this is because I don’t have the inclination, some because I don’t have the talent, some because I'm not blessed with certain features, and some just because I don’t have enough time left to really master anything. Some is just due to the fact that the odds are heavily against an occurrence.

But that’s OK.

Rachel taught me that lesson last year. She had given birth to Charlotte by C-section, her second. There is a renewed interest these days in VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), and a local TV station was doing a special report on these two birth methods. They had first interviewed a lady who had chosen VBAC, and then they came to interview Rachel about having a second C-section. My job was to keep Caroline occupied and out of the range of the interview, but I managed to see most of it. Rachel was articulate in defending her decision for repeat C-section, and then the interviewer asked her if she ever felt like she had “missed out on something” by not ever giving birth naturally. Rachel replied that there were a lot of things she would miss out on life, but that’s just the way it goes.

That’s true for all of us. Even Beverly Sills missed out on having a “normal” family - she had two children, one deaf and the other mentally retarded. We take life as we are given it, and make the best of it.

So my vow is to not concentrate on the things I’ve missed or will miss in my life, and to focus on the wonderful things I have accomplished and been privileged to participate in. I’ve also learned never to say never. I told my friend Audrey that I would never go sea kayaking, and look what happened. I’ve got a few good years left. I may never make the Met, but I can try to make a few quilts. We play our cards, but remember - a lot of the cards are still face down. Life awaits, and I just love surprises!

Reflection

I first noticed it this morning. If I sat at my computer and looked out the window to my right into our woods, I saw a very bright, shiny object a couple of feet off the ground. I moved away a few inches and could still see it. It looked like a flashlight was pointed directly at my window. But with the sun out, I could see clearly there was no one standing there holding a flashlight. I called Ed in.

I call Ed in for a variety of things. When we get back from a visit to the grandchildren, I call him in to look at the pictures I took. He always balks. “I was there; I don’t need to see the pictures.” I make him look at them anyway. I call Ed in to kill bugs. I call him in to read him something funny on the Internet. I call him in if I have some sort of accident that immobilizes me, and he helps me get up off the floor. And I call him in for second opinions. This was a second opinion occasion.

“Look at that,” I said as I pointed my finger at the unidentified light. “What do you suppose it is?”

“It looks like maybe a can on the ground that the sun is shining on,” he said. Then he left.

I was determined to find out what it was, so Babe and I went out to the back porch, down the steps, and around the side of the house to look up close. At first I couldn’t find it. I had to keep checking my position against the left part of the office window to determine the object’s location. I turned back and forth, I bent over, kneeled, twisted myself into every imaginable contortion until I finally caught the light. I slowly made my way toward it.

It was some sort of spider web silk thread, very tiny, which had attached itself to a limb. It was a lot tinier than those shiny “icicles” you put on Christmas trees, just a thread, really, with a little sticky sap-like stuff, giving the thread just enough reflective material to shine when the sun reached it.

I couldn’t believe something that little could have made the shining light that caught my eye as I glanced out the window. Just to check, I removed it, then went back and sat at my computer and looked out again. The light was gone. I had solved the mystery.

I think Mother Nature was trying to tell me something today. I tend to take the tiniest, most superficial things and blow them up to gigantic proportions, exacerbating a lifelong tendency towards anxiety. The fact that something so little could reflect a light so big just fascinates me. Yet when I actually identified it up close, it was inconsequential.

I’m trying to get over my fear of flying, which was strong even before 9/11. Our latest trip to Tennessee made me wonder if we should actually consider flying instead of driving on our next trip down. After all, financially it makes sense, considering the 4 motels, road meal expenses, price of gasoline, and time off from work (and boarding Babe) to accommodate 7 days of driving round trip, not to mention wear and tear on the car (which did not cause, but certainly compounded, our recent repair bills). I know logically that flying is safer than road travel. Am I making a big shining can out of a gossamer thread? Perhaps.

Maybe this is one more thing to conquer. After all, I’ve kayaked in the Atlantic Ocean; maybe I’m more courageous than I think!

Maintenance

Maintenance: “The process of keeping something in good condition.” Maintenance has consumed my thoughts for the last 2 weeks, and on a trip consisting of more 7 days of driving (by the time it’s over with), that’s a lot of time to think.

One of the ideas behind the simplicity movement when it comes to material goods is this: Purchase price is only the beginning. What the object will cost to maintain is something else altogether.

Take bridges, for instance. As we have learned from recent news, bridges by their nature are high maintenance objects. When a community builds a bridge, it may spend several millions of dollars initially, but few people ever realistically calculate the maintenance. The maintenance line items built into every DOT budget do not begin to cover the necessary funds. It’s the maintenance that gets you.

Every time you buy a piece of clothing, you have to calculate cleaning (whether dry cleaning or laundry detergent, it all needs cleaning). Whenever you buy a computer (don’t we know, Matt?) you have to realize it won’t last forever and will require maintenance until the cost of maintenance outruns the cost of buying another new machine. Houses (don’t get me started) require endless maintenance, and the older and bigger the house, the more maintenance is needed.

So this leads me to our car, a 2002 Jeep Liberty. In the last couple of decades, we have been trading cars in on new ones before the old ones begin exhibiting signs of imminent mechanical difficulties. This year, I guess, we crossed over the line on holding onto a car, as the Jeep is now showing its age, and the 1500-mile trip to Tennessee didn’t help it, I’m sure. Some of you know we were stranded in Virginia after the transmission fluid line blew, and we spent over half a day sitting in a dealership waiting room, then shelling out $545 for the pleasure. I asked the mechanic to explain the origin of the problem, and he said it is just something that can happen because the car is aging. We assuaged our feelings by thinking things could have been worse - as things always can - and we paid the money (well, actually Mastercard paid the money) and with a mixture of anxiety and relief we continued on our journey.

We just mentally added that bill to the 4 new tires last month. Cars require lots of maintenance.

Turns out they sometimes require repairs even faster than you can take out your wallet and say, “Charge it.” Around the time we crossed the border back into Maine, the air conditioning started making funny noises; as Ed described it, it sounded like “a hair dryer on heroin.” We kept listening as it got louder and louder, and then after a couple of hours, the air conditioning was no longer cooling. We were planning to get it checked out once we got home.

Today we were at the Ellsworth post office and the car would not start. Thinking it might be the battery, Ed had a nearby mechanic try to jump it off, but that didn’t work. So, for the second time in 2 weeks, we had the Liberty towed to a Jeep dealership. This time it was not $545. It was over $800, because it needed a new compressor. I asked the mechanic if the record heat temps in Memphis had contributed to our compressor’s demise, but he assured me it was just one of those things that can happen as cars age. “They don’t last forever, you know.” Yeah, we know. Boy, do we know.

I’m upset about the money, of course. I’m also upset about losing time on our trip and having to find our accommodations in the dark that night. I’m really upset that we can spend more and more on just fixing things and don’t even have the enjoyment of having something new for all that money. If you replace a roof or foundation, for instance, after all that money you spend, you don’t have a new house - you just have a house with a roof and foundation that can perform their jobs adequately. You don’t really have anything exciting to show for it. In our case, we don’t have a new car - we just have an older car that will be functioning as it should in the first place. Maintenance again rears its ugly and expensive head.

But why should I be shocked? As Ed and I get older, our bodies require more costly ongoing maintenance as well. We never are presented with a new body - it just takes all the maintenance we can muster to preserve the adequate condition and functioning of the old. The more stress we put on our aging body, the more upkeep it demands.

That’s why 3 months ago I quit coloring my hair. That’s one maintenance expense I have control over. Now when you see me, you’ll recognize me instantly. I’m the gray-haired lady riding in the Jeep Liberty - the one with the brand-new compressor under the hood. We’ve both accumulated a lot of miles and show signs of wear and tear, but we’re still chugging along. We aging folks have to stick together.

Markers

I'm late on blogging because I'm on a vacation trip to Tennessee to see my family. It takes 3-1/2 days to drive from our part of Maine to Memphis, and, of course, 3-1/2 days to drive back, which makes for a very long (and sometimes boring) drive. To pass the time, I read aloud books of mutual interest to us between my naps. This is sufficient to get us through Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, and Virginia. By the time we get to Tennessee, we celebrate the last leg of the long trip with various family traditions, some started when Joy and I were young, others when our kids were young, and faithfully repeated by us to this day.

There is a chain of stores across the South called Stuckey's. Part gas station, part refreshment stand, part candy shop, part restroom facilities, and part tacky souvenir store, Stuckey's businesses have always littered the highways and byways of our travels. When I was a teenager, I made up a silly poem as a tribute to the Stuckey's chain sung to the tune of "Cabaret." My sister and I sang it incessantly on family vacations, as the lyrics begin "Stuckey's, we love you, we always will whenever we see your sign," and for decades their billboards were posted hundreds of times on the interstate. As each sign came into view, we would take a deep breath and burst out in our ditty, testing our parents' patience (and now, Ed's patience). I only saw a couple of signs on this trip, so I fear that Stuckey's has gone out of business, bringing a disappointing end to our familiar routine.

Fortunately, even without the Stuckey's song, we have other trip markers to fill our time. When we pass a place called Bucksnort, we buck and snort, which, I assure you, is hard to do when you're laughing. When we cross the Buffalo River, we sing "Home on the Range," because the first verse contains the words "where the buffalo roam." When we cross the Tennessee River, we hold our breath over the entire bridge span. (This latter tradition has no logical basis as a marker, but since the USA has recently realized the decaying condition of its bridges, it might not be a bad idea to hold one's breath when crossing one.)

The marker that is the most fun to do begins at the Duck River bridge. All the occupants of the car quack until we reach the other side, then we say, still in our duck voices, "That was Duck River - quack, quack." We actually have this on video. (OK, we have a lot of strange things on video.)

Our fun is increased on the trip home, where each marker is dutifully reenacted with the usual precision and flawless technique. We have had many years in which to perfect them.

Each of these markers gives us a breather, a rest, a pause, along with a distinct feeling that we are marking pages in some kind of long, complicated novel. Each marking event lasts a short time, but if we count the pre-marker hours of excited anticipation and the post-marker moments of pure satisfaction, that pleasure stretches in duration. In fulfilling these little rituals, we feel in continuity with those who came before us and those who will come after us. Tradition is a wonderful thing, and so are life markers.

Birthdays are probably the most celebrated life markers. My uncle in Arkansas turned 80 this month, and my two nieces turned 13 and 16 this year. Next year our oldest child will be having her 30th birthday - a fact which truly boggles my mind.

On this trip, we are certainly celebrating markers, little but frequent moments of reflection that tell us where we are, remind us of where we have been, and giving us an idea of where we are headed. We aren't here totally for special birthdays (although we are appropriately noting them), we aren't here just to take a 2-week vacation, and we certainly didn't drive 3-1/2 days one way just to quack our hearts out on a Tennessee bridge. We are here on the highest priority mission - to be with loved ones - family and friends - just to celebrate life and love and laughter and the tight connection we have with each other - one which distance and the passage of time cannot destroy.

When we decided to move and downsize, one of our goals was to remind ourselves on a daily basis of our priorities, and one of those priorities is "people over things." This is our "people" week. Our markers have names like Jean, Tom, June, Timmy, Boo, Mike, Joy, Scott, Amelia, Kate, John, Joanne, Audrey, Zuleika, Gerrie, Malcolm, Claudia, Ray, Jackie, Rose, and others who have made our lives sweeter by their presence. We will head back home on Saturday, but the spirits of these people will go with us. They are the best kind of markers - reminders of love. We are forever grateful.

Our reasons for making the trip will have been accomplished. Our trip home will be full of memories of life, love, and laughter. Quacking over Duck River will be just icing on the cake.

Guest Blogger Today

We had the pleasure of visiting with our daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren this afternoon. While we were eating dinner, I took the opportunity to ask our ever-precocious 4-year-old Caroline for help with my blog.

“I need to write in my blog tonight,” I said. Caroline nodded. She has a blog of her own, albeit one sorely neglected as of late. “So tell me - what should I write about?”

I was truly curious as to what she would say. Caroline has always had a tendency to be distracted by whatever is in her environment at the moment. When Caroline was younger, I used to talk with her on the telephone, and the conversation would invariably turn nonsensical, almost evolving into a story-telling mode, except for the fact that the things she was saying didn’t make sense. I finally discovered the reason when her dad took the phone and explained what was going on. Caroline had been watching TV while she was talking to me, taking the characters in a batch of commercials and weaving them into a whimsical tale that made no sense to anyone but her.

So tonight as we munched on our grilled chicken and vegetables, I asked my question and Caroline contemplated her answer. I knew she would draw from her extensive file of whatever she had been doing recently, the last thing she saw or heard, or whatever she noticed out the window while we were eating. One of those would undoubtedly serve as the basis for her answer.

Of course, she had an unlimited supply of material from which to formulate her response. After all, we had done a lot together already this afternoon. We had watched part of the Wizard of Oz. We had read a book about a broken powder box that was miraculously made whole again. She had played in the “bouncy house” in the basement. We had talked about our garden, and she had begged us to plant beets because “that’s Daddy’s favorite vegetable and my favorite vegetable!” When we arrived, she had coins all over the coffee table, as she had emptied her little bank and was sorting the coins into piles. We had even gone over a few pages in her “workbook,” where she drew lines to connect antonyms (100% correct, of course). So all these experiences, I knew, could be potential sources for whatever subject line Caroline was about to advise for my blog entry.

So you can see why I was rather surprised at what she said. “People’s skin and eyes.”
I pushed her hair out of her face (her hair is always falling in her face). “What about people’s skin and eyes?” I had to ask.

“That people who have different skin and eyes are regular people. They’re just regular people.” She looked up at me with a very serious expression. “And you shouldn’t make fun of them.”

Her father then elaborated a little, saying that she had just been to the fair this week and had heard a kid making fun of a black man that had been running a merry-go-round a few years ago, calling him “Gorilla Man.” Chris said it happened because the kid, young at the time, had never seen a black man before (Maine is a pretty white state).

So from her deep reservoir of images and sounds and thoughts, this is what Caroline offered for my blog entry tonight. So be it. Caroline, this is for you. I'm sure we all can use the reminder.

“People who have different skin and eyes are just regular people, and you shouldn’t make fun of them.” - Caroline Alice, age 4, August 9, 2007

In Progress...

One of my favorite comic strips (thanks, Kelly, for the recommendation!) is Pearls Before Swine, written by Stephan Pastis. His characters exhibit a variety of traits; they are intelligent or endearing or gullible or stupid....and then there’s Rat. He is just plain evil. Stephan Pastis once said that he had given Rat his (Stephan’s) own worst characteristics. He took his personal faults and combined them to create the character of Rat, who is obnoxious, selfish, rude, arrogant, and greedy - and a liar and cheater to boot. As soon as I read that, I wondered, if I created a character with my worst faults, what would she/he be like? It wasn’t pleasant to think about.

Every time you get advice on how to prepare yourself for a job interview, it’s always the same suggestion, which goes something like this: “Your potential employers will usually ask you to describe your worst fault. The key is to use this to your advantage. Tell them something that could be categorized as a weakness, but in your description, make it sound like it’s really a strength.” Uh huh. The oldest trick in the book. Then they’ll offer an example, like “I’m a workaholic. That’s my weakness. I just work, work, work.” We all understandably want to play up our strengths and minimize our weaknesses. But gee, isn’t there room for a little honesty?

Some of my bad traits probably don’t bother me as much as they bother others. It’s all in the perspective. A habit that others might find highly annoying I might label as “eccentric.”

But other bad traits I know I possess are so glaring to me that they blind me, sometimes enough that I can’t even acknowledge my good qualities, which I know are in there somewhere. One of these such traits is my apparent inability to finish anything.

Now, anyone who knows me will nod and laugh at this analysis. Most of my family and friends would say that Carol is a great planner, Carol is a great starter, Carol is an idea machine. Sometimes I take months, even years, to plan a project or formalize a goal. Then when the race starts, I’m the first horse out of the gate. I’m excited, I have the adrenaline flowing, and I’m unstoppable.

But somewhere along the way, I get bored, or tired, or - as is usually the case - distracted by the next great idea that pops into my head. Quilters call this UFO syndrome (unfinished objects). Hence the quilt I started for Rachel’s marriage gift, which I am still trying to finish, and the poor girl just celebrated her 5th anniversary. How sad is that?

I was reading in my pregnancy diary (Matt) last night where I had written about a cross-stitched birth announcement I had started with plans to hang it in his nursery. It had little pastel ducks, rabbits, and blocks, with his name, birth date, weight, and height. I knew the date ahead of time (scheduled C-section) but I left the weight and height information for later stitching. I believe it was just a few years ago that I finally stitched that information in. The thing is still not framed. Matt is 24 years old. I’m sure it would be a wonderful whimsical addition to his bedroom now.

Other projects I have stored away in boxes, carefully labeled with their identification, maybe with drawings or patterns tucked inside. I’ve read about old ladies who die, and their survivors open these boxes and poignantly sigh, “Aw, Grandma never got to finish this...I think I can piece this quilt together/sew this placemat/cross-stitch this ornament (fill in the blank).” Then said relative lovingly finishes said project, and feels the bond of connection so strongly with their loved one, even through the veil of death.

Yeah, right. I see my kids and grandkids going through all this stuff and saying, “Oh crap! Here’s another half-finished project Grammy never did get done. What the heck are we supposed to do with it?! Hey, there, hand me that Goodwill bag, will ya?”

Of course, I have been known to finish a few projects. When that miraculous event occurs, I make sure I take a photograph, just as a souvenir to look back on one day and reflect on the fact that I actually completed something. But those moments are rare.

I don’t relegate this unfortunate trait of mine to my craft projects, no siree. I dropped out of piano lessons before my teacher and parents wanted me to. I went to college one year, then quit. It’s insidious. In any given moment, I am feeling guilty about innumerable things in my life so freely abandoned. Then I hear quite clearly the convicting phrase from the Book of Common Prayer, “We have left undone those things which we ought to have done...” and I weep.

Then I dry my tears and start planning my next project.

Oh to be a Completer! Oh to be a Fulfiller! A Doer! A Concluder! A Terminator! (Ooh, I don’t like the sound of that last one.) Alas, my name is Carol Tiffin James, and I’m an Unfinisher. There’s got to be a good comic strip in there somewhere.

Interim Report

It’s been 2-1/2 years now since we began our downsizing/simplicity journey. During this time, we have often been approached for advice by those who are considering starting their own journey. Usually these are seekers who find themselves in life circumstances similar to our own. They are parents whose children have left the nest, couples who feel the need to sell their large houses and move to smaller ones, and individuals who feel their years of acquisition have not brought them the happiness they had hoped, and who are looking for more peace and simplicity as they live out their remaining years.

After much thought, here are the lessons we have learned, and the advice we would give, looking back on our 2-1/2 years of change.

Something is worth only as much as someone will pay for it. This goes for a house, books, collections, furniture, and everything else you have accumulated for the last few decades. Usually the first thing you do when downsizing is try to sell a lot of your stuff. This may result in a great surprise, as you know what you paid for the items, and can become quite disappointed when you realize the great disparity between what you paid for something and what someone else is willing to pay for the item now. It doesn’t matter that you paid $50 for that book. If someone will only give you a quarter for it, that’s what it’s worth. The lesson from this? It’s a much better plan not to buy the stuff in the first place than to try to sell it once you have bought it. I know - easier said than done. The accumulation addiction usually wins. One way around this is to give away more things than you sell. The pleasant feeling you get from being generous is much more a boon to your attitude than dwelling on the unfortunate fact that you just sold a $50 book for a quarter.

When you start emptying your life of “things,” your first step is to determine your priorities. I knew, for instance, that my collection of quilt books was staying, if I had to stack them in corners up to the ceiling. I knew that my Lincoln books were staying, and also books that had been gifts to us. But every other book was on the bargaining table. That was one of the hardest things we have done - getting rid of hundreds of books. The only way we could stand it was to imagine that we were releasing them into the world to be enjoyed by others.

Some people have a hard time with this step. To be successful, you really have to rethink your idea of ownership. In truth, we own nothing. We are stewards, and we keep things for a while, then pass them on - to family, friends, and even strangers. When this mindset takes root, paring down your stuff gets much easier to tolerate.

Even when you manage to divest yourself of much of your possessions, your new home may still be smaller than you think you need, and you might wonder desperately what on earth you have done, and how will you ever cope in such a small space. At this point, it would be nice to have the magic beaded purse in the just-published Harry Potter book. It is described as a very small purse, but because it was magic, it could hold anything - tents, furniture, swords - anything. Alas, that’s only fiction. When we first decided on a house plan for our new smaller house, the whole family warned me that my designated sewing room/office was not big enough to hold all my fabric, much less all my fabric plus a big roll-top desk, ironing board, quilt books, sewing machine and serger. I insisted that everything would fit.

It didn’t, of course. But wait - we have a basement and attic!

Hold it - that’s another potential hazard in downsizing. You know how it works: If you pay off a credit card but keep using it, you will find your balance will work its way back to its former high number. In downsizing, you may actually be able to fit your newly trimmed-down possessions in your smaller living space, but if you have access to an attic and/or basement, diligent focus has to be maintained so you don’t abuse those spaces and end up with more stuff than you want in your life - again. It can happen insidiously, and you won't even realize it.

In our divesting of possessions, we found it was helpful to adhere to the goal of getting rid of everything that was not useful, meaningful, or beautiful. Keep things that you need and those that add beauty or significance to your life. The idea is not to live sparsely (although that can indeed be a valid purpose for some people), but the idea is to live abundantly on less. That takes extensive thought and planning and a lot of important decision-making. It also forces you to define the word “abundant” for yourself, expanding it to encompass more than a simple physical meaning.

We also received some surprises, of course. We were astonished to realize that we don’t miss TV much at all - which is amazing for a couple who used to sit down every night and watch TV for hours.

On the downside, a less welcome surprise is how slow dial-up Internet is, and how frustrating it can be. I would say that is my major irritation - making a dirt road, lack of a garage, weak cell phone signal, and other rural deprivations seem minor in comparison.

All in all, it has been a fulfilling experience for us, and we are very content. I highly recommend the challenge - and it is an ongoing challenge, never quite finished, because temptations to keep buying and acquiring will always be there. You might be able to take some steps toward simplicity if you still have children at home, but I imagine it is much harder to be successful at it in that scenario. I think, though, that at some point in the cycle of life, you might get an internal nudge that a major change is in order, and it is at that point, simplicity is calling. When the kids start college and/or move out on their own and/or get married and start their own families, then you might sense it’s time. When the house just seems too big or seems to demand too much upkeep or financial investment, you might sense it’s time. When you feel smothered by the stuff you have accumulated, you might sense it’s time. When you find items that you have purchased but never used, you might sense it’s time. When a certain birthday rolls around and you want to reexamine your life, you might sense it’s time. When you realize that you could start sharing some of your possessions, you might sense it’s time. When you become conscious of how much of earth’s resources we as a nation use compared to the rest of the world, you might sense it’s time. The time is different for everyone, but sooner or later, if the urge strikes and won’t let go, heed the call for quality over quantity. I guarantee you that eventually it will spill into other areas of your life, not just the things you own, but the food you eat, the time you spend, and the value you assign to everything and everyone in your life. It is then, whether through a sudden recognition or a gradual awareness, that you realize you have started what will undoubtedly be one of the most remarkable journeys of your life.

The Game of Life

Going to bed every night is a wonderful adventure, because I never know what I’m going to dream. Dreams can be a valid reflection of one’s life, so I pay attention to mine. Sometimes my dreams are nonsensical, and might easily have been produced by Lewis Carroll, but other times they show great insight into my current life circumstances. Rarely do they suggest a plan of action, but they can make clear, as if I had looked into a mirror, what conundrums I am facing these days.

Because I can sleep late on Friday mornings, the beginning of my weekends, I have lots of chances to dream Thursday nights. I also usually have time to watch the news on TV and a DVD or two, so I have plenty of material to work with in my receptive brain to produce Freud-quality scripts.

Last night was such a night. We watched the local news (something we do only once a week because our TV rabbit-ears reception is poor on our one local channel) and in order to see the national news which followed it, I endured the sports segment. The only sports I was involved in when I was young were playing badminton in our front yard, occasional basketball in the driveway, and bouncing a ball off the roof of our house. Other than that, I watched my cousins play a few baseball games when we travelled to see them in Arkansas. I never did get “into” sports of any kind until our daughter became the first female football manager at her high school, and after quite persistent begging on her part, I finally agreed to attend her games. After Ed patiently explained what those guys were doing out there on the field, their challenges, their victories, their threats, and the rules of the game, I finally was able to understand a sport, and I truly enjoyed cheering them to the state championship.

So, having just read my limited history of sports experiences, you can understand how sitting through the sports segment on TV is grueling for me, unless it’s football season. Last night, I watched Tiger Woods (see, I know a few names!) hit a birdie, a boogie, a booger, or something like that (OK, I’m not too keen on the terms). I find golf an enigma. Then I saw Barry Bonds, I think it was, hitting some home runs on his way to beating the home run record of Hank Aaron. After the national news, I did some hand quilting and as I sharpened my chalk pencil, the lead broke, and as the pencil was already a stub, I threw it away. Before bed, I watched an Agatha Christie mystery featuring her detective Hercule Poirot, and all through the movie, the characters were talking about a cricket match which was occurring simultaneously to the investigation.

You can see, now, how many ideas my sleeping brain had to work with. It would be interesting to see how my dreams would materialize and what I would learn about myself.

My brain didn’t disappoint. Here’s the scenario: I was in a neighborhood with a big back yard and my cousins and sister and I were playing baseball. I was at bat. This was no ordinarily baseball game, though. In the first place, the balls were the size of large marbles. In the second place, my bat was a chalk pencil that had been sharpened down to half its size. In the third place, I was backed up to a piano so that every time I swung my arms, I hit the piano. This was not good.

Needless to say, I got nowhere. All of a sudden I found myself on the other side (no, not heaven - the other side of the game). I was supposed to catch the ball. I had no mitt, of course, and the ball went flying over my head into the next yard. As I ran to get the ball, I realized it had landed in a field of horses, and I decided to try to the get one of the horses to give me the ball. Then when I looked over the fence, I realized that field was about 20 feet lower than my present position, and there is no way a horse would be able to retrieve that ball and return it to me.

This was one of those dreams that reflected a life situation, while at the same time, doing nothing to reassure or give thoughts on rectifying the situation. In every scenario of the dream, I was asked to do, or wanted to do, or was expected to do - the impossible. And these expectations in my life usually come from within myself. I’m still quilting on a quilt that I wanted to give to my daughter and her husband five years ago. I have quilts waiting in the wings that I want to make for my son and his wife, plus the two grandchildren, at least before the latter grow up. I want to starting sewing clothes again. I have to fit my exercise in every day. I haven’t played the piano in weeks, and haven’t played the harp in days, and that only in passing. I have a list a mile long of things to do before our trip to Memphis in August. It’s the usual stuff. Too many interests, not enough time. My to-do list is impossible to do, given the time allotted. And Ed keeps reminding me that I need “downtime” just to relax.

My sister gave Ed a book called “101 Things To Do Before You Die,” a book I rewrite for myself every day, it seems. The list gets longer and the allotted time gets shorter. I’m no physics expert, but it looks like to me that that sets me up for as impossible a situation as in my dream last night.

The whole thing can be quite depressing, but I choose to look at it with a favorable attitude. I’m glad I have a list that encompasses exciting, interesting, or even mundane but necessary things to do. I am never bored. I have lots to look forward to. Every night is a dream adventure, and every day is another adventure waiting to happen. Fortunately, my life will not be judged on how much I accomplished on my “to do” list. I want my life to be evaluated rather on the beauty I can create in the time given me, kindness, compassion, joy, love, appreciation of the moment, spiritual awareness, and irreplaceable time with family and friends. Each day is a blank slate, and most of the time the highlight of my day is not something that had been written on my “to do” list.

I saw a deer crossing our dirt road on my way to work yesterday. She was in no hurry, and neither was I, so we looked at each other for a few minutes, one of us standing in the road, the other sitting in the car. Then she looked around in a wondering kind of way, probably thinking, “Now what was I doing? Oh yeah, crossing the road,” and she sauntered into a neighbor’s yard. I didn’t have to ask her to retrieve a ball, and she was not 20 feet below me. Sometimes dreams are fun, but if we stay aware, real life moments can be even better.

A Message for Joy

About this time of year, I start seeing them - announcements of family reunions. Some of these families are huge, and have a grand time gathering hundreds of their relatives together, the logistics of which boggle my mind. I never can quite fully engage in a conversation when people are talking about their many uncles and aunts and cousins. My sister, Joy, and I only knew intimately one relative on our dad’s side - his mother- and she died when we were young.

Our mother had only one sibling, a brother, who went on to marry and raise 3 boys, our only cousins. Add to that our maternal grandparents and our great-aunt Bessie, and we could have held a family reunion in a fairly large closet.

Of course, Daddy and Mama had more distant relatives, cousins and such, but they usually seemed to us to be just acquaintances we’d hear about or meet occasionally, not people we really considered “family.”

As for me and my little sister, it was just the two of us, our age difference being just short of 2 years.

I’ve read that you’d better learn to get along with your sibling, because of all the people in your life, they will have known you the longest, longer than your parents (whom you will most likely outlive), longer than your spouse, and longer than your own children.

Joy and I didn’t have to learn to get along - we just did, most of the time. We were raised in an environment of no DVDs, no computers, no Nintendo, and a mother who didn’t work outside the home. Our companions consisted of a radio playing oldies music (not what we now consider oldies, but what our mom considered oldies), occasional TV (mostly on Saturday mornings), various cats, an injured “foster” wild bird, and a rooster named Mr. Fluff. We had loads of library books and whatever else we could find around the house to amuse us.

We were rarely bored. We built tents out of sheets on the clothesline. We played in the garage. We played dolls. We wrote and acted in our own plays. We created our own spy agency, initiating meetings and dues. We saved up and bought a bicycle to share. We played badminton in the front yard. We played jacks with Mama’s real rubber ball. We played Monopoly and gin rummy and checkers. We colored pictures in coloring books, then demanded that Mama grade them. We planned so well for the beloved annual family vacation trip that we made lists of what to pack months in advance. We lay in bed at night with our transistor radios under our pillows, listening to the latest pop music. We liked the same groups (The Monkees, Herman’s Hermits and Cowsills). We liked the same TV shows (Honey West, Wild Wild West, The Avengers). We both sang in the choir (she was an alto and I was a soprano). We both survived years of piano lessons with Miss Vuille.

We constantly rearranged our room. We always shared a room, and always shared one closet, so it was fortunate we got along.

Yet, as we grew, there were differences. We both took Home Economics in high school, with my falling in love with sewing and Joy finding it way too frustrating. She went on to graduate from college and get an advanced degree from Ole Miss; I could only tolerate one year of college before I was ready for something else. She moved to Washington, DC, for a while, and I stayed close to home. I married at age 19, and 4 years later had my first child. I am now enjoying the role of grandmother. Joy, on the other hand, lived an independent life after college for a few years, got married later, and started her family later, so she is now the mother of 2 teenagers (God bless her!). My interests developed into playing the pipe organ and harp, cross-stitching, and quilting. Her interests took her into gardening and woodworking. I can applique flowers, but she knows all their Latin names.

We were "the 4 Tiffins" for so long that when our Dad died, we put only 3 red roses on his casket, representing the 3 of us left. We were always a closeknit family, and, in our glorious childhood naivete, thought everyone else grew up in the same kind of environment, until we grew older and wiser and realized we had been so richly blessed.

“Sisters are different flowers from the same garden.” The author of this quote is unknown, but the idea rings true. Today is Joy’s 51st birthday, so, I guess, as of today we have known each other for 51 years. That seems like a long, long time. But it has been filled with love and laughter (LOTS of laughter!) and I am proud to call her my sister. Happy birthday, Joy! Here’s to many more years of sharing our lives!

It's a bet

I have never considered myself much of a gambler. I’ve bought a handful of lottery scratch tickets through the years ($1 each), mostly to put in Christmas stockings, but I’ve never been addicted to investing serious money in Megabucks or Powerball or anything like that. I know that some Mainers consistently and faithfully spend a lot of their hard-earned cash on the dream of winning big. I see them in the stores, many dressed shabbily, standing in line for their tickets, hoping that this time they will finally get the luck they deserve.

When we were still living in Tennessee, Ed and I attended Annual Conference, the local governing body of the United Methodist Church. I remember one year sitting in a huge sanctuary while the members (consisting of clergy and lay representatives) debated the problem of gambling. They knew that poor people who could least afford it were a major source of revenue for state lotteries, and they felt it was their Christian duty to pass an official church resolution condemning the lotteries and discouraging members’ participation in them. Ed and I, and maybe a few others with whom we were sitting, brought up amongst ourselves the topic of the stock market. Wasn’t that gambling? Many people have won and lost fortunes in the stock market. True, the odds are more in your favor than the odds of winning the lottery, but it seemed to us that it was still gambling in its own way, albeit a more socially acceptable form of gambling (in which, of course, the United Methodist Church had financial interests). The other difference, of course, is that the stock market has been a form of gambling for the wealthier people, and the lottery has been the mainstay of the poor.

I’m not trying to speak against or for the lottery, the race track, or the stock market. I have just been thinking about gambling the last few weeks, because I found myself right in the midst of it. I’m talking about gas prices.

I pass my preferred gas station on my way to work every morning, and they are one of these businesses that stays open all night, so at 4:00 a.m. it is lit up and ready to go. As I drive by, I always look at the price, illuminated as well, right by the street. Then I glance down at my dashboard gauge to see how much gas is left in my tank. If my gauge shows my tank is running under half, the gambling conversation begins in my head.

“It’s $2.98 a gallon today. Should I go ahead and fill up, gambling against the chance that it will be $3.00 tomorrow? Or should I wait instead, gambling on the fact that it will go down tomorrow?” It has happened both ways, you know. I’ve seen the price at $2.98, the next day it was $3.05, and folks filled up, thinking it was a rising trend, when the very next day, it was back down to $2.98! Gambling on gas prices is a daily occurrence in this country.

The conclusion, of course, is that we all gamble all our lives. We gamble when we get in a car that we won’t get in a wreck, thinking the necessity to drive the car outweighs the risk of getting injured or killed. We gamble if we get on a plane or other mode of transportation - same scenario. We gamble when we buy an appliance if we choose to buy or not buy the “3-year protection plan.” We gamble when we buy a house, sell a house, or move. We gamble if we change jobs. We gamble if we don’t back up our hard drives. We gamble on a choice of colleges or universities for us or our kids. Heck, we even take a huge gamble when we have kids at all - or choose a mate. I married Ed, an alcoholic, gambling on odds that he would eventually get sober (which took WAY longer than I had imagined, but the gamble paid off in 1984).

We have whole industries based on gambling - they’re called insurance companies. Reader’s Digest printed a timely observation a few years ago, which said something like this: “The life insurance company is betting you don’t die soon. You’re betting you do. You hope they win, and you’re paying them to think that way!”

I know those poor people can’t afford those lottery tickets. I know gambling can be a debilitating addiction. But I see how those poor people live, and they’re not really gambling; they’re just buying hope. I don’t know if they realize the calculations that say the odds are enormously against them, but I think they must know that already, in a myriad of ways. They’re used to the odds being against them. The hope of winning the lottery is the only hope they have for a better future, at least from their perspective. Sad, but true.

One definition of gambling is “an enterprise undertaken or attempted with a risk of loss and a chance of profit or success.” That certainly sounds to me like a definition of life - for all of us.

Another mysteryof the universe

We have now lived in our new house for over 6 months. Why is it that our health insurance company, whom I have notified twice of our change of address, still sends mail to our old house, whereas the junk mail and useless catalogs, which I had hoped we had left behind, have found our new address in spite of everything?

On "a count of" I'm getting older

I’m not a smoker, but in my job as a medical transcriptionist, I am witness to the many descriptions of smoking history in patients. Some patients even started to smoke as young as 7 years old! One of the more common ways for the doctor to glean probable cumulative effect of a patient’s history of smoking is to use the “pack years” equation.

From Wikipedia:

A way to measure the amount a person has smoked over a long period of time. It is calculated by multiplying the number of packs of cigarettes smoked per day by the number of years the person has smoked. For example, 1 pack year is equal to smoking 1 pack per day for 1 year, or 2 packs per day for half a year, and so on.[1]
Number of packs smoked per day * Number of years as a smoker = Pack Year
Example: If a person smokes 30 cigarettes a day for 40 years, then we would calculate as follows:
30 Cigarettes a day = 1.5 packs a day (20 cigarettes in a pack)
1.5 x 40yrs = 60 pack years

We use years as a way to measure other things, too. Think of fiscal years, light years, dog years, lunar and solar years. I am proposing a new classification - craft year.

My friend Sally told me she was scrutinizing her cross-stitch patterns to determine what she could actually complete in the remaining years of her life, what she really, really wanted to complete, and what she knew she would never have time to complete. As a crafter myself, I am entirely empathetic in what is in reality a mini-lesson in mortality.

Back to craft years. I started quilting in 1988. If historically I created 2 quilts a year since then (and this unfortunately is an overestimate, unless you count quilts I made in my head), and used some similar calculation to the formula above, I might be able to determine how many quilts are “left in me.” (I would have to factor in my current productive capacity as nil, in that I'm working so much at the aforementioned job that I still have Rachel's wedding quilt unfinished 5 years after the wedding.) If I divide that by the number of patterns and books I own....well, I’m not sure I want to live past the age of 200 just to quilt. Add to that scenario cross-stitching and sewing clothes, I’d have to live even longer than that.

As always, being human is a gift and a curse; the curse, of course, is that we are aware of our own mortality and current calculations of our life expectancy. There is a reason for the bumper sticker “Too much fabric, not enough time.” How many craft years do we have left? Substitute one’s own personal passion for “craft” and it does give one a sense of urgency, especially for those of us who have started the second half of our lives. Question marks have never been my favorite symbols of punctuation.

'Tis more blessed

Homer Simpson’s favorite expression is now a staple response of our granddaughter Caroline - “D’OH!” Aren’t there times we all want to say that? I had one such experience this week.

I was buying some balloons for my supervisor’s birthday at a local grocery store on my way home from work. Ellsworth, Maine, is a small town compared to most cities, and we have only two supermarkets of comparable size. I passed the first one to get to the second one, which is where we usually shop. I bought several items first (including lemon sorbet), then wandered into the card section, where I knew they had a revolving rack with balloon packages. (You purchase your balloon, then after you check out, you go to the recycling room, where someone will inflate it for you.) I was amazed to find not one birthday balloon on the rack - at least one that didn’t say “30” or “40.” They had plenty of “Happy Retirement,” “Happy Graduation,” and “Baby Shower” balloons, but none that I could use. So I took my groceries to the register, trying to figure out where I could get my balloons.

As I said, Ellsworth is a small place. We used to have a Hallmark shop that sold balloons, but it closed. There was a new party store, but it was out of town on the highway in the other direction. So I queried the girl bagging my groceries.

“Is there a place around here I can get a balloon? Y’all seem to be out of birthday ones.” (I know she figured I was a tourist, since it’s that time of year and I was asking directions. Or maybe it was the “y’all.”) Anyway, she whispered, “You might try the competition,” referring to the only other supermarket in town. I was pleased to be reminded that the other store carried balloons in their florist section. Even though it was backtracking somewhat, it was my only other alternative, so I thanked her and headed out to the car and down the street to Shaw’s. Their florist department is right by the door, so I figured I could get in and out without much damage to the sorbet on what was a hot, sunny summer day.

At Shaw’s, there was only one customer in front of me in the process of getting her order. And it was a big one. She was getting about a dozen black balloons. Apparently the clerk keeps lengths of various colors of ribbon already cut and tied onto the little weight clips to speed up orders, but didn’t have black ribbons pre-made. So there he was, slowly cutting and tying each black ribbon, then slowly blowing up each black balloon, then slowly tying each black ribbon to the inflated balloon. I sighed. This was going to take a while. I thought of my lemon sorbet, probably slowly melting away in my car.

After a few minutes of this painstakingly slow process, the customer gestured to me and said to the clerk, “Maybe you should just go ahead and wait on this lady.”

Now, most people would have been ecstatic. Anyone else would have thought “How kind! How thoughtful! My luck has turned! I accept!” But not me. The first words out of my mouth were, “No, that’s OK. I’m in no hurry.”

NO HURRY? I had sorbet in my car, probably sitting in the sun to boot, Ed was expecting me home for dinner, and I said, “I’m in no hurry”? D’OH!

What was the matter with me? I’d been on the other end of this scenario countless times. I’m the world’s foremost “let them go ahead of me” customer. Anytime I have more than an armful of groceries and someone is behind me with a handful of items, I always offer to let them move up in front of me. Most of the time, they graciously accept. It always makes me feel good. It’s more blessed to give than to receive, isn’t it?

Or is it? I once read a folk tale about a beggar in India who was content with his lot in life and did not curse it, because his belief was this: He provided a service to the wealthy. For if indeed it is more blessed to give than receive, he gave them an opportunity for being blessed every time they gave him a coin. If the wealthy didn’t have a chance to give, they would be denied the blessing.

We have been so trained to believe that giving is the only blessing, when accepting someone else’s gift can be a blessing, too. Of course, it’s nice to be on the giving end. It makes you feel good, doesn’t it, to dispense whatever you have to give - time, money, talent, wisdom, maybe even something as little as a place in line? Who knows - maybe that balloon lady was relieved when I rejected her offer. But maybe, just maybe, she was a little disappointed at being denied the pleasure of giving.

Life is indeed a circle - we are all givers, and we are all receivers, and our positions change as much as the temperatures in Maine. I need to remember to accept whatever position I am offered at any given time with gratitude.

It's not nice to fool Mother Nature....

Those of you who are near my age might remember The Wild Wild West, the TV show starring Robert Conrad. It has always been one of my favorite shows, so I ordered Season 2 in DVD. To be fair, I also ordered something Ed would like - the TV show Topper, which he remembers from his own childhood. Ed was born in 1946, and I was born in 1954, which makes us close to the beginning and end of the Baby Boomer generation.

I was excited to watch Topper, because it actually came with a few commercials. I get a kick out of watching old TV commercials. Jello was this show’s sponsor, so we got to see several Jello ads from that era (1953-1955). Jello was introducing three new flavors - and on the box, yes, there it was: “artificial flavoring.” Ed turned to me and commented, “Do you realize how long we have been eating fake food?”

We’ve been reading books on eating locally, the Slow Food movement, and organic gardening, so “fake food” has been on our minds lately. Our generation was raised on food like Jello and margarine - chemical concoctions invented in laboratories. We are the first generation to accept chemicals as food. White bread, soda pop, Cocoa Krispies - all creations of decades of processed, preservative-laden eating. It makes one wonder about the cumulative effect these “foods” have had on our bodies - a whole generation that has lost touch with natural sustenance. It boggles the mind.

Ed thinks one day they’ll discover that the plaque buildup in Alzheimer’s disease is really trans-fat accumulation - a fake food that the body can’t recognize and doesn’t know how to handle - and one, coincidentally, the Baby Boomer generation has been ingesting most of our lives. Whether or not his theory will pan out is anyone’s guess. But it does put the “wonder” in “Wonder Bread.”

Our part of Maine is always in a peculiar weather pattern this time of year. When I leave for work at 4:00 a.m., the temperature is in the 40s, and as soon as I get in the car, I turn the heat/cool system dial all the way over to the right and hope I warm up soon. By the afternoon when I leave work, the car has usually been in the sun all day and the temperature is now in the 70s, and the first thing I do when I get in the car is turn that same dial all the way back over to the cold setting, and flip the air condition on. All that in the same day.

I’ll bet we all have to do a great deal of adjusting in our lives. Some of it is as simple as heating up our area when we are chilled, or vice versa, but others require more effort. After my remarkably successful attitude change at work a few weeks ago, I caught myself yesterday in a thought process that was negative, and realized immediately that I needed a minor attitude adjustment. Nothing major, but all the same, I caught it in time.

They say that people who have lost a lot of weight find success in weighing daily, trying to discern signs of weight gain in the 1- to 2-pound range so they can adjust their habits accordingly before the gain gets out of control. So in one sense, those seemingly minor adjustments are helpful.

We all have bigger adjustments to make, however, and how we handle them can determine how much we struggle in life. I have an acquaintance who admits, “I don’t do change well.” That’s a pity, because life is all about change. Scientists tell us in evolutionary terms that when environmental conditions change, the animals and plants who fail to adapt are the ones who become extinct. Being unable to adjust to changes in our lives might not be have such a drastic result, but they certainly can make our lives harder than they need to be.

One of our greatest disappointments in pastoring churches was their inability to adjust to change. Whether it was a new pastor, a new hymnal, a new book of liturgy - any new way of doing things just fed their underlying fear. “We’ve always done it this way” was their mantra. I realize there can be a certain comfort in the status quo, but change is going to happen whether we consent or not, and we can either deal with it in some productive way (which may give us a modicum of control) or resist with all our might (which can be very energy-draining).

We certainly had to make adjustments when we moved to Maine from Tennessee. We had to get used to the snow and cold weather, for one thing. We had to get used to the idea that not everyone understood us when we spoke (and we as well had to ask people to repeat things). Since we moved again to Hancock, we are adjusting to being without a garage, adjusting to a smaller house, adjusting to a longer commute and smaller closets and less acquisition. These are all adjustments of choice, however. The adjustments were required and understood as necessary, based on our decisions to move and our life objectives.

The harder adjustments for me seem to come as a result of inevitable life changes that I don’t seem to have had any say in. I didn’t really decide to become older. I didn’t make a choice that my 52-year-old body shows signs of wear and tear (although undoubtedly some poor decisions on my part exacerbated that). I watch my body show signs of age, I watch my little kids grow up, I watch myself become a grandparent, I watch my job absorb changes that may not be to my advantage - and my first impulse is, well, shock. Everything seemed to happen so fast! My next reaction is, just like the churches, a little fear. Am I going to adjust well to aging, with its accompanying decline in my mental and physical abilities? Am I going to be able to be a successful mother-in-law? Will I be a good enough grandmother? Can I keep my new positive attitude at work while others make what I consider poor decisions that affect my production?

How boring life would be with no change to adjust to! As much as I adored my children when they were little, it would be weird to have them stay that way forever. I once heard a comedian make fun of a traditional reaction to seeing a young person whom you haven’t seen in a few years, “My! How you’ve grown!” Of course they’ve grown! Why the surprise? The surprise would be if they hadn’t grown!

As I make my various necessary adjustments to life, my role model is becoming Mother Nature herself. Each season flows into the next, never the same, but still it flows. Winter may leave kicking and screaming, but spring does arrive eventually. We open the windows, plant some flowers, enjoy the melons...and adjust, even knowing that fall will be here before we realize it and we will have to adjust again.

Of all life adjustments, I think the most important is the adjustment of attitude, for that seems to set the tone for how we handle the whole caboodle. Now you’ll have to excuse me, as I have some fresh cantaloupe in the kitchen which demands my attention. Eating summer’s treats again is one adjustment I can make with unmitigated pleasure!

Filling Up

I noticed yesterday that I had half a tank of gas, so I stopped by the gas station and filled up on my way home from work. As I was standing at the pump, I experienced the familiar sensation that this act gives me - a feeling of security. Have to go somewhere unexpected? Full tank of gas. Price shoots up 50 cents in one night? Full tank of gas. Whatever happens in the world tomorrow, I have, at least for right now, a full tank of gas.

It’s not much, but it’s something. It has a limit, though. My tank will only hold so many gallons, and it’s impossible to shove any more in. Would I have more security if I had a bigger tank and filled it to the limit? Would I have even more security if I had one of those oil storage tanks in my yard?

The problem with simplifying and downsizing is that other parts of my life are not restricted in size, and in my tendency to fill them, I run into that problem. I think it’s human nature to want that feeling of security, even about trivial things. It gives me contentment to see my hundreds of quilt books on the shelf. Yet, more quilt books are published all the time! Egad! How much is enough?

I taught my kids a lot of important things, but I also regrettably taught them my bad habits. Matt, for one, knows that no matter how big a meal he eats, or how full he gets, there is always a little, tiny corner of the stomach that can hold something sweet. Miraculously that miniscule space has avoided filling up for the entire meal. There’s always room for more - if it’s something we really want.

I think we realize that having more than we need of anything good is pleasurable, but I think we may not realize that we are also searching for that feeling of security. Food, clothes, money, personal collections - it seems we consumers are always ready for more. Unlike our gas tanks, the situation is a bottomless pit, and it is a struggle we have to relive day after day after day. Excessive consumption is enticing and is actually a self-propelling act. It’s hard to know when to stop because the gas doesn’t spill over the side and give us a clue.

Ed and I used to joke that that someone with 100 million dollars was someone who was not satisfied with having 90 million dollars. That may be true. The other side to the story is that someone with 90 million dollars is probably making so much profit and interest that their money expands without even taking action. They probably can’t even spend it fast enough. (Unless they’re in the government, of course.) At a certain point, our desire for security can spin out of control and take on a life of its own.

So in the end, we have to be our own monitors of consumption. Like nutritious eating or exercising, it unfortunately falls into the category of “Decisions you wish you could make one time and be done with it” instead of “Decisions you have to renew every day for the rest of your life.” I hate those.

The Vicarious Life

I suppose most kids start thinking about how they want to live their lives from a fairly young age. My granddaughter Caroline, for instance, goes through spurts of wanting to be this or that when she grows up. (This week, it’s a farmer.) As for me, I was content enough enjoying my childhood in a loving family environment, and I really never gave serious thought as to what my life would be like once I became an adult and had to make my way in the world. I was satisfied to let life unfold as I went along.

If I had made specific predictions, I never would have envisioned marrying an alcoholic/later sober man who would become a pastor, living in Maine, being a medical transcriptionist, or even playing the harp. The way my life has revealed itself has been much more interesting than I could have ever imagined.

Now that I’ve lived over half of my life expectancy, though, I do notice a trend. It has been too tempting to experience life vicariously. There’s a reason for this. Secondhand encounters are safe. They can be controlled. They make it possible to experience the enjoyment of something without the work and the risks.

Many people don’t realize that I have traveled all over the world. Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia - I’ve been to them all. I’ve watched them make cheese in Switzerland. I’ve ridden in the gondolas of Venice. I’ve even stayed in the best hotels. Maybe here I should mention my traveling companion, Samantha Brown. She works for the Travel Channel, and every time I tuned into her show, she took me somewhere new and exciting. I didn’t have to apply for a passport, buy luggage, or go through airport security.

That’s not my only use of vicarious living. I vicariously garden, too. I love to look at other people’s flowers, maybe even buying some to sit on the table. I didn’t have to get down on hands and knees in the dirt and dig, weed, fertilize, and water. I let someone else do that. I just reap the results. I have been known to do the same when I drool over others’ quilts while mine sits waiting to be finished, and when I marvel at intricate cross-stitch when I haven’t picked up a project for years. I’ve perfected the technique of exercising vicariously, too. I can put in an aerobics DVD and sit down and watch it with impunity and a bowl of ice cream.

Unfortunately, that last example doesn’t do anything for me, darn it. Where is vicarious living when you really need it? Sometimes I feel like the Little Red Hen’s pals. “You do all the work, and I’ll reap the benefits. Deal?”

The key word in vicarious living (besides the lazy part) is the safety of it. By not traveling, I don’t involve myself in the risks thereof. By not gardening or quilting or cross-stitching, I don’t have to watch myself fail to live up to my own expectations (or others’). I can be a cheerleader. I can root from the sidelines. I can feel good about appreciating everyone else's hard work, but at the same time, with enough introspection, I eventually feel a little disappointed that I’m not personally playing the game enough myself.

Every once in a while, I will come out of vicarious living and do something or create something, an experience which always makes me vulnerable to failure or danger, but gives me enormous thrill and satisfaction. Take the sea kayaking last August with Audrey, for instance. The whole idea freaked me out. I could have watched a DVD of kayaking, or even watched Audrey go kayaking, but instead, with her encouragement, I stepped out of my vicarious mode and just did it with her. I sat down in that kayak, feeling the hard plastic under my legs. I felt the salt water spray on my face. I worked muscles I didn’t even know I had as we paddled along. No vicarious living, that. Every nerve, bone, blood vessel, and brain cell was working overtime. I was in the moment.

It would be nice if one could really lose weight vicariously, or really feel the immensity of the Grand Canyon from a 25-inch screen, or feel heavenly rested in a 5-star hotel bed just because Samantha told you what it was like. Life doesn’t work that way. I can enjoy the flowers someone else grew, or the meal someone else cooked, or the quilt someone else made - but deep down I realize that the actual process of growing or cooking or quilting was as much a pleasure as the final product. The bug bites, steam burns, and needle pokes are just part of the experience, for without them, you might as well watch someone else do it. The discomfort (whether physically or emotionally) is just part of the package. There’s nothing like an unexpected needle poke into your finger while hand quilting to bring you into the present moment. To that I can attest.

The older I get, the more I feel the need to push myself a little. Oh, I’ll never go rock-climbing (and nobody better try to talk me into it!) or do something that would terrify me enough to send me to the mental hospital, but as I age, I find myself content with less risks. Why bother? Why indeed?

I read a magazine article recently about a women who lives in the country and started her own business of selling organic food, then expanded her catalog offerings to include everything about her country life, including home decorating accessories. She said that she realized there was a whole customer base out there that wanted the fantasy of living in the country on a farm without really living in the country on a farm. She said she was happily willing to fulfill that need. For her, though, she loved the reality of actually living in the country on a farm. There are apparently thousands of people out there who are vicarious farmers. (Take note, Caroline.)

I have had some rich experiences in my life, but some I passed up. In college, my music professor asked me to try out for the touring choir. I was too scared I wouldn’t make it that I didn’t even audition. He wanted me in it (he was the decider), and he did everything he could to get me to try out without guaranteeing I would be accepted. I just wanted that guarantee that I would not fail. I never did participate in touring choir. Oh, well, they went overseas and that would have scared me, too.

This week my dear friend Sally passed the Certified Medical Transcriptionist exam for which I have been so earnestly studying. I joked with her that maybe she could add my name to her test, and I could get the reward without the hard work. Alas, it was not to be. I’ll still have to take the test myself. But that will make the pleasure of passing it (I don’t even want to consider the alternative, but it’s there, of course) all the greater.

Ed and I are seeking contentment. Every once in a while, the contentment becomes too easy and it’s time to push ourselves again. I really don’t want the word “vicarious” to be in my obituary. (However, if you do put it in, you’d better at least spell it right.) If you ever feel I need a little shove, feel free. I've got a lot of livin' to do.

To Have and To Hold

One of my Internet friends recently posted about her experience of finding a stack of letters that she had written to her grandparents when she was a little girl. Judging by the excerpts she offered, the letters were poignant, funny, very affectionate, and must have been a cherished treat for the recipients, who wisely and fortunately kept them.

Somehow I just don’t think a stack of e-mails would have meant as much as the pages and pages of scrawled handwriting from a 7-year-old.

You know you’re getting older when you start complaining about the lost values of the good old days, denouncing what society and time have done to our old-fashioned traditions and art forms. I guess I’m joining the chorus of people bemoaning the loss of the handwritten letter - even as I obviously have to reluctantly admit that I am almost exclusively a keyboard writer. It’s not that I don’t want to send handwritten letters - I wish I could. The fact is that after all the years I’ve been typing my correspondence, my penmanship has become virtually illegible! What is that saying? Use it or lose it? As part of that scenario, I have obviously learned to value immediate transmission over days of postal transit, clarity over character, and - my favorite - ability to edit with a few keystrokes over erasing, drawing lines through, or - horrors! - starting the whole thing over.

But in the process of changing the way I communicate, I regret what I have lost. I don’t have letters I wrote to my grandparents, but I have letters I wrote home from college, and letters my parents wrote to me while I was away during my one-year attempt at formal higher education. Around the time I first started this blog, as a part of our simplification process, I chose to go through all the things I had saved from my past to weed out what was not extremely meaningful, and I ended up posting about my dad’s letters to me. They were written on church bulletins, which, of course, lacked enough space to write a normal letter, so he would write in circles around the lines of text until there was no space left. (He was a choir director, and our lives revolved around church when I was growing up; he knew the bulletins were as much “news” as his circuitously written comments.) I get a thrill every time I see something in my dad’s handwriting. I recognize it immediately. He made every cursive capital “E” with somewhat of a flourish, and frequently he signed things with his initials, “iet” - then circled it as one entity. It’s hard to do that on a computer. On some of the bulletins, my mom even wrote a sentence or two, in her own distinctive handwriting.

When I was in the beginning stages of wanting to know everything about Abraham Lincoln (probably in junior high), I bought a reproduction of the Gettysburg Address in Lincoln’s now familiar handwriting. The printed version is just not the same. Ed and I watched a documentary on Mark Twain last night - and marveled at how centuries of authors have written their books in longhand, word after word, page after page. I can barely make a legible grocery list.

Today, I send e-mails (which contain information that can be saved, but not in an aesthetically pleasing way) and make phone calls (which are only saved if I leave a message), and, of course, I post in this blog, which is, in a paradoxical way, the most permanent and transient of communications. I type out my Christmas letter every year, and I have concluded that I stick a family picture in each envelope as a personal touch to lessen my guilt over the accompanied computer-generated correspondence. I make my own greeting cards, it’s true. But I make them with software and I print them off on my ink-jet printer. My real kudos go to people like my daughter-in-law, who does hands-on scrapbooking with paper and glue and - yes - real handwriting. There's something appealing to be able to hold a message in your hand, inhale its accompanying scent, run your fingers over the words, and maybe even to pick it up again and again to read with renewed pleasure.

Ed says every gift comes with a curse and vice versa, and herein lies the dilemma. I generate with care my blog posts every week, in the same old font, the same old format, with the only individuality being in the words and thoughts themselves. My handwriting is not involved. I don’t sign my initials and circle them, nor do I craft the eccentric capital E’s that occasionally I have done through the years, subconsciously as a tribute to my father. Nobody will print off my blog on pretty stationery and wrap its pages up in velvet ribbon and put it in their treasure chest for posterity. Yet, without access to this form of communication, how would I have had my words read in China by Doug? How would I have come in contact with some of my Internet acquaintances that I have met through this medium? Without the ability to craft essays with the ease of a keyboard and screen, would I have had the self-discipline to sit down and write my thoughts out in longhand on a regular basis? I think not.

I was asked recently if I anticipated that my blog would serve as a legacy for my grandchildren. I certainly hope so. But this week I'm wondering whether I shouldn’t throw a few handwritten letters in the pot, too. Now that's something to really "hand" down.

Backgrounds

Backgrounds don’t get the attention they deserve. Take music, for instance. You can buy a CD with a featured famous singer, but whoever notices the musicians supporting her/him in the background? Yet, what would the soloist be without all that support?

CDs are the least of my worries, though. My personal ongoing frustration involves backgrounds in photographs. Those who know me well are aware that I take a lot of digital pictures. I will soon have almost 20,000 photos in my iPhoto library on my computer. I can attest that it is very difficult for me, as an amateur photographer, to find a good background. It’s something that has always bugged me.

For Caroline’s 4th birthday party, Rachel chose the theme of “books.” She had books displayed around the house, gave books as favors, asked for book donations for United Way, and she wanted a picture of Caroline reading a book to display on the party invitations. I sent her over a hundred pictures from my collection of Caroline reading books, looking at books, and carrying books. Out of all those photographs, she ended up choosing one taken on her front porch, because, as she said, “the background was decent. All the other pictures had messy backgrounds.” (You know - the usual house clutter. Usually my house.)

In my last post, I decried the subtle use of photo manipulation to drop 10 pounds off the subject because it was not a “true” picture. Using that argument, a messy background in a candid picture is really a “true” picture - but, of course, not an aesthetically pleasing one.

I make sure to take a family photograph for our Christmas letter every year. There are always the usual annoying things to deal with - getting a picture with everyone looking at the camera, keeping little ones happy, deciding what to wear, how I can best hide in the back somewhere - but the most aggravating thing is wondering where to stage the photo. I never can find a good background. That’s usually because - well - our house is lived in. It’s not a showplace. It’s not a magazine spread. And it’s definitely not a studio.

The outdoors can provide a lovely background. For some reason, though, nobody wants our Christmas picture taken with everyone bundled up in coats, standing outside in cold Maine weather with frozen smiles on their faces. (You have to admit, though, that’s realism at its best.)

Rachel recently took the girls to a department store photography studio. The photographer spent the whole time trying to get the girls to smile (waving Elmo at them) and directing them to sit up straight, shoulders back, heads not tilted, etc. Rachel said every time Caroline was ordered to change one thing in her posture, something else went awry. It was a very anxiety-provoking and tense situation for everyone involved.

It stands to reason that the best person to direct a family photograph is the family photographer - and that’s me. This background problem frustrates me. I have everything else I need. I have decent photography skills. I have an adequate camera. I have a tripod. I have some idea of balance and lighting and all that sort of thing. I have photogenic subjects. I just lack the background. I think there are probably a lot of people in my situation.

So here’s my idea. I think every mall ought to have a studio for rent by half-hour increments. The studio should contain all the accoutrements of a professional photographer’s studio - the steps, benches, cushions, and chairs, the lights, the cute little accessories like teddy bears and so on - but most of all, those great backgrounds, like the billowing white curtain, the professional gray screen, and the pull-down seasonal backdrops. The client brings the camera and the family. There is minimal set-up cost for the rental agency, as they don't have the expense of cameras and paid staff. It would be more relaxing for the people being photographed without a stranger poking and prodding and cajoling and barking orders. You have to admit - relaxed family members make better photographs.

I believe I’ve covered most everything. Oh yes - one wall would have to be a giant window, where mall shoppers can enjoy watching the amateur attempts - and make sure no...um...“indecent” photographers find the studio an irresistible setting for their craft.

I think my idea has merit. Ed, of course, thinks it’s unfeasible. I won’t go into his list of reasons here. Suffice it to say he has never had to coordinate a family photo. So if you have money to invest in this studio-rental project, contact me ASAP. Christmas is only 7 months away.

Something to digest

Fat has been in my head all week - I guess you could call me a fathead. Have you ever had the feeling that there is some undercurrent of significance at play when you find yourself out of the blue reading about certain topics over and over without meaning to?

It first started when we came across articles and books detailing what is wrong with the way we eat in this country, in addition to, of course, what we eat, why we eat, and whatever other adverb you’d like to insert. It is generally accepted that the USA has a long way to go. We eat too much fast food, too much fake food, too many preservatives and chemicals, and our food travels thousands of unnecessary miles to our plates. While other countries take hours for a meal, we feel that we need to finish ours in minutes. While some countries are lacking food, ours is on the whole overfed yet malnourished (because of the quality of food we eat). We’ve become so big as individuals that when they renovated Ford’s Theatre in Washington, DC, they tried to keep it authentic to how it looked in Lincoln's day, but had no choice but to widen all the seats to accommodate our modern bodies. That’s pretty sad, when you think of the expansive dresses they wore back then, isn’t it?

OK, so Ed and I started discussing our food supply and eating habits, and then, when I was perusing a gadget catalog, I noticed a T-shirt that said, “I’m not fat - I’m AMERICAN!”

The next thing we read was that in Formosa, the parents have historically instructed their children to eat until they were 85% full, and no more. That way, they avoided the obesity that has plagued the USA - where, as Ed chuckled, our parents were telling us to clean our plates because “children were starving in China.” Some of them weren’t starving - they were just being taught to eat sensibly, while we were getting fat, trying to finish off “their” food.

So where does this rambling lead? To an e-mail I received the other day. For some reason, this e-mail brought together every book, every magazine article, every piece of information about fat that has crossed my life this week. The e-mail was from Hewlett Packard, and they were announcing their latest camera - it makes you skinny. I’m not kidding. It comes with some kind of software in the camera itself called a “slimming” option. Here is their spiel:

They say cameras add ten pounds, but HP digital cameras can help reverse that effect. The slimming feature, available on select HP digital camera models, is a subtle effect that can instantly trim off pounds from the subjects in your photos!
With the slimming feature, anyone can appear more slender—instantly.
• The effect is subtle—subjects still look like themselves
• Can be adjusted for a more dramatic effect
• See a before and after version, then decide which to keep

Has it come to this? I know photo manipulation has been used in the ad industry for a long time - and I have used it myself on a few occasions to remove errant bra straps and such - but really, do we need to have a slimming feature in our cameras? Can we not even take an honest photo - is it just too real?

I, for one, will not buy it. I will not “touch up” a candid photo of myself. I choose the cheaper, more sensible, more authentic method. If I don’t like it, I delete it. (This is why there are very few pictures of me in my collection. I don’t like most of them.) Of course, the catch is - I’m forced to lose weight the old-fashioned way. Sigh. I’ll just consider it my sacrifice for integrity.