Pasta Buffet

My mother astounded me the other night. She said that in her 84 years of life, she had never heard of throwing spaghetti noodles on the wall to determine whether or not they were al dente. She almost didn’t believe that such a technique existed. Surely most of you have heard of it. You cook the noodles for a certain length of time, then to check if they are ready, you throw one onto the wall (or ceiling, in some cases!) and if it sticks, then all the noodles in the pot have reached the perfect texture. There are people who swear by this method and other people who scoff at it. I personally don’t care about its efficacy, but since Mom and I weren’t really talking about cooking techniques, it didn’t matter. We were discussing my looming Certified Medical Transcriptionist exam, and I was using the pasta as a metaphor.

I told my mother that after months of intensive studying, which got more concentrated as the date of the exam neared, I finally felt that my brain was no longer holding onto any more information. Especially the day before the test, I felt as if I were throwing spaghetti noodles on the wall in a desperate attempt to “learn” as much as I could as fast as I could, and even as I knew most of the noodles were falling immediately, I was hoping fervently that some of them would stick, at least for another 24 hours.

Well, my test is over, and I am happy to report that I passed. However, in retrospect, I was studying spaghetti and ended up being tested on macaroni. You may not think that would make much of a difference. After all, they are both pasta. Yes, that’s true, but they have different uses and go with different sauces. I found it quite intriguing that nothing I studied the day before the exam was on the test. None of it. Zip. I did indeed have some of the spaghetti adhere to the wall of my brain, but the meal was, alas, macaroni, very little of which I had prepared.

Nonetheless, I did pass, although I think that victory was due more to my 11 years of experience as a transcriptionist than my rigorous study. And I have reasserted my belief that, given the test’s authority to ask any question related to the medical field - in addition to grammar and medicolegal issues - I was lucky the test was just macaroni and not something from a separate food group altogether. It does give another meaning, though, to “using one’s noodle.”

Oh, well. I’m very excited with the result, and, with my time and energy now freed, my focus on the journey to simplicity can resume once again. By the way, I am now in the process of emptying all the information I temporarily stored. If anybody needs a great way to memorize medication suffixes, I’m your lady. Maybe you’ll get more use out of it than I did. Everyone pass your plate - there’s enough here for all of us!

From Cells to Stars

I have been acutely aware ever since the VIVmag article came out that one of my featured quotes was this: “I miss having an enclosed two-car garage, but I’ve learned to scrape ice and snow without too much complaining.” Of course, it’s November again and my quote is coming back to haunt me.

However, I will say that the times I have had to scrape the frost off the car are the very same times that the night sky is cloudless and clear, and the stars are not only visible but stunning. How can I complain about a little scraping and cold weather when the view is so extraordinary? (I would say “out of this world,” but miraculously it is indeed in this world.) The fact that we live in a rural-type area where there are no street lights to mar the scene just enhances the effect.

On my drive to work after one such morning this week, I reflected on my ironic situation. For the seemingly endless stretch of time that I have been preparing for my CMT test, I’ve been studying some of the smallest things in the universe - cells, nerves, tendons, blood particles - even some “invisible” things like x-rays and MRIs and disease processes and hormones - and in the midst of all this information reverberating in my brain, I have had opportunities to gaze upon some of the things on the other end of the size spectrum - the planets and stars and that huge expanse of space. The things on one end are just as wondrous to me as the things on the other end. And all these objects, for the majority of the time, seem to function well in their assigned roles day in and day out, with probably not a lot of attention from us concerning any of it. Most of us go through years of our heart beating over and over without giving it a second thought, and we assume the sun will come up tomorrow morning just as it has for millions of years.

Those who are trying to simplify their lives usually state a common goal - that of the ability to enjoy the present moment. These are the moments I cherish. Whether it’s watching a twinkle in the sky, or feeling a heartbeat, it’s all still miraculous to me.

A little publicity

I always get introspective this time of year. For one thing, it’s about time to write our annual Christmas letter to family and friends, and this requires me to sit down with a nice cup of hot tea and a heated blanket (yes, it’s winter in Maine) to ruminate on the year’s events. Halloween also marked a year since we moved out of our Victorian house and, at that time, temporarily into our daughter’s home until December 23, 2006, when we finally moved into our present small house. We have therefore had a year of great adjustment.

I have another reason for the introspection today, though. The article in VIVmag that features me along with three other women came out yesterday (“Inconspicuous Consumption, VIVmag Nov/Dec issue online only at vivmag.com), and I must say I am shocked. I had assumed the three other women would be as ordinary and average as I am, but instead they are three accomplished women, one who has started her own company and two who have recently published books! I don’t consider my personal achievements are worthy of inclusion, but I am honored to be mentioned in the same article.

“Celebrity” or not, I guess when it comes to trying to simplify, we’re all in the same boat. We make the same kinds of sacrifices for the same kinds of reasons, and we all try to emerge from the attempt with some increased assurance that we are making a difference in at least a small way.

Ed keeps telling me that I need to bring my blog back totally to posting about our struggle with simplicity and downsizing. He claims that I tend to go off on tangents about other subjects. In a way, this is true. However, in my defense, this “simplicity” movement encompasses our whole lives in myriad ways. It’s hard to isolate.

You may remember my mentioning that as I study for my Certified Medical Transcriptionist test, I am realizing that the body is an integrated unit - no organ stands alone, no system stands alone, and as much as I try to focus on definitive study to one area or organ, it is virtually impossible, for try as I might to isolate my study, another area or organ winds its way into the reading material.

The journey to simplicity has the same kind of map - it’s not a straight journey, but a circuitous one. As I state in my blog description, this journey encompasses and affects everything else in my life - from aging, grandparenting, how I spend my time, my money, my energy, what I eat, what I buy, identifying and maintaining priorities, my wishes and dreams - all this cannot be separated from the root of simplicity. It is as if a giant tree has grown after this seed took root in our minds, a seed which is basically a stated value that we have adopted as our life attitude. Either what we do pushes us closer to our goal of simplifying or it nudges us further away. Nevertheless, the goal is there, the root is there, the idea of enriching our lives by the crazy notion of debulking our lives remains always our intention. When you start out with a certain stated life principle, that principle should be visible in all other areas of your life, and it, like a bodily organ, cannot stand alone.

I hope that my blog, for the majority of the time, reflects that. Meanwhile, the aforementioned article is out on the Internet, and it gave me an exciting opportunity to have my picture professionally taken (thanks, Billy), and to give me yet another occasion for introspection in this wondrous year of the journey of our lives.

The journey becomes somewhat challening, however, with impending arrival of the holidays, which I would say is the most difficult part of the simplification process, as we are well aware that our society does not encourage frugality during the consumer-driven Christmas shopping season. I salute and take courage from the other featured women - Debra Amador, Judith Levine, Mary Carlomagno - as well as countless others who are becoming role models for what it means to simplify. We’re all on the journey, trying to walk in the same general direction, seeking joy and contentment, energized, and ready to talk about the trip to anyone who is willing to listen.

Godspeed to us all!

Here's to your health

My mother has always said, “If you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.” Her miracle ingredient to ensure success of this goal was milk of magnesia. According to her, it prevented or cured everything that could go wrong with our bodies. I’m sure in her mind, every hospital had a medicine storage facility where, directly in front of the antibiotics and narcotics, a blue bottle of Phillips’ Milk of Magnesia was no doubt prominently positioned. That blue bottle of chalky white repulsive potion was the bane of our otherwise idyllic childhood. We quickly learned never to complain of any kind of problem - neither acne, sore throat, nor chapped lips - in order to avoid the dreadful liquid. Whatever we had wrong with us would always pass (no pun intended) eventually, and Mother would attribute this extraordinary cure to that wonderful milk of magnesia. I don’t think she ever considered the probability that our little nuisance of a health snag would have gone away on its own anyway.

The older I become, I understand Mother’s driving ambition of health maintenance, although I take issue with the aforementioned unorthodox method. (That blue bottle has never entered my threshold since I became an adult. ANYTHING but that!) As a kid, I thought I was invincible, but now I know better. When I send annual Christmas greetings, one of my most consistent wishes has been good health, so my friends and relatives will be able to enjoy everything else life offers.

It’s kind of ironic that at the very time we Baby Boomers are finally seriously concerned about the well-being of our bodies, said bodies start a rapid process of deterioration. Chronic illnesses come in and make themselves at home for extended visits. Acute injuries (like my sister’s current back problem) make getting through a normal day almost impossible for several hours or a few weeks. Ed lives with diabetes, and after the doctors changed his medications last month, he has had a very frustrating time trying to adjust to the new medicine’s way of working in his body.

Health is on my mind these days because, as most of you know, I’m in the middle of studying for my Certified Medical Transcriptionist (CMT) exam. Every time I think of complaining about my body’s deficiencies, I read another chapter of a body system and my only recurring comment (besides “how will I ever learn all this stuff?!”) is that I wonder how our bodies manage to function so well for so long a time.

I divided my 7-week study plan into 4 body systems (chapters) per week, but I have found that keeping strictly with this outline is hard to do. Why? Because the “Cardiovascular System,” for example, cannot stand on its own, as it is linked with the “Nervous System” and the “Respiratory System.” Add in the muscles and bones involved, falling under the “Orthopedic System,” and you can’t completely isolate any part of the body so that it can be studied on its own. Everything is intertwined and inseparable.

So much depends on all these systems and parts working together, doing their jobs, day in and day out. The details of how the heart beats, its web of impulses and chambers and the electrical component, is so dependent on perfect timing that it is a miracle this cardiac muscle works for as long as it does. Considering the world we live in, I think that is remarkable.

When humans design products, for example, those products have a very limited life. I remember buying an expensive exercise machine once that had a 1-year warranty. One year? Someone designed and built that piece of machinery so poorly that they only guarantee it will work for one year??

Contrast this with the design of our bodies. Of course, cancer and other insidious diseases take their toll, but if you think about it, on the whole, the human body has an ingenious way of functioning and healing itself. It is a miraculous, intricate machine that usually lasts longer (especially if we take care of it) than anything you can buy at Wal-Mart. Sometimes I think we just need the reminder.

Oh, and by the way, Mother is 84 and still going strong. My sister has never had to take her to the hospital, she hasn’t fallen and broken any bones, and her mind is still sharp. I dare say when she turns 100 and a reporter questions her about her longevity, she will bring out that disgusting Blue Bottle. Oh, well. I might have to lay down my arms against the ole milk of magnesia. If it has truly kept my mother alive and well all these years, I owe it my eternal gratitude.

I still refuse to touch it, though. It is truly disgusting.

Please rein it in!

I used to be a news junkie - in fact, for most of my life I kept abreast of the latest developments. While we still had cable, I was a regular viewer of the news. Now, however, with rabbit ears and 2 channels from which to choose, I watch the news about once or twice a week in the evening, and other than that, I am dependent on family and friends to let me know when something important is happening.

Five days a week, though, I go to bed at 7:30 p.m. or so, and with the national news finishing at 7:00 p.m., the time of the broadcast is so close to sleep time that it can leave me with nightmares. Oh, there’s plenty to be upset about in the news - with the war, the economy, Chinese import quality, congressional stalemates, the mortgage crisis, politics in general, the increase in poverty, the conditions in Africa, etc. I don’t want to denigrate all those important topics, but I want to add a subsection to the news reports that manage to increase my blood pressure.

On Tuesday night, ABC aired a segment honoring National Dictionary Day. As a word/language/spelling/punctuation/grammar lover, I prepared myself for something pleasurable in the news for a change. What I got was anything but pleasurable. It seems that the Oxford University Press has decided that, due to usage parameters, they will accept alternate spellings to some words in their new edition. “Free reign,” for instance, is now an acceptable alternative to “free rein.” Why? Because 46% of the time, people use the former spelling. “Vocal chords” is now acceptable, when the only proper spelling used to be “vocal cords.” That’s because 49% of the time, people use the “h” in spelling the word. The third example was “shoe-in” as a new acceptable alternative to “shoo-in,” because 35% of the time, that incorrect spelling is used. So now proper usage is a popularity contest?!

Talk about something to give one nightmares!!! (OK, not everyone. Certainly 46%, 49%, and 35% of the people will have been ushered into the Correct Club using a fake ticket, but I don’t imagine they are too excited about the honor or that they even care.)

You can see I’m bitter. All these years, I have taken great pains (not panes) to learn and maintain correct spelling and usage. When I get depressed about how little I can do well, I can always salve my feelings by reassuring myself that I can spell correctly. Now what little self-esteem I had is being eroded.

What’s Ed’s reaction? He feels vindicated, of course. In an ongoing argument for over 30 years, we have staunchly remained in our respective camps regarding language. I'm pretty much a purist. He insists that language is an evolving entity. He says that when usage changes, what is acceptable will change. He says a dictionary’s purpose is to reflect what society is doing, not to publish some arbitrary set of rules. He dares me to look at Shakespeare’s English and say that is the same style we use today. All I could do in return was sputter my indignation. At a time when our precious words were being bastardized, I was ironically speechless.

Since then, I’ve done some Internet research. The site I can find where this issue is best discussed is this one. I’m trying hard to understand, but it looks to me as if we are turning down a perilous road (not rode). What’s next? Effect and affect interchangeable? With chat rooms pulling in millions of word-users, will “R U hapy now?” be the next dictionary entry? After all, if 40% of the people write like that, the dictionaries shouldn’t be too far behind in their acquiescence.

Sigh. By the way, if you are hearing something that makes your blood boil, a spouse laughing nonstop in the same room is not good. For you or him. Especially him.

Not just the facts, ma'am!

I never know what to expect when I talk to my Mom. She is constantly surprising me. Then there are other times I can see it coming. Recently, one call went like this:
“Hey, Mom. Guess what? I just wrote my obituary!”
---silence--
“Did you hear me? I just wrote my obituary!”
After another pause, Mom said in that voice of hers (the one in which I can sense an imminent maternal lecture), “Now, Carol...I think you should leave your brain to medical science.” In effect, she thought I was nuts.

Well, maybe I am. But writing my own obituary was an enlightening experience. I wanted to save my family the chore of creating one when the time comes and they are in fresh grief. So I did it myself.

A friend of mine, though, had another experience with obituaries. She said that when her father died, her mother and the immediate family sat down together to write his obituary, and the occasion was emotionally helpful for them, as fond memories brought them a measure of comfort. I thought that was sweet, and I can see her point.

However, I don’t think my family could reconstruct my life to my satisfaction even now, much less later, without some prompting. So I sat down a couple of weeks ago and reflected on my life thus far. (One always has to have that disclaimer, of course. My life is hopefully far from over. I am reminded of Matthew, when he first saw the movie “Hook.” As he exited the theater, he gushed, “That’s the best movie I’ve ever seen in my life so far!”) What do I want to be remembered for? What things would I prefer to omit? What things should be described that may seem inconsequential to others but are important to me? I don’t want just the facts...I want my story to be personal - something that validates my existence as a unique human being in a world of millions of other human beings.

Ed and I are reading a biography of John Adams, and we came across an interesting fact about Thomas Jefferson. This is from the Monticello web site:

It was Jefferson's wish that his tomb stone reflect the things that he had given the people, not the things that the people had given to him. It is for this reason that Thomas Jefferson's epitaph reads:

HERE WAS BURIED
THOMAS JEFFERSON
AUTHOR OF THE
DECLARATION
OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE
OF THE
STATUTE OF VIRGINIA
FOR
RELIGIOUS FREEDOM
AND FATHER OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA
BORN APRIL 2, 1743 O.S.
DIED JULY 4. 1826

No mention of his being the President of the United States, a glaring and deliberate omission. This was Jefferson's last chance to summarize the importance of his own accomplishments in his own opinion, and only his opinion. This was, in a way, his last act of control.

Of course, I’m not writing my epitaph; I’m writing my obituary. I am, however, fortunate to live in a small town in Maine, where obituaries are usually long and detailed, some even listing the deceased’s hobbies, pets, and favorite teams. I am not limited to a short list of my alma mater, church affiliation, occupation, and survivors. I can be lengthy and altogether boring, but I don’t care. It’s my obituary, after all. It’s my last chance to leave a written summary of my legacy, such as it is.

As I looked over my life, detailing the events that I deemed worthy of remembrance, I was shocked to discover how important music has always been to me. That shouldn’t come as a surprise, since I was the daughter of a choir director, took piano lessons and then organ lessons, planned to major in music in college, as an adult sang in several church choirs, then took up the Celtic harp after I moved to Maine. But somehow it was a poignant moment for me to realize its prominence, probably because music has fallen by the wayside in my life right now for various reasons. Writing your obituary is helpful in that way - you examine your life (so far!), and you make discoveries about the occasions and hobbies and people who have enriched your life, or at least given you a unique identity. The process will make you cry and laugh and wonder if you ever will live long enough to accomplish the things that are important to you. You can stand back and observe how you have evolved.

I’ll also tell you what writing your obituary won’t do. It won’t be bad luck, it won’t change the past, and it probably won’t make your Mom very happy. On the other hand, it will give you some important introspection, a feeling that your life did matter in many ways, and a feeling of gratitude that you ever got to go on the journey of life - your life so far, that is!

There is a lot more for me to experience, and I'm sure by the time I pass away, I'll have many edits and additions and rewrites. The story has yet to be finished. Oh, and regardless of my mother's comment, I really don't need to leave the world my brain. I'd rather leave it music, some silly poems, handmade quilts, pretty cross-stitch, amazing kids and grandkids - and a doozy of an obituary!

Rules

I have always had a love/hate relationship with rules. I realize the world is not black and white; indeed, I tend to scoff at naive people who have that world view. The truth is, though, that sometimes I fight against rules and other times I welcome their restrictions.

Rules can make us feel safe, for instance. Ed once preached about a psychological experiment where they had kids on two different playgrounds. One playground had no fence, and the little children were generally afraid to venture out into what was to them a wide expanse of the unknown. They pretty much stayed huddled together in the center of the playground. The second playground was just as big, but had a fence. Can you guess where all the children headed? For the fence, of course, with some even trying to climb it.

Experts say that children (especially the young ones, but older ones as well) love to test boundaries. They do this because the boundaries of their lives are sometimes ambiguous (how I hate that word!), and other times because the rules may be clear, but they want to see if the fence will give way every once in a while. Rachel has had many a frustrating day as Caroline and Charlotte test the limits.

Some things in life give us a good mix of rules and freedom. My favorite quilt store, Keepsake Quilting, has a quilting contest several times a year. Called the Keepsake Quilting Challenge, it has just a few rules and a lot of leeway. The entry rules give the dimension measurements. The rules state that you have to buy a certain packet of fabrics from Keepsake Quilting, and your quilt has to incorporate most of those fabrics. You may get to choose one or two other fabrics to complete your design. It has to follow the theme for that specific contest, which varies, but which is usually a big enough umbrella to encompass whatever interpretation you might want to use. With these few rules, many quilts are made that on first glance seem to have little in common. They are marvels of workmanship and creativity.

Then there are the hard-and-fast rules versus implied rules. When she was a little girl, Rachel once entered a coloring contest at a restaurant. She was given a standard picture of an outdoor scene to color, and she did a good job, as did many other children. After she won the contest, the manager told her that she had impressed the judges because she had drawn and colored in a sun where there was no sun. They admired her creativity. I guess the rules did not specifically state you could not add anything, and her creative license saved the day.

I have usually been a dutiful follower of rules in my life, even as a teenager. I followed the school dress code, I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, usually got my homework in on time, and generally behaved myself. My one big irritation, though, was being told what to do in certain instances. I loved to read, but if a teacher demanded I read a certain book, I immediately developed a hatred for it, sight unseen. If I had picked up the same book on my own, I might have enjoyed it, but to be forced to read it sucked all the pleasure out of it for me.

When time came for our senior graduation picture, we were told to wear our graduation attire and to be sure to wear black shoes. Why that irritated me, I have no idea, but as a last defiant gesture to high school, I balked. If you look carefully at my class picture, I am in the front row wearing white shoes. It probably made me feel a semblance of control in what was a very, very anxious time. But I will say this - one has to know the rules in order to choose to break them.

In our simplicity journey, we make our own rules, and our journey is unlike any other. It’s a roller coaster, it’s a maze, it’s a walk in the dark, it’s serendipity, it’s adjustment, it’s regret and disappointment, wonder and delight.

I’m being featured soon in an online-only new women’s magazine (www.vivmag.com), where I will give highlights of my individual journey to simplicity, and three other women will give theirs. They will talk about their own rules and their own goals, and I am anxious to see the various quilts we are each making with our lives, using a few basic rules and a mountain of creativity. I’ll never be totally at peace with rules, but it certainly is nice when you’re old enough to make your own. I can live with that.

Simplicity's Theme

I was listening to the public ratio station this week, and I tuned in just in time to hear the introduction to a piece of music I had never heard of. The selection was Brahm's Academic Festival Overture. The PBS announcer gave the funny story behind the composition, and the story invited me to do a little Internet research. From Wikipedia:

Brahms composed the Academic Festival Overture during the summer of 1880 as a musical "thank you" to the University of Breslau, which had awarded him an honorary doctorate the previous year. Initially, Brahms had contented himself with sending a simple handwritten note of acknowledgment to the University, since he loathed the public fanfare of celebrity. However, the conductor who had nominated him for the degree convinced him that protocol required him to make a grander gesture of gratitude. The University expected nothing less than a musical offering from the composer. Brahms, who was known to be a curmudgeonly joker, filled his quota by creating a "very boisterous potpourri of student drinking songs," entitled the Academic Festival Overture. The work sparkles with some of the finest virtues of Brahms's musical technique.

What an amusing day that would have been at this public debut of Brahm's new masterpiece! As the radio announcer said, the medley of songs he used were well-known student drinking songs about "carousing, partying, and wenching," and I can imagine the expressions on the professors and university administrators when they realized what Brahms had done! Nevertheless, I really enjoyed listening to the piece, hearing the various themes of the drinking songs as they danced in and out.

I think that's the way with the journey to simplicity. Simplicity is our stated theme, but it dances its way in and out of our lives. Just when we think we have progressed on the road to simple living, our lives get hectic again, and we can barely hear its simple tune in all the commotion. But then after a while we recommit to our attempt of a simple lifestyle, and once again, its music soars. Our lives are constantly reflecting this precarious rhythmic dance.

These next few months are promising to be hectic for us. We have several birthdays coming up - son-in-law, Charlotte (turning 2), and Ed. I am sewing a Halloween costume for Caroline. Most of all, I am studying for the Certified Medical Transcriptionist exam, scheduled for November 16. Add to that the looming holiday season, and I have to make a conscious effort to create enough quiet time so that I can still hear simplicity's gentle melody:

Tis the gift to be simple,
'tis the gift to be free,
'tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the valley of love and delight.

Refrain:

When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,
'Til by turning, turning we come round right

'Tis the gift to be loved and that love to return,
'Tis the gift to be taught and a richer gift to learn,
And when we expect of others what we try to live each day,
Then we'll all live together and we'll all learn to say,

Refrain:

'Tis the gift to have friends and a true friend to be,
'Tis the gift to think of others not to only think of "me",
And when we hear what others really think and really feel,
Then we'll all live together with a love that is real.

It certainly is beautiful music.

Sweet Dreams, Mike

Everyone, they say, handles grief in his/her own way. After my cousin Mike’s death (see previous post), I cried for 3 days, and in the evening of the last day, I had no more tears. The crying stopped, the hysterical outbursts were gone, and I was just immobile with a powerful, heavy, numbing, overwhelming sadness. My mind certainly understood that life in its fullness would resume at some point, but to my heart, it seemed a distant and empty promise.

Then came the dream.

I learn a lot from my dreams. No matter how bizarre and uninterpretable they seem, I usually make at least a minimal effort to squeeze meaning from them. This dream, however, was self evident from the time I awoke in the morning.

I had dreamed that I was sitting in the house of the Wilsons, lifelong friends from my home church in Memphis, friends whom we fortunately were able to visit while we were down there in August. A child was beside me. We were looking at a plate glass window, the kind you see in department stores to display items. The only things in the window were many packages of M&Ms, which were floating here and there as if they were in water. The child beside me was unhappy. “All you can see are the backs of the packages,” he said sadly. “I want to see the front of the packages, the side where the colors are.” As I looked back at the window, I could see what the child meant. All the M&M packages were facing away from us, and all we could see was the brown side. No brightly colored candies were pictured there. The child then asked, “Can you fix them so we can see the pretty colored side?”

I said I would try. I took my index finger and touched the glass, and as I slid my finger around, as if by magic, each package followed my finger movements, and I was surprised to find that I could twist and maneuver them around until they all changed positions, until at last, the front of the packages with their brightly colored M&Ms were facing us.

That was the dream, and it was the turning point in my seemingly endless grief, for its meaning was clear to me. I had been in the Wilsons’ house because years ago they too had lost a son, who died in an accident when he was in his 20s. In the dream, I learned from the spirit child that I had been looking at the brown side - the loss, the pain, the sadness - and not only was it time to turn my attitude over to the color, the life, the warm memories of my dear cousin, but that I had the power to do it!

From that point on, I received the peace that had evaded me up until the dream. As my aunt said to me, “I have had my bad days, and I am sure I will have bad days in the future, but right now, I’m OK.” God is touching us, Mike is touching us, and we are touching each other with comfort.

The most intriguing thing about the whole thing was this: I was relating the details of the dream to my sister, and she murmured, “M&Ms. Mike McDonald.”

God and our brains both work in mysterious ways. Sometimes the message gets interpreted at exactly the right time. I hope now as the days turn into weeks and months and years, that we will gradually begin to remember Mike - the one who brought so much love and laughter to our lives - more with smiles than with tears. May it be so.

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?