My two precious grandchildren were visiting Saturday, and if you want a taste of the simple life, just sit and observe a 6-year-old and 3-year-old. For some reason, ours have a fascination with our attic.
We have one of those attics that I grew up with (except it’s completely floored), with the retractable stairs in the hall ceiling. Charlotte, the little one, has always been willing to do anything physically challenging, so she has always climbed right up and climbed back down without a hitch. Caroline, the older one, could read at an insanely early age but has always been wary of the physical realm, so it took her a couple of years to get comfortable with climbing up and down.
At any rate, now they are two attic fans (no pun intended!) and can’t understand why most of the year, they can’t climb up and stay up there for an hour or so. In the summer, it’s too hot, and in the winter, it’s too cold. They had luck this week, though, because Maine has been experiencing unseasonably cool and rainy weather, and the temperature was perfect for some attic visiting. One by one they climbed up. Before long, they decided to make their own “room.” This entailed scouring the corners of the attic in search of things they wanted in their “room.” I had to nix Charlotte’s idea of “wallpapering the walls” with rolls of my Christmas wrapping paper, but other than that, I pretty much let them have their way. They took the wrapping paper roll and put a lampshade on it to make it a lamp. They took a stool, a kid’s rocker, and a booster chair to sit on. I got tickled when half the things they found, they asked me, “Grammy, what is this?” Of course, it didn’t matter what it was intended for; they wanted it in their “room.” They had it all - shoe racks, teapots, pieces of ribbon, sewing kit, dish strainer, suitcase, miscellaneous books - quite a collection. When they finished (the only way they decided they were finished is the fact that their parents called them down to get into their pajamas and leave), I had them pose in their “room” and took a picture of their smiling, proud faces.
That’s really the essence of simplicity - you don’t waste time wishing you had more things or different things - you just work with what you’ve got. You find the valuable things in unlikely places and find creative ways to use them. I, of course, spent part of the time wondering if I should put everything back or leave everything for their next visit, and the rest of the time trying to keep them from falling down the stairs as they searched for treasures. When Caroline asked if I could keep the “room” intact for a while, I promised I’d try, and that elicited, “Grammy, you’re the best Grammy in the whole world!” and a big hug from both girls. It was then I realized that all three of us had indeed found our treasures.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Lights, camera, action!
The film is grainy and sometimes jumpy, frequently with artifact of dust, etc., crossing the screen, but the picture are priceless. They are silent home movies taken of my sister and me when we were growing up. Daddy not only took movies of the family; he also took movies of people at our church. He’d finish a roll, get his movies developed, come home with small reels, set the projector on the dining room table aimed at a white wall, and we’d get to see for the first time what he took. We’d laugh or be embarrassed as the case may be, then he’d spend some time with his little splicer machine, cutting from one reel and splicing it onto its appropriate big reel. He always liked to keep family movies separate from church movies, so “I won’t bore the church with family pictures or the family with church pictures.” This means we have wonderful documentation not only of our family but of our church from about 1957 until Daddy died in 1980.
We still have the original reels, but we transferred it all to several VHS tapes, and now will gradually shift to DVDs, trying to keep the movies current and viewable.
We have separate reel-to-reel audio tapes, of course. Daddy would sit us down after every vacation trip and we went over for posterity everything we did and saw on the trip. But we have no actual video with me or my sister talking when we were young.
Today, of course, kids are recorded for posterity from before they are born - starting with ultrasound, labor, birth, and going on from there. Almost every moment of their lives is documented, especially the highlights: Birthdays, holidays, learning to walk and talk, first day of school, learning to ride a bike, acting in plays, graduations, weddings - it’s all there with sound and pictures. Of course, to these kids, such as Caroline and Charlotte, this is something they will be used to. Even now, Rachel occasionally slips in a DVD of the girls when they were toddlers and the girls have fun watching themselves. She also makes a DVD of the highlights of each girl’s year on her birthday.
I remember when the VHS camera first came out. I asked Daddy if he was going to get one, and he said he’d just leave the "new stuff" to us. We got our first VHS camera in 1990, so our kids don’t have the “new stuff” documentation of their lives until they were about 7 and 12 years old.
Now technology has changed dramatically. There are no more reel-to-reels, no more tapes. In the new world, there are digital camcorders, digital cameras (even phones that take pictures!), DVDs, Blu-ray, and whatever else comes next (Matt thinks it will not be a “thing” at all, it will all be digital downloads) to both record and view our lives. Not only can we record the movies and photographs, we can edit them with a click of a mouse and even send them to friends and family digitally immediately. How I wish we had had this technology when my sister and I were growing up - to be able to see ourselves, of course, but to also have the ability to see our parents through the years.
Life was slower then. It had to be, because everything took longer. Daddy had to find a dark room to even take his film out of the movie camera or the film would be ruined. He then had to take it to a store to get developed, then had to pick it up a week or so later, decide how he wanted to edit it, and find time to sit down in the evening with his splicer in order to get the job done. Even viewing the movies took time. Fellow baby boomers can relate to the memories, I’m sure: Getting the screen out of the closet and setting it up. Finding something sturdy to set the projector on, making sure the projector was at the optimal distance from the screen. Getting the appropriate reel, threading the projector, turning the lights in the room out. Then sitting back and watching the silent show. The only good thing about its being silent is that anybody could talk aloud during the movie, laugh, cry, whatever, and no one says “Shhh...” The required darkness of the room came in handy when our faces turned beet red with personal embarrassment. There is a Family #2 reel in which my sister's pajama pants slid down as she was running from the room when she was a very little girl. It's infamous now, of course.
The documentation from those reels is all the product of our father, who scrimped and saved on other things so he could afford the expense. I can still see the flickering light and hear the loud whirring of the projector. Daddy didn’t realize it, but he made double memories for us - once when he took the movies, and again when we viewed them. They continue to bring us pleasure. I think he would be so proud today that we still cherish them and are still trying to update them in a form for future generations to enjoy.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Memories, anyone?
Good Housekeeping magazine’s July edition has an article called “The Price of Happiness.” The author, Brett Graff, says there are three ways to “get the most bliss for your buck.” The first suggestion is “Load up your memory bank.”
Of course, the article does mention that memories are not always free; for instance, a ski trip creates great memories, but you have to have skis first, and they will be expensive to purchase.
We found ourselves in this predicament this spring. We needed a new couch. We haven’t had a couch since we gave away ours to Rachel when she got married six years ago. Not only did we want a couch to cuddle on while we watch TV on the weekends, but we needed a sleeper sofa because in our little ranch we have no guest room and no extra beds. While our previous 3-story Victorian gave us enough room to open up a hotel, now we don’t even have an inflatable bed.
What does this have to do with memories? We are ready for 6-year-old Caroline to spend the night with us for the first time by herself, and the poor girl needs a place to sleep, right? Hence the couch. Trying to simplify, Ed and I thought long and hard about spending so much money on a couch. Was this a necessary expense, or were we just trying to rationalize a new purchase? We weren’t trying to replace a perfectly good old couch; we didn’t have one at all. We really were tired of spending the evening in two separate chairs, and we really wanted to make memories with Caroline. The justification outweighed the concerns, so we took the plunge.
I remember that when the kids were growing up, I was acutely aware that we were making memories. Even times I did not consciously realize I was making memories, I was still doing so. I laugh sometimes when I talk to the kids about their childhood memories, because some of the “staged” ones didn’t “take,” while instead they remember some oddball thing from the past. I’m the same way, of course. While I remember a great many experiences with my relatives, my first memory is of the person. I remember that my grandfather smelled of Listerine and chewing tobacco, that he had an infectious hearty laugh, played mean ragtime on the piano, and he always carried a cane which he would toss and catch in the air for fun. He always made sure we had a big store-bought Easter basket every year and a brand-name toy for Christmas. I remember Great Aunt Bessie, filling our little house with cigarette smoke early in the morning when she stayed with us for a week at a time, how she finally gave up smoking at an elderly age and went to hard candy instead, how she used to tell funny stories about her childhood pets, and her laugh was more of a snicker/chuckle with a half-smile but we could always tell she was really amused. She sent us homemade peanut brittle for Christmas. We knew our parents’ eccentricities that made them so lovable - Dad hated crabgrass, was always frustrated when he saw misspelled words on signs, and called bad drivers “Friend!..” because he knew otherwise he would be saying a derogatory word and he was not that kind of man. Mama accidentally killed our goldfish, let us keep a wild bird flying around the house for a while, let us use her real rubber jacks ball, hid our Easter eggs, and tucked banana peels in chair cushions and other sundry places, then forgot she had done so, and later they would show up in less-than-perfect condition at unexpected moments.
Buying things do make memories, experiences make memories, but it is the infusion of the human element that cements and seals them. Sometimes I wonder what our grandchildren will remember about us. Will they remember the “tree faces” nailed to three of our trees outside? Our attic? Babe? They will undoubtedly remember Ed’s pipe smoking and beard and almost-bald head, as well as his role as family cook. They will certainly remember me as the one who always had a camera, taught them some French, read them lots of books, and was someone who was willing to climb in their little tent in the basement and pretend there were big snakes all around us. The fact is that our whole being and interaction with kids is what makes memories. The good memories are not restricted only to holidays and birthdays; they are the everyday experiences of enjoying life with someone you love.
Our couch was delivered a couple of weeks ago - one more tool in the grandparent memory-making business!
Of course, the article does mention that memories are not always free; for instance, a ski trip creates great memories, but you have to have skis first, and they will be expensive to purchase.
We found ourselves in this predicament this spring. We needed a new couch. We haven’t had a couch since we gave away ours to Rachel when she got married six years ago. Not only did we want a couch to cuddle on while we watch TV on the weekends, but we needed a sleeper sofa because in our little ranch we have no guest room and no extra beds. While our previous 3-story Victorian gave us enough room to open up a hotel, now we don’t even have an inflatable bed.
What does this have to do with memories? We are ready for 6-year-old Caroline to spend the night with us for the first time by herself, and the poor girl needs a place to sleep, right? Hence the couch. Trying to simplify, Ed and I thought long and hard about spending so much money on a couch. Was this a necessary expense, or were we just trying to rationalize a new purchase? We weren’t trying to replace a perfectly good old couch; we didn’t have one at all. We really were tired of spending the evening in two separate chairs, and we really wanted to make memories with Caroline. The justification outweighed the concerns, so we took the plunge.
I remember that when the kids were growing up, I was acutely aware that we were making memories. Even times I did not consciously realize I was making memories, I was still doing so. I laugh sometimes when I talk to the kids about their childhood memories, because some of the “staged” ones didn’t “take,” while instead they remember some oddball thing from the past. I’m the same way, of course. While I remember a great many experiences with my relatives, my first memory is of the person. I remember that my grandfather smelled of Listerine and chewing tobacco, that he had an infectious hearty laugh, played mean ragtime on the piano, and he always carried a cane which he would toss and catch in the air for fun. He always made sure we had a big store-bought Easter basket every year and a brand-name toy for Christmas. I remember Great Aunt Bessie, filling our little house with cigarette smoke early in the morning when she stayed with us for a week at a time, how she finally gave up smoking at an elderly age and went to hard candy instead, how she used to tell funny stories about her childhood pets, and her laugh was more of a snicker/chuckle with a half-smile but we could always tell she was really amused. She sent us homemade peanut brittle for Christmas. We knew our parents’ eccentricities that made them so lovable - Dad hated crabgrass, was always frustrated when he saw misspelled words on signs, and called bad drivers “Friend!..” because he knew otherwise he would be saying a derogatory word and he was not that kind of man. Mama accidentally killed our goldfish, let us keep a wild bird flying around the house for a while, let us use her real rubber jacks ball, hid our Easter eggs, and tucked banana peels in chair cushions and other sundry places, then forgot she had done so, and later they would show up in less-than-perfect condition at unexpected moments.
Buying things do make memories, experiences make memories, but it is the infusion of the human element that cements and seals them. Sometimes I wonder what our grandchildren will remember about us. Will they remember the “tree faces” nailed to three of our trees outside? Our attic? Babe? They will undoubtedly remember Ed’s pipe smoking and beard and almost-bald head, as well as his role as family cook. They will certainly remember me as the one who always had a camera, taught them some French, read them lots of books, and was someone who was willing to climb in their little tent in the basement and pretend there were big snakes all around us. The fact is that our whole being and interaction with kids is what makes memories. The good memories are not restricted only to holidays and birthdays; they are the everyday experiences of enjoying life with someone you love.
Our couch was delivered a couple of weeks ago - one more tool in the grandparent memory-making business!
Friday, June 05, 2009
Now what was I doing?...
I don’t have ADD. I really don’t. But some days it certainly seems that way.
I was going to blog a couple of hours ago, but when I sat down at the computer, I realized I needed to add another item to my list of “what to talk to the doctor about during my physical.” I pulled that list up on the screen and edited it. As I turned around, I realized that I had not hemmed my cropped pants I bought last week, and decided to go ahead and do that. I turned them inside out, and as I looked around for my measurement gauge, my eye caught the old newspaper article from the spelling bee that I blogged about last time, and I thought that really needed to go back up in the attic, so I put the pants down, picked up the article, and made my way to the dining room where we keep our pile of things that need to go up to the attic. As I placed the clipping in the pile, I noticed my cup of hot tea that I had made earlier in the morning and never drank, so I put it in the microwave on a minute to reheat, and while it was reheating, I saw the book that Sarah let me borrow on Sunday, and I thought what a good time it would be to read it, so I went over to the couch and put it there. Just then our dog Babe wanted to go out, and when I let her out the sliding glass doors, I realized what a pretty day it was, and how fun it would be to take my harp out in the backyard and play it outside. The big harp was too cumbersome, so I picked up the little harp, and, of course, a harp has to be tuned every time you play it, so I looked around for the tuning equipment. At first I accidentally picked up the lever adjuster for the big harp, but after looking some more, finally I found the one for the little harp. I sat the harp on the table and started tuning it, then realized the cup of hot tea was no longer hot because it had been sitting for a long time after I reheated it, so I started the microwave again, then came back to tuning my harp. Well, I needed some sheet music, so I rummaged around in my music drawers for the appropriate book, then took the harp and book outside to play.
It was indeed a gorgeous day. I played for a long time. And I am finally blogging. But my pants are still sitting there unhemmed, the book is still on the couch, and Lord help me, my cup of tea is still in the microwave. Sigh. The older I get, the less distraction my mind can handle, it seems. I’m afraid some things will never get done. But I can’t say I wasted the afternoon. Out in the cool breeze, the music surrounded me. (So did the ants, blackflies, and other assorted insects.) Hello, summer!
Friday, May 29, 2009
D'oh!
Watching the National Spelling Bee this week brought back memories for me. I’ve had a lot of disappointments in my life so far, as is true of everyone, but the disappointments whose bitter memories of regret still linger are those times when I have disappointed myself. I don’t really consider myself a perfectionist, but I do have high standards and aspirations.
I’ve never been a great cook, but one dish in 1974 singlehandedly ruined my culinary reputation with my husband - curried apricot pork chops. I don't think it was anything I did; it was a dreadful combination of flavors to begin with. Hey, if it’s printed in a cookbook, I figured it has passed some kind of taste test. Ed occasionally “experiments” in his cooking repertoire these days, but he does this with aplomb because he can always say, “Well, that was bad, but not as bad as those curried apricot pork chops.” It’s so rewarding to know that my cooking effort has been set as the gold standard - for failure.
I’ve been disappointed in how my quilts turn out and how my solos (voice, piano, organ, harp) sounded. I’ve been disappointed in photographs I have taken. I have been disappointed that I quit college after one year (and worried that I let down my parents even more with that decision). I’ve been sorely disappointed with some grades I have received. But I can say that the personal failure that gnaws at my gut every time I think about it is the Memphis Spelling Bee of 1968.
Spelling has always been a passion of mine. I like the exactness of it. There is no room for ambiguity. A word is spelled this way, not that way. Of course, a few words can be spelled more than one way - therein lies my pitiful story.
Picture it: I was an 8th-grade geek who won the East Junior High Spelling Bee in Memphis, and as such, had moved on to the Memphis Spelling Bee, which was broadcast live on the radio. Such opportunity! Such pressure! It finally came down to three contestants, two girls and me. I can’t remember any words I spelled in that whole bee - except my nemesis word - ELEGY. Oh, yes, ELEGY. The word is burned into my brain. So is this paragraph in the local newspaper: “Carol Tiffin, an 8th-grader at East Junior High, won a $25 bond from The Press-Scimitar as second runner-up. Carol missed the word ‘elegy,’ but a judge said after the contest that the word she spelled would have been accepted if the judges had realized at the time she correctly spelled the wrong word.”
How does one “correctly spell the wrong word”? I spelled the word ELOGY, as I could have sworn I had seen that word somewhere at some time. After the bee, I went down to the judges’ huge dictionary and looked up the word ELOGY. It was there. And since the winning words were IMMUTABLE and ONYX - words I could have easily spelled - I could have been a champion. Sigh.
Just for fun, today I looked up the word ELOGY on onelook.com. Yep, it’s still there. A testament to my missed opportunity for fame and fortune. You might think I’m petty to continue to think about this after 41 years, and you may be right. However, it’s one of those missed opportunities I wish I could go back and change. A 14-year-old named Betty Gay Luton (described in the article as a “tall, willowy eighth-grader” - a description which rubs salt in my wound) won the Memphis Spelling Bee that year.
I wonder what those judges are doing today. I hope they are preparing to sit down to a tasty meal of curried apricot pork chops. Revenge can be sweet.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The School of Life
As I get older, I frequently contemplate the skills I would like to learn before I die. It’s not really a long list, but it is pretty specific. I’d like to learn and become fairly proficient at knitting and crocheting. I’d also like to learn how to play some other musical instruments, especially the flute, the cello and the violin. (A few years ago my wish was to learn guitar, but after several lessons, I just couldn’t “get it,” and surrendered that dream.) The rest of my goals are concentrated around the desire to just be productive and learn new techniques in skills that I already possess - my quilting, cross-stitch, harp playing. I also have a list of things that I have no interest in learning - gardening, scrapbooking, cooking, or how to install car seats. And why should I? I have my sister, my daughter-in-law, my husband, and my daughter respectively who have mastered these skills with passion and perfection. I will just bask in their glory.
But I’m thinking these days mostly about the violin. It is such a beautiful instrument, and so wonderfully portable, too. Caroline, my 6-year-old precocious granddaughter, has taken violin lessons for months now, and she has shown talent along with a keen interest (always a good combination). Therein lies the rub. Sweet little kindergartner Caroline can play the violin. I can’t.
When did that happen? I’m supposed to be the teacher here. Every time I visit, I teach her a new vocabulary word. I teach her about Lincoln, sing her special songs, teach her French and quilting. All of a sudden, here she is, gaining skill at something I know nothing about. It’s humbling - and intriguing.
Almost everything I learned about the computer and other technology has been from my son, Matt, starting when he was in junior high school. Sure, I was older and he was younger, but age didn’t matter. He was willing to teach, and I was anxious to learn. One of these days, I will be ready to learn the fundamentals of playing the violin. And at that point, the tables will be turned, and Caroline will share her knowledge with me.
Even though I never stayed in college, I’ve always considered myself a learner for life (the only difference being that now I learn what I want to learn and not what I have to learn). I think the key to lifelong learning is the openness to allow others to teach, sometimes in unconventional ways, sometimes by unconventional methods. Those who have the skill and willingness to teach are blessings to those of us who continually want to learn. The older I get, the younger some of my teachers will become - that just goes without saying. There are actually people who think there is nothing new or exciting to learn, or that they are too old to learn, or that there is no one worthy enough to teach them anything. How sad!
Part of the wonder of my job as a medical transcriptionist is that every day I learn new things. I love all the parts of learning - anticipation, learning on my own from books and web sites, having things explained to me where they make sense, the “aha” moment of understanding, and finally, the last and ever-continuing step in learning - the teaching to someone else what I have learned. And the cycle continues.
Forever student, forever teacher. Sounds like a good plan to me.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Snapshots
Inevitably when I babysit my 3-year-old granddaughter, Charlotte, I bring out my camera and take lots of pictures. And just as inevitably, she asks if she can take some herself. I usually let her. Then when I get home and load the pictures onto my hard drive, it’s always fun to see the kind of pictures she took.
Some, of course, are not very good, but others are surprisingly well done. Recently she took a close-up picture of a pillow, which I deleted, but yesterday she took a few great pictures of Ed and Babe. At one point she took a picture of the sky - and I think there is a tiny rainbow in the resulting photograph. Mixed in with all the pictures of her surroundings are always a few self-portraits.
Now, self-portraits are hard to do when you are holding the camera, because you can only get as far away as the length of your arms as you extend the camera out to the front. In addition, you have no idea what you are taking a picture of - you point the camera generally in the direction of your face, but that part is quite tricky. I should know, because years of trying to hold out the camera to take a head shot of myself for a handful of Internet chat sites has led me to bring out the tripod and do it the right way. Nevertheless, it intrigues Charlotte to turn the camera on herself.
They say that we never really see ourselves in reality, because all we have access to is a flat image - in the mirror or in a photograph. We can’t see ourselves in time and space with three dimensions, which is the way we see our fellow human beings. And I don’t know about you, but the older I get, the less I like looking at myself in mirrors or photographs. Ouch.
The one time I do allow myself to examine what makes up “me” is in this blog. One can avoid mirrors or cameras to a degree, but eventually the introspection can’t be avoided - and that’s a good thing, I suppose. Even if this blog were never read by another single soul, in the activity of writing it, I am forced to reexamine my life, my priorities, my goals, my relationships, my life experiences, my triumphs and failures, strengths and weaknesses, in the Journey to Simplicity. Sometimes my introspection just turns out to be a picture of one eye or the top of my head, or, if I’m lucky, I am rewarded with a good clear “photograph” that makes me smile, laugh, or sometimes cry. Yeah, the crying part is important, too.
Everyone learns about him/herself in different ways, and that’s the way it should be. My internet friend from Prince Edward Island (http://cre8ive1.blogspot.com/) documents her life with almost daily blog posts, with a lovely photograph accompanying each post. What a remarkable record! I’m lucky if I manage one blog post a week. I think it’s helpful for us all to take a little time now and then to do some self-examination, whether you post it on the Internet or just write it in a journal. It’s not all deep psychological introspection - it’s also good just to stop and take stock of where you are in life, where you are going, if you’ve strayed too far off the chosen path or if it’s indeed time to choose a whole new path - and to celebrate how far you’ve come in this fascinating journey of life. To stop and give thanks, shout a big “aha!” or sigh a big “whew!” - life goes so fast and we can feel as if we don’t have enough time to respond. And keep a camera handy. Such wonderful inventions - especially in the tiny hands of a 3-year-old ball of energy!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Pretend You Don't See Me -Thanks
I get tickled when I hear about people wanting to seek their “fame and fortune.” The fortune part is fine (although that brings with it a lot of problems, too) but fame? No thanks!
On the TV show TLC’s “What Not to Wear,” the fashion advisors lament the fact that they see so many young women dressing as if to fade into the woodwork, looking as if they want to just be invisible. So what’s wrong with that? Some days I just run some errands and hope I don’t see anybody I know because I look like a total mess. Of course, I wouldn’t want to live my whole life that way, but occasionally it’s just reality.
As the news junkie I am, I enjoyed watching all the reports and commentary leading up to President Obama’s election. I remember one reporter saying that he didn’t think the reality had yet set in for Mr. Obama that he can no longer remain anonymous. He can no longer blend in. He can never again run to Burger King for a quick lunch, pop into the store to buy underwear, head over to 7/11 for a Coke. Once he became world-famous, life as he knew it once was essentially over.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a celebrity. Famous people say that some parts of it are horrible. Can you imagine not being able to leave your house without photographers waiting to snap your picture? Some paparazzi even specialize in securing photographs of celebrities that reveal the stars' cellulite or wrinkles or paunches or bad hair days or faces without makeup. Every pound the celebrity loses or gains is news. In addition to invasion of privacy in the physical sense, if you’re rich enough and famous enough, and have children, you have to worry about the possibility of kidnapping. Finally, everything embarrassing thing you’ve ever done (or will do) in your life is up for grabs as tabloid fodder. Past and current acquaintances (and nasty competitors) are always willing to sell your humiliation for a price, and photographers are waiting in line to catch you in a misstep.
Of course, with your life an open book, you'd better practice what you preach. Can you imagine the publicity and embarrassment if you were Oprah, just having talked in public about your struggle to lose weight, and you were seen eating a Quarter Pounder? We've seen politicians pleading for morality being caught in affairs and televangelists preaching against fornication ending up with prostitutes. Sports heroes bemoan steroid use and then fail their own drug test. In regular life, if we slip up, we hope it's a private thing, or at least limited to our community, depending on how well known we are. On the other hand, if you're famous, all bets are off.
Some famous people didn’t start out with a desire to be famous. They just wanted to act or sing or play an instrument and be one of the best. Fame appeared as a byproduct. Others wanted to be stars from early on in their lives. Regardless of how it arrived, fame is another one of those curses/blessings that I’m glad I don’t have to deal with. If you occasionally look as bad as I look sometimes leaving the house, you ought to be thankful, too!
On the TV show TLC’s “What Not to Wear,” the fashion advisors lament the fact that they see so many young women dressing as if to fade into the woodwork, looking as if they want to just be invisible. So what’s wrong with that? Some days I just run some errands and hope I don’t see anybody I know because I look like a total mess. Of course, I wouldn’t want to live my whole life that way, but occasionally it’s just reality.
As the news junkie I am, I enjoyed watching all the reports and commentary leading up to President Obama’s election. I remember one reporter saying that he didn’t think the reality had yet set in for Mr. Obama that he can no longer remain anonymous. He can no longer blend in. He can never again run to Burger King for a quick lunch, pop into the store to buy underwear, head over to 7/11 for a Coke. Once he became world-famous, life as he knew it once was essentially over.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a celebrity. Famous people say that some parts of it are horrible. Can you imagine not being able to leave your house without photographers waiting to snap your picture? Some paparazzi even specialize in securing photographs of celebrities that reveal the stars' cellulite or wrinkles or paunches or bad hair days or faces without makeup. Every pound the celebrity loses or gains is news. In addition to invasion of privacy in the physical sense, if you’re rich enough and famous enough, and have children, you have to worry about the possibility of kidnapping. Finally, everything embarrassing thing you’ve ever done (or will do) in your life is up for grabs as tabloid fodder. Past and current acquaintances (and nasty competitors) are always willing to sell your humiliation for a price, and photographers are waiting in line to catch you in a misstep.
Of course, with your life an open book, you'd better practice what you preach. Can you imagine the publicity and embarrassment if you were Oprah, just having talked in public about your struggle to lose weight, and you were seen eating a Quarter Pounder? We've seen politicians pleading for morality being caught in affairs and televangelists preaching against fornication ending up with prostitutes. Sports heroes bemoan steroid use and then fail their own drug test. In regular life, if we slip up, we hope it's a private thing, or at least limited to our community, depending on how well known we are. On the other hand, if you're famous, all bets are off.
Some famous people didn’t start out with a desire to be famous. They just wanted to act or sing or play an instrument and be one of the best. Fame appeared as a byproduct. Others wanted to be stars from early on in their lives. Regardless of how it arrived, fame is another one of those curses/blessings that I’m glad I don’t have to deal with. If you occasionally look as bad as I look sometimes leaving the house, you ought to be thankful, too!
Friday, May 01, 2009
The 3 D's
My almost-86-year-old mother was recently diagnosed with macular degeneration. Being a medical transcriptionist, I had to immediately research the disease to learn more about it, as curiosity is one of an MT’s great assets. Here is a quote from emedicinehealth’s web site:
That certainly made me think. As a Baby Boomer, I’ve read lots of insightful articles on whether our out-of-control healthcare system in this country can accommodate the great numbers of our age group who are going to be laden with diseases of old age. What? Did we really believe we could scientifically add years to our lives with no downside? In spite of health advances enabling most people to live to a ripe old age, unfortunately the medical knowledge has not found cures for all the diseases of a ripe old age. It’s the old gift/curse syndrome.
I, like a lot of people, I suppose, have spent a great deal of time wondering at what age I will die, but even more than that, I yearn for healthy, active, independent, and productive years leading up to that time. (OK, Rachel, I know this freaks you out, so you can quit reading now...) Everyone wants to live a long life, but more and more we are thinking about what constitutes a healthy one. We grow old, blessed with the increased years longevity gives us, cursed with the 3 D’s - disease, decline, and degeneration - that accompany those extra years. At some point, your body just can’t handle it anymore. When I was pregnant with Matthew 26 years ago, my maternal grandfather died. I don’t remember the exact age Paw-Paw was at the time, but he was old and had lived a long and productive life, and at one point, all his friends were gone, and his body just got worn out and he was just tired and ready to go. They say each of us is actually dying from the moment we are born - that natural process is put into action even while cells are growing and multiplying. Eventually the “shelf life” of our body parts is limited. We are not meant to live forever as physical beings.
Fortunately in my mom's case, her car accident, although it set her back physically, did nothing to impair her mentally, and she is as sharp as ever. Damage to the neuro and brain system (such as dementia or stroke) is probably one of the most prevalent fears of Baby Boomers. We can handle aches and pains and other signs of wear and tear, but we want to be able to recognize our family members.
Because we are discovering so much about how good food and exercise and decreased stress are all so integral to our health, it does make me regret a lot of choices I made in the past, and makes me wonder how much time I have left to implement habits that will preserve my health as I age. I remember my mom always saying, “If you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.” As with most of her maxims, I can appreciate its wisdom the older I get.
Age-related macular degeneration is the leading cause of legal blindness in people older than 55 years in the United States. Age-related macular degeneration affects more than 1.75 million individuals in the United States. Owing to the rapid aging of the U.S. population, this number is expected to increase to almost 3 million by 2020. Because overall life expectancy continues to increase, age-related macular degeneration has become a major public-health concern.
That certainly made me think. As a Baby Boomer, I’ve read lots of insightful articles on whether our out-of-control healthcare system in this country can accommodate the great numbers of our age group who are going to be laden with diseases of old age. What? Did we really believe we could scientifically add years to our lives with no downside? In spite of health advances enabling most people to live to a ripe old age, unfortunately the medical knowledge has not found cures for all the diseases of a ripe old age. It’s the old gift/curse syndrome.
I, like a lot of people, I suppose, have spent a great deal of time wondering at what age I will die, but even more than that, I yearn for healthy, active, independent, and productive years leading up to that time. (OK, Rachel, I know this freaks you out, so you can quit reading now...) Everyone wants to live a long life, but more and more we are thinking about what constitutes a healthy one. We grow old, blessed with the increased years longevity gives us, cursed with the 3 D’s - disease, decline, and degeneration - that accompany those extra years. At some point, your body just can’t handle it anymore. When I was pregnant with Matthew 26 years ago, my maternal grandfather died. I don’t remember the exact age Paw-Paw was at the time, but he was old and had lived a long and productive life, and at one point, all his friends were gone, and his body just got worn out and he was just tired and ready to go. They say each of us is actually dying from the moment we are born - that natural process is put into action even while cells are growing and multiplying. Eventually the “shelf life” of our body parts is limited. We are not meant to live forever as physical beings.
Fortunately in my mom's case, her car accident, although it set her back physically, did nothing to impair her mentally, and she is as sharp as ever. Damage to the neuro and brain system (such as dementia or stroke) is probably one of the most prevalent fears of Baby Boomers. We can handle aches and pains and other signs of wear and tear, but we want to be able to recognize our family members.
Because we are discovering so much about how good food and exercise and decreased stress are all so integral to our health, it does make me regret a lot of choices I made in the past, and makes me wonder how much time I have left to implement habits that will preserve my health as I age. I remember my mom always saying, “If you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.” As with most of her maxims, I can appreciate its wisdom the older I get.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Worms and Pears - All about timing
“The early bird gets the worm.” I don’t know about you, but I heard that piece of wisdom many times growing up, probably when Mama was trying to coax me out of bed. In spite of its being, well, a little unappetizing for me, it always seemed to be a straightforward proverbial gem. First come, first served. Early to bed, early to rise. Get there early, be first in line. That sort of thing.
As I got older, I started to rethink my interpretation. I don’t think it is meant to glorify the state of being early as it does timeliness. Being at the right place at the right time. For birds, that may indeed be early, assuming there are a limited number of worms available and every other bird is out for as many as they can catch. And that makes sense - for birds. For humans, it’s a bit more complex. Good timing can be due to lots of things, including planning and just plain good luck. Some timing is in our control. For instance, in 1994 when we decided to move from Maine to Tennessee, we sat down and figured out when the perfect timing would be. We decided to wait until 1996 when our oldest, Rachel, had graduated from high school. Her brother, Matt, would be 13 at the time, finishing 7th grade. We figured we could move to Maine in June 1996, and that fall, Rachel could start college, and Matt could have a year in junior high to make friends before he moved on to high school. It worked out well.
On the other hand, there are places in life we gamble about timing. Who hasn’t wished for a life rewind button when stocks plummeted last year and beyond? I imagine there are some lucky or smart people who managed to buy low and sell high, but for most of us, it was and is a total gamble. I try to time my gasoline fill-ups to coincide with the lowest price, but sometimes I wait too late and the price has gone up again. Only recently being able to fly, I am novice at buying airline tickets, and hope that I wait late enough to see if the price goes down, but not too late to get the flight I want, or, heaven forbid, the price goes up.
I recently had three completely different timing experiences with fruits. I bought a mini-watermelon a week ago. I know - way too early for ripe watermelons, especially in Maine, but I was lucky; it was bright red, juicy and delicious. I decided to press my luck, and got another mini-melon from the same store a week later. Inedible. I could hardly remove the fork once it was in it. Then we bought some pears, brought them home and put them in a paper bag to ripen. Ed announced they were ready yesterday - and they were the most perfect pears I have ever eaten! We timed it exactly right.
The best piece of wisdom we have ever heard about eating food is this: “Choose foods that spoil. Eat them before they spoil.” It’s all about choice and timing. You know the foods that can spoil are the best for you - fresh, unprocessed, and full of vitamins and minerals. The catch is on the timing part. You have to try to eat them right at the peak of ripeness and flavor for that particular food. Sometimes, as I said, it takes instinct, planning and sometimes it’s just luck. (As much as I recall my grandfather thumping melons at roadside fruit stands, they say that’s not a good indicator of a good melon.) It’s so disappointing to taste a fruit or vegetable and discovering that it’s not ripe or one that is past its prime. It’s also frustrating to buy fresh produce and forget to prepare it before it is spoiled. But those days you bite into The Perfect Pear of Ecstasy, it makes it all worthwhile. “Choose foods that spoil, and eat them before they spoil.” Welcome spring - the race is on!
As I got older, I started to rethink my interpretation. I don’t think it is meant to glorify the state of being early as it does timeliness. Being at the right place at the right time. For birds, that may indeed be early, assuming there are a limited number of worms available and every other bird is out for as many as they can catch. And that makes sense - for birds. For humans, it’s a bit more complex. Good timing can be due to lots of things, including planning and just plain good luck. Some timing is in our control. For instance, in 1994 when we decided to move from Maine to Tennessee, we sat down and figured out when the perfect timing would be. We decided to wait until 1996 when our oldest, Rachel, had graduated from high school. Her brother, Matt, would be 13 at the time, finishing 7th grade. We figured we could move to Maine in June 1996, and that fall, Rachel could start college, and Matt could have a year in junior high to make friends before he moved on to high school. It worked out well.
On the other hand, there are places in life we gamble about timing. Who hasn’t wished for a life rewind button when stocks plummeted last year and beyond? I imagine there are some lucky or smart people who managed to buy low and sell high, but for most of us, it was and is a total gamble. I try to time my gasoline fill-ups to coincide with the lowest price, but sometimes I wait too late and the price has gone up again. Only recently being able to fly, I am novice at buying airline tickets, and hope that I wait late enough to see if the price goes down, but not too late to get the flight I want, or, heaven forbid, the price goes up.
I recently had three completely different timing experiences with fruits. I bought a mini-watermelon a week ago. I know - way too early for ripe watermelons, especially in Maine, but I was lucky; it was bright red, juicy and delicious. I decided to press my luck, and got another mini-melon from the same store a week later. Inedible. I could hardly remove the fork once it was in it. Then we bought some pears, brought them home and put them in a paper bag to ripen. Ed announced they were ready yesterday - and they were the most perfect pears I have ever eaten! We timed it exactly right.
The best piece of wisdom we have ever heard about eating food is this: “Choose foods that spoil. Eat them before they spoil.” It’s all about choice and timing. You know the foods that can spoil are the best for you - fresh, unprocessed, and full of vitamins and minerals. The catch is on the timing part. You have to try to eat them right at the peak of ripeness and flavor for that particular food. Sometimes, as I said, it takes instinct, planning and sometimes it’s just luck. (As much as I recall my grandfather thumping melons at roadside fruit stands, they say that’s not a good indicator of a good melon.) It’s so disappointing to taste a fruit or vegetable and discovering that it’s not ripe or one that is past its prime. It’s also frustrating to buy fresh produce and forget to prepare it before it is spoiled. But those days you bite into The Perfect Pear of Ecstasy, it makes it all worthwhile. “Choose foods that spoil, and eat them before they spoil.” Welcome spring - the race is on!
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Good Life, 2009
One of our goals in downsizing and simplifying is that elusive status of “the good life.” A description of that, of course, varies from person to person. In fact, through my life, I have lived many “good lives” and many not so good. Sometimes I was living “the good life” and “the bad life” at the same time. But generally, these days, I consider the good life for Ed and me to include these things: The basics of family, friends, health, reliable transportation, secure employment and income, sustainable food-shelter-clothing. To those necessities of life in America, I would add the extra things that add joy and pleasure to our lives: Internet access, a dog, books, music, a digital camera, quilting and other creative opportunities. I have to include a cozy fire in the wood stove during the winter; one of Ed’s home-cooked meals; the serendipity of seeing a deer, owl, wild turkey, or moose; a neighborhood walk on a sunny spring day; the first snowfall of the season; the gorgeous autumn foliage, going through my “past box” and reminiscing. Then there are the real intangibles: Hearing from old friends, celebrating weddings and births, watching my grandchildren play, learning something new about myself, laughter, enjoying what I do for a living, teaching a skill to someone, doing a good deed, giving to charity, or watching another person discover his/her passion.
My favorite magazine these days is Experience Life. If I could afford it, I would buy a subscription for each person I know. If you are interested in a richer, healthier, more sustainable and happy life, I highly recommend reading it on a regular basis. There is an article in this month’s issue called "The Better Good Life: An Essay on Personal Sustainability," written by Pilar Gerasimo (Editor-in-Chief of the magazine). Here is an excerpt:
The article is way too long to quote here, but Ms. Gerasimo talks about the times (encompassing all areas of our lives) when we choose short-term satisfaction over long-term goals, not considering how our choices will affect our own lives as well as those sharing this planet with us. She reports that as the Gross Domestic Product has tripled over 54 years, our Genuine Progress Indicator (the environmental and social effects, including happiness), has not gained much, and that gap between the two is widening.
She ends the article with 3 questions to ask ourselves:
1. Given the option, would I do or choose this again? Would I do it indefinitely?
2. How long can I keep this up, and at what cost - not just to me, but to the other people and systems I care about?
3. What have I sacrificed to get here; what will it take for me to continue? Are the rewards worth it, even if the other areas of my life suffer?
It all comes down to your interpretation of “the good life.” Considering the impact our life choices have on ourselves and those around us, they are questions I guess we need to continue asking throughout our journey. Happy Earth Day, April 22nd!
My favorite magazine these days is Experience Life. If I could afford it, I would buy a subscription for each person I know. If you are interested in a richer, healthier, more sustainable and happy life, I highly recommend reading it on a regular basis. There is an article in this month’s issue called "The Better Good Life: An Essay on Personal Sustainability," written by Pilar Gerasimo (Editor-in-Chief of the magazine). Here is an excerpt:
So, what exactly is a “good life”?,,,We’d prefer a life that feels good in the moment, but that also lays the ground for a promising future - a life, like the cherry tree’s, that contributes something of value and that benefits and enriches the lives of others, or at least doesn’t cause them anxiety and harm. Unfortunately, historically, our pursuit of the good life has focused on increasing our material wealth and upgrading our socioeconomic status in the short term. And, in the big picture, that approach has not turned out quite the way we might have hoped.
For too many, the current version of “the good life” involves working too-long hours and driving too-long commutes. It has us worrying and running ourselves ragged, overeating to soothe ourselves, watching TV to distract ourselves, binge-shopping to sate our desire for more, and popping prescription pills to keep troubling symptoms at bay. This version of “the good life” has given us only moments a day with the people we love, and virtually no time or inclination to participate as citizens or community members.
It has also given us anxiety attacks; obesity; depression; traffic jams; urban sprawl; crushing daycare bills; a broken healthcare system; record rates of addiction, divorce, and incarceration; an imploding economy; and a planet in peril.
From an economic standpoint, we’re more productive than we’ve ever been. We’ve focused on getting more done in less time. We’ve surrounded ourselves with technologies designed to make our lives easier, more comfortable, and more amusing.
Yet, instead of making us happy and healthy, all this has left a great many of us feeling depleted, lonely, strapped, stressed, and resentful. We don’t have enough time for ourselves, our loved ones, our creative aspirations, or our communities.
The article is way too long to quote here, but Ms. Gerasimo talks about the times (encompassing all areas of our lives) when we choose short-term satisfaction over long-term goals, not considering how our choices will affect our own lives as well as those sharing this planet with us. She reports that as the Gross Domestic Product has tripled over 54 years, our Genuine Progress Indicator (the environmental and social effects, including happiness), has not gained much, and that gap between the two is widening.
She ends the article with 3 questions to ask ourselves:
1. Given the option, would I do or choose this again? Would I do it indefinitely?
2. How long can I keep this up, and at what cost - not just to me, but to the other people and systems I care about?
3. What have I sacrificed to get here; what will it take for me to continue? Are the rewards worth it, even if the other areas of my life suffer?
It all comes down to your interpretation of “the good life.” Considering the impact our life choices have on ourselves and those around us, they are questions I guess we need to continue asking throughout our journey. Happy Earth Day, April 22nd!
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Let's Face It
I consider myself relatively computer literate. I mean, I know how to create a blog and post and edit. I can work with and manipulate digital pictures. I work at home on a Mac and at the hospital on a PC. I send and receive e-mail and can pay bills online and shop online and order pictures to be printed off at my local Walgreen’s. But heaven help me - today I joined Facebook and I am drowning in technological awe. I bow down to those who can navigate that alien world.
My husband Ed was kind of scared of letting me put more personal information out there on the Internet - but, of course, Ed is scared of everything technological. I was so excited the day when he actually learned how to turn our computer on. I was doubly excited when he could click on the Safari icon, and triply excited when he could even look up a bookmark I had saved for him and go to his chosen site. Hmmm...I should probably never have shown him how to put items in a cart, but he still has to come get me in order to check out. There are some things he never needs to learn.
Anyway, under Rachel’s encouragement, I joined Facebook tonight. I thought that all I had to do was sign up and then I could look around. I was wrong. Facebook had me click on this, click on that, then gave me a list of people it figured I knew. Some were familiar - my kids and their spouses, a few friends - but some I never even heard of. I thought Facebook was asking me if I wanted to go see their profiles, so I started clicking away. Before I could say, “Yikes!” I realized that e-mails were being sent to all these people to confirm I was their “friend.” Afterward, I tried to remember on whom I had clicked. Would they even know who I was? Was there someone somewhere who gets this confirmation e-mail and thinks, “Who the heck is THAT?”
Next, I had to take a picture of myself. It’s not my favorite thing to do - in fact, I avoid it religiously - but that generic silhouette up at the top of my profile looked kind of weird. I have a built-in camera in my iMac, but my computer is in my messy sewing room/office and I don’t have good lighting, and the background is always cluttered. Enough excuses - I did some more clicking and got my photo up there.
Oh, look - I have a message on the screen! It says my daughter deigns to be my “friend.” Oh, the excitement! I must reply! But I have no idea how. I can’t see a “reply” button. I don’t know all these terms - what’s a wall? Wall-to-wall? It’s all so intimidating. And to think even kids in elementary school can do this.
It isn’t long before I realize that a person could spend HOURS on this site. I’m on a journey to simplicity - I don’t have HOURS to spend. I barely find the time to blog once a week or so. Fortunately, Facebook didn’t have me click on a button which made me promise to check in 30 times a day. At least I don’t think I clicked on that button. Who knows? I was pretty extravagant with that mouse trying to set all this stuff up.
Technology is the insidious beast on many a Road to Simplicity. First it pleasantly surprises you, then leaves for a bit and you get back to your other duties and relationships. The next thing you know, it starts walking with you more frequently until one day, you realize you’re palling around with technology so much on the Road that you have lost track of time and have missed some beautiful scenery.
Ed says every blessing has a curse, and every curse a blessing. That’s certainly true of technology. Joining Facebook? Intriguing and free. Being able to check my e-mail and see a picture of my precious granddaughters? Priceless! I think I’ll be thankful for technology, and I’ll accept it on my journey to simplicity. I just need to remember to use it as one of many tools to make my life richer and make the walk a little more pleasant. As long as it stays in its proper place, I will enjoy the company.
Now....what the heck is wall-to-wall????
My husband Ed was kind of scared of letting me put more personal information out there on the Internet - but, of course, Ed is scared of everything technological. I was so excited the day when he actually learned how to turn our computer on. I was doubly excited when he could click on the Safari icon, and triply excited when he could even look up a bookmark I had saved for him and go to his chosen site. Hmmm...I should probably never have shown him how to put items in a cart, but he still has to come get me in order to check out. There are some things he never needs to learn.
Anyway, under Rachel’s encouragement, I joined Facebook tonight. I thought that all I had to do was sign up and then I could look around. I was wrong. Facebook had me click on this, click on that, then gave me a list of people it figured I knew. Some were familiar - my kids and their spouses, a few friends - but some I never even heard of. I thought Facebook was asking me if I wanted to go see their profiles, so I started clicking away. Before I could say, “Yikes!” I realized that e-mails were being sent to all these people to confirm I was their “friend.” Afterward, I tried to remember on whom I had clicked. Would they even know who I was? Was there someone somewhere who gets this confirmation e-mail and thinks, “Who the heck is THAT?”
Next, I had to take a picture of myself. It’s not my favorite thing to do - in fact, I avoid it religiously - but that generic silhouette up at the top of my profile looked kind of weird. I have a built-in camera in my iMac, but my computer is in my messy sewing room/office and I don’t have good lighting, and the background is always cluttered. Enough excuses - I did some more clicking and got my photo up there.
Oh, look - I have a message on the screen! It says my daughter deigns to be my “friend.” Oh, the excitement! I must reply! But I have no idea how. I can’t see a “reply” button. I don’t know all these terms - what’s a wall? Wall-to-wall? It’s all so intimidating. And to think even kids in elementary school can do this.
It isn’t long before I realize that a person could spend HOURS on this site. I’m on a journey to simplicity - I don’t have HOURS to spend. I barely find the time to blog once a week or so. Fortunately, Facebook didn’t have me click on a button which made me promise to check in 30 times a day. At least I don’t think I clicked on that button. Who knows? I was pretty extravagant with that mouse trying to set all this stuff up.
Technology is the insidious beast on many a Road to Simplicity. First it pleasantly surprises you, then leaves for a bit and you get back to your other duties and relationships. The next thing you know, it starts walking with you more frequently until one day, you realize you’re palling around with technology so much on the Road that you have lost track of time and have missed some beautiful scenery.
Ed says every blessing has a curse, and every curse a blessing. That’s certainly true of technology. Joining Facebook? Intriguing and free. Being able to check my e-mail and see a picture of my precious granddaughters? Priceless! I think I’ll be thankful for technology, and I’ll accept it on my journey to simplicity. I just need to remember to use it as one of many tools to make my life richer and make the walk a little more pleasant. As long as it stays in its proper place, I will enjoy the company.
Now....what the heck is wall-to-wall????
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Come on over to my house!
One of the most interesting things to do is watch the faces of children. They are so transparent. And, being kids once ourselves, we can empathize with whatever they are feeling.
At a family gathering last year, I think something happened that favored Charlotte for some reason, and my daughter-in-law, Sarah, started laughing because she was watching Caroline’s expression at that moment. Sarah, who grew up with a younger brother, said she knew that face, and knew that she herself had sported that expression many times growing up.
At another time a few days ago, I didn’t see Caroline’s expression because I wasn’t there, but I wish I could have seen it. She had a good friend from school over to her house. It sounds like they had a great time, playing, dressing up, making pizza, etc. When the girl’s father came to pick her up, the girl didn’t want to leave. Here is how 5-year-old Caroline described it in her blog:
I imagine Caroline was so proud - proud of her mom, who helped them make pizza, proud of her dad, who went out sledding with them (even if the branches were out to get him), proud of her sister, proud of her house and her toys, and especially I can imagine a satisfied smile on her face when her friend didn’t want to go home.
There’s a certain vulnerability in having a friend visit your home, especially when you are younger. My sister Joy and I grew up in a very small ranch house, all four of us using one tiny bathroom, Joy and I shared a bedroom, and the kitchen was so small that it was crowded with two people in it. Our toys were limited. We realized that a lot of our friends’ families were financially a lot more well off than we were. One of my friends named Debbie lived in a very fancy house in a neighborhood built around a beautiful lake (with ducks!), and when she showed me her attic, it was full of board games - just like a toy store - all the games I’d seen advertised on TV but never owned. She had two sisters and each child had her own room. It was so much fun spending time at her house!
But do you know what? I had an ever greater time when she came over to my house. I was never embarrassed that most of my toys weren't brand-name, or that I shared a room with my sister. I was always proud of my parents, too. I always considered them to be interesting and entertaining in their own right, just different enough from other parents to make them special. Our home movies (which is another thing none of my friends had) show Debbie and me at the Mid South Fair, just two friends, no distinctions, having a blast with my sister and my parents.
Yes, it’s vulnerable when as a kid you invite someone into the most personal of all spaces, your home. You are giving them an opportunity to judge your taste in decoration, your fight against clutter, the size of your living area, your financial status, your neighborhood, the kind of food you eat and how it is prepared, and especially your parents and siblings. I still thank my parents today for the fact that I was always excited to have a friend come visit - because I thought I lived in the most awesome family in the world. If I had any part in creating that same atmosphere for our kids as they grew up, I am content. (You’ll have to understand I’m in a reminiscent mood, as my “baby” Matthew turns 26 years old today! Happy birthday, Matt!)
At a family gathering last year, I think something happened that favored Charlotte for some reason, and my daughter-in-law, Sarah, started laughing because she was watching Caroline’s expression at that moment. Sarah, who grew up with a younger brother, said she knew that face, and knew that she herself had sported that expression many times growing up.
At another time a few days ago, I didn’t see Caroline’s expression because I wasn’t there, but I wish I could have seen it. She had a good friend from school over to her house. It sounds like they had a great time, playing, dressing up, making pizza, etc. When the girl’s father came to pick her up, the girl didn’t want to leave. Here is how 5-year-old Caroline described it in her blog:
Once upon a time when I was five, my best friend Judy came over. The first thing we did was go into my closet and wear some costumes. I wore Big Bird, and Judy, my best friend, wore the bear costume - Bear in the Big Blue House. I loved that. We danced around and soon I wore Bear in the Big Blue House and Judy didn't wear any other costume.
Judy and I had lots of fun after that, Then we made pizzas. Then when the pizzas were finished, my mom put them in the oven. While we were waiting, we jumped in the bouncy house. Then Mama said, "Lunch time! Lunch is ready!" And Judy and I went up to have our pizzas. They were certainly yummy! And I loved them! And Judy did, too.
Then after lunch, we went sledding. After a few sleds, I was on my belly holding onto the handle bars of one sled. When I was almost to the bottom of the hill, my face slammed down onto the sled. One of my top teeth came very loose, and my gum was bleeding. It hurt really bad.
Then I went inside and had a popsicle. Judy did, too. Judy made me feel a lot better since she's my best friend. When Judy finished her popsicle, she wanted to go back outside again.
I said, "Okay, but I'm not going outside, but I'm not going outside, because I don't feel well enough to go outside."
Then Daddy said, "Why don't you go outside and watch?"
I said, "Okay, but I'm not sledding."
I went outside and watched for a while. Then my Daddy came outside and tried sleds on two way bigger hills. There were branches, and my Daddy almost got blind.
Just then, Judy's dad came in his truck. When the truck pulled in, Judy faced backward away from the truck and folded her arms across her chest.
Then when her Daddy said, "Come on, Judy!", Judy said, "I'm not leaving," still with her arms folded across her chest, but she had turned back facing her Daddy now.
"Yes you are," said Judy's dad, and they went on arguing back and forth, back and forth, until Judy went away. But Judy forgot her shoes. My Daddy waved went out and waved them at the truck. He brought them to the truck, and Judy was happy.
I imagine Caroline was so proud - proud of her mom, who helped them make pizza, proud of her dad, who went out sledding with them (even if the branches were out to get him), proud of her sister, proud of her house and her toys, and especially I can imagine a satisfied smile on her face when her friend didn’t want to go home.
There’s a certain vulnerability in having a friend visit your home, especially when you are younger. My sister Joy and I grew up in a very small ranch house, all four of us using one tiny bathroom, Joy and I shared a bedroom, and the kitchen was so small that it was crowded with two people in it. Our toys were limited. We realized that a lot of our friends’ families were financially a lot more well off than we were. One of my friends named Debbie lived in a very fancy house in a neighborhood built around a beautiful lake (with ducks!), and when she showed me her attic, it was full of board games - just like a toy store - all the games I’d seen advertised on TV but never owned. She had two sisters and each child had her own room. It was so much fun spending time at her house!
But do you know what? I had an ever greater time when she came over to my house. I was never embarrassed that most of my toys weren't brand-name, or that I shared a room with my sister. I was always proud of my parents, too. I always considered them to be interesting and entertaining in their own right, just different enough from other parents to make them special. Our home movies (which is another thing none of my friends had) show Debbie and me at the Mid South Fair, just two friends, no distinctions, having a blast with my sister and my parents.
Yes, it’s vulnerable when as a kid you invite someone into the most personal of all spaces, your home. You are giving them an opportunity to judge your taste in decoration, your fight against clutter, the size of your living area, your financial status, your neighborhood, the kind of food you eat and how it is prepared, and especially your parents and siblings. I still thank my parents today for the fact that I was always excited to have a friend come visit - because I thought I lived in the most awesome family in the world. If I had any part in creating that same atmosphere for our kids as they grew up, I am content. (You’ll have to understand I’m in a reminiscent mood, as my “baby” Matthew turns 26 years old today! Happy birthday, Matt!)
Thursday, March 19, 2009
We Are There
If you had asked me any day in the last 2 weeks what my evening plans were, I would have said, “I hope they finally drop The Bomb.” Before you send me to the mental hospital for a long overdue checkup, I must explain: Ed and I are in the middle of the book Truman by David McCullough.
I am a great lover of history, and know more American history than world history, but still I knew precious few things about Truman before we started the book. The main thing I knew, of course, was that he made the decision to drop the first atomic bomb. Events in the book are escalating toward that end, but we’re not quite there yet. For some reason, I want to get that part over and get on with it. It was an event of such magnitude, a decision of “no turning back,” a tragedy of enormous proportions, a military decision over which some people agonized and about which some people never thought twice. It is uncomfortable to read about over half a century later.
McCullough is an award-winning writer, and his talents have drawn us into the story. We are right there when Truman campaigns, when his opponents denigrate his naivete and humble beginnings, when he marries his childhood sweetheart, when he is elected to the Senate, then the Vice Presidency, and finally “inherits” the top office when Franklin D. Roosevelt dies. We are right there in the room when he is talking to Churchill and Stalin. And we will be right there when The Bomb is dropped.
One of the reasons some people hate history (and I love it) is that the reader already knows what is going to happen. That takes the fun out of reading for a lot of folks. It’s similar to the year we had no TV and had our daughter tape the Super Bowl for us, and we watched it a week later, all the time knowing who had won - that was indeed not as exciting as watching it in real time. So what if we know that Truman will take over when Roosevelt dies? There are still questions - how did he find out? What was his reaction? How did he deal with the transition? How did it change his family life? How did he cope with being suddenly thrust on the world stage at a pivotal moment in history?
I approach history differently than some. I like the fact that the word “story” is included in the word history, because that is exactly what it is - Lincoln’s story, Truman’s story, your story, my story. So far, science has not unraveled the possibilities of time travel, so this is the closest we will come, it appears. If you can find a good story - and a good storyteller to impart it - well, that’s one of life’s pleasures.
I just want them to drop The Bomb soon, so I can get over this horrible feeling of knowing something dreadful is about to happen. It’s one thing to read in textbooks the dry scenario of facts; it’s another to be right in the middle of everything as it unfolds minute by minute, with all the accompanying angst and foreboding that a good writer can muster.
The main thing I learned from reading history aloud to Ed is that all of our personal life stories have meaning and are worth telling - not just those of famous people. The other thing I learned is that my being in the medical field does strange things to reading aloud - and it’s frustrating when Truman is in important secret communication with Roosevelt and “statin.”
Friday, March 06, 2009
A Different World
I was once asked if I ever had my grandchildren in mind when I blogged, sort of creating a legacy for them into Grammy’s mind that they can enjoy as they get older. Yes, I do think that’s a part of this endeavor. And lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how my world as a child differed from their world as children - and how the journey to simplicity will in some ways be easier for them and in some ways much, much harder.
To Caroline (5) and Charlotte (3):
When I was a little girl, things were different than the lives you are living now. Take the telephone, for instance. We only had one telephone, and it was hooked by a cord to the wall. I had to stand by the phone and talk. I couldn’t move around, I couldn’t talk from the bedroom or bathroom, or talk sitting on the couch, relaxing. I had to stay right by the wall, and could go only as far as that cord would reach. There was no way to go in another room and talk privately. Everyone could hear the conversation. The telephone had what’s called a rotary dial instead of a keypad. This meant that instead of punching the number buttons, I had to stick my finger in a little hole, hold it down in the hole, and turn the circle dial until it turned all the way, then release my finger from the hole and let the circle dial rotate back around again. I had to do that for every single number!
Oh, and we didn’t have cell phones either. I couldn’t call anybody from the car, the grocery store, or the restaurant. There was nothing like a phone with a camera built in, and there was certainly no text messaging. On top of that, we had no answering machine! Can you imagine that? If someone called and we weren’t home, they would just have to call back later!
We had TV, but it was not in color; it was black and white. There was no such thing as cable or satellite, so we could only get 4 channels. Guess what - there was no remote, either! To change the channel or volume, I had to actually get up from the chair, walk to the TV, and turn another dial, then go sit back down.
We couldn’t record a TV show if we were going to miss it or wanted to see it again. There were no such things as VCRs or DVDs. To see a movie, we had to go to the movie theater, which is something we couldn’t afford to do very often. Occasionally the TV stations would play a movie, but they weren’t new ones. To see The Wizard of Oz, for instance, we had to wait all year until the TV station decided to play it. Can you imagine having to wait a whole year to see your favorite DVD?
We didn’t have a clothes dryer, either. We had a washing machine, but how do you think we dried our clothes after they were washed? Have you ever heard of a clothesline? It consisted of two poles several feet apart, and in between the poles were a few wires stretched all the way from one pole to the other, and it stood in the backyard. We would take the wet clothes in a basket and stand at the clothesline and use things called “clothespins” to attach each piece of clothing (or towels, sheets, etc.) to the wires. Depending on the weather, the clothes would be dry in a couple of hours or maybe longer, and we’d take the empty basket into the backyard and remove the items from the clothesline and take them back in the house. The clothesline was directly under some trees, so guess what we found on some of the clothes? Bird poop! Yuck!
The microwave hadn’t been invented yet for average people. We couldn’t heat up lunch or make some popcorn without some planning, for all that had to be done on the stove. We had no dishwasher and no bread machine.
We did have a refrigerator and freezer, but the freezer part was not like it is now. An ice layer would build up on the walls of the freezer, and get thicker and thicker, until Mama had to take everything out, “defrost” it and start over. Ice was made in trays. We couldn’t get ice or water from a hole in the refrigerator door.
Cameras were different, too. They used something called “film,” and after we took a few pictures, we had to take the film out of the camera and take it to the store to get it “developed,” which means the store would take the photographs off the film and print them off, just like you can do on your printer. If we took a bad picture, we couldn’t delete it from the film, unfortunately. I didn’t take as many pictures as I do now, because film costs money and I had to use it wisely. It was a very special thing to have a camera when I was young. Our dad took "video," but back then, there was no sound, only pictures.
There was no such thing as a CD. If we wanted to listen to music, we used record players. The record was round and flat like a CD, but it was a lot bigger, and we put the record on what was called a turntable, which turned the record around and around at a certain speed, then we took what was called an “arm” with a “needle” on it, placed the needle on the record, and music came out as the needle went around the grooves. By the way, we had a radio in the car, but, of course, no CD player and no iPod.
I saved the most terrifying thing for last. We had no computer and no Internet. Yes, that’s right. Can you believe it? If we wanted to find something out for homework, let’s say, what year a famous person was born, or the names of different kinds of clouds, we had to go to a set of books called encyclopedias. There, everything was listed in alphabetical order. Sometimes a set of encyclopedias consisted of 30 books, so as you can imagine, they were very expensive. If a family was lucky enough to own a set of encyclopedias, those books were probably old, because most families couldn’t afford to get a new set after the first set was out of date. This is why we used the library a lot - their encyclopedias were newer than ours.
I couldn’t blog, couldn’t play computer games, and there was no such thing as “e-mail.” If you wanted to mail someone, you had to send it through the post office with a stamp on it. There was no computer to store pictures digitally, so people just put their photographs in scrapbooks or shoe boxes. There was no computer, so there was no iTunes from which to download music. If I wanted to type something, I had to use something called a “typewriter,” which was kind of like a keyboard and printer in one machine. I had to hit the keys with my fingers, just like on a keyboard, but then little metal letters would hit a piece of paper in the typewriter through a ribbon that had ink on it, and the letters would appear on the paper. If I made a mistake, though, there was no delete key, and I had to fix it another way. It was a real pain.
So see, the things you take for granted are things that, as young girls, Aunt Joy and I didn’t have. There are some things, though, that still are the same. We used pencils that look the same as most pencils do now - a stick of wood with a point of lead and an eraser on top. We had spiral-bound notebooks for school, crayons, toothbrushes, Kleenex, and toilet paper. We had board games and bikes, cereal and ice cream, and cartoons on TV. On the other hand, we still had to do our homework, clean up our room, set the table, eat foods we didn’t like, and learn how to share. Some things just never change!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Survivor
OK, I’ll admit it. I’ve never seen Survivor or a lot of other reality TV shows. I do, however, watch The Biggest Loser. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this specific reality program, The Biggest Loser is a show where morbidly obese people are chosen usually in couples (i.e., spouses, cousins, siblings, best friends) to be taken to a ranch, where they will be worked over like crazy for a few weeks to help them lose weight. As in some other reality shows, each week one person is usually “voted off” - asked to leave the ranch to continue their journey at home. This person is taken out of the running for the grand prize and title of The Biggest Loser, and at the end of the season, there is a finale and all the contestants are brought back to display what they’ve accomplished and get weighed in one last time, where the winner will be chosen from the finalists.
When the contestants arrive at the ranch, each team is assigned a specific color to identify itself and each team is assigned to one of two trainers, but as more and more contestants leave, eventually all the remaining contestants are lumped into two teams and may or may not switch trainers. This is what happened on this week’s show. I was amused to see how the contestants handled the change. Some were extremely upset, said they were so happy with the way things were, and now everything had changed.
Watching that show, I thought, “Life is a game. The rules change all the time. How we adjust to those changes is what can make or break a successful life.” This is so true at my work. I love my job at the hospital, but one thing is certain - the rules will always keep changing. Rules about what to transcribe and what we outsource, rules about how we are paid, rules about format, rules about working holidays - even rules about the rules! It is a constant shift from one week, sometimes one day, to the next. Some of my co-workers fight this. I have just learned to “go with the flow.”
Freelance writer Lou Ann Thomas writes: “The only thing we truly can count on is that life likely will change. We can be going about our business, with most of the details of our lives planned out, and then something like a bridge failure, a mine collapse, an illness, a birth, a new job or any unexpected change happens and we feel the fragility and preciousness of life in a new way.
In these moments we understand more deeply that there really are no guarantees. The only thing life promises us is a wide range of experiences. What we do with them is up to us.”
The hard part is the realization that there are some changes we create, and some are thrust upon us. For the latter, we too often fall into the role of feeling helpless and victimized. We resent the fact that we have no choice. We frantically try to find someway out, knowing that in reality, as the old cartoon alien would say, “Resistance is futile.”
Yet that is the very change that life throws at us so often. We know the rules will change, the circumstances will shift; it is just a matter of when. My friend Sally told me last night of watching an Oprah episode where they showed people affected by the recession, people who had a few months before had good-paying jobs and houses to live in, people who had lost everything, and who are now living in tents. Some changes are extreme; some are more minor. Some are life-changing events, and some are just annoyances. But we are still caught by surprise when they happen. It is as if we had an “understanding” with life that it would go smoothly and be the same as it ever was, and just as we get comfortable with the rules, we are taken out, given a new color team T-shirt, and have to change our trainer. Bummer.
Yet, on The Biggest Loser, some contestants discovered that the very thing they had dreaded and fought against turned out to be a blessing. Their new trainer used different techniques than their old trainer did, which shook their bodies up to lose more weight. The whole situation looked different from the start than it really turned out to be. Sometimes the rules change and the outcome, though we can’t see it at first, might be an improvement.
Improvement or deterioration, change will indeed come. Those of us who are able to take change as, if not a welcome experience, at least a challenge, are life’s winners. Now that’s a Survivor!
When the contestants arrive at the ranch, each team is assigned a specific color to identify itself and each team is assigned to one of two trainers, but as more and more contestants leave, eventually all the remaining contestants are lumped into two teams and may or may not switch trainers. This is what happened on this week’s show. I was amused to see how the contestants handled the change. Some were extremely upset, said they were so happy with the way things were, and now everything had changed.
Watching that show, I thought, “Life is a game. The rules change all the time. How we adjust to those changes is what can make or break a successful life.” This is so true at my work. I love my job at the hospital, but one thing is certain - the rules will always keep changing. Rules about what to transcribe and what we outsource, rules about how we are paid, rules about format, rules about working holidays - even rules about the rules! It is a constant shift from one week, sometimes one day, to the next. Some of my co-workers fight this. I have just learned to “go with the flow.”
Freelance writer Lou Ann Thomas writes: “The only thing we truly can count on is that life likely will change. We can be going about our business, with most of the details of our lives planned out, and then something like a bridge failure, a mine collapse, an illness, a birth, a new job or any unexpected change happens and we feel the fragility and preciousness of life in a new way.
In these moments we understand more deeply that there really are no guarantees. The only thing life promises us is a wide range of experiences. What we do with them is up to us.”
The hard part is the realization that there are some changes we create, and some are thrust upon us. For the latter, we too often fall into the role of feeling helpless and victimized. We resent the fact that we have no choice. We frantically try to find someway out, knowing that in reality, as the old cartoon alien would say, “Resistance is futile.”
Yet that is the very change that life throws at us so often. We know the rules will change, the circumstances will shift; it is just a matter of when. My friend Sally told me last night of watching an Oprah episode where they showed people affected by the recession, people who had a few months before had good-paying jobs and houses to live in, people who had lost everything, and who are now living in tents. Some changes are extreme; some are more minor. Some are life-changing events, and some are just annoyances. But we are still caught by surprise when they happen. It is as if we had an “understanding” with life that it would go smoothly and be the same as it ever was, and just as we get comfortable with the rules, we are taken out, given a new color team T-shirt, and have to change our trainer. Bummer.
Yet, on The Biggest Loser, some contestants discovered that the very thing they had dreaded and fought against turned out to be a blessing. Their new trainer used different techniques than their old trainer did, which shook their bodies up to lose more weight. The whole situation looked different from the start than it really turned out to be. Sometimes the rules change and the outcome, though we can’t see it at first, might be an improvement.
Improvement or deterioration, change will indeed come. Those of us who are able to take change as, if not a welcome experience, at least a challenge, are life’s winners. Now that’s a Survivor!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Long Distance
I call my mom 'most every night. She lives so far away.
She’s living with my sister, Joy; I miss her every day.
My sister's busy with a husband, job, two teens, three pets.
As far time-consuming goes, that’s as crazy as it gets!
Sometimes the phone just rings and rings when I am sure they're there.
It turns out they can’t find the phone - it’s hidden well somewhere.
Once I get my mother, then our conversation starts.
It always has variety, but some familiar parts.
We talk about the weather first - it’s probably snowy here.
In Tennessee, it’s “gorgeous, Carol - sunny, warm, and clear!”
We then move on to dinner, and she asks what Ed’s creating.
I tell her we have eaten, and she says they still are waiting.
She says how good Ed’s cooking sounds, and then takes time to state
That Joy’s meals are luscious (if they are a little late).
She asks about “the kiddies,” meaning Charlotte/Caroline.
She asks what witty things they’re saying, hoping they are fine.
She asks about our children, who are grown and busy too.
She asks about our dog, and if there’s anything that’s new.
I ask about her day, and so she tells me what transpired.
Sometimes she has a doctor visit; that might make her tired.
She talks about my sister’s kids and all their busy lives.
I see that with her family there, my mother really thrives.
She’s proud that she can dress herself without my sister’s aid.
She’s proud to use the walker when she used to be afraid.
(Since her wreck, we’re blown away by how far she’s progressed.
It’s due to her will, and to Joy, who knew what might work best.)
Mom then thanks me for calling, and says to hug my Ed.
She notes, since I get up at 4, it’s probably time for bed.
We joke about our yawning every time we share a call.
We never know who starts it, but it’s “writing on the wall”
That now it's time for us to say, “Good night, I love you,” then
We both hang up, but knowing soon we’ll have a chat again.
She’s living with my sister, Joy; I miss her every day.
My sister's busy with a husband, job, two teens, three pets.
As far time-consuming goes, that’s as crazy as it gets!
Sometimes the phone just rings and rings when I am sure they're there.
It turns out they can’t find the phone - it’s hidden well somewhere.
Once I get my mother, then our conversation starts.
It always has variety, but some familiar parts.
We talk about the weather first - it’s probably snowy here.
In Tennessee, it’s “gorgeous, Carol - sunny, warm, and clear!”
We then move on to dinner, and she asks what Ed’s creating.
I tell her we have eaten, and she says they still are waiting.
She says how good Ed’s cooking sounds, and then takes time to state
That Joy’s meals are luscious (if they are a little late).
She asks about “the kiddies,” meaning Charlotte/Caroline.
She asks what witty things they’re saying, hoping they are fine.
She asks about our children, who are grown and busy too.
She asks about our dog, and if there’s anything that’s new.
I ask about her day, and so she tells me what transpired.
Sometimes she has a doctor visit; that might make her tired.
She talks about my sister’s kids and all their busy lives.
I see that with her family there, my mother really thrives.
She’s proud that she can dress herself without my sister’s aid.
She’s proud to use the walker when she used to be afraid.
(Since her wreck, we’re blown away by how far she’s progressed.
It’s due to her will, and to Joy, who knew what might work best.)
Mom then thanks me for calling, and says to hug my Ed.
She notes, since I get up at 4, it’s probably time for bed.
We joke about our yawning every time we share a call.
We never know who starts it, but it’s “writing on the wall”
That now it's time for us to say, “Good night, I love you,” then
We both hang up, but knowing soon we’ll have a chat again.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
There's a "Pee" in "Parsonage"
As our family moved from place to place while my husband was in active ministry, we collected memories of all the parsonages in which we got to raise our family. Some houses were better than others, but there was one standout that we still talk about. I will keep the location anonymous, of course.
This house, as were all of our parsonages, was set in a rural area. The outside was white asbestos, but had gotten moldy through the years, so little Matthew told friends we were moving to a “green and white house.” There was a freestanding garage with a dirt floor next to the house, but after we found out the previous pastor had quartered his horse in there, we decided to pass. Such a waste of good fertilizer, though.
The previous pastor (a bachelor) had decided he wanted a wood-burning stove in the living room, so he bore a hole in the ceiling, stuck the pipe up through there, put sand in the middle of the room, and placed his stove right there, on top of a box filled with bricks with sand sprinkled over them. When he moved out, he took the stove with him, but the hole in the ceiling had been thoughtfully taken care of by a green trash bag which hung several inches from the ceiling down into the room. The wall-to-wall carpet would get literally wet when it rained. The carpet where the wood-burning stove had been always smelled like urine. The mildew was so bad, one of our friends (another pastor’s wife) couldn’t ever come visit because of her allergies.
The pastor’s office had some unidentifiable brown stain on the wall. It looked as if something had been thrown at it and then dripped down in all directions. We decided from the looks of it, it was either a cup of coffee thrown at the wall or tobacco spit. To the right of the stain, there was a terrarium left by the former pastor with a snake skeleton still occupying the inside.
The bedroom adjacent to the little office, someone told us, had been redecorated during the ‘70s when the inhabitants had been a little “high.” That might explain why there was one kind of wallpaper on one wall, another on another wall, and the other two walls were painted, each a different color.
In our bedroom, the bed was tied together with a coat hanger.
I saved the best for last: In the bathroom, every time we flushed the toilet, raw sewage came up into the bathtub.
We met some wonderful people in the church when we lived there. But that parsonage was certainly an experience, and will live forever in the annals of our family as the worst house we ever lived in.
This house, as were all of our parsonages, was set in a rural area. The outside was white asbestos, but had gotten moldy through the years, so little Matthew told friends we were moving to a “green and white house.” There was a freestanding garage with a dirt floor next to the house, but after we found out the previous pastor had quartered his horse in there, we decided to pass. Such a waste of good fertilizer, though.
The previous pastor (a bachelor) had decided he wanted a wood-burning stove in the living room, so he bore a hole in the ceiling, stuck the pipe up through there, put sand in the middle of the room, and placed his stove right there, on top of a box filled with bricks with sand sprinkled over them. When he moved out, he took the stove with him, but the hole in the ceiling had been thoughtfully taken care of by a green trash bag which hung several inches from the ceiling down into the room. The wall-to-wall carpet would get literally wet when it rained. The carpet where the wood-burning stove had been always smelled like urine. The mildew was so bad, one of our friends (another pastor’s wife) couldn’t ever come visit because of her allergies.
The pastor’s office had some unidentifiable brown stain on the wall. It looked as if something had been thrown at it and then dripped down in all directions. We decided from the looks of it, it was either a cup of coffee thrown at the wall or tobacco spit. To the right of the stain, there was a terrarium left by the former pastor with a snake skeleton still occupying the inside.
The bedroom adjacent to the little office, someone told us, had been redecorated during the ‘70s when the inhabitants had been a little “high.” That might explain why there was one kind of wallpaper on one wall, another on another wall, and the other two walls were painted, each a different color.
In our bedroom, the bed was tied together with a coat hanger.
I saved the best for last: In the bathroom, every time we flushed the toilet, raw sewage came up into the bathtub.
We met some wonderful people in the church when we lived there. But that parsonage was certainly an experience, and will live forever in the annals of our family as the worst house we ever lived in.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Love
It's coincidental, but this week, the week of Valentine's Day, I’m reading about how to love myself. I have self-esteem issues like most people, and I am trying to learn self-acceptance which does not depend on outside judgments and circumstances. Ed used to preach that, common opinion to the contrary, we as a society follow the Golden Rule very well - to love others as we love ourselves. Ed said, “We treat others exactly as we treat ourselves - because we don’t love ourselves and don’t love others, either.”
In my reading, I came across this paragraph by Dilia De La Altragacia:
When Ed became sober in 1984, he suddenly looked at himself and the world with new eyes. He had hated himself and abused himself for so long that it was strange (to him and me both) to see a self-respect and self-love form in his being. It can be hard to believe that God loves us unconditionally, it can be harder still for us to love others unconditionally, but the hardest thing of all, I think, is to love ourselves unconditionally. The older I get, the more I admire people who have grasped this difficult concept. I am always amazed when I see someone with the ability of true self-acceptance, an acceptance not altered by other people or other external sources, whether from their families or from Madison Avenue. What an achievement!
On February 26, it will have been 4 years since I started this blog. In the ensuing journey from February 26, 2005, I have learned a lot about myself and my priorities. The more I learn, the more I see the lessons which I have yet to learn. I am still in an ongoing process of learning to love myself, to accept myself as a whole unit of the good, the bad, and everything in between. We have to be able to take care of ourselves if we want to be able to take care of others. And if we feel worthy of receiving love (especially from ourselves), it will make that task a lot easier.
In my reading, I came across this paragraph by Dilia De La Altragacia:
Loving ourselves is based on learning about ourselves, and that involves embarking on a path of self-discovery! We must learn our likes and dislikes. We must learn what gives us vitality and a sense of fulfillment, what makes us happy, what activities or emotions drain us, what we do for hours that energizes us. Who are the people that truly nourish us? When do we feel good about ourselves? When are we at our best? What are the activities that drain us and debilitate us? What are the activities that make us feel refreshed and alive?
....Self-love is not dependent on having husbands, or wives, or how well they are treating us. Self-love is not dependent on our children or how well they are behaving or how they are doing in school. Self-love is not dependent on our families or friends, their kindness, or lack of it, or their behaviors toward us. Self-love is not based on how well we are doing at home, work, or any other of our communities. Self-love is not dependent on our relationships, nor conditional on external events, nor based on any special talents or feelings...
When Ed became sober in 1984, he suddenly looked at himself and the world with new eyes. He had hated himself and abused himself for so long that it was strange (to him and me both) to see a self-respect and self-love form in his being. It can be hard to believe that God loves us unconditionally, it can be harder still for us to love others unconditionally, but the hardest thing of all, I think, is to love ourselves unconditionally. The older I get, the more I admire people who have grasped this difficult concept. I am always amazed when I see someone with the ability of true self-acceptance, an acceptance not altered by other people or other external sources, whether from their families or from Madison Avenue. What an achievement!
On February 26, it will have been 4 years since I started this blog. In the ensuing journey from February 26, 2005, I have learned a lot about myself and my priorities. The more I learn, the more I see the lessons which I have yet to learn. I am still in an ongoing process of learning to love myself, to accept myself as a whole unit of the good, the bad, and everything in between. We have to be able to take care of ourselves if we want to be able to take care of others. And if we feel worthy of receiving love (especially from ourselves), it will make that task a lot easier.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Dodging the OL
I’m reading How Not to Look Old by Charla Krupp, and it has really gotten me thinking. The trouble with “looking your age” is that the standard for what a certain age looks like changes every year, it seems. I would also venture to guess the average 40-year-old in some places in California looks a lot different than the average 40-year-old in Maine.
The book describes expensive, middle-of-the-road and cheap ways to look younger, going into extreme detail about everything from make-up to clothes to Botox injections and laser peels. The more I read the book, the more I become uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t care how I look (I obviously do) and it’s not that I can’t use some tips (I obviously can), but the question that came popping up was, “Where do you draw the line?” The book uses the abbreviations “OL” for the Old Lady look and “Y&H” for the Young and Hip Look. It may seem natural not to look OL when you’re, say, 50, but when you’re 80, are you going to be under pressure to look Y&H? At 80? I dare say there are some folks (the book’s author included) who want to carry this Y&H thing to the grave, but give me a break! Is the ideal situation to rid our society of anyone who looks OL? My mother is 85 years old, and she looks 85 years old, and if she started trying to look Y&H, I would freak out. Oh, sure, there are simple things you can do to improve your appearance, but I would term those things “looking up to date,” not trying to look younger. Fashion can change dramatically in a decade, and a modern pair of glasses frames can change a look dramatically (as my sister learned when she tried her frames on Mom one day).
If you’re high maintenance, says Krupp, “The Frazel laser is a non-ablative tool that targets cells under the skin to regenerate collagen production. It is designed to work in six sessions, at a cost of $1,500 per session. It produces results but leaves you red-faced and swollen. Recovery after each session can take up to a week. It is not a permanent solution, lasting roughly only six months.” I flipped to the chapter on buying jeans.
I don’t know how many other 54-year-olds occasionally envision their lives at 80, like I do, but my first goal is not to be Y&H. It is to be healthy, comfortable in my own skin, able to get around and be independent, to have energy, and to look decent enough that I don’t scare young children. I think most of it lies in attitude. To keep my insatiable curiosity, to get excited about the wonders of new technology, to be able to keep up with important current events, to read, read, read - these are what I wish for myself as I age. To keep my brain and body active. To dress appropriately for the situation and my lifestyle in a way that I feel good about myself. To be able to keep laughing and singing and quilting. To learn something new every day. When you think about it, all these things seem appropriate to wish for at any age, including 54.
I think it’s a little bit sad that we have been allowing ourselves to feel society’s pressure to look years younger than we are, because if 80% of 54-year-olds suddenly looked 40, I would not look like 54 anymore; I would look like 65 in comparison. Thanks a lot, guys.
There’s something to be said for that adage of aging gracefully with acceptance. That is not giving up; that is reality. There is a fine line between “letting yourself go” and understanding what age you are, what age you feel, and what kind of lifestyle you need to live in order to get (and give) the most in your life. I think I’ll get a new pair of jeans that fit me better and look modern, but I’ll leave the collagen treatments and injections to others. I want to spend the rest of my precious life fighting fear and injustice and intolerance - not fighting the aging process.
The book describes expensive, middle-of-the-road and cheap ways to look younger, going into extreme detail about everything from make-up to clothes to Botox injections and laser peels. The more I read the book, the more I become uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t care how I look (I obviously do) and it’s not that I can’t use some tips (I obviously can), but the question that came popping up was, “Where do you draw the line?” The book uses the abbreviations “OL” for the Old Lady look and “Y&H” for the Young and Hip Look. It may seem natural not to look OL when you’re, say, 50, but when you’re 80, are you going to be under pressure to look Y&H? At 80? I dare say there are some folks (the book’s author included) who want to carry this Y&H thing to the grave, but give me a break! Is the ideal situation to rid our society of anyone who looks OL? My mother is 85 years old, and she looks 85 years old, and if she started trying to look Y&H, I would freak out. Oh, sure, there are simple things you can do to improve your appearance, but I would term those things “looking up to date,” not trying to look younger. Fashion can change dramatically in a decade, and a modern pair of glasses frames can change a look dramatically (as my sister learned when she tried her frames on Mom one day).
If you’re high maintenance, says Krupp, “The Frazel laser is a non-ablative tool that targets cells under the skin to regenerate collagen production. It is designed to work in six sessions, at a cost of $1,500 per session. It produces results but leaves you red-faced and swollen. Recovery after each session can take up to a week. It is not a permanent solution, lasting roughly only six months.” I flipped to the chapter on buying jeans.
I don’t know how many other 54-year-olds occasionally envision their lives at 80, like I do, but my first goal is not to be Y&H. It is to be healthy, comfortable in my own skin, able to get around and be independent, to have energy, and to look decent enough that I don’t scare young children. I think most of it lies in attitude. To keep my insatiable curiosity, to get excited about the wonders of new technology, to be able to keep up with important current events, to read, read, read - these are what I wish for myself as I age. To keep my brain and body active. To dress appropriately for the situation and my lifestyle in a way that I feel good about myself. To be able to keep laughing and singing and quilting. To learn something new every day. When you think about it, all these things seem appropriate to wish for at any age, including 54.
I think it’s a little bit sad that we have been allowing ourselves to feel society’s pressure to look years younger than we are, because if 80% of 54-year-olds suddenly looked 40, I would not look like 54 anymore; I would look like 65 in comparison. Thanks a lot, guys.
There’s something to be said for that adage of aging gracefully with acceptance. That is not giving up; that is reality. There is a fine line between “letting yourself go” and understanding what age you are, what age you feel, and what kind of lifestyle you need to live in order to get (and give) the most in your life. I think I’ll get a new pair of jeans that fit me better and look modern, but I’ll leave the collagen treatments and injections to others. I want to spend the rest of my precious life fighting fear and injustice and intolerance - not fighting the aging process.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Getting Testy
I had an intriguing dream last night. I walked into a room where there was a lady behind a table. She asked if I would play a game. I agreed. She had a set of little cups, each upside down, and a marble. Immediately I knew what the game was, and I knew I would lose. I tried this game recently when the family was over and we were all playing Brain Academy on the Wii. On that, bird cages (some with birds, some empty) were covered and moved around all over the screen until they stopped at the end, and you were supposed to point out which ones had the birds in them. This is definitely not something I can do well. After the first couple of moves, I lose track and my final answer is just a wild guess.
Anyway, in my dream, this lady started the game. Under one of the cups goes the marble, and then she started moving around the cups. I was trying to pay attention, because, smart as I am, I knew what she was going to ask at the end. She came to a halt. This time, though, was my lucky day. I had concentrated well and I knew exactly where the marble was. Smirking, I could hardly wait for the question. She looked at me. Then she asked, “Can you describe the picture on the wall behind you?”
If one can be totally shocked in a dream, I was. What do you mean - the picture I scarcely noticed as I came in the room? What kind of question is that? Ask me where the marble is, lady!!
The whole thing reminded me of the familiar game where someone gets you to add up numbers in your head. “In the Meredith-Springdale school system, there are 439 students. All but 220 went on a field trip in 10 buses. Nine buses held 21 students each.” You’re thinking the question will be “How many students rode on the 10th bus?” but the question is usually, “What was the name of the school system?” It’s never what you expect, nor what you prepare for.
Yeah, I had this happen in 11th grade when Miss Weaks had us read Walden Pond, then on the test was the inane question, “How deep was Walden Pond?” Of course, it can work the other way. We might be studying the trivial part of the book and have to answer the big question of what the book was actually trying to say.
Sometimes in life, I’m afraid we get focusing on the things that won’t help us when the question comes. Some people think a question will come on Judgment Day, but there’s no need to even wait for someone else to ask. These are questions we can ask ourselves over and over to keep our focus in life on what matters. Have I poured myself into my job so much that I have neglected other priorities? I am doing things that bring me pleasure and fulfillment, things that make me a better person to those around me, or I am doing things that make me feel tired, anxious, or drained? Am I elevating family members into their proper place for my attention? Is there an important part of my life I am neglecting in order to focus on lesser things? Is there a decision I have been procrastinating about because it is unwelcome? Am I really paying attention as the days, weeks, and years fly by?
The questions always catch us by surprise, because sometimes they are not the questions we wanted or expected to hear. But sometimes they have to be answered.
Anyway, in my dream, this lady started the game. Under one of the cups goes the marble, and then she started moving around the cups. I was trying to pay attention, because, smart as I am, I knew what she was going to ask at the end. She came to a halt. This time, though, was my lucky day. I had concentrated well and I knew exactly where the marble was. Smirking, I could hardly wait for the question. She looked at me. Then she asked, “Can you describe the picture on the wall behind you?”
If one can be totally shocked in a dream, I was. What do you mean - the picture I scarcely noticed as I came in the room? What kind of question is that? Ask me where the marble is, lady!!
The whole thing reminded me of the familiar game where someone gets you to add up numbers in your head. “In the Meredith-Springdale school system, there are 439 students. All but 220 went on a field trip in 10 buses. Nine buses held 21 students each.” You’re thinking the question will be “How many students rode on the 10th bus?” but the question is usually, “What was the name of the school system?” It’s never what you expect, nor what you prepare for.
Yeah, I had this happen in 11th grade when Miss Weaks had us read Walden Pond, then on the test was the inane question, “How deep was Walden Pond?” Of course, it can work the other way. We might be studying the trivial part of the book and have to answer the big question of what the book was actually trying to say.
Sometimes in life, I’m afraid we get focusing on the things that won’t help us when the question comes. Some people think a question will come on Judgment Day, but there’s no need to even wait for someone else to ask. These are questions we can ask ourselves over and over to keep our focus in life on what matters. Have I poured myself into my job so much that I have neglected other priorities? I am doing things that bring me pleasure and fulfillment, things that make me a better person to those around me, or I am doing things that make me feel tired, anxious, or drained? Am I elevating family members into their proper place for my attention? Is there an important part of my life I am neglecting in order to focus on lesser things? Is there a decision I have been procrastinating about because it is unwelcome? Am I really paying attention as the days, weeks, and years fly by?
The questions always catch us by surprise, because sometimes they are not the questions we wanted or expected to hear. But sometimes they have to be answered.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Chosen
“A young Indian boy was auditioning along with some of us for a school play. His mother knew he’d set his heart on being in the play - just like the rest of us hoped, too - and she feared how he would react if he was not chosen.
On the day the parts were awarded, the little boy’s mother went to school on her horse to collect her son. The little boy rushed up to her and her horse, eyes shining with pride and excitement.
‘Guess what, Mom,” he shouted, and then said the words that provide a lesson to us all, “I’ve been chosen to clap and cheer.”
- Ed Slow Horse Chaparro
I received that little gem in a mailing today from Friends of Silence, a group that mails spiritual stories and quotes to me every so often. It made me think of my dad, Ensley Tiffin. You will probably never read his name in the history books, or see him honored posthumously by the Kennedy Center, or see him on the Biography Channel. Yet, he was instrumental in giving encouragement to hundreds of well-known and not-so-well-known people during the Civil Rights movement. He did this through letters of support to those who had done a courageous act, showed the true Christian way, took an ethical stand, knowing the potential risks to their reputation or job, or spoke up for justice in the face of adversity. Some recipients wrote back, saying that Dad’s letter was the only positive one in a bag of hate mail they had received that day.
One of his letters was quoted in the book Freedom’s Coming, and he once had a newspaper article written about his letter-writing habit, but other than that, he didn’t get much publicity. My mother, sister and I will be one day donating the collection of the letters he wrote (and those he received in return) to the Memphis Room at the Memphis Public Library, where they will be catalogued and archived. We would even like to get them published. However, if he never gets the recognition he deserves, that’s OK, too, because he never did anything for his own aggrandizement.
Daddy, of course, took his own risks for justice in his own life. But he knew innately that his gift was being “chosen to clap and cheer,” and he used that gift generously.
On the day the parts were awarded, the little boy’s mother went to school on her horse to collect her son. The little boy rushed up to her and her horse, eyes shining with pride and excitement.
‘Guess what, Mom,” he shouted, and then said the words that provide a lesson to us all, “I’ve been chosen to clap and cheer.”
- Ed Slow Horse Chaparro
I received that little gem in a mailing today from Friends of Silence, a group that mails spiritual stories and quotes to me every so often. It made me think of my dad, Ensley Tiffin. You will probably never read his name in the history books, or see him honored posthumously by the Kennedy Center, or see him on the Biography Channel. Yet, he was instrumental in giving encouragement to hundreds of well-known and not-so-well-known people during the Civil Rights movement. He did this through letters of support to those who had done a courageous act, showed the true Christian way, took an ethical stand, knowing the potential risks to their reputation or job, or spoke up for justice in the face of adversity. Some recipients wrote back, saying that Dad’s letter was the only positive one in a bag of hate mail they had received that day.
One of his letters was quoted in the book Freedom’s Coming, and he once had a newspaper article written about his letter-writing habit, but other than that, he didn’t get much publicity. My mother, sister and I will be one day donating the collection of the letters he wrote (and those he received in return) to the Memphis Room at the Memphis Public Library, where they will be catalogued and archived. We would even like to get them published. However, if he never gets the recognition he deserves, that’s OK, too, because he never did anything for his own aggrandizement.
Daddy, of course, took his own risks for justice in his own life. But he knew innately that his gift was being “chosen to clap and cheer,” and he used that gift generously.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Just Folks
I found out a few weeks ago that my second-grade teacher died in 2007. She was 94. Of course, when I was in second grade, I thought she was already in her 90s. Let’s see...that was about 47 years ago, so she must have been in her 40s. When you're in second grade, everyone looks old.
I’ve learned a lot about teachers and aging since then. I never really enjoyed school, but I had some remarkable teachers. I also had some teachers who were the target of my frequent comic poetic portrayal. A lot of my teachers were just plain “characters,” though. Unforgettable. I might have forgotten everything I learned in their classes, but the teachers themselves are burned into my memory. I have enough memories to fill blog posts for a year.
My least favorite teacher (11th grade English) was, interestingly enough, my sister’s favorite. My sister followed me 2 years later, so maybe Miss Weaks had mellowed by then. My favorite teachers were my French teachers, that is, until my last French teacher who didn’t know the difference between the French verbs “to rain” and “to cry,” so I kind of lost respect for her expertise. Most of my teachers just intimidated me, because I was raised to defer to their knowledge and rules and I always did what I was told. I tried to make good grades to please my teachers as well as my parents and myself. I never thought of most of my teachers as real people. During my 12 years of schooling, I visited the home of only my piano teacher for private lessons and my chorus teacher, who consistently opened her home to students. Most of the other teachers were enigmas - I had no idea if they were married, had children, where they lived, if they went to church, or what they did after 3 p.m.
It was an epiphany for me when I grew up when I realized that teachers had real lives outside of school. They went to the grocery, went to restaurants, went to the park, and did all sorts of ordinary things. I remember running into my piano teacher at Walgreens one day years ago. I was shocked to see her in an unfamiliar setting. She was extremely short, but I never noticed it because she was always sitting by me when I played the piano. I couldn’t picture many of my teachers doing things like buying toothpaste.
Of course, things changed when my daughter became a teacher, married a teacher, and then my son married a woman who became a teacher. All of a sudden, things clicked in my head. Teachers had families! They had kids! They paid bills! They could be silly! They could wear casual clothes! They had favorite foods and hobbies and pets!
Do you want to know the most fascinating thing I learned about teachers? I learned that they probably didn’t want to go to school any more than I did back then. They longed for snow days and holidays and summertime. I remember in Memphis on a rare snow day when my sister and I would be jumping for joy, I pictured the teachers cursing the heavens because they had to miss one day of torturing us. I thought they loved their jobs because they had the power over hundreds of students - the power to discipline, the power of the red pen, the power to make or break a report card. I never realized that so many of them got tired of going to work at the school day in and day out, and even among those who loved their jobs, most still enjoyed the serendipity of an unexpected day to stay home. I know the teachers in my family love those snow days!
Here’s to the teachers! Remember - next time you see that schools have a day off, it’s not only the students with unfinished homework who breathe sighs of relief!
I’ve learned a lot about teachers and aging since then. I never really enjoyed school, but I had some remarkable teachers. I also had some teachers who were the target of my frequent comic poetic portrayal. A lot of my teachers were just plain “characters,” though. Unforgettable. I might have forgotten everything I learned in their classes, but the teachers themselves are burned into my memory. I have enough memories to fill blog posts for a year.
My least favorite teacher (11th grade English) was, interestingly enough, my sister’s favorite. My sister followed me 2 years later, so maybe Miss Weaks had mellowed by then. My favorite teachers were my French teachers, that is, until my last French teacher who didn’t know the difference between the French verbs “to rain” and “to cry,” so I kind of lost respect for her expertise. Most of my teachers just intimidated me, because I was raised to defer to their knowledge and rules and I always did what I was told. I tried to make good grades to please my teachers as well as my parents and myself. I never thought of most of my teachers as real people. During my 12 years of schooling, I visited the home of only my piano teacher for private lessons and my chorus teacher, who consistently opened her home to students. Most of the other teachers were enigmas - I had no idea if they were married, had children, where they lived, if they went to church, or what they did after 3 p.m.
It was an epiphany for me when I grew up when I realized that teachers had real lives outside of school. They went to the grocery, went to restaurants, went to the park, and did all sorts of ordinary things. I remember running into my piano teacher at Walgreens one day years ago. I was shocked to see her in an unfamiliar setting. She was extremely short, but I never noticed it because she was always sitting by me when I played the piano. I couldn’t picture many of my teachers doing things like buying toothpaste.
Of course, things changed when my daughter became a teacher, married a teacher, and then my son married a woman who became a teacher. All of a sudden, things clicked in my head. Teachers had families! They had kids! They paid bills! They could be silly! They could wear casual clothes! They had favorite foods and hobbies and pets!
Do you want to know the most fascinating thing I learned about teachers? I learned that they probably didn’t want to go to school any more than I did back then. They longed for snow days and holidays and summertime. I remember in Memphis on a rare snow day when my sister and I would be jumping for joy, I pictured the teachers cursing the heavens because they had to miss one day of torturing us. I thought they loved their jobs because they had the power over hundreds of students - the power to discipline, the power of the red pen, the power to make or break a report card. I never realized that so many of them got tired of going to work at the school day in and day out, and even among those who loved their jobs, most still enjoyed the serendipity of an unexpected day to stay home. I know the teachers in my family love those snow days!
Here’s to the teachers! Remember - next time you see that schools have a day off, it’s not only the students with unfinished homework who breathe sighs of relief!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Charlie Brown's competition
There’s a 4-letter word that rhymes with tree,
It’s the greatest word you ever did see,
Especially great in times like these -
For money doesn’t grow on trees.
Save some here, save some there,
Cash is lacking everywhere.
This is the story of one fine day,
When Ed decided not to pay
A tree lot 20 bucks and more
To get a beauty through our door.
Amateur woodsman Ed may be,
But he certainly knows how to cut a tree.
So into our woods he gingerly tread,
With a stocking cap upon his head,
To find the best tree in our lot.
Don’t laugh at what he finally got.
It’s all he had to choose from, so
Ignore the fact it didn’t grow
Full and straight with boughs galore,
Like gorgeous trees we hunger for.
Charlie Brown’s now famous twig
Has morphed into a stick quite big.
This tree has fewer branches than our bank in Ellsworth.
However....
That money word that rhymes with tree?
It's FREE!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Blessings
The poignancy of taking care of my mother these two weeks has not been lost on me. What do I see when I look at my mother? I see her gnarled, crooked joints in her hands and feet, stigmata of her rheumatoid arthritis. I see a C-section scar, reminding me of the pain and labor she endured to bring me and my sister into the world. I see her eyes that have been witness to both wonderful and tragic memories, now with muscle contractures that clamp them closed, requiring her to receive therapeutic Botox shots to release the spasm. I see wrinkles from decades of worrying and fretting over others. I see the gray, thinning hair. I see loose skin from weight loss after weeks of tasteless hospital food. I see the signs of trauma - bruises and surgery scars from hip replacement and ankle fracture fixation in September. I see the tremor from her parkinson-like disease that is exacerbated by stress and anxiety about her future. I see the plain gold wedding ring she wears from her indescribably loving marriage that was cut short when Daddy died in 1980. I see the thrift store clothes that she buys herself so that she can send money to the kids and grandkids on their birthdays.
As I hold her frail hands, I can see them years ago, tearing pieces of gum, giving half to my sister and half to me. I remember the feeling of her hands lightly tracing letters of the alphabet on my back. I relive the mornings when she would come into our bedroom, sit on our beds with a wet washrag and gently rub each eye, saying, "Wake up, little left eye! Wake up, little right eye!" Those hands put tooth fairy money under our pillows and signed our report cards. They wrapped our birthday presents, they cooked our meals, washed our dishes, and tucked us in at night. They plays jacks with us, and gin rummy and checkers. They massaged our backs when we were little tots as we rested in her lap during church sermons.
Her feet walked with us all over downtown Memphis on lovely summer mornings, stopping at Court Square to feed the pigeons. Her mouth called us to supper, complimented our piano playing, kissed us, laughed her contagious laugh, and sang hymns in church, while at home, we were favored with happy songs like Pony Boy and Red, Red Robin. Her arms gave us countless hugs; her ears were always willing to listen to our troubles and our successes.
Mother's frail 85-year-old body stands as a testament to her dedication to and love for her family, but of course, the most important part of her body is not visible on the outside. It has been the heart and soul of her that has made all the memories possible. Love is what drives her, has always driven her.
She once cared for us when we were helpless, and now we care for her. She once made us take our medicine, and now we make her take hers. She once taught us to walk, and now we are teaching her to walk again. How can we do otherwise? How else could we possibly show her how much we love and appreciate her? It is a privilege, for as much as we all wish the accident had never happened, Mother is actually giving us an opportunity to serve her as she has served us for so many years.
"Her children arise up and call her blessed" (Proverbs). It is time to give back, and we are honored to do so.
As I hold her frail hands, I can see them years ago, tearing pieces of gum, giving half to my sister and half to me. I remember the feeling of her hands lightly tracing letters of the alphabet on my back. I relive the mornings when she would come into our bedroom, sit on our beds with a wet washrag and gently rub each eye, saying, "Wake up, little left eye! Wake up, little right eye!" Those hands put tooth fairy money under our pillows and signed our report cards. They wrapped our birthday presents, they cooked our meals, washed our dishes, and tucked us in at night. They plays jacks with us, and gin rummy and checkers. They massaged our backs when we were little tots as we rested in her lap during church sermons.
Her feet walked with us all over downtown Memphis on lovely summer mornings, stopping at Court Square to feed the pigeons. Her mouth called us to supper, complimented our piano playing, kissed us, laughed her contagious laugh, and sang hymns in church, while at home, we were favored with happy songs like Pony Boy and Red, Red Robin. Her arms gave us countless hugs; her ears were always willing to listen to our troubles and our successes.
Mother's frail 85-year-old body stands as a testament to her dedication to and love for her family, but of course, the most important part of her body is not visible on the outside. It has been the heart and soul of her that has made all the memories possible. Love is what drives her, has always driven her.
She once cared for us when we were helpless, and now we care for her. She once made us take our medicine, and now we make her take hers. She once taught us to walk, and now we are teaching her to walk again. How can we do otherwise? How else could we possibly show her how much we love and appreciate her? It is a privilege, for as much as we all wish the accident had never happened, Mother is actually giving us an opportunity to serve her as she has served us for so many years.
"Her children arise up and call her blessed" (Proverbs). It is time to give back, and we are honored to do so.
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