I have decided not to use his name, because the talk show host I reference already approaches demi-god (demagogue) status in popularity. I prefer not to build on that. I’ve used his name several times on my Facebook page in an attempt to understand his appeal, and few of his fans have accepted my invitation to explain his appeal.
The best/only answers I received are “he is funny”, “why does he make liberals so mad”, and “liberals have the rest of the media”.
If mocking those you don’t agree with and ridiculing them instead of engaging in sincere dialogue is funny, he is indeed funny. I think that is why I am most angry. My views are reduced to a scornful, scathing label. I am now simply one of those liberals. I am angry at the lack of respect that is encouraged by such media kingpins. I feel defensive around family and friends in ways I never did prior. My friends are encouraged to speak up in such a way that attacks me personally. I cannot tell you the amount of hateful forwarded email and posts I receive with the demand that I answer these charges, because I am one of those liberals. The contempt for my opinion hurts. Instead of dialogue, it is about name-calling. Political differences have taken friends away from me. I would blithely like to reply that “they weren’t that good of friends anyway” but that is not true. They were, it stings, and I miss them.
I have a lifetime of experience that predicates the way I lean and the values I hold close to my heart. I do not insult other peoples’ walks in life; mine is no less valuable than theirs is. In college, I ran for a student government office. A good friend of mine was managing my campaign and advised me to learn to keep my temper under control, that anger and disdain for those who didn’t agree with me would hurt my chances. I learned that lesson years ago and even though I did not win the election, I won something much more important. I won the ability to listen to and respect everyone’s view.
As far as the having a lock hold on the “rest of the media” goes, I beg to differ. That implies that only one side uses the media, buys television time and appears in the newspapers. Our current administration is in place largely due to grassroots efforts, not mass media. Absolutely, as the stories gained momentum, the media reported them, but the media reports what is happening. The same thing has happened with the tea party movement. I do appreciate op/ed pieces and I read both sides, but when one side continually engages in divisive behavior intended to turn us against each other, I stop listening. Incidentally, I no longer listen to Michael Moore, either, because I found the title of his book Stupid White Men to be utterly insulting. To borrow from Forest Gump, stupid is as stupid does. Moore engaged in the same disturbing behavior and subsequently lost my respect. I am not interested in listening to anyone who uses insults to pull us apart.
What most stuns me is his attack on religions that support social justice; the straw that broke my back. I take my faith very seriously. Slight and belittle me, but when my core belief is insulted, watch out. I want to throw my hands up in disgust. Instead, I will try to repair my broken back and build a bridge. My upbringing as a Christian indeed emphasizes social justice, yet I do not feel anything close to a Communist or Nazi. Such statements insult the real spirit of Christian generosity. As a Christian, I know not to store up riches on earth, to share with the poor, and to help my brother or sister however I can. I do not view such choices as a ticket to eternity but rather instructions how to make the world we live in today a better place.
My faith gives me hope in what at times seems to be a hopeless world. But beyond that, what if we substitute the word nice or kind for Christian? What if we just are nice and kind to those we encounter, in every step of our daily walk? What if we do such things not in the framework of an organized religion, but simply as a member of the human race?
March 16, 2010
March 11, 2010
AT THE BIJOU: DANCING WITH THE CLOUDS
My lovely friend and writing colleague, Absolutely*Kate has featured one of my pieces on her writer's blog, AT THE BIJOU.
I'm so thrilled to be on her marquis, pop over and say hello...
Thank you friends!
AT THE BIJOU: DANCING WITH THE CLOUDS
I'm so thrilled to be on her marquis, pop over and say hello...
Thank you friends!
AT THE BIJOU: DANCING WITH THE CLOUDS
March 8, 2010
*wink wink, nudge nudge* it gets better...
as soon as you buy my beachfront land in Arizona.
I follow this hilarious mom blog written by a few mothers of preschoolers and young children. At first, it was an older, wiser look back of "thank goodness" I'm past those days. But suddenly, as I read today's post and wanted to patronize the writers with kindly pat on the head and assurance it would improve, I knew I was full of sh**.
I am the parent of two daughters, 6th and 9th grade. They've outgrown Hannah Montana (and I'll never tell anyone that on occasion they haven't because on the off chance that their friends somehow or another discovered my blog (as if) and read this... THEY HAVE OUTGROWN THE MOUSE*EAR CHANNEL AND ALL ITS OVEREXPOSED STARS).
They have outgrown Mommy and Me outings, unless it includes a credit card with unlimited dollars but extremely limited input from said Mommy.
And, they are in school "allday" which really amounts to 4 hours to myself in which to run the errands that make their lives go smoothly. And try to freelance write.
So, we start with the guilt laden question from the day they were potty trained. "When will you go back to work?" This question was usually met with the incredulous stare of "what do you mean back?" For 24/7, I was on diaper then potty, feeding, cleaning, and entertainment duty. Assuming it was until both children were in school "allday", that is approximately 28,200 hours, 705 weeks, 13.5 years (based on a 40 hour work week with no vacation schedule), of solid work and you have the flippen nerve to inquire WHEN I WILL GO BACK TO WORK?
Nonetheless, I felt compelled over the past several years to attempt that "back" stuff. I sold kitchen gadgets, I worked at the church, I wrote about men's shirts for a catalogue, I used to get up at 3 AM every morning to work as an editor for a European website. (3 AM because there were no interrruptions and because it fit in well with their start of day timezone).
Now, I'm back to work as an unpaid taxi driver and staff to two kids, a dog and a spouse.
Yeah. Back.
Oh I was supposed to talk about how it got better, right? (s'cuse me, there's something jamming my fingers, knuckle crack) ahhh yes.
Don't worry mommies, it gets better.
Don't mistake my sincerity for sarcasm.
You can look forward to the day your child barges into the bathroom, not to help you pee, but to rummage for the hairspray that works better than hers.
You can look forward to the day that you graduate from the eyeroll to the simple glare of somehow or another behaving inappropriately in public. Public can be defined as anywhere anyone who may know someone who knows someone and text back can be. Inappropriate can be defined as picking lint off the sleeve, saying hello, or even worse, greeting a friend of theirs. It makes no difference if you've known this friend since preschool and they once sang Barney songs together. (attempt to be cool mom disclaimer: they did not watch it, mom just had the TV on that channel!) If that friend and your child are no longer in the same social strata of middle or high school, it's an unforgivable crime to greet them. Unless your child greets them first.
You are required to master the art of texting, because a phone call indicates the dreaded, I have a parent sign. Yeah, because your peers, like the Disney icons before them lead completely parent free unsupervised lives. Uh huh.
You are subjected to demands of "absolutely nothing to wear" the minute you've finished the last load of laundry. Made me long for the days when dad dressed them. I cannot believe I used to cringe at the get ups. Dad actually once took daughter to dance lessons with the tights OVER her leotard (like pants?). I should have celebrated them so they didn't have such a ridiculous sense of fashion that there are varying degrees of appropriate jeans. Last year, after such an announcement, coupled with a demand, I made it easy on said child. I took all her clothing with the exception of five outfits. I figured that she would be less overwhelmed about her choices of what to wear. She was allowed to choose the five. I'm not THAT mean.
In fact, I'm so nice that instead of getting up to write for Europeans (for pay) at 3 AM, I get up to make sure the last load of laundry for your sporting event is finished before said offspring goes to school. And she better not flippen dare tell me she has nothing to wear, or she'll wear that clean sports uniform. Ungrateful one!
You are required to color code charts and overlaying calendars to make sure every child is at the required place at the appropriate time. Heaven forbid you suggest they find a ride. Even worse, I've discovered are the times you offer to drive another child home (in the hopes of reciprocation) and decide to stop at the store because you're driving right past it for that loaf of bread, deposit said child at doorway 5 minutes late with a parent pacing the driveway wondering where their precious offspring could be.
Pour me a glass of wine.
WAIT!
School all day also means your child will receive DARE education, which is noble but also means that if you so much as have a glass of wine in the sight of your child, you will be lectured by said child about the evils of alcohol.
So yeah, moms, it gets better when they go to school all day and you go back to work.
No, that is not my nose growing. It's my wallet, getting stretched. Because I haven't figured out a way to be paid for all my nonwork hours of taxi driving, laundry doing, and errand running, yet. But I'm a writer. Really.
I follow this hilarious mom blog written by a few mothers of preschoolers and young children. At first, it was an older, wiser look back of "thank goodness" I'm past those days. But suddenly, as I read today's post and wanted to patronize the writers with kindly pat on the head and assurance it would improve, I knew I was full of sh**.
I am the parent of two daughters, 6th and 9th grade. They've outgrown Hannah Montana (and I'll never tell anyone that on occasion they haven't because on the off chance that their friends somehow or another discovered my blog (as if) and read this... THEY HAVE OUTGROWN THE MOUSE*EAR CHANNEL AND ALL ITS OVEREXPOSED STARS).
They have outgrown Mommy and Me outings, unless it includes a credit card with unlimited dollars but extremely limited input from said Mommy.
And, they are in school "allday" which really amounts to 4 hours to myself in which to run the errands that make their lives go smoothly. And try to freelance write.
So, we start with the guilt laden question from the day they were potty trained. "When will you go back to work?" This question was usually met with the incredulous stare of "what do you mean back?" For 24/7, I was on diaper then potty, feeding, cleaning, and entertainment duty. Assuming it was until both children were in school "allday", that is approximately 28,200 hours, 705 weeks, 13.5 years (based on a 40 hour work week with no vacation schedule), of solid work and you have the flippen nerve to inquire WHEN I WILL GO BACK TO WORK?
Nonetheless, I felt compelled over the past several years to attempt that "back" stuff. I sold kitchen gadgets, I worked at the church, I wrote about men's shirts for a catalogue, I used to get up at 3 AM every morning to work as an editor for a European website. (3 AM because there were no interrruptions and because it fit in well with their start of day timezone).
Now, I'm back to work as an unpaid taxi driver and staff to two kids, a dog and a spouse.
Yeah. Back.
Oh I was supposed to talk about how it got better, right? (s'cuse me, there's something jamming my fingers, knuckle crack) ahhh yes.
Don't worry mommies, it gets better.
Don't mistake my sincerity for sarcasm.
You can look forward to the day your child barges into the bathroom, not to help you pee, but to rummage for the hairspray that works better than hers.
You can look forward to the day that you graduate from the eyeroll to the simple glare of somehow or another behaving inappropriately in public. Public can be defined as anywhere anyone who may know someone who knows someone and text back can be. Inappropriate can be defined as picking lint off the sleeve, saying hello, or even worse, greeting a friend of theirs. It makes no difference if you've known this friend since preschool and they once sang Barney songs together. (attempt to be cool mom disclaimer: they did not watch it, mom just had the TV on that channel!) If that friend and your child are no longer in the same social strata of middle or high school, it's an unforgivable crime to greet them. Unless your child greets them first.
You are required to master the art of texting, because a phone call indicates the dreaded, I have a parent sign. Yeah, because your peers, like the Disney icons before them lead completely parent free unsupervised lives. Uh huh.
You are subjected to demands of "absolutely nothing to wear" the minute you've finished the last load of laundry. Made me long for the days when dad dressed them. I cannot believe I used to cringe at the get ups. Dad actually once took daughter to dance lessons with the tights OVER her leotard (like pants?). I should have celebrated them so they didn't have such a ridiculous sense of fashion that there are varying degrees of appropriate jeans. Last year, after such an announcement, coupled with a demand, I made it easy on said child. I took all her clothing with the exception of five outfits. I figured that she would be less overwhelmed about her choices of what to wear. She was allowed to choose the five. I'm not THAT mean.
In fact, I'm so nice that instead of getting up to write for Europeans (for pay) at 3 AM, I get up to make sure the last load of laundry for your sporting event is finished before said offspring goes to school. And she better not flippen dare tell me she has nothing to wear, or she'll wear that clean sports uniform. Ungrateful one!
You are required to color code charts and overlaying calendars to make sure every child is at the required place at the appropriate time. Heaven forbid you suggest they find a ride. Even worse, I've discovered are the times you offer to drive another child home (in the hopes of reciprocation) and decide to stop at the store because you're driving right past it for that loaf of bread, deposit said child at doorway 5 minutes late with a parent pacing the driveway wondering where their precious offspring could be.
Pour me a glass of wine.
WAIT!
School all day also means your child will receive DARE education, which is noble but also means that if you so much as have a glass of wine in the sight of your child, you will be lectured by said child about the evils of alcohol.
So yeah, moms, it gets better when they go to school all day and you go back to work.
No, that is not my nose growing. It's my wallet, getting stretched. Because I haven't figured out a way to be paid for all my nonwork hours of taxi driving, laundry doing, and errand running, yet. But I'm a writer. Really.
February 26, 2010
Tagged, I'm It!
Blogger friend, Kass, who mercifully is no longer silent, has tagged her readers in a simple fun photo tag.
*Instructions*
Open your photo folder and go to the 10th photo, post and tell us the story behind it. OH wow.
This photo was taken with my daughters the last Halloween before we moved away from our home on the west side of Cleveland in 2007. We moved 10 days after this photo was taken. In the background, you can see a rose trellis, which was part of my beloved rose garden. The window on the left hand side was my office and the little rose garden and bird feeders out front of it used to keep me company when I wrote.
We built that home in 1997, and the first rose I planted was when my Grandmother passed away in 1998. She had lived in Texas and we always called her the Yellow Rose of Texas, so I chose a yellow tea rose to remember her. As my rose garden expanded, I planted a rose for every female in the family.
Moving away was not an easy moment for me, I've written about it before, I had not lived anywhere for that many years in my life. I wasn't looking forward to starting over somewhere new, but the nature of employment in manufacturing means you go where the jobs are. It could have been Mexico or China. Mercifully, it was only 90 miles away. Sometimes I still get mad at the new owners who have let my precious roses go.
*Instructions*
Open your photo folder and go to the 10th photo, post and tell us the story behind it. OH wow.
This photo was taken with my daughters the last Halloween before we moved away from our home on the west side of Cleveland in 2007. We moved 10 days after this photo was taken. In the background, you can see a rose trellis, which was part of my beloved rose garden. The window on the left hand side was my office and the little rose garden and bird feeders out front of it used to keep me company when I wrote. 
We built that home in 1997, and the first rose I planted was when my Grandmother passed away in 1998. She had lived in Texas and we always called her the Yellow Rose of Texas, so I chose a yellow tea rose to remember her. As my rose garden expanded, I planted a rose for every female in the family. The little "candy corn" was the Circus Rose because from the first time she was old enough to laugh, she was a little clown, spreading her giggles like rose petals. The little devil's rose was the Queen Elizabeth rose, a regal name for a regal child. There was also a Gertrude rose the most lovely deep pink rose, for my other grandmother who was a thousand times more beautiful than her old fashioned name. There was also a Firecracker rose in honor of my favorite holiday, and a Broadway rose for an occasionally dramatic member of our family.
Moving away was not an easy moment for me, I've written about it before, I had not lived anywhere for that many years in my life. I wasn't looking forward to starting over somewhere new, but the nature of employment in manufacturing means you go where the jobs are. It could have been Mexico or China. Mercifully, it was only 90 miles away. Sometimes I still get mad at the new owners who have let my precious roses go. But instead, I'll cherish photos like this and make new memories at this house. That reminds me, it's time to start planning this year's garden.
February 24, 2010
Time Machine Day
I've been doing a serious purge around the house lately. It's slow going because I'm a sentimental sort of gal. This purge started in January... see what I mean? But yesterday, I discovered a paper I wrote back in 1987, for an undergraduate English class. It was a humor piece about...
Why I Did Not, Nor Would Not, Use Computers
I am so amused by this eerily prophetic piece that I am compelled to share it with you today.
To those people who consider a personal computer to be nothing more than a television floating on top of a typewriter, terms such as PC, diskette, and byte have virtually no meaning. These people are not alone, for I too belong to this pitiful group of lost souls. The closest I've ever come to being user friendly was playing video games on an Atari when I was in junior high. My computer vocabulary consisted of Space Invaders and Pac-Man. Although I recently learned that a PC is short for personal computer, my vocabulary is rather limited. Diskettes and bytes still remain a mystery.
"Once you try it, you'll love it!" my user friends exclaim. User is an appropriate term. It conjures images of drug abuse and sexual conquering. Perhaps a computer can be likened to a seductive woman or illicit drug. It traps and entices, shackles and addicts. The seemingly innocent box of plastic and wire whispers, "Come on baby, Touch my keyboard and watch me light up. I want you to get close to me." A computer somehow manages to enamor even the most steadfast opponents. I revel in watching a user cringe as I set up the typewriter to type something from rough copy. Their pain is visible as unsolicited lectures about how much easier a PC would be while informal lessons in programming begin. Perhaps people writing with fountain pens once received similar endorsements concerning ball-point pens. Once addicted, any habit is hard to break.
Television advertisements extol the virtues of a home computer. I used to believe the ability to type was a valuable commodity. Typing is no longer sufficient, as the world's fasted typist tells me how a computer improved her speed. Parents who want to give their children the best of everything are urged to buy a home computer. Certainly, a child who grows up without a computer will never be able to function properly in society. Granted, computers can do many things better than I can; plan a budget, store information, or process a report. I simply remain unconvinced that our national security will be endangered should people choose not to buy a computer. If anything, national security seems more threatened, remember the movie War Games? Is nothing sacred in the world of computers?
Of course society does have to progress with the times. Communication has come a long way since the days of cave drawings. From stone tablets to quill and scroll to pen and paper to typewriters, the evolution to computers logically follows. Elimination of error is a continual striving of man. With each step in the communication hierarchy, another factor of human error is removed; no ink blotches, misspellings, typos, or uneven margins. Computers provide the ultimate in perfection. I'm not ready for perfection, even if I am willing to make concessions to changing times. After all, I would not want to buy a Sunday paper composed of stone tablets.
Call me conventional. Call me afraid. I admit that I am old-fashioned and set in my ways. If nothing else though, computers are an expensive investment. With each new model, the old becomes obsolete. So many advances are being made on a regular basis that a home computer which came out 10 years ago is literally worthless with today's newer components. In terms of consumer buying habits, I suppose I am a laggard. But until I succumb to the temptations of a PC, I will plug away on my trusty typewriter. Ignorance is bliss.
Why I Did Not, Nor Would Not, Use Computers
I am so amused by this eerily prophetic piece that I am compelled to share it with you today.
To those people who consider a personal computer to be nothing more than a television floating on top of a typewriter, terms such as PC, diskette, and byte have virtually no meaning. These people are not alone, for I too belong to this pitiful group of lost souls. The closest I've ever come to being user friendly was playing video games on an Atari when I was in junior high. My computer vocabulary consisted of Space Invaders and Pac-Man. Although I recently learned that a PC is short for personal computer, my vocabulary is rather limited. Diskettes and bytes still remain a mystery.
"Once you try it, you'll love it!" my user friends exclaim. User is an appropriate term. It conjures images of drug abuse and sexual conquering. Perhaps a computer can be likened to a seductive woman or illicit drug. It traps and entices, shackles and addicts. The seemingly innocent box of plastic and wire whispers, "Come on baby, Touch my keyboard and watch me light up. I want you to get close to me." A computer somehow manages to enamor even the most steadfast opponents. I revel in watching a user cringe as I set up the typewriter to type something from rough copy. Their pain is visible as unsolicited lectures about how much easier a PC would be while informal lessons in programming begin. Perhaps people writing with fountain pens once received similar endorsements concerning ball-point pens. Once addicted, any habit is hard to break.
Television advertisements extol the virtues of a home computer. I used to believe the ability to type was a valuable commodity. Typing is no longer sufficient, as the world's fasted typist tells me how a computer improved her speed. Parents who want to give their children the best of everything are urged to buy a home computer. Certainly, a child who grows up without a computer will never be able to function properly in society. Granted, computers can do many things better than I can; plan a budget, store information, or process a report. I simply remain unconvinced that our national security will be endangered should people choose not to buy a computer. If anything, national security seems more threatened, remember the movie War Games? Is nothing sacred in the world of computers?
Of course society does have to progress with the times. Communication has come a long way since the days of cave drawings. From stone tablets to quill and scroll to pen and paper to typewriters, the evolution to computers logically follows. Elimination of error is a continual striving of man. With each step in the communication hierarchy, another factor of human error is removed; no ink blotches, misspellings, typos, or uneven margins. Computers provide the ultimate in perfection. I'm not ready for perfection, even if I am willing to make concessions to changing times. After all, I would not want to buy a Sunday paper composed of stone tablets.
Call me conventional. Call me afraid. I admit that I am old-fashioned and set in my ways. If nothing else though, computers are an expensive investment. With each new model, the old becomes obsolete. So many advances are being made on a regular basis that a home computer which came out 10 years ago is literally worthless with today's newer components. In terms of consumer buying habits, I suppose I am a laggard. But until I succumb to the temptations of a PC, I will plug away on my trusty typewriter. Ignorance is bliss.
February 21, 2010
Copied and Borrowed Bread
Sometimes someone else says it better, and this is such a time for me:
from a NY Times comment section about the Tea Party movement:
I am a conservative. I believe in:
Conserving the environment
Conserving a woman's right to choose
Conserving the quality of life for the middle class
Conserving the rights of all people to live the life they choose with whom they choose in the way they choose
Conserving the right to believe in God or not
Conserving my right to pursue a long and healthy life
Conserving the infrastructure that made this nation great.
I believe in paying my taxes, all of them.
I do not believe in loopholes, corporations having the rights of individual humans, congress having more access to health care than the poorest of the poor.
Who knew I would ever label myself a conservative?
from a NY Times comment section about the Tea Party movement:
I am a conservative. I believe in:
Conserving the environment
Conserving a woman's right to choose
Conserving the quality of life for the middle class
Conserving the rights of all people to live the life they choose with whom they choose in the way they choose
Conserving the right to believe in God or not
Conserving my right to pursue a long and healthy life
Conserving the infrastructure that made this nation great.
I believe in paying my taxes, all of them.
I do not believe in loopholes, corporations having the rights of individual humans, congress having more access to health care than the poorest of the poor.
Who knew I would ever label myself a conservative?
February 15, 2010
What will you give up for Lent?
As the Christian world prepares for 40 days of solemn reflection in anticipation of Easter, a time honored tradition is to "give up something". I've taken a slightly different point of view on this tradition... read on...
What will you give up for Lent?
What will you give up for Lent?
February 5, 2010
Disturbing Do-Gooding
Whenever disaster strikes, it usually is just a matter of time before the altruism turns sour and motives become questionable. The news is abuzz with a story of a missionary in Haiti who has been arrested under suspicion of child trafficking. What I personally find most disturbing about this story is the layers of arrogance and presumption. To recap:
This writer's opinion is that sheer arrogance drove the mission. Why the same funds weren't spent helping expert disaster relief organizations is beyond my comprehension. When the runways and ports of this tiny island are cluttered with handfuls of do-gooders who cannot possibly be as well trained as the professionals, it screams "pompous".
Naturally, there is an inclination to want to help. The news is absolutely heartbreaking. But I wouldn't know the first thing about outfitting a rescue mission to an earthquake ravaged island in a different country. I think it's a safe assumption that neither did Laura Silsby. I will give her mission the benefit of the doubt, despite her questionable business records. I will assume her heart was in the right place, but clearly it pushed her common sense aside to make room. Unfortunately, these are the sort of stories that make headlines. Stories of do-gooding gone bad detract from truly effective relief.
Doctors without Borders has been working in Haiti for 19 years, providing ethical and impartial medical assistance in not just Haiti but nearly 60 other countries that are in need. The American Red Cross has so far spent or committed nearly $78 million to meet the most urgent needs of earthquake survivors in Haiti. Hope for Haiti has been assisting the nation for over 20 years.
Nowhere in any of these organizations' literature is there a request for an ill equipped do-gooder from Idaho with legal problems to fly into the nation and rescue 10 orphans. They ask for donations, for blood, and for professionals to apply for organized mission trips. There are so many ways to help. I hope that stories of such misguided altruism do not halt the much needed assistance through the proper channels. Even a simple click is something.
How can you help today?
An Idaho based group, the New Life Children's Refuge had been working to set up Haitian and Dominican orphanages since last November. A noble mission, to be certain, until the leadership comes under a microscope.
The woman who founded the group, Laura Silsby, has a slew of legal and financial problems. Her house was foreclosed in December, she has 14 claims for unpaid wages and is scheduled to appear in court for unpaid legal debt later this month. Why someone with so many domestic problems would leave the country to rescue orphans suddenly feels suspect.
This writer's opinion is that sheer arrogance drove the mission. Why the same funds weren't spent helping expert disaster relief organizations is beyond my comprehension. When the runways and ports of this tiny island are cluttered with handfuls of do-gooders who cannot possibly be as well trained as the professionals, it screams "pompous".
Naturally, there is an inclination to want to help. The news is absolutely heartbreaking. But I wouldn't know the first thing about outfitting a rescue mission to an earthquake ravaged island in a different country. I think it's a safe assumption that neither did Laura Silsby. I will give her mission the benefit of the doubt, despite her questionable business records. I will assume her heart was in the right place, but clearly it pushed her common sense aside to make room. Unfortunately, these are the sort of stories that make headlines. Stories of do-gooding gone bad detract from truly effective relief.
Doctors without Borders has been working in Haiti for 19 years, providing ethical and impartial medical assistance in not just Haiti but nearly 60 other countries that are in need. The American Red Cross has so far spent or committed nearly $78 million to meet the most urgent needs of earthquake survivors in Haiti. Hope for Haiti has been assisting the nation for over 20 years.
Nowhere in any of these organizations' literature is there a request for an ill equipped do-gooder from Idaho with legal problems to fly into the nation and rescue 10 orphans. They ask for donations, for blood, and for professionals to apply for organized mission trips. There are so many ways to help. I hope that stories of such misguided altruism do not halt the much needed assistance through the proper channels. Even a simple click is something.
How can you help today?
January 25, 2010
Thank you for Commenting!
As promised in my post last week, I have donated a dollar per comment to the Doctors without Borders organization. Due to the number of comments on my Facebook page, my Care2 page, and here, while some overlapped, I donated the full pledge.
http://freshfreeemail.blogspot.com/2010/01/haitian-relief-efforts.html
Thank you for making it fun to make a difference! Please visit my blog again.
~Kim
http://freshfreeemail.blogspot.com/2010/01/haitian-relief-efforts.html
Thank you for making it fun to make a difference! Please visit my blog again.
~Kim
January 24, 2010
Ten Things I Love
This was a simultaneously difficult and easy exercise. My first reaction was to list true “things” like dark chocolate, Springsteen, roses and other assorted brown paper packages tied up in string. However, I realized that those things are as close as my next thought. The joy elicited by each of the aforementioned items is equal whether it is a tangible moment or not.
Instead I decided to list moments in life that can be repeated and evoke multiple layers of memories, joy and love. There is no particular order to these items; I prefer to think that at any given moment I can love all of these opportunities equally.
One of the things I most love is a full night’s sleep. It is a simple pleasure, but an unusual one for me so I truly appreciate it. Since becoming a mother, I have been plagued with insomnia. Even when the children were old enough to sleep all night, I have not yet mastered it. Therefore, I appreciate going to bed and waking up a full 6-7 hours later. Incidentally, I just had a full night’s sleep and I am basking in joy.
Even if I cannot sleep well, I at least take pleasure in my children sleeping well. Another love of mine is tucking them in at night and waking them up in the morning. I cherish those moments even more as they get older, ever cognizant that their time at home is dwindling. However, for now, their cocoon is home and I am the matriarch.
I like sleeping outdoors. I love the symphony of nature. I love the stars over my head; I love the fresh morning air. While I do not love the act of packing a tent and setting up camp, or even roughing it too much, the love of sleeping outside is worth all the effort. This leads to my next item, watching a sunrise over the ocean. As a college kid, I slept on the beach and woke up in time to watch the sunrise. My days of sleeping on the beach are long past, but I never miss an ocean sunrise when I am near the water. Lest I come off as obsessed with sleep, I am more fanatical about rejuvenation. One of the most important gifts we can give ourselves is the true time to pause. Like the story of creation, time to rest is crucial.
This comes to my next love. I love believing in God. I love the absolute faith that what we know is not as good as the universe gets, but that something more wonderful than we can even imagine waits for us. I love that I can trust in something I cannot prove. I love the simple knowledge that I am unique, loved, and a work in progress. I love knowing that eternity waits for me and that life on earth is merely the beginning of the wonders of creation. I take extreme comfort in my faith.
My faith teaches me about my next love, my love of listening and learning. I put these together because you cannot learn without listening and you cannot listen, truly listen, without learning. Flip sides of the same coin. I love knowing that I do not have all the answers and that the possibilities are endless to acquire new information. People fascinate me; everyone I meet has something new to teach me, bringing gifts of wisdom from the path of their own lives.
Another childhood skill was learning to play piano. While I never was an excellent pianist, the joy of sitting at the piano and playing Fir Elise by heart thrills me. I played it for a competition and just hearing the first few notes of that song brings back the challenge of preparing for that recital. Because I took lessons, I have an appreciation of music on a level I may not have otherwise. I know what work it is to make music, true music.
Instead I decided to list moments in life that can be repeated and evoke multiple layers of memories, joy and love. There is no particular order to these items; I prefer to think that at any given moment I can love all of these opportunities equally.
One of the things I most love is a full night’s sleep. It is a simple pleasure, but an unusual one for me so I truly appreciate it. Since becoming a mother, I have been plagued with insomnia. Even when the children were old enough to sleep all night, I have not yet mastered it. Therefore, I appreciate going to bed and waking up a full 6-7 hours later. Incidentally, I just had a full night’s sleep and I am basking in joy.
Even if I cannot sleep well, I at least take pleasure in my children sleeping well. Another love of mine is tucking them in at night and waking them up in the morning. I cherish those moments even more as they get older, ever cognizant that their time at home is dwindling. However, for now, their cocoon is home and I am the matriarch.
I like sleeping outdoors. I love the symphony of nature. I love the stars over my head; I love the fresh morning air. While I do not love the act of packing a tent and setting up camp, or even roughing it too much, the love of sleeping outside is worth all the effort. This leads to my next item, watching a sunrise over the ocean. As a college kid, I slept on the beach and woke up in time to watch the sunrise. My days of sleeping on the beach are long past, but I never miss an ocean sunrise when I am near the water. Lest I come off as obsessed with sleep, I am more fanatical about rejuvenation. One of the most important gifts we can give ourselves is the true time to pause. Like the story of creation, time to rest is crucial.
This comes to my next love. I love believing in God. I love the absolute faith that what we know is not as good as the universe gets, but that something more wonderful than we can even imagine waits for us. I love that I can trust in something I cannot prove. I love the simple knowledge that I am unique, loved, and a work in progress. I love knowing that eternity waits for me and that life on earth is merely the beginning of the wonders of creation. I take extreme comfort in my faith.
My faith teaches me about my next love, my love of listening and learning. I put these together because you cannot learn without listening and you cannot listen, truly listen, without learning. Flip sides of the same coin. I love knowing that I do not have all the answers and that the possibilities are endless to acquire new information. People fascinate me; everyone I meet has something new to teach me, bringing gifts of wisdom from the path of their own lives.
The next three things I love are skills I have learned over the years. When I was a child, my grandmother taught me to bake bread from scratch. Kneading the dough, watching it rise, punching it down, smelling it bake, all this brings me love on many levels. It also explains the title of my blog, from a personal level. (Ironically, the blog originally was titled Pillow Talk, referencing my love of sleep!)
Another childhood skill was learning to play piano. While I never was an excellent pianist, the joy of sitting at the piano and playing Fir Elise by heart thrills me. I played it for a competition and just hearing the first few notes of that song brings back the challenge of preparing for that recital. Because I took lessons, I have an appreciation of music on a level I may not have otherwise. I know what work it is to make music, true music. The third love in this category is a recent love. I ran my first 5K this past fall. I plan to run several more this year. I love the challenge of pushing my body past where I thought it could go and competing with myself to improve.
My last love is the love of making a difference. Whether that difference is for others or for me, the only permanence in life is change. Change is not scary if I am actively seeking it and hoping to better the world. I have always been in love with a good cause and love finding creative ways to improve the corner of the world I inhabit. I have a gift of expressing myself with words and I am grateful that I am able to use them make a difference.
If you have read this, please share with me something you love. Alternatively, consider yourself tagged and create your own list of 10 things you love.
Thanks for tagging me, blog friends. This was a beautiful way to start my day…
With love,
Kim
January 20, 2010
Haitian relief efforts
LAST DAY TO COMMENT!
A lovely member of several writing groups I participate in has pledged a dollar to Doctors without Borders for every comment left on her blog from now until Friday.
Thank you for paying it forward, and you've also inspired me to pledge the same, via this blog. I also will donate a dollar (up to $100 dollars) for every comment left here. I will post the final receipt from the donations next Monday.
Spread the word, my friends!
http://linda-leftbrainwrite.blogspot.com/2010/01/helping-haiti-cash-for-your-comments.html
*UPDATE*
Not even 12 hours into this "comment-athon" we're at $20. Additionally, my writing colleague, John Ettorre, has pledged to match funds to $25.00. I am truly overjoyed and humbled by the support everyone is showing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!
**UPDATE #2**
Tomorrow is the last day, we're about halfway to my full pledge... I've never had so much fun giving money away. Help me reach the full amount and tell your friends to come sign!
A lovely member of several writing groups I participate in has pledged a dollar to Doctors without Borders for every comment left on her blog from now until Friday.
Thank you for paying it forward, and you've also inspired me to pledge the same, via this blog. I also will donate a dollar (up to $100 dollars) for every comment left here. I will post the final receipt from the donations next Monday.
Spread the word, my friends!
http://linda-leftbrainwrite.blogspot.com/2010/01/helping-haiti-cash-for-your-comments.html
*UPDATE*
Not even 12 hours into this "comment-athon" we're at $20. Additionally, my writing colleague, John Ettorre, has pledged to match funds to $25.00. I am truly overjoyed and humbled by the support everyone is showing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!
**UPDATE #2**
Tomorrow is the last day, we're about halfway to my full pledge... I've never had so much fun giving money away. Help me reach the full amount and tell your friends to come sign!
January 19, 2010
"One more year from being a child? ...
... That does not sound like growing!"
(from Richard Bach's There's No Such Place as Faraway)
An ongoing discussion in our household is when to allow certain privileges. Sometimes the law mandates such discussions a moot point. My children cannot drive until they are 16 nor can they vote in elections or get married.
Some of the other privileges are more ambiguous. It is not easy to determine the age when certain privileges are granted. My firstborn had to wait an inordinate amount of time before we allowed her to have contact lenses. Movies were another issue; we only saw G rated movies for several years. I remember the first PG movie we went to see, at age 5 and 7. PG because a minor character dies offscreen. I wasn't too concerned, and rather was excited to see my little ones growing up and it was an animated remake of a childhood favorite of my own, Treasure Island.
It proved to be an error in judgment. We got fast food toys that tied into the movie during lunch before the show. My 5 year old was thrilled with her little guy and couldn't wait to see what sort of character he was. You guessed it. He was the one who died. After the movie, she declared she would never smile again. As I heard her announce that, my heart fell. A month later, she did decide to smile again, and even chose the movie as her birthday theme, which helped me feel much better about my decision.
Since that moment, I've tried to be mindful of age appropriate privileges, to weigh parental responsibility against peer pressure. No cosmetics until 7th grade, but leg shaving came when they started to feel self-conscious; no age discussions even took place. It's a delicate balance to walk. No dating until 10th grade, but they can go places in groups with both boys and girls.
Our latest issue is about the social network site Facebook. My 12 year old insists all her friends have one except her. Without one, her social opportunities are stunted. Indeed, I have some of her friends on my own page, and also I see they have fudged their age. I'm torn on this one. While I see nothing inherently dangerous or wrong with participating in such a venue, I also do not want to endorse lying about her age. It may seem harmless today, but I wonder how it will seem if she's "just fudging her age" a bit as a young adult to get into nightclubs? I also stress the opposite side and refuse to misrepresent their age to get a meal or admission discount.
I wrote last week on another blog how sometimes just the answer "because I said so" is adequate. This however, seems to be the opportunity for a deeper discussion. I'm not likely to change my mind, but I am hoping to make my stance more clear. Under the category of knowing what I know now, there is indeed a time for everything. We have the rest of our lives to do the adult things. I often tell my kids that now is the time for them to do things only kids can do, like be in marching band or speech and debate or school plays. My time has passed for those things, but I don't want them to miss it because they are too busy using their time doing things they have the rest of their lives to do.
What about you, my reader friends? What are you age limits for certain privileges?
(from Richard Bach's There's No Such Place as Faraway)
An ongoing discussion in our household is when to allow certain privileges. Sometimes the law mandates such discussions a moot point. My children cannot drive until they are 16 nor can they vote in elections or get married.
Some of the other privileges are more ambiguous. It is not easy to determine the age when certain privileges are granted. My firstborn had to wait an inordinate amount of time before we allowed her to have contact lenses. Movies were another issue; we only saw G rated movies for several years. I remember the first PG movie we went to see, at age 5 and 7. PG because a minor character dies offscreen. I wasn't too concerned, and rather was excited to see my little ones growing up and it was an animated remake of a childhood favorite of my own, Treasure Island.
It proved to be an error in judgment. We got fast food toys that tied into the movie during lunch before the show. My 5 year old was thrilled with her little guy and couldn't wait to see what sort of character he was. You guessed it. He was the one who died. After the movie, she declared she would never smile again. As I heard her announce that, my heart fell. A month later, she did decide to smile again, and even chose the movie as her birthday theme, which helped me feel much better about my decision.
Since that moment, I've tried to be mindful of age appropriate privileges, to weigh parental responsibility against peer pressure. No cosmetics until 7th grade, but leg shaving came when they started to feel self-conscious; no age discussions even took place. It's a delicate balance to walk. No dating until 10th grade, but they can go places in groups with both boys and girls.
Our latest issue is about the social network site Facebook. My 12 year old insists all her friends have one except her. Without one, her social opportunities are stunted. Indeed, I have some of her friends on my own page, and also I see they have fudged their age. I'm torn on this one. While I see nothing inherently dangerous or wrong with participating in such a venue, I also do not want to endorse lying about her age. It may seem harmless today, but I wonder how it will seem if she's "just fudging her age" a bit as a young adult to get into nightclubs? I also stress the opposite side and refuse to misrepresent their age to get a meal or admission discount.
I wrote last week on another blog how sometimes just the answer "because I said so" is adequate. This however, seems to be the opportunity for a deeper discussion. I'm not likely to change my mind, but I am hoping to make my stance more clear. Under the category of knowing what I know now, there is indeed a time for everything. We have the rest of our lives to do the adult things. I often tell my kids that now is the time for them to do things only kids can do, like be in marching band or speech and debate or school plays. My time has passed for those things, but I don't want them to miss it because they are too busy using their time doing things they have the rest of their lives to do.
What about you, my reader friends? What are you age limits for certain privileges?
January 14, 2010
Because I STILL Said So
"When religious leaders such as Pat Robertson attempt to explain the earthquake disaster in Haiti as part of a pact with Satan, he insults all of Christianity. The self-importance he spews to attempt to explain natural disasters in the framework of God’s will is horrifying."
to read more and participate in a very lively discussion, click here
January 4, 2010
Shine
Since the New Year began, I have been ensconced in office cleaning. I am not the sort of person who thinks organization matters, until I cannot see what I’m doing. I adhere to the slogan, “organized people are just too lazy to look for things”, and yet I silently envy them.
Organization is not something that comes naturally or easily to me. When I worked at the grocery store and literally was responsible for nearly a million dollars/week, I had no choice but to be organized and have a militant system for such organization. We had spreadsheets and weekly balance charts that required as much. I never wavered from my rule, do everything in the exact order, every time, the same exact way. It was my way of ensuring organization. I’ve even preached it to my daughters.
However, I digress, as I often do. You see, were it not for my lack of organization, my memory never would have been tweaked with today’s joy. I discovered a penlight, from a church retreat in 1982.
The memories flooded. I was 15, going on 16. Only a year’s difference from my daughter today. It feels like yesterday, especially when I tell stories or give her advice. She has a crush on a boy and wants to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance. My point of reference is my own nerdy self at that age. As we’ve discussed strategies over the past week, I never imagined that I would discover a memento that would bring it all to light. Marvelous Light, even.
When I was almost her age, I went to a state retreat with my church youth group. I had a very pretty and cool best friend. She went to another school, which was almost better. We never had to discover how cool or not cool we were once we left the walls of academia behind. So we arrived on a Friday evening, her parents were the youth leaders. We were in Orlando, Florida. We sat at the group rally, wearing “high energy” surf/ski shirts and expressing our coolness as much as we could. We spied a few boys in the group next to us and that was it. That age, those desires we cannot deny… we met the holy grail of youth gatherings, “cute boys”.
We arranged our workshops to spend time with the cute boys and in the best 80s effort imaginable, we were in constant contact. That Saturday evening was an outdoor church service, where everyone in attendance was given a penlight. We stood in a field, hundreds, perhaps thousands of us, shining in the dark, singing with praise, "Into His Marvelous Light". We were so uplifted. After the service, a dance followed.
I froze with fear. My joy evaporated, replaced with terror. I had never danced. I wanted to dance, my soul ached to dance, but my feet knew there was a better time to dance. This was not such a time to subject myself to that level of humiliation. The “cute boys” were less than enamored with my refusal to dance. One cute boy danced with my friend, but my cute boy found others. It happens.
After that retreat, I spent weeks in my room, behind a closed door, counting steps, listening to things I’d rather not admit to now, practicing, dancing, and almost replicating Napoleon Dynamite. No way was I ever going to be somewhere I wouldn’t dance again. I learned, I danced, I succeeded, but that isn’t the point of my tale.
This week, my own lovely child is working up the courage to ask a handsome young boy to join her in a splendid dance. I do hope… they dance. It doesn’t matter who is or isn’t watching. I hope she dances. I look at my now dead battery of a long forgotten penlight and think, indeed, that light once shined. I want her to step gracefully into that marvelous light, I want her to shine and love and breathe and live. Today is now. The moment is here.
Shine, my baby girl. Don't let your battery die, let your light glow.
Shine.
Organization is not something that comes naturally or easily to me. When I worked at the grocery store and literally was responsible for nearly a million dollars/week, I had no choice but to be organized and have a militant system for such organization. We had spreadsheets and weekly balance charts that required as much. I never wavered from my rule, do everything in the exact order, every time, the same exact way. It was my way of ensuring organization. I’ve even preached it to my daughters.
However, I digress, as I often do. You see, were it not for my lack of organization, my memory never would have been tweaked with today’s joy. I discovered a penlight, from a church retreat in 1982.
The memories flooded. I was 15, going on 16. Only a year’s difference from my daughter today. It feels like yesterday, especially when I tell stories or give her advice. She has a crush on a boy and wants to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance. My point of reference is my own nerdy self at that age. As we’ve discussed strategies over the past week, I never imagined that I would discover a memento that would bring it all to light. Marvelous Light, even.
When I was almost her age, I went to a state retreat with my church youth group. I had a very pretty and cool best friend. She went to another school, which was almost better. We never had to discover how cool or not cool we were once we left the walls of academia behind. So we arrived on a Friday evening, her parents were the youth leaders. We were in Orlando, Florida. We sat at the group rally, wearing “high energy” surf/ski shirts and expressing our coolness as much as we could. We spied a few boys in the group next to us and that was it. That age, those desires we cannot deny… we met the holy grail of youth gatherings, “cute boys”.
We arranged our workshops to spend time with the cute boys and in the best 80s effort imaginable, we were in constant contact. That Saturday evening was an outdoor church service, where everyone in attendance was given a penlight. We stood in a field, hundreds, perhaps thousands of us, shining in the dark, singing with praise, "Into His Marvelous Light". We were so uplifted. After the service, a dance followed.
I froze with fear. My joy evaporated, replaced with terror. I had never danced. I wanted to dance, my soul ached to dance, but my feet knew there was a better time to dance. This was not such a time to subject myself to that level of humiliation. The “cute boys” were less than enamored with my refusal to dance. One cute boy danced with my friend, but my cute boy found others. It happens.
After that retreat, I spent weeks in my room, behind a closed door, counting steps, listening to things I’d rather not admit to now, practicing, dancing, and almost replicating Napoleon Dynamite. No way was I ever going to be somewhere I wouldn’t dance again. I learned, I danced, I succeeded, but that isn’t the point of my tale.
This week, my own lovely child is working up the courage to ask a handsome young boy to join her in a splendid dance. I do hope… they dance. It doesn’t matter who is or isn’t watching. I hope she dances. I look at my now dead battery of a long forgotten penlight and think, indeed, that light once shined. I want her to step gracefully into that marvelous light, I want her to shine and love and breathe and live. Today is now. The moment is here.
Shine, my baby girl. Don't let your battery die, let your light glow.
Shine.
December 21, 2009
Angels Among Us
Today I had the opportunity to stand in a very long line and watch an angel at work.
I stood in a snaking line at filled with harried people dropping off their last minute packages at the post office. At the counter, stood a lady with an unnaturally tangerine tinted, tightly set, heavily Aqua-netted hairdo, barely reaching the counter with her cards and packages. Her hearing was bad enough that the entire line was privy to her conversation with the postal clerk.
She hadn't filled out the address on her package properly and it couldn't be sent. She was asking dozens of questions, fumbling in her pocketbook, and papers fluttering like makeshift indoor snowflakes. She clutched the handle of her bag and seemed overwhelmed. The clerk behind the counter didn't wince or lose his patience. Some folks sighed audibly while others began to shift or tap their feet. The other two clerks were moving efficently, but the third line stagnated.
The lady wanted to make sure her package arrived on time. The clerk tried to read the forms to her, but she became frustrated when she couldn't hear him. Minutes passed as she fumbled a bit more with the carbon copied forms. The sign on the counter indicated that clerks are forbidden to fill out papers of any sort. She finally gave up, knowing that she would need to go home and get someone to help her fill out her papers, hoping she could find someone to bring her back to the post office tomorrow.
I stood at the back of the line watching the scenario unfold. The clerk suggested he had a better idea and he got a priority box for her. He gently repacked the present as if it were his own and taped it shut. He explained slowly what she needed to do, "Just put this out with your mail tomorrow after you put the right address on here and you won't have to find a ride back." He didn't break any rules but he truly showed compassion and assistance.
The sweet lady thanked him over and over again, and turned to all of us in line and apologized for being so slow. I think the foot tappers may have been a little humbled. She was still rustling things back into her pocketbook when it was my turn. I just looked over at the clerk helping her and smiled.
Patience is so rare in the world these days that it really stands out. We have so many time saving devices, I'm often left wondering why there is never any spare time. I am grateful that two angels were in my path today to remind me that time is precious. The slow little old lady and her chivalrous postal clerk. While you're out there, take a moment to watch for angels. They are everywhere you look. I would love if you shared a story with us here in the comments.
With many blessings of Christmas for my readers and friends,
Kim
I stood in a snaking line at filled with harried people dropping off their last minute packages at the post office. At the counter, stood a lady with an unnaturally tangerine tinted, tightly set, heavily Aqua-netted hairdo, barely reaching the counter with her cards and packages. Her hearing was bad enough that the entire line was privy to her conversation with the postal clerk.
She hadn't filled out the address on her package properly and it couldn't be sent. She was asking dozens of questions, fumbling in her pocketbook, and papers fluttering like makeshift indoor snowflakes. She clutched the handle of her bag and seemed overwhelmed. The clerk behind the counter didn't wince or lose his patience. Some folks sighed audibly while others began to shift or tap their feet. The other two clerks were moving efficently, but the third line stagnated.
The lady wanted to make sure her package arrived on time. The clerk tried to read the forms to her, but she became frustrated when she couldn't hear him. Minutes passed as she fumbled a bit more with the carbon copied forms. The sign on the counter indicated that clerks are forbidden to fill out papers of any sort. She finally gave up, knowing that she would need to go home and get someone to help her fill out her papers, hoping she could find someone to bring her back to the post office tomorrow.
I stood at the back of the line watching the scenario unfold. The clerk suggested he had a better idea and he got a priority box for her. He gently repacked the present as if it were his own and taped it shut. He explained slowly what she needed to do, "Just put this out with your mail tomorrow after you put the right address on here and you won't have to find a ride back." He didn't break any rules but he truly showed compassion and assistance.
The sweet lady thanked him over and over again, and turned to all of us in line and apologized for being so slow. I think the foot tappers may have been a little humbled. She was still rustling things back into her pocketbook when it was my turn. I just looked over at the clerk helping her and smiled.
Patience is so rare in the world these days that it really stands out. We have so many time saving devices, I'm often left wondering why there is never any spare time. I am grateful that two angels were in my path today to remind me that time is precious. The slow little old lady and her chivalrous postal clerk. While you're out there, take a moment to watch for angels. They are everywhere you look. I would love if you shared a story with us here in the comments.
With many blessings of Christmas for my readers and friends,
Kim
December 10, 2009
My Christmas Angel
I've written before about my first born, I've even had her guest blog here. But ever the neglected second born sometimes misses her equal time. On my personal Facebook page, I've been posting an ornament a day with the story behind it, I realized how truly remiss I was a few times, when I had an ornament for the first born but not second.I think it's just the universal truth behind birth order. Sorry to all non-first borns. But younger ones, take comfort in the fact that your older sibling will always think you have it easier. It balances out. Today, I will take that step.
Twelve years ago this week, my second child was due. I was rather impatient because child number one was five weeks premature. I felt as big as a house and like I was 5 weeks overdue already. I took to doing daily jumping jacks (not an image you wanted to paint, I'm sure) and contemplated four-wheeling or horseback riding. I was ready to have the baby. Even my then two year old would put her mouth to my enormous tummy and yell "Baby come out!" But that baby wasn't ready.
We tried to go about our normal Christmas preparations, which included the purchase of our tree. One crisp Friday night in early December, we went out to dinner and stopped at the brightly lit tree yard after dinner. I'm not sure when the tradition of tree shopping at night caught on, but for some reason, it is prevalent.
I had a full stomach and an even more packed intestines. Pregnancy makes a woman carbonated. As we wandered around the tree lot, my spouse, my two year old and myself, the tree guy followed perilously close.
Like any self respecting ladylike female, I tried to keep my carbonation at bay. I was not sure if I had to go the bathroom, give birth or just pass gas, but I do know my midsection was about as pressurized as a spring loaded snake in a pretend can of peanuts. You know what I'm talking about, the gag gift every crazy uncle passes around at a family gathering that inevitably scares some unsuspecting soul.
That pressure would not cooperate, and as I bent slightly to examine the branches of a Douglas Fir, the spring load released. In the No Longer Silent Night, I ripped one of enduring proportions. I was grateful for my spouse because I stared accusatorily at him and said only his name, expecting a full admission of guilt.
Befuddled, he looked at me and quizzically replied, "You're on the board? Or maybe excuse you?"
I glared at him. He missed the opportunity to be chivalrous and accept the blame. I'm really sure the tree guy wasn't fooled either, but I feel like I at least salvaged some dignity. Especially when he hurried to give us a discount on the tree. We took the tree home and decorated it and waited for that overdue baby who was the cause of my spring loaded sphincter.
Oh yeah, this story was supposed to be about her. I suppose that will come tomorrow. Please forgive me second born, Christmas Angel. You do know you're my favorite. Just ask your older sister.
Anyone know if Beano is safe to use during pregnancy?
Twelve years ago this week, my second child was due. I was rather impatient because child number one was five weeks premature. I felt as big as a house and like I was 5 weeks overdue already. I took to doing daily jumping jacks (not an image you wanted to paint, I'm sure) and contemplated four-wheeling or horseback riding. I was ready to have the baby. Even my then two year old would put her mouth to my enormous tummy and yell "Baby come out!" But that baby wasn't ready.
We tried to go about our normal Christmas preparations, which included the purchase of our tree. One crisp Friday night in early December, we went out to dinner and stopped at the brightly lit tree yard after dinner. I'm not sure when the tradition of tree shopping at night caught on, but for some reason, it is prevalent.
I had a full stomach and an even more packed intestines. Pregnancy makes a woman carbonated. As we wandered around the tree lot, my spouse, my two year old and myself, the tree guy followed perilously close.
Like any self respecting ladylike female, I tried to keep my carbonation at bay. I was not sure if I had to go the bathroom, give birth or just pass gas, but I do know my midsection was about as pressurized as a spring loaded snake in a pretend can of peanuts. You know what I'm talking about, the gag gift every crazy uncle passes around at a family gathering that inevitably scares some unsuspecting soul.
That pressure would not cooperate, and as I bent slightly to examine the branches of a Douglas Fir, the spring load released. In the No Longer Silent Night, I ripped one of enduring proportions. I was grateful for my spouse because I stared accusatorily at him and said only his name, expecting a full admission of guilt.
Befuddled, he looked at me and quizzically replied, "You're on the board? Or maybe excuse you?"
I glared at him. He missed the opportunity to be chivalrous and accept the blame. I'm really sure the tree guy wasn't fooled either, but I feel like I at least salvaged some dignity. Especially when he hurried to give us a discount on the tree. We took the tree home and decorated it and waited for that overdue baby who was the cause of my spring loaded sphincter.
Oh yeah, this story was supposed to be about her. I suppose that will come tomorrow. Please forgive me second born, Christmas Angel. You do know you're my favorite. Just ask your older sister.
Anyone know if Beano is safe to use during pregnancy?
December 8, 2009
December 7, 2009
Jihads, Tigers and Bears, OH MY!
I just finished a fascinating book, Alone with a Jihadist, written by a young Christian missionary. He spend a day with a Muslim extremist for a documentary. We have communicated a bit via email, and I must say, I found my own faith challenged.
I invite you to read my review of his book, naturally followed up by reading the book itself. I'm convinced it will change your heart.
I invite you to read my review of his book, naturally followed up by reading the book itself. I'm convinced it will change your heart.
My most memorable Christmas
There are several that are memorable. Most Memorable shifts depending what taps the shoulder of my subconcious. By default, I attempt to explain most memorable, with the disclaimer that they are young memories and therefore subject to inaccuracies. Nonetheless, they are as I recall. (yes, the disclaimer is a way to placate any family member who may refute what I said and remind me of a more memorable Christmas).
When I was 5 years old, we had just moved into our farmhouse. My twin brothers were babies, we had barely gotten settled in our home. I remember snippets. We spent the better part of the past few months in my uncle's garage, driving to and from the farm house while our family brought a circa 1860 home up to 1971 code.
What I remember is going to midnight mass. I don't remember why my folks told us we wouldn't have a tree, but as an adult I assume it was the insanity of trying to get settled in a barely renovated, half finished farm house. We went to mass. That year in Kindergarten, I'd learned the words to all the carols and as the organist played the pre-service music, I was proud to sing. Loudly. I remember singing Silent Night at the top of my lungs. So much for Silent. At least the Night part was accurate.
We came back from Mass and in our foyer was a tree, filled with decorations and a big note from Santa's elves. "Santa will be back later, but we put up the tree so that he'd know where to leave the gifts". I stood in the room awed. Every kid knows, the only significance of going to Christmas Eve church is that you're one step closer to morning after Santa has arrived. Who'd think he'd send his emmissaries before him?
I never forgot that magic. Years later, the magic multiplied. At a family gathering, my aunt made a remark. "I remember that year that (my then boyfriend, now husband) went over and put up a tree for you while you were at Mass." Until I was an adult, I never knew how the tree appeared. I teased my aunt repeatedly that she shattered some magic. That couldn't be further from the truth. She made magic.
To consider that on Christmas Eve, two college kids, who likely had many other things to do, thought the best thing to do was go put up a tree for her 5 and 3 year old niece and nephews...
Yes, there is Magic.
Thank you, many years later. Thank you to my Aunt D and Uncle L. You made magic. It continues to live.
When I was 5 years old, we had just moved into our farmhouse. My twin brothers were babies, we had barely gotten settled in our home. I remember snippets. We spent the better part of the past few months in my uncle's garage, driving to and from the farm house while our family brought a circa 1860 home up to 1971 code.
What I remember is going to midnight mass. I don't remember why my folks told us we wouldn't have a tree, but as an adult I assume it was the insanity of trying to get settled in a barely renovated, half finished farm house. We went to mass. That year in Kindergarten, I'd learned the words to all the carols and as the organist played the pre-service music, I was proud to sing. Loudly. I remember singing Silent Night at the top of my lungs. So much for Silent. At least the Night part was accurate.
We came back from Mass and in our foyer was a tree, filled with decorations and a big note from Santa's elves. "Santa will be back later, but we put up the tree so that he'd know where to leave the gifts". I stood in the room awed. Every kid knows, the only significance of going to Christmas Eve church is that you're one step closer to morning after Santa has arrived. Who'd think he'd send his emmissaries before him?
I never forgot that magic. Years later, the magic multiplied. At a family gathering, my aunt made a remark. "I remember that year that (my then boyfriend, now husband) went over and put up a tree for you while you were at Mass." Until I was an adult, I never knew how the tree appeared. I teased my aunt repeatedly that she shattered some magic. That couldn't be further from the truth. She made magic.
To consider that on Christmas Eve, two college kids, who likely had many other things to do, thought the best thing to do was go put up a tree for her 5 and 3 year old niece and nephews...
Yes, there is Magic.
Thank you, many years later. Thank you to my Aunt D and Uncle L. You made magic. It continues to live.
November 25, 2009
Let's talk turkey!
As the nation prepares to celebrate our national day of thanks tomorrow, I am preparing for my first ever participation in a 5K run. I challenged myself to participate in this run over the summer, when I was encouraging my daughter to train for her Cross Country team.
I would like to tell you my training has gone well. It hasn't. I lost my mojo after I hurt my foot sometime in August. I will be walking most of the 5K, but I'm hoping to find inspiration to run it by NEXT year.
That isn't as important as the reason I'm doing the 5K. It is a charity Turkey Dash for an organization near and dear to my heart. A few years ago, a young mother I knew succumbed to her valiant battle with breast cancer. She was my neighbor and friend. While she was ill, a concern that always weighed heavily on her was how people without insurance or good jobs could possibly afford to get so ill.
Her husband started the foundation the year she died to help women undergoing breast cancer treatment. The Nakon Foundation helps women meet the costs not covered by insurance. Their first recipient was a single mother who was struggling to pay her mortgage since she had to cut her work hours. The foundation paid her mortgage while she was being treated. They have helped dozens of families around Northeast Ohio.
If you would like to start your Thanksgiving morning with an invigorating run or walk for a good cause, the Turkey Trot starts at Avon High School at 9 AM. Registration sheets can be downloaded here.
Hope to see my local friends there! Have a blessed Thanksgiving.
I would like to tell you my training has gone well. It hasn't. I lost my mojo after I hurt my foot sometime in August. I will be walking most of the 5K, but I'm hoping to find inspiration to run it by NEXT year.
That isn't as important as the reason I'm doing the 5K. It is a charity Turkey Dash for an organization near and dear to my heart. A few years ago, a young mother I knew succumbed to her valiant battle with breast cancer. She was my neighbor and friend. While she was ill, a concern that always weighed heavily on her was how people without insurance or good jobs could possibly afford to get so ill.
Her husband started the foundation the year she died to help women undergoing breast cancer treatment. The Nakon Foundation helps women meet the costs not covered by insurance. Their first recipient was a single mother who was struggling to pay her mortgage since she had to cut her work hours. The foundation paid her mortgage while she was being treated. They have helped dozens of families around Northeast Ohio.
If you would like to start your Thanksgiving morning with an invigorating run or walk for a good cause, the Turkey Trot starts at Avon High School at 9 AM. Registration sheets can be downloaded here.
Hope to see my local friends there! Have a blessed Thanksgiving.
November 23, 2009
Feast of Flash Contest results
My esteemed writing colleague, Michael Solender, has sponsored a contest for Thanksgiving on his blog, "Not From Here, Are You?" Michael is an award winning fiction writer and a newspaper columnist for the Charlotte (NC) Observer. His generosity amazes me. The original premise of the contest was that he would award $100 to the charity of the winner's choice. Not only did he do that, but the next four runners' up also received $50 for their respective charities.
He has set a benchmark for other writers to follow. I entered a short story in the contest and was awarded an honorable mention. (My story will be published next Monday).
I prefer to give him the Most Honorable Mention award instead. I am so proud to share space with him on the Internet. Please go visit his blog and show some love. He has done something wonderful, he has paid it forward.
Thank you, Michael.
He has set a benchmark for other writers to follow. I entered a short story in the contest and was awarded an honorable mention. (My story will be published next Monday).
I prefer to give him the Most Honorable Mention award instead. I am so proud to share space with him on the Internet. Please go visit his blog and show some love. He has done something wonderful, he has paid it forward.
Thank you, Michael.
November 11, 2009
Charter for Compassion
Author and freelance monotheist, Karen Armstrong's Charter for Compassion debuts.
Back in March this year, I wrote a short blog post titled Children of Abraham. The tragic events of the past week at Fort Hood reminded me of the post as we try to make more sense of a senseless act.
The premise of the Charter for Compassion is the Golden Rule, a central theme of all the Abrahamic religions; Judaism, Christianity and Islam.
The Golden Rule requires that we use empathy -- moral imagination -- to put ourselves in others' shoes. We should act toward them as we would want them to act toward us. We should refuse, under any circumstance, to carry out actions which would cause them harm.
As we pray and remember our veterans who have perished on both foreign soil and their own, I hope we realize we still are bound to a duty to act with compassion. Compassion is not pity or self serving duty. Compassion is referred to by all world religions, in some form of the famous Golden Rule.
(the following is from Jeffrey Moses book, Oneness):
Christianity: Do unto other as as you would have them do unto you, for this is the law and the prophets.
Judaism: What is hurtful to yourself do not to your fellow man.
Islam: Do unto all men as you would they should unto you, and reject for others what you would reject for yourself.
Buddhism: Hurt not others with that which pains yourself.
Sikhism: Treat others as thou wouldst be treated thyself.
Taoism: Regard your neighbor's gain as you own gain; and regard your neighbor's loss as your own loss, even as though you were in their place.
Confucianism: What you do not yourself desire, do not put before others.
November 3, 2009
Come Soar with Us!
My friend and I have collaborated on a very exciting new blog. We are politically opposite, but also are Christian women of deep faith. We are hosting a forum for peaceful and respectful discussion about current social and political events. Even if we don't agree, we have an opportunity to listen to the other side. I speak to the more liberal views, while she shares her conservative leanings. We are very encouraged to be vehicles toward finding common ground.
We graciously invite you to join us in this exciting new forum.
Thank you!
Lifted on Eagle's Wings
We graciously invite you to join us in this exciting new forum.
Thank you!
Lifted on Eagle's Wings
October 30, 2009
My life of crime
When I was a child, Mama Fresh liked to sew many of our clothes. One outfit that vividly stands out was when Mama must have gotten a deal on many yards of olive green extremely wide-waled arctic thickness corduroy. My brothers and I had matching pants and vests constructed of this immovable fabric. We resembled miniature soldiers walking stiffly, not in khaki, but corduroy, needing only a few medals of honor to complete our uniforms.
I used to dread those twice-annual trips to the fabric store, looking for patterns and remnants. I just wished for blue jeans (or dungarees as Grandma called them) and a simple t-shirt from the local Sears. The closest we got to jeans were denim elastic-waisted bottoms. The elastic was ingeniously recycled from Papa's worn out underpants, so the waistband was always quite wide. I tried not to think too much about the underpants recycling. Movie heroines like Scarlett O’Hara used drapes and Maria in Sound of Music used the curtains. Apparently, we had no spare window treatments. We had dad’s underpants. I still hear Mama’s voice, “Nobody will ever know or see the elastic!”
One afternoon, during a particularly long fabric-searching marathon, there was nothing left for me to look at, like patterns or cute fabric that never was on sale anyway. I thought to play hide and seek in the bolts of fabric but nobody was there to look for me. My brothers never had to go on these trips.
I wandered past a bin of buttons and two big shiny brass buttons caught my eye. I do not know if I had heard the phrase about sewing brass buttons on my underpants and thought maybe that would dress up Dad’s elastic? Or perhaps I was determined to put some medals on our military looking outfits?
I am not sure what was so compelling about these two buttons but I was fascinated. I picked them up and studied my reflection, moving the buttons back and forth like a fun house mirror. My face warped, my eyes grew and shrunk. After entertaining myself with the buttons to help pass the time, I eventually decided to go check if Mama was finished.
I was about to return the card of buttons back to their bin but they seemed magnetized to my hand. Rather than put them back, I slipped them in my pocket without a second thought. I never even considered asking if we could get them. We just knew not to ask for anything at the store. I had no idea what I was going to do with the buttons, but suddenly, nothing was more important in my life than having those two shiny gold buttons.
They seemed to glow from my pocket. I held my hand tightly over the jacket pocket, in case they would escape or someone would notice. We bought our fabric and walked out the door and it was as simple as that; the buttons were mine. Nobody knew… no alarms went off; I was now the proud owner of two shiny brass buttons.
I could not wait to get home and study my prize. I scurried up to my room and hid in my closet, carefully removing the contraband from its hidden place. Then the gravity of my crime hit me. I had stolen those buttons. The face that reflected back at me was one of shame and petty crime. I was horrified. The fabric store was over an hour away, so it was not as if we could go back there, and I knew Mama would not be happy with me. Instead I buried the buttons in the bottom of my toy chest.
Every so often, I would pull the buttons out, but that same face stared back at me. Not the fun house face, the face of guilt. I stopped taking the buttons out and let my prize languish in the darkness.
Years later, that particular fabric store was going out of business. I wondered if my life of crime had been a contributing factor. I confessed my crime to the part time clerk while I was checking out, perhaps hoping for a moment of absolution. She looked at me as if I was crazy and I am sure I heard her say, “So?”
(Yeah, sew brass buttons on your underpants, that’s what started this whole mess in the first place).
I used to dread those twice-annual trips to the fabric store, looking for patterns and remnants. I just wished for blue jeans (or dungarees as Grandma called them) and a simple t-shirt from the local Sears. The closest we got to jeans were denim elastic-waisted bottoms. The elastic was ingeniously recycled from Papa's worn out underpants, so the waistband was always quite wide. I tried not to think too much about the underpants recycling. Movie heroines like Scarlett O’Hara used drapes and Maria in Sound of Music used the curtains. Apparently, we had no spare window treatments. We had dad’s underpants. I still hear Mama’s voice, “Nobody will ever know or see the elastic!”
One afternoon, during a particularly long fabric-searching marathon, there was nothing left for me to look at, like patterns or cute fabric that never was on sale anyway. I thought to play hide and seek in the bolts of fabric but nobody was there to look for me. My brothers never had to go on these trips.
I wandered past a bin of buttons and two big shiny brass buttons caught my eye. I do not know if I had heard the phrase about sewing brass buttons on my underpants and thought maybe that would dress up Dad’s elastic? Or perhaps I was determined to put some medals on our military looking outfits?
I am not sure what was so compelling about these two buttons but I was fascinated. I picked them up and studied my reflection, moving the buttons back and forth like a fun house mirror. My face warped, my eyes grew and shrunk. After entertaining myself with the buttons to help pass the time, I eventually decided to go check if Mama was finished.
I was about to return the card of buttons back to their bin but they seemed magnetized to my hand. Rather than put them back, I slipped them in my pocket without a second thought. I never even considered asking if we could get them. We just knew not to ask for anything at the store. I had no idea what I was going to do with the buttons, but suddenly, nothing was more important in my life than having those two shiny gold buttons.
They seemed to glow from my pocket. I held my hand tightly over the jacket pocket, in case they would escape or someone would notice. We bought our fabric and walked out the door and it was as simple as that; the buttons were mine. Nobody knew… no alarms went off; I was now the proud owner of two shiny brass buttons.
I could not wait to get home and study my prize. I scurried up to my room and hid in my closet, carefully removing the contraband from its hidden place. Then the gravity of my crime hit me. I had stolen those buttons. The face that reflected back at me was one of shame and petty crime. I was horrified. The fabric store was over an hour away, so it was not as if we could go back there, and I knew Mama would not be happy with me. Instead I buried the buttons in the bottom of my toy chest.
Every so often, I would pull the buttons out, but that same face stared back at me. Not the fun house face, the face of guilt. I stopped taking the buttons out and let my prize languish in the darkness.
Years later, that particular fabric store was going out of business. I wondered if my life of crime had been a contributing factor. I confessed my crime to the part time clerk while I was checking out, perhaps hoping for a moment of absolution. She looked at me as if I was crazy and I am sure I heard her say, “So?”
(Yeah, sew brass buttons on your underpants, that’s what started this whole mess in the first place).
October 22, 2009
Memories... light the corner of my mind...
I may be mired in a touch of nostalgia meeting the digital age. About two years ago, we moved and I packed up yet another phase of life into boxes that have only emerged this past week: more specifically, today.
If you're like me, unpacking isn't so much an exercise in efficiency, but rather a stroll down memory lane. I moved frequently during my teen years and can name three seperate high schools as my temporary alma mater.
I found my yearbooks and started leafing through them. I recovered memories, and yes, they lit the corners of my mind. My memories of people I once knew or hoped to know or wanted to know or maybe never really knew. Nonetheless, their paths and mine crossed.
I did an experiment. I wanted to find out how mutual those memories were. It's interesting. I found an old neighbor who was thrilled to see my name in her mailbox and I also found a skeptical sort. Both sides of the spectrum, yet both signed the same yearbook page. My old neighbor has moved several times herself and we had touched base in the interim. She went to great lengths pre internet days to track me down. I remember quite well, she called a cousin with the same last name who said, well I've got her grandmother's number, and she called my grandmother who passed the message along to me. Today, it's much easier. We log onto a social network and say "hey, I knew you, remember me?" We take a lot for granted.The skeptic assumed that the memory I had could be found anywhere. I respect that as well. I won't campaign for memories.
Today, it's also more suspect. We ask people to trust us with a click. That's asking a lot. So the girl who tracked me down had a greater investment. The boy who said, "I don't think I remember you" did not. I respect both answers. In a simple click I reminded one person of a long lost friendship and another of one to rekindle.
But trust notwithstanding, our memories remain true.
If you're like me, unpacking isn't so much an exercise in efficiency, but rather a stroll down memory lane. I moved frequently during my teen years and can name three seperate high schools as my temporary alma mater.
I found my yearbooks and started leafing through them. I recovered memories, and yes, they lit the corners of my mind. My memories of people I once knew or hoped to know or wanted to know or maybe never really knew. Nonetheless, their paths and mine crossed.
I did an experiment. I wanted to find out how mutual those memories were. It's interesting. I found an old neighbor who was thrilled to see my name in her mailbox and I also found a skeptical sort. Both sides of the spectrum, yet both signed the same yearbook page. My old neighbor has moved several times herself and we had touched base in the interim. She went to great lengths pre internet days to track me down. I remember quite well, she called a cousin with the same last name who said, well I've got her grandmother's number, and she called my grandmother who passed the message along to me. Today, it's much easier. We log onto a social network and say "hey, I knew you, remember me?" We take a lot for granted.The skeptic assumed that the memory I had could be found anywhere. I respect that as well. I won't campaign for memories.
Today, it's also more suspect. We ask people to trust us with a click. That's asking a lot. So the girl who tracked me down had a greater investment. The boy who said, "I don't think I remember you" did not. I respect both answers. In a simple click I reminded one person of a long lost friendship and another of one to rekindle.
But trust notwithstanding, our memories remain true.
October 5, 2009
Tale of two cities
Like so many other parents around our nation, my past Friday night was spent under the lights at the traditional high school football game that rallies the community. I am lucky to live in what I consider the sort of town Norman Rockwell captured in his artwork.
We have a town green, a gazebo, and a school rated Excellent by our state. Our kids win in sports, academics and arts. If they didn't occasionally get into mischief, I would wonder if our town were Stepford, like Ira Levin's famous book, though my spouse would assure you, I fail at being a Stepford wife.
We are less than ten miles away from the murder capital of the nation, an area so blighted and depressed that murder must seem a better option than getting out. Our town at times feels like the eye of the hurricane. I got lost once shortly after moving here and purchased a GPS the next day. We're out of touch with our neighbors. I read the newspaper headlines and pretend that I don't understand the reality of "not in my backyard", because it certainly is in my backyard if I peek over my fence. We're lulled into complacency.
Which brings me back to Friday night. Our school hosted one of the city school teams. The juxtaposition was staggering. Their dilapidated buses rolled into the parking lot next to our sparkling astroturfed stadium. Our arrogance was put on the line. The game was tight the first half, ending with us leading 3-0. Then the marching band took the field.
It was a tiny little assembly of 22 students, mostly drums, 4 dancers, and a handful of instruments. With a whisper, they marched in unison and played their music. I looked at our band shell filled with a sea of 150 eager musicians in crisp uniforms and even the city school uniforms seemed to pale. I strained to hear, but they simply didn't have the numbers to make a lot of noise.
For the few minutes they stood in those stadium lights, I looked over to the empty visitor section and realized how hard those kids must work. As our band lined up to follow their halftime show, we paused to listen to the last song the city school kids performed.
The stadium got quiet as the announcer introduced their final number.
Respect.
They earned mine in spades.
We have a town green, a gazebo, and a school rated Excellent by our state. Our kids win in sports, academics and arts. If they didn't occasionally get into mischief, I would wonder if our town were Stepford, like Ira Levin's famous book, though my spouse would assure you, I fail at being a Stepford wife.
We are less than ten miles away from the murder capital of the nation, an area so blighted and depressed that murder must seem a better option than getting out. Our town at times feels like the eye of the hurricane. I got lost once shortly after moving here and purchased a GPS the next day. We're out of touch with our neighbors. I read the newspaper headlines and pretend that I don't understand the reality of "not in my backyard", because it certainly is in my backyard if I peek over my fence. We're lulled into complacency.
Which brings me back to Friday night. Our school hosted one of the city school teams. The juxtaposition was staggering. Their dilapidated buses rolled into the parking lot next to our sparkling astroturfed stadium. Our arrogance was put on the line. The game was tight the first half, ending with us leading 3-0. Then the marching band took the field.
It was a tiny little assembly of 22 students, mostly drums, 4 dancers, and a handful of instruments. With a whisper, they marched in unison and played their music. I looked at our band shell filled with a sea of 150 eager musicians in crisp uniforms and even the city school uniforms seemed to pale. I strained to hear, but they simply didn't have the numbers to make a lot of noise.
For the few minutes they stood in those stadium lights, I looked over to the empty visitor section and realized how hard those kids must work. As our band lined up to follow their halftime show, we paused to listen to the last song the city school kids performed.
The stadium got quiet as the announcer introduced their final number.
Respect.
They earned mine in spades.
September 11, 2009
Pandora's Box and September 11th
This is something I wrote in the days following September 11, 2001. I republish it every year to remind myself of the central message.
"What a world is down there," Pandora mused as she peered over the precipice of her mountaintop. “They have so much good but also so much bad. What did I unleash when I opened that box?"
She paused and sighed, still watching the humans, "They have a plethora of choices. I have seen so much from this mountain. They love, laugh, grow, live, die, and sometimes even hate. What an emotional bunch they are! So human.”
Pandora found herself daydreaming about the wonders of being human. Jolted from her daydream, there was a thunderous crash. "Oh dear", she panicked, "something horrible has happened down there!"
She looked over the edge of her mountain in the clouds and saw smoke billowing. She heard the screaming cries as the humans bled and burned. Terror gripped her as she frantically raced to find out what had happened. Had she never opened that box, eons ago. She knew this was her fault. Her lack of discipline. Guilt wracked her soul. She set free the evils that were causing this pain. In an instant of time, the human's world changed. Their innocence ended as the evil she had unleashed once again found its way into the human's world.
For days, the humans cried in pain. Physical pain, emotional pain, mental pain. They tried to make sense of the senseless act. They looked to each other for explanations. There were none.
But Pandora knew. "I am so sorry," she thought.
Disheartened, Pandora closed her eyes. She remembered that fateful day when she simply had to open that box. "What have I done?" Then with a flash, Pandora remembered, one thing remained in the box... hope. Yes, hope. She walked over to her box, and peeked in, saw the shimmering light of hope. Hope had not escaped from her box. She knew the people would eventually remember the gift that remained theirs.
With glee, she watched more closely, waiting for the people to find hope. She saw hoards of folks marching to the place of the fire, reaching out, and trying to help. She saw parents holding their children tighter. She saw lovers embracing trying to seek comfort from the terror. Candles flickered and flags flew and the humans found strength within themselves. They held onto each others' hearts and hands. They remembered what was wonderful about being human. The ability to feel. The ability to comfort each other with love.
Peeking closely into one house, she saw a family, huddled around their table. They had their heads bowed in prayer. Their voices echoed to the heavens. Their songs shook the clouds. Their candles lit the world. She heard the faith, hope, and love in their voices, the simple comfort of their words, the solace in their touch. Ah yes, to be human. To know. To love. Pandora breathed a sigh of relief. Relief that she closed the box when she did. So grateful she had not allowed hope to escape. With hope, the humans would always find comfort.
Always remember, hope is never gone.
"What a world is down there," Pandora mused as she peered over the precipice of her mountaintop. “They have so much good but also so much bad. What did I unleash when I opened that box?"
She paused and sighed, still watching the humans, "They have a plethora of choices. I have seen so much from this mountain. They love, laugh, grow, live, die, and sometimes even hate. What an emotional bunch they are! So human.”
Pandora found herself daydreaming about the wonders of being human. Jolted from her daydream, there was a thunderous crash. "Oh dear", she panicked, "something horrible has happened down there!"
She looked over the edge of her mountain in the clouds and saw smoke billowing. She heard the screaming cries as the humans bled and burned. Terror gripped her as she frantically raced to find out what had happened. Had she never opened that box, eons ago. She knew this was her fault. Her lack of discipline. Guilt wracked her soul. She set free the evils that were causing this pain. In an instant of time, the human's world changed. Their innocence ended as the evil she had unleashed once again found its way into the human's world.
For days, the humans cried in pain. Physical pain, emotional pain, mental pain. They tried to make sense of the senseless act. They looked to each other for explanations. There were none.
But Pandora knew. "I am so sorry," she thought.
Disheartened, Pandora closed her eyes. She remembered that fateful day when she simply had to open that box. "What have I done?" Then with a flash, Pandora remembered, one thing remained in the box... hope. Yes, hope. She walked over to her box, and peeked in, saw the shimmering light of hope. Hope had not escaped from her box. She knew the people would eventually remember the gift that remained theirs.
With glee, she watched more closely, waiting for the people to find hope. She saw hoards of folks marching to the place of the fire, reaching out, and trying to help. She saw parents holding their children tighter. She saw lovers embracing trying to seek comfort from the terror. Candles flickered and flags flew and the humans found strength within themselves. They held onto each others' hearts and hands. They remembered what was wonderful about being human. The ability to feel. The ability to comfort each other with love.
Peeking closely into one house, she saw a family, huddled around their table. They had their heads bowed in prayer. Their voices echoed to the heavens. Their songs shook the clouds. Their candles lit the world. She heard the faith, hope, and love in their voices, the simple comfort of their words, the solace in their touch. Ah yes, to be human. To know. To love. Pandora breathed a sigh of relief. Relief that she closed the box when she did. So grateful she had not allowed hope to escape. With hope, the humans would always find comfort.
Always remember, hope is never gone.
August 25, 2009
The Friendship Pin
Not too long ago, I cleaned out my jewelry box. Tucked in amongst my pins, I found an almost forgotten gift from an almost forgotten friend.
Years ago, when I was working at the grocery store, one of our baggers was a retired gentleman we called Rudy. He was from Switzerland and had spent his working life as a janitor at a local high school. When age forced his retirement, he came to our store to pack bags. Rudy was a character. His English was barely intelligible. His accent thick German. We could understand "Ya Ya" and "Okey Dokey" from Rudy. Everything else was gibberish.
His wife was a little bird of a woman and she would ride the bus to meet him at the end of his shift. She would shop for groceries and then check out while he packed them, punched the time clock, and they caught the bus home. Rudy and Mrs. Rudy, as we called her, were the sweetest lovebirds. I would struggle to understand them every time they came in the store because I was sure their story was interesting. The only details I ever learned was that they immigrated from Switzerland and had no children. The two of them came to this country alone and lived a modest life with their love binding them together.
Once, Mrs. Rudy couldn't come to meet Rudy at the store and called me to give him the message. Her and Rudy became my friends. I gave Rudy a ride home from work, and they lived in a tidy little house walking distance from the school where he had worked. I often wondered why their English never improved, but how much opportunity does a janitor get to socialize with people? They were their own little circle of love, so as long as they understood each other, I suppose it never mattered if anyone else did.
I remember one day, one of the people working at our store for the day spoke German, and Rudy's face lit up as he engaged in animated conversation with her. He really enjoyed speaking his native tongue and finally sharing his stories. The temp was the person who told me he and Mrs. Rudy had no children and were from Switzerland. When Mrs. Rudy would come in the store, she would always come to the office and visit with me. Most of the conversation was smiles and nods, as I wonder how much of what I said she understood, as I only understood about 50% of what she said.
After some time, Rudy began to call off sick from work. His health was failing. Nobody ever knew how old Rudy was, but he was much older than we ever imagined. Rudy finally quit one day, though he and Mrs. Rudy would still take the bus to our store to shop. They always would stop and visit for a few minutes. After a while, we didn't even see them shopping. I called their house once to check in, but then I felt like I was being invasive. One day, I answered the phone at the store to Mrs. Rudy's hysteria. Rudy had died.
I wish I could say I had gone to the funeral but all I did was gather money and arrange to have flowers sent. It didn't seem like it was that important at the time. About a month after Rudy died, Mrs. Rudy came in the store to shop. She came looking for me. I came out of my office and asked her to join me for a cup of coffee. As we sat sipping our coffee on a bench, she reached into her pocketbook. Wrapped in about 3 layers of tissues, she handed me something. She told me that Rudy gave her this when they were first married and I was always so nice the both of them that she wanted me to have it.
As I gingerly unwrapped the tissues, inside was a lovely gold and green floral pin. I insisted that I couldn't accept her gift, and she insisted that I must. She went on how I was the one of the only people who ever tried to understand her funny English. I took the pin and pinned it to my blouse that instant, and said, I would be proud to have such a lovely gift from such a dear friend. My eyes welled up with tears as my young smooth hand clutched Mrs. Rudy's wrinkled spotted hand.
I learned that the easiest language to understand is a genuine smile and honest concern. That overcomes any accent or barrier. When I found the pin from my friend, the story came rushing back. The pin that allowed me for the first and last time to understand Mrs. Rudy perfectly.
I wish I knew what happened to Mrs. Rudy. I never saw her much after that. I would like to say I did so much more for her, but I didn't. However, she taught me the importance of listening to everyone. You never know the stories they have to tell. You never know the opportunity that may be facing you. I may have missed some, but at least I caught some others
Years ago, when I was working at the grocery store, one of our baggers was a retired gentleman we called Rudy. He was from Switzerland and had spent his working life as a janitor at a local high school. When age forced his retirement, he came to our store to pack bags. Rudy was a character. His English was barely intelligible. His accent thick German. We could understand "Ya Ya" and "Okey Dokey" from Rudy. Everything else was gibberish.
His wife was a little bird of a woman and she would ride the bus to meet him at the end of his shift. She would shop for groceries and then check out while he packed them, punched the time clock, and they caught the bus home. Rudy and Mrs. Rudy, as we called her, were the sweetest lovebirds. I would struggle to understand them every time they came in the store because I was sure their story was interesting. The only details I ever learned was that they immigrated from Switzerland and had no children. The two of them came to this country alone and lived a modest life with their love binding them together.
Once, Mrs. Rudy couldn't come to meet Rudy at the store and called me to give him the message. Her and Rudy became my friends. I gave Rudy a ride home from work, and they lived in a tidy little house walking distance from the school where he had worked. I often wondered why their English never improved, but how much opportunity does a janitor get to socialize with people? They were their own little circle of love, so as long as they understood each other, I suppose it never mattered if anyone else did.
I remember one day, one of the people working at our store for the day spoke German, and Rudy's face lit up as he engaged in animated conversation with her. He really enjoyed speaking his native tongue and finally sharing his stories. The temp was the person who told me he and Mrs. Rudy had no children and were from Switzerland. When Mrs. Rudy would come in the store, she would always come to the office and visit with me. Most of the conversation was smiles and nods, as I wonder how much of what I said she understood, as I only understood about 50% of what she said.
After some time, Rudy began to call off sick from work. His health was failing. Nobody ever knew how old Rudy was, but he was much older than we ever imagined. Rudy finally quit one day, though he and Mrs. Rudy would still take the bus to our store to shop. They always would stop and visit for a few minutes. After a while, we didn't even see them shopping. I called their house once to check in, but then I felt like I was being invasive. One day, I answered the phone at the store to Mrs. Rudy's hysteria. Rudy had died.
I wish I could say I had gone to the funeral but all I did was gather money and arrange to have flowers sent. It didn't seem like it was that important at the time. About a month after Rudy died, Mrs. Rudy came in the store to shop. She came looking for me. I came out of my office and asked her to join me for a cup of coffee. As we sat sipping our coffee on a bench, she reached into her pocketbook. Wrapped in about 3 layers of tissues, she handed me something. She told me that Rudy gave her this when they were first married and I was always so nice the both of them that she wanted me to have it.
As I gingerly unwrapped the tissues, inside was a lovely gold and green floral pin. I insisted that I couldn't accept her gift, and she insisted that I must. She went on how I was the one of the only people who ever tried to understand her funny English. I took the pin and pinned it to my blouse that instant, and said, I would be proud to have such a lovely gift from such a dear friend. My eyes welled up with tears as my young smooth hand clutched Mrs. Rudy's wrinkled spotted hand.
I learned that the easiest language to understand is a genuine smile and honest concern. That overcomes any accent or barrier. When I found the pin from my friend, the story came rushing back. The pin that allowed me for the first and last time to understand Mrs. Rudy perfectly.
I wish I knew what happened to Mrs. Rudy. I never saw her much after that. I would like to say I did so much more for her, but I didn't. However, she taught me the importance of listening to everyone. You never know the stories they have to tell. You never know the opportunity that may be facing you. I may have missed some, but at least I caught some others
August 19, 2009
If Life were like a DVR
...(this is rerun of something I wrote about a year ago, but feels timeless)...
This morning, my daughter and I viewed a show we had recorded on the DVR. We were too tired to watch it the other night, but it was there for our convenience this morning. The DVR is a pretty amazing feature. You can rewind when you miss something, your own personal instant replay. Or you can fast forward past commercials or pause it. You can set the speed of life as you wish.
There are a few things in my life I would watch over and over. Pieces I really like. I would pause at the moment I first kissed my future husband. We were so young and naive. That kiss... I would pause there.
I would pause at the day I held both our babies for the first time. Squirming, puffy little bundles. Putting my finger against their foot and discovering their foot was the same length. I only need to look at my finger today to see how much they have grown.
I would pause the last time I saw my grandfather or grandmother alive. I would smell them. Hug them, and not assume I would see them again soon. I would cherish what was our last moment. They were my heroes. And even almost 95 years of life from each of them wasn't enough for me.
I would pause at the day we moved away from our hometown. Wait, I did pause that day. I walked around an empty house hearing my footsteps echo. I was alone, the kids safely at grandma's, my husband had already moved. Our worldly goods in the truck outside the house. I walked around kissing the walls, thanking the house for the memories. Promising to make good ones in the new home. Yes, I kissed the walls. I hugged the fireplace and I did pretend snow angels on the carpet. Wait. Where is that fast forward? This is getting embarrassing.
Are there any moments in your life you would pause, if you could?
This morning, my daughter and I viewed a show we had recorded on the DVR. We were too tired to watch it the other night, but it was there for our convenience this morning. The DVR is a pretty amazing feature. You can rewind when you miss something, your own personal instant replay. Or you can fast forward past commercials or pause it. You can set the speed of life as you wish.
There are a few things in my life I would watch over and over. Pieces I really like. I would pause at the moment I first kissed my future husband. We were so young and naive. That kiss... I would pause there.
I would pause at the day I held both our babies for the first time. Squirming, puffy little bundles. Putting my finger against their foot and discovering their foot was the same length. I only need to look at my finger today to see how much they have grown.
I would pause the last time I saw my grandfather or grandmother alive. I would smell them. Hug them, and not assume I would see them again soon. I would cherish what was our last moment. They were my heroes. And even almost 95 years of life from each of them wasn't enough for me.
I would pause at the day we moved away from our hometown. Wait, I did pause that day. I walked around an empty house hearing my footsteps echo. I was alone, the kids safely at grandma's, my husband had already moved. Our worldly goods in the truck outside the house. I walked around kissing the walls, thanking the house for the memories. Promising to make good ones in the new home. Yes, I kissed the walls. I hugged the fireplace and I did pretend snow angels on the carpet. Wait. Where is that fast forward? This is getting embarrassing.
Are there any moments in your life you would pause, if you could?
August 12, 2009
Latex Allergy Awareness
My daughter has a severe latex allergy. I am posting this blog today because for the 4th time this summer, she was unable to eat at an event due to the food being handled with latex gloves. She completed two separate 5Ks and couldn't eat at the buffet after, she couldn't eat at a clubhouse barbeque party, and today couldn't eat the sandwiches at her band luncheon. That is just this summer.
Her allergy causes her to swell horribly, like a beesting sort of reaction. We prefer not to have that happen to her throat after she ate something handled with latex. She gets hives when she wears clothing with certain kinds of elastic, she spent an evening after Trick or Treating not eating candy but popping Benedryl. Someone had handed out candy with gloves on.
She went to a Red Cross babysitting class and her station had a pair of latex gloves. Even though they removed the gloves after she told them of her allergy, the powder still was in the area. Her eyes swelled shut when she touched them after handling the practice doll.
She has to avoid balloon parties and be careful what sort of bandages she uses on a cut. She had a visitor to the school bring balloons in a secret grab bag for the kids, it resulted in an afternoon in the nurse's office, just from touching it.
I am not trying to be a drama queen, but rather bring a level of awareness to my readers and hopefully pass this post along. Allergies like this are often progressive so we do what we can to avoid contact, but it seems to be everywhere. Many many common items contain latex and most people think it's just an itchy reaction. For my daughter and many others, it is much more serious.
In short, very few people are aware of this allergy and often times, think they are being germ conscious, when in fact they could trigger a life threatening (thank goodness not yet, her breathing has never been affected) allergy.
Her allergy causes her to swell horribly, like a beesting sort of reaction. We prefer not to have that happen to her throat after she ate something handled with latex. She gets hives when she wears clothing with certain kinds of elastic, she spent an evening after Trick or Treating not eating candy but popping Benedryl. Someone had handed out candy with gloves on.
She went to a Red Cross babysitting class and her station had a pair of latex gloves. Even though they removed the gloves after she told them of her allergy, the powder still was in the area. Her eyes swelled shut when she touched them after handling the practice doll.
She has to avoid balloon parties and be careful what sort of bandages she uses on a cut. She had a visitor to the school bring balloons in a secret grab bag for the kids, it resulted in an afternoon in the nurse's office, just from touching it.
I am not trying to be a drama queen, but rather bring a level of awareness to my readers and hopefully pass this post along. Allergies like this are often progressive so we do what we can to avoid contact, but it seems to be everywhere. Many many common items contain latex and most people think it's just an itchy reaction. For my daughter and many others, it is much more serious.
In short, very few people are aware of this allergy and often times, think they are being germ conscious, when in fact they could trigger a life threatening (thank goodness not yet, her breathing has never been affected) allergy.
August 11, 2009
Wildest Horses
This summer, like the past 10+, our family and another (completely compatible best friend) family loaded our respective family hauling vehicles to the hilt and drove East. We even remembered the children, because this was the first year the oldest was old enough to babysit so the adults could go to a nice dinner alone.
It's the ultimate in suburban escape. Take everything we can haul 500 miles away and bend the environment to meet our needs. Crank up the air conditioning and carry that everything we hauled to the beach. In the past, we owned SUVs and would drive up to the 4 wheel drive beach towards the Virginia line. We ate picnics and shared our space with the wild horses. They flaunted their freedom in the most nonchalant way.
I wrote this tribute to them about 10 years ago.
Wild Horses
Wind blown manes, eyes wild with passion
They gallop.
Waves churn as they walk along the ocean.
The sand, their road.
The dunes, their home.
This is their domain.
Sea meets the land,
Sun meets the earth.
Horses, wild and free,
Without the sad look
In their eyes
Of a domesticated horse.
The legend states,
A man once tried to tame a wild horse.
He lassoed her and took her to his stable.
She missed her sea and sand.
The hay was not the dunes.
The air was dank and stale in his stable.
She couldn't breathe.
Homesick, she missed her friends
who galloped with her.
The horses here didn't understand,
For they had never known.
Never seen the sunrise on the ocean,
Or a starlit night on the beach.
She tried to tell them,
But they only knew of bridles and
Walking in circles.
Saddles on their backs,
Blinders on their eyes.
They don't know.
The wild horse tried to fit in,
But each night,when the day was done,
She would sleep and dream.
Dream of her home by the sea.
One morning the man came to his stable,
His wild horse didn't wake up.
She was smiling in her sleep.
The past few years, development has encroached on the Wild Horse Area. We work harder and harder to find them. Last year, we rented Jeeps for way too much money with a guaranteed map to find the Wild Horses. We found one who looked like he may have been part of a scam to fool the stupid tourists. "TAKE YOUR PICTURE OF A WILD HORSE" sorta thing.
This year, we never even drove up there. We admitted defeat. We admitted that the wild horses were no more likely to find us than we them. We drove them further inland, we stole their beach, their sea, their dunes.
But I remember, I remember the day a wild horse walked up to me at the side of my SUV and whispered, "Does that thing really have more horse power than me?"
I winked at her and whispered back, "Never."
It's the ultimate in suburban escape. Take everything we can haul 500 miles away and bend the environment to meet our needs. Crank up the air conditioning and carry that everything we hauled to the beach. In the past, we owned SUVs and would drive up to the 4 wheel drive beach towards the Virginia line. We ate picnics and shared our space with the wild horses. They flaunted their freedom in the most nonchalant way.
I wrote this tribute to them about 10 years ago.
Wild Horses
Wind blown manes, eyes wild with passion
They gallop.
Waves churn as they walk along the ocean.
The sand, their road.
The dunes, their home.
This is their domain.
Sea meets the land,
Sun meets the earth.
Horses, wild and free,
Without the sad look
In their eyes
Of a domesticated horse.
The legend states,
A man once tried to tame a wild horse.
He lassoed her and took her to his stable.
She missed her sea and sand.
The hay was not the dunes.
The air was dank and stale in his stable.
She couldn't breathe.
Homesick, she missed her friends
who galloped with her.
The horses here didn't understand,
For they had never known.
Never seen the sunrise on the ocean,
Or a starlit night on the beach.
She tried to tell them,
But they only knew of bridles and
Walking in circles.
Saddles on their backs,
Blinders on their eyes.
They don't know.
The wild horse tried to fit in,
But each night,when the day was done,
She would sleep and dream.
Dream of her home by the sea.
One morning the man came to his stable,
His wild horse didn't wake up.
She was smiling in her sleep.
The past few years, development has encroached on the Wild Horse Area. We work harder and harder to find them. Last year, we rented Jeeps for way too much money with a guaranteed map to find the Wild Horses. We found one who looked like he may have been part of a scam to fool the stupid tourists. "TAKE YOUR PICTURE OF A WILD HORSE" sorta thing.
This year, we never even drove up there. We admitted defeat. We admitted that the wild horses were no more likely to find us than we them. We drove them further inland, we stole their beach, their sea, their dunes.
But I remember, I remember the day a wild horse walked up to me at the side of my SUV and whispered, "Does that thing really have more horse power than me?"
I winked at her and whispered back, "Never."
July 31, 2009
A year older/wiser?
Last year, I wrote about the upcoming family vacation with a similar enthusiasm. This year our trip is tempered somewhat by the myriad of activities that have usurped the lazy, hazy days.
The two older children are both entrenched in (oh my goodness) HIGH SCHOOL activities. The paper work and cajoling it took with the leaders of these activities to allow our children to vacation this year was incredible.
Once again, my spouse gets to assume control of my exceedingly cool Minivan. I just know he is chomping at the bit to take over, so he can indeed prove how good he is at *making time*. I still haven't followed through on my threat to put a bumper sticker about honor students or loving our dog on the rear end of it. This does mean he's one year closer to the alloted midlife crisis vehicle.
Once again, we have chosen our tie-dye shirts and this year's color will be dark green. Once again, our younger ones struggle with how old they have to be to still share a co-ed room. Once again, we wonder if they still will find potty humor funny. My younger one has been warming up her "grossology" inventory. Once again, we wonder how many margaritas it will require for us to admit that "a police officer standing in poo is on dooty*. C'mon, you know you chuckled!
Once again, we cherish each minute of each day we spend together.
We logically know it won't last forever, but, once again, we refuse to admit it.
Viva la Vacation!
The two older children are both entrenched in (oh my goodness) HIGH SCHOOL activities. The paper work and cajoling it took with the leaders of these activities to allow our children to vacation this year was incredible.
Once again, my spouse gets to assume control of my exceedingly cool Minivan. I just know he is chomping at the bit to take over, so he can indeed prove how good he is at *making time*. I still haven't followed through on my threat to put a bumper sticker about honor students or loving our dog on the rear end of it. This does mean he's one year closer to the alloted midlife crisis vehicle.
Once again, we have chosen our tie-dye shirts and this year's color will be dark green. Once again, our younger ones struggle with how old they have to be to still share a co-ed room. Once again, we wonder if they still will find potty humor funny. My younger one has been warming up her "grossology" inventory. Once again, we wonder how many margaritas it will require for us to admit that "a police officer standing in poo is on dooty*. C'mon, you know you chuckled!
Once again, we cherish each minute of each day we spend together.
We logically know it won't last forever, but, once again, we refuse to admit it.
Viva la Vacation!
July 23, 2009
Lazy, Hazy or Crazy, Dazy?
A random comment with another writer friend inspired today's post.
Gone are the days of "nothing to do". Today's parent strives to provide every opportunity for their child. No child is denied the chance to participate in anything that strikes their fancy. I don't even consider my children particularly busy, but their activities do demand a great deal of their time.
The younger one is on a softball team. That starts in April and goes through the end of June. There were usually 3 games a week. With only 11 girls on the team, missing a game needed a good excuse. Missing more than a game was a ticket to warming the bench. So we didn't miss.
My older one is in the marching band and on the cross country team. We were informed that the 4th of July parade counted toward their grade. We also were informed that band camp begins August 1st and that it is mandatory. Cross country training began in late June, but is not mandatory until August 1st also. The band director and cross country coach have coordinated the practice schedules so she will have a half hour between the two. I have pages of colored calendars and websites to cross reference. There are days I think I need a spreadsheet to keep track of where children need to be and when. One day, I logged 70 miles on my car and never went more than 5 miles from my house.
I contrast this with my own childhood. We lived on a small farm. We had our chores, naturally. We had animals to feed in the morning and the gardens to weed or pick sometime during the day. But I remember the afternoons spent lying underneath a willow tree by the creek, making daisy chains. I remember the kick ball games that all the kids who were close enough to ride their bikes would meet at our house. I remember mud pies and fishing poles.
What I don't remember is a shuttle service, an activity driven summer of running from one activity to the next. I don't remember wishing for a day off. I don't remember having to get to bed early because I had to get up for practice the next morning. We would run around catching fireflies, playing flashlight tag, and telling ghost stories.
I wonder when we became afraid of unstructured days and nights. I wonder when we became afraid of having down time. I wonder when it went out of vogue to give your children the luxury of free time. But mostly... I wonder, why it is considered a luxury?
Gone are the days of "nothing to do". Today's parent strives to provide every opportunity for their child. No child is denied the chance to participate in anything that strikes their fancy. I don't even consider my children particularly busy, but their activities do demand a great deal of their time.
The younger one is on a softball team. That starts in April and goes through the end of June. There were usually 3 games a week. With only 11 girls on the team, missing a game needed a good excuse. Missing more than a game was a ticket to warming the bench. So we didn't miss.
My older one is in the marching band and on the cross country team. We were informed that the 4th of July parade counted toward their grade. We also were informed that band camp begins August 1st and that it is mandatory. Cross country training began in late June, but is not mandatory until August 1st also. The band director and cross country coach have coordinated the practice schedules so she will have a half hour between the two. I have pages of colored calendars and websites to cross reference. There are days I think I need a spreadsheet to keep track of where children need to be and when. One day, I logged 70 miles on my car and never went more than 5 miles from my house.
I contrast this with my own childhood. We lived on a small farm. We had our chores, naturally. We had animals to feed in the morning and the gardens to weed or pick sometime during the day. But I remember the afternoons spent lying underneath a willow tree by the creek, making daisy chains. I remember the kick ball games that all the kids who were close enough to ride their bikes would meet at our house. I remember mud pies and fishing poles.
What I don't remember is a shuttle service, an activity driven summer of running from one activity to the next. I don't remember wishing for a day off. I don't remember having to get to bed early because I had to get up for practice the next morning. We would run around catching fireflies, playing flashlight tag, and telling ghost stories.
I wonder when we became afraid of unstructured days and nights. I wonder when we became afraid of having down time. I wonder when it went out of vogue to give your children the luxury of free time. But mostly... I wonder, why it is considered a luxury?
July 13, 2009
Just Another Mile(stone)
A few weeks ago, I challenged myself and committed in writing to run a 5K this time next year. My daughter is a runner on the highschool Cross Country team and really works hard at it.
I'm not, nor have I ever been, athletic. I trip over air, I throw like a girl, and I generally spend more time bruising myself than bulking up. When I played on our town softball team as a kid, the most running I did was to close up the coaches' windows if it looked like rain. When I was in college, I delayed my phys ed requirement until my last quarter before graduation. I thought I was being clever by taking volleyball, where I could coast and the rest of the class would pick up my slack. I wound up with Rambo the volleyball instructor. His insistence that we wouldn't pass his class without serving a volleyball overhand almost prevented me from receiving my college degree. In short, athletic has never been an adjective people use to describe me. The most athletic feature on my body is my mouth.
I work out a minimal amount, in areas where I cannot hurt anyone, i.e., alone in my basement, not at a gym where I may subject myself to ridicule or wipe out an entire aerobics class with one misstep. (It's happened). I've worked several charity 5Ks as the person who sells raffle tickets or hands out bottles of water at the finish line. I've watched young, old, large, and small people participate and always insisted I was best behind the scenes, not running with the pack.
Then it happened. I realized that for all my encouragement that my offspring "could do it", I was not walking the walk. I was only talking the talk. It was time to run something besides my mouth. I'm not excited by my proclamation that I would run with her next year, but figured if a senior citizen with two knee braces could do it (I watched him at the last 5K we attended), so could I.
Today after a few weeks of rather embarrassing attempts, I ran an entire mile without stopping. But that isn't the best part. Two days ago, I was running with my daughter (with being a rather generous term as she was quite a bit in front of me). She had rounded the turnaround and was coming back towards me and she was cheering me on. I cannot think of a better feeling.
Maybe that is what is meant by a runner's high.
I'm not, nor have I ever been, athletic. I trip over air, I throw like a girl, and I generally spend more time bruising myself than bulking up. When I played on our town softball team as a kid, the most running I did was to close up the coaches' windows if it looked like rain. When I was in college, I delayed my phys ed requirement until my last quarter before graduation. I thought I was being clever by taking volleyball, where I could coast and the rest of the class would pick up my slack. I wound up with Rambo the volleyball instructor. His insistence that we wouldn't pass his class without serving a volleyball overhand almost prevented me from receiving my college degree. In short, athletic has never been an adjective people use to describe me. The most athletic feature on my body is my mouth.
I work out a minimal amount, in areas where I cannot hurt anyone, i.e., alone in my basement, not at a gym where I may subject myself to ridicule or wipe out an entire aerobics class with one misstep. (It's happened). I've worked several charity 5Ks as the person who sells raffle tickets or hands out bottles of water at the finish line. I've watched young, old, large, and small people participate and always insisted I was best behind the scenes, not running with the pack.
Then it happened. I realized that for all my encouragement that my offspring "could do it", I was not walking the walk. I was only talking the talk. It was time to run something besides my mouth. I'm not excited by my proclamation that I would run with her next year, but figured if a senior citizen with two knee braces could do it (I watched him at the last 5K we attended), so could I.
Today after a few weeks of rather embarrassing attempts, I ran an entire mile without stopping. But that isn't the best part. Two days ago, I was running with my daughter (with being a rather generous term as she was quite a bit in front of me). She had rounded the turnaround and was coming back towards me and she was cheering me on. I cannot think of a better feeling.
Maybe that is what is meant by a runner's high.
June 30, 2009
Boys are Dumb, Throw Rocks at Them
My daughter is 13, soon to be 14. In some ways she is going on 40, in other ways going on 6. She is in that beautifully awkward place between woman and child, that place that seems awkward, but really is more like a tightly closed bloom. Beautiful in its own way. She still plays with dolls, but she leafs through Vogue. Lacking the confidence to design for herself, she designs for the dolls, stitching and accessorizing, creating a fashion parade.
Boys exist, but with the view of a Disney movie of the week. They are something she will someday kiss, but today she is content to text with them. I'm not naive, I know there are "other girls" kissing, but she isn't one of them. She has a true innocent charm.
This morning, at the store, she received a text from a boy she is friends with. They sometimes hang out as part of a group and often get teased that they like each other. He's a nice, funny, geeky boy. In other words, I approve. He lives behind us. He sent her a text, "Will U go out with me?" In teen vernacular, that means "be my sweetheart", not go on a date, since she isn't allowed to date and neither is he.
Panic ensued. She couldn't answer him without a text conference with every female she knows. I suggested a quick phone call, which was answered with an eyeroll and the comment "Calling is so nerdy, mom!" I ignored my obvious lack of cool and said very calmly, "Honey, do you like him?"
Her crimson face looked back at me and she nodded, shyly. I said, "Then the simple answer is yes." Apparently her tribe of girlfriends sent in their endorsements and so she texted him back, those three letters. Y E S.
About five minutes later, he texted her back, "U do no I was joking, don't U?" Rounding the candy aisle, her eyes welled up and her crimson deepened.
I said, "You do know he's got a lame way of finding out if you like him first, right?"
She fumed, "I'm just so mad. He tricked me. What should I say?"
Thinking that the joke is on him, I suggested, "Why not text him back, Well I wasn't."
She did. He hasn't replied. She wants to text him back a million other explanations. I told her to let him feel as stupid as he acted. Leave it at that and resist the urge to overexplain.
Now you and I know, he is sitting there thinking, "Oh fudge, what an idiot I was."
Boys exist, but with the view of a Disney movie of the week. They are something she will someday kiss, but today she is content to text with them. I'm not naive, I know there are "other girls" kissing, but she isn't one of them. She has a true innocent charm.
This morning, at the store, she received a text from a boy she is friends with. They sometimes hang out as part of a group and often get teased that they like each other. He's a nice, funny, geeky boy. In other words, I approve. He lives behind us. He sent her a text, "Will U go out with me?" In teen vernacular, that means "be my sweetheart", not go on a date, since she isn't allowed to date and neither is he.
Panic ensued. She couldn't answer him without a text conference with every female she knows. I suggested a quick phone call, which was answered with an eyeroll and the comment "Calling is so nerdy, mom!" I ignored my obvious lack of cool and said very calmly, "Honey, do you like him?"
Her crimson face looked back at me and she nodded, shyly. I said, "Then the simple answer is yes." Apparently her tribe of girlfriends sent in their endorsements and so she texted him back, those three letters. Y E S.
About five minutes later, he texted her back, "U do no I was joking, don't U?" Rounding the candy aisle, her eyes welled up and her crimson deepened.
I said, "You do know he's got a lame way of finding out if you like him first, right?"
She fumed, "I'm just so mad. He tricked me. What should I say?"
Thinking that the joke is on him, I suggested, "Why not text him back, Well I wasn't."
She did. He hasn't replied. She wants to text him back a million other explanations. I told her to let him feel as stupid as he acted. Leave it at that and resist the urge to overexplain.
Now you and I know, he is sitting there thinking, "Oh fudge, what an idiot I was."
June 26, 2009
Child Stars
The unexpected passing of Michael Jackson quickly upstaged the expected passing of Farrah Fawcett. I suspect for years there will be speculation that the Three Kings; him, Elvis, and the Lizard King wander not the Orient, but convenient stores in the midwest, never aging, but specters of Madame Tussaud's visions.
I remember watching the Jackson 5 cartoon and singing along with ABC, it seemed as easy as 123. Then in high school, Thriller hit the charts and no school dance was ever the same. We all tried pathetically to moonwalk while wearing zippered jackets and parachute pants. As if we could capture the mystique that was MJ.
Then, he got weird. Really weird. He carved his face with plastic surgery, lightened his skin and appeared more and more androgynous each month. He married, divorced, dangled children from balconies, and built a Neverneverland tribute to his seeming lost childhood. Did he ever have a chance to be normal? He entertained us, but he always seemed like a lost soul. In his attempt to capture the youth he never had, he stole the youth of others. My skin crawled and my heart cried. The manchild was neither, he became one of the monsters from his Thriller video.
That's the thing with child stars. So few grow up to be adjusted adults. From Judy Garland to Robert Blake, from Danny Bonaduce to Britney Spears. These wind-up machine children who entertain adults are denied the very essence of who they are. They grow up lost, confused and exploited. They don't learn impulse control because the adults around them are so busy milking their money train they don't realize they're also building a future train wreck. It's tragic.
I guess all I can hope now is that Michael Jackson really does Rest In Peace. I don't know how he could.
I remember watching the Jackson 5 cartoon and singing along with ABC, it seemed as easy as 123. Then in high school, Thriller hit the charts and no school dance was ever the same. We all tried pathetically to moonwalk while wearing zippered jackets and parachute pants. As if we could capture the mystique that was MJ.
Then, he got weird. Really weird. He carved his face with plastic surgery, lightened his skin and appeared more and more androgynous each month. He married, divorced, dangled children from balconies, and built a Neverneverland tribute to his seeming lost childhood. Did he ever have a chance to be normal? He entertained us, but he always seemed like a lost soul. In his attempt to capture the youth he never had, he stole the youth of others. My skin crawled and my heart cried. The manchild was neither, he became one of the monsters from his Thriller video.
That's the thing with child stars. So few grow up to be adjusted adults. From Judy Garland to Robert Blake, from Danny Bonaduce to Britney Spears. These wind-up machine children who entertain adults are denied the very essence of who they are. They grow up lost, confused and exploited. They don't learn impulse control because the adults around them are so busy milking their money train they don't realize they're also building a future train wreck. It's tragic.
I guess all I can hope now is that Michael Jackson really does Rest In Peace. I don't know how he could.
June 4, 2009
Idols Speak!
I have so much to say about this. As I blathered on to a friend, she said, Kim, you need to blog about this, and I hesitated. I didn't think communication with my Idol would count as a blog.
It's not even that big of a thing for jaded people. I don't worship "Hollywood". I do however count writers, and more narrowly, columnists in my list of idols. Our dearly departed Mike Royko was my first. He is one of the reasons that I wanted to write. I only dreamed of sharing my brain as well as he did.
My second Idol is Dick Feagler. A Cleveland columnist. I sat behind him in a church pew for 10 years, and never told him he was my Idol. He was merely someone I said "peace be with you" with, as we shook hands. I never had the chutzpah to tell him how much his words impacted my life.
Today, I'm older. I still idolize, despite my advanced years. I took the bull by the horns today. I am active on a social networking site. I noticed a friend of mine was friends with one of my idols. To comment in the same space as she was almost paralyzing. My respect for her cannot be captured in words. She exceeds my other idols, because she is... a she.
I sent her a note of praise and I also invited her.
She replied and accepted.
It made my day. Truly.
I'm in my 40s but my feeling today is better than the day I touched Bon Jovi. I was touched in a different way. I was touched mentally. My idol said hello and thank you.
It doesn't get any better than that.
Thank you, C.
It's not even that big of a thing for jaded people. I don't worship "Hollywood". I do however count writers, and more narrowly, columnists in my list of idols. Our dearly departed Mike Royko was my first. He is one of the reasons that I wanted to write. I only dreamed of sharing my brain as well as he did.
My second Idol is Dick Feagler. A Cleveland columnist. I sat behind him in a church pew for 10 years, and never told him he was my Idol. He was merely someone I said "peace be with you" with, as we shook hands. I never had the chutzpah to tell him how much his words impacted my life.
Today, I'm older. I still idolize, despite my advanced years. I took the bull by the horns today. I am active on a social networking site. I noticed a friend of mine was friends with one of my idols. To comment in the same space as she was almost paralyzing. My respect for her cannot be captured in words. She exceeds my other idols, because she is... a she.
I sent her a note of praise and I also invited her.
She replied and accepted.
It made my day. Truly.
I'm in my 40s but my feeling today is better than the day I touched Bon Jovi. I was touched in a different way. I was touched mentally. My idol said hello and thank you.
It doesn't get any better than that.
Thank you, C.
June 3, 2009
Generous (?) Motors
This is the full text of a letter I recently sent to some local newspapers.
As General Motor’s announces bankruptcy, repeatedly, blame is cast towards the UAW and labor unions.
I liken what is happening to a wealthy parent who didn’t say “no” in time. It rarely gets mentioned when unions are attacked that all wages and benefits given to the employees are clearly outlined in a mutually agreed upon legally binding contract. There isn’t a union agreement in this nation that isn’t signed by both management and labor and authenticated by the government. That creates a system of checks and balances; a microism of our national government. This is the core of collective bargaining. Management agrees to the contractual terms as readily as the union.
To be part of a contract negotiation is no picnic. It is equally nerve wracking for either side. Every proposal is filled with opportunity, in the truest sense of capitalism. “How much can we make?” resonates on both sides. Like dealing with a rug merchant, the object is to get the best possible deal. Unlike a rug merchant, there is the future to consider. Again, I liken the bankruptcy to irresponsible parenting.
I am not suggesting the UAW is blameless. But casting blame is failure to accept responsibility in the situation. For one party to have “too much”, the other party must overindulge. Management had many chances to stand strong over the past 70 years. Closing the door after the horse ran away seems rather futile.
Unions are the best way a working class can achieve a level of life that is respectable. Management acted as an uninvolved, overly indulgent parent that threw money at its employees to keep them content. When the well ran dry, they punished their children for drinking the seemingly unending supply of water. Rather than find more water together, the companies took their bucket and found less thirsty children, abandoning the ones that had been quenched.
But to blame the unions for drinking all the water without blaming those who let the bucket splash all over the ground is unfair. They got in this mess together. Management and Labor need to come back down the hill with a full bucket of water so nobody goes thirsty.
As General Motor’s announces bankruptcy, repeatedly, blame is cast towards the UAW and labor unions.
I liken what is happening to a wealthy parent who didn’t say “no” in time. It rarely gets mentioned when unions are attacked that all wages and benefits given to the employees are clearly outlined in a mutually agreed upon legally binding contract. There isn’t a union agreement in this nation that isn’t signed by both management and labor and authenticated by the government. That creates a system of checks and balances; a microism of our national government. This is the core of collective bargaining. Management agrees to the contractual terms as readily as the union.
To be part of a contract negotiation is no picnic. It is equally nerve wracking for either side. Every proposal is filled with opportunity, in the truest sense of capitalism. “How much can we make?” resonates on both sides. Like dealing with a rug merchant, the object is to get the best possible deal. Unlike a rug merchant, there is the future to consider. Again, I liken the bankruptcy to irresponsible parenting.
I am not suggesting the UAW is blameless. But casting blame is failure to accept responsibility in the situation. For one party to have “too much”, the other party must overindulge. Management had many chances to stand strong over the past 70 years. Closing the door after the horse ran away seems rather futile.
Unions are the best way a working class can achieve a level of life that is respectable. Management acted as an uninvolved, overly indulgent parent that threw money at its employees to keep them content. When the well ran dry, they punished their children for drinking the seemingly unending supply of water. Rather than find more water together, the companies took their bucket and found less thirsty children, abandoning the ones that had been quenched.
But to blame the unions for drinking all the water without blaming those who let the bucket splash all over the ground is unfair. They got in this mess together. Management and Labor need to come back down the hill with a full bucket of water so nobody goes thirsty.
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