Not only have I turned that corner of Fifty and Forty Street but now I’m flying down Highway 53. And it’s dawned on me that I am loving this ride. I love the wind in my face and my grayish hair blowing wildly about the car. I am comfortable in this seat and the steering wheel feels at home in my hands. I have learned, not completely but better, how to take a deep breath and to let go.
It started in my 40’s, I think when I took a drawing class. I have no natural art talent yet I love art and museums. So when I saw an ad in our local paper for a community drawing class, I thought I’d give it a try. It was cheap. It was in our local high school at night. I could walk there. No reason not to go. And I loved it. I loved it because I let myself love it. No expectations. No Picasso wannabe or even a Grandma Moses. No requirements for a grade. Just me, drawing a circle over and over and over again. It was the first thing I remember attempting, in my life, where I allowed myself to not even try to be the best. Just to enjoy. It took a long time to get to this one point. Like 3 years of weekly classes.
And the lesson I learned there has bubbled over into other areas of my life. I can see it in my relationships with people.
A young woman came into my office today slightly tearful. She is deeply in debt and desperate for a solution. She asked my opinion about making a dramatic move in her life. She needed to act.
I listened to her and then asked her to take a deep breath. And to imagine the very worst thing which could happen. And what would her life be like if that thing she dreaded happened. To take a breath and to let go.
Lately I’ve noticed I’ve become better at listening to the other side of an argument. I think I’ve gotten more patient. And I’m smarter about knowing which battles to fight and which ones won’t matter. It’s a lot less stressful to little things go.
Lydia was one of my dearest friends. She was at least 50 years older than me when we met. She lived across the street from me when I was a young mother and I idolized her. A sort-of-family member distantly related to my husband’s mother, Lydia took an interest in me. Eccentric and independent, a staunch liberal and highly educated, she was and is what I would like to be. “Never get in a battle of wills with a two-year old,” she told me. “Dishes don’t have to match,” she said on another occasion. And my favorite advice was this: “Don’t worry about something unless it will matter when you’re Eighty.”
Dearest Lydia, thank goodness it only took me thirty years to absorb this.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
Publisher's Clearinghouse
From the time we were able to watch TV and understand the commercials, my sister and brothers and I were convinced that we would win Ed McMahon’s Publisher’s Clearinghouse sweepstakes. Our mother assured us that this would happen. It was a given.
We sat in her cozy kitchen, drawing endless designs of the houses we would build once we cashed the check. Our houses were always set on compounds not unlike what we envisioned the Kennedys owned. THE Kennedys. As in Jacqueline and John F’s family home. A compound where we would each have our own little house and my mother would rule supreme in a matriarchal style. When we heard a knock at our door- very uncommon since my mother didn’t encourage drop by guests- our hearts would pound and we’d push each other down to get to the door first. We knew as soon as we opened the door we would have to battle balloons and reporters while the Sweepstake van idled at the curb, spilling Ed out with that giant cardboard poster of a million dollar check made out to Us.
But usually the only person knocking at our door was someone to read the electric meter, little old women trying to save our souls or Aunt Julia Mae with her yipping dog who never failed to bite us. The dog. Not Aunt Julia Mae (who, if she could have gotten away with biting us, would have I am sure).
So we waited. And Waited. Filled out multiple subscription and entry forms. Spent uncounted hours arranging the furniture in our imaginary houses. Imagining the cars we would drive…. The horses we would raise on our huge estate…. The parties we would hold! The optimism and hope we stirred up among ourselves.
So we Waited. And Waited. And we lived in limbo for years, always expecting that we would win and be transported from our modest poverty into “A Comfortable Life.” And yet, we did not win.
There was a time when we each realized that this money was not likely to come our way. We set about going to school or joining the Air Force. Having babies and making homes. We moved on. But we could see no plans our Mom was making to take care of herself after our father died. She never lost the conviction that she would win it big. After we grew up and moved away she traveled, gypsy style, between our houses, living with first one and then another of us for several years before moving on to the next child’s home, the next grandchildren to spoil and pamper.
She sat at our kitchen tables drawing diagrams of extensive family compounds and pulled her grandchildren into her spell of expectation. Soon it was the grandchildren running to answer the door, imagining a giant cardboard check.
And while none of us ever did win that million dollar sweepstake, Mom did achieve her fondest wishes as if she’d won. She had her family around her. She lived A Comfortable Life, out of poverty and fear of where the next dollar would come. And she reigned her own little kingdom, Matriarch Supreme.
We sat in her cozy kitchen, drawing endless designs of the houses we would build once we cashed the check. Our houses were always set on compounds not unlike what we envisioned the Kennedys owned. THE Kennedys. As in Jacqueline and John F’s family home. A compound where we would each have our own little house and my mother would rule supreme in a matriarchal style. When we heard a knock at our door- very uncommon since my mother didn’t encourage drop by guests- our hearts would pound and we’d push each other down to get to the door first. We knew as soon as we opened the door we would have to battle balloons and reporters while the Sweepstake van idled at the curb, spilling Ed out with that giant cardboard poster of a million dollar check made out to Us.
But usually the only person knocking at our door was someone to read the electric meter, little old women trying to save our souls or Aunt Julia Mae with her yipping dog who never failed to bite us. The dog. Not Aunt Julia Mae (who, if she could have gotten away with biting us, would have I am sure).
So we waited. And Waited. Filled out multiple subscription and entry forms. Spent uncounted hours arranging the furniture in our imaginary houses. Imagining the cars we would drive…. The horses we would raise on our huge estate…. The parties we would hold! The optimism and hope we stirred up among ourselves.
So we Waited. And Waited. And we lived in limbo for years, always expecting that we would win and be transported from our modest poverty into “A Comfortable Life.” And yet, we did not win.
There was a time when we each realized that this money was not likely to come our way. We set about going to school or joining the Air Force. Having babies and making homes. We moved on. But we could see no plans our Mom was making to take care of herself after our father died. She never lost the conviction that she would win it big. After we grew up and moved away she traveled, gypsy style, between our houses, living with first one and then another of us for several years before moving on to the next child’s home, the next grandchildren to spoil and pamper.
She sat at our kitchen tables drawing diagrams of extensive family compounds and pulled her grandchildren into her spell of expectation. Soon it was the grandchildren running to answer the door, imagining a giant cardboard check.
And while none of us ever did win that million dollar sweepstake, Mom did achieve her fondest wishes as if she’d won. She had her family around her. She lived A Comfortable Life, out of poverty and fear of where the next dollar would come. And she reigned her own little kingdom, Matriarch Supreme.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Happy Thanksgiving
Yesterday I went into a natural food store. I love going into this store. I buy milk there, in the glass bottles which remind me of when I was younger and the milkman twice a week left our order by the front door. I buy yogurt there and cheese. I can always find vegetable broth in the big cartons. The produce is organic and the meat is free range and hormone-free, the breads whole-wheat and natural, boasting no preservatives. I know this food must be good for you. And yesterday it was brought home to me- only the well to do can afford to eat these healthy foods.
The woman in line in front of me was buying a fresh 12 pound turkey. The cash register: $51.53.
Fifty dollars for a turkey.
My frozen turkey, bought at Piggly Wiggly, was $7.87. Full of hormones, I’m sure, and probably raised on a turkey-mill farm. But affordable to many.
I was stunned, to be sure. Then I looked at the people around me, buying last minute Thanksgiving goodies. WASPs, all of them. White Anglo Saxon Princes and Princesses. Well-dressed- and I know this because they wore very expensive shoes….Danskos and Naots and Keens and Merrells….( I’d just been in the shoe store next door which, once upon a time, used to carry shoes which were much less than $259 and $112 on sale). The women carried expensive handbags in their manicured hands. No one was overweight. Everyone looked well-cared for.
They carried their purchases, in environmentally friendly reusable bags, out to Mercedes and Volvos. Not one car in the parking lots showed rust. None of the cars looked older than 5 years. None were held together with baling wire and pop rivets. Only the well-to- do can afford to visit this store.
But even in the chain grocery stores the more healthy foods are expensive. Whole-wheat bread is more expensive than the white type. Hormone-free eggs are more expensive than the Piggly Wiggly brand. Vegetables marked “organic” cost almost twice as much as the ones without that designation. Brown rice is pricey.
So you’re poor and you have a limited budget. You have a family to feed and you must take a bus or walk to the grocery store. The “health food” grocery stores in my region are not located in poor neighborhoods. Neither are the farmer’s markets. Neither are the truck farm stands, set up by local farmers, on little vacant lots or in church parking lots, offering fresh, locally grown produce.
Fifty dollars for a turkey. At least that store collects donations to our local food bank.
This Thanksgiving I’m thankful for my health and that of my family and friends. I’m grateful my family has steady jobs. I’m glad I have a church community where my liberal ideas are not only welcomed, but encouraged. That I’ve found friends with whom I laugh and cry. And that I do not have to battle poverty in order to make sure my family lives in a safe and healthful place. Even if we will be eating a seven dollar turkey chock full of hormones.
The woman in line in front of me was buying a fresh 12 pound turkey. The cash register: $51.53.
Fifty dollars for a turkey.
My frozen turkey, bought at Piggly Wiggly, was $7.87. Full of hormones, I’m sure, and probably raised on a turkey-mill farm. But affordable to many.
I was stunned, to be sure. Then I looked at the people around me, buying last minute Thanksgiving goodies. WASPs, all of them. White Anglo Saxon Princes and Princesses. Well-dressed- and I know this because they wore very expensive shoes….Danskos and Naots and Keens and Merrells….( I’d just been in the shoe store next door which, once upon a time, used to carry shoes which were much less than $259 and $112 on sale). The women carried expensive handbags in their manicured hands. No one was overweight. Everyone looked well-cared for.
They carried their purchases, in environmentally friendly reusable bags, out to Mercedes and Volvos. Not one car in the parking lots showed rust. None of the cars looked older than 5 years. None were held together with baling wire and pop rivets. Only the well-to- do can afford to visit this store.
But even in the chain grocery stores the more healthy foods are expensive. Whole-wheat bread is more expensive than the white type. Hormone-free eggs are more expensive than the Piggly Wiggly brand. Vegetables marked “organic” cost almost twice as much as the ones without that designation. Brown rice is pricey.
So you’re poor and you have a limited budget. You have a family to feed and you must take a bus or walk to the grocery store. The “health food” grocery stores in my region are not located in poor neighborhoods. Neither are the farmer’s markets. Neither are the truck farm stands, set up by local farmers, on little vacant lots or in church parking lots, offering fresh, locally grown produce.
Fifty dollars for a turkey. At least that store collects donations to our local food bank.
This Thanksgiving I’m thankful for my health and that of my family and friends. I’m grateful my family has steady jobs. I’m glad I have a church community where my liberal ideas are not only welcomed, but encouraged. That I’ve found friends with whom I laugh and cry. And that I do not have to battle poverty in order to make sure my family lives in a safe and healthful place. Even if we will be eating a seven dollar turkey chock full of hormones.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Lifting Up Your Face
OK. I’m jealous. Not normally the jealous type, but I have to admit that deep down, I’m jealous. Of the type of woman who Takes Very Good Care of Herself. Perhaps you know the type. Perhaps you’re one of the types.
This woman can wear very short skirts at any age and extremely high heels and not look ridiculous. She pays A LOT of money for high and low lights at the salon and she does that very frequently. If she works, it’s at a job that encourages her to have weekly acrylic nail things done. Her makeup is flawless. She drives expensive sports cars and looks good doing it. She is thin and petite and her clothes come from an upscale store in downtown Charleston. Probably that Pulitzer woman's place and I’m not talking about the writing prize.
She plays tennis fairly well, not competitively well, but socially well, once or twice a week. She does not golf. She has a sprayed on tan so that she looks good while lying by the pool at the club and still protecting herself from damaging UV rays.
And she has had work done. Every woman I know understands what that term means. None of my friends have had any work, but we all know women who have.
And today I realized some part of me envied those women.
It hit me pretty unexpectedly while my daughter and I were in a crafts store. We were in line at the checkout. I was scrounging in my beat up leather handbag to find a coupon so I could save a few pennies. And my daughter mentioned that the mother of a friend of hers looked really good at 50-something then offhandedly remarked, “She’s had some work done, though.”
BAM! A ton of bricks landed on my head. I wanted to be that woman who looked great at 53 and wore cute little dresses and didn’t have to hunt in the bottom of my bag to save a buck. The woman who doesn’t work but who has Married Well and has time and money for expensive personal pursuits.
“Where in the hell did THAT come from, " I wondered to myself because I’m usually pretty happy in my skin, sags and all. I can only imagine that it was a leftover ghostly desire from my weekend. I spend this past weekend at a conference in Hilton Head. I enjoyed it and the company I was in: nurse educators from all over NC and SC. Most of us at the peak of our careers. Most of us definitely over 45 years old. Very similar in backgrounds and careers, we all spoke the same language. Yet in the ballroom next door to ours, I think the women spoke a very different language.
It was a conference of cosmetic saleswomen.
They women were young and wore beautiful blue suits and 3 inch heels and their makeup, well, all I can say is, they DO sell makeup…. We could hear them clapping and laughing and music blaring. Our lectures were "How to give presentations when money is tight," and "what are the new NNSDO standards for career specialists." Not the sexiests subjects.
During one of our breaks these women were also on a break. A colleague turned to me as we walked down the hall behind a group of these women. “Ever wonder if we did something really wrong?” she asked. “I have torn discs in my back so that it’s hard to get out of bed. I must have gained weight but since I wear scrubs to work I didn’t realize it and when I was packing, and couldn’t find anything to wear, I had to run out to the only store open, Wal Mart, and buy an outfit that actually fits. I’m too tired after work to try to work out and I eat crap because that’s all the cafeteria sells.”
“I hear you, sister,” I told her. And I did. But today it really hit home. I could spend $44,000 on a brand new gas guzzling SUV if I wanted to, I guess. I could spend $180 every 6 wks at the salon if I really wanted that. Or I could have bought a book on how to land a millionaire husband.
Yet somewhere on earth a child starves to death every 7 seconds. Every Friday my Unitarian Universalist church provides 40 students with back packs filled with food to tie their families over until the next Monday when school, and free meals, is available to them again. Instead of knitting blankets for cancer patients or driving elderly people to social events or building Habitat Houses or providing a safe haven for a woman fleeing her home, my friends and I could be engaged in weekly "all about me" days and save our money for $7000 boob jobs and $15,000 face lifts and tummy tucks. But somehow it just doesn’t feel right. Perhaps I operate from a warped sense of guilt over my own life's good fortune or maybe I suffer from a wacked desire to feel good by helping someone else.
So I haven’t pampered myself and the real reason is probably that I really haven’t thought about it. I look in the mirror when I brush my teeth and hair in the morning and don’t look in the mirror again that day. I am too busy with life to even wonder if I have crow’s feet.
“I can’t imagine you getting any work done, “my good daughter nonchalantly told me in that checkout line. Had she seen the brief look of longing on my face? “Because you know that kind of stuff isn’t important. Besides,” she went on, “How would we know if you were smiling?” Then she gave me her own megawatt grin.
My daughter has an impeccable sense of how to bring me back to reality.
This woman can wear very short skirts at any age and extremely high heels and not look ridiculous. She pays A LOT of money for high and low lights at the salon and she does that very frequently. If she works, it’s at a job that encourages her to have weekly acrylic nail things done. Her makeup is flawless. She drives expensive sports cars and looks good doing it. She is thin and petite and her clothes come from an upscale store in downtown Charleston. Probably that Pulitzer woman's place and I’m not talking about the writing prize.
She plays tennis fairly well, not competitively well, but socially well, once or twice a week. She does not golf. She has a sprayed on tan so that she looks good while lying by the pool at the club and still protecting herself from damaging UV rays.
And she has had work done. Every woman I know understands what that term means. None of my friends have had any work, but we all know women who have.
And today I realized some part of me envied those women.
It hit me pretty unexpectedly while my daughter and I were in a crafts store. We were in line at the checkout. I was scrounging in my beat up leather handbag to find a coupon so I could save a few pennies. And my daughter mentioned that the mother of a friend of hers looked really good at 50-something then offhandedly remarked, “She’s had some work done, though.”
BAM! A ton of bricks landed on my head. I wanted to be that woman who looked great at 53 and wore cute little dresses and didn’t have to hunt in the bottom of my bag to save a buck. The woman who doesn’t work but who has Married Well and has time and money for expensive personal pursuits.
“Where in the hell did THAT come from, " I wondered to myself because I’m usually pretty happy in my skin, sags and all. I can only imagine that it was a leftover ghostly desire from my weekend. I spend this past weekend at a conference in Hilton Head. I enjoyed it and the company I was in: nurse educators from all over NC and SC. Most of us at the peak of our careers. Most of us definitely over 45 years old. Very similar in backgrounds and careers, we all spoke the same language. Yet in the ballroom next door to ours, I think the women spoke a very different language.
It was a conference of cosmetic saleswomen.
They women were young and wore beautiful blue suits and 3 inch heels and their makeup, well, all I can say is, they DO sell makeup…. We could hear them clapping and laughing and music blaring. Our lectures were "How to give presentations when money is tight," and "what are the new NNSDO standards for career specialists." Not the sexiests subjects.
During one of our breaks these women were also on a break. A colleague turned to me as we walked down the hall behind a group of these women. “Ever wonder if we did something really wrong?” she asked. “I have torn discs in my back so that it’s hard to get out of bed. I must have gained weight but since I wear scrubs to work I didn’t realize it and when I was packing, and couldn’t find anything to wear, I had to run out to the only store open, Wal Mart, and buy an outfit that actually fits. I’m too tired after work to try to work out and I eat crap because that’s all the cafeteria sells.”
“I hear you, sister,” I told her. And I did. But today it really hit home. I could spend $44,000 on a brand new gas guzzling SUV if I wanted to, I guess. I could spend $180 every 6 wks at the salon if I really wanted that. Or I could have bought a book on how to land a millionaire husband.
Yet somewhere on earth a child starves to death every 7 seconds. Every Friday my Unitarian Universalist church provides 40 students with back packs filled with food to tie their families over until the next Monday when school, and free meals, is available to them again. Instead of knitting blankets for cancer patients or driving elderly people to social events or building Habitat Houses or providing a safe haven for a woman fleeing her home, my friends and I could be engaged in weekly "all about me" days and save our money for $7000 boob jobs and $15,000 face lifts and tummy tucks. But somehow it just doesn’t feel right. Perhaps I operate from a warped sense of guilt over my own life's good fortune or maybe I suffer from a wacked desire to feel good by helping someone else.
So I haven’t pampered myself and the real reason is probably that I really haven’t thought about it. I look in the mirror when I brush my teeth and hair in the morning and don’t look in the mirror again that day. I am too busy with life to even wonder if I have crow’s feet.
“I can’t imagine you getting any work done, “my good daughter nonchalantly told me in that checkout line. Had she seen the brief look of longing on my face? “Because you know that kind of stuff isn’t important. Besides,” she went on, “How would we know if you were smiling?” Then she gave me her own megawatt grin.
My daughter has an impeccable sense of how to bring me back to reality.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Miracles
Miracles. They glide by us every day but when we became teen agers we stopped seeing them. And now that we're adults, we don't even remember that miracles were ever a part of our lives.
Today I drove under a rainbow. One end started in downtown Charleston and the other end reached across the harbor to James Island, bouncing it's prismatic colors across the sky. In fact, it's pale twin glistened above it, a double rainbow. I've only seen a handful of those in my life. And what surprised me today, other than rounding the bend by Ellis Creek to come face to face with this small miracle, was how many people in cars around me didn't bother to look up. For the most part, their cell phones seemed to hold more attraction than did this vision.
I am still thrilled by the sight of a rainbow, always unexpected. And excited when a dragonfly visits me. Blue wings drumming the air. My mother once tied a string to a dragonfly and threaded the string through my grandmother's kitchen screen door so I could sit safely inside, holding the end of that string, while my pet dragonfly buzzed on the otherside of the door.
I've watched moonflowers slowly open when the night sky sparkles above. The flowers glow white- a white that glow-in-the-dark colors can never mimic.
Venus flytraps enthrall me. I cannot bear to watch a naive fly succomb to the flytrap's allure. Man eating plants. Science Fiction in my back yard.
I hold crystals to the sunlight and watch prisms dance across the floor. I gather precious Southern snowflakes on my tongue. I gasp when I see a harvest moon hung low in the sky, peeking betwen pine boughs.
I contemplate how the universe could ever have begun. And watch stars twinkle and blink at me.
And I wink back.
Today I drove under a rainbow. One end started in downtown Charleston and the other end reached across the harbor to James Island, bouncing it's prismatic colors across the sky. In fact, it's pale twin glistened above it, a double rainbow. I've only seen a handful of those in my life. And what surprised me today, other than rounding the bend by Ellis Creek to come face to face with this small miracle, was how many people in cars around me didn't bother to look up. For the most part, their cell phones seemed to hold more attraction than did this vision.
I am still thrilled by the sight of a rainbow, always unexpected. And excited when a dragonfly visits me. Blue wings drumming the air. My mother once tied a string to a dragonfly and threaded the string through my grandmother's kitchen screen door so I could sit safely inside, holding the end of that string, while my pet dragonfly buzzed on the otherside of the door.
I've watched moonflowers slowly open when the night sky sparkles above. The flowers glow white- a white that glow-in-the-dark colors can never mimic.
Venus flytraps enthrall me. I cannot bear to watch a naive fly succomb to the flytrap's allure. Man eating plants. Science Fiction in my back yard.
I hold crystals to the sunlight and watch prisms dance across the floor. I gather precious Southern snowflakes on my tongue. I gasp when I see a harvest moon hung low in the sky, peeking betwen pine boughs.
I contemplate how the universe could ever have begun. And watch stars twinkle and blink at me.
And I wink back.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Story Tellers
I'm convinced there are two types of people in the world: Those That Tell Stories and Those That Listen to Story-Tellers.
This fact became clear to me when my sister and I visited our brothers in New Mexico. I was struck at how quickly we settled into our familiar story-telling selves. As if we'd never left childhood to travel the world of adults.
My husband's family are not a tribe of story-tellers. In fact, they don't talk very loudly, they don't like to bring attention to themselves, and they use an abbreviated form of conversation that, after 5 years, I still haven't learned. "You go on up that street to that corner and turn." How far, up which street, to exactly which corner and is that a left or a right turn? Their shorthand is familiar to them and among themselves they don't have to ask, "What the HELL are you talking about?" I'm sure they're perplexed by my need to know why we're going up that street and what chain of events prompted the journey.
My family, on the other hand, have no need for shorthand. We will tell you, in greater detail than you ever knew you wanted, why the street is named for the person it's named for, exactly how many blocks/feet/miles we're travelling before we turn at the exact name of the corner and any interesting landmarks we'll be passing on the way.
We want you to understand the circumstances of the travel. How the decision came to be made. The precipitating events. We'll want you to know a brief history of everyone in the car. And the relationship those people have to us. We'll tell you what time we're leaving and when we'll be back. And it will be FUNNY! Now, occasionally, we find ourselves taking poetic license with our memories. But this, too, is never planned.
My family is hilarious. And my sister is the Queen. Won't someone offer her a daytime talk show? Not content with a mere recitation of events, we'll give you all the side-splitting anecdotes you can stand. My family's perceptions are just a little off center- not enough to be truely bizarre- but certainly not average. It's like being in a Cohen movie. And our stories go on and on ... and on and on.... and on some more. My husband's niece, also not of the Storytelling genre of humans, calls my ramblings, "side bars." I love it. She succinctly describes us. She may not have been giving me a compliment, but that fact flew right over my head when she told me.
Some people do not want to call attention to themselves. My sibs and I don't purposely do that, but sometimes it just happens. We're often so wrapped up in telling a funny story to one another that we don't realize that people have gathered to listen. Wrapped up in our yarns, they nod and smile and laugh when we do.
And if you look closely, the people listening are... Those That Listen to Story Tellers.
This fact became clear to me when my sister and I visited our brothers in New Mexico. I was struck at how quickly we settled into our familiar story-telling selves. As if we'd never left childhood to travel the world of adults.
My husband's family are not a tribe of story-tellers. In fact, they don't talk very loudly, they don't like to bring attention to themselves, and they use an abbreviated form of conversation that, after 5 years, I still haven't learned. "You go on up that street to that corner and turn." How far, up which street, to exactly which corner and is that a left or a right turn? Their shorthand is familiar to them and among themselves they don't have to ask, "What the HELL are you talking about?" I'm sure they're perplexed by my need to know why we're going up that street and what chain of events prompted the journey.
My family, on the other hand, have no need for shorthand. We will tell you, in greater detail than you ever knew you wanted, why the street is named for the person it's named for, exactly how many blocks/feet/miles we're travelling before we turn at the exact name of the corner and any interesting landmarks we'll be passing on the way.
We want you to understand the circumstances of the travel. How the decision came to be made. The precipitating events. We'll want you to know a brief history of everyone in the car. And the relationship those people have to us. We'll tell you what time we're leaving and when we'll be back. And it will be FUNNY! Now, occasionally, we find ourselves taking poetic license with our memories. But this, too, is never planned.
My family is hilarious. And my sister is the Queen. Won't someone offer her a daytime talk show? Not content with a mere recitation of events, we'll give you all the side-splitting anecdotes you can stand. My family's perceptions are just a little off center- not enough to be truely bizarre- but certainly not average. It's like being in a Cohen movie. And our stories go on and on ... and on and on.... and on some more. My husband's niece, also not of the Storytelling genre of humans, calls my ramblings, "side bars." I love it. She succinctly describes us. She may not have been giving me a compliment, but that fact flew right over my head when she told me.
Some people do not want to call attention to themselves. My sibs and I don't purposely do that, but sometimes it just happens. We're often so wrapped up in telling a funny story to one another that we don't realize that people have gathered to listen. Wrapped up in our yarns, they nod and smile and laugh when we do.
And if you look closely, the people listening are... Those That Listen to Story Tellers.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Spooning My Patients
One of my patients this past week was a 19 year old young man, a victim of poor judgment and an ATV. Broken in several places and now sporting a tracheostomy tube, this young man also has a slight head injury. For him this means he'll do what you ask...for about 30 seconds...then he forgets and has to be re-directed. During my time with him he was focused on getting out of bed but, being unable to stand on his own, he wasn't allowed to. So someone had to sit with him constantly to keep reminding him to stay put.
He was a squirmer, too. He pulled things and tried to take his equipment apart. He sat up, then lied dow. He turned on his stomach. He lied at the foot of the bed. He hung his legs off the bed and then his head. We tried everything to keep him comfortable. He wasn't hurting, he told us. He wanted to drink water- but he can't because he chokes on even ice chips and would breathe liquids into his lungs if we let him drink. He was getting feedings through a tube- at least for a while until he pulled that tube out of his nose. When asked, he told me he didn't know what was wrong.
He had several episodes of diarrhea and had to be cleaned up. I know he was embarassed but he put up with 3 people in his room moving him from side to side while we cleaned his privates.
Several times he just grabbed my hand and rubbed it. He's the age of my nieces and younger than my son. I found myself rubbing his head and talking to him like I would one of my sick children.
He was tugging on my arm. I was sitting on the side of his bed. Before I realized it, I was holding this child in my arms, rubbing his head. I stopped being his nurse for a while, and became a mom. The young man settled down and went to sleep. I sat there with him for a long time, speaking softly to him, telling him he was safe and that he could go to sleep.
I went out with some friends afterwards and one of them, when he heard a colleague joke with me about 'spooning my patients' told me, "What if you had been a male nurse and that patient a female?"
WOW. He's 100% right. A male nurse probably wouldn't have done this if his patient had been a woman. Not if they're savy. Is it sexism? I do know it's the reality of the world we live in right now.
And the most common word used to describe a nurse is the word, "caring". Can a male nurse care for a patient in the very same way a female nurse can? Could a male nurse be a surrogate dad to a brain-injured young female patient?
Or should I have in a chair at the side of the bed, like they taught us in nursing school....
He was a squirmer, too. He pulled things and tried to take his equipment apart. He sat up, then lied dow. He turned on his stomach. He lied at the foot of the bed. He hung his legs off the bed and then his head. We tried everything to keep him comfortable. He wasn't hurting, he told us. He wanted to drink water- but he can't because he chokes on even ice chips and would breathe liquids into his lungs if we let him drink. He was getting feedings through a tube- at least for a while until he pulled that tube out of his nose. When asked, he told me he didn't know what was wrong.
He had several episodes of diarrhea and had to be cleaned up. I know he was embarassed but he put up with 3 people in his room moving him from side to side while we cleaned his privates.
Several times he just grabbed my hand and rubbed it. He's the age of my nieces and younger than my son. I found myself rubbing his head and talking to him like I would one of my sick children.
He was tugging on my arm. I was sitting on the side of his bed. Before I realized it, I was holding this child in my arms, rubbing his head. I stopped being his nurse for a while, and became a mom. The young man settled down and went to sleep. I sat there with him for a long time, speaking softly to him, telling him he was safe and that he could go to sleep.
I went out with some friends afterwards and one of them, when he heard a colleague joke with me about 'spooning my patients' told me, "What if you had been a male nurse and that patient a female?"
WOW. He's 100% right. A male nurse probably wouldn't have done this if his patient had been a woman. Not if they're savy. Is it sexism? I do know it's the reality of the world we live in right now.
And the most common word used to describe a nurse is the word, "caring". Can a male nurse care for a patient in the very same way a female nurse can? Could a male nurse be a surrogate dad to a brain-injured young female patient?
Or should I have in a chair at the side of the bed, like they taught us in nursing school....
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Books and covers
Let me preface this blog entry with a fact: my daughter is gorgeous. She's not just pretty, she's REALLY pretty. She's the kind of pretty that, when she walks into a room, people stop talking and look at her. Her hair is long, straight and golden blonde. She has enormous ice blue eyes. Her figure is absolute perfection. She's smart as hell and funny, honest and moral, kind-hearted and disarmingly self-confident but not conceited. I look at her and wonder how this creature came from my lowly DNA.
So, I was not surprised when the cashier in front of us at our local drugstore flirted with her. The check out line was long. People stretched behind us to the photo section. And the cashier started flirting. And flirting. And flirting. Every time my daughter tried to take the bag from his hand, the cashier had something else to say to her. He tried to help her with aa gift card she'd bought. He wanted to be sure she knew the number to call for additional information. People behind us coughed and shuffled. Women gave us the evil eye. Slightly uncomfortable, my daughter laughed and thanked him, took her purchase and moved off to the side to wait for me. The besotted young man continued to look at her and try to engage her in conversation. She turned to talk to me.
At this point I suppose the cashier realized his attempts were not working. And so he returned to the task at hand: checking me out. And not in the male/female way. In the "That'll-be -$12.22" kind of way.
He didn't ask if I knew the pros and cons of the eyeliner I was buying. Didn't try to talk to me about the benefits of my gel pen over a ball point. Didn't try to show me the customer care number on the receipt which, if I called, would enter me into a sweepstake for a $1000 shopping spree. I don't remember him even making eye contact. All he said to me was, "You don't need a bag for that, do you?"
Humbly, I acknowledged that I did not need a bag. And my daughter and I left.
Never has my lack of sex-appeal to a younger man been more poignantly pointed out. I did not look like a bag lady for once. I had make up on and my nails were done. I was even sort of dressed up. No matter to this 25+ guy. "Did you see that guy?" my daughter asked when we left? "And he didn't even give you a bag! What a jerk!"
She noticed.
My descent into oblivion from anyone younger than 45 began a few years ago. I was sitting in a park where multiple tourists asked me repeatedly for directions. They were probably from the north, visiting our Holy City in the South Carolina.... but they all, without exception, called me "Ma'am". Even the old guy with a gray beard. Perhaps that was just when I noticed it.
People treat you differently when you're much older than them. Men treat you differently when they're not sexually attracted to you. Women treat you differently if you're younger or prettier than them.
Have I been guilty of sexism? Beautify-ism? Ageism? Probably. This was an eye opener to me. My Autumn Resolution: try to look beyond youth and looks and gender to the person beyond..... after all- it's what I've always preached. Apparently, my daughter listened.
So, I was not surprised when the cashier in front of us at our local drugstore flirted with her. The check out line was long. People stretched behind us to the photo section. And the cashier started flirting. And flirting. And flirting. Every time my daughter tried to take the bag from his hand, the cashier had something else to say to her. He tried to help her with aa gift card she'd bought. He wanted to be sure she knew the number to call for additional information. People behind us coughed and shuffled. Women gave us the evil eye. Slightly uncomfortable, my daughter laughed and thanked him, took her purchase and moved off to the side to wait for me. The besotted young man continued to look at her and try to engage her in conversation. She turned to talk to me.
At this point I suppose the cashier realized his attempts were not working. And so he returned to the task at hand: checking me out. And not in the male/female way. In the "That'll-be -$12.22" kind of way.
He didn't ask if I knew the pros and cons of the eyeliner I was buying. Didn't try to talk to me about the benefits of my gel pen over a ball point. Didn't try to show me the customer care number on the receipt which, if I called, would enter me into a sweepstake for a $1000 shopping spree. I don't remember him even making eye contact. All he said to me was, "You don't need a bag for that, do you?"
Humbly, I acknowledged that I did not need a bag. And my daughter and I left.
Never has my lack of sex-appeal to a younger man been more poignantly pointed out. I did not look like a bag lady for once. I had make up on and my nails were done. I was even sort of dressed up. No matter to this 25+ guy. "Did you see that guy?" my daughter asked when we left? "And he didn't even give you a bag! What a jerk!"
She noticed.
My descent into oblivion from anyone younger than 45 began a few years ago. I was sitting in a park where multiple tourists asked me repeatedly for directions. They were probably from the north, visiting our Holy City in the South Carolina.... but they all, without exception, called me "Ma'am". Even the old guy with a gray beard. Perhaps that was just when I noticed it.
People treat you differently when you're much older than them. Men treat you differently when they're not sexually attracted to you. Women treat you differently if you're younger or prettier than them.
Have I been guilty of sexism? Beautify-ism? Ageism? Probably. This was an eye opener to me. My Autumn Resolution: try to look beyond youth and looks and gender to the person beyond..... after all- it's what I've always preached. Apparently, my daughter listened.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
My side of the Trees
Today I talked with an old friend at work. She's tall and slim, European, driven to succeed. She has her PhD and was in charge of major successful projects at my workplace. I've known her since I was 30. And I've been jealous of her for the past 20 years.
She has always seemed to have it all. An incredibly smart daughter who was in gifted classes for 12 years. A mother who moved from Holland to be near. Independence, both financially and emotionally. Interesting friends and a career she enjoyed. The respect of her colleagues.
But today, my old friend was crying on my shoulder. Literally soaking my sleeve with her bitter tears. Her husband lost his job of 20 years and the small business they started is bankrupt. Her husband found work last week painting cars. Her job where we work has been restructured and she is now doing a job she did not train for. The program she implemented was turned over to someone who accused her of not helping him be successful. Her daughter has run away from home. Her mother has Alzheimer's.
I was overwhelmed suddenly with gratitude. I'm a little overweight, but active and healthy-feeling. I have a job I love. I finished high school and college and graduate school and was the first member of my family to do so. My spiritual life is fulfilling. I am close to my brothers and sister. I'm proud of my children who have not run away and in fact call me almost every day. I have a husband who adores me.
I remembered something my grandmother used to tell me. I had forgotten it until today. I yearned for my grandmother's love yet it always seemed just out of reach. I looked for opportunties to make a connection with her. So each winter from the time I was 16 until I moved away I volunteered to drive 350 miles from my home in North Carolina to my grandmother's home in South Carolina. I would arrive around noon and we would gather her things and lock up and drive right back to North Carolina where she stayed with my family until the spring. We drove back up Interstate 95 and eventually dusk would settle on the little farms and houses which line I-95 in southern North Carolina. Lights from these houses twinkled through the pine trees like enchanged fairy lanterns. Things looked so cozy in those farmhouses, so safe. My grandmother would always say to me, "I wonder what people are doing in those little houses?" She was a sad lady and envied people who had lives different from her own.
Today I was reminded of that story when my friend was crying and I was trying to offer her comfort. All at once, it was gone. The jealousy and the envy. Just 'poof' and it wasn't there anymore. I don't think I worked on this consciously or that the jealousy fairy godmother tapped me with her magic wand to remove the green-eyed serpent.
I think it was experience and contentment and the wisdom which, yes, does come to some of us in dribs and drabs. It was gratitude and relief. It was being able to offer solace to an old friend. However it happened, today I realized someone might be looking through the trees at my own little twinkling lights. I hope it wasn't my friend, wondering if things were better on the other side of the trees.
She has always seemed to have it all. An incredibly smart daughter who was in gifted classes for 12 years. A mother who moved from Holland to be near. Independence, both financially and emotionally. Interesting friends and a career she enjoyed. The respect of her colleagues.
But today, my old friend was crying on my shoulder. Literally soaking my sleeve with her bitter tears. Her husband lost his job of 20 years and the small business they started is bankrupt. Her husband found work last week painting cars. Her job where we work has been restructured and she is now doing a job she did not train for. The program she implemented was turned over to someone who accused her of not helping him be successful. Her daughter has run away from home. Her mother has Alzheimer's.
I was overwhelmed suddenly with gratitude. I'm a little overweight, but active and healthy-feeling. I have a job I love. I finished high school and college and graduate school and was the first member of my family to do so. My spiritual life is fulfilling. I am close to my brothers and sister. I'm proud of my children who have not run away and in fact call me almost every day. I have a husband who adores me.
I remembered something my grandmother used to tell me. I had forgotten it until today. I yearned for my grandmother's love yet it always seemed just out of reach. I looked for opportunties to make a connection with her. So each winter from the time I was 16 until I moved away I volunteered to drive 350 miles from my home in North Carolina to my grandmother's home in South Carolina. I would arrive around noon and we would gather her things and lock up and drive right back to North Carolina where she stayed with my family until the spring. We drove back up Interstate 95 and eventually dusk would settle on the little farms and houses which line I-95 in southern North Carolina. Lights from these houses twinkled through the pine trees like enchanged fairy lanterns. Things looked so cozy in those farmhouses, so safe. My grandmother would always say to me, "I wonder what people are doing in those little houses?" She was a sad lady and envied people who had lives different from her own.
Today I was reminded of that story when my friend was crying and I was trying to offer her comfort. All at once, it was gone. The jealousy and the envy. Just 'poof' and it wasn't there anymore. I don't think I worked on this consciously or that the jealousy fairy godmother tapped me with her magic wand to remove the green-eyed serpent.
I think it was experience and contentment and the wisdom which, yes, does come to some of us in dribs and drabs. It was gratitude and relief. It was being able to offer solace to an old friend. However it happened, today I realized someone might be looking through the trees at my own little twinkling lights. I hope it wasn't my friend, wondering if things were better on the other side of the trees.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
I am not happy with some of my Facebook friends. I'm so unhappy with them that I've performed the ultimate cyber surgery... defriending.
"EGADS!" you cry. "Not Defriending?"
"Yes," I answer.
My friend list just shrunk from 150 to 63. Work friends... all gone.
After the initial 'enter' strike from my keyboard I feel curiously relieved.
Many of the little girls I work with, all younger than 35 and certainly more FB savy than I, had started posting very disparaging work-related comments. Mean-spirited comments about colleagues and work and even anonymous patients. I talked to a few of them about what I thought were inappropriate comments. They told me these posts were private and only their friends could see them. But, I told them, if one of your friends comments on your post, and I'm friends with that person, then I see the post, too..... Nope, they told me. Only their friends could see the comments.
A couple of things wrong with all of this.
1. FB posts are like sex.... when you sleep with someone, you're sleeping with everyone THEY have ever slept with. And, when you post to FB and one of your mutual friends posts a comment... well, kind of like commenting to an extended group of acquaintences and passers by.
2. Isn't this techno-gossip?
3. Don't mothers today teach their kids that gossiping is wrong?
4. While we're on the subject of manners, doesn't anyone send 'thank you' cards anymore?
5. That's a post for another day
Naturally, before doing my excision, I posted to anyone listening that I was removing all work friends from my FB account. My mother at least taught ME that anything you have to say to someone behind their back, you should say to their face.
I was overwhelmed by the responses.
1/4 of my work friends told me that they were doing the same thing! Why read about work, go to work, and then read about more work? they asked. Good point.
Another friend told me she didn't want to hear people she worked with saying ugly things about others.
And still another friend told me that she was pulling out the FB scalpel too.
Technology isn't just about bytes. To some, it's also about cutting remarks and words which fly into outer space but are always retrievable.
Good manners do not end when someone opens up their PC.
Mothers, you should log on to FB. And some of you need to remind your children of what I'm sure you told them when they were 8 years old:
"If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all."
"EGADS!" you cry. "Not Defriending?"
"Yes," I answer.
My friend list just shrunk from 150 to 63. Work friends... all gone.
After the initial 'enter' strike from my keyboard I feel curiously relieved.
Many of the little girls I work with, all younger than 35 and certainly more FB savy than I, had started posting very disparaging work-related comments. Mean-spirited comments about colleagues and work and even anonymous patients. I talked to a few of them about what I thought were inappropriate comments. They told me these posts were private and only their friends could see them. But, I told them, if one of your friends comments on your post, and I'm friends with that person, then I see the post, too..... Nope, they told me. Only their friends could see the comments.
A couple of things wrong with all of this.
1. FB posts are like sex.... when you sleep with someone, you're sleeping with everyone THEY have ever slept with. And, when you post to FB and one of your mutual friends posts a comment... well, kind of like commenting to an extended group of acquaintences and passers by.
2. Isn't this techno-gossip?
3. Don't mothers today teach their kids that gossiping is wrong?
4. While we're on the subject of manners, doesn't anyone send 'thank you' cards anymore?
5. That's a post for another day
Naturally, before doing my excision, I posted to anyone listening that I was removing all work friends from my FB account. My mother at least taught ME that anything you have to say to someone behind their back, you should say to their face.
I was overwhelmed by the responses.
1/4 of my work friends told me that they were doing the same thing! Why read about work, go to work, and then read about more work? they asked. Good point.
Another friend told me she didn't want to hear people she worked with saying ugly things about others.
And still another friend told me that she was pulling out the FB scalpel too.
Technology isn't just about bytes. To some, it's also about cutting remarks and words which fly into outer space but are always retrievable.
Good manners do not end when someone opens up their PC.
Mothers, you should log on to FB. And some of you need to remind your children of what I'm sure you told them when they were 8 years old:
"If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all."
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Am I Gray?
Have I turned gray? Is my hair 1/3, 1/4, 3/4 gray!!??
Gee, I haven't seen my real hair color in about 15 years. I do notice that the hair along my temples is starting to be REALLY gray, though. I used to know when it was time to color my hair when those ash brown roots started to show. Now, however, those ash brown roots look alot like gray roots.
A colleague of mine let herself go gray a few years ago. No one knew how gray, how white, her hair was. She turned gray, she told me, when she was 22. So she'd been coloring even longer than me. It was a pretty dramatic change. She went from brown to absolutely white overnight. And looked fabulous.
This decision I am trying to make was probably prompted by the recession. I recently had to stop visiting my favorite hair salon for color. I was paying, with tips and waxing my eyebrows and upper lip, about $180 each time. That's about $180 every 2 months. My budget just won't support that. Those high lights and low lights were very luxuriant and a treat that until this year I have never been able to afford. And then the economy tanked and I needed to cut back spending and those expensive salon visits went first.
So I'm back to my familiar box colors.
One box every 6 weeks or so, with a touch up 3 weeks after... that's definitely do-able. I cautiously color my eyebrows at the same time. What a deal.
Except.. maybe it's time to go au naturelle. Is it time to let the real me show through? I like looking a little younger than 53... being overweight does have it's benefits... the wrinkles are plumped up. But is it time to stop using that familiar light ash brown shade of semi-permanent hair color, time to go gray? I was talking about this last week to my sister. My husband walked in, overheard, and chuckled. He tells me he wants more gray. People trust lawyers with gray in their hair he tells me.
Just the other day we were out and my husband saw a lovely woman in Costco. He casually remarked to me how he's always had a thing for young women who've gone gray.
"How young?" I ask him.
"Oh, about 50-ish," he replied.
I am married to the most absolutely wonderful man in the world.
Gee, I haven't seen my real hair color in about 15 years. I do notice that the hair along my temples is starting to be REALLY gray, though. I used to know when it was time to color my hair when those ash brown roots started to show. Now, however, those ash brown roots look alot like gray roots.
A colleague of mine let herself go gray a few years ago. No one knew how gray, how white, her hair was. She turned gray, she told me, when she was 22. So she'd been coloring even longer than me. It was a pretty dramatic change. She went from brown to absolutely white overnight. And looked fabulous.
This decision I am trying to make was probably prompted by the recession. I recently had to stop visiting my favorite hair salon for color. I was paying, with tips and waxing my eyebrows and upper lip, about $180 each time. That's about $180 every 2 months. My budget just won't support that. Those high lights and low lights were very luxuriant and a treat that until this year I have never been able to afford. And then the economy tanked and I needed to cut back spending and those expensive salon visits went first.
So I'm back to my familiar box colors.
One box every 6 weeks or so, with a touch up 3 weeks after... that's definitely do-able. I cautiously color my eyebrows at the same time. What a deal.
Except.. maybe it's time to go au naturelle. Is it time to let the real me show through? I like looking a little younger than 53... being overweight does have it's benefits... the wrinkles are plumped up. But is it time to stop using that familiar light ash brown shade of semi-permanent hair color, time to go gray? I was talking about this last week to my sister. My husband walked in, overheard, and chuckled. He tells me he wants more gray. People trust lawyers with gray in their hair he tells me.
Just the other day we were out and my husband saw a lovely woman in Costco. He casually remarked to me how he's always had a thing for young women who've gone gray.
"How young?" I ask him.
"Oh, about 50-ish," he replied.
I am married to the most absolutely wonderful man in the world.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Gordon
I look at my daughter's dog, Gordon, whom she's left with us. He's at least 17 years old. My aunt named him the week we got him, Gordon, because he's likely a Gordon Setter.
Gordon Setters are hunting dogs. They're meant to find birds hidden in brush and point them until the hunter sees the dog and fires. They're large dogs, the size of an Irish setter. My daughter was ten when her father took her to the SPCA to pick out a dog. We already had 2 dogs, but he thought she needed her own. Gordon was on doggie death row. He had less than 24 hours to live. And Katie fell in love with him and so he came home to became another member of our boisterous household. Our vet told us Gordon was at least 2 years old then.
From the beginning, Gordon wanted to leave.He ran away every time some child left the back gate open.He ran away whenever he could sneak his way out of Katie's grasp. He ran away and turned up miles from home over and over again . He loved, though, to hang out in the parking lot of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store. "Partying at the Pig!" we used to laugh as we drove up to retrieve him. His favorite hang out.
Wikipedia gives us this: "The AKC describes the Gordon Setter temperament as "alert, gay, interested, and confident. He is fearless and willing, intelligent, and capable. He is loyal and affectionate, and strong-minded enough to stand the rigors of training." Gordons are intensely loyal to their owners; thrive in an attentive, loving environment; and are good family dogs."
Maybe Gordon isn't a Gordon Setter after all.
During my divorce, the children and I lived at the beach. We were 3 blocks from the small beachside downtown and the police station. Gordon would sneak out when someone forgot to lock the front porch door and head downtown. The police must have had my number on speed dial. Gordon was always turning up there. After the first few times, they stopped fining me. I'd show up after a phone call and the police officer on duty would take me to the back where Gordon would be resting in a large dog kennel just for the purpose of containing stray dogs.
I told them Gordon's story. How he had lived at the SPCA for a very long time before we got him. The police officer shook her head and smiled. "Incarceration syndrome," she said.
Wow. That explains alot. How, when we would pick him up from his wanderings after a call from a concerned citizen, Gordon would act like he didn't know us. "Are you sure this is your dog?" we were asked repeatedly.
And now he's old. And walking a little stiffly. When I wake up in the morning, I check him to see if he's breathing. He's deaf. He's lost weight. He doesn't grimace or make any noise when he gets up from his bed- where he lies most of the day- so I don't believe he's in pain. But boy, is he ever incontinent. I'm glad we have wooden floors. He doesn't know he's gone to the bathroom and the vet tells me it's because spinal arthritis is affecting important sphincters.
So the question invariably, every day is "Should I put him down?" Is being incontinent enough of a problem for him to warrant the 'blue juice'. I look at this dog whom I never really liked. This dog which I have taken to vets and hunted down after escapes. Which I have to bathe alot now. This dog which is sort of like a piece of furniture to us... just... there... not interacting more or less with us. I had just about talked myself into doing this thing when someone left the gate open.
At first I didn't know it. I came home from work and all of the dogs were home except for him. I convinced myself that Gordon had died under the house. I mentally prepared myself to crawl under there with a flashlight. Then there was a knock at the door. And the manager of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store stood there. With Gordon on the end of a ribbon used for balloons.
"He's been hanging out in the parking lot," he told me, handing me the ribbon. "His address was on his tag."
Gordon looked happy. His tail was wagging. He was tired but rightfully so. I thanked the nice man and brought Gordon in. He might not have been happy to be home, but I like to think he was happy that he still had it in him.
Gordon Setters are hunting dogs. They're meant to find birds hidden in brush and point them until the hunter sees the dog and fires. They're large dogs, the size of an Irish setter. My daughter was ten when her father took her to the SPCA to pick out a dog. We already had 2 dogs, but he thought she needed her own. Gordon was on doggie death row. He had less than 24 hours to live. And Katie fell in love with him and so he came home to became another member of our boisterous household. Our vet told us Gordon was at least 2 years old then.
From the beginning, Gordon wanted to leave.He ran away every time some child left the back gate open.He ran away whenever he could sneak his way out of Katie's grasp. He ran away and turned up miles from home over and over again . He loved, though, to hang out in the parking lot of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store. "Partying at the Pig!" we used to laugh as we drove up to retrieve him. His favorite hang out.
Wikipedia gives us this: "The AKC describes the Gordon Setter temperament as "alert, gay, interested, and confident. He is fearless and willing, intelligent, and capable. He is loyal and affectionate, and strong-minded enough to stand the rigors of training." Gordons are intensely loyal to their owners; thrive in an attentive, loving environment; and are good family dogs."
Maybe Gordon isn't a Gordon Setter after all.
During my divorce, the children and I lived at the beach. We were 3 blocks from the small beachside downtown and the police station. Gordon would sneak out when someone forgot to lock the front porch door and head downtown. The police must have had my number on speed dial. Gordon was always turning up there. After the first few times, they stopped fining me. I'd show up after a phone call and the police officer on duty would take me to the back where Gordon would be resting in a large dog kennel just for the purpose of containing stray dogs.
I told them Gordon's story. How he had lived at the SPCA for a very long time before we got him. The police officer shook her head and smiled. "Incarceration syndrome," she said.
Wow. That explains alot. How, when we would pick him up from his wanderings after a call from a concerned citizen, Gordon would act like he didn't know us. "Are you sure this is your dog?" we were asked repeatedly.
And now he's old. And walking a little stiffly. When I wake up in the morning, I check him to see if he's breathing. He's deaf. He's lost weight. He doesn't grimace or make any noise when he gets up from his bed- where he lies most of the day- so I don't believe he's in pain. But boy, is he ever incontinent. I'm glad we have wooden floors. He doesn't know he's gone to the bathroom and the vet tells me it's because spinal arthritis is affecting important sphincters.
So the question invariably, every day is "Should I put him down?" Is being incontinent enough of a problem for him to warrant the 'blue juice'. I look at this dog whom I never really liked. This dog which I have taken to vets and hunted down after escapes. Which I have to bathe alot now. This dog which is sort of like a piece of furniture to us... just... there... not interacting more or less with us. I had just about talked myself into doing this thing when someone left the gate open.
At first I didn't know it. I came home from work and all of the dogs were home except for him. I convinced myself that Gordon had died under the house. I mentally prepared myself to crawl under there with a flashlight. Then there was a knock at the door. And the manager of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store stood there. With Gordon on the end of a ribbon used for balloons.
"He's been hanging out in the parking lot," he told me, handing me the ribbon. "His address was on his tag."
Gordon looked happy. His tail was wagging. He was tired but rightfully so. I thanked the nice man and brought Gordon in. He might not have been happy to be home, but I like to think he was happy that he still had it in him.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Jess
My friend Jess is dying. She has leukemia and is 84 years old. I look at the web page from the National Institute of Cancer, Leukemia and read the list of symptoms which I realize have been plaguing her for months: shortness of breath, unwanted weight loss, bruising and poorly healing cuts, aching joints. It all makes sense now. Her doctor has told her to take care of all the things that need taking care of. He told her to live for today so now she isn't planning to take that Jamaica trip in March to see her grandson married.
She asked our knitting group tonight if we had a pattern for a baby blanket. Her grandson wants to start a family right away. It's taken her months to complete a small washcloth; her joints are terribly inflamed and she only knits, I think, when she joins us on Mondays for our group. I don't know how she'll get a baby blanket finished. But some of the members (are they oblivious to what's happening, I wonder?) gave her ideas for yarn and needle size.
She has been our dynamic member of the knitting group. With women in the group aged 28-87, she is one of the most active. Jess belongs to hat clubs and charity groups. She lunches regularly with friends. She's adopted a puppy. She bakes thousands of specialty Italian cookies for family and friends every Christmas.
Tonight she was tearful as she told me that the doctors haven't been very optimistic, but they're not telling her a definite prognosis. She knows it isn't good. And she said to me tonight, "I don't know why this has to be so undignified. Why can't this just get done with?" Why indeed?
I threw a few platitudes at her. I'm ashamed of myself for it. "Your children are glad you're here," I said. She leveled a Jess gaze at me. 'That's for them,' I think I read her mind. 'That's just delaying the inevitable. And making what time I have miserable and desperate. Can you see my desperation? How I'm barely holding on here? How I'm dragging myself to this group of women who pretend nothing is wrong so that I can live, for 2 hours, without this demon sitting on top of my chest?' But of course, classy Jess says none of this.
I wanted, though, to hand her a pill. In a gilded pillbox, befitting her elegant nature.
I wanted to be able to tell her, "Jess, this is for you. You know what it's for. Use it as you will." And then she would smile at me and take it in her frail, gnarled hand. I wanted to give her what she wants.
Instead, I'll be looking for a baby blanket pattern. And maybe finishing it for her when March rolls around.
She asked our knitting group tonight if we had a pattern for a baby blanket. Her grandson wants to start a family right away. It's taken her months to complete a small washcloth; her joints are terribly inflamed and she only knits, I think, when she joins us on Mondays for our group. I don't know how she'll get a baby blanket finished. But some of the members (are they oblivious to what's happening, I wonder?) gave her ideas for yarn and needle size.
She has been our dynamic member of the knitting group. With women in the group aged 28-87, she is one of the most active. Jess belongs to hat clubs and charity groups. She lunches regularly with friends. She's adopted a puppy. She bakes thousands of specialty Italian cookies for family and friends every Christmas.
Tonight she was tearful as she told me that the doctors haven't been very optimistic, but they're not telling her a definite prognosis. She knows it isn't good. And she said to me tonight, "I don't know why this has to be so undignified. Why can't this just get done with?" Why indeed?
I threw a few platitudes at her. I'm ashamed of myself for it. "Your children are glad you're here," I said. She leveled a Jess gaze at me. 'That's for them,' I think I read her mind. 'That's just delaying the inevitable. And making what time I have miserable and desperate. Can you see my desperation? How I'm barely holding on here? How I'm dragging myself to this group of women who pretend nothing is wrong so that I can live, for 2 hours, without this demon sitting on top of my chest?' But of course, classy Jess says none of this.
I wanted, though, to hand her a pill. In a gilded pillbox, befitting her elegant nature.
I wanted to be able to tell her, "Jess, this is for you. You know what it's for. Use it as you will." And then she would smile at me and take it in her frail, gnarled hand. I wanted to give her what she wants.
Instead, I'll be looking for a baby blanket pattern. And maybe finishing it for her when March rolls around.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Are You Hungry?
Today on page 5A of our Charleston Post and Courier newspaper reads a headline, “1 billion suffering from hunger”. It lies next to a ¾ color advertisement from one of the 2 most expensive furniture stores in the region announcing “Casual Lifetime Furniture” and a picture of a dining room set selling for $2999. I read this while I sat in my modest but comfortable home in a safe neighborhood enjoying my central air conditioning as I ate my breakfast of cornflakes, juice and cold milk.
I wondered then if I was the only person struck by the irony of the placement of these two items.
Yesterday I talked with Dr. Charlene Pope at the Medical University of SC’s College of Nursing about what direction I should take as I think about trying to enter the PhD program at that school. My interest has evolved into healthcare institution communication among caregivers and I don’t want to focus on America but on a more global scale. Perhaps that’s why my attention went to the headline and I stayed on to read the article.
Are we so calloused to headlines that we don’t take time to read the content? Does anyone give any pause when they are exposed to situations very foreign to our existence? And if we do take a minute, does anyone do something more than ‘cluck’ their tongue and move on? What if we sent one penny to an agency to buy food and distribute it. What if everyone in the world with any disposable income donated one penny to an agency we trusted to feed children and women and men who were dying, DYING, because they couldn’t have a breakfast. Couldn’t have a meal for days and weeks and then…
Would it feed our souls if we fed someone else?
Are you hungry today?
I wondered then if I was the only person struck by the irony of the placement of these two items.
Yesterday I talked with Dr. Charlene Pope at the Medical University of SC’s College of Nursing about what direction I should take as I think about trying to enter the PhD program at that school. My interest has evolved into healthcare institution communication among caregivers and I don’t want to focus on America but on a more global scale. Perhaps that’s why my attention went to the headline and I stayed on to read the article.
Are we so calloused to headlines that we don’t take time to read the content? Does anyone give any pause when they are exposed to situations very foreign to our existence? And if we do take a minute, does anyone do something more than ‘cluck’ their tongue and move on? What if we sent one penny to an agency to buy food and distribute it. What if everyone in the world with any disposable income donated one penny to an agency we trusted to feed children and women and men who were dying, DYING, because they couldn’t have a breakfast. Couldn’t have a meal for days and weeks and then…
Would it feed our souls if we fed someone else?
Are you hungry today?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Just a look
This past week I drove through the ghetto on the way to my daughter's house. Her new digs are on the other side of a rough section of town. It's not unusual to see homeless people hanging outside one of the Mom and Pop grocery stores that line this section of her street. Not unusual to see women walking the sidewalks in very high heels and very short skirts... even during the middle of the day.
It had been raining. Alot. In our town if it rains for 30 minutes and it's high tide, lots of streets flood. And so my daughter's street, with several low spots anyway, was flooded. Up to the door handles of my car.
I took several side streets and came back to the main street where I knew the ground was higher and I found myself at a corner at a stop light. Then I saw her. And she saw me.
There have been only a few occasions in my life when I've met someone and had an instant connection. In the nursery of the hospital where I work I held a baby who's mother had given him up for adoption. He lifted his head and stared right inside of me and I called my husband to tell him I was bringing this child home. (I didn't..couldn't... but if I were single......) I met my best friend when she was lost and knocked on the door of my husband's business. We were fast friends immediately. And my friend Hendrien from Holland- that's how we all know her- and I sat next to each other one day at the beach while we watched the Space Shuttle take off 45 miles away and have remained great friends for 27 years.
But I was stunned this week when I turned my head and saw a woman, very unlike myself, that I felt I already knew. She wore a short red dress and stiletto heels not meant for walking. She was standing in front of a lake of water.
She stared back. I don't know what she saw when she looked at me. An older, overweight white lady, probably lost in a part of town that white, middle class women don't visit? Someone driving when she had to walk? A lady who could afford nice clothes and a nice house to drive home to? I briefly thought, "I live a life she couldn't imagine living."
And what did I see? A girl trying to make a living. A woman trying to cross a lake of water. A prostitute who might be on drugs. But the look in her eyes, the soul I thought I saw, will haunt me.
I should have stopped my car and offered this woman a ride. If she needed help to get out of the life I thought she was in, I should have offered it to her. Based on nothing more than a poignant glance, I was ready to change my life and maybe hers. In a blink of an eye I thought I might be able to help.
I knew this person. She could be me.
Then the light changed and I drove through the intersection slowly. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my missed friend get into a man's car. And drive away.
It had been raining. Alot. In our town if it rains for 30 minutes and it's high tide, lots of streets flood. And so my daughter's street, with several low spots anyway, was flooded. Up to the door handles of my car.
I took several side streets and came back to the main street where I knew the ground was higher and I found myself at a corner at a stop light. Then I saw her. And she saw me.
There have been only a few occasions in my life when I've met someone and had an instant connection. In the nursery of the hospital where I work I held a baby who's mother had given him up for adoption. He lifted his head and stared right inside of me and I called my husband to tell him I was bringing this child home. (I didn't..couldn't... but if I were single......) I met my best friend when she was lost and knocked on the door of my husband's business. We were fast friends immediately. And my friend Hendrien from Holland- that's how we all know her- and I sat next to each other one day at the beach while we watched the Space Shuttle take off 45 miles away and have remained great friends for 27 years.
But I was stunned this week when I turned my head and saw a woman, very unlike myself, that I felt I already knew. She wore a short red dress and stiletto heels not meant for walking. She was standing in front of a lake of water.
She stared back. I don't know what she saw when she looked at me. An older, overweight white lady, probably lost in a part of town that white, middle class women don't visit? Someone driving when she had to walk? A lady who could afford nice clothes and a nice house to drive home to? I briefly thought, "I live a life she couldn't imagine living."
And what did I see? A girl trying to make a living. A woman trying to cross a lake of water. A prostitute who might be on drugs. But the look in her eyes, the soul I thought I saw, will haunt me.
I should have stopped my car and offered this woman a ride. If she needed help to get out of the life I thought she was in, I should have offered it to her. Based on nothing more than a poignant glance, I was ready to change my life and maybe hers. In a blink of an eye I thought I might be able to help.
I knew this person. She could be me.
Then the light changed and I drove through the intersection slowly. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my missed friend get into a man's car. And drive away.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Yacht Club
Last night my husband and I went to a party on the river. We were celebrating a friend's completion of his medical residency and the party was held at a small
yacht club on our island. In fact, the only yacht club on our island.
Not a fancy place. Almost anyone can rent the club for events. My first husband belonged to this place we kiddingly called, the Redneck Boat Club. To join you have to have a white penis. That's right. No women are allowed to join. And no one of color belongs to this club.
My first husband loved going here, even though he would not think of himself as racist or sexist. The club is simple- a bar and a small event room and a sun porch. The grounds are large and you can store your boat there. But it's the fabulous access to Charleston's harbor that probably drew him and kept him there.
Easy access to the water. Sailing lessons for members' kids. Playgrounds and boats everywhere and kayaks and a small sandy beach. A long dock to fish and crab from. Bicycling distance from the house. My children spent many hours at this place.
And I never once felt I belonged. And of course, I didn't.
Every Friday night for years, my husband and I went to this club for a cocktail hour and raffle for which you had to be present to win. I silently fought myself every Friday night about going to the club. I disliked the politics and the beliefs of almost everyone at that club. But my husband wanted me to go with him and the children- who got to play with their friends at night at the river- on these Friday nights. And being a wife who was still trying to make that marriage work, I went along.
And I actually talked myself into it for a while. Smiling at the ladies there with their husbands. Compromising my ideas about equality and fairness. About what kind of wife and mother and woman I wanted to be. Trying to belong when very clearly I didn't. Until I just gave it all up.
Last night I sat on the dock with a different husband. But not with a different me. Perhaps a truer me. Definitely a more contented me.
Compromises. Hopefully they don't damage you too badly while they're teaching you a lesson.
yacht club on our island. In fact, the only yacht club on our island.
Not a fancy place. Almost anyone can rent the club for events. My first husband belonged to this place we kiddingly called, the Redneck Boat Club. To join you have to have a white penis. That's right. No women are allowed to join. And no one of color belongs to this club.
My first husband loved going here, even though he would not think of himself as racist or sexist. The club is simple- a bar and a small event room and a sun porch. The grounds are large and you can store your boat there. But it's the fabulous access to Charleston's harbor that probably drew him and kept him there.
Easy access to the water. Sailing lessons for members' kids. Playgrounds and boats everywhere and kayaks and a small sandy beach. A long dock to fish and crab from. Bicycling distance from the house. My children spent many hours at this place.
And I never once felt I belonged. And of course, I didn't.
Every Friday night for years, my husband and I went to this club for a cocktail hour and raffle for which you had to be present to win. I silently fought myself every Friday night about going to the club. I disliked the politics and the beliefs of almost everyone at that club. But my husband wanted me to go with him and the children- who got to play with their friends at night at the river- on these Friday nights. And being a wife who was still trying to make that marriage work, I went along.
And I actually talked myself into it for a while. Smiling at the ladies there with their husbands. Compromising my ideas about equality and fairness. About what kind of wife and mother and woman I wanted to be. Trying to belong when very clearly I didn't. Until I just gave it all up.
Last night I sat on the dock with a different husband. But not with a different me. Perhaps a truer me. Definitely a more contented me.
Compromises. Hopefully they don't damage you too badly while they're teaching you a lesson.
Friday, June 5, 2009
My safe word is "Purl"
I have a curiosity about lifestyles very different from mine. I love the idea of communal living. I am perversely intrigued by the concept of sister-wives found in polygamous marriages. And S&M holds me fascinated.
So I was at knitting tonight. My Odd Friday Night Unitarian Universalist Knitting Group. Six of us who get together for hours of hilarious and warm conversation. Somehow we started talking about yarn which felt like we were knitting with steel wool and how only masochists would like this yarn and if we knitted something WITH this yarn we'd have to include handcuffs and the knitter would have to have a "safe word." In S&M circles, a "safe word" is given when the sexual play becomes a little too rough or scary- a word which can't be misinterpreted to mean anything other than "STOP." "NOW!"
I've been thinking about friendships alot lately. About what makes friends and how friends are made.
I'm lucky to have this knitting group. They're my friends. Good friends. We may have started as a church connected group, but we have gone way past that. Initially our UU church-related commonalities gave us a jumping off point. Our conversations, however, have become threads which we gently unravel from each others' lives. We don't indulge in pseudo-psychoanalysis. And we don't bare our deepest, darkest souls to one another while we sip lattes at our coffee house meeting place. But we share concerns about our families, hopes for our careers, children problems and parent problems and travel plans and, yes, knitting patterns.
Thisis the group of people to whom I'd turn to at 3 am in an emergency- (the 3 am call is my bellwether for defining friendships). I'd call these friends if and when I need moral support. If my car broke down and I couldn't find a ride. If I needed an air mattress for an out-of-town guest. If I need a recipe for an appetizer.
We knit and we laugh and we drink tea about every other Friday night. These nights appear in my busy life as a respite. I can count on finding a haven from chaos at least every other week.
When the world is spinning almost out of control, I know I can count on these Fridays when I can be myself with liberal, like-minded folk who share a love of knitting and good conversation. In a sometimes scary and rough world, the Friday Night Knitters are my oacis.
My 'safe word' is "Purl".
So I was at knitting tonight. My Odd Friday Night Unitarian Universalist Knitting Group. Six of us who get together for hours of hilarious and warm conversation. Somehow we started talking about yarn which felt like we were knitting with steel wool and how only masochists would like this yarn and if we knitted something WITH this yarn we'd have to include handcuffs and the knitter would have to have a "safe word." In S&M circles, a "safe word" is given when the sexual play becomes a little too rough or scary- a word which can't be misinterpreted to mean anything other than "STOP." "NOW!"
I've been thinking about friendships alot lately. About what makes friends and how friends are made.
I'm lucky to have this knitting group. They're my friends. Good friends. We may have started as a church connected group, but we have gone way past that. Initially our UU church-related commonalities gave us a jumping off point. Our conversations, however, have become threads which we gently unravel from each others' lives. We don't indulge in pseudo-psychoanalysis. And we don't bare our deepest, darkest souls to one another while we sip lattes at our coffee house meeting place. But we share concerns about our families, hopes for our careers, children problems and parent problems and travel plans and, yes, knitting patterns.
Thisis the group of people to whom I'd turn to at 3 am in an emergency- (the 3 am call is my bellwether for defining friendships). I'd call these friends if and when I need moral support. If my car broke down and I couldn't find a ride. If I needed an air mattress for an out-of-town guest. If I need a recipe for an appetizer.
We knit and we laugh and we drink tea about every other Friday night. These nights appear in my busy life as a respite. I can count on finding a haven from chaos at least every other week.
When the world is spinning almost out of control, I know I can count on these Fridays when I can be myself with liberal, like-minded folk who share a love of knitting and good conversation. In a sometimes scary and rough world, the Friday Night Knitters are my oacis.
My 'safe word' is "Purl".
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Seven Year Itch
I just read today that most people turn over 50% of their friends every 7 years. That means that every 14 years we have a completely new circle of buddies.
I know that it must be. And the reason why I know this is because seven is a mystical number.
Seven is the smallest positive integer to be spoken with two syllables when pronounced in English. Seven is the largest number of digits which the typical American can remember without prompting (hence, 7 digit phone numbers). Seven stellar objects in the solar system are visible to the naked eye from Earth: the sun, the moon and the five classical naked eye plants: Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus and Saturn. There are seven hills in classical Rome, seven Sages and seven wonders of the world. We have seven days of the week. Seven dwarfs and Snow White. And Marilyn Monroe's Seven Year Itch.
Of course we'll have new friends every 7 years. And how those friends do change.
When I was a little girl, my friends, for better or worse, were kids who lived near me. If we couldn't walk or bike to each other's houses, we couldn't be friends.
In high school, my friends were those socially inept people like myself. We stuck together because at our little North Carolina high school, it wasn't too cool to be brainy and brainy was what defined us. Thrown together by eccentricities.
College? More of the same... except some of us had cars.
After-college friends, though, are a different story. I made 3 close friends in nursing school. And thirty years after nursing school, I can't find any of them. Kids took up alot of my time in my 20's and 30's and my friends, or rather, my acquaintances, were parents of my friends' kids and a few who I went to church with. We'd try to get together but often ball games and after-school activities and homework and our own jobs interferred with creating a bond between us.
UNTIL.
A few years ago I realized that my kids would soon be gone. My husband and I would be in an empty house. And I was planning to retire in 7 years. All of my friends at the time were people I worked beside. Did I have friends? Or were they simply people I bumped into daily?
When you're 50 years old, how does one make friends? How does one find people to make friends with????
My good friend Lynette is the best friend-maker I've ever known. She knows how to cultivate friendships and most of what I've learned as an adult about friendships I've learned from her.
Let people know that you like them. Join groups of people who share your interests. Go to church. Volunteer. And when you find someone.... call them. Often. Go out to dinner or a movie or to the Farmer's Market, even if only for an hour. When it's a special occasion, mail them a card. Have a party and invite every friend you have. Or would want to have.
So now I go to church almost every Sunday. And after 20 years of going to the same church, I think I've finally connected. I'm a slow learner. I belong to a knitting group that meets every week. In my normal workaday world I would have never met the wonderful women I've met at this free knitting group. I belong to another group that knits blankets for chemotherapy patients. I've registered to become a Literacy association member. I've become active in my professional nursing association.
When I was in 1st grade, friendships weren't work. Now they are. My little friends are gone. I hope these are here to stay. Longer than 7 years. They'll be worth it. Thank you, Lynette.
I know that it must be. And the reason why I know this is because seven is a mystical number.
Seven is the smallest positive integer to be spoken with two syllables when pronounced in English. Seven is the largest number of digits which the typical American can remember without prompting (hence, 7 digit phone numbers). Seven stellar objects in the solar system are visible to the naked eye from Earth: the sun, the moon and the five classical naked eye plants: Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus and Saturn. There are seven hills in classical Rome, seven Sages and seven wonders of the world. We have seven days of the week. Seven dwarfs and Snow White. And Marilyn Monroe's Seven Year Itch.
Of course we'll have new friends every 7 years. And how those friends do change.
When I was a little girl, my friends, for better or worse, were kids who lived near me. If we couldn't walk or bike to each other's houses, we couldn't be friends.
In high school, my friends were those socially inept people like myself. We stuck together because at our little North Carolina high school, it wasn't too cool to be brainy and brainy was what defined us. Thrown together by eccentricities.
College? More of the same... except some of us had cars.
After-college friends, though, are a different story. I made 3 close friends in nursing school. And thirty years after nursing school, I can't find any of them. Kids took up alot of my time in my 20's and 30's and my friends, or rather, my acquaintances, were parents of my friends' kids and a few who I went to church with. We'd try to get together but often ball games and after-school activities and homework and our own jobs interferred with creating a bond between us.
UNTIL.
A few years ago I realized that my kids would soon be gone. My husband and I would be in an empty house. And I was planning to retire in 7 years. All of my friends at the time were people I worked beside. Did I have friends? Or were they simply people I bumped into daily?
When you're 50 years old, how does one make friends? How does one find people to make friends with????
My good friend Lynette is the best friend-maker I've ever known. She knows how to cultivate friendships and most of what I've learned as an adult about friendships I've learned from her.
Let people know that you like them. Join groups of people who share your interests. Go to church. Volunteer. And when you find someone.... call them. Often. Go out to dinner or a movie or to the Farmer's Market, even if only for an hour. When it's a special occasion, mail them a card. Have a party and invite every friend you have. Or would want to have.
So now I go to church almost every Sunday. And after 20 years of going to the same church, I think I've finally connected. I'm a slow learner. I belong to a knitting group that meets every week. In my normal workaday world I would have never met the wonderful women I've met at this free knitting group. I belong to another group that knits blankets for chemotherapy patients. I've registered to become a Literacy association member. I've become active in my professional nursing association.
When I was in 1st grade, friendships weren't work. Now they are. My little friends are gone. I hope these are here to stay. Longer than 7 years. They'll be worth it. Thank you, Lynette.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Alpha Dog Omega Cat
A pack lives in my house right now. Not just a small gathering of furry creatures. A pack. Children come and go but their pets stay forever.
My fault, I know it. No excuses from me. And these gypsy children of mine do claim (most) of their pets when their living situations permit. Otherwise, it's granny-day-care for them. Even my sister-in-law, moving across country into military housing, has taken advantage of the service- I now have a Shih-Tzu.
When my children were much younger we always had a dog. Then two. Then a manic episode from my husband... and we had three, four and almost five. But I realized recently that none of them then, and none of them now, are dogs of my own choosing.
Then the children were grown and my ex-and I became, well, ex's. I took the Huskie that no one wanted. Her name was Tasha. She had always been the family dog but when she and I started a new life together, we fell in love. We moved to the beach and walked at the ocean's edge twice a day. She nudged her doggie bed against mine so she could sleep as close to me as she could get without having to haul her arthritic bones up onto the bed. She became deaf and we developed our own sign language. We were sympatico.
I look at the pack gathered around me right now: Boykin Spaniel (hubbie's), Kai (belongs to my son in Costa Rica), Shih Tzu (sister in law's left overs), Gordon Setter (manic rescue belonging to my daughter), Mini Schnauzer (daughter's rescue) and Tortoise-shell cat (again, daughter...). And Fred, the shrimp, living in a biosphere on my kitchen table, but he was a birthday present from my pet-loving daughter.
I still don't have a dog that's mine.
I take care of them. I feed them and cut their matted hair. I give them treats and take them to the vet for shots. I buy them doggie beds and doggie Christmas stockings. But I don't feel they are mine.
Soon my children will be really and truly on their own and will come to re-claim their pets. The Boykin is nearing 12 years old- aged for a Boykin Spaniel and I shudder to think what will happen if my husband has to take him to that last vet's appointment.
When all the pets are gone, will I feel the urge to get a dog of my own? Have I become super-saturated with pets and rejoice when every fur-shedding, doggie-smelling, expensive 4 legged creature disappears?
Or will I fall in love with Cali, the Tibetan goddess of destruction, also known as my sister-in-law's Shih Tzu?
My fault, I know it. No excuses from me. And these gypsy children of mine do claim (most) of their pets when their living situations permit. Otherwise, it's granny-day-care for them. Even my sister-in-law, moving across country into military housing, has taken advantage of the service- I now have a Shih-Tzu.
When my children were much younger we always had a dog. Then two. Then a manic episode from my husband... and we had three, four and almost five. But I realized recently that none of them then, and none of them now, are dogs of my own choosing.
Then the children were grown and my ex-and I became, well, ex's. I took the Huskie that no one wanted. Her name was Tasha. She had always been the family dog but when she and I started a new life together, we fell in love. We moved to the beach and walked at the ocean's edge twice a day. She nudged her doggie bed against mine so she could sleep as close to me as she could get without having to haul her arthritic bones up onto the bed. She became deaf and we developed our own sign language. We were sympatico.
I look at the pack gathered around me right now: Boykin Spaniel (hubbie's), Kai (belongs to my son in Costa Rica), Shih Tzu (sister in law's left overs), Gordon Setter (manic rescue belonging to my daughter), Mini Schnauzer (daughter's rescue) and Tortoise-shell cat (again, daughter...). And Fred, the shrimp, living in a biosphere on my kitchen table, but he was a birthday present from my pet-loving daughter.
I still don't have a dog that's mine.
I take care of them. I feed them and cut their matted hair. I give them treats and take them to the vet for shots. I buy them doggie beds and doggie Christmas stockings. But I don't feel they are mine.
Soon my children will be really and truly on their own and will come to re-claim their pets. The Boykin is nearing 12 years old- aged for a Boykin Spaniel and I shudder to think what will happen if my husband has to take him to that last vet's appointment.
When all the pets are gone, will I feel the urge to get a dog of my own? Have I become super-saturated with pets and rejoice when every fur-shedding, doggie-smelling, expensive 4 legged creature disappears?
Or will I fall in love with Cali, the Tibetan goddess of destruction, also known as my sister-in-law's Shih Tzu?
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Contentment or Exhaustion?
Today I barely made it home from work. I can't believe how tired I am. I had a series of meetings today that left me emotionally and psychologically exhausted.
And I haven't exercised in weeks. Who am I kidding? Months.
My good friend Celeste just picked up and moved to Florida. We talked a few days ago and she remarked how she hadn't been homesick even one day. "And then," she said, "I realized why. It's because I AM home."
I envy her spunk. I envy her ability to choose, closer to 60 than am I, to start a new chapter. Will I ever get that energy again? That drive to start something unfamiliar? The motivation and the energy to begin again?
Naturally, I lament all this to my husband. Why am I not career-driven any more? I don't want to go back to school. I can barely make it to my knitting group each week. I have no desire to start new projects.
Is he right? Is it because, for the first time in years- perhaps the first time in my life- I'm content?
And if it's contentment.... can acceptance be far behind?
And I haven't exercised in weeks. Who am I kidding? Months.
My good friend Celeste just picked up and moved to Florida. We talked a few days ago and she remarked how she hadn't been homesick even one day. "And then," she said, "I realized why. It's because I AM home."
I envy her spunk. I envy her ability to choose, closer to 60 than am I, to start a new chapter. Will I ever get that energy again? That drive to start something unfamiliar? The motivation and the energy to begin again?
Naturally, I lament all this to my husband. Why am I not career-driven any more? I don't want to go back to school. I can barely make it to my knitting group each week. I have no desire to start new projects.
Is he right? Is it because, for the first time in years- perhaps the first time in my life- I'm content?
And if it's contentment.... can acceptance be far behind?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
My Mother's hands
Today I was surprised to find that, somewhere between the front door, and the connector bridge to downtown Charleston, my mother's hands found their way to the ends of my arms.
The sun was streaming through the windshield and there they were. Wrinkled a little. Elasticity gone. Skin thin and..... were those a few little spots of discoloration?
Since Mama died a few years ago, I can't say that seeing them there, stuck where my own hands used to be, was an unwelcomed find. I don't have alot to remember her by. She lived according to her philosophy: "Don't love something that can't love you back."
That meant THINGS. She died owning a few inexpensive pieces of jewelry. An incredibly old television (are those RABBIT EARS???). And whatever clothes would fit into her suitcase. And since she took turns visiting us all- for two years at a time- she didn't need alot of things.
She had us.
and we had her.
and now I have her hands.
The sun was streaming through the windshield and there they were. Wrinkled a little. Elasticity gone. Skin thin and..... were those a few little spots of discoloration?
Since Mama died a few years ago, I can't say that seeing them there, stuck where my own hands used to be, was an unwelcomed find. I don't have alot to remember her by. She lived according to her philosophy: "Don't love something that can't love you back."
That meant THINGS. She died owning a few inexpensive pieces of jewelry. An incredibly old television (are those RABBIT EARS???). And whatever clothes would fit into her suitcase. And since she took turns visiting us all- for two years at a time- she didn't need alot of things.
She had us.
and we had her.
and now I have her hands.
Thanks!
Thanks to friends and fb'ers who read my first blog.... I hope it spoke to you a little and thanks for your positive comments.
More to come from my slightly askew view of the world.
More to come from my slightly askew view of the world.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
You say Crone as if it's a bad thing...
I remember the first time someone called me a "bitch". I proudly countered with the snappy retort, "You say BITCH as if it's a bad thing!". OK... I didn't just counter..... I screamed... but proudly.
I'm way past the age where calling me a "bitch" might offend me. But call me a "crone"? Is that a fighting word now? What exactly IS a crone?
True to our generation we have exhaustively researched the subject of menopause. We know it's symptoms, the physical effects, the psychological repercussions and the meaning of the word "menopause".
But aren't we all our worst enemies? I summon up all those negative connotations when I think of a witch, a crone. And we know all about crones, thank you, Wikipedia. A witch. Green-tinted. A wart here and there. Not married, of course. On her own. Independent. Assertive. Getting what she wants. Not too burdened by wondering what others are thinking about her. Way past child-bearing age. Does this sound like anyone we know? Well, except for the green thing. And... warts.....
Don't we all want independence? To keep it. To foster it, even? And getting our own way. During menopause we tend to lose the oxytocin hormone. The 'caregiving' hormone which is linked to women and childbirth. Loss of the hormone which might encourage us to overlook our own needs to focus on our families. It's no surprise, then, that women in their 50's initiate divorce more often than do men in their 50's.
To many, they've had enough. No more caregiving left in them. In fact, if we become grandmothers, then we brag about giving the children back to their parents after we spoil them a little. Not too interested in that 24/7 childrearing thing.
And worried about what others think? Who wrote that poem, "When I'm an old woman I shall wear purple?" She had it right. If I want to wear purple and red, then who's to criticize? Or if they do... do I care?
We only need to look a little closer at the definitions of "crone" to uncover a slightly different interpretation. A wise woman. Someone past child-bearing age. One of the Three Goddesses in the Gaia religion. Now I like that. That speaks to me. Mother Nature.
Assertive. Strong. Independent and confident. Describes every one of my women friends. I want to think that likes attract. And even if they don't, I can definitely strive to be more like the women, fictional and real, that I admire.
Either way you dish it up (except for the green thing.... and the warts...) I don't think I'll be too offended by being called, even in my own mind, Crone. In fact, I think I might even re-read Wicked. Thank you, Gregory Maguire.
I'm way past the age where calling me a "bitch" might offend me. But call me a "crone"? Is that a fighting word now? What exactly IS a crone?
True to our generation we have exhaustively researched the subject of menopause. We know it's symptoms, the physical effects, the psychological repercussions and the meaning of the word "menopause".
But aren't we all our worst enemies? I summon up all those negative connotations when I think of a witch, a crone. And we know all about crones, thank you, Wikipedia. A witch. Green-tinted. A wart here and there. Not married, of course. On her own. Independent. Assertive. Getting what she wants. Not too burdened by wondering what others are thinking about her. Way past child-bearing age. Does this sound like anyone we know? Well, except for the green thing. And... warts.....
Don't we all want independence? To keep it. To foster it, even? And getting our own way. During menopause we tend to lose the oxytocin hormone. The 'caregiving' hormone which is linked to women and childbirth. Loss of the hormone which might encourage us to overlook our own needs to focus on our families. It's no surprise, then, that women in their 50's initiate divorce more often than do men in their 50's.
To many, they've had enough. No more caregiving left in them. In fact, if we become grandmothers, then we brag about giving the children back to their parents after we spoil them a little. Not too interested in that 24/7 childrearing thing.
And worried about what others think? Who wrote that poem, "When I'm an old woman I shall wear purple?" She had it right. If I want to wear purple and red, then who's to criticize? Or if they do... do I care?
We only need to look a little closer at the definitions of "crone" to uncover a slightly different interpretation. A wise woman. Someone past child-bearing age. One of the Three Goddesses in the Gaia religion. Now I like that. That speaks to me. Mother Nature.
Assertive. Strong. Independent and confident. Describes every one of my women friends. I want to think that likes attract. And even if they don't, I can definitely strive to be more like the women, fictional and real, that I admire.
Either way you dish it up (except for the green thing.... and the warts...) I don't think I'll be too offended by being called, even in my own mind, Crone. In fact, I think I might even re-read Wicked. Thank you, Gregory Maguire.
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