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.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
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?
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