The Best of the Mohicans

My husband and I have reached the stage in our marriage where we don’t always exchange gifts for our anniversary.   The behavior that would have sent me into a tailspin thirty years ago, forgetting our anniversary, now passes without much reaction and absolutely no punishment. 

In the early years of our marriage the sin of forgetting our anniversary has been known to be acknowledged with a thank you card.   Inside a heart-felt note, and the bill for whatever I bought to “celebrate” our special day, was my personal way of reminding him it’s probably cheaper to remember than to forget.

 

All that’s behind us now, and it’s not that we don’t acknowledge the date and take a moment to wonder where the years have gone….we do.    But we don’t dig out the traditional list of gifts for anniversaries and try to find something to fit.   Actually, it’s a good thing we don’t, because we just had our 49^th and there is no traditional gift for the 49^th anniversary!  The list goes from the 45^th year (sapphire), to the 50^th (gold) and then on to the 60^th (diamond).   Maybe it’s because not a lot of people make it to those anniversaries, or maybe it’s because you probably don’t need anything by the time you’ve reached these milestones.

Earlier this year I did a story for Heart of Ohio Magazine on The Mohicans, a resort down around Loudonville that has some beautiful cottages, two amazing tree houses and The Grand Barn event center where they hold weddings and other events.    Larry wanted to see the places, so he tagged along.  The whole time I fired questions at our guide for the day, my husband walked around shaking his head and saying “wow”.    He made it clear he was impressed and smitten with the whole property, and it’s not something he usually does.

So….as the date for our anniversary rolled around, I thought about how much he liked the tree houses and decided that would be a great surprise for him.  We would spend a night in the tree house.  He really loved the red one that had been on a TV show after we went to do the interview on site, so that’s the one I chose.

When the date arrived we packed up a few things to take along, stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken for two dinners (we really have our elegant moments, don’t we?) and headed to The Mohicans.

When we arrived we dropped off our paperwork, got our instructions and headed to the tree house.  It was a chilly evening, but the sun down promised to be spectacular and the woods were newly leafed and aromatic. Climbing the hill with our bags and, most importantly, our extra crispy chicken, we were anxious to get settled in. 

     

Once we got inside we could appreciate looking out into the woods and listening to the….quiet.  The coffee table in the sitting area boasted a bottle of wine and a lavish cheese and fruit plate,

compliments of our three thought kids.  Well, one is thoughtful and the other two are great financial contributors to anything she comes up with; you know who you are.

     

As darkness fell we experienced the deepest, most enveloping silence either of us could ever remember. The velvety darkness wrapped us in an unearthly quiet that was only broken by the occasional rustle of leaves from the floor of the woods below us.   It was wonderful.

When it was time for bed we climbed the ladder into the loft, snuggled into bed and drifted off to sleep.  The comforting quiet and the smell of freshly hewn wood worked like a sleeping pill; morning arrived almost as soon as I closed my eyes.

   

With Friday morning's sun-washed arrival came the challenge of getting back down the ladder.   I have to admit to being height challenged…anything higher than a one inch heel on my shoe will send me into panic mode.  Larry patiently assisted with my decent, and I will forgive him for his comments, derisive laughter

and other general torment by our next anniversary, I’m pretty sure.

Watching the sunrise with a cup of coffee on the deck was amazing, while indoors the sunlight through the stained glass, east-facing window left patterns on the walls that bathed the room with color.









 As I admired the light display I happened to notice a little notebook left for comments. 

Inside I read accounts from other occupants of the little red tree house.  One entry from January described the blissful quiet and the snug feeling of tranquility; every entry spoke of the beauty of that particular season and the wish to return to the embrace of this little house.  Larry and I would second that.

I don’t really have a bucket list, but if spending the night in a tree house had been on my list I’m not sure I’d cross it off….more likely I’d encase it in parenthesis and plan to do it all over again.  It just proves you’re never too old to have a happy childhood.

Thanks to The Mohicans we had a memorable wedding anniversary.  If you Google The Mohicans Treehouse you can see the project for yourself.   It has the Larry and Diana Coon stamp of approval.

                                                                         

                                                          Life is Good

When No One Calls

We’ve all heard the old adage “you learn something new every day”….probably even said it a time or two.   Last night an unexpected phone call taught me a valuable lesson that I will strive to remember from now on.

I crawled into bed early last evening after having one of those days that just seemed to suck the life force from your body.   I was exhausted, so when the phone rang at around ten thirty I’d already been sleeping for about an hour.

The phone is on my husband’s side of the bed, and I listened as he tried to connect with the person on the other end of the line.  His, “hello?….hello?...hello?” went without acknowledgement and he turned to me with a puzzled expression.

“Who is it,” I asked?   I was instantly convinced someone was dead, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know just who that might be.

“I don’t have any idea,” my husband said.  He handed me the telephone.

I listened intently to the conversation going on at the other end; it wasn’t long before I realized I was eavesdropping on someone’s discussion!  I also loudly tried to get their attention, then strained to identify one of the two or three voices as the women talked.   I thought I had it…then decided it couldn’t be that person.   Listening more closely I figured it was another person…but the voice was just not close enough to the phone to be sure.   Who in the world is this?

Finally I stopped trying to figure out “whom” and listened for a second to “what”, and that’s when I realized they were talking about ME!

I am guilty of not taking the high road; I listened for a moment as one woman talked to the others about Heart of Ohio Magazine, which she was obviously showing them.  They must have been in front of a computer, because they went on to visit my (this) blog.  While they were commenting about the article I wrote about the drift wood tree, I finally realized I was listening to one of our neighbors.   It was a relief to figure out who it was….but a total mystery how we came to be connected by telephone.

I only listened a couple of minutes more and, still unable to gain their attention, I hung up.   The conversation I heard was as complimentary as if I’d been sitting in the room giving them no other option.  It was very kind.

After scratching our heads at the mystery of it all, my husband and I settled back down to sleep.  I lay there in the dark for a bit thinking that our neighbors, whom I’ve always considered to be very nice and genuine people, were just as nice when they didn’t know (I) someone was listening as they are when speaking to people face to face.   I have to admit I was a bit uncomfortable wondering if I would fare as well in the same situation. 

I don’t have the slightest idea how we became technically linked last evening.  Maybe it was a call arranged by a higher power, I can’t really say.  I only know what started as an accidental dialing actually became a learning experience.

How easy it is to say unkind things cloaked in the guise of “it’s just my sense of humor”.    It’s easy to slip into the mode of being judgmental and critical and forget that kindness is the better option…..always. 

Think about it for just a second, and be honest with yourself. How would you be perceived if someone overheard you talking to others about them?   I took stock and made a mental note that I want to be able to pass the test presented by an unknown person in the room listening.   All too often the main source of protein in my diet has come from putting my over-sized foot in my mouth.   I’m going to work on that.

Okay, I’m going to work on being a kinder, gentler person….but, just in case you think I’m going to completely lose my sense of humor, hear this:   I am going to mercilessly tease my neighbors about the phone call and enjoy every second of it at our next breakfast meeting.   I have not told them about my eavesdropping experience, but when they read this they’ll know who they are.

It’s great to have good neighbors….it’s also great to realize they’re actually as good as you thought they were.

                                                      Life is Good

  

I Think That I Shall Never See.....

I'm one of those people who has to have a "project" going all the time.  Whether it's writing, painting something, redecorating, refinishing or a sewing project....I generally have something in the works to keep my hands busy.

My latest idea got it's start in a shop in Florida that I always visit when we are in the area.  The whole store is a collection of booths filled with antiques, collectibles and new items that are artfully arranged to distract the shopper from the fact that not one item in the whole place is either necessary or useful.  In other words....it's my favorite shop.

Every year there seems to be a new craft trend in this place; this year was no exception.  It seemed to me the word was passed that the shell to use in 2014 was the oyster shell.  As we browsed the store my sister-in-law, Sue, and I saw oyster shell lamp shades and mirror frames and decorated trays. They filled basket, glass cylinders and bowls.  Personally I didn't find them to be a very attractive shell, but it was evident they met the criteria every artist/crafter looks for; my bet is they are plentiful and cheap.

We had been browsing for a while and, just as we were about to decide there wasn't anything very interesting, we came upon a display that included a driftwood tree.  It was probably three or four feet tall, it sat in the middle of a rustic wooden table.  The "branches" were gnarled wood that had been burnished by wind and water, the base was a wooden stump with the bark still attached.  I liked it immediately and started mentally cataloging the things that would be required to reproduce one like it....I'd found my next project!


Although patience isn't something I'm know for, I knew this was a project that would have to wait till spring.  It seemed to take forever,  but eventually the winter passed and Lake Erie thawed.  We returned to open our lake place only to find that the frenzied water had generously decided to deposit an amazing array of driftwood on the beach.    Sue and I scoured the beaches for a couple of weekends, and finally the pile of driftwood had grown big enough to lay out two trees.   We were fortunate enough to find two big chunks of wood with holes already drilled completely through them that served as the perfect bases.  We bought two copper rods, and proceeded to lay out the trees in the grass.

Luckily we're married to two good sports who own drills.  Sue and I measured and marked the pieces, the fellas drilled them and helped thread them on the rods.  The whole project took about two hours from start to finish, and we are now the proud owners of two driftwood trees.  Hers is about five feet tall, just a little shorter than my seven foot finished product.

I've decided I might like one of these on the deck at home, so I went back to scour the beach for enough pieces to create a much smaller version.

There's something satisfying about making something out of nothing with your own two hands.   The season is off to a good start with leisurely beach combing for sea glass and driftwood.  Who knows what treasures you might find in between those lovely sunrises and spectacular sunsets?  Summer at the lake...
                                                   

                                                   Life is Good



 



 

Have a Good Day

I believe it’s only human nature to think whatever time of life you’re in has got to be the toughest road you’ve ever traveled.  I know I feel that way a lot of the time these days.

For more years than I can remember I have been helping my parents cope with their health problems.  First my dad; the last years of his life were very challenging for him.  Pop dealt with the pain and confusion as well as anyone possibly could, but the last thirteen months of his life were spent in a nursing home that we tried to make as much like home as possible.  He had the care he needed and the companionship he deserved.  There was never a day he didn’t have at least one (and usually more) family member there; I know that made all the difference in the world to him.

The after effects of a major anesthetic left my father with terrifying hallucinations for weeks after his surgery.  For what seemed like forever he saw insects crawling from his pores, and he refused to eat because his mind conjured up an autopsy in progress across the hall from his hospital room.  He was convinced everything they brought him to eat was the product of that awful vision.  We carried his food to him from the outside until that particular horror subsided.    

Now we face my mother’s declining health.  She is physically frail and seems to grow more and more confused as the days go by.  Even the simplest things present a challenge and require repeated explanation.  The past is vivid, the future frightening and the present beyond her understanding much of the time.  

Mom and I have officially switched roles; now I am the one urging her to eat her vegetables and to take a nap.  I am the mean care giver who has removed her from her home and taken away her car.  I dispense her medications and monitor her liquid intake.  In other words, I’m the ‘bad guy’.  It’s a painful role I regret ever having to play.

The challenges we now face with my mother are unrelenting.  Her short term memory and paranoia worsen as the days slip by.   Physically and mentally challenged, she feels stranded and lost and alone.  The deficits in her day to day life seem to be things I cannot replace no matter how hard I try, and the presence of a loving family, while precious to her, still cannot make up for all that she has lost.  She is inconsolable in her unhappiness…and I don’t blame her.

Given the fact that I’m an only child I know it could be much worse.  I am supported by loving children and a husband who, according to my mom, has reached the status of sainthood.  They prop me up when I need it, and Larry serves as the buffer between two strong female wills that  sometimes clash.  We just do it one day at a time.

Watching my parent’s I’ve become increasingly curious about the aging process in the brain.  When I was a young girl I remember my great grandfather sitting on his front porch, fishing pole in hand, as he waited for his brother to arrive to take him to their favorite fishing hole.  I must have been ten or twelve, but I still remember the way my relatives shook their head and mumbled to one another about poor Poppy’s ‘hardening of the arteries’.    In fact his brother had been dead for many years, but if you questioned him the next day he would recount what a gorgeous summer day it had been and about the fish he and his brother caught. 

   

I wondered then, as I wonder now, why that made everyone so sad.  His mind transported him to another time when he was younger, stronger and happy; time he spent with a brother whose company he enjoyed.  This time travel left behind the boredom and depression of being a very old man and restored him to a more active time in his life.  As a child I thought that was a win-win, and nothing I’ve seen since has changed my mind.

The experience I’ve gained from watching and/or caring for loved ones as they’re grown older leaves me with just one question…how do we summon happy hallucinations like my great grandfather experienced?  He is the only person I can remember who actually seemed happy in his deepening dementia.  Was he a happier person to begin with?  Was there a chemical in his brain that bridged the gap to connect him to happy memories instead of forcing him to  live in a horror movie?  Where is that switch…how do we access it?

Maybe it’s just a selfish wish, but if I knew how to resurrect those happy days in my mother’s mind I would do it in a second.  I would welcome the chance to see her waiting for a beloved brother, or her own gentle parents or a good friend, instead of aimlessly walking  around her apartment searching for things she’s convinced have been stolen by a stranger.   How wonderful  if she could smile at the sound of a footstep in the hall that she believes is my dad coming to take her to dinner, instead of seeing her frightened that every noise is the approach of a violent intruder.

Perhaps the most frustrating part is that I know whatever I learn from this experience will probably be lost in my own electrical storm that seems to be dementia.  I likely will be unable to remember how difficult this time has been for me, even though I would do anything to keep from putting my own children through the experience.   My hope is that the mental “trap door” my great grandfather possessed might exist somewhere in a corner of my own mind.   If so, I may someday be a very old woman sitting on the porch waiting for my husband to pick me up so we can head to the lake to enjoy a day of kayaking.

                                               Life is Good   

When the Phone Rings

Have you ever given any thought about how many emotions can be invoked by the sound of a telephone?  I haven't for a long time, if I ever really have at all. 

A few weeks ago I had dinner with a friend who was leaving for an extended stay out of state.  She was looking forward to seeing old friends there, and even more excited about seeing her youngest son marry his long time sweetheart.  I don’t even remember what I said to her as we left the restaurant.    Maybe we joked about her paying the bill next time….I’m sure we complained about the bone chilling cold…perhaps I told her I’d see her at the winter’s end when she got back to town.  As it turns out it will be the last time I ever speak to her; I am saddened that I can’t remember our final words.

When the phone rang last week I looked at the screen and knew it was my husband calling from home.   I assumed it was one of our many ‘stop and pick up’ calls we make so often.  The call was just another run of the mill interruption in a day full of interruptions at the office.  In fact it was my husband delivering the news that my friend was gravely ill, and her sister would like to talk to me.

The face of my friend was in my mind the whole time I spoke with her sister.  It seems she had become ill and had ended up in a far-away emergency room.   Doctors discovered the reason for her illness, a devastating cancer  no other professional had been able to diagnose even though she has been in chronic discomfort for years.  No “patch you up and send you home” illness, this one.  She deteriorated rapidly and was eventually put into the ICU by the weekend. 

This kind and gentle soul is a woman with whom I’ve been friends for over fifty years.   As she lies fighting for her life, thousands of miles away, I wish I could sit by her bed and try to comfort her.  All I can do is pray for her and for her family who is doing just that.

 

Now I am waiting for the phone to ring.   Every single time it does I feel a cold finger run up my spine; it is a call I do not want to receive.  I’ve promised myself this experience will change the way I do things from this time on.  I want the parting words I speak to my friends to be memorable and honest.  From now on I will hug my friends close and say, “You are my friend, and I love you.”    I will say it because I want these to be our last words, spoken in the hope that we will meet again.   More importantly I will say it to honor my dear friend, to whom I can no longer say the words, and hope that she can hear me.

                                                                    Life is Good

Bottoms Up!!

I have recently completed, and survived, the test that strikes fear in the hearts of most men and women…...the colonoscopy.

 

Like everything else in my life, I made the appointment and gave very little thought to it until the day was almost upon me.  I have to say I’ve had this test several times before and knew what to expect.  Monday evening I read through the materials to make sure I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.  I realized I was supposed to have stopped taking aspirin five days ago….scratch that.  I read through the “day-before-lift-off” dietary instructions.  Clear liquid,check…jello,check…coffee with no cream…groan.  Okay…it’s basically one full day of aggravation, but I had a lot of writing to do so I would be able to keep my mind off food, and drink, and comfort.

Opening the bag from the pharmacy I realized the medical “Drain-O”  they give prescribed looked different this time.  I read the directions on the huge white bottle, which did not match the directions on the sheet given to me by my physician.   A call to the druggist (“That’s what they called in…so it’s definitely not our fault”) confirmed that I had the wrong concoction.   Now I knew I’d have to follow the diet sheet tomorrow and get the other stuff called in, picked up and ready to go before six p.m.   That’s actually the “witching hour” when you start to swill the awful stuff that causes your intestines to go into full battle mode.

Tuesday morning I called the doctor’s office to explain my dilemma.  After talking with the nurse (“That’s not what I called in…so it’s definitely not my fault”) she agreed to call in the proper stuff, which I would pick up after work.

After listening to the druggist explain (a.) what was called in,  (b.) how it was interpreted, (c.) what I was given, and (d.) why it’s not the fault of said druggist, said druggist’s staff, anyone who has ever worked in that particular drug chain or any of their relatives, I paid for the nasty stuff and went home.

Now we’re on track.   I have the big white bottle marked off into four parts, one part to be drunk every fifteen minutes until it’s all gone or you pass out.  After you finish that 32 oz assault you need to drink 8 oz. of plain water, and mentally prepare yourself for the next 32 oz sip-fest.

 

At this point the good news is your hunger is completely gone….maybe for the rest of your life.  Drinking the murky, room temperature, slightly thickened liquid took all of my will power.  The taste wass less repugnant than some of the stuff I’d had in the past…but even the “new improved” version of this was like drinking thick swamp water, with a twist of lemon.  The only way I can get through it is to carefully park my mind someplace else, then open my throat and pour it down.

There is a one hour wait between the first bottle of this stuff and the second.  Before I knew it I was mixing the two packets of powder in the big canister, adding room temperature water to the fill line, and shivering as I anticipate drinking 32 more ounces of this stuff.

As I drank the first 8 ounces of the second bottle a deep rumble began.   Somewhere in the center of my body a hot, clawing creature seemed to be looking for an escape route.  Since I knew perfectly well what that route would be, I decided it was time to set up shop in the bathroom.  That’s pretty much where the rest of the evening was spent.  The only thing that made it even remotely bearable was Wi-Fi. 

After what seemed like an endless night, morning arrived. The gut wrenching siege seemed to be over just in time to head to the hospital for the procedure.  I felt like a dried corn husk, but coffee, water, even chewing gum was forbidden.

As I’m wheeled into a procedure suite I spy my trusty physician, whom I’d seen just two days ago at a strings recital.   We chatted about children, grandchildren and husbands before getting down to business. 

As we made small talk, which I was desperate to keep going,  I was acutely aware of the nurses in the room as they prepared some dreadful looking equipment for my procedure.  One nurse wrestled impossibly long tubes, another had hoses slung over her shoulder and other things that might have come straight from the garden shed.   Isn’t that the new and improved pocket hose?  Did you get the second one free by just paying the shipping and handling?

 

Finally I could keep the doctor’s attention on other things no longer.  Right on schedule an IV dripped some cloudy looking stuff into the veins of my right arm.  A quiet, but friendly, nurse repositioned me just as the light switch in my brain clicked off.

A short time later I emerged from my black velvet cocoon to the sound of a chirpy young nurse telling me how wonderfully I’d done.  Not being able to remember any of it (thankfully) I had to take her word for the fact that I may just be an outstanding colonoscopy patient.  She chatted on as the fog began to clear from my head and I said the first thing that popped into my mind, “Can I get a cup of coffee now?”

If I knew where research was being done to simplify and/or improve this necessary test I would support the effort.  Show me where they’re working to come up with a better tasting drink, or a device being that can be contained in a capsule and

downed with coffee, and I will write a check to support the work.   As it is, I likely won’t have to submit to this undignified test again for several years.  I want to go on record as saying I am grateful for the tests that help us stay healthy…no matter how unpleasant they are.   Let’s make a toast to the doctors who perform these on a daily basis.

                             
 This one’s for you, doctor….bottoms up!!! 

                                                          Life is Good   

      

Dirty Feet

I have to admit I enjoyed my time away this past month.  It gave me time to relax and reflect.
A long vacation gives us the luxurious time to read the books you got for Christmas and time to search the Internet for impossible projects for your home.   Another of the things it allows time for, on the inevitable rainy day, is to watch television.  That’s something I don’t do very much, and my ‘stay in the house’ days in February reminded me just why I gave it up.

In February we lost some personalities that I remembered very well from my childhood.  One was Shirley Temple, the little girl against whom all other little girls were measured back in the day.  Although her movies were already considered old, with dimples and bouncing curls and talent she danced her way through my early
television experience.  Watching her routines with Arthur Treacher (later the fish and chips king) was pure magic.  Every little girl of my generation wanted to be either Shirley Temple or Annette Funicello from the Mickey Mouse Club.   Today my grandchildren are exposed to Honey Boo Boo and her dreadful family, and more is the pity.

In that same time frame we also lost Sid Caesar.  My parents always loved Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca.  They were part of our family evening line up along with Your Hit Parade, Ed Sullivan, Perry Mason and, of course, an endless assortment of westerns.  The comedy was silly and slapstick, but my Dad thought Sid Caesar was a comedic genius.   Years later my husband and I would look up to see him taking a seat in Wolf’s Deli on West 57^Th Street in New York.  Caesar was working on Broadway at the time, looking very dapper in his black turtle neck with the Times tucked under his arm.   He sure wouldn’t make it on television today.

 

Today we seem to find great humor in putting inappropriate sentences into the mouths of children and the elderly.  Personally I don’t enjoy the raunchy comments written for elderly women like Betty White.  She has the show about Cleveland and another one with “comedy” vignettes that have elderly people doing outrageous things. One episode I could not get away from fast enough had an 80 something woman making sexual advances to young men on a city street.    It seems we laugh at situations and conversations that would have horrified people not so many years ago.

Channel surfing during some inclement vacation weather gave me more information about shows than I really ever needed to know.    I now know there are at least four shows about life in Alaska that make me very thankful I live someplace else…anywhere else, actually.  There’s a show about an obscenely wealthy family of duck call producers, and one about backwoods entrepreneurs who produce moonshine.  There are shows about drag queens and drag racers, chefs and psychics and psycho-babble experts.  With the legalization of marijuana in a couple of states I bet we’ll soon be setting the DVR to record new shows about producing and using what promises to be the new favorite American crop.  It’s all about entertainment…right?  

The ugliness of confrontational TV shows that drag the most personal and sordid details of the participants lives into the spotlight is mind numbing.  Why anyone would want to air their dirty laundry on national TV while they scream obscenities (bleep-bleep-bleep) at one another is simply beyond my comprehension.  "Today we will interview a woman who claims to be the schizophrenic step child of a hearing impaired devil worshiper!"  I always wonder where they find these poor souls…but there appears to be a stream of them steady enough to keep Jerry Springer in expensive suits.

I am reminded of a quote I once read. I’ve long since forgotten who said it but it went something like, “I refuse to let anyone walk through my mind with their dirty feet.”  That still seems to me to be a very wise statement. 

I don't want to sound preach-y here, but even if you don’t watch a lot of TV, you really should take the time to go around the dial just to see what’s on.  Is this really  what you want to invite into your home…and into your mind?  It might be as disturbing to you as it is to me when you think about what our children watch on a daily basis.  

I’m not naive enough to suggest we return to the Shirley Temple days;  I know perfectly well the Good Ship Lolly Pop sailed a long time ago. However, if what's on TV right now represents what we have become, I'm afraid we may discover that we are all holding hands on the deck of the Titanic.

                                        Life is Good  

                                                   

Reach out and Put the Touch on Someone

Funny how old advertising slogans stay with you.   “Reach out and touch someone” keeps coming back to my mind a lot these days.  It a telephone company campaign urging people to keep up their family connections by using the phone.  This was back in the days when we watched our long distance fees.  That’s not why it keeps coming to my mind, however.

I consider myself to be a reasonably generous person.  I’ll lend a hand, or a blouse, or some money to friends and family when it’s necessary.  That’s what we do…we take care of our own, right?  But for the last few years giving to United Way and the Red Cross and the church and the local food pantry doesn’t seem to be nearly enough.

My husband and I just recently returned from a trip to Florida.  Since our stay was a month long we had to shop for groceries and toiletries from time to time.  At the entrance and exit to almost every store a table was set up to collect money for football teams, new fire trucks, a bird sanctuary or pet rescue.  Stopping at a traffic light you might get a tap on your window from band students collecting money for new uniforms or firemen carrying a boot they hope to fill for whatever cause they’re trying to fund.

 

Back in town after our break from the winter weather we find cashiers (as they are instructed to do) asking if we’d like to “round up” for the domestic violence shelter, or donate a dollar for juvenile diabetes. In restaurant waitresses are hawking shamrocks that will be signed and posted on the restaurant walls if you donate a dollar.   This is also the season when parents help their kids sell cookies, candy bars, popcorn and assorted gift items by sheepishly leaving the signup sheets in break rooms at every business.

Not to be forgotten in the continuous pitch on the internet of acquaintances who are in “sales”.  These internet entrepreneurs never seem expand their pool of potential customers to anyone other than their Face Book friends list.  “I’m close to my goal on my (fill in the blank) party or order…can’t someone help me out and buy something?”   Electronic panhandling is rampant.  I never thought I’d miss the days when your friends actually invited you to their homes to share punch and cookies so they could guilt you into buying something or booking a “party”, but I do.

My email in-box is filled every day with requests from political parties who “try not to come to our members too often” but seem to overcome that thought on a weekly basis.  I hear daily from deserving programs and hospitals and not so deserving televangelists, from groups sinking wells and building schools in foreign countries and organizations who strive to feed the hungry on our own shores.

 

Snail mail doesn’t suffer any shortage of donation requests either.  Daily I am asked to support the fund raising efforts for wounded veterans, children in poor countries in need of surgery, food, and shelter, abused animals.  Groups trying to save the rain forest or seals or polar bears, also find their way to my mail box with great regularity. 

      

This endless winter will soon be over and the walks and 5K runs, always for a good cause, will begin.  A dollar a mile to help find a cure for any number of dreadful diseases…and watch out for youngsters brandishing “Car Wash!!!” signs who will be charging your vehicle at every turn.

I don’t know if everyone got the idea from the long established campaign of The Salvation Army, an organization I believe does a great deal of good.  Personally, I try to remember to keep change in my purse at Christmas because I suffer an hour long guilt trip every time I pass a bell ringer and fail to contribute. 

   

If I put money into the container on the way into the store I feel I have to explain myself to get out the door if the bell ringer looks over at me as I exit.  “Uh…you got me coming in.  I..uh…I gave the cashier my change”.  I slink away after rummaging through my coat pockets that produce nothing but a lint covered cough drop.  “Really….I gave you money on the way in.”

It probably sounds jaded, but I know a lot of these requests are strictly raising money to support the overpaid infrastructure of the organization.  That is not to say all of these things are run by con artists; but it’s really hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys any more.  I prefer to support local efforts whose results can be documented and, hopefully, witnessed.

 

I am not making light of the needs we have in our country and around the world.    It just seems to me that we pay more than enough in taxes to take much better care of the needs of our citizenry without having to constantly pass the hat. 

As irritating as this constant barrage of arm twisting can be, I will keep contributing to things I believe in and reevaluate them from time to time as the “reach out and touch someone” landscape changes and evolves.

                                                             Life is Good

Chasing a ghost...

Some things are easy to write about…and some things are not.  Sometimes I think it's better to have a moment and not look at it too closely.  It’s taken me eight months to write about this, I’m not certain just why.

Last June Larry and I had a grandson graduating from high school.  On the appointed day we arrived at the high school, trooped into the gymnasium with several hundred other proud parents/grandparents and assorted relatives and proceeded to look for a seat in the bleachers.  I hadn’t been seated in the bleachers for a lot of years…their comfort level has not improved one iota since I was in high school.

The temperature of the gym seemed to go up with every person who entered on this sultry, hot June day.  Finally, as we sat looking for just the right cowlick peeking out from under a purple mortar board, we saw him.  It was a very proud moment to see this young man, so full of promise, stride into the gym and take a seat.

As we sat waiting for the diplomas to be handed out, I looked around just taking in the crowd and looking for familiar faces.  Finally, across the gym I saw one.  My eyes rested on an older man seated just inside the door on a wheeled walker or maybe a transport wheelchair.  The man had a thin, silver comb over.  He wore an ever-present plaid shirt and tan pants.  His white socks and black shoes, also predictable,  completed the outfit.   I could see his white billy-goat whiskers, his silver watch on his left arm, and silver rimmed glasses that he slid down his nose as he read the commencement booklet.  Eventually he looked up and our eyes seemed to lock.  I sat looking for what seemed like forever at my Dad.

I’ve read the phrase “the hair stood up on the back of my neck” before without ever really understanding it…now I did.  My father died seven years ago, and on this far removed June day I’m sitting in a high school gymnasium looking him full in the face.   From a distance…yes…but if this wasn't Pop it had to be his doppelganger.

I had my iPad in my lap.  Switching it on I quickly snapped a picture just to make sure he’d show up…he did. Dragging my fingertips across the screen I "bloomed" the picture and peered at it closely. (what the?.....)   I snapped two more and decided I simply had to go across the gym to see this man close up.  Closing my iPad, I turned to my husband to tell him why I why I would be climbing through this crush to the gym floor and heading out the door.  Before I could do that I looked up and the man was gone.  I had not seen him come in, I did not see him leave, but the spot he occupied just a heartbeat ago was empty.

To say I was shaken would be putting it mildly.  I fought off the urge to get out of that gym and chase the man down; I knew he couldn’t have gotten far with a walker/wheelchair.  Instead, I took a deep, calming breath and decided against it.   I stayed and watched my grandson receive his diploma and toss his cap into the air instead.

I’m not superstitious, and logically I knew that couldn’t be my dad.   The beauty of the whole thing is that, whoever the man was, he gave me a few seconds with my beloved father at an event he would have attended if it were at all possible.  I know that, for just a moment, I was tempted to chase a ghost; I stayed in the bleachers because my Pop wouldn’t have wanted me to miss this for the world.   Maybe...just maybe....he didn't miss it either.

                                                             Life is Good

 

Bear With Me......

 

 

The weather forecast is dire...the two weeks just behind us have been frigid and bleak.  The beauty that one finds in a winter scene has given way to frozen landscape, snow rollers and trees that groan under the strain of their icy burden.  If I sound as if I am sick of winter....I am.

I think for the first time I understand why some animals hibernate.  Bears gorge themselves on berries, plants, and any slower animals they happen upon in preparation.  They pile on a thick layer of fat,  then simply curl up and sleep.   All in all not a bad way to diet.

Although I spent the fall months bulking up as if I were planning a long fast, I have remained awake. In the few hours of watery daylight we seem to eek out at this time of year I feel lethargic at best.   Most mornings it is nearly dark when I leave the house, often it is dark when I return.   By seven pm I feel as if I've been up for days, and my instincts tell me it is time to sleep, sleep, sleep. With the same helpless feelings I experienced fighting  insomnia over the last forty years, I now find myself dealing with a desire to sleep ten hours a day.

It was February of last year when my insomnia left and my desire to hibernate kicked in.  Over my lifetime I have taken herbs, prescription drugs, purchased every shape and size of bed pillow on the market, and tried every kookie thing friends and acquaintances suggested, to help me sleep.  I've put Vicks Vapo Rub on my feet and worn heavy socks to bed.  I've drunk hot milk, hot toddies and eaten pasta before bedtime on the promise that carbs make you sleepy.  I've tried to sleep propped up, flat out, and slightly tipsy....all to no avail.  I was completely resigned to being what I had always been; the woman running on three or four hours sleep every day.

Nothing had changed when we left for vacation last year at this time.  No medicine, no diet changes, no exercise program....nothing was different.  We headed south, and our first night we stayed at a beautiful new hotel.  I admired the lovely room, crawled into what looked like an acre of white linen, and slept like a baby for the first time in a very long time.

The next morning I felt something strange; eventually I realized this foreign feeling was what some people referred to as 'rested'.  I chalked it up to the hotel bed.   It only confirmed what I've always firmly believed....hotel bedding comes straight from heaven and cannot be purchased by mere mortals.

We arrived at our destination and proceeded to enjoy the sun, the sand, and doing nothing.  A couple of days passed before it dawned on me that I had continued to sleep through the night.  I wasn't the first one up to make coffee...and I had missed the sunrise!  What in the world?

That whole vacation time I was afraid to look at my sleeping experience too closely for fear I'd screw it up.  Before I knew it we were heading home...and I seemed to be leaving my insomnia in the rear view mirror.

And so, here I am one year later fighting off my desire to hibernate.  I am convinced I could crawl into bed on October 31st and rub the sleep from my eyes on April 1st.  I no longer get up at two a.m. to write, I don't haunt the internet hoping for a sleepless Facebook friend to chat with.  The only down side I can find is I now have six fewer hours each day to work with. I can live with that.

If I had a clue as to why this change has occurred I would share the wealth with the multitude of women my age who complain of being unable to sleep, or stay asleep, every single night.  I don't have a magic potion...all I have to share with you is the hope that one day you will wake up rested and refreshed.  It may take you a while to identify the feeling....but once you get used to it you'll love it.

I don't try to explain it and I don't question it.  I know my night-prowling insomnia can return whenever it wants to...so I don't look a gift horse (or a hibernating bear) in the mouth.

                                                             Life is Good

Picture This

 

 

 

The best gift I received this past Christmas was some photographs of my grandchildren.  Although I have enough picture frames stashed in the basement to open my own gift shop, I decided I wanted something different.  Without hesitation I jumped on the internet and started looking around.

As my electronic shopping progressed things started opening that I hadn’t clicked on; one of them being the website for Saks Fifth Avenue.   Being the TJ Maxx kind of gal I am I don’t shop Saks very often, but what the heck.  I typed in ‘picture frames’ and was immediately dumped out on the Ralph Lauren items on their site.  Fine with me…I love everything Ralph Lauren does, except the fashion photos with emaciated, ectomorphic females striking impossible poses.  Generally these skinny young lasses are standing in positions that only occur just before your legs go out from under you on an icy sidewalk.  They’re young….they’ll learn…and that’s another column.

My cursor finally arrived at an attractive brown frame.  Scrolling down I discovered it was the “Ralph Lauren, Bennett series, faux (that still means fake, right?) Croc picture frame.  Choose from 5 x 7 or 8 ½ x 11 sizes and this tastefully crafted, imported (that still means made in Japan, doesn’t it?) frame will only set you back from $395.00 to $695.00.  The body of the descriptive copy assured me it ‘exudes modern polish’. 

My mind immediately began to play out the conversation I would have with my husband if a bill arrived for this picture frame…….

He:  “Someone must have stolen our credit card!  There’s a charge on here for seven hundred bucks to Saks Fifth Avenue.”

Me:   “Well, ah……”         

He:  Huh?

Me:  “You remember the terrific pictures we got of the children for Christmas?  I had enough frames for all but one, so I shopped on the internet.”

He:  Ashen faced, “You paid seven hundred dollars for a picture frame?”

Me:  “Not JUST a picture frame. A Ralph Lauren Bennett series faux croc picture frame!  And it’s imported…”

He:  “That still means made in Japan, doesn’t it?”

Me:   “The smaller one was only four hundred dollars, but the picture was too large, so I thought…..”

He:  “You paid seven hundred dollars for a picture frame.”  This time it was not a question, but a tightly controlled statement of fact.

Me:  “They gave me free shipping….”

At this point my day dream stops, because even I can’t imagine what my husband might do next if he discovered a seven hundred dollar picture frame on our charge card.  Let’s just say if you have to explain it, you probably can’t afford it.

                                                                    Life is Good

 

Just Talk to the Bird

I am a great collector of pictures that ‘speak’ to me.  That’s not quite accurate…I am an accumulator, not a collector.  Be that as it may I save pictures that touch my heart and speak to my mind in files on my laptop, on my iPad, in my iPhone.   I squirrel away manila files that have clippings and I have photo albums with pictures that are going to be my future projects or goals I’ve set for myself.  Suffice it to say…I’m a picture hoarder.

Today my iPad warned me that my hoarding has reached critical mass, and I must purge some things or pay the technical consequences.  That started me looking through pictures and this one struck a cord with me……

 

Studying this I wondered why I chose to save this picture?  It's not as if I'm for or against birds….they serve their purpose and I serve my own.  I guess too many of them put me into “Alfred Hitchcock” mode, and I begin to worry that they might swoop down on me.   Twice in my lifetime I’ve had a bird decide to come into the closed dining room window without invitation.   After repeatedly throwing itself against the glass for days on end, the bird finally left…I’m not sure if it was in a birdie rescue squad or not.

So…I studied the picture and, as they always do, it spoke to me.   It said “faith”.  Here is a beautiful creature of nature enjoying a meal for which it neither worked nor paid.  It isn’t carrying a water bottle, a billfold or credit cards, and it isn’t scurrying off to a job.  The bird takes it on faith that there will be another tree or bush with fruit for him to eat.  He knows water will be provided, and he desires nothing more.  The bird obviously lives close enough to nature to know his needs will be met.  I need to take a lesson from this bird.

Each morning as I struggle to my car carrying a heavy assortment of what I have determined to be my daily needs, I know there must be a better way.  In my wheeled laptop case I have my computer for writing.  In one of the side pockets I carry my ipad; another pocket contains all the cords and converters needed to feed power to all of my devices. Over my shoulder the strap of my purse digs in; the weight of my handbag is unbelieveable!  Then I’m also schlepping my lunch bag, which contains enough food to save the Donnor party.  I usually have at least one bottle of water, and into this juggling act I add a travel mug of coffee. 

Between computers and cell phone and daytimer I carry enough electronics to operate the space shuttle, and if I am stranded in a snow drift I have food for at least one uncomfortable, but life sustaining, week.  My enormous handbag contains a dozen or so credit cards stuffed into a billfold large enough to live on its own, at least a months accumulation of unopened mail and sales receipts, and a bag of makeup that I do not use but won’t leave home without.  At any given time I’ve got at least four dollars in paper money and a minimum of seventeen dollars in change lurking at the bottom of the bag.  I also carry tea bags and the brand of artificial sweetner I prefer.  Restaurants generally don’t carry it, but I can never find it in this mess when I need it anyway.

I admire women who carry tiny little purses because I know they have more faith in the world than I do.  Unless I leave the house with all this ‘stuff’ I feel vulnerable and unprepared to deal with life.  I obviously lack the faith that the little bird in the picture has…and I envy him.   I have this abiding understanding that someday all this stuff will come in handy; the never ending scavenger hunt that has become my daily routine will pay off.    

And so, the picture of this lovely bird whispers to me about faith, while my urban survivalist instincts keep me dragging things to and from my car.  But just remember this…if you’re one of those people who goes out into the world totally unprepared and suddenly discovers you’re in desperate need of a colander…just talk to the bird.

                                                                 Life is Good