The prompt: We are about to enter into a gentler season i.e. Autumn/Fall if you’re
in the Northern Hemisphere, Spring if you’re in the Southern Hemisphere.
For me, these seasons often feel like a relief after the intensity of
Summer and Winter. How do you intend to transition into the new season?
Oh, I am so NOT a summer person, especially as an adult. Even as a kid, I hated being hot and sweaty and sticky and dirty, and greatly preferred finding a cool, shady space where I could read for hours undisturbed. Not for me the summer sports or the cool blue of the public pool that was an easy bike ride from my house.
There was a fragrant tree that bloomed on the side of our house and aided by huge lilac bushes, the side yard facing our neighbor's blank-walled garage was my little private haven. I put blankets down to create a soft bed, took two or three books of the bike-basket-full I'd borrow from the bookmobile that stopped every other week in a park near out house, and read for hours, the dappled shade flickering on the pages, and what breeze there might have been in the hot, humid Missouri summers fluffing my hair.
When I was a little older and able to ride the city bus by myself, I'd venture to the main library, a huge old Carnegie building, and spend the day browsing in the cool company of quiet librarians and slightly musty odor of old books. I read my way through the entire collection of fairy and folk tales one summer -- every volume of "Under the **** Umbrella" books, Grimm and Anderson, and a myriad of folk tales and mythology.
My brother spent all day every day outside, playing with his friends by the creek (forbidden but done anyway), playing team sports, riding bikes, getting dirty and stinky and happy as a pig in mud.
I don't like sweating. I hate humidity. I am not an athlete. I'm not fond of bugs and things that bite. I like the occasional picnic, but civilized, with chilled lemonade, chocolate cake, lovely chicken sandwiches, cherries, and perhaps some pickles. On a tablecloth and a clean picnic bench, please.
Where I live now gets very hot in the summer; the one plus being that the humidity is often in the single digits. I get very tired of endless sun, crispy grass (because California's green season is in the winter and spring), tired dark blue-green oak leaves that literally shrivel on the tree towards the end of summer and fall off.. As summer comes to a close, the nights cool down more, usually enough to open the windows and turn on the window fan to freshen and cool the stale house air, but in the height of summer, it can still be 90 degrees at midnight. ''
This year I intend to transition by leaving town and going to cooler climates! I am hoping that by the time we get back home towards the end of September, the days will be comfortably warm and the nights even slightly chilly. Typically it will still be weeks before jeans and sweaters and rain gear come out well into October, but at least the end is in sight.
I have a winter heart. I have always known this, born as I was in November in cold, wintry Minnesota, always preferring the snuggly wools and fleeces and flannels, the wood stove fires, the thick, warming soups and stews, mugs of strong hot coffee in the morning and fragrant steaming tea in the afternoon and evening. My passions run deep and fiery but are not always visible at the surface, and I can freeze ice with a look if so motivated. I have a winter heart.
I welcome the annual transition from naked, put-it-all-out-there summer to the crisp and bounteous days of autumn, and relish the inward reflection and renewal of our California winters. Bring it on.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Saturday, April 06, 2013
Scintilla#13, Day 16
The last prompts. Okay, I'm really late to this particular party.
1. What would it have been like if your life had turned out the way you wanted when you were a kid?
2. We bet there was a story you wanted to tell that didn't line up with any of the prompts. Write it anyway - and use it to write a one or two sentence prompt that others could use to tell a good story of their own. Then, share it with us, if you're comfortable.
Well, there are lots of stories I still have to tell, usually prompted by something that stirs a memory or an emotion. I'm hoping I'll be around for a long time to tell 'em.
I've been thinking about the first prompt since it came out, however, and I've already sort of spoken to that one in the Day 7 post about event horizons. Most everything that has happened since I was a kid is because of the choice I made about where to go to college, and then to stay there.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a nurse. Then a pediatrician. I loved kids; wanted to have four or six of them. Loved babysitting and did a lot of it. Helped in the church nursery and with the four-year-old Sunday school classes. I hung onto the medical field as a career goal pretty much until I butted heads with chemistry classes and realized that medicine was going to require a lot more math and science than I had any interest in -- or aptitude for -- taking. Scratch that one.
Had I stuck with the medical field, I would not have chosen the college I did, and everything would have been different. Everything.
When I hit early high school, I had a spiritual experience at church camp that convinced me I wanted to be a minister (United Methodist Church), and pretty much held onto that through most of high school, even being awarded a Christian service scholarship. It's quite likely that at times I was fairly insufferable, although my view of Christianity and the church's place in the world was very ecumenical and very involved with social justice issues -- clearly a precursor to my admittedly liberal opinions as an adult. I got to attend a variety of church-related conferences and workshops, and met so many interesting people in doing so.
And then in the latter part of my freshman year, that goal changed. I had joined various 'Christian' groups on campus -- not difficult in a church-related college -- and taken the 'Baby Bible' required courses: a semester of Old Testament studies, a semester of New Testament studies. But I started to question everything, including the core Christian belief of the Resurrection: clearly not a good thing for a wanna-be clergyperson to do, huh. Scratch that one too.
As it was, I experienced infertility and my then-husband and I adopted our daughter after a multi-year wait. Scratch the four-to-six kids.
And scratch the boyfriend I had for four years in high school and early college, too, and with whom I'd planned to spend my life. He's gay and is in a wonderful long-term relationship: they came to our wedding in 2000.
I am so grateful that my life has unfolded the way it has, even through the hard stuff and the heartaches. I would never have believed that at age 50 I would fall in love with a man who deeply adores the quicksand I walk on. I would never have believed that I would move to California (of all places -- Colorado would have been so much higher on my list back then!) and live by the ocean and end up in a rural valley between mountain ranges in a house I designed with my honey. I would never have believed that I would do even half of the things I've done -- not all of them pleasant, but each remarkable.
And that's all good, isn't it. We create our own destiny, minute by minute, year by year, experience by experience, hopefully building on what we learn to create a life we love. I have no expectations for these coming years of my life -- other than hope they will be numerous and happy -- but instead try to live and cherish each day, one at a time, and give thanks for it. What an incredible ride it's all been so far!
1. What would it have been like if your life had turned out the way you wanted when you were a kid?
2. We bet there was a story you wanted to tell that didn't line up with any of the prompts. Write it anyway - and use it to write a one or two sentence prompt that others could use to tell a good story of their own. Then, share it with us, if you're comfortable.
Well, there are lots of stories I still have to tell, usually prompted by something that stirs a memory or an emotion. I'm hoping I'll be around for a long time to tell 'em.
I've been thinking about the first prompt since it came out, however, and I've already sort of spoken to that one in the Day 7 post about event horizons. Most everything that has happened since I was a kid is because of the choice I made about where to go to college, and then to stay there.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a nurse. Then a pediatrician. I loved kids; wanted to have four or six of them. Loved babysitting and did a lot of it. Helped in the church nursery and with the four-year-old Sunday school classes. I hung onto the medical field as a career goal pretty much until I butted heads with chemistry classes and realized that medicine was going to require a lot more math and science than I had any interest in -- or aptitude for -- taking. Scratch that one.
Had I stuck with the medical field, I would not have chosen the college I did, and everything would have been different. Everything.
When I hit early high school, I had a spiritual experience at church camp that convinced me I wanted to be a minister (United Methodist Church), and pretty much held onto that through most of high school, even being awarded a Christian service scholarship. It's quite likely that at times I was fairly insufferable, although my view of Christianity and the church's place in the world was very ecumenical and very involved with social justice issues -- clearly a precursor to my admittedly liberal opinions as an adult. I got to attend a variety of church-related conferences and workshops, and met so many interesting people in doing so.
And then in the latter part of my freshman year, that goal changed. I had joined various 'Christian' groups on campus -- not difficult in a church-related college -- and taken the 'Baby Bible' required courses: a semester of Old Testament studies, a semester of New Testament studies. But I started to question everything, including the core Christian belief of the Resurrection: clearly not a good thing for a wanna-be clergyperson to do, huh. Scratch that one too.
As it was, I experienced infertility and my then-husband and I adopted our daughter after a multi-year wait. Scratch the four-to-six kids.
And scratch the boyfriend I had for four years in high school and early college, too, and with whom I'd planned to spend my life. He's gay and is in a wonderful long-term relationship: they came to our wedding in 2000.
I am so grateful that my life has unfolded the way it has, even through the hard stuff and the heartaches. I would never have believed that at age 50 I would fall in love with a man who deeply adores the quicksand I walk on. I would never have believed that I would move to California (of all places -- Colorado would have been so much higher on my list back then!) and live by the ocean and end up in a rural valley between mountain ranges in a house I designed with my honey. I would never have believed that I would do even half of the things I've done -- not all of them pleasant, but each remarkable.
And that's all good, isn't it. We create our own destiny, minute by minute, year by year, experience by experience, hopefully building on what we learn to create a life we love. I have no expectations for these coming years of my life -- other than hope they will be numerous and happy -- but instead try to live and cherish each day, one at a time, and give thanks for it. What an incredible ride it's all been so far!
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Scintilla#13, Day 10
More choices for this day on The Scintilla Project. Check out other stories on the blogroll, and be sure to read Tony's selections on his blog, Cat-E-Whompus.
So which to choose?
1. Sometimes we wish we could hit the rewind button. Talk about an experience that you would do over if you could.
2. Write about spending time with a baby or child under the age of two. The challenge: if you're a parent, do not talk about your own child.
While various BIG decisions I've made instantly came to mind with this prompt and caused some intense discussion with my honey, I'm actually not sure that I would really do them over given the chance. Some of them have been painful and still have the power to cause me to cringe. But I also learned lessons that have been instrumental in getting me to where I am now -- a pretty good place, actually. So maybe not.
So let's talk about hair. Hair decisions can really seem like a big deal: to cut? Not to cut? To color? How much, what shade, how often?
With hair like mine -- stick straight without even a hint of curl, several awkwardly placed cowlicks, and super fine, which means it also has little body, falls at a hint of humidity, and will not hold even a hot roller curl for longer than it takes me to get to my destination -- my big decision has been:
TO PERM
Or NOT TO PERM
I remember my mother giving me Tonette perms at about age four. Tonettes always included some paper dolls or other 'prize' inside the box since they were made specifically for children's hair.
I sat in our kitchen swathed in old towels and listening to the radio or playing with the 'prize' inside the Tonette box while Mother patiently wound my long fine hair onto dozens of curling rods. Then came the application of the stinky permanent wave solution -- peeeeuwwww -- and then holding a towel tightly to my face while it processed, dripping everywhere. The last step was to rinse off the solution with curlers still tightly in place -- I remember laying on the kitchen counter with my head tipped back over the sink while Mother poured pitcher after pitcher of warm water over the curlers. And then, finally, she gently removed them and worked in one last rinse/setting solution, running her fingers through my now-curly hair -- it felt soooo good to get them out.
And then it was ready to be wound on those pink or brown soft plastic curlers -- not rollers -- and wait for it to dry, sitting in the sunshine or just by sleeping on them overnight. Hair dryers were not yet home appliances.
The result? Long banana curls with cute barrettes holding the hair back a little from my face. For a few months, anyway.
And probably a lot of broken-off hair.
I got perms -- home perms, beauty school perms, and later perms from salons -- through much of my life, stopping those only when we finally moved to Red Bluff and I decided to let all the coloring I'd had done on it for about a decade grow out and see what color my hair really was. That, and I hated feeling the spiky little broken-off hairs that always followed any kind of perm, even the ones where the stylists coated my hair beforehand and gave me super-gentle processing.
I told my daughters to remind me of how much I hated them if I ever uttered the word 'perm' again in connection with my hair.
So it's been a good 10 years now. I still have fine, stick-straight silky hair that has turned out to be a gorgeous shade of silver and white mixed with some of my own brown, and even my current stylist told me she'd have to refuse if I ever ask to have it colored! And once I lucked into stylists who know how to cut around my cowlicks and style my straight hair properly, it's never looked better.
Definitely a do-over if I could. And a vow of 'never again.'
So which to choose?
1. Sometimes we wish we could hit the rewind button. Talk about an experience that you would do over if you could.
2. Write about spending time with a baby or child under the age of two. The challenge: if you're a parent, do not talk about your own child.
While various BIG decisions I've made instantly came to mind with this prompt and caused some intense discussion with my honey, I'm actually not sure that I would really do them over given the chance. Some of them have been painful and still have the power to cause me to cringe. But I also learned lessons that have been instrumental in getting me to where I am now -- a pretty good place, actually. So maybe not.
So let's talk about hair. Hair decisions can really seem like a big deal: to cut? Not to cut? To color? How much, what shade, how often?
With hair like mine -- stick straight without even a hint of curl, several awkwardly placed cowlicks, and super fine, which means it also has little body, falls at a hint of humidity, and will not hold even a hot roller curl for longer than it takes me to get to my destination -- my big decision has been:
TO PERM
Or NOT TO PERM
I remember my mother giving me Tonette perms at about age four. Tonettes always included some paper dolls or other 'prize' inside the box since they were made specifically for children's hair.
I sat in our kitchen swathed in old towels and listening to the radio or playing with the 'prize' inside the Tonette box while Mother patiently wound my long fine hair onto dozens of curling rods. Then came the application of the stinky permanent wave solution -- peeeeuwwww -- and then holding a towel tightly to my face while it processed, dripping everywhere. The last step was to rinse off the solution with curlers still tightly in place -- I remember laying on the kitchen counter with my head tipped back over the sink while Mother poured pitcher after pitcher of warm water over the curlers. And then, finally, she gently removed them and worked in one last rinse/setting solution, running her fingers through my now-curly hair -- it felt soooo good to get them out.
And then it was ready to be wound on those pink or brown soft plastic curlers -- not rollers -- and wait for it to dry, sitting in the sunshine or just by sleeping on them overnight. Hair dryers were not yet home appliances.
The result? Long banana curls with cute barrettes holding the hair back a little from my face. For a few months, anyway.
And probably a lot of broken-off hair.
I got perms -- home perms, beauty school perms, and later perms from salons -- through much of my life, stopping those only when we finally moved to Red Bluff and I decided to let all the coloring I'd had done on it for about a decade grow out and see what color my hair really was. That, and I hated feeling the spiky little broken-off hairs that always followed any kind of perm, even the ones where the stylists coated my hair beforehand and gave me super-gentle processing.
I told my daughters to remind me of how much I hated them if I ever uttered the word 'perm' again in connection with my hair.
So it's been a good 10 years now. I still have fine, stick-straight silky hair that has turned out to be a gorgeous shade of silver and white mixed with some of my own brown, and even my current stylist told me she'd have to refuse if I ever ask to have it colored! And once I lucked into stylists who know how to cut around my cowlicks and style my straight hair properly, it's never looked better.
Definitely a do-over if I could. And a vow of 'never again.'
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Scintilla#13, Day 2
Today's prompts:
1. What's the biggest lie you've ever told? Why? Would you tell the truth now, if you could?
2. Tell a story about something interesting (anything!) that happened to you, but tell it in the form of an instruction manual (Step 1, Step 2, etc.).
Since I've been pretty much out of commission since the end of December and my days have been mostly spent sitting in a recliner with my foot elevated, not much of interest has happened. I'm currently doing physical therapy, but that's not interesting to anybody except me. And at this moment, I'm simply brain-dead about anything 'interesting.' So no to number 2.
As much as I despise liars now, I will confess to having told a few whoppers when I was much younger. No, really. I haven't done much lying for a long time. Perhaps I haven't revealed everything I know, to be sure, but that's not exactly a lie. (Is it?)
I can't really talk about the biggest lie because there are people still alive who don't know, and while I don't think they read this blog, I am not revealing those secrets. (And I'm still glad I told it. It was literally life-changing for me.)
One of the big lies I remember happened just after I got my driver's license at age 16. I was hot to drive by myself the mint green old (1950-something) Nash Rambler that was my mother's car. She'd gotten her license just months before I got mine, and the folks bought the Rambler because it was an automatic shift -- she hated the stick shift on our primary car as much as I did.
I finally got permission to drive my brother and myself to our Sunday night church youth group, but not until my parents had extracted a promise from me to 'Go straight to church and come straight home.' I vowed to do just that, totally excited to at last have wheels! WooHOO!
But. One of my closest friends needed a ride home, and I volunteered. I mean, what could happen? It wasn't too far out of our way, just a jog here and there, and then straight home. I assured her it would be fine. Jimmy, my brother, was fine with that.
No problem. We pulled into her gravel driveway, she hopped out, and then I took my foot off the brake momentarily. The passenger front door was still open a little since my brother had transferred into the front seat. And the edge of the door caught a sturdy tree that was near the edge of her driveway, wrenching it open with a loud screech of protesting metal.
Oh. My. God.
I knew I would never be allowed to drive again. I would be grounded for life. It was going to be expensive. And I had disobeyed my parents' explicit orders. (I was a very obedient child, I must say, pretty much always doing what was expected of me. At least at that point...)
Jimmy and Carol Ann and I put our heads together -- theirs being much cooler than my panic-stricken one -- and came up with a story. There were concrete half posts interspersed throughout the church parking lot. We decided that I had backed a little too close to one of them and Jimmy had not yet closed the door all the way and it just caught the edge and bent it. Right? Right.
The door wasn't hanging off the hinge, but it didn't close all the way either, and Jimmy hung onto it to keep it more or less closed all the way home. Tearfully I explained to my folks what had happened AT CHURCH and how sorry I was, and he backed me up, straight-faced and solemn.
If they didn't quite buy the story, I didn't hear about it. Carol Ann never said a word. And my brother and I have never talked about the big lie we conspired to tell our parents so many years ago.
Would I tell the truth now? Uh. Probably not. The car was fixed and as I recall wasn't a big expense but more of a big inconvenience. We were allowed to drive to church by ourselves at least occasionally. But I never again deviated from the 'straight to church, straight home' instructions. I knew I'd gotten away with it once, but was sure it would never happen again.
1. What's the biggest lie you've ever told? Why? Would you tell the truth now, if you could?
2. Tell a story about something interesting (anything!) that happened to you, but tell it in the form of an instruction manual (Step 1, Step 2, etc.).
Since I've been pretty much out of commission since the end of December and my days have been mostly spent sitting in a recliner with my foot elevated, not much of interest has happened. I'm currently doing physical therapy, but that's not interesting to anybody except me. And at this moment, I'm simply brain-dead about anything 'interesting.' So no to number 2.
As much as I despise liars now, I will confess to having told a few whoppers when I was much younger. No, really. I haven't done much lying for a long time. Perhaps I haven't revealed everything I know, to be sure, but that's not exactly a lie. (Is it?)
I can't really talk about the biggest lie because there are people still alive who don't know, and while I don't think they read this blog, I am not revealing those secrets. (And I'm still glad I told it. It was literally life-changing for me.)
One of the big lies I remember happened just after I got my driver's license at age 16. I was hot to drive by myself the mint green old (1950-something) Nash Rambler that was my mother's car. She'd gotten her license just months before I got mine, and the folks bought the Rambler because it was an automatic shift -- she hated the stick shift on our primary car as much as I did.
I finally got permission to drive my brother and myself to our Sunday night church youth group, but not until my parents had extracted a promise from me to 'Go straight to church and come straight home.' I vowed to do just that, totally excited to at last have wheels! WooHOO!
But. One of my closest friends needed a ride home, and I volunteered. I mean, what could happen? It wasn't too far out of our way, just a jog here and there, and then straight home. I assured her it would be fine. Jimmy, my brother, was fine with that.
No problem. We pulled into her gravel driveway, she hopped out, and then I took my foot off the brake momentarily. The passenger front door was still open a little since my brother had transferred into the front seat. And the edge of the door caught a sturdy tree that was near the edge of her driveway, wrenching it open with a loud screech of protesting metal.
Oh. My. God.
I knew I would never be allowed to drive again. I would be grounded for life. It was going to be expensive. And I had disobeyed my parents' explicit orders. (I was a very obedient child, I must say, pretty much always doing what was expected of me. At least at that point...)
Jimmy and Carol Ann and I put our heads together -- theirs being much cooler than my panic-stricken one -- and came up with a story. There were concrete half posts interspersed throughout the church parking lot. We decided that I had backed a little too close to one of them and Jimmy had not yet closed the door all the way and it just caught the edge and bent it. Right? Right.
The door wasn't hanging off the hinge, but it didn't close all the way either, and Jimmy hung onto it to keep it more or less closed all the way home. Tearfully I explained to my folks what had happened AT CHURCH and how sorry I was, and he backed me up, straight-faced and solemn.
If they didn't quite buy the story, I didn't hear about it. Carol Ann never said a word. And my brother and I have never talked about the big lie we conspired to tell our parents so many years ago.
Would I tell the truth now? Uh. Probably not. The car was fixed and as I recall wasn't a big expense but more of a big inconvenience. We were allowed to drive to church by ourselves at least occasionally. But I never again deviated from the 'straight to church, straight home' instructions. I knew I'd gotten away with it once, but was sure it would never happen again.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Casting a life-long shadow: child molesters
The trial and verdict in the Jerry Sandusky case prompted a flood of memories for me, not the good kind.
Back in 1995 in Birmingham, Ala., Don Corley, a man considered by many to be a pillar of the community -- Scout leader, active church member, friend -- was convicted of child molestation and sentenced to 30 years in prison. We were members of the same church and my then-husband had worked with him on different projects involving communication and videotaping and sound. Among other church-related activities, Don led the church's Boy Scout troop, known for the number of Eagle Scouts it produced, and actively mentored the boys, including several who were from single parent households.
When he was arrested and convicted, it was a huge, horrible shock -- and in our household even more so because our daughter had not only attended school with the victims but had been close friends with at least one.
These wonderful young people had had their lives changed forever by the sick perversion of a man who preyed on boys in what was considered to be a safe place, just as Sandusky did.
Corley's victims have created a website with information about Corley and possible parole, and are devoted to making sure the man serves his entire sentence. It has a great deal of information about child molesters as well. I applaud their bravery and acknowledgement of how this crime has impacted their lives, and their work to bring awareness of the issue of child molestation.
But before that, another man (who I knew fairly well) molested someone very close to me, also gathering his victims in what was thought of as a safe place, and threatening them with the loss of their families and friends should they tell, much as Sandusky did with at least one of his victims. I was unaware of the closest molestation until just a few years ago, although I knew about others who had been hurt when the man was prosecuted for molesting the five-year-old daughter of friends -- others, who we knew of, did not choose to be part of that case, unfortunately. He served a very light prison sentence, released early for 'good behavior.' I now know more details of his behavior than I wish I knew.
Like the children molested by Corley and Sandusky, these young boys and girls bear lifelong scars. Even now the memory haunts and taunts at least one victim, causing severe mental distress and vocal and physical hallucinations, despite therapy and medication.
I find it difficult to even consider forgiving such acts. While I understand it is an illness, there is no acceptable excuse to molest children, ever.
And while the families of the perpetrators may have been blindsided and horrified, there are also always signs, looking back, that they either chose not to see or that they took pains to overlook for any number of reasons -- financial or social, for instance. They bear a different kind of responsibility and grief and remorse.
But we all have a duty to be watchful of the children we know, to listen to what they say, to teach them how to respond and to be honest, to help them understand that there are indeed bad people in their worlds but that they should not be afraid to tell a parent or a counselor or a pastor or a friend if they are being hurt.
I pray for the victims of Sandusky and Corley and the unnamed man, but I cannot bring myself to pray for those sick, twisted men, to grant them the release of forgiveness from any source. Justice in these instances will never really happen, no matter how long their prison terms.
Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime. --Herbert Ward
If I Had My Child to Raise Over Again
by Diane Loomans
If I had my child to raise all over again,
I'd build self esteem first, and the house later.
I'd fingerpaint more, and point the finger less.
I would do less correcting and more connecting.
I'd take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes.
I would care to know less and know to care more.
I'd take more hikes and fly more kites.
I'd stop playing serious, and seriously play.
I would run through more fields and gaze at more stars.
I'd do more hugging and less tugging.
I'd see the oak tree in the acorn more often.
I would be firm less often, and affirm much more.
I'd model less about the love of power,
And more about the power of love.
Back in 1995 in Birmingham, Ala., Don Corley, a man considered by many to be a pillar of the community -- Scout leader, active church member, friend -- was convicted of child molestation and sentenced to 30 years in prison. We were members of the same church and my then-husband had worked with him on different projects involving communication and videotaping and sound. Among other church-related activities, Don led the church's Boy Scout troop, known for the number of Eagle Scouts it produced, and actively mentored the boys, including several who were from single parent households.
When he was arrested and convicted, it was a huge, horrible shock -- and in our household even more so because our daughter had not only attended school with the victims but had been close friends with at least one.
These wonderful young people had had their lives changed forever by the sick perversion of a man who preyed on boys in what was considered to be a safe place, just as Sandusky did.
Corley's victims have created a website with information about Corley and possible parole, and are devoted to making sure the man serves his entire sentence. It has a great deal of information about child molesters as well. I applaud their bravery and acknowledgement of how this crime has impacted their lives, and their work to bring awareness of the issue of child molestation.
But before that, another man (who I knew fairly well) molested someone very close to me, also gathering his victims in what was thought of as a safe place, and threatening them with the loss of their families and friends should they tell, much as Sandusky did with at least one of his victims. I was unaware of the closest molestation until just a few years ago, although I knew about others who had been hurt when the man was prosecuted for molesting the five-year-old daughter of friends -- others, who we knew of, did not choose to be part of that case, unfortunately. He served a very light prison sentence, released early for 'good behavior.' I now know more details of his behavior than I wish I knew.
Like the children molested by Corley and Sandusky, these young boys and girls bear lifelong scars. Even now the memory haunts and taunts at least one victim, causing severe mental distress and vocal and physical hallucinations, despite therapy and medication.
I find it difficult to even consider forgiving such acts. While I understand it is an illness, there is no acceptable excuse to molest children, ever.
And while the families of the perpetrators may have been blindsided and horrified, there are also always signs, looking back, that they either chose not to see or that they took pains to overlook for any number of reasons -- financial or social, for instance. They bear a different kind of responsibility and grief and remorse.
But we all have a duty to be watchful of the children we know, to listen to what they say, to teach them how to respond and to be honest, to help them understand that there are indeed bad people in their worlds but that they should not be afraid to tell a parent or a counselor or a pastor or a friend if they are being hurt.
I pray for the victims of Sandusky and Corley and the unnamed man, but I cannot bring myself to pray for those sick, twisted men, to grant them the release of forgiveness from any source. Justice in these instances will never really happen, no matter how long their prison terms.
Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime. --Herbert Ward
If I Had My Child to Raise Over Again
by Diane Loomans
If I had my child to raise all over again,
I'd build self esteem first, and the house later.
I'd fingerpaint more, and point the finger less.
I would do less correcting and more connecting.
I'd take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes.
I would care to know less and know to care more.
I'd take more hikes and fly more kites.
I'd stop playing serious, and seriously play.
I would run through more fields and gaze at more stars.
I'd do more hugging and less tugging.
I'd see the oak tree in the acorn more often.
I would be firm less often, and affirm much more.
I'd model less about the love of power,
And more about the power of love.
Friday, March 23, 2012
The Scintilla Project - Day 7
The prompts:
1. List the tribes you belong to: cultural, personal, literary, you get the drift. Talk about the experience of being in your element with your tribes.
2. Talk about a time when you saw your mother or father as a person independent of his or her identity as your parent.
Number 2, you're up.
*************************
Before she married my father, my mother taught school in rural Wisconsin and Minnesota communities, sometimes living with a host family, teaching all grades. She didn't have a bachelor's degree, she had the number of college credit hours it took back in the 1940s to get a teaching certificate, and during the summers, continued to work on her degree.
After my folks married, she taught just one year in the tiny district where my father was superintendent. And she got pregnant with me, partly, I think, to avoid another year of trying to be a teacher AND the superintendent's wife (my dad was in charge of consolidating several rural school districts: not a popular move in many of those little Minnesota towns).
Nearly three years later, my brother was born, and Mother stayed home with us until my brother was in first grade (about 1956, I think), when she accepted a teaching job teaching fourth grade at a district slightly outside of the Springfield (Mo.) city limits. The city schools required a bachelor's degree; Pleasant View did not.
So she also went back to school in the summers, to what was then Southwest Missouri State Teacher's College.
After that first year, we moved to a house that was actually within walking distance -- a long walk, to be sure, but walkable -- of the college, although she still taught at the same school. I remember her studying diligently, sometimes sending us off to the summer programs at a nearby city park, or to the swimming pool at another park, also nearby, so she could have some uninterrupted study time. She'd sit under the pear tree with pencil and paper, taking notes and reading thick textbooks, sipping iced tea.
This student was my mother, but she was a beloved teacher to many students as well, and I got to see that side of her on the rare occasions when we'd be allowed to come to open houses or school events, and to meet some of her students there.
She did not drive at that time. She rode to teach school with other teachers; she either walked or took the city bus (which stopped across the street from our house) anywhere she needed to go, and so did we, when she finally allowed us to go unaccompanied.
And when I was about to graduate from eighth grade in 1961, she graduated from college, cum laude. I remember sitting in the gymnasium bleachers, watching as black-gowned and capped student after student walked across the dais to receive a diploma and handshake from the college's regent.
And then it was my mother's turn. "Marjorie Mae Dahl Kershaw," the announcer intoned. "Bachelor of Science in Education." There she was, my mother, smiling as she accepted the sheepskin and shook hands. We clapped loudly, although we didn't dare cheer at such a solemn event, unlike the graduation ceremonies of today.
That year, she began teaching at a school in town, still some distance from our house, precious degree in hand. But she didn't stop there: she began taking classes at Drury College towards her masters degree. And two years later, as I was about to turn 16 and get a driver's license, SHE took a summer class in driver's education and got her license just months before I did, in a little 1950-something Nash Rambler automatic shift car that my dad had purchased for her because she so hated the stick shift car that he always drove. Bonus for me: I got to take my test in that car too.
I don't remember the year she got her masters; I don't remember if I was at the graduation ceremony. I do remember seeing her in her academic hood, and I am pretty sure that she graduated with honors again.
My mother continued to teach fourth, fifth, or sixth grades in the Springfield district until she retired in 1981 with my dad because they wanted to travel and do things together rather than wait another five years. She was 60 years old.
She received yearly letters and cards until she died from not only the student teachers she'd mentored over the years, but also from so many of the students she taught, even back as far as Pleasant View. At least three of them came to her memorial service in 2005.
Her influence and skill as a classroom teacher garnered her district-wide recognition and praise, and her principals loved her. I was proud of her, my mother, the teacher Mrs. Kershaw.
1. List the tribes you belong to: cultural, personal, literary, you get the drift. Talk about the experience of being in your element with your tribes.
2. Talk about a time when you saw your mother or father as a person independent of his or her identity as your parent.
Number 2, you're up.
*************************
Before she married my father, my mother taught school in rural Wisconsin and Minnesota communities, sometimes living with a host family, teaching all grades. She didn't have a bachelor's degree, she had the number of college credit hours it took back in the 1940s to get a teaching certificate, and during the summers, continued to work on her degree.
After my folks married, she taught just one year in the tiny district where my father was superintendent. And she got pregnant with me, partly, I think, to avoid another year of trying to be a teacher AND the superintendent's wife (my dad was in charge of consolidating several rural school districts: not a popular move in many of those little Minnesota towns).
Nearly three years later, my brother was born, and Mother stayed home with us until my brother was in first grade (about 1956, I think), when she accepted a teaching job teaching fourth grade at a district slightly outside of the Springfield (Mo.) city limits. The city schools required a bachelor's degree; Pleasant View did not.
So she also went back to school in the summers, to what was then Southwest Missouri State Teacher's College.
After that first year, we moved to a house that was actually within walking distance -- a long walk, to be sure, but walkable -- of the college, although she still taught at the same school. I remember her studying diligently, sometimes sending us off to the summer programs at a nearby city park, or to the swimming pool at another park, also nearby, so she could have some uninterrupted study time. She'd sit under the pear tree with pencil and paper, taking notes and reading thick textbooks, sipping iced tea.
This student was my mother, but she was a beloved teacher to many students as well, and I got to see that side of her on the rare occasions when we'd be allowed to come to open houses or school events, and to meet some of her students there.
She did not drive at that time. She rode to teach school with other teachers; she either walked or took the city bus (which stopped across the street from our house) anywhere she needed to go, and so did we, when she finally allowed us to go unaccompanied.
And when I was about to graduate from eighth grade in 1961, she graduated from college, cum laude. I remember sitting in the gymnasium bleachers, watching as black-gowned and capped student after student walked across the dais to receive a diploma and handshake from the college's regent.
And then it was my mother's turn. "Marjorie Mae Dahl Kershaw," the announcer intoned. "Bachelor of Science in Education." There she was, my mother, smiling as she accepted the sheepskin and shook hands. We clapped loudly, although we didn't dare cheer at such a solemn event, unlike the graduation ceremonies of today.
That year, she began teaching at a school in town, still some distance from our house, precious degree in hand. But she didn't stop there: she began taking classes at Drury College towards her masters degree. And two years later, as I was about to turn 16 and get a driver's license, SHE took a summer class in driver's education and got her license just months before I did, in a little 1950-something Nash Rambler automatic shift car that my dad had purchased for her because she so hated the stick shift car that he always drove. Bonus for me: I got to take my test in that car too.
I don't remember the year she got her masters; I don't remember if I was at the graduation ceremony. I do remember seeing her in her academic hood, and I am pretty sure that she graduated with honors again.
My mother continued to teach fourth, fifth, or sixth grades in the Springfield district until she retired in 1981 with my dad because they wanted to travel and do things together rather than wait another five years. She was 60 years old.
She received yearly letters and cards until she died from not only the student teachers she'd mentored over the years, but also from so many of the students she taught, even back as far as Pleasant View. At least three of them came to her memorial service in 2005.
Her influence and skill as a classroom teacher garnered her district-wide recognition and praise, and her principals loved her. I was proud of her, my mother, the teacher Mrs. Kershaw.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Reverb11 - Day 25 - Who I love and the best gift ever
#1 Prompt: Love: Who do you love + why do you love them? What does it feel like to be around these people?
#1 -- The person I most love is my husband Tony, who has always on Christmas Day given me either a beautifully sentimental card or written me a letter. He opted for the latter this year and although I love the cards, the letters are the most special, and yes, they get kept.
In it, he writes of the Christmases we've spent together (this is the 15th), how he feels about that and about me and about the myriad of things that I do to make the day special for us, and, well -- a lot of wonderfully loving language that you don't need to hear because it's meant just for me.
How could I not love that? But I knew I loved him and that we were right together almost from the very first day I met him. Every day, every hug, every kiss reaffirms that for me, over and over. And my gratitude for him simply overflows my heart. After all these years, I love his touch, I love it when I see him coming towards me in a group, I love watching his face when he doesn't know I'm watching him. He is my rock, my calm center, my home, no matter where I am. How lucky I am to have this. How lucky we are to have found each other.
There are others whom I love dearly -- brother, sister-in-law, daughters, friends -- but I think the ability to love comes from first being shown great love: the more love you receive, the more you have to give to others. When your own well runs dry, it's hard to find a drop for others. I am grateful to those who love me so well, and I hope you receive back from me that gift.
#2 -- There have been some wonderful gifts in my past, and a few maybe not so much (think Crock Pot...from my husband ... ex)
The one that I best remember is a personal life album (scrapbook) and family history made by my mother and father in 1997, I think, or maybe 1996. She had been so painfully sick with osteoporosis and heart issues that year that their traveling days had to stop, and she had quite a lot of time at home. She had gone through decades of newspaper clippings, photographs, school records, and the other keepsake papers, written a family tree geneology for each side of our family. She'd made a collage of pictures for the cover -- and this was not only for me, but she also put ones together for my brother and for my daughter, so each was different, with a few of the same elements.
They began with old pictures of each family -- our grandparents and great-grandparents, along with their names and a brief history. Where there were appropriate photos of us interacting with them, they were included -- like the four generation one of me, my father, my grandmother and my great-grandmother, taken when I was maybe 2 or 3. She'd chosen photos of me at all the stages (to that point) of my life: child, teen, college student, young married woman, young mother, middle-aged working mom, etc., and of the people who have been so important in my life, along with other little news clips or keepsakes from her treasure box (her wedding hankie, for instance, was in my daughter's album).
It was a beautiful gift and we all three looked at them all day, sharing memories, sharing some of the different elements of each book, telling stories, and listening to my mother and dad tell theirs. I have custody of the albums from which the life album photos were chosen, but none is more precious to me than the one she spent that year putting together for me.
What they cost was time, her time and my dad's, because he was there helping her choose photos, pasting them in, remembering stories along with her. That gift of time and memory is still the best one I've ever received.
How blessed I am!
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Books, Day 13 -- childhood reading
Day 13 – Favorite childhood book OR current favorite YA book (or both!)
Hands down my current favorite is the Harry Potter series, although I think it is a little too dark for many children (and that includes the movies -- some of the visuals would give a younger child nightmares, I think). While Rowling may have started the series as YA (young adult) one, it evolved into a series for all of us.
Despite its critics, the series is engaging, imaginative, and clearly is a metaphorical tale of good versus evil, even possibly a Christian allegory, at least in the views of some reviewers, and that despite the early boycotting of the books by the fundamentalist types because of the wizard/witch emphasis.
I love it because I want to believe in magic, I want to believe that bad people eventually get their just rewards (karma!), and I want to believe that ultimately good prevails over bad. And it does, although not without pain and loss.
Just like life. At least I hope that, although when I read the news and contemplate the actions of financiers, most Republicans and far too many Democrats, and leaders on every level in every part of business, I wonder where the magic is, where the good is, that will triumph over the self-serving, inhumane, greedy, judgmental actions that seem to be their creeds.
I want good, decent, kind people to prevail, the ones with ethics that are not compromised by the promise of a dollar, the ones who do not believe in trampling the rights of others in order to get rich or famous. Rowling delivers that.
*******************
The book(s) I remember best from my own childhood do too.
The first book I remember being read is "Wynken, Blynken and Nod," a story poem by Eugene Field. It was a tall, beautifully illustrated book with a red cover, and I gave it some years ago to my daughter, after I'd read it to her throughout her childhood. When my mother was in her last days, I remember reading it to her over the telephone. I still love the calming words, the rocking of the ocean, the rhyme and rhythm of the words lulling me to sleep.
I read constantly, always, as a child. I preferred the company of books and a story to playing outside or anything athletic (that's not changed). I remember hiding books behind my textbooks in class and more than once getting caught by a teacher, especially once in fourth grade when I giggled out loud at a passage during a history lesson. Busted.
I loved anything in a series: Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon, the Bobbsey Twins, the Little House books. I loved Louisa May Alcott, especially Eight Cousins, and often wished I had such wonderful brothers/cousins instead of the bratty little brother that I was stuck with (and who I love dearly, you understand).
I read my way through the Brothers Grimm and every other fairy or folk tale collection in the Greene County (Missouri) Public Library Children's Section -- I love stories about magic, legend and myth, which also may account somewhat for my enthusiasm for Harry Potter, I suppose.
In fact, I read my way pretty much through the whole section, and by the time I was in fifth or sixth grade had permission from both my parents and the children's librarian to read anything I wanted from the adult section too. Fortunately they never believed in restricting access to anything -- a belief which I carried forward and ultimately became actively involved in protecting the right to read.
Books have shaped who I am, beginning with the books my parents read to me every day, books I remember still after going on 63 years. I am grateful.
Hands down my current favorite is the Harry Potter series, although I think it is a little too dark for many children (and that includes the movies -- some of the visuals would give a younger child nightmares, I think). While Rowling may have started the series as YA (young adult) one, it evolved into a series for all of us.
Despite its critics, the series is engaging, imaginative, and clearly is a metaphorical tale of good versus evil, even possibly a Christian allegory, at least in the views of some reviewers, and that despite the early boycotting of the books by the fundamentalist types because of the wizard/witch emphasis.
I love it because I want to believe in magic, I want to believe that bad people eventually get their just rewards (karma!), and I want to believe that ultimately good prevails over bad. And it does, although not without pain and loss.
Just like life. At least I hope that, although when I read the news and contemplate the actions of financiers, most Republicans and far too many Democrats, and leaders on every level in every part of business, I wonder where the magic is, where the good is, that will triumph over the self-serving, inhumane, greedy, judgmental actions that seem to be their creeds.
I want good, decent, kind people to prevail, the ones with ethics that are not compromised by the promise of a dollar, the ones who do not believe in trampling the rights of others in order to get rich or famous. Rowling delivers that.
*******************
The book(s) I remember best from my own childhood do too.
The first book I remember being read is "Wynken, Blynken and Nod," a story poem by Eugene Field. It was a tall, beautifully illustrated book with a red cover, and I gave it some years ago to my daughter, after I'd read it to her throughout her childhood. When my mother was in her last days, I remember reading it to her over the telephone. I still love the calming words, the rocking of the ocean, the rhyme and rhythm of the words lulling me to sleep.
I read constantly, always, as a child. I preferred the company of books and a story to playing outside or anything athletic (that's not changed). I remember hiding books behind my textbooks in class and more than once getting caught by a teacher, especially once in fourth grade when I giggled out loud at a passage during a history lesson. Busted.
I loved anything in a series: Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon, the Bobbsey Twins, the Little House books. I loved Louisa May Alcott, especially Eight Cousins, and often wished I had such wonderful brothers/cousins instead of the bratty little brother that I was stuck with (and who I love dearly, you understand).
I read my way through the Brothers Grimm and every other fairy or folk tale collection in the Greene County (Missouri) Public Library Children's Section -- I love stories about magic, legend and myth, which also may account somewhat for my enthusiasm for Harry Potter, I suppose.
In fact, I read my way pretty much through the whole section, and by the time I was in fifth or sixth grade had permission from both my parents and the children's librarian to read anything I wanted from the adult section too. Fortunately they never believed in restricting access to anything -- a belief which I carried forward and ultimately became actively involved in protecting the right to read.
Books have shaped who I am, beginning with the books my parents read to me every day, books I remember still after going on 63 years. I am grateful.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Adventures in grandparenting
There is a reason why we have children when we're younger.
It's patience and stamina and a go-with-the-flow outlook, partly. And it's not really even patience: I have more nowadays than I did when my daughter was little. It's definitely stamina: I have been flat-out pooped the last few nights. And I'm afraid that I'm more gone-with-the-wind than go-with-the-flow these days: I've grown very attached to our routines and the ebb and flow of our days as they are now rather than ready to adapt to anything at a moment's notice.
We've been taking care of our grandson, who turned two June 11, for the last three days. Cute as he is, amusing and charming and full of energy and curiosity -- and remarkably well-behaved -- I will be fine watching him go out the door soon with his auntie to go to another auntie's house until his parents return tomorrow.
He's exploring his vocal ranges right now in lieu of taking a nap. He is not in distress, other than that he doesn't particularly want to be there, but the way he yodels and vocalizes tells me that he's amusing himself as much as he is registering a protest at being put down for naptime. I'll get him up in a few minutes and give him a snack before Auntie R comes to get him. (Yup -- you guessed it -- soon as she called to say she was coming, he fell asleep.)
Our kitties Cheswick and McMurphy will be greatly relieved that he is not around tonight as both have spent much of their time lurking under the bed since he's been here. Cheswick has been more interested, although he tends to stay under things that G can't reach, and G delightedly says "Kee-y! Hes-we! MEW!" (Trans: Kitty, Cheswick, MEOW) when he sees him. Mac, on the other hand, wants nothing to do with him and has hissed loudly at his approach, running into the bedroom to hide.
It's been fun, mostly. It's been exhausting, mostly. He's a really good child -- he minds pretty well, especially for independent two, and is good natured. His momma has taught him well. He's a natural-born soccer player -- he already has a great kick and even a dribble, and LOVES to play ball.
His momma says he isn't a picky eater, and he probably isn't, for the kind of food she fixes, but he didn't love my salmon burgers or asparagus much, although he ate some of both; he was far more interested in the ketchup than in the chicken fingers we had at a restaurant this noon; and he licked the peanut butter and jelly off the whole wheat bread but didn't eat any of it. He likes strawberries and bananas but is only so-so with plain yogurt even sweetened a touch. His parents (much to my dismay) brought a giant-sized container of Nestle's Quick to flavor his milk, and he sure knows how to ask for 'chikit' milk, which is the only way he wanted to drink any of it. On the other hand it has been HOT, and nobody feels much like eating when it's over 100 degrees, even with air conditioning.
I found myself listening for him if I wasn't in the room, and even asleep, I had one ear cocked, just as I did when R was little -- actually, I did that until she went off to college! I'd forgotten how wearying it can be to constantly be attentive to a child. It was fun to watch him play with rubber duckies and boats in the bath, nice to snuggle with a lavender-scented toddler just before bed, read "The Little Red Caboose" and "Do Cows Eat Cake?" and listen to lullabies playing on the CD player. He didn't want to snuggle with Granddaddy, although he played ball with him for a long time and would go talk to him. He's a momma's boy though.
So it was an adventure, and I am impressed (and amazed) with my friends who regularly keep their grandchildren. I guess they're just in better shape than I am, more stamina, more patience, better food!
It's patience and stamina and a go-with-the-flow outlook, partly. And it's not really even patience: I have more nowadays than I did when my daughter was little. It's definitely stamina: I have been flat-out pooped the last few nights. And I'm afraid that I'm more gone-with-the-wind than go-with-the-flow these days: I've grown very attached to our routines and the ebb and flow of our days as they are now rather than ready to adapt to anything at a moment's notice.
We've been taking care of our grandson, who turned two June 11, for the last three days. Cute as he is, amusing and charming and full of energy and curiosity -- and remarkably well-behaved -- I will be fine watching him go out the door soon with his auntie to go to another auntie's house until his parents return tomorrow.
He's exploring his vocal ranges right now in lieu of taking a nap. He is not in distress, other than that he doesn't particularly want to be there, but the way he yodels and vocalizes tells me that he's amusing himself as much as he is registering a protest at being put down for naptime. I'll get him up in a few minutes and give him a snack before Auntie R comes to get him. (Yup -- you guessed it -- soon as she called to say she was coming, he fell asleep.)
Our kitties Cheswick and McMurphy will be greatly relieved that he is not around tonight as both have spent much of their time lurking under the bed since he's been here. Cheswick has been more interested, although he tends to stay under things that G can't reach, and G delightedly says "Kee-y! Hes-we! MEW!" (Trans: Kitty, Cheswick, MEOW) when he sees him. Mac, on the other hand, wants nothing to do with him and has hissed loudly at his approach, running into the bedroom to hide.
It's been fun, mostly. It's been exhausting, mostly. He's a really good child -- he minds pretty well, especially for independent two, and is good natured. His momma has taught him well. He's a natural-born soccer player -- he already has a great kick and even a dribble, and LOVES to play ball.
His momma says he isn't a picky eater, and he probably isn't, for the kind of food she fixes, but he didn't love my salmon burgers or asparagus much, although he ate some of both; he was far more interested in the ketchup than in the chicken fingers we had at a restaurant this noon; and he licked the peanut butter and jelly off the whole wheat bread but didn't eat any of it. He likes strawberries and bananas but is only so-so with plain yogurt even sweetened a touch. His parents (much to my dismay) brought a giant-sized container of Nestle's Quick to flavor his milk, and he sure knows how to ask for 'chikit' milk, which is the only way he wanted to drink any of it. On the other hand it has been HOT, and nobody feels much like eating when it's over 100 degrees, even with air conditioning.
I found myself listening for him if I wasn't in the room, and even asleep, I had one ear cocked, just as I did when R was little -- actually, I did that until she went off to college! I'd forgotten how wearying it can be to constantly be attentive to a child. It was fun to watch him play with rubber duckies and boats in the bath, nice to snuggle with a lavender-scented toddler just before bed, read "The Little Red Caboose" and "Do Cows Eat Cake?" and listen to lullabies playing on the CD player. He didn't want to snuggle with Granddaddy, although he played ball with him for a long time and would go talk to him. He's a momma's boy though.
So it was an adventure, and I am impressed (and amazed) with my friends who regularly keep their grandchildren. I guess they're just in better shape than I am, more stamina, more patience, better food!
Monday, March 16, 2009
Nature and nurture
In a comment to me the other day, I heard an implication that two of our daughters' situations may be our fault in some way because of the way they were raised, despite any genetic influences one way or the other.
And maybe I'm particularly sensitive right now as far as they're concerned because of the particular brand of parental angst their choices have caused us, and the mess they've both made of their lives because of their choices.
But I really take umbrage at the suggestion that their lives are messed up because of something we did.
My beloved and I did not raise them together. But both were reared in middle-class homes with strong middle-class values, went to church and camp and Sunday school, were Girl Scouts, played soccer, had proper health care and went to good schools, and had parents who tried to make sure they were able to take advantage of enrichment programs like drama, music, art, and the like. Their parents attended their games and events pretty faithfully. Both fathers worked hard to make a living; both mothers stayed home with them at least until they were school age if not longer. They both grew up with parents who had strong work ethics, who encouraged them to find what they were good at doing and make it happen.
Were there mistakes? Of course. Did their parents have it all together? No. I don't know any parents that do/did. But both girls were raised with love and attention; both were raised pretty much as only children.
There were some bad things that happened to them both at young ages, things that were not our fault or by our doing, and in my case, one biggie that I didn't even know about until last summer.
They're not the first children to whom some icky stuff has happened. They won't be the last.
And that may help explain some of their individual issues now, for sure.
There are also genetic factors at play here, we believe -- inheritable traits and illnesses that compound the issues. None of us have any say over what we inherit through our genes, alas. What we do have a choice about is how we choose to react to an illness, an inherited predisposition. What are we going to do with the hand we've been dealt?
But the bottom line is that they mostly are where they are because of their own choices: who they hang out with, what they choose to pursue in education or the world of work, how they make choices, what their work ethics are, what they decide to put into their bodies.
You do all you can, where you are, with what you've got.
There is so much compounded crap in their lives right now that I don't know if they can dig their ways out from underneath the piles. I hope so. I believe it is possible, and there are many stories about people who have overcome significant odds -- socio-economic, physical, mental -- and have become happy, successful adults.
But what they accomplished was because they wanted to do it for themselves. That's the only way it happens: when you want something badly enough to work through the obstacles to get it.
We have never stopped believing that it is possible. But we also know that we cannot love them out of their problems nor into the kind of life we hope for them. It can't be bought or bargained for. There is no easy fix, not that their lives are ours to fix anyway. They get to choose how they want to live their lives.
It is our choice how we accept their decisions.
And maybe I'm particularly sensitive right now as far as they're concerned because of the particular brand of parental angst their choices have caused us, and the mess they've both made of their lives because of their choices.
But I really take umbrage at the suggestion that their lives are messed up because of something we did.
My beloved and I did not raise them together. But both were reared in middle-class homes with strong middle-class values, went to church and camp and Sunday school, were Girl Scouts, played soccer, had proper health care and went to good schools, and had parents who tried to make sure they were able to take advantage of enrichment programs like drama, music, art, and the like. Their parents attended their games and events pretty faithfully. Both fathers worked hard to make a living; both mothers stayed home with them at least until they were school age if not longer. They both grew up with parents who had strong work ethics, who encouraged them to find what they were good at doing and make it happen.
Were there mistakes? Of course. Did their parents have it all together? No. I don't know any parents that do/did. But both girls were raised with love and attention; both were raised pretty much as only children.
There were some bad things that happened to them both at young ages, things that were not our fault or by our doing, and in my case, one biggie that I didn't even know about until last summer.
They're not the first children to whom some icky stuff has happened. They won't be the last.
And that may help explain some of their individual issues now, for sure.
There are also genetic factors at play here, we believe -- inheritable traits and illnesses that compound the issues. None of us have any say over what we inherit through our genes, alas. What we do have a choice about is how we choose to react to an illness, an inherited predisposition. What are we going to do with the hand we've been dealt?
But the bottom line is that they mostly are where they are because of their own choices: who they hang out with, what they choose to pursue in education or the world of work, how they make choices, what their work ethics are, what they decide to put into their bodies.
You do all you can, where you are, with what you've got.
There is so much compounded crap in their lives right now that I don't know if they can dig their ways out from underneath the piles. I hope so. I believe it is possible, and there are many stories about people who have overcome significant odds -- socio-economic, physical, mental -- and have become happy, successful adults.
But what they accomplished was because they wanted to do it for themselves. That's the only way it happens: when you want something badly enough to work through the obstacles to get it.
We have never stopped believing that it is possible. But we also know that we cannot love them out of their problems nor into the kind of life we hope for them. It can't be bought or bargained for. There is no easy fix, not that their lives are ours to fix anyway. They get to choose how they want to live their lives.
It is our choice how we accept their decisions.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
October's transitions
It's October 1 -- the beginning of the all-too-rapid slide down to the new year. And it appears that our summer weather may be over, with a forecast of highs on Friday and Saturday only in the 60s. Looks like we may well go from swamp cooler to wood stove in the same week once more.
And I'm so glad. I am so tired of hot weather, of dry, dusty roads and ground and air, of fire threats with every lightning strike. I'm tired of hot weather food and clothing. It's been a very long summer this year.
Change is all around us today, and we're truly at a crossroads with the economy. Our lives, what we buy, what we eat, how we work depends on what happens with the economy in the next few days. While we must take personal responsibility for our own choices and deal with those consequences, much of this mess is fallout from the decisions of big business. And yes, what happens to these big companies impacts our ability to purchase ANYTHING. Our economy revolves around credit.
October is one of my favorite months. The weather is cooler, days are often spectacularly bright blue, local festivals are nearly every weekend, gardens yield up the last veggies, trees turn brilliant colors.
My little brother was born this month and celebrates a birthday next week. Not that big 6-o, but he's not far away either. *snicker*
Mind you, when he was born, I wasn't particularly thrilled about it. I was not quite three -- two years and 11 months older than him, he'd tell people throughout our school days -- and rather enjoyed being the only child. I remember the day we brought him and my mother home from the hospital. I think my dad's mother had come to help out, because I remember being in the back seat of our car with her when we picked up my mother from the hospital, and peering over her shoulder to see this squawky red thing that looked not at ALL like my cute babydolls.
I'm told, although I don't remember it, that I used to pop him and then go helpfully tell my mother that "Jimmy has a bloody nose!" He has blamed me all his life for his propensity toward bloody noses, although *I* think it has much more to do with the blood vessels in his nose being very close to the skin's surface. (I never get bloody noses.)
But he was my playmate. We'd play house. We'd play dolls. We'd play trucks and cars sometimes, and conduct pretend orchestras with chopstick batons while we listened to LPs that our parents had, and our own "Lemmerlemmer Street" and others. We knew all the words to "Oklahoma." We could recite and sing the whole monologue from "It's in the Book." And sang gibberish German with some boys' choir recording -- can't remember the name. We knew the all the Smothers Brothers routines from their recordings too.
And we fought. I remember chasing him around and around the house, angry about something or other, and trying to hit him but only rarely succeeding. I took a slug at the neighborhood bully when he was in first grade and I was in fourth, and the bully was trying to beat up on MY BROTHER. *I* could beat up on him, but nobody else was gonna, by god. I got a chipped front tooth for my efforts, and we moved out of that neighborhood shortly thereafter, but I'd protected my little brother. By the time I was in high school he was pretty much of a pest.
And we've been friends for years now. When our dad died, we were in a mind-meld about what needed to be done for our mother. When our mother was failing and died -- three years ago at the end of this month -- we spent time together, just us, for the first time in many years, and were reminded just how much we treasure each other. We did what we needed to do, and we leaned on each other for strength to do it.
October is a transition month: you'll remember the Greek story of Persephone, where she prepares to return to the underworld for four months. When she and her mother Demeter are reunited, the earth flourishes with growth, but when she returns to Hades, it becomes barren. It's the myth explaining the changing of the seasons. We have this month yet of life, and then the barren time comes.
Only partly, of course, in northern California, where the hills and fields green up with the rains. But hey, it's a good story.
It's a transition month for the elections too, where all the candidates make their platforms clear (we hope), and campaigns and publicity heat up, and the fireworks and mudslinging start (yuk). By the end of the month we'll all be sick of hearing it and ready to vote.
Be sure to watch Palin and Biden go at it tomorrow night, by the way. It should be on all the networks as well as CNN, and on radio. Doesn't matter who you're for -- just be informed.
Anyway, happy almost fall. I know the calendar shows that fall began more than a week ago, but for me, this is its beginning. And days are getting so short -- barely 12 hours of light these days, with the sun setting by 7 p.m. Remember that daylight savings time doesn't change (fall back) until Nov. 2.
And I'm so glad. I am so tired of hot weather, of dry, dusty roads and ground and air, of fire threats with every lightning strike. I'm tired of hot weather food and clothing. It's been a very long summer this year.
Change is all around us today, and we're truly at a crossroads with the economy. Our lives, what we buy, what we eat, how we work depends on what happens with the economy in the next few days. While we must take personal responsibility for our own choices and deal with those consequences, much of this mess is fallout from the decisions of big business. And yes, what happens to these big companies impacts our ability to purchase ANYTHING. Our economy revolves around credit.
October is one of my favorite months. The weather is cooler, days are often spectacularly bright blue, local festivals are nearly every weekend, gardens yield up the last veggies, trees turn brilliant colors.
My little brother was born this month and celebrates a birthday next week. Not that big 6-o, but he's not far away either. *snicker*
Mind you, when he was born, I wasn't particularly thrilled about it. I was not quite three -- two years and 11 months older than him, he'd tell people throughout our school days -- and rather enjoyed being the only child. I remember the day we brought him and my mother home from the hospital. I think my dad's mother had come to help out, because I remember being in the back seat of our car with her when we picked up my mother from the hospital, and peering over her shoulder to see this squawky red thing that looked not at ALL like my cute babydolls.
I'm told, although I don't remember it, that I used to pop him and then go helpfully tell my mother that "Jimmy has a bloody nose!" He has blamed me all his life for his propensity toward bloody noses, although *I* think it has much more to do with the blood vessels in his nose being very close to the skin's surface. (I never get bloody noses.)
But he was my playmate. We'd play house. We'd play dolls. We'd play trucks and cars sometimes, and conduct pretend orchestras with chopstick batons while we listened to LPs that our parents had, and our own "Lemmerlemmer Street" and others. We knew all the words to "Oklahoma." We could recite and sing the whole monologue from "It's in the Book." And sang gibberish German with some boys' choir recording -- can't remember the name. We knew the all the Smothers Brothers routines from their recordings too.
And we fought. I remember chasing him around and around the house, angry about something or other, and trying to hit him but only rarely succeeding. I took a slug at the neighborhood bully when he was in first grade and I was in fourth, and the bully was trying to beat up on MY BROTHER. *I* could beat up on him, but nobody else was gonna, by god. I got a chipped front tooth for my efforts, and we moved out of that neighborhood shortly thereafter, but I'd protected my little brother. By the time I was in high school he was pretty much of a pest.
And we've been friends for years now. When our dad died, we were in a mind-meld about what needed to be done for our mother. When our mother was failing and died -- three years ago at the end of this month -- we spent time together, just us, for the first time in many years, and were reminded just how much we treasure each other. We did what we needed to do, and we leaned on each other for strength to do it.
October is a transition month: you'll remember the Greek story of Persephone, where she prepares to return to the underworld for four months. When she and her mother Demeter are reunited, the earth flourishes with growth, but when she returns to Hades, it becomes barren. It's the myth explaining the changing of the seasons. We have this month yet of life, and then the barren time comes.
Only partly, of course, in northern California, where the hills and fields green up with the rains. But hey, it's a good story.
It's a transition month for the elections too, where all the candidates make their platforms clear (we hope), and campaigns and publicity heat up, and the fireworks and mudslinging start (yuk). By the end of the month we'll all be sick of hearing it and ready to vote.
Be sure to watch Palin and Biden go at it tomorrow night, by the way. It should be on all the networks as well as CNN, and on radio. Doesn't matter who you're for -- just be informed.
Anyway, happy almost fall. I know the calendar shows that fall began more than a week ago, but for me, this is its beginning. And days are getting so short -- barely 12 hours of light these days, with the sun setting by 7 p.m. Remember that daylight savings time doesn't change (fall back) until Nov. 2.
Monday, May 12, 2008
About mothers
Yesterday was Mother's Day -- the third since mine died -- and I did a lot of thinking about motherhood while I was cleaning out my closet (transitioning from winter to summer), washing and folding clothes, grocery shopping, and generally doing stuff that needed doing -- which I also did most of Saturday, only it was in the garden and cleaning off the front porch and mucking out the kitty houses.
So. Mothers.
Mother's Day really glorifies mothers, don't you think? All those schmaltzy cards, gift ideas, reservations for dinner, etc. -- makes every single mother sound practically like a saint. And come on, folks, you KNOW that's not true.
I'm sure many mothers really do the best they can for their kids, fix good, healthy meals, help them with homework, attend various sports events, always know what's going on with their kids, and so on. I sure tried, and that was with me working full time (where DID I get the energy!)
And I still felt like a failure so many times, like the worst mother in the universe, in history probably. And my kid, probably like yours, pretty much told me that more than once when she was a teenager -- but that's what teenagers do, remember...
But there are some truly awful mothers too, y'know? You read about them in the newspaper, locking their child in a cage, or pimping them out for drugs, or driving them into a lake. Beating them with words and whips. It makes me wonder why they were lucky enough to have children...
And yet the primary person in everyone's memory is mom, no matter how awful. There is a bond that is almost impossible to overcome, even when it is in a person's best interests to do so.
And realizing that, it becomes so important to take care of that relationship between mother and child, to honor it and treasure it and nurture it, even when you told you are the worst mother in the world, even when you FEEL like the worst mother in the world. Even when your kid is driving you crazy, worrying you beyond worry, behaving like no child you could have raised!
That bond lasts beyond death. Ask anyone who has lost their mother. She's right there, whispering in your ear, praising, scolding, loving.
That's what it's about: loving.
I had a long, loving talk with one daughter yesterday, a talk that gave me hope for her and a belief that she is going to be okay. And I heard from another daughter who is slogging through a hard time, step by step, and with more confidence and practicality than I'd have imagined she could have.
It made me feel good that I'm their mom.
And then today, a card came thanking me for listening, and saying how proud my daughter is to call me mom and her best friend. It made me cry. And it makes everything worth it -- all the worry, the fear, the uncertainty, even the times when I felt like the worst mother in the world. Today I felt like the best one.
So. Mothers.
Mother's Day really glorifies mothers, don't you think? All those schmaltzy cards, gift ideas, reservations for dinner, etc. -- makes every single mother sound practically like a saint. And come on, folks, you KNOW that's not true.
I'm sure many mothers really do the best they can for their kids, fix good, healthy meals, help them with homework, attend various sports events, always know what's going on with their kids, and so on. I sure tried, and that was with me working full time (where DID I get the energy!)
And I still felt like a failure so many times, like the worst mother in the universe, in history probably. And my kid, probably like yours, pretty much told me that more than once when she was a teenager -- but that's what teenagers do, remember...
But there are some truly awful mothers too, y'know? You read about them in the newspaper, locking their child in a cage, or pimping them out for drugs, or driving them into a lake. Beating them with words and whips. It makes me wonder why they were lucky enough to have children...
And yet the primary person in everyone's memory is mom, no matter how awful. There is a bond that is almost impossible to overcome, even when it is in a person's best interests to do so.
And realizing that, it becomes so important to take care of that relationship between mother and child, to honor it and treasure it and nurture it, even when you told you are the worst mother in the world, even when you FEEL like the worst mother in the world. Even when your kid is driving you crazy, worrying you beyond worry, behaving like no child you could have raised!
That bond lasts beyond death. Ask anyone who has lost their mother. She's right there, whispering in your ear, praising, scolding, loving.
That's what it's about: loving.
I had a long, loving talk with one daughter yesterday, a talk that gave me hope for her and a belief that she is going to be okay. And I heard from another daughter who is slogging through a hard time, step by step, and with more confidence and practicality than I'd have imagined she could have.
It made me feel good that I'm their mom.
And then today, a card came thanking me for listening, and saying how proud my daughter is to call me mom and her best friend. It made me cry. And it makes everything worth it -- all the worry, the fear, the uncertainty, even the times when I felt like the worst mother in the world. Today I felt like the best one.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
From the dentist's chair...
Sort of as the next step after getting my braces off, I went to my regular dentist's office today to get my teeth cleaned.
So what can I say. It wasn't fun. It also wasn't a repeat of the tears-in-my-ears
drool-down-my-chin experience I had last time -- which was almost a year and a half, and yes, I do know I shouldn't go that long, thankyouverymuch.
It never fails: when I walk into any dentist's office -- save that of my orthodontist,weirdly enough -- I am that nine-year-old girl who sat trying with all my heart to focus on the joy of brand new shoes on my feet rather than on the high whirrrrr of the drill and the pain in my mouth and the tears in my eyes while the old dentist drilled and filled a tooth sans novocaine. (It didn't work well.)
And despite the fact that I haven't ever had work done without novocaine since, I feel that fear and dread and pain every single time I go. When I know and like the dentist, I can stifle most of it, although there are always a few moments of feeling sorry for myself.
I went to an endodontist in Indianapolis -- a father-son duo, actually -- for a crown, and had the son do the first root canal. He was kind and very good, and my fear was greatly calmed. Unfortunately, I needed another one a few years later, and the son was on vacation, so I ended up with the father, who proceeded to shame and mock me because I was so apprehensive, and I was too intimidated to get up and walk out. So I had it done by him -- and it wasn't painful: he did use lots of novocaine -- but I was a wreck emotionally, and never went back, and told my dentist to never recommend him to anyone.
Another dentist in Birmingham, Ala., was extremely kind and gentle with me when I began blubbering in the chair before he'd so much as taken a look at my mouth. He and his wonderful staff -- and his nurse was absolutely the best I've ever seen -- did fairly extensive work on me that summer, right before I left there for California. They used nitrous oxide, putting me at ease, but not out of it. I would have been okay, I think, even without it, but it sure helped. I got sick one time after a long session with it, but we were never sure if it was the nitrous or if I had a stomach bug -- I had to ask my ex to come pick me up, and I tossed my cookies several times. (The reason I remember it so well is that later that evening, my ex woke me to tell me that Princess Di had been killed...) That, and the fact that I lived on Wendy's Frosties for the next three days because I was swollen and sore.
I've actually had good dental care throughout my life, and have been personal friends with a couple of my dentists, so I'm not anti-dentist. I'm just afraid of the drill and the noise and the potential pain, and it all goes back to when I was a kid. No matter that I know it won't hurt, that I know they will be kind and caring. I'm still always, inevitably, horribly apprehensive.
Getting teeth cleaned has turned into a far more rigorous process than it used to be, however. Today, for instance, I had to gargle for 30 seconds with a prescription mouthwash before I even opened my mouth. Okay.....I guess I understand that.
The hygenist used topical anesthetic on my gums to help ease the discomfort, and began with an ultrasonic machine on low, which is efficient at flushing out pockets of bacteria around the gums.
Did I mention that for some time now I take the Advil-Tylenol combo an hour before to help ease pain, and usually will also take a low dose of an anti=anxiety medication to help that? Uh huh. And I bring music, preferably fairly loud and lively. Today it was Gustav Holst's The Planets, but I also bring Grateful Dead, Little Feat, and usually some choral music from John Rutter. Symphonies tend to work well too.
So I'm laying back, sunglasses covering my eyes, trying to relax into the medication and the music, and it's working pretty well. And then she hits a pocket. Oh, I know it's there. It's where everything gets stuck and I have to dig it out with floss or a proxi-brush, and it is like picking at a fresh scab.
Well, she dug a new basement on that molar today, and my knuckles were white on the CD player, but I just kept breathing and listening to Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity. It has a lovely section in it that is the basis for the English hymn "I Vow to Thee My Country," which I've written of before, but I never tire of hearing it. It helped.
Only two self-pitying tears escaped into my ears; no drool at all this time. I am grateful. It's been worse. (and all the braces cement is completely off now -- yay!)
I am grateful that my very kind and gentle dentist pronounced my teeth to be in pretty good shape after three years in braces and more than a year since cleaning. I am grateful for my wonderful Oral B electric toothbrush and the great flossing heads, and for those teensy little proxibrushes that clean between teeth and that were a godsend when I was in braces.
I'm grateful for all the work of all the dentists I've had (well, maybe not the cranky endodontist) that have helped me keep my teeth in good shape for all these years.
And I'm really grateful that the next time I am scheduled to sit in a dentist's chair is six months from now when I go back and get it done all over again. It'll be November, cold, rainy. That suits me fine.
So what can I say. It wasn't fun. It also wasn't a repeat of the tears-in-my-ears
drool-down-my-chin experience I had last time -- which was almost a year and a half, and yes, I do know I shouldn't go that long, thankyouverymuch.
It never fails: when I walk into any dentist's office -- save that of my orthodontist,weirdly enough -- I am that nine-year-old girl who sat trying with all my heart to focus on the joy of brand new shoes on my feet rather than on the high whirrrrr of the drill and the pain in my mouth and the tears in my eyes while the old dentist drilled and filled a tooth sans novocaine. (It didn't work well.)
And despite the fact that I haven't ever had work done without novocaine since, I feel that fear and dread and pain every single time I go. When I know and like the dentist, I can stifle most of it, although there are always a few moments of feeling sorry for myself.
I went to an endodontist in Indianapolis -- a father-son duo, actually -- for a crown, and had the son do the first root canal. He was kind and very good, and my fear was greatly calmed. Unfortunately, I needed another one a few years later, and the son was on vacation, so I ended up with the father, who proceeded to shame and mock me because I was so apprehensive, and I was too intimidated to get up and walk out. So I had it done by him -- and it wasn't painful: he did use lots of novocaine -- but I was a wreck emotionally, and never went back, and told my dentist to never recommend him to anyone.
Another dentist in Birmingham, Ala., was extremely kind and gentle with me when I began blubbering in the chair before he'd so much as taken a look at my mouth. He and his wonderful staff -- and his nurse was absolutely the best I've ever seen -- did fairly extensive work on me that summer, right before I left there for California. They used nitrous oxide, putting me at ease, but not out of it. I would have been okay, I think, even without it, but it sure helped. I got sick one time after a long session with it, but we were never sure if it was the nitrous or if I had a stomach bug -- I had to ask my ex to come pick me up, and I tossed my cookies several times. (The reason I remember it so well is that later that evening, my ex woke me to tell me that Princess Di had been killed...) That, and the fact that I lived on Wendy's Frosties for the next three days because I was swollen and sore.
I've actually had good dental care throughout my life, and have been personal friends with a couple of my dentists, so I'm not anti-dentist. I'm just afraid of the drill and the noise and the potential pain, and it all goes back to when I was a kid. No matter that I know it won't hurt, that I know they will be kind and caring. I'm still always, inevitably, horribly apprehensive.
Getting teeth cleaned has turned into a far more rigorous process than it used to be, however. Today, for instance, I had to gargle for 30 seconds with a prescription mouthwash before I even opened my mouth. Okay.....I guess I understand that.
The hygenist used topical anesthetic on my gums to help ease the discomfort, and began with an ultrasonic machine on low, which is efficient at flushing out pockets of bacteria around the gums.
Did I mention that for some time now I take the Advil-Tylenol combo an hour before to help ease pain, and usually will also take a low dose of an anti=anxiety medication to help that? Uh huh. And I bring music, preferably fairly loud and lively. Today it was Gustav Holst's The Planets, but I also bring Grateful Dead, Little Feat, and usually some choral music from John Rutter. Symphonies tend to work well too.
So I'm laying back, sunglasses covering my eyes, trying to relax into the medication and the music, and it's working pretty well. And then she hits a pocket. Oh, I know it's there. It's where everything gets stuck and I have to dig it out with floss or a proxi-brush, and it is like picking at a fresh scab.
Well, she dug a new basement on that molar today, and my knuckles were white on the CD player, but I just kept breathing and listening to Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity. It has a lovely section in it that is the basis for the English hymn "I Vow to Thee My Country," which I've written of before, but I never tire of hearing it. It helped.
Only two self-pitying tears escaped into my ears; no drool at all this time. I am grateful. It's been worse. (and all the braces cement is completely off now -- yay!)
I am grateful that my very kind and gentle dentist pronounced my teeth to be in pretty good shape after three years in braces and more than a year since cleaning. I am grateful for my wonderful Oral B electric toothbrush and the great flossing heads, and for those teensy little proxibrushes that clean between teeth and that were a godsend when I was in braces.
I'm grateful for all the work of all the dentists I've had (well, maybe not the cranky endodontist) that have helped me keep my teeth in good shape for all these years.
And I'm really grateful that the next time I am scheduled to sit in a dentist's chair is six months from now when I go back and get it done all over again. It'll be November, cold, rainy. That suits me fine.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Living creatively
Rain threatens today, and I'm hoping it will come. The grass is thin and browning, already crispy in places. A neighbor's pond already looks like it was mid-summer, not spring, and it will be nothing more than a big mud puddle if we don't get rain (or he doesn't get his windmill going).
But my garden is planted, tomatoes and all, and even though nights are still cool, things seem to be growing well. Our weekend was cooler and easier to work outside -- I spruced up flower pots and cleaned off porches, and it looks much better, although there's still (always) work to be done.
This is Missoula Children's Theatre week here, and those of us on the Tehama County Arts Council are busy helping with the production. It's exciting to watch kids from age 5 to 17 audition on Monday, rehearse all week, and then perform on Saturday. Kids today just don't have the arts opportunities that I did as a child -- at least in rural communities, and I'll bet even in urban areas that such programs are not often found in ordinary public schools.
I got art lessons through our wonderful art museum, drama opportunities both in school and through the parks department, all the books I could read through the county library's bookmobile system which brought them to a nearby park every two weeks, and a terrific school music program that started in fourth grade. Back then, there were not sports leagues for girls -- and I was a bookworm anyway, and decidedly unathletic -- so when my brother would play on Little League teams, I'd bring a book along.
Funny. Even with all the technological advances and vast information we have today, I believe my public education was superior to what is offered in many public schools today -- more than 50 years ago. There's something just wrong about that.
Children are hungry for expression -- for creativity -- for knowledge. They soak up information and ask questions (if they're allowed). Even the most awkward child will draw with crayons or chalks or paints (until they're told they have no talent). They'll sing and dance, even TV jingles if they have no other music sources (until they're criticized for making too much noise or breaking something). They'll play make-believe under tables, in boxes or hidey-holes under trees and shrubs, and pretend to be princesses or soldiers or kings or athletes or cowboys (until they're told it's silly and they shouldn't do it).
And then we spend the rest of our lives trying to regain that stifled creativity, don't we.
If you have a child in your life, encourage them to play creatively, to create, to perform. Take them to see the MCT performance at the State Theatre this weekend. Talk about books and music and art. Sometimes it's the only thing that still make sense in this world.
But my garden is planted, tomatoes and all, and even though nights are still cool, things seem to be growing well. Our weekend was cooler and easier to work outside -- I spruced up flower pots and cleaned off porches, and it looks much better, although there's still (always) work to be done.
This is Missoula Children's Theatre week here, and those of us on the Tehama County Arts Council are busy helping with the production. It's exciting to watch kids from age 5 to 17 audition on Monday, rehearse all week, and then perform on Saturday. Kids today just don't have the arts opportunities that I did as a child -- at least in rural communities, and I'll bet even in urban areas that such programs are not often found in ordinary public schools.
I got art lessons through our wonderful art museum, drama opportunities both in school and through the parks department, all the books I could read through the county library's bookmobile system which brought them to a nearby park every two weeks, and a terrific school music program that started in fourth grade. Back then, there were not sports leagues for girls -- and I was a bookworm anyway, and decidedly unathletic -- so when my brother would play on Little League teams, I'd bring a book along.
Funny. Even with all the technological advances and vast information we have today, I believe my public education was superior to what is offered in many public schools today -- more than 50 years ago. There's something just wrong about that.
Children are hungry for expression -- for creativity -- for knowledge. They soak up information and ask questions (if they're allowed). Even the most awkward child will draw with crayons or chalks or paints (until they're told they have no talent). They'll sing and dance, even TV jingles if they have no other music sources (until they're criticized for making too much noise or breaking something). They'll play make-believe under tables, in boxes or hidey-holes under trees and shrubs, and pretend to be princesses or soldiers or kings or athletes or cowboys (until they're told it's silly and they shouldn't do it).
And then we spend the rest of our lives trying to regain that stifled creativity, don't we.
If you have a child in your life, encourage them to play creatively, to create, to perform. Take them to see the MCT performance at the State Theatre this weekend. Talk about books and music and art. Sometimes it's the only thing that still make sense in this world.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Back to the past
We spent much of our recent trip visiting our past: seeing family in Nashville and Birmingham, friends in Birmingham, and for Tony, a visit to the far distant past in his hometown of Livingston, Tenn., where he'd not set foot since 1977, and with former classmates and even a teacher he hadn't seen in -- oh, golly, we CAN'T be this old -- some 42 years.
It was a return to familiar climates, too, for both of us. I grew up in Springfield, Missouri, too far north to be classified as "southern" and yet Missouri was a border state in "THE WAR" (for Southerners, there was only one important war), so there are traces of Southern culture everywhere.
But it was green, the trees were not blue and scrub oaks but sycamores, maples, pin oaks, maple leaf oaks, pines. In Birmingham, kudzu swathed trees and hillsides in the tangled, large-leaved carpet. We had several thunderstorms and rainstorms throughout the week that freshened the air and didn't make us instantly think of fire danger. Yes, it was humid, moreso than here, but not really oppressive until the last day or so. The heat wasn't excessive. The nights were the soft, warm dark with choirs of frogs and cicadas dueling for loudest volume. It felt very familiar to us both.
Both Tennessee and Alabama have had a drought this year, and it's just been in the last month that rain has relieved it. We were told of recent terrible smoke from Florida wildfires blanketing the Birmingham area and causing asthma attacks by the score, dying lawns and restricted watering in both cities. Summer weather in the south usually includes a brief rainstorm every afternoon, so this was a very different weather pattern. We enjoyed our rains while we were there and the smell of the air after the storms.
We recalled summers of our pasts throughout the week, with sweat that drips down your back, your nose, and dampens your clothing instead of evaporating quickly as it does here. My already straight hair fell limply against my damp neck and forehead, and I remembered again why I almost always had short hair or got permanent waves in the summer. That part I don't miss.
For a few days, Tony was immersed in memories of people long dead, of boyhood in a small town, of high school and college classes and people and buildings and towns and highways that were no longer there, and by the time he came back to the hotel after an afternoon of visiting and talking with former classmates, he had a bit of the deer-in-the-headlights look about him. It's hard to reconcile all at once who you were with who you are, I think. Going back again won't be so difficult -- and we will go back again. It's a beautiful area.... real estate there is incredibly less expensive than anywhere in California, and there are wonderful lakes and rivers there too.
I thought often of my parents as my brother and I talked and laughed and listened to music and went different places, and I'll bet he did too. We ate one of Daddy's favorite meals -- "hotdish" -- which is a baked spaghetti-like casserole with tomatoes, peppers and onions, hamburger, and cheese. We visited the Country Music Hall of Fame which included a few video clips from "Ozark Jubilee," a TV show that originated in Springfield and to which we both remember going as children. That museum is incredible and we thoroughly enjoyed it.
There was more past in Birmingham, but that'll wait for another day.
It is in looking back that we can see how far we have come, how much we have learned about ourselves, and sometimes gain clarity about choices we made then that forever changed our paths. It is good to look back and remember, but gently, kindly, both for our loved ones and ourselves. We are shaped by where we came from, but it is not who we are now.
It was good to come home to this life, this reality, after living in all those memories for a week. I am grateful for the warmth and caring with which we were greeted by every single person we spent time with, and grateful for the love which has surrounded us in this journey through life. It is good to remember that constancy and to celebrate it.
I finished Jennifer Weiner's The Guy Not Taken, J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. and started Kushiel's Scion by Jacqueline Carey. Plus a bunch of local newspapers! A great reading vacation!
It was a return to familiar climates, too, for both of us. I grew up in Springfield, Missouri, too far north to be classified as "southern" and yet Missouri was a border state in "THE WAR" (for Southerners, there was only one important war), so there are traces of Southern culture everywhere.
But it was green, the trees were not blue and scrub oaks but sycamores, maples, pin oaks, maple leaf oaks, pines. In Birmingham, kudzu swathed trees and hillsides in the tangled, large-leaved carpet. We had several thunderstorms and rainstorms throughout the week that freshened the air and didn't make us instantly think of fire danger. Yes, it was humid, moreso than here, but not really oppressive until the last day or so. The heat wasn't excessive. The nights were the soft, warm dark with choirs of frogs and cicadas dueling for loudest volume. It felt very familiar to us both.
Both Tennessee and Alabama have had a drought this year, and it's just been in the last month that rain has relieved it. We were told of recent terrible smoke from Florida wildfires blanketing the Birmingham area and causing asthma attacks by the score, dying lawns and restricted watering in both cities. Summer weather in the south usually includes a brief rainstorm every afternoon, so this was a very different weather pattern. We enjoyed our rains while we were there and the smell of the air after the storms.
We recalled summers of our pasts throughout the week, with sweat that drips down your back, your nose, and dampens your clothing instead of evaporating quickly as it does here. My already straight hair fell limply against my damp neck and forehead, and I remembered again why I almost always had short hair or got permanent waves in the summer. That part I don't miss.
For a few days, Tony was immersed in memories of people long dead, of boyhood in a small town, of high school and college classes and people and buildings and towns and highways that were no longer there, and by the time he came back to the hotel after an afternoon of visiting and talking with former classmates, he had a bit of the deer-in-the-headlights look about him. It's hard to reconcile all at once who you were with who you are, I think. Going back again won't be so difficult -- and we will go back again. It's a beautiful area.... real estate there is incredibly less expensive than anywhere in California, and there are wonderful lakes and rivers there too.
I thought often of my parents as my brother and I talked and laughed and listened to music and went different places, and I'll bet he did too. We ate one of Daddy's favorite meals -- "hotdish" -- which is a baked spaghetti-like casserole with tomatoes, peppers and onions, hamburger, and cheese. We visited the Country Music Hall of Fame which included a few video clips from "Ozark Jubilee," a TV show that originated in Springfield and to which we both remember going as children. That museum is incredible and we thoroughly enjoyed it.
There was more past in Birmingham, but that'll wait for another day.
It is in looking back that we can see how far we have come, how much we have learned about ourselves, and sometimes gain clarity about choices we made then that forever changed our paths. It is good to look back and remember, but gently, kindly, both for our loved ones and ourselves. We are shaped by where we came from, but it is not who we are now.
It was good to come home to this life, this reality, after living in all those memories for a week. I am grateful for the warmth and caring with which we were greeted by every single person we spent time with, and grateful for the love which has surrounded us in this journey through life. It is good to remember that constancy and to celebrate it.
I finished Jennifer Weiner's The Guy Not Taken, J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. and started Kushiel's Scion by Jacqueline Carey. Plus a bunch of local newspapers! A great reading vacation!
Friday, June 15, 2007
Remembering times past
A year ago today we scattered my parents' ashes in Estes Park, Colorado, in a little pine grove facing the Mummy Range -- the view they loved for years when they'd visit Daddy's aunt's cabin. Sixty-one years ago today, they were married in Duluth, Minn. I miss them. I think of their life together, their fun, their great love for each other, and I am aware again of the great wheel of life turning slowly, cycles of life moving ahead, day by day, on and on, era by era.
***************
Tonight we saw "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" at our local old classic State Theatre, and it was fun to remember what we were doing when it first came out in 1977.
That led to reminiscences about drive-in movies -- which I suppose really dates us -- and what fun they were. I remember going when I was a kid. My folks liked station wagons, so we'd have a little nest of blankets and pillows in the back. We never got snacks at the snack bar, although I always envied those piles of french fries, hot dogs off the rolling grill, and sodas -- (and when I was grown and actually could choose to purchase snacks there, I was so disappointed!) We'd have lemonade or water or maybe Kool Aid in a thermos, bags of popcorn, stacks of homemade cookies, maybe a sandwich that we'd bring in our handy thermal pack.
When R was little in the late '70s and early '80s, we'd go to a nearby drivein in the Indianapolis area in our 1946 classic Chevrolet, take snacks, pillows, blankets, and watch movies in the warm Indiana summer evenings. It was life before home theaters, and VCRs, DVDs.
That's one of the reasons I think we like the movie nights at the State. The old-fashioned setting recalls simpler times and special nights out. (The movies are monthly -- next month is "Grease," with a much younger John Travola and Oliva Newton John. Of course we'll probably sing along...)
It was a nice end to a few days of more-than-usual stresses.
***************
Tonight we saw "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" at our local old classic State Theatre, and it was fun to remember what we were doing when it first came out in 1977.
That led to reminiscences about drive-in movies -- which I suppose really dates us -- and what fun they were. I remember going when I was a kid. My folks liked station wagons, so we'd have a little nest of blankets and pillows in the back. We never got snacks at the snack bar, although I always envied those piles of french fries, hot dogs off the rolling grill, and sodas -- (and when I was grown and actually could choose to purchase snacks there, I was so disappointed!) We'd have lemonade or water or maybe Kool Aid in a thermos, bags of popcorn, stacks of homemade cookies, maybe a sandwich that we'd bring in our handy thermal pack.
When R was little in the late '70s and early '80s, we'd go to a nearby drivein in the Indianapolis area in our 1946 classic Chevrolet, take snacks, pillows, blankets, and watch movies in the warm Indiana summer evenings. It was life before home theaters, and VCRs, DVDs.
That's one of the reasons I think we like the movie nights at the State. The old-fashioned setting recalls simpler times and special nights out. (The movies are monthly -- next month is "Grease," with a much younger John Travola and Oliva Newton John. Of course we'll probably sing along...)
It was a nice end to a few days of more-than-usual stresses.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Happy Birthday part 2....
I invited about a dozen of her close friends to a party at the nursing home, and we had it catered by the Victorian Tea Room which had lovely salads and a fabulous coconut cake. The day before, we went out (the first time in a very long time for her) to a wig shop and got her a wig that looked just like her hair. You see, the morphine she'd been on had caused her straight, thick hair to thin out a great deal, and she -- always picky about how her hair looked -- wanted a wig while her hair grew back in. (and when it did come back, it came back wavy! Go figure)
The luncheon was perfect. Three kinds of salads, fresh muffins, tea, lots of balloons and flowers, and a fresh coconut cake topped with real pansies. She glowed. I did too.
I was there for a few more birthdays, but that was the best, I think. On her 84th birthday, in 2005, her brother Tom also came, I think, and we celebrated quietly, talking and reminiscing -- they talked, I listened. That was her last one. She was sliding then toward forever...
Because of her, I am a strong, assertive woman. Because of her, I had the courage to follow my beliefs and my gut, and work towards what I wanted. Because of her, I am persistent and only a little stubborn (shut up) and I have a strong moral compass that doesn't tolerate lies and deception, but encourages truth and kindness and compassion and responsibility.
Thank you for that legacy, Mama. Thank you for those gifts. Thank you for your voice still in my head and my heart telling me you love me and that you're proud of me. Thank you for your calming presence when I get wrapped around the axle. I love you. I was so proud to call you my mother, and my friend.
The luncheon was perfect. Three kinds of salads, fresh muffins, tea, lots of balloons and flowers, and a fresh coconut cake topped with real pansies. She glowed. I did too.
I was there for a few more birthdays, but that was the best, I think. On her 84th birthday, in 2005, her brother Tom also came, I think, and we celebrated quietly, talking and reminiscing -- they talked, I listened. That was her last one. She was sliding then toward forever...
Because of her, I am a strong, assertive woman. Because of her, I had the courage to follow my beliefs and my gut, and work towards what I wanted. Because of her, I am persistent and only a little stubborn (shut up) and I have a strong moral compass that doesn't tolerate lies and deception, but encourages truth and kindness and compassion and responsibility.
Thank you for that legacy, Mama. Thank you for those gifts. Thank you for your voice still in my head and my heart telling me you love me and that you're proud of me. Thank you for your calming presence when I get wrapped around the axle. I love you. I was so proud to call you my mother, and my friend.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Winter memories
Snow was in the forecast last night and today, and Redding saw a small accumulation and Cottonwood had flurries. We had rain, but nothing white. And it probably won't hit here.
It made me remember other snows in earlier years, though, especially one when I was little and we lived in Wayzata, Minn. Last night I was in that semi-dream state between awake and asleep, and could *see* the living room in our house there. I was about 5 or 6 and was in first grade -- which, incidentally, I hated -- and it was sometime near my birthday in November.
And it was snowing, big, fluffy, lazy flakes that drifted out of grey skies and covered everything. I watched it from our kitchen window, and then saw the mailman tromping up our walk with a package. And it was for ME.
It was from my Grandma Canfield and was a big book of stories and poems -- I remember getting a lot of books from my grandparents as a child because so I loved to read. This one was the kind they don't make anymore: large, maybe 8x10 or 11, heavy cardboard covers with a glossy illustration on the front. The inside pages were very thin and, as I recall, tore easily. But they were filled with what seemed like hundreds of stories.
I don't remember a time when I couldn't read, so I don't remember if my parents read it to me or if I read it first by myself. I had it for years, though, eventually coverless and tattered, although I don't remember specific stories. I just remember being thrilled at all those options, all those lovely words and images.
I was very attached to my security blanket back then, too, even as a first-grader, and I hated when Mother washed it. She'd put together a little, maybe 6-8" square, temporary blanket with the silky binding simply basted on it for those wash days (and remember that clothing and linens was all line-dried in those times, so in winter the wash was strung up in our basement for several days until it dried).
I was, at that age, also forbidden to bring the blanket out of my bedroom because as a first-grader, I was "too old" to be carrying it around. *sigh*
But I recall sitting with my new book in the living room, in a floral upholstered chair that was one of three that could go together to make a sort of loveseat, with the temporary blanket hidden behind my back and looking at the new book with one hand turning pages, one hand stroking the soft binding. I'd suck my tongue too, when I had my blanket, but I didn't realize then that while Mother couldn't see the hidden blanket, she could tell I had it in off-limits territory because my mouth moved!
In my drowsy state last night, I could *see* the upholstery, even feel the texture and that green scrap of woolen blanket with golden binding. The book cover was vivid -- it had a small child with curly blonde hair (one of those androgynous rosy-cheeked tots) reading a book in front of a blazing fireplace. I remembered the snow falling and the grey November winter.
It was a good memory. Maybe that's why I always have liked grey wintery weather -- I was safe, warm, happy, and I had a new book. Not a bad way to spend these days now, either -- safe, warm, happy, and with a new book.
It made me remember other snows in earlier years, though, especially one when I was little and we lived in Wayzata, Minn. Last night I was in that semi-dream state between awake and asleep, and could *see* the living room in our house there. I was about 5 or 6 and was in first grade -- which, incidentally, I hated -- and it was sometime near my birthday in November.
And it was snowing, big, fluffy, lazy flakes that drifted out of grey skies and covered everything. I watched it from our kitchen window, and then saw the mailman tromping up our walk with a package. And it was for ME.
It was from my Grandma Canfield and was a big book of stories and poems -- I remember getting a lot of books from my grandparents as a child because so I loved to read. This one was the kind they don't make anymore: large, maybe 8x10 or 11, heavy cardboard covers with a glossy illustration on the front. The inside pages were very thin and, as I recall, tore easily. But they were filled with what seemed like hundreds of stories.
I don't remember a time when I couldn't read, so I don't remember if my parents read it to me or if I read it first by myself. I had it for years, though, eventually coverless and tattered, although I don't remember specific stories. I just remember being thrilled at all those options, all those lovely words and images.
I was very attached to my security blanket back then, too, even as a first-grader, and I hated when Mother washed it. She'd put together a little, maybe 6-8" square, temporary blanket with the silky binding simply basted on it for those wash days (and remember that clothing and linens was all line-dried in those times, so in winter the wash was strung up in our basement for several days until it dried).
I was, at that age, also forbidden to bring the blanket out of my bedroom because as a first-grader, I was "too old" to be carrying it around. *sigh*
But I recall sitting with my new book in the living room, in a floral upholstered chair that was one of three that could go together to make a sort of loveseat, with the temporary blanket hidden behind my back and looking at the new book with one hand turning pages, one hand stroking the soft binding. I'd suck my tongue too, when I had my blanket, but I didn't realize then that while Mother couldn't see the hidden blanket, she could tell I had it in off-limits territory because my mouth moved!
In my drowsy state last night, I could *see* the upholstery, even feel the texture and that green scrap of woolen blanket with golden binding. The book cover was vivid -- it had a small child with curly blonde hair (one of those androgynous rosy-cheeked tots) reading a book in front of a blazing fireplace. I remembered the snow falling and the grey November winter.
It was a good memory. Maybe that's why I always have liked grey wintery weather -- I was safe, warm, happy, and I had a new book. Not a bad way to spend these days now, either -- safe, warm, happy, and with a new book.
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