We weren't the Brady Bunch

A friend of mine posted on facebook that she introduced her daughters to The Brady Bunch. Lots of cute replies until mine. I said I hated The Brady Bunch. I was so jealous. In our house we watched what my father wanted, mostly Westerns.

Growing up there were so few shows I could relate to. Who were these parents on Leave It To Beaver? They never yelled. The children did not dread the sound of father opening the door. It was all sunshine and light, even during the darkest episodes. It saddened me greatly to learn that during the years of The Patty Duke Show, Patty was being mentally abused while portraying a happy, carefree life. Danny Thomas was the only father on TV that yelled, and then he would cover the yelled at one with kisses. No one was hit. No one was scared. The houses were always clean, the children perfectly groomed and in style. All In The Family was relatable. Archie would come home in a snit and the family danced to his commands. Roseanne struggled with money and to be the best parents with the resources they had, both financial and emotional. They laughed, but they also were real to me.

I remember watching The Flying Nun at a friend's house. Totally ridiculous, and I was able to suspend disbelief for the half hour it was on. And the only thing that friend and I were able to relate to on Gidget was the way she brushed her teeth with a huge mouthful of suds. It was so unlike what we experienced we were able to focus on that aspect of her life because we sure couldn't understand the rest of her charmed existence.

I lost my mother about the same time as I was learning to read in first grade. Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Mother and Father were some ideal that I could not have. In fact, I have a visceral negative experience every time I come across one of those cloth-spined readers from grade school at an antique or old book store. I remember being thrilled when my daughter started school and her reader featured Buffy and Mack, a rabbit and other creature. They were not WASPS living the dream, just some animals. If I, a white child had a hard time with Dick and Jane, imagine learning to read from those books if you were black. I guess you just had to suspend disbelief.  I had a baby sister and a big brother. I was Jane in a world gone crazy.

When we lived in a basement in Idaho while S went to graduate school, I used to watch reruns of The Beverly Hillbillies every night at 6:30. They made me laugh. They weren't real to me, everyone on the show was a caricature. We got rid of our TV about a year after that and did not get one again until years later. I liked Ugly Betty and Northern Exposure, total fairy tales. I could watch Law and Order set in gritty police stations. I can't watch the CSI shows because I do not believe those high tech labs exist on the budgets of most departments.

I was about to start ranting about the mascara advertisements that show models with false eyelashes when it occurred to me that I have strayed from the opening theme of this essay which was how, as a child, The Brady Bunch and other shows of that ilk made me jealous of unreal lives that I couldn't have. But really, there is no pleasing me. I hate The Office because I can't stand that portrayal of life either. I guess I will stick to Antiques Roadshow and reruns of The Closer. I just love Brenda Lee Johnson, thank you.

An amazing funeral

Today I attended a most amazing funeral for a man who was very loved. I'd never actually met him. He was the boyfriend of a dear friend and died of an aggressive cancer. This is all I knew about him: he was a talented musician, belonged to a motorcycle club and made my friend very happy. 

It was billed as a celebration of life and I thought I knew what that meant, happy tears and loving stories from friends and family. Oh no! This was a huge biker reunion with representatives from motorcycle clubs all over the upper midwest. We gathered at a bar and walked the two blocks to a funeral home. I was near the front of the walkers.  When I looked back I saw a sea of black leather as about five hundred people spread over the sidewalk behind me. I wondered how we were all going to fit in the chapel.

I needn't have worried. Men and women came in and snaked around the rooms looking at different stations with pictures of different aspects of the his life, childhood, fatherhood, bands he had played with, trips he had taken, etc. No casket, just flowers and mementos of his life. Here and there a biker held back tears, but mostly greeted each other with hugs and happiness. On their leathers they wore patches memorializing past members who had died, and there were already a few for their friend. 

I stayed for about an hour watching the groups come together, break up and reform in new groups. I watched the never ending procession move about the funeral home. I listened to the musicians play New Orleans type music in all the different rooms. I saw a few manly tears, but mostly happy faces, come to say goodbye to a friend. There weren't speeches and I know the party back at the bar probably lasted for hours.  As I left I said to one woman, "I wonder how many will come to my funeral? Ten or so?" She said not to say that because, "You never know."

Rest in peace, Scott Manske. You were very loved. I did not know you in life, but I know that anyone who has that many friends, and loved my friend, must have been a wonderful guy.

From the St Paul Pioneer Press:

"

Scott S. Manske 

  |   Visit Guest Book

"Scotty Danger" Father, Musician, Outlaw & Minister Passed away on April 11, 2011 surrounded by family and friends. Age 56. Preceded in death by father, Tom. Survived by daughter, Michele; girlfriend, Nancy Dorgan; Yoshi & Spike. New Orleans Processional 1:30 PM Sunday from Neumann's Bar, 2531 E. 7th Ave., North St. Paul to Sandberg Funeral Home, 2593 E. 7th Ave., North St. Paul for a Celebration of Scott's Life from 2:00 PM - 3:30 PM. New Orleans Recessional at 3:30 PM from the Funeral Home to Neumann's Bar for further fellowship and celebration. In lieu of flowers, memorials preferred. "If you met Scott, you loved him." 651-777-2600"

Dancing with the humiliated

I like Dancing With The Stars. It is consistently entertaining. But something happened the other night that broke my heart. It wasn't Kirstie Alley's shoe falling off. She handled that with aplomb. It was the public disintegration of little Kendra. This girl is not a star, she is, to me, a poor soul trying too hard to be something famous.

DWTS is not for the fragile. It is not for people who do not have an ability to take criticism, sometimes very harsh, and go on from there. Real entertainers, real sports stars who have succeeded, have learned to have a public face and act like nothing hurts them, no matter how they feel inside.

I didn't know much about Kendra except that she is married to a football player and has a baby she loves. Then she had a miscarriage that some magazine put in big letters on it's cover. I felt so bad for her loss of privacy at the time. Today I looked her up on Wikipedia. She first caught the attention of Hugh Hefner when she was a naked "painted" young lady at his 78th birthday party. She became one of his three girlfriends at the mansion and was in a reality series.

On Monday, Kendra was not having a good day. She had PMS and could not relax into the flow of the dance. The harshest judge was Len Goodman. He told her he couldn't understand why she would not allow herself to be elegant. He said she acted like she didn't care. In front of everyone she said, defiantly, that she didn't. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I knew what she meant. She meant that she didn't care what he said. But she did and it was her way of protecting herself. I know, because I have done that, too. The next scene was of her partner saying he was mad, he could not believe she said that. Then all you could see was her crying that she wished she could go someplace and hide. The camera did not leave her alone. No privacy whatsoever.

I thought for sure that she would be voted off the show. But no, she was safe while Sugar Ray Leonard got the lowest votes and had to leave. I am sorry. I think this girl needs to go and lick her wounds for awhile. I think she needs to go play with her baby. She needs to take a good look at her life and get out of the public eye. Somewhere along the way she found out that she got attention/admiration/love for being pretty. I think she needs some intense counseling to understand she is a worthwhile human being even if the world is not watching.

In the Wiki piece her career goals were massage therapist or sportscaster. She worked briefly as a dental assistant. Her absolute favorite food comes from Olive Garden. She is a small town girl who should have had a small town life.  I wish she had not jumped on the fame bandwagon. She is  ill-prepared to have this much spotlight on her. She doesn't know how to cope by faking it. I just feel bad for her even though this is the road she is on through her own choices. And to be honest, I resent having to think about her when all I want to do is enjoy the dancing. (Yeah, it is about me.)

Ten dollars worth of joy

When I lived on over a half acre of property to beautify, I started out with high hopes planting raspberries and dahlias in an area by the garage. I didn't know about enriching the soil and the raspberries that overtook my sister-in-law's garden died in mine. Chipmunks ate every dahlia bulb and flower. I bought tulips for the slope by the mailbox but the soil there was pure clay and only one bloomed. I tried carpets of wildflowers for the same place and each year one or two cornflowers would bloom. The strawberry pot filled with herbs was another dismal failure, as were expensive tomato plants. Eventually the lawn became mostly creeping charlie and moss and landscaping friends said to keep it that way. Our hillside had a rustic charm. I took to buying geraniums in planters and roses in pots and had some success that thrilled me. Each year I would purchase four fragrant roses and treat them like annuals.  A friend advised getting new soil each year for the planters and that made a huge improvement. I was also able to grow healthy begonias, a very forgiving flower, in hanging pots. Petunias were always a dismal failure.

Last summer, the first here in the little condo, I had great plans. I started sweet pea and morning glory that I was going to train to grow up the railings that separated my area from the pool. I took the big planters and bought roses. Every time the vines would get to about five inches or so, they would be eaten by the resident rabbits. (You can't live right on a park and not get rabbits.) As the summer progressed I added geraniums and other annuals that I got on sale and eventually filled the area with color. I got most of the pots cleaned up for fall before I bought three long planters of mums, not only for the flowers which were lush and beautiful, but for the planters themselves. We got our first foot of snow while the mums were still blooming. I never saw them again this long, long winter as the area outside my glassed-in patio filled with over two feet of snow.

Once more I am starting sweet pea and morning glory from seed. This year the long planters will be hung from the railing and I will train the vines downward. I hope they are successful because it can look wonderful. There are something like twenty-three pots to be planted and I've laid in a stock of Miracle Grow potting soil. Two things I know about myself and gardening; I am cheap and impatient. I don't particularly love doing the actual dirty work but love watering pots of beautiful flowers. I splurged on jiffy pots rather than using paper cups and needed more to start the marigolds so back to Home Depot I went to get another box. 

It was such a thrill to see pansies and violas in hanging pots. They were vibrantly alive and my soul ached for their colors. The healthiest pot was filled with deep purple and orange violas. I lifted it down and brought it to the cashier. Could I justify spending twenty-five or thirty dollars right now? Ten dollars! Ten dollars for a priceless gift of joy!

Oui! Merci!

With a long baguette sticking out of one bag, and a bouquet of spring flowers in the other, the groceries I carried could have come from a market in Paris. Yes, there goes the confident single woman with a spring in her step, the sun in her face, and a smile for anyone she sees. My, it has been a long winter indeed.

There is a part in Judith Merkle Riley's In Pursuit of The Green Lion where the evil, egotistical, and awful poet Count asks the knuckle headed brother of a true poet if his poem on Spring is overdone, trite. Hugo disagrees. How can Spring be overdone if it comes each year? I thought of this when I started to write about it. What can I say that is different than what has been written for centuries? Nothing, except what is in my heart. Just being in the warmish air and seeing the sun feels like we are coming to a time of rebirth.

Everyone knows not to put out bedding plants until Mother's Day. Yet there is such a yearning for the growing season to be here. I want flowers, flowers, flowers. I want color and fragrance and abundant life all around me. I've started some sweet peas and morning glory from seed and still have marigolds to plant. More Jiffy pots! Last year I started the sweet pea and morning glory in pots and thought to have them climb up the fence. The darn rabbit kept eating the vines, not one flower bloomed. This year they will be in boxes that will sit high on the fence and grow down instead. I can't wait to see the pink, purple and blue blossoms. Oh, I want, I want, I want.

I do not hate winter. In a way I almost love it. For me it is a time that doesn't fly. Long periods of stagnation, hibernation, and just existing. Life lasts a long time. And then spring comes and the rush begins. We know spring is fleeting, summer is just around the corner and fall comes too soon. So between now and the beginning of September, life must be lived to it's fullest, much of it outside while possible. I want to grab it and make it slow down so I can savor the season. It is a little exhausting if I think about it too much. So the trick is not thinking and just doing.

Don't think about taking a walk, just walk. Don't think about riding a bike, just ride. Lie in the sun or the shade and be calm and happy. Appreciate each day with gratitude. Yes! Thank you!

Enjoying today

"In this life, be conscious every day. And when you are conscious, you will be able to see how beautiful this life is. This life that you keep cursing. This life that you keep weighing with happiness and sorrow. This life, it should not be weighed with happiness and sorrow. Because in it, there is a joy in every day, in every moment. If there should be any measurement, then it should be: "how much have I enjoyed today?".- Prem Rawat (Maharaji)


I am making an effort to enjoy each day, to go for the gusto and enjoy being alive. I am trying to take a moment when the moment is lovely to acknowledge that loveliness. I am looking at the cleanup of chrysanthemums that wintered in the planters as a chance to enjoy being outside in the cool spring air instead of as a rotten job to be done. It is all my attitude, and my attitude is good.


Many years ago I knew a man who told the story of going to Altamont to see the Rolling Stones. He drove his motorcycle through the rain all the way there. He said he was wet, but his girlfriend was miserable. It was all in the attitude. (I also think the fact that he was sitting in a comfortable saddle and she was on a pillbox on the fender may have added to her misery, but that takes away from the story.)


This morning my blood sugar was 74 (woohoo!), I had a charming brunch date with someone I wouldn't mind seeing again, and I bought a bowl of pansies in the belief that if I put them out, spring will really come. When I got home I found I had lost my house key somehow. I called management and waited to get back in. No biggie, what good would freaking out do? (I don't know yet I do it all the time.) If it is raining tomorrow and I wake up late for work, have impatient customers and the boss yells at me, I hope I can keep this good attitude.


I never thought the thousand year old parents would still be alive. In acceptance of them never dying, and having to bring the old man to the beach again this summer, I bought a new float that is like a chaise. It will be so much easier to get him in and out of the water, although I will still call upon strong young men to help. As long as I am going to be there, I might as well enjoy it. This is the life I am privileged to have. L'chaim, to life.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gk7HXuQE5pw

I'm just a girl who can't say no (But once in a while I do!)

If you were to ask me if I am a generous person, I would probably say yes. I have given away boatloads in my life and consider mean spiritedness in others a major character flaw. Yet there are times when I have to look my generosity in the face and accept that it is easy to give when one has an abundance to share and not so easy when it comes to things I want to hang on to.

I don't think many of us growing up in my neighborhood had a lot of extra. We lived in small apartments and had school clothes that had to be taken off when we got home, and play clothes and one outfit for special occasions. My friends had one Barbie Doll, I had a Vogue Fashion Doll. We had a stuffed tiger and corduroy dog. My sister had a kind of Humpty Dumpty soft toy and we had some hand me down Ginny Dolls from a cousin. Monopoly, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land (my all time hated), coloring books and crayons. I don't think we were deprived. We used our imagination and had lots of fun.

When I was in High School, I came into possession of a gorgeous red designer coat. It was truly beautiful and I loved it. My parents and I had found it at Loehman's and watched it being reduced from week to week. When it got to a reasonable price, they bought it for me as a birthday present. It had to have been the finest garment I ever had in my life and I treasured it. I think it may have come straight from an atelier because the pockets were sewn on by hand and I had to be careful not to put much in them. One day my Aunt Judy asked if her daughter could use that coat for a date. I said yes, because it was expected of me but I put so many conditions on her borrowing it that Judy just went and bought her a coat. I felt guilty, but that coat was precious to me and I didn't want to share.

Later on in college I got involved in a movement that asked us to give up all the things we could to raise money. No problem until I was asked to give up a simple ring that had belonged to my birth mother. I did it and felt bad. I still regret giving it up.

When I got interested in photography my husband invested in a good camera for me. It meant the world that he would buy me something so precious. I took good care of it and didn't let anyone else use it. Years later he offered it to a niece who was taking a college course in photography. I freaked out. That was mine, he couldn't just offer something so valuable to someone else. It might get stolen or broken and then what? He had no idea that Miss Generosity could act that way. I apologized over and over, but I could not lend it out.

It was a joke to my daughters not to admire anything of mine too much because I would always offer it to them. One year Eri admired a new pair of Romika sandals and I reluctantly gave them to her even though I liked them. A year of two later she asked if she could have my new red Dansko sandals and I surprised us all by saying no. It was surprising, but it was fine. Yeah, Mom could have her own shoes.

Now a friend is collecting for a young woman and her daughter who lost everything in an apartment fire. I started looking around for what I could give.  When I moved into my own place I only took things that I really liked and needed. This place is small and there is not a lot of room for excess. What I found was I didn't want to give much up. A few cookbooks, a few utensils, my sweet stuffed dog, Rocky. I gave the larger box of Kleenex, but when it came to the glassware I baulked. I love the stupid Shrek glasses from MacDonald's and don't want to break up the fine Mikasa set.

I saw my ex and his assistant at Costco later in the day. I told them this story and Toreeta has a brand new quilt to donate. I was feeling guilty for not giving more, for saving the things I wanted for myself. I told them that Jesus said if a man had two coats and his neighbor none, he should give the neighbor the better one. I was confronting my own selfishness when S reminded me of a long held family saying. "If you give away your frying pan, you only have to buy another." Thank you to the voice of reason.

The Midnight Crazies

It has been awhile since my last blog, twelve days. There are three different starts in the draft file. Two titled Growing Old Is Not For Sissies and one titled Here Comes The Sun. But there really isn't anything new to say about my thousand year old parents, and it snowed, hard, on the morning of my pean to spring. I still don't have much to say, but feel it is important to keep writing. It helps to clear my mind and although I know a few people read this, it really is for me. Posting it is just exhibitionism. (Hey! Look at me!)

Why does anyone engage in self-destructive behavior? Why do I? Why do I procrastinate taking helpful action when I know it will ease anxiety? I really don't know. I've been to counseling. I've been to a shaman. I've read a book by a medical mystic. I've bought books on organizing that sit on the shelf because I have put off reading them. Intellectually, I know what needs to be done, but somehow, just like Oprah, I haven't made the connection. Unlike Oprah, I don't have a staff that does what I command. I do have the occasional helpers, but ultimately it is me.

Years ago I went to Malibu for a party given by the leader of the meditation movement I belong to. S and I were living in Flagstaff. He couldn't take time off from school and work so I went with a few other people from our local group. We had to drive across Arizona and California and then park at the bottom of a winding road up a small mountain. As I climbed the steep road I longed for my partner to be with me. I wanted us to be making that trek together. But as I ascended, step by step, I realized that each of us walks this road of life alone. There are people who can keep you company and make the journey lighter, but only we can move our feet.

So... how can I move my leaden feet and do what needs to be done? The first step for me is to make a list. And every list starts like this:

Make list (Harder than you might think. I have to find a piece of paper and pen. I have to actually DO something.)

Take shower

Get dressed

Eat breakfast.

Empty dishwasher

Put away laundry

Then we get down to the nitty gritty:

Pay bills

Make appointments (for whatever needs an appointment)

Return phone calls 

Sort mail and clear table

Clear counter

Read email and send out a resume

Go to bank

Go to dry cleaner

Go to (wherever)

What I usually do without a list is this. Get up, feed cats, test blood, eat something, make bed, get on computer and check email and facebook until it is time to rush and get ready for work, if working, or tell myself to go back to bed. I also clean the cat box and berate myself for not doing what needs to get done.  There are no easy fixes except to get off my hinder and start. Somedays I can and those are good days, and somedays are harder, but they can be good days too. When my children were small, I had to take care of them and it gave my day structure. So, too, with working.  When I was actively married there was accountability and responsibility. But now, it is just me. I can't blame the spoon in the sink on anybody else. This is my mess. I make it and I must clean it up.

I called this blog the midnight crazies after the silly cats who chase each other all around and the thoughts that keep me up. Here is George, Ringo, Elton, Eric and others to sing, "Sun, sun, sun, here it comes."

Fun with Sidney and Harriet

Scene: Kerasotes ICON Theater, St Louis Park, MN.
Cast: The Old Man, The Old Lady, The Intrepid Daughter

Today was bitterly cold in a different way. Instead of just being bone chilling cold there was a wet windy bite that knifed through all layers, but they still wanted to go out. The old man read a good review of "Cedar Rapids" and wanted to see it. I had a Groupon for 2 tickets for $10.00 to the fancy new theater, so away we went, on to the theater!

Have you been to one of these ICON theaters? The lobby is at the top of a three story escalator that goes straight up to a huge atrium. We took the elevator. Then there are stairs or an incredibly long ramp to the lobby. No place for the old people to sit while I bought the tickets, so they leaned against the wall. Usually, the old man sits in back, the old lady in front, and I go back and forth between them every so often. But at this theater you have to pick out your seats on a touch screen and those are the seats you have. I explained that we would all be sitting together at the back of the closer section. Then we started the trek. We passed the restrooms, theaters one and two and then slogged up an incline and another and finally got to theater 10. Then down a couple of corridors. The old lady started breathing very heavily and I made her stop. I took off her coyote coat and hat as she caught her breath. She was actually sweating, and I thought she might collapse. But no, she started to feel better and I was able to get her down a step and into a chair. When I turned to my dad, he wasn't behind me.

I looked up and he was making his way to a far row, a little old man on a mission. "Dad, Dad," I tried to get his attention. Finally he looked at me. "You have to sit with Mom and me," I called. "Those are reserved seats, come sit over here." By now the entire auditorium was watching the Sidney and Carol show. I meet him as he descended and helped get him situated. He couldn't understand why he had to sit so close. The old lady said she was cooling off which was good. At last the previews began and I have to admit, the seats were very comfortable and the picture quality excellent.

Cedar Rapids is a wonderful movie about innocence and honesty and corruption and hypocrisy. It is entertaining and surprising and altogether lovely. I laughed and was touched and enjoyed the entire short eighty-seven minutes. The old man stayed awake the entire time. As soon as it was over and the plot explained to the old lady, she decided it was good. When she asked him if he liked it, the old man said he loved it.

We started the trek back to the lobby, stopping along the way to rest and use the facilities. Down to the parking lot; my car parked right next to the door. On our way to dinner, the old lady said, "It's a beautiful theater but I never want to come here again." We need one of our little neighborhood six-plexes. This was just too huge with inclines and passages. At 97, and somewhat blind, Harriet is game for almost anything. Have cane, will travel. At almost 96, the old man just can't get around the way he wants. He is angry at how weak he has become.

We ate at Chili's and because we had our movie stubs, took home a couple of free pieces of cheesecake for the old man, as well as six ribs and lots of fries. They drank two for one Blue Moon beers and the old lady enjoyed pretending she was tipsy.

I remember being a typical young teen and not wanting to be seen on the same street with my parents, and even five years ago had no patience to watch them eat. Now I can sit with equanimity and wait and watch as they enjoy their food in their own inimitable way. It isn't because they have gotten easier, not at all. It is because there has been a change in me. I want to be loving and I feel it might be sooner than later. I told the old lady that I think she will make 100 and she told me she doesn't want to. The fact that my father is still alive is pretty amazing and makes no sense at all. I can't see us going to the movies every week as we have in the past. But as long as they want to keep going out, I will try to find places they like to go.

Life is good

On one hand I watch 92 year old Ginger Rogers dance salsa with her 29 year old great grandson. He dips and lifts her and I applaud just like the rest of the audience. Then I turn on coverage of the Tsunami in Japan. A wall of water just washes away everything in its path, houses, farms, cars, roads. Where I can't imagine dancing that way when I am 92, not being able to dance that way at 59, at least I can comprehend it. Yep, natural talent and constant practice. But the tsunami and earthquake, that devastation is beyond my ability to understand.


I forget that we are living our little lives on a big blue marble in space that has a molten core. Some people think the Earth itself has a consciousness and a life above and beyond us. If that is true, maybe earthquakes and tsunamis are no more than the planet belching. We are just little ants on the surface going about our busy little lives without wondering about the surface below our feet. It is not God being angry, or retribution for our sins. It is what happens according to physical laws on our planet.


I am sorry for the people of Japan who have unimaginable pain, disbelief, and sorrow to deal with. I am concerned for all coastal people who must live in readiness for what might be coming. I send my heartfelt wishes for their safety. And yet, after Haiti, Katrina, and all the man-made horrors we inflict upon ourselves, today I can still say that life is good.


In the words of the writer Kurt Vonnegut, "And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is." 

What you see

Wednesday evening I arranged to meet a charming man at Rojo, an upscale Mexican restaurant. We decided to have some appetizers and soup in lieu of a full scale dinner. I suggested the Mexican grilled corn. It is usually wonderful, rolled in butter and cheese. He remarked that I was very brave eating corn on a first date. Really? I like corn and I had a napkin, what was so brave?  I said the worst that would happen is we would get some on our faces or teeth and then we would wipe it off. I said "This is me; what you see is who I am." He answered that very few people are that way, at least in his experience. But then again, he has spent his life in advertising.

Clearly there are dating rules I am not aware of. In this world of texting and email, what are the rules? And do I have to follow them?  I am not a big rebel rule breaker, it is more that I have a hard time following them. I goes before E, except after C, I need to check every time. Email after dinner, or text after coffee, and who makes the first electronic move? I have a nice time, I send a thank you. I don't want to repeat the experience, I send a nice thanks, but no thanks. Someone told me that these days you just don't get in touch again and expect the other to know what that means. To me it means rudeness, although I shouldn't take it personally.

I wonder about people who put up a dating facade. How long can you keep it up? How long can you pretend to be someone who you think you should be instead of who you are? Can you imagine the surprise when you start to show your real personality? Hopefully, it is a charming surprise, but I imagine it isn't always. Why should I pretend to know baseball if I don't?  Once in a while I lie to protect other's feelings. But other than that, why bother? I can't keep the stories straight; better to tell the truth.

What other things don't I know? Are there other things I should know about dinner? What else shouldn't I order? I have heard that there are women who order the a meal and only play with it. If I am invited to dinner I am going to eat and enjoy it. Oh, oh, I've thought of one... don't order dessert unless he does! Am I a catch or what? Yes, what you see is what you get, and boy are you lucky.

Apnea and Insomnia

I have never been a good sleeper. The old lady says it used to scare her when I would wake her up screaming as a little girl. They would come in and wake me up and I would go back to sleep. As I got older, I stayed up later and later reading by the light from the hallway. I still don't understand why I never just got up and read in the living room. It was probably forbidden. "Go to bed!" The first night I was away at camp, at age sixteen I kept my cabin mates awake with my noise.

At age twenty-one, I received meditation techniques that allowed me to tap into the energy that keeps us all alive. I had a profound experience and stopped fearing death. I was never a very faithful meditator, but I know it is there and stopped screaming in my sleep. I toss and turn and talk and sit up and make all kinds of noise. At the same time I am also a very sensitive sleeper. I used to complain about my husband's snoring. He told me I snore. That didn't bother me since I was asleep when I snored. (Sometimes, though, I would wake myself up with a loud snort when I fell asleep in the passenger seat on a trip. It always embarrassed me.) He started using Breathe Right strips and his snoring didn't bother me anymore since it became very rhythmical. How he ever put up with my shenanigans is a mystery to me. My daughters would become very alarmed when it seemed I stopped sleeping.

About eight years ago I was diagnosed with sleep apnea, a condition where I stop breathing, wake myself up, and go back to sleep. It could happen thirty or forty times a night. Obviously one does not get good deep sleep if one is always waking up for a moment. At the sleep clinic they tried me with a cpap machine that administered continuous air from a mask and it showed deeper sleep. I got a home machine and could never adjust to the mask. I tried four different masks and always wound up pulling it off after about two hours. Last year I went back to the clinic, was given a different mask that I seemed to tolerate better, but still could not wear for very long. They never told me at the clinic that about 40% of all users can not be helped by cpap.

My brother in-law told me about a dental device that helped him and I went to a special dentist to get one made. The dentist was upfront and told me that about 30% of the people he treats do not get relief from the apnea. The only way to tell was to go back to the sleep clinic and have them hook me up to all the machines and watch me sleep while wearing the device, which is a lot like a mouth guard and a retainer. I don't think I can afford 20% of $4,000. to find out if it is effective. I already know the answer: It is and it isn't. It takes care of the apnea but does nothing for the insomnia.

Tonight I was quite tired and went to be just before ten. I didn't read, just put in the device, closed my eyes and fell asleep. When I awoke, I figured it had to be at least four or five in the morning. But when I looked at the clock, it was only 11:53! It wasn't even two hours later. It wasn't even midnight. Holy Toledo.

I am not upset, but I am disappointed. Now I will stay up for awhile, reading, playing on the computer, maybe watching some TV. I don't have to stay in bed reading by the hall light. I am an adult and live in my own home with plenty to do.

Sleeping pills make me ill. Readers, if you have any cure for insomnia, please let me know.

A life in motion

I must admit I have not been looking forward to turning fifty-nine. Don't think for a minute that I wanted to die at fifty-eight, oh no. But it sounds so old. Sixty is just around the corner. If I could do any decade over again, it would be this one. I feel like I slept for five years, deep in inertia, sadness and fear. And now that I am active, mentally and socially, I can't help wishing I did things a lot differently. I know, I know, water under the bridge, acknowledge and move on.

I had a really good birthday. John spent hours sitting at the table sorting papers into piles for me to deal with. We threw out a ton of paper, trash and recycling. Eri kept me on task and the bedroom floor is empty.  The file cabinet is moved into a corner of the dining room and the boxes that sat in that corner are gone. I really appreciated the gift of their time. Laurel sent beautiful flowers that are perfuming the air around me and a dear friend took me out to dinner. Facebook friends sent birthday wishes; perfect.

There is a part of me that is quite frightened to be this age and alone without a good job. There is a little voice that tells me I will never get a good job if it doesn't happen by sixty. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Listening to that voice is counterproductive. Listening to that voice is a waste of time. Here is one truth, it is hard to get a good job at any age and harder as one ages. Here is another truth, we only have today, right now. If I spend my life worrying about what is going to happen, I am missing right now.

Here is my plan: I am going to wade through all these papers and do what needs to be done. I am going to keep my eyes and ears open for opportunities to be of service and make a good living. I am going  to give praise for life and try to see the positive in everyone I meet. I will try to eat well and get back to the pool and exercise room. I am going to look for opportunities to dance. I've done inertia, it doesn't work. A life in motion is much more fun.

What does it mean to feel peace?

What does it mean to be a daughter, a mother, a sister, a friend? What is our obligation? When do we put our needs above our parents, children, siblings and friends? What is right and what do we justify to feel right?

These past few years have been hard. At times I had to put other's needs behind my own and say, "I need this for me." And other times I have put my needs behind those of my parents and children. There is a balance that is tricky to get right. As a mother I usually put my children first. I liked that. I think they liked it too, unless it became a burden. Putting myself first was new and I often didn't know how to do it without drama, nor they how to react.

My parents are a different galaxy to explore. Where they had a certain authority, and I very little power, I now have almost all the power. It is a heavy responsibility at times. Other times the burden rests easy. Tonight was beastly cold but I took them out for a nice dinner. We sat in peace waiting for our meals. They loved the food, the ambiance, the wait staff remembered us. The old man ate quite a lot and had nothing to complain about. I gave the old lady strokes for being a bigger woman than someone she is feuding with. I looked at these truly ancient people and thought, good for them. When I moved them out here from Brooklyn, I truly didn't think it was going to be for more than a few years. Now I have the patience to see it through for as long as it takes. At least I do tonight. (Tomorrow I might scream.)

I am sitting here, alone except for the cats. I really have no worries, nor anyone to report to. I have some nice friends, and dear family. The peace I am feeling is precious. I am not going to analyze it or think about how long it will last. I am here and I am happy.

More life under the visor

It was another day of demonstrating AmLactin body moisturizer. It is a pretty easy sell. I mean everyone in Minnesota has winter dry skin. At one point a strange young man with a turquoise stud in his upper lip studied a bottle of lotion. I asked if he would like a drop. He told me he didn't put carcinogens on his body. O... K, what carcinogens was he talking about? Parabens. I truly don't think the number one recommended by dermatologists and podiatrist lotion is going to cause cancer. I didn't argue, everyone has his or her own particular ax to grind. (I for one have a list against Ronald Reagan, but don't get me started.)

Lately I have been wearing a pair of men's black jeans to work. They were quite inexpensive; unfortunately they don't always stay up on my waist. I was pulling up my pants when two old men walked by giving me a funny look. I said I needed a belt, and to my surprise the skinny one said what I needed was to lose weight. I looked at him for a moment and said, "Thanks Dad!" I should have said, "My what a tacky thing to say." So they didn't break the mold when they made my old man. There are other rude old farts out there.

It is always fun to see the little ones put up their little starfish hands to get a drop of lotion and rub it in. I'd give them just the merest hint of lotion. All in all, I pushed about 30 bottles in 6 hours. As I said, it is an easy sell this time of year.

Yesterday two people linked me with Satan. The store was almost empty and I was standing around with a tray of Macadamia Caramel Clusters when a woman said, "Satan, get thee behind me." Really! I told her she was confused. I was the angel of chocolate. Later another woman told me I was the devil. I responded that I was offering her life affirming candy and was an angel.  I'm just a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, I don't do the devil's work. I told the third one who referenced the devil to please not project their own weaknesses on me. Yikes.

I have discovered a way to distinguish people who did not grow up in MN from the natives.  Offer something and the Minnesotan will say, "I'm good" and walk by. Once in a while someone from out of state will say, "No thank you" and walk by. People in Minnesota just don't say no thank you. It's true, they are all either good or fine. Customers knew I wasn't from around here because I pronounced all three syllables in caramel instead of carmel. It doesn't mean much, just an observation.

"So here's to you as good as you are!

And here's to me as bad as I am!

And as bad as I am,
And as good as you are

I'm as good as you are

As bad as I am!"

-old toast

L'chiam, to life!

Can't think of a clever title

I was sitting in the break room when my phone rang. It was Agatha, one of the nurses at the assisted living facility where my folks live. I asked if my father had fallen again. She asked why I thought it was my father and I replied because it always was. No, he hadn't fallen. He refused to get out of bed. He said he was cold and that he wanted to sleep. I asked if he had a fever, no. His blood pressure was a little high. She told me that my mother, when asked her opinion, said she wasn't a nurse; she didn't know what to do. I told them to let him rest, check on him in another hour and call me back. The next phone call informed me that his blood pressure went down, he took his medication, had a Boost, and wanted to stay in bed. He said he was tired. I told them to let him rest and I would be by after work.

I stopped at the store and bought him some ice cream, and a few Marie Callenders Beef Pot Pies. He will eat that when he can't stand the food there. When I entered the apartment, they were both sitting in the living room with the television blasting. They were very surprised to see me since we'd had about a foot of new snow the night before. Where other parts of the country become paralyzed by a couple of inches, Minnesota knows how to clear the roads. This winter might become the snowiest on record.

The old man was sitting in his robe and slippers. I noticed he was not wearing pajamas and his legs were pathetically skinny. He had just gotten up. I asked what happened that morning. "He was sick," the old lady said. I mentioned that he didn't have a fever. He said he was tired from going to the bathroom all night. I asked about feeling cold. Why didn't he turn up the electric blanket? It wasn't plugged in. Why not? It had been too warm to use. (Sure it had been too warm, -10 degrees outside but about 90 inside) How did he feel? Fine, tired.

The thing about dealing with the extremely elderly is that you never get the whole story. Had he told Agatha about running (shuffling) to the bathroom all night and that was why he was tired? Had he told her that his blanket was unplugged? I bet not. I once had a boss who used to ask me why didn't I ask questions. I used to say I needed to know what the question was before I could ask it. Poor Agatha, she was doing the best she could with the information she had.

In the morning I will call the facility and talk to the head nurse. I will tell her the reason he was tired and cold. I will ask them to make sure his blanket is plugged in. I am also going to request that an aide put in his hearing aids each day. This shouting is making me crazy. He only wears them when I put them in on Saturday.

One day I will get the phone call, but it isn't quite yet. He is not ready to die, he just bought a new pair of pants. I wonder, though, am I ready for him to die? Yes, I think I am. Am I ready to deal with my mother on her own at 97? Moving her to a smaller apartment, dealing with all the paperwork associated with death and listening to the endless stories? No, I don't think so.

The Saga Continues...

When last we saw the thousand year old parents and their intrepid daughter... I'd told my parents that they couldn't go to a wedding in New Jersey because the old man was too frail. He was greatly disappointed. And although the old lady seemed to accept it, she was disappointed too.

This morning he called me and told me to take my mother all by herself. He would stay home and be OK. I said we will talk about it. He told me she really wanted to go. It was her last hurrah and he did not want her to miss it. He'd worked it out. She could go and have fun and he would stay home and sleep. Then he put her on the phone and she was so excited. "I can do it. It won't be so bad and they all want me to come! Iris was crying she wanted me to come." I said we would talk about it. I was trying to figure out where I could find money for the fares when I decided to call the mother of the groom, cousin Iris. She called back and I found out the real story. We talked a long time. The old lady does not hear very well in person, and even less well on the phone. Iris had told her that she would come to visit after the wedding and bring a video.

At four, I went over to pick them up to go shopping and out to eat. (The old man wants a new pair of pants.) The couch was covered with evening wear. I knew she was picking out her wedding outfit because before I talked to my cousin I thought about it, too, and decided to wear the dress I wore to another wedding. I sat them down and had an almost truthful discussion with them.

"Mom," I said, "you don't always hear well on the phone." I then told them that it was NOT going to be a big wedding like the one we went to last year. No big groom's dinner, no big day-after brunch, no band, very few relatives. Although it was at a country club, it was actually a golf club near a Marriott near a freeway. It was interesting to see them change their minds. I told them it was going to be more like my daughter's wedding, small and intimate. And suddenly it was over. They couldn't see going all the way out there for one day. "But the invitation was so fancy, who knew?"

At dinner the old lady told the old man she was going to keep one outfit out for the February birthday party at their assisted living facility. Then the waiter brought over some chocolate wontons for the 97 year old and all was right with the world.

When your parent becomes your child

My parents are very old. The old lady is 97 and the old man will be 96 in June. I moved them here from their apartment in Brooklyn in 2005. At that time we got a handicapped parking permit that will expire in April of 2011. Six years, we all laughed and I was sure they would be gone by now. Well, they are not and I have to renew the permit. Let me tell you, if they are still around in 2017...

It is a funny thing about growing older, people still feel young in their minds. My father does not understand why his knee hurts him. I tell him his body, just like an old car, is wearing out. He still feels young and vibrant in his mind but watch him take an hour to eat three pancakes, or get in and out of a car, and you know this is a very old man. He recently told my mother that he is tired of her pinkish, strawberry blonde hair and wants her to go blonde again. She wants to let her hair go silver but he insists it makes her look old. What, I want to know, is wrong with looking old at 97?

I went over this morning to put some blonde dye in her hair. She told me to start on the ends and work up to the roots. She knows what she is talking about because she used to be a very successful and talented hairdresser and colorist. We did not strip all the color out, just used the dye. When I left it was looking like a lighter color, but I sure wouldn't call it blonde. This evening my father called me to complain about something and I asked him how her hair looked. "Like shit," he answered. My old man, tactful as ever. Then the old lady got on the phone and I asked how she liked her hair. She loved it. She told me she had cut off most of the darker hair and it looks beautiful. She told me this was it. She was letting her hair grow out and I never had to put color in it again. I will be interested to see how she cut her hair since she is legally blind. Curly hair can be quite forgiving.

I take care of their finances, I buy their groceries, make and bring them to all appointments and give them a day out every Saturday. Today I signed their yearly lease. It was almost as long as a purchase agreement. I signed CSandberg, POA, twelve times! At this point they don't know that they are broke. They have this fantasy that there is still "big money" for me to inherit. They are so lucky to be in a HUD senior building with county assisted home care. I try to make things as pleasant as possible.

Sometimes, though, I have to be a bad parent and deny them things. The latest is another trip to New Jersey for another wedding. It is going to be a big affair at a country club and my father is crushed that he can't go. Why? Why can't he go? How do you tell a man that he is too fragile, (his skin actually tears if not treated very carefully) he can hardly walk, and doesn't remember much? How do you deal with taking two ancient people through security and getting them on a plane, getting them to the bathroom, getting them off a plane and to a hotel? How do you feed them, get him dressed, take care of his medications, and answer the same questions a thousand times without getting cranky and mad? I could conceivably take the old lady by herself but that would break his heart.

The old lady is much more on the ball. As a narcissist she can repeat how much everyone loved her and how wonderful it was to dance at the wedding. "We made the whole thing!" she explains. "It wouldn't have been the same without us!" She understands how hard the trip would be and I think she is almost relieved not to go. She has accepted staying home, but not the old man. He is reacting like a small child whose parent is unreasonable. Let me tell you, this isn't a fun position and I keep thinking maybe I can swing it. Then good sense comes to my rescue. I hate saying no.

As a parent, I sometimes had to deny my children things they wanted. We did not allow our daughters to go on Spring Break. Yeah, I was a meany. But I knew that when they could afford it on their own, they could go wherever they liked. They had their whole lives ahead of them. It is a much different story to deny things to my parents knowing they don't have many more years to do the things they want.

Such a treat!

My friend Connie called to tell me there was a free lecture by Garrison Keillor at Concordia College. It was on the art of joke writing. We met at the auditorium and got wonderful seats about fifth row, dead center. The Concordia Handbell Choir played a modern and fun piece and when Garrison got on stage he asked what they were doing Saturday night. That made their night and we all laughed and applauded.

The lecture had been advertised on comedy writing, but I don't think they told Garrison. He said he was going to talk about futility. It was wonderful. Seeing him up front and personal as he spoke for over an hour was a real treat. He is one of the major talents of our time and you can see he just loves what he is doing. He talked a little bit about his stroke and growing older. Did you realize his little girl is now 13? I thought she was about eight. He covered so much ground, I really can't tell you all he said. I can just say I am so glad I got this wonderful treat.

Kindness with a side of fries

This evening, a friend and I went to a Valentines dance and each lady received a lovely long stemmed red rose. We got there about nine and by eleven my feet told me, "Enough!" On the way home I realized I was really hungry and stopped at a McDonald's drive through and ordered a small fries for a buck. I paid for the fries and just for the heck of it gave my rose to the woman at the window. She was really delighted. She came back to tell me that it would be a few minutes because they were making fresh fries.  I told her that I'd had a very good time dancing and that I was going to take some aspirin before bed. She told me to soak my feet in hot water with salt and I would feel wonderful in the morning. Then she offered me some coffee. I declined and she went to get my order. We wished each other a nice night and I drove away.

I put my hand into the bag and pulled out the longest hot french fried potato I ever did see. And was it good! I kept eating them, and there seemed to be no end.  When I got home I looked at the container. It had gone from a small to an extra large at no extra charge. What a nice surprise.

Someone gave me a rose. I gave the rose away, that woman will go home from her fast food job with a nice story and a rose. I enjoyed hot potatoes and got good advice which I pass on to you. Kindness, it is my favorite thing. Pass it on.

Using words

You hear it all the time, parents telling their small children to use words, that mama can't understand unless you use your words. The tearful toddler says "Want juice" and the mother produces the sippy cup. So, I wonder, when do we learn not to use words to get across what we want? And why do we do it when the results are so spotty?

There is a 15 second spot for a new Lifetime Network show about giving birth. The ad airs between games on my computer. In it a woman in bed says to her husband, "Look at him." He looks up and she looks away and says, "His wife is in labor and he's on his Blackberry." Then she looks at him and he says, "What do you want me to do?" At first I thought the guy was a jerk. But the more often I saw it I realized that the wife was not using words to get what she wanted. When she asked for his attention, she got it, but she looked away. He might not be the most sensitive guy but he did ask what she wanted him to do. Why didn't she say, "Please come be with me, I want you with me." She expected him to just read her mind and know. He couldn't understand unless she used her words.

The other day Eri and I went up to see Grandma Betty. At one point she said she wanted to wash her hair. When it was getting time for us to go I mentioned the hair washing. She waffled around, oh it wasn't necessary, or maybe I should, or she could do it herself, or I didn't have to if I didn't want to, etc. Finally I said I was going to ask her a question and there were only two answers, yes or no. Did she want me to help wash her hair? "Yes." There! Wasn't that easy?

I come from New York and we are not big on subtlety. In your face, you know how we feel. But I have lived in Minnesota longer than I ever lived in NY and I still don't get it. I am very direct and sometimes people here think I am mad. It isn't anger, it is just the way I communicate. Subtlety is lost on me. I need things spelled out in big red letters. I'm a little psychic, but I don't usually trust it; I need clarity, I need words that say what you really mean.

So dear friends, I can't tell what you are thinking. Leave me a comment, let me know what you think about this or any other posting. Use words (or emoticons if you must.)

Overwhelmed by Grace

Have you ever walked into a room and had the experience of being completely surrounded by holiness, Grace, unconditional love, and the energy that keeps you alive? It doesn't happen all that often to me, but it did on Monday night.

I had been invited to help pack food for Feed My Starving Children, an organization that sends millions of meals to child nutrition centers around the world. They call them Manna Packs and each bag contains enough rice, soy protein, dehydrated vegetables, chicken flavoring and all the vitamins and minerals needed to feed six one cup portions. It is quite palatable and the results of having even one meal a day of this food are remarkable. Each day and evening volunteer groups pack thousands of pounds to ready for the next shipment abroad.

Our group consisted of some very young female hockey players and their mothers, my niece's group of friends and family and others. We had a boisterous crew ready to help. The leaders really knew how to handle the volunteers and got every one's attention to teach how the packs were made. There was a job for everyone to work in teams. Several of the men were assigned to warehouse duty. I volunteered to sit and label bags away from the fray along with a friend. Behind me the hockey players were full of the competitive spirit that had them shouting for more supplies and "Bingo!" when the bags weighed the exact amount. In an instant the hour and a half flew by. After we sampled the fare, which tasted somewhat like fried rice, the leader said that one thing she always did after a session was to pray for the safety of the shipment.

I followed her into the warehouse filled with pallets of supplies and boxes ready for the journey. There I was hit by Grace. I was surrounded by the love of God and felt it in every cell of my being. My skin sang and my eyes started to tear. I was overwhelmed. As more people came into the room I could hear gentle murmurs as each experienced their own moment. After I could speak, the words "When two or more of you are gathered in My Name, there is love" came naturally to my lips.

Someone said a prayer blessing the food and the journey in His Son's name. It was a good prayer, as far as words and human understanding goes. But the energy and love in that room went far beyond what words could say or mind comprehend. For me, it was the Holy Name that cannot be pronounced or ever spoken. And because words can't describe it, I can only tell you this. It is real and I am blessed to have felt it again.

Successes or Failures?

Whereas I just write what is on my mind and heart, my niece, Emma, takes it one step further. She asks her readers to reflect on the subject at hand and how it relates in their lives. One recent posting, http://emmawilhelm.com/2011/01/23/successes-or-failures/ discusses whether we learn better from success or failure and asks how it manifests in our lives.

For me, a harder question is whether a success really is a success or is a failure really a failure? Is there some way to turn it around to look at it from the other side? If I have grown from a failure, can it be counted as a success? If I have stepped on others to achieve success and in the process have damaged my soul, isn't it really a failure?

Words, words, words, words, words. With words we can bestow feelings of success on ourselves and others. And words can hurt. I remember my boss extravagantly praising something I did well and I felt it wasn't sincere and didn't take it seriously. I remember my dad telling me I was a failure. I told him I was only eighteen, how could I be a failure? I couldn't take him seriously either.

When a woman is pregnant, she doesn't wish for a genius or an athlete. She wishes for a healthy baby. That is success. I was very grateful to have beautiful, healthy children and although I hope they have material success, it is more important that they are decent human beings. Thirty years on, I look at them as people who are ethical, honest, loving, and real. Real successes.

When I lost the job where I excelled, it didn't hurt at first. I had done good work and felt successful in what I left behind. But as time went on and I realized how a supervisor had manipulated me into feeling scared and bad, I felt like a failure.  The abandonment I experienced balanced against the praise I had received from the national office was quite confusing. Sort of like winning a battle but losing a war.

I learn from failure, but it can hurt and cause discouraging inertia and fear of trying. It is much more satisfying to learn from success. It makes me want more and give more. It seems to me, when there is a chance to be positive, I should choose the light. I know I will eventually get there again from failure, but oh, getting out of the hole can be exhausting. Let's make a pact to help each other out of the pits, or better yet, encourage the road without the gaping chasms.

The incredible fun of learning

Gosh, oh golly, gee whillikers, and whoa mama! (Doesn't she have a way with words?) I love learning. I love it, love it, love it. It can be any kind of class, from storytelling to grammar. If there is a chance to participate and use my brain and energy, I love it. It is a pleasure I have long denied myself. I forgot just how much fun it can be.


Last night I attended a class on writing. I had seen a volunteer opportunity for writing tutors for adults and thought this was something I would like to try. I was asked to observe the class. What a revelation. From the course syllabus: Writing Fundamentals is the first of our series of three writing courses. It is designed to teach participants how to recognize the basic parts of a sentence, thus beginning the process of learning to write effectively. Participants work primarily with isolated sentences, either editing sample sentences provided in class or for homework, or composing their own sentences and then submitting them for feedback. This course's six lessons emphasize subject and predicate identification, verb structure and tense, noun and pronoun usage, and capitalization. This is a six week course on the parts of the sentence! Last week they started with nouns and verbs. This week we had nouns, verbs, helping verbs and apostrophe. Lively discussion on compound nouns, and I was deep in the fray.


I don't know if I was put in advanced reading and never had much grammar, or if my head was in the clouds, but I do not remember ever learning predicates or how to break down a sentence. Just looking through the course material shows me how much I need to learn or relearn. I know how to write, I just don't know how I know.


My experience is way different from the other people in the class. On the volunteer application I had to write what I expected to get from volunteering. I said that I wanted to see if I could be a tutor and if this was something to which I wanted to devote my time. I would also like to make a difference in someone's life. The participants were there for many reasons including being court ordered to attend. The organization's mission is to get people out of generational poverty and into productive work situations. They work with people who are in other situations too. Two men, one young and the other much older, are in the class as part of anger management training. They know how to write a sentence as do many of the others. A young woman who is trying to get her children back from foster care has been journaling since sixth grade. But there are others with minimal education who need to learn how to write better to get a job. The teacher is fantastic, engaging his students and keeping it light. They all have contracts and he lets them know exactly what is expected of them. 


Is there a timetable for emerging from a deep depression and embracing life again? If there is, I don't know it. I had five years to take classes, do crafts, volunteer, exercise, do whatever I wanted and all I wanted to do was sleep. My daughter gave me a class at the Art Center as a present but it wasn't right for me. She gave me a class at Bobby Bead, but it wasn't right for me. My sister gave me gorgeous beads, they sit in the closet. I will look for a class that feels right. Maybe the long darkness I have been living in is lightening. I can see the gradual changes that I am making back to being the happy person I long to be.


I don't know if I will ever be able to thank my brother and sister and mother in law for providing the means for me to live in my little condo. Here I met my neighbors and have been welcomed by a group of great old ladies who read books and play cards. Here I've played in the pool with my family and have learned to be with my grown daughters on my own. I've got a job where I have learned to sell and be with tons of different people each day. I'm learning patience and acceptance. It is not a career, but it is a step back into the work world. There was a long time when I lost who I was; it is a pleasure finding joy in the things I love. I can't wait for next Wednesday and the next grammar class.

What I am looking for in a date

1. Mentally sound, with good dental and physical hygiene. Must wash hair and clothes. You've been to the dentist and laundromat? No visible nose hair? Good, proceed to level two.
2. Employed or financially stable. Don't need my (nonexistent) money? Proceed to level three. 
3. Sense of humor, must love to smile and laugh easily. Stonefaces need not apply. Your wrinkles come from laughter? Proceed to level four.
4. Big hearted, not mean spirited, compassionate. Cares about others. A good parent, son and friend. You know how to put yourself in the other guy's shoes? Proceed to level 5.
5. Good conversationalist, reads, shares ideas. You talk and listen? Sweet! Proceed to level 6.
6. Likes short, roundish women in their late 50's. You are at least 50? Proceed to level 7.
7. Knows how to get in touch with me and isn't shy to do so. We can discuss level 8 over coffee.

This isn't Oprah's book club

When I tell people I belong to a book club, they always ask, "What are you reading?" Then I tell them it is a different kind of book club. We all read whatever we want and report on our choices, then if possible, we exchange books. It leads to the most interesting conversations. Most people are impressed and think it is a very good idea.

Reading for pleasure should be a pleasure and sometimes having to read a certain book by a particular date imposes stress, resentments, and guilt. In our book club, if we don't have something new to report on, we can introduce an old friend from the shelf. At one of the first meetings I went to, someone had just reread an old classic. Some of us knew it and were able to discuss it, and others asked pertinent questions. 

The members all live or lived in my condo building. I, again, am the youngest member by at least eight years and in some cases, by almost thirty years.  I love these ladies who are showing me by example how to stay sharp and interesting as we age. Two of them have Kindles! One woman can remember the names and dates of all the characters in the historical novels she reads. It drives the other ladies a little crazy, but we manage to get her not to give us a summary of all five hundred pages. 

Last night I heard reports on James Patterson's newest. Mary liked the story but could have done without the graphic sex. Rita gave herself permission to not finish a book that although good, was very much like the one she had just read. Edith read The Confession by John Grisham on her Kindle. After the discussion of the story, there was a lot of curiosity about the Kindle. We all like the portability, but... we also like the tactile experience of holding a book in our hands. The fact that you can read in the dark, every readers dream, makes the devices sound enticing. Downloading books, not so much.

I have a wonderful collection of humor. Most of it is from the first part of the twentieth century; Robert Benchely, James Thurber, Clarence Day, Anita Loos. I've shared from contemporary humorists such as Bailey White and others. Someone brought me a large Bennett Cerf collection of jokes, stories, and humorous sketches from the late 1940's. Over the past month I plowed my way through it and was really struck by the misogyny, prejudice, stereotypes and racism in the anecdotes. It was codified. It was accepted, and it was 100% privileged white man. Reading it after the upheavals of the second part of the twentieth century, I am amazed that it took so long for those changes to happen. 

Books are products of the time. The authors in my collection reflect their society, but are never intentionally dismissive of whole populations. They laugh at themselves. No one does this better than James Thurber in The Night The Ghost Got In. Robert Benchely always puts himself as the put upon one with such gentleness and grace. But Bennett Cerf makes others the target of his humor and does not do it with compassion for the bimbos and ethnic people. I have no problem with Mark Twain. It is offensive to see the n word, but it is part of the story, and reflects the time when it was written. Edith told me she didn't want the Cerf book back and I thought I might throw it away but our discussion intrigued Gail to take it.

I reported on New Stories from the South, 2010: The Year's Best. It was a Christmas present and I am doling them out, just one or two a week to make them last. The writing is delicious. The discussion about the art of short stories alone was stimulating and thought provoking. I love this group. It certainly isn't Oprah's book club but it is ours and unique.

I couldn't give it away

There used to be an old nun who sat in the Fourteenth Street subway station in NY. She had a little stool and a basket that sat in her lap. I never had a clue what she was supposed to do. Looking back, I think she was begging. She never asked for anything, and once in a while I saw a nickel in the basket. She was old and didn't have much energy. Maybe she was saying the rosary and having an incredible experience of Grace. Maybe she was looking for Jesus in every commuter. Hard to say.

It was dead at the warehouse store today and people were buying the basics. I had a rather dubious product to sample, a "zero calorie nutrient enriched water beverage".  It wasn't even one of the good ones with 100% of Vitamin C. The first three ingredients were water, preservative, and sucralose. I hope there wasn't a secret shopper because I was warning people with children that it had artificial sweetener. When people thought it tasted awful, like cheap Kool-Aid, I agreed. It was so slow, and I couldn't give it away for free.

About four-thirty, I tried doing isometrics, then leg lifts and neck rolls, etc. I looked like a nut. So then I decided I was going to look for the divine in each person who came by. I started smiling more and was a welcoming presence. I had an interesting conversation with a vegetarian who I told how to cook tofu. A man and his three children and I had a talk about manners. I told one of his kids that I couldn't give him anything until he asked please daddy. Then I told him what wonderful manners he had. The few people in the store trickled by. I didn't try to sell them the product, how could I? Did I want the children of God to be drinking this stuff? Really, I couldn't give it away.

I think about that nun, sitting day after day, year after year in that dirty subway station. Was it something she looked forward to? Was she seeing God in the humanity that passed by or was it a penance, a way to pass time until her heavenly reward? What about me? What am I doing with my time? Am I waiting for my heavenly reward or making my own heaven? I don't know what will happen when I die. I know what I hope for, but sort of doubt will occur. So I had better search for the divine in every moment and make my actions worthy of the gift of life. 

Inspired by a boy

I have an old friend who is a dentist in NY. On his fb page he wrote a touching post. "Today, after examining one of my twelve year old patients, I told him that he did not have anymore baby teeth. With great joy and excitement in his eyes he looked at me and asked, "Does that mean I am a man now?"


I can't stop thinking about this child and wishing I knew him because I remember waking up on my twelfth birthday and wondering how I would ever make it to my eighteenth and thinking six more years with despair. That phrase, great joy and excitement, says it all. He was excited for his life, now, and raring for the future. What does it mean to him to be a man? Clearly, it was a very desirable state of life with opportunity and privilege.


I remember being a tiny girl and lying on the sofa as my mother made breakfast for my father before he left for work. It was quite early and I was told I could stay as long as I was quiet. They spoke softly to each other and I felt quite sorry for my brother who had to go to school. I never wanted to have to leave the safety and comfort of being with my mother. I was one of those children who howled the first day of Kindergarden and can still see my mother looking in the window with concern.  She died of breast cancer within three months of that day. I wonder how sick she was and how important it was to her that she could see my first day of school. I remember, too, her showing me a little box in our pink refrigerator and telling me not to touch it because it was dope.


I have very few memories of my father before my mother died. And I do not have good memories of after. He was ill equipped to raise three children on his own. My sister was only two years old. Because of his lightning quick temper, he soon became someone to be feared. I did not look forward with "great joy and excitement" to growing up. I thought of it as the day of salvation when I could finally get away from the violence and chaos.


I am not the only one who has had a challenging childhood. The old man himself had a horrific childhood and vowed to do better for his children. I am sure that had my mother lived things would have been very different. Looking back, I think he laid hands on my step-mother, too. One of Harriet's sisters who knew my mother, told me that she kept him in check and never accepted that kind of behavior, that he was a different man.


I left home two months before my eighteenth birthday. It wasn't in my mind that I was a woman now. I was a child escaping. I have been lucky enough to have two beautiful daughters, now grown. I did better for them than the way I was raised. They are wonderful women, raised with love. I am not saying there weren't times that life was chaotic. I hope they looked forward with great joy and excitement to becoming the women they are.


Thanks to Marc Bienenstock for sharing his story. 

"You should teach a college course!" he said.

Sometimes life gives you a break. Getting to demonstrate Peanut Brittle made in the bakery was easy and fun. Just the right product after being gone because I had been ill for a week. This peanut brittle bore little resemblance to the tooth breaking hard stuff that comes in a box from the drugstore. This peanut brittle was more peanuts than brittle, if you know what I mean. Of course I had to make sure every child had permission and quite a few adults told me that they couldn't eat peanuts either. "You wouldn't want to see what would happen to me," one man said. I replied that I wouldn't either.

This was really primo brittle, nearly all glossy, big peanuts in a buttery sweet base. It broke easily and tasted fine. One lady said it had sugar. Yes, it is candy. One man said it had fat. Yes, it is candy. I teased a man who declined a piece while his wife took one. I joked that he was too skinny, have a piece. Wowza! I hit a very sore spot indeed. He turned and said that America was too fat, that he had a perfect BMI. I agreed and told him I was joking. Another woman said it wouldn't fit into her New Year's resolution. I said, of course it would since her resolution was to gain some weight, wasn't it? She laughed and laughed, but she really could have stood to gain a pound or ten.

Peanut Brittle brings up many memories. More than one person said their father or grandfather loved it. I would suggest they get a tub to give as a gift. Many people said it was always a Christmas time treat. But the best reaction came from one older man.

He stood at the cart sampling the product. He said his wife loved it, that it was her favorite candy. I said he should get some and surprise her. I told him that she would probably be quite pleased that he thought of her. This was a very nice man but you could see that the idea of a spontaneous gift of thoughtfulness had never crossed his mind. I told him to tell her he saw peanut brittle and he thought about how much she enjoyed it. Then he thought he should show her the package and see if she wanted some. (She was somewhere in the store.) I gave him an especially nice sample and told him to bring it to her and say the same thing about how he had been thinking of her. He said to me, "You should teach a college course!"

Several minutes later he came back. I was standing in front of the cart at the time and he came up and hugged me. "You were right!" he cried. She loved it and she was amazed and thrilled that he thought of her. He wanted to know how I knew. I said everyone wants to be thought well of, and noticed. That it was nice to get a tangible token of that notice. It didn't have to be expensive, just thoughtful. He kept saying I should teach a course. Can you teach common sense?

It is common sense to show the ones you love that you are thinking of them. It could be showing them an article on something you know interests them, or bringing home a cd of their favorite artist. It can be noticing fatigue and taking over a chore. We do it for our children all the time. Of course they depend on us for all their needs, but the care to get the right super hero underpants when white would do just as well is another way to show our love.

Remember, not all of us are mind readers, in fact very few are. So, let's not just think good thoughts of each other. Let's also bring home some peanut brittle. The rewards might be great.

Compassion means

Compassion means being able to put yourself in another's shoes, if only for an instant.

I often post quotes from the Dalai Lama. He is always talking about compassion. That the answer to the world's problems is compassion. If you really see the opposition as human, as being the same as you, then you can work together. It sounds so simple that I don't understand why we don't do it. When I see mean spiritedness, it always knocks me out. I just want to shake the dense one. I usually don't understand why I have gotten upset and why I can't make my point.

The press conference in Mississippi was playing on the TV in the break room on Friday. Two sisters who had life sentences for armed robbery were being released from prison on the condition that one give the other a needed kidney. Turns out they only got $11.00 during the robbery. Turns out that one of them had three children, seven, three, and eleven months who are all grown up now. I do not know the details of the crime and trial. But I know that the punishment did not fit the crime and you have to be pretty desperate to commit armed robbery, especially if you are not good at it.

While I was sitting there watching the press conference, discussion was going on around me. One man insisted that "If you did the crime, you had to do the time." He was insistent that they should have thought about that before they held the man up. He COULD NOT see any other point than his own. He could not put himself in their shoes for just a minute. (Bold, capitals, and underlining is to make the point of how unable he was to show ANY compassion.) He could not imagine being a young, impoverished, uneducated, ignorant, desperate unwed mother of three in Mississippi. I tried to tell him how little money a woman like that would get in Minnesota, no less Mississippi, one of the poorest states in the nation, but he could not understand. For him, it was all about thinking first and consequences.


I believe in consequences. I do. But I also know that none of us is perfect and that there have been times I paid too much for the little I did, and other times when Providence did not make me pay as much as I should have, all things being equal. 


Because the Arab States do not see the right of Israel to exist, and because the Israelis do not see the Palestinians as equal partners, strife exists. Because the legislators who have government health care do not have compassion, millions of Americans have either inadequate or no health care coverage. Because people of all parties and persuasions have an I, me, mine, attitude, true progress cannot be made to alleviate the suffering of the world.


When corporations, who are not separate entities, but are made up of people, have no compassion for the people who create their riches, pollution of land and wholesale despair of workforces occur. Give the workers as little possible. Do not provide enough latrines or time to use them, and two things occur. Either you create a criminal class who cannot live that way, or one of scared, hopeless people. These are outrages that happen in the athletic shoe factories of Indonesia. Yet it has been documented that outrages such having to urinate while standing in a chicken processing plant also occur in the United States. It is not only the low paid who have to sacrifice. There is a young, mother of three I know who makes a good salary but had to take home hours of work every night. Her life belonged to the corporation too.

What is it that we as individuals can do? We can try to see our opposition as humans with human characteristics. We can try to stop demonizing anyone who thinks other than the way we do. Paul Wellstone was amazing at being friends with people with whom he did not agree. We can try to be a little nicer. We can work a little harder for the things we believe in.

I suffered for eight years of the Bush presidency without a shred of compassion for the President. I still don't know what our and his karma was. I don't think I will ever understand how his election occurred. But the day I saw a confused, unpopular man walk onto the inauguration stage, and then fly away, I learned compassion. I saw him as human and I could no longer hate. I also saw I had to give up hating him, which in some weird way I enjoyed. Don't get me wrong. The actions of his administration are still an anathema to me, but I can't hate him personally anymore. Unfortunately I have not come to a compassionate point of view towards Cheney, Rove, and the other band of criminals.

I have been sick all week and seem to be getting better. Thank you modern medicine. It feels like I am thinking more clearly. If someone reads this and thinks I am a wooly-headed bleeding heart, I have to say this is the way I am and I hope you can see my point of view, if only for a minute.

Let's all have a good laugh. Enjoy.

In the blink of an eye...

... A fall on the ice, and life changes dramatically.

My mother-in-law, Betty, is one of the strongest, most independent, and stubborn women you would want to meet. We love each other deeply. After I married her son thirty-five years ago she made only one comment, "I always thought you would find your God and your bride in the choir loft of the Presbyterian Church," to her son before thoroughly embracing me as her daughter. Not as her daughter-in-law, but as her daughter. She and Donald taught me so much about parenting and also being a mother-in-law. And when we went to her several years ago and told her the marriage was over she told me that I would always be her daughter and that my name remained on the deed to her property. It is through her generosity, and that of my ex and his brother and sister-in-law that I have my little condo.

Friday, she fell on the ice outside her house and broke her ankle. Somehow, this 85 year old wonder crawled across the snow and ice, up her stairs and back into the house to call for help. Living on property set back from the road, the only alternative was to die of hypothermia. Pretty scary indeed. Right now she is hospitalized in Duluth receiving good care. After the hospital comes the challenge.

How do you tell someone that their home has become too dangerous for them to live in? How do you tell someone who is fiercely independent that she will have to depend on others for a change? I went through this six years ago with my own parents, who were older and much more frail. It was a hard, wrenching move for them, especially my father, who never got to go home from the rehab/nursing home before being moved to Minnesota. I was lucky to have a place pre-planned for them. The year before I told them the line my cousin used to get her parents to move closer to her. "You are killing me. I can't do the commute, and I stay up at night worrying about you." They asked me to hang on to the application and we were lucky enough to get an apartment when they needed it.

Cousin Harriet, who lived to be 99 was savvy. About the time she turned 90 she decided to sell her home and car. She moved into a lovely senior building and didn't look back. The woman who sold us our first home moved into a senior building because her family thought the upkeep on her little bungalow was too much. When, after several years, she hadn't died, she said if she knew she would feel this good she wouldn't have sold her house. She didn't realize that not being in the house was why she  felt so well. Cousin Harriet knew that the easier life was what was keeping her alive. As my own parents get more frail they do understand that they could not live totally independently anymore, but it was a hard sell to get them to agree that it has been a good move for them.

Betty has her marbles, and she has her pride. (I do wish she would wear those hearing aids, though.)  She cannot return to her house at this time without someone there until the snow is gone. It is just too dangerous and impractical. If she can understand that she does not have to give up her home forever, just until spring, the move and subsequent healing will be for her best. I would gladly have her come stay with me. I like sleeping on my couch. Other family members have better facilities and I think there will probably be some rehab involved, letting the matter of next winter rest for now.

As my generation ages we face the challenge of aging parents. The balance between treating them as the adults they are and doing what is right is quite difficult. We do not want to take away dignity and independence, nor do we want to see them die of stupidity and pride. It is a rope many of us are walking, hoping that good intentions will provide a net.