In the Days of the Giants

Posted on by
11

I can close my eyes, right now, and see her – a petite woman, no more than five feet  – (and that is giving her a couple inches) –  wearing a long handmade mini-print belted dress followed by those crazy-heavy black front tie granny shoes, her round rimmed glasses tipped on her nose, a Kleenex stuffed slightly up her sleeve, and a wrinkled white apron tied promptly around her waist at all times. In her side pocket, she carried hard candy, the key to her house, and at all times a worn silver rosary.  She spoke English, most of the time, but would fall to German when necessary.   She wasn’t quick to smile, but definitely was hard to anger.  Her grey hair was always cropped neatly, and the only piece of jewelry she sported was a simple gold wedding band.  She was a woman of great faith, hard work, humble means, and sensible actions.

Like all grandmothers, she had habits and quirks that fascinated me.  She owned a parakeet named Perky; and, if she travelled, Perky travelled with her.   She hid money – cash – throughout her modest home . . . ten-dollar bills in the hems of the curtains, a handful of coins in her button jar, enough money for a house payment behind the round picture of the Blessed Mary,  frozen money in the not-so-hidden ice-cube trays in the back of the freezer, a jar of dollars in the tree stump.  Plus, she only and always wore dresses.  Pants were just a no-no.  And every night she drank a short glass of whiskey, followed by praying the rosary, in Latin.

She loved me and I knew it, but not because she told me.

I stayed summers with her and she made me a pie a day . . . any kind, all I had to do was ask – chocolate, peanut butter, rhubarb, marshmallow, peach, raisin, ice cream, potato – everyday a new pie. She taught me how to make bread.  I always failed, but she always ate it.  We played euchre together each and every evening, keeping a running tab on who was winning and who was losing – for years.  She cried with me when I was sad, and laughed with me when I was happy.  Coddling wasn’t exactly in her vocabulary, but raking a yard, hanging laundry, or burning the trash pile with her didn’t seem like work.  It was purposeful fun . . . time well spent.

Her name was Pauline, but her family called her Polly.  She, herself, had countless sisters and several brothers, all living in a little town in Illinois.  Her own three children, two girls and one boy, were spread across the United States with my family being the closest in proximity to her at all times.  To me, she was the grandmother of all grandmothers – the perfect multi-generational companion for me and my brothers and sister.

She has been gone from this earth for many years now, and I used to wonder why I thought about her as often as I do.  It took me awhile, but it finally came to me.  In fact, I realize now that it really isn’t that hard to understand.  It really isn’t.    Simply put, Polly was a giant, living in the days of the giants.  And even though I wasn’t a quick learner, she was great at modeling.  Eventually she knew that I knew what she wanted me to know.  It just took awhile.

From her, I know that it isn’t money that makes people happy.  She didn’t have much if any, and was happy just to be fishing on a Friday night with me and half of her family at the local riverside – sometimes catching nothing, but always having fun.

From her, I know that faith can bring comfort.  I wouldn’t describe her as a god-fearing woman, but I would say that she was deeply religious.  She pondered through all of her challenges with prayer, (usually in another language), and somehow she seemed to navigate of all her troubles.

From her, I know that quiet is just as good as noisy.  One thousand words was a life time of conversation for her. I can still hear her say, “Too much talk, too little work.”  She, herself, didn’t have to communicate via speech, a talent that still impresses me. I knew what she wanted to tell me without her ever having to speak a word.

From her, I know the definition of giving.  I watched a woman whose belongings could literally fit into two suitcases, give anything she owned to anyone who asked.  That’s why her belongings fit into two suitcases.

From her, I know how to manage money.  It is simply a matter of saving it – in cans, jars, boxes, purses, curtains, trays, trees, sleeves, and banks.  She never bought something she didn’t need, and never really seemed to need anything.  But if she did, she dug up the can and paid for it in cash.  Her joy came not from buying whatever she needed, but from the journey that it took her to get to the point of purchase.

From her, I know how to be thrifty.  Can it if you can.  Freeze the rest.  Holes can be darned.  Dresses and shoes can be remade and salvaged with a little thread, leather and ingenuity.  Water comes out of a tap, walking is cheaper than driving, and one hundred found pennies can buy a dollar’s worth of anything.  There was never a glass jar that saw the bottom of the trash can in her house.  Who needs Tupperware when a used Vlasic pickle jar was available?

And from her, I know about joy.  She characterized her life, as hard as it might have been – as a young teen from a dirt-poor immigrant farm family, living through World War I, the Great Depression, and World War II –   as joyful.  All stories that I heard ended with some type of quote that was meant to direct me to always see the best in the world because she did.

Well, Polly, all I can say is lessons learned.

Pauline Washford

Grandma Polly 1957

I’m in the Clouds

Posted on by
2

For the past 30+ years or so, each and every year, I have travelled to the mountains during the winter.    Whether with a couple of friends or many relatives, the consistent piece has been that I have travelled to the mountains during the winter.  And this year, I was there . . . in the mountains . . . in the winter . . . once again.   This year’s crew included two of my children, their significant others, my grandson and, of course, my spouse.  The intent of my travels to the mountains is always . . . to ski.

For me, skiing is one of the best ways to experience the glory of the mountains up close and personal.  On skis, I can get to places within the mountains that I am unable to reach in any other way.  And, I can get there during winter – which for me is the best of all seasons to be in the mountains.

The ski day starts at 8:30am and lasts until 4:30pm, and minus the lunch hour, I am outside the entire time.  Now, I do admit that it takes a lot to get outside when skiing.  Helmet, goggles, gator, ski gloves, ski pants, ski coat, boots, poles, skis – are the round one necessities.  Round two includes hand warmers, toe warmers, chapstick, locker keys, lifesavers, iPod, cellphone, and a lift ticket.  All of round one and round two entities require time and energy to organize.  But . . . when complete . . . the fun begins.

Characterizing that fun . . . for me . . . is difficult.  But, for starters, it certainly is fun to be with family and friends outside all day.  And, it is fun to participate with them in a challenging sporting activity.  Whether with my daughter zipping through old skiing haunts and stopping for hot chocolate at the same spot every year for twenty-five years, or with my sons skiing well above my abilities and hoping they remember my age, or with my husband following him or leading him up and down slopes, looking for the best snow, the best run, the best view, I have fun.  No doubt, it is a fun sport.

But what draws me back year after year after year is the more personal side of fun that skiing brings to me. It is more than just sharing fun times with others.  For a week each year, I am in the mountains, and even though there may be dozens of others navigating the slopes with me, there is always that feeling of being on my own – on skis somewhere in the Rockies.

I enjoy the sounds and sights of skiing: the winds whipping through the pine trees, skis slicing fresh tracks in new powder, the chirping of a few lonely winter birds, the quiet of a mid-day snow shower, and the beauty of the sun either shining brightly or peering out from behind dark winter clouds with snow and mountains all around.  What I see and what I hear is unbelievably overwhelming with fantastic moment after fantastic moment.

As I ski my mind swirls around all that is winter.  I hear the poetic wisdom of Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. I have committed a select few poems to memory with this one at the top of my list.  Certainly, I am not in a horse-drawn carriage far from the closest farmhouse.  There are no harness bells shaking, and I am not skiing in the dark of evening.  But, I enjoy “watching the woods fill up with snow”, and I recognize the sound of “sweeping winds and downy flakes”.  And most of all, I, too, believe that I “have miles to go before I sleep . . . miles to go before I sleep”.

And as I ski, my mind recalls the lyrics of John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High.  His song, though literally describing a summer meteor shower viewed from the depths of the mountains of Colorado, invokes that feeling of serenity . . . of peace . . . of tranquility as I ski run after run after run.  And when the sun shines over the bridge of the mountain tops, I, too, see a “fire in the sky”.

At the end of a long week, I take off my skis, boots, helmet, gloves, coat and ski pants for the last time.  And as is our tradition, I meet my family at the bottom of the last run on the last slope to sit for a moment together to catch the beauty of the mountains for a few more seconds.  Without a doubt, the mountains are simply majestic – nothing better.

A few minutes later, amid the clutter and chaos of packing up and heading out of the majesty towards the open plains of the Midwest – which has been my home sweet home for a long time – I am ready.  First, I am exhausted,  as during my ski week, I have skied way too much and slept way too little.  Second, I have little time to consider anything but leaving.  The ski day is over, the sun is setting, and it is time to face the traffic as we travel down the mountain pass.

Finally, I miss the Midwest. I do.

It isn’t mile high mountains covered in snow, and skiing isn’t among the typical winter sports.  It doesn’t have Aspen covered slopes and there are no views of the Continental Divide.  And, let’s just say that it isn’t exactly that Frost/Denver vision.  But for everything that skiing and the mountain experience brings to me for a week, my Midwest roots does for an entire year.

So carving out that one perfect week each year to live in the clouds is just what I need to allow me the luxury to live in the best of both worlds.

Once again, I am lucky.

In the Mountains, Living the Dream

What A Joy!

Posted on by
2

This week, I had the pleasure of spending some time in a small rural town in Western Missouri.  To me, it was a typical farming town – a county seat with twenty thousand people, with traffic lights numbering no more than what two hands can count, two Catholic churches blocks from each other (one historically Irish and one historically German), a bell tower than played Missouri’s state song in the quiet of the evening, and an old fashioned ice cream shop, soda fountain and all.

I stayed at a hotel that was built in 1907.  Though I readily describe it as lovely, it was simultaneously quirky.  The lobby elevator was what I would call retro, with a set of exterior doors off set by a set of interior gates.  I half expected a bellhop dressed in a maroon, gold, and black bellhop uniform with a pill box cap to step out when the doors opened. Riding the evaluator up, I hopped out and could have used the six flight U.S. postal mail slot that whisked letters from the top floor to the bottom floor if my heart had so desired.  Sadly, I had nothing to mail as I did want to see if those old-fashioned letter slots really worked.   I turned the corner and peered down the hallway.  Plastered above a sixth floor window were the words FIRE ESCAPE.  In case of emergency, folks would crawl out the window and use a set of collapsible staircases that had definitely seen better days.   God-willing, my time at this location would be uneventful.

I entered my room – which was outfitted with crisp, fluffy upscale bedding, and thought . . . where is the rest of the room?  For the whole thing  was . . . well . . . unusually. .  well . . .  tiny.  In fact, I am quite sure that my GMC Acadia SUV has nearly the same square footage as the room.  There was just enough space for the door to open and not nick the bed, and just enough space on one side of the bed to actually open the narrow bathroom door. From my vantage, I could see that the shower was clean and pristine, but I knew that I would have to do some type of sideways samba to get into it.  Likewise, the sink was built for one hand only and the toilet, well let’s just say it was small.

My suitcase fit well underneath the television stand and everything else fit . . . well . . . on the bed, which was the only other surface for any type of storage.   I found it interesting that I could turn on and off the overhead bedroom light, the bathroom light and the television all while resting comfortably in the middle of the bed.  The note on the back of the hotel room door kindly and politely listed out the available services including overnight laundry and daily shoe shines (just leave the shoes outside the hotel room door and by morning, they will be refreshed!)  

Keep in mind, that everything was nice.  This place wasn’t some seedy, run-down flop house that folks entered and were never seen again.  Oh contraire!  The lobby was swank with enormous prism chandeliers and high wing back chairs tilting towards each other to form a conversation area.  There was an upscale restaurant – also tiny – but with patrons at each table.  On the second floor was the fitness center – which was better described as a closet with two treadmills; but, the fact remains that workouts were possible. And the employees were helpful, cheerful, kind people.  And did I mention the cost . . . $39.99 plus tax.

Normally and admittedly, my hotel room requirements can be described as a little high maintenance.  And for those who know me, feel free to change that statement to really high maintenance.  No stays at rooms with shag carpet – ever.  In fact, I generally prefer anything but carpet.  I check all reviews and make sure that the hotel location is safe and secure.  Four stars are great, but five stars are better. Key cards with deadbolts are minimum standards and valet parking if at all possible.  So staying at a place with indoor/outdoor carpet, house telephones in the hallway, no visible fire alarms, and space that seemed to be rented out by the square inch was a stretch for me.  It challenged me to get out of my comfort zone and test the waters.

And I am glad I did.

The experience was actually wonderful.  It gave me a new type of vision about possibilities – not only regarding business travel, but just possibilities in general.  First, the people working at this particular location were nothing short of wonderful.  Their kindness with any questions that I may have asked or anything that I may have needed exceeded all expectations.  The actions of the people running this hotel brought life back to a simple level for me.  Succinctly stated – taken from a favorite M.A.S.H. episode:  “It is nice to be nice to the nice.”  Life becomes better when surrounded by nice people.  Nice people figuring out ways to help other people.

Second, I realized that by removing some of the limits that I may have been placing on travel – thus myself – opened up new doors and new experiences for me.  I saw, heard, did, and thought about things differently for a brief moment in time.  And it was fun.  Who needs a twenty square foot shower when a four square foot one (four feet may be an exaggeration) works just fine.  I didn’t try the mail slot, but would have liked to do so.  I didn’t try the fire escape, am glad that I didn’t, but would have liked to go out that window just once.  I didn’t make any telephone calls on the house phone, but it would have been a hoot.  This little hotel . . . in the middle of small town Western Missouri . . . made me get out of my rut and gave me back that free fall feeling once again.

What a joy.

The Water of Acadia National Park

The Joy of Water and Its Reflections

What Do You Wear When You Work Out?

Posted on by
4

I am a workout nut. It’s hard to admit it, but it’s true.  My friends have kindly mentioned it, and even though I try my best to deny their characterizations of me as such, they are right.  It is true.  Each morning, I leave for work at 7:00am and spend the fifteen minute commute thinking about my post-work exercise plan.  During the spring, summer, and fall, I plot out my running route both in distance and time, and during the winter, I gear up for treadmill work or indoor activity at a local University’s field house.  I may tell folks that I believe working out is a chore, but in reality, I spend a great deal of time planning and participating in it. I like it.

Like any other workout nut, I have a variety of routines that I follow.  My family considers the routines to be a little quirky – and they probably are – but my workout nut pals all have their own quirky routines; thus, giving normalcy to what I do.  I dash home at 5:00pm, say hello to the folks in my house, change, and within no more than fifteen minutes dash out again. I rev up the IPOD, check my shoe strings, and hit the road . . . each day . . . every single day that I can.

I have come to terms with the realization that I may be a workout nut.  It was difficult to comprehend and internalize, but I’m okay with it.  But today, I was hit with another revelation – a new one – one that is much more difficult to accept than the workout nut moniker.

I am a workout nut . . . with a pathetic workout wardrobe.  Really, I am a pathetically clad workout nut.  My workout nut fashion sense is so pathetic that my loved ones have given up mentioning it to me.

My workout wardrobe isn’t swanky.  It isn’t groovy, with-it, or mod.  And it certainly isn’t hip, trendy, or fashion forward.  It isn’t flashy, flirty, or fun.  It isn’t pretty.  It isn’t any of those terms or any other term that would equate to workout stylish.

Rather, it is . . . more like . . . hmmm . . . let’s just say – utilitarian.

My workout fashion regime is simple: Shorts, shirt, shoes, socks – all in neutral, sweat-hiding colors: check.  Hair in a mandatory pony tail, workout glasses from the dollar store for treadmill reading: check.  Nearly broken, barely working ear buds threaded through the shoulder of my workout shirt to prevent me from losing them: check. A plain gray IPOD with a plain black case, and a green headband someone left at my house  to keep my eyes sweat-free: check.  With all this apparel, I think I am good to go out the door. Exciting activity, pathetic attire.

Well, yesterday, it was raining and my workout was moved to an inside venue.  There was a waiting line for the treadmill which meant that I had a moment to take a look around me. So I did.  And boy did I see a lot.

I saw fancy matching Under Armour everywhere and lots of Nike Dry Fit shirts that included tiny riveted holes made especially for threading ear buds.  I saw headbands with impressive logos and shorts with phone pockets.   I saw one person with what I would call a $9.99 two for one ShamWOW chamois; however, I learned that the proper name for it was the Trekkings Ultra Fast Dry towel.  The user had it hung around the neck to keep perspiration to a minimum.  No doubt it cost a pretty penny. And it looked impressive.

Bikers in St. Louis. No pathetic workout clothes here.

In the shoe line-up, there were pairs with toes, pairs that kept track of miles logged, pairs that were incredibly light, and pairs that were specifically for running indoors on treadmills.  Absolutely everyone had on designer socks with several of those folks explaining their sock choices to me. One person was wearing a workout hat and a couple folks were sporting workout gloves. My favorite was an individual who had perfectly matched everything head to toe.

Still there was me:  A peach colored shirt, black workout pants that had shrunk and were just a tad too short, the same all purpose tennis shoes that I had last year, the green headband, dollar store glasses, and the broken ear buds threaded through the sleeve.  I had been in a little rush at home and accidently was wearing a pair of mismatched socks, both I might add were in the Nike category, which is a little better in some way.  All in all, it was the same pathetic workout wardrobe that I have been wearing for years.  Workout nut / pathetic clothes.

Moments later, there was an available treadmill for me.  I hopped on, cranked up my IPOD, started my workout, and concentrated on forgetting about physical fitness fashion faux pas and the implications.  Perhaps I was making much ado about nothing.  After all, the purpose of working out is to workout.  There are no red carpets or runways to navigate. In some ways it makes more sense to sweat in ridiculous haphazard clothes than it does to do so in designer duds.  And I have never seen fitness paparazzi in my neck of the woods. Still I had to face my workout wardrobe and acknowledge that I was deep into the pathetic category.

I have two choices.  I can go on a quest to find and purchase better workout apparel.  It definitely isn’t hard: I can order clothing from the comfort of my living room.  There are a zillion of online venues at my fingertips, and a lot of them have very impressive selections!   Or, I can continue to be the same workout nut with the same pathetic workout wardrobe that I have grown to be over the last couple of decades.  There is something to be said for ignoring common social conventions and throwing all caution to the wind in this area.  It does feel a little exhilarating to be in the zone where something just doesn’t matter.

Either way, by the end of this year, I have made it one of my resolutions to make a decision in this area.  A December 2012 update – with photo – will follow.

Gotta Love Winter Break

Posted on by
Reply

I love winter break.

And, I am happy to report that I have had a winter break every year of my life since I was in kindergarten.  Really – what’s not to love about it –  ten days off each winter from sometime before December 25th to sometime after January 1st.  A brilliant idea in any world.  It can be called winter break or winter holiday or semester break or just plain vacation; regardless of the name, it is still grand.

Winter break is one of the joys of the United States educational system.  Everyone and everything stops – halts – pauses for a holiday.  No one misses anything because there is absolutely nothing happening to miss . . . for ten days . . . at the end of one year and the beginning of the next.  There are no classes scheduled, no meetings to attend, no educational dilemmas to solve.  The phones may ring and email may be received, but all of it waits until the holiday ends and the next semester begins.

Winter break is one heck of an educational tradition.  Sports-metaphorically, it’s halftime for folks on both sides of the classroom.  Officially, we claim that its purpose is to re-invigorate ourselves, recharge our brains, and prepare ourselves for what follows in January.  Of course, those reasons are all true; however, behind the scenes, winter break is also a time to simply goof around during what can be the gloomiest time of year – in particular for those living in the colder and snowier climates.  Some say why, while those in education say . . . why not take a break.

Not only is winter break an educational tradition, but so, too, is spring break, and fall break, and of course, summer break – with the last being the longest and strongest both in tradition and duration.  Obviously, education isn’t shy about its official pauses.  It’s a glorious schedule . . . work a little, rest a little, work a little, rest a little, work a little, rest a lot.

There are serious challenges to working in education, (and I will leave those issues for discussion by someone else at some other time); but, taking and enjoying break time isn’t one of them.  How to holiday is an art form that has been heartily practiced and universally adored by students, faculty, staff, and administration throughout all education.

This winter break, I have noticed two distinct reactions by folks outside of education.  The first I take as a compliment – although it generally comes in the form of questions with twists of sarcasm:  When do you work?   Are you still off?  When do you go back?  Is anyone manning the ship while the students are away? Who is paying for all of this?

And, truly, from the outside, it must look like education is break-happy beyond belief.  In fact, I am careful not to contact my dad too much during winter break, as he is old-school.  Prior to his retirement, he worked from dawn until dusk without even as much as a fifteen minute break.  Lunch was on the fly and a vacation was earned and given during the summer months only.   So, regardless of sarcasm, this reaction to winter break is well understood and well deserved.

The second reaction I also take as a compliment, but it is much more quizzical to me:  I wonder why I am not off?  Why isn’t everything closed for a winter holiday?  Shouldn’t it be a part of world tradition to take scheduled breaks? 

Here I can only empathize and whole-heartedly agree.  These questions seem to be directed more internally towards those who are not partaking in break time rather than externally towards those who are.  Yes, everyone should pause.  Yes, everyone should re-invigorate, recharge, and prepare.  And yes, everyone should have a length of time in the middle of the winter to goof around.  The only challenge is convincing the entire non-educational world to institute the winter break system immediately each and every year.  A possibility?  Yes.  A probability?  Hmmm . . .

My itinerary this winter break was typical for me, I think.  I spent time with family and friends near and far; I completed household projects put on hold throughout the fall; I caught up on day-to-day tasks, wrote thank you cards, worked out at the gym, cleaned closets and cars, read my backed-up reading list, wrote a new bucket list, watched basketball games, went to the movies, ate too much, and slept too little.   In reality, the list of my winter break accomplishments is a lot of nothing plus a little of everything that could have been postponed if it weren’t for the great winter pause.

Yet, I love winter break.

Regardless of how mundane and inane my accomplishments have been during break, it is crazy fun.  It is crazy fun to rejuvenate and recalibrate in any way, even in ways small and silly –  especially when facing the dark days of winter.

Interestingly, one part of my winter break activities included being in a car during the early morning hours on December 25th. From my bird’s-eye view, most – if not all – folks appeared to be on break at least for the day. All businesses were closed and a true winter break seemed to be in full swing. The roads were quiet and calm with no traffic in sight and no sounds to be heard.  Everyone was on pause.  For me, it was a surreal moment thinking that more than just the education population was taking a winter break . . . together.

My take-away? As a nation, we should seriously strive for the winter break concept.  Take what happens in the halls of academia and generalize it, so that those whose fortune hasn’t led them to work in education are able to experience the true meaning of holiday.  I have no clue as to whether I am a more productive and/or effective educational employee because of winter break.  It is hard to measure as there is no control group inside education to use for comparison!

However, it is easy for me to know that winter break is just a plain good idea.  So, here’s hoping that we all pause for ten days next December/January . . . together.

It doesn’t hurt to hope!

This photo was taken moments before the official start to winter break!

All I Can Say Is Here’s to the Crazy Ones . . .

Posted on by
Reply
Here’s to the crazy ones . . . the misfits . . . the rebels . . . the trouble-makers . . . the round heads in the square holes . . . the ones who see things differently.  They’re not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo.  You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them.  But the only thing you can’t do is ignore them . . . because they change things!  They push the human race forward.  And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world . . . are the ones who do.  

– – Apple Computers – –

As I look back on my early life, at times, I think I grew up in a world of conformity.  The Pleasant Valley Sunday syndrome (my favorite 1967 hit single by the Monkees) described my neighborhood.  Rows of houses that were all the same lined my street.  Most – if not all folks – were of the same race and religion.  Each household had a dog, at least one Schwinn bike, two aluminum trash cans, a front lawn light that was turned on at dusk / off at dawn, a postage stamp sized back yard, and curb-side white and black painted house numbers.  A typical week included church on Sunday, school Monday through Friday, and barbeque on Saturday.  Dinner time was 5:00 o’clock – for the entire street.  School uniforms – the gray plaid wool variety – were the norm.  Being the same was in vogue.

In my youth, being the same – having a little bit of conformity –was somewhat comforting.  Bedtime – 7:30pm every night.  Television’s Wonderful World of Disney – Sunday night.  Fish sticks and tater tots for dinner – the Lenten Friday night special.  From kindergarten to eighth grade – recess at 2:00p.m.  And every weekend, it was radio time:

Here we go with the Top 40 hits of the nation this week on American Top 40, the best-selling and most-played songs from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from Canada to Mexico.  This is Casey Kasem in Hollywood, and in the next three hours, we’ll count down the 40 most popular hits in the United States this week, hot off the record charts of Billboard magazine for the week ending . . .

– – Casey Kasem – –

Listening to the American Top Forty fifty two Saturdays out of the year was only one of many rituals.  We did many things the same way at the same time with the same people; and, this behavior created more than just a system of status quo. It built a framework of traditions and customs that are still alive and well today. It added significant stability to daily life.  It taught me and the world around me a lot about the importance of patterns and the power of expectations. It created a solid level of security.

And through such a cozy life of conformity came the graceful ability to become the ones who saw things differently . . . the misfits . . . the rebels . . . the trouble-makers.  Many of us became so rather easily by combining what we knew about conformity with what we didn’t know about being the crazy ones.

Think of Johnny Cash.  He only wore one color – his trademark head to toe black.  He obviously knew the value of consistency and reliability . . . of conformity.  His audience expected him to wear black and he did.  But the Man in Black’s career was rebellious for sure.  His music spoke to challenging issues within religion, within justice and the prison system, or within human sadness.  He sang the tunes of change, but ironically enough,  started every performance with the same statement: “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.”

Think of Harriet Tubman.  She was one very rebellious woman during her time of advocating for the end of slavery.  Words used to describe her include abolitionist, reformer, activist, and (my favorite) spy – all the language of the crazy ones.   Yet, it is interesting (and horrifying) to me to know that she started her early life out as a slave – a life that I am sure required great conformity in order to survive.  To be a slave meant holding together the status quo in order to avoid death or near death.  But, as the Apple saying goes, she never allowed folks to ignore her.  Quite the opposite –  for she was a crazy one, the round peg in the square hole calling out and demaning change.

All I can say is . . . here’s to the crazy ones.

Here is to the person with the great idea of painting the house pink in a neighborhood of white frame homes.  Here is to the family who didn’t eat dinner at 5:00p.m. sharp.  Here is to the folks who look at today’s technology and think of new and different uses with the idea that they may be the ones who harness the power of some type of gizmo to solve challenges like poverty and hunger. Here is to the young women and men who look at the solution to cancer differently than their predecessors in hopes of eradicating suffering and pain for the masses.

And thank goodness the crazy ones won’t let us ignore them.

I thank my lucky stars that the glory of genius allows . . . well . . . geniuses to stand out in a crowd.  The more the world sees and hears the mantra of their ideas, the more likely we will listen.  And the light should not just be shining on the genius of Apple, Disney, AT40, Cash, or Tubman.  It should be burning bright within everyone – within the framework of the conformity that provides stability for the emergence of change.

I only hope and prayer that folks see my children, my spouse, my family members, friends, and myself as part of the crazy crowd.  And I am hoping that the lessons taught through moments of conformity translate into strongholds of opportunities to ensure that when faced with a moment to change the world, I can.

The Pearl Harbor Firefighters

Posted on by
Reply

WOW.  I look at this picture and am speechless.  WOW.  There are certainly a thousand words in me that describe what I am thinking, feeling, seeing when looking at this photo, but the first word coming to my mind is . . . WOW.

WOW.  The sirens must have been blaring . . . fires roaring . . . death and destruction surrounding all. For all I know bombs were still falling.    The sky above looks to be full of hazy smoke, most likely residual from the deadly attack.

Though the three faces that I can see look intent, it is the hands of all the women that truly show intensity.  All fingers holding onto a 1941 fire hose with all the power they found deep within themselves.  Side by side each hand forming a chain of strength enabling the women to hold on . . . tight . . . knowing that their success could save lives.  WOW.

And the courage of these women.  Their ‘caution to the wind’ actions – working to save the lives of others while their own lives could have been in danger – shows courage.  Their fight to contain a stronghold on a monster hose knowing quite possibly that their physical strength only existed due to their number – shows courage.   Their desire to help those in distress – placing their own needs second – shows courage.  I often wonder what my response would be . . . only hoping that I would be a person capable of fighting fires.

Their faces are mesmerizing.  Their eyes seem to be willing the stream of water to reach its destination.   Their jaws are rigid with determination, desperation.  And though the ground below their feet appears to be slippery and unstable, their legs are planted firmly, muscularly on the dock, no trembling or quivering . . . hoping against hope to end some type of eminent suffering . . . to bring some type of calm to the firestorm. WOW.

Within twenty-four hours, President Franklin D. Roosevelt addressed the nation telling all that December 7th, 1941 would be “a date which [would] live in infamy.”  2,401 Americans were killed.  1,282 were wounded.  188 U.S. aircrafts were destroyed.  Family members, friends, colleagues, co-workers, and buddies – all walks of life were among those who perished.

Though I was not alive, I am sure that the United States stood still on that day . . . at that time . . . at that moment.  And although there is plenty of movement in the photograph, to me it renders an eerie, chilling stillness.  It is a quiet portrait, wordless.  The women are frozen in time, perched on the edge of the harbor, working with dazzling silent commitment.

WOW. I stare at this image and my mind wanders to what may have happened in the frames before this shot or what may have happened in the frames after it.  How did these women assemble?  Who called them to this duty?  Why them?  What was the chatter among them?  What were their skills . . . their strengths?

For some reason, after a good length of gazing at it, I want to know their names.  Who are they?  Where are they now?  What was their connection to this particular moment other than being in Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941?  What doesn’t this photograph tell me about them?

So often as tragedy strikes, the sharing of detail is too difficult.  Sometimes, it is only through pictures – like this one – that those of us on the outside catch a glimpse of what those folks on the inside experienced.  The United States may be blessed to have this piece of history as documentation of the attack on Pearl Harbor – for part of infamy is remembering a moment such as this, for better or for worse.

Interestingly, the composition of the Pearl Harbor firefighters reminds me of another popular photograph: Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima.  A Pulitzer Prize winning photo taken by Joe Rosenthal in 1945 during the Battle of Iwo Jima, it depicts six United States soldiers raising the stars and stripes in victory on Mount Suribachi.

The two photos were taken less than four years apart – one in agony and one in victory.  Both capture heroic actions – one on the part of a group of young women and the other a group of young men.  Each photo defines what I consider to be patriotism . . . our drive to protect freedom, our concern for each other, and our common goals as a nation.  Today – both photos are inspirational: they are true commentaries on the American spirit.

Though I was a very young child at the time, I have often heard, studied and can recall the words of President John F. Kennedy via his inaugural address in 1961 – a mere twenty years after the attack on Pearl Harbor:  “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”   These words often give me guidance as I work through the challenges of daily life.

As the challenges unfolded on December 7th, 1941, I can’t imagine that the women in the photograph had any time to ask themselves or anybody else what they should do. No time for conversations or debate. Rather, I have a feeling that some type of instinct drove them to the precipice of the harbor, directed them to find a way to battle the torrent blazes around them, provided them with the courage to persist, and encouraged them to stand firm in their attempt regardless of the horrific circumstances of the day.

I just thank my fifty lucky stars for what these women did for their and my country.

Old Fashioned Is Always In Fashion

Posted on by
3

I am solidly old-fashioned.

Nothing better to me than a sharpened, yellow number two pencil and a spiral bound notebook.  I like the Slinky, red lifesavers, manual umbrellas, shredded wheat, PF Flyers, and acoustic guitars. I would rather watch a good episode of Leave It to Beaver followed by Mister Ed and Ozzie and Harriet than any of today’s new-fangled reality TV shows.    I buy a new broom at the local broom-corn festival each year and use it to sweep the garage floor over using an electric shopvac to complete the same task.  A month ago, I bought a case of glass bottled SKI soda – an old-fashioned thirst quenching classic.

Old fashioned stuff is durable.  I have owned . . . and I still use . . . the same grey metal, non-mechanical three hold punch gadget since the late 1970s.   I am not saying that I use it daily, but it hasn’t collected much dust over the years, and it’s in perfect condition.  And forget the all-in-one Black and Decker laser level that has twenty additional functions beyond maintaining a straight line, my household is the proud owner of a 30-year-old red three-foot steel version.  It’s just a level – no bells and whistles – that has been dropped off many ladders, left out in the great outdoors for days, and often lost in a crowded garage.  Yet, it still works.

Proudly, I have only owned one rolling-pin though I have owned several kitchens; I have had the same key ring for a couple of decades; and, I am a one jewelry box per lifetime type of gal. Keep in mind that all of this has nothing to do with being frugal.  It has more to do with just liking things they way they were. Old-fashioned.

Same for my language.  Sure, I could use all of the latest and greatest lingo, including the more salty versions of yesterday’s banned language.  But, I still stick with the tried and true slang that has helped to get me to this point without too much trouble.  Groovy, righteous, awesome or bumble head, holy guacamole, yikes – multipurpose old-fashioned words that seem to fit well into all kinds of conversations.

And I have found that old-fashioned almost always equals crazy funny.  One of my relatives fixed and ate a fried bologna sandwich at my house recently.  For those of you who have not had the experience, fried bologna is an ancient delicacy first created by . . . probably Mr. Oscar Mayer himself in some long ago century.  Thirty seconds in a skillet, paired with white bread and catsup, this sandwich is a comedic display of old-fashioned in motion.  It is a chuckler!

And no game is as crazy funny as good old-fashioned Spoons.  Honestly, I have played several of today’s XBOX/WII/KINECT 3D video games, and they are fun.  But, Spoons!!! Played with a deck of cards, a handful of spoons and a bunch of crazy funny relatives, this game reaches deep into the crazy funny well. No laughs greater than when full-grown kissin’ cousins jump over a table to pull coveted spoons out of challengers’ hands during a family ‘friendly’ version of this game.  Another old-fashioned chuckler.

I often tell myself that I don’t understand the lure of the old-fashioned for me . . . that this old-fashioned fascination is a mystery.  But, when I really think about it, I know for sure that the draw towards old-fashioned isn’t simply due to a preference for card games, or food, or language, or frugality.  It’s more than that.

With every generation, there seems to be a strong penchant for change . . . from clothing styles . . . to modes of transportation . . . to energy sources . . . to an endless list of activities and items that have been reinvented, improved, changed.  Life today is significantly different from life in any other moment in time. Certainly, almost all changes have  been positive and welcomed and for the betterment of all humankind.

Yet, there is a part of life that I believe should remain constant . . . a part of life that should be considered a masterpiece, a part that should somehow be exempt from change.  Certainly that includes the lapping sounds of the ocean waves and the majesty of the highest mountain peaks.  It includes the freedom enjoyed by animals in the wild and the beauty each year of summer, fall, winter, and spring.  It includes quiet skies and peaceful meadows.  I know it includes the brilliance and genius of those who have gone before us along with the brilliance and genius of those who are still in our future.

Thus, however, explains my penchant for everything old-fashioned.

I may have to change the form of my telephone from a hard-wired, LAN line cordless system plugged into the wall to a cellphone carried in my coat pocket.  I may have to heat my home with solar, geothermal, and/or wind rather than the current fossil fuels available.  And I may have to give up the tried and true General Mills Wheaties – the breakfast of champions – for a more nutritious protein bar option.

But, for those few things that I can somehow manage to hold constant, I am on-board.

Bring on potato pancakes and King Bing bars.  Give me a pile of leaves and hand me a rake complete with a wooden handle and steel prongs.  Let me haul out box after box of old crazy funny holiday decorations that have lasted multiple decades because they were made in the days of the giants.

Finally, hand me a dented red level to keep me headed on the straight and narrow any day of the week.  And watch my willingness to change grow as I find comfort in keeping some things . . . just a few old-fashioned things . . . in my life constant.

The Rocky Mountains . . . An Old-Fashioned Constant

Those Sunday Afternoon Movies

Posted on by
6
“The rest of those who have gone before us cannot steady the unrest of those to follow.”

Yikes!  I can listen to that phrase all day long and the meaning still eludes me. Once again, this past weekend, I watched Finding Forrester, a simple little movie – great to watch on a cold, cloudy, rainy Sunday afternoon. The concept of the movie is fairly straightforward – an intergenerational plot, a growing friendship, a coming of age for both main characters, with classic good versus evil activity.  I’ve watched these types of movies before (Searching for Bobby Fischer, About a Boy, Mona Lisa Smile, Dead Poets Society), but I haven’t ever plucked out that one line that seems to be speaking to me in a bigger way.

“The rest of those who have gone before us cannot steady the unrest of those to follow.”

This weekend, a gentleman, age 89, died in my home town.  I did not know him all that well; however, he was a neighbor many, many years ago and we were members of the same church.  I know his children and grandchildren.  My children know his children and grandchildren. I know his friends and acquaintances.  In fact, it is fair to say that he knew quite a percentage of the folks in my small town, and people knew him. He made the world a better place working, spending a lifetime, at a local university as a faculty member.  He used his mind to make my life better.

And today, I learned that a gentleman, age 81, – a friend of mine – died while living and working in Rome.  He was devoted to working with those in need and did so throughout his career as a Catholic priest.  Most recently, he was working at the Vatican’s North American College. Retirement was not in his vocabulary as I am quite sure that he didn’t think of himself as employed.  More likely he thought of himself as busy on a day to day basis.  And if I were asked to explain his work, my best description would be working to smooth out the path for me and those who follow.

“The rest of those who have gone before us cannot steady the unrest of those to follow.”

The list of folks who are ‘at rest’, who have gone before me, and who have added to the ease at which I live is endless.  . . . Mother Teresa . . . Abraham Lincoln . . . Sacagawea . . . Mohandas Gandhi . . . Martin Luther King, Jr. . . . Susan B. Anthony . . . Pope John Paul II . . . the 89 year old . . . the 81 year old . . . all of my relatives and friends . . .  Each person on my list has managed to make a difference, to leave an imprint, right a wrong, change the world.  Each person on my list probably knew that they were changing the world, but humility in all things entered their pictures first.  Their focus was on others, not on themselves.

And I suppose the big guess that all of them have left me with is whether or not I am capable of doing for others what they have done for me.  Can I help bring world attention to poverty and suffering like Mother Teresa?  Can I walk the footsteps of Lincoln and right the injustices of slavery by effectively leading a new and emerging nation?  Or, like Sacagawea, can I change the nation’s view on the rights and status of women in a native culture?  Or like the 89 and 81 year olds on my list, affect enough change that upon death, the world trembles? With each person on my list, the size of the shoes to fill increases exponentially beyond my comprehension.

“The rest of those who have gone before us cannot steady the unrest of those to follow.”

I guess in my piece of the world, I have to give up the expectation that the rest of those who have gone before me will steady me.  It was not and should not be their intention to provide a worry-free atmosphere here on earth.  It was not and should not be their plan to not only make the world a better place but to eliminate the need for my continued effort in the future.  It was not and should not be their legacy to create worldly perfection.

Rather all is unsteady and I suppose that is the beauty of it all.  It is natural for tomorrow to bring unrest.   It is natural for tomorrow to bring uncertainty.  And in my experience it is natural for tomorrow to bring more questions than yesterday had answers.

“The rest of those who have gone before us cannot steady the unrest of those to follow.”

Originally, I thought spending a Sunday afternoon watching a little known film while everyone around me was scrambling to complete a laundry list of chores was a bit brazen on my part.  My body was telling me to jump up and dust something, but my mind was – as usual with this film – otherwise engaged.

I am not sure that I learned anything new; rather, I was once again pulled through a refresher on what I have always known.  Changing the world isn’t easy, but it is doable.  To top is off, changing the world is an expectation that I should have of myself; and, throughout my change the world journey, I best hold on tight as the ride – no matter how much fun it contains, how exciting it can truly be, and what I may or may not learn along the way – is going to be quite a rocky one.

The July Moon

A July moon resting in the summer sky.

I’ve Got A Lot To Be Thankful For . . . But Am I?

Posted on by
Reply

I’ve got a lot to be thankful for.

I got a lot of great folks in my life all the way from my littlest nephew who is still learning to speak to my aunt-in-law who is in her mid-nineties and still is interested in me (and technically, I am only related to her by marriage). I have a great spouse, great kids, siblings, cousins, friends . . . and they are all very active in my life.

I have food on my table everyday, usual three times a day, and more if I needed it.  I have a great home that is heated in the winter and cooled in the summer.  I have a closet full of clothes, a car that runs, computers, books, musical instruments, and all the basic amenities that anyone would ever want. I have lots of time to think, ample space to enjoy, and good health on top of all that.

And for me, my good fortune is more noticeable in November at Thanksgiving time.

In fact, just the word Thanksgiving gets me pondering about everything that is good in my world.  The weather is usually wonderful with fall colors and smells everywhere.  The holiday season is just starting, so my bank account is still in tack.  Snow hasn’t entered the scene yet, and heck, it’s pomegranate season as well.  And as I said, I’ve got a lot to be thankful for.

With all that is good to great in my life, I am embarrassed to say and . . . must truthfully admit, I still find time to . . . (not always, but sometimes) . . . voice my fair share of complaints.

Daylight Savings Time is ending and my internal clock system will be off a little.  I just noticed that merchants have entirely skipped over Thanksgiving and hauled out the Christmas decorations already.  The price of gas is going up again.  The hummingbirds went south for the winter and didn’t bother to finish all the food in their feeder – which I now have to clean.  My cellphone keeps dropping calls.  My Bank of America debit card is going to cost more, and I can’t figure out how much or when the new fees will start.  The local department of transportation fixed the pot holes in the road, but left a dusty mess behind.  The post office changed its hours and it is more difficult for me to meet the new schedule.  No more free refills of popcorn at the local movie theater unless I go on Tuesday and who goes to movies on Tuesdays!  There is too much stuff in my garage right now: my car doesn’t fit.  The icemaker wasn’t working this morning. And someone parked in what I consider my parking spot at work.

Just reading those complaints, I have to laugh.

From that list, it is clear that sometimes I am very similar to that wacky teacher who speaks with a waa-waa-waa in the Charlie Brown cartoon series.  All I need to do to complete the picture is simultaneously furrow my brows, place my right hand on my hip, and wear a pencil behind my ear.

Continuing the analogy,  my conversations must sound more like . . . waa-waa-waa . . . Daylight Savings Time . . . waa-waa-waa . . . cellphone calls . . . waa-waa-waa . . . parking spot. I am quite sure that no one is listening to me.  Heck, I am not even listening to me.

Obviously, I need to change. But how?

Reflecting on my life, I grew up during a very unique American time period.  My early, early youth experiences include watching the final moments of the Civil Rights Movement and all the related activities. There was the Greensboro Four, James Meredith, the Selma/Montgomery March, the Freedom Riders and the protests surrounding these types of activities – all in full swing.

Continuing on in my world, my high school life was in complete sync with all the 1970s era protesting . . . including Kent State, the Harrisburg Seven, Woodstock, the ERA.  I was either part of the problem or part of the solution. I learned to stand up and say something . . . to jump forward and try to make a change.

During my undergraduate years, there was always somebody protesting something in the middle of the campus quad.  (In more hilarious moments, the folks protesting were streaking at the same time.  Have to love college life!)

As time has moved forward, the good news has been that many of the most egregious issues that have plagued the United States for decades have been solved.  Not to say that everything is perfect, but it certainly is better.  And gone is the grand scale protesting that once was commonplace throughout the nation.  Gone are Friday afternoon protest marches lining streets with hundreds of people carrying hand-made signs – for or against something . . . anything. Gone are mass letter writing campaigns aimed at filling the snail mail boxes of federal legislators in the hopes of righting some type of wrong   Gone are the once popular sit-ins which at times stopped traffic even in the busiest of city crossroads. It’s a new day, a new time.  Everything has changed.

Thus, my behavior must change too.

My first step to moving off of the waa-waa-waa podium is simple.  Just stop. Stop complaining.  Stop moaning and groaning.  Stop fretting about the inconsequential. Just stop.  It may not be so easy, but as my mother often said, “Good isn’t easy.  Don’t expect it to be so.”   So, just stop.

And my second step is equally as brief.  Just start.  Start to focus on the big picture.  Start to think about what was worth protesting in generations past, and make sure that my focus is centered at that point. Start to be more thankful more often. Stay the course by keeping in step with the good around me.  I may fail, but I had better not go down without a fight. So, just start.

And if steps one and two fail, I have a plan.  Just sign me up for the nearest-streaking-college-quad-march-protest-sit-in and give me a waa-waa-waa sign to hold.  Might as well go for some crazy fun.

City Traffic

Complaining about traffic is common; but, look how interesting and beautiful it can be.