Tag Archives: crazy – funny

IT’S ALL GOOD

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It started out as a regular beach vacation day.  Plans were for all of us to spend the day at the shore, pretty much doing what every family does at a beach – sitting, talking, swimming, laughing, playing games, and anything else that can be done while watching and listening to the beauty of the waves.  Just about mid-morning, we trudged over to the beach with a canopy, chairs, coolers, towels, rafts, and more.  We popped up our tent and claimed our space for the day.  

Matt was along for this journey, so there was a bit more to the set up.   Earlier, we had put him into the beach wheelchair (which we rented the previous evening), pushed him not only down the lane to the nearest handicap accessible beach access point, but also through the fluffy sand until he had reached the family site.  It took a bit of effort, so it was nice to have his sister and a group of his cousins to help.  When Matt and those assisting him reached the tent, they made sure he was in the shade and was pointed towards the water.  All was good, as he would say.  

It was not unusual for Matt to be at the beach. That was something he had done many times throughout his life.  He had not, however, been in the gulf water for a very, very long time.  Without the ability to use his legs and with little ability to move his arms, swimming or just being in the water was quite challenging and a bit scary for him. Anything could happen. Especially when the waves moved the water in all directions.  He preferred to sit in the shade and spend time with all from a stationary and dry location. 

As time passed that afternoon, most of the relatives were out in the ocean swimming, with only Matt, myself, and my nephew, Will, in the shade of the tent.  Watching the others, I asked a question I had asked my son numerous times and assumed the answer would be the same.  

“Matt, would you like to swim in the ocean?”  

I expected him to say no.  As he always did. That he would be fine on shore if I’d like to go swimming. That leaving him in his shaded seat was perfectly A-Okay. That he could be on the shore by himself without problem.  

But that’s not what he said.

“Mom,” he said, “I think I’d like to get in the water.”  

I was a bit stunned.  Matt wanted to swim.  He gave the signal.  And in that moment, I could feel that an adventure was about to begin.  

My response to his request was ever-so-quick and as I soon found out ever-so-funny.   

“Matt, wait here . . . don’t move . . . I gotta go get more help . . . just stay here,” I mumbled.

And in a calm and cool voice with a sense of wit only Matt sitting in a wheelchair could have, and in a most humorous tone, before I could dash off he said, “Mom, if by some miracle I jump up and stand and move, please don’t stop me.”   

His classic sense of humor about himself and his situation gave us a moment to chuckle.   I smiled.  He smiled.  And he then pointed me onward.

Within seconds, I had rounded up all the help he needed to get into the water.  (Side note – it is much more difficult than it sounds for a near quadriplegic individual to get into the ocean.  Lots of logistics come along with making it happen.)

The first step was to get him and his wheelchair to the shore line which required some heavy duty pushing through fluffy sand.  Once we got him to the shoreline and after some conversation, we decided to keep him in the beach wheelchair and push all into the water.   

By that time, looking around at the rest of beach, it was clear that families in the nearby vicinity were watching . . .and waiting.  Pushing a guy in a beach wheelchair into the water draws attention. Clearly, our happy adventure was also turning into their happy adventure.   

Though we should have known it, we seemed to forget that the big bulky wheelchair tires, which were perfect for navigating sand and trenches, were also filled with air.  Which meant once the tires hit the water, they floated.  So as Matt entered the water, he was weaving up and down like a red and white fishing pole bobber.  The event looked like the funniest roller coaster ride ever in salt water.  Eventually using the collective weight of all of his family, he was pushed out into the water until he and everyone else was soaking wet and howling with laughter.

Though the entire activity probably took less than ten minutes, it was as if time stood still.  There we were as a family group, doing something together.  Something easy for the rest of us, but something that required Matt to throw caution to the wind.  He had to overcome a fear.  He had to have a level of trust that the rest of us did not have to have.  And once again, Matt prevailed and  figured out how to participate in a fun summer moment with us. He smiled and we smiled. He laughed and we laughed.  

Many times I think back to that moment.  I learned a lot about a lot that day. I learned about bravery.  I learned about trust.  I learned about family.  I learned more about what is important. And I learned that I must always be ready for adventures.  Because they are worth the effort. 







  • Oh, Deb!
    “Oh Deb, stop being so naïve!” Those six words.  Those impactful six words.  They were mad mumbled many many moons ago.  There I was a relatively new academic administrator at a rural community college.  I was happily dancing in a world of teaching and learning having crazy-fun.  Everything was exciting.  Everything was interesting.  Everything had … Continue reading →
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  • IT’S ALL GOOD
    It started out as a regular beach vacation day.  Plans were for all of us to spend the day at the shore, pretty much doing what every family does at a beach – sitting, talking, swimming, laughing, playing games, and anything else that can be done while watching and listening to the beauty of the waves.  Just … Continue reading →
    • 

  • Aunt Dolly
    On that beautiful, ordinary summer Saturday, my mom, my dad and I were finishing a much over due chore. Aunt Dolly had passed on a few months prior. She had spent 99% of her life in her tiny second floor flat. Clean, tidy, sparsely furnished with her long time keepsakes, Dolly managed to live almost … Continue reading →
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  • Adventure On
    Though it would have been much easier for the four of us young girls to decline the offer, it was an opportunity that gave us pause. There we stood pondering. Thinking. It was as if we could feel the birth of an adventure. We were experiencing that moment that feels like it’s moving in slow … Continue reading →
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  • The Golden List
    Early this spring, I started a new project. I have no idea how or why I thought of this particular idea. It just kinda came to me. I think I was sitting in what my family fondly calls the Big Room in our home – a space that is relatively quiet, on the second floor, … Continue reading →
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Adventure On

					
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Though it would have been much easier for the four of us young girls to decline the offer, it was an opportunity that gave us pause. There we stood pondering. Thinking. It was as if we could feel the birth of an adventure. We were experiencing that moment that feels like it’s moving in slow motion. As if we were standing on the sideline knowing that in a blink, the tenure of our plan would be exploding into something much different than we originally thought. It became a time when talking less meant understanding more. We were barely blinking as our eyes looked from one to the next. And with four ever so slight nods, we knew that we were all in.


Adventure on.


We didn’t cheer. We didn’t yelp. Perhaps because we were equally as afraid as we were excited. We were going into the unknown. A place we liked but feared. Which at age thirteen, was pretty much a norm with every situation. But this time it felt a bit different.


We packed pretty much in silence – speaking only to affirm that someone had grabbed something the others may have not. Flashlights. Hammocks. Netting. Canteens. Rope. Knives. Matches. A flare. We knew there would be no heading back for missed items. Darkness would prevent that. And communication with the rest of our group would be severed by whatever wilderness was between us and them. This was pre-cellphone. So we were just being about our business as we sorted through our need versus our wants.


Within what seemed like minutes, but was more likely an hour or two, we were off. We trudged into and through the woods until we found eight suitable trees to hang four barebones hammocks. We set up the sleeping arrangements and quickly created a centralized rock-fenced campfire, put our canteens somewhere nearby and unpacked everything we had just stuffed into those duffle bags. The food we brought could only be described as well less than sub-standard on the nutrition scale. Potatoes wrapped in tinfoil thrown in a fire. S’mores. Maybe apples. Popcorn.


As darkness approached, we settled into those hammocks, threw the netting over us, and speaking for all four of us, were frightened out of our minds from sunset to sunrise. We prayed our flashlight batteries lasted until the light of morn.


Just hours later, we hopped out of those hammocks like four victorious warriors. Though our bravery was due to our inability to return in darkness to the nearby lodge, we convinced ourselves that we had lived a confident night rather than a fearful one. Regardless, we have always rearranged the details of this story to fit a champions’ narrative.


The march back to our origin was filled with chatter. We did it. It was over. Now what.


That’s the thing about adventures. They have beginnings. They have endings. And for me, there is always the hope of what is to come with the next adventure. It is the time after the end of the previous adventure and before the start of the future one that is most interesting.


Without a doubt, there can be a feeling of uneasiness. Which I describe as a free falling, not knowing where or when or how I will land. Will I have another adventure? Do I still have great adventures waiting for me? There is that big vast unknown. I know that I must welcome whatever lies ahead, but I am always a little hesitant. A little resistant. A little scared. Scratch that . . . a lot scared.


But that’s the thing about adventures. I do believe they are endless. Certainly they come in different shapes and sizes and durations. I can see that they are not meant to last forever, and I have a feeling that I’m supposed to experience lots of different types of them throughout my life. Again, adventures always include walking into that giant unknown.


An adventure in my life has just closed. It was one of the greatest adventures of all time – filled with the unimaginable and the incredible. There were moments of great perplexity coupled with moments of unbridled joy. My mind and my body were constantly put to the test in ways that I was rarely fully – if ever –  prepared.


It was an experience that God graced me with and I only hope that I met the challenge. With adventures, I never know. And I truly hope that I can once again experience such joy, exhilaration, excitement, contentment, and exuberance in a future adventure as I did with my previous one.


I have such great hope.


Always wanted to know what adventure my dad was on in this photo! Looks quite exciting!

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

							

					
The Golden List

					
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Early this spring, I started a new project.  I have no idea how or why I thought of this particular idea.  It just kinda came to me.  I think I was sitting in what my family fondly calls the Big Room in our home – a space that is relatively quiet, on the second floor, furnished with all that represents yesteryear including a 1980s plaid sofa, a worn out pool table, several chairs that would fit in no home (including  mine) but there they are in the Big Room. And there I was using one of them when this idea hit me.





On the surface, the idea is simple. Initially I gave myself thirty days to complete it.  I actually  chuckled at that thought as I figured I would have it finished in a day, two at the most.  But as the timeline was going to be self imposed, I kindly allotted myself a month just to be on the very safe side.  





The task centered around my next great writing adventure.  My blog has been chugging along for many years, and I thought maybe it is time to press on to new adventures and new worlds.  Maybe I need to take that big, giant leap forward.  After all, according to Mr. Gretzky – hockey’s The Great One, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” So, not moving my writing forward was much like not taking the available shot.  I will miss out for sure if I never try.





So, the new writing quest began.





Step one of the task at hand has been to identify one hundred words that describe . . . me.  Words on this list could be nouns or verbs . . . or adverbs . . . or adjectives.  All parts of the English language are welcome. The words can be positive or negative, simple, complex or compound.  Slang . . . acceptable!  Onomatopoeia  . . . acceptable! Acronyms and abbreviations – thumbs up! The list can include words that describe my past, present, and/or future as long as each entry somehow tells the story of me.





It seemed so easy when I thought of it.  One hundred words with no holds barred.  A laundry list of what it means to be me.  I wasn’t challenging myself to anything so whoppin’ grand that it was going to take all my might to complete it.  Just a list of one hundred words.  I don’t even have to alphabetize them.  Just jot them down.  One at a time.  Until I hit one hundred.    





It’s sixty days later.  Sixty days.  And I have yet to even come close to finishing.  I’m not sure if I am embarrassed or scared. Or both. What does it say about me to not be able to quickly come up with one hundred distinct words that describe me.  Sadly, yesterday I noticed there was a duplicate, and it was difficult erasing from what was already slim in number.  





As of this moment, there are – count them – a measly thirty-nine words on the list of me. Thirty-nine.  Thirty-nine.





I’ve lived much more than half a century.  I have a family and relatives and friends and a house and stuff.  I’ve done a lot of the usual and some of the unusual.  I’d call it a good mix.  But, there are still only thirty-nine words on my list and it feels like I am permanently stuck there.





To make myself feel a bit better, I’m extending my timeline.  I’m giving myself an additional six months to see if I can broaden out the list.  I may resort to reading the big giant unabridged dictionary that is kindly sitting on the lower shelf in my living room.  Doing so, however, seems to walk close to that plagiarism line.





In any event, though my latest idea may have been a failure in that I have only met a bit more than one third of my goal, it has taught me much, much more than expected.  





I am only unique by a thin margin.  





Measuring differences is difficult.  





Before I can describe anyone else, I had better be able to describe myself.  





I got some work cut out for me

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

							

					
Time to Think

					
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The moment that I confirmed that I had one of the greatest jobs in the world was perhaps the most boring, the simplest, the quietest day ever. I was just sitting in my office, glaring across my desk at a shelf full of books.  Not one of those books was open nor had I just read anything.





I was literally just sitting, leaning back on my chair.  The phone was silent – a landline at the time – and my computer screen was asleep.   I may have had a pencil in my hand twirling it from tip to eraser, back and forth on my empty desk.  





I could hear the keystroke of Betty’s computer, the person who managed the volume of paperwork that passed through my office on a daily basis, and I am quite sure that she knew that I was just sitting, staring into space in the office behind hers.  





Without a moment to alter what I was doing or more importantly not doing, the president of the college and my boss stepped through my office door. I had no report I could grab and pretend to be analyzing it, I was not engaged in any important phone call, and there was no current meeting happening within my office walls.  I was still just sitting.  Without a moment’s pause, he snapped, “What are you up to?”  





And I decided to go with honesty, “Well sir, I was just doing some thinking.” And it was his next line that sealed my belief that I had the the best job ever.  “Great,” he said.  “We hired you to think. Anything you want to share?” 





For the next hour or so, he and I spoke about the what ifs, the possibilities, the far-edge dreams, the thoughts about what could be, what should be, and more.  Some call it brainstorming.  Some call it thinking outside the box.  I usually called it wasting time with a purpose.  





But most importantly, I was just reassured that my employer was paying me and counting on me to . . . think.  To think about things that are.  To think about new things, unknown things.  To consider the unexpected and the unusual. To ponder with no particular direction. He was encouraging me to press on with the world of wondering. 





And to me, that was wonderful.





I had spent a fair amount of time  in a classroom as a student.  And as we all know, students live in an endless stream of thinking time.  Students read and listen.  They investigate and ruminate.  Students are afforded semester after semester to live in dreamland and to share those dreams with others.  





Once we graduate and leave those hallowed halls, life changes.  Mine did.  I secured my degrees and took off on unexpected adventures, eventually landing back in higher education, but not as a student, rather as an employee. 





Initially, I focused on productivity.  I made sure that all my work – whatever that meant – was done by the end of the day.  I tied up all loose ends, leaving no hanging chads to face in the morning.  My office ran smooth as butter.  





But.  That is all it did.  





As time passed, I recognized that there was no ingenuity to it.  There was no bedazzling of anything.  It was all paperwork in, paperwork out.  And people in, people out.  Those breathtaking experiences that I had as a student in a college class long ago – where ideas were rampant and the try and fail method was expected and praised – was not happening in my job.  I was boring myself and I knew it.





The only thing I could do was , well, change.  Which is when I started to do some thinking.  Which was when the president caught me in the act of thinking.  And affirmed the activity.  And then joined me. 





I truly believe that the best places to work are those that allow time for employees to dream.  Somewhere out there are great ideas waiting to be found.  The only way to do that is for people to have the freedom and free time to search.  Employees also need extremely supportive employers and employment.  Who allow wonderment.





Though I did not solve all the problems of the world, I am quite sure that the moments that I was encouraged to devote beaucoup time to thinking were the moments that brought about the most positive change to the problems faced in my areas of responsibility.  





I don’t know what is happening in the world of work today.  I do know that we are in the midst of the great reshuffle.  I know that today’s technology is many light years beyond what was available for me.  (I’m thinking AI and beyond!) I also believe that today’s generation is clever, capable, and creative.  





I know that I still spend a great deal of time thinking about those what ifs.  (It’s the best part of my day even if it looks like I’m doing absolutely nothing to those on the outside.)  I can only hope that those behind me are devoting a boatload of time to sitting and thinking.  





Because there’s nothing better.  For all of us.  





Something about glowing red trees that makes me want to . . . think.

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

							

					
Did Someone Say Annie Oakley?

					
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Fifty-five years plus later, and I still smile when I think about that jingle. Just that tiny little jingle  No matter how loud the outdoor noise on top of the indoor noise would be, whether windows opened or windows closed, I could still hear that little jingle. A unique sound.  The sleigh bell sound.  That jingle.





It’s not like that jingle was heard often in my world.  In fact, it might have been at most twice a year. Mid-summer?  Early fall? My memory well eludes me in the timing area.  From ages 5 to ten, I may have been lucky to hear it a total of ten times. But its sound is still clear to me. The sleigh bell sound. That jingle.       





If I heard that jingle after dinner, there was no need for action.  At that time of day, I was up against my dad, who had been hard at work, had now arrived at home, and was either engaged in some routine suburban house chore or sitting in his designated chair reading the newspaper and watching television.  Either way, he would have a great big do not disturb look all over his face.  





If I heard that jingle near breakfast time, I was at battle with my mom who spent each morning, all morning, cleaning, cooking, and tending to me and the rest of the siblings.  And I knew that there was no stopping a stay-at-home mom on a mission towards home life perfection. A lost cause. 





But, if I heard that jingle in the afternoon, on a calm day, with no over-arching schedule, I was in luck.  For with no barriers like church or school or chores, and if the tenor of the house was on the happy positive side rather than the trouble’s brewing side, my chance of answering the jingle’s call was, . . . well . . . probable. 





That unique sound, that sleigh bell sound, that jingle was ever-so-connected to what I fondly call . . . the pony man. 





From the eyes of a youngster, the pony man was a guy and his horse who trotted down my street every so often.  The horse pulled a small cart full of pony props (hats, boots, spurs, bandanas, big buckle belts, chaps, and more) and as the pony man and his steed clopped along, the bells on the pony’s bridle would jingle.  Hearing the jingle, I knew that I only had a few moments to convince my mom to pay the pony man enough money so that I could ride that horse.





The pony man didn’t say much to hawk his services.  He didn’t have to.  If I heard the jingle, ran outside, saw the horse, had the money, I could go for a ride.  Simple.  And every so often, my mom was agreeable.  Horse and cart would stop on my suburban front lawn and pony rides would ensue.  What felt like a full afternoon of pony-riding was probably much closer to less than thirty minutes.  But what a great thirty minutes.  





To any child not yet into double digit ages, pony riding down the street on a summer afternoon was a glorious event.  I became a rough and tumble, adventurous horse woman for just a few minutes.  It gave me the opportunity to live what I may have only read about in books.  I was learning how to live the dream on horseback in my front yard.





Years later, my mother and I spoke fondly about the pony man.  And she shared with me more of the realistic side of the pony man, a guy very hard on his luck, who needed a way to earn some money.  He used the resources he had available to him to the benefit of all.  He may or may not have had a bit of trouble with the law, as my mother would say.  A traditional career at that point was a hurdle too difficult to overcome. 





So, he made his way up and down nearby streets seeking business much like the ice cream truck, milk truck, and dry cleaner van did. For a small cost,  he would entertain and enchant riders and provide parents with a wonderful photo op. His costs – nominal.  His customer base – phenomenal.  It was a win-win for everyone involved.  





Fast forward to today’s world and I am not sure that the pony man would be as welcomed or as revered.  





As naive as I like to believe myself to be, I have acquired a level of fear of the unknown that isn’t always healthy or useful.  I wonder whether I would openly welcome a strange man walking a horse down my street to stop at my yard.  I wonder if I would willingly place my child or my grandchildren on the back of a pony and watch them trot off gleefully.  





Would I graciously pay the pony man too much money for his service, knowing that he may have a past that prevents him from obtaining a job elsewhere?  Would I step up or shy away? 





Something as simple as the pony man memory has given me pause.  I have thought dearly about my line of demarcation. How do I make the call to be trustful, to live the good life of a naive yet savvy resident, to be understanding of the hardships and trials of others while maintaining what Robert Frost may have called good fences?  I want so badly for there to be a rule book that I can thumb through that gives me an explicit code on situations like the pony man.  





But there is not.  





Oddly enough, a couple days ago, I saw a man riding a horse at the end of my street – something of an oddity in my neck of the woods, but not totally surprising. I was secretly hoping it was a pony man, but unfortunately, I knew both the owner and the horse.  And there was no sleigh bells. No jingle.  





But if there had been, I’m pretty sure that I would have an updated pony man photo.  At least I hope I would. 





My brother, Jeff, and I . . . living our best lives.

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
Ready?

			
						

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I’m not ready.


I’m sixty-two years old and do consider myself to be smart enough, capable enough, thoughtful enough, but there is still that lingering moment.  That flash of time between the second that my ears hear and my mind revs up into motion. And I think . . .  I’m not ready. I’m just not. 


And I don’t know when I will be. 


I’m hoping it will be when I’m sixty-two and a couple months, which is right around the corner.  Or when the winter turns to spring. Or spring to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter.  Or I’m thinking it might be when someone taps me on the shoulder in some way and says in a loud firm voice, “You, Deb, are ready.”  But, I know the latter is not what will be happening.  It’s just a wild dream of mine.


My children, four of the biggest blessings in my life and all grown, call me on a regular basis and share with me their life trials and tribulations as happens in most families.  Some chats are routine . . . about the day’s or week’s activities.  Cooking and recipes.  How to chip ice quickly off of a windshield.  Where to buy the best and cheapest phone plans.  Some conversations are slightly more involved. What to do when the roof leaks during a polar vortex.  The best way to volunteer to help the homeless in our community.  How much is enough in a future college fund. (Slightly less than a million and way more than a hundred thousand, I say??????) 


And then there are the big convos, the thinkers, the tête-à-têtes that are truly involved.  What to do when faced with situations that have no clear cut right answer and may in fact have two right answers.  How to handle family dilemmas that are so complex that even deep thought doesn’t reach the crux of the matter.  What to do during moments of great sadness, tremendous illness, or frightening financial hardships.  Those types of most challenging conversations are the ones that often leave me believing that I am not ready. 


You know . . .my mom and my dad always seemed ready. 


I could call them with the most perplexing, disastrous, complex state of affairs and the two of them would always be able to rattle off some piece of advise that spoke to me.  I realize that most of the time my parents just listened and let me prattle on and on until I found my path, but they were good at that part.  In fact, they were great at it. 


House falling down?  Here’s a solution.  Don’t have enough money?  Here’s a plan.  Children are out of control.  How about these ideas.  And on it went from one conversation to the next. My parents were my greatest confidants through it all. 


My parents actually seemed skilled at it.  It was like they had sat on some team sideline, learned a lot, and when it was game time, they were the best first string ever. They never ever let me down that I can remember.  Sadly my parents, God rest their souls, are no longer with me here on earth, my mom being gone much longer than my dad. Both have moved on.  Like most of us, I still think about picking up that telephone and dialing 1-800-helpmeplease, but that is just not the way the world works.


Now in my world, I am not exactly on my own.  In terms of family, I am lucky enough to have three wonderfully wise aunts – Norma, Pat, and Susan, and one equally wonderfully wise uncle – David.  And I have often enough touched base with them and gleaned the words of wisdom I needed to push me forward. They have lived longer than I, seen more than me, and are wickedly smart about what it takes to live a good and caring life.  I know that each of them will happily and willingly avail themselves to me if and when I need them.  As family they have always provided me with a safety net beyond what words can express.  In the end, however, I think it is my time to put my big girl pants on and be ready by myself.  I think?  And in thinking about being at the ready, I’ve concluded that perhaps I will never feel like I am, with the stress on the word feel.  That actually no one does and that is the key.


It has taken me a long time, but I have finally realized that the world is filled with opportunities to doubt, to question myself, to see so many paths and not know exactly which one to take. It is full of moments that challenge me in ways that can thrust me backwards, but usually inch me forward to new and exciting places.  The world has been a great big unknown from the moment that I have launched until this moment, and that is what brings the crazy-fun and adventure into it. 


And I have resources! 


I have the wisest of family members and a bevy of close trusted friends who often offer thoughts and ideas to me and for me.  Plus, there is a world of folks who provide guidance through art, music, literature and beyond, lest I forget the power of a piece of poetry or a song from the 70s or a painting by a world famous artist.   Then there is nature that is a huge door to peaceful, clear moments of thought.  A walk through the snow, a sighting of spring’s first flowers, a sunrise to a sunset, nature never lets me down if I take a moment to look at it. 


So it’s done.  I’m not ready.  I’m really not ready, and I have no plans to ever be ready.  At least those are my thoughts for today. 


Onward I go!!


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Nature is always ready with spaces that provide time to ponder away!

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
What Happened to That Girl?

			
						

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It was Tuesday.  At 11:00am. In my kitchen.  I was standing over the sink, lamenting the countless water spots that littered my stainless steel sink.  With absolutely no hesitation, I reached under that sink, pulled out my Weiman’s Stainless Steel Cleaner and Polish plus two fresh reusable, recyclable dishrags and began to earnestly polish that puppy.  In no time, the sink was more shiny than glitter in the sun.  Job finished . . .But then my eyes caught something else . . .  those pesky streaks stretched across an otherwise clean and uncluttered countertop. I began to pull out the homemade vinegar/water spray bottle solution and more dishrags, when I just stopped.  I just froze.  I stood.  I stared.


And at that moment . . . the light went on and time seemed to be moving backwards.  It was as if the bulb not only was turned on, but had somehow maxed out its ability to shed one more ounce of  light.  There I was, in the kitchen, holding my Weiman’s, at age 61 and 1/2, looking at a glistening kitchen, recognizing that I had successfully and honestly turned into my mother.  I was Izzy.  It finally happened.


Now, don’t get me wrong.  I love my mother, God rest her soul.  She was everything to me.  A great, great mother.  A great mother.  And I miss her dearly. And Isabelle Washford Greiner spent a large chunk of her life . . . in the kitchen.


The kitchen happened to be in the center of my childhood house, and was on the small side.  In that crazy tiny kitchen, she cooked up a storm in there, clinking and clambering those pots and pans until she produced a meal.  And as the family finished eating, Isabelle would be cleaning that kitchen with the gusto of a race horse in first place headed for the finish line. Tidy in and tidy out, morning, noon, and night, each and every day.   And now, I was doing the very same thing, in much the same way, as my mom had long ago done.  Holy transformation, Batman!


Really – as a youngster, no one accused me of being neat and tidy.  In fact, I was just the opposite.  My clothes never saw a closet they liked.  My bedroom floor was too littered with junk, trash, and other assorted sundries to ever be seen.  Pencils, pens, paper, books, dishes, laundry, etc. were piled high. I am sure that even bugs detested the quality of life in my room and scampered away. But, I was one happy camper there.


My mother’s kitchen was perfection.  My room was beyond a catastrophic failure.


And all I could think was . . .What happened to that girl?


I looked at my kitchen at that moment and began to think way more deeply than I expected.


What happened to that girl who was so sure that she could solve poverty . . . eliminate hunger . . . end war?  What happened to that girl who protested for change . . .participated in every sit-in in the near metro vicinity . . . fought for social justice.  What happened to that girl who listened to hard rock music full blast, wore clothes that represented the meaning of the 70s, jumped off cliffs, slid down mountains, and in general approached life by taking risks without ever thinking about potential consequences?


What happened to that girl?


Never in my wildest dreams in my youth did I ever think I would own a kitchen, let alone have one with granite, stainless steel, hardwood, and recycled crown moulding. I had no idea that I would be married for forty years, have four children, and spend a lifetime working in education. I had no idea that  there would be so many twists and turns to my life and that there would be so many choices to make in so such a short amount of time.


What happened to this girl was the same thing that happened to my mom.


We grew up.


And in growing up, we both learned similar lessons in very different generations.


I have learned that world change comes slow.  I may want it to be faster than the speed of lightening and more powerful than a locomotive, but it still comes slow.  I have learned that fights worth fighting won’t fall off my radar.  I’m still out there doing my part for poverty, hunger, and war.  I’m just not as dramatic or over-the-top about it.


I have learned that there are ways to protest beyond carrying a handprinted sign and marching through the streets, that sometimes what we don’t say or do is much more powerful than too many words and too much action.  I have learned to love more than one category of music and one type of apparel.  Luke Bryan and flannel shirts are my friends.


And finally, I have learned that it is very important for all of us to continue to take risks, every day . . . in every way. Growing up doesn’t mean settling. Not at all. Today, I may be unable to jump off roofs or ride a bike with no hands or backflip off the trampoline into the swimming pool, but I can still be a risk-taker.


We can step forward even when it is uncomfortable.  We can work for those who can’t work for themselves.  We can walk on the edge of life and feel that wind on our backs.  And we can spend everyday anxiously anticipating the next adventure that lurks around the corner.


My phrase can’t be “What happened to that girl?”  It must be “The ride of her life is going to happen to that girl.”  Let the crazy fun continue.


deb hutti
Waving on the ride of my life


 


 

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
What’s In Your Wallet?

			
						

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My husband is a very consistent type of guy. And for his four children plus me who know him well, we all know that he carries an odd conglomeration of whatnot everyday. All of the items fit comfortably within the corners of his pants pockets, and each of the them is practical as the day is long. None are overly expensive, and yet together they create more interest than he ever expected.


I, too, have a short list of items that I always carry. My grouping, however, is nowhere near as compact as his. In fact, mine can’t fit in a pocket and are instead kept in a dingy, yet rugged, ziplock bag, plopped in whatever purse I’m using. Mine aren’t near as purposeful and I am very uncertain about the message they generate. Still, I carry them.


His list is simple – a freshly laundered handkerchief for him and for sharing, a few dollars to buy him out of any monetary jam, a scrap of paper with an early morning minted ‘to-do’ list, and a pen. My list is a little more harebrained and non-sequitur-ish.  In no particular order, I carry a pocket-sized copy of the constitution of the United States, my first communion prayer book, a full rosary & a bracelet rosary, and one $2.00 bill.


If I sneeze or if someone else sneezes, I have no immediate particular solution. I’m like a dog chasing its tail, looking round and round for tissue somewhere, somehow.  I have witnessed my husband, on the other hand, reach into his pocket, pull out a crisply folded handkerchief, and use it for the save. In his line of work with patients, I am sure it is more than comforting to have him – without fail – carry an immediate solution to a potential germ crisis.


On the flip side of this coin, I may not be able to circumvent the common household sneeze, but I am able to quickly read the list of names of the Supreme Court justices in order – which happens to be part of the pocket constitution addendum, page 87, seventh edition. I can give guidance on the amendments, offer “Fascinating Facts about Six Founding Fathers,” and help if someone gets stuck reciting the Declaration of Independence. My mini-book is filled to the brim with great stuff to solve all constitutional crises.


However, if traveling on tollways or tipping valets or purchasing a food cart meal, it’s my husband who carries the right stuff. He’s absolutely correct that cash can quickly circumvents calamities. It just does. Need a five, he has a five. Need a ten, he has a ten. Need a twenty, he’s got it. He has all denominations and all combinations of cash and coins too.


He’s always cash rich and I’m always cash poor. Except when it comes to the two dollar bill. That’s my strength. Twenty dollars may cover costs, but a two dollar bill always buys a smile. The two dollar bill buys little, is used little, and is worth little.  But, it’s fun – which I believe is its sole circulation purpose.  No other paper denomination has such crazy-funny power.  And spending a twenty dollar bill is easy, but carrying and spending ten two dollar bills takes a little more courage and thought.  Just try it.  It’s not as simple as it sounds.


Moving on, having possessed my Saint Joseph Children’s Missal since 1964, it is showing severe signs of age. The spine is taped.  The pages are tilted.  And the cover is worn. But, the gentle message inside has the ability to keep me grounded. It’s not a matter of me reading it at a moment of need, just a matter of me being reminded that the world is still in front of me, that I have a group standing with me, and that there is nothing that is impossible when my God is with me.


Likewise is that little ‘to-do’ list that my husband carries. Threaded among the bullet points that remind him to run past the bank or pick up some grocery item are notes that remind him to follow his dreams, to think big and broad, to care for others, and to see the glass half full, not half empty. I only wish I had the fortitude to create and carry such a daily list. He’s got it. I don’t. Nuf’ said.


Then there’s his pen. The purpose of the pen is writing – and the majority of the time that’s what he does with it. But, I have seen him use it to pry things open, to clip something together, and to wedge something apart. He thinks he’s MacGyver.  Always has.  He sees a pen as a tool that happens to contain a little ink. Clogged sink – use the pen. Barefoot and a bug needs to be killed – use a pen. Burgers flaming out of control and spatula is missing – use a pen. There is no problem that the pen can’t solve with a little thought and ingenuity.  In the future, I am hoping to film his uses of the pen to create what I think would be one of the most viral YouTube videos this side of the Mississippi.


Me – my skills with a pen are limited to only those that include paper and writing. If I’m in need of an inventive solution to a difficult problem, I go for the rosary every time. In the short term, the pen might be more successful, but in the long run, the rosary – whole or decade version – may be the best choice.


In the end, the items that we collectively carry are only purposeful to us as individuals. He can’t use my rosary to pray his way out of a sudden sneeze and his handkerchief won’t help me understand the Bill of Rights.


I only hope that my tattered and nearly torn ziplock bag remains in tact for a few more decades. I gotta lot of trouble to explore and I may need its contents.


And I might add a pen for the just in case moments.


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Need a pen?  Or a two dollar bill?  Just ask us.

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
Magic Journeys

			
						

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She asked me if I would like to play tea with such an earnest voice, I had to just say yes. I watched her run quickly to the next room and carefully removed the teapot from the shelf.  Once back in the kitchen, she climbed up to the sink and filled it with water.  My instructions were to sit on the floor.  In her mind – and then in  my mind – the room transformed into some other unknown place where she and I were drinking lemon flavored tea and eating biscuits (which looked suspiciously like water and jelly beans).  But to us – at that time – it was truly tea and biscuits.


Several hours later, after she and I had left that moment, and after she had left my home, I  took off for my daily run.  Tennis shoes – check.  Hair tie – check.  IPod and headphones – check, check.  My body was ready to go, but my mind was telling me that I was tired, that I didn’t have time, that the weather wasn’t the greatest, that I should just forget it and call it a day.  I was ready to turn around, give up on the exercise idea, head back into my house for a little “R & R” or maybe a lot of “R & R”.


Mindlessly, I flipped on my music and began listening to the Sherman Brothers tell me about a magical world . . . the world between awake and asleep, between real and pretend. Magic Journeys.   I watched a bird skim the sky overhead and fly beyond the treeline.  Slowly but steadily,  I was again transformed to another time and another place.  This time, however, it wasn’t sitting in a castle drinking tea and eating biscuits.


With my imagination at work – I began to picture myself as a quick and speedy.  I could see myself many moons prior, running as if nothing could stop me.  The more the music played, the more I imagined myself, not being tired, or unmotivated, but having that trail-blazing, never say stop exercising attitude.


It didn’t take me long to figure out that my mind was rewriting the moment.  I spent the next hour running what I thought was like the wind!  Not because I was, for I assure you that my speed right now is generally the same – somewhere between slow and slower, but it felt different.  And I finished.  And I smiled.


I have spend a great deal of time thinking about those two moments.  The focus, however, isn’t on the tea party or the run, rather it is on my imagination.


As a child, I recall using my imagination all of the time.  Cardboard boxes became castles.  The backyard soccer game became the Women’s World Cup.  I was Peggy Fleming when I put on ice-skates, and Carole King when I played the piano.  I directed orchestras, danced on American Bandstand, flew, had the best presidential acceptance speech, and walked down those fashion runways like a pro.


Children use imagination all the time.  The world encourages it.  But somewhere within my childhood, I packed up that imagination and headed for adulthood.


I admit that it might look crazy-funny for me to sit in a cardboard box, with my soccer ball, ice-skates, piano, baton, ballet shoes, wings, type-written speech, and platform shoes  – all day long.  And I am thankful that adulthood has taught me that I need to be a little more realistic that my five-year old self.


I suppose what I am trying to learn is which parts of imagination are behind me and which parts are still in front of me. Mark Twain tells me that I can’t depend on my eyes when my imagination is out of focus.  And Albert Einstein tells me that imagination is more important than knowledge.  For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire work, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution; and strictly speaking, it is a real factor in scientific research.


For the remainder of 2016, I am going to dust off my imagination.  I am going to look at it like one of the most versatile tools in my box and use it every change I get.  My approach isn’t going to be via the tea party model (however, I am not ruling anything out), but more towards the running/transformation model.


I want to look more at what can be than what is.  I want to see the potential rather than seeing the status.  I want to practice imagining all that can be – in all facets of my life – just to see what might happen.  I want to learn more about what happens when imagination is let loose.  What happens when I just unleash it and give it a go at all turns. I want to wonder more about everything, just to see the results.


I have no idea where this idea may take me.  I can only imagine.


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A recent imagination moment.


 

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
The Fine Wine Dine

			
						

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I can’t explain why.  I really can’t.  All I can say is that the evening stood out.  It was a first among equals night. It was one of those moments . . . a moment that as it happens everyone knows that it is destined to become a memory.


Ten of us had gathered.  All of us were friends.  Each of us had a strong connection to one or more of us. Yet none of us were childhood friends with all of us.  Our interests were diverse – nature, health, the spirit, the spirits, enterprise, numbers, learning, teaching – with a lot of some and a little of others.   We met at twilight – the time of magic between daylight and darkness on a cool crisp mid-winter evening.


Those hosting had planned and prepared and welcomed the rest upon arrival.  Though all of us had seen each other over the past couple of months, our greetings were as if we had not. Handshakes, hugs, kisses, pats-on-the-back, smiles – it was a tete-a-tete for ten that started the evening out perfectly. Again, I can’t explain why, but from the moment our feet crossed the threshold of the door, the aura of the making of a memory began.


Our intent was simple – food and wine and conversation followed by more food and more wine and more conversation.  The emphasis here should be, in particular, on the conversation about the wine, of which there was a great deal, for nine of us were learning from the one of us who was a master in that area.


For this year’s fine wine dine, the table setting included numerous wine glasses which to me looked like birds on a wire – straight, dainty, orderly and whimsical.  In addition, each setting included two black goblets, mysterious in both color and shape.  The first four wine flights to be served at the table had been pre-poured.  So all was ready.


However, like most gatherings, our first moments were spent in the kitchen.  We stood, and mingled, and chatted.  We listened and learned about recent trials and tribulations that occurred in our lives.  We watched as those cooking finalized the meal with brief finishing touches.  We were served our first wine flight coupled with a much appreciated antipasto.  Most importantly, we were pausing our busy lives for something beyond the ordinary. Worked stopped.  Fun ensued.


As we moved out of the kitchen, we soon learned much more about the mysterious black goblets.  Regardless of our viticulture ability – (me, a mere novice) – we were to identify each of the goblet’s contents without the ability to see it.  A better name for this portion of the evening might be the fine blind wine dine, a puzzling, curious challenge that had nine of us laughing on edge.


And laughter kept coming, from beginning to end.  We laughed at our ability or inability as hopeful wine connoisseurs.  We laughed at ourselves, at each other, at our futures, at our days gone by, at everything and anything.  At times, we laughed until we cried. We just laughed.  For hours.  For fun.  With friends.


Hours later, as we all departed, we seemed reluctant to cross over that threshold and head in the opposite direction.  If I had thought about my thoughts at that time, I probably was thinking about my luck – to be with a group of friends for a moment of fun on that mid-winter’s night.


I can’t explain why.  I really can’t, but I am going to try.


Like everyone else, there are twenty-four hours in my day and seven days in my week.  Of those twenty-four hours and seven days, the moments that I can recall are few and far between.  I remember the spectacular – the weddings, the graduations, the holidays, the birthdays, the anniversaries.  I remember the somber – the deaths, the funerals, the illnesses.  Most of my memories revolve around my family who are the individuals with whom I share hours upon hours upon hours of my time.   My mother, God rest her soul, has been gone for many years; yet, I can still hear her calling my name from the days of my childhood.


And somewhere in those memories now sits something a little bit different . . . unusual . . . unique.  It doesn’t involve the spectacular or the somber or my family.  It isn’t something of tradition or tragedy.  It isn’t marked by a date on the calendar or tied to a sibling, an aunt, an uncle or my parents.


It is a moment in my life that I spent with friends, good friends, doing something rather ordinary in an extraordinary way – eating, drinking, laughing, talking – personified.  The exact stories we told and why we laughed . . . I am not sure of it now.  I think it was all funny, but . . . then . . . it could have been the wine speaking.


What I am a little more sure about is the value of good friends.  I may not know my wines (to even the basest level of knowing the difference between red or white wine when placed in a black goblet), but I do know that friends are treasures beyond words.


Lesson learned. Enough said.


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The Mysterious Black Goblets