My Favorite Cup

Funny how attached we get to things. Marcia and I went out to dinner last week and she was telling me a long, drawn out tale of her favorite coffee cup, how she found it in 1982 and it had been with her for years before it was broken in a tragic accident two years ago. She has had bad cup karma since and has broken two replacements.

I totally live in her world. I've got this coffee cup I just love to death. It was hand crafted in Ashland by a woman who rolled the handle and embossed a design on the outside. It's not perfectly round and it gets too hot to touch but it's light blue and completely unique. I bought it for $25 -- TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS -- which I gladly paid and which provides endless joy each morning. I'm so attached to this little ceramic cup that I'd never dream of taking it to work. When my son leaves it in the sink, having used it when I'm away, part of me actually wants to hide it.

Can you believe that? Of course you can.

Possessions are hugely significant, marking our travel through life. For Marsh, this faded 16 oz urn had weathered it all: marriage, divorce, three jobs, a daughter. For me, my little extravagant mug was the first thing I bought at the Shakespeare Festival to celebrate my emancipation after the divorce.

Imperfect. Serviceable. Unique. Now why does that seem familiar?

Looking Up

We've had a loss. A 16 year old, popular kid was gunned down at a party over the weekend. The article talked about his turnaround, leaving the gang and starting over, working hard in school and making choices for a bright future. He was a starter running back for a team that hadn't even played its first game.

How his life made a difference is all around me, with anger and tears that pay tribute to our loss. It's in the football team who walked through town to the home of his mother, paying tribute to their teammate and friend. He was a leader, a star.

But the kids here, they know all about second chances, about intolerable lives and the vulnerability of clawing their way out. It could have been me, their expressions say as they write his name on the wall; it could have been any of us. But today it was Robert, and for him we grieve.

TiMe

I miss me time: eyes closed, head resting back on the high back sofa, capturing the ingredients of ideas to roll and let rise and knead into something else. Thoughts that catch in my throat somehow find a voice through my fingertips. When was the last time I took genuine, leisurely time to let thoughts gather like clouds?

Me Time sounds selfish: Me-Me-Me-Me! Afternoon naps, are you kidding? Shouldn't we always have a purpose like baking a pie, or gardening, fixing the car, or reading two chapters -- TWO! -- in the just released Janet Evanovich book? Purposeful time is work all dressed up in a leisure suit.

But my body has this concept down pat. After 50 years, it tells me when I need Me Time, and it's not very polite about it. When a cold starts taking hold, it's followed by a forced trip to the Green Room where I sit and wait to find out what's next. Oh I employ my best diversionary tactics, double up on vitamins and drink quarts of OJ, but the Green Room wraps me up, makes me stop and inevitably head off to bed.

We need a Green Room for the spirit. When life tumbles too fast, something would automatically slow us down to regroup. Everyday things, like sweet little moments before the snooze alarm sounds, or the feeling we get when we treat the car behind to a bridge toll, or put a dish out on the stoop for that little lost dog that won't come near would give us the needed boost to put more of us back in our lives.

Howling at the Moon

Read recently about legislators trying to rescind food stamps being honored at fast food restaurants because the poor of their state are obese. Buying fast food is no bargain and food prepared at home is healthier. But withholding fast food from poor folk while allowing the rest of us to roam around free? That's just nuts.

If they need something to do, I wouldn't mind seeing better regulating of all this violent entertainment. People justify the violence by saying it's make believe, but if that's true, why do they spend millions of dollars to make it realistic? Entertainment is so enmeshed with the American social conscience that it's impossible to even say which came first anymore: is art imitating life or directing it?

What a legacy we're leaving, that violence is accepted -- expected -- to solve problems. It's not a matter of right and wrong, it's a matter of access and opportunity. Gee, wasn't that just on the 6:00 news?

Violent movies are breaking box office records as we rush to see the last performance of an actor who overdosed during filming. It was a dark and hateful film, which played out with loud and thrilling special effects the inhumanity of a man without conscience or remorse. The actor himself was a casualty of the Joker. He was so immersed in the character, I am told he needed sleeping pills to awaken, to sleep, to relax and it got the better of him. How can fantasy become life, you ask? This is how: the darkest side of our nature took hold of this man and he couldn't pull free.

What we think and learn is intertwined with who we become. That's what The Secret was all about. So I ask you, when historians study us, what will they learn that we don't want to know about ourselves? What are we filling our heads with and those small developing brains of our children? If movies can educate, shape values, and inspire, why are we so reluctant to accept responsibility for them also instilling hatred, violence and antisocial behavior?

Legislators should stop worrying so much about fast food. I'm pretty sure that's not what will kill us. All by myself, I'll just keep on howling at the moon.

Roots

From: 'David LaBonte'

My wife, Rosemary, wrote a wonderful letter to the editor of the OC Register which, of course, was not printed. So, I decided to 'print' it myself by sending it out on the Internet. Pass it along if you feel so inclined. Written in response to a series of letters to the editor in the Orange County Register:

Dear Editor:
So many letter writers have based their arguments on how this land is made up of immigrants. Ernie Lujan for one, suggests we should tear down the Statue of Liberty because the people now in question aren't being treated the same as those who passed through Ellis Island and other ports of entry.

Maybe we should turn to our history books and point out to people like Mr. Lujan why today's American is not willing to accept this new kind of immigrant any longer. Back in 1900 when there was a rush from all areas of Europe to come to the United States, people had to get off a ship and stand in a long line in New York and be documented. Some would even get down on their hands and knees and kiss the ground. They made a pledge to uphold the laws and support their new country in good and bad times. They made learning English a primary rule in their new American households and some even changed their names to blend in with their new home.

They had waved good bye to their birth place to give their children a new life and did everything in their power to help their children assimilate into one culture. Nothing was handed to them. No free lunches, no welfare, no labor laws to protect them. All they had were the skills and craftsmanship they had brought with them to trade for a future of prosperity.

Most of their children came of age when World War II broke out. My father fought along side men whose parents had come straight over from Germany, Italy, France and Japan. None of these 1st generation Americans ever gave any thought about what country their parents had come from. They were Americans fighting Hitler, Mussolini and the Emperor of Japan. They were defending the United States of America as one people.

When we liberated France, no one in those villages was looking for the French-American or the German American or the Irish American. The people of France saw only Americans. And we carried one flag that represented one country. Not one of those immigrant sons would have thought about picking up another country's flag and waving it to represent who they were. It would have been a disgrace to their parents who had sacrificed so much to be here. These immigrants truly knew what it meant to be an American. They stirred the melting pot into one red, white and blue bowl.

And here we are in 2008 with a new kind of immigrant who wants the same rights and privileges. Only they want to achieve it by playing with a different set of rules, one that includes the entitlement card and a guarantee of being faithful to their mother country. I'm sorry, that's not what being an American is all about. I believe that the immigrants who landed on Ellis Island in the early 1900's deserve better than that for all the toil, hard work and sacrifice in raising future generations to create a land that has become a beacon for those legally searching for a better life
I think they would be appalled that they are being used as an example by those waving foreign country flags.

And for that suggestion about taking down the Statue of Liberty: it happens to mean a lot to the citizens who are voting on the immigration bill. I wouldn't start talking about dismantling the United States just yet.

(signed) Rosemary LaBonte

Eye on the Ball(s)

I was sent an article about Cindy McCain the other day, an internet piece without an author or source. It talked at great length about all of Cindy's accomplishments and that she shouldn't be dismissed as a trophy wife. At the outset, the author wrote: "It turns out that she is a character as she is or has been a race car driver and is also a pilot. She flies John around the country to his rallies. After hearing that about her and reading this I now have a lot of respect for her."

Oh who are we kidding. We were ecstatic about Jackie Kennedy, a smart, educated, poised, lovely, wealthy trophy wife. Fashion and hair styles changed world-wide because of her. We all wanted to BE Jackie. Nancy Reagan, too, was adored for being a beautiful non-political, loving and devoted mother and wife, philanthropic by nature. We still compare every other First Lady to them.

Truth is, America talks out of both sides of its mouth. We don't celebrate strong women that push to achieve. Oh at first, maybe, because it makes us feel culturally advanced. But as the novelty fades, we accuse them of overstepping their bounds and exerting undue influence over their husbands for the very same qualities we hailed. Eleanor Roosevelt, honored for her intelligence and devotion, became the object of ridicule during her husband's second term when he/we needed her most. She was accused of having too much influence over matters of state. Imagine that.

I endured the Clinton years. I watched Bill and Hillary handle some rough terrain and assessed their character like everyone else. Hillary's strength as a woman is not my objection, but letting Bill back in the White House IS. Neither of them represent my values or the ones I want my nation to emulate, so why would I explore her stand on education and Iraq? They had their shot: nobody gets a do-over.

But this whole Cindy McCain thing has me baffled. Yes, Cindy let her integrity shine through privilege in order to enrich the world through philanthropic outreach and support. But this isn't about her, it's about John and Barak. I want to know what's in their satchels because rhetoric is cheap and plentiful. Let's see some action frames of our guys modeling integrity, hopefulness, strong values, grit, patriotism and balls of steel. As they say in the movies ... Show Me The Money.

Type Cast

I'm not his type, so I'm told.

I can see that. I'm a Democrat so we can't discuss politics (you know how ex-Democrats can be). I run late and am forever getting lost except when I'm with the Human Garmin. It creeps me out he knows where I am when I'm lost in downtown Sac and he's sitting in the pool in Woodland with a Scotch.

Life is entertaining. Much to my chagrin, I'm a natural straight man for his bad puns and wicked wit. We talk passionately about history and literature, play cribbage cross legged while we sing 1960s songs. Sometimes I remember both the lyrics and the name of the group, but he always does.

My dog hairs up the place, swims in the pool, licks him awake. He likes Shakespeare and I'm thinking about liking movies. We saw Executive Action on TV the other night and talked about it for the whole next day. (Sorry, not you, Batman.)

His 'carefree' yard takes an hour a day because we went hog wild with container plants that now need to be watered and tended. We talk incessantly about how they're doing, our little plants that we fuss over like children, and gripe at each other about over- or under-watering as we drag them around the yard. The man uses a 5 gallon bucket to water, for crimeny sake.

We stroll around big issues a while before coming back to decide. There's no big past drama to haul out and beat. Disagreements seem to dissolve in the hot tub along with the rest of life's stresses (but God Help You if you wash two-day-old shorts draped over the bench ...)

Needs are small, dreams are big, and time seems long and leisurely. Come to think of it, he's not my type, either.

Frequency

When I close my eyes, time floats away. Life presses down these days, responsibilities and commitments fuzzy in the gray areas where I reside. How do I answer the echo?

I know lots of things, like compromise means meeting halfway and the spirit has to be fed; like church is good and hope is great; like honoring separateness strengthens both; and life boils down to trusting someone to know your heart and do right by it.

A Double-Yolked Egg

I work with an amazing group of people. For a multitude of reasons, we've all found our way to this place where we spend most of our time. We talk about that sometimes, how we landed here and why, but mostly we just appreciate that we did.

Each school has its own rhythm and sound as it gathers inertia to begin the new year. I find it funny that working in a similar environment led me to think the process would be similar. Hardly! There is a fluidity to tasks and roles here, a results-driven focus without speed limits or white lines. I sit in meetings with excitement - and terror - at the road ahead.

This is an academic Galapagos, where the only thing you can count on is change. The model by its nature constantly adapts and evolves with the changing needs of achievement. We do whatever it takes as long as it takes for student success.

There are long odds for a lot of our kids, who come from environments eroded by poverty, violence and academic failure. A good many don't live with their folks or family members and are several grade levels behind. They come to us not daring to believe they will achieve a high school diploma let alone go to college. But they soon discover there is no great mystique about college: it just takes their hard work, with our support and resources. College is in the cross-hairs every day and over time they empower themselves to view a world much bigger than they thought. College becomes an attainable goal.

So many changes are happening at work. There is so much to do to support and assist the school now that we have compressed jobs and responsibilities. I am disheartened by the enormous tasks, all critical, all requiring 150% effort. How will it not shove my life out of balance?

The students must feel this way at times. What gets them up every day to make it to school is the knowledge they are investing in themselves. They work hard, struggle, slip back, press forward, and we nurture and nudge them to 'Own It. Fix It. Learn from It. Thrive.' It's not easy for them, either.

So I've decided this year to let THEM motivate ME. If they can do it, so can I!

Aging

This: anonymous, sage.

Old Age, I decided, is a gift. I am now closest to the person I have always wanted to be.

Oh, not my body! Often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror but I don't agonize over it for long. I've become more kind to myself, my own friend. I don't chide myself for not making my bed or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but looks so avante garde on my patio.

I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60's & 70's, and if I wish to weep over a lost love, I will. I am at times forgetful but some of life is just as well forgotten.

Yes my heart has been broken, but that gives us strength and understanding and compassion. I am blessed to have lived long enough to watch my hair turn gray and for laugh lines to etch into my face. I've even earned the right to be wrong.

Age has actually set me free.

Look

I had an interesting thing happen this week. A conversation with one of the girls brought up some vivid memories of my past, some 40 odd years ago, and something similar to what she is experiencing now. My eyes instantly welled up, and I was flat amazed at how modern life could be so unrecognizable and at the same time so completely unchanged.

I know it seems like a shock when big things hit our lives, like it's come out of the blue. But maybe it's more that we haven't looked hard enough to see life moving along the whole time, quickening the pace between leaves raked up in piles. How could I not notice my dog sleep more of the day as her muzzle turns gray?

What I say is what I know from where I've been, that years of trial and error, loving and losing, risking and winning train the eye to see past the glitz and twirl of life to the constancy beneath. Our feet reach for it, to anchor there and find the best of ourselves and a sense of place.

Lava to the Sea

Last night, there we were, all squeezed into a little waiting room, working a crossword orally -- Say, does anyone know a 4 letter word for an African beast with the 3rd letter a U?

Kids were strewn around, making joyful noises as they played, adults reading and teasing one another with a childhood familiarity that was repeated on down the line. One strummed a guitar and before long everyone was humming and singing and remembering five different songs all at once.

It went on and on, this crecendo of life. No one came to scold us for being noisy in the middle of the maternity ward late on a Sunday evening. I enjoyed the ritual, the celebration. And when he arrived, our littlest guest, we crowded around the window in awe of his weight and length, joyous to be the welcoming committee for the newest person on earth.

Four generations in the room but the circle didn't feel complete. My heart was sad for those I have come to know and love. As closely as I identified with the experience, remembering the first touch of my babies, learning their scent, wondering about the magic tucked inside, I knew I wasn't the right mom. Where was the matriarch?

What came to mind was a trip a decade ago to the Kilauea volcano where it was making land from sea. It was a fiercely beautiful sight to stand on the hard, black lava that stretched its wrinkles of new land in all directions. Last night, I again experienced the sensation of utter desolation that accompanies change, wherever it's found.

Unabridged

It's been over a year now. Movies and lively conversations are as natural as if that's all it's ever been. I sit cross legged, singing along with Robert Preston's Music Man, feeling the uniqueness of an unfenced world.

Like a beautiful, warm shawl laying gently on my chilly shoulders at night, I dip my feet in the pool and watch the stars, free to say and do as I please, looking down from the hilltop at an unabridged me.

Where It's At

We were a little early yesterday. I don't like being early to parties because when I'm giving it, either me or the house isn't ready on time. No sooner had we pulled in under the tree then the screen door flew open and a little granddaughter hurled herself into my arms in a welcome hug. Talk about melt.

The Bucket List is out on DVD now, have you seen it? Great movie, that will carry you along, laughing, celebrating, rooting them on. Rob Reiner sure knows how to tap into the deepest, richest parts of the human experience.

We spent the entire weekend with family. Saturday for a funeral, followed by a birthday surprise party, and on Sunday a Father's Day BBQ for Dad and his sons and their families. The Bucket List kept coming to mind, the part about giving and receiving joy.

It's easy to fill a life with owning stuff and making money in a country like ours, where so many believe it measures success. But looking at the family together, laughing, loving, tossing water balloons, the footprints we've made in each other's hearts is what really matters.

I'm new to this family, so the hug felt especially wonderful as it washed over my heart.

Finish Strong

Someone once said he felt like a spectator in his own life. He'd been plenty of places, interesting ones, but he hadn't learned how to push off from the edge of that high wall where he dangled his legs, and into life.

Half a century of travels, building hearth and home, exploring parenthood, working hard, trying to fill the hours and days with joy and purpose, and in the stillness of my thoughts I still struggle with transitioning into a life now that my sons are grown. Can I really feel out of place in my own skin?

Life is waiting. Just lean forward and push off the wall and fly feet first into the stream, it says. The water will be cold and invigorating, so float with the current awhile, get the lay of the land, acclimate. Rapids and rocks litter the way but look for the beautiful coves with beaches and waterfalls just around the bend. The melody is enchanting, offering up a chance to swim strong against the current and change direction as you will.

Do you hear it? Push off, it whispers, push off.

Doves

Yesterday I found a Dove outside the bedroom window. She had evidently hit the glass and broken her neck. Her mate sat cooing in a nearby tree and watched as I carefully tucked her inside a plastic bag. He trailed along behind, tree to roof, calling to her as I walked to the front yard and discarded her body.

I really like Doves. A few years back, a Dove made a tidy nest on a shelf near our back door. It had a deep overhang and looked to be an ideal spot. We gave her a wide berth, using other doors to get to the back yard, and watched her dutifully sit on her nest. Her mate came and went, sitting on the three eggs while she fed herself, sharing the responsibility of parenthood.

One afternoon, without warning, a hawk flew under the awning, slammed into the kitchen windows and snatched the Dove right off her nest, scattering eggs and nesting material everywhere. It paused on the fence momentarily to gain a better grip of the Dove before flying off to enjoy its prey. Her mate returned each day for a week, searching for her, because he expected to find her -- because she'd always been there.

Partners for life! I wonder with human partners if they ever stop worrying about dangers before they happen and build on the moments of their lives believing in each other like that.

Relay

When I signed up to be a committee member for the American Cancer Society Relay for Life, I didn't really know what to expect. Oh I was passionate enough. Trust me: Mom's cancer, and dad's, and two grandmothers, friends, and even a near miss myself was plenty of incentive.

As we poured over the details each step of the way, committee members scurried around so that walkers would be fed and hydrated and entertained and appreciated. There is great tedium in the shadow of something great and we tired of the process but we pressed on.

This year was a scorcher. Saturday to Sunday, for 24 hours tents of cheerfulness fought off the brutal 100 degree heat and transformed the football field and track into a collaboration of sights and sounds all working towards a cure. We had water balloon fights, squirt gun fans, we tossed cold water bottles to walkers on the track, cheering one another on. And we raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for cancer research along the way.

Neighborhood groups sang and danced and the DJ kept up the momentum. The Rotary and Lions fed us, teachers and students, businesses, city workers, churches, and survivors. And oh, when those Luminaria bags were lit, all decorated with the names of those who didn't survive, in honor and remembrance, it made me weep.

I love the hopefulness of Relay, the grassroots feel of committing a moment, a day, to making a difference. As I stood there in my Relay hat from 2002, with all the names of those I've loved and lost to cancer -- Mom and Dad, co-workers and friends -- I realized that all we have is this moment to be heard. We matter, all of those names and faces on the bags and all those faces that smiled back as I served them water or cleaned up their trash. And for that, we fight on.

Owning the Moment

The plan was to spend time with an intelligent man. We agreed to meet for dinner on a week night, and I was running late. I spotted him first, while dodging cars trying to park. He was seated outside, looking nervously first left then right for the spark of advantage, but the advantage was mine for having a few undiscovered moments to size him up. We disagree now on whether he had a beard (he didn't) and what I ordered at Borders (Chai tea) but not about the mutual surprise at our companionability. Sushi, books, and ideas: pretty potent stuff.

That evening - and hundreds more - have confirmed our suspicions, but it was that first night, standing by the car amid busy shoppers, where he gently rested his hand on my hip and owned the moment.

Now he tills the soil and I plant the blooms. His eyes twinkle in a tease and I try in vain not to finish his sentences. We punctuate our conversations with lyrics and discover places only two can go but haven't been. I love his laugh, that he still calls even before I get home, just like he did the night we met. That's just the way it's going to be, he says.

Thanks, babe.

AD

His daughter and I were playing around today with one of those silly questionnaires you get over the internet, you know the kind, what color of Crayola would you want to be and how far have you been away from home. When we got to the question about favorite smells, I offered up brownies, but she countered with the scent of her mother's perfume, even on clothes she wasn't wearing.

Oh those kinds of smells! My father's clean soapy scent is what I most loved, wrapped around me in that hug that went all the way around twice. His chuckle would reverberate though his chest and all the way to my toes. He'd gather us around and auspiciously push his spectacles down his nose as he read, his deep baritone voice booming with emotion as he'd glance up directly into our eyes, like a schoolteacher wanting us to listen. Oh, and we did.

It's 5 AD (After Dad), although it seems longer. I would give anything to sing another duet with him, live another day hearing his footsteps down the hall. I was at a crossroads once, the way she is now with her mom. How I hope she will someday look back without regret for finding the courage to chop on through to the clearing. It was worth it for me.

Breaking News

Funny: with all kinds of thoughts tumbling around, why is it so tough to write about the things that are most important?

The kindest, most loving person I've ever known announced his engagement last week; the guy I always knew would make a wonderful husband and father is taking the plunge! He taught me all about unconditional love. When other guys were torturing their little sisters, he was nice almost all the time. When life took a serious detour for my boys and me, he stepped up to the plate in a world where that's more an exception than a rule. It wasn't easy but it made all the difference in our lives that he did.

Engaged. This is World News Tonight News. Even for an explorer such as himself, he's in for quite a ride. Of all the remarkable memories in life, nothing compares with the Technicolor moment of giving your heart away.

It does seem like skipping over dinner by inheriting two daughters and sons-in-law and four grandbabies without being a father. Then again, I'm a long-time fan of dessert first.

Love and Congratulations, Jami and Don.

xo Nan xo