I'm a list maker. Going to the store lists, things to do lists, details for the party lists. It's how I keep myself intact.
Pretty much guys think we're nuts, although I do know one whose inside kitchen cabinets look like a butterfly bush. Everything that keeps him on target is listed on those scraps of fluttering paper taped at the top: who he lent books or DVDs to, when he bought things and when it's time to reorder stuff. It was actually kind of gratifying to see.
Some time ago, I took to heart some advice about partnering. I was told: write down the qualities I love about people in my life, roll them all together, and when I find someone with those qualities, hang on tight. So here goes, from one hopeful visualist to another: my five fingertip match.
Intellect and wit. This is because of dad. Thinking inspires curiosity, challenges us to grow and integrate. Wit is the icing.
Humor. Humor is ballast. I picked this up from everybody in my life. Everything is better with a smile. Laugh lines are proof of a life fully enjoyed.
Spirit. A life of authenticity, founded by love and integrity, that focuses on quietly listening to God with humility and faith. My mom, Aunt, and friends taught me that.
Heart. A heart that expands but not contracts, that's how my children taught me to love: in a criticism-free zone.
Body. Love with all that you are. No bumper guards.
Jul 23, 2007
Jul 19, 2007
Tripping Up
I was nervously walking back to my car from the courthouse in downtown Stockton. The overflow juror parking lot was four blocks away and it was winter so it was nearing dusk at 5pm. It's a rundown part of town, with people hanging around, and trash, and boarded up and barred windows. I was lost in thought and hurried on ahead, alone.
As I crossed a street coming up to a long block with a bus stop and some street people who were hanging around at the corner, I felt conspicuous in my jury duty dress and heels. No one said anything, and I didn't cast my eyes in their direction other than a sideways glance at their feet as I approached. It suddenly felt like all eyes were on me.
Maybe that's what contributed to tripping as I stepped from the street onto the uneven sidewalk. Man, I went flying. My purse opened and the contents spilled, including my wallet holding the credit cards. My stockings split open and I scuffed my shoes and my hands. No one offered to help me up and there was that seizing moment of panic when I scooped up proof of my financial security and double-stepped it back to the car.
A man I know has broken his son because he was unwilling and unable to forgive himself for resenting his little boy. His son was expected to yield to his father's unresolved issues about his own childhood. His son did nothing wrong. The father could not find a way to put his son first or strive to discover new ground to bring them together. Over the years, callouses formed on their hearts. The man's need to control his son mattered more than the soft heart of the little boy desperately wanting his love.
Tripping up is part of our journey. We're clumsy. We make mistakes. We overplay our hand. We struggle through failures and triumphs. God is the stabilizing bar to our humanity. When we let ego rule, we don't feel for an outstretched hand.
I've thought about that day in Stockton. I didn't bother acknowledging the downtrodden people milling around that corner. How many times a day do you think that happens to them? Would one of them have stepped forward, do you think, if I had humanized them with a look or greeting? Me, too.
When life knocks us out of whack, we need a compassionate steadying hand. Maybe if I'd given them the dignity of a nod, they might have helped me up. And when they did, and I brought their faces into focus, perhaps they may have even noticed and mentioned the silver Visa card lying on the sidewalk that I overlooked.
As I crossed a street coming up to a long block with a bus stop and some street people who were hanging around at the corner, I felt conspicuous in my jury duty dress and heels. No one said anything, and I didn't cast my eyes in their direction other than a sideways glance at their feet as I approached. It suddenly felt like all eyes were on me.
Maybe that's what contributed to tripping as I stepped from the street onto the uneven sidewalk. Man, I went flying. My purse opened and the contents spilled, including my wallet holding the credit cards. My stockings split open and I scuffed my shoes and my hands. No one offered to help me up and there was that seizing moment of panic when I scooped up proof of my financial security and double-stepped it back to the car.
A man I know has broken his son because he was unwilling and unable to forgive himself for resenting his little boy. His son was expected to yield to his father's unresolved issues about his own childhood. His son did nothing wrong. The father could not find a way to put his son first or strive to discover new ground to bring them together. Over the years, callouses formed on their hearts. The man's need to control his son mattered more than the soft heart of the little boy desperately wanting his love.
Tripping up is part of our journey. We're clumsy. We make mistakes. We overplay our hand. We struggle through failures and triumphs. God is the stabilizing bar to our humanity. When we let ego rule, we don't feel for an outstretched hand.
I've thought about that day in Stockton. I didn't bother acknowledging the downtrodden people milling around that corner. How many times a day do you think that happens to them? Would one of them have stepped forward, do you think, if I had humanized them with a look or greeting? Me, too.
When life knocks us out of whack, we need a compassionate steadying hand. Maybe if I'd given them the dignity of a nod, they might have helped me up. And when they did, and I brought their faces into focus, perhaps they may have even noticed and mentioned the silver Visa card lying on the sidewalk that I overlooked.
Jul 17, 2007
Buying Dinner
My son is moving into his own place on Saturday. It's a nice place. Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed having him home as an only child for the first time since 1985, but there are clues when it's time.
He settled here after college, for a few months until he found his niche. A few tactical shifts and a slight derailment lengthened his stay to 16 months but he recovered nicely and is now working in his major field with a solid framework as a future. We're at T minus 3 days ... and counting.
There's pluses to the big heave-ho. I get my garage back, for instance, and one of the bedrooms and my dog, who has a love affair going on with him and all but ignores me except at mealtime.
I'm sure my son will appreciate not living here. I've been actively dating for the past year and he watches over me with a mix of concern and dread as the dinner dates and card-playing evenings and hikes have come and gone. He seems caught between wanting to leave me alone and not being able to.
He's coming along, though. He and his girl survived a double date with my sweetheart and I. We had a ball during dinner at a Mexican restaurant but I did catch his assessing expression at times. And when he picked up the tab, WELL ... that was a thrilling moment for me. Hey, I recognize the international symbol of adulthood and appreciate the obvious importance my eldest son placed on the evening with a man I care for.
People ask me how it feels to have him moving out. Like a double cartwheel on soft cool grass, I say. There is important stuff happening here. You bet I remember how exciting it felt to be net free (even if it IS on microfiche).
Living with an adult son has given me something unexpected: an opportunity to glimpse his core self, his heart, and his spirit from the full height of adulthood. I wouldn't have a chance to know some of these things if we hadn't been roomies, and I'm not talking about just learning he is awesome at whipping up a perfectly seasoned stir fry at a moment's notice.
Thanks again for that dinner, and all the others we've shared. You make me proud.
He settled here after college, for a few months until he found his niche. A few tactical shifts and a slight derailment lengthened his stay to 16 months but he recovered nicely and is now working in his major field with a solid framework as a future. We're at T minus 3 days ... and counting.
There's pluses to the big heave-ho. I get my garage back, for instance, and one of the bedrooms and my dog, who has a love affair going on with him and all but ignores me except at mealtime.
I'm sure my son will appreciate not living here. I've been actively dating for the past year and he watches over me with a mix of concern and dread as the dinner dates and card-playing evenings and hikes have come and gone. He seems caught between wanting to leave me alone and not being able to.
He's coming along, though. He and his girl survived a double date with my sweetheart and I. We had a ball during dinner at a Mexican restaurant but I did catch his assessing expression at times. And when he picked up the tab, WELL ... that was a thrilling moment for me. Hey, I recognize the international symbol of adulthood and appreciate the obvious importance my eldest son placed on the evening with a man I care for.
People ask me how it feels to have him moving out. Like a double cartwheel on soft cool grass, I say. There is important stuff happening here. You bet I remember how exciting it felt to be net free (even if it IS on microfiche).
Living with an adult son has given me something unexpected: an opportunity to glimpse his core self, his heart, and his spirit from the full height of adulthood. I wouldn't have a chance to know some of these things if we hadn't been roomies, and I'm not talking about just learning he is awesome at whipping up a perfectly seasoned stir fry at a moment's notice.
Thanks again for that dinner, and all the others we've shared. You make me proud.
Jul 9, 2007
The Odometer Chick
I have another update in the teen-seeks-a-car series. I swear, these stories write themselves.
My son, after the first two fiascos, was undaunted. Immediately he found another Ford Ranger, nice shape, nice price, and called. The woman who answered gave him the rundown on the ex husband and needing to sell it (What IS this with ex's leaving their cars behind? My ex took everything he wanted when he left - including the chain saw). Anyway, she told him the mileage was 120K and could show the truck at 8pm.
No problem! My son re-arranged his evening plans and gave her a call around then to arrange a meeting spot. Eight wasn't good for her now but 9 was, so he bided his time and called just shy of 9. Gee, could they make it Saturday at 11? She didn't realize 9 was so late...
That really should have been his first clue.
On Saturday, boy did eventually meet truck around noon - and the woman behind it. The truck was a beaut and he eagerly looked it over as she chattered on about how it should have been listed for $1K more and what a bargain it was. He had checked the blue and the price was about right for 120K, and he told her so, and was just about ready to arrange for our mechanic to put it up on the rack when he noticed the miles: 205K.
What the heck? He challenged her on the price and miles, and she hedged, and then finally 'admitted' the mileage really is 120K but 'the odometer sticks and that's why it shows 205K'.
She should have paid attention in math. (He passed.)
My son, after the first two fiascos, was undaunted. Immediately he found another Ford Ranger, nice shape, nice price, and called. The woman who answered gave him the rundown on the ex husband and needing to sell it (What IS this with ex's leaving their cars behind? My ex took everything he wanted when he left - including the chain saw). Anyway, she told him the mileage was 120K and could show the truck at 8pm.
No problem! My son re-arranged his evening plans and gave her a call around then to arrange a meeting spot. Eight wasn't good for her now but 9 was, so he bided his time and called just shy of 9. Gee, could they make it Saturday at 11? She didn't realize 9 was so late...
That really should have been his first clue.
On Saturday, boy did eventually meet truck around noon - and the woman behind it. The truck was a beaut and he eagerly looked it over as she chattered on about how it should have been listed for $1K more and what a bargain it was. He had checked the blue and the price was about right for 120K, and he told her so, and was just about ready to arrange for our mechanic to put it up on the rack when he noticed the miles: 205K.
What the heck? He challenged her on the price and miles, and she hedged, and then finally 'admitted' the mileage really is 120K but 'the odometer sticks and that's why it shows 205K'.
She should have paid attention in math. (He passed.)
Jul 8, 2007
This Relationship is Over
This is wonderful -- found anonymously - where else? - on CraigsList. ENJOY!
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Dear Silver Mercedes C280 in front of me on Oak Street,
I'm sorry, but this relationship simply isn't working for me. Among other things, relationships are built on trust and mutual understanding, and frankly I don't see those qualities in you. I
respected your right-of-way when you entered the same lane in front of me on Oak Street from Masonic, but with that right-of-way comes certain responsibilities.
Surely you've been down this road before, Mercedes. Surely you must appreciate the synchronized traffic signals that allow us to glide through town unfettered by the block-by-block stop-and-go of our freewayless city. Yet still you seem oblivious to the appropriate rate of speed necessary to keep pace with the synchronization. Do you not recognize all the other car-on-car relationships around you? They all seem to understand how this whole thing works. Don't think I can't see you sipping your latte up there, and is that the New York Times folded against your steering wheel? I have needs, Mercedes -needs you seem in no rush to fulfill. So help me, if one of these lights turns red before we reach it, I'm not forgetting it any time soon.
Have you any idea how embarrassed and frustrated I am when the other traffic on our little thoroughfare see how you're holding me back? I'll tell you right now, I know what lies in my future -Octavia Boulevard, the Central Skyway and eventually I-80 East to the 4th Street exit. Frankly, I just don't know that you have what it takes to be in front of me through that.
So let's be adults about this. I need this lane for the upcoming turn, so please just quietly change lanes or turn on to a side street, and let's put this all behind us. Don't make me honk.
Regretfully,
The Silver Volvo XC70 behind you
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Dear Silver Mercedes C280 in front of me on Oak Street,
I'm sorry, but this relationship simply isn't working for me. Among other things, relationships are built on trust and mutual understanding, and frankly I don't see those qualities in you. I
respected your right-of-way when you entered the same lane in front of me on Oak Street from Masonic, but with that right-of-way comes certain responsibilities.
Surely you've been down this road before, Mercedes. Surely you must appreciate the synchronized traffic signals that allow us to glide through town unfettered by the block-by-block stop-and-go of our freewayless city. Yet still you seem oblivious to the appropriate rate of speed necessary to keep pace with the synchronization. Do you not recognize all the other car-on-car relationships around you? They all seem to understand how this whole thing works. Don't think I can't see you sipping your latte up there, and is that the New York Times folded against your steering wheel? I have needs, Mercedes -needs you seem in no rush to fulfill. So help me, if one of these lights turns red before we reach it, I'm not forgetting it any time soon.
Have you any idea how embarrassed and frustrated I am when the other traffic on our little thoroughfare see how you're holding me back? I'll tell you right now, I know what lies in my future -Octavia Boulevard, the Central Skyway and eventually I-80 East to the 4th Street exit. Frankly, I just don't know that you have what it takes to be in front of me through that.
So let's be adults about this. I need this lane for the upcoming turn, so please just quietly change lanes or turn on to a side street, and let's put this all behind us. Don't make me honk.
Regretfully,
The Silver Volvo XC70 behind you
Jul 6, 2007
CraigsListforCars
This has been an educational experience watching my son look for a used vehicle online. He has his parameters. It has to run, of course, and have all the hardware like doors and a windshield and a radio antenna. Tires would be good, and brakes, and an engine. And it has to be as cheap as possible.
But there is one more critical component: it has to have 'the cool' factor. For me, cool means air conditioning, in addition to being affordable, reliable, and clean. For him, cool means it is lowered to scrape height, with two mufflers (neither of which seem to work), a great stereo system, no back seats, a souped up engine and painted an electric blue. It has no a/c - meaning, when it's 104 out, the wind blowing at you is just as hot at 25 as it is at 110 when you're chasing an ambulance.
When I declined their very generous - and value priced - sale offer of $4,000, the owner (who was a Sheriff's Deputy) said, 'it's because of his age, huh'. Of course not. It's because it comes with its very own book of tickets and a tshirt bearing a radar gun with the words PICK ME.
Astonishingly, this was a step up from the last vehicle he saw. He found a 2001 Ford Ranger in cherry condition with 50K miles for $2000 ($8000 under fair market price). The woman selling the vehicle had a deadline of Friday before having to hand it over to her ex and wanted to meet any interested parties in an anonymous parking lot at 6pm on the 4th of July. Oh and bring cash.
I'd bring a Rottweiler, too, if I were going ... and back up ... and maybe a gun...
But there is one more critical component: it has to have 'the cool' factor. For me, cool means air conditioning, in addition to being affordable, reliable, and clean. For him, cool means it is lowered to scrape height, with two mufflers (neither of which seem to work), a great stereo system, no back seats, a souped up engine and painted an electric blue. It has no a/c - meaning, when it's 104 out, the wind blowing at you is just as hot at 25 as it is at 110 when you're chasing an ambulance.
When I declined their very generous - and value priced - sale offer of $4,000, the owner (who was a Sheriff's Deputy) said, 'it's because of his age, huh'. Of course not. It's because it comes with its very own book of tickets and a tshirt bearing a radar gun with the words PICK ME.
Astonishingly, this was a step up from the last vehicle he saw. He found a 2001 Ford Ranger in cherry condition with 50K miles for $2000 ($8000 under fair market price). The woman selling the vehicle had a deadline of Friday before having to hand it over to her ex and wanted to meet any interested parties in an anonymous parking lot at 6pm on the 4th of July. Oh and bring cash.
I'd bring a Rottweiler, too, if I were going ... and back up ... and maybe a gun...
Jul 5, 2007
Option E
My son wants to buy another vehicle. He needs one because the truck he didn't license, insure or register was tagged and towed. He bought it from his brother at the bargain price of $500 which, when you take into account it gets 8 mpg and consumes a case of oil a week, was grossly overpriced. It looked like it had been shelled and then survived a Basenji being locked inside.
Before the great 'towing incident of 2007', we had discussed his options: a) register and license the vehicle; b) register and do a non-operational use permit; c) park it in the driveway off a public street; or d) let me donate it to charity for the end of year tax write off.
Apparently he chose Option E. Option E? ...Ah yes, the do-nothing plan. I discovered Option E the day he informed me his truck had been stolen from in front of a friend's house. Stolen? The most valuable part on the truck was the toolbox and that could be unbolted. I recommended he call the city.
Ahhh, Door #E opens up into a black market economy! Once the city takes possession of the vehicle, the towing company can charge anything it wants (per day) until the owner attends to the issue. They have it GOING ON!! So THAT'S how they fund those big fancy tow trucks with all the gadgets.
Towing companies aren't choosy about little things like matching up registered owner names, I guess: they gladly took from a 19 year old the $530 to untangle their fees for a vehicle not technically his. He had no choice but to pay the fees, because his much older, much bigger, and much stronger brother was the registered owner and the lien would be have been in his name.
But wait, there's more!
In the all-or-nothing world of Option E, he also had to bring the registration current before the vehicle, the one he didn't own, would be released. Since the truck wasn't even worth the $530 he had already paid, let alone the additional $239, he left it with them. He probably could have gotten a $15 non operational permit, but at the risk of getting the truck back, I decided not to mention it.
Is anyone in the market for a used toolbox in perfect condition?
Jul 4, 2007
Sitting Still Enough to Listen
We want to be successful communicators to have a life of connections to our friends and family, work and world. But communication is a genuine challenge when how we express ourselves is as unique as our experiences, education, upbringing, and the conclusions we've drawn in life. When we're not 'on the same page', building bridges can be tough.
Being misunderstood is one of the hardest things to solve. What's inside isn't always easy to express. We teeter between being tedious and vague, in a place where what is said is not always what is heard.
Written communication is even worse. Lost is the inflection and conversational rhythm of active communication. Playful sarcasm is wonderfully funny live but loses most of its punch in print. Things can be read literally or misread altogether when you've only got one eye turned to the page.
I've misunderstood and been misunderstood at times and I wonder if the speed of life makes it easy to not take the time to listen and process. Admittedly, I am restless to get to the heart of the topic and sometimes miss the subtleties that tie the bow.
So here's my plan: hone a more focused listening style. That means minimizing distractions like driving, washing dishes, paying bills when I'm actively communicating. It also means being present in the moment with the communication itself, listening to what's being said rather than what I want to hear.
That should keep me busy for a while. What was that? Oh sure, let me know how I do.
Jul 1, 2007
Dollars with Sense
You know, I've had just about as much of Paris Hilton as I can stand. Say it with me: people who take ethical shortcuts in life end up somewhere they don't expect. Even worse than the choices is the lack of remorse other than being caught.
The media barrages us all the time with the lowest common denominator without qualification. Filling our heads with sensational stories of corruption and violence, during family hour, without the insightful parables of goodness coming out of moral decay, is wrong. Whose fault is it all this crap is being shoved down our throats? Ours.
All we seem to be able to manage is idly standing by wringing our hands in despair at the decay of this country when we spoon feed our children these examples to live down to. I resent having to explain to my 8 year old about the Gay Freedom Parade before he is old enough to hear the talk about the birds and the bees, because I had the misfortune of turning on the 6:00 news while making dinner. Where is the national conscience and common sense to put that on the 11:00 news?
Children are sponges and we are their filters -- not just their parents, all of us. Parents struggle to monitor and qualify what is seen and heard, set family boundaries and steadfast values, and the media undermines them, as though they have no moral obligation to its society. Where is the protective cultural framework that gave us our strength, the deep roots in God, Family, Country? This is why our societal fabric is shredding. HELLO?? Everywhere other than church and at the dinner table, we're shown how to take what we want without consequence.
But I was thinking ... what might happen if we only endorsed entertainment and news with values-based story lines? What if we bit the bullet and sacrificed the immediacy of our no-holds-barred entertainment fetish to establish a baseline here? In other words, practice personal restraint by not buying it at the movies, on DVDs or computers or TV. Free or not, we control market share, and that makes the world go round.
I'd like to see the day when PBS, Disney, History, Discovery and HG TV dominate the ratings for 60 consecutive weeks. Watching the media scramble for funding sources would be so entertaining, we probably wouldn't even miss all the murder and treachery. If we play our cards right, we might be able to also jettison all the sexual dysfunction ads...
Social reform is easy in a country driven by greed. Our voices wouldn't be a whisper, they'd be a shout. America would respond in a hurry if we leveraged our dollars with sense. The ball's in our court.
The media barrages us all the time with the lowest common denominator without qualification. Filling our heads with sensational stories of corruption and violence, during family hour, without the insightful parables of goodness coming out of moral decay, is wrong. Whose fault is it all this crap is being shoved down our throats? Ours.
All we seem to be able to manage is idly standing by wringing our hands in despair at the decay of this country when we spoon feed our children these examples to live down to. I resent having to explain to my 8 year old about the Gay Freedom Parade before he is old enough to hear the talk about the birds and the bees, because I had the misfortune of turning on the 6:00 news while making dinner. Where is the national conscience and common sense to put that on the 11:00 news?
Children are sponges and we are their filters -- not just their parents, all of us. Parents struggle to monitor and qualify what is seen and heard, set family boundaries and steadfast values, and the media undermines them, as though they have no moral obligation to its society. Where is the protective cultural framework that gave us our strength, the deep roots in God, Family, Country? This is why our societal fabric is shredding. HELLO?? Everywhere other than church and at the dinner table, we're shown how to take what we want without consequence.
But I was thinking ... what might happen if we only endorsed entertainment and news with values-based story lines? What if we bit the bullet and sacrificed the immediacy of our no-holds-barred entertainment fetish to establish a baseline here? In other words, practice personal restraint by not buying it at the movies, on DVDs or computers or TV. Free or not, we control market share, and that makes the world go round.
I'd like to see the day when PBS, Disney, History, Discovery and HG TV dominate the ratings for 60 consecutive weeks. Watching the media scramble for funding sources would be so entertaining, we probably wouldn't even miss all the murder and treachery. If we play our cards right, we might be able to also jettison all the sexual dysfunction ads...
Social reform is easy in a country driven by greed. Our voices wouldn't be a whisper, they'd be a shout. America would respond in a hurry if we leveraged our dollars with sense. The ball's in our court.
Jun 30, 2007
Insane Mothers
It's tough when a parent has to wait for the learning curve to take root. I feel my foot tap tap tapping out the reprise: what is TAKING so long with the life lessons? Whatever happened to the good old days when you could just stuff them into color-coded Garanimals outfits and get them off to school?
I suppose when my brother and I were doing the broadjump, my mom tamped down her instinct to grab us by the scruff of the neck and shake us silly. From a parent's point of view, that requires some pretty fancy footwork. But even with the teenage speed-of-light immersion plan, the parental levee occasionally has a breach.
I once observed one of those when my mother chased my brother around the pool with a broom because he waited too long to clean the pool before her party and the filter backed up and nobody wanted to swim in water the color of skim milk. Another time a heated exchange -- which I'm SURE didn't involve my inflammatory tone -- resulted in a bag of granola being hurled in my direction. Unfortunately for mom, it fell short of its intended target and landed (and burst) in the open baby grand piano. I'll bet THAT took a while to suck up with a vacuum crevice tool.
WHAT?
I always figured this was subject specific parent insanity (SSPI). And then I became a mother and learned the truth: insane parents are made and not born. Swear! Contrary to popular opinion, mothers start out normal, they DO, as infinitely patient, optimistic, human nurturers, and over hundreds and thousands of interchanges with people-on-the-rise, they erode.
An angel gently nuzzling her newborn in a few short years becomes that shrew you see swinging a bat at the umpire at a little league game because little Johnny's ball SHOULD HAVE BEEN a home run. A 5'7" woman who needs help with the lawn mower can indeed lift a 6' seventeen year old boy off the ground when he is sneaking her daughter home at 4:00 AM. A mother with no money who loves her kid more than anything will figure a way to have his hunk of junk truck towed 100 miles to college if he dares her.
Now that I'm a 'seasoned' mother, I sit on my hands on the sidelines watching them make their own way, wondering if it's the steeper grade that makes the lessons harder or just the fact that each lesson carries more weight.
You bet they see me cheering their progress and learning lessons of my own as I master being a mother of grown ups. I'll be right with you guys, right after I lean a bit more into the curve.
I suppose when my brother and I were doing the broadjump, my mom tamped down her instinct to grab us by the scruff of the neck and shake us silly. From a parent's point of view, that requires some pretty fancy footwork. But even with the teenage speed-of-light immersion plan, the parental levee occasionally has a breach.
I once observed one of those when my mother chased my brother around the pool with a broom because he waited too long to clean the pool before her party and the filter backed up and nobody wanted to swim in water the color of skim milk. Another time a heated exchange -- which I'm SURE didn't involve my inflammatory tone -- resulted in a bag of granola being hurled in my direction. Unfortunately for mom, it fell short of its intended target and landed (and burst) in the open baby grand piano. I'll bet THAT took a while to suck up with a vacuum crevice tool.
WHAT?
I always figured this was subject specific parent insanity (SSPI). And then I became a mother and learned the truth: insane parents are made and not born. Swear! Contrary to popular opinion, mothers start out normal, they DO, as infinitely patient, optimistic, human nurturers, and over hundreds and thousands of interchanges with people-on-the-rise, they erode.
An angel gently nuzzling her newborn in a few short years becomes that shrew you see swinging a bat at the umpire at a little league game because little Johnny's ball SHOULD HAVE BEEN a home run. A 5'7" woman who needs help with the lawn mower can indeed lift a 6' seventeen year old boy off the ground when he is sneaking her daughter home at 4:00 AM. A mother with no money who loves her kid more than anything will figure a way to have his hunk of junk truck towed 100 miles to college if he dares her.
Now that I'm a 'seasoned' mother, I sit on my hands on the sidelines watching them make their own way, wondering if it's the steeper grade that makes the lessons harder or just the fact that each lesson carries more weight.
You bet they see me cheering their progress and learning lessons of my own as I master being a mother of grown ups. I'll be right with you guys, right after I lean a bit more into the curve.
Jun 22, 2007
Foxy Mama, Part I
There is a pretty little community in Longmont, Colorado, with nice folks and no sidewalks and a view of the lake. It's the kind of place where spacious yards spill from one to another and people show a refreshing pride of ownership.And in this quiet little neighborhood, a pair of red foxes came to live. Red foxes are indigenous to most of the United States and live in wooded areas, prairies and farmland. They are known for their cunning and shy dispositions and their adaptability.
Soon after taking up residence, five pups were born. Since reds partner for life, Dad did most of the hunting in the first month while Mom tended the brood. These five little bundles of fluff and their folks eventually emerged to romp on the deck and in the front yard. The mother fox was seen sitting majestically on a large rock helping her mate keep a watchful eye.
AND THEN THERE WERE FOUR
The pups happily tumble bumbled in their impromptu den. About two months after arrival, there was alarm when the male and one of the pups turned up missing and the den was hurriedly abandoned. Had the entire family fallen prey, everyone wondered?
A couple of days passed when mother fox and two of the pups showed up under the front deck of my friends, Scott and Cathy. Close observation of the female showed her surveillance of a home across the street and it was surmised the remaining pups had been stowed there. Although it is common for red foxes to split their dens to protect the generation, this was now a single mother with four pups to raise and no help with the hunting and monitoring. Her choice of homes was well considered: one house had easy access to a wraparound porch with good views of the neighborhood and lake, and the other was nicely situated on a knoll thick with pines and protective underbrush.
Life played on over the next six weeks and my friends, who I can attest are the most considerate of hosts, paid attention to the habits of their new residents and made some significant adaptations on their behalf. Realizing the need for comfortable boundaries, my friends limited their use of the deck and front door, entering the house through the garage. They postponed big yard projects and planned routine outside maintenance during the middle of the day while the foxes slept. Occasionally, when temptation got the better of them, they crept quietly to the edge of the house and peered around the corner to see the goings-on. And in this way, a patient couple and a skittish family of foxes developed trust.
The more stable the environment became, the more visible they were at dusk and dawn. Mama fox was a good and attentive mother. One evening, they watched her teach her pups to hunt by bringing a live bird from across the street and laying it in the street. The pups swarmed forward and joyously fought one another for the prize. One wrestled it free and dashed under the deck with the others in hot pursuit.
She routinely traveled with the pups and moved them from den to den, for socialization as well as safety. They were obedient and smart, and in time she left them for extended periods of time. Their diet consisted of a balance of fruits, grasses, caterpillars and grasshoppers in addition to small live birds and rabbits, and the pups knew how to fend for themselves during her absence.
This little life drama did not escape notice. The fox family became the focus of the community. People on their evening stroll would bring their children on three wheelers and their dogs on leashes to linger at the corner and catch a glimpse of the fox family sitting side by side on Scott and Cathy's deck, as if lording over the neighborhood. The community delighted in them, embraced their presence, and watched the family grow and flourish. But things were about to change.
Part II to follow.
Has Beens
It seems like yesterday we tasted for the first time the sweet, spicy tang of possibilities as life swirled around and drew us in. We confidently drifted with the winds of change, falling to the mat bruised, only to rise again and take a more southwesterly route in our ascent. Life was boundless.
Direction was decided by opportunities and they were in great abundance. Obstacles were frequent, and expected, and met with an urgent willfulness fueled by purpose and optimism. Our canvas had broad strokes of crimson and periwinkle, sunny day yellows and starless black skies.
But gradually, gradually we became accustomed to the sweet nectar of stability. Our once limber and supple minds and bodies, the bold and daring explorers we were, transmuted softly into a more subtle patina of vanilla and rose, taupe and cinnamon. What began as a series of firsts became routines, and then patterns, and finally habits.
The raw fiber of our youth wove itself into family lore as we lost the resemblance. Pictures of us standing at the summit, proudly posing in cap and gown, smiling in front of our first home holding our first born, became historical footprints, faded now but for their impact.
But wait. I feel them churning within, those experiences and feelings. I still taste the salt in my mouth from sweat equity, feel the soft kiss from my first love. In present time they exude intensity and wisdom, humor and strength, eye twinkles and reverent prayers.
Family and faith stand strong and true. The shelter of my life holds those memories thick and dense, decorated with love and success earned the hard way. I am the conservator of the continuity link, feel keenly the need to protect what I know can slip away. Let us linger together as long as we can.
Direction was decided by opportunities and they were in great abundance. Obstacles were frequent, and expected, and met with an urgent willfulness fueled by purpose and optimism. Our canvas had broad strokes of crimson and periwinkle, sunny day yellows and starless black skies.
But gradually, gradually we became accustomed to the sweet nectar of stability. Our once limber and supple minds and bodies, the bold and daring explorers we were, transmuted softly into a more subtle patina of vanilla and rose, taupe and cinnamon. What began as a series of firsts became routines, and then patterns, and finally habits.
The raw fiber of our youth wove itself into family lore as we lost the resemblance. Pictures of us standing at the summit, proudly posing in cap and gown, smiling in front of our first home holding our first born, became historical footprints, faded now but for their impact.
But wait. I feel them churning within, those experiences and feelings. I still taste the salt in my mouth from sweat equity, feel the soft kiss from my first love. In present time they exude intensity and wisdom, humor and strength, eye twinkles and reverent prayers.
Family and faith stand strong and true. The shelter of my life holds those memories thick and dense, decorated with love and success earned the hard way. I am the conservator of the continuity link, feel keenly the need to protect what I know can slip away. Let us linger together as long as we can.
Jun 15, 2007
Fast Food
I was thinking about all these flourishing online dating services. Why is it so hard to meet people out in the wild? Where are all the rich environments for cultivating a date, where we meet at a friend-of-a-friend's barbecue and hit it off? I rarely hear stories like that anymore. EVERYBODY seems to be online.
I'm dating a guy who is quick-witted and kind, successful in life in the ways that count, with good values and heaps of integrity. He's a good man. I think this is online dating at its best, when people gather because social and work environments are a bit stale. Slow and steady, this turtle has it down.
Online meeting is most bleak when it resembles fast food: enticing, quick, plentiful and instantly gratifying. We don't really know what's inside but are pretty sure it's bad as a steady diet. I'm not saying it isn't tasty: I'm saying we're better off if we nibble rather than gulp.
Fast food circumvents our body's natural systems that are designed to earn the nourishment. Healthy natural foods let the sugars and carbs trickle into our system rather than overwhelm us and wreak havoc, as over-processed food can do.
So, too, with online dating. There's an endless supply of people flooding the market, selecting erroneous criteria as a weedblock to relationships. There is no social responsibility here: that has been replaced by an expectation that things should be easy and convenient. If it's a challenge, just go to the next one on the list, is that how it is? How can we learn the valuable lessons of hard work and balance, things that we'll need to develop and maintain physically, spiritually and emotionally healthy relationships?
Aren't those who insist on 'no baggage' really just saying they are unwilling to put in the effort? Who'd want to toss in with someone like that? I've got news for you: Taking on someone new means you're going to have to find room to stow their gear -- because everybody's toting a full luggage cart.
And what about those folks who don't want to chat with someone who indicates they are looking for 'friends'. Are they mad? Friendship is the GO space on the Monopoly board: you aren't going places without it.
The natural selection process has been in place for millions of years where we use all five of our physical senses (plus a couple internal ones) because there's no way to know ahead of time what we're looking for. If onliners are sorting by height, ethnicity and income to save time, they might very well may leave a hand-to-glove partner lying dormant because they can't imagine big enough.
I'm dating a guy who is quick-witted and kind, successful in life in the ways that count, with good values and heaps of integrity. He's a good man. I think this is online dating at its best, when people gather because social and work environments are a bit stale. Slow and steady, this turtle has it down.
Online meeting is most bleak when it resembles fast food: enticing, quick, plentiful and instantly gratifying. We don't really know what's inside but are pretty sure it's bad as a steady diet. I'm not saying it isn't tasty: I'm saying we're better off if we nibble rather than gulp.
Fast food circumvents our body's natural systems that are designed to earn the nourishment. Healthy natural foods let the sugars and carbs trickle into our system rather than overwhelm us and wreak havoc, as over-processed food can do.
So, too, with online dating. There's an endless supply of people flooding the market, selecting erroneous criteria as a weedblock to relationships. There is no social responsibility here: that has been replaced by an expectation that things should be easy and convenient. If it's a challenge, just go to the next one on the list, is that how it is? How can we learn the valuable lessons of hard work and balance, things that we'll need to develop and maintain physically, spiritually and emotionally healthy relationships?
Aren't those who insist on 'no baggage' really just saying they are unwilling to put in the effort? Who'd want to toss in with someone like that? I've got news for you: Taking on someone new means you're going to have to find room to stow their gear -- because everybody's toting a full luggage cart.
And what about those folks who don't want to chat with someone who indicates they are looking for 'friends'. Are they mad? Friendship is the GO space on the Monopoly board: you aren't going places without it.
The natural selection process has been in place for millions of years where we use all five of our physical senses (plus a couple internal ones) because there's no way to know ahead of time what we're looking for. If onliners are sorting by height, ethnicity and income to save time, they might very well may leave a hand-to-glove partner lying dormant because they can't imagine big enough.
May 30, 2007
A REAL Christmas Letter
Ever get tired of all the bragging in Christmas letters? Well, you're in for a treat.
Dear Santa,
Thank you for the many surprises you have provided in the last year. You obviously have a sense of humor.
It was a year of challenges. The two younger boys earned money for two gasoline powered go-peds and they enjoyed some short-lived but exciting adventures. The rear wheels on both vehicles collapsed in the first month and the go-ped dealer asked to display the tires as a cautionary tale for misuse of the equipment. Son #3 was apprehended by the police in August for driving a motorized vehicle without a license on the sidewalk. The fact that he had a passenger might have influenced the stop. All was resolved, but not until the judge had an opportunity to look down his spectacles at me for my son being in Juvenile Court at the tender age of 12. I want you to know he was wearing a helmet. Good news, though: we knew everyone in the audience since I work at the high school. Shortly thereafter, the problem was solved when one go-ped was stolen and the other was sold for the more legal and, I'm sure you will agree, less dangerous sport of SKATEBOARDING. So Santa, if you don't mind, I am hoping for a bubble suit and priority parking space in front of the Emergency Room. Don't worry: they have already red flagged the file and are expecting us.
In July, my eldest bought an '85 Chevy Stepside truck, the vehicle of his dreams, which gets about 8 mpg. While driving it to the coast, since my new Honda CRV was having the driver's door repaired from said boy backing it out of the garage with the door open, I was stopped twice by police. Once it was due to driving 12 miles over the speed limit, apparently due to the oversized tires that affect speedometer accuracy. Tailgating the cop might have contributed to his decision to pull me over. The second stop was due to a mixup in registration tags that didn't match the registration card, a detail my son didn't notice when the DMV gave us a June instead of November sticker. The officer and I spent an hour by the side of the road while he waited for his office to verify this detail, giving him ample time to lecture me on the rules of the road and incidentally making me over an hour late to the Management Retreat in Monterey.
Driving the truck on two 3 hour trips in one month required 6 tanks of gas, not counting rekeying the lock which I accidentally broke off in the driver's door. The fuel pump also gave up the ghost and took two men an entire day to change out. My son's only question to me was, "Are you paying for the fuel pump? After all you were driving it at the time." So Santa, I would appreciate gift certificates for gas and Kragen Auto Parts stores and also a Human Resources class in interpersonal communication.
From August--October, we were consumed by football. My son plays on both the offensive and defensive line, so you can imagine the condition of his uniform after a game. This is where those long barbecue tongs come in handy when you have to get it from the garage floor into a tub of Simple Green. The pads remained in the yard where they doubled as a crime deterrent and pest control device.
My son visited the ER this year due to a self-inflicted injury. In the heat of the moment and on a winning play, my son head-butted a fellow player. Unfortunately for him, the other player was wearing a helmet. But he did win Lineman of the Year clearly awarding his dedication to the sport. All I can say is it's a good thing he took his SAT's in June.
In October, #2 son also bought a car to fill up that big slab of concrete next to the driveway. He wanted to sleep in it the first night but I intercepted him. He has his permit. Always humble, my son is buying his younger brother a bank for Christmas since he infiltrates all known household banks and discovers the combinations. Imagine our surprise at finding the little one's money spread across his bed with his bank open and a smiley face drawn on a scratch pad. The youngest has solved the problem by spending every cent he earns, sometimes before he earns it. A mathematician proof bank would be a good choice this year.
Also in October, I discovered that one of my high schoolers snuck out of the house during Homecoming Week. I discovered his plan when his alarm sounded at 1:30 am. You can't say my children aren't punctual. When he returned and was startled my steady stare over the rim of a teacup at 4:30 am, the best mental calesthenics my honors student could muster was the excuse that he had been at school.
On a recent excursion to the mall, my youngest added cologne to his holiday list called Pimp. He wants only Parent Advisory music and talks an average of 2 hours per day on the phone with a variety of girls. I have learned not to ask their names or offer suggestions like, "Is this Ashley? NO? Oh... " Now I understand why people have houses with basements. I could sure use eyes in the back of my head for Christmas.
In November, we maneuvered through college applications and complex negotiations. An 18 year old with a willful attitude and a steady girl are formidable allies to the put-it-off-at-all-costs senior plan. This has been an emotional time for me: the thought of him remaining at home draped across my sofa like a boneless chicken has me on the brink of tears.
The college selection process seemed to be inversely triggered by well considered recommendations by family and friends: instead of applying to the thoughtful and well regarded schools like San Diego State and ASU, he chose Montana Tech. I don't think any of us knows where in Montana that school is located. Is it a 4 year college?
The youngest is diagramming his brother's room to rearrange the furniture and is sleeping in the hall as college bags are being packed. No pressure, though. The youngest's room will be converted to a broom closet if there's enough space. Son #2 needles the eldest that he had his own car before he even got a license. The eldest is asking for a gun rack for his truck.
I am going to pick up a bottle of brandy before Christmas.
Boy am I looking forward to the new year. Can we just get on with it?
Christmas 2000
Dear Santa,
Thank you for the many surprises you have provided in the last year. You obviously have a sense of humor.
It was a year of challenges. The two younger boys earned money for two gasoline powered go-peds and they enjoyed some short-lived but exciting adventures. The rear wheels on both vehicles collapsed in the first month and the go-ped dealer asked to display the tires as a cautionary tale for misuse of the equipment. Son #3 was apprehended by the police in August for driving a motorized vehicle without a license on the sidewalk. The fact that he had a passenger might have influenced the stop. All was resolved, but not until the judge had an opportunity to look down his spectacles at me for my son being in Juvenile Court at the tender age of 12. I want you to know he was wearing a helmet. Good news, though: we knew everyone in the audience since I work at the high school. Shortly thereafter, the problem was solved when one go-ped was stolen and the other was sold for the more legal and, I'm sure you will agree, less dangerous sport of SKATEBOARDING. So Santa, if you don't mind, I am hoping for a bubble suit and priority parking space in front of the Emergency Room. Don't worry: they have already red flagged the file and are expecting us.
In July, my eldest bought an '85 Chevy Stepside truck, the vehicle of his dreams, which gets about 8 mpg. While driving it to the coast, since my new Honda CRV was having the driver's door repaired from said boy backing it out of the garage with the door open, I was stopped twice by police. Once it was due to driving 12 miles over the speed limit, apparently due to the oversized tires that affect speedometer accuracy. Tailgating the cop might have contributed to his decision to pull me over. The second stop was due to a mixup in registration tags that didn't match the registration card, a detail my son didn't notice when the DMV gave us a June instead of November sticker. The officer and I spent an hour by the side of the road while he waited for his office to verify this detail, giving him ample time to lecture me on the rules of the road and incidentally making me over an hour late to the Management Retreat in Monterey.
Driving the truck on two 3 hour trips in one month required 6 tanks of gas, not counting rekeying the lock which I accidentally broke off in the driver's door. The fuel pump also gave up the ghost and took two men an entire day to change out. My son's only question to me was, "Are you paying for the fuel pump? After all you were driving it at the time." So Santa, I would appreciate gift certificates for gas and Kragen Auto Parts stores and also a Human Resources class in interpersonal communication.
From August--October, we were consumed by football. My son plays on both the offensive and defensive line, so you can imagine the condition of his uniform after a game. This is where those long barbecue tongs come in handy when you have to get it from the garage floor into a tub of Simple Green. The pads remained in the yard where they doubled as a crime deterrent and pest control device.
My son visited the ER this year due to a self-inflicted injury. In the heat of the moment and on a winning play, my son head-butted a fellow player. Unfortunately for him, the other player was wearing a helmet. But he did win Lineman of the Year clearly awarding his dedication to the sport. All I can say is it's a good thing he took his SAT's in June.
In October, #2 son also bought a car to fill up that big slab of concrete next to the driveway. He wanted to sleep in it the first night but I intercepted him. He has his permit. Always humble, my son is buying his younger brother a bank for Christmas since he infiltrates all known household banks and discovers the combinations. Imagine our surprise at finding the little one's money spread across his bed with his bank open and a smiley face drawn on a scratch pad. The youngest has solved the problem by spending every cent he earns, sometimes before he earns it. A mathematician proof bank would be a good choice this year.
Also in October, I discovered that one of my high schoolers snuck out of the house during Homecoming Week. I discovered his plan when his alarm sounded at 1:30 am. You can't say my children aren't punctual. When he returned and was startled my steady stare over the rim of a teacup at 4:30 am, the best mental calesthenics my honors student could muster was the excuse that he had been at school.
On a recent excursion to the mall, my youngest added cologne to his holiday list called Pimp. He wants only Parent Advisory music and talks an average of 2 hours per day on the phone with a variety of girls. I have learned not to ask their names or offer suggestions like, "Is this Ashley? NO? Oh... " Now I understand why people have houses with basements. I could sure use eyes in the back of my head for Christmas.
In November, we maneuvered through college applications and complex negotiations. An 18 year old with a willful attitude and a steady girl are formidable allies to the put-it-off-at-all-costs senior plan. This has been an emotional time for me: the thought of him remaining at home draped across my sofa like a boneless chicken has me on the brink of tears.
The college selection process seemed to be inversely triggered by well considered recommendations by family and friends: instead of applying to the thoughtful and well regarded schools like San Diego State and ASU, he chose Montana Tech. I don't think any of us knows where in Montana that school is located. Is it a 4 year college?
The youngest is diagramming his brother's room to rearrange the furniture and is sleeping in the hall as college bags are being packed. No pressure, though. The youngest's room will be converted to a broom closet if there's enough space. Son #2 needles the eldest that he had his own car before he even got a license. The eldest is asking for a gun rack for his truck.
I am going to pick up a bottle of brandy before Christmas.
Boy am I looking forward to the new year. Can we just get on with it?
Christmas 2000
Passing the Baton
I just spent nine days in
How strange to be nobody’s child, nobody’s daughter. Who will regale us with stories about the early years or the great Aunts who hovered, or a certain Christmas morning when a rumored offspring (who shall remain nameless) opened and resealed gifts to avoid prosecution? I had grown bored of hearing those worn out stories I knew word for word, but crave her voice now that the chance to hear them again has passed.
I called her number to be told it is disconnected. I wonder how many times I will need to do that before it sinks in. In the blink of an eye, I have become the new ‘old’ generation, yoked and entrusted to be the guardian of our heritage. There is great responsibility in that, I realize, as I sit on the veranda of a beautiful turn of the century home in Colorado Springs, not knowing the family whose portrait hangs in the foyer but am sure they could not have imagined a California girl sitting here savoring their legacy.
I am the keeper of the melody that played between us when I sought refuge in her support. Her voice was sometimes like staccato notes dancing along ivories that could soothe my battered spirit. I wonder if that song will fade as time plays on. It is the love of a parent that I will miss: the last bastion of childhood is now laid to rest.
I will continue to strengthen the family nest with some of her feathers and lots of my dad's but mostly with mine and Don's. My sons will take refuge and learn by heart the melody we create. I will regale them with stories which they will grow tired of hearing but will listen to, as I did, because they will know how treasured they will be when life presses onward.
Fish and Chips
Eileen is from Scotland, that wee country where friendliness and a fiesty spirit are bred into its people. She is an articulate, dynamic, outspoken 4-foot-something, loosely contained bundle of energy with flaming red hair.
It was a long day yesterday. After a fabulous breakfast and long chat with a couple from Philadelphia who were heading back today, we ascended to the summit of Pike's Peak, a staggering 14,115 feet. The guide shared funny questions posed by people whose minds were affected by the thin air, such as 'How much farther up does the mountain go past the summit?' (answer: blank stare) and 'When do deer turn into elk?' (answer: at 12,000 feet).
The altitude did affect us, too: we had 'sealegs' and a touch of a headache. Two miles from the summit were whiteout conditions and, upon our descent, we had missed a dramatic thunderstorm below. You know what they say: if you don't like the weather, wait a bit and it'll change. We particularly enjoyed the young woman being photographed in a snowstorm wearing bright pink hot pants and flip flops. The COG Railway is definitely the way to go.
After a leisurely saunter around Old Town Colorado and Manitou Springs, Eileen was reminiscing about this great Fish and Chips place back home. Right then, we happened to spy a business called Neptune's Realm with colorfully painted windows. They were even open!
Eileen dashed inside, exclaiming to the purveyor in that lilting Scottish accent of hers, 'This is wonderful! If we had known you were here, we wouldn't have eaten lunch earlier!'
I trailed in behind, looking at a colorful aquarium and dim lighting and an obviously confused young man. Something didn't add up here. The purveyor gaped at her with a shocked expression and, as her words hung awkwardly in the air, it dawned on me that we were standing in a pet store that sold salt water exotic tropical fish.
Sushi, anyone?
It was a long day yesterday. After a fabulous breakfast and long chat with a couple from Philadelphia who were heading back today, we ascended to the summit of Pike's Peak, a staggering 14,115 feet. The guide shared funny questions posed by people whose minds were affected by the thin air, such as 'How much farther up does the mountain go past the summit?' (answer: blank stare) and 'When do deer turn into elk?' (answer: at 12,000 feet).
The altitude did affect us, too: we had 'sealegs' and a touch of a headache. Two miles from the summit were whiteout conditions and, upon our descent, we had missed a dramatic thunderstorm below. You know what they say: if you don't like the weather, wait a bit and it'll change. We particularly enjoyed the young woman being photographed in a snowstorm wearing bright pink hot pants and flip flops. The COG Railway is definitely the way to go.
After a leisurely saunter around Old Town Colorado and Manitou Springs, Eileen was reminiscing about this great Fish and Chips place back home. Right then, we happened to spy a business called Neptune's Realm with colorfully painted windows. They were even open!
Eileen dashed inside, exclaiming to the purveyor in that lilting Scottish accent of hers, 'This is wonderful! If we had known you were here, we wouldn't have eaten lunch earlier!'
I trailed in behind, looking at a colorful aquarium and dim lighting and an obviously confused young man. Something didn't add up here. The purveyor gaped at her with a shocked expression and, as her words hung awkwardly in the air, it dawned on me that we were standing in a pet store that sold salt water exotic tropical fish.
Sushi, anyone?
May 23, 2007
Travelog: Colorado Springs
While exploring Colorado Springs, we stayed at The Cheyenne Canon Inn, a B & B at the base of Cheyenne Mountain where NORAD is tucked deep inside. It is a beautiful 13,000 square foot estate operated and tended by a self-proclaimed former ski bum who turned real estate agent and grew up just down the block. This is Ground Zero on a number of levels.
This grand old gal has worn many masks in her 135 years: as a family home, a casino, a meeting place and speakeasy, a brothel, and now a squeaky clean B & B. Its floors contentedly groan out a lively heritage, accessorized by claw foot bathtubs, stained glass windows and period antiques. The Inn survived a devastating flood only later to be taken by fire and in an amazing stroke of luck was rebuilt to its original grandeur when the architectural plans turned up.
We comfortably roamed the house in our embroidered bathrobes in the evenings, watched a movie from their library and leafed through historical books of Colorado Springs. Local chefs prepared the most wonderful gourmet breakfasts as we learned from the Innkeepers a lot about the town and its inhabitants. Wine and h'ors d'oeurves were served each afternoon in a glorious sitting room as large as my home with ceiling to floor wood and glass that drew the outside in. What a relaxing way to end a day of sightseeing at Garden of the Gods or shopping in Manitou Springs or experiencing the 'breathtaking' vistas during a visit to Pike's Peak. It'd be a challenge to take a bad picture here.
Innkeeper Nancy assured us, in those low tones women use when they promise a real treat, that the masseur was excellent. And so he was: skilled, friendly, a massage therapist who was also a graduate from the Culinary Institute of America, refreshingly honest with a great sense of humor and warmth about life. After the massage, we luxuriated with champagne and strawberries dipped in chocolate on the front veranda as we waved to passerbys.
Great local restaurants abound, with ample variety and style. We particularly enjoyed The Blue Star but the Broadmoor is just minutes away for a five-star dining experience and a round of world class golf.
GO. The Cheyenne Canon Inn, Colorado Springs, CO. And when you do, we hope you'll remember us to our friends Kevin, Nancy and Craig.
This grand old gal has worn many masks in her 135 years: as a family home, a casino, a meeting place and speakeasy, a brothel, and now a squeaky clean B & B. Its floors contentedly groan out a lively heritage, accessorized by claw foot bathtubs, stained glass windows and period antiques. The Inn survived a devastating flood only later to be taken by fire and in an amazing stroke of luck was rebuilt to its original grandeur when the architectural plans turned up.
We comfortably roamed the house in our embroidered bathrobes in the evenings, watched a movie from their library and leafed through historical books of Colorado Springs. Local chefs prepared the most wonderful gourmet breakfasts as we learned from the Innkeepers a lot about the town and its inhabitants. Wine and h'ors d'oeurves were served each afternoon in a glorious sitting room as large as my home with ceiling to floor wood and glass that drew the outside in. What a relaxing way to end a day of sightseeing at Garden of the Gods or shopping in Manitou Springs or experiencing the 'breathtaking' vistas during a visit to Pike's Peak. It'd be a challenge to take a bad picture here.
Innkeeper Nancy assured us, in those low tones women use when they promise a real treat, that the masseur was excellent. And so he was: skilled, friendly, a massage therapist who was also a graduate from the Culinary Institute of America, refreshingly honest with a great sense of humor and warmth about life. After the massage, we luxuriated with champagne and strawberries dipped in chocolate on the front veranda as we waved to passerbys.
Great local restaurants abound, with ample variety and style. We particularly enjoyed The Blue Star but the Broadmoor is just minutes away for a five-star dining experience and a round of world class golf.
GO. The Cheyenne Canon Inn, Colorado Springs, CO. And when you do, we hope you'll remember us to our friends Kevin, Nancy and Craig.
Apr 30, 2007
In Memoriam: Mom
I have been reflecting on my mother during the last few days of her life: the woman she was to others, the woman she was to me.
Life has been an amazing trip through the formative years, adolescence, maturity and adulthood. The week before she passed, she carefully showed my son Tim and I how to trim her beloved roses back to the fifth leaf to ensure more buds. A gardener to the end!
One of her favorite sayings when Don and I were growing up was, 'We're a team! We just need to pull together!'
And so we have. When time was short, the family pulled together: we gained strength as we walked with her as far as we could and gently handed her off to God.
Her pastors and church family, Red Hatters and Walking group, neighbors and friends pulled together, swarming to her side, providing meals and desserts and hugs and stories.
Life has sometimes been compared to a ship sailing on the horizon as it drifts out of sight, only to be visible to the people awaiting its arrival at its destination port.
But I like to think of it more as a journey. We hear the crunch of our feet as we meander along the path, past wonderfully scented bushes of honeysuckle, morning glory, carnations and -- of course --roses. We add walkers as their paths intersect with ours and enjoy the company, the warm sun, the breeze. Walkers come and go, each on their own journey. If we are exceptionally lucky, some people fall in step with us and head towards the same point on the horizon for most of our lives.
My mother walked with most of us in this room. Some of her friendships lasted over 60 years. Many of you have shared your gratefulness for sharing her journey. We are soothed and honored by that, by her faith in God's kingdom. Her church life brought forth a depth and breadth to her serving others. She visited those in need and the infirmed, not just once but over many months and years.
In the last weeks of her life, we had a lot of good talks. She told me that she doesn't think children ever really grow up. I smiled at that, thinking she must not have felt grown up or particularly brave, even at 79. I wondered if she wished we wouldn't grow up entirely, so she would always feel needed in the way she was when we were young.
I love that we live the legacy of our parents' lives. She is her mother's daughter, and her father's too. Parts of them are embedded in me, although I cannot know in what ways. She is visible in her family here today, in our giving natures, in the laughter and love of her grandsons who were the loves of her life.
She so wanted to see my boys marry and someday hold her great-grandchildren. But I know this: Before they are mine in this world to hold, my mother will know them in Heaven, rock them gently and sing, tell them funny stories about their fathers, and feel their smiles clutch her heart.
She won't miss a thing.
Apr 17, 2007
Angels
Some moments are just too extraordinary for words.
I was in a wicked travel schedule: from home (Sacramento County) to work (San Joaquin County) to Palo Alto (Stanford hospital) and back home every day. My dad had gone in for a pretty serious operation and had experienced a general system failure, was in the hospital for weeks on all sorts of machines.
Some days, it's as if the car drove itself there. Life became a blur of gas stations and freeways. I had my favorite stations where I'd always stop, the most convenient ones along the route. It seemed that 'jet fuel' (coffee) was the only way I was functioning at this point, so I always headed inside for a cup.
This one particular day my regular station in Tracy had yellow caution around all the pumps and appeared closed, so I headed down a mile and stopped somewhere new. I started the pump and went inside. An elderly woman stood beside me pouring herself a cup. I greeted her quietly and busied myself with filling my cup, hunting for cream, adding a sugar substitute, when I heard her quietly turn to me and ask, "Who in your family is sick?"
I stopped cold. I turned to her fully now, looking down at her round and beautiful face. She had dyed dark brown hair, curly and thin, was about 4' 11", with the most kind brown eyes. "My father," I replied, barely able to speak as my eyes brimmed with tears. "He is gravely ill."
She studied me for a moment and asked, "What is your father's name?" Tears now spilled down my cheeks as I said, "Charles." I choked it out, as she gave me a tender embrace.
We stood together in the check out line, our coffee cups in hand, and she turned to me one last time as she gave her money to the clerk. "I needed your father's name so I can pray for him." I felt a rush of relief as she gave me one more sweet hug before heading into her day.
I paid for my coffee, thinking I should have asked her name. I rushed outside to see if I could catch her, but she was gone. How did she know, I wondered. I thought of how unlikely it was that our paths crossed.
I hopped in the car and got back on the road but before leaving town decided to drive past the gas station I normally use. There was no caution tape anywhere. Cars filled the pumps just like any other time I've been there, nothing like it had been 15 minutes before.
A chill snaked up my arms. Angels are everywhere.
I was in a wicked travel schedule: from home (Sacramento County) to work (San Joaquin County) to Palo Alto (Stanford hospital) and back home every day. My dad had gone in for a pretty serious operation and had experienced a general system failure, was in the hospital for weeks on all sorts of machines.
Some days, it's as if the car drove itself there. Life became a blur of gas stations and freeways. I had my favorite stations where I'd always stop, the most convenient ones along the route. It seemed that 'jet fuel' (coffee) was the only way I was functioning at this point, so I always headed inside for a cup.
This one particular day my regular station in Tracy had yellow caution around all the pumps and appeared closed, so I headed down a mile and stopped somewhere new. I started the pump and went inside. An elderly woman stood beside me pouring herself a cup. I greeted her quietly and busied myself with filling my cup, hunting for cream, adding a sugar substitute, when I heard her quietly turn to me and ask, "Who in your family is sick?"
I stopped cold. I turned to her fully now, looking down at her round and beautiful face. She had dyed dark brown hair, curly and thin, was about 4' 11", with the most kind brown eyes. "My father," I replied, barely able to speak as my eyes brimmed with tears. "He is gravely ill."
She studied me for a moment and asked, "What is your father's name?" Tears now spilled down my cheeks as I said, "Charles." I choked it out, as she gave me a tender embrace.
We stood together in the check out line, our coffee cups in hand, and she turned to me one last time as she gave her money to the clerk. "I needed your father's name so I can pray for him." I felt a rush of relief as she gave me one more sweet hug before heading into her day.
I paid for my coffee, thinking I should have asked her name. I rushed outside to see if I could catch her, but she was gone. How did she know, I wondered. I thought of how unlikely it was that our paths crossed.
I hopped in the car and got back on the road but before leaving town decided to drive past the gas station I normally use. There was no caution tape anywhere. Cars filled the pumps just like any other time I've been there, nothing like it had been 15 minutes before.
A chill snaked up my arms. Angels are everywhere.
Heroes
I've been thinking a lot about recent conversations I've had with my mom and her perception about devotion and support. She has a very giving and kind heart, my mom; whenever anyone is in pain or ill or in need, she is the first visitor, first caller, first offer for a helping hand.
When life throws a curveball at someone we love, we all react differently. Many of us hide for fear of saying the wrong thing or, at the very least, withdraw slightly, trying to grip the issue and gain solid footing before offering our aide. We allow ourselves the 'out' by thinking we've got to be stoic and strong for their sake.
How easy that reaction is to misinterpret as not caring. The loved one who is struggling through the life crisis notices the phone is still. Wouldn't an outpouring of support in whatever form it comes be preferred, the front doorbell constantly ringing with the comfort of those whose lives we have touched and bettered?
To step forward, unafraid of the hard stuff, is to realize that life is all about the connectivity of spirit and humanity. If your heart is full, the moments you spend holding hands will help you find the words. It's a love thing.
Maybe that's what my wise mother learned about life so early on. Our society calls people like these nurturers, but I disagree: I think they're heroes in the truest sense of the word.
When life throws a curveball at someone we love, we all react differently. Many of us hide for fear of saying the wrong thing or, at the very least, withdraw slightly, trying to grip the issue and gain solid footing before offering our aide. We allow ourselves the 'out' by thinking we've got to be stoic and strong for their sake.
How easy that reaction is to misinterpret as not caring. The loved one who is struggling through the life crisis notices the phone is still. Wouldn't an outpouring of support in whatever form it comes be preferred, the front doorbell constantly ringing with the comfort of those whose lives we have touched and bettered?
To step forward, unafraid of the hard stuff, is to realize that life is all about the connectivity of spirit and humanity. If your heart is full, the moments you spend holding hands will help you find the words. It's a love thing.
Maybe that's what my wise mother learned about life so early on. Our society calls people like these nurturers, but I disagree: I think they're heroes in the truest sense of the word.
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