I have always wondered what people thought about while they sat staring across the TGIfridays counter as passengers stream by rushed, frazzled, and exhausted. They don't let me in anyone's head but my own so this was I thought as I enjoyed my sizzling chicken and cheese skillet.
I can't believe that is him. I read his obituary. I signed the guest registry at his funeral. I hugged his sister. I sent a spray of his favorite peach gladiolas. I cried for him. I gave to the scholarship set up in his name. I took a pound cake and a bucket of fried chicken to his church for the post funeral luncheon.
Confused by the rainbow of raw emotions I first smiled. I smiled bigger as I nearly choked on my bubbling hot cheese and sautéed onions. Then I noticed he was smiling too. He seemed to be happily humming as he strolled through the terminal. Why would he be happy? He's dead! And for a dead guy he blends in nicely. He's wearing a festive tropical shirt and boat shoes. He has a nice gold watch on his right arm. I had forgotten that he was left handed. He has a leather book bag hanging over his shoulder and he is pulling a dark brown leather roller board.
Confused; I left happy– to –see–you and faded directly into confusion. Why? That is all I can think besides I have got to find my waitress so I can pay my check and chase him through this airport.
He's maneuvering gracefully through terminal C. I am rushing like a mad woman, O.J. Simpson style, thirty yards in the rear stumbling over my own computer bag and grimacing at travelers standing too casually in the walkways.
He's going to stop at C10. I have to see the destination. Where is he going?
Hoping he doesn't see me I drag my bag over to the bathroom entry way and fumble in my purse for my phone. My phone! A picture, I have to take a picture. A selfie with a dead man, (sadly enough that is probably not a first) but a selfie with a dead man in a pale blue flowery shirt without telling him. Then what do I do? I don't think I should post it on Facebook but I surely cannot keep it to myself. Who do I tell? His sister? Oh, the agony she has gone through already. She would be devastated to know that he faked a drowning at the beach to escape away to wherever he's going. Where is he going? Cincinnati? Really? Who stages their own death on a beach in Cancun, Mexico on a holiday weekend to go to Cincinnati alone? Alone? Maybe he's not alone. Is he with someone? A woman? Was he here with a woman? The gate area is beginning to churn as the incoming passengers deplane. They struggle to get around me and my computer bag and into the ladies room.
What should I do? No one will believe this. I have to say something. Something like…"Hi, Joe. How are you? Imagine running into you" or "wow, you look good for a dead man" or “did you love the peach gladiolas?” or "Cincinnati is beautiful this time of year, isn't it?"
Wait, this is criminal. It's against the law to fake your death isn't it? It is on television and movies. What if he is in the witness protection program and running from the mafia? Or maybe he is running drugs for the Mexican cartel. Or perhaps he's running away with a teenage girl he meet at a swim up bar on the white sand beach of Cancun. Maybe he's just trying to outrun a bookie from the track that he owes thousands of dollars.
Oh my, he's looking around. Does he see me? Maybe he feels like someone is watching him. That's how he lives now, always looking over one shoulder, sleeping with one eye opened, suspecting everyone. Maybe he caught a negative vibe from my presence and my camera video recording his every move, documenting the way he's sitting with his legs crossed and his computer bag lying on his lap. He's sipping an orange crush and digging in his shirt pocket. Gum; He has a stick of gum; wintergreen or spearmint but not cinnamon.
It's the shirt that distorts this scenario. It's too dramatic for Cincinnati. It's made for a tropic escape to South America not middle America.
The chicken wasn't that good but I hope you enjoyed the story.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Happy Anniversary!
Since 1990 every time I have given a wedding gift in the card I have written these words: husbands and wives are a dime a dozen but a best friend to spend the rest of your life with is one in a million. I learned this twenty seven years ago TODAY when my daddy walked me down the aisle to join my very young life with that guy I live with.
This is not the first anniversary we have spent in different time zones but this year I have this handy dandy blog to broadcast the secrets of a blessed relationship:
1. I met that guy I live with in 1984 when I was 15 years old. He came over to my house to court my sister but she was not interested. Yes, little sister gets the hand-me-downs.
2. Our first “date” was to a Junior High football game in Elysian Fields to watch Lance play. It came a down pour and we retreated innocently to the car. Most of the night we listened to Bryan Adams sing “straight from the heart”.
3. With Lance still in the back seat we held hands for the first time on the way home. Journey was playing on the radio, “Sender my love” and that guy I live with bumped my hand accidentally. I thought he was shyly attempting to hold my hand so I grabbed his like a bass on top water bait.
4. The first time we kissed our teeth bumped. It was his fault.
5. When we started ‘going together’ (80’s term) we were standing at the top of the bleachers at a football game in Beckville.
“People keep asking me if we are going together”, he said.
“What do you tell them?”
“What should I tell them?” From the very beginning he answered questions with questions.
“Tell them we are.”
Since then there have been days when I have wanted more, days when I have wanted less, and days when I didn’t know what I wanted.
Together we have had 5 pregnancies and three sons; we have buried our fathers and grandparents; we completed our four year degrees. Today, if he is reading this from Mississippi or Louisiana then he will know that I have left a surprise for him in the capable hands of my mother.
The Claddaugh Ring: the symbolism dates back centuries. According to Google University:
1. The hands represent friendship; to me they represent history, where we started, the past that we drag along with us daily.
2. The heart represents love but to me it is today and the opportunity to make today better than yesterday.
3. The crown represents loyalty. The future, the potential, possibilities, and purposeful intention to live happily ever after.
Happy Anniversary to that guy I live with!
This is not the first anniversary we have spent in different time zones but this year I have this handy dandy blog to broadcast the secrets of a blessed relationship:
1. I met that guy I live with in 1984 when I was 15 years old. He came over to my house to court my sister but she was not interested. Yes, little sister gets the hand-me-downs.
2. Our first “date” was to a Junior High football game in Elysian Fields to watch Lance play. It came a down pour and we retreated innocently to the car. Most of the night we listened to Bryan Adams sing “straight from the heart”.
3. With Lance still in the back seat we held hands for the first time on the way home. Journey was playing on the radio, “Sender my love” and that guy I live with bumped my hand accidentally. I thought he was shyly attempting to hold my hand so I grabbed his like a bass on top water bait.
4. The first time we kissed our teeth bumped. It was his fault.
5. When we started ‘going together’ (80’s term) we were standing at the top of the bleachers at a football game in Beckville.
“People keep asking me if we are going together”, he said.
“What do you tell them?”
“What should I tell them?” From the very beginning he answered questions with questions.
“Tell them we are.”
Since then there have been days when I have wanted more, days when I have wanted less, and days when I didn’t know what I wanted.
Together we have had 5 pregnancies and three sons; we have buried our fathers and grandparents; we completed our four year degrees. Today, if he is reading this from Mississippi or Louisiana then he will know that I have left a surprise for him in the capable hands of my mother.
The Claddaugh Ring: the symbolism dates back centuries. According to Google University:
1. The hands represent friendship; to me they represent history, where we started, the past that we drag along with us daily.
2. The heart represents love but to me it is today and the opportunity to make today better than yesterday.
3. The crown represents loyalty. The future, the potential, possibilities, and purposeful intention to live happily ever after.
Happy Anniversary to that guy I live with!
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Five things I can see from here:
1. I see a family sitting at the bar. I suspect they don’t recognize they are in a hotel tavern but think it is an extension of the atrium. The children are tumbling about on the furniture and seem to be waiting for something. One of the young youngsters is about 10 years old and is wearing purple soccer socks.
2. The Pizza delivery guy and the Chinese food deliver guy are waiting at the ‘circle table’ of the lobby. They exchange casual dialogue in an almost tragic fashion while anticipating that at any moment their caller will meander into the lobby and rescue them.
3. A fireplace in Florida. I assume it is there for the sole purpose of dangling the Christmas decorations. When do you use a fireplace in Florida? By the way, the family in the bar is now playing Patty-cake or something as unpleasant.
4. The revolving door and its exhausting crusade and determination to bring people in and take people out in chorus and without disruption.
5. Five American flags in a spray of cut flowers, (also red, white and blue) poised in graceful partisanship, exhibiting independence, and placed in celebration of the birthdate of American.
Oddly enough this seems to some extent like work.
2. The Pizza delivery guy and the Chinese food deliver guy are waiting at the ‘circle table’ of the lobby. They exchange casual dialogue in an almost tragic fashion while anticipating that at any moment their caller will meander into the lobby and rescue them.
3. A fireplace in Florida. I assume it is there for the sole purpose of dangling the Christmas decorations. When do you use a fireplace in Florida? By the way, the family in the bar is now playing Patty-cake or something as unpleasant.
4. The revolving door and its exhausting crusade and determination to bring people in and take people out in chorus and without disruption.
5. Five American flags in a spray of cut flowers, (also red, white and blue) poised in graceful partisanship, exhibiting independence, and placed in celebration of the birthdate of American.
Oddly enough this seems to some extent like work.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
It's not about you
I'm a little bit frazzled and rightly so. Last week I laid around in airports from Shreveport to Chicago and back. After spending 36 consecutive hours in the in six different terminals, in four different cities I took a day of mental R&R. I slept twelve hours in my own wallowed out gel top king-sized bed. I twisted and wiggled and I tried to recuperate and I guess I did just in time to start over this week. Out of Bush Intercontinental on Sunday evening, through Dallas Fort Worth into Oklahoma city. Monday night I boarded in Oklahoma City to Omaha, Nebraska and then back to OKC on Tuesday. I worked late on Wednesday but after three nights in the airports I was happy to catch up on some employee online education and emails. It's Thursday night and I have managed to get to the Delta terminal of Tulsa International Airport. Destination: Jackson, Mississippi.
This morning I drove off with my day planner lying on top of the rental car while I talked on the phone to a customer in Hutchinson, Kansas. On my way to the airport I pulled a half inch long (thankfully) blonde hair from my chin that no one bothered to tell me existed. It's all okay though because I like my job and because in seat 23B, next to me, on a dark plane into Jackson, Mississippi, I saw a reflection if myself.
I started off thinking, no, of all the crazy people on this plane, why do I have to sit by 'the guy.' You know ‘the guy’; the one who sat in the bar too long; the one that thinks his jokes are funnier than they really are; the guy in the Hawaiian shirt headed to Mississippi.
Before we were to the runway I knew he was a drug rep for Upshur Smith out of Minnesota. He's been there two years and he loves it. Before that he was in pharmaceutical sales for a global company but not happy. Before we had the wheels up he told me his life was changed and that today he was a better man. He brought it up so I asked, “what event changed your life?” If Ron was telling this he might say it was turning 49 years old and realizing that he's living on borrowed time since his Dad died at 49. He might say it was the realization that life is too short and he has much to laugh about and live for. He might tell you about the day in 2010 when he hit his knees and gave his life to the Jesus that his step grandmother told him about when he was just a kid. Maybe he would tell you it was his own kids and his determination to do right by them or the love of his life that they called mom that divorced him a few years back.
His jokes still aren't that funny (sorry, Ron) but through his stories and his willingness to share them I could see a little bit of myself and the places I could grow. He shared this simple motto: it starts with me but it's not about me.
I've heard that before; I've said that before but tonight I heard that from someone in seat 23B that needed to say it and be heard.
This morning I drove off with my day planner lying on top of the rental car while I talked on the phone to a customer in Hutchinson, Kansas. On my way to the airport I pulled a half inch long (thankfully) blonde hair from my chin that no one bothered to tell me existed. It's all okay though because I like my job and because in seat 23B, next to me, on a dark plane into Jackson, Mississippi, I saw a reflection if myself.
I started off thinking, no, of all the crazy people on this plane, why do I have to sit by 'the guy.' You know ‘the guy’; the one who sat in the bar too long; the one that thinks his jokes are funnier than they really are; the guy in the Hawaiian shirt headed to Mississippi.
Before we were to the runway I knew he was a drug rep for Upshur Smith out of Minnesota. He's been there two years and he loves it. Before that he was in pharmaceutical sales for a global company but not happy. Before we had the wheels up he told me his life was changed and that today he was a better man. He brought it up so I asked, “what event changed your life?” If Ron was telling this he might say it was turning 49 years old and realizing that he's living on borrowed time since his Dad died at 49. He might say it was the realization that life is too short and he has much to laugh about and live for. He might tell you about the day in 2010 when he hit his knees and gave his life to the Jesus that his step grandmother told him about when he was just a kid. Maybe he would tell you it was his own kids and his determination to do right by them or the love of his life that they called mom that divorced him a few years back.
His jokes still aren't that funny (sorry, Ron) but through his stories and his willingness to share them I could see a little bit of myself and the places I could grow. He shared this simple motto: it starts with me but it's not about me.
I've heard that before; I've said that before but tonight I heard that from someone in seat 23B that needed to say it and be heard.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Fashion nonsense
Any of you that know me very well know that I am by no means a fashion expert. I wear sweat pants and converse tennis shoes way too often. I don't like to get my hair cut so I often look shaggier than I should. I don't color my hair so I have that dishwater blonde that no one would ever request and most wouldn't tolerate. My nails are jagged and natural, yeah, let’s say they are natural. And truth be known, I celebrate 'no shave November' two months longer than most Bass Pro shoppers. Maybe you've noticed.
Regardless I have a few opinions on the subject. I can handle a man in a leotard if he's a dancer or a gymnast or aspiring to be but I don't know what to do with the man in the hotel hobby in a black leotard and a sports bra. He doesn't fit into any of the categories that society has taught me to acknowledge. Maybe I am condescending, judgmental, or a backwoods redneck hick; I can own that. Forgive me, but then tell me what does it mean if a grown man is wearing a sports bra in public (or elsewhere)?
In my travels I see many things that I just don't understand. Most recently I have noted more and more entire families with colored hair. Mom has blue streaks, Dad has purple, one kids has green, the other has orange. My boys are probably glad we didn't do the family hair dyeing trend because I would have made them having matching or at the very least coordinating colors like their Easter outfits or our Christmas pajamas. I wonder if it was the mom's idea. Did she beg the dad to participate? Did they lose a bet? Did they fight over who got which color?
Speaking of pajamas when did it become acceptable to wear your sleeping clothes out in public? It's been allowed for some time to drag through Wal-Mart in nighties you would never wear anywhere else but the airports are crawling with grown women in footy pajamas and no bra! I have a simple rule: if you're schedule is so tight that you don't have time to put on under garments you should skip something else from your morning routine. Or better yet if you know you are going to have get up early to be at the airport by 10:00 o'clock maybe just sleep in your sports bra.
People are full of fashion rules about what color shoes should be worn after Labor Day, walking in heels the correct way, and chipped and flaking toe nail polish with sandals. I have one more rule specifically for the heavy girl and then I will put on my tie dye T-shirt and walk away. Just because it comes in your size doesn't mean you should wear it. I tip the scales that way too so I understand. If you want to wear a bathing suit on the beach you run a definite risk of being referred to as a beached whale and that’s ok. It happens to the best of us but please don't parade around the mall in a tube top and booty shorts. It kills my fashion appetite.
Regardless I have a few opinions on the subject. I can handle a man in a leotard if he's a dancer or a gymnast or aspiring to be but I don't know what to do with the man in the hotel hobby in a black leotard and a sports bra. He doesn't fit into any of the categories that society has taught me to acknowledge. Maybe I am condescending, judgmental, or a backwoods redneck hick; I can own that. Forgive me, but then tell me what does it mean if a grown man is wearing a sports bra in public (or elsewhere)?
In my travels I see many things that I just don't understand. Most recently I have noted more and more entire families with colored hair. Mom has blue streaks, Dad has purple, one kids has green, the other has orange. My boys are probably glad we didn't do the family hair dyeing trend because I would have made them having matching or at the very least coordinating colors like their Easter outfits or our Christmas pajamas. I wonder if it was the mom's idea. Did she beg the dad to participate? Did they lose a bet? Did they fight over who got which color?
Speaking of pajamas when did it become acceptable to wear your sleeping clothes out in public? It's been allowed for some time to drag through Wal-Mart in nighties you would never wear anywhere else but the airports are crawling with grown women in footy pajamas and no bra! I have a simple rule: if you're schedule is so tight that you don't have time to put on under garments you should skip something else from your morning routine. Or better yet if you know you are going to have get up early to be at the airport by 10:00 o'clock maybe just sleep in your sports bra.
People are full of fashion rules about what color shoes should be worn after Labor Day, walking in heels the correct way, and chipped and flaking toe nail polish with sandals. I have one more rule specifically for the heavy girl and then I will put on my tie dye T-shirt and walk away. Just because it comes in your size doesn't mean you should wear it. I tip the scales that way too so I understand. If you want to wear a bathing suit on the beach you run a definite risk of being referred to as a beached whale and that’s ok. It happens to the best of us but please don't parade around the mall in a tube top and booty shorts. It kills my fashion appetite.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
the pumpkin tattoo
Several months ago I sat in a meeting with my team, my coworkers and people I am developing strong and lasting friendships with. We were asked to introduce ourselves and to share a personal fun fact. Directly across the room from me sat a sales coworker just a little older than me. She dresses stylish yet conservative. Her hair is short, her nails long; both attended to nicely. She has grown children, two grandchildren, a husband and a soft spot for her forelegged friend of the canine variety. She is very normal, middle America, mom next door, PTA president, Mac and cheese making lady. In her job she's successful and admired. Her fun fact was that she has a rose tattoo on her shoulder.
I wasn't shocked at all but immediately I started envisioning how she came to have a rose tattoo on her body. Was she drunk? Maybe a dare? Is that the only tattoo she has? Did she go at night to the ink shop or after brunch with the PTA ladies? Was it a sketchy neighborhood or maybe she had a friend in the business? What other designs did she consider?
Unfortunately, we where not encouraged to linger on any one fun fact during the introductions.
Still why the rose? Maybe that's her middle name our her mothers name (it's my mothers name but I never thought of getting it on my body) . She didn't say what color it is or the type of rose? Is it opened or a bud? I wonder if it has thorns.
Strangely the meaning of all these different characteristics is available online for your googling enjoyment.
I haven't yet seen the coworkers rose ut given what I know about her I expect it is a traditional red rose representing true love. I bet it has a couple of leaves showing and it is a partially opened bloom. The number of pedals can also contain symbolism.
Curiosity plays a big role in fueling my imagination.
So yesterday whilst in Memphis we toured the Sun Studio. We had a fabulous tour guide! She was energetic and engaging in a surprising and welcoming manner. However, as I listened to her I couldn't help but notice the large tattoos across her chest and down the outside of her right arm. The neck line of shirt left most of the lettering on her chest visible and it appeared to read 'honkytonk angel'. At the top of her right arm she had a rocket with a cowgirl lassoing into space. Just above that concerned me. No, it wasn't vulger or inappropriate. It was Jack O'latternO'lattern. I didn't Google the meaning of the pumpkin tat because all II could think of was how drunk must you get at Octoberfest to get a pumpkin tattoo?
I don't have any tattoos but it's not because I haven't thought about it from time to time. It's because I could never decide on an image that would represent me for the rest of my life. I have many friends that sport many artful designs across their bodies. My oldest son has some tattoos that only his mother loves as much as he does. But as I said, I am curious. Why did you, blog reader, friend, family, get the tattoo that you did? What does it symbolize to you? Are you happy with it? Does it make you smile in your heart when you look at it and think about the time when it was new?
Please share.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
while in Memphis...
It's been a great week in Memphis, TN. I'm exhausted but I have enjoyed myself and I have learned a few things.
I've never been what some would call an Elvis Presley fan. I like some of his music, some not so much. I think he was very attractive in some of his younger pictures but I would not claim to be attracted to him.
But I did learn a few things about Elvis this week.
Like:
1. he had a toe fetish...I won't explain. You can google it.
2. There were rumors that he was 'funny'
3. Lisa Marie was born nine months to the day after Elvis and Priscilla were married.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Shoot low, Sheriff
In my very simple southern life talking to God was often, expected, and typically understood. We went to bed with a prayer; we ate with a prayer; we started events and parted ways with a prayer; we prayed with all emotions, in celebration and sadness, in fellowship and funeral. We prayed out loud, silently, and in unison. We prayed as children and as adults and were taught that prayer without ceasing means not only constantly but as long as you are alive. I am no stranger to talking to God.
In addition I believe with all my being that God hears my prayers. He hears the prayers that I have no right to whisper. He hears the silent prayers and the prayers I sing as I travel the highways and byways. He hears the tear soaked prayers and the shouts of joy. He hears me when I say, 'God, I'm not ready to talk about it yet.' Sometimes as I lay my head down at night I say, 'God, do you mind if I just talk to you until I fall asleep?' And I know he hears me.
I remember as a children being taught prayers to say and memorizing the Lord’s Prayer. My daddy used to jokingly say, 'praise the Lord and the holy ghost, who eats the fastest gets the most!' It seemed so rogue to me as a child that I would only say it to myself quietly and never as a replacement for 'turning thanks'.
Listening to God, on the other hand is not as easy. Don't get me wrong, I believe God communicates with us. I don't necessarily believe he uses an audible voice but I do believe that in many ways he can get our attention, convey his instructions, show his approval or disapproval in some cases, and grant our requests if he so chooses. He has his ways and they are not our ways.
Thinking about God, the father, and how he communicates with me makes me think about the way my earthly father talked to me, what he said, what he meant. Those that knew my daddy knew that he had a very colorful way of speaking and a very colorful way of saying nothing. He was funny and jovial and descriptive in a manner somewhat like I am. Among his favorite sayings, “horse mess and gun smoke!", “He don't even suspect nothin" and my personal favorite, "shoot low, sheriff. He's riding a Shetland."
I spend a lot of time in the car by myself between radio stations and somewhere down one of those long highways I began to ponder the thought, if God, my heavenly father said, “shoot low, sheriff, he's riding a Shetland" what would it mean?
I guess I would interpret it this way: He referred to me as sheriff so I must have some authority and probably a large amount of responsibility. I would imagine that this is a position of respect and likely conflict or controversy. It's also a job and a title, not my name, so I would expect that he was going to address something to do with work. He’s telling me to shoot, destroy, disenable, render un-operational someone and he's telling me to do it in a logical manner. If he's riding a short horse I need to aim low. If the enemy is walking on stilts shooting low might not be the best option. If alcoholism is my battle I should probably stay out of bars and away from places where drinking is prominent. If I have difficulty staying out of gossip sessions I should stay away from the social settings that enable that type of behavior.
Knowing my enemies, taking the path of logic, with the instruction of God…I think I could draw a few more points out of this but instead I will ask you to leave your comments. Use your imagination, what can you see in this?
In addition I believe with all my being that God hears my prayers. He hears the prayers that I have no right to whisper. He hears the silent prayers and the prayers I sing as I travel the highways and byways. He hears the tear soaked prayers and the shouts of joy. He hears me when I say, 'God, I'm not ready to talk about it yet.' Sometimes as I lay my head down at night I say, 'God, do you mind if I just talk to you until I fall asleep?' And I know he hears me.
I remember as a children being taught prayers to say and memorizing the Lord’s Prayer. My daddy used to jokingly say, 'praise the Lord and the holy ghost, who eats the fastest gets the most!' It seemed so rogue to me as a child that I would only say it to myself quietly and never as a replacement for 'turning thanks'.
Listening to God, on the other hand is not as easy. Don't get me wrong, I believe God communicates with us. I don't necessarily believe he uses an audible voice but I do believe that in many ways he can get our attention, convey his instructions, show his approval or disapproval in some cases, and grant our requests if he so chooses. He has his ways and they are not our ways.
Thinking about God, the father, and how he communicates with me makes me think about the way my earthly father talked to me, what he said, what he meant. Those that knew my daddy knew that he had a very colorful way of speaking and a very colorful way of saying nothing. He was funny and jovial and descriptive in a manner somewhat like I am. Among his favorite sayings, “horse mess and gun smoke!", “He don't even suspect nothin" and my personal favorite, "shoot low, sheriff. He's riding a Shetland."
I spend a lot of time in the car by myself between radio stations and somewhere down one of those long highways I began to ponder the thought, if God, my heavenly father said, “shoot low, sheriff, he's riding a Shetland" what would it mean?
I guess I would interpret it this way: He referred to me as sheriff so I must have some authority and probably a large amount of responsibility. I would imagine that this is a position of respect and likely conflict or controversy. It's also a job and a title, not my name, so I would expect that he was going to address something to do with work. He’s telling me to shoot, destroy, disenable, render un-operational someone and he's telling me to do it in a logical manner. If he's riding a short horse I need to aim low. If the enemy is walking on stilts shooting low might not be the best option. If alcoholism is my battle I should probably stay out of bars and away from places where drinking is prominent. If I have difficulty staying out of gossip sessions I should stay away from the social settings that enable that type of behavior.
Knowing my enemies, taking the path of logic, with the instruction of God…I think I could draw a few more points out of this but instead I will ask you to leave your comments. Use your imagination, what can you see in this?
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
I know how I got here.
"Well, hell. My third wife was that way."
That was the phrase that initially caught my attention. Two men sitting in a booth across from each other; the kind of booth that you used to see in the old Dairy Queens; orange Formica. One of the men was sucking the bottom out of a sweet tea, twisting his wedding ring on his finger while the other one talked around his cigarette and sipped black coffee. Neither man appeared to have shaven in the last few days. Their hands were calloused; rough like a rusty pair of pliers. I wondered how many wives he had parted ways with and if he had one waiting at home for him now.
Between their Formica booth and mine sat two women; one was in her twenties and the other old enough to be her mother though had they not been in my line of sight their conversation would not have indicated any difference in age. Their voices were low and they spoke in abbreviated sentence structure masking the content, fueling my interest, and frustrating my efforts to booth hustle on their conversation to know how they concluded.
The waitress was kind. She called me sweetie in a manner that seemed acceptable and flattering. I watched her motor swiftly through the diner like an obstacle course that she had mastered many years ago. Her hair was cheap blonde and her fingers appeared to have stains from a lifetime of shelling purple hull peas. Her smile was sincere and her eyes were honest.
She poured me a cup of coffee and asked for my order efficiently and friendly. I could smell that she had recently had a cigarette. She fit a profile that said 'I've had a hard but genuine life.' I couldn't help but speculate on how she got here. Broken home? Failed marriage or marriages? She speaks intelligently but still I wonder if she finished high school. I decide she lives in a small trailer house; one from the era of being called trailer houses. It's probably aged and stained with nicotine from many heartfelt girlfriend coffee drinking conversations around the kitchen table and an ashtray. I expect that she has a box of family treasures slid under her bed. A box that includes a handkerchief her granddaddy carried in the bib of his overalls. She might have a piece of silk from a christening gown or wedding dress wrapped around a silver jewelry box containing a few wheat pennies and a buckeye. She likely has a souvenir from a family devastation; a board or piece of wallpaper from the family home that was destroyed by a tornado in the early summer of the mid 50's; a quilt that swaddled a child. I decide that she is a traditionalist, maybe even typical of her generation but she is someone's best friend and good neighbor. She may be someone's idea of a failure.
I think her name is Ruby. She's independent and loyal. She probably doesn't go to church as often as she was raised to but knows her soul is secure and her God is still on the throne.
While my imagination is running wild I decide she has a relaxed and easy relationship with a man that she has known her whole life. She loves him but she's not interested in marrying him or even living with him. They have a lot of freedom in a relationship designed to combat loneliness and the pressure to date. They have a different expectation of happiness than any generation since.
All of these conclusions I have made and I haven't even received my ham and cheese omelet yet.
The mother daughter booth continued with questions like, 'do you think she will?' And vague answers like,' you know what she did last time.' The content was disguised but I determined it was the actions and habits of a mutual friend that they met here to hash through. My imagination could have shredded this down to a harlequin novel or tabloid trash. They did not possess the same qualities and genuineness of Ruby.
I now have my omelet in front of me and feel confident in my appraisal of their characters. After a half of a cup of strong coffee and a bite of cheesy omelet I can deduce that these ladies would never be friends of Ruby; she surely won't call them sweetie. That is a name only for me and the guy with the cigarette.
Half way through my plate of late night breakfast I decided we all arrived at Debbi's Highway Diner the same way. We didn't set out to be here but it wasn't by accident either.
Myself, I was headed back from working in Kansas a few days. I had too much windshield time, been in the hotels in for days, met with customers that were not satisfied with workflow. I was physically, emotionally, and intellectually drained but I had many miles and many hours left to travel before I could fall face first into home.
The skies began to darken just beyond the hills of Southeast Oklahoma. The blue became chalky gray and I began to see the rickrack of lightening decorate the horizon. It wasn't long before I saw the storm in my rearview mirrors, my left and my right and dead ahead. That's how I ended up at the highway diner in Okmulgee, Oklahoma that night.
Perhaps it was a storm of life that landed Ruby here too. Maybe a detour from a rough week or she was tried and just needed to slow down for a bit.
That was the phrase that initially caught my attention. Two men sitting in a booth across from each other; the kind of booth that you used to see in the old Dairy Queens; orange Formica. One of the men was sucking the bottom out of a sweet tea, twisting his wedding ring on his finger while the other one talked around his cigarette and sipped black coffee. Neither man appeared to have shaven in the last few days. Their hands were calloused; rough like a rusty pair of pliers. I wondered how many wives he had parted ways with and if he had one waiting at home for him now.
Between their Formica booth and mine sat two women; one was in her twenties and the other old enough to be her mother though had they not been in my line of sight their conversation would not have indicated any difference in age. Their voices were low and they spoke in abbreviated sentence structure masking the content, fueling my interest, and frustrating my efforts to booth hustle on their conversation to know how they concluded.
The waitress was kind. She called me sweetie in a manner that seemed acceptable and flattering. I watched her motor swiftly through the diner like an obstacle course that she had mastered many years ago. Her hair was cheap blonde and her fingers appeared to have stains from a lifetime of shelling purple hull peas. Her smile was sincere and her eyes were honest.
She poured me a cup of coffee and asked for my order efficiently and friendly. I could smell that she had recently had a cigarette. She fit a profile that said 'I've had a hard but genuine life.' I couldn't help but speculate on how she got here. Broken home? Failed marriage or marriages? She speaks intelligently but still I wonder if she finished high school. I decide she lives in a small trailer house; one from the era of being called trailer houses. It's probably aged and stained with nicotine from many heartfelt girlfriend coffee drinking conversations around the kitchen table and an ashtray. I expect that she has a box of family treasures slid under her bed. A box that includes a handkerchief her granddaddy carried in the bib of his overalls. She might have a piece of silk from a christening gown or wedding dress wrapped around a silver jewelry box containing a few wheat pennies and a buckeye. She likely has a souvenir from a family devastation; a board or piece of wallpaper from the family home that was destroyed by a tornado in the early summer of the mid 50's; a quilt that swaddled a child. I decide that she is a traditionalist, maybe even typical of her generation but she is someone's best friend and good neighbor. She may be someone's idea of a failure.
I think her name is Ruby. She's independent and loyal. She probably doesn't go to church as often as she was raised to but knows her soul is secure and her God is still on the throne.
While my imagination is running wild I decide she has a relaxed and easy relationship with a man that she has known her whole life. She loves him but she's not interested in marrying him or even living with him. They have a lot of freedom in a relationship designed to combat loneliness and the pressure to date. They have a different expectation of happiness than any generation since.
All of these conclusions I have made and I haven't even received my ham and cheese omelet yet.
The mother daughter booth continued with questions like, 'do you think she will?' And vague answers like,' you know what she did last time.' The content was disguised but I determined it was the actions and habits of a mutual friend that they met here to hash through. My imagination could have shredded this down to a harlequin novel or tabloid trash. They did not possess the same qualities and genuineness of Ruby.
I now have my omelet in front of me and feel confident in my appraisal of their characters. After a half of a cup of strong coffee and a bite of cheesy omelet I can deduce that these ladies would never be friends of Ruby; she surely won't call them sweetie. That is a name only for me and the guy with the cigarette.
Half way through my plate of late night breakfast I decided we all arrived at Debbi's Highway Diner the same way. We didn't set out to be here but it wasn't by accident either.
Myself, I was headed back from working in Kansas a few days. I had too much windshield time, been in the hotels in for days, met with customers that were not satisfied with workflow. I was physically, emotionally, and intellectually drained but I had many miles and many hours left to travel before I could fall face first into home.
The skies began to darken just beyond the hills of Southeast Oklahoma. The blue became chalky gray and I began to see the rickrack of lightening decorate the horizon. It wasn't long before I saw the storm in my rearview mirrors, my left and my right and dead ahead. That's how I ended up at the highway diner in Okmulgee, Oklahoma that night.
Perhaps it was a storm of life that landed Ruby here too. Maybe a detour from a rough week or she was tried and just needed to slow down for a bit.
Monday, June 1, 2015
When is it OK?
If I'm a little fuzzy or confused in judging right from wrong I refer to these simple checks: is it scripturally right or wrong? What would my mother say? And lastly, how would I react if my children did it?
Now I am a grown woman and my mother did a fair job of teaching me (and many others) right from wrong. I don't recall a time growing up when I was left in a fog without clarification on how to follow a moral compass. I don't remember a specific event that created a need for my mother to tell me that stealing was wrong but I did indeed know that to take something that didn't belong to me was a 'no-no'. I can't say that I ever had to be told not to hit others with a baseball bat, I don't think she ever had to remind me not to spit on the floor or not to use a broom handle on the neighbor’s cat; perhaps she taught by example as those are things she would never do. I do remember being told it was not nice to trap John and Alva Lynn in the junk house even though at the time Becky, David and I felt positive they deserved it. I somewhat remember being scolded about my smart mouth and about cleaning the bathroom, and making grades in school. I even remember the worst whipping I ever got from my daddy was for laughing from behind the couch because Becky was getting a whipping. It was crystal clear from that point on that making a joke out of someone else's grief was unacceptable behavior.
I remember as a teen that my mother hated the word 'turd' and we were not to use it. My daddy took offense to ever being called stupid therefore we were strongly discouraged from referring to someone that way. We were, however, allowed to point out their ignorance and occasionally we labeled some as idiots. It was unacceptable to refer to someone as a liar even if they were, simply because if they truly were lying they knew it. If they didn't know then it was likely they were only mistaken and not lying at all.
However, it wasn't until my own children used these words and terms that I heard them as truly offensive. To hear one child scream 'stupid' at another is like hearing a chandelier fall from the ballroom ceiling and shatter onto a grand piano. The reverberations echo painfully in your head. It's almost paralyzing and energizing simultaneously to hear your own flesh and blood referred to as 'liar' by their sibling. In one smooth motion, like a spinning superhero or a graceful ballerina your lungs expand and your heart drops like the chandelier.
Thirdly, but certainly not least, is scripture. I would say that the perfect, complete and inspired word of God would be an excellent place to challenge the opinions and principles of social acceptability. If we took our thoughts and opinions to the mirror of certainty for a selfie we might find the truth to be unarguably reflective. We might say it resembles the second or third chin that we deny having but the camera always finds just below our smile; I can't see it with my own eyes but I can certainly see it in the mirror or the photograph.
When I first began this post I had the question before me: when is it okay to hate? I have never been a fan of the word or the attitude of hate. Many times I have told my kids, please don't hate. Find a different way to express strong dislike or dissatisfaction with someone or something, but please don't hate. Remove yourself from the situation or stomp your foot but please don't hate. Choose to be different and learn from the situation but please don't hate. I also realized as I put together my little how to on reading the moral compass that this little recipe is worthy of the abbreviated title 'when is it ok?' Period.
When is it ok to tell a little white lie?
When is it ok to cheat on my homework or test?
When is it ok to not correct a billing issue in my favor at a restaurant?
When is it ok to speed through a school zone, run a red light, or park in a handicap spot?
If you are confused on these we can talk off line but what about the tough ones...socially?
When is it ok to take liberties with my taxes?
When is it okay to talk about the happenings in my neighborhood, church, family?
When is it ok to balk at authority?
When is it ok to disrespect my spouse, my boss, my child’s teacher?
Whatever my entanglement is, I should look at it objectively, open-mindedly, honestly; assume and be willing to admit that I am wrong and change my behavior. Mentally, ask my mother for her permission. Visually see my child in the circumstance and give them advice. Literally search the unshakable Word for the final answer and proceed with confidence.
Now I am a grown woman and my mother did a fair job of teaching me (and many others) right from wrong. I don't recall a time growing up when I was left in a fog without clarification on how to follow a moral compass. I don't remember a specific event that created a need for my mother to tell me that stealing was wrong but I did indeed know that to take something that didn't belong to me was a 'no-no'. I can't say that I ever had to be told not to hit others with a baseball bat, I don't think she ever had to remind me not to spit on the floor or not to use a broom handle on the neighbor’s cat; perhaps she taught by example as those are things she would never do. I do remember being told it was not nice to trap John and Alva Lynn in the junk house even though at the time Becky, David and I felt positive they deserved it. I somewhat remember being scolded about my smart mouth and about cleaning the bathroom, and making grades in school. I even remember the worst whipping I ever got from my daddy was for laughing from behind the couch because Becky was getting a whipping. It was crystal clear from that point on that making a joke out of someone else's grief was unacceptable behavior.
I remember as a teen that my mother hated the word 'turd' and we were not to use it. My daddy took offense to ever being called stupid therefore we were strongly discouraged from referring to someone that way. We were, however, allowed to point out their ignorance and occasionally we labeled some as idiots. It was unacceptable to refer to someone as a liar even if they were, simply because if they truly were lying they knew it. If they didn't know then it was likely they were only mistaken and not lying at all.
However, it wasn't until my own children used these words and terms that I heard them as truly offensive. To hear one child scream 'stupid' at another is like hearing a chandelier fall from the ballroom ceiling and shatter onto a grand piano. The reverberations echo painfully in your head. It's almost paralyzing and energizing simultaneously to hear your own flesh and blood referred to as 'liar' by their sibling. In one smooth motion, like a spinning superhero or a graceful ballerina your lungs expand and your heart drops like the chandelier.
Thirdly, but certainly not least, is scripture. I would say that the perfect, complete and inspired word of God would be an excellent place to challenge the opinions and principles of social acceptability. If we took our thoughts and opinions to the mirror of certainty for a selfie we might find the truth to be unarguably reflective. We might say it resembles the second or third chin that we deny having but the camera always finds just below our smile; I can't see it with my own eyes but I can certainly see it in the mirror or the photograph.
When I first began this post I had the question before me: when is it okay to hate? I have never been a fan of the word or the attitude of hate. Many times I have told my kids, please don't hate. Find a different way to express strong dislike or dissatisfaction with someone or something, but please don't hate. Remove yourself from the situation or stomp your foot but please don't hate. Choose to be different and learn from the situation but please don't hate. I also realized as I put together my little how to on reading the moral compass that this little recipe is worthy of the abbreviated title 'when is it ok?' Period.
When is it ok to tell a little white lie?
When is it ok to cheat on my homework or test?
When is it ok to not correct a billing issue in my favor at a restaurant?
When is it ok to speed through a school zone, run a red light, or park in a handicap spot?
If you are confused on these we can talk off line but what about the tough ones...socially?
When is it ok to take liberties with my taxes?
When is it okay to talk about the happenings in my neighborhood, church, family?
When is it ok to balk at authority?
When is it ok to disrespect my spouse, my boss, my child’s teacher?
Whatever my entanglement is, I should look at it objectively, open-mindedly, honestly; assume and be willing to admit that I am wrong and change my behavior. Mentally, ask my mother for her permission. Visually see my child in the circumstance and give them advice. Literally search the unshakable Word for the final answer and proceed with confidence.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Kansas grew a pornstar…
Often my travels take me up the interstates, over the hills, across the rivers, and, sometimes to the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere is quite likely somewhere close to home for many great people. Because I am a curious person, I like to probe around and see exactly who claims to be at home in the middle and just to the lower left of nowhere.
Recently I looked up from a useless iphone game that kept me mindlessly entertained while riding with coworkers to see the Leavenworth National Cemetery in Leavenworth, Kansas. Row on row of stark white markers role over the green berms and contours of the Kansas hills; nothing demands more respect. Unless, of course you look up the path to the Dwight D. Eisenhower VA Medical Center where generations of soldiers shuffle, slide, and wheel with well-deserved dignity through the hallways and wards. Some have obvious scars and wounds; others disguise the marks left from serving among Uncle Sam’s best.
I couldn’t get to Google quick enough. I needed to know more about the grounds of the VA hospital, the vacant domiciles, the chapel, and the history. I needed to probe the details and trivial information of Wikipedia.
What I found: Wow. I could walk the 28 blocks of downtown historic shopping or visit the carousel museum. Sounds like a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon or a Tuesday morning. I perused the data stats to find the median age is 35 years young, 75% white (Anglo), 25 public parks, the largest Jewish community in Kansas due the military, and a farmer’s market from May to October. So much to see but I am intrigued by the institutions that call Leavenworth, Kansas home and more so by the residence of those institutions.
Right down to the High School that started the first ROTC program in the country, this is a noteworthy town of about 36,000 middle class people; middle American at its best and perhaps its worst.
Leavenworth is home to the oldest of three major prisons built on federal land in the county. The massively substantial rectangular building with a centered prominent dome is nicknamed ‘the Big House’ or ‘the Big Top’ according to Wikipedia. The wall surrounding the nearly 23 acre grounds is 40 feet tall and 40 feet below the surface. I didn’t get up to the building, the wall or even the parking lot without seeing the razor wire upon razor wire twisted upon chain-link and more razor wire.
This medium security HOOSCOW is has been home to ‘Machine Gun Kelly’ and ‘King Tone’, Racecar drivers, dog fighters, the assassin of Martin Luther King, Jr., the bird man of Alcatraz, and the Psychiatrist/officer responsible for the death of 13 at The Great Place of Texas in 2009.
I can’t help to find this interesting but the county of Leavenworth is birthplace or home to some impressive noncriminal constituents as well. Perhaps just before the turn of the 20th century you might have seen Hilda Clark jumping rope on the streets of Leavenworth but in 1895 she was the face on the Coca-Cola tin trays. I am not familiar with his works YET, but Americana vocalist and guitarist, Adam Gnade is also a native of the prison county.
Maybe you have heard of Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill Cody, Melissa Etheridge and Charlie Daniels, and no less than professional skateboarder, Sean Malto. Who knew so much fame spurred from the heart of America?
Leavenworth is also home to the US Military’s only maximum-security prison for men court-martialed for violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (my vocabulary is expanding daily); enlisted prisoner, commissioned officers, and those convicted of crimes related to national security. I am now interested in seeing the film, The Last Castle, starring Robert Redford, which dramatically depicts an inmate verses warden conflict at the United States Disciplinary Barracks.
Perhaps more interesting than those who have lived and died in the USDB of Fort Leavenworth, are those who remain in the Military Prison Cemetery because they were unclaimed or refused by family.
In my line of work we might call this blog nothing more than a data dump of information but before you drop interested in the details of my Kansas Spring tour let me tell you about the pornstar.
Today’s adventures led me just northwest of Wichita (home of Don Johnson, Kirstie Alley, and ‘Gone with the Wind’ actress Hattie McDaniel) to the Arkansas River City of Hutchinson, Kansas.
No lack of notoriety here. Excavated underground salt mines are used to house master archival copies of ‘the Wizard of Oz’, ‘Gone with the Wind’, and ‘Star Wars’. The salt mining of Hutch was featured in Season 2 of ‘Dirty Jobs’ and Season 17 of ‘Modern Marvels’.
But the fun doesn’t stop there for Hutch.
Kelly Jackson is now 46 years old and lives in Vegas but in 1987 she was probably finishing her senior year at Hutchinson High School. She may have very well attended her senior prom that year and because I too am a product of the 80’s I can only imagine the dress she wore.
The information on the internet refers to her as Racquel Darrian, American Indian pornographic actress featured in 100+ adult movies and Penthouse and Playboy magazines but I guess I am interested in knowing a bit more about Kelly; who are her siblings? Was she in FFA in high school or campfire in grade school? Did she go to Vacation Bible School in the summer or on family trips to the mountains? Did she have a pink bicycle with a banana seat? Did her daddy take her fishing? Did she wear braces to correct her overbite? Does she still visit family in Hutch around the holidays? What’s her favorite color? Does she stay in touch with the girls that graduated with her in 1987?
I mostly wonder if she’s like me at all.
Recently I looked up from a useless iphone game that kept me mindlessly entertained while riding with coworkers to see the Leavenworth National Cemetery in Leavenworth, Kansas. Row on row of stark white markers role over the green berms and contours of the Kansas hills; nothing demands more respect. Unless, of course you look up the path to the Dwight D. Eisenhower VA Medical Center where generations of soldiers shuffle, slide, and wheel with well-deserved dignity through the hallways and wards. Some have obvious scars and wounds; others disguise the marks left from serving among Uncle Sam’s best.
I couldn’t get to Google quick enough. I needed to know more about the grounds of the VA hospital, the vacant domiciles, the chapel, and the history. I needed to probe the details and trivial information of Wikipedia.
What I found: Wow. I could walk the 28 blocks of downtown historic shopping or visit the carousel museum. Sounds like a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon or a Tuesday morning. I perused the data stats to find the median age is 35 years young, 75% white (Anglo), 25 public parks, the largest Jewish community in Kansas due the military, and a farmer’s market from May to October. So much to see but I am intrigued by the institutions that call Leavenworth, Kansas home and more so by the residence of those institutions.
Right down to the High School that started the first ROTC program in the country, this is a noteworthy town of about 36,000 middle class people; middle American at its best and perhaps its worst.
Leavenworth is home to the oldest of three major prisons built on federal land in the county. The massively substantial rectangular building with a centered prominent dome is nicknamed ‘the Big House’ or ‘the Big Top’ according to Wikipedia. The wall surrounding the nearly 23 acre grounds is 40 feet tall and 40 feet below the surface. I didn’t get up to the building, the wall or even the parking lot without seeing the razor wire upon razor wire twisted upon chain-link and more razor wire.
This medium security HOOSCOW is has been home to ‘Machine Gun Kelly’ and ‘King Tone’, Racecar drivers, dog fighters, the assassin of Martin Luther King, Jr., the bird man of Alcatraz, and the Psychiatrist/officer responsible for the death of 13 at The Great Place of Texas in 2009.
I can’t help to find this interesting but the county of Leavenworth is birthplace or home to some impressive noncriminal constituents as well. Perhaps just before the turn of the 20th century you might have seen Hilda Clark jumping rope on the streets of Leavenworth but in 1895 she was the face on the Coca-Cola tin trays. I am not familiar with his works YET, but Americana vocalist and guitarist, Adam Gnade is also a native of the prison county.
Maybe you have heard of Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill Cody, Melissa Etheridge and Charlie Daniels, and no less than professional skateboarder, Sean Malto. Who knew so much fame spurred from the heart of America?
Leavenworth is also home to the US Military’s only maximum-security prison for men court-martialed for violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (my vocabulary is expanding daily); enlisted prisoner, commissioned officers, and those convicted of crimes related to national security. I am now interested in seeing the film, The Last Castle, starring Robert Redford, which dramatically depicts an inmate verses warden conflict at the United States Disciplinary Barracks.
Perhaps more interesting than those who have lived and died in the USDB of Fort Leavenworth, are those who remain in the Military Prison Cemetery because they were unclaimed or refused by family.
In my line of work we might call this blog nothing more than a data dump of information but before you drop interested in the details of my Kansas Spring tour let me tell you about the pornstar.
Today’s adventures led me just northwest of Wichita (home of Don Johnson, Kirstie Alley, and ‘Gone with the Wind’ actress Hattie McDaniel) to the Arkansas River City of Hutchinson, Kansas.
No lack of notoriety here. Excavated underground salt mines are used to house master archival copies of ‘the Wizard of Oz’, ‘Gone with the Wind’, and ‘Star Wars’. The salt mining of Hutch was featured in Season 2 of ‘Dirty Jobs’ and Season 17 of ‘Modern Marvels’.
But the fun doesn’t stop there for Hutch.
Kelly Jackson is now 46 years old and lives in Vegas but in 1987 she was probably finishing her senior year at Hutchinson High School. She may have very well attended her senior prom that year and because I too am a product of the 80’s I can only imagine the dress she wore.
The information on the internet refers to her as Racquel Darrian, American Indian pornographic actress featured in 100+ adult movies and Penthouse and Playboy magazines but I guess I am interested in knowing a bit more about Kelly; who are her siblings? Was she in FFA in high school or campfire in grade school? Did she go to Vacation Bible School in the summer or on family trips to the mountains? Did she have a pink bicycle with a banana seat? Did her daddy take her fishing? Did she wear braces to correct her overbite? Does she still visit family in Hutch around the holidays? What’s her favorite color? Does she stay in touch with the girls that graduated with her in 1987?
I mostly wonder if she’s like me at all.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Kiss my GRITS!
In arranging my travels for work I have developed a tendency to go with what I know over the diverse options. I tend to stay at Marriott hotels over the local small chains and history stricken venues. I usually rent cars from National as opposed to Alamo or Avis or whoever because I know their rituals and routines not because they have better cars or lower prices. When I book flights I like to fly Delta. I like their check in process; I like that they are at Terminal A where I always park on the 6th level facing south. Additional between the TSA check point and the A terminals there is a Starbucks; I like that for the early morning and late afternoon flights. This week, as I maneuvered the corporate travel site, I had a scheduling challenge that pushed me into booking my flight with United. Hey, I am flexible. I can be adaptable and United is a contender. This was not a compromise just a change. Terminal B, 6th level parking facing north and a Starbucks en route; it’s all good!
As I approached the gate with a time to spare I stopped for a vanilla latte’ and a cinnamon scone. In line behind a beautiful lady; mid 40’s, short stylish hair, conservative business dress, practical luggage and mild southern accent; she apologizes for not pushing quickly and gracefully through the line with her 1990’s hunter green roller board carryon bags.
“No worries,” I said smiling at her.
Her response, “I feel like one of Charlie’s Angels today.”
Thoughts began to stumble around in my mind. I pictured Farrah Faucet feathered hair, bellbottom pants and handguns. I scanned the terminal for a resemblance of the show. I immediately started quizzing myself on my trivial knowledge of the very popular, trend setting show of the late 70’s, “Bosley, that was the guy’s name.” I thought to myself and gave myself a loud and dramatic mental high five!
Kate Jackson was my favorite on the show. I liked her voice; it was raspy and her input was practical and solid. Also, she was attractive in a not so Farrah Faucet kind of way. Really that is all I can remember about these lady MacGyver’s. I can’t remember a single episode or catch phrase.
I remember all the ladies of Gilligan’s Island; Ginger, Maryann, Lovie. I remember the nonsense and the theme song and many failed attempts to escape the island and the natives that lived there. I remember Crissy and Janet of Three’s Company and their silly ‘Lucy and Ethel’ antics. I can snort like Crissy. I can but I don’t. I watch many episodes of Eight is Enough but I don’t remember their names. I can list all of Liv Walton’s children and the girls from Little House on the Prairie: many of these wholesome storylines are embedded deep within my gray matter.
If my line mate at the Terminal B Starbucks had said, I feel like Nelly Olsen, without hesitation I would know exactly what she meant. I would pity the barista and be concerned for myself. I might even giggle a little when I thought about the grief she would give the Minnesota bound flight crew. But Charlie Angels?
"Charlie’s Angels, huh?” I responded.
“Yeah, I just have to pick a lock with a bobby pin!” she laughed at the thought.
“That sounds glamorous. I was thinking ‘Mel’s Diner’ at best” Yes, Mel’s Diner; I can wrap my mind around; no glam there. Egg, Coffee, order up! And Kiss my Grits! It’s that kind of day!
As I approached the gate with a time to spare I stopped for a vanilla latte’ and a cinnamon scone. In line behind a beautiful lady; mid 40’s, short stylish hair, conservative business dress, practical luggage and mild southern accent; she apologizes for not pushing quickly and gracefully through the line with her 1990’s hunter green roller board carryon bags.
“No worries,” I said smiling at her.
Her response, “I feel like one of Charlie’s Angels today.”
Thoughts began to stumble around in my mind. I pictured Farrah Faucet feathered hair, bellbottom pants and handguns. I scanned the terminal for a resemblance of the show. I immediately started quizzing myself on my trivial knowledge of the very popular, trend setting show of the late 70’s, “Bosley, that was the guy’s name.” I thought to myself and gave myself a loud and dramatic mental high five!
Kate Jackson was my favorite on the show. I liked her voice; it was raspy and her input was practical and solid. Also, she was attractive in a not so Farrah Faucet kind of way. Really that is all I can remember about these lady MacGyver’s. I can’t remember a single episode or catch phrase.
I remember all the ladies of Gilligan’s Island; Ginger, Maryann, Lovie. I remember the nonsense and the theme song and many failed attempts to escape the island and the natives that lived there. I remember Crissy and Janet of Three’s Company and their silly ‘Lucy and Ethel’ antics. I can snort like Crissy. I can but I don’t. I watch many episodes of Eight is Enough but I don’t remember their names. I can list all of Liv Walton’s children and the girls from Little House on the Prairie: many of these wholesome storylines are embedded deep within my gray matter.
If my line mate at the Terminal B Starbucks had said, I feel like Nelly Olsen, without hesitation I would know exactly what she meant. I would pity the barista and be concerned for myself. I might even giggle a little when I thought about the grief she would give the Minnesota bound flight crew. But Charlie Angels?
"Charlie’s Angels, huh?” I responded.
“Yeah, I just have to pick a lock with a bobby pin!” she laughed at the thought.
“That sounds glamorous. I was thinking ‘Mel’s Diner’ at best” Yes, Mel’s Diner; I can wrap my mind around; no glam there. Egg, Coffee, order up! And Kiss my Grits! It’s that kind of day!
Monday, April 6, 2015
I think he killed.
He killed them. It just occurred to me as I was in the bathroom with my striped flannel pajamas down around my ankles, in my oversized T-shirt. It was probably close to 1 o'clock in the morning. I was disgusted by my own toenails; the need for pedicure; the chipped nail polish. That's when it hit me. He killed both of them. He killed his father and his stepmother. He planned it all out; staged carefully like a one act play. Or did he?
I'm trying to remember his reaction. I'm trying to remember exactly how he handled the situation. Did he seem overwhelmed with grief? Did he appear to be mourning the death of his family? It's been nearly ten years. I can't remember. I don't even remember his eyes with tears. I don't remember redness or swelling. I don't remember him sad or crying.
I remember that when he came back into the lab I said "I'm so sorry about your family. I'm so sorry about your dad." And he said, " yeah."
I remember he said something about abscessed teeth. That both of them had abscessed teeth.
I guess at the time that didn't seem odd at all. I guess I thought that was just his way of explaining what had happen. I'm not sure now. I'm not sure at all. I think he killed them.
Great, this hotel has the cheapest toilet paper!
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Three years ago today.
In early February Dr. Belt suggested that we consider a geriatric behavior facility called Allegiance in Kilgore. Daddy had gotten more and more difficult to handle; we had considered a nursing home but mother had promised him years ago she would not put him in a nursing home. Most days though he thought he was in an institution or prison. By the way, he thought I was the administrator of the institution and most days he wasn’t sure who mom was. He was often argumentative and verbally aggressive. He was paranoid and suspicious of everything. He was more bull headed and confused. He was trying to leave all the time and had gotten to the point where it not only took mother but all of us to be around because he would say he was leaving and he would take off across the yard without a walker or chair or anything. He wouldn’t allow mom to take his shoes off or even leave his side. She slept in the chair or on the floor leaning on him all the time. He would open the truck door going down the road. He would see ‘creatures’ and people that didn’t exist and refusing to take meds.
The program at Allegiance was supposed to adjust his medicines based on a very extensive personal evaluation over 14 days as an inpatient. We talked to him about it. He had moments of clarity and he talked about this program and HE decided he wanted to do it. In almost a childlike manner he promised mother that he would do his best and that when he got out they would take a trip. They finally got the go ahead to admit him on a Monday afternoon and we were ready to go. He knew mother was packing his pajamas and meds and wheelchair. She packed his bathroom stuff and his favorite hat.
When I got to Allegiance that night they were in a holding room area. He sat in a chair by the window. They offered him a snack and a drink. He drank from the straw mostly by himself; he usually drank from a coke bottle or a cup without a straw and managed to maneuver that well unassisted. I sat and played in his wheelchair while we waited for them to ready his room. He joked with nurses in his usual manner. He told Mother that he needed to go to the bathroom. She helped him stand and he walked holding her hands, around the bed and into a small bathroom. She stayed in there to help him and then they emerged holding hands again they walked back to the chair by the window. It was some time before we were able to escort him to the door of the secured unit. We were not allowed to enter the unit but had to tell him bye at the door. My sister cried. My mom was upset because she didn’t understand why she couldn’t just go in to see where he would be. It was at that moment that we realized that access and visitation was limited to only one or two hours a day. He told us to go on and not make him cry. He was very brave and solemn and determined; brave in a way I hadn’t seen since I was much younger when he and my grandpa wrestled an armed robber to the carpet in a trailer house behind a gas station.
We all went home crying. I had brought him roses but had to take them back home with me. I had also picked him up some orange slices (one of his favorite candies). We were scared to death but hopeful and emotionally a hot mess.
The next day, Tuesday, Terry went with Mother for the visiting hour. Daddy acted like he didn’t know who Terry was but responded to Mother in some ways. That was a crazy night for me. I got off work early because Angel was headed to the hospital in Longview with Karlee. She was about to have my 3rd grandbaby. Brian and Stacey were headed to Central Heights to watch Levi play a basketball playoff game. I stayed at Longview Regional long enough to see Baby Cash (5#12oz c-section) and make sure Karlee was ok then I headed to the ballgame. It was a great game, Fat Tuesday, baby born; seemed like I was spinning in all directions physically and emotionally.
The next day I took off early to go with mom to see Daddy. We had a two hour visit. They rolled him into the visiting room, loud with chatter, blaring TV and other noises. As they stopped the wheelchair, before we could lock the wheels even, he started standing up. He stood as tall as he could and wrapped his arms around my mom. Tall as a pine tree, strong as an oak, he held her as if he were trying to be her strength. That was the last time he stood. They had taken him off his regular meds on Tuesday and started him on zyprexia and vpa the same day. He spiraled and we watched. When we questioned we were told that we needed to allow them time to evaluate him and he was in an adjustment stage.
Over the next few days he went from the wheelchair to a geriatric recliner, not responding and not eating. He dehydrated and could hardly breathe. He couldn’t talk and responded to very little. They claimed he was combative.
On the following Wednesday we asked to speak with the doctor. We asked to have a meeting with him on the following Friday because that was a time I was available to go with Mother. She received a call on Thursday morning saying the doctor would see her at noon. I made arrangements to be there even though I felt as if they did not want me to be there. The doctor had been prepped on our concerns and was already defensive and unapproachable. After a long meeting and resolving nothing we were told that we could take him to his regular doctor to be admitted and reevaluated. We choose to do this. Mom went on home but I lingered in the lobby of the facility. Unsure why, but I just couldn’t leave. The director came and told me my options, taking him to UTHSC in Tyler where he could see Dr Belt or somewhere else. We had already decided on UTHSC. Shortly after that an ambulance came screaming into the parking lot. I was in the car calling Brian and Mother. I went back into the building to find that the EMTs didn’t want to take him to Tyler because he wasn’t stable. They recommended that we take him to Good Shepherd.
At GSMC he was treated so well. The doctors, nurses, aids, everyone was so genuine and caring. He was never once combative or aggressive with them. He tried to communicate with us and could at first. He would say things like ‘stop it’ or sometimes he would say his name in a military manner when he was asked. He was in much pain and just generally uncomfortable. He still had not eaten but they were going to do a swallow test and see if they could feed him. They tested for everything possible but nothing but showed decreased brain activity was determined. But without a baseline for brain activity that really meant nothing. All they could say was negative reaction to treatment/progression of Alzheimer Disease.
Because he had a Living Will that said he didn’t want anything else done, we declined the permanent feeding tube (he had already pulled the nose tube out before he benefited from it). We placed him on hospice and we watched him choke and gurgle and sleep but he wasn’t in pain. We watched and hoped it wouldn’t take long and then sometimes we prayed he wouldn’t go.
Then one morning, on the 21st of March, 2012, one month and one day after he arrived at Allegiance he struggled and struggled. Mom and I sat and watched. With his head turned to one side he vomited old blood into my hands and I hid it from Mother because I didn’t want her to remember that. We called Becky and Terry. We sat and prayed in the dark room. After we had decided that he was going to make it thru another day and the sun was coming up, mom and I tried to laid down and rest for a minute. After an hour or so, I left the room to call Brian; that is when he took the last breathe.
Only the day before I had said, I am glad that my relationship with my daddy isn’t based on my being here when he takes his last breathe. I guess he made me own those words. I was in the bathroom praying for peace and comfort when he passed. I ran back in the room and all I could say was, Is it over?
It’s hard, harder than I ever thought. I wish I knew what to tell my mom. I wish I knew what she told her mother with my grandfather died.
Every day, I remember things that only my daddy would appreciate.
The program at Allegiance was supposed to adjust his medicines based on a very extensive personal evaluation over 14 days as an inpatient. We talked to him about it. He had moments of clarity and he talked about this program and HE decided he wanted to do it. In almost a childlike manner he promised mother that he would do his best and that when he got out they would take a trip. They finally got the go ahead to admit him on a Monday afternoon and we were ready to go. He knew mother was packing his pajamas and meds and wheelchair. She packed his bathroom stuff and his favorite hat.
When I got to Allegiance that night they were in a holding room area. He sat in a chair by the window. They offered him a snack and a drink. He drank from the straw mostly by himself; he usually drank from a coke bottle or a cup without a straw and managed to maneuver that well unassisted. I sat and played in his wheelchair while we waited for them to ready his room. He joked with nurses in his usual manner. He told Mother that he needed to go to the bathroom. She helped him stand and he walked holding her hands, around the bed and into a small bathroom. She stayed in there to help him and then they emerged holding hands again they walked back to the chair by the window. It was some time before we were able to escort him to the door of the secured unit. We were not allowed to enter the unit but had to tell him bye at the door. My sister cried. My mom was upset because she didn’t understand why she couldn’t just go in to see where he would be. It was at that moment that we realized that access and visitation was limited to only one or two hours a day. He told us to go on and not make him cry. He was very brave and solemn and determined; brave in a way I hadn’t seen since I was much younger when he and my grandpa wrestled an armed robber to the carpet in a trailer house behind a gas station.
We all went home crying. I had brought him roses but had to take them back home with me. I had also picked him up some orange slices (one of his favorite candies). We were scared to death but hopeful and emotionally a hot mess.
The next day, Tuesday, Terry went with Mother for the visiting hour. Daddy acted like he didn’t know who Terry was but responded to Mother in some ways. That was a crazy night for me. I got off work early because Angel was headed to the hospital in Longview with Karlee. She was about to have my 3rd grandbaby. Brian and Stacey were headed to Central Heights to watch Levi play a basketball playoff game. I stayed at Longview Regional long enough to see Baby Cash (5#12oz c-section) and make sure Karlee was ok then I headed to the ballgame. It was a great game, Fat Tuesday, baby born; seemed like I was spinning in all directions physically and emotionally.
The next day I took off early to go with mom to see Daddy. We had a two hour visit. They rolled him into the visiting room, loud with chatter, blaring TV and other noises. As they stopped the wheelchair, before we could lock the wheels even, he started standing up. He stood as tall as he could and wrapped his arms around my mom. Tall as a pine tree, strong as an oak, he held her as if he were trying to be her strength. That was the last time he stood. They had taken him off his regular meds on Tuesday and started him on zyprexia and vpa the same day. He spiraled and we watched. When we questioned we were told that we needed to allow them time to evaluate him and he was in an adjustment stage.
Over the next few days he went from the wheelchair to a geriatric recliner, not responding and not eating. He dehydrated and could hardly breathe. He couldn’t talk and responded to very little. They claimed he was combative.
On the following Wednesday we asked to speak with the doctor. We asked to have a meeting with him on the following Friday because that was a time I was available to go with Mother. She received a call on Thursday morning saying the doctor would see her at noon. I made arrangements to be there even though I felt as if they did not want me to be there. The doctor had been prepped on our concerns and was already defensive and unapproachable. After a long meeting and resolving nothing we were told that we could take him to his regular doctor to be admitted and reevaluated. We choose to do this. Mom went on home but I lingered in the lobby of the facility. Unsure why, but I just couldn’t leave. The director came and told me my options, taking him to UTHSC in Tyler where he could see Dr Belt or somewhere else. We had already decided on UTHSC. Shortly after that an ambulance came screaming into the parking lot. I was in the car calling Brian and Mother. I went back into the building to find that the EMTs didn’t want to take him to Tyler because he wasn’t stable. They recommended that we take him to Good Shepherd.
At GSMC he was treated so well. The doctors, nurses, aids, everyone was so genuine and caring. He was never once combative or aggressive with them. He tried to communicate with us and could at first. He would say things like ‘stop it’ or sometimes he would say his name in a military manner when he was asked. He was in much pain and just generally uncomfortable. He still had not eaten but they were going to do a swallow test and see if they could feed him. They tested for everything possible but nothing but showed decreased brain activity was determined. But without a baseline for brain activity that really meant nothing. All they could say was negative reaction to treatment/progression of Alzheimer Disease.
Because he had a Living Will that said he didn’t want anything else done, we declined the permanent feeding tube (he had already pulled the nose tube out before he benefited from it). We placed him on hospice and we watched him choke and gurgle and sleep but he wasn’t in pain. We watched and hoped it wouldn’t take long and then sometimes we prayed he wouldn’t go.
Then one morning, on the 21st of March, 2012, one month and one day after he arrived at Allegiance he struggled and struggled. Mom and I sat and watched. With his head turned to one side he vomited old blood into my hands and I hid it from Mother because I didn’t want her to remember that. We called Becky and Terry. We sat and prayed in the dark room. After we had decided that he was going to make it thru another day and the sun was coming up, mom and I tried to laid down and rest for a minute. After an hour or so, I left the room to call Brian; that is when he took the last breathe.
Only the day before I had said, I am glad that my relationship with my daddy isn’t based on my being here when he takes his last breathe. I guess he made me own those words. I was in the bathroom praying for peace and comfort when he passed. I ran back in the room and all I could say was, Is it over?
It’s hard, harder than I ever thought. I wish I knew what to tell my mom. I wish I knew what she told her mother with my grandfather died.
Every day, I remember things that only my daddy would appreciate.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Wow, am I exhausted!
I started to type ‘it has been an emotionally exhausting weekend’ but I stopped long enough to explain that statement to my internal editor only to realize how negative that presents. Still it is true. From the run across the rain drenched parking lot on Wednesday to a slow drive on eastbound I-20 to the velvet and satin antique quilt draped across this king sized bed. I have heard babies cry and teens laugh, words prayed and sang; moans and grunts and sighs and shivers. From the anticipation to exhaustion, it’s been a great weekend.
Time with family is always filled with emotions, or it should be, right? Who else would you tolerate all that crazy from? Morning sleepy eyes and late night games, dirty dishes that came from a table set for thirteen, and a jungle lunch of summer sausage and cheese off the tailgate of my daddy’s dodge pickup at the New Foundland Gap. Oh no, there’s that emotion again, in the form of a memory.
Emotions don’t scare me. I’m a mom, a super hero of the parental kind. I am the planner and organizer, the adaptable and the fill in, sometimes the referee and the nurse and the taxi driver and tourism coordinator; the go to for the “what if’s” and the “how comes”. I am the answer to “what now?” more often than not and even on the days when I haven’t got an ounce of strength left in me. Even on the days when I just want it to be about me.
Regardless, it’s okay because I know that I would give my last ounce of emotion, my last drop of energy, to make things great for my family. I would give yours too if I could access it. My family is worth the investment, the time, the smiles and giggles and tears and spilt Dr. Pepper and silly questions about Buzz Lightyear and a friendly competition to see whose turn it is to ask the blessing before we eat.
It’s always been worth it because little boys put their confidence in their mommy from the very beginning. When they are hanging over the toilet with a bad stomach virus, “MAMA!”; when they wreck the go-cart or the truck, trip trying to hurdle a picnic table and bust open their forehead; when they forget their homework or their lunch money, when they have their first girlfriend and need a homecoming mum or a valentine present; when they disappoint someone they love and they need to talk it through.
I am proudly exhausted and emotionally honored to lay my head down tonight to the sound of family in the next room playing games and the sound of silence while the prayers are being worded. I sure hope they are praying for me.
Time with family is always filled with emotions, or it should be, right? Who else would you tolerate all that crazy from? Morning sleepy eyes and late night games, dirty dishes that came from a table set for thirteen, and a jungle lunch of summer sausage and cheese off the tailgate of my daddy’s dodge pickup at the New Foundland Gap. Oh no, there’s that emotion again, in the form of a memory.
Emotions don’t scare me. I’m a mom, a super hero of the parental kind. I am the planner and organizer, the adaptable and the fill in, sometimes the referee and the nurse and the taxi driver and tourism coordinator; the go to for the “what if’s” and the “how comes”. I am the answer to “what now?” more often than not and even on the days when I haven’t got an ounce of strength left in me. Even on the days when I just want it to be about me.
Regardless, it’s okay because I know that I would give my last ounce of emotion, my last drop of energy, to make things great for my family. I would give yours too if I could access it. My family is worth the investment, the time, the smiles and giggles and tears and spilt Dr. Pepper and silly questions about Buzz Lightyear and a friendly competition to see whose turn it is to ask the blessing before we eat.
It’s always been worth it because little boys put their confidence in their mommy from the very beginning. When they are hanging over the toilet with a bad stomach virus, “MAMA!”; when they wreck the go-cart or the truck, trip trying to hurdle a picnic table and bust open their forehead; when they forget their homework or their lunch money, when they have their first girlfriend and need a homecoming mum or a valentine present; when they disappoint someone they love and they need to talk it through.
I am proudly exhausted and emotionally honored to lay my head down tonight to the sound of family in the next room playing games and the sound of silence while the prayers are being worded. I sure hope they are praying for me.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
My favortie quotes
"But for me the earth is new today and the sky is raining sunshine"~ Ralph Waldo Emerson. This is one of my favorite quotes and has been for years. I see it as a doorway to start over, to walk away from my faults and failures of the previous days and let the sun shine on my potentials. Many times I have heard the phrase, "at the end of the day..." I understand how that is meant but I cannot expect to tally up my successes at the end of the day if I have started my days carrying the broken and beaten down baggage of the previous. At the end of the day I can lay my head down and rest because at the beginning of the day I stepped through a new door with strength to take on brand new challenges with ambition and determination.
"You're playing and you think everything is going fine. Then one thing goes wrong. And then another. And another. You try to fight back, but the harder you fight, the deeper you sink. Until you can't move... you can't breathe... because you're in over your head. Like quicksand." ~Shane Falco (The Replacements). Concerning fears, the question was "what scares you?" I think the question is nearly as important as the answer. We have to know we have fears. I have fears that I don't even like to admit to myself. I certainly don't want to admit them to you. Nonetheless, I have to deal with them, come to terms with them or let them conquer my tomorrows by paralyzing my wiliness to find a way. I acknowledge my fears and look every day for a new way to move beyond the limitations that fear puts in my sunshine.
"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."~E.E.Cummings It takes a lot of courage to figure out who you really are sometimes. Some days I look in the mirror and think about what defines me; what the mirror cannot reflect; what the smiles and jovial laughter can disguise. Quite honestly I wonder if I will ever grow up but that’s okay. Of all the ambitions I have to build on the one that stands taller and stronger is my drive to be real. This is it; it's the real me, faults and all of my fears, shortcomings, failures, skeletons, scars, and dreams. One thing I learned in 45+ years on this globe is that I can’t be you or what you want me to be; it’s hard enough just being me.
"He’s one of those who knows that life is just a leap of faith, Spread your arms and hold your breath and always trust your cape."~ Guy Clark (The Cape) I like this for many reasons. Guy Clark is an awesome songwriter. I know that no one read this quote and envisioned a 45 year old woman jumping off of the garage. While that would be fun to see, once, I know that we all saw a child, at least a childlike faith, on the garage with a beach towel for a cape wrapped around his neck, the sun shining on his face and his chin raised with high with invincible pride. That is who I want to be everyday against every challenge; when the odds are against me and when my fears tug at my ambitions and the obstacles are piled high. When doubt hangs like smog over my confidence Guy Clark reminds me to trust my cape.
And last, I treasure the words of poet and activist, Muriel Rukeyser. Please don't Google the poem from which I extracted this quote. You will be disheartened by the harshness of her words. "The universe is made of stories, not of atoms." What describes you? I took a quiz online where I answer nine simple questions about myself and through the use of witchcraft or voodoo it determined the perfect one word to describe me, charismatic. I like it! I think I want to be charismatic but I can't be charismatic 24/7. While my friends sorrow or grieve I need to be a comforter. Charismatic will not replace kindness when I need to lend a hand at a homeless shelter. I need more than one word.
What if the one word that described you was the name of the street you live on? I would live at 101 Charismatic Lane. That isn't far down the street; does the number speak to the quality or quantity of my charisma? Who else lives on this street and do we have any community unity? Probably the most important piece of information about 101 Charismatic Lane is how you get there. Drag out the GPS and I shall tell you. "turn right on Tragedy Circle in 1.2 miles"; or maybe, "merge right on to Disappointment Trace." Curving and winding past missed turns and toll roads, over speed bumps, dodging pot holes, enduring construction zones in foul weather, that's how I got here. That's my story. That's what makes me who I am.
I hope you have enjoyed these quotes and thoughts. Leave me a comment or visit my website www.thatguyilivewith.com
"You're playing and you think everything is going fine. Then one thing goes wrong. And then another. And another. You try to fight back, but the harder you fight, the deeper you sink. Until you can't move... you can't breathe... because you're in over your head. Like quicksand." ~Shane Falco (The Replacements). Concerning fears, the question was "what scares you?" I think the question is nearly as important as the answer. We have to know we have fears. I have fears that I don't even like to admit to myself. I certainly don't want to admit them to you. Nonetheless, I have to deal with them, come to terms with them or let them conquer my tomorrows by paralyzing my wiliness to find a way. I acknowledge my fears and look every day for a new way to move beyond the limitations that fear puts in my sunshine.
"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."~E.E.Cummings It takes a lot of courage to figure out who you really are sometimes. Some days I look in the mirror and think about what defines me; what the mirror cannot reflect; what the smiles and jovial laughter can disguise. Quite honestly I wonder if I will ever grow up but that’s okay. Of all the ambitions I have to build on the one that stands taller and stronger is my drive to be real. This is it; it's the real me, faults and all of my fears, shortcomings, failures, skeletons, scars, and dreams. One thing I learned in 45+ years on this globe is that I can’t be you or what you want me to be; it’s hard enough just being me.
"He’s one of those who knows that life is just a leap of faith, Spread your arms and hold your breath and always trust your cape."~ Guy Clark (The Cape) I like this for many reasons. Guy Clark is an awesome songwriter. I know that no one read this quote and envisioned a 45 year old woman jumping off of the garage. While that would be fun to see, once, I know that we all saw a child, at least a childlike faith, on the garage with a beach towel for a cape wrapped around his neck, the sun shining on his face and his chin raised with high with invincible pride. That is who I want to be everyday against every challenge; when the odds are against me and when my fears tug at my ambitions and the obstacles are piled high. When doubt hangs like smog over my confidence Guy Clark reminds me to trust my cape.
And last, I treasure the words of poet and activist, Muriel Rukeyser. Please don't Google the poem from which I extracted this quote. You will be disheartened by the harshness of her words. "The universe is made of stories, not of atoms." What describes you? I took a quiz online where I answer nine simple questions about myself and through the use of witchcraft or voodoo it determined the perfect one word to describe me, charismatic. I like it! I think I want to be charismatic but I can't be charismatic 24/7. While my friends sorrow or grieve I need to be a comforter. Charismatic will not replace kindness when I need to lend a hand at a homeless shelter. I need more than one word.
What if the one word that described you was the name of the street you live on? I would live at 101 Charismatic Lane. That isn't far down the street; does the number speak to the quality or quantity of my charisma? Who else lives on this street and do we have any community unity? Probably the most important piece of information about 101 Charismatic Lane is how you get there. Drag out the GPS and I shall tell you. "turn right on Tragedy Circle in 1.2 miles"; or maybe, "merge right on to Disappointment Trace." Curving and winding past missed turns and toll roads, over speed bumps, dodging pot holes, enduring construction zones in foul weather, that's how I got here. That's my story. That's what makes me who I am.
I hope you have enjoyed these quotes and thoughts. Leave me a comment or visit my website www.thatguyilivewith.com
Monday, February 16, 2015
Welcome the new Salesman.
Um, Um, Thanks for coming here, um, to hear me say
The details I’ve memorized to present them just this way.
Ultimately, essentially as markers of degree
Decorate, as verbalized, so you’re impressed with me.
Actually, technically, with some regard to fact
Validate my statements until I take them back.
With all due respect given freedom of the tongue,
No offense intended – none taken, Um, Um.
But again, then again, in addition to and more,
Repetition of the statement, again, as I said before.
Mumbling; subtle hand gestures and a poor display of graphs
Disguise my insecurities to push this line of crap.
Exactly, absolutely, I couldn’t agree with you more,
I see what your saying, more than you know; Galore.
Everyone, always and never, trust me on this please.
Promise, in regard to, with all the guarantees.
Worth its weight in gold, let’s not reinvent the wheel.
I know I’m preaching to the choir, I think we’ve got a deal.
I wrote this little poem several years ago while I was working at Nacogdoches Memorial Hospital. I was in the adminstrative conference room with a group of managers and directors listening to a GPO salesman present a new software program that was going to help the hostipal save a million dollars in one year. As you can tell I listened intently without distraction.
It seemed appropriate to post this now since I am in San Diego at a Tri-Area Sales Meeting...Um, Um, yes, I am the new salesman...
The details I’ve memorized to present them just this way.
Ultimately, essentially as markers of degree
Decorate, as verbalized, so you’re impressed with me.
Actually, technically, with some regard to fact
Validate my statements until I take them back.
With all due respect given freedom of the tongue,
No offense intended – none taken, Um, Um.
But again, then again, in addition to and more,
Repetition of the statement, again, as I said before.
Mumbling; subtle hand gestures and a poor display of graphs
Disguise my insecurities to push this line of crap.
Exactly, absolutely, I couldn’t agree with you more,
I see what your saying, more than you know; Galore.
Everyone, always and never, trust me on this please.
Promise, in regard to, with all the guarantees.
Worth its weight in gold, let’s not reinvent the wheel.
I know I’m preaching to the choir, I think we’ve got a deal.
I wrote this little poem several years ago while I was working at Nacogdoches Memorial Hospital. I was in the adminstrative conference room with a group of managers and directors listening to a GPO salesman present a new software program that was going to help the hostipal save a million dollars in one year. As you can tell I listened intently without distraction.
It seemed appropriate to post this now since I am in San Diego at a Tri-Area Sales Meeting...Um, Um, yes, I am the new salesman...
Sunday, February 8, 2015
My last ride with Grandmother
I rode many miles in the car with Grandmother selling Avon, visiting family, and going fishing. Under her direction I tried to stay focused on the road while listening to her sing, "they crowned him with thorns, he was beaten with stripes, he was spit on and nailed to the tree, but the pain in his heart was the hardest to bare, The heart that was broken for me...” Still a song I sing often as I crisscross the state and sometimes the nation. She gazed across the fields with her elbow on the window sill as she sang, keeping time with the back of her hand against her lips, barely muffling the melody. Occasionally she would pause to tell me a story or correct my driving. Though I hold some regret from that day it remains one of my dearest memories; my last ride with Grandmother.
My intention had been to post my thoughts as I wrote them in 1998. They may not have been written well but they were originally only scribbled down for my review. Unfortunately I wasn't able to find those scribblings so this morning as I jet to Virginia for a week of presentations for work, I will attempt to recall that day for you and myself. I hope you find encouragement in events of that day.
It was March of 1998, the sun was shining and the air was getting warmer as we looked forward to the spring. Grandmother was staying with Uncle Shorty while Mom and Daddy were living in the motorhome and building a house near Lakeport. It was a transitioning time.
Angel was in grade school, so I took Levi (3) and Stacey (3 months) to visit with Grandmother on my way to Lakeport to see my mom and dad. She was at Uncle Shorty's house alone. She seemed weak and was having trouble swallowing due to the aortic aneurism putting pressure on her throat. She was confused; she referred to me as Anna, my cousin, but that wasn't really anything to be concerned about. She told me that Anna had given her some quilt scraps but then when Anna called she told her that someone gave her some quilts scraps but she couldn’t remember who. None of this seemed extremely abnormal as she often called people by the wrong name; Reba, Rosie, Anna, Kathy, Donna, Becky....I was usually last on the list of at least three generations.
Despite the names and the scraps we had a good conversation. She talked to Levi which wasn't always easy because of his speech problems. She played with his hair and bounced him on her knee. She held Stacey up on her lap and talked to him in a baby voice. She played "headacher, eye winker, tom tinker, nose dropper, mouth water..." She played peepie and all those silly games we often played with little babies. She asked about Angel.
I told her we were going over to Lakeport to see Mom and Daddy and asked did she want to ride along. At first she said no but then she said, "I believe I will".
I know exactly where I was on State Highway 149 near Lake Cherokee when it first occurred to me to ask. She had not been talking much other than the one sided conversions she held off and on with Levi and Stacey. She sang some but I got the impression that her throat hurt. In hindsight I can see that she was uncomfortable but at the time I thought maybe she was just reflecting as we drove. I struggled with the thought. I loved this woman as a grandmother and a friend; as a kindred soul and a travel mate. She was logistically and emotionally as close to me as my own mother. I grew up with her. As a young child she took me fishing at the lake, running trotlines and playing 42 half of the night. As a pre-teen she carried me and my friends to the movies and to the circus. She let me drive her Buick and her boat. I have often said that I didn't love her more than my cousins but I loved her different. She was the answer to many of the questions I asked myself. But that day the question I wanted to ask lumped up in my throat. We talked about many things through my lifetime and we had shared emotional memories and stories but on that day I established a limit, a barrier that I couldn't crawl over.
We arrived in Lakeport to find the construction progressing. We pulled up a lawn chair and visited for a couple of hours. Perhaps my original notes documented the topics and stories but I can't remember now.
What I do remember was loading the boys to go home. Grandmother was going to stay there with Mom and Daddy and I had to get back to get Angel from school. I backed out of the driveway without kissing my grandmother goodbye and that just was not acceptable. I turned around and drove back up the driveway, got out of the car, trekked across to the lawn chair to give her a kiss and tell her I loved her. I’m sure she knew but I needed to tell her anyway.
That was the last time I saw her before she stepped into her new eternal body. It was a difficult time. I shed many tears; I hurt like I never had.
Now, 17 years later, I focus on so many beautiful memories; the way she whistled and the way she carried her walking stick. The apron she wrapped around her waist while the biscuits were cooking. The coveralls she wore while she fished and the flowery sheets on her bed. I only hold one regret and only for the sole purpose of learning from my regrets. On that last ride I wanted to ask Grandmother to share with me the day that she accepted Jesus as her savior. Growing up with her I knew He was Lord of her life but I wanted her personal testimony. I wanted to tell my own kids. I wanted to know who led her to find Jesus and I wanted to hear her praise Him through the recalling of a time that must have been many years ago. I had never planned to write about it.
I was the youngest grandchild and often I didn't remember the times that my cousins recalled so gaily. I wanted that one for me. I would have filed it away in my memory with the story of how Aunt Ozella got the stick jabbed in her leg when the wheel fell off the wagon and the story of the day Gran died and Steve drove the truck into the ditch going to meet the ambulance. I wanted to file it for safe keeping in my memory like the pistol she stashed under the mattress of the bed Gran died on. I wanted to cherish it like the porcelain doll with the red velvet dress that she made; carry it like the buckeye she had deep in the bottom of her purse. I wanted to wrap the story around me and my boys like an old quilt as we bundled up on the couch.
Why hadn't I asked? I can only speculate now that by asking I thought I would be giving her permission to leave me. It seemed to have the weight of a final conversation of the final ride while the last song was sang.
I can't get that opportunity back. I don't lose sleep over it now but I do listen to the little voice in my heart a little more often and think of the last ride with grandmother.
If you don't have a story to tell about the day you asked Jesus to be your Savior, you can. It's as simple as ABC.
A. Admit that you are a sinner and that you need forgiveness
B. Believe that Jesus died on a cross for your sins, he paid for your forgiveness.
C. Confess your sins and ask thru a personal prayer for Jesus to save you, to come into your heart.
I hope that I will have an opportunity to ask you about your story one day.
My intention had been to post my thoughts as I wrote them in 1998. They may not have been written well but they were originally only scribbled down for my review. Unfortunately I wasn't able to find those scribblings so this morning as I jet to Virginia for a week of presentations for work, I will attempt to recall that day for you and myself. I hope you find encouragement in events of that day.
It was March of 1998, the sun was shining and the air was getting warmer as we looked forward to the spring. Grandmother was staying with Uncle Shorty while Mom and Daddy were living in the motorhome and building a house near Lakeport. It was a transitioning time.
Angel was in grade school, so I took Levi (3) and Stacey (3 months) to visit with Grandmother on my way to Lakeport to see my mom and dad. She was at Uncle Shorty's house alone. She seemed weak and was having trouble swallowing due to the aortic aneurism putting pressure on her throat. She was confused; she referred to me as Anna, my cousin, but that wasn't really anything to be concerned about. She told me that Anna had given her some quilt scraps but then when Anna called she told her that someone gave her some quilts scraps but she couldn’t remember who. None of this seemed extremely abnormal as she often called people by the wrong name; Reba, Rosie, Anna, Kathy, Donna, Becky....I was usually last on the list of at least three generations.
Despite the names and the scraps we had a good conversation. She talked to Levi which wasn't always easy because of his speech problems. She played with his hair and bounced him on her knee. She held Stacey up on her lap and talked to him in a baby voice. She played "headacher, eye winker, tom tinker, nose dropper, mouth water..." She played peepie and all those silly games we often played with little babies. She asked about Angel.
I told her we were going over to Lakeport to see Mom and Daddy and asked did she want to ride along. At first she said no but then she said, "I believe I will".
I know exactly where I was on State Highway 149 near Lake Cherokee when it first occurred to me to ask. She had not been talking much other than the one sided conversions she held off and on with Levi and Stacey. She sang some but I got the impression that her throat hurt. In hindsight I can see that she was uncomfortable but at the time I thought maybe she was just reflecting as we drove. I struggled with the thought. I loved this woman as a grandmother and a friend; as a kindred soul and a travel mate. She was logistically and emotionally as close to me as my own mother. I grew up with her. As a young child she took me fishing at the lake, running trotlines and playing 42 half of the night. As a pre-teen she carried me and my friends to the movies and to the circus. She let me drive her Buick and her boat. I have often said that I didn't love her more than my cousins but I loved her different. She was the answer to many of the questions I asked myself. But that day the question I wanted to ask lumped up in my throat. We talked about many things through my lifetime and we had shared emotional memories and stories but on that day I established a limit, a barrier that I couldn't crawl over.
We arrived in Lakeport to find the construction progressing. We pulled up a lawn chair and visited for a couple of hours. Perhaps my original notes documented the topics and stories but I can't remember now.
What I do remember was loading the boys to go home. Grandmother was going to stay there with Mom and Daddy and I had to get back to get Angel from school. I backed out of the driveway without kissing my grandmother goodbye and that just was not acceptable. I turned around and drove back up the driveway, got out of the car, trekked across to the lawn chair to give her a kiss and tell her I loved her. I’m sure she knew but I needed to tell her anyway.
That was the last time I saw her before she stepped into her new eternal body. It was a difficult time. I shed many tears; I hurt like I never had.
Now, 17 years later, I focus on so many beautiful memories; the way she whistled and the way she carried her walking stick. The apron she wrapped around her waist while the biscuits were cooking. The coveralls she wore while she fished and the flowery sheets on her bed. I only hold one regret and only for the sole purpose of learning from my regrets. On that last ride I wanted to ask Grandmother to share with me the day that she accepted Jesus as her savior. Growing up with her I knew He was Lord of her life but I wanted her personal testimony. I wanted to tell my own kids. I wanted to know who led her to find Jesus and I wanted to hear her praise Him through the recalling of a time that must have been many years ago. I had never planned to write about it.
I was the youngest grandchild and often I didn't remember the times that my cousins recalled so gaily. I wanted that one for me. I would have filed it away in my memory with the story of how Aunt Ozella got the stick jabbed in her leg when the wheel fell off the wagon and the story of the day Gran died and Steve drove the truck into the ditch going to meet the ambulance. I wanted to file it for safe keeping in my memory like the pistol she stashed under the mattress of the bed Gran died on. I wanted to cherish it like the porcelain doll with the red velvet dress that she made; carry it like the buckeye she had deep in the bottom of her purse. I wanted to wrap the story around me and my boys like an old quilt as we bundled up on the couch.
Why hadn't I asked? I can only speculate now that by asking I thought I would be giving her permission to leave me. It seemed to have the weight of a final conversation of the final ride while the last song was sang.
I can't get that opportunity back. I don't lose sleep over it now but I do listen to the little voice in my heart a little more often and think of the last ride with grandmother.
If you don't have a story to tell about the day you asked Jesus to be your Savior, you can. It's as simple as ABC.
A. Admit that you are a sinner and that you need forgiveness
B. Believe that Jesus died on a cross for your sins, he paid for your forgiveness.
C. Confess your sins and ask thru a personal prayer for Jesus to save you, to come into your heart.
I hope that I will have an opportunity to ask you about your story one day.
Things you may not know about me....
He was tall and thin. His hair was permed to a taut curl and dreadfully fashionable in rural1983. He played football, was a UIL regional qualifier in pole vaulting, and he played the snare drum in the marching band. After graduation, he married my classmate; I married his. I played cymbals in the high school band because I had a crush on this drummer. This is just one of the many particulars you didn’t know about me.
In the second grade I sat across the table from my first crush. He could wiggle his ears like no one I had ever known. Through the next summer I practiced twitching and wiggling with all my facial muscle. Now, proudly, I can wiggle my ears.
“Fourscore and seven years ago our Father’s brought forth on this continen, a new nations, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equally…” I can recite two-thirds of the Gettysburg Address, the recording of the Emergency Broadcast Systems and OSHA’s definition of Regulated Waste.
On Christmas day in 1995 my husband, two sons ages 5 and 1, and a Great Dane named Spencer, packed our clothes, furniture, house wares and Christmas presents into a 10X12 storage building on Padre Island. Unable to pay the rent on the 1950 ranch style house that we had called home for the previous six months, we took only what we couldn’t live without and lived in our 1985 suburban. Sometimes, if we could find something to hock at the local pawn shop we would stay in a cheap hotel for a night. Or we would pitch our tent at the lake and pretend we were on a camping excursion. Mostly we stayed at Mustang Island State Park where the showers were warm and safe. We lived this way for nine weeks before we were able to move into a trailer park in the refinery district of Corpus Christi, TX. I have been ‘homeless’.
I was having a bad day. Maybe I was throwing a pity party. It was voting day at the high school, popularity showdown, all tears and no tiaras, and I found myself to be not terribly fond of anyone. I voted because I had to but I was class favorite my Junior year because I voted for myself in the first election and the run off.
My grandmother told me I could sing just like Kitty Wells and Donna Fargo and because of that I secretly dreamed of being on stage at the Grand Ole Opry. I could almost feel the crowds roar. I could smell the excitement as they waited anxiously for the moment I stepped gracefully onto the stage covered in sequins and rhinestones.
There once was a flamingo named Marty, He was pink and fluffy yet hardy,
He had lots of fun drinking Malibu rum. And he threw on heck of a party.
There once was a chick named Maria She walked in the sand by the sea
She ran into Marty, who was throwing a party. There was no need to RSVP –a.
I have two pink flamingos in my backyard named Marty and Maria. They entertain a host of friends and family for a Memorial Day Party on Lake Murvaul.
In the second grade I sat across the table from my first crush. He could wiggle his ears like no one I had ever known. Through the next summer I practiced twitching and wiggling with all my facial muscle. Now, proudly, I can wiggle my ears.
“Fourscore and seven years ago our Father’s brought forth on this continen, a new nations, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equally…” I can recite two-thirds of the Gettysburg Address, the recording of the Emergency Broadcast Systems and OSHA’s definition of Regulated Waste.
On Christmas day in 1995 my husband, two sons ages 5 and 1, and a Great Dane named Spencer, packed our clothes, furniture, house wares and Christmas presents into a 10X12 storage building on Padre Island. Unable to pay the rent on the 1950 ranch style house that we had called home for the previous six months, we took only what we couldn’t live without and lived in our 1985 suburban. Sometimes, if we could find something to hock at the local pawn shop we would stay in a cheap hotel for a night. Or we would pitch our tent at the lake and pretend we were on a camping excursion. Mostly we stayed at Mustang Island State Park where the showers were warm and safe. We lived this way for nine weeks before we were able to move into a trailer park in the refinery district of Corpus Christi, TX. I have been ‘homeless’.
I was having a bad day. Maybe I was throwing a pity party. It was voting day at the high school, popularity showdown, all tears and no tiaras, and I found myself to be not terribly fond of anyone. I voted because I had to but I was class favorite my Junior year because I voted for myself in the first election and the run off.
My grandmother told me I could sing just like Kitty Wells and Donna Fargo and because of that I secretly dreamed of being on stage at the Grand Ole Opry. I could almost feel the crowds roar. I could smell the excitement as they waited anxiously for the moment I stepped gracefully onto the stage covered in sequins and rhinestones.
There once was a flamingo named Marty, He was pink and fluffy yet hardy,
He had lots of fun drinking Malibu rum. And he threw on heck of a party.
There once was a chick named Maria She walked in the sand by the sea
She ran into Marty, who was throwing a party. There was no need to RSVP –a.
I have two pink flamingos in my backyard named Marty and Maria. They entertain a host of friends and family for a Memorial Day Party on Lake Murvaul.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
the fizz
It is likely that I will never get a tattoo but lately I have been taking note of some I see and I have come to this final conclusion. If I ever get a tattoo it will be a tramp stamp because that way I will never have to stare at it in the mirror and others will only see it as I am walking away..The other thing I have decided is the design will be effervescence. Yes, I am going to have fizz coming out of the back of my pants. And I googled it; its never been done. I could be the first!
Do you still want that picture?
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
The Questions I found at the Oklahome City Federal Building Memorial
Oklahoma City Bombing
empty chairs
Memorial Symbolism
I know that one day family and friends will gather around the table on a Sunday after church for lunch and my chair will be empty. They will bow their heads to thank God for the blessings of their lives and I wont be there and that's okay because I know where I will be.
In April of 1995, an individual I choose not to call by name or direct my attention to, and his associate parked a rental truck loaded with explosives at the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Ok. At 9:02am, after the office chairs were filled with moms and dads, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles, MeMes and PeePaws; after they had walked their babies, toddlers, and preschoolers to the day care for safety; a brick scattering blast rumbled through the morter and cement of downtown Oklahoma City.
As I walked around the memorial grounds I reflected on more than the beautiful pool placed to represent the street on the north side of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Thoughts that flooded my mind:
1. When my chair is empty how will those that gathered around the table with me my entire life remember me? Will they have laughter and tears? Will they continue to hug one another and make memories they can pass from generation to generation?
2. When bombs go off in my life do I focus on the bomber and the blast or do I reflect on the positives? Do I seek ways to change the unchangeable, to turn back the clock, or do I look for ways to grow despite the pain like a survior tree that withstood the full blast?
3. When others, even strangers, are in trying and difficult times will I give and give and give more? Will I have compassion on them and the ones they love? Will I have the strength to help them carry their burdens? Will I give of my time, my resources (not just money), my heart? Will the things that are important to them be important to me?
Some days I have more questions than answers.
empty chairs
Memorial Symbolism
I know that one day family and friends will gather around the table on a Sunday after church for lunch and my chair will be empty. They will bow their heads to thank God for the blessings of their lives and I wont be there and that's okay because I know where I will be.
In April of 1995, an individual I choose not to call by name or direct my attention to, and his associate parked a rental truck loaded with explosives at the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Ok. At 9:02am, after the office chairs were filled with moms and dads, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles, MeMes and PeePaws; after they had walked their babies, toddlers, and preschoolers to the day care for safety; a brick scattering blast rumbled through the morter and cement of downtown Oklahoma City.
As I walked around the memorial grounds I reflected on more than the beautiful pool placed to represent the street on the north side of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Thoughts that flooded my mind:
1. When my chair is empty how will those that gathered around the table with me my entire life remember me? Will they have laughter and tears? Will they continue to hug one another and make memories they can pass from generation to generation?
2. When bombs go off in my life do I focus on the bomber and the blast or do I reflect on the positives? Do I seek ways to change the unchangeable, to turn back the clock, or do I look for ways to grow despite the pain like a survior tree that withstood the full blast?
3. When others, even strangers, are in trying and difficult times will I give and give and give more? Will I have compassion on them and the ones they love? Will I have the strength to help them carry their burdens? Will I give of my time, my resources (not just money), my heart? Will the things that are important to them be important to me?
Some days I have more questions than answers.
the day the music died
http://www.whrc-wi.org/americanpie.htm
Feb 3,1959 The day the music died. Have you ever wondered what the lyrics were referring to? Hope you enjoy the breakdown of this song.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
My first memory of HSAM
http://dfw.cbslocal.com/2014/01/20/north-texas-man-remembers-everyday-of-his-life/
I met this guy earlier in the week, Bill Brown, very interesting guy. He asked me my birthday (12/24) then proceeded to recall events of every Christmas since 1977. He knew the day of the week that Christmas fell on, the gifts he had received, and so on. He didn’t hesitate as he recited football scores and stats, weather conditions, deaths of family and celebrities, and vacations associated with that holiday.
Wow! Last week I struggled to remember what day of the week it was. Some days I can’t remember the month. I listened intently before saying, “I bet your wife hates to argue with you”. He laughed. Let’s face it. Most women have won more than one argument based not solely on the fact that we can recall the facts but we put a notch on the win belt because a man cannot remember. (I refer to this strategy as my strength is knowing your weakness.)
I had an interesting visit with Bill. He continued to talk about what most would consider trivial data. He shared some of the facts about the phenomenon and facts about the others who walked this same path.
I left with many things to consider. I contrasted this memory marvel and its opposite counterparts, Alzheimer’s and dementia. I attempted to create a road map where those conditions intersected.
As I drove south that afternoon I began to catalog the advantageous of being able to recall such information. Aside from winning many arguments, one would be able to recall the facts of birthday parties and pageants, and weddings that without the aid of others and polariods would be a hidden file in gray matter for generations. I considered the notes and journals that I have accumulated through the years that have helped me hold onto facts and dates, emotions.
Emotions? Oh, no. Would I remember in detail that day? You know the day you have been trying to forget since the moment it happened. The day you were bullied by a third grade boy; he called you fat or asked why you ate your boogers; the time as a child when you were touched inappropriately by the guy that would never hurt anyone; the trusted and respected neighbor. Would the gore of wrecked and mangled bodies be etched into the fore ground of your mind? Would you have no filter, no delete option, and no discard button? Would you remember in painful detail the time when the bad choices of your children tunneled a crater into your heart?
Suddenly, the tiara of being the great debater faded and I saw the limitations of my mind to be an answer to a prayer that I didn’t word; a blessing. A memory is a two sided coin, a blessing and a curse.
I guess if I learned one thing from my visit with Bill and the analytical thoughts it empowered it was this: Try to live in the present by in enjoying the good memories, learning from the bad. Determine each day to do something that will be a positive memory for everyone.
And in the words of one of my favorite memories, “I love you and don’t you forget it.”
I met this guy earlier in the week, Bill Brown, very interesting guy. He asked me my birthday (12/24) then proceeded to recall events of every Christmas since 1977. He knew the day of the week that Christmas fell on, the gifts he had received, and so on. He didn’t hesitate as he recited football scores and stats, weather conditions, deaths of family and celebrities, and vacations associated with that holiday.
Wow! Last week I struggled to remember what day of the week it was. Some days I can’t remember the month. I listened intently before saying, “I bet your wife hates to argue with you”. He laughed. Let’s face it. Most women have won more than one argument based not solely on the fact that we can recall the facts but we put a notch on the win belt because a man cannot remember. (I refer to this strategy as my strength is knowing your weakness.)
I had an interesting visit with Bill. He continued to talk about what most would consider trivial data. He shared some of the facts about the phenomenon and facts about the others who walked this same path.
I left with many things to consider. I contrasted this memory marvel and its opposite counterparts, Alzheimer’s and dementia. I attempted to create a road map where those conditions intersected.
As I drove south that afternoon I began to catalog the advantageous of being able to recall such information. Aside from winning many arguments, one would be able to recall the facts of birthday parties and pageants, and weddings that without the aid of others and polariods would be a hidden file in gray matter for generations. I considered the notes and journals that I have accumulated through the years that have helped me hold onto facts and dates, emotions.
Emotions? Oh, no. Would I remember in detail that day? You know the day you have been trying to forget since the moment it happened. The day you were bullied by a third grade boy; he called you fat or asked why you ate your boogers; the time as a child when you were touched inappropriately by the guy that would never hurt anyone; the trusted and respected neighbor. Would the gore of wrecked and mangled bodies be etched into the fore ground of your mind? Would you have no filter, no delete option, and no discard button? Would you remember in painful detail the time when the bad choices of your children tunneled a crater into your heart?
Suddenly, the tiara of being the great debater faded and I saw the limitations of my mind to be an answer to a prayer that I didn’t word; a blessing. A memory is a two sided coin, a blessing and a curse.
I guess if I learned one thing from my visit with Bill and the analytical thoughts it empowered it was this: Try to live in the present by in enjoying the good memories, learning from the bad. Determine each day to do something that will be a positive memory for everyone.
And in the words of one of my favorite memories, “I love you and don’t you forget it.”
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
I AM a superhero!
You really don't know me well enough on a personal level to know that I AM a superhero. Before you delete or dismiss this based on that statement, give me a chance to explain. Becoming a superhero was the easiest thing I ever did: it takes a few simple steps to get started. 1. Know your story: How did you come to be where you are? Why did you come this far? And why are you going to try again tomorrow? 2. Choose your powers: What are your strengths? What are your talents? What abilities created the structure for your story? 3. Identify your weaknesses: What derails you? What weakens you physically, emotionally, and mentally? (Whatever that is for you don't carry it around in your pocket for goodness sake). 4. Determine your conversion: What has to happen for you rip off the outer layer and reveal your identity, your brand, or your label? What warrants your conversion from individual who cares to compassion in action? What makes you trust the cape?
One of my sons, Levi, loved basketball in high school. Even now he goes to the games two or three nights a week to watch his former high school team. When he was in junior high the boys teams were a bad joke. They were beat by 50-100 points every game, twice a week, by state champs and Christian leagues alike. We were beat so bad the other teams didn't even want to play them. It was awkward for the opponents and miserable for our team. When Levi enter high school he was going to change the program. His determination was going to fuel a change and create an environment of rejuvenation and pride. I was so proud of his zeal and his ability to see the need. Unfortunately, he didn't make any lasting changes for the team; another losing season for the Bobcats, a disappointed but still determined Levi, and another new coach the next year. Everyone has a philosophy, an idea, a strategy; not everyone has the strength or the determination to fight uphill against the odds and the masses to see it through.
Maybe, Levi thought, the new coach would. He came in like a whirlwind, rocked the traditions and questioned a lot of answers. He worn a suit and required that the team do the same; people looked at them strange. They bought new equipment and new jerseys; people said it was just decoration. He didn't recreate the game; he reintroduced the sport. The greatest hurdle that faced Coach was attitude. He didn't attempt to change the fans. He didn't argue calls and fuss with the refs. He didn't bring in any super athletes. But every game with that group of 10 boys that were gathered around in the locker room, he said, "Stop playing like you are trying not to lose and start playing like you intended to win!" It took months for them to understand the difference, it took a season to break the cycle and some of the egos, but it only took one playoff game to make it happen. They all became superheroes. Have a great weekend; trust your cape.
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