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03/18/2014

Flash Fiction: An Irish Tale

Screen Shot 2014-03-18 at 7.18.18 PM(FLASH FICTION)

I wondered where the coins came from, littering the garden grounds as if strewn with a high wind.  Shiny, each one of them, they were hard to miss even partially obscured by the fresh earth that was clumped from recent spring rains.

I bent over to pick one up, noticing the edges were crisp as if never before handled.

There was something unusual about it still…the weight of it, heavier than what I’d expected.  Studying the imprint closely, I was curious about the image it carried, unlike any presidential image I’d ever seen.  Peculiar, really…whose face was it?

Curious, I bent over to pick up another one, tucked below the thickening stems of my hollyhocks, which were in their winters rest.  It was identical to the first, so I deposited them both into the pocket of my spring sweater, buttoned loosely to protect me from the chill still lingering in the springtime air.

I walked along, eyes downward now as I bent to collect more of these unusual coins.  In all, more than two dozen of them, each in perfect condition, except for the bit of dirt still clinging as I lifted them from the garden soil.  They weighted my pockets so heavily that I worried a hole would evolve.  To avoid ruining my favorite sweater, I returned indoors to fetch a jar from my artist studio, then carefully counted as I dropped each individual coin inside.  29 coins filled the green glass mason jar, emanating the rich color of amber from within.

Setting the jar on the windowsill where I could continue to study it as I perched on my stool and sipped some freshly brewed hot tea, a sudden shadow caught my vision in the garden view beyond.  I glanced up immediately to see who it might be coming up the garden path so quietly that the dogs didn’t make a peep to greet them.

But I saw no one.  Standing now, I moved closer to the window so I could sweep the curtains aside and really take a thorough look.  No one was there.  So I sat back down on my stool, wondering if it had only been my imagination.  And an idea came to mind.  I moved over to my easel and flipped the sheets of art paper to one that was clean and fresh. Using a charcoal crayon, I began to sketch.  For over an hour, I worked carefully but confidently, knowing that the picture taking shape before me was taking on a life of its own.  When at last it was completed, I sat back quietly.  Mumbling to myself, which was often my habit, I wondered how this particular image could have possibly come to mind so quickly.

The light outside was fading now, so I placed a protective cotton sheet over my easel to keep prying eyes away.  My neighbor was notorious for intruding on my time, pressing to see my latest work.  He irritated the hell out of me…nosey, that’s what he was.  Showing up at all hours, unannounced, pushy.  Using pretense like “I was just out walking and thought you might like this bouquet of wild daisies I picked for you” or “The mailman placed some of your mail into my box by mistake” which I knew was a damn lie.  I’ve seen him snooping inside my mailbox only so he can pull something out and then claim it was in his box by mistake.  He was a nuisance, that one.

I glanced at the windowsill again wondering about those shiny coins.  Where had they come from?  No matter, they would be of conversational interest tomorrow when Irene stopped by for her usual weekly visit.  Nothing new ever went unnoticed by my daughter.

As I prepared my supper, a noise from outside got the dogs to barking.  It seemed something had fallen over out there…something that fell with a racket and a thud.

I opened the door to take a look.  On the steps before me was a heavy black cauldron, about the size of my stew pot.  Off to the side was a single black shoe, with a sharply pointed toe and a big gold buckle.  ‘What in the world?’ I wondered.

Just as I was about to lean over for a closer look, I was startled by a high-pitched cough coming from behind me.  I whirled around quickly and was stunned to see the exact same face I had just sketched out earlier in the day, standing just inches away from the top of my knee.

“Don’t touch that!  It belongs to me!” said the tiny little man, wearing a bizarrely green suit.  He couldn’t have been more than two feet tall, and I had no idea where he’d come from.  I was speechless, trying to get a grip on my senses.

“And where’s my gold?  I know you have it…because it fell right here…in your garden, so don’t try to play smart with me, missy!”

I gasped and took a step back.  My heart was racing as I tried to think clearly.  Was I having a dream?

“Snap out of it, will you?!  I want my gold!  And, if I don’t get it, I won’t grant you any wishes!”

Wishes?  What wishes?  What was going on here?  Where’d this little man come from?  Who WAS he? My silence only enraged him further.

“Oh for cryin’ out loud…It’s St. Patty’s Day, you dimwit!  Give me my gold and I’ll give you your wishes…and hurry up about it!  I’ve got places to go…people to meet!”

Completely freaked, I ran to the windowsill and grabbed the green mason jar.  I shoved the jar forward…to this odd little man who grabbed it so hard the coins rattled loudly as they threatened to spill over.

“Take it!” I hissed. “I don’t want your wishes.  Just go back to where ever it is you came from…and leave me alone!”

Choosing his words carefully, he said “The rainbow.  That’s where I came from…the other side of the rainbow.  Don’t you know anything?”

And in an instant he was gone.  I couldn’t tell you how he was gone…only that he disappeared along with my mason jar and the 29 gold coins, leaving behind the odd looking shoe and the black cauldron.  I carefully picked those up and took them out to the trash.  As I dropped them inside the canister, I heard my neighbor.  “Nice evening, isn’t it?!  Hey…was that the shoe that matches the one I found earlier?  With a gold buckle and pointy toe?  Why, there was a shoe on my doorstep early this morning, and I wondered where it’d come from.  I had no idea your feet were so small!  Why, you’re just a real mystery now, aren’t you?!”

I’ve got to stop drinking that green beer… please, please let this be just another bad dream.

03/07/2014

One Foot In and One Foot Out

birdhousesLife is full of unexpected twists and turns.  By the time you’ve aged up enough to understand that these are the events that create growth opportunities and keeps life from becoming boring routine, you know that the anxiety which always often accompanies these circumstances is something that will eventually work itself out.  You won’t be hyperventilating forever and you will eventually get a solid night’s sleep.

We are preparing to downsize.  ‘We’ is me and my husband of 35 years (well, 37 total if you count the two years we were together before we got married).  Downsize doesn’t refer to our weight (although we could both stand to drop a few pounds and likely will be at optimal weight by the time this particular adventure is over).

We thought we’d be downsizing twelve months ago, when we sold lots of our furniture, packed up 50% of our household clutter goods, hauled it out to our oversized garage, and then paid a professional stager to come in and make our home look beautifully appealing to ‘the masses’, all in preparation to list our home for sale.

But the most unexpected thing happened.  We listed it with a highly successful and well-known listing agent who taught us a huge lesson:  No matter how highly regarded a listing agent is, they are really NEVER working for you, the seller.  SELLERS BEWARE!  That’s all I’m going to say about that (unless you give me a glass of wine, and then I’ll tell you the whole outrageous story).

So, long story short, we UNlisted the house, yanked out all the staging and decided to stay put for a while to re-think the entire adventure. I got a whole bunch of new furniture out of it, so really it was okay.

We raised three children in this home.  And none of them live here any longer.  All of them wish we wouldn’t sell, because for them, this property is home.  But in 37 years, hubby and I have had many homes (9), all over the country, as relocations were part of the career building. And before that, I had a childhood that included several major moves around the country.

Our three children weren’t born here…they were born four states ago, and also had the experience of relocation as they transitioned from Denver (Colorado) to Los Angeles (California) to Santa Fe (New Mexico) and then to a little town in Ohio for just thirteen months, before finally coming to this lovely community just over the Golden Gate Bridge north of San Francisco.  That was fifteen years ago.

Now it’s just the two of us rattling around in here.  We don’t spend time outdoors on the property, on a substantial upslope with terraced back to 419gardens  and meandering pathways. We don’t use 50% of the main house.  And it’s spacious with soaring ceilings, far too many walls of glass windows and lots and lots of stairs.  To bring groceries in from the car, I have to climb far too many stairs to get up to the kitchen.  The cottage, which sits over our huge garage and which we’ve kept fully furnished and fully equipped, does attract some wonderful paying guests, but WE have to look after the business of it all.  WE have to manage the bookings, the cleanings, the contracts, the little details.  True, it’s been relatively easy and we’ve met some lovely people from all over the world who’ve come to stay with us at the cottage, but…it’s time.

While we’re still functioning young enough and alive healthy enough to take on another adventure, while the house is still in fabulous condition thanks to our ongoing and neurotic attention to the detail of it all… it’s time to move on. Let another family treasure this amazing place that we have lovingly renovated and cared for over the past 15 years.

front stoneMy husband holds a California brokers license, and even though his business has nothing to do with residential, we RE-listed the house five days ago under his own license. I built a website for it, posting a ton of photos and explaining the history of the property (the house was built in 1918) along with the various ownership transitions.

In just five days, it’s been ridiculously busy with property showings and it appears we have garnered serious interest from a variety of potential buyers.  There’s no way of knowing how many (if any) offers we will be receiving in the coming days, but if the past 48 hours are any indication, I suspect we will get at least one and very possibly several offers.  I hope so.  I’ve had one foot in and one foot out for a full year now.  I’m ready to take my other foot out as well and simply move on to our next adventure.

Really, it’s time.  Will I miss this place?  Sometimes, probably I will.  But quite honestly…not so much.  I love what we DID to this place, how we morphed it to become OURS.  I love the memories we MADE in this place.  But, there are more memories in the making…and I will morph the NEXT place into a home that’s ours, where new memories can be made.

Home is where the heart is.  And over my lifetime, I’ve learned to be adaptable. We’ve never once failed at making a house a home.  I’m ready to renovate, to take on another project, to see what our next chapter has in store for us.  The possibilities are endless…it’s exciting.  It’s daunting.  It’s not dull.  It makes for great adventure.  It’s life, and best experienced with both feet in.

01/30/2014

What Makes A Writer Write

Screen Shot 2014-01-30 at 5.22.15 PMLast evening I watched the film documentary ‘Salinger’, which is the biographical story of the very reclusive writer J.D. Salinger, author of The Catcher In The Rye.  Although the film was somewhat lengthy, I found it to be an interesting account of a very complicated life.  A graduate of Valley Forge Military Academy (his parents sent him there when he floundered around in local schools), Salinger went on to take some college classes in New York where he began to focus seriously on writing.   But WWII changed the trajectory of his life, as it did for most young American men at that time.  Right after the attack on Pearl Harbor, he was shipped off to France where he fought in the Normandy Invasion, and then in the Battle of the Bulge. Surrounded by the atrocities of war, he began to write and carried complete chapters around with him into battle. A troubled young man named Holden Caulfield was at the center of his story.

The film is worth watching, if for no other reason than to get a more complete picture of what makes a writer write.  In Salinger’s case, he was considered to be a literary genius, but only after he received rejection after rejection after rejection from the publishing industry.  He’d had a few things published prior to serving in the military, but he didn’t feel successful because what he really wanted was to become published in The New Yorker magazine.  For Salinger, THAT was success.  In all, J.D. Salinger spent ten long years writing Catcher In The Rye.  When he submitted the completed manuscript for publication,  his work was rejected again and again.  Finally, he found a willing publisher but the offer came with a mandatory re-write, and he refused to do it.  Salinger refused to allow any changes whatsoever, not even for punctuation.  So he walked away.  Until Little, Brown and Company came along.  They agreed to publish the book EXACTLY as Salinger wrote it.  The year was 1951. Over 65 MILLION copies have been sold, and over 250,000 copies continue to be purchased each year, according to the film.

I’ve begun my 2014 writing challenge, which is to complete my memoir in six months…by end of June.   I have writing deadlines and accountability to a writing mentor, a woman who has taught memoir for fifteen years now, has published memoir herself. By day, she is a psychologist.

So far, I’m right on schedule with the deadlines and word count goals (actually I’ve surpassed the word count goals). Part of the requirement (class structure) is to submit 2500 words every two weeks for her review and commentary. I’ve sent in my opening chapter, with a scene that shows a tapestry of raw drama amidst family dynamics that took decades to unfurl.  Now, having twice received feedback from my mentor, I’ve drawn a few conclusions…which were strengthened after watching ‘Salinger’.

I am writing my personal story.  I lived it.  I experienced it. My emotions as I navigated that journey are my emotions. Although feedback from a reader perspective is highly valuable and I am grateful for the guidance on outlining, scene and narrative delineation, and a host of other things, I am most intrigued by the comments from my mentor over the ‘situation’ of the story.  Comments such as ‘I don’t understand how this could have happened,’ and ‘Maybe that’s just the family therapist talking here, but so far, how this came to be isn’t clear to me.’

These are comments that lead me to believe I’ve already done my job as a writer…In just the first 5000 words or so, I’ve left the reader wanting to understand how a situation like this one possibly could have happened.  She is asking me, the writer, to help her understand.

If I could do that, I wouldn’t be writing a memoir.  There’d be nothing really to write about.  “Oh, this happened, but it makes complete sense.  End of story.” 

Salinger had stopped submitting for publication in 1964, becoming famously reclusive. The film quoted a phone interview that Salinger gave to a San Francisco journalist in 1974.   “There is a marvelous peace in not publishing. It’s peaceful. Still. Publishing is a terrible invasion of my privacy. I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure.”

I am writing my memoir.  Whether or not the reader can neatly fit round pegs into square holes isn’t for me to instruct.  Every reader has to come to their own conclusions and whether or not they approve of the ‘situation’ is irrelevant to me as a writer.  I’m not writing for their approval and I’m not writing for publication.  I’m writing to record the experiences that molded me into the woman I am today.

Each one of us got launched into adulthood via our own custom built springboard.  My board may have had a few unexpected bounces, but that’s what memoir is. Holden Caulfield was revolutionary for a reason.  He was the writer.  And when it came time to submit that finished manuscript, J.D. Salinger knew that story was his, and his alone.

01/12/2014

Leaning In…at my own table

Sit at the tableI love Sheryl Sandberg for helping today’s professional women pursue their goals.  Her book ‘Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead‘ has been inspirational to so many, including my own daughter.  ‘Lean In’ is the phrase she’s coined to suggest that all women have a valuable contribution to offer…our ideas and our experiences are equally as important as those offered by our male counterparts. With encouragement to ‘sit at the table’, she encourages women to ‘seek challenges, to take risks and pursue goals with gusto.’  I’ve long been out of the corporate world, but her message is one that certainly resonates with me. I’d often found myself as the only woman sitting at a conference table surrounded by men.  It was intimidating, I won’t lie.

As this last holiday season approached and 2013 was seriously winding down, I’d already made the decision to lean in at my own table.  After attending a meeting of the  California Writers Club as a non-member (because I don’t consider myself a real writer) I listened to several panelists, all published authors, speak about their personal writing experiences over the years and the importance of perseverance when it comes to the journey that all writers embark upon.

After attending that meeting, I became excited about THE END.  In the weeks that followed, I began to give serious consideration to the commitment of completing my big writing project within SIX MONTHS.  That’s a huge undertaking for me, because this project has been going on now for… well, for way too long.  It’s not because I want to be dragging my feet, but it’s because the emotional pain of writing it has been such a burden that it’s weighed me down for months and months at a time. And, I’ve allowed that personal pain to intimidate me…because why else would it be taking me this long?

I know that it must be the same for everyone who struggles to write about difficult times in their lives.  I’m not unique, and I know I’m not alone.

And, I’m not at all interested in publication.  Which is why I know it’s time… to simply get on with it.  It’s my history, the fabric from which I’m made, not perfectly ironed, but solidly formed.  I can’t wait to type the words THE END.  The personal sense of accomplishment will be incredibly gratifying, and finally, I’ll be able to put that part of my life back inside the emotional vault where it was securely contained for so many decades, until something unexpected happened that simply blew the lid off.

I’ve signed the contract, I’ve made the official commitment to complete this manuscript in SIX MONTHS.  June 2014.

That’s my table…and I am LEANING IN.  Who’s with me?

12/15/2013

Holiday Yahoo: more flash fiction

Screen Shot 2013-12-15 at 9.05.15 PM

HOMEWORK ASSIGNMENT:

Write a story about a yahoo:  a hooligan, noisy loutish individual.

  RESULT:

I could hear the revelry the moment I stepped out of my car.  The house seemed to be pulsating even from the road. I watched my step, being careful not to lose my footing on the ice underfoot.  The wind was so brisk I had to pull my wool scarf up closer around my neck as I found my way along the frozen sidewalk to the address I was looking for.  It struck me as silly to even be looking for the house number…just the pulsation alone was enough to tell me which house I was looking for.  Well, that and the holiday lights.  The front door had a massive wreath, likely hanging from an equally massive door-knocker that was obscured behind it.

The holiday lights hanging from the eves above glittered and strobed, changing colors faster than I could change breaths. I carefully climbed the three steps to the front door, slipping just a bit on the final step and looked around for a doorbell. Easy to find, since the entire place was bathed in a bright white spotlight emanating from a source behind me and carefully placed to hone in on that door wreath. Glancing back over my shoulder, it was blinding. The intensity surely was meant for the aide of flying saucers taking their first pass over this particular galaxy.

I’d had enough standing around already, so I simply let myself in.  Both the warmth and the noise were astounding from this side of the door.  Partiers were crammed together like sardines in a tin.  Clearly, I was behind schedule.  Squirming out of my coat as I worked my way through the crowd, beyond the living room and on into the kitchen, I realized there were hardly any familiar faces.

When at last I broke through to a pocket of air that was just large enough for me to gather my coat, scarf and gloves in a manner where I would no longer have to worry about losing them, I glanced around for the hostess.  I was certain she’d be in the kitchen.  All good hostesses are, no matter how well organized, how well mannered, how well put together they may seem.  It’s inevitable.  The hostess ends up in the kitchen…that’s just the way it IS.

“Hey! Look who’s here!” I spun around to see whose drunken voice that was screaming in my ear.

“Hi” I said.  I had no clue who this guy was.

“What took ya so long? You been holdin’ out on me?” he slurred.  Wide eyed, I just stared at him.  He was wobbling, and his cocktail was sloshing about which accounted for the saturated napkin that was pressed beneath it.

“Do I know you?” I asked.  Although why I even spoke is beyond me.  I already KNEW I didn’t know this guy…a total stranger.  And, by the looks of him, a total dork.  His pants were too short, his red Christmas vest looked like his uncle’s from several centuries ago, still retaining the old food stains that marinated in mothballs over the decades, and his tie was horrific.  Was that really a reindeer getting it on with…? Oh lordy, look AWAY!

“C’mon, Babe!  You remember me, don’t ya?  Sure, sure you do.  We met last year…at, let’s see, at…well, you remember, right?  C’mon, babe, let’s get you a drinkie…you’re waaaaaay behind now!”

As he leaned in, I backed away and did an about-face. I quickly immersed myself  into the crowd.  Still toting my coat, gloves and scarf, I headed out the same way I’d come in.  Pushing my way between conversations with “Excuse me.  Excuse me.  I’m sorry.  Excuse me.”  Finally, I broke through to the front door.  Just as I was getting my coat back on, I heard what sounded like a shrill scream.

“Let GO of me, you bastard! You’re DRUNK!”  I could see her…glaring at him as he stumbled along in his attempt to stay upright.  Quickly I pulled on my gloves, adjusted my scarf and yanked open the front door.

“Claire!  Where you going?! You just got here!”  It was the elusive hostess, slithering out from the mob.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I’ve just gotten a call from work…I can’t stay, but it looks like a really fun time. Let’s grab coffee one day next week.”

“Work?  This time of night?” she asks suspiciously.

“Yes.  You know, patients are still sick, even after 5 p.m.”

“You’re a dermatologist!  You’re never on call,” she insists.

“Well, sometimes I am.  And tonight, Dr. Yahoo sent a clear message that I needed to leave here pronto.  Happy Holidays!”

 

12/13/2013

Memoir Music: What’s In Your Playlist?

IMG_0385As the holidays approach and the year winds down,  I’ve created a ‘memoir playlist’ on iTunes.  It’s all the music that I became immersed in as a twelve year old after an incomprehensible loss.  These songs will once again comfort me as I embark upon a six month intensive writing curriculum, transporting myself back for one last microscopic journey into the life that was mine. I will come full circle, as I finalize the narrative to the broadest circumference in the ripple effect that was launched by the careless toss of somebody else’s pebble.

Do you have a memoir playlist that transports you to a pivotal time in your life?

12/04/2013

Crisis theme: Flash Fiction (in-class assignment)

Picture 3Recently I’ve joined a small writing group (just 5 of us along with the instructor) that meets every two weeks or so.  It’s been really fun trying my hand with a different genre of writing (fiction) and I’ve already learned that I need to stop thinking so much and just go with it.  Of course, it certainly helps that the other participants are incredibly gifted writers, most of them published, and many of them with multiple books out there.   I think I’m the first ‘newbie’ to join this group in a long while, so I’m especially thankful they’ve allowed me to join them.  Maybe some of you might enjoy these exercises as well…it’s good to stretch the brain in different directions, don’t you think?

IN-CLASS  ASSIGNMENT:  Write a story with a developing crisis, with these sentences in order (2 to 3 minutes writing time between sentences):

I got back to the house just as…

The house seemed to…

I sat silently for…

I thought distractedly of a…

RESULT:

I got back to the house just as she was packing her bags.  “Where do you think you’re going to go?” I asked.

“Anywhere but here.  It’s too dangerous.  He’s everywhere, I can feel him watching me.”

“If you think he’s watching your every move, what makes you think he won’t just follow you to your next stop?”

“Because I’ve chartered a private plane. It’s going to fly me to another major airport across the country.  And from there I’m boarding a commercial flight, so he’ll have no idea where I’ve gone.”

I just stared at her.  Even though I’d sat down the minute she grabbed her empty suitcase, I wasn’t able to keep my right leg from jittering .  This whole situation was giving me the willies.

The house seemed to stop breathing.  She was folding shirts and pants, tossing them into her massive suitcase that would surely weigh well over the 50 pound limit.  But, then again, on a private charter, there’s probably no weight limit at all.   I could hear water gurgling through the baseboards, and was relieved to know that the chill in the room might be somewhat alleviated when the heat got ramped up.

 I sat silently for another few minutes…still watching her as she scrambled around through her closet, the drawers of her bureau, and then in and out of the bathroom.  I watched as headlights ran across the wall, likely our neighbor coming home from work.  Then, a car door slamming.

 “Oh my God!  Do you think that’s him?” she said.  She ran to her purse and pulled out her Sig Sauer.  She checked the chamber and attached the clip.  I thought distractedly of a newspaper headline that would read “Woman kills stalker dead as he breaks down the front door”.

“Oh for cryin’ out loud”, I said.  “Put that thing away.  It’s just the neighbor coming home from work”.  But she was already at the window, having pulled at the side of the drape just enough so she could see.

“He’s coming up the sidewalk!  It’s not the neighbor.  He’s coming up the sidewalk!” In a panic she ran into the hallway and took position at the top of the stairs…where she had a clear shot if he came through that door.

 “Calm down!” I hissed.  “That could be anyone…let me at least see who it is.”

“NO!” she screamed.  “It’s HIM …I know it is!”  We could hear the door handle creak.  We both stood absolutely still as we watched it turn.

12/01/2013

GOLF! (Flash Fiction)

HOMEWORK ASSIGNMENT: Using dialogue, write a 5 minute (1 to 2 page) essay that begins with something true but quickly becomes fictional.

RESULT:

As we walked down the first fairway, I was pondering my tee shot.  Had I left all my skills on the driving range?  Was it pointless to practice beforehand? It seemed so.  As I lugged my clubs along, I was noticeably quiet, or at least my husband thought so.

“How’s your cold?” he asked.

“About the same, and not to blame for that lousy drive off the tee” I responded without glancing over at him.  His drive was straight down the middle of the fairway and hundreds of yards further out than my short and wonky shot.

My yellow neon ball was off in the knee-high weeds somewhere to our left, and as I approached the general vicinity, I veered off to take a look.  Figuring it was likely unfindable, I’d already put a spare ball in my pocket ready to drop and hit if need be.  I grabbed my 7 iron and used it to bat the growth out of my way, while leaning down towards ground level to get a better look.  It was not only tough to see below all this stuff, it was also very damp.  With each step I took, I could feel the moisture seeping around the soles of my golf shoes.  I took a few more steps in, carefully placing my feet so that I could avoid anything that looked obviously muddy.

“Let me help look” I heard him say.

“It’s a goner, I think.  I’ll just hit another one.”  But instead I continued to use my 7 iron to push weeds from side to side, looking for that wildly belligerent golf ball.  I hate losing golf balls more than recording a double digit on a hole.

As I worked my way along, I finally stepped back out onto the edge of the fairway.  I dug the spare out of my pocket.

“Found it!”  I looked around me to see where my husband was.  “Over here!” he yelled.

I looked back behind me and there in the middle of the weeds, he was bending over to retrieve my ball. But instead of coming up with it, he stood back up and looked at me.  “It’s hittable,” he said.

“Huh? Isn’t it out of bounds there?”

“Of course, but since you don’t keep score anyhow, it’s hittable.  These are the kinds of shots that are fun to practice…if you get yourself in trouble when you ARE keeping score, you’ll be more confident hitting the trickier shots if you’ve practiced on weird ones like this.”

I stared at him for a moment.  Okay, fine.  I pulled my pitching wedge, my 9 iron and my 8 iron from my bag, and I hung onto the 7 iron too.  Until I was literally standing over that ball, I wasn’t sure which club I’d want to use.

I picked my way over to where he was, noticing that my socks were now absorbing the mud that was already seeping over onto my shoes.  There was really no way to avoid it, no matter how carefully I placed my feet.

He backed off as I approached.  When I got to the ball, I studied it a moment.  He was right…it was hittable.  There was just enough space around it to get a club head in there…but it was also very muddy so I’d have to be careful not to drive it in further…or just pop it up and land it a few inches away, maybe to be lost forever.

“Hold these.” I said, as I gave him three of my clubs.  I kept the 7.

“The 7 isn’t steep enough to clear the weeds,” he said. “Use your pitch.  It has to pop out high”

“The pitch will pop it up, but it’s gonna leave it well short.  I’ll just bury it again in a new crappy spot”.  He gave me that expression…the one I know so well.  The one that says ‘I’ve played this game my entire life.  Don’t be stupid.’

I gave him my own look.  The one he knows so well. The one that says ‘I hear you, but I’m doing it my way.’

I carefully got into position, placing each foot so that the ball lay squarely in the middle of my stance.  I took hold of my 7 iron, and glanced at my husband.  “Heads up,” I said calmly.

I gently placed the club head into position.  Deciding I might need to blast it with a launch normally reserved for rocket ships, I bent my right knee ever so slightly to give me more leverage in my swing.  Without further ado, I worked that club as I’d never done before, driving the ball like a bullet out of the mud with a ceremonious spray for my cheering squad.

“JESUS!” I heard.

“Where’d it go?” I asked.   I couldn’t see it, but because it wasn’t still sitting where I’d last seen it, I assumed it’d gotten airborne. My husband ran to watch the landing, having first to clamber through the weeds to get out to the fairway. By the time I got back out there myself, my feet were soaked, my shoes ruined.  I squinted to see how far my ball had gone.  I couldn’t see it.  “Where’d it go?” I asked.

He was just shaking his head, with that other look I know so well.  The one that hates to admit that occasionally I can do things my way, and it all turns out okay.

Walking along side by side once again, I soon spotted my ball. It was not only out of the crap, it was well down the fairway, coming to rest in a sliver of sunshine…and just a few feet short of his own stellar drive off the tee.

“Where’s the scorecard?”  I asked.

++++++++++++++

That was a fun writing assignment.  And, yes…it was fictional (well, except for the golf and the hubby part. Good thing my hubby has a sense of humor!)  Writing fiction is a good challenge for me and forces me to use my imagination.  Even more challenging is to come up with a fictional story QUICKLY.   Now there’s a skill that remains elusive.  I’m participating in a new writing group that meets a few times each month…primary focus is fiction.  This has been a good thing for me, but beginning in January I will be pushing even harder on my memoir project with the goal to have it COMPLETED (and COMPLETELY completed) by June 2014.  I’m so excited to be working with Brooke Warner and Linda Joy Myers, who will be coaching me throughout the next six months.  Finally, the HOME STRETCH!  It may never see the light of day for publication, but quite honestly that’s never been my objective in the first place (for background, you’ll need to read my post titled ‘About being a writer‘).  Simply having my memoir completed will finally put the past back into the past, where I’d kept it emotionally locked up for decades. Until something unexpected happened that blew the lock wide open…

11/26/2013

On This Thanksgiving Eve: a reflection on cancer

Spread your wings and learn to fly!

Spread your wings and learn to fly!

On the eve of this Thanksgiving, it will be exactly ten years since I was diagnosed with cancer.  I am so blessed to have had the love of my family, the support of my friends, and the perspective that has allowed me to simply move forward, without questioning why.  It just seems to me that the ‘WHY’ isn’t all that important.  It’s the ‘NOW WHAT’  that determines where the future leads, and sometimes that too has tremendous unpredictability.

Like the skies above, life has the kind of turbulence that you can’t see coming, not with the naked eye.  As mere mortals, it’s our job to spread our wings and fly, even when a sound landing isn’t guaranteed.  I recently blogged about my own journey, and how when faced with decisions hard to fathom, I found the inner focus to simply do what was necessary to steal my own health back.

On this very special Thanksgiving Eve, I wish you all the blessings of good health, valued friendships, and a loving hand to hold onto if your life journey takes an unexpected turn.  And, most importantly,  I thank you for being my friend…I treasure each and every one of you.

10/28/2013

I Feel You Nearby

great photo

I still miss you, every day.

There’s times I find my mind elsewhere.  Often it’s thinking back on my cherished moments with you throughout all those years.  I hear your voice so clearly in the wisdom you left, the encouragement you gave, and the pride you expressed. I hear the love you voiced using words that left no doubt.

I miss talking to you every day.  I miss your true interest in whatever it is I’m doing.  I miss your camaraderie in our lengthy conversations and similar perspectives on issues like integrity, honesty, loyalty, and trust-worthiness.  I miss your example, which you lived for me every single day of your life.

You’d written about your readiness but I didn’t want it to be so.  I’d read your words over and over again, knowing but not believing.

When I think back to that day, which came so unexpectedly, I can’t help but cry.  I didn’t know.  I wasn’t prepared.  You didn’t give me time to say goodbye.  It all happened so fast.

I feel the swell of tears as they cloud my vision and promptly bring me back to the here and now.  I feel you nearby, and I know you’re still thinking of me.

My heart will never forget you.

I still miss you, every day, Dad.

10/27/2013

Golf: It’s Not Rocket Science, It’s Angles.

Picture 2

Golf: It’s a simple game unless it gets to your head.  I’ve been playing now for a few years, once or twice a month on average. I’ve taken six group lessons total, with the same guy who keeps it so simple, I refuse to take lessons from anyone else.  He breaks it down to  stance, grip and swing.  And he tells us “If you’re leaving here with 20 things to think about, you’ve made 17 of them up!”  I wrote the essay ‘Why Spoil A Good Game of Golf By Keeping Score?’ not long after I began playing.  But, I’ve since learned that golf isn’t rocket science.  It’s just angles.  I’ve added a few updates to that original essay which I hope you’ll enjoy by clicking the link above.  If you’re not a golfer, maybe it will entice you to give it a shot.  It’s fun and there is NO NEED to keep score, really.

Whatever your sport, I hope you’re playing because you love the activity, the challenge, and the fun.  If you get nothing but elevated blood pressure and sudden onset of temper tantrums, then it’s time to consider something new.  And, for those of you who’ve read this essay via my feed on LinkedIn’s group Golf 4 Women, I appreciate the LIKES you’ve left me there.   Here’s to whatever brings fun into your life…cheers!

 

10/24/2013

Do You Take Your Surroundings For Granted?

image_2As I review the iPhone photos that I took last weekend while hiking a local area with my dear friend, I wonder how many of us really take the time to notice our surroundings.  I mean, really notice.  Having lived all over the country, I feel blessed to have lived in so many spectacular locations over the years:  Colorado, New Mexico, and California are by far the top contenders for scenic awe. Other places I’ve lived are also gorgeous areas of the country: Georgia, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Florida, Ohio and Illinois.  Well, wait.  Illinois and Gorgeous in the same context?  Hmmm….maybe not. BUT, Illinois is pretty darned memorable with that famous mid-west hospitality they’ve nurtured over the generations. Same with Ohio…although the area in Ohio where I lived truly IS gorgeous.  Those states get a bad rap for climate alone.  But is that really fair?  image_8

No matter where we live at any given time, our surroundings are what makes a place feel like home.  If the skies are gray, the dingy snow everlasting, the weather volatile, home is where the heart is.  The physical surroundings become less important than the emotional ones.

When the geography catches your eye each and every time you’re out there in nature,  then just count yourself as being completely blessed.

These photos are where I live.  It’s so accessible it’s inexcusable for me to NOT be out there every single day.  Yet, I’m only out there once or twice a month on average.  Life gets so busy that I sometimes forget what’s right in my own backyard.

image

This particular day, I enjoyed this challenging hike immensely as my dear friend and I took our time to catch our breath take in the views and appreciate our good health which was instrumental to completing this adventure.  Her health journey has been very challenging these past two years with a hip replacement, followed by marital separation, which was trumped when a heart attack truly put her life into fine focus.

So we took our time.  We took deep breaths.  We took some photos. We took some video footage. We chatted, we gazed, we laughed, and we pondered those steep ascents and steeper descents. We pushed forward as we navigated loose gravel on slopes steeper than our comfort levels.

When we completed our five mile hike, we were elated and relieved.  We did it.  My friend commented afterwards that she’d didn’t know what to think.  It was incredulous to her that she was able to complete that hike.  Life is like that.  We can’t always see the unexpected bends in the road, but we learn to navigate.  One step at a time.

How lucky we are to live where we do.  How lucky I feel to have dear friends who encourage and challenge each other.  We’re blessed, all of us.

Do you take your surroundings for granted?

image_7

10/20/2013

Don’t Look Back

pathIt was startling to find, and difficult to confirm. Even though my doctor told me the imagery was clear, I knew that there was something amiss. To appease me, she sent me on for an ultrasound. I had to wait four more weeks to get the appointment, scheduled for late November. And it was there that the radiologist decided to err on the side of caution, taking six core samples to be sent off for biopsy.

Prepping my dinner table the eve before Thanksgiving, I took a call from the hospital. Pathology results were in.

It was a Thanksgiving of blessings.  Gazing at the faces of my many loved ones, I formulated a plan: take whatever steps necessary to steal my good health back.

I had surgery two weeks later, expecting eight full weeks of radiation to follow.  But pathology from surgery showed more problems…the margins weren’t clean. Malignant cells had been left behind.

Back to surgery one more time, this one scheduled for Christmas Eve.  My surgeon felt it was important to move quickly, so the holiday took a back seat.

Christmas Day was a day of blessings. Looking at the faces of my children gathered around me, I saw the road ahead with acute clarity. I expedited the healing process.

New Years Eve I took a call in the last hours of daylight.  My surgeon identified herself by her first name.  It took me a moment to understand, but then in an instant, I got it.

My husband wasn’t yet home from work, so I reached him on his cell phone to suggest we meet up at a local spot for a festive drink together.  Let’s ring in the New Year a few hours early, I suggested.

The pub was packed with revelers, all in good cheer as they sat at tiny tables sharing appetizers and raucous laughter together.  Spotting a quiet corner, I grabbed a newly vacated table for two and waited for his arrival.

His eyes lit up when he spotted me.  We spent two hours talking about a thousand things, as we’d always done throughout our twenty-five years of partnership together. I waited until he was finishing his third glass of wine before I broke the news.

With an incredulous stare, he struggled to retain emotional control. I reached across the small table and held his hands firmly in my own. Listen to me, I said.  I’ll get through this.  It’s doable…it’s just body parts. I can live without body parts.

Sometimes the most unexpected journeys teach you the most profound lessons.  For example, if you simply keep your eye on the horizon, you can travel just one day at a time. By doing so, statistics on travel time become irrelevant because the only timeline you’re on is the one you choose to manage.

The horizon is always there…just waiting for you to arrive, no matter how long the journey. Don’t look back and most certainly don’t look down.

10/01/2013

It begins with you, Mr. President

184737_10151225785732286_1670144013_nI’m sorry Congress, but this partial shutdown of government you’ve managed to pull off on the American people is not acceptable.  We have elected you to be leaders.  You certainly campaigned on your ability to lead, and you won the right to serve your constituents. You are in office solely to represent us, WE THE PEOPLE.  And I’m speaking to all of you: Democrats and Republicans alike.

And the way I see it, it begins with YOU, Mr. President.  It doesn’t END with you…it BEGINS with you.  Where’s all that rhetoric now about reaching across the aisle and working together?  You’ve had all this time now, and you’ve let us all down… not just those who aren’t in your corner, but millions of those who’ve been in your corner all along.  And to that last group, you rally them by continuing to point fingers and  lay blame.  You are aware, are you not, that reaching across the aisle means extension from BOTH DIRECTIONS? Or are you just a slow learner?

So, here we all are, wondering what’s next.  This morning, government employees actually took the time to drive their government vehicles and post CLOSED signs at the entry to the parking lot in Tennessee Valley, within a stones throw from where I live.   From that dirt parking lot, multiple trail heads lead the way through the Golden Gate National Recreation Area and stretch for miles, connecting Muir Woods and beach communities within coastal Marin County. These trails are accessible from a multitude of places all over the county, not just the parking lot in Tennessee Valley.  They’re accessible from right up above my home.

The road leading up to that dirt lot was lined today with vehicles on both sides. Hikers and bikers parked their cars there because you blocked access to the dirt lot.  Seriously?   You’re going to demand that we aren’t allowed to park our vehicles in that dirt lot and hike our own trails?  How about suggesting your laid-off government employees hike those trails, to clear their heads a bit.

Surely as a community organizer, you can understand that you’ve done  your community no favors? By refusing to compromise on literally every objective in your playbook, you’ve simply widened the gap that was already fracturing your community, also known as  these United States of America.

Don’t tell us we aren’t allowed to enjoy the abundance of Golden Gate National Park that is easily accessible from our own neighborhoods and this beautiful city of San Francisco.  Oh, and those national monuments in D.C.?  Those too belong to WE THE PEOPLE. I salute those politicians from Mississippi who found a way to get the gates unlocked to allow these WWII vets to see the  memorial that pays tribute to them and thousands of other brave souls who put their lives on the front lines.  These vets are part of your community too, Mr President…you remember them, don’t you?  They’re the ones who’ve stepped up to make sure this great nation remains free, no matter which political office holds the President of the United States.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2QRDUJoWEk

09/09/2013

Here On Earth With You

Picture 2This evening I was cruising around on WordPress, reading blog posts by other writers. I stumbled across a post that especially caught my attention, titled The Cancer Book. It’s written by the wife of a cancer patient.  Her personal anger and emotional fragility are all too familiar to me.

I’ve walked that same path alongside loved ones battling cancer.  And, I found myself providing comfort to my husband as he walked that path beside me while I myself battled cancer.

That was almost 10 years ago now…but the journey is as fresh in my mind as if it were just yesterday.  After reading her post, which detailed the anguish of having to purchase a notebook to help her keep all cancer-related paperwork together, I decided to leave a reader comment.  I told her what I tell everyone who asks about my own cancer journey;  keep your eye on the horizon and take it just one day at a time.  Don’t stress over the weeks/months ahead.  Just keep your eye on the horizon, stay steady and take it day by day. Only one day at a time.

Here On Earth With You is a poem I wrote early in my cancer journey, when it became clear that the best chance I had for survival  was not going to be the 8 weeks of radiation I’d been told would follow the initial surgery.  In my wildest dreams, I’d never expected to face the kind of battle strategics that cancer served up.  Too many trips to surgery in a matter of weeks, and then the final surgery was a drastic one. It left me with no choice but to be reminded, on a daily basis, that my life was in exchange for body parts.

For me, it’s been easy to keep it in perspective.  It’s just body parts.  Living isn’t about body parts, it’s about HEALTH.

I hope the blogger who wrote about her cancer book can soon write about the joy of celebrating with her husband over his renewed health.  Life is so unpredictable, but here on earth is where I hope he will remain for decades to come.

The sunshine’s warmth upon my skin on a brisk autumn day

brings good feelings to my heart,

for I know it’s nature’s way.

The sobering news of malignancy brings clarity to mind

for appreciation of battle,

of facing moments in time.

The smile on my children’s faces, no matter what their age

and the way their warmth envelops me

in every single stage.

Their laughter and their triumphs, their special little ways

that make me feel so blessed

with each passing day.

The joys I share in marriage, our love endures the years.

The support we share for each other,

no matter what the fears.

The way he looks so pensive, lost in thoughts of distress–

The way I reassure him,

our tomorrows will be the best.

I step up, front and center, to see how the facts unfold

and I face what lies before me,

choosing what the future holds.

Decisions hard to fathom, in order to pursue

a lifetime of more love,

here on earth with you.

Picture 3Blessings to all who have their own cancer journeys to endure.

09/01/2013

Perseverance, Thick Skin and Debbie Macomber

This is NOT my mom, but this is how she looks when she's reading!

This is NOT my mom, but this is how she looks when she’s reading!

My mom just FLEW through Debbie Macomber’s new book, called ‘Rose Harbor in Bloom’. Mom tends to power through any book if she finds it engaging.  She can read cover to cover in a matter of hours, or days, as she did the hefty book about Steve Jobs.  She’s been reading book after book on her iPad, which I purchased for her about two years ago.  I loaded the Kindle app on there and then set it up using my own Kindle account, so anything I read she can read too. (I didn’t set up her own Kindle account because she watches her pennies and feels indulgent purchasing a book).  Now, using Amazon, I can purchase and download  any book she’d like to read, whether it appeals to me or not, and it appears on her iPad within minutes. Which is how the book by Debbie Macomber materialized.

At almost 91, she has been managing the world of the iPad quite well over all.  Every now and then, she calls asking me for some Genius Bar assistance.  Even though I myself don’t own an iPad, as a rule I am able to help her out by phone, but occasionally it has to wait until I can hop a plane for the 4.5 hour flight that will take me to her place of residence.

As she was telling me this morning about the plot line on this book (and how quickly she got pulled in), I decided to Google the author, thinking I may have read one or two of her books over the years.  None of the titles on her list of published books rang a bell, but I then decided to read up on her career as a writer.  According to Wikipedia, here is how she got started:

Although Debbie Macomber is dyslexic and has only a high school education, she was determined to be a writer. A stay-at-home mother raising four small children, Macomber nonetheless found the time to sit in her kitchen in front of a rented typewriter and work on developing her first few manuscripts. For five years she continued to write despite many rejections from publishers, finally turning to freelance magazine work to help her family make ends meet.

With money that she saved from her freelance articles, Macomber attended a romance writer’s conference, where one of her manuscripts was selected to be publicly critiqued by an editor from Harlequin Enterprises Ltd. The editor tore apart her novel and recommended that she throw it away. Undaunted, Macomber scraped together $10 to mail the same novel, Heartsong, to Harlequin’s rival, Silhouette Books. Silhouette bought the book, which became the first romance novel to be reviewed by Publishers Weekly.

I’m not a reader of the romance genre, so although her name sounded very familiar to me when Mom mentioned it, now I realize it was only because I’ve seen her paperbacks in every book store, grocery store and airport hub for decades. Turns out, there’s over 170 million copies of her books in print, and her titles have spawned four made-for-tv movies.

What really caught my eye in her bio was the determination to persevere EVEN in light of the fact that an editor from a highly respected publishing house trashed her work at the very early stages of her writing journey.  Now let me tell you…romance novels are the LAST thing my mother would be reading now (or EVER).  ‘Rose Harbor In Bloom’ has been categorized to the ‘contemporary women’s fiction’ genre, and if my mom says it’s a great read, I’ll be reading it next (just as soon as I finish the lengthy book about Steve Jobs).

The Wikipedia bio goes on to report:

Macomber is a three-time winner of the B. Dalton Award, and the inaugural winner of the fan-voted Quill Award for romance (2005, for 44 Cranberry Point). She has been awarded the Romantic Times Magazine Distinguished Lifetime Achievement Award and has won a Romance Writers of America RITA Award, the romance novelist’s equivalent of an Academy Award, for The Christmas Basket. Her novels have regularly appeared on the Waldenbooks and USAToday bestseller lists and have also earned spots on the New York Times Bestseller List. On September 6, 2007 she made Harlequin Enterprises history, by pulling off the rarest of triple plays—having her new novel, 74 Seaside Avenue, appear at the #1 position for paperback fiction on the New York Times, USAToday and Publishers Weekly bestseller lists. These three highly respected bestseller lists are considered the bellwethers for a book’s performance in the United States.

Isn’t it nice to know that the success of a writer doesn’t lie within the opinion of an editor…even one from a highly regarded publishing house?  It seems to me that the success lies within the effort put into the journey.  Perseverance, thick skin, and having the determination to NOT look back unless you’re going that way. Those are the surely the cornerstones of success, don’t you think?

08/29/2013

Miley, are you SERIOUSLY interested to become the poster child for ‘twerking’?!?

Holy smokes.  Not being an avid follower of MTV or their music awards show, the national news has more than adequately covered the antics of Miley Cyrus on the recent MTV awards show.  The buzz is all about her TWERKING…now there’s a word I’d never heard of before, so I looked it up. According to the Urban Dictionary, it’s TWERK, which means:

  • The rhythmic gyrating of the lower fleshy extremities in a lascivious manner with the intent to elicit sexual arousal or laughter in ones intended audience
  • to work one’s body, as in dancing, especially the rear end
  • The vigorously shaking of your Gluteus Maximus
  • Ghetto dancing
  • white girls in yoga pants having sex with the air or black girls in 2 sizes too small shorts having sex with the wall
  • a fancy word for ‘booty-poppin”
  • the action of standing (usually in a squatting position) with your hands either on your thighs or not; then moving your back and butt up and down, making it jiggle , LMFAO. usually girls do it at clubs , sometimes they’re ratchet and do it at school for boys , to seek attention from the men)

Wikipedia has a much more concise explanation:

Twerking is a dance move that involves a person, usually a woman, shaking her hips in an up-and-down bouncing motion, causing the dancer to shake, “wobble” and “jiggle.”[1] This motion, when incorporated into dance moves, is also referred to as “sissing” (sexual intercourse simulation). When done by men it’s usually directed at a particular person, often female, to indicate a disrespectful assessment of her reputation.

Wow, I mean…seriously Miley?  How old are you now….20? 21?  Do you truly believe that women are worth nothing more than their sexuality?  Where is your sense of dignity?  With all that acting and vocal talent,  is ‘twerking’ really what you wanted  the world to know  about the dignity and self-esteem of Miley Cyrus?

Have you been hanging out with Charlie Sheen?  Not that long ago, I had a few thoughts about his behavior as well.  My message to Charlie is exactly what I’d like to say to you right now.

But, rather than repeat all that, I’ll just net it out for you, Miley:  SNAP OUT OF IT! American’s are all abuzz about your performance, and it’s NOT with admiration…of that you can be sure.

You were born with a gift.  And news flash:  it’s not the gift of sex…surely you are aware that every animal on earth has that gift? It’s certainly not unique to YOU.

Is the discovery of sex so thrilling to you that you have to act it out in the raunchiest manner possible to prove that you aren’t a little kid anymore?  Well, you got America’s attention with your performance….the Twitter frenzy and media frenzy ensured that YOUR NAME has been prohibited at dinner tables across the country where families with young girls were following your amazing career which originally showcased your TRUE gift as a vocalist, but in recent years you were clearly shifting your image. And now?  You’ve become the poster child for TWERKING.

You and Charlie Sheen, same self-destruct behaviors. He’s OLD….you’re young.  It’s not too late to turn it around, Miley.  But that’s only a choice you can make for yourself.  The media will be watching closely because they REVEL in the failure of others, solely because American’s eat it up at the newsstands.  Like I said when I wrote about Charlie,  America needs to snap out of this idolization of a crap culture that brings nothing but destruction to anyone foolish enough to crave a life of hell.  

 

07/11/2013

Has Integrity Become Obsolete?

IntegrityLeft with a sense of frustration that’s been building over a variety of things, I’m disheartened.  It’s been a long day and I’m completely spent.  Today I worked a lot of hours helping to unravel the financials of a local non-profit organization that’s been around for over 70 years. They literally hold the historical archives of our beautiful county within their vast collection.  Not just local development and community archives, but also much of this nations rock & roll history, because a boatload of music legends were launched from right here.

Mismanaged by a string of executive directors and board members, this organization has gone completely off the rails. Millions of dollars were squandered, and lofty expansion efforts were abandoned. With financial disaster looming, a majority of the staff has been let go.  The Board is in shambles…most have jumped ship with differing opinions on the future direction of the organization.

There has been such lack of financial oversight that it angers me personally.  Sleuthing out the money trail has been an eye opener.

This morning I find that in the past two days since I was there last, a new financial entry has appeared in the books.  The President of the Board has written a check to herself.  A substantial check, as payment for ‘professional consulting’.

Has integrity become obsolete? This is the big question that looms in my mind.    I wonder how folks sleep at night.

 

 

07/02/2013

Parenting: It’s a Two-Step Playbook

Picture 1“What’s the best advice you can give me?”  This was the question I was asked recently about the subject of parenting.

I don’t know Anthony well.  He’s a member of the wealth management team that handles the investments for one of my clients.  We speak by phone once or twice a year to review tax related details as he prepares the financials for filing.

The conversation always starts with pleasantries before we get to the nitty gritty, and this one started out with me asking if he was enjoying his summer so far.  With a bit of a sigh, he said he was trying to keep things steady at home.  He explained that it’s been a challenge which continues to grow daily for he and his wife.  It seems that their three kids, now on summer break from school,  are pushing the parental envelope with  teenage hormones and sibling antics that have ramped up to the point of exasperation.

‘How old is your oldest?” I asked.

‘Fifteen…a boy” he replied. “They’re all three years apart in age”.

“Hang in there” I told him.  “I also have three children, all grown up now, and I can tell you there is a light at the end of the tunnel”.  He asked about their ages, and what each one was doing now.  And then he asked for  the ‘best’ advice I could offer.

“Ease off on the small stuff, and save the confrontations for the really important issues”, I told him.   We talked briefly about teen behavior: the moodiness and volatility.  And we also talked about the never-ending sibling rivalry…when they weren’t fighting amongst each other, they were up to stupid antics in solidarity.

Listening to other parents talk about their trials and tribulations is so often like a walk down memory lane…their experiences are all so familiar, with occasional variation along the way.  My husband traveled so much during the years our children were growing, that I felt like a single parent raising three children on my own much of the time. He’d be gone Monday through Friday, sometimes two or more weeks out of every month.  One year, he spent nine straight months commuting from our home in Colorado to Dallas, Texas.

I’ve been thinking about my advice to Anthony.  And although I feel my ‘best’ advice was exactly what I offered, I think there is a second part to that.  It’s really a two-step playbook:

STEP ONE:  Ease off on the small stuff and save the confrontations for the really important issues.

STEP TWO:  Say what you mean, and mean what you say.

In order for Step One to be effective, Step Two is crucial.  And, maybe Step Two should really BE Step One.

The entire brief conversation about parenting now has me reflecting back on those challenging years.  There are a multitude of memories that come to mind.  Oh, the stories I could share…there truly are scores of ’em.  Lots are hilariously funny now, though I sure couldn’t find the humor at the time.

But here we are, all these years later.  My husband and I couldn’t be prouder of the adults our children have become.  I tried my best to parent with a firm guidance, but the love for my children trumped all. I made mistakes along the way, I’m sure.  Personally, I can’t think of a one, but I’m guessing the kids could tell you some.  All three of them recently blew me away when they individually wrote messages as a tribute to my milestone birthday which was just a short month ago. In part, they read:

  • What I love about Mom… is that she sets an example as to how to persevere when you think you can’t do it, how to be yourself when you’re told to conform, how to be strong when you feel weak, how to be independent when you think you can’t do it alone, how to coexist when you think you can’t do it together, how to be confident when you’re not sure, how to speak up when something needs to be said, and how to set the example for others when nobody else has. HOW TO BE A REAL GOOD, HONEST INDIVIDUAL.
  • What I love about Mom is her innate motherly instinct – her ability to read my mood and ALWAYS cheer me up!
  • There’s nothing more special for a daughter than knowing her mother is always thinking about her.

I’ve read those words, and the messages in their entirety, over and over again…reflecting back on all the years passed.  They were absolutely the brightest years of my life.  The joys and the challenges, all of it.

Being their parent was always more important than being their friend. I’ve retired my playbook, but not my sense of motherhood.  My children are everything to me, and  I cannot imagine my life’s journey without them in it.

06/06/2013

The Ultimate Gift

I’m flying high, but I’m coming down fast.  At a cruising altitude of 38,000 feet, I’m settled nervously into my aisle seat as this big bird soars through the skies across the Sierra’s.  I’m tired, coming off an amazing weekend, which was not only emotionally overwhelming, but a complete and utterly unexpected surprise.  It’s taken me several days just to digest it all, and this morning I had planned to use my brief break from work to write a whole bunch of thank you notes.  I wanted to get comfy, and really focus on the words I would write to each and every individual, letting them know how special they are to me and how appreciative I am of their deeply touching messages in celebration of my milestone birthday.

But, before I stepped from bed to take my morning shower, the phone rang and I recognized immediately that I would be racing off to the airport.  The sound of my moms voice was really all I needed, but her words confirmed it.  At 90 years old, she has had an amazing life, even bouncing back from an unexpected heart attack just five months ago.  All the stars were aligned for her then…she collapsed in the lobby area of her independent living community.  Help was immediate, emergency response was there within moments and they were able to get her to a hospital and actually save her.  I mean SAVE her.  The EMT’s and doctors both told me she’d had no blood pressure in the ambulance, yet somehow they miraculously were able to quickly get three stents into one blocked artery. They tried to clear a 2nd blocked artery as well, but without luck.  After three quick days in ICU, she was home with instructions to simply return to life as she knew it before her heart attack happened.

My mom had taken nothing more than vitamin supplements and aspirin for her entire life. Having to now take an assortment of prescription meds has been somewhat of a mental hurdle.  She’s always said prescription meds don’t ‘agree’ with her, so as a result, she becomes acutely aware of any little side effect that might rear its ugly head.  And she knows what to look for, because she reads about the side effects in detail. That information comes stapled to the Walgreens bag each time she has her prescriptions filled.

Two mornings ago I wondered why I hadn’t yet received her early morning greeting, so I called her at 11 a.m. to check in.  Instantly I was aware she wasn’t well.  Her voice was weak, she was still in bed and feeling dizzy.  After some discussion, I finally convinced her to call the lobby and ask for an EMT to check on her.  I stayed on the phone with her until they arrived, less than five minutes later.

It seemed she only needed an adjustment to her blood pressure meds, which the doctor on site was able to manage quickly for her.  Within hours, she was feeling like herself again.  Yesterday she had a very good day.

This morning, her weak voice was alarming. She said she’s been unable to get warm, and has opted to ‘stay cozy’ in bed, feeling unusually fatigued.

The symptoms my Dad experienced just before he collapsed into my arms were the same.  Unable to get warm, and feeling fatigued.  He slipped away from us that evening, even though the EMT’s had him speaking in the ambulance, and the ER doc had him speaking upon arrival.  But when mom and I finally got to the hospital ourselves (horrifyingly delayed by rush hour traffic in a construction zone), he wasn’t responsive when I raced to his side and said “Dad, we’re here.” In an instant, I knew he had already embarked upon his next journey.

So, now here I am, wiping tears away as I type, praying that this isn’t Mom’s time quickly approaching, but knowing full well that it could be. We have talked long distance, multiple times a day, for all of my adult life.  When my Dad was alive, multiple times a day was still true, but conversations were substantially longer because I spoke at length with each one of them individually, several times a day. Yes, on a daily basis.

‘What on earth (you are probably wondering) could you possibly have to talk to your parents about on a daily basis?’

LIFE.  Everything and anything.  They both led very full and accomplished lives and were married to each other for over 65 years.  They experienced The Great Depression during their youth, and then separation during World War II while my Dad proudly served his country in the Armed Forces.  They raised three children; one a wild-child, one critically ill, and one who was afraid of her shadow (that would be me).  I grew up to find a man who has loved me for 37 years.  We have a family of our own, with three wonderful children, two terrific daughter-in-laws, and a beautiful one year old grandchild.  They all bring us such great joy, and I often wonder how we managed to get so lucky.

Yes, there’ve been ENDLESS things to talk with my parents about.  They’ve provided comfort, counsel, wisdom and clarity.  They’ve been my biggest fans, my biggest confidantes, and my biggest role models for each and every day of their lives.

As I gaze out the window, I’m noticing the light has shifted as we fly further and further away from the fading sun. I weep silently at the anticipation of what may lie ahead. And to distract myself, I’m reflecting on all the very special messages my dear friends and loved ones had composed and then presented to me (in a hardcover bound book format)  at the surprise party, which caught me totally off-guard.  I walked into the restaurant with a wet head, for heavens sake.  (Anyone who knows me, knows that I don’t take time to use a hair dryer…it just seems an unwise use of time, because I know full well it’ll dry all on its own within 20 to 30 minutes).

Each of their messages began with this:

‘What I love about Ann is…’

And each one left me moved beyond words.

Life….It’s the ultimate journey. No one lives forever. But when the time does come to slip away, knowing that others truly see how you LIVED  is the ultimate gift.

sailing photo

 

Thank you dear ones, for your ongoing love and friendship.  It means more to me than words can express.