Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, Wives :: Texas Monthly
The link above will take you to the August 2012 issue of Texas Monthly Magazine. The article by Texas author, Mimi Swartz, made me furious. In fact, the article made me so angry that I sat down at the computer to write after more than a year without posting a word. This is not a diatribe on the issues of abortion or welfare; it's about what's happening to women.
Every woman in the USA should read this article, but it should be mandated that Texas women read it. And the next time you hear a politician tell you that "there's no war on women," remember this article. Ladies--and gentlemen--do you realize that in Texas, and in other states, there are men who want to take away the right to practice birth control? And they are succeeding because women are allowing it.
How did we arrive back at the place in our nation where men decide what's right for our bodies? Where men can beat down and hold down the poor by eliminating any chance of improving and controlling their health, thus preventing them from reaching up and making their lives better? The poor are with us; they always will be. In these economic times, any of us could suddenly become the poor. Surely there isn't a soul out there who thinks that continuing to provide birth control and health services to people in economic straits is less desirable than paying for the result of no birth control and no health services?
We need heroes--politicians and regular people who will stand up for what's intelligent, compassionate, and wise, and who are not afraid to man up and go a few rounds with those who would impose an agenda that keeps women barefoot and pregnant.
Showing posts with label Women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Women. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall; Who's the Fairest?
Early yesterday I met two friends for breakfast at our local IHOP. I won’t mention their names because I wouldn’t embarrass them for the world. However, one of them looked especially pretty; her hair was washed and styled and her make-up was perfect. And she’d just had a colonoscopy minutes before. I’m not kidding. She’d been up all night, flushing her insides down the toilet, thanks to the bottles of laxative she’d been made to drink. She had probably wiped her bottom raw, but she looked fabulous! Why do we women do that?We wouldn’t dream of heading to the gynecologist without first shaving our legs and armpits, getting a pedicure, and slathering a moisturizer from head to toe for an all-over radiant glow. Is that glow supposed to create a more pleasant working environment for the doctor? Then, of course, we do our best to present an attractive outer appearance with perfect make-up, hair and wardrobe. I’ve probably spent more time getting ready for the OB-GYN doc than I did for some dates when I was young and single.
When you consider what it takes to prep for a colonoscopy, shouldn’t we make the gastroenterologist suffer some also? We’ve had nothing to eat except clear broth, plain Jell-O, and water for twenty-four hours. Our bottoms have a permanent toilet-ring-shaped crease from the hours we spent sitting “on the throne” the night before. If we’re lucky and smart, we scheduled the appointment for first thing in the morning. Regardless of the time, we’re exhausted because we really didn’t sleep a wink all night. So why go to the trouble of making ourselves beautiful?
It’s my theory that we don’t want the gastroenterologist or the gynecologist to remember us just from the waist down. There’s nothing attractive, feminine or ladylike about the exam at the doctor for feminine and ladylike issues. And we certainly don’t want to be remembered as the polyp or hemorrhoid from last Tuesday. So we, just like women do, try to pretty things up.
My friend had threatened to draw a smiley face or the word “hi” on her bottom right before her exam, to put the doctor in a good mood. In the end. . .she decided to leave well enough alone.Donna
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
What Are You Doing Next, Sandy?
For as long as I’ve known her, Sandy has been something of a big sister to me. You know the kind of friend I’m talking about—she seems to have already done what you’re trying to do, and is always there to help you out when you need her.
After initial “stewardess” training in 1966, Sandy went to Buffalo, New York. I went to Chicago in 1968, and we both transferred to San Diego in 1972. We didn’t really get to know each other until we transferred to our international base in Los Angeles in 1980. Our only “international” trip at that time was between L.A. and Honolulu, so Sandy and I found ourselves working the same trip many, many times. Yes, I do realize that Hawaii is our 50th state and not really an international destination, but that’s what we called it because to get there we flew over one of the really big ponds.
Sandy was always busy doing something new and creative—and she was quite the entrepreneur. When we flight attendants began wearing silk flowers in our hair to complement our Hawaiian muu muus, (uniforms designed to make us look like a cross between a geisha and a room divider), Sandy set to work making and selling “made to order” tropical floral hair accessories and called her business “Petal Pusher.” She later added cloth tote bags and beaded jewelry to her inventory and became the “go to girl” for hand-made travel accessories.
Over the years, Sandy tried macramé, knitting, needlepoint, crochet and cross stitch, but she always loved to sew. Her first sewing machine purchase was a Singer Golden Touch and Sew, costing around three hundred dollars—and that included the wood cabinet it was in. With it, Sandy said she made “loving hands at home” projects.
“What are ‘loving hands at home’ projects?” I asked, thinking she was referring to some kind of charitable work.
“You know. . . the kind of stuff that when someone sees it for the first time, they think: ‘Oh, my God!’”
The death of her mother in 1994 left Sandy floundering for a while. During this period, she began watching Sewing with Nancy, the long-running sewing series on public television, and was motivated to sharpen her sewing skills. In 1995 a friend showed her a home embroidery machine and Sandy decided she had to own one. That was just the beginning. For much of the next fifteen years, she continued to upgrade her machines and her skills, but for some reason she resisted quilting until just a few years ago. Now she can’t get enough of it.
Recently Sandy welcomed me at one of her sewing group gatherings to meet her friends and take a few pictures. I met her at Quilter’s Dream, a popular quilter’s supply store and sewing center in Colleyville, Texas. I felt like a rat in a maze as one of the employees led me through the multi-roomed building to the area where Sandy’s group was sewing. It reminded me of those photos of the sweatshops with all the women sitting at sewing machines in every room amidst the stacks of brightly colored fabric. But these women were doing what they love to do!
Sandy invited me to join her sewing group, the “Bag Ladies,” for lunch at a local deli. The ladies at the table talked about sewing machines the way guys talk about cars—or computers. In fact, their sewing machines are computers these days. And just as with PCs and Macs, they no sooner buy a machine than a newer, faster, more powerful model is on the market in a short time.
While Sandy’s definitely taken to retirement, in many ways she’s busier than ever. She attends sewing retreats around the state, with three planned for this year. She’s a member of four local sewing groups: Raveled Thread, Bag Ladies, I Love to Sew, and a serger club. She’s a member of a Red Hat Society group and the American Sewing Guild national organization. She also continues to sign up for sewing classes.
Now when she asks her many nieces and nephews what they’d like for wedding or Christmas gifts, it’s one of her quilts they request. Her quilts draw high-dollar bids at the American Airlines Wings Foundation benefits. “Wings” is the tax exempt, non-profit organization created, funded and managed by American Airlines Flight Attendants for the benefit of seriously ill or disabled colleagues.
April 1st will be the second anniversary of her retirement from American Airlines. Happy Anniversary, Sandy. Glad to see you’re taking it easy.
Donna
After initial “stewardess” training in 1966, Sandy went to Buffalo, New York. I went to Chicago in 1968, and we both transferred to San Diego in 1972. We didn’t really get to know each other until we transferred to our international base in Los Angeles in 1980. Our only “international” trip at that time was between L.A. and Honolulu, so Sandy and I found ourselves working the same trip many, many times. Yes, I do realize that Hawaii is our 50th state and not really an international destination, but that’s what we called it because to get there we flew over one of the really big ponds.Sandy was always busy doing something new and creative—and she was quite the entrepreneur. When we flight attendants began wearing silk flowers in our hair to complement our Hawaiian muu muus, (uniforms designed to make us look like a cross between a geisha and a room divider), Sandy set to work making and selling “made to order” tropical floral hair accessories and called her business “Petal Pusher.” She later added cloth tote bags and beaded jewelry to her inventory and became the “go to girl” for hand-made travel accessories.
Over the years, Sandy tried macramé, knitting, needlepoint, crochet and cross stitch, but she always loved to sew. Her first sewing machine purchase was a Singer Golden Touch and Sew, costing around three hundred dollars—and that included the wood cabinet it was in. With it, Sandy said she made “loving hands at home” projects.“What are ‘loving hands at home’ projects?” I asked, thinking she was referring to some kind of charitable work.
“You know. . . the kind of stuff that when someone sees it for the first time, they think: ‘Oh, my God!’”
The death of her mother in 1994 left Sandy floundering for a while. During this period, she began watching Sewing with Nancy, the long-running sewing series on public television, and was motivated to sharpen her sewing skills. In 1995 a friend showed her a home embroidery machine and Sandy decided she had to own one. That was just the beginning. For much of the next fifteen years, she continued to upgrade her machines and her skills, but for some reason she resisted quilting until just a few years ago. Now she can’t get enough of it.
Recently Sandy welcomed me at one of her sewing group gatherings to meet her friends and take a few pictures. I met her at Quilter’s Dream, a popular quilter’s supply store and sewing center in Colleyville, Texas. I felt like a rat in a maze as one of the employees led me through the multi-roomed building to the area where Sandy’s group was sewing. It reminded me of those photos of the sweatshops with all the women sitting at sewing machines in every room amidst the stacks of brightly colored fabric. But these women were doing what they love to do!
Sandy invited me to join her sewing group, the “Bag Ladies,” for lunch at a local deli. The ladies at the table talked about sewing machines the way guys talk about cars—or computers. In fact, their sewing machines are computers these days. And just as with PCs and Macs, they no sooner buy a machine than a newer, faster, more powerful model is on the market in a short time.While Sandy’s definitely taken to retirement, in many ways she’s busier than ever. She attends sewing retreats around the state, with three planned for this year. She’s a member of four local sewing groups: Raveled Thread, Bag Ladies, I Love to Sew, and a serger club. She’s a member of a Red Hat Society group and the American Sewing Guild national organization. She also continues to sign up for sewing classes.
Now when she asks her many nieces and nephews what they’d like for wedding or Christmas gifts, it’s one of her quilts they request. Her quilts draw high-dollar bids at the American Airlines Wings Foundation benefits. “Wings” is the tax exempt, non-profit organization created, funded and managed by American Airlines Flight Attendants for the benefit of seriously ill or disabled colleagues. April 1st will be the second anniversary of her retirement from American Airlines. Happy Anniversary, Sandy. Glad to see you’re taking it easy.
Donna
Monday, October 12, 2009
"Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the floor each morning the devil says: 'Oh Crap! She's up!'"
My friend, Stevie, sent me the above quote a couple of days ago. It’s come around before, and this time I decided to Google it and try to find its origin. Google gave me well over 25,000 results for the full quote. (There were three quarters of a million sites listed for those who just like to write “Oh crap!”) I wasn’t able to discover when it first appeared, or to whom it is credited, but I did find it on one blog dating back to November of 2006. And who likes this quote? Women! Women bloggers love this quote. I found blogs by young career women and retirees, environmentalists, wives and moms, health care professionals—women from all walks of life and fields of interest. Of course, there were enumerable religious and faith-based sites that used the quote, no doubt because of the reference to the devil.
I want to be that woman!
While the more spiritually-oriented blogs refer to Satan when they use this quote, I think of the devil, in this instance, as a metaphor for life’s struggles and setbacks, ills and woes, troubles and sorrows. It represents our enemies and foes. Well, I want to be that woman who rattles the devil. I want to look trouble in the eye and kick it in the teeth. I want to be Xena: Warrior Princess when it comes to Life’s problems. That’s the kind of woman the devil worries about. And apparently a lot of other women feel the same way. Next morning: I stalled here last night while I thought about where this post was going. Why do I find this quote so appealing? Is it because I feel powerless to slow down the aging process? Is it tied in with empty nest syndrome, as in “my work here is done.” Or it just may be the realization that there’s probably not time to change the world now. But, like the old hymn suggests, I can try to brighten my corner.
Do not wait until some deed of greatness you may do,To read about two incredible women, check out the sidebar.
Do not wait to shed your light afar,
To the many duties ever near you now be true,
Brighten the corner where you are. Ina D. Ogdon
Donna
For those who don't know the old Gospel hymns, and for those who do and want to take a stroll down Memory Lane, here's the entire "Brighten the Corner Where You Are."
Sunday, August 2, 2009
An Extraordinary Woman
Since beginning this blog in January, I spend more time remembering and thinking about things past than I probably have since graduating from high school in 1966. I joined Facebook in an attempt to connect with old friends and classmates and have been blessed with the recovery of some “lost treasures.” Barb is one of them.
There are two memories of my friend Barb that always come to mind when I think of her. First, I picture her in her maroon and white cheerleader uniform, leading cheers at the pep rallies in the high school gym. The other memory is of a moment in World Geography class. Some of the girls were participating in a “character assassination” of another cheerleader who happened to be absent that day. Barb turned away and refused to take part, leaving me with a most powerful memory for more than forty years.
We caught up with each other on Facebook in May, and she has graciously given me permission to share some of her writing. I have deleted some names and comments for her privacy.
Barb wrote: May 2, 2009
“I teach yoga classes a couple of nights a week and fitness classes at the Senior Center which is just a blast and very rewarding. My toughest challenge is that for the past five years I've been treated for ovarian cancer. There's good and not so good that comes with knowing and being treated for a chronic disease. I continue to live a full life, remaining fairly active and totally enjoying being grandma to my three year old granddaughter.”
I wrote that I have the most terrific kid on the planet.
Barb wrote: May 2, 2009
“Married 34 years this fall and I beg to differ. I have the most terrific kid on this planet. Christopher has given me the greatest gift of love and support in that he has never considered my slowing down with this insidious disease. We've skied up ski hills, cycled, hiked, rock climbed and watched hours of House and NCIS on TV together. Sounds like you have a similar bond with your son, extraordinary love and support.
My husband and I loved our visit to Austin a few years ago. The hill country is amazing. We made it out to the Enchanted Rock. What fun! I agree that Michigan is the most beautiful place on earth.”
I wrote that I hadn’t heard from her in a while.
Barb wrote: July 26, 2009
“I'm on a fairly rugged chemo schedule this summer. It goes like this. Fourteen days of chemo followed by fourteen days break to "recover." Actually I'm holding up well under the assault and have had some positive results.
If all goes as planned, next Saturday I will be participating in a triathlon teaming with my son Chris. He will do the swim and run. I will do the twenty-mile bike ride. It's a bit of a crazy plan but I would have it no other way. Me and my boy! I'm sure you get it.”
I wrote that I’m amazed she would compete in a triathlon with the chemo.
Barb wrote: July 27, 2009
“I no longer remember what it feels like to live without a bone deep exhaustion. For the past few weeks my bones have been sending out shooting pains a result of having to rebuild the red/white cells and platelets. Often this occurs in the larger hip and thigh bones, so it's fairly startling. Five years later, I confess, I continue to do battle with paralyzing despair. I'm just not ready to leave this special life of mine. I feel so blessed. This disease has slowly opened my heart, my self, my compassion to such extraordinary heights. I've acquired a treasure trove of wonderful rich memories. Would I have known enough to cherish these moments without the disease, certainly not on the scale that I do now. Exercise is my friend, from a peaceful yoga session or walk to testing myself on the bike or ski's or at the gym. I'm alive and kicking and I plan to remain that way until ‘the fat lady sings.’
Your friends confronted with a similar battle, I hold in my heart. We're all in this together.”
Barb sent me her “Bucket List” on July 29, ending with this thought:
“Now I have my hopes pinned on the 20 mile ride August first. It’s challenging to say the least when I’m working my way through another 14 days straight of chemo. It would be far easier to quit. Yet so boring! When my Lance Armstrong Live Strong Jersey arrives I plan to wear it every day if I have to, to keep my spirits up.”
Note:
I’m waiting to hear back from Barb about the triathlon. When I do, I’ll let you know how it went.
Donna
There are two memories of my friend Barb that always come to mind when I think of her. First, I picture her in her maroon and white cheerleader uniform, leading cheers at the pep rallies in the high school gym. The other memory is of a moment in World Geography class. Some of the girls were participating in a “character assassination” of another cheerleader who happened to be absent that day. Barb turned away and refused to take part, leaving me with a most powerful memory for more than forty years.
We caught up with each other on Facebook in May, and she has graciously given me permission to share some of her writing. I have deleted some names and comments for her privacy.
Barb wrote: May 2, 2009
“I teach yoga classes a couple of nights a week and fitness classes at the Senior Center which is just a blast and very rewarding. My toughest challenge is that for the past five years I've been treated for ovarian cancer. There's good and not so good that comes with knowing and being treated for a chronic disease. I continue to live a full life, remaining fairly active and totally enjoying being grandma to my three year old granddaughter.”
I wrote that I have the most terrific kid on the planet.
Barb wrote: May 2, 2009
“Married 34 years this fall and I beg to differ. I have the most terrific kid on this planet. Christopher has given me the greatest gift of love and support in that he has never considered my slowing down with this insidious disease. We've skied up ski hills, cycled, hiked, rock climbed and watched hours of House and NCIS on TV together. Sounds like you have a similar bond with your son, extraordinary love and support.
My husband and I loved our visit to Austin a few years ago. The hill country is amazing. We made it out to the Enchanted Rock. What fun! I agree that Michigan is the most beautiful place on earth.”
I wrote that I hadn’t heard from her in a while.
Barb wrote: July 26, 2009
“I'm on a fairly rugged chemo schedule this summer. It goes like this. Fourteen days of chemo followed by fourteen days break to "recover." Actually I'm holding up well under the assault and have had some positive results.
If all goes as planned, next Saturday I will be participating in a triathlon teaming with my son Chris. He will do the swim and run. I will do the twenty-mile bike ride. It's a bit of a crazy plan but I would have it no other way. Me and my boy! I'm sure you get it.”
I wrote that I’m amazed she would compete in a triathlon with the chemo.
Barb wrote: July 27, 2009
“I no longer remember what it feels like to live without a bone deep exhaustion. For the past few weeks my bones have been sending out shooting pains a result of having to rebuild the red/white cells and platelets. Often this occurs in the larger hip and thigh bones, so it's fairly startling. Five years later, I confess, I continue to do battle with paralyzing despair. I'm just not ready to leave this special life of mine. I feel so blessed. This disease has slowly opened my heart, my self, my compassion to such extraordinary heights. I've acquired a treasure trove of wonderful rich memories. Would I have known enough to cherish these moments without the disease, certainly not on the scale that I do now. Exercise is my friend, from a peaceful yoga session or walk to testing myself on the bike or ski's or at the gym. I'm alive and kicking and I plan to remain that way until ‘the fat lady sings.’
Your friends confronted with a similar battle, I hold in my heart. We're all in this together.”
Barb sent me her “Bucket List” on July 29, ending with this thought:
“Now I have my hopes pinned on the 20 mile ride August first. It’s challenging to say the least when I’m working my way through another 14 days straight of chemo. It would be far easier to quit. Yet so boring! When my Lance Armstrong Live Strong Jersey arrives I plan to wear it every day if I have to, to keep my spirits up.”
Note:
I’m waiting to hear back from Barb about the triathlon. When I do, I’ll let you know how it went.
Donna
Monday, July 13, 2009
Camping With Women, Chapter 3
There was so much hazing and bullying in Robert’s first Boy Scout troop that he began to think if he was going to live to make Eagle Scout, he’d better find another troop. He chose a troop in Southlake, Texas—Forbes magazine’s 2008 richest community in the nation. The boys in the Southlake troop could have paid bullies to do their hazing for them. I always half expected sherpas to show up when we went camping so the boys wouldn’t have to carry their own backpacks. There was no such thing as hazing in the Southlake troop. If a boy misbehaved on a campout, his parents were expected to jump in their Hummer and collect their son and take him home. Nights in Green Canvas: Joan
The new troop was a good one with good kids; Robert could now focus more on advancement and less on avoiding injury. I signed up for the troop committee once again, and after more leadership training, the troop appointed me assistant scoutmaster. Then it was off to Wood Badge, an advanced Boy Scout adult leadership training program.
There were about fifty of us in my Wood Badge class, and our first meeting was held in a classroom at Scout headquarters. I was chatting with the person on my right when a very short, very round woman wearing over-sized glasses slid into the seat on my left. Her head appeared to be attached directly to her torso, giving her the appearance of a chickadee with long, straight blond hair. Her name was Joan, and when I turned to say hello, she snapped at me for taking too long to greet her. “It’s a big class,” I thought to myself. “I probably won’t have too much contact with her.”
Mi casa es su casa.
Upon arrival at Sid Richardson Scout Ranch, where the rest of our course took place, we were divided into teams of six, called “patrols.” (Cub Scouts have dens; Boy Scouts have patrols.) Joan and I were, of course, assigned to the same patrol. The four men on our team seemed like great guys, and I vowed to make the best of it and have fun in the training program.
Our patrol was assigned a campsite in the woods, with tent positions marked by wooden platforms resembling shipping palettes. These served as the floors of our green canvas homes-away-from-home. Each tent and its poles and ropes were in a pile near a palette, and the six of us worked as a team to erect our three tents. Seeking to break the ice with Joan, I tried to engage her in small talk while we worked. It worried me that my snoring might make things even less hospitable between us, so I asked her if she by chance snored also; she said “yes.” In a sudden impulse, I gave her a big hug, causing her to stiffen like a clothing store mannequin. “OK,” I thought. “Not a hugger.”“It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark.” Michael Jackson
After dinner, classes, and a patrol meeting, it was finally bedtime, or rather “cot-time,” and I drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep. Around 3:00 AM, I was startled awake. There was an animal, apparently right outside the tent, and it sounded big, loud, and very angry. I lay paralyzed on my cot, my heart pounding. I didn’t think it could be a bear in that part of Texas, but I knew it might be a cougar or a coyote. I listened for a few moments to the snarling beast until I realized it was Joan. I don’t know if she was snoring or dreaming, but she roared, growled, and snarled in her sleep. I never did get back to sleep that night. Just before dawn I got up to put the coffee on the camp stove and use the latrine. I returned to the tent where Joan was up and getting dressed in the dark. I waited outside the tent to allow her time to finish dressing and reentered the tent when she left for the latrine.
The tent reeked. “Whew!” I thought to myself. “Some poor creature must be dead under the tent floor. It must have gone bad rather quickly or we would have smelled it when we set up the tent.” I directed my flashlight around the tent floor to see if I could discover where the poor rotting creature had died. The smell was emanating from a very used women’s hygiene pad lying on Joan’s cot. I didn’t sleep the next four nights either.
“Not gonna do it.” George H.W. Bush
On the last night of our last weekend of training, the course required that each patrol backpack into and sleep out in the woods as a final team test. At our patrol’s planning meeting Joan announced she didn’t want the additional weight of a tent in her backpack, and asked me to share my barely-big-enough-for-me solo tent with her. I know the Scout Law states a Scout should be friendly, courteous, kind, and helpful, but the idea of snuggling into a little three-by-six-foot nylon cocoon with her still gives me nightmares. I took Nancy Reagan’s advice and just said “no.”Donna
Next: The Control Freak
Friday, July 10, 2009
Camping With Women, Chapter 2
Linda, one of two moms I wrote about in an earlier post about Scouts, was a marvel, (If No One Else Volunteers, April 29, 2009). She had two boys, one older and one younger than my son, and she was immersed in Scouting, volunteering on every level. If you could catch up with her to ask for help with almost anything, her answer was always: “sure.”
Miss Congeniality: Linda
Her older son moved from Cub Scouts up to Boy Scouts a year before my son Robert did, and Linda was already a leader when Robert joined the same troop. As chairman of the troop committee, she led the adult group responsible for the troop’s operations and finances and conducted the monthly committee meetings. She was also a merit badge counselor, a trained adult lifeguard, and a fundraising organizer.
Linda suggested I join the troop committee and get involved. Like many parents, I thought Boy Scouts was for boys and their dads. I’d often heard moms say, “I’ll get him through Cub Scouts, then it’s his dad’s turn!” Back in Cub Scouts, I’d heard dads say, “I’ll get involved when he joins Boy Scouts.” Consequently, Boy Scouts was thought to be “no-woman’s land” by many parents, me included. In reality, more and more moms are getting involved in Scouting annually.
Boys will be boys.
Boy Scouts of America has banned any form of hazing; however at Robert’s first troop meeting, the older scouts hung the new scouts upside down over the second floor balcony of the church where they met. “Boys will be boys!” The “good-old-dads” in the troop responded. As Committee Chair, Linda led the fight against those outdated, outlawed attitudes and made several male enemies in the process.
After the hazing incident, my husband Jim and I decided one of us should volunteer to chaperone Robert’s first campout with his new troop. Jim had to work, so I signed up to drive a car full of new Boy Scouts to Vicksburg, Mississippi, to camp at the Vicksburg National Military Park. The scoutmaster informed us that it was rare for anyone to be allowed to camp there and it was a real privilege for our troop to gain permission.
Field of extremes.
After arriving at the national park, a dusty, single-lane gravel road took us through deep woods and past unmown fields to our remote, “primitive” campsite—a clearing about the size of half a football field with two-foot tall weeds, ticks, and no latrines. The boys set up their tents on one side of the field and the adults set up on the other side, rather like the blue and the grey armies had done one hundred thirty-five years earlier.
There were two other moms on the trip—Linda and a tall, younger woman named Karen. At the first opportunity I asked Linda what we were to do about “going to the bathroom.” The boys had no inhibitions about stepping out behind their tents with a spade and a wad of toilet paper when nature called, but we moms weren’t so free spirited. Linda, Karen and I came up with a plan to ensure privacy and discretion; but the three of us needed to always go together for it to work.
Over hill, over dale.
The tree-lined road that led into our campsite ran up and down several small hills and valleys. Our plan was to head down the road a short distance, past a hill or two. One of us could squat alongside the road in a hollow while the other two were posted atop a hill on either side to act as lookouts. Since there was no other traffic on the road that wound through our campsite, it worked well for two days and nights.
One afternoon Linda had one of those moments when it’s time to go now and set out alone. Karen and I saw Linda leave but didn’t worry because no one else was camping in the area. Besides, our boys were busy in camp making their lunches. There was however, unknown to us, park maintenance in progress. While squatting alone in the grass beside the road, with her scout shorts around her ankles and her bare behind cooling in the breeze, Linda watched a huge transport truck full of shirtless, very amused road crews roar past.
Karen and I were horrified when we saw the truck full of laughing men drive through our camp and disappear around a bend. Linda came strolling back after a few minutes and Karen and I ran to meet her.
“Please tell us they did NOT see you squatting when they drove by,” I said.
“Yup,” replied Linda, nodding. “They did.”
“What did you do,” we wanted to know.
“Well, the Scout Law says ‘A Scout is Friendly.’ What else could I do? I smiled and waved,” she said, demonstrating with a big grin and a wave of her arm.
Donna
In memory of Linda Abel, who passed away in June of 2006 at age 59, from brain cancer.
Miss Congeniality: Linda
Her older son moved from Cub Scouts up to Boy Scouts a year before my son Robert did, and Linda was already a leader when Robert joined the same troop. As chairman of the troop committee, she led the adult group responsible for the troop’s operations and finances and conducted the monthly committee meetings. She was also a merit badge counselor, a trained adult lifeguard, and a fundraising organizer.
Linda suggested I join the troop committee and get involved. Like many parents, I thought Boy Scouts was for boys and their dads. I’d often heard moms say, “I’ll get him through Cub Scouts, then it’s his dad’s turn!” Back in Cub Scouts, I’d heard dads say, “I’ll get involved when he joins Boy Scouts.” Consequently, Boy Scouts was thought to be “no-woman’s land” by many parents, me included. In reality, more and more moms are getting involved in Scouting annually.
Boys will be boys.
Boy Scouts of America has banned any form of hazing; however at Robert’s first troop meeting, the older scouts hung the new scouts upside down over the second floor balcony of the church where they met. “Boys will be boys!” The “good-old-dads” in the troop responded. As Committee Chair, Linda led the fight against those outdated, outlawed attitudes and made several male enemies in the process. After the hazing incident, my husband Jim and I decided one of us should volunteer to chaperone Robert’s first campout with his new troop. Jim had to work, so I signed up to drive a car full of new Boy Scouts to Vicksburg, Mississippi, to camp at the Vicksburg National Military Park. The scoutmaster informed us that it was rare for anyone to be allowed to camp there and it was a real privilege for our troop to gain permission.
Field of extremes.
After arriving at the national park, a dusty, single-lane gravel road took us through deep woods and past unmown fields to our remote, “primitive” campsite—a clearing about the size of half a football field with two-foot tall weeds, ticks, and no latrines. The boys set up their tents on one side of the field and the adults set up on the other side, rather like the blue and the grey armies had done one hundred thirty-five years earlier. There were two other moms on the trip—Linda and a tall, younger woman named Karen. At the first opportunity I asked Linda what we were to do about “going to the bathroom.” The boys had no inhibitions about stepping out behind their tents with a spade and a wad of toilet paper when nature called, but we moms weren’t so free spirited. Linda, Karen and I came up with a plan to ensure privacy and discretion; but the three of us needed to always go together for it to work.
Over hill, over dale.
The tree-lined road that led into our campsite ran up and down several small hills and valleys. Our plan was to head down the road a short distance, past a hill or two. One of us could squat alongside the road in a hollow while the other two were posted atop a hill on either side to act as lookouts. Since there was no other traffic on the road that wound through our campsite, it worked well for two days and nights.
One afternoon Linda had one of those moments when it’s time to go now and set out alone. Karen and I saw Linda leave but didn’t worry because no one else was camping in the area. Besides, our boys were busy in camp making their lunches. There was however, unknown to us, park maintenance in progress. While squatting alone in the grass beside the road, with her scout shorts around her ankles and her bare behind cooling in the breeze, Linda watched a huge transport truck full of shirtless, very amused road crews roar past.
Karen and I were horrified when we saw the truck full of laughing men drive through our camp and disappear around a bend. Linda came strolling back after a few minutes and Karen and I ran to meet her.
“Please tell us they did NOT see you squatting when they drove by,” I said. “Yup,” replied Linda, nodding. “They did.”
“What did you do,” we wanted to know.
“Well, the Scout Law says ‘A Scout is Friendly.’ What else could I do? I smiled and waved,” she said, demonstrating with a big grin and a wave of her arm.
Donna
In memory of Linda Abel, who passed away in June of 2006 at age 59, from brain cancer.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Camping With Women
The women I camped with on my first Scout campout set the bar very high for me, (If No One Else Volunteers, April 29, 2009). Unfortunately some of the women I met and camped with through the years were quite another story. This is the story of Glenda.
The Test: Glenda.
After volunteering to be my friend’s assistant Webelos (4th and 5th grade Cub Scouts) leader, we learned that one of us had to attend Outdoor Webelos Leader training, or OWL, in order for our den to go camping. I readily volunteered after my very positive introduction to Scout campouts the previous April. I signed up, paid up, and packed up according to instructions and set out alone, in Friday afternoon rush hour traffic, for Leonard Scout Camp.
Leonard, as it was called for short, was a beautiful campground located approximately twenty-six miles southwest of Fort Worth near Granbury, Texas. I arrived early and watched and listened as the trainers and the other trainees trickled in. We weren’t allowed to set up our tents until everyone had arrived and played a meet and greet game. Some of the men and women came with friends, chattering and laughing together, and most everyone seemed genial and enthusiastic. And then she arrived.
Her name was Glenda, but when she said it, it sounded like Gleeinda. She had no front teeth, and instead of a leader’s uniform shirt, as we were required to wear, she wore a dirty tee-shirt. She spoke at one volume—loud—and like fingernails on a chalkboard. During the course of the evening campfire, she hooted and hollered, took other people’s food, and even grabbed another campers cell phone, demanding “Gimme that! I gotta make me a call.” I said a silent prayer of thanks to my Maker for the good life I was living, and to American Airlines for group dental insurance.
I didn’t sign up for this.
In order that we might experience camping from a Cub Scout’s perspective, we trainees were the “boys” and the trainers were the “adults” that weekend. We were divided into groups, each representing a den unit. Glenda and I, along with four men, were assigned to the same “den.” We all went about the business of setting up our own tents and helping one another with theirs. Glenda struggled with her gear and the men in our group went to her aid. I retired into my tent and got ready to call it a night. Then came the words that chilled my blood: “Y’all, I think I done forgot ma teeint poles,” she announced loudly. For the uninitiated, “tent” poles are the frame on which you erect your tent.
I prayed fervently: “Oh no, God! Please, oh no!” Then came my answer. “Donner. . . how many people can y’all fit in that teeint o’ yers?” I heard in the dark. The question was, of course, rhetorical because my tent was huge, and the woman couldn’t bunk with the men in our group. “The instructions say four, but it’s really only two,” I offered lamely, trying to stall for time and hoping for a miracle—like tent poles falling out of the sky. I knew I couldn’t turn her down because we were supposed to behave like good Scouts, as in: “Do a good turn daily.” I had no choice but to invite her in like a vampire.
“Ahm gonna need ta bunk with y’all,” came the voice from the dark side.
“Come on in,” I whimpered. Once inside, she talked and talked until after midnight when, exhausted, I asked her to please let me get some sleep. Rebuffed, she finally stopped chattering. Wallowing in self-pity, I imagined Glenda to be a mole, planted by the trainers to see if we could be good Scouts, i.e. good leaders. I prayed again, “Lord, if this is a test, please help me pass it.”
She ain’t heavy. . . she’s my den mother.
The next day we moved from station to station, learning camping and leadership skills from the various trainers. Glenda continued to irritate us by palming off her gear on the rest of us to carry for her and helping herself to other campers’ food and belongings. By nightfall, I felt relatively certain I knew how she’d lost her teeth. Thankfully, OWL training was over at the end of that day, and I drove back to Grapevine, relieved it was behind me. I walked into my home, tired, dusty, and thirsty.
“Well, how’d it go?” Jim and Robert wanted to know. I answered with all the energy I had remaining: “Red wine, please.”
Next: Miss Congeniality
Donna
The Test: Glenda.
After volunteering to be my friend’s assistant Webelos (4th and 5th grade Cub Scouts) leader, we learned that one of us had to attend Outdoor Webelos Leader training, or OWL, in order for our den to go camping. I readily volunteered after my very positive introduction to Scout campouts the previous April. I signed up, paid up, and packed up according to instructions and set out alone, in Friday afternoon rush hour traffic, for Leonard Scout Camp. Leonard, as it was called for short, was a beautiful campground located approximately twenty-six miles southwest of Fort Worth near Granbury, Texas. I arrived early and watched and listened as the trainers and the other trainees trickled in. We weren’t allowed to set up our tents until everyone had arrived and played a meet and greet game. Some of the men and women came with friends, chattering and laughing together, and most everyone seemed genial and enthusiastic. And then she arrived.
Her name was Glenda, but when she said it, it sounded like Gleeinda. She had no front teeth, and instead of a leader’s uniform shirt, as we were required to wear, she wore a dirty tee-shirt. She spoke at one volume—loud—and like fingernails on a chalkboard. During the course of the evening campfire, she hooted and hollered, took other people’s food, and even grabbed another campers cell phone, demanding “Gimme that! I gotta make me a call.” I said a silent prayer of thanks to my Maker for the good life I was living, and to American Airlines for group dental insurance.
I didn’t sign up for this.
In order that we might experience camping from a Cub Scout’s perspective, we trainees were the “boys” and the trainers were the “adults” that weekend. We were divided into groups, each representing a den unit. Glenda and I, along with four men, were assigned to the same “den.” We all went about the business of setting up our own tents and helping one another with theirs. Glenda struggled with her gear and the men in our group went to her aid. I retired into my tent and got ready to call it a night. Then came the words that chilled my blood: “Y’all, I think I done forgot ma teeint poles,” she announced loudly. For the uninitiated, “tent” poles are the frame on which you erect your tent. I prayed fervently: “Oh no, God! Please, oh no!” Then came my answer. “Donner. . . how many people can y’all fit in that teeint o’ yers?” I heard in the dark. The question was, of course, rhetorical because my tent was huge, and the woman couldn’t bunk with the men in our group. “The instructions say four, but it’s really only two,” I offered lamely, trying to stall for time and hoping for a miracle—like tent poles falling out of the sky. I knew I couldn’t turn her down because we were supposed to behave like good Scouts, as in: “Do a good turn daily.” I had no choice but to invite her in like a vampire.
“Ahm gonna need ta bunk with y’all,” came the voice from the dark side.
“Come on in,” I whimpered. Once inside, she talked and talked until after midnight when, exhausted, I asked her to please let me get some sleep. Rebuffed, she finally stopped chattering. Wallowing in self-pity, I imagined Glenda to be a mole, planted by the trainers to see if we could be good Scouts, i.e. good leaders. I prayed again, “Lord, if this is a test, please help me pass it.”
She ain’t heavy. . . she’s my den mother.
The next day we moved from station to station, learning camping and leadership skills from the various trainers. Glenda continued to irritate us by palming off her gear on the rest of us to carry for her and helping herself to other campers’ food and belongings. By nightfall, I felt relatively certain I knew how she’d lost her teeth. Thankfully, OWL training was over at the end of that day, and I drove back to Grapevine, relieved it was behind me. I walked into my home, tired, dusty, and thirsty. “Well, how’d it go?” Jim and Robert wanted to know. I answered with all the energy I had remaining: “Red wine, please.”
Next: Miss Congeniality
Donna
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Magic Lantern
For his fifth birthday, my son Robert wanted a fort more than anything in the world. By “fort” he meant a big, wooden swing set—one of those cedar jungle gym kind of things with a slide, monkey bars, swings, rings, a sand box, and the most important component of all—a crow’s nest with a canopy. The covered crow’s nest is what made the whole contraption a fort. It was a place to hide out from pirates, space aliens, and zombies. Yes, it was cowboys defending Fort Apache from the Indians when we were kids, but this is the Space Age. Even the pirates are from another galaxy these days.
I had done my homework and knew that buying one ready to assemble was a big cost savings over having one delivered and assembled by the dealer. My husband Jim resisted. No wonder; his options were to fork over big bucks and build it himself, or fork over even bigger bucks to pay someone else to put it together for us. My friend Susan listened with amusement to my tale of Robert’s approaching birthday and Jim’s stubborn opposition to the idea of a fort. Susan has a son of her own and she knew all about boys and what they like. Her son Tanner is several years older than Robert so she had been through all this already.
Hold the fort.
The big day came and Robert had a nice birthday, but there was no fort. Jim had succeeded in postponing what I already considered to be the inevitable. I was certain that I could wear Jim down and that Robert would eventually have his fort. My campaign was short. That evening Susan delivered the coupe de grace. It was a total surprise when the doorbell rang and we opened the front door to Susan and her family with a birthday present for Robert—a toy signal lantern. “We thought he might need a lantern for his fort. Let’s see the fort!” declared Susan. When I explained that there was no fort, she gave Jim a very hard time. It was all delivered with humor, but it was very effective.
A few days later, Jim, Robert and I selected a cedar swing set with a canvas-covered crow’s nest, hereafter referred to as “the fort.” It was a do-it-yourself kit, and before assembling it, Jim consulted with our immediate neighbors to make sure that the huge structure would be placed in an area that would not obstruct anyone’s view. Our male neighbors generously volunteered to help build it (for a few beers). The fort was an instant hit with Robert and his friends, and the signal lantern had many hours of play in and out of the fort.
Come and get it.
As the years went by and play became less and less imaginative and more and more electronic, interest in the fort faded along with its finish. After a time, Robert and his friends were too big to play in the fort. The only action it was getting was down in the sand box under the crow’s next. Our cat Slinky found it quite handy. It wasn’t long before the once treasured fort was starting to be an eyesore. I wrote a short ad to place in the classifieds section of our local newspaper offering the fort, free of charge, to anyone who would come and get it. I put the note with the ad on the to-do pile on my desk and there it sat, getting buried deeper and deeper under the pile of more important things to do.
Many months later, I was sitting on my jump seat on the 777, across from my friend Gail, chatting with her during a lull in our business class service. She told me that our friend Susan was looking for a wooden swing set for her grandson. “They’re so expensive, you know, and Susan doesn’t have a lot of money to spend on one right now,” Gail had said. For a few seconds I was speechless.
“Gail, you’re not going to believe this.” I answered. “I’ve got a cedar swing set that I will give to Susan if she’ll just come and get it. I wrote an ad to put in the newspaper months ago and never got around to sending it in. I don’t even know why I procrastinated on it. This is incredible. This is wonderful. This was meant to be!”
What goes around. . .
“That’s great that you’ll give it to Susan, but why is this so exciting to you?” Gail wanted to know.
“Because Susan is the reason Robert got the fort in the first place.” I explained the story of the signal lantern and how Susan’s gift had prompted Jim into buying and building the fort for Robert. “The fort she helped Robert get will come back to her and be her grandson’s fort now. It’s like the circle of life or something.”
Not too long afterward, Susan and Gail came over to the house, disassembled the dry old wooden swing set, loaded it in Gail’s van, and took it to Susan’s house. Susan refurbished, refinished and reassembled the fort, and I’m told it looked as good as new again. The old swing set had a new home and another boy had a fort in which to defend the galaxy against pirates, monsters, aliens, and other assorted bad guys.
I love it when things like this happen. It reassures me that good generates more good and the universe is in order. Was it a magic lantern? Maybe. . .but not likely. The magic is in the love we have for our children and grandchildren and the friendship we share with each other.
Donna
PS: Happy Birthday, Susan!
I had done my homework and knew that buying one ready to assemble was a big cost savings over having one delivered and assembled by the dealer. My husband Jim resisted. No wonder; his options were to fork over big bucks and build it himself, or fork over even bigger bucks to pay someone else to put it together for us. My friend Susan listened with amusement to my tale of Robert’s approaching birthday and Jim’s stubborn opposition to the idea of a fort. Susan has a son of her own and she knew all about boys and what they like. Her son Tanner is several years older than Robert so she had been through all this already.
Hold the fort.
The big day came and Robert had a nice birthday, but there was no fort. Jim had succeeded in postponing what I already considered to be the inevitable. I was certain that I could wear Jim down and that Robert would eventually have his fort. My campaign was short. That evening Susan delivered the coupe de grace. It was a total surprise when the doorbell rang and we opened the front door to Susan and her family with a birthday present for Robert—a toy signal lantern. “We thought he might need a lantern for his fort. Let’s see the fort!” declared Susan. When I explained that there was no fort, she gave Jim a very hard time. It was all delivered with humor, but it was very effective.
A few days later, Jim, Robert and I selected a cedar swing set with a canvas-covered crow’s nest, hereafter referred to as “the fort.” It was a do-it-yourself kit, and before assembling it, Jim consulted with our immediate neighbors to make sure that the huge structure would be placed in an area that would not obstruct anyone’s view. Our male neighbors generously volunteered to help build it (for a few beers). The fort was an instant hit with Robert and his friends, and the signal lantern had many hours of play in and out of the fort. Come and get it.
As the years went by and play became less and less imaginative and more and more electronic, interest in the fort faded along with its finish. After a time, Robert and his friends were too big to play in the fort. The only action it was getting was down in the sand box under the crow’s next. Our cat Slinky found it quite handy. It wasn’t long before the once treasured fort was starting to be an eyesore. I wrote a short ad to place in the classifieds section of our local newspaper offering the fort, free of charge, to anyone who would come and get it. I put the note with the ad on the to-do pile on my desk and there it sat, getting buried deeper and deeper under the pile of more important things to do.
Many months later, I was sitting on my jump seat on the 777, across from my friend Gail, chatting with her during a lull in our business class service. She told me that our friend Susan was looking for a wooden swing set for her grandson. “They’re so expensive, you know, and Susan doesn’t have a lot of money to spend on one right now,” Gail had said. For a few seconds I was speechless.
“Gail, you’re not going to believe this.” I answered. “I’ve got a cedar swing set that I will give to Susan if she’ll just come and get it. I wrote an ad to put in the newspaper months ago and never got around to sending it in. I don’t even know why I procrastinated on it. This is incredible. This is wonderful. This was meant to be!”
What goes around. . .
“That’s great that you’ll give it to Susan, but why is this so exciting to you?” Gail wanted to know.
“Because Susan is the reason Robert got the fort in the first place.” I explained the story of the signal lantern and how Susan’s gift had prompted Jim into buying and building the fort for Robert. “The fort she helped Robert get will come back to her and be her grandson’s fort now. It’s like the circle of life or something.”
Not too long afterward, Susan and Gail came over to the house, disassembled the dry old wooden swing set, loaded it in Gail’s van, and took it to Susan’s house. Susan refurbished, refinished and reassembled the fort, and I’m told it looked as good as new again. The old swing set had a new home and another boy had a fort in which to defend the galaxy against pirates, monsters, aliens, and other assorted bad guys.
I love it when things like this happen. It reassures me that good generates more good and the universe is in order. Was it a magic lantern? Maybe. . .but not likely. The magic is in the love we have for our children and grandchildren and the friendship we share with each other.
Donna
PS: Happy Birthday, Susan!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Cane-Fu Fighters
Matt Sedensky of the Associated Press reported yesterday that seniors are taking up the art of “Cane-Fu” for self-defense. You know what this means, right? Someone will decide that we need to regulate this. Some poor elderly man or woman will successfully defend his or herself against a pickpocket or purse snatcher (or worse), injuring the criminal in the process, and be sued by the jerk. There will be a lawyer out there who will take the case. And eventually all those seniors with canes will have to register themselves and their deadly weapons with the government. Thanks a lot, Matt Sedensky!
A few years ago I was a student of Tae Kwon Do at a martial arts dojo in Grapevine. My son was studying it and after hours of watching his lessons, Marcia, another mom and fellow flight attendant, talked me into signing up to take lessons along with her. Her theory was that we could be black belts by then if we’d spent as many hours doing it as we had watching our sons do it. “Besides,” she offered, “it’s great exercise!”
She was right—it was great exercise. We worked on our “forms,” the intricate, almost dance-like drills used for the purpose of teaching discipline and self-defense moves; and we sparred against each other on Fridays. I remember my teacher telling me that if I ever used my self-defense skills to defend myself and injured my attacker in the process, I could be held accountable because I possessed deadly weapons—my hands and feet. He apparently had a lot more faith in his teaching than I did in my learning. Alas, it got too rough for my fifty-something-at-the-time body, but Marcia and our boys earned their black belts and went on to work on more advanced techniques.
The black belts, as we called the students who had earned them, were allowed to study the use of weapons in martial arts. Since he was not old enough to drive himself to the dojo, it was back to sitting and watching my son in his classes. And since I was no longer a student, I was permitted to watch the advanced classes as a parent observer. Walking canes were used in place of actual fighting sticks, staffs, and swords in the weapons sessions. I remember thinking at the time that the weapons class looked like the cast of a musical review, all dressed in black uniforms and swinging and thrusting their canes in unison. It never occurred to me that I might need to possess the skills and knowledge they were learning in those classes.
So here we are, sixty-something, and Cane-Fu is a recognized self-defense tactic for us senior baby boomers. Can’t you just imagine how this could play out in Texas and certain other parts of the country? People over sixty will be rushing out to buy canes. There will be pearl-handled canes and canes with special assault grips. There may even be semi-automatic canes with spring-loaded assists for rapid deployment in threatening situations. There’ll be a branch of the NRA called the NCA. And then some legislator will introduce a bill to regulate our canes and we’ll have to pay a fee for a license. Thanks a lot, Matt Sedensky!
Have a great day and don't forget to laugh. Check out the whole story at: Cane-Fu
Donna
A few years ago I was a student of Tae Kwon Do at a martial arts dojo in Grapevine. My son was studying it and after hours of watching his lessons, Marcia, another mom and fellow flight attendant, talked me into signing up to take lessons along with her. Her theory was that we could be black belts by then if we’d spent as many hours doing it as we had watching our sons do it. “Besides,” she offered, “it’s great exercise!”
She was right—it was great exercise. We worked on our “forms,” the intricate, almost dance-like drills used for the purpose of teaching discipline and self-defense moves; and we sparred against each other on Fridays. I remember my teacher telling me that if I ever used my self-defense skills to defend myself and injured my attacker in the process, I could be held accountable because I possessed deadly weapons—my hands and feet. He apparently had a lot more faith in his teaching than I did in my learning. Alas, it got too rough for my fifty-something-at-the-time body, but Marcia and our boys earned their black belts and went on to work on more advanced techniques.
The black belts, as we called the students who had earned them, were allowed to study the use of weapons in martial arts. Since he was not old enough to drive himself to the dojo, it was back to sitting and watching my son in his classes. And since I was no longer a student, I was permitted to watch the advanced classes as a parent observer. Walking canes were used in place of actual fighting sticks, staffs, and swords in the weapons sessions. I remember thinking at the time that the weapons class looked like the cast of a musical review, all dressed in black uniforms and swinging and thrusting their canes in unison. It never occurred to me that I might need to possess the skills and knowledge they were learning in those classes.
So here we are, sixty-something, and Cane-Fu is a recognized self-defense tactic for us senior baby boomers. Can’t you just imagine how this could play out in Texas and certain other parts of the country? People over sixty will be rushing out to buy canes. There will be pearl-handled canes and canes with special assault grips. There may even be semi-automatic canes with spring-loaded assists for rapid deployment in threatening situations. There’ll be a branch of the NRA called the NCA. And then some legislator will introduce a bill to regulate our canes and we’ll have to pay a fee for a license. Thanks a lot, Matt Sedensky!
Have a great day and don't forget to laugh. Check out the whole story at: Cane-Fu
Donna
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Menopause Manor
I first became involved with Menopause Manor by accident—quite literally. One sunny afternoon two friends and I were enjoying a coffee outdoors at our local Starbucks when one of them casually announced: “There’s a man lying down over there.” We turned to see an older man lying face down on the asphalt in front of the coffee house. I turned to my friend Barbara, another flight attendant, and said, “Come on Barbara, let’s see if we can help him.” We hurried over to the downed man and knelt next to him. We checked to see if he was conscious and able to communicate and learned that his name was Bill. I grabbed the first aid kit from my car and Barbara and I looked after his wounds.
I think he’s delirious.
The poor man had landed flat on his face when stepping off the curb to cross the parking lot. His face was bleeding and he was moaning in pain. We cleaned up some of his injuries and asked him if there was someone we should call. He asked us if we were angels. We grinned at each other and said, “Oh, no.” He asked if we were nurses. Again, we said, “No.” Barbara explained that we were flight attendants. Suddenly he was animated; “Do you know Menopause Manor? Do you know Judy and Gail and Mimi and Anneliese?” Barbara leaned over and whispered to me, “I think he’s delirious.”
“No, no,” I said. “I know what he’s talking about.” Barbara stared at me as if I were delirious. “No really, I know Mimi and a couple of the others. It’s a group of women—mostly American Airlines flight attendants—my friend Sandy is part of that. An ambulance soon arrived and paramedics took over for Barbara and me. I promised Bill I would get word to Menopause Manor and let them know where the ambulance was taking him. Anneliese worked at a retail store nearby but wasn’t there, and Sandy didn’t answer her phone. I left messages for both, and Sandy called later to say that Bill had survived.
The “Soup and Bowl.”
A year or so later, my friends Ron and Gerry invited me to go to the annual Menopause Manor “Soup and Bowl” party with them to watch—what else—the Super Bowl. I wasn’t a football fan at the time, but I do love a good party, plus I hoped to learn how Bill had fared. The party was in the home of Ed Clarkson, whose daughter Judy, it turns out, is known as the CEO of Menopause Manor. Judy and the other Menopause Manor women made crock pots and stock pots full of different soups, gumbos, and chilies; guests were required to bring their own bowls.
Judy introduced me to her dad and his friends, Dick and Bill, and I reminded Bill that we had already met. “It’s nice to see you on your feet and off your face,” I told a puzzled Bill. That got his attention. “I’m one of the women who helped you outside Starbucks a while back,” I continued. For a moment or two I was a minor celebrity amongst the Menopause Manor crowd. Everyone in the kitchen with us wanted to hear the story of Bill’s meeting with the asphalt outside Starbucks.
As time went by, I saw the MM women at the birthday parties and gatherings of mutual friends. They often volunteered at our town’s annual September street festival, Grapefest, where they poured wines in the “Wines of the World” pavilion. One of them, who shall remain nameless, was let go by the wine merchants, I’m told. The story goes that she fell asleep under one of the wine tables (from the heat, no doubt; September is hot in north Texas).
Just like a woman.
Two and a half years ago, Judy’s father passed away, and Sandy and Gail were with her, holding her hands and hugging her. Two weeks later our friend Ron passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. Ron’s wife, Gerry, was devastated and in a state of shock. That’s when I learned what Menopause Manor was really all about. The core group, all divorced or widowed themselves, and still grieving with Judy over the loss of her dad, did what women always do. Word went out and food began arriving, homes were offered and transportation provided for out-of-town family and friends coming in for the memorial service. And in the months that followed, the women of Menopause Manor called, dropped in on, and took Gerry out for lunches, cocktails, and dinners. They have become her extended family.
Even though her dad had passed away, Judy and the rest of Menopause Manor continued to care for his elderly friends, Bill and Dick. They looked in on the men, shopped and cooked for them, took them to doctors’ appointments and hosted birthday parties for them. Last year Dick passed away. Judy discovered his body when she went over to his home to check on him because he wasn’t answering his phone. But on a more positive note, two weeks ago we celebrated Bill’s 86th birthday at a party Judy hosted for him and about twenty-five other guests in her home.
I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Menopause Manor isn’t about hormones or jokes about aging women with bad attitudes. It’s about a group of women who met working on airplanes many years ago, and who care about each other like sisters. They take each other to the doctor, the hospital, and the grocery store. They clean each others’ houses when one of them is sick. They worry about each other and forgive easily if one of their own is bitchy. These are the women with whom I retired six months ago and without whom retirement would be far shorter on laughter, lunches, and libations. Retirement brought new and renewed friendships to me and I am therefore grateful to be past menopause and having a little time on my hands.
Donna
Monday, March 16, 2009
Reply Hazy, Try Again
Six months ago I retired after forty years as a flight attendant for American Airlines. At first I found myself mildly irritated and without a response when asked by nearly all my non-flying friends, “What are you going to do now?” Somehow the question made me feel guilty. I wanted a break from responsibility, and I certainly felt qualified to relax after forty years of living out of a suitcase and “slinging hash.”
Before going to work for American, I spent two years clerking at the University of Michigan. And before that I worked at a K-Mart store weekends and evenings during high school. At 16, I spent one day scooping ice cream at a Baskin-Robbins store and decided that was not for me when I couldn’t use my right arm for a couple of days afterward. From the age of 12 until I moved away from home at age 20, I babysat for several families and cleaned houses in the neighborhood where I grew up. Tucked in here and there were a couple of years of college, a couple of years of extension university while I followed my husband, the Marine, around the country, and then an immersion into computer classes in the early eighties. The only reason to mention these things is simply to point out that this is my first foray into idleness.
You’ve been a flight attendant for my whole life.
After I announced my intention to retire, my twenty-one year old son asked, “What are you going to BE now? You’ve been a flight attendant for my whole life.” For him, the question was about identity: “My mom is a flight attendant.” I told him I’ll be a retired flight attendant. He bounced back with “I guess instead of being a tired flight attendant, now you’ll be a RE-tired flight attendant.”
Now that I’m RE-tired I’m not tired at all, relatively speaking. I turned sixty-one this past Saturday, so I’m not exactly brimming with youthful energy. I’m sleeping through the night occasionally, my neck and back pain have eased up some, my eyes are no longer bloodshot, and I’m fairly regular. My knees ache less, my feet aren’t swollen, and my hands aren’t chapped and raw from washing them obsessively to ward off strangers’ germs.
Meet the gang.
Several of my friends retired with me. They all were flight attendants for an equal or longer time than I. They all have “things” to do. Judy takes care of her father’s old and ailing friends, along with our own aging and ailing friends. In addition, she rescues homeless cats and feeds and waters strays. She feeds and waters us more or less regularly also. Gail volunteers at her church a couple of days a week and rescues pound puppies. Sandy sews and has joined a Red Hat group that meets for quilting lessons and lunches. Barbara, a widow, volunteers at Ten Thousand Villages and has published a book about her husband’s life. Sonnie and Beverly are battling cancer. Carrol works at a golf pro shop and is caring for her husband in his battle with cancer. Gerry, a two-time cancer survivor, just buried her mother and buried her husband two years ago.
Like most senior baby boomers, we also have cataracts and glaucoma, high blood pressure, elevated cholesterol, osteoporosis, and sleep apnea within our circle, along with many other age-related aches, pains and medical problems. Almost all have lost at least one parent and most of us have lost both of them. We bought retirement annuities with our already floundering 401k’s, only to have the recent economic nose-dive drag our retirement funds down with it. Like countless others, we console and comfort ourselves with the notion that “everyone’s in the same boat.” We drink some.
Mandatory retirement.
I loved my job for most of my 40 years at it, but now I’m at the threshold of old and way past the peak of youthful energy. I have been enjoying a brief period of no time-clock punching, no responsibility for the care and feeding of hundreds of tired, hungry and often angry customers, no tension over recurrent tests and aircraft evacuation drills to stay qualified to keep my job, and no schedule-juggling uncertainty about holidays and important family times.
Since the nation’s economic meltdown last October, most of my contemporaries are still working and many plan to go to age sixty-six, or beyond, if they’re bodies hold up. For many years, when people asked “at what age do flight attendants have to retire?” my wise-cracking reply was: “at death.” We haven’t had a mandatory retirement age since the 1970’s; we can keep flying until we are no longer able to spring from a jumpseat and evacuate a plane-full of people. Thanks to our economy, “at death” may no longer be a joke to many of my contemporaries.
Prior to October, 2008, “what are you going to do now?” was usually a question about travel plans, hobbies or volunteer work after retirement. Now when we gaze into the Magic 8-Ball, the answer is “reply hazy, try again.” Having said all this, Life is darned good and my next post will introduce one local group and how they cope—and help me cope.
In the meanwhile check out this fun video from CNN.
Donna
Before going to work for American, I spent two years clerking at the University of Michigan. And before that I worked at a K-Mart store weekends and evenings during high school. At 16, I spent one day scooping ice cream at a Baskin-Robbins store and decided that was not for me when I couldn’t use my right arm for a couple of days afterward. From the age of 12 until I moved away from home at age 20, I babysat for several families and cleaned houses in the neighborhood where I grew up. Tucked in here and there were a couple of years of college, a couple of years of extension university while I followed my husband, the Marine, around the country, and then an immersion into computer classes in the early eighties. The only reason to mention these things is simply to point out that this is my first foray into idleness.
You’ve been a flight attendant for my whole life.
After I announced my intention to retire, my twenty-one year old son asked, “What are you going to BE now? You’ve been a flight attendant for my whole life.” For him, the question was about identity: “My mom is a flight attendant.” I told him I’ll be a retired flight attendant. He bounced back with “I guess instead of being a tired flight attendant, now you’ll be a RE-tired flight attendant.”
Now that I’m RE-tired I’m not tired at all, relatively speaking. I turned sixty-one this past Saturday, so I’m not exactly brimming with youthful energy. I’m sleeping through the night occasionally, my neck and back pain have eased up some, my eyes are no longer bloodshot, and I’m fairly regular. My knees ache less, my feet aren’t swollen, and my hands aren’t chapped and raw from washing them obsessively to ward off strangers’ germs.
Meet the gang.
Several of my friends retired with me. They all were flight attendants for an equal or longer time than I. They all have “things” to do. Judy takes care of her father’s old and ailing friends, along with our own aging and ailing friends. In addition, she rescues homeless cats and feeds and waters strays. She feeds and waters us more or less regularly also. Gail volunteers at her church a couple of days a week and rescues pound puppies. Sandy sews and has joined a Red Hat group that meets for quilting lessons and lunches. Barbara, a widow, volunteers at Ten Thousand Villages and has published a book about her husband’s life. Sonnie and Beverly are battling cancer. Carrol works at a golf pro shop and is caring for her husband in his battle with cancer. Gerry, a two-time cancer survivor, just buried her mother and buried her husband two years ago.
Like most senior baby boomers, we also have cataracts and glaucoma, high blood pressure, elevated cholesterol, osteoporosis, and sleep apnea within our circle, along with many other age-related aches, pains and medical problems. Almost all have lost at least one parent and most of us have lost both of them. We bought retirement annuities with our already floundering 401k’s, only to have the recent economic nose-dive drag our retirement funds down with it. Like countless others, we console and comfort ourselves with the notion that “everyone’s in the same boat.” We drink some.
Mandatory retirement.
I loved my job for most of my 40 years at it, but now I’m at the threshold of old and way past the peak of youthful energy. I have been enjoying a brief period of no time-clock punching, no responsibility for the care and feeding of hundreds of tired, hungry and often angry customers, no tension over recurrent tests and aircraft evacuation drills to stay qualified to keep my job, and no schedule-juggling uncertainty about holidays and important family times.
Since the nation’s economic meltdown last October, most of my contemporaries are still working and many plan to go to age sixty-six, or beyond, if they’re bodies hold up. For many years, when people asked “at what age do flight attendants have to retire?” my wise-cracking reply was: “at death.” We haven’t had a mandatory retirement age since the 1970’s; we can keep flying until we are no longer able to spring from a jumpseat and evacuate a plane-full of people. Thanks to our economy, “at death” may no longer be a joke to many of my contemporaries.
Prior to October, 2008, “what are you going to do now?” was usually a question about travel plans, hobbies or volunteer work after retirement. Now when we gaze into the Magic 8-Ball, the answer is “reply hazy, try again.” Having said all this, Life is darned good and my next post will introduce one local group and how they cope—and help me cope.
In the meanwhile check out this fun video from CNN.
Donna
Saturday, March 7, 2009
We Wii
Santa brought my family a Wii Fit program for Christmas. I’m not a hundred per cent certain who wrote him and asked for a Wii, but I’m pretty sure it was my husband. Jim decided it was time to take charge, get organized, lose weight, and just do it!! And he wanted to get his little crew on board while he was at it. A fit family sweats together, right? So under our tree on Christmas morning was a brand new shiny Nintendo Wii, balance board, and Wii Fit program discs.
Invasion of the body snatcher.
The first to become a pod person was Robert, who incidentally holds the family record for looking great, succeeding at all the tests, and humiliating the rest of the crew. The first thing you do with your Wii after hooking it up to your television is create your Mii. A Mii is a little avatar, or digital character, that represents YOU when you exercise or play games on the computer. It’s really pretty cool. You get to choose your total appearance from head to toe. You can have any hair color, length, or style, and any facial features and accessories you desire. The three of us, Jim, Robert, and I, being down to earth types, created Mii’s that looked kind of like ourselves. Jim and I even selected gray hair for our little characters, and I added reading glasses to my Mii. Then you get on the balance board, take your first “body test” and the gig is up. Based on your weight, the machine chooses your shape! Right before your eyes you watch your cute little avatar change into an avocado. Okay, you say. I can fix this. I’ll play this game and look like Robert’s Mii again in no time.
Resistance is futile.
Anyway, the guys went first and sounded like they were having so much fun that I joined in, created my own little Mii, and started my new electronic, computerized fitness program. One of the first things you do is perform some basic balance tests and then the machine tells you how old your body is. The machine told me my body was seventy-two. I knew immediately this was not going to be a love affair between me and the “Borg.” After my first session, the machine commented, “It looks like the balance test isn’t your forte. Do you trip when you walk?” I was indignant. “No!” I shouted back at the television screen. It suggested that I try the games that it selected for me to improve my balance. I did get the hang of the balance tests and I do much better now. Once on a good day the machine told me my body age was thirty-two, but I think it just needed to be recharged and rebooted when that happened. I’m referring to the machine now.
You might think the Wii is a good alternative to a live fitness coach because it’s just a machine and it won’t give you a hard time if you slack off. Believe me when I say this machine nags. It knows when you skip a day and it harasses you. It asks, “Too busy to work out yesterday, eh? Would you like me to comment on your workout habits? I resent it when I step on the balance board and I hear the machine announce, “Ooooh!” One nice feature though is that you get to choose your fitness coach. With the basic Wii Fit program, you only get to choose between two—a skinny broad around twenty years old or a hunky guy around twenty-five with a pony tail. I chose the hunk, but every now and then the machine announces, “Hope you don’t mind, but we’ve swapped coaches for you today.” Don’t mind? If I wanted to look at the skinny broad I would have chosen her in the first place.
I Spy.
Besides nagging, our Wii asks us to rat on each other. Imagine my surprise when it asked me, “By the way, what do you think of Jim’s posture recently?” Then it gave me four choices: Looks good, looks bad, is improving, is the same? Not knowing what the Wii might do to Jim—or me, if I didn’t answer correctly—I just said he was improving. I figured that way the machine would be reassured that It was doing its job well and we’d all be off the hook.
The machine is also a troublemaker. The other day it told me, “Someone made a comment that you’re looking slimmer. I can’t tell you where I heard it though. To my knowledge only three people use our Wii, so why the mystery? It also asks, “I miss Robert. Is he sleeping?” It doesn’t really give us an opportunity to reply to that question, but if I could answer I’d tell the Wii that Robert has better things to do right now than humiliate his parents over their weight and lack of athletic skills.
Honest, the darned thing is fun.
In reality, we’re enjoying our Wii Fit programs. We get “on the machine” every day if possible. “I’m going upstairs to Wii,” we call to each other. Jim works hard, uses many of the advanced programs and games, and is losing weight slowly but steadily. I, on the other hand, seem to go back and forth over the line between overweight and normal from day to day. That’s not the fault of the program—it’s the fault of the user, or in this case the slacker/eater. The Wii Fit program is being used in hospital rehabilitation and physical therapy programs, and in senior centers all over the nation. You can have a fun, gentle workout or you can work up a lather if you want to. I highly recommend it and welcome your comments or questions on the subject.
Donna
Invasion of the body snatcher.
The first to become a pod person was Robert, who incidentally holds the family record for looking great, succeeding at all the tests, and humiliating the rest of the crew. The first thing you do with your Wii after hooking it up to your television is create your Mii. A Mii is a little avatar, or digital character, that represents YOU when you exercise or play games on the computer. It’s really pretty cool. You get to choose your total appearance from head to toe. You can have any hair color, length, or style, and any facial features and accessories you desire. The three of us, Jim, Robert, and I, being down to earth types, created Mii’s that looked kind of like ourselves. Jim and I even selected gray hair for our little characters, and I added reading glasses to my Mii. Then you get on the balance board, take your first “body test” and the gig is up. Based on your weight, the machine chooses your shape! Right before your eyes you watch your cute little avatar change into an avocado. Okay, you say. I can fix this. I’ll play this game and look like Robert’s Mii again in no time.
Resistance is futile.
Anyway, the guys went first and sounded like they were having so much fun that I joined in, created my own little Mii, and started my new electronic, computerized fitness program. One of the first things you do is perform some basic balance tests and then the machine tells you how old your body is. The machine told me my body was seventy-two. I knew immediately this was not going to be a love affair between me and the “Borg.” After my first session, the machine commented, “It looks like the balance test isn’t your forte. Do you trip when you walk?” I was indignant. “No!” I shouted back at the television screen. It suggested that I try the games that it selected for me to improve my balance. I did get the hang of the balance tests and I do much better now. Once on a good day the machine told me my body age was thirty-two, but I think it just needed to be recharged and rebooted when that happened. I’m referring to the machine now.
You might think the Wii is a good alternative to a live fitness coach because it’s just a machine and it won’t give you a hard time if you slack off. Believe me when I say this machine nags. It knows when you skip a day and it harasses you. It asks, “Too busy to work out yesterday, eh? Would you like me to comment on your workout habits? I resent it when I step on the balance board and I hear the machine announce, “Ooooh!” One nice feature though is that you get to choose your fitness coach. With the basic Wii Fit program, you only get to choose between two—a skinny broad around twenty years old or a hunky guy around twenty-five with a pony tail. I chose the hunk, but every now and then the machine announces, “Hope you don’t mind, but we’ve swapped coaches for you today.” Don’t mind? If I wanted to look at the skinny broad I would have chosen her in the first place.
I Spy.
Besides nagging, our Wii asks us to rat on each other. Imagine my surprise when it asked me, “By the way, what do you think of Jim’s posture recently?” Then it gave me four choices: Looks good, looks bad, is improving, is the same? Not knowing what the Wii might do to Jim—or me, if I didn’t answer correctly—I just said he was improving. I figured that way the machine would be reassured that It was doing its job well and we’d all be off the hook.
The machine is also a troublemaker. The other day it told me, “Someone made a comment that you’re looking slimmer. I can’t tell you where I heard it though. To my knowledge only three people use our Wii, so why the mystery? It also asks, “I miss Robert. Is he sleeping?” It doesn’t really give us an opportunity to reply to that question, but if I could answer I’d tell the Wii that Robert has better things to do right now than humiliate his parents over their weight and lack of athletic skills.
Honest, the darned thing is fun.
In reality, we’re enjoying our Wii Fit programs. We get “on the machine” every day if possible. “I’m going upstairs to Wii,” we call to each other. Jim works hard, uses many of the advanced programs and games, and is losing weight slowly but steadily. I, on the other hand, seem to go back and forth over the line between overweight and normal from day to day. That’s not the fault of the program—it’s the fault of the user, or in this case the slacker/eater. The Wii Fit program is being used in hospital rehabilitation and physical therapy programs, and in senior centers all over the nation. You can have a fun, gentle workout or you can work up a lather if you want to. I highly recommend it and welcome your comments or questions on the subject.
Donna
Monday, March 2, 2009
I Walk the Lane
One of my earliest running memories is of my brothers chasing me with a garter snake. In my teens I ran in gym class. You remember gym class? Our kids and grandkids call it P.E. now. In gym class we girls had to run sprints, 100 yard relays, and the 600 yard dash. The real “dash” was usually to the track sidelines to throw up. Back then, very few young women thought of running as something you chose to do. It was necessary in order to pass gym class and get out of high school.
In my twenties I began running like countless thousands of Americans when the jogging craze kicked in. I ran on the track beside Yost Field House, now Yost Ice Arena, on the University of Michigan campus in Ann Arbor. In my thirties I ran on the par course and track at Saddleback College in Mission Viejo, California and at Ala Moana Beach Park on Oahu. I’m the first to tell you I never ran very fast or real far, but I swear on my fifth grade white canvas high top gym shoes, I did run.
I was slowed down considerably in my forties, but I still ran—after my toddler, Robert. It was more like darting than running, but that boy kept me on the move and that kept my weight down. The countless trips up and down the stairs of my two-story house, carrying Robert or running up and down after him were great exercise, but those days are over. These days I walk the lane: Snakey Lane, the scenic, winding, asphalt paved road behind my house.
Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!
Even though I’ve seen my share of snakes on the road, Snakey Lane is named for it’s winding curves as it snakes alongside Lake Grapevine, in Grapevine, Texas. Putting the rattlesnake and water moccasin sightings aside, it’s still one of the most beautiful and scenic little walks in the county. Only a few cars and pickup trucks travel on it each day. Along the route I’ve encountered hawks, wild ducks, geese, roadrunners, herons, ibis, foxes, a coyote, and an occasional lake turtle. There are even rumors about alligators in the lake, but no one seems to know for sure if it’s true. The lane is lined with mesquite trees dripping their six inch long dart-like spines at passersby. There’s poison sumac, ivy, and oak, and an occasional prickly pear cactus. The wildflowers in the spring and the brilliant colors in the autumn are inspirational. But the wildest creatures of all, the ones I dread a close encounter with some days, are the other humans.
While I admit I don’t move all that fast any longer, it seems to me that I still appear to be a serious exerciser. I wear good athletic walking shoes and socks, sweats in winter, age-appropriate, modest shorts and tees in summer, and always a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes. And I’m not strolling; I’m hustling. Apparently, others don’t see me as the jock I imagine myself to be. “Don’t get in the runner’s way!” a man on a bicycle shouted to his daughter one time. She promptly turned her bicycle directly into my path and cut me off in order to let a man jog by us. I was so stunned that I could not speak for a moment.
It’s not my fault, it’s the asphalt.
The city cleared several bike and foot trails in the nearby woods and built us a concrete trail for bicycle riders, skaters, and pedestrians between Snakey Lane and the lake. “Why are you on the road when we’ve got this trail?” an old man shouted at me one day from the concrete. “The asphalt is easier on my knees,” I called back. He just shook his head disgustedly and mumbled something inaudible. I felt as if I’d been chastised. I had a child-like urge to chase him back down the path and tell him that I’ve been running, jogging, and walking for five decades, all over the planet, and I’ve earned the right to walk in the road without being scolded like a reckless or unappreciative teenager. Actually I do walk on the concrete trail along the lake quite often, but when my knees are bothering me, it’s back to Snakey Lane.
Not all the runners, walkers, and bike riders are lacking in courtesy. Occasionally there’s a bicycler who calls out, “on your left” or rings a little bell on their bike. I always call out a thank you to those rare people, hoping that by encouraging courtesy, it might catch on. One of the most frustrating, unexplainable behaviors that I encounter are those folks just starting their walks or runs, who see you hustling along the trail or road, and step out in front of you instead of waiting for you to go past them. It’s kind of like pulling out from a side street onto the highway into moving traffic and causing all the drivers to have to stop or swerve to avoid a collision. You know how it makes me feel—it’s that “invisible woman” sensation again.
We're catching on.
Things have changed over the nearly twenty years that my family has lived in our home on Snakey Lane. The city built a beautiful community activity center with a multi-lane indoor track, and I use it when the Texas weather or pollens are at their worst. The folks from the older neighborhoods have grown accustomed to seeing runners and bike riders race up and down the neighborhood streets and roads. The drivers don’t swerve at us or throw longneck beer bottles at us any more, and most drivers give us a little extra yardage on the side of the road when they pass us. I haven’t seen a poacher’s sack full of discarded deer parts on the lane in years. I love my adopted town of Grapevine, and I love Snakey Lane with its wildflowers, wild animals, and wild people. If you drive along Snakey Lane and see a slightly past middle-aged woman hobbling along with a contented smile on her face, that’s me walking the lane.
Donna
In my twenties I began running like countless thousands of Americans when the jogging craze kicked in. I ran on the track beside Yost Field House, now Yost Ice Arena, on the University of Michigan campus in Ann Arbor. In my thirties I ran on the par course and track at Saddleback College in Mission Viejo, California and at Ala Moana Beach Park on Oahu. I’m the first to tell you I never ran very fast or real far, but I swear on my fifth grade white canvas high top gym shoes, I did run.
I was slowed down considerably in my forties, but I still ran—after my toddler, Robert. It was more like darting than running, but that boy kept me on the move and that kept my weight down. The countless trips up and down the stairs of my two-story house, carrying Robert or running up and down after him were great exercise, but those days are over. These days I walk the lane: Snakey Lane, the scenic, winding, asphalt paved road behind my house.
Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!
Even though I’ve seen my share of snakes on the road, Snakey Lane is named for it’s winding curves as it snakes alongside Lake Grapevine, in Grapevine, Texas. Putting the rattlesnake and water moccasin sightings aside, it’s still one of the most beautiful and scenic little walks in the county. Only a few cars and pickup trucks travel on it each day. Along the route I’ve encountered hawks, wild ducks, geese, roadrunners, herons, ibis, foxes, a coyote, and an occasional lake turtle. There are even rumors about alligators in the lake, but no one seems to know for sure if it’s true. The lane is lined with mesquite trees dripping their six inch long dart-like spines at passersby. There’s poison sumac, ivy, and oak, and an occasional prickly pear cactus. The wildflowers in the spring and the brilliant colors in the autumn are inspirational. But the wildest creatures of all, the ones I dread a close encounter with some days, are the other humans.
While I admit I don’t move all that fast any longer, it seems to me that I still appear to be a serious exerciser. I wear good athletic walking shoes and socks, sweats in winter, age-appropriate, modest shorts and tees in summer, and always a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes. And I’m not strolling; I’m hustling. Apparently, others don’t see me as the jock I imagine myself to be. “Don’t get in the runner’s way!” a man on a bicycle shouted to his daughter one time. She promptly turned her bicycle directly into my path and cut me off in order to let a man jog by us. I was so stunned that I could not speak for a moment.
It’s not my fault, it’s the asphalt.
The city cleared several bike and foot trails in the nearby woods and built us a concrete trail for bicycle riders, skaters, and pedestrians between Snakey Lane and the lake. “Why are you on the road when we’ve got this trail?” an old man shouted at me one day from the concrete. “The asphalt is easier on my knees,” I called back. He just shook his head disgustedly and mumbled something inaudible. I felt as if I’d been chastised. I had a child-like urge to chase him back down the path and tell him that I’ve been running, jogging, and walking for five decades, all over the planet, and I’ve earned the right to walk in the road without being scolded like a reckless or unappreciative teenager. Actually I do walk on the concrete trail along the lake quite often, but when my knees are bothering me, it’s back to Snakey Lane.
Not all the runners, walkers, and bike riders are lacking in courtesy. Occasionally there’s a bicycler who calls out, “on your left” or rings a little bell on their bike. I always call out a thank you to those rare people, hoping that by encouraging courtesy, it might catch on. One of the most frustrating, unexplainable behaviors that I encounter are those folks just starting their walks or runs, who see you hustling along the trail or road, and step out in front of you instead of waiting for you to go past them. It’s kind of like pulling out from a side street onto the highway into moving traffic and causing all the drivers to have to stop or swerve to avoid a collision. You know how it makes me feel—it’s that “invisible woman” sensation again.
We're catching on.
Things have changed over the nearly twenty years that my family has lived in our home on Snakey Lane. The city built a beautiful community activity center with a multi-lane indoor track, and I use it when the Texas weather or pollens are at their worst. The folks from the older neighborhoods have grown accustomed to seeing runners and bike riders race up and down the neighborhood streets and roads. The drivers don’t swerve at us or throw longneck beer bottles at us any more, and most drivers give us a little extra yardage on the side of the road when they pass us. I haven’t seen a poacher’s sack full of discarded deer parts on the lane in years. I love my adopted town of Grapevine, and I love Snakey Lane with its wildflowers, wild animals, and wild people. If you drive along Snakey Lane and see a slightly past middle-aged woman hobbling along with a contented smile on her face, that’s me walking the lane.
Donna
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Sounds of Life
With my sixty-first birthday skulking just around the corner, I find that I do a lot of thinking about my health. I retired six months ago, and my body tells me I didn’t go a minute too soon. I was a flight attendant for forty years, and though I still enjoyed the life that career offered, some days my body enjoyed the work—hmm, not so much. On those days I thought perhaps it was a job for a twenty-year old, (or even a fifty-year old), after all.
I don’t mean to whine, but I have lots of aches and pains, and I’ve been experiencing some typical age-related woes like arthritis, acid reflux, and hearing loss to name a few. Combine these with the wrinkles, sagging muscles, and gray hair, and I’ve got a genuine case of “maturity.”
Even with the age-related problems I do have, I know I’m lucky to be as healthy as I am. Besides, I’ve had an incredibly good life and lots of fun along the way. Recently I came up with an idea to try a new way to deal with the aches and pains. Rather than focus on the actual discomfort, I try to remember the cause of the ache or pain. In that way I'll be dwelling on something positive instead of negative—hopefully. We’ve all heard the saying that attitude is everything. I’ll give you some examples.
Care for some freshly ground pepper?
After a series of x-rays, my new chiropractor asked me how it feels when I turn my head from side to side. “It hurts,” I replied, “but that’s not all. It sounds and feels like a pepper mill turning back and forth.”
He smiled knowingly. “That’s the bone spurs and arthritis.”
“No,” I corrected. “That’s a ski trip to Mammoth Mountain in California with my husband and friends.” I was skiing like the wind down one of the intermediate runs when a teenage girl slammed into me from the side as she flailed her way backwards across the trail. When I came to, my friends were standing over me, asking me if I could move my toes. One of them was holding my hat which had blown off my head and landed about six feet away in the snow after my impact with the earth. I could not turn my head or bend my neck for several days afterward. I loved skiing with those friends during my thirties. We laughed and skied all day and laughed and ate and drank all evening, until we collapsed from exhaustion. No pain could make me regret those times together.
A ratchet is a good thing, right?
“What’s that tool you use that makes that clicking sound and what does it do?” I asked my husband.
“It’s a ratchet. It allows motion in only one direction, while keeping what you’re moving or turning from going back in the opposite direction,” he explained.
“Well, I think I have one in my knee from the sound of it.” I joked. Now, I’m thinking maybe that’s a good thing because I definitely don’t want my knees to bend in the opposite direction that I want to go.
I probably have my mother to thank for my gimpy knees, but the real trouble started in 1973 when I dislocated my left knee while opening a 707 aircraft door during emergency training drills. I’ll never forget that sound. It was like the sounds of a chicken being disjointed and deboned—only bigger, like a turkey or maybe even an ostrich. Those long days on the Mammoth ski slopes didn’t help, and the truth is I had to wear a knee brace to make it through the ski week. I try to think about Mammoth when my knees are acting up. I try not to think about evacuation drills and the sound of my patella being ripped from its little perch between my femur and my tibia.
Family fun.
At the ripe old age of 39, I gave birth to a handsome, nine-and-a-half pound baby boy. A couple of little problems have arisen from delivering such a big baby, but I can pick up remedies for those at the supermarket. Besides, hemorrhoids are quiet little pains in the butt.
My TMJ syndrome and occasional associated headaches stem from an incident when my son was about three. I had my very active toddler pinned between my knees to hold him still so I could dress him. Suddenly he jumped straight up and slammed his head into my chin. Inside my head it sounded like a large firecracker had gone off and I swear I saw flashing stars, too. Now when I try to take too big a bite and my jaw starts clicking like a ratchet wrench, it helps if I try to think about holding that little boy in my arms again and hugging the stuffing out of him.
OK, so it doesn’t always work.
Remembering the source of the ache doesn’t really make it go away, of course, but dwelling on the pain doesn’t help either. I’ve worked and played hard and perhaps recklessly at times. I’ve earned most of my aches and pains, but I wouldn’t trade the adventures and experiences for a lifetime of total moderation. These days my favorite old saw is the one about life being like a jar of jalapeños. What we do today may burn our butts tomorrow. We can’t live in a bubble, but we can take care of ourselves today so our tomorrows won’t have too many flare-ups.
Donna
I don’t mean to whine, but I have lots of aches and pains, and I’ve been experiencing some typical age-related woes like arthritis, acid reflux, and hearing loss to name a few. Combine these with the wrinkles, sagging muscles, and gray hair, and I’ve got a genuine case of “maturity.”
Even with the age-related problems I do have, I know I’m lucky to be as healthy as I am. Besides, I’ve had an incredibly good life and lots of fun along the way. Recently I came up with an idea to try a new way to deal with the aches and pains. Rather than focus on the actual discomfort, I try to remember the cause of the ache or pain. In that way I'll be dwelling on something positive instead of negative—hopefully. We’ve all heard the saying that attitude is everything. I’ll give you some examples.
Care for some freshly ground pepper?
After a series of x-rays, my new chiropractor asked me how it feels when I turn my head from side to side. “It hurts,” I replied, “but that’s not all. It sounds and feels like a pepper mill turning back and forth.”
He smiled knowingly. “That’s the bone spurs and arthritis.”
“No,” I corrected. “That’s a ski trip to Mammoth Mountain in California with my husband and friends.” I was skiing like the wind down one of the intermediate runs when a teenage girl slammed into me from the side as she flailed her way backwards across the trail. When I came to, my friends were standing over me, asking me if I could move my toes. One of them was holding my hat which had blown off my head and landed about six feet away in the snow after my impact with the earth. I could not turn my head or bend my neck for several days afterward. I loved skiing with those friends during my thirties. We laughed and skied all day and laughed and ate and drank all evening, until we collapsed from exhaustion. No pain could make me regret those times together.
A ratchet is a good thing, right?
“What’s that tool you use that makes that clicking sound and what does it do?” I asked my husband.
“It’s a ratchet. It allows motion in only one direction, while keeping what you’re moving or turning from going back in the opposite direction,” he explained.
“Well, I think I have one in my knee from the sound of it.” I joked. Now, I’m thinking maybe that’s a good thing because I definitely don’t want my knees to bend in the opposite direction that I want to go.
I probably have my mother to thank for my gimpy knees, but the real trouble started in 1973 when I dislocated my left knee while opening a 707 aircraft door during emergency training drills. I’ll never forget that sound. It was like the sounds of a chicken being disjointed and deboned—only bigger, like a turkey or maybe even an ostrich. Those long days on the Mammoth ski slopes didn’t help, and the truth is I had to wear a knee brace to make it through the ski week. I try to think about Mammoth when my knees are acting up. I try not to think about evacuation drills and the sound of my patella being ripped from its little perch between my femur and my tibia.
Family fun.
At the ripe old age of 39, I gave birth to a handsome, nine-and-a-half pound baby boy. A couple of little problems have arisen from delivering such a big baby, but I can pick up remedies for those at the supermarket. Besides, hemorrhoids are quiet little pains in the butt.
My TMJ syndrome and occasional associated headaches stem from an incident when my son was about three. I had my very active toddler pinned between my knees to hold him still so I could dress him. Suddenly he jumped straight up and slammed his head into my chin. Inside my head it sounded like a large firecracker had gone off and I swear I saw flashing stars, too. Now when I try to take too big a bite and my jaw starts clicking like a ratchet wrench, it helps if I try to think about holding that little boy in my arms again and hugging the stuffing out of him.
OK, so it doesn’t always work.
Remembering the source of the ache doesn’t really make it go away, of course, but dwelling on the pain doesn’t help either. I’ve worked and played hard and perhaps recklessly at times. I’ve earned most of my aches and pains, but I wouldn’t trade the adventures and experiences for a lifetime of total moderation. These days my favorite old saw is the one about life being like a jar of jalapeños. What we do today may burn our butts tomorrow. We can’t live in a bubble, but we can take care of ourselves today so our tomorrows won’t have too many flare-ups.
Donna
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Happy Valentine’s Day—No Really!
I received some very differing responses to my valentine stories on last Saturday’s post. My husband was the first to read them and responded with, “that’s not funny.” My son told me the orchid story was the saddest thing I ever wrote. Of course he was feeling sympathetic toward his dad. A friend and former co-worker wrote that my valentine stories were hilarious. Though each was a story about intentions gone awry, remember what John Lennon told us about plans: “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”
Another story of plans gone wrong.
Down in Austin, there’s a pizza restaurant that will make a heart-shaped pizza for you and your sweetheart on Valentine’s Day, providing you order in advance. When Robert was a sophomore at the University of Texas, he met a lovely girl named Dani whom he wanted to impress with his romantic finesse. Robert placed his pizza order, picked out an inviting spot on the UT campus South Mall, and packed a blanket, candles and picnic supplies for the big date.
When he arrived at the pizza restaurant he grabbed his take-out order and dashed over to the mall to meet Dani for their romantic picnic. Upon opening the pizza box they discovered a minor problem. The pizza was not only uncooked, but it was partially frozen as well. They packed everything up and drove back to the restaurant to get their valentine baked. Apparently the restaurant assumes everyone who orders heart-shaped pizzas to go has an oven handy.
By the time the pizza was ready, the temperature outside had dropped so low that they gave up on the idea of “dining out” and drove back to Robert’s dorm to eat their pizza and watch a video. Robert lit the candles and they parked themselves on the sofa to commence their romantic evening. In his haste to reset the scene for romance, he failed to consider the result of placing burning candles in plastic cups. As they were dousing the flames on the coffee table, the top of the television caught fire and began to melt. They put out the TV flames and the remainder of the evening went without incident—I’m told.
Your Stories
Sandy's comment last week about valentine boxes made me think about making my own perfectly crafted, designer-quality valentine mailbox—the kind we used to make with an old shoebox, white shelf paper and heart-shaped doilies. I think psychologists call that "repairing the past." Maybe I'll do that next year. Thanks to those who sent their own story. I’ve posted them verbatim with no edits so the writers' feelings would be conveyed accurately.
Gerry
My Valentine's Day Disaster!
1981 or 1982 (it's all a bad dream) I attempted to be a good military officer's wife in big DC. We decided to have a big "payback" dinner for the Harrier embassy's Big Shots. I had not ever attempted to cook for such a big crowd around (20) and I will never try to do that sort of entertaining again. I must have been crazy! sent out the handwritten invitations two weeks in advance and received RSVP"s from secretaries from several embassy's. Then the panic attacks set in...WHAT WAS I THINKING? Even the embassys have help! Of course Valentine's Day would be fun!!! NOT!
The decorations were ordered, flowers for all the tables and heard shaped balloons, the food. I made layer salads for 4 days and desserts for each table. Bought booze for an army (no pun intended) The Brits can drink very well. Have you ever been invited to Friday prayers. Just plan to spend the night. I set up four small tables (bought red and white tablecloths) also set up my big table that sits 8. made treats for the ladies and wrote name cards for each table. Boy was I sooooo cool! My homemaking classes really came in handy. Everything was right on schedule. My poor husband didn't get a decent meal for about two weeks. Now the butterflies began to fly in my stomach.
Two days before the party the weather set in....just my luck. We had one of the biggest snow storms or should I say blizzard) hit the east coast. It snowed baseball size flakes for three days. I couldn't see my back yard and decking. No going to work even in a sled. The beltway was closed! Oh my God! Why me.?
Well I started calling everyone on the 13th. Would you believe the British Embassy said they thought the could come in a helicopter in...what a joke! Well, here I was with expensive tenderloin for 20 people. Of course let's not forget the 100 balloons. But have no fear...the booze came in handy.
To top it off...the music trio I hired called the afternoon of the 14th to see what time to come. How were they going to get to my house? I guess they had dogs and a BIG sled. Kids will do anything for money.
One good thing came out of this disaster, the neighbors ate well. Oh yes! I couldn't go to work for a week. So much for St. Valentine....
Audrey
Growing up as a child, most of my valentines were angst-ridden. More so than in Jr. High and in High School. I thought of myself as the most ugliest creature that ever lived, and felt that valentines were obligatory...you know...like getting a hug from Grandma, and that it was the forced decorum that allowed lucky me to get them from my girlfriends and the other kids in class.
You know, that - I do believe that, for me, being the romantic that I am....valentine's day is mostly remembered as painful. Brett abhorred the day, but, during our early years, he obliged me by buying me roses. But one such early valentine's day, my heart-pounding in my chest as we both worked at the same company - I awaited for some public token of affection from him that he truly loved me (you see - he was known as not the most faithful of guys)...so, interested in what was going on...I passed by his cubicle to see 4 dozen roses with vases on his desk! OMG!!! I imagined that this scoundrel had the balls to publicly humiliate me, and send these flowers (all different colors) to different girls in our office. I was furious and saddened - humiliated!!! I just wanted to go home and couldn't face other co-workers...I suffered through the rest of the afternoon, seeing co-worker after co-worker get bouquets...cringing at the thought of some gossipy person saying "....look who Brett bought flowers for..."...But when my name was called to the front of the office, - there they were - all 4 dozen flowers - each a different color - sent to my name only...It seems that once a man breaks your heart, you'll always have that automatic defensive mechanism...and assume worst case scenarios...and dare couldn't allow myself to think that I deserved flowers on Valentine's Day.
But, I truly and whole-heartedly believe that we should set aside - 1 day a year...one measly day a year where you are reminded that love does indeed exist, and not to take for granted that, which you've been lucky enough to have the rest of 364 days a year.
Leslie
I’ve been racking the old brain for any Valentine memory when it dawned on me that I don’t have ANY at the adult level at all….you see, Sam and I got married on Feb. 15 so God forbid I should get two gifts!
When I think of my childhood Valentine memories there aren’t any because I went to Catholic School and that was a heathen venture and I’m sure full of IMPURE THOUGHTS (which by the way has become one of my favorite mantras)!
During the 10 year period between 1980 & 1990 I was room mother for each of my three children and Valentines was a huge ROOM MOM day, right ladies? Somewhere into year 4 or 5 it hit me that this room mom crap had gotten out of hand. Jeeze, these kids start celebrating every holiday earlier and earlier and are almost burned out by the time the REAL holiday gets here. This includes Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and I would need my calendar to list the rest of them!
I can’t think of a heartwarming message to this but I do care about my fellow sisters of the air!
Love, Les
* * *
Happy Valentine’s Day to All! Today, and every day, I hope you feel the love of family and friends, the joy of memories, and the gift of turning bitter to sweet as time goes by.
Donna
Another story of plans gone wrong.
Down in Austin, there’s a pizza restaurant that will make a heart-shaped pizza for you and your sweetheart on Valentine’s Day, providing you order in advance. When Robert was a sophomore at the University of Texas, he met a lovely girl named Dani whom he wanted to impress with his romantic finesse. Robert placed his pizza order, picked out an inviting spot on the UT campus South Mall, and packed a blanket, candles and picnic supplies for the big date.
When he arrived at the pizza restaurant he grabbed his take-out order and dashed over to the mall to meet Dani for their romantic picnic. Upon opening the pizza box they discovered a minor problem. The pizza was not only uncooked, but it was partially frozen as well. They packed everything up and drove back to the restaurant to get their valentine baked. Apparently the restaurant assumes everyone who orders heart-shaped pizzas to go has an oven handy.
By the time the pizza was ready, the temperature outside had dropped so low that they gave up on the idea of “dining out” and drove back to Robert’s dorm to eat their pizza and watch a video. Robert lit the candles and they parked themselves on the sofa to commence their romantic evening. In his haste to reset the scene for romance, he failed to consider the result of placing burning candles in plastic cups. As they were dousing the flames on the coffee table, the top of the television caught fire and began to melt. They put out the TV flames and the remainder of the evening went without incident—I’m told.
Your Stories
Sandy's comment last week about valentine boxes made me think about making my own perfectly crafted, designer-quality valentine mailbox—the kind we used to make with an old shoebox, white shelf paper and heart-shaped doilies. I think psychologists call that "repairing the past." Maybe I'll do that next year. Thanks to those who sent their own story. I’ve posted them verbatim with no edits so the writers' feelings would be conveyed accurately.
Gerry
My Valentine's Day Disaster!
1981 or 1982 (it's all a bad dream) I attempted to be a good military officer's wife in big DC. We decided to have a big "payback" dinner for the Harrier embassy's Big Shots. I had not ever attempted to cook for such a big crowd around (20) and I will never try to do that sort of entertaining again. I must have been crazy! sent out the handwritten invitations two weeks in advance and received RSVP"s from secretaries from several embassy's. Then the panic attacks set in...WHAT WAS I THINKING? Even the embassys have help! Of course Valentine's Day would be fun!!! NOT!
The decorations were ordered, flowers for all the tables and heard shaped balloons, the food. I made layer salads for 4 days and desserts for each table. Bought booze for an army (no pun intended) The Brits can drink very well. Have you ever been invited to Friday prayers. Just plan to spend the night. I set up four small tables (bought red and white tablecloths) also set up my big table that sits 8. made treats for the ladies and wrote name cards for each table. Boy was I sooooo cool! My homemaking classes really came in handy. Everything was right on schedule. My poor husband didn't get a decent meal for about two weeks. Now the butterflies began to fly in my stomach.
Two days before the party the weather set in....just my luck. We had one of the biggest snow storms or should I say blizzard) hit the east coast. It snowed baseball size flakes for three days. I couldn't see my back yard and decking. No going to work even in a sled. The beltway was closed! Oh my God! Why me.?
Well I started calling everyone on the 13th. Would you believe the British Embassy said they thought the could come in a helicopter in...what a joke! Well, here I was with expensive tenderloin for 20 people. Of course let's not forget the 100 balloons. But have no fear...the booze came in handy.
To top it off...the music trio I hired called the afternoon of the 14th to see what time to come. How were they going to get to my house? I guess they had dogs and a BIG sled. Kids will do anything for money.
One good thing came out of this disaster, the neighbors ate well. Oh yes! I couldn't go to work for a week. So much for St. Valentine....
Audrey
Growing up as a child, most of my valentines were angst-ridden. More so than in Jr. High and in High School. I thought of myself as the most ugliest creature that ever lived, and felt that valentines were obligatory...you know...like getting a hug from Grandma, and that it was the forced decorum that allowed lucky me to get them from my girlfriends and the other kids in class.
You know, that - I do believe that, for me, being the romantic that I am....valentine's day is mostly remembered as painful. Brett abhorred the day, but, during our early years, he obliged me by buying me roses. But one such early valentine's day, my heart-pounding in my chest as we both worked at the same company - I awaited for some public token of affection from him that he truly loved me (you see - he was known as not the most faithful of guys)...so, interested in what was going on...I passed by his cubicle to see 4 dozen roses with vases on his desk! OMG!!! I imagined that this scoundrel had the balls to publicly humiliate me, and send these flowers (all different colors) to different girls in our office. I was furious and saddened - humiliated!!! I just wanted to go home and couldn't face other co-workers...I suffered through the rest of the afternoon, seeing co-worker after co-worker get bouquets...cringing at the thought of some gossipy person saying "....look who Brett bought flowers for..."...But when my name was called to the front of the office, - there they were - all 4 dozen flowers - each a different color - sent to my name only...It seems that once a man breaks your heart, you'll always have that automatic defensive mechanism...and assume worst case scenarios...and dare couldn't allow myself to think that I deserved flowers on Valentine's Day.
But, I truly and whole-heartedly believe that we should set aside - 1 day a year...one measly day a year where you are reminded that love does indeed exist, and not to take for granted that, which you've been lucky enough to have the rest of 364 days a year.
Leslie
I’ve been racking the old brain for any Valentine memory when it dawned on me that I don’t have ANY at the adult level at all….you see, Sam and I got married on Feb. 15 so God forbid I should get two gifts!
When I think of my childhood Valentine memories there aren’t any because I went to Catholic School and that was a heathen venture and I’m sure full of IMPURE THOUGHTS (which by the way has become one of my favorite mantras)!
During the 10 year period between 1980 & 1990 I was room mother for each of my three children and Valentines was a huge ROOM MOM day, right ladies? Somewhere into year 4 or 5 it hit me that this room mom crap had gotten out of hand. Jeeze, these kids start celebrating every holiday earlier and earlier and are almost burned out by the time the REAL holiday gets here. This includes Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and I would need my calendar to list the rest of them!
I can’t think of a heartwarming message to this but I do care about my fellow sisters of the air!
Love, Les
* * *
Happy Valentine’s Day to All! Today, and every day, I hope you feel the love of family and friends, the joy of memories, and the gift of turning bitter to sweet as time goes by.
Donna
Saturday, February 7, 2009
My Not So Funny Valentines
Saturday, February 14th is Valentine’s Day, the day we’re reminded to express our love for sweethearts and other dear ones. We all know we need to show our love more often than once a year; but in our lives, for some reason we have had such great expectations about this one day in February.
Before starting this post, I checked out several web sites and blogs to get other people’s thoughts on this holiday. I wanted to know if others had experienced the kind of mishaps that I had while trying to express my love. There were over three million hits for “I Hate Valentine’s Day.” Their intensity ranged between “Valentine’s Day is not all hearts and candy for everyone” to “Love Sucks Month.” Believe me, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day at all; but some have not gone so well.
Recycling is not the answer.
My mom could always be counted on to buy short. When she brought home the box of twenty-four valentines for my thirty student third-grade class, I had to get creative. Having saved the previous year’s valentines for some reason, I selected a few, covered the senders’ names with plain white paper, signed my name, and voilà! My problem was solved. There were a few boys in my class I didn’t like so much, and I chose them to receive the recycled cards. After all, my third-grade brain reasoned, a previously gifted valentine was certainly better than none. No card at all would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?
Wayne, one of the boys to receive a recycled card, pulled my carefully pasted and signed backing from the card, exposing the name of another boy beneath it. I will never forget his angry tears as he confronted me with his discovery. No amount of explaining on my part helped.
Obey the Prime Directive (Star Trek fans will understand).
When my son was in the fifth grade, he had a crush on Anna, a girl in his class, and wanted to give a special valentine to her. We purchased a very sweet “secret admirer” card in addition to the usual box of inexpensive children's valentines. I printed “from your secret admirer” on the special card so no one would recognize his handwriting. Since I was room mom, I organized the class party and was there when disaster struck. Someone saw Robert drop the slightly larger card in the custom-made valentine box perched on the corner of Anna’s desk and blew the whistle on him. Anna, a tall, willowy, wisp of a fifth grader was still in the “I hate boys” stage of girlhood and now she hated Robert, a sweet little boy she had hardly noticed before. I did learn from that experience and have never interfered in Robert’s romances since.
The Orchid and the Roses.
When my husband Jim and I were first dating, I lived in San Diego and he had just arrived at Camp Pendleton Marine Base in Oceanside, California. He was broke paying off college loans and helping to support his family in Illinois. Our dates were definitely budget-style. For our first Valentine’s Day together, he stopped at a florist on his way to my apartment and purchased a single, beautiful anthurium orchid for me.
Meanwhile, my friend Bev, who lived in the same apartment complex, had a long-distance romance going with the guy back home in Wisconsin. He sent her a dozen long-stemmed red roses and sent me a single rose just because I was Bev’s friend. The florist switched the orders and delivered the single rose to Bev and the dozen roses to me. After dropping off his buzz killer bouquet, the delivery man turned to head back to his truck. And there we stood—me with a gorgeous spray of long-stemmed red roses in my arms, and Jim, with a single anthurium orchid in his hand.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I believe that’s my question,” Jim had replied. At the time Bev was angry with her guy back home and wouldn’t take the dozen roses from me. Not wanting Jim to be forced to gaze at the extravagant roses all evening, I hid them in the bathroom and placed the orchid on the coffee table. To this day, I never see an anthurium orchid without thinking of that Valentine’s Day.
Send me your Valentine story.
There’s evidence all around my house that my family and I have shared some lovely Valentine's Day celebrations through the years: the vases that held the roses Jim has given me, the heart-shaped cookie cutters I used to bake cookies for Jim and Robert, and the heart pendant collection in the jewelry box. So why can’t I let go of those regrettable memories? Perhaps it's because of the lessons they taught.
If you have a funny or not-quite-what-you-planned Valentine’s Day tale you’d be willing to share, send it to me at donna.hodgson@gmail.com. I plan to work your stories into next week’s post on Valentine’s Day. First names only (or no name, if you prefer), will be used. I can’t wait to read your stories.
Donna
Before starting this post, I checked out several web sites and blogs to get other people’s thoughts on this holiday. I wanted to know if others had experienced the kind of mishaps that I had while trying to express my love. There were over three million hits for “I Hate Valentine’s Day.” Their intensity ranged between “Valentine’s Day is not all hearts and candy for everyone” to “Love Sucks Month.” Believe me, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day at all; but some have not gone so well.
Recycling is not the answer.
My mom could always be counted on to buy short. When she brought home the box of twenty-four valentines for my thirty student third-grade class, I had to get creative. Having saved the previous year’s valentines for some reason, I selected a few, covered the senders’ names with plain white paper, signed my name, and voilà! My problem was solved. There were a few boys in my class I didn’t like so much, and I chose them to receive the recycled cards. After all, my third-grade brain reasoned, a previously gifted valentine was certainly better than none. No card at all would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?
Wayne, one of the boys to receive a recycled card, pulled my carefully pasted and signed backing from the card, exposing the name of another boy beneath it. I will never forget his angry tears as he confronted me with his discovery. No amount of explaining on my part helped.
Obey the Prime Directive (Star Trek fans will understand).
When my son was in the fifth grade, he had a crush on Anna, a girl in his class, and wanted to give a special valentine to her. We purchased a very sweet “secret admirer” card in addition to the usual box of inexpensive children's valentines. I printed “from your secret admirer” on the special card so no one would recognize his handwriting. Since I was room mom, I organized the class party and was there when disaster struck. Someone saw Robert drop the slightly larger card in the custom-made valentine box perched on the corner of Anna’s desk and blew the whistle on him. Anna, a tall, willowy, wisp of a fifth grader was still in the “I hate boys” stage of girlhood and now she hated Robert, a sweet little boy she had hardly noticed before. I did learn from that experience and have never interfered in Robert’s romances since.
The Orchid and the Roses.
When my husband Jim and I were first dating, I lived in San Diego and he had just arrived at Camp Pendleton Marine Base in Oceanside, California. He was broke paying off college loans and helping to support his family in Illinois. Our dates were definitely budget-style. For our first Valentine’s Day together, he stopped at a florist on his way to my apartment and purchased a single, beautiful anthurium orchid for me.
Meanwhile, my friend Bev, who lived in the same apartment complex, had a long-distance romance going with the guy back home in Wisconsin. He sent her a dozen long-stemmed red roses and sent me a single rose just because I was Bev’s friend. The florist switched the orders and delivered the single rose to Bev and the dozen roses to me. After dropping off his buzz killer bouquet, the delivery man turned to head back to his truck. And there we stood—me with a gorgeous spray of long-stemmed red roses in my arms, and Jim, with a single anthurium orchid in his hand.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I believe that’s my question,” Jim had replied. At the time Bev was angry with her guy back home and wouldn’t take the dozen roses from me. Not wanting Jim to be forced to gaze at the extravagant roses all evening, I hid them in the bathroom and placed the orchid on the coffee table. To this day, I never see an anthurium orchid without thinking of that Valentine’s Day.
Send me your Valentine story.
There’s evidence all around my house that my family and I have shared some lovely Valentine's Day celebrations through the years: the vases that held the roses Jim has given me, the heart-shaped cookie cutters I used to bake cookies for Jim and Robert, and the heart pendant collection in the jewelry box. So why can’t I let go of those regrettable memories? Perhaps it's because of the lessons they taught.
If you have a funny or not-quite-what-you-planned Valentine’s Day tale you’d be willing to share, send it to me at donna.hodgson@gmail.com. I plan to work your stories into next week’s post on Valentine’s Day. First names only (or no name, if you prefer), will be used. I can’t wait to read your stories.
Donna
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The Invisible Woman Revealed
I confess; I was starting to get annoyed. As I stood patiently at the reception desk, waiting for assistance, other hotel guests approached the desk and received attention immediately. I was still waiting. A pretty, young blond woman was working behind the desk at the upscale Gatwick area hotel where I was staying with my co-worker, Trish. In frustration, I turned to Trish and said in a loud, exaggerated voice: “I can see you, can you see me? I don’t think this young woman can see us. We may be invisible.” Trish, momentarily stunned by my outburst, started to laugh.
“Can I help you?” the young woman sheepishly asked.
“Well, yes! Why else do you think we’d be standing here at your desk?” I snarled. After she politely answered our questions, Trish and I left the hotel lobby to find a restaurant for dinner.
“I've never seen you angry,” Trish stated. “That was hysterical!”
“All of a sudden I felt invisible and it made me furious,” I replied. “More and more often I feel like people don’t see me anymore.”
Last winter my husband and I, along with another couple, attended the Armed Services Bowl in Ft. Worth. Security there was heavy. Entering the football stadium just ahead of my attractive, youthful friend, Marlyn, I heard the young security guard's request: “May I look inside your bags?” I turned and said quickly, “of course.” He checked Marlyn’s bag for prohibited items and then turned to the next woman in line, totally ignoring me with my gaping tote bag exposing four pint-sized water bottles.
“Wow,” Marlyn exclaimed. “How come he didn’t check your bag? And you had your own drinks in there.”
“Each year after 50 you get more and more invisible,” I joked. She laughed. “You wait,” I thought.
Years ago, a much older friend told me that when we get old, we start to get invisible. “People stop noticing you,” she had explained. “You get ignored. It’s not meanness; it just happens.”
“I’m five feet nine inches tall. I can’t believe people won’t notice me,” I had countered.
“You wait,” was her reply.
I’m only 60 years old, but I think I’ve been fading for about ten years. If this keeps up I’ll be a shadow by 70, and totally invisible by my 80th birthday. The truth is I don’t want to be invisible. I don’t want to be ignored. Neither do most of my contemporaries, fellow retirees, and friends. I’m not willing to go quietly and submissively into obscurity and beyond.
I checked out the Internet to see if there are any web sites that specifically address the issue of invisibility in older people. Google provided me with 583,000 results. Of course they didn’t all answer my questions, but apparently the world is full of invisible old people. Several web sites addressed the issue of better marketing toward the “invisible elderly.” Well, market to me, baby!
When I was young, my parents taught me to be courteous toward older people and promised me that one day, when I’m old, young people will be courteous toward me. I have two questions. How old do I have to get before I notice this courtesy? And is it possible that people aren’t really becoming less courteous; that it’s just a visibility problem, like in a winter whiteout? If that’s the case, it’s no wonder that man entering the post office ahead of me let the door slam in my face. He probably couldn’t see me.
Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man believed there are some advantages to a state of invisibility. Sure, I can go to the supermarket in my bedroom slippers or forget to zip up my pants after a trip to the bathroom, (both unintentionally), but these little gains do not improve the quality of life for the aging, and they hardly offset the difficulty in finding a new doctor who will accept Medicare patients.
The other day I was enjoying lunch at a popular Southlake restaurant with four of my fellow retirees. We were seated at the bar, talking about health, money, food and friends, and laughing a lot, as usual. A woman, probably in her thirties, was seated close by. She approached us on her way out and announced: “You ladies are so cute. I’ve really enjoyed listening to your conversations. You seem to have a lot of fun.” Afterward, as we walked to our cars to head for home, I told my friend Judy: “I’m not ready to be a ‘cute’ little old lady.” I suppose, now that I think about it, being cute is a whole lot better than being invisible.
“Can I help you?” the young woman sheepishly asked.
“Well, yes! Why else do you think we’d be standing here at your desk?” I snarled. After she politely answered our questions, Trish and I left the hotel lobby to find a restaurant for dinner.
“I've never seen you angry,” Trish stated. “That was hysterical!”
“All of a sudden I felt invisible and it made me furious,” I replied. “More and more often I feel like people don’t see me anymore.”
Last winter my husband and I, along with another couple, attended the Armed Services Bowl in Ft. Worth. Security there was heavy. Entering the football stadium just ahead of my attractive, youthful friend, Marlyn, I heard the young security guard's request: “May I look inside your bags?” I turned and said quickly, “of course.” He checked Marlyn’s bag for prohibited items and then turned to the next woman in line, totally ignoring me with my gaping tote bag exposing four pint-sized water bottles.
“Wow,” Marlyn exclaimed. “How come he didn’t check your bag? And you had your own drinks in there.”
“Each year after 50 you get more and more invisible,” I joked. She laughed. “You wait,” I thought.
Years ago, a much older friend told me that when we get old, we start to get invisible. “People stop noticing you,” she had explained. “You get ignored. It’s not meanness; it just happens.”
“I’m five feet nine inches tall. I can’t believe people won’t notice me,” I had countered.
“You wait,” was her reply.
I’m only 60 years old, but I think I’ve been fading for about ten years. If this keeps up I’ll be a shadow by 70, and totally invisible by my 80th birthday. The truth is I don’t want to be invisible. I don’t want to be ignored. Neither do most of my contemporaries, fellow retirees, and friends. I’m not willing to go quietly and submissively into obscurity and beyond.
I checked out the Internet to see if there are any web sites that specifically address the issue of invisibility in older people. Google provided me with 583,000 results. Of course they didn’t all answer my questions, but apparently the world is full of invisible old people. Several web sites addressed the issue of better marketing toward the “invisible elderly.” Well, market to me, baby!
When I was young, my parents taught me to be courteous toward older people and promised me that one day, when I’m old, young people will be courteous toward me. I have two questions. How old do I have to get before I notice this courtesy? And is it possible that people aren’t really becoming less courteous; that it’s just a visibility problem, like in a winter whiteout? If that’s the case, it’s no wonder that man entering the post office ahead of me let the door slam in my face. He probably couldn’t see me.
Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man believed there are some advantages to a state of invisibility. Sure, I can go to the supermarket in my bedroom slippers or forget to zip up my pants after a trip to the bathroom, (both unintentionally), but these little gains do not improve the quality of life for the aging, and they hardly offset the difficulty in finding a new doctor who will accept Medicare patients.
The other day I was enjoying lunch at a popular Southlake restaurant with four of my fellow retirees. We were seated at the bar, talking about health, money, food and friends, and laughing a lot, as usual. A woman, probably in her thirties, was seated close by. She approached us on her way out and announced: “You ladies are so cute. I’ve really enjoyed listening to your conversations. You seem to have a lot of fun.” Afterward, as we walked to our cars to head for home, I told my friend Judy: “I’m not ready to be a ‘cute’ little old lady.” I suppose, now that I think about it, being cute is a whole lot better than being invisible.
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