My Life's Journey to Me

The Inevitability of Change

2019-07-07T18:51:00.000-04:00

I went to have my hair done yesterday. And I threw the seeds to the wind.

Normally it's a matter of just putting a few highlights in and and trimming up my tresses. But yesterday was different. I was in the mood to change it up. When I visited Francesca, my very able bodied stylist, I presented her with a couple of pictures of hairstyles I might like to try. One was an unknown model, the other was Halle Berry. "Can you make me look like Halle Berry?" I asked. Fortunately, Francesca was up for a challenge and went about her business giving me that "berry berry" fine look. She took the clippers to my hair, made my style nice and cool for the heat of the summer, and I was quite satisfied with the the end result -- just like Halle. Darn it though, even though the hair is spot on, I'm afraid I have a long way to go to look like Halle Berry. Maybe losing about 40 pounds would help. Oh well. The hair's a start.

So why the impulse to change? I guess it's in response to all of the upcoming changes that will take place in my life in the next month. Drastic changes that I am both excited about and nervous about. Ok, I'm not just nervous -- I'm scared shitless.

A year ago I never imagined that I am in the place that I'm in now. What turned into a major change in my life really started out simply enough, as a passing thought. My youngest child had left the nest to go to college, and my husband and I were left alone in this empty next. Once he had left, I was left wondering, "What next?" So I got this crazy idea to look into what it might take to go back to school to pursue a PhD in my field (communication).

The initial exploratory process was fun and prompted me to investigate further into what the University of Kentucky had to offer. I attended an all-day preview day last November and liked what I saw. So I figured I would apply to become a doctoral student and then maybe go part-time (one to two classes a semester) while continuing to work full-time at St. Elizabeth Healthcare.

Really, my biggest worry was getting admitted, since I had heard it was a competitive program. I submitted my application on November 30 of last year. So imagine my surprise when in early February I received a call notifying me that I had not only been offered admission, but also a four-year tuition waiver and paid teaching assistantship if I agreed to go to school full time.

I was flattered when notified, but my first inclination was to turn the offer down. After all, it would be too much change in my pretty settled life. There would be no way that I could continue working full-time at St. Elizabeth and accept this offer. But I had two months to make a decision, so I took every bit of the full two months to weigh all of my options. Needless to say, it was a grueling two months.

I have to say many friends, family and co-workers supported and encouraged me along the way. I'm sure that probably influenced my decision to a degree. And ultimately, I did decide to accept UK's offer. I reasoned that to have such an opportunity dropped in my lap indicated perhaps a divine intervention of some sort. Perhaps it's' a calling from God. And at the very least, I knew that if I didn't accept the offer I would always wonder what would have happened had I taken the other path.

So that was the basis of my decision-- that perhaps it was meant to be.

Did I make the right decision? I don't know. It may be a while before I know -- hopefully just a few months, maybe a few years. I've already been warned that there will probably be times where I will panic and wonder what I have gotten myself into. So I'm desperately trying to prepare myself. (We're only a month away until it all starts.) Here is what I'm doing to mentally prepare:

Attend a yoga class at least once a week. I like the hot yoga, the type that makes you sweat from the start. It seems as the sweat drips off our body, it has a tendency to wash the stress away and calm my mind.
Work on my confidence issues. Part of this deal will be teaching two classes per semester to undergraduates. Am I up to it, or will those 18- to 20-year-old kids eat me alive? A colleague of mine reminded me of something very important on this note -- that I am actually the one with the power. I give the grades -- their GPAs are in my hands. Wow, that's deep. Not that I will get on a power high with this, but it helps put things in perspective.
Don't let my age get in the way. I'm going to be older (okay, much older) than many of my cohorts. This could be intimidating. But I have to remind myself that I have approximately 30 years of work experience in the field -- way more than any of my fellow TAs will have. Hopefully this (and the knowledge I bring forth from this) will serve to command some respect from both my fellow co-horts and the students I will be teaching. (And besides, many have told me I look young for my age, so if I can pass for 10 years younger I'll be happy.)
Immerse myself in my coursework. I'm there to learn, and not to question whether or not I can do this. So just do it. For God's sake, I have two previous degrees, so I should be able to do this, right?
Embrace the change! Change is hard -- no doubt about it. But if we don't change, we remain static, and that fosters decline. As much as it is human nature to resist change, it is necessary. We must all eventually change to ensure continual growth.
Manage my time effectively. Fortunately, I'm pretty good at this. As long as I can get a reasonable amount of sleep per night, I should be fine.
Depend on those I know who can be valuable resources. I know that I have a support system that I can call upon if I need it -- mostly professors and colleagues from my master's program, at Northern Kentucky University. Although it's been almost eight years since I finished up my master's there, the folks there are so nice and accommodating. I know I can draw on their experience and expertise when needed.
Remember that attitude is everything. The more positive I can be (and less nervous), the more likely I will excel. Hopefully I will be able to surround myself with some good vibes.

Okay, so this is a pretty vague plan so far, but I expect it will become more defined as I go along. Any prayers and good wishes you can send my way are most appreciated. I really do need those good vibes to give me the hope, confidence and enthusiasm I need to make this new chapter in my life a success.

One more thing, just for the record. I'm not doing this so people can call me "Dr." in four years. I'm not really doing it for any kind of prestige. I truly want to do this so that someday I might make a difference -- a difference in the way I can consult with health care providers as they interact with patients, so that patients feel loved and cared for. This, in turn, motivates patients to work harder to be more compliant with their care, and such efforts serve to increase health outcomes. Enhanced communication practices in our system, coupled with the science of compassion, will ultimately foster caring environments that bring forth optimal peace, healing and well being.

This is important to me. A few years ago my grandmother, who had dementia, was admitted to the hospital and the assigned physician making his initial visit to her asked her bluntly, "Are you demented?" I guess he thought he was joking, but my mother and I were horrified. My grandmother was a person, dammit, who had lived through the Depression, helped farm her family's dairy farm during World War II, worked in the factory to support her family (while also tending to the family farm) and raised a family. She was married to my grandfather for 66 years until his death. And yet, during those few seconds and during that encounter, that physician reduced her to nothing but a demented object not hardly worthy of his time.

My quest in life is to make the patient-provider relationship better than this. This is why I do this.

There is so much wrong with healthcare that could be fixed with better communication practices. This is my calling.

For 25+ years, in some form or another, I have served a calling to make healthcare better. And now I have come to this place in my life. It's a new challenge.

Am I scared? Yes. But not so scared that I'm not willing to take the chance to see if this might be the opportunity for me to make the world a better place.

So here we go. As I have so many times before, I'm figuratively throwing the seeds to the wind. Let's see where they may fall!

Farewell and Much Love to Aunt Millie

2018-12-01T03:11:00.000-05:00

I received the call from the hospice nurse yesterday morning. Aunt Millie had taken a turn for the worse. I guess it was a call I had been expecting for quite a while. Turns out this really was the end. My husband’s Aunt Millie passed away last night shortly before 10 pm.

It’s been rough go the last five years or so. So

tough to see someone you knew as a sassy, vivacious woman slowly and steadily decline into the abyss. I watched as her body became increasingly frail, and as her cognitive capacity became more and more limited. I can’t tell you how much I rejoice that she has finally been freed from the bondage of those earthly restraints.

She was a tough woman, in a demure sort of way. At her peak, she was five foot two and 118 pounds. An introvert by nature, she always told me not to worry about making her into a social being, because she rather enjoyed her own company. She admits that she lurked in the shadow to her older sister Dorothy, far more extroverted and outgoing. But when Dorothy died in 1972 and left young sons, it was Millie who stepped up to the plate and served as the motherly figure.

While introverted, she wasn’t necessarily as passive as one might think. She used to tell me that some folks would call her “Mulie,” meaning “Stubborn as a mule.” I know that first-hand. A few years ago we attempted to remove the throw rugs from her apartment because they were a trip hazard. We put them in her closet. She obviously wasn’t hip to that, because the next time we visited the rugs were back on her floor. (Lesson learned!)

So minus the past five years, let me tell you about the Millie I knew.

When I first met my husband Ed, he talked incessantly about his Aunt Millie. I knew immediately that she was a woman I wanted to meet. A couple of months after we started dating, we went Christmas shopping and he wanted to buy her a nice dress. He didn’t know what size she wore. So he called her on a pay phone (no cell phones at that time) and told her that he was shopping for a dress for me. So being that she had not yet met me, he told her that I was about her size (way more than a white lie), and asked her what size she was (size 8). Anyway, he purchased a beautiful dress for her that day (which, by the way, I chose). While most of her clothes have been given to Goodwill, I couldn’t bear to part with that one yet.

When I finally did meet Millie, I found her to be quite the vivacious woman. You would think she was quiet and demure, but it only took a little time of getting to know her when she would talk your ear off. I was struck by the fact that she intensely valued family. While she was widowed very young and never had children of her own, her nieces and nephews meant the world to her.

I can’t relay the stories of them all, but I can share those of my own husband. My husband Ed has shared stories of Millies’s compassion and generosity. Having lost his mother (Millie’s sister) in 1972, he speaks highly of how Millie stepped up to the plate to step into the mother role.

As to my own recollections, they are many.

When Ed and I got married, it was Millie who lit the unity candle on behalf of his side of the family and stood with his father for the family pictures.

When my first son Clay was born, I remember how she came to my house the day after I came home from the hospital. She held my baby boy. And held him. And held him. I pretty much had to coax her to give him back. Up to that point she had never changed a diaper. Starting with Clay, and then with Luke and Sam, she became a pro.

If you would have asked her, she would have told you she was their grandmother. For the most part, she was. And like most grandmothers, she totally spoiled them. When I was pregnant with Clay, she was adamant about the fact that I needed a good rocking chair to rock the baby in. She bought me the most expensive rocking chair in the store, which I still have. She bought them toys, of course, and the occasional savings bond.

A child of the depression, she would come for dinner and want to save the tiniest teaspoon of peas (which drove me crazy). Not to say she didn’t have her quirks. Don’t we all?

Despite the quirks, I loved her. I loved her because she loved my husband and my children so much. And I’m guessing she might have loved me too.

I know she wasn’t happy when we transitioned her to assisted living. And I was heartbroken when we moved her into nursing home care (though I have to say we were completely satisfied with the nursing home we chose). But I know the Millie of 10 or 15 years ago would have told us to do what we needed to do that was in her best interests. I hope we did her right.

We so love you Millie. And we so rejoice because we know that tonight you are in a better place. Enjoy the reunion with our loved ones in the hereafter. Know that we will always love you and look forward to when we can join you in the heavenly reward. And rest in peace, my dear. You are forever loved.

Cheers to You, Grandma Evelyn!

2018-08-05T11:34:00.000-04:00

Me and Grandma Evelyn, November 2017

The call came a little after 8 am this morning, August 5, 2018.

While my husband and my parents and I were sitting on a screened-in porch in Hilton Head, enjoying the dawn of the first day of our vacation, we received news that my Grandma Evelyn Carpenter passed away this morning.

You’d think it’s not a great way to start a vacation. I, however, choose to take the time off this week to celebrate and remember her and the remarkable life she led.

In some ways she was not your typical grandmother. Warm and fuzzy she was not. Not by any means. Not so generous with the hugs and kisses, either. But friendly, yes. In fact, she could talk your ear off. I remember she would come to visit me when I was a child and if she happened to strum up a conversation with a cashier at a grocery store, or even a casual stranger, I knew I would be standing there for the long haul.

Part of her friendly demeanor probably stemmed from the fact that she was a well-known businesswoman in her small town. She owned and operated the town diner for many years while my dad was growing up, and then when she left the restaurant business she owned the local “cut-rate,” sort of a general store that sold a little bit of everything. It did a fairly brisk business, as Grandma and Grandpa’s store was the only one in town with a liquor license.

As a young child, I benefited greatly from this store, as I received comic books galore. When Grandma returned unsold issues, all she would have to do was send back the front cover of each magazine and pitch the rest. But did she do that? Of course not! After all, she had grandchildren! All the Little Dot, Little Lotta, Richie Rich, Archie and superhero comics I wanted (my brother was more into the superhero stuff). We always looked forward to Grandma and Grandpa’s visits because we knew they’d be loaded with comics.

As a teenager, during my visits to Michigan, I would actually go to work with my grandmother and help her out in the store. I remember the old-timey cash register she had. You don’t see those anymore.

But then Grandma and Grandpa sold the store and retired full time to the lake. The lake – Little Whitefish Lake. For me and my brother, that was vacation paradise. There were bikes, fishing poles (and fish loaded in the lake!), and a big old pontoon boat. Every day during our summer visits, my brother and I would go bicycling to the other side of the lake. Sometimes we’d bicycle the seven or eight miles to Sand Lake and back. Lots of lake fun!

There’s no doubt, Grandma supplied me some nice childhood summer memories. Even if she wasn’t always generous with the compliments.

It didn’t matter though, because with her, it wasn't about the words, but the actions. I knew what a good woman she was. She wasn’t an emotional woman, but a very generous one. I’ve heard stories about all the foster children she took in. Or maybe just friends or cousins that needed a place to stay for a day, a week, or a couple of years.

I've heard the stories about how she nursed my grandfather back to health when he came back from WWII with a bad bout of malaria. And I saw with my own eyes how well she took care of him during his 10-year battle with Alzheimer's disease.

I’ve heard stories of the hobos she used to feed when she owned the restaurant, nourishing them after close of business with what was left over from the day.

I've heard stories about how she helped build the VFW hall in Sand Lake, Michigan and worked tirelessly for the VFW auxiliary for more than 60 years -- a truly patriotic thing to do.

Over the last 20+ years, I have seen her tend to her busy schedule, as she worked at least three days a week. "Work" being volunteering at the Grand Rapids Home for Veterans, where in total she had logged more than 10,000 volunteer hours.

I’ve experienced her generosity myself when one year when I was poor as Job’s turkeys and I found myself owing $300 to the IRS. I complained to her about it and she offered to loan me the money. I declined, telling her I would find the money somehow, but I appreciated the offer.

Or even more substantial, when after having both my second and third babies, she flew down to Kentucky and stayed with me for a week each time to help take care of me and the kids. Plus she did all the cooking. I loved her beef stew and homemade noodles!

She was a busy lady. During the last few years I would laugh when she would complain about how crappy she feels. She would say you can feel crappy and do nothing, or feel crappy and do something. More often than not, she chose to do something.

Incidentally, I noticed that as she got older (and I got older too), the hugs became tighter, the “I love yous” became more frequent, and I developed a genuine admiration for her. I think things like that matter more when you get older.

I last saw her when I went up to visit her last November. It was a nice visit. We went out for lunch, then went back to the Home for Veterans and spent a few hours just chewing the fat. When it came time to leave, I hated to, but I gave her a big hug, told her I loved her and that I would be back to see her. I was hoping that was going to happen before then end of this year. I so regret that it didn't happen. I had no idea that last November would be the last time I would see her.

I recall another visit prior to the one last November. In April 2015 I felt this urge to go see her, which I did, and it was a wonderful visit. I asked if I could interview her, which she allowed. I recorded it, though I don’t have the recording at my fingertips just now. But there were a few things that we talked about that stood out.

First, she was proud of her independence. At the time she was 94 and still living by herself and driving (though I’m not sure that was a good thing). Anyway, she had always prided herself on her independence and staying that way, even 20 years after my grandfather passed. Unfortunately, several weeks after this conversation she had an episode that resulted in the permanent loss of her independence – a situation she absolutely detested. But while physically she was beat down, she never had a hint of dementia and was always sharp as a tack (other than being in a state of denial about the fact she was 97 when she would rather be 50). Up until almost the day she died, she spent every day reading her newspaper and watching CNN.

Second, she expressed that she was ready to meet her Maker at any time. The sooner the better. She had no reservations at all about dying. Most of her contemporaries had already gone before her, and she welcomed when that day would finally come.

Finally, when I asked her what she was most proud of in her life, she said it was her children – that she recognized that my dad and my aunt had both turned out to be such good people. It wouldn’t surprise me if she never told them that. As I said, she was never generous with the compliments. But it’s not that she didn’t feel love and compassion for those closest to her.

The last three years were very hard for her. Admittedly, she wasn’t always in the greatest mood because of her own frustrations about losing her independence and probably just wondering why it was taking so long to “cross over.” But those three years represent but a fraction of her life.

She was a spunky lady with a fiery spirit. In some ways, we have all gained something from her and as such we are better people.

So as I embark on my Hilton Head vacation, I will toast to you, Grandma. (I know you would appreciate that, since you were known to have a glass or two of wine yourself.) I will toast you for your spirit, your spunk, your lifelong generosity, your admirable work ethic, and that really good pot roast you used to make.

Rest in peace, Grandma. And cheers!

Innocent Children and America's Moral Crisis

2018-06-16T19:36:00.000-04:00

First, what I say, of course, is purely my opinion. But that’s what blogs are for, right? I don’t mean to offend, but sometimes I feel strongly enough or inspired enough about something to where I just have to write about it. I hope those that don’t agree with me can at least respect my point of view. If you don’t agree with me, I promise that if you start your own blog I will read it and give your points food for thought. Having said that, here goes:

(John Moore/Getty Images)

This post won't be long. Short and sweet. Just a commentary about the most recently implemented practice of separating migrant children from their parents at the border.

It’s wrong.

I’m probably preaching to the choir here. In fact, I probably won't change many minds. But just some points I wanted to make.

First, I’ve read some really insensitive Facebook posts expressing the opinion that if parents don’t want to be separated from their children, they shouldn’t cross the border illegally. Never mind that these people aren’t criminals, but fellow human beings who are simply desperate for better lives for themselves and their children. Despite that, even if you want to blame the parents, there’s one key point that’s being missed here: It’s about the children, stupid.

These children have no control over whether they are brought here are not. They don’t deserve this kind of treatment. They don’t deserve to be traumatized in this way. They are innocent children who need to be with their families. To rip them apart from their mothers and fathers in this way and then detain them in institutional-like settings is, to me, evil.

Second, in response to our Attorney General, who quotes Romans 13 from the Bible to justify such an atrocious policy – I say I can’t help but wonder how many others may have used this passage to justify their brutal acts. Maybe the Nazis? Maybe abusive slave owners during what was another dark time in our history? And since when do we use Bible passages to dictate our policy? We do have such a thing as separation of church and state. It’s not a recent thing – the concept was the brainchild of our founding fathers. And what else does the Bible say? Aren’t we forbidden to eat shellfish? So when will the federal government start closing down all the Red Lobsters in this country? Sorry, but in my heart I’m thinking Jesus would have thought what we’re doing right now is NOT okay.

Third, when President Trump blames the Democrats for this he reminds me of an abusive boyfriend or husband. Follow my line of thinking here.

I was in an abusive relationship once when I had a boyfriend with a volatile temper. It was mostly verbal and emotional abuse I suffered, but once in a while I would get hit and thrown around too. I remember so vividly that instead of taking responsibility for his own actions, he would deflect the blame onto me. It was my fault that he had to treat me that way. So many times he would tell me that if only I would just change in this way or that, he wouldn’t get so mad at me to the point where I would have to suffer his wrath. In other words, I made him treat me that way. (Fortunately, I was able to eventually escape that relationship. But it was only after being far removed from it that I realized how insidious his logic was.)

So how do I use that experience to make the analogy to President Trump? He says he doesn’t like to see children separated from their parents, but the Democrats are making him do it. Yes, if only the Democrats would cave to his demands and agree to build that stupid wall, then he wouldn’t have to use these children as political pawns and rip them away from their mothers’ arms. Okay, that’s a load of crap. He can stop this at any time. Just like an abusive husband – deflecting the blame for his own actions and resisting any accountability.

Mind you, this isn’t a Democrat versus Republican thing. There are good people on both sides. And both sides should know that we are in the middle of a moral crisis here. Not Democrat versus Republican, but right versus wrong.

I guess in this day and age, maybe the divide of right versus wrong seems gray at times. But I would think common sense would dictate that all of us, no matter what side we’re on, would see this as so obviously wrong.

Call your congressional representatives. Call your senators. Express your outrage. And for God’s sake, the next time any of us want to look at refugees and immigrants as the bad guys, as the enemies, as animals (Trump’s words, not mine), please remember that we are all children of God. We are all fellow human beings.

Do what’s right.

JCI Revive!

2018-03-26T00:24:00.001-04:00

On April 2, 1998 – 20 years ago next week – I joined my local chapter of the Jaycees. At the time, I had just had my second baby and was acclimating as a new stay-at-home

mom. After about three months of cleaning up soiled diapers and folding laundry each day, I started to wonder, “Is this all there is?” I knew I needed to pursue some kind of interest beyond just being a mommy.

So one day in the community paper I saw that the local Jaycee chapter was hosting a “Meet the Jaycees” night. I called the contact number for more information and spoke to a very nice person named Natalie. I ended up going that night and before the event was over, I was sworn in as a member.

I jumped in. Within a month I was newsletter editor. The next year I was Individual Development Vice President. Then Management Vice President (twice). And then, ultimately, President in 2002.

We were an active chapter with a diverse array of programming – social stuff, along with professional development events, charity fundraisers, and then the various community events we participated in, from corn booths at the fair to annual prayer breakfasts, to Christmas events to benefit underprivileged children, to hosting parties for developmentally disabled adults.

The wealth of projects made us a very well-rounded chapter. And I was proud to have served such a dynamic and active chapter. The year I was president, we had approximately 76 members in our chapter by the end of the year. I know this, because this is the number we needed to receive “Blue Chip” status from the national organization.

During my tenure I was honored with many awards. I still have many, but only a couple of the most special ones hang on my wall: the presidential appreciation plaque with my gavel; and my framed and matted JCI Senate certificate, which I received in 2004. Plus the lifetime membership award I received to the Boone County Jaycees.

So, long story short – Jaycees had quite the impact on my life. Though I do hit an event every once in a while, I’m no longer very active, as I’m not supposed to be. The organization is specifically for 18 to 40 year olds, the purpose to develop these young people into young leaders. I’m way over the age of 40, so my time is up.

But I do have three sons ages 18 to almost 23. Wouldn’t it be special if someday they were active in the JCI organization! I’m not sure how that could happen. The oldest has moved away to Lexington, the younger two are in school. But having learned what I have about the organization of late, I think it would be awesome if my own kids could someday become active. (I’d even pay their first-year dues.)

I happened upon the JCI national/international website a few weeks ago and I have to say, I’m impressed. While I have at times had questions whether the organization was going to make it here

in the states, it appears the organization has rebranded itself into a massive global effort where all young people are invited to do their part to make a positive impact in the world. JCI is so much more than just what we do here in Kentucky. No, JCI is active throughout the world – in Europe, in South and Central America, in Japan, and in Africa, among others. There are just so many opportunities to make the world a better place while at the same time developing yourself to be the leaders of tomorrow. Check it out for yourself: go to https://jci.cc.

There are still some chapters that are active, but many are led by more seasoned members – some of whom are past the Jaycee age. This, of course defeats the purpose of the organization to train up and coming young leaders.

I think if my boys were to get involved (a big if, of course), it would have to be on their own terms, by starting their own chapter from the ground up – one they can own from the start. I know they have plenty of buddies they can recruit.

And one thing I’ve learned about recruiting is that if you start out with a few young men, the young women will follow. (Come on, oldest son, at least have you and your friends check out the website and see if their would be something you’d be vaguely interested in.)

So if any of you has near grown children over the age of 18 – children who could benefit from becoming engaged in their community, have them check out this organization. They’re nice people, of course. And what makes them particularly special is that each one has his or her particular vision for making the world a better place.

And given this current climate of unproductive political discourse, intolerance for diversity, and limited empathy for the plight of others, I can’t help but wonder if an international organization such as JCI may be the catalyst for more open dialogue, greater understanding and an enhanced sense of compassion for others.

And maybe it’s not initially a project that changes the world. Maybe it’s simply selling corn at a county fair to make enough to provide some nice gifts to underprivileged kids at Christmas. Sometimes the path to changing the world comes in small steps.

All I know is I greatly valued my time with the organization. I found a sense of purpose there. I’d love to pass it on!

The Jaycee Creed

We believe:

That faith in God gives meaning and purpose to human life;

That the brotherhood of man transcends the sovereignty of nations;

The economic justice can best be won by free men through free enterprise;

That government should be of laws rather than of men;

That earth’s great treasure lies in human personality;

And that service to humanity is the BEST WORK OF LIFE.

If you’re over 18 and looking for a great outlet beyond your work for making great friends, developing professionally and making a difference in your community then check it out: https://jci.cc.

Counting My Blessings

2017-11-24T08:04:00.000-05:00

It’s 6 am, though I’ve been awake since 4:30 am. I wake up around 4 or 4:30 every morning. I think it’s the curse of the middle-aged woman. So I decided to get up, though it’s too early to really do anything. So why not pound out a few words for a blog that barely received any attention

this year?

It is now Black Friday – the Friday after Thanksgiving. Yesterday was busy, as I was pretty much in the kitchen all day (and the day before, also). Of course, I sat with my family for the traditional Thanksgiving prayer, but didn’t really have time to ponder what I am really, truly thankful for. So let me get a couple of obvious ones out of the way, then go on to others. First the obvious ones:

Family. Of course, family. No matter how dysfunctional a family one may come from, it’s always appropriate to be thankful for family. I am especially thankful, though, for the family I have raised – a quite stable family, may I add. Ed and I have been married going on 24 years. And Clay, Luke and Sam make us so proud, every day. Between school activities, outside community service projects and his job, I don’t know how Sam manages to remain a straight-A student juggling a challenging course load. His skills for time management are impeccable. I would have never guessed that a couple of years ago. Luke is about to begin his first co-op as an electrical engineering major at the University of Louisville. He’ll be working for the Louisville’s utility company as part of the transmission analysis team. I don’t know what that entails, but I’m sure he will be good at it. Clay is graduating from the University of Kentucky in a couple of weeks with a biology degree. He’s currently in a time of discernment, trying to figure out what he wants to do with the rest of his life. In the meantime, he’s a certified nursing aid at the local hospital. This job requires him to figuratively roll up his sleeves and literally get his hands dirty (in other words, he wipes a lot of rear ends). I don’t think Clay knows how much I respect him for doing the work that he does. The job isn’t always pleasant, and for a 22-year-old kid to give it a go for a little while (even if it’s ultimately not his intended career) says a lot about his character. So with my wonderful husband and three precious boys (none of whom have ever been in any kind of trouble, thank goodness), I am most definitely thankful for family. (Of course, this includes my mom and dad, brother, and all my extended family members, including my one surviving grandmother.)

My friends. Yes, pretty obvious. Whether from my women’s meet-up group, the Jaycees, church, tennis, or anywhere else, I love to get out and just have some girl-time with my friends.

Work. Another obvious one. I’m so thankful to not only have a job, but one that I like in the Patient Experience Department at St. Elizabeth Healthcare. This year has been especially rewarding, as a project I’m involved in shadowing physicians has enabled me to have a little more direct contact with patients. So much of the interactions I’ve watched between physicians and their patients have been interesting. On a couple occasions, when spouses admitted to the physicians that they could no longer care for their spouses at home, it had me wondering. Of me and my husband, which one of us will it be that will someday have to tell a doctor that we can no longer care for the other? It’s a sad thought, and hopefully it’s way down the road. But so often in healthcare, I think we can be presented with situations where it’s easy to put ourselves in the other person’s shoes. That, of course, is a good thing. I don’t know that there can be too much empathy in healthcare

Aunt Millie. Okay, she should maybe fall under the “family” category, but I want to give her a paragraph of her own. She’s not doing so well these days. We had to place her in a nursing home in May, and while she is a nice facility, she is slowly withering away – sleeping, losing weight, losing strength, etc. She has dementia, often talking about her own dead relatives in the present tense. Obviously, it’s hard to see this decline, though it’s been gradual for the past four or five years, now. Still, I’m left with my memories of the vibrant woman she once was. The woman who was pretty much a grandmother to my boys. Having never had her own children, she never changed a diaper before my kids came along. Then she went to it like a pro. She was my number one babysitter. I still can see her pulling the boys in a wagon up and down the cul-de-sac at our Kennedy Court home. While we’ve been wondering for years when her time will come, I think Ed and I really think that this holiday season may be her last. So my thoughts are with Aunt Millie and everything she has done for my family.

My quilting projects. I go slow. I have yet to finish a project this year, though I’m making steady progress on two projects. I don’t get to sew as much as I’d like, but I really like the quiet time when I do. It’s “me” time. I take my speaker and tablet out to my office, set the tablet to Pandora music, light a candle, and then spend the time piecing my quilts as if I was putting a puzzle together. Quilting takes much patience and perseverance. Thus, it’s bet not to rush, but to take it slow and steady. It’s a calming force, which I like.

My dog. She’s my little baby girl. Spoiled as can be. And she knows it. Much more spoiled than the other two dogs we’ve had. Scout just has the sweetest demeanor. She loves me, though I think she may love the boys more. Too bad for her when they’re all at college. Then it’s just me and my husband.

Internet shopping. I’ve been doing my Christmas shopping online for at least 15 years now. Love it. When I was younger I used to get into the hustle and bustle of the bricks and mortar stores. Now I just get claustrophobic. With my Amazon Prime membership and the free shipping, I’m good to go. Perhaps someday I’ll venture out again.

The First Amendment. With such vicious attacks on the free press of late, I feel I need to emphasize how crucial it is that a free society have a free (and sometimes adversarial) press. This is one thing about President Trump that I don’t like (one thing, mind you. Not to say there aren’t many more things I don’t like, but I’m just going to stick with this one. For now, at least.) Thank God for mainstream media – CNN, New York Times, Washington Post, CBS News, etc. Fox News is about the closest thing to state-run media that we have (hence, why Trump pretty much only does interviews with Fox News, fielding total softball questions from his buddy Sean Hannity). Of course, we could completely evolve into a culture that eradicates a free media. I hear there are certain countries that do that – Russia, North Korea, Iran, etc. Wonder how it’s working out for them?

The First Amendment, Part II: Free Expression. Part of the first amendment is a right to free expression. There’s been a lot of debate lately (instigated by President Trump, no doubt to distract from his own issues) about the appropriateness of professional athletes kneeling during the national anthem to protest racial oppression. Here are my thoughts. I love this nation and proudly stand for the anthem. I don’t doubt that those doing the kneeling also love this nation and want to see certain conditions get better in an already great nation. I don’t think it was ever a slam on our troops, the flag, or our nation in general. Just a peaceful protest. Peaceful protest is not a new thing. It’s happened quite often in our history. Remember the Civil Rights movement? Those who feel that kneeling is disrespectful have every right to feel that way. But those who kneel have every right to do it because it is their First Amendment right to do so. What’s not right is when those who feel offended think they can quash the rights of the others. It’s important to note, I think, that this world would be a boring (and dangerous) place if everyone went along with the consensus. Dissenters keep us on our toes. People should cool it with the uproar and seek to understand the opposite views of others. Anyway, I’m thankful for the troops who put themselves in the service of this country every day. And I’m thankful that one of the reasons they serve is to protect my right to express myself.

My American Citizenship. All in all, I’m proud to be an American. Our country is great in so many ways. But it has its flaws too. Our political system is made up of folks who don’t really take the interests of the people at heart. They are more worried about getting re-elected. So their votes are up to the highest bidder (which special interest will give to their campaigns). The concept of a career politician is an antiquated one. Term limits should be the new law of the land. Just like we do for president. (Thank God.) Then, maybe when politicians aren’t beholden to special interests we can get some real progress done with things like gun control (I’m sure another mass shooting is just around the corner), labor laws (such as a real living wage) and healthcare (it should be a right, not a privilege).

Finally, I’m thankful for my health. I think I feel better now at 52 than I did at 32. Other than a shaky left knee (a result of dislocating it 20 years ago), I think I’m in pretty good shape. I’ve lost a little weight. I do okay on the tennis court, and I’ve made a resolution to take up hot yoga again this winter. I used to get really depressed in the winter – seasonal affective disorder. But not so much anymore. I’ve found a couple of great things about winter – roaring fires in my fireplace, and college basketball (mostly UK Wildcats, though I like to take in a Louisvillle game too when I can). Oh, and I burn a lot of candles in the wintertime, too. Somehow it gets me through.

These are the things I am thankful for. This is pretty much the big stuff. Every day I’m thankful for a host of small stuff too – whether it be my food processor, the mail coming on time, a bargain I found at the store or online, the dog curling up in my lap, a two-hour happy hour with friends, and so on. Yes, sometimes I get down about things – not enough money, too much debt, occasional lapses in self-confidence, etc. So it’s good to take stock sometimes about what you’re thankful for. I’m glad I did. It shows me that I truly am blessed.

Looking Ahead to 2017

2017-01-02T17:12:00.000-05:00

My husband told me he doesn’t make New Year’s resolutions. Good enough. I’m not sure I do any more, either. But as we begin a new year, I find it a good time to reflect on the challenges down the road this coming year. Maybe it’s what I hope to do. But I hesitate to really call these things resolutions. So here are some things I hope to do (and yes, some may be harder than others):

Pray for our country and the Trump presidency. I don’t normally delve into politics on my blog, but this is a big one. I must confess – he wasn’t my choice. In fact, I’m still scratching my head trying to make sense of it. While I won’t elaborate here, I don’t think much of him as a person. (Mind you, it’s not a Democrat versus Republican thing, it’s just stuff about him.) But I’m really hoping he can win me over. Having said this, I feel I must respect the democratic process that elected him to office. The fact of the matter is, people voted for him, and because of the way our electoral college system works, he was elected. So yes, he will be my president and I truly want him to succeed. His success (as I define it) will only benefit me and my loved ones. So I will pray for him, and put 2017 in God’s hands.
Finish this weight loss thing. I began my latest weight management journey in August, and am feeling much better. So at least that’s one thing I don’t have to begin from scratch with the new year. So far, down 42 pounds (and for those wondering how, the New Direction very low calorie diet through the St. Elizabeth Physicians Weight Management Center). I still have about another 20 pounds to lose. And then, after that is when I’ll hit the more challenging part – keeping it off. I’ve done well at being focused on this, but admit that I haven’t lost quite as much during the holidays. But I guess I did good to maintain. As we hit the New Year, I have a renewed focus.
Complete Clay’s quilt. I’ve made quilts for my sons Luke and Sam. Now it’s Clay’s turn. I started it a while back but I’m still early in the process. I’m hoping to turn it up a gear, as I’d like to have it done by the time he graduates college this summer.
Stay strong. I mean this in a more emotional sense. Within the next few months we will most likely be transitioning Ed’s aunt to a higher level of long-term care. I think I’m procrastinating at beginning the process because the prospect of this breaks my heart.
Look forward to new professional challenges. In March I will have been with St. Elizabeth Healthcare for three years. Considering the tenure of most employees there, this still makes me a rookie. But I’m so grateful to be a part of this organization and its mission. New challenges are in store for me in 2017, and I certainly hope I’m up for those challenges. This is but one thing that brings me to my next point.
Overcome my fear of failure. How many people fail to try something out of fear they may fail? So many, I’m sure. I try to tell myself that the only real failure is to not try at all. And that occasional failure may be a means for becoming better and stronger. If we learn from our failures, are those not learning opportunities? I try to see it that way. Yet it’s hard when you so desperately want to be perfect the first time (or the second or third) and to please the people you serve.
Blog more. I launched this blog several years ago during a challenging time in life – probably more as a coping mechanism than anything. Anything I post online is meant to be read. I wouldn’t post it if it wasn’t for anybody and everybody to read. But I guess the blog is more for me than anyone else. I would still write it even if nobody read it. Still, if anything in any of my posts has ever provided insight, or wisdom, or just touched your heart, that’s great too. I think I only wrote two blogs in all of 2016. Let’s see if I can double or triple that in 2017. Still, I don’t want to post something just for the sake of posting. But when I feel inspired to write, it seems the words just flow.
Pray more. This goes without saying. I realize my relationship with God could always be stronger, and should go beyond church on Sunday and evening grace at the dinner table. I do try to live my life as God would want me – which includes following Christ’s example of love and tolerance for all.

OK, so that’s enough. That’s just a few things I’m facing as we enter 2017. I’m sure I’ll think of more. I guess my first challenge is to try to come down from the emotional high of the holidays and brace for the winter ahead. I would say let’s skip January and February and head straight to March, but then wouldn’t I be wishing my life away? Besides, something really awesome could happen between now and then. I just might not know what it is.

No, I won’t wish my life away. Nor will I become overwhelmed by these various to-do’s. And besides, one thing age has taught me is to not get so freaked out, even if I have an ambitious agenda.

So maybe I do have just a couple of resolutions for 2017.

I’ll take life one day at a time.

I’ll remember to stop and breathe.

And most of all, I’ll have the faith to put it all in God’s hands.

Time for a Fall Project!

2016-09-11T22:03:00.000-04:00

It's project time again. Which means we are minus a bathroom.

Those of you who know my husband Ed know that he lives

Our completely unfinished bathroom.

for his next project, and this one happens to be the upstairs bathroom. This weekend Ed spent his time completely demolishing everything in the bathroom, and now there's pretty much nothing left except for the closet shelves.

So now this means that son Sam gets to share our bathroom in our bedroom, which he's not all too thrilled about. But at least he's the only one. Luke left for college a few weeks ago so he's not here, and Clay's been gone to college for a while now.

They were all home last weekend for the Labor Day weekend. And of course, Ed put them to work. What a comical scene to watch the four of them attempt to get a 350 pound cast iron tub up the stairs. I thought for sure someone would break his neck, but somehow they prevailed.

Now that the demolition is complete it's time to put it all back together, which will take some time. Ed has until Thanksgiving. We're hosting this year, so we'll have to have the bathroom back in order for when the company comes.

So I guess this is where some of the decision making starts. Ed says we're going to have to decide on a faucet set for the bathtub soon, as I guess that's one of the first places he starts. So do I go with black, which I tend to prefer; or with the chrome or brushed nickel, where there are more choices? We already have the new vanity and vanity top, as well as the aforementioned heavy bathtub. Just want to make sure our new bathroom is perfectly color coordinated. That's pretty much my job. All the hard labor falls in Ed's hands.

Whatever the finished product, I'm sure it will be spectacular. My husband does good work. It wouldn't be inaccurate to call him a perfectionist when it comes to stuff like this.

Just as long as he knows he's on a deadline. Turkey day isn't so far away!

Of Patchwork and Perfection: Life Lessons Learned from Quilting

2016-05-11T22:27:00.000-04:00

“Good enough.”

Luke's Quilt

I couldn’t believe I actually heard myself saying that. But that was the case just a few days ago as I was joining the ends of the binding on a quilt that I had been working on for the past five months. For those of you familiar with quilting, you might be able to relate when I say that joining the ends of binding is one of my least favorite tasks in the process (second only to pin basting the quilt sandwich once I complete the quilt top). And my desire is that when I join the ends that the edges line up perfectly. But they seldom do.

In this instance, the edges hardly lined up. It actually kind of came out kind of sloppy. But after five months of patience, persistence, and good old-fashioned sweat putting this quilt together I came to the conclusion that while my efforts to join the binding ends were far from perfect, they would have to do – simply because I didn’t have it in me to rip out the stitches and try again.

This brings me to larger point. A few years ago, while I was working in the corporate world (which I’m still doing, but in a different corporate setting), the higher-ups thought it might be fun for all of the staff to take one of those personality-type tests. I’m not sure which one it was, but it doesn’t really matter.

Anyway, I’d like to say my “label” was unique, but I actually came out in the same classification as about 60 percent of the staff – “perfectionist.”

Wow. Perfectionist. In some ways I wouldn’t consider myself a perfectionist at all, but as I examine my inner depths I guess maybe I am. I do want things to be just as perfect as possible – including myself. And I have always stressed out if there wasn’t something about myself that was just perfect. Being that I’m wrought with imperfection, that would mean I’m quite stressed.

Well, a couple of years ago I took up quilting. I thought it would be a fun thing to do. I’ve always loved quilts – their simple beauty. And to me, a handmade quilt simply exudes love. I actually had it on my bucket list to make a quilt. So I took a class and made a small quilt, and loved the creative process so much that I just kept on going.

I made a quilt for my youngest son Sam, one for my grandmother, one for my best friend from high school, one for my dad, and now I’ve just finished one for my middle son Luke – a gift for his upcoming high school graduation. (My next project – one for my oldest son Clay.)

And what have I learned in the process? I’ve learned that if you’re a perfectionist and want to be broken of that, there’s nothing better than to take up quilting.

Because unless you’re an absolute master quilter (which I’m not), you’ll most likely look imperfection in the eye. Dozens of times during the process of creating any masterpiece of mine, I’ll cringe at this flaw, or that one. And as I gift my quilts to my loved ones I will make a point to say (as if I owe an explanation) that while the quilt was made with the ultimate of love, it has many flaws – just like me.

Yes, I cringe at the flaws. But the interesting thing is when the quilt is all made and I take a step back and look at the entire piece, I find it to be absolutely beautiful. I don’t even notice the flaws.

It got me to thinking. Could we as humans be so obsessive about our tiny flaws that we’re unable to take a step back, see ourselves as whole people and appreciate how beautiful we are?

I’ve never denied my flaws. While I won’t divulge them here (those who know me best know what they are), I can’t help but wonder if one of my ultimate flaws is being so obsessive about my flaws that I don’t appreciate my own value as a whole person.

In that sense, maybe I should give myself a break. And while I think there’s always opportunity for self-reflection and self-improvement, maybe it doesn’t hurt once in a while to accept yourself and say “good enough.”

As for the quilt I just finished, it’s not perfect, but not bad. But it doesn’t have to be perfect. I made it for my son Luke, who I love deeply. And when he cuddles up under the new quilt that I just finished and put on to his bed tonight, I don’t necessarily need for him to inspect the binding, or examine whether all the stitches are straight. I don’t know whether he’ll notice if all the seams line up. I don’t care.

All I really want for him to do is to get under that quilt tonight and know that his mother loves him.

Killing Time in the Kentucky Bend

2015-08-05T14:14:00.000-04:00

A few weekends ago we headed south to Murray, Kentucky to see our brilliant son Luke, who was in the middle of his five-week stint at Murray State University in the Kentucky Governor’s Scholar’s Program. Saturday was Family Day, so we left our house at 5 a.m. just so we could get to Murray by 9 a.m. (central time) to pick him up and spend the day with him.

The dilemma, of course, was once we got there, what do we do? Though it seems like a quaint college town, the things to do in Murray seem to be limited.

Being that I had taken up quilting a little less than a year ago, I really wanted to go to the National Quilt Museum in Paducah, which was about 45 minutes away. Unfortunately, I was outvoted on that one. Apparently, I’m the only real quilt enthusiast in the family.

So we just started driving. South, we went. Murray is close to the border, so within 15 minutes or so we were in Tennessee.

The modest sign that welcomes travelers to the Kentucky Bend.

That’s when my husband had his bright idea. We would head for Kentucky. The other Kentucky. The Kentucky that isn’t part of the rest of Kentucky.

I never knew of such a Kentucky, but my husband had actually noticed on an atlas once that the most southwest part of Kentucky is actually detached from the rest of the state. Getting there entails leaving Kentucky, traveling through Tennessee, then heading north back into the “other” Kentucky. It was the one part of Kentucky where he had never been and wanted to go.

It’s called the Kentucky Bend. And all I can say is if you want to go there, you’ll have to really, really want to go there.

It took us about three hours to get there from Murray. We did stop at a restaurant near Reelfoot Lake for lunch, and that was nice. But after lunch we proceeded with our journey toward the Bend. Through Tiptonville, Tennessee we went, then north up Highway 22.

Yes, we went north, up through the middle of nowhere. At one point we had the waters of the Mississippi on both sides of us. I feared that we might encounter water on the road, and if that was the case, I wasn’t willing to risk flooding our van just to get to the other Kentucky. But the water stayed mercifully off the road. We glimpsed some signs of civilization. An occasional house and farm; some electric lines. So it’s not as if we were totally out of reach of reality.

A few miles of some twisty-turny driving, and we finally arrived. To the “other” Kentucky. And now that I’ve been to this other Kentucky, let me enlighten all who may wonder what is there.

Nothing. No historical markers. No signs explaining how

Courtesy: Jim Efaw, author of this work

this little bubble-like piece of land managed to get detached from the mainland of Kentucky (answer: an earthquake). No parks. Just nothing.

We entered the Kentucky Bend as we approached the crude (but I’m guessing just as official) Welcome to Kentucky sign. You’d think the folks in Frankfort would send these fine citizens of the Kentucky Bend one of the more official looking Welcome to Kentucky signs. But I’m thinking instead they told the residents to make their own.

I shouldn’t say there isn’t anything there. There is. There’s corn. Lots of it. And we did spot what appears to be a family cemetery. And a sparse sprinkling of homes. I believe the last census put the number of Kentucky Bend residents at 17. It could still be that – more or less.

And that’s pretty much it. We followed the road for a couple of miles until it turned into a dirt road, and then we didn’t go any farther. I’m guessing if we did, though, we would have hit the waters of the Mississippi. At that point we headed back into Tennessee (despite the remoteness of the area, kudos to Tennessee – they did have one of the official looking signs). Then back toward Murray, Kentucky.

I have to say, the adventure left me a bit underwhelmed. But at least I can say that I’ve officially been to the Kentucky Bend – the part of Kentucky that isn’t attached to the rest of Kentucky. And my husband can make that claim, too, which makes him happy.

Of course, since that exciting excursion took about five to six hours, there was no time for the National Quilt Museum afterward. Guess that will be another adventure for another day – and yes, I will make it there someday. If I can grin and bear the Kentucky Bend, then I’m sure my husband can spend an afternoon learning to appreciate the beauty of fiber arts.

For those who are determined to go to the Kentucky Bend, have at it. Just know you’re only going to say you’ve been there, and for no other reason. It really is pretty much a destination to nowhere.

Advent of the Empty Nest

2014-08-23T19:08:00.001-04:00

“Did you remember to bring toilet paper?” I asked my oldest son Clay as we were about to haul his stuff into his new apartment.

Of course he didn’t. And that’s not all he forgot. As he prepares to begin his sophomore year of college at the University of Kentucky, perhaps at some point this morning it dawned on him that he should have started thinking about packing (and what to pack) before late yesterday afternoon.

A trip to Target is probably in his very near future (like, today). I mean, the kid can’t even get cleaned up. Apparently, while it’s a furnished apartment, it does NOT include the shower curtain, or hooks, or rings.

Had he planned a little better he probably could have talked his mother into a trip to the grocery store for a load of groceries. But no. So now he’s on his own.

And he really is on his own – a reality that’s just hit me in the past day or two. Last year when he went away for his freshman year, I knew he’d be back for the summer. He did come back, and he irked me enough to where I’m glad to see him get back into a regular routine.

Still, it’s bittersweet. This time he won’t be back.

The apartment lease is for a whole year, which means he’ll have to stay in Lexington next summer (and hopefully work and make money). And as I considered the fact that he won’t be coming home again, it occurred to me that I never went home again after my freshman year of college.

I guess the empty nest syndrome has begun. Yet I still remember so vividly the day Clay was born, his first day in day care, his first day of preschool, his days playing Knothole baseball. Those days all seem like yesterday.

Not that his younger brothers are quite so reminiscent. They’re trying to figure out which one will have dibs on Clay’s room.

Nevertheless, it’s a weird feeling to be so proud of your child, all grown up and ready to fly on his own; yet at the same time have a big hole in your heart because you know the days where you see him every day are most likely gone forever.

I’ve always known that my job as a parent is to ultimately work myself out of a job. I don’t feel that time has quite come yet. After all, I can still claim the kid as a dependent on my taxes (as I should – I just paid his tuition). Still, I realize with Clay the child-parent relationship has entered a new phase. He’s a young man now.

And to be honest, despite some of the irritations I may have with him from time to time, he did turn out pretty good. Just an all-around good kid, well-grounded, confident, and good looking if I say so myself. Oh, and he can name every World Series winner since 1965.

And while he’s all grown up now, I hope he knows that his mother will always love him, cherish him, and sometimes spoil him as she can (within reason, of course).

I’ll always be his cheerleader. I remember the year he was cut from his Knothole baseball team (a totally crappy thing that should have never happened to him) and I was so disillusioned that I wanted him to give up the game. Yet he was so determined to continue on with another team. I was so proud of his perseverance that when I took him to buy a bat I ended up buying him the most expensive bat in the store – just to boost his confidence. In the end he prevailed.

Now new challenges lie ahead, particularly with his demanding coursework. And I know he can persevere again. His father and I support him all the way.

But there are some things he’s just going to have to learn to do for himself. Cooking and cleaning for starters. Hopefully his father and I and have given him a good foundation there.

Oddly enough, it’s the little things I worry about. As I speak, my little boy has no toilet paper. It’s no doubt a rough spot to be in. That’s just one big dilemma he’s going to have to work out for himself.

My Fry Baby

2014-07-15T23:38:00.000-04:00

So it seems my 16-year-old son Luke is an aspiring fry cook. Quite by surprise a few weeks ago he announced that he had been hired to work in the kitchen at a nearby restaurant. Why in the world his $10 a week allowance didn't seem to be enough I don't know. But hey, he's grown into a young man, and I figured it wouldn't hurt him to learn what it's like to have the responsibility of a job.

I myself had such a job when I was his age -- working all the stations at my local Burger Chef preparing sandwiches, tending to the salad bar, assuming cashier duties on the front line, and of course the incessant sweeping, wiping down the tables, emptying out the trash and other general cleaning duties (including washing a dish or two).

However, after just a few weeks, I'm thinking I'm not so crazy about his work arrangement.

My son: master fryer and king of the sampler platter.

Not that I'm not proud of him. He's undoubtedly a hard worker. And when he comes home each night wreaking of grease, I simply hold my nose and overlook the stench (and of course encourage him to get into the shower as soon as he can).

I think it's' just that I miss him being around . I guess I enjoy his presence more than he knows -- even if we're not necessarily saying anything to each other but merely co-existing in the same space.

Since my middle son was just a baby, he has always been he one with the calming presence. I remember so vividly the times when he was a baby when I might get upset or frazzled. All it would take to soothe me was to pick him up and hold him for just a few minutes.

Even now, in the midst of what are sometimes chaotic situations, Luke brings a certain equilibrium to the household. When everything else around me is going crazy, Luke's demeanor helps to settle things down a bit.

So now his restaurant job is taking him away from me. But even more, I fear that it could get in the way of other things I deem more important in his life -- namely school and his extracurricular activities. I figure he has his whole life to work. Though I'm sure going back to a $10 a week allowance won't be easy.

Still, I'm confident that once school starts, he will set his priorities accordingly. He does have a pretty good head on his shoulders, so I trust him to do that. Plus I really don't want to see him blow his 4.0 GPA because he's out late every night frying up chicken wings and cheese sticks (and let's not forget the fried pickles either).

Not that this hasn't been a good experience for him. I'm glad he's learning what it's like to work hard. But honestly, I'm ready for my Fry Baby to come home and join his family at the dinner table every night for slightly healthier fare.

So to my son I offer this assurance. When the day comes that you get totally sick of the burgers and wings and fries, your mother will be here for you.

I'll always have broccoli waiting for you at home.

What to Do with my Ruger Twenty-Two?

2014-02-01T14:36:00.000-05:00

With my dad being a law enforcement officer, it’s an understatement to say that he’s a gun guy. He has the whole gamut – 45’s, 22’s, 9 mm, shotguns, rifles, and whatever else those gun folks make. Needless to say, he’s amassed quite a collection.

So last spring when we were home for Easter, I went out with my dad (and my husband and boys) to the shooting range to pop off a few rounds just for the heck of it. I have to admit, it was kind of fun.

Now I’ve never been much into guns, but I did

Don't know what to do with your Ruger 22? Make a business
card holder out of it!

find the whole shooting experience to be quite exhilarating. It had been 20 years or so since I had used any sort of firearm. Was it like riding a bicycle, where you just pick up where you left off? Well, not really. It did seem awkward at first.

Probably because I learned off the bat that a 45 is definitely too much gun for me. I only shot the 45 a couple of times, because that’s all I could bear. The kick from the blast was so powerful I swear it almost broke my wrist! The 9 mm and 22 were much better.

My dad was all too glad to show me the proper procedures for shooting these weapons. And he knows what he’s doing, I guess. He taught concealed carry courses for years. Business was especially good for him once President Obama was elected. Apparently, folks were so concerned about Obama taking away their guns they made a mad dash to earn their concealed carry permits. To my knowledge, the whole “take away our guns” thing never came to fruition – but it’s always good to educate yourself about the weapon you’re carrying, no matter what the motive.

So after our shooting session ended, my dad showed me a handgun that caught my eye. A sweet little Ruger 22. It’s a cute little gun. Once I saw it I wanted it.

Of course, there are probably many other things on my wish list that I would rather have than a gun. And owning a gun is something I never really thought about until a couple of years ago. Two houses, both within two doors of ours, were broken into and burglarized within days of each other – both in broad daylight, while the owners were gone.

Yikes! That was a little scary. I wondered what would happen if our house was next? At that time I was home during the day. What would I do if burglars came crashing through my window when I was home alone? That’s the first time I ever considered maybe procuring a gun for personal protection. Fortunately, it was only a matter of time when, through their own stupidity, the culprits were nabbed. Yep – young, misguided kids in their early 20s, one whose mother lived just a block away. Anyway, after the crooks were caught, my panic died down.

I didn’t give any more thought to the gun thing until a couple of months ago, when my dad and husband attended a local gun show. Later that day, after they had arrived back, I was in my office only to find a box with the label “Ruger” plastered on it. I peaked inside, and there it was. A sweet little Ruger 22.

My husband went through all the legal channels to get it – he completed the paperwork, went through the background check, etc., and he managed to procure the piece without any trouble whatsoever. (I’m not sure why common sense gun control is such a contentious issue, especially when it comes to assault rifles and high volume magazines, but I suppose that’s a debate for another time.)

So now I’m the proud owner of a Ruger 22. The question now is, what do I do with it? I take it out of the box every once in a while and look at it. At this point, that’s about it. My husband tells me that the next time we go down to my parents’ house, we’ll have my dad take us out to the shooting range again, and I can learn to shoot it there. Okay.

But in the meantime it would be nice to get some practical use out of it.

Sooooooo, what can I do with it? Use it as a paperweight, maybe (without the bullets, of course)? Or maybe I could hang it on the wall. Nah. I would need a gun rack for that, and this little handgun is too small for a gun rack.

I know! I’ll stand it up on end and put a little flower into the barrel – get a “war and peace” theme going. Or I can stand it up on end and use it as a display for my business cards. Now I’m thinking creatively! That will work – at least until I learn to shoot it.

But once I learn to shoot it, what do I do with it then? Take it places? Where? I can’t take it to work with me, as there are no guns allowed in my workplace. (Which is understandable, but I still carry pepper spray, because the garage I park in is kind of creepy). Church? Oh, please! Sporting events? Pretty sure weapons aren’t allowed there, either.

Guess for the time being I’ll just admire my virgin Ruger 22 and keep it at home. I expect sometime I’ll get to shoot it. I’ll just chalk this little device up as home protection.

Not to say using it as a business card display isn’t a good idea. If I think about it, I’m probably better at shooting words rather than weapons, anyway.

My keyboard is my true ammunition. And the Ruger 22? It’s a nice little “lady gun” if I ever saw one. I admit, I can’t wait to shoot it. But hopefully, I’ll never have to use it. Which would probably be for the best, because I don’t envision myself ever having the fastest trigger finger.

Not that I don’t have triggers in my life. Triggered thoughts? Triggered dreams? Triggered ideas? Triggered passions? Sometimes I fear the atrophy of those, but I suspect they’re in me somewhere.

On occasion I just need some time away from the chaos to clear my head. So who knows? Maybe an afternoon at a shooting range, plunking off a few rounds with my Ruger 22, is all I need.

Guess I’ll give it a shot. Literally.

Why It's OK to be Gay

2014-01-11T16:08:00.000-05:00

Whether you’re for gay marriage or against it (or whether your views on the issue are still evolving), there’s no denying that the whole gay marriage trend seems to be on a fast-moving roll these days. More than a dozen states have legalized gay marriage, and those that haven’t as of yet are eking out progress in other ways.

For instance, a recent ruling in Ohio (where gay marriage is banned) determined that same sex marriages performed in a “gay marriage” state must be recognized as marriages in Ohio. Whether that ruling will stand I don’t know. But it does indicate we as a society seem to be moving (albeit, some more slowly than others) forward rather than backward on this issue.

Hell, even Utah’s ban on same sex marriage has been jeopardized after a federal judge recently struck down that state’s voter-approved ban. Can you believe it? Utah! Living in ultra-conservative Kentucky, I was always of the opinion that hell would freeze over before the constitutional ban on gay marriage would be lifted here. Now there’s hope that maybe things will turn around in my lifetime.

As you might have guessed, I’m elated where we are now – in a time where we are finally engaging in some serious, intellectual dialogue about the virtues of marriage equality. I’ve always been of the opinion that same sex relationships can be just as faithful, beautiful, familial and normal as anybody else’s heterosexual relationship.

And for those who argue that gay marriage somehow violates the sanctity of traditional marriage, I quip that it’s not fair to blame gays and lesbians for ruining the sanctity of marriage. Check out the too high instances of infidelity and domestic violence in many of those traditional relationships. No – if we want to blame anyone for ruining the sanctity of marriage, we can point the finger at straight people for that.

Some may wonder how it is that I am from the Bible Belt of East Tennessee and can possess such progressive views on this topic. There is an irony here. Perhaps if certain adversity not smacked me in the face early in my youth, my views would have had a more traditional lean. But it was a small little high school in a very conservative area of the country that shaped my liberal views about gay rights and gay marriage. And of course, the vicious rumor that swirled out of thin air about me during my freshman year of high school also played a big part.

It was the winter of 1980 at West Greene High School in Mosheim, Tennessee. A friend of mine was distraught about some troubles she was having at home and she decided she was going to leave town for a while. Between classes I went to the locker room just in time to find her cleaning out her locker. All of my other friends were there too. We all took turns hugging her goodbye. Some of us cried. We went to class, not sure if we’d ever see our friend again. And that was that.

The next day I found out. Turns out I was the last one to find out. It was all over the school that me and my friend had been seen “making out” in the locker room. I had wondered why people were looking at me funny that day, and when a friend finally told me about the now widespread rumor I finally knew.

I wracked my brain as to how that could have happened. How could a simple hug goodbye be turned into a sexual soiree? And why was I the target of the rumor? My other friends were there too doing the same thing. Guess I was just an easy target.

The whole thing didn’t even make sense. I was a pretty shy, reserved person. Didn’t anyone know it would be totally out of character for me to blatantly “make out” with anyone in such a public place as the locker room?

Common sense didn’t seem to be a factor here, though. And when that day fell upon me, that’s when the hell that I’ll call the rest of my high school years commenced.

How was a 14-year-old girl supposed to handle such a thing, anyway? Especially in that ultra-conservative climate.

After the rumor started, I remember reacting to it with an almost stoic demeanor, viewing it as something surreal. Just a bad dream where I would eventually wake up. Sure, I saw the stares, and heard the giggles behind my back, but it was just a matter of staying strong. I certainly wasn’t going to do anybody the justice of showing my pain.

After school hours, though, I wasn’t so stoic. Hours upon hours were spent locked in my bedroom, each night weeping what seemed to be thousands of tears until my body had no more tears to shed. “Why, God?” I would ask. “Why me?” And every morning in those first few weeks it would take every ounce of strength that I had to enter through those school doors and face another day. Of taunting, and teasing, and strange looks.

I found out that a rumor just doesn’t die away. Sometimes it goes fallow for a while. But then it always tends to rear its ugly head when you least expect it. A rumor can dog you for years, if not the rest of your life. It leaves emotional scars, even decades after the fact.

After the initial hubbub died down, the next few years were just a matter of being prepared for that occasional insensitive remark that somebody might fling in my face. The rumor evolved to include many versions. My friend who was targeted in the rumor with me left the school after my freshman year, so I was left to weather it all alone. It was always that I had either been seen in the lockers, the bathroom, or the parking lot doing something inappropriate with another girl – yet the “other girl” was always unnamed.

As for me, I did anything I could to not give people a reason to talk. Going through crowded halls between classes was stressful in itself, for fear that I might accidentally bump into or brush up against someone who would then make something out of nothing of it by accusing me of touching them inappropriately.

The whole episode left me bitter. There were kids there who laughed at me, who lied about me, and who were cruel to me. Needless to say, graduating and getting out of town was a relief. I wish the whole thing would have never happened.

But maybe there was a reason why it did. That comes back to how my beliefs evolved and why I believe the way I do today.

There are those who contend that being gay is not only a choice, but also a choice that is highly immoral.

I disagree. And I only have my own experience to draw from. As someone who is wholly straight, I can’t claim that I understand what it’s like to be gay.

But I do understand what it’s like to have everybody looking at me and thinking I am.

Just from gauging the way I was treated, I don’t think anyone would choose that.

My belief is that God wants people of all mixes here in this world. And it goes beyond just races and religions. It also includes varying sexual identities.

As far as I’m concerned, same-sex couples who make it legal (at least in an increasing number of states, and maybe all states within the next 20 years) are just as traditionally married as any so-called “traditional” couple. What’s more, whether a same-sex couple is married or not has no bearing or adverse effect on me or my own 20-year marriage. So honestly, I’m not sure what all the uproar is about. (It's worth mentioning that the gay people who have been part of my life have been some of the nicest, most generous, most moral and of course most extremely tolerant people I've ever met.)

Against biblical concepts? I don’t buy it. There is the one verse from Leviticus, but as I recall the First Testament of the Bible also tells us it’s a sin to eat shellfish. Of course, I'm no Biblical scholar (despite my regular church attendance). But it seems to me that if homosexuality were such a big issue there might have been more than only one or two verses in the Bible addressing it. And I don’t think the Bible records Jesus ever saying anything one way or the other about it. Guess he was just too concerned with taking care of the poor.

Anyway, looking back on that long-ago experience in high school, I can’t say that I’d want to live that part of my life over again. But it did serve its purpose. The incident did play a huge part in shaping my progressive views on gay rights and marriage equality.

Yes, I think I’d just soon leave that history behind.

But I am certainly thankful to be on what I consider to be the right side of history.

Got That Friday Feeling

2013-09-28T15:17:00.000-04:00

Friday nights have always been sacred to me. Always. Ever since I was a little girl.

Friday nights are supposed to be enjoyed. Revered. Appreciated for what they are – the time of the week to wind down, relax, and do nothing if you please.

My fondness for Fridays began long before my working days. As a little girl I learned how special Fridays were. Of course, this was the early ‘70s, so half the population probably can’t relate when I reminisce about spending Friday nights watching The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family (yes, original episodes when they were aired on prime time). No that there was that much else to watch. Who had heard of cable TV then? Besides, I had such a crush on David Cassidy that there was no way I was missing that show about the musical family with the multi-colored bus.

But it was more than just TV. Friday night was “popcorn and Coke” night.

Every Friday – long before the concept of air poppers or microwave popcorn – my Mom would make popcorn the old fashioned way. In the pot. Just pour a little cooking oil in the pot, pour in the kernels, wait for the oil to get hot, and, wah-lah, there’s popcorn. I recall how when the corn would start popping Mom would hold the lid on the pot, hold the handle and start shaking the pot. I’m guessing that was to keep the popcorn from burning.

And with the popcorn came the Coke. Not in two-liter bottles. The only way you could get Coca-Cola back then was in the smaller glass bottles, sans the screw-off lid. (Bottle openers were a must.) Coke with our popcorn was a big deal on Friday nights. It was the only time of the week that we were allowed to have soft drinks. To think that kids today take for granted such a treat as having a soft drink!

As a teenager Friday nights were a time for friends and fellowship. More than one slumber party took place in my basement on any given Friday night. The overnight parties started out as birthday surprise parties, then just regular birthday parties. Then just for fun. My basement was party central, in a clean-cut sort of way (pop and snacks only), and I remember staying up until all hours of the night, chatting and bonding with my friends about the “important” things in life (usually the talk centered around guys, and which ones we liked at the time).

Needless to say, my fetish for Fridays has continued into my adulthood. I really try not to do anything on Friday night, though I often have to cook dinner. On those occasions, at least I make sure it’s something I like – proper Friday night fare. In my childhood the Friday night meal was shrimp and French fries. Yes! Or Tacos, yes. Fish sandwiches, yes. Meatloaf, no. Meatloaf is a Sunday or Monday meal. As are pork chops. I have different foods labeled in my head as to what day of the week they should be served. (Fried chicken is always a Wednesday night meal; steak is always a Saturday night meal.)

It’s now Saturday, and as I sit here drinking my Diet Coke, I know I should start tackling some of the work I brought home with me this weekend. After all, Saturday isn’t Friday night. Chalk this blog up to procrastination, I guess, and a wish that it was still Friday. But alas, Friday night will come again (though I’m reasonably sure I’ll have to work late next Friday night, which is almost sacrilegious in my book.)

Last night, though, as the boys and I cleaned the kitchen from our Friday night fish sandwich dinner, my Friday Fever peaked to the point where I developed a hankering for popcorn. But there was no microwave popcorn to speak of in the house. Yet low and behold, I did have a package of popcorn kernels. Guess who made popcorn the old fashioned way? In the pot, finishing it off with lots of real butter for ultimate taste. The boys didn’t know popcorn could be made in such a way. Yet it turned out to be a hit with them. And my husband ate quite a bit of it too.

The experience sufficed for taking me down memory lane for just a few minutes at least. And it reminded me just how precious those Fridays have always been to me.

Not that every day isn’t a gift. But my fondness for Fridays will probably always remain steadfast. Friday is for family. Friday is for friends. No matter how bad the rest of the week, there’s always Friday night.

The Friday Feeling. It’s a good feeling. If only I could take it, bottle it up and sell it on the open market. I expect that would make me a wealthy woman.

For the moment, though, I guess I’ll just stay poor. Poor, but rich in so many ways – with my health, my husband and my children.

And a healthy supply of weekly Fridays – for life.

Screw Diets

2013-03-07T18:22:00.000-05:00

Did I ever mention that I hate diets? Normally I’m a proponent of portion control, because with restrictive diets all I ever think about is what I can’t have instead of what I can.

But right now I’m sort of in a state of desperation, as somehow over the last year and a half I’ve ballooned to the point to where I’m starting to grow out of my clothes. I need an emergency intervention – a quick change to get me going back in the right direction (that would be down).

So I caved to my own philosophy of just eating in moderation (which I, for the most part, think I do anyway – but because of my mostly sedentary lifestyle and lack of exercise I’m guessing my metabolism is in the toilet). I figured this called for extreme measures. Hence, I resorted to the “meal replacement” plan. Specifically, I chose the Atkins protein shakes – one in the morning for breakfast, one in the afternoon for lunch, a “sensible” dinner low on carbs, and an Atkins protein bar for a bedtime snack. The plan can be excruciating at times, but at least it’s simple.

Early results were promising. Four pounds in the first three days. Yay! So I set a goal for myself – that in the next six days I would lose only two more pounds to reach my initial goal. Did I follow the meal replacement plan to the tee? Well, no. Last weekend I pretty much bypassed it and consumed real food, but ate very little. And two days ago my hunger did give in. I succumbed to the temptation of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. But otherwise, I was good.

And today was the magic day. The day I was supposed to get on the scale and feel the satisfaction of reaching my goal – six pounds total lost. Except that didn’t happen. I not only didn’t lose those additional two pounds, I actually gained a pound back, making for a net total of three. That’s only half my goal. Bummer.

Thing is, I was so certain that I had lost those two additional pounds. Your mind plays tricks on you. Sort of a psychosomatic response to all of your hard-fought efforts. (“Are my clothes feeling a little looser? Why, yes, I think they are!”)

So today I rebel. I ate real food for breakfast – just a modest bowl of Special K, but one I would have deemed a cardinal sin of late. A leftover piece of fried chicken for lunch. And now I’m nursing a tasty glass of white wine – chock full of carbs. Tonight I eat pizza.

And what will tomorrow bring? Right now my attitude is “screw diets.” But I really am trying not to get discouraged. And I really can’t afford an entirely new wardrobe. So I guess I’ll try to gather my thoughts and try to figure out what I need to do to get this done.

As I said, my metabolism is probably shot because I know I don’t exercise enough (OK, hardly at all). So maybe I need to incorporate some additional activity into my plan. So what’s the answer here? Will a daily walk around the neighborhood do the job? Or maybe I need to join a gym? Hmmm. Personal trainer, maybe? Whoops, we’re getting into some big bucks there.

Guess I’ll take my measly three-pound loss and go from there. I do have goals – immediate, short-term and long-term. I’m so disappointed I didn’t hit my immediate goals. But don’t want to give up. That means I’ll just get fatter.

Yes, I think I’ll continue on this journey and see what another day brings. But tonight time stands still. Tonight I’ll enjoy just one more glass of wine and some pizza to boot. Just a small reward for trying so hard the past 10 days. (Just wondering how many of those three pounds I’ll put back on tonight!)

And then tomorrow I move forward. Another day, a new beginning.

Breaking Ties

2012-12-14T17:44:00.001-05:00

Cutting ties with the past: all of my old clothes,
ready for the charity pile

I went down memory lane this afternoon. Most people might do this by flipping through a photo album or watching home videos. But for me it was just a matter of scrounging through my closet (or closets). Time to do some cleaning out, I decided. But, oh so hard, because of the emotional ties I have with my clothes.

Did I mention that one of my favorite shows is Hoarders? And the more extreme the hoarders are, the more intrigued I am. I always thought the reason I liked that show was that it maybe gave me some sick feeling of superiority. I figured that compared to those people on that show, my house is absolutely pristine. So what if there might be an occasional dust ball or two in the corners, or that my kids’ closets are disaster areas? At least my house is inhabitable. How people could let their dwellings get that way has been a source of fascination for me.

So what does that have to do with my clothes? I realized today that going through and pitching my old clothes was a more difficult task than I thought it would be, simply because of the sentimental ties I had with particular pieces. Isn’t that what hoarders do? They develop emotional connections with their “stuff,” even the trash, to the point where they can’t bear to throw it out. Today I had my own amount of “trash” to sift through. Guess I’m a clothes hoarder.

They say that if it’s been over a year since you’ve worn something, you should get rid of it. Some of the stuff I wafted through today dated back 25 years. Good thing my kids weren’t home as I was doing this. I can just hear them now. “Hey Mom, the 1980s called and wants its clothes back.” So what sorts of garments took me down memory lane today?

· Probably the oldest garb in my closet (well, in my son’s closet) was the suit that my mother bought me when I was a senior in college. That would be 1986. She bought me the suit so that I would have something to wear on interviews. Let’s see…I probably haven’t worn that suit since 1990. But hey, it was my first suit. How could I possibly get rid of that?

· Really neat dress pants that I bought at Casual Corner when I was just out of college. They were expensive. In fact, I put them on layaway (do they even have that now?). Those pants got plenty of wear until I had my first baby in 1995. Then, for some reason, they didn’t fit anymore. They’re classic trousers so they don’t go out of style, so I’ve just been trying to get back down to size (for the past 18 years) so I can wear them again. Okay, time for them to hit the charity box. The same goes for all the other dress pants I had that are now two sizes too small. I guess I figure if I ever do get back down to size, by that time it would be such a big occasion I should treat myself to a new wardrobe.

· The blouse that I wore on my first date with my husband. And the shirt that I bought special to wear on the second date with my husband. I remember those nights as if they were yesterday. And, yes, I remember exactly what I wore. The temptation was strong for me to keep these pieces, but I resisted and they are now bagged up and ready to go to their next destination.

· My “skinny” red dress that I always thought I looked hot in – the one that I wore on Christmas Eve 1989, right after I liberated myself from a go-nowhere relationship with an old boyfriend. I did really look good in that dress. Unfortunately, I probably couldn’t slip the thing above my knees today. Out it goes.

· My little black mini skirt – the one I wore in the early 1990s any time I wanted to feel sexy. Back then I had some pretty damn nice looking legs and made a point to show off those attributes whenever I had the chance. I first wore that skirt when my then-boyfriend (now husband) went on a double date with another couple who were married (whom I’d just met that night). It was near Christmas and we wined and dined and made merry. Too much wine, as it turned out. I found myself in my own self-imposed drinking contest with the other woman (a good friend today, might I add) and lost. By the end of the night I was sitting on the floor in front of a toilet in a bowling alley bathroom (with a Peter Pan hat on, complete with a feather in it and everything) throwing my guts up. Somehow, Ed managed to get me home. Still, the event didn’t dissuade me from wearing the skirt again and again. Wasn’t so much fun to go through that night, but I can chuckle now after so many years have passed. Unfortunately, I reasoned that I’m probably too old to wear a mini skirt now (not to mention that the wool fabric has a couple of small holes in it), so I have officially parted with the mini skirt.

These are just a few things. There are others – print blazers that were popular in the 1990s but not so much now; sweater vests that my grandmother knitted for me; professional clothes that I wore when I had professional jobs trying to climb the corporate ladder as a young whippersnapper. And maternity clothes (okay, I was ready to part with those).

So I went through memory lane one more time today, reminiscing as I pulled out each piece of old clothing. Yet I did something that I haven’t been able to do in all these years. I broke those ties with the past. Perhaps holding on to too much of the past has the capacity to clutter one’s life – even to the point where it crowds out potential for the future.

And they’re just clothes, right? Tangible stuff that can be replaced with more tangible stuff down the road. Thinking more about it, I guess the clothes are merely a trigger for the memories I already have. And the memories are always with me, despite what I may or may not have in my closet. In the end, maybe it’s not about the clothes at all, but what’s within me. Looking at it that way makes it easier to depart with my so-called “treasures” of the past.

On to new things I suppose. And remembering that the true treasures are not the tangibles, but the memories (good and bad) of times past. It’s those cherished, priceless memories – things that cannot be bought for any price – that make life worth living.

Still, if I can ever find another figure-flattering “skinny” red dress that makes me look mighty fine, consider me there.

Of Ballots and Beer, and Going Straight

2012-11-03T11:56:00.000-04:00

It’s Saturday and Tuesday is Election Day. Which means one thing.

Stock up on the beer. Because on Tuesday, there will be nary a beer to be bought, at least until the polls close at 6 p.m. It’s part of Kentucky’s archaic law that bans alcohol sales on Election Day. The only other state that clings to this practice is South Carolina. So the policy’s Election Day blue laws do make our great commonwealth somewhat unique.

Apparently, there was some legitimate logic behind the law when it was first enacted. Some polling places used to be in bars (talk about a way to get the voters out!) and politicians would attend to “buy” votes with free drinks to the patrons. Thus, it provided reason for such prohibition.

Obviously, though, these days the law is outdated. Alcohol establishments no longer serve as polling places, though plenty of schools do. Perhaps voters could be bribed with crayons or mechanical pencils? So of late (just this year, in fact) there have been efforts within the state legislature to eradicate the law. So far those efforts have not been fruitful. So as of now, the law stands.

Actually, it really doesn’t bother me that I can’t buy alcohol on Election Day until after the polls close. Is the law stupid? Yes. But I figure I can survive one day (and a partial day at that) just fine without purchasing alcohol. It’s another thing that Kentucky doesn’t disallow that has me irked.

Straight ticket voting. Kentucky is one of only 15 states that allow straight ticket voting. Other states used to have it, but ultimately eliminated the option. Basically, straight ticket voting allows voters to choose a party’s entire slate of candidates by pushing a single button or making a single ballot marking on the ballot. Thus, with that one vote (or punch, or whatever type of ballot a particular polling place uses), a voter can vote for every candidate in a single party for each office on the ballot.

Wow, sounds convenient, right? No having to sort through all those names. But that’s just the problem.

My take on it is that if Kentucky expects its constituents to stay sober when voting (as is evidenced by banning alcohol sales on Election Day), then at the very least voters should be required to actually read the names of the people they are voting for. They may just find out by reading the names that someone who they would have voted for under a straight ticket is someone that they don’t want in office at all!

My other concern about straight ticket voting is that if voters mark a straight ticket, they may think they are done. Yet there may be other things on the ballot that they do not give attention to and won’t vote on because they voted a straight ticket. Such as local nonpartisan races. Or local referendums. Maybe even a constitutional amendment or two.

Thus, straight ticket voting may present a slippery slope to casting a ballot. As for me, I think I’ll actually read the ballot and encourage others to do so. It’s always good to know exactly who you are voting for.

Of course, I will vote this Tuesday – always proud to be part of the democratic process and have my voice heard through my vote. And on Tuesday night, as the polls close and the counts start to come in, I’ll be the first to want it, the first to do it, the first to say it. It will be a simple request.

Get me a beer.

Strategy or Spaghetti?

2012-11-01T15:14:00.000-04:00

My oldest son says he wants to be a doctor. He’s been saying that for a while now so I’m guessing as he starts out college next year his intentions will be to start out on that path. Good for him. So many kids his age have no idea what they want to do when they grow up.

But what if he gets into it and finds out the doctoring thing isn’t right for him? Will there be a Plan B? Depends on how he approaches life, I guess. Maybe it’s contingent on how good he is at putting his life’s plan into place.

It’s a lot to expect from someone so young – figuring out how to set about living what’s left of (hopefully) a very long life. But I think if it’s at all possible, it’s something young people should give some thought to. I know I didn’t.

My strategic approach toward life has been minimalist at best. Really, my life plan has been pretty general – go to college, get a job, get married, have kids, keep working, retire and live happily ever after.

I guess it was something, at least. But I think my one major regret in life is my failure to map out a more detailed life plan for myself. But then, who really thinks about that during the throes of youth? You have your whole life to figure out what you’re going to do, what you’re going to achieve, how you’re going to get there, right? But I’m not young anymore. And now I’m middle-aged and still wondering.

My general plan seemed to work for me up to a point. I just carried on with my life and took advantage of opportunities as they came. It worked, until a few years ago, when I really started to ponder what I was really meant to do.

And now a couple of years later – after having had time to think about it and earn a master’s degree to boot – I’m still as clueless as ever. A life in limbo. Unfortunately, when you’re stuck in limbo, there is a tendency at times to wonder whether you’ve wasted your life. Distorted thoughts creep in and begin to tell you that you wouldn’t be in this position had you not wasted your life. Whether or not my career has been a failure is something I can’t discern at this point. Fortunately, all I have to do is look at my three beautiful children to know that my life has had some purpose.

As for my career, though, right now I’m figuratively taking spaghetti and throwing it to the wall, hoping something will stick. Each piece of pasta represents something. One piece might represent a total career change. Other pieces might represent various positions I’ve applied for. Another piece might represent my current small (very small) business. Still, other pieces might represent specific specialized niches that perhaps I should more deeply explore.

Right now I’m on the small business track, seeing where that will take me. Will it work out? At this point, I don’t know. But if you liken it to pasta, I guess it has just as much of a chance of sticking as anything else.

In the meantime, I’m watching my three precious boys continue to grow up. The oldest is a young man now – so handsome and self-confident. We took him on his first college visit last week. I can’t wait for him to enter that new, exciting stage of his life – young adulthood.

And while I know that right now he is just a kid, I hope that he will come out of a college with a plan, a roadmap, some strategy for how he wants to take on life. At least I hope he and my other two sons will be a little more focused than I was. Regardless, I’ll love them with all my heart. But I do have that wish for them.

Because slinging spaghetti ain’t where it’s at.

Finding Passion

2012-10-01T08:07:00.000-04:00

I long to create. Not the written word, mind you. I figure I’ve done enough of that. But rather I yearn to make something from nothing – something tangible, that you can see and feel and be proud to say, “I made this.”

I think the last time I truly made something from my own two hands, of my own initiative, I was in grade school. I learned a few macramé knots and went to town making macramé plant holders for my mother. They weren’t anything fancy. Some of them even had beads, some of them didn’t. But they were functional pieces that I had made. It was some semblance of a skill that I had. Of course, it’s long gone now. (Oh well. Wasn’t macramé kind of a ‘70s thing, anyway?)

Maybe I wouldn’t be so sensitive to it now if I didn’t have such a handy husband. He always has some project going on around our house. Last winter he remodeled our downstairs bathroom. Tore the walls out to the studs, he did, and started from scratch. I couldn’t really help him. I don’t know much about those sorts of things.

Ed's Masterpiece: Our New Patio

This summer he tore down our old, dilapidated deck and set about building a new patio. He started about Memorial Day and finished it up just after Labor Day. Almost every day he was out there doing something with that patio, paying attention to every meticulous detail, even laying the pavers in a way to where the rainwater would run off in a particular pattern. The rock wall surrounding the patio had to be just perfect. I would watch him examine stone after stone and arrange them as if they were puzzle pieces. And if one just didn’t work to his satisfaction, he’d pull it out and try another, or maybe arrange the stones another way.

And of course, what’s a patio without the landscaping? The finishing touch to a summer’s worth of work. Three luscious evergreens dot the one side; hostas adorn the other side. A holly bush is among the plants, along with some others, which I can’t name because Ed only refers to them by their Latin names. But whatever they are, they’re pretty.

So now we have the grand patio. And it not only represents my husband’s enormous skill, but also the passion that he puts into each project he undertakes.

That’s where I’m lacking. I really have no skills, no interests, really. No passion. And that bothers me. When I see someone like my husband create something so grand, so profound, so practical, it’s a bit intimidating. Don’t get me wrong – I’m lucky to have him. And I’m not sure what I’d do without him. But sometimes his many talents remind me of my own shortcomings. And it makes me wonder what gifts do I bring to this world?

I can sew a torn button back onto a pair of pants. Yippee. But I can’t sew to save my life. Funny how now’s the time I wish I would have taken home economics in high school. When I was in high school, I considered myself too “career-oriented” to fool with such things.

In particular, I always thought it would be nice to take up quilting. To me, quilts are a work of art. A handmade quilt represents love, and caring, and comfort, and security, to me. And I thought combining various colors and patterns of material would be fun.

But guess what. You have to know how to sew to take up quilting. A couple of years ago I received a sewing machine for Christmas (it was on my wish list). A few months ago I finally pulled it out. I learned to thread the bobbin fairly easily, and threading the machine was no big deal, but getting the little bobbin thing in and out was more complicated than I thought. Fortunately, I actually happened upon a YouTube video on how to put the bobbin into my model of machine. Once I accomplished this, I attempted to sew a few stitches on a scrap piece of cloth. Not bad for a first attempt, I thought. Then I put the machine away.

Now I have it out again because I desperately want to prove to myself that I can make something with my hands. Maybe not a full-blown quilt to begin with, though I do have about a half-dozen books on how to start quilting, but I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. And it might take more than looking at visuals in books. Maybe it will take somebody actually showing me how to do some of the stuff. So no quilts yet.

Baby steps instead. Also for Christmas a couple of years ago I received a small “getting started quilting” kit complete with the supplies for a small project – a small wall hanging. It’s not even that pretty of a wall hanging – pretty generic if you ask me. But that’s my project. I have the sewing machine out again, the materials that came with the kit and the roller cutter. Last night I completed the first step – cutting all the material pieces down to size with the roller cutter. Now the sewing starts (YIKES!).

Now I have no doubt that this project will probably be chock full of screw ups. That’s okay. The important thing is that I do it and learn along the way. And in the end I’ll have a generic (and likely imperfect) wall hanging that I don’t even like. But it will be mine, and I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that I made it. And maybe this project will be the springboard for better projects to come. Maybe I will be able to start that quilt someday.

Or maybe the experience will prove to me that I have no business being behind a sewing machine. (I have to admit, it is a strange sight.) Then what? Then I’ll be in search of another creative outlet. Some other hobby or activity that can bring passion to my life. Photography, maybe? I always thought I’d like to dabble in that.

Or maybe it’s not necessarily a hobby or a skill I seek, but the passion itself. I suppose you can find your passion in many different ways. For instance, I consider my children to be my passion. I’m not sure I’m always the greatest mom, but I do know that I love my boys more than words can describe. But unlike my husband, who has a passion for home projects and a passion for yard work, I can’t really say that I have any strong personal passion beyond love for my family.

That’s it. I yearn for passion. Passion for something. I’ll ponder this as I’m working my way through my mini sewing project. Maybe I just need that quiet time to explore my inner self, dig deep and discover within myself whether I even have passion, and if so, passion for what?

What a journey this should be. And I hope to find something within me – something in there. I guess the fact that I worry about it at all makes me more than an empty shell.

Yes, there has to be something within that shell. And if I’m lucky, as I explore within my shell I’ll discover there is a pearl or two wedged in there, ready and waiting to come out.

Time with the Boys

2012-07-12T22:24:00.000-04:00

My three boys, basking in the sun on the beach of Cape Charles, Virginia.
From left: Sam, Clay and Luke.

For the record, I really, really love my boys. All three of them. Like any mother, I want to give them the world – all of their hearts’ desires. I want to spoil them silly. I desire that they want for nothing. Of course, I realize I’m doing them no favors by spoiling them. They need to learn that in this world you don’t get everything that you want.

But I have to admit that the past couple of summers I have felt especially guilty that I haven’t been able to treat them to some sort of grand vacation. For several years a lovely resort in Vermont was our destination, and many memories were made there. But financial constraints of late have limited what we can do as far as trips go.

Last year it was a three-day primitive camping trip on one of Kentucky’s pristine lakes. I think the spot cost us about $40 total. But I’ve decided after that escapade that I’ve had my fill of primitive camping for about the next five years or so. Sweltering in a tent in the heat of summer and walking 10 minutes to the nearest bathroom when you have to go in the middle of the night isn’t my idea of fun! And did I mention the downpour as we were trying to cook our burgers on the grill? Never mind the boys. I’ve decided camping’s not for me.

But I digress. What about this summer? I have to say when my brother invited me to come spend a few days at his place on the Eastern Shore of Virginia (just across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge from Virginia Beach), I jumped at the chance. It wasn’t so much for me, but for my desire to provide some sort of adventure for the boys this summer.

We embarked on our 12-hour journey at 6:30 on a Friday morning. And I have to say it didn’t start out so well. I’m chalking it up to the early morning hour, but somehow I managed to tear the siding off the garage door as I was pulling out. Damn, got too close. And now white scuffs all over the front of my car. No sweat though. It’s just paint. I’ll scrape it off later. I figured I’d try to explain the issue with the siding to my husband later. Nonetheless, I suspected it was a bad omen for the trip to start out this way.

As it turned out, there were no other mishaps. And after more than 12 laborious hours of driving through Kentucky, West Virginia, and clear across Virginia, we finally reached our destination. I have to say, though, I was getting somewhat bleary-eyed going over that big-ass Chesapeake Bay Tunnel Bridge – only about 21 or so miles long. After such an exhausting drive (of which I drove the whole way), I was concerned I might flip over the bridge or something. (Just in case you might ever find yourself going over that bridge, the toll is $12 – cash.)

My brother Brent was the perfect host, having even rented a golf cart for the boys to take about town and down to the beach if they want. (Though Clay was the only one who could drive it, since he is the only boy who is a licensed driver.) Apparently, Cape Charles is the only town in Virginia that allows golf carts on the city streets. I have to admit, carousing about in the golf cart was a blast.

But the best part of my trip was just the time with the boys. Unfortunately my husband couldn’t come because he had to work, but at least I got some of that quality time that I so long for so much of the time. Perhaps the quiet times were the most poignant. Last week Virginia was not immune from the same heat wave that afflicted the rest of the country. But a dip into the Chesapeake Bay was enough to bring your body temperature down a good 15 degrees. It was there that we as a family splashed around, passed around a football, and frolicked carelessly. Life was good.

Brent, of course, introduced my boys to a host of unique culinary delights that are not normal fare at home. Grilled tuna steaks, which they surprisingly devoured. (Okay, Sam was a little timid, but the other two ate up.) Grilled beats. Steamed clams, which were a hit.

My brother took the boys fishing off the pier at Cape Charles. Did you know that you don’t use a bobber when fishing in the ocean? The boys caught crabs galore (it is, after all, the Chesapeake Bay). But Sam went the extra mile and caught two baby red drum fish. Good eatin’ for the next night.

We departed Cape Charles the next Tuesday. Only on the way back I decided to make a two-day trip out of it. We spent the night in Covington, Virginia. It was a simple night. We dined at a local pizza place, then back to the hotel for swimming, then back to the room for showers. We then proceeded to watch the All-Star game. A quiet evening it was. But precious to me.

We headed home the next day. The boys proceeded to sleep through half the trip – all the way through West Virginia. But as I reflected on our days together, I knew that they had a blast and I had provided this summer’s grand adventure. A small adventure at that – but something to remember.

There are so many places where I would like to take my boys – so many destinations to explore. Disney World. Washington, D.C. The West Coast. Maybe take them on a cruise someday. Perhaps Hilton Head, which seems to be a popular vacation destination. Hawaii? Well, maybe I’ll reserve that just for my husband and me.

But this year, it was Cape Charles, Virginia. Budget vacation extraordinaire. (For me, that is. My brother went above and beyond to be an exceptional host.) I even took the Saturn instead of the minivan to save on gas – something I’m sure my tall boys’ legs didn’t appreciate.

Budget vacation aside, though, I hope my boys appreciated it for what it was – my attempt to give them what I could as far as summer adventures go. And for them to know how much I really, really love them. I can’t give them everything. But for a few days, I gave them the sun and the surf. The sandy beach. The soothing saltwater.

And hopefully – at least for a short time – a sense of peace that all is good in the world.

Beefing Up My Bucket List

2012-06-21T12:36:00.000-04:00

Ever make a bucket list? I haven’t – at least, not ‘til now.

A couple of weeks ago, as I started to work with a consultant who is helping me get a writing business off the ground, she gave me one of my first assignments – start putting together a bucket list. I was confused. I e-mailed her back for some clarification. “Do you mean the type of list of things that I want to do while I’m still in this world?” She replied in the affirmative, so hence, over the past couple of weeks I’ve been writing out my bucket list.

One would think it would be sort of a morbid thing to do. I mean, who makes out a bucket list? The elderly? Those who are dying? I’m not either (at least I don’t think). And to make things even more challenging, my assignment wasn’t to merely list out a few things – say, a “top 10” list. That would be easy. No, my charge was to come up with at least 100 things. That takes some thought.

Actually, even though I’m stuck right now with only 83 things (17 more to go!), I have found the process to be somewhat enlightening. I never knew I wanted to do so many things. Of course, the regular things are on there – go to Hawaii, be thin, have the kitchen of my dreams. But what I found was that some things that I wanted were so simple and other things somewhat elaborate. Allow me to share some of these things on my bucket list:

· Go to visit friends I haven’t seen in years – Paula or Ronni in Tennessee, or Brenda in Alabama. And how I’d love to see Marta in North Carolina, too. Fortunately, today’s technology (e.g., Facebook) enables me to always be a click and a few keystrokes away from these dear friends, but how I miss seeing them face-to-face. I long to be able to get away someday to reconnect with those who have been such a special part of my life.

· Interview my grandmother about her life. Though I have time – she’s only 91. I can only imagine the stories she can tell. Would hate for them to be lost.

· Make at least one quilt in my life. This means I would actually have to learn to sew, use a sewing machine (finally figured out how to get the bobbin in mine), and develop the skills for quilting. Not sure I have the patience for that. But I’ve always loved quilts. To me they are art. And they embody love and comfort. Nothing like cozying up in a handmade quilt. I have the sewing machine and the how-to books, and even the material to make that first quilt. Still, this one may have to wait until retirement.

· Take my kids to Disneyworld. They’re growing up on me, and they haven’t experienced Disney yet. I don’t see it happening any time soon due to financial constraints. But it doesn’t mean I don’t hope to do it someday. They may be well into their 20s before it happens, though.

· Travel the Loveland Bike Trail with my husband. Of course, my husband would actually have to get a bike. But I think we both developed an enthusiasm for biking while we were on vacation in Vermont. The Loveland Bike Trail is the only one around here that I know of that is long enough to make for an all-day affair. Would make for some good quality time between us.

· See Rockefeller Plaza in New York City at Christmastime. I love Christmas. I love Christmas tree lights. I’m sure it’s a spectacular sight.

· Read the Bible all the way through. I know people who have done this. I strive to do it too. Someday.

· Be a philanthropist. This would mean I’m rich!

· Go on a hot-air balloon ride. I had actually planned to take my husband on this adventure for his 50^th birthday celebration, but lost my job just before I could plan it. So it will have to wait, but it’s still on my list.

· Have another couple over for dinner. This one sounds doable. Believe it or not, we haven’t really entertained for various reasons over the years – kids at home, relatives living with us, too busy with our lives, etc. Maybe this is one I can cross off the bucket list this year.

· Travel the Pacific Coast Highway. Never been out West. I hear the scenery off the Pacific Coast Highway is beautiful.

· Go whitewater rafting. Hey, I’m middle-aged. I need excitement in my life. I seek the rush!

· Attend the world’s largest Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany. We have so much fun at the world’s second largest Oktoberfest here in Zinzinnati, I can only imagine how much more fun the real thing would be (though I hear they serve the beer warm over there).

· Get satellite radio. No commercials. Good stuff.

· Make a difference in a despondent person’s life. Sometimes we question our own worth in this world – whether we really have any impact at all. How nice it is when we know that we do make a difference.

· Put my children through college. Don’t know how that’s going to happen. Will just keep praying.

· Host a foosball tournament. We have one rockin’ foosball table, but it gets very minimal use (probably because it’s set up in our basement). The thing needs some action!

· Purchase a car with heated seats. My ass tends to get cold in the wintertime. No other reason.

· Refinish my cobbler’s table. The one I bought in 1990 at Goodwill. I’ve already stripped off most of the paint (I did that in 1990). And now it’s sitting in my office. Nice table. Just need to finish stripping the paint off the legs and refinish it. My husband would bet his life on this one that I’ll never finish it.

· Learn how to fold a fitted sheet. Whenever I attempt to do it, it always ends up in some sort of massive clump. But Aunt Millie can fold a fitted sheet to perfection. I want her to teach me how to do it right. She’s also 91, but in good shape. So I have time.

· Climb a rock wall. I was a miserable failure the first time I tried to do it (and of course my husband breezed through it). Would like to give it another whirl someday.

· Learn to shoot guns. Just so I get over being intimidated by them.

· Go to a Josh Groban concert. Definitely a chick thing.

· Keep at least one house plant alive during my life. Plants don’t like me. No matter how much (or how little) I take care of them, they die.

Okay, this isn’t all 83, but a good selection. As I said, some things are small, others are more elaborate.

But the experience of thinking about it and putting the list together has been an interesting one. To be honest, when I was given the assignment to do the list, I was perplexed. And I’m still not sure what the purpose of the exercise is. Perhaps it’s just a way to get me thinking in more broad-based ways – sort of “outside the box.” Or maybe it’s supposed to stimulate my senses, or my creativity. If so, I think it’s had its intended effect. But now I’m stalled as I attempt to go for number 84. Certainly there’s something else. I’ll just have to think that much deeper.

The truth is I’ve actually enjoyed putting together my bucket list. It turned out not to be the macabre chore that I suspected it might be, but rather an enlightening and stimulating experience.

So no matter what age you are – young or old – or what state of health you are in, consider putting together your own bucket list, and don’t stop at just a few things! Go for 50, or 75, or all the way to 100! Open your eyes. Search your soul. You just might be surprised at all the things you have left to do!

Gotta Hang With the Slang

2012-06-01T12:29:00.000-04:00

When I was a sophomore at the University of Dayton many, many years ago, I became friends with a girl named Amy who was from Puerto Rico. Her native tongue was Spanish and while her English was proficient, it was clear she had not mastered the language. No big deal, of course.

My one attempt to learn her native language – in an Elementary Spanish 101 class at UD – turned out to be a bad experience due to an awful and evil-spirited professor who actually expected you to know the language prior to taking the class.

Turns out that half the class did speak or know the language either because it was their native language or they took years of it in high school, so they took the class for the easy A. This didn’t bode well for me, who didn’t know much more than to count to 10 in Spanish.

So for those of us that couldn’t keep up with those who were more fluent, this horrible professor took great pleasure in humiliating us in front of the whole class when we (or I) couldn’t translate the words from English into Spanish in my head to answer her questions (which she asked us in Spanish). Getting stuck would mean having to weather her accusations that I wasn’t studying or trying hard enough. The fact was I probably studied harder than anyone in the class because I was so behind the majority of the class.

The “professor” clearly had no patience with the students that she was actually going to have to teach the language to. That was my misfortune.

Fortunately for my friend Amy, her friends were much more patient when she didn’t understand something. One memory had to do with a popular song at the time – Stuck on You, by Lionel Richie. She didn’t understand the meaning of what Richie was singing about – the whole concept of being “stuck” on somebody. From Amy’s understanding of the language, it the song would be about one person literally being glued to another. We had to explain that the phrase was slang for being infatuated with someone else.

I realized then that while it must be challenging enough for a non-English speaker to learn proper English, it must be that much more daunting to get a handle on our American slang.

The Wall Street Journal made this very point in a recent article. The article cites business people who have moved to the United States and once they got here realized they had a lot to learn about the way Americans talk. (For instance, one dude had no idea what “I’m peachy” meant.) The article further implied that getting comfortable with slang is essential for communicating and building relationships.

Because of this emphasis on slang, more English as Second Language courses are being mindful of the need to teach a certain degree of slang in their courses for the benefit of those just trying to function in the United States. Still, others turn to the “boob tube” (is that slang?) to get their fill on how Americans really talk. In particular, The Wall Street Journal article mentioned Family Guy as a great show to watch for this purpose.

I recently had to be mindful of slang myself, but in the opposite way. I was doing a freelance assignment – an article on a specific personality test. This was a content article that would appear on the Internet and was meant for an international audience. And because this piece was going to be targeted to a much broader audience beyond the United States, I had to be careful not to use slang that might be confusing. For instance, in one part of the article as I was describing the characteristics of one of the personality types, I wanted to say that this type of person tended to do things “by the book.” It occurred to me, though, that “by the book” might be slang that would not be understood beyond the United States or North America, so I ended up having to use different words to convey the description.

I guess I can be empathetic to the plight of those struggling to learn English, or who maybe know English but maybe not the idioms characteristic of the language here in America. For non-English speakers, I would surmise that learning the slang in many ways is harder than learning the proper English itself. So, my hat’s off (figuratively, not literally) to anyone that puts in the effort to learn the ropes (slang) on how we Americans speak.

Considering that I was a miserable failure at learning Spanish (which apparently, is a simpler language than English), those that take the time to learn our language have that much more admiration from me.

Not that I didn’t learn any Spanish. That is, thanks to my friend Amy. While the detestable Spanish professor never taught me a thing (she just stressed me out too much), I did ask Amy if she could teach me a sentence, which I remember to this day: Mis maestra de Espanol es una j***a p**a. Notice that last two words I blocked out. That’s because in English, the sentence translates to: My Spanish teacher is a f***ng b*tch. Certainly the meaning is evident.

Funny that of all the Spanish that went through my head that semester, that’s what I remember.

Guess the sentence just sort of “stuck” with me.

What's in a Name?

2012-05-24T09:45:00.000-04:00

The memory is still vivid. It was 1979, in Greeneville, Tennessee. I was in the eighth grade and part of the Mosheim Elementary girls basketball team. Our team emerged victorious in the end-of-season Northside county tournament, having earned a big fat trophy that may or may not still be on display to this very day.

From Greeneville, Tennessee: The 1979 Northside
Girls Basketball Tournament Most
Valuable Player -- Lisa Carpenter

And every tournament has its star – the individual that garners the coveted “Most Valuable Player” award. Probably one of the biggest surprises I ever experienced in my lifetime is when the announcer called my name as the tournament’s MVP. I was honored. I was humbled. And most of all, I couldn’t wait to see the official documentation of my achievement the next day. That is, my name emblazoned within the pages of the city’s highly respected daily newspaper, the Greeneville Sun.

So when the paper arrived the next day, I expediently flipped through the sports section to the very page that contained the article on the tournament results. And there, in black and white, was the name the paper had listed as the girls tournament MVP – Becky Carpenter.

There’s only one problem with that. My name isn’t Becky.

My heart sank as I realized that the paper had gotten my name wrong. (How does one mistake Lisa for Becky?) My brief moment in the spotlight was spoiled. My brother actually called the paper to inform them of their mistake, but no correction was ever forthcoming.

I guess it seems minor, but to an eighth grader your name in the paper is a big deal – especially for such a major accomplishment. And it must have been a big deal, being that I still remember it.

If nothing else, though, I can take solace in the fact that newspapers screw up people’s names all the time. (Though the screw-up usually entails misspelling a name rather than getting the name entirely wrong.)

According to a recent article by Poynter.com, news organizations frequently run corrections for misspelled names, and in the case of famous people some have misspelled the same name dozens of times. Of recent: Warren Buffett, Michele Bachmann, Elliott Gould, Kanye West, and even Edgar Allan Poe! According to the Poynter.com article, anywhere from 14 to 20 percent of corrections that news organizations publish involve misspelled names.

So what’s the big deal? A lot, actually. Because it’s all about identity. Really, it’s a psychological thing. Take my case. I’m not Becky, I’m Lisa. So when the Greeneville Sun got it wrong, I felt deprived of my identity and the fact that the paper didn’t take the time and the care to get it right. It was as if the paper itself had poo-pooed my achievement.

One person who understood the psychology of this was my Journalism 101 instructor in college. He was an adjunct who was an actual journalist, and to this day I remember his one rule of thumb – a misspelled name was an instant “F” on an assignment. So you can bet that all of us in the class were particularly meticulous when it came to getting those names right.

And to this day, I’ve always been conscious about getting the names right in my writings. But in conceding that I’m human and make mistakes, there was an instance where I screwed up not one, but three names in an issue of an employee newsletter in one of my previous jobs. I really don’t know how it happened, as I thought I was being careful to get the names right. But in that instance I did screw up. And knowing how important it was to spell the names correctly, I guess I was fortunate not to get fired for that one. Fortunately, I kept my job and made amends by sending apology letters to each person whose name I got wrong (and, of course, I printed a correction in the next newsletter). Okay, nobody’s perfect, I guess.

But back to my point. What’s in a name? As I ponder this I recalled that naming each of my three boys was an incredibly daunting task. Why? Because I had to get the name just right. I had to give each boy a name that would “fit” him. In fact, my policy about naming my babies was that I would wait at least a day before naming them, so that I could look at them and assess their temperament. It was only after taking this time to “get to know them” that I felt comfortable with issuing a name. In fact, my third boy was going to be either an Allen or a Ben. But after undergoing the get acquainted process, he ultimately ended up being a Sam. And his name fits him to a tee.

And now I have the three boys – Clay, Luke and Sam. Or, to get formal, I have Clayton, Lucas and Samuel. They are three solid, yet relatively basic names. And the last name is Huddleston (not Huddelston, a common misspelling for our seemingly simple surname).

So, for the reporters or writers who may someday write about any of my boys’ major conquests and awesome achievements (and believe me, you will), take note. They are all destined for greatness, so don’t screw up their names. The annals of history would be cheated.

And their mama would be a mighty bit miffed.

Probing for Answers

2012-05-03T18:17:00.000-04:00

My husband sees it as a rite of manhood. But I reminded him that we all have asses, so the procedure isn’t just a man-type thing. It can, however, be seen as a rite of passage into middle age. Once you turn 50 you are supposed to have one. And I believe the old hubby is mustering all the manly courage he can to get through the next couple of days.

The Noxious Concoction

It’s the dreaded colonoscopy – his first. And the prep begins in just a couple of hours. I’ve already mixed the noxious concoction (having added his choice of flavor packet – orange). And now it’s chilling in the fridge. The directions say it won’t taste as bad if you drink it cold. It’s four liters of what appears to be a seemingly harmless solution. But watch out! You wouldn’t want to drink this stuff accidentally, as it will clear you out from stem to stern.

Hubby savored his “last supper” last night – his favorite take-out pizza and a large salad. No supper tonight – he’ll be “clearing out.” Good thing we’ve got the all-night candle going in the powder room.

5:20 p.m. – What a sport. He started a the process a little over an hour ago by taking two Dulcolax, and now he’s started on the concoction. He’s already had his first glass and is ready to pound down another one. Still a long way before he hits three liters. Two glasses down and he’s barely put a dent in that jug. “Can you taste the orange flavor that I put in it?” I inquire.

“It tastes like shit,” he responds. Guess it’s gonna be a long night for hubby. But since he’s going to spend most of it in the bathroom, I guess I’ll be oblivious to it all. (Okay I feel for him, but better him than me.)

One instant silver lining to this: since hubby will be “indisposed” for the rest of the day, he managed to get our oldest son to mow the grass this evening. You have to look at the bright side when it comes to these things.

Then comes tomorrow. Hubby still has another liter of the potion to drink – I guess to make sure he’s cleared out clean as a whistle. And then at 12:30 in the afternoon, I take him for the procedure.

I tell him that after going through the “prep” of the night before, the “procedure” should be a piece of cake. But maybe it’s just the idea of having his backside probed with a foreign object that doesn’t set well with him. As a woman who has to undergo annual exams that include pap smears, I’m used to being probed, though maybe not as intensely as what a colonoscopy entails. (Yes, since I haven’t reached that rite of passage yet, my only knowledge of this is derived from watching my loving hubby endure it.)

Seriously, though, such “probing” tests do yield important answers. My hopes are that tomorrow’s procedure will net results that translate into a clean bill of health for my husband. I choose to be optimistic and expect that his test will reveal a completely healthy colon. Or, if there is a polyp or two, that they will be benign or that they will be polyps that can be dealt with right then and there.

The sad reality is that too many people who should have this procedure don’t. And some of them may be people who desperately need to find out what’s going on with their colon – as there may be pre-cancerous polyps or full-blown cancer lurking within those bowels. Often by the time the cancer is found it has already advanced beyond the colon.

So as much fun as my boys and I are having with their dad’s “situation” this evening, I know that the hassle that he is going through is really an essential part of ascertaining whether his health is up to par. Cancer is a serious thing, and he owes it to himself and to his (very dependent) family to take part in such a preventive measure to ensure that he sticks around a while.

I’ll try to remember this in a few years when it’s my turn to down the Dulcolax, drink the noxious concoction and spend an evening perched upon the porcelain god.

And just to humor him, I’ll let hubby think that this colonoscopy thing is indeed a rite of manhood. It does, after all, take a real man to do the right thing for the benefit of self and family. Yes, that’s right. Even though the process can be crude and unpleasant, there is honor in this.

And it’s his honor that I will be thinking of later on this evening – as his “EUREKA!” moment hits him and he runs for the facilities.

Yes, an honorable man he is. But just allow me a giggle, a snicker or two for humor’s sake.