Sundays at the Dog Park with George

Notes, Scribbles, and Dog Ears

2012-01-26T10:06:00.001-08:00

I love opening the pages of a brand new book. The smell is freshly printed, the pages crisp, the spine opens with a pleasant crack. You would think that I always want to keep books in this pristine condition, but sometimes it feels good to break them in, to write in them, to dog-ear their pages, to condition them and make them look loved.

I just finished reading my Mom’s old copy of The Scarlet Letter. And this book could not be more used. I had to hold it together with a large rubber band because both covers were off, and as I read I had to piece together halves of pages that had been torn off. This book went through a lot.

The most interesting thing in the book was Mom’s notes, written in ink in the margins, and her passages that were underlined. She obviously read this book in class, maybe in Mrs. U’s Senior English class in high school, and her notes allowed me to read the book along with her.

I’ll never forget the first time I was allowed to write in a book. It was in college, and I relished the idea that I could mark it as I wished with pencil or ink - make notes wherever I wanted.

Well-used books make me think of my Grandma’s Bible. As a kid I envied the look of it. The leather cover was soft and worn, there were notes and papers stuck in it everywhere, a yarn bookmark kept her place, and sometimes she even made little notes on the thin pages in pencil. I wanted a Bible that looked like that, so I got out mine from way back on my bookshelf and tried to think of things to stick in it so it looked loved like Grandma’s. I think those papers are still inside it, on my bookshelf, where it sits today.

Of course some books I will never write in, such as my large beautiful art books, or old ones from my childhood that I cherish. But I do write notes in my cookbooks (a check mark next to a recipe means it was good; a check plus means it was great), and I like to write, as my Grandma does, the date I cooked a recipe on the page, too. That makes the book more personal, as a historical record.

How loved are your books?

One Hobby is Never Enough

2011-12-28T14:51:00.001-08:00

My husband probably thinks I have too many hobbies, since all their accompanying accoutrements take up a lot of space in our house. My shelves are filled with books because I like to read. Stacks of fabric, a sewing machine, and notions take up one corner of “my” room, standing by for when I feel like sewing. I also have yarn and crochet hooks for when the mood strikes, and an easel, paints, and canvases for creating masterpieces. This does not include the piano and guitars in our living room, my files of travel articles, or stacks of cookbooks and cabinets of bake ware for their accompanying hobbies. Hobbies require a lot of stuff.

I thought about hobbies this weekend at the dog park when I watched a man fly a model plane over the nearby soccer field. I have seen him before, and he stands on an embankment with the controller in his hands, moving his plane in graceful loops and circles and dives while most people don’t even notice.

Everyone needs a hobby. And no, watching TV, playing video games, or surfing the web are not hobbies. Real hobbies make you think, but not too hard. Their aim is to get you away from your daily stresses, away from work or normal life. They automatically connect you to other people with similar interests - people with whom you might not associate in other ways.

A man next to me in the dog park mentioned that in northern Las Vegas, there is an aviary park where all the plane-flying-people can fly together. He said people show up there towing twelve-foot planes. They’re serious.

My hobbies are fairly normal, I think. But I admire people with unusual ones. My cousin has a beehive and raises geese. My uncle plays on an amateur hockey team and has a collection of rare guitars. My brother-in-law races model cars. A friend collects model trains and goes to train conventions. It would be so cool to say that I am a spelunker or a rower or that I pilot a hot air balloon or have a collection of petrified dinosaur poop.

One thing I know is that I don’t want to turn a hobby into a profession. That would add an underlying money-related stress to something I love. Why do that?

My Weird Brain

2011-12-12T16:58:00.000-08:00

It takes a very long time to alter an image you’ve had in your head for over thirty years. We all have images of what our lives will be like in the future – a future picture of ourselves that we take for granted.

The first time I had to change my mental image of my future was when my Mom died nearly twelve years ago. It was literally a life-changing event, and suddenly I had to change the vision I had of my future. Mom wouldn’t retire and come to visit every Christmas. She wouldn’t have my kids over for cookie-making and finger painting. It took a very long time to come to terms with, and to change, that cozy image I had of her as part of my future life.

Recently I have again had to change that picture I have in my head, but this time it’s in a positive way.

For years I have thought about my future kids. My husband and I were well in our thirties when we started the family-making plan, so we had hundreds of conversations about our future kids. I pictured taking “my kids” to museums, teaching them to bake and cook, singing with them at our piano. The kids in my head were never the same. Sometimes I envisioned two boys, sometimes it was a girl, sometimes it was just a nebulous idea of children.

Now, I have a son. It’s still a weird thing to say, since we only got him less than four months ago. And even though we have him and he is here and laughing and cooing and eating and pooping, I have yet to alter that original picture. Just this afternoon I daydreamed as I drove in my car, about taking my kids to the UNLV campus where I was headed, and my imagination envisioned a blonde curly-headed girl balking at the idea of strolling the shady campus. Then I laughed out loud. We have a son! A real son, with big blue eyes and chubby legs and an easy laugh. I quickly made the switch, and imagined taking our actual son to the campus someday for a performance or ballgame, or just to ride his tricycle on the safe, wide sidewalks.

The brain is a weird thing. Or maybe it’s just me.

Goodnight, or Goodnap

2011-11-17T11:03:00.000-08:00

I’ve had many early mornings lately, usually for a feeding and diaper change. But one day this week I got up before the sun for a trip to the airport. My visiting relatives needed a ride home, so I obliged with a sleepy, coffee-fueled ride.

Of course I hate getting up early, but visiting the airport is always fun for me – even just the Departures lanes. I love that excitement of everyone having an important place to go, all the taxis vying for position, all the hurried goodbyes and lugging of suitcases.

But the best part for me was the nap I took afterward. Three whole hours in my office at work before I had to actually be at work. I snuggled on the couch with my pillow and blanket and had the best sleep I’ve had in a long time.

Naps are always luxurious. Sleep at night is something we always must have, but naps are extra. They’re stolen moments of heaven, while the rest of the world is up and about. I hope to have many more of them.

The Value of Errands

2011-11-06T16:41:00.000-08:00

Now that the weather is cooler, George can go in the car with me more often. I often take him to the park and then run a few errands, and he sits and waits patiently in the car until I return from the grocery or post office or Target or wherever. He usually sits with his little white head sticking up, watching in the direction I disappeared, or he falls asleep if I take too long.

When I was a kid Mom often waited in the car and had me run into the post office for stamps or into the grocery for a carton of milk. And I wonder how old I was when she first let me do that. I’m sure it was very convenient for her to keep the car running and let me do the work for a change, but I’m sure I received the biggest benefit.

Imagine the confidence I learned from being trusted with money and such important jobs. I had to act like an adult and tell the guy behind the high post office counter exactly what I needed. I had to pick out the correct items on the grocery shelf and be responsible for handing over the money and receiving the right amount back. Independence like that is priceless.

And those errands also taught me that I could be trusted. I was important. Adult-like. I can’t help but think that errands like those enabled me to be an independent adult. There was nothing that I couldn’t handle on my own. I learned that early.

Now I’m going to add that lesson to my ever-growing list of things to teach my son. It’s a very long To-Do List!

Failure

2011-10-30T17:48:00.000-07:00

I thought about posting my blog this week and glossing over the fact that I did not post anything last week. It’s the first time in over 140 weeks that I have not posted. And I’m trying hard not to feel like a failure. Well, failure might be too strong a word, but it is disappointing that I put a halt to my great running streak.

Every day I thought about what I could write about, and practically all of my motivating themes were about babies. And I’ve said before that I don’t want this blog to turn into a baby blog. So, every day I tried so hard to think of other things, other thoughts that could turn into a little mini essay for my readers, but everything seemed lame, over-thought, trying too hard.

So I posted nothing. And I fought feelings of failure.

But I haven’t failed as long as I keep going, right? Like a dieter who gives into a box of donuts, as long as I get back on track I’m okay, right? One mistake doesn’t have to stop me forever. And I don’t want to ramble on about cheesy subjects just so that I post every week. I want my writing to mean something. I want to be proud of what I write, or if not proud, at least not embarrassed. So, I choose quality over quantity. That’s not failure, is it?

Failure is such a strong word. But failure is subjective. Pessimists probably feel they have lifetimes of failure, while optimists like me don’t see our shortcomings that way. I like being an optimist. Optimists never fail.

So Much Music, So Little Time

2011-10-19T19:33:00.000-07:00

The book The Mozart Effect is on our bookshelves in the front room, but I’ve never read it. But no matter what it says, I do believe that listening to music as a child has a huge impact on who we become. So yesterday, our baby attended his first piano concert.

By “concert” I mean that he laid on the floor on a blanket by the piano and I played a few goodies for him. First was John Lennon’s "Imagine," my favorite song and the one I felt must be his opening number. Second I played the theme from Terms of Endearment, another song I have memorized and can play easily. Next I opened the easy piano book I played in junior high and the first song I saw was "Don’t Cry Out Loud," a song whose title I found ironically amusing to play for a baby. By this time he was starting to get restless, so I finished with "Memory," thinking the rocking melody might entertain him.

I wonder what my musical choices will do to my son’s development. As I played, I wondered if my occasional mistakes would affect his ear as an adult. Or would they make him more attune to the nuances of music?

Other music he has been introduced to during his life thus far? They played Classical and show tunes in the hospital while he was there. In the car I play either the Classical station or my Marc Cohn CD. The other day I introduced him to my cousin’s band BR5-49, and he showed his appreciation by sleeping through the whole thing. As he grows, he will get to know Billy Joel and the Beatles, who we always listen to during any car trip of 30 minutes or more.

Will these songs bring back distant memories for him when he’s an adult, the way James Taylor or Dan Fogelberg does for me? Those albums played on the record player in our living room when I was a kid, and they always feel like home.

The list of music to share with him keeps growing…Gershwin, Big Band, Richard Rogers, Fred Astaire, Broadway, Chicago, the Eagles, maybe some Jon Bon Jovi and Journey…so much music, so little time!

Live Your Best Life

2011-10-11T19:31:00.001-07:00

Can you say that you love your life? Or your job? Or the city you live in? This week I’ve been wondering what makes someone able to wholly, blatantly, unabashedly declare that they love these things. Is it because they truly have the ideal life or job or city? Or is it just their outlook that makes it possible? How many of you out there can say you love your life?

As a subscriber to Oprah magazine, I am regularly told that I should “Live my Best Life.” And I do try to do this. Oprah gives us advice on finding our dream job, lists of the happiest cities in the country, how to improve our lives by eating right and exercising and reading good books and meditating.

But sometimes this is annoying. It puts pressure on me if I cannot achieve pure bliss.

Instead of making a Vision Board of all the things I want, like Oprah suggests, with career goals and photos of hiking vacations and beach houses and all those things I aspire to do and to have, instead it makes me feel better to make an “Accomplishments Board.” This way, I can focus on what I’ve done and on what I have – the things I’m proud of.

This way, I can quit focusing on my To Do lists and sit back and enjoy life. Isn’t that Living my Best Life, truly?

Sleepy

2011-10-05T08:28:00.000-07:00

I’ve vowed not to turn this into a blog about babies, so that has limited my subjects for the week. George and I went to the dog park once, we went to a party at a friend’s house, but other than that my life has been full of formula, spit up, poop, and trying to nap. So, here is my topic for this week: sleep.

Unlike my husband who used to wake up in our new house when the refrigerator used to turn on downstairs, I have usually been a good sleeper. Bedtime is a comforting ritual, with snuggly covers, soft PJs, and far away memories of lulabyes and covers tucked in tight. To me, one of the best times of the day is that moment when you first wake up, when the house is still quiet and the light soft from the window.

Having my sleep interrupted every night, several times, is definitely unsettling. It interferes with that sacred time when my body rejuvenates and I de-stress from life. Going to bed and knowing I cannot fully escape into sleep gives the nightly ritual a negative tinge.

Isn’t sleep a strange thing? Where exactly do we go when we sleep? And I think dreams are fascinating – the idea that our brains continue on elaborate fantasies while we sleep hints at all the untapped power we have in our minds.

I have to admit, though, that in the middle of the night when I give him his bottle and he falls asleep with his mouth hanging open, I take comfort in his sleep even though I am exhausted. He is just so peaceful. Watching a baby sleep – or even watching George sleep – shows exactly the kind of sleep we all need. Pure comfort. Innocence. Peace.

And now I apologize, because that’s just about as deep as I can go this morning. I got up three times during the night last night, and as soon as I finish typing I am going to try to take a nap with George before the baby wakes again.

Dream-Come-True

2011-09-27T18:54:00.001-07:00

Have you ever had a dream come true?

We’ve all dreamed, during our lives, about meeting Mr. or Mrs. Right, about becoming a movie star, or winning the lottery. Some of these may come true; some may never come true, but they’re fun to dream about.

I often fantasize about what I would do if I won the lottery. I don’t mean the normal list of what I would spend it on. Instead, I like to think what I would do if I found out right now that I won. If I’m dreaming about it on the way to work, I wonder, would I continue on to work or just call and quit right there? Who would I call first? It might be fun to surprise my husband with the news by driving up in a new car. Or by handing him a flight ticket to a trip around the world. These thoughts make the dream more real, more tangible.

A friend of mine recently achieved her dream of acting on Broadway. Every theatre kid has this dream, but after years of hard work and training, she actually achieved it. After seeing her perform, I asked her how it felt to have completed her number one goal. What do you do after your dream comes true?

I won’t tell you her answer, because that is between us. But I think it’s an interesting question. Is there a letdown after having your dream fulfilled? Do you just move on and get a new goal – a new dream? Or can you be satisfied now that you have it?

Before we got our baby – our son! – I felt that getting pregnant or getting a baby was as elusive as winning the lottery – that far away from reality. But it happened. The dream came true. And for me, what happened after my dream came true? Now my dreams are for him.

Getting Quirky

2011-09-20T19:15:00.000-07:00

George pooped on our bedroom rug this week. Actually he might have done it before that - it was quite hard. I imagine I probably stepped on it at one point and thought it was his bone. He often leaves his bone hidden in the dark shaggy rug.

He is pissed at us because of the new addition to our family, and the baby isn’t even home yet! But we haven’t been at home as much; he hasn’t had as many walks; he can sense our new excitement and anxiety. Poor guy. I don’t fault him for acting out.

In a way, I think George is gaining a few eccentricities in his old age. He just turned eight years old, and he definitely has new personality traits. Mainly, he is more finicky than ever about going outside when it rains. In the past when it rained, he used to run out it in to pee, do his business, and then opt for peeing inside on his pee pad afterward. He would at least try going outside.

Now, he refuses to go out at all if it’s raining. And if the ground is still wet, he will not walk beyond the patio. In fact, I have trouble getting him to go outside at all if it has rained lately. He’s very persnickety.

He also pretends to want to go outside, and he pretends to want an ice cube from the refrigerator, when all he really wants is me to get up and give him attention. He will stand by the back door or the fridge until I get up, then when I do, he walks away nonchalantly and stares at me as if I am stupid. He has attitude.

But isn’t quirkiness a trait of old age in humans, too? I am about halfway through my life (hopefully), the same as George (hopefully), and I know I have changed with age. I am less worried about what other people think, less worried about being polite. I may not poop on people’s rugs, but it might cross my mind.

The New Me

2011-09-13T16:30:00.000-07:00

How do you plan ahead when you know your life is about to change?

I am a planner, and I admit to having plans mapped out for myself for months to come. My next flight (to wherever) is always booked, my next day off planned, my next doctor’s appointment, small goals, and large ones.

But beginning one day soon, I will be a mother. I already am, technically, but I know I won’t really feel like it’s real until I bring him home. This was a sudden turn of events – one we wanted to happen, were waiting for – but one that we had no idea would happen suddenly! And it’s very hard to change my perception of myself in just one night!

I always pictured myself with a child, still active, still social, a person who didn’t give up who she was for her child. I wanted to be one of those parents who goes on hiking trips with the baby in their backpack, a parent who sips coffee at cafes while the baby coos contentedly from the nearby stylish carrier, the mother who takes her baby to art museums and on trips to interesting places.

But realistically, I know that is an ambitious goal. Knowing me, I will probably be a version of the picture in my head – I want to expose my child to the world, to the Arts, to the things that enrich us. So I’m sure I will be that person to an extent. After all, it’s who I am.

But right now, realistically, my goal is just to keep this blog going. I could so easily put it on hold so I can focus on shopping for bottles and onesies and decorating a nursery. Instead, I’m going to try not to make my writing all about babies. I’m sure it will be very difficult. In fact, I couldn’t think of one single thing to tell this week except for our news. There has been absolutely nothing in my head for the past ten days.

So if I am indeed able to NOT write about babies during the weeks to come, congratulate me. It will mean that I was able to keep a small version of the old me – the writer, sitting in my library at my mom’s old wooden desk. The only difference will be the baby on my lap. A baby! Wow.

House Sitting

2011-09-07T08:36:00.000-07:00

We have been house sitting for the past few weeks. While we haven’t been sleeping in my in-laws’ house, we have gone over there many times to water their plants, get the mail, and check to make sure everything is okay.

Somehow, being in someone else’s house when they’re not home is the ultimate way to get to know them. I wander around, looking at the photos in frames, the notes on the dry-erase calendar, the collection of golf trinkets and statues, and the quiet house allows me to feel what it might be like to live their life.

When people’s houses are empty, we can walk for a moment in their shoes. Things I usually ignore because I’m having a conversation or eating a family dinner are suddenly, quietly, more present. Alone in their house, I am in their world. It’s a deeper glimpse of who people are.

I took George for a walk one morning in our neighborhood and ended up talking to a man who was house sitting for his brother for the weekend. This man and his wife were taking care of his brother’s three kids, carting them off to piano and dance lessons, making them breakfast, sleeping in his brother’s bed, driving his car. I’m sure their experience in the brother’s house was very telling, even if their house was far from quiet.

We have also stayed in strangers' vacation rentals, and in the houses of friends of friends. Walking in a stranger's shoes is even more fascinating, as I play detective and try to figure out who the people are by the family photos and their choices of flatware and curtains. Which is their favorite chair? Do they walk to the corner store for coffee in the morning?

Our house basically has our personalities laid out for all to see. It's full of photos, artwork, our hobbies, all prominently out for use or displayed for discussion. You wouldn't have to play detective in our house.

The Town Dentist

2011-08-31T09:39:00.001-07:00

In my hometown in rural Indiana, the town dentist lived across the street from my grandparents. We often saw him walk down the hill to his office just a few doors down, or back up again at the end of the day. I went to Dr. Cromwell beginning when I was small, and I remember his smile, and his sing-songy voice that gently lectured about the latest developments in oral hygiene while he worked, and the tray of fancy plastic rings from which I got to choose when my appointment was over.

I had minor dental surgery recently, so it makes me think about Dr. Cromwell. I miss that comforting feeling that comes from knowing someone since you were a kid.

Every Halloween, we trick-or-treated at the Cromwells’, and he or his wife would put a brand new toothbrush in our treat bags. When I was the 4-H Fair Queen at age sixteen, Dr. Cromwell let me borrow his little white MG convertible to ride in the Indian Festival parade. And in college, I called him one weekend when I was in extreme tooth pain, and he gave me the solution over the phone. I’ll never forget how relieved I was, to have him take care of me from hundreds of miles away!

Now in Vegas, I have a dentist who I’ve seen for 15 years, nearly rivaling my length of time with Dr. Cromwell. Dr. Hendrickson is also smiley, but he gives me dental floss and toothpaste instead of fake diamond rings. But at least I have a history with him, too. I can say he knew me when I was in my twenties! I guess he knew me when I was young, too.

p.s. George really likes chicken-flavored toothpaste.

Kinship

2011-08-23T10:57:00.000-07:00

At the dog park this week, I sat on the bench with my book while George ran around, and it was a fairly quiet, uncrowded morning on the small-dog side. After a few pages, the metal gate squeaked as a woman entered with her schnauzer. The dog ran inside and straight to George, and the woman waited impatiently at the entrance for her daughter who straggled behind, thirty feet down the sidewalk.

The girl was slow because she was reading. Her face was hidden in the pages of a thick hardback she held up directly in front of her, but somehow she was able to walk the whole distance without averting her eyes, almost as if there were eye holes cut in the middle of the book so she could see through.

My mom’s voice drifted in my memory, “Get your nose out of that book!” Mom used to say that often, not to discourage my reading but to get me to put it down long enough to eat a meal or say a few sentences. This girl at the dog park was just like me, way back then with my nose in a book.

While the girl moved across the park to stand in the shade of a tree, I remembered another girl I had met a few years ago, in Hawaii.

It was early morning and my husband was still asleep in our beach rental. I sat in my usual chair and stared at the waves with my sketchpad on my lap. I usually took my sketchpad on trips but never felt inclined to sketch. This time, I had relaxed enough to be inspired. And since this was my daily morning spot, I decided to claim it on paper. I began by outlining the huge knotty tree next to me, with its curved branch that reached toward the water and the cluster of rope that hung from its trunk.

Suddenly a girl about thirteen years old appeared by the tree and said, “Hello.” She was freckled and skinny and looked up into the big tree’s branches.

I returned her greeting and continued my sketch while she climbed up the tree and sat on an upper branch. “Well, I found my reading spot,” she said with satisfaction.

A girl after my own heart, I thought. And sure enough, I saw her up there in the tree with a book several times during our vacation.

Readers share a kinship. We may read different books and sit in different countries, in varied houses and apartments and farms, but reading takes us to the same place.

Right now I’m reading Jane Fonda’s Prime Time, The Scarlet Letter, and The Greatest Generation, depending on my mood. What are you reading?

Tuppence a Bag

2011-08-16T20:40:00.000-07:00

In the parking lot of the Walmart Garden Center this weekend, I noticed a large flock of pigeons sitting nearby. While pigeons aren’t necessarily uncommon in the city, the way they just stood there, or sat there, was odd. It seemed like they were waiting for something.

I went inside and looked around a bit at the end-of-season items, then I ended up following a man outside back to the parking lot. He called over his shoulder, “See ya!” to the cashier and carried a large bag under his arm. I didn’t think much of him until I noticed all the pigeons take flight when he came near.

The man walked to a car at the edge of the car, and all the birds – hundreds of them – followed him, circling around him and landing on his car. He opened his car trunk, almost oblivious to them.

But he was far from oblivious. I sat in my car and watched him through my windshield, and finally I saw why the birds were so interested.

He had just bought a huge bag of birdseed, which he opened and proceeded to throw huge handfuls onto the parking lot. The birds knew he was coming; he must do it every day – that’s why he was so friendly with the cashier. And that’s why they had been there, waiting.

He didn’t finish throwing handfuls until the ground was covered yellow and the birds were happy.

I like witnessing eccentric people. It makes the world more interesting.

A Not-So-Helping Hand

2011-08-09T09:04:00.000-07:00

This week gave me another opportunity to help an animal, or so I thought. I drove home from work one afternoon and sitting there in the driveway was a bird. I drove slowly, thinking it would fly away, but it just sat there. I parked my car and walked slowly toward it.

The bird was young. It had most of its feathers. Was it hurt? It looked up at me with its deer-in-the-headlights expression as I tried to remember what I had heard about taking care of a lost bird.

I vaguely remembered that sometimes you’re supposed to help and sometimes you’re not. Sometimes you put it back in the nest and sometimes you don’t. For now I could at least get it out of the driveway. So I slowly crouched down and reached toward the bird, planning to set it next to a nearby bush.

When my hand was just an inch from the bird, he sprang to life and started running, his legs long but his wings stubby and flapping. Obviously he was too young to fly, and I ran after him to keep him from running into the garage.

Safely on the other side of the driveway, he again sat and stared at me. Where did he come from? Our trees had no nests, and neither did the neighbor’s. While I stood there, a mockingbird landed on the wall above the bird and started talking. The baby chirped in return and flapped his short wings.

Upset by the worry of the mother and the sad sight of the lost baby, I went inside and got on the internet. And I found my answer.

Apparently, baby birds who leave the nest (called fledglings) are the most kidnapped of animals, due to well-meaning humans who find them and think they need help. But the truth is that birds leave the nest before they can fly, and they spend two days to two weeks on the ground foraging for food. The baby travels up to a two-block radius and the mother keeps track of him and feeds him. They cannot fly at this stage, so it’s no wonder that people find them and think they’re doing the right thing by taking one in and caring for it. By the way, if you find a pink, obviously too-young baby, you should put it back in the nest. Or better yet, google “found a baby bird” and read what to do before you act.

We heard the baby and mother talking that night and the next morning, as the baby made its way around both sides of the house and on toward other adventures. George even got a little excitement when the baby wandered into our back yard. Luckily I grabbed him in time.

So I guess the point is that we should help, but we need to be educated in what we do. We shouldn’t assume that we know what an animal needs. It’s a good thing I did a little research. This week, google saved a bird from being kidnapped!

Goodbye, Saturn

2011-08-01T14:46:00.001-07:00

Does your car have a name? If not, do you at least think your car has a personality? Do you talk to it?

I ask these questions because I sold my car this week…my silver Saturn that I bought new way back in 1999. It had 180,000 miles on it - 180,000 miles that the Saturn and I shared together, It and me.

So doesn’t it make a little sense that I felt guilty – and sad – when I let it go? I felt sad as I drove to the dealer to pick up my new car. Then while sitting in the dealership filling out paperwork, the Saturn sat outside warily as I tried to avoid its gaze. What was going to happen to it? Would its new owners take care of it and appreciate it as I had?

So maybe it was just a bit of PMS - typical emotional female stuff - but doesn’t it make sense that I felt sad? Twelve years ago when I bought it I was practically a different person. I grew with that car. It drove me, safely, across mountains and deserts, grappled with intense heat and snowy roads, endured my tears and laughter, through a major portion of my life. It was a good car, even if I never did name it.

Even today I still feel a little sad for that car, sold because it was too old, given away because it had too many miles, wasn’t as reliable. But I’m not crazy. Ever since cars were invented people have named them, personified them. My Mom always patted our dashboard and told our car it was a good car. Treat it right and it’ll take care of you. Movies and films have featured talking cars – cars with personalities like Herbie, KITT, and the General Lee. Why do we think of our cars as human?

Somewhere out there is my silver 2000 Saturn SL2. If you see it, would you give it a pat on the hood and say “Hi” for me?

Penny Power

2011-07-26T10:28:00.001-07:00

The kids' magazine Penny Power inspired me quite a bit as a kid. It was full of all kinds of money-saving ideas: instructions for lemonade stands and yard sales, comparisons between the prices of fast food hamburgers, suggestions to make money by mowing yards or babysitting. Every month I got the magazine in the mail and eagerly read stories that made me want to fill my piggy bank.

In one issue, I was told how to have an official taste test at home. Mom and I had a longstanding debate about which brand of peanut butter was better – Superman brand, which we ate at home, or Jif, which I had at Grandma’s house. I followed the magazine’s instructions to the letter, including water to cleanse the palate between samples. In the end, I made my point: Mom could have sworn that the better one was her beloved Superman brand, but she actually preferred Jif. In this instance, Penny Power magazine led us to buy the more expensive brand. Oops.

I wish I could say that Penny Power caused me to learn about money at such a young age that I saved money every week, opened a savings account at age ten, and made my first investment by age twelve. But it did open my eyes to money earlier than most. And now, when I put a little extra money in savings or think about ways to cut back or alter our budget, I do get a little bit of the excitement I got when I read the magazine long ago. If nothing else, Penny Power made money friendly instead of a topic to avoid.

I wonder if Penny Power still exists. I’m tempted to order a subscription for the members of Congress. They need all the help they can get.

Salt Air and Seagulls

2011-07-19T12:18:00.000-07:00

On beach vacations I am enamored by the beach cruisers everyone seems to own. People ride lazily by me with their towel/water/book in the front wicker basket, on bikes of every color. Many have flowers painted on the frames, or they have baskets lined with colorful fabric, or they have old-fashioned bike bells that chirp happily at me as they pass.

Mostly, I wonder about these people who own these bikes. To me, if you own a beach cruiser, it says a lot about your life. And I want that life! Let me explain.

A beach cruiser is not built for speed. It is clunky and has only one gear. It is meant for strolling – cruising - on the boardwalk while you watch the waves. Or it takes you on back streets toward the outdoor café where you park and sip a latte. Owning a beach cruiser means you have time to appreciate the small stuff.

Beach cruisers almost always have a basket on the front, which means when you ride one, you might be away from home for several hours. These baskets can hold your beach items or your picnic lunch or your dog, or can include your groceries when you have errands to run. A basket on your bike means you have things to do, but they’re enjoyable things. You won’t see a briefcase in a beach cruiser’s basket.

The owners of beach cruisers love their bikes and bedeck them to show their personalities. Local bike stores will carry every possibly color and style of basket, basket liner, helmet, bell, drink holder, and streamers – I have seen drink holders covered in plastic flowers, helmets painted with polka dots, and even small colorful flowers you can clip to your handlebars. Beach cruiser owners like embellishments, but they are simple ones, not flashy. Their focus is on fun.

This weekend we were in Coronado and I jealously watched these bike owners and almost bought a colorful bell to attach to my bike back in Vegas. But it wouldn’t be the same. A beach cruiser in the desert doesn’t make sense. It needs salt air and the sound of seagulls. And I guess, so do I.

A NASA Insider

2011-07-10T21:04:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, I felt very important when I told other kids that my Dad worked for NASA. After all, I lived in rural Indiana where most men were farmers, so my Dad’s profession in the space industry was very exotic.

Every Summer I visited Dad in Huntsville, Alabama and got a special Security pass (with my name on it!) and was led through the off-limits areas of the Space & Rocket Center. The first time my cousin Jeff joined us, and Dad showed us the huge computer rooms (the computers themselves were huge back then) and the rooms with raised floors that were built so that all the computer cables could run underfoot. We also saw a shuttle engine, rockets, moon rovers, and we got to go to the gift shop and buy astronaut ice cream.

Being the inquisitive kids that we were, Jeff and I pretended we were reporters and carried little notebooks in which we jotted important information. In fact, I recently found my little notebook, and inside it were the names of everyone we met that day, in addition to random bits of information such as “Then we went in the skylab where they had all thier exspearimeants" and "I met a lady named Anita and I told her that was my mother's name and she said that's nice."

Being and “insider” and so connected to NASA, I got a little emotional Friday morning when I watched the last shuttle take off. I remember the day when a TV was wheeled into my elementary school classroom and we all watched the first shuttle take off years ago. That big white shuttle seemed so futuristic, so advanced, and yet also more attainable. Instead of being sent into space on a rocket and then returning by freefalling to the ocean in a little capsule, now astronauts were able to fly up in a giant white airplane and then land back home on a runway. Would we all get to fly up there someday?

Now there is an international space station where many nationalities meet and put us all as equals – just common people way up there, looking down at the small, quiet earth.

I am sad that the shuttle program has ended without anything to replace it. Now we will have to hitch rides with other nations’ astronauts and bide our time until we have another great urge to explore. I think the time will come, eventually. Aren’t we all programmed to gaze up at the stars and wonder? To think bigger than ourselves? I look forward to whatever is next.

My Hero, John Williams

2011-07-04T13:42:00.000-07:00

When Star Wars came out back in the Seventies, I saw it in the theater seven times. I was quite young, so I’m not sure how I got to go so often. This was before VCRs or Netflix or On Demand, so seven times was quite an accomplishment. We bought the soundtrack, I bought fan magazines with Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill, or Harrison Ford on the cover, and I played with my action figures. I am still an ardent fan, and I cannot help pausing to watch if I catch one of the original three Star Wars movies on TV.

This Sunday was one of those days. Spike TV was having a Star Wars movie marathon, so I watched The Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi, and then The Empire Strikes Back one more time. (It was always my favorite.)

As a little kid, I was impressed by the high-tech space age special effects, but I was most engrossed by the characters. I wanted to be Princess Leia and marry Mark Hamill. I wanted to ride on a ton-ton, have my own R2-D2, and have a Wookiee for a best friend. I watched these movies and learned about good vs. evil, and about the Force that connects us all.

But the thing that stayed with me the most is the music. Mom and I used to put our Empire Strikes Back album on the record player on weekend mornings. I’ll never forget the first time we listened, when we tried to identify what had happened in the movie during each section of the music. I remember sitting on the living room couch when Mom recognized a specific piece of music.

“Shannon!” she said, turning to me with wide eyes.

I watched Mom crank up the volume. She continued, “this is the music for the Imperial Walkers!” She knew those tall things that walked across the snow-covered field to attack the rebel forces had really creeped me out during the movie.

Mom pointed out the window, toward the trees and road that led toward town. “Can’t you picture them?” The music continued its ominous melody, and Mom pretended to see them. “They’re coming toward the house right now!”

The music continued its creepiness, and I could so easily picture those Walkers on their slow heavy trek right toward us. I got chills down my spine. It was the first time I truly understood the power of music.

So now that I have John Williams’ great score running through my head, I’m going to go turn on the TV. I think that movie marathon might still be playing.

No Smudges

2011-06-28T07:30:00.000-07:00

This morning George and I drove to the dog park and stopped at a red light next to two motorcycle cops. The car behind me also contained a dog on the way to the park – it was a small dog whose hair was dyed pink. So George, the pink dog, and I stared at these two cops while we waited for the light to change.

While the CHIPS theme song ran through my head, I noticed how impeccably clean their bikes were. The mirrors had no smudges. The chrome trim shined in the sun. Even the tires seemed clean. I started to daydream, wondering what their day was like. Do they spend the first thirty minutes of every day cleaning their motorcycles? Are they given a special motorcycle cleaning area at the station, like the drive-through car washes at Fabulous Freddy’s? Do they clean them at work or at home? On the clock or off?

But more than anything, I thought about the notion that their job requires their equipment to be immaculately clean. And that says so much. They are required to respect their motorcycles and their jobs. They care about the image they reflect to the public. And their bosses require it.

How I wish that all workplaces instilled in their employees a pride of profession and a pride of a job well done. If only everyone cared more. Wouldn’t we all be better off?

A Tourist In My Hometown

2011-06-21T09:08:00.001-07:00

Back home in Indiana this past week, I visited with family and explored my hometown of Paoli, Indiana. I always appreciated living there, but now it’s fun to visit there as a tourist. I now see my hometown with different eyes - eyes that have been wiped clean of childish boredom that made the town seem humdrum-normal.

My hometown is, in fact, not the norm. Or, you could say it is normal in the sense that it is almost a stereotype of good ol’ rural Midwestern living. The whole area was a great place to grow up – full of the benefits of small town life plus the perks of the nearby cities like Louisville and Indianapolis where we would shop, see shows, or go to museums.

But Paoli has shopping, shows, and museums, too. Just this weekend I went into a shop on the town square and chose from several designs for a custom-printed sweatshirt. Down the street I could have gone into a music shop, gift shop, and antique store. The Orange County Museum is in the corner of the square. And just a few steps past the old library is the Lost River Market where I got some homemade soup and an internet connection. There is also a Chinese restaurant and a Mexican place. Those didn’t exist when I was a kid – they were too exotic!

Just north of town on a windy drive through the hilly countryside are two Amish farms where I like to shop. These aren’t touristy Amish stores – they’re stores meant mainly for the Amish families – where they can buy herbal remedies, solid color fabric, and pots and pans. I love to hear the echo of my footsteps on the bare wood floor while I decide what type of bread or homemade candy to buy. The only other sound is from the nearby horses, goats, chickens, or from the men working in the barn.

Paoli’s central square is a gently sloping lawn with a grand white courthouse in the middle, complete with huge white columns and wrought iron staircases. This is where festivals are held, and where old men sit on the benches to watch the world pass by.

The surrounding county adds to Paoli’s charm. In French Lick, 8 miles to the west, there is the French Lick Springs Hotel, and the West Baden Springs Hotel, which was at one time the largest freestanding dome in the world. Both are old charmers with sweeping verandas and rich histories. Also in French Lick is the historic train depot which offers train rides, the French Lick Winery, and Larry Bird Blvd which honors its most famous resident. Farther past French Lick is Patoka Lake with fishing, boating, and swimming.

To the north is Spring Mill State Park with its pioneer village, tree-surrounded Inn, and many hiking trails. On the trip up there, you can go to the Orleans Farmers Market for some fresh veggies and to listen to the musicians who gather there every Saturday, to the Gus Grissom Memorial to pay tribute to the historic astronaut, to Appleacres for a free sample of Apple Cider, and to the Mitchell Opera House for a bit of music.

I strongly suggest you plan a little weekend getaway to Orange County, Indiana. Stay at the West Baden Springs Hotel if you want to splurge, or the Artists Inn & Cottages in French Lick, or the Big Locust Farm B&B in Paoli. I guarantee your weekend will be jam-packed with activity.

And did I mention that Paoli has a ski resort?

My Friends Hugh and Tony

2011-06-13T18:19:00.000-07:00

This weekend my family and I watched the Tony Awards, and I saw my old friend Hugh Jackman.

Okay, maybe he’s not really my friend, but I have to say that watching the Tonys makes me feel like I know all those actors. We all have shared the same background – the same experiences of long rehearsals, challenging roles and difficult directors.

And seeing Hugh Jackman reminds me of the time when he saw me perform. I was singing Italian opera in a show at the Venetian, and he walked by and stopped to watch our show. This was unusual; celebrities usually passed by quickly to their next gig or to avoid paparazzi. But Hugh saw us singing, stopped, and watched a whole song. He stood there smiling the whole time. It was obvious that he was one of us – he remembered working low-paying jobs, being a lowly actor – and he stood there and gave us the respect that one actor gives to another.

The Tony Awards remind me that dreams can come true. I can see the path that these people took to get where they are - training, auditions, casting, rehearsals, performances. I understand their world, was a part of it at one time. And here they are, accepting awards for their hard work. It makes me feel that anything is possible.

Everyone who has achieved greatness was once a younger person with dreams. No matter what those dreams are, no matter where that person is in life, those dreams are possible. I truly believe that.