In Jeopardy

Just because we were in the endless loop of summer reruns on TV, we sat in front of a show with half of our attention diverted elsewhere.  My attention was divided between a summer read and a repeat of a Jeopardy Tournament of great significance.  Hence, the book was winning out. The book was more engaging until I heard Ken Jennings fire off numerous requests for translations of a language I didn't quite catch. The first three clues received no response from any of the contestants even though they were presumably smarter than the average Joe because they were on Jeopardy, after all.  What was this baffling topic?   Ken was looking for Esperanto translations.  He finally got a correct response, but they had my attention now.

I looked at my husband and posed the question, "What is Esperanto and where is it from?"   The quick answer (it's always a quick answer from a trivia geek) was "They speak it in an area of Arizona."  Now I'm an expert in just about nothing, other than common sense, so my common sense alarm shot to the absolute highest measure of the BS range.  This required more work.

I turned to my other friend - The Google.  Google said nothing about Arizona - rather he/she/they spoke of a Polish ophthalmologist in the 1880's devising a new language intended to enable universal communication among all members of the human race regardless of their location or situation.  And yet, here we were in 2025 and even Jeopardy contestants didn't know it.  Craziness.

I recounted the evening to my daughter days later.  I told the story up to the Arizona line and my 11 yr old grandson was writhing on the floor in laughter while saying "No, no, no!"  What is so funny? I ask.  He responds "It has nothing to do with Arizona.  It is a totally made-up language that is supposed to be spoken by everyone in the world."  I respond "that is exactly right.  How did you know that?"  His response? "It's one of those things you just know."  

That one Jeopardy category had proven to be a gift continuing to provide universal entertainment through laughter and in order to put it to bed - I ask one more question.To my husband: "Why did you think they spoke Esperanto in Arizona?'  His response - There was a time when Tonto appeared on The Johnny Carson Show."  He was doing a whole bit with Johnny about how he, Tonto, was traveling to Toronto and he was going to speak Esperanto there."  My husband has remembered the full exchange for over 50 years and now tells me he thought Esperanto was a dialect spoken in Arizona because that was Tonto's home.  

You have to draw your own conclusions.  My job is just to document.  When I return to this page at a later date, it is my hope that I am laughing while still appreciating the richness of Esperanto. 

I know, right?

I received these texts from the middle school lunchroom the other day:

E:  There was a thing on the big TV's in the cafeteria that says "Adopt a grandparent" so can I adopt you?

Me: I don't think that's they are saying.  They want some other person to experience your wonderful personality. Volunteer work with older people who think they would like to hang out with you.

E: Who knew?  Anyway, I've already adopted you.

Me: Yay?

E:  I can treat you like a child.

Me:  You already do.

E: IKR?

Ok, this is where I need someone to adopt me.  Perhaps it will be Google.  I look up the meaning of "IKR."

Definition - I know right! 

Yep. Right. 💗

Respect the Ice

The impending birth of a baby always raises question of the potential impact on family dynamics.  Within our extended family we were pleasantly surprised 8 months ago when the new baby was welcomed by his 2 year old brother with open arms.  Kisses, hugs, and appropriate check-ins dominated the interactions.  Easy-peasy, right?  Sure, as long as the younger brother brother remained on the couch, bed, or in someone's arms.

That is not the case any longer.

Little is on the move.  He flies through the house in his walker and is enjoying life from a new perspective.  That should all be good news and yet an unanticipated wrinkle has presented.  The family has recently learned their hockey-obsessed older son was much more accepting of the baby while he was contained to a well-defined space.   The little one poses a unforeseen threat now that he is on the move.  Several times a day, the cry goes out from the living room.  "He's on my ice!  He's on my ice!"  It seems the floor, which was assumed to be open for all family members to walk on, was in reality the first child's ice and no other "skaters" are allowed to share.  When the anxious cry was called out on a subsequent day, a mom's quick thinking responded "He's the Zamboni!  He needs to clean the ice."  After a thoughtful moment, there was acceptance.  The older one went on with his activities and the mom sighed a sigh of relief.  Crisis averted.  Until 10-15 minutes later, the older son yelled "Time for the Zamboni to get off the ice so we can play again."   

Let the games begin!

2024 Rules

 Words, sticks, and stones all break bones.

Public floggings are now a beating by words, often in front of a congressional panel.

Judgement is

Immediate

Action by action

Word by word

No longer reserved for your ultimate judge. 

Words feed perception.

Perception forms reality.

Reality shapes opinion.

Opinion adds the layers to our definition.

Our definition has become nothing more than left to right leaning politics.

Politics permeate all aspects of life.

Life is heavy.

 

Kind words are mainly

found in country songs.

So are wishes, honky tonks, twang, and love. 

 

Protests should be words

Published, or on placards or spoken through bullhorns, or chanted.

Dissent from those words is now infringement of rights, violence.

It is okay to dissent.  Hard period.

It's not okay that your right to protest infringes on the rights of others.

Pay attention.

Lies are not truthful words 

Even if you say them more often, faster, and louder.

War never works

and is usually only employed when all else fails,

When the drive for power and ownership is no longer

fueled by words but by aggression, 

Who wins 2024?

Why such hate 2024?

Is it easier?

Less work?

Less of yourself to give-up?

Why do we allow others' words

to shape who we are?

Try to be you.

Find your own words.

Stop.

Listen.

Take a deep breath.

Beyond the snarky, judgey,

political, opinionated,

Hateful words

Listen.

The kind, feeling, loving words are there.

Hear them. Share them.

 

 

Ticonderoga #2

Granted, this post is a little early as National Pencil Day is not celebrated until March 30th, but pencils in general got a shout out on the morning news and I thought I would go with it.  The discussion this morning was actually centered around the mixed reviews of taking the SAT College Entrance exam digitally.  It seems some members of the Class of 25, find entering their answers on an IPad difficult.  Wait, what?  My grand kids were swiping before their first birthday!  Right or wrong?  Who knows, but it is a topic for another day as today is Pre-National Pencil Day.  The panelists then recalled the challenges of using a pencil to fill the proper little answer bubble completely with a #2 pencil.  They were all encouraged to use Ticonderoga #2 pencils.  There were never enough to go around to those who failed to bring one to the test as per-instructed.  

I laughed at the memories this conversation conjured around pencils in my life.  Yes, I know, pencil memories?

Our childhood was filled with a lot of things but one of the big unspoken life lessons was always "maintain control."  Although the word control was not used, it was demonstrated in our daily life.  The best illustration can be found in the almost weekly/monthly cry that went through the house - "Who took my pencils?  I don't have much to call my own and now you take my pencils too?"  We would quickly survey the usual "writing" areas (mine was the window sill in the dining room even though there was always a little kids table close by).  I think I usually had the pencils, but we would all look out of fear that this outburst would escalate.  It just depended on how much control was needed or lacking that day.  

I really don't know now why she always needed pencils.  I just remember my mom sitting at my dad's desk which was strategically located to allow her plea for the pencils to be heard in every corner of the house.  Was it to write on the budget envelopes, adjust the grocery list, or to maintain a pristine check register?  Those were all areas of control in her life and evidently the pencil was her safe writing instrument. I should have helped everyone out and heeded the cry.  I was just one of those kids.

Jimmy Hart also comes to mind when I think about pencils.  Jimmy was in my third grade class at a time when we were still more trusted with a "lead" pencil rather than a ballpoint pen.  All of us except Jimmy.  Jimmy would chase kids trying to poke them with his pencil.  I didn't know then why Jimmy was hell bent on poking people with his pencil and I certainly can't find an explanation as I think of it now.  I just remember running or ducking whenever possible because we all believed we would die of lead poisoning, immediately, right there in school, if he did indeed get us.  They were called lead pencils after all and lead poisoning was a thing.  Little did I know that Ticonderoga has used graphite, not lead, for many years.  Also, I believe death by lead poisoning is a very long process.  It is also worth noting Jimmy Hart has no face in my memory - he's just an unkempt boy running around with his combat weapon of choice.  I wonder if he matured, got help, or is still out there with some sort of weapon?  I bothers me there is not a face in the memory!

As an adult, I have shopped for endless school supplies, exactly as defined by the district and the current year teacher.  The one item that is listed at the top each year?  #2 pencils.  Over the years that coveted first spot morphed into "Ticonderoga #2."  Not just any #2 pencil and god forbid not a Ticonderoga #1,  Just stick to the list.  The vast pencil research performed this morning, before getting all of this off my chest, reveals why a Ticonderoga #2 is important and the favorite for the schools.

• A Ticonderoga #2 can write 45,000 words.  Yes!  An unfathomable 45,000 (no wonder my mom wanted to hold on to her prized-possession)
• T#2 require less sharpening and make fewer shards, when sharpening is needed, due to superior graphite.
• T#2 include a well-developed eraser.  It is harder to break and it doesn't leave a lot of eraser dust.
• A T#2 is coated in a hard covering to prevent slivers and help reduce breakage.  

Who knew I had this much to say on pencils?  Certainly not me.  I do think it would be nice on this Pre-National Pencil Day to acknowledge the huge contribution of the Dixon Ticonderoga Company who conceived the idea of a pencil in 1812 in order to aid with the silliness around the use of quill pens as the most used writing implement.  Where's Jimmy Hart when you need him? If I could draw, I would include a cartoon of Jimmy running with a quill pen. 

 

Life Storage

Chapter One 

Self-storage complexes have popped up all over our area with what appears to be a surge in popularity in the post-pandemic period.  I haven't spent a lot of time to consider the surge but know that I now pass most of these facilities without much of a glance.  That is until we found ourselves regularly traveling a route used for the grandparent indoor soccer practice shuttle.  On this new route, a large sign proclaims "Life Storage."  Further investigation reveals a nicely maintained indoor self-storage facility built into an old BJ's Wholesale Club facility.  There is a good-sized drive-in entryway to be accessed only by key pad code.  

I can only imagine the rows of various-sized units on the inside of the facility as I don't possess the appropriate key card but I am struck by how the sign literally grabs me each time we pass.  The idea of anonymous people quietly passing through the entry to store, view or remove some aspect of their life is fascinating.  Oh I get it.  That is what happens at self-storage facilities, but by naming the facility "Life Storage," new life storage scenarios flood my mind each time we pass.    

As I first noticed the sign, I was visited by an image of a woman just approaching her mid-sixties.  Well-dressed, confident, and comfortable in her own skin.  She always visited her small storage unit alone. The unit was big enough only for a storage bin and a rocking chair.  She entered the facility to open the bin and took out the smallest of small piece of baby clothing and sat quietly rocking with the clothing between her hands.  Gently stroking the material with her eyes closed - just rocking.  There was a peace to her face with an occasional tear  slowly rolling down her cheek.  She occasionally looked at a grainy photo or a worn ultrasound image.   Documents were sometimes examined, a baby blanket often spread on her lap.  She would rock for half an hour and then gently return all contents to their bin.  She gently closes the door and locks it until she can return to the life she knows within her hidden life storage unit.

As she exits the facility, she leaves behind her early life until she visits again.  Her memories of the forbidden pregnancy that was denied by all but her come flooding back only when she is in her anonymous life storage unit.  It is only there where she can conjure the feelings she had of that first life growing within her.  It is only as she rocks surrounded by the earthly reminders of the life never realized, that she is able to feel the warmth and love she experienced alone.  Although she was not physically alone for those nine months, the course of her life was being decided by parents who had reputations to maintain. The joy and new life she felt growing within her - was hers alone.  The baby was to be placed for adoption and she would have limited time to touch her cheek, stroke her hair and gently place her lips on her head before she would be gone.  She had prepared herself for losing her first offspring.  She had not prepared herself for the agony of stillbirth.  She was not ready for the lifeless, pale body she held so tightly - never wanting to let go.  She was not prepared for the extreme grief as it followed the joy of new life growing. She was coaxed to let go physically, to resume her normal teenage life as if none of it had ever happened.  And so she did.  Finish high school, go to college - maintain the family name.  Until she started a her own life with a husband and a different family, the box of baby clothes was visited only occasionally in the back of her closet.  Once she was on her own, her secret, her box and the chair were placed in storage.   

And so it is within the confines of her life storage unit the memories of a first time mother, buried grief, and the possibilities of a life never to be realized in the outside world are allowed to exist.  Despite having realized a fulfilling life surrounded by family love, children, a career, and more - it is within the four walls of this small unit that she recalls her first true love and the grief that forever changed her life. 

How it Works

As is so often the case with parents, one of the roles she has taken on in recent years, is that of "driver."  She is driving many times a week.  And also like many other parents, sometimes she just drives and listens.  You learn much more on these rides if you just sit back and listen.  On this particular night, she was caught off guard when the following discussion was initiated by the 9 year old.

9 yo: I wish I could remember what I did in some of my other lives.

11 yo (after a long thought): IF that's how it works, you're not supposed to remember.

9 yo:  Oh, that's the way it works.  I remember one life.  I was a grandpa and I had 2 grandchildren, one was named Mary.  The name was popular back then.

11 yo:  Back when?

9 yo:  I'm not sure of the year, but olden days.

Pause in conversation.  Is it over already?

9 yo:  I wonder how old PaJim is in his new life? 

And there it is.  One fleeting moment.  One more glimpse into the depths of a 9 year old heart and mind.

 

The Game

I want to be sure to document one particular night of 2023 before we become fully entrenched in 2024 (I'm not there yet.)

The beginning of 2023 started out pretty rough for the 9 year old grandson.  He had stepped back from travel baseball into town baseball, mainly due to confidence issues.  He approached the game with a general lack of commitment as he grappled with changes in his family, finding appropriate role models, and just struggling with structured play vs. building forts in the woods. Much of his angst was fueled, as it is for many 9 year olds, by how much of summer vacation should be given up to adhere to any kind of schedule?

Then Jack experienced a sudden and unexpected loss.  He lost the grandparent with the greatest love for baseball and the one who called Jack "one of my people."  PaJim passed away suddenly in June.  Jack held his feelings very close to the vest on Jim's passing.  He was not able to share any thoughts on Jim for quite some time.  This turn of events further complicated Jack's relationship with baseball.  There was a month and a half left of baseball and Jack showed up at some games just to show up and other game times were passed totally because building the fort in the woods took priority that day.  Occasionally we saw the kid who loved to swing the bat and play with his teammates.  It was a surprise to us all when we learned his team had made their way into the championship game with one of the best records in the town. 

This is how we arrived to the hot, muggy, gnat-filled evening of of July 28 for the championship under-the-lights game.

We weren't out of the car yet when we were abruptly run-down by our 11 yr old granddaughter. She was very hot-under-the-collar and animated. Before the door was fully opened, I heard "Mario has been mocking Jack all the way through warm-ups.  He says he can't hit.  I want to go on that field and punch him, but Mommy won't let me."  Any motivation I had to join the group on the sideline was gone.  I asked how Jack was doing and she responded "He's just taking it.  He's not saying a word.  He should punch him.  Teammates should not be like that."

We got settled in our seats, settled Emma Tyson, and eventually got much of the same story from our daughter.  She felt very badly for Jack and hoped the game went well and was over quickly.  

The game began and Jack started in the field.  He appeared focused and had a few really good plays. His team got their chance with the bat and soon it was Jack's turn.  He stepped up to the plate with his bat and after a couple of balls sailed by him, he connected with the ball and hit a solid double.  I looked skyward and thanked PaJim for helping Jack save face in his first at bat.

That first hit, after Mario's barrage of criticism prior to game, launched an epic night for Jack.  His team was on a roll.  Hit after hit brought the runners home.  Their fielding was championship quality and the pitching was great.  The momentum continued and Jack got a hit every at-bat that night.  Singles, double, and a home run.  Jack was a man with something to prove and his actions spoke much louder than his words would have. They certainly were much more effective than his sister's fist might have been.  It was great to watch his confidence increase as the game progressed. They won big that night.  The town championship was theirs.  

The team gathered for the trophy presentation and all of the parents crowded around for pictures.  We, as the the grandparents, hung back to congratulate Jack later.  As he came away from the crowd, he had a smile like none I had ever seen from him.  It was a smile of humility, satisfaction, accomplishment and an appreciation of the magic he had just experienced.  He had been awarded the game ball!  

Championship night will be a favorite lifetime memory for Jack.  Right now he remembers a magical night.  In time, he will know that Mario's words helped fuel his desire and competitiveness to silence his critics.  He dug deep that night to find his confidence.  He could only do it himself.  It is most meaningful because he did do it himself.  No one else can find that for you.  

The story, of course, continues as he is just 9 years old.  Later last summer our daughter got a call from a baseball coach.  They saw a need for a level of play which would enable kids with talent to play at a higher level while gaining the confidence they need through additional coaching and mentorship.  They were asking Jack to try out.  He easily made the team and has enjoyed his winter team time with the group in batting cages and doing inside drills.  He has new friends, friends from school and prior teams and speaks most often about his good friend, Mario. Seriously. 

Life is a journey.  We all get to our ultimate destinations in different ways.  Life throws us some pretty wonky curve balls and fast balls.  The deeper we have to dig within ourselves to navigate the bases and get to our ultimate home base, enables us to gain needed confidence to find peace, accomplish goals, or move on to the next challenge.

And always remember, a magical night guided by those who have gone before us helps keep that fire fueled.  

Play on!

 

Alpha Dogs

 Here's the next entry from the lost posts notebook.  One of the striking realizations in finding these posts is that if you change out some of the names in the post - they are still true today.  20 years later.  We as individuals don't change as much as we'd like to think.  We as a community/society/world don't learn from our mistakes.   

02/07/03

I'm almost 49 years old.  I have simple expectations of life: love of God, love of family, a strong work ethic, and a basic wish to simply greet each new day.  Then I leave the house and am reminded that no amount of sound upbringing or adherence to basic values ever prepares you for living and competing in an alpha male world.  For those of us who are not alpha males - we are constantly asked to weigh our values against the demands of this alpha world.

On a global level we watch as the tale of Suddam and George W unfolds.  Does Suddam Hussein have anything going for himself besides alpha dog syndrome?  Is that what drives all of his actions?  Are his ego and alpha male tendencies the explanation for George W. and his designates' willingness to hunt Suddam and his designates at the expense of the Iraqi people?  Is terrorism nothing more than alpha dog-ism out of control?

Then there is the personal aspect of dealing with alpha males.  Why do I have to beat an alpha male at his own game in order to be viewed as successful?  What about being true to yourself?  Why, when the alpha dog is beaten ( once again) with consistency, facts, and common sense do I feel absolutely no sense of accomplishment?   Why couldn't he accept the answer before all of the bravado was thrown in?  It's not fun this way.  Does anyone win?

Will George W. or Suddam or their people win in the end?

Why can't I just turn 49 in peace and harmony at work and in the global setting?  Do we ever reach a time when men's egos do not rule the day?

Note to self:  Forget the alpha dogs; you are better than them.

Well, there you have it.  Today, in 2023, change out the names and the global scene has similar problems.  On a personal level, I had no way of knowing my own work life would get so much worse before I saw any improvement.  The alpha male cited here was replaced with a totally unethical tyrant who would serve for 9 years.  Life was a struggle.  I can't say it was fun, but I learned a lot and came out much stronger for the experience.  I just wish we could see significant strides forward in finding peace and kindness in 2023 over 2003 or any time in our past. Perhaps my grandchildren will see this and be able to say - we did it!  We have change and the the alpha dogs are no more.  Let's hope they are not able to just change out the names in 2043.  

The note to self did make me laugh though!

The Big Picture vs. Stuff on Your Lunch Tray

 I'll save you the old lady part of the story but imagine my delight and surprise when I realized this morning that I was working in a 20 year old notebook containing some writings from my younger days.  It was fun reading the work of a younger person in a different time and yet the topics all still ring true today.

This particular passage made me a little sad as I so miss these conversations.  I was talking to a then 12 year old son, who, to the average observer, was a crazy poster child for ADHD.  It was only in the quiet of particular moments we would have long conversations typically revealing his understanding of social situations and his keen ability to read people.  These conversations are fewer these days and I miss that.  These snippets speak to the thoughts of a not so average 12 year old.

3/4/03

M: Where's your agenda/planner?

D: Oh my God. You're going to kill me.

M: Why?

D: I threw the planner out w my stuff on the lunch tray.

M: Why?

D: Forgot it was there.

M: You couldn't go back and get it once you knew it was gone?

D: Mom, we're talking lunch garbage.  I wasn't going back for it.

M:  What now?

D:  We wing it.

I think that's what we were doing any way.

When we sit down to relax for the evening the next topic of conversation is revealed.

D: People are so afraid to die.  I'm not.

M: Why do you think they are afraid?

D: Because they're afraid of what they don't know.  They don't know what's on the other side of death so they are afraid.

M:  Then why aren't you afraid?

D:  I don't think I care about what's on the other side.  I'll be dead and besides dying is like going to the bathroom.  Everyone has to do it.  I'd be more afraid of being the one left behind.

M: Why?

D; Cuz you are still alive and you know that loneliness hurts the worst.

M:  Do you think that is why people are afraid to die also?  Maybe they're afraid of the pain of dying.

D: Yeah, but they had more pain in their lives than they do in dying.  They just don't think it through.

There's a pause in the action, then - the next topic.

D:  People shouldn't confuse discrimination and prejudice.

M:  How do you figure?

D:  Discrimination can be a good thing.

M: How?

D:  It's okay to discriminate between a red folder and a blue folder as long as you don't decide you hate all red folders for no reason.

M:  Hhmm...good point.

At the time I wrote the lesson of the day was " Maybe the stuff on your lunch tray isn't important even when your planner for the year is tossed out.  It really does seem insignificant when there are much larger issues to consider.

My take-away as I read it 20 years after written?  Always allow time for the moments to connect with the kids while you have them.  You can't manufacture those moments and they don't last for a very long time.  Be open and be ready to appreciate the 12 year old heart and mind.

Profession

The trip to the mailbox on that early Spring day was met with severe disappointment. An unexpected letter from my physician's office let me know my physician of some twenty years was "retiring."  How the heck could he retire when he is only 52 years old?  Did he not realize he was hand-selected with the intent he would still be practicing when I died?  Did he not realize I, and others, placed trust in his abilities, knowledge, and easy bedside manner?    How could he abandon his profession after training for nearly a decade of his life?  

As it turns out, Dr. Pat chose to move on from clinical medicine to medical research.  As it turns out, Dr. Pat has other competing priorities in life, as do all humans.  He has 4 teenagers.  Imagine!  As it turns out,emergency calls, on call hours, and occasional weekend hours are not compatible with being present for that many family members.  The pandemic forced him to re-evaluate his ideal work-life balance and what was best for him.  He is entitled to a change while still utilizing his training in more of a 9-5 setting.

The medical system re-assigned me to a mid 20's ish Physician's Assistant.  Seriously?  My medical history is a little more complicated than many others.  How could someone with so little schooling and experience know what's best for me?  Did I want to go through the hassle of finding a new doctor on my own?  As is typical for an over-thinker, this internal debate went on for months.  As time marched on and I was no closer to comfort on the topic, I finally realized I just needed to take some action.  Make an appointment and base your decision on actual facts.  And so I did.

Enter "Colin."  Personable, obviously has studied every aspect of my medical history, and appeared to be listening.  Isn't that the stuff doctors should be doing?  I asked my burning question of "why PA vs. Dr.?"  He answered confidently (perhaps he is asked this question multiple times a day as he takes 150 patients from the Dr. Pat patient-base.).  He loves biology and chemistry, he likes working with people, and he has well-developed organizational skills. He enjoys puzzles and the many different personalities he encounter.s.  He likes connecting the dots and determining how to effectively treat the medical side while dealing with the emotional/mental side of folks.  Isn't that the stuff doctors should be doing?  Colin went on to say he thought he could accomplish all of this as a PA and not spend years more in school incurring huge debt.  Honest.

As, I stand at check-out, my options are to pay the co-pay and walk away or make an appointment for a physical.  I make the appointment.

The actual term "profession" really just means that you have spent a lot of time in school preparing for your desired occupation.  Somehow our generation and those before us made "profession" more about dedication to the occupation.  Is Colin's approach to pursuing a career in clinical medicine all that different from Dr. Pat's?  It appears not.   It seems as if Colin may be approaching the occupation more pragmatically, but still with a passion for the work.  He feels he has the aptitude and knowledge to work through the science and the personal skills to work well with people.  Dr. Pat walked away (partially) from his "occupation" because it really is an occupation after all.  I had made our long relationship all about me, very one-sided.  Hopefully, lessons learned in this transition stay with me.  Although my physical care is very personal to me, it is a two-way relationship. Those treating us also have lives and must take care of themselves.   I wish Dr. Pat luck in his endeavors and wish Colin success in dealing with me.

You are My Sunshine

 Sometimes you have to search for the story and sometimes you struggle to find the right words to tell it.  Then, every once in a while the story is just there and it tells itself.

Jack turned nine last week.  It was his single-minded goal to take the opportunity to move past the little boy bedroom of recent years to a retreat complete with a gaming center.  He had the game console but needed a keyboard, mouse, and desk to complete the desired corner of his room.  His vision included a firm plan of his grandmother cleaning his room to ready it for the assembly of the desk by grandpa.  As the aforementioned grandmother, I raised the flag "uh, it's your goal, so I will gladly help you clean the room, but it is your charge."  On Saturday, we cleaned.  

The task progressed as you would guess: piles for clothes, trash, toys to keep, and toys to donate. Finally, we were going to address the huge pile of books in the corner - the only evidence there had been a shelf there until earlier last week.  I floated the question, are there specific series you would like to keep?  Special books to keep?  A certain author?  The answer - everything goes except the sports books.  Oh no, no, child.  We will sort through to check for the specials to keep, the specials to go to your cousin, and then finally pack some up for the library.

The sorting was progressing - some concessions were made to keep more than just the sports books with decent piles made for the gifting of other books.  Then, he was just gone.  There was utter silence in the room.  I looked around the small room and there was no sign of him.  How did he get out without me seeing him?  I yelled his name to only to have a small voice from directly behind me on the floor say "What?'"  I turn to see him quietly reading a baby board book "You Are My Sunshine."  Would you like to keep that one, I ask.  He thought for a moment and replied, "I'd like to give this to PaJim (his paternal grandfather) for Father's Day.  We used to sing this book together."  This was probably the sweetest, most heartfelt thing I had heard in a while.  We put the book aside for Jack to take to PaJim the following day.

We finished the cleaning, the desk was assembled and his game station began to take shape.  Little did we know on the other side of our small town, PaJim passed away very unexpectedly one hour after Jack had announced his intent to gift their shared book.  Instead of taking the book to gift to his grandfather on Father's Day, the day dawned with Jack's dad arriving to tell Jack and his sister of PaJim's passing. 

The book will forever remain with Jack, as will the memories of those toddler days, laying on the couch singing "You are My Sunshine" with his favorite person in the whole world.  He was reliving those days as he sat behind me Saturday on the floor.  He will always have those memories.  PaJim's time was well-spent  in those early days and there could not be a more fitting tribute to a grandfather than  the re-gift of that book.  PaJim will remain as Jack's sunshine. The legacy will now live on in Jack's heart and maybe someday he can pass the singing/reading of the book on to his own grandchild.  

 

 

  

Less is more?

 Late one Saturday morning, I brought ten 2nd grade Girl Scouts into my house to construct their individually designed Christmas sweatshirts.  They were spaced around around two large tables with their own WHITE sweatshirt spread on the table in front of their chair.  Rows of squirt acrylic and sparkle paint lined the center of the table - to be shared.  Good idea?  In retrospect, there was not one sound morsel of common sense exhibited in this plan.   I was just starting to learn, on so many levels, of the flaws in my plan.

Soon , the paint was flying, Christmas carols were being sung, the girls were having a wonderful time, and my anxiety level was increasing as I moved from girl to girl.  The designs were colorful, glittery, and ambitious.  The girls believed a thicker stream of paint was better than a thin or subtle line.  I had visions of them being covered in paint, despite being well protected with oversized shirts.  We also worried about smudging their design and being able to get the shirts dry before Christmas.  So, I announced: "Girls, remember less is better than more."  Silence.  Then I heard the question from one of the heads bent over their precious shirts,  "Mrs. W, what do you mean by less and how do you define more?"

Great questions.  I knew at that moment - their shirts would survive but I had a lot to learn.  Ultimately, the girls had fun, the shirts dried for days in my garage, and most shirts were happily sported throughout the Christmas season.  

Here we are almost 30 years later and the wise-beyond-her-years question has nagged me throughout. I had no business using the terms with a 2nd grader. More importantly, the use of more and less is very subjective.  My perception of paint quantities will always be very different than that of a 7-8 yr old. All these years later, I still realize that there are no steadfast definitions for less and more, as they represent the reality of the user.  Those receiving the message apply their own filter to the statement.  

Less, more, too, very - the list could go on and on.  Our language has evolved to a point when the usage of nebulous adjectives, adverbs, pronouns and more are used as a way to state the users perception.  We are basically editorializing the world around us as we progress through our day.  We believe we are strengthening or weakening a statement for the listener with their usage, but in actuality we are promoting our own opinion.  One of my biggest bug-a-boos that I hear often - he/she is too nice. Or how about, he/she is too smart.  Seriously?  

I heard you - little Christmas Girl Scout.  I have tried to curtail my use of unnecessary descriptors throughout the years. Your questions are now needed for the general masses of Americans who rely too much (see what I did there?) on the steady stream of facts, turned opinion, throughout each day.  If an effort was put forth to deliver facts only perhaps the polarization that is shaping our relationships would subside.  If people could just take a moment to realize all of the sweatshirts can be beautiful if viewed through the right set of filters. 

Story

 Everybody has a story

Everybody has at least one

Hear them

Listen to them

Consider them

Learn from them

Encourage them

Determine your story

Embrace its imperfection

Own it

Tell it

Revisit it

Master it

Share it

Grow it

Be at peace with it.

The Neverland Ferry

There are those among us who were born directly into Neverland.  They physically inhabit our world, but their life philosophy is a youthful abandon following them well into adulthood.  Neverland, and maybe childhood itself, is a frame of mind. When you inhabit Neverland life is viewed through rose-colored glasses.  Your skies are always sunny and if there is rain in your physical space, it becomes a game through diversion or avoidance.  Your techniques are well-honed tools working to your advantage to preserve your enthusiasm for life.  That is, until the Neverland Ferry arrives to take the wannabe "Lost Boy"to the mainland.  It is a rough ride.

Sure, the ferry has visited in the past.  The exploration of the ride to the mainland and of the mainland itself have occurred occasionally throughout the many years of life.  The trips have been small lessons in growing up and the problems of adulthood.  Trouble with the parents, break-ups not self-engineered, deaths of older generation members, sickness, and difficult decisions all present obstacles to the Lost Boy life.  Inevitably, the problems can be accepted and dealt with in plenty of time to catch the next ferry back to the island.  A little maturity creeps up slowly each time, but the coverage is still spotty enough to allow for that return trip.  People stand in awe of this life philosophy.  Some find it enviable; others view it to be escapism.

The trips have gotten longer over the years.  Sometimes, the ferry doesn't make the return trip for long periods.  Reality takes over, making certain to gut punch just hard enough to make you realize there isn't always a way to escape.  Serious relationships,work, and fatherhood have brought the realization of a need for consistency and maturity.  The departure to an ice rink or a gathering of friends can still take place, but for shorter duration before you return directly to responsibility.  The love that has replaced the fun is a serious factor in the determination of longer stays among the real shared experiences of life.

And so it goes, until recently, when it appears the ferry may not return for quite some time.  Now you deal, for the first time, with the fragility of life itself.  The swiftness of that last breath has been startling for you.  Learning to make peace with carrying on the lessons learned can be a weighty responsibility.  Now is the time to consider the reality of the changing of the guard.  

The need to find fun through youthful endeavors has been replaced with finding joy in providing for the multiple families you have created and looking for life's highs through the eyes of your own son, Death takes many forms, but the physical death of those closest to us provide sobering lessons in the march of time and a guaranteed outcome that is the same for all of us.  The main lesson is not only in the inevitability of death, but also of the new life that often stems from death.  New life, new ideas, and hope are best appreciated with the tempering of old love and lessons of life.  

Life does continue forward.  We must keep changing, growing.  Even though the ferry cannot and should not always provide your escape, your youthful outlook can continue to give you a unique perspective on life's' challenges.  Sometimes you need to trust in those around you on the mainland to look out for you, just as you care for them.  Look to those who love you rather than opting for the ferry when life is hard.  The answers are almost always found in love and in time.  Life on the mainland can be joyful in unanticipated ways and prove to be a real rival for the time in Neverland.  Just give us a chance.

Fr., the dog, and Mike

The stories you hear, read, or watch that keep you up at night are the stories with the lifelike characters.  How many times have you laid there wondering what a particular character is doing or would do in a particular situation.  It's maddening to lay there caught up in empathizing with a fictional character or trying to understand their actions the intertwined stories of my real life.  The characters are not all memorable.  No, many of the characters of life are very forgettable. This is about the ones who stick with you forever, but more importantly the ones who pop to the front of your consciousness when their role needs to be re-visited as you continue on your journey.

Two such characters were introduced to me almost 20 years ago when I embarked on my journey of learning to live with neurological deficits.  I had surgery for a spinal chord resection in a now defunct hospital in New York City.  Once out of surgery, it became obvious I would be working toward a new normal.  Re-learning daily activities and functions which had been taken for granted until this point of my life became a full-time job.  To help with this new training, the department was well staffed with nurses, aides, residents, physical therapists, and many others anxious to help me get back on my feet, both figuratively and literally.. 

The first unexpected visitor dispatched by the hospital was a priest.  Sure, my hospital admissions record indicated I was Catholic and sending the clergy to address your spiritual needs is standard practice. But taking one look at this priest was where the "standard" ended. He had a collar, sure.  black-ish shirt, yep.  Fairly conservative presentation, uh-uh.  At the end of his left hand was the harness guiding a beautiful black lab sporting a support dog vest.  It became obvious the priest was dealing with a vision impairment as he moved into room.  There were pleasant greetings and introductions, but I was busy trying to process my new visitors.  I did not fully grasp the content of the discussion until the priest was seated and by that time I realized I didn't know his name and I was too embarrassed now to ask.  "Father" would have to do.  The discussion would center around anything and everything calming; he obviously had the time to talk, as did I.  Topics were the weather, spirituality, the spirit of NYC, the routine of the hospital, and dealing with my current predicament.  Before he rose to leave, he pulled a rosary for his cross-body bag.  He explained that he makes the rosaries to leave with those who are are open to the prayer aid and have the need to use it.  He prayed with me briefly and then took off for the day.  I laid there with my rosary marveling at what had transpired.  A blind man walked into my room in a strange setting, talked as if we had always known each other, and left me with comfort and a reminder of all that is possible in life.  The rosary remains close each day, as the reminder of anything can be done if you are open to the possibilities.

The second visitor was merely Mike. Mike had, without any competition throughout my entire lifetime, the most mesmerizing blue eyes I had ever seen.  They were framed by dark dashes, olive skin tone, and dark hair.  Ahhh, come in Mike!  Mike explained that he was the resident relaxation expert.  Over Mike's 3 visits in the week and a half, he taught breathing exercises, relaxation techniques, mindfulness and clearing your brain.  Mike was so good at his job, I fell asleep at least one time while relaxing.  Mike had the perfect demeanor for relaxation classes with his soft, low voices and calm soothing manner.  I can still picture Mike some 20 years later and just the mere memory makes me relax.

Now, I admit, I was on a decent dose of oxy-something at the time of my NYC hospital stay and these visits.  The impact of these visitors has stayed with me long beyond the affects of the pain killers. Fr. and Mike were the perfect personalities to visit with people who had just come through life-altering experiences and faced some uncertainty in the path forward.  Their contributions to my life enabled me to physically recover more quickly and to more easily deal with whatever comes next in life.  Both characters in this long, drawn out play were cast to perform short-lived yet so important of a role.I had entered the hospital expecting the neurosurgeons to chart my course for the rest of my life.  Little did I realize that it was the blind priest, his support dog, and Mike's mesmerizing blue eyes also benefitting me throughout the rest of my life.  

Here's to the unassuming, humble folks of the world who help us get through life in the most expected ways.  Get out of your head, look forward and outward however you can, and just breathe. 

 

Dad

 We have had a week full of reminders of the meaning of father or dad.  Some of the lessons this week have not been pleasant.  They are reminders of the physical loss of a father-figure, sorting through feelings of emotional voids, lessons on respect of differing opinions, and understanding our respective roles in the ever-progressing stages of life.  It is an emotional week - one that will hopefully contribute well to the development of individual family members and to the overall make-up of our family in the long run.  First, we have to get through this week.

In an effort to do something a little productive this morning, I embarked on the post-tax day cleaning of my office.  I have a lot of bad habits, just like everyone.  The cleaning of my office helped to deal with my bad habits of disorganization, bad filing, and cryptic notes left everywhere.  I have electronic notes of all sorts, notebooks, journals, and post-its.  The cleaning gave me a little control over just one aspect of my life this week.

The clean-out worked.  I have a bag full of shredding to do and fewer notebooks.  I have a nice clean work space while not threatening my creature comforts.  One of my worst habits however, is making notes about what I want to write and then I walk away from the notes and the piece is never written as is evidenced by the 5 month lag on this page.  The sad thing is, some of the notes are no longer meaningful to me and I wrote them.  There are many however to be tackled in the coming weeks.  Stay-tuned.

Now finally, the inspiration that was found in this morning's exercise.  I found this list, with no heading.  No explanation, just a list.  It is so ironic it was found this week.  I needed this, as do others in my family but I think it is too soon for them. The note will serve as inspiration to write and document and move the thoughts from the 2x3 tablet on my desk.  I will write it as it is, with no explanation.  No explanation is needed, but I wonder how it would have been written if done prior to this week. This week calls for the simplicity of the list.

He taught me:

• When to be quiet
• Patience
• Love of family
• Belief in God
• How to accept death as part of the journey of life
• Kindness
• Empathy
• Loyalty
• To laugh
• Humility
• Meaning of the song, "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling"
• The effectiveness of well-placed words
• The beauty of simplicity
• What it means just to be yourself
• Quiet humor
• To do the right thing when it is time to do it whether it is easy or hard to do it
   

Random Friday Thoughts

 What is your position on eating snow?  I was a snow-eater has a child.  It was strongly discouraged in that time.  I would sometimes be called in from the outside if my mom happened to catch me in the act.  Other times, I remember coming in from the outside to be met with an examination of my mittens for signs of show consumption (?).  So, it was with mixed feelings that I watched my 8 year old grandson early this morning, chowing on a handful of snow.  I felt the need, as a grandmother, to stop him from eating contaminated snow.  I think the thought was planted by my early life experiences.  But as I waited for his bus to arrive, I was struck by the kind of purity of the moment.  It was the first accumulating snow of the year: the snow was fresh.  It was quiet and I was watching as the pink cheeks and red lips enjoyed every bite of that first snow.  I didn't stop him.  I have never heard of anyone getting sick from eating snow, instead, I remember the feeling of abandon in putting that cold treat to my mouth. So he ate his snow; I kept my caution under wraps and went with my assumptions that he will be more severely impacted by breathing our 2022 air than eating a handful of snow.  He boarded the bus and there have been no calls from school to advise of grave illness from snow-eating.  

                                                                   * * * * * * * * * *

We'll stick with the eight year old for a moment.  While together a few nights ago, I was working on the pre-Thanksgiving grocery list.  He breezed by, backed up and declared, "I find your grocery list to be rather verbose."  Wait, what did he just say? I asked what he knew about verbose.  He explained his teacher had taught them the word, its meaning, and how to use it.  Ok, he nailed it.  Then he asked me to let his mom know he had used it correctly so that she could text his teacher to advise her.  If the teacher receives a text from each of the 21 parents of students, they would get a special treat today - Friday.  I hope they got the treat because this was either brilliance or lunacy.  I was judged because my grocery list was rather lengthy and obviously verbose on the week before Thanksgiving.  Gotta love an engaged teacher creating engaged learners.

                                                                   * * * * * * * * * *  

Now, just one moment on doing the right thing.  The morning news included a story on a pedestrian/ car accident.  The pedestrian has extensive injuries but is expected to recover.  Equally important to the story, was the report of the driver staying on the scene of the accident until authorities arrived.  We now report on people doing the right thing because so many people don't do the right thing anymore? It's just sad.  Another news story illustrated the flip side of the story: Theranos whistle-blowers fearful of the repercussions of their testimony.  Their stories are more emblematic of  how doing the right thing in 2022 is often vilified.  Anyway, the point is just this - we can do better people.  If more of us just do the right thing when it is our time to stand up to do it - we will all be a little better off.

 

The Lessons of Latin

 I sometimes find it hard to get out of my own head on some pretty stupid topics.  I know I have crossed that invisible line of ridiculousness when I articulate my latest obsession only to watch my daughter's eyes slowly recess upward into the back of her head.  Rather than suffer through that this time - I will share here.  That way I can avoid eyes rolling.

I love word patterns, spelling patterns, letter patterns, etc.  I suppose it goes hand-in-hand with a love for math, word puzzles, Sudoku, blah, blah.  Anyway, I have found myself focused in 2022 on commonly-used words and variations of those words without a base in the English language. I'm hoping that a few words here will allow me to move forward.

Let's start with the cur family.  Yes, that's right - the cur family.  There actually could be a cur family because there is such an animal.  An animal who has nothing to do with recur, occur or incur.  Why do things happen, happen again, or are forced to happen?  Latin, people.  Yes, of course, because Latin "cur" means to present.  Ok, I should have known.

I have also spent too much time pondering the "verts."  How do we know how to revert, convert, be overt when we have no exposure to the word "vert" in our language?  And yet we do.  We turn back, turn over, and turn boldly because Latin tells us too.  Simple once we know, we know.

One last example is all the moting we do.  Yes, that's right - moting now has the squiggly red line under it because it is not a word.  And yet, we emote, demote, have remotes, and promote regularly. Latin.  Move forward.

Maybe that's the thing we should learn from Latin.  Move forward.   I learned that in three years of study in high school.  My lasting teenage memory of Latin was first marking period of Latin II.  We were still trusted with delivering our report cards to our parents in those days.  I looked at my report card and there it was, a failing grade in Latin.  I braced myself for the wrath that would surely meet me at home.  A full day of prep.  I came home to a strangely quiet house to find my uncle had suffered a life-altering stroke that day.  Everyone was so anxious over his condition; my failing grade was insignificant.  NOTHING was said about my grade.  I had no idea how to feel about any of it.  Relief?  Happy? Concern for my uncle?  Anticipation of the other shoe dropping?  NOTHING.  I finally had to ask for a signature on my report card.  My mother referred me to my father as a quiet protest for the bad grade.  He signed and kindly said that he expected improvement in the next marking period.  Move it forward, just as he was trying to do with the sad news of his brother.  

Latin is the basis for most of our language.  I've grown to appreciate that over the years.  I now look back and value the importance of those three years of instruction to understand the very basic concepts of Latin and the impact it has on modern languages.   I should know better than to spend time obsessing over curs, verts, and motes.  Of course, Latin is the answer to all of my questions and concerns.  Well, at least far as word patterns go.  I should move forward and let it go.  I should learn from all of the times that Latin was the answer and the one big time that Latin was over-shadowed by a bigger life lesson. 

I'm now able to move forward and trust Latin, once again, to have our backs.   I will trust the words.  Trust the lessons they teach.  

 

TACC Postscript

 It saddens me to write again so soon with the need to clarify or put to rest some lofty bragging, of sorts, in my prior post "The Autumn Condiment Cow."  How quickly things change in WNY or more affectionately, The ROC.

The grand kids made it through one marking period already.  Half the class has been out for weeks due to various respiratory factors.  The issues of kids, germs, groups, and most importantly - learning - are more evident today than ever.  Can we get them to adulthood with a brain?  Bless the teachers, aides, and other administrators.  Their jobs are harder than ever.  So much for back-to-school excitement.

Hello, darkness, our old friend.  I'm not talking about falling back.  I'm talking about how it is proving to once again be difficult to continue BILL-ieving when the Bills are now 0-2 in the division. The man who leaps tall buildings, or at least other players, is now considered to be "day-to-day."  The defense is riddled with injuries and the offensive line has looked confused in recent weeks.  Ok.  Re-group.  Go Bills.

Apples are still the bridge fruit of life itself.  No one can take that away.  Not this year anyway.

It's 70 degrees and sunny today.  Snowflakes will be flying by Sunday.  So will the snowbirds who professed a love of the seasons.  

Ahh, the colors.  It look just one windy day to replace the brilliance of autumn colors with bare branches in silhouette against today's sky.  Somehow the sparkle turned to crisp, burnt copper blowing about the yard as soon as the leaves left the trees.  They take on a whole new vibe now that they have to be raked. 

And finally, the infamous Autumn Condiment Cow has been moved into the barn.  Will the need for condiments re-emerge when the farm opens for Christmas tree cutting/shopping?  Will the condiment utters be amenable to being squeezed for ketchup and mustard in freezing weather?    I think it will most likely be another "Josh Allen day-to-day" situation.  We will have to get through November before these burning questions get answered.

I will spend the upcoming weeks pondering that for which I am grateful.  I luckily don't have to look far, but our WNY focus does shift almost on a monthly basis.  So, goodbye October.  We will miss you and, as always, look forward to your return.