A year ago last summer, I gave up and admitted that I needed help in keeping up with the cleaning in my little home. I wasn't defeated, just weary of the effort it took to do the simple things, so I put out a feeler on social media for a cleaning lady. Two people responded, but only one followed up by requesting an opportunity to come and see what kind of help I actually needed. We met. She provided references (which I checked). We agreed on a price and a time of every two weeks (which might actually be more than necessary, but read on). Her name is Debbie.
As far as I was concerned, her help was tentative until she and I could both determine if we would be a good fit for each other. What are the odds that the first contact with a person would become a major blessing--at least for me? Debbie is a whirlwind. She's not some young chick, either. She's just a little slip of a thing with drive, energy, and the antithesis of a hoarder. She is the single mother of two adult kids and also a grandmother. She is a thrifty and no-nonsense kind of gal. After a couple of cleaning visits to my home, I knew that I was in good hands!
When I "hired" Debbie, I really needed a housekeeper, a gardener to take care of my yard, and a handyman to help with small household repairs. In very short order, I understood that I got all three with Deb! "Oh...did I tell you I also do lawns?" "Oh...did I tell you I also do car detailing?" "Oh...did I tell you that my live-in son is a plumber/carpenter/whatever you need?" All of the things I used to be able to do for myself were covered! Yes, these things come at a cost, but without them, I would be living in a cesspool. She doesn't do the kitchen or the laundry, but having her come inspires me to get those things done.
It's a common joke that we have to clean before the cleaning lady comes. The same is true here, except I frequently haven't gotten rid of the clutter before Debbie arrives. She comes at 9:00 AM every two weeks. Sometimes, I've been out of bed for hours. Sometimes, only minutes. She has seen me at my worst, and because I'm not paying her to faun over how lovely I am, she doesn't care if I'm still in my bathrobe, and I don't care if she hasn't washed her hair that morning. So that blasts that!
Knowing that Deb is coming inspires me to get some things done. Yeah...most of the time, that's true. Unfortunately, I run out of steam often the night before, but just having another person in the house gives me pause to put priorities in order. I'm so much more productive knowing that Debbie is on the way than when no one is expected. She and I laugh about that.
I'm going to miss some stuff here, but these are just some of the things that Deb and her son have done to make my life better:
*Bi-weekly house cleaning.
*Replacing a leaky kitchen faucet for something much, much better.
*Replacing endless burned-out kitchen light bulbs.
*Installing kitchen blinds replacements.
*Putting up wall pictures that haven't been up for three years.
*Replacing curtains on windows that have been bare for three years.
*Unclogging the bathtub drain.
*Getting a bedroom window to go back into place. (Long story. Took two of us!)
*Exchanging winter clothes for summer clothes in closets, times two.
*Digging up old perennials from under the split-rail fence in my front yard and replacing it all with new plants and gravel.
*Detailing my car for the first time since I've owned it.
*Mowing the yard, blowing the leaves, and unclogging the gutters, times often.
*Going with me for a shopping trip for needed supplies for the yard in the spring.
*Working with me to organize what she calls The Scary Closet in my house.
*Requiring me to put a lock on the mini-barn after I bought a new lawn mower last spring.
*Unasked, buying new throw rugs for both entrances/exits to the house because the old ones were shedding rubber all over everything.
Debbie is a de-clutterer. I think she gets frustrated sometimes that I won't always let things go that are just taking up space. She tolerates my dysfunction. Still, I feel blessed that there is someone in my life who can/will follow me around and mop up after those dysfunctions without judging.
Everyone needs a Debbie!
She knows more about my household situation than anyone, and I trust her.
Hope you can find a Debbie in your life!
Wednesday, October 30, 2019
Monday, October 28, 2019
The Alien Tomato
Although I have always put tomatoes in the refrigerator, I have always heard that I shouldn't. Not sure why.
So, awhile back, I bought a couple of tomatoes to use for BLT's. One such hot-house tomato was on the counter but got pushed back behind boxes of crackers. This morning, as I was finally clearing off the counter, that tomato appeared. I expected it to be mushy and moldy, but it wasn't. What I discovered, instead, was that it was sprouting!
I am 72-years old. Have grown, eaten, and purchased many a tomato through the years. I have had to throw away a bunch of them because they had gone past the pail before I could use them...but never, in my entire life, have I witnessed an unrefrigerated tomato sprout through the skin!
The minute I saw that the tomato had sprouted, I threw it away...but then took it out of the trash to take pictures of it to post online. In the course of the day, more sprouts showed up, and I became enthralled. This is Nature's way of sustaining a species, and I'm not 100% sure that I should discard it. I mean, I love tomatoes. If I found a way to plant these tiny seedlings and could sustain them all through the winter, could I have free tomatoes next spring?
My brain tells me to throw the tomato out, but my heart and my upbringing tells me to try...in the same way that I tried to revive a baby mouse that we found in the bushes...and in the same way that I saved a baby Robin at a Boy Scout camp. (The latter didn't end well. I don't care to talk about it.)
Should I save the tomato sprouts and try to grow them for a crop next spring/summer, or should I realistically understand that these tiny plants need more tending than I have to give? Stay tuned!
So, awhile back, I bought a couple of tomatoes to use for BLT's. One such hot-house tomato was on the counter but got pushed back behind boxes of crackers. This morning, as I was finally clearing off the counter, that tomato appeared. I expected it to be mushy and moldy, but it wasn't. What I discovered, instead, was that it was sprouting!
I am 72-years old. Have grown, eaten, and purchased many a tomato through the years. I have had to throw away a bunch of them because they had gone past the pail before I could use them...but never, in my entire life, have I witnessed an unrefrigerated tomato sprout through the skin!
The minute I saw that the tomato had sprouted, I threw it away...but then took it out of the trash to take pictures of it to post online. In the course of the day, more sprouts showed up, and I became enthralled. This is Nature's way of sustaining a species, and I'm not 100% sure that I should discard it. I mean, I love tomatoes. If I found a way to plant these tiny seedlings and could sustain them all through the winter, could I have free tomatoes next spring?
My brain tells me to throw the tomato out, but my heart and my upbringing tells me to try...in the same way that I tried to revive a baby mouse that we found in the bushes...and in the same way that I saved a baby Robin at a Boy Scout camp. (The latter didn't end well. I don't care to talk about it.)
Should I save the tomato sprouts and try to grow them for a crop next spring/summer, or should I realistically understand that these tiny plants need more tending than I have to give? Stay tuned!
Friday, October 25, 2019
The Funeral
For reasons known only to God, I slept a full seven hours last night. That doesn't mean that it was meaningful sleep, but at least I wasn't awake and/or up every two hours checking the clock. Seven hours is not only welcome but unusual. The downside is that it cuts my day shorter than usual. Here it is after 2:00 PM, and I'm still not getting anything done. Why?
In the course of my morning, I was surfing Facebook on my phone when I ran into, quite by accident, the livestream of Congressman Elijah Cummings's funeral at his home church. Former presidents Clinton and Obama were to speak, and I couldn't turn away.
Congressman Cummings was African-American and a Democrat. He recently passed away and became the first African-American to lie in state in the nation's Capitol, but his actual funeral service took place at his home church in Baltimore and was live-streamed on Facebook.
I don't need to tell anyone that I am not African-American. My skin color is quite white, and I have lived my life understanding that people of color and I haven't had many shared experiences in life; however, I've experienced African-American church services and funerals before and know that they simply are more moving than anything us white folks have to offer.
When we lived in Pontiac, IL, our next-door neighbor and his family were black. They had lived there forever, with land south of John Street, while the land north of John Street was made into a subdivision that was somewhat posh in those days, and it happened during his lifetime. The neighbors' names were Hubert and Katherine...plus their adult son, Hubert, who was emotionally disabled due to PTSD and other problems. They had another son, married with children, who lived elsewhere. The father Hubert was called Ruby. And Ruby was a sweetheart. I never knew much about Katherine because she wasn't well and mostly stayed in the house, as did the son, Hubie.
Ruby was Methodist. He and family drove to Bloomington, IL, every Sunday (35 miles or so, one way) to attend an African Methodist Episcopal Church there, in spite of the fact that Pontiac had a "regular" Methodist Church, of which I was a member. He felt that he needed to go there to be with other believers of color. Ruby was an old man back then and, I'm sad to say, had seen a lot of history in his time and understood "his place" in society. He didn't want to create problems for anyone. It hurt me to know this. It wasn't right. I loved that old man. In time, and with old age, Ruby finally braved staying closer to home for Sunday services, even though there were basically no other blacks in that congregation. Long after I left Pontiac, I read that Ruby--easily in his late 70s--was on church mission trips out of the country to help build churches and homes in underdeveloped areas of South America. (Reminds me of former president Jimmy Carter.)
Somewhere early in my neighborship (?) with Ruby and family, his wife Katherine died. I didn't really know Katherine, but I knew Ruby, and I attended her funeral. I think I may have been the only white face in the gathering. Still, I will never forget the experience. This wasn't my first "black church" experience, but it was mind-blowing. I can't do justice to the African-American minister's service, but I'll try.
To wit:
"My wife and I were to depart on a mission in the middle of winter to a warmer place than home. It was snowing and cold where we were. We had our coats with us, but had to wait in the airplane...and wait...and wait. The pilot came over the PA to say we were awaiting permission to take off.
"Finally, that permission came. The plane rose up over the snow and cold, up into the clouds where we stayed above the invisible earth. When it came time to land, we went back down through the clouds to be delivered to our destination. We looked out the windows, not knowing what to expect. To our wonder, it was warm, sunny, and cloudless. We threw off our coats and basked in the glory of it. We clearly had gone to a better place!
"Our sister Katherine Boswell has been given permission to take off. Her spirit has soared above the coldness and pain of life's winter, and come to rest in a place of constant beauty and warmth. She has no more need of a winter coat, or medicine, or any other earthly reminder that she is anywhere else but in the presence of Jesus!"
And I would never be quite the same after that eulogy.
Of course, the pastor's delivery was more dynamic and animated than his words, in the traditional style of African-American preaching. (Black ministers hold the franchise for getting their congregations actively involved in their sermons!) Not only was I enthralled, but also comforted. And I didn't even know the Dearly Departed!
A couple of days ago, one of my former students announced on Facebook that his grandmother had passed. He wrote glowingly of her in eloquent terms, not at all mushy, and I understood in that moment that as long as he lived, she would never truly die. Which led me to wondering what, if anything, my own grandchildren could/would say about me after my passing. I don't think they remember the early days of their lives when I was more present, less disabled, and so shamelessly head-over-heels in love with everything about them. (Still am, on that latter part.) Now, I think I'm just a dinosaur to them, but who knows? I guess it doesn't really matter. I have enough delightful memories of them to last for the rest of my life!
In any case, today's funeral service for Rep. Cummings took me down a special road. One of the speakers quoted one of my favorite hymns, then immediately also quoted a stanza of one of my favorite poems. I wondered if my former students were watching because the Robert Frost poem ("Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening") was one of the memory selections I required of them each year. And the hymn, It Is Well With My Soul, will forever be part of my life.
I confess that I wept during most of the service all alone in my little house-on-a-slab. I wept for Rep. Cummings and his family; for the words of Mr. Cummings' children, relatives, wife, and staff; over the words of past Presidents; and over the words of the Pastor of the New Psalmist Baptist Church in Baltimore, Maryland. My tears were cathartic because, as I wept for Mr. Cummings' demise, I also wept for my own, They were also tears of sadness over lost innocence in this land of ours, considering the climate of now. And in there, somewhere, were tears of happiness and joy that there are still good people in the world who find "right" worth fighting for, and tears of hope that the world that we leave for our children, grandchildren, and the generations beyond can become that warm and sunny place where sister Katherine's soul landed after having been given permission to take off.
I pray that it will be so.
In the course of my morning, I was surfing Facebook on my phone when I ran into, quite by accident, the livestream of Congressman Elijah Cummings's funeral at his home church. Former presidents Clinton and Obama were to speak, and I couldn't turn away.
Congressman Cummings was African-American and a
I don't need to tell anyone that I am not African-American. My skin color is quite white, and I have lived my life understanding that people of color and I haven't had many shared experiences in life; however, I've experienced African-American church services and funerals before and know that they simply are more moving than anything us white folks have to offer.
When we lived in Pontiac, IL, our next-door neighbor and his family were black. They had lived there forever, with land south of John Street, while the land north of John Street was made into a subdivision that was somewhat posh in those days, and it happened during his lifetime. The neighbors' names were Hubert and Katherine...plus their adult son, Hubert, who was emotionally disabled due to PTSD and other problems. They had another son, married with children, who lived elsewhere. The father Hubert was called Ruby. And Ruby was a sweetheart. I never knew much about Katherine because she wasn't well and mostly stayed in the house, as did the son, Hubie.
Ruby was Methodist. He and family drove to Bloomington, IL, every Sunday (35 miles or so, one way) to attend an African Methodist Episcopal Church there, in spite of the fact that Pontiac had a "regular" Methodist Church, of which I was a member. He felt that he needed to go there to be with other believers of color. Ruby was an old man back then and, I'm sad to say, had seen a lot of history in his time and understood "his place" in society. He didn't want to create problems for anyone. It hurt me to know this. It wasn't right. I loved that old man. In time, and with old age, Ruby finally braved staying closer to home for Sunday services, even though there were basically no other blacks in that congregation. Long after I left Pontiac, I read that Ruby--easily in his late 70s--was on church mission trips out of the country to help build churches and homes in underdeveloped areas of South America. (Reminds me of former president Jimmy Carter.)
Somewhere early in my neighborship (?) with Ruby and family, his wife Katherine died. I didn't really know Katherine, but I knew Ruby, and I attended her funeral. I think I may have been the only white face in the gathering. Still, I will never forget the experience. This wasn't my first "black church" experience, but it was mind-blowing. I can't do justice to the African-American minister's service, but I'll try.
To wit:
"My wife and I were to depart on a mission in the middle of winter to a warmer place than home. It was snowing and cold where we were. We had our coats with us, but had to wait in the airplane...and wait...and wait. The pilot came over the PA to say we were awaiting permission to take off.
"Finally, that permission came. The plane rose up over the snow and cold, up into the clouds where we stayed above the invisible earth. When it came time to land, we went back down through the clouds to be delivered to our destination. We looked out the windows, not knowing what to expect. To our wonder, it was warm, sunny, and cloudless. We threw off our coats and basked in the glory of it. We clearly had gone to a better place!
"Our sister Katherine Boswell has been given permission to take off. Her spirit has soared above the coldness and pain of life's winter, and come to rest in a place of constant beauty and warmth. She has no more need of a winter coat, or medicine, or any other earthly reminder that she is anywhere else but in the presence of Jesus!"
And I would never be quite the same after that eulogy.
Of course, the pastor's delivery was more dynamic and animated than his words, in the traditional style of African-American preaching. (Black ministers hold the franchise for getting their congregations actively involved in their sermons!) Not only was I enthralled, but also comforted. And I didn't even know the Dearly Departed!
A couple of days ago, one of my former students announced on Facebook that his grandmother had passed. He wrote glowingly of her in eloquent terms, not at all mushy, and I understood in that moment that as long as he lived, she would never truly die. Which led me to wondering what, if anything, my own grandchildren could/would say about me after my passing. I don't think they remember the early days of their lives when I was more present, less disabled, and so shamelessly head-over-heels in love with everything about them. (Still am, on that latter part.) Now, I think I'm just a dinosaur to them, but who knows? I guess it doesn't really matter. I have enough delightful memories of them to last for the rest of my life!
In any case, today's funeral service for Rep. Cummings took me down a special road. One of the speakers quoted one of my favorite hymns, then immediately also quoted a stanza of one of my favorite poems. I wondered if my former students were watching because the Robert Frost poem ("Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening") was one of the memory selections I required of them each year. And the hymn, It Is Well With My Soul, will forever be part of my life.
I confess that I wept during most of the service all alone in my little house-on-a-slab. I wept for Rep. Cummings and his family; for the words of Mr. Cummings' children, relatives, wife, and staff; over the words of past Presidents; and over the words of the Pastor of the New Psalmist Baptist Church in Baltimore, Maryland. My tears were cathartic because, as I wept for Mr. Cummings' demise, I also wept for my own, They were also tears of sadness over lost innocence in this land of ours, considering the climate of now. And in there, somewhere, were tears of happiness and joy that there are still good people in the world who find "right" worth fighting for, and tears of hope that the world that we leave for our children, grandchildren, and the generations beyond can become that warm and sunny place where sister Katherine's soul landed after having been given permission to take off.
I pray that it will be so.
Thursday, October 24, 2019
The Complaint Department
Once upon a time, people took their consumer complaints to a place in a store that was humorously labelled The Complaint Department. The actual name of that part of the store is Customer Service, which takes away the antagonistic connotation of complaining. (It's kind of like calling a mental health institution The Loonie Bin, or calling an unwelcome portion of an audience The Peanut Gallery--both of which are now considered wildly insensitive and/or racist--and both of which I now have to strike from my vocabulary, in spite of the fact that I had no clue either weren't at least somewhat acceptable in common parlance.)
In all of my transactions, I don't complain. I state facts. I indicate frustrations, but I never blame the employees who are just doing their jobs. Well...most of the time. And most of the time, I get satisfaction in whatever transaction I'm trying to remediate. But who do I complain to when there is no one to blame??
Not so very many years ago (but at least five), I was sitting around my daughter's dining room table in Lindenhurst, IL, with my grandchildren, their mother (my daughter) and stepfather, their father and stepmother, and their paternal grandparents (who are also my friends). We were just talking, as we all do so well, with the old folks dominating the conversation. The subject of health came up. Comments quickly went down the rabbit hole of old age aches and pains. At one point, it struck my funny bone that we were now participating in the kind of complaining that we, collectively, blamed our own old folks for when we were younger. I mentioned it. We all chuckled and changed the subject. Whew!
Thinking back on that, I have considered my family:
My father did complain about his arthritic knees but only because they gave him trouble whether he was walking or sitting. After having his knees x-rayed, his doctor declared, sadly, "You don't have any knees left, Mr. Covill". His knees weren't only osteo-arthrically affected but also bone-on-bone. I understood that.
My mother was spry in her late 60s, but she would hobble for the first few steps that she took every time she got up from a sitting/lying position. I asked her why. She said her feet hurt when she launched into walking. Her only complaint, ever, was, "It's hell to get old." If she had other complaints, she never let on. (I'm pretty sure she had plantar fasciitis, but I didn't even know what that was in those days, until many years later--after her death--when I got it myself.) I told her she should consult a doctor, but of course she didn't. Even the day she died, she didn't complain. She had chest pain but the rest of us weren't informed until it was too late.
My grandmother--oh dear Lord, my grandmother!--was a bastion of strength and stoicism. She was a proud woman with dignity. She would never, ever, admit that she was down, even if the ceiling fell in on her. She'd gather her wits about her and figure out how to get out of the rubble. Her entire life had been fraught with challenges to her sensibilities. In her last 15-20 years (late 1960s, early 70s) her health failed. She couldn't feel her feet and local doctors couldn't do anything for her. She went to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, where they found a benign tumor pressing on her spine. The tumor was removed but the damage was already done. She never walked again. She was in a wheelchair with no control of her bladder. At first they tried diapers, but those didn't keep her from sitting in her own urine for hours, with only my aging grandfather to help her. Thereafter, she had a Foley catheter and a urine bag on the side of her wheelchair. She was seriously diabetic, relying on insulin shots several times a day to get by. She also had pernicious anemia which would put her into comas until she got a blood transfusion that would bring her around. In time, she had to be put in a nursing home for the care that her condition required, and she never really accepted it. I could write a book about this woman--the glue that kept our family together--a woman who loved the farm and did the gardening and wanted nothing more than to be outside where she could see the flowers and hear the bugs humming--living in a wheelchair, and finally a nursing home--with a black gangrenous foot and looking for all the world like a person who was looking death in the face. And welcomed it. One of her last comments to my mother (her daughter) as she came out of a coma was, "Why didn't you let me go?" She was ready to go. Tired of the fight.
Still, this woman NEVER COMPLAINED ONCE about her circumstances. Never blamed God. Never asked for anything out of the ordinary, and refused help that would inconvenience others. In fact, once when she was revived from an anemia coma, she woke to see my mother's face and said..."Oh...not you again, Maggie"--apologetically, as if my mother's faithful attendance to her mother's care was more than could be expected.
So...here I am. I have more aches and pains--serious aches and pains that actually affect my ability to get around and just live--and I don't know what to compare it to. My family didn't let on. Did they feel as bad as I do? Am I just a drama queen in the face of pain with every step and movement? Do other people suffer this way? Have I tried enough to fix things? Every day is something new. I TRY not to complain, but it ain't easy. I hate whiners, but I am one, and it's not fun to admit.
If you hear me complaining about my lot in life, please remind me of my grandmother. That will shut me up quickly. God doesn't have a Complaint Department. I need to learn how to be thankful just to be alive!!
In all of my transactions, I don't complain. I state facts. I indicate frustrations, but I never blame the employees who are just doing their jobs. Well...most of the time. And most of the time, I get satisfaction in whatever transaction I'm trying to remediate. But who do I complain to when there is no one to blame??
Not so very many years ago (but at least five), I was sitting around my daughter's dining room table in Lindenhurst, IL, with my grandchildren, their mother (my daughter) and stepfather, their father and stepmother, and their paternal grandparents (who are also my friends). We were just talking, as we all do so well, with the old folks dominating the conversation. The subject of health came up. Comments quickly went down the rabbit hole of old age aches and pains. At one point, it struck my funny bone that we were now participating in the kind of complaining that we, collectively, blamed our own old folks for when we were younger. I mentioned it. We all chuckled and changed the subject. Whew!
Thinking back on that, I have considered my family:
My father did complain about his arthritic knees but only because they gave him trouble whether he was walking or sitting. After having his knees x-rayed, his doctor declared, sadly, "You don't have any knees left, Mr. Covill". His knees weren't only osteo-arthrically affected but also bone-on-bone. I understood that.
My mother was spry in her late 60s, but she would hobble for the first few steps that she took every time she got up from a sitting/lying position. I asked her why. She said her feet hurt when she launched into walking. Her only complaint, ever, was, "It's hell to get old." If she had other complaints, she never let on. (I'm pretty sure she had plantar fasciitis, but I didn't even know what that was in those days, until many years later--after her death--when I got it myself.) I told her she should consult a doctor, but of course she didn't. Even the day she died, she didn't complain. She had chest pain but the rest of us weren't informed until it was too late.
My grandmother--oh dear Lord, my grandmother!--was a bastion of strength and stoicism. She was a proud woman with dignity. She would never, ever, admit that she was down, even if the ceiling fell in on her. She'd gather her wits about her and figure out how to get out of the rubble. Her entire life had been fraught with challenges to her sensibilities. In her last 15-20 years (late 1960s, early 70s) her health failed. She couldn't feel her feet and local doctors couldn't do anything for her. She went to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, where they found a benign tumor pressing on her spine. The tumor was removed but the damage was already done. She never walked again. She was in a wheelchair with no control of her bladder. At first they tried diapers, but those didn't keep her from sitting in her own urine for hours, with only my aging grandfather to help her. Thereafter, she had a Foley catheter and a urine bag on the side of her wheelchair. She was seriously diabetic, relying on insulin shots several times a day to get by. She also had pernicious anemia which would put her into comas until she got a blood transfusion that would bring her around. In time, she had to be put in a nursing home for the care that her condition required, and she never really accepted it. I could write a book about this woman--the glue that kept our family together--a woman who loved the farm and did the gardening and wanted nothing more than to be outside where she could see the flowers and hear the bugs humming--living in a wheelchair, and finally a nursing home--with a black gangrenous foot and looking for all the world like a person who was looking death in the face. And welcomed it. One of her last comments to my mother (her daughter) as she came out of a coma was, "Why didn't you let me go?" She was ready to go. Tired of the fight.
Still, this woman NEVER COMPLAINED ONCE about her circumstances. Never blamed God. Never asked for anything out of the ordinary, and refused help that would inconvenience others. In fact, once when she was revived from an anemia coma, she woke to see my mother's face and said..."Oh...not you again, Maggie"--apologetically, as if my mother's faithful attendance to her mother's care was more than could be expected.
So...here I am. I have more aches and pains--serious aches and pains that actually affect my ability to get around and just live--and I don't know what to compare it to. My family didn't let on. Did they feel as bad as I do? Am I just a drama queen in the face of pain with every step and movement? Do other people suffer this way? Have I tried enough to fix things? Every day is something new. I TRY not to complain, but it ain't easy. I hate whiners, but I am one, and it's not fun to admit.
If you hear me complaining about my lot in life, please remind me of my grandmother. That will shut me up quickly. God doesn't have a Complaint Department. I need to learn how to be thankful just to be alive!!
Wednesday, October 23, 2019
Well, Shut My Mouth!
Last night, my granddaughter asked me to do a quick grammar check on a paper she had written for one of her pre-college classes. We've done this together a number of times...online...from Indiana to Washington, and back again. I usually have to ask what the assignment is so I can determine if what she writes fulfills it. This time, she was quite confident that what she had written said what it was supposed to say, so all she needed was a quick red pen from English Teacher Grandma.
But before she actually sent me her document, she hedged a bit. She was responding to some comedian's routine about the difference in generations. She wanted to make sure I understood that her essay wasn't some sort of passive-aggressive hit at me. She said it addressed "adultism" by the comedian.
Huh?? I'm 72-years-old but have never heard the word "adultism". I thought it was just another buzz word that my granddaughter's generation invented. And then I looked it up. Apparently the term was coined in 1903, and refers to adults' control over children. OOOOOoookay. So now I am really, really confused.
When I was a kid, the age of majority was 21. Prior to that, parents were directly responsible for the behavior of their children. That implies control, right? Isn't that what parents are for? To train/influence/control their kids who are not mature enough to make smart decisions? Then along about the Vietnam Conflict, states changed the age of majority to 18 because soldiers complained that they were old enough to die for our country but not old enough to vote. And although I understand that thinking, I also know that 18 isn't anywhere close to being mature enough to make life decisions without Mommy and Daddy to help. Is my reaction adultism??
My generation had a word for the differences between generations: Generation Gap. Not sure if it was invented in my time or only came to be known then. I am, however, acutely aware of when I first noticed the difference between my parents' values and my own, and equally aware of when I had crossed the line from a child in need of parenting and a parent in need of childhood. I've written about it all so many times.
Today's world is nothing like the world in which I was raised. My parents were folks of the Greatest Generation--taking the Depression and World War II, and Korea, in stride. I was born a Baby Boomer, after the fire loss of the family homestead, and slightly later, the horrible home-accident death of a child. They worked their buns off to provide for the family so that we would have things better than they did. Although it seems that Boomers are being blamed for destruction of the planet and everything else that is wrong in the world, We weren't poor, but we certainly weren't rich or spoiled, either.
I admit that I am no longer hip to the younger generation. I love them all, and I try. God knows, I try! Over time, I have learned that my experiences mean nothing to others, so I'm working on reading the room and keeping my aging opinions to myself. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.
Life isn't about being right!!
But before she actually sent me her document, she hedged a bit. She was responding to some comedian's routine about the difference in generations. She wanted to make sure I understood that her essay wasn't some sort of passive-aggressive hit at me. She said it addressed "adultism" by the comedian.
Huh?? I'm 72-years-old but have never heard the word "adultism". I thought it was just another buzz word that my granddaughter's generation invented. And then I looked it up. Apparently the term was coined in 1903, and refers to adults' control over children. OOOOOoookay. So now I am really, really confused.
When I was a kid, the age of majority was 21. Prior to that, parents were directly responsible for the behavior of their children. That implies control, right? Isn't that what parents are for? To train/influence/control their kids who are not mature enough to make smart decisions? Then along about the Vietnam Conflict, states changed the age of majority to 18 because soldiers complained that they were old enough to die for our country but not old enough to vote. And although I understand that thinking, I also know that 18 isn't anywhere close to being mature enough to make life decisions without Mommy and Daddy to help. Is my reaction adultism??
My generation had a word for the differences between generations: Generation Gap. Not sure if it was invented in my time or only came to be known then. I am, however, acutely aware of when I first noticed the difference between my parents' values and my own, and equally aware of when I had crossed the line from a child in need of parenting and a parent in need of childhood. I've written about it all so many times.
Today's world is nothing like the world in which I was raised. My parents were folks of the Greatest Generation--taking the Depression and World War II, and Korea, in stride. I was born a Baby Boomer, after the fire loss of the family homestead, and slightly later, the horrible home-accident death of a child. They worked their buns off to provide for the family so that we would have things better than they did. Although it seems that Boomers are being blamed for destruction of the planet and everything else that is wrong in the world, We weren't poor, but we certainly weren't rich or spoiled, either.
I admit that I am no longer hip to the younger generation. I love them all, and I try. God knows, I try! Over time, I have learned that my experiences mean nothing to others, so I'm working on reading the room and keeping my aging opinions to myself. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.
Life isn't about being right!!
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Apolitical Little Me, Part II
My first marriage failed because my then-husband had mental health issues that no one bothered to tell me about before we were married. He was a good guy but had stuff going on that left me out in the cold. We lasted five years. I gave up. We were childless, so no problem, right?
My second marriage failed because my then-husband decided he loved someone else more than he loved me. It happens, right? I knew about it. Had all the evidence in the world that I confronted him with, but he never, ever admitted it, nor did he ever tell me he wanted a divorce. I hung on and hung on thinking he would come to his senses so we could talk about our relationship's future, until the day that our 11-year-old daughter said, "I think we'd all be healthier if you and Dad got a divorce." That was the day that I realized I had been waiting for him to decide our fate as a family. That day, I took my life back. I decided that he would take care of himself and his other lady, which meant that I needed to take care of myself and our daughter. She and I moved out and he and his Significant Other married three months later, but it quickly showed me that I would never again let someone take advantage of my affinity to having patience and giving second chances.
By this time, I was only two years into my teaching position in my school district. I still had requirements to fulfill by way of college credits, which I did in order to maintain my job. It wasn't easy, but I did it. My ex and I weren't seeing eye-to-eye on much. He had spit on me and called me a bitch in my own residence while asking for his first visitation with our daughter (early August, after we'd moved out in late May). I had legal things to deal with as a result of that...and then...and then...the stuff hit the fan at school.
This was in the early 90s. Our school district had hired an elementary school counselor--unheard of in Indiana. She made the rounds of the schools, dealing with kid issues. During one such round of school visits, she was teaching relaxation techniques to 6th graders, and the fundamental Christian floor fell out from under us all!!!! Suddenly, there was a posse of folks from a couple of the local Christian churches all over the counselor, the curriculum, and just about everything else. It was an organized effort, headed up by a local pastor who was also a School Board member. The Supt. was forced to form a "curriculum committee" in order to deal with the issues. It was to be facilitated by a $200/hr. dude from the University of Indianapolis. The committee would consist of ten community members and three teachers. I was one of those latter three. (Don't ask why!) We met once a week for many months, sometimes until midnight. Things got weird. Accusations of slashed tires and dirty tricks were made with no police reports, etc. I asked for an escort to my car more than once, mostly because the community members were wearing their figurative tin foil hats and making false accusations and conspiracy theories that they wholeheartedly believed. That scared the dickens out of me. How can supposedly rational people believe this stuff? I had just come through a nasty divorce that was full of gaslighting and dirty tricks, which had already made me feel vulnerable. Now this?? The whole experience made me uncomfortably aware that my idea of being a Christian and a responsible citizen of the United States was out-dated. And things weren't over yet. At the end of that school year, ALL of the district administrators resigned and moved on, as did 13 of our dedicated teachers. Yeah....that worked.
About this same time, I received a mailing, meant for the previous occupant of my house. It was from the Rev. Jerry Falwell, originator of the "moral majority" phrase. The mailing was asking for donations to help run Christians for school board elections all over the country. I freaked. If taking over school boards in order to carry on what I'd already been through in my district was the idea, I had no intention to support it, Christian or not! It scared the wadding out of me. I felt that common sense and science were under attack. It was my first real glimpse into the politics of religion, and the religion of politics. I wanted no part of any of it.
Then came Donald Trump.
Way back, long before he became a political animal, he was in the news because he was rich. (So??) He was often in the news because of his dalliances. Ivanka, Marla...etc. He cheated on his wives. He was a sleaze, but he was still rich. (So??)
At one point back in the early 2000s he started making noise as a politician? What politician? He has bankrupted his own properties, accused of stiffing his workers, employing illegal citizens...you name it. Bottom line, I flat-out didn't like him LONG before he declared himself fit to lead the country.
In 2011, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway announced that D. Trump would drive the pace car for the 500 that year. Instantly, a Facebook page originated to say we don't want him to do that.
We Don't Want Donald Trump to Drive the Indy 500 Pace Car.
Seventeen thousand people signed the petition.
Suddenly, the Donald's schedule got too "busy" for him to attend. Instead, A.J. Foyt--a man clearly qualified to do so--was chosen as the Pace Car driver. I couldn't have been happier!
When Mr. Trump decided to run for POTUS, I chuckled to myself. What a joke! The man is so narcissistic and hedonistic that he could never actually win. America is better than that. Imagine my personal shock when he won--through the electoral college, not the popular vote. And then the craziness began. Lots and lots of craziness.
The crap that he's into today--the accusations of breaking the law, of breaking the Constitution's emoluments clause, of lying to aggrandize himself, of not releasing tax returns, of threatening schools if they release his grades, of paying off strippers so they won't talk about their affairs with him, of refusing to cooperate with legal subpoenas--are nothing new. In fact, if any of the accusations were alone, none would be a big deal. But they aren't alone. It's one right after another, yet he blames the media and the Democrats for the stuff that comes up.
Every. Single. Time.
To be honest, everything he does is under total scrutiny as President, but this isn't new with him. He dealt out as much as he could during Obama's campaign and administration--most of it ridiculous, and most of which he is now guilty of, himself. Every day is something new. Something egregious. Something unforgivable for a POTUS, and yet he gets away with it. If holding the G7 summit at one of his properties next year isn't a conflict of interest, most people wouldn't care, but then there is the issue of the military planes that refuel in Scotland and put up the crews at his properties for more $$ than the govt. allows...and the VP's visit to a Trump property because it is close to his ancestors, and all of the govt. money going to the golf courses the Prez goes to--his own properties--that the govt pays for with our money. It's not just one thing. It's one thing piled up on many other things, and it all started right from the beginning...with Melania Trump's speech at the Republican National Convention with whole big blurbs being plagiarized, word for word, from Michelle Obama's speech at the Democratic National Convention four years before. (Even though Mrs. Trump at first swore that she wrote the speech herself, but then had to admit that she had a speech writer, so the speech writer would step up and accept responsibility for the "oopsie".) Then Mr. Trump insisted--in spite of eye-witness accounts and photographic evidence to the contrary--that his inauguration was attended by the largest crowd in history. So there ya go!
I am certain that the Trump Crap Show isn't over. Stay tuned for more, but not from me. Meanwhile, the younger and more innocent me watches while the more mature me sees Christians acting like anarchists and politicians acting like victims of the media and the Democrats when they are "hoist on their own petards".
Because of my divorce, and because of the election of Donald Trump, I don't trust anyone anymore. I even question my own faith, sometimes. Perhaps that is the message of politics?
My second marriage failed because my then-husband decided he loved someone else more than he loved me. It happens, right? I knew about it. Had all the evidence in the world that I confronted him with, but he never, ever admitted it, nor did he ever tell me he wanted a divorce. I hung on and hung on thinking he would come to his senses so we could talk about our relationship's future, until the day that our 11-year-old daughter said, "I think we'd all be healthier if you and Dad got a divorce." That was the day that I realized I had been waiting for him to decide our fate as a family. That day, I took my life back. I decided that he would take care of himself and his other lady, which meant that I needed to take care of myself and our daughter. She and I moved out and he and his Significant Other married three months later, but it quickly showed me that I would never again let someone take advantage of my affinity to having patience and giving second chances.
By this time, I was only two years into my teaching position in my school district. I still had requirements to fulfill by way of college credits, which I did in order to maintain my job. It wasn't easy, but I did it. My ex and I weren't seeing eye-to-eye on much. He had spit on me and called me a bitch in my own residence while asking for his first visitation with our daughter (early August, after we'd moved out in late May). I had legal things to deal with as a result of that...and then...and then...the stuff hit the fan at school.
This was in the early 90s. Our school district had hired an elementary school counselor--unheard of in Indiana. She made the rounds of the schools, dealing with kid issues. During one such round of school visits, she was teaching relaxation techniques to 6th graders, and the fundamental Christian floor fell out from under us all!!!! Suddenly, there was a posse of folks from a couple of the local Christian churches all over the counselor, the curriculum, and just about everything else. It was an organized effort, headed up by a local pastor who was also a School Board member. The Supt. was forced to form a "curriculum committee" in order to deal with the issues. It was to be facilitated by a $200/hr. dude from the University of Indianapolis. The committee would consist of ten community members and three teachers. I was one of those latter three. (Don't ask why!) We met once a week for many months, sometimes until midnight. Things got weird. Accusations of slashed tires and dirty tricks were made with no police reports, etc. I asked for an escort to my car more than once, mostly because the community members were wearing their figurative tin foil hats and making false accusations and conspiracy theories that they wholeheartedly believed. That scared the dickens out of me. How can supposedly rational people believe this stuff? I had just come through a nasty divorce that was full of gaslighting and dirty tricks, which had already made me feel vulnerable. Now this?? The whole experience made me uncomfortably aware that my idea of being a Christian and a responsible citizen of the United States was out-dated. And things weren't over yet. At the end of that school year, ALL of the district administrators resigned and moved on, as did 13 of our dedicated teachers. Yeah....that worked.
About this same time, I received a mailing, meant for the previous occupant of my house. It was from the Rev. Jerry Falwell, originator of the "moral majority" phrase. The mailing was asking for donations to help run Christians for school board elections all over the country. I freaked. If taking over school boards in order to carry on what I'd already been through in my district was the idea, I had no intention to support it, Christian or not! It scared the wadding out of me. I felt that common sense and science were under attack. It was my first real glimpse into the politics of religion, and the religion of politics. I wanted no part of any of it.
Then came Donald Trump.
Way back, long before he became a political animal, he was in the news because he was rich. (So??) He was often in the news because of his dalliances. Ivanka, Marla...etc. He cheated on his wives. He was a sleaze, but he was still rich. (So??)
At one point back in the early 2000s he started making noise as a politician? What politician? He has bankrupted his own properties, accused of stiffing his workers, employing illegal citizens...you name it. Bottom line, I flat-out didn't like him LONG before he declared himself fit to lead the country.
In 2011, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway announced that D. Trump would drive the pace car for the 500 that year. Instantly, a Facebook page originated to say we don't want him to do that.
We Don't Want Donald Trump to Drive the Indy 500 Pace Car.
Seventeen thousand people signed the petition.
Suddenly, the Donald's schedule got too "busy" for him to attend. Instead, A.J. Foyt--a man clearly qualified to do so--was chosen as the Pace Car driver. I couldn't have been happier!
When Mr. Trump decided to run for POTUS, I chuckled to myself. What a joke! The man is so narcissistic and hedonistic that he could never actually win. America is better than that. Imagine my personal shock when he won--through the electoral college, not the popular vote. And then the craziness began. Lots and lots of craziness.
The crap that he's into today--the accusations of breaking the law, of breaking the Constitution's emoluments clause, of lying to aggrandize himself, of not releasing tax returns, of threatening schools if they release his grades, of paying off strippers so they won't talk about their affairs with him, of refusing to cooperate with legal subpoenas--are nothing new. In fact, if any of the accusations were alone, none would be a big deal. But they aren't alone. It's one right after another, yet he blames the media and the Democrats for the stuff that comes up.
Every. Single. Time.
To be honest, everything he does is under total scrutiny as President, but this isn't new with him. He dealt out as much as he could during Obama's campaign and administration--most of it ridiculous, and most of which he is now guilty of, himself. Every day is something new. Something egregious. Something unforgivable for a POTUS, and yet he gets away with it. If holding the G7 summit at one of his properties next year isn't a conflict of interest, most people wouldn't care, but then there is the issue of the military planes that refuel in Scotland and put up the crews at his properties for more $$ than the govt. allows...and the VP's visit to a Trump property because it is close to his ancestors, and all of the govt. money going to the golf courses the Prez goes to--his own properties--that the govt pays for with our money. It's not just one thing. It's one thing piled up on many other things, and it all started right from the beginning...with Melania Trump's speech at the Republican National Convention with whole big blurbs being plagiarized, word for word, from Michelle Obama's speech at the Democratic National Convention four years before. (Even though Mrs. Trump at first swore that she wrote the speech herself, but then had to admit that she had a speech writer, so the speech writer would step up and accept responsibility for the "oopsie".) Then Mr. Trump insisted--in spite of eye-witness accounts and photographic evidence to the contrary--that his inauguration was attended by the largest crowd in history. So there ya go!
I am certain that the Trump Crap Show isn't over. Stay tuned for more, but not from me. Meanwhile, the younger and more innocent me watches while the more mature me sees Christians acting like anarchists and politicians acting like victims of the media and the Democrats when they are "hoist on their own petards".
Because of my divorce, and because of the election of Donald Trump, I don't trust anyone anymore. I even question my own faith, sometimes. Perhaps that is the message of politics?
Apolitical Little Me, Part I
People who knew me as a child/youth would not recognize me now. My physical body has changed, of course, but my personality has changed even more. In my early years, I was politically naive and religiously innocent. Raised as a military kid, I believed that "right makes might". Since we had won all of our big wars at that time, I figured it must have been because God was on our side. And because God was on our side, our side could do nothing wrong, nor would God allow anything bad to happen to us.
One of my earliest memories was knowing a song that I sang to my mother:
I see the moon;
The moon sees me;
The moon sees somebody I want to see.
God bless the moon;
And God bless me:
And God bless that somebody I want to see.
I told Mom that I knew who the moon saw. It was God, of course. Never mind that it doesn't make sense in the song. And you know, I have no clue where I learned that.
But I believed in God and Jesus, even though I wasn't ever really taken to church by my parents. From junior high onward, I went every Sunday, alone. In fact, I have gone to church alone most of my life, still believing that my country would never do anything sneaky, and never knowing about the politics of religion. In elementary school, I worried that God would be mad at me because I would fall asleep before finishing my nightly prayers. In high school, I talked to God ceaselessly, as the Bible commands. I was squeaky clean. Never smoked. Never drank. Never got involved in sex with any date. (In fact was mortified when one of my friends in high school told me that she and her boyfriend had decided not to "pet below the waist". Whaaaaat? Should that ever have been a question??
In 8th grade (1960-61) we had a mock presidential election in social studies class. We had to study the issues and vote between John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon. I voted for Kennedy because he was handsome and charismatic. (Kennedy won the real election. Three years later, he was dead from an assassin's bullet.)
And that's when LIFE happened.
The older I got, the more of the real world I got to see.
Gary Francis Powers, in a US spy plane, was shot down over Russia. (Our country spying? Surely not!)
President Kennedy assassinated, followed within a few years by other leaders--Malcolm X, Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King--all by our own citizens.
The Kent State University massacre. Anti-Vietnam-War demonstrators being fired on by US troops (National Guard?) on a college campus. Our own people against our own people.
Towns in riots over the war and over politics. What's it all about, Alfie??
AND, I participated in some life activities that the younger me would have abhorred.
I wasn't raised in a political climate. My maternal grandparents, farmers during the Great Depression, were definitely Democrats because they believed that FDR was, as my mother put it, the Great White Father. My father, as a Navy officer, never really revealed his political leanings except to say that the President of the USA was the Commander-in-Chief, to be respected no matter the politics. Respect was drilled into us as kids. Dad was very much against violent demonstrations, however, saying that "those people" were destroying their own neighborhoods. (Understand that he didn't grow up with much and was grateful for all he had, for which he had worked hard.) And once, during the Nixon impeachment proceedings, he told me that "Tricky Dick" hadn't done anything that any other president hadn't done. Looking back now, I know he was right, but my brain doesn't use that logic to excuse bad behavior.
I was a hippie sympathizer in those days. I secretly wanted the renegades to stick it to the establishment. I was tired of old people in government telling young people what to do. (The military draft, etc., made it a big deal. I was present in downtown Chicago one evening during the 1968 Democratic National Convention when demonstrators were being tear-gassed and beaten. I was there as a curious bystander, soon to understand that I shouldn't be there because I didn't have the guts to shame my parents by being seen on camera when the demonstrators were yelling, "The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!"
I departed Chicago but was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the antithesis of what I thought was right and good in the world. How could I be a Christian and still vote for "hawks", when I was a "dove"? Nothing was simple anymore....
One of my earliest memories was knowing a song that I sang to my mother:
I see the moon;
The moon sees me;
The moon sees somebody I want to see.
God bless the moon;
And God bless me:
And God bless that somebody I want to see.
I told Mom that I knew who the moon saw. It was God, of course. Never mind that it doesn't make sense in the song. And you know, I have no clue where I learned that.
But I believed in God and Jesus, even though I wasn't ever really taken to church by my parents. From junior high onward, I went every Sunday, alone. In fact, I have gone to church alone most of my life, still believing that my country would never do anything sneaky, and never knowing about the politics of religion. In elementary school, I worried that God would be mad at me because I would fall asleep before finishing my nightly prayers. In high school, I talked to God ceaselessly, as the Bible commands. I was squeaky clean. Never smoked. Never drank. Never got involved in sex with any date. (In fact was mortified when one of my friends in high school told me that she and her boyfriend had decided not to "pet below the waist". Whaaaaat? Should that ever have been a question??
In 8th grade (1960-61) we had a mock presidential election in social studies class. We had to study the issues and vote between John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon. I voted for Kennedy because he was handsome and charismatic. (Kennedy won the real election. Three years later, he was dead from an assassin's bullet.)
And that's when LIFE happened.
The older I got, the more of the real world I got to see.
Gary Francis Powers, in a US spy plane, was shot down over Russia. (Our country spying? Surely not!)
President Kennedy assassinated, followed within a few years by other leaders--Malcolm X, Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King--all by our own citizens.
The Kent State University massacre. Anti-Vietnam-War demonstrators being fired on by US troops (National Guard?) on a college campus. Our own people against our own people.
Towns in riots over the war and over politics. What's it all about, Alfie??
AND, I participated in some life activities that the younger me would have abhorred.
I wasn't raised in a political climate. My maternal grandparents, farmers during the Great Depression, were definitely Democrats because they believed that FDR was, as my mother put it, the Great White Father. My father, as a Navy officer, never really revealed his political leanings except to say that the President of the USA was the Commander-in-Chief, to be respected no matter the politics. Respect was drilled into us as kids. Dad was very much against violent demonstrations, however, saying that "those people" were destroying their own neighborhoods. (Understand that he didn't grow up with much and was grateful for all he had, for which he had worked hard.) And once, during the Nixon impeachment proceedings, he told me that "Tricky Dick" hadn't done anything that any other president hadn't done. Looking back now, I know he was right, but my brain doesn't use that logic to excuse bad behavior.
I was a hippie sympathizer in those days. I secretly wanted the renegades to stick it to the establishment. I was tired of old people in government telling young people what to do. (The military draft, etc., made it a big deal. I was present in downtown Chicago one evening during the 1968 Democratic National Convention when demonstrators were being tear-gassed and beaten. I was there as a curious bystander, soon to understand that I shouldn't be there because I didn't have the guts to shame my parents by being seen on camera when the demonstrators were yelling, "The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!"
I departed Chicago but was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the antithesis of what I thought was right and good in the world. How could I be a Christian and still vote for "hawks", when I was a "dove"? Nothing was simple anymore....
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