Dog gone

When I was growing up, we always had several dogs and a passel of cats, along with all the other animals that you find on a farm. My mother was especially tolerant, and so I also had at various times an assortment of birds, fish, and rodents. I had a zoo full of experience by the time I was an adult and had kids of my own who did the same thing to me.

Although dogs and cats are assigned personalities in popular legend, I even have a pillow that states, "Dogs have owners, cats have staff," the truth is, every animal has its own quirky personality. You have to get to know them to find how they fit into your family situation. Some dogs seem to have a sense of humor, while other dogs take themselves very seriously. Some cats believe they are the king of the forest, despite being only ten inches tall, while others think they are a dog and follow you around all day. They all have something to give, but some pets will do it on your terms, while others insist on setting the boundaries for you to follow.

Each pet I have owned has come with their own funny stories to tell, and their own heartwarming aspects to know. Although some of these pets are long gone, they live on in memory as though they were here only yesterday. If you have ever wondered why people love their dogs so fiercely, it's because, at the bottom of it all, they love you unconditionally, and ask nothing more than food, a nice place to sleep, and some attention every now and then. Here are some of my favorite dogs from years gone by....

My dad was a hunter, and he and my uncle went pheasant hunting every fall. To do that hunting effectively, you need a dog to point out where the birds are, so you can flush them out and get a good shot at them. That's where Max came in. He was a purebred German Wirehaired Pointer, and his pedigreed name was Baron Fritz Max. But one look at his goofy face and you knew that just wasn't the name for him, so Max it was until he died.

Max was a very smart dog, and you could tell by looking in his eyes. He was well trained by the time he came to us, via my uncle (and his friend) who paid for him. In exchange, we kept him on the farm and fed and cared for and put up with him. Technically, he was my uncle's dog, I suppose, but his heart belonged to us, and in my mind, he was all mine. I showered that dog with love and attention, and in exchange, he showered me with wet slobber from his beard. Talk about wet kisses.

If you have ever been up close and personal with a GWP, you will know that putting up with one requires patience, a sense of humor, and a really big lawn. Because they have energy to burn, and they will burn you out if you don't have a really large area for them to run. He was a big dog, and an outside dog, but he had a kennel where we kept him if we weren't outside with him.

You had to keep an eye on him, because he was true to his pointer name, and if he went on point, he would stay there until he was called off. Occasionally, you would notice he was missing, and you would go looking for him. There he would be, in his stance, tail stump stretched straight out, and nose pointing like a statue, waiting for someone to come and notice. I would try to move him, and he would be stiff like stone, not wanting to mess up until someone released him, the silly creature. My dad worried that he would go on point up on the railroad tracks that ran behind the house and a train would run him over, because once he went into that point, nothing else seemed to exist for him.

When Max wasn't hunting, however, he was the perfect family dog. He would tolerate absolutely anything from me, and he put up with all kinds of nonsense. I rode him like a horse, I put silly caps on him. I ran around with him. He was about the fastest dog I've ever seen, and when he ran, it was like the wind. But he wasn't always great at watching where he was going, which led to one of the funnier and more dangerous aspects of owning him.

When you let him out of his kennel, it didn't really matter if he had been in there ten minutes or ten hours, he needed to run the yard. This does not mean he would jump out of his kennel and casually jog around. He blasted out of the door like a jet propelled rocket and shot around the entire farmyard, running down anything that might be in his path. Including us. Especially me.

When I let him out, I learned to hold the door firmly closed until both locks got undone, then stood to the side and flung the door wide so he could blast off. He would get a running start, pushing off from the edge of the kennel, and away he went. He nailed me a few times when I was unsuspecting, either because I didn't realize he had been let out, or I just wasn't paying attention. But when that kennel door opened, I would run for it to get out of his way. I am here to tell you, if you have once done an impression of a bowling pin, you don't need to do it again. Although I am sure it would have made a good entry on "America's Funniest Home Videos."

He was a dog with a sense of humor, too, as most GWP's are. He almost had to be, with his silly mug and the comical expression he always wore. He had floppy ears, and a beard that hung under his chin that was always wet and dirty. He would take a big drink out of his dish, then shake his head and spray water everywhere. Then he would invariably run over and shove his snout in your face or your hand or on your clean clothes, ensuring that you always had a reminder of him wherever you went.

When you talked to him, he would cock his head at you, and you would swear he was grinning and agreeing with you. He had little tufts of fur that stuck out from his snout in all directions, confirming his place as the clown in our world.

Max was on the go, and mostly, he wanted to go with us. Getting in the car was a signal something exciting was going to happen, so he always wanted to get into the car. If we pulled into the driveway while Max was out, we knew it was going to be a battle to get out of the car door before he got in.

Naturally, being little at the time, he targeted me more than anyone. I would fling open the door, yelling at him to get back, while he thrust his whole 60 pounds forward, struggling to gain a foothold on the floor. I would slide out the door, and he would slide in past me, and next thing I knew, he would be sitting on the car seat, looking smug and ready for a ride. Then I would have to take him by the collar and try to drag him out, all the while his wet beard would be in my face, deterring me from getting too close.

Max would hop into anyone's car, though, he wasn't picky who took him for a ride. He would hop in the back, he would hop in the front, he was ready to drive, I even saw him hop into a trunk or two. Max was ready for anything, and he always had his sense of humor along for the ride.

Max gave us a lot to laugh about over the years, and if I didn't live in the city, I would find another GWP to love. They are wonderful family dogs, friendly to everyone, and give you a lot of laughs besides.

While Max was on the outside, Petite was inside the house. Petite was the greatest dog to ever live. She was perfectly trained, not because I was so good at it, although I think I did do a good job, but because she was just naturally perfect. We named her Petite at my dad's suggestion, because it means "small" in French, but sounded fancier.




Petite was part rat terrier and part Chihuahua, with long legs, small ears, and a timid personality. While her mother would go hunting around the farm with fierce determination, and had many a success, Petite preferred the more quiet past-time of being with me. She paid for that devotion in a variety of ways, including being dressed up in doll clothes on a regular basis, and getting wheeled around the farm in a baby buggy. She never seemed to mind, never tried to run away. She just wanted to be with me, it seemed, and was willing to put up with whatever I dished out as long as I was with her.

Petite was a well traveled dog, and saw a lot of America, including one occasion when she saw it from the tailgate of a truck driving down the highway. We were traveling with my aunt and uncle, and my parents were in front when my uncle realized that Petite had emerged from the camper and was standing on the tail gate as they drove down the highway. I was in the camper part of my uncle's truck, watching the door swing back and forth, and panicked that it would be the end of my beloved dog right there on the roadway, while Harris honked and drove like crazy to try and catch up and get my dad's attention. When my dad finally stopped, which was probably only a couple of minutes, but seems like a day in my recollection, I remember barrelling out of that camper and grabbing my dog, crying and hysterical, and vowing never to allow her out of my sight again. We were a lot more careful after that to be sure she was safely tucked away before we took off.

Petite, as I said, was well traveled, and she made a wonderful impression on everyone she met. She would do what she was told, and she rarely growled or barked. She was simply a delight to have anywhere, loved any attention she got, and was receptive to everyone, big or small. She was my constant companion on our travels when I was small, and a better friend could not have been found anywhere.

Although Petite was timid, she was not afraid to socialize with other dogs. On one occasion, when I took her to the county fair for a dog show, we met another dog named Sampson, who was a Great Dane. We got the best picture of her, sitting on the ground sniffing noses with Sampson, her whole body smaller than his head. That was pretty much the long and the short of it, and winning a blue ribbon wasn't nearly as fun as the memory of that moment when she stood up to Sampson.

When my dad died so suddenly when I was only 12, Petite was my sounding board and my closest, perhaps only real confidante. I told her everything, how I felt, how I hurt, how sad I was, and she always had the right response. She would climb in my lap, lick my tears away, and cuddle in, reminding me that she still needed me, and that she would be there when I needed her.

I keep pictures of my Petite in various places around the house - one in the bedroom, one in my laundry room, and one on my computer, because the sight of her brings me joy and peace, and the pleasure of knowing I had the best dog ever.

I have had other dogs over the years, but none have compared to Max and Petite until the dogs I have now. We are gifted with two real personalities that should have been named Abbott and Costello, if only we had known how they would turn out.

TidBit is a Papillion, purebred, although he doesn't know it. I call him a mutt in an expensive fur coat. He is a typical guy - burping, scratching, rolling around in the dirt - despite his frilly appearance, he is all boy. He has long fur, especially on his ears and his tail, which is always a mess. I will brush him, and two minutes later, he is tied up in knots again.

TidBit is twelve pounds of ego on four legs. There is a name for dogs who think like him - it's called the Napoleon complex, because they are little dogs who think they rule the world. That would be TidBit. Despite being the smallest, he is definitely the Alpha male in this household, at least in his little brain, and he acts on that at all times.

TidBit's main joy in life is playing, and he does it with an intensity that is unrivaled. When you are throwing the toy for him to fetch, he is focused on that toy to the exclusion of anything else. You can see it in his eyes, as he stares it down, thinking, "Toy, toy, toy, toy...." He doesn't let that toy out of his sight for a heartbeat, and will fight anyone if they dare to get in his way. He can play for hours on end, and when you are done, he will take the toy and lay down with it, in case you change your mind.

TidBit is also a greedy dog, and his greed comes out with his toys. When he was a tiny puppy, he would take all his toys, put them in a pile, and then sit on them. We would laugh at him, since he had no rivals for the toys, but he wasn't kidding around. If you tried to steal one out from under him, he would growl and snap and try to back you away, because they were his toys and he wasn't going to share.

These days, he is not quite so greedy, unless he has a particular favorite. Which, of course, he does. We call it his pacifier, because it has that sort of shape, and he carries it around with him everywhere. When it's time to eat, he puts it in his dish so no one can steal it from him, and if his dish is empty, he will put the pacifier in the dish and shove the whole thing around to get your attention.

TidBit is a little dog, and he knows it, so when a big dog comes around, he drops the tough act and is willing to jump into your arms so you can save him. I have seen him hiding behind my other dog as well, trusting that someone else will take care of him in those situations. However, he will take on challenges that he feels he can safely handle.

One of those challenges is the air vent from the furnace, which at our house, are mostly located on the floor. I do not know the origins of his fears, but TidBit is afraid of the vent. I imagine at some point he was standing on it when the air started to flow through it, and it scared him. So ever since, he has tried to show the vents who is boss.

He will throw his pacifier or a ball on the vent, then shove it around and take it away, for all the world looking like he thinks the vent is going to jump up and snatch it from him. He will play this game over and over, like the vent is an animal, and he is the mighty conqueror. It is a silly little game, but allows him to feel that he is master, I guess, so we watch with amusement as he wins the game once again, and survives the experience without a scar.

He is a bundle of energy, despite his stuffed animal appearance, and doesn't consider a lap to be dignified enough for him to spend time on. He is probably the cutest little dog I've ever seen, even in the crowded Papillion field. When people look at him, they usually laugh out loud and compare him to a gremlin, which is ironic, since the gremlin people usually compare him to was named Gizmo. Which leads me to our other dog.

We also have a Jack Russell Terrier named Gizmo. He is a quirky rescue dog who found us at Wayside Waifs, which is run by the humane society. Don't kid yourself about getting a dog there, they choose you, and they come with issues. Espcially Gizmo, whose early life doesn't bear thinking about, but has left him with some emotional scars. In fact, sometimes I think he might be bi-polar.

JRT's have a well earned reputation for being energetic, and Gizmo is no different. He can cross our back yard in just a few bounds, and he is literally a blur when he is running full speed. He is a terrier, and takes his hunting duties seriously. There are a number of squirrels and bunnies that have seriously shortened their lives by taking him on. He runs out the door each time ready to go, and his main joy is chasing whatever might have taken up residence in the yard since the last time he went out on patrol.

He is a different dog inside, unless you ring the doorbell. He will patrol the house, but only for food crumbs that might have dropped. He is always on the lookout for a spare morsel that might have escaped from someone's plate, and he is willing to eat anything that might possibly be food.

When we first got him, he was confused about what constituted food, a confusion that has improved, but continues to be a challenge. He no longer eats shoes, although underclothing continues to be a favored snack. He will clean up the yard when he has finished his patrol if you don't keep an eye on him. He has been known to eat entire blankets that were placed in his kennel for his comfort, and he will eat anything from the trash that is remotely chewable. He has eaten his way through everything from cloth to metal, and I'm happy to report there have been no ill effects.

Cleaning up the yard is always interesting, because you never know what you will find. Finding red remains would be a concern in any other yard, but when I clean up mine, I assume Gizmo has eaten a crayon. I have found plastic toys, bones, blankets and a full assortment of other odd leftovers, and it is a wonder that he hasn't eaten himself into oblivion yet.

Gizmo is the most meek of dogs for our family, and anyone that he trusts. If you reach down to pet him, you will usually find him rolled onto his back, meek and submissive, afraid of his own shadow. But ring the doorbell, and a different personality emerges.

He will rush the door like Satan himself is on the other side, and he is going to bar entry or die trying. He jumps at the window, barking like a maniac, and growls and snaps and puts on a display that is pretty convincing. No one comes into our house unannounced, which works for me just fine. I'd just as soon back suspicious characters off and let them prove themselves, and Gizmo seems to be in agreement on that one.

Of course, occasionally that does backfire. On one notable occasion, a young man whom I will spare the embarrassment of being named, although if I did name him, it might be Taylor or something like that, decided to take a short cut to the back yard by jumping the fence. It seems my foolish daughter might have encouraged him in his folly, but it is safe to say he will never do that again. Gizmo, who considers the yard his personal kingdom, does not take kindly to anyone encroaching on his territory, and in the case of someone actually jumping into the yard, he will go into attack mode. The dog and the boy still eye each other with great suspicion, and I am afraid the cold war will never end between them, which seems to be just fine with them both.

Gizmo came to us not knowing how to play. Watching TidBit play for hours on end has taught Gizmo a little of the joy of playing, I think, and occasionally, he will even pick up a ball and toss it around. It's funny to watch him, because he is so awkward with it, and his play is a pretty solitary occupation.

Of course, the moment he chooses a toy for himself, TidBit is instantly jealous, which means he drops whatever he was doing to follow Gizmo around the house barking at him and whining. I tried buying two of several of the favorite toys to no avail. TidBit is not interested in another one of the same, he wants the very toy that Gizmo has every time, because of course it must be more interesting than anything else.

Gizmo is not a dog with a sense of humor. He is a sweet, loving, meek dog with a personality disorder, and we have learned to avoid the situations that set him off and make him fearful. One of the things that will set him off is the word "walk." When I mention going for a walk, TidBit runs in circles, so excited he can hardly stand it. His body jiggles, and he is literally overwhelmed at the thought of going out the door on a little adventure.

Gizmo, on the other hand, tucks his little stub of a tail as tightly against his body as he can, puts his head down low, and runs for his kennel, where he cowers against the back corner trying to be invisible. He would rather wait in his kennel, thank you very much, and he'll accept the closed door and the treat to go with it quite happily and regret free.

Gizmo does abandon me on one occasion, however. If food is to be found elsewhere, he will follow whoever has it to the ends of the earth, or at least another room in our house. He is shameless in his obsequious attention, blatant in his obvious desire to get a morsel or a bite for himself. Treat is his favorite word, and he will debase himself in any way you ask, if it will bring him the satisfaction of a crumb thrown his way.

While TidBit makes me laugh and he is a cute little bundle of fun, Gizmo is the one who cuddles up to me at night, lays at my feet during the day, and showers me with the kind of love and affection only to be found in the love of a dog. He always assumes I am right and he is wrong, and acts accordingly. When everything else in the world is going wrong, it is nice to have someone who thinks you can do no wrong, and treats you like a god on Mount Olympus.

I have recently read that people in financial distress are abandoning their pets as they abandon their homes, unable to cope with yet another mouth to feed, another responsibility to shoulder. I can't imagine walking away from my trusting dogs, their eyes fearful, knowing something is wrong. It sickens me to think that someone would abuse their faithfulness in such a way, when all they ask is to be with you, and they give so much in return.

I have read that many people in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina refused to leave because they wouldn't abandon their pets, and I understand that mindset a lot more easily. Our boys are an integral part of our family, and without them, we wouldn't be who we are. Although they don't come first for me, my children hold that place in my heart and my responsibility, they don't come last, either. They are a gift from God to us, and we are merely caretakers for His generosity.

One of my favorite authors was the wonderful James Herriott, who wrote about his adventures as a country vet in rural England in the mid-20th century. He chose for the titles of his books the lines from a wonderful poem which sums up how I feel about aminals as well. I leave you to ponder and remember the pets that have lightened your load and brightened your days.

"All creatures bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small,
All creatures wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all!

Cecil Francis Alexander (1818-1895)

Liar, liar, pants on fire....

I am part of a group of women called a circle. I don’t know where the name originated, I think it may have been “Circle of Friends,” or something like that. At any rate, that’s what I call it, because that is what we are.

We are theoretically a Bible study group, although I think we are more a group of Christian women who talk about the Bible in the context of our larger support group discussions. Over the many years we have been together, we have grown older and wiser, and we have shared the banes and the blessings of our lives in good measure. I think we know as much about each other as any group of friends can, and it is in a spirit of love and caring that we reveal ourselves for who we really are.

Have you ever noticed how in every group there is someone that drives you crazy? The one who is too loud, or too chatty, or too mean or too something for your tastes? They aren’t bad people or anything, they just aren’t for you. In this group, there isn’t one of those people. Everyone is unique and individual and different, and God brought us together because we needed each other. Not only has He has given us the gift of no bad apples to spoil the barrel, I will go even farther than that. When one of the apples falls out, however it may happen, He brings in a replacement to fill that slot, and often with the same type of personality to round out our group.

The best example of how this happened is when our dear friend Gina passed away some years ago after a long battle with a dreadful cancer. We were left without our outspoken, straight forward, insanely funny friend, who would shake us up and make us think, dispensing love and advice like the nurse she was. Gina is still missed for more reasons than I have time to go into, but we are lucky enough to have found someone with a similar zany sense of humor, and an outspoken manner to go with it, which once again shakes us off our comfortable perches and makes us think about things in a different way.

We are vulnerable to each other, because we have shared our darkest times and our greatest joys. We have seen people go through divorce, we have talked about infertility, we have discussed child rearing fears, celebrated weddings, and been through illnesses and funerals. We have watched each other’s children grow up, and we have talked about the loss of parents. We have learned together what it means to be part of the sandwich generation, where we are caught between the rock of our parents and the hard place of being parents. We have shared our inner selves, and we have learned to trust.

It was in that spirit that we participated in an activity awhile back. Each woman had a piece of paper on which she wrote her name, and then we passed the paper around. As you got each woman’s paper, you added one word to it that described that woman from your point of view. At the end, we got to see everyone’s words, and it was interesting.

Most of mine were some variation of the word funny, as I recall, which is a compliment to me, although possibly it wouldn’t be to everyone. But I love to hear people laugh, and if I have been the cause, that is even better. So it was not unexpected, and I was pleased. However, one person went a little deeper, and her word gave me the deepest compliment. Someone wrote integrity.

Small word, huge meaning. It says you are to be trusted, that your word is true and honest and to be believed. It means that when I make a promise to someone, they know it will be honored. At the end of the day, you are someone that can be counted on to be real, and no one ever needs to wonder about whether or not you mean what you say.

What a magnificent way to be viewed. It is a characterization I have quietly striven for my entire life, and something that I value more than almost anything. I won’t sully my good name with lies, because if I don’t have integrity, then I don’t really have anything else, either.

Like many people with integrity, I sometimes have a hard time seeing the lies being told by other people. I have difficulty understanding a mindset that allows for untruths to be uttered, and dishonesty to be the order of the day. Because I am straightforward, I forget that other people may be twisting and turning their words in order to get what they want, whether they deserve it or not.

I have, of course, lied about things in my life. I have told small lies to get out of trouble [usually unsuccessfully,] I have told big lies on a couple of rare occasions [always unsuccessfully,] and of course, I have told the social white lie to avoid hurting someone’s feelings when there really wasn’t any reason to be brutal. Overall, I am not good at lying. I fidget, I can’t look people in the eye, I get nervous and break out in a sweat on my brow. I doubt it could be any more obvious if I was wearing a neon sign on my forehead flashing "LIAR, LIAR, LIAR."

Like me, some people are storytellers. While stories are generally rooted in truth, [mine are always factual, unintentional errors aside, unless I specifically say otherwise,] most storytellers will occasionally embellish a fact or two. They might exaggerate for effect, they will play up the dramatic impact or they may downplay a fact that doesn’t help to make the point. It isn’t lying, really. It’s more of an unwritten agreement that in telling the story, you are willing to sidestep the small points in order to get the main point across. I don’t consider that lying at all; I think that is good technique, and makes the telling more interesting.

Some people are social liars. They don’t lie about the big stuff, but will consistently tell you what you want to hear about your clothes, your make-up, your hair – the small stuff that doesn’t really matter to anyone but you. These liars rarely get caught, and they rarely need to, because the only one getting fooled is you. If you call them on it, you are likely to regret it the next time you ask for their opinion. Besides, they are telling you what you want to hear, so it's unlikely you want to rock that boat.

Some people lie about the big stuff, usually to get out of trouble. They may give elaborate explanations to try and satisfy whomever it is that is questioning them, or they may make lies of omission, which are even harder to nail. But I find, in my observation, anyway, that big lies are hard to cover up, often involve other people, and are generally found out eventually, leading to a worse situation than would otherwise exist, because now you have to explain the lie and the cover-up. Watergate, anyone?

I am not a liar, social or otherwise. While I won't say I have never told a social lie, that would be a lie in and of itself, I always make an attempt to say something positive or just not talk at all. I have a saying, in fact. If you don’t really want to know the answer, don’t ask, because I will tell you exactly how it is. My children learned early that I don’t feel compelled to share my opinion all the time, but if asked, I will give the unvarnished truth. Although you would assume that would make them think twice before asking my opinion, it doesn’t seem to have worked out that way. Instead, they are disappointed in me if I fail to give them the absolute truth, because they count on me for that.

I have always taught my kids that lying to get out of trouble is a dead end street, and it will just make the situation twice as bad. Whatever the consequences for the initial cause of the lie, the act of lying would double the punishment, because I wanted to be sure I made it clear that lying is not the way out of a bad situation.

For the most part, my kids have learned their lessons well, and they rarely feel a temptation to be untruthful. Well, as far as I know, anyway. They are both trustworthy and straightforward, and you can count on them to do what they say. But let’s just say, they didn’t learn that from their dad. Because he is the storyteller of all time, and has never found a situation in which he didn’t think he could improve it with a lie or two.

One of his favorite stories over the years had to do with his dad, who died when he was only ten under circumstances that changed with each retelling. Of course, one of the major problems with telling stories is that you have to keep them straight, something that Mr. Truth-is-a-Challenge was positively masterful at managing. I heard one basic story for 20 years, and although there were variations in the content, the foundation was basically the same. His dad’s demise took on almost mythic proportions, and each time he told it, I would wait breathlessly to see what would be told, and how it would be improved upon.

I learned after the divorce that he told entirely different versions to other people, with a completely different cast of characters, and totally new details. I don’t know how he carried it off, but he even managed to tell my kids different versions than he told me, and we never discovered the discrepancy until long after he left.

Depending on who was hearing the story, and the size of his audience, his dad died from being shot, being blown up in a building, being assassinated, and from a rare disease that no one ever heard of before. He died in the service of his country, and he died saving others. In one version, he had a bodyguard that died with him, and in another telling, he ran out of a burning building that collapsed on top of him. It was Russian roulette with his father’s life and death. In the end, I learned just a couple of weeks before he left that his father died from cancer, a sad ending to the exciting tales I had heard over the years.

The smaller stories he told we finally learned to label by the moniker, “When I was in Vietnam…” stories. Any time he began a story with that opening, we knew it was going to be a whopper, but they were usually so entertaining, we forgave him the deception.

Eventually, of course, the lie became the reality, and after years of telling people he was divorced or separated, or God forbid, that his wife was dead, he finally left, and then it became real. Which just goes to show the lengths some people will go to in order to make their lies seem like truth. Seems to me it would have been easier to just stay home, but I never was one to live on the edge.

Lies are the stuff of fables, and the liars always lose in the end. They are not the heroes or the winners, they are the losers, in fables and in life. We impeached a President for lying, and it is a label that will haunt him for the rest of his life, no matter what else he does. We built the tax code on the presumption people would tell the truth, then we built the IRS on the presumption they wouldn’t. We lie to avoid facing consequences, then we don’t want to deal with the consequences of lying. Humans are preprogrammed to lie, it seems, because children start doing it almost as soon as they can talk.

I recall one moment, early in the life of a little girl I know. She came out of the bedroom with lipstick all over her mouth. And her cheeks. And her chin. And possibly her eyes. I dunno. That part might be a lie. Upon being asked if she had gotten into her mother’s lipstick, this little girl casually answered, “No.” Should have checked the mirror before opening her mouth.

Every now and then, my daughter will mention something silly, and I will say, where on earth did you hear that? Her inevitable answer? “Adam told me.” Of course. What are big brothers for, if not to fill your head full of silly stories that only a little sister would buy into? He was pretty creative, too, and wide ranging in his variety. One time, he convinced her he was a working man [he was like ten and didn’t even pick up his own socks.]

There is one kind of deception that is always acceptable – the kind you tell when presents are involved. When Adam was 16, I threw him a surprise party. We had spirited him away from our house on the ruse that we were going out for dinner with our neighbors, and he was going to babysit the younger kids at their house. We went through this elaborate plan, where we actually got into the car and took off, then drove around the block and parked on the street behind and ran through the back to our house, just to be sure that he would believe in the fairy story we were telling him.

We told the other guests to do the same thing, then when everyone was there, we called him and told him to run across the street and check to be sure the basement door was locked. We were all waiting down there in breathless anticipation, expecting him to just run across the street and go directly to that door. We had the door unlocked, and we were waiting for him to walk through. The video camera was trained on the door, and we were poised and ready to yell “Surprise” and sing “Happy Birthday” to the newly minted 16 year old. It was a scene straight from a movie, it was so perfect. My heart was beating extra fast, because for once, everything was going exactly according to plan.

Well, the best laid plans and all that. Adam came walking down the stairway from the main floor behind us, and as he saw us all looking expectantly toward the door, he said, “Hey, what’s up? What’s everyone doing?”

ARGH.

We wheeled around to look at him, confused and in sudden disarray, as we tried to figure out whether to sing or yell or just give it up. Someone yelped, “Surprise,” half-heartedly, and someone else cried, “Happy birthday.” I started to laugh, it was all just so funny, because Adam, on top of things as always, said in complete bewilderment, “Whose birthday is it?” I had told him we were going out, and he couldn’t quite get his mind around the idea that I wasn’t doing what I said I was. I don’t like to give surprise parties any more. They are too much trouble.

When I was little and someone got caught lying, people would chant, “Liar, liar, pants on fire, hang them up on a telephone wire.” I’ve never really known if that song meant hang the pants or hang the liar, but I am not going to take that risk. The only kind of hanging I like to do is the kind that involves hanging around, and you don’t need to lie to do it.

Coming out of my shell

I collect turtles. I have collected them for quite a few years now, and have turtles from all over the world. Most of my turtles were gifts from that dearest kind of friend, an old friend who has seen me at my worst, [take my word for it, she has been at my side when I was in the hospital, and I am a bad patient,] and takes me at my best, no matter what may be happening in between. Whenever I see a turtle, I am reminded of her and I have to smile. Or giggle. Well, usually I laugh out loud.

The story of how I came to collect turtles is an amusing little tale, which begins about ten years ago, and involves some fun with my friend, whom I will call Sherry. [That might be her real name, or it might not. I am not usually one to change names to protect the innocent, to say nothing of the guilty. Which is where this story is going.]

Sherry is a true friend of the heart, who overlooks and underemphasizes the bad while building up the good until you don’t even recognize yourself. She is the kind of friend you can not talk to for four months because life just happens, and when you finally do talk, you pick up right where you left off, and spend six hours catching up and not even realize where the time has gone.

Anyway, a few years back, we were both exhausted moms of young and very busy children, like most of our mutual friends. One weekend, several of us decided to go on a "Mom's Weekend Out." We rented a condo in central Missouri, a couple of hours from home, and we planned a weekend of fun, shopping and eating our way into nirvana.

We left on Friday afternoon, and didn't get there until evening, so we didn't have a lot of time to do anything exciting that first night. We agreed to get up early the next morning and go to the outlet mall and do some shopping. It was a couple of months before Christmas, and we all had presents to get, so this was a fun way to get the job done. We went early, met up for a quick lunch, and then finally finished up in the late afternoon, when we were all dog tired, and just a little silly.

Well, to tell you the truth, we were a lot silly. I think we were off the edge of the cliff silly, in fact. We were giddy from the thrill of an entire weekend of not being responsible for anyone but ourselves - moms on a power trip and we weren’t out of gas yet.

We went to a small pizza joint for dinner, and while we sat there, we laughed and acted like a bunch of goofy teenagers. Although we were quieter. We do deserve credit for that, because we probably wouldn't get credit for much else that evening. We laughed until we cried, weak and stomachs aching, over everything and nothing. It was just one of the times when you are happy to be alive, and everything strikes you funny, and you giggle and laugh like little girls.

While we sat there, we observed people entering the shop. We weren't making critiques, and we weren't being rude, we were just noticing people because it wasn't a very busy place, and that gave us something else to comment on and giggle about. My back happened to be turned to the door, so I was not participating as fully as everyone else, which is probably just as well, anyway. Easier for me to control my mouth if I don't have material to work with. And let me just point out... no, never mind.

All of a sudden, someone mentioned a person coming in the door that was noteworthy. I don't really recall what the source of the excitement was, she was probably exceptionally pretty or something, but I do recall not being able to see over the high back of the booth bench I was seated on. I sat up straight from my slouching position, and still couldn't quite see. Then I slowly extended my rather giraffe-like neck to it's full length, trying not to be too noticeable. I didn't want to look like I was staring at the woman I was staring at. If you know what I mean. That would be rude, and I am never rude. Silly, maybe. Thoughtless occasionally. But never rude

Something you should know about Sherry is that when she is with close friends, she will occasionally blurt out what is on her mind before she really thinks it through, or considers how it will be heard on the receiving end. [ [I would be worried about putting that little bit of info out there on the world wide web, but she is usually the first one to point it out, generally right after having done it, so I don't think it's a secret. But just in case it was a secret, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.] This is actually one of Sherry’s endearing qualities, because she is very honest and real, and you never have to wonder what she is thinking inside.

Evidently, the situation with my neck was a little too much for Sherry to leave alone. She burst out laughing, and when she was able to gasp out the source of her mirth, she spluttered, "You looked just like a turtle!" Well. Everyone at the table quite naturally turned to examine my neck, which I retracted back inside my collar quite a bit faster than I had stuck it out. Which of course made her laugh even harder.

I thought it was hilarious, because I could see her point. As I mentioned, I have always thought of myself as more of a giraffe. I can almost see The Arch from here, my head sits so high on my neck. Obviously, this was too much of an opportunity for me to just let that comment pass, so I said, "Don’t you think that’s kind of… personal? I mean, I might be really sensitive about my giraffe neck.” I re-extended my neck a couple times, just for fun, and we laughed some more.

Sherry was mortified, of course, embarrassed because she hadn't meant it the way it sounded. Although, of course, she did mean it exactly as it came out, but not in an insulting way. I understood that, because like I said, we are old friends, and I knew what she meant. She wasn't laughing at me, she was laughing with me. Hm.

But I see her point. I’ve checked it out a couple times in a mirror since then, and I do look like a turtle coming out of my shell. Anyway, we all laughed, and then we moved on to other silly subjects, like playing Uno until 4 in the morning, and I think Monopoly might have come into the picture at some point. Well, Sherry thought we moved on, anyway. But I wasn't done with her yet.

For Christmas that year, which was a couple of months later, I got her the first turtle. I don’t remember what it was, something silly and inconsequential, I’m sure. It was meant to be a reminder of the fun time we had enjoyed together, and the laughter we had shared. Sherry was chagrined that of all things, that was what I would think of, although she surely wasn’t surprised. And once she got over her embarrassment, she gave as good as she got. The next gift I got from her was a turtle in return, and we have been doing it ever since.

I have given her turtles from all my travels, so she has turtles from Mexico and Asia, Hawaii and Minnesota. And she has done the same, so I have turtles from Paris and Prague, Colorado and Florida, and a whole lot of points in between. We have given tiny turtles in the form of necklaces and pins and earrings, and we have given knickknacks to sit on a shelf. We have exchanged garden turtles, and her daughter even has a stuffed turtle from when she was born that I couldn’t resist sending, because it was just so right.

Speaking of the kids, they have gotten in on the fun too. Wherever we go, our kids are always on the lookout for turtles. It’s become a game for them, something fun to watch for, and it’s even sort of educational. Turtles seem to be a part of the folklore of every culture, and wherever you go, you learn something about them when you ask if there are any turtles to be had.

I never see a turtle now that I don't think of Sherry and giggle over that throwaway moment so many years ago. But as insignificant as those moments are, they are also, to me, the moments in life to cherish - the moments when we are real, so much ourselves that we forget to be better than who we really are. And in revealing the real us, the us inside, we allow those deeper friendships to develop and grow.

Sherry's comparison of me to a turtle was more apropos than she probably realized, because I have spent my lifetime keeping my real self hidden away. I have always been afraid to let people in, to allow them to see the real me, because I have always had a sneaking suspicion that I am not quite good enough, not quite smart enough, just not quite enough, to be worth getting to know. My shell has always been more impenetrable than any turtle could ever dream of, and breaking through it has only been for the very determined.

Sherry has a special gift for people. She is not the turtle, hiding inside herself, afraid to let the world in. On the contrary, she has never known a stranger, because you can't remain unknown for long around her. You can leave her in the bread aisle for two minutes while you run to the frozen foods, and by the time you get back, a total stranger will be pouring her heart out when she thought she was just there to get hot dog buns. You meet her for lunch at the Barnes and Noble, and you will find her in the children's books, taking to heart the story of the woman she has known for all of ten minutes while she was waiting for me. Okay, I was late, as usual, but that is not the point.

And the things people tell her would surprise you. I have heard people tossing out relatively intimate details of their lives, especially about their children, on a 30 second acquaintanceship. This is an alien idea to me, spilling out my guts to a complete stranger I have known for five minutes and will never see again. I spent three years and I won't tell you how many thousands of dollars for the sort of counseling Sherry seems able to dispense in the supermarket parking lot. And I have a feeling it may be almost as effective, because when people say farewell to her, you can tell they are feeling a little better about themselves, and their load is little bit lighter.

I think society today is filled with turtles. The more we do, the less we connect. We are on call 24/7, we have constant access with cell phones, IM, texting and computers, we communicate incessantly with e-mail and have news at the touch of button. We know everything about everyone, and yet, it seems, we know very little about anyone. The suicide rate is climbing while the marriage rate is dropping. We hang out, but we don't go steady any more. We have lunch instead of dinner, because we don’t have time to sit down and talk awhile. We race around dropping our children at one activity after another, but never really connect with anyone while we are there. I fear we have substituted a shallow acquaintanceship for deeper, more meaningful relationships, because we don't have time or energy, or most likely, either one, to go any further. Despite the information overload, we never seem to find out what is important to anyone, even people we are close to. Maybe even ourselves.

My son writes an opinion column for his college newspaper. [He is a lot more talented than I am, thus he gets paid for what he writes. Sort of the ideal job for him, really. He is opinionated anyway, so now he just gets paid for bloviating about it.] Anyway, he noticed that they are no longer allowing comments after his column, and so he wanted to know if he was being singled out, or if they had just stopped allowing them generally. He is bummed to find that the public discussion has been curtailed, but I disagree.

I think the constant freedom to express has had a negative impact on life generally. People shoot off an e-mail without thinking about what they are saying, they IM or facebook a comment that gets taken out of context because it wasn’t thought through, they say whatever comes into their head without filtering the output, and overall, the world has gotten much more negative and less friendly. I think that might be partly why more people are hiding inside themselves, less interested in expressing an opinion in real time. It’s safer to hide behind fake screen names online where their cyber world is more real than the real world, because it is the only place left for them to be fully themselves.

Which brings me back to Sherry. [This post was not originally intended to be about Sherry, but it seems to be writing itself that way. So I’m going to go with that, because she is a fun topic for me.] She has a very rare gift, one which brings the turtles out of their shells. As a turtle, I admire that quality, that ability to draw out others, to make them feel valued and worthy and important, whether it's for two minutes or two hours of her time.

What is it that allows Sherry to connect with people as she does? What makes total strangers open up to her after 30 seconds and tell her things they probably don’t tell their best friends or even their spouse? My answer, after many years of observation, is that Sherry listens with her heart. She not only pays attention, she asks questions that show she is genuinely interested, and she really cares. She doesn’t leave you hanging there, unsatisfied and empty, she takes the journey with you, and let’s you know, whether its for two minutes or two hours, that you matter to her, and she wants you to know you are not alone.

While I am a turtle, Sherry is the hare. That’s not to say she’s flighty. The analogy actually works out pretty well, because she used to be a runner, and she is always going in four directions at once. Which equals the number of kids she has, which explains why she lives in her van most of the time.

In the fable, the hare loses the race, while the steady tortoise crosses the finish line first because he keeps his eye on the prize, and gets there slow but steady. I’m not so sure it works that way in real life. I think often the tortoise gets run over because they don’t see the car coming, while the hare is the real winner, because they enjoy the beauty of the journey. Although the hare gets distracted by the minutiae of life, they also find the joy in the present that so many of us lack, and they share it with everyone around them.

There is an old quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” For the hare, it is all about the journey, and I think they have the right idea. Just because they don’t cross the finish line first doesn’t mean they don’t finish. They just do it in their own way, in their own time, and they do it with a crowd of happy followers who are coming along with them for the ride.

As for me, I am all too happy to stay inside my shell and hide from the world. It's an easy and familiar place, and I am not out of my element to stay there. That is where friends like Sherry come in. If I am slow, if I am afraid, when I go inside my shell, sometimes she will pick me up and shake me until my head falls out. Other times, when I am in need of comfort and care, she doesn't force me to hurry along. Then she will pick me up and carry me with her, so we can cross the finish line together. And we are guaranteed to have some laughs along the way.

I think the world needs more hares.

On broken lamps....

Modern life is very complex. We talk endlessly about how difficult and complicated our lives have become. Everything has changed, we pontificate, and the old rules just don't apply any longer.

In my own life, I find that is simply not true. I think life is actually pretty simple, and the rules that I live by are easy to follow and to put into practice. Well, maybe not easy, but certainly clear cut. Common sense and decency, along with basic courtesy, are always in order. And for when I get confused, here are my three rules.

First, if it won't matter in six weeks, then it isn't worth fighting about now. You can choose any time frame, six weeks, six months, six minutes - it really doesn't matter. The point is to clarify how important something is to you. Not important generally, because that is something different again, but important to you, personally. In my own line of thinking, if I won't care in six weeks, which is long enough to be sure it will have some kind of lasting impact on my life, but not so long that nothing applies, then it's just not worth it to me to fight about.

Try it. You will find that so little really matters when put into the context of a lifetime. Someone cuts you off on the freeway? It is unlikely to matter even when you reach your destination twenty seconds later than you otherwise would have. A clerk was rude to you? You will likely forget before you even leave the store. Your spouse or child or best friend said something stupid and thoughtless to you? Let them apologize and then move on. Because fighting all the small battles will exhaust you, and leave you with nothing to fight the battles that really matter.

I have been called a doormat, and told that I need to stop allowing people to walk all over me. I have been told to get a backbone, and to stand up for myself. But I have noticed over the years that people who are accorded those qualities of assertiveness are not necessarily happy. While they may frequently get their way, they aren't necessarily blessed with a lot of old friends. They often seem, at least to me, to be lonely inside, with fractious relationships that tend toward the shallow end, and with a constant churn of people.

I am always suspicious of people who want to be my new best friend, especially when I have known them only briefly. They often seem to be the very assertive people I am not. And the point that people often miss, when they think they are showing me my flaws, is that I am blessed with more old friends than a person has a right to have. And I have the things that are most important to me in my life, the things without which I could not be content.

I think, in great part, that is the proof that proves the theorem. When you are a good friend, when you choose your battles wisely, when you overlook the small stuff, you find yourself on the receiving end of the same courtesies. And since I know the log in my own eye is bigger than the speck found elsewhere, I don't feel compelled to wield anything larger than a tweezers.

My second rule is even simpler. If you would be embarrassed to have your mother or your children know about it, then it's probably the wrong thing to do. I have repeated this to my children over and over again, and I hope it has been drummed into their heads so that they will never be able to make a decision without a fleeting thought as to how it would be perceived by those closest to them.

Sometimes big decisions are hard. You want to go two ways, and you just can't figure out which direction is best. Or, more likely, you know deep down what is right, but you really don't want to go that way. You want the fun road, or the easy road, or the less complicated road. But it is very important to remember that sooner or later, everything comes out. People find out; even your deepest secrets somehow become known. Even if you aren't a celebrity, our private lives are pretty public these days, because the internet and the 24/7 news cycle have created a culture of avaricious vultures who need to know everything all the time. Reality television has taught us that no question is off limits, nothing is too personal, and the celebrity of the minute may be us.

If you really believe that your past won't catch up to you, you are either ignorant or willfully stupid. The permanent record we worried about in elementary school has become an unfortunate reality, and facebook will be there to haunt our younger generation for the rest of their lives. We can google ourselves and each other, and suddenly, most of what we thought was private is publicly and unhappily known, often for the amusement and entertainment of total strangers.

So, if you would be ashamed to know that your children will see it, hear it, or read it on the internet, if you are afraid that your mother will google your name and find out, then you are on the wrong track, and you need to find a map. Possibly a whole new road. Maybe move to a different state. But just remember, the internet is everywhere, and your past can become the present at any moment. Just ask the politicians currently running for office.

Socrates talked about the unexamined life not being worth living, but this is ridiculous. He wasn't talking about the world, he was talking about ourselves. Which is the other point of this rule. Even if no one ever knows, you will know, and that is enough.

I recently read about a study that asked people if they knew, absolutely, no one would ever find out, would they engage in a variety of mostly illegal activities? The results were scary, because there were too many people who answered they would even commit murder, if they knew for sure they would get away with it. Of course, people do take that risk every day, but you would like to think most people wouldn't, no matter what. For me that is the heart of this rule. It really doesn't matter if my mother or my children ever find out. If I do something wrong, I'll know, and that's all I need to know.

My third rule is not about myself, it is about dealing with others. We are in relationship with many people, in all the different facets of our lives; family, friends, neighbors, work, volunteering, school - wherever we go in our lives, we have relationships. Some of those relationships are easy, some of them are tricky, and a few of them are just outright difficult. But in all of them, you will become irritated, aggravated, annoyed, frustrated, unhappy, and angry at some point. That is when my final rule comes into play, and it is the most difficult for me, by far.

You can always say it later, but you can't ever unsay something once it's said. There are no take-backs in real life. Once the wound has been opened, it will always be there, and there will always be a scar.

I used to give my kids an analogy when they made a hurtful or wrong-headed decision: life is like a lamp, and if you break it, it will be forever broken. You may be able to repair it, you may even be able to pick up the shattered pieces and glue it back together. You might be able to get a new shade, or to paint over it. You can say you are sorry for breaking the lamp, and that's a good thing, because you should be sorry. But no matter how much you regret or wish it hadn't happened, that lamp will never again be whole, perfect, without flaw.

Words are like that, too. Once you say them, you own them forever. Whether you use them for better or for worse, they are yours, and you will have to live with them. For someone who is naturally sarcastic and cynical - someone like me, in other words - the temptation is often overwhelming to just say what comes into my head. As an adult, I have learned to filter those thoughts, not only to spare the feelings of the people I care about, but also for my own self-preservation. While I may laugh inside myself at my witty ripostes, I know that I need to temper them with kindness and caring, not only because I don't even mean it most of the time, but because if I want to have anyone else in my world, it's a requirement.

It is somewhat entertaining to see my children take on some of those same characteristics, because I will occasionally hear them say what I am thinking. Although I may wish they hadn't said it, and there are often consequences, [it is a learning process, for sure,] I will still giggle, and wish I didn't have the requirement to filter my own thoughts from public view.

But we only need to violate that requirement a few times to understand the power we wield with the words we choose. To see a crushed face, when you have served up sarcasm instead of support, resentment instead of respect, ignorance instead of inspiration, is a truly horrifying feeling. To know, the very moment the words are out of your mouth, that you have said the wrong thing, and to wish you could take it back, but you cannot do it, is the most helpless feeling in the world. This is disappointment or injury to the very soul, and not only was it preventable, it is entirely without recourse. You have broken the lamp, and you can't ever make it whole again.

No matter how complicated your life may be, and most people lead far more complicated lives than me, I would encourage you to think about the rules that direct your decisions, and to decide if they are helpful or hurtful for your own life. Be honest with yourself. Are you the person you want to be? Is your family proud of your branch on the tree? It is never too late to try harder, to make changes, to begin anew. You may not be able to start over, but you always have the choice to be a better person from this moment forward.

Here is wishing you a life of unbroken lamps.

Happy birthday to me....

I am officially approaching middle age. September 16 is my birthday, and on this day in 2008 I am turning 48. That seems pretty ridiculous to me. Didn't I just graduate from college? I still haven't figured out what I'm going to be when I grow up. I have no idea how on earth I can possibly be 48. But it seems I am, so I guess I will celebrate that I am having a birthday at all.

Because I probably shouldn't be celebrating my birthday, truth be told. I have had some close brushes, genuinely too close for comfort, with death in my life. I will spare you the details, but I have not allowed my nearest and dearest to get too comfortable with the idea that I will be around forever. I don't really enjoy the excitement of a life threatening crisis myself, but I do enjoy the flowers that accompany it. How about we skip the hospital and just send flowers? Alstromeria are my favorites, and purple is my favorite color. Just in case you were wanting to know.

On this birthday, I find myself looking back on my life more than I have in awhile, I guess in part because for the first time in many years, I am not severely clinically depressed. I realize that I am more or less at the halfway point of my expected life, a little beyond, really, and I think a review of my life is a good way to inventory where I find myself. I think you have to know where you've been, and where you are, in order to determine where you hope to be in your future. Now that I am not depressed, I think a good hard examination is probably in order.

At the age of 48, popular culture leads me to believe that the best is behind me, and I am now on the downhill slope of my life, with very little to look forward to. Even the Hollywood elite who are my age look 30 years younger than me, which is sort of a wonder, really. After spending their days starving themselves and working out and enduring surgery in the endless quest to look 21, I'm not sure why you would want to bother. After all that, I'd need to call it day, because I'd be too tired for the red carpet, anyway.

When did we get so hung up on being young, I wonder? It wasn't all that memorable of a time in my life, and I suspect the same is true for most people.

So why do people want to remain stuck in youth, instead of moving into the richness of the fall of our lives? I am not going to fight it, I am going to move forward into it with anticipation and savor the beauty and the joy that I know will be found just ahead.

I think a lot of people consider that fall is a depressing season, because the trees lose their leaves, and the grass goes brown, and we all begin to prepare for the long winter ahead.

But for me, fall has always been my favorite season. I see it as a turning point, the moment of anticipation, when the very best part of the year is just ahead, and the days will be filled with joy and song and laughter and surprises. The trees lose their leaves, it's true, but not before showing us their greatest beauty, when they turn glorious colors and show us their previously hidden splendor. Harvest is upon us, and instead of the green fields filled with promise, we now have the reality of the crops and the fruits of the labor of so many farmers which have been tantalizing us for so long.

True appreciation is rooted in the full experience. My life journey has taken some unexpected twists, and I think it is worth reviewing, to help set the framework for the future.

I was born in 1960, a Baby Boomer by cohort, but not by nature. I must add that Hugh Grant was also born that year on September 9, which gives us at least one thing in common. [My predilection for bad boys obviously continues, even for the crush from afar.]

Like many born in the early 60's, I have little in common with my older brethren in the Boomer crowd that preceded me, being more like the Generation X'ers who followed. Ironically, although they grew up to chanting slogans about flower power and making love, not war, I would characterize the Boomer generation as angry, filled with angst, and perhaps even self-loathing, in some ways. Their generational heroes sang about the joys of free sex and drugs, and in sync with their "Me Generation" moniker, it seems most of their time was spent escaping from the cozy cocoon their giddy parents had created for them.

As a generation, they were larger than any cohort in history, and as they matured, they have changed every phase of life with them. They were a tough act to follow, and I think, since the oldest Boomers were already approaching adulthood by the time we younger Boomer Lites came along, we have both suffered for and benefited from their leadership.

They continue to believe that the world revolves around them, and they bring that confidence to the table in every aspect of life. They solve problems we need to face, and force solutions where there is little will. Social Security will get revamped, not because there is will in Washington, but because there are simply too many Boomers to go on avoiding it. They will demand advances in everything from single travel to geriatric care, single serving frozen food to the cure for Alzheimer's, because they continue to demand it, and because they are too numerous to ignore. They will change everything, as they always have, because they are them.

We Boomer Lites, arrived into a slightly different version of the world. While our older siblings had "Leave It To Beaver" and Howdy Doody and the Beatles, and sit-in was not yet part of the vernacular, we Boomer Lites lived in a world that had soured from anger.

My early years were a time of war protests and marches, psychedelic flowers and psychedelic people. Our parents drove large cars, so our older siblings drove Bugs. We saw the generation gap up close and personal, and Vietnam was not an exotic travel destination but the name of a conflict that was rending the fabric of our society. We drank formula and watched black and white televisions where "Father Knew Best," while hiding from The Bomb under our school desks. We saw a president assassinated, and civil rights jumped from the pages of "To Kill a Mockingbird" to a violent reality. But as the 60's passed into the 70's, the world was a better place, the war was slowly coming to an end, and elephant pants took the place of fringe and mini skirts.

The 70's were a cultural phenomenon I would really rather skip over. I don't think there is anything good to say about platform shoes and dancing to the Bee Gee's, much as I loved their sound back then. I actually did dance to disco [yes, that is as embarrassing as it sounds,] and we watched the President resign in Technicolor. I had long hair, big glasses, and was, quite simply, the most awkward human being on earth.

My own views of the 70's are distorted from being seen through the lens of grief, and I spent my teenaged years angry and resentful at a world that was not fair. [Someday I will write a post about the stupid things people say to kids at funerals.] The less said about Watergate the better, and President Nixon's salute from the top of his airplane stairs is something I would rather not remember. Along with the rest of the country, I made some poor decisions, and probably some good ones, although the bad ones stand out more in my mind, of course.

I graduated from high school in 1978, which, if you are counting, is an astounding 30 years ago. It was a big year for happenings, and I don't mean my commencement from Kenyon High School and into the world of a college student.

Jimmy Carter was president, and his main positive legacy, the Camp David Accords, were signed, garnering the Nobel Peace Prize for Sadat and Begin later in the year. Cardinal Karol Wojtilya was elected to the papacy, and became Pope John Paul II. Pete Rose got his 3,000th hit back when baseball was still America's game. Jim Jones perpetrated his mass suicide in Jonestown, giving birth to the slang use of the term "drink the kool-aid" to denote those who follow someone mindlessly.

The 1980's were the best of times and the worst of times, both for us as a country, and for me personally. I got married, which should have been a good thing, and I had my son, Adam, which turned out to be the best thing about the entire decade.

Reagan was President, and sold his version of hope to the American public, who were desperate to believe in something again after too many dark years. Reagan was a genuine breath of fresh air after the hapless Carter walked out of the Oval Office and into the humanitarian work he has done so much more effectively. Reagan brought a new enthusiasm to his believers, and it seemed like a new world order had begun. Something that ultimately proved true, as the Berlin Wall came crashing down, and the Cold War came to its ignominious end. At least for now.

The Challenger blew apart, but didn't dampen our enthusiasm or stifle our spirit. I graduated from college and graduate school, sort of, and I went out into the world of work and faced my first battle with unemployment, as it was a buyer's market when I came of age in 1982, and writers were not in high demand. My family moved several times, we went through some tough life crises, but in the end, we landed in Kansas City, and it turned out to be good.

The 1990's, when I was in my 30's, were great years for me. I was a happy and productive at-home mom. My beautiful Erin came into my life to keep me on my toes, and financially, we were finally somewhat secure. It was unarguably a decade of wealth and global expansion, and the country was prosperous and respected throughout the world. George HW Bush prosecuted the first Iraq war as successfully as it could have been done. Political change was felt throughout the world, and Nelson Mandela was released from prison in South Africa. Climate change was becoming a popular issue, and the Kyoto Protocol was adopted by the UN. The World Trade Center was bombed for the first time, shaking the financial markets, and giving notice of grim things to come, and the fear of the Y2K bug had the entire world in an uproar. Looking back, that Y2K bug seems almost quaint, doesn't it?

The turn of the century, that once in a millennial event, marked my entrance to middle age, as well. I do hope that New Year's Eve won't be an omen for the rest of the century, because it was not a good one for me, and so far, it has been a pretty accurate indicator of my life to come. The 2000's have been a rough ride, and I am ready for the next decade any time.

I have seen my son graduate from high school, the Millennials are on the loose, [and if anyone wants my opinion, they are a great generation, and will be just what this country needs,] and I have gone through divorce. I have confronted and dealt with severe chronic depression, and I defeated a life threatening illness. I have a good friend who calls women in the position in life that I enjoyed before my divorce as "independently wealthy single parents" which was about right, and then I became a genuinely single parent, and found out how much harder it is. I have faced unemployment and the frustration of having a skill no one wants, a degree no one cares about, and a rapidly dwindling bank account that has gone from making me nervous to keeping me up at night. It is rumored that into every life some rain must fall, but this hurricane can be over any time now. Could someone at least throw me an umbrella?

Looking back, I was living a fairy tale, but I'm not sorry I had the chance, even though the castle wasn't real. Although I wish I had saved more and spent less, worked part time or gone to school, done something with my life that would have translated into a better opportunity now to support my family when I really need to, I can't be sorry for the choices I made.

The end result is two wonderful children who will be good and productive citizens when they are grown and out of college, which in the case of at least one of them had better be soon. I have the best of relationships with my kids, part mom and part friend, and I feel like they both want me in their lives as much as I want them in mine. I have had the satisfaction of helping a lot of other children along the way, as I served as their room mom, classroom helper, field trip chaperone, and open house sponsor. I have tried a variety of occupations, started my own company and been able to enjoy everything that goes with that, and dealt with making the decisions that direct my own life. I have done my best, over the last few difficult years, to face my troubles with humor and faith and hope for the future, and carried the burdens as lightly as I could.

So now that I have assessed the past, I want to set my course for the future. I can't change the present, at least not all at once, but I want to know that I have a future to look ahead and work toward. What do I really want to be when I grow up? I have come full circle, it seems, and I want to be what I have always been. I want to be the writer, the storyteller, the humorist. I want to educate, elucidate, inspire and uplift. I want to know that I have used the one power I truly possess for the best, and brought joy and comfort and motivation to others. I want to finish my fractured fairy tale, and write my parenting book. I want to finish my auto-biography, I want to write that Bible study I've been planning. I want to take the ideas that have come tumbling from my soul and pour them out into words to share with others.

I am looking forward to the next year, because I have hope for my future, and I believe that God has something good planned for me. And I will make my one year goal: I will meet you back here one year from today with my fractured fairy tale in hand, ready to submit to a publisher. And when I am a fabulously successful author, I will remember you, because you made it possible.

Happy birthday to me!

An unwritten promise....

One of the reasons I started this blog was to instill in myself a more disciplined approach to writing than I have employed in the past. Although I have been writing all my life, starting with my first story when I was about six, I have never taken a serious, controlled - in short, disciplined - approach to it. A real writer, one who writes for the enjoyment of others, and especially one who dreams of getting paid for it some day, has to be dedicated and do it every day, like eating or brushing your teeth. You cannot call yourself a writer until you do it even when you don't really feel like it, or when you are uninspired, or when you can't find a single thing in your life that interests you, to say nothing of trying to make it interesting to someone else.

Historically, (if you can call a life that has only been lived for 48 years historical,) I have taken the hobby approach to writing; picking it up when something came bubbling up inside my head, saying whatever was on my mind, and then returning it to the closet until it comes boiling out again. While that does make the brief period when you begin writing easy, because you have a lot on your mind, it does not make you a better writer. On the contrary, you mostly say too much, instead of too little, because you know it won't last, and you have to say everything before you lose the mood.

Now I am forcing myself to write something every day, to produce a product, good, bad, or indifferent, and put it out there, regardless of whether it is perfect, merely decent, or outright awful (sorry about that, but it is what it is.) It has been an interesting experience so far, allowing people to see me at less than my very best, and being able to accept that something less than 100% perfection is adequate for the day. My own perfectionism has always been one of my biggest stumbling blocks, something that stands in my path, preventing success by short circuiting failure.

Recently, a friend gave me a book titled, The Underachiever's Manifesto by Ray Bennett. It is not, contrary to the title's implications, advocating failure. Instead, it encourages the reader in this success-manic and overworked culture, to relax and enjoy the journey, and to recognize that even unattractive people get married and live happily, people with C averages graduate from college and grow up to be president, and that money, the measure by which our society judges success, doesn't measure happiness, or the value of a person's life to those who are in it.

This is a mostly unwelcome perspective in a society that quantifies personal value by business title, and considers money to be the only grade by which a life is judged successful. If that doesn't define success, I think the workaholics worry, then what is the value of their lives, since they have sacrificed everything to reach that goal. But measured against that rubric, most of the great art, literature and music in the world would not have been considered worthy, and the purveyors would have been destitute. Well, okay, many of them were. But that is not the point. Creativity is rarely rewarded in our straight line, power driven society, unless you are ridiculously pretty, weigh 98 pounds, and your psychological problems outnumber your daily caloric intake.

Back in the heady days of the Renaissance, artists of all types had patrons, people of wealth and social standing who would sponsor an artist, supporting them, so that they could dedicate themselves to their craft, without having to worry about paying the bills. [I am wide open to that arrangement myself, if someone wants to pay me to write. So far, they are not standing in line to volunteer, but it could happen. I'm a dreamer.] That system worked brilliantly during those times of renewal and innovation, and without it, we would be missing many, if not most, of the great works of art, music, theater and literature which make up what we now recognize as "The Classics."

I am certainly not comparing myself to a daVinci, or a Michelangelo. Neither am I Shakespeare, or even Noel Coward. [No, I am not talking about someone afraid of Christmas. Definitely time to renew that library card.] But, as I have been telling my kids, who are now in the serious phase of trying to figure out what they want to be when they grow up, it's important to be able to admit what you are good at, in addition to recognizing what you are bad at, so that you have some direction in which to go with your life.

I have tried a number of occupations now, which has certainly narrowed down the list of things I might be good at. Or bad at. So I am well on my way to being a professional underachiever. I think it's safe to say I will never be a teacher, nor am I a very good accountant. I was a great at-home mom, I think, and I am a dedicated volunteer. I hate spending my life behind a desk, and go crazy having to answer phones eight hours a day.

I have two main talents, I think, which surfaced, as talents usually do, pretty early. I am musical, and I can write a fair story. Or a fairy story. Or a fairy tale, or better yet, a fractured fairy tale. Well, I think I can anyway. Certainly I can start one, although I seem to have a hard time finishing one, which is another story.

Speaking of other stories, the very first story I ever wrote was a true life account of the death of a deer. It had everything - violence, beauty, drama, and a tragic ending - to make it a best seller. Unfortunately, I could only make it three misspelled paragraphs long, so it didn't really make it into the book stores, although it did make it between the covers of my scrap book. But if you want to compete with Bambi, you have to have more than 300 words scribbled on a tablet in pencil, I guess.

I have actually published a thing or two, but nothing anyone has ever heard of. I produced one article for a professional journal on the topic of refugee migration patterns. I know, that's going to keep people up at night, waiting for it to come out in hardback. I have done a couple brief articles on things in which I have some interest, but nothing that would appeal to the masses and ultimately pay for more than dinner at McDonald's.

What is the roadblock, standing in the way of the pursuit of what seems, most obviously, to be the one thing I have going for me? Mostly, I guess, I have been afraid to jump, afraid the chute wouldn't open, and I'd crash into the trees and just hang there waiting for someone to come along and save me from myself. And no one would ever come. Which makes me a victim of my own fears, and a failure of my own making. Because I don't define failure in life as trying and not succeeding. Failure, to me, is being so afraid to fail that you never even try.

My daughter, some time ago in another life phase, called me a hypocrite. Harsh, yes, but possibly true, although not in the sense she meant at that angry moment. How can I, as a mother, encourage my children to reach for the stars when I spend my own lifetime trying to sneak under the covers and stay in bed? If I don't have the courage to pursue my own dreams, and to utilize my own abilities, then I have no legitimacy in telling them to recognize and pursue their own talents and dreams.

Unemployment has been a difficult thing for me, and I have certainly tried to find ways to support my kids and myself that will both use my talents and allow me to feel good about how I spend my days. I am about to embark on yet another effort, hopefully one that will be successful, and hopefully one that God will bless and reward. But if the worst happens, and I am not successful, I am glad to know that my kids have seen me try, that I have learned from my mistakes, and that failure, for them, will not be defined in not succeeding, but in failing to try at all.

And in the meantime, I will keep writing, because maybe someday my dreams really can come true. Although, as I have noted before, I am definitely not Cinderella, and I don't really believe in fairy tales any more.