Groundhog Day....

I was amused this week to learn that the old Bill Murray movie, "Groundhog Day," has apparently come to life for someone I used to know all too well. My ex-husband, Peter Pan, has apparently found the key to turning back the clock, because this past Tuesday, he turned 40. Again.

But he wasn't satisfied to quietly turn 40 for the second time. Oh no. To my entertainment, and now yours, he threw a party to celebrate the special event, bringing his friends and family along for the ride.

I shouldn't have been so surprised, I suppose. He's been lying about his age since I've known him, [although amusingly, he is now going in the other direction.] But throwing yourself a birthday party for an age you turned six years ago, and for which you have already had a big celebration, seems excessive, even for him.

But it was a birthday party, after all, and he was the gift that kept on giving.

Because, even more fun, he invited other people to the circus. Not only were his two children there, one of whom is almost 24 [you do the math,] but there were actually other attendees who were present the first time around, and really should have known better.

I think that is testament to the gullibility of human beings, because they apparently chose to believe what he told them, rather than what they should have known of their own experience. Not to mention what their eyes should be screaming, but I digress again.

It is fascinating, this cult of youthfulness that seems to permeate our society. I am not immune to it, of course. I am pushing 50, and I hate it. I do not want to be 50, because that is middle aged, and I am not middle aged, at least in my mind. I have heard 50 is the new 40, whatever that means. I think 50 is the old 25, myself.

And since we apparently get to choose what age we want to be, I am going to just go ahead and pick 25 and be done with it. I feel 25, I could see better when I was 25, and I would enjoy reliving my young adulthood and getting it right this time. I was a lot thinner then, too, and it was a lot easier to stay that way. So if we're going to lie about our ages wholesale, I am going to pick 25.

Of course, it makes that 23 year old son a little awkward to explain, but if that's the only bump in my road, I'll take it. I've already bottomed out, any how, so what's another dent, I say?

Which brings me to the part of this whole episode that most perplexes me. Mr. Birthday Boy only shaved off six years. If you are going to lie about your age on that kind of scale, and even throw a fraudulent party to "celebrate" the occasion, wouldn't you at least make it worth your while? I mean, in what way is 40 a sexier, more thrilling age than 46?

It makes me wonder if somewhere along the line, even Peter Pan will get grounded.

In the meantime, I am happy to be standing on the sidelines, instead of wandering the carnival midway. Roller coasters can be fun, but they make me nauseous when they go upside down.

I'd rather be Tinkerbell, I think. That way I can throw pixie dust around and fly away. Now that's a ride I can enjoy.

A Mowving Experience....

Am I alone in thinking that the American obsession with grass is a little odd? Is there any other group of people out there that pours more time, energy and money into the raising of a product that they will then cut down, for no apparent return whatsoever? I spent a solid hour pondering this yesterday while I mowed my own patch of paradise, and I remain perplexed, as always, with the fascination for it.

I have neighbors who devote every waking moment to the pampering of their little patch of turf. They fence it off, they fertilize, they irrigate, they aerate and verticut and reseed, until the grass is a virtual monument to American chemistry and hard work. Is it really necessary, I find myself wondering, as I push my mower resentfully about the place? What is it that this green carpet I call my lawn is doing for me?

My lawn is not horrible, as lawns go. It is green, and mostly actual grass, with only a few weeds thrown in. In fact, the grass is, in places, too successful, as it has now fully invaded every bush bed I have, and is threatening to replace the very bushes the beds were intended to protect.

It doesn't surprise me that it invades the beds where it doesn't belong. It is, in nature, a weed, and as such, it will surely grow where it is not wanted.

Here is the fascinating thing about that grass, though. Why do you suppose it is, when I have an area in the middle of the lush lawn that is barren ground, nothing but weeds seem to take root? How is it that grass can climb high walls to invade a bed, can seemingly surmount almost any obstacle that man or nature can install, but cannot overcome an invisible line of demarcation in the soil from whence grass was originally taken?

I'll tell you, these are the things that plague me in the middle of mowing the lawn I didn't really want in the first place. And to which, I might add, I am highly allergic, making it even more ridiculous that I spend my time out there in the midst of it.

The very best part of owning a lawn in Kansas, however, comes in the middle of summer, when the only thing that is actually surviving in the heat are the chiggers that will make their way to the most uncomfortable areas of your body, to slowly drive you mad. Chiggers are surely the curse that we have to endure for living in Kansas, which is already punishment enough, if anyone wants my opinion.

Last summer, when I was suffering in chigger hell, I went to the store to get the only product known to humankind to be effective against the torturous itching. This product, known as Chigarid, comes in a (too) small bottle, and smells like mentholated nail polish. Which is probably what it, in fact, is.

I was gobsmacked to learn that the product had not only been recalled, but that no new product was expected to make it's appearance on store shelves until after chigger season had ended, if then. People in other parts of the country will not understand the distress, nay the panic and consternation, felt by those of us who do live in the part of the country where we suffer mightily every summer. But if you have once had a run-in with that invisible instrument of torture, you will sympathize.

I have checked this spring for Chigarid at the store, and am demoralized to learn that it still is not gracing the shelves. Rest assured, those who suffer, I have sent off a strongly worded e-mail letting the Colgin company know of our need for their product, and my distress at not finding it. I say we organize a mail-in, so that they are overwhelmed with the need to restart production of Chigarid. [Did I mention that it is the only cure for the itching known to humandkind? This is serious business people, and we need to get on it before the summer gets any older.]

But getting back to the curious tradition of grass, I wonder why we are so enamoured of the green stuff, and why we are willing to spend a virtual fortune on the care and feeding of something that is, essentially, useless? I wonder what it is about grass that makes us feel compelled to grow and nurture it, just so we can hack it back again?

I had a neighbor a long time ago who killed off all the grass in her front yard, and installed a huge bed of bushes instead. The entire neighborhood, except for me, thought she was crazy. I thought she had the right idea, but didn't have the courage to swim upstream.

But grass is perverse, and I watched her battle the infiltration of rogue grass like a predator. She would see a green blade sticking up, and she would pull it. If a weed dared to bare it's head, it would be Round-ed Up and killed. But it seemed, in the end, that she was as much a prisoner of her lawn as I am of mine, because she spent as much time pulling as I do mowing.

Perhaps, in the end, it is pure laziness that has made us a green nation, literally. Maybe somewhere along the line, we decided it was easier to just let it have its way than continue to fight a losing battle, and thus was born the American lawn.

Certainly gives you something to ponder while you shove your mower around your lawn, though, doesn't it?

Memorial Day

Today is a day for remembering those who have fought and died in the service of our nation. Democracy, grand experiment that it continues to be, is not without a price. Those who have given their lives in the defense of this nation have done so for each one of us, personally, and I hope that every citizen takes a moment today to think about that.

They have preserved your freedom to pursue your dreams. They have preserved your freedom to worship as you wish. They have preserved your freedom to be a part of controlling those who control us, and to change the entire government around, if we decide that is what we want to do. They have preserved your freedom to think what you want. And, most importantly, they have preserved your freedom to publicly say what you think, out loud, without the fear of what our government will do to you.

There are billions of people on this earth who not only do not have those rights, but cannot even envision a world in which they could. Each time I approach my computer keyboard to write a post to this blog, it is something for which I am exceedingly grateful.

So today, I will fly my flag proudly (if it stops raining) and will say a prayer in my heart for each man and woman who gave everything for me to live as I do. I will also say a prayer for their families, who have sacrificed the most important thing they had, as well.

Thank you. It is not enough, but it is all I can do.

Summer fun?

A tidbit in the news yesterday caught my eye, in the worst sort of way. It was a brief item on the Memorial Day opening of the area public pools, and an associated cringe worthy problem that we all know exists, but which we try hard not to think about - people using the pool as their lavatory instead of going to the restroom. I don't mean to be indelicate, [well, I do, really, I suppose, since I'm mentioning it, but I try to observe the proprieties,] but apparently people, full grown adults even, are peeing in the pool at an alarming rate.

How disconcerting.

In the survey I was reading, fully 20% of the respondents actually admitted to the misdeed. [You have to seriously wonder about their social skills, even being willing to admit to this obviously anti-social behavior, but I digress.] Naturally, that leads me to wonder how many more people do it but won't admit to it.

Given the known statistic, I wouldn't be surprised to learn, what with the human tendency to lie about everything, even when it's not ridiculously embarrassing, to say nothing of something like this, that half of the people in the swimming pool at any given time are probably eliminating in there, as well. That is a really shocking number, making me think I will never set foot in a public pool again.

I don't know about you, but I would like to think that by the time a person is old enough to be in the pool unsupervised, they would also know better than to eliminate in there. Sort of gives a whole new perspective on the old "hand in the pan of water" trick, I think. [Any girl who ever attended a slumber party knows exactly what I am talking about, here, but as I mentioned, I try to observe the proprieties, so I'm not going to expound. You are on your own with this one.]

This is not just an icky thought. People are spreading germs which can make other swimmers sick.

We would never tolerate this lack of sanitary standards in restaurant kitchens or other public places. We demand high quality regulations any time the general public is exposed to the risk of contamination, in order to prevent the spread of disease and illness. It seems sort of pointless to slather up with antiseptic soap and antibacterial hand gel 24/7, only to dive into the community toilet the moment the sun emerges, don't you think?

But for some irrational reason, [wants versus needs?] we continue to expect chlorine and other vague treatments to be sufficient to overcome all the water borne germs floating in our public pools. Given the rates of people misbehaving, it seems like a Herculean task.

So I got to thinking that there must be a way to identify the perpetrators of this outrageous behavior. I have amused myself at some length troubleshooting solutions to this watery dilemma. I am surprised some chemistry genius hasn't already come up with something that would identify the miscreants at the time of their misdeed.

My ultimate solution? Peer pressure in the form of public humiliation. As a society, we seem to have gotten away from the idea of public disapproval as a discipline technique. As far as I am concerned, peer pressure is one of the most effective deterrents to bad behavior that we have available, and I'm not afraid to use it. [Just ask my children.]

I say we utilize it to correct a behavior which is not only bad, but dangerous, especially to those who have vulnerable immune systems. Surely there must be a chemical that would react with urine in the water, causing a color change, maybe turning the water bright purple or something, so it couldn't be missed by anyone in the vicinity.

Imagine the reaction, as the water gradually turns colors around the unsuspecting swimmer, with nowhere to hide. I know what you are thinking. But admit it, you giggled. Unless, of course, you are one of the people who do this, in which case, you shuddered and made a vow to never do it again.

See? Mission accomplished.

There is a real function to this idea, beyond simple embarrassment. This would allow other swimmers not only to know who did it, but where the contaminants are.

Equally importantly, it would give a clear indication to the teenagers working there when the water was so contaminated that everyone needs to exit the pool for some type of shock treatment. [I don't know about you, but I think putting the health of the community into the hands of teenagers, trusting that they will do the testing and treating on schedule, as they are supposed to, without a single parental reminder, is a bit of a stretch.] The entire pool as a test strip, so to speak, with the outcome obvious to everyone at all times seems like a more effective way to control the situation.

I believe this is an idea whose time has come. If I were anything like a chemistry geek, I would get right on it and patent it, and make my millions. Since I am the artsy craftsy type, and couldn't even memorize the periodic table, I freely give this idea to the masses. Surely there is some eager young inventor out there waiting for the right concept to come along. Consider yourself run over.

In the meantime, I think the only diving I'm going to be doing will be into a book. I'll see you on the pool deck, with my laptop aimed at Snopes.com.

I love to tell the story...

A storyteller is a purveyor of life's experiences. It is a moniker that I accord to the very few people who can weave a tale in a way that makes us care, incites us to feel, causes us to lose ourselves in someone else's history. Telling stories is the oldest form of entertainment, pictures drawn in the imagination with colorful words, shared happenings retold in a fresh form.

Whether it's written down, or simply spoken, stories are the thread that connect us to the past, to the future, and to each other, through our shared experiences. They draw us in and throw our emotions around. They are a way of making us walk in someone else's shoes, to feel other people's experiences, to live an alternate life that has worked out differently than our own.

Thus, I was humbled and surprised when someone recently complimented my ability to make other people laugh and feel, labeling me a storyteller. I am a Minnesota Lutheran after all, and, like most people who were brought up as I was, I have a hard time acknowledging my own strengths, especially if it is a quality I admire in others. While I have always known I have a certain skill in writing, storytelling is a different talent altogether, based not on learned skills, but on a talent and a feel for words which is innate and intuitive.

Although I have often been told that I am funny or a good writer, the idea that I am a storyteller is a more complex concept. The idea that I can move people emotionally on many levels through the power of my words is one that both excites and intrigues me. It is a compliment, to be sure, but also a responsibility, and it is one which I have been pondering lately.

Like most aspiring writers, I have always dreamed of writing the great American novel. But I seem to have produced mostly short work, instead. Maybe I get bored with my own writing, losing interest if it takes too long to get to the end. Do I suffer from attention deficit problems? Or is this a function of having honed my storytelling abilities over the years? Or perhaps I tell stories because that is simply what I have always done best, and like most people, I do what is easiest for me to do well.

I know I am driven to write my experiences, to commit to words the moments that make up my realities. Even in the midst of the most emotional moments of my life, I need to write them down to fully experience them. I am not reliving the moments, I am feeling them in a different way.

It is, I think, the same drive which has inspired humans to tell stories forever. Shared experience is a powerful binder, bringing us down to a common denominator that allows us to overlook the differences. I want to know all sides of every experience, to explore each nuance and think through every facet of every event. And that is, at the bottom of it all, what storytelling is all about.

I never gave a lot of thought to my method of telling the story, or even what I am trying to accomplish by doing it. Perhaps that is partly due to having been a writer since I was little, chronicling my day to day life in my journal or even in an actual story. My first effort at writing a story was the gripping tale of a deer that got caught in a fence, and which ultimately had to be destroyed. I still have a copy of it, and occasionally like to look at it to remind myself of how a simple story can still move its audience. Because even in that early effort, I think I already understood some of the necessary elements to make for a good story, even though I didn't know it.

So when someone unexpectedly called me a storyteller, I began to think about what it is, exactly, that sets a good storyteller apart from the others. What can I do to make my stories better? How do I craft my words so that other people experience the story, rather than just hearing it? What is it, ultimately, that sets a good story apart from one that is poorly told?

I think the most important element in storytelling is truth. Excellent stories are rooted in reality, real life events about real people. The best stories usually have a basis in everyday reality, simple truths that are easily recognizable, genuine emotions that everyone can relate to. The most proficient storytellers can pick out the common incidents that most people have experienced, and allow us to laugh or cry or empathize or enjoy that experience in someone else's life as if it were our own. Because, in a sense, it is.

We have all been caught listening to people who have an interesting story to tell, but they cannot seem to move past their opening words. They become so concerned about getting some small detail nailed down that they forget the story itself is what actually matters.

Experienced storytellers know how to move the story forward, without getting bogged down in useless information that doesn't add anything to the overall picture they are creating. This is one of the key elements that define storytellers from talkers, in fact. Whether verbally, or on paper, the most capable storytellers get to the point, giving only enough supporting information to support their theme.

From my earliest writing, I have always tried to use the underlying words as the framework for the idea I want to convey. I believe in quality of writing, where less is more. If you allow the imagination to run free, you will give your reader the real gift of participating in the story themselves.

Storytelling is the earliest form of a history book, a living reminder of our shared past. Human beings are driven to tell about ourselves, our lives, our times. Although the methods have changed radically over the years, from cave drawings to online blogs, we are still participating in the same process, a carrying forward of our lives and times, who we are and what we are about, for future generations.

Whether fictional or biographical, the classic stories, the ones that stand the test of time, pull us in and make us a part of the ongoing action. They allow us to experience the events being told, and give us a part in the ongoing pageant of life. When Shakespeare wrote about Romeo and Juliet, for example, it has endured until the modern day, not because we care about the Montagues and the Capulets, but because we understand the pain of love denied. Even with the ancient language, words which resonate for few people any more, the story continues to inspire and enthrall because we have all felt the pain of love lost.

Modern people have gained a reputation, perhaps not undeserved, for being shallow and silly, superficial and temporary. We substitute texts and e-mails for personal conversations, and our relationships are as likely to be carried out by IM or Facebook as in person. And yet, I notice that the movies and books that do the best seem to be those that have the classic themes interwoven as an integral part of the story being told. It seems, even in the electronic age, we are still trying to connect with other people in the oldest of fashions, through stories of common experience.

Next time you start to wonder what is going to become of human civilization, go read a story, or better yet, tell yours to someone new. We all have a story to tell, and you never know where you will find a connection with your own future.