Writing exercise 2
I remember standing in a forest for the first time in my life. We are on a family camping trip off the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina. We drive several miles to an overlook that gives a view only of mountains and sky. The world is a bigger place than I have ever known. And it is more beautiful than I have ever seen.
A trail runs from the overlook to a waterfall a mile or so away. We enter the path through balsam giants and I am in a place unlike any I have ever seen. I smell and taste the sharpness in the air, my palette rich with pine and wood and earth and clean. The reverence of the silence is overwhelming. A carpet of generations of fallen balsam needles mixed with the sweet decay of fallen twigs and branches softens every step I take. Trees are around me and above me and I am wrapped in peacefulness and the protection of greens and browns and blues.
My father continues down the path, but no waterfall can lure from this place. I want to be alone for as long as I can; I am entirely alone no matter who is with me. All needs are met here and suddenly I understand the meaning of sanctuary. Leave me here – let me worship in this moment for the rest of my life.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Exercises
I'm starting a series of new writing exercises from Old Friend From Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir by Natalie Goldberg. The first topic is "I am watching..."
I am watching the night closing in, at darkness spreading from the ground up. The tops of the trees are outlined against a deepening gray sky. This is my favorite time to be out alone.
I’ve never been afraid of the dark and, even as a child, would be out alone as late as my parents would allow me. Once my children came along, I loved to get the kids to bed and take the dog for a walk in the neighborhood. One night a car with New York tags pulled up beside me; the man driving the car leaned back out of the way so his wife could stare at me from the passenger side. “Aren’t you afraid?” she asked. I laughed and said no, that I walked every night at this time. It was obvious that they were looking for a house in the area and their NY tags said all I needed to know. I wouldn’t walk alone in the dark there, either.
Now, I limit my excursions in the dark to tracking down a sleepy dog at bedtime. Bess loves the night as I do and, on her last trip outside, frequently falls asleep at the front of the yard. I pick my way through the shrubs and trees, gently shake her awake, and follow her back to the house.
Perhaps I should put her in the car just as the sun sinks out of sight and take her to a flat place for a walk that would fill both of our needs for some nightly solitude. I am willing to make a concession to my failing knees; streetlights and a level sidewalk would be welcome. I won’t even talk to her as I normally do when we walk together. We’ll just pretend the leash between us doesn’t really exist and imagine ourselves as two completely independent wanderers in the night. I wonder if either of us would be afraid, away from our own turf and our familiar sounds. Would we still be comfortable without the companionship of my husband and Bess’ bigger brother?
Maybe I’ll settle for sitting on the benches in the yard in the dark while she sleeps nearby. Maybe she’ll even join me and we can welcome the peace of the night together.
I am watching the night closing in, at darkness spreading from the ground up. The tops of the trees are outlined against a deepening gray sky. This is my favorite time to be out alone.
I’ve never been afraid of the dark and, even as a child, would be out alone as late as my parents would allow me. Once my children came along, I loved to get the kids to bed and take the dog for a walk in the neighborhood. One night a car with New York tags pulled up beside me; the man driving the car leaned back out of the way so his wife could stare at me from the passenger side. “Aren’t you afraid?” she asked. I laughed and said no, that I walked every night at this time. It was obvious that they were looking for a house in the area and their NY tags said all I needed to know. I wouldn’t walk alone in the dark there, either.
Now, I limit my excursions in the dark to tracking down a sleepy dog at bedtime. Bess loves the night as I do and, on her last trip outside, frequently falls asleep at the front of the yard. I pick my way through the shrubs and trees, gently shake her awake, and follow her back to the house.
Perhaps I should put her in the car just as the sun sinks out of sight and take her to a flat place for a walk that would fill both of our needs for some nightly solitude. I am willing to make a concession to my failing knees; streetlights and a level sidewalk would be welcome. I won’t even talk to her as I normally do when we walk together. We’ll just pretend the leash between us doesn’t really exist and imagine ourselves as two completely independent wanderers in the night. I wonder if either of us would be afraid, away from our own turf and our familiar sounds. Would we still be comfortable without the companionship of my husband and Bess’ bigger brother?
Maybe I’ll settle for sitting on the benches in the yard in the dark while she sleeps nearby. Maybe she’ll even join me and we can welcome the peace of the night together.
Lunch List
For several years, I've kept a list of people I would truly like to sit down and talk to over lunch. I think this stems from wanting to get a personal sense of them, not so much because they are celebrities or politicians. I've chosen not to explain who they are, even if they are known only regionally or locally. You might enjoy discovering them on your own.
You may also find some of these hard to accept. Please add your own comments. I would also like to know who you would secretly love to have lunch with if you could.
I will also add to this list, from time to time.
You may also find some of these hard to accept. Please add your own comments. I would also like to know who you would secretly love to have lunch with if you could.
I will also add to this list, from time to time.
Men who served with my father in WWII
Jimmy Carter
Tiger Woods
Queen Latifah
Gail King
Hillary Clinton
George and Laura Bush
Barack Obama
Whoopee Goldberg
Angela Lansbury
Rick Warren
Billy Graham
Mohammed Ali
Colin Powell
Natalie Goldberg
Clark Howard
Jeff Lindsey
Pat Conroy
Caroline Kennedy
Richard Riley
Bill and Melinda Gates
Amy Roloff
Bruce Springsteen
Monday, September 29, 2008
Lawn Games
Lawn Games
It’s about 8:45 am on an early September morning and the dogs and I are outside, waiting for George to return from his daily walk. Harry and Bess are having their morning rumpus on the front lawn. Bess antagonizes Harry with a stick. She wheels and whirls around in front of him, stops suddenly and plants her rear end in the air, her front legs and head down low, her face pulled back in the snarl that signals she’s playing. Harry chases her, but comes back to me throughout the game, never forgetting his role as protector. Harry tires first, so he simply takes the stick and chews it in into small pieces so that a new trophy will be required before they can continue. He hasn’t realized that Bess keeps our lawn littered with sticks so that she can provoke a game any time she can coax him outside.
Behind me, a pair of bumblebees plays their own game in the begonias. They are too busy to be threatened by me and I am busy enough not be threatened by them. The begonias need to be cut back to a neater size, but I will leave them for the last few weeks before fall takes them completely. The bees have only a little while more to enjoy them.
Harry comes back to check on me and I see the purple stains along his left side that marked yesterday morning’s game of chase. Bess is smaller and not as fast as Harry, but more agile. She evens the odds of staying ahead by leading Harry in and through every obstacle in our yard. Yesterday, that included regular sprints through our beautyberries, which are in full berry now. Bess jumped over the shrubs while Harry, in hot pursuit, barreled right through, dyeing his yellow shoulder and flank neon purple in the process.
And, suddenly, they are off again, chasing back through the woods at the back of our property. The dogs are so engaged that they don’t even hear George call to them as he arrives home. Maybe they are too busy listening to bird songs, insects, lawn mowers and weed eaters in distant yards, and the sound of neighbors leaving for work.
I’ve heard that something should HAPPEN when you write a story so maybe this really isn’t one. But, for me, connection is happening and, as it does, I discover what I need and want to do in the coming hours and days. Not in as dramatic or as comic a way as the political conventions we’ve watched for the last two weeks, but far more productively, I believe. I know what I can do and have priorities for what is truly most important.
The dogs are tired now, lying at my feet, on the concrete floor of the pergola. Harry barely twitches when he sees a hummingbird feeding on the other side of the walk. Bess is already dozing, her side rising and falling slowly with each breath. I see grass cuttings on the sidewalk, left from mowing the grass yesterday, but I don’t want to disturb the dogs by sweeping any more than I want to disturb the bees. They have priorities, too, and somehow, we have to respect each others’.
It’s about 8:45 am on an early September morning and the dogs and I are outside, waiting for George to return from his daily walk. Harry and Bess are having their morning rumpus on the front lawn. Bess antagonizes Harry with a stick. She wheels and whirls around in front of him, stops suddenly and plants her rear end in the air, her front legs and head down low, her face pulled back in the snarl that signals she’s playing. Harry chases her, but comes back to me throughout the game, never forgetting his role as protector. Harry tires first, so he simply takes the stick and chews it in into small pieces so that a new trophy will be required before they can continue. He hasn’t realized that Bess keeps our lawn littered with sticks so that she can provoke a game any time she can coax him outside.
Behind me, a pair of bumblebees plays their own game in the begonias. They are too busy to be threatened by me and I am busy enough not be threatened by them. The begonias need to be cut back to a neater size, but I will leave them for the last few weeks before fall takes them completely. The bees have only a little while more to enjoy them.
Harry comes back to check on me and I see the purple stains along his left side that marked yesterday morning’s game of chase. Bess is smaller and not as fast as Harry, but more agile. She evens the odds of staying ahead by leading Harry in and through every obstacle in our yard. Yesterday, that included regular sprints through our beautyberries, which are in full berry now. Bess jumped over the shrubs while Harry, in hot pursuit, barreled right through, dyeing his yellow shoulder and flank neon purple in the process.
And, suddenly, they are off again, chasing back through the woods at the back of our property. The dogs are so engaged that they don’t even hear George call to them as he arrives home. Maybe they are too busy listening to bird songs, insects, lawn mowers and weed eaters in distant yards, and the sound of neighbors leaving for work.
I’ve heard that something should HAPPEN when you write a story so maybe this really isn’t one. But, for me, connection is happening and, as it does, I discover what I need and want to do in the coming hours and days. Not in as dramatic or as comic a way as the political conventions we’ve watched for the last two weeks, but far more productively, I believe. I know what I can do and have priorities for what is truly most important.
The dogs are tired now, lying at my feet, on the concrete floor of the pergola. Harry barely twitches when he sees a hummingbird feeding on the other side of the walk. Bess is already dozing, her side rising and falling slowly with each breath. I see grass cuttings on the sidewalk, left from mowing the grass yesterday, but I don’t want to disturb the dogs by sweeping any more than I want to disturb the bees. They have priorities, too, and somehow, we have to respect each others’.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Walking on Broken Glass
I used to think that Annie Lennox was singing about a love gone bad whenever I heard “Walking on Broken Glass.” Now, I’m pretty sure she’s singing about having bad knees.
While I was still working, I would find myself beside the car in the parking lot, not knowing if I could make it in to my office. This daily experience convinced me that it was time to actually retire, not simply change jobs from a kindergarten classroom to a college classroom.
If you can, imagine walking on your hands down the paved street. Only, not on your hands – think of walking on the middle joint of your fingers on the pavement. That’s the way my knees feel when I try to walk for exercise if the interventions my doctors provide aren’t up to date.
And, when I’m on any decline – no matter how slight - the pain increases tremendously even on my best days.
I’ve known that both need to be replaced for several years now, but I am determined to leave this earth with the same knees that came with me, if at all possible. I have a wonderful rheumatologist who recommended SynVisc injections before moving toward surgery. SynVisc provides an artificial cushion in the knees, giving up to six months relief from pain. My orthopedic surgeon urges me not to replace my knees as long as the SynVisc continues to work. I am fortunate that it seems to be more effective with each set of injections. Many people find the injections less effective over time.
I’m also lucky that a daily dose of Cymbalta manages much of my pain. Without it, I couldn’t walk across the room on any day without the use of my cane. There would be no way that I could manage a set of stairs or walking through a grocery store.
I am able to exercise daily, up to 45 minutes a day on the stationary bicycle and an additional 30 a day of resistance exercises. Whenever my knees are sore, I find that the exercise bike really eases the pain. I back off and just ride at a very leisurely pace under 10 mph. When things are good, I ride more quickly. I started this about 6 weeks ago and find that I have much greater mobility and comfort when I maintain my exercise.
And, of course, weight affects the way I feel tremendously. I’ve lost just short of 50 pounds, which means that my knees are relieved of about 200 pounds of pressure. I would love to lose another 60 pounds to provide the best insurance that my natural knees and I remain partners.
I am glad the option of knee replacement is available and, if I decide I need it, I will use it. Meanwhile, I can manage without too many problems. I won’t take a walk with you on rolling terrain and my taekwondo days are over. But, another 40 pounds off, and I’m going to see if I can manage riding lessons. I can always use the steps to get up to the saddle.
While I was still working, I would find myself beside the car in the parking lot, not knowing if I could make it in to my office. This daily experience convinced me that it was time to actually retire, not simply change jobs from a kindergarten classroom to a college classroom.
If you can, imagine walking on your hands down the paved street. Only, not on your hands – think of walking on the middle joint of your fingers on the pavement. That’s the way my knees feel when I try to walk for exercise if the interventions my doctors provide aren’t up to date.
And, when I’m on any decline – no matter how slight - the pain increases tremendously even on my best days.
I’ve known that both need to be replaced for several years now, but I am determined to leave this earth with the same knees that came with me, if at all possible. I have a wonderful rheumatologist who recommended SynVisc injections before moving toward surgery. SynVisc provides an artificial cushion in the knees, giving up to six months relief from pain. My orthopedic surgeon urges me not to replace my knees as long as the SynVisc continues to work. I am fortunate that it seems to be more effective with each set of injections. Many people find the injections less effective over time.
I’m also lucky that a daily dose of Cymbalta manages much of my pain. Without it, I couldn’t walk across the room on any day without the use of my cane. There would be no way that I could manage a set of stairs or walking through a grocery store.
I am able to exercise daily, up to 45 minutes a day on the stationary bicycle and an additional 30 a day of resistance exercises. Whenever my knees are sore, I find that the exercise bike really eases the pain. I back off and just ride at a very leisurely pace under 10 mph. When things are good, I ride more quickly. I started this about 6 weeks ago and find that I have much greater mobility and comfort when I maintain my exercise.
And, of course, weight affects the way I feel tremendously. I’ve lost just short of 50 pounds, which means that my knees are relieved of about 200 pounds of pressure. I would love to lose another 60 pounds to provide the best insurance that my natural knees and I remain partners.
I am glad the option of knee replacement is available and, if I decide I need it, I will use it. Meanwhile, I can manage without too many problems. I won’t take a walk with you on rolling terrain and my taekwondo days are over. But, another 40 pounds off, and I’m going to see if I can manage riding lessons. I can always use the steps to get up to the saddle.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Where Are They Now?
When George W. Bush was elected to the Presidency, it took us months to remember his wife’s name. “You know, Mrs. Bush… What IS her first name?”
Keep in mind that my husband’s name is George and my name is Laura. We are politically very liberal, so I guess we subconsciously blocked Laura Bush’s name from our memories to avoid the association. Fortunately, our friends never made the connection unless we pointed it out to them.
Two years ago, we added a male and a female Labradoodle puppy to our family to share our new home. George suggested several names, but my mind was already made up. Not only did I want presidential names to go with ours, I wanted the names of good Democrats so I could attempt to even the score. I decided upon Harry and Bess. (Franklin and Eleanor would be much more suited to donkeys or mules.)
Whenever we walk the dogs, someone inevitably stops us to ask about their breed. It never fails that, when they hear the dogs’ names, someone will sigh and say, “Harry, where are you now that we need you?”
Bess is cuddly and playful and totally wrapped up in herself. We adore her.
Harry, though, is the best dog we’ve ever had. Our youngest son describes him as “noble” and it certainly fits. Harry is loving and protective of the people in his life without being aggressive toward people or other dogs. He’s definitely the alpha leader without being a bully. He’s confident, smart and studies situations before he reacts. Harry pays subtle attention to what we expect; he can hold a hammer when asked to or carry in the mail. He finds box turtles and brings them to us unharmed because he knows we are delighted by his gifts. Each morning when George walks, a vigilant Harry waits at the end of the driveway until he returns and each night Harry stays up with me, the last one to go to bed.
Presidents themselves should be noble. They should serve their people first and be aware of and responsive to their needs in times of crisis. They should be vigilant, but they should also study situations before they react and should understand the difference between protection and aggression. They should appreciate and share our interest and delight in the gifts of our diversity, our public lands, and resources. They should pay attention so they are prepared for the biggest or smallest of jobs. And they should know the difference between arrogance and confidence.
Oh, integrity, intelligence, strength, vigilance, service, nobility, where are you now that we need you? Some of us are giving up hope that this nation can once again become the symbol of peace and freedom and truth for the world, a place where people believe their dreams can become reality. While the American people realize that the differences that divide us are much fewer and smaller than the things we have in common, we must also face a new reality that those minute differences may make us the next target of suspicion by the same leaders sworn to protect our standard of diverse opinions, backgrounds, and perspectives. While we as individuals find ourselves more deeply connected throughout the world through trade and digital communications, we find ourselves increasingly isolated as American citizens.
Our leaders now make decisions on what they suspect and what they choose to believe rather than what they know. They use lies to justify fear and fear to justify actions that we would never support if presented truthfully. They have called upon America’s sons and daughters to sacrifice their families, their jobs, their homes, and their very lives while the economic and social gaps between those in power and everyday Americans grows wider and wider.
How sad to think that it’s come to this. And, how sad to think that we let it happen.
"The President is merely the most important among a large number of public servants. He should be supported or opposed exactly to the degree which is warranted by his good conduct or bad conduct, his efficiency or inefficiency in rendering loyal, able, and disinterested service to the nation as a whole. Therefore it is absolutely necessary that there should be full liberty to tell the truth about his acts, and this means that it is exactly as necessary to blame him when he does wrong as to praise him when he does right. Any other attitude in an American citizen is both base and servile. To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public. Nothing but the truth should be spoken about him or anyone else. But it is even more important to tell the truth, pleasant or unpleasant, about him than about anyone else."
Theodore Roosevelt
Keep in mind that my husband’s name is George and my name is Laura. We are politically very liberal, so I guess we subconsciously blocked Laura Bush’s name from our memories to avoid the association. Fortunately, our friends never made the connection unless we pointed it out to them.
Two years ago, we added a male and a female Labradoodle puppy to our family to share our new home. George suggested several names, but my mind was already made up. Not only did I want presidential names to go with ours, I wanted the names of good Democrats so I could attempt to even the score. I decided upon Harry and Bess. (Franklin and Eleanor would be much more suited to donkeys or mules.)
Whenever we walk the dogs, someone inevitably stops us to ask about their breed. It never fails that, when they hear the dogs’ names, someone will sigh and say, “Harry, where are you now that we need you?”
Bess is cuddly and playful and totally wrapped up in herself. We adore her.
Harry, though, is the best dog we’ve ever had. Our youngest son describes him as “noble” and it certainly fits. Harry is loving and protective of the people in his life without being aggressive toward people or other dogs. He’s definitely the alpha leader without being a bully. He’s confident, smart and studies situations before he reacts. Harry pays subtle attention to what we expect; he can hold a hammer when asked to or carry in the mail. He finds box turtles and brings them to us unharmed because he knows we are delighted by his gifts. Each morning when George walks, a vigilant Harry waits at the end of the driveway until he returns and each night Harry stays up with me, the last one to go to bed.
Presidents themselves should be noble. They should serve their people first and be aware of and responsive to their needs in times of crisis. They should be vigilant, but they should also study situations before they react and should understand the difference between protection and aggression. They should appreciate and share our interest and delight in the gifts of our diversity, our public lands, and resources. They should pay attention so they are prepared for the biggest or smallest of jobs. And they should know the difference between arrogance and confidence.
Oh, integrity, intelligence, strength, vigilance, service, nobility, where are you now that we need you? Some of us are giving up hope that this nation can once again become the symbol of peace and freedom and truth for the world, a place where people believe their dreams can become reality. While the American people realize that the differences that divide us are much fewer and smaller than the things we have in common, we must also face a new reality that those minute differences may make us the next target of suspicion by the same leaders sworn to protect our standard of diverse opinions, backgrounds, and perspectives. While we as individuals find ourselves more deeply connected throughout the world through trade and digital communications, we find ourselves increasingly isolated as American citizens.
Our leaders now make decisions on what they suspect and what they choose to believe rather than what they know. They use lies to justify fear and fear to justify actions that we would never support if presented truthfully. They have called upon America’s sons and daughters to sacrifice their families, their jobs, their homes, and their very lives while the economic and social gaps between those in power and everyday Americans grows wider and wider.
How sad to think that it’s come to this. And, how sad to think that we let it happen.
"The President is merely the most important among a large number of public servants. He should be supported or opposed exactly to the degree which is warranted by his good conduct or bad conduct, his efficiency or inefficiency in rendering loyal, able, and disinterested service to the nation as a whole. Therefore it is absolutely necessary that there should be full liberty to tell the truth about his acts, and this means that it is exactly as necessary to blame him when he does wrong as to praise him when he does right. Any other attitude in an American citizen is both base and servile. To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public. Nothing but the truth should be spoken about him or anyone else. But it is even more important to tell the truth, pleasant or unpleasant, about him than about anyone else."
Theodore Roosevelt
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Even Lance Started on a Tricycle
As part of building a healthier lifestyle, I’V started riding our stationary bike. It’s far easier on my knees than walking each day and, for some strange reason, I love to watch the number of calories and carbs I’m burning go up while I monitor my pace, miles per hour, and the total number of minutes I ride.
I’ve had to ride on resistance level 1. To tell the truth, I don’t even know how many levels of resistance there are on the bike – I don’t expect to see too many of them. I just pedal away at 10 to 11 mph on level 1, going nowhere and getting ahead at the same time.
Yesterday was a breakthrough, though. I decided to try the second level of resistance in three separate one minute intervals, five minutes apart. I watched every second of every one of those minutes and was so glad to see them finally end. But, I managed to do it. The third interval might as well have been a mountain stage in the Tour de France. I huffed and puffed, sweat pouring off me, and just sat on the bike resting for a full two minutes when my total time was up.
Last night I started planning on how and when I might actually tackle level 2 for TWO full minutes at a time – maybe next week. I’m getting ready to go out to the porch for my ride right now and am curious to see how those three intervals will feel today. It’s 10:00 AM and already 88 degrees with 45% humidity – more like the Tour de Death Valley. No matter, every rotation of the pedals brings me closer to that elusive thing called health.
One thing for sure, if I ever reach five minutes on resistance level 3, I’m buying myself a yellow jersey.
I’ve had to ride on resistance level 1. To tell the truth, I don’t even know how many levels of resistance there are on the bike – I don’t expect to see too many of them. I just pedal away at 10 to 11 mph on level 1, going nowhere and getting ahead at the same time.
Yesterday was a breakthrough, though. I decided to try the second level of resistance in three separate one minute intervals, five minutes apart. I watched every second of every one of those minutes and was so glad to see them finally end. But, I managed to do it. The third interval might as well have been a mountain stage in the Tour de France. I huffed and puffed, sweat pouring off me, and just sat on the bike resting for a full two minutes when my total time was up.
Last night I started planning on how and when I might actually tackle level 2 for TWO full minutes at a time – maybe next week. I’m getting ready to go out to the porch for my ride right now and am curious to see how those three intervals will feel today. It’s 10:00 AM and already 88 degrees with 45% humidity – more like the Tour de Death Valley. No matter, every rotation of the pedals brings me closer to that elusive thing called health.
One thing for sure, if I ever reach five minutes on resistance level 3, I’m buying myself a yellow jersey.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Making Choices
Originally, when I wrote my new principles about how I would like to live the rest of my life, I said, "I will make choices that leave me with the resources to contribute to the lives of others." I'm finding it necessary to edit that one substantially already.
It turns out that I can't make choices to contribute to the lives of others unless I first make responsible choices about my own life. I've seen that very clearly in the last few weeks, in my decisions to live healthier both physically and financially.
First of all, I've lost over 40 pounds since the early weeks of April by following a bariatric diet and exercising. But, a bout of pneumonia in mid-July caught me by surprise and triggered the loss of electrolytes in my system. And then, somehow, my blood sugar went crashing through the floor. Since I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes less than three years ago, I've never experienced the lows and they are terrifying and dangerous. It helps that our dog Harry comes to my side or wakes me up whenever my blood sugar drops too quickly or too low. I have no idea how he knows, but I'm grateful that he is teaching me to be aware.
I've spent every day since trying to learn the rhythms of my own body and its needs and am beginning to get the hang of it. However, I've decided to let everything I was committed to go in order to finally commit to my well being. I've said each year since I retired that I was taking a year to improve my health and every year other things distract me. No more - I never want to stagger and lurch down the hallway again with a blood sugar count of 40. I never want to babble about things and people that aren't there again because my body is stripped of necessary nutrients. I may not have another year, if I don't get it right now.
My mother will be moving here in a year and I want to enjoy her as much as I can. I want to walk the dogs with my husband in the evenings and kayak with him in the early mornings. I'm looking forward to healthy dinners with friends and sharing the vegetables from our garden with them. I want to visit with my sister and brother-in-law both here and at their home. And I want to continue to see my children thrive through whatever life brings them.
One day I'll return to my volunteer work as an activist for educational opportunities for our community's children. I love it and believe it is the work I was born to do. There will be new challenges ahead for me, both as a teacher and a learner. But, I see this moment in my life as an opportunity, not a challenge, and I intend to make the best use of it that I possibly can.
It turns out that I can't make choices to contribute to the lives of others unless I first make responsible choices about my own life. I've seen that very clearly in the last few weeks, in my decisions to live healthier both physically and financially.
First of all, I've lost over 40 pounds since the early weeks of April by following a bariatric diet and exercising. But, a bout of pneumonia in mid-July caught me by surprise and triggered the loss of electrolytes in my system. And then, somehow, my blood sugar went crashing through the floor. Since I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes less than three years ago, I've never experienced the lows and they are terrifying and dangerous. It helps that our dog Harry comes to my side or wakes me up whenever my blood sugar drops too quickly or too low. I have no idea how he knows, but I'm grateful that he is teaching me to be aware.
I've spent every day since trying to learn the rhythms of my own body and its needs and am beginning to get the hang of it. However, I've decided to let everything I was committed to go in order to finally commit to my well being. I've said each year since I retired that I was taking a year to improve my health and every year other things distract me. No more - I never want to stagger and lurch down the hallway again with a blood sugar count of 40. I never want to babble about things and people that aren't there again because my body is stripped of necessary nutrients. I may not have another year, if I don't get it right now.
My mother will be moving here in a year and I want to enjoy her as much as I can. I want to walk the dogs with my husband in the evenings and kayak with him in the early mornings. I'm looking forward to healthy dinners with friends and sharing the vegetables from our garden with them. I want to visit with my sister and brother-in-law both here and at their home. And I want to continue to see my children thrive through whatever life brings them.
One day I'll return to my volunteer work as an activist for educational opportunities for our community's children. I love it and believe it is the work I was born to do. There will be new challenges ahead for me, both as a teacher and a learner. But, I see this moment in my life as an opportunity, not a challenge, and I intend to make the best use of it that I possibly can.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Reduce, Reuse, and Could I Have Your Fresh Horse Manure, Please?
Sometime after my sister and I went to college, my dad developed a passion for vegetable gardening. Along the way, he discovered composting and it became a daily ritual. On our visits home, he would show us what he was adding to the compost bin that day and proudly display the literal fruits of his labors. One of my favorite memories of my father is seeing him sit outside in old clothes and a straw hat to protect his face from another skin cancer, watching his garden grow.
I’ve always wanted a vegetable garden, but lack of knowledge, poor soil, small children, summer jobs, arthritis, etc., prevented me from attempting more than an occasional paltry tomato plant. They would produce about as much as I invested in their care – not much.
But, this year, I became my father’s child. I stumbled across Earth Boxes, developed by commercial growers and now also used in home and school gardens. The soil surface is raised about a foot off the ground and the boxes are completely self-contained, making it much easier for an arthritic me to plant and care for them. Our warm South Carolina springs allowed me to plant corn, okra, peppers, lettuce, cucumbers, spinach, blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries in mid-April. And tomatoes. My inexperience revealed itself when the tomatoes seedlings arrived; not realizing that they came in four- packs, I ended up with 36 plants, instead of the nine I thought I ordered. Once they were here, I wanted them all – cherry “Sugary” tomatoes, several varieties of heirlooms ( Rainbows, Red Brandywines, and Costoluto Genovese), Whoppers, and Beefy Boys.
And then it hit me – the need to compost, like an alarm from my biological clock screaming, “Do this now before it’s too late.” Here we sit, on two acres of property, most of which requires mulch for maintenance. The idea of free composted mulch was just too much for me to pass up.
I knew that arthritis would make it nearly impossible to turn compost regularly and shovel it up from the ground for spreading. And then I discovered another product developed over 40 years ago, the ComposTumbler, a drum rotated by a geared crank handle standing about three feet off the ground and said to turn 180 gallons of yard and kitchen waste into black gold in about two weeks. No bending, no kneeling, no lifting off the ground. Just fill it, crank it a few times a day, back the yard cart under it and fill ‘er up.
I was surprised to find how quickly our daily egg shells, coffee grinds, and raw fruit and vegetable scraps accumulated in the tumbler and pleased to see that I almost never ran the kitchen garbage disposal. We don’t really have that much yard waste since the drought that’s affected the South for years is in the process of killing our small areas of fescue. But, two acres of wooded property provide a lot of undergrowth and scrub trees to be shredded and composted, so I envisioned clearing our land of nuisance plants and then composting them for mulch to prevent their reappearance. The image of an environmental Eden took shape in my mind.
(Don’t let me mislead you; there was nothing cost-effective about setting all this up. New kink-free hoses, specialty sprinklers, supports for tomatoes and cucumbers, plant foods, and insect sprays added to the possibility and cost of my success. Seedlings are far more expensive than starting a garden from seed. I would have had to produce enough tomatoes to feed the entire city of Greenville to make this year’s efforts financially feasible. If you read my entry ‘One I’d Rather Not Write’, you’ll understand some of the impact of my personal gardening revolution on our financial health. If I can keep up the gardening and composting for at least five more years, I might finally save enough money in food costs to exceed the expense of the equipment.)
Our dear friends down the street have horses, goats, and chickens. They collect the animal droppings in a large pile in their pasture, allowing them to break down over time with no turning or activators to produce usable compost. They have more than they can use regularly, so I asked if I could have an occasional load of fresh manure to add to the tumbler. The manure adds nitrogen to the mix, providing the catalyst that breaks down the other “ingredients”. I can’t begin to explain the pure pleasure of filling our yard cart with the straw and manure taken from their barnyard, sittiing on the lowered back gate of our pickup, clutching the handle of the yard cart and holding on for dear life, as George slowly crept home. I thought of it as aromatherapy for the entire neighborhood. Shoveling that first load of manure into the ComposTumbler only made me want more.
In the two weeks it takes to break the contents down into compost, I had to pick up handfuls of the work in progress and squeeze it to make sure the moisture content was just right. I hate to garden in gloves, but decided this job probably called for a good water- proof pair. A thermometer also had to be inserted deep into the load to insure that the temperature was high enough to kill any bacteria or germinating seeds from waste plant materials. This required me to stick my entire arm in the tumbler, scraping manure and other scraps off the opening onto my shirt and bare skin. I admit that I usually headed straight for the shower after each of these required procedures. But, I was hooked and I began to dream how much better it would be to have two tumblers producing compost on alternating weeks. If only our friends had elephants…
The big day arrived after two weeks of cranking the drum around and around each day. I sent an email to my closest friends and family to announce the unveiling of the garden gold. My husband and I marveled that the smell of manure had given way to a sweet earthy fragrance, despite the obvious lumps of horse apples throughout. My first load produced two garden cartfuls of compost, enough to mulch several square feet four to five inches deep. When I proudly displayed the newly dressed areas of our yard to our friend, he shook his head, looked at the size of the rest of our property and said, “You’re going to need a lot more manure.” I wasn’t discouraged; after all, his animals are healthy.
Despite my impatience, our vegetables started producing in mid-June. Freshly picked cherry tomatoes are literally better than candy. And, coat any type of tomato with a little olive oil and basil, place it on the grill for just a few minutes, and it is mouth-watering. We eat lettuce just a few minutes after picking and our white “Pearl” cucumbers were the best I’ve ever tasted. I stuffed fresh peppers with shrimp and crab and even my husband, who hates the flavor of peppers, ate two. The okra is just beginning to come in and, despite my Southern heritage, I will opt to grill it with olive oil rather than frying it.
It turns out I should leave the corn to the pros. We managed to get two edible ears, but the kernels in no way resembled the perfect rows revealed beneath the shucks of grocery store produce. And my summer bout with pneumonia prevented me from regularly watering our thirsty cucumbers, causing them to wither and suffer an early death.
My planting boxes sit where I can see them from my office windows, lining the driveway and worked in among the landscaping. I’ve envisioned as many as twelve boxes next year, but, financially, that isn’t going to happen. I’ve already identified several vegetable varieties that I want to try next year; however, just like good writing, I will edit that list. I’ll also switch to seeds to bring the expense down to something more manageable. I’m looking for free mulch from our county recycling programs, but the composter will still tumble daily. Manure will still make it’s every-other weekly trip through our neighborhood and home-made compost will gradually spread throughout our yard.
One of my new daily principles is to live intentionally, tempered with common sense. This is where I want to be and this is what I want to do. A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting on the garden bench that George made for my birthday, wearing old clothes and a straw hat to protect my face from another skin cancer, dogs at my feet, watching my garden grow.
I am my father’s child and he would be proud.
I’ve always wanted a vegetable garden, but lack of knowledge, poor soil, small children, summer jobs, arthritis, etc., prevented me from attempting more than an occasional paltry tomato plant. They would produce about as much as I invested in their care – not much.
But, this year, I became my father’s child. I stumbled across Earth Boxes, developed by commercial growers and now also used in home and school gardens. The soil surface is raised about a foot off the ground and the boxes are completely self-contained, making it much easier for an arthritic me to plant and care for them. Our warm South Carolina springs allowed me to plant corn, okra, peppers, lettuce, cucumbers, spinach, blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries in mid-April. And tomatoes. My inexperience revealed itself when the tomatoes seedlings arrived; not realizing that they came in four- packs, I ended up with 36 plants, instead of the nine I thought I ordered. Once they were here, I wanted them all – cherry “Sugary” tomatoes, several varieties of heirlooms ( Rainbows, Red Brandywines, and Costoluto Genovese), Whoppers, and Beefy Boys.
And then it hit me – the need to compost, like an alarm from my biological clock screaming, “Do this now before it’s too late.” Here we sit, on two acres of property, most of which requires mulch for maintenance. The idea of free composted mulch was just too much for me to pass up.
I knew that arthritis would make it nearly impossible to turn compost regularly and shovel it up from the ground for spreading. And then I discovered another product developed over 40 years ago, the ComposTumbler, a drum rotated by a geared crank handle standing about three feet off the ground and said to turn 180 gallons of yard and kitchen waste into black gold in about two weeks. No bending, no kneeling, no lifting off the ground. Just fill it, crank it a few times a day, back the yard cart under it and fill ‘er up.
I was surprised to find how quickly our daily egg shells, coffee grinds, and raw fruit and vegetable scraps accumulated in the tumbler and pleased to see that I almost never ran the kitchen garbage disposal. We don’t really have that much yard waste since the drought that’s affected the South for years is in the process of killing our small areas of fescue. But, two acres of wooded property provide a lot of undergrowth and scrub trees to be shredded and composted, so I envisioned clearing our land of nuisance plants and then composting them for mulch to prevent their reappearance. The image of an environmental Eden took shape in my mind.
(Don’t let me mislead you; there was nothing cost-effective about setting all this up. New kink-free hoses, specialty sprinklers, supports for tomatoes and cucumbers, plant foods, and insect sprays added to the possibility and cost of my success. Seedlings are far more expensive than starting a garden from seed. I would have had to produce enough tomatoes to feed the entire city of Greenville to make this year’s efforts financially feasible. If you read my entry ‘One I’d Rather Not Write’, you’ll understand some of the impact of my personal gardening revolution on our financial health. If I can keep up the gardening and composting for at least five more years, I might finally save enough money in food costs to exceed the expense of the equipment.)
Our dear friends down the street have horses, goats, and chickens. They collect the animal droppings in a large pile in their pasture, allowing them to break down over time with no turning or activators to produce usable compost. They have more than they can use regularly, so I asked if I could have an occasional load of fresh manure to add to the tumbler. The manure adds nitrogen to the mix, providing the catalyst that breaks down the other “ingredients”. I can’t begin to explain the pure pleasure of filling our yard cart with the straw and manure taken from their barnyard, sittiing on the lowered back gate of our pickup, clutching the handle of the yard cart and holding on for dear life, as George slowly crept home. I thought of it as aromatherapy for the entire neighborhood. Shoveling that first load of manure into the ComposTumbler only made me want more.
In the two weeks it takes to break the contents down into compost, I had to pick up handfuls of the work in progress and squeeze it to make sure the moisture content was just right. I hate to garden in gloves, but decided this job probably called for a good water- proof pair. A thermometer also had to be inserted deep into the load to insure that the temperature was high enough to kill any bacteria or germinating seeds from waste plant materials. This required me to stick my entire arm in the tumbler, scraping manure and other scraps off the opening onto my shirt and bare skin. I admit that I usually headed straight for the shower after each of these required procedures. But, I was hooked and I began to dream how much better it would be to have two tumblers producing compost on alternating weeks. If only our friends had elephants…
The big day arrived after two weeks of cranking the drum around and around each day. I sent an email to my closest friends and family to announce the unveiling of the garden gold. My husband and I marveled that the smell of manure had given way to a sweet earthy fragrance, despite the obvious lumps of horse apples throughout. My first load produced two garden cartfuls of compost, enough to mulch several square feet four to five inches deep. When I proudly displayed the newly dressed areas of our yard to our friend, he shook his head, looked at the size of the rest of our property and said, “You’re going to need a lot more manure.” I wasn’t discouraged; after all, his animals are healthy.
Despite my impatience, our vegetables started producing in mid-June. Freshly picked cherry tomatoes are literally better than candy. And, coat any type of tomato with a little olive oil and basil, place it on the grill for just a few minutes, and it is mouth-watering. We eat lettuce just a few minutes after picking and our white “Pearl” cucumbers were the best I’ve ever tasted. I stuffed fresh peppers with shrimp and crab and even my husband, who hates the flavor of peppers, ate two. The okra is just beginning to come in and, despite my Southern heritage, I will opt to grill it with olive oil rather than frying it.
It turns out I should leave the corn to the pros. We managed to get two edible ears, but the kernels in no way resembled the perfect rows revealed beneath the shucks of grocery store produce. And my summer bout with pneumonia prevented me from regularly watering our thirsty cucumbers, causing them to wither and suffer an early death.
My planting boxes sit where I can see them from my office windows, lining the driveway and worked in among the landscaping. I’ve envisioned as many as twelve boxes next year, but, financially, that isn’t going to happen. I’ve already identified several vegetable varieties that I want to try next year; however, just like good writing, I will edit that list. I’ll also switch to seeds to bring the expense down to something more manageable. I’m looking for free mulch from our county recycling programs, but the composter will still tumble daily. Manure will still make it’s every-other weekly trip through our neighborhood and home-made compost will gradually spread throughout our yard.
One of my new daily principles is to live intentionally, tempered with common sense. This is where I want to be and this is what I want to do. A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting on the garden bench that George made for my birthday, wearing old clothes and a straw hat to protect my face from another skin cancer, dogs at my feet, watching my garden grow.
I am my father’s child and he would be proud.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Our Version of Reduce, Reuse, and Recyle
When we bought our dream home, it was an early 60s ranch. It was also an abandoned foreclosure with broken windows, mold, water damage, and critters of every description already in residence. On our first trip through the house, we laughed and said, “We aren’t tackling all this. Not us.”
Two weeks later, we found ourselves back inside with Darryl Cowan, a contractor friend, whose specialty just happened to be rehabbing old homes. It was a dream home in our eyes from then on and, unlike our family members and friends, we never envisioned it again in less than its finished state. Our architect Randy McClain, another old friend, paid close attention to our anticipated needs for the coming years and assured that our new digs would accommodate our huge family antiques with grace and comfort.
We decided to use the latest technologies that we possibly could in hopes of creating a home that lived more efficiently for the environment and more cost effectively for us. Our efforts even included landscaping with plants native to our area, reducing the need for maintenance and water. This house costs a fraction of what our last house cost to operate, despite its 4200 square feet. And, thanks to the latest energy efficient appliances, we are using far less in power and water.
Our decision to replace carpeting with hardwood floors triggered a storm of exploration into bamboo, red oak, and other woods new to us. Then a friend sent us to see re-milled heart pine that had been reclaimed from the hundred year old mill where her father worked. It was gorgeous, with rich red tones and a perfectly finished surface. We could purchase it in huge rough beams and have it re-milled to suit our needs for flooring. But, the cost of refinishing it and then transporting it to our site made it impossible to consider.
We visited a salvage yard that Darryl purchased materials from on several occasions and, there, in open sheds, were hundreds of feet of reclaimed heart pine. The dealer Joe Stevens told us that he was preparing to remove flooring from an old house about to be demolished. He invited us to take a look at it and, when we arrived, George and I were stunned to find that the house was across the street from a school where we both recently worked. The floors were blackened with grime and stained with every nasty thing imaginable. Because it was already cut in planks, we would be able to move it by pickup truck and sand the old surface off after the floor was laid. Somehow, it felt right.
We also became interested in the thousands of salvaged doors at the yard. After sorting through them all over and over again, we selected five-panel doors that reminded me of visits to my great aunt’s home in my childhood. I was determined to have solid doors, none of that hollow core stuff. The trouble was that the new doors I wanted were about $300 each. We chose salvaged five-panel doors for all our closets and more unique antique doors for our bedrooms and baths. We paid an average of $10 per door, excluding three that were solid mahogany and oak. An old banister from a church called out to us, as well as three louvered shutters from the exterior of an old Victorian mansion that had been taken down years before.
Every floor refinisher who came to look at the heart pine after it had been laid shook his head and said, “I’ll never be able to clean it up or level it to your satisfaction.” Three of them came, worked a day, and never showed up again to work or to be paid. With each of about five sandings, the red depths of the wood were revealed more and more fully. George and I weren’t the least bit bothered by the remaining worm holes, the chips, the varying widths and thicknesses, and the history that showed in an hundred ways.
The banister took three days to strip of the dirt built up over decades. The shutters couldn’t be fully stripped of their lead paint, so we sealed them with glaze to keep the chips from falling in our mouths as we slept, and hung them as a headboard for our new king-size bed. We decided to leave the bedroom and bathroom doors almost exactly as we found them - some completely unstained and some in their original finishes. If we could identify the origin of the door, we labeled it to reflect its past. Our powder room door once hung on the Monsignor’s office of the oldest Catholic Church in town. It now proudly bears the word “Monsignor” in gold and our bathroom door says “Faculty Lounge” on its upper half of frosted glass. Every single door inside the house had to be hand-framed, raising our cost of $10 per door steeply. No two doors in the house are the same size.
In pulling off the original small back porch to replace it with a screened porch running the entire back length of the house, Darryl discovered redwood decking buring under ancient outdoor carpeting and a layer of well-worn plywood. He pulled the redwood off for George, who used it to build all the furniture we now use on the porch.
In the end, we felt the house had been restored to its real age, timeless, of an unidentifiable point in history. Every craftsman who has walked in the door since exclaims, “You kept the original floors and doors!” In fact, we can count the original features of the house on one hand.
Darryl still isn’t quite satisfied. He says that one day he will bring a master finisher back in to sand three additional times and re-poly all the heart pine. And the floor would probably be as pristine as the exquisite one we saw made from re-milled, reclaimed heart pine from the cotton mill. But, it will never happen as long as we own the house. We can tell that children played on these floors, dogs chased cats, fires got out of control, family members were born and died, and life continued through generations. It’s very comforting to see ourselves in that cycle, even if we are a new family in its history. Our family furnishings are at home, as well, and look as if they have been in place since they were handcrafted up to 250 years ago.
Three miles from our house, Southern Living magazine recently completed a million-dollar green home on the campus of Furman University. It’s beautiful and inspiring; if you get a chance to see it, it is well worth the cost of admission. There are a few things I wish we had included in our home, but our house could still be retrofitted to add many of them as we can afford.
But, somehow, the Southern Living home doesn’t feel as good to me as knowing that we brought a great house back to life and that we returned so many idle materials to daily use in both form and function. We built a home, not a house, and the quality of our lives has improved immeasurably as a result. If you have the opportunity, you should see it, too, and it won’t cost you a dime. We’ll be waiting on the porch with iced tea.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
One I Would Rather Not Write
Joe Lambert, a friend of mine from the Center for Digital Storytelling, recently wrote the following in the center’s summer newsletter:
A colleague of ours on Facebook … posted a link from the New York Times interactive feature on consumer debt. Although I recently read Kevin Phillips’ Bad Money, I still failed to wrap my mind around such an exhaustively complex house-of-cards. This interactive story really allows you to get a clear picture of how insane the US addiction to debt has become….and how far this country and many of its people have sunk.
What makes this story poignant to me is I find myself pondering the costs of indulgence these days. I recently found out that like 57 million other folks in the US, I meet the classification of pre-diabetic. Put simply, my body has borrowed more (in the form of fat and sugar) than it can handle, and it is going into a kind of shock as it tries to deal with its indebtedness. I have spent the last few months attempting to adjust, which is its own journey.
Obviously, many people are trapped in the desire of enjoying a pleasure today that they can’t afford, that they hope they can pay off in the future. While I am all for hope, unfortunately hope has a cousin, denial, and I am trying to find the balance between my aspirations and my actual resources. This seems critical at this stage, for me, and for the larger political culture in the United States.
How interesting that he should put it this way. Although I’ve lost over 40 pounds since this April and my diabetes is rapidly coming under control, I’ve had to face up to another problem that I would rather not address so openly. About the time my health fell apart, my mother’s health also worsened. Our youngest son went far away from Mom’s reach to China to study and we decided to build a dream house for retirement. I lost any sense of financial balance and managed to max out one of our credit cards and drain a cash reserve account, without George’s knowledge.
I’ve always been the one who could figure anything out financially. I insisted we save, even when it seemed impossible with two small children, a house payment, graduate tuition bills, and car payments. I worked extra jobs, did consulting, and made sure I could pay for the extras without putting a strain on our cash flow.
While I am all for hope, unfortunately hope has a cousin, denial, and I am trying to find the balance between my aspirations and my actual resources. Joe’s words again, but they couldn’t be more meaningful to me now. Denial came to a crashing halt when George opened a bank statement and I had to accept responsibility for the mess I had created. Thank God for pissed-off husbands. In finally exposing the problem, a weight was lifted off my shoulders and I found a way to work through the financial problem while I also work through the health problems. Denial is no longer as appetizing as it was a few months ago.
I have female friends who say frequently, “My mother says that a woman who would tell her age (her weight, her income, her story of sexual abuse, etc.) would tell anything.” I’m telling it all, because I can’t afford the cost of hiding behind it any more.
A colleague once told me that I had my own internal gyroscope and that my sense of balance made it so easy to work with me. I want that back and it’s no farther away than taking responsibility.
My jeans have come down three sizes in the last few weeks. My blood sugar is just slightly above normal, and, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’ll close out the month with money in the bank. It won't stay there long; it's going back in our savings.
A colleague of ours on Facebook … posted a link from the New York Times interactive feature on consumer debt. Although I recently read Kevin Phillips’ Bad Money, I still failed to wrap my mind around such an exhaustively complex house-of-cards. This interactive story really allows you to get a clear picture of how insane the US addiction to debt has become….and how far this country and many of its people have sunk.
What makes this story poignant to me is I find myself pondering the costs of indulgence these days. I recently found out that like 57 million other folks in the US, I meet the classification of pre-diabetic. Put simply, my body has borrowed more (in the form of fat and sugar) than it can handle, and it is going into a kind of shock as it tries to deal with its indebtedness. I have spent the last few months attempting to adjust, which is its own journey.
Obviously, many people are trapped in the desire of enjoying a pleasure today that they can’t afford, that they hope they can pay off in the future. While I am all for hope, unfortunately hope has a cousin, denial, and I am trying to find the balance between my aspirations and my actual resources. This seems critical at this stage, for me, and for the larger political culture in the United States.
How interesting that he should put it this way. Although I’ve lost over 40 pounds since this April and my diabetes is rapidly coming under control, I’ve had to face up to another problem that I would rather not address so openly. About the time my health fell apart, my mother’s health also worsened. Our youngest son went far away from Mom’s reach to China to study and we decided to build a dream house for retirement. I lost any sense of financial balance and managed to max out one of our credit cards and drain a cash reserve account, without George’s knowledge.
I’ve always been the one who could figure anything out financially. I insisted we save, even when it seemed impossible with two small children, a house payment, graduate tuition bills, and car payments. I worked extra jobs, did consulting, and made sure I could pay for the extras without putting a strain on our cash flow.
While I am all for hope, unfortunately hope has a cousin, denial, and I am trying to find the balance between my aspirations and my actual resources. Joe’s words again, but they couldn’t be more meaningful to me now. Denial came to a crashing halt when George opened a bank statement and I had to accept responsibility for the mess I had created. Thank God for pissed-off husbands. In finally exposing the problem, a weight was lifted off my shoulders and I found a way to work through the financial problem while I also work through the health problems. Denial is no longer as appetizing as it was a few months ago.
I have female friends who say frequently, “My mother says that a woman who would tell her age (her weight, her income, her story of sexual abuse, etc.) would tell anything.” I’m telling it all, because I can’t afford the cost of hiding behind it any more.
A colleague once told me that I had my own internal gyroscope and that my sense of balance made it so easy to work with me. I want that back and it’s no farther away than taking responsibility.
My jeans have come down three sizes in the last few weeks. My blood sugar is just slightly above normal, and, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’ll close out the month with money in the bank. It won't stay there long; it's going back in our savings.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Another Friend of Bailey's
Somehow, my latest copy of Bailey White's Mama Makes Up Her Mind has disappeared. I've loaned it to someone and can't remember who. Somewhere, they are benefitting from the folded corners and post-its that mark my favorite stories, meaning most of the stories.
I read this book at least twice a year after I stumbled across Baily White on NPR. I knew I was hooked from the first sound of her voice, a true Southern Lady, the kind most transplants to the cities of the new South never really get to know. Her voice brought back childhood memories of live tigers in cages at Esso stations in tiny towns a hundred miles from nowhere and mountain people who would take in an entire family for the night when the car broke down in front of their house. I remembered fishing in a metal boat on the lake through an entire thunderstorm with my uncle who insisted it was the safest place to be and my father stopping to let us pick cotton just so we would know what hard work it was. I ached for a sweaty summer day, a cold glass of lemonade and bare feet.
I content myself with finding an isolated spot in the house and reading her stories out loud, laying on the drawl and the accent as heavy as I want. If I don't get it right the first time, I repeat it again and again until I feel like I've had a really good Sunday homecooked meal - two pieces of fried chicken, green beans cooked with bacon and the Southern obligatory spoonful of sugar, fresh sliced tomatoes from the garden, and a hot cobbler of whatever fruit is in season. And tea, lots of sweet tea. By the time I finish reading as many stories as I want to myself, I've laughed as much as if I sat around that Sunday dinner table with family and friends of assorted ages for at least a couple of hours.
I keep a mental list of people I would like to have lunch with and Bailey White is among the top ten. I want to talk about people who were educated by nature, who knew that being respected didn't mean having money, who could greet everyone in town by name, and never labeled their neighbors as anything more than "quirky".
I looked at my favorite online bookseller last night, only to find that Mama Makes Up Her Mind apparently is no longer in print so I ordered two new copies from resellers. I couldn't find anyone with a full case, but I would have ordered it, if I had.
I read this book at least twice a year after I stumbled across Baily White on NPR. I knew I was hooked from the first sound of her voice, a true Southern Lady, the kind most transplants to the cities of the new South never really get to know. Her voice brought back childhood memories of live tigers in cages at Esso stations in tiny towns a hundred miles from nowhere and mountain people who would take in an entire family for the night when the car broke down in front of their house. I remembered fishing in a metal boat on the lake through an entire thunderstorm with my uncle who insisted it was the safest place to be and my father stopping to let us pick cotton just so we would know what hard work it was. I ached for a sweaty summer day, a cold glass of lemonade and bare feet.
I content myself with finding an isolated spot in the house and reading her stories out loud, laying on the drawl and the accent as heavy as I want. If I don't get it right the first time, I repeat it again and again until I feel like I've had a really good Sunday homecooked meal - two pieces of fried chicken, green beans cooked with bacon and the Southern obligatory spoonful of sugar, fresh sliced tomatoes from the garden, and a hot cobbler of whatever fruit is in season. And tea, lots of sweet tea. By the time I finish reading as many stories as I want to myself, I've laughed as much as if I sat around that Sunday dinner table with family and friends of assorted ages for at least a couple of hours.
I keep a mental list of people I would like to have lunch with and Bailey White is among the top ten. I want to talk about people who were educated by nature, who knew that being respected didn't mean having money, who could greet everyone in town by name, and never labeled their neighbors as anything more than "quirky".
I looked at my favorite online bookseller last night, only to find that Mama Makes Up Her Mind apparently is no longer in print so I ordered two new copies from resellers. I couldn't find anyone with a full case, but I would have ordered it, if I had.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Refresher Course
I recently decided that our two-year-old Labradoodles needed a refresher course in who is in charge. It's going really well; my husband and I have remembered that we are supposed to be in charge and it's only been four weeks.
It's funny how one tune-up can lead me to recognize the need for another. I thought last week that I needed a refresher on how to get the most and the best out of my day and decided to write myself some guidelines. It was actually fairly easy to get a manageable number of things I was honestly committed to. Now, I look at them every morning with my first cup of coffee, just to get my eyes and mind open.
Here's the first one:
I will make better choices for my physical, emotional, spiritual, and financial health.
I think I need to begin simply by focusing on these things as health issues. They affect how I feel and manage. Depending on what I chose to do, I either end up empowered or depleted of energy.
One thing I've realized about myself is that I really don't have a lot of fear in my life. I've always looked at real fear as a source of energy, there to make me pay more attention to the situation around me. Consequently, I've been able to be a risk taker in a very healthy, productive way. The negative consequences I have experienced are ones I identified and was willing to accept at the outset.
But, anxiety seems to be a different issue for me lately, causing me just to ignore the issue that promts it. Sitting here as I wrtie, I can feel the physical reaction it causes: slight headache, distraction, acid in my throat and stomach. Gavin De Becker's book The Gift of Fear helped me realize the difference between worry and real fear when it first came out. It looks like I have some rereading to do.
My goal for today: Face one source of my anxiety and make at least three steps, no matter how small, to deal with the underlying issue.
It's funny how one tune-up can lead me to recognize the need for another. I thought last week that I needed a refresher on how to get the most and the best out of my day and decided to write myself some guidelines. It was actually fairly easy to get a manageable number of things I was honestly committed to. Now, I look at them every morning with my first cup of coffee, just to get my eyes and mind open.
Here's the first one:
I will make better choices for my physical, emotional, spiritual, and financial health.
I think I need to begin simply by focusing on these things as health issues. They affect how I feel and manage. Depending on what I chose to do, I either end up empowered or depleted of energy.
One thing I've realized about myself is that I really don't have a lot of fear in my life. I've always looked at real fear as a source of energy, there to make me pay more attention to the situation around me. Consequently, I've been able to be a risk taker in a very healthy, productive way. The negative consequences I have experienced are ones I identified and was willing to accept at the outset.
But, anxiety seems to be a different issue for me lately, causing me just to ignore the issue that promts it. Sitting here as I wrtie, I can feel the physical reaction it causes: slight headache, distraction, acid in my throat and stomach. Gavin De Becker's book The Gift of Fear helped me realize the difference between worry and real fear when it first came out. It looks like I have some rereading to do.
My goal for today: Face one source of my anxiety and make at least three steps, no matter how small, to deal with the underlying issue.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Tatt2ed Lady
I said the experience of getting a tattoo was another story in itself. First of all, I arrived at an immaculate tattoo "place" because I am really too old to think of myself in a tattoo parlor. There were several women customers, but no men other than the two who worked there. They turned out to be Christian tattoo artists, something I didn't even know existed, and every visible space on their bodies was covered with ink.
Honestly, on a stack of Bibles, I was the only woman there who wasn't getting a man's name covered up. I made an immediate mental note not to put my husband's name on my body unless it was with a washable marker. He would understand.
I was also the oldest woman there, certainly the only one paying for her tattoo with her retirement income. That was comforting, as if I had considered carefully for half a century that the pros outweighed the cons and decided this would somehow actually make the world a better place.
Although I knew I wanted a tatto of a dogwood blossom, Gentleman #1 graciously showed me several albums of photos of their work. They had page after page of every image, word and phrase under the sun. I didn't really expect to see where they had put them on both male and female body parts, but it turned out to be a complete lesson in anatomy.
In fact, I've never seen so many images of Jesus, not even in the church where I grew up. Jesus with crosses, Jesus on crosses, Jesus with eagles, Jesus with roses, Jesus with swastikas, Jesus with American flags, Jesus with Confederate flags. I was surprised to turn a page to find a photo of a man's bare buttocks sporting a drawing of a buxom nude woman with a picture of Jesus' face on the opposite page. I couldn't help but wonder about Jesus' reaction when they inserted his picture in the acrylic page protector and closed the book for the first time. Was it heaven or a new period of temptation in the wilderness?
My turn came quickly enough and I met Gentleman #2 who would actually do my tattoo. Indeed, they were both gentlemen and I had a wonderful time talking and laughing with the two of them as the needle hummed against my leg. It wasn't painful and I was grateful that I had chosen my calf to be so adorned. My criteria were simple - it had to be in a place where I could see it, it had to be in a place with no cellulite, and it had to be in place where I could easily cover it if I was afraid to show it to my mother. That didn't leave me with many options.
As my tattoo was being completed, another young woman came into the front room. I caught snippets of her story about her family still treating her like a child and heard the words "independence" and "konji" a time or two. It all came together when Gentleman #1 declared loudly in a thick Southern drawl, "But, darling, your family can't read 'independence' if it's in Japanese!" Another mental note to myself - no text at all and no foreign languages.
I drove home $50 poorer but wiser for the experience. My husband laughed, my children were surprised that I actually went through with it, and our closest friends came by to marvel at my tattoo that night. I haven't regretted it and don't think I ever will. And, unlike tortilla chips, one is enough.
Honestly, on a stack of Bibles, I was the only woman there who wasn't getting a man's name covered up. I made an immediate mental note not to put my husband's name on my body unless it was with a washable marker. He would understand.
I was also the oldest woman there, certainly the only one paying for her tattoo with her retirement income. That was comforting, as if I had considered carefully for half a century that the pros outweighed the cons and decided this would somehow actually make the world a better place.
Although I knew I wanted a tatto of a dogwood blossom, Gentleman #1 graciously showed me several albums of photos of their work. They had page after page of every image, word and phrase under the sun. I didn't really expect to see where they had put them on both male and female body parts, but it turned out to be a complete lesson in anatomy.
In fact, I've never seen so many images of Jesus, not even in the church where I grew up. Jesus with crosses, Jesus on crosses, Jesus with eagles, Jesus with roses, Jesus with swastikas, Jesus with American flags, Jesus with Confederate flags. I was surprised to turn a page to find a photo of a man's bare buttocks sporting a drawing of a buxom nude woman with a picture of Jesus' face on the opposite page. I couldn't help but wonder about Jesus' reaction when they inserted his picture in the acrylic page protector and closed the book for the first time. Was it heaven or a new period of temptation in the wilderness?
My turn came quickly enough and I met Gentleman #2 who would actually do my tattoo. Indeed, they were both gentlemen and I had a wonderful time talking and laughing with the two of them as the needle hummed against my leg. It wasn't painful and I was grateful that I had chosen my calf to be so adorned. My criteria were simple - it had to be in a place where I could see it, it had to be in a place with no cellulite, and it had to be in place where I could easily cover it if I was afraid to show it to my mother. That didn't leave me with many options.
As my tattoo was being completed, another young woman came into the front room. I caught snippets of her story about her family still treating her like a child and heard the words "independence" and "konji" a time or two. It all came together when Gentleman #1 declared loudly in a thick Southern drawl, "But, darling, your family can't read 'independence' if it's in Japanese!" Another mental note to myself - no text at all and no foreign languages.
I drove home $50 poorer but wiser for the experience. My husband laughed, my children were surprised that I actually went through with it, and our closest friends came by to marvel at my tattoo that night. I haven't regretted it and don't think I ever will. And, unlike tortilla chips, one is enough.
The Tattooed Lady
For years I've been ashamed, embarrassed, frustrated and angry about my inability to control my weight. I was aware of how cynical I had become about myself as I'd gotten older and I was exhausted from the effort it took to fuel those negative emotions. Like most obese people, my body image was so poor that I couldn't even think about having my picture made. I was always the one holding the camera.
Fortunately, three years ago I was referred to a wonderful endocrinologist who walked me through my medical history following thyroid cancer at age 21 and explained why I had reached this point. Finally I understood how the medical treatment I'd had for thirty years and my own choices had gotten me here.
I was instantly confronted with an entirely new image of my body. It wasn't my adversary, condemning me to declining health and increasing pain. Suddenly, it was the guardian that had shielded me from even more weight, more illness, and, thankfully, more cancer. It was the body I had been blessed with, not the body I had been condemned to. And, in that revelation, I came to a place where I could begin to accept "it" as me.
I decided to put an end to the war I'd had with myself and be grateful. For years I had toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo - I have no idea why. But, when the dogwoods bloomed last spring at the same time that new appreciation blossomed in my mind, I knew exactly what I was going to do.One of the nurses in my doctor's office had tattoos, so I asked her where she had gotten them. (I wasn't about to just go anywhere; the laws allowing tattoo artists in South Carolina were brand new and I wanted a medical "referral" for my body art.)
I emailed my closest friends and family to warn them of what I was about to do. OK, the truth is, I was breaking the news to my 79 year old mother. I knew what her reaction would be and I knew she was entitled to it. I remembered my reaction to our oldest son's tattoo at age 19. I'm certainly not proud of the way that I handled that, but at least HE acted like an adult.
My birthday is in April and dogwoods are always in bloom. Those of us lucky enough to be born in April are blessed to have nature celebrate our birthdays. Dogwoods in bloom are one of my favorite things, maybe my very favorite. I collected photos and drawings of dogwoods, anything I could find to create the art that I would wear the rest of my life. And, I was careful to select images of native Southern Appalachian white flowering dogwoods. No pink hybrids for me. I wanted to embrace the certainty that nature knows best, with dogwoods and with human beings.
The story of getting the tattoo can be told another day, but the experience alone was worth it. I've always believed you should try most things in life at least once and that day was just reaffirming enough.
My dogwood tattoo is just over 2 inches by 2 inches, in full color, on my right calf. I wanted where I could see it and be reminded to be thankful. Sometimes I forget it's there and am pleasantly surprised when I rediscover it. It feels like I've always had it and I've never worried about hiding it. I've tried to rediscover myself in the last year and open myself up to the opportunities around me.
Sometimes I think about adding a few more small images around my dogwood - a dragonfly to represent my husband, a Monarch butterfly for my migratory oldest son, a feisty hummingbird for my youngest. But I'm not going to do it. They don't need me to select their images for them. They'll do just fine choosing their own.
Fortunately, three years ago I was referred to a wonderful endocrinologist who walked me through my medical history following thyroid cancer at age 21 and explained why I had reached this point. Finally I understood how the medical treatment I'd had for thirty years and my own choices had gotten me here.
I was instantly confronted with an entirely new image of my body. It wasn't my adversary, condemning me to declining health and increasing pain. Suddenly, it was the guardian that had shielded me from even more weight, more illness, and, thankfully, more cancer. It was the body I had been blessed with, not the body I had been condemned to. And, in that revelation, I came to a place where I could begin to accept "it" as me.
I decided to put an end to the war I'd had with myself and be grateful. For years I had toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo - I have no idea why. But, when the dogwoods bloomed last spring at the same time that new appreciation blossomed in my mind, I knew exactly what I was going to do.One of the nurses in my doctor's office had tattoos, so I asked her where she had gotten them. (I wasn't about to just go anywhere; the laws allowing tattoo artists in South Carolina were brand new and I wanted a medical "referral" for my body art.)
I emailed my closest friends and family to warn them of what I was about to do. OK, the truth is, I was breaking the news to my 79 year old mother. I knew what her reaction would be and I knew she was entitled to it. I remembered my reaction to our oldest son's tattoo at age 19. I'm certainly not proud of the way that I handled that, but at least HE acted like an adult.
My birthday is in April and dogwoods are always in bloom. Those of us lucky enough to be born in April are blessed to have nature celebrate our birthdays. Dogwoods in bloom are one of my favorite things, maybe my very favorite. I collected photos and drawings of dogwoods, anything I could find to create the art that I would wear the rest of my life. And, I was careful to select images of native Southern Appalachian white flowering dogwoods. No pink hybrids for me. I wanted to embrace the certainty that nature knows best, with dogwoods and with human beings.
The story of getting the tattoo can be told another day, but the experience alone was worth it. I've always believed you should try most things in life at least once and that day was just reaffirming enough.
My dogwood tattoo is just over 2 inches by 2 inches, in full color, on my right calf. I wanted where I could see it and be reminded to be thankful. Sometimes I forget it's there and am pleasantly surprised when I rediscover it. It feels like I've always had it and I've never worried about hiding it. I've tried to rediscover myself in the last year and open myself up to the opportunities around me.
Sometimes I think about adding a few more small images around my dogwood - a dragonfly to represent my husband, a Monarch butterfly for my migratory oldest son, a feisty hummingbird for my youngest. But I'm not going to do it. They don't need me to select their images for them. They'll do just fine choosing their own.
Monday, June 30, 2008
A Year for Me
When I first retired, I stumbled across The Gift of a Year: How to Give Yourself the Most Meaningful Pleasurable Satisfying Year of Your Life by Mira Kirshenbaum. When I finished reading it, I set my goal for the next year to get the house organized after thirty years of working, raising children, and everything else that comes with a woman’s adult life. At first, it seemed impossible to consider clearing every closet, drawer, and shelf. But, after I slept for the better part of six months, I did begin to get thing under control. It took almost two years to complete, but, by the end of that time, the house was cleared of much of its clutter, repairs had been made, walls and floors were renewed, and our family could fully enjoy every space in the house. We were even confident enough to consider adding an addition to the house with the help of a contractor friend.
What we didn’t see coming was a new, old house. We stumbled across an empty foreclosure with two wooded acres in an area where we never even considered living. It needed to be stripped to the studs to begin the work to bring the house back to a state where it could be lived in. On our first visit, we laughed all the way through, saying, “Not us, not us!” But, somehow, we managed to find ourselves back inside with our good contractor friend whose specialty just happened to be bringing disastrous messes of houses back to life. After that visit, we saw it only as the retirement house of our dreams, designed and built to make the rest of our lives better.
Now, a year and a half after moving in, I realize how much our lives have improved and how this has become a new family home for our children, for my sister and her children, even for my mother who will move into a retirement center nearby next year. In this short time, we’ve had more family members visit than we have ever had in thirty-five years of marriage. We’ve used our dining room table more often than we have in the last twenty years. We’ve had more diverse and more interesting collections of people drink a glass of wine on the screened porch, enjoy a fire in the living room, and always laugh around the kitchen counter than we’ve ever had in our lives. And, despite my arthritis and bad knees, I’ve discovered ways to make it enjoyable for me to entertain large parties, small groups of friends, or family as often as we like.
However, along the way, I’ve picked up more clutter by way of morbid obesity and related health problems. And so, I find myself needing a new year to rid my life of those things that keep it from being the most meaningful, pleasurable, and satisfying life that I realize it could be. Just like setting the goal of updating our last house or planning a complete rebuild of our new home, I’m surprised to find that I have already prepared for the job ahead of me. I’ve paid strict attention to all the concerns of my doctors over the last three years. I’ve followed through on every test and screening that they have ordered and researched the underlying issues. Despite diagnosis as a type 2 diabetic three years ago, I’ve discovered through the process that most of my health problems can be significantly improved or eliminated through changes in diet and exercise and awareness and attitude. And for the first time in over twenty years, I don’t feel doomed to failure with regard to managing my weight for myself. I feel energized and ready.
As I write, I look out at the first vegetable garden I’ve ever had and realize that it's a tangible sign of my choice to live better and to contribute to a healthier life for our family and friends. It has taken months of preparation, from finding and ordering growing boxes that allow me to work smarter to learning to reuse kitchen and yard waste as compost, but the green tomatoes that I see on the vine promise that it will be worth it.
The next year holds other promises for me, as well.
What we didn’t see coming was a new, old house. We stumbled across an empty foreclosure with two wooded acres in an area where we never even considered living. It needed to be stripped to the studs to begin the work to bring the house back to a state where it could be lived in. On our first visit, we laughed all the way through, saying, “Not us, not us!” But, somehow, we managed to find ourselves back inside with our good contractor friend whose specialty just happened to be bringing disastrous messes of houses back to life. After that visit, we saw it only as the retirement house of our dreams, designed and built to make the rest of our lives better.
Now, a year and a half after moving in, I realize how much our lives have improved and how this has become a new family home for our children, for my sister and her children, even for my mother who will move into a retirement center nearby next year. In this short time, we’ve had more family members visit than we have ever had in thirty-five years of marriage. We’ve used our dining room table more often than we have in the last twenty years. We’ve had more diverse and more interesting collections of people drink a glass of wine on the screened porch, enjoy a fire in the living room, and always laugh around the kitchen counter than we’ve ever had in our lives. And, despite my arthritis and bad knees, I’ve discovered ways to make it enjoyable for me to entertain large parties, small groups of friends, or family as often as we like.
However, along the way, I’ve picked up more clutter by way of morbid obesity and related health problems. And so, I find myself needing a new year to rid my life of those things that keep it from being the most meaningful, pleasurable, and satisfying life that I realize it could be. Just like setting the goal of updating our last house or planning a complete rebuild of our new home, I’m surprised to find that I have already prepared for the job ahead of me. I’ve paid strict attention to all the concerns of my doctors over the last three years. I’ve followed through on every test and screening that they have ordered and researched the underlying issues. Despite diagnosis as a type 2 diabetic three years ago, I’ve discovered through the process that most of my health problems can be significantly improved or eliminated through changes in diet and exercise and awareness and attitude. And for the first time in over twenty years, I don’t feel doomed to failure with regard to managing my weight for myself. I feel energized and ready.
As I write, I look out at the first vegetable garden I’ve ever had and realize that it's a tangible sign of my choice to live better and to contribute to a healthier life for our family and friends. It has taken months of preparation, from finding and ordering growing boxes that allow me to work smarter to learning to reuse kitchen and yard waste as compost, but the green tomatoes that I see on the vine promise that it will be worth it.
The next year holds other promises for me, as well.
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