Myrtle Mae

I can't quite put my finger on the exact year I first met Marilyn.  My dad was serving as pastor for the Christian Church in Bosworth, MO and Marilyn's parents lived right across the street from the church.  And they had an indoor bathroom; the church still had an outhouse.  I was probably six or seven when our family first met Marilyn and her kids, Lisa and Bryan.  They lived in Jefferson City, but visited Grammy and Papa often, so we'd see them at church and we became good friends.

During the summer, I'd spend a week or so in Bosworth with Lisa, Bryan, Marilyn, Grammy and PaPa.  Grammy would fix us pancakes and let us drink Pepsi-Cola for breakfast.  Then Lisa and I would saunter on up to the pool hall to drink some more Pepsi-Cola and watch the old men play pool.  It was not unlike "To Kill A Mockingbird" except that there was no Boo Radley.

One of my most vivid memories is of Lisa and I and another girl (whose name I obviously can't recall) happily washing off the day's dirt in the bathtub (remember, we were itty bitty then and could fit three in a tub).  All of the sudden, there was pounding on the bathroom window...lots of it.  Never have you seen three little naked girls hop out of the tub and run through the house, dripping wet.  Marilyn, of course, was the culprit.  She found it hilariously funny.  So do I, fifty years later.

We moved from Marshall to Jeff City in the early 70's and our friendship grew even stronger.  We went to the same church and, oftentimes, our families seamlessly melded into one big, loud bunch.  During my dad's career in politics, Marilyn was a driving force, running us kids to various campaign events, making sure we had our red, white, and blue shirts and foam boater hats in place.  She was tireless.  She later worked for dad in the treasurer's office and I spent many a weekend at the Parrish home on Indian Meadow Drive, when mom and dad were away for a political event.

Everyone called Marilyn by her first name...kids, too.  However, my parents were old school.  It wasn't cool to call an elder by their first name.  So we came up with Myrtle (or Myrtle Mae).  Eventually I got old enough to call her Marilyn, but occasionally I'd slip up and call her Myrtle.

The Parrish house was THE house to congregate.  Every kid on the block seemed to gravitate to Marilyn.  She was funny, energetic and always up for anything.  She was the Cool Mom.  On more than one occasion she allowed me, Lisa, Bryan and my brother to skip church so we could watch an old black and white Marx Brothers or Abbott and Costello movie on Saturday night or Sunday morning.  It was important to laugh, she'd say.

I have so many wonderful memories of Marilyn.  One of the best (and, now, funniest) is the day all of us kids were loaded into her car and she's driving us in downtown JC.  All of the sudden she slammed on the brakes and yelled, "There's Squeaky!  Look!"  And right then I got my first (and, I think, only) look at a "lady of the evening."  How many other moms do you know that would do that?

That's what was so great about Marilyn.  There was no class structure in her world.  Everyone was equal and everyone had a story to tell.  Maybe it was because she lost her husband so early (1967) that she determined to get the most out of life.  She had plenty of obstacles, but chose to see the good side of humanity and used those challenges to grow as a person.

And, she was about as loyal a person as I've ever seen.  She was the first person I'd ever heard describe themself as "a yellow dog Democrat" - meaning she'd vote for a yellow dog before she'd vote for a Republican.  She spent the majority of her adult career working in the Missouri capitol.  She knew EVERYONE.  And everyone knew her.  She had a smile that lit up the room and a laugh to match it.  Anyone who's heard that laugh is smiling right now.

When I heard Ron answer the phone on Saturday and say, "Hey, Lisa" followed by, "No, no," I knew that Marilyn was gone.  It's still hard for me to believe that she's not still here.  We just got a Christmas card from her and my folks just talked to her a week ago.

Marilyn lived her life on her terms.  She was fiercely independent and, some might say, stubborn as a mule.  Does that surprise you?  All Democrats are mules.

Marilyn - my second mom - I love you.  I miss you.  I remember you.

With love...

Nutso Techno

There are times when I am absolutely fascinated by technology.  And there are times when I'm terrified of it.  Let me give you some examples.

There's this little cider mill a couple of miles from my parents' home.  Open only for a few months during the fall, this quaint operation has been dishing out hot, cinnamon-y donuts for quite a few years.  They sell other stuff, but let's face it...it's the donuts that people stand in line for.  While you're waiting - if you're lucky enough to be with another person to hold your place in line - you can wander over to this little window and watch the donuts being made.

Some nice, older woman spoons the batter into a hopper and - through an amazing feat of technology - two perfect donuts are plopped into super hot grease about every two seconds.  They float along for maybe fifteen seconds and then - another amazing feat of technology - they get flipped over and drift happily for another fifteen seconds.  The result?  A perfectly golden sphere of deliciousness.

I could watch it for hours and hours.  Not kidding.  After a few hours I'd be Zen perfect.

Not long ago I watched an intriguing show about the "real" King Tut.  How can they call it the "real" King Tut.  Why, because of technology, of course.

They used super elaborate methods and equipment to test the death mask (the famous one with all that gold) and determined that the front piece and back piece were not one solid piece, but two, joined together by ancient duct tape.  Not really. I think they used rivets.  Whatever.

I have a degree in history (I might have mentioned that before).  I should be interested in this kind of stuff.  And I am, up to a point.  But when they're spending lots and lots of money and high falutin' microscopes and other equipment I can't remember, I have to ask myself:

Shouldn't this time and money be spent on something else?  Like curing cancer?  I know too many people battling all types of cancer.  Bad, nasty, life-ending stuff.  King Tut is dead.  And has been for a really long time.  These people need answers.  Yesterday.  We know enough about King Tut.  (I beg forgiveness for any Egypytologists reading this).

So...I was excited to see advertisements for the new series, "Breakthrough."  Six well-known directors taking aim at some of our world's leading breakthroughs in science. I was intrigued.

The first one scared the crap out of me.  It was about Ebola and the awful, painful death that is almost always inevitable.  And how catastrophic it has been - and can be - in a pandemic situation.  In a matter of weeks.

All I can say, after watching that first episode, is that there are a lot of SUPER brilliant minds out there and we should be thanking God that they are alive and using their brains to help develop a cost-effective treatment and strategy for eradicating this scary disease.

Then... Paris happened.  And San Bernardino.  And you realize that it doesn't take a disease to claim lives.  It takes a mind that has ceased to be rational.

And technology.

I often wonder what we'd do without the World Wide Web.

I really think we'd be safer.  And more ignorant.

Which is worse?

Let's Get Real

I think we're losing our grip on reality.  Reality TV, that is.

I remember when the trend started moving towards this genre of entertainment (if you can call it that).  Some network executive realized that paying TV stars a million bucks an episode wasn't cost effective and opted instead for an option that was heavy on drama/shock and light on talent.

Enter "The Real World," "The Osbornes," "Survivor" and on and on and on.

I liked "The Real World."  I liked "The Osbornes."  And even to this day I watch "Survivor" and "Amazing Race" and a handful of other reality shows.

Here's the deal.  Some of them have become more surreal than real.  They've been scripted and edited to death.  Loved the first season of "Duck Dynasty."  Uncle Si was too good to be true.  You can't script that kind of humor.  But slowly and surely, the themes seemed to be contrived, even rehearsed.  Sad, really, because they are an interesting bunch of people.  They don't need outside intervention to make them appealing.

One of our favorites is "Alaska, The Last Frontier."  It's about the homesteading Kilcher family.  Four generations have worked the land, raised cattle, planted vegetables, bred chickens, kept bees and borne kids.  While I sense a bit of scripting, for the most part it's just a peek into what it takes to live off the land in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Another one we watch is "Life Below Thirty," another series set in Alaska.  Incidentally, there are quite a few shows about Alaska...it's like it was just discovered or something.  People.  It's as old as I am.  Well, maybe a little longer.  Been around for awhile.

Anyway, back to the tundra.  These folks live in frigidly cold places and are forever talking about the pickles they'd be in if they fell through the ice or couldn't make a fire.  I'm like, "Yeah, but there's a camera crew right next to you."  Pretty sure if someone fell through the ice, there'd be at least one or two hands to haul them out.  Or hand them a lighter or one of those fire starter logs.

Here's my biggest astonishment...Drugs, Inc. I'm not sure this technically qualifies as a reality show, but it's real.  Or is it?  Ron likes to watch this on occasion so I acquiesce because he watches a lot of Food Network with me.  What I do not understand is this.  They are showing people making meth, cutting cocaine, making heroine balls...all highly illegal things.  Are the producers not responsible for alerting the authorities to this stuff?

They film cops and DEA agents conducting raids - usually resulting in nothing.  Shouldn't those cameramen be saying, "Hey, I think I might know where you could find some real thugs and massive amounts of drugs.  Follow me."

Same thing with Moonshiners.  The drug folks cover up their faces with all manner of scary masks.  The moonshiners?  They don't give a rip.  They're mighty proud of their stills and hiding places and they don't mind showing their faces on TV.  The law enforcement guys have a heckuva time finding stills hidden deep in the woods.  Again...cameramen, producers?  Do you not have a moral responsibility to help apprehend these criminals?

I don't get it.

Maybe it's just me.  But I'm thinking the REAL in reality TV has gone 'round the bend, never to be seen again.

Oh well.  Move on.  Surely there's something in the works that will prove to be even more fantastic than anything we could ever dream of!

Can't wait.

Don't Change the Chanel

My favorite new show this fall is "Scream Queens."  I am, strictly speaking, not a fan of horror movies.  Unless it involves the hi jinks of Abbott & Costello.  Or the Bowery Boys.  (I am seriously dating myself here...I feel compelled to clarify that I saw those movies on TV, not when they originally premiered on the big screen.)

I was only able to watch one season of "American Horror Story" and a couple of seasons of "True Blood."  Too much mayhem and blood and creepy stuff for me.  So when Kate and Tyler told me that I HAD to watch "Scream Queens," I acquiesced (caved) and said I'd watch one episode, just to get them off my back.

Oh.my.gosh.  It is so inappropriately funny I can't stand it.  I cannot believe some of the phrases that are allowed to be uttered on prime time television.  It's "Mean Girls" + "Clueless" + "Glee" + "American Horror" + "Porky's" + "Animal House."  It all adds up to a highly campy, over-the-top murder mystery, with never-ending plot twists and turns and extremely clever/cutting dialogue.

Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, who are the geniuses behind "Glee," "American Horror," and "Nip Tuck," have taken elements of their past triumphs and blended them into a crazy hour of smack downs, faux fur fashion shows, oddball and stereotyped characters/  It's magic in HD.  Another show (a la "Glee") during which no societal group is spared, lampooning left, right and center.

And can we talk about cultural relevance?  Quite regularly, the writers reference on-trend topics that are HILARIOUS.  On the episode, "Chaneloween," I immediately knew what they were parodying; my kids didn't.  How hip am I?  I will be reminding them of that moment for years to come.  Or until I forget that it happened.

I think one of the reasons I find it so funny is because it is SO over the top.  Dialed down a notch or two it would be tasteless and one or two toes over the line as offensive.  There are quite a few sexual innuendos, but they're done in such an unabashed, unapologetic way that's you can't help but laugh.

It doesn't hurt that Jamie Lee Curtis is one of the leads in the show.  She's a "Scream Queen" in her own right and she's great.  Emma Roberts is perfect as Chanel, and her minions, Chanel #s One, Two, Three, Four, Five and Six include Abigail Breslin and Lea Michele and Ariana Grande.  Add in an always funny Niecy Nash and Nick Jonas and it's a surprisingly well blended cast.

My favorite character, however, is Chad Radwell (Glen Powell).  He's a member of the Dickie Dollar Scholars fraternity and he is a swell compilation of several fraternity boys I knew in college.  Prepped out to the max, fabulously rich and completely ego-centric.  I can't wait to hear what's going to come out of his mouth, once he's removed his permanently placed silver spoon.

Yes.  It's mindless TV.  But I don't care.  Plus, how am I ever going to find out who the Red Devil Killer is if I don't keep watching?

Going Royal

If we're friends on Face Book, and assuming you read every single one of my posts (!), you would know this about me:  I don't really care for sports, not having played any when I was young.  Unless you count kick the can.

However, I graduated from a sports frenzied high school.  Our Jefferson City Jays football team was amazing, winning a couple of state championships in a row.  I think.  I'm sure I'll be reminded if my memory is faulty.  Well, that's already been established in myriad situations.  But I'm talking specifically about that state championship thing.

Later on in life, I used to get very irritated when I was on staff at a church and we had to consider the city's sporting schedules before making plans to undertake anything that required a lot of folks.

And then there are the players' salaries.  Massive amounts of hungry people could be fed, homeless be sheltered, diseases researched and cured with the billions paid to sports personnel.  I haven't done the math because I only have ten fingers and ten toes.  I think I'd even blow up my solar powered calculator attempting that equation.

And, can we talk about the tedium that sports watching entails?  I think soccer is the worst culprit (sorry soccer fans and players...I still love YOU).  When a score is 1-0 after ninety minutes that really just amounts to a lot of running around, kicking a ball, sometimes headbutting (why are no helmets involved) and quite a lot of flopping.  I'll bet you're surprised that I know that term.  Now THAT'S a reason to watch soccer...so I can yell, "He's TOTALLY flopping!"

Lastly, but probably most importantly...I can't handle close games.  I can tune into the last few minutes of a basketball game and get completely tied up in knots if it's a three or four point game.  I blame Brian Presberry for that.  He made some crazy last second shot and our Jays won by one point against our arch nemesis, Columbia Hickman.  I think I had already graduated because I can see it perfectly in my mind and I wasn't sitting with the million other Jayettes...I was across the gym.  That doesn't really matter, except to point out that my brain stores ridiculous things that I need to get rid of to make room for things that matter now.  Like why I got up and went into the kitchen.  (That happened this morning.  And, sadly, it's not the first time).

So that's why I don't care for sports.

But...something happened to me last month I haven't been able to decipher yet.  I didn't watch one single baseball game the entire regular season.  I heard from time to time that the Royals were doing well and I was like, "Oh, yea.  That's good."  I don't even think I watched any of the games against Houston.  But by the time Toronto rolled into town I found myself oddly attracted to it.  I watched all the games.  Stayed up way late and considered asking my doctor for a prescription for nitroglycerin.

By the time the World Series rolled around I knew the batting lineup.  What's up with that?  By the end of the first game I knew which Mets players and pitchers were gonna give us trouble.  "Us?"  Somewhere between Toronto and the Mets I became a fanatic.

My kids were giving me funny looks.  Ron just kept rolling his eyes.  I would sit alone in our lower level (Ron won't let me call it a basement) and whoop and clap by myself.  Kate and I would text like mad, emogi-ing hand clapping and thumbs up and smiley faces with tongues hanging out.

It was a bit ridiculous.  Ok, more than a bit.

The last game, when it was tied in the ninth, I went upstairs to wake Ron up and watched the rest of it in our bedroom.  The weirdest thing happened.  It happens when I talk to the kids and we're watching the same thing...there's like a three or four second delay in what they're watching and what I see.  Our windows were open and I could hear people cheering before I saw what was happening on the television.  So...I knew they Royals had won before I saw it.  I remember whispering "They did it! They did it!" before the final strike was thrown.

The next day I watched everything I could about the Royals' hard fought victory.  I even watched a replay of the last three innings...and I still got nervous, even though I knew how it would end.

I debated back and forth about going to the parade.  Tyler and Ron had to work and Kate doesn't love big crowds, so I stayed home and watched it all unfold on TV.  It wasn't until the images started hitting Face Book that I was able to fully comprehend the magnitude of it all.

Amazing.  Just amazing.

If I had to use one word to describe how I felt it would be...

Joy.

Those Boys in Blue played with pure joy.  They love the game.  They love each other.  They have families who love and support them.  They know each others' skill sets; combined they're a force to be reckoned with.  They have freedom to play the best game they can, not dictated by an ego-driven manager.  But it's the joy that spills over, like the Gatorade Salvy loves to splash around, that makes them so likable and fun to watch.

And the fans!  Straight up beer-drinking, high fiving, Moose-calling, joy-filled men, women and children of all ages.  They love their Royals and their Royals love them right back.

If wishes do come true...I'd keep this team intact for another 100 years.  Or until their knees/arms give out.

I guess that makes me a fan, too.  And I kind of like it.

When's Spring Training start?  PLAY BALL!

Bloom, Dammit!

Although folks would be hard pressed to catch a glimpse of it now, there was a day when I was SUPER into entertaining and puttin' on the dog.  Southern Living and Martha Stewart Living provided my daily devotionals and, at times, I was able to channel Martha just by clicking my heels together three times and repeating "Use only the VERY BEST vanilla."

Southern Living has the best recipes out there, if case you're wondering.  Never made a bad dish from that magazine.  MS Living was chock full of ridiculous decor ideas that looked beautiful but required surgeon-esque skills and loads of specialty items.  I didn't even attempt those crafty things because I'd read the directions and my eyes would start to glaze over.

I did, one holiday season, buy a crap ton of glitter and made dozens of ornaments and candles with the stuff (Word to the Wise: don't do the candles...the glitter caught on fire.  I probably did it wrong).  When we decorate at Christmas, there are still traces of that sparkly endeavor in every box we unpack.

It slowly became...a problem.

I had butter molds of butterflies and acorns and unicorns (not really).  I combed the Colonial Williamsburg catalog for faux magnolia leaves and King Charles bedspreads.  I created holiday menus and printed them out...mainly so I'd keep on track, but - truth be told - also so I could practice my taste tantalizing verbiage skills...fresh hot yeast rolls, with sweet cream butter and assorted jams.  Homemade pumpkin spice with freshly whipped sweetened cream...

Very hoity toity.

But, then, after years of getting my kicks from all things fancy, I went into a self-imposed rehab.  Actually, I got bariatric bypass surgery and couldn't really eat all those things anymore.  So I tossed (or sold) all my butter molds, cancelled my Southern Living and Martha Stewart subscriptions and tried to develop some better habits.

Fast forward to last Saturday, when we were getting ready to come home from NOLA.  I bought a couple of magazines (Southern Living and Martha Stewart Living, of course) because - horror of horrors - out plane wasn't equipped with WIFI.  As I flipped through the pages of MSL, I noticed that they're still publishing Martha's monthly calendar of events.  And I remembered that it always served as a huge source of "Oh my gosh, can you believe she's doing that?" moments.

Once again, it did not fail to entertain.  Alongside her schedule of yoga, weight training and riding horses were her friends' and colleagues' birthdays, hair appointments, refrigerator cleanings, etc.

But...the one I love the most (and I remember seeing it on her calendar before...which leads me to believe the editors are cut-and-paste gurus) is the day she's set aside to force her forsythia and pussy willows to bloom.

Picture it.  A cold, grey, concrete room with a card table, one folding chair and a naked light bulb haphazardly hung from the ceiling.  Martha is in the chair.  A lone stick in a clay pot is on the table.

Tension fills the air.

In a strong, direct "I will not be dismissed" voice, Martha commands, "You.WILL.Bloom."

"NOW!"

"Or I will twist you in two, you ungrateful twig of a tree."

Martha fixes her steely gaze on the naked branch.  One minute passes.  Two minutes.  Thirty.

Finally, with a silent shudder and a spectacular clenching of its roots, a spec of yellow leaf begins to poke its head through the dormant bark.

Martha, her work completed, exits the room with a victorious stride, leaving the door open as a wide-eyed intern to timidly comes forward to finish the job.

Don't even try to tell me that's not the way she gets it done.

game changer

Yesterday, when I was promoting Ken Burns' "Civil War" series on Facebook, I said it had changed my life when I watched it twenty-five years ago.

Now, I'm the kind of person who believes when anyone makes a statement like that, it's pretty much mandatory that he or she explain those events.  Because, honestly, they don't happen that often, and who doesn't like a life-changing story?  Oh, we read of them DAILY on Facebook...although I doubt the veracity and monumental-ness of many of them.  I mean, finding 8,320 uses for Dawn dishwashing liquid does not qualify for "life changing" status, but apparently social media gurus tasked with creating scintillating copy have been born again by discovering that Dawn can make an effective mosquito repellent (unless you live in Minnesota...the only effective mosquito repellent there is hibernation during the summer months.)

So, here's my story.

I have a degree in history.  In the middle of my junior year I switched from a sociology major to history, pretty much because I liked the professors more and I have some kind of mutated brain that can retain and retrieve lots of dates and names and stuff that's useful in history tests.  And I can pull off some pretty convincing BS on essays. (I often say I got a BS in BS.)

When I was a student at William Woods College, we had this mini-semester at the end of the year, right after spring break, called Short Term.  Basically, folks took a four-week class from 10-12 (or if you were one of those overachievers, a class from 8-10), and the rest of the day was free to do all the things college students do all year long, except you don't have to cut classes to do it.

There were also "off campus" excursions to far away places like Savannah, Georgia and Charleston, South Carolina in courses called "The Civil War South."  Two weeks of classroom and two weeks of travel.  I was fortunate to be able to go on one of those trips and spent hours and hours walking through battlefields and antebellum homes and cities that were pristine and oozing southern charm... and pretty far removed from the carnage that took place there a hundred plus years ago.

So it was hard for me to really feel like I had gotten an intimate picture of how really devastating it was for our country.  I still had a passion for history, but it was a read-the-textbook-memorize-a-bunch-of-facts kind of passion.

Enter Ken Burns and his ground-breaking documentary in 1990.  Through the stirring narrative, journals, diaries and authentic images, some of them so graphic in nature it was difficult to comprehend, the Civil War - and its  people - went from being stories from my history textbooks to real, live, 4D people.  The dead - in a real sense - came to life for me.

It was at the end of the first episode that this metamorphosis crystallized for me...the reading of Sullivan Ballou's letter to his wife, written one week before his death at the first Battle of Bull Run.  Its eloquence, honesty and unabashed love for his wife moved me to tears and I felt the heartache that families across the young nation had to endure for four long years...still does every time I hear it (you won't be surprised to learn that I've watched the series multiple times).  If you're interested, here's a link to the text of his letter (it was edited in the film, but it's no less impacting in its abbreviated form). http://www.civilwar.org/education/history/primarysources/sullivan-ballou-letter.html?referrer=https://www.google.com/

That same year I saw "Dances With Wolves," which also gave me a more accurate picture of the travesty borne by Native Americans at the hands of our greedy, arrogant and misguided forefathers in their attempt to conquer the continent.  Again, the Lakota (and all Native Americans) became flesh and blood people, not just the subjects of Hollywood oater films - most of which portrayed the white folks as righteous crusader-like overlords and the Native Americans as uneducated, savage heathens, whose claim on their ancestral lands was illegitimate and a nuisance.

And here's where the story comes full circle...once I had established in my mind that these folks had beating hearts, eloquence of thought and speech, and a real loss of family, lands, culture, etc., I was able to make that same connection with...Jesus.

I've been a Christian all my life, but it wasn't until I saw those two films that I was able to take what had been an abstract idea in my mind and transform it into a living, breathing soul that walked the earth, teaching, loving and, ultimately, dying for my sin.

I know that's a very roundabout way of getting to a mature faith, but everyone's climb to the mountaintop is different, right?

I was humbled twenty-five years ago as the light bulbs kept blazing on in my head.  While I'm grateful to be an American, I can't say I've always been proud to be an American.  These two periods in our history are gruesome and grisly...a crossroads that my favorite "Civil War" commentator Shelby Foote says was a "hell of a crossroads."

Let's make sure we always try to choose the right path.

with this ring

We went out with our dear friends, Randy & Kim, to celebrate our anniversary last weekend and I'm just now able to sit up straight...I sprained my laughing muscles.  It was such a good time.  There's a richness to relationships that span decades and shared memories that bind us together as to make us inseparable.  Pure joy.

During the course of the evening, we talked about our early married life and I shared a story about Ron's wedding ring...

After I graduated from college, I moved to Branson, or more specifically, Point Lookout, where my dad was president of School of the Ozarks (now upgraded to College of the Ozarks).  I got a job waiting tables (my first - and last - attempt at that position) at a cute little restaurant in Branson called Harbor Lights.  It was on Lake Taneycomo, so I'm not how the "Harbor" moniker applied, but it was a decent place.  It was in town, not out on "the strip" - this was long before Branson flamed into the entertainment capital of the universe, so our customers were mainly locals.  And the occasional couple in town to drop or pick up kids from one of the Kanakuk Kamps.  These were the rich folks so we always vied for their tables.

But I digress.

Our wedding was three months away and I had to buy Ron's wedding ring.  I found one I liked and probably put it on layaway.  Every night after a shift I'd come home, pop into my parent's bedroom and dump my tips out of the pockets of my very stylish autumnal themed polyester smock onto their bed.  Then I'd count the quarters and dimes and nickles...and sometimes the bit or two pieces of "folding" money I'd managed to earn.  On a good night I'd make seven or eight bucks.  I remember once getting a $10 tip and thinking I'd hit the big time.  Ah, the age of innocence...

Finally, after three months of schlepping platters of food, ladling thick dressings on top of plain old iceberg lettuce, sneaking hush puppies when the cook wasn't looking and coming home smelling like a vat of grease, I'd made enough money to buy his ring...$125.  It was the first really big purchase of my life and I felt very accomplished.

Imagine my horror when Ron came home from work one day empty fingered.  School of the Ozarks has a mandatory work study program (in lieu of tuition) and Ron worked at the Transportation Department, punching coal.  A dirty, hot job.  He'd been washing his hands and, unbeknownst to him at the time, his ring slipped off and washed away.

I was devastated.  I'd worked so hard.  Listened to a third rate combo every weekend, doing bad covers of bad songs.  I'd had to throw a glass of water on a customer on Fourth of July because someone thought it would be great (and safe) to light sparklers inside and her chiffon blouse caught on fire.  I'd burned my fingers repeatedly splitting and smushing baked potatoes.  I'd had to try and erase the image of the cook and another waitress practically "doing it" in the walk-in.

It had taken every bit of three months to earn that money...now we had bills to pay.  We were never going to get enough money to buy another one.  I was inconsolable.

Then...miracle of miracles...the next day Ron went to work and someone had been cleaning out the drain and found his ring.  I'm sure tears were shed when he showed it to me.

It's been on his finger ever since.  Well, almost ever.  He had to take it off for his knee surgery earlier this year.  As he handed it to me I took a good look at it.  The fine row of ridges on the outside are long gone, rubbed away with wear.  It's no longer perfectly round, but has a rather oval shape.

It still has a good, heavy feel to it.  I smiled as I remembered the mountain of coins I amassed to buy it.

And then I slipped it on my third finger, next to my wedding rings, to keep it safe.

love shack

For those of you expecting a post a la "Fifty Shades of Grey," I apologize.  Although that woman has made a lot of money with her sordid accounts of sex and that single girl.  And I do have a lot of time on my hands...perhaps a Baby Boomer version..."Fifty Shades of Gray Hair."  What do you think?  If I ever were to write such a tome, believe you me, it would be LOADS better than the original.  And LOADS more realistic.

"Hey, you wanna?"
"Sure, why not?  I've got ten minutes before I have to take the foil off the casserole."

There you have it...brief, steamy and food at the end.

Back to the love shack...Ron and I commemorated our 34th wedding anniversary this weekend.  We commemorated it by me watching Ron sleep off his jet lag, having been in California all week, working 14 hour days.  We watched a little telly, went to the Farmer's Market, Ron went fishing, we both took naps.

Ok, we laid low because we're hitting the town this coming weekend with our friends, Randy and Kim, who got married exactly one week after we did in 1981.  No doubt it will be a night to remember (if I take notes.)

Ron and I often look at one another and say, "Did you ever think..."  We usually both shake our heads and act all mystified that we've been able to endure three plus decades.  I'm sure there were plenty of folks who were whispering at our wedding, "They'll be lucky to make it six months."

We met in an anthropology course at Westminster.  An 8 a.m., TTH 90 minute class, called Fossil Man.  It was easily the most boring and tedious class I've ever taken.  And I was a sociology major for the first three years of my class, so I know boring.

After class, we'd walk down the hill together, chatting, flirting.  Still, it took my roommate to set us up a year later before we actually went on a date.  After that first night, it was a whirlwind romance.  We got engaged in November, 1980 and got married the following August. I was the classic "went from my parent's house to the sorority house to my husband's house."

Neither one of us had had any independent living experience.  It was a rude awakening.  It took us several months before we realized that spending $25 every week at Wal-Mart was not smart financial planning.  Nor did we have any reliable family planning.

Thirteen months, to the day, after our wedding we were parents.  The first of many unexpected twists and turns in the Martinhouse saga.  It's a miracle that Kate can walk and talk and has all of her limbs.  We had no idea what we were doing.

Our first house was a trailer.  The bedroom was so tiny that we had to take the door off because it wouldn't shut with our double bed in it.  So we resorted to opening the bathroom door halfway; the door was the exact width of the hallway.

We went back to see it a couple of years ago and drove right by it twice before we recognized it.  It gave us great pause.  Looking back, I can't believe we lived there.  Looking forward, I can't believe we came from that to where we are now.

We've obviously had our share of challenges and conflict...emotional, relational, financial.  The first ten years were a struggle, the next ten were challenging on many fronts and the last ten have still provided us with plenty of opportunities to throw our hands in the air.  But, in the end, we still share a deep, abiding love for one another.

And the realization that, honestly, who else would have either one of us?  We've both got quirks and damaged parts.  Neither one of us would have a very good profile on match.com.

So what if our love shack isn't as hoppin' as it used to be?  I treasure the worn-out, lived-in, broken in jeans kind of feeling we have.  We've been through a bit of the refiner's fire and we're not perfect.

We're mellowed.  And we'll just keep getting better and better every year.

At least that's the plan.

westward ho

To no one's surprise I am a HUGE fan of anything that Ken Burns touches.  His documentaries could provide homeschooling moms with an entire curricula of history.  Just sit the kids down in front of the telly, press play and then head out on a week-long spa retreat.  They are that captivating (and long).

Not long ago I finished "The West" (which I may have mentioned in a previous post, but I'm too lazy to go see if I did).  Technically a "presented by" Ken Burns, the film is by Stephen Ives, but it's got Burns' fingerprints all over it.  It's a well-rounded account - the good, the bad, the ugly and the shameful means by which Manifest Destiny was embraced and carried out, no matter what the cost.  I won't go into detail here, but just Google Mountain Meadows and you'll read about a tragic event that I've never seen in a textbook about the American West. (Of course it's been a long spell since I saw a textbook on the American West.)

On my [unbearably hot] walk yesterday, I noticed a sign that indicated that the Oregon, Santa Fe and California trail passed right in front of me more than a century ago.  I said a prayer for all the men, women and children brave enough to make the arduous journey toward what they thought would be a better life.  Newly established territories and states flooded the East Coast with pamphlets promising unending acres of arable land and bounteous harvests, sweet spring waters and lots of wide open spaces.  As you might guess, dust bowls, droughts and plagues of locusts were not included in the "must see to believe" verbiage.

As sweat was trickling down by back, nose and into my eyes, I thought about those poor women who were confined to long dresses, multiple undergarments and sturdy shoes.  I was about to expire with yoga pants, a tank top and my new Asics.  Folks were made of sturdier stock back then, I suppose.  Or, more likely, they simply didn't know how hard it was going to be.

My great-grandfather was an '89er...a Norwegian immigrant running for his family's future in the Oklahoma land rush.  He staked out a 161-acre tract in what is now suburban Oklahoma City.  There's a street named after their family and my mother has very fond memories of her time spent on the farm.  I'd give anything to be able to walk through the house and soak up the history.

Because my mind tracks like a hummingbird, I was reminded of our trip to the Grand Canyon several years ago.  I was moved to tears after winding my way down the paved pathway, finally having it open up in front of me.  Grandeur beyond words.  As I stood there, looking from side to side, across and down I had to wonder...what in the world did the very first people to view this beautiful, cavernous hole think when they saw it for the first time?  Pretty sure this is what the conversation would have been...

Man: Well, looks like we'll be stopping here for the night.
Woman: Oh, come on we can go a few more...WHOA!  Well, okay then.

I mean, seriously.  That thing is big.  And rocky.  And probably full of snakes and scorpions and other buggy things.

Pretty sure I couldn't have been a pioneer.  Unless they had a tricked-out glamping Conestoga wagon.

if you can't say something nice...

...don't say anything at all.  One of the sagest pieces of advice my wisdom-filled mother taught me.  And I'd like to say that I always, always abide by it.  But I don't.  But I try.  Most of the time.

This is not one of those times when restraint will win out.

In just over a year all card-carrying voters will be heading to the polls to elect a new president.  Already the rhetoric, mudslinging and hyperbole is being vomited out of a million mouths, most of it reprehensible, inflammatory, inaccurate and completely not necessary.

I'm doing my best to ignore it, but my Facebook page is blowing up with articles about what a terrible president we currently have and there's a billionaire who's giving Sarah Palin a run for her money for saying the most ridiculous things I've heard in a long time.  LISTEN UP REPUBLICANS...if you want to have a decent chance next year, get this guy off the mic and turn your attention to some folks who have some serious political chops.  At this point, the only Donald I'd even consider casting a vote for is Donald Duck.  And he doesn't even wear pants.

Okay, rant over.  But probably not for long.  I'll try to keep it in my head and heed my mom's advice.

In other news...

I walk most days and my current favorite song is "Seventeen" by Ratatat.  I guess you could call it rap, although there aren't any words (excepting the intro Mr. Ratatat gives stating that he doesn't write any music anymore, he just kicks it from his head...).  Basically it's got a central beat and then it's just three or four chord progressions, each about a minute and a half long.  I play it about five time in a row just to keep me moving during the first part of my walk.

I like to listen to my music loud.  Probably too loud and in a few years I'll be staring blankly at people when they speak to me.  However, when I approach other walkers or lawn mowing people, I always turn it off, lest they think I've gone 'round the bend.  Once I pass them, though, it's all about the bass, baby.

I think I'm so hip.  I'm sure my kids would replace "hip" with "pathetic."

I don't really give a rip.

Lastly, I have this weird reaction whenever I see a lone shoe or sock or child's toy on the sidewalk or on the road.  I immediately think, "abduction."  Part of me wants to pick it up with a stick, bag it and tag it and take it to my local CSI station.  Because you never know...

what's wrong with us

As time goes by I begin to understand why the world at large has such a dim view of Americans.  We are loud-mouthed, opinionated, sometimes ignorant people who feel compelled to force our beliefs on others.  And it's not just a recent phenomena.  

I've been watching Stephen Ives' film, "The West" on Netflix and find that Americans' quest for more, more, more is not a 21st century problem.  It's been with us from our inception.  After the 1803 Louisiana Purchase, a whole vast frontier was opened up and we wasted no time in pushing through and usurping territory that had already been previously inhabited for hundreds of years.

There were some folks who simply wanted a better life, but with the discovery of gold at Sutter's Mill in California, the fever caught and the rush was on and the masses came with high hopes of striking it rich quickly.  Most didn't and lots of men died trying.  

I could go on for days and days with stories and statistics...suffice it to say that Americans behaved abominably towards Native Americans, making promises with little or no intention of honoring them.  One Native American spokesperson in the series did dispel the myth that everything was perfect with the lives of Native Americans before the White invasion.  They had many of the same problems any group of people have.  They were just tremendously exacerbated by the white man's insistence that these heathen people be subjugated and corralled.  Their treatment, and the institution of slavery, are the two biggest stains on our nation.  

And no amount of bleach or pre-treatment product is going to remove them.

I think these days we tend to push aside these failures in our humanity to pretend that they didn't exist...or don't still exist.  The whole conflagration with the Confederate flag should have been put to rest in 1865, with the surrender of Lee at Appomattox Courthouse.  At that moment, the South was no longer a separate nation.  It was part of the United States and all of those flags should have been replaced with the American flag.  

I don't want to hear about the Confederate Flag's cultural relevance or how it's part of their heritage.  It might well be part of their heritage, but, seriously...that heritage involved slavery, kidnapping, lynching, church burnings and countless other acts of hatred and racism.  

Removing the flag from public places is not the whole answer, but it's a start.  It's a statement that says we will no longer cling to the stereotype that is so, so hurtful and racially abhorrent to a large segment of the American people.  It says Jim Crow has moved on.

Now...about gay marriage.  You'll not be surprised that I was astounded (in a good way) when I got the text from Kate.  For me, it's never been about the religious view on homosexuality.  It's always been about the rights of ALL people to legally stand up before their families, friends and God and make a commitment to love, honor and cherish one another.

I cannot believe the indignation of some Christians are expressing about this.  Hypocritical doesn't even begin to cover it.  I watched a video this morning that suggested that we first remove the log from our own eyes before we can see the speck in the eye of our neighbor.  A good and sobering reminder that none of us is free from sin.  

I "shared" a blog post on my timeline written by Adam Hamilton, the senior pastor at Church of the Resurrection here in Overland Park.  It is a thoughtful, eye-opening look this issue.  I would encourage you to read it.  It points out that we cannot really opt for the "cafeteria" scripture plan...there are dozens of passages that call for us to act in ways that today we would think reprehensible...women being raped having to marry their rapists, rebellious children were required to be stoned to death, priests who daughters were prostitutes were burned alive  Here's a link to his blog...

http://www.adamhamilton.org/blog/view/196/the-bible-and-the-supreme-court-on-same-sex-marriage#.VZQFEPlVikp

We can do better.  We HAVE to do better.  Take some time to open your heart, your mind, your soul.  Ask God to speak to you.  Ask for forgiveness.  Ask for guidance.  Ask for God to render you color/gender/preconceived notion blind if need be.  Ask to be able to love your neighbor, maybe not as your love yourself, but better.

things remembered

Saturday was my brother's birthday.  I didn't remember until late in the day.  The last time he was at a family event was Christmas, 1989.  Tyler was just over a year old.  In a few months, Tyler will be 27.

Even though Jeff and I weren't biologically related, we had a special "adopted" relationship.  Sure we went through a time when we hated each other.  I called him an idiot (or something equally derisive) and he kicked in glass-paned door in our basement.  I still have the scar acquired when we were cleaning out the broken glass from the frame.  He broke his hand when he hit me on the hip bone in the swimming pool.  Who would have guessed that those scars would be minor compared to the ones to come later.

We grew closer in high school and college.  He gave me away at my wedding (Dad was officiating).  After Kate arrived, Jeff took great pride in being an uncle.  He was great with her and she loved him.

Then, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, things changed.  He was practicing law in a small community north of KC and one day this girl showed up and moved in with him.  Apparently they met in law school and had been dating, but we were none the wiser.

I'm not going to get into all the gory details (and there are some lulus, believe you me!), but eventually she gave him an ultimatum...it was either us or her.

I know there are many of my friends who've had estrangements in their family and I know firsthand how difficult and painful it can be.  My mom and I used to spend hours and hours - seriously, ask Ron - dissecting the events that lead to the separation, trying to analyze what went wrong.  We never figured it out and, over time, realized that we never would.  We haven't talked about it in years.

Tyler has never known Jeff.  Kate has fond childhood memories, but nothing past the age of six.

I've reached out to him numerous times, imploring him to come see my parents, especially in light of my dad's failing health.  I've gotten no response.

He does keep in touch with my parents occasionally.  Father's Day, Mother's Day, birthdays.  It kills me to think that they might not get to see him again before they're gone.  

But me?  Nothing.  Apparently he has "issues" with me.  Now, I could understand if we'd had an ongoing relationship during which I could have given him plenty to find issue with.  But, really?  I don't know what I've done.  And I'm done trying to figure it out.

I once sought the counsel of a pastor when I was having a particularly rough time dealing with this.  I think it was shortly after I learned that Jeff had become a father (a niece I've never met).  This wise man listened to me and said, "Janet, you can only clean up your side of the street.  The other side is his responsibility."

Oh, the freedom those words brought.  I knew I had done everything I could to mend the relationship.  But Jeff hadn't/hasn't reciprocated.  I think it's his loss.  And mine, too.  I miss my brother.

But...after all these years...so many important milestones come and gone without the benefit of familial celebration.  So much life lived.  I'm not sure how it would go.  I'm not sure if I want it to "go."

If any of you reading this live in Jefferson City and see him and want to smack him upside the head, you have my blessing.

And tell him to go see his parents.

water under/over/all around the bridge

Well, I'm kind of hooked on that CNN series "The Seventies."  I was also hooked on Vh1's "I Love the 70's" (and all the other decades they produced).  I credit my shocking success at Trivia Crack to the watching of shows like this....lots of random stuff that really doesn't matter, but continues to clog up my brain to the point where I can't remember where I put my pj's.

Last night's episode on CNN covered the Watergate scandal.  I was barely a teenager when the break-in occurred, and I'm sure it took some time for it to get onto my head-in-the-clouds-dreaming-of-Donny-Osmond radar, but I'll not forget the summer of the Watergate hearings.

I was soon to be a freshman in high school and I'd gotten my first real job.  An 8-5/five day a week babysitting job.  Today they'd call that being a nanny.  Back then it was more like being a prison warden.  I got the princely sum of $20 A WEEK.  I thought I was rich.  I opened a checking account in which to stash my hundreds and settled in for what turned into a very long three months.

I remember three things about that summer.
1.  We had Chef Boyardee canned ravioli every damned day.  It was the only thing in the house the kids would eat.
2.  I tried to teach myself to play "Saturday in the Park" on the piano (my employer was our church choir director and may have also taught piano?)
3.  The Watergate hearings were the only thing on TV.

Remember, we only had about five channels (ABC, CBS, NBC, PBS and some crazy station from St. Louis that showed Bowery Boys movies on Saturdays and Wrestling at the Chase).

It was torture.  I just wanted to watch "Young and the Restless," "As the World Turns," and "Guiding Light."  I wasn't really all that mesmerized by the hearings...but I watched and half listened.  I became familiar with all the key players' names...Erlichman, Haldeman, Dean, Rayborn, Ellsberg, Mitchell.

Last night, I relived those moments.  It was quite, well, scandalous.  I had no idea that John Dean was in his early thirties when all this went down.  And he's kind of the one who broke rank and started talking, even though it was clear that he was a huge part of the snaking obstruction of justice train.

It must have been quite the spectacle as first Agnew resigns, then Nixon's two top aides resign and then there was this crazy snowball of firings of the special prosecutor Cox and the resignations of the Attorney General and the Deputy Attorney General...when I Googled it make sure I got the stats right, it was referred to as the "Saturday Night Massacre."

Less than a year later, Nixon would resign.  I felt myself getting emotional watching his political career tank, because for all his alleged paranoia and proven illicit political maneuverings, I think Nixon was a fairly decent president (don't tell my dad I said that...although he'd probably agree).  At least in the area of foreign affairs.

As he climbed aboard the helicopter that would escort him out of Washington, DC for the last time, he flashed that infamous double "V" sign and smiled from ear to ear.  He had to have been completely devastated.  But there he was, smiling and waving from the window of the helicopter.

My last views on the 70's ( at least for this week)...there was a lot - and I mean A LOT - of bad hair and fashion.  And a political scandal that would not be challenged in its fervor until a young girl in a blue dress started talking.

  

because MY inquiring mind HAS to know

Kate and I were lounging around yesterday afternoon and I asked her a question about the definition of "gender queer."  It seems like there is an unending wave of new terms and classifications about a lot of stuff, so I thought I'd go to a reliable source for some edification.

After trying to explain it to to me, she said, "Just Google it."  So I did.

And I had to laugh.  Because my previous search had been for a biblical reference.  The dichotomy of the two pretty much sums up my world view these days.

So, just for grins, I thought I'd take you through a day of my search engine history.  I think you might find it enjoyable.  Or extremely puzzling.  Scary.  Worthy of institutionalization.

Jeremiah 29:11 - One of Tyler's favorite teachers just found out a few weeks ago that her toddler (named Tyler, after my Tyler) has leukemia.  It's been a whirlwind of hospital stays, prods and pokes, drugs, financial upheaval, etc.  I wanted to share my favorite Bible verse of all time, Jeremiah 29:11, but I always get nervous that I'm going to cite the wrong chapter, so I always look it up.  I should know it by now.  It's part of my email signature.  It's graffiti-ed on the wall behind my desk.  But, still, I check.

Gender Queer - See opening paragraph.  I found out a lot of information, much of it as confusing as the term itself.  I read terms like gender binary and cisnormativity and non-binary...say what?  If you really want to know...it's not strongly identifying with either male nor female.  I likened it to "having your cake and eat it, too" to which I think Kate took exception.  One of the characteristics listed was "being bigender [which I pronounced as 'big ender'!], trigender, or pangender."

So confusing.

Ruby Rose - Following up on the aforementioned, Kate showed me a video of this person, a beautiful blonde, transitioning (pretty much via soap and water and scissors) into a strikingly handsome, heavily tattooed young man.  She's a new character on the new season of Orange is the New Black.  Great series, but you gotta have some room in your brain to process the many facets of life in a female prison.  I don't know how Martha Stewart did it without breaking down just a little.  Maybe she did.  But we'll never know because she's, well, Martha Stewart.

Serial - Every time Kate and I have some time to kill we eventually end up talking about NPR's breakout podcast "Serial."  If you haven't listened to it, it's worth your time.  Synopsis: In 1999, a female high school student was murdered in Baltimore and her former boyfriend was convicted and sentenced to life plus thirty years for the crime.  Despite the fact that there was no forensic evidence linking him to the murder presented during the trial.  Only the testimony of one witness who has changed his story at least seven times.  A new hearing is scheduled to determine whether or not the case will be reopened to allow testimony from a witness who can verify his alibi; she was never contacted by the defense team in the first trial.

TCM - I love my classic movie channel!  I check it several times a week to see what's going to be on.  There's nothing like falling to sleep to a classic like "Mr. Deeds Goes to Town" or "The Thin Man."  They also have these great shorts between the feature films.  Some of them are pretty funny and, oftentimes, very informative.

Dallas, Love American Style and Falcon Crest - Ron and I watched "The Seventies" on CNN last week.  Kate alerted me to the series premier and, since that was the decade where I "came of age" I thought it might be good to watch.  It was!  The first episode was the groundbreaking era of television programming.  Stuff like "All in the Family,"Mary Tyler Moore," "Carol Burnett," "Bob Newhart," "The Waltons," "Little House on the Prairie," "Happy Days," "M*A*S*H," "Saturday Night Live."

The reason I Googled those shows is because they weren't mentioned and I wanted to find out if they really aired in the 60's or 80's; they all ran in the 70's.  I'm not sure why I thought it necessary to find out...except to prove to myself that I was right.

I used to sneak watch "Love American Style"... it was completely racy and all about the sexual revolution and infidelity and other hot stuff. I also sneak watched "Dark Shadows."  It was completely stupid, with horrible acting and even worse sets.  But I loved it anyway.

The series airs on Thursdays, if you're interested.  This weeks' show is all about Nixon.  Not so funny, but certainly a major story of the 70's.

So there you have it.  A glimpse into the diversity/confusion that makes my world go 'round.

glasses in the freezer

Ron, much to my dismay, travels quite a bit for his job.  I end up with waaaay too much time on my hands and really kind of go stir crazy after the first couple of days.  (At this point, I'm sure many of you are thinking, "Well, she is retired, she could be doing something.)  And you would be right.  I'm still in the process of discovering where I'm being drawn (see earlier post).  Until the light has dawned, I'll be here, counting the hours until my beloved returns to me.  (In my defense, I have cleaned out every drawer, cabinet and nook and cranny in our home, which was very cathartic.)

The other day, before this most recent trip, Ron asked me if I felt safe here when he was gone.  Our townhome is pretty much brand new, but the surrounding area is a teeny bit marginal.  I said I felt safe, not to worry.  I was fine.

Until the other day.  It was the day of my boob squish appointment and the day I got caught in the typhoon (funny side note: just as I reached my car, which was parked in the second-to-last spot in the far corner of the lot, I had to turn into the rain.  It was like someone dumped a HUGE bucket of water on my head.  I'm pretty sure I squealed.  I think walking a half block in driving rain should count as my bucket challenge for ALS this year.)

After I got home, I dried off, wrung out my clothes and snuggled into some sweats and a hoodie.  When it was finally time to go to bed (when you're alone, the hours drag on foreverrrrrrr) I went into the closet and reached into the cubby with my pj's and they weren't there.  Hmmm.  That was odd.  We have a couple of shoe cubbies in our closet and I always put my pjs in the same one.  I pulled everything out -twice - and looked.  No luck.

I looked in the laundry basket.  I looked in the cabinet.  I went into the bedroom to see if I had, atypically, peeled them off as soon as I got out of bed.  Still no jammies.

I retraced my steps that morning.  I took a shower, so I would have disrobed in the bathroom.  Such a puzzlement.

It was then that the idea that someone had come into our home when I was at the boob squishers and made off with my pajamas.  Because - and don't tell anyone - I've been known to purposely leave the back door unlocked so I can make a quick entrance in case of heavy rain (See?  Completely necessary that day), or because my hands are generally full and it's a pain to fumble with the keys.  Whatever.  There's a six foot high fence surrounded by trees and a locked garage any intruder would have to master, but still...

I briefly thought about telephoning Ron to tell him I did NOT feel safe because my pajamas were missing so he could NEVER travel again.  Then the real panic set in.

There was an episode, many years ago, on ER where Alan Alda starred as a preeminent physician in the early stages of Alzheimer's.  He was telling a colleague of his that one of the first signs he noticed was that he couldn't find his glasses and he finally found them in the freezer.

What if my bleeping pajamas are in the freezer?  I couldn't even bear to walk the fifty feet to the fridge to find out.

One last search of the cubby.  Sure enough, one slot beneath my usual stashing hole, there they were, shoved way to the back so I couldn't see them.  Usually my tennis shoes are in those two cubbies, but I tend to be a bit of a slob when Ron's gone so they were in the living room.  That's a total lie.  About the slob part.  I find it amazing how clean (or tidy, there IS a difference) our home can be with very little effort.

Perhaps I should become a slob...it would at least give me something to do every day.  Besides freaking out about misplaced jammies.

did i really just hear that?

I continue to be amazed at things I'm hearing over the airwaves.  One of the best sources of really crazy things that actually happen is "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," one of my favorite NPR shows.  I listen to it while I'm walking and more than once I've kind of doubled up laughing at the stupid things people do.

Wait, wait, now that I think of it, passing cars can't know that I'm doubled up in laughter and not in pain...and not once has anyone stopped to ask if I'm in distress.  Where's the humanity?  The Good Samaritan?  Probably texting or blue-toothing.

But, I digress. If you're not familiar with "Wait, Wait" it's a game show format that has three panelists (usually comedians and journalists) and folks can call in and interact with them, answering current event-type questions.  At times, Peter Sagal, the erudite host, asks the panelists questions; correct answers get points and at the end of the show the panelist with the most points wins absolutely nothing.

More often than not, one of the questions has to do with a research project.  Today's research involved sex and rats.  Apparently, male rats are more likely to engage in sexual activity with female rats that are wearing - and I am not making this up - sexy vests.

WHAT?  So many questions spring to mind...

What kind of vest makes a rat look sexy?  Does it have sequins?  Does it have a push up bra with multiple cups for all the rat teats?  Is there a Fredrick's of Sewers that produces and markets these sexy vests?

What are the researchers trying to prove?  That rats are as superficial as humans?  Can you imagine a researcher telling his/her parents - who have probably forked over a lot of dough to fund their education - that sexy vests on rats is their field of study?

Who is funding this research?  No, wait, wait.  I don't want to know.

Finally, who gives a rat's ass (!) if male rats are attracted to female rats in a bustier?  Personally, the less I know about the mating habits of rats the better. I have my own mating habits that require my attention.

Seriously.  There are far more serious situations in the world that need our best scientific minds.

Then there's these Burger King commercials where adult chickens are having a sex talk with their kids about where chicken fries come from.  They have great tag lines...
"Don't forget the condiments" and "Don't ever double dribble."

I realize this makes me look like a 14-year old boy, but they make me laugh.

Finally, there's a series of commercials about Hannah and her Horse and I have no idea what it's hawking because at the end of the commercial the horse stars talking in this very British voice about something completely unrelated to the product, like how it's so much more difficult for him - the horse - to walk because he has four legs and has to mentally think about which leg goes first.  

Some advertising firms are getting paid a lot of money to be quite inane.  I could do that.  And for a lot less money.  And I just happen to have quite a bit of time on my hands.

As you can plainly see.

it's a mad, mad, mad men world

Spoiler Alert...if you haven't seen this season's episodes of "Mad Men" you might want to skip this one.  Or, hurry up and watch it and then read this.  Go ahead.  I'll wait.

The Mad Men series finale has come and gone, but I'm left contemplating the decade that shaped a generation or two.  Growing up in a small town I think I was insulated against the turmoil and angst of the civil rights movement, the controversy of the war in Vietnam and the burgeoning hippie movement.  I think there was one hippie in Marshall and she was actually closer to my mom's age (who was about as far from hippie-hood as you can get).  I say she was a hippie because she had long, straight hair, parted in the middle and wore pants.  She went to our church, so she couldn't have been that odd.

There was so much I loved about Mad Men.  Early on, I loved the scenes of everyday life...like Sally running around with a plastic dry cleaning bag over her head and her mom yelling that she'd be in big trouble, Missy, if the dry cleaning was on the floor.  Or the picnic scene in the park, where Betty reached down to get the plaid blanket and tossed all of the trash on the ground and just left it.  Obviously Lady Bird Johnson had not put the word out to "Keep America Beautiful" just yet.

And all the smoking!  During pregnancy!  America had just been warned that smoking may be harmful to your health and the ad men of Madison Avenue had to scramble like crazy to keep America smoking.  To hell with it being beautiful.  With all that incessant smoking it seems logical that someone would have to succumb to its evils.  But geez.  Did it have to be Birdie?

I loved the set decorations.  Seeing things I had in my home growing up has reignited a passion for all things mid-century.  Princess phones, aprons, casserole dishes, fish sticks.  Soda cans that open with a tab.  I don't have any of those things, but I like remembering about them.

As I watched the seasons unfold, I thought a lot about my mom and the other women of that generation.  They were expected to stay home, raise kids, fix three meals a day (every day), do the laundry, clean the house, grocery shop and pretty much put any ambition they had out the back door.  Forget the back burner.  The back forty was more like it.

Peggy and Joan were beautifully drawn characters.  Peggy, a young, eager secretary, quickly showed her strength and determination when she, a good Catholic girl, got pregnant, hid it from everyone (including herself, really) and made the only decision available to her.  We only occasionally saw the ramifications of her youthful indiscretion, but she made a very poignant speech about the constraints placed upon women pre women's lib.  If men "got girls in trouble" they could walk away, without a second glance.  Women couldn't.  My birth mother couldn't.  You could say Peggy and my birth mother walked away, but after carrying a child for nine months and giving birth, there's going to be a residual scar that doesn't ever completely go away.

Joan...what a woman!  She was every inch female and she knew how to use it.  She slept her way to the top and didn't look back.  Tough as nails and going back in for more.  She had Roger's baby while married to another man, but because she was married, it was okay.  Really?  I guess family values have always been subject to multiple interpretations.

And Betty.  Beautiful, smart, artistic and completely stifled.  While Don's in the city getting busy with too many women to remember, Betty is at home, taking riding lessons and seeing a therapist (who, by the way, calls Don on a regular basis to tell him what's up with his wife...hello HIPAA!)  Betty's not a particularly warm woman, but I can't really blame her.  When she finally gets to do something for herself (besides get her hair done once a week), she goes back to college, but it was just too late.  The beauty queen had become Mrs. Robinson. In the end, though, she dealt with her life on her own terms.  And I think that's the part Sally will remember.  I'd give a million bucks to know how Sally's life unfolded.  Mainly because she's pretty much me.  Except for the boarding school part.  And catching her dad "comforting" the lady two floors down.  

I guess I have to say a word or two about Don.  All of the other guys kind of blur together, with their changing hairlines and sideburns and leisure suits.  But Don.  Or Dick.  What a complex character.  You hated him.  You loved him.  You ached for him (not in that way, for me, anyway).  He was a tortured soul who was constantly trying to keep three steps in front of his past.  Always tense.  Always searching for something to fill the hole in his soul.

And finally he found it.  I instinctively knew that he'd end up at some EST commune after his  Keroaucian odyssey.  In one of the last scenes of the show, he's dressed in "country club casual" chinos and a golf shirt, looking out over the ocean and there's a looseness about his stance that I'd never seen before.

Shortly thereafter we see him meditation, doing his ohms and just a hint of a smile.

And then - as we're led to believe - he goes back to Madison Avenue and writes the most iconic commercial of all time.  Starring some of his new-found enlightened friends.

I liked the ending.  It was just the right amount of closure.  And even though the title says it's all about the men, I think it's the women who grabbed the brass ring.  And they held on for dear life.

So, to all the Mad Women, here's to you...it's the real thing.

sleeping with the enemy

I just chose a salacious title to get people to read this...hahaha.

While at times I may have had a brief notion that he (meaning Ron) might be the enemy on some fronts, sleeping with him is not one of those instances.  However, I can't tell you the last time we slept together (literally, not figuratively...that I could tell you, but I'm not going to).

Why, you ask, have you not enjoyed the comfort of that very expensive mattress you purchased just a few years ago?  Well, let me count the ways...

There's a cpap involved.  Designed to bring restorative, even sleep to the user, I think more research should be done to take into account the affect of the machine on any bedmates.  It's wheezy, it's loud and it's downright annoying.  Ron's tried countless different masks and mouthpieces, but unless he's in the exact perfect position, the hose gets kinked or it slips off his face and within seconds he's sawing logs with an un-oiled chainsaw.  I cannot handle the snoring. It's like fingernails on a chalkboard times a million.  Makes me wriggle in creepiness just thinking about it.

And once I wake up, I can't go back to sleep.

And I really like to sleep.

Then there's the succession of knee issues that have plagued us both.  I had my meniscus repaired last May, my knee replaced this February.  Ron had knee surgery last month.  So...we've been occupying different beds for over a year.

And I kind of miss it.

Left to our own devices, we now have certain idiosyncrasies with our evening ritual.  Ron, piles all the pillows in the middle of the queen sized bed and sprawls out.  He's in bed by 9 every night since he gets up around 4 or 4:30.  If he wakes up early he watches Family Feud with Steve Harvey.

That's minor compared to what I do.  I used to read on my iPad when we were still sleeping in one bed, so I got into the habit of pulling the covers up over my head so the light wouldn't bother Ron...I also did it because in the winter I was cold.  Now, it's a signal to my body to start winding and shutting down.  I feel like I'm a vampire retreating to its coffin.

I also have a snack of rice cakes and a piece of chocolate while I play Trivia Crack, do a NYTimes Crossword, play spider solitaire and do one last Face Book perusal. Oh, and I put on ice on my knee for a half hour.  The whole thing is about an hour long process.  I then take my first round of sleepers and usually sleep until around 3:00.  At that early hour, I do my daily Elevate brain game, play some more solitaire and take my second round of sleepers.  I have to be very careful not to wake up my brain too much or even the sleepers won't help.

I am a creature of habit.  It take comfort in the routine-ness of it all.

However, we've been talking for quite a while about getting twin beds a la Lucy and Ricky/Laura and Rob.  I told Ron the other day that before we make that investment we really ought to see if we can actually sleep together again...a thought that creates not an insignificant amount of anxiety on my part.

So, tonight's the inaugural run.  I'll let you know how it goes.  Pray that the cpap and I can both be quiet as a mouse...

I'm betting I'll make half the night...but it's a start, right?

on being drawn

You might have seen my Face Book post about the film premiere our family attended on Friday.  It was created by a person I affectionately call "The Most Interesting Man in the World" (ala those Dos Equis commercials).  Jeremy Collins is, first and foremost, a husband and father.  But before all that (and to this day) he is an incredible artist, adventurist, mountain climber, humanitarian and all-around nice guy.

Over the years I've traveled vicariously through him as he transverses the world, climbing to heights that make my blood run cold and my stomach do flip-flops.

We were handed a passport-like booklet as we entered the theatre.  It featured artwork by Jeremy and the phrase "Go to where you are drawn." Compelling words.

Jeremy's film spans eight years as he travels north, south, east and west in a quest to honor a fallen comrade's memory and legacy.  In between summits we see Jeremy at home with his wife and two kids...an ordinary life with extraordinary perspective.  It's, at the very least, thought provoking.  It's also poignant, funny and scary as hell.  A thrilling ride, without the high priced admission fee to a theme park.

Along with the film, Jeremy wrote and drew "Drawn: The Art of the Ascent."  More glorious artwork, storytelling and glimpses into his never-ending quest for adventure and living life to the fullest.

How long has it been since I'VE done something that makes my stomach do flip-flops?  Ten years, twenty  years...ever?

It's been haunting me these past few days.

I've had plenty of time to consider what my next chapter might look like as I recover from my knee surgery.  I've had plenty of people ask me what's in my future.

I have no idea.

But I'll keep you posted.

Here are links to the trailer of the film and the opening title sequence...spend a few minutes on the summit before you come back down.

https://vimeo.com/100062478#embed
https://vimeo.com/110102970

understanding the why

It seems just like yesterday that I got a phone call from a friend who told me that our dear friends Tom and Leah's, baby boy Zeke - just over a week old - had died.  He's been born with an undiagnosed cardiac problem.  He got a fever, was fussy and was just - gone.  I couldn't comprehend what I was hearing.  I'd seen newborn pictures of a chubby, red-cheeked baby just days before.  And he was gone.

And then, just about eight months later I got another call from the same friend.  Tom and Leah's son, Wyatt, just four and a half, had died in a tragic accident.  This could not be happening.  Not again.  Not to Tom and Leah.  But it did.

For months and months, I asked God "Why?"  I couldn't fathom His ways.  I couldn't understand why such hard, painful things had happened to two of the most faithful, wonderful people I'd ever been blessed to meet.  And it happened twice.  Why? Why? Why?  I couldn't make it through a Sunday worship without dissolving into tears.  And if I was having a hard time, how were Tom and Leah coping?

I knew they had a very close knit group of family and church friends, so I purposefully stayed away, thinking that perhaps it would be too hard to have to restart the grieving process with anyone outside that tight group.  And I wasn't sure I could be strong enough to be of any support.

Finally, after a year or so, I reached out to Leah.  I think for my own healing I had to see her.  To see Tom.  To see Cassidy, their daughter.  When Leah came over, I steeled myself, willing myself not to cry.  But I did.  And I apologized.  Leah said, "It's okay to cry."

Somewhere in all this confusion and constantly why asking, I came to realize that me trying to understand the why of every difficult situation is fruitless.  To know why would be to know God's ways, and His ways are unknowable.  I already knew that, to some extent.  But I didn't understand it.  More importantly, I didn't accept it.  Most humans are not wired to just kind of go with the flow.  We want answers.

And it's the hardest questions that have no answers.

Earlier this week, Kate was wrestling with the "why" of an issue.  I told her that life's most challenging whys are almost always answered in hindsight. It's when the other door is opened that the "aha" moment appears.

It may be the only time I've ever said anything that made sense to her.

Or maybe not.

Joyous Postscript:  Two years ago, Tom and Leah welcomed Emmy Lou to their family...and in September, another Baby Boy Blake will arrive...

"I will restore the years the locusts have eaten...God is ready to succor his people; and he waits to be gracious." - Joel 2:25

what i've learned as a mom

{crickets chirping}

Apparently not nearly enough.

OK...if I think long and hard about it I can think of maybe a few things.

That thing about nothing being able to prepare you for being a parent? Totally true.  Oh, you can read books and practice your diapering technique and Lamaze breathing, but until you've walked the floor with a one-week old baby in the wee hours of the morning, you really can't claim to know what it's like.  My mom, bless her heart, made us a big ole pot of chili the day she left to go back to St. Louis when Kate was a week old.  It was good chili.  Lots of beans. Lots.

Kate didn't like the beans so much.  Constant wailing.  Nothing could calm her.  I walked.  Ron walked.  I watched Ron walk some more.  Finally...a baby-sized toot and all was right with the world.  Lesson learned?  If you're nursing and the food you eat makes YOU fart, it will have the same reaction in your baby.

I've also learned that the little ones are pretty darn resilient.  I didn't drop either one of mine on their heads or anything, but I learned early on not to sweat the minor bumps and bruises that are unavoidable when toddlers become mobile.  Because if I went to pieces, they were going to follow suit and it wouldn't be pretty.  Both kids managed to bite through their tongues or lower lips at one point during their childhood and there was plenty of blood making an appearance, but soon enough it (and the tears) stopped.  I sound like a hard-hearted old hag, don't I?  I'm really quite compassionate.  When the occasion calls for it.

One of the harder lessons I've learned - and by harder I mean that it made me address some fairly ominous character flaws - is that it's ALWAYS best to count to ten (or higher) before opening your mouth when reprimanding a child.  I am the Queen Mother of knee jerk reactions and, therefore, I have said things that should have been kept in the snarky vault for eternity.  On the flip side, I've realized that a sincere apology, followed by a discussion of why I can say those kinds of words and they can't, always helps.

The one thing NO ONE tells you - because if they did you'd send your kids to a boarding school until they're fifty - is that parenting grown children is way harder than even a 13-year old girl.  Holy schmoly.  When your kids are little, their problems are little and can be easily fixed.  The older they get, the more complicated and convoluted the problems become and the harder they are to fix.

But.  Aha.  Therein lies the rub.  The role of the parent is not to be a perennial problem solver.  It's part of the circle of life to let your kids make mistakes and - God willing - learn from them.  AND NEVER REPEAT THEM AGAIN.  But I'd wager a month's supply of Metamucil that any parent of a grown child reading this has agonized - either in silence or in a full blown blow-out (that would be me) - watching their child walk out on a tightrope without a net in some life situation.  It's in our nature.  We can't help ourselves.  Once a parent, always a parent.  We worry.  I'm sure my mom still worries about me.  She probably worries about me worrying about my kids.

So...all you young parents who think being a parent gets easier, I'm here to tell you the truth.  It doesn't.  But that doesn't make it any less gratifying.  It only extends your contract and keeps the distillers of fine whiskey and vintners in business.  And it makes your hair gray.  Or fall out.  Or both.

I've still got some learnin' to do.  Hopefully Kate and Tyler will hang in there with me until I get it right.

touchstones

We all have them...people in our lives who leave indelible marks and help define our character or guide our life journey.  Most times, it's those people we see on a daily basis or who have been around us for a good number of years.  Parents, siblings, grandparents, mentors...

In my life I've been blessed to have dozens of people who have served as touchstones.  My parents, friends, family, pastors, school chums.

But then there's a guy like Gus.  Augustus Swain.  When we lived in Jefferson City he was a young man in his early twenties, taking classes at Lincoln University for his Master's degree.  He was from Little Rock, alone in Jeff City, no family or friends.  I think my mom met him when she was working at LU for a time.  Anyway, he started showing up at our house for meals and hanging out and essentially became part of our family.

He came to my wedding in 1981.  He had long since moved back to Little Rock and worked for the University, but still made semi-regular trips to see my parents.  By "semi-regular" I mean he'd call and say he was coming to visit and a year later show up, always bearing gifts for us.  It became a running joke.
Mom:  Gus called today.
Me: How is he?
Mom:  He's coming to visit!

Gus came to Tyler's high school graduation AND his college graduation.  I get a card every Mother's Day (as does my mom).  He just turned seventy so he's been a part of our lives for almost fifty years.

The thing is...he only lived in Jefferson City for a year.  And I only found out that detail a few years ago.  I assumed he'd lived there the whole time we did (12 years)!

Talk about leaving an indelible mark.

Mike McCulley is another touchstone for me.  Fifteen years ago (or thereabouts), I worked as a nurse assistant at Kanakuk Kamp, a Christian athletic camp near Branson.  I basically made fifty gallon barrels of Gatorade all day for the counselors.  Mike, and his wife, Darlene, were the nurses who did all the heavy lifting, tracking and dispensing hundreds of meds to campers all day long, and tending to the usual scrapes and bumps that come along when kids and nature collide.

The Left Behind book series had just come out and I'd brought the first edition along to read during my down time.  Mike quickly began stealing my book for his break time and would then gleefully alert me to spoilers (which he clearly made up) before I could read them.  They were both wonderfully genuine people and even though I only spent a mere seven days with them, they touched my life in an almost undefinable way.  They're just good people.  Over the next few years I saw them briefly each year when I'd drop off or pick up the kids for camp and we'd laugh again about him being a book thief.

Then Mike was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and it was pretty advanced.  A mutual friend of ours kept me up to date on his progress and he managed to beat the odds for a few years.  One year, during our annual trip to Colorado, the kids and I sat on a rocky crag overlooking Copeland Falls and prayed for Mike, for Darlene, for their kids.  We prayed for healing, for peace, for comfort.  We've been to Colorado many, many times, but that memory is the most vivid one for me. The day the email arrived to let me know of his passing was a hard day.  The following Sunday, on my way home from church, "I Can Only Imagine" came on the air.  It had just recently been released and as I drove home, tears streaming down my face, I realized that Mike didn't have to imagine...he was already there.

I love that God puts people in our lives - even if only for a brief time - who impart an intangible powerful feeling of...I don't even know what to call it.  Continuity?  Purpose?  Expanding our connection with Creation?

Whatever it is...I'm grateful.  So, so grateful.

sharing the story

Thanks for all the loving, sensitive comments about our family's journey.  If you know of anyone in your family or circle of friends who might benefit from our story, please feel free to share.

And if you're wondering what the odds of having multiple gay children in one family - because I sure was - it's no different than having one blue-eyed child and one brown-eyed child.

If you have any questions, I'm happy to share my thought...private message me on FB.

And...finally, my parents - bless their hearts - they are also very supporting...blessings all around.

out...part two

In the days and weeks following Tyler's coming out to us, I had lots to think about.  Why shouldn't my children have something to love, someone to build a life with?  Why shouldn't my children know the joys (and trials!) of parenting?

Both Kate and Tyler are highly creative, caring and sensitive people.  Why should their sexual orientation preclude them from enjoying basic human rights?

The thing that haunted me most was how Tyler had professed that he had praying for all those years for God to change him and He hadn't.  One day, it just kind of hit me:

He didn't change Tyler because Tyler didn't need to be changed.

God loves Tyler...and Kate and every person - gay or straight.

It felt like a weight had been lifted from me. I finally had some understanding.  It made sense to me.

I'd like to say that the burden was also lifted from Tyler and Kate.  Both are still navigating their feelings about faith.  It's a daily struggle; there's so much anger and hate being disseminated on a daily basis that denigrates their existence.

The issue of gay marriage has always been a very divisive issue and it continues to garner a huge segment of what the media feels we need to be up in arms about.  I just don't get it.  Who is to say that a heterosexual couple has more right be married than a gay couple?  Are the heterosexuals better equipped to love each other?  To raise children in a stable, loving environment?  There are too many divorces, bitter custody battles and single parent households to substantiate either of those claims.

Several years ago, Kate's partner, Morghan, had an out-patient procedure performed.  Kate was not allowed to be with her beforehand (or after) because she wasn't considered "family."  Even though it was a minor procedure, it was still upsetting to Kate and Morghan that they couldn't be be together.

I've learned a lot about myself and the attitudes of others towards my children.  That time of intense Bible study once confounded me as I grappled to get my heart and head aligned.  But the God I learned to love during that time of spiritual growth is a benevolent God.  One who loves, One who creates and One who is merciful.

My job is not to judge my children (or anyone else).  My job is to love them and pray that they are allowed to find peace, justice, fulfillment and love.  The same prayer every parent has for their kids.

If I'd had the ability to choose homosexuality for my kids, would I?  No.  But that's not mine to "choose."

They are the gifts God gave me.

I will confess that when one's focus or point of view shifts this dramatically, other things/people are affected.  Ron and I may never have sons- or daughters-in-law to bring into our family or grandchildren to spoil (my heart twinges - mostly in good ways - when I see all my friends and their grandchildren...what a blessing!).  I pray that one day those things will happen, but right now I live in the reality that they might not.  And I can't say I'm okay with that.

I'm reminded of a line from "To Kill a Mockingbird."  Atticus was admonishing Scout not to pass judgment on people..."You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it."

I've not walked around in the skin of my children...but they are my skin.

Post Script:  The last decade or so has been a huge period of growth for our family.  Some of it painful, but most of it highly enriched and eye-opening.  We are closer now than ever and have settled into a healthy, honest and often times very humorous existence.  Believe me...you wouldn't believe some of the things we've talked about...