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.