I called our US pediatrician on Thursday afternoon. They told me the following: we don't worry about a fever in an infant unless (a) it goes over 105 degrees F and/or (b) it lasts for over 24 hours and is not accompanied with other symptoms. If it goes over 105, go to emergency; if it lasts over 24 hours without breaking at all and there are no other symptoms, go see a doctor.
The fever started Wednesday night. After taking tylenol and ibuprofen nonstop, Stella still had not broken a fever under 103 by Saturday morning. We decided to take the baby to see a pediatrician at a local private hospital through their emergency services. After seeing that doctor, there were blood and urine tests ordered, an adjustment of dosing of medicine due to her weight, and a conclusion that she was fighting some infection, most likely roseola or a South American strain of rotavirus. Within 12 hours, she broke her fever and now she is mostly herself again.
Here's the part that made me unexpectedly reflective and calm.
Remember, exactly three years ago our family was in the same city and I was pregnant. Or not. Well, that I was miscarrying was confirmed during our visit. The visit was a whirlwind of doctor visits, exams, international phone calls to my ob/gyn, and a tragic loss of the pregnancy, and me feeling like I had left a dead child behind when we returned to the US. In the end, our little family had a common experience that brought us together; it gave us a way to understand each other differently...and better.
Yesterday as we were driving to the private hospital, I remembered that this was exactly the same place my husband and I went to when a doctor showed us clearly on a sonogram image that I was hemorrhaging. Before my husband could the bill, I quickly walked out of the office and spontaneously burst into tears in the hallway.
Yesterday, after our visit with the pediatrician, we went to the public hospital to have lab work done. I knew this hospital. It is where my sister-in-law works as a nurse. As we parked and walked in, my mind was flooded with the memories of the images of being there three years ago. I had an exam with a doctor who wanted to do a D&C immediately. I was numb. I came to Brazil with good news of a coming child and the three short weeks later, I was facing a surgical procedure due to a spontaneous abortion. Again, I left holding my husband's hand, filled with sadness.
And yet...
Where was Grace during all this?
At home, with her aunts and cousins, mostly being sheltered from the impending bad news. I don't have any idea what it would be like to be her in that situation. I would be remiss to not say that Grace is remarkably mature and flexible in unusual situations. Once she understands what is going on, she often surprises me in her ability to adjust and cope with difficulty. When she finally did find out what had happened that summer three years ago, she responded with sensitivity and empathy. And with her own way of coping with things.
Yesterday as we were all in the car driving to the hospital, when my husband and I were discussing whether or not this was the hospital we had visited when I was miscarrying, Grace was in the back seat talking with Stella in her car seat. I overheard her saying something like, we were all here this summer but it wasn't time yet for you to be born. We had to wait for you. And now you're here.
My heart melted with love. For both of my daughters. Instead of continuing my downward spiral of worry about how much more could go bad with Stella, I became grateful that I had her. And that I had Grace. And that we were all there. And that no one was dying. Because that's what happened the last time we were all there together.
Showing posts with label sisters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sisters. Show all posts
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Friday, November 13, 2009
New Blogger
Hi....Okayyyy...this is kinda weird. Not that my mom has a blog written all about me and her, but that all of you readers know who I am but I don't know you. If you haven't guessed yet...(drum roll please)...I'm the one, the only, Grace!!! My mom calls me Grace on the blog, but people really call me GRACIE.
I told my mom the posts I like and the ones I didn't read:
Gracie: Mom, I read your blog.
Mom: Really? How much did you read?
Gracie: All of it.
Mom: Oh, wow. How long that take you?
Gracie: Not that long. It was really easy.
Mom: Did you read the comments too?
Gracie: Only some. I didn't read those "Daily...
Mom: "Weekly...
Gracie: Whatever. "WEEKLY Slug." I thought it looked boring.
Mom: Really. It's not.
Gracie: Yeah, but I already know the whole story and I live with Stella now.
Mom: Gracie, it's not just about that. It was how I was feeling too.
Gracie: Oh, well it looked to educational. I mean with the pictures and all.
I had to tell my mom my terms, though, if I were to write on the blog.
1) My wording is NOT edited. Only my spelling, etc. is edited.
2) My posts will be in my own font and color.
My mom is also like, "Gracie, you need to sound more mature when you post. You're audience is now adults." I don't know how to write to adults. This could be a problem.
My mom hasn't even posted yet that she told me! I guess she wanted me to post in my own time.
Some of my favorite posts:
And yet another cake fiasco
The Children's Day Caramel Cake; I actually LOVED this cake. Yes, it was really ugly, but it was soooooo good.
Being A Baby is Hard to Do
I told my mom that the last two photos make her look like a old man.
Handling the Boys
When I was writing that long made up story about why I couldn't meet him, I kept thinking in my head "I'm writing a frickin' novel!"
Handling the Boys Part II
I KNEW WHAT I WAS DOING!!! Plus, what was mom doing looking in my message box in the first place?!?!?!?!?
I told my mom the posts I like and the ones I didn't read:
Gracie: Mom, I read your blog.
Mom: Really? How much did you read?
Gracie: All of it.
Mom: Oh, wow. How long that take you?
Gracie: Not that long. It was really easy.
Mom: Did you read the comments too?
Gracie: Only some. I didn't read those "Daily...
Mom: "Weekly...
Gracie: Whatever. "WEEKLY Slug." I thought it looked boring.
Mom: Really. It's not.
Gracie: Yeah, but I already know the whole story and I live with Stella now.
Mom: Gracie, it's not just about that. It was how I was feeling too.
Gracie: Oh, well it looked to educational. I mean with the pictures and all.
I had to tell my mom my terms, though, if I were to write on the blog.
1) My wording is NOT edited. Only my spelling, etc. is edited.
2) My posts will be in my own font and color.
My mom is also like, "Gracie, you need to sound more mature when you post. You're audience is now adults." I don't know how to write to adults. This could be a problem.
My mom hasn't even posted yet that she told me! I guess she wanted me to post in my own time.
Some of my favorite posts:
And yet another cake fiasco
The Children's Day Caramel Cake; I actually LOVED this cake. Yes, it was really ugly, but it was soooooo good.
Being A Baby is Hard to Do
I told my mom that the last two photos make her look like a old man.
Handling the Boys
When I was writing that long made up story about why I couldn't meet him, I kept thinking in my head "I'm writing a frickin' novel!"
Handling the Boys Part II
I KNEW WHAT I WAS DOING!!! Plus, what was mom doing looking in my message box in the first place?!?!?!?!?
Friday, September 4, 2009
What Not To Wear
A few weeks ago while my mother was still visiting us, we made good use of her time by asking her to run errands around town and buy things we needed. One of those errands was one she enjoys very much: buying Grace new clothing for the school year.
Grace likes this activity with her grandmother very much more than she likes doing it with me. See, my purse strings are a bit tighter than grandma's and my willingness to allow certain items enter into Grace's wardrobe is far more conservative. But alas, this year there was no contest. I was home in bed with a newborn, and grandma, and with her money bags, was ready and willing and eager to go to the mall.
And so off to the mall they went, the two of them, to spend copious amounts of time, energy, and most importantly, money, at some of Grace's favorite stores. High on the list was H&M. I can't stand going to this store with Grace. Sure, it is filled with tons of clothing for less than what other lines would charge (like Abercrombie & Fitch, Urban Outfitters, American Apparel, American Eagle, Hot Topic, and Forever 21). But there is still one problem with H&M. Grace has the impression that anything that is for sale at that store must be (1) fashionable, (2) useful, and (3) worth the money they are charging for it.
I would like to interject at this point that my mother is not the same woman I grew up with. She did not take me or my sisters out and spend money like this. We wore uniforms to school and thus the only other clothing we needed were church clothing for Sunday and shorts and t-shirts for doing chores. I cannot remember my mother ever taking me to the mall and buying me more than 4 items in one trip. Period.
Back to my mother's and Grace's shopping trip. I am sitting at home with Stella when the phone rings. It is my mother calling on her cell phone from H&M. Grace is in the fitting room. Mom is calling to ask about one item she is trying on. See, even though my mother is generous with Grace, she still strives to not buy anything that is out of line by my clothing rules for Grace. So she was calling to make sure that the miniskirt Grace was trying on wouldn't cause any problems.
After talking to my mother a few minutes, I asked to talk to Grace on the phone. She happily got on the phone and told me that the miniskirt was three inches below her fingertips and thus wouldn't cause any problems at school. I asked her to describe the skirt. It was a form-fitting knit miniskirt with a black and purple leopard skin print.
[pause. I breathed deeply here so as not to tick the teenager off.]
I said to her, 'I would prefer that you not spend money on that because it wouldn't really be appropriate for school.' She accepted that and we ended the phone call.
Come to think of it, I'm not sure what a piece of apparel like that would be useful for. A job interview? A night out on the town? What do you pair with this skirt, a black tank top and high heels?
But I didn't tell her all that. I just told her it wouldn't be worth buying because she wouldn't be able to get much wear out of it.
I would like to interject at this point as well, that this is also a piece of evidence that my mother is not the woman I grew up with. My mother would have never dreamed of allowing me to even consider clothing that was risque or questionable. If I tried on clothing that she didn't approve of, I got a very unhappy mother in the fitting room. And there was a lot that she didn't approve of. Like form-fitting knit miniskirts with black and purple leopard skin print.
Grace and my mother came home two hours and $350 later with an enormous amount of new clothing. She put on a fashion show for me and the final verdict was that she had done good. One dress would need to be exchanged for a different style and she was required to let me borrow the uber-cool, hip length, black trench coat she got, the one that she picked out to wear with the black riding hat. Yes, a black riding hat. Like the ones Princess Anne wears when she rides her horses.
My sister is coming in town today for Labor Day weekend. She told me a few days ago that she would like to treat Grace to an afternoon out at Starbucks and then clothing shopping at Plato's Closet. I told my sister the story of Grace's recent trip to the mall with our mother. My sister suggested that before she goes shopping with Grace, the two of them should "shop Grace's closet." In other words, make heads or tails of what she's got already, since it is likely she needs nothing new. Really. Because even though I know nothing of fashion trends and what's hot this summer, Bossy keeps up with this stuff and posted a very informative primer for this year's fall must-haves. And Grace has got all that stuff. Tons of long necklaces? Check. leggings? Check, check and check in three neutral colors. Knee high boots with flat soles? Check. Boyfriend jacket? Check (and mother is educated to know that the aforementioned black trench coat is actually a boyfriend jacket). Sequined skirt, jeans with baroque backsides, tailored plaid tops, and items with ruffles? Check, check, check and, check. Oh yeah, she's stocked.
Grace has a unique sense of style. She does her own thing. For a 15-year-old girl, she does pretty well. But when I see some of the outfits she puts together, I am reminded about how much teenagers don't see the whole picture. There are some outfits you never put together unless you're sending a not-too-nice message.
Like last Sunday she was going to an outdoor cookout/sleepover up the street with a bunch of her girlfriends. She wore a pair of short running shorts along with two tank tops and her Adidas deck sandals. Easy enough. But then she puts on a pearl bracelet, faux diamond stud earrings, makeup designed for the Oscars and a headband covered with white satin with a big white satin bow on the side. It was bizarre. I tried to explain to her that when she puts so much effort into looking good that it's unclear what message she's trying to send by wearing so little clothing. I mean, if she hadn't put so much work on the accessorizing, she would have just looked laid back and casual. But instead she looked like she was trying to show off something. There was a side issue as well that the temperatures were dropping into the 40s that night and I couldn't figure out why she was wearing so little clothing. But by objecting to her choices in fashion, it was like I had committed the unpardonable sin. She was completely upset and argued the whole time.
I've been at this thing of trying to teach my daughter what is and what is not ok to put together in an outfit for years now. I feel like I'm making very little headway. I keep asking myself, how does a mother teach her daughter to refrain from wearing outfits that are never in fashion? How does a mother, in a caring way, tell her daughter that the way she has put herself together makes her worth less than she really is? I really wish I could get to the bottom of this issue and figure out the best way to communicate this message to her.
Grace likes this activity with her grandmother very much more than she likes doing it with me. See, my purse strings are a bit tighter than grandma's and my willingness to allow certain items enter into Grace's wardrobe is far more conservative. But alas, this year there was no contest. I was home in bed with a newborn, and grandma, and with her money bags, was ready and willing and eager to go to the mall.
And so off to the mall they went, the two of them, to spend copious amounts of time, energy, and most importantly, money, at some of Grace's favorite stores. High on the list was H&M. I can't stand going to this store with Grace. Sure, it is filled with tons of clothing for less than what other lines would charge (like Abercrombie & Fitch, Urban Outfitters, American Apparel, American Eagle, Hot Topic, and Forever 21). But there is still one problem with H&M. Grace has the impression that anything that is for sale at that store must be (1) fashionable, (2) useful, and (3) worth the money they are charging for it.
I would like to interject at this point that my mother is not the same woman I grew up with. She did not take me or my sisters out and spend money like this. We wore uniforms to school and thus the only other clothing we needed were church clothing for Sunday and shorts and t-shirts for doing chores. I cannot remember my mother ever taking me to the mall and buying me more than 4 items in one trip. Period.
Back to my mother's and Grace's shopping trip. I am sitting at home with Stella when the phone rings. It is my mother calling on her cell phone from H&M. Grace is in the fitting room. Mom is calling to ask about one item she is trying on. See, even though my mother is generous with Grace, she still strives to not buy anything that is out of line by my clothing rules for Grace. So she was calling to make sure that the miniskirt Grace was trying on wouldn't cause any problems.
After talking to my mother a few minutes, I asked to talk to Grace on the phone. She happily got on the phone and told me that the miniskirt was three inches below her fingertips and thus wouldn't cause any problems at school. I asked her to describe the skirt. It was a form-fitting knit miniskirt with a black and purple leopard skin print.
[pause. I breathed deeply here so as not to tick the teenager off.]
I said to her, 'I would prefer that you not spend money on that because it wouldn't really be appropriate for school.' She accepted that and we ended the phone call.
Come to think of it, I'm not sure what a piece of apparel like that would be useful for. A job interview? A night out on the town? What do you pair with this skirt, a black tank top and high heels?
But I didn't tell her all that. I just told her it wouldn't be worth buying because she wouldn't be able to get much wear out of it.
I would like to interject at this point as well, that this is also a piece of evidence that my mother is not the woman I grew up with. My mother would have never dreamed of allowing me to even consider clothing that was risque or questionable. If I tried on clothing that she didn't approve of, I got a very unhappy mother in the fitting room. And there was a lot that she didn't approve of. Like form-fitting knit miniskirts with black and purple leopard skin print.
Grace and my mother came home two hours and $350 later with an enormous amount of new clothing. She put on a fashion show for me and the final verdict was that she had done good. One dress would need to be exchanged for a different style and she was required to let me borrow the uber-cool, hip length, black trench coat she got, the one that she picked out to wear with the black riding hat. Yes, a black riding hat. Like the ones Princess Anne wears when she rides her horses.
My sister is coming in town today for Labor Day weekend. She told me a few days ago that she would like to treat Grace to an afternoon out at Starbucks and then clothing shopping at Plato's Closet. I told my sister the story of Grace's recent trip to the mall with our mother. My sister suggested that before she goes shopping with Grace, the two of them should "shop Grace's closet." In other words, make heads or tails of what she's got already, since it is likely she needs nothing new. Really. Because even though I know nothing of fashion trends and what's hot this summer, Bossy keeps up with this stuff and posted a very informative primer for this year's fall must-haves. And Grace has got all that stuff. Tons of long necklaces? Check. leggings? Check, check and check in three neutral colors. Knee high boots with flat soles? Check. Boyfriend jacket? Check (and mother is educated to know that the aforementioned black trench coat is actually a boyfriend jacket). Sequined skirt, jeans with baroque backsides, tailored plaid tops, and items with ruffles? Check, check, check and, check. Oh yeah, she's stocked.
Grace has a unique sense of style. She does her own thing. For a 15-year-old girl, she does pretty well. But when I see some of the outfits she puts together, I am reminded about how much teenagers don't see the whole picture. There are some outfits you never put together unless you're sending a not-too-nice message.
Like last Sunday she was going to an outdoor cookout/sleepover up the street with a bunch of her girlfriends. She wore a pair of short running shorts along with two tank tops and her Adidas deck sandals. Easy enough. But then she puts on a pearl bracelet, faux diamond stud earrings, makeup designed for the Oscars and a headband covered with white satin with a big white satin bow on the side. It was bizarre. I tried to explain to her that when she puts so much effort into looking good that it's unclear what message she's trying to send by wearing so little clothing. I mean, if she hadn't put so much work on the accessorizing, she would have just looked laid back and casual. But instead she looked like she was trying to show off something. There was a side issue as well that the temperatures were dropping into the 40s that night and I couldn't figure out why she was wearing so little clothing. But by objecting to her choices in fashion, it was like I had committed the unpardonable sin. She was completely upset and argued the whole time.
I've been at this thing of trying to teach my daughter what is and what is not ok to put together in an outfit for years now. I feel like I'm making very little headway. I keep asking myself, how does a mother teach her daughter to refrain from wearing outfits that are never in fashion? How does a mother, in a caring way, tell her daughter that the way she has put herself together makes her worth less than she really is? I really wish I could get to the bottom of this issue and figure out the best way to communicate this message to her.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
How to score a new wardrobe - don't tell Grace
Stella gets to change her clothing every few hours without fail. This is a big no-no for Grace. Why the inequality? Well, Stella has this habit of peeing and pooping all over herself. I really hope that Grace won't go to such drastic measures to score more wardrobe changes during the day.
Grace left for camp today with her high school orchestra. She was cranky when she came into my bedroom to tell me goodbye at 7a. I barely got a hug or a kiss. I'm not sure what was vexing her. I mean, I could take guesses, but I'll hold off on that. She said to me yesterday that she really wished she could take Stella with her to camp. She wasn't serious, but we both told each other that it would be a long week away. I told her it would feel weird for us to have our family together and for her to be gone. She said it would be strange to be away from Stella for so long.
During the same conversation together, she and I and Stella spent time alone. Grace wanted to hold Stella so much, and I was trying to find times when Stella was fed and would take to just being held and played with. We got three chances yesterday. Up until yesterday, Grace's priming on babies has been pretty typical of most people which is to hold babies like big bags of flour and if they fuss, they must need to eat or have a diaper changed. I'm a little different in my approach to babies. Babies are people and when you hold them or care for them, you should treat them like people. So Stella spends a lot of time just laying next to someone and being spoken to or getting to relax on her own terms. So far she's been a pretty good baby, not full of angst without a source, so it helps us be able to let her relax and be close to us. Yesterday when Grace first took Stella, she knew only how to hold her like a bag of flour. She wasn't taking any advice that she could hold her differently and insisted this was the only way. Stella was pitching a fit, crying and yowling. After realizing this wasn't working, Grace insisted that Stella needed to eat and was handing her back to me. I finally told her just to sit down and I would show her what would work better. After an hour passed, she was much more comfortable with Stella and Stella had calmed down completely.
I'm beginning to get the handle of this whole thing, I think. I miss my older girl, even though she's only been gone mere hours.
Grace left for camp today with her high school orchestra. She was cranky when she came into my bedroom to tell me goodbye at 7a. I barely got a hug or a kiss. I'm not sure what was vexing her. I mean, I could take guesses, but I'll hold off on that. She said to me yesterday that she really wished she could take Stella with her to camp. She wasn't serious, but we both told each other that it would be a long week away. I told her it would feel weird for us to have our family together and for her to be gone. She said it would be strange to be away from Stella for so long.
During the same conversation together, she and I and Stella spent time alone. Grace wanted to hold Stella so much, and I was trying to find times when Stella was fed and would take to just being held and played with. We got three chances yesterday. Up until yesterday, Grace's priming on babies has been pretty typical of most people which is to hold babies like big bags of flour and if they fuss, they must need to eat or have a diaper changed. I'm a little different in my approach to babies. Babies are people and when you hold them or care for them, you should treat them like people. So Stella spends a lot of time just laying next to someone and being spoken to or getting to relax on her own terms. So far she's been a pretty good baby, not full of angst without a source, so it helps us be able to let her relax and be close to us. Yesterday when Grace first took Stella, she knew only how to hold her like a bag of flour. She wasn't taking any advice that she could hold her differently and insisted this was the only way. Stella was pitching a fit, crying and yowling. After realizing this wasn't working, Grace insisted that Stella needed to eat and was handing her back to me. I finally told her just to sit down and I would show her what would work better. After an hour passed, she was much more comfortable with Stella and Stella had calmed down completely.
I'm beginning to get the handle of this whole thing, I think. I miss my older girl, even though she's only been gone mere hours.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Weekly Slug: 28 weeks and I'm impatient
My swimsuit is not here. It is coming UPS. GROUND. Why on earth did I decide to do that? It started its journey somewhere on the west coast and last Monday evening (the 8th) it was in San Francisco. UPS updated their tracking today and it says that as of 1:05a Saturday morning it was in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Now I don't mean to be rude, but doesn't that seem a little slow? I mean, San Fran to Cheyenne in 5 days? At this rate, the Slug will be born before I get my swimsuit.
I WANT MY SWIMSUIT!!!!!! The daring one, that is.
What's in Cheyenne besides a UPS tracking station? I've only been to Wyoming once, and that was when I was 3 or 4. I don't remember what cities I went to. I know we went to the Grand Tetons because there's a great picture of me with my sisters and the mountains in the background. Yeah, Florida girls in the 70s in Wyoming. It's quite a shot. But back to the point, what's in Cheyenne? Is it sort of like Mobile, Alabama except with mountains? Or like Topeka?
I saw a moose in Wyoming, I remember that really well. He was about 30 yards from the cabin we stayed in, across the street. He was big with enormous moosey antlers. Maybe that was Cheyenne and I just didn't know it at the time.
OK, enough. Get my swimsuit to Michigan already, where no one would come for a summer holiday apparently.
I WANT MY SWIMSUIT!!!!!! The daring one, that is.
What's in Cheyenne besides a UPS tracking station? I've only been to Wyoming once, and that was when I was 3 or 4. I don't remember what cities I went to. I know we went to the Grand Tetons because there's a great picture of me with my sisters and the mountains in the background. Yeah, Florida girls in the 70s in Wyoming. It's quite a shot. But back to the point, what's in Cheyenne? Is it sort of like Mobile, Alabama except with mountains? Or like Topeka?
I saw a moose in Wyoming, I remember that really well. He was about 30 yards from the cabin we stayed in, across the street. He was big with enormous moosey antlers. Maybe that was Cheyenne and I just didn't know it at the time.
OK, enough. Get my swimsuit to Michigan already, where no one would come for a summer holiday apparently.
Monday, May 11, 2009
How to develop pure hatred for stargazer lilies
Since Mother's Day yesterday, I've been noticing stargazer lilies popping up. At Dooce.com, and at Cake Wrecks. There may be more lurking out there. I don't go to church, so I didn't see whether mothers still wear corsages on Mother's Day. But if you went, were some of the mothers wearing stargazer lilies? I have one poignant memory from my past involving stargazer lilies, and it's amazing how from the minute I knew the name of these flowers I had negative associations with them. The event? My first wedding.I was young, 21. I was pregnant, 13 weeks on the wedding day itself. And I had planned a wedding from start to finish in three weeks. I think I would have been happy to just have had a small wedding, family and a few friends, very low key. But the two mothers in the situation, mine and my ex-husband's, both had their reasons for wanting it big. They wanted the full scale thing, no matter how shotgun the situation. So I went down to the David's Bridal outlet warehouse in Hollywood, Florida and picked out a gown that fit reasonably well and could be altered in less than a week. We had 500 invitations printed in lickety split time and sent them out. My family, our family friends, and my and my ex-husband's friends were 100. The other 400 went to my outlaws' pared down list of must-invites (the first list that they faxed contained well over 600 names and addresses). The church and the minister weren't a problem; my ex-father-in-law insisted on performing the ceremony. Bridesmaids' dresses were bought off the rack at Talbots and sent to the relevant sisters and sister-in-law-to-be. My mother arranged for a caterer to put together the details for a reception. I drove from Florida to Texas with my dad and arrived about a week before the wedding. During that week, I found a photographer, a bakery who could whip up a cake and deliver it that day, and a florist. And it was the florist who suggested stargazer lilies.
A classic, he said. They will complement anything, and remain fresh all day long, no matter how high the temperatures reach (over 100F that day, as it turned out). Since the only color being used in the wedding up to that point was green (from the bridesmaids' dresses and the roses on the cake to the decorative ribbons on the rice pouches and the personalized napkins on the tables), the brilliant deep pink of the lilies would add a touch of warmth to the setting. OK, then, stargazer lilies it is. Everywhere. Bridesmaids' bouquets, floral arrangements for the church, centerpieces for the hors d'oeuvres only reception, and the cake topper. I didn't even knew what they looked like before I committed.
My consistent thought during the whole planning process was, just get it over with. How bad can it be? I was task-oriented, dealing with checking items off a list, not worrying about whether the best choices were being made.
Well, the day of the wedding came. The green roses on the cake matched the green of the bridesmaids' dresses. The green was actually teal. Teal roses on the wedding cake. I wish I had pictures left to send to Cake Wrecks. What the hell is a teal rose? My dress had been altered three inches too short and I had to run out at the last minute to a discount shoe store and buy flats. The program for the ceremony was embarrassing; my mother-in-law-to-be who had typed the whole thing up on her laptop and delivered it to Kinko's had included titles for all the family members on her side, but neglected to ask if anyone on my side had titles other than "Mr and Mrs." In addition, she assumed that all married women went by their husband's last name only, of course. My oldest sister was not amused. And then there were the stargazer lilies.
The first of the lilies I saw was the bunch on top of the cake. From a distance they looked nice enough. But as I got closer, I realized, there's some strange smell in the air; what is that? Then came the bridesmaids' bouquets. Stargazer lilies. Dozens of them. They were beautiful, make no mistake. But they were smelly. Really, really smelly. And then I realized, I have chosen to surround myself and everyone I know with flowers that stink. What a lovely aura to create. It got worse, though.
I started sneezing. Yes, that's right, me, the girl who's had allergies and asthma her whole life ordered several hundred, maybe even over a thousand, dollars in flowers, without ever considering whether I might be bothered by their aroma. Or whether they might bother my very allergic mother as well.
Those lilies started looking like big pink spiders to me, crawling out from every crevice, waiting to suck the life out of anything foolish enough to come close. They were deceptively cutesy, what with their pink glow and yellow speckling. But don't you be fooled; these were creatures spawned by the devil himself.
I spent the day red-nosed with a handkerchief in my hand, sneezing every few minutes and trying to ignore the pervasive, stinky, stargazer lily aroma in between nose snorts. When we were outside, the aroma got even stronger, making me almost nauseous. Was it not enough that it was over 100 degrees F, I was in a synthetic floor-length gown, and I was PREGNANT? No, I had to add some horrible scent that I was also allergic to.
Needless to say, I was relieved when, 8 years later, I had a reason to purge my possessions of any sign that the day had ever even taken place. Every picture, every memoir, every gift list, every keepsake, every bit of it went in the trash.
I'm sorry if you are a person who loves stargazer lilies and finds them the most wonderful flower in the entire world. Because I will never, ever, ever enjoy even a photograph of a stargazer lily, much less approach a live one in real life.
As for the rest of the story, for my second wedding, I visited five florists before I chose one. We only needed a bouquet for myself and Grace and four small women's corsages, still, I wanted to make sure it was right. When I finally found the man who designed my bouquet, I knew I had hit the jackpot. Here's what he designed:
Orange tulips surrounded by yellow calla lilies with a hint of a burnt orange/brown edging, all tied up with an orange organza ribbon. Perfect, simple, brilliant.
GORGEOUS.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
On this Mother's Day
I can't remember the last time I spent Mother's Day with my mother. My two sisters and I live in entirely different places geographically from one another and none of us closer than 1500 miles to our mother. So though she may travel to see one of us on Mother's Day, if we invite her, even if she did this every year, I'd only see her once every third year. This year, she's at home in Florida with my dad. On Wednesday, they will both come here and visit with us. For Mother's Day, I sent her a card, I'll make her a cake to be ready when she arrives, and I'll call her this afternoon. Yesterday she and I spent two hours talking on the phone.
She and I are like most mother-daughter pairs in our demographic. We drive each other a little crazy. We've said things to each other that were really mean throughout my life. I went through years where I decided I just would never ever like her, understand her, or have any kind of meaningful relationship with her. But in the last couple years, I decided to revisit all that. She's a likeable person, even in the midst of things she does that drive me crazy. So despite the things that I could say negatively about our relationship or about her personally, I think I have to dwell on the positive.
Why? Because she's my mother.
The best stories I could tell you about my mother are the things she does in private when she's not "on" for the public. It's those moments behind the scenes, when the perfect hostess fudges details while saying things like, "oh, shit. Well, I'm sure they'll never be able to tell." I'm sure Martha Stewart has these moments too, but not when the cameras are rolling.
Yesterday we talked about how all Muslims are liars and agents of Satan, President Obama is not a Christian and has never done anything remotely reminiscent of what a Christian would do, that Rick Warren is a wolf in sheep's clothing because now he endorses gay marriage (he actually doesn't), and that most assuredly the United States will fall as the most powerful nation on earth and Armageddon will undoubtedly ensue. We also talked about a new book she's discovered, The Element, that she's giving to every one of her children, how she's wondering how my sister's kids will fair at Catholic school next year after being exclusively home-schooled for five years, and how she thinks babies shouldn't share a bed with their parents. Ever. And they definitely should move out of their parents' bedroom quickly as soon as they can pull themselves up because they might wake up and see things. And we talked about a cute blanket she wants to make for our new baby. She also asked me to explain how our baby will figure out that everything has two names and which name she should use (like, how does she figure out that the cat is "that cat" and "o gato" and that those are the same thing).
I like her because I can talk to her for two hours and she doesn't get bored or boring. I know I do things and say things that make her crazy. So I can put to the side the things she does and says that make me crazy.
Happy Mother's Day, all.
She and I are like most mother-daughter pairs in our demographic. We drive each other a little crazy. We've said things to each other that were really mean throughout my life. I went through years where I decided I just would never ever like her, understand her, or have any kind of meaningful relationship with her. But in the last couple years, I decided to revisit all that. She's a likeable person, even in the midst of things she does that drive me crazy. So despite the things that I could say negatively about our relationship or about her personally, I think I have to dwell on the positive.
Why? Because she's my mother.
The best stories I could tell you about my mother are the things she does in private when she's not "on" for the public. It's those moments behind the scenes, when the perfect hostess fudges details while saying things like, "oh, shit. Well, I'm sure they'll never be able to tell." I'm sure Martha Stewart has these moments too, but not when the cameras are rolling.
Yesterday we talked about how all Muslims are liars and agents of Satan, President Obama is not a Christian and has never done anything remotely reminiscent of what a Christian would do, that Rick Warren is a wolf in sheep's clothing because now he endorses gay marriage (he actually doesn't), and that most assuredly the United States will fall as the most powerful nation on earth and Armageddon will undoubtedly ensue. We also talked about a new book she's discovered, The Element, that she's giving to every one of her children, how she's wondering how my sister's kids will fair at Catholic school next year after being exclusively home-schooled for five years, and how she thinks babies shouldn't share a bed with their parents. Ever. And they definitely should move out of their parents' bedroom quickly as soon as they can pull themselves up because they might wake up and see things. And we talked about a cute blanket she wants to make for our new baby. She also asked me to explain how our baby will figure out that everything has two names and which name she should use (like, how does she figure out that the cat is "that cat" and "o gato" and that those are the same thing).
I like her because I can talk to her for two hours and she doesn't get bored or boring. I know I do things and say things that make her crazy. So I can put to the side the things she does and says that make me crazy.
Happy Mother's Day, all.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Fatherhood part 2: Parenting through time and few words
My dad is a self-described plugger. He has Scotch-Irish roots, from a long line of those who emigrated to the United States during the 18th and 19th century and settled in Appalachia. His clan continued to migrate southwest and settled in Alabama, some a little over the Georgia border, where most of them continued earning their bread and butter through farming, some well into the 20th century. He was raised in a culture that says you work hard and look out for those in your family. You don't turn your back on them, no matter how bad they do you. You may need to take few steps away from one of them for a short while if they seem like they're taking advantage of you. But you don't ever close the door to communication. Always be willing to take another look at your kin and be compassionate in their time of need.
We have three girls in my family. I was the third. I hear that the pregnancy was a hard one. When my mom finally went to the hospital to give birth, she spent all day at the hospital hardly being noticed. She wasn't in active labor, the doctor just told her to go there. Sometime in the late afternoon/early evening, my dad was told there was no way the baby would be born any time soon. He decided to leave and go get something to eat. She never went into active labor until the last minute. Sometime around 6p, my mom called for nurse and said, I'm going to have this baby. I was born at 6:30p, much to the disbelief of the entire staff. (Don't ask; my mom has some amazingly horrific stories to tell about what happens when you can't help but give birth even though you're not fully dilated and the contractions are coming so fast you don't even get a chance to catch your breath, much less control your breathing.) My dad says he got a burger, then went to the library to read and fell asleep. When he woke up around 7p, he went back to the hospital and he found he had a new baby girl. I didn't get named for a week. To this day my sisters tease me and call me "the baby" because indeed, that's what I was introduced to them as.
From my perspective, I was the troublemaker in my family. I spent most of my growing years listening to my mother tell me how, when my sisters were my age, they were so much more x than I was. Fill in "x" with whatever positive character trait you can think of: hard-working, disciplined, obedient, kind, aware of the world around them, Christ-like, conservative, respectful, well-behaved...
Consequently, Heather caused a lot of disruption. Many, many parent-teacher conferences. Sunday School teachers and youth pastors and choir directors were always requesting some kind of intervention. I would try a lot of stuff, like putting together outfits I knew they would never let me wear and sneaking them to a friend's house for a sleepover, someone whose parents I knew would never say anything because they weren't so strict. I listened to music that I knew my parents didn't approve of. A few times they asked my oldest sister to address the issue. She would explain how she made the choice not to listen to some music because of the ungodly messages they contained. I listened, bored, and gave her the chance to talk. And then I continued buying my tapes and records, eventually CDs, and recording what I wanted to when it came on the radio. I bought the single to "Let's Go Crazy" by Prince when I was in 7th grade. The flip side was "Erotic City." The cashier at the record store told me that it was pretty explicit and maybe I should think about not listening to it. Well, that was enough to get me interested.
How does a plugger deal with a youngest daughter who is like this? My mother lectured and yelled and told me all the ways I wasn't measuring up. But that wasn't my dad's style.
There were times when his patience was pushed to the edge. It came when all three of us girls were completely out of control and my mother was pulling her hair out. He would raise his voice and yell. When that happened, we all knew the worst had happened. You didn't yell back. You quietly went to doing whatever it was that you should have done in the first place. But this was a rare occasion.
For the most part, he parented by spending time with me.
When I was in preschool and he was in town (he was an airline pilot), he would ride my mom's bike that had the kid-carrier on the back to the preschool. When he got there, he would strap me into the carrier and take off towards home. Every day I fell asleep during the ride home and he reached back and cradled my head in his hand and arm until we got home.
When I was in 2nd grade, I went to school on the bus by myself since both of my sisters were in middle school. The bus dropped me off at the front of my neighborhood. Sometimes he would meet me on his bike. I was too old to ride on the back of the bike by then, of course. So he would ride to my bus stop and steady my bike next to him with his free hand as he rode. When I got off the bus, we would put my book bag and my lunch box, sometimes my violin too, into the bike baskets and then we rode home together, each on our own bike.
When I was a bit older and he had an errand to run, he'd ask if I wanted to come along. If I shrugged it off, he'd press a little more and say something like 'it'll do you good. You can take a break from [whatever I happened to be doing at the moment]."
About the time I was starting middle school, he started playing backgammon. He tried playing everyone -- my sisters, my grandfather, my mom -- but no one seemed to want to keep it up. I asked if I could try. Within a few games, I was hooked. We played that game faithfully every day he was home until I left for college. I never found another opponent who was any good; neither did he. Sometimes we would play up to 10 games at a time. When we started he would say, "we will play until Mama calls you to come help her with dinner. When she calls, you have to go straight to the kitchen and help her with what she needs done." Sometimes I would be in big trouble at school for not doing my school work. He would come in and say we could play one or two games, and then straight to the homework. Sometimes my mom would have been fussing at me for days about slacking at something. On those days he would say we could play a few games, but only if we did so especially quietly. If my mother heard the dice falling on the board, she would surely come in and fuss at me about what wasn't yet done.
Through the bike rides and the errands and the backgammon games, he would ask me different things. He would ask me what I saw myself doing as an adult. He would ask about my friends, or what I liked doing most during a day. He would ask me about people I didn't like so much. The point was, I never saw it coming because I thought the point of us being together was just so he'd have company or so we'd both get some enjoyment out of playing a game or something.
Sure, he came down on me when things were bad. If I really messed up badly, he laid out strict rules as to how things should be done in order to get me in order. But in the end, he reminded me that these rules were in place so that I could get back to a balance in life, a way to get to have free time and enjoyment after the work day was done.
I realize now that I learned much more by the calm times I spent with him than any measure of discipline or lecturing he gave me. I am much more the kind of parent who talks too much and doesn't listen. Hopefully I can get past this and start parenting through the time spent in casual conversation, rather than through lecture after lecture.
We have three girls in my family. I was the third. I hear that the pregnancy was a hard one. When my mom finally went to the hospital to give birth, she spent all day at the hospital hardly being noticed. She wasn't in active labor, the doctor just told her to go there. Sometime in the late afternoon/early evening, my dad was told there was no way the baby would be born any time soon. He decided to leave and go get something to eat. She never went into active labor until the last minute. Sometime around 6p, my mom called for nurse and said, I'm going to have this baby. I was born at 6:30p, much to the disbelief of the entire staff. (Don't ask; my mom has some amazingly horrific stories to tell about what happens when you can't help but give birth even though you're not fully dilated and the contractions are coming so fast you don't even get a chance to catch your breath, much less control your breathing.) My dad says he got a burger, then went to the library to read and fell asleep. When he woke up around 7p, he went back to the hospital and he found he had a new baby girl. I didn't get named for a week. To this day my sisters tease me and call me "the baby" because indeed, that's what I was introduced to them as.
From my perspective, I was the troublemaker in my family. I spent most of my growing years listening to my mother tell me how, when my sisters were my age, they were so much more x than I was. Fill in "x" with whatever positive character trait you can think of: hard-working, disciplined, obedient, kind, aware of the world around them, Christ-like, conservative, respectful, well-behaved...
Consequently, Heather caused a lot of disruption. Many, many parent-teacher conferences. Sunday School teachers and youth pastors and choir directors were always requesting some kind of intervention. I would try a lot of stuff, like putting together outfits I knew they would never let me wear and sneaking them to a friend's house for a sleepover, someone whose parents I knew would never say anything because they weren't so strict. I listened to music that I knew my parents didn't approve of. A few times they asked my oldest sister to address the issue. She would explain how she made the choice not to listen to some music because of the ungodly messages they contained. I listened, bored, and gave her the chance to talk. And then I continued buying my tapes and records, eventually CDs, and recording what I wanted to when it came on the radio. I bought the single to "Let's Go Crazy" by Prince when I was in 7th grade. The flip side was "Erotic City." The cashier at the record store told me that it was pretty explicit and maybe I should think about not listening to it. Well, that was enough to get me interested.
How does a plugger deal with a youngest daughter who is like this? My mother lectured and yelled and told me all the ways I wasn't measuring up. But that wasn't my dad's style.
There were times when his patience was pushed to the edge. It came when all three of us girls were completely out of control and my mother was pulling her hair out. He would raise his voice and yell. When that happened, we all knew the worst had happened. You didn't yell back. You quietly went to doing whatever it was that you should have done in the first place. But this was a rare occasion.
For the most part, he parented by spending time with me.
When I was in preschool and he was in town (he was an airline pilot), he would ride my mom's bike that had the kid-carrier on the back to the preschool. When he got there, he would strap me into the carrier and take off towards home. Every day I fell asleep during the ride home and he reached back and cradled my head in his hand and arm until we got home.
When I was in 2nd grade, I went to school on the bus by myself since both of my sisters were in middle school. The bus dropped me off at the front of my neighborhood. Sometimes he would meet me on his bike. I was too old to ride on the back of the bike by then, of course. So he would ride to my bus stop and steady my bike next to him with his free hand as he rode. When I got off the bus, we would put my book bag and my lunch box, sometimes my violin too, into the bike baskets and then we rode home together, each on our own bike.
When I was a bit older and he had an errand to run, he'd ask if I wanted to come along. If I shrugged it off, he'd press a little more and say something like 'it'll do you good. You can take a break from [whatever I happened to be doing at the moment]."
About the time I was starting middle school, he started playing backgammon. He tried playing everyone -- my sisters, my grandfather, my mom -- but no one seemed to want to keep it up. I asked if I could try. Within a few games, I was hooked. We played that game faithfully every day he was home until I left for college. I never found another opponent who was any good; neither did he. Sometimes we would play up to 10 games at a time. When we started he would say, "we will play until Mama calls you to come help her with dinner. When she calls, you have to go straight to the kitchen and help her with what she needs done." Sometimes I would be in big trouble at school for not doing my school work. He would come in and say we could play one or two games, and then straight to the homework. Sometimes my mom would have been fussing at me for days about slacking at something. On those days he would say we could play a few games, but only if we did so especially quietly. If my mother heard the dice falling on the board, she would surely come in and fuss at me about what wasn't yet done.
Through the bike rides and the errands and the backgammon games, he would ask me different things. He would ask me what I saw myself doing as an adult. He would ask about my friends, or what I liked doing most during a day. He would ask me about people I didn't like so much. The point was, I never saw it coming because I thought the point of us being together was just so he'd have company or so we'd both get some enjoyment out of playing a game or something.
Sure, he came down on me when things were bad. If I really messed up badly, he laid out strict rules as to how things should be done in order to get me in order. But in the end, he reminded me that these rules were in place so that I could get back to a balance in life, a way to get to have free time and enjoyment after the work day was done.
I realize now that I learned much more by the calm times I spent with him than any measure of discipline or lecturing he gave me. I am much more the kind of parent who talks too much and doesn't listen. Hopefully I can get past this and start parenting through the time spent in casual conversation, rather than through lecture after lecture.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Joy in Music
If you've ever played a stringed instrument or had a child who did, and that student spent any amount of time at solo festivals or interacting with other strings students, you probably know the prelude from Bach's Suite #1 in G major for unaccompanied cello. In case the name of the short piece isn't ringing a bell, here is a video I found on youtube set to the recording Yo-Yo Ma made about 10 years ago.
I started playing cello when I finished 6th grade. I took lessons during the summer, then I joined the school orchestra in the fall of my 7th grade year. I played for three years and then left the orchestra for other artistic pursuits that had to do with writing, directing, and acting. I never hacked this song. I tried it, but I never got it even close to sounding like a song.
Piano was a different story. I played piano from the time I was 8 years old on. My piano teacher had been giving my older sisters lessons for several years and I was playing around on the piano at home more and more. See, I had learned how to read music at choir practice at church, and my sisters' beginner books were pretty easy to figure out. So I started trying to play piano on my own. My teacher had a policy not to start teaching children until they were 9 or 10. But in my case, she told my mother when I was in 2nd grade to set me up for summer lessons since otherwise I would develop bad habits that she'd only have to undo later. I loved playing piano. I got it. A song wasn't just notes and tempo and a few changes in dynamics. It was an expression of you, a way to communicate without ever using your voice. Once I got the notes down, suddenly I could take a piece and make it mine. It's not like I got everything right, and I have plenty of shortcomings when it comes to playing piano. But I knew what a song was supposed to sound like and when I made it sound the way I wanted, it was like being in heaven.
When I played the cello, I never felt like that. I knew what it was supposed to sound like, I just couldn't make it sound like that. I think after a few years, I gave it up because I just got tired of hearing bad music. My mom will say it's because I didn't practice, which is mostly true, but there was also a part of giving up that had to do with not having joy in the task.
The prelude from Bach's Suite #1 in G major is sort of a test to pass for strings students. It's a complex melody that doesn't come out if you just play the notes. If you don't believe me, watch this:
I mean, kudos to the pianist for mastering a fingering for the piece, but when you hear this after seeing what Yo-Yo Ma does with the exact same composition, you have to admit that this is not exactly an inspiring rendition, right?
Back to the test for strings students. Every single person who would judge a performance of this piece has heard it many, many, many times. They can practically sing it measure by measure in the shower. They've probably played it themselves. It's like Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata -- if you're going to perform it, you'd better get it right, because anyone who knows anything will hear every single mistake you make. The challenge for the student is not just to get the notes right and give it a suitable tempo and dynamics, but also to give the composition a piece of themselves. They want to give a unique rendition. It has to be their own unique expression of the piece, a moment in which the instrument becomes part of themselves and they completely control it in order to bring out the beauty that they hear in their heads before they even pick up the instrument.
This is the time of year when Grace has to audition for several orchestras, scholarships, and competitions on viola. She's usually pretty good at these things, knocking 'em dead. In fact, she usually gets placed in some very high chair in the section, only to get bumped back later because she doesn't practice enough or goofs off during rehearsals. This year she's been struggling with what to choose as a solo piece. It has to be something she can really master, but something that is equally challenging to her and demonstrates the full spectrum of her abilities. She has the music for all six of Bach's suites for unaccompanied cello transposed for viola. A few weeks back I suggested to her, why don't you try the prelude in the first suite?
When she began tackling the piece, she started the way she always does -- just pick up the instrument, play the notes on the page, and stop when you get to a part that is hard. After only a few minutes she realized that the notes were hard, so she put down the bow and started plucking through them. Then a few days later she started bowing through the piece. As far as I know, she's never heard a recording of the song. But there's something in her that recognized the passages that were the key points in the flow, the ones you really want to grab hold of and make powerful. Little by little, the song is sounding more and more like her own.
It is such a joy for me to hear her working through something and making it a personal part of her artistic expression. For me it is such a part of my human experience. To have her go through the same process and understand music is so dear to me.
I started playing cello when I finished 6th grade. I took lessons during the summer, then I joined the school orchestra in the fall of my 7th grade year. I played for three years and then left the orchestra for other artistic pursuits that had to do with writing, directing, and acting. I never hacked this song. I tried it, but I never got it even close to sounding like a song.
Piano was a different story. I played piano from the time I was 8 years old on. My piano teacher had been giving my older sisters lessons for several years and I was playing around on the piano at home more and more. See, I had learned how to read music at choir practice at church, and my sisters' beginner books were pretty easy to figure out. So I started trying to play piano on my own. My teacher had a policy not to start teaching children until they were 9 or 10. But in my case, she told my mother when I was in 2nd grade to set me up for summer lessons since otherwise I would develop bad habits that she'd only have to undo later. I loved playing piano. I got it. A song wasn't just notes and tempo and a few changes in dynamics. It was an expression of you, a way to communicate without ever using your voice. Once I got the notes down, suddenly I could take a piece and make it mine. It's not like I got everything right, and I have plenty of shortcomings when it comes to playing piano. But I knew what a song was supposed to sound like and when I made it sound the way I wanted, it was like being in heaven.
When I played the cello, I never felt like that. I knew what it was supposed to sound like, I just couldn't make it sound like that. I think after a few years, I gave it up because I just got tired of hearing bad music. My mom will say it's because I didn't practice, which is mostly true, but there was also a part of giving up that had to do with not having joy in the task.
The prelude from Bach's Suite #1 in G major is sort of a test to pass for strings students. It's a complex melody that doesn't come out if you just play the notes. If you don't believe me, watch this:
I mean, kudos to the pianist for mastering a fingering for the piece, but when you hear this after seeing what Yo-Yo Ma does with the exact same composition, you have to admit that this is not exactly an inspiring rendition, right?
Back to the test for strings students. Every single person who would judge a performance of this piece has heard it many, many, many times. They can practically sing it measure by measure in the shower. They've probably played it themselves. It's like Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata -- if you're going to perform it, you'd better get it right, because anyone who knows anything will hear every single mistake you make. The challenge for the student is not just to get the notes right and give it a suitable tempo and dynamics, but also to give the composition a piece of themselves. They want to give a unique rendition. It has to be their own unique expression of the piece, a moment in which the instrument becomes part of themselves and they completely control it in order to bring out the beauty that they hear in their heads before they even pick up the instrument.
This is the time of year when Grace has to audition for several orchestras, scholarships, and competitions on viola. She's usually pretty good at these things, knocking 'em dead. In fact, she usually gets placed in some very high chair in the section, only to get bumped back later because she doesn't practice enough or goofs off during rehearsals. This year she's been struggling with what to choose as a solo piece. It has to be something she can really master, but something that is equally challenging to her and demonstrates the full spectrum of her abilities. She has the music for all six of Bach's suites for unaccompanied cello transposed for viola. A few weeks back I suggested to her, why don't you try the prelude in the first suite?
When she began tackling the piece, she started the way she always does -- just pick up the instrument, play the notes on the page, and stop when you get to a part that is hard. After only a few minutes she realized that the notes were hard, so she put down the bow and started plucking through them. Then a few days later she started bowing through the piece. As far as I know, she's never heard a recording of the song. But there's something in her that recognized the passages that were the key points in the flow, the ones you really want to grab hold of and make powerful. Little by little, the song is sounding more and more like her own.
It is such a joy for me to hear her working through something and making it a personal part of her artistic expression. For me it is such a part of my human experience. To have her go through the same process and understand music is so dear to me.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
a little rain
When I was a girl growing up in South Florida, we got a lot of rain storms. Since this was always the case, I didn't realize they were out of the ordinary rain storms, storms that would cause most people to panic a little. I just grew up thinking that a rain storm always involved big, heavy torrents of water, gusts of wind, and brilliant flashes of lightning followed by loud claps of thunder.
Rain storms didn't scare me or bum me out. It just meant a day to stay inside. The rain was always the fiercest during the summer, and during the summer we had nothing but free days on our hands. If we woke up and knew there would be rain, the open day of possibilities suddenly became more adventurous. We'd watch tv (as long as the power didn't go out) or play board games or cards. My sister and I loved playing Barbies on rainy days. (Barbies is a post topic I have been holding off on, because my sisters and I were a little obsessed with the whole enterprise as kids.) Rainy days were the best. We had battery-powered radios that we weren't supposed to use unless there was a hurricane, but if the power went out on a rainy day, wasn't that a good enough reason to pull them out? And listen to our favorite Top 40 hits on WHYI, Y-100 at 100.7 on your FM dial?
You could write letters to all your friends and relatives. You could makes crafts and paint pictures. You could read a book that had been stored away in the back of your closet forever and suddenly the rainy day stuck inside gave you the curiousity to open it up and find out what it was about.
Rainy days were the days you got to dress down, sit under a blanket and laugh at funny jokes and silliness so hard your sides hurt. Rainy days were when you sat at the typewriter and wrote a story off the top of your head. Rainy days were the days when you pulled out a tape recorder and made up pretend radio shows and interviews and then played them over and over until you couldn't forget the dialogue.
The rain has been falling all day here in Michigan. It's a huge break from the freezing temperatures and large amounts of snow we've gotten through this winter so far. Despite the warm swell, people are complaining because it's rainy, foggy, windy, and overcast. What kind of a switch is that? People are saying it's like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.
But I'm saying, bring it on! The wind just picked up and I can hear the rain beating harder against the window. It's supposed to go on like this all night. I can't think of something more wonderful.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Christmas with Mrs. Martin
When I was a young girl, we did scouting at church. My mother didn't like the Girl Scouts, so we were Pioneer Girls instead. My two older sisters were participating for years before I was old enough. When they were in 3rd and 4th grade, my mother volunteered to be their age group troop's leader. There was only one glitch -- me. I wasn't even in kindergarten yet, much less grade school, so there was no troop for my age group. With my dad out of town sometimes, my mom needed somewhere for me to go. And so it was that Mrs. Martin became a special person in my life.
Mrs. Martin was a woman in her 40s or 50s, modest, humble, cheerful. She led the scouting troop for the girls in 1st grade and 2nd grade. When it became clear that I wasn't having much fun at the 3rd & 4th grade troop meeting with my mom and sisters, Mrs. Martin suggested to my mother that I attend her meeting. She gave me a special blue beanie to wear, just like the older girls. I lined up with the older girls and learned my pledges and songs. For the rest of the meeting, I could sit and listen to her lesson, or work on a project they were working on, but mostly Mrs. Martin let me sit and do what I wanted. I would bring dolls or stuffed animals and act out dialogues between them. I would draw pictures. Sometimes I just curled up on some pillows with a blanket and fell asleep. No matter, Mrs. Martin was happy to have me there.
She always had something kind and uplifting to say to me. In my preschooler's view, she seemed like Mrs. Claus -- she had apple cheeks that were always rosy, she was a big woman who swallowed you up when she gave you a hug, she loved children, she made amazingly delectable cookies that she shared every week, and she never failed to give me some treasure she had picked up at the five and dime. I loved that woman so much, I could only imagine that she had been placed in my life just to make me happy.
That Christmas when I was four, the older girls in scouting, those in grade school already, went Christmas caroling in the neighborhood around our church. Even though Mrs. Martin told me I really was in the troop, I really was too little to keep up with the activity. The solution was that my mother took the girls out caroling, and Mrs. Martin stayed back at the church to make hot cocoa for the older girls when they returned. And guess who got to HELP HER? Oh, yeah. I can remember just feeling like I was the most special, most important girl in the world. I was Mrs. Martin's helper in making hot cocoa for ALL the older girls in Pioneer Girls. And of course, there were home-baked cookies to go with the cocoa.
When I was in kindergarten, Mrs. Martin allowed me to be a REAL scout. I had a sash and earned badges and everything. My friend Diane also got to join as a kindergartner. She was a super Pioneer Girl. She always remembered to bring everything she needed to for our troop meetings. The other girls in our age group joined along in 1st grade, and I ended up being in Mrs. Martin's troop until I finished 2nd grade.
One year for Christmas, Mrs. Martin invited us all to her house for our troop party. Mrs. Martin's house? What fun! We were going to have dinner and go caroling, then exchange gifts and have punch and cookies. Before we came, she told us at a troop meeting about her son Richard. (Mrs. Martin had children? I never knew.) Richard was severely handicapped and profoundly retarded. He stayed at home with Mrs. Martin and her husband so that they could care for him. He had no language, he was confined to a wheelchair, and he had to be fed by another person. When Mrs. Martin was at our troop meetings, her husband took care of Richard. And since Richard wasn't able to come to church for Sunday services, she usually stayed home with him and watched a service on television. She told us about Richard because he would be home for our party. She was excited because he would finally get to meet all the girls she had told him about!
Mrs. Martin had a son? And she told him all about our troop? I was nervous. What do you say when you meet someone who can't talk? I thought about it until the night of the party.
Her house was small and modest, and it smelled of Christmas -- pine and cinnamon scents mixed with sugary treats. There were simple lights outside and tinsel and garland throughout the house. On each table were holiday napkins and bowls of Christmas candy, and there was a Christmas tablecloth on the kitchen table where we would get dinner. And in the back room of the house was a Christmas tree, brightly lit and full of silvery tinsel.
Richard was in his bedroom. Mrs. Martin went there to get him. She pushed his wheelchair into the kitchen and introduced each of us. I don't remember what I said, but I remember feeling nervous and a little scared. The hot dogs for dinner were ready, so we sat down around the kitchen table at the places she had set. Richard sat in his chair at the table and ate dinner with us as Mrs. Martin fed him. She explained that his hot dogs were made of turkey because he had a special diet that didn't allow regular hot dogs. I wondered what turkey hot dogs tasted like.
Richard didn't seem to mind being with us. And Mrs. Martin seemed entirely herself as she helped Richard at dinner -- cheerful, jolly, sincere, kind. I suppose you could say it was a new way to see her, as a mother and caregiver, not just as a removed figure of happiness that I had seen before. After dinner, Richard didn't seem to mind returning to his room while we prepared to go out caroling. I don't know what he did in that room, but from what I saw of Mrs. Martin's kindness and gentle caregiving, I can imagine that he must have found himself content with the activities he had available.
That was the only time I ever saw Richard. He died when I was older, in high school or college, I think. Mrs. Martin died only a few years ago. She had been ill for quite some time, and her family saw her death as a release for her, that her suffering had finally stopped. She had children other than Richard, but I can imagine that Richard was a person who brought out a side of her that otherwise might not have been there.
As Christmas was approaching this year, I found myself thinking of so many wonderful Christmases that Mrs. Martin was part of in my life. She brought so much contentedness to my young life. Looking back on it now as an adult, I'm glad that she chose that one Christmas to introduce me and my girlfriends to her son, Richard. I think it makes my memories of her so much sweeter than they would have been otherwise.
I hope in these last days before Christmas Day you find a miracle to admire or a memory to cherish that helps to bring all the hub-bub into focus. As we age, it seems like we lose the ability to see the simplicity of certain details. Remember that sometimes as a child, things are so simple and easy to observe. Savor the flavor of the hot cocoa (even if you live in Florida and it's too warm to drink cocoa) and dwell on the scent of the sugar cookies (even if you're on a diet and can't afford the extra 5 pounds the holidays promise to add) and realize that life is too short not to stop and smile at the small wonders around you.
Mrs. Martin was a woman in her 40s or 50s, modest, humble, cheerful. She led the scouting troop for the girls in 1st grade and 2nd grade. When it became clear that I wasn't having much fun at the 3rd & 4th grade troop meeting with my mom and sisters, Mrs. Martin suggested to my mother that I attend her meeting. She gave me a special blue beanie to wear, just like the older girls. I lined up with the older girls and learned my pledges and songs. For the rest of the meeting, I could sit and listen to her lesson, or work on a project they were working on, but mostly Mrs. Martin let me sit and do what I wanted. I would bring dolls or stuffed animals and act out dialogues between them. I would draw pictures. Sometimes I just curled up on some pillows with a blanket and fell asleep. No matter, Mrs. Martin was happy to have me there.
She always had something kind and uplifting to say to me. In my preschooler's view, she seemed like Mrs. Claus -- she had apple cheeks that were always rosy, she was a big woman who swallowed you up when she gave you a hug, she loved children, she made amazingly delectable cookies that she shared every week, and she never failed to give me some treasure she had picked up at the five and dime. I loved that woman so much, I could only imagine that she had been placed in my life just to make me happy.
That Christmas when I was four, the older girls in scouting, those in grade school already, went Christmas caroling in the neighborhood around our church. Even though Mrs. Martin told me I really was in the troop, I really was too little to keep up with the activity. The solution was that my mother took the girls out caroling, and Mrs. Martin stayed back at the church to make hot cocoa for the older girls when they returned. And guess who got to HELP HER? Oh, yeah. I can remember just feeling like I was the most special, most important girl in the world. I was Mrs. Martin's helper in making hot cocoa for ALL the older girls in Pioneer Girls. And of course, there were home-baked cookies to go with the cocoa.
When I was in kindergarten, Mrs. Martin allowed me to be a REAL scout. I had a sash and earned badges and everything. My friend Diane also got to join as a kindergartner. She was a super Pioneer Girl. She always remembered to bring everything she needed to for our troop meetings. The other girls in our age group joined along in 1st grade, and I ended up being in Mrs. Martin's troop until I finished 2nd grade.
One year for Christmas, Mrs. Martin invited us all to her house for our troop party. Mrs. Martin's house? What fun! We were going to have dinner and go caroling, then exchange gifts and have punch and cookies. Before we came, she told us at a troop meeting about her son Richard. (Mrs. Martin had children? I never knew.) Richard was severely handicapped and profoundly retarded. He stayed at home with Mrs. Martin and her husband so that they could care for him. He had no language, he was confined to a wheelchair, and he had to be fed by another person. When Mrs. Martin was at our troop meetings, her husband took care of Richard. And since Richard wasn't able to come to church for Sunday services, she usually stayed home with him and watched a service on television. She told us about Richard because he would be home for our party. She was excited because he would finally get to meet all the girls she had told him about!
Mrs. Martin had a son? And she told him all about our troop? I was nervous. What do you say when you meet someone who can't talk? I thought about it until the night of the party.
Her house was small and modest, and it smelled of Christmas -- pine and cinnamon scents mixed with sugary treats. There were simple lights outside and tinsel and garland throughout the house. On each table were holiday napkins and bowls of Christmas candy, and there was a Christmas tablecloth on the kitchen table where we would get dinner. And in the back room of the house was a Christmas tree, brightly lit and full of silvery tinsel.
Richard was in his bedroom. Mrs. Martin went there to get him. She pushed his wheelchair into the kitchen and introduced each of us. I don't remember what I said, but I remember feeling nervous and a little scared. The hot dogs for dinner were ready, so we sat down around the kitchen table at the places she had set. Richard sat in his chair at the table and ate dinner with us as Mrs. Martin fed him. She explained that his hot dogs were made of turkey because he had a special diet that didn't allow regular hot dogs. I wondered what turkey hot dogs tasted like.
Richard didn't seem to mind being with us. And Mrs. Martin seemed entirely herself as she helped Richard at dinner -- cheerful, jolly, sincere, kind. I suppose you could say it was a new way to see her, as a mother and caregiver, not just as a removed figure of happiness that I had seen before. After dinner, Richard didn't seem to mind returning to his room while we prepared to go out caroling. I don't know what he did in that room, but from what I saw of Mrs. Martin's kindness and gentle caregiving, I can imagine that he must have found himself content with the activities he had available.
That was the only time I ever saw Richard. He died when I was older, in high school or college, I think. Mrs. Martin died only a few years ago. She had been ill for quite some time, and her family saw her death as a release for her, that her suffering had finally stopped. She had children other than Richard, but I can imagine that Richard was a person who brought out a side of her that otherwise might not have been there.
As Christmas was approaching this year, I found myself thinking of so many wonderful Christmases that Mrs. Martin was part of in my life. She brought so much contentedness to my young life. Looking back on it now as an adult, I'm glad that she chose that one Christmas to introduce me and my girlfriends to her son, Richard. I think it makes my memories of her so much sweeter than they would have been otherwise.
I hope in these last days before Christmas Day you find a miracle to admire or a memory to cherish that helps to bring all the hub-bub into focus. As we age, it seems like we lose the ability to see the simplicity of certain details. Remember that sometimes as a child, things are so simple and easy to observe. Savor the flavor of the hot cocoa (even if you live in Florida and it's too warm to drink cocoa) and dwell on the scent of the sugar cookies (even if you're on a diet and can't afford the extra 5 pounds the holidays promise to add) and realize that life is too short not to stop and smile at the small wonders around you.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Take it when no one else is looking
When I was 14, I brought my walkman to school and it was stolen before school while I wasn't looking.
When Grace was 12, she brought $100 cash to school to make a payment for a school trip. Her purse was lifted between classes when she put it on the ground between her feet. The purse was recovered by the end of the school day; the cash was gone.
I had a friend in elementary school who came over to my house frequently. After she went home, things turned up missing. Worse, the things showed up later, like her wearing my bracelets or earrings or rings to school the next day. If I confronted her, she would say "you gave me this!" and then would accuse me of being an indian giver.
This past spring, during a performance of Grace's middle school's spring musical, two girls had their razor phones stolen from within their personal possessions during one of the musical numbers. The conclusion was it had to have been staff of the school because all the girls were on stage at the time of the theft.
When I was 15, I brought my SECOND walkman to school. It was stolen while I wasn't looking. (I had a hard time learning my lesson...)
Two nights ago, during a school orchestra performance, a $400+ video camera was stolen from Grace's high school. The school staff are emailing parents and students to find out if anyone has information about it; maybe one of the students has it and just forgot to tell a teacher.
I could keep going on and on. When the $100 incident with Grace's purse happened, I was furious. I came to her school at the end of the school day, stood in the hallway and went on and on and on. I asked whether the principal was going to call the police to investigate. Grace told me about a girl in her school who was really rich -- she had 3 iPods and 4 cell phones. My husband and I asked Grace whether it was possible that this girl was stealing the stuff; afterall, her own purse had been stolen by someone who was in very close proximity to her.
To be frank, it's not difficult for me to believe the kids get involved in drugs and alcohol and sex early on. But it's another jump altogether for me to think of theft. This isn't crime for the sake of wanting to do something taboo; this is crime for crime's sake. It's not like when you are 10 or 12 and you steal a purse or a walkman or a cell phone or an iPod that you don't know you're doing something wrong. But why are you doing it?
Another pet peeve of mine about these episodes is how much in denial some adults are. Like the cell phone theft during the musical. The cell phones were taken from exactly the place they had been tucked away, and nothing else in the vicinity had been touched. Clearly the thief knew what they were after and exactly where to find it. Sounds like someone who was in the room, right? Like someone 12? 13? Am I right? So why do the adults not even entertain this possibility?
I stole one of those Brach's candies from the bins in the grocery store once when I was a kid. I felt so guilty. But that didn't stop me. I walked right out of that grocery store with my mom and sisters, covertly stuffed that candy in my mouth, and tried to enjoy it. I'm sure everyone has a similar story. But for me there is a hard line between stealing something trivial from a store that you can't resist because you're 4 or 5-years-old and stealing something of great value from someone you know. How does that happen? You see it, you see that it belongs to someone else, and you take it? What for? And what for when you are only 10 or 12?
Could someone help me out with this? Do kids who steal big ticket items like this when they are a kid turn out to be shoplifters? What happens after that? What do shoplifters turn into? Are these the same people who pirate music and movies or is that an entirely different kind of thing?
When Grace was 12, she brought $100 cash to school to make a payment for a school trip. Her purse was lifted between classes when she put it on the ground between her feet. The purse was recovered by the end of the school day; the cash was gone.
I had a friend in elementary school who came over to my house frequently. After she went home, things turned up missing. Worse, the things showed up later, like her wearing my bracelets or earrings or rings to school the next day. If I confronted her, she would say "you gave me this!" and then would accuse me of being an indian giver.
This past spring, during a performance of Grace's middle school's spring musical, two girls had their razor phones stolen from within their personal possessions during one of the musical numbers. The conclusion was it had to have been staff of the school because all the girls were on stage at the time of the theft.
When I was 15, I brought my SECOND walkman to school. It was stolen while I wasn't looking. (I had a hard time learning my lesson...)
Two nights ago, during a school orchestra performance, a $400+ video camera was stolen from Grace's high school. The school staff are emailing parents and students to find out if anyone has information about it; maybe one of the students has it and just forgot to tell a teacher.
I could keep going on and on. When the $100 incident with Grace's purse happened, I was furious. I came to her school at the end of the school day, stood in the hallway and went on and on and on. I asked whether the principal was going to call the police to investigate. Grace told me about a girl in her school who was really rich -- she had 3 iPods and 4 cell phones. My husband and I asked Grace whether it was possible that this girl was stealing the stuff; afterall, her own purse had been stolen by someone who was in very close proximity to her.
To be frank, it's not difficult for me to believe the kids get involved in drugs and alcohol and sex early on. But it's another jump altogether for me to think of theft. This isn't crime for the sake of wanting to do something taboo; this is crime for crime's sake. It's not like when you are 10 or 12 and you steal a purse or a walkman or a cell phone or an iPod that you don't know you're doing something wrong. But why are you doing it?
Another pet peeve of mine about these episodes is how much in denial some adults are. Like the cell phone theft during the musical. The cell phones were taken from exactly the place they had been tucked away, and nothing else in the vicinity had been touched. Clearly the thief knew what they were after and exactly where to find it. Sounds like someone who was in the room, right? Like someone 12? 13? Am I right? So why do the adults not even entertain this possibility?
I stole one of those Brach's candies from the bins in the grocery store once when I was a kid. I felt so guilty. But that didn't stop me. I walked right out of that grocery store with my mom and sisters, covertly stuffed that candy in my mouth, and tried to enjoy it. I'm sure everyone has a similar story. But for me there is a hard line between stealing something trivial from a store that you can't resist because you're 4 or 5-years-old and stealing something of great value from someone you know. How does that happen? You see it, you see that it belongs to someone else, and you take it? What for? And what for when you are only 10 or 12?
Could someone help me out with this? Do kids who steal big ticket items like this when they are a kid turn out to be shoplifters? What happens after that? What do shoplifters turn into? Are these the same people who pirate music and movies or is that an entirely different kind of thing?
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Very torn
I am blessed to have an extended family with no estranged members. Like all families, we have our moments of disagreement. But overall, I must say I am very lucky to have a family who can honestly say they all love one another.
Way back when, I said that I didn't want to travel for Christmas. I said it would be stressful. I said even though we would miss a family gathering, I needed the time to rest at home. Our nuclear family needed the time together alone.
The folks gathering at my parents' house was planned be both of my sisters and their families, and my paternal grandmother. Since my father is an only child, that wraps up his side of the family. My mother's family who remain, my grandma, and my uncle and aunt, were not going to visit. My mother traveled to see them this week before all the hubbub at her house began.
I just found out from my middle sister (that is, not my oldest older sister, but the one who comes between us in age) that my grandma and uncle and aunt have decided to travel to my parents' house and be there for Christmas. This means my entire extended family will be together for Christmas, all of them traveling except my parents.
I really want a quiet Christmas at home. But I haven't seen either of my grandmothers in over two years. I'm so frustrated and torn. We don't have any plans for Christmas at our house, like parties or dinners or anything. We will be done with everything by Christmas Eve and then have a week off. Plane tickets are currently going for $300-400 a piece. My mother offered to pay for my daughter's plane ticket.
I just don't know what to do. It's either I get to see my family, and also deal with the stress of having everyone in the same place at the same time, or stay at home and have peace, but then plan 3-4 separate trips in order to see all the same people. And given that both of my grandmothers live in small towns in Florida, the plane tickets are never cheap.
I've started 4 of the previous 6 paragraphs with "I." That says something, I think.
Way back when, I said that I didn't want to travel for Christmas. I said it would be stressful. I said even though we would miss a family gathering, I needed the time to rest at home. Our nuclear family needed the time together alone.
The folks gathering at my parents' house was planned be both of my sisters and their families, and my paternal grandmother. Since my father is an only child, that wraps up his side of the family. My mother's family who remain, my grandma, and my uncle and aunt, were not going to visit. My mother traveled to see them this week before all the hubbub at her house began.
I just found out from my middle sister (that is, not my oldest older sister, but the one who comes between us in age) that my grandma and uncle and aunt have decided to travel to my parents' house and be there for Christmas. This means my entire extended family will be together for Christmas, all of them traveling except my parents.
I really want a quiet Christmas at home. But I haven't seen either of my grandmothers in over two years. I'm so frustrated and torn. We don't have any plans for Christmas at our house, like parties or dinners or anything. We will be done with everything by Christmas Eve and then have a week off. Plane tickets are currently going for $300-400 a piece. My mother offered to pay for my daughter's plane ticket.
I just don't know what to do. It's either I get to see my family, and also deal with the stress of having everyone in the same place at the same time, or stay at home and have peace, but then plan 3-4 separate trips in order to see all the same people. And given that both of my grandmothers live in small towns in Florida, the plane tickets are never cheap.
I've started 4 of the previous 6 paragraphs with "I." That says something, I think.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Robert Lee
Today is my granddaddy's birthday. He passed away two and a half years ago. He would have been 98 today. I miss him a lot.
When I was born, I was the third child, the third girl, of my granddaddy's only child. At that time my granddaddy and grandma lived in Hialeah, Florida and my family in Miami. I was born in Coral Gables. My parents finally decided on a name for me a week after I was born, at my grandparents' house. See, it took a week because they had picked out a boy name, THE boy name, that was going to be used. But three children were born, and alas, no boy. Don't get me wrong; it's not that anyone had a problem with girls. My sisters and I grew up completely loved and empowered and never had a sense that anyone missed out on anything by not having sons or grandsons. It's just that...like many families, they had a boy name picked out that they hadn't gotten the chance to use.
Like many boys born in the south in the late 19th century and the early 20th, my granddaddy was named for General Robert E. Lee. Robert was his first name, Lee was his middle name. And so my parents' son was to be Robert, after my granddaddy and after General Lee. But you can't just go naming a girl Robert. And we all know that I ended up with Heather. The solution? I got the middle name "Lee"; I am Heather Lee. I always knew my whole life that my Lee was from my granddaddy.
I learned a lot of things from my granddaddy. I could write a whole book about how much I reflect on his life and how it helps me keep perspective. He was a simple person, born into rural poverty, and raised on the ethics of working hard and being thankful for what you are blessed to have. And they didn't have much. Nothing was too inconvenient or too much of a sacrifice to do for another soul. If he was driving along and saw someone in need of help, he would stop and help. If he saw someone who was hungry, he would share his only piece of fruit or sandwich with them. If someone needed help moving something or cleaning something or fixing something or building something, he would help them out the best he could.
He always told me that he was proud of me and knew I could do anything I set my mind to. He wrote me letters during my whole life and always ended them with telling me he loved me. Even in the last weeks of his life, when his hearing was very poor and his strength was failing him, he told my grandma to let him talk to me on the telephone.
During my whole life, whenever I talked to him, he never got bored or interrupted. When I wanted to sit with him and snuggle, he always pulled me close and sat with me for as long as I wanted. I didn't care if he was sweaty from being in the garden picking tomatoes or green beans or up in the orange trees pruning the limbs.
I learned how to fish from my granddaddy. He loved fishing and got out in the boat even up until he was 90 years old. I learned that fishing is about patience. I also learned that you come home only with the fish you need. You don't always catch a big fish, but as long as the fish you catch is enough for your needs, that is fine. I learned that you take only what you need, use all of it, and be thankful for it.
Like I said, there are many stories I could tell about my grandfather Robert Lee. But since this is the first time I write about him here and about my relationship with him, I'll stop here.
Crosscreek, Florida, 2005
When I was born, I was the third child, the third girl, of my granddaddy's only child. At that time my granddaddy and grandma lived in Hialeah, Florida and my family in Miami. I was born in Coral Gables. My parents finally decided on a name for me a week after I was born, at my grandparents' house. See, it took a week because they had picked out a boy name, THE boy name, that was going to be used. But three children were born, and alas, no boy. Don't get me wrong; it's not that anyone had a problem with girls. My sisters and I grew up completely loved and empowered and never had a sense that anyone missed out on anything by not having sons or grandsons. It's just that...like many families, they had a boy name picked out that they hadn't gotten the chance to use.
Like many boys born in the south in the late 19th century and the early 20th, my granddaddy was named for General Robert E. Lee. Robert was his first name, Lee was his middle name. And so my parents' son was to be Robert, after my granddaddy and after General Lee. But you can't just go naming a girl Robert. And we all know that I ended up with Heather. The solution? I got the middle name "Lee"; I am Heather Lee. I always knew my whole life that my Lee was from my granddaddy.
I learned a lot of things from my granddaddy. I could write a whole book about how much I reflect on his life and how it helps me keep perspective. He was a simple person, born into rural poverty, and raised on the ethics of working hard and being thankful for what you are blessed to have. And they didn't have much. Nothing was too inconvenient or too much of a sacrifice to do for another soul. If he was driving along and saw someone in need of help, he would stop and help. If he saw someone who was hungry, he would share his only piece of fruit or sandwich with them. If someone needed help moving something or cleaning something or fixing something or building something, he would help them out the best he could.
He always told me that he was proud of me and knew I could do anything I set my mind to. He wrote me letters during my whole life and always ended them with telling me he loved me. Even in the last weeks of his life, when his hearing was very poor and his strength was failing him, he told my grandma to let him talk to me on the telephone.
During my whole life, whenever I talked to him, he never got bored or interrupted. When I wanted to sit with him and snuggle, he always pulled me close and sat with me for as long as I wanted. I didn't care if he was sweaty from being in the garden picking tomatoes or green beans or up in the orange trees pruning the limbs.
I learned how to fish from my granddaddy. He loved fishing and got out in the boat even up until he was 90 years old. I learned that fishing is about patience. I also learned that you come home only with the fish you need. You don't always catch a big fish, but as long as the fish you catch is enough for your needs, that is fine. I learned that you take only what you need, use all of it, and be thankful for it.
Like I said, there are many stories I could tell about my grandfather Robert Lee. But since this is the first time I write about him here and about my relationship with him, I'll stop here.
Crosscreek, Florida, 2005Saturday, November 29, 2008
Southern Nights
No, I am not experiencing southern nights right now. The temperature has gotten above freezing nay for a week now. Frost covers the lawn every morning, if not actual snow. You are a bold person indeed to venture out into the cold without scarf, gloves, hat, long underwear, wool socks, and good solid footwear.
"Southern Nights" was a single by Glen Campbell.
Last night I was going through the 45s with my sister trying to decide which of the songs I should download from Amazon or the iTunes store. We settled on "T-R-O-U-B-L-E" by Elvis Presley, "Everybody Loves a Lover" by The Shirelles, "I Wanna Be With You" by The Raspberries, and "Southern Nights" by Glen Campbell. I bring this up because I wrote about Glen Campbell about a month ago. And I made an error.
A month ago I wrote about "Rhinestone Cowboy" and how me and my sisters loved this single when we were kids. We played the song over and over. That was true. I also wrote about how we also had the B-side by Glen Campbell, "William Tell Overture," and played that a lot. That was also true. But then I made an error. I wrote that "William Tell Overture" was the B-side of "Rhinestone Cowboy." That was not true. "William Tell Overture" is a B-side, but of another Glen Campbell hit, the aforementioned "Southern Nights." Which also got a lot of play time at our house. As did the REAL B-side of "Rhinestone Cowboy," "Lovelight."
Why bring all this up? Well, there's one possibility which is that I am a compulsive perfectionist who, when discovering I had made such an error, could not live with the misinformation and had to right the record. Oh, OH, OOOOOHHHHHHooooooo hahahahahahahaHAHAHA, ooo!, Oh my! WHa-hahahahahaha!!!!
Me! A perfectionist! Oh, hohohohohhahahahaha!!!!!
Ah, no. That would not be why I'm pointing this out.
I just realized that it gives empirical evidence in support of the fact that I don't google the internet when I try to recollect the past. Yeah, I could. I could go checking my facts and making sure that when I say something that I really know what I'm talking about by checking wikipedia or some other big information site. And sometimes I do. But a lot of times I don't. Like last week when I wrote about INXS. No facts checked. They might be wrong, but I'm relying upon my memory of buying the album in 10th grade to remember that that was 1987.
Fact-finding sources say that the first music video ever played on MTV was "Video Killed The Radio Star." I had a friend in college who swore that was a lie. He said that he waited for MTV to go on the air in his town, and the first video was most certainly not that obscure song. This was a case of published facts not matching up with one's memories. So in the face of the information, should the friend have admitted he was wrong and realized his memories were in error? I say no. Why? Only years later did it come to light that when MTV went on the air and broadcast their first music video, "Video Killed The Radio Star," only a few regions carried the station. What my friend in college remembered was when MTV first broadcast in HIS town, not when it first went on the air. So you see, the published facts are not always what we experienced. Building memories off the records can lead to problems insomuch as you have no real memory of the facts, so you get confused in the midst of the process.
Strange, huh? MTV saw their broadcast of music videos and changing the way we experienced music. So much so that their first video to broadcast was a song about that change. Which brings me back to my experience of recalling memories of my childhood with the aid of the internet. Is the world wide web changing the way I remember my past? All of our pasts? Yeah, I think it is, so I often times choose not to google the stuff and write it offline before looking for relevant links.
It's a strange thing, the fluidity of memories. They are a creation all your own, not video recordings or artifacts that don't change. They change and are colored by every new experience we have. The way I remember a day in 4th grade or a couples skate at the roller rink or a fight I had with my husband is all a reflection of my perspective and my hindsight. And my ability to cope with the present is affected by the vast collection of these memories, however biased they are.
And so I plod onward in the process.
"Southern Nights" was a single by Glen Campbell.
Last night I was going through the 45s with my sister trying to decide which of the songs I should download from Amazon or the iTunes store. We settled on "T-R-O-U-B-L-E" by Elvis Presley, "Everybody Loves a Lover" by The Shirelles, "I Wanna Be With You" by The Raspberries, and "Southern Nights" by Glen Campbell. I bring this up because I wrote about Glen Campbell about a month ago. And I made an error.
A month ago I wrote about "Rhinestone Cowboy" and how me and my sisters loved this single when we were kids. We played the song over and over. That was true. I also wrote about how we also had the B-side by Glen Campbell, "William Tell Overture," and played that a lot. That was also true. But then I made an error. I wrote that "William Tell Overture" was the B-side of "Rhinestone Cowboy." That was not true. "William Tell Overture" is a B-side, but of another Glen Campbell hit, the aforementioned "Southern Nights." Which also got a lot of play time at our house. As did the REAL B-side of "Rhinestone Cowboy," "Lovelight."
Why bring all this up? Well, there's one possibility which is that I am a compulsive perfectionist who, when discovering I had made such an error, could not live with the misinformation and had to right the record. Oh, OH, OOOOOHHHHHHooooooo hahahahahahahaHAHAHA, ooo!, Oh my! WHa-hahahahahaha!!!!
Me! A perfectionist! Oh, hohohohohhahahahaha!!!!!
Ah, no. That would not be why I'm pointing this out.
I just realized that it gives empirical evidence in support of the fact that I don't google the internet when I try to recollect the past. Yeah, I could. I could go checking my facts and making sure that when I say something that I really know what I'm talking about by checking wikipedia or some other big information site. And sometimes I do. But a lot of times I don't. Like last week when I wrote about INXS. No facts checked. They might be wrong, but I'm relying upon my memory of buying the album in 10th grade to remember that that was 1987.
Fact-finding sources say that the first music video ever played on MTV was "Video Killed The Radio Star." I had a friend in college who swore that was a lie. He said that he waited for MTV to go on the air in his town, and the first video was most certainly not that obscure song. This was a case of published facts not matching up with one's memories. So in the face of the information, should the friend have admitted he was wrong and realized his memories were in error? I say no. Why? Only years later did it come to light that when MTV went on the air and broadcast their first music video, "Video Killed The Radio Star," only a few regions carried the station. What my friend in college remembered was when MTV first broadcast in HIS town, not when it first went on the air. So you see, the published facts are not always what we experienced. Building memories off the records can lead to problems insomuch as you have no real memory of the facts, so you get confused in the midst of the process.
Strange, huh? MTV saw their broadcast of music videos and changing the way we experienced music. So much so that their first video to broadcast was a song about that change. Which brings me back to my experience of recalling memories of my childhood with the aid of the internet. Is the world wide web changing the way I remember my past? All of our pasts? Yeah, I think it is, so I often times choose not to google the stuff and write it offline before looking for relevant links.
It's a strange thing, the fluidity of memories. They are a creation all your own, not video recordings or artifacts that don't change. They change and are colored by every new experience we have. The way I remember a day in 4th grade or a couples skate at the roller rink or a fight I had with my husband is all a reflection of my perspective and my hindsight. And my ability to cope with the present is affected by the vast collection of these memories, however biased they are.
And so I plod onward in the process.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Our pony Sandy
My father's father grew up in a small town in northwest Alabama called Winfield. His father, my great grandfather, had a small farm (about 100 acres) and a good Scottish heritage of early to rise, early to bed. He built a house on the land which consisted of two rooms, a great room with a hearth and a bedroom. He also dug and built a well on the land and built a corn crib, both of which still stand to this day. In that home he and my great grandmother welcomed eight children into the world, six sons and two daughters, one daughter died in infancy. My grandfather was the fourth child, the fourth son.
My grandfather left Alabama during the Depression. He and three brothers headed south to the sugar cane fields of Florida to make a few dollars and fill their bellies. He came to Palm Beach where he met my grandmother, a teenager not much older than Grace at the time. When she was 18 they married, and they never left Florida. But Alabama was always the homestead. Today the original farm that my great grandfather worked has been divided many ways among many aunts and uncles and cousins. The parcel that went to my grandfather was the original site of the home, the well, and the corn crib. My great grandfather survived his wife and died himself as an old man in the 1960s. Afterwards my great aunts and uncles moved the few possessions still in the home out. Shortly thereafter vandals set fire to the house and all that remained after a few hours was the chimney from the hearth.
This is what I know as the homestead. A clearing of land that has a well, an old corn crib, and the remaining bricks from a collapsed chimney still sitting where the home it kept warm was erected. When we visited the homestead with my grandparents, we brought along a mobile trailer and sat in right on the property. There we would cook and bathe and eat and sleep while we visited during the summer.
One summer my grandfather did something extraordinary. My cousins who lived in Alabama all had horses or goats or sheep or something else that we couldn't even dream of having in the 'burbs of South Florida. But here, in Alabama, on the homestead, we could have something bigger than a dog, right? My grandfather arranged to buy a light brown pony, not much taller than four feet, and have her live with us on the homestead for our summer visit.
Oh. My. God. A PONY. We had a pony in Alabama just waiting for us! As soon as we got there, we could ride our pony! We named her Sandy, for her color. But Grease had just come out as a motion picture too, so we thought Sandy was a especially hip name for her.
When we finally got to meet Sandy, she was a dream come true. Her coat was so smooth and her mane was so thick in my fingers. We could ride her bareback because she was so little. I was only five, and I remember thinking, she's just my size! She's perfect for ME because I'm the LITTLEST! I loved riding her. It was like nothing else I did. Yeah, it took some getting used to because it wasn't like a bike where you could make it go where you want it to go. But still! She was a pony and I could ride her every day if I wanted!
People tell me Sandy was not so well-behaved, that she tried to bite people. They say she was trouble because she would kick and make noise at night, and they speculated that maybe she was a little neurotic. Looking back on it now, I can't imagine how this went over with my grandmother and my parents. It was well known that we were the city slickers of this family, and the adults didn't mind that characterization one bit. They liked being able to live away from the farm. Decades later when we were all adults, we asked my grandfather why he left Alabama to go so far away from the rest of his family. He said with a smile, "I wanted to get out of that place!" So I can only imagine that a summer in Alabama in a trailer with a pony was just about as much country as my city-folk family could bear.
But my memories of the event are perfect. A beautiful pony, a pony for just my sisters and me. I have no recollection of that pony being a problem at all. Sometimes ignorance is bliss :)
My grandfather left Alabama during the Depression. He and three brothers headed south to the sugar cane fields of Florida to make a few dollars and fill their bellies. He came to Palm Beach where he met my grandmother, a teenager not much older than Grace at the time. When she was 18 they married, and they never left Florida. But Alabama was always the homestead. Today the original farm that my great grandfather worked has been divided many ways among many aunts and uncles and cousins. The parcel that went to my grandfather was the original site of the home, the well, and the corn crib. My great grandfather survived his wife and died himself as an old man in the 1960s. Afterwards my great aunts and uncles moved the few possessions still in the home out. Shortly thereafter vandals set fire to the house and all that remained after a few hours was the chimney from the hearth.
This is what I know as the homestead. A clearing of land that has a well, an old corn crib, and the remaining bricks from a collapsed chimney still sitting where the home it kept warm was erected. When we visited the homestead with my grandparents, we brought along a mobile trailer and sat in right on the property. There we would cook and bathe and eat and sleep while we visited during the summer.
One summer my grandfather did something extraordinary. My cousins who lived in Alabama all had horses or goats or sheep or something else that we couldn't even dream of having in the 'burbs of South Florida. But here, in Alabama, on the homestead, we could have something bigger than a dog, right? My grandfather arranged to buy a light brown pony, not much taller than four feet, and have her live with us on the homestead for our summer visit.
Oh. My. God. A PONY. We had a pony in Alabama just waiting for us! As soon as we got there, we could ride our pony! We named her Sandy, for her color. But Grease had just come out as a motion picture too, so we thought Sandy was a especially hip name for her.
When we finally got to meet Sandy, she was a dream come true. Her coat was so smooth and her mane was so thick in my fingers. We could ride her bareback because she was so little. I was only five, and I remember thinking, she's just my size! She's perfect for ME because I'm the LITTLEST! I loved riding her. It was like nothing else I did. Yeah, it took some getting used to because it wasn't like a bike where you could make it go where you want it to go. But still! She was a pony and I could ride her every day if I wanted!
People tell me Sandy was not so well-behaved, that she tried to bite people. They say she was trouble because she would kick and make noise at night, and they speculated that maybe she was a little neurotic. Looking back on it now, I can't imagine how this went over with my grandmother and my parents. It was well known that we were the city slickers of this family, and the adults didn't mind that characterization one bit. They liked being able to live away from the farm. Decades later when we were all adults, we asked my grandfather why he left Alabama to go so far away from the rest of his family. He said with a smile, "I wanted to get out of that place!" So I can only imagine that a summer in Alabama in a trailer with a pony was just about as much country as my city-folk family could bear.
But my memories of the event are perfect. A beautiful pony, a pony for just my sisters and me. I have no recollection of that pony being a problem at all. Sometimes ignorance is bliss :)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
It's the twilight zone, I swear it.
If you've been reading my blog for any amount of time, you know I'm trying to reconnect with some people from my past that I've lost touch with (they're all listed on the left sidebar). These are people who I found to be interesting, deep of soul, and full of potential. Life is such that we move through it without realizing which of the people in it are the ones we should hold on to. At times we also find that the ones we do hold on to may have best been left to the wayside. I hope that at least I get to say hey and have a beer or coffee with the people I'm looking to reconnect with.
But then there's something I hadn't calculated: people may be looking for me. People I didn't really think that much of or notice. There have been a few occasions like this, where my mom bumps into someone in my hometown and they say, hey, how IS Heather? Can you give me her email? Or like I mentioned a week ago when writing about the mean girls, one of them went out of her way to have a conversation with me and give me her phone number. If it were me with her, I probably would have avoided her. And I didn't call her. But I guess when she saw me, she wanted to reconnect. Or just connect. Or something.
And then there's the even weirder things: People you can't remember at all who want to reconnect. Weirder? Everyone else seems to remember this person but you.
That's what's been going on for the last few months.
My mom and my two sisters are on facebook. They were all friends with this man, Michael. I don't know who he is. But he's got the same last name as another older woman on their friend lists. The woman's name I vaguely remember as one of those regulars in the Church of my Youth. But that's all I can remember. Then one day, Michael friends me. Hm.
I emailed my sister. I said, who is this? She gave me a long explanation, including that he was three years behind me in school and that he had attended our school as well as gone to church with us. Wow. Now I really felt out of it. I guess it made sense why he remembered me; I would have been a senior in high school when he was a freshman. And I was the yearbook editor, did tech work and directing in the play, kind of a high profile high school student. But still, I couldn't remember this kid at all. But I figure, if my sisters and mom are friends with him, accepting his friend request would be no big deal.
I asked my mother to help me out in jogging my (apparently) failing mind. While she was visiting for three weeks helping me recover from surgery #2, we had a couple conversations about Michael. An older brother and a sister (I think), dad who was an accountant (or maybe a lawyer), blond hair. Somehow I started remembering Michael. But I was taking narcotics for pain. And I am a firm believer in false memory syndrome, so I didn't trust that my memories were the product of anything other than the overwhelming evidence presented to me that this of course was someone I should remember.
Then he comments on some of my pictures on facebook, noting my dad. He remembers my dad, of course. Then I realize we've got tons of common friends on facebook from my high school. I still couldn't remember anything about him at school.
He starts a facebook group called, "You know you went to OUR PAROCHIAL SCHOOL in the 80s if..." and 100 people join. He invites me to join.
Here comes the icing on the cake. About this time I realized something interesting. He's friends with the younger sister of someone I'm looking for. I send him a quick message and ask him to send my email address along to the sister; hopefully the address find its way to a friend I'M looking for! And then it comes: a lengthy email. He asks my advice on leaving his current position and pursuing an MBA, then a following PhD. He trusts me because I'm someone who made it through grad school and the PhD. OK. Then he qualifies this by saying he'd ask my sisters, except he really trusts me the most. He wrote that he only vaguely remembers them, but me he remembers solidly. (This is the part where I swear I start looking around for the hidden camera.) Then he says, 'don't take this the wrong way, but I even had a little bit of a crush on you when I was little.'
Ok, really, I thought it was weird before, but know I've got to say, this is the strangest thing that has happened in the "reconnecting with my past" EVER. What's he going to say next, that I went to a formal cotillion with him? And he's got the photos to prove it?
But then there's something I hadn't calculated: people may be looking for me. People I didn't really think that much of or notice. There have been a few occasions like this, where my mom bumps into someone in my hometown and they say, hey, how IS Heather? Can you give me her email? Or like I mentioned a week ago when writing about the mean girls, one of them went out of her way to have a conversation with me and give me her phone number. If it were me with her, I probably would have avoided her. And I didn't call her. But I guess when she saw me, she wanted to reconnect. Or just connect. Or something.
And then there's the even weirder things: People you can't remember at all who want to reconnect. Weirder? Everyone else seems to remember this person but you.
That's what's been going on for the last few months.
My mom and my two sisters are on facebook. They were all friends with this man, Michael. I don't know who he is. But he's got the same last name as another older woman on their friend lists. The woman's name I vaguely remember as one of those regulars in the Church of my Youth. But that's all I can remember. Then one day, Michael friends me. Hm.
I emailed my sister. I said, who is this? She gave me a long explanation, including that he was three years behind me in school and that he had attended our school as well as gone to church with us. Wow. Now I really felt out of it. I guess it made sense why he remembered me; I would have been a senior in high school when he was a freshman. And I was the yearbook editor, did tech work and directing in the play, kind of a high profile high school student. But still, I couldn't remember this kid at all. But I figure, if my sisters and mom are friends with him, accepting his friend request would be no big deal.
I asked my mother to help me out in jogging my (apparently) failing mind. While she was visiting for three weeks helping me recover from surgery #2, we had a couple conversations about Michael. An older brother and a sister (I think), dad who was an accountant (or maybe a lawyer), blond hair. Somehow I started remembering Michael. But I was taking narcotics for pain. And I am a firm believer in false memory syndrome, so I didn't trust that my memories were the product of anything other than the overwhelming evidence presented to me that this of course was someone I should remember.
Then he comments on some of my pictures on facebook, noting my dad. He remembers my dad, of course. Then I realize we've got tons of common friends on facebook from my high school. I still couldn't remember anything about him at school.
He starts a facebook group called, "You know you went to OUR PAROCHIAL SCHOOL in the 80s if..." and 100 people join. He invites me to join.
Here comes the icing on the cake. About this time I realized something interesting. He's friends with the younger sister of someone I'm looking for. I send him a quick message and ask him to send my email address along to the sister; hopefully the address find its way to a friend I'M looking for! And then it comes: a lengthy email. He asks my advice on leaving his current position and pursuing an MBA, then a following PhD. He trusts me because I'm someone who made it through grad school and the PhD. OK. Then he qualifies this by saying he'd ask my sisters, except he really trusts me the most. He wrote that he only vaguely remembers them, but me he remembers solidly. (This is the part where I swear I start looking around for the hidden camera.) Then he says, 'don't take this the wrong way, but I even had a little bit of a crush on you when I was little.'
Ok, really, I thought it was weird before, but know I've got to say, this is the strangest thing that has happened in the "reconnecting with my past" EVER. What's he going to say next, that I went to a formal cotillion with him? And he's got the photos to prove it?
Friday, November 14, 2008
Searching for love
I will break for a moment from the accusing tone my ranting has taken on as of late. It is desperately needed.
I have been ranting for a few days about my frustration with religion. My background with religion is protestant christianity. I stopped going to church altogether 6 years ago.
Mostly my frustration with christianity has to do with what I perceive to be unethical acts of the church. Discrimination. Misrepresentation. Hypocrisy. Hate.
However...
Many of you know that I follow quite a few blogs written by bloggers who are faithful Christians. Like Mike at Emerging Pensees and Angela at angelawd. And Amira at Memoirs of a Single Mom. And I can't leave out Ana at The struggle within...
Lately I've been finding myself sad. No, let me take that back. "Sad" doesn't quite do it. I have been in mourning. I want so much to wake up and find that the truth of the religion I was raised in doesn't include discrimination or misrepresentation or hypocrisy or hate. I want to bring my child into a church and not worry that she'll hear the wrong message. Because I definitely heard a heapload of the wrong message. In fact, that was pretty much all I heard until I left the religion altogether at 30.
But I want the good parts. I want the charity. I want the acceptance and the empathy.
My sister shared this video that her local parish worked on:
I found it resounding of the same sentiments I shared in a post of mine a month ago. It is quite apropos that this message should come from the church to christians. Afterall, christmas is a christian holiday.
No, this doesn't answer all my concerns. Just two days ago "the leading U.S. Catholic prelate warned that President-elect Barack Obama's promise to unify the country would be shattered if he pursues policies to increase access to abortion." This from the same religion who bans any form of birth control.
Still, I wish for a day when I find a church that will throw out the prejudice and the discrimination and just follow what Jesus Christ said were the two most important commandments: "Love the Lord your God" and "Love your neighbor as yourself."
Please give clean drinking water to all the souls on the planet. And please let women choose their own reproductive future by means other than abstinence. And please stop clinging to a few passages that damn gays to hell. Why? Because I so desperately want to believe that God is love, but all this tells me he can't possibly be the embodiment of love. If the church could just let go of these things, I could believe again.
I am not a rebel. I am not a renegade. I am someone who feels for my common man, and I so wish I could be part of a community of people who bond together under a teaching of non-discrimination and true love for all people. But I can't find it anywhere. Nowhere.
I have been ranting for a few days about my frustration with religion. My background with religion is protestant christianity. I stopped going to church altogether 6 years ago.
Mostly my frustration with christianity has to do with what I perceive to be unethical acts of the church. Discrimination. Misrepresentation. Hypocrisy. Hate.
However...
Many of you know that I follow quite a few blogs written by bloggers who are faithful Christians. Like Mike at Emerging Pensees and Angela at angelawd. And Amira at Memoirs of a Single Mom. And I can't leave out Ana at The struggle within...
Lately I've been finding myself sad. No, let me take that back. "Sad" doesn't quite do it. I have been in mourning. I want so much to wake up and find that the truth of the religion I was raised in doesn't include discrimination or misrepresentation or hypocrisy or hate. I want to bring my child into a church and not worry that she'll hear the wrong message. Because I definitely heard a heapload of the wrong message. In fact, that was pretty much all I heard until I left the religion altogether at 30.
But I want the good parts. I want the charity. I want the acceptance and the empathy.
My sister shared this video that her local parish worked on:
I found it resounding of the same sentiments I shared in a post of mine a month ago. It is quite apropos that this message should come from the church to christians. Afterall, christmas is a christian holiday.
No, this doesn't answer all my concerns. Just two days ago "the leading U.S. Catholic prelate warned that President-elect Barack Obama's promise to unify the country would be shattered if he pursues policies to increase access to abortion." This from the same religion who bans any form of birth control.
Still, I wish for a day when I find a church that will throw out the prejudice and the discrimination and just follow what Jesus Christ said were the two most important commandments: "Love the Lord your God" and "Love your neighbor as yourself."
Please give clean drinking water to all the souls on the planet. And please let women choose their own reproductive future by means other than abstinence. And please stop clinging to a few passages that damn gays to hell. Why? Because I so desperately want to believe that God is love, but all this tells me he can't possibly be the embodiment of love. If the church could just let go of these things, I could believe again.
I am not a rebel. I am not a renegade. I am someone who feels for my common man, and I so wish I could be part of a community of people who bond together under a teaching of non-discrimination and true love for all people. But I can't find it anywhere. Nowhere.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Gay marriage
So, Prop 8. Everybody's talking about it.
In one day I saw this video commentary by Keith Olbermann posted at 5 different blogs and facebook walls.
I've had notification of this national protest emailed to me and mentioned on two blogs.
My sister and I have had a little bit of a steely email exchange over this issue in the last couple days. She just converted to catholicism this year.
I have watched the actions and heard the comments of those around me, straight and gay, in response to this.
So it seems I arrive at needing to write about this.
I have been affected deeply by the comments and emotions of my friends who are gay. No, this isn't a "I'm not prejudiced; I have lots of friends who are gay" platform. On the contrary, their experiences, their emotions, their actions, and their suffering has led me to conclude that something must be done. I decided long ago that it was unethical to deny equal rights to people on the basis of sexual orientation. These equal rights include the right to marry. But now I've gone one step further in my thinking. I've now realized it is unethical to not do something about it. To sit by and enjoy certain rights while they are denied to others is wrong.
When I was getting divorced 6 years ago, I spoke to a good friend who happens to be gay. I was lamenting about how frustrated I was and how this felt so bad and how I just wanted to move past this time in my life. He said one thing that I'll never forget: "I wish I could find out what it feels like to get divorced, but I'll never know."
When I got engaged to be married almost 4 years ago, another one of my friends was joyous in the celebration. He didn't pause for a second and started making arrangements to travel to the US for the wedding. He, you see, is not a US citizen and didn't have a way to obtain a permanent residency card at the time. Part of the elation of coming to the wedding was being able to make another trip to the US to see his partner of 6 years, an American. They spent two years living apart before one of them could legally obtain a long term visa in the other's country of citizenship. To have them there at my wedding as a couple, knowing that they were celebrating with us what they so wanted and could not have, was a transforming experience for me. Realizing this, we requested that the presiding priest change the liturgy from "The union of husband and wife in heart, body, and mind is intended by God for their mutual joy" to "the union of two people in heart..." There was no mention of husband and wife or man and woman in the liturgy of the ceremony unless it referred to my now-husband and I.
I have many thoughts about this and I could write a whole volume on how sickened I have become over this whole issue. I've heard this: "if Prop 8 is not passed, they're going to teach about gay lifestyle in the schools." Well what's so bad about that? Do you mean to tell me that teens who are gay might actually have the experience of feeling normal during sex education? And pardon me, but is the insinuation here that gay sex practices will be taught? Because I can't believe that the opponents of same-sex marriage are in favor of teaching straight-sex practices in the school. Technique, straight or otherwise, is not something that's in the textbooks as far as I know.
I think a lot of people who oppose gay marriage have this line of thinking:
If this is you, or someone you know, know that this is not tolerance. This is not moderate. This is not striking a balance.
This is putting a glossy packaging on discrimination.
If your religion condones this, then know that your religion endorses discrimination. My hunch is that the discrimination of said religion probably doesn't stop with gays and lesbians. It may extend to, say, women. Or foreigners. Or those who don't practice the religion. Or those who are not part of "a chosen people."
Think about it.
In one day I saw this video commentary by Keith Olbermann posted at 5 different blogs and facebook walls.
I've had notification of this national protest emailed to me and mentioned on two blogs.
My sister and I have had a little bit of a steely email exchange over this issue in the last couple days. She just converted to catholicism this year.
I have watched the actions and heard the comments of those around me, straight and gay, in response to this.
So it seems I arrive at needing to write about this.
I have been affected deeply by the comments and emotions of my friends who are gay. No, this isn't a "I'm not prejudiced; I have lots of friends who are gay" platform. On the contrary, their experiences, their emotions, their actions, and their suffering has led me to conclude that something must be done. I decided long ago that it was unethical to deny equal rights to people on the basis of sexual orientation. These equal rights include the right to marry. But now I've gone one step further in my thinking. I've now realized it is unethical to not do something about it. To sit by and enjoy certain rights while they are denied to others is wrong.
When I was getting divorced 6 years ago, I spoke to a good friend who happens to be gay. I was lamenting about how frustrated I was and how this felt so bad and how I just wanted to move past this time in my life. He said one thing that I'll never forget: "I wish I could find out what it feels like to get divorced, but I'll never know."
When I got engaged to be married almost 4 years ago, another one of my friends was joyous in the celebration. He didn't pause for a second and started making arrangements to travel to the US for the wedding. He, you see, is not a US citizen and didn't have a way to obtain a permanent residency card at the time. Part of the elation of coming to the wedding was being able to make another trip to the US to see his partner of 6 years, an American. They spent two years living apart before one of them could legally obtain a long term visa in the other's country of citizenship. To have them there at my wedding as a couple, knowing that they were celebrating with us what they so wanted and could not have, was a transforming experience for me. Realizing this, we requested that the presiding priest change the liturgy from "The union of husband and wife in heart, body, and mind is intended by God for their mutual joy" to "the union of two people in heart..." There was no mention of husband and wife or man and woman in the liturgy of the ceremony unless it referred to my now-husband and I.
I have many thoughts about this and I could write a whole volume on how sickened I have become over this whole issue. I've heard this: "if Prop 8 is not passed, they're going to teach about gay lifestyle in the schools." Well what's so bad about that? Do you mean to tell me that teens who are gay might actually have the experience of feeling normal during sex education? And pardon me, but is the insinuation here that gay sex practices will be taught? Because I can't believe that the opponents of same-sex marriage are in favor of teaching straight-sex practices in the school. Technique, straight or otherwise, is not something that's in the textbooks as far as I know.
I think a lot of people who oppose gay marriage have this line of thinking:
If the government legitimatizes same-sex marriage,
then gays and lesbians will feel they have a right to display their lifestyle freely.
In advertising, in movies, in children's textbooks, in public service announcements.
The public libraries would have books that present homosexuality as something normal,
just another expression of diversity.
That would be bad, because I don't agree with homosexuality.
I think it's wrong and it's a sin.
I don't want my kids growing up in a country where sin is legitimatized.
I don't want to be exposed to sin being presented as acceptable behavior.
then gays and lesbians will feel they have a right to display their lifestyle freely.
In advertising, in movies, in children's textbooks, in public service announcements.
The public libraries would have books that present homosexuality as something normal,
just another expression of diversity.
That would be bad, because I don't agree with homosexuality.
I think it's wrong and it's a sin.
I don't want my kids growing up in a country where sin is legitimatized.
I don't want to be exposed to sin being presented as acceptable behavior.
If this is you, or someone you know, know that this is not tolerance. This is not moderate. This is not striking a balance.
This is putting a glossy packaging on discrimination.
If your religion condones this, then know that your religion endorses discrimination. My hunch is that the discrimination of said religion probably doesn't stop with gays and lesbians. It may extend to, say, women. Or foreigners. Or those who don't practice the religion. Or those who are not part of "a chosen people."
Think about it.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The rest of the story
Since yesterday was all about the good side of my 4th grade year, today I'll give a picture of the not-so-good side. In the spring of the school year, just after my critically acclaimed portrayal of the Easter Hen, my mother had a hysterectomy. She had many many many fibroid tumors and her last two pregnancies ended in frighteningly fast deliveries. I hear that due to improved techniques which lessen recovery time, a hysterectomy is now an out-patient surgery. Not so when my mother was up for the operation. Five days in the hospital recovering.
So for five days me, my two sisters and my dad made do at the house without my mother. My father was an airline pilot, so in the middle of the week he was gone one night. My sisters and I stayed with family friends. And it was that day that the bottom dropped out.
I can't remember what the infraction was, but I got in big trouble during art class. The teacher was so angry with me, furious. The class ended with me getting spanked (oh yeah, you gotta love parochial school and their adherence to corporal punishment) and being sent up with a slip to be signed by my parents that evening. If I didn't bring the slip back signed, I would be suspended from school. All that would have been bad enough, but on top of that there was one additional stressor: I wasn't going to see my parents that night. My mother was in the hospital and my dad was out of town. It didn't occur to me to tell anyone this situation, and so I just worried all night long about the situation.
When I went to school the next day, I decided to go to the art teacher's classroom and explain why I couldn't return the slip that day. He told me I should have had the parents of the family I was stayed with sign the slip. Or have one of my sisters sign it. He begrudgingly told me that I had one more day. That was Thursday. The next day was Good Friday. Good Friday was a day off of school, as was the entire next week.
My mother came home from the hospital that weekend and we all helped her recuperate the next week while we were home from school. I knew I should have told my parents about the trouble I got it right away, but there just didn't seem a good time. My mom was tired, my dad was trying to keep up with all of us while continuing on his regular flight schedule, and I really didn't want to tell my parents I had gotten in trouble. Again. Because I was on a high. I was a superstar, remember? They finally thought I was somebody, somebody who could do things right, somebody who didn't always mess things up.
Every night I went to bed and I felt scared and sick in my stomach. I knew that eventually I would have to tell my parents what had happened, and they would be very angry with me. I would have to hear how this was the last thing they wanted to hear at this time. My mother needed to hear good news and my dad needed us to help him out, and I had bad things to tell them.
Finally, the Sunday night before school was to resume, I came to their bedroom and told them everything. I was upset and cried; I always cried. They got upset and they scolded me. They scolded me not only for doing something wrong (whatever it was, no one remembers now), but for not telling them. There is no up-side to this tale; I got in trouble, my family was under a very stressful time, I brought home bad news, once again I was the troublemaker of our family.
And so it seems life goes: one minute you're a superstar, and the next you're down in the dumps. No, I don't think I'm bipolar. But I guess through the years I've learned to take the good with a grain of salt so that when the bad comes I don't crash down quite so far.
So for five days me, my two sisters and my dad made do at the house without my mother. My father was an airline pilot, so in the middle of the week he was gone one night. My sisters and I stayed with family friends. And it was that day that the bottom dropped out.
I can't remember what the infraction was, but I got in big trouble during art class. The teacher was so angry with me, furious. The class ended with me getting spanked (oh yeah, you gotta love parochial school and their adherence to corporal punishment) and being sent up with a slip to be signed by my parents that evening. If I didn't bring the slip back signed, I would be suspended from school. All that would have been bad enough, but on top of that there was one additional stressor: I wasn't going to see my parents that night. My mother was in the hospital and my dad was out of town. It didn't occur to me to tell anyone this situation, and so I just worried all night long about the situation.
When I went to school the next day, I decided to go to the art teacher's classroom and explain why I couldn't return the slip that day. He told me I should have had the parents of the family I was stayed with sign the slip. Or have one of my sisters sign it. He begrudgingly told me that I had one more day. That was Thursday. The next day was Good Friday. Good Friday was a day off of school, as was the entire next week.
My mother came home from the hospital that weekend and we all helped her recuperate the next week while we were home from school. I knew I should have told my parents about the trouble I got it right away, but there just didn't seem a good time. My mom was tired, my dad was trying to keep up with all of us while continuing on his regular flight schedule, and I really didn't want to tell my parents I had gotten in trouble. Again. Because I was on a high. I was a superstar, remember? They finally thought I was somebody, somebody who could do things right, somebody who didn't always mess things up.
Every night I went to bed and I felt scared and sick in my stomach. I knew that eventually I would have to tell my parents what had happened, and they would be very angry with me. I would have to hear how this was the last thing they wanted to hear at this time. My mother needed to hear good news and my dad needed us to help him out, and I had bad things to tell them.
Finally, the Sunday night before school was to resume, I came to their bedroom and told them everything. I was upset and cried; I always cried. They got upset and they scolded me. They scolded me not only for doing something wrong (whatever it was, no one remembers now), but for not telling them. There is no up-side to this tale; I got in trouble, my family was under a very stressful time, I brought home bad news, once again I was the troublemaker of our family.
And so it seems life goes: one minute you're a superstar, and the next you're down in the dumps. No, I don't think I'm bipolar. But I guess through the years I've learned to take the good with a grain of salt so that when the bad comes I don't crash down quite so far.
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