What about the others?

What about the others?

A great deal is made mention of those who attend Church on a Sunday or Synagogue on a Friday or anywhere else deemed a place of worship on a particular day or evening.  Ask any group of ten or more about their belief systems and you are likely to come up with an array of answers from those who attend on a regular basis to those who only visit such places on high days and holidays or holy days, which is where that word stems from, of course. Now there is a plethora of holidays celebrated by taking the day off work to commemorate a revered dead leader or late great statesman. Not too much to do with any kind of organized religious fervor or intent. There are days to celebrate the birth of a child, the death of the same one, and the rise of those who built our nation. 

There are days off in honor of those who served; those who died doing so, an ode to work and an homage to the flag. All good excuses to break out the hot dogs, fire up the grill and drink beer. But their intent does seem to have strayed a tad from the original idea of the holiday. How many, for example visit a veteran’s grave on Memorial Day or undertake much more than attendance at a parade on Independence Day? We are endowed by our forebears with these inalienable rights, the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness, the same goes for the right to worship. There does not appear to be a populist right however, not to. It’s interesting to think about the conscious choice not to belong to any kind of organized religious institution and what that means in a society which flouts the opposing need to do so. Any time it is mentioned or written about a person of interest, that they appear not to have an attachment thereto, there also arises certain, albeit unspoken, suspicion about them. Why is it then that a Nation whose foundation was built on the rights of the individual still has such a hang up about those who choose not to choose? Not to choose to belong to any one particular religious entity. Why is it suspect to simply be a person who plots their own course, one who isn’t part of a sect, one who can still be a great leader an inspiration by any standard to all who encounter him. I don’t go to church any more. We used to go, I used to drag the children, clean but unwilling to a place of worship, where I thought, mistakenly, that they should be led to worship, shown its example then allowed to make a decision of their own. Thus far none of them has willingly returned but for our eldest who has found a pleasant community where she too takes her clean and shiny children with the same aim in mind. 

But it’s hard to actually tell others that you don’t belong to or attend a place of organized worship. Once you do, you’ve set yourself up to be labeled a non believer, an atheist or even an anti-christian. Not so. I just don’t feel the need for an intermediary, a uniformed go between to set me on a path of communication to our dear lord. I think she hears and sees me without a man in a dress and a gold lame hat telling her what I’m up to. Every time I have joined a church there has been some sort of contretemps involving money and the need for more, membership and the need for more to make the money and the never ending asking. None of which has ever made me feel closer to my maker, or better attuned to his presence or better able to evangelize upon her behalf. You’ll note I am mixing gender terms here because I don’t pretend to know whether the almighty is in the male or female form. I tend to think female when I look at all the good stuff; nature, children, roasted vegetables. But then definitely male for things like war, plague, pestilence and republicans!

I do pray. Quite well actually, but usually only in the form of thanksgiving. I don’t do much asking, I think if there is a god to whom all these requests are filtered, he’s pretty tied up without the whining of me about winning the power ball or not having rain on Sarah’s wedding day. I said a big hearty thanks when we (humankind that is) discovered Gleevec and when healthy babies showed up against all the odds. But mostly I look out on the magnificence  that surrounds us and the life I have and just say thank you I really appreciate it all. Nice work. When I am traveling though and I see the incredible buildings; cathedrals and chapels alike I am overwhelmed at the feats of grandiosity to which man has gone to say a more elaborate thank you. I look at the labour and the cost, the robes, shoes, hats, ceilings and artwork, the colossal solid gold things and wonder what they have to do with saying thanks. I wonder why we have so many men following rules they wrote in his name about what women can and cannot do with their bodies. I wonder about the wars we have fought over the ideology espoused in his name that have slaughtered, butchered, raped and maimed billions in his name. I wonder how that thanks him. I always liked, but never wore, those bracelets that said WWJD; what would Jesus do? Most of the time I think he’d be embarrassed and really cross with us for getting it so wrong when he made it so easy for us not to. 

The Intimacy of Detail

Getting to know you…getting to know all about you!

I had a discussion with the Captain this morning about switching to a new dentist. Our esteemed dentist, someone whom we have known for many years; his kids went to school with our kids, I attended the same church as he and his family for some time, we saw one another at social gatherings. In fact the first time I met him I commented on his fabulous teeth and my sister in law told me he was a dentist! I took this as a good sign and that is why we began seeing him professionally. His hygienist (a uniquely American career path) has always cleaned our teeth to within a millimeter of our gums, she has shown us how to floss correctly, how to use an electric toothbrush and a water pik, she has saved our teeth. She knows where all the little sensitive parts are hidden, she has taught us how to use a specific brand of toothpaste to help alleviate this pain, she found the little bump on my gum line that lead to the root canal before it got infected and would have been very painful. We trusted this team, they had our backs and the inside of our mouths. An appointment with this dentist however also included the nazi front desk lady. Woe betide anyone who skipped an appointment, she would send you an e-mail the likes of which would forbid you from ever doing it again. And you would be banned from actually having an appointment. She would allow you back into the oral fold only upon the proper cancellation of someone else. If you kept that appointment and all others for an undetermined but appropriate length of time, you were back. I respect this style, I wonder however if the actual dentist knew about it. The billing, the insurance forms, all this was brilliantly taken care of, we never had to wonder what was covered or file a claim, she did that for us and in a timely manner we would receive our tiny due from the insurance company. This tacit agreement; that we would subject ourselves to her unpleasantness in exchange for great dental care went on for many years, then suddenly the unimaginable happened; he retired. For good this time, he had tried it once before and came back to open a second practice after the most recent financial crash. But this was the final curtain. Now what. 

Apparently what happens in these situations is that a retiring professional can sell his client list to another dentist, clients are then notified by both the new practice and the former that an appointment can be made to see if there is a good match. It's a bit like online dating but without all the social anxiety. But you do have to start all over again, new faces, new people learning the intimate details of the inside of your mouth. Remember, the last relationship was based on their getting to know your insides while regaling you with the story of their lives. Face it, this was never a two way conversation, your mouth rendered useless by virtue of their hands and tools being inside of it most of the time. Consequently I knew many things about my team’s families and lives and they knew very little about mine but a great deal about what went on in my mouth. A cleaning usually took at least an hour. Fast forward to the new, younger dentist whose 12 year old assistant, after a quick introduction went to work instantly with some sort of hydraulic power washer that hurt like hell and sprayed me like the water slide at Knoebel’s. I put a stop to it instantly, telling her that it was most uncomfortable and this was not something I was willing to tolerate. She assured me I would get used to it and that cleanings would be a great deal quicker via this method. I assured her that I have all the time in the world and she commenced to scraping. Not a talker, this young woman got to work and hit every sensitive spot she could find. More than once. She’s learning I thought, she’s mapping my mouth, she’ll do better next time. She was finished in under 30 minutes and I have to admit my teeth were truly clean. That odd smell however, was my own sweat, fear and tension induced. I apologized and we parted but not before she told me she had made note of the sensitive spots and would indeed be more aware next time. When I made my follow up appointment I made sure that it was with her, to avoid another getting to know you session. 

So she had corroborated what I have always espoused. If you can, keep to the same team. The same woman has checked under my hood for the last fifteen or so years, I see the same technician at the mammogram shop, the same dermatologist annually. This way there is a history between you, about your most important assets. Changes and warning signs are noticed more quickly by those who know you. Our family physician saved the Captain’s life simply because he noticed something had changed and took steps to further investigate. In small communities I understand it’s a tricky balance, if you travel in hoity toity circles the risk of running into your gynecologist at a cocktail party is higher, “Hey there, have you done anything about those hemorrhoids yet?” Or as once honestly happened to me on a garden tour I said to the host “Gosh you look familiar to me but I can’t place why.” “Oh I do your mammogram every year.” was her reply then she said, “ You are very dense.” She meant my girls, not me personally! It is a balancing act, a litany of choices about taking your health care into your own hands, to the extent that the insurance companies will allow. I live in fear that we will be uprooted from this familiar line up of caregivers when we retire and have to switch service providers, that they will dictate whom we may see and that all this longstanding bodily communication will have to be re-built. 

With medical records software I see that being less of an issue, if only the caregivers were given enough time to read the details. In the meanwhile we must be vigilant, make sure we talk out loud about our fears, our allergies; some of which are life threatening and advocate for ourselves. "Remove growth on left buttock" pasted visibly on the correct appendage prior to surgery. We should write down the things that are important to us and then inform those we love as to the location of said statements. We created a Grim Reaper file, it contains statements about DNR specifics and end of life choices, it informs each of us, the Captain and I about what is important to us. In the interests of full disclosure, here I must admit that I don’t actually know where I put that file, it’s not lost, I just can’t find it!  I have put it away somewhere so safe, I may never see it again, but I digress. We have tried without success to share this information with our adult children as they are still in a place where the notion of our no longer being with them is in-conceivable. Plus they hate the name of the file. I intend to continue to be funny even as I approach the pearly gates or the place down under (I am not referring to Australia). In case we both leave this world or slip into comas concurrently the children won’t have to argue or wonder, or even think about what to do. Our last gift to them, one final set of instructions, perhaps taking away a smidgen of the pain over losing us. And also hopefully, preventing yet another sibling battle royale. 

Not that we have done it yet but the other nice thing we should do for the children is tidy up a bit. The basement and the garage continue to be places whose thresholds only the truly adventurous will venture to cross. The accumulated possessions of seven people who cannot throw anything away have risen to alarming proportions, the boxes, piles, heaps and tubs, the huge green trash bags, the padlocked plastic footlockers and the unused but still full furniture stashed in the basement and now also the garage are enough to deter even the minions of Martha Stewart, c’mon you know damn well she doesn’t do that shit herself! But we must. We must go in and winnow down to manageable levels, the crap we no longer need or use. The difficulty is that whilst I am thinking about this, the Captain’s parents are actually doing it, so almost every time we visit them now we come home with the stuff they no longer want. We’re going in the wrong direction here. They keep sending large envelopes full of old photos and framed pictures from their walls and their basement! We made good progress when we took out all the carpet and installed wood floors upstairs, we had to empty the closets in all the kids’ former bedrooms. I snapped photos with the mobile, sent them to the kids and said keep or toss. Almost everything had to be kept of course, so it went into boxes then down to the basement. I made impossible statements like this ”Okay we will keep this for one year and if you have not taken it by then it goes to Goodwill.”  Everyone just laughed at me. Nothing at all was jettisoned, but the closets are still empty and that makes me proud and also takes me one step closer to opening a Bed and Breakfast! Decades from now people may go through those boxes and find swimming trophies and school work, artwork and letters and they will spend hundreds of hours getting to know who we were, getting to know all about us. We’ll get there, so will you. 

Just a Thought

An afterthought.

I was listening to the young women who come to our home every other week to help with the cleaning. This is a huge treat for me, now gainfully unemployed I am still not receiving any income from the unemployment compensation folks, as they are concerned about my whopping pension; $112.00 per month, tipping me over the eligibility edge. The Captain has looked about the house and decided it’s a good investment to continue to have domestic help. Good man, getting his priorities straight. They clean and scrub and polish and shine in places I never think about, they find the task un-daunting and never make me feel like a slob. They don’t complain about the dog hair and they do windows, ovens, anything we ask of them, without judgement or hesitation. And they chat. They talk at a high volume as they run the vacuum cleaner. Whilst one is upstairs the conversation will be launched downstairs, so that it never ceases for the 4 hour duration of their bi-weekly visit. Due to the ongoing dialog I get an insight into their lives that leaves an impression of great kindness on their part. They are both in their mid twenties, one is married; the other, I am still searching for the perfect mate for her! They tolerate my irreverent sense of humor and giggle at all the inappropriate suggestions I make for them. While not Mennonite they are members of a clearly conservative Church which they adhere to faithfully, they never wear pants and they take a Mission Trip annually. So when I suggest to them that the guys who are building the outdoor fireplace look kinda hot, they laugh, blush and shush me! 

They both take care of elderly homebound clients in the last throws of life’s journey. I overhear them talking about bathing and caring for intimate aspects of living in a way that is respectful and generous of spirit, the washing of hair, the trimming of nails, small details of daily life no longer able to be accomplished by those in their care. They discuss manners in which they can help one another without causing either pain or discomfort to the client. The little insights into this world are a constant source of interest to me. They have spoken of teeth brushing and make up application, hair styling and all manner of foot care. They talk about the importance of fresh air and the difficulties involved in bathing a woman who is wheelchair bound. They give the families and permanent caregivers a much deserved break for shopping, or their own hair care, and maintenance, they bring respite. I overhear the talk about laughter and tears, about hope and reluctance and most of all about grace and acceptance. I am in awe of their candor and their can do, I am grateful on behalf of their clients for their innate decency. But mostly I am in touch with aspects of my own future which terrify me. 

My own mum died under the horrific roof of Alzheimer’s Disease, alone in a nursing home dedicated to her specific needs. She was well looked after, but the saddest little things upset me when I would visit. The name tag on a cardigan that did not belong to her, she abhorred polyester, that read Patsy. She was ALWAYS and forever Pat. She would have been incensed at being called Patsy, she always wore pearls, she never wore pants, she was no one’s Patsy. She was an avid reader, as am I, I wished her books and magazines had been around her at the end, I think she would have enjoyed their company. She was a life long knitter, there should have been knitting in progress on every surface in her room before she died, it would have made her feel more at home. She never left the house without full makeup, she wore heels everywhere even to drive. My mother had driving shoes into which she changed, in the car then out again, everywhere she went. She had plans and routes and manners which never changed, so the onslaught of this dreaded illness brought early terror to her life, long before it was diagnosed. She lied to my dad about the reasons for her lateness home, (she got on the wrong bus or forgot entirely where she lived). She stopped driving because it was dangerous to her and those around her, and really had no need to as the bus went everywhere she wanted to go. She was utterly independent then suddenly completely reliant on others. I wish I had been there, 3,000 miles across the sea in England to guide her last year through, with some familiarity for her. I know she didn’t know, I understand she couldn’t have cared less about the details that upset me so much, but now just in case I go the same way, here’s what I would like in my room at the end. 

No fresh flowers, I hate them, I hate the way they smell, I like them in a garden. I’d like a view of the garden, not a vegetable patch which is what garden means in America, an English garden which simply means whatever is behind the house and looks pretty. I want music, I need music; classical, jazz and ancient choral music. No show tunes and no schmaltz. Just hook up my iPod and set it to shuffle, I have over 2,000 hours of music on it, it will suffice. Please, someone paint my nails once in a while, feet too and apply to me, a little blush, some mascara and a light grey eyeshadow. And STOP me from doing my own makeup once anything stronger than a 10X mirror no longer works for me. Check my mustache on a regular basis, and get rid of it for chrissake. Wherever I go, at the very least make sure I can have an open window, hear birdsong and have access to at least some of my own books. I know I may not be able to read them; hire someone who will. Read poetry to me, read Shakespeare and Milton and a little Nora Roberts for good measure. Read my blog to me. Make sure there are pictures of all of you around me at all times. If I have any friends left by this point in my life, bring them to me, let them sit a while and allow us wine to drink. Dark, red, dry wine, no crap. I won’t go quietly, but if I have to go like my mum did, please try to help me make a decent exit amongst my own belongings, so that any new friends will get to know the real me. Don’t let anyone label my clothes incorrectly and call me honey or sweetheart, I am to be called Mrs. Smith or Annie. If you see something labeled Ann rip it off and admonish those charged with my care to get it right. I don’t want a room mate but understand the Captain’s means may have dried up by this time, at least try to find someone who doesn’t snore, doesn’t mind if I do, and has no hearing left so we can listen to my music! 

I think what I am saying, is that when we go, we wish to be remembered for who we believe we are. I can't think of anything worse than to have lived a life as great as mine, so filled with pretty much everything I ever hoped for and worked for, to be forgotten or lost simply because we weren't careful enough with it at its conclusion. When the Captain's grandpa died in his nineties, one of my daughters made sure that a comb was placed in his pocket. She did this AT the viewing, she was only eleven at the time, she wasn't hysterical she was practical. He always had a comb in his pocket and she wanted him to have this on his next journey. He died with a full head of thick, silver hair which she had combed many times as a small child and knew enough at this tender age, about what was of importance to this elderly, gentle, man; good grooming and a complete set of accessories.

Great British Cooking

And other lies?

I’m working with a niece who still lives in the motherland, she is an amazingly talented professional photographer. She does a lot with food styling, making simple food look inviting and casually elegant for an up coming book which she is creating with my sister in law, her mum. What a tribute to a great relationship. The American version will require a little translation, not just for the metric measurements but also the language itself and the ingredients, their availability and their frequency or not, of use. That’s where I am trying to be of assistance. I can remember going to the Isle of Wight where they lived and ran a B and B, one of England’s best traditions, watching these darling little girls, Lucie and Catherine standing on chairs at a gas range making crepes before they could read! My visits home in those days were rushed as I left all five of my kids in the capable but not limitlessly patient hands of my husband. So I would snatch five days here and there to visit my ailing mother, how many times can you say goodbye to someone you love who is dying so slowly from Alzheimer’s? My nieces were raised in the manner in which Europeans in general seem to differ from their American counterparts, that is to say with a sense of trust in their own good judgement. I don’t recall there being a lot of interference, not too many rules but a great deal of freedom to express, that produced these two extraordinarily creative young women. The children ate when they were hungry and mostly things they prepared themselves, or helped in a very real manner, their mother to prepare. She was a gifted cook, trained in France in the old ways but used to conjuring up country meals from fresh local ingredients found on the island long before we began to do this in America again, thinking of course that we had invented it. I say again, because this was the only way we fed ourselves before the onslaught of mass produced factory farm foods, long range preservation methods and super sized fast food restaurants that took over the landscape of our appetites. 

The girls were taken mushroom hunting and knew about wild berries, how to make a gooseberry jelly and what to grow in a garden. They learned to drive my dad’s wreck of a car found with actual moss growing on the inside of the leaking cabriole roof and left abandoned in the fields at their house, mostly on their own. They are world traveled both of them, and sophisticated in a way that is wholly different from my girls; fascinating really because no one would accuse me of being an in-depth, helicopter parent. I too thought they could learn more on their own and from one another than from being constantly supervised by me. But back to the cooking. Since living in these here United States of America, I have learned to cook. Self taught as with most who are good at something, I found trial and error to be the best method, but have always been deeply offended and defensive about the manner in which English food is spoken and presented here. One only has to listen to the menus proffered at the ever present “Downton Abbey” events that keep cropping up. They only want to showcase Spotted Dick and Toad in the Hole because of course who doesn’t want say those things. If you look at Southern cooking from America, especially at chefs like Sean Brock, you can find references to things we have been cooking in England since the 15th century. He adds bacon grease to them and becomes a sensation. I’m not knocking his food it is amazing, a trip to either of his restaurants in Charleston will confirm that. You’ll fall in love, of course, with the city and its streets and gas lamp posts and the menus in its restaurants. For me however, it’s like a trip down memory lane. In England.  

Charcuterie is the new black in culinary fashion of late, and what that means basically is meat fat. That’s right, the bits we used to throw away are now sourced from thrifty butchers who brine it and present it with some “artisan” cheese and charge you sixty bucks a plate for it.  We no longer hunt or gather food either, we source it. It is locally sourced and organically sourced, it is special because we pay more for it to come from further away, or closer to home, and it won’t last as long because it’s not chemically enhanced or preserved. Unless it’s supposed to be preserved, in which case it is brined. This cookbook coming from my homeland is full of country food that is made simply and presented photographically in the way you would want anyone to see your home, or life. It looks generous and easy, it looks exactly the way I love my food to look on a plate, like you can’t wait to take that first bite. Lucie’s photos catch the shimmer of sunlight through a damson jam, the glisten of the remains on a used knife as it lies, satisfied, across a thick slice of soft, warm bread. Her pictures allow you into a kitchen that holds lovely memories for me, of visits back home with my parents and these two little nieces, stories from my brother’s days in the police force and when we all went to school together. Plates of cheeses in hues of deep blue and yellow, soft goats milk blends that slather easily across a biscuit or cracker as you would say. The recipes containing ingredients such as sprats and pidgeon, elderberries and rocket, bring memories I can smell and taste. 

Food is an intrinsic part of our memory muscle and brings us the deepest of pleasures when we re-connect to it. I am currently trying to cook for my poor old father in law who is undergoing dialysis and is on a very restrictive, bland diet. I have found a website that helps to show us how to make things he is permitted, that still have taste and flavor, but I am here to tell you there is nothing he can have that will ever replace ham, bacon, salt and animal fat. My mother used to fry bread in drippings, the stuff that came from a Sunday roast, or left in the pan after she cooked rashers of bacon. Great gobs of opaque, white, grease really, that she let melt into a cast iron pan, into which she would then toss salted and peppered bread. She’d brown it on both sides and I can still smell and taste that salty goodness fifty years on. If you slice that real thin and present it on an aged cutting board then call that a “groaning board” you can get a hefty prix fix in a trendy eatery for it. The black stuff at the bottom of the roasting pan is comprised of what is the main ingredient in the much maligned Marmite of my people. Used here it is the basis for any good stock. Still when we have guests for dinner they love to thank me for a great meal by teasing me unflinchingly about the risk in accepting an invitation to a British cook’s house for dinner. 

The food of your people, be it ever so humble is the stuff of your life. The aroma of something you make that you had as a child will comfort you as nothing else can. Marketing gurus have known this since the first time we put something in a jar and sold it to others. Chef Boyardee knew this just as well as the Lee brothers, Matt and Ted, again from Charleston. So if you are lucky enough to get an invitation to the Smith house for dinner, just say yes…and tell me where you’re from first so I can cook you a memory.

Boys to Men

Oh Boy, it’s a Boy.

Remember when a baby was on its way and you didn’t know the gender until it actually arrived. I was always a big fan of that, I felt it gave the Captain something to do down there. ”Well done, great job, breath, you look amazing and it’s a…” Now of course women know the gender of their babies long before they are born, and I’m sure it makes planning everything so much easier, buying the right color sheets and layette etc, does anyone say layette anymore? All very important for the first time mums. Painting a room if you are lucky enough to have one and getting all those little details just right. We had two girls by the time we were expecting our son and we really hoped for a boy but would have been just as happy for another girl. We wanted another child not just a baby and not JUST a boy. The Captain was excited at the possibility of a son, I think. He knew how much he loved his girls, what they made him feel, as a man and as a dad, but the mystery for both of us in a son, was yet to be revealed. 

Before he was born folks gave us blue onesies and little sleepers with airplanes on them, it seemed everyone knew this would be a boy. I was enormous, he was two weeks overdue and it was August. He rushed into the world a huge 9 lb 7oz behemoth and he took our breath away. He was astonishingly beautiful, far too pretty to be a boy, he had a mass of dark hair and we had to cut his fingernails as soon as he arrived. He was wrinkled and spongey like a little old man who had been in the tub too long. But within days he turned a shade of yellowish pink that was stunning, he was loud and demanding. I could never take him anywhere without people making a point to tell me how beautiful he was. It was disarming, our girls had been pretty babies, we thought, but this need to comment had not struck otherwise blasé onlookers. We took to calling him Boy because I think we were a little thrilled with the fact of his gender, I remember the Captain peeking into the diaper to confirm this and with a good deal too much pride, complimenting himself on the handiwork of his son’s remarkable set of family jewels. I didn’t want to tell him that all little boys are quite swollen at birth. 

I think we spoke in different tones to him, we didn’t squeak and miniaturize our voices, we talked with this addition as if he were a small man born with a complete understanding of all things manly, “Good job buddy, nursed like a champ.” “Yeah, you fill that diaper, good man.” Later on I can remember thinking about not treating him differently than I had the girls but he behaved so differently it was a natural response to that, which found me saying things like, “No buddy that’s not a gun it’s a stick, don’t push, ask for more space, be patient, wait for everyone to catch up with you.” They are different, my daughter tells me all the time how different our grandson is from his sister and how surprised she is at that. Our son’s injuries were more often sustained from leaping off of things and making his own mountains whereas the girls were more sports and accident related. 

As time marched on we taught him different things too, how to be gentle, how to treat women, how to love. These were shown to him by his father, I never had to tell him that you don’t shout at your wife, he was shown this. I never had to teach him to be considerate, to fill the tank with gas if you use the family car, to wash it if you get the chance, to keep up with the oil changes and the insurance. Not that my girls didn’t learn all this too but they grew up watching a very giving dad take care of business in his role as their father and my husband. I hope my son continues this legacy of things learned from a good man. He’s about to be a dad, to a boy no less, so I am also watching him gain more and more excitement at this prospect. I think because he had such a great dad he’ll also be one. For those men out there who didn’t get such a good start in life who may be lacking in this area I would highly recommend the Duluth Trading Company, a Men’s Catalogue. Everything about the descriptions of their products from shit, shower and shave soap to fragrances such as Victory: the smell of fresh cut grass, will help teach a man to be a man. Their extra long shirts that cover the ubiquitous butt crack and go on to tell you why that’s important, are not to be missed. 

Men learning to be men from men is a good thing I think. I spent a lot of time talking with inmates during a period when I was teaching a pre-release course at a Federal Boot Camp facility, and I found the greatest missing piece of their life puzzle was a good dad. And of course they almost all went on to be terrible fathers, sperm donors mostly, just creating a life and leaving it. Many of them had four and five children to two or three different women. It was cross cultural, and in many cases not something they even thought of as wrong, or sad until we really began to discuss the affect of being fatherless which they chose to perpetuate. We didn’t solve anything, I don’t flatter myself that, but we had some great discussions. The most interesting aspect of that time in my professional life was listening to these men tell their similarly sad stories and finally figure out that they were really hurting because of this dearth in their lives. I remember a guy told me he didn’t know how to do so many little things, use a screwdriver properly, hold a hammer, a saw, or to paint. He didn’t even know to shave, he said, until he came to prison and another, older man taught him. 

The Captain is the eldest of five, four of whom were boys, they not only had a great dad but a very present grandfather and a ton of uncles in close proximity. My kids were raised in this same climate and I think it makes a huge impact on how they function. They are not very selfish, they know the smallest thing in the room is the most important, and they look out for one another in ways that still surprise me. They can fight with each other like the world will end tomorrow, but they do come to terms, they reach compromise because they know if they don’t, they’ll lose the most important aspect of begin human, which is to be connected to your people. I can’t wait to watch my son become a dad, I think he’ll do a wonderful job. My heart breaks for all the little ones out there who are on their way and won’t have a great father. Let’s hope they have terrific mums who can cover both bases and will subscribe to the Duluth Trader Men’s catalogue for the missing bits!

Anti-Social Media

On the Contrary.

There’s a lot of talk lately about social media being the replacement for proper relationships. That all this time spent on line is bad for us and will lead to isolation and an inability to communicate well in person or via the correctly written word. But I have enjoyed my time on social media for the last three or four years, I like chatting with family who live far away across distant seas, I like sharing recipes and looking at the growing children of those I know and some I don’t. I appreciate the cat videos, the shaming of dogs, who let’s face it really do behave quite badly most of the time. Imagine accepting those antics from a human. I do it myself, clean up unspeakable things and scrape various biological catastrophes from the rug. Why do they always do it on the rug? I enjoy the tests, I think they’re fun, what is your real birth name, how well do you pronounce words in the French language, rather well actually, and everyone’s favorite, the Grammerly posts. I like having quick access to a larger audience, I’ll post this piece as soon as I finish it, directing new readers to the blog and hoping a paying publisher will fall in love with me. 

I think the advertising that streams along side that which we have to say gives a good insight into what else we do on-line, for me it’s trying to find the perfect mother of the bride dress and because I have searched for this repeatedly I keep getting offers for custom made gowns from China for $99.00. I know they’re good because I bought one for our son’s wedding and loved it. So don’t knock it. At Christmastime if you let your loved ones use your computer you can get an inkling as to what they might be considering as an appropriate gift for you; last year I guessed the Captain was going to buy me a new truck or some tools, since that’s what he was looking at.  I enjoy blocking those whose political opines annoy or outrage me, click… you and your silly ideas are gone. I like a good rant and find Facebook a great place to let ‘er rip.  Righteous indignation is fun and as I find a reason to be outraged it’s very freeing to expand on my point of view from an imaginary soap box. And now that I no longer “work” for anyone I can swear and criticize as I please without the concern for those who may wish to quash my self expression. But I don’t take things to a personal level unless it’s a positive. I think there is enough horror in real life in this world to inflict more via social media, but in this, alas, I am in the minority. 

There are those on line who feel the relative anonymity gives them permission to pile it on, to ram ugliness through the screen via the (often very poorly) written word. Those with an agenda of exclusion and ill will towards “types” love nothing more than to use this platform to rant and rage about why everyone from a certain group is a bum and how the government is to blame for all of it. There are the seriously religious folks who are always reminding us of either one of two things; God loves us and it will all be alright OR we are all sinners and we’re going to die gruesome deaths for our troubles because we deserve it! Some folks enjoy creating a ruckus by posting an inflammatory comment, then never coming back to the conversation. 

There are posters who never espouse anything personal at all, just links to inspirational things that were written by others. Those who enjoy a particular stand on an issue and almost exclusively post about that, those who come so rarely to the medium that by the time they do the conversation has ended days ago. My brother is like that, I am always so excited to see a post from him then I don’t hear a word for months. It is useful to keep in mind that not everyone has something to say about everything, like me. I like to imagine where people keep their laptops or desk tops, or are they posting on their smart phones, I do that a lot when I’m somewhere interesting. I picture others sitting early in the morning like me, with a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning show on the telly. I like those chats that start my day, it feels like a virtual community. Let's not forget the stalkers, the Captain is one of those. Some of that has to do with his reluctance to espouse an opinion on much and some of it is because he's not really up on the "technology" for posting a photo or a link. Scary. Ladies and gentlemen please meet your pilot! But he's watching, silently reading everything WE have to say, if there is a photo on his page the kids will know that I have kidnapped his site. 

It’s interesting that we call the ones with whom we communicate via this medium friends, we say “Just friend me on Facebook” And they do and you have chats with them on a regular basis. I have a whole new group of friends with whom I work out and we talk about our progress and how hard or enjoyable the most recent bout of exercise was. The camaraderie is inspirational and motivational, it works. I see astonishingly open and honest posts from those in the middle of the tough years, raising teenagers and feeling used up and unnoticed and overwhelmed. I see posts from those who are losing aging parents and family pets. I see posts about death and birth and loss, extraordinarily private things, covered in great detail because there is a reception of humanity who will read and respond in the ways we need but cannot always request in person. We console one another, we really are virtual friends to each other. We offer advice to everyone on anything, cooking, nursing, gardening, love, sex, marriage and divorce…”Send the bastard packing” We share intimate details of good times and bad, we amaze ourselves daily with the delights of parenting our dogs, cats and children and we laugh with one another at crazy videos. These posts tell us all what we need to hear every day. We matter, we are noticed, we are a part of something bigger than us. We are friends. 

The Big Six Oh

Happiest of Birthdays

On Saturday I will turn 60 and I couldn't be happier at the prospect. Despite what social media and all other superficial measures of the good life would have us believe, there is a great comfort in aging well. The obvious is that it beats the alternative but there are so many others. Wisdom that comes with age can now be sagely passed along to others, you are qualified simply by having been in existence a while to tell others precisely...how the world works. Family members who have finally grown out of asking for and needing money are now in a phase of their lives where, if you have done things well, they are trying to emulate you. I see my eldest daughter baking bread, a long held passion of mine. I see another writing, stories and journals and another choosing to teach writing at her school. Once you reach this esteemed age you become a legend, your grown children begin to say things like "How did you do it all Mum?"

Clearly they have chosen to wipe from their collective memories, most of the early days, days when the Captain was gone and we troops ate beans on toast with a fried egg and considered it a good day if two out of five of them got a bath and no one was bleeding. The mess, the lateness, the forgetfulness, all forgotten in the fog of fondness. The burnt toast and lost homework, the missed practice and the unscheduled doctor visits, the trips to the ER and the constant fighting, this has been relegated to a place in their memory that only retains the good stuff. When they were teenagers, too many of them at once for any sensible planned parent, their minds held the horrors of their upbringing like accusatory traps, a litany of offenses against them perpetrated by a neglectful poor excuse for a parental unit. How they could go on about the times I punished the wrong one or dyed a uniform shirt red with the laundry, or ran over the family dog. They could tell you to the minute how late for every pick up and drop off I had been, the number of times I took them to school in a bathrobe and once came IN to the building sans my retainer that held a temporary tooth on it, grinning mulishly at their teacher assuring him that I had indeed burned their homework. They could relate the monstrous indignity that is to suffer under the maternal leadership of one with a foreign accent. "You can come, just don't speak." Or on another occasion I was admonished not to either sneeze or blow my nose in front of her friends. Perhaps the worst suffering undertaken by a child on the face of the planet, is for your mother to get pregnant and for you and the Entire World to know how that happened. When you are the eldest of five and the arrival of the last one is announced, it is mortifying.

How soon I have forgotten years of lost sleep, years of eating bits of food from the plates of others; maternal scavenging, looking in the mirror at 4:30 in the afternoon to finally realize I only have make-up on one eye. Running to an orthodontist appointment only to discover the nails on one hand are painted but not the other. Those of us who have graduated to this phase of life have earned every nanosecond of peace, of solitude, of long hot baths alone, with wine and good jazz. We have earned the right to wear inappropriate shoes and goofy winter hats, I retired last October and have been shamelessly dressing like a toddler ever since. Except for a dress when out on a date or two with the Captain I have been in leggings and a long top or sweater non-stop. Thrown in for good measure: work out clothes, nothing with a zipper or buttons has graced this aging but now very fit old body in three months. I put jeans on yesterday and announced it, like a milestone, "Look honey, a fly and a waistband." "Very nice." he shrewdly replied not knowing why I was so proud of myself. At age sixty you have earned the right to binge watch on Netflix, to spend three hours on Facebook followed by a bowl of cookie dough for dinner and the completion of War and Peace if that is your desire.

It is a milestone birthday, you may have grand kids, you may be planning weddings, you might be watching the love of your life's parents struggle with the final leg of their life's journey. You might have lost both your parents and be an orphan. But you have seen things, you have seen information in a toilet bowl that would leave a trained Marine whimpering, you have buried dogs and cats and rabbits, you have seen defeat, and bullying, and witnessed moments of such joy that words fail you, imagination fails you but your heart has sung to the strains of your innermost Mormon Tabernacle choir with joy. You have watched a world reinvent itself, you can talk to something in your car that will tell you where to go and it's not an angry child or spouse! You can ask the dashboard to play Snow Patrol on the tiny little box hidden in the glove compartment that contains 3,000 pieces of music. You have travelled the world and found your home, you might be in a newly found home smaller and better suited to this stage of your journey. You can start a new job, leave, retire or get fired from an old one and not have to worry about being too old for a fresh beginning. Sixty is the new sixty, we are healthier, smarter and live longer than our parents did, we are more flexible than they were, we are a little more selfish and not quite so enamored of familial sacrifice as they were.

It's a tough demographic though, news every week from hence forward will contain the sad diagnoses of cancer and heart failure for those we know and love. Class mates who keep in touch will do so more often with sad news; now a cyst, here a tumor, there a mild heart attack. This stage of life requires fortitude, knowing we cannot change most of what's coming down the pike despite newly formed regimens of healthier food, vapor-only cigarettes and epic exercise routines. I have newly begun serious hiking and going to boot camp, never been fitter in my life. I get my internal sweep and external mammo every year, I look forward to the lovely sleep that is a colonoscopy and I take my vitamins!  All this is a vain attempt to forestall the inevitable. But I do give it the old college try, I will not go silently into that lunch bunch whose sole topic of conversation is ailments, afflictions and the infirm. Not for me the Prilosec, Viagra, Depends and Creme De La Femme!!! I am going commando, only take fish oil and vitamin D much to the surprise of any medical professional under the age of thirty bent on examining me for signs of my ultimate demise.

I know there are surprises awaiting me, I know my amazing family will pull through with funny cards and a couple of truly sappy ones that will "win" for making me cry. I know the Captain will fall all over himself to do something sweet and romantic and perfectly planned and it might not go so well, as these things so often don't. I know that the day will come and be filled with the greatest gift we can be given, knowing we have loved. Knowing we are loved. Happy Birthday old girl, looking good.