Inheritance

When I worked on my calendar this weekend, I noted that my book club meets in only two weeks, and I have not yet completed our book.

So I read it this afternoon. The book is Inheritance, by Dani Shapiro.

I have nothing in common with the book. I mean, nothing.

Shapiro subscribes to a DNA testing outfit and discovers she is not the biological child of her father. On further investigation, she comes to learn that her parents sought the help of a donor program in order to conceive her. She learns that in the 1960's, when she was conceived, parents were told that the husband's sperm was being "treated," rather than told that his sperm was mixed with the sperm of a healthy medical student just looking for a way to pay for med school.

Shapiro grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, constantly told she "doesn't look Jewish."

See? I have nothing in common with her.

Yet. I sobbed through it. Sobbed.

I am undeniably the daughter of both of my parents. When I am slender, I unmistakably resemble my mother. At her funeral, people would take a look at me and burst in tears, I looked so much like a young Betty. I have her height, her hooded eyelids, her long face.

When I'm heavier, I look like a female version of my dad. I have his high forehead, his turtle-like posture, his wide fingers.

From both of them, I have their mutual intelligence.

So why did Inheritance make me cry?

I wonder, myself.

I related to Shapiro's images of trolling her neighborhood, watching and envying warm and happy families. She walked her dog around the block, around and around, looking in on other families.

I rode my bicycle.

When she found her biological father, he was at first reluctant to meet her. He had a family and did not want to upset anyone.

Later, he had second thoughts and agreed to meet her. It could have gone any way. Their meeting could have been remote. It could have been lukewarm. Instead, it was love at first sight.

I sobbed and sobbed.

My own parents both lost parents at young ages, and were ill equipped to handle anything emotional. When I reacted to situations and cried, they called me, Sarah Bernhardt. At other times, their silence was deafening; their stoicism icy. While I try to be a warmer person, I have nothing in my background to rely on.

My dad "disowned" me more times than I can recall -- once because my middle-school son was a fan of Bob Dole. I married months before Dad's death. I could not take my husband home to meet dad; he was afraid we would steal from him.

I do not have a biological father, alive, out there in the world. My own father and mother are dead. I do not have the happy and warm family I always fantasized about. Shapiro found hers. My family, my real family, is the same one that I've known, and been rejected by, for decades.

Maybe that's why I cried.

#61 Gratitude

I took the week off from my free-lance work to catch up with my Lyme disease. The symptoms were sneaking back uponst me and I needed some rest to battle it back.

I've spent the week chilling. Today I ran some errands, including getting a surprise gift for some neighbors who, I heard through the grapevine, are getting married.

It's so rewarding to see someone's face when I do something nice; I should do it more often.

Also this week, our Civitans lost another member to death; a local activist died unexpectedly, and my sister went into the hospital. I think the doctors are still trying to figure out what's wrong with her.

On the positive side, our neighbors are getting married, our great grandson has a birthday and it's April. What can be better than April? Strawberry season is my favorite time of year.

I'm awfully thankful for this life. It has its ups and downs but you know, everyone's life does, too. Ours is no worse than most and better than too many. I'm just thankful. Today. Who knows? Tomorrow I might be a complainer again.

#LoveMyLife

#60 Sculpture Show

I live in a small town, 37,000 people.
We have a symphony, three live theatres — four if you count the local college — and a couple of art galleries.
Every spring, our city government hosts a sculpture show. A dozen sculptures are installed all over town, replacing the dozen that have been up the last eleven months.
On the day they’re all installed, we have a party. A hundred or so people are invited to a guy’s house to meet the artists who created this year’s pieces. We all talk and drink wine and eat tiny bites of food. It’s a lovely time and I’m pretty darned proud our little city works to have physical art throughout the town.
Tonight was the eleventh sculpture party.
When I left city council, I had one request : keep me on the list for this party.
#LoveMyLife

#59 Are you an Artist?

The oddest thing happened on Sunday. I met a man and we did the usual, Mike, this is Maggie. Maggie, this is Mike. Then he asked, "Are you an artist?"

It was an unusual first question. As my mind raced through the various possible answers, I simply answered, "No."

But, yes, I am. And so are you. I like to draw. I write for a living. I refinish furniture and sew and do a thousand creative things. Yes, I'm an artist.

And so are you. Everyone I know says, "I can't draw a straight line." I want to scream, "A straight line isn't art!" Wiggly lines are. Curvy lines are. Crisscrossing lines are. But not straight lines.

Do you arrange food on a plate before serving it? Do you hum, sing, whistle? Do you arrange your home in a warm and welcoming way?

We are all artists, some more than others, only because they've opened themselves up to the possibility of being an artist.

Nice to meet you -- are you an artist?

#58 Beacon Hall Concert

A couple of years ago, my dear husband began circling an old dilapidated church in our neighborhood on a regular basis. He'd say things like, "There's got to be a use for that building."

He was right. It's a beautiful building, made ugly only by the years of disuse and misuse. The stained glass windows that once graced its facade were sold to a salvage company. Faded plywood filled the cavities. Pigeons -- thousands of 'em -- filled the bell tower. The inside bore the evidence of their presence. Landscaping was missing or overgrown.

A few weeks later we bought that church, taking the full purchase price from our savings. DH had a vision for a music lab of sorts, a place for kids to come for free music lessons, but more. Encouragement, self confidence, help with schoolwork, all these things. We named it Beacon Hall, with "beacon" obviously a metaphor for guidance, but also the name of the theatre in New York City where his favorite band, the Allman Brothers, performed every year.

The building has slowly but surely improved over the past two years. Hubby has resourcefully found windows in just the right sizes to replace the plywood. I marvel at the morning sun beaming in through the eastern windows --- sunshine the churchgoers never got to appreciate with stained glass impeding its beams. Better yet, he found the windows in a building about to be demolished and bargained with its owners to allow him to remove them and keep them for free.

Friends over the past 24 months have donated their time and skills to install the windows. Today the church has thirteen windows installed, fully functional with rope, where plywood once was.

We've developed a board, tasking 10 friends and acquaintances, each with a special skillset, to serve.

We (finally) acquired 501(c)(3) designation, after a long and arduous journey.

We've received our first grant, $1,000, to replace the doors on the church.

We're applying for more and beginning the first steps of a capital campaign to raise the money necessary to redevelop this building into the beauty she can be.

***

Late in November DH noticed on the Internet a blues artist, Scott Ainslie, who would be in our state in January. He had made a comment that he was looking for one more engagement to round out his trip to the state.

My shy, nervous husband reached out to him and shared the mission of Beacon Hall. Scott responded positively and they set a tentative date of January 25 for a concert and 26 for a Master Class in guitar.

Because our building is not (not nearly!) complete, we determined to see if we could hold the concert in the local high school auditorium, a plaster masterpiece from the 1930's that was recently renovated to the tune of $750,000.

The board rallied around and chipped in with tasks and errands. From placing posters to buying water, they all came through.

We hired a young promoter who worked on our website, used social media, designed posters, developed memes -- you name it, she did it. Her work reached into neighboring states and attracted visitors.

A local bed and breakfast agreed to allow the artist to stay "on them" as a gift to Beacon Hall.

One of our board members, incidentally my son, drove down from Washington DC only a day after flying in from a weeks-long stay in China. His wife and son came as well and helped in a million ways over the weekend.

Friends who helped in my political campaign offered to stand at the doors and greet concert-goers as they arrived. The principal of the high school ran the lights and sound, himself.

A local realtor (and friend) sponsored a scholarship so a college student could attend the Master Class.

The board had agreed this concert was for awareness of Beacon Hall and its mission only, and our goal was to provide the concert for free, with donations welcomed.

We set out (borrowed) glass jars and crossed our fingers, hoping to break even-- covering the artist's fee and the money we'd paid the promoter. .

The jars filled over and over. Our daughter in law loaned us her square and we took in hundreds with credit cards.

We're still adding things up but it appears we covered all our expenses and made a healthy extra as well.

Oh, the concert? Well. It blew our socks off. Scott wowed the audience. He shared the legends of blues and its beginnings and played on multiple instruments. People visibly nodded heads or tapped feet to the music. Many iPhones were held aloft to photograph or tape Scott. He gave, and gave and gave. He played and sang from 7:30 to 10, with just a 20 minute break.

Since then we've received calls, texts and emails thanking us for bringing him to town.

The master class the next morning was just as successful. He'd asked us to cap the class at 20 students, but they had some late arrivals and ended up with 24. One student was so impressed he wrote Beacon Hall a check for $100.

****

The weekend is over and all the houseguests have gone home. Sweet husband's car is overloaded with the detritus of the weekend -- folding chairs loaned from his workplace, tools, tables, etc.

We are exhausted and overjoyed with our initial success. I'm in the process of writing thank-you letters, but if you came or helped, or wished us well, THANK YOU.

#LoveMyLife

#57 Who’s Gooder ‘n We Are?

In the fall of 2003 I attended John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, TN for a three-day watercolor workshop. As I recall, the class was comprised mostly, but not all, of middle-aged women. Among us was an older woman from Maggie Valley, NC, who would soon die from liver cancer.

She was very at peace with her situation and had taken the class to help in documenting her memories for her grandchildren.

As we painted, the class sometimes engaged in idle chat. One subject was using one’s good china and crystal at home.

“I use mine every day,” the cancer patient said, “and you should, too. Who’s gooder ‘n we are?”

Little did she know her words would resonate with me. She’s long gone now, and still I carry her words.

I’m trying to draw every day, and today I went through my art supplies looking for a nice portable sketchbook.

I came across a lovely choice, a book my Dear Son #2 found down a dark alley in Vietnam, where he had read about a woman who made her own paper and bound it into sketchbooks.

On one hand, it seems too special to draw in. On the other, what will give my children more pleasure after I die— coming across the book empty, or filled with daily sketches?

I drew my first picture in it this evening, because, of course, who’s gooder than we are?

#56, Thankful

I had Thanksgiving solo this year. With Lyme I was not feeling like a 6-hour trip each way to visit hubby's Momma, so he went and I stayed home and made shrimp gumbo.

It's a week later and my heart *and head* are full of gratitude for my life. Hey, better late than never, eh?

I'm so very grateful that I have the opportunity to write, something I've loved since I was big enough to hold a pencil. My parents bought me a red "Tom Thumb" child's typewriter, manual, when I was 7 or 8, and I wrote many poems, stories, plays and newspapers on the thing. I have no idea what happened to it. In our house, things just vanished: baby dolls, old clothing, I guess when we were at school our Mom purged our stuff. But I loved that typewriter and today I am thankful to be able to remember an icon of what I love to do.

I don't pretend to be a journalist like the seasoned writers at our local newspaper. They have real talent and real experience. I am clear-headed enough to realize I am a hobbyist.

That said, having the opportunity to write on a professional basis gives me the opportunity to have experiences I never would have had otherwise. Further down in this very blog you can see in October 2008 I got to ride on the back of the garbage truck for an article about the workers. I actually got to stand on the little ledge on the back of the truck and hold on. (I think that date is close to right.)

I've gotten to do lots of cool things with the writing gig, but yesterday may be the cherry on the whipped cream on the top of the icing of the cake.

I got to ride in a helicopter.

As a free-lancer I have to think up ideas to pitch to the editor. If she likes an idea, I get to interview the people and write the article. I send it in by email and invoice at the end of the month. I almost never enter the newspaper building, and almost always do my writing in my pajamas. It's sort of a heavenly setup.

A week ago, one evening it seemed helicopters were flying non-stop over our little town. I grabbed my phone and emailed my editor: "When the helicopters fly, our imagination goes on fire wondering who was in an accident? Who is ill? How about an article on the air-medic crew?"

She liked the idea and yesterday I interviewed a pilot, nurse and paramedic who work in our local hospital's helicopter.

Then we got to go up.

Our photographer, the nicest person I know, acceded his seat to an intern who has aspirations of being a pilot one day. So the seasoned photographer got shots from the ground and the intern got shots from the air.

This is definitely one article where the photos will outshine the story.

As old as I am, when I'm really happy or sad or confused or creative, I feel in my heart like I'm still nine years old. Yesterday was one of those days. It was hard to sit still and be silent when my heart was soaring out of my chest. It was BEAUTIFUL in the sky. We flew over our little town and then made our way over the local lake. The air from the rotors caused ripples on the water and we were just floating in the sky.

I've flown in commercial jets much of my adult life: around the US to speak at conferences for my work in IT, internationally for personal travel. I've even made the longest non-stop flight on earth, from NYC to Singapore, 22 hours over the north pole and back down.

But flying in a helicopter was like floating in the sky. No cramped seat, lack of legroom, germs or boring hours to fill. The ear protection kept out the noise so it was me and my headspace floating in the sky. Like a dream.

I got the story and will write about the heroic men and women who do this incredible work every day, but for one day, I got to fly. It was a day I'll never forget.

#55, Swimming Upstream

I have not posted in quite some time. Our family had a tragedy in July and we are still not fully recovered. That, coupled with my recent Lyme diagnosis, has left me in the shadows many days. Because I promised this blog would focus on gratitude, I've stayed away.

Some of you may know our relationship with my daughter has been virtually non-existent for many years, stemming from our having custody of her daughters, our granddaughters.

The bright spot of July's tragedy is that it brought my daughter and me to be close again. Since that day we have not missed a day of touching base, whether it's a visit, a call, or a quick text: "You good?" "Yep! You good?" "Yep!"

I know I hate it when a writer says, "Words cannot express..." but truly I cannot share the depth of how much it means to have my daughter back. I'm not sure I could have survived our shared tragedy without her support and wisdom.

Having served in Iraq, she suffers from PTSD, among other things, and has a challenge being in crowds. The dichotomy is that the sanctuary she seeks in her own home sometimes becomes her prison.

We agreed to swim together at the Y in the mornings. She can't or won't go without a companion and I am happy to be that for her. I need some gentle exercise after being idle from Lyme exhaustion for months. It's mutually beneficial.

The first day I swam ten laps. In eight of those ten, I had to stop mid-lane, catch my breath, and make my way to the other end of the pool. Only two of the ten laps were uninterrupted.

After a couple of weeks I am proud to report I'm swimming 20 laps and only 3-4 are interrupted for breathing. I do have to rest a moment after each lap before continuing. This is ok with me.

My goal is to reach a consistent 20 laps with no stops and improve on my technique before adding more laps. Eventually I would like to reach a mile.

As for my daughter, she has quickly achieved her goal of swimming a mile. An old swim team girl, she knows how to do flip turns, but doesn't yet have the stamina. She hopes to integrate this skill into her mile.

Her mile takes longer than my 20 laps so I happily slosh over to the Jacuzzi to wait for her to finish. She is fine with my being out of the pool as long as I'm nearby.

 Due to her fear of crowds we meet at 5:45am. The whole thing takes about an hour and it's an hour well spent. We are both happy with our progress and I treasure the time with her. It's a crowded pool with two high school teams practicing, but we are happy to share a lane.

The experience is healthy on a number of levels: emotionally, physically, mentally.

I. am. grateful.
#LoveMyLife

#54 Holiday Caravan

Two groups met at loggerheads and our community is missing out. But there's more: Some members of the community are responding, reacting in a childish and unacceptable way.

At last year's Christmas Parade a local pharmacy (one that sells HIV medications nationwide) showed up with a float and participants decked in rainbow spirit. Members of PFLAG (Parents & Friends of Lesbians & Gays) were on the float with rainbow clothing and flags.

The Christmas Parade has written policies that state, "Floats without a clear Christmas theme will be considered commercial and thus will be stricken from the parade." The policies are dated 2017. A simple google search will show them.

So the folks running the parade pulled the float from the lineup and it made people mad. Really mad. The leader is an African American woman and there were accusations of racial bigotry as well as bigotry against gay people.

The woman has been quite vocal about having been pulled from the parade. Today the board of directors for the parade announced they are terminating the parade. Forever.

The parade, which should be for children, has become an institution for all sorts of people. Running on the day before Thanksgiving, it kicks off the holiday season for everyone in town.

I've always joked that so many locals are IN the parade, there's no one left to WATCH it. But over the past eight years of participating in the parade, I got to see so many people lined up, camping out, tailgating, leaning out of office windows, packed on city sidewalks five deep, I rescind my statement.

It's a wonderful experience, and now it's over.

People are hot. HOT, people. Comments in the newspaper online as well as the woman's personal FB page run from 'I hate you,' to calling her a word that starts with a C. Threatening statements like, "I open carry and so do all my friends."

This is BEYOND.

I'm sad to see it play out and sad to see the bitterness and inappropriate behavior over a parade celebrating the birth of the Prince of Peace. I don't worship Jesus but I do respect the season as a time for kindness.

Namaste, y'all.


Postscript. Well. It seems I was a little too gracious in trying to analyze the motivations of the Parade Board. They have come out and SAID, in SO MANY WORDS, they cancelled the parade because of PFLAG. Now this is horse of a different color. I'm not deleting my post; it's still a shame that people are abusive over this thing. But I am commenting here to set the record straight.

#53 In the Midst of Crisis

In the midst of crisis I am thankful for so many things.

I live in a comfortable home. The home of my dreams, really.
I have a loving family.
I have everything I could possibly need and really, everything I want.
I have my health.
I have yoga and meditation.
I'm bright enough.
I seem to be able to function in the midst of crisis.

Sure, I'm forgetting things, saying words backwards, and yesterday I spilled a brand new bottle of Jubilee Wax. That slimy stuff is tough to clean up!

My mother used to say, "Duke women are strong." I think her mother was a Duke. That phrase has kept me going many times when I thought I was done. Mother never imagined such a simple phrase would sustain me in the toughest of times.

#52 Faithfulness

There was an article in our local paper last week about a young man who led the Pledge of Allegiance at his Town Council meeting as a Cub Scout 12 years ago.

It felt so good, he did it again, though this time without the rest of his pack. He went back and did it again. And again and again and again.

He led the Pledge of Allegiance at that Town Council meeting for 12 years, and this month, he led his last one before he leaves for college.

For years his mom drove him. Most recently, he drove himself. Standing at 6'2", he's quite a different guy than the little Cub who was there in 2006.

“I always wanted to do it, and I looked forward to doing it,” Huddleston said. “… I never thought I’d make it this far.”

I can't think of anything I've faithfully done for 12 years.

****
Last week our civic club honored teachers with our annual Teacher Appreciation Day. One of our longest-term members chairs the event each year.

As we walked out to the parking lot, I asked him how long he's been chairing the thing.

"Well," he said, "I volunteered for it in 1972."

(Lips moving) That's 46 years. He's been doing this every year since I was 16 years old.

There's certainly nothing in my life I've done with consistency for 46 years.

"Oh, sure," you say, "There's got be something."

No, the only things that come to mind are brushing my teeth and going to bed. Pets have come and gone. Kids have been in and out. Hobbies have waxed and waned. Marriages failed. Nope, there's nothing I've done -- particularly for others -- for any amount of time.

Sorta makes you think.

#50 The Cycle of Life

I had the good fortune to do an article about the new jazz radio station at the local HBCU, Livingstone College. It's WLJZ, 107.1. Check it out. You can stream it online through iheartradio.com or tunein.com, or at livingstone.edu/radio.

While we were in the studio for the interview, they were playing, "What's Going On," by Marvin Gaye. It was a hit in 1971.

While writing the article in my office yesterday, I googled the lyrics:

"Mother, mother / There's too many of you crying / Brother, brother, brother / There's far too many of you dying / You know we've got to find a way / To bring some loving here today…” 

The song at the time was about the Vietnam War. 

I was stricken yesterday by how relevant the lyrics are today. With young black men being shot for no reason,or  being arrested for sitting in Starbucks waiting for friends, it's surely true that "There's far too many of you dying."

Two years ago a young black man was shot in the back while fleeing police. The vision of that video haunts me still today. They're supposed to shoot someone if he presents an immediate threat to police or others. HOW CAN HE BE A THREAT RUNNING AWAY?

There have been so many police-on-black shootings in the past few years I can't even remember where this one took place. Texas? I can't remember. Note. I looked it up after writing this post and the incident mentioned took place in SC.

I think it's time for someone to re-release this song. 

#49 Starbucks

I posted about Starbucks last week and ironically on that same day, a Starbucks store in Philadelphia made a grievous error in judgment. As 2 black men sat in the store waiting for their friends to arrive, the manager of the store asked the men to leave. The men refused. Management asked them to leave a total of three times before calling the police.

The friends arrived just in time to find the men in handcuffs. Police removed the handcuffs as the men's story was confirmed.

Film of the incident went viral.

Kevin Johnson, Starbucks CEO, issued an apology that stated the actions of the manager were not reflective of the company's values. All 8,000 of the company's stores will be closed for a day next month as the company gives racial-bias training to all its employees. The manager was fired.

"Not enough," "Too slow," people are saying as they boycott the stores.

I agree with voting with our pocketbooks. I've boycotted Chik-Fil-A for 6 years, and Cracker Barrel since the 1980's.

In the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, you couldn't turn on a TV or radio without being bombarded with news, speculation, and fear of this horrific disease. It was on covers of all the big magazines. Again and again.

Cracker Barrel took the initiative. They terminated all gay employees. Cooks, waiters, accountants. Didn't matter -- they fired them all.

Although I wasn't a big customer, I actively boycotted the restaurant and shared my feelings with friends and family.

Years later they got in trouble -- for ignoring African American patrons who dared sit at tables and expect to be served.

It didn't make much news at the time. I dug in.

In 2010, Chik-Fil-A gave over $8 million to its CEO's charitable foundation, oddly named Win-Shape. In 2012 Win-Shape refused to accept same-sex couples into its marriage retreats. The president and chief operating officer Dan Cathy stated on a radio show, "I think we are inviting God's judgment on our nation when we shake our fist at Him and say, "We know better than you as to what constitutes a marriage." I pray God's mercy on our generation that has such a prideful, arrogant attitude to think that we have the audacity to define what marriage is about."

No more waffle fries for me. Mr. Cathy has a right to his beliefs. I have a right not to support them.

So why am I concerned today that my friends are calling for boycotts of Starbucks?

It's a matter of origination.

In both the Cracker Barrel and Chik-Fil-A cases, decisions -- poor ones in my own opinion -- were made by owners and/or top management. They demonstrated that exclusion is their policy. They demonstrated values that are contrary to my beliefs.

The Starbucks case -- and I'm giving my own opinion here -- is different. A manager of an isolated Starbucks store, one of 8,000 in the US, made awful decisions. Top management has apologized and has taken the blame. "My responsibility is to look not only at that individual but to look more broadly at the circumstances that set that up, to ensure that this never happens again," Dan Johnson, CEO, said on Good Morning America. They're doing everything they can to fix the issue.

Our little town has 2 local Starbucks stores and, as I wrote on 12.Apr, I frequent them both. I have friends who work there, some of whom I've met as a customer, and some who I knew before they went to work at Starbucks. They all happen to be African American. And they're happy there. They feel they are respected. Treated fairly. Rewarded for good work. 

So I'm not boycotting Starbucks. It's my belief that the Philadelphia manager acted on her own, and her actions did not reflect the values of the company. It's my belief that the company itself has done no harm, not acted irresponsibly.

I can't say the same for Cracker Barrel and Chik-Fil-A. 

#48 I Just Need to Fly

In the year 2000 my sweet hubby built a swing for the granddaughter we were raising, and hung it from high in the old walnut tree in the backyard.

A broad, very thick board, a hole in each end, and a rope 1" thick. A couple of good knots.

While I don't have a picture of the swing itself, I have a picture of her on that day, loving the swing for the first time of what would become thousands.

Since that seminal day, most of our grandchildren have enjoyed that swing. Even today, the children of Son #2, who are teenagers, head to the backyard soon after arriving at Nana's house, to enjoy the swing.

* Three of our grandchildren have not yet visited Nana's house. Two were born internationally and one was born just before the family left for Asia. So we have 3 grandchildren of the 12 who have not (yet) enjoyed the swing.

Even hubby and I have swung on it on occasion. 

There's something about swinging that takes your cares away. It's almost like I imagine flying would be. There's no fear, the breeze in your face, the rhythm similar to rocking, which of course reminds us of being in the womb. It's a carefree and magical experience.

Over the years the swing has aged. The once-yellow wood is now grayed. Raised lines of grain tell of  the years of weather. The ropes, which used to be white, have turned gray as well. Yet a good tug on the swing seemed to show it's still stable for another few good go's. 

Flash forward 18 years and we have yet another generation enjoying the swing.

A month or so ago sweet hubby balanced our granddaughter's 2-almost-3 year old on the swing and gave him a push. 

He was addicted.

He's just a little unsteady on it. We have to center his bottom in the exact center of the board. Over time he has learned to balance on it, not leaning too far forward nor too far back, and he holds tightly with his hands.

But, oh, the swing. 

He loves the breeze on his face. The features on his face actually soften and he becomes more... at peace.... which is a weird thing to say about a toddler, I know. 

He visits Nana's house quite a lot, 3x a week or more, but he never tires of the swing.

Yesterday after nap it's all he wanted to do. So we beckoned the dog to go with us and out we went. 

I centered him and pushed. and pushed. and pushed. 

We sang songs. Then we were quiet, the only sounds the creak and groan of the rope as it bore his little weight back and forth, back and forth.

After about 10 minutes I noticed the seat shift a bit to the left. I picked him up off the swing to see what was going on, and 20 feet or more of rope came spiraling down from the branch.

The swing had died. 

I am immensely thankful it didn't happen when he was in the arc of a good go. He would have been hurt.

He was crestfallen.

I promised him Papaw would fix it.

He stood in the yard, the end of the rope in his hand -- the end that belongs on the branch high above our heads. 

"I fix it," he proclaimed. He wanted to swing so badly. Now. 

He looked high up at the branch. Back down to the rope in his hand. 

"I need to fly." 

He tried to lift his feet off the ground. He jumped a few times. 

He looked at me very seriously. "I need to fly."

He moved his other hand through the air to demonstrate flying in case I had not understood. 

But  I understood.

I picked him up and said, "Does this help?"

"No," he said.

Together we tried to fly.

Finally I put him down and headed for the house, once again promising Papaw will fix it.

The vision of him, small him, standing in the yard with the lank end of the rope in his hand, trying to fly, will stay with me for a very long time.

It was the first time he discovered his inability to achieve something he really, really wanted, and it broke my heart. His crystalline faith that he could fly, that he could fix the swing, was so pure. And so fragile.

Of course it will happen to him many, many times in the future, but rarely do we have the awful opportunity to observe defeat happening in such a tangible way.

His world got a little smaller yesterday.

-----

Last night we got an urgent call from a family member just before midnight. Violence had occurred in the home. We were needed -- immediately -- to help in practical ways. 

We leapt from bed and left our home to lend a hand. 

The cycle of violence is never pretty, and we returned home shortly before 3am, exhausted and shaken from the experience. 

This morning after sleeping fitfully for a few hours, I am still exhausted and now pretty angry that the episode happened at all. There's no need for it. Some pretty awful behavior -- and injuries --  resulted from poor decisions and it never had to happen. 

This morning I am struggling with what to do with this anger in a positive way. I cannot fix the parties involved yet I see the damage for now and the harm in the future if it doesn't stop. 

I just need to fly.

#47 Hello Fresh

We tried Hello Fresh tonight! What a delightful experience. 

Packaging.

Due to the detailed emails, I knew exactly when my package would arrive, within a 3-hour range. Because I'm not at a 9 to 5 job, I was able to whisk my box into the house almost as soon as it arrived.

I needn't have worried.

The food is packed in a substantial cardboard box with a metallic quilted liner. Above the liner is all the paperwork: coupons for the wine option (no, we didn't do that this time...) and the large, laminated, colorful cards with cooking instructions on them. By large, I mean almost 8.5x11. More on them in a minute.

Inside the liner is a layer of packages of food, one per meal, clearly marked, with a large coldpack keeping it very cool. Below that layer was a cardboard divider, then another coldpack with the meat, all clearly marked for which meal they belonged to.

Hello Fresh seems to care a lot about the environment. The cold packs are printed with a message: "I'm recyclable! Cut me open and throw my contents in the trash. Then recycle me."

The packages of veggies and spices are all brown paper bags reading, "I'm greener than a salad bar. Recycle me."

I enjoyed unpacking it all and organized the meals in our refrigerator: each meal having one sealed brown paper bag with veggies and spices, and one pack of meat.

I would give packaging an A. I don't know how it could be any better.

Contents.

I had chosen 4 meals, each with 2 servings. The correct meals were sent and the correct ingredients were included for each meal.

The recipe we tried tonight did require that I provide a few items that surely anyone would have in his home: a drizzle of vegetable oil (we don't use vegetable oil; I substituted olive oil); salt and pepper; a tablespoon of water and a tablespoon of butter. 

I was fine with that.

Our meal tonight was Cherry Balsamic Pork Chops with Roasted Potatoes and Roasted Broccoli. 

They included a tiny envelope of thyme for the potatoes, and the smallest bottle you ever saw of balsamic vinegar. Also a teensy jar of cherry jelly. I love tiny things. Doesn't everyone?

The jelly jar held exactly one tablespoon of jelly. I included my watch for scale.

So far, we give the contents an A.

Quality.

I have read many Hello Fresh reviews and people have said some downright rotten things about the quality of the food. 

Our experience so far has been very positive.

The potatoes were not your normal, boring ones, but red and purple fingerlings. I only had to slice them down the middle to roast them. Broccoli was quite fresh and cut just the way we like it, into little florets rather than all chopped up. (Did you hear that? The broccoli was already cut. I didn't have to do that part. 💃🏼)

The pork chops were just lovely: boneless, fresh, and nicely marbled, though not too fatty. 

While I'm on quality I'll also mention the printed materials are all upbeat, professional, and expertly produced.

To date, I'll give quality an A.

Preparation.

The front of the cooking card estimates preparation for this meal at 40 minutes: 10 minutes prep and 30 minutes cook time. It was dead on. 

(Pardon the little cooking smudge on the bottom!)

The back of the card gives cooking instructions. 

True confession: I am a mediocre cook at best. There are a few things I make well (cough, cough macaroni & cheese, pound cake) but everything else I make fades into oblivion. It's rare that we have a really good meal.

I enjoyed following the instructions. "Oh, pork chops take 5 minutes per side? Hm."

The cherry/balsamic glaze was actually fun.

The instructions do keep you hopping, though, so I hope you are not trying to simultaneously help a child with homework or taking business calls or any of the thousand things I used to do while preparing a meal for a family.

With my sweet hubby outside weed whacking, I was able to fully immerse myself in the experience. 

The directions require you to multi-task to get everything done. Example. While the pork chops were cooking I had to get the broccoli in the oven. Then I had to remove the chops from the pan and make the sauce. And so on. 

It was all very efficient, though, and due to the multi-tasking it really did only take a half-hour, as promised.

Not knowing any better, I'd give the prep an A.

Presentation and taste.

My plate looked amazingly like the plate pictured, although in comparing them now I do see I sort of piled the sauce on a little heavier than they did.

Sweet hubby actually loved the taste of all the food, and I did, too. The chops were fully cooked and tender. Roasted anything, we love, so the veggies were a slam dunk. I think they did a nice job pairing veggies to match the entree.

Servings for us were just right. We are big eaters and the meal fully satisfied, although we didn't, as some have said, have enough for leftovers. As I said, we are big eaters. 

Presentation and taste: A.

Cleanup.

They pretty much kept it simple. I used a bowl, a skillet, and a baking pan. Cleanup: A+.

Pros and Cons.

Pro #1: The Cloud. 

In reading all the reviews I never ran across what, to me, is the biggest advantage of all. 

On a daily basis I feel like a have a large cloud over my head: What am I going to fix for dinner?

This process REMOVED THE CLOUD. I loved having everything half done (measured and pre-cut) and just following the steps. 

When I included the pic of the instruction card here on the blog,  I imagined a reader saying, "Couldn't you just as well use a cookbook? Or go online? Or use an app?"

Here's the answer. A cookbook doesn't go to the store for me and buy exactly 2 servings of the exact ingredients for a delicious meal, with no waste. 

Pro #2: Variety. 

Like most people, we've gotten into a Food Rut. Baked chicken. Baked chicken with lemon. Baked chicken with mushrooms. Beans and rice. Guacamole burgers. 

With all the cookbooks we have, and we do have a few, I never would've thought of Cherry Balsamic Pork Chops. Just choosing it on the computer (another process I didn't review), the mere name set my mouth to watering. It didn't disappoint.

The other meals this week include Shrimp Tagliatelli, Steakhouse Style New York Strip, and Cajun Pulled Pork. Yes, you see pork on there twice, including tonight. The other choices included lots of gluten, which I am supposed to avoid. 

We've never had any of this stuff before, except NY Strips. And boy do they look nice. 

Pro #3. Simplicity.

The Hello Fresh folks have no idea who is buying their stuff: a college student? A kid? A newlywed? Or, in my case, a retiree who just doesn't love to cook.

Their directions were easy to understand and required no more knowledge than knowing the difference between High heat and Medium Low. They really broke it down and I think any level cook could prepare the meal with little or no frustration. 

Pro #4. Cost.

With my New Customer coupon, I spent about $50 for 4 meals for two people. In our house that's a bargain. Hubby asked me how much it would cost without the coupon and I really have to go back and check. I think it borders on expensive but as many have pointed out, you're also paying for NOT going to the store, NOT having food waste in the refrigerator, and in my case, NOT wearing The Cloud. We'll see going forward if it's doable without the coupons.

Cons.

So far, I have none. 

Clearly I'm a fan, a big one, and I'm actually looking forward to preparing dinner tomorrow night. That, my friends, is a miracle. 

#LoveMyLife

#46 I ❤️ Starbucks

Our little town has a couple of locally owned coffee shops and they are super if you want to be part of the community. The owners of both coffee shops are hardworking people, and I want them to succeed.

But on Tuesdays after I drop my little man at preschool, I take my laptop to Starbucks and get some work done.

I could work at home, and often do. But it's refreshing to work at Starbucks where no part of my mind is thinking I should run downstairs and throw that load in the dryer. Where my little dog can't stare me down for a walk in the spring weather. Where the adjacent room isn't awaiting more work to integrate with my office.

Our local coffee shops are packed to the rim with all sorts of people -- most of whom I know -- and it's a warm and comforting feeling to get "Hey" and "How ya doing?" from them all.

At Starbucks I don't know a soul. Most everyone is, like me, drilling away on his laptop, many with earbuds or headsets on, a classic, "Don't interrupt me," signal.



I can be more productive, less distracted, and more introverted at Starbucks, so you can find me there every Tuesday between preschool drop-off and pick-up.

Just don't say Hey.

#LoveMyLife

#45 Retirement Syndrome

Since retiring in December I've discovered many things that might be typical for retirees in general.

I developed a pretty painful pinched nerve in my neck which causes my arm to go numb in the night. It hurts when I don't sleep on it and it hurts when I do.

A couple of weeks ago I was in such pain that all I could think of was this mound of pain on my shoulder and neck. I decided to throw all available resources at it.

So in the last 3 weeks I have had two massages, visited the chiropractor regularly, had regular acupuncture, endured physical therapy and had reflexology. I see progress and am sometimes pain-free, but it's still a big issue.

Turns out I have a bulging disk at the the base of my neck, possibly from looking at the iPad too much. "Tech Neck" afflicts many retirees who suddenly have lots of time to spend looking at their iPads.

Another discovery is the problem of so many projects to achieve.

There is a long list of projects that have been waiting for me to have the time to tackle them. Front gardens. Long-ignored closets. And that funny room that used to be an upstairs foyer -- filled with the detritus of daily living. The idyllic white picket fence I've longed for since buying the house.

This is an image from a Netflix movie I was watching recently. I was able to rewind and "capture screen" at just the right moment to get this image. It's exactly the gateway I've dreamed of for our picket fence. We'll scale it way down, of course, to match the scale of our little house, but I love the elements: the moldings, the plate at top, the crown and the balls. After many discussions on what style picket we like best, I think I like this simple one. Bonus: It's got to be cheaper than 1x4's.

I realized a day or two ago that I cannot succeed at these projects if I try to complete them all now.

So I'm working hard on the offbeat room -- which will be an addition to my office so physical changes will be deductible -- while waiting for pretty weather. When it's nice out my plan is to spend a couple of hours a day on the garden as I finish the room. When the room is done, the garden becomes the #1 item and a closet will become the #2-- and so on.

So I'm not an expert by any means but this is my way to approach it and I'm sticking to it -- until I find a better way.

#LoveMyLife

#44 It Comes Together

Since stepping down from Council I've been once again freelancing for the local paper. It's nice to have something to do that provides just a little income.

I've had great adventures already like hanging backstage at the local theater watching the frenzy, and then writing about it.

One of the most frequently asked questions I got as a Councilmember was, "I just got out of prison -- how do I find a job?"

I got permission about 6 weeks ago to do a series on this very topic. I am in hopes that the article will help former offenders out there who may be struggling.

A follow-up article features a former offender who successfully found work and has done well in it.

I knew just such a guy and he initially agreed to do the story -- before backing out.

I heard of another guy with the same employer, and have spent the last 3 weeks trying to get in touch with him.

It happened today. I called him and he agreed to do the interview -- but anonymously.

Our local paper doesn't like to do anonymous.

I emailed our editor and begged a waiver --- and she GRANTED IT!

I hope to complete the interviews this week and file the story by Friday.

I love it when things come together. #LoveMyLife

#43 It Never Happens

I've always compared life to a pie. We spend our days trying to care for every slice, but it just can't be done. Some days these slices are well-cared for, other days they languish and other slices are tended to.

In my life the slices are named, "Family," "Self," "House," "Husband," -- (he gets his own category) -- "Work," "Yard," and so on. Your slices may be totally different than mine. Or they may be similar.

In 22 years in this house, I do not believe I have ever had every slice of my life cared for at the rate I'd like.

The house, for example. I may have the living room clean but there's still no rug in there and the Christmas Closet upstairs is a nightmare. I had to dig through 3 holidays to find the Easter decorations a couple of weeks ago. Now they are sitting in a chair because I just can't bear the thought of going back in there.

We have a weird room upstairs that was originally the foyer for the apartment. Now that there's no apartment, I don't know what to call it. It's adjacent to my office, and is long and narrow like my office. We plan to utilize it as extra office space, all neat and tidy so if someone comes in the exterior door upstairs, it's a nice presentation.

But lately it has become Castaway City. Bits of items for yard sales and things that we just don't know where to put, wind up there. It's the last place guests would ever see and it's become quite the parking space.

I've spent the last few days cleaning it out! Hurrah! I emptied an old file cabinet for dear hubby's warehouse project and culled 1,000 books.

It's not done but I'm making progress. Pictures soon.

#42 Croup

My little guy and I missed out #Saturdate today because he has the croup. But his mom still needed to work so he spent the morning at Nana's house. I made pancakes on the stove. He was really appreciative, even said, "YUM! Thanks, Nana," but barely ate a bit.

I hooked up the vaporizer and showed him the steam. I told him the Magic Smoke would make him well. We lounged on the couch, reading or watching YouTube videos on the iPad. Every now and then he would crawl over toward the vaporizer and take a big whiff. That's my boy.

At nap time I hooked it up in my room. He slept long and hard. When he awoke I asked how he felt. "Good," he said. "Smoke made me feel better."

He's not well by any means but I do think it helped.

At Ikea last week I spotted some boxes of thick, cardboard-y cards with beautiful artful drawings on them. Maybe 3x3". I picked them up and today I taught him how to play Concentration. We called it "Same."

"OK, it's your turn. A monkey. Can you find another card with a monkey on it? Aw. A moon. Are they the same?"

"NO!"

"Okay, put them back down. It's Nana's turn."

At first we played with only 4 cards, 2 pair -- then 6 cards, and finally up to 8 cards. I fived him when he got a match and he fived me when I got a match. He's really good at it.

It's my habit to let little kids go first in a game, but occasionally he'd offer, "You go first." He's a very thoughtful guy.

When his mom came to pick him up, we showed her the game and how well he could play. She picked up the box and read the outside: "Not for children ages 0-3." He'll be 3 in 6 weeks.

Huh.