Ophidiophobia

Yes. It is true. I am a certifiable ophidiophobiac. Defined as "a persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of snakes", each year this surprisingly common phobia causes countless people needless distress. And yet, it is not the countless others I am concerned about. If you are reading this and are one of "us" I'm concerned about you, of course. But mostly, I am concerned about me. I cannot tell you how many times I have awakened my bed buddy and eventually myself as a result of terrifying nightmares starring these slithery reptiles. Even as I write this, I am concerned this very action of thought could trigger such an attack tonight. But, too late, I've already popped the cork on the subject....and here's why.

But first, let me explain the reason, as I see it, for this crippling fear. I was seven or eight years old. We lived next to the church, though at this time, my dad was not the pastor (has nothing to do with this story). Across the church parking lot and on the other side of the block and across the street lived some very mean boys. The Todd boys. They were probably 3 or 4 years older than me and really never paid me any attention...princess that I was! Except one day they were cutting across the church parking lot and found a garter snake. As the crowd (4 or 5 boys) gathered to look, my curiosity drew me into the circle. In answer to my, "What is that? Let me see!" The snake handler thrust the viper toward my face. Unless you have experienced sheer terror, you cannot know the fright I felt. So distressed I was unable to scream, I turned and ran which only added to their entertainment. On the open parking lot, there was no where to run, no where to hide as they continued their laughing pursuit, putting the snake over my shoulder, in my face. That's all I remember.

Since that day, I have experienced this extreme phobia of snakes. I have come across them at other times out in nature (even in a pet store) and been paralyzed with fear. I am, however, fascinated to see them in captivity where I am safe from the vile creatures.

I tell you this to relate a recent thought I had as I wandered along my beloved (5 mile) nature trail. I am, of course, always alert to the possibiltiy that at any moment a snake could cross my path or fall from a tree....or certainly swim in the waters with the fish, the fowl and the nasty turtles. So I even watch the water for signs of swimming snakes. I did see one last year. I won't be swimming there.

But last week as I walked, I saw ripples in the water with what appeared to be tiny heads on the surface. There were several together--maybe a dozen or more. My first thought--water snakes. It matters not if they are poisonous. All snakes are deadly to me. But these tiny snakes appeared to be swimming a water ballet. A gross, frightening, disgusting display of syncronized swimming which would lure curious creatures into their pit of deadly destruction.

Feeling safe by distance and land, I walked to the bridge overlooking the scene for closer observation. Give me credit for a vivid, if distorted, imagination. It was, in fact, a beautifully orchestrated performance of water bugs skimming across the smooth surface of the lake.

I wonder, how many times in the circumstances of life, do I envision the threat of snakes when in reality, I am seeing the rippling effects of water bugs? Perhaps a closer look could eliviate some of my anxiety.

Walking through the forest

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
--Joyce Kilmer


I love to walk. My favorite place to walk is the the Noland Trail. It is over five miles of nature at its best. It is my time to walk, reflect, unwind and to be alone. Each time I am reminded of Joyce Kilmer's poem we had to memorize in fourth grade and how we giggled as we said the words "breast" and "bosom." Looking at this poem now, in the context of trees, I'm still just a bit uncomfortable with it.

There is a monument along my trail with the words "I am taller today because I have walked among the trees." My first thought is, "No, I'm not. I'm hot, sweaty, tired and thirsty, but I'm not taller."

But on a nobler thought, let me describe my walks. I love the quietness of walking this trail. There are plenty of people along the way. Some walk, some jog, some even run. The trail is a dirt trail, but is well kept. There are tall trees, short trees, scrubby trees and fallen trees. Birds and squirrels abound.

The trail and nature park surround a lake. There are 17 bridges to cross as you wind your way around the lake. The lake is full of turtles. Slimy, nasty turtles. And you can occasionally see a fish break the surface of the water or swim under a bridge. I saw a snake swim through the water one time and yet, I still walk the trail.

People walk their dogs on the trail. The dogs are supposed to always be on leashes, but, of course, many people think their dogs are so well behaved that it does not apply to them. It does. And they should obey the rules. I hate when their well-behaved dogs run up and sniff me. One of those well-behaved dogs bit the woman in front of me last year.

Sometimes its a little creepy. If I walk in the late afternoons, I find the forest gets darker quicker than the parking lot. As the shadows lengthen and the hikers thin out, the imagination swells and there are predators of the the human and animal persuasion behind each tree...not really, but I can almost see them.

But, wait! I said I love these walks and I do. Just the sounds of the breeze rustling the leaves. The birds singing, the squirrels running through the underbrush. I see people with their ipods and we nod as we pass on the trail. No conversation necessary. The nod says all that needs to be said. I step to the side as I hear a jogger overtaking me from behind. Lovers stroll. Families walk together. Friends chat and gossip. Sometimes I like my ipod. Other times I like my thoughts. I like to pray or reflect. OR I like to do none of the above. I just walk.

100% Right

It was hot, humid and stuffy inside the country church that day. And worse yet, it was Saturday. My mom drug me along either because she didn’t have anyone to leave me with or she thought I would enjoy sitting in a hot stuffy church on a Saturday squeezed in between her and some other overdressed woman who sang horribly off-key. I have to admit I enjoyed the breeze the well-coiffed lady created as she sent her perfume my direction waving the Shannon Funeral Home fan with the picture of Jesus praying in the garden. But that, too, got boring. Did I say boring? We would have to redefine the word to make it fit here!

After a lunch of fried chicken and chocolate cake, I convinced Mom that if all the other kids could play outside for the rest of the afternoon, I should be extended the same courtesy. This was so much better. I don’t remember what we played that day, but I do remember that there were many trees—ok, make that a small forest that surrounded the cemetery. Having carefully navigated through the graveyard without stepping on a grave (lest we fall into one!) we played in the shade.

One of the boys pointed out a plant growing up the bark of many of the trees. He gave it a name I do not recall. But I knew what it was. It was poison ivy. He said it was not and explained all the characteristics of poison ivy and that this plant had none of those. But I knew it was poison ivy as I had previous experience with this evil weed. He insisted and I was not backing down. I knew I was right.

So to prove my position and to show this idiot who was right, I took a handful of leaves and rubbed them over my hands, my arms, my neck and my legs. I told him that if I were correct, we would know by tomorrow. I would like to point out that I was definitely 100% right. There was no doubt. It was, indeed, poison ivy. I spent the next two weeks looking like a pink leper. There was not enough calamine lotion in Missouri to ease my suffering. My mom’s entire vocabulary became, “Don’t scratch, you’ll make it worse.” Worse? That’s hardly imaginable. Don’t scratch? How about, don’t blink or don’t breathe? But! I was right. 100% right!

I still find it odd to observe what lengths we will go to in order to prove our ‘rightness.’ (Yes, I include myself despite my early experience.) Why are we so determined to be right, that we would rather be 100% wrong than to be almost right?

By the way, I have no idea who that boy was. I never saw him again. Unless he is, by some chance—that far exceeds any odds in Vegas—reading this, he most likely still thinks that plant was NOT poison ivy.

A Real Princess

This could explain a lot, so stay with me.

Mountain Grove was not a big city like Springfield. It was a small town. People sat around in the Square and visited with their friends. Let me see if I can explain this. The town was carefully planned and laid out around the town square. The Square was just that--a square park with a one-way traffic pattern around it consisting of four right angles--hence, not a traffic circle. Across the street from the park in each direction was a block of retail stores. In the center of the square was a large open gazebo structure. The park was filled with park benches and had lots of shade trees. We even had a statue of someone. I have no idea what hero ever came out of Mountain Grove. They may have borrowed one.

Sometimes on Saturday evenings a blue-grass or gospel band would entertain the crowd. Stores stayed open until 8 or 9 on Saturdays. I suppose this was because the farmers from the surrounding area made their weekly trip to town on Saturdays and shopkeepers wanted to make the most of it. (Though I am sure the farmers had to be home by 4 to milk the cows.) The Square with all its park benches was always full on Saturdays. That's the kind of town Mountain Grove was.

We liked parades in Mountain Grove. We had a Christmas Parade, Homecoming Parade, Kids Day Parade and, the big one, the Dairy Day Parade. I have been an angel, a cheerleader, a member of the marching band, a kid, and a Princess. I think I was the Virgin Mary one year and had to walk the entire parade route as an 8 year old pregnant virgin.

But Dairy Day was the biggie, though I only remember one of them.

I really don't understand why my mom entered me in the contest. From the time she filled out the entry form, she made sure I understood that there was no way I was going to win. "People like us (term I was to hear often, in many circumstances) don't win these things. The rich kids always win." But even though I had no chance in ... of winning, she bought a piece of light blue dotted Swiss and had some woman make me a dress to wear. I remember being fitted for the dress and though it was simple by any standards, I thought it was beautiful.

For two weeks before Dairy Day, Mom had me practice smiling. On the day of the event, she pin curled my hair then brushed it out when it was dry. Every time Mom brushed my hair I knew for sure there would be none left attached to my scalp. It was especially true on this day. But I continued to practice my smile between my screams and cries at having my hair pulled out. Apparently, I never got it right because in our final smile rehearsal before leaving home, she said, "Don't smile. Just stand there."

We went to the high school gym and were directed backstage where someone pinned a glittered ribbon banner across my beautiful dress. I believe I was sponsored by Hauber's Jewelry. I was careful not to smile as I stood in line with the other girls across the front of the stage. No winning. No walking. No waving. No talking. No singing. No dancing. Just stood there not smiling. Then they had us all take a few steps back and instructed us to step forward as they called our names. Third runner up -- a rich girl. Second runner up -- successful business owner's daughter. First runner up -- I don't know--mayor's daughter? And this year's Dairy Day Princess -- Joy Wade, poor watchmaker's daughter! At that point you would think I broke into the biggest smile you've ever seen. Contraire! I stood like a toy soldier with no smile. (I have the newspaper clipping to prove it!) To beat it all, I looked at Mom and she was crying. I was very confused. I thought it must be a good thing that they were putting a crown on my head. I thought a smile would be appropriate, but had been told not to--and Mom--she seemed very unhappy about the whole thing.

I got to ride several times around the square on the back of a convertible in the parade. This part I'm not sure about, but I think Mom said I could smile now--and wave to the crowd!

That was Mountain Grove's last Dairy Day. I never got to crown the next Princess. I suppose that means that I am still the reigning Dairy Day Princess of Mountain Grove, Missouri. Yeah. I can live with that!

Almost Kidnapped - First Time

I was five years old and playing in my front yard.

This was not some dangerous city. This was Mountain Grove, Missouri, population approaching 3,000 souls. I was allowed to walk to the grocery store all by myself. We're talking two blocks. In fact, I wonder if my memory is misleading me, but I honestly think I was allowed to walk to my dad's work in town--through the viaduct and about four or five blocks away. I really think I did that at five years old. The point here is that it was considered a safe place to live. We never locked our doors at night; slept with the windows open...you get the picture.

So, back to the story. I was playing out in the front yard alone. Along came this old man and asked me to go home with him. He looked a lot like my grandpa, but I remember that it didn't 'feel right.' I just shook my head. He said, "I think you ought to come home with me. I have some candy. You like candy, don't you?"

Hello! This man knew the pickup lines for sure! But, my mom had already warned me. "Never, ever go anywhere with someone you don't know. They might say they have candy or toys you would like. But NEVER go with ANYONE unless you ask me first. Do you understand?" She went over and over this with me and answered all my 'but what if's.' But what if I know them? But what if they go to our church? But what if ....There were no exceptions to this rule.

"My mommy said I can't go with people I don't know." "I know your mommy and I'm sure it will be ok with her." "Ok, I'll go ask her," I said. I ran around to the back of the house and into the basement where my mom was doing laundry. I asked if it was ok. Mom dropped the wet clothes and ran to front yard. To my disappointment, I'm sure, my generous benefactor was gone.

That was my first experience with an attempted kidnapping.

Hands Off!

Yesterday I shared my thoughts on feet. Today I'll discuss hands and then I think we will move away from body parts. Hands are right out there. We adorn them with rings, we groom our nails (which are really nothing more than dead skin cells that protect the ends of our fingers). We wash our hands more than any other part of our body; we slather them with moisturizer. To lose a hand would be a real inconvenience, for sure. We can be identified by our hands.

I notice people's hands, don't you? I notice if they are rough or smooth, fat or bony, dirty or clean, present or missing, I just notice hands. I probably even judge people by their hands. If I like your hands, I like you. Your hands, like yourself, do not have to be beautiful for me to like you. But your hands do say a lot about you. They can also tell a lot about your health and your history. Chances are you have scar on your hand that has a good story behind it. Your hands reveal if you have arthritis, nail fungus or disease, whether you've missed the nail and hit your thumb, if you've spent too much time in the sun...they really say a lot!

As a teenager, I would not hold hands with boys who had soft flabby hands. (I know, some of you guys are looking at your hands thinking about that one!) Obviously, things never went any further.

I am a handshaker. It's automatic to look someone in the eye and offer my hand as a friendly gesture. I fear I might be becoming a little germophobic. I find I wash my hands more often these days. I don't like touching public door handles. I wonder if that person who serves my food or gives me back my change has washed their hands.

I shook hands with a business contact the other day and his hand felt slimy and greasy. Naturally, I looked down at his hands. He obviously had Vaseline or some such substance on his hands. He skin was peeling badly. I felt really bad for him. It must be embarrassing for him to shake hands. It may well be painful! I also was grossed out. But I went straight to my car and rubbed a good portion of hand sanitizer over my hands....after I finished my business with him, that is. I wasn't rude or anything.

I can offer help and guidance with my hands or I can cause injury. I guess my hands and my mouth are similar in that way! But I won't be putting my hands in your mouth....or vice versa!

Defeeted

I'm sure you've had this happen...or at least something similar. We were driving through a neighborhood and this little white dog (Pomeranian, maybe?) started running after our car. He chased us for a way and finally stopped. Within minutes my son called and wanted to know if we were home. No. He said he just saw a dog (golden retriever) that looked like Gipper out running around near our neighborhood and wanted to check to see if Gipper was in our yard. It wasn't Gip, but it did seem coincidental, don't you think?

Well, things like this have been happening lately. Maybe I'm just conscious of them.

Take feet for instance. How often do you think about feet? You probably talk about feet even less often than think about them. Ok, I think about feet fairly often. Not foot fetish often, but sometimes. I appreciate my feet. Ugly feet freak me out. Exposing your feet is so completely optional. Faces are out there. You can't hide your face....or even your hands for the most part. But you NEVER have to expose your feet to the world. Not really. You can always wear full coverage shoes. Many feet-exposing, sandal wearing people should take a hint here. But back to thoughts on feet.

I like my feet. They look ok. Nice even toes. No bunions, corns or callouses. They work well for me. I like shoes. I like to buy shoes. They adorn my feet.

I went to see my doctor the other day. Someone asked me the name of my doctor. When I said his name, they said, "Oh, he's the one who lost one of his feet." HUH? Feet are not easy to lose. Keys are easy to lose, but feet are normally firmly attached. They said it was in the paper. I still think that it is not true. I've been going to see him for years and years and never saw him limp. The next time I go, I'll ask to see his feet. I mention this because feet are not often the subject of discussion.

I was talking to someone else that same day or the day after. They mentioned "feet." Then, someone else brought up the subject. No big deal, just struck me as odd.

So, now I'm thinking about feet. I like my feet to be touched. I like to get pedicures. But so seldom does anyone touch my feet unless I pay them (pedicure) to do so. Come to think about it, I seldom touch anyone's feet....like almost never--ever! That's rather intimate, don't you think? To touch someone's feet? Have you noticed that we love to touch baby feet (this little piggy went to market) but once a child can tie his own shoes, we pretty much give up feet-touching. And that's ok.

Every once in a while, I could just use a good foot massage. Yeah. That would be good.

A Really Good Day

I thought it would be in order to say, "I had a great day today." I say that because I've had some really bad days lately (see "Thoughts on Anxiety"). I have felt good, remained unmedicated, had some victories at work. I wonder which comes first: The good day or the victories at work? Is it a chicken/egg effect? But it was good. Good conversations with my clients. Lots of sales - Who would ever have thought I would base my good days on sales? Who would ever have thought I'd be selling stuff? But I am. I feel like I'm trying to break in a new pair of shoes that don't fit. But it's beginning to feel better now. And know, what? I'm actually pretty good at it.

Thank you to my friends and those who have cared enough to call and ask how I'm doing. If you haven't called, don't worry about it. I'm not making a list...I save listing for my bad days. ;-)

On Being 27

27. I thought yesterday about being 27. I cannot remember one thing about that year...not that it was so long ago. I think it must have been uneventful. Like being 26.

25. Now that should have been an eventful or at least a memorable year. Doesn't 25 mark some kind of milestone? I think I may have had a baby that year. Yeah. I did. It was a memorable year. Come to think of it, I also had my appendix out. I remember because I was pregnant. I don't recommend having an appendectomy while pregnant. Not that you would have a choice. Nor did I.

I guess that means that at 27, I had a two year old....and a six year old. That means that I lived in Mt. Vernon, Illinois on Airport Road. I was a stay-at-home mom. I did laundry (ironing, even) every Monday. By evening all the dirty clothes from the week had been washed, dried, folded, ironed and put away. For a few glorious moments, every piece of clothing in the house was clean and put away. Then it was bath time for the boys and the week's accumulation of dirty clothes began again.

I think I met Paula when I was 27. That would be about right. It was a good year then. We talked on the phone while we did laundry on Mondays. We didn't start PJ Originals that year. But that may have been the year we made my kitchen curtains.

I cooked 3 meals a day then. My house was always clean.

I organized the school's fund-raising dinner that year. It was very successful. I had never done anything like that before.

I probably didn't accomplish a lot the year I was 27. But I survived to tell about it. I guess that's something.

Playing Fair

I was five. Kindergarten was not so bad. I did OK. My teacher wrote on my report card, "Joy plays fair and tries to see that everyone else does, too." My parents reminded me of that so often, I think it became my motto in life.

I would like to think that life is fair, but its not. And that's OK. If life were fair, by whose standards would it be deemed as such. In my humble opinion, (OK, humble might be a stretch) if life were fair, I would still be 37. I would look like Kathryn Zeta-Jones, travel the world at my leisure and have more money than I, my kids and my kids' kids could spend. That would be fair.

Or would it be fair to say, God has been good to me. I live in a nice house, drive a luxury car, have a wonderful family, a job I love most of the time and housekeeper so I never have to do housework. Is it fair that I have so much and complain so much? If I lived in Manes, sat on the front porch, broke green beans, peeled potatoes and spit tobacco juice while I gossiped with the neighbors, would I think life was fair?

How should we judge what is fair? It's not like philosophers haven't debated that one for eons! Fair would be if I could be free to do exactly what I want when I want. Yes? And what would that be? I don't know.

I think it best that life is not fair. If it were, I think I should have to give up a lot.

Thoughts on Anxiety

A few short years ago, had someone come to me and confessed feeling as I do now, I would have told them simply to pray about it and God would relieve their anxiety. I would surely have quoted verses and even shared a short prayer before sending them on their way. I must confess I feel differently about that now. I have prayed about it. I know the right verses. I have even asked others to pray for me. And pills. I asked for and received pills from my doctor. Sure enough. They help...and hinder. I do feel better, but they pull me down until I stare into space and feel detached from my surroundings. This is with a less than minimal dose!

I have researched, watched Today Show interviews and talked with others who have experienced anxiety. Nothing has helped much. I have better days and I have bad days. I have feelings that something is wrong...that someone will be upset with me... that I am being snubbed...I know these thoughts can be self-fulling and I find that bothersome. My heart beats too fast, my brain won't focus. I know it is affecting my work and my very closest relationships.

They say the causes of anxiety build up over time but suddenly manifest themselves in a time of panic and unexplained fear. For me, it happened one evening when something very incidental happened. I (wrongly) thought I had done something wrong. I began pacing the floor and actually saying out loud, "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" Rationally I knew it was no big deal and sure enough it was not even a deal at all, much less a big deal.

I try to think about what is the worst that can happen. Death? Most likely not. Anything else I can survive. :-) Must keep the sense of humor. I've gotta admit. This is not easy for someone who is driven to do well, has always done well and struggles with a lack of control. Oh, Well! Tomorrow is another day. I will survive. I will thrive.

Early Memories

A couple of random memories:

My grandparents lived in a tiny community called Manes, Missouri. My Grandpa Jim and Grandma Orie (Ora), never owned an automobile (car, truck, tractor, scooter) that I know of. They had a wood stove in the front room to warm the house. I once rode my tricycle too close and trapped my pinkie finger between the blazing pot-bellied stove and my tricycle. I bear the scar of the encounter to this very day. Grandma (never Grandpa!) cooked on a wood-burning stove in the room that became Hell's Kitchen in the summer.

They had an outhouse with a Sears & Roebuck catalog for reading and for sanitation. I guess there were just enough pages for a family to get by until the next edition arrived...or they substituted corn cobs for catalog pages. A painful substitution.

Drinking water came from a well with a bucket on a pulley. The adults talked about children who fell into wells and drowned. I, therefore, never leaned over too far to look into the well. I don't think we actually knew anyone that ever happened to. Maybe it was just one of those things grownups made up to protect us kids. We (family, friends and passersby) drank from a shared dipper that hung over the water bucket in the kitchen.

I remember as a very little girl starting out to walk to the general store with Grandma Orie. One of the neighbors came by with his horse-drawn wagon and gave us a ride down the dirt road to Austin's General Store. I think Grandma traded her chicken eggs for supplies, but I'm sure she bought me a Cho-Cho ice cream. As I remember it, it was the best treat in the whole world. It was similar in taste to a Wendy's Frosty, but frozen and much better..or maybe that's just the way I remember it. Men sat around on benches whittling figures with their pocket knives and chewing tobacco, spitting that disgusting juice into tin cans. I must admit I admired their talent for hitting the intended target most of the time. I tried target spitting (but not chewing) but never got very good at it. I soon gave it up as a disgusting sport. The women, as I remember, just gossiped. I never got very good at that either. But the few times I have tried it, I found it a lot of fun and quite fulfilling, actually!

You know, I don't go back as far as Laura Ingalls Wilder, but though the rest of the world had modernized, Manes was about a century behind or so it appears to me. In retrospect, I think it reminds me of Little House on the Prairie. It hasn't changed all that much to this day. Except they do have cars, phones, electricity...but what they don't have anymore is Austin's General Store, Jim and Ora Wade or Hobart and Ressie Hurley...or Cho-Cho ice cream.

Why Do This?

Why should I--one of the busiest, most stressed out, overworked people I know--take time from my overbooked life to write a blog no one will read? The answer is perhaps to find an answer. What in my past or present has caused me to be driven beyond healthy limits? I have been asked that question by my closest friends on more than one occasion and I have no answer. So, I thought that perhaps if I go back and write things that stand out in my memory--important and not so much so--I would find the answer or enjoy the journey--or maybe not. Don't expect me to reveal deep dark secrets or create a "tell all." First, I have so few deep dark secrets that there is nothing to explore. And there is no "tell all." This may be so boring that even I will not want to proof read it. But I do have a head and life full of memories and I think I would like to document some, embellish a few, but go back over some and smile.