Shootout! Real-Life Drama

I was returning to the church from a quick trip to the wholesale confection warehouse. That’s where you go to buy candy in bulk to sell at the concession stands for Little League baseball games, church leagues and such. The trunk of my white Pontiac LeMons with the red leather top was filled with Atom Bombs, Tootsie Pops, bulk popcorn and gallons of coconut oil. This mother lode would yield huge profits that would translate into new uniforms and equipment. (I think about the few cents it costs to produce a small bag of my favorite treat—movie popcorn—each time I put out five bucks for the delicacy at the theater. But we all pay the price because the smell of fresh buttery popcorn leads us into a temptation from which we cannot be delivered.)

In the passenger compartment of my car, I refereed the never-ending game of “That’s Mine, Don’t Touch It—I Saw It First.” This is a driving game played by my three kids each time we were in the car. This game is played by engaging in increasingly loud conversation, escalating to hitting the person closest to you and throwing anything that is not permanently attached to the body of the vehicle. That potential projectile can be a book, a backpack, lunch box or baby sister’s bottle. The object of the game is not to hurt the other players, but to see who can move Mother most quickly from, “Let’s play the quiet game. Let’s see who can go the longest without making a sound,” to a screaming maniac in rush hour traffic. The real pros can accomplish this in under three minutes. My kids were world-class champs.

We were on a side street beside 7-11 getting ready to turn onto Jefferson Avenue. I heard sirens and lots of them. Five police cars with sirens blaring and lights blazing were suddenly in my path. The cops jumped out of their cars and ordered me into the parking lot. My kids quickly realized the seriousness of their crime. Before I could figure out who called the cops on my kids, I realized the attention of the police was not focused on my red and white Pontiac, but on a taxi that was surrounded and blocking the street.

The officers were positioned behind the squad cars with weapons drawn and pointed at the cab. Time stood still for seconds. Minutes? Then the shouting began. “Get out with your hands on your head!” Again, time was of no consequence as they continued yelling, but nothing happened. Then, slowly the driver’s door opened and the cabbie emerged in slow motion with his fingers intertwined on top of his head. As he moved ever so slowly, he was ordered to drop to the ground and crawl on his hands and knees to safety and cover behind the dumpster. He did so ever so quickly.

More time passed. The SWAT team arrived in full SWAT team apparel. It looked like a movie set as the men in black approached the yellow taxicab. I heard a pop. Just a pop. Not a bang. Not a boom. Just a pop. The team crouched low and swarmed the target. Lots of indistinguishable yelling. Then someone gave the “all clear.”

It was about that time that somebody noticed the red and white LeMons with four open-mouthed faces pressed against the driver-side windows. I was ordered, not asked politely, not thanked for my cooperation, but ordered to leave.

The Six O’clock News and the Daily Press told the rest of the story. A single mom, obviously desperate with no place to turn for help, had called for a taxi to take her to the drug store. She told the driver to wait. She would just be a minute. She just needed to pick up something for her baby.

Once inside the store, she drew a pistol and demanded money from the cashier. Running back to the cab, she ordered the driver to take her home as she held the gun to his head. You know the rest.

I have to think how desperate she must have been. She had passed three churches on her way to the crime. Any of the three would have helped her with food and even with money. I know this to be true. I worked at one of them and we had helped hundreds of people.

Did she not plan her day at all? Did she expect to get away with this? Why go back home? How much money did she get and how long could it possibly last? Did she have a plan for when the money ran out? Who stayed with her baby while she ran this errand? Did she have a baby at all or was her desperation drug-induced?

This lady chose a very permanent solution to a very temporary and fixable problem.

Oh, that “pop” I heard? It wasn’t a bang. It wasn’t a boom. It was just a pop. She shot herself in the head.

Layover

Let’s see….in the last week and a half, I have spent time decomposing—make that decompressing—whatever! I have slept until I am ready to get up every morning; picked strawberries; made jam; reconnected with friends at a networking event; cooked dinner (yikes!—but just one time); gone shopping with no money (compare that to taking an alcoholic to a beer tasting); did a classy photo shoot at “The Spa of Colonial Williamsburg” for a NY agency (that was cool!); written numerous blogs; had breakfast with friends; walked approximately a hundred miles (more or less); took naps; wrote more blogs; talked to my Aunt Kay; started reading a book by William Faulkner; took more naps; wrote blogs (did I mention that already?); tried to set up lunch dates with my kids because I have nothing else to do—but they are busy working (remember "Cat's in the Cradle"?); scheduled a trip to Oklahoma; started to understand a book by William Faulkner; wrote blogs; called most everyone I know because I have nothing else to do; thought about what I want to do in the future; tried really hard to figure out how I can justify a NY shopping trip with no money; procrastinated doing most things because, “I can do that tomorrow.”

Are there any rules on this? As you know, I like rules. Let’s write some:

What to Do When You Have Nothing Really to Do

1. Enjoy the time. It won’t last long.


2. Remember when you would have killed for this time alone.


3. Resist the temptation to eat constantly.


4. Clean house. You can’t afford the maid anymore.


5. Write some blogs and spam your friends’ emails with notices every time you post a new one.


6. Do your own nails. It may be a while before you can afford a manicure and pedicure.


7. Daydream about whatever. Just let your mind wander.


8. Read a difficult book—like one by William Faulkner. He doesn't follow the rules very well!


9. Clean out the bathroom cabinets…tomorrow.


10. Call your friends. Sure, they’re really busy, but what the heck, you’re bored and they are nice about it.


11. Check your email every 7 minutes. Reading junk mail is underrated.


12. Check your phone’s caller ID. Maybe it rang and you just didn’t hear it.


13. Go to Barnes & Noble and just hang out and drink lattes with the other losers. Just kidding. They’re not losers. They’re just retired.


14. Pile the dishes in the sink. You can wash them tomorrow.


15. Walk 3-5 miles a day…or quit eating so much!


16. Let you naturally curly hair have its way for a change.


17. Wash your own car. That guy that comes to the office and washes it? He costs money.


18. Sit in the sunroom and enjoy the gorgeous view and wildlife. This you can afford.


19. Download new songs from iTunes.


20. Wish you had the money to replace your broken iPod.


21. Plan what to wear to your phantom job interviews.


22. Worry about your present situation…tomorrow.


23. Check your bank account for overdrafts hourly.


24. Go get something to eat and take a nap.


25. Carpe diem!!

Oh, and be sure to schedule at least one important action item per day. But if you don't get around to it, don't worry. You can always do it tomorrow.

This won’t last forever. But then, if it does? So what!

Parachute Angels

It’s been a week—just over a week. A full week since I jumped out of the plane. A full week since I realized I didn’t have a parachute. No safety net. No plan. Guess what! No pain. No anxiety. No regrets. Not one.

My mom is a praying woman. Is there anything you need? Ask my mom. She’ll pray for you. She has always prayed for me. I turn to her and ask her to pray for me during my difficult times. And my trials have always, always improved. Every single time. I had some bad days; Mom prayed and my days got better. I called to tell her so she would not worry. (I know, you’re not supposed to worry if you pray about it, but that only counts when it’s not your daughter.) Within the next few days, the situation fell apart again. I called Mom. “Well, you said things were better, so I quit praying.” “Well, can you start again?!?” “I’m going to pray that you will be surrounded by angels.” “Great. Just don’t send them away for a while, ok?”

Then the day came and I jumped out of that plane. No parachute. No safety net. No flight plan. I just jumped. Sure enough, the angels were there. My family, my friends. From the very first person I called, not one has said, “What? Are you crazy? Who does something like that?” Without exception, they have encouraged me. “I’m proud of you.” “I’m %@$# proud of you!” (Yes, angels say those words. I heard them.) “You’ve done the right thing!” They have listened. They have encouraged. They have counseled. But more than anything, they caught me before I hit the ground. These angels surrounded me and gave me a soft landing on solid ground.

Mom must still be praying because you are still here.

Never thought of yourself as an angel? Think again! And a gazillion thanks to my parachute angels!

Rules? What Rules?

I thought it was just me—play fair and make sure everyone else does, too. A simple enough rule. But life has become confusing. How do you play fair when there are no rules? It seems the rules are changing while the clock is running! That’s not fair. There are rules for basketball, baseball, tennis…even dodge ball and red rover, for cryin’ out loud! We learned social skills because there were rules to follow. I like rules. I like to know that there is a rule that says you don’t burp in public and if an air bubble happens to slip out, you say, “Excuse me.” I like to know that it is appropriate to dress for business. I like to know the boundaries in conversation. I like knowing that some actions are suitable and others are not. I can play by the rules – or I can choose not to play by the rules, but I need to know what the rules are. Don’t you?

Ours is the generation that changed a lot of the rules. Women gained equality. Children were granted rights. Men learned to vacuum and wash dishes. Love was free and uninhibited. And it all became ok.

I’m afraid we were near-sighted when we changed the rules. We did not foresee that this game would go into overtime and we made no rules.

Your family will always be there when you need them. We didn’t see that by moving far away from our family home and farm, we would break the rule that says, “Mom will bring chicken soup when you are not feeling well.” No matter how much love a family possesses, children have lost out by not seeing Grandma and Grandpa on a weekly basis. They haven’t heard the stories or felt the comfort that comes only from a close grandparent-grandchild relationship. My children and I lost out by not having my parents live two blocks away. We should have made a rule that you can only move a maximum of two hours away from home.

There will always be more than enough to go around. We set the standard of materialism extremely high. We didn’t realize that our children would become so accustomed to designer athletic shoes and the newest and best video entertainment that they would never be content to make their own walkie-talkies out of paper cups and string and imagine it worked because we told them it did. As a result, they live in houses they can’t fill and drive cars they can’t afford. We should have made a rule that you can have it now, but not all of it yet.

Someone will always be there to take care of everyone. Just not true. We made an assumption, but forgot to make the rule about who will do it. Who’s going to take care of my parents? I live too far away. My brother? Sure, but he’s also taking care of his grandchildren. Who’s going to take care of him? I live too far way. (Refer to Rule #1)

You’re only as old as you feel. That’s our rule. We made it up. We are trying desperately to play by that rule. Don’t give me a rule then set me up to lose. This is a cruel game we are playing. While we can feel 28 on the inside, our bodies belie that feeling. The pain in your back didn’t used to be there. You were not even aware that you had a knee when you were 28, now it aches every time the weather changes. Inside, we can still climb mountains, drive fast cars, write a book. On the outside, we sit in our recliner, watch the travel channel and drive the remote control. Don’t fault us for coloring our hair, using Botox and seeking plastic surgery. It’s not a matter of vanity and self-indulgence. We are only trying to play by the rules. We are in the fourth quarter and trying to close the gap between how old we are and how old we feel on the inside!

We’ve tried to make up the rules as we go. We depend on Miss Manners. Where are Emily Post and that Vanderbilt lady when we need them? Who gets invited to the wedding? Does your Dad’s girlfriend sit next to your step-mother? Do both of them sit on the same pew with your mother and her current friend? Do you inherit your dad’s wealth or does it go to his 27 year-old fourth wife and her children? Who gets your mother’s good china?

We can’t quit playing now even if the game is out of control and the players are all over the field with no official game plan. The referees are blowing the whistle and we don’t know why. We are being penalized and not sure what we did wrong because we don’t know the rules. We are still inventing this game our children and grandchildren will play. Who’s going to write the rulebook? We need one now!

Rich Heritage

I'm pretty sure I've lived over half my life already. It's simple arithmetic actually. I have accounted for my long-life genes and even my fantasy age. I have added in any extra years I might get for good behavior and I just can't make the numbers work in my favor.That being said, I plan to stick around for quite sometime yet, just not as long as I've already been here. So, what have I done of any lasting value at all? Not much. But, in some way, a part of me will live much longer through my kids. Poor things.

This gets me to thinking about my heritage. I’ve mentioned my mother. I love that woman! She is loving, funny, smart, a great cook, ditzy, forgetful, creative and very compassionate. I picked up a couple of those traits. You can be the judge which ones. And I will write more about her, as I’m sure she is woven tightly through every fiber of my being. But let me say a few words about my dad.

He is my hero. Dad had it tough growing up.

When I say my folks grew up in rhe country. I’m talking country. Dirt roads. Outhouses. Naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. No phones. Chop-the-firewood country. Grow-your-own-food country. Butcher-your-pet-pig country.

To get to Grandma’s house, you must take the blacktopped two-lane road for twenty miles from Mtn. Grove (pop. 3,476), take a sharp right in the big curve in Manes (pop. 54), go about five miles to the three mailboxes, turn right onto the one-lane dirt road. Drive carefully and very, very slowly. Straddle the tall weeds growing in the middle. Grab a handful of leaves as the branches from the small trees and underbrush scrape the sides of your car and reach in through your open windows. Pay especially close attention as you navigate ‘the branch.’ This small swift-running tributary to the larger creek on the backside of the property is famous for hiding large rocks and underwater holes that could take out the vital organs of your automobile. The safe passage route was known only to the two families who lived on the other side—and the milkman from the dairy who picked up the milk and brought me blue bubble gum when I stayed with Grandma. It was actually a pretty good security system, I’d say.

Back to Dad. He had few advantages as many would think of them. He worked hard as a child. He doesn’t remember sitting on anyone’s lap or being tucked in at night. However, he always knew that his mother loved him. To write about Dad’s life would take a book. Literally.

He took on shame and embarrassment that were not his to bear. But somewhere inside him was a drive and desire to press forward; to learn more; to have a better life. He was not driven by money. (At least, if wealth was his motivation, he has never acquired it to any measurable degree.) I suppose there was this innate desire to learn. He passed up some opportunities that could have caused his life to have a very different outcome. He was offered some incredible jobs that I will have to go back and ask him about—and write them down this time. But for whatever reason—fate, God’s will, poor choices—he did not take them.

Here’s what he's done:
· School teacher in a one-room school house
· Factory worker
· Watch repairman
· Television repairman, electrician
· Mailman
· Sunday school teacher
· Associate pastor
· Missionary
· Pastor
· College professor
· College dean
· College president

Here’s what he accomplished:
· College graduate after the age of 40
· Masters Degree
· Doctorate
· Built a college library
· Owned multiple properties
· Influenced and impacted thousands of people literally around the world
· Stayed married to Mom for 58 years and counting
· Survived a heart attack and two by-pass surgeries
· Wrote and published a book
· Survived raising me and brother

So, why is this man my hero? Why is he my role model? I adore him. He is loving. He is kind. He is strong. He is highly intelligent in a non-assuming or in-your-face kind of way. He is simple, honest, handsome and humble. He is dedicated, likable, hilariously funny and witty with a dry sense of humor—but I get it! He’s my dad and there are only two people in the entire world who can say that. He loves me exactly the way I am.

Wrong Way!

It was the Christmas season and the mall was predictably crowded. I had gone back and forth, up and down each aisle of the parking garage. I was on the third level and still could not find a single empty space. Exiting shoppers were being followed closely by SUVs, mini-vans and luxury cars alike. I chose my overloaded shopper carefully and followed her to her car. I watched as she opened her trunk and loaded her many packages carefully and closed lid solidly. I had my blinker on indicating to all others that this was, indeed, my parking spot. I had earned it and it was mine. My shopper, on the other hand, still had money to spend. I know this because she walked away from her car and headed back in the direction of the mall entrance. I continued my scouting mission. I was not to be deterred by this minor setback.

As I began my quest up yet another aisle, I saw a vehicle approaching me. This was a bit annoying because the aisles were “One Way” and very narrow. This vehicle had a yellow rotating light on the top. As I pulled carefully to the right—as close to the row of parked cars as I dared—the security patrolman stopped his official little truck and rolled down his window. I, likewise, rolled down my window. We were so close, I could smell the stale coffee on his breath. He said, “Lady, you’re going the wrong way.”

I looked quickly at the cars on my left and on my right and they were all parked in the same direction I was driving. I said, “I don’t think so—“ he cut me off abruptly. “Lady, this is one way and you are going the wrong way.”

I was momentarily confused as I once again looked at the direction of the parked cars. “I don’t understand—“

“Lady, you are going the wrong way. Go back the other way.” Ok. Now this was getting serious. How was I to turn around in this narrow passageway? It was a very long aisle and he seemed very short on patience.

At this point, my husband leaned across console and spoke through the open window. Pointing at the sign with the arrow, he said, “Sir, I believe you are the one going the wrong way.” The security guard turned his head in the direction of my husband’s authoritative finger. (Not that finger, silly! What are you thinking?!) He turned back to me, tipped his cap, and said, “Have a nice day.” He drove on to find other holiday offenders.

I cringe to think of how often I have pointed out to others the direction—in my humble opinion—they ought to be going. I remember others, besides the mall security guy, who have shared with me the path they felt I should choose, or leave, or do differently. But I have found that it is usually best for each of us to establish first of all, if we are headed in the right direction before mandating the course for others.

The Professional

I experienced a flashback as I stood at the end of the long soggy, muddy row of strawberry vines. It could well have been the same man in the same cowboy hat from long ago who pointed out that water was standing in the row and we might want to try to avoid it. (Duh!) I was twelve years old again. Looking out over the field, I observed people with varying sized backsides pointing in our direction, bent over the plants looking for the rich red delicacies. Except today was different. I was paying them to be there today.

The mornings were the same. At 5:00 AM, it was always foggy, chilly and dark as I stood on the street corner waiting for the unmarked former school bus now painted blue or green. It was Vancouver, Washington, so rain at some point in the day was pretty much a certainty. Perhaps it would rain all day. It didn’t matter. That didn’t change the schedule. Sometimes I would wait alone with my bag lunch. Most days, other ragamuffin children or adults would join me. This was my first job.

Arriving in the fields, we were directed to our designated row by a man in a straw hat, chosen carefully for his lack of warmth and personality. He gave us our instructions. “Go to the far end of this row and work your way back this way. Don’t miss any berries. You’ll be docked if we find you left good berries on the vine. Leave the caps on the vine. You’ll be docked for any berries with caps on them.” Only the more experienced and best pickers were allowed to pick ‘caps’ which you and I see so temptingly displayed at the grocery store. This job paid maybe a couple of cents more per flat. I admired these pickers and, of course, aspired to join their elite ranks. “You’ll be docked for any damaged berries, so be careful. Don’t pick them green and don’t pick them if they are rotten. You’ll be docked if we find bad berries in your flats. Don’t drop the berries in the mud. You’ll be docked for dirty berries.”

It wasn’t really difficult to fill a flat with the big beautiful berries. I didn’t eat many after the first couple of hours. I’d much rather fill my flat. And I didn’t much mind crawling through the muddy rows throughout the long hours of the day. The hard part was carrying a full flat back to the far end of the row where the big flat bed truck waited to collect the fruit of my labor. It was even more difficult to lift the heavy burden up to the berry nazi on the high truck bed—almost over my head—without spilling the red gold. I would invariably come up short. The kid on the truck would take one or two of the boxes from my flat and pour them over the remaining boxes and send me back for more fruit before punching my card for a full flat. I didn’t like coming up short. I soon learned to overfill my flats though it meant nothing to my paycheck…a practice I would continue throughout life.

But as we picked berries yesterday, I was the expert. I pointed out to the children in our group what to look for. They pointed out to their mother that I was the professional. I had done this for a living. This time, I got to pick ‘caps.’ The lady with the scales weighed my berries. With a sense of having arrived, I paid her what she asked and walked away with my strawberries. I am the professional!

Funny Thing Happened

My kids think I should write happy, funny stuff on my blog. I think I do—well, with a few exceptions. I think the one about being Dairy Day Princess is hilarious. I laugh out loud every time I read it. That is one of my funniest memories of all times. My kids read it sadly. They felt bad for me. Are you kidding? Lighten up, kids. I get tears of laughter just thinking about it. And the one about poison ivy? What was I thinking?

We have the funniest family I have ever been around. Read their blogs and websites. Are we funny or what?

I remember when Jason was four. Mom and I were talking about how Becky “has her dad’s nose.” Jason looked at us so strangely. He was trying to figure out what Becky’s dad must look like if she had his nose. He had never seen anyone without a nose!

Jeremy was around seven when he dropped something in church. It went just under the pew we were sitting on. He leaned over to get it, lost his balance and was literally stuck with his butt straight up in the air. He could move neither his shoulders nor his legs to free himself. People around us tried so hard to keep a straight face, but ended up laughing out loud. The rest of the congregation thought they’d missed a punch line in the sermon.

Poor Sara. She never had a chance around the boys. While Jason was her protector, Jeremy was her tormentor. (Sorry, Jer, but you know it’s true.) Jeremy came in after working with a roofing crew one hot summer day. He told Sara that when he was away at college, he had learned that vinegar is the best natural deodorant there was. That it worked much better than commercial brands. He said, “Seriously, I used it this morning. Smell my pits.” She did. Poor thing!

Even in the tough times, we joke about things. That’s our way of coping. We don’t mope (much). We don’t whine (much). We don’t even complain—OK, we do complain. But we laugh a lot. We laugh at jokes that aren’t all that funny. We laugh at memories. We laugh at each other. They laugh at me. I guess that’s why we still like to hang out as a family. We think we are the funniest, greatest people in the whole world. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that?

Reasons for Jumping Out of an Airplane

There are a lot of things I want to do in this life. I want to shop in NYC. I want to go to Venice. I want to spend more time with those I love. I want to go on an African photo safari. I have done several things few people in the world have done. (See the list on this blog.) One thing I have never, for one minute, ever wanted to do is to jump out of an airplane. I don’t want to jump without a parachute—obviously—and I have never had the desire to jump with a parachute—or attached to the body of someone who has a parachute. Jumping out of planes has never been on my bucket list. I can’t see it making the list under any circumstances.

Some people love to jump out of airplanes. They do it over and over. They pay a lot of money for that thrill. I don’t get it.

I suppose that IF I were in plane, there might be some reasons for jumping under certain unavoidable circumstances. Please allow me a moment to reflect.

Let’s suppose I’m on my way home from an exhausting business trip. The flight attendant is crabby. I hear the pilot say some unkind words to her/him. I find my seat next to a mother with a toddler and an infant-in-arms. (My only fear of flying!) I ask to be moved. The flight attendant informs me there are more important matters to attend to. The baby, of course, is screaming. The toddler yanks the lid off his sippy cup splattering the red Kool-Aid over my white wool designer suit. I consider my options, but decide that though I may want to, but I’m not jumping out of that plane.

Hijackers are on board! Lives are being threatened. Fear is rampant. Uncertainty abounds. We have no idea where we will end up. People are being hurt. Shoot, no! I’m not jumping. My chances are still better on the plane. I’m staying put.

Plane is going down. Nope. Not jumping. A miracle can always happen. Right? The fuel pump may start working again. The pilot just may be able to get the engine to start again. However bleak our chances may seem, I’m staying with the plane.

So, what could possibly make me jump out of a plane when I’ve never jumped before? No parachute, no jumping lessons, no jumping experience.

What could possibly make me jump from the plane? Nothing but me. Taking control. Deciding my own destiny. Knowing I'm Alive.

NOW I Know I'm Alive

It's a little like pouring a bucket of ice water over someone half asleep just as they are getting out from under some snuggly warm covers. You know you're alive.


Or maybe it's more like jumping from a plane only to discover your parachute doesn't open. You just released the trapeze swing and the next one is not coming toward you. There's no net.



Something inside sends a message to every fiber of your being. Your senses heighten. You feel this intense invigorating awareness that your life has just changed. You are flying. You are free. Suddenly the exhilaration brings a realization that life as you know it may be ending soon. It's too late to change your course. You can't jump back into the plane; the swing is out of reach. Your decision is irreversible. Fear grips your very soul. The immediate feeling of freedom quickly becomes a realization of doom and impending pain. What will it feel like to hit the ground? Will it hurt? Will I survive? Will help come? How will my future change? Will I have a future? Will those in the plane cheer my demise? I guess it really doesn't matter.

I walked away from my job today.

Not Funny Anymore--OK, Maybe a Little

As I pushed my shopping cart around the Costco parking lot today looking for my car, I remembered how many times I have laughed at my Mom for forgetting where we parked. How many times have I lagged behind her laughing and watched as she tried to figure out where she left the car? She has even parked and gone in through one mall entrance, out through another, and thought for sure her car had been stolen.

You must understand that I have one of the funniest moms in the world. She’s always been a bit ditzy. She is highly intelligent and an extremely gifted writer and speaker. She just doesn’t always pay attention to what she’s doing. But it’s ok. She is the first to laugh at herself and the first to recall stories of her mishaps.

Like the time she could not find the bacon she had bought at the grocery store. She assumed the bag boy had left it out of her shopping bag…until a few days later when she found the mystery meat inside the stereo cabinet. She apparently carried the bacon into the living room and laid it down when she adjusted the volume, went back to the kitchen and put the rest of the groceries away.

Or the time she raised up and hit her head on the open cabinet door and sharply slapped my brother who was standing nearby. (Don’t feel too bad for him. If he didn’t deserve it that time, there were plenty of other times he did!)

I can’t calculate how many cumulative weeks of time we have spent over the years looking for her keys…or her glasses…or one of her shoes…or her checkbook.

When we get together now, we enjoy “Mom Stories.” It is one of our favorite pastimes. And she is such a good sport about it. She even reminds us of some we have forgotten. You’ve got to love a person like that.

Through the years, I have watched helplessly as I have seen myself become my mother. Now I can’t imagine how she ever found her car without a remote control. True, I have perfectly legitimate reasons for my absent-mindedness. Like talking on my cell phone and being deeply involved in a conversation when I leave my car…actually, I was talking to Mom. And I am, after all, my mother’s daughter. It really is kind of fun…ok, funny…to find myself pushing a shopping cart up one isle and down another…in the parking lot…searching for the flashing taillights on my cute little BMW…as some unsuspecting person drives slowly, following me so they can get my parking place when I leave. They usually find an empty spot long before I find my car!

Random Thoughts on Friendship

Friends are good. Seriously. They are. People make such a big deal about having friends. It's ok, folks. Relax. Friends come and go. Here today, gone tomorrow. Say something good, have a good day and everyone loves you. Be happy, helpful, funny, and complimentary, you'll have friends. The Bible says to have friends, you must show yourself to be friendly. Wow! That's easy. You mean that's all I have to do to have friends? Cool. I can do that. I can have lots of friends. But I really don't want all that many, to be perfectly honest. Friends generally take a lot of effort! I have to invest time, energy, emotion. By and large, I'll pass.


On the other hand, have a bad day...make that a bad week. No one likes you. No one wants to be around you. No one says, "Can I help?" No one overlooks the fact that you said something out of line or out of character (as they perceive it) for you. Except your friends. I'm not talking about acquaintances. They are the ones who stand back and, honestly, are probably glad you are having it tough for a change.


But your friends...they care. They call and ask how you doing. "Are you doing better?" They take your side when you complain whether they think you brought it on yourself or not. Friends love when you succeed and take offense at your offenders. They pray for you and tell you so.


I've heard it said that you are indeed fortunate to have one or two true friends in a lifetime. To quote our "friend" Frank, "Friends, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention." I think I've done better than that and am blessed.


Faux friends? Oh, yeah! Had those, too! Pretty sure there are some hanging around now.


I have a group of what might seem like the most unlikely of friends. I would be hard pressed to explain this group except that "opposites attract." We are politically diverse; religiously polarized; totally different careers; but I think we care. We care about each other. We enjoy the times we spend together. We don't talk on the phone, we seldom email, but we all roll out of bed early every couple of weeks and get together. We talk about whatever subject comes up. We don't gossip, much. (We don't know the same people, so gossip's really not as fun as it could be.) But we enjoy the connection we share. I'm not sure what it is, but it gets me out of bed at six o'clock a.m. every other Tuesday. And for them I am thankful. I love these friends.


Then there are my peripheral friends. These come out of nowhere when I need them most. Don't hang out, but have something that pulls us together. These may be business friends, church friends or other friends with whom I have specific niche friendships. I enjoy these friends. I need these friends. I love these friends.


Temporary friends. Those people with whom you have a real and unique attraction and amazing friendship for a short time. And then, its gone. You don't talk or get together anymore. But it wasn't a bad ending, it just ended. And that's ok, too. It was what it was. I loved these friends.


And then, there are soulmates.

Puerto Vallerta Vacation

I decided one morning on vacation that I would go for my walk before it got too hot. (Too late. It was already as hot as hell's kitchen.) So I decided to go only three miles instead of my usual five on that morning and finish off the other two that evening when it would be cooler. So while walking, I noticed that the sand on the western coast of Mexico is much courser than Caribbean sand; and brown, not white, fine and beautiful like the sands of the islands. Also, the water was brown to match the sand, (not a gorgeous turquoise) but I was in my thankful mood and noticed the beautiful sparkles all through the sand. Also, I figured this was a great exfoliant. right? After about a mile, I noticed that my big toes were feeling a bit raw, but kept going, because I must meet my stated goals--driven as I am. When I got to a mile and a half (ok, there are no mile markers, but based on the time it had taken me, I judged it to be so--and if I got it wrong, who´s to question it?) I stopped and rinsed the sand off my feet. I now believe those sparkly bits of sand to be ground glass...figuratively speaking. I had blisters the size of dimes on both big toes. Now, my problem was that I had to walk the mile and a half back over the same treacherous ground glass I had just traveled. Try walking this distance holding up both big toes. Thankfully, when I got back to the hotel, the blisters were only about the size of quarters and fully intact. I decided that the next day, I would sacrifice, not my walking, but my cute Sketchers shoes. I can always buy new shoes.