The way it was

I grew up thinking our family and it's ways were  the best, most loving, and most perfect family around. That is what I was told and so I believed it.

Looking at life through that lens makes lots of things seem unlikely or unbelievable, but the farther away I get from that childhood story, the more it comes into focus.

What I always perceived as natural, or a problem with me, seems more likely to have been the result of my mother's parenting skills now. I mean doesn't everyone's mother throw antique chairs at the wall and break them? And doesn't everyone's mother throw a glass across the room and accidentally cause her child to have stitches? And isn't it natural for a mother to tell her teenage daughter on her first real date that if she thinks she's pretty, she's not? And I learned not to duck if someone startled me and made me think they were going to hit me in the face, because, as mom said, you must have deserved it if you ducked -- and then she followed through.

We made so many excuses for my mother's behavior.

She taught us to be passive aggressive as a way of coping with the world. Then she showed us how passive aggressive makes angry people explode and do crazy things.

Unlike two of  my siblings, I learned what I didn't want to be and do when I was faced with similar problems. It took years of work for me to totally give up being passive aggressive and just be straight forward and honest. Thank God I had my kids late in life or I might have totally passed on an inheritance no one wants.

My youngest brother had the advantage of  being a tail-ender and growing up when she was more mellow.  She was also more attached to her youngest child and, and this is no small thing, he had the advantage of  Uncle Ralph, a neighbor and second father to him all this life. A voice of reason helps immensely when you are trying to sort things out as a child living in bedlam.

The way it was, was not for my children, or my grandchildren. I've truly come a long way and I have worked hard to make sure it was better -- even if it wasn't perfect..

Youth

I am at an age now where youth is obviously far behind me years wise and because of that, like many women, I often find myself wishing I looked better, which really means younger.

Mind wise I believe I am still fairly youthful. No I do not have any desire to look foolish, nor do I want to act rashly, that type of youth no longer holds any interest for me, so I was asking myself what kind of youth am I looking for?

I believe it is the beauty of youth, that thing that draws us so inexorably towards young people of all ages, not children necessarily who draw us because of their vulnerability and innocence, but younger adults.

And that is health.

Health makes even plain young people beautiful. If only we realized that when we were so young and full of it, but that is a time when many people believe beauty has more to do with cosmetics and style and other fly by night things marketed to them by a horrifically unbalanced society.

Clear skin. Bright eyes. Easy smile. A well rested look that says, "Hey what's up for today?" These things are inviting and beautiful.

So put away your old notions that pitiful draws people, because it draws the wrong people, and let go of the idea that your lines and wrinkles are ugly, especially if they are well earned laugh lines, and grab hold of the joy all around you. That's what will telegraph out to the world that you are beautiful.

The road to the funny farm is paved with rants

Is it ever okay to rant?

Perhaps recognizing that I want to rant is some kind of a signal, but what is it telling me?

That there are a lot of downright idiots in the world?

I'm pretty sure that is true, but it is probably also a signal to me that means I need to change something and since the only thing I can count on changing is me -- this is personal.

No matter what my interpretation of idiot is, I can also pretty much assume it means a lack of ability to learn or change. Which reinforces the idea that change is up to me.

One way I could change is to avoid these people even more than I already do, but I am fairly adept at that already.

Another might be to manage, or micromanage, how I respond to them when our paths cross. Perhaps I need a mantra, a funny mantra, to distract me from my feelings of frustration and anger and remind me that I don't need more negative energy in my life.

I like that idea, but it isn't something I can come up with in this moment.

The names have been changed

Our extended family has an unfortunate habit that many families have of naming their children after living adults so that nicknames, or initials become necessary for the little guy (Almost all of them are boys. I don't think girls are that important in our family.)

So, little Robert Orville becomes RO to us and Bob to his wife and coworkers because his uncle got the whole name. And little Robert Edwin becomes Little Robert to us, but Eddie to his wife and coworkers.

Then there is one branch of the family that had Big Bill, Little Bill, Middle Bill and Baby Bill. I'm not sure how Middle Bill managed that, but he did. Of course they are all Bill to their wives and coworkers.

It creates all sorts of confusion and conflict both within and without the family because everyone seems to have a very strong opinion about their names, or the names of their children or spouses. A name is your label in the world and it feels to me like you should get your very own.

My grandfather took his name into his own hands as soon as he left home (which was after he was suspended from  high school for pushing the principal off the stage and breaking his arm. He frequently took many things into this own hands,) but when he moved to another state to work for that up and coming guy, Ford, he changed his name from Harvey Eugene to Stephen William. Now we have a bevy of boys named Stephen and William in our family.

For the first time in history, at least our family history, the traditional naming has changed. The latest generation are named after dreams, musical icons and jewelry stores, which, at least, is unique.

Axe throwing

A friend pointed out that axe throwing is the new Froyo.

That feels about right in today's atmosphere.

What was once straight forward frozen yogurt topped with innocuous sweet toppings has been replaced by sharp heavy instruments of destruction. Not fencing with its more or less refined moves. Not archery with its nearly pinpoint target. Not even guns with their deafening but relatively small areas of death inducing madness, but axes.

As a species we seem to enjoy destruction more than any other and evidently the gorier the better. We don't just want to protect ourselves. We want to wallow in the blood and guts we created while doing it.

Knives, guns, bombs, arrows, are not enough for today's crowd. It's a bit nostalgic actually. Kind of harkens back to the gladiators, a particularly gruesome era that may be no match for the all around total hate that accompanies our present regime.

By making it feel "in" axe throwing prepares people for what is to come as more and more hoodlums are freed from prison by the head honcho of what was once the United States of America. Lex Luther has been incarnated as an orange haired maniac with a pouting personality and he is out to make a statement.

And you are welcome to join him in any way you deem joyful. Locking up babies in prisons of mass negligence, defending our borders from people whose skin falls below a certain shade of tan, and making sure no people of a certain class are punished for white collar crimes.

The new world order makes axe throwing sound fairly innocuous too and who knows, when the environment is totally shot, that little axe might be your ticket to life.

Equality

Equal rights for women has come a long way since I was a young woman and I'd say one hundred percent of it is necessary and right, and wanted.

Along side of that are the somewhat dubious things that seem to be stitched right up close to the ideas people have of being equal.

For example what we euphemistically called potty mouths back in the day is becoming the norm in many places. I'm not really offended by it. In fact, I have been known to use it to great effect in some instances and maybe that is my problem.

Once all the adjectives and adverbs and even many nouns are whittled down to a certain word, that word begins to lack punch. Not to mention it lacks true descriptive meaning in any specific way. And so far no one has come up with a really good replacement, one that will knock those you aim it at off balance and make them understand just how vile you believe they are.

Another example of an equal rights codicil seems to be stooping to the lowest level of that which you are wanting to be the equal of. I'm talking about not talking. I'm talking about punching people with your fists and kicking them with your Christian Louboutin stilettos. Just because you leave an imprint of your Cartier diamond on their cheek doesn't mean you aren't wallowing in the sty.

There are all sorts of equal and some of them are not particularly helpful. I for one have no desire to join in when someone's bellow is the signal to gather on the fourth hole and watch a nine iron turn golf into a blood sport.

I realize crude is in "IN" now. For all I know state dinners are served ala fingers with white lightning chasers, but that doesn't mean it is preferable or that I have to follow suit.

Night terrors

I know I have a huge imagination and most of the time I consider this one of my best assets. It does have a downside though.

My dreams are as vivid as my waking experiences most of the time. Sometimes I "walk" in my sleep, or actually have been known to run, beat on doors and talk, or even scream in my sleep. The flip side of this is dream paralysis where I start to wake up, but the dream continues and I can't move, or speak and the dream feels like it is now real in the waking world.

Sometimes the dream is a bad one and I am trying to call for help, or get away from a fire, or dogs, or snakes. And sometimes I am just unable to move in the dream and find myself asking whoever is in the dream with me to move my arms, or help me move my feet. Eventually though, I always wake up.

This has been true for as long as I can remember, except for the sleep paralysis. That didn't start until I got married in my early twenties.

Most people call these dreams night terrors and say they start around age six and generally end before you are an adult. Mine started by age two at least and they continue on to today.

Knowledge helps a little, but the dreams can still be terrifying.

Home at last

People wax lovingly on about the joy of small town living. I have never found that to be a particularly true concept, but then I have moved around frequently and come to small towns as an adult who was not born and raised there.

Much of my life has made me feel like an outsider. Someone who watches and enjoys, but does not really belong with, or is part of, any group of people.

I realize that I need a lot of time alone, but I still crave good company. Growing up that generally seemed to mean playing with the boys. Riding bicycles, playing with model trains, building club houses out of trash, even playing chess. Girls were harder. As a younger child I could play dolls or house with them, but the farther I got from childhood, the more difficult it became to find common areas of interest. Later on I found friends among my children's friends' mothers, but they weren't soul mates.

Talking about problems at home or work is fine, but eventually it bores me to death. I enjoy talking about ideas, places, unique situations, books, art, music, almost anything, but not a minute by minute account of what your children are doing, or what the people at your work place are doing.

I need something more. I need it in manageable quantities and I had pretty much decided I was such an odd duck that I simply did not fit into the company of most people who might enjoy my company.

Until I discovered an organization called Meetup which helps people connect with like minded people in their community. More precisely I discovered Women Wine and Words, a group of fifty women whose only requirement is that they be women and enjoy each other's company at least once every sixty days.

These are my people!

I found myself at brunch yesterday with a microbiologist, a business analyst, a retired Casey's employee, a sixth grade teacher, an engineer, and a Presbyterian minister. The conversation jumped from one fascinating thing to another and that is what I love about this group.

I find myself getting together with four to eight of them at least five or six times a month and doing everything from painting a picture to discussing a book. Sometimes we just go out for a meal or coffee, but whatever I choose to do with them, it enriches my life immensely.

Now, in what is surely the last quarter of my life, I have finally connected with something that makes this community extremely valuable to me. For the first time ever I find myself part of a group of people I value more that I ever thought was possible. This is my tribe, my home, the place I belong and I would hate to leave it.

A place in the pack

Some people are born knowing their place. They grow up romping and play fighting right next to the same people that will bury them and for some this is enough to fill a lifetime. These people don't ask how you want your coffee. They just pour their Folgers into a cup and add sugar and milk, or some sort of powdered creamer that could last a hundred years on the counter if their people didn't drink it up.

Others set off on purpose and do the things their fathers did and their mothers talk about, or the things their mothers did and their fathers talk about,  hoping that one day they will fall out of the lessons and into a job, or a career that defines them. A thing that makes money, because they believe that money tells people who you are and where you stand in the pack. Sometimes they need to stand on rocks to be seen, but if you pile the money high enough, you don't need even that.

Then there are the people who just stumble around, like soft pieces of clay, playing blind man's bluff, taking on the shape of those things that touch them. Once they have enough shape they begin showing their colors and if the world likes them, or even hates them enough, they become the artists and dreamers, the lovers and teachers of life the way it is. Their place in the pack is often tenuous.

Life is forward facing. Not kind. Not mean. A series of steps moving inexorably forward and most people just fall into line hoping they won't be led into the marshlands and get sucked into an early death.

A few do seem to break and run and what happens to them seems like a dream come true to me. They write the books that have footnotes, produce the buildings whose angles startle us, build aqueducts to control the water -- and fly above the pack.

Haunting

What haunts you?

What lays so heavily on your mind that you can't shake it off?

Ghosts? Boogie men? Great Aunt Sara? A fear of being poor, or that dogs will attack you? 

Whatever you are deathly afraid of becomes the ghost that hones in on your sonar.

It doesn't matter if other people feel the same way or not. If that feeling is overhwelmingly real for you, it affects you just as if it were as real as rain. Because it is.

If that ghost doesn't show up on an EVP, or whatever, but it still makes your heart thud, or keeps you awake nights, or causes you to react without thinking, it is a danger to you.

At the very least it is real as your reaction to it.

Are you haunted by the possibility of loose dogs being nearby? I am.

Perhaps you are haunted by the way you treated someone in the past? The result of your actions may very well come back at you.

We are cause and effect creatures and our feelings create both of those.

Our sensibilities create personalized ghosts, ready, willing and able to haunt the one they belong to.

Christmas Carousel

One of our traditions was going a block down to the theatre to celebrate Christmas. Outside it seemed to be only a store front, which in its former life it had been, but inside it was an immense place, filled with ornate Victorian decorations. There was a merry-go-round that spun to the tunes of a band organ the likes of which few people can imagine. The music echoed throughout the three stories above us like Christmas ghosts in a Disney creation.

People would come in and place their gifts under the gigantic tree behind the carousel and join others at the huge round table for a traditional Christmas dinner of roast turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, the works.

I watched as the boys played among all the others and suddenly it occurred to me that if I didn't get busy, we would not have our place at the table. I needed to go home and get our good china and all the rest of our Christmas gifts. I didn't remember there being so many people in the past, but thought if I used a laundry basket I could do it in one trip and that would be quicker.

The weather outside was awful. The late afternoon light was blown about over the snow and ice and I wondered if there was a door closer to the side of the block I wanted to reach, so I began exploring. Finally reaching the farthest corner of the building I opened an exit only type door and looked out. I was high up, probably on the top floor and the only way down was a metal fire escape covered in ice. A man behind me said something about that being too dangerous and difficult, but I remembered how I used to go down the big staircase in my mother's house and stepped through the door, landing on my bottom, and just sliding and bumping down the ice before me. The man said something I couldn't hear, but he did the same thing and soon we were both careening down one set of icy steps after another, barely making the corners as it turned and twisted down to the parking lot below. 

We seemed to go faster and faster as we neared the bottom and I was wondering how it would end, but there were cars down there and it was so cold that I thought maybe I could borrow one just long enough to get home and back. The man had reservations, but then we were in a car. I was driving and he was in the back seat looking over my shoulder as the car continued careening across a parking lot bordered by tumbles of dead icy bushes. I tried putting on the brake, but it didn't stop our slide across the ice. I tried steering us into the bushes and the man shouted at me not to scratch the car, but it didn't stop us anyway. 

I even tried reaching for the key to turn the car off, but there was no key! I didn't understand how that could be and I tried to open the door, thinking I would just throw myself out, but the door was locked and there was no lock to unlock! 

I began to panic and struggle to push the door open until it suddenly sprang out and I leaped up -- throwing back my covers and landing on the floor of my bedroom covered in sweat and panting with fear.

Outside it is still cold, gray and snowy, but at least I am awake now and the laws of the universe, as I understand them, are back in place.

Somebody's nightmare

I am a creature so easily influenced by my environment that one line in a book I'm reading let alone the world as it is today can give me horrible nightmares.

Imagine volunteering to go "south" to help out and finding yourself sleeping on a blue tarp with your child. No amount of readjusting can make it safe from the elephants who might step on you, or the people on the perimeter of the blue tarp, so you send your child home to your parents and continue on.

You find yourself in a huge metal hangar like building crammed with people and you excuse yourself to go find a bathroom. There are two small homes left that the hangar was built right over and the only bathrooms are supposed to be in there. Standing in line you wait for the guards, outfitted in full military uniforms, right down to metal helmets and carrying some kind of automatic rifle to let you in for your turn. The house is small, only a living room and kitchen, but it is filthy and practically destroyed. The bathroom toilet has been ripped out and you find it in the storage area off the kitchen, black with mold and filth and upside down. You go back to the guards and tell them there is no place to go in this house and one of them says, "So don't go lady." He shrugs and as you leave, people outside ask if you want, "a piece of food."  You try to imagine which one piece of food you might want, a roll, or something you don't recognize and shake your head no. Then you try to find your way back to where you began, all the time wondering where people here DO go to the bathroom. Do they pee on the walls of the house? Inside? Outside?

This was only a dream, but for so many people in today's world I am sure this sort of thing is a reality. Denied basic human things like bathrooms, safe places to sleep with their children, common courtesy they cannot simply wake up and find it all gone.

Money pits

What is it about breath taking scenery and money pits that go together?

Maybe it is black magic, or a curse put on unsuspecting folks that draws them to buy old houses in gorgeous places knowing they will have to "fix them up a bit."

After meeting the never ending leaks, the crooked stile that didn't need a crooked man to manifest, the odd little smells and the waters that flow from nowhere, life gets real.

Money pits tend to look like there are a lot of little things wrong, but this is just a guise that hides the domino curse that lies panting behind tiny cracks in the wall and creaking floors.

Once that deed is signed, sealed and delivered, the dark forces reach out to flick the first domino.

And the ride begins! Roofs are replaced, one, two, three, four, or more times. Sewers are routed with longer and longer routers. Ceilings sag like the elderly bodies they are. Bathroom walls develop an eczema no doctor could ever hope to cure. Foundations develop cricks in their backs that simply move over and realign themselves after being jacked up and repaired.

No one can defeat the most accomplished money pits. What was not original sin finds it way in through years of self sacrifice and dedicated desiccation.

Pools of wisdom

My life is filled with people rich in the knowledge of themselves and the real world.

People who go out of their way to do the right things for the right reasons.

People unclouded by a dark romanticism, martyrism, or narcissism. All those isms that make life difficult.

Not people who do things because they think it's what they are supposed to do, whether it benefits anyone or not. And not people who do things that seem right, at least to them, when in truth they are actually very wrong and actually harmful to those around them.

Free me from the enablers, the dooms day sayers, the ones searching for the fountain of youth instead of pools of wisdom.

I love those people free to play without all the baggage imprinted upon them by well meaning, but backward folk.

Beware people waiting for the hand of god to smite them, because eventually they will smite themselves and you too.

Look for the genuine smiles, the joyful eyes, the open hearts that come from people who have finally stepped out of the darkness and moved on to more productive lives.

Beauty

It is true that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.

We are trained to see certain things as beautiful by our culture, but if we are lucky we are also taught to see more subtle beauty by our heart.

Even features, good health, joyful expressions, all contribute to the look of beauty.

But there is also something else when it comes to beautiful photographs.

A photo of a person can be taken thirty minutes before another photo and make a person look totally different even if they have not changed a thing, not their makeup nor their clothes.

Is it the light? The angle? The setting? Perhaps even the atmosphere created by the people surrounding them?

I suppose that is why we have photographers. Gifted ones find the beauty not every one else can see.

Same old same old

Never again. Not going down this road again. I've finally learned. I am through.

People weave the words differently, fooling mostly themselves. The rest of us already know the story, beginning and end.

Reusing the same old paving stones they used to build the original highway to hell, they simply rearrange them, hoping for something different.

Same old stones. Same old ideas. Same old. Same old. Like people say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but hell is hell no matter how you get there, in a handbasket or on the wings of a dark angel.

They clean up the old mess, store the residual leftovers, swear to never do it again and then wait until they can.

It doesn't matter if they have traveled down this road a thousand times before.

There is only constant in both their lives: one addict is addicted to drugs, one addict is addicted to the addict.

Change

Change is nothing for a baby. It is changing so quickly that this is the norm. Within less than two years a baby learns a new language, a new way of moving about, and all the things these embody in a world that is continually expanding.

By age three change has already become traumatic for some children. They do not like moving from one place to another (i.e.home to school, study room to playroom, inside to outside or the reverse.)

Others are still fine until around eight when reason begins to nibble at their freedom and tell them there are safe changes and not so safe ones and knowing the difference makes a big difference.

Teenagers who have grown up relatively safe and secure embrace change. They are ready to try on adult personas of all sorts.

Adults become more complicated because they know their changes affect other people: spouses, children, parents, even possibly public groups.

By my age change is very threatening for some people. It can feel like a way of invalidating everything they know and believe and that negates their whole world, everything they have built their life around at a time in life when the past feels more important than the future.

My life, though, has been one change after another since before I can remember. For me change is not always comfortable depending on what kind of change it is. Metamorphosis can be stressful, but it is generally more than worth the effort. That is where the excitement comes in. Change can be both symbolic and real. The unknown after effects can be almost magical, producing incredible soul satisfying comfort.

To be able to continue to grow means that life is still green and verdant, full of power and promise and that is living in the fullest sense.

Moral compass

Today I feel like ranting.

About people who do not use their turn signals, or do not use them properly and people who drive illegally in the left lane. If they can't do something that simple right they should not be driving.

And people who drive big pick up trucks, some seating 4 or 5 people, but who do not need that truck for work. People who just take up resources and space to salve their egos.

And people who cheat by using handicap cards when they do not belong to them and are not benefitting actual handicapped people.

And people who think money buys them infinite rights to use people and children for their own personal enjoyment at the detriment of those being used.

And people who use money to buy a political office or the right to break laws.

Just because lots of people do these things does not make them right in any sense of the word. A moral compass cannot be curried with money.

The worst thing

Habits settle in like flies on melted candy. Ready to fill in any empty spaces without a blink of the eye.

Eager to devour the sweetness of the moment even if it is the last thing they do, because habits are not thinking creatures.

They are the reactions of a lifetime no matter how long or short that life is.

Of course habits can be good too, filling in dangerously empty seconds when every second counts, or just maintaining the status quo during the long gray months of winter.

But the worst thing about habits is that they rise from the void, filling the soup with squirming bits of darkness when they might have been lovely drops of creativity.