The Feminist Grandma

Thinking about POT

Congratulate me - I am a Parent of a Teenager, or POT. Oh, technically she’s not a teenager - she’ll be just 12 in November. But she’s been well into puberty for a year, and where her body goes, her psyche, behavior and attitude follow.    

they got attitude  source: gettyimages.com

You know, I’ve done this before. My son, now 44, was once a teenage boy. He did what many boys do - barely spoke to me for several years, and occasionally took my car at night and went Lord knows where. Once he got it stuck in the mud behind a convenience store and the police brought him home. Another time they caught him swimming in the public pool at midnight. He did twenty hours of community service.

source: beforeitsnews.com

Amanda’s mother, now 31, was once a teenage girl.  She spoke to me a great deal. She also spoke on the phone a great deal, and I remember our life together as a constant battle to prevent her from using the phone late at night. (This was before cell phones). She ran up over a thousand dollars in phone calls to psychics and sex-chat lines, and I ended by cutting the wires in the phone jack in her room. POTs are sometimes driven to bizarre actions in a desperate and futile attempt to keep some control of the situation. 

source:spiritsconnect.com

So here I am on my third go-round. (My stepdaughter Leah doesn’t count, as she lived with her mother, who took the brunt of it.)  It should be easier this time, because I’m not doing it alone. All POTs sorely need a woe-sharer and perspective-provider, and Joe is a most magnificent partner. On the other hand, I’m 67, and have been heard to mutter, “I’m too old for this shit.”

maybe I'm not too old for this shit   source: imgur.com

Many parents turn to books to help them through all the ages and stages of child-rearing. My Bible is Get out of My Life, but First Could You Drive Me and Cheryl to the Mall? by Anthony Wolf, a clinical psychologist. When I’m living with a teenager, I’m always talking to other parents to find out if theirs is as horrible as mine. Wolf’s book is full of dialogues and situations that sound as though he’s been spying on us. It reassures me that this is all normal, and I’m not alone.

A strange experience for POTs is to hear about their child from other adults - coaches, teachers, friends’ parents. We met last week with all of Amanda’s teachers, and the praise flew around the room - responsible, mature, engaged, willing, bright, asks good questions. The one that moved me close to tears was ‘happy.’ But I did wonder if they had the right child. It’s enough to make you believe in doppelgangers.

are there two of her?   source:loscuatroojos.com

Wolf says the child self and the becoming-adult self live side by side in the teenager, and if things are going right, she will reserve the child-self for home, while the outside world gets the grown-up. “The self that adolescents bring out to deal with the world is in fact a truer reflection of the level of maturity that they have achieved.”

The adolescent’s job is to break away from her parents. The stronger the bond, the fiercer the struggle. And the feelings are ambivalent. It wasn’t all that bad being a little kid - it’s tough to give up all the perks of childhood and venture out into a world where you’ll have to make your own way and do your own laundry, especially when you secretly fear you won’t be able to.  All the feelings of loss and fear distill into anger at those all-powerful creatures, your parents.           

out into the world  source:flickr.com

Most of my interactions with Amanda are at meals and in the car. In about fifty percent of them I am the target of her contempt. She may tell me that the way I eat apples is disgusting, or ask what that red bump is under my nose. She can express contempt silently, with only a glance or a glare. This morning I put on my turn signal earlier than she considers appropriate, and the scorn shivered about her skin like heat on a pavement.

I usually handle all this loathing pretty well. But sometimes in response to withering contempt, I do wither. I feel despicable and disgusting. Other times I fume silently: ‘All I do for you...you can walk home from the bus stop in the rain...forget about the earrings I was going to buy you...and the Halloween costume? you can just go as a bitch.’ The worst is when I giggle; teenagers hate to be laughed at.  But what else can you do when after 60-odd years of eating apples an 11-year-old tells you you’re doing it wrong?  

maybe there'sa better way

I have read Wolf’s book  twice. What I have taken from it is the following: teenagers lie, disobey, and refuse to do household chores. The job of parents is to cope with this.  Wolf accepts the reality, doesn’t waste energy in wishing it were different, and advises us how to handle it. “You do not win the battle for control with teenagers.”

The lying is interesting. They will lie adamantly, indignant at your doubt, surrounded by all the evidence that belies them. When called out, they will say something like, ‘oh, I forgot.’ Wolf gives spot-on, very amusing examples of this, and says, “If the trustworthiness of teenagers is the foundation of integrity in our society, we are in big trouble....Lying is bad. I am not defending it. But it is also the normal response of the vast majority of teenagers either to cover up a wrong or to manipulate a situation to advance their cause.” All we can do is verify when possible, especially if the issue is important, and call them on their lies.                

a weak foundation  source:pullyourownstrings.com

Though adolescent in her moods and attitudes, Amanda is still only 11. Her sins are mostly venial: leaving dirty dishes in her room, watching Netflix when she’s used up all her screen time, putting on makeup the minute she’s out of my sight. Sex, drugs and booze are still a little way down the road, though I know we’ll get there sooner than I wish.  But Wolf’s general approach to disobedience applies to all levels of crime. We must not abandon our rules and requirements, but restate them firmly each time they are ignored. We should be judicious in devising and imposing consequences  Piling consequence on consequence produces only a thick book of crimes and punishments, and a child grounded until she is 37. We probably don’t want them around that long.              

a book of crimes  source:durgeshlawhouse.in

As for refusing to do chores: “An absolute fact of adolescence is that if you do not nag, they will not do what you want...If having a teenager do nothing is acceptable to you, then do not nag. But if it is not, you are stuck with nagging.”

I always find myself surprised when it works. I tell her to change the kitty litter and walk away before she can argue. I repeat it every hour or so, always with no emotional involvement. She waits long enough to make it clear that she’s doing it only because it suits her, not because she has to obey me, and then she goes into the atrium and cleans the litter.

Teenagers are masters of manipulation and diversion, swift to turn a discussion of homework or chores or curfews into an emotional battle with “I’m just stupid and I’m dropping out of school,” “it’s not fair,” “you don’t trust me. ” Parents have to stick to the issue at hand. They must try not to let the outrageous statements and  their own guilt and uncertainty pull them into the maelstrom.  When our teenagers are hysterical, we must try not to be, and reserve our creative counterattacks for our rich fantasy life.                    

avoid the maelstrom  source:zmescience.com

In the face of insults, defiance, and deceit we should continue providing the basic maintenance they need (feed them, buy them clothes and school supplies, drive them here and there) as well as go on doing all the loving, special things we used to do so happily when they were young and adorable. If we followed the rule of Tit for Tat, our children would probably starve and go naked, and we would certainly have to cancel Christmas, birthdays, and all family outings.

Wolf discusses a good deal more than I have mentioned, always with humor, intelligence, and a startling acceptance of reality. He covers specific problem situations with suggestions as to how we might cope. He does not expect us to be saints during the stormy years, nor to avoid mistakes. But he helps us to trust our judgment, and assures us that it is very likely our child will turn out to be an ok human being. Not all teenagers are hellions. But if you or someone you love is raising one who is, I strongly recommend this book.

 

 

 

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NEXT POST: OCTOBER 24

                           

A Sinecure for Luli

My sister Luli has charisma. Her charm is compounded of her eccentricity, her humor, and her avid interest in all sorts of subjects - gypsies, lepers, neanderthals, nuns, books, cats, food, gardens  - and especially other people.            

image:bbc.co.uk             image:societyofgenealogists.com

Luli  makes friends everywhere and all the time. Some are friendly acquaintances, like the bus drivers with whom she shares gardening stories or the copy store clerk who helps her create her homemade greeting cards. Some are new friends, like the women she meets at the gym. She’ll arrange to meet for coffee, and soon progress to lunches that can last several hours. And then she has her long-time friends - the group of writers she calls the coven, her friend Mary Jane in New York.

meeting for coffee  image:theconnector.co.nz

She has formed independent friendships with several of my friends, and arranges to have coffee with them when she comes to visit. This used to feel like poaching, but our sibling rivalry has diminished with time. (It's okay as long as I know they love me best.)

Luli’s charm has overcome the usual distance which medical professionals maintain with their patients. Like all of us, she has had her share of medical issues.  The most frightening was a pulmonary embolism, which, after many horrors, led to her joining a research project on effective dosages for blood thinners. She so charmed the doctors who were following her that they asked her to describe her experience to a class of medical students, and speak on a radio program about the research.  

Listening intently, to Luli? image:classroom.synonym.com

But Luli’s most significant medical problem is not the thickness or thinness of her blood.  Luli has had depression most of her life. Anyone who has experienced depression in themselves or a loved one knows it is an absolutely godawful chronic disease. Treatment is complex and long-term. Finding effective medication is a matter of heartbreaking trial and error, and some medicines will work for a while and then lose their efficacy.  But medication alone is not enough to suppress the demons;  I believe most experts agree that counseling is essential.
                                                
Since she moved from Manhattan fifteen years ago, Luli has been very lucky to have found a psychiatrist who suits her. And because Luli is so loveable, she and Dr. Shrink have formed a close relationship, and the doctor has gone to extraordinary lengths to help Luli through the terrible times.

A faculty member at a medical school, she is a consultant to the cardiology fitness program at a very swanky and expensive gym, which I shall call Merry Meadows.  Because she believes that exercise is an essential component of treatment for depression, Dr. Shrink arranged a scholarship for Luli, who has a heart condition,  to participate in the 12-week program, where trainers guide and monitor progress.

As she always does, Luli plunged in full-force, and astounded everyone at Merry Meadows with her enthusiasm and hard work. When her twelve weeks was up, she drew cartoon thank-you cards for the staff, and the program director told her she had been an inspiration to everyone, staff and geezers alike.                

A swanky gym  image:galleryhip.com

Meanwhile, the Merry Meadows program director has asked Dr Shrink to write a proposal for an exercise program to treat depression. I was lying in the hammock, watching a hummingbird play in the bamboo, when Luli told me about this in our daily phone call, and I immediately had a brilliant idea: the proposal should include a stipend for Luli.

Luli’s duties would include a monthly tea date with the director or a designee, who might be a program participant -Tea with Luli could be a bonus part of the treatment program.  She would participate in publicity - TV or radio interviews - for the Merry Meadows program.  But her primary duty would simply be Being Luli. It would be like a MacArthur Fellowship on a smaller scale.                    

 

Being Luli  

Even when she's a teapot, she's still Being Luli

 As for the stipend, $20,000 a year for the life of the program seems appropriate. (Luli said we should ask for a million, but as an old grant-writer, I told her that would look ridiculous and scare them off). In addition, Luli would get a lifetime gym membership including a trainer at Merry Meadows, and a lifetime supply of nice T-shirts to work out in. She says the participants don’t dress up, but I’m sure none of their attire is quite as stained, stretched and hole-y as Luli’s.

                 
                      image:makingmecranky.com

Finally, when Luli, aged 99 and pleasantly exhausted from her Merry Meadows workout, fails to wake from a good night’s sleep, Merry Meadows will provide a lavish funeral, and pay travel costs so her nearest and dearest can attend. This is not an exorbitant demand. There probably won’t be that many of us by then; nobody’s offering ME a free gym membership. 

 Note to Luli: If you look to the right you will see that you now have your own category, so you can read about yourself till the cows come home.

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NEXT POST: SEPTEMBER 26

In the Garden - August

From time to time I'll post photos from my garden, to follow its changes. I've indicated the volunteers, aka weeds.

 
       The clematis (volunteer) and drift roses are fragrant.

                                             

    Giant liriope

                                       
                                           Ginger (it's really pink and yellow)

Beauty berries are ripening (volunteer)

  Weird phallic plant (volunteer)

            Marigolds and zinnia

Tibouchina and salvia

Honeybell orange

Rosie in the garden

                                              

 

The River's Memory - Sandra Gail Lambert

I have a bad habit of gobbling books, racing through them to see what happens next. (This is similar to the way I often eat.) But sometimes a really fine book will slow me down.  It’s partly a matter of vivid, melodious writing, with every word the right one and no words to spare. It makes me want to savor the sentences. And if the characters move me, the stories are page-turners, and it’s filled with delicious details, why wouldn’t I want to linger at the table?

image:Twisted Road Publications

The River’s Memory, a novel by Sandra Gail Lambert, not only rewarded my careful reading, but made me want to read it twice. It tells the separate stories of six women and one little girl who lived along the Silver River in north central Florida. Lambert writes as though she were possessed by her seven characters. She lives in their worlds, sees their visions, and dreams their dreams.  Each character becomes real, with her own distinctive voice. Because Lambert inhabits their lives, we do too, and care desperately about the fate of these women, all but one long gone.
                  

photographs by Sandra Gail Lambert: Waccassassa and Wekiva Rivers(north  Florida),  Silver River - night heron and spider lilies

All the characters are intimately connected to the river, and to wild nature. They are solitary, sometimes lonely - though some have lovers, their lives are centered in nature, work, their creative vision, or simply survival. Their stories give us the history of Florida from prehistoric times into the 21st century: the extinction of species, indigenous trade before the European invasion, lynchings, the first world war and the flu epidemic, and the tacky tourism overlay which, for so many people, represents Florida. Artifacts from one story - a pot shard, a dugout canoe, a shred of scarf, a silver hip flask, appear in the stories that follow.                     

dugout canoe submerged in Lake Pithlochoco, Gainesville FL image:semtribe.com

 

In the 16th century a Native American potter finds her clay and her inspiration in the river. Surrounded by enemies and treachery, brought down by illness, she holds onto her creative vision - all that matters is the clay, the next pot. From one enemy she hears rumors of invaders from across the sea:“...Men furred like animals, too many to count, who rode on top of beasts....they say that the hair dangled off their faces like moss and some of their chests shone like the sun. Weapons bounced off of them.”

Tristan da Luna - early invader image:flickr.com

 

Just before the Civil War, a little girl on the Florida frontier has the woods and the river for her playground. “I poke the caterpillar.  The yellow horns pop out of its back.  From this close, I can see the slime. I touch them and wipe my finger on the hem of my over slip, and it stains, but maybe Mother won’t see.  The horns flop and suck back under the skin.  I poke it again, and the horns do it again.  They look the same yellow as what ran out of the sore on Sister’s leg....Now I see all the other caterpillars... I pull at one and its feet suck onto the leaves.  I pull harder, and it keeps eating even with the back half of its body in the air....”

“Mist is lace on top of the water. A little more day and it’ll disappear. Sister and I wave our hands into the white, and it spins into the sky like smoke. I lean beside Sister and we reach our hands until they touch the water and make circles in our reflections.”     

Santa Fe River (north Florida) image:clubfla.org

 

It is 1918, the height of the War and the flu epidemic. We are at the Florida Industrial School for Girls, where inmates labor in the kitchen.  With contagion spreading through the school, an orphan girl runs away, looking for her grandparents’ old home. She finds it abandoned and in ruins.  She grieves and remembers, and her pain - aching head and bones, charred throat, itchy skin - seems to be one with her grief.                                          

Florida Industrial School for Girls image: State Archives of Florida Florida memory

 

During the Depression, a woman born with no legs, who walks on her hands, finds her freedom rowing and swimming in the river at night, communing with the manatees. She eases her constant pain with rum. Her parents have done their best to give her privacy and independence, while keeping her at home. They have built her a downstairs suite with a separate entrance. “But I don’t need a room of my own. I need the rest of the world.”

image:manatee-world.com

Boys who spot her in the river surround and torment her like mosquitoes. “The line of them have unbuttoned their pants.  They waggle small penises and laugh.  I’m on my second generation of little boys.  It seems that any of their parents who remember I’m a woman haven’t told them.  No one’s yelling Mockie or Jew boy, so this particular batch doesn’t know about that either.”

image:mccullagh.org

 

The end of the 20th century, and an old woman in a hospital. As she lies dying, her pain eased and tongue loosened by ample doses of painkilling drugs, she tells her memories to a prim lady from the local Historical Society.

Her lover - a 65-year-old woman with “sparkles of red” in her silver hair,“my gal”- comes to take her home, but she demands to be taken to the river instead. There she lies among pillows in an abandoned canoe, while her lover poles them down the river.

“Arrowhead stalks stretch up my spine and bloom their white flowers into my breasts.... A turtle swims away from us, the flip of her turtle feet a tickle along my ribs, and an alligator splashes off the sunny bank...I see the alligator’s old relative, the crocodile, blinking its transparent eyelids and swimming in the ancient ocean that existed here above us all.”

image:Sandra Gail Lambert

 

The sour salesclerk in the Silver Springs souvenir shop has worked there for thirty years. She observes the tourists buying tchotckes with grim amusement. “My ex-mother-in-law collected owls. I guess she still does. I guess women have to collect something so their families will know what to buy them for gifts.”

image:etsy.com

She’s been doing the job for thirty years, and now has to deal with her first “younger-than-I-am boss.” When she is fired, she runs from the security guards and climbs the fence to the river, where she is caught in a fierce winter storm.

10,000 years ago, when giant sloths still loomed twenty feet above the native hunters, and saber tooth tigers were not quite extinct, a woman travels the coast to trade with the river people on behalf of her tribe. “These people who live so far from the sea, they pack together, and they stink - of the sticky pine in their fires, the sour bark drink they make, the rock dust that floats from their chert quarry...” Lambert fully imagines the life of these prehistoric people - their tense negotiations in trade, their intimate knowledge of the natural world, the children who remain unnamed until they have survived the hazards of early childhood.

 

image: slothsanctuary.com

cast of 14-inch sloth claw. image:naturalworld1.blogspot

This is a book of the body, of the senses. Sights, sounds, smells, touch lead through memory to revelation or understanding. It is a book of close description, but not the sort that makes your eyes glaze over, waiting for something to for godsake happen. Each story is filled with suspense, often with violence, threat, and tragedy. And the details are so telling - funny, poignant, or heartbreaking. 

The River's Memory is a feast. Don't gobble it down; savor it.

Sandra Gail Lambert. image:Facebook

 

The River's Memory is available from your local independent bookstore, or from any of the usual venues, in paperback and ebook.

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Next post: August 29

 

Mother/Ocean

 

             I

There were five on the boat
In the middle of the night:
Two in the cabin cramped under the deck,
Three with the ice chests under the stars.

Fishing all day
Under flat hot haze,
Drinking beer.
(The boy drank juice,
Sucked oranges.)
They let him cut the head
Off the maco shark Tom caught.
He sawed it with a bait knife
And saw what was inside.

No other boats that day,
Twenty-five miles out.
At Currington's Ditch
The Gulf gave wonders:
A blowfish, valiant puffer,
Three porpoises,
And always sharks.
'When you reel in your line
There could be anything.'

The sky began to clear
In the afternoon,
And sunset gave them glory
Yielding to stars.
They grilled the maco on the camp stove,
Finished the Fritos,
And cut into the chocolate cake
That Joe's wife Sara sent.
Coffee kept them fishing in the dark,
With Coleman light and stars.
No moon until they slept.

Bill started in the cabin.
They sent him out for farting
And so he joined the two:
Joe on the ice chests,
A jacket for a pillow;
Wayne on a lounge chair,
Hand hanging in fish scales.
Bill took the rear,
Spread a tarp,
And lay watching stars swing above him.
Cradled in the rocking,
He slept.

And woke to water pouring in beside him.
Shouted,
Rose,
And watched Joe stand as
Wayne fell off the lounge chair,
Boat fell from their footing
And water welcomed all.

Bill came up.
Mound of white hull
Tracked by moonlight.
Tom climbing up one side
Joe clinging on a line
Wayne coming out from underneath the bow
And no one else.
The boy was gone.
Bill looked again:
The boat with three men clinging now.
He bellowed my son's name
And fell under a wave
And rose to cry again.
Joe caught his arm
And hauled him out.
He caught a breath to shout again
When brown arm curving
Past the second wave
Gave answer.

Five on the boat again
Under the stars
Traitor turned over
They clung to her hull.

They talked of how it happened;
No one knew.
Of rescue, and Joe said,
"It's Sunday one A.M.
They don't expect us back
Till Monday night."
So all fell silent for awhile
And watched the solid sea.

'This was not my mother ocean.
No crest of beauty moving toward the shore
Nor sails near and far.
A bird perhaps
Or sometimes more
Who flew in safety and in power
Above us as we lay.'

They lay face down like sunbathers,
Lined up to broil.
And when the rain brought blessing
Embraced to hold their warmth against the cold.
Watched empty ocean over others' shoulders.

'This was another ocean,
Of curve and wave
And endless motion.
The sky itself would not be still,
But glittered stars
Or drifted clouds
And nowhere could our eyes have rest.'

Watched empty ocean teeming still below
(When you reel in your line...)
Thin sounds, thin light,
Dream-fish washed pale,
Seahorse, nightmare,
(When you reel in your line...)
Man o' war from Portugal,
Tuna, grouper, mackerel,
Lemon, maco, hammerhead
(There could be anything.)
                             II

Inland, I had no idea of danger.
Free of lover and of son,
Three-day weekend to unwind,
I had no plans, I could do anything.

When Monday night came
And they didn't
Angry at first (Bill promised he would call)
And then began to wonder.
Empty ocean, one head bobbing,
Pushed the vision under and
At midnight called the Coast Guard.

Dreamed: we'd found them
Woke: we hadn't
All in a rush
Upon my chest
Seavisions sat
And stayed.

Thought motionless above a sword:
No certainty, no pain.
Waiting brings its own reward:
At eight o'clock, at ten, the phone again.
"No word.
They say a storm is building
North of Tampa Bay."
"I know. I heard."
And through the day and into dusk
No word.
Until the call from Joe's wife Sara.
News so easy, words so plain.
"They found them all
And all are well.
Come to the house.
We'll drive to fetch them
Back from Cedar Key."

What story would they tell,


What could they say
To wash my fury and my fear away?
The engine died,
The truck broke down,
We lost our way?
Then at the house,
Joe's mother in the door,
"I have bad news.
The Coast Guard called us back.
They only rescued four.
We know that they have Tom and Wayne."
"But of the other three"?
"One of them is missing.
They wouldn't tell us who."

In the living room a country family.
Trophies on the mantelpiece,
Coffee on the table.
The television gave us light
Until an aunt turned on a lamp.
In the bedroom Sara lay
And waited by the phone.
Joe's sister
Sat with her.
Two pregnant women waiting.
I stood by a window,
It will be finished soon.
When this cigarette is gone,
When that runner turns the corner
God, he runs so slow!

"The Coast Guard wants you on the phone."
My son is dead my son is dead.
Someone walked me down the hall.
"Your son is safe, he's doing well,
We need consent to treat him."
"But Bill and Joe,
Which one is gone"?
"We cannot tell.
You all must come."

And so Joe's Dad and Mom and I
And theirs was dead or mine was dead
Took Sara's car
(She had to rest and wait in that dark room.)
We took one car
And drove two hours
And I watched cars, clouds, trees, flowers,
And theirs was dead or mine was dead
We didn't know.

             III

We didn't know how long
The time had been for them.
Three days, almost three nights they lay,
No sleep, no food, no water.
No rest for eyes from emptiness
Though weary minds devised odd sights
And some they told aloud.
My son saw fires on the waves,
Wayne saw a barge,
And on the second night,
Bill saw Death in a cloud
And watched it pelting toward them lit by lightning.

The storm brought waves above their heads
That threw them off the boat.
They struggled back to cling
To the hull and to each other.

Third day brought thoughts of rescue.
They knew the search was on.
By afternoon Joe's mind was gone.
He seemed to cheer a football game,
Cursed, and shouted Sara's name.
All vision now inside his eyes
Behind the brown stain rising as life fell.
Bill held him on the boat
Still and heavy in his arms.
Did he die there
Or in the wave that threw them off again?
Bill swimming out to pull him back.
"He's dead Bill.  Let him go."
And as they spoke, he sank,
Lean scarecrow in the water.
A half an hour later
The helicopter came.

             IV
Thank God for days
That heal salt sores in the flesh
Change funeral to memory
(Joe's mother in the door
Turned as I neared
And would not speak.
Her son was dead.)
The story encrusted with telling,
The pictures in ambush at night
Come fewer and fade.
Thank God for days.

But something stays.
Under wave the nightmare,
Under surf the stones.
And in a year I go
To the beach north of Daytona,
Pitch my tent behind the dunes,
Sleep and wake to rain,
Stagger between boulders   
And on the rock beach
Sit and watch the sea.

The rain ends with the sunrise.
Horizon shows the dawn:
No glory, merely day.
Above the line, pearl light.
Mist to the north tells rain.
Twelve pelicans measure the sky.
Below is broken slate,
But if there be measure of dread,
Dark under water confuses my eye.
Dark underwater:
Five lying, one dying,
The trying to save him
The waiting, the waves, yes
This is part of what they saw
Grey ocean, silver sky.
But from no land,
From grave instead.
My son is dead.
'He is not dead.'
He almost died.
'He did not die.'
He might have died.
'He did not die.'
My son will die. Dark ocean, let me be the first to drown.

 

image:callipygia600.com

 

Dear readers: I wrote this poem thirty years ago. I have traveled a lot this month, and been entirely obsessed with sewing this week, so I did not finish an essay for you. But I'm very proud of this poem. It is a true story, with the names changed.

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NEXT POST: JULY 25

 

Gratitude Journal

    Recently I went to a presentation billed as “Silencing the Inner Critic.”  It was very disappointing, and the speaker was very irritating.  She teaches all-day workshops on creativity, and her hour-long talk was nothing but an outline of those workshops. It was full of enthusiasm, vivacity and charm, but very little matter.  As you can tell, she certainly didn’t silence my inner critic.

image: pathseekerslifecoaching.com

But there’s always a nugget or two to carry away from these things.  Nugget #1 was my resolution to resume daily, first-thing-in-the-morning writing in my notebook.  And #2 was the gratitude journal.

image:gemrocksauction.com

I’ve kept a notebook for many years, a cheap spiral bound thing, badly battered by the time it is full.  Once I tried keeping several - green for gardening plans, blue for my diary, red for writing projects.  That was a silly, if elegant scheme - I can’t keep track of three notebooks - and I soon abandoned it. Now my notebook is always red, because I would like to be read. (We seldom-published writers must have our amusement.) My current notebook, a lovely fat one, is extra-special because it was a Christmas gift from Amanda. It was the first time she gave Christmas gifts, and I was delighted by her empathetic selections (Joe got a foam rubber football.)

image:amazon.com

My notebook holds my diary, my free-writing click, first drafts of fiction and blogs, and many shopping and to-do lists.  Sometimes in my diary I describe or celebrate a special day, but more often it’s where I focus on my troubles and try to come to terms with them.  Sometimes it’s therapy. Sometimes it’s whining.  

image:pal.ua.edu

I had heard the term “gratitude journal,” but it never grabbed me.  Now I thought I’d give it a try.  And I have been surprised at the effect. Here are samples, one from my normal diary, one from my new gratitude journal:

May 16. Friday.  Tonight is Amanda’s Honors Chorus Concert.  Yesterday I had a gloomy, out-of-sorts day followed by a night of poor sleep due to an upset stomach. Boy, this is writing that cries out for me to stop, and is also putting me to sleep.  My life is irksome. I stay irked.  I think I look for things to irk me.  I am falling asleep.                      

May 19. Monday. Gratitude: I am thankful that yesterday I could talk with Joe about my misery in this hard time with Amanda.  Only he understands what is happening here; only he need know.  And yesterday he gently reminded me what Dr. Lynne said about temporarily letting go of the demands we would normally make as parents.  That makes it easier for me to try and let go of my demands without feeling I’m being lazy, irresponsible, without feeling the people looking over my shoulder saying I’m a lousy parent.
    I’m grateful that he wants so much for this trip to NY to be what I’m hoping for, and that we are going to NY and staying in Chinatown.

image: wikipedia.org

I am grateful - almost breathless with excitement - that I’m driving to Orlando Thursday to meet Sue and Anne, staying in a luxury hotel.  I think we’ll drive back to Gainesville on back roads.
    I am grateful that yesterday Amanda played in the pool with me - a little hostile, a little aggressive, but still we played.
    I am grateful that I took away two precious nuggets from the empty talk yesterday at WAG - the gratitude journal, and the renewal of daily writing, which has disappeared in the chaos and grief.  I do indeed, have indeed, focused on my misery instead of my joy, and am/was becoming a negative gloomy glump.  Maybe there was something to Dad’s reply to “How are you?” “Oh, I’m always well.” He did live to 98, after all.

Always well: Dad at 90

    I am happy that I planted my three gaillardia yesterday, maybe rescued (I hope) the one poorly-planted cleome, THAT A MONARCH BUTTERFLY finally came to my thriving milkweed, and that I have three more milkweeds to plant.  Soon, if the monarchs come, I will have six ugly naked stalks.  And maybe the ugly nameless plant Bill gave me, with its tubular salmon-colored flowers, will bring me a humming bird.
          

image:thebutterflysite.com

    I am grateful that I am making progress with singing.  An die Musik - itself a song of gratitude and perfectly tailored to my situation, about the escape, comfort, release, shelter of music - is coming along.  Two techniques - head singing and pushing out my diaphragm through a whole phrase - should solve my range and breathing problems. Though I have trouble executing both of them.  Still, my range in warm-ups is already wider than it was - down to Bflat below low C, and up to high E.  These music lessons are my salvation.  Indeed I have many salvations.
    I am grateful that I can talk to Joe, and that he is helping me ease back on Amanda by taking on some of the reminding himself.
    I am grateful that I have this morning time.  The quiet sleep-breathing of Trisket behind my chair - she always wants to be where I am.
   
    I am late to the party. I googled gratitude journal, and of course I found a long list of links. I could read 8 tips for starting one, or take 11 steps to a powerful one. Berkeley presented research. Oprah weighed in. I found ads for beautiful little notebooks titled Gratitude, prices ranging from $9.99 to $156 for used(!) Amazon offers free two-day shipping if you subscribe to Amazon prime. You can also buy the “Bargain Attitude Changer. The #1 gratitude journal app for over five years. Use it for at least three weeks and your life will never be the same again. See demo.”                

available used for $156.19 image:amazon.com

    I think I will pass.  I’m perfectly content with my red spiral notebook from the dollar store. It makes a big difference to begin my day rejoicing, and it helps me notice small delights throughout the day. I am grateful for my gratitude journal.

 

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NEXT POST: JUNE 27

I Believe in Music

All my life I have loved to sing.  Family gatherings always included singing, with my brother Dickie playing the guitar. On long car trips, in between territorial squabbles, Luli and I harmonized in the back seat. I was in the chorus in high school, and the Jacksonville Concert Chorale when I was a young lawyer. 

I sing in the shower. I sing while I’m cooking, cleaning, gardening or driving. But constant song annoys those of us who like to be lost in thought; Joe sometimes and Amanda always asks me to shut up. I comply, though losing my singer makes me sad, and I sometimes resent being silenced, so I decided to take singing lessons and join a chorus.

singing in the kitchen  image:ubergizmo.com

In February I went to the United Church of Gainesville’s women’s retreat.  This is one of my favorite annual events. I like the women I’ve met at the church, and there are interesting workshops, religious, spiritual, artistic, or goofy. The setting is lovely, overlooking a marshy lake.  And the best part is I have two days and a night on my own, with a room all to myself.

 

  image:madisonfl.org

 

At this year’s retreat I met Rebecca Pethes, a young woman whose rippling curls and liquid voice are bright and warm as a new penny, and who teaches voice at Gainesville Guitar Academy. We instantly hit it off.

click

Then I attended a workshop, “Sound bodies, the first musical instruments,” where we made as many sounds as we could with our voices and bodies - rattling our tongues, popping our cheeks, howling, stomping, clapping, slapping and finally singing. After the workshop Jan Tucci invited me to join Voices Rising Community Chorus, an intergenerational group of singers who perform a wide range of music in two concerts a year.

Director Ruth Lewis and the chorus.  image: Senior Times click

 

Now every Monday I have a singing lesson. I told Rebecca I wanted to lengthen my breath, strengthen my high voice, and learn to sing softly. We started with one of my favorite songs, John Prine’s Angel from Montgomery, and I began to practice stretching out my vowels and making my consonants quick and crisp. When we had wrung most of the learning out of that, she gave me Caro Mio Ben, an 18th Century Italian song with a simple romantic melody and melodramatic lyrics, full of cruel lovers, languishing hearts and endless sighs. I love it. We’ve been working on it about four weeks, and I am learning to let the air just fall into my lungs even when I want to gasp for breath, to let it flow out again over my vocal cords without straining. I’m finding a balance between my chest voice and my nasal voice.

image: 18thcenturycommon.org

 

Sunday nights I sing with Voices Rising under the direction of Ruth Lewis, an enthusiastic and exciting conductor.  I have always loved classical choral music. In boarding school we trooped up the hill to sing Vivaldi’s Gloria with the neighboring boys school, including the trumpet-filled chamber orchestra, and I was hooked.  In Jacksonville we sang Mozart’s Requiem, with the thundering Dies Irae. Now I play it on my stereo at full volume.  We sang a concert version of Verdi’s Aida, with four excellent soloists but alas, no elephants.  I still thrill at the name of Aida’s lover Radames.

Radames and Aida. image: arovingpittsburgher.blogspot.com

The repertoire for our upcoming concert includes only one classical piece, Sicut Cervus by Palestrina. The other pieces cover a wide range - folk songs, popular songs, and a show tune. At first I pooh-poohed eighty voices singing these simple melodies, but I’ve come to enjoy them. And we also get to sing a complex arrangement of the gospel Walk in Jerusalem, a deliciously woeful contemporary piece, Lamentations of Jeremiah, and the thrilling Pan-African national anthem, Nkosi Sikelela. 

Michelangelo's Jeremiah. image:commons.wikimedia.org

 

image: tvtropes.org

 

Amanda is galloping furiously into adolescence, with me and Joe barely holding on.When I practice my singing, when I’m thinking about my throat and breath and lips and tongue, about the pitch and rhythm of the notes, I forget everything else. When I’m singing with the chorus, surrounded by a great ocean of music, my life disappears.  For an hour on Monday and two hours on Sunday night, and in my daily practice sessions, I take a vacation from my troubles.  I believe in music. Singing brings me joy.

 

THE VOICES RISING CONCERT is May 4 at First United Methodist Church, 419 NE 1st St, Gainesville. There are 2 performances: 3pm and 7pm.

 

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Next post: May 30

Prancing to Paradise

 

 

Gainesville, Florida is a most marvelous place. Though we have our share of ill and elderly, hardly anyone dies here.

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Like many boomers approaching seventy, I’ve started reading obituaries. I like the little nuggets of stories they present, though it surprises me that many families write such long ones, considering the cost. (I believe newspapers didn’t used to charge for obituaries, but everything now must be a profit center.)

The obituary page was particularly full today, with fourteen obituaries. But only two of the dear departed had died. Half of them passed away and one passed on. Number 11 took his stroll onto Glory Lane, number 12 went to be with the Lord, Number 13 set sail on her final and greatest journey. And the heavens became brighter as they received Number 14. Considering the subject, the obituaries page is a very lively place.

image:gospelofprovidence.com

Some of my dearest friends have told me that I am very blunt. This is a tactful way of saying that I am tactless. I deny the charge - nobody knows how often I bite my tongue - but I admit that I detest euphemisms.

I often bite my tongue. image:topenglish.sk

Recently some good people in Gainesville organized a service to help homeless people with terminal illnesses.  One of my favorite local geniuses, who shall remain nameless, proposed a design for the business card. It was clear and simple: “Croaking? Call (phone number)”. I thought it was just right, but I’m not involved in the project, and nobody asked me. 

In idle moments I like to imagine my own obituary.  I think about the things I did that mattered to me at the time, and wonder how far back I should go. I feel no need to say where I attended elementary school, that I came in third and last in a swimming race when I was five, or that I earned a sewing badge in Girl Scouts by making an apron. (Gainesville obituaries delve deep.)

 

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I know that I wouldn’t want to mention a beloved dog or cat as a survivor, but I fret a bit about which children I would list, and how they should be described, what with steps and fosters. I couldn’t truthfully say they all mourn me.

So I edit and revise, happily dithering. The one statement about which I have no doubt is the description of what happened. I don’t intend to pass on, or away, or into Glory. I’m just gonna die.

image:faithislam.net

 

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NEXT BLOG POST: APRIL 25

A Eulogy for Naomi

For her 80th birthday, one of my mothers-in-law* asked that we each write a eulogy, telling what she has meant to us. The convention is to prepare a eulogy after death, but a post-mortem eulogy is not much good to the deceased, and Naomi is anything but conventional.

Naomi in the beginning

I first met Naomi when Joe and I were courting. I was 49 and she was 62, so we began a friendship rather than a quasi mother-daughter arrangement, a friendship that started with food.  We share a love of eating and feeding people.

It’s a five-hour drive to Deerfield Beach. When we arrive at Naomi's it’s too early for the big dinner we know will come, so she serves us crackers, cheese, nuts, olives, prosciutto wrapped around mozarella, and of course a welcome glass of wine. Dishes of candy ambush me throughout our visit. Bagels and lox isn’t enough for breakfast: you need egg salad, tuna salad, salami, pickles, breads, coffee cake, strawberries and bananas with sour cream.click At Thanksgiving or Passover, one dessert isn't enough. You need five.

image: designerevents.wordpress.com

Naomi has a generous, adventurous heart.  She has had three marriages with two husbands. (If a second marriage is the triumph of hope over experience, what can you say about a second marriage to the same man?) She raised five sons, and once told me that she loved raising children - it was all she ever wanted to do.

I have struggled so with my various motherhoods; I envy her the perfect fit she found. But a generous heart is bound to be broken, and I don’t envy Naomi her grief. She has suffered the worst, not once but twice. Her third son died at 33 after a long illness. Her fourth died suddenly at 50.

Naomi’s big heart warms to a large extended family, many friends, and the world at large. She offers rides to destitute strangers, and all the protests from her family won’t stop her. She becomes passionately engaged with the children whom she represents as a volunteer guardian ad litem, and is tireless in finding resources and exploring possibilities for “her” kids.

A dozen years ago, when I told Naomi that my daughter was pregnant, she understood my distress. My daughter was nineteen, unmarried, and unemployed, with only a high school education. A moment passed, and then Naomi said, “It will be my first great-grandchild!” and her good cheer made me break down. It was wonderful to know this baby would be welcomed into the family.

And Naomi has thoroughly welcomed Amanda.  Her school pictures adorn Naomi’s refrigerator. Whenever we visit, Amanda heads straight to Naomi’s dresser, where a pretty box contains the little gifts Naomi has set aside for her: maybe a colorful dollar bill from her latest trip abroad, a tiny doll, glittery stick-on nails. For all her grandchildren, Naomi has been a source of love and fun. She offers a welcoming ear, and they confide in her.

Naomi with sons, daughters-in-laws, and grandchildren (before Amanda came along)

Naomi lives large. She has traveled, alone and with family, all over the world. (I believe she skipped the Arctic and Antarctic.) She has many of the ailments of old age, but she doesn’t let them stop her. Several times a year she flies to New Jersey to visit Irma and Al, her sister and brother-in-law, and paints the town in Manhattan. She jumps at any opportunity for a luxury cruise with her friend Linda.

Irma, Al, and Naomi paint the town

As I leave middle-age and enter old-, Naomi is an inspiration.  If I make it to eighty, I will be glad to have her courage, spirit, and energy.

Naomi now

*Though I lost my mother when I was young click, I have been blessed in middle age with two top-notch mothers-in-law, Naomi Childers and Annette Jackson.

 

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NEXT POST: MARCH 28

 

Throwaway Fiction: Passwords

Jennifer woke early. She hadn’t had much sleep with the full moon shining in her window, but her brain clicked on, and she knew she was ready to start the day. She plugged her iOn into the port on her wrist, typed in rise&SHinE and got out of bed, leaving her husband sleeping.

image:hottestgist.com

Bless-ed Johnny had set up the coffee when he came home last night.  All she needed to do was push the button, and type in the password. Br*wNOW.  She took the dog out to pee; he was an old-style canid, and didn’t need a password. She carried in the newspaper, and poured herself a cup.

image:zocalopublicsquare.org

Johnny had been away for three weeks, and she’d had to make her own coffee, as well as walk the dog, mow the lawn, and do the laundry. She had programmed herself  and her iOn to perform these chores, so she could function on her own, but it was so good to have him home.

After coffee, she went back in the bedroom to get ready for the day. If they hurried, they could make love, using the wHamB!m12 password.  But Johnny was sound asleep; he had come in at 2 am. She would give him a real welcome tonight. She threw on her sweats, gathered her office clothes and gym bag, and tiptoed out of the room.

image:embroidco.com

 She entered Int!keAM and ate her breakfast, relishing every bite, and lingering over the second cup of coffee. She carried the newspaper into the guest bathroom, settled herself on the toilet, and typed D##-D## into the wrist port.  The system functioned smoothly, and she barely had time to read the comics before it was time to flush and head out.

 
image:benwilder.wordpress.com

WheRearemYf**ck!ngKeys was her longest, most complex password. Last year she had tried a fingerprint recognition system, but it was frustrating. Sometimes she had to swipe her finger a dozen times before the stupid iOm responded. Inventing passwords was an outlet for her creative self, and according to Neurodoc, the brain-health blog, remembering passwords was an excellent exercise to delay senility.

 
image:betterbrainbetterlife.com

 In the car, she punched F&TNEss into the dashboard and dozed off until they reached the gym. It was day three of her prescribed regimen, so she entered ligHtW*rko*t and her body went smoothly through the thirty-minute routine, while her mind wandered.  Candles. Scented body oils. Her new silk gown, with twenty tiny buttons down the front.  She engaged her abs and tightened her butt, but her skin tingled, and her inner parts opened and softened as she thought of the night ahead with Johnny.

 

      

image:blog.builddirect.com            image:incensetogo.com

 The gym showers were eight years old, and becoming temperamental. Nothing happened when she punched in HOT. She tried WARM, but again, nothing. She settled for COLD and took a very quick shower.

At the office she picked up her flash drive, plugged it into the iOn, and entered yEssir . She turned the treadmill in front of her computer to the lowest speed, and looked over the list that appeared on her monitor. As usual, the bosses had given her twelve hours of busywork to complete in eight. She sighed, turned up the treadmill, and entered hUrRy.

image:nytimes.com

 

All day she labored. The chores required just enough attention to prevent her from thinking, but not enough to fully engage her. She plugged her earphones in and entered tEc*nO into the iOn to fill her empty neurospace. Her eyes grew red from staring at the monitor, her legs ached from walking. At noon she typed in an order for a high protein shake, and drank it as she worked. She was damned if she would work overtime on Johnny’s first night home. She only left her desk to pee, and her brain was so fried that she had to return to the computer to look up the pee password (yoUr*ne).

Finally she was finished. She logged out and raced to the car, slept soundly as it drove her home.  Johnny the Prince had everything ready. He had taken the day off, and cooked a magnificent meal: cumin-scented chicken with an orange-avocado sauce, fresh greens with garlic and hot peppers, and tiny chocolate tortes with rosettes of brandy whipped cream. Afterwards they sat by the fire, then turned on the Muzac and danced.

image:bluegrassgourmand.wordpress.com

“Tonight I want it hot, sweet and slow,” he whispered as they waltzed across the floor, and she felt his words deep inside. “Meet me in the bedroom,” she whispered back, and she went into the bathroom to get ready. A quick shower, a dab of cologne, and the long white gown with pearl buttons that he would have to open one by one. As she typed it in - H!tSw**TsloW - her cheeks felt warm, her skin moist. She knew she was delicious all over.

He had lit all the candles. He waited in the bed. His strong arms welcomed her, the curly hair on his chest damp from the shower. He pushed her away and slowly opened the buttons, kissing as he went. They rolled and grappled, stroked and sucked and licked until they couldn’t wait any longer, and together they reached for their iOns.  Y*sY*sYES she typed. Nothing happened. Johnny’s breath was coming faster and he moved in the purposeful rhythm she knew so well. Oh god, what was the password YESy!sy!s. Nothing. He was almost there and she ached to join him. She knew there were three yesses, with a mix of punctuation and upper case, but how were they arranged? Too late. He gasped and groaned, collapsed on top of her. She felt him pulsing deep inside. 

“Sorry,” they whispered together.  Soon he got up to take a shower.  Now she remembered, and punched it in: y!sy!sy!s. But it wasn’t the same without Johnny.

image:pixhome.blogspot.com

 

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NEXT POST: FEBRUARY 28