Tuesday, February 7, 2023
A Transformation
SINCE I HAVE POSTED A NEW BLOG WITH APOLOGIES, I HERE SHARE A BRIEF BUT POIGNENT ESSAY A TRANSFORMATION In one week, Mim was transformed from a semi-functional older woman with mobility issues to an older woman evidently no longer capable of autonomy. She did have significant mobility issues. Acknowledging this, she brokered weekly visits by a physical therapist, ordered a rollator -- the heretofore unknown name for a walker with wheels—and signed up for a medical alert device. But then she learned that a nurse would visit once a week. And people began calling her ‘sweetie’. She was not a ‘sweetie’. Then she learned that her brother needed to undergo a tortuous treatment for bladder cancer. And her gas fireplace stopped working. And the urgently needed refund from an aborted tour did not arrive. The funds were needed for urgently needed house repairs. It was enough to generate irresponsible drinking ... or at least one glass of good wine
Sunday, January 16, 2022
Being 80
These connections comprise my obligations. I am obliged to honor all components of this vast and infinitely complex universe, to protect individuals and elements that are in jeopardy, and to celebrate the ineffable beauty that permeates existence.
Saturday, November 6, 2021
ABOUT TIME
Go Glasgow!!
Thursday, July 29, 2021
Two Digit Prayer
An Acknowledgement
It may well be Aunt
Zoe’s fault.
My little family used
to visit her in Laguna Beach, California back when people could still afford to
live there. She was my father’s father’s sister… a fervent Protestant
Republican school teacher who never married. She scared me because she was loud
and opinionated. She had rules and brooked no transgressions, but her affection
was as voluminous as her anatomy. Everyone loved her. Neighbors,
students, church members, strangers at the grocery store … all who fell within
her orbit stayed within her orbit, smiling.
One day, returning
from an afternoon at the beach, I sat at her desk and wrote about the waves
marching to the shore in endless synchronicity.
Aunt Zoe said it was
brilliant and that I would obviously become a great writer. And I, who was
barely seven at the time, believed her.
Thereafter, I turned
to writing whenever I found myself in new or uncomfortable territory. When we
moved from southern California to eastern Ohio, I forged a niche in my new
world by writing for the junior high paper, then the high school paper, then,
later for the college paper. Then, after graduation, for an actual
newspaper.
When my marriage
became untenable, I wrote a collection of poems and verse that became a program
I presented to women’s groups. That helped. For a while. After divorce, I found
a job … writing. When my employer decided to move to its offices from Chicago
to Tampa, I found another writing job in the Chicago area– one that eventually
gave me the opportunity to travel to other countries [Canada, Guatemala, Japan,
Korea, England, Brazil, Mexico, Turkey, Australia, Republic of China (Taiwan),
Hong Kong, The People’s Republic of China, Switzerland, and France. When that
job fizzled, I quit and got another job … writing… that took me to South Africa
(and Zimbabwe and Namibia]. And when that job disappeared, I quit and moved to
Colorado to work on writing for myself. So far, two books.
I am working on a
modest collection of essays but not with the discipline Aunt Zoe would have
preferred. She was a great believer in discipline (and honesty and temperance).
Actually, there might be much about my life that would generate her
disapproval.
Still, I know that
nothing makes me feel more alive than when I am sitting in front of my computer
letting the words accumulate in a fashion that makes some kind of sense, or
point. Or both.
Every time my dad
pulled up in front of Aunt Zoe’s house, he would comment on the state of the
hibiscus plant by her front door. I have my own garden now (in Colorado).
Recently, I planted my own hibiscus. The flowers are my private memorial to
Aunt Zoe in gratitude for her encouragement in a craft that has sustained me my
whole life. And pulled me around the world.
Friday, June 18, 2021
BIRTHSTONES
When Gertrude was 16 her maternal grandmother gave her a sardonyx ring. Sardonyx was her ‘birthstone’. Why couldn’t it have been a sapphire or diamond or ruby? Sardonyx was just a brown stone, usually with little streaks of white (the onyx). Yuck. Still, she loved her grandmother, and the stone was set in a delicate framework of different shades of gold. So, she kept it and wore it (especially when her grandmother visited).
That was more than sixty years ago. Some wisp of memory prompted Gertrude to fish
it out of the small bowl where she kept her rings. It felt a little loose when
she put it on. Maybe her finger had
shrunk. The rest of her had (at least vertically) . She used to be five feet
two inches. Now she was just five feet none.
Twisting it around her finger, she smiled at memories of her
grandmother, Olive Jenkins Walker, aka Nana. They were buddies, sharing giggles
over stories about Gertrude’s mom and conspiring to have secret adventures. This
was easier because she and Nana were about the same height, literally seeing
things eye to eye. They shared many stories and sort-of secrets. She died when Gertrude was twenty-five, a
year after her first child was born. Gertrude had a photograph of Nana holding
her infant son. Both of them looked
awestruck.
Now that son was grown up and lived a thousand miles
away.
Now Gertrude had a computer through which she can
follow any train of thought to myriad destinations.
She began by looking up birthstones. It turned out
that the concept of birthstones evolved sometime in the 15th or 16th century in Poland or Germany as a sort of
derivative of Arabian astrology. Or something. There were even some biblical
implications . . . in Revelations! Gertrude did not dwell on these. She was
more interested in learning that people born in August could have three
‘birthstones’. She could choose between peridot, spinel, and sardonyx. Why hadn’t her grandmother known that? And
choose one of the others, both of which looked prettier than sardonyx.
Sixty years later, that point was moot. She had a
sardonyx ring. Period. So, Gertrude hopped on another train of thought.
Sardonyx seemed phonically related to sardonic. So,
Gertrude looked that up, then wandered around in virtual comparisons between
the words sardonic and sarcastic. It turns out that sarcastic is meaner.
Her father was sarcastic. Most people who knew him
would never think of him as mean but both Gertrude and her younger brother bore
the psychological scars of his scathing remarks. For her dad, stupidity and
laziness were cardinal sins. He often pronounced them guilty of these, making
them feel inadequate. To this day, Gertrude became inordinately defensive if
someone suggested that something she did or said was stupid.
It was an unfortunate heritage. Eventually, she was
able to realize when this verbal trigger had been pulled and to reduce her
defensiveness. She became a little better at accepting criticism without
crumbling … dissolving into mea culpa.
But remnants of those early harsh judgements clung to
her psyche. When she was overly tired or
overwhelmed by a whirlwind of events or an avalanche of bills and obligations,
she could slip into her soul dungeon, smothered in dark layers of
self-proclaimed inadequacy.
Salvation, in the form of common sense and memories of
her grandmother’s love and laughter could lift her out of despond.
She decided to wear the ring more often.