Have Family, Will Travel
We decided we should take a family vacation this summer. This is no small thing. Whenever all four of us travel, that leaves the five dogs, two cats, one guinea pig and a brood of saltwater fish in need of surrogate care. For what it costs us to accommodate the animals, we could stay an extra couple of nights at a five-star hotel. Perhaps anyone stupid enough to have so many pets doesn’t deserve to get away. But we hope to, if we can agree on a destination.
We talked about driving out west to Yellowstone or Yosemite National Park. This would require at least two weeks on the road. The kids predict that enduring that much family togetherness would cause a major rift in our familial bond to rival that of the Grand Canyon. As much as I’d like to see the real thing, I’m not sure it’s worth our children divorcing us.
While my daughter and I could see ourselves taking in the sights of the Big Apple, my son and husband insist that a river, ocean or lake be the primary focus of our adventure. The two of them drove to northern Minnesota last summer and fished from daylight to dark the better part of two weeks. As thrilling as that sounds, somehow I doubt it would work for certain family members who prefer the comfort and convenience of hotel hot tubs and sushi bars.
We’ve done Disney. We’ve camped at nearly every state park in Mississippi. We’ve been to the nation’s capital, stayed in the Rockies twice, done Jellystone Park in the Smokies and hit the beach a time or two. There are millions of places we haven’t been, but narrowing down the choices proves surprisingly difficult. It’s not a lack of places to visit that challenges us . It’s the potential for disaster on the road. That’s why I’m considering a most novel idea. What about a vacation at home?
I can’t help but think about the time our son got food poisoning and yorked his way across Texas. Then there was the seatbelt incident on a lonely stretch of road in Colorado when our then five-year-old daughter nearly strangled herself after attempting somersaults in her seat. Of course, the fastener wouldn’t release. We were seconds from cutting the seatbelt with a pocket knife when she turned upside-down and simply shimmied out.
There was the chewing gum incident where I unceremoniously spat a wad of bubblegum out the van window, only to have it boomerang back and land squarely on my laptop keyboard. While driving at a crawl up a perilous cliff in the Rocky Mountain tundra, my husband experienced full and immediate paralysis when my son suddenly screamed , “WOW! LOOK AT ALL THOSE ELK!” They say family vacations are all about the memories. I will never forget how his face froze in a state of sheer panic and his fingers formed a death grip on the steering wheel. When I consider these incidents, staying at home sounds like more than a good idea. It actually could be a lifesaver.
But then, if we stayed home, we wouldn’t experience the new perspective you get on this beautiful country of ours whenever you see the sun set on an unfamiliar but spectacular horizon. We would miss out on those unforgettable images that evoke some deep and primal longing, from the rush of magnificent views of rolling hills and wide open sky to the panoramic display of land and sea along some emerald stretch of coastal waters.
I’m not sure where we’ll end up this summer. We might not make it far. But what I do know is that every time we hit the road together, we never fail to return with a renewed appreciation for this great land of ours, and an even greater appreciation for that place we call home.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
You Can Go Your Own Way
You Can Go Your Own Way
Early in our marriage, my husband would passively aggressively agree to go shopping with me. This means that while his mouth was saying, “Sure, I’d love to go to the mall with you,” his tone and pronounced facial tic were saying, “There has got to be a way out of this.”
After nearly 19 years of marriage, we’ve developed a method that seems to work well. He goes his way, and I go mine. But we still run into problems, like the other night at Wal-Mart.
“I tell you what,” he suggested. “You go get the eye drops and I’ll go to tools. Meet me there.” And with that, and the shopping cart, he was gone.
On the way to the eye drops, I directed a woman in obvious distress to the closest bathroom. I grabbed the eye drops then realized I had lost the shopping list. I found the slip of paper and made my way to the tool section. My husband was not there. I was not surprised.
“This happens every single time,” I said out loud. A man scanning the plumbing supplies retreated cautiously. I couldn’t call my wayward husband. He had my purse and my cell phone in that blasted cart.
“I knew this would happen. It always does. ” I had the entire tool department to myself. I debated whether to stay or to go. I peered from each end of the aisle, in both directions, leering. I headed to the grocery section in full pursuit where I ran into a friend.
“Hey, girl,” said Suzanne. “How’s it going?”
“Have you seen my husband?” I asked, trying to smile through gritted teeth. “He was supposed to be in tools. He’s not there. I’ve covered the entire store. “
“Uh oh,” said Suzanne, nodding knowingly. “Been there, done that. Good luck.”
Somewhere within the confines of that superstore was a man stewing in his own juices while I simmered in mine. He couldn’t find me. I couldn’t find him. And I had checked the beer section twice.
Finally, I glimpsed his bright yellow polo, his back to me, heading in the direction of the jewelry counter.
I half yelled, half growled his name across fifty feet of open floor. I learned on a previous encounter with store security that running through a major retail outlet draws immediate and unwanted attention. I watched him. He turned the corner toward tools. Finally, I’d be able to wring his neck.
I rounded the corner among the hammers and nails. He wasn’t there. I stood, stunned. I careened through aisles of hardware, the paint department and automotive. He was gone. Again. I imagined the announcement from customer service I so badly wanted to deliver:
“Mr. Twedt, what’s left of your wife has spontaneously combusted at the customer service desk,” I’d have them say. “Please pick up her smoldering remains IN THE TOOL SECTION.”
At a complete loss, I waited. I tried to calm myself among the hardware and watched as the heat from my infuriated body melted stainless steel. And then, just like that, there he was.
“Where have you been?” I railed, choking on smoke. The look on his face essentially screamed the same.
“I went to tools, just like I told you,” he said. “I waited at least 30 minutes! I decided you must have gone for the groceries. I walked every aisle twice!”
“Well, I went to tools as soon as I found the grocery list and you weren’t here,” I accused. “I swear! I am never shopping with you ever, ever again.”
Admittedly, he did a pretty good job of camouflaging a victorious smile. He left to pick up our daughter from the mall, and I slung food into the cart. I was nearly finished when they returned.
“Wow, that was fast,” said my daughter when she arrived ten minutes later. “Dad said you hadn’t even started shopping for groceries.”
“I guess I spent too much time looking for an appropriate weapon,” I muttered. But, apologies were exchanged. Laughter prevailed. We vowed to never separate in a store without our cell phones. But just in case, I have customer service on speed dial.
Early in our marriage, my husband would passively aggressively agree to go shopping with me. This means that while his mouth was saying, “Sure, I’d love to go to the mall with you,” his tone and pronounced facial tic were saying, “There has got to be a way out of this.”
After nearly 19 years of marriage, we’ve developed a method that seems to work well. He goes his way, and I go mine. But we still run into problems, like the other night at Wal-Mart.
“I tell you what,” he suggested. “You go get the eye drops and I’ll go to tools. Meet me there.” And with that, and the shopping cart, he was gone.
On the way to the eye drops, I directed a woman in obvious distress to the closest bathroom. I grabbed the eye drops then realized I had lost the shopping list. I found the slip of paper and made my way to the tool section. My husband was not there. I was not surprised.
“This happens every single time,” I said out loud. A man scanning the plumbing supplies retreated cautiously. I couldn’t call my wayward husband. He had my purse and my cell phone in that blasted cart.
“I knew this would happen. It always does. ” I had the entire tool department to myself. I debated whether to stay or to go. I peered from each end of the aisle, in both directions, leering. I headed to the grocery section in full pursuit where I ran into a friend.
“Hey, girl,” said Suzanne. “How’s it going?”
“Have you seen my husband?” I asked, trying to smile through gritted teeth. “He was supposed to be in tools. He’s not there. I’ve covered the entire store. “
“Uh oh,” said Suzanne, nodding knowingly. “Been there, done that. Good luck.”
Somewhere within the confines of that superstore was a man stewing in his own juices while I simmered in mine. He couldn’t find me. I couldn’t find him. And I had checked the beer section twice.
Finally, I glimpsed his bright yellow polo, his back to me, heading in the direction of the jewelry counter.
I half yelled, half growled his name across fifty feet of open floor. I learned on a previous encounter with store security that running through a major retail outlet draws immediate and unwanted attention. I watched him. He turned the corner toward tools. Finally, I’d be able to wring his neck.
I rounded the corner among the hammers and nails. He wasn’t there. I stood, stunned. I careened through aisles of hardware, the paint department and automotive. He was gone. Again. I imagined the announcement from customer service I so badly wanted to deliver:
“Mr. Twedt, what’s left of your wife has spontaneously combusted at the customer service desk,” I’d have them say. “Please pick up her smoldering remains IN THE TOOL SECTION.”
At a complete loss, I waited. I tried to calm myself among the hardware and watched as the heat from my infuriated body melted stainless steel. And then, just like that, there he was.
“Where have you been?” I railed, choking on smoke. The look on his face essentially screamed the same.
“I went to tools, just like I told you,” he said. “I waited at least 30 minutes! I decided you must have gone for the groceries. I walked every aisle twice!”
“Well, I went to tools as soon as I found the grocery list and you weren’t here,” I accused. “I swear! I am never shopping with you ever, ever again.”
Admittedly, he did a pretty good job of camouflaging a victorious smile. He left to pick up our daughter from the mall, and I slung food into the cart. I was nearly finished when they returned.
“Wow, that was fast,” said my daughter when she arrived ten minutes later. “Dad said you hadn’t even started shopping for groceries.”
“I guess I spent too much time looking for an appropriate weapon,” I muttered. But, apologies were exchanged. Laughter prevailed. We vowed to never separate in a store without our cell phones. But just in case, I have customer service on speed dial.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
She Doesn't Smell Well
She Doesn’t Smell Well
Looking back, I can’t believe we didn’t figure it out sooner. Whether it’s the soft scent of baby powder or the pungent pine of Christmas trees, the smell of popcorn erupting in buttery goodness or chocolate chip cookies emerging from the oven, our daughter has never experienced any of these olfactory sensations. Katie has anosmia. It took us 13 years to notice.
Anosmia simply means the absence of a sense of smell. Doctors at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, MD tested her olfactory abilities with a scratch and sniff book of familiar scents. She failed it, big time. While some people have nerve damage or injuries that cause them to lose their ability to smell, Katie’s is apparently a congenital problem, present since birth. Yet, her deficit only recently came to light.
I remember going to places like Bath and Body Works when she was much younger. We would spray the little cards to help us select our favorite fragrance. But while I was choosing from the enticing aromas of citrus or peach, Katie could never decide on one she liked. Once, we laughed ourselves silly when we misread the name on a bottle as “Brown Sugar and Pig” instead of “Brown Sugar and Fig.” I had asked her, “Does that smell like a pig to you?” In hindsight, I recognize what was complete indifference as she sniffed the unscented air and shrugged. Now I realize she couldn’t smell a thing.
Katie readily admits that if she had to go missing one of the five senses, she would pick her sense of smell. The others work just fine, thankfully. Where she may lack the ability to enjoy a whiff of hot baked bread or smell the summer rain, she harbors an amazing talent for seeing the positive side of things.
“When we’re in science lab, I just love it when everybody else is gagging over horrendous odors and I’m just fine,” she told me. “I don’t smell farts, or dog mess or anything else that makes people want to hurl.” While this girl of ours could be bemoaning the fact that her sniffer doesn’t work, instead she finds reasons to be glad in it.
They say that when you lack one of the five senses, the others may be enhanced. We’ve decided the child has supersonic hearing. She can hear the flutter of moths’ wings and private conversations from a mile away. Of course, I worry over the fact that she can’t smell something burning or the stench of spoiled food. She uses deodorant profusely and squirts perfume in spite of the fact that she has no idea if it smells good or bad. I never gave my sense of smell much thought until I witnessed her challenges through a parent’s eyes.
The olfactory bulb in the brain is closely tied to the limbic system, which helps us process memories and emotions. As a result, odors and aromas play a large role in triggering recollections of the past. Cinnamon, vanilla, apple pie. Who doesn’t have warm and wonderful memories tied to these? Not once have I heard my daughter say “That smells so good!” when I cook her favorite foods.
While I am amazed we didn’t discover her anosmia sooner, she laughs at the fact that when the rest of us were extolling the exquisite aromas of steaks on the grill or jasmine in bloom, she always pretended to smell them. What she must have experienced sniffing the odorless air had to be something akin to eating food that, no matter what, tasted like rice cakes.
Katie exhibits an intense appreciation for color and design, for music and hugs. She sees life as full of opportunities as well as challenges. She hears the promise of a hopeful future. She tastes the spice of life easily and gratefully. In spite of puzzling health challenges the last couple of years, this girl of ours is feeling the welcome reward of finally being understood.
Sometimes we’ll exclaim, “What’s that smell?” The look she gives us speaks volumes. I tell her that when she marries, I hope it’s to a man who smells well. Or is that good? I suppose it would be great if it’s both.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Of Trucks and Men
Of Trucks and Men
Without fail, anywhere we went, we’d see one.
Short bed Chevy.
Ford Supercrew.
Tricked out truck with polished chrome, Yosemite Sam mud flaps and a six foot antenna threatening the belly of an interstate overpass.
He’d point out each one, his discriminating eye absorbing the pros and cons of every make and model.
“See, that one’s a short wheel base, regular cab, the last of that body style, about a 1997,” explained my husband. “See the hood on that one? Bad hinges on that model. Every last truck like that will have a crimp across the middle because the hinges are no good.” He talked like I understood, like I knew an overhead cam from a fuel injector.
“They came out with that model when I was in high school. Gets about five miles to the gallon. Oh, man, look at that one. Now THAT’s a truck.” At this point his eyes always glazed over, a boy’s Christmas face frozen in pure idolatry before the department store window.
Truck fever isn’t pretty. It basically permeates every waking moment, every conversation. We’d start out talking about the kids, work, the budget, but ultimately the discussion always turned to towing capacity and extended cabs. Then there’s the song and dance about how every man needs a truck.
It seems the need to haul things, to tow things, to administer horse power in such a way that your masculinity is essentially validated by traveling by truck is inexplicably tied to the Y chromosome. While we needed another vehicle about like we needed multiple sore toes, somehow we decided that a used truck was something of a necessity. Last weekend, we found ourselves at the Woolwine Ford dealership in Collins.
“Can I help you?” Ricky the salesman asked. My spouse salivated. He stood within a sea of new Fords, trade-ins and the palpable magnetism of four-wheel drive.
“We’re looking for a truck,” he stammered. “Not new. Very affordable. “ He looked, momentarily, as if his legs would give out from under him.
“I think I can help you out with that,” Ricky assured us. He retreated to his office and reemerged with a computer printout. Meanwhile, my better half locked headlamps with a ruby red Ford XLT, a 2000 model that I would swear winked at him. It had high miles, but higher appeal. Little flickering red hearts surfaced where his pupils used to be.
“ What about this one?” Ricky studied his papers and indicated the item met our criteria. We walked the perimeter of the specimen, examined the engine, sat behind the wheel. We mentioned the fact that we think the world of his boss, Richard Woolwine whose Aunt Tommie we claim as our own. We shared our story of buying one of our favorite cars, a Mercury Grand Marquis, from that very lot years before. Some might have accused us of brown-nosing. Truthfully, I felt certain that if we left that lot without a truck, my husband might spontaneously disintegrate on the spot.
Ricky got the keys and we took it for a test drive. I witnessed pure pleasure that day. The clouds turned dark, the sky drizzled rain, but the mood in the cab of that F150 XLT reached something akin to unadulterated ecstasy. The odometer had close to a bazillion miles, but the ride was tight, the engine sound and the glistening exterior belied the age of eight years. If ever there was a taker, that truck was it.
I love car salesmen who get right to the point. Not long ago, Tony at Vardaman Honda sold us our minivan with the finesse of a retail wizard and the ease of a good friend. Ricky did the same with that truck. We appreciate that. In less than two hours, we became the proud owners of a pre-owned Ford that might as well have been a gilded chassis fit for a king. Who knew a truck could sprout wings and fly?
The man got his truck and all was well with chromosomes, machismo and trailer hitches. Only now, the 16-year-old son developed a sudden and irrepressible itch for a fishing boat.
Aluminum.
Sixteen foot.
25 horsepower.
Just the thing for that truck to pull.
The tackle box quivers in the toolbox with each mention of “Evinrude” and “Mercury.” What I soon discovered is that with truck ownership comes the mysterious need for men to bond on lakes and rivers, compelled to seek the satisfaction found in baiting bass from watercraft—watercraft that preferably includes trolling motor, live well and depth finder, of course.
Of trucks and men, there is no end to the male patterned boldness found riding the roads in the comfortable cab of their dreams.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
On Writing Columns
On writing columns…
About eleven years ago, I submitted an article to my local newspaper about a cartoonist. The editor liked it, ran it on the front page of the features section, and that was how I first came to know the thrill of a byline.
At the time, this newspaper also ran a weekly column titled “Readers Write.” As a guest columnist, I submitted a story about my dog, Winnie. In the weeks following, I received letters and email from strangers. They shared their own dog tales. They told me they liked my column. And so, I wrote more.
My column ran on that same front page of the “Living” section for a few years until a local chef with a talent for running restaurants and writing humor took over. My column was delegated to an inner page. Still, people wrote. I joined writers groups. I started freelancing for magazines. It seemed my dream of writing for real was underway.
Then, last year, my parents died. First, Dad in June and then Mom in March. With them I lost a large part of why I always tried to find the time to write the column. God knows, it wasn’t the $25 paycheck. On some subliminal level, I always aspired to write something of significance, something that would make them proud. Writing their obituaries and the words I shared at their memorial services made me realize just how much I had wanted to secure a Pulitzer while they were still on this Earth.
A few days ago, some intriguing soul joined the subscription service to my blog. He or she went so far as to calling the newspaper to see if I were still writing. And, this guy or gal took the time to ask why I had neglected to post a column since December. The only answer that seemed honest was simply that I didn’t know.
One of the things that I believe about columnists is that they are born with an internal mechanism unlike most folks. They view the world through a lens that filters what they see much like a prism compartmentalizes the colors of the visible spectrum.
There are people, places and events of interest. There are seasons and holidays and celebrations. There are emotions and sensations and perceptions. There are births and deaths and miracles. There are dogs. These are the things that have you sitting at the computer at 2 a.m., writing like there’s no tomorrow, because, well, there might not be. These are the things that today’s newspapers lack so severely in their content. And it’s a shame. Because voices like those of Bombeck, Grizzard, and Buckley have already faded and those hell bent on hawking wares and taking pot shots appear to be taking over.
So tonight, as I stood on my back deck and waited for the dogs to pee, I thought about writing columns. I watched the full moon cast luminescent strands of light through the shimmering branches of pines. The clouds chased past winking stars and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine and new grass. Spring enchanted me even in the darkness, the promise of renewal burgeoning on dogwood branches and azaleas bushes loaded with vibrant pink buds.
The dogs, all five of them, took care of business. They paraded across the back lot, digging and snorting after moles, their noses coated in freshly turned dirt. Daisy, the smallest one, took her place at my feet. And though we often accuse her of trying to talk, that’s exactly what she did.
“Look, I’ll tell you what to write, but just this one time. You don’t even have to give me credit."
But I know better. Who’s she kidding? We columnists live for the byline, even when our writing has gone to the dogs.
Thanks, Daisy. And thanks to those of you who keep reading and writing. Whether the column runs in newsprint or not, I will always count myself among those troubled minds who simply tell tales of the heart and pay homage to those who make the endeavor unfailingly worthwhile.
About eleven years ago, I submitted an article to my local newspaper about a cartoonist. The editor liked it, ran it on the front page of the features section, and that was how I first came to know the thrill of a byline.
At the time, this newspaper also ran a weekly column titled “Readers Write.” As a guest columnist, I submitted a story about my dog, Winnie. In the weeks following, I received letters and email from strangers. They shared their own dog tales. They told me they liked my column. And so, I wrote more.
My column ran on that same front page of the “Living” section for a few years until a local chef with a talent for running restaurants and writing humor took over. My column was delegated to an inner page. Still, people wrote. I joined writers groups. I started freelancing for magazines. It seemed my dream of writing for real was underway.
Then, last year, my parents died. First, Dad in June and then Mom in March. With them I lost a large part of why I always tried to find the time to write the column. God knows, it wasn’t the $25 paycheck. On some subliminal level, I always aspired to write something of significance, something that would make them proud. Writing their obituaries and the words I shared at their memorial services made me realize just how much I had wanted to secure a Pulitzer while they were still on this Earth.
A few days ago, some intriguing soul joined the subscription service to my blog. He or she went so far as to calling the newspaper to see if I were still writing. And, this guy or gal took the time to ask why I had neglected to post a column since December. The only answer that seemed honest was simply that I didn’t know.
One of the things that I believe about columnists is that they are born with an internal mechanism unlike most folks. They view the world through a lens that filters what they see much like a prism compartmentalizes the colors of the visible spectrum.
There are people, places and events of interest. There are seasons and holidays and celebrations. There are emotions and sensations and perceptions. There are births and deaths and miracles. There are dogs. These are the things that have you sitting at the computer at 2 a.m., writing like there’s no tomorrow, because, well, there might not be. These are the things that today’s newspapers lack so severely in their content. And it’s a shame. Because voices like those of Bombeck, Grizzard, and Buckley have already faded and those hell bent on hawking wares and taking pot shots appear to be taking over.
So tonight, as I stood on my back deck and waited for the dogs to pee, I thought about writing columns. I watched the full moon cast luminescent strands of light through the shimmering branches of pines. The clouds chased past winking stars and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine and new grass. Spring enchanted me even in the darkness, the promise of renewal burgeoning on dogwood branches and azaleas bushes loaded with vibrant pink buds.
The dogs, all five of them, took care of business. They paraded across the back lot, digging and snorting after moles, their noses coated in freshly turned dirt. Daisy, the smallest one, took her place at my feet. And though we often accuse her of trying to talk, that’s exactly what she did.
“Look, I’ll tell you what to write, but just this one time. You don’t even have to give me credit."
But I know better. Who’s she kidding? We columnists live for the byline, even when our writing has gone to the dogs.
Thanks, Daisy. And thanks to those of you who keep reading and writing. Whether the column runs in newsprint or not, I will always count myself among those troubled minds who simply tell tales of the heart and pay homage to those who make the endeavor unfailingly worthwhile.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Sincerity of Spirit Rules Supreme at Christmas
Sincerity of Spirit Rules Supreme at Christmas
Each year our family draws names to determine who gives what to whom for Christmas. We essentially buy one gift for each name drawn, eliminating the waste and redundancy of unwanted items and duplicate presents. It works well for the grown-ups who pretty much have the necessities and many of the accessories of comfortable living. This rule does not apply to the children, though. The kids make an outrageous haul, and so it should be at Christmas.
While we enjoy gift-giving as much as any family does, I find greater pleasure in the kind of giving that lifts weary spirits, the type of benevolence that comes without fancy gift wrap. I have seen and been on the receiving end of gifts that brought tears and overwhelming gratitude, thanks to the selfless generosity of others. Christmas, with all its glitter and gold, showcases the very best of the human spirit, in all its humility and quiet grace.
When we hosted a fundraiser for two children in need of medical care, the residents of Wesley Manor Retirement Community gave lovingly and charitably. I arrived at my office the morning after we announced the upcoming event and unloaded my mailbox. Among the stacks of marketing solicitations and business letters, I found three notes:
One, torn from a yellow legal pad, featured shaky handwriting almost microscopic in size; the second, on folded stationary, was inscribed with beautifully fluid cursive; and the third, a small note card from a Catholic press, no inscription, just a pre-printed scripture from Proverbs. All contained money, a total of seven dollars. They simply read “For the children.”
The anonymity struck me first. These three gave with no need for acknowledgement. The sacrifice got me good, too. Something about these gifts told me they came from huge hearts of meager means. And then, the sincerity of spirit in which these dollar bills were folded, the notes written, the prayers delivered made me know that there live among us people who genuinely take great satisfaction in helping others who are down on their luck. I will always remember the powerful reassurance that was mine as I read each one.
The Bible tells us we are all God’s children. Perhaps while our wee ones are reaping the rewards of good girls and boys in the form of toys, games and electronic wonders, we “big” kids should take satisfaction in the fact that we are the recipient of some pretty awesome gifts, too. Our Christmas gift arrived more than 2, 000 years ago, an enduring promise that never loses its luster.
Here in these wonderful United States, we go to sleep each night knowing that we live in freedom, thanks to the bravery and courage of men and women who defend our right to do so. We have access to plentiful food, the worlds’ best health care, and places of worship that deliver much more than a spot to park your bottom on Sunday morning.
This Christmas, I wish you and your family the kind of gift that I found in my mailbox —dollar bills are nice, yes, but I mean something more than that. I hope that you discover a sincerity of spirit that transcends the trappings of materialistic indulgences. It can be as simple as a smile, as comforting as a hug, as touching as three simple words written on a Post-It note: “For the children.”
Each year our family draws names to determine who gives what to whom for Christmas. We essentially buy one gift for each name drawn, eliminating the waste and redundancy of unwanted items and duplicate presents. It works well for the grown-ups who pretty much have the necessities and many of the accessories of comfortable living. This rule does not apply to the children, though. The kids make an outrageous haul, and so it should be at Christmas.
While we enjoy gift-giving as much as any family does, I find greater pleasure in the kind of giving that lifts weary spirits, the type of benevolence that comes without fancy gift wrap. I have seen and been on the receiving end of gifts that brought tears and overwhelming gratitude, thanks to the selfless generosity of others. Christmas, with all its glitter and gold, showcases the very best of the human spirit, in all its humility and quiet grace.
When we hosted a fundraiser for two children in need of medical care, the residents of Wesley Manor Retirement Community gave lovingly and charitably. I arrived at my office the morning after we announced the upcoming event and unloaded my mailbox. Among the stacks of marketing solicitations and business letters, I found three notes:
One, torn from a yellow legal pad, featured shaky handwriting almost microscopic in size; the second, on folded stationary, was inscribed with beautifully fluid cursive; and the third, a small note card from a Catholic press, no inscription, just a pre-printed scripture from Proverbs. All contained money, a total of seven dollars. They simply read “For the children.”
The anonymity struck me first. These three gave with no need for acknowledgement. The sacrifice got me good, too. Something about these gifts told me they came from huge hearts of meager means. And then, the sincerity of spirit in which these dollar bills were folded, the notes written, the prayers delivered made me know that there live among us people who genuinely take great satisfaction in helping others who are down on their luck. I will always remember the powerful reassurance that was mine as I read each one.
The Bible tells us we are all God’s children. Perhaps while our wee ones are reaping the rewards of good girls and boys in the form of toys, games and electronic wonders, we “big” kids should take satisfaction in the fact that we are the recipient of some pretty awesome gifts, too. Our Christmas gift arrived more than 2, 000 years ago, an enduring promise that never loses its luster.
Here in these wonderful United States, we go to sleep each night knowing that we live in freedom, thanks to the bravery and courage of men and women who defend our right to do so. We have access to plentiful food, the worlds’ best health care, and places of worship that deliver much more than a spot to park your bottom on Sunday morning.
This Christmas, I wish you and your family the kind of gift that I found in my mailbox —dollar bills are nice, yes, but I mean something more than that. I hope that you discover a sincerity of spirit that transcends the trappings of materialistic indulgences. It can be as simple as a smile, as comforting as a hug, as touching as three simple words written on a Post-It note: “For the children.”
Friday, October 19, 2007
Nothing But Blue Skies Makes for Great Therapy
Nothing But Blue Skies
Makes for Great Therapy
A couple of weeks ago, our family of four headed to the Gulf Coast for a day of fishing and crabbing. I grew up on the Gulf Coast, in Long Beach, about a mile inland. Memories of my treks to the beach on foot and bicycle over the years still lend a therapeutic touch when life is rough and unkind. To see that distant place where water gives way to southern sky is to feel the years and worries softly melt away.
When we walked out on Moses’ pier in Gulfport, I reveled in the warm breezes of a late September day and watched the fishermen trolling with baited lines. The brown pelicans dipped into the surging waters, great silent flocks of them that had, years ago, all but disappeared. They perched on pilings, vigilant, real and present survivors of the ecological nightmare of pesticides now banned from use. The pelicans of perseverance. I took comfort in their miraculous return.
My husband baited crab traps and my daughter lowered them into the murky depths. We waited in camp chairs, studying the horizon for sails, mesmerized by the lulling slosh of waves and familiar call of gulls overhead. My son and a friend tried their luck with new lures and live shrimp. There is no substitute for the sun and wind, no other remedy that works so well as to hear and taste and see and touch those things that reassured us in our youth. It is all the more pleasurable that they are the very things that time cannot alter, cannot remove or make less than spectacular.
We moved our operation to a pier in Ocean Springs, caught a few more crabs, and watched the boys pull in a little of everything but no keepers. I stretched out on a concrete pipe protruding from the shore as the late afternoon rays filtered through amazing clouds that eased past like a parade. Blue skies wrapped my spirit in soothing stillness. Whispering reeds and pampas grass nudged my thoughts toward all that is good and right in the world. Laughter, music, evenings spent in good company with sand pipers and herons, dolphins and fiddler crabs, these are the glad tidings that those gulf waters bring.
My children are teenagers. They are finding their way. In their time, they will see with adult eyes the things of their youth that made them happy. They will feel pain and sense loss and experience disappointment with a grown up perspective. Hopefully, they will find themselves immersed in an incredible day at the beach, full of the wonder of life, and share it with their families. And perhaps the pelicans will take flight just as the sun glints weakly from the western horizon, reminding them of a calm September evening spent in the company of their mom and dad. Then, blue sky memories of my south coast home will bring them the joy it has always brought me, the healing power and endless comfort found only in the natural world.
When we walked out on Moses’ pier in Gulfport, I reveled in the warm breezes of a late September day and watched the fishermen trolling with baited lines. The brown pelicans dipped into the surging waters, great silent flocks of them that had, years ago, all but disappeared. They perched on pilings, vigilant, real and present survivors of the ecological nightmare of pesticides now banned from use. The pelicans of perseverance. I took comfort in their miraculous return.
My husband baited crab traps and my daughter lowered them into the murky depths. We waited in camp chairs, studying the horizon for sails, mesmerized by the lulling slosh of waves and familiar call of gulls overhead. My son and a friend tried their luck with new lures and live shrimp. There is no substitute for the sun and wind, no other remedy that works so well as to hear and taste and see and touch those things that reassured us in our youth. It is all the more pleasurable that they are the very things that time cannot alter, cannot remove or make less than spectacular.
We moved our operation to a pier in Ocean Springs, caught a few more crabs, and watched the boys pull in a little of everything but no keepers. I stretched out on a concrete pipe protruding from the shore as the late afternoon rays filtered through amazing clouds that eased past like a parade. Blue skies wrapped my spirit in soothing stillness. Whispering reeds and pampas grass nudged my thoughts toward all that is good and right in the world. Laughter, music, evenings spent in good company with sand pipers and herons, dolphins and fiddler crabs, these are the glad tidings that those gulf waters bring.
My children are teenagers. They are finding their way. In their time, they will see with adult eyes the things of their youth that made them happy. They will feel pain and sense loss and experience disappointment with a grown up perspective. Hopefully, they will find themselves immersed in an incredible day at the beach, full of the wonder of life, and share it with their families. And perhaps the pelicans will take flight just as the sun glints weakly from the western horizon, reminding them of a calm September evening spent in the company of their mom and dad. Then, blue sky memories of my south coast home will bring them the joy it has always brought me, the healing power and endless comfort found only in the natural world.
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