Sock It To Me

Kristen Twedt Sock It to Me

Getting older is really cramping my style. I developed a bad case of plantar fasciitis, a painful condition of the foot that often strikes us fortyish folks. As part of my ongoing treatment and recovery, I had shock wave treatment of my heel. While I heal, foot exercises that stretch the injured fascia are essential. Enter the Strassburg Sock.

In his deep desire for my full and speedy recovery, my husband seemed overly eager for me to try the Strassburg Sock, a contraption obviously designed by someone who shares his wicked sense of humor. He came home from work with a special package.

“I brought you something you’re going to love.”

Some women get flowers while they recuperate from a medical procedure. I got a sock.

“Well, doesn’t that look interesting?”

“Try it on,” he beamed. “The guy at the foot store said it will work wonders.”

Ah, yes, the foot store. If only I could buy a healthy 20-year-old foot to replace my dysfunctional 42-year-old appendage. I slipped the long, white sock over my tender foot and calf. It featured a long tongue of Velcro down the front and around the top. I adjusted the sock per the enclosed instructions. I felt completely ridiculous.

“You know, I think I’ll take it off for now and put it on at bedtime,” I said. A couple hours later, I joined him in bed.

“Where’s your sock?” he asked with a fevered pitch.

“Oh. The sock. It’s right here. I’ll put it on.” And I did. I lay there, both legs exposed, the sock drawing the toes of my left foot in an obscene arc toward my face.

“I feel like the kid in ‘A Christmas Story’ with his arms stuck in his winter coat,” I told him. “I can’t put my toes down!”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” he sputtered.

“I’m sure you’d never laugh at my expense, either,” I said while he howled. “You know, I think I know why you wanted me to wear this so badly.” I stretched out the stark white support hose, stroking it seductively, my toes frozen in a come-hither position. “It’s nothing but sexy.” The contraption mocked us both. Suddenly, he was snoring and I was nose-deep in my book.

Time will tell if the sock helps or not. I am hopeful that it and all the pampering I’ve done to this foot will pay off. I have thought a lot about folks who face the daily challenge of walking with canes, walkers or those who move about in wheelchairs. I'm afraid the ones I know handle it with much more grace and dignity than I would. My sore foot makes me cranky. And this crazy sock makes getting ready for bed an exercise in Velcro tolerance.

"Are you wearing your sock?" my husband will ask sleepily as I turn out the light.

"How about I give you a little kick and you tell me?" In the darkness, his shins retreat and he feigns sudden slumber.

Yep, next time I come home from a medical procedure, I bet I get roses.

Paul Potts Sings a Humble Song

Paul Potts Sings a Humble Song

When I first viewed a video of Paul Potts singing, goose bumps gave way to curiosity. Potts, 36, recently won on “Britain’s Got Talent,” the original European version of “America’s Got Talent.” He sang “Nessun Dorma,” an aria from Puccini’s opera, “Turandot.” Votes cast in favor of the gap-toothed mobile phone salesman launched him to instant stardom as a professional vocalist and landed him a lucrative recording contract fostered by judge and music producer Simon Cowell. Everyone wants to know about Potts. http://www.paulpottsofficial.com/videos.html

As much as his beautifully powerful voice stunned listeners, his humility and effusive gratitude for their approval brought tears to the eyes of British fans and those watching online from around the world. Potts told reporters he planned to spend his winnings to clear debts and fix his teeth. His stage presence, a mixture of hesitant confidence and quiet wonder, belies the bold and captivating sound of this mild-mannered tenor. To watch his final performance on that talent show is to witness the makings of a silk purse from sow’s ear. An underdog wins to the unbridled joy of his newborn audience.

Talent like Potts reminds me of how perfectly wonderful is the music delivered by a gifted singer. To see someone find his way through the maze of heartache and disappointment, to endure the daily grind of regular life and pursue his goal of performing on stage for the multitudes proves terribly inspiring. That he is a common man, married, working in sales while tirelessly seeking opportunity to break away into a career fulfilling his heart’s desire justifies every poet, every lyricist, every artist and writer who dares to harbor the belief that dreams do come true. His song is that of the creator who respects the liberating validation brought by sincere applause and recognition.

Last week a man named Louie Lawent wrote to me about a song he composed and asked that I share it in a column. He wrote the lyrics, another artist, Billy Livesay, recorded the song. First, I read the lyrics, words that reflect on the fleeting satisfaction of fame for a pop star in the face of Armageddon. Then I listened to “Pop Star,” the song. http://free.napster.com/view/artist/index.html?id=12351878

I liked it. There’s that. Mentioning it here may get him a few listens. Who says it’s good or it isn’t? I’ve heard plenty on the radio that I wouldn’t pay a plug nickel to hear again. Some of the best music I’ve heard is online, performed by independent artists who sing, play and record simply for the love of music. Their talent is undeniable, their dedication to the music, commendable. Their desire to move people with music is essential, even though few make much money in the process.

Anyone who has worked in the creative arts for many years will verify that finding a financial windfall in the way of a big contract evades the majority. Most who start out with illusions of grandeur quit. Many who tire of the sting of rejection fall away. But there are a few who remain true to the best reason of all to create: because they can.

Martina McBride sings a favorite song of mine, “Anyway.” The song commands that when storms destroy what we have built and those we love reject us; even when dreams seem impossible and doubts surround us and songs of joy escape us, we should build, love, dream, and sing anyway. In spite of injury and setbacks, Paul Potts aspired to sing for all of us. His is a gift he was destined to share. Something tells me he would sing anyway. Perhaps that kind of perseverance is the greatest talent of all.

They Should Sell a Patch for That

They Should Sell a Patch for That

A couple of weeks ago, the unthinkable happened. We suffered an Internet outage. Our fast access turned no access for four full days and nights due to a “maintenance incident.” I maintained that it was a ploy on the part of my husband to get a few things done around here.

I work from home as a freelance writer. My fondness for the Internet is no secret. I love the fact that I can research anything and everything at any given hour.

Do bluebirds nest more than once per season? Yes! How do I know that? We have a pair in our front yard that have done so, but just to confirm, I can read all about it and look at photos at www.bluebirdnut.com.

What’s the name of the song with the lyrics that go “If you ever go across the sea to Ireland?” That would be “Galway Bay.” Found that at Lyrics Depot at www.lyricsdepot.com.

What’s the best price on an Xbox Live 360? Lost my breath at www.pricegrabber.com. We did buy one. When the Internet access was out, the 15-year-old son experienced Gears of War withdrawal so bad he actually showed up for dinner the first time I called him.

Without Internet at home, I discovered that I could get a week’s worth of housecleaning done in a couple of days. I could read one of the countless books that stand ready on the shelves. Meals were ready early. There was more lap time for dogs and talk time for kids and listening time for spouses. At the end of the day, I was bone tired, the house was in order and I craved email so badly, I developed a debilitating tic.

“I can get online at the library,” I told my husband. “Tomorrow, if we don’t have internet, I’m going to turn on, log in and drop out from 9 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. Wait. Tomorrow’s Thursday. They’re open until 7:30!”

He regarded me with open disgust while checking work email on his Blackberry. “McDonald’s has WiFi right now,” he mumbled.

We were parked at a booth sipping Diet Cokes and basking in the glow of a laptop in less than fifteen minutes.

“I didn’t know you could drive like that,” said my white-knuckled husband.

“I didn’t know that was a turn lane, honest,” I said as the energy flowed from my Web mail and into my trembling fingertips.

None too soon, our Internet access returned at home. I caught up on email, read articles from a half dozen newspapers and checked the price on tea in China. OK, not really, but I could have checked on literally anything. Somehow, it just wasn’t the same.

The dogs looked like they lost their best friend. The beds weren’t made and the dishes sat in the sink. Postal mail sat neglected on the kitchen table.

Instead of reading a piece on underwater basket weaving, I got up and got busy. It felt good to get things done. I had left so many things for later.

Cormac McCarthy called my name from the cover of “The Crossing,” the second of a trilogy I started reading offline to soften my Internet cravings. His “All the Pretty Horses” took me to Texas and Mexico and reminded me of why I love the language, the beauty of timeless writing.

Books were meant to be held, pages flipped in the afternoon sun. A scrap of paper as a bookmark assures an easy restart should the impulse to write or cook or visit a neighbor arise. No logging in or out required.

Some things are best enjoyed away from a computer monitor, but sudden withdrawal can be a bit harsh. Somebody should make a patch for that.

They say tragedy can bring out the best in people. Perhaps an Internet outage isn’t a true calamity, but it can feel like it when you rely on it too much. Like anything, too much of a good thing can be bad. At least, that’s what I tell the dogs after so much belly scratching. When you want information, it’s good to be able to Google it. But when you want to live, the best of life is definitely found offline.

For Father's Day, Grab His Nose

For Father's Day, Grab His Nose

Late one evening as my dad was grading papers, I gave him something he never forgot. As I eased past his recliner, I grabbed his nose between two knuckles and squeezed. Hard. To this day, I have no idea why. I giggled devilishly, and he levitated from his chair.

“Good Lord!” he shouted. “What’d you do that for?” The tip of his nose had already turned crimson.

“Oh, wow, Dad, I’m sorry,” I choked between chortles. “I didn’t mean to squeeze that hard. I was just playing around.“ I felt bad, but not terribly so. This was the man who had horsed around with us kids millions of times with “horsey bites a pumpkin” moves on our knees, “turkey peeps over a log” tugs to our neck hair and the old “I’ve got your nose” trick. Admittedly, I took his a little more forcibly than was necessary.

He rubbed his inflamed nose and continued to mark papers.

The next morning, he bellowed from behind the bathroom door.

“Kristen Long!” My surname included. I was in trouble. Maybe it was just an empty toilet paper spindle.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, cowering in the hallway.

The door opened and there stood my dad, razor and shaving cream in hand. The urge to sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” proved nearly impossible to suppress. Dad had a perfect scarlet circle on the very end of his nose.

“How I am supposed to teach class with this?” He pointed at the offending mark. I tried to throttle a deep-seated need to laugh like a goon. The vision of him teaching college students with a big red dot on his nose didn’t help.

“Ummm, we could try some make –up,” I gasped. We studied the contents of my cosmetics bag. We tried a little Cover Girl. We put on a dab of powder. Now he had a pinkish-beige dot resembling ice cream residue or cake batter. He rubbed it all off with language as colorful as his nose. He headed out the door mumbling something about a bandana. I imagined his students held hostage by a masked instructor, lectures delivered from behind a smuggler’s kerchief. It’s shameful how hard I laughed at poor Dad’s expense.

He taught his classes, conducted his labs and bore the brunt of “red dot clearance sale” jokes all day. For the longest time, he flinched whenever I got near him. But he never punished me, never tried to get even. In no time, he laughed at the entire ordeal. He said he never saw such rapt attention as the day he taught school with a Rudolph nose.

This will be my first Father’s Day without Dad. So much of my daily routine reminds me of him. Silly songs, rambling rhymes, and memories made deeply bittersweet in his absence challenge my ability to smile instead of cry. He was the epitome of a teacher, always showing us kids a better way, the kind way, the way of a wonderful man with admirable character and a brilliant mind. To say I miss him is like saying I’m hungry after an insufferable fast.

What helps more than anything is to recall the example he set as a father. In times of sorrow, he persevered. In times of joy, he laughed loud and long. In times of suffering, he called on his faith. And in everything, he loved with a heart too big for words.

For the dads reading this, I’ll remind you of something no Sunday sales ad will. Whatever gifts you receive today, do not let this day get by you without telling your children what a gift they are to you. Because when all of the ties hang untouched in the closet, when all the tools rest idly in the workshop, when the sound of your father’s voice rises only in your memory, that is what your son or daughter will cling to on Father’s Day. As the ideal thank-you, give them the heartfelt expression of a father’s love and a gentle tweak to the nose.

Jimmy Choo Shoes and I Don't Care

Jimmy Choo Shoes and I Don't Care

Unlike a lot of women, I hate to shop for clothing. Online retailers get much of my business. I can order pretty much anything I need from the Internet with a quick Google search. But I have a daughter. She loves to shop. Her estrogen levels peak with the words “sale” and “new arrivals.”

Unfortunately, the downside of online shopping is shipping. It takes at least two days for delivery. My husband and I were invited to a party where the suggested attire was “festive wear.” The closest thing I had to that was a lime green and yellow muumuu my aunt bought in Hawaii a hundred years ago. I needed party pants, and I needed them fast. So off I went to shop at local stores with my daughter and her fashion guru friend.

“Miss Kristen, try this on.” It was a request I heard repeatedly from Katie’s friend, a young man with impeccable taste who knows Jimmy Choo shoes and is visiting the highbrow fashion district of Highland Park Village in Dallas for his summer vacation.

He dangled a dress for my inspection, noting the price tag at the armpit.

“It’s a 14 Wide,” he announced. “I think it will fit you.”

“Look, hon, the ‘W’ is for ‘Women,’ not ‘Wide,’” I corrected him scornfully.

“Well, it means ‘Wide’ in shoes. Speaking of shoes, you need some new ones.”

We spent hours like that, carting outfits to the dressing room, Katie and Mr. Picky waiting to see the results.

“Do you have it on? What does it look like? Let us see!” they implored.

“I’m going to need scissors to get out of this,” I growled, immobilized in a tight-fitting nightmare.

“But how does it LOOK?” they cried. And I cried, too. I felt far from festive trapped in a twisted tunic of glitter and taffeta.

By some miracle, we found a pair of black flowing pants and a spaghetti-strap top that didn’t look too bad.

“The sash bothers me,” I worried aloud. “I’m not certain it works with the top.”

“Are you kidding?” Pro-Sash Man exclaimed. “It’s works! And look. You can take it off easily. It’s only tacked on, not sewn down the full longness of it.”

“I think you mean ‘length.’”

“Longness, length, whatever. Use your seam ripper and take it off. We need to look at shoes!”

My feet ached, my back throbbed, and my credit card fell limp. I had something to wear to the party, and I wanted to go home.

“I already have some shoes. Let’s go.”

A look of horror crossed his face. My daughter retreated in disgust.

“Miss Kristen, you aren’t planning to wear those same black pumps, the ones you wore to the Christmas party, are you?” The puppy dog eyes filled with terror got to me.

“Oh, all right,” I conceded. “We’ll go to one shoe store, but that’s it. These dogs are barking, and they have no desire to squeeze into four-inch heels.”

Off we went, the two of them chattering about stilettos and snakeskin, while I braced myself for more retail exposure.

“Try these on, Miss Kristen.” Three pairs of shoes greeted me with menacing smiles, the slender heels and pointed forms taunting my pinky toes with sadistic suggestions.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said. “Those would effectively hobble me. This event is at a horse farm, for heaven’s sake. I have to actually move around, preferably on my feet. Haven’t they got anything lower that doesn’t require blood-letting?”

Much to the chagrin of daughter and friend, I found nothing I liked better than the shoes I had at home. We left empty-handed while the teenaged shop-a-holics lectured me on the essential nature of women to desire lots of shoes, purses and jewelry.

I tried to enlighten their young minds with a lesson in “need” versus “want,” a soliloquy on the beauty of minimalism and the basic concept of home economics. But, they tuned me out with iPods and cell phones, suddenly very tired and eager to go home.

How to Say NO to Canine Cuties

How to Say NO to Canine Cuties

“What kind of dog do you have?” someone will ask. This usually follows my own inquiry into what kind of dog is at the end of a leash or pictured within a frame on a desk. When you have a pack of five dogs like our family, the explanation gets a little complicated.

We used to be a one-dog family. Her name was Winnie. She was absolutely the best dog who ever lived. She came from questionable lineage. Her mother was a full-blooded yellow Labrador, but her dad was a hot-blooded stranger in the night. Shortly before she died, our dog Spottie the orphan appeared on the scene.

Tailless with black-and-white spots, Spottie resembles a cross between a Dalmatian and an Australian cattle dog. For all we know, he could be from a champion bloodline of some rare canine breed. Likely, he’s all mutt. My brother David says he’s a sweet dog, but ugly as a mud fence. We think he’s beautiful. But then, come to think of it, I’m not sure that we have ever seen an ugly dog. And therein lies the story of our four poodles.

If you have never seen a poodle puppy with its voluminous coat of shiny curls, tiny ears and weepy brown eyes, then you have never witnessed the epitome of cute. It is the kind of cute that induces supposedly reasonable adults with a perfectly wonderful dog to lose all good sense and establish a poodle kingdom. It is also the kind of cute that fades in its intensity at 2 a.m. when the insufferable little whiners insist on human contact 24/7.

Honey and Scooter comprised our first pair. We bought Beignet because of his stellar pedigree. We intended to establish a profitable poodle breeding empire built on the cute factor. Only, we found out soon enough that cute is a relative term.

Honey and Scooter gave rise to three pups that survived the birthing process. Beignet simply stood around and looked confused. In spite of round-the-clock feedings and as much maternal nurturing as I could muster every two hours, only the runt, Daisy, made it. Somewhere between the completely disinterested mama dog and my sudden incarnation as a wet nurse, the cute factor disintegrated faster than you can say “pipe dream.” We had all four neutered and spayed and vowed never to contribute to the poodle gene pool again.

My brother-in-law visited over the weekend. He graciously tolerated the poodles, and they returned the favor by announcing his every move.

“Good morning, Mike,” we’d say.
“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!” the poodles answered.
“Let’s go grab a bite to eat, Mike.”
“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!”

It didn’t matter that they sat on his lap and he scratched their heads and called them by name. If Mike entered the room, he was re-introduced with a canine chorus every single time.

“He’s going outside!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)
“He’s coming inside!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)
“He’s, he’s, he’s, just sitting there!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)

Sometimes we try to remember what it was that possessed us to lay claim to four poodles. All I can figure is that temporary madness can be blamed for a lot of things. I was looking through some old photos and I remembered all too clearly. Hordes of baby poodle pictures featured the face of a little angel and the hypnotic stare of a miniature master manipulator.

My daughter and I stopped by the pet shop to buy some supplies. Like complete idiots, we visited the puppy cages. There they were, two Pugs intent on stealing our hearts, a Basset Hound imploring us with woeful brown eyes, a trio of Schnauzers schmoozing through the glass and a couple of identical Schipperkes that I would swear mouthed the words “take us home.”

We never left a place faster in our lives.

No More Plastic Wrap and Moving On

No More Plastic Wrap and Moving On

On January 26, my dad died.
Thirty-seven days later, on March 4, my mom died.

Grief descended on us long before their passing. With the ravages of Parkinson’s disease and stomach cancer prevailing, our family felt the tide pull away. We sensed the ebbing of their time here.

On their front porch, on each side of the doorway, two pots of ivy guarded the entryway. One died in January, the other simply faded, a subtle yet undeniable metaphor for my parents’ passing.

It is the natural course of events for children to lose their parents. At ages 67 and 70, Mom and Dad left far sooner than I anticipated. A dear friend of the family, Betty Malone, referred to us three kids as orphans at my mother’s memorial service. The word, in its brevity and definition described exactly how we felt. Orphaned.

Yet, we understand that our grief, while deep and extraordinarily painful, is not the only grief in the world. Everyone loses someone, eventually, to death. There are blessings to be found in the relief of suffering, in a return to our loving Maker, in finally securing that understanding that surpasses all understanding. We who are left behind have to grieve, but we do not have to wallow in it. We can choose to rejoice, in time.

My dad hated plastic wrap. He cursed its very existence. He never won the battle of the tear strip. He claimed it never stuck when it was supposed to, and always did when you wished it wouldn’t. Of all the things that occurred to me when I said goodbye to Dad, plastic wrap emerged as just one of the many insults of life that he would no longer have to fight. When I see plastic wrap, I think of Dad.

My mom loved peanut butter crackers. Ritz, creamy peanut butter and a tall glass of milk were her standard indulgence on Sunday evenings until the cancer took her taste away. A master in the kitchen who tantalized our taste buds with rich, complicated Southern recipes, her love for something as simple as peanut butter crackers evokes memories of Mom that both comfort me and make me want to hug a jar of Jif.

If we are smart, we will grieve like little children. They ask the hard questions outright. “Where did they go?” and “Why?” and “How can we live without them?” They find the answers, too. “They are in heaven.” and “Because God needed more angels.” And “We will see them again some day.”

My niece Anna Kate pulled it all together for us. She discovered Dad’s glasses on a table after he passed away.

“Oh no!” she said. “Paw Paw forgot his glasses!” There he lives, in the memory of his grandchildren, still needing his bifocals to work crossword puzzles. Nana, no doubt, is smiling. She knows he doesn’t need them anymore.

An anonymous quote says, “Do not be afraid that your life will end. Be afraid that it will never begin.” Mom did not fear death. She missed my dad. They started a new life together back in 1961. I like to think they started another in 2007, without plastic wrap, with plenty of peanut butter crackers and the knowledge that here on Earth, they were loved more than words can describe.

I am trying hard to move through the grief, to rejoice in the kind of life they taught me to love. While I falter on a daily basis, there remain solid footholds for the future:

In the splendor of the daffodils, camellias, and daylilies Dad loved.
In the crisp coolness of autumn that my mom cherished.
In music that we savored and books we devoured and stories we told with sidesplitting laughter.
In the memories made by a family cultivated by two people defined by kindness, compassion and love.
In the lesson they exemplified, that God is good, all the time, even when you have to say goodbye.
Especially when you have to say goodbye.