Teenaged Memories

Saturday morning is time for breakfast at our favorite spot--The Diner. It's a little New York style place with vinyl seated booths and music piped in from the 60s--my kind of music.

This morning they were playing "Put Your Head On My Shoulder," a tune that was popular a bit before I met my husband. It brought back memories of someone else. I remembered dancing to that song with him. We couldn't have been more than 15 or 16. He was my first kiss. The boyish face, the big grin, the eyes that crinkled when he was teasing--all belonged to a young teenager. I never saw the man that he became until a few years ago.

My brother shattered the teenage memory. We were at my nephew's graduation and my brother brought a middle-aged, graying man with a slight pounch over to meet me.

"Know who this is?" he asked. I stared at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses. There was no way I was going to guess.

"Here," the fellow said, "let me take these off." He removed the hat to expose more grayed hair. Then he removed the glasses. Still no sign of recognition.

"You don't remember, do you?" my brother egged me on. Little brothers are like that no matter how old they are.

The man before me suddenly broke into a grin and his eyes crinkled with that teasing look.

"Oh, my gosh, Tom!" I hugged him. But as I stepped back to look at him again, I wondered. What was he seeing? A middle-aged woman whose hair was lighter because she covers the gray, with a few more pounds that the skinny girl who needed meat on her bones and a face that sagged a bit from years of weather and, well....years.

This morning I remembered the boy. It was a nice memory. It also made me happy I chose my husband to grow old with.

The Mothers-in-law

Two of my friends are about to join the infamous and much aligned group called mothers-in-law. One's son is marrying the other's daughter. Knowing the two families, I have every confidence that it will be a great blending of two families.

Mothers-in-law are often greatly maligned and become the target of bad jokes, psychoanalysis, and movie plots. (This week, I believe, Jane Fonda becomes the Monster-in-law to Jay Lo at the cinema.) Perhaps some deserve it but I have a feeling most do not.

The announcement of the engagement of my friend's children, brought to mind two wonderful women we met on a cruise once. They called themselves "the mothers-in-law"--one's son had married the other's daughter. They were from England and could have been the ship's entertainment for an evening. They were hilarious. Their husbands didn't like to travel. So once a year, the two of them would leave their spouses to fend for themselves and go off together for an adventure somewhere else in the world.

They said they were great mothers-in-law because they wanted nothing more than their children to be happy together so that their travel adventures could continue.

But then, after more thought, they concluded that it didn't matter. Even if the marriage didn't work out, they'd stay together as mothers-in-law.

The Pit of the Stomach

It sits on the counter in the kitchen. All it needs is postage and it will be on its way to an agent. It's lurking there just waiting for me to pick it up and lug it to the post office. It's dangerous. It contains hopes and dreams that could be dashed in the SASE that's enclosed. Am I ready to steel myself for that?

The old fears return to squelch the enthusiasm, the excitement, the exhileration of the new found story I have created. Is it good enough? No. Never. There is always more to do. I could reread and rewrite a hundred times and still find something I'm not satisfied with.

What is it I fear? I've been rejected before. Somehow this is different. I've grown more fond of this character who has brought me joy each day, caused me to laugh, and caused me to cry. I fear I might not have done her justice.

In the pit of my stomach I feel that gnawing that clutches my inner being and gives a yank each time I go to pick up the 9 X 12 brown envelope that is all addressed and ready to go. All it needs is postage. I'll try again.

New Life

While I know I do a lot of complaining about winter--the snow, the cold, the gray skies--I realize that without winter to compare it with, spring would not be as significant as it is. This morning the sun is shining and the few warm days we've had have brought out the daffodils. The buds on the trees are ready to burst open with the new life within them. What a change it is from winter where everything looks dead.

We have friends who moved to Ohio from California. They were both born and raised in California. The first early spring in their new home was disappointing because, as she walked through the yard, Janette thought the bushes were dead. She was going to call the landscaper to have all the azaleas pulled out and the dogwood tree cut down. It took some time to convince her that they were just dormant and would blossom into glorious color in a few weeks. (I don't think she trusted us at first because we told her husband he had to oil his snow shovel before he used it.) In a few weeks they had a hedge of color in their back yard and a dogwood tree full of pure white blossoms.

Spring always reminds me of the new life we find in Christ. Someone can appear to be as dead in sin as one of those bushes but when Christ enters their life, His promise bursts forth into glorious bloom.

E.L. Doctorow

Last night I had the privilege of hearing E. L. Doctorow read from one of his latest works thanks to the generosity of a friend who is also a manager for our county library. His words are like eating rich choloclate cake for dessert. You want to savor each one and let them play in the imagination.

After answering a few questions. he ended his time with us by giving us his feelings about the use of the library. It went something like this:

A drivers license gives you the opportunity to explore your state and the surrounding area.
A passport gives you the opportunity to explore the world.
A library card gives you the opportunity to explore the universe.

While it seemed clever but not terribly deep at the time, after contemplating his statement, I came to realize that what he was emphasizing was the importance of words--the importance of books and their influence on the minds that read them. What a sense of responsibilty that should give writers when putting pen to paper.

Daddy Hair

"I'm gonna be a daddy," our three year old grandson, Tyler, announced as he strolled into the restaurant to meet us for lunch.

I immediately looked to my daughter-in-law. Was he making an announcement? Were we going to add to the growing list of grandchildren? A grandmother is always looking for another.

"You can thank your son for that idea," Lori said. "Ron told him that when he got hair on his chest he would be a daddy. The other day day he noticed he had hair on his legs and he figured that was good enough--he could be a daddy."

"Well if we shaved the hair on his legs, does that mean he could be a mommy?" I asked. To her credit, Lori politely asked me not to plant that idea in his head.

Feathery Welcome

It's finally spring and the birds are building their nests. I watched a little one trying to stuff long strings of curly dried grasses into the bottle birdhouse on the side of our house. We have hung birdhouses through out the yard hoping to avoid a disaster from the past.

One year, we had a lovely half-basket of artificial flowers that I hung on the door. (I was trying to keep up with all the neighbors who always seem to decorate for every season. I've quit since then.) As the weather got warmer and the time for little birds to hatch arrived, we heard little peeps coming from the front of the house. We assumed the robin that always returned to the front evergreen had hatched another brood of little robins.

Prom night arrived. Our daughter looked absolutely lovely in a beautiful lacey cream dress. Nervously we awaited the arrival of her date. The doorbell announced that he was at the front door and I eagerly opened it to greet him. The motion of the door opening spilled a brood of baby birds onto the foyer floor. Until that moment they had obviously been enjoying their comfy nest in my basket of flowers.

My daughter watched in horror and her date stood bewildered as I scurried around trying to put the birds back in the nest. After the corsage pining and picture taking, everyone decided that using the side door would be best.

The birds were there until they were able to fly. Once they abandoned the nest I took it down. It was the last time I ever hung anything on the front door in the spring no matter how good the neighbors decorations looked.

Big Table

When you have a big table in the dining room it's such a shame to let it sit half empty. When we discovered we would only be five (instead of 12) for Easter dinner, we made some phone calls. We found a couple of our friends who were going to be alone because their kids couldn't make it home. We asked them to join us. (They've done the same for us when our kids couldn't make it home.)

While I was setting the table for tomorrow, I also happened to remember a neighbor who is by himself. I thought he probably went home to his mother's but Bob called anyway. You know, those little promptings from the Lord need to be followed. It turned out he was alone and didn't hesitate to take us up on the invitation.

Our "family" dinner has grown to 9: Bob and I, two kids, a grandchild, two friends, a neighbor and Jesus. He's always invited.

A Postmortem Audience?

I've been at a writers conference for the past week. I was looking forward to sunny California but 4 out of 5 days it has rained. I think it affected my brain function. As I surveyed the list of workshops, my eyes caught one titled "Writing for the Postmortem Audience." I blinked twice and read it again but it stayed the same.

A postmortem audience? What is a postmortem audience? Is it one full of dead people? Is it an audience of coroners? Morticians? Forensic scientists? The questions bounced around in my head for the afternoon and the next day. Even though my mind was beginning to go into overload mode with all the information being crammed in, the question would still surface. What is a postmortem audience?

When the world of critiques, workshops, keynotes, and networking slowed a bit, I got out my notebook with the scheduled workshops list and looked again. Writing for the Postmortem Audience was right there. Or was it? The fog lifted a bit. I think the sun may have even peeked through for a moment. It wasn't "postmortem" it was "postmodern"!

Oh...

What's a postmodern audience?

Here Come the Buzzards!

Forget the groundhogs. Here come the buzzards! While Pete and Chuck may warn us on February 2 that spring is another six weeks away, the buzzards of Hinckley, Ohio, promise us that spring is only a few days away.

Every March 15, the buzzards return to roost in Hinckley. It's a big deal--pancake breakfast, costumed buzzard watchers, lots of media coverage. The buzzards never fail to disappoint. Usually around 8 a.m. someone spots the big birds circling overhead and those of us still plagued by snow and cold give a huge sigh of relief.

Spring will come. The buzzards did.

A Groom's Surprise

Every Saturday morning that is free finds us at our favorite breakfast spot. It's kind of a retro place, New York-ish, and plays great 60s music. We are there so much, we know most of the staff by name and they know how we like our coffee and eggs.

Last Saturday, we sat in a booth behind a father and daughter who were discussing her wedding plans. Dad and Mom must have been divorced and the bride must have been on her own for a while because she was talking about what she was paying for as she described her plans. The talk moved to plans for the groom's house. She was redecorating--new carpet, drapes, etc. I'm sure there were a few things going out that he's going to miss.

Then they moved on to talking about the groom's dog. "Well," she said, "I figure that if I take him to the groomers once a month that should help with the dog hair and smell." I hope the groom isn't a big "love me, love my dog" guy. There's a big surprise awaiting him if he is.

She's young. She'll learn, I hope. Trouble is, nowadays too many newlyweds are unwilling to learn. Divorce isn't seen in the same light as generations ago. It is more an option for a new start in life--like moving on to a new job or a new house. Relationships need work as badly as a dog needs grooming. I hope they'll pay attention to the needs of their relationship at least once a month. Maybe that trip to PetSmart could be a reminder to "love smart" as well.

Laughter--Truly the Best Medicine

Well, it is confirmed. Laughter truly is the best medicine. I knew that! Now we have real proof. According to the reports on the news, researchers have found that the arteries widen when we experience laughter thereby putting our blood supply to the heart and brain at a healthier level.

Now come the complications. Does this mean that the theater will charge more for a comedy than an action movie? Will comedians demand more money? Will they have to be licensed as health care givers? Will this open the doors to a private specialty practice? Will malpractice insurance be available should they fail to treat the patient with a sense of humor?

And, what does this do for all those tort lawyers? I can see the commercials now. "If you, or someone you love, saw Vin Diesel in The Pacifier, and it failed to make you laugh, your arteries could have been seriously damaged. Call us. We can help you recover financially."

Now, that's funny.

An Imagination is a Wonderful Thing

"It's gonna be cold," I grumped when my husband suggested we purchase our single game Indians baseball tickets at the ballpark.

The temperature was only in the upper 20's although the sun promised to warm it up to the mid 30's by afternoon.

"But you'll get to see the locker room and batting cages." He was referring to the open house the Indians organization was holding to stimulate interest in a team that is already showing progress.

We arrived almost an hour early to find people already gathering on the square between Gund Arena and the Jake. Bob got a wrist band...#23. He was so proud. We opted to stand in the open square in the sun as opposed to the shaded area in front of the ticket booths. We were assured our spot in line with our wristband. A cold breeze sent us retreating to the wall of the Gund where we were out of the wind index factors.

The sun's rays warmed the wall and toasted our faces. If you closed your eyes, and forgot the heaviness of the winter clothing, you could almost hear the roar of the crowd and the crack of the bat.

Imaginations are wonderful things. They can get us through some of the awful realities of life--like facing another bout of snow. As we walked through the ballpark and viewed the snow covered field from the party suite, we listened to those auditioning to sing the national anthem. The smell of hotdogs and popcorn permeated the inside areas of the ballpark. All that was missing was hearing the popular cry, "The beer guy's here!"

I even got a souvenier. Sunday morning I awoke to find blushing red cheeks from my half hour in the sun. It's probably nothing compared to what I imagine will happen at the afternoon game we have in August...but then it's Cleveland. It could rain. I can always imagine it's snow and be thankful for the rain.

...For a Woman/Man Your Age

My husband's very faithful about getting his yearly checkup with the doctor. I'm not as good. After skipping a couple of years, I decided to bite the bullet and make the appointment. Part of the problem was that the doctor I was really beginning to feel comfortable with moved out of town. (Hope it wasn't because of me.)

I found another doctor much closer to home and covered under our insurance policy (gotta love those insurance agencies). The appointment went well. I gave blood at the lab and signed up for the mammogram and, at the suggestion of the doctor, a bone density test. The bone density is so that we will have a base line to judge whether or not my bones are thinning or I'm just shrinking from drying out in the hot sun (I wish--we have 12" of snow today).

When Bob comes home from the doctor's office, he's usually a little agitated because the doctor uses the phrase, "...for a man your age."

"What is that supposed to mean," he rants. "For a man your age. You just don't want to hear 'for a man your age'."

I generally humor him and soothe the bear in him with some chocolate chip cookies.

So, the other day, I finally get my report on my bone density test and what does it say? "You have normal bone density FOR A WOMAN YOUR AGE."

Where are those chocolate chip cookies?

Noisy Shoes

I have my noisy shoes on this morning. That's what my grandson, Tyler (age 3) calls them. They are my good shoes that I wear on Sunday for church. The heel is about 2 1/2" high and kind of thick. They do clomp as I walk, warning everyone of my approach.

I find the heels very helpful in warding off blind corner collisions. There are a couple of hallways in our church where, if you're not careful, and bustling with Sunday morning business, you could collide with someone rounding the corner. This isn't too bad physically if it's a visitor. They are usually wandering slowly down the hall, getting their bearings, and trying to decide if this is the place for them to be. Colliding with them would make an impact and maybe cause them to reconsider their safety within those walls. If you meet up with another busy bustling all-Sunday-business person however, there could be major damage done. The sound of the clomp warns them someone is coming and they need to slow down.

When I was teaching (many, many moons ago), I wore "noisy" shoes on those days I felt I needed a little more authority. There's nothing like the sound of a determined step to make kids straighten up in hurry. Of course if you want to catch them at something, better wear sneakers.

Finally, my noisy shoes help my husband's patience. When he hears the clomp of my shoes, he knows I'm almost ready to leave for wherever we are going and it's the signal to put down the remote.

These noisy shoes, alas, are needing replacement. The sound of the heels is telling me the metal is emerging from the protective caps on the heels. The clomp is changing to a click. I wouldn't want someone to think they were about to meet 5" stilettos.

American Idol

This morning in our writer's forum, I met a lady who has been married over 50 years, retired (not from being married), and four years ago began writing to publish. Just about the time I think I'm getting too old (57) to worry about this or any new venture anymore, I find another inspiring woman to spur me on.

Actually, I have one I can always look to--my mother-in-law. She's my "American Idol". At 60, she learned to golf. At 65, she took up snow skiing. At 76, we went SCUBA diving together (just a resort dive--she's not certified). At 77, she began learning how to use the computer. And, this past Christmas at 83, she went parasailing in the Bahamas--that one scared me though. She's been in excellent health. Takes good care of herself. But the thing that's inspiring is that she doesn't give up on life. She's ready to try new things (although I wish she'd try something a little less hazardous to her bones.)

Did I also mention she entertains a group from church frequently, cooks on Wednesday nights for the Church dinners, and visits the nursing home regularly to cheer up "the older folks"?

So, you see, it's never to late to get started with whatever you've been putting off--as long as God gives you the keys to start the engine and keeps putting fuel in the tank.

Hazardous Mail

The airport is not the only place putting you through a game of 20 questions when you engage their services. Now the Post Office is playing the same game. I went to the P.O. to mail two proposals for critique at a writers conference today. The man behind the counter started off with "First class? Overnight? Express?"

"First class," I answered.

"Certified? Delivery confirmation? Insurance?"

"No, thanks."

"Anything breakable, liquid, or hazardous?"

I looked at him with a sly smile. "Only hazardous to my career if it doesn't get there."

Oh, NOW I get it!

It will be 40 years this June since I graduated from high school. Somewhere in my sophomore year (that would have been the first year in high school--before the middle school concept), the Phys Ed. teacher decided to have a unit on modern dance. To this day, I still do not understand what that had to do with my physical education. It should have taken place in a music class--one that I'd never take.

I don't want to appear to brag, but I was good in gym class. I played a good game of basketball, could hit well in softball, and would have loved to have gone on to Olympic training in gymnastics--I even made the cheerleading squad in junior high. I was too shy to make it in high school. And then she threw this modern dance unit at us. We had to pick out a piece of music and interpret it in some kind of phyiscal movements. Not all of us had dance lessons. I'd had them but that was when I was 4 or 5 years old. Obviously no one saw anything in me then to encourage my mother to continue with them.

There was a piece of music on one of my LPs that sounded like a busy person so I decided to imagine a secretary at work. I bustled around on an excercise mat, did a couple somersaults, squated as though I were sitting at a typerwriter, and, in general, felt like I had made a real fool of myself. I can't remember my grade. I didn't care what it was. I just wanted it over with.

This past week, we went to see Movin' Out, the musical. It is Billy Joel's music arranged into a story about coming of age during the 60s-80s. While the musicians sit above the stage in the background, there is a troupe of extremely talented and energetic dancers who, through dance only, portray the action. It didn't take but a minute for me to recognize that there before me, in much better looking costumes than yellow gym suits, was the modern dance unit from my past. There were a few elements of ballet thrown in, but other than that, the physical movements, the gymnastics, the portrayal of anger, grief, etc., through the movements on stage, were right out of that gym class.

So, 40+ years later, I finally get it. I wasn't so far off back then. I should go back and get take a look at that grade. I'm sure it should have been better than it was.

Behind Every Good Man...

I picked up the paper to do the crossword this morning. Problem was, my pen was out of ink and I didn't feel like foraging for another. I was forced to read the Arts & Life section. I found an interesting column about the late Arthur Miller. Most of us know him for being a playwright and especially for being married to Marilyn Monroe. But there was a Cleveland connection I didn't know about.

His first wife, Mary Grace Slattery, was from Lakewood. They met at University of Michigan (we'll forgive him that). They were married 16 years and had two children. She worked as a waitress while he did his writing. It was during this time that he wrote his most famous works and according to the columnist,Tom Feran, Miller got many of his ideas for those plays from Slattery's family background.

There is little written about her since everyone is more interested in his escapade with Marilyn. But while he was hooked up with Marilyn, he wrote very little of significance. It just goes to show you that those "trophy wives" might not be all they're expected to be at least in the area of creative endeavors.

Heroes

We just spent the week visiting the Mouse in Orlando. There were 15 family members on the last leg of the trip aboard the Disney Cruise ship the Wonder. Our niece is one of the entertainment crew members and we were there to support, cajole, and generally let her know she's loved as well as enjoy our granddaughter's first trip to the World and the Wonder.

Throughout the World and the Wonder little girls of all ages are addressed as "princess" and most wear the costumes of Snow White, Cinderella, Belle, Sleepting Beauty, etc. They stand in line with their parents (or are carried if they don't walk yet) to garner a signature from the Disney characters. The Princess characters, however, are the main attraction. What little girl doesn't dream of being a princess?

All of this seems a little one sided to me. Where are the male heroes? The ones who rescued all those princesses? Why aren't we promoting them with costumes and signature books? Well upon examination, I realized that most little boys would not dress to look like Peter Pan, Prince Charming, or even Mr. Incredible (that would require tights). Moreover, their fathers would not let them dress that way.

Finally, in my search for heros and heroines, I found they wore costumes made of everyday stuff--jeans, shorts, T-shirts. They were the ones who took a vacation with the family and found themselves exhausted from giving their kids the best time they could in a world of fantasy and dreams. One father commented on the bus to the airport, "It was great. I'm tired. But it was worth it."

And it is.

We watched our child play with his child and become a child again. He exchanged memories with his brother of long-ago vacations as children. Who would have imagined that what we did in the moment to entertain and please them as children would have lasted as fond remembrances of shared experiences? It almost made me feel like a princess again as I walked next to Mr. Incredible (in jeans, not tights).