...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).

SOS

I think SOS must have started it--all these letters that are the shorthand for our cyber messages. SOS is thought to stand for "Save Our Ship". It was preceded by CQD which was the British distress signal. CQ were the letters for a general call on a land call and the D meant distress. It was a universal code for all telegraphers.

In 1908, SOS was adopted as a distress signal. the three dots, three dashes, three dots were thought to be less likely misinterpreted. Then came the Titanic. The new signal was not generally recognized yet. The telegrapher on the Titanic began by using the CQD code and then remembered the SOS and sent it.

Our messaging is constantly changing. Everything seems to be known by letters. WIP is a work in progress. CU means see you later. Some of them are easier to catch on to than others. I like the one our youth group has adopted--BCNYA. The letters match our church name followed by youth association. But it's also a neat way for the kids to say "Be seein' ya!"

All that aside, it is hard to keep up with everything. So, I'm sending out an SOS to anyone who knows what LOL is in a message. It really bothers me. But I'm finally admitting my lack of IQ in solving the IM.

BCNYA!

Rock On!

This morning, the NBC Today show was warning parents about the kind of music their kid's might be listening to on the internet. It is truly disgusting what some "artists" are promoting in the name of art. While I don't appreciate the type of music they are playing, the musical notes are not the problem. The problem lies in the violence, sex, and obscenity they attach to the written scores with their words and videos.

My son is the GM for a Christian rock station in Miami, 91.7 FM The Call. I don't appreciate the type of music they play either. But the difference is in what the message is. While it boggles the mind to understand how the words are understood with all the noise that accompanies them, somehow the younger generation seems to "get it".

There was an interesting response to the station from one listener. He emailed the station and said the music "really rocked" and he liked listening to it but he couldn't understand why they were talking about God between all the good hip-hop. What an opportunity for God's message to sink in. Eventually, I think, he'll hear the words and maybe it will be a life changing moment.

Sad to think that so many others are listening to words that will change their lives in a different way with a message that encourages drugs, violence, and sex. To those critics of Christian rock I ask, what message would you rather the kids find on the internet or the airwaves? They love the music. Let's give them a message to love as well. Rock on!

(You can listen to The Call online: http://www.callfm.com )

Groundhogs Rule

So, today is Groundhog Day--the midway point of winter. In a carnival atmosphere, Punxsutawney Pete will poke his little nose out, sniff the air, look for his shadow and decide if we will have an early spring. Following his lead will be Ohio's Buckeye Chuck. (Can Michigan Mike be far behind?)

It has always been difficult for me to understand why Pete or Chuck would run back into his hole for another 6 weeks of winter if he sees his shadow. A shadow would indicate the sun was shining. I should think that would be encouraging enough to want to be outdoors and catch a few rays. The sun shining around here in February is encouragement enough that spring will come...someday. It's very discouraging to hear that a groundhog might commit us to enduring another six weeks of hard winter.

I propose that if seeing his shadow is the reason we have to suffer the cold and snow of an extended winter, build a sunscreen over his hole. Offer him his favorite foods. Give him a hot tub. Whatever it takes! Keep that little guy out of his hole.

The Late Mr. Robbins

Long before the do-not-call list, the privacy manager, the caller ID and the answering machine, I was forced to answer the telephone while making dinner. There was a rule in our home that dinner would be on the table at 6 p.m. and everyone needed to be there at 6 sharp or run the risk of missing dinner. I'm not sure if the rule was more for the kids or for my husband who would allow himself to get sidetracked with one last phone call at work and be late for dinner.

One night the hands of the clock began to slip farther away from the six o'clock hour. The kids were very quiet, relishing the fact that they were on time and Dad was late. (Did I mention this was all before car and cell phones, too?) He hadn't called from work to say he'd be late so I was slowly becoming a bit agitated but that was tempered by a bit of anxiety wondering if there had been an accident.

Then, the phonse rang.

"Mrs. Robbins?"

"Yes," I answered wondering to myself if this were the dreaded phone call from the police or the hospital.

"First of all," the caller continued, "I'd like to extend my condolences to the family of the late Mr. Robbins."

My heart began pumping harder. I grabbed my forehead and turned my back to the kids.

"I'm calling from the XYZ Monument company to see if we can be of help in choosing the perfect headstone for Mr. Robbins."

I laughed. It must have really confused my telemarketer. "Mr. Robbins is only late for dinner," I said, "But you might try back later."

The Lone Sneaker

There it was in the middle of four lanes of traffic--the lone sneaker--sitting forlornly on the cold pavement waiting to tell its story. How does one sneaker find itself in the middle of a street separated from its mate?

• It was tossed out the window as a joke by a passing car full of teens
• It held on to the roof of the car where someone had rested it while they opened the door and then finally fell off exhausted, bouncing across the asphalt until finally coming to rest against the median strip (the mate fell off earlier)
• A dog, thinking it great fun to tease his master, ran off with it in his mouth only to become confused by the traffic and dropped his prize in the middle of the street

So many possibilities stream through the mind when you wonder how one lone sneaker can end up in the middle of the street. But wait--perhaps the sneaker chose to sit there and watch life fly by speculating on where all the cars are going.

Cyber Dependency

Whew! It has been almost two days without internet service. I didn't fully realize my dependencey until I began experiencing withdrawal pains. My entire morning routine changed.

Not only could I not check my email, I could not see my kids on line. We have instant messenger and even though they may not be online or may be posted as away, they are still there before me. I can tell when Ron gets to work. He pops onto my screen at about 8 a.m. It's kind of like mothering him again. I can smile and know that he made it to school, I mean work, on time.

Andy pops in and out during the day depending on his schedule but I can tell he's moving about and not sleeping in. (It's that mother thing again.) His wife Aya will pop onto the IM and I imagine that she is posting pictures of our precious, and at times precocious, granddaughter. I begin to look forward to that visit to her website to see what Kotomi's been up to.

Lori, Ron's wife, will occasionally greet me when she see me on IM in the morning. A lot depends on the little whirlwinds in her life and what her morning is like. If Danielle or Tyler are around, the IMing can get a little garbled as little hands try to help out.

Now, if I could just get Rob and Leah to cooperate and come on line...hmm maybe they're just hiding out.

I am so glad to be back. It can get lonely out there without "Cyber Space".

Beating "Depression" Day

Yesterday was supposed to be, according to psychologists and news media, the most depressing day of the year. It's a time when the holidays have passed, everything is put away and the bills are beginning to come in. Add to that the cold, wintry, gray weather and long dark nights of much of the country and the mix can be quite depressing.

I spent the day with some writer friends having a delicious hot bowl of French onion soup and a salad and great conversation. There is nothing better for defeating depression than having like-minded people with whom to share joys, fears, accomplishments, struggles, and encouragement. We call ourselves the "Barnabas Girls". (Barnabas was the great encourager in the New Testament.)

Now I am ready to face the next seven weeks of winter, unless of course the gray days continue and the groundhog doesn't see his shadow. Then there will only be seven weeks until spring. It's all in how you look at it. Thanks to the Barnabas Girls, it's not looking too bad right now.

Musical Sound Bites

There's a new trend in worship music today. It's moved away from the old hymns and into the realm of what seems like "musical sound bites". They are choruses made up of phrases that for the most part don't tell any story. They are meant to praise or invite God into your life. They don't say a lot about how or why. I'm sure they are meant to be simple but I've never found it easy to read the words on a projection screen and follow someone's voice instead of following musical notes. Even if you don't know how to read music, you would at least know when your voice is supposed to go up or down.

In today's hurried and media blitzed world we have learned to compartmentalize and extract only that which we think will influence. The sound bite is the tool of the spin doctor. We're told that this is how the new generation receives their information. We used to call something like that Cliffs Notes. The sound bite is even shorter. Can you imagine reducing Moby Dick to a couple of sound bites? Or how about Gone With The Wind? The Bible?

A friend of ours calls the new choruses the 7-11 songs--seven words repeated eleven times. Not too unlike the convenient store chain, we can pop into church and pick up just the needed items and be out in a jiffy rather than shopping through the larger grocery store and seeing what else might satisfy the hunger.

DaVinci's Last Supper

This past June, I had the opportunity of seeing DaVinci's fresco, The Last Supper, in Milan. I purposely did not read Brown's DaVinci Code before going to Europe so that I might view the work with fresh eyes.

We arrived at our appointed time. (See my website www.karenrobbins.com/milan for more information). A few minutes and two special entrance chambers later, we were ushered into a dimly lit room that was a huge dining hall at one time. Against the back of the wall was the famous work. It has been touched up so many times it is difficult to say what is still the original. The basic work is still there however.

The astounding thing was how the perspective in the picture led your eye to Jesus who was in the center. After seeing so many churches and cathedrals with the emphasis on the saints they were named for, I found it refreshing to see a picture that centered on Jesus. The muted colors of the fresco were beautiful. I stood there just drinking in the history and the artistic talent that had created it.

The question arises, now that I have read the book by Brown, what/who is the artist creating his work for when he is crafting his piece? Paintings were usually commissioned and the artist made his money by painting for his patron. Is it the patron? Is it the beholder (I still believe the beauty is in the eye of the beholder)? Are we to interpret the work as we, the viewer, see it?

If that last question is the case, I did not see anything but a beautiful work of art featuring Jesus and his disciples at their last meeting before his crucifixion. There were no hidden V's. I did not notice any knives pointed the wrong direction, etc. What is found there is found by those who are trying to look beyond a piece of artwork.

Mr. Brown has done a wonderful job of putting together historical facts, suppositions, and theories and weaving them into a piece of fiction. Soon to follow, the movie moguls will weave that fiction into a screenplay and put it on the big screen. The interest will rise again. The discussions will ensue. And, hopefully, Mr. Brown will profit from the movie rights.

I can't help but wonder if DaVinci were able to know the hulabaloo his work has caused, if he wouldn't just chuckle and say, "It was only a painting, people." That's my theory.

[Check out the information at The DaVinci Code: The Biblical Response]

Surviving Winter

The snow is falling slower today. The flakes are a little bigger and I can almost say it's pretty. Almost. You guessed it. I am not a winter-fun-in-the-cold-and-snow person.

The bears have a good way of passing the winter. Find a cozy cave, curl up, and go to sleep. When the first signs of spring begin to warm the earth again, you stretch, open your eyes, and come out into the warmth of the sun.

But maybe the birds do it better--at least the smart ones. They fly south for the winter. Warm breezes, plenty of berries, the sound of the surf, steel drum music...Oh! Excuse me, I was daydreaming.

Unfortunately I am neither bird nor bear. Time for another cup of hot chocolate and some garden catalogs to pour over. Please, Spring, don't be late!!

Optimism

I have a cold. It's the third one this season. I kept thinking that somehow I was reinfecting myself with the same one but I learned the other day that there are around 200 different cold viruses. Once you get one, you are immune to that strain but not protected from the others. Optimistically, I only have 197 more to go to be "cold free".

Tsunami

We were aboard the Queen Mary II when the news came of the great disaster in Southern Asia. The staff arranged for a short memorial the following Sunday at the beginning of the interdenominational service to remember those who had lost their lives and those who were struggling to put lives back together. Collection boxes were arranged near the Purser's office and at the doors leading into the theater where the service was held.

The service began with a 10 minute video of bits and pieces from the CNN news reports we had been receiving by satellite TV. It was quiet in the theater as people tried to absorb the immensity of the tragedy. We had a moment of silence then Commodore Warwick led the service that followed.

Near the end of the service was the Lord's prayer. As we began to recite, my mind began to review the pictures we had seen. "Thy will be done..." I trembled. "...On earth..." Was this God's will? Certainly the power of all that had happened was in His control. "...As it is in Heaven." I suddenly felt relieved. While there was certainly a great tragedy in the tsunami, there was also hope in a God and a Heaven. His power is great. His grace is greater.

Writing On The Wall

We have just returned from a lovely vacation. It started with a weekend in Miami visiting our son and daughter-in-law. We had breakfast at their favorite place and while we waited for our order, I began looking at the plaques on the wall. Two caught my eye and I wrote the sayings down:

Good morning. This is God. I will be handling all your problems today. I will not need your help. So, have a good day. I love you.

And the second:

Shopping with your husband is like hunting with the game warden.

Both sayings can be appropriately applied to my life.