Loss and the Media

Junior Seau died today.  His death is being investigated as a suicide.

My girlfriend and I heard it on the tv's above the bar as we were leaving the restaurant for lunch.  The stools and tables in that area all face the screens over the bartenders' heads.  Every eye was glued to the plasma.... no one was eating... or talking... or smiling.

Junior Seau (Say-Ow) was found by his girlfriend this morning.  Chris Mortensen, on ESPN this afternoon, spoke of business reversals and divorce but he didn't stop there for long.  He and his colleagues talked about passion and intensity and Pro Bowls and the Hall of Fame but the camera didn't stay on any one face for long.  They all seemed to have trouble controlling their emotions; there was a lot of swallowing and pausing going on.

His name rolls melifluously off the tongue, doesn't it?  His football life flowed that way too.  A SoCal boy, he went up the coast to LA and USC before returning to the San Diego Chargers and his birthplace, Oceanside, California.

I grew up in Oceanside, New York.  It always sounded prettier as a west coast town.

Junior married and had 3 kids and divorced his wife and played for the Patriots and lost a Super Bowl or two but that was all glossed over as the talking heads tried to make sense of the unreasonable while on the public stage.

Been there.  Tried that.  It's only marginally easier to watch it than it is to do it.

I did some interweb searching on the story today at about 1 in the afternoon.  The New York Times went for the Big Bad Football angle:

Seau is the second retired N.F.L player to commit suicide in the past few weeks. Ray Easterling, a safety for the Atlanta Falcons in the 1970s and a plaintiff in a high-profile lawsuit against the N.F.L. over its handling of concussion-related injuries, died last month of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

The circumstances of Seau’s death instantly raised comparisons to the former Chicago Bears star Dave Duerson. In February 2011, Duerson shot himself in the chest, saying in a note that he wanted his brain donated to the study of football head injuries.

USA Today took a more personal, small town approach:

Hundreds of bystanders have gathered outside Seau's residence. Mourners have also left flowers at his restaurant.

The Seau family is asking their privacy be respected at this time. His sister and mother thanked well wishers while trying to cope with their shock and grief.

"He was a local hero -- he certainly gave back to the community and to the youth through his Junior Seau Foundation,"  (said) Oceanside Mayor Jim Wood.

The ABC affiliate in San Diego went for sensationalism, leading with :

Seau's emotional mother spoke at a press conference about her son's death saying she didn't have an idea that this would happen. Luisa Seau sobbed and begged God, "Take me! Take me!" She said she didn't know who to blame or what she would do without her son,

and ending with :

Seau's personal problems became very public in October 2010 after he drove his SUV off a cliff hours after an arrest on a domestic violence charge. Afterward, Seau claimed he didn't intentionally drive off the cliff but fell asleep at the wheel. 

One could put it all together and say that concussions changed his brain and caused his suicide; certainly the interweb is having a good time with that meme.  One could say that his Foundation and good deeds were merely a cover-up for the domestic violence occuring at home.... or one could lay that at the feet of repeated untreated concussions, too.  One could dismiss the whole concussion thing entirely and wonder why we are celebrating a man who was jailed for domestic abuse and then drove his car off a cliff on the way home from the pokey. 

Or we could just be sad.

If I've learned anything from my experiences with the media it is that preliminary reports rarely reflect anything more than a minor approximation of the truth.  TBG and I listen to the early broadcasts with devotion and skepticism.  More facts will come to light.  More people connected to the events will come forward and, perhaps, share insights and explanations and details.

For now, I'm sharing his family's loss and feeling the pain.  I know just how his mom is feeling.

Politics Up Close and Personal

TBG asked me who was sponsoring the event as we drove down I-10 to the Convention Center.  I couldn't tell him.  All I knew was that when the tv told me that Mrs. Obama was coming to town I searched for tickets Michelle Tucson, clicked through and bought us two entry passes to the cheap seats.  Sponsorship never occured to me; I just wanted to be around her again.

I was on drugs heavily medicated when I first met Mrs. Obama.  It's one of the very few crystal clear moments of those early days after I was shot.  I remember her nail polish and her perfectly tailored skirt and sweater set but mostly I remember her arms.  This woman is a world class hugger and she comes with the right limbs for the task.  They are long and strong and powerful and got all the way around TBG at McKale Center later that evening.  "All the way around, Suz.... and I'm not a small guy," he reminded me last night. 

We paid a lot of money made a contribution for the privilege of sitting in the Leo Rich Theater and supporting the Democratic effort to get out the vote and re-elect the President.... at least that's what the invitation said.  In reality, we were paying to get close to Michelle.

I know. I know.  You think it's chutzpahdik presumptuous of me to use the first name of the First Lady. I thought about it and I disagree: the woman saw me in my nightgown, denizens.  If that doesn't qualify me for first names then what would?

Besides, we paid up to be in the auditorium and get our fix of Obama-ness; I'm considering it part of my therapy.  As my rehab takes a new and interesting turn, we find ourselves revisiting the emotional side of the trauma once again.  He's sneaking peeks at the DVR's trove of our interviews, reconnecting with the loss and the fear and the love.  The Obama's were definitely a part of the love, and the love is a much better place at which to come to rest.  I looked at the evening as a step toward healing.

Security would be tight, we were warned.  Bring no beverages, no large bags and don't forget your government issued identification.  The doors would open at 4 and close at 5:15; we were to be patient with the volunteers.  I put on dress-up sneakers with my business casual cotton skirt and blouse and packed the new Sara Paretsky hardback in my just-the-right-size purse.  I was prepared. 

The line moved smoothly and efficiently in the shade of three very large olive trees.  It took fifteen minutes or so to move from the end to the doorway, but those were very lovely fifteen minutes.  We were surrounded by like-minded people who were willing to put their money where their mouths were.  We could speak our politics aloud without risk of offending anyone within hearing distance.  Everyone was dressed just a little bit better than they might otherwise have been on a sunny Monday afternoon.  Only in Tucson, we agreed, would 96 feel balmy. Everyone had driven downtown with their car windows open, enjoying the breeze.

The Pima County Attorney hugged me and asked how I was doing.  Daniel Hernandez accepted my congratulations on his up-coming college graduation and took my signature on his petition to put Richard Carmona on the Democratic Senatorial ballot.  We couldn't sign for the nice man on the path because we didn't live in any of his relevant zip codes; it saddened us to pass up the opportunity to help a polite and charming person.  Gabby's office staff were there, and they re-introduced themselves and wished us well.  The couple in front of us, transplants from Colorado, had no idea why I was so popular, and we didn't have to share the details until the very end of our time together.

I was in a mini-whirlwind of celebrity, but it was all low-key and pleasant.  No one was frantic.  No one was rude.  There was no pushing, no sense of urgency, no worries.  That should have been a clue as to how the rest of the afternoon would progress.  We missed it as foreshadowing.  Big Time.

At 5:30, as promised, the event began.  Tucson's Mayor and Bert and Ernie's next-door-neighbor, Jonathan Rothschild, welcomed us with a speech lauding Mr. Obama's accomplishments and the benefits our community has received due to his largesse.  Certain phrases stood out -We should all play by the same rules, eg - and we wondered how much of the verbiage had been presented to him by the Democrats behind the event.  These kind of events were obviously going to be held in many towns all across the country; is there one speech read by every mayor, the details changing by location?  By the end of the evening, this seemed all too plausible.

We exchanged a glance.  This was a real political event.  TBG was annoyed; I was on-the-outside-looking-in.  As the local Democratic Party and those who've rung doorbells and answered phones were thanked, more than half the audience shared a self-congratulatory clapping of hands.  We were in the maw of the beast, and it was quite proud of itself.

There was a lot of stopping and starting during the program.  Chunks of time went unfilled.  I joined V.I. Warshawski in Chicago as TBG people-watched and tapped his foot.  Be patient with the volunteers had been in our instructions, I reminded him.  It was like telling a bird not to fly; some people are born impatient and he is first among them.  There was a campaign video, and then there was silence.  Raul Grijalva spoke, and then there was more silence. 

Calexico played a fairly long set and I reveled in the fact that I was at a private concert with 450 others in comfortable seats with a great view and terrific acoustics.  I felt even smugger later that evening on the phone when Big Cuter recognized Calexico as a KFOG band, KFOG being the adult alternative San Francisco radio station that replaced Chicago's WXRT for me when we relocated.  I added to my hipper-than-thou points by noting that I'd seen them several times this spring, and that his father had seen them, too.  They're our local band.  They played at Gabby and Mark's wedding.

It's the little things that get me through the week, denizens.  What can I say?  Impressing my kids makes me smile.

Calexico was followed by a lovely if lengthy introduction by an Hispanic/woman/veteran/college student.  She encompasses so many demographics. It's obvious that these Democrats know how to make a statement.  Her words were passionate, even though there were too many of them, and her points were well-taken. And then, as the Secret Service appeared all around us, she was engulfed in those terrific long arms of the First Lady. The audience leapt to its feet.

Michelle's hugging abilities were on stage for all to see.  I cried.

They were happy tears, for the most part.  I was delighted to be in the same room as the wife of the President of the United States.  That alone gave me goose bumps.  The fact that those same arms had been wrapped around me in my hospital bed, that I had shared conversation and smiles and condolences with the woman beaming back at me from behind the teleprompters, the fact that I had touched her and been touched - inside and out - by her was transformative.  I was standing a little bit taller and aching just a little bit less.

Mrs. Obama's speech was boilerplate, but she delivered it well.  She loves her husband, she's proud of her husband, and she's not averse to sharing those feelings. "I think our President is awesome!" or some variation thereon peppered her talk.  It's a pleasure to hear a wife kvell brag about her husband.  I sat a little closer to TBG and felt as smug as she does; we both picked good ones.

She was preaching to the choir and the choir was answering back.  There was call and response, there was the occasional Amen!, heads were nodding and applause interrupted her time and again.  Lily Ledbetter and DADT and three women on the Supreme Court brought almost as much noise as did bringing our troops home from war. 

Who are we as a country? 

Who do we want to be?

We are fighting for the world we want to leave for our children.

Those are the questions Michelle asked last night.  Everyone in the audience agreed on the answers.  We were already converted.  Last night, we were inspired.  It was hackneyed and choreographed and scripted and I didn't mind a bit.  It was politics, up close and personal.  I wouldn't want to live there, but it was quite a lovely visit.

Spring Carnival at Prince

School's nearly finished for the year.  Though many of the students will continue through summer school, last week's Spring Carnival was a way for the teachers to thank the students for being the very special learners they are, each and every one of them. 

Donna, GRIN volunteer, staying ahead of the hungry hordes.

The teachers planned the booths and the set-up and the decorations with the help of the overworked PTO president. LeAnn.

In addition to teaching us how to use the popcorn machine - pouring the butter+oil grease from that big yellow container was not as easy as it might seem to be - LeAnn could be found looking for masking tape or scissors or reassuring one of her own children that she'd be right there for him, as soon as she finished.....

Parent volunteers are the reasons that public schools can stay in business. 

Our original plan was to supervise college students as they decorated the courtyard and the playground and the cafeteria.  Waking to a completely cloudy sky and a frantic We might have to cancel it all email from Kenda, teacher-in-charge-extraordinaire, I put the volunteers on alert.  Chicago Gal and her husband wouldn't be able to come later in the afternoon; the fact that we couldn't get into the cafeteria until 2:30 took them out of the line-up.  We'd been hoping to catch up with one another as we watched the 20-somethings climb ladders and wield staplers; that wasn't going to happen.  We sighed.

By noon, the sun was blazing, the breeze was blowing, and the clouds had disappeared.  A perfect Goldilocks day - not too hot nor too cold but just right.  The decorations would be minimal, althought the installer could not have had a bigger smile.

I'm not sure that anyone noticed that there were crepe paper streamers fluttering near the booths. 

I am sure that we 4 women in the popcorn and nachos emporium enjoyed our interactions with the happiest decorator we've ever encountered.

There were as many dads and older brothers and uncles as there were moms at this event.  I know for sure that was never true at my kids' after-school carnivals. 

Of course, that's not to say that the moms weren't out in full force, too. 

Watching them keep tabs on infants and toddlers and grade schoolers, balancing on that fine line between giving the kids the freedom they want while making sure that they are safe, I was alternately in second grade or parenting kids who were.  There are some feelings that just never go away, it seems.  

There was a local classic rock cover band, the Allied Bombers.     

Their music didn't speak to the kids I queried about it..... all but one.

She stopped, tilted her head and listened, smiled in recognition and said, "Yeah, kinda."

I asked if it was her parents' music and, shyly, somewhat abashedly, she shook her head and said ,"No, actually, my grandparents'"

Sigh.

Looking around at those who chose to stop and listen, I saw that she was right.

No matter.

We were having a great time.

And so were the kids, including this friend from Ms. Levine's kindergarten.

"Hi, Suzi!" never sounded so sweet.

Who Am I These Days?

I haven't examined the lint in my navel for quite some time.  I have noticed this dearth of introspective posts with a wry kind of amusement.  It seems that I've even begun to bore myself with my story.

The last few days have rearranged my thoughts, though.  It feels appropriate to work it all out here in The Burrow.  As I've said before, typing to you is great therapy.

I've been engaged with a new physical therapist for the past two months, and for the first time in a long time I am beginning to see some real results.  TBG had been after me for a long time to get back into the weight room at the gym and, of course, he was absolutely right.  I am weak.  That weakness can be corrected only with consistent exercise and constant attention to form.  The re-construction of my hip is not the issue; Dr. Boaz was a fine carpenter.  The absence of muscle, the reliance on compensatory patterns, the fear factor ...... it's all on me.

So, I have been to the gym this morning.  For the first time in a long time, that sentence means what it used to mean, back before my perforations.  I worked steadily for an hour, moving between equipment and mats, always with a purpose.  My iPod was cranking and I was breathing into the movements.  Even though those movements were smaller, subtler, lighter and less explosive than they used to be, they were also larger, more obvious, more weighted and powerful than they have been of late. 

I am not setting any records, except those I'm keeping for myself.  I can now do 2 sets where last month I could do but one.  I can move the hamstring curl machine with my right leg alone; that wasn't even a dream in January.  The fact that there is only 10 pounds of resistance on the machine doesn't disturb me.  I am fully capable of appreciating what I've accomplished and where I have to go. 

My new mantra is "You are only cheating yourself."  Turns out I'm a pretty stern taskmistress I have a fairly healthy superego I really am capable of listening to myself when it matters.  I laughed out loud as I looked at the clock to see if I could be finished yet; with only myself to impress, it felt self-defeating to leave.  Seems that I'm making mental progress, too.

I'm not doing endless sets of a single exercise.  I'm doing as many repetitions as I can of each one of the movements Becky's outlined for me and then I am moving on.  If I am in charge, I'm creating a program that doesn't bore me or tire me out or make me feel inadequate.  I admit it - I need to feel good about myself at the end of each exercise. 

Failure is an option of which I am quite conscious; the temptation to sit still and just be an old lady is often overwhelming.  I picture Christina-Taylor at those moments, hands on her hips, arms akimbo, eyes flashing as she silently chastises me for being a slacker.  That's usually all it takes.... and that's a good thing these days.

Used to be, when I went out on the town, running errands alone or having lunch with my sweetie, strangers would approach me with admiration in their eyes.  "Look at you!  Out with a walker/a cane/without any devices! How wonderful!"  I came to see these conversations as a whole, the overall impression one of marvelousness, of success, of achievement.  I said that "Tucson doesn't need to see me in a wheelchair,"  and it was true.  As I was healing, so was my town.  My progress was their progress and it felt good all around.

However, as TBG reminded me over lunch today, one can only be a hero for so long.

Nowadays, as I meander from the gym to the grocery store to meetings all over town,  I am more likely to garner looks of sympathy rather than awe. "You're still limping?" is better than "So, is that limp permanent?" which is quite an improvement over "Does it still hurt that much?"  I locomote but I do not ambulate... at least not very well.  I lurch and I lumber and while there are occasionally several perfectly even, weight-shifting steps strung together, for the most part my walking is a hodge-podge of strength and weakness, attention and distraction.

TBG wants me to listen to the rhythm of my footsteps.  So does Becky.  I really don't want to listen; it's asymmetric and a constant reminder of how far I have to go.  Every expression of sympathy from a stranger or a friend, every wistful look at my tilted hips, every shared sigh and shrug of the shoulders places me as a patient. 

It's incongruous.  A year ago, when I really was a patient, I felt triumphant merely to be both a survivor and upright at the same time.  Now, 15 months or so after the fact, I often feel as if I'm letting people down. 

Please don't rush to the comment section to tell me that you think I am swell.  I know it, deeply and profoundly.  It keeps me going when my body disagrees.  I'm not talking about reality here.  I'm talking about my perceptions. 

I have to remind myself, over and over and over again and again and again, that four months ago I was unable to conceive of a time when I could hike for a mile and be satisfied in my soul.  I have to accept in my inner most self that I will be able to do this.  I have to prove to myself that I have the fortitude to stick with a lengthy, painful, slow and unsteady process that may or may not result in my return to an absolutely normal gait.  I have to have confidence in myself and the team of miracle workers surrounding me.

Mostly, I have to stop whining and be glad that the sun came up this morning and I was here to see it, even if I did creak and crack as I bent down to retrieve the morning paper.  A year ago, bending that far was totally out of the question.  I just have to keep that in mind.

Thanks for listening, denizens.  As usual, I feel much better now.  This is, indeed, the cheapest form of therapy there is. 

Three Dollars and Forty-Seven Cents

All the parental units attached to this little person were at work yesterday.  That's really saying something, since there are four of them involved in his life right now and two of them do shift work. There's usually somebody around when he bounds off the bus.  But Wednesdays are proving particularly difficult this semester, what with his  "early out" release and their overtime making meeting him at 1:45pm a challenge. 

Sure, I'm glad to help.  I know the security code to open the garage door and Amster's dining room table is a lovely spot on which to type.  The dogs are in the backyard and require no attention at all.  His brother didn't feel well and went to rest at work with mom. It was just the two of us.  I was stoked.

Listening to Mr. 8 is like having the grade school Big Cuter back in my life all over again.  Curious, serious, thoughtful and smart, there's nothing like a latency age boy to make my heart soar.  And soar it did, denizens, yes, indeed, it did.

His Super Mario backpack got stuck in the doorway.  He had his arms out for help, but I was laughing too hard to get up off the chair.  The worker bees in the garage (installing some pipe for something that neither Mr. 8 nor I could identify) were giggling, too.  Their ladder impeded the progress of the offending door and there he hung, caught between his school day and his play date.  It was a moment to be treasured.

Twisting hard to the right and the left dislodged him and before another second had passed the backpack was on the table and his hand was in his pocket.  "I have $3.47. Wanna see?"  Of course I wanted to see.  His hand revealed a carefully folded and then safely wadded roll of bills.  The coins managed to stay within the confines of his palm, too.  $3.47.... hardly a treasure, but all his. 

It was burning a hole in his pocket.  I felt his pain.  Big Cuter had the same issues.  If he had money he had to exchange it for something more tangible, more fun, more colorful and playful and new.  After discussing and sighing over the fact that "you really can't buy very much with $3.47," we decided to go to Wally-World anyway.  There had to be something he could buy.  That money was taunting him from the table.

So we drove back the way I'd come, parked and walked to the very back of the store where the Leggo's live.  I was thrust back in time.  Big Cuter didn't have the Ninjago line of products to tempt him, but the space guys he loved were still on the shelves.  Watching Mr. 8 pick up the boxes, telling me which of his friends had which pieces as he examined the pictures and shook his head over the prices, I could close my eyes and imagine my own personal little boy doing and saying the same things.

I knew just what he was feeling.  Big Cuter said the same things, stood the same way, anguished just as Mr. 8 was.... really, you can't buy very much for $3.47.

No trip to the store would be complete without a trek down the video game aisle.  I understood this.  I didn't really get it when Big Cuter was little; what joy could be had by looking at the boxes, locked in a glass faced case, untouchable and too expensive and taunting.  But, then as now, I learned to watch the signs as tension passed out of his body.  I'm not sure about  the magic which emanates from these things, but standing there, unable to buy them but enthralled nonetheless, his little shoulders came down out of his ears and his face unscrunched. 

Yes, Jacob has the big box with the figures and the game and the story and yes, Mr. 8 would love to have it for his birthday next month, and no, he hasn't told Mom about it nor does he have any idea how she will know that he wants it.  The conversation was the same as thousands my own boy and I shared in the aisles of Toys R Us.  Solutions were unnecessary.  I learned that lesson two decades ago.  Sharing the experience was enough then and it was enough yesterday.

Boys are easy that way.  At least these two were/are.

After deciding that $3.47 was a useless amount of money, we headed out the door to continue our adventure.  Funtasktiks?  Neither of us knew what was behind the name, but it sure did sound good, we agreed.  But, on the way there we passed Fiesta Bowl and that was it.  Bowling had been on his list for a while and I was just the girl to take him there.

Nope, he doesn't wear size 12 shoes anymore; more like an adult 4.  Who knew?  Not us.  Yes, I could tie his laces for him; no, I had no idea why one lace was 15" longer than the other.  No, I wouldn't be bowling but yes I would be watching.  And watch I did.  There were only singleton bowlers at the lanes on this cloudy Wednesday afternoon; Mr. 8 fit right in.  While the other gentlemen were carefully lining up their shots, aiming between the arrows and smashing the pins to smithereens, Mr. 8 was employing a more free form approach.

Using the bumpers like a pro, his bright orange 6 pound ball caromed from side to side before taking down the pins with a mighty .... ok, a minuscule.....thwack.  A spare.  A picked-up split.  A score of 96. 

The Happy Ladies Club bowlers would be proud to include him in our ranks.  His score is just like ours.

Aiming wasn't in the cards.  Proper form was an unattainable concept.  The finger holes sometimes caught his thumb and the ball often took its own sweet time to meander down the lane.  Sometimes the pins went down, sometimes they stayed up, but his face was always the same: intent.  He didn't care about technique.  He just liked doing it.  And so, over and over again, for 30 frames, Mr. 8 communed with the alley as I did the same with my memories. 

Kids do have an annoying tendency to grow up.  It's a good thing that the fun times are stored in the memory bank, retrievable whenever the moment strikes. 

I can hear Big Cuter groaning over that unintended pun as I type it. 

Kate Winslett's Legs

Kate Winslett doesn’t look like this

 

and she’s not afraid to say so:

“I do not look like that and more importantly I don't desire to look like that. 

I am proud, you know.” 

The editorial staff of the British edition of GQ back in 2003 decided that she didn’t look quite right enough for their cover so they took to  Photoshop and got to work.  By the time that they were finished, Ms. Winslettt was considerably thinner…..smaller….less womanly.  It’s a beautiful picture, it’s just not Kate Winslettt.

Titanic’s been re-released, and that must be why this story about her body gracing GQ’s cover has been all over Facebook of late.  I remember watching the movie with Little Cuter and her girlfriends, over and over and over again.  Kate gets naked and Leo draws her and her curves are lying there on the couch, Rubenesque in their fleshy wonderfulness.  For the first time in a long time, I didn’t need to interrupt their viewing with a muttered screed on how unhealthy, how very very thin and very very unreal the leading actress looked.  Kate Winslettt was a real person in the real world and she embraced it, proudly and loudly, both then and now.

She’s not overweight.  She’s not obese.  She’s normal.  Her legs have been holding her up for all of her 30-some years; if they are larger than the gams which graced the dreams of the editorial staff of Britain’s GQ that’s their problem, not hers.

I love it when a star steps to the stage and takes on her own image.  Carefully cultivated and curated, images often bear no resemblance at all to the actual human they (theoretically) represent.  Those horrible star on the way to the grocery store sans make-up photos prove it.  They are news the way the fact that I went to the store with my shirt on inside out last week is news. Honestly, who cares?

The brouhaha over Hilary Clinton’s hair and pantsuits made me nutty.  Did anyone consider that John McCain’s collars were unflattering to his facial structure?  Who cuts Mitt Romney’s hair, and how does it stay in place so well?  Is any of it important?

Not to me.

Do you know how happy you make me, denizens?  Do you have any idea how powerful a force you are in my everyday life?  Life Well Lived asked me to write about how blogging increases my happiness quotient; I couldn't have asked for a better prompt.

I'm sitting in the living room of the Arizona Inn, typing to you from a big red leather armchair.  There's a game table with 8" chess pieces on an inlaid board and a glass fronted library case with leather sets of the classics.  Each seating area has its own Tiffany style lamp shining brightness to match the scorching sun outside.

I've never been so glad to have read the Wall Street Journal as I am this morning.  Alina Dizik wrote a piece last week  extolling the virtues of the hotel lobby as public office space.  Hoteliers seem to like the buzz that locals create and the locals enjoy the environs, several steps above a metal table at Starbucks.  Since I had a meeting across the street and down the block from the Arizona Inn from 10:30- 11:30 and then physical therapy one mile from the Inn at 2pm, settling myself in this sunny corner and writing to you seemed like the perfect confluence of events and proximity.

How very very trendy I am.  I'm smiling already.

Though I am physically alone in this space, I have lots and lots of company.  There are Megan and FAMBB, wondering why yesterday's post was late (blame Blogger and its glitches) as they opened their laptops over a morning cup of coffee.  One's in DC, the other in Foxboro, but they are also right here with me now, sitting on the low wooden window seat, helping me frame this paragraph.  One of my oldest friends and one of my newest bloggy buddies and we're all sharing the same experience.  Though we are separated by distance, we are together in The Burrow.  They are two who read me first thing every morning.  I listen to their comments as I'm typing to you.  

FAMBB likes it when I am a sesquipedalian; I smile each time I venture in that direction.I find myself laughing at the big words along with her, and then I take myself on a mental journey to the Long Island Rail Road and the streets of Manhattan and a gigantic mid-town movie palace showing Gone With the Wind to two high school girls and their seatmates - women of a certain age who were drooling, with us, over Clark Gable carrying Vivian Leigh up that staircase.  I can still hear us sighing.

Without The Burrow, that memory wouldn't have had a place in my brain this morning.  Without The Burrow, I'd have missed that smile, that warm feeling in the middle of my chest as I remember our surprise when the overture began - it was the theme from WOR's Million Dollar Movie.  We learned that fact together.  We are still friends today, 45 years later.  That friendship is nurtured by my reading and her writing.  

Oh, yes.  Blogging makes me smile.

I consider Megan, getting to work and being disappointed because Blogger didn't publish at 6am.  Her cup of coffee on her desk, her basically wonderful but sometimes quite annoying co-workers strolling by, her daily fix of whimsy, profundities and truths delayed.  I am sorry to have been the cause of distress while I am happy knowing that she is thinking of me.  We've never met but we are friends nonetheless.  She's seen who I am by reading my words and I've learned about her life from reading her comments.  The blog is better for me than a diary - I like the conversation more than the self-indulgence of writing for myself alone.

As the physical custodian of the remaining grandparent on my side of the family, I find it easiest to keep everyone up-to-date on G'ma's well-being by describing our adventures here in The Burrow.  Grandchildren don't want lengthy phone calls, and G'ma can't remember what she's done lately so the burden of carrying the conversation rests squarely on their shoulders.  Since their physical selves have been in Germany and Hong Kong and Chile and San Francisco and Chicago lately, keeping up with their grandmother's activities is more difficult than when she lived across town.  I blog, I insert pictures, I recount conversations and they are connected.  G'ma doesn't remember if or when they call, and that is hard when you are 20 something and have your whole life ahead of you; the impermanence of your existence in her framework is frightening.  I can fill them in on our adventures here in the Burrow and they can pretend that they were there along with us.

I know that they can because that's what I do when I read Ronni Bennett's Time Goes By or Meg's  Member's Lounge.  I listen to JES's tunes at Running After My Hat and he's there with me in the library, smiling at Susan Tedeschi's lyrics and verve right along with me.  I've created a community of souls in the ether, beings I'll probably never meet in person but whose words encourage and enlighten and delight me.  I've been healed when I was down, not by strangers but by beings who exist in my consciousness without being in my presence.

It's like pen-pals, only more public.  And, just as I loved receiving letters from Judith Kelly in Tasmania when she and I were grade school correspondents, I love reading your comments and sharing your notions and suggestions.  Does blogging make me happy?  Indubitably.
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Go over to BlogHer and read the main post in this series here before you enter the sweepstakes here.
Who  knows, you might win an iPod Touch.  I won a Kindle Fire in a prior iteration of the sweepstakes.

Random Thoughts, Cranky Edition

Ellen Marie thinks she's too young to be so full of aches and pains.  Her cortisone shot didn't do much good and she's tired of asking her hiking buddies to slow down and wait for her.  A hip replacement at 48?  How can this be happening.

She's the second 40-something I know with replaceable hips.  Was it something in the air during the years they were growing up?  Their mothers were girls in 1945.  Could it be an effect of the bombing of Hiroshima?

Alaskans are finding volleyballs and soccer(foot)balls on their shores as flotsom from the last year's tsunami makes its way from Japan; who's to say that I'm not seeing the tip of an iceberg here in Tucson? 
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Our favorite restaurant changed its menu.  Our favorite dishes are gone, replaced by almost-kinda-sorta-adequate substitutes.  The waiters and waitresses and busboys and hostesses continue to have the flattest butts in town, but that's all that remains of our go-to establishment.

A few other "old customers" have complained about the differences, according to our favorite waiter.  I'm not sure if old in that context refers to regular visitors of long standing or those who've inhabited the planet for many years.  Sad to say, I am certain he would consider me to be firmly planted in both categories.
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The Arizona Department of Transportation is building a road outside our tranquil neighborhood.  There was nothing wrong with the old road that a decent job of paving wouldn't have fixed.  There was no need to enlarge it; even during the busiest times of day it never took more than two lights to get through the intersection.  From now until September, I will often be the only car in sight on what was, to my eye, an unmanicured but delightfully natural roadway.  It's being replaced by a 4 lane with turn lanes and fancy median strips and public art through-way. 

Driving on the piece that's paved is heavenly, I will admit.  The fact that it is a generic road, with no attachment to the native plants which volunteered to take up residence along its side, that makes me very sad.

And those plants?  Those hardy survivors of exhaust fumes and temperatures in the 100's were bladed and discarded, left in unseemly piles by the side of the road.  It made me sad.
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Do I seem ungrateful, denizens? The taxpayers of Arizona have chipped in to repair my local infrastructure. I should feel honored and I would, I guess, if onlythe exit from my little acre of heaven required crossing this

before reaching that lovely paved part. 

Julie and Annabelle at AzDOT promised me that the graders would be out there by close of business today. They were glad to hear from me and happy to help.  All it took was a phone call. 

Of course, I took that picture at 3:45pm and the worker bees on the project usually head home at 4. 
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I'm making plans for a weekend in Chicago at the end of June.  The Cubbies will be in town, and so will The Three Sisters at Steppenwolf.  As I am busily making mental plans and cheerfully sending Little Cuter informative emails I seem to have forgotten that the kids work.

How dare they not be available to be my playmates?  The nerve of their employment to interfere with my fun.... or the contemplation thereof.... the nerve.

And then I flashed to Sunday night's episode of Mad Men.  I was as oblivious as Don Draper.  Like him, it honestly never crossed my mind.
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The world is reflecting my crankiness; as of 5pm absolutely no progress had been made on my road construction project.

I am glad that these are at the top of my worry list..... but still....

Team Sports, Redux

I spent Saturday watching other people's children play sports. I felt as though I were in an advertisement for Mrs. Obama's Let's Move initiative.  Though the temperatures were flirting with triple digits, there were hundreds of people at La Cima Middle School, watching and playing soccer. Only the parents of the players were sheltering under umbrellas, immobile in the heat of the noontime sun.  Everyone else was kicking a ball or playing tag or stretching before flag football.  Best of all, everyone was smiling.

I was reminded of the benefits of team sports as I watched Mr. 6's fellow first graders pass the ball up the field.  They are still working on scoring and aiming is apparently a higher level task than they have mastered as yet, but it was far from the herd-ball I'd seen at the first game.  The defense moved up in concert with the front line, the "far" kids stayed far and the "near" kids stayed near and I watched in amazement as they held fast to their positions while following the ball with their eyes.  There was so much going on and they were so little and they were so focused on the task at hand. 

Elizibeth was in the second day of her volleyball tourney, and, since even faux-Moms can only be in one place at a time, I went to watch her as Amster drove to birthday parties and other assorted boy activities.  Luck was with me - I arrived at the gym (with its very cool logo printed proudly on the far side of the volleyball net.... hence the white stripe through his beak)

just as her game was starting.

She didn't know that I was there at first.  I got to watch her strong serve and then her delighted gasp as she shared her joy in the unreturnable ball with surprise on her face.  "Oh, my God!" never sounded so good.  It's nice when your mere presence can elicit such happiness.

Getting a 14 year old to concentrate, to pay attention, to attend to the activity in front of her is often a mind-numbing experience.  Over and over you repeat yourself.... over and over she doesn't listen.  But look at that face, that intensity, that readiness.  Her team depended upon her and she was not going to let them down. 

A lot of it has to do with the coach, of course.  Volunteers all, Mr. 6's mom-coach has turned a ragtag bunch of newbies into a fairly respectable example of a team.  By middle school, that concept is well-established.  Caring about it is another thing, entirely.  Elizibeth loves Hannah, her coach (standing to her left) even as she stands bemused, clutching her roster and wondering where the skills she taught had disappeared.

For, while there were certainly many scenes like this one, where the ball actually did make it back over the net with force,  there were more times when frustration took hold.

The other team had many more opportunities to cheer and pound on the gym floor.

and then it was over.  They lost the game I saw, but Elizibeth's team took second place over-all, and she received a medal for outstanding performance. 

She was sorry I hadn't seen a snazzier performance, but I didn't mind.  It was more than the winning and the awards that made us smile as we munched on bruschetta and recapped the event.  It was the nicknames of the players and the fondness for the coach and the sound that the ball made when it bounded off her fists that were the real reasons to celebrate.

All these lessons learned while working up a sweat. 

RIP, Dick and Mike

Our icons are dropping like flies.  One minute I'm watching the world's oldest teenager recover from a stroke and then I turn around and he's died.  Laughing about "the most feared words in the English language" in a totally different context last week and all of a sudden Mike Wallace is no longer here to see me.

I, who usually will eschew televised celebrity obituaries, found myself fascinated by the coverage of these deaths.  I sat, enraptured, as Brian Williams and 30 Rock took me back in time to American Bandstand and my parents' Magnavox console tv.  I was back there on the carpet in front of the set, in full lotus (I thought that was "real Indian style"), wishing that I lived in Philadelphia so that I could dance on the show, too. 

I didn't realize that Dick Clark was a gazillionaire.  I never paid much attention to how he spent his time between New Year's Eve and $25,000 Pyramid.  Did you know that he hosted shows on all three major networks?  I didn't, though it doesn't surprise me; he was perfect in the role.   Hearing him compared to Ryan Seacrest made my skin crawl.  Dick Clark was never obsequious.  Dick Clark was never smarmy.  Dick Clark never made a joke at a guest's expense.  Ryan Seacrest?  Not hardly.

Mike Wallace told me where to direct my outrage.... and I had a lot of it in the late 1960's and early 1970's.  He was right in the middle of the action... often creating that action himself.. but that never bothered me.  He was ornery and crotchety and persistent and I loved him.  I found the debut clip from 60 Minutes:

which is well worth listening to, if only to hear Harry Reasoner explain that "it's kind of a magazine for television."  Yes, they were the first.  The show goes on with images you can enjoy even with the sound off -- Nixon and Haldeman and Pat Buchanan before they were infamous. 

60 minutes and American Bandstand occupied the same brain space for me.  They each told me what the grown-ups were doing.  Mike Wallace and Dick Clark were the faces of those grown-ups.  They never disappointed me.  They were unwavering in their characters.  They were who they were and that solidity was strangely comforting to me, I realize now. 

With an Etch-A-Sketch Republican running for the presidency, I'm reminded that strength of character exists in fewer and fewer of our leaders today.  RIP Mike and Dick.... I'll sorely miss you.

I Never Worked, Either

I was 30 and pregnant.  I'd been passed over for a promotion and my career was stalled so I paid some attention to the ticking of my biological clock.  The baby grew, the job became more frustrating, and then TBG received his compensation package.

He was moving up the ranks at Goldman, Sachs (back when that was respectable thing to say).  The financial services industry paid their employees on a scale unheard of in the social services sector of the economy then as it does now.  I've written about dollars vs praise as incentives for performance before, and my point still stands.  The words are nice; the dollars pay the bills.

We sat at the dining room table that night, for the first time truly thinking about whether or not I should return to work following the birth of our child.  My job was secure; I could take maternity leave and return without missing a beat.  The search for a full-time nanny would be stressful, but it could be done. This was before I was a parent, when I believed that all prospective nannies would resemble Mary Poppins.  Some day I will post about the 17 sitters we tried before we found The One, but at that point securing the human to care for our little one was not on our list of problems.

The decision was the issue.

This was 1982.  Our generation of women graduated from college convinced beyond question that we could do it all - have children, have husbands, have girlfriends, have careers and have fun.  After school day care was unheard of; it would take a decade or more before infant care was offered in an acceptable communal setting   We didn't want someone to live with us; we were looking for a flexible stable woman to work more than 40 hours each week,  a person who whould be willing to stay some nights and weekends so that we could have some time alone, a substitute mom.

That's what stopped me first.  I'd waited so long to decide to become pregnant.  Why would I pass the chore of raising the child off to a stranger. Granted, she wouldn't be a stranger for long, but she also wouldn't be me.  TBG thought I was the best woman on the planet (awww.....) and couldn't imagine anyone doing a better job than I could.  Neither of our mothers had jobs outside the home when we were young.  Quitting my job and raising the kid was a perfectly acceptable option for me, in his eyes.

I was flattered.  He was willing to earn all the money and let me spend it.  He was willing to get up before dawn and come home after dark without asking me to do the same.  He saw the value in having me home with the baby.  I would be creating our own little human, guiding him to become our kind of person.  We couldn't count on anyone else doing it as well. 

I was also scared.  "What do you do?" wouldn't be answered with a profession and a location.  I would be defined by what I didn't do - work.  I was still paying off student loans; how would I feel about writing a check for something I was no longer using?  And then there was the boredom factor.  I'd never really enjoyed the company of infants and babies and children.  I had always had a place to go every morning, a job to do, responsibilities to meet.  How would I manage when my schedule was free? 

The solution turned out to be fairly simple - my salary would cover the cost of child care, with $2500 left over at the end of the year.  The notion of direct deposit of my paycheck into the sitter's account was bandied about.... playfully but painfully.  It was suddenly very clear to me - I didn't have to work.

I took 6 weeks maternity leave and then I resigned.  The love and joy and pure pleasure I found in watching that little ball of protoplasm loll about on a blanket on the living room floor more than made up for the lack of human contact, the obsession with Pampers vs Luvs, the relocation of my ego to the mommy room from the social worker room.  I hated it when people told me I didn't work.  I was up at 5am and at 2am and at 11pm and there was no saying "NO" to this little boss.  My paycheck was in poopy diapers and the infant suckling at my breast.  I didn't need money or status or recognition; I was happy and that was enough.  Why didn't the world understand it?

I met Audrey at Mommy and Me; we were the oldest women in the group by a fair number of years and we became fast friends very quickly.  She, too, was on maternity leave.  She, too, was contemplating leaving her job and hanging out in the park with her baby.  She thought that her firm was aware of her leanings.... and then, they offered her a partnership.

There were precious few female partners in major law firms in Chicago back then.  The offer was amazing.  It was also slightly hostile.  Should she refuse it, the firm could honestly say that they had tried to find women to promote, but all they seemed to want to do was have babies.  She could make a difference if she stayed.  She'd be a beacon of hope in what we all agreed was a dismal situation.  The pressure was tremendous, the money was tempting, and ultimately she hired a full-time sitter and returned to work.

The sitter was great.  Audrey was torn.  She left a notebook with pages to be filled out each day - what he ate, when he slept, how many diapers he used, where they went, the books they read.  She lived her son's life vicariously.  She came home at the end of the day and became a play group mom, the cook for dinner, the bather and story reader and put-me-to-sleep person.  She worked two jobs.

She found, as I did, that there is no rest for the mommies.  You sleep in your in-box.  There is always something to be done.  There is always an unmet need.  There is no escape.  Yes, Mitt, raising children is the hardest job in the world.... the most important job in the world....the worst paying job in the world.

I was luckier than most.  My husband could support us and pay for a sitter when I needed some time to myself.  I ran the household and supervised the staff.... just as I'm sure Ann Romney did.  Her son may say that they never had a nanny, but I don't think he meant that they never had a babysitter.   Ann Romney and I are in the very small subset of women who "don't have to work."  It's a very different world from those who must juggle child care (I am off to get Mr. 6 & 8 today; I'm the only adult who's available) and homework and paid employment.  Having room in your budget and being able to stay home and raise the kids yourself --- that's not "working".... that's a privilege, a bonus, a benefit that most women would grab without much thought. 

There are downsides to being gainfully unemployed in this way.  I could never support our family in the style to which we became accustomed; my contribution was less concrete.  I was lucky (as is Ann Romney) to have a husband who appreciated my efforts.  That said, it was hard for me to spend money when I wasn't earning any myself.  It was difficult to chat at parties when I was asked about my life; no one wants to hear diaper stories on Saturday night with a cocktail in hand.  I often felt that I had lost my identity. 

I did all that.  I felt all that.  I just don't think I'd be accurate to call it work.  It was a labor of love, without a paycheck or an annual review.  The proof would be in the pudding, and the pudding wouldn't be ready for decades.  Til then, I could only watch and wait and feel the love.  It was many things, but it's not a "real job." 

We all know what "a real job" means.  This brouhaha over who works is classist and stupid.  Our society is not set up to support working moms.  Ann Romney and I were lucky that we never had to enter into the fray. 

I'm just sayin'........

Painting the Love with The Happy Ladies Club

Kathleen started Reach Out after I was shot.  Combining the human resources of The Happy Ladies Club with her own (self-described)  natural talent for finding and promoting projects, there have been blood drives and food bank visits and today there was Ben's Bells.

Founded by Jeannette Mare and her family after the death of her nearly 3 year old son, Ben, the project promotes kindness in the community as a way of returning the kindnesses the family was shown after Ben's illness and death.

Jeannette is the warmest, funniest, most interesting leader of a non-profit I've ever met.  Her blonde curls announce her presence; her dazzling smile draws you into her heart.  When she thanks you for coming and helping you know that the sentiment originates from deep within her.

What she's created is the most satisfying good deed in town.


Open 5 days a week in a donated building (which housed a saloon during Tucson's formative years), there is no charge to participate.

You walk through the main building, cross the courtyard, gather your supplies and start to work.

How prosaic that sounds as I type it.  The pictures, I hope, show a warmer, deeper side to things.

We are so glad to see one another.

The courtyard is filled with ceramics - pots and tiles and mosaics like the one above of Ben himself.

The main desk is similarly decorated and unattended.
The worker bees really do work.

There are ceramics for sale on the most interesting displays.

 Mini-bells for purchase.

 Reusing the window frames...

 and the uncomfortable chairs as display cases.

And, of course, there are t-shirts.
There are always t-shirts...... right?

We were charged with creating Kindness Coins like these.

The pieces of the bells are made here, too, but that was not our mission today.

 We wouldn't get to create the bells; we were there to paint.

And so, donning our aprons

 we collected the unpainted flowers....

....listened to our instructions

and began to paint.

 Three solid coats on all the surfaces and then some kind of decoration.

 The holes in the center fit nicely on the wooden stakes for drying.

 and they came in handy for painting the bottom and the side while keeping your hands clean.

Hearts and dots and birds for Kindness Coins.

They are tagged with a note that says "Thanks for your kind act" and are designed to be given to someone who does a good deed while you are watching.  They are not kept, but are passed on by the recipient to someone else.

A favorite in schools, I have some just for fun in my real life.

These beauties have positive affirmations inscribed and will soon become bracelets. 

 And here are my contributions. 
One big heart was as much talent as I could muster.
I'm pretty good with the dots, though.

We cleaned our brushes and our water bowls and left the ceramics to fully dry before they went to the kilns.
Our hands were covered in paint and our hearts were smothered in love.
We left for a lovely lunch, holding Ben's mission close.

(All these items can be purchased.... the kindness decals come in all sizes and shapes.... the mini-bells ..... the bracelets... the kindness coins.  Visit the website for details.

Addendum:  4/19/12 Here's a link to a lovely article about the power of finding a bell