Small Steps

Every journey begins with a single step.

Robert Maurer, physician and faculty member at UCLA, told me that I would never look at that saying the same way again.  I listened to him for an hour.  He was right.

I had to love a man who acknowledged, right at the beginning, that change is scary.   Apparently, small steps can disarm the brain's fear response.  Once free from fright, the brain is able to create.

It was a new concept for me, the notion of moving beyond the fear.  I rarely get past the change is scary part.  Just ask anyone who's told me that I should write a book.  The look of horror on my face has caused more than one loving friend to step back a pace or two.

One of the blessings of lying on Douglas as my hip healed was the opportunity to think without having to act.  There were no expectations of me beyond growing bone.  There was little enough I could do to speed that process along, and there was nothing on which I could concentrate beyond a three sentence hand written thank you note. 

My mind wandered.  I found myself coming back to familiar themes as the weeks morphed into months but the coherent whole escaped me.  My brain couldn't conjure up a big picture of anything; it couldn't make it through a 60 minute television program.  Dear Abby was a challenge - I rarely remembered the question by the time I got to the end of her answer. 

Small steps were called for, demanded, required, all I could handle at the time.... so small steps are what I took.

Eighteen months later, enjoying our gift-from-the-Zuckerman-family week long stay at Canyon Ranch, I found the philosophical and physiological reasons for my behavior.  Validation and motivation was what that vacation was all about; Dr. Maurer provided it in a 60 minute lecture.

Kaizen teaches that manageable tasks - one paperclip off a chronically messy desk - moves you one step further along the journey.  The end is not your goal; putting one foot in front of the other is.

Think about it for a moment, denizens.  It's an extraordinarily freeing concept.

By writing my blog instead of a book, I've taken small steps toward creating an opus.  The book-writing-nagging has been going on since high school.  I've made no progress toward that goal... and I've had more than 40 years to make the move.  But no one nags me to write The Burrow... there's no need.... I love it.... I can do it... I accomplish it and smile.  It's a small but significant step, just like that one paperclip.

By starting in one school before moving across the campus to its sister school before meeting with a colleague's mother to consider expanding to California, I've grown GRIN without any major hiccups.  Lying on Douglas, I knew I wanted to make a difference.  One principal, one little boy, one kindergarten classroom later I've created something that can grow, one small step at a time.  I don't spend time worrying about where I will be; I am in the moment worrying about the now.  It's a worry that I can live with... and think with.... and take the next step from.

And that step is the single step at the start of my journey.  At least that is what I told myself as I signed up for Pathfinder Day at BlogHer'12..... the all day session on Blog to Book.  It seems like the next small step for me. 

My heart is aflutter, but my brain is calm.  Thanks, Dr.Maurer.

On His Third Day of Medical School...

....the student entered the examining room, trailing Dr. Roth, physiatrist and human being extraordinaire.  We were on the third floor of The Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago ready to assess my progress. I was here six months ago.  I thought I was doing better. Dr. Roth would know for sure.

RIC is bright and cheery, with wide hallways and low countertops and elevators just a little bit bigger than those at Macy's.  I feel blessed and lucky every time I step through the sliding glass doors, one block from Lake Michigan.  There but for a milimeter's difference in the trajectory of a bullet... or two... or three... go I. 

Dr. Roth confirmed it when we examined the x-rays of my pelvis - a milimeter or so lower and the head of my femur would have been shattered, too.  My hip would now be ceramic instead of bone pieced together with pins and glue.

My hip.... it's a term that has bothered me since getting shot.  I can find my pelvis and my hip bone and my pubic bone but where's my hip?  I know that the acetabulum is the cup like part into which the head of the femur fits.  I know that my acetabulae were shattered and that there is hardware connecting my pelvis to my pubis.  But where is my hip?

I had asked Dr. Roth to show me on my body exactly where the construction took place.  We started at my hip bone - all three of us could find that pretty easily.  As he traced the path of the reconstruction on the x-ray display, pausing to be certain that I was following along on my self, I began to realize why certain movements felt restricted.  They were, in fact, restricted by the repairs.  While predicting my continued improvement, he cautioned reminded reflected that even were I to achieve the best result possible, that result will necessarily be limited by the pins and screws and clasps that are now a part of my hip.... which sits at the bottom of my pelvis and is comprised of the cup and the bone and the lower edge of that pelvis. 

It feels more like an attitude than an actual destination, but I get the point. 

Do I need a hip replacement?  Is the arthritis so advanced that I'd be foolish to do anything else?  Not according to my favorite doctor of physical and rehabilitation medicine.  Nerves regenerate at the rate of one milimeter per month; my numbness will continue to retreat over time... lots and lots of time.  As the numbness disappears and I am more able to access the musculature which contributes to a smooth stride, my coordination and my gait will reappear.  My awkwardness is the result of many things, but structural integrity of the damaged areas is not one of them.  Over time... lots and lots of time... I will strengthen those muscles one uses to stabilize one's torso and the scrunchiness... the roughness... the uneveness will abate. 

That's the plan and I'm sticking to it.

I cannot attribute my continuing recovery to any one modality, Dr. Roth says.  When asked, I must reply that swimming and pool walking and physical therapy and pilates and yoga and weight lifting and floor exercise all have  contributed. 

I walked out of that room floating on air.  The doctor was most impressed with my progress.  He was as happy for me as I was for myself.  We kept interrupting one another because we were going to the same place at the same time.  "Can you move..." "Let me show you what I can...." "Six months ago that didn't happen!" 

So much of what's going on with me has to do with attitude.  I left RIC feeling that I have exceeded expectations, that I have further to go, that I am capable and competent and on the right path.  I am in control of the situation.  I have the power to create my own change. 

As he told the medical student, a young man of charming manners and a delightful mein, Dr. Roth and his fellow physiatrists treat the muscle and not the x-ray.

I'd say that they treat the person and not the pelvis.

Happy Birthday, USofA

The USofA is a remarkable place.

We are a contentious collection of disparate individuals.  We live in the Deep South and the frozen tundra.  We sport a variety of skin tones and accents.  Some of our ancestors have been here before the European Conquest and some have never seen our shores.  We pray to one God and many gods and no god at all.  We drawl and we chatter.  We are Americans.

Conservative and radical, relaxed and intense, we sit beside one another on an airplane, crossing the Mississippi and the Rockies, and we wonder if we’ll see any fireworks from our perch several miles high.  It’s our country’s birthday and we are all, each and every one of us, in a celebratory mood.

There are children wearing red white and blue.  There are adults sporting flag t-shirts.  There is a collection of  patriotic headgear on this flight that would make the buyer for Target proud.  We are preparing for our nation’s birthday party and we’re wearing great big grins.

Politicians are shooting darts at one another over golf and jet skis and Jackson Hole vacations but that all seems unimportant up here.  Counting the states as the pilot aims our craft toward Tucson, my mind conjures up images of picnics and sparklers.  We are above it but a part of it nonetheless.

We have a Chief Justice of  the Supreme Court who was able to put partisan politics aside and craft a document which insured that I will have health insurance even though Blue Cross/Blue Shield spent much more money on my care than they would have preferred.

There is a group of wealthy families, friends of Nathax in her hometown of  Glencoe, who have committed to provide the funding for a charter school far on the south side of Chicago because they want those high schoolers to have the same opportunities as their own, more privileged children enjoy.

Wheelchairs of all shapes and sizes passed me in the hallways of the Rehabilitation Institute this afternoon, carrying humans of every description to and from outstanding medical care, offered at little or no cost if the patient cannot pay.

Two little ones are traveling alone to spend a month with Grandma while Mom stays home and works.  They will see the sites of the West - Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon among them.  The stewardess settled them in, and the Asian grandma in the third seat in their row is taking particular care to insure that they are happy and secure.  She didn’t know them before she boarded; she’s looking after them as if they were her own.

There is no sense of  the other.   We are all in this America business together, black and white and tan and old and young and in-between.  It’s not an easy row to hoe, but we’re convinced that it is worth the effort.

That may well be my own personal fantasy, but I don’t care.  It’s amusing me to imagine that, for these next few hours, I’m traveling with my fellow countrymen as we head toward celebrating the birthday of our nation.

I wish you all a joyous Fourth of July, filled with appreciation for the wonder that is our United States.  TBG and I will be hanging out the flag and barbequing and feeling extremely grateful to be able to call ourselves Americans.

My Kind of Town

Chicago is the best city in the country.

You may argue all you'd like, but my opinion is set in stone.  There is culture and the lake and shopping and, of course Little Cuter and SIR.  I'm sure I'd like any city in which my girl and her guy were living, but the best will still be reserved for the city of big shoulders.

There's public transportation with a pass back feature - the monthly bus pass can be used for the holder and 7 of her friends.  Hybrid and clean, the front seats are reserved for the elderly and the infirm and the signs above them remind passengers to Stand up if asked.

I took the express bus to Water Tower Place to search for white Converse for the wedding.  It was cloudy when I boarded and pouring when I got off.  Unfortunately, the umbrella I grabbed from the hat rack sported broken ribs.... and I had the bloody thumb to prove it.  Paul Stuart, the upscale clothier,  used to be in the basement of the John Hancock Tower.  Best Buy replaced it several years ago and I've never recovered from the shock.  On Friday, though, I was delighted with its presence; I dropped in and found a phone charger and a bandaid in record time.

Then, it was across the street to America's first vertical mall. I needed a new umbrella (though I kept the broken one just in case the kids loved it and needed to save it) and there were hundreds of options.  Tucson is many things but a shopping mecca is not one of them.  I was overwhelmed with choices : Cubbies bumbershoots of all sizes and descriptions, Chicago collapsibles, and, of course, Totes.  Stripes and dots and primary colors.... I covered all seven floors of the mall before landing in Macy's accessories department and joining the long line of women who were also buying rain protection.


I haven't used an umbrella for the six years we've been in Tucson.  Everyone on line was complaining about the downpour while I was enjoying the wet.  I smiled inside.


The whole weekend has been like that - a study in contrasts.  The wedding shower was filled with women who've know my girl since she was born; in Tucson, my family are strangers.  There's something about the women with whom I raised my children that new friends just cannot replicate.  I have no interest in moving back to the cold and the humidity and the traffic, but I am delighted that the kids have decided to make their life here.  


When I look out my window at home, I see mountains and a big blue sky.  From the bay windows here on the ninth floor, I see hundreds of other apartments and their dwellers turning off lights or changing the channel on the television.  I enjoy watching the Gambrel quail and their babies frolic in my front yard.  Little Cuter and SIR look down upon the swimmers in their pool and create backstories from their antics.  

And then there's this

taken from Sixteen, Trump Tower's outdoor restaurant and cocktail bar.  

The drinks were expensive and potent, and the girls enjoyed their adult popsicles

 while I admired the architecture

 and Seret and I reminisced and shared parenting tips ..... okay, she shared and I learned, as usual.

I love my home in the desert southwest..... but I'm really glad to have an ongoing excuse to return to the midwest and scenes like these

Lake Michigan does strange things to clouds, and I was there to see it.

I'm leaving today, with a tear in my eye.  It's hard to have to split my heart.

Watching the Olympic Trials with Little Cuter is a trip down memory lane. She's as happy as a clam right now, snuggled on Benito-the-couch beneath a soft and gooshy blanket, fondling Thomas-the-wonder-dog's ear and smiling with delight. SIR is curled up next to her, the only one of us who has to go to work on Monday morning. He may go to bed earlier than we because my little girl and I are going to watch every flip and turn and stroke until NBC stops showing them.

In elementary school, Little Cuter was obsessed with Dominique Moceaneau. She read the autobiography, which opened on its own to the photos in the center. She studied the scoring and her commentary was every bit as cogent and informative as the televised talking heads. Look at that.. did you see how she.... oh, too bad... that will be a deduction... I was as impressed with her performance as I was with the gymnasts themselves.

And now, two decades later, with many of the same faces at the judges' table and wearing the coaching jackets, she's lost none of her enthusiasm. We've been counting down the hours til 8pm, when the gymnasts would take the screen. We paid some small amount of attention to the track

Do they have to perform on each piece, SIR wondered? Little Cuter had the answer before I could search out the answer on-line. What happens when they step outside the center square in the floor exercise? Again, Little Cuter to the rescue. She's got the scoring and the rules and the personalities down pat.

Nastia Liukin fell off the un-even parallel bars and my girl was as upset as she was. Alicia Sacramone nailed her routine and my girl was ecstatic. It's not that she wants to be on the floor with the athletes. She's admiring their strength and their agility and their focus.

Rebecca Bross's knee exploded last year; her patella bears a gigantic scar and is swollen beyond recognition. She fell off the uneven bars once.... twice... three times before she walked away from the routine. The camera went to the judges' table; there wasn't a dry eye. As Little Cuter remarked, these girls and the adults surrounding the sport are like a family. They have known one another through juniors and seniors and the Olympic competitions. One's pain is felt throughout the arena.

Joan Ryan's Little Girls in Pretty Boxes exposed the ugly underside of the sport. It seems to me that the girls are more womanly this year, with more curves and less girlishness. They are powerful and thoughtful and they know that this is more than wanting a puppy for Christmas; this is the Olympics.

For me, that's just an added bonus to my real joy – sharing the moment with my girl.

On The Road, Again

I'm on my way to Chicago for Little Cuter's bridal shower.  My-friends-who-love-her are putting it on; all we have to do is show up and smile.  I have a new dress.  It's one part of the wedding planning over which I don't have to stress.  Collecting the addresses for the invitations was onerous enough.  

We are under the 100-days-til-it-happens mark, and there's a greater sense of urgency to the planning.  There are more vegetables to be tasted and desserts to be considered and I have a few tricks up my sleeve that require some attention.  It's hard to keep smiling when the bride is hundreds of miles away.  

We are rectifying that situation this weekend.  

I didn't even check the weather in Chicago.  I packed 4 sun dresses in addition to my fancy-schmancy outfit and a pair of shorts and a top or two. Somehow, what should have fit into a cloth bag which hung off my shoulder morphed into a roller bag.... albeit one without the expansion zippers unfurled.  Shoes and toiletries seem to take up more and more space as I age.  Of course, my usual summer footwear would be flipflops.  My damaged self won't allow that as an option; sneakers are much bulkier.

I've gotten over feeling foolish wearing my Chucks with my dresses.  I just mutter to myself that I make these things look good as I admire my reflection in the mirror.  Little Cuter will smile and repeat my favorite saying: Mom, the world needs more people like you!  I don't know how my brain accepted the change, but it has.

Still, leaving my cute white heels on the shelf in the closet tugged just a bit at my heartstrings.

My cell phone has but one bar left and the charger is sitting at home.  So is the USB cord which would allow me to illustrate this post with the pictures I began to take before I realized my gaffe.  I wanted to show you the workstation that Southwest Airlines has installed right by my gate, the restrooms, the bar and the coffee shop.  Nellie the Netbook is plugged in and charging as I type this to you; would that I could do the same with my phone.

I didn't bring any written materials with me.  I brought the Kindle.  I have a book or two downloaded onto it already, and when I'm finished with you I'll be exploring some more to download.  I am peeved that I'll have to turn it off during takeoff and landing, but I'll be eating my chicken leftovers and trying to distract myself with profound thoughts on the ACA.... will it ever be anything but ObamaCare?.... and wouldn't FDR love it if Social Security were called RooseveltSecurity?

We encountered every slow and stupid driver in the metropolitan Tucson area as TBG drove me down to the airport.  We stopped at UMC to pick up my last x-ray so that the physiatrist at RIC can see my insides as well as my outsides. I still arrived at my gate 1 hour and 53 minutes before take-off.

Plenty of time to type this post, to fill my water bottle, and to contemplate a beer before flying.  

I'll have midwestern details for you on Monday. 

LeBron, Growing Up, and Hometown Loyalties

He has been a media sensation since junior high.  He went straight from high school to the NBA.  He's big and he's talented and he's a lightning rod for whatever you think about professional sports.

Upset about college players who are "one and done"?  How about a kid who's barely old enough to vote knocking bodies with grown men twice his age?  On the cover of Sports Illustrated at 16, bigger and stronger than anyone anywhere with the talent to back it up, he stayed at home and played for his Cleveland Cavaliers, under the tutelage of Mike Brown, coach and mentor.



factsource.com

LeBron's wingspan was on a giant mural gracing downtown Cleveland, visible from the highway as you drove to town from the airport.  Cleveland was in love with their home town hero and he seemed to return the favor. 

The city was no longer the mistake by the lake.  It was the home of King James.


He had trouble finishing what he started.  He was never the clutch player the team required to become champions.  He learned and he grew but he never won.  Then, his contract up for negotiation, he made the only and the biggest mistake of his career.  Dragging the decision out ad nauseum, his televised special announcing that he was ditching Lake Erie for the Atlantic Ocean and Miami was a disaster of epic proportions.

He humiliated his home town.  He turned his back on the most loyal of loyal fans.  He made Cleveland feel second tier once again.  I know this is true because we have family there, and their outrage was everywhere - in emails, on Facebook, on Twitter and in real life.

They were really really bummed about it.  It reminded me of the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn.  Some wounds will never heal.

The Heat created a dream team around their new super hero, a team that went almost nowhere really fast.  And then, over the summer, the kid grew up.  I listened to TBG over the course of the NBA playoffs, and the rest of this post is the distillation of his impressions.  I can't take credit for originality here, but I think you'll be interested in his thoughts.

LeBron has grown up right before our eyes.  He was ashamed of how he played last year.  He was ashamed of how he handled his failures, which is more important.  He blamed everyone else - his teammates, his coaches, the media - until he woke up one day and realized that there is no progress unless you own your mistakes.

That's a hard lesson for anyone to learn, and an even more difficult one for a man in the spotlight.  Taking responsibility in public is a rare trait in an athlete; LeBron has said over and over this year that he did not do enough, that he was not focused enough, that he was responsible for his team's lack of success.  It was refreshing.  It was a fabulous object lesson for young players.  Telling the world that you didn't try hard enough, that your almost-best wasn't good enough, that's a story to tell and retell as you coach youngsters.

LeBron's never been in trouble with the law.  He's not been accused of domestic violence.  He made one very bad mistake in mis-treating Cleveland but, aside from that, he's not been the subject of late breaking news and the hoopla that goes with it. 

He doesn't have a fat head, and he deserves to have one.  There is no one playing basketball today with the size, strength and agility that he brings to the court.  Combined with his talent and skill, he's unstoppable, as the Thunder learned. 

In a funny way, TBG is proud of him.  It's a paternalistic feeling.  The kid keeps learning and growing.  He's open minded and willing to listen and change.  He's a real role model. 

That's a nice sentence to type.
*****
There's a lot of hype and hyperbole and nonsense in professional sports.  There are also rare moments of class and style.

Scott Brooks, coach of the OKC Thunder, gave this speech to his team 2 minutes before the buzzer sounded on their resounding loss to LeBron's Miami Heat in the NBA championship series.  It's honest, it's thoughtful, it's focused and it's kind. 

Listen and see if you don't agree that this is a man you'd love to have coach your kids.

How Do You Learn History?

Big Cuter gave me a short course on the history of the world over lunch at a deli in San Francisco.

David McCullough introduced me to the founding fathers and mothers and Jay Winik took me through April, 1865. 

Anne Perry  brought me up to the brink and Dorothy Leigh Sayers explained the period after the Great War, the war to end all wars, the war that brought globalization to a new extreme.

I tried to read Gore Vidal's Burr one summer when I was young; the adults were so brazen and their behavior so outlandish that I never got past the second chapter.

I don't remember any of the history I was taught in high school. I never took a history course in college.

It took me until my 30's before I read the ancients.  Herodotus invented history, they say, and it was presented to me as such - an invention.  Were the strange and wonderful animals he describes real or were they added to make the text more accessible?  Did the events he recounts happen just that way or was his story influenced by those who were his sponsors?

"History is written by the winners," I was told, but it took Big Cuter's intersection with Howard Zinn for that phrase to have real meaning for me.  Poor kid, he went into ninth grade thinking that the USofA was absolutely wonderful; Zinn introduced him to a country of slave holders and land grabbers, robber barons and those they oppressed.  It turned him into a thoughtful young man whose politics were somewhere to the right of Atilla the Hun, where he rested, unflinchingly, until he moved to San Francisco and watched as the economic policies he'd espoused caused wrack and ruin.

As he told his father, "I changed my mind when I realized that everything I believed turned out to monumentally, disastrously wrong."

And perhaps that is the best way to learn history..... by living it.

G'ma was appalled that I didn't know where Patton fought.  "My brother fought with him in Italy!  That's not history - that is my life!"  

Living in Washington, D.C. during the Watergate hearings, when every move by Sam Ervin or any of the special prosecutors was front page news, the process became a part of me as if through osmosis.  In graduate school two years later, I was shocked that my classmates in Law and Social Work didn't know the order of events the way they knew their phone numbers.  It had been all consuming for four months; in Chicago, it was an after thought. 

I was part of an event which will be in the history books.  Errors already exist, in newspapers as prestigious as The New York Times, and, without correction, they will be incorporated into the reality of the event as it is perceived in the future.  This is vaguely disconcerting.

Then, again, as TBG has been saying of late, the only thing we know for certain about what happened is that every person there has a specific version that is true and real.  Whether there is any consistency between any two of them is another matter entirely.

So, I wonder, how do you learn history?

Aaron Sorkin is back and he's better than ever.  In fact, I think my new favorite four words might be written by Aaron Sorkin.  Did we like the first episode of his new HBO series, The Newsroom?  We watched it twice last night.

Aaron Sorkin is a true American patriot, and his rants on the topic are the stuff of legend, at least in this household.  Democracy isn't easy is the backdrop as I listen to opposing viewpoints.... or try to listen to opposing viewpoints even though all I am offered is screeching on the news and the talk shows. 

In The Newsroom, Sam Waterston, outraged, but with a twinkle in his eye, plays the boss who shares my sentiments, exactly.  He creates a show that he would want to watch, a program that is tough and fair-minded and answers the questions he was asking himself, the questions TBG and I ask one another as, once again, the evening news devolves into fluff and nonsense. 

Walking into the newsroom on April 20, 2010, watching as the staff puts together the first reporting on the BP Deep Water Horizon explosion, Waterston's character leans against the doorframe as he exclaims to no one in particular, "This is beautiful!" 

Sorkin's values are laid out on the table clearly, early and vibrantly in this and every other piece he's written, from A Few Good Men to The American President to The West Wing and Sports Night.  His work is dense and requires active participation; there's no doing a crossword puzzle at the same time.  That's why we watched it twice; the dialogue is so rich and textured.... okay, they talk over one another just like you do in real life and it's sometimes hard to follow all the different strands. 

That's annoying to some and I respect that.  I, being happy to view the episode more than once, am not as bothered.  I've learned to let it wash over me the first time and then pay closer attention the second time around.  There's so much in there, like a Hieronymous Bosch painting, that I'm not bored when I revisit. 

There was a time when we aspired to intelligence, when it didn't frighten us....... I am tired of stupid.

We have always thought that Sorkin lived inside our heads, but my post yesterday and his words that night were really too similar to be coincidence.  Perhaps we were separated at birth?  This isn't relaxing television; it challenges you to keep up with the pace. 

There are the usual Sorkin memes - loving sisters;  pre-show preparation; ambition and career vs loyalty.  Out of a universe of names from which to choose, Margaret is the one that is forgotten over and over and over again both here and in The West Wing.  I'm wondering about the back story there.  The story lines are familiar, too.  An old flame resurfacing, a feisty young woman, a young and sarcastic second banana, overseen by a benevolent and strong father figure.

HBO promoted the show as the tale of an anchor's meltdown and the surrounding debacle.  In reality, that occupies but a small fragment of the beginning of the piece, and, as many characters tell us, is not the reason for the show at all.  It's politically driven, with an agenda and a purpose.  It is unabashedly pretentious.  It is well acted and surprisingly informative.

I love it.  I hope you do, too. 

*****

If you want to watch it on-line, click here. 



Snippets

Hate is a pretty strong word for me, but I have to admit that I agree with TBG's pronouncement the other night: "I just hate stupid.  It's bad for business.  It hurts you emotionally.  It makes everything more difficult.  I really hate stupid."

I'm not talking about a lack of knowledge or a paucity of information.  I'm not talking about disabilities or unavoidable circumstances or situations where nothing you bring to the table equips you for the job at hand.  I'm talking about stupid.

Stupid makes the recovery time twice as long, because first you have to get over the hurt.  You get to rant and rave and feel justified in your fury because all it would have taken was..... and stupid made it not be so.  I end up in the same place, eventually, it is true.  But the aggravation would be lessened if stupid weren't around.
*****
I rode a chartered bus to Phoenix on Saturday night, wearing my Cubs shirt and accompanied by 20 members and affiliates of The Happy Ladies Club.  We parked outside Gate J at Chase Field and walked up a short ramp to our seats. 

There were hot dogs and burritos and ice cream and beer stands, the same offerings over and over again as far around the outer concourse as the eye could see.  There were little kids dancing on the jumbotron, and fly balls and stray bats carroming into the stands.

A year ago, 9 hours of sitting and unknown distances for walking would have been enouh to keep me at home.  Progress reveals itself in the strangest ways, it seems.

*****

This is a between-time for sportscasters here in the USofA.  Unless you're following the international football matches (soccer, here, of course) and the track and field Olympic qualifying,  there's really not much to get excited about beyond baseball.  UofA is in the College World Series, and that's exciting enough, but it's played in Omaha and I'm here melting in the desert. 

Here comes Title IX to the rescue.  Celebrating the 40th anniversary of the legislation that demanded parity, and proof thereof, between men's and women's athletics seems to be filling the gap.  It is legislation that truly changed the landscape of growing up.  There were options all over the place, not just on the cheerleading squad or gymnastics team.  My life would have been very different if all the girls around me played sports.... if I had role models who were every bit as cool as the ones the boys had. 

It's the kind of change that you have to live through to recognize, as Little Cuter pointed out to me at the Women's World Cup final when she was 14.  We were broiling in the heat in the Rose Bowl, surrounded by 90,185 fans, most of them females drinking lemonade, while watching the USofA hold China to a scoreless tie.  It was nothing I could have imagined when I was 14, and apparently I had been making that point once too often because, in a quiet moment... so that everyone nearby could hear.... Little Cuter turned to me in exasperation and commanded thusly:

"Mom, enough about Title IX"

Point taken, kiddo. Who wants a history lesson when you play the same game the women on the field are playing? 
*****
I didn't go to Congress on Your Corner on Saturday.  By the time I went to sleep on Friday night, I had decided to stay safe and secure in my comfy little bubble here at home, though I reserved the right to change my mind in the morning.

The newspaper revealed that Congressman Barber was stuck in the weather delays back east.  The event was pushed back to the afternoon.... and I had plans to drive to Phoenix to see the Cubbies .... so the scheduling just didn't work out. 

Did I really make a decision?  I don't know and I don't care.
*****
Aaron Sorkin is back and my heart is aflutter.  Find The Newsroom on HBO or HBO Go.  Sam Waterston speaking Aaron Sorkin's words on stupid is a much more eloquent screed than mine
*****

Congress on Your Corner, Redux

My Congressman called me last night.  It was just before 9pm here in Tucson; it was approaching midnight in Washington, D.C. where he's taken up temporary residence while voting on the floor of the House of Representatives. 

 

I know him as Ron, a fellow shootee.

 

There was awe in his voice as he described himself.  He's busy and he's motivated and he's still the same Ron I know from gatherings of all of us from that day, that ill-fated Congress on Your Corner sunny Saturday morning.  We chatted about the environment vs border security and the nuance required when making such decisions and we marveled at the fact that we were having the conversation at all.  Strolling into Little Cuter's room, we laughed at how impressed I was with myself.... I must be pretty special if my Congressman calls me at home, right?  Or not, we said, in unison.

 

He's just Ron, after all.

 

In the back of my mind, I knew why he was calling.  I remembered making a large donation to our Marin Congresswoman's re-election campaign (in order to buy an autographed-by-Bill-Bradley-basketball) and finding myself on the list of calls she made, month after month, year after year, soliciting further contributions.  When I asked her if there weren't other more productive uses of her time she sighed and confessed to spending two hours every day making these kinds of calls.  It was an awful moment.

 

But, he's Ron and I like him so, of course, I'd listen to his pitch. 

 

Turns out I was wrong about his intentions.  He wasn't asking me for anything, not even my presence.  He was calling because he wanted to tell me himself before I read it in the newspaper or heard it on tv - he's coming back to the district this weekend and he's holding his first Congress on Your Corner this Saturday morning.

 

I found myself sitting on the big purple chair in Little Cuter's room.  There was a giant hole in the air.  Neither of us said a word for a while.

 

"You're not doing it there, are you?" to which he replied "Oh, no... that would be...." and neither of us could find the words for what it would be, though awful kept rattling around in my head.

 

"Will there be security?" came out of my mouth as I watched my left arm shake.  My stomach wasn't in a knot; it was rolling around from side to side.  I started pacing again as my Congressman, not much taller than I, reassured me that there would be plain clothes and uniformed security in attendance. "Big officers.... with big guns?" I wondered and he repeated it, slowly and carefully....big guys with big guns.

 

And then we were quiet again.  I was, once again, in a unique situation.  No one had prepared me for this eventuality.  I was experiencing a singularity.

 

Would you revisit an event that tore up your world?  Would anyone ask you to do so?

 

Ron, sensing my unease and being a nice man, reassured me that he held no expectations of my attendance.  He wasn't calling to invite me, though he would love to see me, Saturday or any day.  His call was to alert me so that I was not blindsided while making dinner.  He was making a lot of similar calls..... there were 19 of us who intersected with bullets that morning.  It was a gracious call, not a summons to an event.  He wanted to be sure that I was okay, even as he, himself must be dealing with many if not more or all of the same feelings.\

 

He can't hide.  He has to be available.  He's our representative and we have to be able to talk to him.  Congress on Your Corner is a great opportunity for that to happen.  Unfortunately for Ron and me, the last one we went to didn't turn out that well.

 

 

I have always said I'd take Christina-Taylor to meet her Congresswoman again, that I'd done nothing wrong, that we were in the right place at the right time and without a doubt I'd do it again. And yet now, when faced with the reality, I find that I am chickenshit. Even with security......

It's an event to which I'd take Amster's kids and Juan from Prince Elementary School and JannyLou's grandkids if they were still in town..... if I hadn't nearly died the last time I took a kid to the same event.  In my mouth and my mind, of course I'd go.  In real life......

Do I let the shooter take away my enjoyment of civic engagement in a public setting?  That's letting him win twice.

Do I purposely put myself in an anxiety provoking situation?  I could use my biofeedback techniques and practise relaxation in a stressful environment.

Do I go to support my friend at his first representation as my Representative?  Good people don't run for public office very often; what if good people don't even attend free and convenient public events, either?  What kind of statement am I making?

Will anyone but I know if I attend the event?  Will anyone else care?  It's possible that, as has happened before, strangers will approach me and tell me that they saw me on the televised coverage of the event whether I am there or not.  Big Cuter, with whom I discussed this situation last night, is trying to get his head around the fact of people remembering what could not have been. 

Do I let my fears dictate my actions?  Do I give in to the bubbles brewing in my gut as I type this post?  Do I listen to TBG when he says, not altogether facetiously, Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me.

It's awful to think this hard about attending an event which I'd normally just pencil in on my calendar, without questioning it at all. 

Eighteen months ago, I really was going to meet Gabby.  I wanted to be in her presence.  I'd voted for her and I was going to shake her hand and introduce her to a little girl who might, after she made her mark in Major League Baseball, just might follow in Congressswoman Giffords's footsepts.  I'd never done any of that before.

But, I know Ron.  I can call him at home or send him an email.  He's just Ron, after all. 

Do I have to stand in a parking lot..... can I stand in a parking lot.... can I contemplate standing in a parking lot in front of a Safeway on a sunny Saturday morning, waiting to meet my Representative? 

I just don't know

Am I Too Cynical?

My sister forwarded me the information : Norman F. Lent, 11 term Congressman from G'ma's Long Island district, died at the age of 81.  He considered himself a moderate conservative, an extinct species as far as I can determine.  He opposed integration in a local school district, co-sponsored the Superfund legislation, worked to liberalize New York's abortion laws, and was prone to such utterances as these:

“We continue to play a game of chemical roulette with man’s biological future. We’ve got to stop this.”

My memory of his terms in office reflect none of the nuance that was obviously part and parcel of the man.  Instead, I remember sitting at G'ma's kitchen table, red pencil in one hand, Congressman Lent's quarterly newsletter in the other.  G'ma saved them for me.  Together, she at the sink, cutting veggies for the salad she created every single night, I reading aloud and groaning over misspellings and poor punctuation and rhetorical inconsistencies.  I marked up the paper and mailed it back to the Congressman.  No one ever contacted us about it, nor did the grammar improve.

I was blinded to the substance of his work in Congress by the insult to my intelligence that was his newsletter.  His newsletter, which was franked and therefore paid for by my tax dollars, which was to represent my Representative in my home, which was to deliver information, his newsletter was the butt of our jokes and nothing more.

And yet he kept getting elected.  G'ma and I must've been the only ones who cared.

TBG and I had Dylan Ratigan on the television as we were changing to go to the gym.  His interviewees were two educators who are obviously quite talented.  They were able to understand Ratigan's questions.  TBG and I were hard pressed to come up with the topic, let alone where his interest lay.  One question..... two questions.... the third time came and I still had no idea what he was talking about so I changed the channel to an oldies-on-the-cable-tv-station and we boogied away our irritation.

The man was hired to speak.  He's not an ex-jock who can be forgiven for slipping up every once in a while if the rest of the time his patter is listen-worthy.  He is nothing but a mouth.... we saw no evidence of a brain behind it. 

And yet, there he is, every afternoon.  Are TBG and I the only ones listening?

Rio Nuevo is the redevelopment district from hell here in Tucson.  Funded with sales tax revenues, this District within a district has all kinds of powers and, apparently, a total inability to account for all those millions of pesky dollars that flowed into and out of their coffers.  Thus far there are a few rehabilitated storefronts downtown and a nicely bladed and dusty acreage on the south side which has a nice sign and nothing else going on.... and that's just on the east side of I-10.  The Arizona Star is reporting an audit questioning $33.8million of questionable spending on the west side of I-10. In all, between $200 and $300 million dollars have been spent with nothing to show for it.

And yet, no one is in jail.  Boards are reconstituted and new mayors elected and still, nothing happens.

I could go on about the SuperPac ads which innundated our district for the special election which sent Gabby's handpicked candidate to Washington while delivering a decisive defeat to his Tea Party oppponent.  In the aftermath of the election, no one was heard to call him a Republican.  Some on the radio called him a Tea Party Republican, but most just used the TP part. 

The winning Democrat went to Washington, got sworn in, and immediately voted against his party by agreeing to allow Border Ptarol vehicles to pursue illegal crossers on federally protected lands.  It's a nuanced issue; when Park Rangers are afraid to use the provided-on-site-as-part-of-their-compensation housing because it's too dangerous and there is no protection then my concern for endangered species smaller than humankind seems less important.  Congressman Barber's constituents include those Park Rangers as well as all of us cactus-huggers who resist mining and development and bright-lights-at-night.  It's a fine line to walk; one that requires thought and balance. I admire his courage in voting his conscience.

And yet, as I read the article in the paper this morning I found myself murmuring "He's running for re-election already... that vote is for the ranchers...."

Am I too cynical?  Am I looking at the dark side?  Is there hope?  I'm just not seeing much good out there, nor, does it seem, did I ever.  Sigh.......

In-Laws

I've spent the morning collecting things for a project MOTG and I are creating.  Truth be told, she's doing the creating and I'm doing the collecting, but we're in it together, that's for sure.  I'm in charge of technical details, she's in charge of beauty and artistry and design and composition.  We're playing to our individual strengths, almost without thinking about it.  It just kinda happened this way.

I spent last night in the company of JannyLou and her daughters-in-law, celebrating a year of health and well-being.  The girls - mothers themselves but young enough for the appellation in my eyes - were supportive and protective and loving through JannyLou's surgeries and recoveries and re-surgeries and re-recoveries but they never failed to acknowledge the fact that I was there, right next door, as back up.  They were glad to have me close at hand, nearer to a woman they hold dear than their lives would allow.  Their concern, their conscientiousness, their love and devotion gave great weight to the advice JannyLou gave to Amster over wine and salads - Be sure to make friends with your sons' wives.

It's good advice, for mothers of sons and mothers of daughters, too.  I'd append an addendum, though: It's even better if you are friends with the in-laws.

There's not an English word for the parents of the person my child marries.  Yiddish provides machatunim to define the relationship, although there is some controversy over whether the term can also be used by the couple to identify the other's parental units.  (Are you as confused as I am?) Personally, I go with the larger definition, simply because mother-in-law and father-in-law are perfectly fine distinctions.  Little Cuter's Husband's Parents is too much of a mouthful.  Machatunim is just right.

Blending family traditions isn't easy. Do you open presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning?  Does the Thanksgiving sweet potato casserole have marshmallows sizzling atop the pyrex or are they too yucky for words let along the dining room on the best eating day of the year?  Are birthdays mega-events, spanning a week or more with frivolity and gifts in abundance?  Or, are they quietly noted events within a small circle of loved ones?  Do you drive to see Grandma and Grandpa every Sunday afternooon, or is the day spent in front of a football game, chips and salsa at the ready?  These are the things that make married life difficult... more difficult than the larger issues of trust and commitment and devotion, I think.

TBG and I enjoyed the other's parents, in doses large and small.  Luckily, the parents returned the favor, to us and to each other.  Living in Cleveland and Long Island, the opportunities for interactions were limited, and that may have added to the joy they found when they were together.  The moms chatted about things moms chat about.  Daddooooo talked and talked and talked and talked to Grandpaw, who smiled and nodded and turned off his hearing aid.  The two men would sit, most memorably for 4 hours in my parents' backyard the night before our wedding, my father blathering and TBG's father deriving equations in his head, blissfully unable to hear Daddooooo's rambling.  That suited them just fine - Grandpaw could let his mind wander, calculating patterns and admiring the stars and Daddooooo had, to his great satisfaction, an audience willing to sit and listen.

It worked for everyone. 

I had only one argument with Nannie in the 30 some years I knew her.  TBG was going off on a business trip during a blizzard and she insisted that I keep him at home.  I understood her worries; I shared them myself.  Listening to her detail all the things which could go wrong did nothing to soothe my nerves as the father of my infant son prepared to board a plane and fly into the eye of the storm.  I was looking for solace, she was looking for comfort, and I yelled at her.

I was sorry and sick about it for days. 

It never drove a wedge between us; TBG assuaged our bruised souls by reminding us that HE was the one who was in danger and that our love for him was putting us at odds.  We all wanted the same thing.  He was right, of course, and we were able to agree that all that caring sometimes led us astray.  Of course, Grandpaw, his father, thought we were all nuts.  There was work to be done.  Damn the weather, full speed ahead.  It was an obligation and obligations were to be met.  Daddooooo, my father, agreed. 

Perhaps that is the real answer.  Despite all the differences between us, our families' core values were rock solid and exactly the same.  Stay safe.  Work hard.  Protect one another.  That is what comes to mind when I think back on it.  Our friends and neighbors thought that our husbands were wonderful human beings; they, themselves, shared that opinion.  Every once in a while my phone would ring and Nannie's voice would be in my ear, begging me to agree that her husband was not as perfect as he thought he was.  Invariably, I had my own similar story about her son.  We couldn't go outside the family with these complaints; that would have been unseemly.  But between ourselves, despite our differences, we could agree that while we loved them unconditionally, every once in a while one or the other of them made a mistake. 

They were not perfect.  We could laugh about it, knowing that our relationships with our guys and with each other were strong enough to weather the storm.... the snow storm or the verbal storm.

Watching Anna and Amy loving JannyLou last night warmed the cockles of my heart.  Emailing MOTG this morning rekindled the fire.  I'm looking forward to creating my own new family circle.  I have some pretty good role models to follow.