My Background Music is Books

Many people hear music as they remember a particular place and time in their own personal history. I realized today that although music often takes me back to a specific place in the timeline of my life, books are actually the true score to my life.  

The past couple of weekends we painted the upstairs hallway (well, my husband painted while I helped prep and then told him the spots he missed), which meant moving furniture, the most daunting piece being The Bookcase. It isn't that huge, but it contains books that range from a 1929 Alice Through the Looking Glass that belonged to my mother, to Number the Stars bought for my own children, plus various Nicholas Sparks (mine and my oldest daughter's) and My Body My Self (I won't embarrass the proud owner of that one). That bookcase contains the complete Tolkien series, one baby book (I have three kids, so I wonder why only one? And where are the others?), CS Lewis, The Brothers Grimm, many Beatrix Potter mini books, and dozens of other treasures. These treasures represent periods of my life that are particularly poignant.  I was changed forever by Fahrenheit 451 and the high school teacher who assigned it.  As a teacher and mother I read and cried through Bridge to Tarabithia.  Again as teacher and mother I marveled at my youngest daughter's fascination with dark tragedies, but remember how challenging it was to get her to read at all.  I remember being delighted in my son's development as a reader when hooked on Watership Down (finally hooked on reading!) and proudly watching him as an independent thinker choose  Michael Moore's various takes on the political world as we know it.  

I hesitated, cleaning out the shelf of the "fluff" my mom lent me to read, and making a pile of my own children's books to add to my classroom library. Which of these may have been instrumental in my oldest daughter's development of world view or a writer's eye and mind? Did some of these have remnants of my mother's life philosophy or enjoyment of historical fiction (a passion we share)? My father had the habit of ordering books and copying magazine articles that reflected his philosophy, one for each of his daughters, and sometimes his grandchildren. I have a copy of the last of those thoughtful purchases with a note clipped to it in his handwriting that says "Janice". It's a gift from him, probably his last. I haven't read it yet, but it went into the pile of "to read".

Yes, books are the score that plays in the background through the stages of my life. The children's party planning books are alongside the master's degree books, each equally important, telling the tales of my many lives.  I clean away some space on the shelves and wonder what books I will add. I'm looking forward to carving out time for the "to read" books that are on the shelf, easily within reach, and wonder what my children will think when they go through those shelves of my life.

Never Apparent, Always A Parent

It's not always clear to me at what moments I am parenting, and when I'm just a parent. Is every conversation, every interaction with my kids an act of parenting? Friendly conversation or banter, an outing for yogurt or a simple car ride always seem to turn into something more. If our kids have become adults, are we still parenting them? My children are adults, according to the law of the land, because their birth dates fall more than eighteen years ago. If you are a parent you know that this means nothing to clarify the definition of their being 'adult'.

Our oldest child is completely financially independent. Child Number 2 is well on her way - we provide food and shelter, but she is saving towards getting her own shelter soon. The third is still a tax write-off, a full-time student, and completely reliant on us for food and shelter. Aside from those cold assessments of our assets, our kids are still our kids. They need advice and, asked for or not, we provide it. They need reminders that family time is important, so we dribble on the guilt. They need to hear that they are on the right path, are making good choices, are loved and smart and wonderful, so we praise and hug and encourage. We bribe them with promises of food, we buy them gifts of new tennis shoes, golf clubs, and clothes. We help them set up their new apartments. We provide gas and cars and muscles when they move. And all of that is the easy stuff. 

When they come to us with a proposition, or a decision, or a philosophical/political position, we have to stop and take a few breaths, or even give them an "I'll have to get back to you after I think about it." Encouraging independence and helping them get on their feet or on their way to achieving a goal or taking a stand is a path strewn with obstacles and potholes. Every hesitation can be interpreted as disapproval, every compromise a failed promise or dashed hope. Even encouragement can be misread as consent. Recently one of my children asked for help paying a couple of months rent (as a loan) in order to move into an apartment with friends who would be ready sooner than my child was ready with enough savings. Hmmm. We were asked carefully and seriously, and our progeny knew the amount was not a monetary hardship on us. In spite of the careful and difficult request, we paused. We want to instill responsibility and the ethic of paying cash not credit. How to do that without sounding selfish and stingy? Impossible; and apparently we achieved the double coup of appearing to be unsupportive as well.

We have three kids, and in a good week only one of three is mad at us. Usually it's two, and on rare occasions all three. And sometimes it's not both of us; two are mad at me and their dad, the third is only mad at dad. Or one is mad at both and two are mad at me, etc.  I'm going to take the position that anger and frustration is a sign that we are doing something right. Or not. Who knows? All I know is that I am always a parent.

When My Smartphone Dove into the Pool

There I was, sitting by the pool, just picking up my towel. Suddenly, (but slowly) it was like everything went into slow motion mode - the dark rectangle splashhhhhhhed into the aqua water, then slowly sank, twirling through the sparkling water like a leaf falling from a tree in the gentle autumn breeze. HOLY SHIT, MY PHONE!!!! I jumped in and scooped it up and wrapped it in the towel quick as a blink (slow motion mode stopped at "HOLY..."). Fortunately I had my bathing suit on so nothing else got wet that shouldn't. A friend was quick to suggest the rice drying method (I'd used this one successfully for my daughter's phone) so I got out a baggie and scooped the rice in, dried my phone as best I could, and popped it into the bag and prayed.

Meanwhile, I had to get on about the day's events without the assistance of my smart phone. I felt a little lost at first, then I began to problem solve, because that's just who I am, a problem solver.

First, I picked up my daughter's phone and texted her father to let him know I was phoneless for the rest of the day. He never checks messages so had no idea until much later. When she called him to gloat to, I mean inform, him that his 'girlfriend' (his pet name for me, still, 30 years after the wedding) had dropped her phone in the pool (insert hysterical, throaty laughter a la Demi Moore - my girls inherited their father's raspy voice), he thought she was the one who did it and refused to believe it, bless him. 

On to the list of How We Got To the New Dentist in the Other Valley Without My Smart Phone. Step 1, etc: Try to remember the name of the dentist that is typed into my calendar. Then realize that thanks to the magical Cloud, my calendar information from my phone (sometimes) transfers to my laptop. Fire up the Laptop. Look up the address online, then Mapquest (haven't used that in a while) it. Memorize the directions (and email them to Demi-laughter daughter just in case). Repeat this address to yourself over and over so your daughter doesn't think you've totally gone over the hill and are now sliding down it into dementia. Get in the car and pray the traffic isn't bad, because you certainly can't check it on your smart phone. Find the New Dentist on your own and feel totally, well, SMART. All on your own. Sit in the waiting room reading the TV Guide because you have no games to play, status to update, or online reading to do. BECAUSE YOUR SMARTPHONE is at home, sitting in a bag of rice. Find your way home (after a three hour visit - I almost said tour), with only one wrong turn. Try your best not to turn on the cell phone that still needs to sit in rice. Fold clothes. Wait.

I tried the rice, then the blow dryer, thinking two solutions are better than one. Over six hours after the swimming incident, I was tired of reading (actually turning pages. Of paper.) my book and trying to figure out what to put in the pasta salad (oh, yah, check the laptop edition of recipe finder) and I just couldn't wait any longer. It worked! My phone was working! How did I lever live without you?! I mean, ahem, no problem, could have gone a whole day no  problem....

Pin, Surf, Search, Post, Repin, Like

This is what I spend my time doing in my "free" time. Sitting in front of the computer, laughing, smiling, pecking away at the keys. I read jokes that make me laugh, watch TED videos that make me cry. I catch up on most of my friends and relatives and their families. I read reviews of books and movies and I pin photos of beautiful ideas onto my Pinterest (a baby obsession that I fear will continue to grow and develop into a demanding teenager). I do all this alone. In my room, or family room, or at the kitchen table. Yes, I interact with friends, posting comments to comments, or chatting in boxes. But I'm still alone. 

I find it surreal to think that when I was 15 it was a privilege (that a rich aunt afforded us) to have my own Princess phone in my room so I could call and talk, in real time, with my friends. But only after homework and dinner, and definitely before eight. Now I can be in almost immediate contact with anyone, literally anyone, I know around the world. I can even see their face while I speak to them. My kids can get a hold of me any time, any place via the magic mini-tablet I carry in my pocket. Oh, and it plays music, too. No more planning a meeting place or agenda for the day so that I know where they are or how to reach them. No longer do I ask for the phone number of the house they are visiting. That is a memory, a shadow, from a former life, a former generation.

So I wonder how this age of technology and instant communication has shaped us, or really the generations behind me, and how it continues to shape us. How are relationships different, and is the way our kids communicate and form relationships effected by this shift in the universe? I know, I'll goto the library, look through the card catalog under "Are you kidding me?!" and find magazine articles on such studies. Or I could wait for that annual Encyclopedia Britannica edition that highlights the year (no, it's not an ocean liner). But wait, I have this large, magic keyboard with a flat TV screen to help me...

Thank You, Title IX

Today is the fortieth birthday of the landmark legislation that has affected the lives of many people I love. It's been a long time since I have blogged, and I thought that this day was worthy of my time and effort, and for special recognition of this day.

Title IX, a portion of the Education Amendments of 1972, states that "No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance,...." (with some exceptions including religious and military), see http://www.dol.gov/oasam/regs/statutes/titleix.htm.  Title IX is most well-known for its impact on women's sports in public education. I was ten when this passed, so felt very little of it affect my own life or those of my peers.

As I drive by the many schools and parks of my town, I see girls playing soccer and softball as much as I do boys. I wonder what these girls would think if I told them that a few short years ago they wouldn't even be considered for a college soccer team or a national softball team? I look at my daughters' friends who went to college on scholarships and came out with a degree and the self discipline required to compete in a sport at the college level plus carry a full load of classes. I especially think about those girls who would not have had the opportunity to go to college without the financial help that they earned by excelling in their field of sport, particularly those who are the first college graduates of their family. What a different world we live in compared to when I went to college.

Thank you, Title IX for making the dreams of our little girl athletes as big (or almost as big - professional sports has some catching up to do) as their brothers'. I have my eye on some of my former students and expect to be invited to their college games in the not-so-distant future!

Tales from the Old

I sat with my father at his lunch time in the dining room of his care facility. He had tucked another clean linen napkin away in the basket of his walker to add to the crisply folded pile in his room. His regular table mate sat mute and smiling, carefully finishing the gelatin topped with whipped cream as his current girlfriend chatted with me about my wonderful father. 

Again she told me how nice it was to finally meet me ('again' because we had the same conversation last time I visited). Enthusiastically the woman went on about how highly my father spoke of me.  Her late husband had been an LAPD officer and they had known my father since he was 16.  What are the odds? Anyway, as she went on about what a gentleman my father was and how he loved my mother and called her his "little English wife", she started to vary from the tale I'd heard before.

Mentioning La Canada, where she still had a house, prompted her to divulge that, in a hushed voice, she couldn't go back, however much she wanted to, because of the dangerous neighbor. As we sat talking at the table, Dad's usual table partner quietly left to sit by the piano, saving his girl a seat so she could join him later. She continued to tell me in a low voice how a Jewish man had moved in to the house next to hers. She said that "they" put up a good surface appearance, but that he was dangerous. He had tried on many occasions to kill her with his car. She had even gone to the police station to report him; but he was tricky. Her daughter decided it was too dangerous for her to continue to live there, so she found this place as a temporary solution.

I said that her daughter must be very concerned with her safety to have moved her here, and it was important that she stay safe here. As this well-spoken woman went to join her boyfriend (does she know he is also Jewish?), I wondered about the brain and how it creates parallel realities. I thought of her daughter getting a call from the police station about her hysterical mother, and the decision made to move her to a care facility. My father has told residents and workers that the dog in the lobby painting is Ginger, my childhood dog, and sometimes that my sister owns the building and I am the Principal of a school. Perhaps all of the pattern-seeking brain activity that has gone on all our lives takes the side streets as we age, making sense of the strange neighborhoods we find ourselves in.

I sat at in the car thinking about this woman and her stories and I wondered how much truth there was stirred into the cauldron of her tales. There are over a hundred residents in this place, each with stories to tell. Fantastic, semi-truthful, historical, personal stories. What a treasure box of fables! A book could be written about the secrets, dramas, love stories, and mysteries swirling around the halls and dining rooms of this neighborhood aging care facility. I'd better get started...

Growing the Good Will Pile

Today is breezy, and after the rain stops there is a nip in the air. It's the weekend, when what I wear leans more toward comfortable than stylish...or flattering.  I put on pants and reach for the old faithful long-sleeved, high-waisted, slightly faded, knit top that hangs from my chest to below my hips. I even think as I look in the mirror - hmmm, this always makes me look a little pregnant, but I don't care what other people think. Comfort is king. Wrap a scarf around my neck and off I go. 

When I flag down a sales lady at the middle-aged-lady's shop that I occasionally make purchases from  she takes my selections as she says, "When are you due?"  This is so out of context and outside of my thought process that I don't take it in until she opens a dressing room for me and says, "Oh, July? Here you go, let me know if you need anything." Does she mean, no she couldn't possibly. OH MY GOD SHE DOES. Waves of emotion wash over me. Speechless, flabbergasted, MORTIFIED, I can barely stand and nothing looks good on me, in fact all of my choices are too big. As I sneak out of the store avoiding the sales lady, 

a big smile crosses my face. She actually thought that I looked 

young enough to be of child-bearing age.

I LOOK YOUNG ENOUGH TO BE PREGNANT.  

That must mean that I look at least 

 TEN YEARS YOUNGER than I am. Wow, I look gooooood. 

  Dance of Joy.

Thank you, sales lady, you made my day. And that top is in the Good Will pile, of course.

Jumping into 2012

I've been chopping and browning and chopping and seasoning (did I mention chopping?) all morning. And as I make chili to celebrate this new year, I've been thinking of my dad. My dad was a famous chili maker in his circle of friends. Every Memorial Day weekend a group of families my parents had camped with for years would have a chili cook-off. It was a festive but at the same time serious and competitive affair. And every year my dad would spend the day before with a variety of meats and spices and onions and peppers. He left beans out long ago, and often combined cuts of meat. The spices he used also varied, and he tried to keep it edible to most (he loved it so spicy that only a few could stand it).  Sometimes he'd start with a bag of spices he'd purchased, sometimes he'd mix his own. Although I loved to watch and be enveloped by the smells coming from the kitchen, my dad wasn't one to divulge his secrets easily. He took pride in coming in first place more than once, and was almost always in the top three. He would always say it was his "secret ingredient" that made his chili special. I have the feeling that the secret changed every year. For me it was the process and the love and care he put into it.  I wish I'd known that the man I watched with a mixture of amusement and admiration would slowly disappear before my eyes in just a few years so that I'd payed more attention. I wish I'd joined in more often.  I wish that dad was with me today.

Today I welcome 2012 by honoring my past and looking forward. Everyone is home for one more day, so we'll all have chili and cornbread and maybe a salad for dinner. Today I honor you, Dad, by chopping and browning and mixing and stirring a pot of my closest approximation of your wonderful chili. It's a great way to start a year that will be full of new experiences, challenges, and changes! Happy New Year!