“And now it is time to announce the winner of the Golden Bear award!” the coach yelled from the front of the room. The 7th and 8th graders on the track team began to whisper to each other. The nervous parents sat up a little straighter in their plastic chairs. The Golden Bear award was the last award given out at the end of the year track banquet. The prior awards had been a reflection of superior athletic ability and talent, reflected in only a handful of the team’s superstars. The Golden Bear award, however, was chosen by the coaches and didn’t necessarily have anything to do with athletic ability. It was an award for the “good” kids. Everyone had a chance.
The track kids stopped whispering to each other as the coach began to list off the qualities the Golden Bear award winner possessed. The parents looked ahead with their heads held high, their smiles full of hopeful confidence and anticipation. It was an unspoken assumption among the parents that the Golden Bear award must somehow be a reflection of superior parenting. Good kids were always a product of good parenting. Challenging children were, of course, a result of an unlucky genetic draw…right?
“This award is going to someone who is just the nicest kid, who was always pleasant to be around and who always had a smile on their face.” the coach announced.
A few of the parents immediately looked uncomfortable.
“This kid was helpful every single day. This kid helped put away the hurdles every day after practice without being asked to.”
A few more parents began to look down at the floor. Their smiles were quickly fading.
“This kid did what was asked of them without complaining or talking back.”
Quite a few parents had now looked away from the coach and many more were fidgeting in their seats.
“This kid was respectful of the coaches every single day.”
The majority of the parents were now wiggling uncomfortably as they looked randomly around the room and pretended to drink from their empty cup.
Who was this phantom child the coach was speaking of? It must be a foreign exchange student. Or maybe a Mormon child. Perhaps even an Amish child. Most of the parents knew the coach couldn’t possibly be talking about the very real, typical, emotional, unpredictable , challenging and defiant teenager they struggled with at home. Their child did not regularly exhibit the qualities the coach was listing off--at least not at home.
It’s often been said that kids will save their best behavior for school and then fall apart at home where they feel comfortable and safe. Just like at the track awards ceremony, this behavior can also be seen on the dreaded report card. It may or may not be a surprise that Junior received a B in math class or a C in science class, but parents might be surprised at some of the positive remarks in the comment section of the report card. Regardless of the grades, parents can be stunned to learn their teenager “is a pleasure to have in class” or “is a good role model”. A parent might be shocked to find that their teen “demonstrates superior achievement in class” or was “highly motivated” or “possesses good self discipline”. Many astonished parents have asked, “Who the heck are they talking about? Are you sure this is your report card? Why can’t you be more like this at home?”
If parents were to issue report card comments reflective of a child’s home behavior, they might come out a tad more negatively. Comments like, “a pleasure to have around only when sleeping quietly in her bedroom” or “a good role model for all aspiring video gamers” would be included. Parents wouldn’t be at all shocked to see that their teen “demonstrates superior achievement in dirty laundry accumulation” or was “highly cranky before noon” or “possesses a selfish, ungrateful attitude”.
When the Golden Bear award winner was finally announced at the track banquet that night, the winning parents seemed to exhibit an immense and surprised sigh of relief more than a prideful, boasting smile. The Golden Bear award was confirmation that their child functioned a bit better in society than they sometimes did at home. They might feel like parental failures on a daily basis, they might wonder where they went wrong with their kid and they might seriously wonder how their kid will ever become a responsible adult. But one thing was for sure. If their kid could somehow be worthy of the Golden Bear award, well…..maybe there was hope. Hope, not just for their kid, but for themselves as parents as well. Because, after all, winning the Golden Bear award, or reading positive report card comments such as, “is a good role model” or “is a pleasure to have in class” isn’t just about the child. When translated into parenting language these comments really mean-- “Hey, hang in there! Parenting is tough but you seem to be doing a decent job. Keep it up!”
Unless of course, the report card comments are negative. Then we all know that is just a bit of bad genetic luck. And there’s nothing any parent can do about that...um...right?
Check This Out!
Then teenager and I recently read Night by Elie Wiesel together. Night is Wiesel’s account of his survival of the horrors of the Holocaust. The teenager and I were both quite hesitant to read this book for fear of it making us feel uncomfortable. Within the first few pages, however, we were hooked and couldn’t manage to put it down. This small but gripping book should be required reading for every person on this planet.
Another book that raises a few questions is The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals by Michael Pollan. Pollan traces the origins of the food we eat today including food from industrial farms, large scale organic farms, small family farms and even hunting and gathering your own food. Do you really know where your food comes from, how it gets to your table and the ramifications of deciding what you will eat for dinner tonight? It's a fascinating book that really makes you think.
The teenager and the boy are also highly recommending the movie Wall-E. Our family has made our half yearly trip to the movie theater and I can report that all members of the family laughed, cried and were moved by Wall-E. 4 stars and two thumbs up.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Dental Revenge
“Have a seat, honey” the dental hygienist said to me. “We’ll get that old childhood filling replaced for you, and then you’ll be on your way. Can I get you anything else?”
I nervously paused and then buried my pride. I blurted out my request. “Can I have the gas today?”
I could feel a cool chill immediately rush through the room which was surprising, given my flushed, warm and embarrassed face. My status in the dental world had plummeted. I couldn’t look her in the eye but I could feel her scanning me. She searched for a clue that would tell her if I was more likely to be a super dental wimp or a well disguised, pill popping, suburban mom looking for a free high.
The hygenist must have decided I had the dental bravery of a 4 year old weenie boy. I was ok with that. She gave me a look of pity and patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, yes, of course. Certainly sweetie. We’ll get that started right away for you. Don’t you worry about a thing. Now, would you like to watch some TV?” She turned the TV to my requested channel, the Food Network, and lowered the ugly, space age looking, rubber nose, gas delivery system onto my face.
I always get a bit of a chuckle when my dental appointments occur right before mealtimes, as this one did. While the hungry and captive dentist and his assistant pound away at my mouth, making my life miserable, I get to have a bit of dental revenge by forcing them to listen to “mouthwatering and unbelieveable” food being made on the Food Network. Eventually the dentist’s stomach will growl and he’ll say, “Oh, that looks so good. I’m sooo hungry.” And I feel just a little bit better knowing he’s a little bit miserable, like me.
As I was attempting to quietly inhale as much relaxing gas as I could, the dentist began shooting my tooth with a needle full of “pressure”. This uncomfortable “pressure” hurt a lot. The hygienist saw my toes curl. She offered to turn up the gas. I was ok with that. “Now don’t you worry about one little thing here, ok?” the dentist calmly cooed to me. “You are doing just super great. You are being soooo brave. We are going to take very good care of you today. You just stay nice and relaxed in this chair and things will be just fine. There is not one little thing for you to worry about.”
Clearly, the dentist had seen the gas and my curling toes and had decided I was a big dental weenie risk, possibly prone to unpredictable and most problematic dental chair outbursts. I was ok with that. The gas had kicked in, I was quite relaxed now and the hungry dentist was forced to listen to the Food Network while I lolled about in my happy place. Things were as good as they were going to get.
And then the dentist went to work, both on my tooth and on my stomach. He leaned my chair back so far that I couldn’t see the TV anymore. And his drill was so loud that I couldn’t hear the TV anymore. But apparently he could still see and hear the TV. “Oh, that Food Network is making me so hungry!” he said. My mouth opened a tiny bit wider and the edges turned upward as I chuckled silently to myself. My Food Network revenge had worked. It seemed, however, that by opening my mouth a bit wider I had angered the hungry dentist. He proceeded to jam what felt like a large rubber shoe into my mouth, “just to make sure your mouth stays open”. I was not ok with that.
The hungry dentist then continued to make life worse for me. “All that good food on TV reminds me of the most amazing pizza I had last night.” He then proceeded to describe his last pizza in a way that had the tiniest bit of impish suggestiveness thrown in. Or maybe it was the gas that made me think that. Apparently, his pizza crust had just the right amount of crispy and just the right amount of chewy. It was not too thick and not too thin. The toppings he described were all of my favorites. And the hot and melted and gooey cheese not only consisted of mozzarella but a bit of fontina and smoked provolone as well, which, according to the dentist, put his pizza over the top. And of course, it had been baked in a hot, very hot, brick pizza oven. The hungry dentist then finished his story with an adjective dripping description of the creamiest, most extraordinary, full fat, imported ice cream that was his dessert that same night. In total, it was the most phenomenal and delicious meal he had ever had.
When he was done, I half expected him to pull out a cigarette and ask me if it was good for me to.
Or maybe it was just the gas that made me think that.
I squirmed in the chair and took a super deep breath, inhaling the gas as deeply as I could with a rubber shoe in my mouth.
I was now starving. Or at least that was what I kept thinking to myself. I felt my stomach rumble a bit. Quite a bit. I was not ok with that. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I wondered, a bit desperately, if my gas was still working. I wasn’t feeling very relaxed anymore. I wasn’t feeling the airy, careless satisfaction of my usual dental revenge. I was feeling hungry. I may have been unable to see or hear the Food Network, but my dentist’s food torture was coming through loud and clear. My stomach then let out one of those huge, embarrassing “I can’t believe that came from my stomach! (I hope that came from your stomach.)” kind of roars. The dentist chuckled a bit which was quite easy for him to do, not having any “pressure” injected into his teeth or any large rubber shoe stuck in his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry”, he laughed. “Is my pizza and ice cream story making you hungry?”
You’re darned right it is, you evil man, I screamed in my head. What kind of person talks about food, like that, in a dentist's office, right before lunch when a kind, innocent, insurance covered patient like me is drugged, trapped in this chair and forced to listen to whatever he says? It’s just not right. Who would do such a cruel thing?
As soon as that evil dentist was finished with me I rushed out to my car, still a bit lightheaded. I needed to get some pizza, and fast. I gave no thought to the fact that I might be driving while still slightly gassed. I had more pressing pizza issues to attend to. A Lean Cuisine from the grocery store would be my quick fix. As I backed my car out of the parking spot, I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror. My entire, red and blotchy face was covered in deep crevices from the ugly, space age looking, rubber nose, gas delivery system that had sat molded to my face for the last hour. My messy, laying down hair, looked like an unkempt bird’s nest. One side of my face was swollen and drooping. And I was not ok with that. I couldn’t be seen in public looking like this. There would be no pizza for me.
Half an hour later, I sat at my dining room table eating overcooked pasta with butter and salt. I was a bit lightheaded, a fair bit swollen and still covered in deep gas mask wrinkles. I could only chew on one side of my mouth. I think I kept biting my half numb tongue. I turned on the TV to PBS.
“Today, on America’s Test Kitchen,…the best pizza you’ve ever had!”
I was not ok with that.
Check This Out!
I’ve just finished reading the book Honeymoon With My Brother by Franz Wisner. Dumped by his fiancĂ© and left with an unrefundable honeymoon to Costa Rica, Franz decided to take his brother on the trip, minus the carrying over the threshold stuff. Soon Franz and his brother Kurt abandon their successful United States lives and embark on a two year, around the world adventure that changes both their lives and just might change yours. I can’t recommend it highly enough.
I must also recommend the video Hard Rock Treasures: A Behind the Scenes Look at Rock-n-Roll Royalty and Their Most Prized Possessions. Don Bernstein’s job is to hang out with the greatest rock legends of all time….and then convince them to let him take their stuff back to the Hard Rock CafĂ© restaurants and hotels. Tough job. Great music and memories.
Oh, also…the obsessive songs of the week are Devour by Shinedown and Something Beautiful by the Newsboys. Check it out.
I nervously paused and then buried my pride. I blurted out my request. “Can I have the gas today?”
I could feel a cool chill immediately rush through the room which was surprising, given my flushed, warm and embarrassed face. My status in the dental world had plummeted. I couldn’t look her in the eye but I could feel her scanning me. She searched for a clue that would tell her if I was more likely to be a super dental wimp or a well disguised, pill popping, suburban mom looking for a free high.
The hygenist must have decided I had the dental bravery of a 4 year old weenie boy. I was ok with that. She gave me a look of pity and patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, yes, of course. Certainly sweetie. We’ll get that started right away for you. Don’t you worry about a thing. Now, would you like to watch some TV?” She turned the TV to my requested channel, the Food Network, and lowered the ugly, space age looking, rubber nose, gas delivery system onto my face.
I always get a bit of a chuckle when my dental appointments occur right before mealtimes, as this one did. While the hungry and captive dentist and his assistant pound away at my mouth, making my life miserable, I get to have a bit of dental revenge by forcing them to listen to “mouthwatering and unbelieveable” food being made on the Food Network. Eventually the dentist’s stomach will growl and he’ll say, “Oh, that looks so good. I’m sooo hungry.” And I feel just a little bit better knowing he’s a little bit miserable, like me.
As I was attempting to quietly inhale as much relaxing gas as I could, the dentist began shooting my tooth with a needle full of “pressure”. This uncomfortable “pressure” hurt a lot. The hygienist saw my toes curl. She offered to turn up the gas. I was ok with that. “Now don’t you worry about one little thing here, ok?” the dentist calmly cooed to me. “You are doing just super great. You are being soooo brave. We are going to take very good care of you today. You just stay nice and relaxed in this chair and things will be just fine. There is not one little thing for you to worry about.”
Clearly, the dentist had seen the gas and my curling toes and had decided I was a big dental weenie risk, possibly prone to unpredictable and most problematic dental chair outbursts. I was ok with that. The gas had kicked in, I was quite relaxed now and the hungry dentist was forced to listen to the Food Network while I lolled about in my happy place. Things were as good as they were going to get.
And then the dentist went to work, both on my tooth and on my stomach. He leaned my chair back so far that I couldn’t see the TV anymore. And his drill was so loud that I couldn’t hear the TV anymore. But apparently he could still see and hear the TV. “Oh, that Food Network is making me so hungry!” he said. My mouth opened a tiny bit wider and the edges turned upward as I chuckled silently to myself. My Food Network revenge had worked. It seemed, however, that by opening my mouth a bit wider I had angered the hungry dentist. He proceeded to jam what felt like a large rubber shoe into my mouth, “just to make sure your mouth stays open”. I was not ok with that.
The hungry dentist then continued to make life worse for me. “All that good food on TV reminds me of the most amazing pizza I had last night.” He then proceeded to describe his last pizza in a way that had the tiniest bit of impish suggestiveness thrown in. Or maybe it was the gas that made me think that. Apparently, his pizza crust had just the right amount of crispy and just the right amount of chewy. It was not too thick and not too thin. The toppings he described were all of my favorites. And the hot and melted and gooey cheese not only consisted of mozzarella but a bit of fontina and smoked provolone as well, which, according to the dentist, put his pizza over the top. And of course, it had been baked in a hot, very hot, brick pizza oven. The hungry dentist then finished his story with an adjective dripping description of the creamiest, most extraordinary, full fat, imported ice cream that was his dessert that same night. In total, it was the most phenomenal and delicious meal he had ever had.
When he was done, I half expected him to pull out a cigarette and ask me if it was good for me to.
Or maybe it was just the gas that made me think that.
I squirmed in the chair and took a super deep breath, inhaling the gas as deeply as I could with a rubber shoe in my mouth.
I was now starving. Or at least that was what I kept thinking to myself. I felt my stomach rumble a bit. Quite a bit. I was not ok with that. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I wondered, a bit desperately, if my gas was still working. I wasn’t feeling very relaxed anymore. I wasn’t feeling the airy, careless satisfaction of my usual dental revenge. I was feeling hungry. I may have been unable to see or hear the Food Network, but my dentist’s food torture was coming through loud and clear. My stomach then let out one of those huge, embarrassing “I can’t believe that came from my stomach! (I hope that came from your stomach.)” kind of roars. The dentist chuckled a bit which was quite easy for him to do, not having any “pressure” injected into his teeth or any large rubber shoe stuck in his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry”, he laughed. “Is my pizza and ice cream story making you hungry?”
You’re darned right it is, you evil man, I screamed in my head. What kind of person talks about food, like that, in a dentist's office, right before lunch when a kind, innocent, insurance covered patient like me is drugged, trapped in this chair and forced to listen to whatever he says? It’s just not right. Who would do such a cruel thing?
As soon as that evil dentist was finished with me I rushed out to my car, still a bit lightheaded. I needed to get some pizza, and fast. I gave no thought to the fact that I might be driving while still slightly gassed. I had more pressing pizza issues to attend to. A Lean Cuisine from the grocery store would be my quick fix. As I backed my car out of the parking spot, I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror. My entire, red and blotchy face was covered in deep crevices from the ugly, space age looking, rubber nose, gas delivery system that had sat molded to my face for the last hour. My messy, laying down hair, looked like an unkempt bird’s nest. One side of my face was swollen and drooping. And I was not ok with that. I couldn’t be seen in public looking like this. There would be no pizza for me.
Half an hour later, I sat at my dining room table eating overcooked pasta with butter and salt. I was a bit lightheaded, a fair bit swollen and still covered in deep gas mask wrinkles. I could only chew on one side of my mouth. I think I kept biting my half numb tongue. I turned on the TV to PBS.
“Today, on America’s Test Kitchen,…the best pizza you’ve ever had!”
I was not ok with that.
Check This Out!
I’ve just finished reading the book Honeymoon With My Brother by Franz Wisner. Dumped by his fiancĂ© and left with an unrefundable honeymoon to Costa Rica, Franz decided to take his brother on the trip, minus the carrying over the threshold stuff. Soon Franz and his brother Kurt abandon their successful United States lives and embark on a two year, around the world adventure that changes both their lives and just might change yours. I can’t recommend it highly enough.
I must also recommend the video Hard Rock Treasures: A Behind the Scenes Look at Rock-n-Roll Royalty and Their Most Prized Possessions. Don Bernstein’s job is to hang out with the greatest rock legends of all time….and then convince them to let him take their stuff back to the Hard Rock CafĂ© restaurants and hotels. Tough job. Great music and memories.
Oh, also…the obsessive songs of the week are Devour by Shinedown and Something Beautiful by the Newsboys. Check it out.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
He Had a Story
Victor was annoying. Every time I thought I was free of him the phone would ring and he would return. He was the monkey on my back that I just couldn’t shake.
The kindly, soft spoken voice on the other end of the phone line announced that she was from the local senior center. “We’re just checking to see if Victor would be joining us for our senior citizens’ Wednesday Lunch Bunch today. We can send the van to pick him up. We’d so love to see him. Josephine is looking forward to hearing more of his stories.” In the past 4 years I’d received a couple dozen of these calls. I told the lady the same thing I did every time.
“You have the wrong number. Victor doesn’t live here.”
She always apologized for bothering me and assured me it wouldn’t happen again.
But it did. A lot. When we finally got caller ID for our home phone, I was able to see on the display ahead of time when it was the senior center calling. Shaking my head, I let the phone ring. Later on I would check my messages.
“We’re just checking to see if Victor would be joining us for our senior citizens’ Wednesday Lunch Bunch today. We can send the van to pick him up. Please let us know if he would like to come. We’d so love to see him."
I never called her back. In fact, more than a few annoying Victor messages went by unreturned.
One night at dinner I told the family my frustrating story. I didn’t receive the calls every week so I ventured a guess that someone was an occasional misdialer. Or perhaps Victor’s number was correct on one list but not another.
“It is so annoying to me that they keep calling and can’t get his number right!” I complained to the family.
Between bites, the husband piped up, “You think you’re annoyed? Imagine how annoyed poor Victor is to not be picked up for the Wednesday Lunch Bunch. That Lunch Bunch could be the highlight of his week. The senior center lady thinks she’s left a message at the right home. When you don’t answer or call her back she just assumes Victor isn’t coming. Meanwhile, poor, lonely, and most likely hungry Victor is sitting at home wondering why nobody called him for Wednesday Lunch Bunch this week.”
I felt a bit guilty. I had never thought of Victor as a real person. To me, Victor was an annoying phone call.
The next time the senior center called, I answered. As firmly as I possibly could, I told them that this was not Victor’s phone number and they needed to find the right number because poor Victor probably DID want to come to Wednesday Lunch Bunch. But while I was pleading Victor’s case my main motivation was still to rid myself of my annoying Victor phone calls.
And then miraculously…the phone calls stopped. I was finally free of Victor…
…until a few weeks ago when I opened the local newspaper and my stomach turned. I saw that name. Victor. I just knew it was him. I was holding his obituary in my hands.
This time Victor wasn’t an annoying phone call. Victor was a real person. He had a story.
Victor was 92 when he died after a “series of medical conditions”. Victor had been married to the same woman for 56 years. He served in the Army in World War II. He went to college. He was a member of the Boy Scouts of America for 55 years serving for many decades as a Scoutmaster. Victor had 5 children, 16 grandchildren, 22 great grandchildren and 2 great great grandchildren. He outlived his wife and two of his sons. Victor loved crossword puzzles, Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. In 1995 Victor was even named Citizen of the Year for my city.
Hmmm. I felt myself having to take a deep breath.
Victor had a family. He had a full life. He probably had an old Army uniform in the back of his closet. He had people who loved him. He probably had a 5 generation photo taken of him and his offspring. He had interests. He probably had a stack of crossword puzzle books next to his chair. He helped people. For goodness sake, Victor was Citizen of the Year. He probably still had the plaque on the wall.
Victor wasn’t annoying. Victor was a real person. He had a story.
The final part of the obituary stated that “Victor particularly loved the activities at the local senior center and always enjoyed all of his friends from the Wednesday Lunch Bunch. In lieu of flowers, Victor would be pleased if all donations were made to the local senior center.”
I sat there in silence staring at his photo accompanying the obituary. Then I began to read Victor’s obituary for a second time. This time though, I didn’t make it past the first line before I started to cry. I had missed it the first time.
“Victor passed away quietly on Wednesday, April 30th………”
It was a Wednesday. He died on a Wednesday. It really bothered me that he died on a Wednesday. I wondered how many Wednesday Lunch Bunches he missed because I ignored the senior center’s phone calls.
It was very easy for me to write Victor off. He was annoying. I didn’t know him. He wasn’t my problem.
I will always feel guilty, however, for not returning those senior center messages. Victor deserved to be treated better. Most people do.
It never dawned on me that Victor was a real person.
He had a story.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated staff has recently been seen dancing like a fool and singing to the mirror the new Madonna/Justin Timberlake song, 4 Minutes. We've also devoured every book that author Augusten Burroughs has written. While not for the easily offended, his sometimes rated R(or worse) books and collections of stories will make you realize that your childhood and your life isn't that bad after all.
The kindly, soft spoken voice on the other end of the phone line announced that she was from the local senior center. “We’re just checking to see if Victor would be joining us for our senior citizens’ Wednesday Lunch Bunch today. We can send the van to pick him up. We’d so love to see him. Josephine is looking forward to hearing more of his stories.” In the past 4 years I’d received a couple dozen of these calls. I told the lady the same thing I did every time.
“You have the wrong number. Victor doesn’t live here.”
She always apologized for bothering me and assured me it wouldn’t happen again.
But it did. A lot. When we finally got caller ID for our home phone, I was able to see on the display ahead of time when it was the senior center calling. Shaking my head, I let the phone ring. Later on I would check my messages.
“We’re just checking to see if Victor would be joining us for our senior citizens’ Wednesday Lunch Bunch today. We can send the van to pick him up. Please let us know if he would like to come. We’d so love to see him."
I never called her back. In fact, more than a few annoying Victor messages went by unreturned.
One night at dinner I told the family my frustrating story. I didn’t receive the calls every week so I ventured a guess that someone was an occasional misdialer. Or perhaps Victor’s number was correct on one list but not another.
“It is so annoying to me that they keep calling and can’t get his number right!” I complained to the family.
Between bites, the husband piped up, “You think you’re annoyed? Imagine how annoyed poor Victor is to not be picked up for the Wednesday Lunch Bunch. That Lunch Bunch could be the highlight of his week. The senior center lady thinks she’s left a message at the right home. When you don’t answer or call her back she just assumes Victor isn’t coming. Meanwhile, poor, lonely, and most likely hungry Victor is sitting at home wondering why nobody called him for Wednesday Lunch Bunch this week.”
I felt a bit guilty. I had never thought of Victor as a real person. To me, Victor was an annoying phone call.
The next time the senior center called, I answered. As firmly as I possibly could, I told them that this was not Victor’s phone number and they needed to find the right number because poor Victor probably DID want to come to Wednesday Lunch Bunch. But while I was pleading Victor’s case my main motivation was still to rid myself of my annoying Victor phone calls.
And then miraculously…the phone calls stopped. I was finally free of Victor…
…until a few weeks ago when I opened the local newspaper and my stomach turned. I saw that name. Victor. I just knew it was him. I was holding his obituary in my hands.
This time Victor wasn’t an annoying phone call. Victor was a real person. He had a story.
Victor was 92 when he died after a “series of medical conditions”. Victor had been married to the same woman for 56 years. He served in the Army in World War II. He went to college. He was a member of the Boy Scouts of America for 55 years serving for many decades as a Scoutmaster. Victor had 5 children, 16 grandchildren, 22 great grandchildren and 2 great great grandchildren. He outlived his wife and two of his sons. Victor loved crossword puzzles, Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. In 1995 Victor was even named Citizen of the Year for my city.
Hmmm. I felt myself having to take a deep breath.
Victor had a family. He had a full life. He probably had an old Army uniform in the back of his closet. He had people who loved him. He probably had a 5 generation photo taken of him and his offspring. He had interests. He probably had a stack of crossword puzzle books next to his chair. He helped people. For goodness sake, Victor was Citizen of the Year. He probably still had the plaque on the wall.
Victor wasn’t annoying. Victor was a real person. He had a story.
The final part of the obituary stated that “Victor particularly loved the activities at the local senior center and always enjoyed all of his friends from the Wednesday Lunch Bunch. In lieu of flowers, Victor would be pleased if all donations were made to the local senior center.”
I sat there in silence staring at his photo accompanying the obituary. Then I began to read Victor’s obituary for a second time. This time though, I didn’t make it past the first line before I started to cry. I had missed it the first time.
“Victor passed away quietly on Wednesday, April 30th………”
It was a Wednesday. He died on a Wednesday. It really bothered me that he died on a Wednesday. I wondered how many Wednesday Lunch Bunches he missed because I ignored the senior center’s phone calls.
It was very easy for me to write Victor off. He was annoying. I didn’t know him. He wasn’t my problem.
I will always feel guilty, however, for not returning those senior center messages. Victor deserved to be treated better. Most people do.
It never dawned on me that Victor was a real person.
He had a story.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated staff has recently been seen dancing like a fool and singing to the mirror the new Madonna/Justin Timberlake song, 4 Minutes. We've also devoured every book that author Augusten Burroughs has written. While not for the easily offended, his sometimes rated R(or worse) books and collections of stories will make you realize that your childhood and your life isn't that bad after all.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Dear Mr. President
To: Mr. President (George Bush)
CC: Mr. Gore, Ms. Clinton, Mr. Obama, Mr. McCain
Dear Mr. President, I, your average American citizen, have done my part. At least I’ve tried. And I know you’ll be proud of me. I’ve contributed a much needed boost to this sagging economy. You see, I’ve spent my special tax refund. I have purchased a treadmill that was made in America. I am hoping that by buying this treadmill I will not only help pull America out of this recession but also transform my body as well. In addition to helping the economy and becoming supremely fit, I am counting on this treadmill to help me reduce my stress level. You see Mr. President, it’s not only the economy that has me worried. Have you watched the news lately? It seems that we have an awful lot of things to be worried about and I’ve been finding myself just a bit overwhelmed. I’m trying to be a good global citizen but I’m finding it quite challenging. Mr. President, I have a few areas of concern that I’d like to bring to your attention.
First of all, these high gas prices are a huge pain in my behind. I’m having to plan ahead and be way more organized than, frankly, I’m capable of. I have to make a grocery list for the entire week so that I only drive there once. I now have to consolidate my errands and only shop at the stores that are the closest to me. Frankly, Mr. President, the nearest Taco Del Mar is 8 miles away and the nearest Trader Joe’s is 15 miles away and I don’t think I can afford to drive there anymore. Life without an occasional Mondo Burrito and some Trader Joe’s carne asada will most definitely be a hardship! In fact, gas prices are so high that the gearhead husband is even talking about making our next car a dorky looking hybrid. I am approaching the age of 40, Mr. President, and I was really hoping to give the appearance of being a bit shallower and a whole lot cooler with my next vehicle. I’m not sure the hybrid will help me do that in my upscale suburban community.
And speaking of grocery shopping, can you possibly explain why my cage free eggs from the happy “free to wander” chickens and my imported Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese are costing so much these days? If prices continue to go up Mr. President, I will be forced to buy eggs from those poor cramped chickens and parmesan that comes from, of all places, Wisconsin. And on top of that, I am feeling quite bombarded with all of this “eat locally and eat organic” propaganda. I’m not sure that’s going to work out too well for me. It would be most difficult to give up “fresh” pineapple from Hawaii. Organic ginger root is much more expensive than the regular kind. And I’m pretty sure that Fruity Cheerios don’t qualify as eating locally. I have planted a garden out back but the odds on anything growing well enough that my family could actually eat it are somewhat slim. Oh, also, I have proposed to the neighborhood homeowner’s association that we could help ease this global rice shortage by turning our retention pond into a rice paddy, but they seemed to think I was kidding and have yet to vote on my proposition. I’ll keep you posted.
I have always tried my best to do the right things, Mr. President, even before our recent increase in things to worry about. I make the husband hand weed every weed out of our lawn instead of using poisonous weed killer. I occasionally walk to the store instead of driving if I’m only getting a few items. I did not have more than two children knowing it would make a real difference in controlling global population growth. I recycle or reuse most everything I can except sandwich baggies, which take far too much time to rinse out. I adopted my animals from shelters instead of breeders, I wash my fruits and veggies before I eat them, and I vote in every single election that doesn’t require me to declare a party affiliation. (Sorry.) I try and get enough sleep, I volunteer at the schools and I even voted yes on the last school levy. I exercise semi regularly, always keep the volume low when I have my MP3 earplugs in and almost always avoid standing downwind when the neighbor smokes. I only put full loads of laundry in my washing machine and dishwasher, I always use my bath towels over many times before I wash them and I gave a can of garbanzo beans to the boy scouts food drive last Saturday. I even watched Mr. Gore’s global warming video. Granted, it was snowing in April when I watched it, but he definitely convinced me that the end is quite near…especially for those poor polar bears.
I must tell you however, Mr. President, that with so many things to keep track of these days in order to be a good global citizen I admit that I’ve started falling behind in a few areas. Just the other day I got sick of my extra plastic grocery bags falling out of my pantry and I just threw them away. I didn’t take them back to the store or try and store them. I just hucked them. I also bought wasteful plastic water bottles and didn’t even check to see that they were the right recycle number that won’t poison my body with leached chemicals. At least twice a week I take a shower longer than 5 minutes and I never conserve water by turning it off while I’m soaping up. I’m not adequately prepared for the impending earthquake or flood or terrorist attack that I just know is right around the corner. None of my appliances have received the most recent “energy star” certification nor are they a pretty blue color like the ones I saw in Sears the other day. Sometimes I turn the heat up when I’m too lazy to put on a sweater, I usually let the water run down the drain until it’s warm when I wash my face, and much to the husband’s chagrin, I frequently leave the refrigerator door wide open if I know I will be coming back to it within the next couple of minutes. I've left the TV on when I wasn't watching it, I've left the lights on when I wasn't in the room and I leave the computer on when I'm not even home. I’m ashamed to admit it but I have willingly purchased clothing made by 3rd world 5 year old girls, copied a CD on to my computer that I checked out from the library and have given up on composting my food scraps.
So you see, Mr. President, I am in sad shape. I implore you to help me and help our country. It has just become too overwhelming to try and do everything the way it’s supposed to be done. After all, this is America, the land of opportunity and the land of excess. I am finding it hard to believe that I live in the richest country in the world and yet am constantly feeling bad about myself for not measuring up to the ideal global citizen. I am tired of always having to change my ways and cut back on something. I am tired of having to think about others and the environment and those stinkin’ polar bears. Mr. President, could you please find a way to take us back to the good ol’ days when I could live my life without so much thought, without feeling guilty and without calculating how much the gas costs to do it?
Respectfully yours,
An average American citizen
Check This Out!
If you are interested in being a better global citizen and eating a bit more locally, check out Barbara Kingsolver's book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. Kingsolver and her family lived for one year eating only locally grown food. You may not want to do the same but she just might inspire you to plant a tomato plant or two.
I was introduced to this book by a high school friend of mine who has her own fabulous and well written blog reviewing books. Check out Escape to Books at http://escapetobooks.blogspot.com/.
CC: Mr. Gore, Ms. Clinton, Mr. Obama, Mr. McCain
Dear Mr. President, I, your average American citizen, have done my part. At least I’ve tried. And I know you’ll be proud of me. I’ve contributed a much needed boost to this sagging economy. You see, I’ve spent my special tax refund. I have purchased a treadmill that was made in America. I am hoping that by buying this treadmill I will not only help pull America out of this recession but also transform my body as well. In addition to helping the economy and becoming supremely fit, I am counting on this treadmill to help me reduce my stress level. You see Mr. President, it’s not only the economy that has me worried. Have you watched the news lately? It seems that we have an awful lot of things to be worried about and I’ve been finding myself just a bit overwhelmed. I’m trying to be a good global citizen but I’m finding it quite challenging. Mr. President, I have a few areas of concern that I’d like to bring to your attention.
First of all, these high gas prices are a huge pain in my behind. I’m having to plan ahead and be way more organized than, frankly, I’m capable of. I have to make a grocery list for the entire week so that I only drive there once. I now have to consolidate my errands and only shop at the stores that are the closest to me. Frankly, Mr. President, the nearest Taco Del Mar is 8 miles away and the nearest Trader Joe’s is 15 miles away and I don’t think I can afford to drive there anymore. Life without an occasional Mondo Burrito and some Trader Joe’s carne asada will most definitely be a hardship! In fact, gas prices are so high that the gearhead husband is even talking about making our next car a dorky looking hybrid. I am approaching the age of 40, Mr. President, and I was really hoping to give the appearance of being a bit shallower and a whole lot cooler with my next vehicle. I’m not sure the hybrid will help me do that in my upscale suburban community.
And speaking of grocery shopping, can you possibly explain why my cage free eggs from the happy “free to wander” chickens and my imported Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese are costing so much these days? If prices continue to go up Mr. President, I will be forced to buy eggs from those poor cramped chickens and parmesan that comes from, of all places, Wisconsin. And on top of that, I am feeling quite bombarded with all of this “eat locally and eat organic” propaganda. I’m not sure that’s going to work out too well for me. It would be most difficult to give up “fresh” pineapple from Hawaii. Organic ginger root is much more expensive than the regular kind. And I’m pretty sure that Fruity Cheerios don’t qualify as eating locally. I have planted a garden out back but the odds on anything growing well enough that my family could actually eat it are somewhat slim. Oh, also, I have proposed to the neighborhood homeowner’s association that we could help ease this global rice shortage by turning our retention pond into a rice paddy, but they seemed to think I was kidding and have yet to vote on my proposition. I’ll keep you posted.
I have always tried my best to do the right things, Mr. President, even before our recent increase in things to worry about. I make the husband hand weed every weed out of our lawn instead of using poisonous weed killer. I occasionally walk to the store instead of driving if I’m only getting a few items. I did not have more than two children knowing it would make a real difference in controlling global population growth. I recycle or reuse most everything I can except sandwich baggies, which take far too much time to rinse out. I adopted my animals from shelters instead of breeders, I wash my fruits and veggies before I eat them, and I vote in every single election that doesn’t require me to declare a party affiliation. (Sorry.) I try and get enough sleep, I volunteer at the schools and I even voted yes on the last school levy. I exercise semi regularly, always keep the volume low when I have my MP3 earplugs in and almost always avoid standing downwind when the neighbor smokes. I only put full loads of laundry in my washing machine and dishwasher, I always use my bath towels over many times before I wash them and I gave a can of garbanzo beans to the boy scouts food drive last Saturday. I even watched Mr. Gore’s global warming video. Granted, it was snowing in April when I watched it, but he definitely convinced me that the end is quite near…especially for those poor polar bears.
I must tell you however, Mr. President, that with so many things to keep track of these days in order to be a good global citizen I admit that I’ve started falling behind in a few areas. Just the other day I got sick of my extra plastic grocery bags falling out of my pantry and I just threw them away. I didn’t take them back to the store or try and store them. I just hucked them. I also bought wasteful plastic water bottles and didn’t even check to see that they were the right recycle number that won’t poison my body with leached chemicals. At least twice a week I take a shower longer than 5 minutes and I never conserve water by turning it off while I’m soaping up. I’m not adequately prepared for the impending earthquake or flood or terrorist attack that I just know is right around the corner. None of my appliances have received the most recent “energy star” certification nor are they a pretty blue color like the ones I saw in Sears the other day. Sometimes I turn the heat up when I’m too lazy to put on a sweater, I usually let the water run down the drain until it’s warm when I wash my face, and much to the husband’s chagrin, I frequently leave the refrigerator door wide open if I know I will be coming back to it within the next couple of minutes. I've left the TV on when I wasn't watching it, I've left the lights on when I wasn't in the room and I leave the computer on when I'm not even home. I’m ashamed to admit it but I have willingly purchased clothing made by 3rd world 5 year old girls, copied a CD on to my computer that I checked out from the library and have given up on composting my food scraps.
So you see, Mr. President, I am in sad shape. I implore you to help me and help our country. It has just become too overwhelming to try and do everything the way it’s supposed to be done. After all, this is America, the land of opportunity and the land of excess. I am finding it hard to believe that I live in the richest country in the world and yet am constantly feeling bad about myself for not measuring up to the ideal global citizen. I am tired of always having to change my ways and cut back on something. I am tired of having to think about others and the environment and those stinkin’ polar bears. Mr. President, could you please find a way to take us back to the good ol’ days when I could live my life without so much thought, without feeling guilty and without calculating how much the gas costs to do it?
Respectfully yours,
An average American citizen
Check This Out!
If you are interested in being a better global citizen and eating a bit more locally, check out Barbara Kingsolver's book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. Kingsolver and her family lived for one year eating only locally grown food. You may not want to do the same but she just might inspire you to plant a tomato plant or two.
I was introduced to this book by a high school friend of mine who has her own fabulous and well written blog reviewing books. Check out Escape to Books at http://escapetobooks.blogspot.com/.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
"Do You Wanna See My Turtle?"
“Do you wanna see my turtle?”
I will admit that this isn’t your standard pick up line. But 23 years ago that was what the husband said to woo and impress me. As I naively and nervously followed him upstairs to his bedroom I found myself wondering if his “turtle” really was a “turtle”.
Stretchy the turtle was a small, dark greenish black, Japanese Reeve’s water turtle. His shell never grew larger than about 4 or 5 inches long. He was named Stretchy for his impressive ability to stretch his head and neck out of his shell an amazingly far distance. He was purchased in a Novato, California pet store by the husband’s mom and given to the husband when he was about 10 years old. No one knew how old Stretchy was when he came to live with the husband. And no one knows how old he was when he died this week. One thing is certain though, the constant, comforting and unique presence of that little turtle in our lives will be greatly missed.
When the husband first made a place in his childhood bedroom for Stretchy to live, he had no idea he’d be his pet for over 30 years. But he soon became a curious and energetic companion for him. When the husband went to college, the husband’s mom, who was a high school science teacher, took care of Stretchy. She would often take him to class with her. During one lecture she turned from the blackboard and noticed that not one of the students in the class was paying attention to her. Instead, all eyes in the class were fixated on Stretchy. He was, with some difficulty, attempting to climb up on his rock- the hard way- just for the challenge of it. When he finally emerged at the top of the rock, victorious, the teenagers cheered and clapped. He stretched his neck out as far as it would go and turned his head toward the clapping sound. He loved the attention.
After the husband graduated from college and we were married, my mother in law arrived on my porch carrying Stretchy in his tank. Apparently, now that the husband was settled, it was time for Stretchy to come and live with him. After all, he was his pet. I firmly questioned the husband, “Don’t family pets stay with the family-even after the kids leave home?” “He’s NOT a family pet” the husband replied, somewhat offended. “He’s MY pet.”
It didn’t take me long to realize I was stuck with the turtle. And I’d probably be stuck with him for a very long time. I found out that some turtles live so long they are passed down in families from generation to generation. Neighbor kids would find him cute and beg their mothers for a turtle. I was always quick to advise against it. “Do you know how long these things can live?” I’d tersely ask, shaking my head and rolling my eyes.
It wasn’t long though before Stretchy began to grow on me. He won me over with his outgoing personality and his surprisingly expressive little face. As we travelled all over the country for the husband’s Navy career, Stretchy always came with us, even bravely surviving a car fire in Cleveland on one of our trips. When we reached a new town and went to rent a new apartment, we were always asked if we had any pets. The look on the manager’s face when we said we had a turtle was always priceless.
Stretchy was always a comfort when the husband would be out to sea for months at a time. I enjoyed walking in the house at the end of the day and seeing his ugly little tank in my living room. I grew accustomed to hearing his shell bang against the side of his tank at night when he was trying to climb his rock-the hard way, of course. I even started talking out loud to him when the husband was gone. Although he never said much back to me, he would always swim to the side of the tank, cock his head and look at me for as long as I stayed there.
Eventually, Stretchy dictated our living room décor. When he was upgraded from his tiny 10 gallon tank to his new, luxurious 55 gallon aquarium, we had a cabinet custom made that was large enough to hold the tank on top and strong enough to keep from breaking under the weight of it. When we moved into our current home, there was a space of honor above the fireplace for a large TV. That was where we put Stretchy and his huge tank. In our family, it was the turtle that deserved the place of honor, not a TV.
Stretchy got along quite well with the cats. The cats were always fascinated by him and never stopped trying to attack him through the glass. Stretchy was equally fascinated by them and never seemed threatened. He would always stretch his neck out toward them to get a better look. Every cat we have ever owned enjoyed sleeping on the warm light bar on top of his tank. Occasionally, they would reach their paws into his tank through a hole in his tank lid and try desperately to reach him. He would stretch his head out as far as it could go and snap at their paws.
When the teenager was a baby she would stare at Stretchy in his tank and yell out in excitement when he came over to see her. The boy enjoyed watching Stretchy chase his finger as he “drew” pictures on the side of his tank with it. Once in awhile, one of the kids’ toys would manage to fall in the tank or behind it. Stretchy would always swim right over and check it out. And when he was alone, he’d spend hours inspecting his pump and heater. We’d often find him with his head positioned directly in front of his blowing pump,casually catching the breeze, looking like a dog hanging his head out of a speeding car’s window-minus the fur, of course. And at the end of each day he would try and climb up on his rock-always the hard way. Who needed TV when there was this kind of entertainment right in front of us?
Stretchy was also beneficial for our family full of introverts. Most of our friends didn’t know anyone who had a turtle for a pet. He was quite a novelty. When we had guests over and the conversation lulled, we could always count on Stretchy to give us something to talk about. Many people gravitated toward him as soon as they walked through our front door. Instead of gathering around the food table or the TV, guests at our house would gather around the turtle tank. And he always loved the attention. He would come right up to the side of the tank and look you right in the eye. If you moved to the other end of the tank, he would follow you. If you put your finger up to the side of the tank he would pretend to bite it.Occasionally, one of the kids’ friends would refuse to leave our house and would have to be carried out the door. With tears running down their face they would scream that they “weren’t done playing with that turtle yet!”
Stretchy’s tank now sits empty in the place of honor above the fireplace. We haven’t yet been able to bring ourselves to clean it and take it down. Stretchy was the husband’s pet for 32 years. He’s been a part of my life as long as the husband has. The teenager and the boy don’t know a life without Stretchy in it. He’s outlived quite a few fish, a few hamsters and gerbils, and a couple of cats and dogs. He’s always been a part of our family- since the husband was a small boy and since that fateful day when the husband asked, “Do you wanna see my turtle?”
And now he’s gone. We buried Stretchy in the backyard this week. And with tears running down our faces, I know each of us were thinking the same thing…we weren’t done playing with that turtle yet.
In loving memory of Stretchy
I will admit that this isn’t your standard pick up line. But 23 years ago that was what the husband said to woo and impress me. As I naively and nervously followed him upstairs to his bedroom I found myself wondering if his “turtle” really was a “turtle”.
Stretchy the turtle was a small, dark greenish black, Japanese Reeve’s water turtle. His shell never grew larger than about 4 or 5 inches long. He was named Stretchy for his impressive ability to stretch his head and neck out of his shell an amazingly far distance. He was purchased in a Novato, California pet store by the husband’s mom and given to the husband when he was about 10 years old. No one knew how old Stretchy was when he came to live with the husband. And no one knows how old he was when he died this week. One thing is certain though, the constant, comforting and unique presence of that little turtle in our lives will be greatly missed.
When the husband first made a place in his childhood bedroom for Stretchy to live, he had no idea he’d be his pet for over 30 years. But he soon became a curious and energetic companion for him. When the husband went to college, the husband’s mom, who was a high school science teacher, took care of Stretchy. She would often take him to class with her. During one lecture she turned from the blackboard and noticed that not one of the students in the class was paying attention to her. Instead, all eyes in the class were fixated on Stretchy. He was, with some difficulty, attempting to climb up on his rock- the hard way- just for the challenge of it. When he finally emerged at the top of the rock, victorious, the teenagers cheered and clapped. He stretched his neck out as far as it would go and turned his head toward the clapping sound. He loved the attention.
After the husband graduated from college and we were married, my mother in law arrived on my porch carrying Stretchy in his tank. Apparently, now that the husband was settled, it was time for Stretchy to come and live with him. After all, he was his pet. I firmly questioned the husband, “Don’t family pets stay with the family-even after the kids leave home?” “He’s NOT a family pet” the husband replied, somewhat offended. “He’s MY pet.”
It didn’t take me long to realize I was stuck with the turtle. And I’d probably be stuck with him for a very long time. I found out that some turtles live so long they are passed down in families from generation to generation. Neighbor kids would find him cute and beg their mothers for a turtle. I was always quick to advise against it. “Do you know how long these things can live?” I’d tersely ask, shaking my head and rolling my eyes.
It wasn’t long though before Stretchy began to grow on me. He won me over with his outgoing personality and his surprisingly expressive little face. As we travelled all over the country for the husband’s Navy career, Stretchy always came with us, even bravely surviving a car fire in Cleveland on one of our trips. When we reached a new town and went to rent a new apartment, we were always asked if we had any pets. The look on the manager’s face when we said we had a turtle was always priceless.
Stretchy was always a comfort when the husband would be out to sea for months at a time. I enjoyed walking in the house at the end of the day and seeing his ugly little tank in my living room. I grew accustomed to hearing his shell bang against the side of his tank at night when he was trying to climb his rock-the hard way, of course. I even started talking out loud to him when the husband was gone. Although he never said much back to me, he would always swim to the side of the tank, cock his head and look at me for as long as I stayed there.
Eventually, Stretchy dictated our living room décor. When he was upgraded from his tiny 10 gallon tank to his new, luxurious 55 gallon aquarium, we had a cabinet custom made that was large enough to hold the tank on top and strong enough to keep from breaking under the weight of it. When we moved into our current home, there was a space of honor above the fireplace for a large TV. That was where we put Stretchy and his huge tank. In our family, it was the turtle that deserved the place of honor, not a TV.
Stretchy got along quite well with the cats. The cats were always fascinated by him and never stopped trying to attack him through the glass. Stretchy was equally fascinated by them and never seemed threatened. He would always stretch his neck out toward them to get a better look. Every cat we have ever owned enjoyed sleeping on the warm light bar on top of his tank. Occasionally, they would reach their paws into his tank through a hole in his tank lid and try desperately to reach him. He would stretch his head out as far as it could go and snap at their paws.
When the teenager was a baby she would stare at Stretchy in his tank and yell out in excitement when he came over to see her. The boy enjoyed watching Stretchy chase his finger as he “drew” pictures on the side of his tank with it. Once in awhile, one of the kids’ toys would manage to fall in the tank or behind it. Stretchy would always swim right over and check it out. And when he was alone, he’d spend hours inspecting his pump and heater. We’d often find him with his head positioned directly in front of his blowing pump,casually catching the breeze, looking like a dog hanging his head out of a speeding car’s window-minus the fur, of course. And at the end of each day he would try and climb up on his rock-always the hard way. Who needed TV when there was this kind of entertainment right in front of us?
Stretchy was also beneficial for our family full of introverts. Most of our friends didn’t know anyone who had a turtle for a pet. He was quite a novelty. When we had guests over and the conversation lulled, we could always count on Stretchy to give us something to talk about. Many people gravitated toward him as soon as they walked through our front door. Instead of gathering around the food table or the TV, guests at our house would gather around the turtle tank. And he always loved the attention. He would come right up to the side of the tank and look you right in the eye. If you moved to the other end of the tank, he would follow you. If you put your finger up to the side of the tank he would pretend to bite it.Occasionally, one of the kids’ friends would refuse to leave our house and would have to be carried out the door. With tears running down their face they would scream that they “weren’t done playing with that turtle yet!”
Stretchy’s tank now sits empty in the place of honor above the fireplace. We haven’t yet been able to bring ourselves to clean it and take it down. Stretchy was the husband’s pet for 32 years. He’s been a part of my life as long as the husband has. The teenager and the boy don’t know a life without Stretchy in it. He’s outlived quite a few fish, a few hamsters and gerbils, and a couple of cats and dogs. He’s always been a part of our family- since the husband was a small boy and since that fateful day when the husband asked, “Do you wanna see my turtle?”
And now he’s gone. We buried Stretchy in the backyard this week. And with tears running down our faces, I know each of us were thinking the same thing…we weren’t done playing with that turtle yet.
In loving memory of Stretchy

Sunday, March 30, 2008
Cornbread
She was born in a one room log cabin in the mountains of North Carolina almost 89 years ago. She helped farm shares with her 8 brothers and sisters. She came from a time when water had to be hauled, clothes were washed on a scrub board and whippings were common. She came from a time when you grew your own food, milked your own cows and didn’t waste anything. Whether it be walking 3 miles to school barefoot or watching her sister burn to death in a meadow fire, she certainly experienced, early on, more than her share of hardship and tragedy. Yet, she persevered.
Throughout the rest of her life she continued to encounter obstacles that would pull most people under. Yet, she managed to ceaselessly employ that same perseverance along with a strong work ethic that, although common in her generation, is often lacking today. She didn’t wallow in self pity or overanalyze life and its imperfections. Without question, she plowed her way through it, got over it, and moved on to the good parts.
When she died, my grandmother was almost 89 years old. She was married for 55 years. She had 3 children, 14 grandchildren, 27 great grandchildren and 7 great, great grandchildren. She was the source and anchor of a lifetime of memories for our family. She affected each of us differently but without a doubt, she will forever be a part of every one of our lives. Some of us remember her cooking Some of us remember her gardening. .
Some of us remember her canning. Some of us remember her scrubbing us clean. Some of us remember her yelling at us to keep out of her begonias. But I can guarantee you, all of us remember two things. We all remember the wall in her garage where our family history was recorded. And all of us remember her cornbread.
You see, when life gave my grandmother lemons… she just made cornbread.
In a preheated cast iron skillet, of course. With a little butter melted in the bottom. And maybe a pot of green beans too. Made with a dollop of bacon grease. And how could you say no to her applesauce cookies?
Her food may be gone. Her canned peaches may be gone. Her garden and house are certainly gone. And, sadly, her body is gone. But, yet she lingers. The stories are there. The pictures are there. The memories are there. And, I hope, her attitude is there. I hope that all who knew her are able to recognize the amazing gift that she was. I hope we are able to take the best of her. I hope we recognize the value of her life and remember the lessons she taught us. I hope we learn to plow through it, get over it, and move on to the good parts. And then have some cornbread.
In loving memory of Nanny

Cornbread
1 cup cornmeal (yellow or white)
1 cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 large egg, lightly beaten
Preheat oven and cast iron skillet to 400 degrees. Near the end throw in a dollup of butter or bacon grease. Combine corn meal, flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a bowl. Combine milk, oil, and egg in a bowl and mix well. Add milk mixture to flour mixture. Stir just until combined. Pour into preheated cast iron skillet. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until wooden pick inserted in center comes our clean.
Applesauce Cookies
1 cup shortening (I’ve always used butter)
2 cups sugar
2 eggs beaten
4 cups cake flour (I’ve always used all purpose)
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp cloves
1 tsp salt
1 tsp soda
2 tsp baking powder
2 cups unsweetened applesauce (I’ve always used whatever is in the fridge)
Cream shortening and sugar together. Beat egg, add to creamed mixture and blend well. Sift all ingredients together (if you feel like it) and add alternately with the applesauce to the creamed mixture. Be sure to add flour first and last. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto a cookie sheet. Bake 15 minutes at 375 degrees.
Throughout the rest of her life she continued to encounter obstacles that would pull most people under. Yet, she managed to ceaselessly employ that same perseverance along with a strong work ethic that, although common in her generation, is often lacking today. She didn’t wallow in self pity or overanalyze life and its imperfections. Without question, she plowed her way through it, got over it, and moved on to the good parts.
When she died, my grandmother was almost 89 years old. She was married for 55 years. She had 3 children, 14 grandchildren, 27 great grandchildren and 7 great, great grandchildren. She was the source and anchor of a lifetime of memories for our family. She affected each of us differently but without a doubt, she will forever be a part of every one of our lives. Some of us remember her cooking Some of us remember her gardening. .

Some of us remember her canning. Some of us remember her scrubbing us clean. Some of us remember her yelling at us to keep out of her begonias. But I can guarantee you, all of us remember two things. We all remember the wall in her garage where our family history was recorded. And all of us remember her cornbread.
You see, when life gave my grandmother lemons… she just made cornbread.

Her food may be gone. Her canned peaches may be gone. Her garden and house are certainly gone. And, sadly, her body is gone. But, yet she lingers. The stories are there. The pictures are there. The memories are there. And, I hope, her attitude is there. I hope that all who knew her are able to recognize the amazing gift that she was. I hope we are able to take the best of her. I hope we recognize the value of her life and remember the lessons she taught us. I hope we learn to plow through it, get over it, and move on to the good parts. And then have some cornbread.
In loving memory of Nanny

Cornbread
1 cup cornmeal (yellow or white)
1 cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 large egg, lightly beaten
Preheat oven and cast iron skillet to 400 degrees. Near the end throw in a dollup of butter or bacon grease. Combine corn meal, flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a bowl. Combine milk, oil, and egg in a bowl and mix well. Add milk mixture to flour mixture. Stir just until combined. Pour into preheated cast iron skillet. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until wooden pick inserted in center comes our clean.
Applesauce Cookies
1 cup shortening (I’ve always used butter)
2 cups sugar
2 eggs beaten
4 cups cake flour (I’ve always used all purpose)
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp cloves
1 tsp salt
1 tsp soda
2 tsp baking powder
2 cups unsweetened applesauce (I’ve always used whatever is in the fridge)
Cream shortening and sugar together. Beat egg, add to creamed mixture and blend well. Sift all ingredients together (if you feel like it) and add alternately with the applesauce to the creamed mixture. Be sure to add flour first and last. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto a cookie sheet. Bake 15 minutes at 375 degrees.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Disconnected
I am on my knees in the elementary school library, shelving books, when I hear her speak.
“How has your day been going?” she says.
I obliviously continue to shelve the books.
She speaks again. “How has your day been going?”
I rudely ignore her again.
“Hello…you?” she asks a bit louder than before.
Finally, curious as to whom she is talking to, I peak my head around the corner of the shelf. The school librarian is staring straight at me. “Yes, you!” she confirms. “How has your day been going?”
Red faced and embarrassed, I stand up and face her. “Oh, I’m so sorry. It didn’t realize you were talking to me.”
The librarian and I are the only two people in the library at that moment. Yet when she speaks it doesn’t even cross my mind that she would be talking to me. I visit the aisles of the grocery store and see people talking out loud to the air. But, they aren’t really talking to the air. I sit next to people at the doctor’s office and I think they are talking to me. But, they aren’t really talking to me. I take the boy to school every morning and I think the other mommies are talking to their children. But, they aren’t really talking to their children. They are talking to the person far away in their wireless earpiece. They are living in the world of their headset. They seem to be blind to what is right in front of them.
I am on my knees beside her wheelchair in the care facility when she hears me speak.
“How have you been doing?” I say.
She obliviously continues to stare at the television.
I speak again. “How have you been doing?”
She wordlessly ignores me again.
“Hello…Nanny?” I ask a bit louder than before.
Finally, curious as to who is making that noise, she turns her head toward me. She is staring straight at me. “Yes, you!” I confirm. “How have you been doing?”
Blank faced and seemingly unaware, my grandmother finally faces me. She doesn’t seem to understand a word I am saying to her.
My grandmother and I are the only two people in the room at that moment. Yet when I speak, it doesn’t seem cross her mind that I am talking to her. I have visited her on both good days and bad days. But for now, this isn’t a good day. I sit next to her and wonder if she even knows me. But for now, I’m not familiar. I take to heart the memories of the past and hope that she still has those memories as well. But for now, she isn’t remembering. I am talking to a person who sometimes seems so far away. She sometimes seems to be living in a world inside her head. We both feel blind to what is right in front of us.
Another woman with Alzheimer’s who lives in my grandmother’s care facility enters the room. Or maybe it’s a visiting relative. I don’t know. She is talking to the air. Or maybe she is talking to me. Or maybe she is talking to someone far away in her headset. Or maybe she is talking to her husband that died five years ago. I’m not quite sure. I look for the Bluetooth. I look for an earpiece. She doesn’t have either. Or maybe, it is hidden under her hair. I cannot tell.
But does it matter? The end result is the same for me. She talks. I tune her out. We are disconnected.
Check This Out!
The movie Believe In Me is based on the true story of legendary Oklahoma basketball coach Jim Keith. His wish to coach basketball takes a surprising turn when he must coach the girls' basketball team in a small, conservative town instead of the boys' team he was expecting to coach. Great sports movie with the typical feel good moments.
“How has your day been going?” she says.
I obliviously continue to shelve the books.
She speaks again. “How has your day been going?”
I rudely ignore her again.
“Hello…you?” she asks a bit louder than before.
Finally, curious as to whom she is talking to, I peak my head around the corner of the shelf. The school librarian is staring straight at me. “Yes, you!” she confirms. “How has your day been going?”
Red faced and embarrassed, I stand up and face her. “Oh, I’m so sorry. It didn’t realize you were talking to me.”
The librarian and I are the only two people in the library at that moment. Yet when she speaks it doesn’t even cross my mind that she would be talking to me. I visit the aisles of the grocery store and see people talking out loud to the air. But, they aren’t really talking to the air. I sit next to people at the doctor’s office and I think they are talking to me. But, they aren’t really talking to me. I take the boy to school every morning and I think the other mommies are talking to their children. But, they aren’t really talking to their children. They are talking to the person far away in their wireless earpiece. They are living in the world of their headset. They seem to be blind to what is right in front of them.
I am on my knees beside her wheelchair in the care facility when she hears me speak.
“How have you been doing?” I say.
She obliviously continues to stare at the television.
I speak again. “How have you been doing?”
She wordlessly ignores me again.
“Hello…Nanny?” I ask a bit louder than before.
Finally, curious as to who is making that noise, she turns her head toward me. She is staring straight at me. “Yes, you!” I confirm. “How have you been doing?”
Blank faced and seemingly unaware, my grandmother finally faces me. She doesn’t seem to understand a word I am saying to her.
My grandmother and I are the only two people in the room at that moment. Yet when I speak, it doesn’t seem cross her mind that I am talking to her. I have visited her on both good days and bad days. But for now, this isn’t a good day. I sit next to her and wonder if she even knows me. But for now, I’m not familiar. I take to heart the memories of the past and hope that she still has those memories as well. But for now, she isn’t remembering. I am talking to a person who sometimes seems so far away. She sometimes seems to be living in a world inside her head. We both feel blind to what is right in front of us.
Another woman with Alzheimer’s who lives in my grandmother’s care facility enters the room. Or maybe it’s a visiting relative. I don’t know. She is talking to the air. Or maybe she is talking to me. Or maybe she is talking to someone far away in her headset. Or maybe she is talking to her husband that died five years ago. I’m not quite sure. I look for the Bluetooth. I look for an earpiece. She doesn’t have either. Or maybe, it is hidden under her hair. I cannot tell.
But does it matter? The end result is the same for me. She talks. I tune her out. We are disconnected.
Check This Out!
The movie Believe In Me is based on the true story of legendary Oklahoma basketball coach Jim Keith. His wish to coach basketball takes a surprising turn when he must coach the girls' basketball team in a small, conservative town instead of the boys' team he was expecting to coach. Great sports movie with the typical feel good moments.
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