Old Dog/New Tricks

"Those who seek growth, embrace life and learn from the journey."

“No matter where you are in life right now, no matter who you are, no matter how old you are – it is never too late to be who you are meant to be.” Esther and Jerry Hicks

Well who'da thunk it?  My couch potato hubby has turned into a dedicated walker. He is by nature a confirmed introvert, comfortable in his nest.  At one time in the not too distant past I had to drag him kicking and screaming, grumbling and moaning, for a stroll around the neighborhood.   Psychologists say it takes, on average, 21 days of a repeated practice for an action to become a habit. These gurus never met my slightly obsessive/compulsive hubby. We started with a daily one mile jaunt. I'll admit it took a bit of prodding the first day to get him out the door, but within a couple of days it was he who was prodding me.

I sensed that walking had "stuck" when he asked for new sweats for Christmas, something with a hood. Granted, he sports a Unabomber look, but a little wind and chill doesn't stop him.

Then, one day, I returned home from work and he casually reported, "CoCo and I had an adventure today."

"Really?" I asked. "Did she go to the drive-thru with you?"

"No. We walked all the way up to the high school."

What!!!??? They walked...without me! Don't get me wrong--I wasn't resentful. Just mildly, well...shocked.

Clearly, my hubby's daily walk has become a spiritual practice. More times than not, when I work the early shift, hubby and CoCo Chanel head out on their own. Most days, their one mile stretches into two.

And I am so...proud. Not that I had much to do with this healthier lifestyle choice. I believe the seed of being a walker hid within my hubby's soul all along, waiting for the right moment of cultivation. And I marvel at the miracle our Creator has awakened in him. I stand in wonder that after all these years he still surprises me with growth and change.

A little epilogue to these observations:

Last week I joined hubby and the puppy for the first time in several days. As we rounded a corner, blocks from the house, a woman I'd never met called out, "Hi, CoCo!" and approached to pet our little diva.

"Making friends, are we?" I teased him.

"Everybody loves CoCo," hubby murmured.

I know better than to mistrust this love of my life whom I married thirty-one years ago, but I might need to rethink the introvert assessment. I cannot imagine what other seeds the Source might decide to nurture. Hmmm...

The Kitchen Garden Novice: Along the Way

Did you feel it?  The excitement in the air approached ebullience, beginning Thursday evening. I was driving home from the grocery store when traffic slowed to a crawl.  Neighbors whom I'd never met

wandered out of their homes, looking...up.                                           

Something about the balloon festival brings out the inner toddler in all of us. From the moment I spotted the first gliding orb of silk, my spirit became...well...light.  I felt like a kid again, hearing rumors the traveling Labor Day carnival was back in town. As evidenced by the stopped cars, lawn chairs in the front yards, and the squeals of children others shared my joy.  For one weekend, instead of a humdrum trip to work, I looked forward to the drive (although I stayed off the highway for as long as possible. I'm sure the city's fender-bender rate increased exponentially for the last four days. Any insurance actuaries out there?)



Hubby and I once took a hot-air balloon trip on our twentieth anniversary over Lake Tahoe. It was, without a doubt, a "bucket-list worthy" experience. We're not in the financial position to repeat that thrill anytime soon, but I wonder if I truly appreciated the trip back then.  It seems I now truly relish the brilliant colors of the silk, the quiet whoosh of the burners, and the awe those balloons inspire in each of us, the neck-craning onlookers.



And just like Christmas, I wish the spirit of Balloon Fest could last all year long. Sigh....

Here's to Another Trip Around the Sun

Happy New Year!

Before you jump to conclusions, let me assure you this is NOT another blog dedicated to someone's pathetic attempt at making/keeping New Year resolutions. Not to belittle those who take their resolutions quite seriously, but I guess I'm not the resolute type. I do respect the concept. Yet, I've always thought that commitments made simply because it's the first day of a new year are doomed to fail. What magical, mystical power does the stroke of midnight, on this particular day, conjure, anyway?

When you think about it, the concept of a calendar "year" is a fairly meaningless abstraction. Since the earliest civilizations, humans have created their own calendars as a structure to explain change of seasons, lunar cycles, solar patterns, and the position of the stars. If mankind could explain/contain such universal things, then it followed that mankind might harness...well... mayhem.  (And we can all see how well that worked out.)  But I digress.

So this past week when the island of Samoa decided to "skip a day," I'm sure it had Gregorian monks and Mayan holy men spinning in their graves.  By dropping one day from their year, the Samoans thumbed their noses at the calendar and placed themselves at the front of the line in the world trade markets. Now that's thinking outside of the calendar box. Samoa waited until December 30-31 for the transition, making them one of the first countries in the world to ring in the new year. Talk about getting a jump on the party!

But what of those Samoans whose birthdays and anniversaries fell on the 30th? Weren't they left feeling a bit...well...uncelebrated? Then again, it might be a gift. You could claim that you're 39 for another year. And if your husband is asked how long you've been married, well who can blame him if he gets it wrong?

The concept of skipping a day kindled whimsical conversation around our backyard firepot New Years Eve. If you could get a do-over for 2011, what day would you like to skip altogether? Hubby's answer was quick and decisive.

"I would have skipped the day I spent prepping for my colonoscopy."                 

"What if you could go the opposite way and stretch one day into two?" I asked.

"I would want to go back to July 4th when we were back in Missouri with the family."

Both good choices. "How about you? What day would you slow down?" Hubby countered.

"Probably our daughter's wedding day," I said, laughing. "It was all such a blur--I should like to at least remember some of the day."
"And what day would you have skipped?" Hubby asked.

I searched the cobwebs upstairs for any memory of a day in the past year so dark, so painful that I'd prefer to wipe it off the calendar. It was a hard year for a lot of folks. I thought of the residents in Japan and Joplin who had lost everything to natural disaster. I remembered the Americans who had lost their jobs and then their homes. And I recalled the losses of so many of my friends and families this past year--personal health crises, failed marriages, and the passing of beloved mothers, fathers, and sons. So much sorrow. What one day would I choose to erase?

"Sweetie?" Hubby prodded.

"I wouldn't skip a single day," I murmured. That's right. As bad as things were for many, how do you change the course of life by erasing one day? And how do you savor the joy of a 4th of July or a daughter's wedding, without first tasting the salty tears of sorrow?  Perhaps I'm showing my age with this lack of druthers, but...life is too short for regrets and too full for skipping a single day.

Skip a day? I think not. This Kitchen Garden Novice wants another full trip around the sun.

The Suit

It hangs,
months on end
     forlorn, forgotten.
          shrouded in dry-cleaner plastic,
               strangled by neckties of various hues, patterns, textures.
Like a faithful servant awaiting his master's summons,
it keeps constant vigil,
standing ready for all events deemed formal.

Purchased too many years ago to count,
     this harbinger of holidays,
            this celebrant of soirees,
sees too few occasions of service for the mistress of the house.

"I'm allergic to pants,"
is the master's excuse.
And so the master's finery
moves, once yearly,
     from hanger to luggage bag,
     from closet to cruise ship.

Until now.

What bliss these glad rags entertained
      as bride embraced his sleeve!
What sorrow this mourning coat endured
      as son bid his father farewell!
In seven brief days these faithful robes
     bore witness to
           a lifetime of such highs and lows
           a generation of joys and woes.

The feelings that one week evokes
     how can a suit attempt to cloak?

Along the Way: A Fireworks Fourth

"Mason, would you like to set off some firecrackers?" asked his dad.

"No, I'm too scarwed," was his reply.

I know what you're thinking. Teaching a seven year old to light fireworks is extremely irresponsible...blah, blah, blah. But you have to understand the culture from which my husband's family originated. In the hills of southern Missouri, fireworks on the Fourth are as American as...well...fireworks on the Fourth. One of hubby's earliest memories is of his little five year old sister placing a Lady Finger in Cousin Gary's back pocket and lighting it. (The relationship between the two remained contentious for years.) Then there was the summer when hubby devoted two months to setting up his own stand in Joplin. The proceeds of that enterprise represented a fortune to a preteen in the 60's.

So you see, it came as no surprise when Uncle Dick suggested that he and his nephew, Mitch check out the local fireworks stand at 5:00 pm on the Fourth to see if the owner was ready to "deal." They returned with enough night works for a half hour show and several bags of extra goodies.

"What's in the sacks?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

Hubby winked. "Just something to keep the kids occupied until it's dark."

I knew who the biggest kid was--he had celebrated his 60th birthday this past fall. As it turned out we had a few fireworks novices in the family, and hubby was a willing teacher. Uncle Dick coaxed Mason into "helping" him light some bottle rockets,

and then quickly schooled him on the art of igniting the more touchy firecrackers.

Before long, pops and whistles filled the air in the McDonald's yard. Nieces and nephews, moms and dads, aunts and uncles delighted in blowing things up.

Just as munitions were beginning to run low, the sun finally began it's descent. Like butter on pancakes, it melted on the horizon.

Finally! It was time for the "Grand Finally."

Two of the nephews set the stage on the country highway that runs along the edge of the farm. They began with the lower ground works

then progressed to the skyworks, the starbursts, the cascades, the sizzling sparklers. All too soon, the show was over.

The lessons learned, however remain for a lifetime:

     The fuses on Black Cats are much shorter these days than they used to be.

     No matter how much your fingers are stinging, never, ever lay down a lit punk on the table holding the fireworks!

     You can't put a price tag on family.
And...
     You're never too old to enjoy blowing something up.

The Compendium of Crabby Customers

"Teach this triple truth to all: A generous heart, kind speech, and a life of service and compassion are the things which renew humanity."

Buddha

Is it just me, or is the entire world on grouchy steroids lately? I’ve worked with the public for over forty years and never encountered such Maxine-like crabbiness. Mind you, I work at the same place, providing the same product and service we’ve offered for the past three years. Not much has changed except the attitude of the clientele. Everyday at least one individual comes in with a Paul Bunyan-sized chip on his/her shoulder, daring you to knock it off. I’ve been cursed at, threatened, lectured, and scolded by customers more in the past six months than in my whole career. In the words of Chicago’s cell-block matron, Mama Morton, “Whatever happened to class?”

Most evenings, I come home and my poor hubby listens to me vent for an hour. (Okay…maybe two.) On one such evening this past week, I ended with the rant, “And then he threatened to turn us over to the Better Business Bureau! I’d like to turn him over to something!”

“There ought to be a board where you could report people like that,” hubby empathized.

And thus the Crabby Customer Compendium was born. The CCC (no relation to the BBB) would be a comprehensive list of consumers whose reputations for rudeness negate their rights for courteous service. Only customer service people could join. I know at least 100 sales associates ready to sign up. “I’d pay for a membership,” endorsed my boss.

Once a Crabby Customer is placed on the Compendium he/she would forfeit all expectations of service. The CC could attain release from the Compendium by issuing sincere apologies (think groveling here) to the injured service providers. These apologies must be accompanied by copious quantities of baked goods. Works for me.

And then I began to analyze. What drives this boom of grumpiness as of late? Why has humanity suddenly become so…inhumane?

The answer is so obvious. What is driving us (and yes, I just said “us”) is plain old fear. Fear of being without. Fear of losing control. Fear of not being on top. Like the child on the playground who has had his lunch money stolen, we seek to bully the kid who is smaller, weaker. When you stop to realize what’s driving all this crabbiness you have to take pity on the crab. But it would be so much easier just to send them to the Crabby Customer Compendium. (Insert heavy sigh here.)

I was suddenly aware of just how much I had been operating as of late out of fear. The sage says, (and forgive me—I’ve forgotten which one) that we despise most in others that which we recognize in ourselves. Jesus advised his followers to not look for the splinter in another’s eye unless we can first remove the plank of wood from their own.

So…what individuals have I slighted lately with less respect than they deserve? Let’s see…there was that cashier who questioned my ad match coupon at the big box store…the mechanic who called me “Little Lady” one too many times, the new restaurant where I was quick to criticize and slow to savor. It seems that I, too, need to spend some time on the Crabby Customer Compendium. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have copious amounts of baked goods to prepare.

The Kitchen Garden Novice: Doing Time in Purgatory

When I was in college, the platitude became popular that "If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours; if it doesn't, then it was never really yours to begin with." Something sappy like that. The adage appeared for years on dormitory posters, bumper stickers, and novelty items. Having spent the better part of last week hosting a garage sale, I truly hope this philosophy doesn't come back to bite me in the butt.

"What are you selling on your garage sale?" an acquaintance asked me during a break.

"Oh just stuff," I replied. "You know, years of  'things' I've acquired because I couldn't live without them--and now I've realized, I can."

"Oh!  You're purging!" she exclaimed.

Purging. What a provocative word.  My mind wandered to bodily functions like prepping for a colonoscopy...sweating out a cheeseburger and fries on the treadmill. Purging, huh?

I entered the word "purging" into my go-to reference resource, Thesaurus.com. The list of synonyms generated was staggering--words like expel, exorcise, discard, disencumber--lots of "ex" and "dis" words. I discovered the word comes from the same root as "purify." Don't you just love word forensics? When I followed other words derived from the same root, my path lead directly to...purgatory.

Ah yes, Purgatory, that all-souls' waiting room for heaven. The concept of Purgatory, popularly attributed to the Roman Catholic Church, actually germinated centuries before in Judaism and ancient Greece. The philosophy developed that the deceased could not enter the hereafter without an atonement for their many worldly sins, a shackle to this worldly plane. Purgatory was the holding cell for those souls in need of a bit of a makeover. What a bunch of bologna!

And yet...hadn't I been embracing the same philosophy? I had spent weeks, preparing, clearing out the clutter, unlocking my shackle to "things," all in the attempt to simplify. At first it was hard to part with stuff. Each item placed on the sale tables left me feeling bereft, a bit like that scene in Cast Away where Tom Hanks watches Wilson float away with the waves. But then I started to notice an unexpected release. I turned downright ruthless in my selection of discards. As each piece of junk treasure left my garage last weekend, I felt one ounce lighter. I was floating toward enlightenment, one step closer to my true divinity. (Yeah, right.)

We cleared a garage full of clutter out in three short days, in exchange for three month's grocery cash. As tight as money has been this past year, the total earnings represented a tremendous cushion. Saturday as we closed the doors and kicked our feet up to relax we congratulated ourselves on our success. And then, we turned on the television. The screen filled with images from the tsunami ravaged villages of Japan. Stories of families with no earthly possessions but the clothes on their backs left us silent, pensive. The Universe was whispering to us.

"I want to help those people," I murmured. "It just makes me so ashamed that I'm hesitant out of fear for our own needs." 

"Maybe we can't send the entire bankroll," said hubby. "But I think we can at least send part of it."

And so we tithed the proceeds from our tag sale to The Red Cross for disaster relief to Japan. Hardly the widow's last mite, but it was a start.  Purgatory?  Oh yes, I've been spending time there. It's not such a bad place. There's room to grow there, and the door is always open. Now, if I can just keep from visiting my neighbors' garage sales and a prolonged stay in heaven's waiting room, all will be well.