BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

It’s been a while since I blogged.  For a while now I’ve told myself that the muse deserted me never to return. Some call it “writer’s block.” Some call it fear. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Maybe. I am determined to find it again. Get back in the saddle, so to speak. And so I write...

I hate cold weather.

This island girl has never adapted well to the changes in seasons. Not once in forty-plus years of living in America’s northeast have I welcomed or even cautiously anticipated winter. Yes, I do welcome the relief of cooler temperatures after the piercing heat of summer. To be sure I admire the vibrant colors of fall. There is admittedly no more beautiful sight than the leaves of a mighty maple slowly surrendering its lush greenness in favor of bright orange, sienna and vermilion hues. But somewhere around mid-August I become keenly aware of shorter days, cooler evenings, waning sunlight, falling leaves, wooly caterpillars, chirping crickets, migrating geese, and a backyard swimming pool that urges me to take one more dip if I dare.

But it is mid-November. We’ve already experienced our first snowfall, the first frost and the first pea-soup fog of the season. Even the last geese have begun their flight to warmer climates. It all serves to remind me of a poem by the late English poet, Thomas Hood whose thoughts must have been as morose as mine:  

No sun, no moon,

No morn, no noon,
No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day,
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member,
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November.

But there are moments of wonderment too. This morning I awoke to unexpected sixty-degree temperatures, a warm breeze and amazing sunshine. Tomorrow it will be cold again; today I will relish in this unexpected blessing.

And soon it will be spring.

 

Parenting our parents

    Not very long ago my elderly mother drove herself and her friend to Walmart. Backing into a parking spot, she miscalculated her turn and hit another car. (No damage done and no one was injured.) Mom, who was in her eighties at the time, pulled away from the car and promptly swung into another more accessible parking spot, at which time both she and her friend casually exited the car and continued their shopping expedition. (I should note that until this occurrence Mom held an exemplary driving record.)

    My sister, the owner of the car and my mother’s “caregiver,” became aware of this misdemeanor when the insurance company called her with details. It seems that a bystander had witnessed the event and made the report. Mom came clean when my sister confronted her with the indisputable details. So, in a subsequent telephone conversation, we, her daughters, agreed that since Mom was of the mindset that it was no big deal to hit a car and not report the accident to the authorities, it was probably time for her to relinquish the car keys and end her driving career. Thus began a struggle between mother and adult daughters that has continued to this day – Mom’s struggle to maintain her independence and her position as matriarch of the family, and her daughters’ determination to protect her and prevent further infraction with the unsuspecting public. We’re setting boundaries for our mother; parenting our parent, so to speak.

    The conversations have been painful. Our arguments in favor of limiting Mom’s freedom are shadowed by our desire to allow her the independence she craves. Quite often we capitulate (except for the driving thing), throwing up our collective hands in despair. Parenting Mom is unarguably the most challenging task we’ve undertaken. We understand it’s a task we cannot shirk, but we don’t like it one bit. The upside is that this has motivated us, the daughters, to initiate the conversation early with our own adult children. Jim Comer gives great advice about how to start the conversation on his own blog: www.parenting-your-parents.com/blog.

  

    Have you had “the conversation” with your aging parents?

    How did you start the conversation?  
I'd like to know...and I'll keep you posted on how it's going in my family.
Maxine

Tapping into motivation wherever it lies

 I am a product of The Sixties.

To most readers, that statement conjures up a host of disquieting images: marijuana junkies, Woodstock, free love, JFK, MLK, demonstrations, gas shortages, the Beatles, funky music, the cold war, and the Cuban missile crisis. Other readers might recall that the Boston Celtics were basketball champs, the country was entertained by the socially inept Beverly Hillbillies, and teens couldn’t get enough of Leslie Gore’s “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.”

But those were not my experiences. In the sixties I lived in an idyllic world, in beautiful, laid-back Jamaica, cocooned by a loving family and untouched by world crises. I have kinder, gentler memories of the sixties: The first Jamaican Miss World; the emergence of Bob Marley and the Wailers (who knew they would soar from Rasta pick-up band to world renown musicians); lazy days at the beach; and dancing the Ska on cool nights.   

And there was high school. 

High school is my happy place. I know I must have experienced some teenage angst, parental confrontations, sibling rivalries, during those years, but I cannot remember a single such event. Hindsight truly is 20/20. I go back to my high school days for sweet memories, and, quite often, for motivation. In my mind I picture the daily, all-school assembly where we young ladies of Wolmer’s High School for Girls stood in perfectly ordered rows to sing a hymn, read Scripture, say a prayer, and hear a motivational call to arms – usually a poem or famous quotation – from our very British headmistress. I hear her voice; I see her piercing eyes connecting with each student from the stage, and it is here in that commanding presence that I hear words that even now inject me with the booster shot of inspiration I seek.

You can do what you think you can - you'll never accomplish more,

If you're afraid of yourself, there's nothing for you in store.

For failure comes from the inside first - It is there if you only knew it,

And you can win though you face the worst if you feel you're going to do it.

When I balk at a tedious writing assignment, when I doubt my ability to meet an approaching deadline, when I am faced with my greatest fears, these words remind me that success is as close or as far away as the thoughts swirling through my mind. Yes I can.

So tell me, WHERE DO YOU FIND MOTIVATION? Share your thoughts....

God Bless America

 

"I sought for the key to the greatness and genius of America in its harbors; in her fertile fields and boundless forests; in her rich mines and vast world commerce; in her public school system and institutions of learning. I sought for it in her democratic Congress and in her matchless constitution… not until I went into the churches of America and heard her pulpits FLAME with RIGHTEOUSNESS did I understand the secret of her genius and power.”

~ Alexis deTocqueville

Busted

Received a scolding from Grandson Sonic recently as he examined the pencil  notations and Post-it notes stuck between the pages of my Bible.

"Grammie, this is no way to treat your Bible. We don't write in books."

Ha. Nothing like having a kid throw your own words back at you. Then I recalled a recent tweet from Kay Arthur: Don't feel guilty about marking your Bible as long as your Bible is marking you.

Now to explain this to an 8 year old...

Welcome to the Family (A short, short, doggie story)

    They must have been holding the plane for him. As he enters the aircraft cabin the flight attendant assists him with his overcoat and suitcase and shows him to his seat – something she hadn’t done for me or any of the other passengers.
    He approaches my row and, with a casual nod in my direction, squeezes past me to the window seat, his cell phone gripped in one hand. As he settles into the soft leather he punches in a number using only his thumb, then wedges the phone between his neck and shoulder before fastening his seat belt. 
    His movements are fluid yet deliberate and unhurried. He has the air of a man in charge. He radiates authority. Entitlement. The kind of man who demands and receives what he wants, when and how he wants it. The big boss. The decision maker. The caller of the shots.

    The flight is behind schedule. The attendant leans across me and signals him to turn off his phone. He responds with the just one minute forefinger wave, and the attendant moves on.

     I wonder how it feels to be that self-assured, to know that people suppress their own desires in favor of your own? What would it take to bring him down to the level of everyday folk? What situation would leave him acting and feeling like the rest of us? Has he ever been the loser in a battle of wills? 
    Someone special must have answered his call for his body eases back and relaxes into the tufted seat. I tune my ear towards him.
     “Hello, Tracey, honey, it’s Daddy....I’m on the airplane...No, I’m still in Houston. The plane’s about ready to take off. Where’s Mommy? ...I know you missed me, Sweetie, but I’m on my way home now....That’s right, I’ll be there before you go to bed. …Yes, in time to tuck you in.”
    I am eavesdropping. I dare not turn toward him, but I sense an indulgent smile.
    “Did you have a good day at school? ...Cupcakes, eh? Yummy. Was it somebody’s birthday? ...Alisha’s? ...Seven years old. Wow. I’m glad you had fun, honey. Now let me talk to Mommy.”
    The fingers of his free hand begin a rhythmic tapping on the armrest. He casts frequent, casual glances over his shoulder in the direction of the flight attendant.   
    “What’s that, love?...No, we can’t get another dog. ...No...no, we already have two dogs. That’s enough for one family...I know there are three people in our family, honey, but we can’t get another dog.”
    He lowers his words to an insistent whisper. His body tension increases and his finger- tapping revs up.
    “No, you don’t need your own special dog. ... I’m sorry, your own special puppy. Honey, a puppy is a dog. It’s a baby dog. …In the kitchen? What’s a puppy doing in the kitchen? ... What? You brought it home? Where’s your mother? Put your mother on the phone...Tracey, get Mommy now. Please... I’m not yelling.”
    I silently agree. He’s not yelling, but a quick glance in his direction confirms that his jaw is clenched. He may still be under control, but he is definitely not in charge.
    “Tracey, please stop crying...Tracey...Hey, Babe. What’s this about a puppy? ...You didn’t have to do that...Why’d you take it?...Then give it back. You know we can’t afford another dog....I don’t care how cute it is....Then she can just un-love it. We don’t need a third dog....I’m not being heartless, I’m being practical. Do you know how much money we spend on dog food? ...Okay, puppy food... Maybe not now, but he’ll eventually become a full-grown dog ...All right, she will become a full-grown... She? You got a girl dog?”
    Now he’s yelling, but it’s controlled, hushed yelling. He blows out a breath.
    “Just what I need — another female in the house....Hey, wait a minute. It was a joke. ...Okay, it was a bad joke....C’mon, sweetheart, it was supposed to be funny....I’m sorry, I’m sorry....Look, I’ve gotta go. They’re signaling me to end the call. We’re backing out of the gate....Is she still crying? Tell her we’ll discuss it when I get home. Tell her....Okay, put her on, but hurry.”
     I sense capitulation.
    “Trace...Tracey, honey....Look, we’ll talk about the dog, um, the puppy when I get home, okay?...You have to stop crying, honey, I can’t understand you....Tracey, listen. We have to talk about it some more, but maybe I can work out a way for you to keep the dog. Just stop crying, okay? …I didn’t say you could, for sure, keep it, just maybe....All right. Good girl. Give Mommy a kiss for me. ...I love you too. I’ll be home soon. ...You want me to say goodbye to...to who?  …Millie. Who’s Millie? The puppy. You gave the puppy a name? That’s it. I’m sunk. Bye-bye, Millie, and welcome to the family.”
    He loses. 
    Booyah!

The Tech Curve

Am I alone in this or is anyone out there also flabbergasted, flummoxed and frustrated in your efforts to negotiate the technology learning curve?  I don't mean the simple stuff like cell phone use, email communication and digital downloads. I’ve managed those. I’m talking about huge tech tasks. Like creating a web page.

Now I’m no idiot. I know my tech limits, so I hired an experienced group to do the creative work and give me legible and understandable instructions on how to maintain the site. Three months later, I still cannot navigate the admin functions, and the experts can’t tell me what to do about it. They’re as flummoxed (I like that word) as I am. After three months I’ve made no updates to my website. No updates means no marketing. No marketing means no sales. No sales means...well, you get the picture.  

Personally, I am about ready to kick the computer to the curb, crawl under a blanket and stick a thumb in my mouth. But I’m a grownup and those behaviors would likely result in a short stay in a mental institution and some lifelong psychotropic medications. So I restrain my impulsive behavior, down another pack of Oreos, and try to write away my frustrations. Sheesh.