Ordinary Thoughts, Essays and Short Stories

Category: Essays (Page 1 of 4)

Seeking Peace

Photo from pickpik.com

 

My blog entries are generally centered around lightheartedness and humor, but you’ll find none of that in this post. The subject matter is too important.

I initially penned a whole other essay about this that was peppered with what could best be described as Pollyanna platitudes. I naively thought they might help someone in crisis. And while I was sincere in what I’d written, it was gently pointed out to me that I totally missed the mark. With a topic this delicate, a litany of pretty words can sometimes cause more harm than good. 

As I ponder that notion, it occurs to me that I probably have no business writing about this at all. It’s not as though I have any real answers. That being said, I still feel compelled to address what happened. 

One of my grandchildren recently lost a close friend to suicide. Her name was Ari. I didn’t have the chance to get to know her well, but I found her to be a polite, pleasant, and very sweet teenager. In short…I liked her. When I learned what had happened, I was stunned. 

For those of us who have never experienced true hopelessness, it’s impossible to fully grasp a despair so foul that taking our own life feels like the only way out. It’s a thought we can’t even entertain. But every day, a multitude of people are haunted by that thought, make their excruciating choice, and then follow through with it. They reach a point where no amount of counsel or intervention – regardless of how well-intended – can change their reality. 

I’m not privy to all the circumstances that led to Ari’s final act, nor should I be. That story isn’t mine to tell. But from what I understand, her situation was dire, and she saw no earthly solution. Taking her own life was tragic, but it was not a knee-jerk reaction. To Ari, it was the only thing that would set her free. 

I wish things could have been different, but wishing is fruitless. I’ll just pray for peace for Ari and for those who cared about her. And I’ll always be grateful that I had the opportunity to meet her. 

September is Suicide Prevention Month.

If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available. Call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

(Source: https://www.nami.org/get-involved/awareness-events/suicide-prevention-month/)

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Binge-Worthy

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Photo by Tom Wheatley on Unsplash.com

One of the best features of retirement is the increased amount of free time. And one of my favorite fillers of that time has been to loll around in front of the TV. I’ve lost count of how many series I’ve binge-watched over the past four years. 

I can’t recall the order of all of them, but the first show I buried myself in was Game of Thrones. It was every bit as bloody and bawdy as people said it was, and it hooked me from the start. Of course, having a soft spot for dragons didn’t hurt. 

Another binge – one that seemed to take for-bloody-ever to get through because it boasts over 1200 episodes – was Dark Shadows. I was thrilled when I stumbled upon the entire series on Amazon. If you’re in my age bracket, you’ll likely remember that horribly over-acted soap opera from the ‘60s/‘70s that featured vampires, witches, and werewolves. I’ll never forget the crush I had on Barnabas Collins. That soap was as campy the second time around as it was the first, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Other shows I lost myself in included Supernatural, Psych, Your Honor, Virgin River, NCIS, Schitt’s Creek, Evil, Ted Lasso, and Bridgerton (every iteration). There were more…many more…but you get the drift. When I’m not reading or writing, I love escaping into all sorts of showsAnd I’m clearly drawn to entertainment over edification.

The series I just finished watching was Call the Midwife. There were twelve seasons, but I got through them fairly quickly because I found it so hard to drag myself away. I’m not exactly what you’d call a “baby person,” and every episode highlighted at least one birth (sometimes several), but the program thoroughly sucked me in. I thought the acting was superb, the storylines were compelling, and the era – even though it took place across the pond – brought back memories of life in the ‘60s. I may not have lived in the East End of London, but the fashion and music were truly blasts from the past. And I must admit…all the babies were absolutely adorable. 

As I neared the finish line, I began mourning the impending loss of the characters I’d grown so fond of. They were merely actors on TV, but I knew I’d miss them, and it made me sad. 

Then I saw it…a small banner across the screen declaring Season 13 would start on September 2nd. Another season! Nearly all the series I’ve binge-watched over the years have been complete, and it didn’t even occur to me that Call the Midwife might still be in production. That little banner turned my frown upside down. 

Needless to say, I’m counting the hours until the new season starts. What a happy little stay of execution!

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Music Isn’t Just for Dancing

Photo by Oleg Moroz

I recently had cataract surgery, and as the healing process brings the world into crisper focus, I can’t stop thinking of Jimmy Cliff singing I Can See Clearly Now. I know it sounds cliché, but it’s just one more in a countless number of songs that make up the soundtrack of my life. And since my brain has a tendency to slip down rabbit holes, it got me thinking about the multitude of songs that have attached themselves to certain experiences or situations over the years. 

I recall an incident back in the ’90s where I was driving to a work meeting, and my mind was twisted in knots over something completely out of my control. The more I thought about it, the more anxious I became. I wasn’t consciously listening to the radio, but the beginning lyrics of a song that came on quickly penetrated my angst, and I felt myself start to calm. The song was River of Deceit by Mad Season, and the words that settled me were, “My pain is self-chosen.” It was a perfectly timed reminder that, while I may not have control over the situation, I did have control over how I let it affect me. An alternative rock song unexpectedly provided exactly what I needed, exactly when I needed it.

Music creates connections to feelings as well as life events. Certain songs, or types of songs, tend to remind me of loved ones who are no longer here. For years after Mom died, I couldn’t bear to listen to her favorite church hymns because they amplified the pain of losing her. I finally worked through that, and I’m relieved I did because hearing those hymns now brings back warm, happy memories of my wonderful mom. After Dad passed away, listening to his favorite music – Chet Atkins in particular – never made me sad; it made me feel closer to him. It still does. And there’s a James Taylor song that always reminds me of my late brother. I remember one day when I was a teen, I walked by the closed bathroom door and heard Aaron singing Fire and Rain. He had the exhaust fan going and probably thought it drowned out the sound, but I’m glad it didn’t. That was the only time I ever heard him sing, and he had a beautiful voice. 

When it comes to music, I’ve nearly always been able to count on it to get me through tough times. There was one instance, though, when it fell woefully short. Several years after Mom passed away, Dad decided to remarry. Even though I was extremely fond of his betrothed and very happy for them both, I still missed my mom and knew the wedding might be a bit difficult for me. So, to protect my tender heart, I came up with a plan to distract myself if I started to get emotional. I would sing Christmas carols in my head. Unfortunately, I was blindsided by the very first song they played during the ceremony. It was The Rose…an innocent, yet horrifically ill-conceived, choice. My mom’s name was Rosabel, and that song hit me like a royal kick in the gut. While I struggled to maintain my composure, I couldn’t for the life of me come up with a single Christmas carol to cling to. The only song I could conjure up was Dead Skunk. You know…that early ‘70s ode to the odoriferous. I ran the lyrics through my head as best I could, but the damage was already done. The proverbial dam broke, and there was nothing left for me to do but sit there and silently sob while my husband patted my shoulder. Fortunately, anyone who later saw my splotchy face merely assumed I was the sort who cried at weddings. Also fortunate is the fact that that pitiful experience didn’t taint Dead Skunk for me. It’s still one of my very favorite songs. 

Regardless of the few times when music couldn’t soothe my soul, it remains my tether to treasured memories and current joys. I often choose songs that are fun and energetic, and I don’t always pay attention to the – sometimes questionable – lyrics (Warren Zevon’s Excitable Boy comes to mind). But the songs that really hit home are those that elicit a sense of love and compassion. A recent favorite that falls into that category is A Little Bit of Love by Weezer. 

And because I wish everyone a little bit of love, my gift to you is the link below. As you listen, I hope you feel the love I’m sending out. 

Enjoy, smile, and maybe even sing along. I know I will.

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How Embarrassing

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One of my friends (you know who you are) sent me a link to a Buzzfeed article highlighting people’s most embarrassing moments. I totally empathized with these folks, but several of their stories were so hilarious they had me laughing out loud. 

As I read through those confessions of mortification, I couldn’t help but think about my own humiliating experiences. I was painfully shy and awkward growing up, and incidents that may not even land on someone else’s radar made me want to crawl into a hole and pull the dirt back in over me. Age has thickened my skin a bit, but I still cringe when I reminisce about those little traumas. 

The earliest embarrassing moment that comes to mind was during summer vacation between second and third grade. My best friend’s mother let her hold a carnival in their backyard to raise money for muscular dystrophy, and I was excited to be a part of it. I don’t recall all the different booths we had, but I’ll never forget mine. I was the fortune teller and was set up in a nifty little tent. For a measly ten cents, I’d offer silly predictions to whoever stopped by. It wasn’t long before one particular boy popped his head in, smiled at me, and held out his dime. I simply sat there and stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. This was my secret crush all through second grade, and I’d never had the nerve to say more than a few words to him. Now, there he was, merely inches from me in the small confines of that tent. I finally found my voice and stammered, “Keep your money. It’s not worth it.” Clearly confused, he looked at me for what seemed like an eternity, and then he shook his head and backed out of the tent. I waited to come out until I was sure he was gone, and I never told a soul about it. 

In middle school, I was forced to face my fear of public speaking by giving an oral book report. As awkward and embarrassed as I was to stand there in front of the class, I managed to find enough courage to tell everyone all about the book I’d read. I can’t even remember now what that book was, but it obviously had captured my interest because some alien force overtook me, and I talked and talked and talked. What was supposed to be a five-minute summary morphed into a twenty-minute review. As I walked back to my desk after finishing, the kids applauded. But before I even had a chance to feel good about myself, the girl who sat behind me whispered, “They’re only clapping because you’re done.” I was mortified, and even though she was probably right, I never much cared for that girl after that. 

High school didn’t get any better. I never had a ghost of a chance to be popular, but I did try to keep up appearances. Back in the ‘70s, it wasn’t uncommon to wear hairpieces and wigs. One day after lunch, I was talking to some friends when another student walked past and deliberately bumped into me. He was just being funny, but my head jerked back, and when I whirled around, I looked down and saw my wig splayed on the floor like roadkill. Trying to cover my plastered-down hair with one hand, I grabbed the wig with the other and raced to the bathroom. Honestly, everything after that is a blur. I know I eventually returned to class, though, because I did finish high school and have the diploma to prove it. 

Life after school has offered a multitude of embarrassing opportunities.  Like the time I was at a buffet dinner with a lot of other people, and I happily dug into the chocolate mousse…only to discover it was liver pâté. Maintaining any level of composure at that point went straight out the window.

There was also the time I was getting ready to lead a Weight Watchers meeting in a basement. I was walking to the front of the room while looking back to chat with a member who was following me. When I turned back around, I smacked my face right into a very unforgiving support post. It hurt like the dickens – and I know I must have looked like a total klutz – but I did my best to laugh it off, and I started the meeting. About two minutes in, a member in the front row got my attention to let me know my nose was bleeding. I like to think I was a dedicated leader, but that gave all new meaning to the term “blood, sweat, and tears.”

Then there was the time a gentleman with a white cane stepped off the elevator into the lobby where I worked as a receptionist. After getting his information, I gestured toward the waiting area and invited him to take a seat. He just stood there with a blank look on his face until I remembered he was blind. I could gesture until the cows came home, and that poor guy still wouldn’t have any idea what I was trying to say. 

One of my more ridiculous fiascos didn’t involve witnesses, thank goodness, but it was still embarrassing because I needed a bit of assistance after the fact. I was the proud new owner of an inversion table, and I was adjusting it to fit my body’s specifications. In order to use it properly, it had to be set to where the table would stay parallel to the floor as I lay on it. When I wanted to invert it to hang upside down, I would slowly raise my arms above my head, and the table would tip back until it was perpendicular to the floor. Because I have long legs and an almost nonexistent torso, I had to adjust it several times to get it to accommodate my center of gravity. Per the instructions, I secured my ankles each time before testing it. 

For the final test, when I was pretty sure I had it right, I didn’t bother securing my ankles because I wasn’t planning to invert. I was simply going to go far enough to confirm it would stay level. I slowly leaned the table back, and it balanced perfectly parallel to the floor. I was so excited about finally having it set up correctly that I quickly raised my arms in victory, and before I knew what was happening, the table tilted all the way back. 

Remember I mentioned I hadn’t taken those necessary few seconds to secure my ankles? Yes, well, that came back to bite me in the butt…big time. I had a nanosecond to realize I was upside down before I completely slid off the blasted thing and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. My husband came to investigate after he heard the unceremonious thud, and he found me crawling out from behind the inversion table. He helped me to my feet and was kind enough not to laugh until he was sure I hadn’t broken anything. 

While I did use the table for a while after that initial calamity, I never quite trusted it. I wound up selling it, and as the guy was loading it into his truck, I went out of my way to hammer home the importance of securing those ankles. To paraphrase author Catherine Aird, “If I can’t be a good example, I’ll just have to be a horrible warning.”

The aforementioned are just a few examples of my inability to be calm, cool, and collected. I never have been and never will be one of those people who have it all together. When I was younger, that reality bothered me a lot. Now, though, I can accept it. And it’s not like I have much choice. At my age, I absolutely do not have the physical or mental energy for an overhaul.

Let’s face it…I’m a WYSIWYG. What you see is what you get. 

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Mobile Monikers

Buzzfeed.com – Audrey Engvalson

I haven’t been feeling particularly creative of late, but my OCD brain couldn’t allow the month to pass without writing a blog post. I landed on a topic that periodically crosses my mind – only to be promptly forgotten until the next time it pops up – so I thought I’d put it into words before it had a chance to slip away again. 

I’m talking about vanity plates. Yeah, you read that right. I actually do spend precious time pondering those cryptic little blurbs affixed to vehicles I find myself sitting behind at stop lights. Sometimes they’re pretty easy to decipher, like, “BYBYGAS” on a Tesla, but other times they’re little puzzles that seem impossible to solve, like “NDCI4BL.” I’m embarrassed to admit that, for me, that’s pretty much what it stands for …“Indecipherable.”

Either way, I find them entertaining. A deep dive online provided all kinds of nifty examples, so I thought I’d share some below…along with my unsolicited commentary. (If you can’t figure out what they mean, feel free to scroll to the end for the answers):

 

And it’s duct tape for the win!

Ranker.com — Article by Samantha Dillinger

If you weren’t old enough to pay attention to the news in the ‘90s, this may soar right over your head.

Buzzfeed.com — Article by Audrey Engvalson

 

 

Literally.

Buzzfeed.com — Article by Audrey Engvalson

I do hope this is simply a TV fan and not someone continuing to carry the torch.

Buzzfeed.com — Article by Audrey Engvalson

What are the odds that this guy’s an introvert?

Buzzfeed.com — Article by Audrey Engvalson

In your best Meryl Streep Aussie voice, read the whole thing…plate holder and all.

Buzzfeed.com — Article by Audrey Engvalson

The driver’s name is Buzz. His other car is a spaceship.

Buzzfeed.com — Article by Audrey Engvalson

 

Mr. Obvious at his finest.

Buzzfeed.com — Article by Audrey Engvalson

Now this is something I can really sink my teeth into.

Ranker.com — Article by Samantha Dillinger

Anyone who has ever taken a kid on a car ride will need zero help solving this one.

Today.com — Article by Kerry Breen

While most vanity plates make their way onto the streets without issue, there are many that get rejected. I intended to share some of those as well, but the ones I kept coming across were pretty potty-mouthed, and I try to keep this blog G-rated. If you’re curious, just Google “rejected vanity plates.” And if you’re anything like me, you’ll find many of them sound an awful lot like the raunchy musings of a 14-year-old boy. 

Getting back to less risqué ideas, I used to think it might be cool to have a vanity plate myself. I considered “INTRVRT,” “BOOKWRM,” and “WRITER,” but I’m sure they’ve all been taken.

Honestly, though, the only one that would reflect who I truly am inside would be this: “PRDMAMA.”

Odds are, that’s been taken, too. And that’s okay. I don’t think my girls need me to advertise how I feel. If I’ve been doing my job right, they already know. 

ANSWERS

EPIC FAI **: Without that ‘L,’ it’s an epic fail.

NOT OJ ***: The person who owns this vehicle is letting everyone know he is not OJ Simpson. (After being charged with the murder of his ex-wife and her friend in July 1994, Simpson rode as a passenger in a white Bronco that was slowly being chased by police. The low-speed chase was broadcast live on TV and went on for about two hours.)

ASKEW ***: This plate was deliberately installed crooked.

D3XT3R ***: “Dexter” was a TV series about a serial killer. A really bloody serial killer. (This ranks as one of my favorite shows of all time. Don’t judge.)

PPL SUCK ***: People suck. (My personal assessment is that this car owner may have an attitude. And not a good one.)

DINGO 8 ***: Using the words on the plate holder as well as the plate itself, it reads, “A Dingo Ate My Baby” which is a rather macabre paraphrase of Meryl Streep’s character yelling, “A dingo’s got my baby!” It’s from the 1988 movie, A Cry in the Dark.

NBEYOND ***: The car is an Infiniti, and this relates to Buzz Lightyear saying, “To infinity and beyond!” in the Toy Story movies.

IM A CAR ***: I don’t think this needs an explanation.

VLAD THE **: Including the name of the car model, Impala, it represents “Vlad the Impaler,” a 15th-century ruler whose name inspired Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

PB4WEGO *: Pee before we go. (As a parent, this may be my favorite.)

Photo Credits:

*  Today.com – Article by Kerry Breen

 **  Ranker.com – Article by Samantha Dillinger

***  Buzzfeed.com – Article by Audrey Engvalson

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Motivation, Where Art Thou?

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Upon retirement, my bucket list consisted of nothing more than the first drafts of two novels I wanted to finish. Last month, I exceeded that goal by publishing a third book. I had a lot of fun writing it, just as I enjoyed writing the first two. And once all the dreadful editing was done, getting those books released into the world was just as fulfilling as I’d hoped. 

But now I’m feeling sort of…oh, I don’t know…blah, I guess. It’s not that I don’t want to write. I do. I love writing. When I’m in the throes of it, I get swept away, and it’s like my ADHD goes out the window. Even time ceases to exist. Writing is a wonderful escape, but it’s not something I can do simply by snapping my fingers. The muse shows up at her pleasure…not mine. Currently, she’s nowhere to be found, and the idea of trying to crank out anything creative makes my brain hurt. I do have some thoughts about my next project — and there’s no rush since I make my own schedule — so I don’t know why the fact that I’m not yet banging away at it bothers me so. 

It may have something to do with the fact that I have an abundance of unfettered time to do as I please, and it bugs me when I can’t get myself to put it to good use. And by good use, I don’t mean the laundry list of To-Do’s around the house and property. I mean writing…or more precisely…writing something worth reading. 

Last year, I blogged about the fact that I felt I wasn’t doing as much as I “should” with my free time. In that post, I mentioned a Come-to-Jesus talk that helped me decide to stop worrying about meeting some arbitrary standard. It would seem, though, that I’m having trouble following through. What looked good on paper, and even felt right at the time, is a lot tougher to put into practice than I expected.

I’ve been at this retirement gig for four years, and you’d think I’d have it mastered by now. At what point do I stop feeling guilty for not being busy 24/7? I have no doubt I’ll get going on the aforementioned project at some point, and intellectually, I know it’s okay to take a creativity break. A long one, even. I’ve just got to get over this idea that I’m wasting precious time by doing the mundane things that bring me joy…like reading, playing word games, lazing on the porch swing, and taking the occasional day trip. Truth be told, those sorts of relaxing activities are some of the main attractions of retirement. At least they are for me.

As I write this, I can’t believe I’m literally complaining about the luxury of having free time. I mean…how messed up is that? I’m usually such an optimist, but on occasion, that stupid negativity just grabs hold and refuses to let go. 

I have a feeling it may be time for another Come-to-Jesus talk.

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Smoke

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A year ago today, our hearts were broken. Saying goodbye to our sweet boy, Smoke, was devastating. It’s always that way when you lose a pet.

We adored all the cats we had through the years – as noted in one of my previous posts here – but when it came to Smoke, the loss hit us especially hard. We could never quite put our finger on it, but there was just something different – something special – about Smoke. 

I used to say he must have been a puppy in another life because he was so much more affectionate than the other cats we’d had. He was extremely skittish around other people, but when it came to me and my husband, he absolutely loved being on one of our laps or in bed with us. If we were too busy to accommodate him, he’d often sit and watch what we were doing — frankly, I think he liked to supervise — or he’d curl up and nap nearby so he could still be close to one of us. And when we’d return from being gone for any length of time, he’d unabashedly let us know how much we were missed. 

The amount of joy he brought to our lives was immeasurable, and a year after his passing, we still feel the void. It’s been particularly tough for me the past several months because I decided to take my aunt’s advice and write a book about Smoke. Doing so has kept his life — and our loss — front and center. I’ve cried more during this time than I did right after he died. But no matter how raw I’ve felt, I’m so glad I listened to my aunt. Reliving parts of our life with Smoke has been bittersweet…heart-wrenching and wonderful, all at the same time. 

The book, Smoke – A Cat’s Tale, is finally finished and has been released into the world. While it’s fiction, there’s a lot of truth scattered throughout, and I think it paints a pretty good picture of what Smoke’s life was like. At least that’s the way I heard it when he was whispering in my ear as I pounded away at the keyboard. 

I hope you’ll consider reading the book and spending a little time getting to know Smoke and his friends. The link below will take you to it, and if you have Kindle Unlimited, you can read it for free. It’s not a kid’s book; it’s merely a story where most of the people in it aren’t actually people. And even though it’s sad in places, don’t worry…it really does have a happy ending. 

My one wish is that this book will do a proper job of honoring Smoke’s memory. It’s the very least I could do for such a beloved boy. 

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Charge It!

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After recently reading a Facebook post about music, I commented that I like to listen to ‘70s rock while doing stuff around the house. When I do that, I generally use earbuds so I don’t disturb my husband if he’s not in a particularly musical mood. I also mentioned that, at that very moment, I needed to clean the bathrooms, and I hoped my earbuds were charged. 

They were not. 

As I went about the oh-so-fascinating chore of cleaning the bathrooms – sans music because I didn’t want to drown out my husband’s TV program – I got to thinking about all the different wireless devices I own. There are the earbuds, of course (actually, I have two sets), but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Besides my phone, I have a face massager, a neck fan, a facial cleaner, a neck/back massager, an iPad keyboard, a cordless bathroom scrubber, a set of heated knee massagers, three iPads (excessive, I know), a hair trimmer, and even a heated eyelash curler. Oh, and don’t forget the portable power units that have to be kept fully charged in order to juice up my devices if the electricity goes out. 

I threw that list together off the top of my head, and when I realized I probably left out a few things, it made my head spin. And not in a fun way. 

I know many of the devices on that list come across as unnecessary luxuries, but as someone who enjoys spending a lot of time at home, it’s nice to have them at my disposal. What’s not so nice is the inevitable disappointment when I go to use something and find it’s dead as a doornail. 

Keeping the devices plugged in all the time would solve this issue, but having a lot of clutter around makes me anxious. Considering how many of these doodads I’ve got, they’d be scattered all through the house, and the very sight of them would eventually make my head implode. Still, I want to find some logical way to keep them charged. 

I think I’ve finally come up with a simple solution, and it was as obvious as the nose on my face. I already keep a daily planner for tasks and appointments, so I’ve entered “device charging” as an ongoing task. I’m staggering two or three per day throughout the week, and they can be done using only one or two outlets. That way, they’ll all get charged – and stay that way – and I won’t be faced with the bitter angst of not being able to use my earbuds. Or worse…not being able to curl my lashes. 

Am I aware that what I’ve got here is a First World problem not worthy of this level of concern? Why, yes. Yes, I am. But there are times when even trivial molehills turn into mental mountains. At least they do in my brain. So…First World problem or not…if I can come up with a doable solution, I consider it a successful day.

And can’t nobody take that away from me.

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Birthdays

I will turn 69 next month, effectively putting an end to that same number of years on this planet. As I get ready to embark on my 70th trip around the sun, I can’t help but think back to previous birthdays and what they meant to me. 

While my sense of recall is flawed at best, a few birthdays over the years have left their marks. The first one I remember was when I turned nine. I was in the third grade, and my mom had agreed to let me have my first-ever birthday party. Nothing extravagant, of course…we didn’t have the money for that…but I was excited by the prospect of inviting a few friends over for cake and ice cream. Before we had a chance to even start planning, though, another girl invited all of our classmates to her birthday party. That might not have been a problem, but ironically, we shared the same birthday. Since she’d already invited everybody, Mom decided it would be in poor taste for me to have a party at or around the same time, so mine was canceled before it even got off the ground. And to add insult to injury, Mom said it would be impolite not to accept the other girl’s invitation. So not only did I not get to have a party of my own, I had to go celebrate someone else on what should have been my special day. Not gonna lie…that was a tough pill for this former nine-year-old to swallow. 

The next birthday of note was my 18th. My first husband and I, along with our infant daughter – yes, I was quite the young mama – had just moved from Indiana to Rhode Island. I don’t know if it was morbid curiosity or just my way of letting off steam, but since the legal drinking age there was 18, I decided to celebrate that birthday by getting plastered for the very first time. My husband started me off with sloe gin and Coke. At some point, I foolishly switched to straight gin, and the last thing I remember from that night was reading the TV Guide out loud to my husband. The next day was one of the sickest, most wretched days of my life. And deservedly so. I can say without reservation that I reaped what I sowed. To this day, I can’t even entertain the thought of drinking sloe gin.

The next twenty or so birthdays weren’t particularly memorable. Don’t get me wrong…my family has always made me feel special…but we don’t tend to throw big birthday bashes.

My 40th, though, kicked off a personal annual tradition. I took off work that day, had the house to myself, and did whatever I wanted…slept in, read, watched TV, and basically just chilled out. A lot of people seem to dread turning 40, but it didn’t bother me at all. 

Birthday 45 came a week before my mom passed away. Her final year had been filled with excruciating pain, and my dad, brother, and I pretty much lost ourselves in our efforts to keep her as comfortable as possible. She was our only concern. The last thing on my mind that year was my birthday, but it got celebrated anyway because that’s just the sort of loving family I have. One of my daughters even gave me a gift that held a unique meaning for me…a tambourine. Surprisingly, a birthday I didn’t think I cared about turned out to be extremely special. 

As I mentioned earlier, turning 40 was no big deal. But 46? That was a whole other story. I still remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror muttering to myself when my husband came in and asked what I was doing. I swung around and said, in a rather unfriendly tone, “I’m 50!”

“No,” he said. “You’re not. You’re only 46.”

“Everybody knows that 46 starts the downward spiral to 50,” I countered. “So that’s what I might as well say I am now. I’m 50.”

There was clearly no point in trying to convince me otherwise, so he wisely walked away and let me stew in my own grumpy juices. 

Funny thing is, when I finally did turn 50, it was totally anticlimactic. I’d already mourned my youth at 46, so when 50 officially showed up, it was a non-event. I didn’t feel “old.” I just felt like me. I do remember wondering how I might feel when 60 rolled around, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t consider myself old then, either. I had a feeling, though, that 70 might be another matter. 

And now, nearly two decades later, I’m almost there. Yes, technically that birthday is still thirteen months away, but my 70th year will launch when I hit 69 in a few weeks. 

As I revisit the thoughts I had back when I turned 50, I wonder how I’ll feel in a year. Physically, I have to confess I’m noticing the ravages of time. My joints started betraying me years ago, and they don’t seem to have any intentions of reverting to their glory days. And intellectually, I think I’ve been left in the dust when it comes to technology…something that’s pretty important to stay on top of these days.

Mentally, though, I don’t feel much different than I did in my 30’s and 40’s. The biggest change is that I finally feel emotionally settled. I worry less about things I can’t control, I try to notice and appreciate the little wonders in any given day, and I’m fully aware that I’m blessed beyond measure.

So, physical and intellectual issues aside, I’m feeling pretty good about approaching 70. The looming question now is…how will I feel when 80 is right around the corner?

I guess only time will tell.

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Happy Christmas!

Countless years ago, I was listening to a tape by motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar, and one of the things he said that really hit home was that the average person goes to his grave with his music still inside his head. I realize he meant that in the broadest of terms – as in, all of our creative gifts, not just music – but I took it rather literally because most of my writing at that time was in the form of song lyrics. I didn’t know how to write music or play an instrument (and I wasn’t about to sing them to someone who did), so I knew those songs would eventually be buried with me. It was a rather sad acknowledgment, but one I came to accept…until now.

When I created this blog a couple of years back, I let my guard down and began sharing my writing with anyone willing to read it. Those posts have always been in the form of essays or short stories. This month – with Christmas hanging in the air – I decided to let my guard down even more and share one of my songs.

I penned the following back in the ‘90s, and it continues to creep into my head every Christmas season. I’m only posting the lyrics because no one deserves to be put through the torment of hearing me sing. It may read like a badly formatted poem, but hopefully, its spirit still comes through.

Jesus is Born

 

Joseph and Mary rode into the town

To find no room at the inn

Calmly, patiently they bedded down

Among the cattle, and then

As the bright star glowed

Overhead it showed

Where the babe lay safe on the hay

Praise Him!

Praise Him!

Angels proclaimed

Jesus is born today

 

Shepherds who watched o’er their flocks in the fields

Saw the heavenly light

Hearing the news of the birth of their King

They took off in the night

And they found the baby

In swaddled clothing

Asleep and warm where he lay

Praise Him!

Praise Him!

Angels proclaimed

Jesus is born today

 

Bearing their gifts for the new baby King

Wise men came from afar

Frankincense, gold, and myrrh did they bring

As they followed the star

And they found the child 

In a rugged stable

And knelt before Him to pray

Praise Him!

Praise Him!

Angels proclaimed

Jesus is born today

So, there you have it…my one and only attempt at a Christmas carol. 

If tuneless lyrics aren’t your thing, perhaps you’d prefer a story instead. And not just any story, but a Christmas story. Well, it so happens, I can give you that. It’s a rerun from last year, so you may have already read it. If that’s the case, feel free to log off and find something a bit less stale and a lot more entertaining. I promise I won’t be offended. 

But if you haven’t read the above-mentioned story and think you might like to check it out, simply click the button below. Christmas with Frank is one of those sappy, feel-good tales that just might revive your belief in love and hope. Even if it doesn’t, it still provides something wonderful because one of the characters is a sweet little dog. 

And let’s be honest here…who doesn’t love a sweet little dog?

Wishing you a Very Merry Christmas

and a Fabulous 2024!

LIKE BOOKS?

I’m pleased to share that my first two novels are available on Amazon. For information and purchase options, click here.

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