Category: Essays (Page 3 of 4)

Arlo and the Pigskin

November 24, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 6 Comments

Anyone who knows me knows it just isn’t Thanksgiving without listening to Alice’s Restaurant Massacree. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the car, in the kitchen, or curled up in a chair 20 minutes before midnight. I simply must hear Arlo at some point before Thanksgiving Day signs off. If you share that affinity and somehow missed out today, I’ve included a link below. You’re welcome.

But that’s not the only essential tradition that always happens around here this time of year. I’m talking about…

Football.

At the risk of being disowned by half my friends and family, I‘ve got a confession to make. I have never been, nor will I ever be, a fan of football.

My husband, of course, does not share my opinion and it seems like every time I turn around lately, he’s watching whatever football game is on. Sometimes he switches channels back and forth when other games are going on at the same time. The man is nothing if not a multitasker.

When that happens, I go into another room and find something more enjoyable to do…like ramming bamboo sticks under my nails.

But, as the sounds of the commentators, whistles, and cheers waft down the hall, I can’t help but get into the spirit. I may have zero affection for the sport itself, but I do get this warm, fuzzy feeling when it’s on because, to me, football season signals the start of the holiday season. And that signals the start of delightful gatherings with family and friends.

While today is actually Thanksgiving, we’ll be heading to our youngest daughter’s house tomorrow for our annual familial feast, fun, and freakiness. I won’t even care if they turn on the game while we’re there. The important thing is to be together, so I’ll be feeling nothing but gratitude for those guys chasing around that stupid pigskin.

I hope you’re having – or had, depending on when you read this – a terrific Thanksgiving. If you’re like me, it’s the start of the most wonderful time of the year.

And, once Arlo finishes singing, it will also announce the official (in my book) permission to put up Christmas decorations and listen to Mannheim Steamroller. Or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Or the Chipmunks. No judgment here.

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Mischievous Minds

November 13, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 12 Comments

A few years ago, I was diagnosed with ADHD. This came as no surprise, but receiving an official confirmation was a bit of a relief. I used to feel guilty for my lack of focus…thinking I just wasn’t trying hard enough. But the diagnosis helped me realize that my tendency to zone out or get sidetracked isn’t the result of a lazy mind that simply refuses to pay attention. It’s because I’ve got some funky wiring going on upstairs that makes it a real challenge to fire on all cylinders.

This disorder manifests itself in various ways. For example, more often than not, my brain would rather wander hither and yon than zero in on one particular subject or situation. I lose focus easily and sometimes find it very hard to concentrate during a conversation. It’s not because what the other person is saying isn’t compelling. It’s because my mind has a knack for chewing through its leash and galivanting about. Pulling my attention back to the present feels like a physical struggle inside my head. In an attempt to stay in the moment and retain what I’m hearing, I’ll often silently repeat what the person has just said. It generally works, but it’s exhausting. My mind will even float away on a stream of consciousness during my nighttime prayers, and I wind up apologizing to God for getting distracted. For whatever reason, it seems the only times I’m fully focused are when I’m engrossed in a book or lost in writing.

At the end of the day, if I try to inventory all I’ve done since rolling out of bed, my brain freezes up. The same thing often happens when I’m asked a question about something I did earlier in the week…or even that same day. It can take some serious concentration just to recall what I had for breakfast because basic information retrieval is, quite often, a downright struggle. I should probably be used to it because this isn’t something that started happening after I entered the golden years. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. (Of course, you can take that with a grain of salt since it’s been pretty well established that I can’t remember squat.)

I also have a habit of getting sidetracked while doing things around the house. I’ll be working on a task, go into another room for a moment, notice something there that needs attention and then start in on that. The fact that I’ve left a half-finished job in the other room completely slips my mind. What makes this even more bothersome – and not just for me – is when the initial task was something I was working on with another person. For all they know, I simply abandoned them.

Decision-making is another challenge because I tend to overthink things. Once I finally do make a decision, I almost immediately second-guess myself. This trait definitely gets in the way when I’m facing a particularly multifaceted project. It often causes me to become so overwhelmed that I simply throw in the towel. I’ll usually start up again somewhere down the road – and even bring the project to fruition – but it drags things out unnecessarily and, frankly, it’s mentally taxing. I keep thinking I’ll finally get into the habit of staying the course but, so far, my intellect is the only part of me that considers that the best way to accomplish something. My nature has yet to jump on the bandwagon.

I am, however, second to none in at least one area…I’m a master procrastinator. Take this essay, for instance. I like to post new blog content every other Sunday. As I type this, it’s already past 5:00 pm on the “every other” Saturday. And, as you may have ascertained since we’re only midway through the essay, it’s not even ready to proofread yet. This is pretty much how I roll, but it’s not the most effective way to handle deadlines. And, yes, I’m well aware that, since I’m no longer in the workforce, most of those deadlines are set by me. That means much of the stress in my life is self-imposed. But that’s a self-help project for another time.

When it comes to ADHD, I identify with most of its laundry list of symptoms. But when I was diagnosed, I did question whether I truly fit the “H” aspect of that acronym. I mean, compared to me, a sloth looks like the Tasmanian Devil. I learned, though, that the term “hyperactive” doesn’t necessarily mean you spazz out and spin around in circles. (Although considering my lack of grace, that might be fun for others to watch.) Hyperactivity sometimes presents itself in much less noticeable ways. For example, I move my hands and feet a lot. Not because they’re uncomfortable or I feel nervous…it just seems to happen. I’ll also find myself chewing my tongue, particularly when driving. Sort of like Bessie the Cow chomping her cud…but behind the wheel instead of out in the field. I make a conscious effort to stop these behaviors when I notice them, but they generally start up again in short order. You’d think all that movement would at least burn a few calories but, if it does, my waistline hasn’t gotten the memo.

I envy people who seem to absorb and retain things easily because I have to consciously work at it, and it rarely sticks the first time. My husband has trouble understanding why I repeatedly forget directions to various destinations. He’s one of those people who can mentally file away this type of information and immediately access it the next time he needs it. For me, it becomes automatic only after I’ve taken the route multiple times.

I know it’s frustrating for others when I ask them to repeat what they’ve already told me – sometimes more than once – or when I forget what I was doing because I get distracted by something on the sidelines. But what they may not realize is that it’s frustrating for me, too.

Over the years, I’ve tried self-help books, tapes, and videos but, as is typical, I’ve never followed through enough to reap any major benefits. I realize there are effective pharmaceutical treatments available, but I’ve opted not to take any of the medications because I’m not all that keen on the potential side effects.

I’m fortunate that, while my level of ADHD (and its sidekick, OCD) may be an inconvenience, it’s far from debilitating. It hasn’t kept me from enjoying the important things in my life, so I figure I’ll just continue to navigate my happy little world as best I can. It hasn’t failed me yet.

Now let’s just hope that, when I’m ready to publish this, I’ll remember which folder it’s in…and what I named it.

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Cheers to Ears

October 30, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 6 Comments

[Disclaimer: The essay below is in no way meant to show disrespect for individuals with physical anomalies. It simply describes my own tendency to initially focus on the negative until I remind myself how inconsequential that perceived negative truly is.]

My husband recently had a spot on his ear diagnosed as basal cell carcinoma, and he underwent a procedure to have the malignant tissue removed. The dermatologist cut out the lesion, tested it, came back and removed more tissue, tested that, and then came back to remove even more. That last removal, fortunately, got rid of all the cancerous cells. It also left a quarter-size hole through the upper portion of the ear, creating the need for reconstruction. That involved a cartilage graft and a skin graft over the course of two separate surgeries. Considering the extent of the work that was done, the surgeon produced a great result. Hopefully, no one – my husband included – will dwell on the fact that his ears are no longer an exact match.

Witnessing all of that not only brought home the importance of regular skin cancer screenings, but it made me super aware of ears in general. I mean, have you ever paid attention to ears? They’re sort of weird. Or weird looking, anyway.

Don’t get me wrong…I have great respect for the function of ears. But I wonder, why do they have to look the way they do? I have a vague recollection of a school assignment – it might’ve been for middle school health class – in which we had to draw a diagram of the ear. It involved canals and stirrups and all sorts of whatnot. While I clearly don’t remember the specifics, it seems the ear is strategically designed to bring in sounds that reverberate and help us hear. Without a doubt, an ear’s shape is very important, hence the reason for its appearance. So, in thinking that through, I guess I pretty much answered my own question.

My newfound interest in ears has nothing to do with hearing, though. I just seem to notice them more now than I ever did before…like the other day when I was binge-watching a week’s worth of my soap.

Unrelated Side Note: Have you ever noticed that the majority of actors on soap operas are ridiculously good-looking, appear to be super fit and have flawless complexions? It begs the question, are those characteristics prerequisites for the job?

Anyway, I was watching an episode in which this drop-dead gorgeous woman’s silky black hair was slicked back into a perfect ponytail. Much like her skin, it was flawless. She was super deep in a serious conversation, but I was distracted from whatever earthshaking dialogue was taking place because all I could focus on were her ears. With her hair pulled back the way it was, the ears of this model-perfect specimen reminded me of Alfred E. Neuman. Physically, she’s an absolute beauty, but it was the wingspan of her ears that caught my attention that day.

Initially, I found the whole thing a little off-putting. It was like those ears didn’t belong on that woman. But the more I looked at them, and then looked at her as a whole, the more I realized her protruding ears didn’t seem so out of place after all. Before I knew it, I’d forgotten the distraction, I was back in the dramatic groove of the moment, and nobody’s ears ever became the topic of discussion. Nor should they. They were just…you know…ears. We all have them.

So, you might ask, what does all that have to do with anything? Well, for me at least, it’s a reminder that dwelling on a few imperfections has no place in a well-lived life. Not one among us is physically perfect, nor can we be, so perfection should never be the goal. Striving for perfection is a fool’s game, and my mama didn’t raise any fools.

I have, though – for most of my life – suffered from a severe lack of respect for my physical self. The mirror has always felt more like an enemy than a friend and rising above my brain’s negative chatter is a daily struggle. But it’s a fight worth fighting and, on some days, I can almost convince myself I’ve come out the victor.

While it’s not easy to look past our flaws, when we manage to do it, we find out we’re just like everyone else. We’re not the crooked nose, or the overbite, or the Dumbo ears. We’re not the round tummy, the crepey skin, or the big feet. We’re the sum of our parts and, in the end, they all work together beautifully in our favor. We might not always see it in ourselves, but our family and friends do. The trick is to learn to view ourselves as lovingly as they view us (and as we view them).

And, as far as ears go, I’ve decided it’s a good thing they’re shaped the way they are. Otherwise, we’d have to find some other place to dangle our earrings, and that’s a challenge I don’t think any of us wants to take on.

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Dust Bunnies in the Wind

September 18, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 8 Comments

After I retired, I struggled with the absence of the routines and deadlines I’d grown accustomed to in my job. Without the benefit of a real schedule, I found myself becoming one with the sofa while motivation was reduced to nothing more than a word in the dictionary. I had all the time in the world to devote to a boatload of interests, yet I didn’t possess an ounce of enthusiasm.

About six months into retirement, I set my sites on becoming a productive human being again, and I put together a monthly task calendar. Each day had at least one household chore or “To Do” task assigned to it. I purposely didn’t expect a whole lot from myself – I am retired, after all – but I wanted to end every day with the knowledge that I had accomplished at least one thing of substance. It could be as minor as changing the sheets or as major as clearing out a bloody ton of old emails (and believe me…that one was major).

A lot of those “To Do” tasks were things I’d allowed to pile up while I was working, like cleaning out closets, reorganizing my room in the garage and finally dealing with my late parents’ and brother’s possessions. Over time, I’ve whittled things down to where my monthly calendars consist mainly of routine household chores and whatever projects I want to sink my teeth into. As mentioned in a previous post, a fair amount of my time lately has been dedicated to driving my husband to medical appointments so, of course, those are noted on the calendar, too.

It was during one of those medical trips when I realized I was wasting precious time by focusing only on the mechanics of driving. There was beauty all around us so, that very day, I began to truly appreciate the amazing scenery. And I didn’t let that living-in-the-moment practice stop with the trees along the roadways. A couple of weeks ago, while entrenched in one of my least favorite household chores, I made myself really notice what I was doing rather than simply trudging through the job until it was done.

That chore was dusting. I swear, it’s one of the most tedious and time-consuming activities I can think of, and it’s never, ever truly done. But this time, as I contorted my way through bending and reaching and squatting to reach all those places that accumulate dusty bits, I paid close attention. Not to the process but to the dusty items themselves. Instead of begrudging the task at hand, I mentally took in each piece of furniture or décor and appreciated it for what it was.

Throughout the house are many items that hold special meaning for me…like the framed button tree on the wall by the front door. My eldest daughter made it for me using buttons that had belonged to my late mother, and it’s more than just a pretty piece of art. It’s a piece of my mom.

In the guest room, as I dust the black and white prints purchased many years ago in the French Quarter, I’m reminded of the beauty of Christ Church Cathedral, the warm beignets at Café du Monde and the unexpected talent from the street performers. While dusting in that same room, I get the pleasure of lovingly handling the photo of my two beautiful daughters, my parents’ graduation pictures and the portrait of my mom with her family when she was just a teenager.

In the living room, I linger over the cover of The Beatles, a coffee table book. It conjures up the deep affection that was spawned by the Fab Four’s appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show when I was nine. As I dust the barrister bookcase, my eyes wander over the book titles, and I relish the feeling of being tempted by all the stories waiting to be read or read again. And while dusting the mantle on the stone fireplace, I marvel at the hard work my dad put into building the cabin that he and my mom loved so much.

More thoughts of my mom bubble up when I dust the Hoosier cabinet in the dining area. She’d found it at some antique place in town and was quite pleased with the result after she’d stripped off the layers of paint and brought it back to its natural wood finish. It’s a charming old piece that’s more than just useful. It’s a memory inducer.

Dusting the rocker in the TV room elicits memories that aren’t even my own. It was built by a man I never met…my maternal grandfather. He was a minister and used to sit in that rocker to compose his sermons. His Bible, pen and notebook would be laid out on a writing board he’d also crafted that fit perfectly upon the arms of the rocker. Mom talked about him often, and I came to feel a real kinship with him through her stories. She absolutely adored her father and was devastated when he died. She was only 19 at the time.

In my room out in the garage, I continue to travel down memory lane while dusting a multitude of framed photos of my family. Thoughts of my dad are particularly in the forefront as I dust the TV cabinet, bookcase, guitar stand and rolltop desk…all pieces he created in his workshop. I even use the old florescent lamp that he’d had on his desk as far back as I can remember. I’m pretty sure it’s a lot older than I am so, of course, I had its brittle wiring replaced. I may be sentimental, but I’m not stupid.

It’s clearly been established that I’m not one to go overboard when it comes to housecleaning, but I do dust once a week…whether warranted or not. (Ha-ha.) Yes, yes, I know there are those who dust every day, but that will never be my jam. That being said, now that I’ve made a point to use that particular chore as a reminder of the countless treasures that make up my life, I don’t really consider it a “chore” at all. It’s a weekly opportunity to participate in an activity that’s brimming with wonderful thoughts and memories.

And before you accuse me of dwelling on the past instead of living in the moment, let me be clear…that’s not what this is at all. It’s simply me embracing what was while enjoying what is.

Will I ever be able to look at cleaning the bathrooms with that same sentiment? I strongly doubt it. Will I even try? I strongly doubt that, too.

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When the Womb Lets Go

September 4, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 21 Comments

[Warning: Some material may not be suitable for delicate constitutions.]

September 11, 1974

My husband and I stood at the nursery window and stared at the incubator on the other side of the room. Our new baby was lying on a flattened diaper – a preemie diaper that was too large to fasten around her tiny body. The skin stretched so thinly over her closed eyes that she looked like a baby bird. She was frighteningly small.

We weren’t allowed to hold her in the beginning, and even the nurses kept their handling of her to a minimum. She was simply too fragile. All we could do was stand at that window and gaze at her inside the plastic capsule that would be her home for who knew how long. We’d watch the nurses work around her, adjusting things and checking vitals. They would periodically turn her from her stomach to her back and move her head from one side to the other. When they did that, the top of her little ear would sometimes be folded down from where she’d been lying on it. Her dad always panicked when that happened because he was afraid it would stay that way. He’d tap on the window to get the nurse’s attention and motion for her to smooth our daughter’s ear back into place. And the nurse would always comply. My guess is we weren’t the first parents to obsess over their preemie’s condition…even if it was something as trivial as bent ear cartilage.

The events that led us to that place were swift and unexpected. I was six months pregnant and had experienced no physical trauma or unusual health issues. I simply woke up during the night, went to the bathroom and began bleeding profusely.

We’d moved to a new state the week before and I didn’t yet have a doctor. My husband was in the military, so he rushed me to the hospital on base. Prior to this, my only experience as a hospital patient was when I had our first child, and that was at a military hospital in our home state. Everyone I interacted with during my time there treated me with great care and respect. When we arrived at the emergency room at this hospital, I expected the same type of treatment. I soon discovered that those expectations were much too high.

To say I received less than stellar care would be an understatement. While I have no recollection of the person who checked me in, I do remember that when it came to most of the orderlies and nurses, I felt like I was imposing on their time. It’s not that they were blatantly rude – with the exception of the obstetrician – but there was a general air of detachment. I was clearly worried about the state of my pregnancy, yet no one made any effort to ease my fears.

The initial assumption was that I was experiencing placenta previa, a condition where the placenta covers the opening of the cervix, but an ultrasound showed no evidence of that. After running a couple of other tests, they still didn’t have any answers, but they told me I was free to go. I sat up on the examining table and began gushing blood again, so the ER doc said I should probably stay a bit longer for further observation. Had I been as snarky then as I am now, I undoubtedly would have deadpanned, “Good call.”

They kept me lying flat and the bleeding lessened, but I continued to pass large clots. A nurse would closely examine those and when I finally gathered the courage to ask what she was looking for, she matter-of-factly said, “Fetal tissue.” I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just kept my horror to myself.

Before they had a chance to try and ship me off again, I began having contractions. In an effort to stop them, they hooked me up to an alcohol IV. I don’t know how long I was on that drip, but I do remember hearing a woman in another room screaming with labor pains. An orderly came in to see how I was feeling, and I drunkenly told him I felt great. I then happily suggested they give the woman down the hall the same thing I was getting. I have to confess…that alcohol drip was the highlight of my time as a patient there.

That course of treatment was only temporary, and the contractions started up again the next day. When a nurse came by to check on me, I told her I was in labor and she pooh-poohed the idea, saying it was nothing more than Braxton Hicks. I told her I’d already had one baby and knew labor pains when I felt them. She continued to ignore the situation until it became obvious that the contractions were more severe and much too frequent to be anything but active labor.

It didn’t last long, though. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even make it from the gurney to the delivery table. When the orderlies started to lift me, I made them stop. And when they asked why, I clenched my teeth and said, “I’m having the baby.”

They looked under the sheet and, sure enough, there she was. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know whether I’d had a girl or a boy. I didn’t find that out until after I was transferred to the delivery table for the removal of the afterbirth. And I wouldn’t have known it then had I not made a point of asking one of the nurses. All I got in return was a perfunctory, “Oh, it’s a girl,” as they whisked her away. I remember lying there after that, feeling cold and alone and very, very scared.

A few days later, I was standing at the nursery window when a man came up beside me to admire his own newborn. He pointed his baby out to me and asked about mine. I told him how early she was, that she weighed less than 2.5 pounds when she was born and that I had no idea how long she’d have to remain in the hospital. I also told him I hadn’t been allowed to feed her yet because she was too weak to nurse and had to be given formula through a tube. I was taken aback when he asked if I was planning to breastfeed her once she was able. Right after her birth, a nurse gave me a shot to dry up my milk. I told him this, and he sadly shook his head saying I could have expressed the milk myself until she was stronger. I remember looking away, embarrassed by my own ignorance. They never discussed options with me, and they certainly didn’t ask permission to give me the shot. They just did it. I would have liked to have breastfed her, but I never had the chance.

A uterine infection kept me in the hospital for a week. The day I was released, instead of nestling a baby to my heart, I went home empty-handed.

Within 48 hours, I was back in the emergency room with itchy welts from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. The doctor attributed it to the penicillin I’d received and said I wasn’t to take it again in any form. I told him I’d never before had an allergic reaction to this drug, and I suggested perhaps the breakout was due to nerves. It had, after all, been a very stressful week. My baby was premature, I still hadn’t had a chance to hold her and, while I was still on the delivery table, the stern obstetrician had brusquely informed me my daughter’s chances of survival were slim to none.

The ER doctor either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He simply prescribed an alternate antibiotic and sent me on my way.

The obstetrician told us our daughter’s early birth was due to placental abruption, but he didn’t bother to explain what that meant. After I got home from the hospital, I looked it up in my trusty instruction manual…pretty sure the book was Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. The condition was described as the placenta tearing away from the inside of the uterus and it sounded brutal. The book also said this occurred most often in women over 40 who had experienced four or more pregnancies. This was just my second and I was only 19.

Our other daughter couldn’t understand why her little sister didn’t come home from the hospital with me. She’d been excited to meet her brand new, homegrown playmate and wasn’t the least bit happy with the fact that there was still no baby in the bassinet.

Neither was I. But I wasn’t quite ready to deal with having our tiny girl home yet. I agonized over all the things that could go wrong. And there was one particularly irrational fear that always wrestled its way to the forefront. What if, when we brought the baby home, her sister decided she didn’t want her after all? What if she snuck her into the bathroom and flushed her down the toilet? I examined the opening in the bottom of the bowl and convinced myself her little body would fit. My husband found the whole thing comical and, looking back, I have it admit it was pretty funny. But at the time, the very idea terrified me.

The people working in the neonatal intensive care unit were the polar opposite of those I’d experienced in the OB ward. The level of care I received was subpar at best, but the treatment our baby received was phenomenal. The NICU staff was friendly, attentive and compassionate. And because she really did resemble a baby bird, they lovingly nicknamed our daughter “Tweety.”

Shortly after I was released, we were cleared to go into the nursery to be closer to our baby and we visited every day. We had to gown up, put on surgical masks and scrub to our elbows with soaped pads that felt like sandpaper. It was a cumbersome affair, but it was always worth it.

When I finally held our daughter for the first time, I was unprepared for how weightless she was…and how perfect. A baby boy slept in another incubator nearby, and he had tubes and monitor wires connected all over his body. Our little one had arrived three months too soon and her doctor was cautiously optimistic, but that little guy was full term, and his prognosis was grim. No one could have predicted such a thing, and my heart broke for his parents when he passed not long after.

Our phone rang a few weeks later and, as soon as the caller identified herself as one of the NICU nurses, I felt my knees start to buckle. I was sure she was calling to say they had done all they could but that my baby was just too tiny and weak. I was convinced we had lost our little girl. But that wasn’t what the nurse said at all. Instead, she dragged me from my morbid reverie by telling me they had just removed our daughter from the “Serious” list, and she was improving rapidly. We should be able to bring her home in a few weeks.

For just an instant, anger choked my relief. I visited every day. If the nurse had waited until I arrived at the hospital that afternoon, she could have given me the good news in person. By then my eyes would have already witnessed that my daughter was still alive. Still breathing. Still here. But, instead, I nearly drowned in those few seconds of fear. It took a moment before I managed to appreciate what the nurse was actually telling me, and then all I could do was thank her over and over.

November 11, 1974

Exactly two months after her birth – and one month before she was even due to enter this world – little Jennifer Rae came home.

She did so well in the hospital that, instead of waiting until she reached the usual 5-lb weight requirement, they released her at only 4 ½ lbs. All the newborn clothes we had were still too big, so I made a doll-sized dress for her to wear on Thanksgiving. And we definitely had much to be thankful for. The care she received in the NICU was outstanding. She battled valiantly to survive. And her big sister did not flush her down the toilet.

Miracle of miracles…she lived.

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Seeing the Forest as Well as the Trees

August 21, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 8 Comments

My husband is a very private person who keeps a lot of things close to the vest. In deference to that, I don’t write much about him. But I will share that, after more than seven decades of being healthy as a horse, he’s been plagued the past few years by various medical issues. One of those being a really stubborn case of glaucoma. Many people can control the progression of this disease with prescription eye drops but, after those didn’t work for him, he had to undergo multiple eye surgeries. Due to that, I’ve been the designated driver whenever his eyesight has been out of commission. That would generally last for only a few weeks, but he hasn’t healed as expected from a surgery nearly 10 months ago, and he still hasn’t regained his full vision.

I don’t really mind doing all the driving, but most of my husband’s medical appointments are about 70 miles north of where we live and, no matter how much you love your driving companion, being on the road can get tedious after a while. He’s finally somewhat comfortable with my driving habits – in other words, he no longer fears for his life – so his side-seat-driver commentary has lessened significantly. Now, instead of me defending my questionable chauffeuring skills, we spend a fair amount of time carrying on normal conversations. But a body can only jibber-jabber for so long. Eventually, we just fall into a quiet space that sometimes borders on boredom. At least it does for me.

During our most recent trip north, it occurred to me that I’ve wasted a lot of driving time by merely steering the wheel, hitting the brakes and making sure I don’t ram into another vehicle…or a pedestrian. Those things are without a doubt absolutely critical, but there are interesting sites along our routes that I’ve been totally neglecting. For example, one of the highways we take has a long stretch that’s lined with trees. Lots and lots of trees. And in areas where they thin out close to the road, you can still see groves or tree-covered hills in the distance. It’s downright breathtaking. While I know virtually nothing about dendrology (don’t be impressed…I had to look that up), I’ve always loved trees. That’s one of the reasons I feel so blessed to live where we do…in a cabin in the woods.

At this time of year, the trees’ full foliage makes them undeniably beautiful, and traveling that highway the other day was a feast for the eyes. Before long, those same trees will sport gorgeous fall colors, bringing them to another level of magnificence. And what makes it even more enjoyable for me is the fact that I’m one of those fortunate souls who isn’t bummed out when the leaves start to fall. Some people experience a deep melancholy as the skies gray, the cold sets in and the trees shed their finery, but the beckoning of winter has never bothered me. In my opinion, bare trees are every bit as lovely as those that are fully dressed. Like I said…I simply love trees.

We expect a lot more medical trips in our future and, for as long as necessary, I’ll be the one behind the wheel. I’m happy to do it because it just so happens my husband is a pretty great guy. Whatever he needs that I can provide, I will do so to the best of my abilities. And when the jibber-jabber dies down during those long drives, I’ll take the opportunity to give the scenery the appreciation it deserves.

When the Creator presents His handiwork so selflessly, acknowledging it is the very least I can do.

Trees

Joyce Kilmer – 1886-1918

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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It’s Just a Matter of Taste

July 24, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 8 Comments

A former friend once accused me of having an unsophisticated palate. It’s not the reason we’re no longer friends — that’s a whole other story — but her comment never left me. Not because it was hurtful but because, according to certain standards, it was true.

Using similar criteria, I suppose I’m guilty of a lack of sophistication in quite a few areas. I never developed a high appreciation for art, music or poetry. At least not the sort that would be considered valuable or cultured. And telling the difference between an authentic Louis XVI armoire and a decent knockoff is something I couldn’t do if you held a gun to my head. Same thing goes for designer clothes.

While I admire folks who educate themselves in these matters, I’ve never had the desire to devote my own energies to such things. I suppose it would be nice to possess that sort of knowledge but, to be honest, I pretty much hate the learning process. I’d just as soon magically know stuff…like through osmosis. That might be because my attention deficit makes it so challenging to digest information, or it could just be that my lazy nature lends itself more easily to that which requires little effort. Regardless, the whole osmosis thing hasn’t worked, so I tend to consider myself a bit of a simpleton, and I’ve spent the majority of my life worrying about being harshly judged by others. I’m not exactly a cretin – I mean, I’m intelligent enough to walk to my mailbox without stopping to ask for directions – but my depth of edification leaves a lot to be desired. Knowing I don’t necessarily measure up when it comes to being refined has always left me feeling insignificant and out of touch.

That doesn’t mean I’ve kept myself hidden away in the shadows. The majority of my jobs actually required that I be front and center, and I somehow managed to choreograph my way through working with the public without coming across as the village idiot. I even had someone once compliment me on my ability to finesse. It was a nice thing to say, but I knew what she really meant was I was rather adept at the art of BS. And she wasn’t wrong. Dealing with individuals from all walks of life requires a certain level of savoir faire and, for whatever reason, that seemed to come naturally to me. Still does most of the time. As an introvert, maintaining that persona can be tiring, but it’s doable. Even so, the back of my mind never lost that pesky notion that suggested I was somehow less than.

I’ll never forget a coworker’s surprise when he found out my highest level of education was a high school diploma. When he said I didn’t sound like someone who hadn’t gone to college, my snarky comeback was, “So, in other words, you’re saying I talk good?” He turned red, tried to eat his words and we both had a good laugh. But it served as a reminder to me that people might think something was missing in my general makeup because my horizons hadn’t been particularly broadened.

I’ve had a lot of come to Jesus talks with myself over the years, and the most recent have involved letting go of thoughts that do me more harm than good. Like thinking I’m not worthy because I was never schooled in haute cuisine, upscale fashion or fine arts. My comfort zone has always been more in the neighborhood of Kool-Aid wine, blue jeans and classic rock. (70’s…not 80’s. I do have standards.) When it comes to a posh lifestyle, it’s just not my thing. A higher price tag doesn’t necessarily dictate worth to me. I simply like what I like. If it’s pleasing to my eyes, ears or palate, it doesn’t matter what value someone else might place on it. My idea of the finer things in life are experiences that speak to me on more of a gut level than an intellectual one.

It’s been a long time coming, but I’ve finally stopped dwelling on the fact that I will never be a connoisseur of anything. There are probably those who think I missed out on the greater gifts in life by not pursuing further education – formal or otherwise – but, when it comes to what’s truly important to me, there’s nothing lacking in my little world. I hold no envy toward those who enjoy sipping fine wine on their snazzy yachts, and they don’t need to pity me for savoring a local sweet red while swaying in my creaky old porch swing. It’s actually quite fulfilling. Shoot, sometimes I even get a little fancy, raise the bar, and throw in a couple of cheese sticks.

What can I say? Happy is as happy does.

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Reading is Fun…So Why Am I Not Doing It?

July 10, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 1 Comment

Most people spend their working years looking forward to that golden chapter where they no longer have to punch a clock. They long to devote their energies to the things that bring them joy without having to squeeze everything into weekends and annual vacations. Fun stuff like painting, hiking, writing and, yes, even couch surfing. The idea of eventually being untethered enough to spend each day following our dreams is what keeps us going until our bank accounts tell us it’s safe to escape the daily grind.

While I never created what I’d call a bucket list, there certainly were specific activities I intended to do once I retired. The top two were reading and creative writing. I’ve finally gotten back into the latter, but…reading? Not so much. It’s not as though I don’t have the time. Time has become abundant. And it’s not as though I don’t have books crowding my shelves – both virtual and old school – that I’d like to sink my teeth into. Those are abundant, too.

So, what is it that’s standing between me and that next great escape? I’m embarrassed to admit that, over the past couple of years, I’ve become addicted to three of the worst timewasters out there: TV, the internet and the multitude of games on my iPad. And that’s extremely counterintuitive because I love books. The dream of one day being able to read to my heart’s content was quite the enticing carrot on a stick when I was slogging away in the office.

If you were ever a fan of The Twilight Zone, you likely will recall a particular episode starring Burgess Meredith as Henry, a nerdy little bank teller who spent every spare moment reading. When he wasn’t reading, he talked about reading. Ad nauseam. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was a book, a newspaper or a cereal box, reading was the only pastime he cared about. The problem was, real life had so many extraneous interruptions, he couldn’t spend nearly as much time reading as he would have liked.

That all changed when Henry inadvertently avoided nuclear annihilation because he was hiding away inside the bank vault with his nose stuck in a book. When he stumbled out and began wandering the remains of his town, he was at first frightened and then despondent. He realized he was the only person left alive, and he didn’t consider that a life worth living.

Henry’s miserable outlook did an about-face when he came across the rubble from his local library. There were piles and piles of books – all for the taking – and he was overjoyed at the prospect of living out his life doing what he loved more than anything else. Reading. And the best part was, there would be absolutely zero interruptions.

Of course, as with any good Twilight Zone episode, there was a twist at the end that made you cringe and throw your head back while cursing the show’s writers. As Henry sits amidst his treasured stacks of books, he leans forward and his very thick – and very necessary – eyeglasses fall from his face, shattering as they land on the concrete steps below him. He is left alone with all the time in the world, and enough unread stories to entertain him until his dying breath, yet he can do nothing more than stare out into a blurry eternity, muttering, “That’s not fair. That’s not fair at all.”

Since the day I retired, I’ve unwittingly emulated our practically blind Henry. Obviously, there are a few glaring differences. For one thing, my glasses are still very much intact and, for another, I’m fortunate enough not to have been thrust into some dispiriting, post-apocalyptic existence. Also, I’m not decrying my current situation as being unfair. Quite the opposite. I’m well aware that this time in a person’s life can be wonderful and freeing and loaded with possibilities. And I’m more than a little grateful for that. I just haven’t been using it the way I’d anticipated.

To put it simply…my inner vision hasn’t been much better than poor Henry’s literal vision after his glasses hit the skids. I’ve allowed other things – activities that are somewhat enjoyable, but not particularly riveting – to blind me to the very thing my heart wanted unrestricted time to do. Read.

While I’m not the least bit interested in psychoanalyzing why I haven’t been utterly drowning myself in books the last two years, I am determined to stop wasting so much time on electronic squirrels.

Those who know me know that my favorite author is Stephen King. If he writes it, I read it. That’s how it used to be anyway. I’ve had one of his more recent books downloaded to Kindle since last fall, and it still sits there…heartbreakingly neglected. I plan to begin remedying that situation today. The very thought of it already has my mental taste buds tingling. When it comes to those first appetizing paragraphs, no one prepares them better than Mr. King.

At least, that’s how I see it in my book.

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Discovering Dad

June 12, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 11 Comments

As a product of the 50’s, I grew up in a household where the mother nurtured her offspring and the father brought home the bacon. If I wanted to talk about friends, clothes or boys, I went to Mom. If I wanted to negotiate curfews, chores or my allowance I went to…also Mom. Then, of course, she would run whatever it was by Dad. Mom was more than just the nurturer in our family. She was the mediator as well.

Although I don’t think it was intentional, my dad could come off as pretty darned intimidating. A rather stoic man, he seemed encased by some invisible shell that made him untouchable. That was my perception, anyway. As a young girl, I had no clue how he felt about me. Oh, I suppose that’s not entirely true. He must have considered me an okay kid because he never beat me, locked me in a closet or made me pay rent. But we certainly didn’t have what you’d call sit-down conversations. We didn’t even chat. The main interactions I can recall from childhood were the times I timidly lurked in Dad’s workshop while he worked on some project and listened to Chet Atkins. (When it came to Chet, Dad was a bit of a fanboy.)

I’d stay out of the way, anticipating what I hoped would come, and it usually did. Dad would put down his tools, grab his guitar and start picking along with Chet. The fact that I was there never seemed to bother him, and I loved those little encounters. I doubt my dad had any idea how tickled I was during those moments but, each time, I felt as if he and I shared some unspoken, albeit brief, connection.

More often than not, though, I observed Dad from afar…and with a touch of trepidation. To put it simply, I never mistook my dad for Ward Cleaver.

The first indication I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did was when I was a young wife and mother. My husband was in the service, and we were moving from Indiana to Rhode Island. Right before we left, Mom and I embraced in the driveway and vowed to call and write as often as we could. I then gave Dad a perfunctory hug before I got in the car. I imagine we mumbled something to each other, but I really can’t be sure. I settled into the passenger seat and, just as we started to back out of the drive, Dad took out his big white handkerchief and wiped off the headlights. I began to sob. My husband didn’t have a clue what caused the waterworks, but that gesture of Dad’s was as plain to me as a billboard on a highway. It was his way of saying he loved me and wanted me to be safe. Nearly a half-century has passed since that moment, yet I can see it – and feel it – as distinctly as if it were yesterday.

That little chink in Dad’s armor cast him in an entirely different light. As the years passed, I finally found my voice with him and made the most fascinating discovery. He truly was quite a guy. I always knew he was intelligent, methodical and sometimes demanding. But I found out he was also funny, compassionate and a joy to be around. We’d talk and laugh and, quite often, just sit together in comfortable silence. I grew to appreciate all the attributes that caused my mother to fall in love with him a lifetime before.

When health problems rendered Mom disabled, Dad suddenly had to take over all of the domestic responsibilities. That worried me because the household had been her bailiwick, not his. He was in his seventies, having to learn it all, and I was afraid he’d be overwhelmed. But not only did he manage to cook, clean, and pay the bills on time…he did so with apparent ease. Mom even joked about what a great chef he was. She swore he gave Emeril – a big deal on TV at the time – a run for his money.

The true test came when my mom was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Dad was determined not to let her live out her final days in a nursing facility, and he took Mom home to die. Home to the cabin he had built for her, nestled among the poplar trees she loved. Hospice aides and family members pitched in to assist, but Dad was Mom’s primary care giver. He was meticulous in his new role, and he wanted only the best for her. He painstakingly doled out her medications, bathed her, diapered her, kept her company and simply loved her. In so doing, he revealed a side to his character that I’m not sure even he knew existed.

Dad and I grew closer during the year leading up to my mom’s death. I lived in another city but went to the cabin as often as I could to help him and my brother tend to Mom’s needs. Though often weary and sometimes depressed, my dad didn’t complain. Even so, the physical and emotional toll it took on him was a constant concern for me. I feared that after Mom was gone, I’d lose him, too.

Shortly before my mom’s death, Dad started talking about some small trips he planned to take. It was the first time he’d even mentioned life after Mom, and it was such a relief to know he wasn’t just going to give up and stop living.

When the time came, Dad took over Mom’s final role…that of the family nurturer. It didn’t particularly come naturally for him, and he never got in the habit of randomly calling to chat the way my mom did, but he was there to listen if needed and he always enjoyed getting together with family. He even found Mom’s old address book – which was complete with dates for anniversaries and birthdays – and continued her practice of sending cards to commemorate those events.

Back then, losing Mom was the hardest thing I’d ever experienced. Finding Dad was one of the best. When he died over a decade later, the loss I felt was just as deep as it was when I had to say goodbye to my mom. I was fortunate to have been encompassed by her love for 45 years, but I felt I’d had Dad for such a short time in comparison. It wasn’t nearly long enough to make up for all the early years when I didn’t see him for who he really was.

As fleeting as those last years with Dad were, we made good use of that time for as long as we could. To me, Lee Root was an amazing man and, in the end, he wasn’t just my father. He was my friend.

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Tambourine

May 29, 2022 / Virginia Boshears / 4 Comments

Flashback – 1965.

My 4th grade class is preparing for music time. As the teacher brings out the box of instruments, I silently pray, Please, oh, please…let me get the tambourine.

The teacher walks slowly to my desk and smiles. Such a warm, sweet smile. I smile back and feel certain that, this time, I’ll get it. She reaches into the box and, quick as a wink, places a wooden block and a stick in front of me. Before the disappointment fully registers, she’s off to the next desk.

I stare at the block. I stare at the stick. I stare at the block again. Just as I gather my wits and start to raise my hand, I turn and see the teacher giving the treasured tambourine to a fellow student. To make matters worse, it’s a student who’s gotten it many times before. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pick up the block and stick and begin keeping time to the music, desperately hoping no one notices as I blink away the tears.

***

A faulty memory precludes me from recalling intricate details such as my classmates’ faces, how well I did in my studies, or even the teacher’s name – although I do think it might have been Mrs. Connor – but, what I will always remember about the 4th grade is how it felt to never, ever get the tambourine.

My 10-year-old imagination had given that inanimate object a great deal more power than was warranted. But at the time, my heart believed the tambourine was the coolest instrument the teacher had to offer. I’d fantasized about being the one chosen to play it during music time. Shy and awkward and far from pretty, I had very little going for me in the popularity department. Still, I convinced myself that, given the chance to play that tambourine, I’d blow everyone away by my rhythmic flair. In reality, it was nothing but an outlandish girlhood dream. And back then, I had a million of them.

As the years fell away, elementary school turned into middle school which turned into high school. During that time, my self-saboteur psyche managed to accumulate a laundry list of perfectly justifiable reasons why I should feel lousy about my lot in life:

I wasn’t part of the “in” crowd.
I was nearly always the last one picked for team sports.
Dates were few and far between.
I never went to a prom.
My appearance was all skinny legs, frizzy hair and pale skin.
And, to top it off, I was a freckle-faced redhead.

During high school, I was asked to go steady by only one boy, and I wound up marrying him at the end of my junior year. It was partly because I truly believed I was in love, but it was also because I feared it might be my only chance. The angst of Janis Ian’s At Seventeen was never lost on me.

The marriage lasted nine years but, since we were practically still children ourselves, it was pretty much doomed from the start. Ours wasn’t always a happy union and, during most of our time together, I felt invisible. In the end, I realized the relationship was never going to change for the better, but it took a lot of uncharacteristic strength to finally call it quits.

Strangely, I slowly began to thrive after the divorce. It was a stressful, scary time and I floundered a lot, but I gradually learned the mechanics of being a single mom. I managed to keep the bills paid, put dinner on the table and clothe my daughters – even when money that was supposed to come in didn’t. After a great deal of soul searching, I finally got it through my head that the end of my marriage didn’t make me a failure. It was simply a fragment of the fabric that made up my life. A life, I might add, that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

I’ve now been joyfully married nearly 37 years to a man who continues to be the yin to my yang. We worked together to bring up my two wonderful daughters. They married great guys who have never once treated me like a demon mother-in-law. And we’ve been blessed with a boatload of grandkids and great-grandkids. I have a diverse group of friends whom I treasure, and I’m fortunate enough to spend my days in a little woodland paradise that simply oozes tranquility.

That gangly, not-so-attractive dreamer from my youth never imagined such a simple existence could be so rich. She’d be particularly pleased about a special treasure I obtained over 20 years ago on my 45^th birthday. That year, in an effort to prove to me that I was indeed worthy, my oldest daughter gave me the gift I’d waited three and a half decades for. I still remember my delight when I opened the bag and drew out a circular instrument edged with shiny metal discs. The attached note read, “You are cool enough for a tambourine!” Giving it a few good shakes, I felt a foreign level of excitement bubbling up inside me, and I began to laugh.

The silent pleas of one little 4^th grade girl had finally been answered.

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Category: Essays (Page 3 of 4)

Arlo and the Pigskin

Mischievous Minds

Cheers to Ears

Dust Bunnies in the Wind

When the Womb Lets Go

Seeing the Forest as Well as the Trees

It’s Just a Matter of Taste

Reading is Fun…So Why Am I Not Doing It?

Discovering Dad

Tambourine

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