The Bering Blog

Farewell To Another Balladeer: Paul Davis

I heard the news while driving the winding backroad to my granddaughter’s house on Wednesday. Singer Paul Davis died April 22 of a heart attack, one day after his 60th birthday. My heart sank.

His music is part of my personal history of the late 70s and early 80s, and his song “I Go Crazy” (1978) is one of my all-time favorites. When he sings, “Hello girl, it’s been awhile,” I’m transfixed and transported. I’m that angst-ridden teenage girl who dreams of having a boy love her so much that when she breaks his heart and they run into each other a few years later, his face would pale and his heart would skip a beat and she would know she still had “it.”

I’m a drama queen. I admit it. But the lyrics…ah…they feel sadistically redemptive, and the music is slow and sad. It’s every Jane Eyre-loving girls perfect song:

“Hello girl it's been awhile
Guess you'll be glad to know
That I've learned how to laugh and smile
Getting over you was slow
They say old lovers can be good friends
But I never thought I'd really see you
I'd really see you again

“I go crazy
When I look in your eyes
I still go crazy
No my heart just can't hide
That old feelin' inside
Way deep down inside
Oh baby, you know when I look in your eyes
I go crazy

You say he satisfies your mind
Tells you all of his dreams
I know how much that means to you
I realize that I was blind
Just when I thought I was over you
I see your face and it just ain't true
No it just ain't true…”

Even at 44 that song still makes me sardonically happy. It’s one of my cool-down songs in my workout mix on my iPod.

“Cool Night” (1981) doesn’t have quite the same effect as “I Go Crazy,” but it still fed my heartbreak fantasies back in the day.

“Come on over tonight, come on over.
It’s gonna be a cool night, just let me hold you by the firelight.
If it don’t feel right you can go.

“Oh and the cool night, brings back memories of a good life.
When this love was not so old.”

“Sweet Life” (1978) brought out Happy Housewife Lynn, especially when I heard it after I married Bruce and we lived a sweet life and we made a daughter who had his eyes and my nose. After he died, it became our bittersweet anthem, and hearing it today for the first time in probably 20 years, I choked up a little.

“She's got your eyes, she's got my nose
And I get high just watching her grow
We always dreamed we'd live in a castle
Oh, but we're in the same old shack
Sometimes we get into a hassle
But we always take each other back
This old world seems to be in a hurry
But darlin' we'll just keep on takin' our time

“'Cause we're livin' such a sweet life
Oh what a neat life
Sharin' my love with you
We're livin' such a sweet life
Oh what a neat life
Makin' our dreams come true
We're makin' our dreams come true…”

I don’t care for “65 Love Affair” (1982) since I’m not a big do-wop, 50s be-bop fan, AND because for the two weeks it was a big hit it was always played right after, right before or at least in the same hour as the all-time suckiest song ever, “Bette Davis Eyes.” Longest two weeks of my life. Of course, now that I’ve thought about it and written it down, “Bette Davis Eyes” will be playing in my head all day. Ugh.

I totally forgot Paul Davis sang a song called “Do Right” (1980) until I researched this blog this morning. It always felt a little preachy to me (probably because it is preachy) and it always seemed to come on the radio when I was smoking or drinking or otherwise immorally engaged. It was like my mother and my pastor were in the back seat (or the front seat, depending on what I was doing at the time).

“I know that he gave his life for me
Set all our spirits free
So I wanna do right wanna do right
All of my life
I never dreamed I could be holding you
Well he's making my dreams come true
So I wanna do right, wanna do right
I wanna do right, oh…”

I’ve loved this time with Paul Davis’s music this morning. I’m sad he is gone. I wish his family peace.

Life’s Short. Eat Like a Baby.

The best part about driving to Pittsburgh from Clarion is the time. Seventy-five minutes of whatever I want to listen to or not listen to and think about or not think about. I pack a bottle of water or a travel mug of tea or coffee, and a plastic grocery bag filled with some fruit, like a banana or prunes or apples or grapes; maybe a few crackers and Werthers hard candies; definitely some gum and Altoids and Tic Tacs (I’m all about keeping my mouth minty happy); and often a homemade extra, like hummus or the pudding/pumpkin/cinnamon thingy I make, which requires a spoon.

Yesterday I really needed to see my girls – both daughters and grandbaby Claire. You know how you have those weeks when stuff just gets crazy and you need to walk away from it and surround yourself with the love and humor of the people you love the most?

I packed up my usual travel bag, such a classy couture, and included the pudding/pumpkin/cinnamon thingy in a recycled margarine container. I grabbed a spoon and I was good to go.

Forty-five minutes later, I passed Kittanning and merged on to 28, the four-lane to P’burgh. Eating the pudding thing while winding along Route 66 would have been cotton fiber suicide so I waited until I could put the Jeep on cruise control and safely balance the margarine container on my thigh. I turned off the Sirius radio, dug around for the spoon in the bag, and dug into the creamy goodness.

Two spoonfuls in, I realized I was just eating to eat. What’s the pleasure in that? I thought about Claire, who loves cold sweet potatoes and sweet peas. How would she eat this pudding concoction? Claire leans forward in her high chair and watches you bring the spoon to her mouth. She clamps her lips around the spoon and sucks and chews it until all the food is either in her mouth or spread out around her upper and lower lips. And sometimes her chin and neck, depending on how firm a grip you’ve got on the spoon. The food that’s in her mouth she swishes around like mouthwash, cherishing every flavor until she swallows and leans forward for another round.

So I tried eating Claire style. I scooped up a spoonful of pudding/pumpkin/cinnamon and sucked it off the spoon. I let it wander around in my mouth for awhile and on every exhale, tasted every last flavor it offered. (Have you noticed you can’t taste much when you inhale?) I observed the soft texture and the cold before swallowing it and thought of nothing more.

I’m trying to be more mindful in the small moments to train myself to be more aware in the big ones. Claire eats without thinking about money or work or her weight. She just concentrates on that moment of food. Eating like Claire, it took me 15 minutes to down a cup of pudding. That’s 15 minutes I can still recall and enjoy in my memory. How many meals or snacks have you eaten that you remember like that?

It’s not the specific food I remember so much, but the taste and the texture and the pure joy of eating. I tried the same thing with an apple today as I drove to pick up my dogs at the groomer. Same thing. I felt and was aware of the crunch, the sweet, and the red skin that caught in my molars. It was time spent not worrying about things I couldn’t change and things I couldn’t do.

Next time you’re tempted to multi-task while driving – paying bills or answering email via your Blackberry, talking mindlessly to pass the time – try eating some grapes or orange slices or even M&Ms. Really eat them. Think about them, each one, their texture and the feeling in your mouth. Breathe in their scent and exhale their flavor. Appreciate the moment for what it is. It’s a moment that you are simply being alive and not planning, not regretting, not wondering about the next moment. Just let it be what it is. It’ll give you a whole different appreciation and perspective of about darn near anything.

Let The Voting Begin

I have to remember that readers of this blog are not in my head. There’s no way for you to know how I “meant” something unless I make it clear in my writing.

I’ve very much appreciated your thoughts and comments about my last blog in which I ranted about the backstabbing going on in the 5^th congressional district here in PA. I heard from two kind and passionate readers who wanted to remind me that there is nothing wrong with being a real estate agent. When I first read their comments I thought, ‘I never said that.’ But when I looked back on what I wrote, I can surely see where the confusion was. What I meant was this particular real estate agent was not the right person for the congressional seat. But how could you know that if I didn’t indicate that more clearly? I apologize to all real estate agents and those who love them.

Also, my friend Carol made an excellent point that I wanted to share: “I do have to disagree with you about one thing. I think that in order for everyone's voice's to be heard, it is important that Congress be made up of people with various backgrounds, education, training and work experience. You can't really use W as an argument against that because, quite frankly, he works as an argument against everything in every situation. The candidate I am voting for in our own circus-like Congressional race is in fact a minister. He is educated, has roots in the community, is service minded, and can speak to the issues that matter to me. And being the eternal optimist that I am, I am counting on the fact that, as a minister, he has more than a passing acquaintance with honesty (I know, I know).  He is the kind of person I want representing me in Washington.”

Very true. And again, I meant in my last blog that the particular minister running for the seat in my district is not qualified, in my opinion, and does not share even the remotest interests, politically or otherwise, with me. Again, my apologies to ministers and to those who love them.

Carol's right about having diversity in our political machine. There are ministers and real estate agents and mayors and mechanics out there who would make excellent members of congress. I admit using W as an example of the lack of education in our political system was poor judgment on my part. When I write a blog, I often write off the top of my head and without the critical analysis some of my subjects deserve. This isn’t an excuse, but an explanation.

Having said that, I want smart people in office and I don’t believe W is a smart person. He may be passionate about his beliefs, but he’s not smart, and in fact seems to relish the fact that he’s not smart, like being ignorant is a badge of honor. That bothers me. A lot.

Being smart encompasses all areas, not just education. It means being thoughtful, patient and compassionate; having experience working with diverse groups; and having the ability to truly see both sides before making a decision. Most people fail at the latter, particularly when they are ingrained in the rhetoric of their party.

Thank you again for your insight, support and thoughtful comments. As soon as I post this, I’m walking over to my polling site and voting. I actually have butterflies I’m so excited! I’ve never voted in a primary before, but I’ve done my homework and am ready to make a thoughtful decision. Several thoughtful decisions, actually. This isn’t just about Obama and Clinton. I’ve got a few other political seats to help fill.

Bill Clinton's in Clarion...and I'm in Pittsburgh! Dammmit

The biggest thing to hit Clarion is rolling into town today and I’m not there to see it! Bill Clinton is giving a speech at Clarion University this afternoon and I’m in Pittsburgh today. I could have had a ticket to the event and everything. Damn. I so wanted to be the girl in the blue dress in the front row….

It all came together quickly, apparently. No one even knew he was thinking of stopping by until yesterday, according to today’s Derrick. I guess when you’re wife wants to win next Tuesday’s Pennsylvania primary, you’ll go just about anywhere to help.

Clarion is heavily republican, so I’m sure there’s a lot of Clinton bashing going on back home. I share very few of the conservative values of my fellow citizens and so I stay out of their inane debates. I’m not wholly a democrat, either, although as I wrote last month, I changed my affiliation from independent to democrat so I could vote in the primary. I’m still not sure who I’m voting for – I’ll probably make that decision in the voting booth – but some Bill Clinton love (no, not exactly Monica kind of love) might have swayed my vote a little. Just a smile would have done the trick. I like Bill Clinton, I can’t lie. (We’re still friends, though, right, Shari?) I’m just not sure I want another eight years of Clintons in the White House. It might even be longer than that. Won’t Chelsea be old enough to run for president in eight years? We could forget we’re living in a democracy and think we’ve adopted a monarchy.

Obama. Clinton. Obama. Clinton. I’m not sure. What do you think I should do? I read the papers. I read the op-eds. I read blogs. Now let me know what you would do if you lived in Pennsylvania and could vote on Tuesday.

The Boys Are Back In Town

I can see them but they can’t see me, my teenage stepsons who just arrived with their father a few minutes ago and are sitting outside on the deck. They’re on spring break and will be here for the week. Time to dust off my mothering skills and get to it.

They both tower over me now, my once small boys who’d crawl on my lap and tell me stories or watch TV. Now they lay sprawled on the couch and overstuffed chair playing hand-held video games. I wish we had a Wii. I’d so love to kick their butts in bowling.

Clarion University’s spring break was a few weeks ago, so their father must work while we play. This is one of the few perks of freelancing. Since I set my own schedule, I decided the boys and I will head out of Dodge and go to da’burgh to see their niece, sisters and brother-in-law for a few days.

Our car trips are always memorable. On our last trip, I introduced them to the songs “Love Stinks” and “Paradise By the Dashboard Light.” Now the new AT&T GoPhone commercial makes sense to them.

We’re always singing something while Kevin plays air guitar or air drums. Problem is, he doesn’t realize how tall and lanky he’s become. If he’s in the front seat, his arms flail into my driving space and in the back, he kicks the back of my seat like he did when he was little. He doesn’t mean to and always apologizes with an “Oops. Sorry.” accompanied by a short deep giggle. I’m still not used to his voice change.

Car time is also a good time to just catch up and laugh. We email and talk on the phone in between visits, but when we get to see each other for real, and especially when I get them alone in a moving vehicle in which they can’t escape, I ask the most detailed questions I can. On the phone, they grunt answers to their father’s questions, but they know I need plain English. Tuesday we’ll talk about school and their friends, but I think mostly I’ll ask them about what girls are in their lives, both as friends and as possible more-than-friends. They’ll blush, but I can usually get them to talk.

And if I can’t, their sisters can.

A highlight this week for their dad will be taking Andy out driving. Andy will get his permit soon and his license later this summer. I realize he’s 16 and very tall, but to see him behind the wheel of a car? I’m not sure I’m ready for that. He might even want to go to prom this year. Yikes! Good lord, I’ll be a wreck when he graduates from high school in 2010. You’d think I birthed the boy. Sometimes it feels like it, I’ve known him almost as long.

The week will no doubt go by too fast. There will be fart jokes and booger jokes and I’ll have to remind them to use Kleenex and to not throw their underwear in a wad in the corner of their bedroom. But as I’ve said in past blogs, as stressful as it can be at times, I love our little two-thirds of a Brady Bunch stepfamily. I only wish we had our own Alice.

Assertiveness and the Doctor

Anticipation’s a bitch, isn’t it? It practically ruined my day. I had to keep reminding myself to stay in each moment, that my knee injections would only take a few seconds, and that until 3:45 p.m., there was no sense worrying about pain that may or may not happen.

But I still did sometimes. Worry, that is.

Synvisc has been a godsend to my dilapidated knees. Every six to eight months, I have a series of three injections in each knee over a three-week period (six injections in all). The medication replaces the synovial fluid I lack, providing a cushion for my kneecaps. I no longer have chronic arthritic pain, or at least most of the time it’s minimal, between injections.

The injections are painful because the needle must go between two joints and deep into damaged tissue. When done right and slowly, it’s not too bad. I go to my happy place and relax and it’s over in less than two minutes. Most of the time, my favorite orthopedic assistant/specialist, Steve, gives me the injections. He calls me things like “Scooter” and “Buddy” and makes me feel relaxed and safe. During one of the series of injections 8 months ago, Doogie Howser walked in the room with Steve and I immediately tensed. Doogie was a med student, Steve explained. I asked the young pup skeptically, “How many of these have you done?” He answered enthusiastically, “I’ve been doing this for two weeks!” “Um, son?” I said. “I have underwear older than you. Your two weeks of injecting needles into knees does NOT impress me.” He laughed nervously, like maybe I was kidding. Nothing in my body language indicated I was kidding, though, and thankfully, he listened to Steve’s advice and the injections went smoothly.

Last week, however, Miss Newbie Med Student, whom we’ll just call “Barbie,” walked in with my actual doctor, not Steve, and took control of the needles and jabbed each one in, all three inches, without so much as a breath of a warning. Bitch. I had a hard time walking the rest of the night and my knees ached the next day. I’ve had dozens of injections and none of them felt that bad. I can take pain and I wasn’t being a big baby about it, but I was pissed. But did I say anything? Heck no. I’m too nice. I got home, limping, and wondered how I’d tell my doctor this week that I didn’t want Barbie within 10 feet of me with needles.

Why is it so hard for me to be assertive with my real doctors? God knows I have enough of them with all this freaking arthritis. I do pretty well with the wannabes, but why am I so intimidated otherwise? The anticipation today made me nuts. I kept playing the scenario in my head of me being kind yet firm if another newbie walked in the room ready to inject my knees like they were porterhouse steaks. I’m always assertive and successful in my daydreams, but I usually fall apart in real time.

However…...

Again, my real doctor, not Steve, walked in the room followed by a tall lanky young newbie who stuttered (in nervousness) when he said “Nice to meet you” and shook my hand. His hand was sweaty, too. My doctor said he’d been taking some ribbing all day and was feeling a little “off.” Off? OFF? Some kid who couldn’t handle some teasing was going to put needles in my knees?

I didn’t think so. Something like courage bubbled up inside me, uncontrolled, protecting me.

“How many of these have you done?” I asked him.

“A few,” he said, smiling.

“Doc, I gotta tell you,” said the voice coming out of my mouth. “Last week, that girl really hurt me. I couldn’t walk well for 24 hours.”

In response, my doctor actually apologized. He asked me if I’d feel better if he did the injections and I said yes, but if he’d talk Mr. Tall and Lanky through one, I’d be OK with that. I turned to Mr. Tall and Lanky and said, “Here’s my advice. Go S – L – O – W. Don’t attack my knee like it’s dinner.” He turned 20 shades of red and I’m sure he was pretty close to wetting himself, but god love him, he found the joint, injected the needle slowly, and it didn’t hurt. Well, didn’t hurt as in I didn’t want to shoot him when he was done. The injection hurts, that’s a given, but I shouldn’t have a “knee-jerk” reaction to kill the injector when it’s happening. My doctor did the other knee and all was well and tonight, I’m walking without holding on to the furniture throughout my house. Yay!

Walking out of the doctor’s office this afternoon, my stomach wasn’t hurting anymore, my shoulders were relaxed, and I sang a Peter Frampton song all the way home. I was assertive. I told my doctor what I needed. And it felt good to do it.

I have one more series next Thursday. I won’t ruin the day with anticipation now that I know I can say, “Hey! Don’t f up my knee, ok?” Well, maybe I don’t use the F-bomb. But damn, being assertive is way much better than fretting and staying quiet.

Visiting the Past Isn't Always Sunshine and Roses

I can hardly see the computer screen for the glare, but I refuse to leave the deck now that the sun has finally made an appearance in western PA. I raked dead leaves out from under the mulberry bush, cleaned out the flower beds and found budding perennials underneath, swept the deck and put out a few deck chairs. It’s the same temperature here today as it was a week ago in LA. I needed this peace and warmth this afternoon because this morning was a little rough.

I had to dig through some old journals of mine as research for a writing project. I went back to 1987, when I was 23 for half the year, my daughters were 4 and not quite 3, and I was married to husband #2. I was dieting, as usual, and wrote a lot about my first husband who’d been dead only four years.

Much of this particular journal was painful to read, especially knowing the outcome marriage #2 and the growing pains I endured as a mother. I admit to yelling at my kids, one time telling Carlene to shut up. I wrote about how horrible I felt and how I went to her room and apologized. She hugged me, not wanting to say anything because if she did she knew she’d cry and Carlene hated to cry.

Soon after that entry, I found a poem by Peter Meinke that I copied in my journal. In the margin I wrote “daughter Carly” next to the author’s reference to his son Peter. Here’s the poem:

This is a poem to my son Peter

Whom I have hurt a thousand times, whose large and vulnerable eyes have glazed in pain at my ragings

Thin wrists and fingers hung boneless in despair

Pale, freckled back bent in defeat

Pillows soaked by my failure to understand

I have scarred through weakness and impatience your frail confidence forever

Because when I needed to strike, you were there to be hurt

And because I thought you knew you were beautiful and fair, your bright eyes and hair

But now I see that no one knows that about himself

But must be told and retold until it takes hold

Because I think anything can be killed after awhile, especially beauty

So I write this for life, for love, for you, my oldest son Peter, age 10 going on 11

I copied this poem because it reminded me of Carlene, of my failings as a mother to understand her fears and vulnerabilities. While I didn’t yell often, and not always at my children, when I did, it ruined so much of the good we had. It made them walk on egg shells, not wanting to rock the boat of my inability to express myself more civilly.

I remember clearly the day I hung up the phone a dozen times, shattering it in the receiver, after fighting with my almost ex-husband. Carlene, brave and soft, said to me, “Mommy, it scares me when you yell.” She was 8 or 9, I think. She said her sister agreed. Carlene faced me knowing my response might be more anger. But it wasn’t. I was embarrassed and humbled and so very very sorry for having frightened my children. I was rarely ever angry at them. I was angry at my life. Angry at death and hardship. Angry at myself for bad choices and regret. I promised her I’d never yell again, and I truly made every effort not to. I still had my moments, but at least in the moment I remembered Carlene and her brave voice telling me how she felt. I still wonder how I ever raised such a patient and level-headed child.

Reading my journals is rarely a happy trip down memory lane. I seemed to always write about the bad stuff of me, flogging myself nightly for the things I did wrong and not the things I did right.

So gardening today, getting outside in the sun, is helping me remember that I wasn’t all bad. I didn’t yell all the time. I wasn’t unhappy day after day after day. My children love me. We’re very close. But if I could apologize to them over and over, I would. Because I love them and hate that I ever hurt them. Thank you, Paul Meinke, for writing that poem. I must have been paying some kind of attention to my anger to have copied it in my journal. It took my own daughter’s courage, however, to stop it in its tracks.

The Vacation Blues

I’m two days home from California and yet I feel a lifetime away from a week ago when I left.

I’ve been to Chicago, New York and Los Angeles in less than four months. Granted, people go to these places all the time, and sometimes all of them in the course of a week. But I’m just Lynn from Podunk, PA, and I don’t get out much. These last four months have been overwhelmingly not normal.

Usually when you return from vacation, aren’t you supposed to feel refreshed and ready to work your job again and live the ordinary life you left behind for a few days with more energy and patience? I’m still waiting for that vacation peace to hit me. So far, I’ve just been bored and impatient.

In a perfect world, I’d go to LA every other week. I didn’t expect to love it like I did. Before I left, my perception of LA was that of a smog-infested and congested city with impatient people and a few movie stars. From the second I got into the Alamo shuttle bus at LAX to the moment the plane left the ground bound for Pittsburgh, I learned and learned and learned that LA is nothing like I imagined.

Yes, the 405 is a busy road. People drive fast. They drive worse out east (sorry east coast readers, but it’s the truth). Yes, there is smog, but there are also palm trees and mountains and flowers that I couldn’t stop staring at. I know it’s a really large city with a lot of really big problems, but how can you not get caught up in the beauty of the Hollywood Hills, the San Gabriel’s, and the Pacific Ocean? Do you just get used to it all? Does it all become rote and ordinary? If so, what’s left of beauty to appreciate?

Even Beverly Hills, with its opulence and wealth, was welcoming. Lunch at The Ivy was no different than lunch anywhere else except that someone famous might walk in and cause a slight stir. That and the gimlets were $14 a pop. Patrons ate, drank and talked to their companions, same as anywhere else. The atmosphere was comforting, as were my dining companions – my daughter and my friend Michael.

I expected to be intimidated and lost. I thought I’d get homesick and want to leave the next day. Instead, I hated leaving and wished I had more time. It’s been a long time since a vacation did that to me. 

I’m not sure what to do with this feeling of spaciousness. It’s like I’ve spent the last 7 years in a bubble and I’ve finally been let out into the air. There is so much to see in this world and I feel stuck. Do you ever feel that way, living where you live and doing what you do?

Here are a few more vacation photos. Michael and me before saying goodbye in Beverly Hills; me with my cousin Rick (whom I haven’t seen in 18 years) at my nephew’s birthday party;  and a photo of my beautiful diva granddaughter wearing the sunglasses and jelly shoes I bought her at Kitson. She promptly took off the jellies after this photo and started eating them. I guess that’s what keeps me grounded.  She’s the cutest damn thing ever and I could never leave her for longer than a few days.

Sorry to be such a downer tonight. I’ll get over my angst soon, I’m sure. I have to learn to balance the fantastic with the reality. Given I didn’t experience much fantastic the last seven years due to my self-imposed isolation when I was obese, this will take a little time.