Zen Bag Lady

Staying One Step Ahead of the Second Child

Originally published in "The Clarion News" November 1999

Next year at this time my youngest daughter, Cassandre (or as she's fondly known in the family, Cassie Lou Who), will almost be 16. She figured this out the other day while I drove her to work or cheerleading practice or a football game or maybe WalMart. I can’t remember. I just drive.

“Isn’t that exciting!” she said. “Then I can drive myself everywhere!”

She was born 20 months after her sister and ever since she’s been playing catch-up, always wanting to be her sister’s age.

When she was eight she wanted to be 10. At 11 she was convinced her life would begin at 13. Now, at 14, the magic age is 16 – the age to drive, date, and plan her life at 18.

I can understand her feeling she has an inherent right to the same timetable as her sister. As small children I did lump them together as a group rather than seeing them as individuals of differing ages.

She stopped taking naps and gave up Barbies the same time as her sister, and started listening to (and stopped listening to) New Kids On the Block when her sister did.

But age became an issue when it was time for the big stuff like staying up a half-hour later, putting on fingernail polish by herself, riding in the front seat, shaving her legs, wearing makeup, getting her ears pierced a second time and dating. She had to wait.

“Wait?” she exclaims each time her sister gets a new privilege. “That’s not fair!”

“Those are the rules,” I explain.

“Well, when can I?”

“When you are your sister’s age.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes,” I always sigh. “I promise.”

Parents, learn this lesson well: Never promise a child anything hoping she will forget. She won’t. And if you do promise something, make sure you write it down. Verbatim. Have it certified. Sign it in blood. Or you’ll be matching wits and memories with a kid who knows exactly when you made a promise exactly as you said it years before while you were making Thanksgiving dinner for 30 people or on the phone with the Internal Revenue Service and would say anything to get her out of the kitchen.

This lesson applies mostly to the second child. With a first child, parents are fledglings and rarely promise anything because they have no idea what they’re doing. For example, if your oldest child asks to stay up a half-hour later you might say something like “I’ll think about it,” and then run to the bookshelf for advice as soon as she’s out of the room.

I’m going to let you in on a secret the books never tell you: When you render your decision about the first child’s request, your second child is taking it all in, memorizing the date, the time, the exact age of the first child (to the day) and the place you were standing when you said, “Yes, you may stay up a half-hour later tonight.”

Be prepared when your second child comes to you, detailed charts and analysis in hand, at exactly the same time in her life and asks to stay up a half-hour later. If you have forgotten when you allowed the first child the same privilege you will have no defense. God help you if you say no.

If these second-born children could apply these awesome memorization and organizational skills to their education, they’d all be rocket scientists, brain surgeons or concert pianists. However, being adamant about being right is usually reserved only for fairness (as they perceive it) in family matters.

Being driven to memorize their spelling words or the periodic table is not in the same league as showing up their mother or older sister.

Being second doesn’t always mean having to wait or being vigilant for injustices or wearing hand-me-downs, though. It does have its advantages. My youngest makes mental notes every time her sister and I have a difference of opinion and some kind of punishment is handed down. With this advanced knowledge she rarely repeats the mistakes of her sister.

Where she doesn’t avoid punishment (or at least a dirty look) is when she reminds me of mine.

The second child is almost always compared to the older child, especially if they’re the same gender. But second children rarely walk the path tread by their older sibling. My oldest is a bit reserved, a little shy, and it is my youngest who makes the most noise in our world, the one who will not be ignored, the one who will try the things her sister won’t. She is the child my mother couldn’t wait for me to have – the one who was just like me.

And I wouldn’t have her any other way. Her smile lights up a room. She can tune into a person’s emotional frequency just by looking at their face. She’ll be anything she wants to someday because she is brave and honest and can look the truth in the eye and not run away.

Yeah, so she wants to be older. Who, at 14, didn’t? If the years have taught me anything it’s that our desire to be older than we are stops at about 25, the age auto insurance rates (and some body parts) start to drop.

Besides, when she’s 25 I’ll be 45 wishing I was 35. Thank God for my grandmother who used to tell me that one day we’ll all be happy to be any age.

“If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it must be something else…”

I’m at “that age” when you wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, wondering if that pallet of overnight Always you bought will hold you through next Thursday.

They say you go through menopause like your mother, and if that’s true, then I will should be locked in my bedroom smoking cigarettes and watching “Cagney and Lacey” with the windows wide open, even in the middle of winter. My father damn near froze to death every night, and if he dared complain, my mother would hiss, “Then turn up the electric blanket.” No, I’m definitely going through menopause differently than my mother.

Especially after last weekend.

The mother of all periods started three weeks ago. A pad or two a day the first week; a pad or two an hour the second. I planned my days by how quickly I could get to a bathroom. At the start of week three, the bleeding tapered, but my body was so confused that it nearly collapsed in a soccer field bathroom in Indiana, Pennsylvania, last Saturday afternoon.

Everything was fine when C and I left my house at noon. I plugged in the address to the field into my new GPS (best birthday gift ever) and away we drove west on 422. A half hour later, I developed a headache and my joints started to hurt. Twenty minutes later, I couldn’t hold up my head. We got to the field and parked the car near the rest rooms, just as the chills started. C covered me with a jean jacket and two bath towels and asked if I wanted to go find a doctor. I assured him I’d be fine laying in the car with my eyes closed. Worried, he went to the field.

A few minutes later, I had to use the bathroom. As soon as I stood up, I saw silver floaters in my field of vision, the ones that clue you in to an inevitable pass-out. I walked, bent over, to the bathroom, and was stopped from planting my face on the pavement by one of C’s teammates. “Get C***,” was all I could say. He poured me in the car and ran down to the field.

Meanwhile, other teammates drove into the parking lot. They saw me sitting on the passenger’s seat with my head between my knees and asked what was wrong. I had no idea what the hell was happening to me. All I wanted to do was pass out. Drift away. Anything to get the damn headache out of my head. Realistic me knew I needed medical attention, so I managed to say it out loud. One of the guys grabbed my GPS and found directions to the nearest hospital just as C was running back from the field. A man from the other team saw the commotion and stopped to ask if he could help. Being the good Minnesota Lutheran Norwegian I am, I said, “Oh, no, we’ll be OK.” He insisted we follow him to the hospital. He knew a shortcut. C, who isn’t a Minnesota Lutheran Norwegian, said, “Thanks, man. I’ll follow you!”

Now, I understand mistakes happen, even in a hospital. But two mistakes led to a three-day hunt for what was “really” wrong with me. The CT scan was fine, the ECG was great, but the initial blood and urine analysis indicated I had a kidney infection and that my “immune system was compromised.” High on Dilaudid, Ativan and anti-nausea drugs, I didn’t realize the doctor was saying he suspected I had leukemia. The lab concluded my white blood cell count was 1.3 (normal is 4.3 and above), yet the week before, after my yearly checkup, my white blood cell count was 5.1.

“How does someone develop leukemia in a week?” C asked.

That’s just it. They don’t. But doctors being doctors (or doctors being sure they don’t get sued), I was transported by ambulance to a hospital in Pittsburgh and admitted to their oncology floor. Twenty four vials of blood later, doctors concluded my white blood cell count was normal, as was everything else. I didn’t have a kidney infection or an infection of any kind. But did they let me go

My daughters, all gowned up.

home? No. They had to find a reason I’d almost passed out, even though both C and I explained to them, ad nauseum, that it was probably due to bleeding for three weeks and the fact that I felt a cold coming on. Yes, yes, they said, both were possibilities, but they wanted to be sure.

The overkill continued that evening when I asked if I could have a couple of Advil for my headache. The doctor prescribed oxycodone. *eyeroll*

On Sunday, the attending physician ordered an echocardiogram because she heard my heart murmur. The same murmur I’ve known about – and has not bothered me – all my life. Most medical professionals can’t even detect it. I had the echocardiogram and…gee…turns out I have a very healthy heart. So did they let me go home? No.

Sunday night, I again asked for Advil. Again they brought me oxycodone. *sigh*

Monday rolled around and the attending physician said she wanted me to consult with a cardiologist, “just to make sure.” She said she could probably get one to see me that evening. I told her no, I wasn’t staying in the hospital, and asked her to release me. (This was said through a veil of tears. I was tired and bored and fed up with being poked and prodded.) She said no. I said that I was going to leave anyway, and she said I could, but my insurance wouldn’t cover anything if I left without her permission. Thank god her assistant was watching all this because when they left my room, I could hear her pleading my case with the doctor. A few minutes later, the assistant came in and told me to hold tight, she’d have my release papers ready by 12:30. I almost kissed her I was so happy.

Thousands of dollars later, the duck really was a duck. I wish my experience was unique, that the fundamental lack of communication and common sense on display last weekend was a fluke, but I doubt it. In our lawsuit happy world, doctors have their hands tied. And because of two separate false positives, my insurance company is being billed for dozens of unnecessary tests and procedures, thus contributing to the overall increased cost of healthcare.

That’s the true headache, and Advil and oxycodone can’t fix it. 

 

Blackbird Fly

I wrote this for my daughter, Carlene, in 2001, when she was a senior in high school.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, Take these broken wings and learn to fly, All your life, You were only waiting for this moment to arise."

You asked me, "What do you want, Mom? What do you think I should do?" And it was clear by the tone of your voice that you expected me to say something customary like, "I just want you to be happy," but with a choked-up guilt-ridden undertone that said "…but keep in mind I’d be happy if you stayed here in Clarion."

Weren’t you surprised when I didn’t?

I don’t have eyes in the back of my head for nothing, my daughter. Yes I want you to be happy, but I’ve learned a thing or two about you in these 18 years and I know the life you’ve secretly dreamed about for years will die if you don’t leave this town, your home, and see for yourself what lies beyond these hills.

You have an adventurous spirit and a cautious heart. The combination has served you well so far and you must trust it won’t let you down in the future. You’ve learned there is no monster under the bed, no boogey man in the closet, no sandman, and no such thing as ghosts, yet you know there are bigger mysteries to solve, other truths to uncover, out there somewhere all your own. To not live where your heart and head can be free or to deny yourself that place of self-discovery would be placing yourself on a certain and predictable course, and God knows after years of listening to me tell you what the world is like you’re entitled to discover the world for yourself.

So...what do I want? That’s a question I’ve been thinking about and trying to answer since you were born. This is what I’ve come up with so far:

I want you to be happy in your own skin, to be at peace with your decisions, to love God, and to visit the Rocky Mountains in the winter.

I want you to drink good wine and see the midnight sun and walk along the Champs-Elysées with your best friend.

I want you to have babies when you’re ready and visit your grandparents once a year. I want you to never forget your sister’s birthday and to go to Jasper once in awhile and place flowers on your dad’s grave.

I want you to never know an overdue bill, an IRS audit, or a broken tailpipe you can’t afford to fix. I want you to concentrate on what you do that makes you successful and to not dwell on failures.

I want you to come home from wherever you are when you’re homesick and to go back again feeling stronger for having been home again, because I’ll always be here for you and you can wash your clothes while I make you manicotti and chocolate cake. Your room will still be purple and I won’t rent it out or turn it into the hot tub room like I threatened.

You see, I don’t care where you go to college as long as you get the education you need to be what you want to be.

I don’t care where you lay your head at night as long as it’s warm and safe and, when it’s right, with the person who loves you more than life.

I don’t care what you do for a living as long as it doesn’t hurt other people, that it envelops your God-given talents and gifts, and that it gives you satisfaction and affords you the kind of home you can relax in at the end of the day.

I trust you. I have faith in you. But mostly I love you, and love is the reason I can let go. I’m going to hurt for awhile and I’ll probably cry all the way home after helping you move into your dorm, but I don’t want you to feel you’ve caused me pain because you will not have. Love is just like that sometimes.

I’ll miss the smell of your perfume floating up the stairs after you leave for school. I’ll miss hearing you tell me good night and feeling your kiss on my cheek before you go to bed. I’ll miss seeing your face every day, our spontaneous talks in the kitchen and the way you play with the dogs.

But while I’ll miss you very much, I know I’ll still be your mother when you’re frustrated, your mom when you need advice and your mommy when you need money or just a hug.

Your moment is here, my girl, and you’re ready to fly. And that is truly what I think you should do.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, Take these sunken eyes and learn to see, All your life, You were only waiting for this moment to be free." Words and music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney

Our Journey to Journey (and Heart and Cheap Trick)

Now this is friendship. Chris drove up to Clarion from Pittsburgh on Saturday morning to pick me up for the Journey, Heart and Cheap Trick concert in Scranton 3.5 hours east of Clarion. Halfway into our road trip, Chris said, “Can I ask you a question?” Our conversation had been rather serious and so I said, “Of course. You can ask me anything,” and I braced for a tough question.

“Who are we seeing tonight? I thought Heart was one of the bands, but I don’t remember who else.”

She had no idea where we were going, either. Chris figured I had directions and would tell her how to get there. When she got the email from Dana and me weeks ago asking her if she wanted to go to a concert, it didn’t matter to her who we saw or where. She just looked forward to a weekend with her friends.

And what a weekend it was. We pinky swore we’d not get in another car with an unlicensed taxi driver (see the blog "Riding In Cars With Strangers In Hershey" for details on our adventure at last year’s Nickelback concert), so Chris drove to the venue. You’d think they’d never had a concert at the Toyota Pavilion before. It took almost an hour to drive two miles, and the parking lot attendants had no idea what they were doing. Cars were parked in lovely mosaic designs, but it made for a nightmare getting out of the place five hours later.

Once we parked, we walked a half mile downhill to our seats. Knowing we’d have to walk a half mile uphill to get back to the car kept me from drinking more than one Molson, which most of it spilled under my seat halfway through Heart anyway, and at $8.75 a glass I wasn’t going to replace it.

Even thought the venue seemed really full, the two rows ahead of us were mostly empty. People ahead of us were standing, so in order to see, we had to stand, too. No problem, until a woman behind me pulled on my shirt and yelled, “Sit down!” She didn’t yell at Chris, who was on my left, or Dana and her sister Ann, who were on my right. Just me. (She’s inadvertently in the photo below of Chris and me before the concert. Looks like she’s ready to party, doesn’t she?)

I looked at her and yelled back, “Stand up!” for which I got the evil eye.

I turned around and started singing again, but I felt kind of bad, kind of obligated that since someone asked me to sit down that maybe I should sit down. And so I did. Chris asked me what I was doing and I told her what happened and she yelled (because the music was so loud, not because she was mad), “This is a fucking rock concert! You’re supposed to stand up!” So I stood up again. Everyone else was. At one point, Ann turned around and suggested to the woman and her friend that they move to the rows ahead of us. I thought this was excellent advice, but they merely stared at her like she had a third nostril. Oh well.

Sometime during the Journey portion of the concert, a very amorous couple took their seats next to Chris. They immediately offered us whiskey from a flask and invited Dana and Chris to smoke a joint with them later. They practically had sex during “Open Arms,” and they grabbed Chris and the three of them danced to “Only The Young.” Chris laughed and went with the flow, but neither she or Dana took them up on their drug offer. Or the whiskey, either, now that I think of it. Twenty five years ago we’d have been all over that. Now, in our late 30s and 40s, not so much. When did we grow up?

Despite the massive crowd of women in line for the bathroom, the wait time was fairly short. No dawdling. Girls were just dropping their pants, doing their business, and zipping up as the exited the stall. I like efficient women.

Cell phones were used en masse, including mine. I texted my daughter throughout the concert, giving her reviews of various songs and of the new Steve Perry, aka Arnel Pineda. That's not how I watched concerts back in the '70s, that's for sure.

While I loved Journey and Cheap Trick and thought they rocked well, my favorite band of the evening was Heart. Ann and Nancy…man, they’ve still got it. “Barracuda” was hot, and the song I liked best was “Love, Reign O’er Me,” a Who song. What an obscure little surprise.

The moon was full, the place was packed and a cool breeze kept us comfortable. Everyone except the ladies behind us seemed to be having a good time. Around 11, Journey came out for an encore and sang “Any Way You Want It,” then the lights came up, and several thousand people filed out what I think was the only exit. After walking up the hill and (surprisingly) finding Chris’s car, we started the hour-long two-mile journey back to our hotel. The crickets and beetles sang in the woods and the air smelled remarkably good considering all the carbon monoxide wafting above the parking lot and road.

We didn’t think to bring after-concert snacks or drinks with us since we were “only” a few miles from the hotel and we assumed the bar would be open until 2. How disappointed were we when we got back at the hotel around midnight and walked to the bar only to be greeted with a “closed” sign. Dammmit.

The girls weren’t in the mood for pizza delivery and the Waffle House just isn’t the same unless you’re inebriated, so we shuffled up to our room and Chris and I broke out the food we brought with us, namely hummus, whole grain crackers, sugar snap peas, cucumber salad, grapes, cantaloupe, a half bottle of chardonnay and what was left of her zinfandel. By 1:15, we were all asleep.

When we got up at 8, we drank some coffee, ate some more cucumber salad and found some oatmeal down in the lobby. We took a few photos, talked about life and solved some problems, then parted ways around 11. Our voices were no worse for wear, although I won’t be singing any arias for awhile. Like that matters. I sound MUCH better when I’m singing with 30,000 people. The palm of my hand at the base of my thumb was bruised and sore and I wondered how that happened and I surmised that I need to take lessons in clapping from Paula Abdul to avoid future injuries.

As Chris, Dana, Ann and I said goodbye, we promised to keep our eyes open for another concert, sometime around January. We agreed we needed something to look forward to after the holidays and when the harsh reality of winter sets in. We might just go hang out in Dana’s Jacuzzi and make blender drinks. That would work, too. After all, when you’re with good friends, it doesn’t matter what you do together. As long as it’s not in a car with a scary woman named Clara in Hershey.

 

Group hug!

Minnesota: It's Really Hard To Put Into Words

The Transportation Safety Authority apparently gets suspicious of luggage containing a hand weight, tennis ball and Trader Joe’s corn tortilla crackers. When I opened the bag I checked when I got home from Minnesota, there was a note inside that said, in essence, “X-ray showed you travel with some weird shit, lady, so we opened your bag and dug around. Sorry if we packed it back up wrong. XOXO, TSA.”

Hope they liked the pink lacy thong laying on top.

Minnesota was amazing – warm, sunny, humid. Just the way I remembered. Except for a few mosquito bites on my rear end (I swear I was clothed in public the entire time) and a few mysterious bruises, I suffered no injuries or traffic accidents, something I always worry about when I’m driving a rental car. I’m never sure if I really actually have that rental car coverage on my insurance policy, but I refuse to spend $30 a day for the rental car company’s insurance coverage. My bad, I know.

Minnesota is a complicated place for me because I spent the most formative of years there and I have a really good memory. I remember who did what to me and others when and where, and in vivid detail. It’s a gift and a curse. I can recount details most people forget, like what I was wearing the first time a boy French kissed me (jeans and a purple hand-me-down short-sleeved empress cotton shirt, boys basketball sneakers and a navy blue windbreaker). I was in 7th grade, his name was Ricky, and when I saw him again last weekend at our school reunion, he actually remembered our failed attempt at lust. Too funny.

There were other people I saw, visits I’ve tried to put into words since I’ve been home, but I’m afraid I can’t do it. For instance, I can’t adequately discuss my visit with my friend David, who was my former pastor, because there are really are no words to describe our four-hour visit that involved completing the circle of him and me and my late husband Bruce. We are so intricately connected that it’s almost too precious and private to write about or even breathe the words in a conversation.

The same holds true for Pam D and Pam F; Todd and Wendell and James and Lisa; Dean, Rhonda, Robin, Jeanine, Scott, Jim, Mavis, Mavis, Norma and Bob. Because of violent vomiting, I didn’t get to see my friend Val (a major bug went through her household of several children and adults) and that made me very sad. But otherwise, the vacation was spot on. I slept in 8 beds in 9 nights and I’m still trying to catch up on sleep three days home.

Today is my birthday and I can’t think of a better gift than the gift of visiting my Minnesota friends and family. Oh wait, I’m also going to the Journey, Heart and Cheap Trick concert this weekend in beautiful Scranton, Pennsylvania. Another b-day gift to myself.

Do you do this, too? Get so involved in a visit home or with a friend that you can’t digest it all? I’ve had several emails from folks saying they want details about the trip, but this is all I can give. It’s all I’ve got. The rest is in my head. And in the photos. Here are a few more from the trip. Thanks for understanding about the words part.

Me and BFF Pam D. Her 5-year-old son Jack gave up his bed for me, but Pam was the one who paid the ultimate price since Jack and his fourteen legs and arms slept with her that night. Thanks for taking a few bruises for the team, Pam.

The house I used to live in. My bedroom I snuck out of on occasion was on the top right. Thank god I never broke a limb. Although if my parents found out, they might done the honors. Just kidding Mom and Dad! Confession is good for the soul, right?

This is my friend Scott and his wife Marian. I've known Scott since I was in 5th grade. Initially he was my older sister's friend, but he quickly became part of our family. When my husband died, he never left me. He came over every morning and night to do chores, and when I moved back to Minneapolis, he always checked up on me to make sure I was OK. Scott is the poster child for friendship.

This is Carlene with my daughter Carlene. She is who Carlene is named after. Bruce (my late husband and Carlene's father) and Carlene were good friends. When we talked about what we'd name our baby if it was a girl, Bruce wanted Carlene and I wanted Miranda. After 13 hours of labor and delivering our ginormous baby girl, I was a little tired. Bruce said, "So what do you think, honey? Is she a Carlene?" I was in no position to argue, especially with a doctor between my legs administering 35 stitches to make me whole again. But in hindsight, Carlene is a Carlene. I'm really glad she got to meet her namesake last weekend.

This isn't the best photo in the world and I apologize, but it is a photo of the best choir director ever. Bob Jones taught both Bruce and me, and he became our friend after high school. Watching him direct the all-school choir on Sunday made me so happy I cried. Bob can coax music out of anyone, even me. He recognized Bruce's god-given talent - he had a silky smooth tenor voice that made girls weak in the knees - and spurred him on to win national awards and to travel abroad with a national chorus. I cried when I heard the choir because I know how much Bruce would have loved to be a part of the group. Watching Bob direct again was a poignant and unique reminder of my past. I'm very glad he and Carlene finally got to meet. I'm pretty sure, judging by the tears in his eyes, that he was glad to meet her, too. For in her eyes, you see Bruce.

Just a Good Ol' Girl, Never Meanin' No Harm

The weekend started out strange enough. I pulled into the driveway of my cousin’s farm a few miles out of Jasper, and two women were sitting in a car. Thinking they were Haraldson’s in town for the goat races and all-class reunion (yes, I said goat races), I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Lynn Haraldson. Don Haraldson’s daughter,” I said as I shook one of the women’s hands.

She looked at me funny and said, “I’m looking for Dean.”

“Oh,” I said. “He’s in Pipestone with his son and will be home in an hour.”

“Well, we’re burying my brother tomorrow and I need to drop him off with Dean,” she said.

Um….OK.

“We have his urn in the trunk,” she continued. Dean is the custodian of the Rose Dell Cemetery across the road from his farm. My mother’s family and the Haraldsons went to church there, when there was a church, and many of our relatives are buried there. I knew Dean and his sons mowed the lawn and kept up the place, but I had no idea he was a grave digger, too.

“Well, I guess you should bring him in the house, then,” I said and I led her up the back steps. She set the urn down on the kitchen floor, said thank you, and left.

I stood there for a moment looking at the dead guy in a box and thought, ‘Welcome home, Lynn.’

I’m a redneck, literally and figuratively. Literally in that I have a sunburn on my neck, compliments of the hot Minnesota sun and a t-shirt. Figuratively in that I am friends with good-time people who have fun riding in a small town parade on a flatbed with picnic tables on top and drinking Bud Light, throwing candy to children, and hootin’ and hollerin’ at their aunts and uncles, mothers and fathers, and grandmas and grandpas lining the streets. While I had pinot grigio poured into a water bottle, I also drank a Bud Light. And I’ve got the photo to prove it. The woman next to me? She’s a doctor in Florida. We were the flute section in junior high band. Good to know we’ve grown up, isn’t it?

I’ll be on a plane for Pittsburgh in a few hours. I’ll disect the week into smaller blogs as soon as I wrap my head around all that happened, but for now I thought I’d share a few photos from my week in Minnesota.

Robin, Lisa and Bryce. I have no idea what I said, but it must've been good.

Boy, did Jeanine and I get in trouble when we tried to climb in the kiddy cars. Some woman read us the riot act. I haven't been yelled at like that since the last time I hung out with Jeanine.

BFF Lisa, who was my maid of honor when I married Carlene's father, Bruce; Terry; James (a groomsman at our wedding); me; and Carlene, who is still recovering from riding on the float with the class of '81. She knows her mother (and her father) in a whole new light now. Not sure that's such a good thing!

 

Finding Buddha Nature in a Dodge Caliber

I’m usually pretty practical; I’m the girl with a plan. But put me in a car with a sunroof and I turn into a freewheeling blond without an agenda.

I flew into Minneapolis at the butt-crack of dawn on Sunday. After wandering the underbelly of the airport in search of the rental car company, I found myself behind the wheel of a red Dodge Caliber loaded with Sirius satellite radio and a sunroof. It’s like I’d hit the lottery.

I assumed driving would be merely utilitarian on this trip – a way to get from point A to point B – but now it’s a mini vacation in and of itself. As the sun beats down on my head, I crank up Classic Rewind on channel 15 and let my hair blow straight up in the air. It’s summer in Minnesota and it’s stinky hot and humid and I like it.

It’s the sunroof’s fault that I’m writing this from Lake Edward in central Minnesota. My plan last night was to lock myself in my hotel room, all alone, and write and be serious. But my girls, granddaughter, son-in-law, parents, niece and younger brother had all gone to the lake in the morning and I was feeling homesick for them by 6:00. So I called my daughter, told her I was packing up the Caliber and heading up north. I checked out of the hotel, put on my shades and hit the highway.

I haven’t seen a decent sunset since the last time I was in Minnesota. Sunset in Pennsylvania, while pretty, is brief. The sun disappears behind the hills and trees long before it sets. Here on the prairie, you watch it slowly sink into the western sky like a pancake absorbs thick syrup. As I watched the long lazy sunset while driving north on Hwy. 10 between Big Lake and St. Cloud, I knew I’d made the right decision to leave my work unwritten and head up to the lake.

It was dark when I got here and Claire was already in bed. The rest of us sat out on the deck and laughed and talked. Carlene looked a little like Eminem sitting curled up in her dark sweat pants and a dark hoodie pulled over her head. Mosquitoes are on that girl like flies on stink. I don’t know if it’s her neon white skin or if she has better blood than the rest of us, but there isn’t a mosquito within two miles that doesn’t know Carlene’s in town. It’s like the mosquitoes have walkie-talkies or something. “But the stars are amazing,” said Michaela. And they were. And so we sacrificed Carlene to the mosquitoes for the view.

We went to bed too late and woke up too early, but I don’t want to sleep my vacation away. Baby Claire is awake and rummaging through my suitcase. My parents are talking on the deck. My brother is making eggs and bacon and will soon get the boat ready for a morning of fishing with Dad and Matt. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and the lake is sparkling. Moments like this don’t happen holed up in a hotel room. They come compliments of a pimped out rental car and that little inner voice that said, “Just go.”

On The Road Again

I’m pretty sure the garbage man saw me naked today.

I was in the first-floor bathroom standing in front of the vanity. The window on the opposite wall faces the north side of my neighbor’s house where her garbage cans are. Outside the window are lilac bushes, which in summer provide a fair amount of privacy. Sunshine is a rare commodity here in western PA so I hate keeping the shades drawn when the sun is out. Since no one’s ever around my bathroom window at 7 a.m., I throw open the shade first thing every morning before changing into my workout clothes. We’ve lived in our house for more than two years and I’ve never had an audience. 

Not so today. Just as I whipped off my pajama top and reached for my bra, I looked in the mirror and saw the garbage man about 15 feet away. Our eyes met for a split second. Because my back was to the window and no boobage was showing in the mirror, I’m sure all he saw was the dolphin tattoo on my right shoulder blade and maybe the length of my back to just above my *ahem* torso. I’m kind of proud of my back, but still, how embarrassing. It’s one thing if I’m in a bathing suit or low-cut dress. To be surprised at 7 a.m. and sporting a bad case of bed head is another.

Will I keep the shade down from now on? Probably not. I need natural light more than I feel embarrassed by some guy seeing my naked back end. (Of course that wouldn’t have been the case 170 pounds ago. But I digress.)

I’m also not worrying about what the garbage man may or may not have seen because I’ve got bigger things on my mind. This weekend kicks off the big Minnesota Trip. I technically leave at the ass-crack of dawn on Sunday, but I’ll be in Pittsburgh tomorrow so I don’t have to leave Podunkville at sunset to get to the airport on time.

I’m lost in thought, making lists. As you know, planning an 8-day sojourn “home” takes more than just precise timing. I must coordinate outfits (god forbid I wear the same thing twice), shave my legs, plug phone numbers into the Blackberry, add photos to Grammy’s Brag Book, charge the iPod…It’s all very similar to last year’s preparation, only this time I’m flying, not driving, and so I have to be a more prudent packer. (See last year’s blog Let The Road Trip Begin to read how imprudent I am when I travel by car.)

This year’s trip is a lot like last year’s with one very fun exception - Baby Claire is going along, too! She’ll meet her great-grandparents for the first time, and her great-uncle Matthew, great-aunt Tracy, cousin Michaela, and great-uncle Marty. My dad is the master of silly songs and I can’t wait to hear my old favorites as he sings them to Claire: “Dear Old Daddy’s Whiskers,” “The Poor Old Slave” (a completely politically correct song), “She’s Got Freckles On Her, But She’s Nice” (gotta love the double entendre), and assorted other songs that are half real and half made up. When I was a kid, I went to sleep every night with a song of his in my head. Now that we have video capability on our phones and cameras, we’ll finally get to record Dad in concert. Good times.

I’ll see my old friends Pam, Pam and Val again, and this year I have the time to see a few others as well. I’m having lunch with my dear friend Lois who, despite all the things I’ve done in my life – good and ill –has always been a source of gentle support. She always reminds me that I have a higher power looking over me. To me, she is God at work on earth.

I’m also reuniting with someone I consider one of the most important influences in my life: my former pastor, David Mohn. David was pastor of the Jasper American Lutheran Church when I was 18. He married Bruce and me, buried Bruce, and baptized Carlene. He and Bruce sang in a barbershop quartet (along with my former algebra teacher and choir director). When Bruce died, David was the first one at my door. He is witness to the most painful moment of my life. Although he and a few others made the decision to not allow me to see Bruce dead (a decision David grew to regret and later apologized to me for), I know he only did it out of concern for me. David was the one who told me how Bruce died when I was ready to hear the story. David is the one who told me that time doesn’t heal a damn thing, it merely gives us perspective. David’s friendship and support kept me alive those first weeks after Bruce died. After 25 years, I finally get to tell him, face to face, thank you.

Next Friday, I’ll travel to Jasper for the big All-School Reunion and stay out on my cousin’s farm like I did last year. He’s having a party on Friday night, then there’s the parade, goat race and street dance in town on Saturday. Sunday is breakfast at the town hall and church in the park before the Haraldson Family Reunion at noon. My parents will be in town, too, but I doubt I’ll see them much until the reunion. I doubt I’ll get much sleep, either.

For another perspective of this trip, head over to my other blog, Lynn’s Weigh, and read Staying Real in Minnesota. While I’m looking forward to seeing family and old friends, I still have issues to work out. Don’t we all? I’m just glad one of them isn’t feeling I owe the garbage man an apology for my nakedness. There was a time when I would have felt ashamed and guilty. Glad I shed that skin.

Goodbye To A Real Character

The world became a little less interesting yesterday when Bill Schruers died, but I’m sure heaven is a better place for it.

I know it sounds cliché, but I’m sincere when I tell you that Bill was one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. He was one of those guys you’d describe as a “real character,” someone less generic than the rest of us, the kind of person who enriches our ordinary lives because their entire persona is unique and makes us glad to know them.

I met Bill in 2002 after I bought an antique store in the tiny town of Nickleville. Bill and his son Craig owned the building in the 1980s before moving their antique business to their farm down the road. He was born in Oil City but lived around Nickleville as an adult. His wife was from the area. She grew up in a house near the store and was related to the store’s original owners, if my memory serves me right. That’s one thing Bill was much better at than me: remembering details. He was a walking history of the area. Whenever I had a question about who did what to whom and when as it pertained to Nickleville, I always talked to Bill first.

Bill loved old furniture as much as he loved a bargain, and trust me, he usually got both. Sometimes, when he was buying furniture from people downsizing their homes or liquidating Grandma’s house, he’d get smaller items thrown in with the deal – dishes, toys, books, other smalls – and he’d bring them to me to buy.

“How much do you want for it?” I’d ask.

“Oh…” he’d say and ponder for a minute like he wasn’t sure, but I learned quickly that Bill knew exactly what something should “fetch” and was playing the old antique dealer game with me.  “I don’t know. Whatever you think it’s worth.”

Bill taught me the fine art of negotiating a price for a collectible. What you do is hand the item or box of items to the potential buyer, give them a little (sometimes sympathetic) history (enhance if necessary), distract the buyer for a few minutes by inquiring about their kids or by asking “How’s business?” and then compliment them on their eye for quality antiques. By golly if Bill didn’t do that to me every time. By the time we got around to talking price, I was willing to pay him almost anything he asked because he made me feel like the most knowledgeable dealer in the world, which I wasn’t. I was a total newbie and he knew that, but he never took advantage of me.

Bowlegged, Bill walked with a limp because of a bum hip, but he was strong. I saw Bill move heavy oak tables and dressers like they were on wheels. He had a loud, jovial, high-pitched laugh, and he slapped his knee when he told a good story. “Let me tell you something, young lady…” he’d say in sharp, snappy fashion just before he’d tell me a story or offer a word of advice. When he was serious, he’d point his index finger at me and narrow his eyes, look right at me and not remove his gaze until he’d made his point. It was like God himself was teaching me something.

Bill adored his family and Bill loved God. He was always seated in the same spot in the same pew every Sunday at the Nickleville Presbyterian Church. When I lived above the store, he often invited me to church. He never pestered, never pontificated or evangelized and he never said, “Yeah right, you say that all the time” when I answered him, “Well, maybe one of these weeks.”

The last time I saw Bill was right before my store was auctioned off to a mean old man who said he was going to tear the place down, which he did. While I had no choice but let that man buy the place (it was an absolute auction meaning we had to take whatever was the highest price from whomever placed the bid), I always worried that I’d made Bill really sad. The store wasn’t just a building. It was a deep and abiding part of his history. When he lost his wife, Pauline, in 2001, he soldiered on, but once in awhile he’d wipe away a tear when he talked about her. When I’d see him mowing the massive yard of his farm or disking the field for another year of hay, I imagined he was lost in thought of her and their life. He never let on how lonely he was, but there was always a cloud of sadness that hung over him, even when he was slapping his knee and remembering “the time when…”

When Mean Old Man torn down the store in 2007, I never went back to see the gaping hole that once was a grand old general store full of memories for so many people. I didn’t go back (and never will) because to me, that store is still there. But Bill lived just down the road. He drove past it every day. He even talked to Mean Old Man because he hung out at many of the same places Bill did. Today, as I read Bill’s obituary in the paper, I felt a deep remorse for not contacting him and telling him I was sorry. Bill made me a better antique dealer, a better person, and I never told him thank you. Shame on me.

I will go to the funeral home tomorrow to pay my respects and maybe get a chance to silently say my peace, posthumously, to one of the real characters in my life to whom I owe a great deal. I’ll see his son, his daughter, his grandsons and great-grandsons, and his granddaughter Amy, a woman I haven't seen in two years but who was a dear friend to me when I lived in Nickleville, hiding from the rest of the world. I think of her every time I walk in my dining room. She painted flowers on an old window that I have hanging in there. I will see these people with a bit of hesitancy, wondering if they'll remember me or even care. I, in essence, ran away from all of them when I sold the store and moved back to town. I didn’t want to open that wound, but you know and I know that when you ignore something, it always comes back to bite you.

But Bill being Bill, I know he never blamed me or hated me or ever wished me ill. I did all that to myself. Besides, right now, Bill’s too busy catching up with Pauline to care what I think. And that’s the way it should be.

Rest in peace, Bill Schruers. I will never forget you.  

My Life In Furniture

There’s a reason why I don’t sleep on a chair and ottoman all night like I did Sunday night. My body woke up on Monday saying, “What the hell, Lynn?” Crack, crack, pop. My back sounded like a fireworks display.

I was in Pittsburgh to meet a friend for a few drinks at Station Square. Afterwards, I stayed at my daughter’s apartment. Her former boyfriend took his bed when he moved out, so she’s sleeping on her childhood double bed these days. I could have crawled in next to her and slept somewhat more comfortably, but me and the chair have a great history and so I thought I’d sleep on an old friend instead.

My life history in furniture is on display at both my children’s homes. Along with the chair and ottoman, Carlene has another one of my large ottomans, a dresser, a vanity I got at an auction for a few bucks, and some of my mother’s end tables. Cassie has my old couch, a rocking chair and ottoman, an armoire, a few book shelves and the plaster ducks my mother used to keep in her living room. I think Cass has my roaster and folding chairs, too.

The chair and ottoman I slept on the other night had a matching couch, but it went to the big furniture store in the sky after her last move. There were holes in the fabric so large that her cats would crawl inside and get stuck in the springs. The wood frame was visible and little fabric staples poked out along the seams. It was its time to go, but it was sad to see it sticking out of the Dumpster at the apartment complex.

I bought the couch, chair and ottoman with husband #3 in 1990. It was long and black with overstuffed pillows that served as the back rest. The seat was so wide, almost like a twin bed, that my feet didn’t reach the floor when I sat back against the pillows. It could seat four adults or several small children comfortably. I had no problem offering it to guests as a place to sleep because it was more comfortable than any bed I’d ever owned.

We played board games on it – Monopoly, Life, backgammon – and watched movies huddled together under blankets. I spent many nights doing my college homework there, papers and books spread out everywhere. It’s a good thing it was black because it took its share of grape juice, orange juice, milk and wine spills. The Scotchgard wore off years ago, but the stains were never apparent.

The couch saw a lot of action, too, over the years, but I’ll just leave that to your imagination.

When Carlene and I went to Minnesota last year, we drove through Chicago and stayed with our friend, Heather. We’d never been to Heather’s before so imagine our excitment when we went into her living room and saw our black couch! Same design, same fabric, same overstuffed pillows. Only this one was completely in tact. No holes, no stains, and the fabric hadn’t starting pilling. That’s because Heather only had one child at the time who was still really little. Heather had another baby recently so now there are two and I’m sure very soon that couch will start aging the way a good parent ages – with patience and tolerance of the sweet abuse of children.

Carlene starts grad school next month and so will be moving into a studio apartment on campus. She asked me if I wanted the chair and ottoman back and before she could get the words out I said, “Absolutely!” I have the perfect place for it, too. And I will sit on it faithfully, probably even spill some wine on it and more than a few crumbs. It might also get some action. Who know?

I do know I won’t be sleeping on it, at least not a full night. Like its counterpart, the old couch, I am frayed and torn and aging not-so-gracefully. I just hope I don’t find myself head first in a Dumpster some day!

A Guest Blog From My Sister About Meeting Anna

Happy Sunday morning to you all. My sister wrote a blog on her MySpace page the other day and I’m confiscating it for my own blog because I liked it and because I’m laughing so hard reading “Such A Pretty Fat: One Narcissist’s Quest To Discover If Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big” by Jen Lancaster that I’m hardly able to breathe, let alone type coherently.

So without further ado, here’s a guest blog by my sister, Emily Haraldson. I hope you’ll share a comment about someone you met who touched your life in some small, odd or fun way, and will probably never see again.

“While waiting in cashier line at the car wash today, an older woman behind me asked me if they took credit cards there. I told her that they did and that she could also get cash back for a tip if she didn't have cash. She thanked me and then gave me a tiny clothes pin with a little wooden ladybug on it. She said she buys them by the hundreds and gives them out to practically everyone she meets. I thanked her and thought the gesture was kind.

As I made my way to the cashier to pay for my car wash, she was saying that God was testing us to see if we could live in hell with how hot it has been lately. Actually, it wasn't that hot this morning, low 70s, but it has been rather humid, more than we're used to here in the desert anyway. I thought the comment was funny. I paid for my car wash and she said, "See you on the other side" (the other side meaning the other end of the car wash where you wait for your car).

She came and sat down next to me and commenced to dabbing her face with a tissue as she was perspiring. She told me about her pomegranate tree that had fruit that split open last season because it has been so dry. She also told me her daughter makes excellent pomegranate martinis to which I responded, “I like your daughter already!” She told me she just celebrated her 75th birthday (she looked more like 65) and that she recently got a speeding ticket. What a hoot this woman was! She's from Germany, has been widowed for over 20 years and thinks her husband has come back to her as a hummingbird. Her son runs his own surf board company in Ventura.

Her name is Anna. I learned all of this in a matter of 20 minutes.

Do you ever wonder why you meet certain people? I do. I certainly feel richer for having a conversation with Anna today. The next time a stranger starts up a conversation, don't close up, shut down - let it take you where it's supposed to go.”

Claire and Karma and the Red Tractor

When I’m with Claire, I question my growing-up church lessons about “original sin.” Claire is perfect in every way. It is the world that will make her imperfect. I apologize to every pastor who raised me and put me through catechism, but I don’t buy the dogma anymore. 

Claire was here in Podunkville today because her mom was getting a perm. Cass can get a really great hairstyle here for half the price she’d find in Steeltown.

We started out having lunch with some friends. Claire was a doll. She loved watching the other babies and toddlers, she ate her corn chowder baby food and drank her apple juice from a sippy cup, and when her mom left for her hair appointment, she just banged on the ledge of our booth and said, “AHHH!!!”

We stayed in the restaurant awhile with my friends, and then Claire and I went downtown with a mission to get to the post office to pick up a package. Our adventure started at the health-food store to see Pat, then we crossed the street to Michelle’s Café to show off a bit, and then we went to the hair salon. I’ll never get tired of the “oohs” and “ahhs” and the “Oh my god she has such big beautiful eyes!” compliments. 

We finally made it to the post office and then went home and played with the dogs, talked to Grandpa Larry and then retreated upstairs to my office to play and (hopefully) take a nap.

A year before Claire was conceived I dreamed of the time I’d introduce my grandchild to my office. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s filled with books and things dear. In between austere and ornate are several items that wouldn’t fetch a dime on eBay but mean the world to me; things I want to explain to Claire when she gets older, but for now are OK to chew on.

Under my grandmother’s cedar chest I store a box of children’s books that my friend Gail sent to me a few months ago. Claire likes the books, but she loves the Priority Mail box they came in even more. At least for now. Soon she’ll appreciate the books, but today let’s just say she’s had her share of “fiber.” Cardboard is mighty tasty to a 9-month-old. 

After the cardboard, I sat down on my office chair, picked up Claire, and put on Noggin.com on the computer. We watched videos and I pretended I knew the words to the songs. As Claire laid back on my chest, she sucked on her nook and dug her toes into my calves and rolled her fingers into my arms. Fifteen minutes later, she wanted to be put down and so we both sat on the floor and started to explore.

Nothing makes a baby happier than a clothes basket. I loaded it with her toys and my sunglasses, which she played with while we roamed downtown Podunkville, and she proceeded to stand up next to it and finally dump it over. Once dumped, though, she wandered off to my book shelves.

On my book shelves are books, of course, but also pieces from my past. Claire first grabbed the wooden plaque given to me by my brother, Marty. He’d painted on it a couple of mules and my name. He gave it to me for my 16th birthday, which was his 26th birthday since we share a birthday 10 years apart. I didn’t think that was such a good thing for Claire to play with so I put that up.

Then Claire found the tractor and my “Space 1999” lunchbox. I used to watch “Space 1999” on Sunday nights in our kitchen in 1975 at 11 p.m. on the 8”x8” black and white screen television. I was almost 12. The storyline intrigued me even though it was based on “2001: A Space Odyssey” and I had no idea what that was or who Stanley Kubrick was. All I know is that 33 years later, my granddaughter is banging on the “Space…” lunchbox and chanting, “Da da da…”

The tractor belonged to my late husband, Bruce. When he bought his very own International Harvester tractor back in 1982, the dealer gave him a “thank you” gift – a steel toy replica, which is now (of course) a collector’s item on eBay. Bruce displayed it on his desk in his bedroom and after he died, I kept it to remind me of the times we spent laying on his waterbed listening to the Moody Blues and Boston and talking about our future. Sure, Claire is now gnawing on the tires, but whenever I see that tractor I smile and remember the man I loved so much.

I introduced Claire to Korbel the teddy bear and she kind of liked him but wasn’t real impressed. That made me laugh. While I love Korbel, I’m not so in love with the guy who gave him to me. He hurt me worse than any guy has ever hurt me in my life (including Bruce dying), and so maybe Claire sensed it and thought, “Grammy, this bear doesn’t have good karma.” I won’t blame the bear for its giver’s insensitivity, but it’s cool to know Claire might be in touch with good energy and bad.

Claire is 9 months old and doesn’t need a whole lot of stuff to make her happy. She was just as content this afternoon running her fingers over the wicker slats of the clothes hamper and playing with the loose veneer of my grandmother’s cedar chest as she was watching Moose A. Moose singing “Neighborhood Parade” on Noggin.com. And when it was time for a nap, she fell asleep in the crook of my arm as we laid on my bed with the window fans humming. I admit I napped for a few minutes, too, but mostly I just stared at Claire. You’d think I’d be used to her by now, but I’m still amazed by her presence.

That’s all I wanted to say. Just some stuff about Claire and my office and to share some photos. It’s summer and life if groovy.

I’m All About the “Girls” This Summer

Here’s my idea of a perfect summer evening: Lisa Lillien, Mignon Fogarty and I sitting on my deck drinking Poolside Cherry Pom-artias and splitting infinitives. Oh to dream!

Hungry Girl (aka Lisa Lillien) and Grammar Girl (aka Mignon Fogarty) have both written books and are out on book signing (or is it “book-signing?”) tours. Not together, but how cool would that be? Both of my “girls” in one book store? I think my head would explode.

I’ve subscribed to both Lillien’s and Fogarty’s newsletters or podcasts almost since their inceptions. One gives me great tips on how to save a calorie (or 4,000) and the other gives me great tips on how to write better. Can life be any more balanced? I don’t think so.

Lillien’s book, "Hungry Girl: Recipes and Survival Strategies for Guilt-Free Eating in the Real World," is a compilation of many of her already-published recipes from her Hungry Girl website as well as several new ones. I’d give you more specifics than that, but my daughter “borrowed” my book and told me she’s not returning it. She’s nothing if not honest. I have a replacement on my wish list on Amazon.com, and as soon as I’ve sold another piece of my Christmas village collection on eBay, I will buy it.

I haven’t been so happy about pumpkin since I first watched, “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!” when I was 5. Lillien does so many things with pumpkin puree that Libby’s ought to have her on their payroll. Packed with fiber and yet sinfully sweet, her simple pumpkin plus pudding recipe is an almost daily treat for me.

Many of Lillien's recipes call for Splenda, which I don’t tolerate very well, but I easily substitute stevia in several of them. I like the Trader Joe’s brand of stevia more than Sweet Leaf, but Sweet Leaf will work in a pinch. I find it leaves an aftertaste. TJ’s doesn’t.

But there’s a lot more to Hungry Girl than Splenda and pumpkin. She has great ideas for lower-cal margaritas and other drinks, onion rings, salads, and oatmeal. Without Hungry Girl, I’d never know you can turn butternut squash into hash browns, which, I discovered, makes a better substitution for pasta than its sister veggie, spaghetti squash. Shred a cup of butternut squash, cook it along with some minced onions and ground black pepper in a pan sprayed with non-stick spray until a little brown and then top it with sauce or pesto. It’s fabulous.

Educating the other side of my brain this summer is "Grammar Girl’s Quick and Dirty Tips For Better Writing." I never thought a blue aardvark would help me remember the proper use of the words affect and effect, but Fogarty’s little cartoon character is just the visual I needed.

Fogarty’s attitude is that “learning about language should be fun.” With her upbeat, casual writing style and memory tricks, she fulfills her philosophy.

I listen to the Grammar Girl podcasts at the gym and replay them at home when a particular episode hits on something I struggle with. I also subscribe to her weekly newsletter. I used to believe language was finite, that there wasn’t anything “new” to discover about usage, but Fogarty tackles some of the “hard and fast” rules of usage (i.e. “generic pronouns”: is it proper to use “they” as a singular pronoun?) which is what makes this book so interesting and useful.

Move over Strunk & White, Fogarty refers to many style guides and dictionaries when making her case for or against common usage faux pas or seeming faux pas. She also recommends what have become two of my favorite books on language: “Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English” and “Words Fail Me: What Everyone Who Writes Should Know About Writing,” both by Patricia T. O’Conner. 

We’re all writers, even if “all” you write is e-mail or notes to your kid’s teacher as to why Little Jimmy wasn’t in school the other day. “Grammar Girl’s Quick and Dirty Tips…” is written in plain English, and her tips and tricks offer simple ways to remember proper usage of common words, punctuation and references that most of us, at one time or other, screw up.

So if you're looking for some fun and educating reading this summer, pick up Hungry Girl or Grammar Girl or both! Bon appetit and happy writing!

When I Was A Kid…

Children really do live in our neighborhood, but you wouldn’t know it this summer. Every day is quiet. No one’s out riding bikes or playing kick the can or running a lemonade stand. I drove past the municipal pool yesterday and it wasn’t very busy, either.

Where did all the children go? It’s like the plot of a Mary Higgins-Clark novel. Have they all been turned into TV-watching, Wii-playing, Cheetoes-eating zombies?

I sit outside on the porch every evening and the only person I usually see is the mentally challenged man from the group home at the end of our street who walks up and down the sidewalk drinking Coke or Mountain Dew, hour after hour, stopping to clap and laugh sometimes when he sees...well…I’m not really sure. But whatever it is makes him darn happy.

Allow me to be an reminiscing old bitty for a moment.

When I was a kid, I spent most of the summer outside, mostly because I wanted to, but sometimes because Mom kicked me out of the house (especially if I used the “b” word – bored). “Go play!” she’d say pushing open the screen door and locking it behind me.

If no friends were around and I was stuck playing with my little brother, we’d hit the sandbox or the swing set and talk about what we wanted to be when we grew up. But usually our friends’ mothers had kicked them out of the house, too, and together we’d find all kinds of things to do.

We’d catch butterflies and bugs and put them in Mason jars with holes poked in the lids with branches and leaves stuffed inside. If enough kids were around, we’d organize a kickball or softball game. Sometimes we’d set up the badminton net or a croquet course. On really hot days, we’d fill big galvanized pots with water and “swim,” or hook up the sprinkler and run through it until we were shriveled like prunes.

No matter where I was in the neighborhood, I always knew when it was time to go home. No one’s dad had a whistle like my dads. Snappy sharp and piercing like a drill sergeant’s, Dad’s whistle all business. My call home was three whistles because I was the third child, and my brother was four whistles. It didn’t matter what we were doing, if we heard our whistle we were to come right home. No “Just five more minutes?” or “Do I have to?” but NOW, as in "Drop everything this very second. It's time for dinner or bed."

I don’t hear whistles like that in my neighborhood. I don’t even hear parents calling their children home. That is, when there are children outside. I assume they use cell phones now.

It’s a shame. I miss the laughter of kids playing around here. Sure, I’ve got Mr. Happy Clapper, but it’s not the same.

Have all neighborhoods become void of games and bikes and butterfly collectors? Do kids run through sprinklers anymore? If this is the case, Claire and I have to have a serious talk. I’m buying the kid a sprinkler and a galvanized pot, a croquet set and badminton birdies. We’re gonna have fun outside, gosh darn it, just like when I was a kid.

Criticism Is Like A Sticky Booger

We gave our son-in-law an electric hedge trimmers for his birthday last week. Today, he’s in the emergency room after nearly hacking off the ring finger on his left hand.

“He’ll be fine,” my daughter called to tell us. “He just takes back any bad thing he every thought about his mother-in-law.”

‘Bad things?’ I thought. ‘What bad things? I’m a model mother-in-law!’ (For the record, I did NOT put a curse on the hedge clippers. I really do love my son-in-law.)

Oh how perfect we think we are sometimes. How often do we justify our criticism of others and then turn around and cry foul when it’s launched at us?

I admit I’m acutely sensitive to criticism and my hackles rise at the slightest hint of criticism, particularly if it pertains to my children, my husband and my weight. I’m working on it, but I’ve got a feeling I’ll never attain enlightenment because of it. Perhaps in another life.

I often accuse my mother and my children of never letting things go, of their propensity of dredging up the past, either to throw it in someone’s face or to wallow in it or to take me down a notch or two. Hello, Lynn? You do it all the time!

….sigh….

It’s true. There’s not much that I’ve forgotten, particularly criticism. What is it about criticism that clings to our memory like a sticky booger?

The funny thing is, it’s not criticism from the outside as much as criticism from the inside that dogs me the most. While, to quote Queen, I’ve “had my share of sand kicked in my face,” much of that sand was kicked up from my own feet.

In my defense (Ego, are you listening?), I really am trying to keep my feet in the sand. This has been quite a “come to Jesus” year for me, filled with challenges and opportunities I never imagined. While I’m often my own worse critic, I’m also my own best friend, and she’s the one who doesn’t let me stray too far.

So my question to you is: Are you more a self-critic or your best friend?

I asked this on my other blog, too. (Click here to read it. You’re not obligated.) I’m really interested in hearing how you all deal with and think about criticism, particularly after I read about the hecklers during John McCain’s speech on energy policy Wednesday. I would never consider running for school board, let alone president. I’d be crying every time someone said they were voting for the other guy! Again, maybe I’ll work that out in another life.

I’m waiting for Cassie to call and tell me Matt got by with just a few stitches and a bruised ego. I will no doubt tease him a little tomorrow when I see him (I’m babysitting Claire so Matt and Larry can go to a baseball game. I hate when that happens – hehe). But I also acknowledge and respect the fact that not everything I do or say will make him happy, that he’ll be mad at me for some reason in the years to come. So will everyone else in my life. And I’ll try to take it like a champ, to hear it and either learn from it or let it go, but especially to see it in the light of my own criticisms of others.

Enlightenment, here I come.

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Here's my most favorite photo so far of my daughter and granddaughter. We were at the Pittsburgh Zoo on Thursday. Claire LOVES the trout and bass swimming around in the tanks. I saw dinner, she saw fun :)

The Permanence of Impermanence

When I was a kid and a friend said something hurtful or I felt bad because I’d struck out during a softball game or even when I had cramps,  my mother would always say, “This, too, shall pass.”

Mom understands impermanence. The weather, the price of gas, the baseball season, our joys, our sorrows and especially our bodies – nothing stays the same. Everything is in a constant state of change.

Since being introduced to the writings of Jon Kabat-Zinn and subsequently discovering Pema Chodron and other Buddhist teachers, I’m learning to observe and live within the present moment. Meditation and other mind practices cultivate change in how I adopt and express compassion and loving kindness toward myself and other sentient beings, even (and perhaps especially) the person I used to be.

I’m working on a project that has me poring over my journals from the early 1980s to now. I’ve spent hours reading about feelings I had in response to specific incidents and feelings in general about my life in that moment. One day I’d be on top of the world and the next day not. I have to constantly remind myself that I’m reading about my life as a 20-something- or 30-something-year-old woman from the perspective of a nearly 45-year-old woman, and to cut my younger self some slack.

Those times passed. They were impermanent. And I built, year after year, upon those experiences, those working out of problems and feelings – perhaps not always in the healthiest of ways, but the only ways I knew how at the time – to become the woman I am today, who, I’m sure will frustrate the 65-year-old me when I read today’s journals in 20 years.

The lighter side of my journals are the entries about my kids, particularly the things I’d forgotten – small things like I couldn’t remember how old they were when they got their ears pierced and poignant things like the at the hospital a few days after I had Cassie. She’d developed jaundice and was being  treated under bright lights for several hours a day. I couldn’t have her in my room as much as I wanted, but one night, after the nurse brought her to me for a short visit, the fire alarm went off and all the doors to the ward were shut. For 90 minutes I got to hold Cassie all alone in my room before the hubbub ended and they came to retrieve her and put her back under the lights.

There are entries about spelling tests and arguments, boyfriends and birthday parties, how unfair I was to not let Cassie shave her legs until she was in sixth grade, how awesome I was because I let Carlene go to homecoming in 10th grade…this, that and everything in between 

One of the funniest entries I’ve read to date was written November 23, 1990, when Carlene was 7 and Cassie was almost 6.

“Yesterday was Thanksgiving. Carly was going to take a picture of me across the table from her. There was a candle between us and, very seriously, she looked at me and asked if the camera would blow the candle out!

“Cassie said that the turkey was talking to her inside her tummy. She said he said he didn’t like to get eaten.”

I called Carlene last night and read this to her. I was laughing so hard I was crying. She laughed, too, and couldn’t believe she was such an air-head. I reminded her she was 7.

Laughter shall pass just as sorrow shall pass, but some things from the past are worth bringing into the present moment, whether it is for a good laugh or a chance to learn from our mistakes. Without my journals, these experiences would be permanently erased from memory, and I doubt I’d have this chance to learn to accept with loving kindness the person I was 5, 10, 25 years ago. It’s probably the nicest gift I’ve ever given myself.

A Running Revelation

My husband slept in a funny position Saturday night and still has a nasty crick in his neck. He can turn it a little to the left and a little to the right, but it’s obvious his neck isn’t working right. He’s got a smile on his face, thanks to Tramadol, but he’s still in pain.

Due to this neck mishap, we missed our weekly biking date yesterday, so I fell back on my typical summer Sunday workout: a bike ride around town and a walk around the university track.

I only ride my bike in town on Sunday because the traffic is light and the crazy drivers are all in church or sleeping off  a hangover. (Disclaimer: I’m not suggesting everyone who goes to church is a crazy driver. I’m just wary of little old men wearing thick lens glasses driving the large Cadillacs parked in the Presbyterian church lot.)

When I got to the track, I walked the first quarter mile the same old way I always do. Then I remembered the dream I had again the night before. It’s a recurring dream I have every few weeks of running around an obscure track being timed by a coach I’d never seen before. I got to thinking about that dream, and how as a kid I used to love to run just for the sake of running, and how long it had been since I’d run anywhere. Would I even remember how? It occurred to me that if this was thousands of years ago and I was one of the early humans who fell out of the trees and stood erect and went hunting? Yeah…I’d have been one of the first ones eaten by a predator.

But this was a Sunday morning in 2008. No one was around to critique or eat me. (Another  disclaimer: What I’m about to tell you is top secret, so please, I beg you, don’t tell my orthopedic surgeon, Bob, and especially not his assistant, Steve, who’d never call me “buddy” again and would jab me with my next injection of Synvisc rather than easing it in like he does so well.) I…well…kinda decided to run. Not far – a quarter to a half mile tops, and only in 100-yard spurts – but it was far enough to make me completely change my opinion of running and runners.

My husband’s been running for 30 years. Some of my best friends are runners. I never understood their passion. To me, running was nothing more than sending your knees and feet to an early grave. I walk a 12-minute mile and I figured that was close enough to running. Wrong!  Running is so much more than walking. It’s child-like! It’s a rush! Walking’s got nothing on running. Things rush by faster, the wind hits your face more sharply, you smell the air more readily and it’s so fresh as it hits your nostrils. I have a good idea now of what runner’s mean by a “runner’s high.”

Sadly, I’ll never get there completely. Ever. …*insert big sigh*… I won’t experience a true runner’s high because, while my knees and toes did just fine and I feel no lasting repercussions today, I know realistically I won’t be able to run more than a mile without my knees giving out. I felt every single ounce of my 128 pounds pounding my poor arthritic knees and toes.

But knowing I feel good today, I KNOW I’ll do it again next time. Why? Because running, for me, is like chocolate. A little taste goes a long way.  

Painted Toenails

One of my life’s simple pleasures is painting my toenails. My feet may not be the most attractive part of my body, but I owe them some respect, especially after that whole 300-pound ordeal.

Think about your own feet for a second and what you demand of them every day. Whether scrunched into 3-inch heels, molded into sweaty work boots or tennis shoes, or left barefoot to walk on concrete, these small physical marvels support us when we stand over the sink eating a peach while dinner heats up in the microwave and when we stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night. At least that’s a few of the demands I put on my feet without thinking about it. The least I can do is be nice to them.

And so, on a beautiful evening last week, I brought outside to our back deck all the accoutrements necessary for an in-home pedicure – file, buffer, cuticle trimmer, base coat, color, top coat, quick dry spray and cotton balls to stick in between my toes.

I pulled my left knee up to my chest and started working on the left foot while talking to my husband who was sitting at the table across from me drinking a martini. I filed and buffed, got the crud out from under the nails, and proceeded on to the right foot. After carefully painting and sealing the color, I rested my legs on another chair and admired my work.

“There’s nothing like pretty toenails,” I sighed.

“But you don’t wear open-toed sandals, do you?” Larry asked.

I stared at him for a few seconds. 

“Um, no,” I said with my right eyebrow raised. “And your point is…?”

“Well, who’s gonna see them?” he said innocently. I think he might have actually laughed a little.

Larry and I talk about world politics, the upcoming election, his sons, my daughters, aging parents, how to treat our Golden Retrievers’ cyst, everything under the sun. You’d think by now, after 12 years together, we’d know each other inside out. And still, he asks about my toenails?

“Babe,” I said. “Stepping out of the shower and drying my feet and seeing my painted toes makes me smile. When I go to bed at night and I rub lotion on my feet and I see my painted toenails, I am happy. I don’t care if I’m the last person on this earth to see my toes. They are ruby red and look like a little party on my feet. That’s enough. That’s why I paint them.”

“OK,” he said, kind of tossing his hands in the air like I’d just told him his mother wears Army boots.

Is it all men or is it just my husband’s brain? I’m thinking most guys would not understand painted toenails. But I do know Larry probably filed away what I said for future use. He’s a Ph.D. by day and a husband by night. Painted toenails are hardly scientific. But if they make your wife happy, just smile and nod your head. I’m sure that’s what he told himself.

I have my computer on the deck right now, writing to you from a comfy chair with cardinals singing in the background. Larry is at some dinner meeting with some chemistry VIP. I’m barefoot and admiring my toenails. He’s knee deep in BS, no doubt. If he had pretty nails, he’d have something to distract him. All I have to do is look down. Reason #2,495,931 why I’m glad to be a woman and not a right-brained man.

Call me shallow, but I’m content.

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I want to send out a very big THANK YOU to my friend Gail Gedan Spencer at the South Florida Sun-Sentinel for thinking of me on her trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. She emailed me a few photos of Minnesota Twins memorabilia. Does she know me or what?

 Ah…the Twinkies. I don’t know a single one of them now since I live so far away, but back in the day….man….they rocked. I still have my Homer Hankie from 1987. I dug it out in 1991 when they did it again (won the World Series, that is). I was living in PA by that time and married to the wrong husband. I was all alone in our bedroom watching game seven. The kids were in bed, my husband was probably watching Nova or something in the living room. Maybe he was asleep. Anyway, the Twins won and I called my mother back home and celebrated. I was happier than painted toenails.

So thanks, Gail, for that memory today. It is a sweet one and it made me smile.

Another Perfect Day With Claire

Sitting on the porch last night and thinking about the day, I could still smell Claire on my arms – her wonderful Desitin/apple juice/cereal/baby smell. I spent three hours with her, half of it alone and the other half with my daughter Carlene. Cassie was working and Matt was at a funeral and so Grammy Lynn and Aunt Carly took a Claire shift.

We started by taking her poolside. I hauled three buckets of water to Claire’s blue and yellow blow-up pool while Carlene changed her into her bathing suit and lathered her up in sunscreen.

Even though I used warm water, Claire isn’t old enough to realize when she’s about to be set down in water, and the shock of it caused her to shudder and no doubt pee her diaper. She looked at us with her big brown eyes like she was studying her insides to understand what her body was feeling and then the light clicked. “This is water! I love water!” 

I put my feet in the pool and splashed her. She grabbed my big toe. I played peek-a-boo with her, hiding behind the blue and yellow tubes that form a tent above the pool. She could see me, but thought it was hysterical because my face was blue and yellow. I wish everyone was so easy to amuse.

Forget swimming and splashing. Claire’s all about standing in her pool. She stands everywhere now because she can. Well, she thinks she can. She doesn’t understand that blow-up plastic is flimsy and that water is slippery. So Carlene held her up when she was on her side and I hung on to her when she was on my side. Even though she wasn’t standing by herself, this arrangement made Claire happy.

 (FYI: This butt is really cute on an 8-month-old. It wasn’t so cute on Grammy Lynn a few years ago.)

It was soon time for Claire’s lunch so we brought her inside and got her dressed. Carlene left to do some shopping, so I put Claire in her highchair and started feeding her a jar of fruit and cereal.

Claire is a fancy pants with her three new teeth (two on the bottom and one on the top) and loves to grind them together. She decided to show off her new talent by skewing her face up like a bulldog and making a noise worse than fingernails scraping a chalkboard. It’s spine chilling but it mesmerizes Claire.

Halfway through her food, she decided she no longer wanted to sit in her highchair, but preferred to dine on Grammy’s lap. No problem. When the jar was empty, she laid back and enjoyed a bottle, and when she’d had enough of that, she sat up without making a sound and stretched her body straight – Claire’s way of saying “Put me on the floor, I’ve got an appointment with my toy box.”

Matt had picked up the living room before he left and the place looked great. Claire crawled over to the blue fabric box of toys and proceeded to dump the entire thing on the floor. She didn’t stop there. She spied three books on the bookshelf and had to see how they tasted before throwing them on the floor, too. She got a few things out of her diaper bag before crawling back to the toy box and the VCR tape/DVD stand behind it.

She’s so busted in this photo. 

A few minutes later, I smelled something really stinky. Claire thought I was a pretty mean G-ma when I picked her up and took her away from her toys, not understanding that the stinky culprit was in her diaper and squirting up her back. No sooner did I get her diaper off and was reaching for a wet wipe when she flipped herself over to a crawling position with her dirty bum in the air. Poo went everywhere. Wrestling her back to a reclined position, I managed to get her cleaned up, all the while laughing so hard I thought I’d choke. Safely back in a diaper and sans the dirty pants, I put her back on the floor where she entertained herself with a rubber spatula and a 1-quart saucepan.

When she decided she’d rearranged the living room the way she wanted, Claire crawled over to me and stood up near my legs.  I picked her up and gave her a nook. We turned on her mom’s computer and went to the Noggin website and watched Moose E. Moose videos.

Claire loves Moose E. Moose. She started off leaned over the arm of the couch with my arms wrapped around her chest so she couldn’t nose dive onto the computer, and she danced and laughed and sucked on her nook. Then she leaned back and rested in the crook of my arm. Sometimes she’d press her cheek against my mouth because I was softly singing. I don’t know the words to Moose E. Moose songs and I can’t sing my way out of a box, but she didn’t care. I rubbed her cool little thighs and kissed her head and told myself to never forget that moment. I don’t think I ever could.

We chilled on the couch for about 45 minutes before Carlene came back from shopping. Claire was pretty close to sleeping, and so I said goodbye and went home. It’s 24 hours later and I haven’t stopped smiling.

This grandma gig just keeps getting better all the time.

Real Letters, Real Photos

I received two letters today, the kind with stamps on the front and everything; real mail delivered to my house by our mailman Butch who has hot legs and who wore shorts even on the coldest winter days because he made a bet with another mailman over who would chicken out first and put on pants.

Anyway, not only did I get letters, but the senders sent pictures, too! Not links to Kodak or Snapfish or attached in an email, but real hold-‘em-in-my-hands pictures.

The first letter was from my mom. She sent photos of their rearranged living room. Since they live so far away, it’s important to me that I visualize where Mom watches her soaps and where Dad naps before going to bed. Like Archie and Edith Bunker, they have their own chairs – identical La-Z-Boys that you wouldn’t be able to tell apart except for the popcorn hidden in the cloth folds between the foot and arm rests. That would be my dad’s chair.

No one’s in the photos, but the furniture is like looking at family (not that my family physically resembles ready-to-assemble entertainment centers). Even though most of their furniture is new since I lived with them, it still has that Mom and Dad feel and I like seeing it from time to time. Sitting on end tables and the TV stand are photos of the grandkids and greatgrandkid, a few trinkets and knick knacks that Mom hasn’t passed on to the rest of us, and some candles and other familiar reminders of home. On the walls they’ve hung the scary drawing of Jesus my sister Emily sketched in high school, the painting of a crane my brother made in high school, another painting of my grandmother’s childhood home in Norway, and two handmade Norwegian tapestries.

When my parents moved out of the big house and downsized, they kept the things that mattered to them the most and sold or gave away the rest. I love the little surprises I find in their townhome when I visit, those things they chose to keep. Nothing is wasting space. Everything there has a purpose or meaning.

I can’t wait to see their new arrangement for myself when I visit them in August. For now, the photos will sustain me.

The second letter with photographs was from my friend, Pam (happy birthday!). Pam is my age, albeit two months and seven days older, and has a 25-year-old (same as me), a 23-year-old (same as me) and a grandbaby (same as me). However, Pam also has a 5-year-old son named Jack, who was a BIG surprise for her and her husband back in 2002.

Jack is the most articulate child I know. He’s like a 5-year-old Woody Allen with a little naiveté. Pam recently found a lump on Jack’s neck. Thinking it was leukemia and scared out of her mind, he assured her, “Mom, I’m going to be fine.” (Jack is fine. It was a reaction to a bug bite.) When I saw them last summer, we went out for lunch. We sat inside the restaurant, but on the patio were two women and a baby in a car seat. Jack politely asked our server if she would bring him the baby. “I have a baby nephew,” he explained. “I just want to see what that baby out there looks like.” He also asked me, when I got up to go to the bathroom, “Do you have to poop, Lynn?” He has a million more one-liners. I told Pam she should publish a book called “Jackisms.”

Like my parents, I can’t wait to see that kid in August.

Pam sent me photos of Jack and her grandbaby Robert. Robert’s life is so enriched because Jack is in it. Jack was a surprise, yes, but the best surprise I can imagine. I won’t, however, be enriching my own grandbaby’s life with a new aunt or uncle. I love Claire, but as Meatloaf sang, “I won’t do that.”

Unrelated to real photos or mail, there’s a photo I’ve been wanting to share with you all but I never remember to post it until those 3 a.m. nights when I can’t sleep.

When I was in California, my sister drove Carlene and me past “The Brady Bunch” house. The show wasn’t filmed there, but it’s the house they used for pans of what they wanted us to believe was the actual house. I’m such a back-end baby boomer and I reacted like that house was a celebrity. I was like a 10-year-old taking photos of the place, thinking my nasty little pre-teen thoughts about Peter yet knowing I was Jan and never Marcia. A woman was bent over and weeding the front garden and I wanted to yell out, “Are you Alice?” But I didn’t. I just took my photo and got back in the car.

This was a good day. Letters, photos, “The Brady Bunch”…just like the days of *gulp* old.