Gracefully

So, I'm getting older. Not much I can do about it -- the only remedy for getting old is dying young and I'd just as soon stick around for awhile. After all, I've got a new little one in my life that I've got to teach a thing or two. When parents get ridiculous (and we/they all do), that's when grandparents step in to set everyone straight. We just can't be too obvious about it.

Anyway, this aging thing is not a lot of fun. Because of the DNA I so blessedly received, unless they discover a new wonder drug, I'm going to suffer with arthritis for the rest of my life, and it's likely to get worse instead of better. Also, because of inherited traits, I have high blood pressure and thyroid issues but they are under control. I have a few gray hairs -- including stupid "sideburns" that stick out like something scared me half to death. It's just a part of the way it is and, like anybody else, I'm dealing with the hand I was dealt as gracefully as possible.

But there are some good things about getting older. There are times now when I can truly say "don't have to, don't wanna, ain't gonna'". I don't have to worry about being "cool" or "with it" because I really don't care and, if I did, who else would? There's not much worse than an "older" person trying to hold onto a youth that has gone with the wind. No, I'm not completely comfortable in my skin -- I've never seen a photo of myself that I really liked -- I need to lose weight and it worries me but mostly for health reasons -- and in those moments of sheer rage when I'm trying on clothes. I have that deadly combination of love food/hate exercise. But, otherwise, the wrinkles are here to stay and, though I never say never, there won't be any Botox going on anytime soon.

But...

It's one thing to look in the mirror and see yourself -- I've done it for many, many years -- there hasn't been anything that has surprised me. I haven't gotten up one morning and found any drastic change from the day before. Same with the people I see every day -- my children grew up -- but, as with all aging, it was gradual. They were not little, then suddenly, big. Neither was my belly. My husband looks the same to me now as he did back then -- though if I look back at pictures of ourselves, this is not actually the case -- but, living day to day, the passage of time is just not that noticeable.

But then, I see pictures of people I used to know -- people who I have not had the privilege of seeing from day to day, week to week or even year to year. For some of them, Father Time has been generous; for others, not so much. And the thing is, I don't know where I fit in the spectrum because we never see ourselves the way others do. This can be good or bad and maybe it's better to never know which one it is. Anyway, it's seeing my contemporaries that make me realize that time has indeed been parading by while I was busy doing something else. And, while on the inside, my thought processes and the things that make me tick, haven't changed all that much, the outside surely has to those who haven't been around to watch me gradually get older.

And then there's Men Without Hats.

What, you may ask, are you talking about this time, fangurl?

Well, they were group which had one major (and, maybe one minor) hit back in the early 80s. The lead singer was named Ivan -- I even called a character in one of my (unpublished) novels by that name. I could Safety Dance until the cows came home -- though I had no idea what a "safety dance" actually was (I do now...thank you Wikipedia...it only took me nearly 30 years to figure it out). Watching the video of the song just recently (that would be thanks to YouTube), I was transported back to another time and I couldn't keep my feet still but, oh, Lord, why didn't I just stop there?


But, no, I had to look Ivan up and what he was doing today and reality hit me with a thunk. He is, like me, no longer young -- and no longer hirsute -- which is why, perhaps, he's wearing a hat nowadays. Anyway, I've been trying to reconcile then and now, though I'm not at all sure that reconciliation is actually possible.

I'm also thinking safety dance might have a whole other meaning nowadays -- like be careful, because if you fall off that stage, it's gonna' hurt like hell.

Apparently, Men Without Hats (Ivan is the only original member  -- which included two of his brothers -- participating) is going on tour.

With the B-52s.

Call me jaded -- I prefer realistic -- but I just don't think that love shack is going to be shimmying like it used to.

But I'd pay to see it.

If I can stay up that late.

Hot dog...

Hearing about the major snowstorms in parts of the country made me think about something very unusual that happened back in 1973. It snowed in my hometown of Macon in central Georgia. Not a dusting of snow, either, but enough to make watching dachshunds a spectator event (and we had two of them -- Dolly and Missy -- this was before the naming of dogs became so important). We had to make a path for them just so they wouldn't get lost in the snow drifts.

I can't remember if the snowfall was predicted, was worse than it was supposed to be or nobody saw it coming but I do know it took everybody off-guard (which snow around there -- or here -- does, anyway). I was 13 at the time, in the 8th grade -- and what I do remember is that we actually had to make up snow days on Saturdays. We grumbled mightily but I think most of us thought it was worth it.

It was like living in another world -- though it stopped snowing, it was days before it melted. For those who are used to seeing snow every year, our fascination with the stuff is probably quite amusing. For us, it was enough to make the most sane person become unhinged.

I'm sure I took photos back then -- probably with one of those old Kodak cameras -- but where they are, I have no idea. But I still clearly remember walking in a winter wonderland in a place where such things just don't happen very often. In my memory, that was a one-time experience.

There's a part of me which wishes something like that would happen again in these parts -- but, only if I have plenty of food in the house, the electricity stays on and I don't have to go anywhere. A tall order, to be sure.

I think back on that time with fond memories, though the adults back then probably remember it quite differently. It's too bad we tend to lose our wonder as we get older.

And that's a good a reason as any to get a dachshund.

The Lasts of the Last

I've decided to take a stab at writing about what it's like to have my third and last child prepare to leave the nest.

When my other two left for college, it was difficult (but not heartrending -- that's what they're supposed to do, after all) but, when Carrie, affectionately known as Carebear -- or not-quite-as-affectionately as Princess by her older brother -- leaves, it will be different because there will be no more children behind her to take up the slack. Mark and I will be empty-nesters -- and it will be just the two of us again.

Back in the day, when it was just the two of us the first time, he was in medical school and we had no money for anything. He was in school for long hours, followed later by even longer, back-breaking hours in his internship and residency. For years, as an anesthesiologist, he toiled even longer hours -- some 80+ per week -- and he missed a lot of his children's activities (though he tried very hard to be there when he could). We were pretty much slaves to his schedule as far as family time went. A couple of years ago, he went back to "school" and did a fellowship in Pain Management and now, he has no call, no weekends and, although he makes less money, it's been well worth the trade-off on many levels. All of this is to say that, next year, when we have no kids at home, we'll be free to do what we want, when we want.

Well, within reason.

There's always a chance that Carrie will decide to do a year or two at the college here in town before she moves on (doubtful). And, I still have my "fourth child" to look after -- my mother (harder than a toddler, I must say). So, it's not quite complete freedom. And, oh, yeah, there are the furry and feathered members of the family to deal with as well.

So, as Carrie navigates through her senior year, I'll try to share some thoughts, some memories and some ideas about what the future may hold -- always mindful that, as we make our plans, God is sometimes chuckling behind our backs.

A Day Late

I wasn't home yesterday, on Father's Day, so didn't have the opportunity to write anything about fathers, specifically mine.

In August, 1981, my father walked me down the aisle at my wedding. Nobody realized how sick he was -- he'd had lung cancer surgery a few years before but he'd been determined, we realized later, to escort me on my wedding day and it wasn't until after the big day he let it be known that he was not feeling well. The surgery that followed was not able to remove the recurrent cancer, which had snaked around his aorta. By December, of that same year, some four months after my wedding, he was gone. I was 22.

To say that I hate cigarettes is an understatement. I hate them for many, many reasons -- I hate the smell, I hate the cost that we incur as a nation due to their abuse (and, if you're smoking, then it's abuse -- there is absolutely nothing good which comes from smoking), I hate the fact that my father never got to see his grandchildren whom he would have loved to distraction.

But that's not what I really want to remember -- I want to remember the times he took me fishing, taught me to paint a room and took me to Krystal every Saturday. I think those Krystal burgers were about 20 cents back in the day -- and probably bigger. I still love them and they always remind me of him.

I've often wondered, when it came time to choose my own spouse, if my father's personality made any difference on what I wanted in a mate. I think it did -- but, if I'm honest, as much as I loved my father, I knew I wanted more. I wanted someone who didn't smoke -- as you might have guessed -- smoking would have been a dealbreaker. I wanted someone educated -- my father wasn't and his ability, even then, to earn a decent living was stymied -- I knew I didn't want to be in a situation where worrying about paying the bills every month was an issue -- and I knew, once there were children, I wanted to be able to stay home with them. You can call that sexist all you want but the fact of the matter remains that having a husband who earned a good living meant I had a choice. My father also suffered from depression (so did my mother) -- I didn't know it back then but now I do. Maybe, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I needed someone who would not have those same kinds of problems -- because with the double dose I got from both parents, it was probably a given that I would.

I'm not saying I had a not-great childhood -- far from it -- I was loved and cared for and I have a lot of good memories -- and, sometimes, that's all that matters. But the man I chose to marry and father my children was quite different from my own father. Educated, patient, steady, stable, encouraging -- he's everything I didn't quite get as a child but craved even without knowing I did.

So, why is it then, that some women choose the same kind of man to marry as their father -- even if the father was not a good role model? Or choose a terrible mate when their father was excellent? One of those mysteries of life, I suppose.

All I really know is that I chose well.

I know you're out there...

There are a few days I remember with complete clarity. The births of my children (but not my wedding day!), 9/11/01 and January 28, 1986. I remember I had been sick and my mother was in town (this was before she moved here) helping me with my then only child, who was about to turn one in March. Normally, I would have watched the shuttle launch live but I had forgotten so as we put Shannon in her high chair for lunch, I turned on the TV. When it became clear that the Challenger had exploded, 73 seconds after blast-off, there was hope against hope that, somehow, the astronauts -- including Teacher-in-Space Christa McAuliffe -- had survived. But they had not and the country was thrown into mourning. It was weeks before they found them and every news item pierced my heart. Most of these brave souls had young children, as I did, at the time and I ached for their loss. Now, those children are grown and they -- and we -- have moved on, though the disaster with the shuttle Columbia (2/1/03) brought back many of those sad memories. Many people believe the space program is a waste of time and money. I do not. Fly on!!

Along with Christa, the other crew members were: Ellison S. Onizuka, Greg Jarvis, Judy Resnik, Mike Smith, Dick Scobee, and Ron McNair.

God bless them, the crew of the Columbia and all the other astronauts at NASA.

Idols, American

All through grammar school and high school -- and, well, hell, now -- I was known as a groupie. Not the bad kind of groupie (I hope no one thought that -- I wasn't!!) but just one of those girls who loved her singers/actors/musicians to distraction. Maybe, then as now, it was an escape -- a chance to live, vicariously, in a world I would never inhabit -- and wouldn't want to, if the truth be known. Anyway, it's all in fun -- was and is. I still have my obsessions and, I imagine will continue to until I drop dead. It's a part of my personality -- just like some folks fanatically follow sports or would knock each other down for a sale at Macy's -- it's all a matter of which pursuits make you happy. Anyway, after my 70s flashback with Three Dog Night last week, I was reminded of a couple of my other loves from that long ago time.

The very first concert I ever went to was the Osmond Brothers. I went with a group of friends -- Elaine, Pam, Lisa -- I think a couple more. We were about ten years old and had seats close to the front. After that, it was David Cassidy -- I remember recognizing the guy he lived with (it was just a roomie situation, as far as I know) and asking for his autograph. His name was Sam. But where that autograph -- or that man -- is today, I couldn't tell you. If I ever see David in person, I'll have to ask him. And, trust me, I would do it.

How about you? Who were your childhood idols?

Mama told me not to come...

Okay, no she didn't -- I didn't even tell her I was going...seriously, though, I had a major 70s flashback last night. Nearly 40 years ago (jeez!!!), I saw the band Three Dog Night in concert (I must have been a wee infant!) Last night, all these years later, I got to see them again. They performed with the symphony here in my hometown.

Symphony?! Three Dog Night?!

Well, yes -- except the symphony really just sat there while Three Dog Night (four original members, two newbies) rocked out! I was totally amazed and transported. Other than some gray hair and weight gain (them and me!), they still sounded like the band I've always known and loved. I knew all the words -- I sang all the words! They performed all of my favorites -- Celebrate, Family of Man, Shambala.

Here in Augusta, the Pops at the Bell series tends to be a slightly highbrow affair where folks tend to dress up a bit. And there were a lot of older people -- older than me -- there. I'm not sure they all realized what they'd gotten into! One couple, sitting near us, left after the first part of the show -- after the symphony did their solo bit -- I guess the rocking out part wasn't on their agenda. Last night was the first time, in a long, long time where I left a show -- any show -- with my ears ringing!

Oh, hallelujah!! I'm not dead yet!!

Anyway, after all of this time living here, we finally decided to get season tickets to this series -- sadly, this is the only rocking concert scheduled -- the other three in the series will be Eileen Ivers (Celtic music -- this will be the Christmas program -- which will be nice), a Motown something-or-other and, finally, Don McLean (of American Pie fame). I can tell you right now that none of them are going to be as enjoyable as last night.

But we can't have everything all the time, can we? Still, I've decided that what I really need to recharge my batteries is to go back to the 70s every now and again. Now, if only half of Badfinger weren't dead or Black Oak Arkansas would come around, I'd be all set.

Remembering to Forget

This is the last day of August and, this year, it's a part of Labor Day Weekend. Eleven years ago, the days lined up just like this and that Sunday morning brought news that Princess Diana had died in a car wreck in Paris. I remember it clearly -- we were at the beach and I spent the rest of our vacation in a daze.

What I remember most about that day are my children, all very young back then, smiling happily that morning and proudly presenting me with presents. Why? Because it was also my birthday.

Today, although I remember the princess with fondness, it's just another day. Well, this year anyway -- but it is one of those ending in a "9". Which means next year will be a doozy.

The good ol' days

No matter what, sometimes I just like to look at this. Brings back good memories. And makes me think of a big black horse and a cherry tree.