Thoughts on a Tragedy

People of a certain age remember where they were when 9/11 happened, or when the Challenger exploded, or, if they’re old enough, what was happening in their own world when they learned that Kennedy had been shot.

In our small community, students who aren’t old enough to remember any of those things now own a personal moment when time stood still— the moment they learned their beloved Randy Simmons was gone.

I don’t think I exaggerate when I suggest that this loss measures on the same plane as a global tragedy, at least to those of us here, who remember the first text, the first call, the disbelief and shock of the unthinkable.  And as with any such event, we are wont to emote first, then look for a justification for our reaction. Americans reacted to 9/11 with tears and outrage, but then found themselves talking about their sister’s boyfriend’s cousin who used to work in Tower 2, as though their rage and grief was excessive for an American without a “personal” connection. And with this horrible, horrible loss, we are doing the same.

We are sick with grief, battling anger, rocked in our faith.

We know that this has to be unimaginable for those most closely affected, those who knew him as a husband, a father, a golf buddy, a teacher, a boss, a mentor, a friend.

He was none of those things to me.

And yet I cry. I grieve.  I remember.

I recall my first introduction to the man who was Mr. Simmons. I was an 8th grade mom, sitting in PND auditorium for parents’ night, fretting about how our household was going to manage a tuition bill that would go from zero dollars for public school, to thousands of dollars for this private, Catholic school that our family agreed would be best for our daughter.

“Sending our kids to PND was the best parenting decision my wife and I ever made,” was Randy’s opening statement.

And, I believed him.

We paid the bill, regretting not one penny.

I have had other, more personal interactions, with him since then. They usually started with me introducing myself and indicating that I was my student’s mother. They were always positive.

I always believed him.

My witness to how he led the school, how he helped form my daughter, settles on me now. My daughter shares her most significant memory of him, a time when he told her, “If you were my kid, I’d be proud to be your dad.”

Of course, I believe him.

Randy was the real deal. I am…in awe…of the posters and messages of love the students have offered to their teachers and each other. Randy is in those messages:  “Take care of each other.” “You are important.” “You are the best.” and,

“I love you.”

Randy Simmons was an iconic figure whose death shakes all of us, even those, like me, who were on the edge of his world. His life ended in unimaginable tragedy, but his memory will live on in the kids he led, in his family, in his friends and in our community.

I can only imagine he is looking down on us now, sorrowful and sad for us in our grief, sorry to have caused so much distress.

But in the fullness of his life, I can also only imagine, that as Mr. Randy Simmons passed into eternity, our Lord smiled with favor on all he had done– the love he had spread, his effect on this world– and welcomed him with open arms.

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

 

 

 

 

Me and God at the Back of the Pack

 

I have a love/hate relationship with running.

Also, I hold a firm belief that “running” is a relative term.

You run when you’re being chased by a rabid dog. You run for election. You run to the bank to cash your paycheck. Sprinters run and basketball players run and marathoners run.

And I……run.  Sort of.

I first started this struggle/relationship with running when I was in high school.  My English teacher, also the track coach, encouraged me to go out for the team.  I’m really not sure why. He was later known to comment that I was built like “a sack of potatoes”.

Maybe it was a dare. Maybe he saw that I had some kind of mental toughness I hadn’t yet observed for myself.  Maybe he had a deal with the principal that required him to fill every uniform jersey he had, even the extra-large ones.

At the first track practice, we were instructed to run around the athletic campus.  Not just, like a football field.  Or a quarter-mile track.

From where we stood, we could see three separate football teams practicing, several tennis courts, two unused baseball diamonds, and the archery team was target practicing–in the middle of it all—with no danger of hitting anyone because there was SO MUCH SPACE.

Really.  Run around the whole thing.

Ok.

When we finished that loop,  gasping and holding our sides, I figured it would be time to go home.

Nope.

“Run it again.”

And so began my career, such as it is.

You would think, writing this almost 30(!) years later, a lovely story of grit and determination and success would ensue.  “From such meager beginnings an Olympian was born…”

Not so much.

I have never

• won a race.
• run a mile in under 6 minutes.  (And if we’re talking about the last 15 years, let’s call that 10 minutes.)
• looked good in running tights.
• worn a sports bra without a roomy t-shirt to cover the 12-pack of abs.
• published a “map my run” or “daily mile” result on Facebook.

Without a coach or other sadistically inclined motivator following me around post-high school, my running has been…sporadic….to say the least.   College found me periodically gasping around campus, often with the high-octane sweat of a recently party-infused coed who was vainly trying to stave off the freshman fifteen.  Post-college, I would usually try to retain an ability to run 3 or so miles, but never felt the need to do so with any sort of dedication or regularity.  I am a decidedly fair-weather runner.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered the emotional benefits of running, and so the most fit times in my middle years have often corresponded with the most stressful times.

Stepdaughter getting married?  Yep, the smallest I’d been since my pregnancy.  Starting a new job?  Needed a new wardrobe anyway; may as well buy a smaller size.

For this reason, I am a peculiar runner: one who dislikes running with a partner or the ubiquitous ear buds that most see as essential running equipment.

The pounding of my feet, my rhythmic breathing, the jiggling of my ample back side, combine to create a sort of meditative mindfulness that I have found impossible to achieve in any other environment.

And the only times God has spoken to me?  I have been running.

He goes my pace, whispers in my ear, and when I arrive back home, the problems that I took with me are either solved, or faded to an inferior position in my psyche.

My last running burst was ignited one summer day when I realized I was going to be 40….in four more years, and I hadn’t yet run a marathon. Three years after that, I crossed the finish line, having completed the required 26.2 miles.

See?  There’s that “relative” thing again.  I didn’t say I “ran” a marathon; I said I completed” one.

I know it’s impressive to finish a marathon in 2 1/2 hours, but you really ought to give some credit to those of us who finish in 5.  We may be slower, but we run a helluva lot longer.

It’s been eight years since my marathon, and I think I’m just about rested enough to take running up again.  Also, the cold weather seems to be (finally) past us here in the Midwest, so there’ll be no weirdly dedicated sub-zero jaunts.

I recently happened upon a running blog that I liked because the writer seemed to respect the fact that not everyone runs with the Boston Marathon in mind.

It’s been a while since I’ve toned up these thighs; my summer clothes haven’t hung as loosely as I’d like in several seasons.  I’ll enjoy those benefits.

I think I will start taking up my old routes, striking out silently– but for the gasps, pants and slapping of my poor aging feet.

And somewhere out there, I think God might have a little more to say.

I’ll be listening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Country Mice Visit the City

My husband had never seen Washington, D.C.

I used to live there, 1 marriage and 25 years ago, but it’s been a long time.

During a particularly slow and frustrating day at work last summer, I decided to look around on a website I’d recently heard of that was supposed to have really awesome vacation rentals. I exchanged some lovely e-mails with Kelly, the owner of a townhouse with a rentable garden apartment.

Experience City Living! Two Metro stops from the Capitol!

Kelly spoke of husband Jack, and their foster kids, and how we’d hear them and they’d hear us.  It must have been obvious from my address that we’re more likely to hear an errant “Moo” than we are to hear the pitter patter of non-residential feet.

Despite my current rural lifestyle, I reminded myself, I had logged 4 years in Chicago in addition to my Washington stint.  It’d been a while, but I was pretty confident we could traverse the city.

(As long as I didn’t have to drive.  There are limits.)

We began planning our trip.

Things had changed since I’d been to Washington last. (Well, that was pre 9/11.)  We needed to contact our congressman (I don’t think I voted for him) for a Capitol Tour and White House tickets. We had to get advance reservations for most of the things we wanted to see.

There were security entrances to everything…National Archives, Library of Congress–and the White House even had dogs sniffing for…. drugs? Explosives?  We weren’t sure.  I had to elbow my husband a couple times; he kept asking rhetorical questions about how far I thought he could make it by storming the gate.  (He was kidding.)

No matter.  With Siri in hand and the internet to help guide us, we had lots more information than I used to have when I would hit a new country in my backpacking days.  And we didn’t have to exchange currency. (We just needed a lot of it.)

Monuments, museums, oh, my!

We walked and walked and walked and walked.

And I felt……..very Midwestern.

There are no fat people in Washington, D.C.  The paths and sidewalks are filled with all kinds—tourists, officials in suits, serious-minded interns, runners–but Mrs. O. seems to have done her job in her adopted city.  Obesity? Not so much.

In our town, we have the occasional 300-pound person.  Not so, there.  I doubt The Biggest Loser ever looks for candidates in our nation’s capitol.

We put coins in the hats of jazz musicians serenading us from their street corners. We sprinted for the Metro a couple times, but only once we were positive we were taking it in the right direction.  That was new for my daughter, whose experience in public transportation was previously limited to catching a ride to school in the big yellow bus that turns around in our driveway.

And we met our landlord.

We had arrived in Washington after our 12-hour drive on a Friday evening.  Using the code provided, we let ourselves into our apartment, dropped our suitcases, and left in search of somewhere to eat.  We were glad that there was no need to check in.

Throughout the weekend, as promised, we’d heard the family above us, and I’m sure they’d heard us.

It wasn’t until Sunday morning, however, that we made contact.

We let ourselves into the gate following an early-morning venture, and were heralded by an elegantly dressed man and three small children.

“Are you Brenda?” the man asked, his hand extended in introduction.  “I’m Kelly.”

Kelly was not she of the blond pony tail that I had envisioned.

Right, his husband Jack wasn’t able to join them for Church that morning, but it was nice to meet me.

We chatted a bit, and then he and his family rushed off so as not to be late for their Service.

I realized then that coming to the city was a really good thing.  I love where we live, just West of the small city where I work, and 10 miles East of the 800-person town where my daughter attends school.

It is clean, safe, and neighborly, and we made an informed choice to live like this.

But here, we all look the same; we mostly think similar thoughts and have like beliefs.  There are about 12 last names listed in the town census.

I love that my teenage daughter got to see the White House, the VietNam Memorial and too many other important sites to name.

But what’s best about travel is that it opens our eyes to the great big world–where we don’t all look alike and think alike and live alike.

It’s great to raise a family in our lovely clean-cut corner of the world.  But if I want my daughter to have the ability to choose her lifestyle instead of settling for the only one she knows, she has to grow confidence in her ability to succeed in corners that look different than ours.  As much as I’d like to, I can’t hand her my 45 years of “wisdom” and expect her to think the way I do because I say so, or avoid the mistakes I made because I learned from them.  She’s going to have to suffer from bad choices, form her own opinions about what she sees and who she is, and ultimately decide how and where to live.

My job is to be a great example, consistent and reliable, and with the hubs, give her the foundation from which she will some day go forth.

As great as our part of the world is, this trip taught me, there is no way teach Lex  about the larger world,  without showing some of it to her.

 

 

Roll Your Eyes at Me? Why, Thank You For The Compliment

I have decided that eye-rolling is the highest form of compliment.  

It’s a good thing I believe this, because I have a 13-year-old daughter, and she’s really good at it.   I get lots of compliments.

 

Eye-rolling has taken the place of the mutual admiration society we had going when she was 4. Then, I was the prettiest mommy, the best cook, a great fixer, and most awesomest boo-boo kisser.   She loved me because of who she knew me to be.  I was an ever-reliable source of food, safety and comfort.

The same holds true now, even if she would never admit it.  The eyes roll because I annoy the crap (don’t say “crap”!) out of her.  But I am still the ever-reliable source of, you guessed it—food, safety and comfort.

This all became crystal clear for me on Mother’s Day when I gave myself permission to indicate what I wanted to do without consideration of everyone else’s desires.  And there were two movies I wanted to see—neither of which was a teen romance (for Lex) or a shoot-em-up action movie (for the hubs).

“Well, which movies?” she asked.

“I want to see ‘Heaven is for Real’ or ‘God’s Not Dead’. ”

As soon as I named them, my daughter…..rolled her eyes.  “Of course you do.”

See?  A compliment.

The character trait I deplore most in the world is hypocrisy. The fact that Lex views my movie choices as consistent with my faith and the standard to which I hold her shows that I am meeting my goal.  I have reliable and consistent standards on which she can depend while she goes about the business of developing her own.

The interaction got me thinking about other things she holds true about me.

Like I love her dad, and we come as a set until one of us dies. Sometimes it’s fun to have a prolonged hello kiss in the kitchen just to hear how grossed out she gets.

Like we are the strictest parents in town.  This one is not as much fun as she believes, because it really stinks to know she is probably telling the truth when she regales us with all the stuff other kids are allowed to do and she is not….use her i-phone or the internet after 9:30 pm, stay at Old Settlers Days past 11 pm,  spend the night at a friend’s house when I don’t know her parents.

Like how much I love her.

I believe that all parents love their children and do the best they can for them, even when their “best” really isn’t very good.

My “best” is that Lex knows, as part of the essence of who she is, that she is loved.

Once accomplished, she can decide who she is from there.  My love doesn’t depend on her academic success, although she’s had a fair bit of that. It doesn’t depend on her athletic prowess, although she has that too.  It doesn’t depend on her beauty, her personality or her giving nature.

I love her because she exists.

And on some level, she knows this.

My job as a mom is to keep her safe, love her, and give her the base she needs to go forth into the world in any way she chooses.

So I can handle the eye-rolling,  read “here she goes again” because well, there I go again.

 

 

 

When God says Not Yet

Abby Norman

Juliet, who just finished four days of three-year-old birthday celebrations has grasped onto the concept of gifts and giving. There is nothing in our house that currently goes un-narrated and back stories behind possessions are no exception.

Recently, she has noticed my ring. Christian bought me a present in the midst of his finals week, when I was shouldering more of the load so that he could go write. It is a chunky ring with an owl on it that I was looking at a few weeks ago. Owls are becoming a thing for me. (PhD pro-tip:When things get crazy, get your wife a present.) “Oh!” Juliet says. “Daddy get that for you!” I explain to her that daddy did in fact get that for me. “He get that for you, because you like it! Because he like you!” And isn’t that the truth? He got the ring for me, because…

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What’s Harvard Teaching Anyway?

Until about an hour before it was scheduled to take place, the Harvard Extension School’s Cultural Studies Club planned to hold a “black mass”, a ritual originally performed to parody and denigrate sacred teachings of the Catholic Church. It was finally moved from the campus location and then canceled because of a reported “break-down in communication” between personnel at the alternate venue location and the organizers.  The event, co-sponsored by a New York-based Satanic Temple, planned to hold the mass in an undisclosed location to “reaffirm their respect for the Satanic faith”.

The organizers claimed that the purpose of the exercise was to educate participants about the historical ritual.

Harvard president Drew Faust published a statement that referred to the club’s decision to hold the ritual as “abhorrent”, but maintained that doing so was “consistent with the University’s commitment to free expression”.

Catholic leaders in the Boston area called for a prayerful response, and a “Holy Hour”, consisting of the Catholic practice of Adoration of the Holy Eucharist, was to take place simultaneously to the satanic event.  President Faust, according to his statement, planned to attend.

I have been hearing about the Harvard goings-ons for several weeks, not on mainstream news channels, but on sources more focused on policies and events that affect Christianity as a whole, and Catholics in particular.  I have been surprised that this news hasn’t made it to the Yahoo or MSN pages, at least not that I’ve seen, and I can’t say that I’ve noted that opinions about the “black mass” taking place have “trended” anywhere in particular.

So I have had opportunity to quietly ponder my reaction–an anomaly in today’s news blitzing society, where each of 17 separate points of view on any given subject bombards me the moment I turn on the television, look at my phone, or open my computer.

I am, quite literally, sick to my stomach. I believe that the Eucharist is the living and breathing body of Christ.  Anyone who also holds that view would feel the same way about a ritual that denigrates and mocks the Catholic practice of partaking in this Sacrament.

But I am American.  And though I’ve grown, I’m an American with liberal roots. So I must force myself to consider this through the eyes of free speech.  And so I have.

My humble opinion is that that the act of having a black mass is not illegal.

But the reality that young people at a University known to be a source of future world leaders would willingly organize and attend such an event is deeply troubling.  So I turn to this question.  How have they made this feel acceptable to themselves?

Some of my like-minded Catholic friends have pshawed the notion that the mass was being held for educational purposes.  “Do we need to hold a 60’s style lynching so that we can all see what that felt like to witness?” they ask. While an arguably just comparison from the point of view of a staunch Catholic, it is likely too provocative to promote useful debate with non-Catholics.

Perhaps there is a better, more apt comparison.

The Holocaust Museum  in Washington D.C., is anything but disrespectful of the Jewish experience of genocide and ritualistic mockery of Jewish thought and tradition, yet one is able to give “witness” and be “educated” in the history of the era. The Cultural Studies Club at Harvard, if truly wishing to learn from their enactments, would do well to emulate the museum’s brilliant example. If I were in the mood to be provocative myself, I might also point out that I don’t think the museum’s creators consulted any existing Nazi organization with requests for them to reenact any of the abuse or denigration that went on during the period being studied.  The Harvard Club, you will note, aligned themselves with a satanic temple in New York–akin here to the Nazis, in case you weren’t making the connection.

I also wonder about the comparative absence of media attention. Terry Jones, the Gainseville, FL pastor who made a habit of burning Korans, garnered attention from military leaders and President Obama himself.  He wound up in jail a bunch of times, usually on misuse-of-fire related charges.

Isn’t the burning of the Koran, a sacred document in the Muslim faith, and the denigrating of a Sacrament and the Body of Christ for the Catholic faith, comparable actions?

Another issue, one not discussed to my knowledge except in the Christian and Catholic-focused media, was the initial claim that the black mass organizers planned to use an actual consecrated host. In order to obtain one for the event, someone would have had to attend a real Catholic Mass, pretend to accept the Sacrament of the Eucharist, and then steal the host for his own evil purpose.  Yes, evil. It’s not my purpose to debate the theology, but please understand that a consecrated host is not just a representation of Christ’s body.  It is Christ’s body.

I know.  It’s a complicated concept for Catholics too.  But there is no debate among Catholics that this is the teaching.

I wasn’t able to find any kind of definitive result to the claim that a consecrated host was stolen or not stolen, but if it was, that crosses the legal boundary.  Theft, obviously. And if we don’t have a law protecting sacred items, be they Torahs, or Korans, or consecrated hosts, then shame on us.

Many have asked me how a social worker with liberal leanings has made it over to the “dark side” of right-handed leanings.

This kind of thing makes it a lot easier to explain.

Our nation was not founded on the principle that we should have freedom from religion, but rather freedom to practice religion.  The original settlers were Puritans whose concept of proper living was more rigid than they were able to uphold in England. They came over here so they could do what they wanted, and allow others to do so as well.

Immediately after President George Washington gave his inaugural address, the entire congressional body walked to a nearby Church to have a prayer service.

It’s not just blow-hard right-wingers that maintain our nation was built on the teachings and tenets of Christianity, it is documented fact that this is so.

We have suffered in this country from narrow minds.  There have been times, even recently, when alternate lifestyles and viewpoints were met with ridicule or violence. I think that has changed for the most part, and I am glad of it. I have no need for others to believe what I believe or practice what I practice, even as my beliefs are as true to me as the fact that apples come in red, yellow or green, and not in blue, purple or black.  (If someone asked you for a purple apple, you would question her, right?  If she doesn’t define “apple” or “purple” the same  as you do, and you’ve known since you could speak that apples are apples and colors are colors, you would either instruct her correctly or allow her to live in ignorance, right?)

What has become the minority viewpoint seems to engender similar ridicule and non-acceptance as the formerly non-traditional one did.  My daughter, an anomaly in her living-with-two-opposite-gendered-married-parents, has few television or other examples of her home life, just as folks with two moms or two dads lacked several years ago.

Admitting that I am married and raising a daughter with my husband, who is also her father, dismisses almost anything else I have to say.  I am not worldly, not accepting, too rigid.

And I guess that’s what bothers me most about our best and brightest participating in this black mass.

The Cultural Studies Club at Harvard reportedly were trying to “educate” people about how one group— the Satanic Temple — has a religious ceremony — the “black mass” — whose stated purpose was to mock and vilify another religion and its core belief — the Catholic Church and its belief that Jesus Christ is present in his body, blood, soul, and divinity under the appearances of consecrated bread.

Did they balance their participation in named evil by being present for a Catholic Holy Hour?

Or were these future world leaders only interested in being “educated” about the beliefs that counter that which they personally resist?

Doesn’t make me rest easy about who will be running the country for my grandkids.

 

Bringing “Chopped” To Your Table

So I thought I’d try something new….marrying my love of cooking (which I’m not all that great at) with my writing (at which I’m a trifle more skilled…of course I probably feed more people than read my stuff, so maybe I have a skewed perception of myself. But that’s a musing for a different day).

Anyway, Random House kindly sent me a copy of the cookbook Chopped, which I agreed to review.

 Now, I’m not a fancy cook, have never taken a cooking class and have been known on late work nights to warm up a can of baked beans rather than try a new way to glaze carrots. But I have to confess, I love cooking shows.

Even with my ability to while away the odd Saturday afternoon watching a Chopped marathon, though, I was not certain that the show-inspired cookbook would be all that useful in my kitchen. I don’t really have a need to come up with something palatable out of tuna fish and ginger snaps.

I was pleasantly surprised, then, by the book’s user-friendly recipes. There are tips on where to find the few obscure ingredients mentioned, and in many cases, substitutions are suggested if the reader wants to stick to more basic components already on hand.

With beautiful photographs, the book is divided into ten sections of recipes, including one intriguing category “Eggs after Breakfast”, and wonderful sections on original uses for chicken and yummy new ways to cook vegetables. The only category that feels a bit contrived is “Short and Sweet: Easy Desserts”. My family isn’t terribly sophisticated when it comes to our sweets, and “Thin Lemon Pancakes with Sweetened Sour Cream and Blueberries” probably ain’t makin’ it to our table.

There are also several charts, including one entitled “Ten Fun Pan Sauces”, which then has column headings for ingredients to add. For example, a “Mexican Beer” (for steak or pork) sauce includes the following: garlic and jalapeno (under the category “Aromatics”), pale Mexican beer (under the category “Deglazing Liquid), and the chart is completed with the last three categories: Main Liquid, Richness and Finishing Flavor. Adding a few simple instructions to the categories, the format allows for complex flavors to be easily obtainable in the average cook’s kitchen.

The book has other teachable moments as well. Prior to starting in on recipes, pantry ingredients are sorted into several categories including “Saltiness and Savoriness” and “Tanginess”. It feels like the authors want us average cooks to experiment a little, perhaps to add improved flavors to our mundane weeknight meals.

I have one complaint, and I’ll put it in so that you are more apt to believe the rest of the glowing report. Several of the recipes take up two pages, and because of their layout, I have to keep turning the pages back and forth to ascertain measurement amounts. Now, I’m sure if I had a sous-chef who had all the ingredients measured out and ready for me, (or if I was organized to do this myself), it wouldn’t matter. But as it is, I’m at the stove trying to pour in Worcestershire sauce, chicken broth and so on, and I have to keep flipping back to see how much of each.

A small complaint, in a really great cookbook, filled with fun facts and great recipes.

In Appreciation of Steps on Mother’s Day

Steps beat the absence of steps.  Without them, we find ourselves laboring up a hill, or looking for traction on a slippery descending footpath.

 

 

Builders are challenged when constructing staircases, and pleased with themselves when they manage to get the dimensions just right.

 

 

 

Ramps are better, easier—–and traversing flat ground, with no hills or valleys, is probably best of all.  But when facing a steep incline, or a dip in the ground ahead, steps are better than nothing.  They measure our paces, and once navigated, symbolize accomplishment.

 

 

Rocky finally made it up the Capitol steps, and the music soared…

I am a stepmother, a stepdaughter, a stepsister, even a stepgrandmother.

I am a step apart or a step towards.  I have stepped into relationships someone else sidestepped.

I have become disheartened at the length of the climb.

 

I have struggled, almost admitting defeat.

 

I have plugged along, endlessly and with no view of the top.

 

 

 

 

I have been strong.  I have persevered.

 

 

And the times I’ve made it to the top?  It’s been well worth the climb.

 

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone step.

 

Grandma’s Legacy

 

My Grandma likes me best.

Sorry,

StephJeremyCoryAndyBeccaMatthewEmilyAdam

ZacharyNickLukeKalynAbbyRyanChadEricaSamantha,

but it’s true.

I used to feel really bad about it, and I kept it as my “secret”, held close to my heart. Known only to Grams and me, neither of us was going to tell.  When she would pay attention to one of you guys, I knew it was just to keep up appearances.  She loved me the most and I was content to hide the truth so no one would get hurt.

One beautifully moonlit summer night at the Zutter Cabin campfire, a slightly beery-eyed Adam confided that….Grandma loved him best. He, too, had always kept this secret as a highly classified truth. The oldest cousin, he trusted me as his confessor and believed my more mature outlook would protect his confidence.

I pondered this discovery, first while quietly staring at the fire, lost as scenes played out in my mind. Grandma exclaiming over one cousin’s home run, over another cousin’s acceptance to college, over yet another’s dance performance.  I replayed how her face lights up whenever any new arrival greets her, conveying her truth about the day being so much brighter because someone else had entered it.

I fetched another beer, and handing it my sister, I leaned over and whispered, “Hey, who do you think is Grandma’s favorite?”  She shrugged and gave a quick reply.

“I am,” she said, as though it was obvious.

The plot thickened.

Is it possible that we ALL had the same secret?

Leaving it for the night, succumbing to the hypnotic flames and cousinly camaraderie, I listened instead to tales of romance, parenting woes and unjust professors, while Grandma slept away in the cabin, oblivious to the incendiary Pandora’s Box that had been unleashed by the combination of Leinenkugel’s, a full moon, and the calm rippling of Sand Lake.

In the clear of another beautiful summer day, I resolved the next morning to investigate the disturbing thoughts that had been unfurled the night before.  Targeting just a few at first, I quietly steered conversations, collected observations, and generally tested my hypothesis that every single one of us felt, not thought, but felt favored by Grandma.

 

I began to believe it was true. And rather than extinguish the light that had been illuminated for years by my secret status, I studied Grandma with even greater admiration.  I watched her divide her attention–maybe more equally than I had previously presumed–but so genuinely and lovingly.  She held a 4-year-old great-grandchild on her lap, played Euchre with three of my cousins, and directed her daughter to pull her famous shortcake out of the fridge because she thought my dad looked hungry.

What a gift Grandma has, I realized. And what a legacy she will leave us.

I am the best version of myself in Grandma’s presence.

And now I know, how did I not know before?

So is everyone else.

Some weeks later, I had occasion to talk with my 13-year-old daughter Alexandra about Grandma.  At last count, her generation holds 15–Lex is the oldest biological great grandkid; the youngest is less than a year old.

I commented that it was so nice of Grandma Great to remember her birthday, and that it must be hard for her to keep all the dates straight since our family is so big.

“It’s not hard for her to remember mine,” Lex said.  “I’m her favorite.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Facebook for Fossils or How the Middle Aged Embrace Outdated Technology

So I hear that Facebook is passé.  I’ve read in various places that most new users are you know, my age, and that it’s gotten more common to share pictures of your grandkids than uploads of your Spring Break antics.

And then it was confirmed by Lex, my 13-year-old daughter, who informed me that “everyone” is getting off Facebook to get away from their parents.

(Following her into the next internet foray to keep an eye on things is a separate post, and frankly, a parenting nightmare for which my own adolescence failed to prepare me.)

I’m sure the hipsters that created the algorithm (yeah, I saw the movie) are horrified at what their project has become.  I personally get a little creeped out when a sidebar ad for baby clothes comes up after I’ve been looking at my niece’s online baby registry, but I can swat that away pretty easily.  In defense of my middle-aged condition, my a-bit-higher-aged mother won’t even buy from Amazon because “they don’t need that kind of information about me”.  (I’m not sure who “they” are.)

Setting all  that aside for a moment, let me just say–whether it’s cool or not, tracking my internet habits or not—-I LOVE Facebook.

I’m not obsessed with it, I don’t scan my newsfeed 14 times/day, I don’t “check in” every time I grab a coffee at Starbucks and I don’t update my status with my current decision to eat a bagel.

What does that leave?

I smile, I remember, I brag about my kids, I pray for the woman I know who’s updating statuses with her mom’s health deterioration and eventual death, I rejoice that the scary car accident status was updated with an “all clear”,  I am inspired by my stepdaughter’s “map my run” statuses and my nieces’ half-marathon finish.

I got back in touch with dear friends: Jennifer, Kathy, Patty.

Yearly hit or miss Christmas cards did a lousy job helping me sort out who was where and whose kids were doing what.  Because of Facebook, I know Jennifer’s son joined the Marine Corps and that we coincidentally gave our daughters the same first name, even though we shorten them differently.  I got to “like” the status that informed me that Kathy’s son won his second-grade essay contest, and with tears in my eyes, I admired a photo of her deployed husband’s latest offering to his daughter.  I know that Patty is some super scary-successful writer, and was thus a little less surprised when I saw her name on a book I was skimming at Barnes & Noble.

Facebook uses the term “friend” pretty loosely.  I’m not sure how I would categorize these women’s relationship in the world to me.  They were part of my daily life over 20 years ago.  We helped each other through what has remained one of the most difficult times in my life, but has probably faded into insignificance in their more courage-requiring ones. Are they my “friends” now?  Not really.  But every time I see an update or look at the pictures they post, I remember who I was then and the things I admired about them.  I pause and smile at the women we’ve all turned out to be.

I had a reunion with my college roommate.

Having seen enough pictures of her and her husband, whose wedding I stood up in almost 25 years ago, I knew they hadn’t changed all THAT much, and I would recognize them.  Still, when readying myself in the hotel room of their home city where my family and I were now tourists, I agonized over what to wear and whether or not she would have gotten more fancy since the year we spent in our roach-infested college apartment. I wondered what she remembered about ME, and thought about texting her a quick “so we don’t HAVE to mention the night the firemen were called to our building in front of my daughter, right?”, and “I’m not sure I ever really apologized for getting so drunk at your reception.”

Maybe it’s because of Facebook that our immediate hug and joyous greeting were so genuine.  Our lives had been at least a little bridged by knowledge of our children’s successes and the  occasional “Likes” we clicked on each other’s whimsical musings.  In person, I realized I miss her still, and that “Friend” has more than one definition.

I have guilt-free “friend”ships with three ex-boyfriends, all of whom seem happily married.

I don’t post often, but every now and then, I get a little buzz from the number of “Likes” I can get on a family picture or a particularly witty observation.

Oh, yeah, and I play Candy Crush.

So Lex and all the other cool folk can Tweet, Instagram, Snapchat, Tumble, whatever.

I’m pretty happy on Facebook.  I just hope all the other outdated fogeys stay on there with me.