love anthony

from Amazon

My nephew is autistic.

Ever since he was diagnosed, I've read anything I come across that has to do with the subject. The back blurb of Lisa Genova's novel love anthony caught my attention immediately. She tells the tale of a woman who is grieving the loss of her autistic son, and trying to make sense of his short life.

Not surprisingly, I flipped immediately to the Author page to see whether she was dealing with autism in her own family, but the brief bio on her gave nothing away. I bought the book and began reading instead, and knew I'd made the right choice on page 15, when Genova writes this about her character:

     When Anthony turned three and they were told with certainty what they were dealing with, she believed she'd find somebody somewhere who could help them, an expert who could transform their lives.
     She scoured every self-help book, then every medical journal, every memoir, every blog, every online parent support network. She read Jenny McCarthy and the Bible. She read and hoped and prayed and believed in anything claiming help, rescue, reversal, salvation. Somebody somewhere must know something. Somebody must have the key that would unlock her son.

When Wyatt was diagnosed, I, too, read Jenny McCarthy's book, and blogs, and memoirs, trying to see if there was something we could do to pull Wyatt through "the window" as Jenny described it. We inundated my brother and his ex-wife with information and they processed their own information, and we all moved toward acceptance at different speeds.

I'm not Wyatt's parent. I'm his aunt. And as such, I know I can't cure him. I can't experiment with the multitude of approaches that seem almost limitless in their scope. It's not up to me - or any of us, really, to try to "save" Wyatt. This book helped me see that. My brother and his ex-wife already seem to know that. This is Wyatt. He is autistic, and that's okay.

But there's still that niggling to figure out how to connect with Wyatt in some way. The boy in Genova's book is so much like Wyatt that I was both excited and nearly compelled to write to the author and tell her how much her book validated everything we've experienced with Wyatt. He is so like the boy in the book that I was astounded. And I came away from the reading with one little take-away that I feel like I just have to try.

The boy in the book likes musical birthday cards. I know Wyatt isn't Anthony, but I'm going to go buy a card anyway, because what if Wyatt likes it, too? I'm not sure I can ever stop trying to reach him.

Immediate Reactions to Boston

Naturally, the news of the bombings at the Boston Marathon came as a shock. More than that, it just didn't make sense. I couldn't, and still can't quite wrap my mind around it. I don't understand what a terrorist was trying to accomplish by setting off bombs at a marathon, other than to instill fear. If that was the mission, then mission accomplished. At least, for those who have anything to do with marathons.

My husband and son are marathon runners. My daughter and I usually sit in the spectator stands, just like the families did there. So my husband's immediate reaction was that we couldn't go watch anymore. And that he needs to start running faster (or slower, I pointed out) since he would have been crossing the finish line just as the bombs went off. The bomber certainly timed that right to hit the majority of runners and spectators.

But these were knee-jerk reactions. There's no reason to think that this will happen again, or that precautions won't be taken. There's really no reason to be alarmed. Especially because that plays into the objective that the terrorist(s) had in the first place: to instill fear. And I'm not going to give him/them the satisfaction.

After 9/11, I vowed not to let terrorism affect my actions. I don't want to let fear prevent me from living and enjoying the things I do. So I'll go to my husband's next marathon and sit in the stands, terrorists be damned!

But at the back of my mind, there is that tiny niggling; that slight hesitation in wondering whether or not it will be safe.

Jazz 'n Cakes

I live where I live because of the schools. We live in the same district I did as a teenager and my children are going to my alma mater. I wanted this for them because I felt so privileged here. It was here that I earned a scholarship to study in Germany. Twenty-two years later, my son participated in the same program and headed for Germany as exchange student like I did long ago.

I also enjoyed the music program at my old high school and feel like it set me up for musical success that I might not have enjoyed at other schools. We had a very strong music program with excellent, dedicated teachers and a community of parents that supported the arts. My son played in that band, too, and now my daughter plays his old trumpet and participates in not only concert band, but jazz band as well. This is her first year.

The band program got off to a rocky start for her class. School levies failed and band was cut for two years. She finally started playing this year as a 7th grader. I didn't know how they could possibly catch up to where they should be. What would happen to all those talented musicians who wanted to go on to study music at college? What had happened to the school music program I loved? Why wasn't she enjoying the privilege of a nationally-recognized music program as I had? It upset me.

But the community rallied. They reinstated the band program and the music directors reformatted the class so that these beginner 7th graders have band every day instead of a couple times a week. They introduced the jazz band at my daughter's junior high and those who made it through try-outs now practice after school. Their hard work paid off. They had their first concert and I couldn't believe how wonderful they sounded with only six months of instruction under their belts.

One of the lessons they try to impart in jazz band is the ability to play impromptu solos; jamming with the band like real jazz musicians do. At the first school concert, a half-dozen brass players volunteered to come up front during a song and play a rif. They were incredible! I'm not sure I would have had the nerve. My sometimes-shy daughter didn't volunteer. She was happy enough to play in the background.

Then, this weekend, the school held their annual "Jazz 'n Cakes," a pancake breakfast fundraiser during which all the district jazz bands play as entertainment. The place was packed! The student volunteers seated us and waited on us as we listened to high school jazz ensembles and junior high jazz bands play. It was standing room only in the large cafeteria. I think we all lingered because the music was so good. I felt a warm glow being surrounded by all the great music. It brought back many pleasant memories and I felt lucky and privileged that my children attended a school with a music program like this.

And then it got even better.

My daughter's jazz band played the songs I'd heard them play at their school concert a month ago. They sounded even more polished and not so very different than the more experienced high schoolers. The same half-dozen brass players took their turns at the microphone, playing trombone, saxophone and trumpet solos. Then all of a sudden, a little blond-haired girl took her place at the mic. My daughter was up there! In front of hundreds of parents and students, she raised her trumpet to her mouth and played a spontaneous solo. It was  magnificent! So perfect, and completely unpracticed. I couldn't believe it was her!

I beamed through the whole concert and hugged her to me afterward. I was so proud of her! Not just because she'd played so well, but because she'd had the courage to voluntarily stand up in front of a huge crowd and do it. I know part of her confidence came from that same sense of privilege that brought us to this school district in the first place. Their music program is so strong that she knew she could do it; she knew she could play and play well.

But I'll bet she never knew this: that she could bring tears to my eyes by doing it.

So Many Labels, So Little Use

Name a holiday, any holiday. I've got mailing labels for that.

For more than a decade, I worked at various non-profits. I was usually the one who opened the mail and sorted the donations that came in. At least once a week, though, in addition to the checks we received from direct mail campaigns, we'd get letters chastising us for wasting so much money on postage. "I've gotten four letters from you this year. I already sent in money but am not going to send anymore if you're going to keep wasting money on stamps." Honestly, we got that letter a lot. Usually from someone who sent us a $3.00 check in the past and was then irked enough to spend another $0.22 (back then) on a stamp to send this reprimand to us, even though our mailings were done in bulk and cost about $0.03/letter.

That was in the 1990's. Oh, how times have changed!

Now, I am inundated by direct mailings from every nonprofit under the sun. I'm sure you've all gotten them, too: the envelope full of return address labels asking you to please send in a donation to cover the cost of the address labels. Oh, that I could. I get at least one envelope full of them every day. I get them addressed to people who haven't even lived in my house for 15 years; former residents who are surely getting the same address labels at their current address. I'm pretty sure at this point that I could wallpaper my house with all the address labels I have.

It's ironic, really. Back in the 1990's, I actually bought return address labels. I ran out of them all the time. In those days, I wrote letters to people and mailed off query letters with SASE envelopes. I mailed in all my bills. In fact, everything was done by mail. I would have been thrilled to get free address labels in the mail.

Now, though, I'm lucky if I use one label a week. I rarely mail anything other than greeting cards and a few bills. Even if I were still writing letters and sending out snail mail, I'd never be able to use all the address labels I have now.

What I'm dying to know is how incensed those nonprofit donors are these days at the "exorbitant" amount of money nonprofits are spending to mail all these out? It's not that expensive, really. But if people were mad back when we mailed four campaign letters a year, how irate are they now?

A Startling Discovery

I am a person who seeks out new experiences. I'm not afraid to try new things. I'm always on the lookout for adventure. I rarely work in the same role for more than 2-3 years. I am a person who really, really craves change.

So when I started answering questions for Year 2 in my Q&A: 5-Year Journal, I was a little taken aback. My life was not as new and fresh as I'd thought.

(Photo from Amazon)

The idea for this little journal is that each day you are posed a question and you write your answer for that year. Each page holds the space for five years' worth of answers. Innocuous questions like:

• What is your favorite television show?
• What was the best part of today?
• Who annoyed you today?

and more meaningful questions like:

• What do you think is your biggest shortcoming?
• What would you like to say to your father?
• Is there anything missing in your life?

I had a blast filling in my answers for 2012 and was excited to start answering in 2013 and see how my answers compared. I decided I would read the question, write my answer without reading last year's answer (so it would not influence me) and then read last year's answer. I couldn't wait to get started.

The Jan. 1 question was not very surprising: What is your mission? I answered it in conjunction with my New Year's resolution this year more than the broad life statement I made last year, but the two answers are pretty similar. Then I moved on to Jan. 2nd and chuckled at the fact that my 2013 answer was exactly the same as 2012. Kind of ironic, really, since the question was Can people change? (My answer was no, and I seemed to prove my own point.)

January 3rd asked what book I was reading that day. Naturally, that answer was different.

But on Jan. 4-7 my answers were very much like my answers from the year before and they were questions about the last restaurant I went to, and whether I feel lucky. The last restaurant I'd eaten at, both years, was in Corbin, Kentucky on my way back from visiting my son. And then I mentioned the Bengals playing the Texans in the playoffs -- both in 2012 and 2013. Was this some kind of twilight zone?

I wasn't too concerned until I got to questions about what inspired me that day (Jan. 10th) and what I felt I lost on January 11th, and my answers for 2013 were the same -- again! Frankly, I was startled and little bit disturbed. I'd thought my life was full of new experiences and I was starting to see it in a different light. If the same things were inspiring me and disturbing me on the same date a year later, was my life that unique after all?

I'm starting to get scared to open the little journal and answer the questions. I feel like I fell into some kind of year-long rut, and I don't know how it happened. I don't mind so much that the good things remain the same, but if the petty annoyances and let-downs are consistent, then I need to do something about that. I'm determined that I will not open the book on January 2014 and start writing the same answers again. But I never thought that it would have happened in the first place. It's been a startling discovery to say the least, and it's only January 13th!

After the Wedding

I don't know if this is normal. I don't know how you're supposed to feel after your child gets married. On one hand, I'm joyous, elated, and thrilled that my child is so happy and that we have a beautiful new addition to our family. We love his wonderful bride.

But at the same time, I'm besieged with feelings of melancholy. I don't know why. Maybe it's the normal letdown after months of anticipation and running around. Maybe it's the delayed depression of empty nest syndrome; he's really not coming home again. Maybe it's knowing that he's a grown man now with grown man responsibilities and has taken the first step toward creating a family of his own?

I just don't know if these feelings are normal. I'm thrilled and sad at the same time. I feel like I'm walking in a fog. All I want to do is look at wedding pictures.

The Long, Long Campaign

Isn't it enough that the city of West Chester had to close roads, put 47 policemen on duty,
and bring in a sound stage, lights, stadium bleachers, and dozens of tractor trailers for
the Romney rally? Did they really have to close the library, too? Apparently so.
It's been four days since the rally and no one has packed it all up and carted it away yet.

Could there be any state more ready to be done with this election than the state of Ohio? Folks, we Buckeyes are campaign-weary. We're bombarded with political messages, phone calls, appearances, signs, and heated controversy over who is winning our all-important state. The news says that Ohio will pick the winner, and we are a state very much divided.

I don't think I've seen a television commercial in weeks that isn't a slam against one opponent or another. I can't imagine the millions spent on ads in our state.

On any given day we can open the newspaper and see which Presidential candidate, wife of a candidate, or running-mate is making another appearance in Ohio.

Our roads are closed for motorcades.

The signs in our yards are plucked out almost as soon as they're put up.

There are empty chairs lining the street like pitiful yard sales of dilapidated fiurniture left in the rain.

Our phones ring as early as 8am with recorded messages from every interest group that shouldn't have our names in the first place. Seriously -- don't they know who they're calling?

We've been polled.

We've had our hands shaken.

We've been re-routed on our way to work.

We're ready for the long campaign to be over.

We'll be out in droves to vote tomorrow. We are Buckeyes.

Musical Education

I've been tasked with developing a theme for a workshop we're holding at work. The workshop topic is how to be a better manager to your team. Great topic. Luckily, my manager is already familiar with the material in the course. :) Then, as a steering team, we decided to thread the theme of being an orchestra conductor into the class.

As someone who absolutely loved music, orchestra and band growing up, I thought this a fantastic theme. Which lead to me being asked to create an exercise in which the class participants would start to think about themselves as conductors and about their direct reports as the people in the band.

Oh, I had a million ideas! My creative juices were definitely flowing. I started brainstorming like crazy.

My first idea was to bring in different instruments to let people try. Or even different mouthpieces. This idea came to me because my daughter and I do this at home. I let her try to play my flute and she lets me try the trumpet. Neither one of us can get sound out of the other's instrument. I thought this might be a nice exercise to illustrate that every person on your team has different skills and abilities; some are agile and can play several instruments (roles), while others specialize in one instrument (mastering a skill).

Some of the steering team members loved the idea, but I could see fear in the eyes of others.

"I get what you're trying to do, but I know nothing about music," one said.

A-ha! I hadn't really thought about that. Except that I had, in an existential sense. I thought that this exercise might bring to life the fact that some people don't really know where their talents lie. I would have bet that this person could have gotten some sound out of at least one of the mouthpieces, even if she didn't know which.

Anyway, I moved on to the next idea.

"We could have a set of common household items on each table and the people in each group would have to figure out how to make music together using them."

They liked that idea. But the more I thought about it, I realized that this exercise seemed geared more toward making them into musicians than teaching them how to be conductors of their departments.

"Or maybe we could have them draw pictures of their department members and build their own orchestras. For instance, you could think Sally is always at the forefront of projects and is involved with almost everything we do, whereas Jon is more of a slow and steady person who takes the time to thoroughly research what he's working on. So maybe Sally could be a woodwind, and Jon could be in the brass section, and we could think about how necessary both are.

Or you could make Sally a melody, and Jon harmony, or bass. Something like that. Because both sounds/people are necessary for a more robust team."

I lost them there. In fact, one person said exactly that. "You lost me. I don't know anything about melody or woodwinds or what they're supposed to do."

I realized how complex my musical theory exercise was becoming.

If it had been me, I would have loved to have categorized the people in my department as instruments or the role they play in music. I would have made my co-worker a bassoon -  often whiny and something that many orchestras can do without. (Oops-did I say that out loud? Nothing against the bassoon, though. I actually like the sound of them.) I would have made my manager the percussionist because she sets the beat and guides us in the pace and tone of our work. I would have made another co-worker a clarinet. She often has the melody on projects, but also plays harmony.

Anyway, I eventually abandoned this idea for the one that we decided to go with. Something much easier and clear-cut that features the class participants as conductors who make a collage with different scraps of sheet music to illustrate the people in their departments.

I like it. It's simple and clear and even those who don't know much about music can see the difference between easy beginner sheet music and classical pieces. We'll expand discussion from there, but this will allow them to begin thinking of the people in their departments and the skill sets they bring and need to develop.

So, I continue to brainstorm and define the musical thread that we're weaving into each of the course modules. Secretly, I hope that it sparks some interest in learning more about concert music, though that's not the real intent. But a renewed interest in music education would be music to my ears. Wish me luck!

The Grandmother of Birthday Weeks

Both of my grandmothers turn 93 this week.

It’s hard enough to believe that I have one grandparent alive, let alone two, considering my own age. Up until my grandfather’s passing last year, it was three. I hope this indicates longevity for me. It seems I come from a strong gene pool.

But birth dates aside, my two grandmothers  are quite different.

My maternal grandmother is in general good health, but suffers from dementia. It’s been hard to watch her memory fade, and her once sharp, analytical mind deteriorate. Once a librarian, she was an avid reader who instilled a love of reading in all of her daughters. She doesn’t read anymore. She can’t remember what she’s read and doesn’t even try to fake it anymore. Nor does she do the crossword puzzles that used to clutter many surfaces of her apartment. She still remembers all of us, and we are fortunate to enjoy her company. She had no idea she was turning 93 today, and doesn’t quite believe it’s true no matter how many people tell her. She says she feels 43, and guessed she might be 73. If I feel that young when I’m her age, it will be a blessing.

My paternal grandmother enjoys excellent health and is still sharp as a tack. She lives on her own in Florida and belongs to an art club and singing group and is very active in her community. I hope that I am as able to enjoy my life and hobbies as she is, if I’m lucky enough to be 93. What am I saying, I’m lucky to be able to enjoy them NOW!

As I celebrate their birthdays this week, I think it’s only natural to compare myself to them both and wonder what I’ll be like at that age. The idea of losing any mental cognition scares me to death, but could be my reality. Or, maybe I’ll be one of the few who can live independently and actively well into my old age.

In reality, I am not much like either one of my grandmothers, and can’t quite envision what my life might be like fifty years from now. I know I won’t take for granted that I have another fifty years; I tend to want to make the most of my life right now, in case my future isn’t quite so far-reaching. I'm not sure they felt this same carpe diem when they were my age. It might be more a sign of the times.

Though I’m not like either one of them, I could be a nice blend. In an ideal distant future, I’ll still enjoy all my hobbies, and read as much as I can. And if I’m really, really lucky, when I’m that old, I’ll feel like I’m 43.

Microphones, please. The Commentators are speaking.

Lately, most talk around the water cooler, lunch table, and phone conversations revolves around the Olympic games. We’ve all suddenly become experts and commentators.

“Her splash was too big.”

“She bounced. They’re going to deduct for that.”

As if we know anything about the finer points of gymnastics, water polo, synchronized swimming, or dressage.

Of course, we all piped in, too, with our predictions as to whether this really was Michael Phelps’ last Olympic competition. We debated whether Oscar Pitorius should be allowed to compete in both the regular and Paralympic games. We talked about Jordyn Wieber’s unfair exclusion from the all-around gymnastics competition (I think you know where I stood on that debate) and constantly changing judging criteria in gymnastics that is sure to change again before the next games.

Basically, we talk about little else. We were all Olympics, all the time.

But we’re not the only ones. Apparently, the world is talking, tweeting and blasting comments about the games, NBC, and the athletes. Gabby Douglas is being criticized for her hair style. Carmelita Jeter is accused of being both a cheater and (secretly) a man. The Chinese are accused of somehow rigging swimming events. The U.S. Men’s Basketball team should have held back when they started slaughtering  the Nigerian team and won by 83 points.

Everyone’s got an opinion. Everyone’s a sports commentator now. I, among them.

It’s easy to sit in our living rooms and become armchair judges on things we know little about. I think it’s only natural as we get caught up in the thrill of victory and agony of defeat of the Olympians on stage. At our best, we are avid fans cheering on our teams. At our worst, we are gossipmongers detracting from the games. But the bottom line is, we’re engaged in watching these incredible athletes and feel vested in their performances. I love watching the Olympics and enjoy learning the back stories of so many of the athletes. I try to ignore the mud-slinging, but take it for what it is: more commentary on the 30^th Olympiad games; a little piece of history.

Guest Post: Distracted Driving

by Michael Jones

In the past, Julie has written about Keith, our son’s best friend in the Air Force. He was tragically killed in an automobile accident while home on leave two years ago. Keith was an extremely nice, likable young man who was always polite and laughing the few times we met him. Mac had planned on running in a marathon with him and actually completed the Air Force Marathon in his honor the following September. 

Recently, Ohio passed a texting and driving law. (http://www.dispatch.com/content/stories/local/2012/06/02/ohio-outlaws-texting-while-driving.html) Imagine our surprise while reading the article to discover that Keith was mentioned by name as one of the reasons for passing this bill. It really drove home the dangers of distracted driving.

In my opinion, this was a wonderful law that is long overdue. I did, however, have one problem with it: the bill does not enforce the ban for people over the age of 18.

I run three to four days per week. While running I have to continually be on the lookout for cars and other dangers. Thank God I pay attention. At least once per week, I have to quickly get into a ditch off the side of the road due to distracted drivers. The number of times in the past two weeks a person under 18 has been driving? 0. The number of times that a person over 18 has been driving? 3. I know this because as they swerve by, I see them looking down and often see their children in the back seat.

Really? Is it that important to get the text read or sent right then? Not only am I in danger, but their own kids are as well. Have we become so selfish that we need to risk other lives to communicate? It was not even 15 years ago that we were able to go to the store or on a date without needing to text or make a phone call. Now we do it while we drive?

People can say that kids are wrong for texting while driving, at school, at a restaurant, church, etc. But what are we showing them? I see more adults doing the same thing. It is amazing the number of times I have been driving down the street or highway and notice the cars swerving next to me or in front of me. I have seen grown women, bending over  intheir seats to retrieve something while almost side -wiping a semi. I have seen near collisions and avoided others, only to see the person speeding off and texting or doing something that causes them to keep their eyes from the road.

I am not a saint. I admit that I have texted and talked on the phone while driving. It is a hard habit to break. I need to continually remind myself that whatever it is, it can wait. I often find myself handing the phone to my daughter while in the car. That way she can answer it or make a call if needed. Hopefully she is also seeing that there is nothing so important that it cannot wait until we get where we are going.

Put the phone down, enjoy the scenery and don’t drive distracted. It is not only your life you are placing on the line but also your kids' and complete strangers' as well. 

We've Come a Long Way in Taking Pictures

Over the weekend, I was sifting through old pictures, trying to pick out some good ones of my son to include in the slide show we'll have at his wedding reception. I didn't expect it to be hard. It wasn't until we went through a hundred snapshots without finding more than a handful to use that I realized the problem: we didn't take very good pictures when he was young.

Photography as a whole has advanced to a completely different level with the shift from film to digital photography. But what that means for the quality of snapshots isn't just the ability to crop and enhance photos that didn't turn out so well. What it's done is change the way we take pictures.

Back in the days of film and flashbulbs, we took a picture or two and weren't really sure what image we'd captured until we got the pictures developed and saw the finished product. We used film sparingly; flashbulbs even more frugally, so we didn't waste film by taking shot after shot. Now we click away, knowing we'll delete whatever shots we don't want. This wasn't the case when Mac was young.

So we're left with a lot of bad pictures. Boring pictures. Pictures that make you wonder what the intention was in the first place.

Even more noticeable is that we used to take pictures that captured the whole person and the scene, rarely doing close-ups that show a person's face. As I sifted through photos, most of them were nondescript shots from across the room, making Mac appear tiny or non-featured, and aren't exactly what I want to project on a large screen at his wedding.

What I've got are dozens of pictures like this:

When what I want are hundreds like this:

I'll have no trouble picking out pictures of my daughter for her wedding. But most of Mac's photo montage is going to be more current day

Reminders of Home

A train station, but I did not take a picture of the teens and tweens.

As much as I love to travel, I hate to leave my family behind. Naturally, I prefer to travel with them. But for work, this is not usually possible. I’m okay for a while; caught up in all the excitement and newness of a place. But then, I’m usually caught offguard -- reminded of my family without warning, which makes me immediately homesick for them. It can be overwhelming, depending on the reminder.

I was standing at a train station in Brussels Noord when I was suddenly bombarded with thoughts of my 11-year-old daughter back home. It was Saturday morning and the train platform was crowded with young people waiting for a train to Antwerp (or maybe beyond that to Amsterdam). Group of 6, 10, 20 friends gathered around, chatting in French, Flemish and German. They jostled against each other laughing and sharing ipods and Cokes as we all waited for the train. Some were young, perhaps my daughter’s age, traveling in a group with a chaperone. Others were a few years older; teenagers out to have fun on a Saturday, all of Europe at their disposal.

That’s when I thought of Isabelle and wondered how different her life would be if she were growing up in Europe instead of home in America where parents drive their children to the mall or friends’ houses. American children are not quite so independent, especially in suburban areas. In fact, they are very dependent for transportation and entertainment.

I watched the young people at the train station and wished she had such freedom, cultures, and sights available to her. I wished she could simply board a train and see the world.



Mmmmh



A few nights later at a team-building event for work, I was overwhelmed with missing my son.

We went to a place called Mmmmh. Here we divided into teams and then worked with a chef to create appetizers, dinner and dessert for the group. As in any kitchen, conversation was lively and I got to know all the participants that were there for the training I was in Brussels to facilitate. They came from England, Germany, China and Belgium. They were so friendly and shared their thoughts on work and culture. I learned their hobbies and had fun cooking with them, tasting the dishes we were tasked with making. They included me in all their enthusiastic discussions despite the fact that I was old enough to be their mother. And that’s when it hit me: they were all the same age as my son. I missed him.

Missing my husband was continuous. Every time I saw a couple eating at a restaurant or posing for a picture, I wished he were with me. The laughter I heard from groups reminded me of my mother. I wanted her there, too.

I love to travel, but I hate to leave. I wish I could pack my family in my suitcase and bring them along with me. Instead, I am reminded of them every time I turn around and agree with Dorothy: “There’s no place like home.”

6th Grade Graduation

These are not 6th graders.

At the risk of sounding like a terrible parent, I was not all that eager to go to my daughter's 6th grade graduation. This was her second graduation ceremony already; the first was at the end of preschool.  That was another ridiculous graduation, in my opinion. To me, graduation should be reserved for the end of high school. A person should celebrate that one monumental event in their school career -- the culmination of 12 years of education. To me, graduating high school is an achievement, and marks a rite of passage into adulthood. But finishing 6th grade? Was there really any question?

I didn't have a 6th grade graduation. I didn't even go to preschool, so no celebration there either. But I did walk across the stage for my diploma at the end of high school and again after college. It seemed like those meant something.
I'm of the belief that by diluting graduation down into several graduations, you take away its meaning. It should be a final achievement, not one in a series of events. Not that I didn't love seeing my daughter walk across the stage to get her certificate of completion. But if there hadn't been a 6th grade graduation ceremony, my life would have been just as complete.

Then I started to wonder -- is there some benefit to having students take part in a graduation ceremony at 6th grade? Does it perhaps motivate them to continue on with their education because they have enjoyed a feeling of accomplishment? I wonder.

Now I'd like to know whether there's any correlation between the high school graduation rates of those who also celebrated 6th grade graduation ceremonies and those who didn't. Perhaps it can provide an impetus for those students who might be at risk for not graduating high school. Or maybe not. Maybe for those students, a 6th grade graduation was good enough?

What do you think?

Running Free Through Fields

When I was a kid, there were fields and woods and plenty of open spaces to wander. My brother and I rode bikes with our friends, making dirt paths through fields of thistle, Queen Anne's lace, and blackberry bushes. If there was a mud puddle, we stomped in it. If there was a hill, we pushed each other off of it. We spent our summers getting sunburned, digging for earthworms and catching honeybees in jars.

My children didn't have this childhood.

Theirs was spent playing video games and walking through neighborhoods. Their time outside has been limited to organized games on manicured lawns. I can count on one hand the number of times they've rolled down a grassy hill or climbed a tree. That's just not what childhood was like for them. They don't know every inch of our backyard the way my brother and I did as kids. We knew every anthill and patch of thorny grass. We were out there every day.

So last night when we took the dog on a walk along a canal backed by roaming fields, I was thrilled when my daughter branched off of the path and ran to a patch of mud to look for frogs. I was elated when we ran through an unavoidable marshy mess of mud and had splatters all the way up our legs and back. Once dirty, there was no stopping us. We tromped through the fields in much the way I did as a kid, breathing in the scent of wild carrot, thistle, and earth. I let the dog off his leash and let him run. We all ran. We needed that.

Then, finally, we headed back to the walking path. The leash went back on. Our steps were more measured, but our smiles were huge. And then my daughter said those magic words: I love being outside. So we're going again tomorrow.

Endangered Meadows

My macro shot of Queen Anne's lace.

As I was walking the dog this morning, we passed a meadow. I was filled with a sense of peace in the near-silence of nature. Chipsy sniffed the grass as I listened to the birds and spied a butterfly flitting through the brush. And then, the peacefulness came to a screeching halt as my mind raced to this meadow's imminent horrible conclusion. I doubt it will exist a year from now. Even as I enjoyed the walk past it, I was on a paved path with a new subdivision of houses behind me. The meadow doesn't stand a chance.

As we continued down the path, I recalled an interview I did for the newspaper five years ago. I was assigned advertorials for a special issue and interviewed local businesses, writing 750-word stories behind their businesses and the people who owned and worked there. I enjoyed almost all of these assignments, with one strong exception: an interview I did with a local developer.

The man was nice enough. In fact, I almost admired his passion and enthusiasm for his job. But I strongly objected to what he was doing and the vision he had for our community. He pulled out blueprints and land surveys and animatedly took me through them, showing me the proposed plans for a new strip mall, a Walgreens, and a gas station on the corners of what was then a country road. He talked about the revenue this would bring in taxes, and the need for widening roads it would entail. Those developments would fund other road repair and improvements that our township needed. He truly felt he was doing a good thing for our community. He thought he was helping.

But all I could envision was another parking lot where there was currently a meadow. All I could see was another neighborhood of cookie-cutter houses stacked like dominoes down a street with no trees. All I could think of was all the brand new strip malls and office buildings sitting empty. Why not let new businesses occupy those and leave the undeveloped land as country?

It was the hardest interview I'd ever done. I wanted to argue. I wanted to stamp my feet. One thing I did not want to do was promote his work in a positive manner. But I had to. I was there to do a job, just like he was. So I did my job, just not as enthusiastically as he did his, and was not surprised when I saw bulldozers at that intersection months later.

Afternoons in the Sewing Room With My Mother

Like many young girls, I took great delight in watching my mother do things. I remember sitting on the toilet seat, watching her apply her make-up and curl her hair. I scrutinized details she was probably completely unaware of: the fingers she’d use to hold her hot rollers in place; the number of brush strokes she’d use to apply rouge on her cheeks; the way she’d steady her lips, curling them ever-so-slightly over her teeth as she applied her lipstick. I mimicked these motions silently as I sat and studied her.

I treated her grooming habits, her cooking skills, and the way she twirled the phone cord when she talked with her friends as though they were spectator sports.  But I’m not sure any were as magically soothing to me as the hours I’d spend watching her sew.

Suffice it to say, all of my clothes were homemade when I was growing up. I loved it. I had prairie skirts and long dresses. Knit pants and matching vests. Dresses with little umbrella trim around the collars and hem; tailored blouses with cat face buttons. All of them in fabulous fabrics that my mother had chosen specially for me.

We spent plenty of time at the fabric stores, looking through patterns and choosing prints and colors. I was amazed every time the staff worker cut off a 3-yard rectangle of material and then later watched my mother turn that nondescript polygon into something stylish to wear.

Just as I did when I watched her apply make-up, I sat and watched her hold pins between her straight-lipped smile and deftly secure the crinkly tissue-paper patterns pieces into place. I listened to the rasp of the scissors slicing through fabric and noticed her long, sure cuts – a skill I would later try to develop.

After she removed the jigsaw-shaped pieces of material, she let me have the oddly-shaped scraps of material that had fallen to the floor. To me, these were little pieces of possibility and I wondered what I might make from them. Doll clothes? A quilt? A new fashion design of my own?

As I fingered the cloth and imagined the possibilities, I listened to her sew. I heard the whip of the spool of thread as she winded it through the myriad of nooks and hooks on the Singer machine. I heard her drop the heavy presser foot into place and close the bobbin plate. Then she’d wind the dial just enough that the thread and needle were started. Then, always barefoot, she pressed down on the plastic pedal beneath the cabinet and the machine whirred to a slogging start. The electric sound of effort started each project, followed by a slow crescendo of chugging needle and thread as the machine accelerated, sending the presser foot on a ski trip down a precarious path. Could she race along the fabric and keep a straight line along the seams? Or would the bobbing foot veer off course? I didn’t have to watch her  to know when this happened. I’d hear a quiet curse under her breath and an aggravated flip of the switch in the back of the machine to release the presser foot. She’d tug the fabric away from the needle and the thread whined as it stretched. With a quick snip, she’d released the project and quietly undo the tangle of threads before setting the process into motion again.

These sounds, these sewing projects, are forever woven into my favorite childhood memories. I’m not sure my mother knows how much I loved these quiet afternoons in the sewing room, when I could sit and listen and dream. I’m not sure she knew what a gift it was just to watch her.

Mirror, Mirror

I don't think I've ever felt a generational gap between me (Gen X) and my daughter (Millennial) as strongly as I did when we went to see Mirror, Mirror. This twist on the classic Snow White tale brought it all into focus for me. It was, in fact, my Mirror, Mirror moment and reflected old vs. new. My wrinkles were showing.

The movie resembled very little of the Snow White story I know and love. Instead, we are presented with the Queen's (Julia Roberts) side of the story, which didn't make much sense. She throws herself at the Prince. She never really asks the mirror who's the fairest, and it is the mirror that provides the magical power. Whatever. I can allow poetic license and go with the flow... with exceptions.

The dwarves are no longer the dwarves from the fairy tale. No Doc, Sneezy, Grumpy, Dopey, et. al. Now we've got Half Pint, Butcher, Wolf, Napoleon, Grimm, Grub and Chuckles and they're not hard-working miners living in the woods. They're bandits. And Snow White becomes a bandit with them, wielding a sword and fighting the Queen's men.

I hated it.

Now, I must back up. I am a feminist and certainly want girls to grow up feeling empowered. And I know that the old fairy tales are horrible for depicting girls as damsels in distress who need a prince to come in and save them. It's not the message I ever wanted for myself, or for my daughter. I feel like I should be happy that Snow White has to swoop in and save the Prince in this re-telling.

But I don't. I'm old. I want the classics to remain classics. I want the beauty and sweetness of the old Snow White and Cinderella tales. I like the romance of them, and the depiction that good triumphs over evil. That was enough for me. I didn't need Snow White or Cinderella picking up swords. I didn't grow up thinking it was okay for them to be passive and wait to be rescued. I think I took away a different message: that a person's true beauty cannot be hidden from the world. They will be rewarded in the end. Pretty passive, I know. It's probably not the best message.

So then I thought about it. What if I'd grown up with this new feminist message? What if I grew up with Snow White and Cinderella tales that show heroines fighting their battles and rescuing princes? What if this were the norm for me? These storylines don't faze my daughter at all. They seem perfectly normal to her. So let's say I grew up with these ideals and then suddenly, in my forties, saw the old classic animated versions of Snow White and Cinderella? I think I'd hate them. I think I'd sit there and wonder why they were so weak and simple-minded. I would not be content to watch them sing to birds and clean the house of seven little men. The storylines wouldn't make any sense to me.

That's not my reality, though. I still love the classics and get bored watching Snow White perform ninja battles against an army. I'm too old or old-fashioned to find this story captivating. I concede that I'm a product of my generation. I want the glass slipper; I want the horse and carriage.

Could I Be A Crime Scene Investigator?

One of the Murder & Mayhem events yesterday included having the organizers set up a fake crime scene that we went into as groups to investigate. We saw drops of blood on the ground, bloody shoeprints, a body with a bullethole, drugs on the table, shell casings, overturned chairs, and a few other clues as to what happened. But guess what? I couldn't figure out what happened at all.

I wasn't sure if the victim was shot through the back or the chest. I saw bloody footprints leading toward the body, but none away from the body. None of the drugs had been taken, though the victim's pockets were turned inside out. I saw a shell casing near the front door, away from the bedroom where the majority of the blood was. The scene didn't make sense to me at all. I like to think that's a good thing; I am just not familiar with crime scenes so don't have the knowledge to understand what I was looking at.

Which reminded me of the many times I've looked around the wreck of my house and wondered what detectives would deduce if my house were suddenly scrutinized as a crime scene? I think they'd be stumped. Would the newspapers spread across the floor be considered a clue? Or would they view it as the mess it really is? Would they recognize the true crime behind the sticky fingerprints on the refrigerator door handle -- the mess itself, or the rebellion from a mother who refuses to clean it up? I think it would be hard for them to figure out the chaos in my house, which falls somewhere between hoarder and someone who will find anything, and I mean ANYTHING other than housework to do.
And yet -  I can tell when things have been disturbed. I have that 'Mom radar' that lets me see the new trail of evidential mess that my children have left behind: I said not to cook, yet I see toast sweat and a dirty knife in the sink. I said not to go in my closet, but now a shirt has been hung with the buttons hanging the opposite way. I said not to go outside, but there are shoes tumbled by the door.

I may not have figured out what happened to the body on the bed in the fake room at the conference, but I can figure out what my children have been up to. It makes me a master detective of sorts. Or maybe I'm just lucky that my children aren't as crafty as criminals.

Marriage Dissolved

My brother’s divorce is being finalized today. It takes me back to my day in court; the surrealness of standing before a judge with my marriage reduced to statistics and numbers. Case number something, dissolving the marriage that occurred in Las Vegas, Nevada on July 7, 1987. Put that way, it seems like it was inevitable, wasn’t it?

But seeing the data didn’t accurately capture the excitement and passion that lead us to elope to Las Vegas on a Tuesday afternoon in July. The words on the court papers discredited the years of dating that preceded it, and the three years after that we were husband and wife. My God, we created a child together! The facts of the civil case dismissed those years so easily.

I feel the same dismissal when I tell people that I was married before; that I eloped to Las Vegas when I was nineteen. It almost always garners the comment, “And we all know how well that turned out.” Those words make me furious.  They make me feel like my marriage has been dismissed again. According to the facts, I was too  young. We were foolish. It was bound to end.

But what no one seems to consider is that I was happy; that I didn’t (and don’t) consider that marriage a mistake. I loved him. I wanted to marry him and have a life with him. We had a child together. If I had it to do all over again, I would. It doesn’t matter to me that it didn’t work out. It was just how things happened.

So today, as my brother stands in court and his marriage is reduced to the date and place of his wedding and all the assets that need to be divided, I hope he doesn’t suffer the same frustration that I did: that his marriage was nothing but a number of years that came to an end. Because it was so much more than that.