Holy Night

All is quiet in Heaven. Not just quiet. This night is so quiet you can feel it. Hear it. As if all of Heaven and all of Creation is holding its breath.
Muriel, the youngest angel, always curious, always questioning, finds her way to the Great Room and stands boldly before the Throne. There is not a trace of fear in her as she stands in His magnificent Presence.
"Father?"
"Yes, Little One?"
"I know something is happening. Everyone here is shining a little brighter than usual, but no one is speaking. And that star. I've never seen that one before. What is it? What's happening?"
"Something very special. The world will never be the same after tonight."
"Is that good or bad?" she asks.
"It is good."
"Will you tell me about it? May I know it?"
"Certainly, Little One, soon everyone will know it. It is my Son. He is about to be born. Down there, below the star, in that manger."
"Your Son? But he was just here. He's always been HERE. Why are you sending him down there? It's dangerous there, and there is so much the humans don't understand. They may hurt Him."
"I know."
"But that's a stable! He's a King. Why is He being born in a stable? Shouldn't His arrival be a bit more spectacular? Maybe descending from Heaven on a great cloud, with trumpets blaring..."
"All in good time, my Precious."
"I don't understand."
"Right now I need him to come into the world as a baby, the way all humans do. He has to be one of them, has to feel what they feel, experience the same joy, sadness, temptation, pain, grief...."
"Loneliness too?" Muriel asks.
"No. Not loneliness. Because I will always be with Him. As for the stable, it's a fine place to start. He will show the world that it doesn't matter where you were born, or what you own. That's not what counts."
"But why does He have to leave here and go there at all?" Muriel pleads.
"He has a most important job to do. Something only He can do. You see, my people have wandered far away from me, like lost sheep. I need Him to round them up and bring them back to me."
Muriel tilts her head. "Like a shepherd?" she asks.
"Exactly," He says softly. "They've forgotten how it was in the Beginning. They've forgotten that I created them in My own image, and they've gone chasing after meaningless pursuits. My Son will remind them of My Love for them. Show them in ways no one else can. He will Save them. Do you understand, Muriel?"
"Maybe, a little. But why are you doing it? If they've forgotten You, why not forget them too?"
"Because I love them." He says, and sighs.
"But will they listen? Will they follow Him?" Muriel is skeptical.
"Many will. And those that do must tell the others, and with their very lives, show the world what He has taught them. None of it is easy, Muriel, but it must be done."
They are both silent for a long moment. Then a sound rips the air, a sound so startling Muriel jumps a foot. The sound grows louder and louder until it reverberates though all the Halls of Heaven, filling the Universe. It is the unmistakable wail of a baby's cry. Muriel's eyes grow wide. "That's Him!" she cries. In this very moment, suddenly the Angel Chorus begins to sing, a thousand voices proclaiming "Allejujah, He is Come!" A squadron of Messenger Angels swoops down on a field where shepherds are tending their flock, and gives to them the Good News. All of Creation resounds with the Joy of this most Holy Moment.
Muriel bows low before the Throne, and simply says, "Thank you, Father." Then in an instant she is gone to join all the Heavenly Host in the Celebration.
The Father listens to all of it. The chorus, the harps, the shouting, the Baby's cry. Then he closes His eyes, settles back, and whispers, "It has begun."

.................................................................................

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A HOLY NIGHT.
With Love, From Marcy

Diamonds In My Garden

As I sit on our lanai this morning looking at our pretty little garden, I see a newly sprouted plant, and on one of its leaves the sun is glinting off something that can only be a drop of water. It's shining as brightly as a diamond. And it's only a drop of water. God's gifts are so precious A diamond and a drop of water look exactly the same from a few feet away.

A Visit To Remember

I'm depressed. Yesterday I had the best hair day of my life. It will never be that perfect again. I almost wish I hadn't had it. Now every other hair day will pale in comparison to it. I'm doomed to a lifetime of almost-my-best-hair-days. Sure enough, this morning... it's gone. Oh well.

Just kidding about the depressed thing. Actually I'm pretty happy. My husband and I just returned from a pre-Christmas visit with our kids and grandkids. (Well, the truth is, they're his two daughters, but I get to claim them a little too, because they've known me most of their lives, and even lived with us on and off. They love me, I love them.) We only live a few hours away, but our work schedule at Christmas won't allow a nice Christmas visit this year, so we went early. But it really feels like we've had our Christmas now. We exchanged gifts, we watched the older daughter put up her Christmas tree, and the younger daughter had hers up too. And we thoroughly enjoyed the company of our two teenage granddaughters, who are just the coolest young women now. But the real entertainment came with the two-year old granddaughter. We found out from her mom that she kept pointing at a Barbie guitar in a catalog and saying, "Thank you Mommy, thank you Mommy." Apparently this went on pretty much nonstop. So we bought the guitar. When my my ever-alert husband went to buy it, he also noticed a pair of pink cowboy boots in her size, so naturally who could resist? She loves shoes more than Oprah does. So we couldn't wait to see the reaction to both. WELL.....we gave her the boots package first. She barely ripped the paper off one end of the box and she got all rigid the way little kids do and started squealing "Shoes! Shoes! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!". We couldn't figure out how she knew what they were from seeing about 3 square inches of cardboard, but she knew. Well, the pink boots went on her feet, and as far as I know, they're still there today. So next was the guitar. You can imagine that scene. More squealing and "Guitar! MY GUITAR! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!" After finally extricating it from its packaging, her daddy helped her put it on properly and showed her how she should hold it. Well let me tell you, the Barbie guitar doesn't play the Farmer in the Dell. It plays licks like Keith Richards. You touch a string, or a button and it's rock n' roll baby. But the best was yet to come. It comes with a head set microphone that you plug into the guitar and it amplifies your voice. Once we figured out how that went on her and how it worked, she was loaded for bear. She got the rhythm going on the guitar, then figured out that when she spoke it was amplifed, so she started singing made-up songs loudly and without a semblance of melody. She did this for awhile with her feet planted in one position. Then, (and I think I actually saw a light bulb go on over her head) she began WALKING AROUND, playing and singing. It was like she was born for this. But it wasn't enough for HER to walk around by herself. She went over to my husband, who up to now had been sitting comfortably on the couch, laughing his butt off saying "I can die happy now", and pointed at him straight-armed and commanded, "Grandpa! DANCE!!" Then she came to me, "Grandma, DANCE!" And so on until everyone in the room --Mommy, Daddy, Grandpa, Grandma, cousins, Auntie etc. - was up dancing while she strutted around like Chuck Berry singing her little heart out. It was a scene. This two-year-old had taken complete control of the room. But then, I guess that's what two-year-olds do for a living.

I'm still basking in the afterglow of a wonderful family visit. I've had my temporary fix of good quality time with my "daughters" and grandchildren. Not to mention the fabulous home-cooked meal of meatballs, sausage and pasta, prepared by one of the daughters. She's a throwback to the old Italian mamas. Except that she's young and adorable and thin. Go figure. The other daughter is also beautiful, and a gifted hair stylist. She had to keep reassuring me that my new longer hair style was "perfect". I become all insecure and needy around these young, beautiful women. "Do you really like it? How's the color? Really? Do you think I should trim it here?" Thankfully, they're patient with me.

So I feel as if I've already had my Christmas, and my wish for everyone is that they have an equally wonderful holiday. Unlike the "best hair day", I'm not worried that there will never be as good a Christmas as this one. I know they'll just keep getting better and better.

I'm Still Alive

For the three people who actually read my blog, I thought I'd just check in today. It's been way over a month since I wrote anything. I did start writing a draft of something back in October, involving my observations of a praying mantis outside my bedroom window building a cocoon by squirting white stuff out her butt, but when I merely mentioned it to my sister she was so horrified and grossed out I scrubbed it. I thought it was cool. Anyway.

We're enjoying life in Florida. I sometimes think about a church I used to go to, and at the top of the bulletin it would say something like "the second Sunday of the month, in ordinary time", meaning it wasn't Lent, or Advent or any other Holy observance. Now, after all we've been through in the last few years, I'm often aware of how grateful I am for "ordinary time" in our lives.

So anyway, I've been giving some thought to my Geezer Handbook idea. I think it would be a great book. I don't want to give away the store here, but here's the concept: being a geezer is not necessarily a bad thing. And you're not automatically a geezer just because you're old. It's more a state of mind. But they do often go hand in hand. See, geezerhood can be good, because it gives you license to do anything you darn well please and not care what anybody thinks. And I'm not just talking about passing gas loudly in public. Although that's a plus. But I mean you say anything you want, wear anything you want and just don't give a hoot what anybody thinks about it. You're old. Or at least old-at-heart. Also, cheapness is often associated with geezerhood. Or as we like to say, "frugal". For instance, if you're dining with friends at a restaurant, never "split the bill". Always keep a calculator handy to figure out your share EXACTLY. And always carry one of those little cards that tells you how to figure the tip and NEVER pay more than 15%. Before tax. I think there are lots of useful tips for people aspiring to be geezers. I think I could be a big help. Hey, we all make our own contribution. And living here in Florida, I figure I'm pretty qualified to write the book on geezers. Heck, I'm fast becoming one.

Well, I just wanted to say I'm still here. I'm hoping for some inspiration soon so I can write again. Take care, all. As always, thank You God, for a good day. In ordinary time.

Not Just Another Day

It's the fifth anniversary of what we all call "9/11". There are probably more postings on this day than any other. It just doesn't feel right to let the day go by without saying something.

God knows there's nothing really new to be said. I'm so sorry for all who died. I'm so sorry for their families. I'm so sorry that we all have to live with a fear we hadn't known before. I'm grieved that this awful act has made us suspicious of people who look like the perpetrators. I'm sad that young men and women are dying in a war that was probably a direct result of this infamous act, although I'm not necessarily "against" the war. I worry that zealots of every stripe have become even more zealous for their causes. And against the other guy's.

I'm glad that many who lost their most precious loved ones on that day are beginning to move on and find that there is still life to be lived. I'm proud of all the people who have helped their fellow man get through this. I'm glad for the people who came to the realization that when the world falls apart, God is right there, willing and ready, to take them into His arms. I'm hopeful that one by one, we will all come to know God. The real God. Not a misconceived notion of a God who demands that infidels be murdered.

There is one God. He had one unique Son. That Son commanded us to love one another as he loved us. It could be so simple. Let's just make it simple.

Oldies Station

I've been listening to the oldies station again. Some of the songs bring back great memories and get my foot tapping, my head bobbing, and my pulse racing. Then there are other songs that are just plain annoying. Maybe they always were, but I'm really noticing it now all these years later. Case in point: "American Pie". Oh sure, no one can help singing along to the part we all know; "Bye bye Miss American Pie, drove my chevy to the levy but the levy was dry"...etc etc. But the rest of it....well first of all, the song is about as long as a TV miniseries. I swear DJ's only play it when they need to go to the bathroom. Or a doctor's appointment. Second, DOES ANYBODY UNDERSTAND IT??? There was a time, many years ago, when a bunch of us actually spent time discussing it and trying to figure out all the metaphors. (Someone thought "the day the music died" referred to the day Buddy Holly's plane crashed. OK. Now there's only about 340 more metaphors and heavily veiled allusions to go.) Of course, now that I'm mature, I naturally spend my time in more meaningful pursuits. Like Sudoku. In fact, I finished an entire Sudoku puzzle during the song "American Pie" just this morning.

Another truly annoying song is "MacArthur Park". More hard-to-understand lyrics and deep meaning. "Someone left the cake out in the rain, and I don't think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again....Oh Noooooo!" The only part I get is "oh no".

Of course it's no small wonder that our generation cranked out songs with crazy-quilt lyrics and screaming feedback guitar solos. Everybody was higher than a kite. To a bunch of greasy haired musicians sitting around a smoke-filled basement smoking pot and staring at black light posters at four in the morning, ridiculous lyrics were brilliant, man! Dig it!

But then there are the really good songs, like "China Grove" by the Doobie Brothers. Of course I don't know what that song's about either, in fact never really listened to the lyrics, but I don't care. It's got a GREAT groove and it rocks your socks off. And "American Band". Killer. It's not that I consider myself a rocker, in fact I guess I'd say I'm not, but when certain songs come on the radio they just grab me. I can't keep my legs still. I'M YOUNG AGAIN! Okay, there it is. Certain songs just take you back to some pocket of time that must have been good, because you find yourself grinning and bopping. Nothing wrong with that. If there were only a radio station that would play just the songs you love. But of course that's impossible. But maybe they could just stop playing "American Pie." Thanks.

The New Neighbors

We just met our new neighbors yesterday. They will be living upstairs from us in our condo complex. Sharing a garage with us. My husband and I are pretty much geezers living among mostly other geezers here. Okay, at 54 and 62 we're on the adolescent end of geezerhood, but still. And I'm okay with that. Our complex is only 44 units and although it's not an "over-55 community", like many of the communities down here, (down here being Florida), it just kind of turns out that way anyway.
So back to the new neighbors.

Our previous upstairs neighbor was an old woman in her eighties who was, shall we say, eccentric. She became more and more eccentric until she began threatening people with brooms and hammers and calling the police and fire departments reporting imaginary break-ins and assaults. This is not funny and I'm not making fun. She had become our friend, more or less, over the years, but we began keeping a watchful eye out for her as she started drifting back and forth between glad to see us and calling us filthy names. Then finally she "went over to the dark side" for good. They took her away and sold her condo. We heard they sold it to someone who intended to rent it out. Oh goodie. Enter "the renters", our new neighbors.

Our doorbell rings yesterday and a woman introduces herself as the owner/rental agent of the condo upstairs and just wanted to let us know that our new neighbors were moving in RIGHT NOW and would we like to meet them? Sure. I walk outside to where their furniture-laden truck is parked, and the woman points me toward a twenty-something guy, about six foot two, with gorgeous curly locks who looks like my nephew and has no shirt on. She says, "This is Aaron. He and his girlfriend Wendy are moving in upstairs." Holy cow. YOUNG PEOPLE!
This should make for some animated conversation at the next potluck in the clubhouse.
"Whose kids were those at the pool today? Ruth and George's?"
"No, they LIVE HERE!"
"WHAT?! But they're, they're YOUNG!"

So anyway, after I overcame my own shock and introduced myself and so on, I went back inside and told my husband the news. Young people were going to be living upstairs, sharing our garage. He got a sardonic look on his face and said, "This oughta go over big," thinking as I was about the rest of our neighbors. So he goes out to meet them too. By now Wendy is also outside and we chat briefly, offering any help we might be able to give. They seemed nice. Respectful. (Oh good Lord, listen to me. Respectful. That's what my grandmother would have said.) So we go back inside and soon we hear some conversation outside. See, the stairway to their unit is right outside our door in a kind of little courtyard. We can hear everything. So, it seems that Aaron and his friend Jeremiah, who is helping him, can't get the massive couch through the door and around the immediate corner. No way to make it go no matter what. They're thinking that maybe if they removed the screen from their lanai (Florida-speak for screened-in porch) at the back of the unit, they might be able to pass it up from beneath. I'm thinking good luck with that. In fact I even said it. Next thing you know, we look out our lanai door behind our condo and see Aaron and Jeremiah with the couch. In a flash, they had it on its end, and hoisted it so the top end was resting on the lanai above us. Now here's my favorite part. Aaron takes over holding the whole thing while Jeremiah runs around the building, up the stairs, and through the apartment to pull it up from the other end. We're standing in our living room looking out back at a guy HOLDING A COUCH all by himself, arms over his head like Atlas holding up the world, and his arms aren't even shaking. My husband and I looked at each other and he said what we were both thinking. "Might be good to have this guy around."

Well, that's chapter one of the new neighbors story. I don't expect there'll really be much to report. They seem like good kids. Hey, I'm kind of looking forward to being exposed to some youth for a change. Besides, in a neighborhood full of "Hanks", "Franks", "Eds", "Eleanors" and "Marguerites", it's kind of refreshing to hear names like "Wendy" and "Aaron".
Welcome to the neighborhood.

The Waiting Room

The family waiting room on the surgical floor was near capacity when I entered it to begin my own vigil about 5 PM. Some people seemed to be waiting as a family group, some as friends, and some as single spouses, like me. It struck me how many people must be having surgery. And this was just one hour of the day, in one waiting room on one floor of one hospital in the world.

I had just kissed my husband before he was rolled into the O.R. for major surgery. After four years of dealing with bladder cancer, exhausting every treatment and out-patient procedure available, he was now having the bladder removed. Serious stuff. I knew it was going to take several hours, so I settled in for an evening of reading, Sudoku, and a dinner break in the cafeteria. You may notice that I left out the word "worrying". That's because my most important activity during this waiting period was praying. I prayed. It was not desperate praying, but confident praying. I gave my husband's well being to God, and prayed for the doctors, nurses, and electrical equipment. (We live in Florida, and my first answered prayer was that there were no hurricanes yet in sight to threaten electrical power, or require evacuation at a most in-opportune time.)
A few friends had offered to stay with me through this, and I had declined. Something told me it would be better this way. I was able to be still, and know that God is God. The first miracle was that I wasn't fearful. My husband and I had been praying about this for quite some time. He had already put himself in God's hands, and faced this life-changing event with all the grace anyone could ask for. And that was perhaps the biggest miracle of all, and also what allowed me the strength to stay steady.

Time passed, and the waiting room thinned out, as one by one, surgeons came to speak with families about the outcome of their loved ones' surgeries. After three hours, I got a progress report from the operating room, saying things were going well, but they didn't have an estimate of how much longer it would be. There was lots of work to be done. I was grateful for the report. It was kind and considerate of the staff to let me know. After a few more hours, it was down to me and one family left. It was getting late by now, almost 10 o'clock. The wife and two beautiful daughters now sharing the room with me were beginning to frazzle. The husband had been in surgery all day. Another cancer patient. Just when the wife's considerable strength had been almost completely spent, their surgeon arrived to speak with them in the conference room. Mostly good news. I was glad for them. And I prayed for them too.

Another hour, and a few people came and went. The hospital volunteer at the desk outside had long since gone home. The halls were quiet, the night was dark, the TV murmered across the room at low volume. After six hours of surgery, at 11 o'clock, when our surgeon finally walked in to speak with me, there were just the four of us left in the room; me, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The doctor saw me sitting alone, but I wasn't.

The report was good. My husband came through it well. It went according to plan, and I was able to go and see him shortly afterward in recovery. He was groggy, drifting in and out of conciousness. I smoothed his hair and smiled at him. His first barely audible words were, "You wanna dance?" I couldn't believe that even now, he made me laugh. After another brief lapse into sleep, he opened his eyes again and said, "Thank you Jesus." Amen, my Love, Amen.

Success?

I saw three news articles yesterday that dealt with the idea of success, in three very different ways.

One story was about an enclave of obscenely huge mansions in a segment of Los Angeles called North Beverly Park. This is a development of giant, hotel-size homes, some as large as 40,000 square feet, and most 20,000 to 30,000, owned by the mega-super-rich and famous. People who not only don’t believe that less is more, but do believe that more is never enough. The home owners association member list reads like the Academy Awards, plus a Who’s Who of the sports world. Apparently this group of gargantuan homes is deemed “too much” even by the elite standards of Beverly Hills and Bel Air. The article pointed out that the main things this little group of neighbors have in common are their enormous wealth, and their dire need for privacy in a world filled with relentless paparazzi and gawking tourists. It seems this security-gated, border-patrolled, other-worldly community is the only place where this peculiar breed can live a “normal” life, having been rendered unfit to live among the rest of us. The sentence that smacked me in the face was this: “In the center of Beverly Park is an elaborate four-acre children’s park, which is usually empty.”
Is this success?

On the page opposite this article was a story about the Buffett family. (That would be Warren, not Jimmy.) In the last several days all the news outlets have been filled with the story of Warren Buffett’s decision to give the bulk of his 40 billion dollar estate to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. The story I read, however, was about his three grown children. Apparently they have always known they would not inherit great wealth from their father, who does not believe in inherited wealth. (Although I’m quite sure most of us would consider the “crumbs“ that fall from the table to be a pretty good amount of wealth.) The three middle-age children of Warren Buffet are apparently low-key and fairly normal, and each of them has his own charitable foundation which he or she runs. They’ve been raised to believe that you use your wealth to help those who need help. Now we’re getting closer to success.

The third story was one I saw on TV. It was about a young soldier who returned from Iraq minus a leg. While still in the hospital, he assumed he would spend the rest of his days in a wheel chair. Then he saw another vet, who had lost both legs, working out and running with his artificial limbs. The young soldier then realized that somebody even worse off was doing so much, and decided that he too would run again. And today he not only runs, he competes and hopes to compete in the next Parolympics. Now we’re talking success.

Success comes in several sizes and measures. Personally, I find success to have nothing to do with wealth or fame. It’s a fleeting thing, therefore a daily thing. One success follows another. Sometimes it follows failure. I know this much; in the end, success is not what’s in the financial portfolio, but what overflows from the heart.

Dad and the Battle of the Birds

I talked to Dad yesterday, and it seems he's doing battle with a bunch of birds. The prime real estate at the center of this heated turf war is his cherry tree. Says he, "In all the years I've had that cherry tree, I've never tasted even one ripe cherry. I manage to eat a few when they're starting to get ripe, but those blasted birds eat 'em ALL before they ever get really ripe!" He's been wracking his brain (his own words) trying to figure out some way to keep the birds off the tree. Rest assured he already tried the old fake owl in the tree trick, and the shiny aluminum pans years ago. Child's play. So he recounted to me the war that he's been waging for the last several days.

The first day, he found an old battery operated radio, tuned it to a rock station, turned it up loud and climbed up into the tree where he hung it on a branch. (Did I mention that my father is 87? Yup.) Dad said, "I figured if that rock music wouldn't keep em away, nothing would." By now you're correctly guessing that Dad hates rock music and assumes any of God's creature would certainly find it equally detestable. So anyway, then he went inside and watched from the kitchen window to see what would happen. And there they were, about four robins, way down the other end of the yard. This is how he tells it: "Well, they started out just walking around over there, kinda hands-in-their-pockets like, and pretty soon they start walking a little closer to the tree. So they walk around awhile longer, then sure enough, they start getting a little closer. Next thing you know, they're up in that tree! That rock music didn't bother them a bit." Of course I pointed out to him that it might have worked if they had been any kind of bird other than robins. I said, "Haven't you ever heard the song Rockin' Robin? Robins like rock music." Well he hadn't ever heard of the song Rockin Robin. (Did I mention he's 87?) So my joke was lost on him.

So the next day Dad had another idea. He took his old box window fan, (the really old kind that weighs about 20 pounds), plugged it into a good long extension cord, tied something to it so it made a lot of noise when the blades turned, and again, climbed up into the tree and stuck it in the branches. (I did mention that my father is 87.) Once again, he went back inside and watched from the window. Same story. Same four robins, just like before, walking around the far end of the yard, then a little closer, then a little closer, and next thing you know. In the tree again. Damn.

Well then yesterday, he figured he'd take a different tack. He decided to climb up into the tree and wrap some netting around three good branches, and let the birds have the rest of the tree. He figures maybe they'll have enough to eat, and they won't try and get into those three branches he saved for himself, and he thinks that ought to give him plenty of cherries. He says, "I sure would like to eat some ripe cherries from that tree sometime before I kick off."

I can't wait to find out how that works out for him. I just wish he'd stop climbing up into that tree.

Awesome, Dude

I fear that our best, really powerful words are being misused so much, they're becoming meaningless. We sprinkle our conversation with superlatives such as "awesome" and "amazing" like too much salt, until everthing tastes the same. To my way of thinking, the majestic Rocky Mountains are awesome. A space shuttle lifting off into the blue is awesome. And "amazing"? Amazing is when a magician makes an elephant disappear. Amazing is when God forgives us each and every time we make mistakes, and never stops loving us. Your tattooed boyfriend who calls everyone "Dude" is not amazing. I hear it all the time. "Oh Justin? He's amazing." So what's my point? I don't know, I just feel like we're losing the power of language. Myself included. Okay, I'm older, so instead of "awesome", it's "cool". I admit it. So today, I'm going to try and do better.

College Daze

One Friday night, sometime in the early 70's, my two college roommates and I shouldered our way into our favorite crowded dance club. It was packed. Over the thumping of the impossibly loud music and the roar of conversation I yelled to Diane, "Wow, it's standing room only!" She yelled back, "Who's Stanley Ramoni?"
Whenever we get together, we still talk about that. It was one of our many funny moments. That's how my memories of college, and the 70's in general, are - just moments. Brain snapshots all jumbled up in my head like photos tossed into a shoebox. I don't remember when things happened, or in what order. In fact, there are lots of things I don't remember at ALL. Same with my two roomies. One of us will launch into a "remember when we..." story, and inevitably one or both of the others will say, "I don't have have any memory of that whatsoever." We all remember bits and pieces of our college experience, not necessarily the same ones. And because we all have this Swiss cheese picture of "back then", none of us are offended when the others don't remember. Linda recently mentioned the time she visited me during my music camp summer. I said, "You came to visit me there? I don't have any memory of that whatsoever." And she cheerfully, almost joyfully said, "It's okay! See? None of us has to feel bad!" She, in turn did not remember when...never mind. I can't tell that one. Not while any of our parents are still alive anyway.
I guess the most surprising thing is that after 35 years, we still get together. We still laugh and have a ball like old times. But when I look at a photo someone took of us recently, I think, "Who are those old broads?" Because in my mind, when I think of the three of us, I still see these cocky college kids in haltar tops, blue work shirts and bell bottoms, swilling beer and playing Cardinal Puff in the college pub. (Lucky us, the drinking age was 18 then.) Diane is now a Red Hat Lady. How can that be?
It's not that I can't believe how much time has passed. I lived through every minute of it. It's just fascinating, I guess, to see us now and yet remember so vividly being the kids we were. Mostly I'm so glad we're still friends. Telling old tales, some of which we all wish we COUDN'T remember, is only part of our friendship. We've all brought the best of who we were to our current adult lives, and thankfully we've shed the worst of our embarrassing youth. We survived the 70's. It all gets good from here.

Dear God, Thank You for old friends who share memories good and bad, and love me still.

And So I Begin

I’m a woman, 54 years old.
That says more about me than you might think at first. It means I went to high school in the 60’s, when girls still weren’t allowed to wear pants to school. When we all had our ears pressed to the radio trying to decipher the so-called dirty lyrics to “Louie Louie”. When our marching band was playing movie themes like “West Side Story“, and “The Longest Day”. It means I went to college in the ‘70’s when guys I knew were living on one banana a day trying to lose enough weight to be ineligible for the draft when they flunked out. When books like “I’m OK You’re OK”, and “The Sensuous Woman” had us convinced that virtually anything you could think of to do was “OK“. And when you entered the local dance club, the black lights were so intense, all you could see were people’s teeth, and the occasional white bra glowing through a loose knit sweater. It means I matured through the 80’s, when “coke” stopped meaning “Coke”, and shoulder pads grew to NFL proportions. It means that the ’90s seem like just a few minutes ago.
More than anything, it means I’m planted smack dab in the middle of the Baby Boomer generation. Where 50 is the new 30. Or something like that. It’s a funny place to be. Just today my husband and I were riding in the car, listening to the oldies station, bopping our heads to “Walk This Way” like the opening scene of “That ’70’s Show”, guitars screaming, bass whomping, and us just groovin’. And it occurred to me that the people in cars going by must see Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver going nuts like teenagers. This is an odd time of life - still perfectly capable of feelin’ groovy, just don’t look in the mirror.
A few years back I had the idea to write a series of articles poking fun at geezers. Now I think, “what’s so funny?”
But I’m enjoying being my age. I’m not so self conscious. I’m not so consumed with comparing myself to everyone else. I have a different perspective on life, a different vantage point from which to observe the world. Sometimes things strike me funny. Sometimes they just strike me. And so begins my journey into blog land. I’ll think of stuff and write it down, and maybe someone else will read it and think, “I know what you mean.” Or, “I never thought of that.”
Thanks for being here. Oh, here’s something I ran across that I really like. I don’t know where it originally came from, but it’s written on a sign on the wall of Mother Teresa’s children’s home in Calcutta:

"ANYWAY"

People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered,
LOVE THEM ANYWAY
If you do good, people will accuse you of
selfish, ulterior motives,
DO GOOD ANYWAY
If you are successful,
you win false friends and true enemies,
SUCCEED ANYWAY
The good you do will be forgotten tomorrow,
DO GOOD ANYWAY
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable,
BE HONEST AND FRANK ANYWAY
What you spent years building may be
destroyed overnight,
BUILD ANYWAY
People really need help
but may attack you if you help them,
HELP PEOPLE ANYWAY
Give the world the best you have
and you'll get kicked in the teeth,
GIVE THE WORLD THE BEST YOU'VE GOT ANYWAY.