I was going to continue my thoughts on this afternoon's post, until I learned of Leonard Nimoy's death today. I know that he was 83 years old and in poor health, but it saddened me none the less. I do very much enjoy the Star Trek oeuvre, but that's not how I was first introduced to Mr. Nimoy's work.
When I was very little, I can very clearly remember watching the "In Search of ..." series on T.V. It ran from 1977-1982 and covered all those mysterious and marvelous topics that are commonplace on the History channel now - Bigfoot, aliens, Mayans, monsters, etc. But they also discussed cloning, Amelia Earhart, the shroud of Turin and Pompeii. So many awesome and diverse ideas getting their moment in the sun, and allowing a very little girl to become wide eyed with curiosity. I didn't care about princesses and unicorns, I wanted to learn about spontaneous human combustion and whether or not Vincent Van Gogh was mad, and even more than that I fell in love with Amelia Earhart. I think I was 5 when that episode first broadcast, so my memories must come from reruns, but I came away needing to understand what made her tick and what drove her to accomplish so much in a man's world. And secretly I prayed she was still alive, living in anonymity on a tiny pacific island.
Throughout these weekly forays, the melodic voice of Leonard Nimoy egged me on to learn more. Years later, I discovered the Time Life book series "Mysteries of the Unknown" at my local library. I devoured them, sometimes checking the same ones out week after week. A decade ago, I was poking through a tiny "antique" store near my husband's hometown when I discovered a bunch of them. I bought every single one ... just to be able to remember hours spent pouring over the mysteries that I needed to know more about.
When I was a teenager, I got a better appreciation of Mr. Nimoy's acting skills and fell in love with Star Trek in general, meandering through all its permutations over the years (minus the Scott Bakula one - it just didn't do anything for me). Thank you, Mr. Nimoy. Thank you for your voice that intrigued me week after week, that allowed me to escape into a world of endless things to discover which were cool and mysterious and not my father screaming at my mother. Thank you, sir.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Food for Thought
My dear friend sent this to me today. She has no idea that I was just discussing many of these things with someone else I love. I'll write more later on topic, but I thought I'd share now.
Friday, February 13, 2015
Tired
Fair warning, this isn't going to be a happy post. If you don't live in Massachusetts right now, it's very hard to understand how shitty this weather is and its effect on every aspect of our lives. We've received more snow in the last 30 days than ever. Like ever. This is what it looks like out my front door:
Our street is mostly two lanes where people can park on either side. You have to give fellow drivers room to get around, but otherwise it's not bad. Or rather it wasn't bad. It's one car width wide now. When I leave and come home, my stomach is in knots hoping that no one will be coming the other way. Whenever this happens, one of us has to put it in reverse and thread backwards between the snow mounds until you can get to a spot that's big enough to squeeze past. Aside from the main roads, it's like this everywhere. Further into Boston, it's much worse. There's just nowhere to put the snow.
That's a tiny path towards my car. This is a look down the street:
Our street is mostly two lanes where people can park on either side. You have to give fellow drivers room to get around, but otherwise it's not bad. Or rather it wasn't bad. It's one car width wide now. When I leave and come home, my stomach is in knots hoping that no one will be coming the other way. Whenever this happens, one of us has to put it in reverse and thread backwards between the snow mounds until you can get to a spot that's big enough to squeeze past. Aside from the main roads, it's like this everywhere. Further into Boston, it's much worse. There's just nowhere to put the snow.
I've been having issues with a part of my roof due to a huge ice dam. (Everyone is struggling with ice dams.) Our eldest found a leak in the ceiling in a downstairs room. Thanks to suggestions from my wonderful next door neighbor, we found a way to make a divot in the ice so the water has an escape route now. But it has been very stressful after work each day spending hours out our son's window scrapping the roof, salting the roof, beating the crap out of the ice on the roof, talking about the roof, worrying about the roof. It's been very upsetting to my husband, as his health hasn't been good recently and it kills him as a man to watch me do this stuff.
Here's a look out that upstairs window:
Everyone I meet is either frustrated or exhausted, and it's coming out in anger. Tonight I had to stop at a local CVS. There's a mountain of snow in the lot that must be 40' high and 30' wide. It literally blocks the end of two rows. When I tried to exit, no one had left a space at the end for us to get through. When I put the car in reverse, there were already three cars behind me. We came to a stand still, and then a car pulled out in front of me. I got out, gesturing like a flight attendant and yelled to the ones behind me, "You have to back up. There's no way through." No one moved. So I did it again. Then a guy walking towards the CVS yelled at me, "You're going the wrong way, moron!" So I yelled back, "I know that, but there's no way out." Then he screamed, "You're going the wrong way, STUPID!!" And I yelled, "I KNOW THAT! THERE'S NO WAY OUT!" Then finally the farthest car moved, and we eventually all got out.
I am tired of shoveling, tired of the cold and tired of worrying. I'm tired of the pain in my back that I know means one of those pesky discs has slipped again. I'm tired of the impending doom feeling that comes from knowing days in advance that the snow is coming. I'm tired of pretending to my children that everything is hunky dory. I'm very tired.
Friday, January 30, 2015
My Buddy
We've recently had quite a lot of snow in New England ... all at once. I don't know which is worse - two feet of snow in one night, or two feet of snow spread out over a month. It's sort of like the way I looked at my first two children's birth stories. The first one took days with 27 hours of active labor. The second one took an hour and twenty minutes. Looking back, I really can't decide which one I preferred, as they were both overwhelming.
With all the snow and clean-up, which is still far from over, the customers have been sparse, but today brought an interesting story. We were helping a woman get into her safe deposit box. We've recently moved everything online which has created some challenges for us, as we are in an older branch and sometimes the computer doesn't match the paperwork. No problem though, just a little extra work to make the computer match, as paper is the trump. In her case (we'll call her Sarah), only her mother (we'll call her Mildred) was listed in the computer - and it was frustrating her that it was taking a little longer. I stepped in to explain that we'd certainly take care of her need today, but if she could bring Mildred in the next time, I'd be happy to clear this up. Sarah said that would be difficult, as Mildred didn't get out a lot. I started to brainstorm out loud how I could make this happen for them, looking up Mildred's info to try and make it easier. I noticed that everything was very outdated, and it was going to be a bit of a challenge.
Then Sarah looked at me and said, "ok ... my mother died 15 years ago. I've been negligent in fixing this, because I couldn't bear the thought of taking her name off the box. Isn't that crazy of me?" And the way she looked at me, her eyes welling up with tears ... I completely understood. She had her hands in front of her on my desk. So I reached over and placed my hand on top of hers. I told her she wasn't crazy at all. I told her that my mother's desk sits in my bedroom. I told her that each drawer is unchanged from the way she left it.
I didn't tell her that the middle drawer has her fabric markers in it, her scissors - one labeled in her handwriting "fabric only," sharpened pencils I will never use. The top right drawer has special trinkets and little metal boxes filled with necessities. The top left drawer has her handmade address book filled with family birthdays and lists she was working on. (She always made lists.) There's a list of things to do "when I get out of the hospital" - that one stings every time I read it. It has a little book of poetry that she collected over the years, writing some of it out by hand, others photocopied, some her own. The novena she used to pray during intense times of tribulation is at the front. The bottom right drawer holds my baby book. It used to hold my sister and brother's books, but I thought it only right to give them their books. The bottom left drawer was empty, so I added some of my own files. It gives me a pretend reason to be in the desk, instead of looking over the things she used to touch.
When my customer was done looking at her safe deposit box, she came to say goodbye to me. She took her wallet out of her purse and showed me a tiny black and white photo of a young woman in the outside plastic pocket. She said, "This is my buddy. She's always with me."
With all the snow and clean-up, which is still far from over, the customers have been sparse, but today brought an interesting story. We were helping a woman get into her safe deposit box. We've recently moved everything online which has created some challenges for us, as we are in an older branch and sometimes the computer doesn't match the paperwork. No problem though, just a little extra work to make the computer match, as paper is the trump. In her case (we'll call her Sarah), only her mother (we'll call her Mildred) was listed in the computer - and it was frustrating her that it was taking a little longer. I stepped in to explain that we'd certainly take care of her need today, but if she could bring Mildred in the next time, I'd be happy to clear this up. Sarah said that would be difficult, as Mildred didn't get out a lot. I started to brainstorm out loud how I could make this happen for them, looking up Mildred's info to try and make it easier. I noticed that everything was very outdated, and it was going to be a bit of a challenge.
Then Sarah looked at me and said, "ok ... my mother died 15 years ago. I've been negligent in fixing this, because I couldn't bear the thought of taking her name off the box. Isn't that crazy of me?" And the way she looked at me, her eyes welling up with tears ... I completely understood. She had her hands in front of her on my desk. So I reached over and placed my hand on top of hers. I told her she wasn't crazy at all. I told her that my mother's desk sits in my bedroom. I told her that each drawer is unchanged from the way she left it.
I didn't tell her that the middle drawer has her fabric markers in it, her scissors - one labeled in her handwriting "fabric only," sharpened pencils I will never use. The top right drawer has special trinkets and little metal boxes filled with necessities. The top left drawer has her handmade address book filled with family birthdays and lists she was working on. (She always made lists.) There's a list of things to do "when I get out of the hospital" - that one stings every time I read it. It has a little book of poetry that she collected over the years, writing some of it out by hand, others photocopied, some her own. The novena she used to pray during intense times of tribulation is at the front. The bottom right drawer holds my baby book. It used to hold my sister and brother's books, but I thought it only right to give them their books. The bottom left drawer was empty, so I added some of my own files. It gives me a pretend reason to be in the desk, instead of looking over the things she used to touch.
When my customer was done looking at her safe deposit box, she came to say goodbye to me. She took her wallet out of her purse and showed me a tiny black and white photo of a young woman in the outside plastic pocket. She said, "This is my buddy. She's always with me."
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Snore
I was sleep-choring the other night - while washing the dishes, I fell asleep standing up. I woke myself when a snore escaped and startled me. I know I snore, a little, but I refuse to think it's worse than my husband's snoring. I used to pray that I would fall asleep before him, otherwise there was no way I was going to sleep. Now the tables have turned, I'm often so tired when I go to bed I'm out long before him.
My last company would send the managers to a conference once a year, and they always paired us up in the rooms. This is never a comfortable idea - forced cohabitation, but for many years, a dear friend and I would share a room. We settled into a rhythm. She fell asleep right away and showered in the morning. I stayed up until she was asleep and showered at night. Sympatico. Inevitably, a year came where I was partnered with someone else. I warned this one in advance that I might snore a bit. The next morning, she not only told me how she couldn't sleep due to my snoring, but she told anybody who would listen about my snoring. Over the course of the next few days, she would joke about it at meals. It was rather humiliating. This conference came less than three months after I gave birth to our last child and my mother's death. It was a bad scene overall.
I was pumping and storing my breast milk, not only so I could take it back to the baby, but also so I wouldn't stop producing milk while away from her. I carried my supplies around with me all day, making trips back to the refrigerator in the room when I needed to drop the little bags off. Picture this: me in a random bathroom in a Disneyworld conference building, trying to furiously pump and not spill a drop in the five minutes before the next session would start. If I hadn't been worried that asking to not go to the meeting at all would have been held against me in the future, I would have done just that. Alas, as progressive as my last boss liked to believe she was, it never really felt like a safe environment to voice my needs. I was always shocked by the peers who would take long vacations or medical leaves when they needed to. I heard stories about those that would leave early all the time, hardly ever closed their stores or helped on the floor or just generally said dickish things to their employees. Didn't they live with that same level of worry or fear about job reprisal or loss that I did - or was their "fuck it" attitude much more developed than mine.
I'm really interested in understanding why some people have a much better developed (or for the worse) "fuck it" attitude. It's not just a generational thing either. I've met plenty of people my age and older over the years who don't care what they ask for or how something will look. Maybe it comes from a loss in faith with employers overall from the mid 1960's on. You used to expect that if you worked hard for years they'd take care of you. When that dynamic completely changed, maybe the children produced after those years were fed on their parents cynicism, with only a few slipping through the cracks. My mother, born in 1944, was afraid all the time - afraid to get fired, afraid to be unable to feed us, afraid to ask the landlord to fix broken things. Her fear was her gift to us (along with a healthy sense of guilt - a story for another time).
My last company would send the managers to a conference once a year, and they always paired us up in the rooms. This is never a comfortable idea - forced cohabitation, but for many years, a dear friend and I would share a room. We settled into a rhythm. She fell asleep right away and showered in the morning. I stayed up until she was asleep and showered at night. Sympatico. Inevitably, a year came where I was partnered with someone else. I warned this one in advance that I might snore a bit. The next morning, she not only told me how she couldn't sleep due to my snoring, but she told anybody who would listen about my snoring. Over the course of the next few days, she would joke about it at meals. It was rather humiliating. This conference came less than three months after I gave birth to our last child and my mother's death. It was a bad scene overall.
I was pumping and storing my breast milk, not only so I could take it back to the baby, but also so I wouldn't stop producing milk while away from her. I carried my supplies around with me all day, making trips back to the refrigerator in the room when I needed to drop the little bags off. Picture this: me in a random bathroom in a Disneyworld conference building, trying to furiously pump and not spill a drop in the five minutes before the next session would start. If I hadn't been worried that asking to not go to the meeting at all would have been held against me in the future, I would have done just that. Alas, as progressive as my last boss liked to believe she was, it never really felt like a safe environment to voice my needs. I was always shocked by the peers who would take long vacations or medical leaves when they needed to. I heard stories about those that would leave early all the time, hardly ever closed their stores or helped on the floor or just generally said dickish things to their employees. Didn't they live with that same level of worry or fear about job reprisal or loss that I did - or was their "fuck it" attitude much more developed than mine.
I'm really interested in understanding why some people have a much better developed (or for the worse) "fuck it" attitude. It's not just a generational thing either. I've met plenty of people my age and older over the years who don't care what they ask for or how something will look. Maybe it comes from a loss in faith with employers overall from the mid 1960's on. You used to expect that if you worked hard for years they'd take care of you. When that dynamic completely changed, maybe the children produced after those years were fed on their parents cynicism, with only a few slipping through the cracks. My mother, born in 1944, was afraid all the time - afraid to get fired, afraid to be unable to feed us, afraid to ask the landlord to fix broken things. Her fear was her gift to us (along with a healthy sense of guilt - a story for another time).
Friday, January 9, 2015
Fragility
A couple weeks ago I had a conversation with a woman over the phone about her account and some help that she needed. We chatted about her son and her health. We laughed a little over a shared joke. Today her son came in to give me her death certificate. This meat sack we walk around in all day is so perilously close to the edge of oblivion every moment. Your heart can give out. Your cells can turn against you, mutating into cancer. A brilliant morning at the local deli or at work can be twisted into disaster.
The fable of living to a ripe old age, dying peacefully in your bed surrounded by children and grandchildren, seraphim at the bedpost - seems to be just that. We are here one minute, and then not. The earth keeps spinning, and the taxes still come due. When I was younger I imagined that when it would be done for me, the world would pause. But aside from the effect to friends and family, the trains will still run. Not quite the mark that any of us were hoping for.
I'm awfully maudlin tonight, my loves, and I'm sorry if these thoughts add weight to the collective sadness the world is experiencing. I have this black and white interpretation of what's fair that sometimes gets me in trouble. The pendulum seems to be stuck on the unfair side, probably lodged in the bodies of the innocent that seem to be stacking up like cord wood.
The fable of living to a ripe old age, dying peacefully in your bed surrounded by children and grandchildren, seraphim at the bedpost - seems to be just that. We are here one minute, and then not. The earth keeps spinning, and the taxes still come due. When I was younger I imagined that when it would be done for me, the world would pause. But aside from the effect to friends and family, the trains will still run. Not quite the mark that any of us were hoping for.
I'm awfully maudlin tonight, my loves, and I'm sorry if these thoughts add weight to the collective sadness the world is experiencing. I have this black and white interpretation of what's fair that sometimes gets me in trouble. The pendulum seems to be stuck on the unfair side, probably lodged in the bodies of the innocent that seem to be stacking up like cord wood.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
New Year
The fondue pot is washed, and the leftovers are put away. Now comes the ritual of seeing who'll still be awake to watch the ball drop in an hour. In years past, all the babies and my husband would be fast asleep around me, but I think they'll all make it this year.
New Year's Eve was always a big deal when I was a young girl. My mother looked at it as a chance for a fresh start, almost a new beginning. Maybe she'd get a better job or win the lottery or meet a wonderful man. Although she always struggled to pay the bills, she'd make sure we had snacks to celebrate. My great grandmother used to say that whatever you did on New Year's Eve was what you were destined to do in the coming year. Mom made sure we didn't argue with each other, that we sang, that we had snacks ... all to try and seal the deal for us. As I got older, I used to let this weigh heavy on me. I'd try to shove everything I possibly needed to do onto the 30th in order to keep myself free to make a big meal on the 31st. I reasoned to myself that I was ensuring an easy upcoming year. All I was really doing was stressing myself out.
A couple years ago I decided to change my thinking. Now I look at it as getting lots of cuddle time with the babies, trying to write something or be creative and have a yummy meal made in a communal way. That's why we fondue. It is a lot of work to prep it all, but we graze for hours. I just love feeding them, and I know how lucky I am to be able to afford to feed them well. When I think back on how my mother struggled, how hungry we often were, there is a profound joy in watching my children eat.
I hope that the new year brings you joy and good health. I hope that there is adventure and happiness on your horizon. I hope you learn something new about yourself and that you spend time helping others however you can. I hope that love surrounds you. And if you need it, I hope it brings you a new beginning.
New Year's Eve was always a big deal when I was a young girl. My mother looked at it as a chance for a fresh start, almost a new beginning. Maybe she'd get a better job or win the lottery or meet a wonderful man. Although she always struggled to pay the bills, she'd make sure we had snacks to celebrate. My great grandmother used to say that whatever you did on New Year's Eve was what you were destined to do in the coming year. Mom made sure we didn't argue with each other, that we sang, that we had snacks ... all to try and seal the deal for us. As I got older, I used to let this weigh heavy on me. I'd try to shove everything I possibly needed to do onto the 30th in order to keep myself free to make a big meal on the 31st. I reasoned to myself that I was ensuring an easy upcoming year. All I was really doing was stressing myself out.
A couple years ago I decided to change my thinking. Now I look at it as getting lots of cuddle time with the babies, trying to write something or be creative and have a yummy meal made in a communal way. That's why we fondue. It is a lot of work to prep it all, but we graze for hours. I just love feeding them, and I know how lucky I am to be able to afford to feed them well. When I think back on how my mother struggled, how hungry we often were, there is a profound joy in watching my children eat.
I hope that the new year brings you joy and good health. I hope that there is adventure and happiness on your horizon. I hope you learn something new about yourself and that you spend time helping others however you can. I hope that love surrounds you. And if you need it, I hope it brings you a new beginning.
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