POST HIGH SCHOOL ADULTS: WHOSE EDUCATION IS IT ANYWAY?

Parents mortgaging their homes—borrowing from their own retirement accounts to pay for the post high school education expenses for the post high school adults that they raised?  Preposterous!

As a generation, we Baby Boomers we have different expectations and experiences than do many young post high school adults today. Some joined the military to fight for our country and you can believe that facing battle, seeing your friends killed, and having to kill our enemies, these young men and women grew up in a hurry. Some boomers got married right out of high school and had adult responsibilities at age 18. 

They did not ask their parents for mortgage money or college education money. Do you know how they paid for college? THEY WORKED! They themselves worked --to pay for their own educations!

 Paying your own way is one opportunity to make wise choices. It is absolutely a sign of, a prerogative of, privilege of and a RESPONSIBILITY OF a post high school adult.

Ever take a five-year-old to a store? They want everything that they see.

Ever take them with their own money, say from a cash birthday gift?

 All of a sudden—they are interested in details, weighing the appeal of this toy vs. that one. In other words, they are prepared to make carefully thought out decisions that they weigh very carefully… when it is their money!

So it can be and should be with post high school adults. If a college education is what they want – it is THEIR responsibility to pay for it. 
When they have that responsibility they, like the 5-year-old with his birthday money, are going to check things out-- very carefully.  How much do they really need that new apartment/car/stereo/outfit-- if they have to work to pay for it themselves? 

If you parents are writing the check, whatever they want at that moment is a vital necessity:  it is essential. If they are writing their own check, maybe the item can wait.

Post High School Adults—that really needs to be the new phrase  to put the right “em-PHA-sis  the right sy-LAB-able”—as the Austin Powers’ character said in that zany movie with Gwyneth Paltrow as a flight attendant.  We as a society have lost our minds and our perspectives in some areas, and this is absolutely one of those. We have begun to prolong “adolescence” to the point that we may need to send along diapers in the college back pack-- that we pack for them!

Where to begin? You begin wherever you are.

If they are entering high school that is a very good time to have a sit-down face-to-face heart-to-heart talk.

“Listen, Michael or Michelle, mom and dad need to tell you something very important and very serious.

In four years you will graduate  from high school and you will be an adult. You will need to make important decisions that will affect you for the rest of your life.

“In fact the first day you set foot in a high school class room are already making life- altering decisions.  What are you in a high school class room for, anyway?

“It is my strong suggestion, son/daughter that you are there to prepare yourself for the work you will do for the next forty years. You are there to make the first decision for yourself, for your future: will you go to college-- or not?”

Yes, that is still a decision;  and too many people blow right past it --assuming that college is necessarily for everyone—which it is not.

I am not one of these advocates of the so-called self made man who dropped out and founded a Google-like mega company and made more money that Bill Gates has given away to his foundation.  No, depending on your family’s values, some type of post high school education is essential-- unless you plan to work three entry level jobs for the rest of your natural life.

But the question still needs to be raised, so that a conscious thoughtful decision is made regarding how much and what kind of post high school education your son or daughter wants to attain for himself/herself.

Assuming for the moment that Michael or Michelle says, “Yes, mom, dad I want a college education.”

“Well, wonderful”, you can then say. “How do you plan to pay for it?”

“I thought you guys would pay for it—you have money.”

“Yes, we have a little money—that we have worked very hard for, over a long period of time. We scrimped and saved so that we will have a decent retirement. The money that we have for our retirement is ours.

We will need it to pay for long term care insurance, perhaps a nursing home or assisted living should the need arise. We do not have any money laying around to SPARE to give away to anyone…including you dear son or daughter.”

“Mom/Dad what are you saying? I can’t go to college?”

“No, we are not saying that. What we said is that we are not paying for it.”

“I’m just a kid—how can I pay for it?”

Now you are asking the right question. And there are good answers for that.

I will give you the punch line here: our son and daughters, the three young Hunte

who are 20-somethings now have all graduated college with zero college debt.

ZERO COLLEGE DEBT.   If you care to know how that was accomplished, ask. 

THE SCARY TRUTH ABOUT CHURCH AT AGE 5

        Church with Granddaddy Bill was interesting and a little scary. I liked the music and the singing.  I did not mind the preaching.  Reverend Lett would always call me “baby” and “sugar” and I loved him for that.

He would say, “Come on down here, Sugar, and put your money in the collection.”  I would stand erect and march down the red carpeted aisle to the table placed in front of the pulpit-- but on the floor level, not on the stage.

I’d put my dime on the table. I was not the only one to put my money in the collection like that: that was the way it was done. Everyone in the church—so it seemed to me—got up walked down the aisle and put their money on that table:  coins and paper money. (I realize now, that checks were not used and of credit cards were not even thought of!)  Bill and his helpers would count all the money right there in front of everybody.

The organist would be playing a certain style of music during this time. The tempo was upbeat and lively and it lent itself to marching down the aisle. This aisle was actually down—the back of the church was way higher than the floor area in front of the pulpit. Yes, it was the way theaters used to be-- before you had to take stairs to the higher elevations in the rear of the auditorium, as you do now.  The main floor of the church was tilted up in the back, down in the front!

So, I’d walk down a gentle slope to the lower elevation at the front--no stairs needed. Then, after placing my dime on the table I would march past the table, and then and back up the other aisle. It was, I guess, a parade of sorts. At age five, I loved that.

The scary part came when Reverend Lett would preach. What was scary for me came not from him, but from what would happen in the congregation.  He wore gold-rimmed glasses, a very low haircut and he had a disarming smile. He wore three- piece suits, very often white and all his accessories were white also—sometimes even his tie would be white.

He would start out calmly and speaking in a modulated very smooth, very pleasant voice.  As his sermon progressed, though he began to be more forceful with his words, and his gestures.

 As he raised his voice, it seemed his body temperature would go up too.  As he exhorted the flock about something:  he would really start to sweat!  He would periodically take his out handkerchief and sometimes wipe his forehead. Sometimes he would just blot his face.

The thing is this: that church was one of the few places that I went to in those days that was air-conditioned!  There was always a lovely peaceful shady-feeling-coolness about the sanctuary--no matter how bright and sweltering it was outside.

 This may not be so, but it seemed to me this way: as his volume increased, there would erupt punctuations of “amen” and “hallelujah” from the congregation.  All of a sudden, some woman—I never saw a man do this—a woman would start “shouting”-- literally. 

That’s what it was called. She would raise both arms and seem to rise from the pew then fall back.  She’d do that several times—with her arms in the air the whole time, shouting over and over, “Lord have mercy!”

Two of the white-uniformed, white-gloved ushers armed with paper fans would briskly walk over to her and they both kind of took hold of her arms and patted her arms and fanned her furiously till she settled down.

This stuff scared me to death! Just when the first woman was getting quiet again and looking as if she had swooned, another would start shouting in a different section of the congregation!  The whole thing would start all over again.

There were many of those white-uniformed white-gloved members of the usher board.  They would scramble to do their duty:   to attend the shouter.

After a while with this shouting breaking out in different sections of the church, Reverend Lett’s voice will begin to slow, and to soften.

As he wound down, toward the end, he practically spoke in a calm and gentle whisper.  As he did so, he would begin to smile.  He would wipe his forehead once more; and this time he folded and returned his handkerchief to his pants pocket.

The organist would play a soothing quiet melody, and the whole congregation, it seemed to me, let out a deeply satisfying “sigh”.  Then, church was over.            

REDKEN. FIFTH AVENUE. EXTREME

Redken.  Fifth Avenue. Extreme

When I was born bald, bald was not beautiful. I was not there but it was reported to me that I was bald—and since I had a huge yellow head that was the source of some angst for my beautiful full-head of red curly haired mother.

Later, when I had hair it was not red and it was not curly…in the sense that curly was cute them, like Shirley Temple curly…the curls they named after her.  I was five when she was five. I was cute and she was cute but no one was as cute as Shirley Temple: they made movies about how cute she was.

I guess I rolled off the bassinette competing and feeling less than and therefore I had to do more, be more, know more…in order to earn my “right” to breathe air and take up space on this planet. I don’t think anyone told me that…my excellent deductive reasoning skills figured that out for me… at age five.

Today I spent twenty minutes on my hair. The rest of the week I will spend twenty minutes…total…over six days.

I love my hair today. I have not always loved my hair, but then, I have not always loved a lot that had to do with me. The five decades plus love hate relationship with my hair—relationship with my hair!—is too fluffy for one blog especially today.

But now that I can spend 40 minutes a week and love my curly hair, I want to share what makes me happy today. Redken Fifth Avenue Extreme is the line of hair care—sorry, it is an unpaid commercial endorsement and I am shameless about it! J--that I am using now. It is unbelievably easy three steps two of which occur in the shower. Shampoo. Condition. And after barely toweling dry and finger combing my curls, apply Extreme Anti-Snap. I don’t know what it is nor do I care. It works! And today, my hair makes me happy!

EXTENDING FAMILY

It was a completely ordinary day. I got a manila envelope in the mail—addressed to my office.  That address is still publicly available even though I have not worked there in quite some time.  That was the first mystery.

Inside the envelope was a paperback book. I had not ordered this—the title was unfamiliar. I turned the book over. The author’s photo was strangely familiar. I know I had never seen that face, yet   there was something about that face…

When I opened the front cover there was a letter addressed to me. (Reader, you might want to sit down.) It read:

“I am your father’s son.”

I stared at these words uncomprehendingly. I felt a need to sit down. I read the rest of the letter which was quite brief—several times. There was a name and a number and those words.

Curiosity was perhaps the strongest emotion- if that is an emotion.   I just know I wanted to find out the rest of the story.

It was a Saturday in September and I kept checking my watch and the door as if I were about to go on a blind date. And in a way, perhaps that is an apt description.

You might think that knowing this was to be a first meeting face to face I would have thought of something to say, worthy of a momentous occasion. When the doorbell rang and I answered the door, I looked up. My immortal first words: “Wow! You are tall!”

Since tall people hear this all the time, he absolutely took it in good humor, “Yes, I sure am.” Then he bent down to hug me.

We spent the afternoon and the evening and the next day talking—we had two lifetimes to catch up on.

He looked and felt familiar because he has our father’s build: tall, lean, athletic, graceful. He had Daddy’s mannerisms, too. It was very much like looking at a younger version of Daddy.

He returned for Thanksgiving to meet the nieces and nephew. What a holiday it was! They adored him and he found them fascinating.

People always talk about going home for the holidays—there is no adequate description for doing that for the first time. I have a new to me brother.

August the following year, our sisters had an occasion to arrive in the city where he lived. We met at a museum site, where there were crowds of people. When we all found each other, really, no introductions were needed. They saw it too. It was so good to be there that day for all that open hearted…connecting.

Not only can you go home again, you can go home for the very first time.  As Daddy said to the sons-in-law on meeting them: “I’m Geronimo. Welcome to the tribe!”

You can’t make that kind of thing up!

A TALE OF TWO PANCAKE SUPPERS

I grew up attending Lutheran School from first grade through high school graduation. I was baptized and confirmed in the Lutheran Church. I was a Lutheran. Period. End of story.

Only… I married a non-Lutheran. Beloved is an Anglican from the cradle: he was practically born on the altar.

He broke his arm at age 12 when he fell while painting the ceiling of St. Andrew’s Anglican church where his mother was the pianist-- and the choir (no typo there). During a service, before he could walk he crawled up on the altar. I’m not kidding or exaggerating-- that actually happened.

His father scooped him up and carried him around after that so he would not join/disrupt the altar events. After this incident or because of it, Beloved’s mother believed he would--or she wanted him to-- become a priest.

So I love this man who is not a Lutheran. The minister who married us is the same man who when I was six years old told my aunt that I needed to attend the Lutheran school; I did. It changed my life in wonderful ways for which I will be eternally grateful.

Anyway, this dear man, Rev. Dr. Peter R. Hunt asked me during our premarital counseling what I would do if Beloved wanted me to join his church.

“Well, if anyone will be joining someone else’s church, he

will be joining mine!”  Famous last words!

So, you can see this coming right?

The closest Lutheran church to where we lived would not allow Eyston to take communion because he was not Lutheran. I was offended by that, and the part I don’t get now is why I did not just go to another Lutheran church till I could find one that would let him take communion. But that is not what happened.

At that same time, that we had been ill-treated at our neighborhood Lutheran Church, Beloved’s parents, and his younger brother and sister were all living in our city.

 In fact those two siblings of his and we got married within a year of each other; and we all had kids within 18 months of each other!

Beloved and I started attending the Episcopal church with this whole little family here.  (There was no Anglican church in this city at that time.)

 There was a whole extended family pew thing going on which-- since I had never had that --and desperately had wanted it --growing up, this satisfied a deep need in me to belong to something larger than myself.

When our son David was born and he was baptized at age 3 months, all of a sudden, he and his father were Anglican and I alone was Lutheran. Having grown up in denominationally divided home I did not want that for my kids, so I decided to be received by the Episcopal church. (They did not require anything new of me: my Lutheran baptism and confirmation were accepted.)

For the next 30 years all was well with that arrangement. I will compress the next chapter in this saga but essentially last October I found that something was missing for me and I returned to the Lutheran church.  

I have been attending Lutheran every other Sunday where I want to be; alternate Sundays I have been worshipping beside my husband-- as I have done for 30 years. Talk about being torn. I am torn!

All of that is the background for Tuesday night. There was Shrove Pancake supper at the Lutheran Church starting for members at 5:00 p.m. I had planned to go for a couple of months since it was announced.

Well last week—literally—it was announced that there would be a Pancake supper same night at Beloved’s church—where I have been a member since we formed as an Anglican Church 8 years ago and before that another 9 years  with that same core congregation when we were still in the Episcopal Church. 

I had invited him to join me at the Lutheran Shrove Pancake Supper; but that was not what he wanted. Instead he wanted me to come to his church for pancakes and music.  He plays in the band.  I was torn.  

All this has made my life complicated since October, maybe before then for a little while too. But in October I went to the Lutheran Church again and I knew I was home. I wondered how I could have stayed away so long. But I am back.

And he is not into it. And …yet, I can’t do what I have been doing anymore.

It was never a challenge or struggle till last fall, but it is what it is and I can’t change it. I am praying and journaling taking with my Sponsor and with my new wonderful loving spiritual minister at St. Paul’s and I am trusting that…This, Too Shall Pass.

Oh! What did I do?  I went to both! 

REMEMBERING

February 14 is Valentine’s Day for most of us. It is also the day that Pa died.  It is a time for remembering.

Pa was the most loving man I ever knew-- with two exceptions…his son, my Beloved and his grandson, my beloved son.  From the first time he met me – how I remember that day!—he extended both arms, and embraced me, saying, “My daughter.” 

From that first day to the last, he always met me with that hug that reaffirmed his love and acceptance of me.  As loving as my Daddy was, he did not greet me like that!

Pa was David’s first caregiver. When my practice of taking him to work with me at the Family Practice center where I was finishing up my residency was curtailed, we turned to Pa.  At that time he was home alone during the day; Ma was (in her late 70’s herself) was a caregiver to the “old people” who came to the adult day care center where she worked.

Every morning I would deliver Beloved son to Pa’s waiting arms. He would carry David around the yard, showing him the birds and telling him stories that only they shared. I was torn at the beginning: David would practically leap into Pa’s arms and he did not give me even a parting glance! Later, of course, I was incredibly grateful that my treasure was guarded by someone who loved him as much as I did.

There was a two-hour break between morning and afternoon office hours. I had the privilege of spending that time with my son. It was a gracious transition; having that two hour window with him soothed to a degree the ache of not having him with me all day as I had before.

I can’t pretend to tell you how he did it, but the men who were raised by him absorbed from him tenderness, gentleness, and his loving demeanor. He was fiercely devoted to his family; generous and industrious to a fault; yet, he was the humblest of men.

He left an incredible legacy: his fingerprints on the character of his son, his grandson, and his nephew. They are men like him.

TWO SETS OF THREES

I don’t believe in coincidence.  At times in my life when God wanted me to pay particular attention to something, He would present me with at least three opportunities to notice it over a short period of time.

When we went to New York City for Labor Day, I was thrilled to spend that time with our daughters and their loving church fellowship – young Christians who love the Lord and others. Their love for others is evident in everything about them.

The visit was filled with lots of fellowship, games, and …Canadian geese.

Some time ago, I had heard about how Canadian geese fly. They fly in a “V” formation. A lead goose flies at the leading center of the “V”, working harder against the head wind than the other geese. This pattern allows them to fly faster and more efficiently than other flying patterns would. Since the leader is exerting more effort against the head wind, when he becomes fatigued, the flock shifts and another goose takes the lead.

 I had never heard anything however about the way Canadian geese take off.  

I have often marveled at how similar a flock of small birds and a school of small fish look in the way in which they travel. Watch. They disperse and swarm in a very similar way.

This flock of Canadian geese lined up… and took off… one by one! They even spaced themselves as they took off. They reminded me of how planes are lined up on the runway waiting for their turn to take to the sky… only the geese did it without a control tower!

On day four of our five-day visit, as I was packing to return home, I was unexpectedly overcome with sadness. I was surprised at my own reaction.

The visit had been delightful. Our daughters lived in a lovely apartment in an attractive neighborhood and they had lots of loving Christian friends. I had no fears or concerns about their well-being. As I had told the many friends who had inquired whether I was “worried” about them living in New York: “God is in New York, too.”

So why the tears?  Maybe because we had had such a wonderful time and I knew it would be a while before we’d be able to do that again…

The second of the first set of threes was almost identical to that one except it occurred in at home, not in NYC.   Our married son David was doing a radiology rotation at the medical school in our area and for the month that he was in town, he lived with us. It has been, I realized upon reflection,  nine years since he had last lived under our roof—except for six weeks a couple of summers ago.

We had a great visit. I loved seeing him in the morning, making breakfast for him some days, and hearing about his day in the evenings.  It went on that way for the four weeks, each day more delightful in some way than the ones before.

Then flash! The four weeks had expired and it seemed to have passed so quickly!

I felt unprepared for his return to his home and his bride.  I was surprised to be overcome with sadness as I watched him drive off. How could that be?  After all he had been married for four and one half years—yet, I felt as sad as I did sometimes when returned to college after spending a weekend at home.

In this case, I was able to minister to myself.   I put myself in his bride’s place. I know for sure that if, at four and a half years of marriage, Beloved had to be away from me somewhere for 30 days, for sure I would not have wanted him to be away for 31 days!

Number three of the first set happened today.  I crossed the threshold of a Lutheran Church. I have not attended a service in a Lutheran church since Kate was about 5.

It happened on a Wednesday evening during Lent.   During the sermon, the minister asked a (rhetorical) question… and Kate raised her hand to answer him. She kept her hand in the air for several minutes. The minister saw her, looked puzzled but continued with his message.

After a while she whispered to me, “Mommy. Why didn’t he call on me? I raised my hand.”

Today, when I opened the door-- really even before I stepped inside-- a flood of emotions washed over me.   In that narthex, as soon as you enter the outer door, you can see right into the sanctuary. The Sanctuary doors were wide open—both of them. The whole wall behind the altar was covered with primary colors of stained glass mostly rectangles I think but exquisitely beautiful.

The sight of it literally took my breath away. I lingered for a bit—just standing there, taking it all in.  I really just wanted to go into that Sanctuary and just be there.

But I had come for Bible study, so I turned to my left and entered a rectangular room. The pastor and a small band of Bible students were seated around a conference table, reading from the 16^th chapter of Romans. As soon as I was seated the gentleman to my right ended his turn reading and indicated to me that it was my turn to read.

I read the greetings that Paul sent to practically everyone in the Roman church by name and I completed the chapter. Discussion followed. It was so great to be studying a book of the Bible and with others growing and eager to continue to feed on the Word of God, Word of life.

That was nothing however to be compared to how I felt later that afternoon when I returned to that church. As I entered the narthex, I heard the congregation singing the last lines of “A mighty Fortress is Our God”. If the Lutheran church has an anthem, it is “A Mighty Fortress”, written by Martin Luther himself.

From age six till I was in my mid twenties, I attended Reformation Day services every year; they commemorate Luther’s actions on October 31, 1517 when he nailed to the door of the Wittenberg Church his ninety-five theses.

This Reformation Day October 2012, I was attending the first such service for me in over thirty years.

I had been away from all of this:  the liturgy —responsive psalms; organ music; and red vestments for all clergy in honor of Reformation Day.   I saw that Ephesians 2: 8-9 was emblazoned on a banner hung in the Sanctuary. 

I tried to take it all in.  Everything moved me deeply: hearing the last notes of “A mighty Fortress”; the sermon; Holy Communion and especially the benediction.   Oh! How I loved hearing again the benediction that I grew up hearing: “The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace.”

I knew I was home in a way I cannot adequately put into words. But I know that some things in the universe lined up today and I feel peace. I can’t wait for next Sunday’s Bible study of the book of Galatians—and the worship service.

The Second Set of Threes

This morning I was singing a little lyric from a song: “Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good.”

At the 10:00 a.m. service that I attended at a different church this same morning, the words on printed on the right side of the bulletin were: “Oh taste and see that the Lord is good.”

This afternoon at the Reformation service: “Oh taste and see that the Lord is good.”

To someone else this may have a different meaning but what I believe it means for me is that God is making His face shine upon me; He is being gracious to me; and He is welcoming me home… to my Lutheran roots.

SNOW WHITE AND THE LEMONADE PENDANT

 It had been my idea to have a Halloween party for the kids in the neighborhood of the church we attended at the time. This was in the early 1990’s. I chose the costume of Snow White—about as far on the spectrum from the witch as I could get.

Envision the costume for Snow White made famous in the Disney movie—I wore a yellow dress with a very full ankle length skirt with a white blouse with short puff sleeves and a blue and black bolero vest that laced in the front emphasizing my waist which appeared tiny.

I was beautiful just as I was…I do not to this day understand a decision I made that night. I guess superb was not sufficient for me at the time.

To add to the elegance of the costume I chose to wear a pair of real blue topaz and diamond earrings. Oh, sure, they added to my sense of myself as a “princess” character—and I guess Snow White became a princess and she was the step daughter of the wicked queen.  On the other hand, while we live our lives forward we can often better understand our lives looking back on them.

The party was being held in the church parish hall which was decorated for the occasion. There were refreshments, dim lights and spooky Halloween background sounds, courtesy of a tape borrowed from the library.

You know creaking footsteps on the stairs, etc. There was the sound of a door-- badly in need of WD-40-- that screeched and whined as it was  slowly being opened,  When Kate who was five at the time heard that,  she bolted out the back door and "escaped" into the darkness!

I ran after her and scooped her up. She was really scared! That was a serious miscalculation on my part—spooky was okay, but really frightened was certainly NOT what I wanted for Kate or anyone else.

After she was safely returned to the party and the background sounds turned off, I crossed the grassy parking area to the parish house backyard to the Haunted House.

The very tall young man who was hosting this event was attired in a tuxedo and a cape.  He had those fangs which really made him look the part of Count Dracula. The kids were squealing and shrieking as they in the dim lights gingerly put their fingers in cold spaghetti and peeled grapes.

Later, exhausted, and exhilarated as I was resuming my pre-Snow White identity I realized that one of my blue topaz and diamond earrings was missing.  I was upset of course but it was night. 

I consoled myself that in the light of day I would simply go back to the church yard and look for it. I had only been those two locations: the parish hall and the parish house backyard.   You can guess what happened.  The earring was irretrievably lost.  

This, too, perhaps falls under  the category, "lessons learned".  The moral of this story is: "Don't wear valuable jewelry to Halloween parties!"   But you would never do that, would you?

Epilogue

In an effort to make lemonade from the lemon of having lost one of a pair of diamond and blue topaz earrings, I had the lone earring made into a pendant, which I love to wear…only not as Snow White or on Halloween!

WHAT TO KEEP

            

I am in the process of sorting and sifting through mounds of accumulated stuff-- and shedding what is no longer needed or wanted.   A few days ago, frustrated by the appearance that despite all that I had already discarded the mass did not seem to be shrinking,  I grabbed stuff by hands full from a closet that had been used for storage since 1997—our first year in this house.

 Those things came in boxes from the house of the previous 14 years, so I supposed that not having glanced at the contents for over fifteen years I would be completely safe to toss those things out by the handfuls. Those who are not keepers of things would say with absolute certainty if you have not used it or seen it or needed it in 15 years; you can certainly do without it.

They would be…well… I‘ll tell you what happened and let you judge for yourself.

Before I tell you the story, allow me to share with you the things I treasure.

Photos           

 I love photos —I have taken maybe millions—I am not sure that is an exaggeration—in fact, it is even precise to say I have taken UNTOLD NUMBERS of photo.   I have many witnesses to this in addition to the evidence of the photos themselves.

Gifts

I am not a re-gifter okay? If someone cared enough to give me a gift, over time the gift comes to represent the person and then I become unwilling to part with the item…it would be like, throwing out the person who gave it to me.  I cherish the thing as a symbol of the person whom I love.

Cards  

Some cards are even more precious to me than gifts. My love language is words of affirmation. If someone wrote something lovely about me at any time, whether on a scrap of paper or elegant card that becomes for me a valuated possession.

Hand- written letters

These are more precious to me than gold, silver, lottery tickets, or real estate.

Over a period of thirty-five plus years of adult living, I have managed to accumulate items in just these four categories—lots of these items.  But the list continues.

Work product of one of my offspring…who can place a value on these?

David at six drew illustrations of his stories and favorite people—I am honored to say I have been the subject of his art from time to time. Since middle school he has turned colorful squares of paper into origami creations

When she was four years old, several of Kate’s water colors were displayed at a local museum art show. Her drawings won top prizes in a Christmas card design contest when she was six and seven.  Eyslyn writes sweet notes. She and her sister copied and distributed the “K & E Newspaper” in which they wrote about events in our home and in our neighborhood when they were five and six years old...

Then there were the home video cassette recordings.  There are the usual home videos to be sure of Disney World trips, birthdays, and baby’s first baths. Priceless among them, though there was the video of their first movie. 

The production was “The Blue Fairy Princess”, filmed on location in the den of 402 (our first house).   It was written by and starred Kate and Eyslyn.  David was the grip on the movie.  I narrated and videotaped.  How do you put a price on a treasure like that?

 I have bought and been given libraries of books.  It is hard to part with any of them.

It is not that I think I will read them again… although I certainly have told myself that.  I keep them though partly because I might want to read them again… so why buy them twice?

Actually, I have bought the same book twice— on more than one occasion. I have been shopping in the most fun place on earth—no, not Disney world—a book store of course!--and found an interesting book bought it, brought it home … only to find its twin was already on one of my many book shelves!    I like what I like--- even if I don’t remember that I already own it.

I could go on but I believe I have more than made my point.

So the other night I went through that closet with zeal and efficiency giving but cursory glances through hands full at a time of papers etc. and throwing them into boxes to be discarded. I amassed half a dozen boxes. The boxes made from the closet to the room to the hall where they lingered for a week.

Day by day I would take one then another of these discard boxes and lug it to the trash collection area. At long last, last night there was but one box remaining which I hauled to the collection point and began to pour the contents into a large trash bag.  That is when it happened.

Some items fell out and scattered on the floor. Something caught my eye so I scooped up the whole collection and retired to my recliner with two trash bags at the ready and began a more careful sifting of the contents.

Here is some of what I recovered in those papers that I’d just collected from the trash:

A letter from my first best friend of the Caucasian persuasion whom I’d met in 1973; her letter was dated 10 August 1997.

An envelope from my mom with a clipping of the funeral notice an elderly gentleman whom I’d admired for decades. He had made a contribution to the community, his family, his patients and to the world—but what he is treasured for in this family is that he ‘threw’ Beloved and me together on the evening on which Beloved had first asked for my phone number… and I told him, “ It’s in the book”. J

… A little beautifully illustrated poem to our daughters signed “from Grandmother Bernice” in her precious beautiful script.

… A clipping indicating that a pioneer woman newspaper publisher would be speaker Emory University. Her newspaper had been one of the three local newspapers that published my weekly column the first five years of my medical practice. Mom sent all that along with the doctor’s funeral notice and the poem for the girls in December 1997.

A cartoon from the funny paper that the girls must have cut out and glued to a sheet …it featured the cast of characters from the Wizard of Oz… their favorite play that year.

I wonder if that was the same year that Kate dressed as Dorothy.   She wore a with blue and white check pinafore –made by her Auntie Nana—and with the white blouse. She carried a little basket with her little dog Toto inside.

 Kate had nearly outgrown her red Mary Jane’s that she so dearly loved.  I had sprayed them with adhesive and covered them with red glitter to make Dorothy’s “ruby red slippers”.

David’s costume was that of the Tin Man, though sadly I did not use nearly strong enough “tin” (foil).  Eys was Toto…a Dalmatian with floppy ears more like a sad bunny I think—though she loved it.  Toto had in a previous usage been a lamb at the manger scene the Christmas before.

A friend Ginny H. had sent me a gift of “art and poetry”-- that is what the envelope said.

It contained an R. Kelly Clown print and a poem.

A birthday card from my brother Butch October 1997 and the most precious of all…

A hand-written letter from my dear brother Butch dated December 11, 1997 in which he referenced a phone call we’d had the night before the letter was written.

In his letter, he conveyed his “deepest Love and Respect”; prayers; gratitude, and hope for his future.  He wrote:

“My life and my time are rapidly filling up with good things. I am being surrounded by good people, especially at work, on both jobs. I am finally getting my life together in a positive way and the potential for bigger and better things exist where I can see them clearly and I am heading straight for them…

I truly love you and I am deeply appreciative of your love and support for me. Please say to the members of your prayer group that their prayers are being answered on a daily basis and that I and my brother veterans are truly grateful and please to continue.

In January I’ll receive a certificate of completion and at the following Graduation after my thirteen weeks of aftercare I will also graduate this program. Isn’t that wonderful.

I am becoming more and more active in my religious practice and taking part in more activities. On the twentieth of Dec (20 Dec) I will M.C. our District meeting what a great benefit and I will share my experience with the members of my District and their guests.

I have been given a tremendous opportunity to show what prayer, compassion and love can do to heal a spiritual being.  And hopefully inspire and motivate another soul who maybe suffering now as I have in the past.

Please express my deepest love and appreciation to and for your family. Pray all of you have a blessed and safe holiday and share with each other all the love, joy and compassion each of you can realize in your life.

Thank you so much for the gifts you are sending me. This letter is prior to my receiving the box you sent me. This is thanks in advance.

My deepest love and Respect

Your loving Brother,

Butch

RULES ARE FOR …WHO?

Recently an airline incident has been in the news. A flight attendant gave a passenger an instruction. The passenger failed to comply. It is reported that the passenger used profane language, was argumentative and disrespectful. He stalked off and slammed the lavatory door “so loud(ly) it could be heard in the cockpit”.

How is it that you and I and everyone else who has the privilege to fly on an airline in America must comply with federal regulations regarding air travel and one person gets to throw a temper tantrum which results in grounding the plane and flight delays for a plane-load of passengers? 

What would give one the idea that the rules do not apply to him? His line of work? The size of his bank account? What?

Age does not necessarily bring about maturity: clearly, this is a case in point.

I salute that flight attendant for doing her/his job.  A flight attendant’s job, by the way, is already difficult enough, stressful enough, mentally and physically taxing enough-- without having to “parent” unruly self-centered immature “adults”.    If you agree, when you are on your next flight, thank the flight attendant for a job well done.

MY NIGHT AS A STAND-UP COMEDIAN revised February 2012

One Thursday morning in October 2006, I stopped by the grocery store on my way home from the gym. A notice printed on neon green paper was posted on the community bulletin board near the store’s entrance. It was impossible to miss seeing it. 

It read: Comedians Wanted!

The announcement invited comedians with or without previous experience to perform that evening at open mike night at the local state university. The event was being held as a fundraiser for the YWCA.

A smile slid across my face at the thought of this.   I reasoned, “Was I not meant to read this ad since the event was tonight and not next week or last week?”

 I went.

I was backstage waiting my turn.  The comedian onstage was wearing a clown costume, complete with make-up and props no less.  I wearing street clothes, going over the notes I had hastily scratched out on a scrap of paper as I stood there in the wings.

There are about 3 jokes that I have practiced telling.  I have to practice because I have this annoying habit of stepping on the punch line. 

My sole preparation was to scan these reminders to prevent my doing that – especially since now all of a sudden I thought—what am I doing? 

Of course, no one who knew me had any idea I was there. I hadn’t told anyone about it.

I am sure Beloved or our daughters would have had their own opinions about my decision. Since I was not interested in anyone telling me not to participate-- I waited till later—after the whole thing was over.

The audience applause signaled that it was now my turn.  The announcer asked my name!  I had thought I would be anonymous!  Who knew they would ask my name?!

I walked onto that stage and I have to say…I loved it! I told them my first name and I omitted my last name-- to protect the anonymity of my family.

I told them, “We have these two daughters who tell me I am not funny—but I don’t listen to them.”

 The audience laughed—out loud. I told them,” I will let you be the judge as to whether or not I am funny.”

So I told “The Stuttering Bible Salesman” joke—I am a really good fake stutterer! They howl!  This was really fun and now I was just warming up.

I don’t remember which joke I told next but my last one, the finale, is the one about the guy who was riding across the desert like the wind.  He was riding west, toward the Grand Canyon, on a horse that knew only two commands.  On hearing one command the horse would stop. On hearing the other command he would go.  Only… the commands weren’t “Stop” and “Go”:  the commands were “Amen” and “Praise the Lord”.   

Only…. I got the commands mixed up and stepped on my punch line!  I realized it as soon as I had done it that that’s what I had done. 

I have dyslexia. Did I mention that?   Anyway, I corrected it and they laughed about all of it—my miss-statement, my telling them about my dyslexia, my correcting my mistake—and so did I!

I had the best time! It was funny on many levels and a really fun experience.

The clown and I were told to stand near the door as the audience was exiting.  Many people shook my hand and told me that they loved my act. They also said that I should not listen to my daughters—they agreed with me—I am funny!

Oh, and I won second place! Evidently they did not expect many participants because my prize was a coffee mug with the university logo.

It is a good thing they gave me that because otherwise my family would not have believed me. They kept looking at me as if they had never seen me before and saying, “Mom you didn’t!”  “Did you?”  “You didn’t!”  “On stage?”  “With an audience?”  “Did you tell them anything about us?” they wanted to know.

“I told them that you don’t think I’m funny” I said.  “I told them you would never have wanted me to do this-- if you had known about it. They loved that too.”

My family was incredulous that I had done this wacky crazy spur of the moment thing—but I sensed an admiration of sorts too. I had my university logo cup prize as my proof for what was too incredible for them to believe.

In the service of full disclosure I will tell you two things: first I was way funnier than the clown. I know because the audience practically fell out of their seats during my routine. However, she did win first prize. 

I think they felt a little sorry for her and they did not want her to feel bad since she had clearly put a lot of effort into preparing her act—getting costumes and all that.  The other thing is this: while I absolutely did win second place… there were just the two of us comedians there!

Epilogue

A few months later our two daughters and two school friends of theirs were in a hotel room resting before a show choir rehearsal. As we were just sitting and talking, somehow the story about the comedy performance came up in the conversation.

All of a sudden one of the girls who had been lounging on one of the beds sat straight up. “I knew I knew your voice! “She exclaimed. “That was you!” She doubled over laughing.

“I was in the audience” she said.  “I saw you on that stage!    I saw you in that comedy contest—with just two comedians, that lady in the clown outfit and you!”

 “See girls?”  I said, beaming, “I told you I did that… and now I have a witness!”

That girl went on to become best friends with our daughters throughout high school and college. She and Kate were roommates and our daughters were her bridesmaids.   So, if you need proof, there are living witnesses!

Remind me to tell you my Stuttering Bible Salesman joke…even if you have already heard it. It really is my best joke!