I bill myself as an only child.  This is technically true but I do, in fact, have a half brother.  We share the same mother.  She had bad taste in husbands.  Mom was drawn to self absorbed men incapable of thinking of anyone else.  We were planets orbiting around them.  That was our sole purpose as far as they were concerned.

The first was a philanderer who left her when my brother Rick was four.  The father had nothing more to do with his son when he left her for another woman and allegedly proceeded to produce six or seven more half siblings through a string of a couple of more marriages.  I know Rick was curious about these siblings but never worked up the courage or gumption to pursue his curiosity.

Then our mutual Mom met and married my father.  I think that she thought she was getting out of her personal hell and into the 1950′s version of the “dream”.  Marry a doctor or lawyer, get a house in the ‘burbs and live happily ever after. But my father was a facsimile.

He was  a very troubled man.  He had many demons surrounding him.  He was bisexual at best and an alcoholic.  Though very intelligent and sometimes very witty when he wasn’t being cruel, he let his demons run his life while hiding behind the disguise of white bread respectability.  I am afraid that my brother, already once betrayed, walked from the frying pan into the fire.  He saw the man behind the mask that my father wore to the public and it wasn’t pretty.  I didn’t know any better and this in some ways saved me.  I thought everyone’s dad came home and drank scotch until they passed out in the chair.  In fact, I looked forward to it.  I would wait patiently for the inevitable sound of his sonorous snoring that signaled his unconsciousness.  Then I could watch what I wanted to watch on television.

Dysfunction, it seems, was the new normal.

Rick left home as soon as he could and married and started a family.  I, as the favored child, stayed within my cocoon oblivious to the cracks in the fuselage.  Maintaining the facade, Rick and his wife did not live too far away and would come to visit for compulsory occasions.

Just across the street from our home, there was a small playground.  On one occasion when Rick and his family were visiting, we took his two daughters over to play there.  While the girls were playing on the slide, he and I sat down on the swings.  Slowly at first, but with ever increasing vigor, Rick and I began to swing and pump, swing and pump, gaining a semblance of altitude and momentum.

There was nothing between us but these moments accentuated by the pause in centrifugal force at each end of the arc our swings made.  A pause in which we defied gravity and levitated.  At the acme of each arc, we hung suspended in air and looked at each other and smiled. It was a bond that dissolved all competition, resentment and alienation between us.  The favored child that proved my father’s manhood and the unwanted son shed those bonds and labels if only for the time being.

I will always remember that feeling.  I can recall it with perfect clarity even now, some thirty years later.  The perfection of this rare time with my bro on a sunny day where our feet seemed to touch the clouds.  And all was good and warm between us.

Unfortunately, feelings and moments don’t last.  Can’t last.

My relationship with my brother got increasingly more and more toxic.  The chess game that was my family’s dynamic got checkmated.  I moved out of the state eight years ago and he doesn’t know I left.  There has been no communication since my mother’s funeral fifteen years ago.  I probably have grand nieces or nephews, but I don’t know how many, nor who my nieces married.

I understand this happens a lot more commonly than I thought.  Sibling relations are complex and fraught with resentment and estrangement.  I have come to accept the fact that there most likely is not going to be a Hollywood ending to this scenario.  It is what it is and it is most important to put our myths to bed.

When I think of him now, I remember that magic series of moments suspended in mid air; just he and I defying the inevitable forces of nature.  Time stopping for a fleeting second or two, stuffed with happiness on the swings in a park.

I wish him well.

Though most people delineate between the two with the glass half-empty or half-full metaphor, I think it is far more complex than that.  Rather, each side is fraught with some subtle differences.  I live by the metaphor about the little girl who wanted a pony very badly and her fairy godmother came to her and gave her a bag of horse manure.

The girl gave a cry of delight and proceeded to rip open the bag and dig through the horse manure with both hands.  Her fairy godmother was astonished and asked whatever was she doing.

The little girl replied, “I ‘m digging to find the pony!”

The optimist greets each day an urge to explore all that is possible in the day ahead.  Though they do not necessarily spring forth humming show tunes, as the day unfolds, the power of the good of the world unfolds simultaneously.  If it rains, the optimist looks for the rainbow.

The pessimist denies that they are one.  But they prepare for rain by carrying an umbrella and expect to be splashed when the rain begins; most likely from the taxi that blows by ignoring their hails.

But in each case, pessimist or optimist, the origin of his or her outlook is not predetermined.  I firmly believe that is an unconscious decision that can be remedied by being made consciously.

My name is Mary and I am a recovering pessimist.     I have left the dark side.  I have crossed over to the light.  I hope my optimist’s membership card is in the mail.

I met an elderly man recently who has numerous medical issues.  He is diabetic.  As a result of this terrible illness, he has lost six of his fingers and both his legs below the knees.

But he gets up each day and a friend comes and helps him into the truck and they go out to the fields where he oversees his livestock.  Though grateful for the assistance, I’m quite sure he’d find a way to do this no matter what.  He is glad to be alive, quick to tell a joke, and thankful for “all the Lord has given me”.

I met a woman recently who drives a new car, has lovely clothes, and lives in a wonderful condominium.  She has enough free time to golf and travel and is blessed with good health.

But she is alone.  She is divorced, alienated from her children and spent Thanksgiving weekend alone.  When you talk to her, she will tell you that none of this is her doing.  Everyone else is at fault.  She questions why life took this turn and sees nothing but loneliness ahead.

I wished that I could introduce these two people.  Alas, it is highly unlikely, though one can hope. The optimistic elderly man could have, I believe, given this elegant unhappy woman an example of how the optimist can potentiate a change for the better.  That life is a gift that you can mold to your needs with a seed change in perspective.  That’s all it takes.

There are two kinds of people: optimists and pessimists.  My cell phone ring tone is “Always Look On the Bright Side of Life”, from Monty Python.  Sums it all up for me.

Basically, on Christmas morning, we opened the presents and that was that.  We all retreated to our respective corners; Dad poured the first in a long series of scotches, and the television came on.  Not Scrooge per se.  Just not the Norman Rockwell painting that we all were taught to buy into as part of the Christmas myth.  I personally believe that Mr. Rockwell did us a great disservice.  I realize that there are families out there that have experienced those holiday moments he depicted.  The bar was unrealistically high for the majority of us.  I also think those families depicted in the painting are fewer in number and there are far more who watch Aunt Hattie nip at the scuppernong wine while Uncle Fred pretends to doze because he won’t have to listen to Aunt Edna’s description of her most recent hemorrhoid surgery.

When my brother married and left the house, his wife took over the Christmas “festivities”.  She did this, in part, over outrage that we would have people who “weren’t family” join us for Christmas Day.  When I became engaged to my husband, I told him that I would only ask him to experience that particular edition of Christmas once.  This gathering at my brother’s house was quite orchestrated.  It was a step up from those experiences of my childhood.  But it was a very small one.

“How bad can it be?” he asked.

I only smiled.

When we arrived at my brother’s house, an instantaneous ritual occured.  We were always led into the living room, while her (comparatively) large Italian family flopped on the couches in the den, having been authorized to arrive two to three hours earlier.  They had had “their” Christmas.

We opened our presents and then joined the other “floppies” glued to the television.  (There is some continuity here.)  At one point, my then fiance tried to engage everyone in conversation by bringing up what a blessing that the Berlin Wall had been torn down and the world was a freer place to be.

They looked at him like he was from Mars.

Time for dinner.  THE Christmas dinner.  Mr. Rockwell’s scenario was nowhere to be found.

Instead, we would be served the remains of the leftover turkey from the night before, when her family celebrated not only Christmas Eve, but her brother’s birthday of the same day.

Leftovers?  Christmas?

My fiance walked out of that situation practically foaming at the mouth like the “old man” cursing Bumpus’ dogs in the movie “A Christmas Story”.  (Probably a more common description of the yule season than one would suspect.)

That was that.

Within two years of our marriage, we had our daughter and the hopes of more.  Referencing the “old man” in “A Christmas Story”, we developed a routine of swearing the Christmas tree into it’s glory.  I made egg nog.  Friends would stop by for a bit of cheer and to watch the God damniting up the Christmas tree.

I came to understand that Christmas was about these traditions we created; not the manufactured expectations fed to us by a commercial spoon.  I came to love our version of Christmas.  Especially Santa.

We came to be good friends with Chuck and Maureen.  Their sons were grown and out in the world and Chuck chose to be Santa every year.  We would put a pillow case of presents outside and leave the door unlocked.  Sitting in the living room and reading to our kids, Santa would suddenly appear from the vicinity of our kitchen.  ”Caught” again.  We came to share this with our kids friends and Chuck did this every year until we moved away.  He did this even after his son suddenly died three months before.

When we moved, my twins were eight years old.  One of them was particularly anxious at yuletide that year.  Would Santa find us?  Would we catch him as we always had?

I explained that Santa had to cover the eastern and central time zone first and we would most likely be in bed by the time he got to mountain standard time.  His Christmas list that year had one glaring request:  ”Santa, please prove to me that you are real.”

OMG!!

But since there are no coincidences, Trevor’s third grade teacher stepped in.  She is an incredibly generous, kind and uplifting person and happened to have a friend who lived in North Pole, Alaska.  If I could draft a letter from Santa, she would see that it was postmarked from there.  I share it here with you:

December, 2005

Master Trevor Sigmond

Spearfish, South Dakota 57783

My Dear Trevor:

As you know, it is a very hectic time of year for me.  I got your Christmas wish list as well as Chelsea’s and Connor’s.  I know that you have been a very good boy.  You always are.  You work hard at school and are kind to your friends and always do what your mom and dad ask you to do.  You have made a great improvement in getting organized too!! I am proud of you.

You are getting this letter because it was one of your Christmas wishes.  Thank you for still believing in me.  When boys and girls get to a certain age, they start thinking too much, instead of listening with their hearts.  This, unfortunately, is part of the process of becoming a grown up.  It doesn’t have to be; there are plenty of grown ups out there who trust in the miracles that come around every day – in all shapes and sizes.

There is more magic in this world than people know.  Because they can’t see it, they think it doesn’t exist.  Be one of the special ones who will continue to believe in all the magic that the world has to offer.  You were lucky to catch me each Christmas Eve when you and your family lived in Illinois.  South Dakota is later on my route.  But, just because you don’t see me doesn’t mean I don’t exist.  And my spirit will always be in your heart.  Keep the spirit alive.

Don’t fret if you do stop believing for a while.  I will always believe in you.  One of the gifts I give a lot of lucky grownups is the miracle of children.  It helps them remember me and believe all over again.  That is some of the magic that you, Connor and Chelsea have given to your mom and dad.

Merry Christmas, Trevor.  And it is signed by Santa. (No, not in mom’s handwriting.)

He still cherishes (though secretly now) the “BELIEVE” ornament that came with the letter.

Whenever I feel too stressed about “creating” Christmas, I go back and read those words. If I never write anything else, I am proud of that.  It keeps me grounded in the fact that Christmas is about gathering, connecting, loving.  Even Aunt Edna.  It is not about glitz and Black Fridays and stressing in anyway.

So this year, the family is getting “experiences” that will become memories to cherish.  It beats the heck out of yet another Nerf gun….

The Christmas card will wait until my daughter can get home and we can have, yet another, family portrait.

Blessings of the season to  you all.

I am listening to a cover version of the song by the late and amazing Stan Rogers.  It is entitled “45 Years from Now.”.

Part of the lyric is. “I just want to see your smiling face 45 years from now.”

It is “our” song.

I am an unabashed folk music nut. It probably originates in my South Side Irish roots.  I was just old enough (well, sort of) to be able to go to the Earl of Old Town in Chicago and ride  the wave of the folk music wave of the 70′s.  Steve Goodman (Chicago Shorty), John Prine, Bonnie Koloc, the Holstein Brothers, Jim Post, Stan Rogers.  All of it was magic.  They are the modern troubadours who brought tales of current events through song (with the approval of the King or the local lord, Earl Pionki).  It is a time honored tradition that I hold close to my heart.  Many happy memories.

I didn’t meet my soulmate until I was almost 30 years old and realizing that I had made a huge mistake and married a human potato because it was time to do it.  Everyone else had.    I had just given up hope that my “must be with” was out there.  Time to settle.  Not a good idea – for either of us.  Time to settle?  It seemed to be time to embrace the suburban/urban “dream” that turned rather quickly into a nightmare.  That’s another story for another time. It took only the short time of about six months to find that I  couldn’t swallow another day.  I was on my way OUT!

And then I met him…

As of this moment, we are heading toward our twenty third anniversary.  It is too small a number for the amount of love there is between us.  We speak a great deal about “what if?”.  What if we had met earlier?  We wouldn’t have had the maturity nor time  nor patience nor persistence to make it work.   Everything happens in perfect time. It is a simple but very powerful lesson.

But it is Stan’s words that resonate with us the most and are quoted between us on every anniversary, birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day.  You get the idea…….

“I just want to see your smiling face forty five years from now.”

That would make him 105 and me 98.

I still plan and hope to be chasing his cute tush around the extended care facility.  Him in a wheelchair and me in a walker.  Hand in hand.

If I were you, I’d bet on me.  I waited too long to find him.

And I’m so very grateful for every single moment we have.

Even when he doesn’t close the cabinet doors.  (How hard is that?)

But, I just want to see your smiling face forty five years from now.

Not me!!  At least not most of the time.  But it wasn’t the case earlier this month.

We recently held our thirty fifth high school class reunion in the Chicagoland area, not far from Buffalo Grove High School where we had matriculated in 1976.  Disney couldn’t even begin to create any of the magic that occurred.

We are the baby boomers.  The last of them.  Well, almost the last of them.  The last of them have just turned 50 last year.  They are the ones who are opening their mailboxes to their AARP magazines and are thinking, “I’m too young for this shit!”

We have accepted the subscription.   I am resigned to my fate, so to speak.  I am grateful that Clotho spun my life thread well; that Lachesis has her measuring stick out yet.  (I don’t want to know the length remaining.)  Most of all, I am grateful that I do not see Atropos on the horizon with her “abhored shears”.

Growing up is mandatory, what you do with it is optional.

So this member of the last of the baby boomers recalls moving to the suburbs from her south side Irish roots since 1880 and landing in “farm country” of the northwest suburbs of Chicago in the late 60′s.  As it was then in days of yore. There were many others who did the same thing as has been documented in so many ways.  What was borne of that were many families with similar demographics arriving in the same place at the same time.

Lots of kids the same ages.

Result?

A large group of us starting school together.  In my case, from fourth grade onward through high school.

So, we were a tight crowd.  Though we didn’t know that then.  It was merely a given that we would all go to school together forever.  At least that was the case in my little bubble of existence.

Forever ended June 8th, 1976, with a mortar board and a diploma.  Everyone scattered and headed down life’s road.

High school was a good time in my life.  I had my gang of friends.  Our idea of a wild Friday night was pizza at Barnaby’s and the high school basketball game while grooving to the tunes of John Denver.

Okay, I admit it.  I was a complete dork.  Hey, it was the 70′s.  Think leisure suits.

I am a historian.  I keep records.  I do genealogy.  I scrapbook memories to save them as part of my legacy to my children.   I find the past fascinating and love unlocking it’s secrets, both good and bad.  I found a counterfeiter/horse thief in my family tree who ended up in Auburn Correctional in upstate New York.  I think it lends character development.

Another George put me on a very special path.  His name was George Bastable.  He was one of my 4th grade crowd.  Good, kind, athletic, handsome, funny.  We ran into each other at every reunion.  He was a beloved eighth grade teacher in Florida who had been lost for a while but clearly found his way to contentment and abundance.

George died of a massive heart attack on July 4th 2009.

At that point, another dear friend was abandoned by her husband of  thirty four years due to a massive case of rectal cranial inversion and a bimbo on Facebook.

We need some cheering up here.  A reunion!  We’re not getting any younger and it is too long to wait for the 40th.  Hired a company, picked a venue and a date and let the chips fall.

I was REALLY stressing about this, because I had been pushing for it since 2009.  And I can be pushy.  Sorry.  It’s a character flaw and I am working on it.  (Among several others.)    My motivation is honorable in its intent.  What if it was a flop?

There we were.  Fifty somethings all wondering who put THAT monster number behind our names.  We all recognized each other immediately and the magic began.  Eat your heart out Disney; no animatronics here.  The real Magilla.  We WERE eighteen again.

It is hard to find the words.  My friend, Steve Moore did it far better than I.  I am proud to be considered a single malt friend and add his link below.

We closed the venue.  We closed the bar.  We closed the lobby.  The hotel opened a closed restaurant for us to get us to behave.  We dug up snacks and continued on until it was beginning to make sense to stay up all night.  NO ONE wanted the night to end.  EVERYONE wanted just a few minutes more of what existed between us, knowing the moment would slip away and become a cherished memory.

The last deed I did was to lift a glass to George.  They both were there.  One was a charming centegenarian applauding how well we achieved eighteen again.  One was smiling knowing we knew he was in the room feeling our affection.

The memory lingers.  The smiles remain.  The magic abides.

Carpe diem.

Here is Steve’s link:  http://www.gmancasefile.blogspot.com/2011/11/single-malt-friends.html

When we lived in Chicago, there was a very strong alumni association.  The Yale Club of Chicago hosted an annual scholarship ball and the broadcasting of  ”THE Game” every November.

There isn’t a strong alumni association out here.  The nearest official chapter is six hours away.  Though there are a couple of “bulldogs” in Deadwood.  (Yes, THAT Deadwood.)

In July and the onset of “Rally Week” looming large; on a regular Thursday evening, the phone rings.  It is the hubby saying he is on his way home and what’s for dinner.  (Wild caught Alaskan Salmon, thank you very much.)

Great.  See you in ten.

Ten comes and goes and the phone rings again.

“There are two Yalies in the process of bicycling up our road and our rigorous hill to come for dinner.” he says.

“WHAT!?!?!”

He repeats himself.

Hostess overdrive kicks in, though I have plaque on my warming rack that says “Martha Stewart doesn’t live Here”.  I have ten minutes to set a table, double the amount of salmon and make it look like I am doing this calmly.  Not because they are Yalies.  Because our road is gravel, our house is two miles in and THEN you begin the ten degree incline, half mile climb to our home.  The directions include phrases like “turn right at the buffalo herd;  go past the abandoned ranch.”

Fortunately the hubby arrives before the two cyclists.  He explains the situation.  Driving home on the side highway which leads us home, he spies two cyclists with “YALE” on the ass of their biker shorts.  Screeching to a halt, he manages, in one fell swoop, to convince these two that:

1) He is not a stalker or an axe murderer.  He is only a South Dakotan and this is what South Dakotans do.  They slam on the brakes when they see someone that they have something in common with.  (Or when they hit a deer and they can still harvest the meat.)

2) He is an alum and “mi casa es su casa”  by virtue of the imprint on your derrieres.

3) His wife, moi, is guilty of this sort of behavior with anyone with Illinois license plates.  (To a milder degree of course).   But I consider this normal.

Rachel and Will are grad students at Yale and were biking across the country on summer break.  Wonderful people who were more than grateful for wine, salmon, and CDs of the Whiffenpoofs on the stereo.  Most of all the gratitude flowed for a clean bed that is too big for a tent and hot showers.   The evening passed with jocularity immentibus.  It was great to have such stimulating conversation.

Until these two decided to tell us about the next leg of their planned sojourn.

They had approximately nine days of time left and were planning on cycling across our adopted state and getting to Chicago.  We pulled out the atlas.

When I have visitors who are driving here, as we often do, I always advise them where to get gas, food and the other essentials.  I do this because central South Dakota is a vast expanse of wild prairie with very little opportunity to refill or empty ANYTHING.  I had friends who were waylaid by a snowstorm in late March for two days.  They were fortunate enough to grab the last hotel rooms in Murdo as the highways closed around them.  Forced to hang out in the local bar, ass well as deplete all local supplies; they came away with some of the funniest blue jokes I have heard in a while.  Adventures have their advantages.

I talked with them about the insanity of this particular leg of their adventure.  I mean the whole reason we were even having this conversation was due to the fact that a somewhat eccentric and outgoing alum had pulled them over.  There is the true and accurate description of needing a camel caravan full of water just to get across the bulk of the the state.  There is also the trivia fact that South Dakota’s capitol, Pierre, is the only state capitol in the Union that is not on an interstate.  Both are facts, not fiction.  Especially if  you are biking across it.

They saw the light of reason.

The next morning, I was happy to drive them the hour drive down to “The Faces” as we call Mt. Rushmore.  With a fond farewell, and bon voyage, I headed home.  They headed east.  I was not without a moment or two of envy.  Costco’s presence comes to mind.  Whole Foods leaves me green with envy.  (Can anyone put me in touch with the CEOs so I can look pitiful and beg?)

But then it occured to me.  The HAPPY thought occurred to me. This would NEVER have happened in Illinois.  Not in my part….

We still, out here, DVR “THE Game”.  This year, it is because my husband and sons and a couple of pals will be pheasant hunting a couple of hours away.  I have learned to make a mean pheasant stew.

I guess the moral of the tale is: “There are advantages to having “Yale” tattooed on the derriere of biker shorts.”

Boolah, boolah.

I had a very chaotic childhood.  After reading a lot on the subject I came to understand that children in those situations learn to compensate by trying to control every aspect of their lives.

Let me be here to tell you that it doesn’t work.  At all.   And I was well into my twenties when I figured that one out.  Okay,  so I am a slow learner.  That, or I was terrified to take the scary leap and relinquish the illusion of control (because that’s all it really is – an illusion) and find out the gifts of life that awaited me.  To give up control is to gain control, by allowing.  The ultimate conundrum, but it works.  At least for me.  And when I finally did embrace that lesson wholeheartedly, life took a quantum leap forward in the most positive ways.

By the way, that lesson doesn’t apply to kids.   At least initially.  And then it becomes hard to know when to let the leash out.  You just have to learn to trust your gut and assess the situation on an age appropriate basis.  Early on, it’s about locking the matches and dangerous substances up and containing the little whirling dervishes.  It’s even more difficult to know who to trust the dervishes care to when you are not present.  I didn’t listen to my gut on that one. I failed.

I have a daughter  who is four years older than her twin brothers.  Her one minute apart yin and yang,  black and white, couldn’t be more different brothers.  When the boys were six months old, my mother died unexpectedly.

I had my father in assisted living with dementia. I had a beloved business mentor die three days after my mother.  I had my parents house to sell.  I had their estate to handle.  I had their bills to pay in the meantime.  I had to deal with my father calling at all hours of the day and night asking if my mom had died or begging to go on a driving vacation together.  (It should be noted that I didn’t travel anywhere with my parents after I was twelve years old.  But that’s a story for another time.)  I had necessary knee surgery.

God never gives you more than you can handle?  Humbug!  (And amen.)

When there had been a one to one ratio of adults to children while my mom was alive, things were smooth.  Hectic?  Yes, indeed.  But we had man to man coverage.  Now we went to zone defense and were completely overwhelmed.  When you are punch drunk from life’s circumstances, you still think you are taking it in stride.  Maybe that is a coping mechanism but it is not true.  Not by any means.

So I sat there watching the laundry pile up to the point we had to run downstairs daily to dig out clean undies from the huge mountain on the table.   Shopping for groceries was an adventure beyond description.  My husband was working long hours and I just dealt with the tsunami on a daily basis and tried to hang on.  Sometimes better than others.

It became quickly apparent that we needed to find some full time help.

M. Scott Peck, the noted psychiatrist, wrote a book trying to understand the true nature of evil, “The People of the Lie”.  His premise is that “the central defect of evil is not the sin but the refusal to acknowledge it.”  Evil people walk among us under the disguise of normal and moral.  There is  a great deal of narcissism in people who are evil.

Peck goes on to elaborate:  ”Evil is the use of power to destroy the spiritual growth of others for the purpose of defending and preserving the integrity of our own sick selves.  In short it is scapegoating.  A predominant characteristic … of the behavior of those I call evil is scapegoating.  Because in their hearts they consider themselves above reproach, they must lash out at any one who does reproach them.  They sacrifice others to preserve their self-image of perfection.”

In other words, evil is a master of disguise.  Like my father.  Like Lisa.

She had impeccable references and passed a background check.  She seemed to be very eager and willing to take on extra tasks (like Mount Laundry) and help me dig out from the residue of the tsunami and get organized again.  I was so focused on bringing order to mayhem that I ignored a couple of flags in the interview.  ”You’re so nice that I have stopped interviewing until you give me your answer” flew right by me.  Or I ducked.

The process of the evil narcissist is subtle.  Baby steps at first to see what small bits of power they can take.

Peck stated it better than I:  ”Whenever we seek to avoid the responsibility for our own behavior, we do so by attempting to give that responsibility to some other individual, organization, or entity.  But this means we give away our power to that person.”

Yep, I handed over the keys to the kingdom.  What is worse, I did so with a fairly strong lack of awareness that I was doing so.  It happened a little bit at a time.

The boys were okay.  Being babies, it was about feeding and bathing and changing  and watching them while they played.  It was my daughter that I threw under the bus.  It is that which is unforgivable with in me.

She greeted Lisa with enthusiasm and complete trust that what Lisa said, she meant.  The faux sweetness and light didn’t last long.  I would come home and find Chelsea on restriction to her room for not putting away her laundry properly.   My husband and I arranged for Lisa to stay late two hours one evening a week so we could have a brief date.  Whenever we got home she would be mad because we were being “disrespectful”.  She was on our phone to one man or another a LOT.  I found out long ex post facto, that she was calling my fellow neighborhood moms, saying she was me to set up playdates and such.  She was shaving money from the grocery bill. The narcissist wanted to be me.

She was trying to take over my life.  She almost won.

One night, after about four months of this, I snapped.  I went ballistic.  I told her to pack a bag and a time would be arranged where she would be able to pick up the rest of her stuff.  She was baffled and immediately went to wounded mode.  Why was I being so mean and unreasonable to her?

When I’m done, I’m done.  She was gone.

I went into my daughter’s room and, sobbing, told her how incredibly sorry I was for allowing Lisa into our lives.  I was sorry that I had not supported Chelsea during this time.

“But she started out so nice, Mom.”  From the mouths of babes.

I write this now, fifteen years later to try and come to some kind of closure about the whole thing.  I have been scrapbooking that year and the period she was with us.  I throw out most every picture with her in it.  It helps a bit.  Just a bit.

Whenever trust issues come up with my daughter, her peers, or other women, or me, I gulp hard.  It is a scar and I put it there.  Perhaps in time it will abate.  Mother/daughter relationships go through phases.  We have our ups and downs and some micro dramas.  (A few macro dramas as well.)  I am told this is normal.  I don’t know.  I didn’t know normal for half my life.  No excuse.

About a year later, I got a call for a reference for Lisa from an agency.  I told them that I wouldn’t let her tend to my dead pet rat.  I recommended her highly as long as you keep her away from children and your cash.  A bit of karma.

I would ask that whoever is reading this give me some feedback and advice on forgiveness.  I need to learn how to accept my mistakes. I need to forgive my encounter with “People of the Lie”.

No matter how bad they were.

I vigilantly count my blessings every day.   One of the main blessings was learning that there is a difference between letting the flow take you where it needs to and surrendering control.   A big difference.  I have my hand on the wheel.  I have ever since she left.  Thank you for the lesson God.

God help anyone who comes at my kids.

Over the years, I have accumulated a lot of costume jewelry, especially after my mother died.  Some are necklaces given by old boyfriends that are of sentimental value after a fashion.  Sometimes I even think of the giver.  Most of it is of many colors and little value.  I even have a fraternity pin and a lavalier.  I guess that means I am still “promised” to “that loser” (as my friends still refer to him).  But I remember it was just that he refused to take it back even when I threw it at him.  It was a major lesson in the realization that just because someone likes you doesn’t mean you HAVE to make THIS work.  Secondary lesson in pay attention to actions rather than words. Now I can look at the heart necklaces he gave me in a sweeping romantic and collegiate budget gesture, smile and remember his intentions at the time rather than the detritus that followed.

Other than my wedding set, my husband has given me some lovely earrings.  I love earrings.  I try not to leave home without putting a pair in the two holes I went to the mat with my father over about forty years ago.  Fashion and tenacity won ; perceived barbarism and savagery lost.

With the costume jewelry and my mom’s pearls, the two small jewelry boxes had long ago become a tangled mass of paste and pave’.  For Christmas, I asked for and received a newer jewelry box which would force me to organize and untangle everything currently residing in the drawers.  Out here, jewelry doesn’t really get worn except to state occasions. Like lodge meetings.  Too impractical and, in some cases, “uppity”.  Ranchers know they are married and don’t need to lose a finger on the prairie over it.  In town, they can tell you who is happily married without a golden circular scorecard.  This is a far cry from the bling-bling of my former home where I actually had a woman complain that her four carat flashlight was too small and she needed to go bigger. Seriously.

One snowy afternoon, I grabbed my cup of tea and parked myself in the closet and set to work.  Untangling the pieces and finding matches among the earrings was peaceful and refreshing in a way that took my by surprise.

Working from home is about comfort.  It is about returning from the gym and staying in your workout clothes all day.  Or showering and putting on jeans, a sweatshirt, and slippers and trotting upstairs to figure out what music is going to serenade my creativity that day as well as what current project to attack.  No accessorizing warranted or necessary.

But in sitting on the floor of my closet and untangling and organizing, I discovered that I missed finding a purple necklace to go with my purple turtleneck.  I missed coordinating that with my silver amethyst ring.  I missed accessorizing.  It shocked me.

I came to the realization that taking the time to dress for the day, jeans still acceptable, with something nicer than my Fighting Illini sweatshirt meant something to me.  Pick out a blouse, or a turtleneck and sweater.  Accesorize, baby.

In doing so I realize it meant that I was taking pride in my appearance.  It made me feel better, more creative somehow. I was also learning to be tender with myself; to realize that I mattered in this world and the world needed to know that.

It’s not about being flashy.  It is aside from establishing my membership as a homo sapien at the top of the animal kingdom food chain,  as the character of Clairee pointed out. It is about taking the extra time to care for yourself the way you care for others. Even if it just putting in a pair of silver earrings purchased on a vacation five years ago, just the two of you.  What is inside matches the outside.

All this over a pile of costume jewelry.  All of which is now fully organized so I can pick something to don each day. Sometimes the process is the revelation.

I’m selling the fraternity pin and the lavalier.

They are everywhere, even here.

Helicopter parents are perceived to be an urban phenomena.  Not true.

In this town, there is a four year accredited university that started out as a teacher’s college at the turn of the last century.  It is a respected school that interacts regularly with the community through many programs.  One example is a summer institute for budding opera singers that garners national respect.

Another event the school sponsors is a spelling bee for the elementary school students. We were new here and the boys were eager to participate.  Okay.  Student union, 6 p.m. be there.

I have twin sons.  They are fraternal, one minute apart and yin versus yang.  ”Tenacious” is very verbal, charming, agile and outgoing.  ”Scientist” strong, slightly larger, and academics come very easy to him.  When you request that they “use their words” Tenacious will give you a litany and Scientist will give you a monosyllabic answer.  In this instance they were both determined to do well.  The smack talk was flying.

I proposed a review session at the local pizza parlor.  Peace returned over pepperoni as we reviewed the “i before e” rule.  Scientist had trouble with that so we worked on “neighbor” and “beige” several times.  Time to go.

I approached this for what it was — a fun spelling bee in our small town.  I didn’t have my eye on the national finals or entrance to the ivies. It was just like spelling bees everywhere else in the country.  The rules are clear, the judges were ready, kids were trying not to be nervous or overly excited.  After all, the winner in each grade was awarded a gift certificate to the local Dairy Queen and a picture with Buzzy, the University’s mascot.  Clearly there was a lot riding on the line.

Tenacious went first and cleared the first round.  Scientist then stepped up to the microphone.  ”Spell  beige”, the judge requested.

I stifle my laughter as a continuing student of irony.  My son hesitates for a micro eternity and spells it wrong.  Down in flames at the first round.  He takes it hard and I see the tears of frustration forming as I head up to help him exit with some grace.

It was then that I saw a parent in the audience where the judges could not see.   She was using American Sign Language to coach her son through his first round.

I could not believe this.  A spelling bee scandal?  A SPELLING BEE?  I walked my son to the washroom and peaked back in.  The signing was continuing and the kid was in the finals.  The finals of a small contest at a small school in a small town in the wild west.  Seeing this epic failure in morality reminded me of the level of nonsense that was tolerated in my old home.  There really were parents who asked the kindergarten teacher if they were tracking properly for college.  And there really are parents who will teach their third grader that it is okay to cheat in spelling bees.

I don’t know why all of this surprised me, that there was cheating at this level.  But I was surprised, and saddened.

I realized that helicopter parents are everywhere.

Even here.

The ice cream was my treat that night.

Out here, there isn’t a lot of traffic except during the motorcycle rally when the population of the state doubles.  Even then, it is manageable.   The opportunity for eye contact while driving is much greater as a result.

One cultural difference that I noticed immediately was the wave.

I’m not talking about the mass stadium wave. I’m talking about the driving down the two lane gravel roads and meeting someone driving toward you wave.  A variation of this also holds when you are walking and pass someone on the street.  Everyone smiles, waves, acknowledges in some form. Everyone.

I think it is mandated somewhere.  And it absolutely befuddled me at first having come from the big city.  Those of us from urban areas know intrinsically that waving is the last thing you do while driving unless it is someone you have know for at least a decade and they have been properly vetted.  Hell, in certain areas you don’t even make eye contact.  Here you wave or get chastised publicly the next time you stop in at one of the town’s coffee shops.

“I saw you yesterday and waved and you didn’t wave back.”

Oops.

If I was going to assimilate here,  I recognized that I would have to come out of my little bubble on wheels.  In true pioneer spirit, I learned to wave back.  I learned to smile and say hello whilst perambulating in town.

There are subtle rules.  If you miss waving in town, it is only a venial sin.  But it is mandatory outside of town on two lane dirt roads, very few exceptions on paved roads.  The wave doesn’t require your hand to leave the wheel unless you are feeling particularly enthusiastic.  A mere straightening of the fingers as you waft by.  The seasoned veteran can just straighten the index finger in nonchalance. The enthusiasm isn’t important.  Acknowledgement is.

You know what?  I have come to like this cultural anomaly.  It moves to recognize each other’s humanity even if only for a second; a moment of connection.  Moments count.  Moments add up.

A few years ago, I went back to Chicago for my high school reunion.  My daughter came along to visit her friends.  She wanted to see our old neighborhood.  We drove past our old house and did the loop around our little lake.  The country club and the beach looked the same.  The swans were still there.  But we also took note of three new McMansions where lovely oaks and mere 6,000 square foot homes had been.

Sigh.

As we made the loop, there was a couple walking down the road enjoying each other and the panorama of fall colors.

Without thinking I waved, though I did not know them.

You could see the disconcerted look on their faces, followed quickly by a guarded glare.

“Who is that?!  We don’t know her.  Maybe we should note the license plate.”

I have to adjust back into my bubble whenever I travel “east river” as we say out here. But I immediately miss the connection moment.

It happened again when I took my daughter to her university on the east coast.  I’m pretty sure she is the only gal from our state attending there.  It is a distinction each of my kids enjoy when they experience it.  As she and I walked around campus, we said hello to everyone we passed.

They would not meet our gaze or mumbled and passed quickly.  I understand.

I like where I live.