When my daughter Joanna, at age 9, was getting ready for church one day, she put on a white denim skirt and a print blouse. To complete the casual look, she got out her tennis shoes but discovered that they looked a little dingy.
She grabbed the sneaker polish and brightened one shoe, then the polish ran out. She had one bright white shoe and one that looked pretty drab in comparison. Completely frustrated, she muttered to herself, "I can hear the compliments now: 'Nice skirt, nice blouse - dreadful shoes!'"
Poor Jo. I sympathized completely. Because I love shoes. For the first half of my marriage, as a stay-at-home mom trying to be a good steward of one income, I focused more on my daughters and didn't buy many pairs of shoes for myself. When the girls grew up and left home, I looked at my feet and thought, "Your time has come."
On the shelves in my closet now are clear plastic boxes neatly labeled as Loafers, Patent Heels, Patent Sandals, Mary Janes, Pumps, Slides, Stretch Denim, Criss-Cross Strap Heels, Oxfords and Flower-trim Sandals.
And those are just the black shoes.
My husband Jack can't comprehend how I can have so many shoes. But my black patent heels that are killer with a suit would look silly with a cotton summer skirt. The pale blue slide that looks great with jeans doesn't work with business wear. Is this so hard to understand?
I have so many shoes and purses that I have to rotate them by season, because I can't fit them all on the shelves at the same time.
OK, maybe that's a little crazy. But I'm certainly not alone.
I took an informal survey of some women family and friends to find out how they feel about shoes and how many shoes they own, and the results were interesting.
Janet said that she can put on an ordinary outfit, then add a gorgeous pair of shoes to make her feel like a million bucks. Sarah is petite and sometimes has trouble finding stylish clothes to fit, so she makes up for it with adorable shoes that make her feel beautiful - and she'll wear them even if they kill her feet.
Donna confesses to owning many dozens of shoes, even though she only wears a few of them regularly. Julia feels that the right shoe is essential to an outfit.
The women who responded to my survey own an average 28 pairs of shoes. Most said that they generally buy shoes only when they need them - but, of course, 'need' is pretty subjective, isn't it?
Only three respondents said that they seldom think about what they wear on their feet. Joanna wasn't among that group - she doesn't allow herself to be seen in 'dreadful' shoes anymore.
Spying her in a new pair recently, I exclaimed, "How cute! Are they comfortable?"
She grinned and replied, "Let's just leave it at 'they're cute.' "
She has company. The majority of the gals I surveyed said that they'd suffer in uncomfortable shoes for a good reason - to complete an outfit or for a special occasion.
Judging by the number of stores selling women's shoes, my respondents and I are not alone in our love of footwear.
I can't explain why women are generally so much fonder of shoes than men are, but I know one thing for sure: There are a lot of sole sisters out there.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 02-16-08)
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Churches aren't exempt from customer service
In a previous employment, one of the tasks of my job was to visit churches in order to convey information about area services to senior citizens.
In that capacity, the first thing I noticed is that, with regard to signage, many churches aren’t very welcoming to strangers. It’s surprising how many churches don’t identify the location of the church office, or post signs showing the office hours. Many churches built in recent years aren’t of traditional architecture, and don’t have “typical” Sanctuaries. You can’t always tell which part of the building is the Sanctuary, and its entrance may not be much different from the entrance to the office. Why don’t churches make it easier on visitors who don’t know where to go? On Sunday morning, do visitors just have to follow the flow in order to find anything?
But the more serious concern is how many churches just aren’t welcoming to strangers. In each case I was visiting in order to provide information, not to solicit a handout, and yet too many times the secretary or other person of first contact treated me as if I were begging for something.
A few days before Easter this year I visited a church in DeSoto. The secretary’s office was right off the entrance, and I stepped towards her door only to observe that she was on the telephone. She glanced at me but didn’t otherwise acknowledge my presence, so I stepped away to give her some privacy. And I waited. After I’d stood there about five minutes, a man planting flowers right outside the building stuck his head in and asked me “Does she know you’re here?” “Yes, thank you, “I replied. He went back outside, and I waited some more. Although I was several feet away from the secretary’s office door, I couldn’t avoid overhearing the conversation, and it was obvious that it was a personal one, all chatty and friendly. After about six more minutes, the gentleman outside who had been keeping an eye on me through the front door stuck his head back inside. “Hasn’t she helped you yet?” “No,” I answered, “she’s still on the phone.” He came into the building, walked into her office and said something to the secretary. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I heard her brusque response very clearly: “Find out what she wants.”
The man came out into the hallway. He was very obviously embarrassed, and said, “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can help you with?” I thanked him and left some literature.
On my drive back to the office I thought about the experience. Suppose I had been looking for a church home? Or wanting to inquire about the Easter service? Or needing to talk to a pastor? I was neatly dressed, polite, and undemanding. But in the twelve minutes that I stood there, the secretary couldn’t find it in her heart to put her caller on hold for even a moment and ask if she could help me.
Every job I’ve had has been in some sort of service field, where it was important to acknowledge visitors or clients and extend them courtesy. At a church, which is supposed to be the visible presence of Christ in the world, I was treated with absolute indifference by the guardian of the gate. If I am ever looking for another church home, it’s a certainty that I won’t look there.
So I urge pastors and members of congregations to look with a critical eye at what their building, signage, and office personnel are saying to those outside the walls. Is a person welcome only if he’s already a member of the club?
(DeSoto Today 9-22-05)
In that capacity, the first thing I noticed is that, with regard to signage, many churches aren’t very welcoming to strangers. It’s surprising how many churches don’t identify the location of the church office, or post signs showing the office hours. Many churches built in recent years aren’t of traditional architecture, and don’t have “typical” Sanctuaries. You can’t always tell which part of the building is the Sanctuary, and its entrance may not be much different from the entrance to the office. Why don’t churches make it easier on visitors who don’t know where to go? On Sunday morning, do visitors just have to follow the flow in order to find anything?
But the more serious concern is how many churches just aren’t welcoming to strangers. In each case I was visiting in order to provide information, not to solicit a handout, and yet too many times the secretary or other person of first contact treated me as if I were begging for something.
A few days before Easter this year I visited a church in DeSoto. The secretary’s office was right off the entrance, and I stepped towards her door only to observe that she was on the telephone. She glanced at me but didn’t otherwise acknowledge my presence, so I stepped away to give her some privacy. And I waited. After I’d stood there about five minutes, a man planting flowers right outside the building stuck his head in and asked me “Does she know you’re here?” “Yes, thank you, “I replied. He went back outside, and I waited some more. Although I was several feet away from the secretary’s office door, I couldn’t avoid overhearing the conversation, and it was obvious that it was a personal one, all chatty and friendly. After about six more minutes, the gentleman outside who had been keeping an eye on me through the front door stuck his head back inside. “Hasn’t she helped you yet?” “No,” I answered, “she’s still on the phone.” He came into the building, walked into her office and said something to the secretary. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I heard her brusque response very clearly: “Find out what she wants.”
The man came out into the hallway. He was very obviously embarrassed, and said, “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can help you with?” I thanked him and left some literature.
On my drive back to the office I thought about the experience. Suppose I had been looking for a church home? Or wanting to inquire about the Easter service? Or needing to talk to a pastor? I was neatly dressed, polite, and undemanding. But in the twelve minutes that I stood there, the secretary couldn’t find it in her heart to put her caller on hold for even a moment and ask if she could help me.
Every job I’ve had has been in some sort of service field, where it was important to acknowledge visitors or clients and extend them courtesy. At a church, which is supposed to be the visible presence of Christ in the world, I was treated with absolute indifference by the guardian of the gate. If I am ever looking for another church home, it’s a certainty that I won’t look there.
So I urge pastors and members of congregations to look with a critical eye at what their building, signage, and office personnel are saying to those outside the walls. Is a person welcome only if he’s already a member of the club?
(DeSoto Today 9-22-05)
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Three-day walk provides clarity for charity
Our daughter Joanna works for Susan G. Komen for the Cure. Komen is a beneficiary of the Breast Cancer 3-Day, the annual 60-mile walk that honors lives lost, celebrates survivors, and promotes breast cancer research. Last year's event started at Texas Stadium and took walkers through Irving, Grand Prairie and Arlington to the Fort Worth Stockyards.
Jo and her husband Trey were working with a pit crew for the event, and Jo asked if I'd like to help. Already that month I'd worked a fundraiser golf tournament and a community garage sale, so I hesitated. But this was my daughter, and the cause was a good one. My friend Dianne agreed to join us. So that Saturday in October, we headed to Randol Mill Park in Arlington for a three-hour shift at Pit Stop No. 4.
The pit stops give walkers a chance to go to the restroom, have a snack, and get hydrated. Our stop was the last break of the day. It served as a cheering point, where friends and family members waited to offer encouragement. I spoke with one older woman waiting to see her niece. She was crying even before spotting her: "I'm just so proud of her!"
Volunteers and supporters waited at each corner with balloons and signs. As each group of walkers appeared, the volunteers clapped and cheered and squirted them with water pistols to cool them off. After helpers arrived to relieve us, Dianne and I joined the cheering squad on the corner. We were having such a good time that we worked longer than scheduled.
Learning that the pit crew could use help again on Sunday, this time I didn't hesitate. I arrived at 9:30 a.m. to help set up the snack tent. We were located by a stretch of walking trail along the Trinity River. It was a peaceful place, and we visited with several horseback riders as we waited for the walkers to arrive.
Pit Stop No. 4 was only 1.7 miles from the end of the journey. As the first walkers arrived at our stop, some were so anxious to finish that they barely paused for a restroom break or water refill. More walkers arrived, in trickles and then in droves. Some were exhausted and needed to rest before continuing. Many, tired as they were, were just not quite ready for it to be over. These were women and men who had walked togeter, eaten together and camped together for a concentrated period of time. They were there because their lives had been touched in one way or another by breast cancer. Maybe they'd battled it personally, maybe they'd watched a loved one fight it. Some of them had trained for months, some of them were not in good shape. But they were alike in the desire to beat an enemy that still claims too many lives. I looked at the walkers, tired, sweaty, completely unconcerned with the trivialities of makeup or hair, and I could hardly imagine a more beautiful group of people.
I wound up staying until 3:30 p.m., and sat down only once. When I got home I was exhausted, and my feet were killing me. But I figured if more than 2,000 people could walk for three days, I could stand for six hours.
Would I do it again? Absolutely.
(DeSoto Today 10-04-07)
Jo and her husband Trey were working with a pit crew for the event, and Jo asked if I'd like to help. Already that month I'd worked a fundraiser golf tournament and a community garage sale, so I hesitated. But this was my daughter, and the cause was a good one. My friend Dianne agreed to join us. So that Saturday in October, we headed to Randol Mill Park in Arlington for a three-hour shift at Pit Stop No. 4.
The pit stops give walkers a chance to go to the restroom, have a snack, and get hydrated. Our stop was the last break of the day. It served as a cheering point, where friends and family members waited to offer encouragement. I spoke with one older woman waiting to see her niece. She was crying even before spotting her: "I'm just so proud of her!"
Volunteers and supporters waited at each corner with balloons and signs. As each group of walkers appeared, the volunteers clapped and cheered and squirted them with water pistols to cool them off. After helpers arrived to relieve us, Dianne and I joined the cheering squad on the corner. We were having such a good time that we worked longer than scheduled.
Learning that the pit crew could use help again on Sunday, this time I didn't hesitate. I arrived at 9:30 a.m. to help set up the snack tent. We were located by a stretch of walking trail along the Trinity River. It was a peaceful place, and we visited with several horseback riders as we waited for the walkers to arrive.
Pit Stop No. 4 was only 1.7 miles from the end of the journey. As the first walkers arrived at our stop, some were so anxious to finish that they barely paused for a restroom break or water refill. More walkers arrived, in trickles and then in droves. Some were exhausted and needed to rest before continuing. Many, tired as they were, were just not quite ready for it to be over. These were women and men who had walked togeter, eaten together and camped together for a concentrated period of time. They were there because their lives had been touched in one way or another by breast cancer. Maybe they'd battled it personally, maybe they'd watched a loved one fight it. Some of them had trained for months, some of them were not in good shape. But they were alike in the desire to beat an enemy that still claims too many lives. I looked at the walkers, tired, sweaty, completely unconcerned with the trivialities of makeup or hair, and I could hardly imagine a more beautiful group of people.
I wound up staying until 3:30 p.m., and sat down only once. When I got home I was exhausted, and my feet were killing me. But I figured if more than 2,000 people could walk for three days, I could stand for six hours.
Would I do it again? Absolutely.
(DeSoto Today 10-04-07)
Killer Mom
A cold snap was threatening, and I had just brought one potted plant indoors when Jack yelled, "There's a bird in the house!" All of a sudden, a second sparrow flew from the pot, where apparently the couple had been building a nest.
I waved the broom at the first bird and it flew outside. The second bird was scared, flying around in circles. Spotting its reflection in a mirror, it flew straight into the glass, not once, but three times. The third time stunned it, and I was able to grab it, wrap it in a dish towel, and carry it outside.
"Wow, that was wild," I said.
"When you grabbed the broom, I thought you were gonna kill the bird," Jack replied.
I was aghast. "Why would you think that? I was just trying to get him out of the room."
"Well," he said, "you do have a history."
It's unfair that an unfortunate reputation can attach itself to a nice person. Yes, I have killed a number of animals. In each case, it was accidental, I swear.
Once our rescued cat, pregnant before we obtained her, gave birth to a litter of kittens that liked to play in the driveway. How could I have known that three of them had climbed onto the van's back tire on the passenger side where I couldn't see them? When I backed down the driveway - well, you get the picture.
We found someone's pet rabbit in our backyard. Late for an appointment, I put the rabbit in our tender trap cage, on the unshaded patio. While we were away, the sun climbed to its zenith. When we returned home, the rabbit was barely breathing and died before our eyes. Of heatstroke, no doubt.
Once two baby birds fell out of their nest and I couldn't figure out how to get them back into the nest up so high. I took a small margarine tub, filled it with grass and dryer lint for a makeshift nest, and nailed it as high up on the tree as I could reach by climbing up on the ladder. I picked up the babies with a soft cloth and placed them in the tub, hoping that their mom would find them.
It never occurred to me to poke holes in the bottom of the tub. It rained that night. When Jill climbed up the next day to check on the birds, she found them drowned.
Then there was Purdy, a mockingbird we rescued when Jill was about 10. She fed Purdy with an eye dropper and he grew and thrived, until it was obvious that he needed to be set free.
Jill held Purdy to her cheek one last time. At the door, she held out her hand and released the bird, calling, "Bye, Purdy - I love you!"
And our cat came out of nowhere, leapt up and snatched the bird in midair.
"Purdy!" Jill screamed. Then she turned and gave me The Look - the How Could You Do This To Me, You Horrible Parent look.
I don't see why I should've been held responsible for each of those unfortunate accidents. But I was present each time, I did have some connection to each death, so now I am the official family animal killer.
That's a reputation that's hard to erase from your kids' memory banks. So after the last of our beloved Keeshond dogs died of old age, we didn't adopt any more pets. Jack feeds his raccoons on the patio every night, but I keep my distance.
But isn't it ironic: when our girls go out of town, who do they ask to take care of their dogs?
Killer Mom, that's who.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 12-02-06)
Friday, February 20, 2009
At my house, all animals are welcome for a meal
I'm sure there are parents out there who managed to raise children without also having to raise pets, but Jack and I never mastered that trick. Along with daughters, we raised dogs, cats, gerbils and the occasional rescued bird.
A pet ties you to home. If you travel, even for just a weekend, you have to either take the animal along with you or arrange for its care. So once our last daughter moved out, and the last dog died of old age, we just never got around to getting another pet. On a few occasions, I broached the subject of getting another dog, but Jack was always adamant that he didn't want that responsibility.
"Thirty years of pets is enough," he claimed.
Those were famous last words if I ever heard any. Now, no matter where we are or what we're doing, if we're within driving distance of home, Jack wants to be back at home pretty close to dark.
That's when the raccoons come to dinner.
Over the past couple of years we've watched several crops of raccoon babies grow up. Right now Jack feeds a mama and her five babies, who are growing so rapidly that we soon won't be able to tell them apart from Mama, as well as a few other masked strangers who like our cuisine.
Our record for one feeding is 10 raccoons, but three of those were too shy to come close and they stayed under the deck, reaching their little paws up from under to snatch at the bits of dry dog food we tossed their way.
Internet research indicates that most people use dry pet food when they feed their backyard raccoons. We do the same, buying cheap bulk dry dog or cat food. We've tried different types of fruit, but the critters aren't really interested. They like bread, but not crackers or chips. They absolutely love graham crackers.
Once we threw some stale powdered-sugar-coated lemon cookies out on the patio, and the raccoons went nuts. They gobbled them up. With their sugar-dusted noses, they looked like they'd been playing in the snow. I worry a bit about what sugar might be doing to their digestive systems, so we don't give them too much of it, but it sure is fun to watch.
They also love milk. The first time I put some out in a bowl, just as an experiment, one raccoon put his snout down in it to taste and didn't rise up again until the milk was gone. Another night, I put a little milk out in a small plastic bowl, and a baby grabbed it by the edge, tilting it up high as he ran away with it, and the milk poured down all over his face.
I used to worry about Jack getting so close to wild creatures, but he's careful not to get too near to claws or teeth. He loves spending time with his backyard buddies. You can't be stressed when you're watching raccoons. There's something so appealing about them. Not just the sweet faces, but the ringed tails, the dexterous paws, and the rolling way they walk.
God was definitely in a good mood on the day he designed raccoons.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 8-19-06)
A pet ties you to home. If you travel, even for just a weekend, you have to either take the animal along with you or arrange for its care. So once our last daughter moved out, and the last dog died of old age, we just never got around to getting another pet. On a few occasions, I broached the subject of getting another dog, but Jack was always adamant that he didn't want that responsibility.
"Thirty years of pets is enough," he claimed.
Those were famous last words if I ever heard any. Now, no matter where we are or what we're doing, if we're within driving distance of home, Jack wants to be back at home pretty close to dark.
That's when the raccoons come to dinner.
Over the past couple of years we've watched several crops of raccoon babies grow up. Right now Jack feeds a mama and her five babies, who are growing so rapidly that we soon won't be able to tell them apart from Mama, as well as a few other masked strangers who like our cuisine.
Our record for one feeding is 10 raccoons, but three of those were too shy to come close and they stayed under the deck, reaching their little paws up from under to snatch at the bits of dry dog food we tossed their way.
Internet research indicates that most people use dry pet food when they feed their backyard raccoons. We do the same, buying cheap bulk dry dog or cat food. We've tried different types of fruit, but the critters aren't really interested. They like bread, but not crackers or chips. They absolutely love graham crackers.
Once we threw some stale powdered-sugar-coated lemon cookies out on the patio, and the raccoons went nuts. They gobbled them up. With their sugar-dusted noses, they looked like they'd been playing in the snow. I worry a bit about what sugar might be doing to their digestive systems, so we don't give them too much of it, but it sure is fun to watch.
They also love milk. The first time I put some out in a bowl, just as an experiment, one raccoon put his snout down in it to taste and didn't rise up again until the milk was gone. Another night, I put a little milk out in a small plastic bowl, and a baby grabbed it by the edge, tilting it up high as he ran away with it, and the milk poured down all over his face.
I used to worry about Jack getting so close to wild creatures, but he's careful not to get too near to claws or teeth. He loves spending time with his backyard buddies. You can't be stressed when you're watching raccoons. There's something so appealing about them. Not just the sweet faces, but the ringed tails, the dexterous paws, and the rolling way they walk.
God was definitely in a good mood on the day he designed raccoons.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 8-19-06)
Parade brings American spirit
Last year, I had the pleasure and privilege of participating in Duncanville's Fourth of July parade. I drove a van bearing a group of residents of a senior-living community, and we had a wonderful time waving at the folks along the parade route.
We were astonished at how many spectators there were, many of them dressed in red, white and blue. Many of them were waving American flags, and judging from their expressions, all of them were happy to be there. And why shouldn't they be? They were celebrating a birthday.
Officially, our Fourth of July celebrations comemmorate the fact that in 1776 a group of 56 representatives in Congress assembled and signed a document declaring the colonies' independence from Great Britain and its tyrannical leadership.
How often do we re-read that incredible document, the Declaration of Independence?
"When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another...We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness..."
I suspect that John Hancock and the other signers would be astonished to see what the United States looks like 230 years later. They could scarcely have imagined a republic that would stretch from sea to shining sea, would be populated by millions and millions of individuals descended from immigrants from around the globe, or have citizens who would be responsible for astonishing inventions and achievements and innovations.
They could not have predicted that the United States would one day be a nation that sets the example for helping those in need, an example unmatched by any other country in the world. They could not have envisioned a country that offers such unparalled opportunity that the concept has its own name: the American dream.
The Declaration concludes with these ringing words: "We pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor." The founding fathers were willing to risk their very lives so that the generations to follow could live free from tyranny. Freedom: it's the dream of people all over the world, and we have it. That's what that Declaration gave us. Freedom to speak, freedom to disagree, freedom to vote, freedom to dream, freedom to go, freedom to stay, freedom to fail, and freedom to try again.
Driving along that parade route, we saw a community of people who were black, white and brown. We saw people who were young, old and in between. We saw people who were skinny and people who weren't. Some were probably wealthy, some were probably not.
Perhaps on other days their differences would set them apart, but not that day.
On that day, they were Americans. Happy, smiling, birthday-celebrating Americans.
What a beautiful sight.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 07-08-06)
We were astonished at how many spectators there were, many of them dressed in red, white and blue. Many of them were waving American flags, and judging from their expressions, all of them were happy to be there. And why shouldn't they be? They were celebrating a birthday.
Officially, our Fourth of July celebrations comemmorate the fact that in 1776 a group of 56 representatives in Congress assembled and signed a document declaring the colonies' independence from Great Britain and its tyrannical leadership.
How often do we re-read that incredible document, the Declaration of Independence?
"When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another...We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness..."
I suspect that John Hancock and the other signers would be astonished to see what the United States looks like 230 years later. They could scarcely have imagined a republic that would stretch from sea to shining sea, would be populated by millions and millions of individuals descended from immigrants from around the globe, or have citizens who would be responsible for astonishing inventions and achievements and innovations.
They could not have predicted that the United States would one day be a nation that sets the example for helping those in need, an example unmatched by any other country in the world. They could not have envisioned a country that offers such unparalled opportunity that the concept has its own name: the American dream.
The Declaration concludes with these ringing words: "We pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor." The founding fathers were willing to risk their very lives so that the generations to follow could live free from tyranny. Freedom: it's the dream of people all over the world, and we have it. That's what that Declaration gave us. Freedom to speak, freedom to disagree, freedom to vote, freedom to dream, freedom to go, freedom to stay, freedom to fail, and freedom to try again.
Driving along that parade route, we saw a community of people who were black, white and brown. We saw people who were young, old and in between. We saw people who were skinny and people who weren't. Some were probably wealthy, some were probably not.
Perhaps on other days their differences would set them apart, but not that day.
On that day, they were Americans. Happy, smiling, birthday-celebrating Americans.
What a beautiful sight.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 07-08-06)
You don't lose your heritage by learning English
As the wife of an immigrant who came here from Holland in the mid-1950s; as one who has taught English-as-a-Second-Language (ESL) classes to immigrants from Laos and Cambodia; and as one whose Anglo children were for many years the minority in their predominantly Hispanic schools, I have direct awareness and experience with the challenges faced by those who do not know English when they come to this country.
It is not necessary now for Mexican immigrants to learn English, since they can transact pretty much all business of life in Spanish. That wasn't an option for my husband's family, since there were no bilingual Dutch classes, Dutch TV programming, Dutch newspapers, Dutch driver's license exams, etc., available to them when they settled in Kansas in 1955.
My father-in-law was the only one in the family who knew English. His wife and three sons, anxious to become Americans, knew that it was essential that they learn English, and worked eagerly to do so. My mother-in-law (who is now 87) has told me that of course it was not easy for her to learn English in her 30s, but she knew that it was an important part of becoming American.
For many generations, immigrants came to America and assimilated, even though it was harder, and took longer, for the older members in the family. The rich heritage and traditions of the U.S., and the very reason we have been called a "melting pot," is that we have combined such a rich stew of nationalities into one nation. That melting pot has produced achievements and advancements which are the envy of the rest of the world.
Unfortunately, in recent years, and apparently only with Mexican immigrants, the process of assimilation into our English-speaking culture has been considered a "threat" to their culture.
My husband's family didn't lose their Dutch heritage as a result of becoming Americans; instead, it was something that they, then and now, continued to celebrate and embrace. All of their grandchildren are proud of their Dutch roots. Mom doesn't understand, and feels frustration with, the fact that so many immigrants coming here from Mexico seem to want to remain fully Mexican while taking advantage of the benefits of living in America.
The Laotion and Cambodian students I taught in the ESL classes came to this country in the late 70s. Very few of them knew any English. Learning our language, and educating themselves and their children, was a priority with them. With no bilingual classes available to their children, they learned English by immersion. And almost without exception those children excelled in school, because their parents placed a premium on learning. Those children and their parents did not lose their heritage by becoming Americans.
I read the comment by someone of Mexican descent: "...it is just as important to be bilingual as it is to know English." That comes across as very arrogant. Bilingualism is indeed a wonderful goal, and one to which we should all aspire. However, there are thousands of languages on this earth, and a person can be bilingual, or indeed multilingal, without knowing Spanish. The same person stated that a person of Mexican descent being unwilling to speak Spanish is to "ignore and deny your Mexican roots." Are my daughters denying their Dutch roots because they don't speak Dutch? Do I disparage my Scots/Irish heritage because I don't know the languages of those countries? What nonsense.
If I moved to France, or Germany, or Japan, or any other country whose predominant language was not English, I would expect to learn that country's language. If I moved to Mexico and intended to become a citizen, I would expect to learn Spanish. I would not expect (much less demand) that business, industry, media, retail, etc. provide me everything in English in order to accommodate my unwillingness to adapt.
It is the responsibility of immigrants - to any country - to learn the language of the county in which they reside and whose benefits they enjoy.
(Dallas Morning News Consejos forum 3-14-06)
It is not necessary now for Mexican immigrants to learn English, since they can transact pretty much all business of life in Spanish. That wasn't an option for my husband's family, since there were no bilingual Dutch classes, Dutch TV programming, Dutch newspapers, Dutch driver's license exams, etc., available to them when they settled in Kansas in 1955.
My father-in-law was the only one in the family who knew English. His wife and three sons, anxious to become Americans, knew that it was essential that they learn English, and worked eagerly to do so. My mother-in-law (who is now 87) has told me that of course it was not easy for her to learn English in her 30s, but she knew that it was an important part of becoming American.
For many generations, immigrants came to America and assimilated, even though it was harder, and took longer, for the older members in the family. The rich heritage and traditions of the U.S., and the very reason we have been called a "melting pot," is that we have combined such a rich stew of nationalities into one nation. That melting pot has produced achievements and advancements which are the envy of the rest of the world.
Unfortunately, in recent years, and apparently only with Mexican immigrants, the process of assimilation into our English-speaking culture has been considered a "threat" to their culture.
My husband's family didn't lose their Dutch heritage as a result of becoming Americans; instead, it was something that they, then and now, continued to celebrate and embrace. All of their grandchildren are proud of their Dutch roots. Mom doesn't understand, and feels frustration with, the fact that so many immigrants coming here from Mexico seem to want to remain fully Mexican while taking advantage of the benefits of living in America.
The Laotion and Cambodian students I taught in the ESL classes came to this country in the late 70s. Very few of them knew any English. Learning our language, and educating themselves and their children, was a priority with them. With no bilingual classes available to their children, they learned English by immersion. And almost without exception those children excelled in school, because their parents placed a premium on learning. Those children and their parents did not lose their heritage by becoming Americans.
I read the comment by someone of Mexican descent: "...it is just as important to be bilingual as it is to know English." That comes across as very arrogant. Bilingualism is indeed a wonderful goal, and one to which we should all aspire. However, there are thousands of languages on this earth, and a person can be bilingual, or indeed multilingal, without knowing Spanish. The same person stated that a person of Mexican descent being unwilling to speak Spanish is to "ignore and deny your Mexican roots." Are my daughters denying their Dutch roots because they don't speak Dutch? Do I disparage my Scots/Irish heritage because I don't know the languages of those countries? What nonsense.
If I moved to France, or Germany, or Japan, or any other country whose predominant language was not English, I would expect to learn that country's language. If I moved to Mexico and intended to become a citizen, I would expect to learn Spanish. I would not expect (much less demand) that business, industry, media, retail, etc. provide me everything in English in order to accommodate my unwillingness to adapt.
It is the responsibility of immigrants - to any country - to learn the language of the county in which they reside and whose benefits they enjoy.
(Dallas Morning News Consejos forum 3-14-06)
It's not your Mama's wedding, that's for sure
Thirty or so years ago, when my friends and I were getting married, weddings were a fairly simple undertaking. They were nearly always at church, with the reception held in the fellowship hall.
There was a wedding cake (groom's cakes hadn't been invented, I guess), punch, maybe some coffee for the older folk, a bowl of salted peanuts, and the proverbial pastel mints. If things were really uptown, there would be finger sandwiches.
The bridal party would stand in a receiving line, and the guests would walk by and hug and congratulate. We'd have some cake, laugh at the garter and bouquet tosses, and then throw rice at the departing couple. The whole thing was over in an hour and a half.
Since my husband and I eloped, our costs were minimal: blood test, marriage license, and judge's fee.
My first exposure to different wedding customs was when my sister married a man who grew up in New York. Held in Long Island, that was the first wedding I'd been to where guests brought cards containing money. It was also the first wedding reception I'd attended that featured a sit-down dinner and dancing. It even offered an ice cream bar, which I thought was pretty cool. That reception went on for hours.
For a long period I didn't attend any weddings. Everyone I ran around with was already married and busy raising kids. By the time our kids were old enough to start getting married, the world had changed. Man, how it had changed.
Onewed.com says the average wedding cost (including honeymoon) in 2003 was $20,000 to $25,000. That's what we paid for our first house. The average cost quoted includes such things as videography and limo transport, which not all brides choose. It also figures that the apparel for the mother of the bride will run $900. (Where do those women shop?)
Our oldest daughter, Jill, was married in 1997. We still had two daughters in school and were paying college expenses. To economize, I made her bridesmaids' dresses and used silk flowers for everything but the bridal bouquet. Since the ceremony was at our church, there was no rental cost. My sister did the photography and did a great job. We did use a hotel banquet room for the reception. Everyone had a great time, and it didn't break the bank.
In the nine years since, as I was busy enjoying my grandkids, I was lulled into complacency, never dreaming that our two remaining daughters would become engaged within weeks of each other and plan their weddings for dates only 11 weeks apart - first week in April, last week in June. These days, weddings are much on my mind.
Joanna and Janet are practical and economical (God bless 'em), so their plans don't include videography and limousines. They'll be happy events, and we'll celebrate, but the girls don't want to go crazy. So the overall costs are not the scary factor, rather the fact that we're juggling planning for two events so close together.
I can go years wthout buying a new dress, and now I need two. (But they won't cost $900 each, that's for sure).
My granny used to refer to "running around like a chicken with its head cut off." I think my head's still on my neck, but I do feel a bit like I'm going in circles.
It will all be wonderful. In the meantime, I'm watching for a sale on Stresstabs.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 3-04-06)
There was a wedding cake (groom's cakes hadn't been invented, I guess), punch, maybe some coffee for the older folk, a bowl of salted peanuts, and the proverbial pastel mints. If things were really uptown, there would be finger sandwiches.
The bridal party would stand in a receiving line, and the guests would walk by and hug and congratulate. We'd have some cake, laugh at the garter and bouquet tosses, and then throw rice at the departing couple. The whole thing was over in an hour and a half.
Since my husband and I eloped, our costs were minimal: blood test, marriage license, and judge's fee.
My first exposure to different wedding customs was when my sister married a man who grew up in New York. Held in Long Island, that was the first wedding I'd been to where guests brought cards containing money. It was also the first wedding reception I'd attended that featured a sit-down dinner and dancing. It even offered an ice cream bar, which I thought was pretty cool. That reception went on for hours.
For a long period I didn't attend any weddings. Everyone I ran around with was already married and busy raising kids. By the time our kids were old enough to start getting married, the world had changed. Man, how it had changed.
Onewed.com says the average wedding cost (including honeymoon) in 2003 was $20,000 to $25,000. That's what we paid for our first house. The average cost quoted includes such things as videography and limo transport, which not all brides choose. It also figures that the apparel for the mother of the bride will run $900. (Where do those women shop?)
Our oldest daughter, Jill, was married in 1997. We still had two daughters in school and were paying college expenses. To economize, I made her bridesmaids' dresses and used silk flowers for everything but the bridal bouquet. Since the ceremony was at our church, there was no rental cost. My sister did the photography and did a great job. We did use a hotel banquet room for the reception. Everyone had a great time, and it didn't break the bank.
In the nine years since, as I was busy enjoying my grandkids, I was lulled into complacency, never dreaming that our two remaining daughters would become engaged within weeks of each other and plan their weddings for dates only 11 weeks apart - first week in April, last week in June. These days, weddings are much on my mind.
Joanna and Janet are practical and economical (God bless 'em), so their plans don't include videography and limousines. They'll be happy events, and we'll celebrate, but the girls don't want to go crazy. So the overall costs are not the scary factor, rather the fact that we're juggling planning for two events so close together.
I can go years wthout buying a new dress, and now I need two. (But they won't cost $900 each, that's for sure).
My granny used to refer to "running around like a chicken with its head cut off." I think my head's still on my neck, but I do feel a bit like I'm going in circles.
It will all be wonderful. In the meantime, I'm watching for a sale on Stresstabs.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 3-04-06)
One Husband, One Wife Should be Enough
The newspaper headline read, "Utah court orders removal of judge with three wives."
Recently un-benched Walter Steed has served for 25 years on the Justice Court in the "polygamist community" of Hildale, Utah.
Of course the obvious first question that comes to my mind is how on earth this guy could have been allowed to sit in judgment on fellow citizens while he was violating Utah's law against bigamy, considered a three-degree felony. Steed legally wed his first wife in 1965, then added his second and third "wives" in 1975 and 1985, and has 32 children by the three women.
The legal (I should say illegal) aspects annoy me. But the psychological and practical aspects astonish me.
I've never really comprehended how any guy could get away with bigamy for long. I guess if a man travels a lot in his job it makes it easier to hide illicit behavior, but how does he hide the fact that he wasn't actually registered at Motel 6 but was instead at his second home?
Apparently in Steed's part of Utah, there's no need for pretense.
Consider the physical presence of 32 children. Did they all share one giant house? Did they have three separate houses? Did he rotate locations for dinner? How do you tuck 32 kids into bed at night? My husband and I have three daughters, and there were many times that we felt pulled in too many directions with all of their (and our) activities. How on earth can you give adequate parental time to 32 children? Can you imagine the grocery and clothing and doctor bills? The car insurance costs? College costs?
Utah must pay its judges really well.
When Jack and I married, he played golf, basketball, tennis, soccer, and baseball, and I was sometimes jealous of the time he devoted to those pursuits. I'm trying to imagine him having another couple of women added to that mix, and it's not a happy picture. No way can I wrap my mind around the possibility of one husband dividing his time, and his affection, and his obligations, between three women.
But here's the absolutely astonishing corker: the three women with whom Steed has been consorting are sisters! You've got to be kidding me! My sister and I couldn't even share clothing without argument; the idea of sisters sharing a husband is mind-boggling. Even worse is trying to draw this family tree -eeuuw. Kids who are first cousins are also half-siblings. That's appalling, as well as genetically scary.
Making a marriage work well, especially where there are children involved, takes a lot of time and effort, and that's just one husband and wife at a time.
Thank God that's enough for most of us.
(DeSoto Today 3-09-06)
Recently un-benched Walter Steed has served for 25 years on the Justice Court in the "polygamist community" of Hildale, Utah.
Of course the obvious first question that comes to my mind is how on earth this guy could have been allowed to sit in judgment on fellow citizens while he was violating Utah's law against bigamy, considered a three-degree felony. Steed legally wed his first wife in 1965, then added his second and third "wives" in 1975 and 1985, and has 32 children by the three women.
The legal (I should say illegal) aspects annoy me. But the psychological and practical aspects astonish me.
I've never really comprehended how any guy could get away with bigamy for long. I guess if a man travels a lot in his job it makes it easier to hide illicit behavior, but how does he hide the fact that he wasn't actually registered at Motel 6 but was instead at his second home?
Apparently in Steed's part of Utah, there's no need for pretense.
Consider the physical presence of 32 children. Did they all share one giant house? Did they have three separate houses? Did he rotate locations for dinner? How do you tuck 32 kids into bed at night? My husband and I have three daughters, and there were many times that we felt pulled in too many directions with all of their (and our) activities. How on earth can you give adequate parental time to 32 children? Can you imagine the grocery and clothing and doctor bills? The car insurance costs? College costs?
Utah must pay its judges really well.
When Jack and I married, he played golf, basketball, tennis, soccer, and baseball, and I was sometimes jealous of the time he devoted to those pursuits. I'm trying to imagine him having another couple of women added to that mix, and it's not a happy picture. No way can I wrap my mind around the possibility of one husband dividing his time, and his affection, and his obligations, between three women.
But here's the absolutely astonishing corker: the three women with whom Steed has been consorting are sisters! You've got to be kidding me! My sister and I couldn't even share clothing without argument; the idea of sisters sharing a husband is mind-boggling. Even worse is trying to draw this family tree -eeuuw. Kids who are first cousins are also half-siblings. That's appalling, as well as genetically scary.
Making a marriage work well, especially where there are children involved, takes a lot of time and effort, and that's just one husband and wife at a time.
Thank God that's enough for most of us.
(DeSoto Today 3-09-06)
Outdoor Life
When I married Jack, I assumed that his participation in so many outdoor sports meant he loved the outdoors in general. Ha! His family stayed in motels when they traveled. Their idea of roughing it was going barefoot inside the house.
“Let’s go camping,” I’d plead. “No,” Jack replied.
“Let’s go camping,” I’d plead. “No,” Jack replied.
A friend finally persuaded Jack that camping would be fun, so we bought a small tent. Arriving at Galveston Island State Park on the day in 1975 that it first opened to the public, we had the place almost to ourselves. Shortly after we pitched our tent, Jack split his toe on a metal tent stake, resulting in profuse bleeding. Heading home, we stayed at Lake Livingston, where the mosquitoes were so vicious that we were literally prisoners inside the tent. “This is why I don’t like camping,” Jack grumbled, and that was the end of our camping life.
For years our friends Hill and Leslie asked us to go camping, but Jack was inflexible. Finally, about 10 years after our first disastrous camping experience, Hill convinced Jack that Turner Falls in Oklahoma was the perfect destination: drive up Friday afternoon, stay that night and the next, come home after breakfast Sunday. Jack reluctantly agreed.
Hill headed to the store for a new tent. On his return, Leslie wanted to take the tent out of the box and set it up to make sure they could handle it. Hill declined, scoffing “I’ve sent up plenty of tents.”
Between the two families, we had two vans, four adults, six kids, two tents, two Coleman stoves, and other paraphernalia. At Turner Falls, we paid for two nights, then drove to the campgrounds seeking adjacent sites. With the campground nearly full, the only sites we could find that were next to each other were on a pretty pronounced slope. We flipped a coin and our family wound up with the lower site.
As we were setting up, we heard Leslie exclaim “I TOLD you to take it out of the box before we left!!” Apparently the box Hill purchased had been a return that was put back on the shelf by mistake. No tent inside: the box contained only a canopy. Hill moved their van closer to a tree and rigged the canopy between the van and the tree to make a shelter, and they laid their sleeping bags out on the ground. Hill assured his kids “Lots of fresh air this way! It’ll be fun!”
We had a great time at the swimming hole, and were starving when we headed back to the campsites. Unfortunately, Hill’s stove wouldn’t light no matter what he tried. In complete frustration, he slammed it down into a trash can. That left our two-burner stove to cook dinner for the ten of us, so we ate in shifts.
After dinner, the girls headed to the community bathroom to shower, and discovered that there were two shower stalls: one with a long curtain, and one with a short curtain. Naturally there was a line for the long-curtain stall. Unfortunately, those waiting for showers had to line up directly in front of the two toilet stalls – neither of which had a door OR a curtain. The girls decided that they’d wait until after midnight to use the bathroom.
Seeing our friends stretched out in their sleeping bags on the ground under their canopy, we felt guilty at having a tent. Novices that we were, we didn’t realize until later that we should have put our sleeping bags perpendicular to the slope, rather than along it with Jack at the top. Every time he turned over in his sleeping bag, he rolled a little bit more down the slope and squashed the rest of us.
During the night a wind came up and blew dirt from under the Copelands’ van into their faces. The large group at the next campsite played mariachi music – loudly – for much of the night. The kids were the only ones who got a good night’s sleep.
When we woke the next morning, the adults came to a quick agreement: forfeit our second night’s fees and head home immediately. I was a little sad, because I’d seen the whole experience as an adventure. Jack saw it as proof positive that he’d been right all along about camping.
When we got home, he gave our tent to our neighbors.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 3-22-08)
Memories of a Sweet Aroma
Recently while browsing at an antique mall I found a pipe rack with a glass humidor. I bought it ostensibly to turn into a lamp, but I think I really bought it because it reminded me of my grandfather.
Now I must confess up front that I really hate cigarette smoking and am not all that fond of cigar smoking. But there’s something about the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco that sure is appealing. Maybe it’s mostly the memories of Granddaddy, whom I adored, and whose pipe was a constant presence in my life.
But I think that looking at that rack, remembering my grandfather and his pipe, also carries me back to a time when it seemed that life was gentler, slower, not as full of stress. I can so clearly remember watching Granddaddy open his pouch of tobacco, scoop it out and begin packing it into the pipe, tamping it down until he was satisfied that it would burn well. He used a wooden kitchen match to light his pipe, and he would puff and puff until it was drawing correctly. His eyes were always closed as he got his pipe going; maybe the methodical ordered routine required his focused concentration, easier to accomplish if he wasn’t looking at anything around him. From start to finish, the intricate pattern of motions was never rushed.
I suspect that you can’t be a pipe smoker if you’re always in a hurry, or have a nervous temperament. Maybe folks who are prone to road rage should take up pipe smoking; it might calm them down.
Granddaddy’s smoking took its toll on his clothes. Pretty much every shirt or suit jacket he wore bore tiny holes caused by flying embers that dropped down as the tobacco burned in the bowl of the pipe. I’m sure my grandmother got tired of little flakes of tobacco all over the house. But that pipe was my grandfather, just as much as the khaki pants and shirts he wore to work as a carpenter, or the grey wool hat he wore to church.
And remembering Granddaddy and his pipe, and his khakis, and his hat, makes me wonder if there’s anything that my grandchildren will one day associate with me as closely as I do those accoutrements of my grandfather’s.
When my daughters saw the pipe rack, they asked “what is it?” They probably barely remember their Papaw smoking, and certainly didn’t remember that he kept his pipes in a pipe rack. It’s not the sort of decorative accessory that you see just anywhere - in fact, I’m not sure you can find too many outside of an antique store or estate sale or on ebay.
I fashioned the rack into a lamp, and filled its tobacco jar with old matchbook covers. The deep brown of the lampshade casts a soft glow that warms my heart.
As do the memories of my grandfather.
Now I must confess up front that I really hate cigarette smoking and am not all that fond of cigar smoking. But there’s something about the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco that sure is appealing. Maybe it’s mostly the memories of Granddaddy, whom I adored, and whose pipe was a constant presence in my life.
But I think that looking at that rack, remembering my grandfather and his pipe, also carries me back to a time when it seemed that life was gentler, slower, not as full of stress. I can so clearly remember watching Granddaddy open his pouch of tobacco, scoop it out and begin packing it into the pipe, tamping it down until he was satisfied that it would burn well. He used a wooden kitchen match to light his pipe, and he would puff and puff until it was drawing correctly. His eyes were always closed as he got his pipe going; maybe the methodical ordered routine required his focused concentration, easier to accomplish if he wasn’t looking at anything around him. From start to finish, the intricate pattern of motions was never rushed.
I suspect that you can’t be a pipe smoker if you’re always in a hurry, or have a nervous temperament. Maybe folks who are prone to road rage should take up pipe smoking; it might calm them down.
Granddaddy’s smoking took its toll on his clothes. Pretty much every shirt or suit jacket he wore bore tiny holes caused by flying embers that dropped down as the tobacco burned in the bowl of the pipe. I’m sure my grandmother got tired of little flakes of tobacco all over the house. But that pipe was my grandfather, just as much as the khaki pants and shirts he wore to work as a carpenter, or the grey wool hat he wore to church.
And remembering Granddaddy and his pipe, and his khakis, and his hat, makes me wonder if there’s anything that my grandchildren will one day associate with me as closely as I do those accoutrements of my grandfather’s.
When my daughters saw the pipe rack, they asked “what is it?” They probably barely remember their Papaw smoking, and certainly didn’t remember that he kept his pipes in a pipe rack. It’s not the sort of decorative accessory that you see just anywhere - in fact, I’m not sure you can find too many outside of an antique store or estate sale or on ebay.
I fashioned the rack into a lamp, and filled its tobacco jar with old matchbook covers. The deep brown of the lampshade casts a soft glow that warms my heart.
As do the memories of my grandfather.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 4-01-06)
The Duplex
When Jack and I married at age 20, he was still in college and we had hardly any money. We couldn’t both fit into my tiny efficiency apartment, and buying a house wasn’t even the glimmer of a thought in our minds (no zero-down mortgage loans back in 1971!), so we found a little duplex on Westmoreland Road in Oak Cliff and were thrilled to rent it for $65 a month. A living room, bedroom, bathroom, and galley kitchen – that was plenty of space for us since we didn’t have many possessions. The duplex had tiny front and back yards, and we even got half of a garage, new home to our 1969 VW beetle.
We were only a few blocks from my parents, not much farther from Jack’s, and a mile from our church, so our support system was nearby. Our furnishings consisted of family hand-me-downs and finds from Goodwill. The look was definitely 70’s, down to the turntable and stereo system atop a bookcase made of boards resting on cinderblock supports. It wasn’t fancy, but we were content.
I was pretty naïve, and had never been the owner of a Major Appliance before, so I didn’t realize that it wasn’t a good idea to defrost the refrigerator’s freezer by means of an ice pick. One day I was chopping busily away when I heard a hissing sound. After everything in the freezer thawed out, I realized that I had stabbed a hole in the tube carrying the Freon. Shortly afterward, our Volkswagen was joined in the garage by our Dead Major Appliance.
The unforeseen drawback of our living arrangement was the fact that, by its definition, a duplex provides two dwelling areas. And on the other side of our all-too-thin walls resided a man who liked to watch late-night reruns of “Mr. Ed.” Every night as we tried to sleep, we could hear “A horse is a horse, of course, of course” coming through the bedroom wall. The guy was nice enough, but he enjoyed mowing the lawn wearing Bermuda shorts and no shirt. Since he weighed about 400 pounds, I was motivated to stay indoors whenever he was out.
One weekend a friend from out of town came to visit. We took a quilt outside late one night and the three of us laid on the front lawn, looking up at the stars and talking. We fell asleep, right there on Westmoreland with the traffic whizzing by. Of course in 1972 there wasn’t quite as much traffic – but it still amazes me to realize that life was so different then that we didn’t feel any concern for our safety.
After a year or so, we moved up in the world to renting a 2 bedroom house with a big back yard and – egad! – a dishwasher. I thought I was in heaven. Even after our first daughter was born, we had plenty of room. It wasn’t until we’d been married nearly seven years that we bought our first house.
I look at our daughters, and their friends, most of whom have waited a little longer to marry and who are buying houses within a year or so of being wed. I’m happy for them being able to take such a major step so soon. But I don’t regret for a minute that we began our journey together as newlyweds who had to wait a while for home ownership. It was all part of the adventure of married life. We were poor in possessions, but rich in love.
And, now, happy memories.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 4-22-06)
Getting in Shape
Some years ago I attended an aerobics class with my neighbor Alice. It was something we could do together while our daughters were in school, and besides we both wanted to get in better shape. Classes were held at the local roller rink, and we went at least twice a week.
I think most of the women who attended were stay-at-home moms. When we all began, most of us wore our tee shirts and baggy shorts. As the weeks went by and we got in better shape, I noticed more and more of us daring to wear leotards – still covered with shorts, of course.
I like the movement and the music of the class. I always thought I was a klutz, but I could manage those moves. We did warm-ups that gradually moved into pretty strenuous stuff, and then did nice easy moves to cool down. Sometimes I even imagined myself to be graceful.
It can’t hurt to dream.
During the height of each routine we were really working hard. I swear our instructor used to be a drill sergeant in the Army. She was always so bright and chipper and unflagging, until some days I thought I could take her little leotard and stuff it down her skinny throat. Even when she grunted during a strenuous routine, she sounded so cute. My grunts sounded like…well, grunts.
I’m sure a lot of folks are self-motivated, but I’m not one of them. If I’m left on my own, I won’t do it. The exercise tapes I own just take up space on a shelf. I needed the encouragement of a schedule and a class to attend. Alice and I encouraged each other, and prodded each other to keep trying when one of us was feeling lazy.
After about eight weeks, I had lost ten pounds. I just wanted to get toned up, I didn’t even think about weight loss. That was really exciting! The hard routines were still hard, but I was really motivated once I started losing weight.
I figured that the exercise might kill me, but at least I’d be in great shape for my funeral.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 11-12-05)
I think most of the women who attended were stay-at-home moms. When we all began, most of us wore our tee shirts and baggy shorts. As the weeks went by and we got in better shape, I noticed more and more of us daring to wear leotards – still covered with shorts, of course.
I like the movement and the music of the class. I always thought I was a klutz, but I could manage those moves. We did warm-ups that gradually moved into pretty strenuous stuff, and then did nice easy moves to cool down. Sometimes I even imagined myself to be graceful.
It can’t hurt to dream.
During the height of each routine we were really working hard. I swear our instructor used to be a drill sergeant in the Army. She was always so bright and chipper and unflagging, until some days I thought I could take her little leotard and stuff it down her skinny throat. Even when she grunted during a strenuous routine, she sounded so cute. My grunts sounded like…well, grunts.
I’m sure a lot of folks are self-motivated, but I’m not one of them. If I’m left on my own, I won’t do it. The exercise tapes I own just take up space on a shelf. I needed the encouragement of a schedule and a class to attend. Alice and I encouraged each other, and prodded each other to keep trying when one of us was feeling lazy.
After about eight weeks, I had lost ten pounds. I just wanted to get toned up, I didn’t even think about weight loss. That was really exciting! The hard routines were still hard, but I was really motivated once I started losing weight.
I figured that the exercise might kill me, but at least I’d be in great shape for my funeral.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 11-12-05)
Lucy Redux
Occasionally I worry that I’m channeling the ghost of Lucille Ball from a lost episode of “I Love Lucy.”
One Sunday my husband Jack and I had gone with our daughter and her family down to the Bosque River, to fish and enjoy nature. Jack had to travel to Austin from there, so I rode home with Jill, John and the boys.
Jack had entrusted me with putting his fishing poles away safely. When we got home, I leaned them against the porch bench until I could unlock the door. Jill, John and grandsons drove away.
A saving grace: that meant there were no witnesses.
Apparently I slipped into the “Lucy” dimension on the front porch as I waved goodbye. Because when I turned from the door to pick up the poles and carry them in, the treble hook on one came loose from its eyelet and snagged on the left leg of my jeans, down below my knee. I did a little hop-step into the house, holding both poles, and went on to the kitchen. I laid the poles on the table and put my left foot up on a chair seat and tried to unhook myself.
Now a treble hook is so named because it has THREE hooks. When you try to grab that sucker you’d better be careful. It sure wants to do its job, which is to hook something. My foot being up on the chair made things awkward, and I couldn’t extract the hook from the denim. I decided to take off the jeans to be able to get closer to the hook. Grabbing the pole that had hooked me, I took my foot off the chair to discover that before the hook snagged me, its line had wrapped around the line of the other rod. I couldn’t separate the poles.
Again holding both poles, I hobbled into the bedroom and kicked off my shoes. I couldn’t get the leg of my jeans down over my left foot no matter how hard I pulled. That’s when I discovered that the hook from the second pole had snagged my cotton sock. Its fibers were wrapped tightly around the prongs of the hook, never to let go.
Light bulb moment: I wouldn’t try to work the hook out, I’d just cut it out of the sock! Now I hop-stepped (holding both poles, snared now by hooks in both my jeans leg AND my sock) over to my desk, got my scissors and cut the hook out of the sock. I unwrapped the two lines, laid the poles down, took off my jeans, and was then able to get the other hook out of the jeans without tearing them. Put my jeans back on, threw away my ruined sock, hung both hooks carefully on their eyelets, and put the poles in the garage.
When Jack called me to tell me that he’d arrived in Austin, I said “You’ll never believe what happened to me,” and recounted the story. His first question was “Was there profanity involved?” “No,” I answered, “just a lot of laughing.” His second question was “Why didn’t you just cut the lines?”
Well, shoot. If I opened the dictionary to the word “chagrin,” would I see my picture there?
I had spent fifteen minutes getting myself untangled from two hooks on two poles, and it had never occurred to me to cut the lines. I couldn’t even claim to be trying to save Jack from having to re-tie the hooks. I just didn’t think of it.
As a kid watching those old “I Love Lucy” shows, even as I laughed at her antics I remember thinking “Nobody could be that stupid.”
Just call me Nobody.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 12-31-05)
One Sunday my husband Jack and I had gone with our daughter and her family down to the Bosque River, to fish and enjoy nature. Jack had to travel to Austin from there, so I rode home with Jill, John and the boys.
Jack had entrusted me with putting his fishing poles away safely. When we got home, I leaned them against the porch bench until I could unlock the door. Jill, John and grandsons drove away.
A saving grace: that meant there were no witnesses.
Apparently I slipped into the “Lucy” dimension on the front porch as I waved goodbye. Because when I turned from the door to pick up the poles and carry them in, the treble hook on one came loose from its eyelet and snagged on the left leg of my jeans, down below my knee. I did a little hop-step into the house, holding both poles, and went on to the kitchen. I laid the poles on the table and put my left foot up on a chair seat and tried to unhook myself.
Now a treble hook is so named because it has THREE hooks. When you try to grab that sucker you’d better be careful. It sure wants to do its job, which is to hook something. My foot being up on the chair made things awkward, and I couldn’t extract the hook from the denim. I decided to take off the jeans to be able to get closer to the hook. Grabbing the pole that had hooked me, I took my foot off the chair to discover that before the hook snagged me, its line had wrapped around the line of the other rod. I couldn’t separate the poles.
Again holding both poles, I hobbled into the bedroom and kicked off my shoes. I couldn’t get the leg of my jeans down over my left foot no matter how hard I pulled. That’s when I discovered that the hook from the second pole had snagged my cotton sock. Its fibers were wrapped tightly around the prongs of the hook, never to let go.
Light bulb moment: I wouldn’t try to work the hook out, I’d just cut it out of the sock! Now I hop-stepped (holding both poles, snared now by hooks in both my jeans leg AND my sock) over to my desk, got my scissors and cut the hook out of the sock. I unwrapped the two lines, laid the poles down, took off my jeans, and was then able to get the other hook out of the jeans without tearing them. Put my jeans back on, threw away my ruined sock, hung both hooks carefully on their eyelets, and put the poles in the garage.
When Jack called me to tell me that he’d arrived in Austin, I said “You’ll never believe what happened to me,” and recounted the story. His first question was “Was there profanity involved?” “No,” I answered, “just a lot of laughing.” His second question was “Why didn’t you just cut the lines?”
Well, shoot. If I opened the dictionary to the word “chagrin,” would I see my picture there?
I had spent fifteen minutes getting myself untangled from two hooks on two poles, and it had never occurred to me to cut the lines. I couldn’t even claim to be trying to save Jack from having to re-tie the hooks. I just didn’t think of it.
As a kid watching those old “I Love Lucy” shows, even as I laughed at her antics I remember thinking “Nobody could be that stupid.”
Just call me Nobody.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 12-31-05)
Look for a Rainbow
Some years ago, I made a right turn onto a local street and was confronted with an amazing sight. There, arching across the sky ahead of me were not one, but two huge rainbows, one entire bow clearly visible and the second one a bit fainter above it. It’s not unusual to see a portion of a rainbow – a part of its leg or maybe the top of the arch partly obscured by clouds – but this was the whole enchilada, in duplicate.
I have an extravagant fondness for rainbows. Of course I learned the story of Noah and the Ark when I was very young, and always loved the idea that God’s “bow in the clouds” meant that he would never again destroy the earth by flood. I sang right along with Judy Garland on “Over the Rainbow” when I watched the Wizard of Oz, and with Kermit the Frog of Sesame Street when he sang “The Rainbow Connection.” I don’t collect rainbow magnets or key chains or drawings, but I sure do love the real thing.
Years ago my family was driving toward downtown Dallas when I saw a double rainbow. That was the first double I’d ever seen, and I was ecstatic. “Jack! Jill! Jo!” I cried. “Look, look – it’s a double rainbow! Think how many people are driving along and not even looking up, not appreciating how beautiful it is! Isn’t it incredible? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Mom,” said my ever-practical daughter Jill, “take it easy.”
Serendipity is the unexpected gift that catches us by surprise and lifts our spirits. It’s the little grace note that enhances the music of life. I find serendipity in lots of places – my grandson’s grin as he teases me, a raccoon scratching at the back door to get our attention, an unexpected letter from a far-away friend. It’s easier than you might think to find those gifts when you’re looking for them, when you’re paying attention, and you should be grateful when they arrive.
I thought it was a plain old Monday until I turned that corner, and then it was a Great Gift day. So keep your eyes open: maybe one of these days you’ll turn a corner and see a rainbow. And if it’s a double rainbow: hey, even at the risk of having your child think you’ve taken leave of your senses, get a little excited. You won’t regret it.
I promise.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 12-03-05)
I have an extravagant fondness for rainbows. Of course I learned the story of Noah and the Ark when I was very young, and always loved the idea that God’s “bow in the clouds” meant that he would never again destroy the earth by flood. I sang right along with Judy Garland on “Over the Rainbow” when I watched the Wizard of Oz, and with Kermit the Frog of Sesame Street when he sang “The Rainbow Connection.” I don’t collect rainbow magnets or key chains or drawings, but I sure do love the real thing.
Years ago my family was driving toward downtown Dallas when I saw a double rainbow. That was the first double I’d ever seen, and I was ecstatic. “Jack! Jill! Jo!” I cried. “Look, look – it’s a double rainbow! Think how many people are driving along and not even looking up, not appreciating how beautiful it is! Isn’t it incredible? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Mom,” said my ever-practical daughter Jill, “take it easy.”
Serendipity is the unexpected gift that catches us by surprise and lifts our spirits. It’s the little grace note that enhances the music of life. I find serendipity in lots of places – my grandson’s grin as he teases me, a raccoon scratching at the back door to get our attention, an unexpected letter from a far-away friend. It’s easier than you might think to find those gifts when you’re looking for them, when you’re paying attention, and you should be grateful when they arrive.
I thought it was a plain old Monday until I turned that corner, and then it was a Great Gift day. So keep your eyes open: maybe one of these days you’ll turn a corner and see a rainbow. And if it’s a double rainbow: hey, even at the risk of having your child think you’ve taken leave of your senses, get a little excited. You won’t regret it.
I promise.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 12-03-05)
Thinks a Lot
My husband Jack once told me that I think too much. That accusation wasn’t apropos of nothing; it was a result of one of the myriad questions I’ve asked that just seem pointless to him. But I’m curious about so many things!
It drives him particularly crazy when we go to the movies. While I have no objection to suspending belief for the sake of a story, sometimes a plot element is just so contrived, or a mistake is so obvious, that I can’t stop myself from commenting “Come on, give me a break!” to which he invariably replies “It’s just a movie.” But I always want to know why someone somewhere didn’t catch the numerous stupid mistakes that are so commonplace in the movies nowadays. Am I the only one who thinks about these things?
Jack and I had a conversation about this. He said there are times, such as when he’s fishing, that he tries not to think about anything, to just make his mind a blank. That is such an amazing concept to me, the idea that your mind can be like a big white dry-erase board with nothing on it. We were on the road to Lubbock when we had this conversation, with lots of nothing to look at, so I decided to try for myself to just zone out and not think about anything at all. I looked out the window towards the horizon and tried to go blank. Right away I spied a house on the service road, in between an auto parts place and an appliance repair center, and I thought “Why on earth would anyone want to live right there?” and then “Well, maybe the people who live in the house own the businesses on either side, and they wouldn’t have far to go to work.”
Okay, start again, picture that blank board.
I looked out the other side of the car and saw acres upon acres of plowed fields, and thought “How long would it take to do all that in the old days without a tractor?”
Shoot. This blanking-out business is impossible.
Could it be a gender thing? Is the ability to “not think” the result of an enzyme or a protein or something like that on the Y chromosome? More than once Jack has come home to tell me that a co-worker had her baby, and I asked how much did it weigh, did everything go okay, and he looked at me blankly and said “I don’t know – I didn’t think to ask.”
I am acutely sensitive to cigarette and cigar smoke. At close contact, it causes my throat to close up and makes me miserable. Once Jack and a friend borrowed my car to go somewhere, and smoked big old smelly cigars the whole trip, and came home and parked the closed car in the driveway. The next morning I got in the car and was nearly knocked over from the stench. The smell had permeated every fiber of the upholstery. I couldn’t get away from it. I later said to Jack “You know how sick smoke makes me! That’s MY car! What were you THINKING?” He just looked at me blankly. Because, of course, he and his buddy hadn’t thought, not for one single second, about anything other than the desire to smoke cigars and enjoy themselves. They just hadn’t thought.
I sometimes think too much; he sometimes doesn’t think at all. After thirty-four years together, we balance each other.
I think.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 2-04-06)
It drives him particularly crazy when we go to the movies. While I have no objection to suspending belief for the sake of a story, sometimes a plot element is just so contrived, or a mistake is so obvious, that I can’t stop myself from commenting “Come on, give me a break!” to which he invariably replies “It’s just a movie.” But I always want to know why someone somewhere didn’t catch the numerous stupid mistakes that are so commonplace in the movies nowadays. Am I the only one who thinks about these things?
Jack and I had a conversation about this. He said there are times, such as when he’s fishing, that he tries not to think about anything, to just make his mind a blank. That is such an amazing concept to me, the idea that your mind can be like a big white dry-erase board with nothing on it. We were on the road to Lubbock when we had this conversation, with lots of nothing to look at, so I decided to try for myself to just zone out and not think about anything at all. I looked out the window towards the horizon and tried to go blank. Right away I spied a house on the service road, in between an auto parts place and an appliance repair center, and I thought “Why on earth would anyone want to live right there?” and then “Well, maybe the people who live in the house own the businesses on either side, and they wouldn’t have far to go to work.”
Okay, start again, picture that blank board.
I looked out the other side of the car and saw acres upon acres of plowed fields, and thought “How long would it take to do all that in the old days without a tractor?”
Shoot. This blanking-out business is impossible.
Could it be a gender thing? Is the ability to “not think” the result of an enzyme or a protein or something like that on the Y chromosome? More than once Jack has come home to tell me that a co-worker had her baby, and I asked how much did it weigh, did everything go okay, and he looked at me blankly and said “I don’t know – I didn’t think to ask.”
I am acutely sensitive to cigarette and cigar smoke. At close contact, it causes my throat to close up and makes me miserable. Once Jack and a friend borrowed my car to go somewhere, and smoked big old smelly cigars the whole trip, and came home and parked the closed car in the driveway. The next morning I got in the car and was nearly knocked over from the stench. The smell had permeated every fiber of the upholstery. I couldn’t get away from it. I later said to Jack “You know how sick smoke makes me! That’s MY car! What were you THINKING?” He just looked at me blankly. Because, of course, he and his buddy hadn’t thought, not for one single second, about anything other than the desire to smoke cigars and enjoy themselves. They just hadn’t thought.
I sometimes think too much; he sometimes doesn’t think at all. After thirty-four years together, we balance each other.
I think.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 2-04-06)
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