A Brief Respite
I’ve been watching the Eagles.
No, not the band, or the football team from Philadelphia. The eagles I have been watching live in Big Bear Valley in California. You can go to You Tube and search for Big Bear Valley, and there they are. I’ve been watching since early February, and I am quite taken with this family of Bald Eagles. Some people have been watching for years.
If you go to Big Bear Valley on You Tube, you will meet Jackie and Shadow. Jackie is the Mom. She has a dark smudge over her right eye, her head tends to look less curved than Shadow’s, she is bigger, and her face is more stern than Shadow’s. Jackie and Shadow had three eggs, and folks were on the edge of their seats waiting for the little ones to arrive. Evidently, their brood last year didn’t hatch, so there was some reason for the anxiety. That, and it’s Nature, so you never know what is going to happen. (Insert foreshadowing music here.)
Big Bear Valley is in the mountains of San Bernadino County, and it snows there. Jackie and Shadow are very good parents, and kept their eggs warm and safe through all the snow and sleet and rain. There was some pretty nasty weather. Jackie didn’t let Shadow sit on the nest much during the bad weather, and she would be on the nest for sixty hours or more at a stretch. There were times when she was completely covered in snow. She never gave up, though. Shadow did his part, too. He is a mighty hunter, and brought plenty of food back to the nest: fish, coots (a medium sized water bird), even a duck or two. They call and communicate to each other quite a bit, and I am convinced that sometimes they were arguing. They seem to know each other’s voices, and seemed to be checking in with each other, or calling out to each other, sometimes even having intimate conversations. (Side note: at the time of this writing, the sound is not currently functional at Camera 1)
After what seemed like a long, long time, the eggs hatched. Three little fluffball eaglets! Shadow and Jackie took turns hunting and feeding the littles, although Jackie still spent more time brooding and feeding and Shadow spent more time watching and hunting. It was nature at its finest.
Last weekend, there was a storm that dumped two feet of snow on Big Bear Valley. Jackie, true to form, did the lion’s share (eagle’s share?) of guarding the nest. Eagles develop a brood patch, an area on their chest with no feathers, so the blood vessels are closer to the skin and it helps keep the eggs and the babies warm. They did their best. Unfortunately, one of the little eaglets did not survive the storm.
It was devastating.
Many, many people were incredibly sad about the little fluffball that did not survive. I know, survival of the fittest and all that. But Jackie and Shadow went through so much to bring this life into the world. I read that eagles bury their chicks that don’t survive. I don’t know if that is true, but for now I am choosing to believe it. I do know that Jackie flew her little one off the nest for the last time.
When those eggs started to hatch, and then after the eaglets were here, there were close to 100,000 people on line, watching, teachers showing their classes, in the background on work screens, people waiting, rooting for the Bald Eagle Family. People from all over the world, from as far away as Australia. It’s as if, for a brief period of time, politics, geography, wars, religion, none of it mattered. We could put all that aside and appreciate something beautiful, something pure, something simple.
It was a nice respite. I sure wish it would last.
Peace,
Kat
Words, Revisited
It’s that time again, dear readers.
Time to revisit the power and beauty of words. Words can build you up, tear you down, excite you, depress you, interest you, bore you. They make friends, distance enemies, create rifts, heal wounds. They tell stories, convey ideas, tell the truth, tell a lie. You have to be careful with words, for the power they have.
Our current presidential administration, for example, liberally bandies words about without, I think, being aware of, or caring about, their consequences. Words like “You’re fired” or “No, we don’t need that program any more.” These word are, unfortunately, affecting our National Parks, our veterans, our airline space, our nuclear safety, our emergency weather preparedness.
I have a friend who enjoys words as much, if not more, than I do. She can use the word “lexicon” naturally in the course of a conversation. It’ s a great word. Like me, she collects words. We have many conversations about them. It’s one of the many reasons I love her. I have learned some new words I want so share, as well as some not so new ones that I wish to discuss. So, without further ado here is my list.
Liminal. It means being in an intermediate phase, state, or condition. In transition, in between. One could argue that January 20, 2025 was a liminal day. With the concept of liminal, you are anticipating….you don’t know what is coming next. It is like the song in West Side Story, “Could be. Who knows. There’s something due any day, I will know right away, soon as it shows!”
Tmesis. Feel free to use this in Scrabble. This is inserting a word within another word or phrase to give it emphasis. Like un-flipping-believable, abso-freaking-lutely, or a-whole-nother story, or la-de-fricken-da. Isn’t is wonderful that there is a word for that?
Did you know there is a word for the study of crop circles (cereology), execution by drowning (noyade), and to build a nest (nidificate). There’s perspicuous ( clearly and easily understood), kibosh (to put a stop to something), ensorcelled (bewitched, enchanted).
There are other words that are getting quite a bit of airtime recently. Some that I don’t like at all. Libtard is right up at the top of the list of word I cannot stand. Not because I live on the liberal side of things, which I do. But because of the second half of the word. We all know the root of that one, and it isn’t used any more to describe people with intellectual disabilities. It slang and derogatory. It is name calling. If you are at the point in your argument where you are calling the other side names, you’ve lost the argument.
Fascism is another word I’ve seen lately. According to Merriam Webster, is an autocratic regime led by a dictatorial leader that values nation over individuals, controls opposition and criticism, industry and commerce. So while the Nazis were fascists, not all fascists are Nazis. Get it?
Of course, I save the best word for last. It isn’t new to me, new to the blog, or new to the world. It is the word that Stephen King said was the best of things. The word that Pandora left at the bottom of her box, when she had let all the troubles of the world escape. It’s the word we must all hold on to.
Hope.
Peace,
Kathie
Misogyny
Misogyny: A dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women. (Oxford English Dictionary)
Back in December, there was a story about a 70 year old woman in Paris whose husband would drug her, call his friends to come over, where they would proceed to rape her while the husband filmed it. He had over forty tapes. The men were all tried in court. Their defense was that the husband said it was okay, so they thought it was fine.
The husband.
The woman could have stayed anonymous, but she wanted to be seen and heard so that maybe someone else would be spared what she was going through.
Such a brave woman. History is littered with brave women who were brave enough, strong enough, to speak out, stand up, be counted, pave the way. The Suffragettes, who fought , and eventually won, the right for women to vote in 1920 with the 19th Amendment. Do you know the State of Mississippi didn’t ratify the 19th Amendment until 1984? We got our first female federal judge, Genevieve Rose Cline, in 1928, and our first female cabinet member thanks to FDR in 1933, when Francis Perkins became the Secretary of Labor. In 1983 Sally Ride became the first female in space, in 1997 we got our first female Secretary of State with Madeline Albright, 1981 brought us Sandra Day O’Connor as the first female Supreme Court Justice, and in 1984 Geraldine Ferraro became the first female running mate for a vice-presidential candidate on a major political party ticket. Hillary Clinton became the first woman presidential candidate for a ticket of a major political party in 2016. 2007 gave us the first female Speaker of the House with Nancy Pelosi. Of course, Kamala Harris finally succeeded in becoming Vice President in 2021.
There are milestones where laws are concerned also. Until 1974, women could be refused a credit card if they didn’t have their husband’s permission to get one. It wasn’t until 1973 that women could officially serve on a jury in all 50 states. It became illegal in 1971 to not hire a woman just because she had preschool aged children. In 1971, a state law was struck down that automatically gave men preference in administering a will. 1981 saw the end of laws that gave husband unilateral control of jointly owned property. 1978 brought us the Pregnancy Discrimination Act, wherein women couldn’t be fired for being pregnant. There are so many, and behind each one are women fighting for their rights. For my rights. For your rights.
Take a moment to look back on those dates. Women have been in this country, on this earth as long as men, and yet most of these milestones are within my lifetime.
It doesn’t have to be a huge court case. Take the Me Too movement from 2006. This movement gave women the courage to speak out and stand up to sexual violence. Women all over social media, all over the world, were standing up, standing together, to say “me too”. It was a powerful demonstration of how prevalent the problem is. And it brought about change.
Not enough, or this may not have happened to this woman in Paris.
We need to do better. We need to stand together and fight. It is more important now than ever before. To stand together.
I hope, even if we don’t agree on everything, we can at least agree on this. That there should be no place in this world for the hate. The violence. That we should live in a world in which violence against an unconscious woman is not okay. Don’t you think so?
Me, Too
Kathie
The Blame Game
Through a coincidental confluence of circumstances, I acccidentally shredded my debit card. I knew mine was set to expire at the end of November, and I received a new one in the mail. When I tried to pay for something on December first and the card was declined, I thought, “Oh, right, my card is expired” and activated my new one, shredded my old one, and was good to go.
Turns out, my card expires November 2025, the activated card is for my son’s account that my name happens to be on, and I entered the wrong card information for the thing I was trying to pay. My first thought? “The bank should have made that more clear when they sent out those cards.'“
Nope. The truth is, and I am sure you all see it from where you are sitting, it is completely my fault. There was more than one opportunity for me to have not shredded my debit card. But we want to place blame, don’t we?
In the musical Les Miserables (and the book, for that matter) Fantine gets invovled with a man who says he loves her but he really is just in it for the summer, and at the end of the summer, he leaves her, “with child.” It’s the early 1800’s France; this is not a good thing. She has the child and finds an innkeeper and his wife to care for the child while she works at a factory to pay the couple for the child’s keep. That innkeeper and his wife aren’t exactly the most scrupulous of people, and gouge Fantine for more money every chance they get, all the while neglecting the child. Meanwhile, the other women who work with Fantine are jealous of her, find out about the child, and Fantine gets fired on “moral grounds”. Needing to make money to keep paying for the child, she turns to the streets to earn a living. In the book, she sells her teeth. On stage, she sells what jewelry she has, and her hair (the things mothers do for theri children) and eventully, herself. This life is brutal, and it ends up killing her.
All within the first 20 minutes of the show. But I digress.
Who is responsible for Fantine’s death? The man who took advantage and deserted her? The innkeeper and his wife for demanding more and more money? The jealous workers who got her fired? The foreman who fired her? The factory owner who should have been paying more attention to what was going on in his factory? Society in general for the stigma put on unwed mothers?
Here is another one. In Into the Woods, The Baker wants to know who is at fault for his wife’s death. There is an entire song about it. The Baker blames the death on The Witch for growing the magic beans that grew the beanstalk. The Baker’s Wife gets blamed for trading maigc beans for Jack’s cow. Jack gets blamed for stealing from The Giant up the beanstalk. Cinderalla gets blamed for carelessly throwing a magic bean away and growing a second beanstalk so that The Giant’s Wife could come to avenge her husband’s death. Little Red Riding Hood gets blamed for daring Jack to go back up the beanstalk to get more ill-gotten goods. The Giant’s Wife gets blamed for (accidentally) stepping on the Baker’s Wife. And the Baker’s Father gets blamed for stealing the magic beans from The Witch and getting The Baker’s house cursed in the first place, which was the reason The Baker, His Wife, and The Witch were in the woods at all.
Did you get all that? If not, google the song. “Your Fault”. They eventually blame The Witch. “You’re repsonsible, you’re the one to blame, it’s your fault!”
People are so quick to find fault, to try to place blame, and to not take responsibility. There may even be differing degress of blame to be placed. The characters in Into the Woods repeatedly sing, “But it isn’t my fault.” Except everyone had a hand in the problem. The truth is each of us has the potential to affect everything and everyone around us. I think it is improbable that we consider how each and every action we take, every word we speak, is going to affect those around us, but can’t we do it just a little more often?
And when things go wrong, as they are wont to do, can we press pause on the blame game, and just figure out how to solve the problem?
Peace,
Kathie
I am a Cisgender Woman
I am not gender fluid.
I am not transgender.
I am not lesbian, gay, bisexual, queer and questioning, intersexual, asexual, or two-spirit.
I am a cisgender woman.
If you want to know the truth, I don’t completely understand all these terms as well as I could, or should. It is beyond my imagination and experience to know what it is like to be gender fluid or trans or any of it in today’s society. I would like to say I understand what you are going through if you or your child are any of these, and trying to navigate today’s world.
But I can’t. I have never been there, done that.
Then again, I don’t have to. I don’t have to know what it’s like to be you, in order to welcome you in, or to be your friend, or to listen, or to be a safe space for you. I can do all those things without complete understanding. And maybe by doing those things, I can learn a little more, comprehend a little more, know how you feel a little more, love a little more. We all need to do this. Because, you see, the world is a frightening and dangerous place. There are people who will hate you, hurt you, just because of who you are or who you love.
Why does it matter? How am I harmed or damaged in any way if Bill chooses to love Sally or Bob? Or if Bill decides to become Sally and then love Bob? Shouldn’t that be up to Bill, Sally, and Bob? Sure, you are free to agree or disagree with anyone’s lifestyle choices as much as you want. The minute you start trying to tell them, or dictate to them, those choices…well, that’s where you step over the line. Violence should be way out of the question. Unfortunately, all too often, it is not.
I have friends who have kids that fit into many of these categories. I know these people, they are good parents. Their kids are scared. For their safety. And they are starting to make choices, some of them to keep their identity hidden, which has proven to be psychologically damaging. Would you want to watch your kid go through that? I wouldn’t. As a parent, I would want to do whatever I could, whatever I had to, to turn my child into a healthy, functioning adult member of society. I believe that means accepting them for what and who they are, and helping them become fully that — whatever that is.
Now, you know I am not talking about severely deviant behavior, so don’t go there.
It is time. Time to stand up to bullies. Time to open our hearts. Time to open our eyes. Time to turn off the hate. Even if it is disguised as love. Especially if it is disguised as love. Before more people are damaged beyond repair. After all, it could be, and likely is, someone you know.
As my son would say,”Live and let live, you know?”
Peace,
Kathie
Connections
On August 16, 2024, 60 year old Dolores Prudhomme clocked in to her job at a Wells Fargo Office at 7 a.m. on Friday morning in Tempe, Arixona.
She was found dead at her desk the following tuesday. 4 days later.
In that 4 days, no one noticed. No one noticed that she had clocked in and not clocked out. No one came to clean her floor or empty her trash. No one stopped by her desk to tell her hello, or goodbye, or have a nice weekend, or to ask her how her weekend was. No one has come forward to say, “I wondered where she was.” No one has come forward to say they noticed that she seemed to be missing, or that she hadn’t come home and they were worried. Coworkers say they noticed that something smelled bad, but thought it was bad plumming.
Bad Plumming.
Disregarding what kind of a work environment leads to a person thinking that the smell of decaying flesh is the plumbing in the building…….how? How do we become so disconnected?
I had a neighbor once, who I would talk to almost every day while we were standing out on our respective patios. One weekend he wasn’t around. His name was David. David was a home-body, he never went anywhere. At the end of the weekend, just when we were getting worried, his sister had evidently called the local police force to do a welfare check. They did—David had passed away, probably 3 days earlier. It was sad, and I felt bad. But at least David had people in his life that noticed he was missing.
How do we get so disconnted? Are we all so busy, so entrenched in our own lives, our own jobs, our own realities, that we can’t take time out of our days to say hello, pass a few minutes or the time of day? I blame the decline of the front proch. Seriously. Where people would sit in front of their homes and talk to people walking by. When people would be aware and concerned about their neighbors, even if they weren’t the best of friends.
I feel like this disconnection is at the heart of what’s wrong with our world today. We see our own point of view and forget to listen to anyone else’s, we don’t see our kids and what they are going through, we don’t hear our coworkers. We are always so busy, we forget to take time. Time away from our phones. Time to notice. Time to chat. Time to listen. Time to laugh. It’s ok to take time to read a book, play a game, go on a picnic, go for a walk, enjoy a song, or just stand and look at the stars. Together. With someone. It can last for a lifetime or just for a moment or anytime in between. Take time, to find joy in that connection.
Oh, I know I am oversimplifying. We are more divided as a country thatn I ever remember being. People are more concerned with being right, we can’t close our mouths and listen. This isolation, it isn’t right, it isn’t healthy. We are meant to live in community, not alone. It doesn’t have to be a large community. It could be a small family of three, a small office of three, or a small circle of friends.
Take the time. Check on your coworkers. Text your parents, spouse, family. Call someone. Visit your neighbors. Just to say hi, how are you doing. You never know whose day you can brighten. Make a conncetion.
Before it’s too late.
Peace,
Kathie
August 18
My Dad would have turned 86 yesterday. His sister, my Aunt Joan, would have been 88. I miss them both.
I think it is safe to say that Aunt Joan was Dad’s favorite person. I am not saying that he didn’t love my mom, or us kids, or his brother, or any other member of his family. There was just a special place in his heart for his sister. He would get a little misty-eyed when he talked about her. It was a special relatonship. And because they were so close, we kids reaped the benefits. I can’t imagine growing up among a finer group of people than my grandparents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles.
August 18 has alway been a special day in our family. It was an excuse to get everyone together. There was always plenty of food, and conversation, and fun. Sometimes, it was a way to get everyone together for a project. I remember one time we got together and painted my Grandma Stephens’ house. And everyone came to help becasue it was August 18th and therefore a party. That, and it was Grandma. She wasn’t an easy person to say no to.
I have to be honest, I felt a bit at a loss yesterday. I saw one of my sisters and my mom. The rest of us are scattered. I wondered if they knew I was thinking of them, and missing them. I wondered if they were feeling nostalgic and maybe a bit lonely for thsoe gatherings. I keep hearing Aunt Joan’s voice saying (in regards to my Uncle Leroy, also greatly missed), “We will just have to miss him in the right way.”
I think about that a lot.
I am not saying there is a right way and a wrong way to grieve, and I don’t think that she was saying that either. I do think that there are healthier ways to grieve than others. I baked cookies. Not just any cookies. Aunt Joan once gave me a recipe for “Mike’s Cookies”. It was a recipe from my Grandma for Chocolate Drop Cookies that Grandma used to make for Dad. They were his favorite. I thought of family with every bite. I shared them with my husband & son—my little family. And I shared them with friends that have been friends so long they are family.
I think Aunt Joan would have approved.
It was an old recipe. It called for “1/4 cup fat” (I used Crisco) and “2 squares chocolate”. I used unsweetened baking chocolate. I don’t know about that choice or if I used enough. They weren’t the best cookies I have made, so I am going to have to tweak my ingredients and try again. They are special cookies, so if you are family and I didn’t get to share Dad’s Cookies this time around, I will try to get you next time.
I beilieve I have a new August 18th tradition.
This life? If you are very lucky—you can define this word any way you want—it’s all about family.
Peace,
Kathie-Lump
Soundtracks
I have been listening to classical music lately. Every now and again, I need lyric free music just to clear all the chaos and word clutter out of my head. Sometimes I feel like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. “Word, words, words! I’m so sick of words!” Yes, dear readers, sometimes even I get weary of so many words. I retreat into the world of music created by Wagner and Vivaldi, Bach and Beethoven, Mozart and Mendelssohn, Haydn and Chopin and Liszt. I don’t have the ability to listen to a piece of music and tell you the composer most of the time, although I have friends that can do just that. (You know who you are.) Oh, I can pick out Vivaldi most of the time, and many pieces by Mozart (thanks to that time I worked backstage at a production of Amadeus). I can usually tell a Tchaikovsky when I hear it, or Gershwin, and I am amused by how many of these classical pieces I recognise because I grew up with Bugs Bunny and his pals at Looney Tunes.
Can you imagine composing music like this? To have such knowledge of every instrument in an orchestra, and how they fit together musically, so much that you could write an entire four-movement symphony for every piece of the orchestra? Or know piano or violin to the extent that you could write a concerto for them, and still be able to write the orchestra piece that plays behind the main instrument? These poeple that could and can do this are amazing to me. I can sit and listen to these pieces quite peacfully for some time. If you listen just right, the music can tell a story. In fact, in college, my best friends and I used to put on classical music, turn off the lights, close our eyes, and tell the musical story together. It was a fun game, and I sometimes think those nights were the best sleep I have ever gotten.
If you have a moment, find Spanish Dance #2 on piano by Enrique Granados. Put it on and close your eyes and just listen. It is one of my most favorite pieces. I first heard it played by Tom Constantine of the Grateful Dead. You will thank me later.
While I was taking my break, though, a couple new words crept into my brain. Do you want to know what they are? Ready? One is phenomenology. It is very fun to say. (You should try it.) It is a branch of philosophy that explores the way we interpret the world. It exolores subjective experiences and the meanings that we put to them. The other is efficacy. It is fun to say too. (You should try this one too.) It is a noun version of the word efficient.
There is a song—well, sort of a song—-that celebrates specific words and how fun they are to say. Credit for this goes to (the late) Robb Hendershot. I like to think he would be amused at me promoting it here. It is called Bulbous Bouffant. You should look that up too. Especially if, like me, you enjoy words.
I am not entirely sure how I got from Wagner to Bulbous Bouffant. My musical taste has alway been eclectic. But it soothes me, amuses me, helps me feel sad, helps me feel happy. Helps me feel. Music is so many things. It is an escape, a retreat, a salve, a way to pass the time…..my music creates the soundtrack of my life, and is ever changing.
What is your soundtrack like?
The Olympics
I love The Olympics.
I love the speed and strength as the swimmers glide through the water, the way my heart seems to pause as the divers tumble off the high boards, the grace ad power of the gymnasts. Each time, at my house, we seem to learn something new. One year, we learned all about curling (not hair…stones and ice and brooms.) This year, we are learning about fencing, epees versus sabres, and handball.
There are so many events, some that I forget (or didn’t know) were olympic events. Did you know ping pong is an olympic event? Only it’s called table tennis. Maybe if I would have kept at it when I was a kid, who knows? Or trampoline? Or breakdancing? There is a new kayak event this year. And there is surfing, alhtough not in France. It is in Tahiti-French Polynesia.
You never who is going to stand out. Oh, sure, you can be sure that Simone Biles is going to be fantastic this year (and she has been.) American swimmer Katie Ledecky is probably going to leave other swimmers far behind (and she has). French swimmer Leon Marchand will probably do the same with his competition (and he has.) But there are things that you don’t expect. There is a man from Turkey that earned a silver medal in a shooting competion that is causing a stir because he just stood there, no other fancy equimpent, (like other shooters use) and shot his gun.
Have you seen Pommel Horse Guy? His real name is Stephen Nedoroscik. He is a self-proclaimed glasses-wearing nerd, an engineering student from Penn State. He can, (and during his wait at the olympics, did) solve a Rubik’s Cube in 10 seconds. He does one thing at the olympics, the pommel horse. During the USA men’s team final, he sat there, getting water for his temmates and cheering them on. The Pommel Horse is the last event, and he needs to do an almost flawless routine for the team to get a medal. So he walks up to the pommel horse, takes stock of it, takes his glasses off (It was a Clark Kent moment) and starts his routine….and nails it. He is perfect…arguably the best routine on any aparatus all night. The USA men earn a bronze metal, their first team bronze in gymanstics in 16 years.
One of our gymnasts, Suni Lee, had kidney disease, and six months ago couldn’t do gymnastics. Yesterday, she got a bronze in the women’s All Around. There are stories like this from every country. Stories of pain and perseverence, of trying and winning, of trying and not winning. But no one looses, although I am sure it doesn’t feel that way to those that don’t medal. The thing is, everyone there worked and sacrificed and sweated to be the best in their sport, the best that they can be. They had a drream and a goal and through effort and pain and joy and tears and victories and heartache, they did it.
So many people from so many countries. I like to believe that this is the one time in this world that we can all put aside our differences and call a truce. A little peace. Root for the athletes to do well just because they are trying, they followed their dream, and as human beings, we, as spectators want them to do their best. Be happy for whoever wins. Be a little bumed for those that don’t get a medal. Because everyone has a story, filled with heartbreak and victory, successes and losses, tears of joy and tears of sorrow.
I think we should respect that. In everyone.
Peace,
Kathie
The Shack
My family has a cabin in …..
Okay. In the spirit on honesty, it’s a shack.
My family has a shack in Riverside, Wyoming. It is a small town, (population 66 people, up from 52 a few yeras ago) on the western side of the state. It is near Encampment, which was once going to be the state’s capitol instead of Cheyenne. We are proud of our little shack. See, it is legendary. At least, in our family it is.
My Granddad Stephens, who I never knew, bought this odd little sliver of land in Riverside back in the day. He would not buy a home in Cheyenne, as he didn’t want anythimg so permanent. He wanted to be able to up and go whenever he was ready. (Spoiler: He stayed in Cheyenne.) But he bought this land in Riverside. There are a few stories about what happened next, but I will tell the story I heard. One day, my Granddad and a buddy (who shall remain nameless) drove up to an abandoned, one room logging cabin on federal land, hooked this cabin to his truck, dragged it to that little piece of land, and planted it there. This was in 1956, so I hope the statute of limitations has run out. Granddad was a bit of a rebel, from what I have heard of him. Anyway, not wanting the cabin to stay a simple one-room dwelling, Granddad and Grandma, along with my Uncle, build a room onto it. I hear that Grandma and my Uncle did most of the building. Knowing my Grandma and my Uncle, I wouldn’t be surprised.
That is how we got our shack. It has no road access, no running water, no electricity. It has a large wood-burning stove for cooking, a pot bellied stove in the addition for heat, a table, and a cot or two. It used to be a right of passage that you had to spend a night in the shack to join the family. At least, so I hear. And it was a better test if you did it in the winter. We don’t make folks do that any more.
Granddad was born on July 4th, so every few years, or every other year, or when we can, the family gathers there to celebrate his birthday. We aren’t a huge family, but we are big enough to be scattered across several states. Our lives don’t interact as much as we would like. My cousins and I, though, we grew up very close, because my dad adored his sister. And loved his brother. So we got together often. It is this tradition we try, through The Shack, to continue. We eat breakfast together, we swim at the hobo pool in nearby Saratoga, we enjoy the beautiful Wyoming wilderness, we eat dinner around a campfire, we make s’mores, we tell stories. Stories of those who have come before, of times past. It is there that the lore of our famliy gets preserved. It is there we remember Granddad, and Grandma, and Uncle Leroy, and Aunt Joan, and my Dad.. Truth be told, I feel like they join us up there. We remember what it means to be family. The Shack is the spiritual home of our family It is where our heart is. This feeling, this family, this Shack—this is Grandma and Granddad’s legacy.
It almost makes The Shack, well, a castle.
Peace,
Kathie
Get Your Kicks on Route 66
We recently took a trip along Route 66. If you want small town America, this is it.
We started at Albuquerque and drove R0ute 66 to Flagstaff. We stopped for lunch in Albuquerque at the 66 Diner. It is a 50’s style diner, complete with black and white checkered tile floor, turquoise tables, stools and countertops, and a soda fountain. We got a good sandwich and an incredibly large milk shake, served cheerfully by the server in a retro style outfit. It set a good tone for our trip, and we were on our way.
We passed over the Rio Grande River, which we somehow were not expecting, and traveled through the first of many beautiful landscapes. We passed through Gallup, New Mexico (It is mentioned in the song) and arrived at the Americana Motor Hotel in Flagstaff. It is a multi-colored hotel with an astronaut out front and a mirror ball, complete with lights, in every room. (Yes, in fact, I did turn it on.) There is a pool and a courtyard with outdoor sitting areas, hammocks, and a firepit. They also have a little food place (I would not call it a restaurant exactly) called Baja Mar that will make you a delicious meal; we had a surf and turf quesadilla at the recommendation of the cook, he was right, it was yummy. Flagstaff is a great place. It would be an easy day trip to all sorts of places, such as the Grand Canyon, Meteor Crater, Painted Desert, and the Petrified Forrest., among others.
We didn’t hit any of those (yet). Instead, we hopped on I40 and drove straight to the Santa Monica Pier. We stayed in a Holiday Inn Express in LA, as we had a free night’s stay, and drove to the pier. It is the end point of Route 66 (or the start, depending on your point of view, I suppose.) We had dinner there and watched people for a while. It was cold, so Austin still has not stepped foot in the Pacific Ocean off the West Coast. Ah well, maybe another time.
The next day, we headed east on Route 66. We drove though Pasadena, which was very pretty. Not to cast aspersions, but it was much prettier than LA. In Pasadena, we stopped at a little place called The Donut Man. Every day, they make fresh gourmet donuts and “regular”ones that are a step above your average donut. (Or even a step above your above average donut.) You go to the window and order and walk away with your purchase. The day we were there, they has stuffed donuts that had apple pie filling, or strawberries and cream. We didn’ t get those (too messy). I got a cinnamon one and Austin got a maple glazed. To say they were incredibly good is selling them short.
It took an hour and a half to get out of the LA area-it’s huge. After LA, we stopped by a small roadside museum. The man there used to work for the railroad (Sante Fe). I told him my dad used to work for the D&RGW (Denver and Rio Grande Western), and we had a conection and conversation about railroads. I have a picutre from this museum of a quilt made up of one inch squares. If you have ever made a quilt, you have to wonder at and appreciate the amount of work in that!
In Eastern California, they have what are called Cinder Cones. They are old volcanos that rise about 800 feet above the desert floor. Surrounding them are miles of black and hardened lava flows. At one of these, there is a parking lot, you can get out and walk up to this pavilion. No one else was there, not even another car passing on the highway. And because it was a lava field in the middle of the desert in the middle 0f a 109 degree day, there were no birds, no bug sounds, no wildlife, nothing. Not a sound. It was beautiful and eerie all at once. It felt for a moment like we were standing on an alien landscape.
Of course, there are many little towns with historical signs that dot the roadway. The ones that thrilled me the most were a series of Burma Shave signs. "“Passing cars/When you can’t see/May get you a glimpse/Of eternity/Burma Shave.” There were maybe seven or eight of these. I never thought I would actually see one, it was truly stepping back in time. As for the towns themselves, well, some towns are still thriving, some are just getting by, and some are gone. Lost to the desert.
We stopped at the Meteor Crater, which was created 50,000 years ago when a mutli-ton meteor hit the Arizona Desert. (OK, not Arizona at the time.) There is a life size statue of an astronaut at the bottom of the crater (the astronauts used to train there) but from the top of the crater, it looks like a small toy. If you could put the Washington Manument in the crater, it would just reach to top. Humbling, somehow.
Another thrilling stop was Winslow, Arizona. You can stand on a corner with a building in the background that has the name of the town painted on it. There is even a flatbed Ford parked at the corner. There is your earworm—if you know, you know. It was such a fine sight to see.
Our accomodations that night were at the Wigwam Hotel In Holbrook, Arizona. They are individual tepee rooms (not canvas, they are solid buildings), with old cars (Studebakers and the like) parked at the tepees, so that you feel a bit like a time traveler when you pull into their lot. The beds are comfortable; we had a good night’s sleep and were on our way.
On our last day, we went to the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest. I am out of words to describe the wonder that we found here, except to say we found some of the most breathtaking panoramic vistas. They were truly a pleasure to see. Nature is amazing.
This is getting long, but I wanted to tell it. Of course, the best part of the trip was the time my husband and I got to spend together-we road trip well. I don’t know when we will travel the rest of Route 66. But I can hardly wait. If you like road trips, I recommend this one. There are plenty of kicks to be had.
Happy Trails,
Kathie
Commodities
The second part of my DBS Surgery was scheduled for today. Obviously, I am not there.
Why not? Glad you asked.
This part of my surgery was supposed to happen At the Denver Surgery Center. They sent me an email a couple of weeks ago, wanting me to prepay for the procedure. They had not run it through insurance, they just looked at my benefits and gave me an estimate of what they thought it would cost. When I asked for an invoice so that I knew exactly what I was paying for, they didn’t have one. I told them that I was not comfortable paying for a procedure that I hadn’t had yet on an estimate that they couldn’t even show me what I was paying for, that had not been run through the insurance yet. My out of pocket maximum will be more than met with the first surgery, and I don’t want to, and can’t afford to, wait until they process that they need to pay me back after the fact.
This turned out to be a good decision.
Yesterday, the neurosurgeon’s office called at 4:45 and told me my surgery had been cancelled. Evidently they needed a letter from the insurance company approving my claim. The doctor had verbal approval, my first surgery was approved and done, the surgery was approved, but they needed that piece of paper. The insurance company said it was on the way. But it hadn’t arrived by 5, so they cancelled me. It seems there is a new Person In Charge at Denver Surgery that likes to do things their own way, no options. So the policies are enforced with no regards to if they work or not.
I was told that I was not the only person this had happened to. I was also told by my doctor’s scheduler, that in all her years in the medical profession, she has never seen surgeries cancelled at the last minute like this, for this reason. And it has happened several times.
The thing is, this doesn’t just affect me. It impacts my job, the people in my office, my husband, his job and office, my son, my family who are worried/thinking about me, my friends….you get the picture. And this is just one surgery. There is an emotional toll as well. You get mentally geared up for surgery, emotionally ready, and then the supreme let down when it is cancelled through no fault of your own. Then there is a doctor and his medical team, who has a tight schedule to help as many people as he can. What does that do to them?
When did we stop being a patient and start being a commodity? When did the human element go out of the health care system? I’m not talking about the amazing doctors and nurses and health care professionals that sacrifice and serve every day. They are heroes. I’m talking about the people that sit in their plush corporate offices that have a spread sheet check list with boxes that all have to get checked, regardless of the practical realities of their system. Where is the kindness, the understanding, the flexibility? It isn’t even us that is the commodity, it’s our bodies and our minds, our health and well being, that is being traded and sold. Somehow, the fact that we are human being got lost in the process.
There is a line from a play called Talking With, it is a series of monologues. One of them is called Rodeo. She has a line that says, “Do you hear what I am sayin’ to you? You are just merchandise to them, sweetie. You are just merchandise to them.”
My surgery has been rescheduled. At Swedish Hospital. As my 14 year old would say….you all should be better people.
Peace,
Kat
End of Innocence
Sometimes, I just miss things.
Like, I used to think that Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven was about a woman trying to buy her way into a favorable Eternal Reward. I used to think that the song Afternoon Delight was about a really tasty lunch. I believed with all my brain that Yosemite Sam’s name was pronounced “Yo-sem-eet”. I argued quite vehemently with my brother on that one. David Lee Murphy’s song was about Dust on The Bible, not Dust on the Bottle. Born in the USA was a patriotic song…until I really listened to the lyrics.
There are sometimes things it takes me a while to hear. God Bless America? Those words that many people stumble over are “Through the night with a light from above.” You know what I am talking about. (Thanks, Uncle Casey) The Eagles song Desperado had a lyric that I never could figure out, until one day when I was driving down a street and realized what the mystery sentence was. “Your prison is walking through this world all alone”. It hit me so hard, I almost had to pull over.
I didn’t know what Furries were. If you don’t know, you can look it up if you want. I refuse to take that bit of innocence away from you.
Until recently, I didn’t know, or didn’t believe, that there were professional agitators. These are people who get paid to stir up things at an otherwise peaceful protest, usually to promote an agenda. I am not saying that these paid people are the only folks to stir thngs up. But, with the recent protests at college campuses, I feel that they were mostly peaceful until agitators showed up. And that, to me, is sad.
These students are trying to change things. They are trying to use their collective voices to say that what is happening to the Palestinian people is wrong. That, outside of Hamas, they are just people, trying to live their lives and raise their children without the fear of bombs, bullets and famine cutting those precious lives oh so short. I don’t agree with Hamas bombing Israel, but I don’t agree with what Israel is doing.
I hope I can say that without being labeled Anti-Semitic. Just as I could disagree with some of President Obama’s policies and not be racist, I can disagree with Israel’s current actions because of the actions, not because it is Israel that is doing it. NPR had a story about two or three newborn Palestinian babies that were in intensive care, in a hospital, that had to be left there when the hospital got evacuated. They died alone. I would argue that as a crime against humanity, no matter who was responsible.
I am not saying the people of Israel aren’t suffering. Of course they are. It is tragic. But no one is (currently) actively trying to wipe them off the face of the planet.
We must stop seeing people as labels, and start seeing them as people. Not Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Israeli, Palestinian, American. We need to stop with seeing thing as Us and Them, and start seeing just….people. Mothers, Fathers, children. Wanting to survive, to live, just to be.
Oh, I know. My naive innocence is poking its head into my blog. I think I usually try to see the world as it is, not as I would like it to be. I know Stairway to Heaven is about drugs, Born in the USA is about what is wrong with America, and Afternoon Delight isn’t an ice cream treat. And I know that wishing we could all just get along doesn’t make it happen. We have to open our eyes to reality if we are ever going to change things. We have to see things as they really are. We have to seek and find the truth, no matter how hard it is to see, even if it means we loose some of our innocence.
“Isn’t it nice to know a lot? And a little bit….not.”
—Stephen Sondheim, Into The Woods
Peace,
Kathie
Tapestry
My Life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vison of the ever changing view
A wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold. (Tapestry, Carole King)
Tapestries are made of threads. So many threads. They can be bright or not, full of color or monochromatic, longer or shorter. A thread may be woven through the entire tapestry, or it may only be part of the tapestry for a small section. No matter the quality or appearance of the thread, it adds to the tapestry in its own way. Sometimes, even if that thread hasn’t been in the forefront of the tapestry for a while, it is still possible to look back over the tapestry and see where that thread was woven in and brightened the fabric, and to see it in the background, still part of the pattern.
Sometimes those threads are woven out of the tapestry. And sometimes they are cut short.
It may seem strange, to miss that thread, that bit of brightness, when it is cut short, if it hasn’t been in the dominant pattern of your tapestry for while. But somehow, it makes you feel good just knowing that the thread is there. In someone’s tapestry.
The Beatles put it like this.
There are places I’ll remember
All my life, though some have changed.
Some forever, not for better;
Some have gone and some remain.
Tho’ I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them.
Celebrate your tapestry. Celebrate those people and places who helped you weave it, even as you mourn those whose threads are finished. Celebrate the time it took to create it. Revel in the process, remember what was woven before, find joy and peace in what you are weaving now. Your tapestry is yours to create, to hold, to share, to enjoy; it’s yours to mourn, to change, to feel the richness in the fabric.
What does you tapestry look like?
Peace,
Kathie
Mea Culpa
Mea Culpa: a formal acknowledgment of fault or error. It’s the old Latin version of “my bad.”
I’ve been slacking on my blog, dear readers. But, I have had much on my mind. Specifically, I have had my brain on my mind. You see, I am going to get brain surgery.
Let me tell you about it. It’s called DBS, or Deep Brain Stimulation. A neurosurgeon implants two wire electrodes in my brain, runs the wires under my skin, down my neck, to where he will put basically a battery pack, or pacemaker, under my skin near my collarbone. Once it is turned on, it will send electrical pulses to help my brain do what Parkinson’s is keeping it from doing. It will help me to have more on times with less medicine. I’m excited.
I wasn’t, though. I decided it was the right thing to do when a friend, who I love dearly, said that if there was something I could do to prolong my quality of life, I owed it to my family to do all that I could to make that happen. She was speaking from a heartbroken place of experience, having watched a loved one pass away from a neurodegenerative disease. So I committed to, and started, the process.
I asked a lot of questions. Like Will the system be hackable? (no) Will it ruin my tattoos? (no) Will it set off the TSA screeners at the airport? (probably not) Is he going to have to shave my whole head? (no) Will I end up with holes in my head? (no).
See, I ask the important things. I was sure, although it took longer to ask these questions, that it would change my personality. I asked my neurologist, if it was going to change my personality, could he make me more kind and more patient. Good thing he thinks I am funny. I was sure that I would come out the other side dead, or worse, stupid. (shades of Hermione Granger there.) I was (and am) concerned about the cost. While insurance will cover it, I do have a co-pay up to an out-of-pocket maximum. And our insurance resets on July 1st, so the surgeries have to be done before then.
Then there is the equipment itself. They have a battery that needs replacing every 3-5 years. They also have a rechargeable one that lasts 15 years. I am opting for the rechargeable one. I want to avoid the physical and financial cost of having another surgery in 3-5 years. Besides, there is something amusing and satisfying about literally having to take time out to recharge.
It is a very thorough and selective process. Not everyone is eligible. I had appointments with my neurologist both off my meds and on, to test that I am responding adequately to my meds. Otherwise, no surgery. I met the neurosurgeon. He has successfully done hundreds of these. I had to go in for cognitive testing with a neuropsychologist. If I was showing signs of cognitive decline, no surgery. People with more education tend to fare better. See? My MFA in theatre is helping me once again.
I need to take a moment for some bragging here. They said that in 15 years of administering these tests, they never had anyone finish so fast and do so well. It only took one and a half hours, they told me it would take up to 5 hours . She told me I have a brilliant, beautiful brain.
During all of this, something odd happened at work. There was a car accident on the street out front, and the two people involved came in (separately) to see if our exterior cameras caught what happened. One of them works for a company that makes DBS equipment and knows my neurosurgeon well. And had nothing but good things to say about him.
Small world, isn’t it?
The result of all this is that I am more sure now than ever that this is the right course of action, that I will not only live through it but be better off, and not loose my mind. Or my brain.
I am a little nervous. You might be as well. But you can relax. It may be brain surgery, but it’s not like it’s . . . rocket science.
Peace,
Kathie
On Valentine’s Day
My husband and I don’t do Valentine’s Day. Not with each other.
Oh sure. We are happy to get a card and a little something for our son. Valentine’s Day was fun as a kid. In school, we used to decorate a box to receive our valentines in, and the teacher told us to give a valentine to everyone. Most people did. So for that one day, even the less popular kids had a lot of friends. I loved decorating up the boxes. One year, I made mine to look like Snoopy’s doghouse. It was awesome. I loved buying valentines for My Kid to give his class when he was in elementary school. And—he would give me one on Valentine’s Day morning. I still have one or two of those. My mother-and father-in-law send us valentines every year, too. That warms my heart.
The thing I hate about this particular holiday are the expectations. There is this jewelry company in Colorado that used to run an ad around this time every year that stated that this is the one day of the year to show someone how much you love them. I took great exception to that ad. We are worthy of love every day of the year, and certainly worthy to be shown that more than one day a year. I think more of myself than to think one day is all I deserve. Everyone should. And I think more of my husband than to think he can only show me love one day a year. And love is so much more than flowers, chocolate, and fancy dinners. He shows me he loves me when he fills up my car with gas on Sunday mornings, when he has dinner ready when I get home, when he goes along with my ideas, no matter how much work may or may not be involved. I show him love when I care for him when he is sick, when I take care of the dog, when I go the soccer games, when I giggle at his silliness. I show mom I love her when I order her groceries, when I stop by to see her, when I send her a text. She shows her love when she puts in her hearing aids when I stop by, when she listens to me, when she checks in on me.
Love can be shown and celebrated any day, every day, in countless ways. You don’t need a special day, or a special way, or a lot of money, to show someone that you love them. And just because you may not have a “special someone” to celebrate the day with, doesn’t mean that you aren’t loved. Don’t let Valentine’s Day make you feel that way. Look around you. Chances are, you are loved.
Love is a choice. Every single day. You might fall in love, but it takes work to stay there. This is true with spouses, significant others, friends, family. Every day you wake up, you have a choice.
Choose Love.
And…..Happy Valentine’s Day.
Love,
Kathie
Wham!
Well, here we are, another Christmas season come and gone. I just have one question. Did you survive Whamageddon?
Whamageddon? What’s that, you ask? It’s a game. The objective is to go as long as possible without hearing Wham!’s song “Last Christmas”. It starts December 1st and ends midnight on Christmas Eve. You are out as soon as you recognize the song. Post on social media when you get out, and how you got out if you so choose. It’s good karma to wish other players luck. Only the original version applies. Remixes and covers don’t count.
This game is played worldwide. The story I heard as to its origins is in Denmark, about 20 years ago, a group of friends came up with the idea after noticing how often the song is played at Christmas time. People will go to great lengths to avoid the song. It is serious business. This year (2023, that is), a DJ played it at a football stadium in hearing range of 7000 people in England, getting them all out for the year. He faced harsh criticism and issued an apology. I don’t think it is particularly sporting to get people out on purpose. But that’s just me.
I lasted until December 9th. We were decorating our tree at the time.
The thing is, I feel fairly sure that George Michael wrote the song as a serious song, and most likely never expected it to become the subject of such a viral game. George Michael, (who died, perhaps fittingly, on Christmas Day in 2016) is quoted as saying it was the best song he ever wrote. Do artists ever expect what becomes of their creations, I wonder?
Take Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline (“bom bom bom”—-admit it—-you heard it in your head). When that song is played in any public venue, a majority of the people present will sing along with the chorus. It’s somehow a brief bonding moment, a good time that never seemed so good (“so good, so good, so good.”)
Rick Astley is another musician with a song that took on a life of its own. Have you ever been Rick-Rolled? Rickrolling someone is getting a person to be unexpectedly exposed to the lyrics—any lyrics—of Rick Astley’s song from 1987 “Never Gonna Give You Up”. It frequently involves getting someone to click on a link that seems to be something else, but links to a video of the song. You can find the history of this on-line, it dates back to 2007. My 13 year-old son plays this with his friends, with a song from 1987. From what I can tell, Rick Astley has embraced this use of his song. After all, he’s never gonna let you down.
YMCA by The Village People, from 1978, somewhat falls into this category as well. Do your kids know how to spell YMCA with their arms to the beat of the music? Mine does, from a very young age. It hasn’t been taken, well, out of context like Rick Astley and George Michael, but it is pervasive ad timeless It has long since taken on a life of its own.
Movies do it too. Do you know that It’s A Wonderful Life received mixed reviews on its release in 1946, and was a box office failure? It wasn’t until its copyright expired in 1974, when it entered public domain, that it achieved its current popularity. It is now seen by the American Film Institute as one of the greatest 100 fims of all time, and many will feel Christmas isn’t quite complete without seeing this film
As Stephen Sondheim said, “Careful the spell you cast, Not just on children. Sometimes the spell may last, Past what you can see.”
Be careful what you put out there in the world. You never know what may take on a life of its own.
Peace,
Kathie
“Six”
We went to see Six at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. I knew quite a few of the songs, but was still a bit unsure of what to expect.
The show features the six wives of England’s King Henry VIII, who are forming a rock band and trying to choose a leader. They remind the audience of the order of how their tenures as Queen ended (Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived), then spend most of the remainder of the show informing the audience of their story, why they should be the leader, and why the other Queens didn’t have it so bad.
Catherine of Aragon is first. She was married to Henry for about 24 years but “only” produced a daughter (Mary I), no sons. She was divorced on the premise that according to the rules of the Catholic Church at the time, she should never have been allowed to marry Henry in the first place. The Pope disagreed, so Henry formed a new religion, divorced Catherine, and married Anne Boleyn. After giving birth to a daughter (who later became Elizabeth I), Anne was beheaded, the unfortunate fact of which she spends the remainder of the show humorously reminding the other Queens (and the audience). Jane Seymore was third; she died in child birth. She claims to be Henry’s favorite, as she was the only one to produce a son (Edward VI). Anne of Cleaves was next. Henry saw a painting of her and wanted to marry her immediately. When he met her, however, he found that she didn’t live up to her picture (beginnings of social media?) and wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Fifth was Katherine Howard, who was beheaded for supposed infidelity. Catherine Parr outlived the King.
So much for the brief history lesson.
The performances were strong, the costumes were amazing, the lights were fantastic. I don’t usually give standing ovations I feel they are overused and should be reserved for over-the-top outstanding productions. I was one of the first to stand for this show. As amazing as the show was, however, my ovation wasn’t for the production values. Well, not exclusively.
See, when it came to be Catherine Par’s turn to tell Her Story, she can’t do it. She is upset that they have spent the show cutting each other down. She seems to think that it would be better to stand together and tell their story as a team.
That touched me deep. We, as humans, as women, spend entirely too much time giving in to petty jealousy, cutting each other down in a vain attempt to raise ourselves higher. Our strength, our power, lies in unity, in joining together and building each other up. We can be, we can become, so much more that way.
Find them. Find the women who support you, who build you up, who help you to become more than you ever knew you could be. These people are your sisters. Find them. Hold them tight. Build them up. Be….more. As one. Together.
I’ll stand up for that any day.
Peace,
Kathie
My Dad
I’m having trouble finding words for this one.
My dad passed away on Saturday, November 4th.
I have pictures on my desk of my dad, I think of him often. I don’t feel like I knew my dad that well. At his service and Celebration of Life, I heard stories that I didn’t know about him. While my sister and I worked on his obituary, I learned things I never knew. My sister, my eldest sister, had memories of him that I do not have, and she spoke of being able to see dad as a person, the amazing, intelligent, adventurous, courageous person that he was.
I can’t see that. I can’t see any of that. I can only see him as dad.
My dad. Oh, sure, I have memories of him. When I came home from school and my cat had been hit by a car, he took care of it. He took care of me. He didn’t really go in for strong emotions, especially tears. But he was there when the chips were down. He taught me how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. One time, when it was just him and me, he took me out to dinner and a movie. We went to Ameci’s and saw “Heaven Can Wait.” He would hold my hand when we walked down the street and insist on walking close to traffic, because, he said, if anyone was going to get hit by a car, he wanted it to be him. I remember doing the Reader’s Digest It Pays to Enrich Your Word Power with him.
Dad had a lot of pressure on him that I didn’t see when I was growing up. He was the primary breadwinner for a family of 6. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mom worked hard and had her own set of stresses. Together, they raised 4 kids into (mostly) responsible adults, kept food on the table, a roof over our heads, many comforts, a few luxuries. They even sent all four of us to college. It had to be so much to handle. I won’t lie, he wasn’t perfect. I have bad memories of him also. He did some things in the raising of his children that I disagree with. But what parent is perfect? I’m sure not.
Dad was always thinking. He wanted to keep learning, to keep trying new things. He owned and managed several businesses, he got his pilot’s license, he traveled. It was this desire of his to keep learning and growing that tried to instill in us the value of education. Dad was protective. He was pro-union. He was friendly if you were friendly. He judged people based on who they were. He worked. A lot. He sang. He had a beautiful whistle.
At one point, when I lived in Indianapolis, he and mom came to see me. They brought me a piano that dad had found for cheap. I had a balcony on my apartment that looked out over this little lake that was filled with small wildlife. I came home from work to find my dad sitting on the balcony, and joined him for a beer. He gave me a full update on what the birds had been doing, the turtle family sunning on their log, the occasional frog hopping out of the lake, and the beaver swimming around. It was a side of him I rarely saw, and commented on how relaxing his day was. He responded that it’s what life should have been like all along.
He hadn’t agreed with me majoring in theatre, but he didn’t stop me, either. I am pretty sure he didn’t think I would be able to make a living at it. In fact, he expressed surprise that people got paid for doing theatre. On that trip to Indianapolis, I took him on a tour of the show we were building (To Kill a Mockingbird), and I showed him the set pieces that I had built or helped to build. He said, “Well, it looks like a pretty cool way to make a living.”
I cherish these. The memories, the experiences, good or bad, are part of me, part of who I am. Through it all, I can see that dad loved me enough to let me make my own choices. More that that, he believed in me.
I can’t really ask more of him than that. That belief in me, that is everything. I can look back and see that throughout my life, he always believed in me. So I guess just being able to see him as Dad isn’t so bad, after all. Being the daughter of Mike Stephens is a great and special thing.
I’ll miss you, Dad.
Peace,
Kathie
When I Was a Kid…
Things sure used to be different.
I remember when I was much younger, my older sisters had a VW Bug. Gas was 35 cents a gallon, and they would scrounge around in the seats and the floorboards, and come up with enough change for gas money to get them through several days. When I used to go grocery shopping with my mom, we would fill up two grocery carts, pay $200, and feed a family of six for two weeks (with a side trip or two for extra bread and milk.) A family paid $40,000 for a house. Homer Simson (of “The Simpsons”) supported a family of 5 with a high school education in a two or three story house on a single income, and it was a reflection of something that would have been realistic at the time.
Now, filling up with gas takes a good portion of your paycheck, $200 worth of groceries barely fills one cart half way, and feeds a family half the size for half as long, that $40,000 home is selling now for at least $600,000 and is above the price range of so many. Folks struggle to pay rent, let alone come up with the down payment for a house.
Media is another thing. Married couples like Rob and Laura Petrie and Ricky and Lucy Ricardo had to sleep in separate twin beds. “Splish Splash” wouldn’t be played on some radio stations because it mentioned someone taking a bath. Everyday, ordinary things from everyday, ordinary lives couldn’t be shown in the media. Married people sharing a bed?? Scandalous.
We’ve sure come a long way in that regard. Perhaps too far. I’m all about working put your angst through music, and I do believe that we don’t need to be so conservative in discussing daily life and all that entails. But there are still some things that maybe should be kept private. I don’t think we need to know every aspect of anyone’s private life. I don’t know that I want to. Folks ought to be able to make mistakes and fix them with out it being all over Facebook, Instagram, and the 24 hour news cycle.
When I was a kid, I had the joy and excitement of waking up on a Saturday morning and knowing that there was a full hour and a half of Saturday Morning Cartoons. Bugs Bunny and The Roadrunner. I looked forward to that all week, sometimes. Watching TV used to mean that you saw it when it was on or you missed it. You had to be able to get to the bathroom or to go get snacks during the commercials or you missed out on part of the show. How many remember the dreaded call, “It’s back on!!!” before we had finished whatever business had taken us away? Now, you can watch just about anything, any time, any where.
Phones are another thing. When I was a kid, my dad hated the telephone. I think he felt it was intrusive. Also, he worked for the railroad and he frequently got called into work. Because of this, we had very strict phone rules. No more than 10 minutes on a call at a time, and absolutely no calls between 5:30 and 7:00 pm. That was family dinner time and not to be interrupted. Now, we are accessible any time, any where, as long as we have our cell phone. Of course, we can always not answer the phone.
I don’t think dad was entirely wrong about the phone. It is intrusive.
Kids. Raising kids has changed. Spanking used to be the thing. It was acceptable and encouraged, even. Many parents still spank their kids. I couldn’t get past the thought that a parent was hitting a kid to teach them that hitting was wrong. That’s an oversimplification, but it sums up my feelings about spanking. The thing is, my parents’ generation didn’t have the vast amount of knowledge and resources available to them that we have now. We can read and research and make an educated decision on which path to take. I wonder if this hasn’t led to over-protecting our kids just a bit, though. Sure, we have to be careful what we expose them to and establish boundries, but then they have to learn to live in the world, too. They have to know what is out there so they are prepared to handle it.
It’s all bout moderation. (Except inflation. Inflation sucks.) TV isn’t bad, news isn’t bad, phones aren’t bad, even social media isn’t bad. Too much is where we get into trouble. We seem to be in a culture of all or nothing, though. Either we agree or we are enemies. Everything is offensive. There seems to be a feeling of I am right and you are wrong. There is no gray area, no place for debate, no room for compromise. I keep hoping that we can all find something we can agree on, compromise on, come to a middle ground. We used to be able to do that, but it happens less and less.
Things sure used to be different.
Different isn’t necessarily bad, or good, it just is. Different is inevitable. We learn to choose, to adapt to incorporate. Some things we can ignore, I suppose, but that doesn’t make them go away. The difference will keep moving along without you. And that’s okay too. Those choices, it’s how we grow. It’s who we are.
Peace,
Kat