In One Door and Out Another

I watched out the kitchen window this afternoon as my neighbor filled her bird feeder. She's retiring in about four weeks, and each time we chat I witness the glee in her eyes.

She has dotted all her Is and crossed her Ts. She has prepared for this retirement. She has acted wisely at every turn. She's ready, willing, and able.

I, on the other hand, have fallen into retirement. My retirement could also be called underemployment, or even unemployment. I made no plans. I had no scheme. Preparation - what's that?!

But then, if I look back to the beginning of my so-called career, I had no plan or scheme there, either. I bounced from college to college and job to job. I got married at age 21 (!) to someone I didn't much like because he said God wanted him to marry me, and because I just didn't know what else to do. Bad [un]plan.

I worked a while as a secretary, then stayed home with my babies, taking occasional part-time piano jobs and keeping books for my daddy's medical practice.

There was no roadmap. There was no order to my life.

When I divorced, I began hoeing three rows at a time, as my rural Tennessee-born ex-mother-in-law would have said. I worked full-time as a programmer at IBM, went to school at night, and frequently played piano in local hotel lounges on weekends. Sometimes I wonder if I can't find a job now because there's a quota on the number of jobs one can hold during life, and I passed that number years ago.

At the end of my career, I left a good salary in a hostile work environment to work on a freelance basis for my son. Then the work I was doing for him decreased, and kept decreasing. In a manner as disordered as that in which I entered the workforce, I was slowly leaving the workforce. Month by month, hour by hour.

Now that I've tasted some form of retirement, I'm not very motivated to leave it by finding full-time employment. The luxury of not setting an alarm, of not considering what office-acceptable attire I'm going to don each day, of not worrying about ticking off some colleague .... It's just that—it's pure luxury.

So I don't get to have a retirement party. So I don't get an engraved Rolex or a pen set for my desk. I can buy my own damned watch. I can throw my own damned party.

We have a friend who retired several years ago. She liked her retirement party so much that she invites all her friends to meet her for dinner every Tuesday night. She calls it "Retirement Dinner."

Successful

Sometimes when the Jazzman is out pub-hopping with his buds on a Friday night, I'll watch programs like "Say Yes to the Dress" or "Four Weddings" to pass the time. On Sundays, I sometimes check out the wedding notices in the Washington Post to see if I know anyone who is getting married.

Without fail, the marriage participants are described as "a successful ..." doctor or lawyer or architect or whatever. Never will the description say doctor or lawyer or whatever without an adjective in front of it showing how much the person has accomplished in his or her life.

If the person is a garbage collector, he would be described as working for the city or county. Or skipped altogether. A stay-at-home mom who survived her divorce or her husband's death will not get recognition for that. Someone who is unemployed and struggling—successfully, thank you very much—to just get by and get the bills paid won't be acknowledged for that success. It's a small success to the world; it's a very great success to the individual.

Reading about or seeing these "successful" people made me wonder why it's so important. Why do we all need something to "crow" about?

I haven't gone to any of my law school reunions. I never passed the bar. I don't practice law. I worked for many years as a legal writer and editor, but I don't feel that matters to any of my classmates who have been practicing law for over 20 years now. To these "successful" legal practitioners, I'm not successful.

I recently applied for a city position for which my law degree and my writing and editing in the field of federal labor relations law was (I thought) a Very Big Deal. When the Vindicator writer who was assigned to that story reviewed all the applicants, he or she described me as a "freelance technical writer." What? (By the way, I was not chosen to be interviewed for that position.)

I consider my successes to include working a full-time and two part-time jobs to provide life's necessities while in law school and for several years thereafter when I gained custody of my 14-year-old son. And caring for my husband, attending all his oncologist's and radiology appointments and taking detailed notes, showing unending compassion for him while he moved from metastatic prostate cancer diagnosis to death. And surviving the degradation of the federal economy over the past two years as my salary got lower and lower with each passing month.

I pay my bills. I selflessly and lovingly help care for my two elementary-school-age grandchildren. I maintain a lovely home for my life partner, giving him a warm and safe place to return home to each night. I balance and juggle many different obligations to keep my life moving forward.

If that's not the definition of success, then please tell me what is!

Maybe we put too much emphasis on success, as we seem to do with happiness.

I made it through the day. I didn't fall apart or hurt anyone or cause others to wish their paths hadn't crossed mine that day.

I spoke kindly. To me, that's what's important.

The Impossible Do-Over

I recently watched "A Little Bit of Heaven", starring Kate Hudson. (Spoiler alert: she dies of cancer.) I sobbed—yes, it's a major chick flick. But for me, as a widow of someone who died of cancer, it was a blast back to the final days of my husband's life.

He stopped eating on a Thursday. He stopped drinking on a Saturday. There were acts I had to perform with/on him (to get morphine into his body to try to quell the overwhelming pain) that one would never, ever want to perform on a loved one. The closer he got to his passing, the harder it was to understand what he was trying to say to me.

As Monday—after the Thursday, after the Saturday—progressed, his breathing became more and more labored. I would rush into the bedroom to see if I could do anything for him, then I'd rush out to try to call someone—anyone—to help him. Visiting nurse's associations, hospice, our doctors at Walter Reed. Can't anyone do anything to help this man?

I called our dear next-door neighbor, Peggy, and asked her to come help me. She told her boss that she had to leave the office—the tasks she needed to perform that afternoon were far more important than anything in her office. She came and sat beside John, talking him through each wave of excruciating pain. I ran in and out. Running. Rushing. Frantic.

Finally at about 4:00 in the afternoon, our hospice nurse stopped by. When he saw John's condition and heard the labored breathing, he immediately called the ambulance. The EMTs carefully carried John down the stairs and settled him into the ambulance for the ride to Hospice of Washington. I rode in the ambulance with him, singing to him for the 5-10 minute ride. Peggy followed in her car so she could bring me home after we got John settled for the night.

But within minutes of arriving at Hospice of Washington, he was gone. I had frantically rushed around for four or six hours to no avail. With no positive results.

When I watched the last hours of the Kate Hudson's character's life in the movie, I was touched with the beauty the writers had infused to the scene. Her friends and family were there, quietly, peacefully, lovingly carrying her through the final few hours. They weren't panic-stricken or rushing. They were peacefully tending and attending the end of a life. They were there.

A million times in the 14+ years since John's death, I have wished I had just stopped. Stopped and reflected. Stopped and sat with him. Stroked his head. Held his hand.

Why couldn't I have stopped?

Why couldn't I just be?

There's no do-over, no Mulligan, when one's need to provide comfort turns to resolving problems rather than providing succor.

I can never do that one over. I hope, wherever he is or isn't, he knows I'm sorry I didn't just be.

---

John and I met singing with the Washington Chorus, one of the primary symphonic choruses in Washington, DC. One of the many works we had performed together was "Porgy and Bess." As we were in the back of the ambulance, I was singing "Oh Lord, I'm On My Way," the final movement of "Porgy and Bess."

Oh Lawd, I'm on my way
I'm on my way to a Heav'nly Lan',
I'll ride that long, long road,
If You are there to guide my han'.

Oh Lawd, I'm on my way,
I'm on my way to a Heav'nly Lan'
Oh Lawd. It's a long, long way, but
You'll be there to take my han'.

Brick upon Brick, Stone upon Stone

As I mentioned earlier this week, I'm job hunting. For the particular job that I really, really want and for which I believe I am immensely qualified, a lot of work is required.

I'm scouring my résumé, ordering transcripts to prove my degrees, and copying documents to prove my City of Youngstown residency. I'm googling and surfing and making long distance calls to procure contact information for former employers. All while the clock is ticking. Every supporting doc has to be in place by June 1st, and this is a holiday weekend, meaning one less day for employees in far-away places to pull a transcript or a proof of employment and send it. University of Maryland needed an extra $15 to expedite the request. Another institution needed $16.75 to FedEx the transcript to Youngstown.

But the thing I dread is the possible question during an interview: "Why do you have so many jobs on your résumé?"

Once I really started working in earnest, simultaneous with the first divorce, things looked good. I got a wonderful job I loved with IBM, a company I loved, and I anticipated spending my entire working life at IBM. Within IBM, one frequently has a variety of short stints during one's career. Or, like a friend of mine, one does the same thing for 20 years. I was the short stint type. I had one assignment for two years, then another for two years, and so on. I finished my Bachelor of Science degree at night and on weekends and then went right into law school, continuing to work full-time.

Two years through law school, I wanted to follow the real estate track, anticipating a lifetime of closings and title investigations and so on. But the real estate courses were only offered during the day, and I was a night student because I worked during the day. This was during John's and my early (pre-marriage) years together, and he said I should follow my heart (well, he didn't use those words!). I talked to my IBM manager about possible options. Could I take four hours a week off without pay to attend the classes I needed? No. Could I come in early to make up the lost time on those days? No. Could I switch from full-time to part-time work? No. No matter what I offered, it was roundly denied. And no alternatives were offered in its place. John and I discussed the situation for a couple of weeks. Finally he said, "Why don't you just quit? I'll pick up the slack."

Life Lesson #1: Listen closely. When the man you're living with isn't 100% sure he wants the relationship, do not—repeat: DO NOT—believe him when he says, "I'll pick up the slack."

Thrilled to be so loved as to be given the freedom to study what I really wanted to study, I gave my notice at IBM after eight wonderful years and two wonderful months.

Approximately six weeks later, having given up a salary equivalent, in 2012 dollars, to $84,000, I received a letter from my younger son telling me he wasn't going to live with his dad any more and wanted to come live with me. He had been voicing this desire since the divorce nine years earlier and throughout a custody battle two years earlier. Now he had reached the age where the judge told him the court would consider his desires if it was litigated again. He had made his decision. He was going to be where he had always wanted to be.

Alas, I was living in Washington, DC, a city not known for great schools. And I had a kid who was very smart and immensely musically talented. I needed to prepare to put him in private school or move to Maryland or Virginia for better public schools. But I was in a wonderful relationship with a wonderful man. Or so I thought. And I had just given up my income.

A couple of months later, after much negotiation with the Father Of My Children, I drove to Dallas to retrieve my younger son and all his possessions, including a drum set and a marimba. I convinced a good prep school in DC to let him in midyear. I got him settled in his new home. And all was well.

Oops! Not so quick there. On Valentine's Day, after being questioned about a couple of outrageous and unexplained purchases on his credit card statement (because I handled all the finances), John said, "I can no longer deny my love for E… and I want to be with her." Bam. Did not see that one coming.

Because what I didn't know, what we had never discussed, was the difficult time John had raising his teenaged son when his wife left 15 years earlier to pursue her artistic dreams. For him, the thought of raising another teenaged boy was more than he could handle. When you pair that with the Vixen on the Sidelines who was telling him to leave me and she would leave her husband and they could be together and live Happily Ever After. Well, if you examine that pairing, you can guess who won. She did.

 <Sidebar On> John and I stayed together for three months until I could find another place to live. Tyler and I then moved to Falls Church, VA. John and I stayed friends and married six years later. John came to love and respect Tyler with every fiber of his being. <Sidebar Off>

I went about getting a job, and another job, and another job. From that point forward until Tyler was settled into YSU on a University Scholarship (full tuition plus book allowance), I worked a full-time and two part-time jobs, even through December of 1991 when I graduated from law school.

I was a legal editor. I was a legal index editor. I was a marketing/technical writer on contract to IBM. Each move had its reasons and rationale, either within my control or without. Through all moves, I was a Nordstrom pianist, loving every moment that I made "beautiful music to shop by."

I moved from legal index editor to tech writer for a $10,000 increase. Then that contract was cut. I taught piano for a while, which fact never made it to my technical résumé. I went to a big law firm in DC as manager of database systems after my husband (#3, whom I had married because I needed Major Female Surgery and had no health insurance. I loved him, yes, but I was nudged along by the insurance issue.) told me I wasn't bringing in enough income. (We'll ignore the fact that he had taken an IBM "bridge to retirement" and was earning $0 at selling real estate.) Then my boss at the law firm was fired and I was allied with him. If I didn't find something soon I would also be fired.

I moved to a job as a computer specialist with a government agency in an old building in DC. Emphasize: Old. I was allergic to something in the building. I would get to work at 8:00 feeling fine, and by 9:30 or 10:00 would have a raging headache that would last the rest of the day. Simultaneously, my husband (#4, the good one) was diagnosed with metastatic prostate cancer. I was trying to tend to his emotional and medical needs when he got home from the Pentagon at the end of the day while simultaneously nursing a sick headache. Every Day. So I called the lawyer/publisher I had been working for seasonally during his publishing cycle since the time I left IBM and told him the situation. He quickly invited me to come back to work for him and said I could have all the time off I needed to deal with John's illness.

Life Lesson #2: When working for a MegaMicroManager, never believe him when he says you can have all the time off you need. It just ain't so!

And the fact I've skipped throughout this story is that, beginning in February of 1992, I was studying for and taking a bar exam every six or twelve months.

I've been married four times and have taken five bar exams. Or I've been married five times and have taken four bar exams. I can never remember.

(And, by the way, if you're not familiar with the process, bar exam prep and bar exams are Very Expensive Processes. Expensive in time and expensive in money.)

Let's just say it was a hurdle I was never able to get over. After one Pennsylvania exam and four Virginia exams, I had registered to take the DC exam when John was diagnosed. He/we fought his cancer for 21 months. For me, losing my beloved spouse was life altering. There was no way I wanted to or could sit again for that exam after his death. I was done. I would continue working as a programmer, doing what I knew how to and loved to do.

The morning of the day John died, a company called me and asked me to come work for them as a Lotus Notes Instructor and Consultant. I had taken a class from them several years earlier and they were very impressed with how well I grasped the material. I went to the parent company of what is now SiriusXM Radio as their Lotus Notes Administrator, and every couple of weeks would go back to my company's office to help teach Lotus Notes courses. But then the contract was cut and there was no work for me. A recruiter called and placed me at a very large government contracter as a Lotus Notes Developer.

And then I met a man, (cut to the short version), accepted his marriage proposal, moved to Tucson with him, set up his house, kept his house, and then attempted to raise his teenaged daughter to his standards. All without help from him. Four years later, after I had been out of the technology workforce for four years (and that's about a thousand cyberyears), he said he wanted to be alone.

Life Lesson #3: When a man says he wants to be alone, don't believe him. Especially after he comes home from a business trip and you find a woman's dress in his suitcase. Don't believe him. (By the way, he got married ten weeks after I moved out.)

Once again, when a survivor has to, she starts over again. From the lowest rung on the ladder. She works someplace for two years until she gets some skills built back up and finds something that offers $10,000 more in salary and far better benefits.

Oops, then her son decides to move back to the city where he's been happiest, and he and his wonderful wife take her grandchildren with them.

So, as a result, I have a résumé that looks like the rock wall in the photo above. (Captured in a small town along the Ring of Kerry in late August, 2011.) Rocks, slabs, layered, wedged in, horizontal, vertical. Somehow they hold together. But to look at them, they don't make sense.

I'm sure there are many Human Resources specialists and hiring managers that look at my résumé and scratch their heads in amazement. They think it just doesn't make sense.

But there have been a few—actually, about one every couple of years—who could look at that résumé and realize, "This woman can do anything I give her to do."

I owe my career, fragmented as it is, to those management visionaries who could analogize my rock wall of a résumé to the fact that I got to where I am one brick at a time, one stone at a time.

It all fits together.

Dreams DO Come True!

My babes are with me for the weekend while their parents relax with friends in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania. This morning I'm dawdling in bed, the Jazzman having left for work at 6:00, the birds chirping outside my window, the air cool with the promise of fall. I'm waiting for the babes to wake up, knowing the day to come will be a whirlwind of activity for this ol' grandma.

Last night I posted on Facebook a video of the babes telling their parents good-night. The parents are in a place with limited cell signals and limited wi-fi. But my experience is that Facebook is easy to hit, even when my e-mail is hard to hit. So I thought they might be able to see this video. As I posted it, I set the security settings so only the parents could see it.

This morning I googled "g'night to tyler and jaci" after logging out of Facebook, to check my security settings and ensure only they could see the video. The first thing that came up was a link to my blog from February 2008. I clicked it and sat reading what I went through in making this move. Fascinating! How fascinating to remember the whirlwind of social activity and the packing activities and the details of driving cross-country that I had forgotten. I clicked on a few inks within those posts and read other posts, until I ended up here.

Oh my gosh.

Two days ago the babes were over here sewing with me. We were talking about how to turn negatives into positives—how to look at the happy side of things rather than the sad side.

Why? The song "For Good" from Wicked came on the playlist, and Ridley burst into tears. I spent a Very Long Time talking her through being happy for having known friends who are gone, rather than being so unbearably sad that they're gone. We talked about my mother being near the end of her life, and how I'm lucky to have been adopted by someone who could pay for my piano lessons and have the time to take me to all those lessons. We talked about my former step-daughter who, when she arrived for a week's visit with her father, was instantly in tears because in seven days she'd have to return to her home across the ocean, rather than being happy and grateful for a week's visit with her father. We talked about J.R.'s death and how I feel so lucky to have had that almost-2.5 year marriage, even though he died.

Boston was saying how he wished he had known J.R., and I assured him that they would have liked each other very much. I told him how much fun J.R. was, and how everyone who knew him loved him. Boston asked if he was fun like the Jazzman. I said yes, that the Jazzman and J.R. were very much alike in that way.

Boston said, "I'm so glad you met [the Jazzman]." "I am, too," I told him. "I am, too!"

This morning, then, as I read this post, I was absolutely astonished to read my thoughts from March of 2008, and to realize that they came true just under two years later.

I truly hate dating at 57. I want a magic wand that can, poof!, bring the man who will understand my idiosyncrasies and pat me on the head when the Little Adoptee rears her ugly head; who can find my physical beauty despite my post-menopausal tummy; who will tolerate and appreciate and respect my devotion to my grandchildren; who will be willing to go to classical concerts with me, without complaining that he doesn't understand what the singers are singing. He can cook? He golfs? He has his own interests and doesn't want to be joined at the hip? Hallelujah! All the better. In my perfect world, the magic wand would deliver this man into my life and we'd both know instantly and could settle into a nurturing, supportive relationship without all the insecurities of teenage dating all over again.

If you're one of the Jazzman's friends reading this, or if you know me well enough to have heard me describe our life together, you'll know this describes him—and our relationship—in minute detail. After our second date, he told his mother and brother that he had met someone. We settled, with uncharacteristic mid-life ease, into a nurturing, supportive, and downright fun relationship.

I told Tyler after our first date, "I have just come home from the most comfortable first date of my life." I wake each morning glad to be alive. I watch him sleeping at night and think how much I love this man. He reaches for my hand as we walk through city parks or ballparks or restaurants, and I wonder how I came to be so lucky.

I am one lucky girl old broad!

I guess dreams actually can come true!

It All Works Together

Over the past two weekends, I watched my younger son perform three times. Easy Street Productions brought "Forever Plaid" back to the Ford Recital Hall. (Here's the review.)

It was such a joy for me to watch this man perform. His first experiences with theatre were during his summers living with me in Gaithersburg, Maryland. Because of his innate musicality, he won a leading role in every musical he auditioned for. Then, once I got custody of him, he performed in a musical at Georgetown Day High School before spending three years at Interlochen Arts Academy, where he was exposed to opera and theatre productions.

He loved acting and singing. Several times we discussed whether he should pursue music or theatre in college. He had found passions to follow with his exposure to these art forms.



It's no secret that I walked out of that marriage when my sons were five and six. It's also no secret that I've kicked myself regularly in the ensuing 30 years for that action. I feel remorse on a regular basis, although both my sons have repeatedly told me that they understand and don't blame me for my action.

When I stop to look at the influences on my sons' lives that yielded the men they became, I have to recognize the power of multiple inputs in their lives.

They grew up in a very conservative religion-centric household where God's perceived word ruled all. Then in the summers they would come to me and get to let loose, to play and pretend, in a manner that (to my understanding) was never allowed in their other home.

If I had not left, I would not have gotten the job at IBM, which led to their having computers when they were eight or ten years old. Not many of their friends had computers or had the opportunity to learn to program computers at such a young age.

If I had not left, I would not have ended up in D.C., where on their visits they were exposed to a much broader range of opportunities than they would have seen in north Texas in the mid- to late-80s and early 90s. They wouldn't have gone to theatre camps and computer camps and horseback-riding or tennis camps.

If I had not left, I would not have learned about National Music Camp (Interlochen Center for the Arts). Tyler's years at Interlochen were some of the most formative in his life (to date).

If I had not been willing to work a full-time plus two part-time jobs while in law school after gaining custody, I would not have been able to afford these opportunities for him.

It was hard. Life was hard. In retrospect, I don't know how I endured all that.

But look at the results. One son has a very successful career in network administration, where future employers grab him from present employers based on what they hear about his skills. The other son has a loving and supportive marriage of almost 13 years, to a wonderful woman. They have turned out to be terrific parents to two beautiful and talented kids. He has a career in which he is highly respected and sought-after in the community. It doesn't get much better than what these young men have made for themselves!

You know all those times I wished my birthmother had been able to get an abortion instead of putting me up for adoption? I guess that wasn't meant to be.

All my foibles and difficulties worked together to create wonderful lives for my offspring.

Even thought you can't see it as you're laying each brick of your life, those bricks mount up, across time, to make a strong and sheltering building.

A Lovely Day

Sunday was Mother's Day here in the U.S. It's not a big deal to me anymore, but let me explain why.

When FOMC and I divorced in 1981, he got custody of the children. He played a few tricks to get sole custody, and he worked very hard over the next several years to turn my children against me. Obviously, he was unsuccessful.

<DISCLAIMER ON>
These statements are totally my opinion. They do not reflect the opinions of my children or their father. But they are my opinions, so I'm going to express them here, on my blog. Got it? It's my side of a multi-sided story.
<DISCLAIMER OFF>

From the time of my move to Washington, DC, until the time I regained custody of my younger son—a period of about seven years—I did not receive any acknowledgement on Mother's Day.

Not a card. Not a phone call. Nothing.

It was painful beyond belief, beyond words. Incredibly, horribly painful.

And, to make matters worse, during most of this time I was married to a man who said, "You're not my mother; There's no need for me to do anything to acknowledge Mother's Day for you."

Rub salt into the wound, why don't you?

I feel FOMC's actions were egregious. And let's be clear that he had remarried by this time and you can be damned sure my boys recognized their stepmother on Mother's Day. And she implicitly condoned FOMC's actions, so she's partially responsible.

(And you can also be damned sure that when the boys were with me during the summers, when Father's Day occurs, they bought and mailed cards for their father, and called him on the day.)

Don't I do martyr very well?!

Anyway, my heart slowly became inured to the pain, and it no longer matters. I have good relationships with both my sons. My younger son and I are in communication on an almost daily basis. My older son and I follow each other on Facebook and are aware of what's going on with each other. If something important comes up, we e-mail or talk on the phone. I have upstanding sons, of whom I'm very proud.

I feel like every day in my life is Mother's Day. That's how thoughtful my sons are towards me.

When I woke up Sunday morning, the Jazzman looked over at me and said, "Happy Mother's Day." I smiled and said "thank you." Then he proceeded to make the rest of the day about me. We had a lovely breakfast where I made perfect over-easy eggs, which he pronounced better than any restaurant eggs. In the afternoon we went to Fellows Riverside Gardens, where we wandered and roamed, admiring the gorgeous spring flowers and people-watching. We went out to dinner—my choice of restaurant. We went home and watched the Obama "60 Minutes" interview.

We had a lovely relaxing day, engineered by him with the sole purpose of honoring my devotion to my children (and grandchildren).

(I received text messages from one son and both a hilarious e-card and a Hallmark hard-card from the other. Loving messages from both.)

I am a lucky woman. I have a good life.

Rethinking One's Position

I've always been pretty conservative in my thinking. And I was raised in a very straight-laced Christian mindset. Oh, wait—what I'm saying is I was not thought to think for myself. I was taught to accept whatever I was told without thinking.

That oughta be a crime!

When all the furor about gay marriage started a few years ago, I was adamantly against it. I didn't discuss it with anyone—I was also raised not to discuss politics. I felt strongly that civil unions were fine for homosexuals. A civil union, properly defined, would give the parties the same rights as a marriage, but without the name.

Recently I've started rethinking my position. What shook my position was a statement made on a talk show about childhood dreams. If I look at the world around me and see marriage as the norm, and I—as a child or teen—dream about my wedding, in whatever form it might take, why shouldn't I be able to dream about my dream spouse-to-be, whether it be a man or a woman?

It's my dream!

<Old Story Sidebar On>
As I was sorting through these thoughts in my mind prior to writing this post, I remembered how Husband #2 hated my ever referring to him as my spouse. He wanted to be referred to as my husband or by his name. He seemed to feel my calling him my spouse dehumanized him (or maybe he thought it desexed him!).

But then, he was kinda rigid in his attitudes and beliefs.

Yet another marriage I'm glad I'm no longer enduring.
<Old Story Sidebar Off>

So I'm changing my position. If homosexuals wish to jump through the same marriage-and-divorce hoops—to fund the same lawyers—as heterosexuals, who am I to deny them that? If it comes to a vote, I'll vote "yes".

Me? Cynical? Nah!

What One Thing Do You Do Best?

All day yesterday I was thinking about and composing the content of my "The Best" post.

In the late afternoon (after delivering my tax documents to the accountant's office—Yea!!!), I went to the university music school to accompany my friend's voice lesson.

This is a paying gig that I'm oh-so-thrilled to have snagged, as I believe—er, hope—it can lead to more of the same.

As I sat there, in front of a professor who taught voice to my son fifteen years ago, I knew in my heart, in my bones, in my core, that I'm very, very good at this.

I am a good accompanist. I listen. I pay attention. I intuit what the singer is going to do next.

I have confidence in my ability as an accompanist—greater confidence that in most anything else I do.

Does that make it my "calling"?

I don't have much of an opinion of either "calling" or "soul mate".

But being an accompanist is what I do very well.

And that feels very good!

Are You the Best?

I've heard several conversations in the past week or so on talk radio shows about people wanting to be the best. The very best in their field. The very best of anyone doing whatever it is they do.

When you are a jack-of-many-trades, as I am, that's a tough standard by which to be measured. I have had a multi-faceted career (makes you think of a diamond, huh?). I've been a writer, secretary, bookkeeper, editor, database specialist, office manager, applications developer, blah, blah, blah. I've been a professional singer, professional accompanist, lounge pianist, theatre music director, piano teacher. I've made compelling words to read and beautiful music to shop by. I've had clothing I've made purchased off my back—literally!

But the best? The very best? I'm not.

I have a son who is at the top of his field in Web site development. I have a son who knows the insides and the outsides of powerful network servers for very large companies—who is relied upon night and day to keep their business running. I have a daughter-in-law who is the most amazing wedding and lifestyle photographer. These three talented and skilled adults could easily be measured against that standard and walk away smiling.

As I think about all the things I do in my basement workrooms, as I try to create things that people would want to own, I want to create something that's uniquely mine. I don't want to copy anyone else or do anything mediocre. I guess I actually do want to be the best at something, some small artistic niche that can be mine—all mine.

And in trying to find that niche, I knock myself out trying to learn everything I can about all sorts of art forms. Last week I learned how to make fabric-wrapped rope bowls with Susan Breier's It's a Wrap: Sewing Fabric Purses, Baskets, And Bowls. I made a purple bowl to hold my knitting in the family room when our new couch arrives. I made a plate on which to place this very cool art piece that the Jazzman brought with him. (I'm trying to protect my leather ottoman from being creased by the base.) I'll make a few more of these bags and bowls and plates before I decide that there are plenty of other people who can do this better than I.

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Can I be brutally honest here? I don't love that plate. I didn't turn out in either the shape or the look I wanted. I was trying to make a rimmed plate, and it's not. I was trying to make something that simulated the base of the art piece—sorta pewtery-bronzey. And it doesn't. So if you're thinking, "Geez, that's an ugly manipulation of clothesline," that's okay. I'm right there with you. I've got some acrylic metallic paint in the basement that I'm going to experiment with to see if I can get closer to my mental image.
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This week I'm working my way through Ann Johnston's "Color by Accident". I've been dyeing more and enjoying it less lately. My colors are washed-out—not at all what I'm trying to create. So I'm going to see what I can learn in an attempt to perfect my technique.

So I guess I'm trying to find a best in some little niche area.

But I still don't feel like I'm a Best. I don't feel like the things I do really matter. Son #1 keeps an enormous company's servers running. Son #2 helps local businesses manipulate the Web to bring in more business. DIL gives brides and grooms the most incredible images with which to remember their weddings.

I help. I help Son #2 keep his clients' sites current. I help by providing care for my grandchildren to enable Son #2 and DIL to find the time they need to follow their passions. I help the Jazzman get daily errands run while he's working his 12+ hour days. I do what I can to help.

But I'm not the Best, and I wonder if this pressure, this societal frenzy to be the Best isn't doing more harm, contributing to a greater sense of failure, than necessary.

Last year, when DIL dropped off Beautiful Grandchildren at school in the mornings, she would say, "Do your best."

Isn't that the point? Shouldn't that be the point?

Do your best. Do your best. If you make potholders to give to elderly house-bound neighbors or if you create an app to help people stay on top of their finances and be better prepared for retirement…. Whatever it is you do, just do your best.

Your best.

Folding the Map

Lately my life feels like a map. I've always been very good at map-reading. But that was when I knew where I was and where I wanted to go.

Lately I have no idea what the destination is or should be. My thoughts and plans change daily. "If this, then that" goes through two dozen permutations each day.

If I get a job and can stop accepting social security and let my allotment grow. If the banks would lower my interest rate, I could pay the bills. If I don't get a job, I'll have to declare bankruptcy. If I declare bankruptcy and survive the humiliation, I'll feel much less stress in my life. (And, of course, my favorite: If I win the lottery, I can do all sorts of charitable things AND pay my bills AND take a vacation to South Africa.)

My sons have always called me "The Queen of the Backroads." I love taking circuitous routes and exploring the countryside, memorizing how I got from here to there. My dear IBM buddy in Rochester, who has known me for 30 years now, calls me a survivor. Getting through this stage of my life is requiring both those skills—being a quick learner and hanging in there.

My friend down the street (She's so much more than that, but telling you about all the wonderful new friends who took me right in when the Jazzman fell in love with me is several blog posts in itself!) shot me a quick e-mail yesterday telling me I'd like the Writer's Almanac for that day. So I share it here.

I worked one hour last week. I'll log maybe eight hours this week.

I may not know the destination, but I can still fold the map.

On Becoming a Cook - Again

For years I've joked that I don't cook. I confess that I try to always marry men who cook. I have a thousand cute sayings I throw in to divert the listener from the fact that I'm a woman who can't cook.

["Given the number of hours in the day, I'd rather spend them sewing/knitting/making music." - "I'd rather slave over a hot computer/sewing machine/kiln than a hot stove." - and so on.]

Well, I got me a great man a year ago. But he doesn't cook! He likes to bake, but cooking is not his thing. So given that it's not "the thing" for either of us, I figured I'd better step up to the plate.

The Jazzman vacuums. He washes dishes. (Sometimes he insists on washing dishes!) He knows how to run the clothes washer, the dryer, and how to fold clothes and deliver them to the top of the stairs. He doesn't cook? So what?! (BTW, he also paints walls and caulks around drafty windows and fixes broken garage door openers! Maybe I'll start referring to him as Superman!!)

I used to cook. When I was first married, at age 21, I had cooked one meal in my life up to that day. I had a set of cookbooks, "The Woman's Day Encyclopedia of Cookery." I would select one volume of the set per week, select five menus, write down all the ingredients and go to the store.

That's how I cook: I follow the recipe to the last dot over the i. If I'm missing one ingredient, be it celery seed or oat germ, I'm sure the meal will be a total and complete failure. Look in the fridge and throw a meal together? That just ain't happenin' in my house!

As you can imagine, this method of cooking lends itself to placing great stress on the cook. So rather than dealing with the stress, over the years I have cooked less and less. I have one or two "go to" recipes that I haul out if I need to host a dinner, but for the most part, my cooking ended when I stopped at the time of my first divorce.

Now here's the rub. When the Jazzman moved into my sphere, he brought a passel of good friends along. (Insert mental image of me shaking my head and wiping tears of gratitude from my eyes over the inordinate generosity of spirit and welcoming nature these friends, en masse, have shown to me since meeting me!) These friends love to socialize. We go out to dinner. We go to each other's homes. We host and attend dinners. We host and attend parties.

Here's the deal: You can't keep taking without giving back.

Merge those two tangents, if you will: I've got a man under my roof and we both need to eat. and We need to host friends for meals in our home if we're ever to be invited back to their homes again.

The result of that merger is that I'm learning to cook again. And, shock of all shocks, rather enjoying it.

Besides having a few more for-company recipes, I just have to cook a couple of meals a week, and the leftovers carry us through to the next weekend. Today it's Sweet and Tangy Slow Cooker Bar-B-Q Pork. I went down and snuck a forkful a few minutes ago and, Yum!, that is one good dish!

The moral of this story? You can teach an old Southern belle new tricks!

Making Space

I've been having the craziest dreams lately. While on vacation, I had several dreams about my lifelong best friend. I had noticed a change in her Facebook status, but had not heard any news from her, so was feeling hurt and rejected (which, you know, I do so well and automatically jump to in any slightly questionable situation!) (oh, and then thinking it must have been a Facebook error!). I kept dreaming about her and times we had shared in the past.

Last night I dreamed about a past husband and the mother of a past very.serious.boyfriend. I kept seeing things—earrings I had given the mother, plastic storage containers with my name on them, newspapers from the past. It was totally bizarre.

In trying to figure out how to interpret these dreams, I keep coming back to the fact that big changes are coming in my work life. I wonder if my mind knows it needs to make room—to clear out a bunch of drivel—to make room for all the new things I'll be learning in the next six months.

Lest you worry this change has anything to do with the Jazzman, rest assured that all is well. Actually, he's in most of the dreams and I always seem to come home to him or get wrapped in his arms when the dream gets too strange.

Isn't the mind a strange and magical thing?

That being said, I would be glad for these dreams to stop and to get my normal peaceful sleep pattern back!

What Defines Your Life?

Listening to conversation between Rosie O'Donnell and Molly Shannon on XMRadio today. Each of these women lost her mother at an early age—Molly at 4 and Rosie at 10. Rosie said her friends have said to her that it is the defining incident in her life. No matter what success she achieves, no matter how happy her life is, she still and always comes back to "My mother died when I was 10. I lost my mother. I was a motherless child."

My life experiences stretch far and wide. Marriages, jobs, talent. Experiences.

But the central theme, in my mind, is Adoption. It seems every thought goes back to being adopted, to being abandoned and—in my mind—tentatively retrieved. Every word is weighed to ensure it will not cause someone to abandon me again. It's a sickness.

I will say that having a wonderful man in my life—a man who loves me and cares tenderly for me through any apparent craziness—is the best medicine for my adoption sickness. With each day that passes in this affirming relationship, I feel more settled and less abandoned.

Maybe definitions can change.

Notes on Notes

This afternoon I'm preparing the first movement of the Brahms Ein deutsches Requiem for the COChorus reaudition this evening. Technically it's being called a "sectional rehearsal" and altos are to "rehearse" from 8:30 to 10:00, but several of my friends have noted on Facebook that this is really our reaudition for the upcoming season.

You know how you can listen to a piece of music over and over in a short period of time (as I do when preparing for a concert), and then not listen to it for months? During those months, you totally forget about it. Then you play it again and remember, vividly, how much you love that music. The Brahms Requiem brings tears to my eyes each time I sing it, as it is again doing this afternoon.

I've written about this work a number of times. I think I've probably performed it five times since the mid-80s. Each time it has the same affect on me.

As I was organizing my thoughts for this post, the Jazzman came in to tell me a family friend had passed away last night. I felt sad for her children and grandchildren to lose her, and yet relieved for her that she's finished with hospitals and nursing homes and pain.

A new online friend and I have been discussing death and the Seventh-day Adventist perspective on death, which is that the dead are sleeping until the second coming of Christ. I dropped that belief when I was about 19 years old and two of my dearest friends were killed in a car wreck in their first year of college. My experiences with John's death lead me to believe that there is a spirit world where we go. I find no fear in that belief. I don't know if I believe I'll come back—be reincarnated—after a period of time in the spirit world. I tend to hope not; this life hasn't been a piece of cake and I sure don't want to have to live through these hardships again! But fear? No, I don't fear death.

The final movement of the Brahms, in a loose translation from the German, reads:

Into Paradise may the Angel lead them;

at thy coming may the Martyrs receive thee, and bring thee into the holy city Jerusalem.

May the Choir of Angels receive thee, and with Lazarus, once poor, may thou have eternal rest.

I desire to live my life every day so that I have no fear of what comes next.

Quit Wastin' Your Time!

When I was single (she said, gloating in the fact that she has a fabulous man who is crazy about her), I would be on Red Alert at all times, looking for a man. Everywhere I went—the grocery store, the drugstore, Home Depot, a restaurant—I would be on the lookout for single men. Every venue was my own personal gallery and I was searching for my miracle man.

Every time I saw a man who was alone and who met my physical criteria—taller than I, weight proportionate to height (i.e. not obese), decently dressed, and easy on the eyes—I would immediately check his ring finger. If he was wearing a wedding band, I would sigh with dejection and whisper to myself, "Oh well."

I've been performing this search-and-selection ritual for years. Years! And old habits die hard. The other day I walked into Office Depot on my lunch hour and immediately noticed a very handsome, age-appropriate man. As I started to look for his ring finger, it hit me that I don't have to do that any more.

What a relief. What an enormous relief to be out of that rigorous and stress-inducing dating nightmare.

I found a man! I found a really good, kind, thoughtful, handsome, funfunfun man.

I think I'll go dance a jig.

The Gift of Giving

I love giving gifts. I love giving gifts even more than getting gifts. I don't like being in the spotlight, and to receive a gift means someone is looking at me, focusing on me. I much prefer staying in the background—being the accompanist rather than the soloist. But, with each gift received, I work on my ability to be a gracious recipient.

I pride myself on giving good gifts. I listen to what my friends say and observe what they wear or how they decorate their houses or what their passions are. I think I am very skilled at finding good gifts for my friends, gifts that say, "You matter to me."

I've had acquaintances in the past who gave gifts they liked, gifts that fit their lifestyles. I have a hard time being gracious when receiving one of these gifts. Let's say you're a person who decorates her home in kitschy country. You like little bearded Santa Claus figurines and gingham. If you gift me with something that fits into your home, it's not going to fit in my personal synthesis of modern and antiques. It just isn't. And as dear as you are to me, the gift is going to Goodwill. I can only hope you don't happen to see it as you're shopping at Goodwill. (Horrors! Is that where you got it in the first place?!)

The older my gift recipients and I get, the more I lean toward gifts that are consumable. Food, stationery, flowers, …. Things that don't have to be dusted or merged onto existing shelves. Things that will go away and not have to be passed down to someone or sold when I die.

Is the gift of giving genetic? Did someone in my past also love giving gifts and pride him- or herself on the ability to choose great gifts?

I remember, as an elementary school-age child, buying perfume for my mother or after-shave for my daddy. I would save my weekly allowance, then ride my bike to the Rexall a mile away and buy a bottle of (egad!) "Evening in Paris" for my mother. I remember the cobalt blue bottle to this day. When I got home, she would express pleasure over my gift. Four months later I'd notice it was gone, so I'd amass my savings and buy her another bottle. It was all used up: she must love it, right? Only about forty years later did it occur to me that she threw the trash out.

Last fall, at an Artists of the Mahoning Valley show, I bought a pair of gold and silver handcrafted earrings. Two weeks later I lost one. Ridley heard me express annoyance at having lost my new earring. She doesn't yet shop in my closet, so she doesn't know I have more handcrafted jewelry than one person can wear in a year if wearing a different piece each day. I love supporting local artists, regardless of the medium. Oh, and she wasn't around a couple of days later when I found the missing earring.

One evening just before Christmas, Tyler and the babes and I were having Tuesday Night Dinner with Grandma at Cracker Barrel. She pulled her daddy over to an earring display and picked out a pair of earrings for Grandma. They were simple, tasteful earrings that go perfectly with all the black I wear every day. It wasn't just her thought that counted. It was that she displayed good taste and appropriate choices, too! At six years of age! She couldn't wait to give them to me, and I didn't just feign delight. I was delighted!

Now, I don't love these earrings as much as I love some of my artist-created earrings, but you can bet your life that I wear them whenever I'm going to be with her. And you can also bet that she notices. It's as if when she sees me she looks first to my earlobes to see if I've chosen her gift for the day's adornment.

So maybe the gift is genetic. She's definitely got it, and she got it from somewhere. I'd be honored to know she got it from me.

Oh, and by the way? Jewelry is always the perfect gift!

Changing Habits

As I've stated here before, I'm adept at eating in my car. If I get stuck in a blizzard, I'll be able to find enough food under the driver's seat of my car to live for a week. I can melt some snow to drink, and be just fine, ThankYouVeryMuch.

The Jazzman happened to show up in my kitchen this morning. (Nah, I'm not going to tell you how he got there. You'll have to get that information from other sources.) Having him there, having someone to talk to before leaving for work, was sheer delight! And so, for a change, I didn't pour my granola and slice my banana into a to-go dish. I poured it into a handcrafted bowl, mixed the yogurt in, dropped some walnuts on top, and sat down.

At his suggestion, I've added a couple of comfortable chairs to the kitchen, and we sat—he with his cup of tea (in handcrafted mug, of course) and I with my morning melange—while we discussed our respective activities in the day ahead.

I may be old, but give me enough incentive, and I can change my habits!

Both Ends of the Spectrum

I received a surprise phone call today from a man I've been friends with since, I think, he was 4 and I was 3. We went to church together as toddlers, then to elementary school and high school together. We were both musicians and have kept in touch through the years. As much as I didn't like my church-affiliated high school experience, nor my first year of college in a church-affiliated school, I love the fact that we have all stayed connected through the years.

My friend, Bob, is now caring for his elderly aunt who raised him. She is in her mid-80s, and has surrendered her mind to Alzheimer's. She stepped in and raised him when her sister, Bob's mother, was not in a position to do so. He feels he owes who he is today to this woman, and quit his job to care for her.

I think sometimes about stay-at-home mothers with small children and their need for communication with an adult. As Bob and I chatted today, I realized he is in no different position than those mothers. He married for the second time a couple of years ago and has a wonderful marriage, but he spends all day caring for a woman who doesn't know who he is. Bob mentioned several of our old classmates with whom he had recently spoken. If I were in his position, I believe I would be spending every moment of the patient's naps on the phone with old friends, trying to maintain my own sanity.

My mother, at 96, has a great brain, and my brothers, sister-in-law, and I knock wood whenever we speak. Mother now lives to eat and sleep, but thank heavens she knows who we are and can still write letters and carry on phone conversations and amuse herself. She may not be able to hear everything I say on the phone, but what she can hear, she understands and responds to. She has a quick sense of humor, and it remains intact.

Isn't the circle of life fantastically interesting? You start by being taken care of by someone bigger and stronger. If you're lucky enough to live a long life so you can see your children and grandchildren and, maybe, great-grandchildren grow and prosper, you will probably end up being cared for—again—by someone bigger and stronger.

I've often said it was my honor to walk with my late husband to his death. It has been my honor for the past eight years to help out with my grandchildren. If my mother deteriorates such that we have to provide care for her, we will be honored to do so. But we sure hope it doesn't come to that. And you can bet I don't want to burden my children with my own care.

Couldn't there have been a better plan for the universe—some way to say, "I've had enough; it's time to go"?

Unfortunately, this is another of those topics for which I have no answers, only questions.

Doin' It With Style

If you've got to have cancer, do it with style, like Ann Steeves of Gorgeous Fabrics in Boston.

She's my hero!