Life’s Warning Labels

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Today I thought I’d share with you a quote from a book I revisited this weekend.

The book title:  The way of transition  (embracing life’s most difficult moments)
“Whatever it is that you intend to achieve by whatever you do isn’t likely to be the thing you actually accomplish by doing it.
The attraction is just the window dressing. The bargain specials which do not (it turns out) come in your size.
It’s the bone the burglar gives your watch –dog as he robs you blind.
The actual result – lesson – pay off – is discovered only over time, and often in ways that you could not have known in advance.
If our lives were pharmaceuticals, they’d require warning labels.”
By William Bridges, author of Transitions.
A warning label for our lives – in retrospect it is so easy to see what they might have looked like in large bold 24 font text. And yet, I am thankful they were written in invisible ink.
For without a marriage there would be no precious children; without a lover there would be no memories of love; without a few disastrous jobs there would be no retirement; without the bad and the ugly, there would be no good.
If everything were white, there would be no contrast. Life requires black to give balance, shadow, and reflection. So today I will relish the black times and say a prayer of thanks. For without them, my life would be like a blank page of paper waiting for something to be written.

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Turning Five
Yesterday a friend shared a story about her grandson turning five. She had found the perfect card and was ready to make mac and cheese and hot dogs for dinner. She asked if we remembered turning five and I laughed. Sixty years ago? Doubtful. But as she described his joy and excitement I began to smile.
He woke up each morning for a week, counting down the days – 4 more days and I’ll be 5 – 3 more days – 2 more – 1! He woke up yesterday yelling, “I’m five today; I’m five today.”
Grandma fixed breakfast in bed for the big boy of five and I’m certain there were balloons, gifts, parties and cake. We marveled at how life has changed.
I began to wonder when that exuberance had stopped. Sixteen was huge as I could drive; 18 took us away from home and parental control; at 21 you can drink (legally). At 30 I felt older than dirt; married with a three-year-old – boring! 40 – was a milestone approached with trepidation. 50 – OMG – I’m no longer middle age! 60 – just shoot me and if anyone dares mention a party I will kill you! No, it has been a very long time since I woke up excited on a birthday.
            As the day wore on I thought more about that darling little boy and envisioned a big-eyed precious face gleaming with joy and jumping up and down on his bed, yelling at the top op his lungs – I’m 5! I’m 5 today!
            Then I asked myself when was the last time I started any day with excitement, anticipation, and joy. When was the last time I jumped up and down on my bed? When was the last time I yelled, I’m 65; I’m 65!  Or how about – I woke up! I’m alive! I can move! I sometimes lie in bed and say a prayer of gratitude or ask God to get me through the day or to take a problem from me and do with it what he wants!
But exuberance? Laughter? Joi de Vivre?
Maybe it’s time to jump up and down on the mattress again. I’m still small and agile and if I don’t fall off and break a hip – it could be a lot of fun!

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Want Not, Waste Not
Last Tuesday, I opened a storage area in my bathroom to find some Tylenol for my aching neck. Reaching for the bottle at the back of the shelf, I watched everything tumble and topple. Bottles, jars, and tubes scattered both inside the cabinet and at my feet. I was appalled at the number and variety of items I have collected over the past few years.
Opening the medicine cabinet, I found more of the same, and under each sink were stacks of lotions, potions, make-up and half a pharmacy of products. As I pulled each one onto the bathroom counter-top, I read expiration dates and filled a trash can or two. I was flustered and confused about the hundred or so items left before me.
There were similar products like Tylenol, Aleve, Ibuprofin, Aspirin, Motrin – you get my drift. Several tubes of antibiotic cream, a row of shampoos and conditioners; two baskets full of eye liner, mascara and shadow; face moisturizers and body lotions, body scrubs, body waxing. The list was endless.
I know I’m not alone. I have a hunch most women have bathrooms exactly like mine. I looked at each jar and bottle and assessed the situation. I could throw them all away since I use about 1/20th of them. I considered giving them away in my bag for Good Will but figured anything opened would be tossed on their end. I questioned the amount of money staring me in the face as well.
And then I had a novel idea. What about using them? I thought. Hmm.
I looked at each item again. Why had I purchased it in the first place? Why did I replace it? Did I not like it? Did it not work? And why did I have so many duplicates? I picked up each one, read the label and made a decision. Yes, I liked the idea of “using them”. How long could I go without buying foundation if I used up the four containers in my make-up drawer? How long would it take to use up all of my pain medication? (about 10 years I figured). Would I ever need to buy nail polish again? I could go a year without buying toothpaste for sure.
I’m going to give this a try. Maybe the tinted moisturizer wasn’t perfect. Maybe it turned a tad yellow; although maybe I simply heard from a friend that something else worked better. Whatever the reason, the challenge followed me through the rest of the house. Under the kitchen sink are bottles of cleansers, dish washing soaps, hand sterilizers. The laundry room looked the same. I must have hit a two- for- one sale in the laundry stain removal aisle one day. And did I need three different detergents? I decided I did need two; I really like the one for dark clothes only. It makes me feel safer washing my “reds”.
So now I am on a mission. I am going to use each and every one of these products. I am not going to replace them until the containers are empty. Even the lavender nail polish and the little packaged soaps I have from a dozen hotels. That’s right. I am going to be frugal. I am going to make up for all this waste. And I started today. Stay tuned for further updates ………..

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Writing and other impossible tasks.

I remember living in Minnesota and thinking I would never get through each winter. I sewed Halloween costumes two sizes too big to accommodate the snowsuits required underneath. The first snow fall found me with my camera capturing the one of a kind flakes falling gently in our yard. Thanksgiving was as crisp as the apple pie I
baked each year. Christmas found us sledding down the gentle slope of our backyard toward the farm below our property. Then came January, followed by February, followed by March. The snow piled up in ugly blackened piles. I grew weary of wearing flannel pajamas with knee high socks to bed each night. The children grew more and more cranky as winter wore on and my patience grew shorter by the day. Cabin fever set in and the walls shrunk creating a bleak dark mood inside me. By April when we often searched for Easter eggs in winter coats and mittens I had proverbially “had it”. End of my rope. Depressed. Swearing to move to a warm climate before the next winter began.

Today I called a friend and said, I’ve had it. End of my rope. Depressed. I swear I will not be here again next summer. .

Yes, I did make the move to sunny Arizona after one of those long and arduous winters. I traded one extreme for another. And while I swore to never complain once I left the mid-west, I am. But honestly? A heat wave that will not break. I’m tired of the weather forecasters predicting a cool front that never arrives. Today as I climbed into my car and burnt the back of my legs on my black leather seat, I screamed. The water bottle I had left in the car was melted into soft plastic. The blacktop shimmered with a mirage of water. My tinted moisturizer dripped from my chin and the hair I had washed this morning stuck to my scalp in wet ringlets. But I had been cooped up in the house for days, every errand put aside for the next day until my list grew too long to ignore one more time. I gave in and drove to the strip mall; I met a friend for iced tea; I went in and out of stores feeling the morning heat up as I checked off my “to do” list. I began to perspire and pant and in a final rage, swore that I would be out of this blasted heat before the next summer begins.

Of course Halloween will come again this year, and the following day the temperature will drop by thirty degrees and we will all remember why we moved here. But until then I reserve my right to complain.

Oh, and writing is impossible because a fried brain leaves little room for creativity. Au revoire!

Before It’s Too Late

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I recently wrote an article for the Gilbert Republic about how the rural feel of the city is quickly disappearing. I talked about missing photo opportunities that I have regretted. First it was the potato farm on Pecos and Power; the buildings disappeared shortly after I moved from Scottsdale. For weeks I intended to get my camera into the car and suddenly, the opportunity was gone. My article was primarily about the recent disappearance of the dairy on the SE corner of Germann and Greenfield Roads. And in my article I wrote about the dilapidated wood structure on Queen Creek Rd, and Greenfield – the one with the American flag painted on the roof. Today I am getting my camera in the car with me and I am going to stop and take a photo. I’ve waited for an early weekend morning with no cars to distract from the image. Now I’m simply determined to get anything I can onto “film” before it, too, is gone.
This morning I watched the most recent updates on Hurricane Irene and its impact on Vermont. Depending on which source you read, one or up to five, of their famous historical covered bridges collapsed this weekend. They will never “be” again. They are gone. You can’t re-build an historic structure. You can replace it but it cannot be duplicated. I was always going to make a fall trip back east for the gorgeous autumn foliage. And I always wanted to cross those bridges. They were our history, part of our country, part of who we are as Americans.
I was in Europe in March, and I stood and did my tourist-gawking at buildings from the 1600’s, even back to the 1400’s. Europeans treasure their history. They shore up their buildings; they restore and repaint and replenish cathedrals, palaces, government buildings, bridges, and towers. It sometimes takes them years to complete these projects.  But Europeans believe in maintaining their past, no matter the cost or time.
I recently heard a news report about how little history our current teens know today. Simple things like: What was President Lincoln known for? What are the branches of government? Which came first, the Civil War or the Revolutionary War? Their answers were astounding and so far off base, it made me shake my head. What happened, I asked. How can that be? I realize there is fifty more years of history now than there was when I studied it. But honestly, Ben Franklin, the Civil War, the houses of Congress??
I thought perhaps I’d blame it on technology. These kids have had to learn so much in such a short time. Technology changes daily; they must keep up with the latest gadgets, the latest and fastest applications, the global economy and world we live in. It is different. But I wonder. I’m going to Google European teens and their knowledge of history some time today. Surely they are not as ill informed as our U.S. students.
Surely with the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Parliament buildings, Versailles, Hampton Court, the Louvre, the canals of Venice, the Parthenon, the Coliseum in Rome. Surely with all that staring them in the face, European students must know history. They seem to treasure it, respect it, realize that the world they live in today is based on all of their past. Each art museum we entered last spring was packed with students of all ages, from primary grades through high school. Versailles and Hampton Court were the same. Large herds of little ones meeting King Henry outside the gates of the palace.
I wanted to come home and shake those surveyed students; wanted to reprimand the adults who think that art and history are unimportant and who fail to support the education of those very students.
And…. On a personal note, I will also tell myself to stop sitting on my behind, get that camera in the car and take the time to see the remaining bridges of Vermont.

Wet Dirt

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If you aren’t from Arizona, you can probably stop reading. I just came inside from “hosing off” my live plants, silk plants, patio furniture and a few windowsills – although I’ll probably regret that later when I’m back out in the heat with window cleaner getting rid of the water spots.
I remember moving here from Minnesota and being happy not to have to shovel in the winter or fumigate for insects in July. After living through my first Arizona monsoon season, I was exhausted. There was a lot to contend with – missing patio umbrellas that were later found in the neighbor’s swimming pool, bent beyond repair, patio furniture in our own pool, tree branches and children’s toys scattered about the yard, and red clay soil inches thick between rain storms.
This is my 29th summer in Arizona, and today I spent an hour and a half washing dirt and dust from every surface in my front and back yards. The thing about “hosing” is that you have to be careful to really soak each leaf, branch and surface to dripping stage. Otherwise you will have traded dust for mud. I use a spray bottle on my silk trees on the patio and it takes a long time before they drip. I miss-judged last weekend and went out later to find mud-stained fake palm leaves. Ugly.
I know it’s too hot to sit outdoors anyway – 108 today, 114 by Wed. so why bother? you ask. Good question. Two reasons I guess: 1) I hate looking out at dust and spider-covered furniture and plants and 2) when it does rain a bit, the smell of wet dust attacks my sinus cavities and my sense of aesthetics.
Rain in Phoenix never smells like “back home” anyway. The crisp scent of wet grass and oak trees. In Arizona it smells like Creote in the desert, palm trees in Tempe, and just plain old wet dirt in my granite-covered neighborhood. Everything is clean for a few hours at least. Clouds are heavy this morning so by 6:00 PM it may be dust-covered again. But for those few hours I’ll enjoy gazing out at green leaves instead of brown.

My First Apartment

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My nephew moved into his first apartment this weekend. This fall he is a junior at Oklahoma State majoring in Mechanical Engineering. As I read my sister’s e mail this morning — the details of moving him in, putting together bed frames and furniture, cleaning, and setting up house — I couldn’t help but think about my first apartment. I’ve lived many places since then, had many new beginnings, but there is nothing that compares to the first.
 I lived in a dorm my freshman year and in my Sorority house the following. My very first apartment was actually a duplex that two sorority sisters and I rented the summer between junior and senior years. That spring three of us were hired by the Oklahoma City Head-Start program to work with under-privileged pre-kindergartners. We found the house through the want-ads and against my parents’ advice, moved into it for the summer. The location was less than desirable but somewhat close to the school where we would be teaching. It had a decent front porch, a good-size living room and a traditional galley kitchen and two bedrooms at the rear. The one tiny bathroom had barely enough space for a tub, toilet, and pedestal sink. It left little room to navigate. With three young women in the era of ‘orange juice can’ hair rollers, bouffant hair-do’s and lots of make-up, the bathroom became our greatest challenge.
We begged and borrowed old mismatched pieces of furniture from friends and family. They consisted of a tattered plaid upholstered sofa that stuck you with prickles if you weren’t careful sitting down, a velveteen rocker and a big ugly recliner that refused to recline but would suddenly catapult you into the middle of the living-room.
None of us knew a thing about cooking but we had a kitchen and were determined to be grown-ups who would prepare meals. I went home one week-end and raided my mother’s kitchen – an old black cast iron skillet, some odds and ends eating utensils, a scrubbing brush (that I later found out was my dad’s shoe polish brush) and a few other items she would never miss. Each of us ‘borrowed’ a couple of plates and bowls, glasses and cooking utensils from home. Sitting in the middle of our boxes, we separated our cache of stolen goods and then proudly filled our cupboards and drawers with our mismatched dishes and cookware.
I noticed how black and ugly my mother’s old skillet was, grabbed a Brillo pad and set to work scrubbing like heck to get it clean. I washed and rinsed and scrubbed some more, removing what seemed like years of caked-on blackened grease. The hot soapy water ran black and I rinsed it numerous times. Later that summer when I returned my borrowed items, my mother looked at the skillet in horror. “What have you done?” she asked, and my dad shook his head and hid a grin. That’s when I learned about curing cast iron cookware. I had ruined our best skillet; from then on everything “stuck”.
We were only there for three months, but we did a lot of growing up that summer. What I remember most are laughter and tears, girl-fights, boyfriends, and early morning drives to work, and for the first time feeling like a responsible adult.
I had something of my own to care for. I had a glimpse of my future as a grown-up, maybe a wife and mother or a career woman. At twenty, our futures stretched for years ahead of us. We were on a path now, no longer sitting still, being served by house-boys, pampered by mothers, protected by fathers, and supported financially.
In 1966 that may have looked very different than it does to today’s young adults, but I have a hunch the feelings and emotions are the same. Pride mixed with fear and trepidation, cockiness tinged with doubt, eagerness and anticipation softened by the desire to return to the soft warm nest from which we had just flown.