Friday Tidings

Yes, I’m a control freak. I keep a tight grip on life’s events. I prearrange good, solid plans (read: predictable). I don’t go for the outlandish. However, I’m married to an adventurer. When he plans something, it’s usually beyond my carefully manicured boundaries. I’ve been rightfully accused of shooting down his ideas. So when Thom asked to let him plan where we’d stay while attending a conference, it was a long overdue privilege. Excitedly, he checked out everything from a large sailboat to a motor home. He settled on a lovely fully furnished home nestled in the woods. He found it on the Internet (red flag). We arrived late. For the right effect, start humming Hotel California…. “My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night.”  The “hostess” gave us a key, wished us well and quickly left.  Once inside we noticed the lovely home was decorated with dozens of scary masks, creepy art, and graphic paintings.  This was not some ...

My sister Kerry 1956 The two pictures were framed together and displayed on my grandma's dresser.  It became a long-standing family joke—and the bedrock of our political game we’d play together every presidential election. Growing up in a bipartisan home was normal to me. Political discussions were lively, but never mean. My Republican dad baited my Democrat mom, but he listened to her views on everything from welfare to women’s rights.  Having a college professor grandpa on one side and a highly successful junior high-educated grandpa on the other just meant that I had a full spectrum of ideas.   Presidential elections brought increased volume during dinner discussions. It was no different when I’d visit my grandparents during the summer. I sat with them as they listened to the national convention speeches.  Political passion meant getting involved—and that’s exactly what my family did—just on opposite sides. As each election ...

The auditorium was dark and fortunately I was sitting near the back where all the 7 th graders congregated. The other blessing was that it was just the junior high girls. I think I would have totally freaked if it had been the whole school. I hadn’t told anyone that my mom had come to talk to us. It was an event sponsored by one of the local women’s clubs to promote healthy living—the usual message: not smoking, staying clear of drugs. An older woman, with a tall white beehive hairdo, introduced my mom.  I doubt she had any clue that my mom would soon unleash on this innocent audience. Understand that this was 1970—the beginnings of the women’s movement. And my mom was totally in. With her trademark rant-like cheer, she declared while we’d won the right to wear jeans to school, we now needed to demand to be able to take Auto Shop and not be forced to take Home Economics. The girls cheered. It was like a women’s lib rally for young teens. I slid lower in my seat. Girls cl...

I listened to the Paper Lesson directions: Fold a piece of paper in half. On the top part write the worst things that have happened to you. On the bottom half list all the good things. Then look at how some of the bad things on the top helped bring about some of the good things on the bottom. I recalled my disappointment not being able to go to the college of my dreams, but it led me to the college where I met the man of my dreams. Further down the bad list were the desperate years on our failing farm. But those years fortified our resolve to remain united in hardship. I’m old enough now to see the bad-good pattern and not flinch so much when something new goes on the top half of the paper. As much as I wish to avoid heartache, sickness, despair, brokenness, and poverty, I have experienced them all. Perspective allows me to see the good even in the bad…but usually not at first.  Something got added to my bad list this week. I anticipate eventually somethin...

Fifty-four year old advice I wish I could have given to my know-it-all sixteen-year-old self... Dear Karen, Take a deep breath and lighten up. Those school grades that give you ulcers aren’t really going to matter....in a couple years you’ll be going to a college that doesn’t use grades. And after college...no one will ask. There are other things you should be more concerned about. Such as: How about forgiving your parents for their divorce? You don't need to take sides. Marriages aren't easy. When you get married you’ll understand why. Crazy as this sounds, in five years you’ll be married. And here's some good news: your parent's story doesn't have to be yours. Don’t be so concerned that some of your peers are cuter, slimmer, smarter, more athletic, more talented, funnier, richer, or luckier than you. Chances are someone wishes they had something you have. Getting older won't change things. If anything it highlights what we’re not. Discover y...

I have a recurring dream that strikes me when I’m vulnerable to the nostalgic blues. In the fogginess of my sleep, I go back and undo one of the biggest decisions my husband and I ever made. I’m back in the home we left behind. Even though I feel a sense of disbelief that I’m there, I’m elated that it’s ours again and relieved that we hadn’t moved away. As I dream, something is gnawing at my conscience. I’m feeling I need to be careful. My emotions are on high alert. I walk through the familiar rooms and while I can’t quite believe I’m back, I am wondering where do I really live? In the morning light, I wake and look around my familiar surroundings and realize my mind spent the night in my former life. The Dream reminds me, yet again, there’s no going back. You see, it was more than just a home; it was moving away from the life we had known.  As I begin my day, I feel vaguely dissatisfied with life, wishing I had what I left behind...imagining what life would have been ...

I’d taken the bus across town transferred to another and then arrived an hour ahead of my appointment. The lines were always long and being late only made it worse. I knew the routine, even though I hated it. I pushed open the double doors and scanned the sea of faces now staring at me. We seemed to check one another out, seeing if we really deserved food stamps. At least that’s what I was thinking. All the chairs were taken, so I leaned against the wall.   The huge clock above my head ticked annoyingly as I watched people file up to the cubicles to receive their monthly allotment. Children played on the floor while moms or dads thumbed through the old magazines. I had envisioned many things about college, but welfare hadn’t been one of them. Each month I pledged that I’d somehow make more money.  I pulled out some homework and waited my turn. In the muffled background, I heard my name. I looked around, but the voice didn’t come from the counter. A woman my age w...