family

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Words of Wisdom from Aunt Mary


My mother had a favorite brother, Otis.  I knew him as Uncle Odie.  He was an Indiana hog farmer.  A darn good one I understand as breeders from China came to the United States just to buy the sperm from his hogs.  Uncle Odie died several years ago.  He left behind an incredible family and his wife, Mary.

Aunt Mary, as I remember her, was always quick to find something to laugh about. I didn’t realize until much later in life this was because she was a very positive woman.  Growing up, I just recall enjoying going to her house or having her visit.  She seemed to bring joy into a room with her presence.

Aunt Mary, as my mother once told me, was her example of what a good, loving wife should be, and that she aspired to attain the example Mary and Odie demonstrated of a good marriage.  It was easy, as a young person, to observe the love that exuded from their family.  As an adult, it was still obvious at my uncle’s funeral.  My cousins placed hands of reassurance on their siblings and lavished each other with long comforting hugs.  They doted on their mother.  They all sat side by side and seemed to comfort each other with their nearness.

After Uncle Odie passed, I would on very rare occasions see or talk with Aunt Mary.  It upset me to hear her sadness.  She cried, even years after his death, about how much she missed him.  I selfishly longed for my Aunt Mary’s humor and funny stories.  So, it was with happiness that the last time we spoke, Aunt Mary seemed more her old self.  We were playing catch up on our families and filling each other in on the details.  I was enjoying hearing her familiar infectious laugh.  I realized as Aunt Mary was talking, and she can go on for quite some time without stopping-she was giving out some great advice.  I felt such a pang of recognition when she told me the following story:

There were twelve of us in the beginning.  We knew everything about each other.  We raised each other’s kids.  We spent a lot of happy times together.  Now there are only two of us left.  My friend, she doesn’t travel much so I rarely see her.  But, oh, we had some fun.  Now there is no one left who knows me.  My kids say we know you, but they only understand me as their parent.  I have no one left who remembers, me.

Up until that point I had been listening but also cleaning junk off my desk.  Now, suddenly I stopped.  Aunt Mary had just described my situation with our very close friends.  A relationship we find very unique and special but one, I’m sure many people have.  I realized the valuable insight I had been given and I took this thought from that story.

Cherish my family friends and the times we have now, because we all know life does not remain the same.  In some very short years, we also, will begin to lose loved ones from our wonderful odd assortment of comrades.  All too soon only one of us will be left to tell our story. 

Then, very quickly, as was typical of Aunt Mary’s train of thought, she changed the subject and went on to say her life was good.  She didn’t do as much living anymore but she experienced life through her grandkids and great-grandkids.  She has more than I can count.  As I listened with amazement, Aunt Mary began to rattle off their names and the cities they lived in.  She told me their professions and their spouse’s names and if they had any children.  I was impressed but I remembered I had always enjoyed her stories because of the amazing detail she recalled about the events.

As Aunt Mary was winding down her conversation she threw in some last minute tidbits of great advice.  “Odie has been gone ten years now and it’s awful.  I still miss him constantly.  Enjoy every moment, it goes by so fast and appreciate your husband every day.”

Some exceptional words of wisdom.  Thanks, Aunt Mary.

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Quotes and Contemplation


????????I like to collect quotes that at a particular time provoked contemplation or simply made me smile.  Some passages have made enough of an impact to have changed my life.  For example, to be gentler on myself or perhaps the words encouraged me to move forward with a dream I had been pushing to the wayside.  One quote I found particularly relevant was the following.

“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”  Joseph Campbell

These words written together as one thought caused me to stop and reflect.  I am definitely a planner.  I sometimes plan out intricate details months in advance. On Sunday evenings I look at my calendar and plan the following week.  I put to memory what I am doing.  I look up how to drive to the school I will be working at on a given day.  If I’m not teaching then I set up in my mind’s datebook when I will write, clean, do laundry or run errands.  When it comes to running errands, I don’t just hop into my car.   I plan a route that will eliminate crossing traffic and cut down on driving distance.  I rarely go to the grocery without a list, which consists of an inventory of what I am having for meals that week and the ingredients I need.  I plan because it is a comfort to me to know ahead of time what I need or want to do each day.

As I search back through my memory of myself.  I try to recall, was I always a planner? In college I never pulled an all-nighter.  I often had projects done a day or two before they were due.  I understood even then, I did not work well under pressure.  I jokingly tell others that when my now husband asked me to move to New York from Florida, not to marry, but so that we could be closer to each other, I packed my lime green Jetta and drove. The real truth is I recall agonizing over the decision.   Eventually, my older sister who I was living with at the time, said; “just go, you are young, and have nothing tying you here.”  With no true plan, I left, a huge leap for me.

Recently, as I cared for my mother I gradually began to accept the idea of Joseph Campbell’s quote.  When Mom came to live with me and my family I was at a turning point in my life.  My two daughters were either in college or heading there.  My husband and I were soon to be empty nesters.  I had many proposals for myself running through my mind. I had great ideas for finding my midlife career.  None of these mind diagrams included being the caretaker, then guardian and eventually hand holder of my mother as she slid into dementia.

Certainly, I knew that taking my mother into my life was the right thing to do.  Soon afterwards my frustration blossomed inside of me as I fought against the reality of my life and what I had envisioned.  At times I resented my mother then, I chastised myself for feeling that way.  My aggravation at not achieving my perceived goals grew. I would push myself down the path I thought was my destiny, only to be waylaid with the more insistent care of my mother.  One day I stumbled onto the aforementioned quote.  It was a slow process of comprehension, like a flower slowly blooming until the vivid colors demand your attention. That led to a recollection of words of what another sister often repeated; “If what you are trying to do keeps getting blocked with obstacles, then maybe your guardian angel is trying to tell you to go another way.”  I realized it was time to let go of the life designs I felt I wanted or were required by me to accomplish.  Instead, I unhurried my pace.  I slowed my thoughts and my relentless running towards an objective that was frustrating me. I listened to the very subtle guidance from what I consider to be a higher being.  I watched for signs, sometimes confusing in their very nature, but a sign never-the–less.

Over the course of a book club meeting someone mentioned a new writing class that was to begin soon.  I heard, but felt I couldn’t take the time.  While reading the newspaper there again was the suggestion of this writing class.  Finally, because most signs need to be very obvious to me, a friend sent an email with the subject line, thought you might be interested in this.  Why she thought that I’m not sure.  At least this time I took the hint and signed up for the class.  That small gesture has led me to follow this new life course of writing.  Something I purely enjoy.

More opportunities opened up once I let go of my preconceived destinations.  Several years before, at the persuasion of a friend, I had applied for a position as a teacher for The Traveling Children’s Museum.  Nothing came of it and as I became more involved with the care of my mother the idea was swept from my mind.  When my life slowed somewhat from the attention I needed to give to Mom, completely out of nowhere I received a phone call from the Museum.  Now my friend was in the position to hire and she had found my long ago resume buried under stacks of the previous administrators papers.  “Was I still interested in the job?” I laughed, “Of course.” Because I had waited and not pushed to reach a goal when the goal was unachievable my reward was great.  I love my job and now have the time to commit to it.

I certainly don’t want to lead you to believe I think life comes to those who wait.  No, in my interpretation of Joseph Campbell’s thought I don’t believe he meant for us to do nothing and expect our lives to materialize in front of us.  I do think his intention was to allow yourself to open up to opportunities that come your way.  Even if those possibilities have nothing to do with the course you have chosen to walk down.

As a planner I have struggled to let go of my big ideas for my future.  Now, it seems I don’t even remember exactly what they were.  I do know because I allowed myself to find the life that was waiting for me instead of the one I planned, I am happy and look forward to allowing more doors to open.

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What Makes Us Friends?


birches13Once again, in celebration of the ski rental, there was a gathering of our good friends. The scene outside was one of beauty. The white, papery birch trees standing tall against the small fluffy snowflakes drifting down through the sky. Inside the room was warm and the laughter was raucous. It didn’t take much to get the group started down a path of bad jokes, and unruly behavior leading to snorts of amusement. It has often been said, people tend to get caught up in jobs, commitments, the rush that leaves us exhausted at the end of the day. Our group is no exception to that rule. Thus, it was nice to have this weekend to re-establish our priorities in life. Loyal friends bonded by the commitment we have developed over the years to each other. I know, and I believe my friends all know, that time and distance cannot break the bond that time and the distance we have traveled together has established. Not to take away from our blood families but this is a family too, the one we have chosen. These are the friends, who over the course of many years have established themselves to be there for you no matter the circumstance.
I wonder? Why do some people enter your lives and immediately become a best friend, while others drift in and out? Perhaps it is a common activity. This is certainly true for the core of this group. We met when our children all downhill ski raced together. There were many early mornings struggles of no coffee and sub-zero temperatures. Too often we encountered ice storms and dumps of snow as we crawled our way across the state of New York to get to a race. Weekends consisted of standing at the bottom of a ski trail and looking uphill waiting in anticipation for a lone figure to appear as it flew down a race course. The only thing between the racer, one of our children, and the mountain was a thin layer of spandex and a helmet. We held our breath trying to prevent a fall and exhaled as they came across the finish line. Evenings consisted of ski tuning and team dinners at an accommodating restaurant. Often it was adults at one table, racers at the next. Yes, we certainly bonded over the time we traveled together.
Yet, it has to be something more. Because over the years other racer families have drifted out of our lives while our group still manages to get together. Maybe our bond is because of common goals and beliefs. Politically we are a mismatched group. However, an even stronger shared conviction is our goals for our children. A good education, enough money to continue the lifestyle they enjoyed growing up, loving relationships and health. (We have had some struggles with the health, but that too seems to be making an upward trend.) I’ll admit those are pretty universal goals. Consequently, I think what draws us to each other is how we went about teaching our children to attain these objectives for themselves. Knowing that your child was safe and held to the same responsibilities, even if staying with one of the other families, was a comfort.
But, this past weekend we also included others who were not ski team parents. Still, the same power of friendship clings to all of us. In the end, the common bond must be our personalities; or perhaps, our mutual understanding of what being a true friend means. That definition being:
I want to share the joys of life with you. But, more importantly, I will stand by you when you are struggling, no matter if it is a struggle with children, health, death of a loved one or sickness. I will be the one to hold your hand, to lend a shoulder to cry on. I promise to cry with you when the pain is too much and make you laugh when your tears are finished. As your friend I will hold your confidences but shout out your accomplishments. At the end of the day, I only want to hear your laughter and see your smile and hope for many more years of friendship to come.
This, I think, is what draws our group and our fellow friends, who did not make the weekend, together and keeps us traveling down the road as companions.photo (12)

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The Sound of Laughter


I have often found it interesting that an event, which at the time seems small, remains a big part of your life for years to come. I remember being home from college one vacation. I was playing cards with my sisters and friends. We were creating quite a ruckus with our laughter. At one point, I walked into the kitchen where my mother was cleaning up our mess from dinner. She looked at me and said,
“I love hearing you girls laugh. It brings me such joy.”
I smiled and nodded, maybe even gave her a hug; that would have been nice. But, it wasn’t until years later, with children of my own, that I fully understood my mother’s comment.
I too, love the sound of laughter. The melody of it can lift the lowest heart. One of the first times I recalled my mother’s words was on a camping trip. Our family often camps on the Island’s of Lake George in upstate New York. Most of the sites are very private, some sites you get a small island all to yourself. Yet, on a quiet night, as you sit around the campfire, laughter can be heard. It floats across the water, coming into your campsite like the notes of a beautiful song. I never mind the intrusion because the laughter is an indication of the joy surrounding us.
One of my favorite endeavors is when friends and family gather around the dinner table. It fills my heart with gladness to sit back and spend a few minutes listening to the conversation and joy taking place. I search out the smiles on the faces of those sitting with me. I always feel a wave of accomplishment wash over me and I congratulate myself for pulling all of these people together. I have created a night where worries and troubles are forgotten for just a few hours; an evening where fun is the only solution to the weary tribe around me.
Most recently I was reminded of my mother’s words over the past weekend. Word had gone out, on every news and weather channel, that a major snow storm was headed for the east coast. Consequently, the skiers among us felt compelled to make a mad dash for the house we had rented for the season near Gore Mountain. After our large multi-generational crowd had dinner the parents settled into the couches and the younger set crowded around the table to play games. As I sat there with my friends the laughter began to rise from the table. Suddenly, I was my mother. The sound of their giggles brought a thrill to my heart. I now fully understood the comment she had made all those years ago as she heard the laughter of her children. I, in turn, felt that same joy as I heard the laughter coming from my daughter and her friends.
My mother’s feelings coming full circle.

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My Least Favorite Tradition


iiIn my mind there is nothing quite as lovely as a Christmas Tree.  The more lights the better.  I prefer my tree with multi-colored lights.  I think it lends a happier, light-hearted tone.  But, white lights give a Christmas Tree a quiet, stillness, like snow falling in the evening.  Either way I am mesmerized with the sight of a lighted pine tree.

When I was growing up in Indiana my family put our tree in front of one of the windows in the living room.  Each evening as you drove in the drive the tree smiled out at you, welcoming you inside to hot chocolate and homemade Christmas cookies.  To this day when I see a Christmas Tree in a window I get a warm glow from within.

Consequently, this time of year I feel melancholy because I know we need to take our tree down.  It is my family’s tradition to put our tree up on the Friday after Thanksgiving.  Yes, Black Friday.  When many others are fighting their way through crowds in the mall we head to our favorite tree farm, Ellm’s Family Farm.  A funny name for a farm that raises pine trees.  We board a wagon being pulled by a tractor and search the all familiar map hoping to find once again the area that contains the perfect tree.  Some years we freeze and battle the ice and snow.  Others, like this year, barely require gloves and we grew warm hiking in search of our prize.  The search takes a while because our group must come to a general agreement.  Over the years our collection of tree hunters has always included my husband and I and our two daughters, but some years we have cousins, grandmas, and lately boyfriends.  My husband enjoys being able to now hand the saw over to younger people for the annual cutting.  And he is happy he no longer has to pull the tree through the fields back to the trolley.

Once home we begin with our traditional mini hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls, accompanied by beef stick and cheddar cheese.  It is funny we now normally eat far more healthy than this, but traditions tend to stick and we have not been able to let go of this one.  The Christmas CD’s are loaded and play pushed, we are ready to begin.  Because the lights are so important to me, I string them onto the tree.  I start with small twinkle lights near the center of the tree then on the outer branches I put larger lights.  This illuminates the whole tree and causes it to glow even with competition from other lights.  Last we hang the ornaments.  They are a haphazard assortment, but every year they resonant their splendor causing me to rethink my thoughts of a themed tree.

As my youngest daughter does her final tradition of placing the star on top we all step back and admire our work.  One of my favorite things to do is to sit in the room with the lit tree and admire the warming glow and the wonderful scent of the pine.  When the girls were younger my husband traveled frequently.  Each year, on one night, during the month of December, when he was away, the girls and I would sleep under the tree.  I was like a kid receiving her most sought after gift every time I rolled over and saw those shimmering lights.  I would fall back to sleep giddy with my view and a huge smile on my face.

Every year I fall in love with my Christmas Tree and every year I dread taking it down.  I spend as many evenings as possible absorbing the glimmer from the lights.  But, it is now January.  The holiday season has come to an end.  I figure I can squeeze just a few more nights of Christmas Tree gazing in before the inevitable happens and I have to un-decorate my master piece.

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Skiing Fast and Slow


OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAUnlike my husband, I am not a morning person. He jumps from bed, showers, dresses and heads out the door on a run.  The whole time contemplating his goals for the day, and, all this completed with a smile on his face.

I, in turn, do not wake up and leap from bed humming tunes and exclaiming what a wonderful day it is.  I wake up slowly, first one eye, then the other.  I roll over a few more times relishing the notion of going back to sleep.  Everything I want to complete that day does not come roaring to my conscious forcing me awake.  Instead, I rise slowly, sit on the edge of the bed, stretch and then with an arthritic wobble head into the bathroom.  While waiting for the water to warm up I stand in a daze, trying to clear my head.  When the flow becomes tepid, I ritualistically wash my face and brush my teeth. This task accomplished, I grab my robe and head downstairs using the handrails as guides.  As I trip over the cats I mumble good morning to them and impatiently wait for the coffee to brew.  Then, with mug in hand, I sit down, read the paper and watch the news.  I hatch.

My husband is also a rabid skier.  He is the kind of person, who puts the deck furniture away in September in anticipation of the ski season.  Best to be prepared and not waste a weekend working around the house when one could be on the slopes. Because of his passion, he taught our daughters to ski.  So well in fact, that they became alpine racers.   Ski team practice can start as early as 7:00 am.  In the winter this means the whole morning routine is a struggle in the dark.  You drive to the mountain in the dark, try to find coffee in the dark and wait for the attendants to let the racers on the lifts early, in the dark. To any normal person this is a very sadistic approach to skiing.

For nine years, every weekend in the winter I was forced to become a morning person.  Before daylight I was thrown from my bed by the screaming alarm.  With the cozy smell of wood smoke coaxing me back to sleep, I hurriedly brushed my teeth and washed my face, the whole time contemplating about what to pack for lunch.  Next, I scrambled to the kitchen, dug the food out of the cupboards and refrigerator and hurled it into the cooler.  At the same time, my husband tossed breakfast on the table and the girls choked it down while struggling into their tight, long underwear.  As the family hustled for the door and into the frigid Adirondack winter air, I flung clothing into my ski bag, while listening to the weather man describe wind chill temperatures.  Consequently, on ski mornings, I became a mad woman with an agenda.

At our home mountain, Gore, my husband and I have season’s passes.  We often ski in groups with other racer parents.  Many of them are fanatical, just like my husband.  As the sun begins to rise over the mountain, spreading light across the groomed hill, the extreme skiers rush into the lodge, gulping down their coffee as they apply layers of clothing.  With concentration they bend over and strain to buckle up their boots. The atmosphere is very businesslike, no joking.   The mantra is, boots, skis, poles you really don’t need anything else.   With military precision the group rushes out the door, racing each other to the lift.  Heaven forbid they are not on the first gondola ride up and achieve first tracks on the run down.  In the almost empty lodge, a draft of frosty air glides in through the swinging doors and lazily wraps itself around those left inside.

I often do not make this initial run.  After all I am hatching.  I sip my coffee, pick through my clothing and decide how many pieces I want to wear.  I chat with the others left behind as we casually make our way to the lift and get in line with, gasp, non season ticket holders who probably slept pass 6:00am.    My unhurried friends and I ride to the top of the mountain anticipating finding the early crew.  As we travel on the lift we look at the trails below us searching for familiar colored coats.  When we ski down the trails we expectantly look up hoping to see a recognizable face as the chair lift travels over us.   Despite our best efforts we never catch up with the first trackers group.  We are content, skiing at our slower pace, but we have spent a couple of years wondering how the two groups could ski the same trails and never even catch a glimpse of each other.

One bitter cold day, we coffee sippers, decided to go in to the lodge at the top of the mountain. To our astonishment, there sat the first trackers in a large cluster warming their toes and having a snack discussing the morning’s early runs.  We had finally found them in the place we never would have thought to look. They had been here, in this toasty room, with a roaring fireplace and hot chocolate, on those frigid mornings we skied looking for them.  In amazement, we discovered, the first trackers would take a few fast; get on the mountain before anyone else runs, but after that, they always took a 10:00 am break.  This was why, our second out the door, unhurried group, could never find them.  My friends and I would ski run after run thinking we were the slackers.  Only at lunch would we take a break.  We would come in exhausted and freezing, mistakenly assuming the others had been on the slopes all morning like us.  They would come in, a few minutes later laughing, not breathing hard, and very relaxed.  It was disconcerting wondering how the first trackers spent all that time on the slopes but somehow did not look as tired as we did.   Now the truth was out.  Suddenly, I was no longer feeling guilty for taking my time at the break of day.  I simply had a different approach to the whole morning and skiing business.

My daughters have both moved on to college.  They no longer ski race.  My husband and I are not compelled by a schedule to be at the mountain.  But it is already December.  The days are short, the nights long.  Coldness lurks around the corner.  The deck furniture has long since been put away.  My husband has the skis waxed and ready.  Lately, I have been contemplating the idea that all ski lifts should open at 10:00 am.  Then the first trackers and the coffee sippers could all head to the lift together and get that first run at a decent hour.

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Heroes Big and Small


Recently, I watched an episode of Glee (yes, I’m a big fan) where the song Heroes (David Bowie) was sung.  The whole episode was loosely based on the idea that some of the characters had started a club of super heroes.  It turns out they were not super, but heroes never the less.  While listening to the song, preformed by Blaine Anderson (Darren Criss) and Sam Evans (Chord Overstreet) I began to think of the many heroes I know and I realized, I can identify many.  I know of women who have lost children or husbands and yet kept their families together; others who battle cancer and keep a sense of wonder for this world.  Parents who watched a child slowly recover from a horrendous accident.  In my mind these people are all heroes.  But, specifically, I want to talk about an incident that happened recently.

I have a friend with a critically ill husband.  Doctors, even after 4 years, have not been able to determine why he can no longer walk, talk, and is continually dizzy.  He has gone from an over six-foot man who loved his boat, his sports car, work, friends and his family, to being confined to a wheel chair and his recliner, unable to participate in life.  My friend is her husband’s full time care giver.  In my mind she is a hero to him and her children.  Her life is difficult; she struggles to remain positive, to not lose patience, to not cry all day.  In turn, my friend has her hero, her mother.  My friend’s mother moved from her home to live with her daughter and provide support, help when she can and companionship.

As far as I can determine heroes come in all shapes and sizes.  Their accomplishments can be big, as in saving someone from a burning building.  These are the heroes we hear about and rightly so.  But, most heroes perform small tasks.  They provide hugs, a meal, an ear to listen, and a shoulder to cry on.  They may run errands or cut the grass because they notice it needs to be done.    I know how important these small gestures can be.  I relied on my heroes many times as I struggled through my journey with my mother and her slide into dementia.

Last night I was given the opportunity to become a super hero.  My friend’s beloved cat escaped from her house.  Scotch is a cat with a big personality and he provides his hero work of fun, silliness and fur therapy in a house missing most of these qualities.  My friend texted a note of panic about her cat’s disappearance.   I called her and heard the alarm in her voice and immediately my inner super hero could be heard saying,

“I’m on my way.  We’ll find him.”

I grabbed my daughter from her room and together we jumped into our super heroes’ car and sped out of the driveway.  But, before we could even make it past the neighborhood entrance my friend called again.

“Scotch is home.” She said with a catch in her voice.

“Do you still need me to come down?”

“No, I’m fine,… well actually can you come and have a glass of wine with me?”

And so, I took my daughter home, left my super human powers of cat recovery there and drove to my friend’s house.  We talked about Scotch and how bad he was that night for normally being such a good kitty.  How he had scared us.  She cried a little remembering how desperate she felt with the thought of losing the joy her cat brings her.  My friend and I shared our wine; she took big gulps of air  to calm herself, trying to regain the control she tenuously holds onto.  I was glad I got to be, if not her superhero, her small hero for a while.

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The Oldest Generation


As I was tooling around yesterday in the car, flitting here and there, a song I had not heard before came on the radio.  According to the DJ it was a new song by Jason Mraz, 93,000,000 miles.  I like many of his songs and this one caught my attention.
The lyrics contain the following:

oh my beautiful mother
She told me, “Son in life you’re gonna go far, and if you do it right you’ll love where you are
Just know, that wherever you go, you can always come home”

Much to my surprise, my eyes welled with tears and my throat constricted as I started to cry.  Because, it hit me, I can’t go home.  My mother passed away last February and my father passed away, on the same day 11 years before that.  In reality, I am “the Home.”  I am the parent now, the oldest generation.  There is no one I can go home to when I need that reassuring hug from mom or dad.  No one to consult for advice.  No one to remember me as a child.  No parent to share holidays with.  No one to visit and find sitting in the small home I grew up in that always felt like it hugged me as I walked in the door.
Being the oldest generation is a huge responsibility; one that my parents and generations before them endured.  Some with grace, others struggling through their whole lives.  As the oldest parent, you are shouldered with the duty of being the consultant.  The keeper of family lore.  The one who remains calm and in control in a crisis, so that others can look to you for their strength.  That is a lot to take on, even at 54 years old.  I know I can do all of these life requirements and more, after all I have been doing many of them for years.  It just makes me sad.  I never realized how much I enjoyed the comfort of knowing mom and dad were always there for me if I needed them.  And I miss that.

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Over indulged? I think not.


I celebrated my 54th birthday yesterday.   October 21, 2012.  I reveal my age for several reasons.  One, I am proud to say that as a 50 something woman, I am still learning and growing.  A part of life which I believe should never stop.  Two, I have never been afraid or ashamed of my age.  Yes, I admit that there were and are times in my life in which I was shocked by my accumulation of years.  But, most of all I am proud of the way I am turning out.  At this stage in my life and maybe it is because of age, I like who I am.  I hope I have many years left in which to continue to grow into the person I want to be.
Therefore, I believe in celebrating birthdays.  I enjoy being the center of attention.   Lavished with Happy Birthday wishes by cards, the internet, face to face, I will take them anyway the good intentions come.  As we women toil along in our lives there are many times we can feel invisible.  Our children and husbands have come to expect the big and small gestures we do for them.  Right now in my life, I do a lot of my work from home.  The commute to my home office, in a converted bedroom, is very short.  Because of this and also the fact that, I was a stay at home Mom for many years, my family assumes that I will do all of the grocery shopping, errand running and general house maintenance.  On the days when I do travel with my other job to local schools, for The Scotia-Glenville Traveling Museum, the assumptions are still the same.  I don’t mind being the person who is in charge of these matters, what does bother me is the fact it is all assumed and never appreciated.
Every year, as my birthday approaches, I don’t hesitate to remind my family of the upcoming day.  I have no intention of being a martyr and secretly hoping for a celebration, but not getting what I want or perhaps need.  And, my family, over time, has learned to do the day big.  On different years, my birthday has turned into more than a day.  It has spread itself out to include perhaps the weekend or even week.  This year, since my birthday fell on Sunday, I took advantage of the whole weekend.  On Saturday I watched Purdue play football. (Once again struggling to remain part of the faithful with the ending score).  My husband took me out to dinner that evening.  Sunday, my family surprised me with an amazing, over the top brunch, in Saratoga Springs.  Then Paul and drove to the Adirondacks to pick up our season passes at Gore Mountain and just enjoy one of our favorite areas.  It was all about me and I loved it.  No regrets, no worries about anyone else.  Only thoughts of, what I wanted.
All woman should have a few days every year where they are the center of attention.  A day where they are not invisible.  A day when all of the acknowledgments, that should be said daily, are said with sincerity and love.  Yesterday was my day.

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The Me Bus


Recently I have been boarding the me bus more often.  It is a difficult adventure for most women.  We are not geared or wired to think of ourselves first.  But I have discovered, at least in my life, it is high time I started doing just that.

When you begin boarding the me bus often your family is generally not happy about it.  After all, you have spent most of, either your married life or your children’s lives putting them first.  It is a shock to their systems to suddenly not come first.  But if you have raised your children to also be considerate of others they will eventually come around.  Husbands may take a little more time.

A benefit of riding the me bus is that I now do more of the activities I want to do.  I actually ask myself, What do you want to do?  I realize that of course life can not be totally one sided.  As a person belonging to a family, society and life in general, I can not be totally self absorbed.  But, occasionally it is nice to worry about what I want first, then consider how it will affect others.  So, I encourage others to join me on my bus.  Come on ladies, and Welcome Aboard !