I finally did it.
I broke out of the pack and terminated my account with a popular social networking site. I was tired of constantly worrying about my privacy being compromised, my identity put at risk, my information being sold to third parties, and so on. The day after I terminated my account, the president of the site made a public apology about privacy issues. I like to think I prompted that crisis of conscience but, in all likelihood, it wasn't just my account being closed that pushed him over the edge.
I originally opened the account to try to connect with folks that I hadn't seen in years, and I did hear from a few. But I had to wade through 500 other posts, inviting me to join their causes, feed their animals, hunt for eggs and help them locate the home for a lost cow, just to try to find a post from my neighbor who moved away 15 years ago. Didn't I have her e-mail address, anyway?
I remember a time, not so very many years ago (OK about 40+ years, but who's counting?) that we didn't have all this instant contact. In fact, I remember when I lived with my grandmother in the north Georgia mountains, and she didn't even have a private phone line. My cousins and I loved to sneak into the living room and quietly pick up the receiver, knowing that it was likely that a couple of the neighbors would be on the party line. Hours of fun. (We didn't really know what eavesdropping was, although we did have an inkling that it wasn't right or we wouldn't have had to sneak in to listen). Oh, but the information we gleaned - we heard the lurid details of Mrs. So-and-so's gallbladder surgery and we heard the benefits touted of a new miracle product that one lady had finally persuaded herself to try: spray starch. It was educational.
Sunday afternoons at Grandma's were spent visiting. The extended family would be there after church, and you never knew who else might stop by, "just to set a spell." Friends, neighbors, other family members who lived a greater distance away - there was always company. On the 2nd and 4th Sundays, when the church had a preacher (usually a layperson who would make the drive from Atlanta), you could count on him dropping in. Everyone sat up a little straighter and talked reverently about the Lord and frowned on the sorry state of our sinful world while he was there, then relaxed and went back to being themselves after he left.
In the winter, everyone would be crowded into the house, because the only heat in the place came from the wood stove in the living room; in the summer, the front porch was filled to overflowing. The older folks sat in the chairs or on the porch swing and the younger, more able-bodied, sat on the floor, leaning against the posts. We kids alternated between listening to the odd bits of conversation that interested us, and playing tag or climbing the big June apple tree.
In the summer the subject inevitably arose as to when each family was planning to cut and bale hay. They worked out an informal schedule so that each could help the other with that task. In the fall, they spoke of the coming frost and coordinated their hog-killin' days - another big job that was more easily accomplished with the help of a neighbor or two (and, boy, was I grateful for those neighbors - I didn't relish having to carry raw meat in my bare hands from the smokehouse to the kitchen).
That was the reality of farm life - if someone's cow got lost, the neighbor brought it back (and helped to mend the fence where it had escaped). If someone was seriously ill, or "down in the back," another pitched in to milk the cows and gather the eggs. You helped each other with the hard work and brought a covered dish when someone died and on Sundays you visited your neighbor. All face-to-face, up close and personal.
Now that's what I call social networking.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
It's Been Awhile
I've been absent from the blogosphere for awhile now. Things at work took an unexpected turn and it has been rather chaotic.
This past week, we had a scare and came to the sad realization that life is short - especially for poodles. We have three dogs and we love them so much - they truly are members of our family. Caesar and Cleo, our two toy poodles, and Sophie, our labradoodle, are three of the sweetest, neediest and most unconditionally loving little creatures that I've ever known. Caesar, our oldest and our Alpha dog, is 14 1/2 years old, but he has always acted like a puppy; so it was a shock on Thursday morning when he had a terrible episode and stopped breathing. I ran into the bathroom, where R was taking a shower, sobbing and telling him that Caesar was dead. He hurried into some clothes and went into the other room with a blanket to wrap him up, and then called to me to tell me that Caesar was trying to stand up!
Caesar came around and began acting like his old self, but I had him at the vet's office as soon as the doors opened. After a day of tests, it was determined that he had an enlarged heart and that the episode he had suffered had been a TIA (a mini-stroke)! He's now on medication and hasn't had any more episodes, but it made me realize that the time will come when we won't have him around any more. I think that he realizes it, too. He has always been a very affectionate dog, but he has been especially cuddly since Thursday and, when I'm holding him and petting him, he kisses my hand and looks up at me with an expression in his eyes that tells me that he's savoring every moment, too.
Isn't that the way it always goes? We take the ones we love the most (human and canine) for granted, because we don't realize that the time may come when they won't be around. Never forget to tell the people you love how much they mean to you - and to take some time each day to scratch that puppy on its tummy.
I think that pets are just one of the ways that God lavishes unconditional love on us, and for that, I am truly thankful.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Route 66, We Miss You
Last week we visited our son in Los Angeles and on Sunday, just before we left for the airport, we drove out to the Santa Monica Pier. There are photos on display marking the Pier as the end of the line on the former Route 66, which began in Chicago and ended in Santa Monica. Oh, the memories.
I grew up an Air Force brat and we lived for awhile in Holbrook Arizona. Route 66 ran right smack through the middle of town and it was our highway of choice whenever we traveled back and forth to see my grandmother in Georgia. From Holbrook we stayed on the same road, traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma before switching to another road to bring us on home to Grandma's.
I didn't realize it at the time, but we didn't have enough money to spend the night in a motel, so we just drove straight through. I sat in the back seat with my Pekingese puppy as we traveled all day and throughout the night, with Mama and Daddy stopping from time to time to switch seats so that one could drive and the other one could sleep. There was a strange comfort in the hum of the tires on the road, accompanied by the smell of coffee from the thermos that my parents shared and the sound of the radio, acting as a lifeline between us and the rest of the world. At night, the glow from the dashboard lit the otherwise black night, as we drifted in and out of radio frequencies, dissolving into static and emerging again in a stronger signal that assured us that we weren't alone - we were still in touch with the world.
We passed through larger cities and small towns, through mountains and into the desert. We traveled through towns with names like Miami, Oklahoma and Tucumcari, New Mexico. We saw the country up close and personal; a place where ordinary people in ordinary places went about the business of living their lives. And there were memories that burned their images on my mind, leaving mental snapshots that I review again and again like favorite pictures in a well worn photo album. One of my favorites was listening to Mason Williams' song, Classical Gas, playing on the radio as we drove through the New Mexico mountains, ending just as we descended into Albuquerque at sunset as the lights of the city began to twinkle. It was as though we had our own personal soundtrack for the moment.
As of June, 1985 Route 66 ceased to be, replaced by I-40, an interstate highway with exit signs, modern conveniences and complete lack of soul. I'm sure that the trip would now go faster, bringing us to our destination in record time. But, oh, what we would miss.
So long, Route 66 - you may be gone, but you aren't forgotten.
I grew up an Air Force brat and we lived for awhile in Holbrook Arizona. Route 66 ran right smack through the middle of town and it was our highway of choice whenever we traveled back and forth to see my grandmother in Georgia. From Holbrook we stayed on the same road, traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma before switching to another road to bring us on home to Grandma's.
I didn't realize it at the time, but we didn't have enough money to spend the night in a motel, so we just drove straight through. I sat in the back seat with my Pekingese puppy as we traveled all day and throughout the night, with Mama and Daddy stopping from time to time to switch seats so that one could drive and the other one could sleep. There was a strange comfort in the hum of the tires on the road, accompanied by the smell of coffee from the thermos that my parents shared and the sound of the radio, acting as a lifeline between us and the rest of the world. At night, the glow from the dashboard lit the otherwise black night, as we drifted in and out of radio frequencies, dissolving into static and emerging again in a stronger signal that assured us that we weren't alone - we were still in touch with the world.
We passed through larger cities and small towns, through mountains and into the desert. We traveled through towns with names like Miami, Oklahoma and Tucumcari, New Mexico. We saw the country up close and personal; a place where ordinary people in ordinary places went about the business of living their lives. And there were memories that burned their images on my mind, leaving mental snapshots that I review again and again like favorite pictures in a well worn photo album. One of my favorites was listening to Mason Williams' song, Classical Gas, playing on the radio as we drove through the New Mexico mountains, ending just as we descended into Albuquerque at sunset as the lights of the city began to twinkle. It was as though we had our own personal soundtrack for the moment.
As of June, 1985 Route 66 ceased to be, replaced by I-40, an interstate highway with exit signs, modern conveniences and complete lack of soul. I'm sure that the trip would now go faster, bringing us to our destination in record time. But, oh, what we would miss.
So long, Route 66 - you may be gone, but you aren't forgotten.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
'Cause I'm a Mom
I had my first child in 1979. I was a mature 23 years old, married 3 1/2 years and I knew that I was completely competent and prepared for parenthood. When I announced the joyful news to my mother she responded, with a shellshocked look on her face, "You're too young." With an air of bravado, I replied, "How much can it cost to feed a baby?" Right then and there I proved her point.
After 35 hours of labor, culminating in an emergency C-section, I delivered a healthy, 9 pound 4 ounce baby girl. As I awoke from the anesthesia, I was handed this small, warm and slightly cranky human being and realized that I was now expected to know what to do with it. Oh, Mom. . .?
I remember being in complete awe of her, in love with her, but wondering: When will I feel like a mother? What IS that anyway? I found out a year later as I was rocking my baby, who was sick with a double ear infection and pneumonia, in the wee hours of the morning. As I hummed to her and tried to soothe her, I finally felt like a mom.
Within the next 4 years, two more little ones followed - a boy in 1981 and another girl in 1984. Then, as they say in the Olympics, the games began. I was immersed in getting the oldest one ready for kindergarten, changing diapers on the youngest and constantly entertaining the one in between. I'll confess that this became a point in my life where I felt that I was pretty much insignificant and my brain had turned to mush. I couldn't carry on a conversation without mentioning Bert & Ernie at some point. I was a step backward in the liberation of women - a stay-at-home mom. I dreaded the social interactions that were occasionally required of me as the wife of a junior executive; I crammed on the newspaper headlines before his work-related dinners and cocktal parties in the vain hope that I could carry on an adult conversation. Unfortunately, the only topic of conversation that came naturally for me was the response to the question, "How are the children?"
Years passed, little people grew and, finally, everyone was in school. I went back to work part time - as a substitute teacher at the school. More years passed - far too quickly as I look back, and we moved through braces, drivers' licenses, groundings and graduations. And then, all too soon, they were on their own.
I moved on, too. I went back to school, and then went to work in a job that I love, one that is suited to my abilities. I make a contribution. I am valued. So what about all those years of child-rearing? All the years of the sense that I lacked individuality and personhood - what about that?
My son, who used to pull up a chair and stand on it, watching as I cooked, is now a chef in Los Angeles. He hopes to start his own restaurant in the next year or two. My younger daughter, who used to play with my makeup, is now a successful sales rep for a cosmetics company, and is developing her own line of makeup.
Today I sat in church as my eldest served as liturgist, and I stood by her side as we served communion together. She is in grad school, working toward her master's degree in divinity. And it occurred to me at last: My life has not been about me. I have had the privilege and blessing of bringing three distinct individuals into this world and helping them grow to adulthood - to become the people that God destined them to be. Some of us are meant to be the nurturers and encouragers - the ones who stand on the sidelines and cheer. I am a vessel.
I'm a mom. And I can't think of any greater gift in all the world.
After 35 hours of labor, culminating in an emergency C-section, I delivered a healthy, 9 pound 4 ounce baby girl. As I awoke from the anesthesia, I was handed this small, warm and slightly cranky human being and realized that I was now expected to know what to do with it. Oh, Mom. . .?
I remember being in complete awe of her, in love with her, but wondering: When will I feel like a mother? What IS that anyway? I found out a year later as I was rocking my baby, who was sick with a double ear infection and pneumonia, in the wee hours of the morning. As I hummed to her and tried to soothe her, I finally felt like a mom.
Within the next 4 years, two more little ones followed - a boy in 1981 and another girl in 1984. Then, as they say in the Olympics, the games began. I was immersed in getting the oldest one ready for kindergarten, changing diapers on the youngest and constantly entertaining the one in between. I'll confess that this became a point in my life where I felt that I was pretty much insignificant and my brain had turned to mush. I couldn't carry on a conversation without mentioning Bert & Ernie at some point. I was a step backward in the liberation of women - a stay-at-home mom. I dreaded the social interactions that were occasionally required of me as the wife of a junior executive; I crammed on the newspaper headlines before his work-related dinners and cocktal parties in the vain hope that I could carry on an adult conversation. Unfortunately, the only topic of conversation that came naturally for me was the response to the question, "How are the children?"
Years passed, little people grew and, finally, everyone was in school. I went back to work part time - as a substitute teacher at the school. More years passed - far too quickly as I look back, and we moved through braces, drivers' licenses, groundings and graduations. And then, all too soon, they were on their own.
I moved on, too. I went back to school, and then went to work in a job that I love, one that is suited to my abilities. I make a contribution. I am valued. So what about all those years of child-rearing? All the years of the sense that I lacked individuality and personhood - what about that?
My son, who used to pull up a chair and stand on it, watching as I cooked, is now a chef in Los Angeles. He hopes to start his own restaurant in the next year or two. My younger daughter, who used to play with my makeup, is now a successful sales rep for a cosmetics company, and is developing her own line of makeup.
Today I sat in church as my eldest served as liturgist, and I stood by her side as we served communion together. She is in grad school, working toward her master's degree in divinity. And it occurred to me at last: My life has not been about me. I have had the privilege and blessing of bringing three distinct individuals into this world and helping them grow to adulthood - to become the people that God destined them to be. Some of us are meant to be the nurturers and encouragers - the ones who stand on the sidelines and cheer. I am a vessel.
I'm a mom. And I can't think of any greater gift in all the world.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Move Over, June Cleaver
I'll confess. Life has been steamrolling right over the top of me lately. I've had anywhere from one to all three of our guest rooms occupied since the middle of December and the last folks left on Friday. I've been buried in details with family issues, work, volunteer stuff and just keeping up with the day to day stuff. Oh my goodness, but it makes my head spin. Sometimes I find myself wishing that my life was a little more June Cleaver-ish and a little less like a hamster doing double dutch on a wheel.
This past week was one such example. Our son spent a few days with us and then went with his friend, L, to her mother's home to learn Vietnamese cooking (he is a chef and he wanted to add Vietnamese cuisine to his repertoire). L's mom took him under her wing and taught him at her home in Hilton Head, and then ended the week's lessons by returning with them and cooking an amazing meal for us at our house. A survivor of the Vietnam War, she is a fascinating person who bears an uncanny resemblance to Yoko Ono and has an amazing way with food.
My son and his friend live in Los Angeles, and there is no end to the stories they can tell - my son, from the perspective of a new resident of the area, and L, as the former editor of an online magazine about Hollywood. My older daughter, a grad student in theological school, sat around the table with us as we listened to stories of a catfish trying to make its escape across the floor of the fish market, the nuances of Vietnamese cuisine, philosophies on relationships and how to make head cheese. Difficulties with language were acknowledged with laughter, we came away from the table as friends - and I realized that mothers the world over have the same dreams for their children. The Vietnamese expatriate, the editor, the chef, the theologian and the pastor's assistant sat around the table and truly enjoyed each other's company.
You never know who God will send into your life and you miss out if you're unwilling to open the door and invite them in. I'm thankful for the revolving door and even for the chaos that life throws at me, because it makes my life richer and lets me know that I'm alive.
June Cleaver knew pretty much how every day was going to go, and life seemed pretty orderly in her household. I'm sure that each day was placid and devoid of stress (how else would she have had time to dress up the way she did?). Life was predictable.
Oh, how mind-numbingly boring that would be.
This past week was one such example. Our son spent a few days with us and then went with his friend, L, to her mother's home to learn Vietnamese cooking (he is a chef and he wanted to add Vietnamese cuisine to his repertoire). L's mom took him under her wing and taught him at her home in Hilton Head, and then ended the week's lessons by returning with them and cooking an amazing meal for us at our house. A survivor of the Vietnam War, she is a fascinating person who bears an uncanny resemblance to Yoko Ono and has an amazing way with food.
My son and his friend live in Los Angeles, and there is no end to the stories they can tell - my son, from the perspective of a new resident of the area, and L, as the former editor of an online magazine about Hollywood. My older daughter, a grad student in theological school, sat around the table with us as we listened to stories of a catfish trying to make its escape across the floor of the fish market, the nuances of Vietnamese cuisine, philosophies on relationships and how to make head cheese. Difficulties with language were acknowledged with laughter, we came away from the table as friends - and I realized that mothers the world over have the same dreams for their children. The Vietnamese expatriate, the editor, the chef, the theologian and the pastor's assistant sat around the table and truly enjoyed each other's company.
You never know who God will send into your life and you miss out if you're unwilling to open the door and invite them in. I'm thankful for the revolving door and even for the chaos that life throws at me, because it makes my life richer and lets me know that I'm alive.
June Cleaver knew pretty much how every day was going to go, and life seemed pretty orderly in her household. I'm sure that each day was placid and devoid of stress (how else would she have had time to dress up the way she did?). Life was predictable.
Oh, how mind-numbingly boring that would be.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Candles of Remembrance
I used to travel to Paris fairly often with R when he was with another company, and we always went to church on Sunday at Notre Dame. (Never mind that our French isn't very good and we aren't Catholic - we could still feel the connection with God as we sat in that beautiful, ancient building, listening to the musical cadence of the language as the mass took place). Afterward, we would go to one side of the cathedral where there was a huge bank of votive candles, and would light a candle of remembrance as we said a prayer for someone dear to us.
In the past three weeks I have celebrated my first Christmas without having our son at home with us, lost my mother 8 days later, then had a birthday the following week. And I've received several candles as gifts - one for Christmas and three for my birthday. As I sat down to have my devotional time this morning, I lit all of them and realized that each one holds a special significance. So I have decided that each day I will light a candle in remembrance of what each one represents.
The first is a delightful soy candle that smells like oatmeal raisin crumb cake - the sweet friend who gave it to me shares the midlife necessity of having to watch our weight and included a note that said that the candle would be a good way of enjoying a treat without the calories! So, I light this candle in remembrance that I must be mindful that my body is a gift from God and that I must care for it.
The second is a votive with a stained glass piece in front of it, bearing the message, "Bless You." I light this candle in remembrance that I must care for my soul in daily Bible study and prayer, and that I must never forget how blessed I am - and that I must be a blessing to others.
The third is a sweet-smelling candle in a beautiful holder that my daughter gave me for Christmas. As I light this candle I remember that I am blessed with a wonderful family and I will offer a prayer of thanksgiving for them as I also lift them in prayer.
The fourth is made of china and is in an intricate, snowflake shape. As I light this candle, I must remember that life is as fleeting as a snowflake, and that relationships are fragile and must be handled with care.
And so, I light these candles in remembrance of all in my life that is good, and I remember that I am blessed.
In the past three weeks I have celebrated my first Christmas without having our son at home with us, lost my mother 8 days later, then had a birthday the following week. And I've received several candles as gifts - one for Christmas and three for my birthday. As I sat down to have my devotional time this morning, I lit all of them and realized that each one holds a special significance. So I have decided that each day I will light a candle in remembrance of what each one represents.
The first is a delightful soy candle that smells like oatmeal raisin crumb cake - the sweet friend who gave it to me shares the midlife necessity of having to watch our weight and included a note that said that the candle would be a good way of enjoying a treat without the calories! So, I light this candle in remembrance that I must be mindful that my body is a gift from God and that I must care for it.
The second is a votive with a stained glass piece in front of it, bearing the message, "Bless You." I light this candle in remembrance that I must care for my soul in daily Bible study and prayer, and that I must never forget how blessed I am - and that I must be a blessing to others.
The third is a sweet-smelling candle in a beautiful holder that my daughter gave me for Christmas. As I light this candle I remember that I am blessed with a wonderful family and I will offer a prayer of thanksgiving for them as I also lift them in prayer.
The fourth is made of china and is in an intricate, snowflake shape. As I light this candle, I must remember that life is as fleeting as a snowflake, and that relationships are fragile and must be handled with care.
And so, I light these candles in remembrance of all in my life that is good, and I remember that I am blessed.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
It's Snowing in Paris. . .
I'm sitting here tonight in a sort of melancholy mood. I suppose that isn't too unusual, given the fact that I buried my mother two days ago, and a couple of other personal challenges have presented themselves. I'm fighting the temptation to drift into a certifiable funk. I've been sitting idly at the computer, plugging different locations around the world into weather.com to see what the weather is like there. If that isn't a low point, I don't know what is.
But I'm fighting it.
As I was doing the dishes tonight, wallowing in a little puddle of self-pity, it occurred to me that I am not the only one going through "stuff." A good friend lost her sister yesterday; a sweet man on our staff has a wife who is facing surgery for breast cancer and another friend is going through chemo. I guess it's just human nature that, when we are beset by difficulties, we tend to focus only on the negatives, and we fail to look at the greater positives that are all around us. It's like looking at a dot drawn in the center of a sheet of paper and focusing on that instead of all the space around it.
These are light and momentary burdens and God is in control; so as I sit here in my kitchen, venting into my computer, focusing on my own little world, the Champs Elysee is blanketed in white, and the bare limbs of the chestnut trees stand in stark contrast as snow falls on the streets of Paris.
But it won't be long until spring.
But I'm fighting it.
As I was doing the dishes tonight, wallowing in a little puddle of self-pity, it occurred to me that I am not the only one going through "stuff." A good friend lost her sister yesterday; a sweet man on our staff has a wife who is facing surgery for breast cancer and another friend is going through chemo. I guess it's just human nature that, when we are beset by difficulties, we tend to focus only on the negatives, and we fail to look at the greater positives that are all around us. It's like looking at a dot drawn in the center of a sheet of paper and focusing on that instead of all the space around it.
These are light and momentary burdens and God is in control; so as I sit here in my kitchen, venting into my computer, focusing on my own little world, the Champs Elysee is blanketed in white, and the bare limbs of the chestnut trees stand in stark contrast as snow falls on the streets of Paris.
But it won't be long until spring.
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