This morning on NPR, on “Talk of the Nation”, there was a segment on OCD—Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder—that got me thinking about some of my own proclivities and habits. God knows I’m not cleaning anything all of the time, and I don’t worry about leaving the iron or the stove on once I leave the house. I rarely iron, and cook slightly more often. If I’ve forgotten to leave food for the cats, they can live off their fat for a few hours.
But should you visit me and need a pen or pencil to jot something down, I can ask: do you want a pen or a pencil? OK, a pen. What color ink do you want? Gel or ball point? Thick or thin? Click or cap? Would a marker be better? What color? Thick or thin? Oh, you’d rather have a pencil? Mechanical or regular? Number 2 or 3? .5mm or .7mm? Do you need a separate eraser? No as many choices, but I’ve got a few.
How on earth did I get this way? I went all through school with a few pencils and maybe one pen, which was probably a fountain pen in those dark ages. In my 20’s I never had any money, so probably would have had one or two pens of the BIC ilk, and maybe a pencil.
Then I got married to husband #2, and we moved to Grand Island to a fairly big house. There was room for me to have a desk, a real luxury. I kept all kinds of things in that lovely teak rolltop desk—pictures, decks of cards, odds and ends that can’t find another place, and oh yes, a few pens and pencils. There were three boys living in the house for the next year, and four boys for a few more years after that. Two were my stepsons, both of them considerably older than my “innocent” little boys. OK, that’s the background.
We’d leave a pen near the phone, which was just a few steps from my desk. The phone pen wasn’t tied down, as in a bank, so it always disappeared. Not sometimes. Always. The go to place for a pen was my desk. When I was growing up, my mother’s desk was off limits to us kids. Just as her purse was. I think I managed to maintain the sanctity of my purse with the four boys (and if I’m wrong, I don’t want to know!), but I could get nowhere insisting that my desk was not open to all.
Two years after we moved there, one of my stepsons decided to live with his mother in another city, so he stayed there after his summer visit instead of coming back. We realized we could have a bedroom for each of the “little” boys instead of them having to share a room. Cleaning up my stepson’s room was a nightmare. I won’t go into all the gory details; suffice it to say that in that ~10’ x 10’ room I unearthed 84 (that’s eighty four) pens and pencils! Yes, I counted them. They were under the rug, under the bed, in underwear drawers, in the closet; indeed, there wasn’t a place that I didn’t find a writing implement.
Now I’m the one with 84 pens and pencils, and perhaps more. I must add that I go with my company to trade shows a couple of times a year, and pens are one of the tchotchkes that companies give away. But still. I have a lot of pens. I do crossword puzzles and Sudoku, and I might do them upstairs or downstairs, so I have to have pencils upstairs and downstairs. I have three handsets for my phone, so I need pens where there are phones. Fine. You can probably understand that. But why do I need so many pens and pencils?! It’s nuts! It’s crazy! It’s…it’s…well, it’s obsessive/compulsive, isn’t it?
In my defense, I don’t spend much money on pencils or pens. Most pens come from trade shows, even a very few mechanical pencils. I don’t use regular wooden pencils—I’d have to keep sharpening them. I’m not hurting anyone, it doesn’t take me extra time to nourish my obsession.
Confession is so good for the soul! Just don’t deprive me of my pens and pencils, and I’ll be good. I promise.
May 13, 2009
May 10, 2009
Reflections on Motherhood - Mothers Day 2009
From the earliest I can remember, I wanted to be a mommy. Other options during my 40's-50's growing up years seemed to be nurse, teacher, and secretary. Mommy seemed like the best of the bunch. It was hard for me to believe that something so wonderful could ever happen to me.
Brian was born on October 2, 1963, the morning after the landlord called demanding the rent we didn't have. I gave him a nice guilt trip when I told him he brought on my labor!
On November 22, 1963, which would have been my mother's 52nd birthday, I got a call from a friend to turn on my radio--the President had been shot. I was no great fan of John F. Kennedy, but I lay on the couch with my infant son on my chest and wept that in these modern times a President could be assassinated. I wondered into what kind of world I'd brought new life.
Brian was a delightful baby--happy, alert to everything around him, curious, and did I mention happy? We were alone for several months, my baby boy and I, since Daddy was in the Army and stationed halfway across the country. Somehow I bumbled through his first tonsillitis attack, this tiny boy with a high fever. Doctors at the Army Hospital at Ft. Sill, OK, walked me through ways to reduce his fever, and a drug store delivered medication. I was almost a child myself--just 22 and not entirely wise to the ways of the world. When my father-in-law died, 6-month old Brian and I flew to Maryland and stayed there for about 6 weeks to help my mother-in-law and we saw my husband often. Soon after I arrived, we stayed in the guest house at Ft. Dix, N.J., opened the little bottles of Manhattans from the airplane trip, and there's no doubt in my mind that baby number two was conceived that night.
Scott arrived on the scene January 11, 1965, just 15 months after Brian was born. I was delighted to have another son, and one who looked so very different. Brian was fair, with sparse blond hair when he was born; Scott resembled a baby monkey with lots of dark straight hair encroaching onto his cheeks and forehead. I guess that's not a good picture--he was certainly a darling baby, just so different from the first.
So, motherhood was in full swing--two baby boys, both in diapers, both needing attention, and by this time, their Daddy was home, out of the Army. He had a job working evenings, so he was around to help during the day and would get Brian ready for bed before he left for work. I can't remember ever being so happy. I loved washing, folding, even ironing little baby clothes. There were no disposable diapers then, and I folded and folded and folded, smiling the while.
We had no money, though. Most of what we had were hand-me-downs. The crib that Brian used was given to us by a Sergeant who'd laid down 5 babies in that crib. The high chair had no tray, so the baby was belted in and sat directly at the table. Worked fine. Neither child had a lot of clothes, but we managed, and they certainly didn't have the toys that today's children have, but there were plenty, and they were happy and good little boys.
Life changed when my husband and I split in the spring of 1966. After considerable deliberation, I decided to move back to Buffalo with the boys and live with my father until I could get things together. Thus started a new chapter in all of our lives.
My father was wonderful with the kids. They were good for him, but I'm sure that he was even better for them. That relatively short time of living with him was the foundation of the boys' relationship with their grandfather, the one constant male in their life that showed them unconditional love. Then I remarried, and we all moved to Grand Island, N.Y., about 15 minutes from where my Dad lived.
Three memorable incidents, although there are many.
Ol' Stick-in-the-Mud Scott
We were living on Grand Island, N.Y., in a house with acres of undeveloped land behind our house. A development was in progress there, but much was just dirt, scrub, and in the Spring, mud. Scott was just over six; Brian was seven, and they were bundled up for a chilly March day. Late afternoon, Brian ran in the back door, and breathlessly reported that Scott was stuck in the mud and couldn't get out. "...and I was stuck too, but this bigger kid got me out, but he couldn't get Scott out! Mom! Ya gotta come!" So out I went, with boots, jacket, gloves, and saw my little boy standing a hundred yards away in the mud. I got to him, and he looked so scared, it broke my heart. I got behind him and pulled him out--all but his boots, though. I carried him for a while, but I kept sinking into the mud and my caked boots got heavier and heavier. The house got further and further away and my load of little boy and boots gaining weight as I went got almost too much. I had to put Scott down and get the accumulated mud off my boots. Poor little guy had to put his stocking feet into that mud! I cleaned off my boots, picked up Scott and after what seemed like hours, got to the house, put the boys into the tub, and we all breathed. "I thought I was gonna die out there, Mom". Scott tried not to cry. He was fine. We were all fine.
The Composer
Brian was eight, and it was my birthday. He had been taking piano lessons for about two years, and didn’t have to be reminded about practicing. He did well. On my birthday, he gave me a song that he’d composed, all the notes written out. I was excited and asked him to play it for me. He said he couldn’t play it; he could write it. I said, in all my naïve and insensitive stupidity, “Brian, it’s wonderful that you wrote this for me, but how can you write it and not be able to play it?” I could tell I’d hurt his feelings, but I had no idea how to fix it or undo it, or even why it hurt him so. Years later, on a visit to Minneapolis, Brian played a part of a ballet he was writing, and he stopped at one point and told me he couldn’t play the next part. I asked the same naïve, insensitive and stupid question again (I’m a slow learner), and this time Brian wasn’t eight anymore, he was in his late 20’s and considerably more articulate. He wheeled around on the piano bench and gave me what for, asking if I thought Mozart could play every single instrument in the orchestra that he composed for? Of course not, I said. The twenty years were gone, and the eight year old boy sat in front of me, hurt, but now able to explain to his musically-ignorant mother. The sad thing is: I have never heard nor was I able to read the song that my beloved eight year old little boy wrote.
The School Bus Thief
We lived down the same side of the street as Grand Island's school bus garage, behind the school the boys attended. Brian had a friend named George he played with--they must have been 11 or 12. The call came in on a Saturday afternoon, from the Grand Island Police Station. Brian had been picked up for starting a school bus. My husband, Brian’s adoptive Dad, an Episcopal priest, donned his clerical collar and went to take care of it. Brian’s was scared witless, and pretty darned angry at his supposed friend George, who took off when he spotted the cops. I don’t know whether Brian ever saw George again, certainly not intentionally.
There are so many more. I am so proud to be mother of these two men.
Brian was born on October 2, 1963, the morning after the landlord called demanding the rent we didn't have. I gave him a nice guilt trip when I told him he brought on my labor!
On November 22, 1963, which would have been my mother's 52nd birthday, I got a call from a friend to turn on my radio--the President had been shot. I was no great fan of John F. Kennedy, but I lay on the couch with my infant son on my chest and wept that in these modern times a President could be assassinated. I wondered into what kind of world I'd brought new life.
Brian was a delightful baby--happy, alert to everything around him, curious, and did I mention happy? We were alone for several months, my baby boy and I, since Daddy was in the Army and stationed halfway across the country. Somehow I bumbled through his first tonsillitis attack, this tiny boy with a high fever. Doctors at the Army Hospital at Ft. Sill, OK, walked me through ways to reduce his fever, and a drug store delivered medication. I was almost a child myself--just 22 and not entirely wise to the ways of the world. When my father-in-law died, 6-month old Brian and I flew to Maryland and stayed there for about 6 weeks to help my mother-in-law and we saw my husband often. Soon after I arrived, we stayed in the guest house at Ft. Dix, N.J., opened the little bottles of Manhattans from the airplane trip, and there's no doubt in my mind that baby number two was conceived that night.
Scott arrived on the scene January 11, 1965, just 15 months after Brian was born. I was delighted to have another son, and one who looked so very different. Brian was fair, with sparse blond hair when he was born; Scott resembled a baby monkey with lots of dark straight hair encroaching onto his cheeks and forehead. I guess that's not a good picture--he was certainly a darling baby, just so different from the first.
So, motherhood was in full swing--two baby boys, both in diapers, both needing attention, and by this time, their Daddy was home, out of the Army. He had a job working evenings, so he was around to help during the day and would get Brian ready for bed before he left for work. I can't remember ever being so happy. I loved washing, folding, even ironing little baby clothes. There were no disposable diapers then, and I folded and folded and folded, smiling the while.
We had no money, though. Most of what we had were hand-me-downs. The crib that Brian used was given to us by a Sergeant who'd laid down 5 babies in that crib. The high chair had no tray, so the baby was belted in and sat directly at the table. Worked fine. Neither child had a lot of clothes, but we managed, and they certainly didn't have the toys that today's children have, but there were plenty, and they were happy and good little boys.
Life changed when my husband and I split in the spring of 1966. After considerable deliberation, I decided to move back to Buffalo with the boys and live with my father until I could get things together. Thus started a new chapter in all of our lives.
My father was wonderful with the kids. They were good for him, but I'm sure that he was even better for them. That relatively short time of living with him was the foundation of the boys' relationship with their grandfather, the one constant male in their life that showed them unconditional love. Then I remarried, and we all moved to Grand Island, N.Y., about 15 minutes from where my Dad lived.
Three memorable incidents, although there are many.
Ol' Stick-in-the-Mud Scott
We were living on Grand Island, N.Y., in a house with acres of undeveloped land behind our house. A development was in progress there, but much was just dirt, scrub, and in the Spring, mud. Scott was just over six; Brian was seven, and they were bundled up for a chilly March day. Late afternoon, Brian ran in the back door, and breathlessly reported that Scott was stuck in the mud and couldn't get out. "...and I was stuck too, but this bigger kid got me out, but he couldn't get Scott out! Mom! Ya gotta come!" So out I went, with boots, jacket, gloves, and saw my little boy standing a hundred yards away in the mud. I got to him, and he looked so scared, it broke my heart. I got behind him and pulled him out--all but his boots, though. I carried him for a while, but I kept sinking into the mud and my caked boots got heavier and heavier. The house got further and further away and my load of little boy and boots gaining weight as I went got almost too much. I had to put Scott down and get the accumulated mud off my boots. Poor little guy had to put his stocking feet into that mud! I cleaned off my boots, picked up Scott and after what seemed like hours, got to the house, put the boys into the tub, and we all breathed. "I thought I was gonna die out there, Mom". Scott tried not to cry. He was fine. We were all fine.
The Composer
Brian was eight, and it was my birthday. He had been taking piano lessons for about two years, and didn’t have to be reminded about practicing. He did well. On my birthday, he gave me a song that he’d composed, all the notes written out. I was excited and asked him to play it for me. He said he couldn’t play it; he could write it. I said, in all my naïve and insensitive stupidity, “Brian, it’s wonderful that you wrote this for me, but how can you write it and not be able to play it?” I could tell I’d hurt his feelings, but I had no idea how to fix it or undo it, or even why it hurt him so. Years later, on a visit to Minneapolis, Brian played a part of a ballet he was writing, and he stopped at one point and told me he couldn’t play the next part. I asked the same naïve, insensitive and stupid question again (I’m a slow learner), and this time Brian wasn’t eight anymore, he was in his late 20’s and considerably more articulate. He wheeled around on the piano bench and gave me what for, asking if I thought Mozart could play every single instrument in the orchestra that he composed for? Of course not, I said. The twenty years were gone, and the eight year old boy sat in front of me, hurt, but now able to explain to his musically-ignorant mother. The sad thing is: I have never heard nor was I able to read the song that my beloved eight year old little boy wrote.
The School Bus Thief
We lived down the same side of the street as Grand Island's school bus garage, behind the school the boys attended. Brian had a friend named George he played with--they must have been 11 or 12. The call came in on a Saturday afternoon, from the Grand Island Police Station. Brian had been picked up for starting a school bus. My husband, Brian’s adoptive Dad, an Episcopal priest, donned his clerical collar and went to take care of it. Brian’s was scared witless, and pretty darned angry at his supposed friend George, who took off when he spotted the cops. I don’t know whether Brian ever saw George again, certainly not intentionally.
There are so many more. I am so proud to be mother of these two men.
May 7, 2009
Cat Training, Part 2.
I’ve learned more about training a cat. I’ve learned that while you think you’re training the cat, the cat is successfully training you! I’ll bet there are dog owners out there who think they trained their dogs, too. But it’s even worse with cats, because cats let you know in no uncertain terms that they’ve turned the tables on you.
In case you didn’t read the first part, I trained my Bengal cat Sheba to come when I call her by giving her little treats she loves. It worked for a while. Now Sheba sits in front of me and hollers at me to give her treats… or else! I do not want to even think about what the ‘or else’ could mean, so I dutifully get the treat container and give her what she demands. I hate the look of evil satisfaction on her face when she’s had enough and goes to lie down to gloat!
You can’t really train a cat.
In case you didn’t read the first part, I trained my Bengal cat Sheba to come when I call her by giving her little treats she loves. It worked for a while. Now Sheba sits in front of me and hollers at me to give her treats… or else! I do not want to even think about what the ‘or else’ could mean, so I dutifully get the treat container and give her what she demands. I hate the look of evil satisfaction on her face when she’s had enough and goes to lie down to gloat!
You can’t really train a cat.
It’s not easy being green…
…but I’m trying. I recycle almost everything I can. Newspapers, gazillions of catalogs and old magazines, junk mail, miscellaneous paper untouched by food, old phone books, cardboard boxes—all go into my wicker recycle box. Rinsed-out cans, bottles, jars, yogurt containers, other plastic containers with the little recycle logo on them—all go into my wicker recycle box. I’m not patting myself on the back here; for each item I think to put into the recycle box, I’m sure there’s something I’m throwing in the garbage that should be recycled. The plastic bags the frozen berries come in, for example. They’re recyclable, and for a while I rinsed them well, and added them to the wicker bin. Then I get lazy or rushed and put them in the garbage.Every few months I review the long list that San Jose provides every year on what’s recyclable and what’s not to make sure I’m compliant. I always find something I’d forgotten from the last time. The wicker box fills up fast, and twice a week I dump it into the huge plastic bin the city provides. The recycle bin holds over 300 pounds, it says on it, and it occurs to me that a human body would fit nicely in there, curled up, covered by paper all around, and who would ever know exactly where it came from? I think I should get a smaller recycle bin; maybe I wouldn’t have such morbid thoughts.
My church, St. Mark’s, is concerned about green-ness, too. It’s even less easy being green there than it is at home. We need termite “remediation” for the whole campus. Costly either way, but the noxious poison kills the termites and you can go 5-10 years before needing remediation again. The green (actually, orange) method is non-toxic, but it kills only the termites it actually touches, and does nothing to the ones it doesn’t touch. It’s less expensive up front, but needs to be done on a regular basis. In San Jose, termites are always with us. We can either poison them or kill them with orange juice.
I’ve stopped buying bottled water. I learned last year that it takes more water to manufacture the individual serving water bottles than they actually hold! I now use a thermos or reusable container for water. I do keep a larger plastic jug of water in the trunk of the car, though. The large ones are bad too, but not as bad as the small ones.
At St. Mark’s we still use Styrofoam cups at our coffee hours. When I first attended St. Mark’s, in the early 90’s, we had a pegboard with ceramic cups hanging from it. I thought that worked very well; drink your coffee/tea, wash out the cup, hang it up, and that’s that. No Styrofoam. No paper cups. Apparently not enough people washed out their cups, and so a couple of angels made it their job to wash and re-hang them. (The cups, not the people.) Then the angels died and there were lots of dirty cups hanging around on Sunday mornings, and St. Mark’s does not have a dishwasher. So, when I went away and wasn’t watching, they stopped using the pegboard and went back to Styrofoam. After raising the issue several times over the years since I’ve returned to St. Mark’s, I finally got the message. We will do nothing about pegboards and ceramic cups until there’s a dishwasher; then we’ll think about it. End of story.
But for me it isn’t the end of the story. Don’t we have angels anymore at St. Mark’s? Some have also raised the issue that others besides St. Mark’s people use the parish hall, and might use our cups and hang them back up dirty. Then we might catch their alcoholism, I guess. Or become infatuated with bagpipes, engage in creative anachronism, or take up singing.
It’s hard for me to imagine going into a place that has coffee cups available, using one and putting it back unwashed. Do we assume all other people are brought up in a barn? What has become of civility, taking care of others’ possessions as we would our own?
Well, I’m bringing my own cup of tea from home every Sunday. I’ll not drink my tea out of a Styrofoam cup, thank you very much. It doesn’t taste right, it doesn’t feel right, and it stays too hot too long. Ceramic absorbs just the right amount of heat so the tea is cool enough to drink and the cup warms the hands on a cool morning. It’s ever so much more comforting. Holding a Styrofoam cup is like hugging a fish.
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