Once again, a blog from son Brian and back-and-forth responses to same has triggered thoughts of my own on a couple of words he used together in one of the emails: Guilt and Yearning.
It’s a pretty sad thing to realize, especially to publicly admit, that much of my inner life has been fueled by and evinced by guilt and yearning.
I find myself meditating on the relationship between the two, if indeed there is a link. I’m going to ramble here as the thoughts try to find a place to light. How does a child learn to feel guilt? When does a child begin to feel yearning, if ever they do? We know about guilt in a legalistic way, but that’s a whole different topic. Everyday guilt is, according to The American Heritage Dictionary Third Edition, “Remorseful awareness of having done something wrong” and “Self-reproach for supposed inadequacy or wrongdoing”. Remorseful awareness is when we realize we have a conscience. The awareness of wrongdoing is important to live in a ‘civilized’ world. We stop at the stoplight. Most people are not criminals, yet some of those may not be criminals only because they don’t want to get caught.
But wrongdoing encompasses a wide range of actions. Barking at a store clerk when I’m tired and frustrated can induce guilt. Not calling someone when I promised. Talking behind someone’s back about him/her. The examples are numerous, and I believe that most of us know where we’ve missed the mark enough to feel some degree of guilt.
It’s the “self-reproach for supposed inadequacy…” that is my bête noire. It’s so easy for me to feel guilt about things I have no control over, or feel so totally inadequate that it’s no wonder something went wrong. I deal with this at some level virtually every day.
These feelings are usually accompanied by yearning. Yearning to be better, smarter, quicker, faster. Yearning to have someone in my life with whom to share the burden of guilt. Yearning for unconditional love. I’m not sure that guilt leads to yearning, or that yearning leads to guilt. But I know they are linked for me; when I feel capable and strong and good about myself, I don’t yearn for anything, because I know I have all that I need.
Brian’s father told me when I was very young (I was nothing but very young when he and I were together) that I was ‘other directed’. It sounded like a bad thing, being ‘other directed’. He said the alternative was ‘inner directed’, and it didn’t take me long to understand the difference between the two. I know many people who are ‘inner directed’ and they are confident, do not appear to be in thrall to guilt and yearning, and are unacquainted with the grief of self-doubt and regular mea culpas.
When someone says to me, “don’t take it personally", I understand what they mean, but to an ‘other directed’ person, it’s all personal. Inner strength is not an endless commodity for us ‘other directeds’; sometimes we fight our own demons for it, we pray for it. And we look to others for it.
David Reisman, a sociologist, wrote in his 1950 book The Lonely Crowd, "The other-directed person wants to be loved rather than esteemed", not necessarily to control others but to relate to them. Those who are other-directed need assurance that they are emotionally in tune with others.
This is difficult to write, but it’s important that I have some idea of my own psychology and behaviors. If I understand who I am, I can then begin to tackle the goals of the famous Serenity prayer: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Peace.
June 23, 2009
June 17, 2009
Reunions
This year commemorates my 50th anniversary of graduation from Kenmore High School. [Ours was the last class to graduate from the school with that name. Future classes would graduate from Kenmore West (the same building) or Kenmore East. But our class was all together. All 791 of us (my memory could be off by some, but definitely at least the mid-700’s). No longer would cheerleaders shout “Let’s go, KHS! Let’s go, KHS!” at football and basketball games.]
Reunions offer an opportunity to reacquaint oneself with old friends and people who weren’t necessarily your friends way back when but turn out to be delightful people now and you want to know them better. It’s also a time for remembering those who didn’t live long enough to celebrate their 50th or maybe even their 25th, or in a few cases, their 10th reunions. It’s a time for memories, and for thanksgivings, and yes, even some “what if’s".
I’ve been registered on Classmates.com for several years, and it’s amazing to watch the increasing number of familiar names appearing on the list. People I hadn’t thought about in years, and I remember them now with fondness. I’m looking forward to see them all again. The six years of junior and senior high school—ages ~12-18—are arguably the most crucial years in our lives. The teen years are full of all manner of angst, wonder, fears, joys, emotional swings, and of course, bursts of hormones that seem uncontrollable. We put aside the ways of elementary school—we are “big kids” now that we change classrooms in junior high. We carry books home, we form our “packs” complete with the alphas, betas, and omegas of every pack. Until the time we graduate, our world is lived with this large group of people who matter to us. We make choices—who our friends are, who we shun (unfortunately), who we eat lunch with, who we choose for our teams. We begin in earnest to figure out who we are and where we fit in and where we think we want to be. And overall, to quote Mr. Dickens, “it was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”
The actual reunion events are in August, and I shall be there. But during the last month or so, I have already experienced three reunions with former classmates.
I have a friend in Buffalo with whom there has been an estrangement for almost 20 years. I can’t remember why; I remember disagreements, but there had to have been more. I love this former friend no matter what, and perhaps she feels the same about me. I phoned her over a month ago and we spoke a bit, but I haven’t phoned her back. Do I fear rejection? I wasn’t rejected when I phoned before, so why would she reject me now? I need to call her again.
There’s another woman I knew peripherally in high school, and when we met again at our informal 20th reunion in 1979, she and I found each other to be kindred spirits in several ways. Over the following decade, we saw each other briefly and infrequently, as we lived in different cities. But we maintained irregular contact over the years—a Christmas card here, the rare phone call there. She lives now in Southern California and I’m in San Jose. She called me when she had to put down her beloved horse—perhaps her best friend over those 19 years of his life. The weekend before last I went to visit her, our first encounter in well over 20 years. I’m embarrassed to count up the hours we talked and talked and talked—we told our stories that began in high school and continued until the present, and we even tiptoed into discussing our future as single and aging women. She has struggled with breast cancer, this dear friend, and is as upbeat and cheerful as ever; her smile alone would convert a curmudgeon.
In high school, our homerooms were assigned alphabetically. Having the last name Woodward, I was in the last group, and the only room available was the wood shop. Boy, did we luck out! We had the smallest homeroom (and the wonderful scent of wood), full of W’s, Y’s, Z’s, and a few stragglers who must have been new to the school. One of the boys, “Z”, was the shyest boy, but he was cute and something attracted me. For some reason I don’t remember, I was pretty sure he sorta liked me, too, but, as I said, he was shy. One time, perhaps from a basketball game, or dance (would he have even gone to a dance?), he walked me home, and we stood for a long time on the sidewalk in front of my house. Who knows what those two 15-16 year olds talked about? School? Dreams? Future? I saw him briefly at the 25th reunion, and he called me after that. But only once, and I didn’t see him again. A month or so ago, one of the reunion organizers emailed me and said that “Z” had asked her if she knew how to contact me. She wrote me with his contact information and asked if she had my permission to give him mine. Yes! Of course, my answer was yes. “Z” and I have twice had fairly lengthy phone conversations, and I’ve enjoyed them both. We have led very different adult lives, he and I, and our world views are quite different. But I still look forward to seeing him in August. We never forgot about each other. We still care.
More to come.
Reunions offer an opportunity to reacquaint oneself with old friends and people who weren’t necessarily your friends way back when but turn out to be delightful people now and you want to know them better. It’s also a time for remembering those who didn’t live long enough to celebrate their 50th or maybe even their 25th, or in a few cases, their 10th reunions. It’s a time for memories, and for thanksgivings, and yes, even some “what if’s".
I’ve been registered on Classmates.com for several years, and it’s amazing to watch the increasing number of familiar names appearing on the list. People I hadn’t thought about in years, and I remember them now with fondness. I’m looking forward to see them all again. The six years of junior and senior high school—ages ~12-18—are arguably the most crucial years in our lives. The teen years are full of all manner of angst, wonder, fears, joys, emotional swings, and of course, bursts of hormones that seem uncontrollable. We put aside the ways of elementary school—we are “big kids” now that we change classrooms in junior high. We carry books home, we form our “packs” complete with the alphas, betas, and omegas of every pack. Until the time we graduate, our world is lived with this large group of people who matter to us. We make choices—who our friends are, who we shun (unfortunately), who we eat lunch with, who we choose for our teams. We begin in earnest to figure out who we are and where we fit in and where we think we want to be. And overall, to quote Mr. Dickens, “it was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”
The actual reunion events are in August, and I shall be there. But during the last month or so, I have already experienced three reunions with former classmates.
I have a friend in Buffalo with whom there has been an estrangement for almost 20 years. I can’t remember why; I remember disagreements, but there had to have been more. I love this former friend no matter what, and perhaps she feels the same about me. I phoned her over a month ago and we spoke a bit, but I haven’t phoned her back. Do I fear rejection? I wasn’t rejected when I phoned before, so why would she reject me now? I need to call her again.
There’s another woman I knew peripherally in high school, and when we met again at our informal 20th reunion in 1979, she and I found each other to be kindred spirits in several ways. Over the following decade, we saw each other briefly and infrequently, as we lived in different cities. But we maintained irregular contact over the years—a Christmas card here, the rare phone call there. She lives now in Southern California and I’m in San Jose. She called me when she had to put down her beloved horse—perhaps her best friend over those 19 years of his life. The weekend before last I went to visit her, our first encounter in well over 20 years. I’m embarrassed to count up the hours we talked and talked and talked—we told our stories that began in high school and continued until the present, and we even tiptoed into discussing our future as single and aging women. She has struggled with breast cancer, this dear friend, and is as upbeat and cheerful as ever; her smile alone would convert a curmudgeon.
In high school, our homerooms were assigned alphabetically. Having the last name Woodward, I was in the last group, and the only room available was the wood shop. Boy, did we luck out! We had the smallest homeroom (and the wonderful scent of wood), full of W’s, Y’s, Z’s, and a few stragglers who must have been new to the school. One of the boys, “Z”, was the shyest boy, but he was cute and something attracted me. For some reason I don’t remember, I was pretty sure he sorta liked me, too, but, as I said, he was shy. One time, perhaps from a basketball game, or dance (would he have even gone to a dance?), he walked me home, and we stood for a long time on the sidewalk in front of my house. Who knows what those two 15-16 year olds talked about? School? Dreams? Future? I saw him briefly at the 25th reunion, and he called me after that. But only once, and I didn’t see him again. A month or so ago, one of the reunion organizers emailed me and said that “Z” had asked her if she knew how to contact me. She wrote me with his contact information and asked if she had my permission to give him mine. Yes! Of course, my answer was yes. “Z” and I have twice had fairly lengthy phone conversations, and I’ve enjoyed them both. We have led very different adult lives, he and I, and our world views are quite different. But I still look forward to seeing him in August. We never forgot about each other. We still care.
More to come.
June 3, 2009
Seven Words That Changed My Life
I was married to a man who, I’ve concluded, was probably the most insecure man I’ve ever known. I’ve told him that in recent years, but I doubt that he truly heard it. I was very young, early 20’s, when we met, was uneducated past high school (save three agonizing months at my local university), and about as down as one could be. He rescued me from myself, and gave me some tools with which I could deal with my demons. We married a few years later, despite my own misgivings. How I loved him! My heart took full control over my head and my better sense, and besides that I was afraid to be alone, on my own, with my two little boys.
My husband used to tell me that my impressions of something—often his behavior—were “only my perception”. I heard that so many times, during infidelities, during times when I commented on his differential treatment of his children and my children. There were to be no “our” children, but I had agreed to that before we married, so I couldn’t push the issue. Over the months and years of psychological put-downs, referring to the way I looked at things to be “just my perception”, I began to doubt my judgment, felt inadequate, and wondered how he could love such a person who continued to have erroneous perceptions.
I started working for a friend of my husband who was conducting a research study and he needed some help with handling the data. I had no experience, so he (my new boss) suggested I take a class in Fortran. That was fun, let me tell you! NOT! Since I was taking one class in the morning, I decided to take another one on the alternate afternoons. Sociology 101 seemed like just the ticket, and it was reinforced by the fact that my husband knew the woman professor and liked her.
I remember that it was the first day of class, and when the students were coming into the class, the professor was writing in large letters across the entire width of the blackboard this sentence: Anything perceived is real in its consequence. ANYTHING PERCEIVED IS REAL IN ITS CONSEQUENCE. My heart beat harder, my breath quickened, and at that moment, I began to grow. Why had I never known this? Why didn’t I realize that on my own, without being told? But most of all—thank God I just learned this!
It took just a few years after that and some intensive sessions with a psychotherapist, but that sentence started me on a journey to selfhood, a sense of freedom and autonomy that I’d never had. Anything perceived is real in its consequence. Wow! OK, tell me that the fact that you’re staying out later and later and that a woman keeps calling you is just my perception and that she’s just a client. Yeah, my perception. Not only was the perception my own reality, it was reality. I learned to trust my gut, now that I disallowed the psychological abuse of “it’s only your perception”.
I went back to school full time after a bit, graduated Summa Cum Laude from SUNY Buffalo, and after our divorce, I received an M.A. from the same university.
I trust my perceptions. They are my reality, and what I perceive leads to what I do, how I behave, and whom I trust. Yeah, the consequences. Seven words, one short sentence, writ large on a blackboard and on my heart and soul. I am free.
My husband used to tell me that my impressions of something—often his behavior—were “only my perception”. I heard that so many times, during infidelities, during times when I commented on his differential treatment of his children and my children. There were to be no “our” children, but I had agreed to that before we married, so I couldn’t push the issue. Over the months and years of psychological put-downs, referring to the way I looked at things to be “just my perception”, I began to doubt my judgment, felt inadequate, and wondered how he could love such a person who continued to have erroneous perceptions.
I started working for a friend of my husband who was conducting a research study and he needed some help with handling the data. I had no experience, so he (my new boss) suggested I take a class in Fortran. That was fun, let me tell you! NOT! Since I was taking one class in the morning, I decided to take another one on the alternate afternoons. Sociology 101 seemed like just the ticket, and it was reinforced by the fact that my husband knew the woman professor and liked her.
I remember that it was the first day of class, and when the students were coming into the class, the professor was writing in large letters across the entire width of the blackboard this sentence: Anything perceived is real in its consequence. ANYTHING PERCEIVED IS REAL IN ITS CONSEQUENCE. My heart beat harder, my breath quickened, and at that moment, I began to grow. Why had I never known this? Why didn’t I realize that on my own, without being told? But most of all—thank God I just learned this!
It took just a few years after that and some intensive sessions with a psychotherapist, but that sentence started me on a journey to selfhood, a sense of freedom and autonomy that I’d never had. Anything perceived is real in its consequence. Wow! OK, tell me that the fact that you’re staying out later and later and that a woman keeps calling you is just my perception and that she’s just a client. Yeah, my perception. Not only was the perception my own reality, it was reality. I learned to trust my gut, now that I disallowed the psychological abuse of “it’s only your perception”.
I went back to school full time after a bit, graduated Summa Cum Laude from SUNY Buffalo, and after our divorce, I received an M.A. from the same university.
I trust my perceptions. They are my reality, and what I perceive leads to what I do, how I behave, and whom I trust. Yeah, the consequences. Seven words, one short sentence, writ large on a blackboard and on my heart and soul. I am free.
May 13, 2009
Pen and Pencil OCD
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.
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 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.
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