"There are Places I Remember" , Number One

“there are places I remember…”  (link to the Beatles' song, "In My Life")

I’m mining my photo banks and travel diaries to celebrate places I remember.  Two years ago we hit the road for Birmingham, Alabama. We were going to celebrate a wedding, but decided to stop off at places we’ve only heard of, not necessarily favorably. 

The first afternoon we visited Bob Jones University in Greenville, SC.  It was on Bill’s bucket list. Who knew? Less than enthusiastic, I tried to find something unique in their high quality sacred art museum which was full of old Masters. But having been to cathedrals in Europe I'd seen enough Virgin Mary paintings and cavorting angels to last a life time. 

Bill was disappointed to discover that the college book store is only online, no browsing text books.

Our glimpse into campus culture was interesting. When my daughter was eight, she played with a friend from a devout Christian family. I asked her what games they had played and she answered “humble girls.”  I’m not sure what she meant then, but BJU had a whole campus full of them! Girls are still required to wear skirts. Some could have stepped out of the set from Little House on the Prairie, others chose modest versions of current styles.

The student dining hall had a wide range of nationalities, and coed groups shared the tables. I did not see many African Americans, but again, I don’t see them at my white church either. 

I much preferred our time downtown at an outdoor cafe sipping locally brewed beer. No BJU students there. 

The next day took us through Atlanta for their reputation for "stop and groan" traffic. 

Once in Birmingham we went downtown to Kelly Ingram Park, the civil rights site where police hosed protestors and brought in the attack dogs. The art in the park recreates the scene with metal scupture.  It’s arranged so you have to sidle between life sized metal snarling dogs, frightening in their realism.

the four girls killed in church bombing across the street

Across the street is the Civil Rights Institute, a compelling collection of media—video, audio, recreated rooms, statues which tell the story of the 1960s in the South. I wish my grandchildren and former students could have accompanied me to experience this well-executed collection of artifacts. 

In total contrast, in the afternoon we visited Antebellum House near downtown. While the landholdings are much smaller than they were, it is a lovely home still. It’s good sized, but not grand. In fact, many architectural details reminded me of our century old home in Denver. The front door is glass with small panels on each side. The entrance runs through the center of the house creating a commodious foyer. Living room to the right, dining and kitchen to the left, just like our house. (sigh)

The rehearsal dinner was held in the Birmingham Botanic Gardens, small but lovely. The tulips and other bulbs were finished blooming due to a warm spring, but the temperatures made for lovely outdoor mingling. I’d love to go back and hit the gardens for the spring flowers.

Of course the wedding was wonderful too. And as the Beatles conclude in their song,"I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before." Here's a late toast to Andrew and Jenna on their second anniversary.

While my wanderlust hasn’t dimmed, my opportunities have slimmed. 

It’s best to recall the affections this trip stimulated. 

Glue Grandma

I trudged up two flights of stairs to carry a moving box up to my daughter’s new bedroom. On my way out of the closet I noticed my younger granddaughter swinging her legs as she sat in the sunshine on the small deck. I went out and joined her.

Her beautiful red hair swung around her droopy head and nearly hid her features. The eyes focused on her knees, and her chin nearly touched her chest. Her arms were tightly crossed.

She was willing to talk when I asked her what was wrong. Her other grandma had spoken sharply to her. We talked about that, and she came to sit on my lap. I enjoyed her lanky body leaning against my padded one.  Her head against my cheek, we kept talking until the sting of the incident dulled. 

I’d noticed her moodiness lately, and we’d our own times when she took offense. I was glad for this opportunity to show her I loved her. 

Twelve years of absentee grandparenting haven’t prepared me well for living close at hand. When we’d swoop in for a week’s visit it always included some special group activity, nonstop cookie decorating, crafts, movies out together. We were cherished and novel.

The shine has worn off of us. I'm no longer the glitter grandma, but the one who holds things together, stepping in for childcare, going to school events, patching over hurt feelings--the glue grandma. (I borrowed the glitter and glue idea from a well-written memoir: Glitter and Glue by Kelly Corrigan.) 

Now only the four year old runs exhuberantly to hug our knees when we come in the door. The older kids give us a nod, or nonchalant, “Hi, grandma.” We don’t always get a squeeze on the way out. And if the cousins are all together, they may not even talk to us. 

The one on one times are what we really enjoy.

We’ve invited each of the kids over for an overnight. Since we’ve sewed together over the past few years, I offered to start a new project with each. Em shopped for a cozy fabric to make an infinity scarf. We whipped it up in an afternoon. 

Addie’d outgrown her bathrobe and wanted a replacement. We narrowed the fabric types and out of about 15 color choices, she chose white terry cloth. Of course this was more than a one time project. I saved tasks that she could comfortably do and she learned to hem a sleeve and make a pocket. While she was here we took a chilly night walk and admired the moon. 

 









Sam admired Addie’s robe and asked to make one for himself. Sam preferred the cozy fleece fabrics, and after careful shopping and combining colors he chose a striking accent for the shawl color and pocket.  He finished it just before a trip to Arizona and proudly, but impractically planned on taking it with him. His suitcase would have been just big enough for the robe and swim trunks! 

Keeler wasn’t interested in sewing, so we planned a game night. It’s fun that he can play knowledge and word based games like Last Word. We change the rules to fit the kids’ strengths. It was a warm enough afternoon to have the first official “Happy Hour” on the patio like we used to do on their visits to North Carolina. We stopped by a specialty store so he could choose a new soda—a blood orange soda from Italy. We have special cups the kids use for happy hour and they enjoy sipping from “adult” stemware (plastic.)

The transition from visiting grandparents to local grandparents is creating deeper relationships with the kids, even if those relationships are a bit sticky. 

 

IKEA: Shelve My Books without Shelving our Dreams

"So what went wrong?" I asked the woman in front of me in the line at IKEA. She was pushing a shiny white box with stainless feet and a couple of hinges. It looked sturdy, stylish but unfinished. 

"I'm building my own kitchen, one cabinet at a time. But this one has a broken piece, and I discovered it's out of stock. I can't get a replacement part, or another cabinet to match." 

Her kitchen will look like a seven year old with a gaping hole where a tooth should be. I did the mental math:  hundreds of screws attached to dozens of laminated boards multiplied by weeks of work equals a crisis.  "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet." I bet a woman bold enough to tackle such a DIY project has the ingenuity to solve the problem. 

I was glad I was only there to make an exchange. 

IKEA has taken "big box store" to a new level, three stories and enough walking to get your recommended 10,000  daily steps. Even if you don't want anything from there, it's worth seeing the phenomenon. I think Trump would call it "tremendous." 

Their rooms of coordinated furniture appeal to the pragmatist, the interior decorator on a budget, and the dreamers. The 615 square foot model house  tempts engaged couples to put the whole shebang on their registry. (If you didn't use the link, go back and see. This is IKEA genius.)

415,000 square feet of attractive displays teased me into thinking maybe I could make furniture hold together with pegs, those weird connectors (CAM lock nuts) and allen wrenches.  

But I know better. For example, my last DIY file cabinet looks pretty good, but a new gap has appeared between the right side and the drawers. Trying to move it, we lifted it by the top it came most of the way off. So why would I even consider more cheap book shelves and a TV console to replace the ones I didn’t move?

    1. My sons-in-law volunteered to put the kits together. They've had more experience, and they look good so far. (Still waiting on the exchange. I hope I don't turn out like the kitchen lady.) 

2.  If I buy IKEA we'll be able to afford a trip much more enjoyable than the Glover 2016-2017 escorted hospital tour of North Carolina and Colorado.

Thanks, IKEA. I can shelve our books without shelving our dreams. 

What Day is Valentine's Day This Year?

"What day is Valentine"s Day this year?" my husband asked, (the man remembers the birthdates of every other famous dead person imaginable.)   Our anniversary doesn't register with him either so celebrations are more surprise than certainty around here. 

Last year I was floored when he brought me a pot of tulips wrapped in red cellophane. So pleased he remembered I didn't care if the date was off.  He confessed his pickle ball partner's husband brought her the same and it gave him the idea.




Meanwhile, I had arranged for us to take advantage of Valentine's Day at our local upscale winery.  During a leisurely afternoon we savored tapas paired with generous glasses of their wines. Rolling hills, our friends Wallye and Gordy's amiable company, and weather warm enough to finish off our wine outside made the day perfect.



Today Wallye sent photos of a terrific looking lunch and I wondered where and why she was indulging in a deluxe meal on a Friday afternoon. Was it a special occasion? About an hour later I realized it was early Valentine's luncheon at Jolo's again this year. 

A year and fifteen hundred miles later, there's no classy winery less than a three hour drive. Post Valentine's Day we'll substitute with lunch at a positively critiqued Polish restaurant and call it good. 

We'll miss our friends, and the ambiance can't possibly compare, but I'm counting on cabbage, sausage, and pierogi to make it memorable. 

 I hope you'll have a Happy Valentine's Day--whenever you celebrate it. 

 How will you and your honey proclaim your love?

Outsource Responsibility

Skimming an article about choosing healthy snacks, a psychologist used the term "outsource responsibility." Students were given a choice of serve-yourself snacks, or ready-to-go portions. 

“If they’re served by someone else, they can outsource responsibility to someone else. But if they serve themselves, they have to accept responsibility and that makes them feel bad.” 

I stopped, went back and read again, and decided she was really saying they could blame somebody else for their choice. I find the double speak disturbing. 

When I damaged our car (see Jan 23rd post on this blog) I tried to outsource responsibility. In a voice squeakier than the meeting of garage frame and car door, I asked my parking tutor,why he didn't tell me to stop when he heard screeching metal. The unspoken message was that if he had done more, I'd have done less damage. But I was the one driving, and I did the scraping. He didn't let me put the blame on him.

We've heard children shuck responsibility. And it starts early. this video clip of a two and a half year old shows how far we go to avoid responsibility.

Yet, it is foundational to healthy adult interactions, and thus a healthy society. 

Children have to be taught to not "outsource responsibility."  As teachers we've already seen a huge shift towards this warped thinking. Too many kids have excuses for unfinished work, late work, no work, and worst of all, aggressive behavior. Their parents don't hold them responsible. Shirking comes from immaturity and wanting to be liked instead of doing the hard work of forming their kid's character.

The school is left trying to enforce standards that wobble like jello instead of resting firmly on concrete.

Add to shirking our culture's confusion between discernment and censure. If we don't place blame, we avoid any chance that we are "judging" someone. The ancient Greeks had it right in that they had two different words which were translated as judge (verb). One word meant to decide an action should be censured.  

However, if we evaluate the consequences of an action, and use discernment, we are using the other Greek concept. Literally it means to separate, and indicates discrimination of thought, seeing distinctions. Once evaluated, some behaviors should be rejected.

If we begin to make someone else responsible for our choices, good or bad, we lose our sense of efficacy. If somebody else is to blame for what I've done, I have no agency, no power. And I believe that what happens to me is out of my control. 

That's a sad way to live. 

Scylla and Charybdis

Scylla and Charybdis live in my garage. More accurately, getting into my garage is sort of like Odysseus trying to get past the two monsters at sea.

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Quick refresher of Homer's classic:  Odysseus had to sail past Charybdis, a nymph-turned-whirlpool. Opposite  the violent eddy was another nymph turned into a ship-destroying, sailor-munching monster. 

My twin dangers are a very narrow garage door, and the small strait between the two facing garage buildings. I have scraped past Scylla, but not unscathed. Despite Bill's driving lesson, I fused the white garage paint to the grey body of the car while it squealed.

ouch

It's a good metaphor for the spring-summer-fall-winter of our distress. Circumstances squeezed us. We got beat up some. There was squealing. But we could have been altogether wrecked. 

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Odysseus lost the ship to the whirlpool but saved himself. Then, when the pool tossed the ship back up to the surface he snagged it and escaped. Rescued by deus ex machina.
    

We didn't count on improbable theatrics (the ex machina part) to save us, but on God and our support groups.  To those who doubt prayer's efficacy, I argue it's got to be more reliable than a belching vortex.

If you've been in a tight spot, I'd like to hear your story. Share your dents, missing paint, and the rescue.  You don't have to be Homer to encourage us. 

Too Much Time in the Hospital - the Top Ten

so ugly I made Bill model it

You've spent too much time in hospitals when: 

1. You think Medicare should allow valet tipping as a payable expense.

2. As soon as you get to the front doors your brain tells your body you crave a mocha. And you know which franchise operates there.

3. You ask for a better room based on your frequent malady points.

4.  You hope for a room away from the nurse's station.

5. You don't expect a nurse to come running when you hit the call button.

wiiiiide wheelchair

6. Even your adult children think the attending physician appears to be eighteen years old.

7. The grandkids stop for pea-sized crushed ice on their way to your room, then critique the room's size, view, decor, and bathroom.

8. You know how to unplug the IV cart and get yourself to the bathroom. 

9. You finally remember to order condiments so you don't have to eat fries without ketchup or drink black coffee.

10. You re-gift skid-proof hospital socks at the holiday white elephant exchange. 


Do you have any to add?