For 2017, That Thing with Feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops - at all
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
~ Emily Dickinson  

I start this year discouraged. I'm discouraged that smart is dumb, and dumb is smart. That saying and doing hateful things is right, and checking your mouth and actions out of common decency is wrong. That looking backward to some fantasyland bygone age is where we should be headed, but looking to the future with clear-eyed understanding of how the world functions in the 21st century based on scientific knowledge (and I'd say, God-given scientific knowledge) is ridiculed. So, yes, the start of 2017 finds me deeply discouraged.

What I'm left with on this first day of a new year is that thing with feathers, hope. A cardinal-in-the-snow type of hope. Hope exemplified every day by the little children in my life, by colleagues, by family and friends near and far, by mere acquaintances - all loving and living out the good. The true good.

My New Year's plan is to keep my eyes turned toward the good that gives me hope. I'm going to hang on tight to the folks who reach out to help, not hurt. Who speak with respect and love, not hate and bigotry. Who foster understanding, not humiliation. That's the best I can do in these times. Maybe if enough of us do that, then that thing with feathers can flourish and give us a better song to sing.

Happy New Year, all!

When Cultural Icons Leave Us Behind

It's been a tough year for those folks who crisscrossed our childhood and teen years. Those who inspired us, made us laugh and cry, set us singing or dancing, Those whose posters plastered our bedroom walls. Those whose album covers (yes, LP record album covers) were strewn around our dorm rooms. Those whose movies and TV shows we've watched a million times. Those whose books we've read. Those no-longer-earth-bound spirits we've loved and admired from a safe distance for a myriad of personal reasons.

Certainly, any given year robs us of a few culturally important people due to old age, illness, suicide, or just plain crazy living, but this year has been particularly hard on Boomer and GenX touchstones.

Now, lots of folks like to be old poo-heads and throw out that we shouldn't mourn and carry on for people we don't really know. Except we do know these people - at least, we know their individual impact on our lives. Depending on when and how they crossed our paths, we often feel a closer connection to them than we do with colleagues, acquaintances, or even family. (I'm not talking stalkers, here, just regular fan-type stuff.)

When we lose John Glenn, we lose the physical representation of the excitement and nervousness and fear we felt as we sat in our classrooms watching Friendship 7 orbit the earth in 1962. When we lose Leonard Cohen, we lose the person who gave us Hallelujah and Suzanne at the very times in our lives when we needed Hallelujah and Suzanne. When we lose Harper Lee, we lose the actual person who dreamed up Scout and Atticus and Boo and changed our minds about a lot of things at the very point in time we needed our minds changed. So it doesn't matter that we didn't know them personally. It's what they brought to our lives over the arc of years.

David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Patty Duke, Gene Wilder, Prince, Ali, Merle Haggard, Arnold Palmer, the Garrys Shandling and Marshall, Pat Summitt, Elie Weisel, Pete Fountain, Gwen Ifill, Florence Henderson. And now Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds. And so many more. In one year. We must be content with whatever words of wisdom, acts of courage, and fabulous performances they've already given us.

Cherish your cultural touchstones while ye may. It'll probably get tougher for the next few years since many of the fabulous people who taught us to laugh and sing and dance and appreciate art, literature, and sports are aging out of our world. And as they go we're reminded of our own position in the line-up. Indeed, we all are shuffling our way toward the end of our mortal coils.

Go ahead and feel sad and nostalgic. Watch the old movies. Play the old songs. Re-read the books. Replay the news and sporting events. We've lost people who made us feel, who brought us joy. Thank you, brave talented souls, for adding to the brilliant colors of our lives. We salute you.

Unaltered States

OK. I tried it. I spent 90 minutes in a dark room floating in gallons of epsom salted-water in an effort to flush my brain. A friend suggested I try it after her experience in the tank had helped her after a recent accident. I've found myself increasingly stressed and angry of late and am looking for any kind of relief that doesn't involve hours in talk-therapy, something I've never had any success with (it would require another blog-post to explain). Sensory deprivation sounded like it might be useful to someone like me, who is in constant sensory overload. I could use a really cathartic sob session or a chance to listen to my brain create its own sounds.

I went into my floating experience with high hopes, positive and excited. Just let go, see what left, what remained, what was born anew inside my head. Perhaps adding float-therapy to my monthly massage sessions might be just the ticket for getting me back in balance. It was not to be.

On the positive side my pool cave was roomy, not the least bit claustrophobic. The water was fine. And, yeah, I floated. There was a line of little blue lights that I could leave on, or turn off. It's suggested you turn them off to, you know, deprive yourself of light, and that's what I did once I felt comfortable being suspended in water in total darkness. And I was given earplugs - the gummy kind that work fabulously well - to keep water out of my ears and provide more sound-proofing. OK. All fine.

Here's where it didn't work for me. First, I have an overly developed sense of smell, and the little room smelled like dirty feet - like a steam room at a gym (not the spa kind). My nose was not sensory deprived. Second, I'm hot-natured, and the space was uncomfortably warm and close. My internal thermometer was not sensory deprived. And third, well, my brain just never shuts down. Take away people, work, books, a slew of electronic devices, food, and light, and my brain just fills in the spaces. Seems my head cannot be sensory deprived.

How did I spend my 90 minutes? Something like this: listening to my breathing, prayer, worrying about work, wondering how long I'd been in the pool, listening to my breathing, wishing it were cooler, worrying about money, going to my happy place - a cabin porch on a rainy day with a good book and tea, wishing it smelled better, listening to my breathing, doing a little (shallow) water aerobics, wondering how long I had been in the pool, a lttle more prayer, going to my other happy place - a snowed in cabin with a roaring fire in the fireplace with a good book and tea, listening to my breathing, wishing it were cooler, worrying about everything else in the world, and wondering how long I'd been in the pool. In short, sensory overload. For 90 minutes. In a dark, quiet pool. Sigh.

I know you're all thinking - wow, this girl is in deep need of a psychiatrist. But I guess for now I'll stick to my massages. And books, old movies, grandkids, autumn (if it ever comes), and food. If I'm going to be in sensory overload, it may as well be with the sensory experiences I love. But at least I gave it a go. And I did learn something about myself: there's no such thing as sensory deprivation where my head is concerned.

Of course, there's always hypnosis . . .

Terror in the Sink

I hate having to be brave first thing in the morning. Or any time, really, because I'm your basic Monty Python-run-away! kind of gal. And this was procrastination-brave, since the battle started last night.

Well, it's the South. It's summertime. You're going to come across the occasional giant flying roach in the kitchen or bathroom ready to make a sudden move and scare the shit out of you, no matter how Clorox-ed and Pine Sol-ed your home may be. OK. I'm a Southern girl. I get that. But somehow that doesn't prepare you for the sudden appearance of a sci-fi creature when you nonchalantly walk into the kitchen for an evening snack.

There it was. Huge. In the sink on the right with a slotted drain, not the disposal sink. Shit! (Sorry, but, yeah, shit!) I deftly reach under the sink for the Raid. To hell with environmental concerns, there's a giant roach in my sink. I spray it like crazy, and the Godzilla-like roach heads for the drain.

Now, roaches seem to be able to squeeze even their most ginormous shiny brown selves though cracks in baseboards, sealed doorways, or tightly packed books. But this guy just couldn't manage to make it through one of the drain-slots. Wiggling, flipping. Flipping, wiggling. Nope. Just a big ol' nasty glob blocking the drain. Why, oh why, couldn't it have landed in the disposal sink? But no.

If you have any experience at all with roaches, you know it takes forever for them to die. Honestly, You can come up on one that's been lying in the sun with curled up legs for three days, give it a nudge, and it flips over and skitters away. Knowing this, I was definitely not going the valorous route last night. These bugs have a way of crawling off and giving up the ghost elsewhere. So. Forget the snack. Try not to inhale too much Raid-fume. Turn out the light. Check on it tomorrow.

On this fine, sunny summer Saturday, I awoke with a sense of dread. If that critter hadn't managed to slink off somewhere else to die, I was going to have to dig it out of sink before I could get anything done today. Yes, I was going to have to be brave first thing in the morning. Shit.

Hoping against hope, I walked into the kitchen and, with one eye squeezed shut, glanced toward the sink drain. Still there. Big old brown blob. So I do what any brave soul would do in this situation and pulled off 14 paper towels, wadded them up and dug into the sink - trying to stay well-protected but agile enough to grab it. No luck. Still there. This really was calling on more strength than a Saturday morning afforded me.

What to do? What to do?

Necessity. Mother. Invention. Or. Whatever works. Chopsticks. The original plan was to sushi-it and drop it outside. Alas, my chopstick skills were not coming to the fore for this particular delicacy, so I just started poking. Poking, poking, poking into one of the drain slots. What on earth are roaches made of? I stood poking - hard, hard, hard - for what seemed like forever. Finally, it started to break up and with the help of lots of water, disappeared to the netherworld of wherever sink drains lead. More soap and Clorox and paper towels to get the roach-aura out of the sinks and off the counters.

Welp, I feel as though I've slain ten dragons. On a sunny summer Saturday morning in the South, knowing that while the battle may have been won, the war is far from over. But I live to fight the roach-king another day.

Death is a strange thing

I love memorable passages from books I read and keep a journal of them so that I can be re-delighted with them in one handy place. This one came near the end of a wonderful book called A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman. (Thanks for the recommendation, Liz Hinds!)

It's about an unlikeable old coot who keeps trying to kill himself to be with his dear, recently deceased wife. Alas, people and circumstances keep interfering. The book is as funny and endearing as Ove is cranky. That's all I'm going to say about it, except grab a copy and read it.

OK. So my favorite passage comes near the end. Full of truth. Ponder, if you will:

I won't give away the ending, but be prepared to line up behind either Saab or Volvo for car preference, then accept the consequences. And I believe the quote is on target: the fear of being passed over and left alone is the greatest.

Look up, America!

Such a gloomy time to be an American. The year was 1975. Watergate indictments. The fall of Saigon. Janis Ian's "At Seventeen." You think 2016 is bad? Ha!

Forty-one years ago we were weary of political hackery and a war that had gone on too long and taken too many young people. Caught between The Captain and Tennille and an impending disco revolution, music and fashion seemed to be letting us down. And yet, we were trying our darndest to generate some kind of enthusiasm for 1976's Bicentennial celebrations. Our hearts weren't in it.

Coca-Cola to the rescue! "Look up, America! See what we've got!" Stop yer whinin' and pull yerselves together! Things ain't so bad, eh? I mean, we have Times Square, Fred and Ginger, and baseball. And Coke. Simple. Naive. Rah-rah. But catchy. And moving. And you felt a teensy bit bettter about the old homeland. After all, how bad could it be if you have W.C. Fields and square dancing?

I love this commercial (remembering that it was a product of its time) and think that on this Independence Day 2016 we need reminding of what we have going for us. No, not the nativist, anti-immigrant, bigotry sort of patriotism; rather, the we're all in this together, we can work it out, we all have gifts energy that we're famous for. E pluribus unun: out of many, one.

So those of us on our real high conservative horses and those of us on our real high liberal horses and those of us on our real high libertarian horses and those of us on our real high I-just-don't-care horses need to climb on down for this one day. Wave that flag. Read the Declaration of Independence. Raise a glass to James, Thomas, Benjamin, John, and the others who led in the formation of this most imperfect union.

Look up, America! E pluribus unum! Have a Coke! Happy 4th of July!

2016 Election Survival Guide

As a student of American government and politics, being pretty darn good at sorting through mountains of information and making up my own mind, and having determined who I'm voting for in the upcoming election, I hereby announce that I'm pulling out of the swirl of stress-inducing crapola being flung around 24/7. To save my mental and physical health, here's my plan for surviving the current political season:

1. Stop listening to and reading political commentary from family and friends. I love you all, so don't take my hiding of your social media posts, unfollowing you, or running away in sheer terror as anything other than protecting that love and my sanity. You are entitled to your opinions and the airings thereof, but I'm free to ignore - yea, even shun -  them completely. See you after the election.
2. Avoid all Op/Ed pages, letters to the editor, and social media comments. Yeah, yeah. I understand all sides. I also understand that people are mean and bat-shit crazy. Enough is enough. Movin' on.
3. Get lots of hugs and kisses and giggles from my grandbabies. Be as completely silly as humanly possible.
4. Pretend it's Christmas, and watch all the Scrooge movies and It's A Wonderful Life.
5. Read cozy mysteries, bathroom joke books, and comics. Keep it light.
6. Take long, fast walks while listening to old rock and roll or show tunes.
7. Clean out closets. Donate lots of good but no longer useful stuff to worthy charities.
8. Keep fresh flowers in the house. Because, you know, nature and stuff. 
9. Buy a new box of crayons and an adult coloring book. Nothing calms the nerves like the smell of Crayolas.
10. Pray. I suspect the future needs a powerful, omniscient deity to sort out everything. What's going on right now seems bigger than any human can fix. 
11. Stock up on gin and red wine. Drink a Co-Cola now and then. Eat some fried chicken and plenty of chocolate. You know, in preparation for the coming Apocalypse. 
12. Go to the symphony, theatre, or a Braves game. Applaud and/or cheer wholeheartedly.
13. Find the nearest roller coaster. Ride it, screaming wildly, as many times necessary to purge any fear or anger.
14. Volunteer for something non-political, though I guess it can be argued that everything is political. Perhaps something outdoorsy, like a road-side clean-up. 
15. Sleep. Gets lots and lots of sleep. Sleep until November 9th, if possible. 

So I'm waving a fond farewell to hate, bigotry, and uncivil behavior rampant at the present time and hoping our better angels show up at the ballot box. In the meantime, I'll cling to my 2016 Election Survival Guide as tightly as possible. Pass me a Co-Cola, will ya'? It's almost time for A Muppets Christmas Carol. 

Slow-tal Recall

I played guinea pig today. For three-and-a-half hours, I clicked on pictures and arrows while my head was in an MRI cage, took paper tests, regurgitated lists of words and numbers, and tried to duplicate drawings and images - all this in aid of memory and aging for a study at Georgia Tech.

My mother and her mother had dementia, and I'm more scared of that than of any cancer or physical thing that can be thrown at me. Except being buried alive, which y'all know is my biggest fear - but isn't dementia/Alzheimer's like being buried alive? (So, yeah. I should've never watched Still Alice.) Anyway, when the opportunity to take part in a study for memory and aging came along, I figured I'd jump right in.

First, they taped a vitamin E gel-cap to my head and strapped me into an MRI contraption. I was shown hundreds of pictures and had little clickers to rate each photo on an emotional scale of 1-4 from least intense to most intense. Interspersed with the photos were arrows pointing left or right, and I had to click on which way they were pointing. All of this came at me very quickly, and I spent 90 minutes or so just focusing on the monitor in front of me and clicking as quickly as I could - all while my head was encased in a cage with the usual MRI banging and clanging going on.

Once I finished with the MRI, the vitamin capsule was removed, and I was taken to a computer monitor where I was shown hundreds more pictures and asked to decide whether I had seen them before or not during the MRI. They went by very quickly, so I had to make snap decisions. Oy. Afterwards, I was given a series of written puzzles, visual images to memorize, and lists of words and numbers, some of which I had to recount backwards. We'd often circle back to images, words, or numbers seen or heard earlier, I suppose to test my retention levels.

I wasn't told my results - whether I have severe memory issues or whether I'm a wiz at remembering images, shapes, words, and numbers. They did pay me for my time and give me a disk with an image of my brain. Not sure of what I'm suppose to do with it. Perhaps this year's Christmas card photo? What it did tell me was that I can endure several hours of intense testing without going bat-shit crazy or falling asleep. I'm better at remembering photos than geometric shapes, and better with words than numbers. Not much of a surprise, but good to know.

I can't figure out what the vitamin E capsule was supposed to do, but I'm considering taping one to my head for memory's sake. I did, however, remember to reward myself with a hot fudge sundae afterwards, so my memory can't be completely shot, eh?

From the Heart

I haven't been a fan of Valentine's Day since I was 11 years old, the last year of elementary school Valentine's Day parties. The world turned red and white and pink for a few days, as I decorated my shoebox with hearts and curlicues in preparation for the flood of little valentines that would find their way inside at the party. And maybe, just maybe, Mother had bought or made me a special red and white dress for the occasion - perhaps velvet or taffeta, with little flocked hearts. Maybe.

When it came time for the party, we set all the decorated shoeboxes around the room, and with our little sweaty fists full of punch-out valentine cards, make the rounds, stuffing a card in each box. The room mothers set out pink and red cupcakes, cookies, or little cups of candy hearts. And then, time for the opening of the festooned boxes, followed by lots of giggling over silly cards, who gave who what, trying to decipher any secret meanings. Ah, Valentine's Day.

That was when I was 11. Since then, meh. Some good, some bad, most not worth remembering. Like New Year's Eve, a lot is expected, and it never quite lives up to whatever has been built up in your head. But I'm all for love. If this is the one day of the year to express it - it's not, by the way - then I'm happy to jump right in.

The first box I stuff my silly valentine into is the one marked FAMILY, decorated over the years with hearts and hurts, wild crazy celebrations and somber sad remembrances, hugs, recipes, stories, and old photographs. I love my family. With all my heart. I'm blessed with a large one that includes branches shooting off in all directions - cousins, second- third- fourth-removed ones, in-laws, ex-in-laws, ex-in-laws families, a mess of old folks, young families, teenagers, and little ones. I love 'em all. Even the bat-shit-crazy ones. Even the rascally ones. Even the ones I don't see very often,  Happy Valentine's Day, Family!

Here's a big old crazy one for the box marked FRIENDS - old friends who've known me since the days of those school parties, new ones who have no idea what they've gotten themselves into, and all those true friends in between. You know who you are. You've put up with a lot over the years. Believe me, it's only going to get harder from here on out. I hope you appreciate the jokes, puns, and innuendos on this friend-valentine. Valentine hugs and kisses to you, Dear Friends.

My biggest valentine is for the battered box labeled HURTING ONES. Those who are grieving, invisible, too visible, on the move, stuck, angry, sick, scared, scarred, hopeless, helpless. A fancy card and loving thoughts aren't enough, I know. You need action. You need answers. You need just a little light at the end of the tunnel. And I don't even know where to start because that starting line keeps shifting.

For hurting family and friends, here I am. Let me know what you need me to do or not do. But for the hurting ones I don't know, you who are all over the face of the planet, living - or barely living - a life so different from my own that I can't pretend to walk a mile, an inch, in your shoes, my valentine for you is pretty weak.

My valentine to the hurting ones contains promises to think, remember, pray, and act. To refrain from and stand up to thoughtless comments laced with unfounded bias, bigotry, fear of the other, and hatred. To open my ears, heart, and mind to what you have to say, to really listen to how you need me to build relationship bridges, how to help, or at least do no harm. My valentine is an extended hand. Teach me.

To family, friends, and hurting ones, I fling out my valentines in the hope that you feel the love attached. I just wish I had enough pink-and-red frosted cupcakes for everyone of you.

Happy Valentine's Day. From the heart.

No Promises

No promises
to lose weight
or run a marathon
or stick to a daily spiritual practice
to read more high-falutin' non-fiction
or send hand-written notes just because
to keep my baseboards and blinds dust-free
or organize and file weekly, instead of building random paper towers on my desk
to take better care of my nails
to pay attention to things that just suck the life out of me
or pay cash for everything
to be less sarcastic
to study Latin and physics
to turn out the light at 11pm, no matter how engrossed I am in that book
or stop making completely irrational life-choices.

I fully accept a lifetime of those promise-failures.

I'll stick to the sure things like
Getting up every morning, usually filled with more light than dark
Being the best mama and GrandMary I can be (and sometimes that may not be much)
Loving my family and friends, even the ones who are bat-shit crazier than I am
Doing my job to the best of my ability
Reading whatever the hell I want.

Beyond that, no promises.
Happy New Year!

Un-Scrooging Christmas

It's that time of year. Time for all the Debbie Downers to crawl out and beat their old familiar carols on their downer-drums: Christmas is too commercial. Too stressful. Too not-the-reason-for-the-season. Too selfish. Too wasteful. And those are just the tunes on Downer Carols, Volume I.

Ignore 'em.

Lose yourself in the chaos of a children's Christmas pageant or concert. String some colorful lights around your bookshelf. Bake cookies, eat oranges and peppermint, and forget to count calories. Go to church and sing real loud. Or just sing real loud in your own living room to Bing or Perry or Barbra or Rosemary. Grab a good anthology of Christmas mysteries and settle in with a cuppa cocoa or tea. Watch It's A Wonderful Life and any one of the renditions of A Christmas Carol. Treasure whatever cards and gifts you receive, even if you don't send any - no guilt.

But for heaven's sake, refuse to get sucked into the seasonal nay-sayers.

I've had sad Christmases, stressful Christmases, hard-candy Christmases, fearful Christmases. As I think back on each of them, however, I can honestly say I've never had a bad Christmas. Memories of happier times, calmer times, more plentiful, safer times kindled a little glow of peace and hope, even in sadness, while I was clinging for dear life to the knowledge that life changes and the future can hold lovely things. (While this is true for me, it's not for everyone. I hold those folks in my thoughts.)

But I will deck my halls with fat old multi-colored lights, kid art, and ornaments from across time. Only Christmas movies and Christmas music are allowed between Thanksgiving and December 31. I will eat whatever is put before me and give thanks for the hands that made it. I will read and sleep and hug and sing and remember. I will love. Because I can't think of a better way to honor the Christ Child.

And I will watch every version of A Christmas Carol I can get my hands on, reminding myself to be the Scrooge Transformed, not the Scrooge Unchanged. God bless us, every one.

"Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world."

Waxing Philosockiphal

In search of a pair of dark brown socks. 

Open the scary sock drawer.

Rummage. Rummage. Rummage.

Is that a dark brown or navy? 

A black or charcoal?

Finally, one brown sock. Where's its mate?

Rummage. Rummage. Rummage. 

No mate in site. 

Put lone brown sock back in drawer. 

The other sock may turn up. 

Next day, repeat quest.

A week later, repeat quest.

A year later, repeat quest.

Always put lone sock back in drawer.

The other sock may turn up.

Fact: If I throw the loner out, the other one will turn up.

Fact: If I keep the loner, the other one will never turn up.

Is my sock-reconciliation doomed?

Can I cheat the Sock-God?

If I pretend to throw out the lone sock, will its mate then turn up?

Or does the Sock-God see all, know all?

Am I physically capable of throwing away a perfectly good sock?

Sinful? Wasteful? Over-thinking one of the cosmos's great mysteries?

After all, the other sock may turn up. 

One Tin Soldier

Throughout all this sadness for Paris and Beirut and all the downright meanness toward refugees, the lyric to an old anti-war song keeps running through my head:
Go ahead and hate your neighbor, go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven, you can justify it in the end.
There won't be any trumpets blowing come the Judgment Day.
On the bloody morning after, one tin soldier rides away.

Late 60's protest crap? Perhaps, if that's the way you want to look at it. But, boy, with every hateful news story and social media post, I find myself singing that chorus. Go ahead and hate your neighbor . . . Do it in the name of Heaven.

The One Tin Soldier story tells of mountain people who have a treasure that the valley people want. The valley-folk demand it of the mountain-folk, and the mountain-folk say they will gladly share their treasure. Not good enough for the valley-peeps, so they storm the mountain and kill all the mountain-peeps for the treasure. They roll the stone over, expecting some kind of monetary treasure, but instead find Peace on Earth written on the stone. So now all the peaceful, generous mountain-folk are dead and the mean, religious killing machines are left feeling bad (we hope). And one tin soldier rides away.

Now, lots of folks will argue that we're the mountain folks and Middle Eastern terrorists are the valley folks. Fine. I'd love for that to be the case, but I'm seeing no treasure of Peace on Earth or the generosity to share it from us mountain folks. I'm not really seeing very many mountain people at all  in the current situation. And let's face it, in the end all the peaceful mountain folks are slaughtered, so what's the point of siding with that bunch of losers?

I can't speak for all religious people whatever their faith or denomination, but as a follower of the teachings of Jesus, I'm completely dumbfounded by the "Christian" response to Syrian refugees. "What Would Jesus Do" friends who rail against sexual orientation (of which Jesus said not one word) are turning their backs on all of the many Biblical teachings, including those of Jesus, about welcoming the refugee or stranger, serving the "least of these," supporting the persecuted, and on and on. Jesus was a Middle Eastern refugee himself, considered a huge danger to the state even as a baby. Yeah, it's easy to follow these teachings when they line up with your personal or political beliefs, ain't it? But it gets hard when those words clash with what you really want to do.

Oh, and Jesus never said one word about putting "personal safety" over "doing the right thing." In fact, he constantly put himself and his followers in danger. Lots of 'em died doing the right thing. Shoot, he died doing the right thing. Be not afraid. Love your God. Love your neighbor (including crazy dangerous people). Be not afraid. That's what Jesus taught. You either get it or you don't, I don't care how many times you read the Bible or go to church.

So go ahead and hate your neighbor, but I hope and pray that I am one of the mountain people, whatever the dangers or outcomes. Be not afraid.

Grieving is Not a Competition

In the wake of last Friday's attack on Paris, I admit to being somewhat troubled by folks criticizing or downright guilt-tripping other folks for showing grief and solidarity with the French, while not expressing the same feelings for the Lebanese. Or Japanese. Or Syrians. Or any of the other people in the world experiencing some kind of horror.

It's not a competition.

When something horrible happens to someone close to you, it's natural for your focus, your sense of duty, your prayers, to shift to that person. Whatever horrible things are happening to people you don't know, your tears and support are channeled to the family member or friend in times of trouble. For good or for ill, those of us who are products of Western Civilization - whatever our race, religion, or nationality - feel a deep connection with Paris (or London or New York or Rome), and when something awful happens in one of our sister cities, it affects us as family.

Maybe we know someone or someone's kid who lives in Paris. Maybe we studied there. Maybe we have great memories of a vacation or a love for French art and literature. There are lots of reasons why we are making a big deal out of it on social media and in the press. It hits close to home in lots of tangible and intangible ways, which is why, I assume, that western media is paying so much attention to Paris and not Beirut. (By the way, I do wonder how the media in the Middle East are covering Beirut vs. Paris.)

It's not a competition.

The thing is, it doesn't have to be an either/or; it can be a both/and. One is not worse - or a more noble tragedy - than the other. We can have all of it on our radar. But family is family. Long, strong relationships rise to the top at times like this. No one should be trying to make anyone feel bad for focusing on Paris and not all the other places of conflict in the world. Sometimes we humans can only handle so much at one time. Grieve however and for whomever you want, and leave others to do the same.

The world is a hurting place. Always has been. And grief is not a competition.

The Generation Wars: What’s the Matter with Kids Today?

Stop it. Right now. I’m not sure we can put an end to the political vitriol that is paralyzing our country and our collective well-being, but we can stop this silly business of pitting generation against generation.

Not a day goes by that the media, political gurus, and psycho-professionals don’t trumpet the laziness of Millennials or the greediness of the Baby Boomers. I cannot fathom what possible good this does - all the finger-pointing, all the division, all the us-against-them.

The truth is that every generation is 90% exactly alike. It’s not a generational thing, it’s an age thing.  From the perspective of older generations, little kids have forever been pampered, snot-nosed little smart asses, too energetic/too lazy, and/or whiny. Teenagers have forever been pampered, snot-nosed pimple-faced smart asses, too energetic/too lazy, and/or whiny. College kids have forever been pampered, know-it-all smart asses, too lazy, and/or whiny. Young adults in their 20’s have forever been pampered, know-it-all smart asses, too lazy/no work ethic, and/or hating the generation that immediately came before them.

Don’t believe me? Pick up a book. For young folks in the 1920s, try Frederick Lewis Allen’s Only Yesterday, D.J. Taylor’s Bright Young Things, or anything by F. Scott Fitzgerald or Evelyn Waugh. For 1950’s and 1960s, try Kerouac’s On The Road, Golding’s Lord of the Flies, Goldman’s Boys And Girls Together, Farina’s Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me, or any late 60’s-70s S.E. Hinton novel.

Or watch an old movie (it may be in black-and-white, horrors!): Reefer Madness (1936), Andy Hardy movies from the 1940s, Rebel Without A Cause or Blackboard Jungle (1955), Peyton Place (1957), Bye Bye Birdie (1961), any Bikini Beach/Annette movie from the 1960s, Logan’s Run (1976), and all those 1980s Molly Ringwald movies. Same old story across the years.

As college-age Baby Boomers, we railed against Social Security (“we pay into it, but we’ll never get anything out of it”), money-hungry corporations, lack of meaningful employment right after college (inflation, hiring freezes, gas wars), and politicians who imposed heavy, deferred debts on our generation. So see? Yes, same stuff 40 years later.

That said, there are differences that each generation faces or benefits from. The “Greatest Generation” and “Silent Generation” faced Depression and WW2, but they benefited from the GI Bill and post-war economic boom; the Baby Boomers faced the constant threat of nuclear annihilation (talk about messing with your young psyche!) and the Vietnam War/military draft, but got low-cost college educations and a lot of attention from marketers; Generation X had to suffer through weird new-agey education stuff and really awful 1980s fashions (oh, the hair!), but could fly under the radar and do their own thing since we Boomers and the Silents were making so much noise with the much ballyhooed “greed is good” kick. And the Millennials? Well, they have the double-edged sword of Boomer or Gen X parents and the completely outrageous, sinful cost of higher education and subsequent college debt, but are well-traveled, well-computered, and well-(but expensively)educated.

Of course there’s more to it than that; I’m coming at it from an old middle class white lady’s point of view. Race and socio-economic class skew a lot of this stuff. But elders of all races and classes always have, always will, shake a fist at the youngsters’ music, work habits, and morals. Youngsters of all races and classes always have, always will, raise a fist against the power, foibles, and mistakes of their elders.

My point is that there is no “greatest” or “greediest” or “laziest” generation. You’re born into the time you’re born into. You live with what ya’ got. A lot of things are out of your control. But every generation produces geniuses that change the world for good and evil bastards that make the world unsafe.

Please, please stop the generation wars. We’re all in this together. Try your best to make the world a better place. Now, go hug someone from another generation.

Setting the Watchman

OK. I've finished reading Harper Lee's Go Set a Watchman, and here's my take on it. I'll try to avoid any spoilers for those of you who haven't read it. And honestly, I didn't pay much attention to the writing. If the story is good - and I think this one mostly is - and if there's nothing appallingly horrible in the writing - which there isn't in this case, I don't read as a literary critic. So I ignored what criticism's I read beforehand.

The whole Atticus brouhaha didn't impact what I felt was the truth of the book or how I read it, because Scout is my Mockingbird hero, not her daddy. Knowing Scout/Jean Louise as a little girl made me curious about a grown-up Scout/Jean Louise, and for the most part she didn't disappoint me in Watchman. She's still feisty and bull-headed, kicking against the pricks but mostly in a good, brave way. She's not perfect, though. Some of the stuff toward the end made me cringe, because she says and thinks some disturbing stuff. I had to keep reminding myself of the time and setting. I still love her.

The big question that kept popping into my head was why didn't Lee's editors want this story told in 1960? Why did they want the 1930's backstory instead of this far more timely tale (for then and now) of a small Southern town coming to grips with the Supreme Court's decision on Brown v. The Board of Education and the rise of the Citizens Counsels? Was it too controversial? A little incendiary for the times, especially coming from an Alabama girl?

Let's face it, the brilliant editor of Mockingbird could've worked his magic on the truth of Watchman just as easily. I guess we wouldn't have wonderful Mockingbird if they'd stuck with Watchman, and that would be a loss, but still. Why the more nostalgic, distant tale instead of the happenin'-right-now one? Just wondering.

I have no idea if Nelle Harper Lee wanted Watchman published. I hope she's OK with it. In any case,  she has her brilliant, beloved Mockingbird. But I'm glad this first effort was published. I like getting to know Scout/Jean Louise as a 26-year-old who lives in New York City and isn't afraid to say what she thinks. And I mostly understand Atticus - he was a man of his time (pre-Greatest Generation) and place. Like most folks, he had heroic moments and he had his cowardly moments. Sad about Jem. Sad about the relationship with Calpurnia. But it ain't 1930-whatever anymore.

Go Set A Watchman is not To Kill A Mockingbird, but the gift of this book is not its literary genius. The gift is the story told in the late 1950s by a young Southern woman about the impact of changing attitudes on a small Southern town and on an entire country. It's a Black and White story, an Old versus New story, Childhood Beliefs versus Grown-up Reality story. And, boy, it's pretty darn relevant in 2015.

My Own Southern Heritage

"Southern heritage" seems to be all the rage (in every sense of that word) in these days following the unspeakable murders in Charleston last month. Seems what I consider my Southern heritage isn't the same as what the media or folks waving that awful flag think it to be.

My Southern heritage can be found in places like Atlanta History Center, or Chickamauga Battlefield, Nashville's Grand Ole Opry, Memphis' Graceland, or New Orleans' Preservation Hall. It can be found in the beauty of the Great Smoky Mountains, the Outer Banks, and the Okefenokee Swamp and in the quilts of the women of Gee's Bend, Alabama, the baskets of Sea Island, Georgia, and the dulcimers, fiddles, and banjos of Appalachia.

And since nobody tells a tale like my Southern brothers and sisters, I'm proud of my story-spinning heritage from the likes of Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain, Kate Chopin, Thomas Wolfe, Zora Neale Hurston, Katherine Anne Porter, William Faulkner, Maya Angelou, and, yes, Margaret Mitchell. William Styron, Alice Walker, Tennessee Williams, Flannery O'Connor, Truman Capote, Harper Lee, James Dickey, Richard Wright, Eudora Welty - yep, I'll claim all of them as part of my Southern heritage. Writers from the South or writing from a Southern perspective are the stars of American literature, past and present. Mine. Claimin' 'em. By the way, I get my current Southern storytelling fix from The Bitter Southerner. It tells more about the South than any sound-bite media fascination or hateful racist hell-bent on shooting up or burning a church.

My Southern heritage is wrap-around porches, broad-leafed magnolias with punchbowl-sized blossoms, fried chicken and watermelon, Co-Cola and Goo-Goo Clusters, pallets on sleeping porches, and family, family, family. It's y'all and yes, ma'am. It's humidity, lightning bugs, and flip-flops in the summer and going crazy over a few flakes of snow in the winter. It's laughing until you cry. A lot. It's hospitality and hugs and that double-edged sword, "Bless your heart" - for everyone, whatever your color or gender/sexual preference, economic background, education, or religious affiliation. And of course, "How's yo' mama?"

The Gresham-Weed family cemetery right on busy Chamblee-Tucker Road in Atlanta, as well as the Nicholson-Pardue cemetery behind the farmhouse in Henrietta, Tennessee, are both a part of my Southern heritage. Of course, some of the men resting there fought for the South in the Civil War, though to my knowledge they were all poor dirt farmers, not slave-holders. Not excusing their participation - it was what they did at that time in history, may they rest in peace. Many more, however, served the United States in the World Wars and beyond, fighting for the US flag.

Certainly, slavery and racism are part of my Southern heritage, too. Many other parts of the United States share in that history, but this isn't about them; it's about my particular part of the country. I will own it. I will learn from it. I will check myself if tempted to place blame on an entire race or class of people, even poor (and rich) Southern white folks, since only God knows what's in people's hearts.

So. I'm telling you that the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia is not a symbol of my Southern heritage. For me and many, many people born and raised in the South, it represents sinful oppression and a lost, really bad, cause. There were many flags of the Confederacy, but this is the one that is used by the KKK, folks opposed to Civil Rights in the 1950s and 60s (and, it seems, beyond), and is proudly waved by crazy, wild-eyed racists and people bent on causing evil. So, no, not my Southern heritage.

As a proud daughter of the South and what I believe is my true Southern heritage, I resent that rich legacy being hijacked by the folks still fighting the Civil War or the media constantly shining a spotlight on the least educated or most hateful among us. Most Southerners didn't build this region using slave labor, so dig deeper on that story if you don't know it. Thanks to the genius and hard work of both blacks and whites, the South is a culturally diverse powerhouse, with unsurpassed scenic beauty and a knack for telling a good story and singing a great song.

Most importantly, my Southern heritage is a piece of a great American crazy-quilt - a piece I love, but just one of many squares. When it comes to citizenship, I am an American, y'all.

Take the pledge

Celebrate! Run, eat, swim, hike, enjoy fireworks and baseball. Just please take a little time to re-read The Declaration of Independence. Yes, some of the signers were slaveholders, women had no active role in its writing, and we've never lived up to its ideals (could any nation?). It was a product of its time. Still, the ideals set forth are something to aspire to.

Everyone may interpret it differently. Some may see Corporate America as the modern day King George; others will see the President, Congress, or the Supreme Court in the king role. But it is not a Republican or Democratic (big R, big D) or Tea Party  or Green Party document. The signers wrangled over every word. There were almost insurmountable disagreements. And yet, they pledged to each other "our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

Goodness gracious, can we not do the same?

Taking the Leap, Coming of Age

It took enormous courage. You were all alone on your climb, though a knot of friends was usually there, too - urging, cheering, goading. The basics clicked through your head as each rung took you farther from the cement. Breathe. Keep moving up. Don't think about it. And for goodness sake, don't look down. Just jump.

Taking that first harrowing climb and leap off the high diving board used to be a milestone coming of age experience for a kid. Most of us reached it at 8 or 9 or 10; some did it younger; a few couldn't screw up the courage until they were 12 or 13. But you had to do it. Had to. Or you couldn't move on. Kid-pride was as stake. And if you broke your neck (which I never heard of anyone ever doing), well, at least you'd taken the leap.

I took my first brave jump at 8 or 9 off the high board at Harrison Bay State Park pool near Chattanooga, the very one in the photo on the right. I can only liken the rush of adrenaline of the climb and leap to the excitement of creeping in to the Christmas tree early Christmas morning. More fearful, of course, but the heart-pounding energy was the same. And, oh! Once I realized I had actually survived, why, I got out of the pool and joined the line to climb and jump again.

Sad to think most high diving boards have been dismantled, blowing to smithereens the opportunity for current and future generations to make the climb of terror, the long plunge to success. We all know why. There are no more high dives for the same reasons there are no more wooden-seated swings, tall metal slides, or unhelmeted bike rides on a sturdy Schwinn. Maybe it's about improved safety, though I suspect it's more about insurance risks and law suits. Sure, there are high diving platforms for the Olympic-types, but even if a kid gets the chance to try one out, the missing element of peer pressure - all those friends encouraging or teasing - would dilute the true coming of age experience.

If you find a great outdoor pool with a high diving board, make the climb. Feel the terror. Feel the exhilaration. Feel the triumph when you realize you've survived. And encourage your kids to do the same. That jump builds character and memories.

Of Humidity, Honeysuckle, and Hydrangeas

The air's getting heavier, just shy of turning into a wall of mist, as storms roll into Atlanta for the week. I am not a big fan of heat and humidity, preferring the good cool snap of an autumn breeze or the steely cold of a few inches of snow. However, we're heading full steam (yes, steam) toward June, so I must find whatever joy I can from sauna-season.

My neighborhood walks are helping me find that joy. The humidity brings out the most delicious fragrances of grass, new foliage, and every bloomin' blooming thing. The scent of honeysuckle is particularly heady this spring, simply yummy. Just a whiff of honeysuckle is all the incentive I need to keep up the pace for a few more minutes.

And colors really pop in the moist air.. The greens are greener, the yellows yellowier. A shout out to the hydrangeas out there! Your coconut-size blooms are particularly colorful this year - the blues and pinks and purples are simply brilliant. Hooray for you!

So for the fragrant colors of an Atlanta spring, I will suffer the overly-dewy skin and lank hair that humidity brings and find joy in how it heightens the senses. I will also find joy in my air conditioned home once my walks are over. Onward to June!

10 Questions About the Met Gala

The top 10 questions (OK, more than ten) that popped into my head while trying to avoid most of the news about this:

1.  How many people are invited to this thing? I assume it's "invitation only;" do the invites come from Anna Wintour only, or can others get folks on the list, as well?
2. I think the gala/ball is $25K/per person, so obviously you don't pay at the door. Do they give you little plastic, glow-in-the-dark wristbands, or stamp your hand, or what, to show you've forked over? I mean, what if someone on Anna's Pooh-List shows up uninvited/paid for? Who's gonna know? 
3. The Met Gala is also called a Ball. Once they prance up that long flight of steps, do they go inside and dance somewhere? Is it like a Cinderella kind of ball?
4. If there is, indeed, dancing, what space at the Met is used for that? The entrance hall? The Temple of Dendur? The American Wing? Is there a marquee out back in Central Park? As large as the Met is, there's not one space big enough for everyone to line-dance, so where?
5. Once the women get inside, do they change into something more comfortable/movable/cover-up-able? Seriously, even if there isn't any ballroom dancing going on, how do Rihanna, Beyonce, SJP, et. al., keep from tripping and falling into priceless artworks? (The men don't have to worry because they're dressed relatively normal.)
6. Is there drinking? If so, then I am really worried about all those Greek statues, Medieval armour displays, Tiffany glass, Rembrandts, and, yes, even the Temple of Dendur. Drinking, plus impossible-to-maneuver dresses, spells disaster to me.
7. Is there eating? Aren't they worried they'll drip BBQ sauce down the front of whatever it is they're wearing? Do they hand out big lobster bibs? Or has everyone actually changed into jeans by the time the food is brought out?
8. I get that it's a fundraiser for the Met's Costume Institute, but really, women, have you no decency? Have you no shame? Crazy is fine, but some of what makes its way up those steps looks like 1978 Frederick's of Hollywood.You could use a few style tips from Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis.
9. Why do we never see pictures of people leaving the gala/ball? Do they just go up the steps and out the basement exit (no dancing, drinking, or food)? Is it really just one big photo op, then off to Starbucks?
10. What in the hell are any of the Kardashians doing there? (And, yes, I'm embarrassed I can spell "Kardashian.")

I'm sure I could Google all of these questions and get answers, but I just cannot be bothered to spend one more millisecond of energy on this thing. Just please clean up after yourselves when you leave. Thank you.

Why I'm not thinking about Nepal this very minute

Social media and headlines are asking, "Have we forgotten Nepal already?" Strike "Nepal" and insert "kidnapped Nigerian girls," "Syria," "the migrants who drowned in the Mediterranean," or "ebola." Such media-nudges make me feel guilty at first, causing me to wonder if I'm shallow in my concern for global mega-events. But once I wrestle with the guilt, I'm left with confusion.

Since the earthquake in Nepal, Baltimore has erupted, various political announcements/pronouncements have been made, a princess was born, Tony nominations were announced, car bombs went off in various places, Ben E. King, Jean Nidetch, Ruth Rendell, Calvin Peete, and Jayne Meadows died, there were never-ending stories about NFL draft/NBA playoffs (OK, I really don't care about either of those, but they do take up news space), and some horse won the Kentucky Derby. The constant news bombardment can be blamed on technology and the infamous 24-hour TV/internet news cycle, but that's really just the outside world part of it. Life requires getting up, moving forward, even with mundane, ordinary stuff.

So to the big news items of the week, add deadlines at work requiring long hours, a couple of family birthdays, helping with a yard sale, getting a grandchild to/from choir rehearsal and performance, first of the month bill-paying, helping with a yard sale, a fabulous St. Helena's Chapter dinner meeting, laundry, eating, sleeping, bathing. You know, just the things of life that everyone enjoys or copes with.

Certainly, most of the daily news and everyday stuff can't hold a candle to massive global tragedies. But living one's own life, a life that is made up of family, friends, work, play, and taking care of mental, physical, and spiritual health, is what we human animals do. It sounds self-centered, but I suppose much of life is self- or family-centered. That doesn't mean I don't have a caring, mission-focused heart. I do care. Deeply. But which catastrophes stake their claims on my life and stay for extended periods of time? How do I decide what to worry about, send money to, or put on work boots and travel to the ends of the earth or around the corner for? Yes, there's the confusion (and admittedly, some guilt).

Have I forgotten Nepal already? No, certainly not. The people of Nepal, as well as rescue and aid workers, are in my prayers. I donate to relief organizations, which are much better at real, practical help than my constant worrying could possibly be. But, truth be told, I'm not thinking about Nepal or any of those other awful world news things 24/7. Bills to pay, deadlines to meet, sleep to sleep.

So, news media and Facebook friends, don't assume I've forgotten. Just know that living life sucks out an awful lot of energy every day. Keep reminding me.