Missing Mike

               Nine years ago my brother Mike and his giant slobbery dog Nellie came for Christmas.  Mike didn’t believe in breaking a dog’s spirit through obedience training.  Nellie was a good-natured beast with tons of play energy.  She and our elderly mutt Ginny got along just fine.  However, when one of our cats would peak around the kitchen corner Nellie would explode in a thunderous bark attack.  Mike politely held onto her collar, heaving against her lunges, to avoid a blood bath.

               Around twilight the house filled up with a small group of in-laws and a few friends who joined us for our traditional Christmas Eve barbecue and an evening filled with clumsy animal antics, torn wrapping paper and laughter.  His gifts to the girls were always unconventional – that year an assortment of red, green and white 4 foot ropes neatly finished off on the ends which they STILL play with today. Late in the evening after company left and the mess contained, Mike helped put out the cookies for Santa and he and Nellie went to sleep on the futon downstairs. The kids went to bed and we all dreamed of sugar-plums prancing.

               Christmas morning Mike and Nellie joined us under the tree to watch the little girls squeal in delight over their Santa gifts – fancy new mermaid and historical dolls.  Nellie’s habit of unpredictably lunging at whatever caught her eye kept our oldest, most skitterish daughter on edge, so Mike was sure to keep this lanky pooch within his own arms reach.   Yet I can still hear that devilish giggle from him each time the dog lurched, causing Delaney to clutch her new doll in fright.  After an indulgent breakfast Mike and I took our dogs on a long, soaking walk in the Bellingham rain.  All four of us were dripping wet down to our skin by the time we returned home. 

Once they dried off, Mike and Nellie piled into his car and took off down the road.  Later we met up again at our parents’ house for more indulging in presents, food and family.  A pleasant and unremarkable Christmas, the kind so many of us take for granted each year.

Then, eight years ago sometime in mid-December Mike called late one evening, as was his habit, just to let us know that he and Nellie had broken out the Charlie Brown Christmas music and were decorating their Christmas Rock.  We were busy wrestling the kids to bed and let the machine take the call.  I could hear the tinkling piano music in the background of the phone recording.

I made a mental note to call him back soon to reiterate the invitation to come for Christmas.  He was a bit of a holiday nomad, so you were often unaware if he was coming until the moment he knocked on the door.  But this was full-on Nutcracker season and we were buried in tutus, ballet shoes and very tired little girls.  I didn’t get a chance to make that call.

Mr. Stone, the sixth-grade teacher, had been fighting a bug and entered Winter Break feeling poorly.  With his girlfriend on a business trip and his own stubborn independence, Mike declared the next couple of days as his own to rest up.  Those couple of days passed and his quiet became suspiciously silent.  Meningitis had swooped in and taken Mike from us.  Nothing could fix it or change anything.  Our sailing, mountain climbing, biking and hiking Mike was gone.

I had learned two important things.  One was that you don’t leave someone who doesn’t feel well all alone to get better.  The other was that you sometimes don’t get second chances to talk to someone who matters.  I’d like to say that my life has changed for the better and now I am the Diva of Keeping in Touch…but I’m not.  I try a little harder, but my efforts are still kinda lame.  And I still miss my brother terribly.

I’m not a resolution-y kind of person, so I’m not going to declare that 2014 will be the Year of Keeping in Touch.  But maybe I’ll call someone today, just to say hello.

I Run, Therefore I Am...a Runner!

     The question that makes me want to stamp my feet and scream the most is, “Oh, how many marathons have you run?”  This is that inquiry that inevitably comes from the mouth of the new acquaintance who just found out that I like to run.  It doesn’t matter if this person runs themselves, has another sport that occupies their time, or even if they’re the good ol’ couch potato type that prefers knitting to sweating.  I cannot count how many times I’ve had this conversation.

      When I politely answer, “None,” the next question is stated in future tense, “Do you plan to run a marathon?”  I say, “No.”  At that point there is usually the awkward pause that I feel the need to fill with an explanation.  There are several rationales that I can share, but my pride usually wins and I feel the need to say that “Yes, I have run over 26 miles on the trails during a training run.  But No, I have not run a marathon “race” in which I received a number, finisher’s medal and official time.”  If that isn’t enough I sometimes mention that pounding every step of 26.2 miles on pavement while navigating through hundreds of bodies is not my idea of an enjoyable outing.

     The person may respond with, “Don’t you want to do one just so you can say you did?”  Sometimes I get defensive or cranky and feel like saying, “Of course I could but I don’t want to!”  or “Hey honey, let’s take this outside!   Lace up your shoes and I’ll kick your b*** in a 5k right now!”

      When it comes down to it, anything I say sounds like an excuse and I leave the conversation feeling like a loser, my new acquaintance convinced that I must be a jogger or a poser without the 26.2 credential.  The fact is I don’t need a race number and a PR to quote to make me proud of my sport.  I resent anyone who implies that I can’t be a real runner without the so-called pinnacle race, The Marathon, on my resume.   Of course it could be that I am overly-sensitive.   These people are most likely making polite conversation and not passing judgment about my athletic ability. 

      The simple truth is that I love to run.  I love the physical challenge of climbing a hill with nothing but my legs and lungs to carry me.  I love getting out in nature during a rain storm and feeling the rain drip down my face.  I love having been on the mountain for two hours before most people have read their Sunday paper.  I love the long and meandering conversations with my buddies while we weave through the woods.  I love that chill that comes on after I’ve finished a hard run and the sweat cools on my back. 

      Although running does not require racing, occasionally I will sign up for a trail race or shorter road race to test my mettle.  Afterward I’m always glad I did.  But all I really need for a purely joyful experience is a pair of good shoes, my dog (human company not required, but always enjoyed) and a lovely trail.

      I run, therefore I am…a Runner.  I don’t need to prove that to anyone!  And don’t ask me about my marathon PR, thank you!

(This essay originally appeared in the December issue of Northwest Runner)

It Ain’t Rocket Science

               Recently a friend challenged me to come up with my entire parental philosophy (and philosophy of life – as those seem interchangeable) in 30 characters or less.  A quote from the late Nobel Prize winning ‘Jack of all Physics’, Richard Feynman, came to mind: “What do you care what other people think?”  Mr. Feynman was not only a brilliant Rocket Scientist, but a raucous, rebellious and fun-loving character.  He used that quote as the title of his second memoir in which he explains, among other things, how he flamboyantly demonstrated the failure of the O-rings from the Space Shuttle Challenger Disaster in front of the presidential Rogers Commission using a simple glass of ice-water and pliers.  He was a different kind of thinker and not afraid to show it. The way Mr. Feynman lived his life and reflected on it inspired me from a young age.

              Therefore, if I had to define my philosophy in a few words, I would steal that quote and add one thing.  (Yes, I’m aware that I’m already over the 30 character limit by 4 measly letters, so I’m going to go for broke here.)  “What do you care what other people think…as long as you’re up to good?”  That’s only 54 letters, yet they pack a whole-lotta meaning.

               First of all, if someone is up to NO good, they should certainly be looking over their shoulder, worried about who may see, who may judge, who may call them on the trouble-making.  A pang of guilt will and should make a person suspicious of what others are thinking.  That cloud of remorse around one’s head can make the world seem a darker place.

However, if you are up to good in your life then you should not be concerned about who is watching, whether observers approve or even if they want to pick a beef with you.  Because you are doing good things in the world and the judgers can go and gossip or stress-out about it all they want.  Not your problem.  At all.

               I believe that your only job is to live life with integrity.  Consciously choose the path that will leave you with a sense of pride in your heart at the end of the day.  Making gobs of money to buy trivial things will not soothe the soul or bring happiness.   Fashion and trends may be impressive to some, but have nothing to do with the good feelings that come from helping others, conserving resources or generally making the world a pleasant place. 

               How do we better ourselves and the world?  Make conscious choices.  Spread smiles any way you can.  Talk to the retired couple walking their dog – make friends.  Slow

down and help the guy in the electric cart at the grocery store to reach the frozen vegetables on the top shelf, rather than grumbling to yourself that he’s in the way.  Be silly.  Find joy and the joy will become contagious.

               Speaking as a self-admitted social dork with a reasonably good heart, I don’t worry about the judgment of others.  Because if I did, I would be living in a constant state of geek paranoia.   I love the quote from FDR presidential advisor Bernard Baruch, “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”  Although these words were originally referring to seating arrangements at the dinner table, it is oozing with greater meaning in life.  To me it means that if someone will avoid me because I’m a harmless goofball, then they have my blessing to take a wide berth!

               Well, this turned out to be a really long explanation of a phrase that was supposed to stay under 30 characters.  Mary - I know I exceeded the limit, but I was able to keep it to 670 words!?  Even though my parental philosophy/philosophy of life stretched out to be ridiculously verbose, it’s certainly not rocket science.

               What would you boil your philosophy down to?  (In 30-50 or so characters, please!)

P.S.  This 30 character game apparently sprang from Mary’s son’s request for a meaningful quote from his Mom to have inscribed on his graduation ring.  Awesome.   I guess my kids should shop for a much larger piece of jewelry to commemorate their own graduation!

Old-School Snow-Hope

               Once upon a time we knew what we knew.  We knew that our faces and fingers would freeze when we went outside, and we could look at the sky and look for clouds darkening the blue sky.  And we had hope.  For us little kids, a heart bursting with hope that those beautiful geometric flakes would soon flutter down to cover the ground for sledding.  And cancel school.

               I grew up in a time before cable television and personal computers.  We did not suffer from the lack of The Weather Channel or a plethora of weather websites or apps to check every two-and-a-half minutes.  I did, however, check the thermometer mounted outside the kitchen window often during a cold-snap.  I would keep an eye on the horizon for incoming clouds, hopefully dark and fat, promising glorious fluffy flakes.

               Even the old-school forecasters had their hands tied to a certain degree.  Satellite imagery didn’t exist and the multiple international computer models that currently monitor the weather patterns were, frankly, science fiction!  The weather-guys of my youth depended upon data from various weather stations, using numerical probability and observation to give us their best guesses.  The lack of certainty kept hope alive.

               To receive these not always accurate prognostications you had to read the morning newspaper, catch the nightly news or listen to radio broadcasts.  There were no up-to-the-minute weather apps on your mobile phone to inform you of the slightest variation in the forecast.  Compared to today’s technology, there wasn’t a whole lot of certainty to these forecasts.  Mostly, you kept a hopeful heart and daydreamed about the snow people to be built while sharpening the blades on your toboggan.

               This week of frigid temperatures and murmurings about snow has raised and dashed the hopes of myself and my daughters over and over again.  The long-term forecasts mention the possibility and we squeal with delight, only to have our joy dampened by the darned way-too accurate computer models that tell us that the chances have dwindled.  Each chance of cold clashing with clouds is grabbed from our hands before we can make a snowball.  Rather than joyfully anticipating the days off from school, we are long-faced with disappointment as the websites replace the snowflake graphics of the future with pictures of sloppy rain drops.

               The fact is we know too much.  Technology and science have taken away the thrilling suspense that comes with winter cold and the sweet possibility of snow play.  I think I need to stop reading the forecasts from the National Weather Service, checking all of the blogs and sites and go with some old-fashioned hope.  Tonight I will again don my PJs inside out, place a spoon under my pillow and dream of lofty white fluff.  That’s all I can do.

Master Staters-of-the-Obvious

               “Ms. Stone, you are wearing a skirt today!” 

               “Why, yes I am, Sarah.”

               When working with children, this is a fairly typical conversation.  The child makes an obvious statement and you try to respond without sarcasm.  After bumping into a student out in the real world I guarantee the child will start out the next school day with, “I saw you at the store!”  Even though I so badly would love to reply, “That was an imposter who stole my car and clothes.  I was in Hawaii.”  I won’t, because little humans tend to be gullible and it wouldn’t be very nice to confuse their little minds.  Instead I say with manufactured enthusiasm, “I saw you, too!”

               Never is this talent of the young for stating the obvious more apparent than when snowflakes start falling from the sky.  You should try it next time there is a snow flurry.  Just find a reason to stop by your nearest elementary school to watch and listen.  On second thought, maybe not…especially if you are a stranger to the school and might be pegged as a creeper. But if you have a real reason to hang out with kids when snow starts falling you’ll see what I mean.

                Yesterday afternoon we had that rare excruciatingly exciting event.  “It’s snowing.  It’s SNOWING!” I am certain I heard that two-word phrase squealed over a thousand times in a span of 30 minutes…and if you don’t count the times it came out of MY mouth, the number would still be in the triple digits.  We all get excited when it snows, but it seems the child needs to say it over and over and over again to make sure it is real – kind of like pinching yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming.

            Thankfully there were only a few short minutes left in the school day so no serious learning was interrupted.  The librarian, while wrapping up a lesson on research was working with a small group, looked up to see the rest of the first grade class lined up at the window, chanting the phrase.  Two-and-a-half seconds later her small group had joined the chanting and Mrs. C knew she had lost them for the day.  She simply walked over to the non-fiction section, raised her voice to be heard over the chatter and pointed out the section of books on “SNOW.”  What else can you do?  Nobody competes with snow.

            A third grade teacher reported that when the “It’s SNOWING!” cacophony began in his classroom, one boy pointed to the large wall calendar adorned with images of trees covered in white and said matter-of-factly, “Of course it’s snowing.  It’s December, isn’t it?”

            I watched as several pairs of students galloped through the halls squealing the words to every face in sight.  As a playground supervisor came in the front doors with a sloppy layer of white slush blanketing her shoulders and hat, a pair of second graders shouted to her, “It’s SNOWING!  It’s SNOWING!” 

She couldn’t resist the sarcasm and answered dramatically, “Really?”  The kids didn’t seem to mind.  They just gazed out the windows with gigantic grins.

We often giggle at the naivety of children.  We scoff at their simplistic view of the world.  When children make such obvious observations, we smile with the adult superior smirk of wisdom.  But I think these wide-eyed young’uns are smarter than we are.  As we grow up and become mature and respectable adults we lose the ability to find pure joy so easily, to get completely lost in the moment.  I dare all of you “grown-ups” to let loose next time you see the first snowflakes.  I want to hear a big, deep, adult chorus of “It’s SNOWING!”

Waiting for Snow

               Did you hear?  The weather prognosticators mentioned the S-Word in the forecast (the white stuff, of course) and we are giddy here in the Pacific Northwest, where winter is a long, green and grey slog through wet.  These occasional cold-snap breaks in the mossy weather pattern bring a welcome bright-blue-frigid sky and hopefully white stuff in which to play.  Snow days for children and sledding for hours on end come rarely around here and are celebrated by the young and young at heart.

               I feel sorry for the Snow Humbugs who feel the need to gripe and grumble about slippery roads and cold toes.  I know that many have reasons to complain – they have a long car commute or own a small business that will be dinged by the less passable roads.  But I hope they try to see the upside.  The sparkly, beautiful, crisp upside.

               Along with battening down the hatches for the frigid Nor’eastern winds that will be a-blowin’, here are some other preparations you need to make before the snow and cold arrive:

1.       Wear your favorite pajamas on each night of possible snow INSIDE-OUT!  It is imperative.  This will help our chances for a good layer of fluffy frozen pure-joy on the ground.

2.      Some say, though I haven’t tried it, to flush an ice cube down the toilet or sleep with a spoon under your pillow.  Not sure about the logic there, but whatever helps!

3.      Stock up on hot chocolate makings…duh.

4.      Hang your white shimmery lights outside to illuminate the coming freeze.

5.      AFTER you’ve witnessed the first flakes falling, play the song “Skating” (#7) from the Charlie Brown Christmas album.  The music is the sound of snow falling, believe me!

6.      DO NOT get your sleds out until the snow is beginning to whiten the landscape.  You don’t want to jinx anything.

7.      Enjoy the magic blanket EVERY MINUTE, because you know it won’t last.  Go for a walk.  Gaze at the flakes falling while you sip your coffee.  Sled and sled and sled!  Build a snow family.  Have a neighborhood potluck barbeque while you sled (those are the BEST!) and don’t miss a minute.

Some people itch for snow.  I get hives.  We Snow Maniacs are prepared and getting excited!  My family has battened down the hatches in preparation for the coming cold snap. We have set up our snowman idolatry in their proper shrines and will be sleeping with our jammies inside-out for the coming week.  Will you?

Cat Lingo

               That term could mean a number of things.  Cat lingo could be the words we use to communicate with our cats…but that’s laughable - what cat would listen to a human?  Cat lingo could be the words we humans use to describe our cats, and that is what I intended to write about today.  But then I started thinking about their very own cat words that they think in their furry little heads when encountering the world, and that seemed too interesting to pass up.

               I have a pair of unrelated black and whites who love each other very much, but they couldn’t be more different.  Both are about a year old so they still romp and play like kittens from time to time.  Roger has long luxurious fur with plenty of pristine white fluff for showing off.  He is intelligent and gorgeous, and brags about it constantly.  My kids call him a “Diva” and the term fits.  Lyra, on the other hand, is a runt.  She is small, squishy and has the brain to match.

               Roger’s cat vocabulary is full of demands.  “You must offer me a treat promptly,” and “This would not be a good time to pet me.  You may adore me from afar for now.”  At mealtime he bounces around the kitchen, as if an alarm has gone off, to scream his preference to be fed before all others. 

After play time outside he comes prancing through the cat door and announces, “Your day is about to get better, because I am here now!”  When Roger gets bored he will make demands for attention, and if ignored, will delicately knock our favorite things off of high surfaces, one at a time.

               Lyra’s repertoire of cat words is more limited.  Her utterances are mostly one and two word phrases.  “Wow,” she mutters as she watches water drip down the door of the dishwasher (her absolute favorite activity).  “What’s that?” she stares as the car tires slowly roll past her on the driveway.  This little girl spent her first few days as an outside cat stranded at the top of every tree in the vicinity – happy to climb up, but clueless about getting down.  The fact that she no longer climbs trees at least proves that she is capable of learning, eventually.  At mealtime Lyra comes to the kitchen along with the other animals, but doesn’t make the connection to eating.  She just looks around and says, “Huh?”  Once the bowls are filled and the other pets are gobbling up their meals, I show her the bowl, but she still doesn’t realize that she has to meet the bowl in order to eat the food.  I almost always have to pick her up and position her face over the bowl.

               We are quite happy to be approaching the first anniversary of our adoption of these animals.  There was a time soon after bringing them home from the shelter that we feared Lyra would quickly meet an unpleasant end.  Luckily her Diva brother is very smart and has taken her under his paw.  The two cats entangle into a dog-pile and groom each other from head to tail on a daily basis.  I would love to hear him coaching her through the hazards of the outside world, as well as the conversations these two felines have at the end of the day!

               

My Reward

               My Old Yeller would not listen to reason this frosty morning.  She shot down every one of my excuses with her hopeful brown eyes.  “Let’s wait.  It’s too cold right now,” I’d say.  To which she would answer with a tail wag and a glance toward her collar.

               She sat at my feet while I was at the computer and then followed me upstairs to point out that my running shoes were still in the closet.  “Dude, the ground is still frozen.  Just think of your paws!” I pleaded with her.  “In a couple of hours the sun will warm everything up and your favorite drinking puddle won’t be covered in ice.”  She would not listen to a single word.  That is…until I grumbled, “Okay, okay…we can go for a walk…”

               At the sound of the W-word she leapt up and squealed a happy yip.  At these moments you would never guess that she is 13 years old.  We geared up, she in her collar and I in my layers and mittens, and headed out into the cold.  Thankfully I had managed to stall her long enough for the sun to peek over the hills and send some warm-ish long shadows onto our path.

    

           Our usual route takes us through the woods behind the school.  She bounded around in pure joy and that was reward enough for me.  But today she gave me a bonus.  I think she wanted to make sure I knew it was the right thing to get outside, because she leaped off the trail to bring my attention to a beautiful sight.  Just a few strides away, and at human eye-level, perched a bold and beautiful pileated woodpecker.  He wasn’t at all intimidated by our close proximity and continued to sit in his sun-spot to peck away at the tall stump.  The sun illuminated his scarlet crown and made the flying wood-chips shimmer like sparks from a sputtering roman candle.  We both stood silently for a few minutes to take in the sight.

               Once we stepped back, puffed out a sigh full of awe and continued our walk up the trail, my beloved pup gave me a shoulder bump and a smile and said, “You’re welcome!”

Toddlers in Tiaras - Teens in Uniforms

               You don’t have to have a toddler and your child doesn’t have to be wearing a tiara for you to become one of those scary “Pageant Parents.”  And the stage upon which your child performs may not be the physical platform with theatre lights and flashing cameras.  Their venue of choice may be a grass field with goal posts, a sparkling frozen rink or a court in a gymnasium .  What defines the “pageant parent” type is the behavior of the parent and their over-involvement in their child’s activity.

               Nobody ever plans to be one of “those” over-the-top rabid parents who have too much of their own personal pride riding on the backs of their children.  It can sneak up on you like weeds in the garden.  You plant a few pretty petunias and before you know it a dense forest of dandelions has taken its place. 

I am not immune, as I had a taste of this myself.  A few years ago I found myself sucked into the local ballet scene.  (Yep, ballet - a word that had not entered my vocabulary before my little girl demanded a tutu.)  It all started out reasonably enough with my learning to weave an adequate ballerina hair-bun and embarrassing my daughter with my lame attempts at pronouncing ballet terms.  Before long I found myself driving 100 miles to buy decent pointe shoes (yes that e really belongs on the end of that word, and apparently everybody who is anybody knows that the local pointe shoes were not good enough).  More and more of my conversations with other ballet moms felt like gossip, centering on the skill of the various teachers and questioning casting decisions of the director.  I even joined the fundraising board and sold my soul to a coupon company.  At the time this all seemed so important.  It wasn’t until my adolescent daughter burned out and quit dancing that I stepped back and realized how unhealthy my increasing involvement had become for both my daughter and myself.

If you find yourself more and more consumed with the status of your child’s chosen activity, maybe it is time to stand in front of a mirror and reflect upon your involvement.

1.       Do you spend more of your time and emotional energy on your child’s activity than the kid actually does?

2.      Have you raised a big stink or even considered taking some kind of official action against a coach or official because you didn’t agree with a decision?

3.      Has your child suffered a consequence, either from the coach or teammates, based on your actions/reactions?

4.      Are you finding more and more charred bridges in your wake as you sacrifice relationships of your own and your child’s, while pursuing the seemingly all-important goals you think your child deserves?

5.      Do you spend half the time on your own hobbies and interests as you do your child’s?

If any of these scenarios make you with squirm with the ugly discomfort of recognition, it may be a good time for you to take a step back.  Better yet, take two big steps back and let your child grow up and learn to advocate for him or herself.  Nobody likes a Parent-zilla, not even the child.  It’s time for you to take up knitting…or some other hobby that brings personal satisfaction – take pride and joy in your own activities.  You might be amazed at how well your child does on his/her own.  And they will be proud of you, too.

Abby Normal

           

I’m afraid that there is something wrong with me, because I can honestly say that I have never met someone and thought to myself, “Oh my GAWD, how could she go out of the house with her PORES revealed for the world to SEE??”  The media and countless advertisements tell us that allowing your skin to actually look like human skin with pores should bring shame upon you and make people wince at the sight of your face, or send them running for cover.

            Never mind that the human body is covered with pores that have the very important function of regulating body temperature.  We get hot, our pores allow our skin to sweat, and when the sweat evaporates our bodies are cooled to a healthy and comfortable temperature.  This is a very efficient way to cool off.  But if the cosmetic companies had their way and these imperfections in our skin did NOT exist, then we would either die from heat stroke or have to cool ourselves like the dogs (because they can’t sweat from their pores) and pant with our tongues hanging below our chin to transpire the heat and moisture.  Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs.  But I’m pretty sure people would find stinky-hot dog-breath more offensive than a few tiny-yet-visible openings in the skin on our faces.

            More evidence that I am abnormal is that I think grey hair is beautiful.  Men have always sported the salt-and-pepper look and been praised for it, but women rarely embrace the elegant look of maturity.  At my grocery store there is an entire aisle devoted to coloring products designed hide that beautiful and hard-earned sparkle of grey.  Advertisements scream that in NO WAY whatsoever do we want our hair to give away the age that we ACTUALLY are.  I guess it is practically criminal that my hair reflects how many years I have been alive.  I should be ashamed. 

            But I’m not.

            

Four Easy Tricks to Keep You Smiling Until Spring

               Daylight savings just ended and the sunlight fades before most of us get home from work.  Ug.  Our bodies start craving an old-fashioned hibernation.  We must fight the temptation to hole-up.  Even though there are many reasons to love winter, and I do, many of us suffer in the darkness.  Doctors call this SAD (seasonal affective disorder) and might prescribe light therapy, vitamin D supplements or even Happy Meds.  But I have a much simpler solution:  Before you start looking for a cave to curl up into for the next four months, try these simple ideas to tone-up and flex your happy muscles.

        1.   Spend time with people and laugh.  Really loud and hard.  ‘Til your stomach hurts.  Make up a reason to celebrate and invite your friends to coffee or happy hour.  Maybe one of your friends is having a half-birthday – make him/her wear a tacky crown.  Somebody broke an arm?  Have a cast-signing party with multi-colored sharpies.  In the winter we are drawn to our comfy sofas and fuzzy slippers, but what we really need is to be part of the real world and enjoy the company of others.  (Social Media does NOT count!)

       2.   Make somebody else happy.  Bring flowers or chocolate to a co-worker.  Make cupcakes for a neighbor.  Send a card to a long-lost friend or relative.  Making others happy brings a warm feeling to our innards and we glow, too.

       3.   Crank the tunes!  Loud, happy music is a tonic for the soul.  Whether you prefer oldies that take you down memory lane or the electronic bounce of Top 40, turn it up until the windows shake and sing and dance along.  Blaring music isn’t always possible at home with homework and conversations and all, but as soon as I get into my car I crank my favorite bands and scream until my voice is hoarse.  I can tell you one thing – I always come home smiling.

       4.  Get outside and MOVE!  I don’t care how many layers of clothes you need to pile on to stay warm.  Put on a hat and gloves and go OUT for a walk or a run (leave the treadmill idle – get OUTSIDE).  Let the wind blow in your face while you stride along.  Say hello to every person you pass - and dog, for that matter.  Notice the sway of the trees and the sound of the leaves, gravel or snow crunching beneath your feet.  Breathe in that crisp cold air laced with a hint of chimney smoke, then blow your steaming breath out like a dragon.  Feeling alive is the best way to Feel Alive, so get that body moving and embrace the elements.

Sure, winter can be a nice time to cuddle up to the fireplace and enjoy a quiet book.  Relish those pleasures, too.  Just don’t let that snuggle turn into a weeks-long hibernation or you’re likely to end up a grumpy ol’ bear before spring arrives.

To Be or Not To Be . . . a Coffee Person

            

Tomorrow I will begin a human experiment…on my own self.  I’m going to join the majority of y’all and attempt to become a Coffee Person.  Having always been a tea drinker, I only have an occasional sweetened, milky coffee as an afternoon treat.  Unlike a coffee drinker, I never sip my caffeinated beverage first thing in the morning, preferring to let my body and mind waken naturally.  But all of that is going to change.  Like you, I’m going to kick off my morning tomorrow with some steamy old-fashioned black coffee.

            I’ve been watching you Coffee People, and I feel like I’m missing out on something.  You love your hot mug of restorative tonic more than just about anything.  Coffee is one of the few addictions that you actually brag about, “I drank a half a pot before noon today!” or “I ordered a Quadruple Grande and I was feeling grrreat by the time I got to work!”

            The smell of fresh brewed drip brings a long and lazy inhale, complete with flared nostrils, and a wide grin to your faces.  Many of your conversations swirl around the best blends, shops and baristas.  Going camping with Coffee People is quite an experience.  Before bedding down in our tents, the CPs must discuss who is making the first pot, when, with what equipment and will there be enough?  Usually this is all physically set up before the campfire light dies away.  You wouldn’t want to waste any of your morning without a hot cup in your hand and some liquid stimulant in your gullet.

            And the absence of coffee leaves you feeling not quite right.  I have a sister who, it is widely known, cannot function as a human being until she has consumed enough of the black stuff to bring her blood level up to a 1:1 ratio of coffee to plasma.  If you happen to bump into her before she stumbles to the coffee pot you’d better take cover, or at least give her a very wide berth.  After a cup or two the blank zombie-eyed stare will be replaced by her cheerful twinkle and a smile, and you know it is safe for others to enter the room.  I’m sure this sounds familiar.

            My friends and I have a fun Relay Team that requires us to stay up all day, night and day to run 200 consecutive miles.  One of the major planning hurdles we need to clear for this event is where/when/how will we get coffee so we don’t die?  Because, of course, many of us just wouldn’t survive this event without the precious hot liquid.  I don’t doubt that some of these gals would rather be dead than go without.  One year, rummy with fatigue, a few team members stopped at a coffee shop while waiting for our runner to come into the exchange.  There was a major crisis when the realization was made that they had forgotten to bring a precious cup for the runner, who was going to shrivel up and die without that black gold.  That day I learned to never under-estimate the needs of the CP.

            In the morning, like you, I plan to dive into steamin’ hot Cuppa Joe.  There are risks involved, I know, such as a desperate caffeine addiction or worse, coffee breath.  But if this beverage is so important to you Coffee People, then maybe it will be good for me, too.    Wish me luck…and watch out!

The Accidental Voyeur

            Leash connecting you, your six feet pad along on the pitch dark pavement.  Street lights illuminate your puffs of hot breath as you pass under one after another.  There is nothing but silence, aside from the occasional skitter of a night creature returning to its den.  Porch lights are on and windows are dark.  Behind you approaches a hum….squeak….thump, hum…squeak….thump, as the bleary-eyed newspaper delivery guy tosses his rubber-banded packages onto each driveway on the block.

            An embarrassed neighbor, dressed in plaid flannel pajamas and yellow fuzzy slippers, scuttles quickly back inside her house clutching the morning news in hopes that you didn’t notice her bed-head.

Randomly a window lights up.  First a bathroom, then a kitchen.  You spy two tousled grey heads shuffling to the kitchen table to sip steaming coffee and read the newspaper in silence.  No need for words when you can read each other’s minds.

With a hint of light on the horizon, you come full circle to your doorstep.  Nose cherry-red from the cold, you owned the morning.  Who needs coffee?

* * *

And now your day is nearly done.  A short walk for the pooch with a belly full of warm dinner, the sky-light is fading and the moon rises.   Indoor lights are switched on to fight the growing darkness, but the twilight glows and it’s not yet dark enough to draw curtains.  You can’t help but see families sew up their day with bed-time rituals.  T.V.s glow in rec rooms while children’s heads bounce high in front of their bedroom window chanting, “Two little monkeys jumping on the bed!”

A head works at the kitchen sink, pots are scrubbed, then counters are wiped and kitchen lights go out.  Bathrooms are briefly alight with tooth brushing.  Finally, curtains are drawn for bedtime stories.  Goodnight Moon.

Mike Memories: How to Hock a Loogie

Phlegm:  A word like no other.  Six letters strung together so awkwardly that they look like a mistake.  Yet this word does exist in the dictionary.  Even if you aren’t aware of its meaning, when you attempt to pronounce the word the throat reacts with a mini-gag-reflex, kind of a tongue twister for the back of the palette.  And if you are aware of its meaning, the thought of what it defines brings a mini-gag-reflex as well.  The perfect word is one that every aspect of it, even the spelling, represents its essence.  Phlegm.

The first time I heard the word spoken I assumed it was spelled like it sounds when said carelessly – f-l-e-m, and it didn’t leave much of an impression on me.  Sure, the idea was gross.  Just like ‘snot’ or ‘turd’.  But once I saw the word on a page and said it out loud the way it was meant to be said, it just seemed like genius to me.

Growing up, my brother Mike said that phlegm was the key ingredient to hocking a good loogie.  I tried and tried to spit like him, but it always came out in an embarrassing spray that moistened (another awful and melodic word) my shirt and face. Then I’d have to use my sleeve to wipe off the evidence.  Not like his.  When Mike would spit there was practically a drum roll while he prepared a perfect glob of goo that he aimed and fired with near perfect accuracy at any target.  A lifetime of practice, and I am still unable to spit like that.

Mike used his phlegmy talents to control and terrorize us younger siblings while Mom and Dad were gone working long days.  If we got in his way or threatened to tattle, we often were subjected to the Spit Treatment.  With his size advantage, it took him merely seconds to pin me to the floor and sit on my chest.  Sometimes I would fight and squirm until I was panting like a german shepherd and covered in sweat, but it was no use.  With my arms pinned to the carpet, I would turn my head to the side as he snorted and honked, gathering a mouthful of phlegm….yes phlegm.  I’d turn my head to the side as he hovered over my face, open his lips just enough to allow a drop of goo to stretch out of his mouth.  As it got longer and closer to me I would make a squirming effort to get free, but he would suck up the spit just before the slimy ribbon broke free to land on my face.  Depending on how mad I was or how long I could stand it before giving in, the torture usually ended after a few scares like this – I would give in and scream “Okay!  Okay!  I won’t tell!”

 

At this he would temporarily suck the goo back into his mouth and swallow.  “Tell them WHAT?” he would growl in a dangerous voice and then start honking and snorting again.

 

 “That you flushed my sock down the toilet (or whatever he did this time).  I promise!”  If I was in a particularly stubborn mood and didn’t give in soon enough he would keep at it until finally one glob of throat snot would drop and splatter on my face.  He then would explode in a wicked cackle as I wiggled free and ran screaming to the bathroom to sterilize myself.  Phlegm may be an interesting word to read and say, but I didn’t want it dripping between my eyes.   Particularly if it didn’t belong to me in the first place.

Hmmmm.  I started with a single word and wound up taking a long trip, way down memory lane.  That’s the greatest thing about words.  They can take you places that are no longer available in the real world. 

            

A Message to Arachnophobes – Get Over It!

            Spiders are people too.  Well…if we disregard the six extra legs, the fact that their bones are on the outside of their bodies and they live on insect guts…okay, they’re NOT people.  But with a little education maybe we humans can get over our irrational phobia of creepy-crawly things and we could offer the spider some respect.

            I was raised to respect the spider.  Not by my parents, but by my big brother Jim.  Nearly a decade my senior, Jim is a natural-born teacher.  You’d never find him in a classroom, though, because he is too shy.  And regular teachers have to teach ordinary stuff and Jim loves to talk about the extraordinary.  My childhood was filled with hours of ‘lessons’ ranging from the best rock and roll bands, creatures large and small/cute and creepy, to the human history of ancient torture methods.

            For whatever reason, Jim had a special affection for spiders.  Upon entering his bedroom you would see shoeboxes lining his shelves and dresser.  A closer look at each box would reveal a little spider habitat protected by a stretched out piece of cellophane, a perfect window for viewing.  He kept a variety of spiders to observe and feed.  I was often enlisted to collect live food for these eight legged beauties. 

I would watch in fascination as the orb-weaving garden spider would prance out to the edge of her web to tackle and wrap-up a fly to save for a later meal.  Who needs tupperware?  When hungry, she would inject the mummified fly to liquefy its innards, and then delicately sip her bug smoothie for dinner.

My favorite was a fellow named Wolfgang.  He was the kind we often call a wolf spider, but was more likely a common house spider.  Wolfgang was a hunter rather than a web-weaver, meaning he stalked his prey, captured it on the move and brought it back to his lair for a feast.  Wolfie favored a small matchbox in his habitat, with the drawer slid part way open, in which to eat and rest.  I never was able to see him catch a meal but I always found his leftovers.  After a tasty meal of fleshy bug, he would sweep out the too-crunchy legs and wings into a neat little pile just outside of his matchbox.

Jim would also show me how some fellers have amazing eyesight.  You know the cute little stripy guys that hang out around windowsills and potted plants?  We call those Jumpers.  For spiders they have really good vision and we would test them by moving a finger back and forth several inches away.  The little guys would shuffle and track our fingers around and around.  Watching them hunt is a real treat.  They’ll watch and track an unsuspecting insect until the time is right and then LAUNCH in a lightning fast hop!  And the bug never knew what hit it.  If a human had those hops, we’d be able to jump right over our own roofs!

You might still be thinking, I don’t care about all of this – I still hate spiders.  I say, Get Over It.  The fact is, most spider species are not capable of biting through human skin.  It is a fact that almost all of the wounds we blame on spiders are not spider-bites at all – they are most likely skin infections brought on by an insect bite or other abrasion.  Certainly their eight-legged crawl can send shivers down our spines, but just imagine what we look like to them?  Giant, fleshy rolling pins ready to squish the life out of them, that’s what we humans are to the spiders.  They just want to mind their own business, catch some flies and find a mate.  It’s not our right to smash them on the spot, just because they give us the creeps.

Next time scoop up that house spider in a cup and throw him outside to find a new home.  Or if that beautiful garden spider is blocking your door, find a stick and relocate her and her web to a nearby bush.  She will consume her broken web and recycle it into a brand-new orb– isn’t that nifty?  And they will all stay busy gobbling up all of the insect pests that truly are our enemies.  Get it right and show that spider the respect she deserves.