Back in February when I wrote the post "Every Single Morning" about my dear friend Debbie, she had just been moved out of ICU following two heart surgeries. The last few months have been tough ones for Deb as the doctors have tried to figure out the best plan of action to ensure her full recovery. And recover she will, of that I have no doubt because she's one of the strongest gals I know. I met Debbie for breakfast last Saturday morning at the place where all good old Southern women meet for breakfast. Can you guess? Well, Lord, help ... we met at Cracker Barrel, of course. As we talked and laughed and feasted on our most delicious egg breakfasts, my mind floated back to when Debbie and I first met more than 25 years ago ... 25 years ago ... holy cow ... where did the time go?
There were a couple of things I learned about Deb right from the start ... she's a Southern gal through and through, and she's hilariously funny. She can quote lines from Steel Magnolias better than anyone I know, and she knows the only tea worth drinking is sweet tea. She knows that grits are a staple of life, and she raised her two sons to love Kentucky basketball almost as much as she does. Debbie has such a gift when it comes to making people laugh ... even during the darkest of times, she can make me smile. I will never ever forget the day she helped me empty Mom's apartment after she passed away. Everything I touched of Mom's that day caused memories to come flooding into my mind and tears to pour down my cheeks. Until ... until Debbie started talking about some of the hilarious things Mom had said or done over the years, and before I knew it, I was laughing and reminiscing right along with my dear friend as we packed Mom's things. To this day, when she reminds me of the Victoria's secret undies we found in Mom's dresser drawer, I just can't help but laugh out loud.
Deb and I talked about a lot of things last Saturday morning as we ate, including how she's feeling and what the next steps in her treatment will be. I listened intently as she talked about the different types of heart rhythms ... all kinds of fibrillation types I know absolutely nothing about. In fact, I'm not sure that fibrillation is even a word. I listened intently as she told me about her pacemaker and defibrillator that were placed during her recent surgeries. I was listening so intently, in fact, that I didn't notice the twinkle in her eye or the shift in her tone as she began telling me the following story.
"One afternoon, I heard this beeping noise but I thought it was just something outside or on the TV, and it eventually stopped and I didn't think anything more about it. Until the next day at the same time when I heard it again ... it was the same beeping sound as the day before. My husband was nearby so I asked him if he could hear it, and he said no that it was just in my head. It was a couple more days before he finally heard it and we figured out that the beeping was coming from inside my chest. Turned out it was my pacemaker and I had to go to the doctor so they could fix it. It wasn't in my head at all ... it was in my heart."
Needless to say, I cracked up as I listened to Debbie's tale of the mysterious beeping noise ... I could picture her repeatedly asking her husband if he could hear the sound, and I could picture her searching all around her house trying to locate where the sound was coming from. I tried to picture myself in the same situation, and I know for certain I wouldn't have been nearly as calm as Debbie. Oh, no ... we all know what I would have done. I would have been completely freaking out to the point of convincing myself that I was losing my mind.
I've obviously been thinking about Deb's beeping story a great deal over the last couple of days or I wouldn't be writing about it tonight. While I smile each time I think about it, it's not the humor within my friend's story that has taken up residence in my brain. What's had me in a relentless state of pondering for the last couple of days is the whole head vs. heart dilemma, and I'm not talking about the origin of Debbie's beeping sound. So very often, I find myself caught smack dab in the middle of my very own head vs. heart dilemma. Some of you probably know exactly what I mean because you've felt the same way. Times when your mind tells you it's not safe to jump, but your heart screams, "Go for it!" Times when your heart whispers, "They've got your back," but your mind is shouting, "Danger, Will Robinson ... danger!" Times when your mind says, "Wake up and smell the coffee, dummy," but your heart insists that someone cares as much about you as you do about them. Times when everyone around you tells you it's just in your head, but you know down deep inside what no one else knows ... you know it's not in your head at all ... you may be the only one who knows, but you know it's in your heart.
It's just in your head, friends ... or is it?
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Eating Salad with a Spoon (and Other Important Truths of Life)
When you hear the word "spoon," what's the first thing you think of? Soup? Pudding? Coffee? Peanut butter? Cottage cheese? Or do you think of the way you sleep next to someone you love? Or maybe you think of those little collectible spoons with the circle thingie at the end of the handle with a state flower or bird stamped on it. Or a ring ... I bet some of you remember spoon rings. Perhaps you think of your kids or grandkids and how stinking cute they are when they first start eating baby food off of a baby spoon with the rubbery stuff on it so it doesn't hurt their little baby gums ... so flipping adorable. My guess, however, is that eating salad doesn't even enter your mind when you hear the word "spoon" ... I mean seriously, how many people eat salad with a spoon, right?
Most days, my lunch hour consists of sitting at my desk eating whatever non-delicious food items I've chosen to bring from home. Yesterday, though, I went out to lunch with a young man I've worked with for the last few years ... a young man who's become a dear friend to me and whose two young daughters think I'm just about the coolest old gray-haired gal on the planet. I ordered a shrimp salad for lunch but did as I often do and only ate about half of it before asking the server to box up the rest for me so I could polish it off later in the afternoon. I do that a lot, you know, only eat half of my lunch at lunchtime and then eat the rest later ... sometimes several hours later if it's a busy day, as was the case yesterday.
Since I usually eat at my desk, I keep a supply of plastic forks, knives and spoons in the bottom drawer of the small filing cabinet that sits next to my desk. But yesterday when I opened the drawer to get a fork to eat my salad, I remembered that I had used my last fork the day before. I stared at my salad and thought for a moment that I should go downstairs to the kitchen and grab a handful of forks. Then I stared at the stack of work on my desk, thought about how much time it would take me to go to the kitchen and decided I would just eat my leftover salad with a spoon instead ... yep, that's what I decided alright. And in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, it wasn't exactly the best decision I've ever made in regard to eating salad for lunch.
An hour and a half later, I finally finished eating the food that would have easily taken me only 10 minutes to consume had I not been too stubborn to admit that attempting to eat a bunch of big chunks of lettuce topped with shrimp, peanuts and tiny slivers of cucumber all slathered in vinegar and oil was a bad idea. I spent way more time trying to get the food to stay on the spoon long enough to get it from the container to my mouth than it would have taken me to get in my car, drive to Walmart, buy forks and drive back to work than it would have taken me to go downstairs to the kitchen and get a stupid plastic fork. On the positive side, however, I did sit at my desk and finish all my work while the battle of the spoon vs. salad took place ... gotta find the silver lining, you know.
So why am I writing about my long, drawn-out, time-consuming endeavor to eat my leftover salad yesterday? Because sometimes there's just nothing left to do but to accept and admit that I was wrong. I have a hard time with that, you know ... accepting and admitting that I'm wrong ... especially when it comes to people. Ask anyone who knows me well and they'll tell you that I'm the queen of second chances. Even when there may be a stack of evidence to prove otherwise, I want to believe in people ... I want to believe that people are who they say they are. I want to believe that if I just try hard enough or wait long enough or believe deeply enough, eating salad with a spoon will turn out to be as good of an idea as I thought it was. But sometimes ... sometimes, there's just nothing left to do but to accept and admit that I was wrong.
Now where did I put my fork?
An hour and a half later, I finally finished eating the food that would have easily taken me only 10 minutes to consume had I not been too stubborn to admit that attempting to eat a bunch of big chunks of lettuce topped with shrimp, peanuts and tiny slivers of cucumber all slathered in vinegar and oil was a bad idea. I spent way more time trying to get the food to stay on the spoon long enough to get it from the container to my mouth than it would have taken me to get in my car, drive to Walmart, buy forks and drive back to work than it would have taken me to go downstairs to the kitchen and get a stupid plastic fork. On the positive side, however, I did sit at my desk and finish all my work while the battle of the spoon vs. salad took place ... gotta find the silver lining, you know.
So why am I writing about my long, drawn-out, time-consuming endeavor to eat my leftover salad yesterday? Because sometimes there's just nothing left to do but to accept and admit that I was wrong. I have a hard time with that, you know ... accepting and admitting that I'm wrong ... especially when it comes to people. Ask anyone who knows me well and they'll tell you that I'm the queen of second chances. Even when there may be a stack of evidence to prove otherwise, I want to believe in people ... I want to believe that people are who they say they are. I want to believe that if I just try hard enough or wait long enough or believe deeply enough, eating salad with a spoon will turn out to be as good of an idea as I thought it was. But sometimes ... sometimes, there's just nothing left to do but to accept and admit that I was wrong.
Now where did I put my fork?
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Good Talk, T
I will readily admit that there are certain things about being an empty-nester that I've come to appreciate. Things like less laundry, lower utility bills, fewer dirty dishes and not waking up at 2 a.m. worried sick because one of my three kiddos hadn't come home. I can walk around in my house as naked as a jaybird if I choose to ... go ahead and shake that picture right on out of your mind, I never choose to. I can sing at the top of my lungs and not give a flip if I'm off-key ... I can drink straight out of the sugar-free almond milk carton ... I can even dance with my wiener dog any old time I want to. But ... but ... but ... there are things I miss with all my heart since my three little birdies left the nest. Things like Sunday lunches together after church, laughing until we cried, vacations in the mountains of Colorado and watching Christmas Vacation while we decorated the tree. But what I miss the most ... what I miss the very most of all ... is the talking. Those spur-of-the-moment chats with my children ... sometimes one-on-one ... sometimes all three kiddos together ... sometimes early in the morning ... sometimes late at night ... sometimes in the car ... sometimes on the deck. Yep ... I most definitely miss the sweet talks with my children most of all.
I've been thinking a lot recently about the little things in life that are really the big things in life. Things that I so often take for granted because I don't realize how really big they are. A few weeks ago, someone told me that a friend of hers that I've never met and never will meet reads my blog every day ... someone who's kind of a big deal out in the world. My friend said three words at the end of our conversation that day ... three words that have haunted me ever since ... three words that have changed the way I feel and think about people ... three words that have made me do some seriously deep soul-searching.
"You never know."
Now my friend spoke those words about me never knowing who reads my posts each day, but the words touched me far beyond the context in which she said them. Those words are loaded with truth, friends ... you really and truly never know how much impact the smallest things you say or do may have on someone's life. Take today, for example ... a young man I work with whom I don't see very often anymore stopped by the table next to my desk this morning to grab a piece of the caramel fudge I had made and brought in for my co-workers. Though I know many of the folks in my office appreciate it when I bring in homemade treats for them, it's not often that they step around the table and pop their heads inside my cube to say thank you. But today, the young man did just that ... and then he stayed to chat for a couple of minutes. I realized how much I've missed his gentle laugh and laid-back personality as we talked, but unfortunately that's one of the downsides of company growth ... I don't see certain people as often as I used to, and I miss them.
When the young man rose from the chair next to my desk, he reached out and wrapped me in a strong hug and said, "Good talk, T ... I miss getting to talk to you. Good talk, T ... really good talk." That young man had no way of knowing how much his words meant to me ... today was a tough day ... he had no way of knowing how very much I needed our chat and his warm and genuine hug. He didn't know that he gave me a gift greater than a million pounds of gold today ... he didn't know how much impact his small act of kindness meant to me. You never know, friends ... you really and truly never know how much impact the smallest things you say or do may have on someone's life.
"Good talk, T ... really good talk."
Sunday, June 19, 2016
My Last Button
If I were queen of the weather universe, the temperature would be in the upper 60s to low 70s year-round. Now I know that many of you love summertime, and as far as you're concerned, anything less than 90 degrees is "chilly." Seriously, you people who think that are a few fries short of a Happy Meal in my opinion. Maybe if I lived in a place that has drier air, I might be more amenable to the warmer temps. But I don't live somewhere with dry air ... oh, no ... I live in Kansas, and on Friday the humidity was like 99.9 percent which made the 95-degree actual air temperature feel like a bazillion degrees. I only had to walk 50 or so steps to get to my car after work Friday evening, but by the time I got there, I was already dripping with sweat. The heat is bad enough but when you add in the humidity, it's simply unbearable.
I should probably stop here and throw out one of my semi-famous disclaimers before you read any further ... the weather isn't the only thing that has me steaming, and you're about to read an "it's been coming for days" opinion-laced post. I've gone back and forth for a few days over whether I should write it, but you can thank a woman in Home Depot this afternoon for pushing my very last button that sent me over the writing edge. I usually feel the need to apologize for penning a post when I'm angry or frustrated or just generally pissed off about something, but not this time. Trust me ... I am not the least bit sorry for what I'm about to type, nor will I be no matter what kind of messages and comments I may receive. So ... it's your choice ... read on or don't ... it's totally up to you.
Over the last week, I have been completely appalled by the lack of compassion that exists within our society today. Many of you may remember Baby Jessica ... the 18-month-old little girl who was trapped for 58 hours after she fell into a well while playing outside at her aunt's house back in 1987. If you're too young to remember when that happened, or you've forgotten the story, you should Google it and read about the overwhelming display of compassion that was seen worldwide throughout the ordeal. But even more, dig deeper into the story and see if you can find any commentary shaming Baby Jessica's parents or aunt for being irresponsible or not paying enough attention to the child or it being their fault that she fell into the well. Then spend a little time reading the horrifyingly damning comments that have been posted to every single social media outlet across the world toward the parents of little Lane ... the boy killed by the alligator last weekend at Disney World.
Tell me, friends ... tell me why people who once recognized and understood the importance of compassion for their fellow man in the midst of crisis and tragedy now consider it their right to condemn and crucify others in their darkest hours? When did we as a society lose our ability to rise above our individual beliefs and demonstrate respect for one another's differences? How can anyone with any semblance of conscience or decency spew hatred for the victims and families of those killed by senseless violence of any kind? Tell me, friends ... tell me why people tear each other down when they should be holding each other up ... tell me why they care more about themselves than they do about others ... tell me, friends ... tell me.
"Will you come on, Dad? God, you are so slow. I don't have all day to waste with you. I knew I never should have brought you. Walk faster or I'll leave you. Maybe you can find somebody else who'll put up with you."
Those were the words the woman in Home Depot said to her elderly father today ... those were the words that pushed my last button. And yes, I said something to the woman ... you bet I did. And yes, tears filled my eyes when the old man reached for my hand ... you bet they did. And yes, the woman told me to mind my own business ... you bet she did. And yes, I told her I was indeed minding my own business ... you bet I did. I told her I was minding the business of my heart ... I told her she should be ashamed of herself ... I told her I would give everything I own to spend this afternoon shuffling through Home Depot with my dad.
I told the woman one more thing before she jerked her dad's hand out of mine and dragged him away. I told her the biggest regrets I have in life are all about words ... words I said and wished I hadn't ... words I didn't say and wished I had. Think before you speak ... think before you write. Put yourself in the shoes of those who are grieving ... those who are hurting ... those who are lonely ... those who are sad ... those who are different from you. Show some compassion, friends ... someday, you may need some shown to you.
I should probably stop here and throw out one of my semi-famous disclaimers before you read any further ... the weather isn't the only thing that has me steaming, and you're about to read an "it's been coming for days" opinion-laced post. I've gone back and forth for a few days over whether I should write it, but you can thank a woman in Home Depot this afternoon for pushing my very last button that sent me over the writing edge. I usually feel the need to apologize for penning a post when I'm angry or frustrated or just generally pissed off about something, but not this time. Trust me ... I am not the least bit sorry for what I'm about to type, nor will I be no matter what kind of messages and comments I may receive. So ... it's your choice ... read on or don't ... it's totally up to you.
Over the last week, I have been completely appalled by the lack of compassion that exists within our society today. Many of you may remember Baby Jessica ... the 18-month-old little girl who was trapped for 58 hours after she fell into a well while playing outside at her aunt's house back in 1987. If you're too young to remember when that happened, or you've forgotten the story, you should Google it and read about the overwhelming display of compassion that was seen worldwide throughout the ordeal. But even more, dig deeper into the story and see if you can find any commentary shaming Baby Jessica's parents or aunt for being irresponsible or not paying enough attention to the child or it being their fault that she fell into the well. Then spend a little time reading the horrifyingly damning comments that have been posted to every single social media outlet across the world toward the parents of little Lane ... the boy killed by the alligator last weekend at Disney World.
Tell me, friends ... tell me why people who once recognized and understood the importance of compassion for their fellow man in the midst of crisis and tragedy now consider it their right to condemn and crucify others in their darkest hours? When did we as a society lose our ability to rise above our individual beliefs and demonstrate respect for one another's differences? How can anyone with any semblance of conscience or decency spew hatred for the victims and families of those killed by senseless violence of any kind? Tell me, friends ... tell me why people tear each other down when they should be holding each other up ... tell me why they care more about themselves than they do about others ... tell me, friends ... tell me.
"Will you come on, Dad? God, you are so slow. I don't have all day to waste with you. I knew I never should have brought you. Walk faster or I'll leave you. Maybe you can find somebody else who'll put up with you."
Those were the words the woman in Home Depot said to her elderly father today ... those were the words that pushed my last button. And yes, I said something to the woman ... you bet I did. And yes, tears filled my eyes when the old man reached for my hand ... you bet they did. And yes, the woman told me to mind my own business ... you bet she did. And yes, I told her I was indeed minding my own business ... you bet I did. I told her I was minding the business of my heart ... I told her she should be ashamed of herself ... I told her I would give everything I own to spend this afternoon shuffling through Home Depot with my dad.
I told the woman one more thing before she jerked her dad's hand out of mine and dragged him away. I told her the biggest regrets I have in life are all about words ... words I said and wished I hadn't ... words I didn't say and wished I had. Think before you speak ... think before you write. Put yourself in the shoes of those who are grieving ... those who are hurting ... those who are lonely ... those who are sad ... those who are different from you. Show some compassion, friends ... someday, you may need some shown to you.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
That Moment When ...
My guess is that we've all had one of those "that moment when ..." moments at some point in our lives. That moment when something clicks and you realize that gnawing feeling you've had inside ... the one you've tried so desperately to push aside and ignore ... that moment when you realize that your gut feeling was right all along. Sadly, some people have had way too many of those moments ... so many, in fact, that it makes me wonder what keeps them from choosing to throw in the towel on humanity and take up residence in a cave. You know, I say I wonder what keeps those multiple "that moment when ..." folks from chucking it all and going all Mountain Family Robinson (one of my favorite movies of all time, by the way), but I think down deep inside I know the answer. I think those are the folks who have a really hard time believing that people may not be who they seem to be. I think those are the folks who believe everyone deserves a million second chances. I think those are the folks who believe that good will always beget good.
I'll admit that I've had a few of my own "that moment when ..." moments over the years, and I'll even admit that I've had a couple in the last few days. There's just no other way to say it ... those moments suck big time. And the suckiness of those moments is amplified a million times over when my heart is already heavy ... and trust me, my heart has been abundantly heavy for the last several days. Not heavy for myself, but heavy for the family and friends of the young singer who was shot following her concert ... heavy for the families and friends of those killed at the nightclub last weekend ... heavy for the wounded who will no doubt be emotionally scarred for the rest of their lives ... heavy for the parents of the little boy who was taken by the alligator last night. My heart hurts for the families ... my heart aches for the friends ... my heart grieves for the victims.
Today was an especially tough day for me in the "that moment when ..." category, and no, I'm not sharing any details. What I want to share, however, is that right smack dab in the middle of my "that moment when ..." moment, I received a completely unexpected text from a dear friend. A text that caused me to say out loud ... "that moment when I realize how very blessed I truly am."
"Hey, any chance you could do lunch today? Or Friday? You have just been on my mind a lot. I can't wrap my brain around what happened this weekend and imagine if I'm struggling this much how hard it must be for those I love who are part of the community that was attacked. I just want to give you some love in person.
I think people sometimes don't know what to say and don't realize that their silence is saying something already. I don't pretend to have the right words to say or know what to do, but I want you to know that I won't be silent about it."
My friend had no way of knowing how badly I needed her words today ... she had no way of knowing how much her words would lift my heart ... she had no way of knowing they would remind me of the good in others ... she had no way of knowing, and yet she sent them anyway.
Love in person may become my new mantra ... love in person, friends ... love in person.
I'll admit that I've had a few of my own "that moment when ..." moments over the years, and I'll even admit that I've had a couple in the last few days. There's just no other way to say it ... those moments suck big time. And the suckiness of those moments is amplified a million times over when my heart is already heavy ... and trust me, my heart has been abundantly heavy for the last several days. Not heavy for myself, but heavy for the family and friends of the young singer who was shot following her concert ... heavy for the families and friends of those killed at the nightclub last weekend ... heavy for the wounded who will no doubt be emotionally scarred for the rest of their lives ... heavy for the parents of the little boy who was taken by the alligator last night. My heart hurts for the families ... my heart aches for the friends ... my heart grieves for the victims.
Today was an especially tough day for me in the "that moment when ..." category, and no, I'm not sharing any details. What I want to share, however, is that right smack dab in the middle of my "that moment when ..." moment, I received a completely unexpected text from a dear friend. A text that caused me to say out loud ... "that moment when I realize how very blessed I truly am."
"Hey, any chance you could do lunch today? Or Friday? You have just been on my mind a lot. I can't wrap my brain around what happened this weekend and imagine if I'm struggling this much how hard it must be for those I love who are part of the community that was attacked. I just want to give you some love in person.
I think people sometimes don't know what to say and don't realize that their silence is saying something already. I don't pretend to have the right words to say or know what to do, but I want you to know that I won't be silent about it."
My friend had no way of knowing how badly I needed her words today ... she had no way of knowing how much her words would lift my heart ... she had no way of knowing they would remind me of the good in others ... she had no way of knowing, and yet she sent them anyway.
Love in person may become my new mantra ... love in person, friends ... love in person.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
How Does Your Garden Grow?
I've been thinking about my mom and dad a lot for the last several days ... I always think about the two of them a lot during the first couple of weeks of June. I think about them in June because each of them passed away in the month of June, 13 years apart from one another. It's impossible for me to think of Mom without remembering the countless times she said, "Lord, help!" about one thing or another, and it's equally as impossible for me to think of Daddy without remembering him in the place he loved best ... his garden.
For those of you who've been reading along with me for a while, it's quite likely that you've read a few stories about my sweet dad. And if you did, then you read about at least some of the lessons he taught me over the years. Someone asked me a few days ago what I thought was the most important lesson Daddy ever taught me, and I didn't even have to think twice before I answered.
"Daddy taught me how to treat people ... he taught me how to have a good heart."
Now I could have expounded upon my answer that day and said that my dad taught me about compassion and sacrifice and loyalty and giving and honesty and trust and being vulnerable and respect and commitment and faith and dignity and patience ... because he did. But when I think about it, all of those things are part of treating people the way I should treat them if my heart is in the right place ... if I have a good heart, I'll treat people from a place of love and understanding.
It took me a great many years to realize that a lot of teaching moments happened in Daddy's garden ... maybe that's a big part of why he loved it so much. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday that he said, "Sam, these here plants are a lot like people. If you don't tend to them like you should, they'll just wither up and die and you'll miss out on all the good." If I had a nickel for every time my dad talked to me about taking care of the plants in the garden, I'd be one rich old gray-haired gal for sure. From the gentle way he planted the seeds to his meticulous watering and weeding to the seemingly insane ways he protected the plants from bugs and bunnies and birds to the glorious time of harvesting the fruits ... or veggies as the case may be ... of his labors, Daddy was teaching me how to treat people. For all those years, my sweet dad was using those plants in his garden to teach me what it means to love and care for other people ... he was teaching me how to have a good heart.
I'm sure I'm not alone in saying that the events of the last few days have made me think a lot more deeply about the people I love and care about ... I simply cannot fathom the pain of losing a single one of them. I've been thinking a ton about how the care I give to the people who reside in the garden of my heart ... am I gentle with the words I plant in their minds? Do I give them cool water when their souls are thirsty? Do I help them get rid of the things in their life that are threatening to hinder their growth? Am I protecting them from the people or things that are trying to suck the life out of them? Am I celebrating their growth and their victories with them? Did I learn the lesson my dad was trying to teach me? I sure hope so, friends ... I sure hope so. I hope I treat others the way I should ... I hope I have the kind of heart my dad did.
I hope I always make time for people. I hope I never ever take my family and friends for granted. I hope I go out of my way to hug someone every day. I hope that I do more than acknowledge someone's pain ... I hope I find a way to soothe it. I hope I reach out to the lonely ... encourage the downtrodden ... cheer for the victorious ... fight for the weak ... stand hand-in-hand with the strong ... affirm the doubting. I hope I am forever aware that I am not guaranteed another month, another week, another day, another moment. I hope that when I breathe my final breath, the harvest of my garden is love.
"Sam, these here plants are a lot like people. If you don't tend to them like you should, they'll just wither up and die and you'll miss out on all the good."
How does your garden grow?
For those of you who've been reading along with me for a while, it's quite likely that you've read a few stories about my sweet dad. And if you did, then you read about at least some of the lessons he taught me over the years. Someone asked me a few days ago what I thought was the most important lesson Daddy ever taught me, and I didn't even have to think twice before I answered.
"Daddy taught me how to treat people ... he taught me how to have a good heart."
Now I could have expounded upon my answer that day and said that my dad taught me about compassion and sacrifice and loyalty and giving and honesty and trust and being vulnerable and respect and commitment and faith and dignity and patience ... because he did. But when I think about it, all of those things are part of treating people the way I should treat them if my heart is in the right place ... if I have a good heart, I'll treat people from a place of love and understanding.
It took me a great many years to realize that a lot of teaching moments happened in Daddy's garden ... maybe that's a big part of why he loved it so much. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday that he said, "Sam, these here plants are a lot like people. If you don't tend to them like you should, they'll just wither up and die and you'll miss out on all the good." If I had a nickel for every time my dad talked to me about taking care of the plants in the garden, I'd be one rich old gray-haired gal for sure. From the gentle way he planted the seeds to his meticulous watering and weeding to the seemingly insane ways he protected the plants from bugs and bunnies and birds to the glorious time of harvesting the fruits ... or veggies as the case may be ... of his labors, Daddy was teaching me how to treat people. For all those years, my sweet dad was using those plants in his garden to teach me what it means to love and care for other people ... he was teaching me how to have a good heart.
I'm sure I'm not alone in saying that the events of the last few days have made me think a lot more deeply about the people I love and care about ... I simply cannot fathom the pain of losing a single one of them. I've been thinking a ton about how the care I give to the people who reside in the garden of my heart ... am I gentle with the words I plant in their minds? Do I give them cool water when their souls are thirsty? Do I help them get rid of the things in their life that are threatening to hinder their growth? Am I protecting them from the people or things that are trying to suck the life out of them? Am I celebrating their growth and their victories with them? Did I learn the lesson my dad was trying to teach me? I sure hope so, friends ... I sure hope so. I hope I treat others the way I should ... I hope I have the kind of heart my dad did.
I hope I always make time for people. I hope I never ever take my family and friends for granted. I hope I go out of my way to hug someone every day. I hope that I do more than acknowledge someone's pain ... I hope I find a way to soothe it. I hope I reach out to the lonely ... encourage the downtrodden ... cheer for the victorious ... fight for the weak ... stand hand-in-hand with the strong ... affirm the doubting. I hope I am forever aware that I am not guaranteed another month, another week, another day, another moment. I hope that when I breathe my final breath, the harvest of my garden is love.
"Sam, these here plants are a lot like people. If you don't tend to them like you should, they'll just wither up and die and you'll miss out on all the good."
How does your garden grow?
Sunday, June 12, 2016
If You Love Someone Who's Gay
Last night Ollie and I went for a walk after dark because it's terribly hot here in Kansas City, far too hot for little wiener dogs to walk during the daylight hours. My clothes were soaking wet by the time we got back home, and Ollie couldn't get to his water bowl fast enough. I grabbed a glass of iced tea and settled in on the couch to do some writing for a friend's website, while Ollie snuggled next to me. I wrote for a couple of hours, watched a little television until I got sleepy and finally went to bed around 1 a.m. We slept in a bit this morning, waking up at 9:45. I went about my normal weekend morning routine ... let Ollie out to potty, feed Ollie, go to the bathroom, fix breakfast, take my pills, sit down on the couch and flip on the television to watch the Sunday morning news. And other than the hour and a half that it took to go get the oil changed in my car, that's where I've been all day ... safe inside my house, sitting on my couch, watching the heart-wrenching news of what happened last night in Orlando.
Much has been spoken and written today about terrorism, hate toward the LGBT community, gun control and mental illness in regard to last night's tragedy, and that dialogue will continue for days and weeks and perhaps even years to come. The only person who truly knew what spurred the violent attack at the Pulse nightclub last night is the young man who walked into that establishment and opened fire on a group of innocent human beings. Whatever the young man considered to be his motivation for last night's murderous rampage, the fact remains that families and friends are grieving today for the loss of someone they loved or standing by the bedsides of those who were wounded. The fact remains that it was hate that pulled the trigger last night, friends ... it was terrifyingly real and visible hate that pulled the trigger.
Earlier today when I was flipping channels watching coverage of the shootings, I happened upon a news conference in Washington, D.C. with several national leaders from the LGBT community. While many of their comments stuck a chord deep within my heart, it was one from an African American gentleman that went straight to the center of my being. He said, "Every lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender person in the world today is afraid. Today, they are feeling more alone and more separate from others than perhaps at any other time in history. They feel anew the despair of discrimination and the burning pain of hate. Every member of the LGBT community knows that it could happen to them." He's right, my friends ... he's very, very right.
If you love someone who's gay, today would be a good day to tell them you love them. Today would be a good day to call them and let them know you're thinking about them. Today would be a good day to invite them over for a drink and to chat for a while. Today would be a good day to wrap your arms around them, hold them tighter than you ever have before, and tell them how very much you love them. If you love someone who's gay, think about the families and friends in Orlando who will never again have that chance. If you love someone who's gay or straight or anything in between, let them know ... not just today, friends, but every day. There is nothing more important ... not chores around the house or sporting events or work or anything in life that's more important than people knowing they are loved, cared for and appreciated just the way they are.
Take care of each other, friends ... love you all.
Much has been spoken and written today about terrorism, hate toward the LGBT community, gun control and mental illness in regard to last night's tragedy, and that dialogue will continue for days and weeks and perhaps even years to come. The only person who truly knew what spurred the violent attack at the Pulse nightclub last night is the young man who walked into that establishment and opened fire on a group of innocent human beings. Whatever the young man considered to be his motivation for last night's murderous rampage, the fact remains that families and friends are grieving today for the loss of someone they loved or standing by the bedsides of those who were wounded. The fact remains that it was hate that pulled the trigger last night, friends ... it was terrifyingly real and visible hate that pulled the trigger.
Earlier today when I was flipping channels watching coverage of the shootings, I happened upon a news conference in Washington, D.C. with several national leaders from the LGBT community. While many of their comments stuck a chord deep within my heart, it was one from an African American gentleman that went straight to the center of my being. He said, "Every lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender person in the world today is afraid. Today, they are feeling more alone and more separate from others than perhaps at any other time in history. They feel anew the despair of discrimination and the burning pain of hate. Every member of the LGBT community knows that it could happen to them." He's right, my friends ... he's very, very right.
If you love someone who's gay, today would be a good day to tell them you love them. Today would be a good day to call them and let them know you're thinking about them. Today would be a good day to invite them over for a drink and to chat for a while. Today would be a good day to wrap your arms around them, hold them tighter than you ever have before, and tell them how very much you love them. If you love someone who's gay, think about the families and friends in Orlando who will never again have that chance. If you love someone who's gay or straight or anything in between, let them know ... not just today, friends, but every day. There is nothing more important ... not chores around the house or sporting events or work or anything in life that's more important than people knowing they are loved, cared for and appreciated just the way they are.
Take care of each other, friends ... love you all.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
An Open Letter to the Parents of Brock Turner
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Turner:
My name is Terrie Johnson, and I, along with millions of parents, have been following the story of your son, Brock, over the last few days. I'm a single mother of three adult children, two sons and one daughter. My oldest child was 10 years old when I got divorced, and for the most part, I raised the three of them on my own.
I've been the author of this blog since February 19, 2008, and I've tackled some difficult subjects over the years since I first began posting. I've written about some tough issues I've dealt with in my own life such as being diagnosed with diabetes, my journey through weight loss toward better health, the ups and downs of being an empty-nester, the darkness of depression and the days I've wanted to die, and the hell of coming out of the closet after five decades of denying the truth about my sexuality. I tell you those things not to elicit sympathy, but to hopefully convey the sincerity of my intentions in writing to you.
As a mother of sons and a daughter, my heart has been filled with conflicting emotions as I've read about the details surrounding your son's arrest and recent sentencing. I cried as I read both accounts of what took place that night ... your son's and the victim's. I am blessed in that my three children are now successful young adults ... one is a university professor, one is a filmmaker and one is in ministry. Though I've never experienced to the extent what you currently are, my children were certainly far from perfect during the difficult high school and college years. I stood by them as they went through some life-altering events ... events that, like your son, changed their lives forever ... events that have played a significant role in making them the adults they are today.
My daughter wasn't raped and my sons are not rapists, but I've spent the last few days trying to imagine what my reaction would have been were that the case. I love my children more than life itself, and each of them would quickly tell you that I have defended them countless times over the years. When my children were in the right, I defended them with every ounce of strength and determination within me. As, in my opinion, should every parent. But when my children were in the wrong, I was the first person to insist not only that they take full responsibility for their actions, but that their punishment be abundantly adequate for whatever wrong they had committed. It wasn't that I didn't love my children or that I didn't want only the best for each one of them ... of course I did, and of course I still do. But I also wanted my children to one day become adults who had a full and complete understanding of the difference between right and wrong. I wanted them to become adults who would never forget the far-reaching impact that their actions could have, both positive and negative alike, on their lives and the lives of others.
While it is true that no one can ever be fully assured of how they will respond in any given situation, I am certain that had one of my sons committed the same crime your son has been found guilty of committing, my letter to the judge would have been very different than yours. I am also quite certain that I am not the only parent who would have not only expected, but requested that the judge sentence my son to the time that I would know in my heart he deserved. I would have told my son that he needed to recognize the seriousness of his crime. I would have told my son that he must understand that privilege or social status or athletic ability could not and would not factor in to him receiving the just punishment for the crime he had committed. I would have told my son that he could not blame alcohol or the desire to be part of a group for his actions. I would have told my son to stand up and admit what he had done. I would have told my son to take sole responsibility for his actions. I would have told my son how much I loved him and made sure he knew my love for him would never change. But I never would have minimized his crime or written a letter to the judge saying that my son didn't deserve to spend multiple years in prison for "20 minutes of action."
Had my daughter been the victim of a sexual assault, I would have done everything in my power to ensure that her assailant was sentenced to the maximum amount of time in prison allowed by law, as I'm sure the parents of the young woman whom your son assaulted did. Honestly, it makes me physically ill to even consider the horror of my only daughter being raped ... to think of her being vilified by the media and treated as though she was somehow responsible for her attacker's crime ... to see the fear in her eyes ... to know that her life would forever be altered by the violent and selfish act that had been committed against her. I would have committed myself to helping my daughter know that what happened to her was not in any way her fault. I would have told her that she did nothing wrong and that no person ever has the right under any circumstances to force themselves upon another. I would have told her a million times and then a million times more that I believed her. I would have told her how very proud I was of her for not allowing the person who assaulted her to take one more shred of the beautiful person she is away from her. I would have told her over and over and over and over and over again how much I loved her and made sure she knew that my love for her would never change.
I am well aware that you will probably never read my note, but many other parents will ... thousands upon thousands of parents of sons and parents of daughters will. I am truly sorry for you ... had your letters to the judge been different, you could have helped your son understand the seriousness of what he had done and to accept the consequences for his actions. You could have helped your son become a better man, but instead you chose to minimize his crime and justify his actions. You see, Mr. and Mrs. Turner, you didn't just send a letter to the judge in your son's case, you sent a note to the entire world that leaves little to no mistake that rape culture is not only alive and well but that it is thriving. A note that screams the message that rape is something to be chalked up as a mistake and that young affluent white males should be punished differently than other rapists.
I truly am sorry for you ... you could have helped to change the world for the better.
Terrie
My name is Terrie Johnson, and I, along with millions of parents, have been following the story of your son, Brock, over the last few days. I'm a single mother of three adult children, two sons and one daughter. My oldest child was 10 years old when I got divorced, and for the most part, I raised the three of them on my own.
I've been the author of this blog since February 19, 2008, and I've tackled some difficult subjects over the years since I first began posting. I've written about some tough issues I've dealt with in my own life such as being diagnosed with diabetes, my journey through weight loss toward better health, the ups and downs of being an empty-nester, the darkness of depression and the days I've wanted to die, and the hell of coming out of the closet after five decades of denying the truth about my sexuality. I tell you those things not to elicit sympathy, but to hopefully convey the sincerity of my intentions in writing to you.
As a mother of sons and a daughter, my heart has been filled with conflicting emotions as I've read about the details surrounding your son's arrest and recent sentencing. I cried as I read both accounts of what took place that night ... your son's and the victim's. I am blessed in that my three children are now successful young adults ... one is a university professor, one is a filmmaker and one is in ministry. Though I've never experienced to the extent what you currently are, my children were certainly far from perfect during the difficult high school and college years. I stood by them as they went through some life-altering events ... events that, like your son, changed their lives forever ... events that have played a significant role in making them the adults they are today.
My daughter wasn't raped and my sons are not rapists, but I've spent the last few days trying to imagine what my reaction would have been were that the case. I love my children more than life itself, and each of them would quickly tell you that I have defended them countless times over the years. When my children were in the right, I defended them with every ounce of strength and determination within me. As, in my opinion, should every parent. But when my children were in the wrong, I was the first person to insist not only that they take full responsibility for their actions, but that their punishment be abundantly adequate for whatever wrong they had committed. It wasn't that I didn't love my children or that I didn't want only the best for each one of them ... of course I did, and of course I still do. But I also wanted my children to one day become adults who had a full and complete understanding of the difference between right and wrong. I wanted them to become adults who would never forget the far-reaching impact that their actions could have, both positive and negative alike, on their lives and the lives of others.
While it is true that no one can ever be fully assured of how they will respond in any given situation, I am certain that had one of my sons committed the same crime your son has been found guilty of committing, my letter to the judge would have been very different than yours. I am also quite certain that I am not the only parent who would have not only expected, but requested that the judge sentence my son to the time that I would know in my heart he deserved. I would have told my son that he needed to recognize the seriousness of his crime. I would have told my son that he must understand that privilege or social status or athletic ability could not and would not factor in to him receiving the just punishment for the crime he had committed. I would have told my son that he could not blame alcohol or the desire to be part of a group for his actions. I would have told my son to stand up and admit what he had done. I would have told my son to take sole responsibility for his actions. I would have told my son how much I loved him and made sure he knew my love for him would never change. But I never would have minimized his crime or written a letter to the judge saying that my son didn't deserve to spend multiple years in prison for "20 minutes of action."
Had my daughter been the victim of a sexual assault, I would have done everything in my power to ensure that her assailant was sentenced to the maximum amount of time in prison allowed by law, as I'm sure the parents of the young woman whom your son assaulted did. Honestly, it makes me physically ill to even consider the horror of my only daughter being raped ... to think of her being vilified by the media and treated as though she was somehow responsible for her attacker's crime ... to see the fear in her eyes ... to know that her life would forever be altered by the violent and selfish act that had been committed against her. I would have committed myself to helping my daughter know that what happened to her was not in any way her fault. I would have told her that she did nothing wrong and that no person ever has the right under any circumstances to force themselves upon another. I would have told her a million times and then a million times more that I believed her. I would have told her how very proud I was of her for not allowing the person who assaulted her to take one more shred of the beautiful person she is away from her. I would have told her over and over and over and over and over again how much I loved her and made sure she knew that my love for her would never change.
I am well aware that you will probably never read my note, but many other parents will ... thousands upon thousands of parents of sons and parents of daughters will. I am truly sorry for you ... had your letters to the judge been different, you could have helped your son understand the seriousness of what he had done and to accept the consequences for his actions. You could have helped your son become a better man, but instead you chose to minimize his crime and justify his actions. You see, Mr. and Mrs. Turner, you didn't just send a letter to the judge in your son's case, you sent a note to the entire world that leaves little to no mistake that rape culture is not only alive and well but that it is thriving. A note that screams the message that rape is something to be chalked up as a mistake and that young affluent white males should be punished differently than other rapists.
I truly am sorry for you ... you could have helped to change the world for the better.
Terrie
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Whoa
Not "Whoa" like you say to a horse when you want it to stop, but "Whoa" like you say when you're so overwhelmed by something that you completely lose your well-known properties of articulation and simply utter one word ... "Whoa."
A couple of nights ago, I wrote the post "Wherefore Art Thou, Oh Mighty Muse?" because I was ticked off after reading a bunch of emails about me not posting in a few days. People who don't know me at all were scolding me from their keyboards and saying I had writer's block. And if that weren't enough to aggravate the living starch out of me, a great many of those people went on to tell me what I needed to do to fix it. There are far too many to list, but to the someone who said I "needed to build an altar in my back yard and pray to the writing gods to infuse me with their words of wisdom while I walked across a bed of hot coals," you need to know that I will never ever do as you suggested ... no, wait, you didn't suggest that I engage in your totally bizarre and insane practice, you demanded that I "do it post haste lest the writing gods rain down their judgment upon me and remove my writing skills for all time." Trust me, it ain't never ever gonna happen. Now you see why I was ticked off when I wrote my previous post ... some people just be flat-out crazy, my friends.
After reading so many "unusual" messages regarding my supposed state of writer's block, I was understandably more than a little apprehensive about reading the emails that began flooding my inbox following my Mighty Muse post. Last night, however, I decided to suck it up and start reading, and it didn't take long for me to recognize that there was a recurring theme in many of the messages ...
"Don't talk the talk if you can't walk the walk."
"Practice what you preach ... be open, honest, real and transparent and write what's in your heart."
"This is where the rubber meets the road, Terrie. Don't let fear of what others may say keep you from saying what you need to say."
"Time for you to put your money where your mouth is."
"When things get tough, the tough get going. Write it, sister! Write every word you want to write."
"You ever hear when push comes to shove? It's time to shove with all you got, girl. Write them words and write 'em good."
"It's not real until you have some skin in the game, T. Get on with it and say what needs to be said."
"Here's how I see it, little lady. There's lots of people who you inspire with your words, so hitch up your britches and saddle up your horse cause it's time for you to get riding."
And last, but most certainly not least ...
"Say what you need to say - be the voice you want to be. You can do that! I know you can, you have to know you can."
Whoa. Message received, loud and clear. Stay tuned ...
A couple of nights ago, I wrote the post "Wherefore Art Thou, Oh Mighty Muse?" because I was ticked off after reading a bunch of emails about me not posting in a few days. People who don't know me at all were scolding me from their keyboards and saying I had writer's block. And if that weren't enough to aggravate the living starch out of me, a great many of those people went on to tell me what I needed to do to fix it. There are far too many to list, but to the someone who said I "needed to build an altar in my back yard and pray to the writing gods to infuse me with their words of wisdom while I walked across a bed of hot coals," you need to know that I will never ever do as you suggested ... no, wait, you didn't suggest that I engage in your totally bizarre and insane practice, you demanded that I "do it post haste lest the writing gods rain down their judgment upon me and remove my writing skills for all time." Trust me, it ain't never ever gonna happen. Now you see why I was ticked off when I wrote my previous post ... some people just be flat-out crazy, my friends.
After reading so many "unusual" messages regarding my supposed state of writer's block, I was understandably more than a little apprehensive about reading the emails that began flooding my inbox following my Mighty Muse post. Last night, however, I decided to suck it up and start reading, and it didn't take long for me to recognize that there was a recurring theme in many of the messages ...
"Don't talk the talk if you can't walk the walk."
"Practice what you preach ... be open, honest, real and transparent and write what's in your heart."
"This is where the rubber meets the road, Terrie. Don't let fear of what others may say keep you from saying what you need to say."
"Time for you to put your money where your mouth is."
"When things get tough, the tough get going. Write it, sister! Write every word you want to write."
"You ever hear when push comes to shove? It's time to shove with all you got, girl. Write them words and write 'em good."
"It's not real until you have some skin in the game, T. Get on with it and say what needs to be said."
"Here's how I see it, little lady. There's lots of people who you inspire with your words, so hitch up your britches and saddle up your horse cause it's time for you to get riding."
And last, but most certainly not least ...
"Say what you need to say - be the voice you want to be. You can do that! I know you can, you have to know you can."
Whoa. Message received, loud and clear. Stay tuned ...
Monday, June 6, 2016
Wherefore Art Thou, Oh Mighty Muse?
There are two words that strike a particular kind of fear in the hearts and minds of all writers ... writer's block. For me, I would liken it to the kind of fear I imagine I would have if I were trapped inside an old house in the middle of nowhere with Norman Bates, Freddy Krueger, Hannibal Lector and Annie Wilkes during a terrible thunderstorm and the tornado sirens were blaring. Yep, I think that analogy is a pretty vivid and accurate description of the level of fear that engulfs me when those two particular words crop up when I haven't been writing as often as I normally do. And you can multiply that level of fear by, oh, like a gazillion when those two words aren't coming from within my own head but from the mouths, or computers as the case may be, of other people. It's one thing for me to wonder on occasion if I've fallen victim to the dreaded and much-feared state of writer's block, but it's another thing altogether for someone else to proclaim that it's the reason why my writing prowess wanes once in a while.
While I deeply appreciate that so many of you look forward to reading my posts each day and am truly sorry for the disappointment you feel when you click on my blog only to discover there's nothing new for you to read, I'd like for you to know that writer's block isn't generally the reason I'm not writing. In fact, when other people attribute my diminished amount of blog postings to writer's block, it makes me a little (or a lot) crazy. Not crazy like "I want to punch you in the face" crazy, but crazy like "I really feel the need to write a post in all caps informing you that I'm not suffering from writer's block" crazy. In fact, most of the time when I stop writing, it's just the opposite ... I have too many things I want to write, so I just don't write at all. And when I say too many things I want to write, what I really mean is too many things I want to write but I'm too chicken to write them because I'm terrified of the repercussions that often accompany me writing something that hits too close to home for some folks or that involves what some consider to be a controversial topic.
In the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, however, I must also confess that there are times when my lack of posting to my blog has more to do with the wolf at my window than my fear of any backlash regarding my subject choice or my personal opinions on said topic. When the old wolf guy is so close that I can feel his hot breath on my face, it takes every ounce of strength I have just to keep him outside where he belongs. And I'd be lying through my teeth if I said that the wolf and my fear of painful backlash never join forces to do everything in their power to keep my fingers off of the keyboard. That's the worst, you know ... when those two gang up on me and work double overtime to keep me from writing about things my heart and mind are screaming at me to write. Things like why I've never attended KC's PrideFest ... missing people who don't miss me back ... what I really think about the shooting of the gorilla at the Cincinnati Zoo ... my thoughts on the upcoming presidential election ... whether sleeping underwear-less is healthier ... how deeply it hurts when you realize that you care more about someone than he or she cares about you.
I don't have writer's block, and it's not my mighty muse who's hiding ... ponder on that for a bit, friends ... ponder on that for a good little bit.
"Make sure your words seep into the skin of the reader, leaving trace minerals that sustain the ailing human shell." --- Susan Marie
In the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, however, I must also confess that there are times when my lack of posting to my blog has more to do with the wolf at my window than my fear of any backlash regarding my subject choice or my personal opinions on said topic. When the old wolf guy is so close that I can feel his hot breath on my face, it takes every ounce of strength I have just to keep him outside where he belongs. And I'd be lying through my teeth if I said that the wolf and my fear of painful backlash never join forces to do everything in their power to keep my fingers off of the keyboard. That's the worst, you know ... when those two gang up on me and work double overtime to keep me from writing about things my heart and mind are screaming at me to write. Things like why I've never attended KC's PrideFest ... missing people who don't miss me back ... what I really think about the shooting of the gorilla at the Cincinnati Zoo ... my thoughts on the upcoming presidential election ... whether sleeping underwear-less is healthier ... how deeply it hurts when you realize that you care more about someone than he or she cares about you.
I don't have writer's block, and it's not my mighty muse who's hiding ... ponder on that for a bit, friends ... ponder on that for a good little bit.
"Make sure your words seep into the skin of the reader, leaving trace minerals that sustain the ailing human shell." --- Susan Marie
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Wiener on Wheels
A couple of weeks ago, someone asked me if wiener dogs had always been the dog of choice for my family and I said no. But then after I thought about it for a while, I remembered that both of my brothers had wiener dogs ... Jerry had one named Grindle, and Tommy had at least three that I can remember, Heidi, Gretchen and Munchkin. Mom and Dad had one named Cocoa, and for my son Matt's second birthday, we got him a doxie whom he promptly named Choo Choo. The first wiener dog the kids and I had was Cinnamon, and she lived to the ripe old age of 19. Then after the kids left home, my little fat buddy J.R. came along, and after he passed the now semi-famous Ollie moved in. My son Matt and daughter-in-law Becca have two wiener dogs, Andy and Chloe, and my daughter Meghann and son-in-law Barrett have two as well, Peanut and Pig. Brad is the odd man out when it comes to breed of dog ... from Ali to Julie to Max dog, Brad is a Labrador guy through and through. So let's see ... if my math is correct, that's 13 wiener dogs (that I remember anyway) over the years. I suppose that means we are indeed a multi-generational family of wiener dog lovers, which also means I unintentionally lied to the person who asked me if wiener dogs had always been the dog of choice for my family.
I've loved bike riding ever since I was a little kid tooling around on my awesome turquoise and white Schwinn bicycle. I rode proud atop the banana seat, my fingers gripping the ostrich-neck handlebars as the rainbow-colored streamers at the end of each one flapped in the wind. Even though I know now that my childhood bike was without question one of the ugliest bikes ever made, back then I thought it was without a doubt the most awesome bike in the universe ... and even more unbelievable to me now was that I thought I was the coolest kid ever when I rode it. I was never one of the cool kids, by the way, bike or no bike. I don't think I realized it back then, which is probably a good thing, but I was far too dorky and weird to ever be allowed into the realm of the cool kids. Now that I think about it, that's probably a big giant part of why I loved riding my bike so much ... because riding my bike made me feel cool even though I wasn't. There was a freedom that came with flying down Ormand Drive on that old turquoise bike ... the very special freedom that came with dreaming that I was more than I really was.
I'm ashamed to say that up until a week or so ago, it had been a very, very, very long time since I had ridden my bike. I used to ride almost every day, usually getting up before dawn and riding for several miles before I went to work, and I'm not quite sure why I stopped. I have a theory that I probably quit during one of my especially nasty depressive episodes, and I just never got back into the habit. I've ridden every day this week, but not because I'm willing myself to ride or because I suddenly had a renewed sense of discipline or burst of energy. I started riding again because of Ollie ... yep, my little wiener dog is the reason I started biking again. I woke up in the middle of the night one night thinking about how much Ollie loves to hang his head out the window when he's in the car, and then I started thinking about how much he would probably love to go with me for a bike ride. So I ordered him a pair of Doggles to wear and a backpack to carry him in, and last weekend we hit the trail together. And guess what? I was right ... Ollie totally loves it. And guess what else? The very first night we went riding, that same sense of freedom washed through me just like it did when I was a kid ... the very special sense of freedom that comes with dreaming that I'm more than I really am.
See, here's the thing friends ... I have no idea why climbing on a bike and riding down the trail with Ollie on my back makes me feel so good, but it does. I have no idea why I feel so free and unencumbered when I'm riding, but I do. I have no idea why my mind fills with dreams of being one of the cool people when I feel the wind on my face and the burn in my legs as I pedal, but it does. I have no idea why I experience such a rush of anticipation when I put on my helmet and gloves and walk my bike out of the garage, but I do. I decided tonight as I pedaled home in the cool night air that perhaps I never will know or understand those whys. And as I took Ollie out of his backpack and removed my helmet, I decided that maybe it's okay not to know or understand ... I decided that for tonight, dreaming that I'm more than I am is good enough. I mean, come on ... I'm a 56-year-old gray-haired crazy woman riding a bike with a wiener dog wearing Doggles strapped on my back ... I deserve to have a dream or two along the way.
Ride on, friends ... ride on.
I've loved bike riding ever since I was a little kid tooling around on my awesome turquoise and white Schwinn bicycle. I rode proud atop the banana seat, my fingers gripping the ostrich-neck handlebars as the rainbow-colored streamers at the end of each one flapped in the wind. Even though I know now that my childhood bike was without question one of the ugliest bikes ever made, back then I thought it was without a doubt the most awesome bike in the universe ... and even more unbelievable to me now was that I thought I was the coolest kid ever when I rode it. I was never one of the cool kids, by the way, bike or no bike. I don't think I realized it back then, which is probably a good thing, but I was far too dorky and weird to ever be allowed into the realm of the cool kids. Now that I think about it, that's probably a big giant part of why I loved riding my bike so much ... because riding my bike made me feel cool even though I wasn't. There was a freedom that came with flying down Ormand Drive on that old turquoise bike ... the very special freedom that came with dreaming that I was more than I really was.
I'm ashamed to say that up until a week or so ago, it had been a very, very, very long time since I had ridden my bike. I used to ride almost every day, usually getting up before dawn and riding for several miles before I went to work, and I'm not quite sure why I stopped. I have a theory that I probably quit during one of my especially nasty depressive episodes, and I just never got back into the habit. I've ridden every day this week, but not because I'm willing myself to ride or because I suddenly had a renewed sense of discipline or burst of energy. I started riding again because of Ollie ... yep, my little wiener dog is the reason I started biking again. I woke up in the middle of the night one night thinking about how much Ollie loves to hang his head out the window when he's in the car, and then I started thinking about how much he would probably love to go with me for a bike ride. So I ordered him a pair of Doggles to wear and a backpack to carry him in, and last weekend we hit the trail together. And guess what? I was right ... Ollie totally loves it. And guess what else? The very first night we went riding, that same sense of freedom washed through me just like it did when I was a kid ... the very special sense of freedom that comes with dreaming that I'm more than I really am.
See, here's the thing friends ... I have no idea why climbing on a bike and riding down the trail with Ollie on my back makes me feel so good, but it does. I have no idea why I feel so free and unencumbered when I'm riding, but I do. I have no idea why my mind fills with dreams of being one of the cool people when I feel the wind on my face and the burn in my legs as I pedal, but it does. I have no idea why I experience such a rush of anticipation when I put on my helmet and gloves and walk my bike out of the garage, but I do. I decided tonight as I pedaled home in the cool night air that perhaps I never will know or understand those whys. And as I took Ollie out of his backpack and removed my helmet, I decided that maybe it's okay not to know or understand ... I decided that for tonight, dreaming that I'm more than I am is good enough. I mean, come on ... I'm a 56-year-old gray-haired crazy woman riding a bike with a wiener dog wearing Doggles strapped on my back ... I deserve to have a dream or two along the way.
Ride on, friends ... ride on.
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