tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34223831393555162592024-03-13T23:26:30.125-07:00Is this the middle?Only if I live to be 108.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-39038342512272046052016-03-10T17:32:00.002-08:002016-03-11T04:14:12.299-08:00What Just Happened?: Classroom Disability Discussion Strikes a Nerve<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In class recently, I showed my community college English students a brochure designed by the University of Kansas Disability Center called "<a href="http://rtcil.org/products/media" target="_blank">Guidelines: How to Write and Report About People with Disabilities*</a>." This is the 8th edition of the brochure, and is a short, helpful guide for people who work at schools, businesses, and non-profits. A press release from UK notes the brochure includes sections such as <span style="background-color: #efefef; color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> "'Rosa’s Law and the Language of Bullying,” “Key Concepts in the Disability Community” and “A Few Exceptions.” A companion poster called “Your Words, Our Image” highlights selected terms from the brochure." - See more at: https://news.ku.edu/2013/09/04/research-center-publishes-new-edition-disability-language-guidelines#sthash.c0pyftPs.dpuf</span><br />
<br />
My goal was to show students the document design and to remind them that the research skills they are learning can be applied in the workplace. I pointed out that an employer might ask them to put together a brochure in their future careers, and this kind of task would take research and writing similar to what we are working in class.<br />
<br />
Also, I find the brochure helpful because of its goal to put the person first, and the disability second. For example, the brochure suggests "a child with autism" or "a child on the autism spectrum" rather than an "autistic child." It has a glossary of terms, and broaches some of the sensitive issues of writing professionally about folks with various disabilities.<br />
<br />
Let's just say the lesson didn't go as planned.<br />
<br />
Prior to showing the brochure, I noted that my goal was not to promote political correctness (a hot-button issue on my campus), but the English language does evolve over time. Words that were acceptable many years ago, such as "retarded," are not now considered acceptable or professional when writing or speaking about people with learning disabilities. I explained I was not an expert in the field, and that I also needed to keep up with the changes in English language.<br />
<br />
As I showed the various sections of the brochure using the projector, I could see that a couple of students were becoming agitated. A student in his thirties finally spoke up.<br />
<br />
He felt the brochure demonstrated that people in our country are quick to be offended, and he could not express himself without giving offense to some group. The first amendment was being thrown out. People can't stand the truth; reality was being pushed aside. It is what it is, and people refuse to admit it. He was upset.<br />
<br />
I thanked him for expressing his views, and noted that the brochure was "guidelines." I didn't address the first amendment comment, because I didn't want to go off on my own rant. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could adequately defend the first amendment in a well-rounded manner. If you are offended that someone is offended, what does the English teacher say?<br />
<br />
Several other students supported his stance. One student who has a seizure disorder said she didn't care if people said she gets "fits." Another student noted that she knew someone who refused to call a child a "crack baby" out of political correctness.<br />
<br />
We were off the rails.<br />
<br />
I pointed out that the brochure was titled "guidelines," and that what may be said in casual conversation may differ from how we would write in a more formal manner in the workplace. Or at least I think I did, because by then I was a bit flummoxed by students defending their rights to call a person "retarded."<br />
<br />
These students are not cruel. They may not be particularly thoughtful on this issue, but they are not cruel. Part of my job is to get them to think more critically, to nudge them into what I call "thinking like a college student." In fact, I venture they are more intimately acquainted with people with disabilities on our campus, in our town, and in their families than the majority of the American population. Some of them <i>have</i> learning disabilities or other types of challenges in varying degrees of severity.<br />
<br />
They have the right to call someone "retarded," although I made it clear this word is not acceptable in a classroom setting. [In my head, I was thinking: our freedom of speech is protected. If they use offensive words referring to people with disabilities, they will not be arrested. I wonder who they believe is taking away their right of free speech? What was going on? Was I doing a spectacularly poor job of explaining this brochure? Perhaps.]<br />
<br />
I agreed that within the confines of a relationship with a person with disabilities, language may vary based on the two individuals and their comfort level with each other. But is it wrong to want to address a person with a disability the way that person wishes to be addressed? Or in a way that we understand that many in that group of people with a disability typically wish to be addressed?<br />
<br />
The brochure promotes awareness and kindness, in my view. Our class discussion tapped into something disturbing.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what to call this "disturbing thing." I'm not sure what to do about it. I work in the field of changing minds, but I am not sure I know how to change minds on such a surprisingly divisive topic.<br />
<br />
I will settle for opening them a crack, if I can.<br />
<br />
*http://rtcil.org/products/media<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-81777964172200771402016-01-20T16:50:00.002-08:002016-01-25T14:29:00.055-08:00Brave New Bras<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Down to two bras
that “sort of” fit, and those shredding more daily, I face facts. I must go bra
shopping. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I consider
ordering some bras online, but one bra’s stock number was illegible, the
other one discontinued. Not to mention I’ve gained… shall we say ten pounds?
Sure, ten pounds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As a professional bra
fitter for Maidenform in a former life, I suspect I might have to go up in my band size. There
was no way around actually visiting a brick and mortar store. I was going to
have to actually <i>try the bras on</i>
before buying. And somewhere in the last ten years, I have gone from a woman
who likes to shop, occasionally, to a woman who mostly orders not only
clothes, but sometimes even <i>groceries,</i> online.
Shopping is no longer a pleasant prospect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As in, I’d
rather wrassle a herd of hissing possums than shop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I brave the
traffic for the 20 mile trip to the nearest Kohl’s. They had the best selection
in my area the last time I shopped for bras… shall we say five years ago? Sure,
five years ago. No one wears bras as old as a first grader, right? Thank
goodness Kohl’s still has a good selection, and they still have the super sale
rack of the previous season’s styles that I remembered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I line bras
up on my left arm, looping my hand through the hangers as I remember from my
bra saleswoman days. Look at me-- I can carry many, many bras! Let’s see, four in my old size, four in the next larger
band size. No underwire, beige, rose, lilac, and “walnut” colors, some with
tags promising “lift,” some telling me they’ll keep me cool, some sporty
styles. Cause I’m so sporty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To the dressing
rooms. Nice, there’s a vacant stall. Hang up the bras. Wait—there are only two
hooks on the wall? Where am I supposed to put my clothes? I need one hook for
the bras to try on, one for the keepers, one hook for the rejects, and another
hook for my clothes. Is Kohl’s so hard up they can’t put more than two hooks in
a dressing room? Grumble. Haven’t tried on the first bra yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Disrobe the four
layers of clothing above the waist (hey—it’s a chilly 40 degrees in the
Carolinas, brrr), try to ignore the static electricity sending blue sparks flying,
hope the louvered dressing room door is not showing anyone the white-haired lady
contorting herself to hook up the first bra she’s tried on in five years. Who
thinks it’s a good idea to put louvered doors on dressing rooms anyway? Why do
most bras hook in the back and not the front? Are my arms shorter than they
used to be? Sheesh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Okay, it’s
too snug. The old band size is not going to cut it. Guess the old bras must’ve
stretched out just a wee bit. The cups look funny, too. Gamely, I try on
several more in my old size, since there can be variations in sizing between
brands. Nope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Deep breath.
Okay, going up a band size is not the end of the world. I try on the first one in
the new size. The band fits great, but the cups look like someone is trying to
put too much batter in the cupcake pan. So to speak. But this cannot be. To go
up a band size and a cup size? Nah. Not me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I keep
trying the different brands, somewhat optimistically
hoping there’s one that fits. But, alas. After bra number eight, I bid
adieu to the fair boobs of youth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I re-robe
myself in the four layers. Delegate the rejected bras to, as the Kohl’s sign
says, the “we’ll put them back” rack outside the dressing room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Okay, so it’s
the new (doesn’t that sound better than “bigger”?) band size and maybe a new
cup size, too. Ouch. I remember as an under-endowed teenager how I longed,
really and truly longed for more hoohas to fill a bra bigger than a triple A. Yes, bras do come that small.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now I understand why my bigger busted friends complain that smaller is better. Never
did I dream I’d have bazumbas at this point in my life, but perimenopause, menopause,
and beyond have unexpected consequences even for the formerly small busted
woman. Big consequences. Why, oh why, so big? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The rest of the story: I find some
bras that fit and are moderately comfortable. They still come off as soon as I
get home from work, most days. They are new, not stretched out and shredding. I
can afford them. My breasts are healthy. That’s the good news.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The bad news
is that bra shopping is udderly exhausting. It takes me two days to recover from
all that driving, dressing, undressing, revelations, reevaluations,
recriminations, and ultimately, acceptance of the body I’ve got. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Kohl’s—thanks a million. See you in...er, five years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-47307425481948433942014-11-17T20:00:00.000-08:002014-11-17T17:05:29.836-08:00Fashion "Disasters" ... or Maybe Not<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Thinking maybe it was time I participated in a Throw-Back Thursday on Facebook, I grabbed a box of old photos I'd found recently. Many Throw-Back photos focus on fashion disasters, and there was no doubt in mind I could find a photo of one of my own fashion disasters. After all, I turned 18 in 1975. The seventies and eighties were frightening years for fashion in oh, so many ways.<br />
<br />
Thumbing through the photos, I noticed for the first time that there aren't many of me. Guess that can happen when you're more comfortable taking the pix than being in them.<br />
<br />
In the few photos of me, I often didn't look half-bad. Gasp. That I looked just fine astonishes me. No, I'm no narcissist, but low self esteem and I do have more than a passing acquaintance. Not labeled the "pretty sister" in the family, I never had a positive body image, and in those days was resigned to being what I considered decidedly chubby. I didn't absolutely <i>hate</i> my looks back then, but I certainly didn't <i>love</i> my image in the mirror in those days.<br />
<br />
Most of the pix show me in jeans and a sweater, or short-shorts and a cotton top. Not really what I'd call total fashion disasters. I was even rocking hoodie jackets before they were hijacked by hipsters. A real trend setter, bwah-ha-ha--not really!<br />
<br />
With the few scraps of wisdom I've gained since then, I see in my earlier self a young woman who was in her prime, slim, with a pretty smile and sparkly eyes. Decidedly not chubby, and if I had been chubby, that wouldn't have been the end of the world, now would it?<br />
<br />
Too bad I didn't enjoy and celebrate my appearance more back in my teens, twenties, and thirties! What time I wasted worrying about my appearance!<br />
<br />
Finally, at the bottom of the box, I found the photo that qualifies as a fashion disaster. It's a red plaid dress, buttoned up to the neck, with a skinny black grosgrain ribbon tie. That 1984 dress hadn't crossed my mind in 30 years, but once I saw it, I remembered I indeed thought it was pretty. It was a nice quality dress that I wore for many years, and I felt good about myself when I wore it. Nowadays it looks vaguely <i>Little House on the Prairie</i> or perhaps a garment a "sister-wife" would wear. The bobbed hair was not my best look, either. Slightly cringe-worthy, but sheer youth and good health can make up for most any fashion faux pas.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-axLW46JPxVs/UO48YvAIaeI/AAAAAAAAANs/jZdeft8wt9M/s1600/Mel+xmas+1984+larger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-axLW46JPxVs/UO48YvAIaeI/AAAAAAAAANs/jZdeft8wt9M/s400/Mel+xmas+1984+larger.jpg" height="307" width="400" /></a>Some other photos in the box show me in the garb I wore while I was a commercial fisherman. One of only two women on the island who worked crab pots, there's a shot of me looking like the Gorton fisherman. But I look happy, even though my jacket is stained with fish blood. Surely many people would see the goofy red visor and grubby slickers and judge this the ultimate fashion disaster.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lE0UXEHdhU8/UO5EUjJM0fI/AAAAAAAAAOc/dN5RysBMpcI/s1600/Mel+boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lE0UXEHdhU8/UO5EUjJM0fI/AAAAAAAAAOc/dN5RysBMpcI/s320/Mel+boat.jpg" height="246" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
For once, looking at that awkward girl that I was, I feel nothing but pride. Happiness, youth, health, and a smile can make a fashion disaster seem trivial in comparison.<br />
<br />
So yellow rainslickers are okay with me. However, you can bet I won't be tying a grosgrain ribbon around my neck again in this lifetime.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-7714086375845110332014-11-06T16:40:00.002-08:002014-11-17T17:06:32.374-08:00Ernest Hemingway: The Joys and Dangers of Reading<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Depending on the day I’m having, I blame, or thank, Ernest
Hemingway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reading his books as a teen was dangerous. <i>For Whom the Bell Tolls</i> did me in. I
followed it with everything he’d written. Hemingway made me think that it was possible for
a kid from the suburbs to have an adventurous life. That the adventurous life
was worth seeking. That there was more to me than a studious, meek, naive homebody.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So instead of going to college at 18, I embarked on the twisting,
turning, jumbled journey of this life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to work in an auto plant, making cars on an assembly
line. An unintentional trailblazer, I was one of the first women autoworkers in
the 1970s.<br />
<br />
As a member of the UAW, I got an education in unions, learned to
question authority. I found out what sexual harassment is, observed what
alcoholism can do to people at a young age, and grasped how mind-numbing factory work
can be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m thankful someone wants to do that work; I respect
factory workers immensely, but I could not survive the assembly line. Chrysler Corporation was floundering and laid me off from time to time, leaving me time
to discover the next phase.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After breaking up with my high school boyfriend, I dated.
Dating sucks. I pray I never have to date again. Family members introduced me
to a fishing guide on an obscure, hurricane-lashed island, accessible only by
ferries that sometimes didn’t run. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hemingway whispered in my ear, told me that islands =
adventure. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep, before I knew it, I was living under primitive
conditions on Ocracoke Island, and married the fishing guide. I learned to cook
in a fledgling gourmet restaurant, trained by a rebellious, classically trained
female chef. Years passed, and I became a real estate broker, discovering I
didn’t have to be paralyzed by shyness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The marriage ended as I opened my own real estate firm and
beach-clothing store. Just as the businesses began turning a profit, a commercial
dredge crashed into the main bridge needed to get to our island ferries. With
the bridge down, the businesses were ruined. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I parted from the island I’d loved for 13 years. My new man
and I sold a few remaining assets, bought an old van, and refurbished a 1964
Holiday Rambler camper. We set out on a 2 year odyssey around the United
States, logging 40,000 miles along the way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve had a few more adventures since then. Enough to agree with Hem that "life is a moveable feast."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And through it all, with each wild twist and turn, each heartbreak, each top of the world, look at that green valley below moment, Hemingway smiled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-91177237263642016972014-10-03T13:10:00.001-07:002014-11-17T17:07:31.792-08:00Many Paws and a raffle for a free book!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you agree with me that menopause bites, then it may not
be too much of a stretch to go from menopause to <i>Many Paws</i>. Woof.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t hate me because I love puns. <o:p></o:p><img src="http://www.manypawsforwomen.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/home_book_3qtr.jpg?3758dd" /><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Many Paws</i> is a new
“altered book” by writer and artist, Susan DeGarmo. She loves puns, too. From
the flaming red-orange cover to the detachable last page of purple irises that
can be converted to a hot flash fan, DeGarmo acknowledges the pitfalls that
many of us experience during “the change.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Many Paws</i> is
Susan’s adroit way of disguising the subject of the book, since “no southern
lady is going to have a book laying round that
says ‘Menopause.’”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, if you leave the book on your coffee table, the
ladies from church may be startled to flip open the pop-up book and see artwork of a reclining female nude, covered in strategic places with long-eared white “hares,” since “Now gray
hairs are everywhere!” <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, honestly, church ladies aren’t as easily shocked as
they used to be. Especially if they are struggling with changes of their own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What it is: <i>Many Paws</i>, Susan DeGarmo's altered book from Meaux Books that is customizable. You can put your own
photos, or those of a loved one, over the heads of some of the figures in the
book. If you give the book to a friend, for example, you can put her face in the book. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How it came to be: DeGarmo was teaching a class about making
altered books while having a hot flash, and Voila! <i>Many Paws</i> came to be.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What makes it unique: It’s a pop-up book for adults! It has
moving parts! It has (tasteful) nudity! It socks menopause a big one in the
kisser!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Conclusion: A great gift book for anyone in or approaching menopause. Even
those women who are having an "easier" time with the change will appreciate the
humor and pathos. The art work is fun and inspiring!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Make a comment below to be entered in a raffle for a free
copy of <i>Many Paws</i>. One entry per
person, please.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
http://www.manypawsforwomen.com/<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Disclosure: I was provided copies of the books, but the
opinions expressed are my own. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-27286778208468262382014-07-31T14:35:00.001-07:002014-11-17T17:08:30.316-08:00Wolf Hall, I Can't Quit You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Wolf Hall</i>, a 2009 historical novel by Hilary Mantel, takes place in the time of Henry VIII. She won the Man Booker prize for her work.<br />
<br />
However...<br />
<br />
Mantel is driving me <b>crazy </b>with her distracting use of the pronoun "he" without adhering to the rules of pronoun usage.<br />
<br />
If we use he, we are usually referring to the last man mentioned. For instance: Norman carried a hatchet. He took it with him everywhere. The "he" means Norman. Not Thomas Cromwell!<br />
<br />
"He" is the narrator of <i>Wolf Hall,</i> and Mantel plays games with the pronoun "he" so that I'm constantly re-reading to figure out if her "he" is Cromwell, Henry VIII, or another one of the dozens of males who populate the book.<br />
<br />
Now that I have that off my chest, here is an intriguing passage from early in Wolf Hall. The first speaker is Norris, an attendant of the King; the other speaker is "he," Thomas Cromwell, who has served the now diminished Cardinal Wolsey.<br />
<br />
"You know my lord cardinal is indicted under the statutes of praemunire, for asserting a foreign jurisdiction in the land."<br />
"Don't teach me the law."<br />
Norris inclines his head.<br />
He thinks, since last spring, when things began to go wrong, I should have persuaded my lord cardinal to let me manage his revenues, and put money away abroad where they can't get it; but then he would never admit anything was wrong. Why did I let him rest so cheerful?<br />
Norris's hand is on his horse's bridle. "I was ever a person who admired your master," he says, "and I hope that in his adversity he will remember that."<br />
"I thought he wasn't in adversity? According to you."<br />
How simple it would be, if he were allowed to reach down and shake some straight answers out of Norris. But it's not simple; this is what the world and the cardinal conspire to teach him. Christ, he thinks, by my age I ought to know. You don't get on by being original. You don't get on by being bright. You don't get on by being strong. You get on by being a subtle crook; somehow he thinks that's what Norris is, and he feels an irrational dislike taking root, and he tries to dismiss it, because he prefers his dislikes rational, but after all, these circumstances are extreme, the cardinal in the mud, the humiliating tussle to get him back in the saddle, the talking, talking on the barge, and worse, the talking, talking on his knees, as if Wolsey's unraveling, in a great unweaving of scarlet thread that might lead you back into a scarlet labyrinth, with a dying monster at its heart.<br />
<br />
Are you still with me? Damn, what awesome prose! So despite the annoying confusion over which "he" is "he," I'm still reading on page 400 of 500+ pages. I've tried to quit you, <i>Wolf Hall</i>, and I can't.<br />
<br />
Le sigh.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-65585648143579186552014-07-29T19:57:00.000-07:002014-11-17T17:09:33.457-08:00A Poem Made for Menopause<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What’s that Smell in the Kitchen?<br />
<br />
All over America women are burning dinners.<br />
It's lambchops in Peoria; it's haddock<br />
in Providence; it's steak in Chicago<br />
tofu delight in Big Sur; red<br />
rice and beans in Dallas.<br />
All over America women are burning<br />
food they're supposed to bring with calico<br />
smile on platters glittering like wax.<br />
Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined<br />
but spewing out missiles of hot fat.<br />
Carbonized despair presses like a clinker<br />
from a barbecue against the back of her eyes.<br />
If she wants to grill anything, it's<br />
her husband spitted over a slow fire.<br />
If she wants to serve him anything<br />
it's a dead rat with a bomb in its belly<br />
ticking like the heart of an insomniac.<br />
Her life is cooked and digested,<br />
nothing but leftovers in Tupperware.<br />
Look, she says, once I was roast duck<br />
on your platter with parsley but now I am Spam.<br />
Burning dinner is not incompetence but war.<br />
--Marge Piercy<br />
<br />
Just as T. S. Eliot’s “Prufrock” character ("The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock") measured out his life in coffee spoons, Piercy’s speaker measures her life with Tupperware leftovers. Sometimes you’re the roast duck—others you’re the Spam. Relationships and aging are not for the cowardly. Men, be very afraid.<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-89834308731779154742014-03-21T14:18:00.001-07:002014-03-21T14:24:06.042-07:00Bloglovin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Want an easy way to follow Is This the Middle?<br />
<br />
Bloglovin is the way to go!<br />
<br />
I follow an obscene number of blogs there because they make it so easy to read my favorites. They even suggest blogs based on your history. (Totally un-sponsored plug.)<br />
<br />
http://www.bloglovin.com/</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-15649632346789517972014-02-20T18:41:00.001-08:002014-11-17T17:10:17.928-08:00Me and Joe Went to the Store: And an English Teacher Weeps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me and Joe went to the store.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This line in a student essay sent me freefalling over the
edge today. I’d only finished grading a short stack of essays, but all of them
had too many basic errors like this one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of my community college students this semester don’t
know that it should be “Joe and I went to the store.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thought hit me hard and made me angry. Steam-out-of-the-ears
angry. Then, sad, very sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How could these students think “Me and Joe went” was a
proper construction?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to blame someone for shortchanging my students, for
not teaching them the basics that were drilled into me at school so young that
I don’t even remember learning them. Even at home, Grandmother, Mother, Dad,
and older siblings automatically corrected my grammar. I was lucky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my students apparently didn’t get that instruction at
school and at home. Or, if they did, for a variety of reasons, they didn’t
listen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These students range in age from 17 to 45, and because we
are in a military town, they were schooled at different places, at different
times, all over the country and sometimes in other countries. They are not a
homogenous group of local 18 year-olds, so the local public school system can’t
be scapegoated here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet they were robbed if their education did not teach them
the difference between a complete sentence and a fragment, a comma splice and a
coordinating conjunction. We had devoted 2 full class periods to a review, with
in-class exercises and homework to these particular basics. I called it a
review, since I was sure this was information they already knew, and they
looked bored. They should have looked scared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I’ve read their essays, I wonder if there is enough
time left in the semester to bring their grammar up to a passable college
level. I’m not really supposed to be teaching grammar and punctuation. Students
who arrive in this class are presumed to have these basics mastered—it says so
in the state-mandated course description-- and to be ready for me to teach them
how to write a college level essay. This <i>is</i>
the essay writing class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, ha and double ha.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I never find all my students equally prepared, but
this semester is different. They are just as bright as always, but they are
going to have to struggle more than any class I’ve seen in my twelve years
teaching. To bring their basic grammar and punctuation skills up to a level
that will allow them to pass any curriculum classes that involve written
assignments will be a challenge. They will have to scramble, to work their butts off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Further, do I tell them they were robbed? Do I ask them if
they slept through middle school and high school? Do I read them the riot act
about listening more carefully to my grammar advice? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do I exhort them to become community leaders, state
senators, members of the U.S. Congress so they can work to make an American education
something to be proud of? (I’ve been known to go off on this topic in class
before, but hadn’t got around to it yet this semester.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some of these students are hanging by a piece of dental
floss already. They tend to be fragile. They
are not the golden boys and girls of America, for the most part—not many silver
spoons at our school. They are the ones coming back to school after having
children young, or who had dropped out of college previously, or who’ve recently
left an abusive relationship, or who are wounded combat veterans trying their
damndest to ease back into civilian life. Some of my students don’t even have much food
in the house. Some work two jobs. My students are not overflowing with
confidence that they will make it to the end of the semester, much less to the
end of their degree or program.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days I have to remind myself that I’m an English
teacher, not a psychologist or a social worker, although our dedicated campus
counselors know me by my first name. I want to make it right for my students. I
don’t want to make them feel any “less-than” they already do. Some of them are skittish
as rabbits, looking for any reason to bolt from school. So I favor the gentle
approach. I want them to do well. I don’t want them to feel ashamed. Or blamed.
Or heaven forbid… dumb.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the time we will now have to spend on basic grammar will
take away from the time normally spent on some of the finer points of
transitioning from high school to college writing. This first college English
class is really considered a “service class” to the other, non-English college classes
students will take that require writing papers. They aren’t taking this class
because they want be English majors. That doesn’t mean I will expect any less
of them, but realistically I keep reminding them that what I teach will help
them write better papers for sociology, history, biology—any class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ll try to make the most of the weeks we have left. I will
do what I can to help them, to prod them, to get the ones who aren’t
afraid to work hard ready for the next level English class. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
They won’t all make it; even the ones that pass will have
much more catching up to do. And that makes me angry all over again.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-4577271966784540352014-01-13T19:42:00.000-08:002014-01-13T19:42:09.989-08:00Am I Radical Enough For the Challenge?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some nice person over at Healthline.com keeps nominating me for “Health Blog of the Year” and “Menopause Blog of the Year.” Guilty
after not having posted anything since September of 2013, I shall try to revive
my blogging muse. Thank you, kind anonymous reader, for the prod. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My last post was gloomy, followed by months of gloom. While
I haven’t shied away from writing about some of the sadder parts of midlife,
the past months didn’t seem like anything I wanted to impose upon my readers. For
me, sometimes writing about depression doesn’t do anything but make the
depression more real and makes it harder for me to masquerade as a healthy,
happy person. Not that anyone seems particularly fooled into thinking I’m in
the best mood EVER.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s also that little voice that says, it could be worse,
you don’t have the right to be sad. Schmutzie does a good job of refuting this
notion <a href="http://www.schmutzie.com/weblog/2011/5/9/it-bears-repeating.html" target="_blank">here</a>. If I’m sad, I’m sad, even if there is food in the pantry and the electric bill
has been paid and I have a job. I can still be sad, even if I have a good
credit score.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not just me being moody for no reason. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People I care
about keep getting sick, people keep dying. Friends are being hurt and
abandoned by their partners. My husband and I are basically alone in caring for
both of our elderly mothers. Then the Menopause-from-hell, teaching for a
living, and tight finances don’t lower my stress level at all. Although I have
been known to have a gallow-ish sense of humor, humor can only take you so far
in the face of some of life’s tougher months and years. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stress is really getting to me. It takes a lot to admit
this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a recent article about Anne Lamott, long one of my mentors,
she said she was going to practice “radical self-care.” Geeky me started
researching this term. Is this what I need? What exactly is it? Radical.
Self-care. Would I allow myself some radical self-care? This feels like a life
preserver thrown to me by Anne Lamott.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, a routine visit to the dentist revealed I’d been
walking around for at least a month with a wisdom tooth that was broken in
half. Could a stress injury be any more symbolic? A <i>wisdom</i> tooth, cracked from stress-clenching my jaw so tightly that
I broke one of my own body parts?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stress can kill” is such a cliché. No woman wants to think
that stress can kill her. That if she doesn’t, no really, if she DOESN'T take
care of herself in a BIG way, in a RADICAL way, she may die from stress. The
needs of my body and soul are calling, pleading, screaming, for change. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I don’t know what self-care
is. I’m afraid I don’t know how to make radical self-care a priority.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did manage a half hour walk tonight, I ate black-eyed peas
and collards for dinner, and here I am writing about self-care. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe these are the first steps to making it happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-68283920348042370442013-09-24T20:29:00.001-07:002013-09-24T20:29:31.976-07:00Trying to understand <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes a series of events seizes you, shakes you hard,
bewilders you. You search for words to comfort those who have lost a loved one,
but words sound hollow. Like a snake chasing its tail, your thoughts circle,
with no resolution and little rest.<div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It started with a pet, a sweet, companionable, blue-eyed cat
who was losing weight. No problem, I’ll intensify my efforts, take him back to
the vet, try this, try that; I’ll nurse him back to health. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know how to give
TLC to a cat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, he continued to decline over weeks before my
disbelieving eyes. On a Friday another trip to the vet reassured us that his
blood work was okay, but over the weekend he spiraled downhill. By Monday we
tearfully made the decision to end his struggle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Helpless. I was sure I could mend him, but I was powerless
to save him. Some would say he was just a cat, but when he looked into your
face, there seemed to be a soul behind those eyes. I stroked him for the last
time as the vet put the needle in Blue’s leg, and his big round blue eyes
closed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend of over 15 years, Jim, who sometimes picks up a
day’s work with my husband, dug Blue’s grave while we took the kitty for his
last trip to the doctor. Jim is empathetic that way, and was glad to help out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Days later, Jim’s wife, Lillian, took her own life with a
shotgun blast to her head. The scene was so awful that seasoned police officers
cried. Lillian left behind children, grandchildren, and a shell-shocked
husband. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words come out of your mouth, but you know they are no
comfort. Or pitifully inadequate comfort. But you say them anyway. Jim’s
previous wife had died of cancer, and now this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few more days passed, and a neighbor, 36, went out alone
on her paddleboard in the afternoon. Extremely physically fit, she somehow met
with an accident. Sheriff’s deputies and another neighbor in his boat found her
body floating in the creek hours later. She had drowned. A phys-ed teacher, she
was a wife and a mother of two children under six-years of age.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A week passed, and a former student, Frank, who visits about
once a year, stopped by to see me. He’d lost a lot of weight, and told me he had
bad news. Oh, no, the cancer, I thought, knowing from his last visit that he’d
had a biopsy. But the shocking news was that he had lost his wife of 35 years
to a botched routine surgery at the end of June. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said. “I was
supposed to go first. Why am I still here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We chatted for a while, and as we talked about religion and
the possibility of life after death, Frank mentioned that he’d read <i>Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon’s Journey
into the Afterlife</i>, by Eben Alexander.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Strangely enough, I had also purchased that same title, but
hadn’t worked up the courage to read it—I thought it would undoubtedly make me
cry, thinking about my own lost loved ones, even if it gave me hope to think
that a formerly disbelieving doctor had experienced death and returned
convinced of an afterlife.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did my best to comfort Frank—he’s a “no b.s.” kind of guy,
so the normal platitudes were quickly dispensed with as we talked about death,
and how a healthy woman can die with a careless slip of a surgeon’s blade for
the simplest of procedures. Frank blames himself, too, for not listening when
his wife said she didn’t like the doctor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank has grown children and a couple of grandchildren who
have rallied around and give him emotional support. I was impressed that he had
come to school to tell me what had happened; it seemed to be a difficult
mission he’d worked himself up to perform. Perhaps it was a station on his road
of grief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart ached for him in his sorrow, but after all the
other recent deaths, I was also somewhat numb. My midlife wisdom, often a comfort, let
me down. My efforts to understand why
all these tragedies were happening to people in our circle were futile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Intellectually I know that difficulties do converge at
times, but it’s hard not to feel broken when so many are suffering in every
direction. Just like when I was trying to nurse Blue back to health, I want to
make it all better, to mend the broken friends, to mend myself. I used to have
much more confidence that I could make it all better. Part of the lesson here
seems to be that not even a smart, capable midlife lady with all the good will
and determination a woman can muster, has the power to fix broken hearts. The
owner of each heart must fix his or her own. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one else can do the work.And it can be slow, hard, messy, lengthy work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-23218285676188552882013-08-06T19:30:00.001-07:002013-08-07T05:55:05.603-07:00Giving Thanks for Students<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have I told you lately about the
best part of my job as a community college teacher? No?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The students.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank God for the students.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This summer semester I taught a
2/3 instead of a full time load for the first time in many years, thinking that
a lighter load would help with some health issues and a mild case of burnout. Instead, I learned that
the lighter load still brought with it the stress of being a faculty member in
the state of North Carolina. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you heard the news about us
lately? We had a pretty good reputation in our institutions of higher education,
but funding has been cut to the bone, and in some cases the bone was amputated.
My persecution complex has gone into overdrive—the depth of the hatred some
people have toward teachers is finally getting to me. The state legislature,
along with a rampant mice and roach infestation in my moldy, windowless office
building made the “lighter load” of the summer semester seem not as “light” as
I’d hoped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My morale has been in the toilet.
The basement toilet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then today as I was scrambling to
complete the long end-of-semester checklist in time to take a short break
before “Fall” semester starts next week, yes, on August 13<sup>th</sup>, a
student knocked on my door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, no. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In she came, in search of
academic advising for Fall semester classes. The advising period had ended two
weeks ago. A silent inward groan raised bile in my throat. She did not have an appointment. I did not want to
take time from grading papers, posting final grades, and filling out official
paperwork in quadruplicate to assist her. Usually advising for a full load of classes can take an hour, and I had hoped to be finished for the day in a hour. My head was pounding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I gestured to the comfy upholstered
chair I brought from home to make students feel welcome in my cave of an office,
and asked her how I could help. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sat. Caroline is in her
sixties, African American, a pretty lady with high cheekbones and a self-effacing
manner. While I was pulling out her file, I asked her to remind me what her
major was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What do I want to be when I grow
up? I don’t know. I really don’t know why I’m even taking classes. I guess I
just want to improve myself.” She chuckled lightly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We talked a bit about the
differences between an Associate of Arts and an Associate of Science degree,
and Caroline said she wasn’t sure if she would be seeking a degree, but she
wanted to keep taking classes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I take care of my mother and my
nephew,” she said, “so I don’t have a lot of time for my studies.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, I take care of my mom, too,”
I piped in. “She still lives on her own, but I try to help her out with
groceries and doctors’ appointments.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My mom has dementia,” Caroline
said, so softly I could barely hear her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, damn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Taking classes helps me to get
out of the house for a little bit, and think about something else besides my
own troubles. Being around the younger people helps me. They’re fun to be with.
I need to take an 8:00 class, though, so I can get back home to take care of
Mom.” She smiled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had taken a developmental
math course over the summer semester, and wanted to continue with the next math
course in her sequence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was it—she only wanted to
take the one class. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s all I have time for, but
I want to keep taking classes. I don’t know where it will lead me, but I want
to keep using my brain.” Courage, I thought, and tenacity. Sacrifice. Strength. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We filled out her registration
form, chatted for a few more minutes, and shook hands. She left my office to stand in line at the registrar's for her fall class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, it’s the students that are
the best part of my job. Thank God for the students.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-20832442723067974032013-06-24T09:02:00.000-07:002013-06-24T09:02:38.001-07:00Wick my (sweaty) troubles away: Cool-jams to the rescue!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Companies are not showering me with free stuff. That’s okay,
I’m not hurt. Pass the vodka, please. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when Cool-jams sleepwear contacted me inquiring if I
wanted to try a nightgown—for FREE and review it on my blog—I jumped up and
down and did the happy dance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I am occasionally that shallow. I like
pretty things, so sue me. And hey, the idea that a company knew my blog existed
and wanted me to test drive their product was a stroke to my wild and hungry
ego. Come on, those of you who are regular readers know that I do not normally endorse
products, and I’ve been blogging for 3 years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even though I had decided long ago that my blog was not
going to be a source of filthy lucre, that my motives were of a higher, more
pure cause than mere pecuniary rewards could hope to match, (ha-ha) I snatched at the
chance of a new nightgown and a better night’s sleep. Yep, I snatched that
nightgown faster than a duck on a June bug.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ugly truth is that since the tendrils of perimenopause first
began twining around my fair neck, yay, those many years ago, I have sweated
EVERY night. I was 35 when I first noted that sensation of mild night sweats. No
biggy at the time, and I certainly didn’t associate it with the oncoming tidal
wave of warmth. Believe me, sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the years passed, regardless of the season, the level of
air conditioning, the speed of the ceiling fan, the size of the window open to
the frosty air, or the type of night clothes or covers, I … well, there is no
delicate way to put this. If horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow, I
glowed enough to light up a medium-sized city. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sleep is elusive enough through perimenopause, menopause,
and beyond, without the added discomfort of damp night clothes. Some women even
find they need to get up to change their p.j.’s and sheets before they have any
hope of returning to a fitful rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enter Cool-jams. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, color me skeptical. I’d heard about wicking sleepwear for
years, but frankly did not believe the hype. No one I knew had tried the
products. The idea that merely changing to a different fabrication of pajama
would make a difference seemed ludicrous. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Raised during the years when polyester and other man-made
fabrics first became mainstream, I had a built-in prejudice against poly that was
hard to overcome. I couldn’t imagine that a poly fabric would be anything other
than sweat-inducing, somewhat like sleeping in a plastic bag.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My lovely violet Cool-jams “Julia” gown and Cool-jams pillowcase
arrived lickety-split once I agreed to test the products. I washed them both
according to directions, and embarked on my nighttime adventure, still not
expecting much, if any positive results.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was wrong. Oh, so wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not say this lightly, but Cool-jams wicking sleepwear
is a game changer. I wish I had tried this product 15 years ago. I don’t know
how it works; I don’t care. But when I woke up several times during the night,
as is my norm, I was dry. No sweat. Nowhere. No how.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bliss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pillowcase was an added bonus for my hot head, but the
night gown was the key to making my dreams of a dry night’s sleep come true. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cool-jams are not cheap—they run about $40-$60, sometimes
less, but would make an excellent gift suggestion for those times when a
baffled friend or family member asks you what you want for your birthday,
holiday, or other occasion. Cool-jams do have sales; they come in a full range
of sizes. I’ve had my nightgown for several months and it has washed and worn
well. This product is high quality. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Normally I do not spend this much on sleepwear, but after
suffering through years of night sweats, I would gladly save up my greenbacks to
purchase this product. They are that good. In fact, I hate taking my gown off in the morning to put "real" clothes on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Test results: Cool Jams Sleepwear: 4 out of 4 stars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Verdict: Worth the price for the comfort of sleeping dry.
Don’t suffer one more night in a puddle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really. If something so simple can improve
the quality of our lives, we need to do it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.cool-jams.com/nightgowns.html">http://www.cool-jams.com/nightgowns.html</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cool-Jams provided me with a nightgown and pillowcase but
did not otherwise pay for this review. The views expressed are my own. They
also have bedding and men’s p.j.’s.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-36791569036611024202013-05-28T08:48:00.000-07:002014-01-25T09:09:01.039-08:00For the Love of Old Houses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t fascinated by houses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mostly it was <i>old</i>
houses, especially if they had <i>old stuff</i>
in them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a Victorian brick ruin near my elementary school;
naturally, my sister and I explored it. We scared ourselves silly imagining ghostly
women in long skirts. We climbed rickety, mahogany-trimmed stairs; peeling,
flowery, wallpaper fluttered as we ran, giggling, startled by our own
reflections in cracked window glass. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So many houses, so little time. The occasional trespass. But
the houses! The stuff!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A yard sale with my parents, at a farmhouse with a detached
kitchen, complete with a top- of- the-line chromed wood-burning cook stove. In
a corner stood a Hoosier cabinet with a well-cared for porcelain top, though concealed
under a layer of dust. How I lusted for the house, the kitchen, the woodstove,
the Hoosier. Dad bought the Hoosier for $5.00. He and Mom gave it to me when I
got married. I still mourn the house and the cook stove.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a twelve year old, I read the real estate section of the
newspaper regularly. At that time “urban renewal” was a new concept. Our city,
in an effort to curtail the razing of historic houses, offered them for $1.00
(yes, $1.00!) to buyers who pledged to fix them up and live in them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look, Mom, this one is from 1810, and it has the original
wide-plank oak floors. Check out the crown moldings!” l called from the
breakfast table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Was there ever such a strange child? These houses needed to
be saved, and I wanted to bring them back from the brink. Once they were gone,
they were gone forever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom politely read the piece, and while appreciating my
interest in historic structures, threw cold water on my plans to use my
babysitting money to buy a brick townhouse in the inner city. It would cost too
much to fix it up, she explained, as kindly as she could.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But, Mom, the tax credits!” Are you surprised that I later
became a real estate broker? If there is such a thing as a real estate nerd,
then I was one before Trump was a gleam in his daddy’s eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Contributing to my old house delinquency was my grandmother, Dorothy.
Although we didn’t get to visit her very often, my Gran lived in an 1880 white
elephant on Lake Sunapee, New Hampshire, during the 1960s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This seemed completely typical to me. Didn’t everyone’s
granny operate a “guest house?” A guest house was an early version of the bed
and breakfast, without the breakfast. Gran and her husband catered to city folk
escaping the heat of the summer, and skiers looking for bargain accommodations
in the winter. The house had nine guest rooms that, gulp, shared one hall bath.
Times have changed, eh?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gran married her third husband, Bert Sawyer, in 1960, having
met him while staying at the guest house he ran on the lakeshore. He was much
older; she was a hard worker, with a resume as a fine cook and housekeeper for
the wealthy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bert was always kind to me, his odd, house-obsessed
step-granddaughter. I shyly returned his affection, and then fell
head-over-heels in love… with his house, his basement, his attics, his barn,
his numerous and varied outbuildings, his boathouse, his tenant houses, and his
boat dock. Yes, dear Bert was house poor, but that was not a concept I had yet learned
in my study of the real estate pages. The upkeep--think of it! Merely keeping a
coat of paint on the structures would have been expensive and exhausting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Sawyer House, as it was known, was full, from basement
to attics, with the accumulation of over eighty years of Bert’s collecting and
ingrained New England thriftiness. Very little had been thrown out. In the
basement, a dirt-floored room was full of salt-glazed earthenware crocks of
every size, shape, design, and description. The hulking coal-furnace had been
converted to oil, and cost “the earth” to run each winter, so Gran said.
Closets in the house were stuffed with 1920s raccoon coats, tattered flapper
dresses, galoshes with rusty metal buckles, ladies’ hat boxes, skis, and ice
skates in every size for those long winters. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The house attic boasted a buffalo hide, trunks full of old
linens, dusty rugs. Books were everywhere; for a bookworm like me, it was
heaven, even if some of the books were a bit musty. The barn attic was accessed
by one of my favorite features—a cast iron spiral staircase! I swooned over
that stair, imagining that one day I would have a cast iron spiral staircase in
my own house, somehow, someway. The barn basement was brightly lit by many
mullions and smelled of sweet hay, even though the chickens, cows, and horses
were long gone. I pictured the barn cellar converted to an artist’s studio,
with the eastern light bouncing in off Lake Sunapee, and grownup me, in a
smock, standing at my easel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gran showed me old platters, feathered with age, taught me
what “flow blue” china was, told me the romantic legend that goes along with
the Blue Willow plates, and instructed me that fine crystal made a musical “ping” when flicked with a finger. Her
domain, the sunny, high-ceilinged kitchen, ran the full width of the house. The
brightly windowed butler’s pantry with its tomato-red pots of geraniums faced
west. On the sun porch, I napped on the ratty bench seat removed from an old
Chevrolet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crackled cobalt blue vases and ruby glass pitchers gleamed
in the window over the broad front stairs that wound up from the large foyer.
Pocket doors led to parlors with faded upholstered furniture. Bert let me
rummage in the cubbies of his roll-top desk. When I found a turquoise ring, he
insisted I have it as a keepsake. I have treasured it all these years, and will
never forget his unfailing kindness to a gangly girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were sad when gentle Bert passed away in 1970. Gran sold
the house to settle the estate with Bert’s grown daughters. We kept a precious
few items as mementos. I asked Mother if she could buy the house for Gran and us.
She explained that Dad’s job wasn’t in Sunapee, the old house took a lot of
money to maintain, and that it wasn’t practical. It just wasn’t in the budget. The
Sawyer House and contents sold for $30,000.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t resist looking at old houses, and dreaming. Sites
like oldhousedreams.com, historicproperties.com, and various preservation society’s
web pages are my regular haunts. I imagine the people who lived in old homes in
years past, and the ones who might move in and keep the houses alive in the
future.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, there’s a ramshackle ship captain’s house from the
1700s not too far from here that overlooks a saltwater creek. The floor is
totally rotted away, but the ceiling beams are heart pine… just imagine what
those beams have seen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The houses, the stuff, and the stories will always hold me
captive. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MU4WvwdAV3k/UaY2xjjn0II/AAAAAAAAAQc/wxfNTiGbaMM/s1600/From+Gran%2527s+House.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MU4WvwdAV3k/UaY2xjjn0II/AAAAAAAAAQc/wxfNTiGbaMM/s320/From+Gran%2527s+House.JPG" height="229" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-31876156655861917732013-04-15T18:36:00.002-07:002014-01-25T09:26:13.962-08:00Me, teach? No way!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the routine questions I ask my college English classes is, “Who plans
to be a teacher?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laughingly tell those who raise their hands that they can
be my “special helpers.” It’s useful to have students at the ready to hand out
copies, record lists when we brainstorm, put out the lights when we use the
projector. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, even some tough, abundantly tattooed, facially pierced college students want to be the teacher’s
special helpers. Especially if there is a whiff of extra credit in the air.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year has been different.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This semester, for the first time, when I asked about future
teachers… not one student raised her hand. In any of my classes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But who is going to teach the children?” I asked, lightly.
Were the future teachers too shy to declare themselves?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I have repeated the question several times over the
course of many weeks, I’m starting to worry. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I asked for a bit more information about why students
aren’t considering the teaching profession, first the incredulous stares spoke
volumes. A girl in the front row, a smart student, a hard worker, pulled back
from me as if I was contagious. A male student in back looked me over as if I
was promoting a bizarre religious cult.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A woman in the second row stammered, “Bbbut Ms. Bruce—teachers
don’t make enough money! I have two kids!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A 35 year-old male Marine Corps combat veteran spat, “Teach?
No way! I don’t think they’d appreciate the discipline I would want to give!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That got a round of chuckles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My high school was awful—most of the teachers could care
less if we learned anything. All they cared about were the EOG’s” (end of grade
tests). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, my little sister failed her last EOG’s and they
pushed her on to the next grade anyway. That was stupid. She wasn’t ready to be
promoted.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No Child Left Behind ruined everything. My mom’s a teacher
and she said she’d kill me if I ever decided to teach. She’s counting the days
to retirement.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But many of you have children!” I said. “Aren’t you worried
about who is going to teach them?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Heck, yes, I’m worried,” said a 30 year-old mother of
twins. “But it won’t be me. I don’t need that kind of abuse.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend and fellow blogger who works at a school in California recently vented
her frustration. “Most of the teachers are 'retired,' but the worst of it is…
they are still 'working' in the classroom. They show up in body, but expend the
bare minimum energy to teach.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m certainly not trying to indict my fellow educators. I’m
on the same team! They often have a thankless job. Many of them are doing the
best they can. No one got into teaching to be rich or famous. But at least
there used to be the prospect of a modicum of respect from students, parents,
administrators, the local community and even by elected officials. Teachers were not seen as leeches on the system, adversaries to “balanced
budgets.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some teachers, the grind year after year with little or
no support from administration or parents, turned once enthusiastic new teachers
into burned-out shells. The dropout rate for new teachers is sky-high. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nowadays, even college students who I see excited about
learning <i>and</i> are enjoying our class, wouldn’t
dream of teaching as their profession. I’m running out of time to try to change
their minds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who is going to teach the children? Does anyone know?<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-66454348911708419882013-03-28T14:19:00.003-07:002013-03-28T17:57:52.086-07:00Everyone Comes from an Old Family<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My last post, <a href="http://isthisthemiddle.blogspot.com/2013/02/memories-of-arcadia.html" target="_blank">Memories of Arcadia</a>, told a bit about my
adventures in family tree research. In its original form, the post was much
longer as I mused on tangents related to genealogy. Those tangents need saying,
sayeth me.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like this post title says, everyone comes from an “old
family.” I get a big kick out of TV shows or movies where some duke or duchess,
in referring to another member of the aristocracy, notes something along the
lines of “She comes from a very old family in Devon.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As if all the families in Devon are not old. This is silly.
We all come from scallywags, princes, and paupers. Thieves, chiefs, stable
hands, empresses. Priests, healers, zealots, idiots, ne’er do wells, geniuses,
farmers, city dwellers, conquerors, conquered, enslaved, free people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of all, we come from survivors.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My search through some of the branches of my father’s family
went easily, thanks to distant cousins who had already done much of the work
back to about 1640 and posted it online. Another break in my favor was the
county in Virginia where these ancestors lived for so many years has existing,
continuous court records. Just to have court records is unusual with the perils
of fire, floods, or other disasters. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Then too, this part of the family didn’t move West, but
remained “sticks” in the Virginia “mud” to this day. Finding the genealogical information
owes little to my research skills and more to luck. Other branches of the
family are proving much more difficult or impossible to trace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I pointed out in “Memories of Arcadia,” my forefather
Richard came to this country under a cloud, and quite possibly was an indentured
servant. My foremother Dorothy certainly was indentured, since Richard had to
purchase her freedom. Richard did amass some property by the sweat of his
labors, but he was no aristocrat. He was a farmer, just like some of your
ancestors undoubtedly were, whether in Africa, Asia, Europe, Australia, South
America or all of the above. Just because I have an inkling of part of my
bloodline in no way means my family is <i>older</i> or <i>better</i> than anyone else’s.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking at how our family tree is connected to so many other
family trees was a little dizzying. Finally I realized something you probably
already knew (hey, I’m not as brainy as I appear)—we don’t have to search back
many generations to see that we are all related. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep, all of us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So love us, like us, hate us, or don’t give a hoot—we are
all connected. We’re all in this together. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Pablo Casals, the famous cellist, said "We ought to think that we are one of the leaves of a tree, and the tree is all humanity. We cannot live without the others, without the tree."<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I think grandfather Richard and grandmother Dorothy would agree.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-70635546471153246702013-02-27T14:31:00.001-08:002013-02-27T14:36:38.577-08:00Memories of Arcadia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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I’ve been digging around the roots of the family tree, and
discovered an ancestor from the 1640s in Virginia who had a wee farm. Of 2,000
acres. Don’t get too excited—he probably came over as an indentured servant,
and a lot of the farm was marshy—more sea than land. We aren’t talking royalty
here-- He was a tobacco and sustenance farmer. Aside from farming, he must have
loved the sea, since he dwelt within sight of it until the end of his days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His name was Richard, and he had three wives over his long
life. Wife one was Dorothy, definitely an indentured servant, according to the
records. How desperate was an Englishwoman like Dorothy, to indenture herself
to live in the dangerous, god-forsaken colony that was Virginia? Richard agreed to
buy her freedom from another planter, by “replacing” her with a servant from the
group due to arrive on the next ship. She gave him the son from whom I am
descended.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next wife was Ruth. She was a pistol, and Richard must
have loved her to put up with her wild ways. Ruth was convicted of fornication,
and had two sons “from the other side of the blanket.” Richard stood by her and
got along so well with the two illegitimate sons they eventually took Richard’s
surname. Now that’s being broadminded, all the way around, for the 17<sup>th</sup>
century or any other time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wife three was Elizabeth, a much younger woman, who was with
him to his death. Richard referred to her in his will as his loving wife,
leaving her a life estate on his farm. The will mentions distribution of the
acreage, cows, sheep, horses, tobacco, bedsteads, and a few other basic, household
goods among the five children. Not a bad estate for a man who had arrived in
the New World with nothing and did not own slaves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In those days, conditions in Virginia were so harsh, that
many, especially indentured servants, did not survive their first two years in
the colony. The first year, called the “seasoning,” would have included
scorching, blistering heat, followed by an icy winter, when water drawn in
buckets for the livestock was frozen by morning. Clouds of biting insects, diseases,
back-breaking work, crop-failure, and scant food for many years was the lot of
most colonists. Setting traps for game, netting fish, eating venison, turtle, wild duck, geese, and
mud-hens, and glad to get them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Richard, who’d been converted to membership in the Society
of Friends by an itinerant preacher, noted in his will that he was departing
this life with much more than he deserved. He committed his soul to God, his body
to Mother Earth. I can find no known remnant of his dwelling place or his
grave. Much of the land is still under cultivation, right down to the marshy
edge of Gargathy Bay, with its outlet to the Atlantic Ocean.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place names from Richard’s day fascinate me. The creek
near his homestead he’d named “Long Love Branch.” The plantation--no, not Tara—it
was probably originally one room and a dirt floor-- was called “Arcadia,” a
reference to a district in ancient Greece, a symbolic, lost, rural place of
innocent bliss, as the dictionary tells me. A school near the site of his farm
bears the name Arcadia to this day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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You may have heard a Latin expression: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Et in Arcadia ego</i>.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Roughly translated, it means “I too lived in Arcadia,” and
as an inscription on a grave marker meant the departed one had also enjoyed the
metaphorical pleasures of an idyllic place, his own personal Arcadia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I too lived in Arcadia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Learning about Arcadia, Richard’s farm, explains a lot to me.
In high school my group of friends joked a lot about running away to live on an
island. I was the one who actually did, when I slipped off to live for 15 years
on Ocracoke Island, on North Carolina’s Outer Banks. I worked as a commercial fisherman
for years, and I’m sure that Richard took what fish, clams, crabs, and oysters
he could from the teeming waters near the farm. Although I have never raised
enough food to sustain me, I’ve dabbled in gardening, dirt under my
fingernails, since I was a child. I have had a compulsion to plant flowers, herbs, and
vegetables, even when I lived on sandy Ocracoke. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My years on the remote island were often idyllic, although
not without struggles and heartbreak. Yet, there I was free. The simple kind of
free that comes from not owning much, having few bills, being able to walk to
work or the grocery store, futzing around in a garden, having a few books and
the time to read them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I discovered Richard's Arcadia, I was not entirely surprised. Not to get all New Age-y, I believe some of us have a genetic memory that may
affect our lives in ways we don’t fully understand. These memories pull on us, giving us dirty hands
at the end of a summer day, calling us to live near the sea, and making our ears prick up at the sound of Canada geese flying overhead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As their 10th generation granddaughter, Richard’s and Dorothy’s blood is present in me, even across
four centuries.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-20529396296751430062013-02-08T10:28:00.000-08:002014-01-25T08:58:17.203-08:00When menopausal women dream...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When menopausal women dream…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Donuts are a health food.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Reubenesque figures are the height of hot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Employers fight over women aged 50+, offering
bonuses on a sliding scale for chicks with the most gray hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Young women dye their hair gray because it’s
sexy, fashionable, and gets them faster promotions at work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Broken capillaries, age spots, wrinkles, and
varicose veins become so desirable that younger people draw them on with makeup. Some have them tattooed on for that extra-sexy flair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Men attend mandatory “how to make menopausal
women happy classes.” Those who earn less than a B average face exile to Mars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->7.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Washington insiders have many menopausal women
on hotlines and take our sage advice on important legislative matters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->8.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Men get manopause. Suddenly, manopause and menopause are made grounds for two years of paid vacation leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->9.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->One week a year is set aside as Menopausal Appreciation
Week. Women of menopausal age are feted, fed, and pampered. Respect, admiration, even jealousy are shown to the women lucky enough to be in this highly anticipated Passage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->10.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Uttering the phrase “Damn, you’re moody!” is
punishable by six months of community service to the menopausal community.
While wearing a sackcloth and ashes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-25995059028441322172013-01-24T19:22:00.000-08:002014-01-25T09:05:36.868-08:00S*#! Menopausal Women Say<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am going to kill him.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I could just get some sleep, I’d have the energy to kill
him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is this poofiness around my waist?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going crazy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it warm in here?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s so f-ing hot in here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not crazy!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When did I grow these gigantic breasts?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why are you looking at me? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where is my icepack?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What bullsh--!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I'm going completely drug-free through this hallowed passage. Wine, anyone?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What fresh hell is this?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
When did I become invisible?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I see one more article on
vaginal dryness, someone’s gonna die.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lovely. The vaginal gel company
sent me a free sample? How did they know where I live?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t Spanx come in heavy duty?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just threw all my Spanx in the fire pit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dreamt that I held my boss under water until he drowned. No, it wasn't a nightmare.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worked out every day this week, ate Paleo, and I gained
two pounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, I break china, just so I don’t kill anybody.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why shouldn’t I wear shorts and a tank top to go ice skating
on the pond?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not crying. Have you got a tissue?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sale on stretchy pants? I’m there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turn the f-ing heat down!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turn the f-ing A/C up!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t you dare touch the f-ing thermostat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Moody? You think I’m moody? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For lunch? I’ll have an HRT on Zoloft,
hold the Zanax. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need a new moisturizer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need a new drug.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to stop taking all my drugs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gotta go to the drugstore. My drugs are ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think the drugs are working!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If men got menopause, there’d be a drug for this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Motherfu---! My sweater was on inside-out all day and no one said anything!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop scraping your spoon on that bowl!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why are you breathing so loud?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m gonna save so much money on tampons and pregnancy tests.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I don’t get some sleep, someone may have to die.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If men got night sweats, there’d be a cure for this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who invented magnifying mirrors? I'll strangle them with my bare hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The person who invented air conditioning? Should be made the
saint of menopause.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
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</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-28389221913287984712013-01-06T18:03:00.000-08:002014-01-25T09:19:11.895-08:00Menstrual Math at Menopause<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Officially in menopause as of October 2012, and now wondering
why we don’t throw parties to mark this occasion, I’ve been doing some
menstrual math.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book, <i>Riding Astride: The Frontier in Women’s History</i>, by Patricia Riley
Dunlap, inspired me to ponder some numbers associated with menstruation. Dunlap
goes into detail explaining how women’s biology-- experiencing childbirth
every two years, breastfeeding, child rearing, and menstruation-- often confined
them to the home virtually until they died, most often by their forties.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amazed that women ever had a spare minute to make the
intriguing and important history that they have, and not having thought about
women’s history in quite this way, I questioned the numbers related to the menstruation
in my own life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me, my 12<sup>th</sup> birthday was the never-to-be-forgotten
day of my first period. Whoopee! Little did I know about the years ahead. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Age twelve from age fifty-five is dear Lord, 43 years! Of menstruation.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s let that sink in. Forty-three. Years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I menstruated for more years than most women used to live.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My average period was seven days. That’s 3,612 days of Aunt
Thelma. Let’s say I used 6 sanitary products per day on average. Now we’re at
21,672 products. Since periods and cramps went hand-in-hand
for me, let’s say I used 4 aspirin or later Acetaminophen or similar per day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly I understand why there’s a CVS or Walgreen’s on
every corner with me knocking the doors down to purchase 14,448 cramp-killer
pills plus all those pads and tampons. That’s not counting the icepacks for
headaches, the cola to settle my stomach, the pimple cream, the salty snacks,
the sweet snacks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I won’t do the calculations in dollar amounts. I'm just guessing the cash would pay for an extended luxury vacation in the Mediterranean or the South Pacific. With lots of fruity drinks and a massage therapist on staff. But I digress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What do all these numbers mean? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Derned if I know.<br />
<br />
But hey, Menstruation—I don’t miss you. Not
even a little.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-45986777065892971442012-12-27T12:50:00.000-08:002012-12-27T12:52:42.428-08:00My Voice is Here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
After blogging for over two years, I left what felt like my
first truly “negative” comment the other day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve second guessed myself a lot
since then. As both a blogger and an avid blog reader, I’d decided from the
start that if I didn’t have anything positive to say, I would not say anything.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Knowing that it does take some effort, if not downright
courage, to put oneself out there by publishing a post, I’d vowed to take the
high road. I have tender feelings myself and want to show respect for other
blogger’s work. After all, there are MANY people who are more than willing to
express their criticisms, so my voice is not needed when I disagree with a
blogger’s position, I felt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even if I differed vehemently with someone, I didn’t want to
be part of the snarling pack. Acts of kindness, paying it forward, Little Miss
Sunshine—that was me. Not rocking the
boat, damn it, being the nice girl. Argh. I can be such a wimp. But I’d rather
err on the side of wimpy, than to hurt someone’s feelings or stifle someone’s
right to express herself. That was my choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a post by an “expert” on HuffPost50 got me riled up.
Reading along, it was all good until about half-way through when the writer
paused in her advice to midlife women about diet and exercise. She said
something that made it all very personal to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To paraphrase, she actually
repeated that ancient and hard to dispel notion that anyone who is overweight
or out of shape is … lazy, sluggish, unenlightened AND lacks the passion needed
for healthy living. Find your passion, and the weight will fall off easily, she
claimed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She just said I lack passion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
LACK PASSION. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whoa. Passion?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Calm down, I told myself. It’s just a blog post. Be kind.
She’s misinformed, judgmental, holier-than-thou, yes, but let it go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to dismiss my outrage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I failed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I commented, as calmly as I could, in a few sentences,
ending with the charge that she had just added one more voice to the chiding chorus,
to those who wag fingers at midlife women struggling with their weight. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We hold down jobs that while perhaps aren't deeply fulfilling, keep the bills paid. Or, laid-off, are looking for
employment in a workplace that openly discriminates based on our age and our looks.
We may commute for hours, care for elders, children, spouses, homes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re
trying to get another year out of a 15-year old car, or keep enough cash on
hand for the bus. We do not need one more rebuke, one more expert telling us we
are too stupid or too lacking in passion to be the same dress size we were 20
years ago. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because our clothing size is the only issue we have to worry about, right? I ended with note that she had “not advanced the dialogue on women’s
health issues.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not particularly proud of my anger, fearing I was being a
bit Joan of Arc, I hit “post” on my comment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t plan on making negative comments a habit, but maybe
there is something to the notion that at menopause, some women find their
voices (thank you, Magnolia Miller at <a href="http://www.theperimenopauseblog.com/menopause-the-ultimate-new-year/" target="_blank">The Perimenopause Blog</a>). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it’s happening to me. My voice. MY VOICE IS HERE.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been a long time coming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-83862145048364218242012-11-11T20:49:00.001-08:002012-11-11T20:57:03.568-08:00Me? Defending Prescription Drugs? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A dear
friend, Caroline*, recently announced that she chooses to live her life without
prescription drugs. A few years ago, her doctor told her she had high blood
pressure, and advised her to begin a regimen of blood pressure medication.
Caroline never went back to the doctor, and currently has no firm plans for a
checkup. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When I read this declaration on her popular blog, I was stunned and
worried about this woman, a lady with an extraordinarily beautiful soul, who is
as precious as a sister to me. Although I share some of Caroline’s views that
prescription drugs can possibly cause harm and prolong life without maintaining
an acceptable quality of life, I hope I can convince her to rethink her choice
to avoid doctors and completely refuse any prescription medicine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In her
post, Caroline cites the experiences of her brother and father. Both men died
too young. Her brother underwent a time of kidney dialysis, until his life was
an endless round of visits to the dialysis center. His quality of life was
miserable, and he finally chose to refuse treatment. Caroline’s father began
his decline with the simple step of taking blood pressure medicine that led to
more and more prescriptions, and death at 67. Knowing Caroline’s loving nature,
watching these adored family members succumb to ill health was heartrending and
hellish for her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She has
a valid point when she rebels against the idea that there is a pill for every
minor-to- major blip on our health radar, and that sometimes the smart thing to
do is to say no or at least get a second opinion before embarking on drug
therapy. Our nation is awash in a sea of pills. With a Walgreens, a CVS, or a
Rite Aid on nearly every corner, drug ads on prime time TV, and even children
taking prescriptions in record numbers, we are over-medicated, as Caroline
implies. Having had some unfortunate experiences with drugs, I can understand
why she is wary of being made sick from prescription pills. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
My own
best example of prescription troubles started when I was in my late forties and
was diagnosed with slightly elevated cholesterol. My doctor prescribed statins,
and I remember being hopeful that these common drugs would lower my lipids. After
all, many people take statins, they are considered safe overall, and some
doctors believe so strongly in them that they propose adding them to the public
water supply! At this time, I also got serious about my diet, added more
exercise, and lost twenty pounds, bringing me into a healthy BMI. Proud of my
lifestyle changes and sure that along with the statins, my cholesterol levels
would be the envy of all, I had another blood test. My cholesterol had gone UP!
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
First, I
was incredulous, then dismayed and discouraged. How was this possible? My
physician, Dr. D., was unconcerned, and told me that some people had hereditary
high levels that were stubborn to treat. Over the next eight years, she tried
me on four different statins, and on increasingly higher doses. At
the highest dose of the strongest statin, my back, wrists, and muscles began to
ache. Brushing it aside as too much time spent commuting and working at the
computer, eventually I complained to Dr. D. She advised me to stop the statins,
and a scant week later my painful back, joint and muscle pains disappeared. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The
pain that I thought might be my lot to bear for the rest of my life—after all,
old people have aches and pains, right?—had been caused by the pills that were
supposed to make me “well.” The statins had caused me to ache all over, and had
NOT reduced my cholesterol to “healthy” levels. This experience shook my faith
in the marvels of supposedly safe modern drug therapies. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
So I
approach any prescription drug with caution, and with the thought that if the
drug does not accomplish its stated goal within a reasonable amount of time and
with a minimum of negative side effects, it’s time for a second opinion. But I
feel bound to add that over-the-counter drugs, vitamins, and herbal supplements
need much the same caution. Tylenol can be deadly to the liver, vitamins can be
toxic at too high levels, and herbal supplements should be considered as
potentially as powerful, and as prone to unpleasant side-effects or
interactions as any prescription drug. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We can’t
be passive consumers; we must do our research and due diligence. It exhausts me
to put so much thought into health, but I haven’t found a shortcut around
working with my doctor while also trying to stay reasonably well informed about
any drugs she prescribes. Additionally, I attempt to keep up with ongoing
research for my health conditions. Alternative
therapies can help in some cases—I also get therapeutic massage and I’ve tried
acupuncture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After my
sobering experience with statins, one might expect that I am living a happy-go-lucky,
drug-free life. I was, for about six months. Then some other conditions reared
their ugly heads; I now take 3 prescription drugs on a daily basis. I’m not
thrilled, but I have realized that my current prescriptions are necessary for
me to function. The drugs keep me going; without them, I would not be able to
work, to be here for my husband, or for my aging mother. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I used to have
concerns, as Caroline does, about “what if I have to stay on these drugs the
rest of my life?” For me, and for many people, if prescription drugs are what
it takes, so be it; we are resigned. Sometimes, we’re even grateful. At least
these drugs are available, and the alternative for me is near complete
disability. Without these drugs, there would be no “rest of my life” to worry
about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Further,
I would tell Caroline that yes, she is her own woman and she has the right to
refuse treatment. We have the freedom to choose how to live, and how to die. However,
she is not an island. She has a loving husband, children, grandchildren, and many
friends who all love her. We don’t want her to die too young. We don’t want her
to suffer anything remotely near the fates of her father and brother. We do
want her to consider finding a doctor she has can develop a trusting
relationship with, and who in turn
answers her questions about high blood pressure, possible treatments, and
recommended lifestyle changes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We want
this for her not because we are trying to tell her what to do or because we are
trying to make her feel guilty, ashamed, or unreasonable for her choices. We
want her to be <i>WELL</i>, to live a long
time among us, and when the time comes, to be able to have a dignified,
pain-free death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Prescription
drugs are not inherently good or evil. They are chemical compounds, as are OTC
drugs, herbal supplements, and the food and drink we consume daily. Our own
physical bodies, at the most basic level, are chemicals. Prescription drugs are
sometimes useful chemical tools that can help to decrease or delay many
diseases. Life expectancy was a bitterly short 47 years for an average American
woman in 1900 (University of California, Berkeley, n.d.). The average woman
today can expect to live 33 years longer, to over age 80. The CDC (2008) says
Caroline, as a Hispanic woman, can expect 3 years more than that, on average,
83 years! </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Prescription drugs are certainly no guarantee of longer life. However,
many people would agree that when used judiciously under the supervision of a knowledgeable,
caring physician, drugs are an option we sometimes must consider. Caroline—please make that doctor appointment
soon. We love you and want you healthy, happy and with us for many, many years to come! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
*not her real name</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
This blog is not intended as medical advice. Consult your own health care professionals for advice related to health and prescription drugs.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-33136936767773868172012-11-04T20:00:00.001-08:002012-11-05T14:14:02.188-08:00Staging My Comeback, Maybe?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked up a book by Christopher Hopkins the other day: <i>Staging Your Comeback</i>. His topic of
midlife makeovers for the style-impaired tied in perfectly with a
self-improvement project I’ve embarked upon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been on a mini-campaign of
spending more time on myself. Trying to enhance my midlife health and self-esteem
has me eating Greek yogurt, taking more walk-breaks than sit-breaks at work,
getting deep tissue massages, doing a little yoga.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most importantly, I’m trying to keep my self-talk as <b>kind</b> to ME as I would be to a FRIEND,
instead of looking in the mirror with a sigh or a groan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Mr. Hopkins’ advice, I reviewed my wardrobe. I’d been
following the folks over at The Great American Apparel Diet who vowed not to
buy any new clothes for a year—surprisingly easy to do with my aversion to
shopping and those badly lit, evil mummy-crypt dressing rooms in particular. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So my wardrobe was in a particularly grim condition. My knit
shirts are pilled and droopy, or shrunken. My black slacks have been washed so
often they’re dark gray. Don’t even ask about my undergarments—they aren’t even
suitable for dust rags.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I clicked the computer mouse a few times, the UPS man
came, and I had a couple of new pairs of fun printed capris, knit sleeveless
layering tops, and some ¾ sleeve open weave, tunic length cardigans that I was
sure were all the rage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yay! I can totally have a comeback! The internet was built
for GOOD, if it can make pretty capris show up on my front porch lickity-split.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I care about my appearance, even at 55! I’m going to stand
up straight. Look out, world! I am sexy, I am a real woman, power to the
feminine, this earth goddess has wings! And I’m out of breath!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later that day, still basking in the new glow of my mid-life
confidence, I accompanied my mother to church. A lovely, but quite elderly lady
of 80+ years was walking with a cane in front of us as we went in. Her hair was
as white and puffy as a dandelion ball. And she was wearing <b><i>my</i></b>
butterfly print capris with a sweet crocheted sweater that bore a remarkable
resemblance to the one Mr. UPS had delivered to my front porch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was the balloon, and she was the needle. Pop! Her comeback
was going quite well, but mine was dealt a setback, let’s call it. I guess it’s
better to be dressing too old for my age rather than too young. Bah.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So you don’t need to worry about me getting vain, peeps. My
humility is intact. My comeback has been temporarily postponed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I did hear Kohl’s is having a BIG sale this coming weekend….<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-48265683248088630042012-10-08T13:36:00.000-07:002012-10-08T20:28:29.602-07:00Say What? "American Voters Don't Like Older Women" <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why should I care?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why am I letting it bother me that I heard yet another
conversation telling me older women are distasteful and irrelevant?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The source of the specious judgment was a commentator I formerly
admired, Melissa Harris-Perry, age 39, educated in my home state at venerable
North Carolina colleges Wake Forest and Duke University. She’s a professor of
political science at Tulane University in New Orleans.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some Sunday mornings I watch Melissa Harris-Perry’s
political talk show on MSNBC. Bright and savvy, she has guests who spark lively
conversations. Related to their prospects of making presidential bids, a
discussion of the age difference between Joe Biden, 69, and Paul Ryan, 42, came
up, and segued to Hillary Clinton’s possible candidacy in 2016.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Melissa drew back in dismay at the mention of Mrs.
Clinton’s name, pulling away as if burned. “No,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No? What does she mean, no? What is going on here? I wondered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“American voters don’t like older women. We won’t even buy
makeup from aging women…as an aging woman, Hillary Clinton becomes less and
less appealing to American voters, not in a way that’s fair….”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of her panel members, Republican strategist Robert
Traynham, broke in, defending Hillary, proving once again that politics make
strange bedfellows. A male Republican defending Clinton? Whoa. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Traynham wanted to argue that Harris-Perry’s concern
about “aging women” didn’t apply to Mrs. Clinton for a number of reasons.
Unfortunately, he was cut off by another commentator who took the conversation
in a different direction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat there in front of the TV, coffee cup in hand. Did I misunderstand,
somehow? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surely Melissa Harris-Perry was not dissing older women? I
must have been mistaken. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ve replayed the video several times since Sunday. Harris-Perry’s
facial expressions, intakes of breath, and body language belied her attempts to
temper her comments with “not in a way that’s fair,” and “no, she’s [Hillary Clinton]
enormously popular right now.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harris-Perry even threw in a further tidbit: “it’s not hard
to be popular,” dismissing all Clinton’s years of public service as a mere
popularity contest which <i>anyone</i> could
pull off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's not hard to be popular?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, read my lips, my outrage is not so much for Hillary
Clinton as an individual, as it is for all “aging women.” Hillary can take care
of herself—she doesn’t need me to make her relevant or to tout her impressive
resume.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My outrage is for how little attitudes have changed towards
women at midlife and older. An enlightened woman like Harris-Perry taking such
a dim view of older women is truly sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would love to be around in 15 years, when Harris-Perry is
54, to replay this tape for her. I’d like to ask her then what she thinks of “aging
women” and whether she thinks that whatever the “American people” think of
older women means that we should dry up and blow away. We don’t need to consider
running for president, because we offend the general public so much they won’t
even buy makeup from us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What will "older woman" Harris-Perry say then, do you suppose?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(The video is available at MSNBC’s website. The segment is
called “Generation gap between vice-presidential candidates” on Melissa
Harris-Perry’s Oct. 7<sup>th</sup> show.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3422383139355516259.post-70922748622675505832012-09-19T19:54:00.000-07:002012-09-19T19:54:29.502-07:00Playing the Fool, Being Un-cool, Comma Splices, & Teddy Pendergrass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After nine
years of commuting two hours daily began to get to me, I recently broke my
resolution not to incur any more monthly expenses. The lure of endless oldies
on satellite radio finally seduced me. I figured the monthly fee for Sirius
would pay for itself if some jazzy radio tunes helped me hang on to a shred of
my sanity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I got a satellite radio and installed it in
the aging minivan all by myself(!), complete with a bird’s nest of dangling
wires. A whole new world opened to me. Not to mention I’m sure I'll save
money on various prescription mood altering pharmaceuticals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That middle-aged
woman you see singing and banging the steering wheel to the disco beat of The
Seventies on Seven at Sirius? That would be me. I don’t even care if I look
goofy as heck to observers at stop lights; I’m in another world as I get my
groove on to Earth, Wind, and Fire. After all, I’m already driving the arguably
most-uncool ride on the planet—a white minivan, complete with peeling paint.
The “cool” bus had obviously left me behind some time ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the
better aspects of coming to terms with midlife is finally not giving a …. hoot (keeping
it clean, here)… about playing the fool. Life is too short to worry about
people thinking I look silly. Beating on the steering wheel is just plain fun,
and I think I’m actually releasing endorphins while thumping out the beat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Today’s
especially revelatory song was from 1979, Teddy Pendergrass laying down “Get
Up, Get Down, Get Funky, Get Loose.” Dancing in my seat, I forgot how tired I
was this morning and how far behind I am in grading dozens of papers. A little
seed of an idea was planted in my mind, and when I got to campus, I checked out
some clips on YouTube. Uh-huh. Just what I was looking for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Slowly I walked
the hall to room 103. The lesson plan for my 9:00 college composition class was
the <b><i>dreaded
comma splice lecture</i></b>. If you don’t know what comma splices are, count
yourself lucky. I learned about them to my great and lasting sorrow, and now,
sadly, I must bring the news of these evil saboteurs of college essays to my
sweet and unsuspecting students. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve been
blessed with a great group of young people in this particular class—they actually
listen and have motivation—amen, halleluiah. So it particularly pained me as I
saw their previously eager eyes gloss over about ten minutes into the comma
splice debacle. We continued on, as I gamely did my best with possibly the driest
lecture I give over the course of a semester. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, I
gave the class a worksheet to test their comfort level with those devils, the
comma splices. I could tell it was a relief to them that at least I had stopped
talking! There’s an ego deflator for a teacher.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We checked
over the answers to the worksheet together, and the punctuation gods were
smiling at the class who were still engaged and trying their best to deal with
the comma splice nemesis. I was proud of them. They got through an episode of
what I think of as a necessary evil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And wait—we had
three minutes of class time left!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I have
something very important I want to show you before we go,” I said, deadpan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The overhead
projector popped up the Teddy Pendergrass “live” 1979 YouTube video of “Get Up,
Get Down, Get Funky, Get Loose.” Teddy was in his glory: fit, handsome, in an
all-white outfit, gold neck-chains shining, smiling and working it, man. He had
the club patrons at the venue on their feet!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was dancing
and singing next to the classroom computer. Some students smiled, some gaped,
some looked shocked, some rolled their eyes, some looked like they wished the
floor would open up and swallow us all (or at least just me), some were swaying
to the beat, clapping and snapping fingers.
One young man said, “That’s Teddy! Teddy Pendergrass!” I can only assume
that his grandmother played the LPs to him in his cradle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After Teddy
sang the refrain several times, adding in “Whatcha come out here for?” I told
the class that I saw this song as a metaphor for college. They laughed. No, I
said, you took the trouble to get here to college, like Teddy took the trouble
to get to the club, and by heck he’s going to get up, get down, get funky, get loose, now that he’s there. You’re here to make the
most of college, I can tell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As the class
filed out, one smiling young lady said, “Mrs. Bruce, thanks to you, I’ll make
it through my next class, ugh, Chemistry, with a smile on my face.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, my
silly, foolish, un-cool, comma splice, Teddy Pendergrass, disco work here is
done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thanks, Teddy. </span></div>
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“<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
come out here to party / And party is what I’m gonna do / I done worked hard
both night and day / And now it’s time for me to shake it loose / </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Took me an hour
just to get here /<br />
Do you think I’m going to stand up on the wall? / Gonna have myself a ball, do you hear me? / Have myself a ball, come on y’all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01468655681800817415noreply@blogger.com12